#❅ *:･ﾟ✧┆cold blooded strike. ❪ starters ❫

[rainystarters]

๋࣭ ⭑𓆩✧𓆪🗡ྀ࿔ 〖 stories and songs . . . 〗 a collection of sentence starters inspired by various codex entries from the dragon age rpg series. some prompts usfw. adjust details as necessary.

the wind that stirs their shallow graves carries their song.

heed our words, hear our cry.

oh, fair damsel of the garden!

surely your work is far too vital to be interrupted by one like me.

i was a fool to pluck that flower.

you are not a man known for your honor.

you allowed me to live once, and so now i do the same for you.

i am humbled by your words.

but some things cannot be repent.

there is something in here with us.

death is certain, either way.

you have been my rock and my shield.

strike true, do not waver. and let not your prey suffer.

as the sapling bends, so must you.

you are lost, and soon you will fade.

go forth and claim the empty throne of heaven.

you have brought doom upon the world.

magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.

they shall find no rest in this world or beyond.

there is but one truth.

all things in this world are finite.

each night in dreams you may always remember me.

the light shall lead you safely.

i am but your faithful servant.

if blood must be shed and used, so be it.

step away from this folly, before it consumes us all.

i long to dance with you beneath the moonlight.

do not despair. for it is not you, it is of me.

my most heartfelt apologies for the ripped bodice.

such depravity i have never been forced to suffer!

let them hunt, and dread finding me.

truth will hold you for that is what truth does.

i shouldn't have doubted your resolve.

please accept my humble apologies.

in truth, it is i who has been most vulnerable.

the seals are already weakening.

it must be protected at all costs.

of unknown metal and magic keen, a finer blade there's never been.

any army is only as good as its equipment.

blessed by the vine in spring, i shall not fear the winter's sting.

only fools ignore the history of the ground they walk and the people they meet.

i could use an extra pair of eyes to keep watch at night.

i hope they found peace.

blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.

in blood, my will is written.

we are forever in your graces.

the oath you have taken is all but broken.

can you be forgiven when the cold grave has come?

once we raised up our chalice in victory.

why change the past when you can own this day?

the wolves are our allies.

always keep an eye out for the noble owl.

nothing burns like the first cup.

gallows master, hold they hand. hold it back awhile.

look away, look into the sun.

you know we all are dying.

alas, i cannot stay.

we'll beat down the bastard, and then we'll get plastered!

what of the old secrets the burn in our hearts?

now we pray for a dawn that will never arrive.

but it is our blood he seeks.

you will realize the smiles are false, and behind them lies revenge.

for all your fancy intrigue, you have spent your life creating nothing of worth.

it moves on without you, uncaring.

who could bear the weight of a people destroyed by his hand?

what was your vision of our purpose?

so buy the lads a round.

i'm ashore for the night and seeking company.

i'd still rather die.

why be what i am when i can be more?

have you threatened to cut out anyone's tongue today?

for have i not grown in skill and measure?

binding a demon of higher power is dangerous...

let it be my choice to have served and died.

i'm not staying to watch you die like a fool.

the undead you have been fighting are people i killed with my own hands.

here is my soul, trapped in a cage of bone.

turn around, face the shadows. don't blink.

just going to lie here for a while.

chopping off their heads should do the trick.

i am empty, filled with nothing.

arrogance becomes our end.

i'm here to die. but i won't go quietly.

i don't want to die like this.

cry for the past; only there does glory dwell.

so the forest grows, a reflection of our might.

mourn the past and all that was left there.

mastery of the self is mastery of the world.

suffering is choice and we can refuse it.

pride disguises itself in its surety.

#rp meme #fantasy rp meme #action rp memes #sentence starters #rp sentence starters #rp prompts #rp sentence meme #rp starters

[crowfeatherquill]

First Blood

Obligatory Astarion Bite Scene Fic, DEPLOY. Also, because I'm not sure I ever mentioned it, y'all are allowed to reblog and comment on these. I like seeing people's screams and flailing thoughts.

--

Being surrounded by enough spilled blood to feed a small army of spawn and having to watch it cooling and congealing on the floor of a defiled temple rather than make use of it strikes Astarion, in an almost hysterical sort of way, as funny. It strikes him that this is precisely the kind of situation he’d expect to end up in at the palace, but that it hadn’t crossed his mind that the novel freedom to sate himself whenever he pleased would be quite so short lived. Perhaps, he considers, it should have.

Regardless of his thoughts on the matter, his reality remains all too clear. In the wake of their lovely little massacre, the smell of blood hangs heavy in the stagnant air of the inner sanctum, taunting him. He is famished, and there’s nothing he can really do about it other than pretend that he isn’t -- at least while his traveling companions are still awake.

Tathlyn -- their intrepid, de facto leader -- has insisted they take a rest while still safely sealed into the inner sanctum before they attempt to face what remains of the camp outside, which in any other circumstance, Astarion would take as a fine bit of pragmatism, but as things stand -- hemmed in by the enemy, tensions running high enough that every one of his companions’ pulses rings in his ears like war drums while his stomach twists inside him and his fangs ache and he pays more consideration than he should to the thought of wandering off to lick cold and quickly-spoiling blood off the rocks if it gets him what he needs -- well. In a word, it’s torture.

He counts himself lucky they don’t seem to pay him much mind as he sits apart from them at the campfire. Disguises his eagerness when he offers to take first watch by plastering it over with the shallow fussing they’ve come to expect from him. Says he’d much rather stay up a couple extra hours than be woken in the middle of the night, and anyway, that’s liable to result in someone getting stabbed. Practiced steps in a dance he’s been rehearsing for two hundred years. And if the hunger makes his footwork a little clumsy…no one seems to notice.

It’s agonizing how long it takes them to fall asleep. He hears them shuffling about, tossing and turning for an hour or more between them. The same pulses that taunt him with their song of vitality slow in rest, one by one, until finally, he feels assured that he is alone. As alone as he’s likely to get in this place, anyway.

His first thought is to prowl for any stragglers they may have missed, but this, as perhaps he should have expected, is a non-starter. Tathlyn has the thoroughness of an old hand at warfare -- no loose ends; no witnesses. It’s another thing about him that Astarion thinks he’d find compelling -- possibly even impressive -- if it weren’t the very source of his current discomfort.

In the absence of any still-living veins to tap, he returns to the somewhat less appetizing option of licking the floor. It sends a cold upswell of disgust through him to think that he’s no more than a tenday removed from his life of groveling at Cazador’s knee and he’s already reverting to debasement to get what he needs. He should be better than this. He wanders back to the priestess’ audience chamber -- one of the places that collected the most carnage as they went. The stone here is slick with bloodshed. It’s everything he wants if only he’s willing to get on his hands and knees like a starved dog hunting for scraps.

The thought of it makes him ill. He picks up a loose bit of stone, sticky and red, and eyes it critically. He’s so hungry.

He can’t.

He’s far enough away from their little campsite that he allows himself the satisfaction of hucking the stone across the room as hard as he can. It doesn’t travel nearly as far as he’d like. He’s getting weak. He folds his arm across his mouth and nose, burying his face in the crook of his own elbow to try to escape the oppressive smell. He can’t think like this. He needs to think.

His mind drifts back to his companions, sound asleep at camp under his watchful protection. If he could just get a taste…enough to hold him over until they can leave this wretched place and he’s free to stalk the woods again, he’ll survive. The thought consumes him as he retraces his steps back to the secluded little corner they’ve found. Their sleepy breathing taunts and tantalizes him, overwhelming in its presence at the front of his consciousness.

Another thought seizes him, locking him in place at the edge of camp. One of Cazador’s rules, seared into his brain through centuries of torture. First, drink not the blood of thinking creatures.

It’s not meant to be a spur, but for the first time in his undead memory, it feels like one. If he can do this…all the more proof that he’s truly free of Cazador’s yoke. Suddenly he needs it. More than just to sate his hunger, he needs to know whether he’s capable of such a fundamental defiance.

He creeps through camp on a predator’s light feet. In the moment, he doesn’t notice himself making a conscious choice of what tent to enter -- he picks the one that seems the closest -- but later, he will justify the obvious risk with the claim that Tathlyn was the most likely to afford him a quick, clean death if he was caught.

(Even later, still, he will come to find that what really led him to Tathlyn’s tent over anyone else’s was the thought that out of all their assembled companions, Tathlyn was the least likely to hurt him. But for now, that notion is buried deep along with all the other precious little remnants of hope and innocence Cazador couldn’t dig out of him.)

He comes to a stop over Tathlyn’s sleeping form, hovering in momentary hesitation. He no longer has a beating heart but he can feel the ghost of it hammering against his sternum, alight with anticipation and unacknowledged fear.

He’ll be quick, he reasons. Just a taste. Tathlyn will wake none the wiser, and he’ll be rid of this godsdamned hunger, and everyone wins. It’s simple. And still, he hesitates. Lingers. The iron bands of Cazador’s fucking rules hold him fast, though he feels none of the bastard’s magic in the air. He struggles. He wants.

And Tathlyn stirs.

“Shit.”

They make eye contact, briefly, before Tathlyn starts to sit up and Astarion scrambles away, hands up in a sign of peace. Tathlyn’s expression is…well it isn’t anything yet, and that might be more pants-shittingly terrifying than if he’d just jumped straight to anger. At least then, Astarion would know what he’s working with. As it is, he flails for any foothold he can get.

“No no - it’s not what it looks like. I swear.”

He’s not able to iron the panicked desperation out of his voice quickly enough -- and even if he had been, what a stupid thing to say -- and Tathlyn clearly notices. He decides to lean into it instead, pushing his expression of fear just a little more and hoping it covers everything else.

“Enlighten me.” Tathlyn’s tone is just as cool and unreadable as his face. Astarion is a rat scrabbling for purchase on wet slate shingles.

“I- I wasn’t going to hurt you, I…I just needed-” he cuts himself off with disingenuous bluster, trying to find the angle he thinks will keep Tathlyn from driving a stake through his ribs. He remembers the way the man softened when faced with all those desperate, pathetic tieflings and their petty little problems and lets a bit of pleading leak into his tone. Perhaps if he plays the sad, wounded animal, Tathlyn may forgive him, even if he doesn’t deign to feed him. “Well- blood.”

He watches Tathlyn scanning him with a critical eye. Sees the recognition dawn over his face in degrees. It feels the same way watching the sunrise used to. Inevitable and terrifying.

“So you were the one that killed the boar, then.”

It’s the absolute last thing he expects Tathlyn to say, and he has to bite back a hysterical bark of laughter at the absurdity of it. He’s playing a part here -- a pitiful creature, groveling for scraps -- and he can’t afford to break character. His living to starve another day hinges on coercing Tathlyn’s acceptance. He latches onto what he hopes is a lifeline and not a noose.

“Exactly. I’m not some monster -- I feed on animals. Boars, deer, you know- wildlife. Whatever I can get. I just…haven’t had the chance, since--”

“Since we made our move on the camp. Not much wildlife stupid enough to get close.”

Ordinarily, he’d bristle at being interrupted, but he needs Tathlyn to come to a favorable conclusion here, and if finishing Astarion’s sentences is how he’ll do it, Astarion can’t find it within him to complain.

“It’s…been some time, yes.” He lets himself sound humble. Woeful. These, too, are familiar dance steps. If he gives Tathlyn all the power -- bends and submits and makes himself pretty and pitiable -- that lovely little hero complex will rear its ugly head. All he has to do is keep the act up long enough to slip away, sufficiently cowed and likely with a promise to keep his fangs to himself that he does not intend to keep.

Tathlyn is still eyeing him with that look of impartial calculation. It’s not the reassurance Astarion would prefer, but it’s also not a condemnation. His gums throb and saliva pools in his mouth. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t press his luck, but he is very, very hungry, and Tathlyn doesn’t seem at all perturbed. He decides to take a gamble.

“It’s made me…slow. Weak. If I just had a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better. I’d…I’d be far more use to you when we make our way out of this wretched place tomorrow.”

Tathlyn studies him, expression unchanging. Astarion thinks he might be about to go insane. He throws one final stone on the scale and hopes it’ll tip in his favor.

“Please.”

He lets the syllable come breathy and wanting from his chest. It’s a flirt. A temptation. An excuse for a victim to feel like they're fawning over him -- doing him a service -- instead of giving him exactly what he wants. He’s never used it for this before. He only hopes it measures up to the task.

“...If you had asked me, I might have said yes, you know.”

Again, Tathlyn’s response takes him well and truly by surprise, but he shoves it down into his hollow core and doesn’t let it show. The implied rejection stings, and he lifts his chin, arch and defensive.

“Ask you? And what reason would I have to do that, hm? At best, I was sure you’d say no. More likely, you’d ram a stake through my ribs -- and if not you, Wyll, certainly. No, I needed you to trust me.”

Tathlyn arches an eyebrow in clear disbelief, and Astarion alters course, trying to stay ahead of Tathlyn’s displeasure.

“And you can. Trust me.”

He brings the fear back up. The desperation. Tries to obfuscate his annoyance and pander to Tathlyn’s desire to be helpful. Tathlyn seems to chew on it for a moment, but not to savor. He’s assessing, still. Like a wary animal trying to sense for poison or a trap. Much as he doesn’t want to find reasons to relate to any of these people, Astarion can’t really find it within him to begrudge Tathlyn that particular bit of caution. He’d do the same, if their positions were reversed.

“Alright,” Tathlyn says, eventually, “I’ll hand it to you. You haven’t given me any reason not to…up until this, anyway.”

“Thank you,” Astarion sighs, and his relief is not entirely fabricated.

He hesitates. He could walk away now while he’s ahead and leave the whole thing behind him. He’s fairly confident he’s managed to skate by without doing any irreparable damage to Tathlyn’s trust in him and that in itself is more than he should have expected, getting caught like this. But the fact remains -- he’s ravenous, and Tathlyn is right here. So close he can practically almost taste it. All it would take is another little push.

He needs to taste it.

“Do you…think you could trust me just a little further?” He tilts his head in a passable impression at guileless innocence, which is undercut only slightly by the fact he can’t take his eyes off Tathlyn’s throat. The rest of the words spill out on instinct, but they’re little more than an absent murmur. “I only need a taste. I swear.”

It takes less thought than Astarion expects for Tathlyn to respond.

“Fine.”

For a moment, Astarion feels a bit like he’s just been punched in the chest.

“Really? I-” the words are out of his mouth, dripping shock, before he can stop them. He only hopes his recovery is quick enough to finish the job. “You have my thanks. And my word I won’t take a drop more than I need.”

Perhaps the unprompted reassurance is a bit of overkill, because Tathlyn lifts his brow again and Astarion wants to kick himself. He can’t lose this. Not now that it’s so close.

“Let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?”

He gestures to Tathlyn’s bedroll, hoping repositioning will be enough of a distraction. It seems to work. Tathlyn breaks eye contact for the first time since the conversation started -- and it’s only after his gaze is gone that Astarion realizes how heavy it was -- and returns to the ground, reclining against the spare pillows he’d managed to commandeer from the bandits they’d run across on their first day of travel.

Astarion descends after him, returning almost exactly to the positions they’d assumed before Tathlyn woke. With Tathlyn’s throat this close -- living, flowing blood mere inches of air and delicate skin away -- all thoughts of preamble vacate Astarion’s mind and his focus narrows to a pinprick. He needs this, but more importantly, he wants it. He is going to have it and Cazador can’t stop him.

He closes the distance and bites, and has to fight not to moan as Tathlyn’s blood coats his mouth. Reflexively, he brings one hand up -- the one not bracing against the ground -- to cup the back of Tathlyn’s head; to bring him closer -- get the angle just right. This is different than drinking from animals. There’s power here. Vigor. Is this how Cazador felt, drinking from all those pretty little creatures he’d bring home to his master? He can only imagine it must be.

It’s intoxicating. He can’t bring himself to stop. The hunger rears up in his gut like a living thing -- like a beast -- and demands. More. More.

He doesn’t hear Tathlyn call his name. He’s lost in the sensation of it -- the bliss of giving his body what it so desperately needs. He follows his impulses, lapping at Tathlyn’s neck until the wound dries up only to bite down again, spilling fresh liquid life. Tathlyn’s hands find his chest and for a moment it feels like a lover’s caress.

Then there’s an arm across the base of his throat, pushing against him, and despite the way every cell in his body screams defiance, he breaks away with a gasp. He stumbles back, breathing heavily as he realizes he hasn’t been breathing at all -- too focused on consuming. Tathlyn props himself unsteadily on an elbow, covering the wound with one hand.

He looks…unsteady. Woozy. Suddenly Astarion’s irritation at being cut off shrivels and fades. He can construct a defense for getting a little overzealous while he’s starving, but he doesn’t think the rest of the crew will take too kindly to him killing their fearless leader -- incidentally or otherwise.

“Sorry, Darling,” he pants, “I think I may have gotten a little…swept up in the moment.”

“Get what you need, at least?”

Once more, that strange flutter of warmth alights in Astarion’s chest. With each new visit, it makes itself more and more difficult to ignore.

“I…yes,” he says, keeping things as simple as he can manage, “I feel…good. Strong.”

Tathlyn looks up at him, dazed, and for a moment, Astarion could almost swear he sees a hint of a flush in his cheeks. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say the sweet drow looks almost starry-eyed. And wouldn’t that be a treat?

“I’m…looking forward to seeing you fight,” Tathlyn says, enunciation loose and a little stunned.

Astarion can only smile.

“Shouldn’t take long,” he says, “We’ll be slaughtering our way out of this little hole come morning. Speaking of which…I won’t keep you from your beauty sleep any longer. I think it’s about time I woke Shadowheart for second watch, anyhow.”

“...Right. That.” Tathlyn falls back against his pillows with a sigh.

Astarion turns to leave, but pauses at the flap of the tent, one hand on the fabric.

“This is a gift you know,” he murmurs, “I won’t forget it.”

He turns over his shoulder to see Tathlyn already still, eyes closed, either fallen into the grips of his trance or doing a damn good impression of it. It’s possible he hasn’t heard Astarion’s parting remark at all.

It’s possible it’s better that way.

#bg3 #bg3 spoilers #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 oc #bg3 tav #m!tav #male tav #drow tav #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 spoilers #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #baldur's gate 3 oc #bg3 astarion #astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion x tav #astarion x oc #astarion x mc #astarion romance #astarion romance spoilers #astarion experiences the power of using an Eldritch Knight as a juicebox and assumes that all humanoid blood is just this fucking powerful

[dilf-din]

2 or 14, dealer’s choice! Rebelcaptain of course 🤌🏻

LISS, you picked one of my favorite tropes so I couldn’t not do it. Cuddling for warmth my BELOVED.

Rebelcaptain (Cassian x Jyn)

WC: 950

Warnings: angst, fluff

14. We’re snowed in and there’s not a lot of space or heat

Cassian hated the cold. He hated the deep drifts of snow that reached up to his waist. He hated the wind so strong he wasn’t sure he’d ever regain feeling in his ears. And he hated that they were trapped in this cave. He hated getting sent on poorly thought out missions. He hated having inadequate supplies. If only his hatred was fuel, then he could be sitting front of a raging fire instead of peeling off his gloves and striking a dull flint with numb fingers to try to start a blaze so they didn’t die. Most of all, he hated that Jyn was stuck in this mess with him, that he hadn’t asked to have this one reassigned to Bodhi so at least he would know she was safe back at the base. Instead, she was hurling crates against the frozen wall to try to generate enough fire wood to last them through the night, however long that was on this forsaken planet.

Finally, his flint sparked, catching the only bundle of fire starter they had (though they were assured there would be supplies waiting for them), and he was careful to breathe more oxygen into it to keep it alive (so it could keep them alive). He was thankful for the low light, and prayed it would mask some of the panic that was written on his face. His brow set heavy over his eyes that looked like burnt out coals in the dim orange glow. Jyn carefully added splintered pieces in to the growing flames, making sure the catch the ends before setting the boards down in the small rock pit. Neither of them spoke a word as they assessed their resources, each doing mental math and fudging the numbers to not come up short. They both had rations in their bags. They had small sleeping bags and a few extra pairs of clothes. They had plenty of munitions and a dead radio. And they had a hell of a lot of fight in them.

They went over the plan a dozen times to leave at dawn and make their way back to the ship, to cling to luck and take every chance they could to get their comms up and running, to get a signal out to anyone, to not freeze to death alone here.

They ate their rations with chattering teeth, shoulder to shoulder by the fire, adding more wood every few minutes. Warmth was their lifeline right now.

“I’m sorry,” Cass said softly.

“What for? This isn’t your fault.”

“I shouldn’t have let you come. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Since when do you decide what missions I should take,” Jyn said defiantly.

“I won’t forgive myself if something happens to you!” he snapped.

She sat quietly.

“Don’t you understand,” his voice came out a hoarse whisper, “I can’t lose you, Jyn. If I have to try to sleep at night with more blood on my hands, I,” he stopped himself.

Her hand found his and gave it a squeeze, and though their hands were separated by two thick pairs of gloves, it sent warmth up his arm and into his core.

“Stop talking like we’ve already lost,” she said with one more squeeze, and laid her head on his shoulder.

Something about being on death’s doorstep emboldened Cassian. It was harder for him to wear his heart on his sleeve in the light of day, more high stakes to do it when all the scars and cracks could be easily traced. But right now, they could barely see their breath in front of him, so he leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead, with cracked lips so cold they were a ghastly shade of blue. It was chaste and full of promise that they would see the other side of this dark night.

Jyn closed her eyes and reveled in it. If only he knew how much trust she placed in his leadership, the wit of his mind and the strength of his back. Against all logic, they shouldn’t make it out of this alive, but logic didn’t always account for Captain Cassian Andor.

“You should get some sleep. I’ll keep an eye on the fire,” he said softly into her hair.

Jyn nodded and peeled herself from his side, already missing his warmth as she reached for their bed rolls, passing one back to Cassian. The thin quilted fabric didn’t do much to shield her from the cold stone of the cave floor, but she hoped that settling close to the fire might keep her warm enough to doze off at least for a few hours. Chills danced down her spine as she tried to settle, and she hated herself for trembling so badly, for driving more guilt into his already heavy heart as he sat there helpless to her suffering. She cinched her jaw tight as she willed herself to bear it, steely eyes set on the yellow flames licking in front of her, until she felt something shift behind her, and a pair of arms pulled her tight to his chest. Cassian buried his face in her hair and wrapped his frame around her. His touched stilled her in more ways than one, and Jyn swallowed hard, trying not think about how, even now, their bodies fit together effortlessly, how his devotion renewed her own strength. The fraying threads of her soul pulled back inwards on themselves, weaving back together tighter than ever before and befuddling the fates who sat poised to snap it once and for all.

“I’ve got you,” his voice came out shaky, but strong nonetheless.

And she knew he meant it.

#ask #sotvtaughtmehowtofeel #rebelcaptain #rebelcaptain fic #jyn x cassian #cassian x jyn

[love-toxin]

"Beg me not to kill you." & "I'm scaring you, huh? Then why are you wet?"  with Steve maybe? 😊

ellie's halloween sentence starters!

iii. "Beg me not to kill you."

v. "I'm scaring you, huh? Then why are you wet?"

(cws: slasher!steve, fem angel, blood, injuries, murder, dub/noncon fingering, implied somno)

"You don't have to run, you know. I'm gonna catch you no matter how fast you are." Steve's voice is dry, mellow almost, as he stalks towards the hallway you just turned into. He could be reading off a script, or dully chatting about the weather with someone on the bus.

But you trip over the carpet and come crashing to the floor, and then, the sound of his steps hurrying up to meet you strike even deeper fear into your heart–which is already pounding from dashing from room to room, trying to escape the maniac that you once dreamed of calling your boyfriend. The bloodied end of his bat rounds the corner before he does, and it's enough to power your desire to get up and stumble through the closest doorway. The door slams behind you with the force of your body against it, and fumbling with the lock for a second, you run to grab the nearest object–a chair out from a desk by the window–and hurry to jam it under the doorknob to keep Steve out. It's not seconds until he's turning it, or trying to, the door shaking suddenly and your heart hitting the floor as he wonders aloud why it's locked. As if he doesn't know.

You're not allowed the opportunity to look for a way out, to consider the option of jumping out the second story window on to the concrete below, or just hide and pray for mercy. Because one loud, earth-shattering crash of his bat meeting the wood splinters it immediately, and you're so close that one of those shards flies and slices open the heel of your hand–and now, instead of using those precious moments to think of a plan, you're screaming and clutching your wrist in pain, blood gushing from the wound and splattering all over the carpet.

The pain derails your whole train of thought, your vision blurring as you stumble back and tremble with shock, leaving a trail of crimson behind that leads straight to you. One more crack does the trick, and Steve's successfully crushed a hole in his own door and dislodged the chair in the process, his arm reaching through to unlock it so it only takes a nudge to open.

"Man, you made me break my door." Then it dawns on you. This is his room. You've wandered right into the monster's den, though said monster is stepping gingerly into the room before pushing the door behind him back and forth, as if to confirm that it is indeed destroyed like he wasn't the nutcase to do so. His eyes finally turn to you, bright and brown and severe. "And you cut yourself."

Steve reaches out for you, and doesn't stop when you flinch away from him. You have nowhere to go, what are you gonna do? You're no threat. You're a helpless sheep in the jaws of the wolf, and when Steve does grab you, he's gripping you so hard you're already whimpering for him to stop.

"Why don't you beg me not to kill you, hm?" He whispers, diving past your face to say it directly into your ear–his voice gives you shivers, like it's a cold breeze in the night. "I'm kinda thinking about it. You pissed me off."

Your mind races with what you did, and you come up with nothing. All you did was answer the door when the pizza delivery guy rang, having ignored Steve's insistence that he would meet him when he came, though that seemed like a quite insignificant error at the time. You had cheekily handed the guy his payment with a nice tip, because Steve had been nice enough to offer up his house as a study session for your college midterms, so it was the least you could do for your friend….

But that reality vanished when you spotted Steve over the delivery guy's shoulder, the harmless smile disappearing off your face with a worried utterance of his name–and then, he had raised the bat.

"Why? Why are you looking at me like that?" Steve's always been kind, if not a bit prickly at times. He moves back to meet your eyes, but the fear is palpable in yours–you watched him bash some poor man's brains out in front of you. What else could you be, but…

"I-I'm…I'm scared…"

"Scared? I'm scaring you, huh?" You nod your head in the most pathetic fashion, with a quivering lip to top it off. Steve isn't just scary. A horror movie is scary, a bump in the night is scary–Steve, he's terrifying.

"Then why are you wet?" His question blanks your mind, etches confusion on to your face, but your stammering stops short when you feel his hand brush your thigh. You jerk back on instinct, but his painful grip on your wounded arm keeps you against him, and you're forced to stand and shiver as his fingers dive down your skirt and come to cup your pussy over your panties. He rubs a teasing thumb into what should be a random spot, but he somehow knows where your clit is and knows how to press so firmly to make you squeal. You had fantasized about having Steve do things like this to you–but not like this. Even though your body is betraying you right now, and that strip of soft fabric between your legs is completely soaked for him to enjoy to the fullest.

"You wanted to seduce me, huh?" You shake your head violently, too wound up to open your mouth because you know the words won't come out as you want them to. "Yeah, that's it. That's why you dressed up like this. And when I didn't fuck your brains out on my couch like you wanted-"

"No!"

"-You decided to be a little slut and flirt with the delivery guy." Ignoring your outburst and the shove you try to give him to get him off, Steve yanks you harder against him for you to feel how stiff he is in his jeans, and for his fingers to prod you even rougher as he blindly searches for a way into your panties.

"I didn't, Steve!"

"You did!" He barks back, the growl of his voice sending an unwanted shiver up your spine. Now he's found a way in, his fingertips brushing your slit before losing any tenderness they might have had and pushing their way inside. He's big, brutal, knuckles working in to spread you out and shucking all that slick into his palm. His lips meet your cheek, hot and soft, and he has you hooked. No way out. Nothing but him.

"You smiled at him, remember? The same smile…" He trails off, breath hot and shaky on your ear. He doesn't seem to realize you're up on your tiptoes, gasps of pain and pleasure dying in your throat, because he's got his fingers so fucking deep. Steve is preoccupied, you know as much by the absent strokes against your clit with his thumb, moving with no direction. "...the one you give me when you're undressing me with your eyes."

Steve pulls away suddenly, cheek still sticky with blood you wish was fake. It's on you now, smeared down your jaw like a smudge of scarlet paint, and who's to say his hands aren't covered in it too, aside from your own–that he's rubbing it into your flesh for his own amusement. While he looks you in the eyes, he doesn't extract his fingers from inside you, nor shows any expression aside from a deep, dark mistiness over his brown eyes that betrays only the terror that a true psychopath could bestow.

"Your smile is mine. You're all mine." He mutters below his breath, spreading his fingers inside you to watch you gasp and your eyelids flutter as they fill with tears. It isn't until you wrack out that soft "stop" from your worried lungs that he does, and his hand slithers out from within you and out of your panties. He listened to your plea because he's a gentleman, he's a good man at heart.

But that doesn't mean he'll really stop there. No, he'll get you to loosen those lips and ply those legs open for him, slowly, even if it takes all night. It'll be of your own volition, because he will make sure you give him everything, whether you think you need it or you don't yet know that you do. Besides, you're not gonna last long with that wound. You're gonna get all dizzy and sleepy when you lose enough blood–and then, even if you're not awake to feel it, Steve will be making sure you get every ounce of his love in every sense of the word.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #slasher!steve harrington #spicy writing #st 4 #stranger things #ellie writes #ellie's halloween sentence starters

[rippedstitch-s]

Closed Starter: for @leemalkovich Location: 12/31/23, Back Hallway of Top of the Standard

Asa doesn't remember much from his time at his old family home back in Ireland. A brick cottage near a cliff, a valley with blooms of primrose and cowslips amidst the grass. And the rain, the clouds, that one could see as they stood on the precipice of the bluff. An oncoming storm could be seen miles away. It was beautiful. And the ocean would buckle below. Everything, shifting. But all below.

He's not 13 any more. But the rain falls - plummets, nonetheless. It has been - for months. And the shelter from the tempest?

My love.... My darling.....Lover.... Behave - for me?.......

Do you want to be with me?

I fancy you, darling.

He doesn't expect it.

The way his fingernails dig into the flesh of his palms hard enough to cut. The way he's shaking as he tries to focus on anything but the woman Lee is wrapped around. It's blood roaring in his ears - or is it the waves of that damn tsunami? And he can't build the fortifications fast enough to stop it. He can't.

No, no. Fuck. Be normal. You can't. Be normal. They'll kill you.

He'll kill you. They're just waiting for a reason.

YOU CAN'T.

It doesn't matter what can and can't. His eyes lock on Lee's - brimstone. Black charcoal. Not struck with tinder this time - burnt out. There's no words, just a hand - scarred. Shaking. Grips to Lee's sleeve, pulls. Even here, as the buoy capsizes, Asa shows decorum - quiet, reserved. He pulls him away quietly.

In the safe haven of a back hallway that's both too warm and too cold, he steps back. Looks at him. "Who-" The words are shattering off his tongue. Shards of glass. Even then, he tries to pick up the pieces, paste them back into something customary... normal. Before they make something bleed. Before they strike a vein. An artery.

Maybe that would be a good thing.

"What is going on? Am I missing something? Am I... I know I'm going insane, Lee, but I need." Please. "I need you to tell me who that is. What this is. What that is." Words tripping over words as he finds footing.

#leemalkovich #closedstarter #event: nye #wow a novel I'm sO SORRY

[sillyruinsfox]

Birthday Blues

PAIRINGS: Avengers X reader,

Steve Rogers X reader

WARNINGS : Explicit use of swear words, mentions of period blood.

SYNOPSIS : Y/N is sick and the Avengers have forgotten her birthday. Hence she is also mad and her uterus decided to spontaneously explode.

AUTHORS NOTE : Hey people! This is my first Avengers fanfic, so I would really appreciate the feedback. Also hope you enjoy it! The second part I have yet to write but I will post it soon. Toodles!

It had been a gruelling day. For starters, you had woke up with blood pooled on your white linen sheets- it was obvious. Even your uterus was conspiring against you. Second, your hair had gone on strike and refused to sit in a pony tail. The lonliness had gotten to it too, it spontaneously reshaped itself to look like a bird's nest, hoping for some fly company.

To top all this off, you had caught a cold. To illustrate how it looked, bigfoot was know for his big feet (obviously) and you shall be known for your nose. Red and irritated. Just like you felt at this very moment.

You weren't usually such an incorrigible grump, but it was your birthday tomorrow and your team mates showed no sign of remembering, despites the bomb-like obvious hints you had constantly dropped for the past week. There is nothing as irritating in the world as an itch you can't reach and your stupid ass friends not remembering your birthday. The unfortunate part is that you knew the lot were stupid before you became friends with them.

This was good enough reason to put anyone in a bad mood right? Oh but there's worse! Your one and only boyfriend, Shmaptan Schemerica (blame the stupid pronunciation on your blocked nose) a.k.a Steve Rogers had been way to busy running some shit or the other with Fury to even have a proper conversation with you this past week.

You decided enough was enough. If these asshats didn't remember your birthday, you were going to celebrate it on your own. And you promised yourself not to melt when Natasha or Pietro apologized later on. Those two were manipulative as fuck.

At midnight you woke up with your nose blocked three ways to hell and decided that the only way to celebrate was with medicine and a cup of hot chocolate. The sugar would kill you throat- sure, but what is a little death for a professional assasin?

You made your way down the stairs wrapped up in a thick blanket, looking like the aftermath of a war. Your footsteps heavy and echoing in the large stairwell. As you made your way into the common room, you found it unusually dark, the rest of New York looked like a festival in comparison. You opened the kitchen door and immidiately heard the flip of the lightswitch and turned 180°, on high alert. It proved to be a good choice as a large cylindrical object, burst in your face, throwing conffeti all over it. You heard a loud 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY!' in the background.

The conffeti had triggered another sneeze fest. After the 5th sneeze, you looked up to see the Avengers dressed for a casual party, looking at you awkwardly.

Steve was the first one to speak up,'Jeez, Y/N. We didn't realize you were so sick!'

You shot him a dry glare, trying to control your volcanic anger,'Jeez Steve! I'm so sorry you didn't! If only I saw you lately, I would have told you sweetie!', you cast a look around the room. Most of them stood awkwardly, Tony was the only one with the gall to look mildly amused.

You stormed into the kitchen making yourself a cup of hot chocolate. Vision came in, ' Are you okay Ms. Y/N?'

You had a soft spot for the transparent AI. He was sweet and understanding and a great listner. It always felt safe being vulnerable with him, you said,' No Viz. I'm tired and I can't breathe or talk properly. I have been extremely sad and angry that none of you remembered my birthday for the past few days and nothing is going my way!', as you said this, Viz looked at your hair.

'That obvious huh?', you asked him, a small laugh bubbling out of you.

He tactfully ignored that and moved on, 'we didn't mean to hurt you, we just wanted it to be a suprise.'

'Oh I know Viz. It's just..... I don't know. I am confused and sad. Knowing that cake awaits me on the other side of this wall makes me a little happier. Can we go to the cake?'

Vision smiled and swept his hand as if to tell you to go first. As you entered the common room again, Steve came rushing.

He placed a hand on you cheek and said in an extremely apologetic manner,' I'm so sorry babaycakes. I should have come up to check on you.'

You almost melted, but your ego decided to wage forntal attack, ' You've had a piece of my cake honeybuns and you know that it's not baby sized and I hope the actual cake you got me right now isn't either!'

#marvel fluff #fanfic #steve rogers #the avengers #steve rogers x y/n #avengers x platonic reader #mcu #marvel fanfiction #fluff #part 1

[thats-biter]

GOLD

Oct. 29, 2023

That's what the Detroit Pistons want, and now. They have officially arrived, and are announcing it loudly for all to hear: this ain't a game, this is a coup.

Their version of an NBA takeover started last year, but no one except them saw this coming. Just how they contend now is a little beside the point, and they know it. On some nights, it might be the MotorCade, others, it might be hungry-hippo-smash-button Jam King Jalen Duren's ignition properties. Most nights it will be a mix of both and more. A lot more. Winning basketball starts and ends with many things, because that's how winning programs work. Success by onslaught. These Pistons won't stop, because to them, they're already better than you, and they have every intention of acquainting you with their rapidly realizing fever reality.

They're done waiting for the right time to strike. They're in the trenches now. What is happening could have something to do with the full Monty effect, which no one could have predicted. The gob smacked onlookers have yet been able to pin it down with them, just ask around. But the naked truth is this: Detroit Basketball is suddenly good again. Scary good.

They've already proven there's no risk in overstating their future. Any two eyes can see their infectious cohesiveness and shockingly mature crop of otherworldly talent on display. They are poised to make a legitimate winning run this year and are primed for a fury of attack against any opponent, simply as they currently stand. If you sleep on them, you've already lost. Take it from their opponents in the last calendar year. The Pistons will win this season, and they already know who's up next once it ends; it's them.

Cade Cunningham is a superstar incarnate at 22, and he is back in the pulpit to preach. Through the bumps and bruises dished by the best efforts NBA defenses have been able to offer him thus far, he's looking healthier and beefier than his million dollar plant-based diet, and is seeking to lead this subset of grateful peers to their first victorious NBA season ever as players. He's a current top 10 player in the league today, although still too unproven to wear the title, and is a generational talent in the making right before us. There is but one thing on his mind.

In his first effort for us, head coach Monty Williams has them drinking something, and it's working. Still among the youngest players in the NBA, Jalen Duren is a, or is soon to be, the premier center in the entire league for his absurd out-of-the-gym athletics and stat stuffing two-way contributions. OG Stew, the emotional Captain of the ship in Isaiah Stewart, is the team's life-blood and enforcer; their low-key, cold-blooded, secret-weapon stud. The NBA wouldn't dare question him on that. Should he stay within the role and not exceed it, Jaden Ivey is exactly the banshee 6th man we haven't seen here since the days of Lindsey Hunter, Mike James, and Vinny Johnson before them.

Rookie starter Ausar Thompson was another huge jackpot for GM Troy Weaver, a job securing draft selection for him, and likely the piece that puts them full over. From the moment of first tip in 2023, Thompson has quickly revealed himself to be a defensive mastermind and a star. He does everything a winning team needs, and nothing it doesn't. Not caring to score but when the opportunity presents, he has a total double-blind commitment to the cause. For him, it's not just about winning, it's about taking pleasure in the dirty work. He is a Piston, after all. He exudes unselfish discipline that even veteran Champion rafter dwellers won't help but admire. Rip, Isiah and the gang must be losing it. He appears before us now as the second coming of Dennis Rodman and Ben Wallace rolled into one, but with an offensive upside that evokes a young Scottie Pippin's finesse, toughness, and brilliance. He is our missing link, our difference maker, and he's ours.

Monty Williams might not have even had to glue this bunch together himself, as they apparently know their roles, and quite literally fight for each other, behind closed doors and against any opposition under the bright lights. They will not be taking no for an answer. Not these Pistons.

Did I mention the Pistons still don't have their leading scorer back, in Bojan Bogdanović? Time will tell the impact he is able to have with this new establishment pecking order. Bojan will have to answer to Coach and Cade upon his return; something he didn't have to contend with last year. His courtmates may have just exercised their natural right to make a talented but senior player like him completely expendable. The message for him is right now this: get in line, or just get out of the way.

Coach Williams comes to us loaded; with a scorching hot system, a self-assured voice, and most importantly, the bitterness of a too-soon playoff exit and abrupt firing after a Western Conference championship berth with his similarly stacked Phoenix Suns last summer. He's looking to rub some W's on the wound just to make a point. The betrayal trauma of the Ax from a club on the near cusp of championship level basketball seems to have ignited his current focus and vision, regardless of his new historic contractual arrangements with the organization.

They saw the glint in each other's eyes first, but now it's all in plain sight for us to see too.

Pick your angle with this group. They've been trying to tell us for a while. They also have a dynamic 3-point core that would make any GM cower to their knees. Detroit Pistons fans are currently witnessing a hostile shake down of the NBA. It's their world, we're all just living in it. They view themselves as a formidable threat to upset the entire balance of the NBA this season, and why not? On one hand, it's because they want it, but more importantly, it's because they can. We won't have to tell them otherwise, and we shouldn't. Whether they succeed this year is up to them and fate, not us, or the rest of the league. They're too good, and too young. They will run good teams ragged this year, if they can withstand the typical hyper-imposed fan expectations and seasonal adversaries that face any next big thing. The Pistons will be great sooner rather than later. The faces are new, but it's the same old Detroit Basketball we've always known and loved. IYKYK.

There's no reason to question the authenticity of their admission that they are singularly laser-focused on playing basketball the right way right now, and are going to do whatever it takes to take home the victory. They will fight, and they will rise and fall together. Again and again they've bucked the selfish play that sometimes clouds even excellent teams. They did that when they were losing too, remember. Success cannot change that ego is simply not a part of this group's DNA, but god given talent and a winning identity seems to be.

They are obviously here to make the mark of their bright, young lives, we just don't know how big the mark they'll leave is. However, we should consider that they might already know themselves how this should go. For now, they're content to plant their flag, and ready to lay waste on the battlefield with one of the most potent combinations of artillery in the NBA to back it all up. They're too dumb to be jaded, and likewise too inexperienced to slow down and consider the reasons not to be completely and utterly confident with every errant swing of the ball. Just wait until the Lakers and Bucks get a load of this high-efficiency bomb squad.

After nearly embarrassing Eastern Conference champion Miami Heat in their own home opener, everything they've displayed after that night has been a master course in perfect basketball, aside from the high turnover margin. That's to be expected though from teams doing whatever the hell they want out there. They're big, they're fast, they're relentless, and they play defense oriented team basketball with that same Detroit bred, blue collar "D" we know and love in this town. But above all else, they are gifted; and now they are sharing that gift with us.

Skeptics will spout, but the ring of truth is real. What fans at LCA are bearing witness to is quite possibly greatness out of thin air. This is the motherload we've heard about. The world will know it too, if they maintain their onslaught through the next week and the following. Troy Weaver and Tom Gores have made a perfect hire, and drafted a perfect group of kids. This is the vision, and the culture of the franchise is now immutably that of a winning one.

But will that change in the foreseeable future? It's hard to conceive of all this just vanishing, except by freak, career altering injury to one of the main cogs. But we don't need to think like that. Even the notion of something like that isn't deterrent enough to shake this eerie feeling, and it shouldn't. Cade is ready. Take his lead, just like Monty Williams and Jalen Duren have. The rest will follow suit. It's time to buy into his Pistons.

We've tried the free agent game here, and let's finally admit it; that has not and will never work in Detroit. But what has? Drafting smartly, making brilliant trades, and a little bit of luck and grit. On paper, this comeuppance both does and doesn't make sense. But that doesn't matter, because on the court, it does in spectacular fashion.

That's why they're different now. Everything has changed overnight in Detroit again. This happens in the NBA. It has to be the right cocktail for sure, but why not? The 2004, I mean the 2024 Pistons will have some playoff experience to garner before they can think past the Eastern Conference. We're clearly lucky, but come this and next April in the D, we'll know exactly how lucky we just got.

So it's true, they've done the unthinkable. They've actually captured lightning in a bottle, again. The Larry O'Brien Trophy is now locked in their foresight, and ready to be snatched by this rag tag squad of all-kill warrior bandits. They bear an uncanny resemblance to the likes of those Warrior bandits when they were at a similar point in their trajectory to greatness. The main difference though is merely fit, and not fury. It's a different puzzle with these Pistons, but it's the same kind of puzzle. Read it and weep.

There will always be supportive voices within the fan base and organization of any professional basketball team, but this core of assassins is already unequivocally better than anything we've had here in Detroit in over a decade. Better than Blake's, far superior to Reggie's and Andre's without him, these Pistons do what those groups never dreamed to flirt with; they just issued "hits" on every opposing team that dares to cross them, and they want your jewelry too. They don't negotiate, and there will be no survivors. Apocalypse be damned, the Detroit Pistons are now!

2:56 pm

Op-ed by Cameron Navetta

#detroit pistons #detroit basketball #nba #nba op ed #cade cunningham #jalen duren #troy weaver #tom gores #ausaur thompson

[ebonyforged]

@captianimarum || plotted starter for Alucard

For the seventh time in as many days, nothing has changed.

The room still feels as cold and empty as it did the first time — and her heart still drops just the same when she steps up to the open sarcophagus to find him there, asleep. If she didn’t know why he’s there, the very purpose of the space, she would have guessed him dead. If Alucard were awake, Ebony is almost certain that he would remind her that he died a long time ago.

The first day, she’d huffed and berated him loudly for having to sleep again so soon. Even knowing her words were falling on deaf ears, she’d been grateful to at least know where he was — that he hadn’t just disappeared. Then, observing his injuries, the dreadful realization had sunk in that this, like the last, would probably be another long slumber. She’d left in an angry fit, only to return again every day, her frustrations building and her patience wearing down with each visit. An initially quiet, passing thought quickly cemented itself in her mind and started to keep her up at night: She knows what he needs to heal.

Nothing has changed, except that today she has brought a knife.

Sitting on the edge of the sarcophagus, she feels an overwhelming amount of things while the blade drags along the back of her forearm: Pain, fear, guilt, but mostly a sense of determination that allows her to excuse the rest. It lets her bite through the pain of the cut, the fear of the blade, and the guilt when she drops the knife to carefully part Alucard’s lips. He has always felt cold, but it’s far more striking now, with warm blood steadily running down along the back of her right hand until a bead forms at the tip of her index finger. Just before it threatens to fall and stain his skin, Ebony leans down over Alucard to press the tip of her finger just barely between his lips.

Like with most of her plans, she doesn’t know what to expect.

#this got long dkfjhdfkj but i had to set it all up so!! dont worry about matching length <3 #captianimarum #v; Open for business. {main} #r; How does it feel to breathe while you’re dead? {Alucard} #blood cw #self harm cw #knives cw #playing it safe w/ the tags

[roleplay-abiogenesis2]

@mmriesoftvat || Plotted Starter for Kami and Cyno in Ark Survival verse~

Kaminari and Cyno wake up naked and stranded on the shores of an unknown island infested with all kinds of creatures. How did they get here? Maybe the implant embedded into their arms holds the answers.

A dreamless sleep was disturbed by subtle, yet growingly intense sensations he thought he'd never experienced to this degree. First, the tingling, faint cold over the skin; climbing to the back of his neck and the scalp. His head felt incredibly light and yet so difficult to move, as was every muscle and limb in his body.

Then came the pain, a heat in contrast, swelling from the center of his chest, followed by a sharp scratch-like pang to the arm. Not like a strike or an arrow, but a terribly strong injection with no numbing to make it tolerable. It was that which brought his eyes to squeeze together before attempting to open.

Breathing was hard at first, and then, entirely impossible. The cold returned, and like a scream deafened everything else he could feel.

Everything left him; the sensation of the ground underneath his weight; the warmth of his own blood pulsing through him; liquid stung his eyes closed and filled his mouth and lungs. All sound was swallowed by the deafening whisper of deep waters. The cold so intense, he registered the suffering of his organs against increasing pressure only marginally, like a disinterested observer, while around him, a ghastly rumbling sound seemed to make every cell in his body vibrate.

Then nothing but black. It could very well be the end.

[...]

A gasp for breath felt like the very first time his lungs had ever drawn air. The pain of birth; so overwhelming and powerful. It made one want to cry just like a newborn.

And yet, he felt too exhausted to wail and scream. All energy had been sucked out; only leaving him there, pathetic on the shore, wet and naked, to tremble and breathe. His body was capable of nothing more than curling up in a fetal position and stay that way. Slowly sinking back into an unconscious state.

Sleep… Yes, he needed to sleep. Restore some energy. All else could wait.

Sunset-red eyes which had just started to peak under heavy lids rolled back to hide; a tired sigh of an incoherent whisper between his lips.

He was still alive.

[...]

As he slowly blinked back into consciousness, it did not register right away that the clicking sound that had pulled him out of sleep came from the clatter of teeth in his mouth.

The cold did not set into his awareness right away, either. So close to freezing, he'd lost sensibility to nearly everything he had. Instead, all he was immediately acutely aware of was the sheer weight of gravity. He was paralyzed, unable to move even the strongest of his muscles. Keeping his eyes open was a challenge in itself.

Something was wrong with his body. Cyno didn't know what it was, but something was simply not right.

But he was now awake, if only in mind. Was this sleep paralysis he was going through? Right here and now, he couldn't even remember where he'd heard about something like that.

A blink. His eyes were open, but it was still so dark.

His teeth clattered again, and what made him realize just how cold he truly was, was the sudden, slowly pouring warmth in his mouth. He'd bitten himself without realizing.

The only slightly warmer temperature of his own blood came to his perception before the taste of iron even did. He swallowed, and it was hard. A cough erupted to fight the impending sensation of choking, and he felt the fluids crawling down the lips.

The blood. When was the last time he had bled? The shame...

As he lay there, pathetic and weak, he started to remember… not necessarily everything, but something. The desert; the chase of the Fatui through ruins he'd never seen before...

He'd fallen. Thrown over the edge by the enemy. He remembered Kaminari rushing after him in the air, his arm outstretched to catch him. He remembered their fingers touching.

Where was Kaminari?

Cold to the bone and with nothing but his own body to his name, a storm of emotions surged to his aid. Confusion, rage, dread, pain and anxiety. They took him and overwhelmed all thoughts. And for a while, he let them. With nothing to lash out on, with no energy to even stand, he was oh so aware of his own increasing heartbeat. Let that torturous agony rush through him, to carry that blood everywhere within, regain flow, and wake him.

Soon, he thought he could begin to move his toes. And then, his fingers. The sound of rustling water was the first to register when the drum of his heartbeat subsided enough for him to hear anything else. He tried to call someone, anyone, but his throat was dry. The sand under him felt different than what he was used to. Humid just like his own skin.

Finally crawling out of the shoreline where the ground was at least dry, he could finally raise his head enough to see. The sea behind him, the trees ahead. The stillness of early morning. In the distance, the sun broke through the flat line of the waters.

Once able to turn around and sit, he wasn't sure how long he remained there. Blinking owlishly at nothing, just waiting for his mind to start working again. He'd noticed his almost entire lack of clothes, left only with the merciful presence of his undergarments. He did not feel the presence of wounds, but knew he should take the time to inspect himself thoroughly when the sun would be high enough.

Any sort of plan was thrown away the moment he squeezed his eyes hard and thought he could see something moving near the water, a short distance away.

And when he was close enough to recognize a short clump of indigo hair, Cyno's heart jumped to his throat. Gone was the torpor, gone was the cold. His mind was summoning every bit of energy to rush towards his limp form on the ground.

His running felt so irritatingly slow!

"Kami...!" His first coherent word broke out hoarsely at first, and then, when he all but fell to his knees almost on top of the other, turning him around to face him, more clearly. "Kami... Can you hear me?"

#GI01 || There is no escape for the guilty. [IC: Cyno] #v20 || Ark Survival verse #mmriesoftvat #to: || kaminari the wanderer (genshin impact)

[gelican-gelicant]

Chapter 2: Mirrors

Aysla wakes up with nine bottles remaining. Two was just enough to grant her the brief respite of an hour or two of dreamless sleep before her heart rate begins to pick up, and her palms begin to sweat. She'll take the broken rest over the visions, though. When she's sober, her dreams are vivid and frequent, and she dreads their assured return as she brings her bender to a reluctant end.

In the wee hours of the morning, she stares at the stars, willing her chattering bones to calm their shaking. Bolting to the edge of camp, bottle in hand, she wretches. Nothing in her stomach to hawk up but air, she clutches at her gut weakly until the heaving stops.

She takes a few measured swigs. What a way to start the day. Just enough to stave off worst of the tremors, but not enough to get her good and drunk. She's tapered off before, but she always forgot how god-awful it is.

All her companions are asleep, but one. Astarion leans on a tree off to the edge of her camp, watching her as she rises.

“Good morning. How is our charming resident inebriate? Rising bright and early to greet the day?”

She smiles dryly back at him, amused.

“One could use a drop of my blood as a fire starter right about now - so, more sober than I’d like,” she replies archly.

Astarion thinks he could use her blood for something else, but he keeps it to himself.

“How do you do it, if you don’t mind me asking?” he inquires curiously. “I’ve seen that particular brand of hooch knockout grown men three times your weight - but you seem thirstier than ever.”

“Impressed or disgusted?” she retorts. “You gain a tolerance - it would take a barrel full of whiskey to even get me buzzed.”

“Hmm. I’m sure our little group will thank you for reducing all your barrel-consuming for our benefit - and probably your liver, too,” he says lightly.

He slithers away without an explanation - to clear his mind perhaps? In the forest, in middle of the night? Aysla notes that he didn't pry, so she won't either. She takes one more swig before going to wash up.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

First to rise, Astarion, Aysla, and Lae’zel spend the morning looting through an abandoned village in which they find, among other respective treasures and trinkets, enough swill to last Aysla the rest of her taper-down. 

Her rapier bobs at her hip, covered in goblin gore. 

They're joined by a muscle-bound Tiefling woman that they picked up along the way. She has a jolly disposition and a hot temper, and they collectively decide that she's too charming to be as bad as the Karlach of Avernus that Wyll describes. 

Marching back to camp, Aysla shaky fingers itch for more fighting. The midst of battle is the only place where the curl of cruelty in her heart gets some air, and she almost doesn't notice her cold sweat and her weak nerves. Her heart rate is vital, rather than light and fast like a hummingbird's, if only for a few moments.

She catches a few glances from Lae'zel, who looks like she may finally be beginning to appreciate Aysla's presence as an asset rather than a sloshing burden.

Hiking back to camp is slowed down, bedraggled by heavy bundles of loot as they are. Aysla shuffles through her miscellaneous spoils: a silver ring that doesn't fit her, some boots that seem to glow, and a pretty, decorative handheld mirror. Her hand lightly shakes as she holds up the trinket admiringly, checking her face.

"Find anything good?" she says, to no one in particular. Karlach and Astarion walk on either side of her.

"Nothing to write home about, soldier,” Karlach responds. “What've you got there?"

"Cute, right?" she muses.

She holds up the embellished mirror and examines her reflection. The light yellow-green of her eyes like dying grass looks extra pale against the dark circles settled around them. She smiles at herself for a flash, and it looks more like a grimace. 

Aysla is small and striking, alluring when she tries to be, though her smile has a trace of meanness, the hint of an inside joke she shares with no one but herself. Her body language reads as sardonic and cavalier, but if you stare long enough you'd notice flickers of something more tragic in her edges, constantly shaking and over-tense. Her swagger comes off defiant against the backdrop of her anaemic coloring, toxic and pretty like a poisonous flower. She looks like she might have been beautiful once, if not for being so constantly over-"watered" and underfed, rather than the haunting look she possesses now; magnetic but edgy, like the pieces of a shattered doll glued back together haphazardly, its sharp corners turned porcelain razors.

That’s what Astarion is noticing, as Aysla primps. What he doesn’t notice is how the mirror is angled towards him, revealing his lack of a reflection.

She’s planning the little jest she’ll offer him - ‘oh look, it’s the second most good-looking person in camp, ’ or something - when her eyes widen. She angles the mirror back and forth, seeing Karlach to one side, and an empty space on her other where Astarion is meant to be.

"Oh, it’s nice!" Karlach says.

Aysla smiles at Karlach. Once the tiefling turns away, she taps Astarion’s elbow. She squints at him, feeling stupid. She thinks she can make out two little scars, peeking up from under his collar.

“Can I help you?” he scoffs.

Then, she holds up the mirror once more, looking at him with raised eyebrows. His mouth purses and shock and fear flash in his eyes, but he says nothing with Lae'zel and Karlach still within earshot.

Aysla raises her hands and keeps walking, a gesture of "not my business." She can see his jaw twitching even in her peripheral vision and the tension rolling off of him in waves.

What will she do? he wonders. Stake me? Snitch?

His mind is flashing through scenarios when a strange, probing sensation breaks his focus.

Testing, testing, she says through their tadpoles’ link.

Message received, he answers back.

Don't worry, I can keep a secret, she says. You’re tensing so hard you’re going to burst a vein - oh, wait, do vampires even have veins -

I’d appreciate it if you did, he says.

She nods and almost moves on, but her boredom and curiosity wins out.

No reflection, huh? she asks.

He doesn’t respond, just looks at her drolly as if to say "duh."

Do you want a peek?

His brow knits - it hadn't occurred to him. He nods.

Her view plays in his mind in real time. He's jarred by the familiar yet strange image of his own lithe figure walking, graceful and suave. He recognizes the silver hair coiffed effortlessly sit like an angelic crown atop his head - nice to know that hasn't changed. He's pleased at the image he sees. Broad shoulders and lean limbs, goblin-blood-spattered as they are, beautiful and dangerous. He turns to better inspect his own face. Full, soft and cruel-looking lips and twinkling red eyes; yikes, very red indeed. Overall, a face that is charming enough to make someone's knees wobble. Or, are those her knees? Is it her heart that pitter patters a little faster, as she looks at him?

He realizes she’s grinning at him wickedly when the image fades away.

Not wanting to waste the joke she had cooked up earlier, she projects it now.

Don’t look so shocked - you’re still only the second hottest person in camp, she sends, still smirking.

Right - Karlach was a fine addition, he teases back, smiling widely. Is that why you’ve decided to be such a good little keeper of secrets? I can't blame you - I think I’d swoon for me, too.

She ends the connection then, with a playful gasp.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Back at camp, night falling, Aysla makes her rounds, chit-chatting with each of her companions, intentionally saving Astarion for last.

It’s easy enough for her to fall into banter with each of her traveling mates. She's a charmer, both when endearingly drunk and excruciatingly sober.

She leans on that charm tonight - she needs to form a bond of camaraderie with them all, to redeem herself a bit after basically being labeled the weakest link due to her condition the night before. 

Lae-zel seems to forgive any previous misgivings she had of Aysla based on her skill in battle alone. Despite her delicate constitution, she whips a sword like lightning, taking out droves of enemies before they can see where she comes from - a language Lae’zel speaks and admires.

Gale is easy to befriend, too - Aysla lets him talk to his heart’s content, with nothing but an occasional, “wow, how interesting,” which warms him to her quickly. He even reveals some of his own backstory - a dangerous Netherese orb in his chest, requiring him to eat magical items, and his past love affair with a goddess. It dawns on her that based on the timeline he gives, he may have been predated on by Mystra; but she keeps that to herself for now, not wanting to burst the bubble of esteem he seems to still hold her in.

Wyll is too nice, polished, and well-adjusted for Aysla to be able to find any common ground. She gets a sense that he hides something, but she remains polite and unobtrusive. No tragic backstory? No fatal flaw? Doubtful. But she smiles and makes small talk.

Shadowheart, the first to join Aysla on their quest, has begun to grow on her, and vice versa. She nurses a bottle of wine, and they gossip about the others as if they were old pals.

Karlach is an entertaining and sweet addition. She seems to be genuine and eager for friendship, and Aysla reflects on how that always seems to be the case for the terminally ill, while the hopeless, suicidal wretches like herself are all granted nine lives apiece.

Finally, she approaches Astarion.

“Hello, darling,” he purrs. His sharp features glow in the light of the campfire. 

“How’s my favorite, very normal, mortal companion? Feeling thirsty?” she purrs right back.

She wonders if his thirst is as terrible as her own - day two of withdrawals has not been kind to her, and it seems to only be intensifying as the night falls.

“Oh, I manage. Better than you seem to, sweet thing,” he says, teasing her back. “I’ll probably just go and find something four-legged once everyone’s asleep.”

If she didn’t know the look herself, she wouldn’t notice how he is slightly on edge. He’s jumpy, and his eyes are darting around.

She gets the feeling that he’s putting on his best face, but she recognizes what it looks like when someone desperately, direly needs a drink.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Her intuition is proven right when she wakes to catch him hovering over her, just hours later, fangs bared. 

The first time she experienced alcoholic withdrawals, she didn't understand what was happening. She hadn’t known of such a thing. Hangovers, surely, but spasms? Seizures? Cardiac arrest? No one told her there were repercussions for drinking obscenely for days on end. No one warned her that her body would grow accustomed to it, to the point of need; She had woken up in a cold sweat, only knowing that she needed a drink, right away, or the world would end.

She quickly registers a familiar look in his eyes - shame, urgent hunger - she sees her own reflection.

“Shit,” he says, quickly retreating.

“I’m not mad, just disappointed,” she says, jokingly. She tries her best to convey a light tone, but her voice comes out a hoarse whisper. Her withdrawal symptoms are at their apex now, in the middle of the night, and she’s currently a weak, trembling, tortured mess.

“It’s not what it looks like, I swear. I just needed… well, blood.” He whispers back sheepishly.  

You have no idea, she thinks, how much I get it.

“What happened to ‘something four-legged?’” she asks, still careful to stay quiet enough not to wake the camp.

She wonders why he needed to feed on someone in their camp - but she doesn’t question why it would be her. Aysla, the one who is already dying in her sleep; trembling, in a cold sweat. No one would be shocked if she doesn’t make it to morning.

“I couldn’t find anything, and I was so hungry - I was only going to take a little, I swear, just enough to-” he says, but she cut him off.

“No no no, it’s fine; shhh. You needn't explain it to me - of all people,” she says, gesturing to the bottle she's been nursing. He’s thirsty, and she gets it. 

She lies back down, exhausted, in pain, and kind of okay with maybe, potentially, dying right now. “Knock yourself out.”

He pauses and looks at her. “Really? Just like that?”

“Just don't kill me - or, honestly, do; I really feel like shit right now, so,” she trails off.

His eyes flash to her hands, noticing that they tremble awfully now, even at rest by her sides. “I’ll only take a little - I promise,” he assures her.

She remains still, the only form of consent she has the energy for at this point, and he lowers himself gently. She feels his hair on the side of her face, and his breath on her neck, and she thinks to herself that it might feel pleasant if she didn’t also feel like her blood was made of ants right now. 

She hopes that losing some of it might help the feeling. And if he kills her - well, then the feeling will be over anyway, so it’s a win-win.

His lips ghost against her neck, and she feels his hand gripping her hip. Unable to resist the joke, even in her agony, she feigns flirty chastisement. “Now? Astarion…”

He laughs into her neck. “Absolute freak,” he whispers, before biting down.

She feels an icy pinch, like getting an ear piercing, or being cut by a sharp knife. His teeth slice through her skin easily before her body has a chance to register the feeling. She starts to feel lighter each second - a relief from the high blood pressure she's suffered through all night.

She realizes after a few moments that it’s coming to the point where she ought to stop him if she wants to live, but she pauses, deciding if she should. 

If he finished the job, it would be a sort of poetic justice - the drinker, drunk to death.

A faint chuckle escapes her at that thought, and it seems to jolt him back to the moment. He stops, gradually slowing from an intent sucking, to suckling, to lapping, to finally, a tiny lick before he pulls back.

She sees her own dark red blood stain his lips, which he lazily licks.

“I feel incredible. I feel alive, I feel - happy,” he marvels. “Thank you. This is a gift, you know; I won’t forget it.”

He stands up, and then staggers, before catching himself - looking, well, a little drunk.

She already knows the gist of the joke before he gets it out.

“As delicious as you were, darling, I think your blood may be 80 proof,” he says with a smirk.

Suddenly, she feels a strange aura descend.

She loses time. The next second she remembers, her bedroll is crumpled beneath her, and there’s dirt on her arms and blood in her mouth.

Not only do her hands tremble - her arms tremble, her entire body trembles, her bones, her very soul.

When she comes to, Astarion is looking at her from his elbows.

“You weren't kidding. That was… quite horrifying,” he announces.

Her other companions didn’t wake up, which means she must have had her seizure quietly. She snatches the bottle and pulls, and pulls, and pulls.

#astarion fanfic #astarion fic #astarion x oc #astarion x tav #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 astarion #bg3 smut

[mistrdctr]

Closed, plotted starter for @ssolessurvivor

To be fair, Stephen hadn't planned to be here. Simply because he's only taking the really, really interesting stuff - and, just a few seconds ago, every new patient that had been submitted was far from that. Far from interesting enough to catch his attention.

However, when Christine had told him that the guy that's just arrived sustained injuries that are otherworldly, so to say, and that he is the only survivor of a whole colony planted up onto that god-forsaken moon named Mimas... well, let's say that Stephen had changed his own mind rather quickly, within one sip of tea, actually.

So that's why he is here, fully dressed up, hands gloved, mask covering half of his face. The man - or whatever one can still see of him, really - is in quite rough shape; There's more blood on him than seems to still be pulsing inside his veins, where it belongs, and his injuries are severe. They might be the most severe thing the Neurosurgeon has seen up until this day - and he's been working here for a little while, after all.

Even though he's here to manage the brain-stuff, Stephen actually finds himself switching places during the surgery that takes so, so much longer than anticipated; His steady hands are very much welcomed here and let's just be honest, he loves to show off. To be the one re-attaching nerves that are deemed unsalvageable by others gives him a bit of a kick, so he does that here and there, connects tissue while others connect bones, then puts his attention back on that brain that has seriously suffered from not only the attack the man has survived, but also the freezing cold his body has been exposed to for what must have been a prolonged amount of time.

But, funny enough, that has also saved him, in the end. Prevented too much tissue from dying, getting shock-frosted instead and preserved. After bringing the poor guy back from the death mid-surgery, and after hours and hours of intense concentration and firm focus have passed...

... They're done. Surgery is over.

Fuck, Stephen hasn't felt that exhausted in a while. He drops whatever he's holding, lets someone else deal with the aftermath of sewing remaining wounds shut and clean up, all of that, before he turns and leaves to the sinks; Christine hurries after him, taking his bloody gloves and helps him out of his equally as bloody gown.

"Hope that guy's got a good insurance.", is what he tells her, to which she rolls her eyes at him; He's used to that, so Stephen doesn't mind. "---That's going to get expensive on him; I'm not in the mood to deal with another law-suit, all of that."

"Charming.", is what Christine replies, and the surgeon lets out a little sigh in return before glancing back over his shoulder, briefly so.

Despite the way he acts... he's actually quite fascinated by that case. The fact that this guy, this man, is the sole survivor of what must have been unspeakable horror. The injuries are noteworthy; Stephen will write them down later, create a bit of a file, simply because he's never seen something like that before and his morbit curiosity strikes with that one.

Little does he know that, many years later, he will think of it again...

#ssolvessurvivor #Verse; Closed | Ssolessurvivor #tw injury mention #tw surgery mention

[shinobinvku]

It's been quite a while since the Copy Ninja was assigned a high-ranking solo mission. The mission was simple: reconnaissance while undercover and gathering information on the enemy.  He gave himself a disguise, dressed as the wandering photographer, Sukea—a persona he concocted that allowed him to move freely through the village. 

Starter for @medicnin | Rin

With Team Seven newly reformed under Tenzo's tutelage, Kakashi is left to his own devices. He often felt nostalgic, thinking of the days when Team Seven was younger and things were simpler. It stirs an ache in his heart. To think there would even be simpler days. At one point, Kakashi would've never thought that possible. 

Distracted by his wandering mind, he bumps shoulders with a young woman to his right, his map falling out of his satchel and onto the ground. When he goes to retrieve it, he displays a charming smile to the young woman out of apology, but the second his eyes reach her face, Kakashi's blood runs cold. 

Is he imagining things? The woman bears a striking resemblance to his former teammate. His teammate’s mousy brown hair and warm, honey-brown eyes; she looks just like her! 

❝ R-Rin? ❞ he shudders a breath.

#shinobinvku #muse: hatake kakashi #medicnin #nohara rin #verse: the jounin teacher #story: dream girl

[tandemakers]

Saffron Midnight Parade Fashion Starters

"Oh, do a twirl! Let me see all of that outfit!"

"Strike a pose -- damn, you look great."

"Where did you buy that mask?"

"I don't have an outfit yet, can you help me find one?"

"Oh, no, one of my seams popped out! Come and cover me."

"Hey, don't panic, but your seam popped. Let's just sliiide this way together to fix it."

"Witches are classic costume."

"Awoooooo! I love your werewolf costume!"

"Oooh, run away from the zombie!"

"Nice, a vampire costume? Do you want to suck my blood?"

"Oh, wow, your make-up work is great. How did you do it?"

"You wanna wear matching outfits?"

"I'd be so embarassed if I wore matching costumes with someone."

"Let me fix your hair a little, it's a bit crazy."

"I think you could have matched better shoes with that costume."

"Aren't you cold in that costume?"

"Isn't that costume really hot?"

"Who is that behind the mask?"

"That costume is soooo cool!"

"I'm cosplaying as ME!"

#saffronmidnightparade2023

[sorrowshared]

plotted starter for @aequitaes | Nero

They're not yet at a point at which V would admit that he's in over his head but with every passing second he sees victory slipping further out of reach. In hindsight, taking a detour would not only have saved them a lot of trouble but also a lot of time - what started off as a manageable group of lesser demons, insignificant and weak in comparison to some of the horrors crawling around in the ruins of Red Grave City, quickly turned into an onslaught of enemies that keep appearing out of nowhere, like angry hornets pouring out of a nest that some fool startled in his carelessness.

That careless fool may very well be V himself; him and his strange companions who remain anything but trustworthy and yet appear as V's best chance at survival. The lesser of two evils, if you will. He's lost and vulnerable by himself, unarmed except for the strange cane that seems to hold a few secrets of its own and not even the knowledge of his own name to protect himself with. V, the winged one called him; V like the letter on his book, and out of all the letters at his disposal, somehow the one that appeals to him the most.

With the fight growing fiercer every minute, he's starting to feel out of breath, evading their attacks as best as he can, knowing a direct parry should only be his last resort. Although they started off strong, by now they've lost their upper hand when the small horde gradually chipped away at the distance between them and with V's strength waning there is no opportunity to turn it back around.

There's too many, even for the four of them.

Griffon's scream is drowned out by the demons' rattling growls when V's concentration fails him and he is struck by a massive pincer and hurled back through the air. The cane slips from his grasp as his back connects with the stone ground, the impact knocking all air from his lungs and leaving him momentarily dizzy. Sound, vision, and the distinct taste of blood in his mouth return to him a few seconds later and he sits up with some effort, blinking up at three demons approaching from all sides, like hungry beasts circling their prey.

The sight of them, their stench, the unearthly sounds they make fill V with a sudden horror, familiar to him on some instinctual level, his body turning hot and cold at once, his chest contracting painfully. There's no escape, no weapon at his side, no way to prevent the torment that awaits him, the gruesome death that stares right at him with hungry eyes..

'Snap out of it!' Griffon calls out somewhere above him and somehow it does the trick. It pulls V from his paralysis and he rolls to the side, reaching for the cane just as one of the demons leaps forward to strike.

#aequitaes #p. aequitaes #v. a void immense / wild dark & deep #psa: i hate writing fight scene scenarios #pls kill them quickly nero

[wayfaringstrangxr]

Starter for @asfarasican

If Crowley were awake during all that time, he would have lost count of how many demons were there to a reckoning. Even the ones that he never even saw were there, because their nature was evil and they were avid to sink teeth and claws on something.

The demon open his eyes when feeling his hair being pulled to force him look at his new visitor. The blood dripping from his nose is fresh, caused by the last strike that made him pass out. The other demon in front of him held a knife against his cheek, the cold metal was actually a relief.

"I should rearrange your face." The other one said. "But I bet you don't even know who I am."

Crowley force a yellow smile, he got rid of the ties on his arms and was just waiting for the best oportunity to escape. As the other rises the knife to start cutting, Crowley quickly kicks his legs and grabs hold of the knife, sinking it so deep on their clothes and on the wall, that would take someone to release them.

"Sorry, I meet a lot of people." He smiles again and disappears from sight.

The next thing Crowley sees is the bookstore door with the sign that reads "Quite definitely closed", but he doesn't care about that, with a snap of fingers the door opens and he let himself in. The lights are out, but he knows his way around that shop like the palm of his hand.

As he sits on the chair and lifts the black shirt, he finally take a good look on the damage taken. Several cuts and bruises from punches, kicks and who knows what else was done to him. He picks a box of paper tissues and starts cleaning a larger wound close to his belt as a suddent presence gets him on his feet and wielding the paper box as if it was a weapon.

"Aziraphale?!"

#i am the exact opposite of nice! | crowley #asfarasican #we're a group of the two of us | asfarasican #tw: blood #tw: torture mention

[smalltownoutcasts]

Closed starter for @scatcrccio.

EVER SINCE THE NIGHT IN THE WOODS and witnessing just a tiny taste of what Shauna had went through after the plane crash, something inside the teenage girl had felt...off. It was as if a part of herself had been left in the forest that night, and she couldn't quite put her finger on it. Maybe it had been where she had fired Shauna's gun striking Lottie or witnessing Misty almost kill the one person Callie had become familiar with after their run in at the bar. Whatever it was, it had failed to leave her alone.

It had been weeks, at least a month or longer. But waking up in a cold sweat for most nights had started to leave Callie exhausted to the point that everything seemed to be running together. But one thing had been certain, her cravings for meat had oddly increased. All the former beliefs she had held didn't seem to matter. A once moody teen concerned about the environment and who was dating who seemed to only care for satiating the strange needs her body longed for. Even Callie knew this wasn't "normal" teen behavior, but she had felt so alone in her confusion and like before, had started to pull away from Shauna and Jeff once more.

Eyes popping open in the dead of night, the sixteen year old couldn't take it anymore. Chest heaving up and down and eyes a darker color than the striking blue ones her parents had given her, Callie climbed out of the bed dressed only in a vintage Backstreet Boys concert t-shirt and a pair of shorts. Finding her way downstairs to the kitchen in a haze, she walked out the back door feet bare and the cool night air sending unnoticed chills down her small figure.

Callie had been walking miles, feet bloody and raw, before she had found herself staring blankly at a homeless man sitting near a fire. The only thing noticeable about her shadow had been the gleam of one of Shauna's knives from the butcher block that sat on the kitchen counter.

"Who's there?" His voice was gruff as he peered out into the night trying to make out who was slowly approaching him.

Hollow eyes and no emotion whatsoever, Callie approached him stepping over rocks and broken glass to get to him.

"The wilderness thanks you for your contribution." Her voice was monotone.

"What? What the fuck are you on, little girl? You better turn around and go back to where you came from. Or you waitin' for the big bad wolf to get you..." A sneer came across his cracked lips, yellow and rotted teeth showing.

Now standing and towering over her, he moved in closer, but before he could try anything, Callie lunged hard and fast stabbing him in the neck repeatedly watching him hit the ground like a tree in the middle of a dense forest. No one else around, but nature.

Resting on top of him, the possessed girl continually stabbed and carved until he was unrecognizable letting out a primal scream when she was finally satisfied with her kill. Covered in blood, Callie dropped the knife, before waking up to find what she had done.

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

She had recognized the area just enough to find her way to an unexpected doorstep...Natalie's. Covering up murders had definitely been her mom's thing, but considering Callie was pretty sure she had just made a mess of her own with a man she had prayed she had never crossed paths with in her life, she didn't know who else to turn to. What was living inside her? What had the woods unleashed that night?

Banging on the door as hard as she could, a mixture of his blood and her blood marking the white paint, tears moved steadily down her flushed, crimson stained face. Open the door! Please, please, please, please... She couldn't breathe and it felt like the world was closing in on her. Sunrise was just a few hours away, and Callie was on the verge of a breakdown.

#{muse: callie sadecki} #{verse: yellowjackets} #scatcrccio #murder tw #blood tw #gore tw #possession tw