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asterdisaster06 · 8 months

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Rottweiler's Callsign Story

platonic 141 x reader

summary > The mission was supposed to be an easy in and out stealth operation; however, you getting cornered by enemy guards that weren't drawn out by the team's distraction left you to desperation. Such circumstances resulting in unsavory acts needed to get out alive and back to your team. Half the blood on you might not even be yours, but you're out alive and safe.

word count > 5.6k

warnings > graphic description of blood and violence, like i'm not kidding. medical terms used to describe some of the gore. reader is described like a feral dog.

ao3

You had always been quite animalistic in your ways, vocal on the battlefield with snarls and hisses escaping your lips through the sheer effort of your tyranny. Grunts and growls being a point made to enemies you faced before absolutely thrashing them to death. Your skills with a gun whether a handgun or an assault rifle were top tier, your training made sure of it, but your real talent laid in hand to hand combat. Specializing in utilizing your own body and surroundings to tear your enemy down. It was something that had confused and yet impressed your teammates on the taskforce. They stared at you with something akin to visceral horror and pure adoration when you save their asses more than they can count.

Whether that comes from tackling the one on top and pinning them by their throat or managing to spot an enemy that they had missed on their six. Either way, any way, they were significantly impressed by you and your prowess. Your expertise offered something new to the group. Your bones held your pride that was either to be completely snapped or remain unwounded. Your muscles flexed to show the pride that was your mortal self. Your teeth were bared to the world like a stray dog. And in a sense, that was what you were.

You were found by Laswell and Price with your fur matted and your teeth too sharp from eating trash-thrown bones. Metaphorically of course. Literally though, they were your saviors. She took you off the previous military base you would’ve died on and Price raised you like his own flesh and blood. He took the limping, ugly mutt and showed a kindness you had always heard directed at others but never you. You learned to not bite at the hand that feeds you.

The others came later once you were settled in - learning very little of your past; only knowing what you had seethed through tight lipped smiles. At that point you were known simply as ‘hound’ to them. You’re not entirely sure how or when it came about, but it seemed to fit you for the moment.

You weren’t exactly talkative, similar to Ghost in that aspect. That’s not to say that you didn’t learn to open up and trust, especially when you were on a mission that required trust and teamwork. Collaboration and communication were the foundation for the taskforce, and it wasn’t something you could opt out of. You mostly sat back and smiled at a few of the jokes shared, but the one time you spoke to add onto the dark humor from Simon scared the shit out of them. Even Simon was a little caught off guard despite his vehement denial. It was the start of the blossoming friendship between you and the team.

This particular mission was no different than the others. Or at least, it shouldn’t have been. Unfortunately, the world had different plans in mind for you and the boys.

Soap had been talking your ear off and you listened in with a small smile on your face at his antics. It was amusing to you that he wasn’t put off by your scars, both physical and mental. He looked past them, not quite ignoring them but not pushing for you to spill the story behind them all if you weren’t ready. You were forever grateful for that. Gaz was in a similar vein, learning to eventually see you for who you were. Sometimes he poked and prodded you, but only in the intentions of helping you. Especially when you refused to see a therapist. Not after the last incident.

Ghost respected you at face value. The mask was who you were to him, and it didn’t make a difference in the slightest for your identity. It was a refreshing contrast to the other two who were not exactly openly prying, but their curiosity emitted from them like radiation. And you didn’t need a geiger counter to see that being near them would eventually unravel your DNA containing your secrets. Ghost simply left your skeletons in the closet lie. A needed deviation in your life.

This mission required you to sneak into the compound in order to collect intel about nuclear weapons that a recent terrorist group had gotten their hands on. Obviously, that was a paramount issue that Shepherd had wanted the taskforce to take care of. Your boys would be creating a distraction away from your position, eventually creating a path to your location for a safe exfil after they had planted bombs around the compound. This establishment wasn’t going to be left standing after you guys were done with it if you could help it.

“Is everyone clear on their positions?” Price’s voice breaks through the disassociation your mind had thrust you into.

The ringing in your ears faded as the chatter began to quiet down and focus was injected into your veins. There was a small nagging feeling in the back of your mind, but you brushed it off as simple leftovers of anxiety growing mold in the fridge of your consciousness. You responded with a simple affirm alongside the rest of the team, eyes beginning to lose the dazed look within the cornea. You blink once and then twice as you take in your surroundings and run your tongue over your sharpened canines.

Your muscles tense with anticipation, letting your legs carry you out of the truck that was about one klick from the objective. You were to be going on foot from here to avoid raising suspicion. The treeline would offer some cover for the infiltration attempt, the leaves in full swing. Unfortunately that also meant so were the bugs and thorns. You would just have to deal with it, although Soap wasn’t so easily placated.

“Fucking hell,” Soap exclaims, swatting at a very vague buzz that was swarming him.

“Here,” Gaz says, throwing Soap a can of bug spray.

The droning and whirl of wings belonging to insects that lived long before humanity came about offers you a weird amount of comfort. It’s almost a commiseration of sorts between the creatures that nobody wanted around. You and the acarids. Nonetheless, you cover yourself in a self assumed shield of the spray that sticks to your skin in a way that makes you almost uncomfortable. The thorns and sticks pricking you through your tactical gear brings you relief. The opposite from what you presumed the others were experiencing.

It’s not like you were a masochist, peace and comfort have just never quite been something you’ve gotten used to. It’s what you’ve known most of your life and it’s what you’ll continuously go through. Much to the chagrin of your boys.

Speaking of, they appeared to be having varying levels of reaction to the harsh woodland environment. Soap has been openly complaining, although you knew it was mostly to break up the monotony of the trip alongside easing the anxiety of the others. He knew just how to utilize his personality like that and he wasn’t scared to come off as brash or even semi-annoying. You try to humor him enough to keep that spark going in his soul. That’s honestly a thought that keeps you up at night; Soap becoming like you or Ghost.

Gaz was experiencing his classic bad luck; truly trying to avoid any muddy spots or tripping on an exposed root, but it appears that it wasn’t working out for him. He had tripped over his own feet two times, an exposed root five, and almost twisted his ankle thrice. It was almost as if the woods had it out for him. You wince and make that last thing four times now as Gaz tripped over a small pebble and had to execute an almost ballerina-esque move to avoid falling face first into a puddle. It made you huff out a laugh, earning you a middle finger in your direction. Gaz truly does try his hardest in everything he does, placing expectations upon himself that nobody else even thinks of. Pressure mounting upon him that moves you to make sure he takes care of himself. You’ll be damned if you let him drown himself in the same way you do.

Ghost was similar to your apathy, although you could tell from his body language that he was in as much discomfort as Soap was expressing. He refused to let even a slip of a grunt or groan escape from his sealed lips. His combat boots were sinking into the mud as much as Gaz, but he had significantly more coordination and confidence in his steps than Kyle did. You observed him quietly, seeing thorns stick into his skin - likely releasing the red ichor of his mortal body. Nonetheless, he braved on with only a slight wince betraying his emotions. It reminded you of how he faces his own torment and demons with nothing showing to anyone around. Not unless they’re particularly attuned to him and his distinctive micro-expressions. You know this as well as anyone, so you make a conscious effort to try and get Simon to open up to you. Not a lot, and sometimes not at all, but enough to sand down the roughness around his edges. Enough to heal him one scar at a time.

Price was admonishing Soap for being so loud and semi-obnoxious. All in good fun, at least, at the distance you were away from the location. Given that Price was back at the car, you couldn’t exactly see what he was doing or his own personal quirks. However, you had known him long enough to know his personality and behavior. You had spent a good chunk of time analyzing the man that had offered you not only a position on this team, but a hand to help you up from your back-alley way of living. He was a tired man that needed some positive affirmation in his life if you were being honest. He had this entire team on his back alongside his position that designated him to a life chained to his work. His title delegated him to the duress that came with everyone expecting victory from you. It’s probability is down right improbable for him to always come out on top. Although, you doubt that he’s come to terms with that idea. You try your best to offer support in your own way, realizing that words alone aren’t going to cut it. You try to guide him to sleep if he’s too caught up in paperwork or offer him a cup of coffee just the way he likes it if an all-nighter is inevitable. You want to be there for him like he is for you.

Laswell’s voice cuts through the comms and snaps you from your stupor. Kate Laswell. She offered you kindness while others offered you chains. She let you into her life instead of caging you like a feral animal. She took the muzzle off of your maw and let you speak. She presented you with a purpose outside of being a killing machine for your previous team sent in with no regard for your health or happiness. She gave you a life. One of your own. A team that you could rely on with a street of protection that goes both ways. Possibilities were opened up that you had never dared to dream of beforehand. You owed her your life, and that’s what you fought with on every mission.

“You’re closing in on the base. Can we get a general overview of how it’s going?”

You smiled and shook your head before the Scot even opened his mouth.

“How’s it going? Oh wonderful, absolutely joyous,” Soap spoke with mock annoyance, good-natured humor shining through despite his tone.

“All is well, the intel we were given appears to be good. There should be no difficulties from our view over here,” Ghost answers, genuinely.

“Affirm, I’m all set and ready here, Kate,” Price speaks, his commanding timbre sending rumbles down your spine and through your nervous system.

“Remember, get in and get out, don’t get caught up in the blast,” Kate reminds you all, as if you could forget.

A chorus of proclaimed agreements echoes throughout the trees of the forest. The silence that falls over the group afterwards makes you tense up and get into the mindset of the feral mutt that has kept you alive for this long. Your breath ends up heavy, saliva coating the inside of your jaws as you harshly swallow it down - almost choking every time you do. Your shoulders rise and fall in time with your respiration. Ghost checks in with the group one last time before you’re sent off first into the craw of the compound. Being a sacrifice is nothing new to you, but it still causes you to shudder in anticipation. Goosebumps rise all across your skin despite the temperature dictating otherwise.

You wander forward, joints creaking in protest as you sneak around the side of the building. It’s inevitable that you have to utilize your knife, but you use it sparingly - not wanting the alarms to ring because some unfortunate soul stumbles upon the body of their fallen comrade. It’s almost second nature to you at this point and you would’ve zoned off if it wasn’t for the pure adrenaline rushing through your system. You finally reach point A in which you reaffirm with the rest of the boys that the plan is a go and no complications have arised.

You hear a plethora of acknowledgements before you begin to move forward with the permission of Ghost and Price. You snake cam the door before lock picking it after deeming it safe. There didn’t appear to be any enemies nearby much to your satisfaction. The less possibilities for this plan to go wrong, the better. It’s a waiting game as you come upon the stairwell door leading up to the room you were meant to infiltrate. The clock ticks down, the beats of your heart sounding out in your ears as a unit of measurement.

Boom.

It’s the signal for you to proceed as all of the cameras are abandoned with the clicking of the gun trigger replacing the clack of keys in the office. You were all set up and ready to acquire the real reason your mission was handed out. Pushing past into the stairwell, you’re met with the surprise of an elbow to the face, effectively causing a gush of blood to start trickling down your face. Despite the advantage the enemy had from his effort of concealment working to catch you off guard, you gained your balance back quickly, and the pounding of your head did nothing to quell the vexation that led you to putting a knife in the guy’s eye. You shoot a bullet straight into his cranium with a glare, just to cover your tracks.

You lick your chapped lips, tasting the metallic mouthful you had gotten from your little scuffle. You didn’t hear a crack, but it was definitely going to be a pain in the ass the next day. Nonetheless, you pushed on, aiming to be more aware of your surroundings. There was an odd lack of guards around the area for what seemed like the main structure. It set off warning bells in your head, but there was no turning back now. From the gunfire sounding out from below it seemed that the others would be too caught up to engage in a verbal conversation regarding your worries. Not like you weren’t confident in your own abilities, quite the opposite, but Price had managed to drill into your head that not everything had to be faced alone. Jokes on him, this situation had the appearance of it being a one man operation.

You and your blood soaked sleeves made your way to the computer where you gathered yourself into a semi-coherent being in order to upload data from their system. The hard part was already done for you; all you had to do was plug a hard drive into a computer and wait. And that you did. You almost felt sorry for getting their keyboard all slick with your carnage escaping from your sinuses. It also felt as if you had bitten your tongue during the altercation, your mouth being yet another outlet for the liquid escaping you. You spat on the floor, maroon saliva staining it.

Running down your neck, the blood seemed to stop at that point, trickling off into a simple seeping of gore. You consider yourself lucky, just in time for the information to be uploaded onto the hard drive you were given. You report over to Price and Laswell, a slight lisp imbued into your words due to the tip of your tongue suffering from puncture wounds your teeth had embedded into the soft muscle. They understood you perfectly fine however, and you were instructed to continue with the orders you were given. At that moment however, the lack of communication on your part about your suspicions of an ambush was coming back to bite you in the ass. Almost literally.

A gloved hand smothers your mouth, effectively suffocating you. If the arm around your throat and its connected hand stifling your ability to productively breath wasn’t enough, there was now a knife lodged in your side. Your attacker drove the knife you suspected he took from your gear even further into your abdomen, twisting it like he was wringing out the last of his laundry. Except you were the clothes and your blood was escaping you, much to your chagrin. Fortunately for you, this particular guard was practically brain dead when it came to medical knowledge, so you were pretty confident that you were going to live. That is, if you could escape without being asphyxiated to death.

You maneuver your maw into an opportune striking position, opening your jaws like a dog being thrown a bone. The coincidental nature of that thought would’ve made you laugh if you weren’t currently on the verge of being slaughtered and gutted like a pig. You chomp down and dig your teeth into the metacarpals of his skeleton, relishing in his grunt of pain and attempt to recoil. You were like a dog with a bone though, and you’d be damned if anyone tried to take it from you. His attempt to pry your jaws open with the hand that soon abandoned the knife in your side after the puncturing of his palm. You ground your teeth into the fat of his hand before realizing the glove was going to be an issue. You turn your teeths’ attention to his exposed wrist, aiming for his radial artery. Unfortunately for him, your fangs found their intended target and perforated his skin. You threw your head back, grasping his arm with your other hands - clawing at it like a feral beast.

You effectively were one, your mouth full of flesh and muscle that didn’t belong to you. Although, you suppose that one could argue it didn’t belong to him either. Not anymore. You spat out the pulp of tissue, realizing that he had let you go. You put a bullet right through his eyes, spraying blood and brain matter across the room. Well deserved for someone like him. You drive your boot into his lifeless corpse, really kicking the man while he was down. Your joke, although knowing nobody alive was around to hear it, made a hysterical laugh claw its way out of your throat. Your larynx had really betrayed your deranged and volatile behavior. Your manic nature had kept you alive so far, so you supposed you had only yourself to thank.

You shoved your bloodied tongue around your mouth, hoping to wash out the taste of human flesh. It wasn’t the worst thing you’ve tasted - that goes to Ghost’s attempts at cooking - but it certainly wasn’t pleasant. You wiped your mouth against the back of your hand, quickly realizing that it too was bloody. Red wasn’t really your color right now, otherwise you would have appreciated the look. You quickly checked over your supplies, knowing that you could make due with anything around the room or at the very least your hands, but feeling comfort in the weight of the metal contraption that delivered death at a much quicker rate. Hemorrhaging from either a knife or a gun was much more effective than your bare hands. Or teeth.

It appears that your enemies didn’t appreciate your sentiment though, ambushing you only to take away such things from your grasp. There were two this time. They almost reminded you of Soap and Ghost, if those two were actively trying to kill you. Your boys only sometimes did that, and most of the time it was pitiful attempts. You were actually the one that got quite a few new rules implemented during training - but seriously, who stops in the middle of a fight to ask if something is legal? No-one, which is exactly why you simply did what was necessary to survive, to quote verbatim what you had said to Price as your excuse when Soap had ended up in the med bay.

Be that as it may, these guards weren’t who you thought them akin to. Therefore, everything was on the table. Especially since they had made the grave error of giving your standard weapons a place on the backburner. Now, the only thought in your mind was kill. At all costs necessary. Your sharpened canines glinted in the dim lighting with a scarlet staining the pearly white as your mouth opened. It’s unfortunate for them that they didn’t have a muzzle on hand.

Before the one in front of you had an opportunity to shoot you through any vital organ, you used your body weight to shove the one holding you to the ground - the bullet whizzing above you. A guttural growl escaped your throat as you turned your attention to escaping the grasp of the poor soul restraining your body. You grasp his upper arm, twisting yourself to use his body as a human shield. It would’ve made you gag if this was the first time you’ve done this. Regrettably, you have quite a bit of experience in this particular experience.

The bullets pierced the soon to be corpse of his comrade, narrowly avoiding you except for one that grazed your side. You really were losing a lot of blood today. Making your way to safety was your biggest priority; however, that was proving difficult with leftover guards that were actually doing their job semi-well. You untucked yourself from under the weight of the stiff remains and threw yourself at the unlucky fellow who had just run out of ammo in his weapon. A simple click is all you heard as the gun escaped his grasp in favor of his bare hands. You were thrown into a chokehold yet again. These guys really did like their chokeholds. His hand gripped the knife slick with your own blood from your hands and ripped it out, leaving you to bleed to death. His mistake though was only using one hand to contain your rage filled body made of torn flesh and bones.

You tore yourself from his grasp, with the worst luck in all of history happening with the knife getting knocked down the stairwell - sounding like a fork being dropped in the sink on its way down. You were in no condition to run or even jump after it, and the only other weapon was out of ammo, so it seemed you were yet again stuck using your bare hands. They trembled as you gathered yourself, preparing yourself for what you were being forced to do in order to escape this ordeal alive. You settled your weight into your haunches and launched yourself at the enemy, vision bloodshot and tinted red. An animalistic growl escaped yourself, sounding almost like a hyena’s maniacal laugh. Your lunge proved fruitful as your claws came into contact with his facial features, digging into his eyes to blind him. The texture of the soft tissue under your sharpened nails flexed and then ruptured. The front layers of his cornea gave way to the gooey gel similar to egg whites that filled the orbs.

A visceral scream escaped the man below you, causing Price to finally check in over comms. At least, you think so, it was getting hard to hear with the ringing in your ears. You didn’t respond either way.

You knew that even blind, the man was still a liability. Or maybe he wasn’t, but to your addled brain firing neuron after neuron that drove you with the only thoughts occupying you being: survive and kill; well, the feral nature of yourself pushed you to make sure he was dead. You had your training to thank for that. You knew that the rest of his body was protected by the structure of his epidermis, much to your dissatisfaction. Your thoughts wandered back to the first enemy you encountered as you loomed over the blinded man. Your mind was made up.

In a split second decision, you descended your fangs into his throat, sinking your teeth into his trachea and hearing a sickening squelch of his bare flesh. The muscles gave way as you shook your head like a rabid dog, separating his tissue from their home within his body. You didn’t stop until you felt his carotid artery begin to hemorrhage. You shakily stand up, staring at the massacre you had left behind. Your jaw would definitely be sore the next day. There wasn’t a surface of you that wasn’t absolutely drenched in blood, and you couldn’t tell where yours began and theirs ended. The corpse beneath you had stopped screaming after the first puncture of your teeth - at least, you’re pretty sure. The haze surrounding your mind made thinking about it too hard. It almost fills you with a sense of regret at letting the monster you once were out of their muzzle yet again. The halfway decapitated body was left as you limped down the stairs and out a back door.

You shambled out into the woods, faltering only twice to prevent yourself from tripping since you’re pretty sure you wouldn’t be able to get up again after that. The rush of blood in your head faded as the sounds around you finally cascaded back into reality. You swore you could feel the dripping of blood spurting out of all open wounds in time with your heart. The chaos finally sunk in, the screaming over comms for your response demanding your attention.

“I’m,” You break up your sentence with a cough. “I’m fine,” Your voice sounds crackly and hoarse. Not that you’re surprised.

“Where the fuck are you, you were supposed to be out of there five minutes ago,” Price yells out over the radio.

“I don’t exactly know. Somewhere out in the woods?” You respond, your head pounding.

“Ghost, find them!” Price had apparently discerned that you were in no condition to be taking in your surroundings accurately enough to ascertain an accurate location.

“Fuck, I think I see them. Hound!”

You think you hear a faint yelling of your name, although it doesn’t quite register to your unhinged and disoriented brain. All you could tell through the muddy fog of your mind was a person. Enemy. Kill. Survive. Escape. You felt their hands on you, your throat closing up in response as you preemptively expected to be strangled half to death. You let out a snarl, baring your teeth and coming into contact with what you think is a hand. Either way, it doesn’t matter to you and you bite down with the force of a wild animal. A yelp is heard, only cementing your actions in your mind.

“Calm the fuck down Sergeant.”

A voice cuts through the haze like a hot knife through butter. You fall limp in the grasp; whether it’s because you recognize the voice or you simply are accepting your fate is up in the air. Nonetheless, your surroundings begin to load in, your eyes stopping their constant darting around and focusing on a singular face. Or, faces. Ghost, Soap, and Gaz. They had found you. You were safe. You notice Soap has a bleeding hand - your own handiwork without a doubt. Guilt floods you, your behavior similar to a puppy hearing the words ‘bad dog’ for the first time in their life.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay. You did great, Hound,” Soap begins to say.

“Come back to us, Love,” Gaz whispers, rubbing your cheek with his thumb.

“Shit, fuck, I’m sorry,” You cry out, finally feeling the effects of your pure exhaustion.

“I don’t blame you, Jesus, you’re gonna have a hell of a story to tell us when you get all patched up again, Hound,” Soap exclaims.

“How much of this blood is yours?” Ghost finally cuts in.

“Not a lot, just where the knife was and I might’ve gotten shot.”

“Might’ve?” Soap laughs.

“Mission, guys,” Price finally interrupts. “I’m glad you’re safe, Hound.”

The mission continues, you leaning on Soap since you’re pretty sure stumbling down the stairs strained one of your ankles. You spewed out numerous apologies for his hand, but he didn’t want to hear any of it. The go ahead for the air team with Laswell to level the building was given, and the exfil point was finally reached by your ground group. At that point, you were barely conscious, hearing echoes of pet names assuring you only a little longer and to stay with them. They plagued the darkness that overtook you and greeted you as you woke up to the blinding light of the medical room.

“Welcome back to the world of living,” Soap says. “The doctors hadn’t seen anything like you before,” He laughs.

“Do you want to explain why they found human tissue in your mouth?” Ghost asks, his tone inquisitive.

“Shit man, let them have a bit of a break before we interrogate them,” Gaz chuckles, offering you some water, much to your appreciation.

You gulp down the water like it was the last time you would ever get the precious liquid, your body thanking you. You sheepishly hand the empty cup back to an amused Gaz. You clear your throat, not quite ready to delve into the specifics of what you had to do to survive, but knowing you had to. Being open in communication was a non-arguable point to being a part of the taskforce.

“Most of the blood on me when you found me was probably belonging to the man I might’ve,” You pause, “ripped the throat out of?” You rush that last part out as quickly as you could, knowing that despite your efforts, they’re going to question you.

Both Soap and Gaz’s eyes widened almost comically, both quickly exclaiming different curse words. One being Scottish curses that you could barely make out from his accent. The other being aggressively British expletives spilling out of Gaz’s mouth. Ghost simply looked upon you with what seemed to be both admiration and affirmation. You had known he would be the most likely to not be surprised at your actions. He knew what it was like to have an untamed beast within you.

“What in the bloody hell did you say?” Price was apparently looming in the doorway, keeping himself hidden until this moment.

You cough, and ask “Is now a good time to mention I also might’ve done the same to a man’s hand?”

Soap had a horrified look upon his face. “You’re saying I could’ve lost my precious hand?”

You had almost forgotten about Soap’s injury, and stared at him with a semblance of guilt flashing across your face.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” You say quietly.

“What happened to the good ole knife or bullet?” Soap asked, offering you his bandaged hand to hold in an offer of forgiveness and trust.

“They stole my shit, and my knife ended up kicked down a staircase after it was ripped out of me,” You pouted, the drug concoction of morphine and other such things loosening you up to talk.

“You’re quite a rabid beast, ain’t you?” Price said, his tone betraying the fact that he was in fact quite proud of you. It wasn’t meant in a derogatory way and you knew that. You smiled in his direction, jokingly baring your teeth at your Captain.

“Aye, I think you’re more than a baying hound at this point. Maybe Rottweiler would serve you better. That mouthful of teeth sure does remind me of my childhood,” Soap says, shivering at the thought of being the victim of your maw.

“I hate to think of the final view those soldiers saw of you,” Gaz laughs.

“I think Rottweiler suits you,” Ghost says. “Fearless yet loyal.”

The rest of the team nods in agreement, surrounding you with support and love. Something that still unsettles you to this day, but not in the same way facing down the barrel of a gun would. It’s a warm embrace in front of a fireplace that sends a jolt of something new down your spine. A fondness spreading like wildfire, adoration deep seated in your bones to those around you. Just like a dog, you were a fierce protector of your family, but with them? You were a tender beast that rolled over at their feet.

You couldn’t think of anything better than that thought which warmed your heart.

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artistsfuneral · 9 months

Text

(this contains graphic description of violence and is absolutely skippable if that's not your thing!)

the VOTE and FANART are UNDER the cut because of this

✨🌿🌼✨

The Road to Kaer Morhen - p.6

“Gentlemen,” he greeted the soldiers with a face-splitting grin and a courtly bow of his head. “It appears, there has been a misunderstanding.” The men stared at him, unmoving, tense. Behind them Aiden was still caught in his rage, not able to recognize Jaskier by his scent or sound anymore. “Why don't we all just sit down and talk about this like civilized people? I'm sure we can find some common ground.”

The bard's smile never wavering, he took a step forward only for the five soldiers to draw their swords at him. Steel for humans, Geralt's voice echoed in his thoughts as if any of that mattered. Silver had never stopped Jaskier before. Holding his hands up in what he knew was commonly understood as a surrendering gesture, he cocked his head to the side, watching as the archer reached behind his back for his bow. “How about some tea? I have this lovely mixture of zerrikanian spices that goes great with the apples you can buy around here. Oh, that reminds me! I wanted to keep some for apple cakes! Which would mean we can't use all of the tea, but surely some of you would prefer chamomile anyways, there's always one person that-”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Jaskier's mouth snapped shut with an audible click of his teeth. His initial smile had fallen off his lips as he stared at the man that had interrupted him with pure bewilderment. “Well that was incredibly rude. You are not getting any tea from me now.”

“I told you to shut the fuck up!” The same soldier as before yelled at him, spitting towards Jaskier's boots as he did so. The bard pulled a face in disgust.

“In the name of the crown of Redania, you are under arrest to be executed in the capitol!”

The forest was quiet around them, silent except for the wind in the trees and the metallic sound of the redanian soldiers readying themselves to arrest him.

The bard stared at them unblinking.

“Drop to your knees, this instance!” another soldier ordered harshly.

Jaskier's head fell back as he started to cackle loudly. The sound coming from deep inside his chest and forcing way through his throat like creature of its own.

“I don't think so, darling.”

Jaskier took a deep breath and exhaled it as the world slowed down around him.

They had hurt Aiden. Five soldiers in front of him, despicable creatures, faceless and worthless. Throats easily accessible from above. Exposed ankles. An unprotected back.

The Archer; almost too easy to kill.

A sixth trying to sneak up on him from behind. Useless.

His pack and lute slipped from his shoulders. The dull thumb cushioned by the forest floor. Aiden cried out in pain.

Jaskier inhaled and spun his body around, faster than any witcher ever could. His short sword was off his belt and in the man's eye socked before the soldier could even react. It popped with a horrible squelching sound that turned into the cracking of bones as the blade dove deeper and deeper into his skull. He was dead before his scream could form in his chest. Jaskier took hold of the man's throat and pulled his sword out, blood and chunky bits of soft tissue being forced out of his skull. He had been the one that made fun of the scar in Aiden's beautiful face. Now his body dropped to the ground lifelessly. Jaskier released his breath.

An arrow seared past his head and struck the bark of a tree not an arms length behind Jaskier. The archer's face lost all color as he watched the body of his fellow soldier hit the dirt floor. Freezing blue eyes fixated on their new target. Pulling a knife out of his blood splattered sleeves, Jaskier mourned the death of his favorite teal doublet and threw the barbed knife at the archer. He dropped to his knees like a puppet who's strings had been cut, cradling his stomach as a fearful scream broke from his lips. They always screamed in the end.

Running towards the next soldier, Jaskier couldn't help but to roll his eyes when the archer pulled the knife out, gutting himself in the progress.

The horses whinnied in panic, fighting against the reigns. Aiden snarled.

The soldier closest to him raised his arm high above his head, ready to strike down at the bard. Jaskier scoffed. Angling his own short sword upwards he closed the distance between himself and the other man and stabbed him right into the pit of his raised arm. The tip of his blade tore through flesh and bone until it hit the underside of the soldier's shoulder guard. Jaskier's opponent let out a primal howl as he dropped his sword to the slowly reddening forest floor. The bard ignored him, jerking his blade back out with brute force and kicking him to the side, eyes already focused on the next one.

Their swords met, loudly crashing against each other. The screeching sound of steel carving into steel seemed dull to Jaskier's ears. He inhaled and the world slowed down once more. He easily parried the next attack, taking hold of the man's elbow and twisting both of their bodies around, so they were chest to chest. As a result the redanian soldier that had tried to surprise Jaskier from behind found his sword stuck in his comrade's back. Jaskier slit the wounded's throat without hesitating and shoved his dying body towards the other soldier who easily crumbled under the unexpected weight. Mercilessly, the bard jumped on top of the fallen man's chest, breaking his rips and crushing his organs within seconds. This one had dislocated both of Aiden's shoulders for fun. Now he was choking on his own blood. He deserved worse.

Jaskier snarled and took hold of a stray sword, ramming it into a whimpering mess of human flesh on the ground. Two left. His face-splitting smile was back.

Aiden woke to the familiar taste of swallow in his mouth and a pounding headache. His first attempt to open his eyes failed miserably, the midday sun so bright it hurt enough to make him hiss out loud. It still hurt like a bitch the second time, but Aiden was now prepared for it and could work through the awful sensation, thinning his pupils through sheer will.

He found himself lying on the floor, free of chains and rope and with his wounds slowly mending themselves together thanks to the potion. The bard was kneeling right next to him and when he noticed that the Cat had woken up, his cornflower blue eyes softened with relief. During the last month Aiden had been in this exact same situation often enough that he could call it familiar. And yet something in the back of his mind was gnawing at him like a feral dog. “Thank goodness, you're awake again. You honestly had me worried there for a moment! Didn't I explicitly told you not to get caught?” Jaskier scolded him lightheartedly as he helped him to sit up. Nothing about the bard's gentle scent or the typically playful behavior warned the witcher about what he was moments away from seeing.

Aiden's breath caught in his throat as he took in the fucking massacre around them.

The corpses of the redanian soldiers that had overpowered him a few hours earlier littered the floor, broken and mangled as if they'd been mauled by a full pack of werewolves. The stench of blood and death was overwhelming and yet, Jaskier was completely unharmed.

His hands and face were covered in drying blood, as well as his boots and the rest of his clothes, but the bard himself had not a single scratch on him as far as Aiden could tell. “I thought about searching through the camp, see if I can find anything worthwhile, but I wanted to be here for you when you wake up. I hate waking up alone, but the troop leader had a sword that could possibly replace your broken one and hopefully we can find some spare clothes and other useful stuff. If we take their horses with us we can carry a bit more,” Jaskier babbled happily on, completely oblivious to the witcher's inner turmoil. “Not like they need the horses anymore,” he laughed.

Aiden grabbed him by the wrist, finger nails digging into Jaskier's blood-caked skin.

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ro-botany · 7 months

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An Attempt at a Semi-Realistic Analysis of Thoron Stab Wounds

Yes, I already made a post about this recently. But in my reply to Ana's musing about the subject of the thoron blade, I largely assumed fire-like behaviour from an electric spell, and it's been itching my brain all day. So let's go over it again:

What would be the effect of getting stabbed with a bolt of electricity? What would that look like if we offered like five more centimeters of realism to this setting?

If you don't read the full post, my conclusions are basically:

If we treat a thoron bolt like a live wire, then even if it's a relatively weak source of electricity, with that entry placement it's instantly arresting breath, causing severe convulsions, and probably killing him in record time.

I don't care that Chrom has the power of god and anime on his side. There is no way in hell he's speaking or controlling his own movements in this moment.

The best interpretation of the thoron blade stabbing is the interpretation that makes the story feel best to YOU. Ignore me and my math if it doesn't spark (hah) any joy or interest for you.

Content warning: Detailed discussion of electrical shock and burns, and descriptions of such.

Classification of Energy Blades

I generally consider the thoron blade to be a subtype of a broader class of fictional weapons I call energy blades. These are your lightsabers, your halo fireblades, things like that.

Most of these weapons tend to behave like sources of pure heat, and most can have their behaviour modelled like a Hot Knife. The weapon is treated as though it has a physical component -- a sharp blade at its center that handles most of the actual cutting or stabbing -- and the fire/plasma/heat is treated as a secondary effect of the weapon. Narratively this is often the more balanced choice, because it means the weapon puts out a reduced amount of heat energy, which means damage is (mostly) contained to the initial wound site and its immediate surroundings. This is how you get instant cauterization weapons.

The other option is the Literal Flame model, which assumes pure heat energy with no physical cutting component. This is rarely, if ever, used in fiction, because it is overpowered. It works a lot like the acetylene torch analogue I used in my reblog of Ana's post. In short, for a volume of heat energy to be capable of "cutting" flesh, it's effectively vaporizing/instantly melting that flesh. That means it's putting out a LOT of energy. For a heat-based weapon, that means massive amounts of burning around the wound site, penetrating way deeper into the surrounding tissue than you expect, and the sheer heat of the air around the weapon causing widespread surface burns.

But the problem with using heat-based models in this instance is that Thoron is not a pure heat-source. Thoron is electricity, and electricity behaves very differently from pure heat. So if our aim is semi-realism, we ought to model it like electricity.

The Behaviour of Electricity

Fictional electric magic -- thoron included -- rarely behaves like real electricity. So, for our purposes, rather than an actual arc of electrical energy, let's model a thoron blade as a source of electricity.

Validar, through Robin, has effectively jammed a live wire directly through Chrom's lung and kidney. What does that do? To talk about that, we need to talk about how electric shocks work.

For electrical current to flow, you need a circuit. For a body to complete a circuit, it needs to contact two points with different voltage levels. A bird sitting on a high voltage wire has two feet touching points of the same voltage, so, voltage difference 0, the bird is safe. Chrom, however, has a live wire stuck through his kidney and feet on the ground; he's forming a circuit between a high voltage wire and the low voltage ground. Big voltage difference, big problem.

Once you get past the outer layer of skin, two things happen when a person is shocked. One, human bodies use electricity to move and to send nerve signals, so any muscles getting shocked will tense up. And two, humans do conduct electricity but don't do it well, which means there's a lot of heat being generated, which means the tissue getting shocked is also getting burned.

The majority of an electrical current will follow the path of least resistance. In this case, that means the shock initially goes from the impalement site, down through the legs, and out the feet. But electricity follows ALL available paths in some amount, so its not one straight line through the body, it does wider damage than that.

So What's The Damage?

Time to do some math!

(I am not an electrician or a doctor; please bear with me)

To my understanding, injury from electricity is a function of current and duration.

According to my sources, the amount of shock current someone experiences can be estimated using Ohm's law. To do this we need to know the voltage we're dealing with... so we're going to have to fudge some numbers here, since we can't actually measure the voltage of fictional magic spells.

Given thoron is a third tier lightning spell I'm going to say it's powerful, but not anywhere near lightning-from-the-sky powerful. I'll ballpark it around the voltage of... well, an electric chair, of the persuasion that kills you. Best I can tell, that means 2000 volts. You could probably reasonably go higher, but this feels intuitive to me.

My sources also tell me that the average internal resistance of the human body, with no skin in the way, is 1000 ohms. Just an average, not accounting for the different resistances of different tissue types and fluids.

So! To get the strength of the shock current Chrom's getting:

I = V/R = 2000 volts / 1000 ohms = 2 amps.

2 amps of current. Chrom is experiencing approximately 2 amps of steady current over 22 seconds.

I know that 2 amps doesn't seem like a big number. I need you to understand, dear reader, that currents that injure and kill humans are measured in milliamps. I need you to understand the sheer magnitude of how bad this is.

0.03 amps of current causes muscle contractions strong enough that you can't let go of the thing shocking you.

0.15 amps is enough to stop your heart, if the current goes through your heart -- which means death. It's enough to stop your breathing if the current goes through your lungs/diaphragm. It's enough to cause your limbs to tense so hard you are physically thrown.

Much more current than that, or current for more than fractions of a second, and you start talking severe burns.

I need you to understand that we have just directed 2000 milliamps of current through most of Chrom's internal organs for 22 entire gods-damned seconds.

Did I pull that voltage completely out of my ass? Yes. But Chrom is getting shocked directly in the organs for 22 fucking seconds so there is literally no voltage we can pick that isn't completely fucking him over. The exact number is just a question of how singed we want him at the end.

I know he has dragon heritage and general anime dude resilience on his side. I know this. But I cannot stress enough the degree to which that is not helping him here. In fact, things like the mild super strength like he has PROBABLY WOULD MAKE IT WORSE because your muscles contract way harder than you normally can contract them when they're being shocked!

No, Really, What's The Damage?

Best as I can tell, based on my limited understanding of electricity and its effects, here's roughly what happens to Chrom upon getting stabbed by the thoron blade when we pretend like this setting is a smidge more realistic than it actually is.

If you do not want to read graphic descriptions of injury this is your final warning to bail out of this post.

The instant the blade impales him, all the muscles from the bolt to his toes constrict. He instantly stops breathing. His legs and abdomen convulse so hard it throws him away from Robin.

He lands on the ground, and now the current isn't just going through his legs; it's going through any part of him that touches the ground, and that, in the end, is what's lethal.

His entire body locks up. Muscles pull as tight as they can go. He's convulsing on the ground, like a seizure, only worse. The skin around the bolt bubbles and chars. It smells like meat burning.

There's a sound like wood snapping as the force of his own writhing muscles fractures his bones.

He doesn't speak. He doesn't even scream.

It's bloodless and quiet. Twenty two seconds is a long time.

If Chrom was lucky, he died quickly. Heat turning blood to jelly, a lick of current stopping the heart, pain so great his brain knocks out of its own accord to spare him.

If being a son of Naga "helped" at all, gave him any resilience past what is human, it only means he was conscious a few seconds longer. Just enough time to be aware of the loss of control and the razor-sharp fire of nerve pain that erases all thought. With luck, not enough time to consciously realise he's dying, or whose fault it is.

Twenty two seconds is a long time.

The exit wounds on his back, on his limbs, on his head, sear, then bubble, then char in places. The damage around the bolt bubbles and blackens out and out and out. Don't think about what that looks like on the inside. The smell of burning flesh is thick enough to choke on.

He's still convulsing and burning long, long past the point of death. It only stops when the bolt fades.

In Conclusion:

The only thing saving us all from trauma around this cutscene is the T for Teen rating.

Validar could you pick literally any other execution method because holy hell. Robin carries a sword. Why didn't you just use THE SWORD, VALIDAR.

If you choose to model the thoron blade as a Hot Knife, or as a Literal Pinpoint Flame, or as either of those with a secondary mild electric shock effect, those are all extremely good options for how to handle this event. They offer an experience closer to canon with a highly variable level of injury severity. Singe the man to your taste, allow last words or don't, pick your level of blood and bad smells, those do it all.

Live Wire, as described in too much detail in this post, may be a marginally more realistic model if you want to treat thoron as a straight up source of electricity. Live Wire is also probably the most horrifying option of the bunch, and the one that offers everybody involved the least closure, which has it's own narrative value.

In the end, this is naught but applying a little too much realism and math to anime video game, because I find that fun. If this doesn't work for you throw it out. Pick whatever interpretation makes the best narrative for YOU. If you are like me and are fascinated by the most horrifying option, welcome, we can feel terrible about this together now.

Electricity is terrifying, never touch an outlet, rest in charred little pieces Chrom, goodnight everybody.

#graphic descriptions of violence #electrocution #fe awakening #chrom #meta #I GUESS???#long post #grimleal studies #this is a lot more math and a lot more words than anyone needed to put into this but *i* had fun #sorry or you're welcome whichever is more applicable #i continue to be allergic to brevity

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highfunctioningflailgirl · 7 months

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The One Who Still Grips Him Tight

Alastair carves a piece out of Dean’s heart, and Dean cannot help it: he shrieks. He’s held on while the knife sliced into his arms and legs, while Alastair peeled the skin off his ribcage, the horror of it all so familiar by now that Dean has learned to drop into a state of catatonic numbness with the first cut.

But this - his heart - is too much. It’s still beating, and it will keep doing so, without the mercy of Death that’s not available in Hell. It’s too much, Alastair reaching into his chest and cupping his heart, deceivingly gently, while it pounds frantically. And then the sharpness of the knife and his blood gushing out - pump pump pump - of his open chest, the feeling of the only part of Dean that is (stubbornly, hopelessly) alive undergoing vivisection by the hands of Hell’s greatest torturer.

Dean can’t take it anymore. He can’t see it anymore, his body getting sliced and diced while he is forced to watch himself being taken apart (Alastair never touches his eyes), watching his own skin, flesh and bone being flung aside in bloody chunks and ragged shards. And when it’s all over, to find himself not in the relief of dissolution, but, somehow, reassembled and whole again - whole in body only, his mind and soul in shreds, ablaze with terror.

He can’t do it anymore, he’s got to get out , get off this rack and even if it means that he’s got to put souls on - he can’t do it anymore, he just can’t, he-

“Dean!”

Dean sits up, panic pounding in his chest. “Wha-”

“You’re safe. You’re home.”

It’s Castiel’s voice that catches him.

“It was just a dream, Dean. You’re okay.”

Chest still pumping, his t-shirt sweat-soaked, Dean blinks into the semi-darkness of his room in the bunker. He sees Castiel, cautiously perched on the side of his bed, knowing better than to touch him before he’s fully awake.

“Cas?” Dean asks, just to make sure. He rubs his chest where his heart beats wildly.

“Yes,” Cas answers, all calm gravel and solid there-ness. “I’m here. I’m real. You’re safe.”

And then Dean is awake enough and believes enough for Castiel to touch him. It’s a ritual by now: Cas’ hand against Dean’s cheek, circling his ear, cupping the back of his neck. Then the firm pull into an embrace and Dean burrowing his face into Cas’ shoulder, breathing him in until the smell of blood and sulfur fades away.

Sometimes, Dean thinks he can feel Castiel’s handprint on his shoulder again, like a protective tattoo on his skin. And wouldn’t it make sense?

Cas was the one who gripped him tight and raised him from perdition, and it turns out he’s doing it over and over again.

#suptober23 #no.8 #satanic panic #fanfic #graphic descriptions of violence #supernatural #spn #dean winchester #castiel #alastair #torture cw

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doombum · 4 months

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A little something for the #CC Weekend Bash by @and-stir-the-stars

Friday 5th: Nightmare / Blood / Fun

Trigger warnings (it all starts one paragraph before the part in italics, the rest is pretty much fluff): Blood, Panic attack, Graphic descriptions of violence (this part is in italics), Bullying (a bit)

Evan was ecstatic. He couldn't believe it.

Someone had just come up to him and invited him to play together. Him. The weird, silent kid nobody wanted to talk to.

He wanted to jump in joy and tell all about how he felt to Fredbear, but he refrained from it, not wanting to weird out what could become his very first friend. He couldn't show how much of a loser he was.

Though he seemed to be doing a bad job at it as he was taken out of his thoughts by the young girl - Cassidy, she’d said her name was Cassidy - waving a hand in front of his face. “Hello ? You still here ?”

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, a nervous laugh coming up his throat as he meekly apologised. “Sorry. I was just thinking…”

“It's okay !” She smiled at him before grabbing his hand and pulling him with her as she ran away. He stumbled over himself, almost falling to the ground several times as he let her lead him to another area of the playground, away from the other kids.

They stopped abruptly and she caught him before he could faceplant on the ground. Her cheerful laughter filled his ears as he struggled to catch his breath, holding onto Fredbear for dear life.

“Come on !!” Cassidy barely gave him the time to get his bearings before she bounced away, kicking a couple of dead leaves that had started to gather on the ground as the weather grew colder.

He could only watch in awe, as she let herself fall onto a pile of them, making them fly all around her, before she sat back up, her hair a complete mess, and looked at him inquisitively. He squirmed under her gaze, feeling a bit intimidated by her carefree attitude, but he slowly advanced forward anyway in a burst of new found courage.

She laughed again at his antics, but it didn’t sound mocking like it did when Michael snickered at him and, as such, the familiar sense of shame was replaced by a small timid laugh of his own.

When he got close enough to her, she suddenly caught his shirt and pulled him to the floor with her. He gasped in shock, bracing himself for the impact he was sure to come, only to open his eyes in surprise as he realised the leaves had cushioned his fall. Another giggle left his throat and he let himself play around in the pile, watching as the red and brown leaves flew all around him in a beautiful explosion of colours.

“You’re weird.” He stopped at the words and slowly sat back up, his cheek warming in embarrassment. He glanced at her, expecting to see the usual judgmental gaze his peers would give him in class, but he came to a stop when he noticed her cheerful smile. Before he could ask about it, Cassidy threw a handful of leaves onto his face, taking him by surprise and making her laugh hysterically at his reaction. He found himself relaxing at the realisation that she had not been trying to insult him and, her playful attitude starting to rub off on him, he decided to reciprocate her actions, silencing her as she caught a bunch of leaves in her mouth and was forced to spit it out.

By the time they stopped play fighting on the ground, Evan’s face started to hurt with how much he had been smiling and laughing. They were lying on the ground now, panting in exhaustion, but quiet giggles still left them once in a while as they struggled to catch their breath. He couldn’t remember when was the last time he’d had this much fun.

It was as he went to squeeze Fredbear in an attempt to contain his excitement and not look weird as he felt the need to flail around, that he realised his beloved plush was not in his arms anymore. He quickly sat back up, tears starting to form in his eyes and a knot forming in his stomach as he frantically looked around until he spotted the yellow bear lying in the leaves not too far from him, probably having fallen down during their tussle. He let out a relieved breath and tried to calm the fidgeting in his hands as he crawled to the plush and cradled it to his chest.

“Is that a Fredbear plushie ?” In his panicked state, Evan had failed to notice Cassidy sitting back up and approaching him curiously, and he flinched as he turned only to come face to face with her, not having expected her to be so close.

She noticed his reaction and backed off a bit, apologising for startling him. He smiled a bit, amazed at how nice she was, before nodding shyly at her question and mumbling an affirmation under his breath.

She reached a careful hand, going slowly so as to not surprise him, to get a feel of the plushie’s soft fur. “Where did you find it ? I’ve never seen any plush for him before.”

He hesitated a bit, remembering his father’s warning about people trying to befriend him only to get free merchandise, but decided that Cassidy seemed trustworthy enough. “It’s a prototype. My dad made it.”

“That’s so cool !” She stroked the fur of his plush carefully, excitement written all over her face, but to Evan’s surprise, she didn’t pry any further and didn’t ask if she could borrow it or anything.

Instead, she sat next to him and fished something out of her pocket. She held it to his face, making him have to lean away a little to see it properly and realise it was one of the Fredbear mini figurines that were available at the prize counter of his dad’s restaurant. “He’s my favourite.”

He smiled at that. “Me too !” He might be afraid of the actual animatronics, but the yellow bear was still the one he favoured the most. He just wished he wasn’t so tall and intimidating, that’s why his beloved plush was much better than the real deal, in his opinion.

“Really ?” She sounded surprised as he nodded shyly. “I’m glad some people still love the originals, everyone always prefers the new crew nowadays.”

Evan couldn’t help but agree with that. Ever since his father’s latest animatronics were announced - Freddy, Bonnie, Chica and Foxy - they had gathered a lot of enthusiasm among the other kids in his class, so much so that almost no-one ever talked about Fredbear or Springbonnie anymore. They were still liked, of course, and the restaurant was still as successful as ever, but people were really excited about the new location and so that was the main topic in everybody’s lips.

“I don’t like them much…” He admitted in a low voice, a part of him scared that his dad or his brother would overhear him and scold him for badmouthing the new animatronics. But only Cassidy was around and she laughed freely at his words.

“Yeah, me neither. They’re kind of silly.” Evan snickered at her blunt honesty. “I mean, why even add more of them ? What was wrong with the originals ?”

He shrugged when she looked at him expectantly. He had no idea why his dad and uncle Henry had decided to open a new location and make a whole new set of robots for it. It was probably something about attractiveness, that’s what his dad always talked about - bringing more people into coming to his restaurant.

“Meh, doesn’t matter.” Seeing he didn’t have an answer for her, she took him out of his reflection and started to get up from the ground, dusting herself off. For a second, he was scared he had failed to be interesting enough for her to want to be his friend, but she then offered him a hand. “Want to go to the swings ?”

He smiled at her offer, trying to hide his excitement as he reached for her hand. But before he could grab it, he was suddenly sent toppling to the ground and his grip on Fredbear loosen as it was pulled away from him. He landed harshly, feeling tears coming up his eyes as he looked up to see who had pushed him, only to freeze when he was met with one of Mike’s friends, his signature Bonnie mask attached loosely around his head.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the little crybaby.” The older boy held his plush in one hand, taunting him with a smirk.

“G-give him b-back !” He tried to stop the sobs, hyper aware of Cassidy’s presence, but unable to help the wobbling of his voice. His eyes were riveted on his plush and he felt like he couldn’t breath. His vision blurred with tears, he shakily got up, terrified out of his mind, but determined to get Fredbear back.

“Ohh~ the little guy is feeling brave !” Bonniebro - or whatever his name was - waved the toy around, not caring for Evan’s panicked pleas to be careful.

He reached for it, but was pushed to the ground again, this time roughly landing on his hands and knees. He winced as he felt a sharp pain at the impact and shook as he struggled to sit back down, only to wish he hadn’t when he got sight of his scraped knees. The sight of the blood dripping down his legs made the bill rise up in his stomach and he suddenly felt lightheaded. Through tears and wails, he tried to clean the mess, only for it to spread even more and make it even worse.

That was it, the nightmarish animatronics hunting him down had finally got to him. They had found him. They had come into his house in the night and ripped his body to shreds. Their giant jaws had broken his body in pieces. He could feel their claws shredding his stomach, their teeth crushing his skull. It was agony, pure agony.

He trashed in the strong hold trying to force him down. He couldn't breathe. He couldn’t think. There was blood everywhere. It was clouding his vision. Red, red, it was everywhere. He couldn’t stop it from flooding. His conscience was dropping, he felt like he was gonna pass out. He screamed at the tops of his lungs, praying for someone, anyone, to save him.

His thoughts came to a halt as his hands came into contact with soft fabric unexpectedly. He gasped for air, quickly recognising the fluffy object as his beloved Fredbear plush and he clutched it tightly against his chest.

As he tried to ground himself, lightly feeling the toy’s fur, he finally took notice of the hand stroking his hair and the arm around his waist guiding his body in a soft back and forth motion. Despite how calming the motions felt, he stiffened at the unfamiliar feeling.

He started to trash around, wanting to get away from the stranger’s hold, but it only tightened around him, sending him into another wave of panic. Before he could shout again, though, a rough, annoyed voice broke through his rising fear. “Stop that ! It’s just me.”

He froze at the familiar voice and tentatively opened his eyes, blinking through the tears and raising his head to see Mike holding him close to his chest, a scowl on his face. Despite the stiffness of the hold, and the obvious annoyance in his brother’s tone, Evan found himself relaxing in the older boy’s arms.

He exhaled shakily, looking away from Michael to try to get his bearings. It was then that he noticed the crowd of people surrounding him. A bunch of adults looked worried, but most of the kids had mocking grins on their faces, giggling to one another while pointing at him. He saw his sister standing on the side, looking embarrassed by his behaviour and ready to yell at him for causing a scene. He felt his cheeks heating up in shame at all the attention and pulled himself closer to his brother with a whimper, hiding his face in the older’s chest. He felt more than he heard the annoyed scoff that it earned him, but he paid it no mind.

Distantly, he could make out a girl’s voice, scolding the crowd and telling them to leave him alone. Even as he listened to the people dispersing, he didn’t move from his spot until a careful hand touched his shoulder. He tensed at the contact, but relaxed again when he recognized Cassidy’s voice. “They’re gone now.”

He shyly looked at her, expecting her to mock him or look embarrassed to be seen near him, but she only seemed worried for him. “Thank you.” He muttered under his breath.

“You done causing a scene over nothing ?” He winced at Liz’s sneering comment and he started to apologise weakly when Cassidy cut him off.

“Don’t talk to him like that ! It’s not his fault.” Evan’s eyes widened at the defensive tone, not used to people standing up for him.

He smiled a bit to himself, but, upon seeing his sister’s fingers twitching in anger, he quickly intervened, not wanting the two girls to start fighting because of him. “It’s okay, Cassidy.” She looked back at him, ready to protest but stopped herself at his pleading look. “Please.”

She seemed to contemplate it for a moment, but ultimately backed off, even though she still looked angry at Lizzie, who only smirked at her in victory.

Before she could brag about it, Mike cut her off and started to push Evan off. “Come on, get off of me. We need to get back home.” He struggled to get back up, wobbly on his feet and legs stinging sharply. If it wasn’t for Mike holding him up, he probably would have fallen right back down.

He looked down at himself, confused by the pain, only to be remembered of his fall and his subsequent panic at the view of blood by the sight of bandaids over both of his knees. His lips wobbled at the memory and he started sniffing quietly as he struggled to walk.

“Don’t go start crying again, crybaby.” He could hear the irritation in Michael’s voice and tried to stifle his cries so as to not anger him further. That didn’t seem to work very well and he let out a yelp as he was suddenly picked up from the ground, and into his brother's arms, forcing him to hold onto Mike's neck.

“Wimp.” He looked down at Lizzie, seeing her roll her eyes at him, but didn't answer, remaining quiet as they started to walk away.

“Wait !” Before they could leave the park, however, Cassidy ran in front of Mike. Evan looked at her curiously, a bit worried that she would tell him that she didn’t want him to talk to her ever again - like most other kids did. He was taken by surprise when, instead of that, she beamed at him. “Today was fun ! Maybe we can play together again next time ?”

He gaped at her, at a loss for words, before he fully processed what she said and hesitantly nodded, a giggle leaving him when she winked at him before saying goodbye and going her own way.

As they made their way back home, Evan stroked Fredbear plush, lost deep in thoughts and ignoring his siblings’ mocking jabs about Cassidy and the pain in his knees. Despite what had happened later in the day, playing with Cassidy had to have been the most fun he’s ever had in his life, and he was excited to be able to see her again - he couldn’t wait to tell all about it to the rest of his plushies.

#cc weekend bash #evan afton #cc afton #fnaf cassidy #tw blood #tw panic attack #graphic descriptions of violence #bullying #fluff and angst #developing friendship #dysfunctional family

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sunshiline-writes · 2 months

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COLORS OF THE END #1: Blue of the Sky

Synopsis: Sky blue never looked so beautiful. An introduction to the world of Oesha

CW: Child soldiers, burning, alcohol mention, war, graphic descriptions of violence, graphic descriptions of death, Main character death except it's not actually the main character, I have probably missed some so let me know what I missed lol.

Masterlist | Next

word count: 2k

“Hey, you got a light?”

Julius turned back to the other man who asked, leaning against the wall. The breeze of the early evening was a nice contrast to the heat of the day. Julius pulled out his lighter, flicking it on. Holding it out to him. The man grinned, walking forward and lighting his cigarette on the small fire. He stuck it in his teeth and took a drag.

“Shit, thanks. Needed that. Want one?” “No thanks, I’m good,” Julius said with a small smile, flipping off the lighter and stuffing it back in his pocket.

“You’re a little young for the militia, aren’t you?” he asked, leaning on the railing. They were in a watch tower. Overlooking the world it seemed. But it wasn’t the world, it was just a bunch of pine trees. Distantly, they could hear the train whistle blow. They couldn’t see it, the treeline was too thick.

“Well.. I’m not that young. I’m nineteen,” Julius said, shifting the strap that let him hold the gun. The gun wasn’t powered on, that only happened when his hand was in the groove that contained the trigger. A safety measure. The gun had been charging in the sun all day, ready to convert the energy into the plasma beams that could cut through solid metal.

The man clicked his tongue, sighing. “Nineteen is still too young in my opinion.”

“Who are you anyway?” Asked Julius, glancing at him once again.

“Ah, no one important,” said the man, turning sideways to look at Julius properly, “I’m supposed to take over your watch shift. The name’s Victor.”

“Julius,” said the younger boy, nodding in acknowledgement. He smiled, starting to walk past him.

“You don’t have to go. I don’t mind the company. Plus the tents are boring. All everyone does is play card games or try to do target practice with stun guns,” Victor said, laughing slightly, he pulled out a flask. Offering it to Julius. Julius took it, taking a sip. It burned on the way down. He laughed, handing the flask back to Victor.

“You know,” Julius said, leaning forward over the railing as well, “I hear they use children. Like actual kids. With powers.”

“Yeah, I heard that too,” Victor said, taking another drag, letting out through his nose, “I think I saw them once. Out when I was in the Mountain Militia. They razed a whole town. Fire everywhere. People screaming, everything.”

“Really? That bad?”

Victor sighed, “Yeah.”

There was an uneasy silence before Victor flung the cigarette down into the tree’s below. Licking his lips. Julius stared at the tree line, watching as the breeze made them move. The world was always moving. This was a small moment of respite. It didn’t matter that it was with a stranger. But perhaps, Julius should make the stranger less of a stranger.

“Why’d you join the militia?” he asked, tapping his fingers against the railing.

Victor laughed, bright and airy, “Man what is this? 21 questions?”

“Maybe. Are you gonna answer?”

“Yeah yeah. I had a kid,” Victor started, and Julius winced.

“Oh sorry, I didn’t mean to-” “Are you going to let me finish?” Julius closed his mouth and nodded. “Good. Okay so I had a kid. Well.. he wasn’t my kid, but he was my cousin. I took care of him for a while. He was living with me while my cousin got sorted. Anyway,” he took a deep breath, “we were out farming. I was a farmer, you believe that? Yeah. I was a farmer. But me and the kid were out in the field, seeding. And the bells started ringing.”

Julius frowned, he was aware that some towns had warning bells. Ones that they rang to hide the children. Almost every town had them now. If the bells rang, you were either dead, or going to be. They had a bell in the watchtowers too. Just in case. The bell behind them in the little room seemed to loom larger over their heads as he spoke.

“I picked him up like a football. Grabbed him up. And I started running. I didn’t even look back. I didn’t even try. I just took Cecil and I ran. We hid in the caves,” he paused, deeming it necessary to fully explain, “we had these caves back home. We weren’t exactly on the mountain, but we were close to it. So there were these caves, a little dip and I threw ourselves in there, covered his mouth to keep him from crying.”

Victor's eyes seemed haunted suddenly and he bit his lip. Most people didn’t survive the attacks. Especially if they were people that ran or fought back. Hiding could get a person hurt, but as far as Julius knew, towns either got razed, or their children simply stolen. If you were lucky enough to be powerless, then you were safe. If not, those children were never seen again. Not in the same way at least.

“We heard screaming, and I was keeping him quiet, I think they were fighting back, the town. We could smell smoke and.. I don’t remember much to be honest,” Victor said, running a hand over the top of his head. “We didn’t come out until the next day, when we couldn’t hear anything anymore. Everyone was dead. I ran.. I don’t remember a lot. But.. I got Cecil back home and I joined up the next month. My friends, family.. People I liked, they all died. So.. I didn’t want anyone to go through that either.”

Julius nodded. How noble. It was a noble reason. There was respect in it.

“What about you?”

Julius flushed and shrugged, tapping again on the railing. “I don’t really know. I didn’t have anywhere else to go I guess. It just happened.”

Victor laughed and shook his head.

“Hey, nothing to be embarrassed about. Not all of us got sob stories. You’re all good kid,” Victor laughed slightly. “Actually, that’s a good thing.”

“Yeah?? You think so?”

“Yeah. Yeah I think so. So, you got any family–”

The ground beneath them fell through. Julius grabbed onto the railing with one hand, his other hand grabbed Victors. His arms burned and he groaned. Then the building leaned to the left, and Victors eyes widened.

“Fuck–”

Julius’ hand slipped and they fell together as the rest of the tower came down. His chest hit something, his head slammed against the ground and his world went black.

When Julius opened his eyes again, he groaned. Pushing himself up but there was a weight on his back. Victor was nowhere to be seen. But the bells were ringing. Oh god. The Bells were ringing. The Oculi were here and he didn’t even see them. Was that why the tower fell? He tried to push himself up again, more desperate this time. There was a wooden beam across his back, the weight was crushing him. But he didn’t dare speak. He didn’t call for help. It was better if he just got it off himself. That way, he still had time to run. Julius made his hands press underneath him, and push upwards, the beam creaked with the pressure. He pulled himself forward and turned himself. Please, please let me get out of here, he begged silently. Julius dragged himself forward with another groan, sobbing softly. He continued pulling until his body was freed from under the beam. The weight off him let him take a deep breath that rattled in his chest. He coughed and blood splattered on the ground. His ribs, he was certainly bleeding on the inside.

Where was Victor? He couldn’t see past the debris that surrounded him. Julius pulled himself to his knees, then shakily got to his feet. His body burned alight with pain as he forced himself to move forward through the rubble. He ended up crawling again, shaking as he fit himself through a particularly tight spot and landed on the outside of the tower. Or what was left of the tower. His eyes looked at the sky, still a brilliant blue. His breathing was wracking his chest, rumbling in a way that he knew that his lung had probably been punctured.

He forced himself to focus on his surroundings. Turning over on his stomach, he saw the world on fire. Lightning struck a tent to his left, making it burst into flames. The force from the explosion could almost be mistaken for a breeze. To his right, a man was lifted in the air and thrown into the flames. The smell of burnt flesh and smoke filled his lungs. Making him retch forward. More blood dribbling from his lips. Julius fell to his side, half slumped against the wall. Watching in mute horror as beams of energy shot out at an invisible enemy.

There was no preparing for this. He’d been told that they used children to fight their battles, but no one ever prepared you for seeing it. Watching the eldest boy's eyes lit up with a manic rage as he lifted people into the air with his mind. Or watching the girl's head twist with curiosity as a whole squadron of men tried to tear out their own eyes, seeing something invisible to him.

What they really didn’t prepare you for was the young face of a boy no older than fifteen, stalking toward him with a blank look in his eyes. How was he supposed to fight this? Did he even know what he was doing? The hair on his body stood up. Static filled the air.

The boy's hands lit up a brilliant blue.

This was where he died wasn’t it?

Julius’ vision went black again.

___

When he opened his eyes again, there was a different child above him. His hair was buzzed to the scalp, one eye was a brilliant blue and the other a dark brown. It contrasted against his dark skin. His eyes were curious and he leaned down closer.

“You should be dead but you’re not,” he said, almost curious. “You’re not dead, that means you must want to live very badly.”

The boy turned his head, there was a scar on his chin, one that went beneath his grey shirt over his collarbone. So it was true, all those rumors about child soldiers. This kid couldn’t have been older than fourteen. Julius groaned and pain lit up his chest and back like white knives. A cough rattled in his chest.

“Jem! Are you almost done? You checked everywhere right? Zach said no survivors. He doesn’t want anyone telling any crazy stories,” the voice from earlier said.

The boy moved to stand and Julius grabbed his wrist, “Please,” he begged softly, coughing again.

The kid's eyes widened and pulled his hand away, his breathing was fast. Julius could see the cogs turning in his head. Shaking his head slowly and stepping backwards. Julius reached up to him again, desperate and blood bubbling from his lips.

Julius’ gaze went up to the sky again, staring up at the bright blue. Not a cloud in sight. He never imagined that his end would be blue. He always thought it was going to end on a real battlefield, he thought his end would be red. Bright red and bloody. Or maybe a soft grey as he died of old age. A guy could dream right? His cheek was wet, so he went to wipe it away. His fingers came back red. Oh.. perhaps his ending would be red after all.

His eyes traveled back to the kid standing over him. Eyes blank but he called out to his friend, the oldest boy.

“Yeah Ben. No survivors.”

Static filled the air again, bright blue emitting from the kids' hands.

Julius didn’t even feel pain as he died. It was just a blip. In fact, he just pretended that the bright blue was the same blue as the sky.

There were no survivors. __ Taglist: @coyotehusk

#whump #whumpblr #whump blog #sunshine writes whump #Colors of the End #war talk #politics #child soldiers #death #graphic descriptions of violence #poc characters

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improbable-outset · 2 years

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𝐀 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐬 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞: 𝐑𝐞𝐝

Hank J. Wimbledon x gn!Reader

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.7K (What the hell man?? Where did these words come from. I promise this was only supposed to be a snippet to the Yan!Hank I’m working on!!)

MadCom Masterlist | AO3 | 🅱️laylist

𝐓𝐖 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐖: Non-cannon Hank bc I said so 🤌🏽🤌🏽Yandere themes, Obsessive behaviour, some psychological horror, serious gore, graphic descriptions of injuries, injury marks during work, mental asylum settings, cursing (sorry can’t help myself) a brief description of mental disorders and slight manipulation at the end - please be mindful of the triggering content.

𝐀/𝐍: Okay, so I’ve got the Yandere themes from @saltymongoose head cannons here and here. (Look salty, I would submit this to you but I have no idea how submissions work) Of course, reader isn’t a Player! But a Doctor! I put my own twist to it so it will match the story line. Yeah it gonna be a little bit more… violent than wholesome. Also you don’t understand the amount of research I had to do to perfect this 😭 watching a documentary of inside a psychiatric hospital and read a handful of articles. Also after watching season 4 of Stranger Things I kinda grew an interest on asylum AU’s - I’ll give you a small spoiler for this fic quoted from the show ‘what have you done?’😟 (also want to thank @deimosed for those sweet words from my last Hank fic)

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: After working your way up your career ladder, you’re excited to be offered a place in Nevada’s notorious psychiatric hospital as a full time psychiatrist. This is a massive opportunity for your career. But things aren’t so glamorous and rewarding as it seems when you start to discover the inside works of the hospital with their dark and twisted system to ensure everyone, especially the employees, abides by their extensive rules and policies. You start to learn that the hospital's high reputation may not be so organic. Meanwhile, you develop a secret admirer amongst one of your patients who will do anything to be alone with you and to have you for himself (and maybe save you) - even if it means breaking a few rules.

USE HEADPHONES FOR THE AUDIO.

I’d let these people bleed out if you told me you liked the colour red.

The janitors must’ve used some strong cleaning products again. Waking up to the bitter-sweet smell of disinfectant is not really the ideal way to start your morning. After a few inhales, it starts to get into your head and makes you nauseous. It’s not a scent that you would call ‘homely’.

Fortunately, it does fade as the day goes by but the pungent smell of old piss quickly replaces it by late afternoon and then the vicious cycle starts again in the morning. The sickeningly sweet smell really reflects the cryptic ambiance of the building.

But for patients like Hank, who has stayed in the hospital for a while, the stench doesn’t bother him. It does start to grow in you to the point where you forget what fresh clean air smells like.

Hank takes another glance at the clock for the umpteenth time in the last couple of hours. It was coming up to that time. He can feel his heart accelerating as the seconds pass by. Since he’s all ready, he can sit and watch in front of the clock until finally hearing those footsteps echo in the hall, getting louder as they step closer. Two nurses reach his room, both in their scrubs and ready to escort him out.

“The doctor wants to see you Hank, let’s get going,” the taller of the two says.

They both lead him to another room. This isn’t anything new to Hank. Having to go to the checkup rooms regularly to see the doctor was part of the routine. More footsteps could be heard and immediately he knew it was you. He has your footfall rhythm memorised. Even outside the checkup sessions, he can easily recognise you walking from a distance away. He watches as you make your way in - a warmth reflecting from your eyes with a smile.

“Nice seeing you early today Hank, did you sleep well?” Your voice is amplified over everyone else’s; it’s sweet, hypnotic and endearing to the ears.

All of his senses heighten as soon as you’re near (or as he watches you from afar). As you step closer towards the seat opposite him, he catches the familiar soapy aloe vera scent from you. It’s refreshing and it's definitely more pleasant than the sterile smell of the hospital. Whenever his session ends, he feels like he can still just capture the scent lingering a while longer the minute you leave the room. You’re just so fascinating with how you approach things and how you approach him.

You start to write on your clipboard the date and his name. Hanks eyes are stuck staring at your hand holding the pen. He secretly wishes that you would accidentally misplace or leave your pen one day in the room before you go to your next patient so he could keep it for himself - something that you touched and held onto everyday and probably has your sweat and fibre on it. But unfortunately, due to previous cases of patients using pens as weapons and poking peoples eyes out, doctors and anyone else using a pen has to make sure they keep them safe with them.

“Your mood has definitely improved in the last few weeks Hank, I’m pleased to see that,” your praise causes a wave of euphoria to surge through him. He wants all of your praises. All of the sweet words that come out of your lips. He knows he wants you for himself and wishes the nurses weren’t in the room with the two of you so he can be all alone with you.

The check up comes to an end and you finish it off with “I’ll see you next week Hank,” before you leave to go off to your next patient while he stays in the room with the two nurses beside him a little while longer. It’s easy to forget that he’s not the only one you’re caring for especially with how he’s so engrossed in the moment.

But the thought of you looking after other people besides him, giving them your attention and your time to them doesn’t sit right with him. Actually it enrages him. They don’t deserve you. You need someone who you can feel safer with. These people don’t have the facilities for that. The more he thinks about it, the harder his fist clenched to the point where the knuckles were turning white. Fortunately, he’s able to keep this heated anger in control quickly since he’s still on the fucking medication that slowing his brain .

But Hank is not going to allow their luck to run any longer with you…

Working in a mental hospital isn’t something that you nor your colleagues discuss outside of work. As far as people outside are aware, you’re just a doctor working and giving care in a private hospital. Confidentiality is strictly enforced - anything that happens in the building stays within the four walls.

You have to wear full sleeves to hide the bruises that you get from handling some of the violent patients. The nurses always have it worse since they do interact with them more but that doesn’t mean yours aren’t visible enough to raise some concerns. You do try to scrutinise the job and see the rewarding sides to it though, despite how exhausted you are already.

That burnt soreness on your tongue is still there from the hot coffee you finished just earlier and what's worse is that after rummaging through your work bag, you found that you’re fresh out of breath mints. Well shit then - you’re stuck with having coffee breath until your tight lunch break. Coffee breath was the last thing that you’re concerned about though, with the busy schedule you have today. You just completed the inpatient care and are now providing care to the outpatient department.

Your clipboard is under your tight grip as you’re filling in the details. Sitting opposite you is Peter, your last morning patient. He has a skinny and pale frame and just like most of the other patients, he has a buzz-cut hairstyle.

“So, it’s been a good month since I prescribed you your new medications for your schizophrenia. How has it been affecting you?” Your eyes are still glued to your clipboard.

“It’s been better than the old one, I don’t have any severe side effects,” Peter replied, possessing a strong southern accent.

“That’s perfect, but I will still need the nurses to check your blood sugar levels from time to time. High cholesterol is one of the side effects of this new medication,” You scrape your tongue with your front teeth briefly, trying to soothe the soreness as you speak while mentally reminding yourself to push through and that this is your last patient before your break.

Out of nowhere, the sound of someone screaming could be heard coming from a few rooms away. It's normal to hear some patients yelling occasionally whether it’s them resisting medication or their mood swings going haywire. After all, one of the biggest conflicts between patients and doctors is medication. But this doesn’t sound like someone was resisting. None of the screaming that you’ve heard sounded like this. This is more shrilling, you can almost hear the fear in their cry before it cuts off with crunching sounds and gargling despair and then it stops.

“Doc…?” Peter’s voice shakes as he speaks. He's now starting to hyperventilate - a bad sign that his anxiety is accumulating.

“Everything will be okay, I’m sure the nurses got it handled,” in truth, you were pretty tense yourself but you had to keep your composure and stay calm, for the sake of your patient.

One of the many vital rules that is heavily emphasised is that healthcare staff must leave their patient in a healthy and calm condition. Anything else is a sign of inadequate treatment and can result in a strike. You’re already on your first one and the punishment you faced was just about bearable. You can’t afford another strike on your record - the week has barely started. Really, that should encourage you to prioritise your patient but you can’t help but wonder what was going on out there. It doesn't help when you hear more screaming, this time it’s a masculine voice and you could just about make out what he’s saying before it stops.

“Please don’t hurt me! Where are the fucking nurses ah-!” There’s a painful howl before it cuts off silent again. You and Peter stay quiet waiting for any more disturbing sounds but the silent prologue for a full minute.

“Will it make you feel better if I take a look outside?” He nods, still staying quiet from shock. You’re not going to leave the room since you can’t leave Peter unattended, they’re watching what you’re doing in a control room through a monitor, so you just stick your head out the door and scan the wide hallways. Of course, you can’t see anything because it was coming from one of the other rooms.

The temptation of just leaving the room is drilling in your head. For God's sake, why would they be focusing on you and watching you do your job when they should be focusing on whatever the hell was going on out there?

It seems like they read your mind because the emergency alarms start blaring through the perpetual halls with red lights flashing. You’ve never heard the emergency alarms go off, not until today at least and that was enough for you to exit the patient room. You can hear Peter calling after you, asking where you’re going or what you’re going to do. You don’t really know what you're doing, you're just following these intrusive thoughts, jogging lightly and just hoping it’s not the worst. Whatever the worst may be.

There's more uncontrollable screams that continue to echo through the halls sounding more distant as it bounces off the walls but with still the same level of fear etched in their voices if not, more. The ringing of the alarm is still going off, sounding more urgent and louder. Your head starts to spin as you replay that one sentence in your head…

I’m sure the nurses got it handled.

You stop for a moment and look back at how far you’ve gone - Peter's room feels like miles away now when you’ve only walked a few metres. You have a sense of discomfort that seems to erupt inside you. A strong feeling that something was going to happen. Before you could turn back to continue you felt something hit the back of your head causing a sharp pain shooting through your skull. Your body collapses forward and slowly and you feel your consciousness slip away and vision fade into blackness.

There’s a sharp inhale before you feel your senses coming back to you slowly as you open your eyes. It took you a moment to gather yourself together and remember your surroundings. There’s no more screaming or alarms - nothing but the sound of your pulse hammering in your ears. The halls are still flashing red. Not good. Your vision is still a little blurry and your heads throbbing like mad. Stupid concussion. You still don’t know who the fuck just slammed the back of your head like that.

What’s worse is you don’t know how long you were knocked out but if it’s this quiet, something is definitely not right. What happened to Peter? Shit. With extra precaution and making sure you don’t collapse again, you lift yourself up from the floor and make your way to Peter’s room with wobbly steps. The room isn’t that far for you but your body is still weak and moving painstakingly slow. When you reach his room, you almost throw up at the sight inside.

Someone got to him before you could because now he’s on the floor with his mouth stretched open so wide, the cheeks are torn out. Despite Peter’s thin face and prominent cheekbones, you could still see the fleshy meat from his cheeks that had been plumped out. There was no way someone could do this with their bare hands. Some sick person must’ve used a metal instrument to rip this poor man’s face.

His arms and legs were completely popped out of their joints and dislocated. The crunching you heard earlier must’ve been the sound of bones joints snapping from elsewhere. His gown is now stained with blood from his mouth. You’ve seen a lot of gory scenes at your job but nothing like this. You can’t stomach the sight any longer so you leave feeling utterly repulsed and a little guilty that you can’t do anything. Why did you have to leave him alone? You were hoping the image would leave your mind but it’s already locked in making you feel queasy.

You don’t know where you’re going since there’s no lead and the screaming has stopped. There’s a feeling of emptiness and torment hovering around you as you stiffly walk through the halls, closing in on one of the ward rooms - you weren’t prepared to see inside so when you catch a glimpse of one of the patients on the floor, the squeamish feeling inside your stomach returns.

Inside you could see a few more patients on the floor, arms and legs dislocated as well as their heads being twisted until their necks were snapped. Their faces aren’t mutilated like Peter’s but you could see some of them have holes on the side of their heads where their ears used to be and are now replaced with a crimson pool that dripped down their faces and on the floor. Clearly whoever did this, wanted to get the job done fast.

Each room you pass, you see more and more limp forms littering the floor, not only patients but the healthcare workers there as well - doctors and nurses. It’s all out of control. There are bloody hands smeared and printed on the wall too. The more you continue to walk, the more alone you feel knowing that the people you care for and work with are gone. You feel like you’re surrounded by ghosts - spirits just floating around you. You push your way through the double door and make your way to the main reception, now fully bracing yourself for the worst yet to come.

Hank can feel the heated vexation across his face and the blood rushing in his ears as he gawks down at the last dead body with pride. He was sure that he managed to wipe out everyone in this poor excuse of a hospital. It’s not like it’s a big building so surely after 2 hours, he can wrap it up and call it a job well done. But it’s not complete until he finds you again. Find your sleeping form that is, since he had to knock the fucking day lights out of you. You don’t deserve to see what he did - he’s hoping you’re still knocked out before he retrieves you.

Before he could turn around, there’s the sound of the heavy double doors squeaking as you pushed your way with aggression. The hostility quickly melts away from you as you stare intensely at him, frozen in place from shock. Your mouth starts to quiver and Hank notices a few tears just spilling from your eyes.

“What have you done?!” Your voice breaks with distress. Hank steps a little closer, the metal pipe slips out from his bloody hands as he walks towards you. You’re always easy on the eye but now the glow that would always radiate from you is flushed out. The eye bags under your eyes is more visible now and the rims of it are now red from your salty tears. You look raw and Hank finds himself absolutely adoring this state of you. Probably more now than ever.

He still doesn’t understand why you’re so upset though. Why do you cry for these people? You didn’t mean anything to them. They just used you as a product for your intelligence and for their advantage. Of course you don’t understand that now but one day, you will be grateful for what he has done.

And that’s a promise.

Dividers by @maysdigitalarts

I usually rely on Grammerly to check my spellings and grammar but I’m literally typing this on my phone as I speak so there might be some errors.

#madness combat #madness combat x reader #hank j wimbleton x reader #hank madcom #hank madness combat #hank j. wimbleton #hank j. wimbleton x reader #madcom x reader #MadCom hank #graphic descriptions of violence #graphic description #yandere madness combat #SoundCloud #ayrus writes

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ghostie000 · 5 months

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hi teachers, i really need to tell you something. cw: physical abuse of a child

every time i got a note sent home, my mother would beat me heavily with a belt. one time the buckle hit my front tooth and that's why i have a crown there now. whenever i got in trouble, usually for having side conversations during the lesson, i would cry and panic, beg them not to (which never worked, maybe because they thought i was just being a brat, maybe because it would send the wrong message) and at times have to get through the rest of a six hour schoolday knowing all the while what was waiting for me at home. after the beating i was locked in my room for the day. the next day i'd have to sit on the welts. this was the routine from 2005-2010.

i don't know how classroom management works. i know you can't fix everything, and that cps fails most kids. i just ask that if you have a student who seems more upset or frightened than they should after getting in a little trouble, you talk to them. maybe you could come up with a punishment that doesn't involve leaving them at the mercy of their parents, since some parents don't have much mercy.

#Tw: physical abuse #Physical abuse #Cw: physical abuse #Tw: abuse #Cw: abuse #Cw: child abuse #Tw: child abuse #teaching #pedagogy #classroom management #Teachers #Educators #elementary education #childcare #graphic descriptions of violence #Teaching #trauma

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simperoniandcheese · 12 days

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The One Time I Wasn't There - Part 3 (oh my god someone pinch me) - The Fact That He's Always Been Here Scares Me (whump, please read de tags!)

A cloud.

Her mind was in an isolated cloud, alone, up where the air was thin enough to kill.

She would've preferred it that way. But try as she might, Cora considered herself to be severely lacking in the 'luck' department.

Except for when she found the family that took her in and invited her for dinner and made her feel emotion again.

19 year old Cora Vasquez, if asked what she would be doing once she had a day off, would scoff in the asker's face, fill her calendar up with work, work, and more work just to let people know that she was fine, thank you very much.

Because, after everything that she'd gone through, why should she let anyone in? If she trusted, she believed she'd lose everything.

And she still believes it now. Just less.

That year, Cora spent her Christmas looking out of the coffee shop's window at the families passing by, wrenching her gaze away from the wooly mittens of the children, or the snow-bitten but smiling faces of their parents.

And she's been chasing after so many unreachable things that she hasn't paid any attention to the things that really matter.

The squad and all the jokes, gags and fake blackmail they had accumulated over the years.

When Ryan brought his new cat in and the whole room went to chaos.

Burl's leaving party, and how it was extended a whole week because nobody wanted him to retire, and "leave us with the choir boy!".

The little clump of girls that worked in the force that gathered every Friday at Farrell's for drinks. Somehow, a handful of guys would be dragged along with them. Cora didn't think she'd ever get to see or hear her own boss do an impression of 'Total Eclipse Of The Heart' on the old karaoke machine.

She loved it though, regardless. TJ was just an angel, and she loved it.

She loved him.

She'd taken so long to realise that the coffees he refused to let her pay for, the sideways glances when he thought she was looking at the case files, the warm smiles, all of it was for her.

TJ Caruso was a pain in the ass, but he was also her closest friend, her mentor, and (even if she hated it) he was and had her whole heart.

She just didn't know how to express it anymore.

It had been 3 weeks, and the staff had informed everyone that today would likely be her last day in anesthesia because of the thinning they'd commenced in the meds about 5 days ago.

And TJ was working late that evening.

The night before, he'd (like every day since the shooting) gone to talk to her about everything and nothing at the same time. How all the detectives and officers were doing, stories that his father had told his friends too many times to count, how his day was going (she'd definitely laugh at this)

He'd been researching all the information he could find on induced comas, and other related things, so he didn't screw up and could help her the best he could. She deserved only the best, after all, she was the definition of best in his opinion.

Smart, funny, and god, if he looked too many times at her on a normal day, he'd usually be wound up for the rest of their shifts.

Is that bad? It's probably bad. Oh dear.

TJ swiped the weariness out of his eyes with the back of his hand, resettling on his desk chair to get a better angle of the witness's hastily-scribbled report.

He'd have to re-assess it in the morning.

She winced as the iron-tang of blood hit her in the face, and as she looked slowly, drowsily down at her body, where a swathe of bandage was secured around her waist down to her stomach, the other stretch of white which was on her arm being eased off by a stressed looking nurse, and she jolted her head away, fighting her gag reflex as red skin peeled away from the single yellowish, angry sore that must've been one of the places she'd gotten shot.

"Can I have some water?" She cringed as her raspy voice reached her ears, and started to cough violently.

"You're awake!" The nurse perked up a little, then upon hearing Cora's condition, she blanched.

"Hold on, let me just, Callie!" she got up off her knees, calling for who was presumably the other late-shifter assigned to this ward.

A head popped around the curtains, and the nurse who was changing the dressings motioned something with her hands, and Callie took off again, nodding.

"Was that..Is she deaf? I hope you don't mind me asking," Cora asked with wide eyes, her face alight in interest.

"No, Callie is just mute, the kind soul, so we use ASL here to communicate with them and also it's kind of easier to gesture than to speak." The woman smiled. "Ooh, I was also going to say, there was a young man at the front desk asking to see you a few hours ago, he looked so worried, poor thing..."

She sharply looked up from picking her fingernails, a jolt of surprise zipping through her nerves as she stared at the nurse.

"Is that..alright? We can send him away, so many women here get visitors-"

"No, no please don't. Can you um, possibly let him in as soon as you can? I really need to tell him something, before it's too late and I fuck up again." Cora half-begged, not caring if her nerves showed through her voice. She'd had enough of holding her tongue anyway.

Callie returned, her curly red hair falling slightly out of place as she lowered down to give Cora the water, and a mutual smile of gratitude was shared between them before she stepped back into the seat of her desk, her eyes trained on the screen as it lit up her face in the midnight lighting.

"I can maybe ask around for you in a few hours, I think you should get some rest while you can, First, before that happens, I need to change your dressings." She answered warmly from the other side of the room, where she was dropping the used equipment into a yellow bag.

Cora nodded, tapping on the small cannula that snaked off the bed, behind her, where it connected to a small bag of what looked like water, even though it clearly wasn't water.

As the nurse came over, she took Cora's forearm in her hands affably, and in a second or two, there was a fresh sheet of cloth on her wound, the sting of ointment felt easily beneath the layer.

"Right, so I'm not trying to be weird, but since the other bandage is around your torso, I'm going to need you to loosen and pull down your gown,"

"Oh, okay. Also, I was wondering, what's your name, so I can stop referring to you as 'kind woman'?"

The lady laughed a little, her eyes crinkling at the sides, easily visible even through the lack of light.

She looked a little bit like Cora, if she was going to say anything about it, minus her bleached hair tips and her long high-ponytail.

"It's Frieda, but lots of people find that weird, so just Freya if you're one of those people." She smiled, looking back at Cora as the curtains were drawn quickly.

As she untied the small knot in the back of her hospital clothing, Cora looked the other way awkwardly as the nurse produced an intimidating roll of fresh cloth, covering her chest with her hands.

Sooner than she'd thought, the cold sensation of the ointment on her overheated skin made her stomach flip, and she let out a small, surprised yelp, at the amusement of Frieda, who was focused on her patient's side.

She was muttering words under her breath as she worked, even if Cora wasn't looking her way, she silently wondered how working in a hospital would be different from working in the squad. Did they have the same kind of banter? Was it harder on your mental health?

Most of all, did the nurses fall in love with their boss?

That was a weird question.

As soon as the bandage had been secured around her waist and lower chest, she got to work, busying herself with the strings of the gown as Frieda once again returned to the yellow bag, then checked on the IV drip.

"I'll just go now and tell your poor friend he can see you," Frieda announced airily as she opened the curtains, and the light, as little as it was, poured in. Cora gulped, hoping she wouldn't start crying like she had the last time she'd been as low as she was.

Which, funnily enough, she hadn't even apologized for.

She'd been angry at everything that night, not to mention tired, still drowsy from whatever Warren put in the champagne, and she'd taken it out on poor Anthony, who'd just been trying to help. She failed to ask his dad where his son had been when the reception took place, eventually finding out that he went through something that was probably worse than what she had from the grapevine of chatter that circulated around the offices, since TJ was conveniently ushered out of the room whenever she came into it by anyone who was there at the time.

But despite TJ's physical presence (and the warmth and light and love he brought) being absent from the too-long hallways that her boots loved to echo on as she tried to sort her shit out on the walk to and from a taxi (she'd been too terrified to use her car), she'd still think of him.

And it helped chase her demons away for a while.

Wiping her eyes a little, she wondered how far from the ward TJ was, and if she would have any time to bury herself underneath the sheets and sleep.

#the good cop #josh groban #monica barbaro #tj caruso #cora vasquez #tj x cora #heavy angst #mentions of blood #graphic descriptions of violence #not really but her bandages r being changed soo #rating: t #the good cop netflix #you know i'm no good really goes well with this fic #amy winehouse is one of my favourite singers

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averysmentalinstability · 1 month

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i wanna rip out my heart out of my ribcage and watch it spasming in my hand

#graphic descriptions of violence #tw self h4rm #tw s3lf harm #tw self destruction #tw sh ideation #tw sui ideation #self h@rm #s3lf mutilation #s3lf harn #make it stop

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laspocelliere · 8 months

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Day Five: Barbarous

In the cold, and the darkness, Zenos waited.

The Ascian had promised him the world, singing honeyed tunes of destruction and death, where retribution and blood rained down like starshowers. Dull, and distasteful, but holding a glimmer of potential nonetheless, and one that Zenos tolerated to its barest extent. Each piece of this scheme shone pale and dull, scuffed against the mortal mechanisms that were beneath his anger, or even his notice.

Entombed in the steel spires of Garlemald’s fallen palace, Zenos sat, chin in hand, staring into the darkness with a blank, unseeing gaze that was unchanging as whenever he looked upon any other living or inanimate object beneath his notice. Man, woman, child, flea; they all measured to the same barbaric worth before his impassive gaze. Even the Ascian’s plan held only singular goal, channelled towards singular, unparalleled bliss.

She was all that mattered.

Absently, the disgraced prince ran one lazy finger along the edge of the throne he occupied, feeling along the edges as though it were a blade. Somewhere, out in the cold, she was close. Somewhere, her weight, real and warm and breathing with unfiltered life was fracturing the ice of Garlemald, calling him to her. Her saviour complex had brought her ever closer to him, circling him like an animal seeking prey. Soon, tantalisingly soon, he would face her again, once more bringing forth that base desire of hers to hunt, kill, and destroy.

He’d seen it once, in those armageddon eyes of hers, piercing deep into his own as the blade had slid across his throat, warm blood filling his mouth until he knew naught but silence.

He’d kept it burned into the backs of his eyelids, as he’d traversed the star, returning himself to life, and limb, and that same, unwavering desire to once more feel that rush in his veins.

Only she had ever managed to provoke it.

Only she was worth the trouble of dealing with maggots.

He would dirty his hands however she wished, if only for the chance to face that exquisite, beautiful rage of hers again.

He would understand her, this time. He would know his mortal enemy, his dearest and most beloved, inside and out, by the time they faced each other on the battlefield again. This, the Ascian had assured him, would be possible with very little effort. The puppeteer’s brazen disregard for his dear friend’s abilities irked him – it was, after all, a reflection of his own skills then, that she had once bested him – but irked him as a fly irks a wolf. Easily batted away, and beneath most notice.

What mattered was her. Only her.

Absently, Zenos ran his fingertips idly over the smooth arm of the throne, thick as bone and nowhere near as satisfying to grasp. It was nowhere near what he needed, which was to have her under his hands once more, violent and snarling, teeth bared and that steady pulse nearly a beacon against her throat, one nearly asking him to reach out and take from her everything that he could have ever wanted.

And wasn’t that an intriguing thought to follow.

An indulgence, then. One born of thoughts barely birthed, and only recently attended to as his waiting for her grew weary.

His hands, circled around those slender, bird-boned wrists of hers, tightening to find the exact pressure point where they snapped. His nails, scraping curled rivets into the milky, unblemished skin of her thighs. His fingers, fitting along the hollows between her ribs, pressing in and in and in until he could find the very core of her. He found no satisfaction in the base savagery of a kiss, but he thought that maybe tasting the very marrow from her splintered ribs could come nearly as close.

Alone and unfettered, Zenos’ breath quickened, just enough to spark the slightest flicker of amusement in his breast.

Yes, he mused, more satisfied at a hypothesis found correct more than the banal pleasure he found in his fantasies. Yes, of course.

Only her.

The Ascian would make it so, delivering her to him on a golden pedestal, and Zenos relished the anticipation of the moment, even as he betrayed nothing but indifferent calm.

He needed to know her, to consume her, in every definition of the word. He would split apart her lovely skull, press his fingertips behind those blazing eyes of her and find where the colour came from, watch it leak from her irises as he sought out the light behind them, that haunting brightness that followed him even in death. He would unspool her veins from her severed throat, as like gossamer scarlet spider webs dancing across his palms as he found the map of her very being, unravelled it for him, and him alone.

Perhaps, he mused as a value afterthought, more bestial – carnal – pleasures would be satisfied before the more ethereal. It would depend, rather, on his whims in the moment, and where their moment of ecstasy brought them.

And would you welcome it, my dearest companion? Or will you gift me the look of fear that I so covet to see fall deadened in your gaze?

Clicking his tongue in disdain, Zenos straightened in his seat, shifting position to lean on his opposite elbow. The small movement jarred him out of fantasy, and firmly back into practicalities.

She wouldn’t show fear. Never her. Fear was for base animals. Barbaric, savage creatures.

They alone, destined to meet in celestial bliss, rose above that banality.

And how he craved it. The sweet release of carnage and death that only his closest friend could offer him.

“Soon,” Zenos found himself muttering to himself lowly, his voice haunting an echo in the empty, cavernous great hall. “Soon, we will be reunited.”

“And at last, you will understand.”

#ffxiv #ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2023 #endwalker #endwalker spoilers #zenos POV #graphic descriptions of violence #hints of noncon #blood #violence #basically everything awful you can think of for Zenos #this snippet has it #I'm so sorry #I feel like I need a shower now #ffxiv fanfic #ffxiv fanfiction

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welcome-to-the-districts · 3 months

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Dear Rabbit

The final one-shot between GB and Mike. Major tw for blood, knives, violence, graphic descriptions and death. This fic is NOT for the faint of heart. You have been warned. One-shot under the cut. Best paired with this cover of I Know I’m A Wolf:

youtube

Mike, Greaseball’s beloved engineer, was sitting in Greaseball’s cab as the diesel rumbled down the lines in his rolling stock form. The diesel appeared identical to an Union Pacific E-Unit, with a few exceptions in the cab. The gauges and controls were the same. However, within the very front of the cab, nestled next to the gauges was a voice modulator that would illuminate whenever the diesel spoke. Yet, the diesel had no eyes, mouth or face in this form, looking no different than any ordinary diesel. The lantern on the engine’s front acted as a thermal sensor, allowing Greaseball to sense objects or people in front of him, similar to how a snake is able to seek out prey or danger. The diesel could still hear, but to speak was more done electronically.

Mike shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he peered out one of the windows in Greaseball’s cab to help keep an eye out for danger. Mike enjoyed the scenic passenger railway. It took a route through the beautiful countryside, which was where they were now, having dropped off the last passenger train for the day. The coaches all went their separate ways, no doubt going out to have fun together. The town was a few miles away still. However, with Greaseball’s speed, the diesel could easily cut the speed in half or even more. Once he was sure, the path was clear for now, he leaned back in his seat before lifting his foot up into his lap. He had managed to get a small rock stuck in the rubber sole of his boot and it had started to take a toll on him during the times he had to get out of Greaseball’s cab to stretch his legs or to speak with the stationmaster. Since Greaseball was keeping an eye out for dangers, there was no harm in trying to get it out and to alleviate the pain. Better off to do it now then to wait after work.

Mike grabbed his pocket knife and flipped it open, revealing the sharp blade in a flash of steel. He had often used it as a tool for helping workers cutting the straps on the freight trucks while he was still working in the freight yard before Poppa had attacked him. He held his boot still with one hand and used the other to try and gently pry the small rock out of the rubber sole of his boot. His movements were slow and careful. He remained mindful of the sharp blade, not wanting to risk accidentally cutting himself. However, he nor Greaseball were exactly notified of a rough piece of track that had become slightly warped during the summer heat. Greaseball spotted the threat and slowed down, taking it easy in an attempt to make the ride more comfortable for Mike.

Mike inhaled sharply and cursed as the sharp blade pierced the skin of his palm. Blood oozed from the wound as he quickly took the knife out of his palm and pressed the wound against his work pants, hoping the pressure would stop the bleeding. He froze and a sense of dread washed over him as he saw Greaseball’s voice modulator light up. Mike knew the danger of the situation. If he could just keep Greaseball’s focus, he could stand a chance.

“Mikey! Mikey! Are you okay?! I heard you curse. Are you hurt?” Greaseball’s voice was riddled with worry. Mike gritted his teeth as he hissed in pain. The blood was starting to soak through the leg of his pants. He could feel the warm wet crimson fluid soaking through his pants leg and onto his skin. Not good. He’d have to go to the hospital to get it stitched up. That made things worse. He wouldn’t have to worry about Greaseball alone. The other rolling stock in the area could turn on him. He had seen it once. The sounds were something that never truly left his mind after all those years. Mike knew diesels were powerful predators at times. He had to stay calm. Panicking would only make it worse.

“I’m fine, Grease.. just a little scratch is all. Don’t worry about me.” Mike replied behind clenched teeth. He tried to hide the amount of pain he was in but the strain in his voice told Greaseball all he needed to know. Greaseball’s voice modulator remained illuminated, but the diesel was hesitant to speak, as if he were skeptical of Mike. Greaseball knew Mike all too well, and Mike was the same with the diesel.

“Mikey.. you’re hurt. I can pull into a siding and you can patch up that wound so we can head back. I don’t feel comfortable carrying on like this knowing you’re hurt. I want to make sure you’re okay.” Greaseball’s tone of voice was genuine. The diesel was unaware of the danger he posed to his beloved engineer. Mike wanted to let Greaseball pull into a siding so his wound could be examined better, but he knew it wasn’t worth the risk. He shook his head, knowing the diesel couldn’t see it.

“You don’t understand, Grease. It’s dangerous.” Mike said. He wanted to explain why he was so hesitant, but how does one explain the more monstrous side of the rolling stock to one of their own kind who was unable to even experience such a moment. He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he needed to get away from the diesel and fast. He couldn’t set foot out of the diesel’s cab. It was the safest place for him at the moment. He glanced at the radio, considering calling for help if needed. He knew the situation was a scary one and he didn’t like it.

“Mike.. Please.. Listen to me, I don’t want you to pass out and die… let alone die in my cab.” Geraseball pleaded with the man. That was when the world began to spin around Mike. The cut was much worse than he had previously thought. That was when he knew he had to get it patched up. He had to get a better look at it. Greaseball needed to pull into a siding and now. He knew it was stupid and dangerous, but he needed to stop the bleeding before he could do anything else. There was a moment of silence from Mike before he sighed.

“Okay, pull into a siding, Grease. I need to patch my hand up. It’s pretty bad.” Mike mumbled. He hears a sigh of relief from the diesel and the light of the voice modulator faded. Mike clung to his seat as he felt Greaseball ease to a gentle stop in a siding. Mike stood up and he felt like the world was spinning in circles around him. He steadied himself against the cab door and held his injured hand close to his work shirt. He knew there was a medkit close to the door. He could use the supplies to patch himself up. He reached for the medkit on the side of the door before his legs gave out and he collapsed on the metal floor. He heard Greaseball cry out his name before Mike fell to the ground. Within seconds, Greaseball had shifted back to his humanoid form. He towered over Mike as his gaze was riddled with concern. Mike quickly and frantically tried to wrap the bottom of his work shirt around his injured palm. He trembled as the diesel’s shadow loomed over him.

“Grease, please, get back in your rolling stock form.” Mike looked up at him with his eyes wide with fear as he scrambled to stand up. Sheer adrenaline giving him a second wind. He scrambled to find his footing, falling to the ground once more. He was like an injured rabbit being cornered by a half starved wolf. He was an easy target, easy prey.

“Mike, I can carry you back. You’re not fit to work. Mike, please..” Greaseball knelt down as he tried to get a look at Mike’s injured hand, only for Mike to quickly pull his hand away from the diesel. Mike dared to meet Greaseball’s gaze. His golden eyes were warm and soft, riddled with worry. The animal wasn’t rearing its ugly head. Perhaps he misjudged the diesel after all. He knew Greaseball had a point and he didn’t like it. He could pass out in the cab at this rate.

“Are you sure, Grease?” Mike asked. Greaseball smiled gently, giving Mike a glimpse of those razor sharp teeth and Mike nearly shuddered. He knew what Greaseball was capable of. He had seen it in the diesel’s records. Greaseball offered a large hand to Mike and the old man nearly took up on the diesel’s offer, then paused. Something was off and he knew it. He locked eyes with Greaseball to make sure and fear quickly settled in. His eyes were feral and the diesel bore a wolfish grin that would make even the bravest soul shudder.

“No.. Grease NO!” Mike cried out as he scrambled to his feet.

…

The sweet scent of blood hit the diesel’s nose and it was oh so tantalizing. Mike looked so small and helpless, injured and afraid. Something in the deepest recesses of his mind clawed at him, bent on getting out of its cage. Greaseball couldn't quite understand what was happening and he felt a mix of fear and dread. No. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He tried to smile to hide the inner turmoil as he trembled. The scent of blood and the sight of such a small and broken prey item was far too much to pass up. Mike was no longer the man, the friend he once knew. He was prey. Greaseball let out a growl that shook the ground as he opened his jaws slightly. His fangs glistened in the evening sun. He couldn’t exactly understand what was going on and he struggled to fight against it. He tried to speak but the words were caught in his throat. He wanted to scream at Mike, tell him to run and hide before he gets hurt. The only sound that came from him was a feral snarl.

The old man’s body language made the beast run rampant, encouraging it further, as if it were enjoying watching the man’s suffering. Greaseball could feel himself losing control as he slipped away and the beast took the wheel. He was no longer the diesel Mike once knew. He was now a blood-thristy monster. The true nature of the rolling stock reared its ugly head and Mike was going to experience it first hand.

…

Mike scrambled onto his feet as Greaseball stood up on his toe stops on his skates before the diesel began to slowly close the distance between them, as if the diesel were a great lion, having cornered a small gazelle, once agile and quick, now injured and weak. Mike had to act quickly. He spotted the glint of steel from his pocket knife and quickly picked it up as tears streamed down his cheeks. He didn’t want to harm the diesel, but he had to defend himself. He flipped the knife open and brandished it. He felt a twinge of guilt as he did this. He couldn’t harm the diesel that he was so near and dear to. He couldn’t bear the thought of it. The diesel stopped, analyzing the blade from a distance before he snarled, clearly agitated. Mike took a step back, keeping the blade pointed at the diesel.

“Grease.. I don’t want to hurt you. I know you’re still there, Grease.” Mike said with a hoarse and shaking voice. He knew it was shot in the dark, but he was willing to take that chance if it meant getting his friend back. Greaseball’s gaze softened and his expression fell to one of fear and Mike;s heart sank. Greaseball was as terrified as he was.

“Mike-” Greaseball’s tone of voice was one of fear. The diesel was terrified, unsure of what was going on. Before he could continue his sentence, the diesel’s instincts took the wheel again and his eyes became feral once again. His expression hardened into a snarl. The diesel lunged and Mike went to slice at the diesel, only for him to watch in horror as it didn’t even dent the metal plating on the diesel’s body. Greaseball hit the man square in the chest, knocking the breath out of the man and knocking him back. Mike cried out as his pocket knife was wrenched from his grasp, and tumbled just out of reach. Mike let out a silent cry of pain as he felt a sharp pain in his chest with every breath he took. It was a miracle he survived such a blow, unless Greaseball was toying with him, like how a cat plays with a mouse before devouring it.

Mike struggled to get up as he gasped for breath, only for Greaseball to lunge at him again, slamming the man back down onto the ground before the diesel slammed his large hands on the ground, one on each side of Mike. Mike’s fear turned to sheer panic as Greaseball opened his powerful jaws as the diesel salivated in anticipation. The strands of drool glistened and oozed onto Mike’s skin and uniform. Mike was frantically trying to push the diesel off of him, pressing back against the diesel’s head. He grabbed one of the diesel’s ears and pulled it hard to try and snap Greaseball out of it. Greaseball screeched as his expression contorted to one of agony and anger. For a moment, he saw Greaseball’s gaze soften again. The fear in the diesel’s eyes was heart wrenching. Greaseball didn’t know how to stop this. This was the first time he had ever experienced anything like this. The diesel’s gaze turned feral once more as Greaseball growled deep in his chest and began to push back against Mike.

Greaseball was barely putting any effort into it, if any at all. Greaseball was choosing to barely exert any strength, as if he wanted to draw this out as much as he could and savor every second of it. His jaws snapped feverishly again and again as the diesel tried to get the man’s neck. Mike could feel his strength fading and he knew he was losing. Mike had to make a choice. He could fight and give himself time or give in and let the beloved diesel kill him. He recalled the attack from Poppa. It felt just as hopeless in this situation but he knew what to do. He immediately removed his hand from the diesel before covering his neck and screaming as loud as he could. He hoped the sound of his screams could catch someone’s attention, but the town was miles away. It was a slim chance, but he was willing to take it. He hoped he could hold out until Greaseball finally snaps out of it. However, in the heat of the moment he forgot one crucial fact.

Diesels don’t aim for the windpipe like how steamers do. They aim for the back of the neck, the spinal cord. They used their powerful jaws to sever the spinal cords of their prey, allowing them to feed at their leisure, regardless if their prey is still alive or not.

Greaseball growled in irritation before raising a large hand and striking Mike on the side of the head. It was a tap to the diesel, but a devastating blow to Mike. Mike was forced onto his side from the blow as blood trickled down the side of his head as he screamed in pain, using a hand to cover the wound.

That was when the diesel purred. He saw what he was after. Greaseball pressed one of his large hands against Mike’s head to hold the man down as he lowered his head towards the back of the man’s neck. Mike panicked as he realized his mistake before he scrambled to try and cover the back of his neck. He felt the hot breath of the diesel rolling down his neck. Mike let out a blood curdling scream as he felt the immense sharp pain of Greaseball’s teeth easily piecing his soft flesh. He felt the pressure building before he quickly started losing the feeling of everything below his neck as he heard a sickening crunch. There was a flash of white, then darkness.

…

Greaseball was quick to devour the corpse. His jaws easily crushing bone as his teeth easily sliced through flesh. The sweet taste of blood was enchanting to him. The scent of it only drove him mad as he devoured what he could. The warmth of the fresh kill, the scent and taste of blood, all was to be savored. The diesel purred deep in his chest as he fed, sounding like a giant house cat having caught a mouse and was finally able to enjoy his meal after a hunt. Once he was done, he licked the last bits of blood, the sweet nectar of life itself, off of his fingers and from around his mouth.

Greaseball relaxed after having devoured his most recent kill and he finally felt the beast retreat and he was able to regain control. He nearly collapsed but caught himself with his hands on the ground. He couldn’t remember much. It happened so fast. He tasted and smelled something sweet and he glanced down at the ground. He trembled as shock and horror flooded his mind.

There was very little left of Mike. All that was left were splinters of bone, torn pieces of the man’s uniform and blood that stained the grass beneath him. The diesel stood up, looking at his hands, seeing they were licked clean. Tears welled up in his eyes before he screamed, a pained sound that could be heard for a good distance. He had done the unthinkable. Mike, was gone.

#my writing #violence tw #death tw #blood tw #graphic descriptions of violence #district!au #starlight express au #stex au #stex gb #Starlight Express gb #stex greaseball #starlight express greaseball #knife tw #Mike #not for the faint of heart #the accident #Youtube

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arecaceae175 · 1 year

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Febuwhump Day 26: Alt. 1: Rope Burns (Hyrule)

AO3 link. Warnings: blood, injury, loss of consciousness, graphic descriptions of violence

Continuation of Knife Wound (Sky) and Presumed Dead (Hyrule). The final part of this storyline will come tomorrow, so stay tuned!

@wildsage00 WOO here we are. This is completely unedited, like not even a solid read through. I'll come back and edit tomorrow probably, but for now I hope it's good!

Part 3/5. Part 1. Part 2. Part 4. Part 5.

After seemingly endless hours of following Hyrule’s trail, they finally reached a building. It was half underground and covered in vines. It was not easy to spot.

It was even harder to figure out how to get inside. Sky felt like they were wasting precious minutes and was ready to go along with Wild’ plan of ‘bomb it until we get inside,’ but Warriors insisted they keep the element of surprise. Somewhere deep inside his mind Sky knew that was the right call, but every second that passed by made his anxiety spike even further.

Four was the one to find the way inside. He didn’t admit how he did it, but he opened a hidden door from the inside. Without a word, they all rushed in. They were silent save for the clanking of their armor and swords, but even that was dampened by strategically placed cloths.

Twilight remained in his wolf form to follow Hyrule’s scent. Sky could feel the distress rolling off him in waves. Twilight’s nose was scrunched like there was an overwhelming smell. Sky refused to entertain the implications of that thought.

A scream ripped through the air. Sky flinched violently, barely resisting the urge to clamp his hands over his ears. Once the initial shock went down, Sky realized exactly what he had heard. That was Hyrule’s scream.

That was Hyrule screaming in pain.

Sky broke into a sprint. He vaguely heard Warriors hiss his name, but Sky didn’t stop. His chest heaved as he sprinted down the hall until he reached a wooden door. He could hear monsters’ yells and cheers loudly through the door.

Sky had enough presence of mind left to wait for backup. Wild, Legend, and Twilight were just barely behind him, and as soon as they caught up Sky burst through the door.

There were dozens of monsters crowded into the room. Sky didn’t recognize any of them, but he could tell they were the strongest of their type. There were countless weapons leaning against the walls, but only the ones in the center of the room were holding any.

A large stone slab was elevated in the center of the room. Sky could barely see through the thick crowd of monsters, but he could make out Hyrule’s upper body tied to the table. There were ropes around both arms pulling them taut towards the corners of the slab. Another rope was tied tightly around his neck, digging deep into his skin. Hyrule’s eyes were closed, his skin was pale, and his head was lolled to the side.

Underneath the table, a large basin caught the blood dripping from Hyrule’s wounds.

Sky saw red.

The spell of silence was broken by six arrows flying in quick succession. The three monsters closest to Hyrule were his with two arrows each, one in the eye and one in the throat. Blood spurted wildly, coating in red the little unblemished skin Hyrule had left.

Sky yelled and leapt into the crowd. The world slowed around him, and all that there was became him and his sword. He swung with deadly accuracy. He never missed, and nothing ever got close enough to hit him.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sky registered his side flaring in pain, and his lungs heaving to keep up. He pushed the pain down and ignored any other sensations. Hyrule needed him, and he wouldn’t let his brother down again.

The battle passed in a blur of blood and guts and metal striking bone. Sky tore through the crowd of monsters until he was by Hyrule’s side. Sky forced himself to look away long enough to survey his surroundings. The others had joined and were quickly taking down the horde, thinning it from the inside out. Wild was on a perch on the wall taking down any stray monsters that got too close to Hyrule.

Sky released a breath and turned to Hyrule, just as he heard Legend reach his side. Sky grabbed Hyrule’s wrist to check the pulse as he cast a glance over Hyrule’s body to assess the damage. For the first time since they arrived, Sky’s hands faltered.

Hyrule was a mess. He had multiple stab wounds in his thighs and shoulders, and long, deep cuts across his abdomen. His shirt had been completely ripped off and his pants were in shreds. Although Sky could feel a pulse, Hyrule’s skin was pale and cold. He breathed in shuttering gasps, and his pulse was far too erratic to be sustained for long.

Before Sky could work through the fog in his thoughts, Legend’s voice cut in. “Get the ropes,” he ordered.

His sharp tone cut into Sky’s mind and spurred him back into action. Hesitation wouldn’t help, and Sky would not allow himself to be too slow to save someone. Not again.

Sky didn’t bother pulling out a smaller knife; he sliced through the ropes with the Master Sword. He cut the ropes around Hyrule’s arms and neck, then sheathed the sword and carefully untangled them. The ropes left deep gashes in Hyrule’s skin. Sky felt himself muttering near-silent apologies as he pulled the ropes away and the wounds oozed fresh blood.

It was blood Hyrule didn’t have left to lose. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Legend was by his side again. He had two red potions in hand. He thrust one at Sky, which Sky had to fumble to grasp in time, and quickly uncorked the other bottle.

Legend lifted Hyrule’s head with gentle hands and let the potion trickle into his throat. Sky massaged Hyrule’s throat until he swallowed. They kept at it until Hyrule had gotten down two full health potions. The wounds on his abdomen and thighs began to stitch themselves back together. It would be enough to get them to safety, but Hyrule would need proper medical care to recover from this.

Sky tore his focus from Hyrule and glanced around the room. The battle was still raging. More monsters were flooding into the room from side corridors. The other heroes were keeping them at bay, but the battle was not going to be over anytime soon.

Sky turned back to Hyrule and carefully, carefully lifted the smaller hero into his arms. Hyrule flinched and whimpered, the first movement they’d seen since his earlier scream. Sky felt the noise slice through his heart.

“We have to go,” Sky said. Legend nodded, determination glinting in his eyes.

“I’ll cover you,” Legend said. He quickly glanced around the room and saw Four fighting close by.

“Smithy! We need you with us,” Legend yelled. As soon as Four felled his monster, Legend broke away towards Warriors and Time. “We’re getting ‘Rulie out of here! Meet back at camp!”

“Go!” Warriors yelled, not even turning to reply as he sliced clean through a monster’s throat.

Legend ran back to Sky’s side, fire rod drawn and ready. Four dashed ahead, easily clearing a path. Sky clutched Hyrule closer to his chest, feeling Hyrule’s uneven breaths on his neck. Sky ducked his head down to whisper in Hyrule’s ear.

“We’re here,” Sky said. “We’re getting you out.”

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