#this is so long and I only told you like the barest bones
Note
Is it hard to unionize? What would someone need to do if they were thinking about it? Asking for... reasons 👀
The answer to that question is incredibly dependent on where you work. I can lay out how we managed it (well, technically we aren't unionized YET, that's technically the contract signing, but still).
As far as your first question- is it hard to unionize- that is... very hard to answer. In terms of what actual stuff you do, the physical work, it's actually extremely easy. In terms of mental health, it's one of the hardest things you could ever do.
Unionizing involves talking with a lot of people about the worst aspects of where you work. It's incredibly easy to feel overwhelmed. You'll want to give up so many times... But you'll suffer longer if things don't change where you are.
I don't know if we had it easy in terms of getting to this point, or if we were just so paranoid and so cautious that we avoided anything that could cause us trouble.
Either way, if anyone would like to learn about the process and how we managed it, what's still to come, and all that, see under the cut!
So, I came in a couple months into the process, when it went from a "Talk about it as a joke sometimes" to "oh we're actually doing this".
Step 1 was to decide to unionize.
This can be really hard, because you want to talk to A COUPLE of co-workers who you REALLY trust to keep their mouths shut. Discuss it in off-hours, never at work, never sending messages through any work communication, and never using work wifi (some places will scan wifi use and who is saying what),
Step 2 and 3 happen at the same time. That's finding a union, and defining who you want in it.
You can find contact info for any union on their website, and also just look at like, other companies like yours who have unionized. You can also just google unions.
Find two or three, and talk to their representatives (they'll put you in touch with one maybe even within minutes of you emailing them). They'll ask about where you work and what the situation is, and they might recommend changes to your thought bubble.
Step 4, set up secure communications.
First, we religiously meet every single week for an hour. The day has changed a few times based on who is on the Organizing Committee (more on that later), but EVERY. SINGLE. WEEK. Even if it's just 15 minutes, even if our union rep doesn't attend.
A discord server was created, invite-only, and divided into several channels. Most are public- Updates, General, Rules.
Another channel is exclusive only to Organizing Committee members, a channel we can group-chat with our representative on, and then a second channel he isn't part of where we can complain about our representative (you have to do something to blow off steam as the stress builds).
And we created the rule that no one could be added to the Discord server until 3 members of the Organizing Committee signed off. That's the person who recruited them (more on that later) plus two others.
Step 5, who qualifies?
Your union rep will tell you this, because usually it's a policy set by their national board.
For us, it was any part time or full time employee (not freelancers) who works an average of AT LEAST 4 hours a week over a 3 month span.
Step 6, divide who is in your unionization pool into groups, and recruit your Organizing Committee
Again, I work at a tv station, so it was fairly easy to divide out. How you divide it might even be suggested by the union rep working with you.
Originally, when I joined, the Organizing Committee was all news people and I was the only non-news person there, but we've since equalized.
We did one person from each department covered under the union. So like, I had all of production (22 people, but with those qualifications we set in Step 5, it became 13 (the rest don't make the hours)).
Step 7, set more policies.
This was when we had to set rules, and what we did was:
Make a list of every single person in your organization. For us, this was easy because it's on our employee portal.
Copy the list into a spreadsheet, save that, and then duplicate the list into another spread sheet (you want one that's raw). YOUR UNION REP MIGHT DO THIS PART FOR YOU.
Go through every single name one by one and talk about them- how good are they at keeping secrets and being discrete? Do you think they'd be up for a union? YOU CANNOT EXCLUDE ANYONE WHO QUALIFIES- EVEN IF YOU DON'T LIKE THEM. This is about the greater good, not your personal feelings.
We used a number scale- 5 means "Pro Union", 1 means "Can't keep a secret/probably anti-union".
We also set a policy of no speaking to anyone about the union without the "Go ahead" of 2 other organizers, and ONLY the Organizing Committee member overseeing that department can recruit people, with exceptions here and there as needed.
Step 8, talk to people ONE-ON-ONE
**One on one, except when sometimes 2 organizing committee members would go. OC members quit, it's an emotionally draining process, so veteran ones always help new ones with their first couple recruits)
You're going to have to lure people away from the building in a way that flies under management's radar.
Sometimes it was just "Hey, want to go grab a cup of coffee?"
Sometimes it was less subtle, "Hey, can I talk to you about something? It's private, can we get coffee?"
Sometimes it was a flat out lie, "Wanna play dungeons and dragons?" (I used this lie on two people and it ended with the station actually creating a D&D club for employees because there were too many nerds talking about it all the sudden).
The Talks
Every last one of them followed a basic pattern:
Please keep this conversation between just us, even if you don't like what I'm going to say. Everyone has the right to make a choice for themselves.
How do you feel about the organization? What issues have you had? Any frustrations?
I'm part of a secret group of employees working with (Union) to unionize (I cannot stress how much the SAG-AFTRA strike in 2023 helped us with being able to hear people's feelings about unions and talking more openly at work about them than we normally could have).
Here is what the process looks like (more on that later), here are the issues we've noticed are the biggest and why we think they are the solution to this problem.
What do you think?
Those conversations were an hour or so each, and there isn't much of a guide there because we kept it fluid to each person. This is why I say one-on-one, or if there is a second person, only an OC member, not you speaking to 2 people about the union.
Let them be honest with their feelings and let that lead the conversation, but don't make airy promises. Your union representative will have talked to you and talked you through what to say, so you'll have a kind of basic guide.
The Process (Which took a year, so it's not a fast process)
So, here's what it looked like for us, some of this is the policy of our national union.
Talk to everyone you believe is safe to speak with, who can keep a secret.
Every conversation, get the personal email and phone number of the person.
Pass it along to your union rep, who should call them individually to go through the process and get to know them and the job they do. It'll be almost identical to the convo you just had with them.
Our goal was to recruit 70% of eligible people and have a "Yes, I like this plan" from them. Our national union sent our representative out to us to have an in-person kind of party-meeting with everyone to get them hyped when we were around 60%.
Once we hit 70%, we entered a holding pattern, waiting for our organizer's boss to give him a thumbs up, then he engaged one of the union's attorneys in our general region (the union hadn't existed in our state until us, so no one was in-state).
Because of how the process works, we had to be in sync with her schedule.
During this time, we wrote our petition (which the attorney worked on with us), created a social media plan, created a logo, created a union gmail for official communication, and prepared press releases (we're a TV station so we do this normally, part of our jobs. Other unions will help you via their own press office).
Once we were getting closer, we reached out to our high-risk people.
Then the petition went live. The petition is just a message to management saying "Hey, we're doing this". You can find examples of what they look like everywhere, it isn't a vent session, it's not like "You suck, we unionize", it's much friendlier than we wanted to be.
People digitally sign the petition, and we managed to keep everyone quiet during this.
At this point, the Organizing Committee went from transparent to fairly opaque, we don't want to give people timelines because timelines and things are very rapidly changing at this point and you are so incredibly stressed about the news leaking.
Once the petition is green-lit, when we hit 70% of eligible people signed (more signed after, we didn't stop anyone from signing even after it was sent to the government), the next phase began.
The petition- with names- was sent to the CEO. He received a wake-up call from our attorney at 8am (his fault for having his calls forward to his personal cell).
At that point, government protections kick in in a much more serious way. They can't fire you or punish you for signing that petition in any way or the law comes down HARD on them (especially while Democrats control the white house). All the secrecy and stress was to get to this point without them knowing we existed, and we somehow managed to achieve it.
From there, it gets funky, and we're still in that process.
Basically they'll have to either voluntarily recognize us (which they have now put in writing with attorneys they intend to do, this is the unicorn of unionizations, so incredibly rare), or they fight like hell and there is an election 3-5 weeks after that petition is filed.
It isn't a done-deal yet, it could still become that knock-down-drag-out fight that is the unionization vote... but all signs are pointing in a very positive direction.
After that, we'll elect a Negotiating Committee (that is done union-group-wide, it's usually the same as the Organizing Committee, but the OC you just end up on if the OC wants you, the Negotiating Committee is more complicated).
The contract negotiation takes about a year, just how it works out, and you don't pay a single penny to the union until you sign that contract. They're covering the attorney and all that, not you.
Our union is also throwing us a party and bringing us swag to celebrate becoming the very first public media station in our state's history to ever unionize :)
0 notes
Text
Who was going to tell me that in order to produce a fic I actually have to write it >:((((( ??? WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE WORDS DONT JUST APPEAR IN THIN AIR IF I STARE AT THE BLINKING CURSOR LONG ENOUGH WITH MY BRAIN FILLED WITH SO MUCH IDEAS RAHHHH !!!!
Anyway, I just wanted to share a small tidbit of a Hanahaki au CobyMeppo fic/draft/idea/prompt/shitty compilation of words that barely make sense that I've been working on since FEBRUARY but never fucking finished and am currently still struggling to even continue as embarrassing as that sounds because idk whether its cohesive or good enough to even share on Ao3
Its just the idea of Helmeppo developing and struggling through Hanahaki disease would be so neat imo due to how most CobyMeppo shippers head cannon Helmeppo's feelings being unrequited at first (or not at all) and how he just adores Koby so fucking much that he becomes so ruined. I cant.
Apologies if the structured and the way it's told is messy and incoherent, I've added the lil space in the indent thingy to depict a different part of the fic since im not very good at transitioning. I haven't written anything in so long and I wanted to pump so much bits that I didn't even weave anything properly so, HERE IT IS:
(a lot of it IS corny and a bit cheesy so be forewarned akjsjasjsa)
Koby always liked flowers. Surely then, Helmeppo thought, Koby would like him too.
Helmeppo, who dwelled within his prickly walls, each barbed with Rose thorns. Helmeppo, with his muddled virtues, swelling and desiccated like stains from Poppy sap. Helmeppo, with a chest riddled with budding blossoms, all watered by his desolate, weeping heart. Could such qualities appeal to the man he grew to love?
Perhaps, Helmeppo thought, and perhaps too, he should have known better.
Known when his feelings had begun to develop into something more than simple tolerance, more than respect, more than adoration and even more than intense attachment to the pink-haired boy. At least then, he would have prepared for the worst.
Or at least… That's what he assumed when the worst began.
It was a blur, how it started. Helmeppo was always self-aware, extremely conscious of his feelings. He knew of jealousy, anger, longing, all traits that contributed and resulted from his desperate and gnawing want to appease his father. His father, of course. His own blood and bones, the same person who probably caused the beginning of all– this. Was it really a surprise? Helmeppo couldn't think of any fucked up thing in his life that hadn't ultimately been caused by Morgan.
He grew to learn how to read the room, read the faces, read the tones, he grew to know his father's thoughts without actually knowing anything about his father's feelings. Did he even feel? Feel for his son? No. Of course not. The only thing Morgan could feel for him was apathy.
Sometimes, Helmeppo wished his father hate him instead, wished that he was worth hitting. At least then, he would have experienced treatment that came with passion and effort, treatment that resulted from feeling, treatment that made him feel at the barest, like he meant something.
The lack of care and lack of anything that Morgan bothered to show to his son was barely even the surface of reasons why Helmeppo is even suffering through this. The cause that made Helmeppos brain chemistry rewire and for his damn neuromodulators to rearrange.
To see something as small as a single act of genuine care be perceived as a trick, a lie, a dream that he’d so desperately want to fall into and relive despite the possible consequences.
He should have recognized how unhealthy and apparently not normal these thoughts were, should have known that his emotions are unstable and too much, should have seen how horrific he grew to be.
But even then, Helmeppo thought, would that have done anything to prevent the illness he'd eventually succumb to?
Of all the horrors in Helmeppo’s life, he would have thought that seeds growing inside his lungs would have been the most and hopefully (though doubtedly, considering his luck in life) last traumatic event that would truly, bring him to ruin.
But of course, the world, just like how Helmeppo always found himself to be, would never have enough, and just like the breaths he was left to breathe, would leave him dwindling in the years to come.
It started as a blur, again, just like any day in the ship he found himself settled in. A gift. He thought, better than what life offered him when he woke up back in shells town.
Or at least that's what he’s been telling himself.
Morgan was cruel, sure, but at least he was familiar. He was easier to navigate, easier to chart and read and hide from.
He couldn’t do this here, when things still felt new. He knew of Garp and his capabilities, but he didn’t know the limits of his patience, he had no clue what and how many things would warrant the usage of his fist. He knew of the shady business of the Navy and the World Government, knew of its structure and how it works; the tutors paid by his father made sure of that much, but he never got to live through it.
SOMEONE PLEASE GIVE ME TIPS ON HOW TO TRANSITION PARTS IN WRITING, I SUCK ASS AND AM OPEN TO CRITIQUES AHJSJAS
#cobymeppo#kobymeppo#coby#koby#helmeppo#one piece#opla#writing prompt#fanfiction#messily written#hanaki disease#this au has been living in my mind rent free for the last months and I have barely written anything about it#praying for someone to write about this au too because I will cry otherwise#please be nice its my first rodeo in a while ajhsjhashjs
12 notes
·
View notes
Text
i have never known a silence (like the one fallen here)
Summary: An Isami POV of the events of Episodes 1 & 2, exploring the impact of his experiences, and the stark disconnect between Bravern's perception of their genre and Isami's lived reality.
WC: 1000
A/N: No spoilers for later episodes — full fic under the cut for canon-typical depictions of violence.
“You know you’re only making this worse on yourself, right?” The man’s face swam back into view, jovial, sickening. “Damn, you’re a stubborn one.”
He shook his head, leaving afterimages flowing behind it disorientingly. “Ah, well, I get paid by the hour, you know.” A wink, tossed at Isami as much as the man’s fellows.
Isami stared at him blankly, tears running from his eyes and mingling with the snot dripping from his burning nose and the bile flooding his throat. He’d… he’d told the man everything he knew, given him answers to every question. So, why? Why were they still doing this to him?!
His lips parted, rounding with the barest puff of precious air behind them, his vocal chords frozen and unable to serve in the final advance. The man leaned in for a moment, then straightened up again, his eyes curving into a congenial smile. “Ah, see, that was almost something! Just a bit more encouragement oughta do the trick.”
Isami shook his head weakly, trying to focus on filling his lungs through the heaving, desperate gasps. In the end, it proved as futile as every other attempt. The water would force its way relentlessly in, and in, and in, and he would still have nothing to give, nothing to make it stop.
As he sank beneath the surface, a green, grinning face gleamed down at him, callously observing his descent.
—
“... Isami! Isami!”
Isami’s eyes pulled blearily open, refusing to focus for a long moment. Who…?
The blurry figure before him resolved into that American – Smith – and Isami’s heart leapt. He nodded fervently along to whatever the man was saying. He couldn’t hear it properly, but he could grasp enough. Smith was here for him, for Isami. Maybe Isami had finally managed to say the right thing? Maybe he had borne it for long enough to prove he was telling the truth. His mind shied away from the thought of just how long he might have been down here, in this windowless, concrete room.
No matter. No matter. Smith was here for him.
—
The elation lasted for as long as it took Smith to manhandle him into the humvee, and the sounds of doomed combat to mingle with the echoes ringing around Isami’s mind.
Cold waves of sick terror washed over him as he caught sight of the recognizable red and white figure before him, striking a foreboding silhouette against the sky.
They… They wanted him back in that thing?
He scrambled out of the humvee well before Smith had even brought it to a stop, a keening moan scraping its way out from his throat. He tried to make it around the paltry bulwark of the vehicle’s back, but his legs gave out from under him before he had managed more than a few steps. He stared straight ahead, eyes vacant and unseeing, as Smith made some sort of proposal to the thing. Its scraping voice rose in a resonant rejoinder — and then flattened, abrupt. Isami shivered, the sound summoning the sense-memory of metal shearing away from him like paper.
The creature turned back to him, then, the weight of its regard settling upon him like so much stone and rubble. He would be rendered blood and broken bone beneath it soon enough.
Its metal hand swung forward toward him, outstretched, as its voice rang out in booming entreaty. He reacted on reflex, mind dull and sluggish, lifting his own hand to push it away from him, as though his effort could be anything but laughable against its devastating might.
As soon as the skin of his hand touched the unnaturally warm and utterly alien metal, he was back there — and backing away from the burning wreckage of Rio’s TS, her struggles growing weaker as virulent pink subsumed the field and filled their vision.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no.
“Snap out of it!” He heard to his side, a rustle of starched cloth heralding Smith’s movement. Isami scrabbled back further, away from the both of them, his arms raised above his head in paltry defense. His breath came in heaving gasps, and the clear flow of air – not water this time, not water, not water – did nothing to assuage the tide pulling him under.
He’d been drowning since that first battlefield. The interrogator had merely formalized it.
The – robot – stared down at him for a long moment, the sunlight gleaming menacingly off of its brilliant exterior. Isami was reminded of a quiz the cadets had taken together, to get their minds off of training one day in the mess hall. “Ahhhh, Isami, it says you’re a fox! How cool!” He’d brushed it off then, but perhaps there was something to it, after all. He understood, now, why an animal would bite through its own limbs to escape imprisonment. He’d do more than that to keep himself free of that thing.
In the end, however, foreknowledge and determination proved insufficient to escape the trap a second time. Isami found himself in the same place that this nightmare had crystallized, suspended within an alien chamber, his limbs moving without conscious command, and words he did not know springing to his lips. With flashes of slaughter and devastation at his heels, he withdrew into himself, leaving the fight around him behind. Clearly, his body could manage well enough on its own.
Something pulled taut behind him as he delved — stretched first tenderly, then achingly, and then agonizingly. He did not relent. Anywhere – nowhere – would be better than here, and he pursued oblivion with the determined focus he had made himself known for in every training exercise. At last, at last, he passed some blissful threshold, and the tenuous connection to the world beyond frayed to barest thread, easily ignored.
If that creature wanted his body so badly, Isami supposed it was welcome to it. His mind, however, he would keep right here, for as long as he could manage it.
Forever had a certain ring to it.
#i wrote this in two hours after binging the first four episodes#i was lured here with robot/human and then hit from behind with the gut-clenching horror of isami's experience#bang brave bang bravern#bravern#bravern fic#my writing#isami ao#ao isami
11 notes
·
View notes
Text
Writing excerpt!
This week has been pretty busy for me, and while I did complete like three puzzles I didn't think to take pictures of any of them, so I'm implenting my emergency back up plan of sharing some of the writing I did this week!
I try to write 200 words a day, and my current project is a fanfiction I'm writing of Project Hail Mary, where I retell the story from Rocky's perspective. I've been on a bit of a hot streak lately so I've written uuuuuuuh over twenty thousand words this week? Not going to share all of that here, but I will share a choice excerpt from yesterday's writing.
Under the cut because it's a bit long, please be advised this excerpt includes people almost dying in a vehicular accident (The vehicle in question is a space ship, but you know). The two characters in question survive, but people are quite badly injured and the excerpt ends with one of them passing out expecting to die. So proceed with caution.
(NOTE: Rocky uses it/its pronouns for Grace in this fic. I'm doing a thing with the story where Eridians use the same pronouns for people and objects.
The world devolves into absolute chaos. The force changes directions again, and I am ripped away from my handholds, slamming into the wall harder than before. There's absolutely agony as my carapace cracks from the force, and I feel blood pooling at the wound. I curl defensively into a ball as I'm tossed around the dome. There's no further damage, but each impact makes my body scream with pain. It takes a few moments before I am able to grab onto the handholds again, forcing myself to a stop.
And it's just then that Grace's chair breaks. The support holding it up snaps, and it is thrown forward on top of Grace. Through the pain in my carapace and the cacophony of the ship I can hear its bones being pressed by the force of the chair. Its ribs are trapped, unable to expand more than the barest amount.
It's going to die.
I have only a moment to process all of this before my body is moving, hurtling down to my tunnel.
There are sensible and tactical reasons why Grace should survive instead of me. I don't know how to pilot this ship, I don't understand how any of its thinking machines work or how I could even interface with them when we can't survive in the same environment. Without a pilot we will crash into the planet, and even if we don't I would be stranded in space with no way back to my vessel.
Beyond that, Grace is a scientist, and I'm only an engineer. We have a sample now, but even if I could pick it up I wouldn't know how to examine it, wouldn't know how to learn how these life forms work. Grace's ship is full of scientific equipment that only it knows how to use, and Grace will be able to understand and draw conclusions that I cannot.
There are a lot of reasons that Grace should survive. And as I hurtled toward the dormitory, toward the airlock that would bring me into its side of the ship, I didn't think of a single one of them. Because when I heard it fall, when I heard it trapped under the seat and the air being crushed out of it, there was only ever one thing I could possibly do. I lost 22 crew mates, 22 good, brave, smart people in that terrible trip from my world to Tau Ceti. I couldn't do it again. I couldn't watch my friend die again.
I hurtle through the dormitory, clambering into the airlock. There's a moment, just a second, where I hesitate with my hand on the controls for the second door. I'm not going to survive this. I don't know what being in Grace's atmosphere will do to my body, but probably nothing that I can recover from. It will probably hurt. I am afraid to die.
I pull down handle and throw open the door.
There's very little temperature variance on Erid. Grace has told me about seasons on Earth, how the year fluctuates from "warm" to "cold". Erid has no seasons, the thick atmosphere traps too much heat inside. It makes no difference what part is closest to the sun, whether a side faces toward or away, the entire planet is a mostly consistent temperature all the way across.
Which is to say that when Grace's atmosphere washes over me, I don't even really register it as "cold" initially. It is a temperature so far below anything that my body evolved to recognise that my nerves can't make sense of it. I make it several steps through the dormitory before they settle on interpreting the sensation as agony. It's so cold that it paradoxically feels like I'm burning.
Except the radiator, which I realise as I stumble through the panel to the control room might actually be burning. There's definitely something that's happening there, the air I breath in feels wrong, and thick. Oxygen, I think. Terrible idea to have that on a spaceship.
I can barely make sense of the control room. I'm trying to listen but my entire carapace is an unending scream of pain. I need to focus. If I can't find Grace then I'm going to die here for nothing, and both our planets will die for it.
There, I can hear it, still trapped under the chair. I don't know if its breathing at all anymore. I push away all the distractions -the pain, the hull groaning around us, the fear, and all the rest of it- and focus on this. I rip through the straps fastening Grace to the chair, and with all the strength I have left in me I pull it off of its limp form. I hear Grace inhale sharply. It quickly devolves into spluttering noises, but it's alive.
It's alive.
I drop the chair down next to us. I think Grace is saying something, but the world is starting to fade around me. I'm so, so tired. Maybe this can just be like going to sleep, I think. Sleep is frightening, but it's a familiar kind of fear. Maybe I can just imagine that I will wake up somewhere when my body has rested. I'm not standing anymore, I'm not sure when that happened. I think Grace is saying something, but it's very far away.
I would really like to reach out and take its hand. It would be nice to fall asleep holding someone's hand again. But my body is too hot, and I don't want to hurt it. Humans are so delicate.
"Save... Earth..." I say, as the dark closes in on me, "Save... Erid..." I want to say more, but the words are too far away now. Everything is so far away now. Even the pain feels like a distant memory.
It's okay, tell myself. It'll be okay. The world is going away now, but it's okay. And maybe Adrian will be there when I wake up.
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
Manuscript Search Tag
Thank you for tagging me @talesofsorrowandofruin!
The words I need to find are: survivor, spite, secure, and strength.
Survivor morale could drop even more if he started talking openly to his dead mom while bunched in a corner. He looked up at her with raised brows and dullness in his eyes as Chinea sighed and tried to hug him, only to fall through with a huff. “Look over there. Look at
this girl you adore sticking this out with you and sleeping on your shoulder. I never thought I’d get to see the day, given your timid nature and Brenner’s keen eye on you. You know about that candidate business now. I’m sorry I never told you, but I only had the barest of details myself. I had no desire to overburden you when you bear so much already.”
“W-What are you doing here?” Chit queried.
“I’ve had an eye on you since you stole from my follower’s grave.”
There was spite in her voice, but her lips wore a grin. “I let you go because your thoughts there interested me. Now I am back because you intrigue me again with your refusal. No time for more right now.”
Chit gawked as she leaned in. Her long, white dress seemed to flow
like water rather than crinkle or cling. It was hard to tell what she was
thinking without seeing half her face, but given that he knew what her missing eyes looked like, that didn’t matter anyway. He began to pull back apprehensive, but she grabbed his arm. Silk slithered up his arm and wrapped around it taut enough to leave marks. When it pulled back to her, the cloth left dark red streaks on his skin that soon soaked into him the moment he noticed she was bleeding.
"I am afraid I still have no information on how you can find the
relics. My best advice would be to ask anyone you run into. They must be objects fueling incredible miracles in the world below.” Maleth looked over his shoulder at a spinning piece of thread as it turned faster and faster until it caught fire. He turned back to them with tired eyes and a tight jaw. A gem the size of the smallest in the bag was plucked out of his pocket for them to see before he stuck it in and fastened it shut with a pat. “I have to leave you for now. Be careful. Try to contact me once you have reached the old world.
It is too dangerous for you here now. Leave as soon as you can. I could not secure you transport, but I believe in you both.”
Judith's strength began to give way over the forest at the Edgelands, and she carefully navigated the trees to descend in the thick of it. The sounds and smells here were familiar to her, but also pulled at distant memories enough that the darkness of the trees unnerved her. Life sprang back into her staff with her sister’s green glow. The light would be helpful to check on Chit for wounds.
“I can’t see much with this heavy robe,” she muttered to him as she
leaned him against a tree trunk. “I’m just going to remove the top layer, alright?”
She waited a moment, but he didn’t even blink at her. As the long robe that swallowed him was lifted up over his head, she could see the wound to his shoulder more clearly. It was already crusted into his tunic, which she wasn’t even surprised was also black as night, as were his pants. Her hands traced along his sides checking for broken bones or any sign of a pained reaction, until she hit his legs and he threw his head back into the bark with a sharp hiss.
The words I'm going to tag for are: wounded, mischief, proud, and stare.
Gently Tagging: @sleepyowlwrites, @thesorcererspen, @vacantgodling, @authoralexharvey, @jezifster, and @writeblrfantasy
Also anyone else who wishes to take part!
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
Hello, everyone!!! I wanted to share a Vampire Diaries Elejah Season Three Canon-divergence fic I've been working on for quite some time now. This is the first chapter, and if you enjoy this, there's twelve more on Fanfiction.net. I'm also going to be cross-posting onto AO3 as well. I hope you enjoy!!!
************************************************************
Nothing Goes As Planned Chapter One: People Say Goodbye
She had everything planned. Every single detail figured out perfectly, an intricate web of cover stories and truths mixed in. Elena gave it a few days, long enough to make sure Katherine had been telling the truth about Klaus' blood being the cure for a werewolf bite, and then she began the process of saying goodbye to life as she knew it. While it may look easy in movies and on TV, Elena realized just how hard it was to disappear, especially if your face is not your own and you're supposed to have died in a magical ritual. Therefore, she didn't say goodbye completely.
First of all, she had to go to Bonnie, explaining what she intended to do. That went as well as one could expect. As in: not great. But they were best friends, and they'd always support each other, so Bonnie complied to Elena's wishes and cooked her up a few things so that she could stay off of Klaus' radar for as long as possible. The first was a bracelet, fashioned after Katherine's -her daylight one- so that anyone who came into contact with her would sense she was a vampire, and not human. The second was a locator spell blocker, so if a certain vampire -cough, cough, Damon- tried to find her, which he inevitably would, the only witch who could locate her would be Bonnie and there was no way she'd ever give in to Damon, no matter what stunt he pulled, she promised.
The next was a new car, happily provided by Caroline, who likely got it through compulsion-aided channels, as well as a new phone, completely untraceable.
Although she wouldn't be able to touch her inheritance until she officially turned eighteen in a few weeks, Elena luckily had enough money put by to find her travels, although she had no idea just where this crazy plan of hers might lead her. Surprisingly, in all that time, no one cottoned on to her plan who wasn't already in the know, despite how obvious it all was.
Elena was going after Stefan.
She refused to sit back and let Damon take the reins on this one, refused to watch the days go by and let this agonizing worry eat away at her. If she was going to find him, she'd have to do it herself, Klaus and his threats be damned. Stefan would do the same for her, if their roles were reversed. She knew he would; she knew it in her heart, her bones. Elena had lost too many people to let the love of her life go, too.
The time drew nearer to the date she'd picked out, June 2nd. Elena began getting extra gas and spare tires so she wouldn't have to worry about stopping when she got on the road. Shifting her wardrobe into duffel bags, taking only the barest of essentials, which unfortunately didn't include her beloved journal, but she planned to get a notebook on the road, something she could use to help her map out her thoughts as well as serve as a place to record her progress with finding Stefan. She'd already gleaned as much as she could from Damon, having found his little research project fairly easily. It seemed the elder Salvatore hadn't learned from his whole 'Moonstone in the soap dish' debacle when it came to hiding places. His closet? Seriously? Then again, it's not a place Elena would exactly be familiar with, and she might not have peeked in there at all if Damon hadn't fallen asleep on the couch one night and she'd gone looking for a blanket to put over him, so maybe she wasn't giving him enough credit. But she'd found it nonetheless.
It had hardly been two weeks, not time at all, and yet Klaus had managed to leave a pile of bodies in his wake. Figures.
She told Jeremy and Ric the night before over dinner. Her stepfather threatened to chain her to her bed if he had to, but there was no real heat behind it. He knew he couldn't stop her, knew she was smart and kind and brave and would fight to the bitter end for those she cared about, as she had cared for him these last few weeks since Jenna died. At least she promised to call. Jeremy was tight-lipped and stoic, but while she was brushing her teeth he broke down and begged her not to go. Her heart broke in that moment, all over again. She hated to leave him, she hated it, but none of this would have happened if not for her. Klaus wouldn't have happened if not for her, and she knew if she didn't do something to try and assuage this guilt in her chest she'd go mad, and this was the only way how.
"Would you do it for me, Jer?" Elena had asked him, toothpaste still clinging to her cheeks like tears, tears she refused to let fall, lest they crumble her resolve. "Would you do it for Bonnie, if she'd been the one Klaus took?"
"Of course I would. You don't even have to ask that."
"Exactly. It's time I call the shots when it comes to my life. Starting with this."
She tried explaining it all to Matt, but he'd been reluctant to be clued in on her plans, trying to stay out of the supernatural as much as possible. It stung, considering how close they'd been all their lives, but she respected his decision nonetheless.
Saying goodbye to Damon was harder than she thought it'd be. These past few weeks, they had grown closer, their pain over Stefan uniting them like never before. For the first time, his walls were down around her, and Elena mourned the fact that they would go right back up, and grow, once he realized she'd gone.
They had decided to watch a movie, a romance of all things. She sat beside him on the couch, her legs touching his, laughing at the ridiculousness that was eighties fashion.
"I don't think it's that bad," Damon remarked, gesturing to Adam Sandler's pale blue suit as he crooned into the microphone. "I saw worse in my day."
"I bet you loved the eighties," Elena smiled, grabbing some popcorn from the bowl. In truth, her stomach was knotted so tightly that the thought of eating was immensely off-putting, but she had to act normal, like nothing was wrong. It seemed she was always acting.
Damon shook his head. "Nah. The eighties was more Stefan's style. I'm sure he was the first person in line at the cinema to watch The Breakfast Club, the dork."
"Hey, I take offense to that! Breakfast is a classic, and therefore beyond reproach."
Using his vamp speed, he snatched the popcorn away from her, pelting her with stray kernels as he yelled, "So not! I won't stop until you admit it!"
"Well, then, I guess you're gonna run out of popcorn."
Fifteen minutes -and a carpet littered with sugar- later, the two were back on the couch, dusting off their clothes.
Damon broke the silence unexpectedly. "Thank you," he murmured, taking her hand in his.
Elena paused. "For what?" she asked breathlessly.
"For always being able to make me laugh. For not letting me spiral these last few weeks. I don't think I could have done it without. Heck, I know I couldn't. You really are something, you know that?"
God, why did he have to make this so God damn hard?! Why couldn't he have stayed all villain-y and snarky? Why did he have to have such a great heart under all that leather and piercing blue eyes? And why had it taken Stefan leaving to realize what a great friend he was?
Why did her life have to be so hard?
She squeezed back and murmured, equally soft, "I think you're really something too, just so you know. Don't ever forget that."
Those were the words she left him with, the words that swirled in her mind, stuck on repeat, as she placed her bags in her new car, gave Jeremy, Ric, Bonnie and Caroline, Tyler -who wouldn't stop shooting looks at the blonde all night, the blonde who had supposedly started spilling all of Elena's secrets to- and Matt one last hug before she shut the door of her childhood home, the click of the lock seeming to reverberate through her bones, pound in her heart, and within a blink shed started the car and was pulling out of the driveway, making her way into the darkness of the night without looking back.
Yes, she'd had everything figured out, every detail under control. But this was the life of Elena Gilbert, supernatural doppelgänger and magnet of all things magic, so of course nothing was going to go as she'd planned. And maybe, just maybe, that wasn't a bad thing.
************************************************************
Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you decide to read the rest.
Temperance Cain.
#vampire diaries#elena gilbert#elijah mikaelson#romance#tropes#fanfiction#humour#stefan salvatore#klaus mikaelson#elejah
9 notes
·
View notes
Text
No. 13: “It comes and goes like the strength in your bones.”
Cold Compress | Infection | “I don’t feel so good.”
It was just a damn scrape.
Teema had thought the words over and over again, had heard them from her foster mother’s own mouth when she had first walked back into the *Tenny*, arm trickling spirals of thick green blood into the air from the cut beneath her damaged magsuit. Yilda had been through worse, *much* worse than a little cut on the arm might provide. The pair of them had simply wiped it off, vacc’d up the blood to keep it from floating about the cabin, and thought nothing more of it.
That was, until Yilda woke up in the middle of their sleep cycle feverish and burning.
Her foster mother had always run warmer than she did -- something about her leathery skin letting out more heat than Teema’s own thick chitin -- but this was on another level. Teema could feel her burning from almost across the room, a beacon of misery in the pitch dark night of the Black.
There wasn’t much she could do.
Their first aid kit had long since been picked over, the tiny tube of antibiotic salve pressed flat and curling, and even cutting open the tube had only provided them with a miniscule amount of the precious medicine. Things had gotten more expensive of late, and the scrapping business wasn’t quite so lucrative. There were plenty of wrecks to salvage these days, whole planets of empty, smoking cities that the vincam had left behind.
She tried to keep her anxious humming to herself as she dipped the cloth back into cool water, but she had never been all that great at keeping her emotions to herself. So while she was refolding the towel and placing it upon Yilda’s forehead, it was her own lower set of hands that were being patted in comfort.
“It’s okay, child,” Yilda told her, the pleasant rumble of her voice sounding hoarser than usual. “I’ll be fine. Why don’t you find us a radio broadcast or something, hmm? Something to pass the time while I’m stuck here in bed?”
“Okay, Mom,” Teema said, her artificial voicebox crackling a bit, and though the last thing she wanted to do was leave her right now, she headed towards the cockpit of the salvage ship and settled herself down in front of the comms panel.
Dutifully, she flipped through the channels, though her eyes lingered on the piece of scrap paper, tucked into the corner of the dash. Torn from the corner of ganda poster, the message scribbled down with the barest nub of a graphite stick, decoded from a message spray painted upon the wall.
She was almost certain she knew what she could find on the other end of that frequency. And she knew exactly whose heart she would be breaking by calling. Yilda had told her never to call them, never to trust them. They had taken so much from her already, and she knew that no aid from them would come for free. And yet…
She could hear the soft groans of discomfort, coming from deeper within the ship. What other choice did she have…? There were no other suppliers, not in this sector, and certainly not anyone who was willing to help an old scrapper from the kindness of their hearts. But if Yilda’s stories were true, then… maybe they would help. Out of debt, maybe. Obligation.
“...Teema…?”
Teema quickly switched the dial to something she knew Yilda would like, picking up an old Ryuthian broadcast of fictional radioplays before hurrying back to tend her only ally in this world.
Tomorrow. If the fever hadn’t broken by tomorrow…
0 notes
Text
Can I Save Them All
Part 2/?
Previous / next
Every mission needs a plan, and every plan needs information.
That's a problem
Louis knows how to get information, they have stopped providing him with necessary information since the age of fifteen, so he had to learn. Had to depend on himself to get what he needed not like depending on them was that useful
Could this have led to his death? Possibly. It's also possible that this was an attempt to get him killed. It didn't work, obviously, but it left Louis with various ways to get any information he wishes, no matter how secured or encrypted it is.
The problem is, Louis at the very least needs a phone. Ideally a laptop too. He could obviously steal, since he still doesn’t have money, but this won’t be as simple as before.
No, he's currently in the future, if the narration is to be believed. The security ought to be tighter now. More advanced.
He's going to need to relearn his crafts if he wants to survive here.
--
Aizawa, of course, knew this would happen.
He'd give the name to the Tsukauchi (how glad he is to have such a competent detective in Musutafu, unlike the idiots that used to run this precinct) and he'd come out empty-handed, with the knowledge that Kurusu Louis is, indeed, a fake name.
And fortunately, the guy he's looking for may as well be the plainest person in existence! (sarcastic) Brown hair, brown eyes, average height, the only thing unique about him is his stare, how he looks at things, as if he’s dissecting anything he’s looking at to its barest bones.
But this information isn’t not going to help them. At all.
"If you're this frustrated, why did you let him go?" And isn't that the million-dollar question?
Why did he let him go?
"... I had a gut feeling" that is an understatement.
His gut told him he was dangerous. His little parkour trick isn't what told him that; anyone could learn parkour.
But the way he held himself. How he was so quiet, so ghost-like Aizawa felt the second he lifted his eyes he'd disappear. How he sounded so genuine, yet his eyes were empty. They didn't match his emotions; they didn't hold anything in them.
It also told Shouta that they were going to meet again, but Shouta didn't believe in lady fate waving her magical pen to make them meet again like they were in some kind of show or story, so he mostly ignored this feeling
"...ok, sure, as long as you had a gut feeling" he shot the older man a glare
"Hey, I’m not judging!" But Aizawa kept glaring, just a moment too long.
He sounded judgy to him.
"Whatever, I'm going home"
"Take care. I'll contact you if I found anything" with a thumbs-up, Aizawa left, too many questions plaguing his mind.
Tonight will be fun, he thought as he remembered the mountains of papers he had to grade, and cursed Nemuri for forcing him into this teaching thing.
He is not ok with children. He's surprised he's yet to be fired
--
Turns out future's way to increase security is to hope someone with a suitable quirk will work at the store.
And Louis
He's disappointed.
He keeps telling himself that that's good, that he should focus on the mission, that this makes a lot of things easier.
But he's also about 3 centuries in the future.
If this part of the future didn't change, then did anything change?
This is a problem for another time.
For now, Louis has a phone and a laptop. It wasn’t that hard finding a store with little security, and thus he came out with the most important things he’s gonna need. Now, he needs to connect them to his chip.
A chip that was designed by them, to keep him in line. To control him. To get rid of him the second he starts rebelling. And yet, it is now one of Louis's best weapons.
It's funny what a teen can do with a knife, a mirror, and a few Computer Science books.
Louis scratched at the back of his neck lightly as he tapped at the laptop, connecting his chip to the laptop and phone. This wasn’t a hard thing, he’s done it dozens of times before, it’s practically muscle memory by now, so Louis allowed his mind to wander.
Aizawa didn’t have a scar under his eye, and a quick search showed that Mirio has yet to enter UA. With Aizawa seeming out of UA and familiar with his capture and surroundings, this means that Louis is 2-7 years before the story’s timeline begins. This gives him enough time to take the safest route.
He has a plan. A long one. Very long, it’s gonna require him to know a lot about law, teaching, and more computer skills, but he believes it’s a good plan. A plan that will allow him to not do too much damage as to alert the heroes or disturb the ones hoping to be heroes, but will hopefully fulfill the other kids’ need for chaos.
He just needs to get more information to know what he has time for, what’s already happened, and what’s yet to happen, and then he could finalize the plan.
He just needs time, patience, and probably a lot of luck, but hopefully, everything will turn out fine.
Hopefully, he won't leave this world worse than he came into it.
--
It was four in the morning. A time when the whole world should be sleeping. He gets a call.
"What" he answers irritably. He needs to sleep dammit
"I found the guy you've been looking for. Swing by to get a look at his file whenever you’re free" and with that, the call ends. Seems like he isn't the only one tired this night.
It’s been a month since he saw the guy, since he searched for any evidence of his existence, so why’s he appearing now?
Aizawa let out a sigh and puts his phone back into his pocket. He’ll drop by at the end of his shift before going to school. He hears some shouts, sighs again, and turns to what sounds like a fight about to start. And so he continues the shift, with a mystery he hopes will be resolved soon, and ignoring the headache that’s telling him otherwise.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Previous / next
#IT'S TIME FOR PART 2 BABY!!#my hero acedamia#mha#boku no hero acedamia#bnha fanfiction#oc character#Kurusu Louis#aizawa shōta#naomasa tsukauchi
0 notes
Text
A WIP I’ve finally added to/finished. I’d started doing ‘Early Kestral’ bits a while back and this’ll be the first written thing.
Kinderguardian Kestral was an abrasive little shit.
This one was his!
This one was his?
It was wedged unceremoniously under ruined concrete, within the remnants of an old, possibly ancient outpost and perched precariously on top of a scenic hill, a vast view of the surrounding wasteland visible from its one remaining window. The Ghost assumed the wrecked building had had some kind of significant purpose once upon a time and perhaps could even give a little suggestion of this person’s past given their corpse’s proximity.
He took a preliminary scan of the corpse to get an idea of what he was resurrecting. Old and decayed, all bones, a pile of tattered fabric that still resembled clothing. The rot had long since gone, picked away by the birds but the shape remained. It also seemed to be whole which was a relief. Scavenging parts was a nightmare as he’d been told by some of the other Ghosts, the ones who’d just found their Lightbearers.
His second scan picked up that the pile of clothing was likely old military garb which checked out when he considered the location, the weathered gear of a scout, someone who’d spend weeks alone out in the wilderness. Clearly their supplies had been stolen which was a given these days, nothing was sacred and all unattended loot was ripe for the pilfering. Times were hard. Turning his eye from the corpse he checked the ground, perhaps there’d be dog tags so he could introduce himself properly.
Not that it mattered, he remembered, they would have no idea who they were either.
Well, he thought, here we go.
Reshaping them was a lengthy process, building them back from almost nothing. Other Ghosts did it all the time and while it was tiring and complicated, he persevered bit by bit, layer by layer, and as time went on the unsettled feeling he’d had on finding the corpse didn’t quiet. They were a waif of a person, tiny. Even with muscle and skin they were somehow all bone. Barely filled out the uniform he’d been careful to put them in. And the skin. He knew he’d just bought them back from the dead but they were gaunt, pale and purple-grey around the eyes.
And, Light, did they scream when they awoke.
Their first instinct was to pat frantically at their belt, looking for something. When they realised it wasn’t there they scrambled to their feet, hunched like a terrified animal, fists raised, eyes crazed, caught between fighting for its life and fleeing.
“Hello, I’m your…”
They startled at his words and made to sprint, appearing horrified at the synthesised voice. At least that’s what he thought. And as he called after them, he wondered exactly how old they were to have an ingrained fear of a talking robotic entity. The Golden Age had already settled that particular concern so he could only assume pre-Golden Age. How far though was a mystery. Transmatting was also clearly a new concept to them as well as they recoiled when he appeared in front of them, watching them quickly catch on to the idea that they couldn’t escape.
They still held their fighting stance though.
He could work with that.
“I’m a friend. I’m here to help.”
Despite the raised fists and tense posture they relaxed just enough to lose the frightened animal expression. Their head lowered in a small nod, glare still never leaving him, and he assumed it to be a gesture to continue speaking.
“I’m your Ghost,” he continued cautiously, slowly, “I bought you back from the dead.”
The fearful expression that had been there moments before almost returned but this time it was exaggerated and wide eyed. Utter horror.
“Dead?”
Not that he could expect much more from a freshly revived corpse but the voice that came from their pale, dry lips was hoarse and wavering. That said he hadn’t expected so much fight from a new Lightbearer either.
“Yes,” he floated closer, gesturing towards the barest glimpse of a rounded, white shape that just about breached the horizon “I was sent by the Traveler.”
“I was dead?”
OK, that wasn’t meant to be the part they fixated on. The other Ghosts had said their Lightbearers had all kinds of questions about what they were and where they were, what the Traveler was, what the Light was. This one though, with their cropped dirty blonde hair and eyes that looked as though they could’ve been plucked from a predator and fitted straight into their skull, they said nothing more and waited in silence for an answer.
“Yeah, you’ve been dead,” he replied in a cautious, measured tone, “Probably for a while.”
They bobbed their head slowly, sharp eyes never once leaving the little Ghost, not a single muscle in their face betraying their feelings on the situation aside from barest touch of confusion in their brow. Even the fear had gone. They were a stoic thing, the Ghost thought, but he’d get to know them well enough and maybe they’d come around to the idea of being an immortal warrior.
On recollection it was like everything had slowed down in the following moment. The new Lightbearer had begun to open their mouth to speak just as a shot had rung out clear as a bell and very nearby. They’d swiveled on the spot, hawk-like eyes wide and searching silently in the direction the sound had come from, questionably covered by the ruins but still vulnerable. In the same heartbeat they’d turned back only to find the Ghost was gone.
And a second shot hit its mark, the back of their head, and they crumpled to the ground once again.
—
They didn’t scream this time when they awoke, just jolted upright as if pulled from a restless sleep, arm immediately reaching out, fingers wrapped around the Ghost before they’d even truly seen it. With no time even for a panicked shout he just twitched his shell, eye wide and flickering side to side as though he could do something.
He was a mouse at the mercy of an angry bird of prey.
“You abandoned me.”
“There was nothing I could’ve done,” he spluttered out, mechanical voice stuttering, “I bought you back as soon as I could.”
Obviously that was true. They were slumped amongst the ruins still, hair dripping with thick fresh blood, only cooled and coagulated slightly, face smeared in the remnants of their last death. And yet their grip tightened just enough on the little Light, just enough to make him panic.
“If I die I can’t bring you back again!” Another obvious point. The grip loosened immediately and they released him into the air, “I can teach you to defend yourself with The Light. Please.”
They’d stood, straightened themself out as much as possible, nonchalantly brushed the dirt from their clothing and finally settled a stare on the Ghost, “I can defend myself just fine…” they’d begun confidently, the same hand that had previously reached to their belt for something once again finding it bare, their voice tapering out into a sigh, “You got me. Ok. What’s ‘The Light’?”
A little excited exclamation signaled the beginnings of the Ghost’s long winded description of Light and Dark, the Traveler, Warlords. If the new Lightbearer’s expression was anything to go by they’d been hoping for the summarised version but stayed as attentive as they could despite the wild tangents the Ghost enjoyed going on. When he veered off into an explanation about glimmer they held up a hand.
“Right. But how?”
It looked perplexed, the little machine, and it whirred it’s shell until jolting with an idea.
“You keep reaching for something? A knife?”
“I guess?”
“Well, just make one.”
Yet another heavy silence accompanied by a disappointed glare. No, he wasn’t exactly sure how else to describe it. He gestured to their hands and tried to explain the feeling of channeling the light. The connection. In his Traveler-bestowed wisdom he’d even tried startling the Lightbearer by transmatting behind them and shouting. They’d just punched him square in the holographic eye and sent him tumbling across the dirt.
It wasn’t until a few minutes later after shouting at each other because ‘he was a terrible teacher and clearly didn’t know what he was talking about’ and ‘they were a stubborn corpse and he should’ve left them in the rubble’ that he realised he was being threatened with a golden glowing knife of radiant solar light.
“You did it!”
As stubborn a corpse as ever, they’d taken a few seconds to stop threatening the Ghost and to realise their hand was tightly fisted around the hilt of a blade of their own creation. They’d flexed their fingers, jabbed the point against a tender fingerpad, run the impossibly sharp blade through the weathered hem of their tunic in wonderment and laughed as the tattered fabric fell away, scorched, floating to the earth as ash.
“Well fuck me, you’re not so terrible after all.”
“Hey, I’m as new to this as you are.”
The Lightbearer just laughed again, splayed their palm and watched the knife dissolve away into nothingness. The next moment they had their other palm outstretched in the Ghost’s direction, fingers gesturing for him to make himself comfortable in the crook of their elbow.
“We should find somewhere to camp. You’re probably going to get hungry soon.”
They wrapped the Ghost into their baggy tunic and, following a scan of the area, shrugged, “You’ll have to lead the way little Light.”
1 note
·
View note
Text
death of a poet
for @whataboutthebard september 16 whump prompt: major character death || geraskier, T, 1.8k, angst, implied/referenced suicide (kind of)
ao3
The greatest act of love, they say, is to die for it.
Jaskier laughed, always laughed at this concept. There’s no doubt, of course, one’s whole life lost as a declaration of love, the highest sacrifice. But not the only one. And it amazed him, how people never seemed to acknowledge anything else, how fairytales of noble knights ended with them throwing their lives away, and for what? For love. Always for love. There was no doubt, and if there was, who was he to utter it?
Still. He wondered, the roots of the poet he was meant to be growing inside him, blooming since childhood. And he wondered, why, why die for love, why not live for it? Why waste this blooming of hearts in the eternal darkness, in grief and the wailing complaint of what could have been? Why, when there is so much beauty in the love of living things? He wondered, always wondered. And his mother smiled, with this faint bitterness of unexpected knowledge, and whispered, you can live for love if you want, sweet child, but one day you’ll understand.
Yet he didn’t understand. And he hated it, hated that he didn’t. Hated that he couldn’t find anything to try and understand in the first place. One day he would understand, yet people smiled at him, flowers bloomed in spring, birds sang on the branches, the wine tasted so sweet and the strings of the lute sounded so magical in the evening hush. And he wondered, always wondered, when would the day come, and what greater love there is, that you’re willing to die for it, even if you don’t lay eyes upon it ever again?
The fire in the hearth suddenly goes out.
A tragic fate, the mage had laughed. True love’s kiss. No one could ever love a monster.
I love him. He’s not a monster.
He’s not?
Geralt’s eyes are glowing in a light Jaskier hasn’t seen before, in a light he never wishes to see again. They’re glowing, and something unworldly glows with them, laughs with the evil memory of fairy tales, and evil sorceresses and true love’s kisses. As the blade glistens dangerously close to his eyes, as he walks backward in trembling steps, he thinks they’re so far away from what would make a beautiful fairytale to tell children before sleep. There will be no happy ending here. Somehow he knows.
There’s a tickle on his fingertips, burning.
The sword whips beside his ear and he stumbles back once more, panting, breath coming out strained. He raises his head, looks at Geralt. Or what he remembers was Geralt. Because now what he sees seems foreign, cold, and the amber in his eyes doesn’t warm him like the sun anymore, instead burns, like a fire which he willingly, inevitably steps into. There’s a lump caught in his throat, a sob screaming to get out. And, as though on instinct, with the strongest pang of guilt numbing his bones, he has to remind himself. He’s not a monster, he’s not a monster. He’s not Geralt. Geralt is not a monster.
For a moment, for the barest of seconds, he meets Geralt’s, no, the man’s eyes and, like the fool, like the poet he is, he hopes. “Geralt,” he says and his voice shakes weakly with the terrifying hint of denial, “Geralt, it’s me, please.” The air is ripped by the blade once again, he steps back, eyes still locked with amber. A whimper. “Come back to me, love, please. I love you, come back.”
For a moment, for the barest of seconds, the sun entering from the narrow, stained window reflects on Geralt’s eyes and something familiar glints behind them, a distant scream of a heart wailing to get out. But it’s only for a moment. Because Geralt growls and lowers his sword again with maniacal force and Jaskier screams, ducks and falls on his knees in an ironic parody of a plea for mercy. There’s a feeling of wetness on his bicep and he hisses as crimson blood stains the white sleeve. Not his fault, Jaskier reminds himself, not his fault.
It’s not his fault, yet he wants to cry as he stares into his eyes, cold like the blade that threatens to tear him to pieces, cold like the countless winter nights he’s spent without him, cold like his hand as he grasps it desperately, pushes him back in a failed attempt to trap him, in a foolish, hopeless hope of making him throw the sword away.
A true love’s kiss, he thinks, and almost laughs, because it sounds more like a death wish. And he’s starting to think it will be.
And then he sees Geralt raising his hand and before he has time to think about it, he’s being swept back with the most violent wind, and falls head first on the wall behind him. And slumps to fall on his knees. But there’s a sudden sting on his abdomen and he opens his eyes just in time to see the silver blade pointed on tender skin and jolts back with a gasp, stuck on the wall. “Fuck, Geralt,” he pants and looks at him and, for some reason, he expects his stare to be requited. It is. But it’s empty. It’s empty, and the sword on his stomach tickles painfully and the room is whirling. He blinks hard, gasps again. He can’t hold on, he knows.
And as he gazes at Geralt, he remembers. Warmth. Faint smiles, fingers down his back. Lips tasting of sweet wine, and flowers on his hair, and sleepy eyes staring at him before dropping, and love, and safety, and home . And finally, finally he understands.
He hates that he understands. But then again, the blade is cold like a hug full of regrets and Geralt’s eyes are empty and, oh, what he wouldn’t give to see those eyes, familiar and warm and looking at him again, even if it’s for the last time. He hasn’t much left to give, truth be told. Only his hope, and his life, and he feels them both competing for which is going to reach the end of the line.
“Geralt,” he whispers, again, and that spare root of hope he had starts to rot. “Geralt, please, don’t...” Are those tears? His eyes are burning. “Wake up, love, it’s me.”
What hope? He knows there is not. He knows, because it’s empty, forever empty, and the blade stings deeper and he pleads, Geralt, Geralt, Geralt, as if it means anything anymore, as if it’s Geralt.
He understands. And knows, if he’s to die, he has to die the way he lived, by love, as a poet. For love, then. As a poet, and for love.
So he straightens himself, eyes steady on Geralt. And takes a step forward against the blade.
It’s numbing, the pain. Another step. He gasps, chokes on his own blood. Another step, and Geralt stares, empty, blade steady in place as though on purpose, but there’s a familiar glint somewhere in there now, a familiar fear. Jaskier is close. His feet are giving in, his breath is shortening, and it’s a pity really, such a torturous death.. He’s close. So close that he can rest on Geralt’s shoulder, and he feels the blade ripping his flesh, his insides, his everything. He coughs up blood, chokes, eyes rolling to the back of his head. And he feels the blade dripping behind him. And he feels Geralt’s breath on his skin. So he cups his face in a shaking hand, and leans in.
It’s nothing. A brush of lips, tender in all its agony. It’s nothing. The world is blurring. It’s love.
It’s nothing.
The sword slips away as he falls, leaving behind nothing but a puddle of unending blood and slowly consuming darkness and he thinks, it’s supposed to be bright, it’s supposed to hurt less now.
He thinks, he’s supposed to spare himself from Geralt’s anguished look when he comes to, and realizes.
Instead.
“Jaskier!”
He doesn’t feel the pain. Only his body, lifted from the floor, and the scorching blood and the arms, those arms that hold him so tight he wants to scream all the apologies, all the regrets of the world. He doesn’t need to. They all echo in Geralt’s eyes.
It’s sweet, the pain. It’s melodic, the plea. Jaskier, please, stay with me, you fool, you’re alright, stay with me.
He wants to laugh. He’s long gone.
The greatest act, to die for love. A fitting ending, for a poet. He wishes someone will write it, this story, their story, and maybe give it a happier ending. Maybe they will go to the coast. Maybe they’ll end up closing their eyes together, holding each other tight, and maybe there’s no blood, only bitter tears of happiness.
It’s a fairytale. It can’t be tragic.
I love you, you’ll be alright, please, please don’t leave me alone.
A forehead pressed against his and he stares at Geralt and, oh, how he misses him already, and how bright he looks in his sorrow, how beautiful behind the veil that slowly falls between them. Jaskier parts his lips, chokes. “Geralt,” he croaks and it sounds like a sob uttered by every single wilting flower in the world. “Geralt, look at me.” He raises a trembling hand on his face, his fingertips leaving smudges of blood over the falling tears.
Geralt doesn’t look. Only stares at the wound, and back at Jaskier, unfocused, horrified, numb, as though it won’t happen if he doesn’t acknowledge.
It’s darker now, and there’s a last grip holding him back, and Jaskier knows it’s the warmth of Geralt’s hug, always is. “If I die for you, will you live for me, love?” he whispers and finally, finally Geralt turns at him, eyes wide, and Jaskier smiles, something close to a wince, as though it’ll hurt less like that, letting go.
Geralt shakes his head. “If I refuse will you stay alive?”
A huff. Painful. “No. No, I don’t think so.” It’s silent like the breeze now, his voice. Jaskier wipes the rivers of tears on Geralt’s cheek and smiles again, and this time it’s genuine, probably because it’s the last one. “It’s alright, hush. You’re not alone.” Shaking, he removes silver strands away from Geralt’s eyes, and slumps, leans on his shoulder as though finally resting. “Hush now, my love. Let me look into your eyes one last time.”
He does. He looks. It’s the same eyes, same as always, warm and loving, like a tender caress.
To die for love. How tragic. But what is a poet’s love, if not the most heart-wrenching tragedy?
The bloodied hand gently falls on the floor.
There’s a streak of red light coming through the stained window, and rests on blue eyes, mistaking them for the peaceful sea after a storm in their stillness.
They stare, forever open, and somehow forever warm.
They stare, and Geralt finally stares back. And slowly, agonizingly, like a sob echoing in eternity between the pages of every promised fairytale, he screams.
#the witcher#geraskier#geralt of rivia#jaskier#geralt x jaskier#major character death#cursed geralt#chrysa writes#what about the bard#watb#fic recs#angst#you know i had to do it to em#i don't really like this but ehhh
228 notes
·
View notes
Note
Any sort of smut with a naga or feral mothman like creature please and thank you
Anon, you said "naga" and my lil scaly heart got so happy. I have no idea if this is even remotely in the realm of what you were looking for, but I just couldn't shake the idea of a human prince with a harem full of monsters. I hope you enjoy!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Prince's Favour (M!Naga x M!Reader, NSFW)
For reference: Enéas is a Brazilian rainbow boa. I was 100% going to have a blowjob scene in this but rainbow boas have backwards hooked teeth (think fishhooks) that are designed to not let things back out, and having that near your dick sounds like a very bad time.
Word count: 3514
Includes: Power dynamics (prince x concubine), non-human genitalia, rough sex, double penetration, a little bit of crying
Being the youngest prince in a kingdom with a still-living king could be overwhelmingly boring. Matters of state were passed to your parents and eldest sister, matters of security to your next oldest sibling, infrastructure and agriculture to the next oldest, twin brothers. Your bloodline was long and vital, which was very good for the kingdom’s longevity. It was not so good for keeping you occupied. Your role, as well as your youngest sister’s, ended up being almost completely performative, with official duties being limited to keeping up a royal education and looking pretty beside your family during public appearances. The whole arrangement left you with a lot of free time to eat and draw and lounge about.
And have sex.
It was normal for royalty to have lovers or harems, if they wanted to and their spouses were okay with it. You yourself had several lovers, all of whom you enjoyed and cared about deeply. One of whom was currently lounging invitingly on your bed as you did your best to capture his likeness in paint.
“Enéas, beloved, can you hold still for me?”
The naga groaned, the muscular coils of his body shifting slightly as he did. “I’ve been sitting for hours now. When you called me, I didn’t think it would be for this.”
“Ten minutes, then we can do something else. I swear.”
The look that he shot you was long-suffering, but he settled back into the purposefully relaxed position you had directed him into earlier after taking a sip from the goblet beside him.The whole thing was mostly an act. You had been summoning him to your chambers to sit for this painting on a regular basis for the past month, and no matter where the sessions ended (often with you wrapped firmly in his powerful body), you never put on any airs about what those first few hours would entail.
Golden sunlight shone through gauzy curtains and spilled onto Enéas’ skin, setting the scales ablaze. The round black marks that lay over red scales the colour of baked clay were already beautiful, but under the sun’s rays he was cast in a rainbow sheen, every scale shimmering like an oil slick. The creamy scales of his underbelly flowed from his face all the way down, flashing like pale moonlight between his darker coils. Naga rarely wore clothing, they had no real need to, but Enéas had certainly developed a taste for finery during his time in the palace. Fine, sheer cotton, dyed snowy white and rich yellow, draped around him like woven light, held in place by gold clasps. Cuffs set with precious stones circled on his wrists and biceps, and a beautiful metal collar engraved with intricate patterns lay flat against his throat.
“You’re staring, little prince.”
The rasping taunt broke you out of your stupor, and you realized that your eyes had been locked on him, paintbrush unmoving on your canvas. You finished the stroke you had started with a careful flick. Stepping back a little, you surveyed what you had done so far. The hours spent on the portrait had been worth it, and even though it wasn’t done, you could stand to be finished for the day.
“I was distracted,” you said. “You were distracting me.”
A cheeky grin split Enéas’s face. It was hard-edged and full of sharp, hooked teeth, stretching far past what it would have on a human face, but managed to be as lovely and charming as it was frightening. “I have no idea what you mean. I was only sitting here, just like you asked me to.”
“Sitting there in a very distracting way.” You wiped your hands on the sturdy apron you wore before untying it and discarding it messily to the side. “We’re done for today, you can relax now.”
“Finally.” He stretched his arms above his head and groaned loudly before flopping back and letting his eyes close. The movement sent his whole body rippling in the sunlight, and the sight made your mouth go dry.
You strode towards the bed, closing the distance quickly to sit beside Enéas on your plush bedspread. He didn’t even open his eyes when the mattress dipped under your weight. With a feather-light touch, you traced the features of his face with a thumb. The transition from red to white around what would be a hairline was first, the gradient of the small scales dipping low on his forehead and contouring under his eye sockets, the way it pulled back on his temples. The flat bridge of his nose, his sharp jaw, the mouth stretching almost the entire way along the hollows of his cheeks. He just barely leaned into every touch, doing a very good job of pretending like he didn’t care about you sitting next to him and touching him like he was something precious. Each one of his breaths fanned upwards, over your face, and it smelled like the sweet lime cordial he drank moments before.
Your thumb continued its path around his face until it caught on the center on his bottom lip. One of his eyes drifted open, pupil an inky slit on yellow-green sclera, and he parted his lips just enough for his long, forked tongue to flicker out. It wound around the digit, brushing against your knuckles and the sensitive skin between your fingers. Cold spit cooled even further on your skin as Enéas licked over your hand. In a single swift movement he dipped his head forward to take your thumb fully in his mouth. You froze. His lips tightened around it and he sucked, tongue still working you over. You could feel your cock start to fill and you pressed in and down, putting the slightest amount of pressure on the floor of Enéas’ mouth. A low, raspy moan rumbled through him, eyes fluttering closed and back arching prettily.
Putting more pressure on his mouth, you hooked your thumb behind the bone of his lower jaw and forced it down, exposing hooked teeth and making his tongue loll. “Get me ready, beloved, and be thorough.” You leaned down to press a sweet kiss to the edge of his scaly jaw. “I want both of them today.”
Enéas’s eyes snapped open. His pupils were blown wide in excitement and arousal, and he flickered his tongue out over your skin again before pulling you down next to him with firm hands. Those same hands didn’t hesitate to begin roaming over your body, making quick work of the fastenings keeping your tunic and trousers closed before pulling his own scant clothing off.
“It would be my pleasure, Your Highness,” he said. The sound was already breathless, and sounded so beautiful that it hurt.
He stripped you of your clothing with an impossible combination of speed and reverence, each touch against your skin burning with affection. Pushing you fully onto your back, he slithered around you, smooth scales dragging against your increasingly bare skin until you lay cradled in his strong coils. A heavy tail coaxed your legs apart as large hands began mapping a path down your body. They skimmed over your throat and chest, pausing to tease each of your nipples to full hardness, and drifted lower, caressing your waist and stomach, scratching soft patterns onto your hips and buttocks, before landing on your thighs. His cool, clever mouth soon followed. A sloppy, open-mouthed kiss landed above your pulse, then the base of your neck, trailing cold saliva over your shoulders and down your breastbone. You moaned quietly, unbidden, and your back arched up off the bed, eyes fluttering closed. Your world narrowed to sensation: the chill on your skin, the plush mattress underneath you, the smooth rasp of scales around you. Enéas’ hands lovingly massaging your thighs.
Your eyes shot open with a gasp when you felt his mouth close around one of your nipples. You could feel his smile against your skin as he suckled on the hardened nub. A little jolt went through you as those wicked teeth grazed over the delicate skin, your cock twitching where it now lay fully erect on your belly. One of his hands wandered up to play with the flushed head, dipping into the pre-cum pooling under it before raising his hand and licking his fingers clean.
Gripping his chin, you dragged his face up to meet yours. “I believe I told you to prepare me, Enéas.” The way you said his name managed to land somewhere between sweetly teasing and bitterly displeased. “We may be lovers, but I am still a prince. This may have been my mistake, though, maybe I wasn’t clear enough for you.” You pulled him up further, tucking your mouth beside his ear so that you could whisper directly to him. “Prepare me, my love, and do it nice and thorough. After you’re done, you will fuck me, with both cocks, until I can’t speak or until you fill me with your cum. Whichever comes later. Am I understood?”
Enéas smiled, pupils completely dilated, and dipped his head down to kiss you. It was salty and bitter from your pre-cum, with the barest hint of the lime cordial underneath. “As you wish, my prince.”
He sat back and lowered himself so that he was lying on his front between your legs. The coil of his body that had been pressing one of your legs open dug in harder, pulling your thigh even further out, and he threw your other leg over his shoulder to get better access between your cheeks. His big hands dug in and pulled them apart, exposing your tight hole to the air of the room. He breathed over it, pressing wet, biting kisses onto the supple flesh of your ass before slipping his tongue out and running it all the way from your hole to your balls. The long, slender fork in the muscle wrapped around you, almost delicately, spreading cold saliva over your balls and the base of your shaft. The chill was a brief shock against your skin that sent sparks zipping through you, making you drop your head back onto the mattress and forcing your breaths out in stuttering pants.
Enéas continued alternating between licking at your rim, just barely breaching the ring of muscle with the tips of his tongue, and suckling gently at your sac, each motion drawing desperate little noises out of you. It felt wonderful, but it was nowhere near enough. Somewhere in your mind you had a brief argument with yourself about whether it would be worth it to abandon all semblance of power and control that you had in order to grind your hips back on his face. On one hand, you were royalty, even splayed naked on your bed, and you liked to hold onto that for as long as you could. On the other, the feeling of his cool scales and wet, fluttering tongue was very rapidly driving that particular thing down your list of concerns.
All of that was wiped from your mind when you felt the blunt tip of one of Enéas’ fingers, slicked with oil from a vial he must have hidden somewhere on him when he started moving. It circled your hole slowly, deliberately, pressing just inside every so often, coaxing the muscle to loosen with practiced care. You wanted to squirm, to tense up under the teasing touches, but you forced yourself to breathe through it and relax as much as possible. This earned you a raspy noise of approval and a kiss to your sensitive inner thigh from your naga lover.
Seconds later, it also earned you one of his gloriously thick fingers carefully worked all the way inside you. Your back curved off the bed, a quiet moan spilling from your lips. He pumped it in and out a few times, just starting to open you up enough for him to continue. As soon as you relaxed, unconscious fists unclenching from the bedspread, a second finger, thick and wet with oil, joined the first. He twisted the two about inside you. Each motion dragged the subtle ridges of his scales along your inner walls, and when he crooked his knuckles deep inside you, you arched up with a breathless moan.
“Ohhhh, fuck.”
Enéas’ head emerged from between your legs, and he smirked at you as he began scissoring his fingers, stretching your rim, brushing up against the spot of blinding pleasure on every thrust. “Well, Your Royal Highness? Am I pleasing you now?”
“You would be pleasing me more if you got on with it,” you snarked at him. He grinned back at you, the tremor in your voice and the way that your whole body had begun quivering betrayed your pleasure too much for him to ever believe that you were honestly upset.
“As my prince wishes.”
He raised himself so that he was braced overtop of you, and he rubbed the head of his upper dick over your entrance. You hadn’t even noticed him teasing his cocks erect and out of the slit that usually kept them hidden, but it wouldn’t surprise you if that was what he had been doing with his other hand while prepping you. A sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth was the only warning you got before he pushed into you with near-maddening gentleness. His cocks were more slender than the average human’s, but they were longer, and were covered with nubby barbs of flexible cartilage that caught deliciously inside you whenever he pulled back. He started rocking his hips into yours, getting deeper and deeper with each stroke, dick not close to filling you up but the barbs stimulating you plenty all on their own. You moaned slightly each time he drew back, cock leaking even more pre-cum between your bodies. Waiting until he was fully seated inside you, body flush against your ass, he began gently massaging your hole, the muscle already stretched tight around him. He moved his fingers in sync with his shallow thrusts, slowly but surely opening your hole enough for him to slip his second cock inside.
You were moaning even more loudly now, shuddering noises of pleasure leaving your lips every time Enéas fucked into you or pressed in on your entrance. His finger disappeared from your skin briefly after a particularly rough thrust left you panting and teary-eyed. You whined at the loss, wriggling further back on his dick. Another rough drive of his hips sent your back arching painfully, mouth dropping open as his index finger slipped into you alongside his shaft.
“Nngg, ah-- fuck, so-oo good,” you mewled.
Enéas started fucking into you with even more ferocity, making your whole body move every single time his hips slammed into your ass. Your cock slapped up onto your stomach with an obscenely wet sound, and left wet smears of clear fluid on your skin each time it hit you. The sounds coming out of you were starting to sound desperate, morphing from regular moans of pleasure to pitiful little whimpers and gasps. You were so overwhelmed by the way that his cock reached so deep inside you and caught so gloriously coming back out that you didn’t even notice a second fingertip tease your rim. You didn’t notice it until the smoothly scaled digit thrust into you alongside his first one. The feeling of it, the stretch of your rim definitely painful now, ripped a shattered cry from you.
Your whole body was tensed up, chest heaving with panting breaths. “Oh shit. Enéas, I’m going to…”
The hand he had been using to hold himself above you darted downwards and locked in a tight ring around the base of your steadily leaking cock. The crescendo quickly building in the pit of your stomach was stopped in its tracks, and you wailed at the blocking of your orgasm. Enéas smirked wickedly at you before lowering his mouth to graze lightly over one of your nipples.
“Patience, little prince,” he chided, “Just hold on a little longer, and you can cum on both of my cocks.”
Each word he spoke was punctuated by him driving his barbed shaft into you and scissoring his fingers wider and wider. Somewhere in the haze of your almost-climax he had stuck a third finger into your hole, and all of them were now stretching you out as far as you could go. His big arms wrapped around your back and he aggressively hoisted you upwards, forcing you to wrap your legs around his body. He slipped his fingers out of you, and almost immediately his lower cock replaced it. The shaft was thicker, the head a little more bulbous, and it filled you up so wonderfully next to his other one. Once he was fully seated, he went still to let you get used to the intense stretch inside of you. You tried to wriggle about in his arm to get him even deeper inside of you, but he used both arms to grip you tight to his body, keeping you still. That mouth of his kept lovingly licking over your chest, going slack to let saliva leak out over his lips and onto your skin.
With a firm grip on your hips and an almost painful amount of care, Enéas lifted you up until only the heads of his dicks remained inside of you. Realizing what he was about to do, you stopped writhing in his grasp, relaxing as much as the position allowed. He hissed a thanks into the thin skin above your breastbone. A slight shift of his weight so that all of his coils lay firmly beneath him, and he lowered you almost all the way down onto him. He pressed sweet kisses to the base of your sternum, then each of your nipples, then to the side of your throat. Settling his face into the warm crook of your neck, he began to raise and lower your along his shafts, using your body to fuck himself to completion.
This new position made his cocks reach impossibly deeper inside of you, spines rubbing against that sweet spot with each stroke. You dropped your head forward against Enéas’ shoulder, moaning loudly. With his previous fierce grip on your tortured cock gone, you felt your orgasm begin to build again. Clear pre-cum dripped out of your slick head and smeared between your bodies. He kept bouncing you on him, breath coming out ragged against your neck as he chased after his own climax.
“Holy shit-- that’s so good…”
Your mouth hung open as heat bubbled up in your gut. You tried to warn Enéas again, but all that came out was a strangled gasp of his name before you were cumming between your bodies with a cry. His sharp mouth curved into a grin pressed into the skin of your shoulder as you went boneless in his arms. He kept driving your body down onto himself mercilessly, paying no mind to your limp form. Your eyes filled with tears and drool leaked from your slackened jaw as you were driven to complete overstimulation from him using your body.
“Mmmmhh-hngg....AH!” You moaned desperately, squirming in his arms, trying to get away from the feeling of his cocks inside you that was quickly starting to get painful. Your hole was fluttering erratically around him, and the grip that Enéas had on your hips stuttered, betraying how close he was.
“My prince, I’m…” he managed to grunt out before he pulled you all the way onto his cocks and came inside of you, clutching your body close to his.
His twin dicks twitched against your sensitive walls as thick white cum spilled inside of you. You wailed at the sensation, your own spent cock trying fruitlessly to twitch erect again. Enéas held you against him for several minutes, catching his breath, before he carefully lifted you off of him and laid you down on the now-soiled sheets. The spines on his shafts caught on your puffy rim as he pulled out, making you wince. Your belly was still sticky from your own orgasm, and gobs of Enéas’s cum leaked from your hole, making you feel even filthier. You were completely and utterly fucked-out and content as you lay there in a warm stupor. Cold lips kissed away tears that you hadn’t noticed had fallen, and a hand rubbed comforting circles into the back of your neck. He shifted his body to wrap around you in heavy coils that felt safe and warm, despite his cold blood. You stayed there, cradled against his familiar body, being covered in soft kisses and soothing caresses, until the shaky aftershocks of both of your climaxes dissipated. Once they had, you curled onto your side so that you could nuzzle your face into his scaly neck,
“So?” Enéas whispered into your ear, peppering the side of your face with affectionate pecks. “Did I please you, my prince?”
“Mmm,” you hummed, nibbling on his jaw slightly. “You absolutely did, beloved.”
#monster fucker#monster lover#exophilia#terato#monster x human#naga#tw crying#smut#nsft#minors do not interact#terfs dont fucking touch#seriously if i see a fucking terf i'll fight you#bigots dni
225 notes
·
View notes
Text
Title: Palliate.
Pairing: Yandere!Witch/Reader.
Word Count: 3.7k.
TW: Emotional Manipulation, Amnesia, Obsessive Mindsets, Mentions of Violence, Blood and Bruising, Mentions of Death.
Mint, to settle your nerves.
That was the first thing he’d taught you, before you were strong enough to do anything more than sit on the edge of your bed and listen. Three leaves if you were desperate, two if you weren’t, and one if you just needed something to focus on, to take your mind off your own hazy thoughts and the places they tended to lead, when you let them wander freely. He said that was normal, that it should be expected. You’d spent so long incapacitated, it was only natural you’d be a little unsteady, once you finally got back on your feet. He said that it’d get better, over time, but you’d have to fight through it. You’d have to give yourself time to let it get better, even if there were little things you both could do to help.
The mint helped. Most of the time, at least. More than most little things did.
You tried to concentrate on the flavor, now, letting it distract you from the sun beating down on the back of your neck, from small bruises forming on your knees as you kneeled between rows of rue and sage and rosemary just far enough apart to let you tug at the weeds invading his otherwise pristine garden. It was a little odd to be outside the small cottage you’d become so closely acquainted with, even if you were only a few paces away, still hesitant to venture beyond the clearing you’d spent so much time observing while you were bedridden. You were still injured, technically, and you’d been told time and time again not to test your own limits. He said you should… You were sure you should be doing something, but—
“Didn't I ask you to rest?”
Right. That made sense.
You weren't supposed to get out of bed, just yet.
A hand came to settle on your shoulder, and reflexively, you glanced towards the man now lingering behind you. You really didn’t need to, though. His voice would’ve been enough, a calm drawl strung out into something playful, fondness coming easily and anger still a long ways off. He’d never gotten mad at you before, but the threat persisted. You didn’t want to be more of a nuisance than absolutely necessary, especially after he’d been so kind to you.
“There’s only so much sleep I can take,” You replied. You didn’t want to be a nuisance, but you didn’t want to spend the rest of your life in bed, either. “I’m starting to think that’s your only trick, uh...”
“Eden, love. Just Eden.” There was a pause, his sly smile turning sympathetic. “Is your memory acting up again?”
“It’s not as bad as it used to be.” You were telling the truth. For weeks, you’d barely been able to hold onto your own name, let alone anything about your eternally patient host. But, Eden (you tried to remind yourself of that, to make a note of it, Eden) was kind enough to give you time. You needed time. You needed patience. “I found the door, didn’t I?”
“And it’s nearly been a week since the last time you wandered into the forest,” He noted as he crouched at your side, earning a small, offended noise and an elbow to his bicep, just forceful enough to warrant a hum, a slight pout, something between a whine and a chuckle. You didn’t want to stare, but you let yourself watch as his expression softened, as his gazed flickered towards the sprout of basil at your feet and a shock of white hair fell over his eyes. He looked like he was going to reach towards you, like he was going to touch you, but he stopped himself, letting his hand slip down to the satchel at his waist, instead, calloused fingers running over the well-worn leather.
You wondered what he kept in it, sometimes. You’d never seen him without it, not willingly, and he spent so long in the forest every day, he kept himself so busy with so many traps and snares and spots of ink littered across hand-drawn maps, it would’ve been impossibly to guess what he thought was worth keeping by his side. He brought enough of it back, bundles of assorted feathers and glass jars full of golden pollen and other things, stranger things, things you could barely catch a glimpse of before they were shoved to the backs of cabinets and forgotten about, on your end, at least. Eden didn’t forget about such important things as quickly as you did.
“It’ll get better,” He went on, finally, just when you thought he’d stopped talking altogether. “And, if it doesn��t, we’ll find a way to make it better.”
He sounded so sure of himself. You wanted to believe him, when he sounded like that. You did believe him.
You couldn’t remember a time when you hadn’t.
~
Ginger, to alleviate migraines.
It wasn’t for you, luckily. Of all the ailments you suffered from, you’d been left mercifully exempt from headaches and vertigo and all those minor, awful things that would make your life just a little harder than it had to be. If anything, your head was always a little too light, a little too empty, especially after so many hours of following the same unpaved road with nothing to think about but the passing scenery and Eden’s vague instructions, little more than a list of names and goods. Little to go off of, despite his insistence that you be the one to go.
You’d asked why he didn’t just go himself the first time he sent you on your way with a basket of herbs and roots, but Eden had only frowned, shaking his head. He said he wasn’t welcome, not in the marketplace, not in a village that’d already come to know him by name. He said that, if you cared for him at all, you wouldn’t subject him to a full day of haggling in hushed tones with women who refuse to sell mediocre incense for anything less than a small fortune.
And since you did (foolishly) care for him, you went. Not that you were anymore wanted in the marketplace than he was.
You hated it, compared to the cozy isolation of Eden’s home. You hated how crowded it was, how alien it felt to have to navigate the cramped stalls, how the merchant in front of you scowled as he weighed small bags of the exotic, colorful spices Eden was so fond of, the ones that you could never seem to taste the way you were supposed to, judgingly by how liberally Eden used them. He didn’t try to hide the disdain in his voice as he spoke, aged weariness mixed with a self-righteous reluctant. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t used to it, that constant trepidation from people who didn't understand you, from people who didn't care for Eden. At least he was kind enough not to hide it. “Running errands for the witch hermit, again?”
“Eden’s not a hermit.” You tried to smile, to brush it off as if was just another misconception. He wasn’t. You weren’t sure what he was, but he liked people, he liked having someone else around. Or, he liked having you around, at least. He didn’t seem to care much about company, beyond that. “He just enjoys his privacy. We both do.”
“Only a witch, then.” There was a pause, a gruff laugh that didn’t match his grim disposition. Something in the back of your throat tightened, and silently, you wished he’d be a bit more wary of you. Just enough to keep him from speaking so openly. “I’d take what you can and go, if I were you. He takes after his father, and that man spent his whole life makin’ a monster of himself, playing with things no one should. His son ain’t much different.”
It was your turn to laugh, now. “He cries whenever he finds fawns separated from their mothers. He takes in tadpoles he finds puddles. I don’t think Eden is capable of cruelty.” He was a kind man. You’d never seen him be anything but kind. If he had an ulterior motive, if he had a single sadistic bone in his body, you had yet to find it. “He took me in, too, when I was injured. He might be the only reason I have a roof over my head, now. That’s not a kindness I can say very many people have showed me.”
His lips pursed, the barest hints of confusion crossing his expression. It was gone in an instant, and you tried not to linger on it. He thought poorly of Eden, but the mere fact that you were alive – walking and breathing and alive – was enough to earn him your gratitude. Regardless of what a merchant and a marketplace worth of gossip thought. You knew what you believed, you knew what was true, and you wouldn’t let a few rumors convince you otherwise.
Although, you’d be lying if you said that belief didn’t waver, as he went on. “Cruelty isn’t all you have to worry about.”
You opened your mouth. Then, you closed it again, keeping your eyes on the basket still hanging limply on your arm. He wasn’t done yet, not with the spices, not with his poorly veiled warnings, but you didn’t want to listen. You could listen, you would listen, but you didn’t want to. You didn’t want to believe anything you heard in such a crowded place, in such an awful place.
You just wanted to get back to Eden.
~
Willow bark, to take the pain away.
It’s more of a comfort than a necessity, by now. You used to need it, rely on it, and you still liked to keep a bundle nearby, just in case, for days where the soreness was worse than it should be and you needed something to take the edge off, to suppress that overwhelming ache back into a steady throb. But, you never needed it, not like you used to. Not like you had when your injury was a defining feature rather than an afterthought and Eden’s medical expertise was more of a experimental artform than a practiced skill.
His hands didn’t shake, anymore, as his fingers skirted over your bare skin, following along the outline of your wound, the trail of stitches that stretched from the bottom of your shoulder bone to the center of your rib cage and repeated itself, carrying over again and again and again, forming neat rows of tender flesh and scar tissue that refused to stop any higher than your hip bone. He wasn’t hesitant, not with the needle, not as he pushed it through the long-suffering spots where he’d first messily laid your stitches months ago, and he didn’t have to look at you to recognize the way you shifted, the soft string of expletives you let out, to notice your little attempts to turn your head at just the right angle, flinch at just the right time to—
“Eyes on the ceiling,” He demanded. With a small huff, you obeyed, turning back towards the furthest wall. “It’ll only get worse, if you look.”
You knew that. He’d said as much as thousand times before, once for every day he'd tended to your lasting wounds. You were tempted to try, to insist it was only fair that you got to know what was going on with your own body, but you trusted Eden, and it was easier to tilt your head back than to argue, to search the cluttered room for something more interesting than the boy sitting at your side and your own, nagging discomfort.
You were in his workshop, now, an area separated from the rest of the cottage and filled to the brim with the tools of Eden’s trade – blooming flowers permanently encased in blocks of amber, the shells of insects hollowed out and ground into a fine powder, pots, everywhere, some empty and some not, the largest placed over a smoldering hearth that never seemed to grow dimmer, despite how often Eden forgot to tend to it. There was something inside, a substance you didn’t recognize, bubbling and black as a starless sky. It was already solidifying around the edges of its cauldron, crystallizing into rows of jagged, silvery edges slowly creeping along the coaction's surface like an infection. Like a parasite. Like something that shouldn’t have existed but continued to, regardless.
Eden must’ve caught you staring. The needle stilled, and instead, he took to dabbing something cool and smooth around the edges of your scars. A rag, or a balm, or a dozen other possible remedies. You didn't try to look. “It’s for you,” He explained, as if that made it any better. “One of my father’s incomplete recipes. He never figured out how to stop it from hardening once it’s exposed to open air.” Eden clicked his tongue, pulling the thread he was working with taut, and you cringed, tying to ignore the slight pinch. It didn’t hurt, not really, not like it used to. It didn’t hurt at all, if you were being honest, but it felt like it should’ve. “The color isn’t right, either. And I’ve already fed enough dye into the damn thing to poison a small village.”
You should’ve laughed. You wanted to, you knew it was the reaction he was looking for, but it was all you could do to avert your stare, to let your fingers curl around the edge of the table he’d perched you on. "They really don’t like you.”
“I’ve noticed.” A blunt response, not abrasive, but not encouraging, either. Not as dismissive as you would’ve preferred. “And yet, they manage to stomach my cures regardless. It’s funny how quickly pain softens the heart, isn’t it?”
“They say it’s unnatural.” You were pushing, now. You should know better than to push. You never found out anything good, when you tried to push. “They say your father used to dabble in things that shouldn’t be.”
Eden sighed, pushing himself to his feet. There was a short silence, interrupted only by the sound of glass knocking against glass before he dropped what he was holding, stepping in front of you and cupping your face with both hands, instead, forcing you to face him, to meet his dark eyes. Black eyes. Lightless eyes. A contradiction when compared his tanned skin and warm smile. A contradiction you tried to overlook as he bent down, kissing the top of your head so gently, you could almost bring yourself to ignore it altogether.
“My father was a toymaker and a healer. My mother died in childbirth. He did what he could to take care of me, and there is nothing unnatural about that.” He took a moment to laugh, to hold you, and you couldn’t be help but be thankful for it. Only weeks ago, he’d been afraid to touch you, afraid to watch you break all over again. Now, it was all he could do to let you go long enough for his arms to fall to your waist, for your face to find his chest, his tunic, a place to hide yourself away from the rest of the world. You didn’t want to go back, not to the village, not to the marketplace, not to the lonely, hurtful, desolate world outside his cottage. You didn’t want to go back to a place filled with so many people so determined to separate you from Eden. You didn’t want to return to a life you couldn’t remember, one where you wouldn’t have the man who’d saved you by your side. “He loved his family, just as I love you.”
For once, you didn’t have to convince yourself to believe him.
~
Witch hazel, to stop the bleeding.
You’d need it. You’d need a lot of it, more than you should for such a small cut, a jagged line drawn from the corner of your eye to your opposite check, thin but deep and bleeding, pouring out, washing over your hands as you tried to clutch at your face and rub away the damage, like a child trying to blink away a bad dream. Your legs might’ve been bleeding, too, the sides of your ankles, the backs of your thighs, your skin scraped raw in all the places you’d hit the ground as you tripped, falling over your own feet at your stumbled backward, but you didn’t check, you didn’t want to check, you didn’t want to see how bad it was. You didn’t want to take your eyes off the man in front of you, his towering stature, his grim expression.
His sword, silver and unsheathed and pointed at your heart, as it had been from the moment he first caught sight of you.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. No one was supposed to be here, in Eden’s forest, only minutes away from the cottage you’d come to think of as your safe haven. He hadn’t asked for your name, he hadn’t mentioned Eden, he hadn’t said a word to you, not before there was a dagger flashing across your line of sight, a weapon quickly discarded for something more intimidating, something that’d let him stay at arm’s length while he approached you, his stare holding yours, his lips pulled into a thin frown. “I—” You tried, but your voice gave out quickly. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had threatened your life. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been so scared. “Please, I didn’t mean to get in your—”
“Stop talking.” His tone was flat, apathetic, the barest hints of rage seeping through a weathered veil of neutrality. Immediately, you fell silent. “Who said you had the right to use that voice?”
You opened your mouth, but you thought better of it, biting down on the inside of your cheek as you bowed your head. You wanted to get back to Eden, back to his cottage. You wanted to be anywhere but here. You wanted to run, but you wanted to get out of this with your head on your shoulders, too. “Are you going to kill me?”
“It will not be a true death.” There was a pause, a reluctant hesitation. You pulled your knees into your chest, your hand still pressed to your wound, but the gesture didn’t seem to earn you any pity. “But, I am going to make this—”
He stopped, abruptly, his head attention towards something behind you. You heard it a moment later – measured footsteps, barely making a sound against the dead leaves and branches that littered the forest floor. You didn’t turn around. You didn’t have to.
Not when there was only one person who’d ever bother to save you.
“Adam,” Eden called, already positioning himself at your side. His hand was already on his satchel, toying with the buckle. Like he’d done this, before. Like he already knew it wouldn’t resolve itself peacefully. “There are easier ways to introduce yourself. If you put that sword away, I’m sure (Y/n) could still find a way to forgive—”
“Do not call it by that name.” He was focused on Eden, now, leaving you to fade into the background, to observe as his hands began to shake and he glared, baring his teeth, as Eden had done more than try to play peacekeeper. “That is not (Y/n). It doesn’t deserve to pretend it is, none of your abominations do. It won't bring— It can't—” He trailed off, his sword falling back to his side, his eyes clenching shut. You almost felt bad for him, your would-be murderer, but Eden’s expression remained cold, unbothered. Slowly, almost idly, he reached down, taking you by the arm and helping you to your feet, letting you tuck yourself against him as Adam finally found his voice.
“(Y/n) is dead. Nothing you do can change that.”
A moment passed in silence, still, deathly, frigid silence.
Then, Eden spoke.
“I can handle this on my own.” He didn’t deny it. He wasn’t denying it. Why wasn’t he denying it? “I need you to brew tea, Chamomile. Gather as much lavender as you can on your way home, until your pockets are full and you can’t carry anymore. Can you do that for me, love?”
You nodded, but you were still shaking, still unsure, still so, so confused. You weren’t dead. You could breathe, and you could think, and you ate and you slept and you weren’t dead. “I’m not.” You didn’t know who you were talking to – Adam, still clutching his sword, still ready to behead whoever his blade could reach or Eden, your Eden, the gentle protector who hadn’t looked at you once since his arrival. You just wanted someone to say it wasn’t true. You just needed someone to say it wasn’t true. “I’m not. I’m alive. I’m not de—”
“I’m in love,” Eden said, his voice soft. As if he hadn’t heard you at all. “Why does everyone act as if that’s so monstrous?”
You didn’t want to hear Adam’s response. You didn’t want to hear anything, not from him, not from Eden, and certainly not from your own frenzied thoughts, racing and only growing louder as you ran, sprinting, stumbling through the forest in any direction your legs would carry you. A crooked sob racked over your chest, and reflexively, you moved to brush away the tears blurring your vision, but you couldn’t feel yourself when you should’ve, it wasn’t flesh that met your cheek. Your eyes darted to your hand, a sneer already playing at your lips for whatever mud or decaying foliage had plastered itself against your skin, but…
But, you found a small trail of crystals, instead, silvery-glass that coated your palm, rows of jagged edges that hadn’t been there before, that shouldn’t have been there, where your blood had stained your skin only minutes ago. Or, where you thought your blood should’ve stained your skin. You hadn’t looked.
You hadn’t looked.
You froze dead in your tracks.
Slowly, our raised a hand to your face, to the cut carved into it, to what should’ve been a bloody, bloody wound. Something jagged met your fingertips, but you ignored the slight sting. It didn’t hurt. Not as much as it should’ve. Not as much as you wanted it to.
By the time you pulled away, your hand was covered with it. Thick, cool, forming webs between your fingers as you spread them apart. Dark. A kind of dark you’d only seen once.
As black as a starless sky.
#yandere#yandere x reader#yandere x you#yandere prompts#yandere imagines#yandere oneshots#yandere scenarios#yandere oc#male yandere#yandere oc x reader#yandere x y/n#yandere ocs#yandere witch#yandere fantasy#yanderecore#yancore
618 notes
·
View notes
Text
Delirium
@smallpwbbles happy birthday, take some delirious Wukong-
Word Count: 2k
Read on Ao3
-
MK paused in a mixture of shock, horror, and awe as he took in the sight before him.
Pigsy had his head in his hands, looking for all the world like he was totally done with the situation. Tang was standing beside him, trying to hide his increasingly obvious laughter. Mei had no such qualms, and was laughing out loud, practically on the verge of literally rolling around on the floor. Red Son stood next to her, holding up Mei's phone, which seemed to be recording, the fire demon trying desperately to look neutral to the situation, but a small smirk on the edge of his lips betrayed him, revealing his amusement. Sandy stood slightly off to the side, holding a blanket, ready to step in at any time.
And Macaque stood ramrod straight, appearing to be somewhere between 'embarrassed' and 'would somebody please strike me down already'- as Wukong leaned against him, saying a series of sloppily put together compliments.
MK took a deep breath, speed-running all five stages of grief in under an instant. (Possibly a new record for him.)
"I left. For five minutes." He said, taking note of how some places on the deck seemed to be dented, and was that smoke coming from over there? "How, exactly, did things end up like this?"
He received no answer, the others having jumped and turned to stare at him when he had spoken, having not noticed his return.
...Wait, where did Wukong-
"MK." Wukong said, and MK did his best not to jump as the delirious Monkey King appeared beside him out of nowhere and put a hand on MK's shoulder. "My, my dear su- ......succulent.....?"
"Successor." MK corrected, trying to ignore how the others were barely restraining their laughter. (Macaque, at least, looked somewhat sympathetic, but he also looked far more grateful for the fact that Wukong's attention had shifted away from him.)
"That's, yes. That's the word, yes." Wukong said, before grabbing hold of MK's cheeks, squishing them a little as he made sure MK was looking at him. "I am so proud of you."
"...Thanks?" MK said, questionably, pulling himself out of Wukong's grip. Wukong briefly glanced at his hands, seemingly confused as to where his successor had gone. "Monkey King- I'm right here. You should really be resting, until whatever this is gets out of your system-"
"Red Son!" Wukong exclaimed, the aforementioned fire demon making an audible noise of terror, slipping to hide behind Mei as Wukong spun around to face him-
Only to trip over his own two feet, slamming into the deck, denting it ever so slightly.
...For about the twenty-third time that day.
Sandy took this as his time to move forwards, gently laying the blanket down on top of Wukong, before announcing that he was going to try and make some more healing tea, (Wukong had dumped the first pot of it over the side of the ship, claiming that it was 'too bitter', 'wouldn't work anyways', and complaining that it didn't 'taste like peaches'), and the river demon left, going back down inside of the airship, leaving the others without his calming presence.
"...Okay guys, while Monkey King is....asleep..." MK wasn't even actually sure if Wukong was asleep, but he'd stopped moving and had become utterly silent since slamming into the deck, so- "I suggest we make it so that he doesn't hurt himself or us with anything on the ship."
"What, are you suggesting we should baby-proof the entire ship?" Pigsy asked.
"...More like 'Monkey King-proof', but yes, actually, that is exactly what I am suggesting." MK said, "We're going to need to cover all of our bases-"
"Uh, kid?" Macaque interrupted, grabbing MK's attention by lightly tapping on his shoulder. "If you're going to Monkey King-proof the ship, you uh, might want to start with the railing."
He pointed to the edge of the ship, and MK followed his gaze to see-
"Oh you've got to be fucking kidding me." MK said, just catching the barest, tiniest glimpse of Wukong, wearing the blanket around his shoulders like a cape, leaping over the side of the ship. "That's the fifth time he's done that today."
-
It wasn't all that hard to find him again. All they had to do was follow the destruction a delirious, overpowered monkey leaves behind.
Or at least, that was MK, Mei, and Macaque's strategy, up until they stumbled upon a perfectly normal, entirely untouched clearing.
"...What do we do now?" Mei asked, and Macaque made to give an answer-
Only to have to jump back, barely avoiding being impaled as Wukong suddenly appeared out of the surrounding woods, carrying a rather large tree. He had twigs, leaves, and dirt all throughout his fur. The blanket was seemingly missing, but neither MK, Mei, nor Macaque really wanted to find out where it had gone. The group of three took a cautious step back as Wukong locked eyes with them.
"Wanna see how up I can lift this tree?" He said, already lifting said tree above his head. (Everyone ignored how he'd seemingly forgotten the word 'high'.) MK and Mei shared a look as Mei slowly pulled out her phone, opening up the camera.
"I mean, we really shouldn't, but..." MK said, and Wukong beamed, shifting to hold the tree with one hand, taking the chance to show off. MK and Mei 'ooh'ed and 'awe'd appropriately, but Macaque rolled his eyes and looked away.
Which cause him to miss seeing the exact moment when Wukong's strength faltered, the tree falling upon the Monkey King's back, pinning him to the ground.
Macaque certainly didn't miss Wukong's screech of terror though.
MK and Mei had froze in shock, but Macaque reacted instantly, running over to the pinned monkey. The panicked mutters of "Not again, not again, please not again-" left little doubt as to what was currently going through Wukong's mind.
Macaque practically sent the tree flying in his rush to get it off of the other, and, not knowing was else to do when that didn't immediately quell Wukong's panic, flipped him over, desperately hoping that seeing the wide open sky, with no mountain in sight, would calm the Monkey King down.
And, well, it must've done something, as Wukong quieted, blankly staring up at the sky, without blinking.
"...Are you....okay?" Macaque asked, fearing that he had made things worse as he kneeled down beside him.
"...Have I... ever told you that you have beautiful eyes?" Wukong muttered, and Macaque paused.
"Ah- no. No." Macaque said, standing up. "No, we are not doing this again- MK, come get your stupid mentor, we're going back to the ship."
-
"MK- hey- hey kid-"
"What is it now, Monkey King?" MK sighed, tired. It had been unanimous that Wukong could no longer go even seconds without being supervised, and now had to be watched at all times. MK, unfortunately, had gotten the short end of the stick and had been chosen for the first watch, (They had drawn straws, and he had not missed the sighs of relief from the others, nor had he missed how Macaque had magically changed the length of the straws. He swore he'd get that shadow monkey back somehow), which of course meant that he was the first to have to put up with the delirious Wukong's complete and utter bullshit.
"Um- Would, do you think Macaque's fur tastes bitter like his rationality?" Wukong asked, from where he was laying on his back, on the couch, yet another of Sandy's blankets set on top of him. (They'd tried to cocoon him, but after enough protesting they'd given up on it for now).
"Wh-" MK started, confused, turning the sentence over in his head to make sense of it before responding. "...First of all, no, I think it would just taste like hair, second of all, did you mean to say personality?"
"....Yes...." Wukong said, slowly, before a wicked smirk came over his face, and MK felt fear settle into his bones. "Do you wanna see me make a hair buddy-"
"No!" MK yelled, and he may have lost all his powers, including his enhanced speed, but you wouldn't have known it from the way he practically flew to stop Wukong from blowing on his hair. "You are not going to be making any clones any time soon, okay? Monkey King I need you to look at me and confirm that you will not make any hair clones while you're delirious."
"...I will not make hair buddies while I'm serious." Wukong said, and MK sighed.
"Good enough, I guess." He said, sitting back down in his chair, slumping, momentarily closing his eyes in exasperation.
When he opened them again, Wukong was gone.
"Fuck-" MK said, jumping up and spinning around-
Only to see Wukong on the other side of the room, curled up on top of the other couch. He'd somehow gotten more blankets than before too, MK was certain there had only been two in the room before, but now there appeared to be at least seven.
MK didn't want to question where and how Wukong had gotten them.
What he would like to know though, was-
"...Why did you move to the other couch?" MK dared to ask, prompting Wukong to stick his head out of the pile of blankets he had buried himself in.
"Cause this one's more soft! The other one's too....too..." He seemed to blank on the word 'stiff', and instead said; "Boney. Boney couch. Bouch."
MK took a deep breath, trying to keep himself from breaking down then and there. It was, of course, at this moment, that he noticed Red Son try to sneak pass the open the door and down the hallway.
MK didn't let him.
"Red Son!" He said, rushing over (never taking his eyes off of Wukong), and looping his arm around the demon's. Red Son squeaked, but MK ignored it as he dragged him over to stand in front of Wukong. "Perfect timing, I think it was about time for me to have a little break, y'know? Would you mind watching him for me for a moment?"
Red Son was about to say no- but the look on his face, the look of someone who was oh so close to Losing It made him reconsider.
"...Sure..." Red Son said, slowly, "So long as it's only for a bit-"
"Cool! Thanks!" MK said, immediately letting go, turning and practically sprinting out of the room. "Good luck!"
Red Son had the ever looming sense that he had just doomed himself.
(He should have never accepted their offer to join them on the ship. But dammit, MK had offered some of that spicy candy he knew Red Son liked, and the fire demon just couldn't have refused.)
For a few blissful minutes, it was silent, Red Son staring at Wukong in apprehension, while Wukong hardly seemed to have noticed that anything had changed at all, still snugly wrapped in his nest of blankets.
And then Wukong lifted his head, a questioning expression on his face.
"...Does blue exist?" He asked, and a look that was somewhere between exasperation and pure terror made it's way onto Red Son's face.
"Noodle Boy, hurry up with your break and get back in here, your mentor's going existential!" He yelled, looking in the direction MK had gone, desperately hoping that the other would come back and save him from this fate.
"You can handle it!" MK's voice called faintly.
"...If blue doesn't exist......Then red doesn't exist......so does that mean you don't exist?" Wukong asked, under his breath, looking at Red Son with fear.
"I most certainly can not handle this!" Red Son yelled, "Could somebody please get over here?"
Nobody answered his call. Red Son honestly hadn't expected them to.
After all, he would've made the exact same choice.
He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, trying to figure out how to respond to the monkey that currently seemed to be having an existential crisis.
Only to jump as he heard an ear shattering scream of frustration ring through the ship.
This had the fortune of snapping Wukong out of his crisis, instead having him simply look confused. Red Son ignored the faint shouts from Macaque's room (something about 'fuck you've got a serious pair of lungs' and 'warn a guy next time') as he tried to calm himself down from the sudden scare.
Geez. MK had seriously needed that break.
143 notes
·
View notes
Text
this got so stupid long for no reason so no need to even read this but like........see THIS is why thee most powerful moment of supernatural for me personally is “you know what every other version of you did after gripping him tight and raising him from perdition? they did what they were told. but not you.” it’s the closest we get to explicit and loud confirmation that this is who castiel is: a bastion of free will that guarantees freedom of choice in this universe alone; a shining illustration of all that could be without the machinations of an ambivalent God. that speech, tucked away at the end of cas’s second to last episode, in the literal eleventh hour.... stands alone as nearly the only time in the latter half of supernatural where castiel’s singularity is acknowledged, that his power (just in being) is referenced, that his intrinsic connection with dean is woven into the narrative as something textually More Powerful Than God. it’s a rare return to form for his character, a single moment he’s an individual whose desires shape the narrative, and it only happens in the direct lead up to his ultimate demise (important in that it can only be Voiced when dean is about to be away from cas and thus safe).
cas was introduced to us as a barely contained wave of cosmic intent, capable of raising dean from hell and throwing him back, a soldier unafraid to bloody himself and others in service to a cause (humanity, dean), a being with constrained desires so strong that even breathing the barest hint (doubt) was enough to catapult castiel (willingly) from the hold of heaven. he’s tactile, he’s forceful, he’s physical, he’s more powerful than any of the humans around him are capable of perceiving, and it’s all focused around one thing: want want want want want. dean. dean. dean. dean. from the moment he enters the narrative, castiel is bristling with energy, he’s a Threat, and it’s dean who is magnetized to him. it’s dean he allows to (sometimes) overpower him, and it’s dean he crowds. it’s dean who becomes the unknowing object of divine worship (and with that, divine desire). castiel was never meant to be a fixture on supernatural, simply because the things he Wanted were so Huge and so tenuously held back, that if allowed to continue on the trajectory they set him on, would have wholly consumed the entire narrative, or at least one of the two leads.
so then we have the wife-ing of cas. we have his raw, sexual, worshipping, unavoidable, all-consuming, decidedly-actionable desires quieted into something more palatable, more neatly controlled. cas’s magnetized orbit around dean becomes subservient rather than consuming. cas’s masculine strength gets muted (he’s a damsel through a set of increasingly complicated plot contrivances). cas’s desire to serve (dean) is shifted to a safer outlet (fatherhood), and cas and dean’s connection is minimized, often through the only means strong enough - having cas literally offscreen. love becomes sacrifice rather than freedom, it becomes unassuming usefulness rather than worship. the power to act on desire, and nearly all trace of desire itself, is wiped away, and Having turns into Being. the i want i want i want i want that has been present for 12 years is only referred to as “The Thing”.
but ultimately.......................... the soft, gentle, nonthreatening, platonic nerfed cas is still the castiel who raised dean from perdition, is still the castiel who wrote his own chapter and never went back on script, is still the castiel who knit dean’s bones back together and glimpsed his soul through his own grace, is still the castiel who built a new faith inside of a man who didn’t think he deserved to be saved. and the show, at the end of it all, had a cruel and petty God look his former angel in the face and say your love is the one thing that is different. they needed to make cas less of a threat so the show could continue on without being sucked into the vortex of unchecked (masculine, homosexual) desire, but that desire (love love love love love) STILL ended up being the single most important act of free will IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE. and they don’t bring it up again, they take cas away and they don’t allow dean to mourn or articulate or breathe more life into this Thing they’ve tried to squash. but cas remains the most powerful being in the entire show, after all of that, because of his unwavering, celestial love for dean.
#dont read this i just finished work and im insane#lets just say cas girls stay winning#long post //#cas#deancas
941 notes
·
View notes
Text
Geto Drabble
(This was just something I banged out over the weekend with a bit of angst. Nothing long or fancy, just an idea that had popped into my head that I had to put the words down for. Warning: while this piece doesn’t contain EXPLICIT spoilers for the JJK manga, it is still intended to be set after the Riko incident but before Chapter 0. So keep that in mind.)
It used to be hilarious in the mildly annoying kind of way, but that was how nearly everything was with Gojo. The moment that his friend had found out about the cursed technique he carried, lewd jokes about ‘swallowing’ were hurled at Geto. While it had been more than a little irritating at first, the effect gradually eased off until it became the usual routine. Getting angry never deterred Satoru from coming up with more creative jokes (in fact it only did the opposite) and if he ever did stop, what did it matter? Even if his closest friend shut his mouth for once, it wouldn’t make the experience of choking down cursed spirits any less foul.
Geto had several ways prepared for cleansing his palate but the stronger curses…those tended to linger. No matter how much ginger he ate, mouthwash he swished or mint that he chewed, the rancid memory of what he had consumed stayed. He played along with the dumb jokes, played along with whatever mask the world expected him to wear, choked down whatever personal aches that welled in his chest until he could barely breathe. That was a Sorcerer’s job, wasn’t it? That was his duty: Swallow. Choke. Consume.
Swallow a curse. Choke on his next meal as it would taste like the last thing he exorcised. Consume his grief.
Swallow his pride. Choke on the next stupid joke. Consume the trauma that tried to rise with memories of things he’d rather forget.
Geto was exhausted and the joke wasn’t funny anymore.
It was nearly impossible to describe how cursed spirits tasted to people who hadn’t been able to experience it. He would have just as much success trying to describe how light looked to a blind man who’d never been able to see. The best attempt that he could ever muster would be to tell people to think of the most foul tasting thing they’d ever had the displeasure of tasting. Then mix it with how every negative emotion felt after it had boiled up in your chest.
“Suguru.”
The sound of your voice happy to see him crossing the threshold of his quiet home was the sweetest thing he’d tasted in days. A large hand clasped around your wrist, tugging you through the door and against his body. Even worn down to the barest bones of his spirit, spread impossibly thin over the hurts and rage he bit back, his strength and dexterity remained present. Geto crushed you up against the door he had managed to close and crashed his mouth down onto yours.
The surprised gasp was like the flame of a candle that cut through a suffocating darkness and he swallowed it eagerly. It was a drop of honey to pass his lips and it was nowhere near enough for what he wanted; what he needed. Your moans were snatched up next, a hungry tongue eagerly shoving into your mouth to pull them all back so he could hold your need captive between his teeth. Long fingers interlocked with yours, both arms slowly lifted until they were pinned above your head.
Geto just needed your help to cleanse the acrid flavor of his last exorcism. Just one more taste. That’s what he told himself. It’s what he told himself when he pressed a knee between your quaking legs. Just one more taste when a pitiful whine of protest left you when he pulled away to take in a few greedy gulps of air. He told himself just one more when his hands sifted beneath your shirt to feel your fevered skin. Geto swallowed every divine sound, moan and whimper that escaped you along with the sweet lie that he kept telling himself:
Just one more.
34 notes
·
View notes
Text
First is a pop and a scratch; there is a breath of quiet, long and deep. Then there is a heartbeat, drumming steady, growing louder and more urgent as the seconds tick by.
His fingers are nimble and practiced--graceful, even--despite the scars and calluses layered over one another, despite the pinky finger that was broken and healed months ago and which no longer moves quite the way it was meant to. They are beautiful hands. Steady, firm. Castiel has seen them stitch wounds and field strip guns and dissect vegetables for dinner, all with the same precise efficiency that they now apply to the task at hand.
He exhales through his nose; the heartbeat blends itself into a brief, confusing jumble of noises that resolve into a jarring wail and then melt, almost improbably, into the first lazy guitar chord of the album, which ripples its way down his spine like a physical thing. If pressed to describe the sensation, he would call it warm and liquid and highly gratifying. Tingly, even. It makes him shudder and sigh out loud.
Nobody asks, but he says so anyway. Dean laughs at him. “You are, like...you are really fucking high, huh, sweetheart?”
He licks the glue on the rolling paper and twists his handiwork just a bit tighter, presenting it to Castiel with the corner of his mouth ticked up. His eyes are very red. “You sure you wanna smoke another one?”
“I was under the impression that being ‘really fucking high’ was the sole purpose of this endeavour, Dean,” Castiel tells him coolly. He makes a broad, dismissive gesture, discovering as he does so that there’s still a chocolate chip cookie in his hand.
“All right, all right, preaching to the choir here, buddy.” Dean fumbles for his lighter, the flame briefly illuminating the planes of his face as he tilts it down toward the cradle of his hands. There’s the syrupy-sharp tang of smoke on the air again after a moment; Castiel chews his cookie and watches in fascination as Dean parts his lips (just as beautiful as those hands--as every inch of him, really) to let it spill out between them in a languorous white plume, as lingering as revelation and as heady as desire. He coughs a little bit at the end of the exhale, chuckling at himself this time before he waves the joint in Castiel’s face. “Your turn. And quit bogarting those, I had a hard enough time hiding half the batch from Jack and Sam.”
Reluctantly, Castiel trades Dean for the plastic container and tries not to be too distracted by the way he dives into the cookies with gusto, shoving one into his mouth practically whole with a bone-deep hum of satisfaction. Castiel occupies himself with dropping back into the pillows as he takes a few careful drags, his eyes catching on the record cover that Dean had been using as a rolling surface, forgotten in his lap.
“Is this considered homosexual music?”
Dean chokes, clapping a hand over his mouth so he doesn’t spray crumbs. Once he’s calmed himself enough to swallow, he reaches over to pluck the joint back and eyes Castiel warily. “Not really, I guess? Why would you ask that?”
“There’s a--a prism. On the cover. A rainbow. And when we went to Pride with Charlie you said that rainbows are often used by the ‘gay community’--”
“Not again with the fucking air quotes,” Dean interjects.
“...fine, gay community. You said that rainbows can a way for the gay community to acknowledge and recognize each other. Is this gay music?”
Dean belly-laughs at that, though not unkindly. “Nah, man,” he says, still grinning, “I’m pretty sure that Pink Floyd are pretty damn straight. Although, what do I know for sure? Sometimes it’s just some cool imagery.”
Castiel nods. He mulls this over as Dean smokes, his face warming when Dean crowds up into his personal space to share his breath with Castiel, lung to lung, so nearly mouth to mouth. Dean has told him on previous occasions that this is called “shotgunning”, but he’s not sure why; it clearly has no relation to either firearms or violence, but that hardly seems to matter when it brings Dean so close, the green of his eyes bright and intent with something that Castiel had once thought he’d never have a name for.
Dean sucks in more air, and then he’s kissing Castiel for real, soft and wet, luxuriating in it. This--this lights up Castiel’s nerves just as much as the music does, more, pleasure pooling and igniting wherever Dean’s body is in contact with his own, waves of it rolling and breaking through his whole nervous system. It’s overwhelming, especially in combination with the female vocalist reaching for some explosive notes, now, singing as if they’re being physically tugged from the center of her chest by an unseen hand.
Castiel thinks he might understand how that feels.
“Jesus,” Dean gasps, breaking away to flop down beside him, raking a hand through his own hair. He dissolves into giggles, and Castiel can’t help but laugh with him. “I am blitzed, man. This is embarrassing.”
“I’m the only other person here,” Castiel feels obligated to point out, nuzzling at his ear, “and I have literally seen your soul at its barest and at its lowest. Is this really what embarrasses you?”
“Shut up,” Dean says, muffled because he’s hiding his face in Castiel’s shoulder, blushing so hard that he might as well be glowing. Castiel can actually feel the warmth of it radiating through the cotton of his shirt; it makes him want.
“So this,” he says, hesitant, picking up the earlier thread of their conversation. “This--you only do it with me. Not with Sam. Not with Charlie or Jody--at least not like this. But these, um. These... meetings...aren’t about us, about what--what we do together?”
“Jesus,” Dean groans again, rolling his eyes, adding a heartfelt, “Christ.” He hauls himself up off the bed and strips off his shirt, gesturing at Castiel to do the same. “Take your damn clothes off already, man.” He seems to catch himself on how that sounds, because he pauses with one hand on the buckle of his belt before shaking his head, grinning at some private joke. “I mean, yeah, I guess it’s a little bit about that. But no, Cas, we don’t hang out smoking weed and listening to the classics because it’s some kind of agenda, because you and I are, uh...you know. Because rainbows,” he offers, very careful to look anywhere but directly at Cas.
Castiel tilts his head, listening, and when he doesn’t speak, Dean blusters on. “No, it’s ‘cause you’re stuck with me, you know? Stuck with us, stuck here, stuck human...I guess I just figure if you’ve gotta take the lumps of it, the sore backs and the seasonal colds and the, the shitty truck stop coffee of it all, you should have some of the good stuff, too. If I’m not the one to teach you the finer points of stoner rock, ok, who will? It’s not all bad here, and I just want to make sure you know that.”
Finished with his speech, Dean grabs awkwardly for another cookie, presumably to stop himself from rambling any further. Something light and fond unfurls itself inside Castiel; he reaches out to draw Dean down into his arms again. “I assure you, Dean,” he says gravely, “I am absolutely certain of it.” Dean offers him a bite, which he accepts with equal gravity.
All of their kisses are delicious, to be fair, but they are undeniably more delightful chased with chocolate.
“Anyway,” Dean says with his mouth full, “take your fucking pants off. You wanna talk gay music? It’s gonna be Night at the Opera next, and that’s really gonna bake your noodle.”
_________________
Read it here on AO3!
#suptober21#prompt: rainbows#Destiel fanfic#castiel/dean winchester#recreational marijuana use#silly fluff#dean introduces cas to the finer points of classic stoner rock ok#I don't make the rules#established relationship#faintly AU#but not really because#fuck canon gently with a rusty chainsaw#suptober#it's late!#but I'm writing and posting so who cares!!!!
97 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
navi-the-faun
🍂hey🍂
wind-yellow-ranger
Motocross is underrated!
thismommyisforreal
Mommy
chuckling-chemist
Pouring One Out For Twitter
princesa-jujuba-0527
☼ANIME/MANGA WALLPAPERS☼