title: the driftwood and the rift (part 1)
Warnings: mind-control via magic; canon-typical violence (so it might be a little graphic?); blood; angst/whump/hurt/comfort; past torture is strongly suggested; Jaskier whump mostly; cursing;
A/N: first time writing for Witcher but all y’all that have been writing Geraskier fic have been keeping me sane in the current climate and I feel like I owe y’all so much so here is my humble first attempt at some Geraskier with a healthy helping of Jaskier whump.
Tags: @thuriweaver since you asked haha
There’s a mist settling into the forest around them, obscuring the moonlight that tries to peek through the thick canopy above them. Drops of moisture cling to Geralt’s armor and his forehead like a sheen of sweat. He stares, a part of him doubting his own eyes.
Of all the people—all the creatures—he expected to run into four miles outside of the village he’d stopped at for the night, the human bard hadn’t been one of them. Geralt had heard rumors of a werewolf in the woods, and a generous payment promised to him was all the persuasion Geralt needed to swiftly deal with the situation. He’d finished his mediocre meal and set out that same night.
Geralt had been trying to pick up the trail from the last seen location given to him: at the fork in the path four miles outside the village. But he hadn’t seen evidence of a werewolf. No tracks. No scent. No sound.
Except… two heartbeats. One of them normal in its beat. Eased. Unafraid. The other was unnaturally slow. Not Witcher slow, but slower than was normal for a heartbeat for most living creatures. And as Geralt reached for his sword, he saw two humanoid figures emerging from the mist several feet ahead of him.
One of them just so happened to be the bard he hadn’t seen in months. Not since the mountaintop.
T, 2k, wangxian pre-slash
Summary: He heard the whip before he felt it.
It all began on one night, that first one on the rooftops of the Cloud Recesses. Wei Wuxian did not care for the rules of the world, not those tethered to man or to magic. One look, one smile, one laugh. Lan Wangji would have followed him to the ends of the earth from that very first night.
Lan Wangji suffers his punishment and thinks of Wei Ying.
My comments: [I was on a #discipline whip kick at the time, out looking for hurt and angst.] I really need to stop wallowing in all this pain. Mojo: go find something happy. Ack! [Clearly this means the story ripped me up in EXACTLY the way I was looking for.]
canon compliant, discipline whip, 33 lashes, torture, corporal punishment, hurt lan wangji, pain, angst, character study, suicidal thoughts, blood and gore, lan wangji has a no good very bad day, hurt no comfort
A/N: This is for @deanwanddamons #deanwanddamons500followerchallenge. Hope you enjoy it!
Characters: Sam, Dean, Crowley, OMC Kern and Reader
Word Count: 2233
Warnings: Language, mentions of torture, vampires, blood, a bit of fluff
Prompt: You don’t know how long I have wanted to touch your lips and hold you tight (in bold)
Autism Speaks’ Electrifying Past
If anyone out there is wondering why we should fucking hate Autism Speaks, here’s a couple fully cited video essays by a Ms. Illuminaughti detailing some of the worst things they’ve done and continue to do.
Her eyelids flutter, lashes flurrying with surprise, as dark, piercing eyes dull and pale. Tawny tan shoulders angle themselves with tension as Sonia shakes her head, short-cropped thick hair ruffling with the movement. She can’t see. Her vision has faded into pitch darkness, and it’s not going to come back.
Not until the Hunter lets it, anyway.
He watches as she processes the loss of her sight. As she presses her palms to the floor to turn, to track his footsteps with poorly attuned hearing as he circles her.
“Fucker,” Mutters the witch, cloudy eyes blinking rapidly. Big hoop earrings sway as she twists again, thick brows furrowed with uncertainty. She can’t figure out exactly where he’s standing. He steps silently to the side and taps her shoulder - Sonia flinches, lip furled, teeth bared.
“Where’s that icy calm now, hmm? You withstood having your scars touched, a beating, mind magic, but it’s losing your sight that gets a reaction out of you? How strange.”
Short, neat nails claw against the cellar floor. The muscles in her back didn’t ripple with disgust when the scars there were traced, but they do now.
“Why is it that something as wrong as having your mind invaded didn’t get this big of a reaction out of you? Because you know that this might not end? Because you’re not scared of some memory being dug up, but of being given new ones to live with?”
“Yeah.” She can’t turn fast enough, it seems, to face him; his voice keeps rumbling behind her, unexpected. “I’m just a scared little girl, waiting for the big bad man to hit her again. Get on with it, weirdo.”
She doesn’t hear the movement that carries him so close, but he’s suddenly got his hand around her throat, startling a yelp out of the witch. Pale hazy eyes blink blindly up at him.
“Just one more thing to steal from you, and then we’ll get back to the pain. You have my word.”
Her lip furls again, mouth opening to spill her disinterest, her frustration, her disdain - but no words come out. Just a thin, rasping breath, the sound drawing her brows together in confusion. He’s not choking her, not denying her air. She can breathe. She just… can’t speak.
As she continues to try to form words, he lets go of her throat. As soon as the touch is gone, he melts into the void, invisible to her in the darkness.
And no matter how hard she tries, she can’t eke out a word of hatred.
“There.” The Hunter’s voice, warm with amusement and formless, floats around her bare shoulders. Sonia grits her teeth. “On edge and silent. Maybe now you’ll break down better. That control you cling to, chipping away.”
Her breaths come harder and harder, deep and furious, her nose flared with the emotion. Scraped knuckles press to the ground, legs folding under her - and she’s off, launching herself upward, fists furled and swinging.
She misses him entirely, wobbling legs sending her stumbling as her weight is thrown at empty air, but she spins and tries again and makes contact.
Her fists slam into him a couple times, straight-on like real punches and then the sides of her fists, as if she’s banging against a wall in frustration, before he snatches up her wrists and holds her close. Sonia pants in fury, cheeks flushed.
“Try again,” He laughs. His grip shifts to just one of her wrists - it snaps, how did he do that, must be magic, she’s trying to scream but can only rasp out scratchy air - and she’s thrown by the grip on her broken wrist, sent sprawling to the floor, knees and elbows scraping on the concrete.
Blind, merely wheezing faintly as she tries instinctively, stupidly, to break her fall with her newly crushed wrist, Sonia trembles and rises again.
All she can do is try.
I deleted all the bitch’s contacts that she’d go to for help or solace except for one and she’s hella boring. Anyone wanna help me think up ways to play with the bitch? I promise she’s a lot of fun to torment…~ Wednesday
A whumper who allows the whumpee to heal. Who lets the cuts and welts turn to scars, lets the pain fade, lets the whumpee believe that they are safe now.
But then the torture begins again. And this time, the whumper knows exactly where to hurt them.