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mrmxlemons · 1 year

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Funeral Cake (1/5)

Art the Clown x gn!Reader / Original Character | AO3 Link

EXPLICIT 18+ ONLY, this is a black comedy but it will feature heavy content. I would recommend checking the tags more thoroughly in ao3 if you want a forewarning of future tags to avoid triggers/squicks. Warnings at the beginnings of the chapter are only for that specific chapter.

Chapter 1: Wash, Rinse, Repeat

summary: Sometimes the best way to handle murderous demon clowns is to not handle them at all.

warnings: gore and blood, magical lore elements, demon Art the Clown, stalking, implied murder, minor wound kissing, minor sickness

It was Halloween, and you were dressed up as a clown. Albeit a sad one.

The frown on your face was exaggerated with blue finger paint, a tear immortalized on your left cheek in the same shade. The ensemble was the cheapest you could find at Party City, complete with Pom-Poms and a jester hat that jingled with every motion.

Not your best work, but by far from your worst. It was, however, one of those investments that you had to wear all day just to break even how much you paid, which meant picking up your clothes from the laundromat in full makeup and costume.

You’d had to throw a couple of things back in to cycle for a few more minutes, somehow still not dry despite having gone through a total of three times now. It was quiet except for the tumble of clothes and the soft pop music crackling through the speakers from the local radio station. Outside you could hear the bus taking off, the sound overshadowed by the soft gurgles of the child staring at you from over it’s mother’s shoulder.

The baby didn’t seem deterred by your appearance in its ogling. There was still a minute left on the timer. Bored, you look back to the kid and muster your best silly face, feeling as though you owe it a performance for attentively watching you, only for the chubby cheeks to screw up before a wail came pouring out.

The mother turned and affixed you with a scalding stare for destroying the peace as she pat the child, cooing to calm it down. You had enough dignity to turn away, blushing under the waxy white painted across your cheeks.

Sheepishly you shuffled to the machine, hastily swiping out your socks and throwing them in the basket you’d lugged with. Should’ve just hung them up back at your apartment. Now you have to walk two blocks with a bag full of laundry dressed like a clown, feeling like a clown. Whatever.

The makeup hides the way you mope after being silently tongue lashed, but it doesn’t stop you from staring abashedly at your shoes as you jerk for the door. Even when you see another pair enter your vision, black and huge, you can’t manage to stop yourself. It’s too late.

You collide with someone, and it’s like running into a brick wall. You make a sound of fear and shock and nearly collapse, barely managing to stay on your feet. The person you run into is oddly silent. If it weren’t for the sound of the plastic garbage bag in their hand shifting you wouldn’t be sure if you touched someone else at all.

The jester hat was akimbo on your head, you righted it. Luckily nothing had spilled onto the floor, but the person you’d run into sported an expression of annoyance that rivaled the scorned mother. He was, however, ironically enough, also dressed like a clown—just a far more menacing, creepy, and fucked up looking one.

He was a lot more committed to the look, edging equal parts into sinister mime territory with a cap that finished where makeup couldn’t reach, and a suit that glimmered as though it were made of silk. If you weren’t standing close enough to see the grit of the threads appearing in the basic cross stitch you might’ve thought he was a professional.

Even the makeup was clean. The eyebrows were penciled in, thin and looping in a tall arch, and on the tip of the long prosthetic nose was a single black dot. All of the lines were starkly separated, strong cuts of black and white that framed the whites of dark, soulless eyes.

The heavy gaze pinned you in place. For all of your attempts of quickly leaving, getting out of dodge had seemingly completely escaped you in that moment. You felt weighted down by the heavy, oppressive stare and the snarl on tar-black lips. And the teeth—

You really, really didn’t want to have to think about the teeth. You really, really just wanted to get home.

The words tumble out of you. You’re not even sure where they came from. “Nice clown costume,” you say, “lot funnier than mine.”

You don’t find anything about his costume funny. Somehow you’re sure he can tell, with the way his eyebrows raise and lips start to slowly curl in a spine-chilling, too wide smile. His shoulder opens, and you can see the door behind him.

It feels like permission, and while you don’t necessarily need express permission from a complete stranger that you can leave, you feel better hastily sweeping past him with it.

You don’t look back.

Your cheeks are red. But you don’t look back, and you forget it all happened before the night is over.

—

You head back to the laundromat three days later. You’d gone out Halloween night and lost your hat, spilled a drink down the back of your shifty Halloween costume. So much for returning it.

Figured you’d at least try and wash it out before throwing it in the donation bin. But the laundromat was closed, there was caution tape all around the front door and the inside had been torn up. Weird, it hadn’t looked like it was about to undergo construction when you’d been there, what, less than a week ago?

You also didn’t remember the tiles being red, but you also had a really shit memory these days.

The nearest laundromat is another ten minute walk in the opposite direction. Not ideal but you’re already out, so you resign your fate and start making your way there.

The place is actually cheaper than your old mat of choice, but only by twenty five cents. And it’s completely empty. You push the change in and wait until the clothes start tumbling before you head for outside. Might go get a pack from the corner Bodega. Might just get some candy. You should really, really quit smoking.

You don’t make it to the door, and thankfully you don’t run into him like last time. You’re not sure your stomach could’ve handled it.

He stands in the doorway steadily dripping a thick, miasmas liquid that was so dark and pungent you nearly mistook it for something else entirely. Something that wasn’t very clearly blood.

The smell was unmistakable. You could taste it in the back of your throat—the tang of iron rolling gently down your esophagus until you choked on it.

And there is—there is so, so much of it. An ungodly amount. The black and white suit that you had only glimpsed before shines a bright and lurid red, staining the front and up the side in a wide gash. An arc. You almost forget if he had truly ever been a black and white thing, or if you had somehow missed this when you’d run into him the other day.

You hadn’t. You would’ve noticed this. Red splatter on his cheek, turning his hands a muddy brown. You wouldn’t have been able to run away from the smell without noticing, wouldn’t have been able to forget such a distinct, awful smile.

You hadn’t forgotten about running into him, no matter how hard you’d tried. He hadn’t done anything besides weird you out, but it was Halloween. Weird shit happened on Halloween. You chalked it down as that and got plastered, pushing him from your mind (even though he kept swinging back, a steady pendulum of obsession).

And he appears in front of you so suddenly, so starkly, that you almost wonder if you’d somehow summoned him. As though he was a figment of your imagination, a manifestation of your paranoia drenched in all the gory possibilities of what hid behind that horrifyingly exaggerated expression.

Panic courses through you like lightning, but instead of pushing you away it pushes you towards. Your feet move until you are right in front of him, hand outstretching.

“That’s a lot of blood, man.” Your voice is quiet when you ask, almost besides yourself, “Are you alright?”

You reach out against your better judgement, against any judgement, and touch a particularly deep bruising of crimson on the white costume. It looks clotted, and it doesn’t occur to you until the tacky, cold red touches your fingertips that all of this blood might not actually be his.

The realization makes you freeze. The sheer amount of blood on him would be enough to make any grown man go into shock, if it was, in fact, his blood. Yet here he stands, unshaken, with quiet and even breaths that make your own rapidly speeding heart rate feel like a drum in your ears.

Your eyes flicker up. The point of contact between you harrows at the hooded, knowing stare the clown gives you, the grotesque menagerie of black and white twisting into an inhuman smile with too-dark gums. His eyes are black, eclipsed of their humanity as they pin you into place, dead and starless. A void that rivals the night.

You stifle the urge to run as you withdraw your hand. Somehow you know as you look at him that if you turn and high tail it you’re going to enact a chain of events with consequences you’re not ready to consider. Set yourself up to be the perfect unwilling prey to a waiting, hungry hunter.

“Are you hurt?” More words spoken out of thin air, these far enough that you wouldn’t be sure you said them if the other party wasn’t mute.

The dead smile falls into a considering look, the eyebrows furrowing as if to say, do you think I’m hurt?

You know he’s not. You’re shocked when he nods his head in ascent that he is.

‘Liar’ sits on your tongue. Instead you ask him where, waiting on baited breath in and out of your mouth when he raises a single, bloodied finger.

It’s almost funny. No—it is funny, and you laugh. Just a little bit. Not enough to be mocking, but enough to show that hey, you get it. You get the joke.

Beneath a layer of dirt and grime on the very tip of one of his fingers is a small cut, barely big enough to qualify as a paper cut. When he holds it up there is blood beading along the seem, welling and waiting to get enough viscosity to pour down his finger. Become another inconsequential marking on the canvas of horror that is the rest of him.

The implication is nauseating. If that is truly the only place he is hurt then the rest of the enormous amount of blood painting him really isn’t his, and that warrants so much more concern than you’re willing to offer. Willing to consider.

“Does it hurt?” He doesn’t give you a response, he just pokes his finger up again, pouting in a way that reminds you of the clown face you’d worn no less than a couple of days before. “What, do you want me to kiss it better?”

You try to swallow the sick feeling even as you ask. Maybe you shouldn’t have, because the clown’s face splits into an enormous grin, surprised but happy, and then he nods.

Of course he doesn’t know what a rhetorical question is. But also, of course you aren’t going to be the one to tell him. If he wants you to kiss his finger you’re very damn well going to do it.

You look at his finger again. Gross doesn’t even begin to describe it. There is a definite red-brownish hue to the skin that looks too deeply caked on to be anything less than revolting, and a stain of similarly haunting color clings to the palm of his gloves.

Apprehension swirls in your tightening chest. You feel as though you are toeing a very precarious line between playful and something else by making him wait, but you can’t help but stare at your fate and wonder if there’s some other way.

You force steel into your spine and, without thinking more of it, you take his hand and press a firm, solid kiss to the cut. You can feel his blood and whatever else smearing across your lip, and before you can stop your tongue’s reaction it flickers out and catches the rest.

It tastes like rust, and rot.

Regret is the acid rearing in the back of your throat. You can hardly muster the ability to keep yourself from gagging as your face screws up in disgust. “All better?”

You can’t hide the expression from him, as hard as you might try to. Thankfully he seems positively tickled by the way you play along, his shoulders shaking and mouth falling open in silent glee.

The clown nods enthusiastically. You mimic the nod in a much less enthusiastic manner. Fuck quitting smoking, you really needed a cigarette now.

“Well, I’m just going to—to go around the corner, get a sandwich and some cigarettes.” You clear your throat, hiding the urge to gag. “Do you want anything?”

You don’t expect an answer, you only ask so that you can sidle past him without cause for alarm. The clown let’s you, though the cheerful countenance withers as he watches you curb around him.

Something painfully snags at your leg, the sound of plastic shifting pulling your eyes down to the large trash bag plopped nonchalantly at the clown’s side. Somehow you hadn’t noticed it before but now that you look you cannot unsee all the possibilities it’s presence infers.

Blood rolls off the large black boots and onto the linoleum floor. You can’t imagine why a clown would be carrying around a plastic bag brimming with things that poke sharply and rattle eerily when moved, and, to be frank, you don’t want to know whys or whats. You don’t want to know what’s in the bag or what caught on your pants.

You tug yourself free, unable to hide the terror lancing up through your tensed shoulders and stiff neck. Why would a clown covered in blood carry such a mysterious bag of things that poke and prod in the most painful way? Better not to know.

You hope, at least, that the acquiescence shines through your eyes. The clown tilts his head, the amusement slipping for a slippery and prying emotion you can’t pinpoint, but you can feel it trying to pin you in place.

“I’ll be back.” You say.

The pencil-thin eyebrows pinch together, the eyes glinting sharply. You’d better, they respond.

You walk past him, but it’s a farce. You’re not escaping. He’s letting you get away.

Why is he letting you get away?

He knows that you’re aware of what he’s done. Even if you managed to keep your cool well enough not to break down in front of him there is no way he couldn’t detect the apprehension rolling off of you. The pure, rancid fear.

You feel like a ghost, his eyes hollowing you out from behind until you’re out of sight. Then you’re leaning on the nearest brick wall, knees shaking so badly you nearly cave to the ground.

It takes every ounce of strength in you not to break down right there, to not start sprinting in any direction and never look back. To get the fuck away—wherever that may be. But even the minimal distance you’ve put between yourself and the clown brings no relief, and miles would do no different. Because the fact remains that you haven’t gotten away.

You have to go back. There’s no choice. If you don’t go back to him he’ll come to you, and with him entails an entirely new set of rules to abide by. Rules that he sets.

Rules to live by. Rules to die by.

You don’t walk to the closest station, even though you know it’s less than two blocks away. You don’t try and dial the police. You definitely don’t look behind you.

Somehow you’re sure that if you change the course of your actions because of him then he will suddenly become real. Right now he is just something you’re encountering, but the moment he enters your world, the moment you let this shift from a chance meeting to a confrontation, is the moment you go under the knife.

Fuck, this is so fucked. You couldn’t even think of eating a sandwich anymore. How long did you have before you had to get back to the laundromat? How long before he’d come looking for you?

A part of you fantasizes about this being something you’ve deluded yourself into thinking is real; the clown is really just a harmless, if a bit creepy man that doesn’t see a reason leaving Halloween to be the only day to dress up. Who knows, he could be a professional clown.

Its the same part of you that fantasizes telling the lady at the counter what you’ve seen. ‘There’s a clown covered in blood at Al’s Laundromat, he’s got a bag of tricks and I don’t think it’s the fun kind. Yeah, Al’s, right down the road.’

You ask for cigarettes instead, the long ones. It’s a lot easier to say that, a lot less words. Besides, you know he’s expecting you. You know what will happen if you don’t show up.

Your hands tremble as you light the tip against the struggling wind and make your way back to the laundromat. You want the life of the cigarette to be lackadaisical, to last you longer than the walk back to the laundromat, but you chase the buzz with quick steps. Antsy to get back.

Not eager. You don’t want to go back, but you don’t want to keep him waiting. It makes the buzz fade quicker than you’d like, the numbness slipping through your fingers before it can fully set into your spine.

You can see the sign of the laundromat gleaming in the sun, dim and dusty and likely filled with mosquitoes. People were walking by the murky panes of glass. None of them looked in. You almost prayed they would, just so you wouldn’t have to go inside. Likely they’d be better people than you and call the cops after seeing a murderer drenched in blood sitting inside, but who knows these days.

The panic trapped in the rib-woven confinement of your chest doesn’t ease as you take the final drags of your cig. The moment you’re in the line of sight you feel the eyes back on you, and it makes the end almost burn brighter, as if the cigarette is also too impatient to wait for you to return to the clown.

“The fuck has my life come to,” you grumble, stepping on the lit butt until it dithers out.

When you look up he is, of course, staring straight through you. You wave pathetically as if to affirm ‘hey, I’m back. Just like I promised!’ but the clown doesn’t look like he feels any particular way about it. In fact, his gaze is cold enough to make your stomach curdle, the hot ball of anticipation inside your gut hardening into the choking weight of fear.

Your fingers are slick with sweat as they press on the door. The clown is sitting in a chair conveniently close to where your outfit is still tumbling away in the dryer, and leading to him is a grossly vibrant trail of blood in the shape of comically large footprints

His expression doesn’t change as you drag you feet over to where he’s lounging, the black trash bag lopsided at his feet. Decay drips off him and onto the plastic seats, pooling in the curved bottom before dripping down the backs.

You change the clothes from the washer to the dryer. Thirty five minutes. How the fuck are you supposed to survive thirty five minutes with this guy?

If you sit right next to him you’ll get a proper whiff of his sins, if you sit too far maybe it’ll be your blood spilling on the floor. Not great options either way. Maybe it’s better to butter him up, though it’s hard to tell which he wants with the way he’s staring at you like he wants to skin you.

You choose what you think is the lesser of two evils and sit next to him, casual. You try not to let the look he levels you with steal your voice, not with the way his brown gunk-covered fingers tap impatiently on his thigh. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting for you to step over the line so he can do something.

The time left on your machine reads thirty two minutes. Fine.

“You got a name?” You ask after looking back at him.

He bats his eyelashes playfully, why, little ol’ me? The expression warms up as you enter the arena of the game again, his game, watching as he digs through the bag before pulling out a square piece of paper.

It’s a business card. Your breath stops in your chest when, for a moment, you wonder if you really had read this whole thing wrong—was he just a really convincing mime that you’d happened to run into twice, eager to share his business?

The thought is short lived. When you take the card you can see the printed text is scratched out sloppily with a crayon. In the margins is the scratch of sloppy, childish writing:

“Art the Clown,” you read out loud, voice quiet.

Art folds his hands in front of himself and presses them under his chin, once more batting his eyelashes at you as though to say, guilty as charged.

It’s a mockery of sweetness, especially with such disgusting yellow teeth baring themselves at you like a shark. At least he doesn’t seem angry anymore.

You hand the card back to him, careful not to touch where the blood soaks through his gloves, before sitting down next to him. You try not to make it too obvious that you’re sitting as far from him as possible on the seat, but Art seems completely unaware of personal space as he leans in, thigh touching yours.

Wetness seeps through the place of contact. Iron is rich and burning in your nose.

You dig through your pockets and start talking as soon as you have four quarters in your palm. “Well, Art—if I were you, I’d wash that. Otherwise all the red is going to stain.”

You place the quarters into his palm, lean back in your seat, and close your eyes. You’ve got thirty more minutes, might as well try and fit a nap in. It’s not like anyone is going to bother you while Art is here, though that thought doesn’t bring you much comfort.

You count backwards from ten, breathing out of your mouth, and try to let the vibrations of the machines lull you to sleep.

#Art the Clown #art the clown x reader #art the clown x you #slasher fandom #slasher x you #the terrifier #gore

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buccaneeering · 2 months

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Silly questions about Julien and his mustache (because I love his mustache)

1) How did he come to own it? (Did he make it himself or perhaps buy it from somewhere?)

2) How on earth does he get it to stay in place?

3) Does he own more than one?

4) Has he ever experienced mustache mishaps? (Like it falling off in front of others, getting paint on it, ect.)

5) What are Erik's thoughts on the mustache, and does he know it's fake?

If you couldn't tell, it is one of my favorite parts of Julien's design, lol :)

1. He was allowed to keep it after a play he was in in his teen years!

2. Spirit gum! It's a sort of adhesive made to stick prosthetics onto an actor's face, and it holds up under stagelights. (It's so painful to get off without proper remover, though. Speaking from experience.)

3. No. He has kept this one in great condition, and it would be far too expensive to afford another!

4. It has had mishaps: he's not been able to find it before work and it sends him into a hectic, often tearful search every time, he's applied it crooked, or hasn't used enough spirit gum(which caused it to turn and slide), and I could imagine things like his fingers getting hung on it while he's trying to part it in the morning.

Thankfully, he got used to most of these in his teen years. He's practically a pro these days.

5. I don't think Erik finds out until late in their friendship... Julien is(obviously) very closed off about being a transman, not only due to his own insecurity, but the time period.

When he DOES tell Erik, or Erik finds out upon walking in on him... Well, you might imagine it calls for a conversation.

But, in the end, I think all is well(I mean, Erik makes a realistic mask/prosthetic so he can live a normal life in theory, so I think he'd understand).

Erik just wants to be loved, and wants to do the same.

Incredibly devoted.

GAH! THANK YOU ALWAYS FOR THE ASKS! 💛💛 I hope this helps(and I love the curiosity and questions!!)

I hope you have a good day. 😊

#phantom of the opera oc #self insert #erik the phantom #the phantom of the opera #leroux erik #self ship #self indulgence at its finest #poto oc #fake mustache #asks

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50cal-fullauto-astarion · 3 months

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this is so self indulgent of me to ask but let me embarrass myself by asking for tummy kisses for Prem and Bug

FGSGHSH I LOVE YOU POSH. I'm sorry this took so long - Christ I feel so rusty - and the ending is a blunt as a gunshot, but I THINK IT'S CUTE and I hope I didn't butcher Bug too much 💖🥹

Prem is taller than Bug. That’s a fact of nature. Even on flat-feet, Prem’s a good five inches taller. But. Shit. She’s got this pair of five inch Louboutin heels—the fuckin’ sharp-an’-pointy kind, flashy black patent leather, with those retina-searin’ red bottoms Bug’d only seen in magazine pages until Prem had pulled ‘em out of her luggage.

She wears them with a Barbie Doll heel foot on her prosthetic, walkin’ well balanced with a sleek, dark-oiled teak cane with the silver head of a mallard for a handle. Looks a bit vampiric, but not in a bad way. Sort of way that makes Bug’s mouth run dry, and reach for Price’s sipping whiskey to quench her pinching-parched throat.

“Mm?” the man hums, rubbing his recently trimmed beard, following her eyes, and then he gets that fuckin’ pinched up, pleased smirk on his face, like he knows somethin’ about somethin’. “Yeah. The heels always have me fucked up, too.”

“Piss right off,” Bug grunts, taking his glass in full, and he only chuckles to himself, joining her in watching Prem swim her way through the gallery show. Feels strange to Bug, a bit, to see Prem’s death masks mounted on black grids of metal, lit harsh and bright from above with studio track lamps—but by no means wrong. No, more was like seeing an old friend finally finding a place they belonged. Been on the woman’s ass long enough to get her to agree to a show.

Prem—true to her callsign, Premonition, the woman that sees the future and all that lies hidden—must feel the eyes on her, because she turns her head to look over a sleek shoulder, and a smile warps her painted-burgundy lips. She lifts a hand and waves with a little wiggle of her ring finger, right at her.

Bug can just feel Price making that goddamned quokka face again, staring dead at the side of her face. She swills the giant cube of ice around the dregs of his whiskey, and she jabs him where it smarts, but only a bit, “Think Soap’s gone and let your mutt get picked up by the RSPCA yet? Or you think he’s still wanderin’ some back road like a bum?

Price shakes his head. “Nah. Dog’s fine, probably making moon-eyes at Bordelon,” he starts, but he shrugs his shoulders with a thoughtful look, “Soap’s probably up with Agnes trying to dust her crypt.”

“Oh, you dirty old fuck,” Bug snorts, pulling a face of disgust, “Agnes’s taste is so much better than that. Disgusting you’d even suggest that.”

“Mhmm,” Price purrs, leaning back against the bar, resting a hand on the small of her back, rubbing his blunt fingers into the small pad of soft pudge he finds there.

Prem is the one to pinch Price’s jaw, giving it a good jiggle around eleven, when the crowd’s gotten thicker with the hipster art scene rats, and she can no longer functionally give a fuck about showing face. “John. My darling. My dear love. My...sweetest, closeted Nine Inch Nails boy—”

“Fuck’s sake,” he grunts, jiggled.

“—can you please, please find us some good scran?” she finishes, leaning heavily on her cane, her weight bent toward Bug’s figure. He rolls his eyes, but there’s a smirk pulling at his mouth under the chops—just a little one, like it’s a bit shy of showing itself. Prem knows she’s won the moment she sees it, pulling him in for a *pap!* of a kiss before giving his cheek a chummy clap. “Good man, crack on.”

Bug slides right into Prem’s free side, sliding an arm around the woman’s waist as one of Prem’s snakes around her shoulders. “So, what was the trick for pullin’ that off, eh? He gives me all sorts a’shit when I try to boss him,” Bug laughs, sinking into the scent of Prem’s perfume.

“Y’just have to get his dick a little bit hard, that’s all,” Prem hums in return, waggling her brows. “You’re a dabhand at it, y’know? Just gotta harness it, eh.”

“Ooh, I’ll have to practice on that then, won’t I?” Bug is beaming, and she knows it. Doesn’t try to hide it, either. Neither does she try to hide the way that she keeps glancing at Prem’s lips when she looks up into her face, tugging her toward down the sidewalk in the direction of their hotel.

Prem’s eyes—already dark under the streetlamps, wet and deep like pools of ink—go half-lidded, and she dips her head, tucking her nose under Bug’s heavy mane of curls. Fuckin’ embarassin’ it is, how fast Bug grows wet between the legs as she feels Prem’s lips pressin’ slow and warm against her neck, where the print of her lipstick will remain hidden.

“Mm,” Prem begins to murmur, “wanted to do that feck-off bad all night. Kept seein’ you and John standin’ together, and don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Her eyes squeeze tight, still breathing against Bug’s skin. “Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about watchin’ you two fuck the daylights out of each other. Him on top, feckin’ you all slow, and hard—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Bug barks with laughter, shaking her head, yoking Prem’s throat loosely in her hand, pushing her back a bit, burning head to toe with a bright flush and a thumping desire that starts in her cunt and booms out to her fingers, toes and lashes. “Can’t even wait ‘til we’re back in the hotel, huh? We got you in that bad of a way?”

“Always!” Prem sniffs, grinning.

There’s only a single lamp on in the room, and Prem is wearing only her prosthetic, and her panties, with a tube of her lipstick tucked in the band. Demon of a woman had the gall to let Bug get all the way dressed down to one of Price’s black t-shirts and her drawers before she made her move. Bug had to admit, though—good fuckin’ move, that one. Might have to tuck it in her own pocket for later.

Bug snorts as Prem’s hands slide up to her hips, gripping the softness she finds there, and deeper, until her fingertips knead tight muscles. Bug’s hands slide directly to the woman’s neck, resting with her thumbs over the pulsepoint, urging her down to kiss, and Prem falls right into the trajectory of it.

“Oh, aw, feck,” Prem laughs, pulling back from Bug’s lips, and the remorse sounds utterly put-on, “I’ve gone and shitted up your face. Look at you, you’re all smudgy. Didn’t mean to do all that.”

“And you’re a shit liar, darlin’,” Bug tosses back, feeling wild as she runs wide-open, letting Prem move her back to the bed, urging her up onto the pillows.

“Yeahhh—you’re right.” Prem has the audacity to fuckin’ giggle, burying her face against Bug’s neck once again, sliding between her spread legs, her hands moving farther up Bug’s shirt, savoring the soft curve of her waist, the structure of her ribs. But, goddamn, does she touch Bug as if considering her angles and construction like a well fine piece of art, wanting to pick up the techniques to copy into her own repertoire.

Up trails Bug’s shirt, a slow and subtle climb as Prem cups her breasts, rolling her nipples beneath her thumbs, pinching and tugging them slightly. Her grin’s impossible for Bug to ignore as her lips press more and more burgundy prints into her skin, and they both just find themselves laughing for no reason at all apart from sheer delight.

Prem’s knee slides up, coaxing Bug’s legs further open, and Bug sighs heatedly with the move, letting Prem push her shirt up over her breasts. “You’re a wicked-ass little thing,” she accuses, and Prem nods in emphatic agreement as she begins to kiss Bug’s freckled sternum.

She's kissed Bug's breasts, teasing her nipples with her soft, warm tongue, leaving behind prints of burgundy lips on the areola, the bottom swells, the top. Made herself right at home, groping Bug's hips tight before she leans up enough up to smart-ass-casual swipe more color onto her mouth, leaving Bug squirming and laughing under her. It only turns into a cackle when Prem dips to her stomach, kissing a belt across her waist, her bellybutton (where she dips her tongue, causing Bug to howl a surprised laugh and buck), and just—all over.

Makes Bug's head swim, it does. “Think you're just showin’ off at this point, sweetheart,” she snorts, brushing her fingers over Prem's short curls, slipping down to draw nonsense over the nape of her neck.

“Oh, no,” Prem hums, and Bug can feel her grin as it meets her hip, “am just stallin’ for…”

The door of the hotel room groans open, and Price's heavy steps are unmistakable alongside the shuffle of a paper bag in his arms, and the wrestling-out flap of his fleece lined denim jacket snapping. He doesn't stop what he's doing, but he sure takes a long look, and Bug can't help but grin wide under crinkled eyes and stick her tongue between her teeth as she gives a little wave. “Hi,” she says, simple as can be.

Price drops the bag on the empty dresser— they'll find out in an hour or two he'd somehow managed to find cut italian hoagies by some miracle—and he sits on the other bed, looking at them as he unlaces his boots. Prem kicks her feet up in the air, crossing them at the ankles while she pressed her cheek to Bug's belly.

“Am I early or late?” he grunts.

“Course he don't wonder if he's invited,” Bug teases, but she continues to smile. They've all three caught each other in compromising enough positions to play grab-ass about it—Price is the only one that acts caught when it happens.

“Actually,” Prem sighs, rising to her knees in a well practiced movement, sliding forward to kiss Bug's lips as she goes, “you're right on time.”

Prem's got the audacity to sneak launch a playful clap between Bug's legs—over her soaked, but clothed crotch—earning herself one wicked bark of indignation and a swat at her arm for making Bug's neglected pussy throb. But Prem continues regardless, ordering lightly, “Get your shite-arse over here and eat her. Poor thing's tremblin’.”

#my work #holler holler get $#friend oc: bug #DGGJJF I HOPE YOU LIKE BABE

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zarvasace · 1 year

Text

Wooden

Gen, 700 words, Wind & Wild, disability AU, AO3 link here

Today was a bad walking day for me so I wrote :) Usual disclaimer, I don't have this disability, but I have something similar ish. The descriptions are from my own experience and may not be accurate.

(@arecaceae175 the day's pretty much over, but I hope it was an okay day in the end! Your comment earlier gave me the bug to write this one.)

---

"You're limping," Wild says. At least he has the forethought to keep his observation quiet.

Wind still scowls. "If you haven't noticed, I'm always limping a little. It's not exactly easy to walk on a wooden leg, Wild."

"No," Wild says, and Wind isn't sure what part he's rejecting. "Your walking isn't always even, but that's not a limp. You know what is, though? Whatever you're doing right now."

"I am not!" He is. He knows he is. He's usually one to walk near the front of the pack near Warriors and Wild, or at least the middle, but he's drifted to the very back today. He's been trying to keep up.

Everything just… it hurts. The end of his left leg is a little achy, and his knee feels cold. He can't actually feel his prosthetic, he knows that, but little bright sparks of pain shoot up his left leg whenever he takes a step. That's not even accounting for his hips, which feel overworked and numb, and his right foot, which is tired from all the weight he's been putting on it all day.

It's a bad day. His world has been narrowing to the road in front of him as he's been focusing harder on just keeping up with the group.

And, despite Wind doing what he could to pretend he's fine, Wild had noticed. Of course he'd noticed.

"We can stop," Wild says, even quieter.

Wind shakes his head. "We're almost to the village Twilight mentioned, it isn't worth it." He knows he's not the only one who'll appreciate a bed underneath him soon. If they stop for a few minutes, they'll just be delaying sweet softness by that much more.

"You could climb on my back," Wild offers, which is very nice of him, but it just makes Wind scowl more.

He narrows his eyes at the dirt in front of him. A pebble just the right size to kick passes, but Wind's too focused on moving his feet to branch out like that. "Thanks. But I'm okay."

Wild shrugs. "You have about thirty seconds until someone asks if we need a break."

"What?" Wind looks up, and sure enough, they're walking about four yards behind Legend and Hyrule, who've definitely noticed them lagging. They're walking a bit farther behind Four and Twilight than they normally would, perhaps to disguise the distance Wind's fallen behind.

Wind groans at himself. They can't even see the village yet. His limp is becoming more pronounced with every step. He's not sure if he can make it on his own, his legs feel like they're entirely made of wood, numb and heavy. It's just a matter of time before he stumbles.

A faint noise makes Wind look back up at Wild, recognizing the sound of the slate activating. Wild's switched out his usual blue tunic for a leather vest that doesn't cover his stomach, which now features purple body paint.

Wind stops to stare in confusion. And perhaps a little jealousy—the outfit looks ridiculous, but in kind of a very cool way.

"Boosts my strength a little," Wild says by way of explanation. He smiles a little and counts under his breath. "Eight, seven, six, five…"

"Fine!" Wind huffs. Wild has him by the throat, metaphorically speaking. Wind won't force everyone to slow down for him, and Wild provides a convenient way of doing that.

"Fine," Wind says again, setting his hands on Wild's shoulders and hopping. Wild's elbows lock beneath Wind's knees, and he jogs to catch up with the group just as Twilight pauses and looks back at them with a question in his expression. Wild had been right on the money with that timing.

Wind doesn't quite have time to erase the pain and frustration from his own face, but he does his best to smile as if he and Wild are doing something dumb for a dumb reason rather than what they're actually doing.

Twilight clearly doesn't buy it, but he doesn't speak up or make them all slow down. He smiles back, rolls his eyes a little, and goes back to the conversation with Four.

"Mission accomplished," Wind mutters to Wild, relaxing a little more in the hold. His legs don't hate him quite as much anymore. It's good to get the pressure off. "Hey, Wild?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

Wild doesn't answer verbally, but he doesn't need to.

#my writing #linked universe #disability au #lu wild #lu wind #lu fic

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mandalorianbrainweasel · 2 years

Text

Corr gets cornered by some members of his old battalion who are very, very unhappy with his new position.

(warnings for canon typical violence, dehumanization)

It comes out of nowhere.

Corr gets body checked into the alley wall, his head bouncing on the stone and his vision swimming with white and familiar paint. The colour, anyways. None of the markings are familiar. All of the familiar markings are dead and gone, after all.

“This is gonna suck,” he mutters to himself and he thrashes as he’s surrounded. Get out, get away.

“Think you’re too good for us now, huh?” familiar voices jeer. “Hanging out with the karking commandos, now, eh?”

He feels the familiar tug of his prosthetic arms being dragged behind his back and he kicks out, getting one of these idiots in the cod’ hard enough he hears the duraplast crack under his boot. His arms are released, but he can’t bring them forward again, and can’t even pull them apart very far. “The kark did you dumbasses do?” he snarls.

“Well you’re part clanker now anyway, we figured we might as well use something more familiar,” one particularly nasty one says. He vaguely recognizes the shapes of his paint, now that he thinks about it. That guy was already nasty to Corr’s squad before.

“Wired them together,” a more laconic brother drawls.

Well. That’s going to be annoying as hell later.

Then one of them socks him in the stomach.

He doubles over, groaning and winded and wanting to puke. The karking hell.

“Do you really think some idiot like you is going to last in the commandos?” the nasty one asks. “You got three good men killed. They’re just using you.”

“No shit,” Corr wheezes. “Better than rotting away at a desk job though.”

“You should have, for what you did,” another brother half-squeaks. Young, armour still mostly white.

They dragged a shiny into this with them.

Corr rolls his eyes and grunts as another fist lands against his skin.

Someone clears their throat and the CTs go quiet and still, but Corr is just swaying and dizzy. “I don’t think you kids would want me calling one of the Jedi over here, now would you?” a heavily accented voice says. Familiar accent, Corr thinks, but he can’t quite place it except that it’s somewhere near the commandos’ Mandos. “I know High General Zey is only about a block away.”

“Who the hell are you?” the nasty one snarls, spinning around. He sounds scared.

Corr leans back against the brick of the alley. His shoulders hurt from being pulled back.

“A contractor.” There’s a very distinct pause. “Get out of here.”

They run, a thundering noise that shakes Corr up, and when he looks up it’s gold paint. For one long, terrifying moment, he thinks it’s Skirata, but there’s no limp as the Mando comes toward him and the hands on his shoulders are gentle.

“Turn around, let me get you free,” the Mando says, then he curses—unfamiliar words but a familiar tone—when Corr obliges. “Seriously? Wire?”

There’s a rustling, a clicking, then a sharp snap and the tension holding Corr’s arms together is gone. He brings them back around and grimaces, there’s still wire all through the insides of the metal skeleton of his bare prosthetic arms. It’ll take ages to get it all out to prevent it from gumming up the circuitry.

“Come on, ad’ika,” the Mando says, taking him by the shoulders. “Let me get you somewhere safe to check those hits.”

He ends up back in the old safe house, sat on a couch with the Mando taking off his helmet and revealing pale ginger hair and a freckled face, younger than Sergeant Skirata and Vau but older than General Tur-Mukan and Commander Jusik. This Mando’s apparently a medic, or maybe even a doctor, from the bag of tricks he has on him. Eventually, all the wire is gone and bruises and abrasions are treated. No broken bones, thank kark.

The Mando hums as he finishes up, patting his shoulder. “You can rest now,” he says, almost gently, and Corr listens. He falls asleep on the couch and doesn’t wake up until hours later, when a frantic Mereel finally shows up for him.

#whump #whump prompt fics #clone trooper corr #republic commando #mij gilamar #corr skirata #hazing

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becomedecay · 1 year

Text

❀ *◦ tobias forge. cis man. he/him. heterosexual. ⇝ hey, isn’t that torbjörn 'tor' engström, also known as rune? i think that the forty year old from laholm, sweden works as a frontman for the heavy metal theatrical band mortis & amateur stage actor at single carrot theatre, but outside of that people describe them as hiding behind a mask hoping secrets do not fall out, the echoing of a choir in the emptiness of a church, a pentagram hastily scrawled onto torn and crumpled paper, a plant withering under the scorching sun as it yearns for a taste of water. i hear they are often overcompensating & mournful, but they are also known to be sensitive & trustworthy. consider giving them a visit at their home in room 13, the black dog motel and get to know why they’re called the forever-dying priest.

more details below , cw: pregnancy, marital issues, separation, depression

THE HEAVY RIFFS OF A GUITAR PLAY THROUGH THE NIGHT, HIS VOICE POWERFUL AS IT CASTS OVER THE CROWD.

once again, a sold out show is played and torbjörn is dressed to the nines in the costume of the frontman; in this iteration, he is known as RUNE, the priest and overseer of the band MORTIS. he's been long dedicated to his craft, overwhelmingly so to the point that he's hardly been home. his wife understands, she recognises that what he's doing is for their sake. he tours the world and plays show after show so they can have a steady income & comfortable living. he's making a name for himself and establishing a legacy.

he thought she'd always be okay with it. heléne had vocalised her support for so long, that tor had neglected to check in to confirm that it was still the case, when she announced their pregnancy she expected him to come home, to put the latest tour ( which at the time was for the frontman persona of sten, rune's possible father and predecessor, in the band's lore ) on hold and return to her side to see it through.

but he didn't want to let anyone down. he didn't want to disappoint the fans, his band mates who relied on the tours for further income, and his wife. so many people depended on him in that moment — and here came the first pangs of despair. his unsteadiness allowed the depression to creep in. it crawled and latched onto his brain and sent him down & down. eventually, he compromised with keeping the tour in europe—explaining to western fans that something had come up for sten, holding him back. the fans didn't mind this so much, a slither of lore sent them into a frenzy trying to piece things together and they quickly came up with their own theories as to why sten wouldn't be going far beyond his home country.

seeing what the fans were saying gave tor inspiration to use the cut-short tour to put a gentle end to sten, to give way to a new persona who was more youthful in personality. this was just his way of trying to cope. any time a frontman died, it was for a personal reason. to cope with the loss of his father, he'd ended sten's own predecessor NARFI, a man with little care for his subordinates—a gangly & elderly looking man, yet a steady fan favourite. how he coped with trauma was certainly interesting, but it helped. the fans understood what the death of a frontman meant.

on the final day of the european show in sweden, he had sten playing his final song and then the spotlight hit, shining a warm light upon him. the act played out as god's light seeing him. he falls to his knees, clutching at his chest. he doesn't want to accept it. they have an oath to the satanic church of worship that they will walk with Him when the time comes. and he does not delay in coming for his soul. he smites god's light, the stage falls dark and when it's re-illuminated, he is gone.

all that sits is a glass coffin on the stage with a prosthetic doll that looks like him. a younger man with his face painted bright shades of white complimented by black walks onto the stage. it is here the fans get what they want. FATHER, YOU'VE LEFT ME TOO SOON. HOW AM I TO CARRY THE FLAME FOR HIM?

and there, it ends. the fans get a glimpse of rune, sten is dead and the tour is ended so he can rush home to his wife. the next six months are bliss, little astrid is born and he dotes on her whilst recording the next studio album. torbjörn starts to settle into his new life, but the depression still eats away at him. it leaves him sunken, obsessively reading over things and diving into his work. those first six months seem so far away now. as astrid gets older and heléne gets disillusioned, the family begins to crumble.

they agree to a mild separation run. they live alone and attend marriage counselling for astrid's sake. there is always hope that things will get better. tor continues to invest his time into mortis, rune becomes the cute, angelic frontman everyone adores because of his antics. his on-stage presence is worshipped and finally, tor finds his footing. this is the frontman he wants to keep for as long as he can. because he knows that the death of rune would signify something so much worse.

just as their marriage is back on track, heléne moves back into the family home—it sinks in. she doesn't seem the same. she's making frequent business trips for her work, gone for weeks and at times MONTHS at a time. is this how she felt? he asks himself. it makes sense to him now what he'd been doing to his wife. what he was going to do to astrid.

on her sixth birthday, she wakes up to find heléne gone. she wakes up her dad and asks him where mama went. panic hits him like a train, heléne's belongings were still here, but the important things like her purse and passport were gone. checking their shared online banking, he saw that a plane ticket was booked, and upon closer research it's determined that they were for the states. were things that bad? he truly thought they were on the right track.

two weeks go by and he's frantically trying to piece together what to do, all work is on hold, astrid's crying is a constant echo in his head. heléne's been avoiding him, but one evening their call connects. her voice is different, almost static. she tells him she's returned home, where she belongs. that she's needed.

it doesn't make sense, none of it makes sense. he knows what he has to do—he feigns interest to the band about doing a us tour to make up for what happened before, and they agree without much argument. he'd requested that they go to alaska for the final show, pointing out anchorage as the last stop. that took a lot more persuasion, but when the band relies on him for survival, they can't do much to say no.

they ask about astrid, will she be coming too? she has to, she has no one to care for her, plus she'd get to see her dad doing what he does best. the tour starts without a hitch and when they arrive at anchorage, alaska for their final show that's when he tells them. he's here for heléne. she just upped and left one day without telling them why. understandably, his bandmates are pissed. they argue, over & over about the level of betrayal he's pulled on them. there was no anchorage show. it was never going to go ahead. he just wanted a way to get here without arousing heléne's suspicion.

given the way things have gone, tor & the band decide that for now, whilst they stay in anchorage they'll put a brief pause on things. if they decide to make the parting a permanent thing, so be it. but for now, MORTIS are on hiatus. they all go their separate ways, with tor taking up residency in the black dog motel with his daughter. he gets her enrolled with the local school as a temporary student, though something in him tells him that this isn't temporary.

heléne's still not been seen, but he knows she's here. it's his gut instinct. she's around. but she isn't herself.

#anchorintro #intro—tor.#important—tor.

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bellasdragons · 10 months

Text

NPC Descriptions

Here are the descriptions I could find for the Trading Post and Grand Exchange dragons (and Sage).

While the Grand Exchange ones have descriptions (will update with Sage's other seasons too as they come up) I couldn't most of our main crew - if you can find them please let me know and I'll add them (with credit of course!)

Under a cut because of length:

SUSIE "An image of Susie, a female Coatl dragon. Susie sits among a garden of hearts and flowers. She crochets a string of hearts in her wheelchair, using the thread lovebirds have brought to her. As a Coatl dragon, Susie has a short snout, curled tail, and a feathered crest and wings that connect to her body alongside some swirled bony plates. Susie has a leopard ice primary and pinkish wings that end in short stripes. She wears enormous spectacles, a red heart bowtie, and a purple coat and skirt with many white petticoats. "

PATCHES "An image of Patches, a male Pearlcatcher dragon. Patches holds up his pearl using a prosthetic arm and is surrounded by a treasure chest, parrot, cannon, and ship’s wheel. As a Pearlcatcher dragon, Patches has two horns down the center of his forehead, a mane that runs down the length of his back, and long ears. Patches colors most closely resemble a maroon speckle and garnet freckle. He wears a mix of a corsair’s hat and a privateer’s jacket, both of which are mended and have seen better days. "

JOXAR "An image of Joxar, a male Mirror dragon. He tosses a prismatic token into the air, and sits in front of crates of goods. As a Mirror dragon, Joxar has two pairs of eyes and a twin crests/horns that flare out to either side. Joxar has a sky primary and brick secondary, and does not sport any gene patterns. Joxar wears a floppy festive crown, a scarf, a short vest, and a jester’s adornments on his legs and tail. "

ARVELLE "An image of Arvelle, a female Ridgeback dragon. Arvell is holding a twin-headed spiked flair and standing atop a mound of broken weapons. As a Ridgeback dragon Arvelle has a protruding nose and chin, long curved thumb claws, and spikes running down her back. Arvelle has an off-white body color with a greyish pink belly. Her claw tips are crimson and her wings are a reddish brick color. She wears a set of well-used armor. The armor’s most notable piece is the helmet, which sports a large crimson plume of hair and fiber that trails down her neck. Arvelle is well-muscled and scarred. "

HIGGENS "An image of Higgins, a male Nocturne dragon. Higgens has a dry expression on his face, stands upright and holds up a platter of mimic powder. Behind him is a haunted looking Victorian building, and next to him stands a chest that opens to reveal teeth and a tongue. As a Nocturne dragon, Higgens has a bat-like nose, a chin frill, and an array of short spikes that run down his neck. Higgens has a charcoal primary and blackberry secondary, and does not sport any gene patterns. "

MARVA An image of Marva, presumed to be an Imperial dragon. "Presumed", because there is no dragon stationed at this shop at all! Instead, a whimsically-painted cardboard cutout of an imperial dragon stands among cardboard cutouts of April Fool's day familiars. Many of the cutouts display visible tape holding them together, and some paint appears to have been spattered. The largest cutout of the Imperial dragon is of a dark purple imperial with light purple wings. It holds a star wand and wears a star cape and top hat, and has a big smile on its face that nearly splits its head in two.

AVERY "An image of Avery, a male Wildclaw, looking anxious in an office overflowing with paperwork, medals, and trophies. From behind the cluttered desk peeks a Skycat with long ears and wings. As a Wildclaw dragon Avery has three pairs of horns around his face, a feathered crest, and stands upright on a pair of legs sporting hooked claws. Avery has an algae jaguar primary and a peridot blend secondary. He is wearing a scroll case sling, a pair of spectacles, and a bowtie. "

GLASS & GLOSS "An image of Glass and Gloss, a nonbinary Aberration dragon. They smile viciously and hold open their tattered cape, displaying an array of gene scrolls. Behind them, vases an boxes are overflowing with similar inventory. As an Aberration dragon, they have two heads with rounded and swept back horns, twin tails, and tattered wings. They have a flaxen swirl primary, goldenrod weaver secondary, and soil fangs tertiary. "

SAGE (SUMMER) "An image of Sage, a female dryad. Sage reclines against her tree her hand raised to tease and grow the dandelions. Behind her the land shows the gold colors of summer. As a dryad, Sage resembles a human with leaves and bark growing from her hair and body. In the summer, Sage has deep brown skin with gold undertones, a golden crown of leaves, and a white and green leafy dress. "

GALORE "Image of Galore, an adult male Guardian dragon with speckle spruce primary and chocolate blend secondary genes. Galore is perched upon a pile of coins, gems, a chest, and other treasures. He is wearing an ornate, yet aged, cloak and beard tie. A large wooden staff with a loose leather strap grip is leaning against Galore’s side. The apparel Galore wears and his staff are unique to his character and are not standard "

#I am SO MAD that some of these are just. straight-up non-existent as G1s :'(#HOW am I to complete The Trading Post Project like this?!#also: WE HAVE GALORE COLORS. I REPEAT WE HAVE GALORE COLORS #The Trading Post Project #(so I can find this easy bc that's my baby I've been quietly working on it since shortly after joining the site)#flight rising

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bridgyrose · 1 year

Note

A Running Summer Au Ruby And Summer Meet Like Yang And Raven Met In Canon

“Mom!”

Summer dropped from a tree branch and smiled a bit at her daughter. “Ruby, you’ve finally come to me.”

“I’ve come for answers, not for you,” Ruby answered as she made her way closer to Summer. “Uncle Qrow told me you were out here.”

Summer’s smile dropped as she managed to get a better look at her daughter. Her left arm had been replaced with a mechanical prosthetic painted in black and green, scars lined her face and neck, and silver eyes now looked more like a dulled gray, youthful optimism no longer shining through. “Answers, huh? Just… answers? I thought it was about time for you to want to be with me. Where we can be safe.”

“I dont want to be safe, I want to know why you left! Why you couldnt stay home and instead watched me from afar! I know you’ve been following me.”

“Of course you’re just like them…” Summer sighed and motioned for Ruby to follow her deeper into the forest. “If you want answers, then you have to humor me and spend a little time with me. I want to get to know my daughter-”

“You could’ve gotten to know me by staying with us!” Ruby said angrily as she followed Summer. “What’s so important that you had to stay away from all of us? Yang is out who knows where with Jaune, Ren, and Nora. I lost an arm when Beacon fell! Does any of that even matter to you?”

“Of course it all matters, I had to stay away for you all to be safe!” Summer quickly turned towards Ruby as she yelled, wisps of silver flame rolling off the edges of her eyes for a brief moment. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then continued walking to a small hut in the forest. “I needed to keep you all safe from Salem.”

“Who?”

“From what I know, she’s an immortal being who now commands the grimm. Ozpin’s been at war with her for centuries… millennia… At least, that’s the story he told us.” Summer opened the door to the hut and paused at the doorway. “I was hoping I could keep you all from getting involved. However, if Qrow sent you to me, then I dont think you can stay away.”

Ruby followed Summer into the hut, her prosthetic shaking as she put her hand against the door. “I dont want anything to do with Salem, I just want answers on why Beacon had to fall.”

“And to get those answers, you have to know who Salem is. She’s the one behind it all.”

“Why?”

Summer picked up a tea kettle of water and placed a hand under it, gently heating the water with a little fire. “Sit, eat, rest. I’ll tell you more in the morning.”

Ruby frowned and folded her arms in front of her chest. “And why cant you tell me now?”

“Because you’ve had a long day and there’ll be a lot to go over. Besides, whether you know it or not, you’re a target too now. You need to know everything so you can make the right choice.”

“To abandon my family like you did?”

Summer shook her head. “To live, or to sacrifice yourself.”

#ruby rose #rwby ruby rose #summer rose #drabbles #a running summer au #a running summer

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casitafallz-a · 2 years

Photo

Decay AU | Dweller’s Underground

Decay frowned lightly as they cleared the portal to near darkness before the light of the portal settled them into darkness before Wanderer’s voice echoed.

“What is this place?”

“Well, you know we told you about a Bruno Variant?”

Decay hummed as a yes though more cautious at where this conversation was going to go. In all honestly, she hadn’t paid too much attention to the varients of people, she hadn’t gotten used to it all, even if she had been for the last three months.

“Well, this is his world. We pop in every now and again. He has abilities that sometimes are required in the Watcher AU, he trades those services for goods and help in his world. Follow me”

Decay nodded along, walking with her with some trust to know the girl knew her way in the dark “Doesn’t that compromise contamination protocols?” Those were very... complicated protocols and this sounded like a very clear breach.

“Not entirely. This Bruno, Dweller, he’s created an underground community. they are aware of us and our job, but above ground are in the dark. The Watchers are okay with the underground lot knowing because it’s not going to spread up top and most tend to avoid wanting to know but do...like having the trade between the worlds. Keeps them fed, clothes and somewhat happy.” Wanderer shrugged, “This whole cave system was created by Casita and the magic.”

Decay’s eyes began to adjust to the darkness a little more, noting now the few dots of light ahead began to get bigger. “Why?”

“This Encanto has a much bigger population but more divided about magic. Bruno’s gift painted him as a target to those who saw him as bad-luck. so he fled for safety of the underground.”

“Ah...” She could only imagine now that the population down here was for those same reasons. Safety. How could it have gotten that bad? Surely Abuela must know.. or to do something about that, right?

“Oh, and don’t be shocked at the people you see, okay?”

“Who’s down here?” Decay didn’t get the answer before she noticed a figure at the end of their tunnel though as she realised, two people.

She recognised the girl easily, but it was her appearance that shocked her the most.

Dolores.

But unlike the Dolores she knew. Her hair was down and somewhat secured by her red-headband, but her she was wearing a dress of greens and blue, sewn together and secured with a metal ring around her neck, her ruana, she realised looked to have been the sound-bars she had on her skirt; repurposed and reused. Her face and body was thin and from the clear lack of light, her pallor was paler than what it should be, dark circles under her eyes though she looked to be very chipper and bobbed up and down beside... someone in a green ruana.

Decay had seen enough variants to know this was Tio Bruno; her own Tio Bruno was still apparently in the walls of the Decay AU’s Casita. But what stuck out the most was that... he looked younger than her. He should be in his 50s but his face and short hair made him look to be in his early twenties. His eyes remained lit and...his own ruana looked much more vibrant and...alive than the other ones she had. She didn’t know why, but she felt like that must have some sort of magical properties that the other Bruno Ruana’s didn’t have.

Decay flinched as Dolores squeaked and before she knew it, the girl’s arms were wrapped around her tightly. Decay remained stiff for a moment before patting the girl’s back with both her real and prosthetic arm before the girl pulled back, still looking happy.

“Hola...sorry it’s been so long. I know you’re not...our Isabela but I’m just so happy to talk to one.” Dolores whispered though Decay followed her curious flicker to her prosthetic but was relieved when the girl didn’t question it, but instead grabbed her real hand to hold onto.

“Dolores, slow down a little with her” Tio Bruno smiled “New girl?” he asked to Wanderer.

“Three months. Still in training.” Wanderer spoke, despite Decay’s soft titter. “Hope you don’t mind the intrusion?”

Bruno hook his head, “Surprised, but most often your visits aren’t scheduled anyway so i don’t bother keeping track.” He shrugged, “Let’s go in and I can show your...new friend around. What’s her UWD?”

“Decay.” Wanderer answered.

“UWD?”

“Universal World Designation.” Wanderer spoke back to Decay, “Watcher Lingo, you’ll catch up. Dweller Bruno here was put through a course when we first checked in on his world incase he felt like staying.”

Decay knew she had seen the word UWD on her clearance card with her new nickname but she hadn’t clocked it’s meaning but... it made sense to have a term for it other than nicknames.

Dweller Bruno led them down deeper until they reached bigger openings and corridors, the smell of people and animals tickled at her nose, sounds echoed and...even children’s voices carried.

“how long--”

“Almost thirty-one years.” Dweller Bruno Spoke, interrupting her question before he gave her a sheepish look, “Sorry, I forget people need to finish asking their question first.”

“Tio Bruno’s gift is much more expanded than what it used to be, he can anticipate a question before you speak it.” Dweller Dolores whispered beside her, “He’s used to it and it saves time.”

Decay snorted a little but couldn't deny that snippet of truth in there. Everyone here must be used to it by now if they had been down here for 31 years. It was odd... that people just happily accept their new life down here; carry on and have children...children that would never see the sun.

“Let’s go to the crop room. Mira’s there.” Dweller Dolores piped up.

but it seemed like they were already on their way there before the candle-lit tunnels ended to a bright and vast space where to her sheer surprise looked to be a huge wheat field under a clearly fake sky where there was a huge light source delivering light to the plants. Mirrors had been set up to be more intense towards other plants that clearly needed more light than the wheat but Decay found an odd appreciation of care.

“This is our crops.” Dweller Bruno spoke proudly, “We’re a few months away before we can harvest but we’re making do with what we have.”

“You’ve expanded.” Wanderer noted, “ More people?”

“We’ve had a few new births since we last met.” Dweller Bruno shrugged, “It’ll be tight this year but we can make it work.”

Decay looked around, letting the two talk and letting go of Dweller Dolores’s arm before she reached a real finger to the nearest stalk of green wheat. She could feel it’s growth was...under what it should be. she could feel the roots were firmly planted the light good but... the water ratio seemed off.

“When was the last time you watered these plants?” Decay asked, “They’re not growing as efficiently.”

Dweller Bruno’s looked at her sharply before his eyebrows pulled in. “Two times a week, we use irrigation systems often.”

“It’s not enough.” Decay frowned, “What sort of fertiliser do you use? Soils seems a bit off as well.”

“We use animal manure and bone meal.” Dweller bruno folded his arms thoughtfully, “is there a misbalance in the soils that could be effecting their growth?”

Decay pondered that thoughtfully before she moved down the natural break, letting her fingers touch the plants along the way to test that question. She could tell the plants would be well for it’s harvest, but the next one, she could imagine perhaps would be much more reduced.

“Huh, you’re taking the news well.” She distantly heard Wanderer muse.

“I have a plant-girl helping, why should I insult her by being in denial? We need this harvest.” Dweller Bruno spoke back, a beat “How much is she allowed to help?”

“As much as she wants, She’d not giving you our technology but does mean you owe her a favour to settle her services to the Watcher’s.”

“Alright.” He agreed straight off, without a second thought of consideration.

Decay sighed out softly but pressed on until she walked around the entire perimeter, Making a stop to poke the other fruit and veg they were growing before she returned to the watching group that eyed her thoughtfully.

“Well, good new and bad news.” She started, “Your watering is good but you need to do better by another water in the week. Sunlight is good as well, but the balance of Oxygen, carbon dioxide and nidogen needs looking at. Now, your crops will make it to harvest but if this isn’t sorted then your next harvest will be reduced.”

Dweller let out a groan, “We can’t afford that loss...”

“I know,” Decay sighed, “Now, I could get your crops ready to harvest by the end of the day, the soil needs a week to be prepped and settled before the next lot are to be sowed. Downside to that, it may upset your harvest timetables unless you want me to it speed up to the current growth rate and let nature carry on with the rest.”

Dweller’s eyes widened happily, “we could have double the yield this year... birth a few more animals on that and...have a little extra.”

“I think that’s your answer there,” Wanderer chuckled, “I’m gonna bother my variant here, have fun!”

#decay isabela #isabela madrigal #bruno madrigal #dweller bruno #dolores madrigal #dweller dolores #mirabel madrigal #dweller mirabel #dweller au #decay au #wanderer mirabel #encanto #encanto au #drabble

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kumeko · 2 years

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A/N: For the @clotibigbang, I am once more attempting a chaptered fic. Wish me luck!

Summary: Midgar, a city full of promise, a city full of darkness. A city of humans and a city of magic. Tifa was used to straddling the line between the two worlds, whether it was as a detective by day or a bartender by night. After a fire destroyed everything she knew and loved, she now lived life just struggling to make ends meet.

At least, it was until her childhood friend Cloud stumbled back into her life once more. Now a hired hand, Cloud was colder than the boy she once knew, with no intentions of reconnecting after years apart.

Yet, when he’s pinned for a crime he didn’t commit, they have no choice but to work together as they discover just how filthy Midgar’s underbelly can get. And maybe uncover the truths of that fateful fire that tore them apart in the first place.

…

The Avalanche Detective Agency was a simple place with simple rules: always get your client’s payments upfront, don’t take any shady tasks, and maintain the privacy of your clients. But there was one rule above them all: don’t insult the clients.

It was also the rule that tried Barret’s temper the most. The tension was palpable inside the tiny office. On a good day, it was comical to see the giant hulk of a man sit on the small, yellow couch, the soft seats sinking underneath his weight, his dark skin contrasting against the brightly painted walls. Every part of him looked too big and awkward for the space, even if this closet of a room was the best they could both afford for their business. Even the pinstripe suit they got for cheap just barely fit his massive frame.

Today, though, he towered threateningly over their client. The petite woman sitting across from them looked like a mouse facing a tiger, though she didn’t seem aware of just how close danger loomed. Tifa smiled stiffly as she sat next to Barret, watching him from the corner of her eye in case his thin thread of sanity snapped. The telltale signs were there: the tightening of his jaw, the twitch in his eye, the way he was starting to actually swear instead of keeping swallowing the curses down.

Any minute now, he would blow.

Heaven help the suburban housewife. Her broad-brimmed hat wasn’t going to protect her. Maria’s hands clasped on her lap tightly as her eyes narrowed, her red lips forming a pout. “Are you certain she isn’t cheating? She’s been working late every day now.”

“No,” Tifa repeated for the nth time, not trusting Barret to answer anymore. To be fair, the client was testing her patience too. She could barely keep civil herself. Her right hand formed a fist and she discreetly punched the couch. “She’s merely working late.”

They’d gone over this several times already. They’d investigated this matter for months by now. No matter how many questions Maria posed, the answers wouldn’t change. You’d think she’d be happy to know her spouse was loyal.

Maria crossed her arms and looked away with a huff. Disappointment was etched clearly on her features. “If you’re certain…”

Barret twitched. His prosthetic left arm started to heat up and she prayed he wasn’t actually going to activate the alchemy stored within the artificial appendage. “Lady—”

“We are,” Tifa interrupted immediately. They couldn’t afford another hole in the office. They also couldn’t afford another suit for either of them. She was down to her last pinstripe.

“Tsk.” Maria scowled. A gloved hand reached into her purse and she pulled out a thick, manilla envelope. Sliding it across the table, she said, “I don’t believe you, but here’s your payment as promised.” She tapped it, her glare deepening. “But if I find out she’s cheating, you won’t get out of this unscathed.”

“You’re lucky to get out of this unscathed,” Barret grumbled under his breath.

They were almost out of this. Tifa elbowed Barret in the gut without dropping her smile. “We’ll keep that in mind, ma’am.”

“Good.” Maria stood up, clutching her purse tightly. With a last displeased click of her tongue, she spun on her heel and marched out of the room. Her stilettos clicked on the tiled floor angrily.

The second the door closed behind her, Tifa heard something crack next to her. It was a sound she knew all too well. She sighed. “Barret, we can’t keep buying new mugs.”

“Sorry.” He did not sound sorry in the least. “Still can’t control this new-fangled arm of mine. The strength isn’t the same as before.”

“Uh-huh.” She gave him a disbelieving look. He’d said that last time. And the time before that. It had been months since he’d upgraded the prosthetic. At this point, she was certain he was lying so he’d have an excuse handy for times like these. Still, a mug was better than a door or a face, so she let it slide.

“Crazy dame,” Barret grumbled, sweeping the shards of the mug into his hand. “It’s like she wanted her wife to cheat.”

“It’ll help her divorce settlement.” As the words left her mouth, Tifa was hit with a wave of exhaustion. Just when had she gotten so jaded? Back when they’d first started their agency, she’d been so eager to take on jobs. They’d help people, right wrongs, make the city a better place.

Now she knew better. Most of their clients were after more mundane ‘justices’ and personal gains. Affairs, lost pets, business leverages, and alternative wills—every case felt petty and she was starting to dread the small chime that rang each time the door opened. Tifa felt as grimy as their smog-polluted city, as though the lies and grudges were darkening her soul as much as the coal and gas did the sky.

“I told you we’re not doing any more of these boring cheating cases!” Barret grumbled, getting up and dropping the mug shards into the nearby bin. “Let ‘em catch their husbands. We’ve got better fish to fry.”

As much as she wanted to agree with him, they’d be out of business in a month. Reality was cruel. Tifa sighed again. Maybe she really was getting jaded. “We’ll go in the red, Barret. We can’t reject them, it’s our bread and butter.”

“Sometimes you need jam.” Barret scowled as he leaned against the wall. His foot tapped impatiently on the floor. “I want a real case.”

“You and me both, but they’re just not coming.” Tifa stretched her arms above her as she relaxed back into the plush sofa. For something they found in a second-hand shop, it was in surprisingly good shape. “Our name’s just not big enough for those yet.”

She glanced at their door. The brass letters on the glazed window still gleamed as brightly as it had a year ago, when they’d first rented the place. In all honesty, they should be proud they’d even gotten this far. When Barret first suggested the partnership three years ago, they’d worked out of closets and on the street, grinding to the bone every day to get even a single client.

Now they were in a proper office. She’d hoped that’d mean proper cases, but in the end, it was just more of the same. There were other, better places for troubled clients to go. Agencies with well known names and connections. Detectives were a dime a dozen in this town.

“We’d do a better job than those two-bit con-artists,” Barret said crossly, as though he read her mind.

She knew the incoming rant by heart. She also knew how to avoid it. Tifa pointed at the clock on the wall. “Hey, doesn’t Marlene’s school end soon?”

“Huh?” Barret glanced at the time and paled. “Shit. I’ll be late.” Without a second thought, he bounded to the coat rack and grabbed his hat and coat, slinging them off his arm. Without looking over his shoulder, he shouted, “I’ll leave closing to you!”

“Of course.” Tifa chuckled, expecting that. She waved as he disappeared through the door. “Say hi to Marlene for me.”

The door shut with a soft click. Now it was just her. The only sound in the room was the ticking clock. Tifa glanced at the picture on their desk of her, Barret, and Marlene. They were dressed in ratty suits in front of their office’s doors, all smiles as they celebrated their opening. Just looking at the four-year-old girl, it was obvious she was his adopted daughter. Seated on her father’s shoulder, she looked even tinier compared to his giant bulk. More importantly, her grey wolf ears poked out of her hat, her tail curled around her waist.

A werewolf, an orphan, and an idealist. The three of them made an odd family.

Tifa chuckled as she stood up and walked over to the window. Through the blinds, she watched as Barret dashed down the busy sidewalk, the sea of people parting to give him way. The narrow, crowded streets of their side of town were filled with all sorts of people and magical beings. Even up here, she could spot an elf and a dryad.

It had taken her a while to get accustomed to the sight. When Tifa had been younger, she’d only known the edges of magic. An ancestor of hers had excessive strength and his powers had diluted through the generations until she had a much-weakened version of his skill. It had been treated as a fairy tale, almost forgotten except for the odd bursts of strength when someone lost their temper.

And now she lived with a man with a magic arm, his werewolf daughter, and they did cases that sometimes landed them on the more enchanted side of life.

A flash of gold caught her eye and Tifa leaned closer to the window as she tried to catch sight of it again. Unfortunately, it disappeared, leaving her with only an ache in her chest at the thought of yet another childhood memory.

Cloud.

Just how long had it been since she’d last seen him?

Would she ever see him again?

-x-

The Seventh Heaven speakeasy was crowded, as usual. While it didn’t take more than a bottle of moonshine and two chairs to make a speakeasy, Seventh Heaven was big enough to accommodate a cool thirty patrons at time. Mismatched chaises and chairs littered the bar, men and women of all races mingling together like no one’s business as they shared a drink and a smile. In a place that was already breaking the law, social norms were a forgotten thing.

On a small platform, a black woman in a fur stole serenaded the audience. Her sleek blue dress sparkled in the dim light. A pale man with long black hair played the piano next to her, his fingers flying across the keys in elaborate patterns.

Tifa barely had time to listen to the song as she poured drink after drink. This had been a side job at first, more for the money than anything else. There were bills that needed to be paid and the trifling they made at the agency would have kept them in the red. Now, though, her role as a bartender had come in handy more times than she could count. There was no better place to keep an ear to the ground. Her drunk patrons were always eager to share a secret or two.

“Hiya, Tifa,” Jessie said as she slid onto a bar stool directly across from Tifa. Her long brown hair was pulled back into a practical ponytail and her business suit indicated she’d just come back from a job. Despite that, she looked as fresh as a daisy, her eyes bright and smile even brighter.

Tifa felt weary in the face of her eager informer. After standing for hours, she just didn’t have energy to do more than a smile. Pulling out a glass, she nodded her greeting and asked, “The usual?”

“Do I even have one? I ask for something different every time.” Jessie laughed, stretching her arms behind her back. From the corner of her eyes, Tifa noticed several people turn to the cheerful woman. And Jessie noticed it too, her smile turning flirtatious as scanned the room. She wouldn’t be going home tonight.

“You always have the same one after a job well done.” Tifa opened a rum bottle and poured, watching as the amber liquid ran over the ice before covering it entirely. Cracking off the top of ginger beer, she carefully filled the rest of the glass with it before topping off the drink with a lime slice.

“Aww, you know me that well?” Jessie turned her seductive smile to Tifa now and batted her eyes. There was a reason she was popular. It was hard for anyone to say no to that face. “Makes a girl feel real special.”

Tifa didn’t bother to comment. Knowing Jessie, she was only half-serious. Pushing forward the glass, she changed the topic. “Thanks for the help.”

“It was an easy job,” Jessie scoffed, her hand delicately curling around the glass. “Stalking someone is child’s play. Give us a harder one next time.”

“Only if we get one…” Tifa bit back a sigh, remembering her day so far.

Jessie hummed as she took a sip. Licking her lips, she gave her approval. “Good as ever. You sure you don’t want to just stick to bartending? I know a place you can make big bucks.”

Tifa snorted. How many times had she heard this offer? Clearly, Jessie was getting a cut from the place. She shook her head as she pulled out another glass for the next clamoring customer. “I’m not in it for the money.”

Her companion scoffed, “With the way you run your agency? That’s obvious.”

She flinched, unable to deny it. It was the roaring twenties and it seemed like all businesses were booming but theirs. “We’re getting better.”

“Uh-huh.” Jessie shot her a disbelieving look. Her eyes narrowed. “Barret scared away another customer, right?”

Tifa almost dropped the glass. “How’d you—”

“You look like you’re under a cloud.” Jessie grinned, tapping her glass with a finger. “You’re not the only observant one here.”

She bit her lip. And here she thought she’d been hiding it. Weakly, Tifa defended her partner, “He barely held it in.”

Jessie pouted and took another sip. “Awww, too bad. Guess I owe Biggs a buck.”

“You really shouldn’t be betting on this.” Rerunning Jessie’s words through her mind, Tifa scowled. “And you really shouldn’t be betting that we’ll lose a customer! It’s not good for you either.”

Shrugging, Jessie rolled the glass between her hands. “So, you got a new job for us?”

Tifa stiffened. Embarrassed, she rubbed her neck. “That…not yet.”

“Darn.” Jessie downed the rest of her glass and licked her lips. Setting down her glass with a soft clink, she smiled predatorily. “Guess I’ll just have to find some fun for tonight then.”

The woman looked like a panther on the prowl. Tifa never fully understood how Biggs’ and Jessie’s open relationship worked, only that it did. “Just be careful.”

Jessie grinned. “Aren’t I always?”

It’s Tifa’s turn to snort. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

Mildly offended, Jessie scanned the various tables and seats. “Does it look like—oh, is that the Don’s new man?”

“New man?” Tifa leaned forward, trying to see whoever Jessie spotted. While she was used to cigar smoke trails in the air, it sometimes made it hard to see faces, especially those further away. “I didn’t hear anything about that.”

“You gotta keep your ears open.” Jessie leaned back against the bar. Her voice lowered slightly. “The Don hired a merc a few weeks ago. Said it’s to ‘beef up his security during the election’, but he’s probably just paranoid a rival gang’s gonna snuff him out.”

Tifa shuddered. Nothing good came out news with the Don. He was infamous in Midgar, his hand in almost every black market in the city. Brothels, speakeasies, drugs, and more—you named it, he had business in it. Despite his sleazy appearance, he was good at his job and the cops were either in his bankroll or unable to gather evidence against him. “He isn’t even running for the election.”

“Does it matter if he did?” Jessie asked bluntly, shrugging her shoulders lazily. “Shinra’s gonna win the re-election anyways. Bet he’ll stuff the ballots.”

Tifa curled her hand into a fist. Despite how well known the corruption was, it was impossible to do anything about it. “He might not win.”

Her words sounded weak to her own ears.

“He will.” Jessie rolled her wrist, unphased by it all. She’d lived in this town longer than Tifa had; maybe at some point, Tifa would get used to it too. “He’s got plans for our side of town. No way he’s gonna let anyone stop him.”

It was a depressing thought. Tifa couldn’t shake it off. “So, the merc he hired—is he any good?”

Jessie jumped for the topic change. “I don’t know, but he sure does look the part. He uses a gun blade that looks really customized. Wedge and Biggs just want to run their hands on it. Me, on the other hand…” Jessie smirked wickedly as she trailed off. “He’s hot and runs cold. A real challenge.”

Rolling her eyes, Tifa flicked Jessie’s arm. One day, her flirting would get her into real trouble. “He’s dangerous.”

“So he’s a bigger challenge.” Jessie rubbed her skin. “Don’t worry, I won’t bite off more than I can chew.”

Tifa derided the very idea and rolled her eyes. “Tell that to Biggs and Wedge. What was that guy’s name, the one you—”

“Hey, that was one time!” Jessie whined, glaring at Tifa. “You’re never going to let that go.”

“It was twice, and no, never letting you forget that.” Tifa suddenly felt a brief pang of pity for her father and her teachers. She’d been a brat as a kid. This felt like karma.

Jessie grimaced. “Fine. Twice. It won’t happen a third time.” Straightening up, Jessie fluffed her hair slightly. “I think I know how to entice him.”

“Where is he?” Tifa squinted as she peered across the room. She could salvage today with at least one useful piece of information. It was always good to know the Don’s movements and men.

Jessie gently tapped Tifa’s chin to the left. “Right there, the blonde fellow.”

Just as she said those words, Tifa’s eyes landed on a familiar shade of gold. Slouched on a seat, a man with spiky hair lifted his head as though hearing them. Bright, electric blue eyes met hers and Tifa almost dropped the bottle in her hands.

Cloud.

#cloti #cloud strife #tifa lockhart #barret wallace #jessie #ff7 #final fantasy vii #fanfic

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imagine-darksiders · 2 years

Text

Fish Out of Water

Five Nights at Freddy’s - Security Breach

Daycare Attendant X Reader

Giant mer au.

Summary: What you're looking at is...

Well, quite frankly, it's impossible.

There's a face hanging above you, Lovecraftian in proportion – taller and wider than you are long, with features about as adjacent to a human's as one could possibly get.

For the first few seconds, you remain frozen to your spot, unblinking, half expecting the grinning visage to fade away as sobriety takes you back into its safe, sense-making embrace.A pair of milky, white eyes peer down at you, hanging in the expanse of yellowing skin, like twin pools of alabaster paint.

You'd hesitate to even call them eyes, but then, the damn things b l i n k.

Tags/Warnings: Mermay 2022, Giant Mermen, Amputee Reader, Amputation, Medical Trauma, Depression, Grief and Mourning, Ableism, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Minor Character Death, Car Accidents, G/T, Giant/Tiny, Explicit Language, Loss of Leg, Mental Health Issues

----

It still hurts sometimes. The leg.

Well, what constitutes for the echo of a leg.

'Phantom limb pain,' your physician informed you, 'Unsettling to be sure, but common and usually harmless.'

Harmless. You vividly recall tasting the bile on your tongue, and how you'd barely managed to withhold a bitter scoff as you sat there in that green, plastic chair whilst the spot below your right hipbone pinched and twisted around the ghosts of nerves that used to occupy the now empty space.

Physiotherapy was... disheartening.

Things you once took for granted, like standing up, suddenly became insurmountable tasks in their own right.

As the weeks dragged by, you acclimatised to the basic, clunky prosthetic limb provided to you by the hospital, and the whole while, your bitterness only grew until at last, after twelve, gruelling weeks fraught with despair, rage and terrible, numbing apathy, you were discharged from physio and hobbled right into a veritable slew of legal procedures.

Your paternal aunt had driven you back to the big, empty house on the outskirts of your home town - the house that had belonged to your parents not four, short months ago.

After just a few meetings with their solicitor and a signature or two... or three... the house was promptly handed over to you, along with a generous chunk of their estate.

A leg wasn't the only thing that drunk driver took from you on that warm, summer evening...

Still, you held no ill-will for the poor bastard. In the end, he too had paid the ultimate price.

You heard his funeral was a lonely affair.

The one you managed to put together for your parents was about as fine as you could make it.

Closed-casket, despite best efforts from the morticians. You don't think your mother would have wanted people to see her when she wasn't at her best, after all.

The hall was filled with businessmen and opportunists alike – former clients of your father's – all attending under the guise of 'friends,' and all terribly interested to know what the young heiress plans to do with the family business now that dear, old mum and dad have shuffled off this mortal coil.

The only real family who came was your Aunt, Lucy.

God bless her stamina, she had fielded the untimely questions in your stead. You were quiet for the most part, read a few words here and there, nothing particularly moving, but judging by the amount of people not-so-subtly checking the time on their Rolexes, short and sweet was probably the favourable route to go down.

In the months that followed, you underwent a metamorphosis of sorts, swiftly shifting from socialite to recluse.

Predominantly, it was the comments that rattled you; words whispered around corners after you hobbled by on your crutches, or murmurs you caught wind of over in the next aisle at the supermarket by gossipers who thought that a missing leg somehow equated to terrible hearing.

'Poor dear,' you heard on the daily.

'Such a shame.'

'Glad that wasn't me though...'

But perhaps the worst? 'Used to be quite the catch. All that money. But who wants to look after that for the rest of their life, eh?'

'Could hire a carer for her?'

Suddenly, you'd turned from a promising, young asset to everyone's missed opportunity.

Your parents lives had revolved around money. Their friends' lives revolved around money.

The revelation that in the eyes of the people, your value had decreased significantly with the loss of your leg was a laughable bagatelle... Until it wasn't. Until the remarks came too frequently and for too long. That stiff upper lip you'd inherited from your mother slowly began to wobble, and the walls your father had taught you to build were slowly chipping away, brick by brick. With every pitying glance, every morning that you woke up and peeled back the covers, every time you failed to distribute your weight properly and ended up taking a spill on a crowded street, you withdrew further and further into yourself, into the house, into the wine cellar.

Bitter and festering in a miasma of grief, you helped yourself to the reserves, down there in the dark with nobody but the spiders for company.

A bottle of 1959 Dom Perignon? Hideous aftertaste, but it helped with that phantom pain in your leg and the one in your heart.

And that was your wretched, little life, for several months following the end of your physiotherapy.

Eventually though, as is often the case with wittering aunts who don't know how to mind their own business, Lucy staged a one-woman intervention, all but hauling you out of the house by the arm and dumping you unceremoniously into her Aston. Damnable woman was a personal trainer. And a bloody good one at that. But it wasn't an exercise regime that was on her agenda for you.

“Darling, it's like watching a scorpion sting itself to death!” she exclaimed in that dramatic way that glamorous aunts often do, her scarf flying about in the wind as she sped aimlessly down the country lanes with the roof of the car retracted, “Of all my nieces and nephews, you always were my favourite.”

A bold-faced lie, but you'd appreciated her effort at the time.

“But you're ever so sensitive too, dear!”

Sensitive. A codeword used to describe the outcast who took more of an interest in artistic pursuits than seek to follow in the family business or other entrepreneurial exploits.

“It's a charming little cottage, your grandfather used to frequent with the gents from his fishing days.”

You realised right then and there what she was about to suggest. But you didn't offer up any protest. Not that there'd be much point. Your aunt had inherited the bullheadedness of her own mother, and once her mind is made up, there's little that can sway her focus, short of a chemical explosion.

“You know, Karen Blixen wasn't far off the mark when she wrote-”

“-The Deluge at Norderney,” you'd finished in a mutter, watching the neatly-trimmed verges flash by, there and gone in a moment...

“Well remembered!”

How could you possibly forget it? Any time Aunt Lucy heard of an ailment in the family, she'd come around, armed not with a packet of paracetamol or a cold compress, but with her favourite quote.

A pause ensued, and then the line you anticipated fell off her painted lips. “I know a cure for everything: Salt water.”

You had to endure her expectant gaze burning into you from the corner of her eye until you'd sighed, resigned yourself to your fate, and played along. “Salt water?”

Her response was instantaneous. “Yes! In one way or the other. Sweat, tears, or the salt sea.”

She'd half turned to peer over at you then, her fathomless eyes hidden behind those cat-eye sunglasses she always wore, even in the dead of winter when the sun was just a distant memory. You'd clenched your hands into the leather seats, hating that her focus wasn't on the road. Hating the whole car ride in general, really.

“I think.. a bit of time away by the sea would do you some real good, my dear.”

'But what good could an ocean do?' you wondered in dismissive silence. Certainly, it's true that the salt can help dry out cuts and abrasions and help the skin's tissue grow more effectively, but can it raise the dead? Can the properties of the sea rebuild a broken body, if not a broken soul? What almighty magic could the ocean offer someone for whom magic has been dead for a long, long time?

But then... what could you have possibly done in the way of protesting your Aunt's suggestion?

It was nigh impossible to win an argument against Aunt Lucy, even when you were at your most spirited. What hope did you have then, to argue against her with half your wit intact and a dark cloud hanging over you like smog from a factory's chimney?

“All right, Auntie,” you'd conceded, because to say 'No,' would be less sensible than waving a red flag in the face of a charging bull.

At last, her eyes had returned to the road and you relaxed minutely in the seat.

“Splendid, darling! Splendid! Oh, Daddy would be so happy to see the old place lived in again.”

The look of triumph on her face had eased some of your reservations. She liked to help, even if she did employ the battering-ram approach a little too often.

“I'll take you back to the house-”

You wager she'd have just kept driving until you agreed with her either way.

“-Derek can drive you down to the coast. He's been meaning to take the old Ghost out for a nice, long burn...”

Ah, Derek – the latest accessory that Lucy tended to dangle off her arm like a shiny bauble.

Volunteered for chauffeur duty, he'd pulled up into the driveway of your house just two days later in his pristine, white Royce.

And with a backpack stuffed with a few changes of clothes, your sketchbook and watercolours and of course, your clunky prosthetic, you'd settled tentatively in the passenger seat, offered him a polite word of thanks, and began your journey to the sea.

----------------

There are scarce few things in nature, you reason, that come quite so close to rivalling the splendour of a sunset over water.

You're perched precariously upon the precipice of a tall, chalk cliff, barely a hundred paces or so from the back door of your grandfather's rundown, ramshackle cottage that could use a coat or two of fresh paint to liven it up... maybe a fumigation... an exorcism...

Your legs – 'leg,' you remind yourself sharply – dangles over the edge of the cliff, heel kicking idly against the soft chalk beneath you.

Way down below, the sea swells and retreats gently from the rocks, back and forth and back and forth, wave followed by wave followed by wave.

'Aunt Lucy was right,' you huff with begrudging fondness. The bucolic sight is soothing, to a degree.

But there's only so much a nice view can do to relax the mind.

“God, that's pretty,” you drawl aloud to nobody but the open air before taking a long swig from the beer clutched in your hand. Three empty bottles are strewn about in the grass somewhere behind you whereas to your right, the prosthetic leg sits, unattached but constantly in your peripheral vision like a detested symbol of your missing piece – never coming close to the real thing, but trying its best to mimic a functioning limb.

You don't even notice that you've curled your lips into a sneer until the false is in your free hand and you're glowering hatefully down at the ugly, clumsy thing.

You couldn't really say what possessed you to start talking to it. If your parents were here, they'd roll their eyes and tell you to stop behaving like a child. They used to say similar things if they overheard you talking to your toys when you were very small.

'Only people who don't have any friends talk to inanimate objects,' your mother announced one day, peering down her nose at you, 'For goodness sake, don't let anyone hear you. People will think you're simple.'

You've kept your promise, at least. Even now, there's nobody around to hear you grumble matter-of-factly at your own, replacement leg.

“Everyone stares at you, you know.”

The leg, of course, doesn't respond.

“Tch.” Scoffing, you bring the beer to your lips again and grimace at the taste. “It's probably because they know you're just gonna break down in a couple of months, anyway. Then, they'll toss you in the landfill with all the... the other useless junk...”

In your misty haze, you'd swear that hateful leg gives you a condescending look.

“Fuck. You,” you seethe venomously, soft as a whisper but quivering like a leaf in gale-force winds.

It's perhaps the first show of real, raw emotion you've released since the funeral.

Fitting then, that it's here, when you're finally, truly alone, nobody but screaming gulls for company that you feel safe enough to let the proverbial walls come crashing down to the ground. The first flood of tears are a surprise and if it weren't for the way your vision blurs and warps, you'd accredit the moisture on your face to the waves that hurl sea-spray against the rocks far below you.

There are no silent stares out here, nor briefly stolen glances or excessive sympathy from well-meaning do-gooders.

Cheap beer from a petrol station mixed with grief and an unhealthy dose of repressed animosity for your situation make for one hell of an emotional cocktail.

Reeling the prosthetic leg back over your head, you turn to face the golden sunset, pinks bleeding like watercolour into reds and yellows as if some, great artist brought out his paints and decided to create a fleeting masterpiece that will only disappear in a few, short hours.

Then, with a shout borne of alcohol-driven acrimony, you thoughtlessly pitch the false leg forwards, hurling it clear over the side of the cliff and watching it soar through the air for several, glorious moments before inevitably, gravity does its job and the prosthetic begins to descend, down, down and down again, all the way to the ocean.

'.... Plop.'

… The resulting splash is wildly unsatisfactory.

Whatever catharsis you hoped to gain from ridding yourself of the embodiment of your disability doesn't come. In its place, you feel the telltale pang of regret shoot through your stomach, growing more acidic after you recall leaving your crutches back at the cottage...

“... You. Idiot!” you reprimand yourself, pinching the bridge of your nose and exhaling roughly through it.

The grass comes up to meet you as you flop over backwards with a heavy thud and fling an arm across your eyes, allowing the tears to spill from their confines and ooze in tiny rivulets down your cheeks and into your hair.

The beer bottles lay forgotten at the side of your head.

For several minutes, you content yourself to simply lay here on the cliff's perilous edge, knowing that eventually, you're going to have to drag yourself back up the dirt path on your belly, all the way to your grandfather's cottage where you'll need to make arrangements for a new prosthetic, not to mention compensate the hospital for the one you've just chucked into the sea like a toddler throwing her toys out of the pram.

Maybe your parents were right.

Maybe it is high time you grew up...

Sealing your eyes tightly shut, as if that would stop the tears from spilling, you remove your arm and stare up at the insides of your eyelids instead.

You could have sworn you'd already hit rock bottom when you woke up in the hospital bed to the news that your parents hadn't survived the crash, only to instantly learn that you'd lost a leg as well.

But somehow, this moment feels slightly more apt for the term.

Alone, misshapen, friendless and an orphan to boot, drinking beers and projecting onto a plastic leg?

This is bedrock. And it's your own, damn hand that's wrapped around the shovel that brought you here.

Way down below you, there's the sound of a particularly large wave crashing against the rocks. A few moments pass by in blissful solitude before the meagre light permeating your eyelids dims considerably.

You wonder, briefly, if the sun has at last dipped low enough on the horizon to bring about the coming night, or perhaps a cloud has simply moved in front of it.

The whispering wind sighs in your ears and whisks away your hitching breaths.

You ought to have known that peace is a fleeting thing, much like a sunset.

All of a sudden, you're jolted to attention by a loud clatter on your right that pulls a gasp from your lips and you fling your head sideways and lurch upright, eyes peeling open to land upon -

“What.. in the world?”

Reaching out with a shaky hand, you run the tips of your fingers along the hard, plastic casing of your very own, runaway prosthetic.

But... didn't you just...?

You cast a bewildered glance at the beer bottles nearby. Three utterly dry, one only half empty, spilling what remains of its contents into the soil.

… Right then and there, you absolve that alcohol probably isn't a healthy coping mechanism.

Still, at least now you don't have to drag yourself back to the cottage.

You aren't prepared to feel and hear the ground shudder underneath you, nor for the sky to tear asunder as if a growl of thunder had just boomed overhead.

“What the... Hell-!?” Your words die on the tip of your tongue as you finally decide to look up, and up, and further up still, until your neck is craned all the way back and your mouth drops open, incapable of stringing together a single, coherent sentence.

What you're looking at is...

Well, quite frankly, it's impossible.

There's a face hanging above you, Lovecraftian in proportion – taller and wider than you are long, with features about as adjacent to a human's as one could possibly get.

For the first few seconds, you remain frozen to your spot, unblinking, half expecting the grinning visage to fade away as sobriety takes you back into its safe, sense-making embrace.

A pair of milk-white eyes peer down at you, hanging in the expanse of pale, yellow skin, like twin pools of alabaster paint. You'd hesitate to even call them eyes, but then, the damn things blink.

Snapped back into your more sensible instincts, you recoil in horror as filmy eyelids sweep horizontally across the beast's sclera, serving as sobering proof that the thing you're staring at is indeed alive.

Throwing out your hands, you begin to scrabble backwards over the grass, kicking uselessly with one leg and at last, you suck down a lungful of air and unleash a scream so piercing, the gigantic face flinches back.

With the distance inadvertently created, you become all too cognizant of the fact that whatever this is, it is so much more than just a disembodied face.

Frantic, you catch a glimpse of its mouth that opens like a fissure splitting across barren ground, stretching impossibly wide until each corner nears the very edge of its round, flat visage.

Perhaps it should have come as a relief to you that in the place of nightmarish fangs as you expected, there instead sit a solid line of bristly, baleen plates, not unlike those you'd see in the mouth of a humpback or a bowhead. But a lack of conventional teeth does absolutely nothing to soothe the abject terror threatening to drown you under its icy waters.

“Ho-ohly shit!” is all you can muster, briefly giving up the mad, backwards scramble in favour of trying to get your legs underneath you, forgetting for one, crucial moment, that you have to stop referring to your legs in the plural...

You're too busy staring agog at the slender, sinewy torso rising up from beyond the edge of the cliff to realise that while one foot plants firmly on the grass, the other cannot, and as you attempt to heave yourself upright, you place far too much weight in the wrong hip and end up toppling over onto your side with a grunt of pain.

All at once, the sounds rumbling out of the behemoth raise in pitch. You peel your squinted eyes open again, only to shriek when you see the gargantuan mountain of an entity looming down towards you, that wide, terrible mouth emitting a long string of clicks and clucks that reverberate deep inside your chest.

Pointed, prehensile fins encircle its head and flop backwards to lay flat against its skull at the sound of your scream as the behemoth draws closer – too close for your liking.

“No! Stop! Get AWAY!” you yelp, torn between flight, fight and freeze.

What the Hell kind of cosmic being saw fit to end your life in such an unorthodox manner? It hardly seems fair.

You came out here to escape your troubles, not find newer, bigger ones.

'Nothing ever happens in that lazy corner of the country,' your aunts words cheerfully resound in your ear.

'Auntie...' You send her a quick and spiteful thought. 'You've got a really fucked up idea of nothing!'

Something huge, soft and wet prods at your intact calf and you let out another, desperate bleat, rolling instinctively onto your stomach and bringing your arms up to protect the back of your neck. Futile, perhaps, but this situation is hardly one that wildlife experts cover in their autobiographies.

Keeping the top of your spine covered against jaws that size seems fruitless in retrospect, but it's all you can think to do.

You aren't sure what's worse though - Having to keep the beast in your line of sight or not being able to see what's coming.

Cheek pressed uncomfortably to the grass, you crack open one eye and risk a glance up and behind you, only to instantly wish you hadn't.

Whatever the Hell you've come across seems to be fixated on your remaining leg, which is coincidentally the moment you discover that it has hands.

Four fingers and a thumb on each – eerily like that of a human's – but interspersed by a vibrant, orange membrane.

A webbed hand.

... Definitely aquatic then.

One of its appendages thumps resoundingly on the ground ahead of you whilst the other hovers curiously above your leg. Then, a single forefinger that looks to be even longer than you are extends forwards, nudging gently against your exposed limb, eliciting a flinch and a whimper from you in kind.

'What are you doing?' you pose to it in your mind, 'Checking how lean the meat is?! Go. Away!'

Rather than adhere to your pitifully shrill, internal demand, the creature brings its face in close again, causing sea water to drop from its fins and sprinkle down all over you like a rain shower.

With your heart in your throat, you watch it study your leg for another, arduous minute.

Then, the quiet is dashed like waves on the cliff face when its monumental, blank-eyed stare swings around to lock with your gaze, its mouth splitting into a fluttery, but unmistakable grin.

The sight steals what's left of the air in your lungs.

'It's smiling? How is it smiling?' Smiling would have to mean it's feeling an emotion of some kind. But... what if this isn't a smile? What if this is merely how the creature bares its teeth?

Without so much as a lick of warning, the beast suddenly leans down, parting its mouth with a warble that only prompts a far less sonorous cry to leap clumsily off your lips.

You fly into motion just a second too late, dragging yourself forwards along the ground on your elbows... for all of a few, measly feet.

A solid line of strange teeth close gently around the collar of your old, woollen cardigan and before you even have another chance to shout, you're hoisted up off the ground, yanking fistfuls of grass out in your desperation to remain adhered to the earth.

“No!” you gasp, swinging helplessly from the crooning monstrosity's teeth as it peels itself backwards off the side of the cliff and begins to slide down into the deep, blue waters below you.

“This can't be happening!” you repeat to yourself over and over again, “This is not happening!”

Things like this simply don't occur. You have to be dreaming. Perhaps you've fallen asleep on the cliff and this is all just a big, terrible, beer-induced nightmare.

The world around you turns into a dizzying blur of colours, shapes and motion as your captor heaves itself backwards, dropping further and further back down over the edge of the cliff until you're no longer looking down at the ground, but rather the churning sea that sits in wait, far, far below your kicking leg.

If it drops you from this height, the water will rise up to meet you like a slab of concrete. You won't stand a chance.

It's only in response to the disastrous height that you stop struggling and your limbs lock into place as though they've been encased in cement.

Rhythmic puffs of hot, rancid air flow continuously from the creature's maw and envelop your senses in breaths that stink of fish and seaweed. Paralysed as you are by terror, you can't help but gag at the stench.

Once you get your first, proper glimpse of the beast carrying you, icy tendrils of dread slither around your neck until it seems you can't even take in enough air to properly scream.

A rawboned, yellow torso tapers off about halfway down the cliff and seamlessly blends with a long, fleshy tail that disappears into the waters below. You can't tell whether the shimmering scales are simply reflecting the last, dying embers of the sunset, or if they're really that vibrant meld of reds and oranges, highlighted here and there by swirling patterns of the most indescribable gold that would have turned Midas himself envious.

Gradually, as the creature lowers itself down from the cliff to join the rest of its body in the ocean, you're struck quite fiercely that it might have finally happened.

You may have actually lost your mind this time.

There is no rational way to explain why you're being accosted by a giant, ethereal mermaid. Now that really is crazy.

The water all around the beast suffers a massive displacement when it drops its upper body in amongst the waves, bringing its face – and by extension, you – just above the water's surface.

“Wh-what are you doing!?” you splutter at what you're hoping and praying is just a vivd figment of your imagination brought on by trauma, grief and alcohol. Maybe those beers had been laced with something, after all.

In apparent response to your squeaked question, the creature hums behind your head, sending your teeth clattering against one another before it promptly peels its teeth out of your cardigan and allows you to drop the last few feet into the water with a startled yelp.

Salty liquid instantly rushes up your nose and floods into your mouth as you choose the worst possible moment to cry out.

For several, disorienting seconds, you continue to sink further below the surface, the cold of the water shocking you into stillness despite being dragged down by your thick, woolly cardigan.

Though your eyes sting already from the salt in the water, you force your lids to separate and peer through the slowly dissipating bubbles at the murky depths beyond them.

There is something inherently human to feel such paralyzing dread that comes with being in an open body of water alongside a predator. You discover that dread all at once when your vision is filled with that enormous, round face looming just metres in front of you in the water, its eyes squinted nearly all the way shut thanks to the smile that stretches its cheeks to their limits.

Together, the pair of you hang there in the vast, fathomless ocean, gazes inextricably locked, perfect strangers from entirely different worlds.

Behind the monster, its immense tail zips sporadically through the water in unpredictable motions that remind you an awful lot like a cat twitching its tail.

Is that what this is? Are you just the mouse being toyed with before a giant sinks its teeth into your vulnerable neck?

The creature's smile begins to wane the longer you float there until its entire head abruptly spins inquisitively to one side.

It's only now that you finally start to feel the burning discomfort enveloping your lungs, and all of a sudden, an entirely different kind of panic sets in.

You haven't yet been swimming, not since you lost your leg. You never learned how to get by in deep water with a missing limb! And your heavy cardigan is already so water-logged, doing its utmost to drag you further towards the seabed in spite of the salt trying to keep you afloat.

All coherent thought is torn right out of you and replaced with the very rational instinct to seek out the closest route to safe, breathable air.

In an explosion of limbs, you start to kick and flail like a mad thing, reaching out with laden arms to pull at the water around you whilst your one, remaining leg jabs frantically out beneath you.

Sunlight on the surface is quickly fading, but some still filters through like gold dust, too far away to reach, and the precious little air you'd sucked down starts to leak out from between your sealed lips and nostrils in small bursts.

In your frenetic scramble for the surface, you miss the way the beast balks at your behaviour, parting its teeth and releasing a confused warble into the ocean, as if the hulking thing can't work out which swimming technique you're aiming for.

The helpless display must perturb it however, because the next thing you know, a soft, malleable snout is nudging underneath your thigh, coaxing you gently up a little faster. In response, your whole body tries to lurch away from its probing face, but the beast easily keeps up, guiding you to the surface with careful bunts and pushes from its flattened nose. You don't even register that it's incremental to your journey upwards until your head finally breaks through into the open air and you gasp raggedly, spluttering, floundering to put some distance between you and the monster.

Below the waterline, your unusual acquaintance gives your leg another, scrutinising stare, glugging thoughtfully to itself before its eyes light up and it turns its massive bulk around in the water, shooting off with just a single beat of its immense, billowing flukes.

You feel something large pass underneath you, disturbing the water, but you're too busy fighting off your cardigan to pay it much mind. With a final yank, you peel your arms out of the heavy fabric and leave the article behind in your wake, dooming it to the bottom of the ocean where it had tried to drag you not moments ago.

That finished, you swivel yourself clumsily about in the water until you spy your next objective: the cliff walls. You hardly care that the waves are hurling themselves up on the jagged rocks, you only care to get something solid under your foot as soon as possible and get out of the sea.

Spitting another mouthful of salty water, you begin your slow, arduous paddle towards the cliffs.

Time and again, your head dips under the waves and you have to kick and claw your way furiously upwards again, knowing that you're only going to tire yourself out if you don't keep moving in as straight a line as you can manage.

With every passing second, you wholly expect to feel the teeth of the almighty beast chomp down around your ankle and drag you into the drink once more.

As you start to draw within spitting distance of the rocks, you feel the strength behind the waves really pick up as they surge behind you with terrifying force.

Safety is so, tantalisingly close, if you could just keep -

- A watery howl reverberates through the sea around you.

Your assailant hasn't given up the chase, it seems.

Just as you'd feared, you feel those teeth upon you. But it doesn't aim for your leg, or any other of your dangling extremities. Instead, with unbefitting dexterity, that enormous head emerges from the water behind you and it slips its teeth around the elastic waistband of your trousers, lifting you slowly out of the water.

“Woah! Hey!” you squawk, attempting to squirm out of the undignified position while the beast swings its great, finned head around, carrying you away from the rocks at the bottom of the cliff.

So, it didn't appreciate your attempt at escape. Well, what on Earth did it expect?

Dangling above the waves once more, you notice a shape moving to the surface and realise, with a jolt of panic, that it's the creature's hand, rising through the water to rest just below the surface, palm facing the darkening sky. It plops you down on your stomach in amidst those webbed fingers and draws its head back, waiting for you to spin haphazardly onto your back before it aims a gentle frown at you, teeth clacking together in apparent agitation.

It's all you can do to gape up at its face.

If you didn't know any better, you could almost imagine that you're being scolded by this behemoth of the deep.

From what you're gathering, the rocks are out of bounds.

“I.. I don't -... Please!” you blurt out, scrubbing at your face and smearing tears across your stinging cheeks, “Please, just let me go! I don't know what you want from me!”

You let your shout bounce off the cliff walls and watch how the beast's fins quiver in response to the noise, flaring with interest as it stares down at you in silence for a moment longer before it.... appears to heave a great, big sigh through its teeth, head sinking down to you once again, jaws peeling apart.

“No!” Cowering backwards against its curled fingers, you raise an arm to aimlessly protect your face, only to yelp in alarm as something tumbles out of the creature's mouth and lands with a wet 'slap' in its palm beside you.

When you chance a glimpse, you have to do a double-take.

It's... a fish? A half-alive trout, by the looks of it.

You can't help but stare openly down at it, your brows slowly drawing closer together as the slippery, silver fish gasps for breath in the too-shallow water gathered in your captor's palm.

Speaking of whom.. Above you, it lets out a croon, low and deep as it grins, seeming all too pleased with itself for some reason and casting expectant glances between you and its catch.

… What in the world does it expect you to do with this?

The silent question goes unanswered when the poor trout suddenly flops sideways and slaps its tail against your ankle.

“OH! EW! Ew, ew – heugh!” Grimacing, you nudge the fish away with the toe of your shoe, pushing it towards the edge of the gigantic palm. But just then, the behemoth holding you huffs a loud breath through its flaring nostrils and you snap your head up to eye it warily as it bends down to crowd into your space once again, forcing you to press your spine back even further into the cage of fingers surrounding you.

The fish had been halfway to freedom when it's suddenly plucked up between large but nimble teeth and, to your utter dismay, dropped right into your lap.

This time, your squeal of protest is much more emphatic and you shove the fish off your leg, squeezing yourself away from the face hovering in front of you, tilted to one side, as if you're the one confusing it.

Undeterred in its unknowable quest however, the giant hums anxiously and gathers the rejected fish in its teeth once more.

With a single chomp, the seemingly benign baleen that had once held you captive slices clean through the fish's body, leaving the head of the poor animal to fall uselessly onto the creature's palm once again, dead, unseeing eyes staring up at you where you sit with your hand clasped around your mouth, expression contorting into one of abject horror.

Tears begin falling in earnest now and your chest heaves in and out with each, shuddering breath you take.

With the other half of the fish still dangling by the tail from its teeth, the beast brings its head in close to you again and you blurt a cry of outright horror as it tries to press its mouthful to your lips.

Of course, you react as any sane person would to having a raw, dead fish-end so close to your tongue and nose.

You slap both hands over your mouth, squeeze your eyes shut and shriek out a muffled, “FUCK OFF!”

It responds by attempting to shove the 'gift' more insistently against your fingers, all manner of clicks and whinges spilling out of its bobbing throat.

Horrified that this is all feeling far just a little too real for you now, you turn sideways to try and escape, burying yourself into its clammy fingers and trembling around sobs that wrack you from head to toe and cause your chest to burn with the effort.

The last of the sun's rays finally disappear below the horizon, slowly turning the ocean around you a sinister and inky black. If you ever make it out of this alive, you don't you'll ever go near a body of water again...

Lost to your delirium, you don't notice the shift in the air and the breeze falling still... But your captor certainly does...

It can feel the vibrations shudder through the water, growing stronger with each passing second, and it can hear that deep, sonorous hum that travels along the waves like the roll of faraway thunder.

Disheartened by your refusal to eat, the behemoth reluctantly withdraws, swallowing the fish in a single gulp. No use letting good food go to waste. Then, it raises its head and turns its gaze out to sea, emitting a lilted croon in response to whatever had called it away from the tiny creature in its palm.

You finally notice that you're no longer being hounded by a dead fish and risk a glance up at the giant's face, surprised – and a little relieved – to find that its attention has turned elsewhere. But that relief is short-lived when you start to ponder over what has captured its focus.

Sniffling, you twist yourself around at the waist to stare out between the gaps in its fingers, even daring to put a hand on the membrane and pull it down a little to see.

And what you see turns the blood in your veins thick and cold and draws all the life out of your cheeks.

You'd thought the beast holding you was terrifying, but it pales in comparison to the monstrous entity rising like a monolith out of the deep before your very eyes, sweeping its gargantuan body through the waters towards you, silent and fluid as a ghost.

If the beast cupping you in its palm embodies daylight, then this gruesome atrocity must be its midnight counterpart. Polar opposites, but terrifyingly alike.

Where your captor's fins are bright and eye-catching, the creature looming towards you out of the darkness has a sail of the deepest indigo stretching from the top of its head down to the small of its pale, white back. It's face too is round as the moon, but the eyes...

You can't suppress a vivid shiver at the sight of those terrible eyes...

Like two, black tar pits that could swallow any light that tried to permeate them, save for the pinprick glow of two scarlet pupils hovering at the centre of each socket, somehow defying that very rule.

Below the waves, you notice dark, swishing shapes pulling the giant along, vast tentacles, eight of them, each one the length of a football field and roughly the width of a redwood tree and flecked with silvery speckles that resemble a galaxy blanketed with stars.

'Good god,' your mind supplies, 'It's part-fucking-cephalopod.'

The huge tendrils draw the newcomer up close to its fellow leviathan and it drifts to a graceful stop, blood-red pupils flicking down to you before returning to the other beast holding you hostage.

And then, it bares its teeth.

You barely manage to stifle a whimper.

Row upon row of sharp, jagged fangs jut from the top and bottom of its elongated mouth, gleaming in the pale moonlight that shines down from overhead as it hisses at its brethren, causing you to wonder if they're even affiliated at all.

Is it about to attack? It certainly doesn't look too happy from your angle?

But the beast holding you doesn't seem to be concerned, and instead, it suddenly lifts you up towards the other's face, eliciting a series of, 'No, no no's' that stream incessantly from your lips when you find yourself staring straight into that fang-filled mouth.

The new creature takes a second to peer down at you, its pupils glowing brighter with something akin to interest. It's a Hell of a thing to have that gaze searing into you, studying you, dissecting you with its blazing eyes.

... There's intelligence in those eyes...

In the next second, you flinch as it suddenly shakes its head from side to side and snaps its teeth at its softer counterpart, grumbling low in its throat and getting a click or two in response. To your untrained ears, they appear to be having a conversation of sorts, although what a pair of creatures like these two have to discuss, you don't even want to hazard a guess.

The smaller, brighter one ducks its head at a particularly sharp rattle from the larger beast, yet it still huffs out a response and lifts its other, unoccupied hand to place a slender finger against your leg.

Reflexively, you snatch your limb away from the touch and try to tuck it underneath yourself.

Ruby-red eyes drill holes into you as it falls eerily quiet, only the waves rocking gently against its hide make any sound. Then, after chuffing shortly at its opposite, the darker one holds out its enormous, webbed hand, crooking its fingers as if to tell the other beast, 'Hand it over.'

You're awfully certain that the 'it' in question refers to you. If it boils down to a choice between the two, you'd prefer to be killed by the beast without glowing, red eyes and a mouthful of shark teeth.

In response, your captor's orange fins flatten miserably against its head and it draws you close to its chest, but after receiving a withering glare, it concedes to hold you out once more, presenting you like a dainty morsel to the far scarier juggernaut, who wastes no time in extending its arm towards you.

No matter how much you might fear the beast to your back, there's no way in Hell you want to be anywhere near the one in front of you. You truly are stuck fast between a rock and a hard place.

Sinewy fingers, each tipped by claws as long as your hand, quickly eat up the distance between you and the newcomer. Gulping like that dying fish, you try to shove yourself backwards across the water-slicked palm beneath you, and you'd likely have taken a tumble right over the side if the approaching hand hadn't suddenly struck like a viper, propelling forwards and wrapping around you at a startling speed that knocks a wheeze out of your lungs.

“-Ack! DON'T!” you holler, but it's already far too late.

Like serpents, the fingers wind around your torso and leg, yet they leave your arms free, and you waste no time in trying to scrabble furiously against the solid bands of muscle constricting all around you.

“Get your hands... off me!” you demand shrilly, bristling like a cornered kitten and sounding about as intimidating as one too. The entity, however, hardly seems bothered as it lifts you close to its face and tips its hand, fingers unfurling until you find yourself sitting in the cup of its palm, where it swiftly places its thumb across your stomach, holding you still, content to ignore the feeble shoves you give to the heavy appendage.

To the rear of your odd trio, the yellow creature is croaking and mumbling through pursed lips, wringing its gigantic hands as if something has made it anxious, yet it draws close up behind its counterpart and keeps its eyes glued to the side of your face as you remain helplessly in the secure yet surprisingly cautious grasp.

The new beast doesn't squeeze you to a pulp, doesn't try to stuff you between those fangs or wrap one of its tentacles around your neck to choke the life of of you... Instead, after peering down at you for a few, awful moments, it turns about in the water and begins moving, not further out to sea, but towards the cliffs you'd come from. You barely have time to process this strange turn of events before you're suddenly tilted in its palm and brought up against a cool, clammy chest, pinned there by dextrous fingers as the beast stretches four of its prehensile tentacles up towards the top of the cliff.

Incapable of escape, you watch in horrified fascination as the suckers on each limb adhere themselves to the walls and it begins to climb, hauling itself up and over the edge with you still clutched to its pasty chest.

You vividly hear the sound of glass smashing as its tentacle lands of top of the discarded beer bottles, but aside from twitching its frills at the sound, the behemoth doesn't outwardly react.

With slow, loping movements, it begins to pulls itself along the ground using its tentacles, perturbing you even further with the knowledge that it can traverse both land and sea.

Near-enough silent, its limbs swish through the grass and carry you up the slope, right to the back door of your temporary domicile.

By now, you've essentially given up attempting to make sense of the goings-on around you and resolve to simply remain still and limp in the creature's grasp, hoping for the best, but definitely expecting the worst.

Yet, as if the two entities haven't surprised you enough, you're further stupefied when the one holding you lets out a resonant hum and lowers you to the ground just in front of the back steps, by the door. It doesn't let go of you though, keeping you securely fastened underneath its thumb for several seconds, ample time for your initial captor to heave itself over the clifftop and drag its cumbersome body up to the cottage as well, chirruping as it catches sight of you again.

It's no surprise that the tentacled beast had an easier time lugging itself over the ground thanks to all its additional limbs.

With safety beckoning only a few feet behind you, you attempt to struggle against the thumb once more, but you soon go rigid as the creature of midnight blue lowers itself down onto its elbows, sending a quake through the ground when it makes contact with the Earth.

Holding your eye – because really, how are you supposed to turn your back on something that large and horrifying – it slowly extends its neck towards you, the wicked teeth inside its mouth prying themselves apart.

The sudden reminder of those very real threats hits you like a sack of bricks and you start to fight against its hold in earnest, batting at its thumb with clenched fists and choking out a desperate plea, “Oh, god! Please don't!”

Vivid memories of that dead-eyed fish spring up unbidden in your mind's eye.

You... don't want to die. Not like this, at least.

Your parents were ripped away from you against their will, through no fault of their own.

You never realised how badly you want to be in charge of your own fate until now. The very thought of being chewed on as nothing more than a snack for this wretched, undiscovered sea monster turns your heart to lead.

Through bulging eyes, you can do nothing but watch on, morbidly transfixed as a slimy, pitch-dark tongue creeps out from between the creature's barbed teeth and begins to slither towards you, prompting a string of curses to dribble off your lips.

Stuck with nowhere to go and almost seeing double from the panic fizzing in your brain, you clamp your eyes shut and dig your fingernails into its fleshy thumb, waiting with bated breath...

A sudden, unexpectedly damp sensation swipes against the bottom of your damaged thigh and you splutter out a gasp, flinging your eyes open to see the grotesque tongue ghosting over the scarred tissue that mars the bottom of your stump.

Pulling a face, you give the fraction of a limb a twitch and jerk your opposite leg across to kick feebly at the creature's encroaching tongue.

“Hey! Stop that!” The reprimand hardly comes out as anything more substantial than a meek whimper, but the creature does draw its tongue back behind its teeth with a huff. You have no idea what kind of bacteria live in that saliva, but an infection is the very last thing you need right now.

The beast pulls itself away and you're filled with an almost insurmountable urge to weep with relief when it finally, finally peels its thumb from your stomach and begins to tilt its palm forwards, allowing you to slip off onto the back step on your rear, gaping up in shock as it pulls its hand away again.

Free at last but still aghast at the thought of turning your back on not one, but two, aquatic deities, you shuffle backwards up the step until your spine hits the door behind you with a loud 'clunk,' rattling it inside its flimsy frame.

One of the darker beast's tentacles begins to approach and you snap your head in its direction, wondering if you could get to the key beneath the mat and unlock the door before the twisting appendage reaches you... but once again, it seems your apprehension is unfounded. A small flash of white catches your attention, half hidden by narrow coils, and as you stare, the beast raises the limb a little closer to you, then drops its captured item by your foot, slowly retracting the tentacle once its deed is done.

You blink owlishly down at the object.

It's your prosthetic leg.

“I...” But words more compounded than single-syllable vowels fail you.

Why would they return this? You'd almost forgotten all about your missing limb, deeming it comparatively mundane when seen next to a pair of colossal, otherworldly beings.

Movement, again, this time a flash of yellow and orange has you raising your eyes just in time to see the ichthyic creature all but shove its counterpart out of the way in its haste to stoop down and thrust its face out towards you, and before you even have the wit to lift your arms in some sort of meagre defence, it's enormous, red tongue darts out and slaps wetly against your chest, dragging a rough line up over your throat, face and hair and leaving a delightful trail of slobber behind as a parting gift.

The urge to vomit becomes increasingly difficult to ignore. It wasn't so long ago you watched that mouth devour the lower half of a trout, bones and all. Spluttering incoherently, you raise your hands and swipe the creature's saliva out of your eyes, shooting it an exasperated glance that goes utterly ignored.

With a roll of luminous, red eyes, the paler of the two grabs the smaller beast by its wrist and begins the arduous task of dragging it down towards the edge of the cliff.

Before they leave however, your initial captor offers you one last, longing glance, then it turns to let itself get tugged along by the other creature, and with a quick swish of tentacles and flukes, the two of them vanish over the side and leave you wonderfully, blessedly alone on the back step, wondering whether to call the police, animal services, or the nearest mental health unit.

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thebaddestofbatches · 3 years

Text

The Bad Batch Preferences pt. 1

Kissing

------------

Crosshair

Favorite Place: Just behind your ear and along your jaw. He prefers to wrap his arms around you from behind and these places are easier to reach. Plus they’re more sensitive and he likes to watch you squirm.

Makeouts: Definitely. And frequently. Whenever he gets back from a mission, you do something he finds hot, or just because he hasn’t kissed you in awhile.

First Kiss:

It was hot on Techitua. Dusty too. You lowered your shades on your nose, a polarized version of Tech’s goggles as Crosshair opened a case on the ground.

A makeshift shooting range was set up parallel to the Marauder, a metal piece with a target spray painted on it placed at a distance of 25 meters.

Hunter had told you that if you wanted to stay on board, you needed to know how to defend yourself and assigned you to Crosshair, without even asking if you had any prior experience.

“Alright. I don’t expect you to be top notch with this thing.” Crosshair said, his tone borderline patronizing as he removed a small blaster from the case. “Blasters take a lot of practice to use correctly and you’re only a doctor. I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t hit anything.”

You raised an eyebrow at him and took the blaster from his hand. Barely looking at the target, you took aim and fired one, two, three, four, five shots.

Crosshair’s slack jaw and a quick glance told you they all hit the bullseye.

“You forget, soldier,” You said smugly. “I’m an army doctor. I can rip you apart and put you back together just as easily.”

Crosshair’s toothpick hit the dirt and then he was on you, smashing his lips to your hungrily.

.*(*)*..**(*)**...**(***)**...**(*)**..*(*)*.

Echo

Favorite place: Your hand. He likes to hold your hand and bring it up to his lips for absentminded kisses. When you cup his face, he turns his head and presses kisses to your palm.

Makeouts: Not too often. He’s shy after all his modifications and you definitely have to initiate them, but once he relaxes, then he’s into it.

First Kiss:

“Dang ferreck!” You swore as the control panel of the rescued radio shocked you for the fifth time that night.

You gave it a swift thump on the top in retaliation, gritting your teeth.

You needed this to work. It had to work. It’d been so long since you heard real music.

Another try at the wiring and another spark that singed your fingertips. You let out another string of curses and tossed your screwdriver onto the counter with a clank before thumping your forehead against the table repeatedly.

There was a gentle touch on your back that stopped your assault on your cranium. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. You could feel the poke of Echo’s prosthetic through your tunic.

“You alright?” He asked.

“No,” You grumbled into the metal.

Echo sighed quietly and after some shifting behind you, you raised your head to see his human hand disconnect two crossed wires and reconnect them at new points. There was a fizz of static and then a gentle song began to float through the speakers.

You let out a whoop of joy and leaped to your feet, grabbing the clone by his collar to pull him down for a quick kiss.

“Thank you!” You squealed, snatching up your screwdriver again and leaving Echo standing there, stunned and pink.

.*(*)*..**(*)**...**(***)**...**(*)**..*(*)*.

Hunter

Favorite place: Your neck. He likes to feel your pulse point and kiss the sunmarks and spots along your skin. It’s also one of the best places for him to get your scent.

Makeouts: Not as often as Crosshair, but frequent. He likes to be affectionate with you and when he gets time or feels stressed, being around you and close to you is his priority.

First Kiss:

You’d been separated from the Batch in a marketplace and were now wandering aimlessly.

As you passed an alleyway you heard a whistle and a man sidled up to you.

“Hey gorgeous,” He said. “Where you going?”

“Away from you,” You muttered, but he heard it anyway and snorted. “Feisty girl.”

A gag rose up in your throat and you increased your pace. Behind you the man called. “Hey I’m talking to you! Though I appreciate the view!”

A hand landed on your butt and you whirled, fist raised to deck the stranger for daring to touch you. Before you could though, someone stepped between you and punched him, hard.

You looked up to see Hunter, a deep scowl on his tattooed face as he glowered at your harasser.

“Don’t touch her,” He growled, drawing up to his full height.

The man spat and launched himself at Hunter, sending them both rolling to the ground.

There was some yelling and sounds of fists hitting bodies before Hunter scrambled to his feet breathing hard as your harasser lay on the ground, groaning.

Hunter turned to you with worried eyes and you punched him in the arm hard and then quickly pecked his lips. “You didn’t have to make a scene.”

“Sorry,” He said, not sounding sorry at all as he pulled you in for another kiss.

.*(*)*..**(*)**...**(***)**...**(*)**..*(*)*.

Tech

Favorite place: Your forehead and temples. He can get so busy with this or that and a quick peck to the forehead is his go-to for affection when he’s caught up in something.

Makeouts: Usually whenever he gets an idea he wants to try with you. He learned affection mainly from books so he’s picking up more and more as he goes. Usually you initiate the sessions. However, when he gains confidence later in the relationship, things get more serious as he experiments.

First Kiss:

“Tech?” You called from the porch of your hideout. Hunter had sent you to fetch the male for dinner and so far he was nowhere to be found.

“In here!” The clone called and you followed the sound into the shed to see Tech holding two vials above a pot.

“What’re you doing?” You asked leaning on the doorframe.

“I’m testing a theory. The substance excreted from the fire salamanders’ skin may have some properties that can boost our explosives.” He replied, carefully tipping the vial of white powder in, followed by the orange liquid.

“And you thought it was a good idea to test that in my shed?” You said, quirking a brow.

The technician had the decency to look a little abashed. “Well it isn’t in the house.”

He set the tubes aside and picked up a firestarter, holding it over the pot. “And a spark to trigger the reaction..”

Crack. Fwoomp! Boom!

The small windows shattered and you ducked as a blaze burst up from the pot and then died out just as quickly, sending up a cloud of ash and dust.

When the smoke receded, you heard Tech give a small cough and looked over to see his whole face covered in soot and the front of his normally gelled back hair spiked up.

You burst into giggles, picking up a small cloth from the worktable and approaching the clone to wipe his goggles clean.

He blinked at you from behind the lenses, like he was surprised to see you and you smiled. “That went well.”

Tech gave you a sheepish look. “I’m sorry about the windows. I’ll fix them tomorrow.”

You laughed again, waving him off. “It’s alright. I was prepared for damages when I brought you lot here.”

He gave you a grateful look and suddenly you couldn’t help yourself, darting forward and pecking his lips.

Tech immediately turned scarlet. “What was that for?”

You shrugged. “For being you.”

And then you passed him the cloth with a wink. “Hunter says dinner’s ready. You should probably clean up a bit before you come inside.”

.*(*)*..**(*)**...**(***)**...**(*)**..*(*)*.

Wrecker

Favorite place: Your cheeks and nose. He likes to pepper kisses all over your face. He’s so enraptured by you that he wants to keep you close at all times to make sure you’re real. Plus he’s a massive cuddlebug.

Makeouts: On occasion. But this boy is too much of a teddy bear for anything more than gentle loving touches. He’s slow and sweet and so very careful with you.

First Kiss:

The Batch was pinned down in an abandoned bunker as a gang faction gathered outside. Echo was doing his best to reboot the turrets while Tech worked on the doors, but unless it happened fast, you weren’t getting out of this unscathed.

You were peering out one of the broken windows with Hunter, Crosshair, and Wrecker picking off grunts where you could, but they had greater numbers and illegal firepower.

A shot from a bike mounted turret hit the wall above your lookout and the ceiling caved in, causing Wrecker tackle you, cradling you to him as he rolled away.

“You alright?” He asked, pushing off of you, his voice higher than normal.

“Yeah.” You said and Hunter swore as glass shattered behind you.

“Echo!! What’s the status on those defense systems?!”

“Same as you asked thirty seconds ago!” Echo snapped. “These circuits are rubbish! This place should have been scrapped for parts years ago!”

Parts.

A light bulb went off in your brain and you immediately turned to Wrecker. “Give me a charge!”

“Why?!”

“Trust me!”

He gave you a look you couldn’t read under the helmet, but dropped an explosive in your palm.

Immediately you started dismantling it. “I need a gravmag, some wires, and anything explosive we can spare. Oh and Echo’s arm.”

“What?” Said Echo.

You ignored him and started your hunt for parts as you snatched a screwdriver, a multipurpose laser tool, and pliers from Tech’s backpack, stripped a console, broke Crosshair’s gravmag off of his grappling hook, and took three more charges from Wrecker. You dismantled, screwed, and rewired before beckoning Echo over and having him weld it all together.

“(Y/N),” Wrecker asked as he fired off another shot. “What are you doing?”

You waved him off as you activated your new, shoddy weapon of mass destruction and bolted for the window, lobbing it as hard and far as you could.

“Hit the dirt!” You yelled and there was a large boom and the whole building rattled.

When the dust cleared, you beamed proudly at the clear landscape.

The gang that had been surrounding your hiding place was now lying unconscious having been thrown a good 50 meters in all directions at extreme speeds.

“What-“ Said Crosshair in his rare stunned tone. “What did you do?”

“Simply,” You said. “I reversed the polarity and made it into a big bang.”

Wrecker whooped and tossed his helmet aside, scooping you into a bear hug and peppering kisses all over your face. “THAT’S MY GIRL!”

You turned pink and he drew back from you enough to press a sweet kiss to your lips, which only served to fill your face with crimson.

There was an awkward cough from one of his brothers and Wrecker turned a similar shade of red, setting you back on the ground.

“Er-“ He said, patting your shoulder awkwardly. “Good job.”

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