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alloftheimagines · 1 year

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joel miller | first kill

masterlist | taglist | ko-fi

words: 1.8k

warnings: blood, violence, strong language, angst, hurt/comfort in the best way joel knows how, they/them reader.

synopsis: in which the reader is forced to take a life for the first time in order to save the man she loves. not requested just more brain rot from me.

tags: @sweetbabygirlsworld

When the first gunshot sounds, you bite down on your tongue to trap a scream, tasting blood. Joel ushers you and Ellie down behind the truck, and you wrap an arm around her to keep her close. Joel hunches over you, protecting you both. You hate that he has to; hate that he sees it as his job.

But he’s the only one who can keep you safe.

Your wide-eyed gaze snags on a small opening in the wall. “Ellie. Go hide in there. When Joel says go, you go.”

“Fuck, no. I’m not leaving you guys.”

“Do as you're told,” Joel bites out. He peeks over the top of the truck before returning his focus to you. As he does, a bullet pings off the metal and you all cower. “Shit. There’s two of ‘em.”

Your trembling hand reaches into your waistband for your pistol. You’ve never used it, not once, Joel always making sure you don’t have to. But there’s three of you now, and you’re not sure there’ll be an easy way out this time.

He looks over the truck again. “Now. Go now. Stay low.”

You urge Ellie away, and she crawls to the hole at the same time Joel returns his attention to the shooters. You breathe a sigh of relief when she vanishes in the shadows.

“You, too,” he orders, surprising you.

“No,” you reply. “Two against one? I don’t fucking think so. I’m staying.”

He sighs, jaw ticking in frustration, but there isn’t time. Footsteps grow closer. He rises into a crouch, balances his shotgun…

Shoots.

You flinch as you hear the body hit the floor, and then another round of bullets whistles through the air from the remaining gunman. “Stay there,” Joel says. “Don’t move.”

You wouldn’t know how even if you wanted to, frozen in place. Silence blankets you for a moment, and then Joel’s finger flexes over the trigger.

His second shot rings through the dilapidated building.

“Gone,” he whispers. “They’re gone.”

But you both know those shots were too loud, and anybody could be coming. Slowly, you rise onto your feet, peering over the truck. You try not to look at the bodies, the blood, as you ready your gun with both hands, just like he taught you.

Nothing.

And then a figure comes at Joel in a blur from a side door, and the two of them collapse in a writhing heap.

“Joel!”

The attacker is armed, and he has Joel pinned down by the shotgun. Joel is grunting, suffocating. You point your gun without thinking, aiming straight for the back of the stranger’s head. Fear spikes through you all at once, and your fingers curl around the trigger in a deathly squeeze.

The gunfire rents through the air, causing your ears to ring. The attacker slumps on top of Joel, and only as you see the blood blossoming just above his neck do you realise what you’ve done. The gun wavers in your hand like a ship in a tempest. You drop it, imagining that crimson staining your palms as the stench of gunpowder chokes you.

You’ve killed. Taken a life.

Before you can worry about the bullet going through, Joel pushes the body away, struggling to rise to his feet. His face is splattered in blood. You barely notice him, too busy looking at the attacker’s now visible features. He barely looks eighteen, maybe twenty at most, maybe far younger.

A kid.

You shot a kid. Somebody’s son, brother, nephew.

Joel is saying your name, but you feel like you’re underwater.

“Don’t look at him, look at me,” he commands, cupping your jaw and tearing your gaze from the lifeless boy on the floor. “It’s okay. You had to. You had to do it. I’m here, okay? I’m here.”

Slowly, you begin to shake your head as tears roll down your cheeks. “What did I do?” A sob falls from you. “What have I done?”

“Shit.” Joel tugs you into his warm, hard chest, and your tears soak into his jacket.

“He’s dead,” you’re saying, over and over. “I killed him. He’s dead.” And there is so much blood. You peek over his shoulder again and wonder if that speck there is brain matter on the floor or just your own brain torturing you.

“I’m sorry.” Joel rocks you, his palm hard as stone as his fingers tangle in your hair. “I’m so sorry, darlin'. But we have to go now. We have to hide. People will be coming.”

“There’s a way out through here!” Ellie calls.

It’s a blur as Joel lets you go, picking up your discarded gun and slipping it into his waistband. You can do nothing but stare at the life you’ve taken. It doesn’t feel right to leave the body, to leave him. Your victim.

But you’re being pulled away, through a door, a window, into the street and another ruined building, running, hiding, Joel clearing each step along the way as he keeps you tucked beside him. You stagger on numb feet, looking back every now and again to the building where everything changed. The building where you first took a life.

You have to stop after what feels like years of moving through the city, bile rising up your throat. You vomit all over the sidewalk. Joel’s hand strokes soothing circles across your shoulders — “It’s okay, darlin’. It’s okay.” — and then you’re being pulled away again, again, again. Finally, you find a place to stop. Joel checks every door, every window. You wipe your mouth, your tears, your snotty nose, finding that you’re still shaking uncontrollably. You imagine your freckles are blood stains and have to hide your hands.

“Look at me.” He’s cupping your jaw again, his face unfocused. You think about wiping away the blood crusting his weathered skin, but you can’t bear to touch it. “It wasn’t your fault, okay? You did what you had to. You saved me. It was my fault, baby. I should’ve seen ‘em coming. I should have known better. I should have been the one protecting you.”

There’s no answer that you can give. No answer that will undo what you’ve just done. You didn’t think it would feel like this, killing someone, especially when you know the attacker would’ve killed Joel if you hadn’t pulled that trigger, but it feels like the life has seeped out of you as well as him. It feels like there is a darkness weighing you down now, and you know for certain you will see that gaunt face every day, every night.

“We’re going to have to settle here for a bit,” he’s saying to Ellie. “Give them time.”

You sink down without taking off your backpack and are unable to keep from looking at your hands again. They won’t stop shaking. You’re certain they’ll never stop again.

Another hand covers yours. Joel’s. He’s knelt in front of you, wearing an expression full of sorrow — of loss. Because he’s lost you. The person he knows, the person who has never taken a life, who has done everything they can not to leave the world worse off or bloodier than it already is.

He squeezes your fingers tightly. “Listen to me. Are you listenin’?”

Your bottom lip wobbles, but you nod.

“I know,” he says. “I know what this means. I know that something has changed today. I know how it feels to carry ghosts around. But I need you to stay with me, right here. I need you to focus, just for a little while longer. You hear?”

You swallow. With the rough pad of his thumb, he wipes away your tears. “We can’t stay here. We’re in the open. We need to keep moving, but we can’t do that if you don’t come back to me.”

“I thought… I thought you were going to die,” you whisper. “I thought…”

“I know, baby, and you did so good. You did so fuckin’ good.” He shifts beside you to press his forehead against yours. Both clammy. “You saved me. You kept me alive.”

You took one life for the sake of another. And the worst part is that, even now, when you are breaking on this old carpet, you know you would do it again if it meant keeping Joel safe. Joel and Ellie. It’s the reason you didn’t think twice.

You can’t lose him. You can’t do this without him. He’s all you have to cling onto, and so you do, knotting your fingers in his shirt as though reminding yourself he’s here, he’s real, he’s worth the guilt and the pain and the fear.

“I’m a killer,” you breathe.

“Sometimes, there is no line between killin’ and survivin’. Not in this world. I’m so goddamn sorry I couldn’t stop him. I’m so…” His face crumples, eyes turning glossy. But he sniffs, shakes himself out of it quickly as he places a kiss to your forehead. “It shouldn’t have happened. But it has. And now there’s nothing we can do to change it.”

You close your eyes, and he’s there to catch more tears, more pain. Nausea rolls through you, but you swallow it down, catching a glimpse of Ellie. Though she’s trying to hide it, she’s terrified, and it’s written all over her face.

Better you than her, you think. Better this world makes you a killer than a fourteen-year-old.

“Okay. Okay, I’m ready to keep going.”

“You sure?” Joel whispers.

You nod.

He kisses you again, this one lingering enough that Ellie fakes a gag, which earns her a dirty look from Joel.

“I’m going to do everything I can to make sure that this doesn’t happen again,” he vows. "Everything."

You brush your fingertips across his cheek sadly, knowing it shouldn’t have to be him all the time. He shouldn’t be the only one fighting his demons.

Now, he doesn’t have to be.

“We have to protect each other,” you say. “Give me my gun.”

He gives you a reluctant grimace. “Darlin’...”

“It’s too late to go back,” you say, and you’re not just talking about the kill, the blood on your hands. You’re talking about the way you love him, the way you can’t stop loving him. The way your love has somehow made you into a fierce, broken, desperate killer. And a survivor, like he said. It’s too late to go back, and even if you could, you wouldn’t.

You love him.

He must see it all over your face, because he softens as he tucks a sweat-slick strand of hair behind your ear. So gentle. He’s so rarely this gentle.

“Give me the gun, Joel,” you ask again.

He does, dropping it into your outstretched hand. You want to flinch against the cool metal, but you fight that feeling, slipping the gun away quickly.

You try to compose yourself, moulding your features into something you hope seems reassuring. Joel dips his head before standing, holding his hand out for you. You take it and let him pull you up, and somehow, the world doesn’t crumble beneath your feet. Somehow, the earth keeps turning.

Somehow, he doesn’t look at you like you’re a monster. So you keep going, keep dragging this new ghost around the city with you in the hopes that one day it will be worth it.

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junosmindpalace · 6 months

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“on the count of three. one…”

“it’s not fair. i got a lot of chips.”

“two…three!”

at once, four bags with spooky illustrations were turned upside down, and at once, the sound of wrappers crinkling and solids crashing onto the joint up desks in the centre of the classroom created a mass of unpleasant sound.

“satoru, get away! your pile will mix with mine!”

the bags were shaken extra thoroughly to make sure nothing was caught or remained inside, and were then discarded on the floor with loud swooshes as they cut through the air.

“oh, come on.” shoko stared in exasperation at the boys' heaps of various candies, chocolates and bags of chips. “why do you two always get the biggest piles?”

“they can’t resist my charm.” gojo puffed out his chest, while suguru only gave him a deadpan look.

“ready to count?”

the group nodded and the overlapping crinkling noises resumed as hands dived in to sort through the seas of treats of all different sizes and colors.

halloween, out of all holidays, was one your second year group was always particularly enthusiastic about. it had become a sort of tradition to dress up and go out trick or treating in the neighbourhoods near the school, only to meet back later in the evening to tally up each individual’s candy amount and see who ended up with the largest haul.

the rules were simple: whoever had the largest combination of candies and chocolates won. chips did not count.

satoru and suguru were usually neck and neck in this competition to you and shoko’s immense frustration. suguru had won the first year, satoru the last. the slimey bastards knew the best neighbourhoods to visit and which suckers would be the easiest to charm into receiving a larger haul.

you, especially, were determined to claim a victory of your own, taking into account all the best neighbourhoods yourself. you were quite satisfied with your haul this year, and felt that it might be able to rival your friends’ usual heaps.

“a hundred and seventeen!” satoru was the first to declare, slumping back in his seat with a proud smirk and his arms crossed over his chest. “try beating that.”

“ninety six.” shoko groaned as she threw down the last piece of chocolate into her counted pile, reclining back in defeat.

“one hundred and seven.” suguru finished with a similar defeated tone, leaning a hand on his cheek.

“a hundred and twenty!” you cheered when you finished your count, jumping in joy over your victory. you were right. this year's haul was fruitful. satoru straightened in his seat in disbelief with a loud “what?!” as he hovered over his seat to examine your pile.

“whoa, off by only a few? some bad luck.” shoko chuckled as she reached across the desks toward your pile. “it’s about time someone else got the lead over you two. let me have a chocolate bar.”

satoru huffed, collapsing back into his chair and pressing his cheek up against the table as he watched you start to dig into your pile of goods.

“you two needed to be humbled.” you stated matter of factly as you tossed a piece of chocolate into your mouth. your makeup was starting to wear off, accessories of your costume removed and set down somewhere in the classroom after a tiring night out.

“don’t get so proud, now. you won by one.” satoru grumbled through the plastic fangs in his mouth. his cape draped lazily over his figure as he slumped, shielding him in a sort of mourning figure.

“still won.” you rebuttled simply and proudly, shooting him a sickly sweet smile as you turned your nose up at him. satoru’s lower lip jutted out in frustration. suguru watched the exchange with raised brows and a roll of his eyes.

“you had a hundred and twenty five.” suguru said suddenly on his walk home from the school with satoru, their hauls secured back into their bags at their sides. satoru had taken out his fangs and was sucking on a lollipop when he turned his head in confusion.

“huh?”

“you had a hundred and twenty five candies by the end of the night. i heard you counting on our way back. why’d you say otherwise?”

satoru blinked owlishly before taking the lollipop out of his mouth. he stared up at the dim yellow street light as if in thought.

“well, y/n was really eager to win. embarrassingly eager, even.” satoru rolled his eyes. “seemed certain of their victory.”

“so?”

satoru was quiet for a moment, still staring up at the sky. “i didn’t want to ruin that.”

if there were ever times suguru was caught off guard by something satoru said, this moment took the crown. he stared in surprise at satoru’s reflective expression, his pale cheeks tinted pink from the cool crisp air.

this expression however, got satoru defensive, and he stubbornly turned back toward him with a defiant look on his face. “what about it?”

suguru eventually blinked and straightened. “nothing. that was nice of you.”

“now i’m regretting it though.” satoru tried to diverge, sticking the lollipop back into his mouth. “with all that bragging.”

“that’s how you sound, you know.”

if suguru wasn’t busy keeping going over a game plan for securing a large haul, perhaps he would have been able to catch on to the tender look on satoru's face as he basked in your enthusiasm over the decorations and the costumes and the atmosphere. if suguru wasn't keeping track of his own pile, maybe he would’ve been able to spot satoru gently placing a handful of his own chocolates into your bag while you, at one point, left it unattended. and maybe if he wasn’t so amused by satoru’s "distress" over being outdone, he would’ve been able to catch on to the small smile that danced on his lips as he watched you celebrate your victory and enjoy your favorite chocolates.

maybe if suguru wasn’t so tired he’d would've been more attentive, use the clues to make a connection that would make excellent blackmail. but the night stretched out longer than usual and he was already thinking of all the missions he’d be out on due to the onslaught of curses produced tonight.

this was to satoru’s immense relief. and as he parted ways with suguru, he reflected back on their conversation and hoped that you had been too enamored with your victory to notice anything either.

#some third year second years #pretend for the sake of this oneshot that trick or treating is a thing in japan #happy halloween! hope everyone had a fabulous spooky night #jjk x reader #jjk oneshit #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen oneshot #jujutsu kaisen fluff #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo fluf #satoru gojo oneshot #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru oneshot #gojo satoru fluff

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thewalkingthread · 2 months

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i found you - r.g. (moodboard)

pairing: rick grimes x reader

summary: on your search for rick, you're faced with an unknown group. little did you know, they one of the soldiers was more familiar than you thought.

warnings: NOT REVISED, violence, cursing, walking dead gore

author's note: this is loosely based off of events from the ones who live. I've only been thinking about Rick since the show aired but am going to post a Daryl one shot soon! This will definitely have a part 2!

You pressed your back against the wall of the warehouse. You glanced over at Bailey who had a grenade loaded and ready to blow. He glanced at you, waiting for you to give him the okay.

You glanced back at the group of soldiers that was slowly spreading around the open area.

They'd been on your tail for some time after dropping a bomb on the town you were tucking in for the night with a group. You and Bailey were the only ones who survived.

You were certain is was the same group. Same black uniforms, same helmets, same heaping amount of artillery on them. You were beyond doubtful that you would get out of this situation, but you had to.

You had to keep going. You had to find Rick. You had to go home.

You nodded your head at him and he threw the grenade in the middle of the warehouse before you both ran for cover. Seconds later explosion rocked the ground, the groans and shouts of the soldiers echoing through the now decrepit warehouse.

Their bodies were thrown across the floor.

"I'm going to finish them off," Your eyes darken as you step towards the dying men. You grab the red handled machete, gripping it tight as you walked.

Bailey wasn't too far behind you, keeping his weapon drawn as you approached the bodies.

You kicked over the first person, grabbing the bottom of the helmet and throwing it to the side. The man was groggy, fading in and out of consciousness but you grabbed his vest and pulled him up towards you, making sure he got a good look at your face before you slowly slid your machete through his forehead.

You dropped his body onto the ground, moving on to the next, repeating the same process. These men killed the people that were helping you. They deserved nothing short of a painful death.

There was one man left, trying his best to crawl away. You wanted to laugh at his desperation.

You kicked him in the stomach, his body curling up at the contact.

"You,"

Kick.

"Killed,"

Kick.

"Everyone!"

You shouted in frustration, grabbing the man by his uniform and pulling him up to his feet.

"Fight. Back." You shout, shoving him by his chest.

He kept his head down, probably still trying to recover from the grenade. The man stumbled back, barely able to hold his body up on his own.

You knock him to the ground, ready to end it. In one swift movement he swipes his leg against yours, causing you to land flat on the ground. You groan at the sudden impact, your machete sliding just out of your reach.

He grabs you by your helmet, pulling it towards him in a jerky motion. He's about to punch you but Bailey swings his staff at the guys back, dropping him to the ground.

You nod at Bailey, thanking him. You pulled your helmet off, catching your breathe as you reach down for your machete.

You pull the guys helmet off and swing the machete down in one fluid motion. His brings his arm up to your wrist, stopping you.

Your eyes meet and your heart seems to stop. You drop the machete to the ground, stumbling a few steps back.

Those blue eyes you've been dreaming about were now staring back at you.

"R-Ri-" You gasped out.

His face mirrored yours in complete shock. He pushes himself off the ground, closing the space between you.

"Rick!" You cried out, collapsing into his arms once he was within reach. You couldn't control the sobs that left your mouth once you were completely in his embrace.

"Y/N," Rick inhaled deeply, his lips pressing to your neck. "You found me." He mumbled.

"I found you," You cried, grabbing at his clothing, as if he would disappear if you let go even just a little bit.

Rick pulls away first, but just enough to cup your cheek and press his lips to yours. It's been damn near 7 years since your lips last touched and you could tell from how desperate this kiss was.

There was an awkward cough from beside you.

You both pull away, an awkward chuckle leaving you as you glance at Bailey.

"So is this the famous Rick Grimes?" He raises an eyebrow. You nod your head, biting your bottom lip.

"Rick, this is Bailey." You introduce the two. The give each other nods, before Bailey glances around the dead bodies.

"I," Rick starts. "I know what it looks like... But I'm not one of them. I just-" He looks ashamed.

"I know. I know, Rick." You nod your head, wrapping your arms around him again.

"Is everyone okay? Alexandria? J-Judith..."

"They're okay. Everyone is okay. Judith- she's perfect." You nod your head presses a kiss to his face. A breathe of relief leaves his mouth and his nods, relaxing his shoulders at the reassurance.

"We have to get home. Everyone- They'll all be so excited to see you." You gushed.

"It's not that simple, Y/N..." Rick frowns. "The people, these people. They're not that simple." He shakes his head.

"I can't- I can't go with you." He mutters.

"What?! Rick are you crazy?" You furrowed your eyebrows.

"I'll get away. I will." He tries to reassure you. "You have to go." His voice cracks. "Both of you, you have to go back home. More soldiers will come looking for us and you can't be here when they get here. You have to go home." He squeezes your hand.

"I just got back to you, I am not leaving your side." You say through gritted teeth.

"We don't have a choice, darling." He pleads with you. "Please, I know what I'm doing. I will find a way out. I will get back home to you, I swear." The deep groan of a helicopter catches your attention.

"You have to go. Now. Get home and tell everyone to prepare to fight, or run. Those are the only options." He mutters hurriedly. "I'm sorry this was so short. But I will find you again, my darling."

"Y/N, they're getting closer. We have to go." Bailey urges.

Tears well in your eyes as he tugs you away from Rick. You press one more kiss to his lips, savoring every moment, knowing this could very well be the last.

"I love you, my darling." He says against your lips. "So, so much."

#the walking dead fic #the ones who live #towl #the walking dead #rick grimes #rick grimes x reader #rick grimes x y/n #rick grimes one shot #rick grimes fanfiction #rick grimes fanfic #twd #twd moodboard

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fatasmagoria · 11 months

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Author’s Note: I have 202 followers now which is frankly insane. I decided to write a little something to celebrate with you all! This idea has most likely been done before, but I wanted to put my own spin on it.

The Five Stages of Fatness

Denial

You sit on the edge of your bed, frustrated as you attempt to pull the flaps of your jeans together. They are separated by a generous handful of pudge that pooches out from your otherwise toned midsection. Lousy fast fashion. It must have shrunken in the wash already. Or maybe it was water weight. Or bloating from the fast food order you just inhaled? You scoop up the jeans and throw them over to the corner in a heap.

You grunt as you stand up, the heaviness of your body subtly weighing you down. You retrieve a stretchy pair of joggers from your wardrobe that slide up your thickened thighs and bubble butt with ease, although the waistband can’t stretch any further. But you don’t notice that. You’re already thinking about dessert, and the cinnamon rolls baking downstairs, the dough rising just like the numbers on the scale.

Anger

You slam the door shut behind you, rage barely contained. You were on a date with a cute guy, but he ditched you halfway through because you were catfishing him, or so he claimed. Your pictures didn’t match up to what was in front of him, of course. He was expecting a skinny person, but he was instead given a chubby piglet. You strip your tight clothes from your wider body. Your belly is laden with stretch marks and it has started to split into two rolls, with your tits sagging on top. Your thighs cover your genitals now, and your out of breath just from standing there.

You squeeze yourself into pyjamas and let your anger consume you as you, in turn, consume all the junk food in your kitchen. By the end of it, your body is screaming in pain, and when you slap your belly, it causes you to belch. But you’re too angry to really care. You spend the rest of the night feasting and burping, and you delete that stupid dating app too.

Bargaining

The scale read “300”, causing you to blush. Had you really gotten that big? You stare at yourself in the mirror and grab a handful of jiggling flesh. You look more rotund than human, and your face is red simply from the exertion of standing there. Your gut is hitting mid thigh. You know you have to get on a diet, and get a gym membership too. You tell yourself you’ll start tomorrow, and spend the entire day feasting to “get rid” of the snacks in your house. You even order pizza as your last meal before salads and smoothies became your food source. You’d go out for a run tomorrow, eat well tomorrow, lose weight tomorrow…

Tomorrow came all too soon. You wake up feeling sluggish from yesterday’s binge. You can’t even roll yourself out of bed. You tell yourself that the diet will start on Monday instead, given that it’s the start of the week. But Monday ends up being just as fattening. You eventually forget about your diet plans altogether.

Depression

You were let go from your job for breaking company property. You had sat down at your desk, only to have the armrests fly off and seat splinter as your saggy ass hit the floor. You were a liability to the company. You were simply too fat.

Tears and sobs force their way out of you as you collapse onto your sofa, bags upon bags of fast food surrounding you, giving you a small modicum of comfort. Food wasn’t the enemy, it was your friend. At least you’d get a generous payout after losing your job. At a whopping 450 pounds, your body took up most of the couch. You looked like a pile of flab. Your face, which had once been pretty and inviting, was swallowed up by a double chin that was quickly turning into a triple. You turn on some trash TV and let your brain turn to mush. Food was your friend. And now there was no reason to be separated from it.

You wipe your tears with a meaty forearm as you bite into a burger.

Acceptance

Corrupted by gluttony, your daily routine revolves around food and mind-numbing entertainment. Yesterday was a milestone; you’d hit 500 pounds and your feeder (a handsome man who loved to wait on you) celebrated by gifting you an entire wedding cake. You sit on the bed dumbly, licking frosting from your fingers. The skinnier version of yourself struggling to get their jeans pulled up may have screamed, but you knew that eating and growing was a perfect life. No need to worry about clothes or dating or work. You lived to consume.

Your whole body almost swallowed up your bed. You were likely still mobile, but there was no reason for you to walk when your feeder insisted on providing all your meals. Your whole body was cellulitic, covered in dimples as well as stretch marks. Your runny cheeks jiggled as your forced more cake into your mouth. Your tank of a belly growled with hunger, and your feeder set down another tray of cinnamon rolls on the bedside table, giving your heavy fat a good slap.

This was your life, and you couldn’t be happier.

#fatty #feedisn #female wg #wg teasing #male wg #mutual wg #wg text #nonbinary wg #fat belly #ssbbw feedee #wg stuff #make me fatter

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snaillamp · 3 months

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Sicker Than Dogs - Part 1

Enajr groaned and rolled out of bed.

He felt terrible. He'd been sick for days, feeling pretty shitty, but today he felt even worse than normal, like one small breeze would topple him over.

Pulling on the first shirt he found, the same one from the last two days crumpled on his floor, he pulled it on, ignoring how sweaty it smelled and shuffled out of his bedroom into the kitchen, flicking on the light.

His cabin was small, the light buzzing above his head as he tried to make sense of the early morning routine in his head. His head, however, was pounding, his vision doubling as he stumbled to the kitchen, attempting to make a coffee. He could hardly hold the kettle as he filled it with water, finally setting it down to boil.

After a minute of leaning heavily against the kitchen bench, the water was ready and he poured away. Heaping milk and sugar into it, Enjar drank the sickly sweet, almost syrupy concoction, pulling a face at it. He didn’t like sweet coffee. He didn't know why he’d put so many spoons of sugar in it, if he was being honest, he had hadn't counted.

Walking to his bathroom, he looked in the mirror, his usually long, well groomed hair sticking out in all directions as he stared at his gaunt reflection, his scar standing out from his flushed skin. Sipping the coffee, he ran the tap, bending down on stiff, aching joints and sniffing up the goo slowly dripping from his nose. He found his flu tablets, standing back up and fumbling with the box.

He managed to get it open, only to drop the box into the sink, grumbling in annoyance as he fished it out of the water, leaving it on the counter to dry. Tossing back two electric blue tablets, Enjar swallowed them with a gulp of coffee, before coughing, annoyed at how dizzy he felt. Stumbling back to bed, he collapsed into the sweat soaked sheets, his mind spinning. He was glad the bathroom was an en suite at that moment.

He awoke hours later, feeling worse than before, only to frown.

There was a strange sound... like rain... coming from the bathroom...

Wracking his brain for a second the lighthouse keeper tried to figure out why, only to scramble out of bed when he came to the realisation, immediately making him feel dizzy as he shot across to the sink.

He’d left the tap running, water spilling everywhere. Groaning in frustration, he grabbed towels, and after switching off the tap, began the clean up.

Bending down made the pounding in his head worse, but he forced himself to keep going, until couldn't anymore. Tiredly, he slumped against the shower, breathing hard as sweat poured down his face. He gasped for breath, his eyes sliding shut... He was so... so... tired...

Enjar’s body slumped onto the tiles, his breathing shallow and fast, his skin flushed, puddles of water still on the floor.

When he awoke, he was numb and shivering, barely able to move. He whined weakly, trying to lift his head, to no avail. It dropped back down against the tiles, sending shock waves of pain through his skull, a weak moan reverberating in his aching chest. His throat hurt, his ears throbbed... He couldn’t move, but managed to curl into himself a little, shuddering as he felt his stomach churn.

‘Oh no…’ He thought, his eyes shooting to the toilet. His body convulsed a little, as he swallowed a gag and forced himself onto his shaking hands and knees. Enjar could barely hold himself up as he crawled towards the toilet, pulling himself up onto it just in time. With a final convulsion, he felt his stomach ripple, and the bile rise up and out of him.

Feeling a little light-headed, but better, he shuddered, as more came up. He slumped over the bowl, barely able to hold himself up, and for a few minutes did nothing but throw up what little he had inside him. Then, he was dry heaving, gasping for breath with ringing in his ears, the acrid taste coating his tongue, head hanging in the bowl as his body kept trying to force up something that wasn't even there.

Enjar stood on trembling legs, shivering as he stumbled towards the sink, gripping onto it for dear life. He was glad the bathroom was so small, the sink was the only thing keeping him from collapsing on his weak knees. His body shook as he turned on the tap, leaning down and drinking the water barely dripping from the faucet.

His head spun as the taste of puke left his mouth, and he straightened, immediately staggering backwards, colliding with the wall behind him with a dull thud. He groaned, clutching his forehead and sliding down the wall, before looking through the doorway at his bed… so warm… so soft… so comfy…

Enjar forced himself back up onto his feet, staggering to the closet and wrestling off the wet, gross shirt. He opened the closet, grabbing the first shirt he saw and pulling it on, changing into fresh clothes before stumbling back to bed.

His stomach was cramping, upset about the small amount of water inside him, threatening to expel it. Enjar curled up on his side, holding his waist and groaning in pain as the cramping got worse, the ringing in his ears getting louder and the shivers getting worse.

The pain was soon too much for him, his mind shutting down as he slid into unconsciousness again.

A grating, loud beeping awoke Enjar, making him whine with annoyance, before reaching out with a shaking hand to press the cold, smooth snooze button on his alarm clock.

It was only 6 am.

It dawned on him he must’ve been so disoriented that he didn’t even notice it was night when he’d made the coffee... And that was still sitting in the bathroom on the sink, stone cold.

Sighing, he sniffed, rolling over onto his back. He had to go turn the stupid light off, or he’d get yelled at by someone. Pulling himself into a sitting position with great effort, Enjar’s body shuddered again, and his hand flew to his mouth reflexively. Nothing came up, but he eyed the bathroom warily.

His stomach growled crankily, twisting inside him, making him nauseous. ‘The light…Come on, you big baby... Get the fuck up!’ He thought, swallowing any gags he had rising up, and forced himself out of bed.

The second he stood, he swayed, as nausea wracked his feeble body. Groaning in self pity, Enjar pushed himself to put one foot in front of the other and get to the door that lead to the tower. He opened it, sighing at the sight of the stairs winding their way up into the darkness, their steel frame suddenly much more intimidating than usual. His shoulders sank.

The wall up the stairs usually took Enjar a few minutes on a good day, a bit longer on a bad, but on bad days he could always rest at the halfway point, the maintenance floor halfway up the tower. However today, he could barely get halfway to the maintenance floor, before collapsing on the cold, sharp, steel steps, in a shivering wreak.

Looking up at the stairs he had to go, Enjar reached up to the railing, grabbing it and pulling himself up, holding onto it for dear life. ‘Get up, and keep climbing.’

He made it to the maintenance floor finally, collapsing to the ground. Rolling onto his back and staring at the stairs beside him, he grimaced, coughing weakly. ‘Still have so much left to go’. He thought, groaning again and pushing up and making his way over to the stairs beginning the final climb to the top, ignoring the fact he knew he still had to make it all the way back down.

By some miracle, he ended up at the small, wooden ladder that lead to the gallery where the light was housed. Enjar managed to climb up with just enough energy to make it to the control box and turn the light off. He was glad Johaan was a lazy, old bastard who instead on automating the entire process of turning on the light with a simple, red, glowing button and the flick of a switch. Enjar was sure he wasn’t cognitively aware enough at that moment to do anything other than hit stop and flick the off switch.

He watched the light grind to a halt, making the same mental note he made every day to get around to checking out the light mechanism and fixing whatever was wrong with it.

Making his way back down the ladder, he sighed at the steps he had to descend. Gripping the stair rail, he slowly stepped back down the stairs, taking a break every fourth of fifth stair to catch his breath and give his aching, tingling body a break. When he finally made it back down to his cabin, the sun was gleaming in through the windows, hurting his head.

Sighing exasperatedly, Enjar rubbed his eyes as his headache compounded in his head, and went back to his bedroom, pulling the curtains shut and shutting his door, something he rarely did. Dust flew around the room, making him sneeze, and once he started he couldn’t stop, sneezes and coughs forcing him to his knees where he desperately tried to catch his breath.

“Nnngghh…” He groaned, his voice sounding gravelly and congested.

Enjar couldn't breathe much through his congested nose before, but now he couldn’t breathe through it at all. Crawling to his bedside table, Enjar rummaged around for tissues, tucking back his sweat soaked hair as it hung limply in his vision. Finding the tissues, he blew his nose, relishing in the sensation of the slime coming free. Sighing contentedly as the headache eased a little, his throat aching, ears ringing he climbed back into bed.

Enjar lay there, trying to sleep away his awful cold, except he was so uncomfortable he couldn’t.

Every time be began drifting off, he needed to cough or sneeze or gag. Every time he tried to breathe, his nose and throat filled with slime. With every blink, tears streamed down his face, and occasionally, if he did manage to actually pass out, it would only be for a few minutes before he had to drag himself out of bed to go throw up, though, nothing ever did, he always ended up slumped over the toilet bowl, dry heaving instead.

After a couple hours of repeating this, he gave up, pulling off his sweat stained shirt and dropping it on the floor, along side the pile of slimy tissues he had amassed. Sliding out of bed like a slug, he stalked to the bathroom, turning on the shower and hoping the water pressure was good enough that he could have the hottest, steamiest shower of his life, in a bid to rid his body of congestion.

Turning on the taps, he sighed as the shower pipes shuddered and groaned, vibrating the wall, before a dribble of water came splashing out of the head, then nothing. Enjar could’ve cried at that moment, if he’d had the energy or tears to actually do it.

He stood, drained of energy, swaying sightly as the pipe continued to groan and creak noisily. Turning off the taps, Enjar shuddered, sinking to his knees and curling up in the corner of the shower, slumped against the corner of the wall. The tiles felt nice and cool against his hot skin, as his stomach gurgled, protesting being squished. Pulling his knees up close and letting his bare back curl against the tiles as he tried to cry.

Cold drips fell in front of his feet as he shivered, the cold winter morning waking up around him. He could hear the wind rattling the windows, the cold air settling around him again, making him shiver. Before, the cold was pleasant against his hot skin, but now, he wanted nothing more than to crawl back to bed.

Sighing, his breath hot against his bare chest. Enjar regretted leaving his shirt in his room, but didn’t think the shower wouldn’t have worked at all. Gritting his teeth and pulling himself up, he managed to make it the few steps from the bathroom to the bed, collapsing into the sheets with a groan of relief.

In seconds, he was passed out, not even under the covers. The winter cold set in more as the fire remained unlit and the cabin grew colder and colder. Enjar’s flushed skin began to get paler, his moans and twitches growing smaller and further apart, until he finally went still in his cold, dark room.

Enjar was walking through a forest. He had a gun slung over his shoulder, and warm clothes, but he was freezing. Desperate to find somewhere warm in this massive, infinite forest... Snow piled up around him, he knew he was looking for something… someone…

“HEY!” He called out, his voice cracking as he strained it. Coughs overwhelmed him, forcing him to his knees. The snow was wet, his bones aching and his lungs burning as he tried to breathe…

“Gotta… get… up…... Keep… going…” He looked up at the darkness around him, the world engulfed in shadow. “Quit whining… and get… up…” Enjar pushed against the ground, managing to get to his feet, only for his body to tilt sideways and land heavily on the ground.

Pain shot through his body as he cried out, but no one could hear him… he was all alone… he was always alone… no one was coming… It was so cold...

Enjar’s eyes peeled open, and he sighed against the hard ground. His body ached all over, his headache a million times worse. He barely lifted it, staring up at his bed.

“Must’ve… rolled off…” He whispered, aggravating his throat even more, as he reached a shaking hand up to grip the soft blankets above him. Pulling them down, he let the blankets land heavily on top of him. He had no energy to lift himself back up onto the bed, he could barely move his aching, quivering arms.

Every joint in his body felt weak, stiff and swollen, every breath he took felt like less an less air was getting in… The world was growing smaller and darker as Enjar’s eyes rolled back and he went limp once more, slumped heavily on his side.

The cabin was still all day, as Enjar slept on the cold, hard ground. As the sun began to set, he stirred a little, only to sigh and fall still again. His breathing was faint and slow, his shivering slowing as he warmed up a little, but still very much there. A bruise formed on his head where he’d hit the ground, his skin shining with sweat as the fever ravaged his body.

As the sun set, the light snow was crushed under heavy boots, making their way to the door of the cabin. The person standing outside looked up at the light, or lack of it, worried. Matthew had been trying to get a hold of Enjar all evening, wondering why the light wasn't on, on this particularly foggy night. Something was wrong.

Matthew tried the door. Locked, as expected. He went to the nearby shed and found the old, rusted key. Returning to the tower, he lifted his hand to the old lighthouse door. “Enjar? Hey!? ENJAR!”

He pounded his fist on the door, shaking the window in its’ frame. “Enjar? It’s Matt. You there?” Matthew peered through the salt encrusted window, looking for any sign of his friend. He could tell that the familiar warm glow of the cabin was missing, everything still, dark and quiet. Frowning, Matthew’s gut told him something was up. The snow hadn't even been cleared from the doorway, so Enjar probably hadn't left. Matthew went inside the dark, cold cabin, scared of what he was about to find.

Silence greeted him. “En? You okay…?” Matthew’s voice trailed off, a hint of concern in his voice, the wind howling around the cabin, shaking the windows. “Come on... answer me.” He whispered, glancing around the cabin. The portable radio was still there, so Enjar definitely hadn’t gone anywhere. Maybe he was climbing the tower?

Matthew went to the door, the cabin hard to see in the dark, and made his way up the stairs. Coming to the maintenance floor, he called out the rest of the way up the tower. “ENJAR!” His voice bounced off the stone walls, echoing its way up the stairs.

Shaking his head, Matthew climbed the rest of the way up the stairs and into the light gallery. He turned on the light, listening to the strong, awful grinding sound it was making as it began rotating. A shiver went down his spine. Enjar had been complaining about how the light needed repairs for months. Maybe he’d gotten hurt fixing it? Rapidly checking the area around the light, Matthew peered around it, looking for any signs of his now potentially mangled friend.

Nothing.

Sighing in relief, Matthew made his way down the winding tower. Maybe Enjar had just gone to bed early. He tended to do that if he was having a rough day, and he'd been sounding pretty sick the last few days...

Glancing at the bedroom as he walked past, he sighed. Enjar wasn’t in bed either. But he wasn’t in the shed when Matthew looked for the key, and he wouldn’t be fishing, not at night, and the fjord nearby, where he liked to do it was frozen…

‘Wait.’ Matthew thought, doing a double take and looking closer at the room.

There was a pile of blankets, piled haphazardly on the floor, and sticking out from under one, were two pale legs.

“Enjar…” Matthew breathed, turning on the light and rushing over to his friend who was sprawled on the floor, barely covered but the blankets. They were heaped over his waist, his hand barely holding one between his fingers, tucked close to his naked chest, but not covering it. His entire chest was exposed, his skin clammy and pale in the dark, sweat gluing his long, black hair to his face, neck, shoulders and back. The rest was in a matted heap strewn over the floor.

Matthew’s face fell as he looked down at his friend’s sleeping face, noticing how blue his lips were. “What happened to you, En?” Matthew whispered as he pulled the blankets off his friend. He grunted as he lifted Enjar’s heavy body off the ground, his stomach dropping when he felt how cold his friend's skin was. For a short guy, Enjar was heavy, his muscular frame hard to lift, especially when he was dead weight.

Matthew managed to haul Enjar’s torso onto the bed, catching him briefly as he began sliding off. “Damn…” He puffed as he pushed Enjar back up. “You really must be sick… You’re… completely… out of it.” Matthew finally managed to get Enjar up onto the bed, ending up with his friend lying face down across the width of the bed, his legs hanging over the side. Quickly correcting him, Matthew tucked Enjar in, laying the blankets back over the top of him and going hunting for a hot water bottle.

“I know you have one around…” Matthew muttered, opening every cupboard and drawer looking for it. From the bedroom, Matthew froze when he heard Enjar moan softly. “Please don’t wake up and freak out…” Matthew whispered quickly, tense as he listened for any other sound.

Nothing.

Opening the next cupboard under the bench, Matthew gasped as he saw the pot tumble out a second too late. It landed with a loud crash on the ground, rolling before coming to a stop. Matthew let out a sigh as he heard nothing from Enjar, picking up the pot and sliding it back into place. It moved another pot, and another, until three or four pots and pans came tumbling out of the cupboard, with a deafening crash. Matthew cringed, waiting for Enjar to storm out of his room, pissed off, but all he heard was a weak, low, annoyed groan.

Matthew waited in tense silence, dead still for at least a minute, until he was sure Enjar was still asleep, or at the very least not coming to rip his head off. “If there’s one thing that puts him in a foul mood, it’s being woken up, especially unpleasantly…” Matthew muttered to himself as he continued the search.

Finally, stuffed in a drawer, Matthew found the hot water bottle. He boiled the water for it, bouncing anxiously from foot to foot as he waited. Preparing the bottle, Matthew wandered back in to Enjar’s room, pulling back the covers slightly and earning an annoyed grunt from his probably still uncoscious friend.

Placing the bottle directly against the lighthouse keeper’s bare chest, Matthew went to the closet nearby and began looking for some layers. Using one of Enjar’s arms to hold the bottle in place, Matthew left him and returned with a shirt. He noticed Enjar’s arm was wrapped tightly around the bottle, clinging to it for warmth. At that moment, Enjar made a sleepy sound, somewhere between a groan and a grunt, but very contented sounding. The colour was returning to his face too and Matthew grimaced, sliding it out from between his arms, feeling bad for taking it again so soon. He held up the shirt, trying to figure out how to slide it onto Enjar's unconscious body.

“Charlotte does this all the time, how does she…? Ohhhhh.” He murmured as he got the shirt over Enjar's arms and head, pulling it down his torso. He grabbed a couple more layers, an extra shirt and a woolen jumper, finally satisfied that he would be warm enough when he tucked ENjar's arm back around the hot water bottle. Enjar twitched, clutching it tight. Matthew watched his friend’s face grow warmer for a while, before he frowned, now Enjar looked too warm.

“I’ll get you some water, En, cool you down.”

Matthew came back with a small bowl full of cool water and a rag, dabbing Enjar’s forehead and cheeks in an effort to keep the fever down a little, eventually taking off the extra layers he’d put on. Enjar occasionally twitched and groaned, his head turning from side to side, but he seemed stuck in his feverish sleep.

“You’re okay, man. I’m here.” Matthew whispered, noticing the fever rising in Enjar’s skin. “You were frozen on the floor and now you’re burning up… what’s happening to you?” Enjar groaned a little, sounding uncomfortable, but Matthew wasn’t sure if that was a response or just sick, sleepy sounds.

Matthew’s water must’ve been helping though, because soon Enjar came around, moaning in pain, tired and haggard. He half opened his eyes, gazing at the ceiling. Matthew could tell he wasn’t really there. “Mmmnnngh…” Enjar quietly groaned, trying to move his arms. They were wrapped around the hot water bottle again, and Enjar curled into it for a moment, before trying to move again. “Shh, stay still En. You’re sick.” Matthew whispered, very careful of his movements and voice. He knew Enjar was very easy to tip over the edge when he was like this.

Matthew lifted the damp cloth away from Enjar, moving to place it back in the bowl, sighing in relief. He looked back at Enjar, who was still very out of it, and sat quietly, waiting for him to slowly wake up. Enjar was still gaining his bearings, trying to move again.

His breath seemed to quicken as he struggled under the sheets, tangling himself up, gritting his teeth and grunting as he tried fighting them off, his movements growing more and more erratic as he began to panic. Matthew sat frozen, unsure of what to do as Enjar freaked out beside him. With a final, big kick, the blankets came free and Matthew took his chance as Enjar sucked in a deep, panicked breath.

He spoke up, “Enjar! Calm down, you’re okay, it’s just blankets… You’re okay, you’re okay.” Enjar seemed to hear Matthew’s voice, but wasn’t lucid enough to gauge where he was or what was happening.

He groaned in confusion, his eyes sluggishly moving as he slowly came too, before he sighed, exasperated and closed his eyes. Moving an arm from around his waist, he placed his scarred forearm over his face moaning softly.

Enjar felt strange. His bones felt rattled inside his skin and he was so cold, but so warm. His head was pounding, his skull feeling too big yet too small at the same time. He didn’t know where he was, but his mind was aware of someone nearby, talking through the haze.

“Mmmnnngh…” he groaned, curling up around the warmest thing on near his chest a little. He groaned again, trying to get the weight off him. It was crushing him, he needed it off. ‘Where am I?’ He wondered trying to lift his arms again. They were pressed against him, held down… like… ‘No…’ He thought. ‘No, no, no, no…’

He began to thrash around, fighting off the arms, the lights above him too bright and the voices too loud, the room too silent, everything was wrong. For a second he was back there, back in hospital, back where it had all began, he flashed through his past with every blink and was always somewhere else. The memories were all jumbled, the memories were all wrong… where was he?

What was happening?

Enjar gasped as as the weight lifted off him with a strong, scared kick, a wave of cold crashing over his sweat stained clothes. It grounded him a little, and his heavy eyes slid shut, reality smashing into him like a ton of bricks.

He could hear quiet talking, his name maybe, but nothing made sense. His head was pounding.

He wasn’t sure what was happening, but the pounding…

Placing his arm over his brow, he sighed in relief.

The pressure seemed to make his head feel less floaty.

He could still feel the full bodied aches, but now, he was at least sort of aware of his surroundings....

“Enjar, speak to me.” He felt a hand grab his shoulder, shaking it gently, causing Enjar to flinch. “Enjar?” Enjar couldn’t make words come out of his head as he lifted his arm and stared out from under it. He could see the blurry outline of someone… Dirty blonde hair… tall… that voice…

“Matt…?” Enjar whispered, barely. His voice croaked as he tried to speak, causing him to cough a little. His throat felt painful, every swallow, every breath... The top of his throat was swollen, narrow and he could still taste the faint whisper of puke.

“What are you… doing… here?” Enjar’s vision began to clear as he blinked, and he saw Matthew’s tired, stressed face looking down at him. A sudden realisation struck Enjar, making his stomach sink. “The light…” He breathed, trying to get up.

“No, no, no, no. I handled it. You need to stay there.” Matthew murmured, the light fading fast now, his face bathed in shadow. Enjar could’ve sworn it was moving abnormally, but when he blinked, his friend’s face was normal.

“Enjar, I know this is the last thing you want to hear but I think you should go to the hospit-”

“Hospital… I know…” Enjar interrupted Matthew.

He looked up at his friend, pleading with him. “Please, Matt… no… no hospital.” Matthew frowned, “But Enj-” Enjar managed too lift his arm a little, reaching for Matthew’s own. “Matt. Please, no…” Enjar knew he wouldn’t last in a hospital. If what happened to him last time was any indication, he didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to relive it all again, all of it. He was scared this trip would add to the memories.

“Fine. No hospital, but you’re coming home with me. I can’t leave you on your own like this.” Enjar shook his head. “Matt… No… Who will look after the light?” Matthew rolled his eyes. “I’ll figure that out.” Enjar mustn’t have looked so sure, because Matthew huffed in frustration. “I know you don’t like other people doing your job, but Enjar, I found you collapsed on the floor half frozen to death!” Matthew’s voice grew louder as he argued, Enjar sighing, staring at the ceiling, forlorn.

“Hey, En… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell, I’m just worried. You’ve had it rough out here before and it didn’t end well, you’re far from any help if you do need it, and I know you, you always wait until the last second to get help. I don’t wanna find you dea-” Matthew began tearing up, the image flashing through Enjar’s mind.

Matthew walking in through the door, finding Enjar on the ground, cold, still and…

Enjar didn’t want to picture anymore of that thought. Closing his eyes, Enjar stifled a rising sob. “I promise… that will never happen.” He whispered, looking at his friend. The look on Matthew’s face told Enjar that he didn’t believe him. Grimacing, Enjar forced himself to sit, leaning over and pulling Matthew into a weak hug. “Okay… I’ll go…” He felt Matthew’s body shake against him, his best friend, a brother, crying into his shoulder.

Matthew’s fingers gripped Enjar’s shirt tightly as he squeezed his friend, holding him so hard, so close, so he wouldn’t let go… So his friend wouldn’t go. “I love you man…” Enjar smiled, “I love you too…” They stayed close, holding and comforting each other with their presence, each just enjoying the fact their friend was alive in that moment.

Eventually, they pulled apart with a sigh. Matthew quickly wiped the tears from his face and sniffed, but Enjar didn’t have the energy. “Ugh, oh my god…” Matthew wasn’t prepared for the unexpected strong emotions to creep up on him like that. “Okay, En… Let’s get you dressed, it looks like it’s gonna snow bad later.” Enjar nodded tiredly, sighing and reaching over for the hot water bottle, hugging it around his stomach. It was warm, but not really hot enough for him. He still enjoyed it though, something was better than nothing. The cramps were coming back.

Matthew helped dress Enjar up warm, slinging his arm over Matthew's shoulder, supporting Enjar’s waist with his own. Each step was agony, the shaking, weak joints in his legs barely able to support Enjar’s weight. He felt stiff and sore and achy, all of it was torture.

Finally Matthew got him bundled into the car, climbing into the drivers seat next to him and started the car. Occasionally, he would glance over at Enjar, checking he was okay, but his friend slept for most of the trip. Matthew rummaged around in his pocket, trying to find his phone, but he couldn’t concentrate on the road, so he gave up, focusing on the misty back roads.

As they got closer to town, Matthew felt the road change. It became smoother, the bitumen solid under the wheels. Enjar twitched, mumbling something, before snuggling up against the door of the car. “What was that?” Matthew asked, glancing at him. The outline of his friend looked up, and Matthew could barely make out his features in the dark. “No hospital… please…” He murmured, letting his head drop back against the door.

Matthew pursed his lips, looking at the intersection where he would have to turn if he were to take Enjar to the hospital.

Sighing, he accelerated past the intersection, taking the next turn and going further into town.

~next~

~masterlist~

✨Taglist✨

@i-eat-worlds

@emcscared-whumps

#whump #sickfic #whump writing #whumpblr #sick whump #sick whumpee #snaillamp #original post #original works #whump oc #enjar

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im-someone-i-guess · 1 year

Text

ice cream and white sleeves

a sokeefe fic by ryhanna

word count: 2144

"Sophie having a bad day at work but hides it from Keefe and basically something with fluff." by anonymous tumblr user

Strangling the Councillors seemed like a wonderful notion. Regardless how illegal it presently was, regardless of the consequences that would promptly come after. She was the Amazing Sophie Foster after all, if anyone could get away with murdering the twelve ridiculous gem-wearing peacocks then it would be her. It took every ounce of her self restraint to ignore the burning desire to Inflict her anger onto them and wrap her fingers around each one of their necks when they collapsed to the ground. Instead she nodded politely, smiled insincerely and excused herself. She could feel their lingering pitiful stares, the frustrated ones, the ones where they didn’t even bother feigning at liking Sophie at all.

She had little consistent supporters here, she could save the whole of Lost Cities a thousand times and yet they would regard her little more as a child. Even with the ridiculous cape, the nobility are forced to wear, and the donned up hair, and the tall heels, they saw her as a child, not a respected Emissary or war hero but the young girl from the Forbidden Cities who had been experimented on. They disliked her as if it was her fault, as if she had voluntarily agreed to cause so much trouble for them in her youth.

“Lady Foster,” someone called. Sophie did not pause her aggressive stalking, no, she walked even faster, her hand reaching for her home crystal, eager to return home and pretend this problem away until she would have to face another one of the Lost Cities’ glorified peacocks. “Lady Foster, if I may have a moment,” Councillor Bronte tried again. He was much taller, with longer legs, perfectly capable of keeping pace if not for his own billowing cape, much finer and grander than Sophie’s. She knew if she glanced back that the Councillor would also be wearing his onyx-jewel crown. It would be an unwelcome sight, much too soon after what had happened.

“Not now,” she snapped, eyes still staring ahead of her. Already she held her home crystal, grip so tight she felt her blood circulation cut off, a white-knuckled grip. “In all honesty, Councillor, anything regarding this subject should’ve been said during the meeting where your fellow Councillors all but demanded me to stop pursuing this topic and to never bring it up ever again.” Sophie inhaled. Exhaled. “And so I am doing as commanded by my superiors to never speak of it, I am obligated to say nothing to you.”

“Lady Foster, I have every intention of supporting you on your efforts in involving humans once again in the Elvin World but you must understand that what you proposed is too fast of a change, to invite a couple dozen humans to the Lost Cities would be a logistical nightmare, aside from the precise filtering of candidates itself. This is different from going on trips with your husband to survey human behaviour, a position I only gave you because—”

Sophie cut him off. “Are you informing me that the hours I spent writing those reports went unread? That the task was a charity?” Oh, now Sophie had truly lost all hope in the Council. “Do not hail me, Councillor Bronte. I will assume it to be permission to deliver a scathing lecture spanning hours long on my unrestricted, unfiltered, bluntly honest opinion on today’s events.”

Sophie finally turned to meet the Councillor’s eyes, staring fiercely at his grey-blue eyes. Then she raised her crystal to the light and feigned a sweet smile.

She needed another cape, Sophie noted. Her failed attempt at unpinning the piece of fabric ended up putting a long tear down the middle. Although the sound was one that Sophie fantasised many times to hear, it did nothing to comfort her. If anything, it worsened her mood as it felt helplessly on the carpeted floor in a midnight blue heap. The sapphires encrusted along the edge twinkled in the late afternoon light, tormenting her further. Maybe the cape took pleasure in seeing her suffer after all.

“Miss Foster, would you like me to prepare you a meal?” Pansy asked, quietly walking up to Sophie with concerned eyes. The gnome had been one of the few who eagerly followed Sophie when she left Havenfield to move into Crescent Waters with Keefe. Although technically Sophie was Lady Foster now, and hadn’t been Miss Foster for many years, she did not mind the gnome’s habit of forgetting. Pansy picked up the torn shreds of Sophie’s cape, “Would you want me to mend this? It seems like a shame to throw it away.”

“Yes, please, to the meal and the cape. Oh, what will I do without you, Pansy?” Sophie asked, collapsing onto the armchair nearby. “They denied my proposal, Pansy. They don’t want change, they want things to remain as they have been for centuries.” Sophie tugged at the jewelled hair pins in her hair, dropping them to her lap. It was nice, to finally feel her scalp again, even if the numbness was now replaced by an ache.

“You are Sophie Foster, miss. The Councillors needed you to solve their Neverseen problem, you are much better than they’ll ever be.”

Sophie buried her head in her hands, threading her hands through her hair. “You’re starting to sound like Keefe now, Pansy,” Sophie groaned. How was she going to even tell him? Just last night they were fantasising how things would be, a progressive Elvin world. The Rebellion wouldn’t be taboos anymore, or secret gossip restricted to hushed whispers. Then, they’d be able to speak of their travels to the Forbidden Cities as if it weren’t a scandalous affair.

“He will say the same as I am, miss.” And with those parting words, Pansy left Sophie to her wallowing.

~ Her human-styled clothes were a form of silent rebellion, Sophie decided as she shrugged on one of Keefe’s hoodies. His were always a few sizes too big but she liked how the sleeves could act like gloves, and how she could sink into the soft fabric and the subtle smell of her husband. Her husband who would be returning any time now. And there would be no escaping his Empath abilities and prying questions. Besides, one glance at Sophie’s tired eyes would confirm his creeping suspicion that her proposal hadn’t gone through. And then, they’d both succumb to utter misery but at least she’d drag him down right with her.

“Foster?” a voice called from downstairs, a door promptly shutting right after. Sophie knew if she went down to check she’d find boot prints, evidence he had kicked it again. But Sophie had no intention of walking down the stairs, or greeting her husband. He’d see right through her, she was surprised he hadn’t already felt the thick sorrow in the air, or however else he’d put it.

The muffled sound of Keefe’s purposeful footsteps echoed through the house, alerting Sophie of his arrival before the door even opened, revealing Keefe Foster, clad in mud stained clothes, his hair streaked with dirt. He had mentioned a problem with the dwarves, some issue that involved human miners stealing the dwarves’ secret caches. Sophie expected him to start his torrent of complaints, first with how being underground ruined his hair and that it was due for another wash, then about how unmoving the dwarves had been.

“I spoke to Bronte today, completely ambushed like this,” he gestured over his dirty clothes. “He says he owes you an apology and that he’d be coming over later today, pretty much waved his circlet around and invited himself over,” Keefe frowned. “What did the Council do? He makes it sound as if they… no they didn’t!”

Keefe leaped onto the bed, pulling the covers away from her. “It’s fine, Keefe,” Sophie said grimly. “And get off the bed, Pansy just changed the sheets.”

“Foster, you’re THE SOPHIE FOSTER, if they will not listen to them, make them. Threaten them or something if they aren’t budging. But you are not giving up, Foster.” Sophie only gave a non-committal sound as she wrenched back the covers from Keefe, blanketing her figure once more. “Oh no, you’re wearing my hoodie too, you never do that unless you’re severely sad,” Keefe noted. “Ah, I knew something was off the moment I walked in, I’m getting immune to your strong emotions now.”

“There’s nothing wrong, Keefe. It’s all grand,” Sophie mumbled. The words sounded false even to her own ears, Keefe did not buy it of course.

“I’m getting changed and then we’re eating ice cream somewhere in the Forbidden Cities,” Keefe decided. “An additional bonus is we get to ditch the Councillor and make him stand like a fool at the door, passive aggressively knocking the door. I’ll tell Pansy to lock the door and let no one in no matter what. Then we can wallow in sadness together.”

They swapped their ice creams after a few licks, an unspoken rule they always obeyed whilst eating ice cream. A tradition, if they had one. The sweetness cheered Sophie somewhat, though it was hard to ignore that feeling in her stomach, the realisation that the Elvin world may never really fully progress, that they’d be stuck with their backward views even centuries after. Three, she had only three consistent supporters on the Council, and she hated one of them (regardless if said councillor also happened to be her biological mother). Oralie, Terik and Bronte. She needed to convince nine more to have her proposal approved. A unanimous vote, impossible to achieve especially since Councillor Alina seemed to have a personal vendetta against her.

“So you’re telling me those handwritten reports were never even read by the Councillors?” Keefe asked, ice blue eyes wide, offended on her behalf. “So let me get this straight, Bronte made the whole thing up about the Council wanting to establish a relationship with the humans, gave you a crystal only he authorised and made you spend hours writing all that intricate information about the Forbidden Cities under the guise of helping you?”

Sophie nodded solemnly. “At least the crystal was nice.”

“Is,” Keefe amended, holding out his cone, chocolate staining the edges of his lips as he cast Sophie a crooked smirk. “And we’re not giving it back, you deserve that much.”

“Oh, they’d have to wrench it from my dead body if they want it so badly,” Sophie grinned in turn. “I hate them, Keefe. They’re holding onto ancient tradition that never did anyone good, and never will. And they say they have no reason to change anything because there are no issues in the Lost Cities. They forgot the word ‘anymore’!” Sophie told him. “What about the Neverseen, so many of them are just people wronged by the Council and this twisted system. And the Black Swan, they wouldn’t have to fight so hard and…”

“Tomorrow, we’re going to march up to the Council and make our claims, I promise Sophie, we’ll get that approval. Or better yet, we initiate it ourselves.” Keefe’s voice adopted a mischievous undertone, his lips twisting into his signature boyish smirk. “We’ll try tomorrow but either way there will be no losing. It’s either we do it by their civil terms or we could pursue this behind their backs.”

“Tomorrow,” Sophie insisted. “Now swap, I want the chocolate one again,” she ordered, snatching back the cone from his grip and exchanging it with the strawberry one she had been licking. “You bit the ice cream?” she asked, bewildered.

“So what, you bite the ends of the cones, and now I have to endure them dripping down my wrist!” Keefe pointed at his chocolate and strawberry droplets, slowly trickling down his sleeves, staining the white. “How have you not stained that hoodie yet?” he demanded, grumbling as he licked the end of the cone.

“First of all, I had the forethought of wearing black instead of white to an ice cream date—”

“But I invited you to that, no way did you know I would drag you to get ice cream—of course you did—am I that predictable these days?” he asked, frowning. “Adulthood made me terrible, I don’t remember the last time I did anything particularly interesting.”

“Sure, getting yourself a franchise-wide ban at McDonalds hadn’t been memorable at all,” Sophie smiled. “You didn’t have to demand all their fries, those poor workers were probably traumatised by your store-wide challenge to finish more fries than you could. And the fact that some actually tried, with so little motivation or any reward in return had been baffling.”

“Their fries are to die for. It is only a shame I cannot personally terrorise them for any more,” Keefe laughed.

And perhaps, for just right now, Sophie would pretend all was fine. Tomorrow, she’d worry about her proposal tomorrow.

#ry writes #sokeefe #keefe sencen #sophie foster #sophie x keefe #fluff #fanfiction

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yaskefer · 2 years

Text

written for whumptober 2022, No. 8 EVERYTHING HURTS AND I’M DYING

read on ao3

warning for self harm (jaskier hits his head against a wall multiple times)

summary: Jaskier knew how to pick up after himself, he just wished he didn't have to, not always. or The bloody, broken aftermath of Voleth Meir, as experienced by a bloody, broken bard.

Something was definitely broken.

The destroyed hall had cleared out, people leaving with barely a glance at Jaskier, slumped against a broken table which dug into his back painfully. He’d seen Geralt, Yennefer and Cirilla go out together, towards the cold, cold balcony, overlooking a blood curdling drop that Jaskier very much did not want to see ever again, so it’s not like he’d have wanted to follow anyway–

But it still hurt, the barely there glance at him, the way Geralt just… didn’t care.

His mouth twisted bitterly, but he forged on. He needed to see the damage, needed to see if he could maybe make it to his room. So, grunting and shifting, making embarrassing noises that made him feel glad no one was here, he shifted until he managed to tug the boot off his left ankle.

He bit the inside of his cheeks until it hurt, and slowly, tenderly, shifted the boot off his socked foot.

He didn’t have to remove the sock to see it was definitely, horrifically, absolutely broken. It bent at an awful angle, and throbbed in pain with every heartbeat. Jaskier tasted blood in his mouth and quickly let go of the tender flesh on the inside of his cheeks, tonguing it and wincing.

He let his head fall back onto the table, barely noticing the way a broken edge was still digging into his back. He didn’t want to look at his misshapen leg anymore. Wanted to tug his boots back on and not think about how he couldn’t leave now, not on a broken ankle. The way he probably couldn’t even help around the keep anymore, couldn’t help in clean up, would only hinder, even more than he already did as a mere human.

Swallowing down a sob, he slowly pushed himself off the table, and dragged himself in a mostly upright sitting position. Planting a hand on the grainy, splintered surface, he heaved himself up with all his might, and managed to put his entire weight on his good leg.

The semi standing position remained for about one full second before his legs gave out under him and he collapsed onto a heap, a short, half terrified, half pained scream escaping him as he narrowly avoided landing right on top of the broken ankle.

Now in an even more undignified position on the floor, he let a few frustrated tears escape, swiping away at them angrily as he started trying to heave himself into a standing position again. This time, he was more balanced, letting his weight rest entirely on his arm and good leg, leaning heavily to one side.

He left his boot right where it was, and started hopping on his good leg towards the door. He wouldn’t be found sitting and wallowing like some– some pathetic– some–

He wouldn’t let himself be found like this by anyone. He wouldn’t. He has to be in his room by the time the others have rested up and begun the last rites and clean up.

---

He forgot about the stairs.

Jaskier gazed blankly at the narrow, high steps, cold stone, slippery. He stared and tried to hold in the urge to burst into tears. He stared and burst into tears.

He was so fucking stupid. How could he have forgotten about the goddamn stairs, the ones he’d complained about without stop, whined and cried and muttered so much about? The stairs he so fucking hated, how could he have forgotten about them?

Fuck it, Jaskier thought, fuck it all. He slowly, painstakingly slid down the wall, and breathed.

Just sat there, the cold stone of Kaer Morhen chilling him right down to the bones as he heaved in breath after breath, trying to calm himself down enough to actually do something other than freeze himself to death at the bottom of a godforsaken staircase.

Then, damning dignity –because really, what use did he have for it right now anyway– he got onto his hands and knees and started crawling, making his way towards where he hoped was the kitchen.

If he couldn’t have the dignity of wallowing in pain in his own room, if he couldn’t have that scratchy, awful blanket and that half full wine bottle, he would at least very well be warm while in pain.

Eventually, he did manage to find the kitchen, and he didn’t even run into anyone on the way. So maybe it wasn’t all very terrible. The kitchen was even reasonably warm. The fire was down on its last legs, but even the dying embers would keep the entire kitchen warm for quite a while.

He went as close as he dared without being too far to enjoy the heat, and curled into a ball, mostly a foetal position except his broken leg was flung out in a desperate bid to ease the pain.

It didn’t help.

Gritting his teeth, Jaskier scrubbed a harsh, cold hand down his face, and then stifled a cry when the fresh burns on his fingers stung.

He won’t cry.

He won’t. Not anymore. He would stay here and recuperate until he could maybe find a way to bind that leg, or maybe even ask Yennefer for her help. He was fairly certain he’d seen her healing some injured witchers with her newly returned powers. How wonderfully convenient.

Everything ached and throbbed. He still had that awful hangover, his hands hurt, and his ankle was the worst of all. He hadn’t slept well and he hadn’t slept enough. He hadn’t eaten anything substantial in two days now. He had been scraped up pretty badly in the scuffle as well, and he could feel his chemise sticking to his skin in some places with what he hoped was sweat but already knew was blood. At least it didn’t feel like it was enough to be alarming.

He shifted again, trying to find a position that maybe didn’t hurt quite as much, and failing miserably.

Eventually, after a lot of tears he really didn’t want to shed, he managed to drag himself into a sitting position, once again leaning against a wall, legs stretched out in front of him. At least the wall was warmer this time.

He stared up at the ceiling, at the bunch of cobwebs hanging from one corner of it, and thought about how maybe he should have grabbed a bunch of spoons, to pass the time, to distract himself from the overwhelming throbbing.

He’d broken bones before, he’d broken bones when he’d been a kid and he’d broken bones before at Oxenfurt, and he’d broken bones when he’d been with Geralt, travelling on the road. He wasn’t a stranger to broken bones.

Then why did it hurt so much worse this time?

He lifted his head up and let it fall back onto the wall with a thud, wincing when pain echoed through his skull, and then repeating it anyway. Maybe if he did it enough times he’d pass out and be free of pain. Or get amnesia and forget about Geralt forever.

He had his eyes squeezed shut, and was hitting his head on the wall behind himself over and over, and had the vague thought that maybe he had a concussion and should probably stop.

He didn’t stop.

It wasn’t that painful anyway, it wasn’t like he was putting any force behind the hits, not after the initial one, they were more gentle taps against the wall to distract himself from the all consuming ache in the rest of his body than anything actually harmful. Hopefully.

He should stop, should definitely sto–

Something that was definitely not the wall hit the back of his head, and his eyes shot open, only to meet with a pair of gold ones, leaning way too close to his face. He startled, shrieked, tried to scramble away, and then screamed again, this time due to the pain that flared up his broken ankle.

Geralt acted quickly and grabbed Jaskier, settling him back into a sitting position and straightening out his leg before Jaskier can do something stupid like bang it against the floor. One of Geralt’s hands was still between Jaskier’s head and the wall.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked, concern plain in both his voice and face, so open, such a stark contrast to his usually stoic, stoney expression.

Jaskier stifled the urge to punch him in the face, knowing his burnt hand couldn’t handle it. And then he paused, thought a little, leaned his head back hard against Geralt’s hand, before lurching forward and striking Geralt hard in the face with his head, letting out a yelp of pain.

“What the fuck, ” Geralt yelled, stumbling backwards and staring at Jaskier with bewildered, wide eyes, his hand going up to his nose. Jaskier hoped it was bleeding.

Jaskier bared his teeth at him for a moment before raising his hand up to rub at his forehead. Great, another ache to add onto the hundred others.

“What’s wrong with you?” Geralt asked, his voice lower now, and eyes boring into Jaskier’s.

“What’s wrong with me, he asks,” Jaskier said, more to himself than to Geralt, “ Me, he asks, like he doesn’t know, like it’s somehow my fault that a crazy fucking demon decided to posess his child surprise that he claimed by himself as a fucking joke, released into the wild by a witch he bound to himself with a djinn he was looking for to get some fucking slee–”

“Right,” Geralt interrupted him, his face sour and pale, “Right, that’s enough. I get it.”

Jaskier looked up at him sullenly, the pain across his body almost forgotten in the rush of anger he’d felt at seeing Geralt concerned. How dare he? Hasn’t he done enough? He already knows Jaskier will do anything for him, what’s the point of fake concern? He didn’t need to pretend.

“What are you doing here? Don’t you have something else to do?” Jaskier asked harshly.

“I was looking for you.”

“For what? If it’s escaped your notice, I’m not really in any state to help you out with literally anything.”

“I wanted to–” Geralt hesitated, before continuing, “I wanted to check up on you. To see if you were fine, after the whole…”

“Well,” Jaskier said loudly, “Clearly I’m not, now can you leave so I can wallow in peace?”

Geralt looked surprised at the words. “I– what? No. You’re hurt.”

“No, shit,” Jaskier said, faking surprise so exaggeratedly he could feel it on his tongue, bitter and acrid, burning, “I could never have guessed. Thank goodness for your superior witcher senses!”

His leg gave a particularly bad throb of pain, as if agreeing with him– or possibly disagreeing, he didn’t much care which, only that it hurt awfully and he wondered if amputating the leg completely off won’t be better than the pain of a broken ankle. If cutting out this heart would spare him the ache.

“We need to wrap the ankle properly, set it so it doesn’t heal wrong,” Geralt said, ignoring the sarcasm.

“So sorry for the inconvenience,” Jaskier muttered, “At least then you won’t have to work very hard to get rid of me.”

He didn’t know why he was quite so angry. Geralt was trying, wasn’t he? Wouldn’t it be better to let him? To bask in the attention and care? To just… let go. Easier than keeping up this ruse of anger. Like he could ever be truly angry at Geralt, no matter what he does. He might even have felt guilty about the headbutt if it weren’t for the fact that he would definitely be sporting an ugly bruise on his head the next day while Geralt won’t, so it was him suffering in the end anyway. As always.

Geralt didn’t say anything, crouching down to take a look at the ankle. He lifted it up, gently, almost reverently, like Jaskier was a fragile little thing. He felt like one.

He swallowed down further words and watched Geralt turn it this way and that, and it almost didn’t hurt, Geralt’s hand on Jaskier’s ankle. When he started trying to tug off the sock, Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut and worried the already tender flesh on the inside of his cheeks, ignoring the pain and the taste of blood.

But Geralt stilled suddenly, eyes meeting Jaskier’s as he said, a little sternly, “Stop that.”

Jaskier quickly let go of the skin, and then scowled at having done so, but Geralt had already moved on to the ankle, the sock now off. It looked even worse without the additional layer of wool. Jaskier looked away quickly.

Which is why he didn’t see it coming when Geralt grabbed his ankle with both hands and yanked.

Jaskier let out a scream so loud it made his throat hurt, and he saw Geralt grimace. Pain shot up so harshly he felt bile rise in his mouth.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, ” Jaskier cursed, “Are you setting it or breaking it worse? At this rate I'll never walk again! And then where would you be? I doubt poor Roach would be happy to lug me around all the time.”

Jaskier had a sudden image of himself, leg unhealed and broken forever, unable to trail after Geralt. He could still play, but he'd be then confined to his position at Oxenfurt only. He wouldn't even be able to help out the elves as the Sandpiper. He wouldn't be able to do anything.

A part of him knew he was just being overly dramatic, that he'd both broken and fractured bones before and none of them troubled him now. And that Geralt was an expert at setting bones, at healing injuries even when they were on a weak human and not a witcher. His ankle would be fine. He would be fine. Everything was fine, he just had to stop his heart from doing his thinking.

“Don’t be silly," Geralt said mildly, and despite his effort at not letting his heart get the better of him, Jaskier felt it drop. So what if Geralt healed his leg? He was still going to be a burden. After all, he'd been one even without a useless ankle to contend with. Of course he wouldn't be riding Roach. He didn't even know where Roach was, he hadn't seen her since coming down that mountain in Caingorn. The thought filled him with sudden dread.

Geralt went on, oblivious to the turmoil going on within Jaskier, "I’ll get you your own horse.”

Jaskier froze, something tight around his heart unclenching as he finally took in an easy breath, despite the pain still coursing through him, despite the tender ribs and aching body and broken ankle.

They usually didn’t even have enough money for a night in the inn, let alone a horse. And despite that, Geralt saying it, it felt like an olive branch. Like a peace offering. Like a chance, like a plea for a chance. Geralt was carefully not looking at Jaskier, wholly focused on the ankle with an intensity it probably, hopefully, didn’t warrant.

All the fight and anger drained out of him, leaving him exhausted and just the tiniest bit hopeful.

“Well," he said, slightly choked up. He cleared his throat, eyes going a little misty as Geralt finally looked up at him from where he was splinting the bone, "One thing’s for sure, I’ll be the one naming it. You’ll probably just end up naming it Roach Two or something equally ridiculous.”

#whumptober2022 #no.8 #everything hurts and im dying #broken bones #the witcher #jaskier #self harm #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier dandelion #my fic

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worgenbreath · 1 year

Text

Opheliaverse

A small September breeze danced through the orchard, cooling the sweat against the struggling pony’s brow. She grit her teeth and groaned as she worked to pull her harvest wagon overladen with apples through the fall grass. Maybe this shortcut off the beaten road hadn’t been one of her best ideas.

Buck Wild halted on her path, her wagon creaking eerily with her day’s harvest. The pony looked to the tree line seeing that dusk was settling in and casting long shadows in its wake. “‘Ahm losin’ daylight,” she grumbled. Buck snarled her nose up at the growing shadows; the sound of cicadas filling the forest. She rolled her eyes at the thought of her big brother Casey teasing her as she trotted in with her morning haul right before nightfall.

“Better get a move on…” Buck sighed, heaving her cart back into motion.

The breeze whipped through the orchard once more, tugging at the small pony’s golden curls, loose strands clinging to her damp brow. Buck snarled again and blew irritably at the stuck hair near her eye, unable to free it. She bucked in frustration, her strong kick connecting with the wooden cart behind her. The sound of the kick bounced off of the looming tree trunks; her cart groaning lightly as its wooden walls splintered.

Buck Wild whinnied in annoyance and jumped up in a childish fit of anger, her cart jolted forward with her momentum. Buck jumped once more, willing her cart to move at more than a snail’s pace behind her. She wanted so badly to just be finished with the day’s labor and be home with her family for dinner.

The apple cart jolted to a halt. Not moving any further. Buck Wild whipped her head around and glared at her cart. Her eyes danced angrily, darting to and for as she examined her wagon. A strange vine had tangled itself around the spoke of her wheel, holding them firmly in place.

The weird vine somehow snaked itself in and around the spokes of her wagon wheel. It was thick and braided, almost wooden in appearance. The vine looked as if the root of a tree came to life and reached out to grab her.

Was the dimming light playing tricks on her? It almost appeared as if the vine were… moving? Pulsating and tugging at her cart.

“Oh horseshoes!” Buck cried out, her eyebrows furrowing in shock and anger. She glared at the vine holding her in place. She snorted once and dug her front hoof into the dirt, ripping up a clump of grass. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” the flustered pony shouted, bucking the walls of her wagon with each raging outburst.

With a sickening crack, and what felt like a tug, the axle of Buck Wild’s cart exploded under the weight of her haul, her flurry of kicks, and maybe a pull from the vine. Buck’s wagon fell to the ground behind her in a lopsided heap, apples spilling out onto the forest floor. The yolk around Buck’s shoulders pulled on her sharply as the wagon collapsed, yanking her out of tantrum.

Buck Wild’s chest heaved under the weight of her harness as she panted lightly from her outburst. She dropped to her haunches in defeat and sat in the dry grass surrounded by apples and pieces of her broken wagon wheel.

The winded pony released a calming sigh as she turned her head to look at the damage done. Beside the crippled apple cart laid her wheel, no longer tangled up with the vine. It simply laid within the grass, broken and useless, as if it had never come into contact with an obstacle at all.

Startled, Buck Wild leapt up to her hooves and twisted her body as much as her harness would allow so she could better see the wheel in the dying light. Where is it? Where is the vine? She asked herself, blinking frantically in an attempt to remove from her sight what may be hiding the missing vine.

The vine was longer there.

A harsher wind blew through the orchard and sent chilling pins and needles throughout the young pony’s body. Her eyes wide in confusion and disbelief as she stared at the destroyed wagon wheel. She took slow, deep breaths as she stood rigid in the now dusky, silent forest. Buck slowly swiveled her ears, desperate to hear anything but her growing panic.

The cicadas were no longer humming. The only sound was that of the tree’s reaching branches scraping together in the wind, rattling like dry bones. Sunlight was dying out by the second as haunting shadows began to cover Buck in their chilling embrace.

Keekee! Kekee! Keek... kee!

Buck Wild quickly turned around to rake her gaze over the fading tree line, adrenaline beginning to race through her veins at the strange cackling sound. She swallowed the icy lump of fear in her throat and strained her quivering ears forward. “C-Casey…?” she whinnied bleakly.

Her heartbeat swelled in her eardrums as she desperately waited for her brother to return her call.

Silence.

Stinging, fearful tears burned her wide eyes as she strained to listen. Buck felt her jaw clench as the haunting rattle returned her call.

Keekee! Kekee! Keek!

It sounded like dry sticks scratching together alongside the cackle of a hyena. She’d never heard anything like this before in her life. The noise was coming from all around her, crying out to each other. Communicating.

“Mom!?” Buck Wild cried out, her voice cracking, the cords in her throat taught as she stood shivering in fear. Her harness rattled between the strange cries of the forest.

As the sky burned through its final rays of light, a final burst of air gushed through the woods. It rattled the tree branches, amplified the haunting cries, and brought a bitter stench to Buck’s flared nostrils: rotten wood and wet pine needles.

A burning, sharp pain struck her on her foreleg, leaving the feeling of warm blood to gush down to her feathered hooves. The pony shrieked in pain and fear.

Alongside her screams was the loud, bone-chilling sound of howls and savage snarls. She was hit by a massive being, flesh and blood, knocking her over and crushing what was left of her wagon and snapping the reins of her harness. Buck’s senses were overwhelmed as horrid snorts and growls filled her ears and damp stink drenched her nose.

Her vision became obscured, and her world suddenly went dark.

#mlp next gen #mlp next generation #mlp #mlpfim #qatsby #opheliaverse #my little pony #mlp oc #mlp art #mlp fan art #illustration #buck wild #mlp fim

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the-flower-herald · 10 months

Text

Little blurb from my brain about the origin of villain!Jack- instead of being a ghostly spiderhero, he was actually a college intern crushed by the collider. The impact killed him but fused him with one of his alternates, so he's got ghost powers and is technically dead. And two of the same person.

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

"Hey, buddy," Karin called softly at the door. "I uh, I made pasta. Again. You want me to bring it in?"

A muffled, pathetic sounding refusal barely made it past the threshold. She twisted the knob regardless, for once thankful that their cheap dorm buildings didn't have locks on the internal doors. The room was pitch black and eerily silent, clothes and books strewn about as usual, but the glasses of water and plates of food left untouched for days was concerning. Karin sighed as she set down the umpteenth plate, trying to clear space for food she knew her roommate wasn't going to touch.

"I know... I know what you went through wasn't pretty, Jackie, but you gotta eat something. We're all getting worried about you." She sniffled.

Another dismissive noise came from the heap of blankets piled onto the twin sized mattress. She grabbed a few plates of moldy food, grimacing as the smell hit her nostrils. She glanced around again, noting that the mirror on the back of his door had been covered by a jacket, and the doorway leading to the bathroom showed another covered mirror, this one with a sheet. His curtains had been drawn as well, and any other reflective surface covered or gone. Her heart ached for what he was going through.

"Do you maybe wanna come eat with us? We're just gonna watch a movie and stay in tonight. Do some homework maybe? I got yours from your classes."

The form burrowed deeper into the bed before croaking out a barely audible "No."

Karin shook her head, giving up and heading toward the door. "I just... we miss you man. And honestly we're worried sick. It was a scary collapse, I know. But you're okay, and that's what matters-"

"I'm not okay." A growl from the dark. "Don't ever tell me I'm fucking okay."

She stood back, shocked at the change in tone. "Okay, fine... we'll be here when you want to emerge from your nest. Or whatever. Sorry. Just, eat something for once." She left, the door shutting softly.

Jack whined, curling in even tighter on himself as he heard his best friend and roommate leave, the smell of pasta hitting his nose and making his stomach turn. Food had all but lost its appeal despite the audible hunger of his body. Ever since the day the collider collapsed he'd barely been able to function, let alone eat. And it was hard, in this... different body of his. No one had seen him since the incident; Alchemax had terminated his internship and his boss, mentor, and one sided crush Dr. Johnathon Ohnn had gone missing- presumed dead- and his whole world felt like it was ripped out from under him. But if he didn't at least take a couple bites, he knew he'd regret it later.

Jack sat up slowly and gingerly, his joints aching as his bones popped from days laying in bed, hiding from everyone. He hated doing this to the people who loved him, but he felt he had no choice. Until he could find a way to get his most valuable possessions and leave without being noticed, he was stuck. He walked over to the plate of spaghetti and almost laughed. If the meatloaf the other day had been impossible, this was going to be a circus. But still, he tried to take a bite, the smell almost too acidic for his new, more sensitive nose.

And failed, the noodles just sliding from the left side of his lips to the right, caught by... nothing. They hit the floor and he groaned in frustration. Another gummy protein bar for dinner didn't sound very good, but nothing did anymore. What he did manage to eat all tasted the same, like soggy, gritty cardboard. His tongue was completely smooth, devoid of any tastebuds, and his high powered nose made it ten times worse, picking up on all the worst notes of everything.

Jack gave up and set the fork down, instead walking to the bathroom and flicking on the light. He hissed at the sudden brightness, shaking his head and squinting his eyes, feeling his vision almost tunnel. Removing his jacket and shirt, deciding instead a hot shower might do some good. It wouldn't clear the chaos in his head but it might quiet it, if only for a moment. He reached a shaky, pale hand up to the mirror, and pulled down the sheet.

Looking back at him was a monster. At least, he thought so. Palid, blotchy skin, a mottled mix of his normal tan, peachy tone and some off-putting grayish white, split down the center like some kind of chimera. Looking at his eyes, they were a heterochrome nightmare; one jet black, the iris and pupil both gone. The other his old, gentle forest green, though miles more bloodshot. Whether it was the lack of sleep or his new normal, he couldn't tell.

What made everything worse though, and what scared a poor couple half to death as he struggled to make it home that night, was his mouth. When the collider exploded, pieces of it flew every which way, and one of those ways was directly into his unsuspecting face, crushing his cheek and jaw and almost killing him, almost instantly. So now he had a gaping hole from mouth to ear, leaving all of his teeth, his tongue, the entire inside of his mouth visible from that side. The irony of it was he had been forcibly meshed into another version of himself, a more alive version, and he'd healed too quickly together. Now he walked, literally half dead and half alive.

#atsv #across the spiderverse #itsv #into the spiderverse #villain oc #spidersona #johnathon ohnn #the spot #ideas #i still dont know what his villain name would be #my poor little meow meow #jumping jack

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darkphilosophies · 9 months

Text

Chains of Fire: Chapter 3 a little preview, rough draft

The cold stone floor hit his knees, and he realized he was no longer inside the industrial hall, but in a dark, mouldy corridor. His head was still spinning, the adrenaline of the fight fading fast. He struggled against the hands that held him, trying to reach the cuff that bound him. But even as the metal cuffs slipped over his wrists, Azriel could not reach them. He tried and tried until he grew frustrated and collapsed onto the floor in a heap of exhaustion.

His vision darkened, and his muscles trembled with the aftermath of the fight and his own arousal, and finally, his body succumbed to the pull of sleep.

Azriel opened his eyes slowly, feeling a softness beneath his body. The room was bathed in dim orange light, and his muscles felt heavy with sleep. He pushed himself up, wincing as a sharp pain spread through his side. His memory was hazy, his thought sluggish and encompassed in heavy fog. He looked around - he had been brought to Eris' bedroom and left on his bed.

He dragged himself up and grabbed a black bathrobe that hung from a chair by the fireplace. He wrapped the robe around himself, noting how his clothes were gone, along with his chains. Azriel held his side, a dull ache radiating through his body, and stumbled towards the door, but it wouldn't open.

He looked for a handle, but there was only a keyhole and no means of turning it. Azriel tried again, pushing with all his might, but the door remained stubbornly shut.

"Let me out!" he shouted, his voice cracking. He was furious.

"Not until you're ready to talk," Eris replied.

"What the hell did you do to me?"

"Why, I made sure you'd get to perform tonight," Eris drawled. "You were a star, Shadowsinger. A god among men."

Azriel's mind swam with what had happened, and his skin prickled with disgust at the thought of it. He had not been himself, not really.

"What did you give me?"

"It's called Kink. Every wine glass was spiked with it," Eris said casually. "It's a cocktail of chemicals designed to increase sexual stimulation, amplify lust, and heighten sensations. An aphrodisiac of sorts, and since I knew you wouldn't be able to fight it, I'm sure it was like heaven to you."

"I could kill you right now," Azriel growled.

"But you won't," Eris purred. "You see, that's your problem, Azriel. You have no plan, you are all action and no thinking. I have a feeling this little escapade will do you good, so consider yourself lucky for now."

"I hate you," Azriel said, his words dripping with venom.

"Then hate me all you want, I am very fond of it."

"Get me the fuck out of here, now."

Eris laughed, "Your wish is my command."

The door opened, revealing the Prince's smug face. Azriel lunged at him, but Eris merely chuckled as he slammed the door in his face.

"You know, you have to give yourself some credit," the Prince drawled. "No one's ever won a fight on Kink. You are truly unique, Shadowsinger."

"Unique," Azriel muttered, "uniquely fucked."

"You could say that," Eris said, "Get some sleep. You will need it."

Azriel slumped onto the bed, but he was too wired to sleep. He wrapped the robe around him and strode towards the window. He could see the dim lights of the city outside, but no stars. He wondered where Gwyn was. If she would ever find out what he did. The thought of her sent a pang through his heart. He closed his eyes, the image of Gwyn's face dancing behind his eyelids.

The following day, the guards unlocked the door to lead him back to the main part of the suite. Azriel was thankful Eris had returned his clothes, but the platinum cuff was once again snapped around his neck. He was allowed to take a shower and change his clothes. He ate the food Maria brought him, though he had no appetite, and she brought him a book, though he couldn't make out a word of what he was reading. He just sat on the bed, looking at the small fire crackling in the fireplace.

His heart ached at the thought of Gwyn and what she would think of him. He had been such an idiot to think he could find her here. To think he could help her in any way by coming.

He stared at his hands and noticed they were trembling. He grabbed them and clenched them into fists, willing them to still. The Prince had not only fucked him over, but he had fucked him up, too. The anger within him grew until it was a wild beast, ripping apart his insides.

There was a knock at the door, and he took a deep breath before it opened.

It was Eris. He wore a tight black suit that complimented his long limbs and lean build, and his hair was slicked to the back of his head. He strolled into the room unbothered, yet his steps were too precise, too controlled to be casual.

Eris's lips curved into a smirk as he walked over to his bedroom. "Have you made up your mind?"

"How could you do this?"

"Ah," Eris sighed. "But I didn't." He waved his hand as he sauntered into his room, his voice carrying behind him. "You did. You came to my territory snooping for God knows what, you got caught and I gave you a choice, Azriel. "

He opened a cabinet that was hidden in the corner of the bedroom and began taking out bottles and glasses. "But, you see," he said, "you can tell me what I want to know and then we can go our separate ways, or I can enjoy all the fun that Kink can provide, and you can enjoy a very public, very painful humiliation."

He was holding a wine glass, filled to the brim with a dark red liquid. It looked like blood, yet it wasn't.

"You're a monster."

"And you're a bastard," Eris said. "Choose."

Azriel thought back to Gwyn and to his friends. He couldn't bear the thought of letting them down.

Eris chuckled and poured himself a drink. "Now that I have your attention, Shadowsinger, what is your business here?"

Azriel shook his head. "No."

Eris cocked his head. "No?" he drawled.

Azriel held his stare. "No. You're wasting your time."

The Prince grabbed a chair, sat down and crossed his legs. He took a sip from the wine glass and cocked his head, studying him.

"I could leak the tape from last night ," he said, his words slow and deliberate.

Azriel's jaw clenched.

"Don't worry, I would have no qualms with broadcasting it across every social media channel in the world," Eris continued. "You can say whatever you want, but that video will exist, and the whole world will know what you did. Or," he waved his finger around. "I could destroy it." He took another sip. "But that wouldn't be so fun. You will tell me what I want to know, or ..."

Azriel tried to breathe slowly and keep the anger within him at bay.

"Now, do we have a deal?"

Azriel bristled. "Fine."

Eris's smirk was so wide it nearly split his face in two. "Very well."

"I was looking for someone," Azriel began.

#acotar #eris vanserra #autumn court #azris #Azriel #drabble #it will be changed #azris fanfiction

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violenceslut · 1 year

Text

One of the most frustrating things about the liberal/progressive focus on mental health is how people use that as an excuse to harm disabled people under the guise of being helpful or progressive.

Like whenever I try to mention that I can't physically do any of the things required of me without collapsing into a heap on the floor, people's thoughts just go straight to my mood, trying to find an explanation that fits their liberal buzzword psychology theory.

Everyone's quick to suggest that you're fatigued because you're depressed, but will call you crazy if you float the idea that maybe you're depressed because you have a debilitating physical condition that nobody takes you seriously about or whatever. It's just another attempt to outsource the blame onto the notion that "sometimes people get a little depressed or anxious but that's normal" instead of reckoning with the fact that we live in a deeply unjust society that hates disabled people and will chew us up and spit us out the moment it gets an opportunity

#this started as a personal vent post but turned into a rant as i started thinking about how much i hate psychiatry

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susiequaz12 · 2 years

Text

Flower Boy 8- Congratulations

Here's the next chapter! I'll update the masterlist for this series soon, the link for it is here. Chapter 7.

CW: Restraints, muzzled, stress position, water boarding, references to past injuries, superpowered whump.

- - -

Eventually the prisoners were brought dinner. Two bowls on a tray, a single mug to be shared for water- but no one moved to touch it.

The rest of the night was a fitful mess of tears and shaking limbs.

In the morning, the dinner tray was removed, and one with breakfast was delivered. Lee finally stirred from where he lay on the floor.

He pulled himself up on shaky arms, feeling the familiar ache and twinge of bruises and cracked ribs.

He was fine- he told himself. He’d had worse after all.

Once Lee had finished trying to muster down some food- he saw the other bowl- still full. And he let himself glance at the boy.

Jeremy’s head slumped to the side. His eyes were closed against tear-stained cheeks. His chest rose and fall- but so slowly that it was barely noticeable. If it weren’t for the chains and cuffs holding him up- he would’ve been an unconscious heap on the floor.

As it was, he wasn’t allowed the relief of complete unconsciousness.

Jeremy began to think the man had strung him up like that for that purpose.

The chains around his wrists put too much strain on his shoulders. The restraints around his ankles kept his feet against the wall, and his back arched tightly to support his arms. But the chain around his neck prevented him from slumping down from his knees. It kept his back pinned to the wall.

Jeremy floated in and out of being numb to it all, and a painful awareness of his predicament.

His muscles throbbed and he flinched back against the wall as a hand fluttered near his face.

Jeremy didn’t have enough energy to even open his eyes.

He let his mouth fall open as the muzzle was removed- a stream of spit falling from his chin to his chest.

Something was brought to his lips, his head tilted back.

It was- it was water.

It took a brief moment for him to remember how to drink. The liquid spilled over his lips and down his chest before muscle memory took over.

Soon it was pulled away and he let out a whimper- but another cupful was brought to his mouth.

And then there was food. A bowl of something bland- slightly warm and mushy.

He didn’t want to eat. He didn’t think he had the energy it took to swallow and keep any food down.

But as the spoon was repeatedly brought to his lips, he let himself eat. He ignored his nausea and all the screaming signs in his brain, and soon enough, the pang in the pit of his stomach began to subside.

Jeremy finally let himself open his eyes, to see the muzzle drawing near his face once more. He flinched backwards against the wall with a wince.

“I’m sorry kid- I don’t want to get you in anymore trouble, but you had to eat.”

He blinked a few times till the vision in front of him grew clear.

Lee was kneeling on the floor in front of him, empty bowl and cup on the floor. He had- he had fed him, and gave him water. And yet Jeremy had put him in this predicament.

“‘M sorry- ismy- is my fault-” he mumbled. “You’re hur- hurt.”

Lee shrugged, hiding a wince. “I’ve had worse.” He glanced to the muzzle in his hands. “We’ve got to get this back on you unfortunately. If he knows I removed it, I can’t imagine what he’ll do.”

Jeremy choked back a sob, but nodded, letting the man secure the muzzle around his face once more. He raised his eyebrows, scanning over the man for any serious injuries.

“I’m alright kid- really.”

Lee collected the bowls back onto the tray before he collapsed with a groan to his cot on the other side of the room.

Jeremy’s head slumped forward once more, before the chains caught his throat and he leaned back against the wall. He grumbled in frustration, feeling the ache in his legs and the pain in his shoulders.

It had already been a whole afternoon, and a night. He didn’t want to know the answer, but he didn’t know how much longer he could last.

How long would he be left like this?

Handler Barrett came in to check on the two of them sometime around mid-afternoon. The old man lay curled up in the corner, turned away from the boy, and number 326- well he was exactly where he had left him.

Sweat was dripping down his forehead, his skin was cool and clammy, the muzzle still buckled tightly over his nose and mouth.

“Well, how are we doing?”

The old man flinched slightly at his voice, and slowly began to shuffle where he lay.

The handler chuckled, kicking the tray of empty dishes on the floor.

“Hungry were you, old man?”

Lee shook his head, curling in on himself as he managed to sit up.

“I-I’m sorry sir.”

“Well, I don’t blame you. You couldn’t remove the muzzle now, could you. It’s only fair that you eat his portion, considering it’s his fault.”

“I know I shouldn’t have- I was just so tired- and- and hungry-” the man lied.

“Oh I don’t blame you. I’d be pissed at the kid. After all, he’s the reason you were beat, isn’t it?”

Lee glanced at the boy- barely conscious or aware of his situation.

“Please sir- can he- he needs some water. At least some water.”

Handler Barrett chuckled, bending over to pick up the empty mug from the floor.

“You want me to get him some water?” The man stepped forward and Prisoner twelve’s heart dropped as he realized what he’d done. “What’s the second rule, twelve?”

Twelve ducked his head. “Don’t ask for anything- sir.”

“Very good.” He moved to the spout on the opposite side of the room, filling the mug with water. “Now, I’m going to give him water, because I was already planning to. Because I’m kind, and generous, and I recognize that he needs it. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. Now stay there.”

Lee sat, pressed tight against the wall as the man approached the boy. He removed the muzzle from his face and the boy let out a tight breath. Lee let out another breath of relief as Handler Barrett began to unwind the chain that wound around his neck.

The skin underneath was a stark red- raw and irritated, bruises already starting to form. Jeremy instantly let his head fall forward on his chest- slumping down in his chains.

Handler Barrett retrieved the boy’s tanktop from where he had discarded it the day prior, and picked up the mug of water in his other hand.

Jeremy’s eyes were still closed. He flinched as the fabric of the shirt was pressed and held over his face- and then water, dripping down.

He jolted- jerking in his chains- but the water was slow.

And then it came faster- leaking through the fabric. He tried to breathe in- taking in gasping breaths for air, but was met with the the damp fabric. Water went into his throat- and seeped up his nose.

His hair was grabbed tighter- his neck jerked back farther and his mouth fell open in a pained, silent cry. But then he began to choke. Finally- after a few brief moments that felt like an eternity, he finally found some relief.

Handler Barrett chuckled, watching twelve’s face grow in shock at what he had begun doing to the boy. He pleaded silently as the man filled up the cup once more, and began to drip it slowly over the young man’s face.

When the man was finally done, Jeremy was fully unconscious. It was only the wet, ragged breaths that pulled from his chest that let the old man know he was still alive.

Barrett had been gracious enough to leave the muzzle off and the chains from his neck unfastened. It’d be too hard to breathe with everything so constricting.

Lee was too terrified to do anything from where he lay- but he wanted to run to the boy. Release him from his chains- hold him and let him cry, or let him sleep safely. But his own body shook- his muscles betraying his own will. He couldn’t do anything but sit there across the room- listening to the pained gasps of breath as the boy hung in pain and misery.

- - -

“Sir he’s- please, I think he’s sick.”

“No shit.”

It was the next morning. After having water forced down his throat- up his nose, cutting off his air- Jeremy had drifted in and out of unconsciousness.

The only thing that gave Lee some sort of comfort was the routine of whimpers and small noises that were uttered under the boy’s breath.

But shortly before Barrett had entered the room, the noises had stopped completely.

Jeremy had gone entirely silent.

Lee could barely hear any breath rattling through his chest. He was so still- he wasn’t even shaking anymore.

Handler Barrett pressed the back of his hand against the prisoner’s forehead, quickly pulling it away.

“Damn kid, you’re on fire.” He quickly inspected the boy’s injuries, some of the deeper cuts and lashes from the days prior hadn’t quite closed up yet. An infection would be far more life-threatening than a simple fever.

While they were red, dried blood cracking along the skin- there was no signs of infection. They were just signs of pain.

“All right, well you can’t learn your lesson if you’re incoherent, can you?”

He released the chains connecting his wrists to the wall and in a limp pile Jeremy slumped to the floor. His ankles were unchained as well and there was maybe a small whimper as he was released from the position he had been trapped in for nearly two days.

Handler Barrett scooped up the prisoner, throwing him easily over his shoulder with one arm as he walked out of the room.

Several days later Jeremy finally pried open his eyes.

He couldn’t move.

His limbs felt like they were on fire, like his blood had been boiled inside his veins, an aching warmth spreading throughout him, like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

His eyes were stinging as he blinked slowly, trying to accustom them to the bright lights of the room he was in.

Something- something smelled. It was- it wasn’t unpleasant, just vaguely unsettling. It was drastically different from the blood and sweat that had been plaguing his senses as of late.

“Well, looks like you’re alive.” Handler Barrett stated.

Jeremy tried to mumble a response, but there was something down his throat. A breathing tube. It covered half his face, kept his lungs pumping oxygen.

As his vision cleared up around him he realized why the scents were so unsettling. They were too familiar.

Dirt- the rich soil, with the faint smell of grass. And then something fresh- herbal almost, but light and sweet. It was floral.

As he finally came to the rest of his surroundings he realized there was a good reason for the scent.

Flowers. They were everywhere.

They lined the edges of his bed, spilling out in heaps onto the floor. Vines crawled around the windowsill, soaking in the sunshine as petals and colors bloomed.

The colors were almost sickening, the mixture of everything- his pain and exhaustion almost made it too much. He wanted to go back to sleep.

As he finished taking in the rest of his surroundings he noticed Handler Barrett, standing against the door. His arms were folded across his chest, mouth curved in a smirk.

He looked at the man in earnest, desperate for an answer to his situation.

“Im sure the doctor will explain it better than I can. But you got sick, and your body was in such a state of distress, that it opened your powers.”

Jeremy’s eyes darted back and forth- his powers- the- all the flowers, the vines- that was- it was him?

He shook his head, trying to shift more comfortably where he lay restrained.

Handler Barrett chuckled, opening the door of the hospital room.

“Well congratulations, flower boy.”

- - -

Tag List: @imagination1reality0 @morning-star-whump @deltaxxk @whumpcereal @his-unspoken-words (lemme know if you wanna be added/removed)

#whump #whump writing #flower boy #my ocs #restrained #stress position #sick whumpee #muzzled #water boarded

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andyjwaldron · 5 months

Text

ANDY WROTE ABOUT GOOD ALBUMS FOR HIS JOB

End-of-year list season is a big stinkin' deal over at Rough Trade. Listening back to the previous twelve months' worth of releases not only became a clear delineation of time passing (especially during the pandemic that kept us asking, "Oh, wait, what month is it again?") but it was also great for Andy when he worked there, as staff were asked to write about a few albums that really stuck with them.

Plus, it's always refreshing for a record store employee to provide a solicited opinion, rather than the usual unsolicited comment while ringing you up.

Here are some blurbs Andy wrote for Rough Trade about LPs from SASMI, Bartees Strange, Little Hag, Mitski, and Illuminati Hotties:

SASAMI - Squeeze

In the same way one realizes working retail can seem like you're creating sand mandalas (i.e., organizing LPs in the morning), knowing full well how ephemeral they can be (finding Sheryl Crow in the Metal section at night), the turbulent start to the 2020s has proven that, despite the best efforts to make sense, everything is messy now. I've held onto SASAMI's Squeeze in the same way we grasp for something steady when the boat starts swaying.

In a little over a half hour, hard truths are thrown down (the systematic aggression detailed in "Skin a Rat") and then processed ("I tried to understand," "Don’t wanna agonize, just say it") and met with earned affirmations ("I want you to know you're not alone…you can always call me home"). The guitars that accompany these sentiments shred, strum, and surround the listener – almost swallowing us whole. By the time "Not a Love Song" arrives, the waves of distortion become still enough to see ourselves in the reflection.

Writer Michelle Hyun Kim put it best: In "[bringing] seemingly disparate elements together, finding slippery ways to be both/and, neither/nor, between/outside in all categories," SASAMI meets a messy world with messy creation – gleefully collapsing genre with artists who know a thing or two about frustrating binaries (Patti Harrison, No Home, Rin Kim, Vagabon, Mitski, Andrew Thomas Huang). Squeeze recognizes those who've worked hard on themselves and the world around them and gets drinks with them afterward to celebrate: a beautiful, beautiful sight. (x)

Bartees Strange - Farm to Table

Building on the promise of his first album, Live Forever, our On the Rise artist Bartees Strange carries a fiery ambition throughout his next chapter, Farm to Table. It lights up the dance floor on "Wretched" and "Cosigns" and powers the fanfare of my personal song of the year, "Heavy Heart." It becomes a campfire that warms the quieter second half, carrying the heartbreaking ode to Gianna Floyd ("Hold the Line") to the closing, cyclical singalong, "Hennessy."

It's been exciting watching artists of my generation make work reflective of our fickle upbringing; the way we've watched genre break down, earnestness break through, and connection rise above all other priorities. And while Farm to Table may seem like a 4AD fever dream (from the belt and croon of TV on the Radio's Tunde Adebimpe to the inertia of The National's most anthemic moments), make no mistake: Strange's first LP with the storied label marks a young, bold new moment in capital I capital R Indie Rock™ – one whose flame won't go out anytime soon. (x)

Little Hag - Leash

Take a heaping spoonful of Liz Phair's down-to-earth humor, a touch of Elvis Costello's cutting attitude, and a splash of Jeff Buckley's killer vibrato, and you get Little Hag's Leash, one of the most exciting releases to come from Bar-None Records in recent memory. Avery Mandeville, the NJ-based songwriter behind Little Hag, may be one of the legendary indie label's newest signees, but she's been honing her unique knack for catchy and sardonic tales of her self-described "absurd and profane occurrences of being a woman" for the better part of the past decade. Her lyrics deliver the anthemic quality from other accomplished musicians who have emerged from the Garden State. However, the power that drives them is less "We gotta get outta here!" and more "I'm stuck here… now what?" While their other digital-exclusive releases that came out in the past year (Whatever Happened to Avery Jane? and Breakfast) are worth adding to your playlists, Leash, their first album full of new material for Bar-None, is next level for Little Hag. Stories bearing weighty text messages ("The Whole World," "Cherry," "Red"), dangerous and disappointing men ("My Last Name," "Get Real!"), and self-defense weaponry ("Brass Knuckle Keychain") are conveyed with an urgency matched by a skilled rhythm section that rips. Sure, these eleven tracks are told by a singular voice, but the universality of both the shit that they’ve gone through and how she's powered through all of it makes a vital promise for anyone who listens: crank this up, and you'll feel less lonely. (x)

Mitski - Laurel Hell

The new wave nods of Mitski's Laurel Hell come in spades; not just in its production (where uptempo numbers like "Should've Been Me" navigate the liveliness of ABC and moodier tracks like "Working for the Knife" find kinship with Peter Gabriel's self-titled era) but also the paranoia and devotion beneath the sheen (the album starts with "Let's step carefully into the dark / Once we're in, I'll remember my way around" and nearly ends with "I'm standing in the dark / Looking up into our room / Where you'll be waiting for me").

In meeting acrobatic arrangements with clear lyricism across five records, the 32-year-old songwriter has proven to be one of her generations' strongest craftspeople. The difference now on her sixth is how a wide-eyed weariness emerges in a familiar fashion to the era Mitski references, how the push-and-pull between partners can stand in for the heart and mind… or the artist and the consumer: "I give it up to you / I surrender." (x)

Illuminati Hotties - Let Me Do One More

At times in-your-face like an unexpected conversation from a hilarious stranger at a dive bar, while at other times contemplative, standing beside you and huddling for heat during a smoke break, Let Me Do One More was the perfect buddy to have during a year of bumpy restarts. My favorite albums have historically become teaching moments, usually by artists getting by despite constraints both internal and external, and this album finds the endlessly-talented Sarah Tudzin doing her best in trying relationships with the personal ("Growth") and political ("Threatening Each Other re: Capitalism"). These songs truly helped me find warmth through the uneven sway of 2021. (x)

***

You can go back home by clicking here.

#does.a.lot #rough.trade

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littlefreya · 4 years

Text

Penny Dreadful

Summary: Sherlock is cold, troubled and upset, his mind is fixed on cracking an unsolved murder. It’s the worst time to disturb him. But his hot-blooded little succubus wants to drag him into sin.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x OFC (First-person POV)

Word count: 2.5K

Warning: 18+, smut, teasing, bratty behaviour, ass-smacking with a cane, slight cane play, primal play, unprotected rough sex, biting, slight size kink, MaleDom, drug use. Lots of curly hair descriptions.

A/N: Not canon to books Sherlock, obviously, but seeing the photos and teaser Henry as Sherlock just sets up the vibe. So I had to. Many thanks to my beta @agniavateira !! Sorry for the ugly cover art :D.

Title: Penny Dreadful

Sherlock’s study was a bleak, musky chamber deprived of heat, notwithstanding the many candles that burnt at every corner. Perhaps it was the pristine heaps of snow that piled on the ledge of the window, or maybe it was his sullen mood that gave the room a sense of icy wilderness.

Fumes rose from his mouth, vaping into the air. The tawny light kissed his thick mane of luscious, chocolate curls while he stood at the fore of his desk and leered at some parchments that troubled his brilliant mind for whatever reason.

Fist seizing the golden tip of his cane, his thumb stroked the engravings that embellished the metal. Cases that he couldn’t crack often left him frustrated to the point of madness. Those wicked, sly obsessions made him even more irresistible.

My nails bit into the wooden doorframe. Consumed by yearning, a blaze licked up my soul with its monstrous tongue. I often wondered how something so pure as love could be dangerous, to which Sherlock would reply,

“Love is the greatest villain of them all.”

Unlike him, I didn’t care for evil.

The detective unclipped the small chain he kept fastened to his vest and opened the silver locket, gathering a wisp of white powder on the tip of his pinky finger and pressed it to his nostrils. A small grunt escaped him, his eyes turning glassy. The “fairy dust” tended to sharpen his perception and elevate his stamina.

I dropped to my knees at his sight, crawling on the floor. The black silks of my dress made a brushing noise as it dragged on the Persian carpet; my breasts peeked as my corset shifted with every move. Sherlock often said we must imagine ourselves as animals once we let desire play our strings.

Accepting my inner wildness, tonight I was a cougar stalking her prey.

By nature, his senses were sharp as blades, though the substance that streamed through his veins made a more heightened grip of the reality that surrounded him. He noticed and yet ignored me, letting his hot-blooded harlot crave for his attention.

If I was to be the feline predator, Sherlock was the hunter who pursued me for sport. An unfair game, yet nevertheless my favourite.

Bathing in my own little fountain of mischief, I allowed my fingers to sneak toward his cane, brushing up and down the mahogany in slow, languid motion. My slender digits licked along the shaft and my bosom followed, pressing against the hardwood. I dragged myself up slightly to glimpse at my master from below: my Sherlock, always a sight for a famished girl; a colossus, intimidating, and breathtaking. Like a moth to a flame, I inched closer dazed by the light, wanting to bask in its radiance.

The muscle in his cheek tensed, thick brows furrowing. A little squared wrinkle appeared above the bridge of his nose as he brushed through his dark locks with agitation.

“What ills that glorious mind of yours?” I hummed, playful fingertips climbing further up at the length of his cane.

“Something I can’t grasp,” he spat, not giving me the time of day. But I knew he noticed every detail of my wanton behaviour, it was evident by the way his breath swiftly became heavier. Sherlock might have solved crimes by profession, but all women were natural detectives; evolution granted us with a definite survival instinct, learning to read men between the shadows.

“You can possess me,” I offered, fingers scraping over his thumb as it pressed onto the cane’s golden tip. My voice dropped to a whisper while my hand left the cane in favour of his thigh. The muscle flexed and twitched under my sinful touch, the fabric of his breeches stretched as his cock grew with its natural need to fulfil the wet, convulsing void in me.

“You’re distracting me,” he warned, voice low and stern. His lashes hardly even fluttered to my direction.

Every delicate little hair stood up at the sound of alarm yet instead, I inhaled the soot of peril, allowing my hand to travel further and meet his hungry girth. It rose to my touch with gratitude, flinching even harder at the clutch of my claws. The flavour of desire was honey and salt on the tip of my tongue.

The low animalistic vibration of his voice wavered through his solid form. I felt it shudder all the way down to his swelling cock. A cautious man, Sherlock was measured and forbearing to a point that made me wonder if he even liked women at all before we fell into the vicious pit of decadence and violent delights.

It was the contrary that was true: Sherlock loved women very much, his desires were simply… of a certain quality.

His groin was warm and firm against my cheek. The crystalline-blue glare finally graced me with a sight so brooding my bones clattered.

“Later, I need to work.” By the drop of his voice, I knew there won’t be a third warning.

“Later, Later…” I taunted, rolling my chin over his aching need. “All work and no play…”

The gasp that pushed out of my lungs nearly whisked the candles off as Sherlock hauled me up by his hand and bent me over the desk.

“Should I teach you how to respect my time?” He snarled, throwing the skirts of my dress over my head like a cape of the midnight sky. Stars collapsed under my skin at the sensation of his touch exploring the curve of my bare ass. Talons ruptured the tiny blood vessels, squeezing with the affirmation of his ownership.

“No undergarments?” Sherlock growled dangerously while his thumb brushed over my silken entrance, toying with the rich elixir and smearing it further down my anticipating petals. I answered with a deep moan, stretching on this desk with a succumbing plea.

“You came here aimed at disturbing me while I work.”

Settling onto the surface of the desk, I reached forth one arm lazily and chuckled. “You are a great detective, I… oh!”

Something cold and solid caressed my dripping lips, driving between them in slow, calculated strokes. Throwing my head over my shoulder, I noticed Sherlock holding his cane against my sacred cove, staring at it as if I was yet another piece of evidence to be explored. The golden arched-tip pushed-slightly between my petals and entered just enough to make me hiss. For a mere second I wondered if he was going to fuck me using nothing but his cane.

“Look away; this is going to hurt.”

I hardly had time to protest when the first smack hit the pillow of my cheek. A wheeze of disgrace shot from my throat, husky and embarrassing, but not as degrading as the sting the metal left at my burning backside.

“Bad girl,” Sherlock ticked his tongue and lifted the cane midway in the air, a flare of noxious desire bursting in his pale-blue orbs. This time I turned away and shut my eyes, gripping the edge of the desk until my knuckles turned dead-white. If only it did anything to dull the pain, the sting was even more prominent, shooting all the way up to my spine where it coiled and forced a strident yip from my clamped lips.

Yet the throb in my cunt was unmissable.

Sherlock knew very well that the hurt allied with pleasure, enhancing it even, like his powdery magic dust.

Another smack and my nails scratched at the wood. Like a sinner nun indulging her own beating, I rode the waves of pain as they broke onto shores abundant with pleasure. There were hidden cracks in our public figure, the place where I burnt and Sherlock ascended as we pried our claws into mortal deadly sins. My senses rose to conflict with every smack and Sherlock took joy in every involuntary squirm of my body.

Tongue pressed between his lips, he hummed as he admired his handiwork, painting my ass in obscene hues of violence. “Had enough? Or want to see which will break first, the rod or your arrogance?” Sherlock chided and pinched my sore cheek to further increase the pain.

Embers whispered beneath my flesh, my legs jolted from the intense beating and by god, the trickle of my juices rolling down the back of my thighs made even a sultry woman such as myself drown in white shame.

Sherlock’s breath was a heavy guttural waft. His cane dropped to the floor and I heard the sound of metal clicking as he fumbled with his belt. I would be damned if I let him fuck me from behind. To have those eyes look away as he entered me was a vice I wouldn’t stand.

“No!” I yelled, bracing on my wobbly elbows as much as I could and turned to face him.

Sherlock’s glare widened, a chill of ice blew through his eyes and his pupils dilated like a crazed feline. “You’re saying no to me?”

“Yes!” I heaved and reached my hands to cradle his skull, pushing myself against the hardness of his body and forcing my lips on his. My kiss was feral, bruising the plush skin on and around his mouth, nibbling and biting until we tasted iron on our tongues. It was not long before I was shoved against the wall, our mouths still united, sharing one breath.

Or rather stealing it from one another.

We were pleasingly unequal. Sherlock was all iron and stone; a bulky, tall man who could tear me apart with his bare hands. I was a little lush thing, so tender, so easily bruised. Despite his power, the desire to claim the tiny wet hole between my legs was unquenchable, reducing him to a savage thing that spoke in raw inarticulate sounds.

He tore his mouth from mine and swept me up from the ground, hiking the skirts of my dress urgently to expose what he coveted the most. I felt the supple velvety texture of his hardness grind against my thigh, smearing the pearly drops of his arousal onto my skin. We both moaned at the sensation and moved to the rhythm dictated by our most primal instincts.

“You want my cock?” He growled and gnawed his teeth at my neck, biting deep enough to break through the skin. I whined in pain, my voice rising a pitch as I writhed against him to ignite the smallest of frictions and serve the demon of desire in me.

“Fuck me!” I begged, sliding my fingers through the mass of soft curls and tugging them with need.

Answering my plea, Sherlock speared into my unruly cunt, brutally spreading me open like he would tear the petals from a flower. I yipped into his luscious hair, my nails tearing into his nape as his intrusion claimed everything my body had to offer. I always found it odd how my flesh would resist and beg for him at the same time, my succulent canal fighting to push him by instinct yet he only further rutted into me. He reached his hands to my sore ass to squeeze my cheeks apart.

“Such a tight little harlot,” he groaned, engulfed by my garden of mysteries. Moaning so loudly, our duet reverberated through the corridors of the house. His lashes fluttered with ecstasy as he pulled back only to force me down on his imposing cock, attempting to rip through my denial. Or it was to tame me as I clenched around his girth, accepting and resisting him at the same time. I was nothing but a vessel for him to fill, and he did so with a fiery passion, glaring straight to my eyes while thrusting deep and hard into me.

Books fell from the shelves nearby as we battled against the wall, my legs sliding up and down his waist, spreading helplessly in the air until my boots pressed into his arse. One of his hands reached for my corset, tugging on the ludicrous outfit to expose my breast. Ravenous, he licked his bloodstained lips, giving me a stare that made my cunt clutch him harder before he sank his fangs to pierce cavities in my tit.

“No!!!” I cried out and gasped as he thrust deeper to punish me for my protest. His heavy cock hit a spot so deep inside me that tears instantly emerged and fell down my cheeks, the pang bringing through a spasm of odd relief.

Blood and saliva smeared along my cleavage as he dragged his lips further, licking and then kissing every patch he bruised. I moaned breathlessly, throwing my head back against the wall as his nimble fingers surveyed my neck, laying small threats to show me how easy he could simply suspend my very basic need.

But my survival instincts already flew out the window the moment he penetrated me.

His lips hovered above mine as he fucked deep into my body, our cries creating an obscure symphony as he continuously slammed into my hilt, harder and more urgent with every plunge. The tears that fell down my cheeks were tainted with the conflicting aphrodisiac that pain brought through. In that instant I was whole, gratified by the friction created of the collision of our wet organs.

“Do it!” I gasped and nodded through glossy stares, swallowing hard to gesture what he already knew. With a swift snap of his hands, his fingers were bruising on my neck and he slammed into me at a furious pace, giving no care for my broken screams.

Euphoria tore through my soul, crashing like hot waves of eternal fire. I came apart around his thick rod crying for God and Satan at once. Sherlock never slowed down, not even as he felt the tightening of my ring around him. It only made him fuck me harder, burying his face at my collarbone, chasing his own rapture at a punishing speed, grunting like a beast. Finally, he shuddered and pumped me full of his thick, silky milk. The muscles of his behind flexed and he ground his hot load into my warm cavern, making sure I received every drop. My hands reached to squeeze his taut ass as my legs clutched him still, wanting to keep him inside me.

As if he had any intentions of leaving as he moaned and spasmed inside me.

Smoke filled the room as few of the candles died; the scent of ash and the musk of our sex seeped through our noses while we remained entwined, shaking in each other’s grasp. Breathless and damp with sweat, Sherlock lifted his face from my neck and glanced at me looking so vulnerable, almost appearing lost. I moved my trembling hands back to his face, my thumbs caressing his sharp cheeks.

“I know I am harsh…” he murmured, his eyes digging into my heart with nothing but a gaze of despair, “but please don’t ever leave me.”

My face fell at the sound of his words, my lips parting with awe. My detective could solve the most outrageous crimes, and yet he couldn’t realise I was shackled to him for all eternity.

#henry cavill #henry cavill x ofc #henry cavill fanfiction #sherlock holmes fanfiction #sherlock holmes x ofc #henry holmes #sherlock holmes

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a-5-m-0-d-3-u-5 · 3 years

Text

Bloody Tears: A Castlevania Male Reader Insert

~CHAPTER 2 (PART 1) - SALVATION~

The catacombs were terrifying to say the very least. Nestled in the heart of the cemetery, west of the Church, the building that housed the depths of Gresit intimidated you. Every glance made you shiver, always met with the visages of tall statues. While you eyed the place in obvious skepticism, Trevor looked around the place curiously as if searching for something.

He smirked when he saw what he was looking for, muttering a half-hearted, “Come on,” and climbing up one of the big stone monsters in front of you. When you didn’t follow, he looked back at you, raising an eyebrow.

You tilted your head, unclear as to where he was headed.

Annoyed, he groaned and pointed in front of him, “There’s a passage this way. Are you coming or not?”

Surprised that he managed to find such a thing and so quickly, you froze for a moment and then nodded, clumsily climbing the same statue he did and watched as he disappeared feet first into the wall. You wormed yourself in after him, realizing too late that it was a smooth stone slope and shouting in surprise as you slipped down into the rest of the catacombs.

“Would you keep quie-” Trevor started, being cut off by your body being launched into his by the momentum of your fall. You both crumpled into a heap on the ground and Trevor was grateful that the impact didn’t send him down the stairs too. He groaned in pain as you apologized profusely, scrambling to get off of him. He shushed you, clearly frustrated, and said nothing more, getting up and descending the small set of stairs.

You followed him, watching as he sniffed one of the only torches in the room, “Fresh oil…” He brought it up the wall next to him and struck it with his knife, lighting it with the sparks that flew. He started to walk deeper into the room, using the light of the torch to guide his way with you closely in tow.

“Anybody home?” Trevor called out into the darkness. The light of the fire illuminated the walls and pillars in the room, highlighting a strange protrusion from one of the pillars. It was metal and distinctly different from the stone.

You approached it, drawing Trevor’s attention. You placed your hand on the foreign shape, feeling smooth warm metal under your palm and the vibrations of something moving through what you now assumed to be a pipe. You looked at each other confused. Trevor turned to the pipe and knocked on it with his free hand. In response, it made a hollow noise followed by an audible confirmation that something was flowing through it. You both decided to leave the pipe behind and proceed further into the catacombs. Finding another set of stairs, Trevor stepped in front of you and unsheathed his short sword, using it to guard his front.

He stepped cautiously down onto the first step, “I can hear you,” He announced loudly into the stairway. You followed his steps closely, peeking around him to watch the space in front for monsters, “I’m armed, and a lot less happy than you are so you want to stay well out of my way.”

The moment he took a step onto the floor at the bottom of the steps, it started to collapse. Not paying attention, you stepped down as well. The floor caved and it took the both of you with it, you both exclaiming as you fell.

Trevor landed gracefully and laughed to himself, “Reflexes like a cat!” He bragged.

However, your body soon joined him. Your fearful yelling announced your approach and you hit the ground hard, creating another fallout in the floor beneath Trevor’s feet that took you even further down. Once again, you landed on top of him. The both of you groaned loudly in pain and Trevor carelessly tossed you off of him.

Breathless, he spoke between gasps, “You… need to stop doing that…”

Also at a loss of breath, you do your best to regain your composure as you look to your side at him, “Sorry.”

He makes a strained noise as he pushes his body off of the rubble and you follow suit, letting him lead you again as you rub your aching back.

As you continued to follow your new companion, you noticed more strange contraptions connected to the pillars lining the room. As you paused in front of one of them, it began to hum, and soon you were blinded by a light brighter than any torch or flame you’d ever seen. It was an unnatural blue and it hurt your eyes to look at it. The life of the light in front of you signaled the ignition of the others, each giving off that same distinct hum that you’d never heard before.

With the light came a clearer view of the room. In the middle stood a stone statue of a person, which you and Trevor approached with caution. When you got close enough to realize the statue was dressed like a Speaker, any hesitation you had evaporated.

“Sypha!” you called, so very sure that somehow, this statue was your missing friend. You ran for the statue, not thinking about what you would do when you got to it and caring more for seeing if Sypha was alive.

Trevor tried to stop you, reaching for you too late and grasping air instead. He chased after you for the small distance you’d managed to run away from him and pulled on your arm, tearing you back and further away from Sypha. He looked at you like you were crazy and in his eyes, you probably did seem so.

“Are you an idiot?” he spoke in a loud whisper, likely to keep from alarming anything that may be hiding in the darkness, “We have no idea what’s in here and if that’s your friend then something down here must have done that.”

Like a harbinger of the danger to come, it seemed that Trevor’s words had summoned a beast. Loud booming footsteps announced the arrival of a tall lumbering creature with a terrifying mouth and a single grotesque eye, as large as one of your heads and staring right at you. You gasped and froze, staring dumbly at the towering being in front of you. You almost stayed in place. The moment that thing’s eye started to glow, you got pulled by your arm again and tugged behind the closest pillar.

Trevor held you close to himself as he tried to catch his breath, “Stone eyed cyclops. Right out of the family bestiary,” he informed, but it seemed to be more to himself than to you, “God shits in my dinner once again.”

His comment would have made you laugh if the cyclops didn’t step around to look at you and try it’s magic again. This time, it was your turn to pull Trevor away, tugging him behind another one of the pillars and then making a beeline for the next one closest to him.

Over the noise of the next blast dealt from the monster’s eye, you shouted to him, “It’s best if we keep our distance! If that thing hits us both, none of us are leaving!”

He only nodded and looked around for the ghoulish beast and before you could warn him, he was grabbed and tossed from behind his pillar into one of the blue torches, shattering it. You called out to him, scared for the worst when you saw blood spill from his mouth. You immediately regretted it when you saw the cyclops’ eye now trained on you and readying another blast of energy. You panicked and ran for the next pillar over, stumbling to the ground. You didn’t dare try to get up, only sat down with your back firmly pressed against the pillar and your knees pulled as tightly as you could to your chest. You were surprised you hadn’t been hit and breathing hard, watching the beast to make sure to see when it would try again. Trevor used your impromptu distraction to launch his short sword directly into the chest of the cyclops. The only problem was that it didn’t stop moving. You rose from your seated position to watch as the cyclops turned to Trevor and readied another attack.

Trevor ran again, quickly settling behind another pillar as he took hold of his whip. He watched the monster carefully and waited for the perfect moment. And when that moment came, you got to see with your own eyes why the Belmonts were, or at least used to be, held to such high regard as monster hunters. Trevor used his whip to wrap around the exposed hilt of his sword and pulled it out with an expert spin, the momentum pulling the object out of the chest of the cyclops. His movements were strangely elegant, manipulating his whip and making it so that his sword struck the cyclops beneath his chin, forcing its head up violently. The impact loosened the sword from the end of the whip, spinning in the air at a high speed. Trevor climbed the frozen body of Sypha and skillfully butterfly-kicked his spinning blade directly into the center of the cyclops' giant eye.

You gaped in awe, your jaw slack as you watched the giant fall with a ground-shaking thud. With the vibration of the floor beneath you, the statue of Sypha began to fall. Quickly, you ran to catch it, watching as the stone melted away from Sypha's flesh. You smiled as she opened her eyes but before you could get a word in, she pushed off of your chest, falling to her knees in front of you and vomiting. It was comforting. She was alive. You knelt next to her and rubbed her back and she looked up at you. Her eyes widened and she stared at you, speaking your name quietly. Without waiting for a response, she pulled you in for a tight hug that you happily reciprocated.

"What happened?" She asked as she pulled away from your hold.

Trevor interrupted your thoughts, speaking out loud while he pulled his sword from the eye of the beast and wiped it off on his cloak, "You walked into a cyclops. Turns you to stone with its eyeball and feeds on your terror while you're trapped in your own body."

While you shivered at the thought, Sypha only looked at the man accusingly as she stood up, "Did you… climb on me?"

"Hmm… Perhaps," Trevor teased, smirking at Sypha which only made her blood boil more.

She scoffed, "Well, that was rude," she turned to you confused, "Don't tell me you brought him with you…"

You shook your head and laughed nervously, "We came here together actually. In all honesty, he did all the work, I just stood around and watched."

"Of course…" she sighed, putting her head in her hand.

You took her free hand and began to pull her along to the exit, “Come on, we have to get back to your grandfather.”

She resisted your action, protesting strongly against leaving, “But the Sleeping Soldier is still down here!”

Trevor spoke out again as he looked at you both unamused, “There is no Sleeping Warrior, just a cyclops waiting for people stupid enough to go looking,” Sypha’s face said that she didn’t appreciate being called stupid but she let him keep talking regardless, “It's a trap for gullible Speakers. You're not popular around here…”

Tacking that small sentence on at the end annoyed Sypha even further. Her focus was on him as she tried to reason with him about the existence of such a being, “But the old wisdom says the tomb is guarded-”

“Yeah yeah. Come on, time to go home,” Trevor pushes, sheathing his sword and turning to leave, “Your people think you’re dead.”

“They… think I’m dead?” She looked to you for confirmation and grimly, you nodded.

You tried to reassure her with a smile and a hand on her shoulder, “But hey! You’re not, so all we have to do now is take you back to the rest of the Speakers and everything will be fine.”

Sypha smiled back at you, thankful for the reassurance. With your positivity having calmed her a bit, she looked to Trevor and tried to be cordial by introducing herself, “I’m Sypha Belnades.”

“I don’t care,” was Trevor’s only response, not even looking at you two as he walked towards the exit.

Sypha groaned, annoyed after only knowing Trevor for a minute or two. You chuckled a bit at her attitude towards the gruff man you felt you had acquainted, which earned you quite an intimidating glare from the Speaker magician.

Back on the surface, you chatted with Sypha on the way to the lodging of the Speakers. Reaching the door, Trevor opened it in front of the three of you, entering first with you following after him and Sypha after you. The Speakers’ eyes were on you and Trevor instantly, the Elder looking the most anxious of them all. You smiled warmly at him while Trevor rubbed the back of his neck. You stepped out of the way to reveal Sypha. The faces of the Speakers lit up one by one, the Elder’s face being the brightest. Sypha smiled back at her grandfather and ran into his embrace, clinging to him as tightly as he was to her.

The Elder lifts his head from Sypha’s coral-colored hair and he beams at you and Trevor, “Thank you. Both of you. So very much.”

You nod in acknowledgement, a smile also present on your lips. Uncharacteristically shy, Trevor averts his eyes from the Speaker and hums then mumbles, “You’re welcome.”

Still tightly wrapped in her hug, Sypha’s face becomes sad. She doesn’t look up to speak to her grandfather when she tells him, “I failed to find the Sleeper. I’m sorry.”

The Elder pulls Sypha away from him to once again smile at her face, “Hush now, my angel. You did what you could.”

“I very much doubt there’s anyone down there,” Trevor says, watching Sypha’s face without expression as it turns into a frustrated and defensive frown, “It's probably a booby-trapped legend. There's someone wriggling with pleasure in his coffin right now thinking of people like your girl walking into the cyclops he left down there.”

“Or perhaps there is something down there so important that it must be guarded by monsters,” Sypha quickly retorted, stepping away from her grandfather and closer to the monster hunter to stand firm in front of him.

“Your Messiah isn't down there.”

“And what makes you so sure?” Sypha was challenging Trevor, that much was clear.

And you had the same question. You saw as much as he did and hated to agree in some way, after all it looked like nothing had ever lived down there aside from that terrifying monster you’d seen down there. But what made him so confident in saying that?

You could sense the inevitable hostility from Trevor, hostility you had personally been on the receiving end of even in the short time you knew him. You stepped in between the both of them to hopefully separate their clashing personalities, placing a hand on each of their shoulders to push them apart. You quickly gave Sypha a look that told her to calm herself as you turned to Trevor, “It’s an honest question, Trevor. Who’s really to say there isn’t a dormant warrior hiding in that place?”

Trevor seemed to have relaxed but stayed resilient in his opinion, “Speakers carry information down through the generations. We Belmonts pass things down as well,” He stepped back, away from your touch to look at both you and Sypha as he explained, “Do you remember what we saw down there? Metal veins pumping hot liquid? Torches that light by themselves that exactly fit descriptions written by my great-grandfather. Descriptions of the inside of Dracula's castle.”

You heard the gasps of the speakers around you, but you were instead stunned into silence. Instead of the gaping mouths of the people surrounding you, your jaw had screwed itself shut, teeth tightly keeping your mouth from opening and your lips pressed tightly together. There that name was again, a horrible blight burned into your memory, into the blood you watched get stuck between the floorboards of your home after your first night in Gresit, into the dead glassy eyes of every corpse that had the mercy of having its head still attached. Were you really inside something made by the man, the monster, so wounded by humans that he wanted the entire population of the world dead? Trevor seemed to think so.

He stepped away from the both of you to approach the door. He looked to you and then Sypha, his eyes settling on her as he spoke in a serious tone you’d never heard, one that made you shiver, “I don’t know what’s down there, but it’s not a Messiah.”

As he turned to leave, his voice shifted back into the way he normally spoke, aloof and uncaring, “I’ll leave you all to it.”

You wanted to call him back, to make him stay and tell you all he knew about Dracula. Some morbid part of your curiosity wanted to know more about the vampire who plagued your every waking moment. Hell, at this point he had consumed your peaceful nights of sleep as well, every dream turned into a nightmare composed of nothing but Dracula and his horrible, terrifying beasts of the night.

Consumed in your thoughts, you hadn’t noticed that the Elder did exactly what you had wanted to do, calling out to Trevor, “Nonsense. Please, stay with us for as long as you like,” he insisted, his warm fatherly smile ever present on his face, “I cannot begin to repay what I owe you.”

He turned back, looking over the collar of his cloak, just like he had when you first spoke to him. This mysterious man, so unfriendly and yet also so willing to help, looked at the Elder Speaker and asked, “Your leaving tonight, aren’t you?”

The Elder stuttered out, “Eh… Well, yes. Until then.”

“Right. I'll come back later,” Trevor announces, facing the door again and walking towards it as he makes a single request, “See if you can find some beer.”

With that, the lumbering Belmont had left and closed the door behind him.

Sypha’s eyes narrow at the door, as if trying to glare at Trevor through it, “I could just pee in a bucket and tell him it’s beer.”

You laughed at her bluntness while her grandfather lightheartedly but sternly spoke her name the way adults usually do to ornery children, “Sypha, that man saved your life.”

Her brow furrowed, her lips curling into more of a frown once again, “He,” she started, emphasizing with one word her annoyance with the man, “is rude.”

The hand still on her shoulder tightened, a way of trying to comfort her and ease her heated emotions, “The Elder’s right though. He did save you,” Your gaze lowered from her face to the ground, “...However, I can see why you dislike him so much. I’ll be honest and tell you I felt very much the same.”

“What changed your mind, then?”

You laughed, recalling how his tone towards you for the most part made it very clear he still didn’t like you much and yet-

“He let me come with him to help you,” You said, warm eyes looking back up into Sypha’s big, bright ones, “He was originally gonna go by himself, didn’t even want me to go with him. But I think he could tell how much I just wanted to see you safe and sound again. I was just as worried as everyone else, you know.”

Your last statement rolled off your tongue, honesty pouring out of your voice and it made Sypha think as she looked at your optimistic, smiling face.

You gave her shoulder a small pat and lowered your hand, holding them behind your back as you prepared to leave, “Even if he doesn’t seem like it, he means well. He did save you after all,” you looked back at her and smiled again with your hand on the knob of the small door, “He almost didn’t even do that.”

Sypha pauses to consider your words, her previous opinion of Trevor seeming to falter, but only for a moment as she crossed her arms over her chest and huffed much like a child would, “Well, he’s still terribly rude.”

You chuckled at her behavior and nodded, “I know.”

And so you left too, closing the door behind you. You stretched and groaned, your body still sore from the amount of falling over and into things, and Trevor, that you had done that day.

You were ready to fall into bed and relax when on your way home, you saw something that concerned you. Trevor, being led to what you could only assume was the church, and by an alarming amount of priests. Your better nature told you to ignore it. Trevor could clearly handle himself and no matter how lowly you thought of the bishop, you knew he wasn’t stupid enough to try and kill Trevor. It wouldn’t look good to the rest of the townspeople, after all.

You succeeded in getting about 3 steps away from the quickly disappearing group when you turned on your heel to follow them. You were thankful for the sunset casting wide, dark shadows across the streets leading to that so-called holy building but the closer you got, the more you realized you could only hide for so long. So, when you got close enough to see the church, you decided to stay where you were. Hidden in the shadows, you could only stare at the back of Trevor as he was led into a building that made your skin crawl whenever you so much as looked at it.

You waited for Trevor for much less time than you thought you would. The sun had barely moved any lower when he exited the church, the way he was walking a very clear sign that he was not happy. You abandoned your hiding spot and ran to meet him.

“Trevor!” you called, stopping when you reached him and suppressing a chuckle at the sight of him recoiling, no doubt meaning you’d startled him.

His surprised expression changed to his usual ruffled scowl, “You know, you’re really good at annoying me when I’m already in a horrible mood.”

You ignored his attitude and instead wanted to address why on Earth you watched him get whisked away by priests, “What happened in there? Why did they take you all the way to the church? Did the priest want to see you?”

Trevor grew quickly tired of your babbling, holding up a hand to silence you with his face looking deathly serious. His voice became serious again, and again you could feel yourself shiver at his abrupt change of tone, “You know this, but the Speakers only have until the sun goes down to leave this place unless they want to be killed. The bishop offered me the generous opportunity to leave before then and that he’d let me go, in simple terms.”

His sarcasm as he explained his own situation wasn’t enough to ease the anxiety creeping into your chest. Today was the day your friends would either live or die, and you didn’t want it to be the latter.

“We have to warn them, Trevor,” you tried to sound as serious as him, but you both could hear the desperation and sadness in your voice as you silently pleaded with him to help you and the Speakers.

He sighs, a noise you were now very familiar with. For a moment, he doesn’t move and you fear he’ll just leave, believing he’s already done enough for the Speakers so why should he put himself out more? His eyes move from the ground to yours, the darkening sunset making them look so much deeper. With an almost inaudible huff, he walks past you, “They already know but a little reminder wouldn’t hurt I suppose…”

You can feel a strong surge of happiness pulse through your body at his words and your smile is uncontrollable. You quickly follow him as you both move to talk to the Speakers again.

You entered the small lodging after Trevor, your anxious mood being lifted only slightly by the Elder’s kind greeting, seeing the Speakers collected together on the floor of the small building.

“How good to see you two again! Please, join us,” The Elder smiled at Trevor first then to you but his face fell when he saw how downtrodden you were.

“Sure,” Trevor answered, moving to lean on the wall next to the open door, “By the way, you’re all going to die.”

“Trevor!” You scolded, glaring at the named man as he looked back at you with uninterested eyes. It was clear that he didn’t care about your tone towards him.

“What?” the elder Speaker asked, his hands on Sypha’s shoulders being a reflex of his protective nature over her.

You interrupted Trevor before he could say anything more blunt and likely depressing. You closed the door behind you as a means to privacy, “Trevor was brought to speak with the Bishop. It seems he believes your absence of a faith in God is what is bringing the night creatures and the only way to get them to stop is with all of your deaths.”

It broke your heart to watch as, one by one, the Speakers’ faces melted into sad frowns.

The Elder exhaled and looked to you for an answer, “When?”

“Before the sun goes down,” Trevor bluntly says, but his voice is heavy and his tone is grim, “By his logic, you have to die before the night creatures conduct their next raid.”

“What happens if we stay and survive?” The Elder asked. You could see the grip he had on Sypha’s shoulders tighten just a bit.

“Well, then the night creatures will come anyway, and the church will blame you, and it'll start all over again.”

You hated to admit that Trevor was right only because the idea of the Speakers in danger of both the night creatures and the people of Gresit made you shudder. It wasn’t a surprise that you had grown very fond of the Speakers, befriending them and enjoying their company. You never wanted to see any of them in pain, especially after seeing Sypha before she was freed of the cyclops’ curse.

“This feels wrong,” spoke the Elder, his eyes on the ground next to him, “To be driven out for a lie that will doom these people, it is not a Speaker thing.”

Trevor’s face twists with frustration as he looks at the Elder, “We had an agreement.”

The Speaker looks back up to meet Trevor’s intense gaze and doesn’t falter in the slightest, “I don’t think it’s a Belmont thing either.”

It was clear that the Elder had struck a chord in the young man standing next to you and he pushed off of the wall.

“I don’t care,” Trevor said, his voice angry but somehow you could tell it wasn’t anger at the Speaker that he was feeling, “You need to leave. And you need to leave, now.”

“I don't think we can leave these people, not in their time of need!” Sypha says as she stands and approaches Trevor much like she had the last time the two were together here.

Trevor’s frown deepened and he too approached Sypha, “These people believe you're causing their time of need!” he spoke loudly, not yelling just yet but you weren’t confident that it wouldn’t come to that.

The Elder stands now and speaks to Trevor, “The Church says that the Belmonts dealt in evil, devil worshiping magic. That you and your family and your bloodline have been corrupted by supernatural powers and that evil and death follow you.”

Trevor’s face doesn’t move. You can tell that his words are rubbing salt into the wounds that you were sure Trevor would deny even exist.

“And what did you do in the face of that?”

Trevor’s brows arched more than it already had somehow as he responded, “I didn't run away,” he said simply.

“Really. So, what are you running to? Did you have a destination in mind?”

“Are you calling me a coward?”

“No. I’m calling you defeated, Trevor Belmont,” The Elder stated, “You fought your battle and you decided you lost.”

“We didn't have a choice,” Trevor spat.

“Perhaps,” Sypha said, her voice calm, collected, confident even, “But we do. We carry with us the accumulated wisdom of this great country. We will use that to fight our battle.”

“You'll lose.”

“We might well lose,” The Elder admitted, moving to stand next to his granddaughter, “But, if nothing else, we might show someone that, although battles are won and lost, there is a larger war at stake.”

“With Dracula's armies?” Trevor asked, his earlier irritation quickly forgotten and replaced with his usual gruff, uninterested tone.

“No. A war for the soul of our people,” The Elder explained, “Because if we truly are the sort of people who will kill one another at the behest of a madman's fantasies, then perhaps it is right and proper that things from Hell should rise up to wipe us out.”

~○~●~○~●~○~●~○~

Contents

Chapter 1 - Exile

Chapter 2 - Salvation (You are reading Part 1, damn character limits) (Part 2)

Chapter 3 - Messiah (Part 1) (Part 2)

Chapter 4 - coming soon

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