#i had drafted this with some blood before but it blurred so much of the detail so i'm still unsure if i wanna incorporate any at all

[medi-melancholy]

unfinished thing that i really like... head full many thoughts

#plant gore #my art #wip #night fable #oc #celestin #iiiiiiiiiiiiii have not talked about him or even tagged him before. for Reasons. ohoho #but i love him very much #i had drafted this with some blood before but it blurred so much of the detail so i'm still unsure if i wanna incorporate any at all #maybe it's more impactful without any blood.... i can think of some meaning behind that

[undeadcannibal]

Summary: While escaping with a cult vehicle, you forget to turn off the radio and are captured and turned over to Jacob. Only this time, you wake up somewhere you don’t recognize, tied down to a chair and left to the mercy of Jacob Seed -- and his hunting knife.

Pairing: Jacob Seed/Reader

Genre: Smut, one-shot

Word count: 1,891

Warnings: mentions of brainwashing/conditioning, slight(?) dub-con territory, knife play, ‘nsft’ content, AFAB reader, no use of y/n, spoiler free, not beta read

A/N: Look at me, finally touching up and finishing a draft from 5 years ago. After finishing Far Cry 6, I had the urge to replay Far Cry 5 and recalled this old draft I had. Figured why not rewrite it and post it, y’know? Hopefully y’all will enjoy this little piece. ( Gif credit: xxx )

It was too late when the realization of the mistake you'd made sunk in.

After managing to sneak off with one of the Cults' trucks, you'd forgotten to turn off the radio. Before you could switch it off, you could hear the familiar song begin to play throughout the speakers. Within little time, you could feel the brainwashing effects being to take over you...

Shortly after the first lyrics rang out, your head began to ache; vision blurring red at the edges whilst confusion was soon overcome by a surge of pure, animalistic rage. Jacob had - unfortunately - done well with conditioning you. Once the effects began to kick in, there was nothing you could do to stop it. You could only hope that no one knew where you were so he didn't send any of his hunters after you. It'd been some time since you'd received his last message for you on the radio. Maybe he'd been so pleased with your last round of 'culling' he felt he didn't need another round of it so soon. You really doubted that though.

Beginning to lose control of your muscles, your body began to twitch and jerk before going slack entirely. Your vision starting to fade as well. Grunting, you watched as your vehicle began to veer off from the street into the woods. Barrelling through bushes and small trees. You couldn't see much after that, your head falling back to slump against the headrest of the driver seat.

The last thing you heard before losing consciousness was the sound of the truck's tires rolling over rough terrain, then the impact of steel colliding with wood and glass shattering.

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

When you finally came to, you couldn't recognize your current surroundings. However, you were able to determine it wasn't any of the locations Jacob had taken you to before.

Instead of filthy cages with humans - and sometimes animals and corpses - inside of them in the sweltering sun, you were in a dark room with dim lighting. And, as you began to struggle, you also came to discover that your limbs had been tied with a rough rope-like material at your wrists, thighs, and ankles.

Quickly glancing around the room, your eyes eventually adjusted to the dark and you managed to notice a small table nestled off in the corner. A leather-bound book with the cults' insignia stamped on it in the middle laid atop it as well as that damn small wooden box Jacob used. The same one that played the same song that had gotten you in this predicament in the first place...

You had to find a way to get out of here immediately.

Attempting to jerk and struggle in your binds, you briefly wondered if you would be able to wriggle your way out of them if you tried hard enough.

"Funny thing about the vehicles..."

Stopping all movement entirely, your blood ran cold and you could feel the hair on the back of your neck and arms raise with fright.

You didn't need to see who it was to recognize the owner of that voice.

Jacob Seed was a bastard that was difficult to forget.

The sound of heavy footfall nearing you made sweat begin to bead at your temples. You really weren't eager to discover what he had in store for you tonight.

As your breathing picked up and your pulse quickened, you finally saw him step into the light. Standing in front of you with a strict posture, his expression unreadable as ever.

"When we first got them, John suggested equipping them with tracking devices," Jacob explained as casually as if he'd been discussing the weather. "I told him there was no point at first, but eventually he talked me into the idea, so we decided to add 'em anyway."

Your jaw tensed and relaxed periodically whilst he spoke to you.

"Guess they proved to be pretty handy after all, huh?"

Rolling your eyes, you shook your head. Jerking your arms once more in retaliation.

"Fuck you, Jacob."

"Oh," He tutted at you, clicking his tongue with a shake of his head. "Don't worry, we'll get to that part soon enough. But first--" He reached down to a strap attached to his thigh, producing a large Bowie knife with a black handle.

You watched him laugh at you as your eyes frantically flit back and forth from his face to the knife he was wielding.

Jacob stepped forward and slowly began to walk around you. Stopping just behind you before you felt the nipping edge of sharp steel press against your clavicle through the flimsy blouse you'd chosen to help yourself blend in. Swallowing the lump in your throat, did your best to remain still. Even as Jacob began to move the tip of his blade up to your throat. Scraping it across the delicate flesh there before moving to repeat the same motion across your throat and the underside of your jaw and chin.

Unable to help yourself, you found yourself breathing faster. Almost panting even whilst your thighs pressed together. Unsure if your reactions were fear or arousal based at that point.

Your knife play kink really picked the worst time to flare up, didn't it?

Jacob Seed could kill you with a flick of his wrist. Have your throat sliced and you'd be able to do nothing but cough and gurgle as you'd slowly asphyxiate with your own blood...

Yet, you never felt the horrible sting of the blade piercing your throat.

Instead, you felt Jacob pull his blade away. Watching curiously as he knelt before you and began to slice through numerous parts of your pants until was satisfied. Peeling away the filthy denim till he had you in nothing but your underwear for bottoms.

"W-What the fuck do you think you're doing, you fucking pervert?!" Baring and gritting your teeth at him, you lunged forward only to be stopped short by your bindings. Unable to do anything as he smiled up at you.

"Don't act like you weren't just squirming when I had my knife against your throat, Deputy. Besides," He smirked, glancing down at your lower body for a brief moment. "I'm trained to recognize the small reactions you might not know you even do. Don't worry though, pup. Secret's safe with me."

Not bothering to wait for your reaction, Jacob slid his knife beneath the waistband of your underwear. Slicing through it before repeating the same on the opposite side. Afterward, he grabbed the remaining shreds of your panties, bringing them up to examine the cloth without an ounce of shame.

As you groaned and turned your flushing face away, you could hear him make comments that had you biting your tongue.

"Can't deny it, girl. The crotch of these are soaked."

Jesus fucking Christ.

Maybe you'd have been better off if he'd just slit your throat...

Surely anything was better than this humiliating and arousing situation.

Slicing away the cords restraining your thighs, Jacob freed them only for him to stand up then.

With your legs apart, you forced yourself to stare up at the ceiling as he leered over your naked form. Bright, cold eyes unable to look away from your flushed and glistening slit.

"Look away all you want, there's no denying you're clearly gettin' off on this just as much as I am..." Jacob taunted as he knelt before you again. Though, this time, he didn't move in with the hand that was wielding his weapon. Instead, he reached down and spread you open with a calloused thumb, causing you to gasp and your muscles to go taut. Unwilling to cave and give him any sort of further reaction.

Still, that didn't stop him from making things worse with his words. Verbally taunting you as his thumb seized spreading you to instead drift up. Circling your puffy clit till it was wet with your own juices before he moved away. Stroking the thick pad of this thumb all the way down to your hole then gliding it back up to your clit again. Repeating the motion over and over till your back was slightly arching off the chair you were tied to. Your hips weakly jutting forward in a poor attempt to chase the pleasure his thumb was providing. Yet, Jacob seemed to be as cruel as ever. Pulling his hand away right before you could grind yourself against it.

God, you were going to need so much therapy after all of this...

Huffing through your nose, you watched with wet, fearful eyes as he removed his bare hand and returned with the hand wielding the knife. Holding it by the blade-end skillfully as he brought it between your quivering thighs and held it inches away from your cunt.

Quickly shaking your head, you pleaded, "Please, for the love of God, Jacob... I'll let you kill me, just any other way than t-that."

The tears that'd welled up in your eyes finally spilled down your cheeks as you tried not to sob and hyperventilate.

Jacob didn't move as he glanced up at you with a cold, halting expression.

"Stop your whining, pup. I'm not going to hurt you. At least, not in the way you're thinking..."

What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

Shaking in the chair, you could only watch as Jacob finally moved. Pushing the handle of the knife against your mound and moving it up and down your slit. Every so often, he would pause at your opening just so he could push the slightest amount of the end of the handle inside of you. Fucking you once, twice, three times with the first few inches of the handle before pulling out. Smearing your arousal all over your slit and clitoris till your thighs shook and your mouth finally parted. A soft cry left you as he continued to work you over with the end of the knife.

"J-Jacob..." You panted, glancing at his face and back to the blade between your legs.

"Shh... it's okay. I know whatcha need, Dep'."

Now, Jacob was only grinding the edge of the blade against your wet slit before he finally brought his other hand over. Using his thumb again, Jacob circled and worked your hypersensitive clit until you were openly whining and moaning. Your body finally gave in and writhed for him within its bindings as you pleaded for more with red, flushed eyes.

By all means, you shouldn't have been this close to cumming because of Jacob Seed, of all people in Hope County.

Yet, you couldn't hold your orgasm off any longer.

With a disappointed and wanton cry, your hips began to rock back and forth as you desperately fucked yourself against Jacob's hand and knife. Thick, muscular thighs quivering as waves of pleasure began to overtake you. Thankfully, he didn't stop moving and was at least kind enough to help you ride it out. Continuing to stroke and grind against your moving mound till you begged him to stop. Transparent and slick cum covering not only his hand and knife but your thighs and the chair as well.

"Good girl~" Jacob cooed whilst wiping his knife clean on the front of his pants.

"Was it that hard to just give in?"

Yes.

Yes, it absolutely fucking was, you thought to yourself. 

#jacob seed #far cry 5 #far cry #jacob seed x reader #reader #fanfiction #one-shot #'nsft' #cw: knife play #my writing

[cactusringed]

Etho and Bdubs' meeting | Political Intrigue AU

Putting it in a tumblr post because idk if I can commit to a full fic that'll be posted on ao3 yet so I'll share this way

Word Count: 3,715

Content Warnings: Depictions of a staged suicide

The blood moon illuminates the night sky, painting the surrounding clouds crimson. Looking up through the glass roof of the observatory tower, Bdubs knows that today is to be the day he dies. 

Even before his vision, he’d known, somehow, that the blood moon would signify his end. He was always attracted to it like a moth to a flame. Except moths aren’t aware — Bdubs doesn’t think — of the fate awaiting them once their delicate wings brush against the harbinger destined to extinguish their life. Bdubs is. He is, he believes, the most painfully aware one could be about their demise. The blood moon calls to him the way a jailer would a prisoner on death row, marching him through that last corridor towards his end. 

“No, wait, I think a siren would be a more accurate metaphor,” Bdubs muses out loud, rubbing at his scruffy stubble. He should’ve shaved. Perhaps he still can. No. He’s meant to look this way, he knows. Images of his destiny flash in his mind and Bdubs screws his eyes shut in hopes to chase them away. 

It doesn’t work. He takes one shaky breath, then another. His lungs ache. When he opens his eyes again, his vision blurs with tears that he quickly blinks away. 

After spending over a year aware of the grisly details of his own death, one would expect Bdubs to have come to peace with it. He certainly thought he did. Yet here he is, staring up at the moonlit sky for what he knows is the very last time. Fighting back not only tears but primal fear that screams at him to rattle the bars of the cage fate has sealed him in. His heart gallops in his chest with such force he swears he feels its echoes against his ribcage, all the way up to his throat. His Adam's apple bobs as he forces his gaze downwards, to the workshop he’s built in the main observatory room. To his very last painting:

A landscape - that of the country of Oblivion. He’d hoped to finish it before his death, but he supposes the least he can do is bring it to an acceptable state. He wonders how much his work will sell for. He wonders if he can ask his murderer to burn it all before they leave. 

Bdubs picks up his brushes and palette, the oil paints still wet from his last session, and works at the landscape. He paints a tree — thin, spindly, and grey — only to cover it almost immediately. He refines the cliff-face, as he’s done dozens of times, overworking the surface into a mush of dull colors and clashing textures before he throws his equipment to the ground in frustration. 

His mind’s eye always had trouble focusing on the picture he wanted to bring to life, the shapes blurring together even after spending hours studying references of Obliviate scenery — but now, with the promise of death hanging over his head, he finds it downright impossible to not only focus but also keep his every muscle from shaking. Come on, he wants to tell himself, it’s not like you’re going up on stage to give a speech. It’s just the day of your own murder. Relax.

Bdubs worries he might puke. Or cry. That would be worse. 

Another couple of breaths in and out. Shakier than before. He’s restless, to the point he knows he won’t be able to sleep no matter how late it gets, but also won’t be able to get anything useful done. What is there to do that would be useful mere hours, or potentially minutes, before his death? He could draft a will. He doesn’t know how to write one. Maybe he should’ve learned before he had to go and die, but to be entirely fair to him… no, he did know it was going to happen tonight for some time now. Ever since he knew of the blood moon. It just didn’t feel real enough to warrant any preparation, somehow. 

Bdubs looks at the unfinished landscape. The sculk that snakes through every crack of the cliff-face. It’s too flat, despite how hard he’s worked at it. It resembles the sketches and croquis he’s studied in tomes, but not the feeling they elicit in him. That infinite darkness that threatens to suck him in. He reaches for his paints, but pauses. Gazes up, instead. Up and around himself, searching for that blackness, for that feeling.

It must be here. They must be here. Whoever Oblivion sent to end him. Bdubs isn’t stupid — he knows they’ve been following him for a while. Studying his every move, habits, his entourage. Yet he’s never been able to feel the weight of their presence. Not a shadow has ever been out of place. No matter how hard Bdubs has looked, how much he tossed his room upside down. How much he’s raised his voice.

But he’s got to keep trying.

“Assassin,” Bdubs speaks in the Obliviate tongue, struggling with the soft and flat tones it forces upon him. “Show yourself. I know you’re here. You have to be. You’re here to kill me, are you not? So, show yourself. Let me see my own murderer before I die.”

Bdubs waits. He waits for what feels like a full minute, only to be met with complete, suffocating silence. His lip twitches downwards, but he keeps his chin high, and continues to speak in a register he knows to be far more proper than he prefers to speak in his native Celesti tongue. He should’ve worked harder on his lessons. 

“I’m unarmed. I don’t deal in violence. I just… wish to see your face. Then you can kill me,” Bdubs walks slowly, carefully, to the oak desk covered in loose paper and canvas pressed against one of the walls. His fingers trace over his sketchbook. He lets out a soft laugh, peering back up at the ceiling, looking out for any movement overhead. “I bet it’s not often you get to speak with your victim. I can offer you some critique. Because I have to say, the method you have planned for me… Well, it’s a bit too quiet. It’s like….” he frowns, unable to think of the right Obliviate word. “It’s boring,” he settles on the Celesti equivalent, before he switches back to the assassin’s tongue. “It will make my retainers suspect foul.”

Still nothing but silence, no matter how long Bdubs waits. A long sigh, as he lets go of held breath. He takes his sketchbook, worn at the spine, and holds it to his chest. He turns, raises a foot, intends to take a step — only to let out a roar of terror as he’s suddenly faced with a tall figure come out of nowhere. 

Bdubs stumbles back, and as quickly as he began screaming he slaps both hands over his mouth to silence himself, letting the sketchbook fall open by his feet. His back hits the edge of his desk, and he waits as the figure stands still as a statue. One, two — his eyes dart to the door, listening for guards, servants, anyone who might have heard the commotion. Only when he’s certain no one intends to ruin his moment does he drop his hands down, letting out a high pitched giggle. 

“You scared the life outta me!” he exclaims in Celesti. “I mean,” he corrects himself in quiet Obliviate: “You sca—”

The figure holds up a hand, and Bdubs stills, before letting out another, softer chuckle.

“Right. You understand Celesti. There’s no need to translate,” He insists on continuing in Obliviate, but it does save him some time.

Another stretch of silence. The figure lets their hand drop. They remain still, and though it fills the air with an awkwardness that would normally make Bdubs want to keep yapping — he instead finds himself transfixed by their presence. 

Slowly, as to ensure they don’t take it as an offensive move, Bdubs leans down to pick up his sketchbook. He opens it towards the end, and meets with a sketch of himself laid in bed, arms stretched out at his sides, small rivulets of blood dripping down. The blood moon shining in the window. He’s transfixed by it for just a moment, his throat closing up.

He flips the page. More angles of his dead body. A few sketches of gloved hands taking hold of his wrist. The fingers are slender, long — one might call them delicate, even as they hold a blade to Bdubs’ wrist. 

A study of how the blood flows. It pearls at the edge of the cut at first. There’s a few attempts at getting it quite right. The amount of blood that begins to trickle, then pour out. The way it soaks Bdubs’ sheets. 

Then, finally, the main object of interest: The assassin. His sketches become more abundant, but less clear, as he focuses on them. Looking up at the figure standing in front of him, then down at his sketches, he’s happy to note he got their build right: Tall, slender, but not too much. Loose clothes that likely hide solid muscles. That’s another thing he realises he portrayed perfectly: Their outfit. The long, dark cloak hiding the near entirety of their figure. The large hood obscuring their head alongside a scarf wrapped around the bottom half of their face. The only part that remains uncovered is their eyes and a few strands of silver hair — easy enough to remember and portray, one would think. Yet it always remained blank both in Bdubs’ memory and sketches.

The surface of some of the pages have been rubbed raw from his eraser. Some have frustrated scribbles all over the assassin’s face. Others have just been left blank. It’s endlessly frustrating, and if he doesn’t get to do anything else before he dies, he hopes to at least fix this. 

“Can I…?” Bdubs reaches for the assassin’s scarf — only for them to suddenly jerk back before his fingers can even brush against the fabric. 

It’s the first movement he’s seen from them, a proof they’re not just a hallucination. It makes him jump, and he tenses in expectation of a blow that never comes. The assassin just adjusts their scarf securely on their face before peering down at Bdubs’ sketchbook. They point. A silent question hangs in the air.

Bdubs frowns. “Can you use your words?”

“No.”

Their voice is deep, surprisingly so. It’s also rough around the edges — the way one’s voice sounds after waking up in the morning. And a bit muffled by the scarf. 

“Very clever,” Bdubs grins, reaching to shove playfully at the assassin. They move away. “It does mean you can speak though, so— Oh, how do you say in Obliviate… you know, like… gotcha? Do you guys have a word for gotcha?”

Bdubs swears he hears a quiet, near inaudible snicker from the other. 

“You can switch to Celesti. I’d rather you did, actually,” they say in perfect Celesti. Not a trace of an accent. Not even an intonation amiss, despite how much more melodic Celesti is compared to the flatness of Obliviate. Bdubs could mistake him for a native if he didn’t know better, and if it wasn’t for the paleness of his face. 

“Right, yeah, I was tryna impress you, but turns out I’m real rusty. But hey, I was doing well enough, yeah? Since you came down from your little hidey hole?”

Silence. They’re still pointing. 

“...So, uh, what’d you want my sketchbook for?”

The silence stretches, until the assassin seemingly remembers it’s their turn to speak. “I want to see.”

Bdubs raises a brow. “Not the most eloquent sort, are ya?”

They blink.

“Just gimme a second, okay?” 

Bdubs reaches for one of his charcoal pencils, and holds the book open against his chest. He peeks up at the assassin, then down at the page, lightly finishing up one of his attempts at a portrait. He sticks out his tongue as he adds the outline of lips he can barely see through the scarf, refines the shape of their face, and draws the long, white eyelashes caressing scarred skin. The hint of sculk Bdubs can barely see, pulsing like veins burrowing deep within the assassin’s skin. He goes at it for a moment, before he finally gives up with a dissatisfied huff. 

“It’s not as pretty as you are in real life,” he holds the sketchbook out to the assassin. “But have a looksie, if you want. It’s kind of… Ah, well, you can keep it as a souvenir after you’ve killed me! I’m sure in a few decades you’ll be able to resell it for some pretty money. I mean, can you imagine?” Bdubs gestures when the assassin takes hold of the book. “‘The prophet prince’s last drawings.’ People will fight for it!”

The assassin doesn’t seem to find it quite as funny as Bdubs does. They stare at him blankly, jaw slack, before seemingly remembering to look down at the pages, ignoring Bdubs’ grin as they do. He doesn’t let it get him down. Instead he watches their piercing grey eyes dance across the pages. He doesn’t think he did them justice. He wishes he had more time. They genuinely are beautiful.

Their fingers run over the sketches. As they study the depictions of themselves knocking Bdubs unconscious and slitting his wrist, Bdubs can’t help but hyperfocus on their hands. They’re like a pianist’s. He wonders if they play instruments. Are Obliviate assassins allowed to partake in hobbies? Arts? 

“I wasn’t sent by anyone,” their voice force Bdubs out of his imaginings. They stop on a page depicting them hopping out of Bdubs’ bedroom through the window and disappearing into the darkness of the night. It was a bit of a challenging pose to figure out. Bdubs is proud of that sketch. He doesn’t think it’s what they’re admiring. “My actions were planned by myself, in opposition to my orders. You are dangerous, but no one seems to see that.”

Bdubs swallows heavily. A strange calm had settled over him, ever since the assassin revealed themselves — but their saying that turns his blood to ice. He’s suddenly aware of every inch of his body, and the way they scream at him to run, or hide, or fight — something. Instead, he stays frozen as the assassin circles him, takes in the room as if they hadn’t been spying on him for stars know how long. 

“You showing me this,” they tap their fingers on the pages. “It made me realise something I hadn’t considered before.”

Bdubs opens his mouth to speak, but the assassin continues before he gets even a sound out:

“If I choose not to kill you tonight. What happens with your vision?”

“I…” Bdubs looks down at his dead body laid on the pages. It’s hard to speak. He should stop staring. He can’t. “I don’t… know. Every single thing I’ve predicted has come true, no matter how hard I’ve worked to stop them. I don’t know what happens if… if they don’t. I think it would just push away the inevitable. If you don’t kill me today, then you’ll do it on the next blood moon. Or the one after. It’s not the first blood moon I’ve seen since the vision, after all. I could just be wrong on the exact date. Both of us could be.”

The assassin shakes their head. “Even if the date isn’t right, I won’t do it like this,” they gesture at the book. “So it still wouldn’t be true. Besides, you knew this blood moon was to be the one. I’ve been watching you for a long time. You’ve never called out to me the way you have tonight. You knew it was today.”

“I just… felt it, somehow. I tend to, with my visions. Even if nothing indicates a specific date within the vision itself, I just… feel it, when it’s about to happen,” he shrugs. “With normal prophecies — you know, the one they do all those fancy rituals for? With those, it’s kind of a fifty-fifty as to whether they’ll actually happen. But mine have always, always come true, no matter what. I’m just too good at this divination thing!” He laughs. It comes out wrong. Stilted. Tearful. 

The assassin watches Bdubs pace. 

Bdubs’ eyes find the image of the assassin’s bloodied blade, placed in his limp hand. 

“...I don’t wanna die,” he finally admits, quietly. A few tears roll their ways down his cheeks. “I just know — well, I don’t know… what’s meant to, to happen. If you stop it, I mean. I don’t know what happens if you don’t kill me. If I— If I wake up, tomorrow. I don’t know what… what would happen. I’m not meant to. It— It won’t. It won’t happen. You know?” he looks up, his lips trembling uncontrollably. 

He feels like a damn child. 

The assassin is obviously uncomfortable. Their previously relaxed posture grows suddenly tense. Their shoulders are almost all the way to where Bdubs assumes their ears would be. They reach into their coat and Bdubs gasps, sharply. His eyes squeeze shut. He expects the stab of a knife. For all of it to have been a ruse. A way to finally end their conversation and get to the very reason they came here. 

But nothing comes.

Bdubs takes one, two — up to three shaky, hiccuping breaths, before he opens his eyes again and looks up. What he sees is not a knife, but instead a handkerchief. It’s held in front of him awkwardly, the assassin staring at him unblinking. Bdubs hesitates, before he takes it and wipes the tears off his face. Except the very act of compassion coming from what should be his assassin makes his tears double, and Bdubs sobs embarrassingly against the cloth. 

“We’ll find out what happens when a vision of yours does not come to fruition, then. Because I won’t kill you. You won’t die by my hand, prince Bdubs.” 

Their voice is so gentle, now. Bdubs nearly chokes on air as he tries to calm himself. As he tries to listen. Take it in.  

“I was only sent here because we found out about your vision. Before you worry — none within your court knows. We’ve only inferred it through our surveillance. I will report back, explain what happened. They’ll send another spy to continue monitoring your safety. Oblivion never wanted you dead, so you won’t have to be afraid of them. And it means… you’ll know: There’s a way to stop your visions.”

Before Bdubs can say anything, before he can thank them, they turn away. They take a step to leave. Bdubs’ tears stop in an instant, and he reaches for them. For their cloak. He pulls them back towards him, and wraps his arms around them in a tight embrace, feels the air escape from their lungs as he squeezes.

“Thank you,” he says, voice only shaking a little as he clings to the assassin’s clothes. “I don’t know how I could ever repay you. I don’t even know your name, I—”

“My— My name’s not important.” The assassin’s voice is strained, as if in pain. They pat Bdubs’ hand in what he assumes is a gentle attempt to pry him off. He doesn’t let go quite yet. “We won’t meet again. Just… try to find a way to stop your visions. If anything, for your own sake.”

Bdubs shakes his head. “I won’t let you leave,” he declares. “Not after you saved my life. Not after you did… did this. You were sent to protect me, right? So you must be pretty good! Then, I want you to stay. I can write to Oblivion, get them to keep you here. Then you can help me stop the visions from coming true again. Yeah?”

He finally pulls away so he can walk around the assassin and face them, sniffing as he watches them shake their head.

“I’m not a protector. I’m an assassin. The only reason I was sent here was to neutralise your murderer. Since I technically have, there’s no reason for me to stay. Especially now that I’ve revealed myself to you. It… goes against almost every tenets of the code,” they sigh, reaching to pinch the bridge of their nose. “It just can’t happen. I’m sorry.”

“... Will they hurt you? For… you know,” Bdubs gestures. Could the price of his life be his would-be assassin’s death? Does he want to know? “...If not your full name, can you give me… I dunno, a nickname, the first letter —  anything? I don’t wanna forget the person who broke my curse. Please? Then I’ll let you leave. And I’ll promise not to speak a word of this. To anyone.”

The other furrows their brow, and studies Bdubs’ face. They shake their head again, and brush Bdubs’ hands off themselves. “Slab,” they finally offer. Bdubs recognises it: A clan name. A… very prominent one. “And what happens to me isn’t something for you to worry about. I’m… uh… Sorry. For causing you stress.”

There’s an awkward pause, then, before they take a step back. Bdubs lets them. He watches them as they climb back up to the rafters, open a window, and leave without a trace. 

“...Slab…” Bdubs looks down at his sketchbook, hugs it to his chest. Clouds creep closer to the blood moon, obscuring its glow. The observatory is plunged in darkness, illuminated only by the flickering candles on Bdubs’ desk. 

He’s alive. His vision has come and gone. 

He sits at his desk. Opens his sketchbook, picks up a pen, and begins sketching. 

He draws until the sun rises. A feverish attempt to burn the Slab assassin’s image in his head. Draws until one of his retainers knocks on the door and scolds him for not showing up at breakfast. Until they drag him out of the observatory, force him to breathe the fresh air outside. 

He’s free of the burn in his lungs as he’s smothered into unconsciousness, of the blade splitting his arms open. 

He’s alive.

#pltclau #writings

[kaenbl4ze]

Hi! I just reread Read You Lima Charlie for the millionth time. It's probably one of my favorite SEAL Buck fics, and I've combed through the whole tag multiple times. I know it's a bit of an older fic, but do you have any plans on continuing the AU somehow? I'd love to read more of that AU or hear your headcanons if you have any!

Hello hello! Thank you so much, you have no idea how excited I am to hear that! Please do feel free to ask any and all questions about the AU or my headcanons and I'd be more than happy to answer <3

I know it's been a hot minute (sorry heh work and life got a bit hectic) but I do have a draft of a fun little sequel sitting in my google docs which I've been writing on and off. Alas I am a perfectionist and also a slow writer so it's been in limbo.. BUT it is definitely there and almost done and will come out at some point! I hope!!

In the meantime thank you for reading and asking about it and being so patient and i love you so here's a little sneak peak action scene from the draft:

[tw graphic depictions of violence, blood/gore, death]

“Where’ve you been?” Steve’s eyes did a quick sweep over Buck’s body, analytical, checking for injuries. Noticed Buck’s empty hands. “Where’s your rifle?”

“I was doing the laundry!” Buck replied through gritted teeth, eyes wide with exasperation.

He looked back around the corner of the building as Steve spoke behind him; soldiers dragging off the wounded away from the blast site, his teammates spread around with the other troops and suppressing the flow of insurgents, a few enemy fighters slipping through the gaps in fire, spraying bullets into the base in wide sweeping arcs before being shot down. 

“I don’t have a sidearm to give you. Head back to the armoury, grab your shit – give Command the sitrep on your way.”

Buck hummed in the affirmative, still scanning the combat zone, and was about to turn around and heed Steve’s instruction, but at the last moment caught sight of a combatant sneaking around behind a stack of crates. Slung over the man’s shoulder was a rocket launcher, and time seemed to slow as he swung the weapon around, gripped it tight, and levelled it at a cluster of infantrymen.

Buck saw red.

“Buckley!” Steve hissed, clawing at Buck’s sleeve in an attempt to stop him from sprinting towards the stray tango, but Buck slipped through his grip. He was too fast. Too focused. The last thing he heard was Steve muttering under his breath, “I swear that Kid is not right in the head.”

Planting a foot against a wall mid-run, Buck used his momentum to bound off and vault one-handed over the crates. He was airborne for half a second before colliding with his target in a spear tackle, bringing them both tumbling to the ground. The launcher clattered across the floor, and the two men engaged in a tangled mess of hand-to-hand combat.

Buck channelled his silent rage into the fight – got the large man into a grapple, caught an elbow to the mouth in the process, twisted the man’s arms as he yanked at Buck’s clothes. Buck had no gun. But he remembered, belatedly, that he did have a knife. Regrettably not one of his fixed-blades, but a folding knife that he had slipped into the pocket of his shorts a few days ago while rearranging his loadout. It would have to do.

The guy was a dirty fighter, strong, but he was sloppy. Poorly trained. More holes in his form than swiss cheese, and Buck fully intended to exploit them.

Buck ate a punch straight to his nose; didn’t let the sharp flash of pain or the momentary blur in his vision slow him down. He lunged straight for the opening in his opponent’s stance that he knew would be left undefended, torquing body mass and manipulating limbs to get the man into a one-armed chokehold against Buck’s chest. He quickly reached into his pocket with his free hand, flicked the lever to deploy the blade, and plunged it deep into the man’s neck right where Buck knew his jugular rested. 

With a jerk of his arms, simultaneously pulling the knife towards himself and twisting the man’s head away, he was met with a spray of hot blood and a wet gurgle.

Steve rounded the crates with his weapon raised right as the body dropped to the ground with a dull thump. Buck hung his head, catching his breath from the exertion and letting the blood from the blows to his face drip from his nose and dribble out of his mouth. He ran his teeth over his bottom lip to cut off the string of bloody saliva, then spat out the viscous mess into the sand. Beside him, Steve strode forward, glanced down at the body, and exhaled sharply through his nose.

In his peripherals, Buck caught a flash of movement. He whirled around instinctively, and in the same motion whipped his arm and let the blood-slick knife fly out of his hand. 

Two bullets from Steve’s rifle landed at the centre of the combatant's chest just a moment before Buck’s blade hit its mark, buried up to the hilt in the hollow of his throat. The man stumbled, eyes wide, and collapsed to the ground as his legs buckled beneath him. His weapon flew out of his hands in the fall, and his momentum carried his body a couple more feet before it finally slid to a twitching stop.

Buck straightened, scrunching his nose tentatively and sniffing. A deep buzzing sensation underscored the cacophony of battle around him, heartbeat steady and powerful in his core, fingertips thrumming with energy, vision crisp and vibrant. He blinked. Then, he turned to Steve, nonchalant.

“I had that.”

#asks #us navy seals #evan buckley #steve mcgarrett #seal buck #seal!buck #911 #911 abc #911 fic #911 fanfic

[lukabitch]

Danny Johnson x Male Reader “Unflattering Photo”

Danny catches you stalking him basically an uno reverse. This is pre entity btw. When I said I’ve had this written for awhile I mean it. It’s been sitting in my drafts since September. :)

Tw: stalking, Danny being Danny, blood, dubcon, nsfw-ish.

Walking down an empty street trying not to be seen came like second nature to you. You’ve been watching this person for awhile you think something is up with him. Jumping up you got a head start climbing a tree that was outside his house. A perfect view into his bedroom it was littered with papers and pictures. He had a board on his wall that had pictures pinned to it. You couldn’t get a good look at them but knew something was off. Even with your binoculars you couldn’t make it out. You had a choice break in and prove your point that somethings wrong or give up. You’re to stubborn for your own good.

He’s not home so you’re taking your chance. Taking a thin piece of metal you jiggled it until the door opened. Closing the door you crept inside looking around the house. Creeping up the stairs you opened the first door on the left. “Bingo.” It was his room closing the door behind you. Pulling out your camera you started taking pictures of the room. First everything thing on the bed and floor. Some of it was just pictures of people he knew some of it was his articles.

Hearing the squeaking from the front door opening sent you into a panic. Turning around you took a picture of the board before hiding in his bathroom. You turned up the brightness of your flash just in case he found you. Your hiding spot was the bathtub behind the curtain. Not the best hiding spot but the best you got. He came into the bedroom you hear him walking closer and closer before the bathroom door opened.

Peaking through the curtain you watched him undress. Normally this would be very immoral but the dude was covered in blood. The sudden realization hits you like a truck he’s going to take a shower. You prepared yourself to blind him and run this was going to be difficult. You let out a quiet breath that you were holding but he heard you mid way of taking off his pants. When the shower curtain was pulled back you took a picture blinding him with the flash. Acting quickly you pushed him as for away from you as possible before running to the door. You made it out of the room running down the stairs the front door almost in reach. He was behind you making up the lost distance. He was much faster then you grabbing you from behind.

“Let me go fucker!” He threw you on the ground knocking the wind out of you. Struggling to breath he put his foot on your chest pushing more air out of you. He bent down and grabbed your camera looking through it. “Ah you’re the one that’s been stalking me. I could never get a good look at you.” Your vision was blurring making it difficult to make out what he was doing. Feeling your hands get tied your struggling was in vain. He dragged you back upstairs and to his room pushing you back onto the floor.

“What was your goal with this sweet thing? You just can’t get enough of me?” He was taunting you wanting to get a reaction out of you and he sure did. “You’re the fucking killer you piece of shit!” The amount of anger in you sure gave him something to laugh at. “Aw you know my about my little hobby? It would be nice to have someone to talk to about it.” You had set yourself up so you could breath better. Looking him in the eyes you could tell he was enjoying seeing you like this.

You watch him take a picture of you with your camera. “What’s with the angry face? I thought you liked me?” He stood up stretching showing off his lean build. Watching him walk over to his bag he pulled out a knife. “You see I don’t have a lot of people to talk about my hobbies, and seeing you don’t have a choice you’ll lend me an ear.” He chuckled walking over to you pressing the knife against your cheek. A warning not to be taken lightly a silent promise. He pulled the knife away tilting his head deep in thought.

“I’ll keep you alive until you start to get boring or start to be too much trouble.” He gave you a peck on the cheek where his knife was the dent still there. “You’ll be good boy for me right?” He was in your ear practically growling to you. Not really wanting to die at the moment you nodded to him. A sudden hand was gripping your chin making you look at him. “Use your words sweet thing.”

“I’ll be a good boy.” The words felt sour coming out of you mouth. He laughed seeing you swallow your pride. “Suddenly you’re not a fighter? You’re going to be so much fun to break.” The glint of fear in your eyes hearing him say that made him smirk. He started to cut your shirt exposing you to the cold air of his house. You let out a shaky gasp feeling his fingers run over you now bare torsos earning a grin from him.

“You know killing watching the life leave their eyes is so satisfying but this is going to be something special.” You watch him pull back and start to sharpen his knife. Your breathing becomes uneven scared that him might say fuck it and kill you. He took notice of this and smiled not helping calm you down. When he starts to get closer you push yourself further away. He pulled you by the leg making you be underneath him. “Come on I thought you were going to be good for me.”

“What are you going to do to me?” You hear him laugh a little the scariest thing being it sounded so light hearted. “Just having a bit of fun loosen up a bit. You know I’m not letting you out of my sight now.” His breath tickled your face making you squirm feeling he was trying to close the distance. Noticing this he gets closer until he hears a whimper come from your mouth. He smiles a wicked smile he loves seeing the fear hearing it was just the cherry on top.

“Aw sweetheart you can be louder then that. You can do that for me right?” He had sickly sweet tone in his voice making you cringe. Seeing your face contort into one of disgust gave him an idea. He closed the space between the both of you slipping his tongue into the kiss. Shoving him away wasn’t an option he’s too strong to push away besides what would you do after you can’t run away. Your only option was to play long term and hope you don’t develop Stockholm syndrome.

In Danny’s mind you were submitting to him bending to his will. When he pulled away he left you breathless giving him an ego boost. He was satisfied enough for now and got up off you laughing.

“We are going to have so much fun sweet thing. Don’t you think so?”

#dbd #dbd killer #dead by daylight #dbd x male reader #killer x survivor #danny jed olsen johnson #dbd fanfic #jed olson #danny johnson #dbd ghostface #danny johnson x male reader #dubcon #dead dove do not eat #dddne #sub reader #sub male reader

[virescent-v]

Part One

Summary: Tragedy strikes Emily, leaving her with a life or death decision. Tempted by a stranger, enticed by a life she knows nothing about, Emily has twenty-four hours to decide. What fate beholds our beloved agent?

Word count: 1.3k

Warning: Nothing for this, I think? Light talk about restraints, maybe a little blood/gore if you squint?

A/N: I've been dreaming of a vampire!Emily fic for ages. I'm taking the stake to the heart and writing it myself lol. This is Emily x OC. I'm curious how everyone will feel about it, so leave me some comments! This first part is going to be kinda short, just a glimpse of what is happening in my head. Lmk what you think!

A quick, shadowed, blur brought a searing pain across Emily’s abdomen. With the adrenaline pumping through her veins, the pain took a few seconds to hit her. A draft in the darkened, damp, warehouse highlighted the fact that her sweater had been sliced across the middle. Putting her hand across her belly, however, made her aware that there was blood. 

A lot of blood. 

She tried to take a few more steps, push further into the warehouse to meet back up with her team, but the pain caused her to crumple to the floor. 

“Fuck,” she whispered, trying to put pressure on the bleeding. Emily could feel it ooze from around her fingers, dripping steadily onto the floor below. 

Trying to keep her voice down to not alert the unsubs they were chasing, Emily brought her wrist up to her mouth, trying to communicate through the mic that was hidden in her sleeve. “Officer down. I’ve been stabbed. I repeat, officer down.” 

She wasn’t sure how exactly the team had ended up separated, other than the warehouse being a maze full of shipping containers stacked almost to the ceiling. She could’ve sworn Derek was behind her, but when she turned around, she was alone. 

“Emily, where are you?!” Hotch’s voice came through on the ear piece. 

There were echoes of hurried footsteps all around her, becoming more and more indiscernible as seconds ticked by. She wasn’t sure if they were her team trying to find her or assailants trying to escape. 

Emily blinked rapidly, her vision becoming blurry around the edges. With a groan, she lifted her arm to speak into the mic. It took more effort than she cared to admit, each breath feeling like fire in her lungs. “Gah, I don’t know, Hotch!” She laid down on the floor, the coolness seeping into her overheated body. “I don’t think I’m gonna make it.” 

She was vaguely aware of Hotch’s panicked voice in her ear, her brain refusing to focus on the words. 

The echoes of footsteps were getting louder, but she had the sinking feeling it wasn’t her coworkers. She tried to drag her weakened body across the floor, push herself against the shipping container to hide as much as possible. Trying to give her team more time to find her. 

Another shadowed figure appeared, staring over her body with their head tilted. The body was slim, and couldn't be much bigger than her. 

The hairs on Emily’s body stood up, a warning. She didn’t know this person, but something about them felt almost familiar. Like she could trust them. Not that she had much choice, her muscles in her extremities falling limp, buzzing with the loss of electrical impulses as her body tried to save the major thoracic organs. 

“Grab her,” the figure said. “She won’t make it before the ambulance arrives. Leave the others.” 

From the darkness, a taller, broader, more defined body came into view. Emily tried to focus on their features, but the spots in her vision made it impossible. 

A rush of wind, the feeling of floating before a hard surface at her back. The slam of a door. A  car? Her breath coming more slowly, her pulse faintly drumming in her chest. 

The last thing Emily remembers before darkness is a pinching sensation at her lower neck. 

** 

With a grimace, Emily shifted, her body heavy, like trudging through a thick layer of mud. Overwhelming sensations prickled across her skin, almost as if she could feel each fiber of her shirt against each single cell of her body. 

She tried to blink, but her eyelids felt glued shut. She went to rub at them, only to find her hands tied down. 

As the panic started to overtake her, a slam of a door thudded in whatever room she was in. 

Slow, steady footsteps – heels? –  echoed on what seemed to be marble flooring. She tried to slow her breathing, but realized she was already holding it. 

Where was she? What was happening?

The last thing she remembers is the warehouse, all-consuming pain, and then nothingness. 

“I know you’re awake,” the voice said. “I can almost hear your thoughts.” The voice chuckled, a melodic sound definitively belonging to a woman. “You need to open your eyes. We have much to discuss.” ‘

Emily swallowed dryly, utterly confused.  She tried again to open her eyes, to no avail. 

“Oh, sorry. They’re still taped. Gimme a second.” 

Emily flinched as extremely cold hands lightly touched her face, slowly peeling tape from her eyes. Cautiously, she opened them, her eyes focusing sharply. 

“Where am I?” She said, tilting her head around, trying to figure it out, but nothing looked familiar. Marble floors, expansive windows, decor that even she couldn’t afford. 

“Agent Prentiss, you need to listen to me. I will answer all of your questions, but we’re running on a tight time frame right now.” The woman moved closer, staring directly into Emily’s eyes. 

Emily’s brow furrowed at the color of the stranger’s eyes; a deep cognac color, hints of a golden honey. Unnatural. Contacts, maybe? 

The woman smiled. Somehow, this put Emily at ease, her tense muscles relaxing slightly. 

“My name is Adelaide Turner. You may call me Addie. Two nights ago, you were stabbed in a warehouse in Boston. You had gotten separated from your team trying to catch a prolific serial killer.” 

Memories flooded Emily’s mind, the vision of a darkened blur, the feeling of the cold, wet floor beneath her. A slight, hooded figure and a larger henchman. 

“The wound across your abdomen was extensive. Your organs barely kept inside by the fascia. You would not have survived if I hadn’t found you when I did. No living medical person would’ve been able to save you.” 

Emily’s eyes cut to Addie’s. “Living?” 

Addie smirked. “Caught that, did you?” She cleared her throat. “Stay with me, Agent. What I’m going to tell you is absolutely true, no matter how unbelievable it may seem.” 

Emily felt her walls go back up, distrust starting to overtake her. Who was this woman? 

Addie took a deep breath. “I bought you more time. I–,” she faltered for a second, eyes downcast. Emily watched her steady herself, before catching her eyes again. “I am a vampire. I bit you to buy you time.” 

Addie watched as Emily processed her words, stopping her before she could object. “You know it to be true. You remember the bite.” 

Another glimpse of a memory. A pinch at her neck. 

Addie nodded. “I know it sounds made-up. Trust me, I’ve been there,” she rolled her eyes. “The only thing keeping you alive right now is the virus  coursing through your veins.” 

At this point, Emily finally felt a slight burning sensation continuously running up and down her body, flowing with her blood. She winced, not enjoying the way it felt in her toes and fingers. 

“The virus takes time to take hold. If I leave you as is, you will turn into a vampire, just like me,” Addie said, smiling. She waited for Emily’s full attention, opening her mouth and letting her fangs descend, the sharp points overtaking her canines. They weren’t much longer than her other teeth, but definitely noticeable. 

Emily struggled to believe what was clearly in front of her. Vampires were supposed to be myths, legends, costume ideas for kids at Halloween, and fun, action-packed horror movie characters. Not real beings. 

Trying to wrap her head around the new information, Emily paused. “What do you mean if you leave me as is?” 

Addie shrugged. “I could give you the antidote to the virus and you could die.” 

Emily scoffed. “That’s it? I have two options?” Her brow furrowed deeper. “Dead or deader?” 

Addie darkly chuckled. Emily tried not to bristle at the noise. “I know, neither are great. It’s up to you.” Addie turned and started walking to the door. She paused, her hand on the handle. “You don’t have long to decide. The virus will completely take hold in two days time. After that, you will become one of us.” She turned and looked back at Emily, still strapped to a table in the middle of the room. “You have until tomorrow morning to decide, Emily. I’ll come back in a few hours and answer any questions you may have,” she said, closing the door quietly behind her. 

#emily prentiss #emily prentiss fanfic #emily prentiss x oc #virescent v fanfic #secrets and stakes #already have like half of the next chapter heheheh #also naming OC? garbage #i hate doing it lmao #also emily would be a hot vampire my GOD #guys this is going to be a long series if youre interested!!

[vintagemulti]

look baby, it’s a baby

pairings: jake lockley x reader , marc spector x reader , steven grant x reader

desc: three different reactions, one baby. how much better could it get?

warnings: pregnancy, infertility/miscarriage/child loss themes, swearing, sex mentions

a/n: this is a kind of request for @moonboisworld ,, i had already half written this so i know it’s not exactly your request but i hope you enjoy either way!! this had been sitting in my drafts for wayyyy too long

masterlist

it wasn’t like it was for lack of trying. it really, really wasn’t. you could count on one hand the amount of days you went between sex, especially around your more fertile days.

but still, at least once a month, a single line stared back at you. it didn’t hurt so much anymore, not after the years of trying, but there was still a lump in your throat when you swallowed.

it had been four years - four whole years of trying for a baby. you had tried everything, all the positions the websites told you to, every time you were fertile according to flo, hell - even changing your diet. four whole years that you and your husbands had been trying for that longed for baby.

every test you took, every three day late period, every time you were sick in the morning, it all added to the disappointment of that single line on the test. not once had you seen even the faintest trace of a second line.

it hurt - it did. but you couldn’t have asked for someone better to go through it with. marc was the one who would hold you when you cried, he himself being the most anxious to become a father.

jake was there in the physical ways, holding your hand at every doctors appointment and driving you to every health centre, every therapy session - everywhere.

steven put in the work. he read the books, researched every website he could find, did all the shopping - he longed to be a father the most. sure, all three of them couldn’t wait, but deep down for steven the thought of a child just completely overtook him, he was in love with this baby before it was even created.

it wasn’t easy for you, even with them. your parents were… eager, to say the least. every month without a pregnancy reveal that passed, they seemed to only get less patient, your mother dropping hints almost every time you saw her, and you tried to ignore her snide comments about your lack of bump.

she even bought maternity dresses for you.

it was irritating, to be short. but you dealt it with - promising yourself that when you were meant to become parents, you would.

about two years into trying, you realised it might be time to get tested. so you did, and it turned out that both you and your husbands were completely healthy, just painfully unlucky.

so you found yourself in the passenger seat next to jake, once again, on the way to the doctors. it had been about eight weeks since your last visit, you’d certainly been trying since then. you hadn’t taken a test, though, partly because you hoped that a doctor would give good news, partly because the thought of staring a single line made you feel like shit.

but the thing was, your period was due. today. normally, you’d wake up with it, blood staining the sheets, but you’d woken up completely clean. to make matters worse, you’d woke up completely nauseous for the last few weeks.

you hated to admit it gave you hope, but the butterflies in your stomach were flying around faster and faster the closer you got to the doctors.

how unlucky did you have to be? to try for four whole years, and not get pregnant even once. it would have made sense, to be infertile, or to have some kind of condition. but no, you were just fucking unlucky.

with every trip, you prepared for bad news. that you couldn’t have kids, you’d miscarry if you did. that might have been easier to take, but every doctor that looked at you in pity and shook their heads broke you a little more.

jake pulled in to a space, parking immaculate as per usual. it went in a blur - the walk from the car to the waiting room feeling more like muscle memory than a conscious action.

the smell of the waiting room always took you by surprise, you never got used to it. plastic, medical, stuffy air filled your lungs as you found an empty seat, feeling jake sit down next to you.

maybe it was stupid to wear a white dress. maybe, you were hoping that, deep down, the period would never come. the fabric would stay white, and the doctor would deliver fantastic news.

maybe it was just the way the washing cycle lined up.

“y/n grant?” the doctor called, snapping you from your thoughts.

you and jake stood up, him letting you walk in front. he followed behind, hand around your waist.

your doctor smiled at you from her chair, you two sitting across from her. she welcomed you, making small talk as you got comfortable.

“so, how long’s it been?” she asked, facing you two.

“um,” you thought for a moment. “about eight weeks, i think.”

she nodded, “and you’ve been trying since then?”

both you and jake nodded.

“y/n, any periods? abnormal discharge?”

“no,” you breathed. “i was just starting my period the last time we were here, so i’m actually due about now.”

“alright,” she wrote something down. “jake, right?”

he nodded. “morning.”

“have you been feeling alright? anything of note?”

“no, not really.”

she wrote something down again.

“we’re past the point of being awkward, so i’ll just ask it - how many times have you had sex since the last time you were here?”

you looked at each other, counting in your head. eight weeks, three or so times a week… “about twenty, give or take.”

writing something again, she hummed. “and you’ve not been using any protection?”

jake shook his head.

“alright, good. y/n, any sickness lately? in the morning, especially?”

“um,” you trailed the syllable. “a little, actually.”

both the doctor and jake looked at you, both as surprised as each other.

“it’s nothing major, just nausea and headaches.”

she tilted her head. “have you had any, like, fluttering sensations? cravings? backache, or anything?”

you hadn’t realised that until now. you really, truly hadn’t. putting it down to stress or period cravings - you genuinely hadn’t realised it.

the doctor seemed to notice your realisation, prompting you to lie on the all-too-familiar bed behind you. jake squeezed your hand and walked over with you, sitting at your side.

you pulled your dress up, the cool air making goosebumps rise on your skin. the coldness wasn’t helped by the gel the doctor spread on your stomach, it was well known to you, but still never got any longer.

the wait for the ultrasound machine to start up felt like a million years. medical processes you didn’t quite understand dragged on and on and on, your hands going clammy, intertwined with jake’s.

the ultrasound moved around your tummy, looking for the right picture.

when it came on screen, you didn’t know how to react.

a little, bean shaped image stared back. something was floating around, tiny little picture visible on the screen. you didn’t believe it.

“is that…?” you couldn’t even say it.

the doctor smiled. “i think, you might be pregnant.”

jake felt marc come forward, happily allowing the switch. marc leaned forward to the screen, not believing his own eyes. this couldn’t be right?

“oh my god, baby, it’s a baby..” he mumbled, turning back to you.

you lay, completely frozen. there was a baby. your baby, a real, actual baby.

looking back at your husband, you could see steven in his eyes. for the first time in four years, there was a spark. the spark that had been there when you first suggested having children.

“it’s a baby,” you repeated back to him.

“our baby.”

#moonknight #moon knight #moonknight x reader #moonknight imagines #moonknight fanfiction #moonknight imagine #steven grant #steven grant imagines #steven grant fanfiction #steven grant imagine #steven grant x reader #marc spector #marc spector fanfiction #marc spector imagine #marc spector imagines #marc spector x reader #jake lockley #jake lockley fanfiction #jake lockley imagines #jake lockley x reader #jake lockley imagine #marvel #marvel imagine #marvel imagines #marvel fanfiction #marvel x reader

[spaceumbredoggos]

However fucked up Alex reveals Bill and Ford’s relationship is revealed to be in The Book Of Bill, Kenz and Bill’s is a hundred times worse.

Disclaimer: I am not glorifying abuse in any way shape or form. I myself have had nightmares similar to this despite never being sexually abused, both Bill related and otherwise. Some of these are based on personal experience (such as the nightmares), whilst others are a device used to show how fucked up shipping Bill with pretty much anyone is. Not even the Axolotl is safe in my opinion. If Bill was real, I’d guarantee he’d probably be a massive creep and with how thirsty his fankids are (and I’m calling myself out here) he’d probably use his magic to g*oom those kids like a church pastor. The thing that scares me the most about Bill being canonically real is not that he could catastrophically end the world, it’s his oversexualization in the fandom that got so bad, Alex himself had to make him unattractive. This will be along the lines of a Yandere Bill Cipher x Reader headcanons. With that being said, here’s a few content warnings:

G*ooming, Pedoph*lia, s*xual abuse and assault, physical and psychological abuse, mind control, cult-like things, psychosis, and general paranoia. I’m not saying these things actually happened, but knowing Bill’s character and his powers and history, if he was real, I’d generally be afraid for anyone in the Gravity Falls fandom. Especially minors.

This could be my most controversial post yet, and it could jeopardize any potential of getting into some colleges. This may sound like paranoid rambling, but I know that Bill is just a cartoon character. That being said, Alex like the blur the line between our world and the world of gravity falls with Bill’s character, dicing around the fact that he’s influenced history and wrote all religion on the basis of a lie. I’m not scapegoating him as “controlling global politics on a massive scale” because that would be stupid and I’ll sound like those tin foil hat rednecks that snort moonshine and burn pride flags. My heart goes out to all those who have been impacted by all forms of abuse as an abuse survivor myself. Alex, if you see this post (or any other of my posts/ read my fanfics), just know that it’s a critique on the fandom and the canon lore, and a cautionary warning to avoid lawsuits in case The Book of Bill Cipher causes mass psychosis.

As a kid (ages 7-9) I would watch Gravity Falls casually. At that age, the only thing I consumed online content wise was Skylanders and Minecraft content (Skylanders until age nine, then it was pretty much a lot of Team Crafted, Popularmmos, DanTDM, and other Minecraft YouTubers.) I didn’t invest in the Gravity Falls fandom until I was eleven (that’s when I first started writing my fanfics. The drafts are long gone because they were on school computers that were crammed with viruses due to kids installing Minecraft mods (this was just before chromebooks became mainstream. I went to a special ed middle school specifically for autistic individuals (it was pretty ableist, gonna make a post on that.) so the rules on what was allowed in school were pretty loose content wise. It didn’t have to be educational, as long as it didn’t have blood or guns. There were no safe search filters or Go Guardian (I remember one of my friends accidentally finding Iris from Pokemon black and white vore. I also found Pacifica vore.)) Before that, the February before my tenth birthday, my dad took my TV out of my room due to behavioral issues (undiagnosed autism go brrr). Around that time, there was talk in my town that the Disney channel was “rotting kids minds” with bad attitudes and crude humor (this could be said about any child’s television network (I mean, look at Nickelodeon.) but I lived in a pretty conservative area of Southern California and had a pretty conservative dad. So naturally, Disney was the scapegoat (this was way before the “woke” era of Disney.)) All of this talk of Brainrot made me stop watching the Disney channel during the peak era of gravity falls (2015 as a whole) and I didn’t watch gravity falls again until summer of 2016 when my tv was put back in my room (with intense parental controls so that I couldn’t watch my vet shows.) That’s when I had my first gravity falls dream about Bill cipher. It had to do with getting unicorn hair to protect my house from Bill Cipher. I had an interest in dreams previously due to warrior cats. It was at that moment when Gravity Falls was added to the obsession list.

As a neurodivergent eleven year old surrounded by other neurodivergent preteens and teens, we found common ground talking about Gravity Falls at school. I also would, whenever I didn’t feel the prying eyes of the grown ups or my peers would go off outside and act out my gravity falls x pokemon x warrior cats fanfiction (I’m not sure if those are signs of maladaptive daydreaming disorder or I simply had an intense imagination that would consume my body and make me want to just act out my fanfictions outside. I don’t do this anymore, mostly because of my own embarrassment and I can just write it out.) Yes, there were times where the discussion or action played out Bill Cipher being real. A lot of my “play” as I called it back then was me being kidnapped or possessed by Bill. I even wrote some really cringey fanfics involving my friends and Bill Cipher. To this day, I still involve my family in my fanfiction, but more final drafts will have their names changed. Weirdmaggeddon was a common topic, as well as Bill Cipher possession.

As time went on, I had more dreams about Bill Cipher, fueling the obsession and the fact that Bill could be real. During my middle school years, I never had a crush on Bill Cipher, despite what my friends seem to think. My parents just took it as whatever and as long as I was happy and just working towards going to a neurotypical non-sped school. My crush on Bill Cipher didn’t start until I was in high school. I remember it specifically being Valentine’s Day 2020 when I learned that I have a crush on the triangle. My dreams of Bill would only get more frequent and worse from here (involving the typical horny teenage dream that I don’t want to elaborate because I feel weird doing so (you’ll see why later on.))

Now there’s typically nothing wrong with having a cartoon crush. Given any other cartoon character that doesn’t have a canon history of influencing this world (Bill’s history of influence is vague but it still counts) I would excuse this as another silly cartoon crush like PurpleCliffe simping for Cynthia and the like. However, given that it’s in the show’s canon that Bill could be real and he crossed over to our world, do you understand what implications this could have? Bill is trillions of years old, he’s likely seen every timeline to ever exist. Meanwhile, there are whole armies of fankids who are down bad for him (including me.)

Notice how when I first started getting into Gravity Falls that I didn’t have a crush on him. How many other fankids felt the same way? It wasn’t until years of obsessing over Gravity Falls did I develop feelings for him. And of Alex says in the Book of Bill Cipher what I think he’s going to say (that Bill probably ab*sed Ford sexually with possible g*ooming involved), notice the pattern that is being presented here? Alex, if you blur the lines between fiction and reality with a villain who may or may not have canonically g*oomed and abused someone, possibly using mind control given his powers and his role as a dream demon, could it really be so far fetched that… (I’m not going to say it because it’s leaving a sour taste in my mouth, but use your imagination.)

If we take Alex’s word that Bill has crossed over to our world, then we can only assume that there are vulnerable kids and adults being… You get the picture. I’m not explicitly saying that it is happening right now, but this is problematic because revealing that Bill ab*sed Ford in that way means that Alex would probably imply that Bill is doing the same to MINORS. I may sound paranoid and this may just be a ramble, but considering the show’s canon and how mythology is filled with cases of degenerative acts from deities, this is a really fucked up situation.

It may be funny to say “haha, evil triangle man is sexy” but at the end of the day, Alex stated that Bill has crossed over into our world. For all we know, he could be taking advantage of the fact that people thirst for him, probably not in pleasant ways.

#gravity falls #bill cipher #the book of bill #ford pines #tw abuse #tw grooming #Alex Hirsch #bill cipher x reader #is bill cipher real #I may overly psychoanalyse myself for the sake of making a statement #but what if #this took me a day to write #don’t cancel me #hear me out

[athina-blaine]

you can’t carry it with you if you want to survive (Nimona 2023) - Chapter 3 (Preview #1)

(Note: this is not the finalized draft; anything featured is subject to edits or deletion)

Chapter 2 (Recap)

As Ambrosius edged towards unconsciousness, he vaguely registered a harsh scratching noise, like nails scrambling against tile. Above him, someone yelled, followed by terrified screams and a mix of pained yelps and animal-like snarls. "Monster!" "Fucking hell–!" "It's got me, man, it's got my leg–!" The next thing he knew, the cadet's pinning weight disappeared, the shadows looming over him gone. The cadets had vanished, leaving Ambrosius alone on the hard floor, chest rattling as he struggled to breathe through the saliva and blood pooling in his mouth. Exhaustion enveloped him like a thick, suffocating fog. His body, heavy and sluggish, refused to cooperate as the adrenaline wore off. Despite his best efforts, his eyes started drifting closed. The last thing he saw was the muzzle of some creature as it stepped into his line of sight, its hot breath rustling his hair as it stared down at him with black, glittering eyes. Everything went dark.

Chapter 3 (Preview #1)

As Ambrosius regained consciousness, he gradually became aware that he was being slowly crushed.

Groaning, he writhed in discomfort, a dull, throbbing pain pulsating through his head. Prying his eyes open, he tried looking around, squinting underneath the harsh glare from bright lights above him. When he recognized nothing, panic squeezed his chest.

Before he could make sense of anything, however, a figure emerged above him, flashing a smile filled with impossibly sharp, jagged teeth.

Monster.

Ambrosius lurched upright, gasping as a wave of dizziness crashed over him and sent him toppling back down. Bile rose in the back of his throat and he had to screw his lips shut—the only thing that saved him from being sick was the fact that there was nothing in his stomach left to empty.

Struggling to keep his eyes open, he turned back towards the figure. “You …”

The shapeshifter’s grin widened. 

“Me,” she said. "Good to know your head isn’t completely meat-soup, nemesis. I was putting it at 3 to 1 against, personally.”

With a forceful swallow, Ambrosius attempted to lift himself once more, slower this time. The shapeshifter’s scarlet eyes remained fixed on him, shimmering with both curiosity and amusement. Human eyes, he noted. And yet, he had to fight back a surge of unease as he cast his gaze around the room, trying to take in his surroundings.

Instead of the trashed hotel lobby, he found himself inside a shabby, rundown shack of some kind. He was lying on a threadbare couch and had been buried under a truly staggering number of thick, fuzzy blankets. A fabric ice bag lay on the ground, melting in a small puddle of its own condensation; it must have fallen off his head just when he'd been shifting around.

He tried recalling those last few moments in the lobby, but his memory was a blur. There had been the cadets. Some kind of a commotion. The muzzle of a beast. And then, nothing.

Countless questions burned his tongue. When he opened his mouth, however, the shapeshifter shot out her hand.

“I already know what you’re going to ask,” she said, “and the answers are, in order: Here, there, don't know and don’t care, and, yes, this is a new top, thank you so much for noticing.”

Ambrosius blinked, wondering if perhaps his head had indeed been turned into meat-soup. She shot him an unimpressed look.

“Tough crowd. What, you hit your head or something?”

Laughing, she doubled over, slapping her knee. Ambrosius drew in a slow, deep breath, summoning all of his patience, and decided that it wasn't his head that was the issue here.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Oh, nowhere in particular.” Leaning forward, she dropped her voice to a low whisper. “Just the hellscape that haunts the dreams of good men. Where hope goes to die.” Straightening, she threw her hands over her head. “Welcome to the evil lair, nemesis.”

From the corner of his eye, Ambrosius took in the shack’s dilapidated walls and the junk scattered across the floor. An old board game sat abandoned on the coffee table, surrounded by dirty dishes and an almost empty jug of soda. A pizza box lay tipped over on its side, a few forgotten pieces of crust still inside.

He scrunched up his nose. Well. It certainly wasn’t like any evil lair he'd ever imagined when he was a kid. 

“Where are the cadets?" he asked, turning back to the shapeshifter. "Where’s Officer Laurel?”

Pinky digging into her ear, she lifted a brow. “Officer who now?”

“She was with me at the scene. Dark hair? Wearing a uniform? ”

“Oh, her!” she said, wiping her finger on her pants leg. “Yeah. I ate her.”

Ambrosius’ jaw slackened. Her sharp smile didn’t abate. His eyes widened. “You–”

She shoved his arm. “Freakin' relax, dude, you’re as gullible as the boss, you know that?” Shrugging, she started picking at her teeth. “Eh, she took one look at me and hit the deck. Like, fainted, like in an old movie or something.” Her eyes grew thoughtful. “Wouldn’t it be funny if she thought I was trying to eat you? That’d be pretty messed up, right?”

Ambrosius grimaced. Poor Officer Laurel; he'd need to check in with her as soon as possible. “And the cadets?”

“Those guys? Had them screaming for the hills. I’m pretty sure one of them peed his pants. Always, always funny.” Her eyes jumped to something over Ambrosius’ shoulder. “Oops, hold that thought.”

Ambrosius' eyes followed the shapeshifter as she rounded the couch before they dropped to his hands, his head still trying to process everything. Feeling dangerously close to overheating, he wriggled out from under the mountain of blankets, tossing them aside before sitting up. As he pulled out his phone, however, he scowled; the device had been crushed. Most likely a result of the fight. Another issue on his ever-growing list of problems to deal with later.

Thankfully, the screen still lit up for him at his touch. Dialing the most recent number, mindful of the cracks in the glass, he gingerly brought his phone to his ear.

“Sir!” said a voice as soon as the call connected. “Thank Gloreth, I didn’t know– I saw the cadets scampering off and I went inside and I saw this– this–” 

“Officer–”

“Sir, I saw this wolf-bear thing standing over you!” she exclaimed, her voice sharp with panic. “I think I must’ve passed out because when I woke up you were gone–”

“I’m okay, Officer,” Ambrosius said. “The wolf-bear thing is a …” 

Friend? 

But the word fell apart on his tongue. “… It was trying to help.”

“Oh! Well, that’s– That’s good, then!” She let out a forceful exhale, the sound crackling through the receiver. “I’m not sure what I would have done if something had happened to you, sir.”

Embarrassment crashed over him, sinking to the pits of his roiling stomach. He still couldn't believe he'd let a bunch of academy rookies get the better of him. How utterly disgraceful. “I’m okay. I just wanted to check in with you, Officer, make sure you weren’t hurt.”

“Forget about me, sir, it was five of those bastards against one of you! Are you sure you’re alright?”

For the first time since regaining consciousness, Ambrosius took a moment to assess how he was feeling. The side of his face was stinging, his knee aching as if it were being stabbed with a hot poker. He ran his tongue over a gash in his bottom lip, nausea rising at the metallic taste that burst in his mouth. Dizziness teased the edges of his vision, the room rocking gently on its side. Likely the results of a concussion.

The old injury in his shoulder was throbbing, pulses of dull, tingling pain shooting down his arm. He must have pulled it when he’d been throwing his weight around. He hadn’t even noticed. 

“I’ll live,” was all he said. Sighing, he lowered his head into his hand, wincing as he brushed his nose. Broken. “I'm sorry for frightening you, Officer, it wasn’t my intention. For now, you should just try and put all this behind you and return to your regular duties. I’ll take care of everything from here.”

He’d need to file a report first thing in the morning, and he tried keeping his pessimism at bay at the thought of the uphill battle that awaited him. Rarely had the objectionable behavior of cadets resulted in more than a terse reprimand during his academy days, and he knew things would only be more difficult in the kingdom’s current frenzied, emotional state. After the events of tonight, he’d likely just be seen as chasing a vendetta; the disgraced knight, in cahoots with monsters and villains, seeking revenge against the youths entrusted to protect the realm. He ran the very real risk of blessing those drunk, violent clowns with martyrdom. In fact, it felt inevitable.

His one consolation was that perhaps it would smooth things over with Starcrest's CEO if he’d already completed the bulk of the paperwork necessary for an insurance claim. A paltry comfort after a disastrous day—but it was something.

It took a moment for him to realize he’d yet to hear a response from the patrolwoman. He frowned. “Officer?”

A watery sniffle sounded on the other end of the phone. Alarm shot through him. “Officer Laurel?”

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said, her voice thick with misery. “I shouldn't have gotten you involved. None of this would have happened if I'd just tried harder sorting this out on my own."

His heart dropped, exhaustion settling over him like a heavy, smothering fog. “None of this is your fault. Your captain was wrong to put you in that situation in the first place. Rest assured, I’ll be filing a complaint with your senior staff first thing–”

"Frankly, sir, I don't give a rat's arse about my captain right now," she said, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. "They hurt you. You could have … you could have been … And it would've been all my fault.”

Ambrosius squeezed his eyes shut, guilt clawing at his chest. Of all the regrettable things to happen tonight, upsetting the patrolwoman might be the thing he regretted the most. “You did the best you could with the situation you were put in, Officer. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

She sniffled. “I'm sorry, sir. I just wisssshhhhzzzzzzztttt–”

Ambrosius flinched at the abrupt, strident static. “Hello? Officer?”

“Ssssszzzziiiiirrrrrrr–”

The line went dead. Ambrosius blinked, pulling his phone forward. The screen remained dark, however, and refused to respond to his attempts to turn it back on.

Cursing, he threw the device onto the coffee table and lowered his head, cradling his face. The patrolwoman’s melancholic words bounced around his skull, juxtaposed with the memory of the almost childlike delight in her eyes from earlier that night. It already felt like eons ago since he'd teasingly offered her an autograph—he should have known that he was setting himself up for disaster showboating like that. How would she look upon him now, if she saw him in this sorry, defeated state?

A dusty hand mirror rested on the coffee table. With a morbid curiosity, he picked it up, and, at the sight that greeted him, recoiled.

A furious, purpling bruise bled along the contour of his cheekbone and jawline, accompanying a bluish-black ring circling his now grotesquely swollen eye. Smaller bruises and cuts marred his lips and lower face from where the cadet had struck him, and the line of his nose had a slight crook to it. Broken, as he'd suspected.

The shadows beneath his eyes, a familiar sight in recent months and easily dismissed, now hollowed out his gaze with a stark, gaunt emptiness. He looked like a skeleton. A tired skeleton.

Tracing the discolored ring around his eye, Ambrosius tried to stamp down the hot, burning hopelessness constricting his chest. All the coverup in the world wasn’t going to fix this. He had no idea what he was going to do for the cabinet meeting tomorrow. He didn’t even want to think what Ballister was going to say.

Bal …

Amidst his brooding, he didn’t see the figure looming over him until it had leaned well into his personal space. When he noticed, he suppressed his urge to flinch. The shapeshifter grinned.

“You see a mirror and you just can't help yourself, can you?” she said, elbow resting on the arm of the couch. “I gotta hand it to you, though; you can really pull off a shiner.”

#nimona #goldenheart #fanfiction #fic #WOO i am COOKING yall #couldnt think of a better place to cut this off so take a big juicy preview for the road lmao #ambrosius and nimona's team building corporate retreat episode starts NOW :burning_elmo: #side note over 15 years ive been writing fic and i still grossly underestimate the final word count of my long fics #every time #give me a character introspection scene and ill take however many miles it takes to wrap around the moon #god help me if this gets to 10k words ...

[darkpoisonouslove]

👀👀

I hope you won't be disappointed if I do something a little different for one of those two emojis.

You know those "TV show/movie/characters being a comedy/comedic duo for x number of minutes" videos? I started making "Scream 3 being a comedy..." a couple weeks back but due to technical difficulties I haven't finished it yet:

And here's a rough draft of a scene from the Griffin x Faragonda enemies to lovers AU:

Sylvia just... looked bored. She may as well have been more intrigued by the tile patterns on the wall had Griffin's frame not obscured them from her gaze.

Griffin's body didn't feel her own, cold and distant like a corpse instead. She would have shivered if she could move, despite her best efforts.

"You're not half the witch your mother was. How do you think a horde of rogue paladins broke through the defense spells on your house?"

Her words lacked cruelty as if Griffin wasn't even worth that much. Any kind of emotion would become an acknowledgement of Griffin as an obstacle at the very least. To Sylvia she was nothing of the sort... nothing.

"What?" she choked out, her voice like glass shards she was forcing up her closing throat.

It wasn't right. The bitter taste on her tongue wasn't spite, familiar and invigorating. Her stomach was in a knot, the sick feeling trapped inside instead of becoming rising nausea. Her heart hammered so fast in her ears it was like she was plugged in the power grid, electricity crackling through her limbs. Her sight blurred. It was usually razor sharp, trained on the face in front of her to catch the furrowed brow, the twitch of the mouth, all while she gritted her teeth to keep her own insides from spilling to escape the burn.

Anticipation crawled across her ribs, prickling with every breath as if to make sure that she didn't inhale too much air, that there was still room inside her for the rest of Sylvia's point, hanging unspoken in the air. Now spite wouldn't have had the same weight, wouldn't have loomed just as threateningly over their heads, twisting Sylvia's arm into talking simply to get Griffin out of her office and take her desperation with her.

Sylvia tilted her head - a kind of acknowledgement that cut to the bone. Coupled with her voice piercing through Griffin, it released some of the tension stretching her taut.

"A paladin's power comes from devotion to a cause. The moment one goes rogue, it puts a dent in his magic that lets more and more of it seep away. It's by design. Either he's forsaken an integral part of his cause or he put his devotion into an imperfect representation of it. Either way the awareness of that remains in the back of their mind and corrodes their power.

"A doubly-enforced defense spell would never fail to a type of caster with a crack in their own belief system if the magic was distributed evenly across it. If you put weight on a rope braided from steel threads and wool ones, which ones do you think will give way first? Your magic was the weak link in that spell."

Her teeth sank into her tongue. Fire raced her nerves and the metallic tang of blood choked her. It was the only thing keeping her from spitting out what she knew, from showing her hand like a fool. She'd be dead on the floor before she could even entertain the notion of posing a threat to the family image Sylvia had cultivated so carefully over decades. Information was only leverage if it could reach its destination.

"Too bad your mother decided to stay home and devote her life to you instead of putting her superior powers to use," Sylvia poured more salt into the wound as if Griffin was some demon that would be chased away or destroyed by it.

"I don't see you parading around with your daughter."

There was no change in the witch's expression. She was talking to a statue made of pure self-interest and cold calculation.

"Faragonda might be a disappointment but she got you, didn't she?"

#winx club #winx griffin #sylvia lydiriev #griffin x faragonda enemies to lovers au #snippet #fanfic snippet #excerpt #my wips #scream 3 #my videos #ask #her-majesty-wears-jeans

[autumnalwalker]

Seven Snippets Seven People (Part 1)

Thank you for the tag, @mysticstarlightduck.

I've actually had two of this tag game sitting in my Drafts for a while now, and given what I just wrote last night for Chapter 21 of Empty Names I thought it might be fun to combine them a bit. This most recently written bit was basically one long sequence of Eris tripping out and losing her sense of self due to exposure to a Lovecraftian eldritch entity and experiencing warped hallucinatory versions of old memories that have either happened or been referenced earlier in the story.

So I thought it would be fun to put all those scenes back-to-back with the earlier parts that they're referencing.

But before I get started, softly passing the tag to @talesofsorrowandofruin, @druidx, @emeraldmew, @oh-no-another-idea, @ceph-the-ghost-writer, @theimperium, @acertainmoshke, and the usual open tag for anyone else who wants it.

(And here's the link to Part 2)

(Content Warning for some violence and mild body horror.)

Starting off with a conversation between Eris and Gretchen (her ex) a bit before this whole sequence starts:

“I’m sorry,” Gretchen says.  “Like you said, I wasn’t really myself when I was going on like that.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“It’s just… You know what it’s like.  The rush, the thrill, the anticipation.  The drumbeat in the back of your head that seems too loud to be simply your own heart.  The electric tingle down your spine that spreads through your whole body.  The way smell and taste start blurring together and your other senses all start feeding each other so that the whole world seems more.  The craving.  The memory of blood’s viscosity and the way a drop’s trail down the back of your hand catches on all the little hairs and gathers in the pores and creases.  The constant knowledge of how good the climax of the hunt feels.  Has felt.  Will feel next time.”

“I do.  All the more reason for you not to go in there.”

“It’s like that all the time now.  Even basking in that moment right after a kill it only ebbs away to a murmur.  It’s enough to make you think it might not be so bad if you never felt anything else.”

“Only ever feeling one thing?  Sounds like death to me, and I’d rather die as myself.”

Gretchen’s laugh is soft and bitter.  “You always say that.  Have you ever stopped to think that it might be becoming more yourself, not less?”

Now let us rewind a bit, back to the side story "There Are No Dogs In the Dog Park" with a scene from the POV of a werewolf being helped through her first transformation by Eris:

Howling.  All around her.  Inside her.  From her.  From her?

Lights growing so bright.  Nearly hurts. Colors warping draining distorting.  No more red.  No more green.  Wash of blues and yellows and grays. 

So loud.  Noises deafening.  Too much all at once.  Smells too.  So many.  So sharp.  Sickening. 

“She’s panicking!”

“First time’s always a trip.  She’ll get through it.”

Skin crawling.  Stretching.  Bones cracking, extending, filling in.  Doesn’t hurt but feels wrong.  Alien.  Itchy.  Where’s the mass coming from?  Can’t think about that.  Itches too much.  Outside and in.  Try to scratch.  Skin feels too soft.  Scratch feels too sharp. 

Look down.  Flinch back up.  Down again.  Arms covered in fur.  Hands end in claws.  Muscle growing as she watches.  She whimpers. 

“Sarah.  Sarah, look at me.”

Look up again.  Piercing eyes.  Solid face.  Holding her in place without touching.  An anchor. 

“You’re going to be alright.  Just breathe.  Take it slow.”

Nod.  Try to speak.  To say “okay.”  Hear a bark instead. 

Clap hands to mouth.  Hit her face too soon.  Mouth and nose are too far out.  Don’t think of the word for it.  Don’t make it real. 

Try to stand up.  Stumble.  Center of mass is all wrong.  Joints don’t bend right.  Body so heavy.  Struggle back up.  Look around.  Surrounded by wolves and things that are almost wolves but wrong.  Where is she?  How did she get here?

“Sarah…”

People here too.  Staring at her.  Why are they looking at her?  Please stop looking at her.  Go away.  Get away.  Need to get away.

“She’s running!”

“It’s fine!  She just needs time to work through it.  Follow but give her space!”

Keep moving.  Two legs?  Four?  Which works better?  Find a rhythm.  Pick up speed.  Just need to get away.  Can’t get away from herself.  Something wrong inside her.  Need to get it out.  Get it out!

Fence ahead.  Trapped.  In a cage.  Need to get it out.  Need to get out.  Need to escape. 

“She’s going for the fence!”

“Should I tranq her?”

“Jeez, calm down guys.  Don’t worry, I got this.”

Hand on the chainlinks, furry and clawed.  Is that really her hand?  Who else’s could it be?  Feels wrong.  What does right even look like?  Stop looking.  Just climb.  Pull to climb.  Pulling rips the metal away.  Breaks the links.  Snaps and pops hurt her ears.  Too loud.  Everything is too loud.  So strong.  Monstrously strong.  She’s a monster.  She’s a monster.  She’s -

“Sarah…”

Is that her name?  Is that her?

Turn around.  Someone right behind her.  Looks familiar.  Looks too small.  

“I know yer freaking out right now, but I’m going to need ya to get away from the fence.  Can’t have you getting lost out there.”

Solid presence.  An anchor.  Remember to breathe.  A hand extended.  Reach out to take it.

“That’s right.  Now let’s get you back to the others.”

Now then, let's us look at the nightmare version of that:

Eris is hunting.

A chill wind blows across a moonlit prairie.  The rush, the thrill, the anticipation, are almost too much to bear as she chases down a pack of lupine shadows.  One falls to a spear.  Another is caught by its tail and dragged to the ground.  A third turns and raises itself on two legs to face its hunter.  Its claws meet with only open air.  Her claws meet with its heart.

There is a disappointing lack of blood.  They are naught but shadows afterall.

The pack’s lone survivor sprints for the treeline, wild with fear, only to find a chainlink fence between itself and safety.  She is still half human, and her eyes are fully so when she looks back at her hunter.

There’s a name Eris should remember and call out at this part.  She doesn’t, but what does it matter?  It’s just a beast.

What was she hunting again?  It doesn’t matter.  It’s all just prey in the end.

The clock turns back to another conversation between Eris and Gretchen, reminiscing on old times:

Eris gasps in mock indignation.  “Me?  A menace?”

“You got an amusement park shut down.”

“Miraclezone Fun Park had already closed its doors for four whole days by the time we got there, thank you very much.  You know, on account of all the mysterious deaths that got our attention in the first place.”

“Maybe, but derailing a roller coaster so that it crashes into the middle of an amphitheater certainly didn’t help their odds of reopening once the weird ape spider things that were eating the night shift employees were dealt with.”

“Says the woman who decided to draw the beasts out by plugging her phone into the sound system, turning on all the stage lights, and doing a solo dance number without realizing how many there were infesting the park.  You’re lucky my aim was good enough to take out half of them when I landed.”

“More like you’re lucky I was fast enough to dodge that mess.  I’ll hand it to you though, you made one helluva first impression climbing out of the wreckage, ripping off one of the coaster’s safety bars one-handed and using it as a club to lay into the rest of the… what even were those things anyway?”

“Some alchemist’s escaped mad science experiments.  It was in the Crossherd papers a few days later when the guy got bagged for a gross violation of the Masquerade after the cops showed up and found a bunch of dead eight-legged monkeys.”  Eris shakes her head in exasperation.  “I still can’t believe we didn’t get caught for that.”

“Fitzy’s always been good at covering for his bar’s patrons.  It’s half the point of 121813.”  Gretchen pauses, searching her memory.  “That night was your first time there, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.  You offered to buy me a drink and I was too busy trying to hide the fact that my arm was broken to turn you down.”

“Your arm was broken?”

“And a few ribs.  Did something to my ankle too, but by that point I already had a good grasp on how fast I heal and I was trying to look cool for the chick who was killing rabid chimeras with a spear in time with the baseline on metal music blasting from stadium speakers.”

But this memory too can become twisted:

The chainlink fence rattles and shrieks when she tears it down and stalks between the support struts of the rollercoaster.  The drumbeat in the back of her head seems too loud to simply be her own heart.  Perhaps it is the music pounding from that amphitheater over there.  Eight-legged shadows leap from support strut to support strut and skitter along the tracks above.  What an annoyance, that noise is luring her prey away from her.  

A freezing from the spear, a few good kicks, and a mighty heave are all it takes to knock out the nearest pylon and set the entire rollercoaster around her crashing down.  The music of the collapsing metal all around her is enough to drown out the metal of the music from the amphitheater, but the drumbeat in her skull is louder still.

She steps on one of the wretched chimerical shadows trying to free itself from the wreckage as she stalks toward the alleyway behind the amphitheater.

Oh, yes, that’s right.  She’s hunting Gretchen.  The snake, the spider, her lioness.

A moment of comparative memory from Lacuna's POV, back in Chapter 10, in the wake of the team's first mission together as a group:

It is well and truly night by the time the two of them ascend the stairwell of their building.  Neither of them break the heavy silence as they pass Lacuna’s floor on by up to Eris’s together.  Lacuna strains to keep from grunting as Eris leans on her more heavily than she had been for the last ten minutes - ever since she started limping - while she fishes out her keys and opens the door to her apartment.  It’s Lacuna who quietly flips the lightswitch as they step inside and then gently shuts and locks the door behind them.

It’s not the first time Lacuna’s helped her friend to bed.  That had been about three months after meeting her, and had thoroughly killed the crush she’d had on her at the time but thankfully been too scared to confess.  The fact that Eris took to calling her “sis” not long after had nailed said crush’s coffin shut tight.  But in all honesty, she prefers their relationship this way.

It is however the first time Lacuna’s seen what got her friend into this state for herself.  Sure, even that first time Eris had regaled her with the dramatic tale of the monster hunt that left her tired enough and badly cut enough to ask for help getting home (that one had been something called a “hodag”), but she’d always found her friend already some distance away from wherever the battle had taken place, even on the night when she took Eris to Doc’s instead of home.  And even on that worst night, sitting in the waiting room of the clinic they met at, the reality of what her best and only friend does for fun never truly sunk in until now.

What was that first encounter that made Eris ask Lacuna to help her get home? It wasn't this. This is just a twisted shadow of that memory cut short...

The alleyway is awash with the scent of buzzard meat, skunk perfume, and pine scented car air freshener emanating from the dumpster at the far end.  An electric tingle runs down her spine and spreads through her whole body as she walks past the garbage truck that has taken her to so many trailheads with signs of new quarry within the dream-born city.  The shadow that erupts from the refuse is all horns, claws, spines, and teeth.  It is long enough to wrap itself around her, heavy enough to pull her down to the ground when it does, and vicious enough to keep wrestling with her even after she snaps off its saber fangs.

She recalls a dim memory that this thing once hurt her badly enough that she called for help to return to her home lair afterward.  The one who answered should never have had to see her like that.  She will make this shadow pay for that.

By the time she realizes the shadow is dead and gone, the pavement is shattered, the dumpster is rent in twain, and the engine of the garbage truck she was once responsible for is totalled.  There is no proper satiation to hunting shadows.  All chase and fight, but no release.  She retrieves her spear and vaults over the wall at the end of the alleyway.  Perhaps when she finds her true prey at the end of this she will bring satisfaction.

No, that’s not right, she’s supposed to be searching for Gretchen, not hunting her.

(Continued in Part 2)

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #my writing #tag game #writing tag games #seven snippets seven people #7 snippets 7 people #empty names

[branch-wdk53]

Pre-L Corp: Mahason

Most of his memories begin during the Smoke War.

I mean… he does recall that beforehand, he was attending school. Even during that seemingly peaceful time, he was told about the ongoing war. It’s not often Wings fight each other. And given that the school was directly in K Corp, it’s natural that news is constantly circulating.

He knew that many of his classmates were volunteering. They didn’t seem to be happy about it, he observed. Mahason, too, was drafted. Mostly because of his family’s persistence to be honest, and so he didn’t have much of a choice. Something about moving to the Nest.

The boy didn’t know what to think. Was this the best he could do with his life…? Perhaps so, as a Backstreets kid doesn't have much going for him.

There’s an unsettling feeling there, the thoughts about the outcome- if he manages to survive, he did good, right? If not, then he’ll just die, and that’s that. Frankly, at this point, it may seem best to use his life in this way.

He doesn’t see any other option, given the limitations at this age. It was more ideal to think of it as more of a sacrifice than something less. Just as he was told and taught.

“I will do my best in order to die as soon as possible, like falling cherry petals.”

The boy doesn’t remember much after that. Training here. Lessons there. What he remembers more was when he was helping with the daily affairs, such as the barracks and dining halls for the young soldiers. He watched as other groups dranked, yelled, sang, wrote wills… Even though these “volunteers'' were said to be ready to sacrifice themselves… I suppose this is what they really felt in their final nights before death.

Deep down, Mahason already knew that. The painful, unresolved ambiguities of their tragically brief lives.

The rubbery flesh of the pink and white petals really does look and feel like human skin. And like snow, they rapidly cover the ground in a layer of red.

He looked up at the sky. Like many others, the only things he saw were the high rise buildings and smoke.

Unlike his expectations, he survived for a few days. Granted, he didn’t see much troops from his , so it’s most likely that they assumed he died in some horrific fashion.

During that blur of blood and bodies, Mahason went to the edge of conflict to catch his breath. He hears quick footsteps, heading out of the District. Realizing the oddity, he turns a corner and sees someone with a rifle exiting from the battle. Their hand only loosely holds the firearm, which may mean they're out of ammunition.

Stepping out and approaching them, they must’ve heard him, in which even though their pace threatened to quicken, they suddenly paused and swerved around to face Mahason, rifle drawn. The boy paused upon seeing the rifle now being pointed at him. Though, he makes no effort to draw his sword in front of him, leaving it at his side.

There was a moment of standstill, neither side breathing or moving. Watching what the other may do. Mahason examined them closely, recognizing that the clothes they were wearing was that of an opposing force fighting in the war. Though, no one else with that uniform was around this area. They also had a full-face gas mask, so he couldn’t tell their expression.

But if he looked closed enough, he could see the rifle shaking ever so slightly.

“…Are you… deserting?” The boy muttered.

He sees the slightest of movement.

“What of it?” They quietly said.

Mahason’s hold on his sword somewhat loosened. ‘If this is how I die… then I have no regrets.’ The boy looked off to the side, seeing the person harden their grip on their rifle from his peripheral vision. After a moment, he fully turns around.

“There might be others nearby.” He simply said.

He starts walking back towards the action, watching the smoke billowing from the distance. He hears a footstep, then another. Those footsteps quickening in pace, fading away.

When Mahason looked back, no one was there.

It was not long after that he thought, "I shall plunge into the enemy and fall like petals.”

There was a particularly troublesome outpost. A captain was in it, and would be helpful if it was destroyed. The memories of what exactly happened here are blurry. What he does remember was when his sword was knocked away, with a soldier in a headlock, he pulled out a grenade and pulled the pin.

Suddenly, his vision swayed, a high-pitch ringing filling his ears. Immense pain flooded his head- no, his entire body. But in another instance, he finds himself in an inner world filled with airplanes, flowers, friends, and dreams.

In another moment, Mahason finds himself on a hospital bed. Sitting up was slightly painful, but he was able to see that he’s in some room. Not long after, a doctor comes in, shocked to see him.

When Mahason tried to speak, he felt his throat strained, having difficulty in finding his voice. Coughing a bit, when his voice does come to him, it’s low and hoarse. Quietly asking what happened, the doctor said someone dropped him off, even paying for everything. Mahason found it strange, even though he had never heard of their name, and had expected to die.

The main after effect was scars and his damaged vocal cords. Once he no longer feels pain from moving, he’s free to leave. Despite the strange situation he has found himself in, he accepted it, since he literally can’t do anything else. And thus, much time passes. After sufficiently recovering, the staff returned his gear, as apparently the person had also managed to restore what he thought was definitely destroyed.

Leaving the building, Mahason wasn’t really sure if he should even return back to District 11. Considering it’s most likely that his family thinks he’s dead. Mulling over what to do, that’s when I decided to make myself known at last.

#art.png #facility x-535 #agent.mahason #writing.logs #i wrote a lot in a blur

[drowning-in-cacophony]

Stealing Girls

For @flashfictionfridayofficial Prompt 210: the sand ocean

Summary: Raki brings a girl across the sand ocean

The first girl’s name had been Sarah.

Or Daphne. Or Mila. Honestly, it’s hard to remember what name came first; what name came last. Their letters, their faces, they all blur together nowadays. It’s a distantly sad fact, maybe, or sad for others if they ever heard. It’s a way of life; the sand ocean gives, but it takes too, and Raki’s been doing this for so long.

The latest girl is a full foot shorter than her, but keeps up diligently. The wrap across her face is a silk handkerchief, fabric that reminds Raki of her other life, the parts she has to play sometimes. Silk never feels right against her skin, but the way the girl has pressed her lips to it makes Raki think maybe it did for her, once. Once, before the wheels had turned and set her on this path out into the ocean.

Raki’s boots scrap against the ground under their dartingly quick pace – it’s never wise to linger, not right here on the border between civilisation and the sea beds. It’s not soft, the ground, like layers of sand might denote, but hard, harder than rock. Once she’d tripped and skinned open her knee, the droplets of blood a stunning crisp against the sun-withered grains. Now she wears knee guards, makes the girls wear them too. There’s no point in dripping their cursed blood all over the waves, who knows what it could summon?

Though truthfully, that was the first thought to shadow the second: that it’d hurt, and she’d not wish that on these girls.

Raki casts a look over her shoulder. Civilisation’s a distant speck, but a speck is still too close for comfort. It’s daylight now; whoever this girl belonged with before would have risen with the rays of light. Will they have found the empty room yet, left pristine in absence? Will they have risen the alarms, calling about the blue-veined thief having struck again?

“Midday.”

Raki twitches. Looks at the girl, the word muffled by the gentle silk.

“They won’t check my room until midday at the earliest. I’ve been slowly moving down when I wake, claiming headaches and the like. They won’t want to disturb me – won’t want to risk my waning energy.”

Raki raises a brow. “Clever.” Her own words are muffled too, because only an idiot walks into the ocean without any sort of filter from the sand. It’s well-behaved enough that a scrap of fabric works well enough, that more professional filters aren’t usually needed unless there’s a storm. Not that the people who whisper their horror at the ocean ever seem to understand that. It’s all oh no, the grains give you poisoning and the sun tries to eat through your skin like acid and the very atmosphere wants you dead which yeah, has some merit because the oceans are far from easy and safe, but it’s not what they mean when they whisper those things. They mean it in the same way they mean that no one comes back from the sand ocean the same way. Something mystical, something demonic. Something terrifying, creeping towards their borders with malevolence.

There’s a grain of truth in every story, but most of the time if someone’s gone different from the ocean, it’s just simple heat stroke.

Most of the time. If you've not spent as much time out here as Raki.

The girl shrugs. If she flushes at the comment, if she reacts much at all – the silk hides it. It’s only her eyes that Raki can really see, through that silk and the hair that drops forward over her face. Dark at the tops, swimming in cold bright blue at the bottoms. That, and the faint veins that she’s already seen staining across the girl’s cheeks and hands, is the sign of her curse. Or blessing, depending on who you ask. Her parents, who she’s gone to this much effort to foil: a blue-blooded girl would only bring them such delights, and it’s not them that’d suffer the sacrifice so why not call it blessing? The Elders, of course, because it was them that first drafted the whole thing to life.

Ask Raki, and it’s a curse, but a curse she can, will and does have a chance of making a whole lot better for the unfortunate girls.

“We can’t let our pace falter anyway. How much energy do you have?” It’s been two hours of walking already; surely the girl must be feeling it. The burning in her blue streaks, every burst of oxygen just making it a little worse, more by more. She’s not so far along that Raki will have to drag her unconscious across the oceans – she’s done that enough. With… she can’t remember their names, but she remembers their small hands, their gasping eyes that had never shut. How when they had, halfway across the oceans and finally close enough that the fumes releasing from the cracked ground had hit them, it’d been such sheer relief.

They say the sand ocean takes and changes, and maybe it does. But what it gives these girls is more than worth the prices. They need the fumes more than oxygen; the ocean needs whatever it strips from Raki and the others whenever they traverse, and it’s worth it. Raki will forget a thousand faces if she can steal back a thousand more.

The girl’s swimming eyes narrow. The silk sticks to her lips as she huffs. “Enough.”

Determination, a in-step pace and cleverness over weeks. Under her own cloth, Raki feels her lips twitch into an almost smile.

“Good.”

They say that no one comes out of the sand ocean the same as they went in; that’s fine, though, because all of the people Raki takes in never need to come out again.

#flash fiction friday #flash fiction #short story #writeblr #word count: 971 #this is sort of reminiscent of an old idea I had #involving the blue veins/breathing thing #not too sure how coherent this is though because of that #anna's writing

[wilhelmjfink]

Tough Luck

*Stede bonnet voice* hi all! I’ve had a broken hand and been in a brace for months. They wanna do surgery but I refuse. So I just haven’t written anything. Ever. So uh. Sorry. But thanks to everyone who’s been lurking and liking my old stuff :,) literally gets me up in the morning

This was in my drafts. Could be years old. Who knows? Starting our favorite asshole, Negan. I think it was a drabble request. I have no idea where I am even at right now. Plz enjoy.

—

Boy, he’d been pissed.

Vaguely, like a fever dream, is the image of Negan stepping into your line of sight when Simon had swung open the van doors to start loading up whatever Alexandria had given you guys for the week. Or rather, whatever you’d stolen from them for the week, if you’re splitting hairs…

But you’d held your finger up to your lips — not quick enough — the second that Simon cocked his head and blurted out your name curiously, you could easily see Negan’s ears perk up like a god damn bloodhound at the sound, and when he spun around, spotting you crouched in the back of the hauler… holy shit.

You’d only had time to argue briefly, hushed tones throwing harsh accusations and a litany of curse words from one particular side of the party, while Simon oversaw the rest of the crew as they collected the food and ammunition and supplies from the town of Alexandria.

And it was a cute little town. You really had no clue why he would never let you come along on these runs; why he’d deemed them so dangerous. It looked like something you’d seen in the cover of Homes and Gardens, honestly. You’d liked it at first. Well, maybe you still liked it — you couldn’t quite remember anything past Negan fuming at you for sneaking along on what you assumed should’ve been a simple run for him.

Because now, you’re in the back of that same hauler, headed away from the cute little town of Alexandria, for foggy some reason. Twice as fast as you’d headed there. Driving erratically, lying in the back of a van that was supposed to be stocked full of goods. Instead, in their spot, was Negan, crouched beside you with one hand steadying himself on the headset of the drivers seat, and the other (rudely) pushing down painfully onto your stomach as he barked orders that you might be positive were just more swear words, if you could understand him at all. Your head was swimming, and your ears rung.

A pothole jolted the vehicle and you bounced with it, unintentionally crying out in the stabbing pain it caused your abdomen, also getting Negan’s attention.

Wild eyes glanced down at you, then back toward the driver. “I said fuckin’ take it god damn easy!”

“Sorry, boss — I’m tryin’ to hurry!”

Trying to focus on the blur of colors passing by you in the back window didn’t help much to distract you from the pain. In fact, you were sure Negan was making it worse, and you weakly reached up a bloodied hand — you only stopped to gawk at it in confusion for just a moment — and push Negan’s arm away from you. He didn’t budge, but instead, used his free hand to lower yours back down to your side.

“Knock it off,” he told you, his voice gentler than it had been when he was addressing the driver. “Rag’s already fuckin’ soaked through.”

You winced. “Hurts.”

It was only when Negan’s darkened eyes found yours again that you noticed his change in expression: the softening of his features was when you realized he’d been furious, permanently scowling with brows furrowed. That was, until he looked at you and recognized the pain in your eyes, the tears that poured down your cheeks. A Negan that you couldn’t quite remember ever seeing before in your life — granted, you were having trouble remembering what had happened ten minutes ago, but still. New. Maybe comforting, if it wasn’t oddly worrisome.

“I know it hurts, doll,” he exhaled, gaze flickering to your stomach where his strong hand secured previously mentioned blood-soaked rag. It stained his fingers now, too, and it made you feel bad. You liked his hands. “We’re almost back, Carson’ll fix your sweet ass right up, okay? Just a bit longer.”

For some reason, your hands started to feel numb. And the tips of your toes, too. “Are you upset with me?”

Your question seemed to take Negan by surprise: “Am I — what? Am I upset…” The surprise faded quickly and was replaced with understanding. “Oh.”

“I just don’t like being left behind.”

With an exasperated sigh, Negan situated himself into more of a cross-legged position, adjusting his tall form as comfortably as he could in the cramped space of the van while also skillfully managing never to alleviate any pressure on your stomach. “Yeah. Yeah, Y/N, I’m pretty fuckin’ pissed off right now. But we’ll talk about it later. Just try and relax for now.”

“I just…” Words were hard to find and your mouth was dry. “I worry that you won’t come back,” your voice was straining slightly now and added some sort of emotion to your sentence. Or maybe it was the sudden rush of tears and sobs lodging in your throat at the memories of watching him leave on runs and nights laying awake wondering if he would ever come back to you or if he was dead in the woods somewhere.

He steadied himself against the back of the seat and stared at you intently, as if he was trying to get an exact read on you in that moment. Were you delirious, just talking out of your ass from blood loss? Were you trying to soften him up, knowing very well you’ll be in a lot of trouble if and when you heal up from this back at Sanctuary?

Or were you legitimately scared for Negan? Did you really stare up at the off-white popcorn ceilings when you should be sleeping, wondering if he was safe and alive? You weren’t sure why it was such a hard concept for him to grasp, at first, but then you remembered exactly who you were dealing with… maybe the blood loss was making you delirious.

Closely you watched him through half-hooded eyes as he swallowed thickly before finally responding. “Darling, I will always do everything in my power to come back to you, alright?”

You forced a pained smile up at him.

“But there’s a fuckin’ reason I don’t take you on out certain jobs. Exhibit A.” He nodded pointedly at your abdomen, as if you could’ve forgotten what he was talking about. “I don’t fucking trust these pricks. This group… they’re fucking stubborn. They are trying deliberately to break the rules and fight me. The egg head hand-god-damn-made one single fucking bullet for the one gun they had that they were gonna use to shoot me today. And look what fucking happened!”

“Wrong place, wrong time,” you rasped. If you could have shrugged, you would have. The vehicle slowed and you could hear the familiar creaking of iron gates opening as you pulled into Sanctuary. “One single bullet? Sounds kinda lucky to me.”

“Yeah, and no offense, sweetheart,” Negan started, shifting awkwardly but carefully as to not jostle you too much when the van doors swung open. Gently, knowing there was no way to move you without it hurting, he slid his clean arm under your upper back and the bloodstained one under your knees, lifting you slowly from the back of the cargo van. You hissed, stiffening, dropping any attempt at a front to seem tougher than you really were. “You aren’t exactly the luckiest fucking gal I’ve ever met. You have a tendency to run right the fuck into danger and get yourself hurt. So, you can’t blame me for wanting to keep you safe and sound here, short of wrapping your fine ass in bubble-wrap.”

“Danger has a tendency to run into me,” you corrected him, though you weren’t sure he even heard you until you saw him roll his eyes��� maybe even with the ghost of a smile on his lips?

Or maybe the blood loss was making you delirious.

#the walking dead #the walking dead fanfiction #twd #twd fanfiction #reader insert #negan #the walking dead negan #negan x reader #negan fanfiction #negan x you #negan x y/n #twd negan

[meili-sheep]

Diluc ignoring a severe injury and trying to “sleep it off” but loses a lot of blood, the bed is heavily stained with blood and he runs a very high fever. Chiluc headcanons for this type of scenario?

So a weird thing happened with this ask. On my desktop, Tumblr wouldn't load all my asks. BUT!

Me being smarty pants. I was able to get all the asks to load on mobile. So I saved it into my drafts for there! And voilà!! But I can see you re-submitted. So what I'll do is I'll put a little drabble here and then do more injuries headcanons with the other ask.

So warning angst ahead

Diluc was very much aware he was still bleeding as he entered his room. But he simply couldn't find the energy to care. The pain had faded away to a light throbbing.

He pressed his hand to his stomach, feeling the sticky combination of drying and fresh blood coat his hand.

It will probably be fine.

He let himself fall onto his bed with a soft thump. Not even bothering to remove his cloak or shoes.

-

It was early. Well, diluc would call it early; Childe would just call it morning. He had traveled through the night trying to make it back to Diluc all so they could have some more time to spend together. He was certain he was going to get scolded for waking Diluc. Then Diluc would complain about having to work, but he'd ultimately take the day off.

Well, that's all that Childe thought would happen as he entered Diluc's room.

But as soon as he saw the scene before him, that all went out to the window as a deep black fear swallowed him.

There were blood stains on the floor leading from the window to the bed. And one the bed laid Diluc. His normally perfectly white silk sheet was now a deep red color, and Diluc was deathly still.

"Diluc!" Childe hurried to his lover's side, quickly rolling Diluc over.

His face was pale, but his skin was cold and clammy and only when Childe put his cheek close to Diluc's face could he feel a weak breath.

Oh Thank the archons he was alive!

Quickly Childe removed everything in the way of Diluc's injuries as called out for Adelinde.

The next few moments were a total blur in Childe's mind, and Adelinde came and went fetching medical supplies for Childe and helping him move Diluc into a more comfortable position.

"You're a fucking bastard," Childe spoke as he gave a last tight pull on the bandages. "And a stupid one on top of that! I mean, who just lets this go!"

There was no response.

"Seriously. A stupid, stupid idiot." Childe got put, taking a second to look over his hands work.

They had changed the sheets, then stripped Diluc to his underwear and laid Diluc properly in his bed. It seemed like the bleeding had finally stopped as there were only faint prints of blood on the fresh bandages. The probably was now Diluc was running a fever.

Childe could only frown as he carefully placed a wet cloth over Diluc's forehead. Then he pulled the covers over his lover's body, only taking Diluc's hand as he took sat back down in the chair next to the bed.

"I'll never forgive you. If you let your own carelessness take you." He gently pressed his lips on Diluc's fingertips. "When you wake up. I'm going to make you a promise. That you won't let anyone but me kill you alright?"

There was a soft groan and a weak shuffle of the moment.

Childe smile.

"Because you know... You're the only one allowed to kill me." He gave Diluc's fingers another kiss.

There was another groan, and Childe could only sigh with relief. He knew Diluc would never choose to kill him. And he knew he could never kill Diluc. So he leaned over and placed a soft kiss on the sleeping man's lips.

"That's the only death I'll accept."

#tw: injury #tw: blood #I don't that's a romantic as you think it is childe #my writing #Diluc #Diluc Ragnvindr #Diluc Genshin Impact #Childe #Childe Genshin Impact #Tartaglia #Ajax #Ajax Genshin Impact #Chiluc #Diluc x Childe #Childe x Diluc

[beck-a-leck]

Was talking Rune Factory HCs and the mechanics of the Return spell with some folks on Discord.

Got an Idea.

Immediately made the Idea Angsty TM

Had to write the story

I was prompted to make the Angsty Idea for Randolph/Yuki, and hoo boy the ideas started flowing.

This really was supposed to be a short little snippet, just to highlight the mechanics and angst of the headcanon, but as per usual with me, it's getting a little out of hand.

it's turning into a full Randolph/Yuki romance backstory. it's gonna happen.

But for now, have a rough draft little peek at some of what I've written.

Most of it will be beneath a cut for length, but also because of depictions of physical trauma. Read with caution.

💜💜💜

Randolph regained consciousness when he hit the stone floor of his cell. He didn’t remember getting dragged out of the courtyard, down the prison steps.

He stirred weakly, in too much pain to do more than twitch a muscle. He rolled onto his back and had to stop and catch his breath. He couldn’t see well. He could feel the hot blood pouring from his face where the other prisoner’s blade had caught him. He tried to force that eyelid open but only saw darkness. The other eye was nearly swollen shut. He could see blurs, light and shadows, large shapes, anything beyond that… a Silver Wolf could be right next to him and he’d never know until the beast’s teeth were in him.

And even then. Randolph was in so much pain he was fairly certain getting mauled by a wolf would not register to his body. His nerves were maxed out.

Randolph drifted in and out of consciousness. He was bleeding too much. He could feel his splintered bones moving places they should not be.

Randolph was not going to survive the night.

Every time he closed his eyes, he expected that to be the last time.

His mind left his body. If these were his last hours alive, he’d rather spend them dwelling on better places and kinder people. He thought about Yuki and the others in Rigbarth who had welcomed him with open arms. He thought about those pleasant walks to nowhere, arm in arm with Yuki, splashing into the surf, dragging her along as she squealed about the seaweed touching her, long nights alone together at the observation point stargazing.

“HEY!”

Cold water splashed over Randolph’s face, bringing him unwillingly back to reality. He could barely make out the dark shape of a guard at his cell door. He’d just dumped the cup of water that was part of Randolph’s dinner over his face.

“If you’re going to die, have the decency to wait until the night shift comes in, you useless bastard!”

There was a thin splat and hollow clatter as he dropped Randolph’s food just past the bars. Then he was gone.

Randolph’s head felt like it weighed a ton as he turned it slowly to look. It didn’t take the rats long at all to run out and claim the food as their own. He didn’t care. He’d rather not have a last meal than eat that.

Randolph closed his eyes again. A last meal… he’d give anything to have one of Yuki’s jam rolls just one more time.

Randolph dreamed of the bakery. His imagination was so vivid he could almost smell the fresh-baked bread. But what he most wanted was standing behind the counter, with that sweet smile of hers as she helped a customer.

“Yuki.”

“Randolph!” Her eyes lit up. She vaulted over the counter and threw herself into his arms. “Honey, where have you been? It’s been so long! I thought something terrible had happened.”

Randolph hesitated just long enough to feel Yuki’s solid arms around him, and then he held her close, tight. He buried his head in her shoulder, her scent filled his nose, and he wanted to hold onto her and never ever let go.

He thought he would die before seeing her again.

He was dying. He knew this wasn’t real. But it felt real. And he wasn’t going to go without saying what he needed to.

“Yuki, I’m sorry, I’ve been a godsdamned idiot. I love you. I love you so much. I never, ever want to leave you again. Can you forgive me? I said such horrible things. I’m sorry.” He was sobbing now. Holding onto her like he was a drowning man and she was the only thing keeping his head above water.

“I want to come home, Yuki. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home.”

Randolph repeated that last line over and over. His dying wish. If he couldn’t be with Yuki, at least he could dream about it.

His body hurt. The pain was excruciating in places where he wasn’t going cold and numb. His vision started to darken, and then went white around the edges. He had the strangest sensation of floating, and then gravity returning all too suddenly, knocking the breath from his lungs and driving splintered bone deeper into places it should not be.

The pain shattered the illusion. The dream of Yuki disappeared from his arms. Curiously, the scent of the bakery lingered.

He could faintly hear a voice, someone down the cellblock screaming, but they almost sounded like Yuki. They called for a doctor – couldn’t be for him. He was too far gone.

Someone cradled his head in their lap, held his hand. Did they think he was already dead? Wasn’t he still breathing?

Honestly, he couldn’t tell.

He cracked his eye open one last time. He saw Yuki looking over him, haloed in warm light.

Randolph smiled and let go.

#becky writes things #rune factory #rune factory 5 #rf5 #i have done zero proof reading of this bit. I've just been writing in a frenzy tonight lmao #we'll see what I find upon a reread tomorrow