#AND ITS NOT EVEN ONE OF MY PROMPTS OR UNFINISHED THINGS

[charlietheepicwriter7]

R̸̜̈́u̵̟͘t̶̺̓ḧ̵͇l̷̟̋ē̶̘s̵̨̎s̵̩͒ṋ̵̋e̵͙̐s̵̡̈́ś̸͙

Get in the Water prompt Storm alternate version Animatic Fanart

There was a spell, Constantine had explained after his own trip to the afterlife. Something to contain Danyal's soul long enough to resolve his unfinished business, to keep him still and away from the influences of his fellow dead. And if that didn't work, Constantine continued, then there were ways to force a spirit to rest. It was better for a ghost to move on by themselves, but if there was no other choice...

Damian hoped Danyal would choose to rest on his own. That he'd let him explain, finally.

Danyal had been weak. Strong in a fight, but too weak to kill, and that infuriated Damian. But he was scared more than he was angry. Because that weakness would get Danyal killed, could get Damian killed, could get the League killed. Even the newest recruits had a stronger desire to kill than Danyal.

He was the weakest link in the chain. And while their mother had taught them to be ruthless, Danyal had remained limp with mercy.

They needed Danyal's body. It would be Danyal's tie to the earth, Constantine explained as he joined them on the Batplane. The souls of the dead don't often linger on the mortal plain. The magician had speculated that the only reason Danyal had managed to manifest in the waters below Gotham was because of Damian's presence, but his remains would keep him stable this side of life for however long it took to heal his soul.

But was that even possible?

"I don't know, kid," Constantine admitted during the plane ride. "Wish I had a better answer for you, but... Your brother is a siren now. And from the sound of it? He really wants you dead."

"Then why didn't he kill me?" Damian argued. "He had hours to do it... or minutes..." The time he spent in that green world felt longer than the ten minutes Father couldn't find him, but... "He had me in his grasp and let me go. Doesn't that mean he didn't want to-"

"Have you ever heard the phrase 'Playing with your food?'" Constantine asked instead. "Sirens aren't known for letting their prey go. If we're out here, its because he wants us here."

They--Damian, Father, Constantine, Grayson, and Todd--landed in Nanda Parbat after a few hours. There was a crypt inside for members of the Al Ghul family who didn't use the Lazarus Pits. It was there Danyal's body was entombed. They would have to steal it.

And it was unfortunate that Constantine got them caught within five minutes of entry.

Damian glared daggers at the man as they were led towards the Lazarus Pit. Constantine shrugged. "What? I don't want assassins chasing after me because of some light grave robbing! Besides, we need to explain the situation anyway-"

"And what, precisely, needs to be explained?" asked a woman from inside the chamber. The heroes were pushed inside, only to see Talia Al Ghul standing where her father should have been. The Lazarus Pit hissed and boiled behind her, casing the cave in a ghoulish light.

Damian could hear laughing.

Father stepped forward. "Talia. Where's Ra's?" Grandfather was the biggest threat to their plan succeeding.

Mother... looked away, unable to meet his gaze. "I do not know. At the present moment... the Demon Head is missing."

You could hear a pin drop. "What do you mean?" Father demanded.

"It's as I said; he is missing. Yesterday, he was alone in the Pit, and hours later, no one could find him." She glanced behind her, at the waters, before looking back at them. "I had assumed he'd left to care for the League's interests. Now-" She tilted her chin up, looking down at them. "What exactly do you need to explain? What is so important that you break into my home to tell me?"

Stepping forward, Constantine explained. Mother looked grim as he spoke of Danyal, but did not interrupt. "We want to put his soul to rest. But for that, we need access to his body-"

"You dare ask for such a thing?" Mother snarled. "As if I even believe you. My son would never-"

"Your son?" Grayson snapped. "From the looks of it, you didn't care for either of your children!"

As the group descended into an argument, Damian heard laughter again, Danyal's high pitched giggle harmonizing with something deep and bone shaking. The Lazarus Pits loomed over him, beckoning him, whispering. Damian took a step towards it as his mother said, "I don't even have his body!"

"What?" Damian snapped at his mother, focusing back on the conversation. "But the crypts-"

"After your brother's murder, the Demon Head ordered for the culprit to be found. But they were never discovered." Because the culprit was Damian, he knew, and no one else ever learned about it. "I wanted to place him in the Pits immediately, but I was ordered to stay my hand until the murderer was caught. But..."

"He never was," Damian finished for her. "And then you put Danyal into the waters?"

"Yes." She closed her eyes. "And he never came back out. Even if it was too late, he'd still come back as the undead, but he never rose from the waters."

"Then this is entirely my fault."

"Finally," Danyal whispered in his ear, breath chilling his skin.

Damian did his best to ignore it. Danyal was haunting him. Danyal needed to be put to rest. If they couldn't do it Constantine's way, then they had to put him to rest another way.

Grayson looked troubled. "Robin, it's not your fault-"

"I'm the one who killed him," Damian confessed. Everyone stared at him. Grayson, horrified; Mother, blank; Father, betrayed. Damian continued, "I overheard you and Grandfather arranging a fight to the death, and I knew who would win. I couldn't... I couldn't allow Danyal to die without the Al Ghul name, in disgrace as the one who wasn't good enough. So I killed him, assassinated him, and now he's haunting me for revenge." Damian looked at the Pit. "So go ahead, Danyal."

"Damian, what are you saying?"

"Danyal wants revenge on the person who killed him; I'm giving it to him." Todd was staring at him. Damian might not be able to see past his helmet, but he could feel the respect coming off the man. "Danyal, I know you're here. Please come out." If he focused long enough, he could just making out wheezing breaths. "I can hear you, please-"

Father grabbed Damian by the shoulders. "Damian, listen to what you're saying! You're offering your life up for nothing!"

"B's right." Grayson placed a hand on his shoulder. "There's got to be another way. You don't have to do this!"

"Yes I do!" Damian ripped himself out of Nightwing's grip. "I'm the one who killed him! I'm the one at fault! My brother is suffering because of me, I have to save him-"

Stepping between them all, Mother slapped him across the face.

And the Pit's whispers fell silent.

Damian stared up at his mother, cheek throbbing with pain. She glared back. "Cease this behavior at once," she snapped. "There's no need to get so worked up over a ghost, of all thing-"

"T̴̯̃al̵̬͂ị̴̿a̵̮̕ ̵̼͐A̴̗̕l̷͈̆ ̴͚̓G̵͎̀h̷̻͒u̶̜͋l̴͍̀."

This time, everyone could hear Danyal's voice, filled with static and corrupted. Damian swallowed as his dead brother continued,

"D̸͕͠o̶̪̅ ̸͍̆ỹ̵̗ö̸̲ũ̸̧ ̶͖̚k̶̻͊ņ̸͐o̸̹̚ẘ̸̙w̷̛̹ḧ̸͚́o̷͉̅ ̵͈̑I̶̪̽ á̵̞m̶͙̂?̸̻͂"

The cavern shook as the Lazarus Pit bucked, a wave forming in the absolute center of the water. The wave rose, pillaring up above their head and brushing the ceiling. A cold wind rushed through the room and blew out the torches on the walls, leaving only embers and the occasional florescent behind. Damian braced himself for the waters to rush out and flood.

Instead, the water fell back into the pit, like it had never risen in the first place, leaving behind a lone figure in its wake.

"Danyal," Mother whispered.

And the dead boy glared back at her with pure contempt.

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dcxdp #dpxdc #so i tried to find a permanent base for the league of assassins #and discovered that the Nanda Parbat I keep seeing is only a League base in the Arrowverse? #but it's the only one I could find so here it is! #c: damian wayne #c: john constantine #c: bruce wayne #c: talia al ghul #c: danny fenton #c: danyal al ghul #get in the water au #by the way danny straight up murdered Ra's #if anyone cares #just drowned his wrinkly old ass #Sorry if Talia and Bruce seem weird #I don't know how to write them #there will probably be more but this was already over a thousand words so whatev

[mppmaraudergirl]

here is an unnamed, unfinished WIP that is too fun to die alone in my WIPs folder, hope you enjoy

prompt (but make it wizard):

"Evans," came the gruff voice of Alastor Moody, Head of the Auror department.

Lily looked up from the stack of parchment she'd been pouring over slightly maniacally for the last three hours. She was starting to see double. "Yes? Sir."

"We have an urgent assignment for you."

"Me? Why?"

Moody's magical eye was piercing in its intensity. "Because I'm bloody telling you—"

"Crouch has me working 'round—"

"You let me worry about Crouch. This new assignment is taking precedence. You are the only one who has the requisite intel to pull this off."

She should be flattered. But she had been an Auror long enough to know this was not a compliment. "Why's that? Sir."

"Because of the target. James Potter."

Thus Lily found herself heading undercover for one of the most bizarre operations she’d ever undertaken as an Auror. The gist was this: a critically important memory had gone missing from the Department of Mystery’s Prophecy Department—that was all she was allowed to know, giving the clearance level required of which she woefully fell short—and in the process of recovering the palm-sized orb, the chain of custody was broken and the prophecy was sent off via owl post. 

To James Potter. 

Somehow.

That was where she came in. A long-time acquaintance, sometimes-friend, one-time-when-they-were-drunk-snog-partner, she was tasked with recovering the orb from James without revealing that he possessed it. Simple enough task on the surface level, if one were to ignore the simple fact that, of all things, the orb was disguised as a bloody Snitch.

“You sent James Potter important Ministry information in the form of a Snitch?” she’d asked, unable to keep the contempt out of her voice. “And you expect he hasn’t already broken it? Or let it loose?”

Idiots. Idiots, the lot of them.

(Moody was not particularly appreciative of her tone. But again, long-time acquaintance, sometimes-friend, one-time-when-they-were-drunk… She was their best option.)

That was how she found herself casually bumping into her old co-Head on the high street in Diagon Alley, ignoring the little twist in her gut that she attributed to the nerves of her assignment, and chatting with him as though she was hanging on to every precious word that came out of his mouth until she finally mustered up the courage to ask him out.

“Dinner?” he had replied. “Tonight?”

“Yes. Why wait?” she had said, summoning the best version of her seventeen-year-old flirty self—she wasn’t sure that part of her still existed to any real extent, but she also knew James used to have a thing for her, so she had to play the cards she was dealt, as her dad used to say.

She tried to not be so pleased when he agreed.

***

That life was unpredictable was often one of James Potter’s favorite parts about it. He leaned into the chaos at every possible moment from the moment he learned what leaning was. As he aged, he took on a new life philosophy and decided to live his life expecting the most outrageous things to happen; he played the odds, chose the underdog every chance he got, and like the lucky arse Sirius said he was, often it paid off.

But even this felt like too much of a stretch.

Because while James had a lot of luck in life, and a lot of privilege, too, what he unequivocally did not have, was good fortune with Lily Evans.

And yet now, he was supposed to believe that he just happened to run into Lily Evans on the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley and she was so thrilled to see him that she asked him out?

Lucky James might be, but stupid he was not. 

He knew right away that something strange was happening when he received a parcel earlier in the day that contained a pristine Golden Snitch. He had eyed it warily for twenty minutes before Sirius interrupted him.

“I don’t get it,” James had said.

“Well, I know it’s been a while since you played Quidditch, mate, but that is a Snitch.”

James had shot him a look, slightly disgruntled but mostly annoyed, before he reached forward toward it. “But why did it come through the post? There’s no address on it. No letter. There is definitely something going on with this. And I intend—”

Sirius had cut him off with a sigh.

“I intend to find out!”

“Good luck, Sherlock.” 

“Sher-what?”

“Nevermind.”

It was this intent to investigate that led James to Diagon Alley in the first place, though what he was expecting to learn from the small selection of books in Quality Quidditch Supplies was beyond him. And so when he returned to his flat empty handed that was not altogether surprising.

Sirius looked up from the sofa where he was sitting while filling in the crossword, paper and ink pot balanced on either knee, and gave James an if you must look before nodding.

James wouldn't realize what planted this idea in his head, but the moment he gazed down at the Snitch something clicked.

"Evans is an Auror, isn't she?"

***

The Shack was an… interesting venue choice for their date, Lily thought as she pushed open the splintered door. Tucked away on the windiest street in Diagon Alley, The Shack was named and modeled after The Shrieking Shack by a couple of wizards who bought heavily into its lore. As far as Lily knew, the haunted building on the outskirts of Hogsmeade village was so heavily warded that no one had ventured inside of it in decades, which made Lily skeptical about the owners’ ability to truly model their restaurant after it.

It became quickly apparent that they simply leaned into the dilapidated ambiance of The Shrieking Shacks’ exterior when designing the interior. The tables and chairs looked beat up, mismatched and wobbly, some missing legs or propped up by magic. The photographs lining the walls were hung in broken picture frames and never level; they were also surrounded by peeling wallpaper or chipped paint. Candlelit chandeliers flickered overhead, casting rolling shadows across the room as Lily scanned it.

James was already there and flagged her over with a delighted wave of his arm.

“Hi!” she said, voice exaggeratedly cheerful. She leaned down to press her lips to his cheek, earning herself a surprised widening of his eyes before his trademark grin slipped back into place.

“Hey, Evans. All right?”

“I’m gre-at!” 

Unfortunately her upbeat reply was momentarily derailed when she sat down on a battered wooden chair across from him; it wobbled dangerously and she just stopped herself from toppling over.

“Steady there,” James said, not bothering to conceal his grin.

She knew her replying smile came out more like a grimace. To make matters worse, when she leaned forward to rest an elbow on the table, a chunk fell off and onto the floor. James repaired it with a flick of his wand and an unabated grin.

“Careful, Evans. You keep breaking things and I have it on good authority that they’ll chuck us out of here.”

The idea didn’t sound altogether terrible, if Lily were honest with herself. If they did get kicked out, perhaps she could convince James to take her back to his home. It would get her to her end goal faster. Something told her that she wouldn’t be getting off that easily though. Nothing ever was easy with James Potter.

“Is that true?” she asked, pretending to be concerned.

The messy-haired wizard opened his mouth, closed it, and then finally said, “Nah, I’m taking the mick. I take it this means you’ve never been here before? Everything is in a state of near-disrepair.”

“I’ve never been here. It’s… interesting, though. In a nice way.”

James only smiled in reply as their waitress appeared.

***

If James had any doubt that something was going on with Lily Evans, it would have all been erased within two minutes of sitting down at the restaurant. The choice to meet her at The Shack came quickly during his afternoon brainstorming session with Sirius.

“Evans asked you out?” he had asked, the crossword now forgotten. “Unless you’ve suddenly changed into a cephalopod and didn’t tell me, something’s amiss.”

Despite Sirius’ jokes, or perhaps prompted by them, the pair concocted a plan to test just how interested Lily truly was in dating James.

Admittedly, it had been hard to not get his hopes up. Regardless of his previous concerns, part of him was still hopeful that Lily had a more-than-platonic reason for the invitation. Now, seeing her falsely smile through her casual review of the menu, he would settle for platonic instead of… whatever the real motivation was. 

#jily #jily fic #unfinished wip #jple

[peterparkouryo]

consuming devotion | ੈ♡˳

prompt: You can't help but love Peter, even if he doesn't reciprocate your feelings

warnings: heavy angst, heartbreak, sweet sweet unrequited love and one sided pining (obv)

word count: 1.5k

"I'm left wondering why the stars align, but your heart doesn't seem to find a place for mine."

a/n: it’s sorta unfinished but not rlly? also who’s excited for rebound four?? ;) (edited: it’s unfinished but there’s like a sort of part 2 that’s connected and i’m working on it)

ੈ♡˳

There's something so beautiful, yet so so painful about being in love. On one hand, you have these intense emotions that are so heartwarming, joyful, happiness and you're content with being around the person you love. On the other hand, your mind is a battleground of emotions. You're plagued by self-doubt, wondering if you're good enough, if you're worthy of their love. You question whether they truly care for you, or if you're just imaging things. You're torn between revealing your feelings, or risking heartbreak.

That's the thing, you have felt every emotion of being in love that there is. The truth is, it sucks.

The distance between you and Peter feels like an insurmountable chasm. Time seems to drag on, and you always, always ache for his presence.

You know there's a mutual understanding that he only sees you as a friend, he has said it on multiple occasions, and thankfully you weren't stupid enough to actually admit to being hopelessly in love with the boy.

You're not entirely sure if he is aware of your affection for him, and you surely doubt that he is, considering its, well, Peter.

What you do know, that you are positively sure of, is that you've probably loved Peter for the better half of your life. There were countless times that proved it too, such as the movie nights, the boy offering to help you with your dreadful homework, walking you home after school, and pretty much anything else that made a vulnerable warmth settle in your heart.

After that realization, you became hyper-aware of every little detail about Peter - his likes, his dislikes hobbies and interests. You hung onto every word he ever said, dissecting his actions for hidden meanings. You started craving his attention and validation, yet you feared the vulnerability the came to revealing your true feelings.

You always had a mix of emotions all at once, sadness, frustration, and sometimes even jealousy. You alway questioned yourself, wondering what could possibly be wrong with you, why you weren't enough for him. It's a battle between your heart and mind, trying to rationalize your while your heart keeps yearning for the unattainable.

Peter's heart was truly pure gold, always thinking of others before himself, helping out whenever he could, he was perfect. And no matter what he did, you still loved him.

Even if he continuously rejected your feelings. 

You both knew he wasn't exactly doing it on purpose, he's told you countless times that he only strictly saw you as a friend and nothing more, but like the stubborn person you were, you ignored those words and lived in this pathetic delusion that you'd actually have a chance with him.

Finding yourself caught in a constant cycle of hope and despair, wavering between moments of elation whenever he showed you kindness or affection, and moments of heart-wrenching despair when he seemed distant or unresponsive, which wasn't an uncommon thing. You always, despite already knowing where the boy stood, tried to decipher he feelings, to find hidden signs that he might just feel the same way, but the uncertainty gnaws at your sanity.

"Party, my place, tonight." A voice interrupts your quiet studying, the girl plopping her lunch tray down on the rectangular table quite harshly, the action gaining your morbid attention.

"I don't know, last time I went to one of your parties, I had to clean up after you." You point out, paying close attention to the way Liz's smiles slowly turns into a frown.

"Well, this party is different, and it's not like I made you do that." She argues, shaking her head with an eye roll.

Liz has been your best friend since you both could ride a bike. She's been your better half for as long as you can remember, knowing everything about you and vice versa. The transition from middle schoolers into high school was tough to say the least, puberty doing its job for her, and you....not so much. So it was not a shocking factor that the girl quickly became popular.

Yet, despite her social status, she always stuck to you like glue, and you couldn't be more thankful for that.

You give her a unsure glance, before turning back to your textbook.

"Peter'll be there."

You swear you thought you were subtle when your head practically snaps up at your friend's sentence, but given the way she snorts at your action, you highly doubt it and you clear your throat before you hurriedly look down at your textbook again.

"Okay." You shrug, picking up your pencil to vigorously erase a problem that was probably right or wrong, but you didn't care, your only goal was trying to pretend to seem nonchalant.

Truth be told, you do try to move on from Peter, but the love you feel is stubborn and persistent. It's a constant ache gnawing at your soul, a wound refusing to heal. 

Liz tilts her head at your nonchalant response, not buying into your tone.

"Okay?" She repeats.

"Okay." You confirm, placing the pencil on the table, out of your anxious grasp.

Liz was well in the know of your one-sided affection for Peter. Always encouraging you to talk to him, entertaining the very thought of you two ever being a couple. Oh, how respectful she was toward you when she knew at one point during your high school years Peter harboured feelings for her. You don't know exactly what made the boy stop liking her, but you were glad in the end.

"Well, alright." The girl says carefully, picking at her food.

"You don't have to come, but it'd be great if you did." She states with a sweet smile, and you don't find it in yourself to retort it and only nod.

Liz mumbles a quiet bye, standing up with her lunch tray in hand, most likely going to hang out with her other more sociable friends, letting you be left alone with your thoughts.

Unfortunately, those thoughts last for a good five seconds.

"Just the girl I was looking for." You recognize the voice almost immediately, straightening your position to look more presentable.

Peter was effortlessly gorgeous, it was unfair, truly. It was almost like he was purposely taunting you with the knowledge of knowing you can't have him because he doesn't want you to.

He sets his belongings in the empty seat next to him, unzipping his backpack, grabbing a small piece of paper with a pencil, zipping the bag back up before sliding over the gathered materials in your reach.

You look in-between him and the objects in confusion.

"I need you to write me a letter." Peter says, quickly noticing your bewilderment.

"For?"

"My birthday."

"Your birthday's not till August?"

"Well, not my birthday, MJ's." Peter corrects with a small chuckle.

You nod slowly, sliding the objects closer to you, avoiding Peter's intent gaze.

"Isn't her birthday in like, June?" You quiz, writing your 'to' and 'from' as Peter shrugs from across you.

"Yeah, but I'm planning a surprise party that'll at least take a month considering its Michelle, and I know how much you love writing letters." The boy explains and your eyes go wide as you look at him, raising an offended eyebrow.

Of course, it was certainly no secret that many of your love confessions were most of the time in the form of letters, those of which he rejected, continuously, and it was a heartbreaking experience every time. But having the boy use the very thing you couldn't help but show your expression with, against you, hurt worse than any rejection (you're lying, obviously).

"You're so funny, I almost laughed." You deadpan, slamming the pencil down on the table, startling Peter slightly as you push the pencil and paper back to him.

You quickly gather your things, turning to leave the lunch room, though it was nowhere near over, ignoring the calls of your name from Peter.

-

One-sided love is a tortuous experience. It's such a devastating thing knowing that your love is nowhere near as close to be reciprocated. Always filled with such despair. A constant battle between your heart and reality, between your dreams and the harsh truth.

After your "storm out", Peter was quick to text you with a million apologies, which to all of those you hesitantly ignored, and it was a no good feeling, probably the hardest thing you ever had to do.

It wasn't like he had never joked about your feelings towards him. You think its better that way, but sometimes he could go a little too far and you never understood why you allowed him to continue with the humour you never found yourself to laugh at. It was almost like a coping mechanism, coming to terms with the whole ordeal in a way that wouldn't be so heartbreaking.

Maybe the reason Peter only did joke about it was to help you get over him because he can only ever see you as a friend, and he wanted you to see it as well.

#peter parker imagine #peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker x y/n #peter parker angst

[coffincestuous]

the progress report!! #3

happy march 1st!! kit9’s third progress report dropped today with a special bonus from nemlei!!

firat things first, we have The Entity in the thumbnail!! are they a little bigger to anyone else..? just me? anyways, the lights are a fun addition to the demon/dream world. i’m sure this has no importance whatsoever (lying)

next, we have… this. our dear protagonists caught in a compromising position, oh no!! seriously, though. what are they doing here? were they going to fuck in the car? good for them!! they don’t look very pleased to be disturbed by whoever this is, or disturbed at all. hopefully this isn’t anyone they used to know.

here, we have… the chapter two decay route vision area. you know, the one where andrew is chasing down ashley to murder her or get murdered.

yeah, that one.

it’s very interesting that we come back here. i wonder if this is still the decay route? also, why are we only seeing andrew’s little pixel sprite here? is she on one of the other sections? is this her vision or andrew’s? it seems to me that it’s ashley’s, considering we’ve been here before, but who knows!! there’s an axe and a signpost missing, and the tone of this preview reads a whole lot differently than the vision did at the end of chapter two.

i wonder what has prompted ashley to ask andrew what he wants? i wonder if he’ll be honest? i wonder if this is an important moment, or if it’s just them fucking around? god, i’m SO excited

little andy spotted!! and mrs graves. she is clearly unhappy about something, and i’m thinking it has to do with leyley. doesn’t it always, when it comes to mrs. graves? my guess is that she’s asking him to keep her out of trouble, but it’s just a guess. we’ve seen before that he only curls up in a ball like this when he’s really upset (and still does it as an adult). poor thing.

here, we see andrew with the entity in the thumbnail area, with the lights and everything. shout out to the little darkened souls in the far corners of the picture. our dear andrew is trying to negotiate with the demon.

i think that this is a huge moment in the game and the plot going forward!! assuming this is the burial route, ashley’s been asked to bring him along, AND he has that hex mark on his hand!! this demon is going to steal his soul!! ashley’s gonna be mad.

this could potentially happen in the decay route, too. if we assume the earlier dream/vision sequence is decay, this could be decay. maybe he’s going to meet the entity on his own regardless of what happens with ashley. again, who knows!!

[id: a screenshot of steam. the text reads “Next Episode. From the work completed so far, this episode will be the longest yet. Even in its unfinished state, it is roughly the length of both previous episodes combined. / Once finished, this episode will be released as a major content update, and work on the final episode will begin. / It is still too soon to give any release dates.” end id.]

before, nemlei had said episode three will be split into two separate chapters (one for each route), but maybe this has changed!! the length is… beyond my expectations, truthfully!! it’s longer than both episode one and two combined. holy shit??? that’s So Much Content. i think i will officially be losing my mind upon its release, and even more so when the game is finished. omg!!!!!!

finally, we have THIS!!!!

thank you nemlei. she knows what her fans want to see :33

(i think i need to set this as my phone background or something. it’s SO CUTE!!! i don’t even know where to start expressing my absolute JOY with this image!!!)

#tcoaal #the coffin of andy and leyley #andrew graves #coffincest #tcoaal screencaps #devlog #coffin.txt

[inglourious-imagines]

Coming Back to You (Donald Malarkey x GN!Reader)

Summary: After Bastogne, Malarkey is more distant than ever, barely talking to you anymore. But we don’t give up on those we love, right?

Requested by: @love-studying58 (Your last Malarkey post I requested got me in the feels and I’m requesting a similar one cause Malark is my fav. )

Prompts: 85 – “He loves you, you know? He’s just afraid of admitting it.” (used as a setting, not as words being said) & 8 – “I said I’m fucking fine.”

Warnings: just some swear words

A/N: Finally wrote it, yayy! Hope it's alright.

Taglist: @alienoresimagines @teenmagazines @meteora-fc @eugenesmorphine @band-of-brothers-cz @real-fans @not-john-watsons-blog @tealaquinn @ok-roemanov @mrseasycompany @punkgeekchic @wexhappyxfew @hellitwasyoufirstsergeant @rayofshanshine @mavysnavy @easynix @georgeluzwarmhugs @easy-company-tradition @immrsronaldspeirs @snafus-peckuh @curraheewestandalone @warrior-healer @justamadgirlinabox @happyveday @order-of-river-phoenix @whoahersheybars

.

.

.

The internal debating whether not-knowing or knowing would be worse is slowly taking its toll on your mental state. Ever since your Company heard the news about the patrol and the rumours that Malarkey is the one to lead it, you’ve been anxious and terrified beyond words.

It is almost evening, and you’re sitting with other Easy Company soldiers in a basement of one of the buildings in Hagenau, slowly sipping on the liquid the army so casually likes to call coffee. But it’s hot, and it warms your cold shaky hands. Even breathing is hard now, anxiety spreading to every part of your body like an infection. You’re terrified and you’re not even supposed to be on the patrol. All because of your heart that clings maybe too hard onto a broken soldier with a green beanie.

Your eyes scan the room, trying to find him but he’s nowhere to be seen; part of you wants to get up, find him, tell him all the things you’ve been dying to say since Toccoa, the other part keeps you glued to the old wooden chair and it seems you are stuck at dead end, neither of the sides taking the initiative.

“Don’t you look like Webster when the Krauts shot him,” George laughs as he plops himself on the chair next to you. You know very well he’s just trying to cheer you up, knowing exactly what’s gotten you down, but to say you look like David when shot? That’s a bit far.

“Fuck you too, Luz,” you retort, but a smile tugs at your lips anyway.

George puts up his hands in a surrender-like manner, grinning like a kid. “Well, maybe not, but you do look terrible.”

This time you let out an amused chuckle. “You sure know how to compliment a person. Thank you.”

“Come on, now, Y/N, you know what I mean.” George says as his face slowly gets more serious but the soft smile of his never disappears. “Someone should go talk to him,” he continues, his voice gentle and somewhat soothing, and you, for a split of a second, let yourself believe that this is your older brother giving you relationship advice. That thought warms your heart more than the coffee ever could, and you pick up your gaze at George, offering him a sincere smile.

You don’t have to ask, for George already knows your next move.

“Walk up the stairs to the first floor, then the first door to your left.”

You pat his shoulder while getting up, leaving that cup of unfinished coffee on your chair. “Thanks, G, I might just let that earlier insult pass after all.”

---

You slowly walk up the stairs, with each step losing a bit of the sudden courage you felt before, but you don’t stop, you simply can’t. The doors are slightly opened, so when you peer in, you can see Malarkey quietly discussing something with Babe. You don’t want to disturb them, for both of them seem deep in thought, serious and so tired, so you slowly step back.

You don’t have to wait too long, in a few moments, Heffron is standing in the hall next to you. He gives you a sympathetic smile and without a word leaves you be. You don’t know it yet, but almost every soldier from the original Easy Company squad knew about your little crush that apparently is reciprocated, even though somewhat badly and without words so you have no idea. George will tell you, once you reach Germany, about all the secret bets concerning you and Malarkey, that even some of the officers are in on them. And you will laugh, rosy cheeked, and George will laugh too, saying how bad of a secret agent you would make.

Malarkey is looking out the window when you enter the room.

“Hi,” you say quietly to announce your present and take some steps towards him. “Are you okay?

“I’m fine,” he immediately answers without looking at you or even turning his head a bit.

You sigh, “You can talk to me, Don, if you’d li-“

“I said I’m fucking fine.”

That makes you stop in your tracks. Malarkey has never been harsh to you and even though it might be just fatigue and stress talking, his words hurt you. You reckon he wants to be left alone, to deal with whatever’s coming at him on his own, so with a heavy heart you turn your back to him.

But then he speaks again, this time his voice is soft and gentle. “Wait.”

You let out a sigh, knowing you would do anything he asks you to. So you turn to face him and the sight breaks your heart. He looks more exhausted than ever, the war aging him, making him look a lot older than he actually is.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers and without any warning, Malarkey crosses the distance between you two and brings you in for a desperate hug. You’re taken aback, the sudden show of emotions isn’t something you’re quite used to with Malarkey, so it takes you a few moments to truly comprehend the situation and wrap your arms around his torso.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again, his voice so quiet you can barely hear the words. He’s clinging onto you like the drowning to a life vest, like his life depends on it and he’d break if he let you go.

You know he’s been hurting but it isn’t until now that you can physically feel his pain through his touch. Your eyes water but you forbid yourself to cry, focusing on Donald’s heartbeat to help you to remain calm.

“You don’t have to apologize,” you finally answer.

“Yes, yes, I do,” he’s quick to retort, his grip on you only tightens and it is slightly harder for you to breath now, but you don’t complain, how could you, when his touch is also the solution to all your problems.

“I finally realized something I should have realized long ago,” Malarkey continues but pauses right after. Then he’s suddenly pushing you away, gently, with the words: “I need to look at you when I say this.”

Your heart is in your throat by now. You try to calm yourself down but Malarkey grabs your hands and you’re dizzy again, but the good kind, the kind that makes you feel like you can do anything you want.

“I realized that if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have made it through this war. You’ve always been by my side, through Currahee, through the jump, through Bastogne and I know I haven’t appreciated you enough for it and for that I am truly sorry.”

His voice is stronger now as he gains more confidence in his words. Your cheeks are red as tomatoes, and you can feel yourself smiling like a little child.

“And if your feelings haven’t changed, I’d like to spend all the moments I have left proving to you, that you, Y/N, are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Malarkey pauses for a second, his eyes fixated on you, a soft smile lightening up his face. “The truth is, my Y/N, I lov-“

“Don’t say it!” you interrupt him, surprising him and yourself. He looks at you confused and hurt that it almost breaks your heart again, but you know you have to say this.

“You can’t confess that to me, not yet, not before the patrol. I wouldn’t be able to let you go.”

His shoulders visibly relax a bit and the wrinkles leave his face.

“Come back to me,” you smile at him, “come back to me and then you can have all my moments, all of them will belong to you, they always have.”

And then, after such long years, Malarkey is finally smiling, no, grinning happily, and you see the three years younger man in him, just like when you met him in Toccoa, Georgia. His face lightens up and he’s hugging you again, saying, “Then I shall come back. I’ll come back.”

You’re laughing as he spins you around in his arms and suddenly it is very hard to contain all the joy, luck and love in your heart.

“I’ll always come back to you.”

#imagine #hbo war #fanfic #band of brothers #band of brothers imagines #george luz #band of brothers imagine #donald malarkey imagine #donald malarkey #donald malarkey oneshot #lewis nixon #ronald speirs #eugene roe

[rowanisawriter]

my prompt menu

hi. send me a [character/pairing] + [a vibe and/or a prompt] and i will (eventually, probably) write something for you. the characters section is a mix of fandoms i write for but you can send me anything you’ve seen me reblog and ranting about in tags

1. characters

i write a lot of fandoms lol

bg3: gale/tav (my tav is a cleric of mystra)

bg3: gale/dark urge

bg3: gale/shadowheart

bg3: astarion/wyll

bg3: astarion/shadowheart

cp2077: river/v

cp2077: johnny/v

hades: thanatos/zagreus

give me any pairing from a fandom you’ve seen me hollering about and let’s see what happens

2. vibes

i like writing vibes based stories with the barest skeleton of a plot. these are from the dictionary of obscure sorrows. you can send me anything from this website but below are some that stood out to me

amoransia - n. the melodramatic thrill of unrequited love; the longing to pine for someone you can never have, wallowing in devotion to some impossible person who could give your life meaning by their very absence

attriage - n. the state of having lost all control over how you feel about someone— not even trying to quench the flames anymore, but lighting other fires around your head just hoping to contain the damage

ringlorn - adj. the wish that the modern world felt as epic as the one depicted in old stories and folktales

irrition - n. regret at having cracked the code of something, which leaves you wishing you could forget the pattern

rasque - n. a moment you instantly wish you could take back, feeling a pulse of dread right after crossing the point of no return

fata organa - n. a flash of real emotion glimpsed in someone sitting across the room— their mind wandering away from whatever’s happening around them

kenaway - n. the longing to see how other people live their lives when they’re not in public; wishing you could tune in to the raw feed of another human existence, in all its messiness and solitude

foreclearing- n. the act of deliberately refusing to learn the scientific explanations of things out of fear that it’ll ruin the magic—turning flower petals into tacky billboards, decoding birdsong into trash talk, defracting a rainbow back inside its tiny prism.

heartworm - n. a relationship or friendship that you can’t get out of your head, which you thought had faded long ago but is still somehow alive and unfinished

rivener - n. a chilling hint of distance that creeps slowly into a relationship

3. prompts

tarot cards (send me the name of any card)

touches prompt list

flower prompt list

indulgent prompt list

more tarot prompts

very cute dividers found here!

#my prompt menu #my writing #for my pinned

[tsintotwo]

Okay, so here’s the fic masterpost I’ve been meaning to make for ages. Most things I write, I don’t ever name. So I’ll make do with descriptions. The list is in chronological order of me posting these on tumblr.  

1. [The Sandman]- Dream x You HELLA NSFW (minors away!) fic. I mean it- the NSFW is the plot. One day I randomly thought ‘You know what I wanna write? A little teasing-type post about kissing Morpheus.’ Then I actually started writing it, and one thing led to another, and long story short here are the links to the three-parts, completed. You’ll see for yourself. Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. 

2.  [The Sandman]- AU!Dream x You, lil dark fantasy. Finished. 

3.  [The Sandman]- Dream x You, being with Morpheus, prompted by Midnights (Taylor Swift) tracklist. Had the idea for it when Midnights came out. It was supposed to be 13 little snippets: some fluff, some angst, and just Morpheus-love overall. Well, I got to track 5 before getting distracted by some completely different idea and abandoning this. :( In that sense, it is unfinished. But on the other hand, since each track name is its own little story, it now exists as a set of five completed snippets. Tracks 1- 4. Track 5.

4. [Sweetbitter]- 59 Hours, Jake x You. (Yep, I actually wrote Sweetbitter/Jake fanfic and yep, this one actually has a name). I have this up on ao3 and this is the summary I wrote for it there:  “When a sudden blizzard in NYC ruins havoc on everything including your plans, a stranger offers you shelter in their apartment. You don't know yet, but you two are going to be stuck there together for 59 hours- knowing and learning each other, doing things you couldn't imagine with anyone else, being something for each other in a way that feels too fast, too confusing, too reckless. How do you say goodbye to this, and yet, how do you hold onto something so fragile?” Sort of a Good Girl x Bad Boy thing. Angst, smut, feels. Six chapters. Complete. TW: Drugs, mention of s**cide. 

Two things. One: I’ve had multiple people tell me that they never actually watched Sweetbitter, but loved this. So, if you haven’t watched the show, don’t let that be the thing that stops you if you’re otherwise interested. With all its B flaws and despite me not actually being a fan of the show, this is one of my most favorite things I’ve ever written. And two: HELLA NSFW WARNING!!!!!

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6.

5. [The Sandman]- Dream x Reader. (If you, as a regular human woman, ever were to meet Morpheus in the real world, it could go something like this...)

Finished.

6. [The Sandman]- Dream x Reader. (You are a Dream Vortex, he is the Lord of Dreams- you know. Your typical meet-cute. NOT.) 

Now, you’d think as a writer I’d have a better hold of things like potential story length, overall finish timeline, etc., but nope. Not at all, I am ashamed to say. This story became a behemoth, and really it’s way too much for tumblr. But I also can’t not write when there’s good material in my head just begging to be let out. So what I have now is some very long chapters and a promise of the last one. I will say there’s stuff in this dark story that I really, really love, so maybe it won’t disappoint you either if you’re actually willing to invest time reading it. TW: Graphic violence, sexual assault, r*pe, child abuse. 

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

That is it, actually. I either write nothing or way too much- much like most everything else I do, but unlike most everything else I do, I can tell you that writing actually makes me feel like I know what I’m doing. When I write- be it original work or fanfic- I know my place in the world. That’s something, isn’t it?

***Later addition:

7. POV: Morpheus is obessed with you.

(What even is this? Well, at least it's finished. And NSFW, so there's that as well.)

#fanfic #fic #the sandman #dream of the endlless #morpheus #the sandman fanfic #dream x reader #morpheus x reader #sweetbitter #jake #jake x reader #tom sturridge

[mandareeboo]

Unfinished Work #60: "Untitled" (Finished)

I never felt up to publishing this, but I've been rewatching BoJack and felt it'd be good to put here! A little goodbye to an old friend between Hollyhock and Diane.

Title: N/A

Summary: N/A

"Sorry about this," the horse said. "You're probably really busy with writer things."

"You wanna know what I was going to do before coming out on the porch to have a smoke and chat with you?" Diane asked dryly. "I was about ten seconds away from telling my husband I was going out onto the porch to have a smoke. It's not even half the inconvenience you think it is."

"Oh," she responded, and fell silent.

Diane let out a gust of lung cancer in a long, drawn-out sigh. Texas is pretty in postcards but hotter than the sun in person, with the added bonus of all sorts of creepy crawlies straight out of the official nightmare catalogue, but it's kind of nice? There's trees everywhere. Lots of open, bumpy land. The spider currently weaving its web a few feet from her isn't even venomous- it's an orb weaver of some sort. All in all, better than death.

It'd be nicer if her company talked, though.

"Let me guess," Diane prompted, making her jump. "You're Hollyhock, right?"

"Bojack told you about me?" Hollyhock asked, ignoring her question.

"He told all his friends about you. He was really excited to have family he didn't loathe with all his being."

"Oh," she repeated, softer this time.

"Relax, you're not gonna end up on his wiki page or anything. And, for what it's worth, I'm really happy to meet you in person. You're shorter than I thought you'd be."

Hollyhock looked at her hands, where her phone was situated, then back at Diane. "Bojack's told me about you, too. He talked a lot about a lot of things, but you especially."

"And that made you think I had answers?"

She shrugged helplessly.

Diane took another drag. "You want the truth? He's an asshole. Whatever you feel or suspect about him is absolutely vindicated."

"Yeah." she said. "But I miss him anyway. Isn't that... awful?"

"No? I don't think it is. I mean, the part that sucks about people is that they're more than just one thing. Sure, Bojack is a sleezy, emotionally-abusive jerk who's slept with almost every woman he's ever met, but he also sends stupid little text messages about stuff he saw on his drive home, and one time when he got drunk he sang the lollipop song and it was actually the prettiest thing ever, and he helps you pack even though he complains the whole time. He's all that shit."

"He once threw his mom's doll out a window."

"I know. He told me."

"He did?"

"He's always drunk-dialed me. Fifteen years now, and I'm his drunk-dial SOS." Diane considered her cigarette a moment. It was her first one of the day. A new record low. "I never met her, but I spoke to Beatrice twice- for his book."

"Oh, yeah, that thing. I never read it?"

"It sold alright, but it wasn't the next great American novel. Anyway, I called the retirement home to get a statement- got the phone number off of Bojack's long-time manager and friend Princess Carolyn- and called. This was before the dementia really ate up her brain- think, I dunno, almost nine years before you knew her- and she was still pretty sharp. I said, 'hi, this is Diane Nyguyen, I'm ghost-writing a novel about your son, Bojack' and she said, 'what, is he too lazy to write it himself'?"

Hollyhock winced. "Woof."

"Oh, I'm just getting started." Diane flicked some ash away. "We went in circles a bit, but eventually I laid it out for her. 'Mrs. Horseman', I said, 'I'm writing about your son's life, and as such I have called to see if you had any note-worthy stories or quotes you'd like to add'. She was pretty quiet for a minute. Then she said, 'sure, why not, I'm dying anyway. Might as well debase myself even more.' She told me all about her husband, Butterscotch-"

"Bojack never said much about him."

"There wasn't much to say, honestly. Bojack took after him and he always hated himself for it. Beatrice despised her husband for being unfaithful, bitter, and sexist. And she told me, 'now, put this in your little book, girl, and put it word-for-word. Bojack took after him, but he had the sense to be a bit quieter about it; which is a bit like saying the hissing roach is less disturbing to the eyes than the American one because it eats leaves instead of garbage. They're both insects, and they're both a waste of the paper their books were written on'." She paused. "Gotta say, she was damn eloquent."

Hollyhock winced again. "Double woof."

"It's the one story I never put into One Trick Pony. Not because I thought she'd regret saying it, or because it wouldn't fit the tone of the book, but because I knew it'd rip Bojack apart. Even back then, I was putting him above my own job. He has a way of worming into things like that." Diane stamped out the rest of the smoke, then pulled out another one. "I used to smoke like a freight train, but now it's only when I get worked up. Sorry about the second-hand."

Hollyhock was quiet again, but this time it was more pensive than anything else. "I... wrote him a letter. I actually don't even know if he read it, because he kept sending me voicemails telling me he would, but he never told me he did before I changed my number. I thought it'd be over. I thought I was moving on, but..."

"Moving on isn't the same as moving away," Diane said. "Trust me. I've packed houses before. But even now, I still find myself looking for him in the news, or thinking back to the good times we had."

"Mhmm. He tried to learn sports for me, you know? Because he wanted to cheer me on. And that still means a lot to me. But then I remember that interview, and I just... I just can't do it. I can't talk to someone who's done stuff like that."

"That's completely in your right! I know you're a grown-up, but you're still pretty young, you know? Bojack's in his fifties. His problems shouldn't be on anyone, but they especially shouldn't be on you."

"You won't tell him I came, will you? I know you're friends, but..."

"I think your definition of friendship is a bit different from us, kiddo. I mean, we haven't spoken in almost a year now. I just go see his movies, and he sends me long rambling reviews about my books, and we follow each other on social media."

"That feels like friendship," she concurred. "Mrs. Nyguyen?"

"God, don't. Diane."

"Diane. Did you and Bojack….?"

"Nope. But not because he didn't want to. I was dating when we first met, and married a good chunk of the time I lived in L.A. Now I'm married again. If I hadn't been... well, he would've tried, if nothing else."

"And you?"

She pursed her lips. "There was a time where I lived in his house and spent every day getting shitfaced drunk, and nothing skeevy happened. He'd come home, I'd be drunk and when was Bojack not drunk? We'd drink more and we'd watch reruns of Horsin' Around. I liked that. It wasn't healthy, but I liked it. And I liked him. I try not to think too hard about it, but... I dunno, honestly."

Hollyhock pulled her knees to her chest. "I came here hoping to find a way to stop missing him. Now I just miss him even more? I hate emotions."

Diane smiled. It was bittersweet. "Now you sound like a true Horseman."

#BoJack Horseman #BH Fanfic #BH Fanfiction #Fanfic #Fanfiction #Diane Nguyen #Hollyhock Manheim Mannheim Guerrero Robinson Zilberschlag Hsung Fonzerelli McQuack #Unfinished Work

[splatooshy]

@crossedsabers10s

making this up as i go along, gonna give myself 30 minutes to come up with something. prompt generator dot com or something gave me the prompts [friendship bracelets] + [miscommunication].

start: 10:51pm

end: 11:21pm.

rating: T

summary: speedwritten drabble of denzo + prompts (friendship bracelets + miscommunication). unedited, unfinished.

“…What are you doing?” Enzo asks amusedly, watching Damon try and creep up on him with all the subtlety of a baby horse wearing sleigh bells on its hooves.

The other vampire walks closer, casually—far too casually—and stops right in front of Enzo, who narrows his eyes and takes in his ex-cellmate’s appearance. He’s got his hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket, a glint in his eye that just oozes ‘DANGER’, and a wicked little smirk to tie the whole look together.

“…Nothing,” Damon sing-songs. “Just hangin’ with my BFF, that’s all.”

“Mm-hmm. That’s all?”

There’s a vigorous nod. “That’s all.”

Blue eyes gaze, unblinking.

Brown eyes gaze right back.

Five, ten minutes pass, neither vampire breaking from their impromptu (and unspoken) staring contest.

Blue eyes gaze even harder, and their attached person grabs Enzo’s hand. “Mine.”

“Yours,” Enzo agrees.

Damon smiles evilly at that admission, and Enzo wonders—not for the first time—whether his (ex) friend might be part-fae. It’s not outside the realm of possibility, from what he’s been taught about the supernatural world these days.

Something cold wraps around his wrist, quickly, silently —— until the sudden click! causes Enzo to break the staring contest so that he can glance down at his hand in confusion.

“Ha!” Damon giggles maniacally, practically vibrating out of his own skin, “I won!”

Enzo wiggles his hand inside the attached cuff. Which doesn’t look like any of the ones he’s ever seen; not even the official ones he’d accidentally nicked from the Sheriff — This one’s strange. A bit heavier. Not by much, not Augustine-level, but the difference is there. Maybe it’s a new thing, heavy handcuffs. “So you did,” he concedes, “but what does that have to do with handcuffing only one of my wrists?” Part of him wonders if he’s gonna get locked in the Salvatore’s creepy basement again. He hopes not. He hasn’t done anything wrong, right? Definitely not enough for Damon to be the one locking him up…right???

“I won,” Damon tells him, simple as that. “And you lost. Loser has to be handcuffed to the winner for a week.” Damon pulls his hand out of his jacket to click on the other end of the metal cuffs, so they’re sitting nicely around his own wrist, connected to the chain of Enzo’s own jail bracelet.

“Handcuffed. Right.” Surprisingly Safe For Work of Damon, actually. He’s not really sure what the whole staring contest thing had to do with it, though.

Then he grins at the British vampire. “Think of it like… a friendship bracelet.”

“A friendship bracelet?” Enzo echoes, and Damon nods emphatically. “Yeah,” he says, jiggling their conjoined hands, “a best friendship bracelet.”

Let the record show that Enzo definitely does not smile at this. At all. Because it’s terribly inconvenient and not in any realm cute.

“Why?”

The jiggling stops.

“Why?” Damon asks quietly, hurt seeping into every corner of the singular syllable. “Do you—was thi—Why wouldn’t I? You’re my best friend.” He says it so simply, so certainly, so honestly that Enzo wishes to believe him more than anything.

And part of him does.

But there’s another, bigger part of him that wants more than what Damon’s offering.

“Not that,” he retracts, “why the handcuffs?”

Damon brightens up a little, and so does Enzo’s traitorous heart. “Bonding activity. Spell wears off in a week, but if you hate this, we can probably get Bonnie to undo it before then.” He takes a deep breath. “I-I just… thought that maybe we could have some fun with it. Because…you’re moving out and all, ‘n I….” He scrunches up his face. “I don’t want you to!”

Enzo lets out a hopeful breath. “You don’t?”

“Of course not! That’s why I orchestrated this whole thing!”

A stupid inconvenience birthed from good intentions? That checks out. “You chained us together, with magical handcuffs… all because I’ve been thinking about finding my own place?”

Damon nods sullenly, then shrugs, pulling Enzo’s cuffed hand up with the action.

“Damon… you could’ve just told me.”

“You’ve been avoiding me. I just wanted to make sure you couldn’t leave.”

“And I wanted to make sure you couldn’t ask me to.”

11:22pm.

that… i’m quite proud of that. i’m typing this on my phone, so go me! yeehaw never gonna put myself through that again.

#denzo #splatooshy #tvdu #slutty bisexual damon salvatore #bi damon salvatore #damon x enzo #sweeties #pining #idk #writing prompt #drabble #first draft #writing challenge

[ggomos-maribat]

[11/?]

original prompt | complete masterlist

It has backfired on her.

Now her siblings are competing to earn her favor, plaguing her with their own vigilante alter egos.

"Look what I've got, Mari!" Dick calls out, bringing a dusty box to the couch.

She tilts her head as she looks up from her sketchbook.

"I found some Nightwing merch you might like." Dick preens. "You know, just in case you change your mind about your favorite vigilante."

She raises an eyebrow and looks into the box. Tumblers, caps, ballers, shirts, pins, stickers, keychains, bracelets. All in the theme of Nightwing. She refrains from asking why he has merchandise of himself.

Marinette gives a strained smile. "I understand that you're a fan and all, but I really don't get the appeal."

He makes a face. "You can take at least one."

She sighs and goes through the pile before digging out a Nightwing hoodie that looks comfy.

---

She thinks Jason won't care too much about being hailed the favorite but she's proven absolutely wrong. During one chat with him, he manages to slip it in the conversation.

"And then I told her that my sister makes better slippers!" Jason grins.

"You didn't!" She laughs.

"Speaking of that shop, apparently Red Hood fought off some thugs for the old lady." Jason takes a swig of his drink. "And he even threatened them not to go back!"

"Thats . . . that's cool."

"Right? He looks big and scary but he has a heart inside."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, and he helps out a lot of street kids too." He hastily adds: "I just heard about it."

---

Tim's approach is more passive-aggressive.

One morning when Marinette slips into the kitchen to make her coffee, she sees a rubber duck wedged between the coffee press and the cream. And it's not just a rubber duck. It's a rubber duck dressed as Red Robin.

The ducks follow her everywhere.

She catches one near her sewing machine, one pinned near a window where she usually works, another next to her baking supplies, inside her shoe, on her laptop. She only collects the ducks and makes them line up in her room.

But that's not all.

Themed advertisements begin to pop up whenever she uses her phone or laptop. The Red Robin symbol flickers every now and then at the corner of her screen.

Marinette frowns upon seeing another duck inside her purse. Damn your psychological harassment.

---

Damian is the most annoying one.

He springs out of nowhere and pops out a surprise attack whenever she's doing something. If Marinette's playing UMS Online, he'll stand in front of her screen and say, "Robin uses an awesome katana."

To which she replies, "Go away! I'm losing!"

He'll sit beside her during meals and state in a casual tone: "He has the best fighting skills out of all the others."

And she'll glower. "Not in front of my croissants, Damian."

He'll also accidentally 'run into' her whenever she's outside the manor. "It has come to my attention that he wants to cease being too much of an edgelord."

She'll walk past him. "Good thing to know."

What's worse is that Damian seems set on maintaining his 'favorite' status and is actively trying to sabotage the others' attempts.

When Marinette decides to slip on the Nightwing hoodie, she finds a Robin sticker stapled on top of the Nightwing logo.

Whenever Jason comes over and talks to her, Damian interrupts and the boys get into an argument.

Even the ducks aren't safe. Marinette sees a few re-dressed in a Robin getup.

Finally, after getting fed up with their stupid antics, she decides to end the war once and for all.

---

Bonus

Marinette taps her stylus on her tablet. The crossword puzzle sits unfinished on the screen.

She squints. "Seven letter word for best vigilante in Gotham?"

Stephanie raises her hand. "SPOILER!"

Duke perks up. "THE SIGNAL!"

"Duke, that's nine letters."

"Oh."

Marinette looks back at the description list. "Oops, it's actually six letters. My bad."

Cass smiles. "Orphan."

Taglist:

@tinybrie @sinoffalsejudgement @its-maemain @kamarallil @toughluna @golden-promises @whatamoodhoney @trippingovermyfeet @m4ster0fnone @alexizlazy @plz-excuse-my-inner-gay @maybeanalien0-0 @imchaotic-dontmindme @ev-cupcake @flowers-n-fandoms @crusherccme

*if you want to be tagged, feel free to ask in the comments and I'll add you to the taglist :)

#maribat #maribat marinette dupain cheng #maribat fanfic #maribat batfam #maribat bio dad bruce wayne #fox dcw #mlb x dc #dc x mlb #dc x miraculous #damian is the annoying brother you cannot change my mind

[darsynia]

do you take requests? if so, I’d like to formally request reader comforting Tony and just showering him in praise because he truly deserves it and we never see him get treated like that in the movies

it can end with smut if you’d like, up to you 🫶🏻

I wrote this with my friend purplefeathersandblackleather in mind, to be honest. I wanted to write something they would appreciate, and this prompt fit perfectly with what they hinted they'd like. I am pleased to have written it and I'm sorry for any offense that may have been taken.

Summary: Tony Stark was a broken, angry man after he survived his snap to save the universe, but you've brought him back to life slowly, carefully, lovingly. He comes home with bad news after a meeting with his doctor, and you offer him as much comfort and encouragement as you can. Warnings: hurt/comfort, toxic anger, mentions of amputation (story is set post-Endgame, Tony lives) Pairings: Tony Stark/GN!Reader Square Filled: Cuddling Word Count: 3,171

Build Me a Cocoon So I Can Crawl Inside Your Love

Tony’s back from the specialist’s appointment he didn’t want to let you come along for, and he looks really discouraged. The gamma radiation damage had required an amputation above the elbow. It was a strategic choice, designed to offer the best possible outcome for prosthetics. The problem is, it hasn’t been healing well enough to be fitted yet, and by the look on his face, that’s still the case.

Every time he goes in to be assessed, the fitting date is pushed back, and Tony comes home feeling some kind of way. This time he’s sad, resigned even, which you suppose is better than when he was angry and ready to burn off enough flesh to start over. Tony Stark’s righteous anger is hard to refute, but his sadness? It breaks your heart.

You’d met Tony after the heroics, after the messy divorce, after the custody battle. He was never a man who knew how best to heal, and healing the whole universe of its colossal loss was meant to kill him. When it didn’t, he… didn’t handle that very well. 

If you had been a home health nurse, one of the court-ordered psychologists, or even among the number of Morgan’s many home tutors (the daughter of the savior of the universe was too valuable to go to regular school, one of the things Pepper and Tony had fought over, with Tony on the side of ‘I know what boarding school and isolation does to a rich kid, you cannot do this to our daughter.’ He’d lost.), Tony would never have given you the time of day. He wants nothing at all to do with anything from before, not even by association.

No, you’re an artist. He’d run into you completely by accident on one of the worst days of his new life, though the events did end up creating an accidental bond. In a bid to completely revamp his life, Tony had been spending time at national parks, and, woefully unprepared for the heat, he’d stumbled into your day camp set up. You’d fed and watered him, but then he’d had a phantom pain attack, and in response, an attack of temper.

“-- not expect to spend the rest of my life in this much fucking PAIN!” Tony had roared, his remaining hand scrabbling at the knot made out of the empty bottom half of his right sleeve, trying to untie it. You’d come over to help, and in blind frustration, he’d shoved you away, probably remembering someone else, someone who made him feel guilty for being angry.

You’d fallen back into your easel, your ass sliding across your unfinished art, ruining many hours of work.

There was no way you wanted to make things worse for him-- after all, he was the reason you got some of the people you loved most in the world back! --so you’d tried to minimize the damage. They were only things, after all, and you could recreate what you lost. The two of you had quarantined yourselves at either side of your camp, each tending to your own ‘wounds.’ In all honesty, you’d expected him to walk off, but he hadn’t.

An indeterminate number of minutes later, after you’d cleaned everything up and were trying to decide how best to carry it back down to your car, Stark’s left hand thrust into view. He was holding a piece of paper, a receipt, it looked like, with some information scrawled onto the back of it.

“Figure out how much that all cost and I’ll reimburse you. Send me a message on that. It’s private, so,” Tony had heaved a sigh, then continued, “--don’t share--”

“Are you kidding?” you’d said, covering his shaking hand with yours instinctively, to steady it. “I wouldn’t dream of making your life worse, after all you’ve done!”

“Please.” You can still remember his voice, how weary he’d sounded. “No Thanos.”

“Yeah, I’m with you there. Fuck that guy,” you had blurted. “I meant your inventions, the prosthetics! Not just that, but in three months you’ve revolutionized the entire industry, created a whole new sweat-wicking fabric-- can I ask you?” You’d turned around, still holding onto his hand like a complete idiot, too excited to realize you were holding him physically captive. “Is it the same stuff you came up with for Banner? Because that is just genius-- though, I guess I don’t need to tell you that! You’ve always been a genius. I bet you have fifty hard drives full of that kind of stuff, really useful inventions, but people like Obediah Stane and the jerks in the army weren’t ever willing to listen.”

Tony had just blinked at you, a tiny, molecule-thick smile forming on his lips. You knew he’d been in self-destruct mode for months, but impossibly, you did not choose that moment to keep your mouth shut.

“I’m sorry you’re in such pain still. I follow tech news but don’t know much about the actual process, but that’s even more amazing, you know that, right? Pain saps creativity, and so does sadness. You’ve done all that while you’re hurt and miserable? True hero, I swear it.”

“Are you for real?” he had asked, his face a mix of consternation and reluctant happiness. “No one put you up to this? Rhodey?”

“No offense, Mr. Stark, but if War Machine flew my ass up here to make you feel better, do you think I’d have the guts to tell you that?”

It’s been ten months, the first six of which had been full of affectionate-antagonistic messages sent back and forth, sometimes with large gaps. You hadn’t wanted to take payment, he’d insisted, and you’d both found creative ways to either send money or send the sent money back, right up until the time he’d found out you were about to become homeless.

Tony Stark had moved you into his house. He’d risked the headlines, the speculation, the condemnation, and done it anyway. It didn’t feel like billionaire behavior at the time, and it still doesn’t now that you’re in the clandestine relationship the media speculated about. It felt like something someone does because they love you.

You’re not sure you’ll ever get over that. You don’t want to.

Even so, he’s hard to live with sometimes, even especially on days like this. You almost miss the anger. His attitude today feels like resigned, miserable acceptance, the thing he’d already gone through when he’d lost custody of Morgan to Pepper. You two had already hashed that out, and he’d agreed he wasn’t any kind of parent, might not be for a while. He’d tried to say he wasn’t any kind of partner, and you’d spent a few nights specifically proving that was bullshit.

Sometimes you want to scream at the whole world. To you, Tony Stark is the best of them, because he didn’t have an unassailable moral code. He hadn’t been a model of perfect humanity, and he still isn’t. And still he’d saved everyone. He’d saved people on planets ‘hitherto undreamt of,’ to quote an interaction he’d be upset you’d found out about. You’d thought about trying to rehabilitate his relationships with the people from Before, but it’s going to take a few more years of love, affection, and encouragement to get him there.

It used to be one step forward and four steps back, but now it’s more the reverse. He’s thriving, and you know it’s because he’s getting to hear the good things first, instead of constant critique.

“You’re too quiet,” Tony says from the couch.

“I was gathering rose petals,” you lie. It’s a running joke between you, but one of these days you’ll actually do it, set up a bath or something, knock his socks off.

“Please say it’s for some kind of mind-numbing tea that lets me skip forward a few days,” he groans, scrubbing his hand over his face. “I need the stronger painkillers. I know I said I wouldn’t--”

“Hey, hey,” you soothe, coming over with the pills already in hand.

Tony makes the same face he always does when you anticipate his needs. It’s surprised, pleased, even confused, but the percentages have steadily changed to be more pleased, less confused, and almost never surprised anymore. That’s progress.

You sit on the arm of the couch, next to his residual limb, and he frowns up at you.

“Don’t think I don’t notice that you keep doing that.”

“Do what?” You know, but you want him to address it.

His glare is sexy as hell, but you push your desire back and focus on his emotional state. In your head, you’re cheering him on, and maybe he can feel it, because he says, “I can’t touch you with my hand over there. Not without twisting around.”

You run your hand through his hair to soften his reaction to your response, and thrill at the rumbling ‘mmmm’ sound he makes. “Because I love all of you. If I don’t shy away from your pissy attitude when you’re an entire grump, I’m not going to shy away from--”

For the first time since you’ve been together, he reaches out with his right arm and sweeps you off of the arm of the couch and onto his lap. You try not to react, try not to show how important the moment is, but Tony’s looking right at you, and he can tell something’s up.

“Really?” he says, shaking his head in confusion like you’re some sort of bizarre cryptid.

“You never touch me with your right side on purpose,” you say carefully.

He leans down to kiss you, and it’s not a lust kiss, it’s gratitude, and something about it is sweetly calming. You can tell he got bad news today, but he’ll tell you when he’s up for it, and until then, you can show him he’s loved. When the kiss ends, he leans his head in the direction of the bedroom, and you nod. 

It’s mid afternoon, but the blackout curtains on the windows lend an air of evening finality to the room, which you maintain by putting on a small, dim lamp by the bed. Tony changes out of his formal clothes while you watch appreciatively, and when he’s in his sweats, he walks over and lets himself fall onto the bed.

“Fuck,” he says. “Would it be crazy to just--”

“Sleep?” you finish with him. In response, Tony hugs you to him, and you kiss his chest. “Alarm?”

“No, I’ve figured out you’re mostly harmless by now,” he jokes, the words broken up by a ferocious yawn.

The two of you wake up in a jumble. Tony’s rolled over and thrown his right leg possessively over your hip. He’s awake, as it happens, and when you meet his eyes, he gives a little tug of his left arm, which you’ve been sleeping on. The two of you adjust, which mostly means you end up facing each other, each on your own pillow pile.

“Did the nap help any?” you whisper.

“Always and never,” he says back, and you get it. Some things just… stay broken.

Girding yourself mentally for a negative reaction, you reach up and set your left hand against the spiderweb of scars on the right side of his face.

“I have wanted to say this for months, but every time I thought about it, I recognized that you were too hurt, too full of distorted, hateful thinking to accept it.”

He breaks in, his wry expression undergirded with iron. “You’re so sure I’m ready to hear you now? After the news I got?” You can feel the tightness to his jaw under your fingertips, and you lean over to kiss it away. The way the tension eases almost as soon as your lips brush against his skin is answer enough.

“Yes.” You slide your hand down to rest against his chest, partly to feel the steady beat of his heart. “Your father did too little too late, and it’s okay to acknowledge that.”

“You’re starting there? I need a drink,” he teases, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of you, and his leg doesn’t tense up like he’s ready to get up and run away from what you’re saying.

“Hell yes I’m starting there. You watched me try to live up to my friends’ expectations, do you remember what you said?”

His lips twitch with reluctant amusement. “I said ‘those fuckers want to make you into the friend they want, not the friend they already have.”

“Exactly.”

“Point taken,” Tony grunts. “Next?”

“It’s not your fault that you made things that were misused by people with shitty intentions.”

He turns in bed, shifting so he can lay on his back. You cuddle up, rest your head on his shoulder. “And when those people were the government?” he asks.

“What’s the alternative? Watching them self destruct with Hammer’s shit? When you saw the weapons dealing get too far, you cut it off. You lost a ton of money. You gotta let that go, Tony. You were misled, you lived the life you thought you were meant to, right up until you didn’t.”

“Noted.”

You skip over some things. They’ll keep, and the last thing you want to do is have him sit there worrying about what you’re going to say next.

“Last one for now: that thing with the nuclear warhead and the Chitauri is the most heroic thing you’ve ever done,” you say, scooting impossibly closer. He’s gonna challenge this one.

Tony’s scorn as he turns his head to look at you is palpable, as expected.

“Hear me out: it was amazing that you built the suit for the stones, ok? But you had time to figure that out. You decided about that ahead of time. You had the choice. But the nuke? You just worked on instinct. Do you understand how amazing that was? You knew you could do it and you did it-- and you were afraid. You were terrified, Tony. That’s heroism.” His jaw is working like his teeth can’t settle against each other, and you run your fingertips through the too-long hair spilling over onto his forehead. “You also sat through that even though you wanted me to shut up.”

“True.”

“You want to tell me more about your day?”

“Not even a little bit,” he grins, but you start rubbing comfort along his chest, kissing his shoulder, and he sighs. “They’re going to take more off. Reset the stump, basically. They say that will give it a better chance of actually healing, so I can end up with something I can actually do something useful with.”

“You’ve got a million ideas for prosthetics for your suit, don’t you?” you guess. “It dawns on you that this is the issue. He hasn’t been himself without the fucking Iron Man suit, because even though it’ll conform to him, it’s not pain free until his arm heals. Tony’s been knocked back to larval form for over a year.

This whole time you thought he wasn’t doing anything with the suit because it nearly killed him, because it reminds him of Before, but that’s not it at all. Tony Stark’s suit has always been his saving grace, and he hasn’t really been himself without it.

You extricate yourself and sit up. “Holy shit.”

“Now what?” he says, vulnerable, irritated.

“This is it, this is the thing we’ve been waiting for. When did they say they’re going to do the surgery?”

“You’re excited about this?”

You stand up, too full of energy and excitement to stay still. “Tony, you’re not seeing the big picture! You’re, you’re…” You light on it, a remnant of the very few visits he still has with Morgan. That light at the end of the tunnel is so distant as to be physically painful, but you go for it, because he needs this hope, and so do you. “You’re like a cross between the seventeen-year cicadas and the Very Hungry Caterpillar, Tony!”

He’s shaking his head, sitting up in bed, hand going to massage his stump, brows furrowed.

“The suit! You’ve been exiled from it, right? Because it hurts. It hurts to leave your most vulnerable part exposed and unarmored, and the effort it takes to be the old you long enough to code it to account for what’s missing hurts too. It’s been symbolic, all this time, right?”

His left hand is fisted in his lap, and his jaw is tight, but Tony nods.

“You’ve been buried in the ground without it, it’s the only place you’re safe.” You’re probably pushing the metaphor too far, but you love this beautiful, glorious genius, and it’s not your fault you weren’t smart enough to figure this out before. “You had to heal your heart first, in order to have enough physical capital to heal your arm. You had to be willing to give something up for both-- your privacy, your right to avoid being vulnerable around someone else. Literal inches of the precious amount of arm you have left.”

“Breathe, will you? You’re turning purple,” he teases. It’s a deflection, but a gentle one. You can tell he wants you to continue, even if he can’t bring himself to admit it.

“It’s almost time to come up from the ground, Tony-- and honestly? I think if that arm of yours took less time to heal, you might actually have trashed the rest of your suits. You needed the time. And now, you can turn into a fucking IRON BUTTERFLY. You can already make that suit do anything. Fuck actual prosthetics-- as soon as you figure out the best way to pad out your stump, the sky’s the actual--” you break off and tear up.

Tony gets up, comes over, pulls you close. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but what the fuck are you--”

“You haven’t flown. Since you snapped. You love to fly.” You’re fucking inconsolable. Tony’s toxic fury has led you to compartmentalize everything about his life Before, but it’s part of him, and if you’d have just made those connections earlier--

Tony’s got his hand on your face, walking you back to the door of the bedroom, and now he’s kissing you. It’s tender, forgiving, and despite yourself, you cling to him, your guilt slipping through your fingers no matter how hard you try to grip it. 

“Goddamnit, Tony!” you whisper when he shifts his lips to your cheek.

“You called me a butterfly. This is self defense.”

You sniffle defensively. “You’re a beautiful butterfly, Tony. An Iron Monarch.”

“Not yet, I’m not. But you’re going to fucking drag me there, aren’t you?” He sounds pissed, but for one of the first times since you’ve known him, it’s not a toxic anger. It’s the kind of angry you get when you’re loved so much you’re given what you need, not just what you want.

“You’d better fucking believe it,” you say.

#tony stark x reader #avengersbingo #tony stark x gn!reader #hurt/comfort #tony stark imagine #tony stark x you #iron man x reader #iron man x you #tony stark #iron man #mcu fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #iron man x gn!reader

[eldritch-flower]

An unfinished sci-fi/cosmic horror writing exercise (based on a prompt that i can no longer find)

There is something in my father’s fields.

It looms above the rows of corn on bellicose stilts, a quadruped of unfathomable stature with what I have taken to be legs that stretched up, up, up. A monolith of nauseating spires and squirming growths that slop and wring about each other like a pot of eels. I cannot see it’s body, reader, nor can I begin to conceive the sheer monstrous size of it. I simply know this: That it is always night-time here on the farmstead. And that there is no longer a moon.

The parasitic epiphytes that wind their slobbering tendrils up the pitch slants of the mountainous thing’s jaundiced flank, they shriek sometimes in the wind. I think rather that they are sliding down the side of the colossus, seeking to colonise my father’s land with their jaundiced, municipal thrashing. They sound to me nothing of this green Earth, their teeming yowls vociferous and gushing like liquid, and their screams are constant. I have not dared sleep since their host planted its vast self in our fertile soils, and I feel that had I the confidence to attempt it I would find myself unable to drift off in fear of those pulsating slugs. Each day, their wails grow louder, and I am almost certain that they are searching for something. The manner in which they appear to leach forever Hell-ward is pseudopodian, and each glance out the drawing-room window draws further terror into me still.

What do they want, dear reader? I cannot decide, and yet surely there is something. I can feel it, as I suppose a bird must sense the trembling of the wind afore the coming storm. Even now, should I dare draw back the curtains, I am assured to see them hunting in their own riotous way. I think perhaps the deformity of nature upon which the limbless, chattering atrocities drone is simply a vessel for their kind; an eclipsing stealer of light bent to the will of those inky, protoplasmic jellies.

It appeared four nights ago – or so I should assume. I rose to no dawn chorus some many hours ago, for there had been no dawn. I do not think there are any birds here on the farmstead anymore. But I have watched the hands of my father’s grandfather clock, and stared into the churning cogs of that analogue machine for seven-and-a-half cycles, and still the thing has remained. Reader, I must confess that I do not even live here on the farm, and that I am simply a form of parasite myself on my father – my intents are far from those of a casual symbiont, and I had drafted his help only to garner money from the man. And yet now I find myself too frightful to leave, lest the slippery blasphemes that plague the dark ariels outside chance upon my being.

Even as I write this, they slide further down those quiescent slopes like a slurry of sentient tar. What do they want, I ask once more? Again, I find myself without an answer.

On the second day – or what I perceive to have been, shivering in the darkness of my dwelling – one of my father’s hounds went missing. Earlier I found it again. What was left of the poor creature was an undigested perversion, jaw dislocated and tongue slapped to the ground, stuck there like glue. The head was what remained, reader. Scalped and hideously rugose as though it was age that had worn the animal away: But I have seen the corpses exhumed at the University, and the likes of ten decades would not be suitable to account for the state in which the dog was left. Decay arrives first at the soft parts of the flesh, and yet the faithful creature’s eyeballs still remained. They were wide and blank, and even now I can see them when I close my eyes and recall the snapshot of horror, of suffering, that were petrified in the fattened pupils.

I have my suspicions on what became young Floss, and I hope never to recount the same fate myself. Such is why I shan’t step a foot outside my father’s building. I fear that it is the farmstead and it’s red-brick walls that have preserved me for so long in the presence of the foulness that races unabridged within the corn fields.

I have formulated the hypothesis that the sluggish growths are sentient, and their yammering is but a form of communication too Archaean, or perhaps other-worldly, for myself to understand. That they came from the deep throes of space is almost unthinkable, and yet I cannot comprehend another explanation for their sudden appearance and rapid defenestration of my surroundings. Did I mention, dear reader, that the earth is charring? For it is indeed doing so. Blackened to soot, a spreading mycelium of rot and amorphous cancer. The contagion has not yet extended it’s sickly fingers past the borders of the corn rows, but I feel that soon it shall. Perhaps the malignant beings are prevented from travelling beyond what their blight has touched. I do not think so, for I cannot think otherwise how they might have retrieved the dog as their prize – my father’s hounds are trained not to wander into his fields. But I cannot put my mind at ease without considering every option, no matter how neo-parsimonious they may seem.

Often, I find myself longing to leave my lodgings. I wish to step into that field and stare into the unending pit of nothing that has stolen the moon from the sky, and I wish to scream. Reader, I simply want to see the light again. I long for summer days, and summer nights, and my resentment for the farmstead’s visitors is quickly growing to unease.

That's all I managed to get down in the 45 minutes I gave myself! I ended up writing just under 1000 words. It's not awful, it's not amazing... I kind of just wanted to hone the whole 'first person' and 'lovecraftian prose' abilities haha! Let me know what you think, constructivie criticism is appreciated etc etc! And If there's any other cool prompts you find, send them my way through an ask or DM me or something :)

#creative writing #writeblr #writing community #writers of tumblr #writers #wip #short story #flash fiction #horror #lovecraftian horror #cosmic horror #writing prompt #writing ideas

[jamespotterthefirst]

Bad Influence (Ethan x MC)

Book: Open Heart, book 1

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Lilac Allende)

Word count: 950

Warning: Slight language

Prompt:    39. "You are a terrible influence."  

Premise: They make the other smile with a small gesture on Halloween, the busiest day at work. 

A/N: I changed the title a little from the prompt. I like “bad influence” more than “terrible influence” 

“Where’s your holiday spirit, Dr. Ramsey?” someone asked from somewhere to his right. There was an unmistakable flirtatious lilt to the question, dotted with a hopeful giggle.

The bit was far too predictable.

“Beg your pardon?” he replied, not bothering to hide his irritation. He didn’t even bother to look up from his patient file.

The young doctor’s laugh teetered on the nervous side this time.

“I just thought…since it was Halloween…” she seemed to lose an ounce of bravery with each word. Eventually, she trailed off, leaving that thought unfinished. Not that it mattered. Ethan had no interest in hearing it anyway.

“Halloween,” he began, his patience having reached its limit, “is one of the busiests days of the year for hospitals for reasons I am sure you can deduce. My sole focus this evening is the influx of patients we will receive, not…” he eyed the blonde’s elaborate makeup and devil’s horns. It wasn’t a full-blown costume since she still donned scrubs, but Ethan could still see the effort wasted on it. “--costumes.”

The blonde looked increasingly more horrified with every word.

“I suggest your own attention is on patient care and not on who is or isn’t wearing a costume, Doctor.”

By the end of it all, the intern fled the scene with so much conviction, she bumped into several passing staff. Other interns quickened their step around him, wise enough to know not to fuck with him in his current mood. Ethan couldn’t be more grateful.

“You look like you need a pick-me-up,” a new voice commented casually.

Ethan’s stomach swooped.

“I need a drink.”

Even her laughter made his insides swell moronically.

“It’s only eight in the morning, Doctor Ramsey.”

“Exactly.”

He made the mistake of looking up. There, radiant in the afterglow of her amusement and looking far prettier than anyone had any right to, was Doctor Allende. She leaned casually against the empty nurses’ desk, in the same spot the brazen intern had been moments earlier. Her smile grew into a conspiratorial little simper that drew his attention to her lips.

“I know just what you need.”

His pulse picked up. It took a herculean amount of effort to keep his thoughts strictly professional.

“Catch,” she said abruptly.

In a flash, he caught the chocolate bar she had aimed his way. Ethan frowned down at it.

“The vending machine’s been out of these for weeks.”

Lilac was fully grinning now, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

“I know. I stole this.”

Ethan raised a brow, waiting for her to elaborate.

“From the conference room. I had a question for Chief Emery before her Board meeting. They were preparing for it, pulling out all the stops. They had all kinds of expensive snacks and candy set out.”

Ethan let out an annoyed scoff.

“I know. I saw these and thought of you.”

There it was again, that infuriating dive of his stomach.

“Are we adding theft to your list of offenses?” he asked, a desperate attempt to ignore the way his mind replayed her words like a broken record.

“And what exactly are those other offenses?” she challenged with an arched brow.

“Being a pain in the ass.”

Her laughter sent a wave of gratification through him.

“I’m also the most innovative, intelligent, talented, efficient, and promising young doctor, if I recall correctly.”

“Not even close. I said you were ‘one of our most promising young doctors.’”

“Same thing.”

He rolled his eyes but he knew it looked far from convincing with the smule pulling at his mouth.

“Anyway, I figured today would be a long day for you…” she trailed off, gesturing at the chocolate bar.

“It’ll be exceedingly busy for you, too. Perhaps even more than my day,” he commented.

“They had Geysers, too. I would’ve swiped some for myself, but Dr. Emery would’ve definitely caught me.” Lilac shrugged. She opened her mouth to say something else, but the beeping of her pager interrupted. Instantly, she straightened, suddenly business-like as she read the message.

“I have to go down to the E.R.” She gave him a small smile before turning to go. “Good luck today!”

Ethan watched her go, his gaze lingering on her retreating form for a beat too long. He returned to his patient file, hoping that work would dispel all remnants of the radiant smile from his thoughts.

It was a futile and foolish hope.

“No costume, Allende? I’m disappointed.”

Bryce feigned a horrified expression. Lilac, meanwhile, laughed as she opened her locker.

“It’s been non-stop busy since I came in this morning. I completely forgot.”

“You’re probably better off. I heard Ramsey was so pissed off, he made several interns change.”

Her heart gave an elated little jolt at the mention of his name. It was lucky no one could see that. Though, she was convinced the whole adjacent hallway could see the flush flaring up on her cheeks.

“Is that so? Well, I dodged a bullet then.”

She needed to get a grip.

Bryce hummed his agreement as he changed into clean scrubs. “You’re still wearing one for Donahue’s later tonight, right?”

Lilac’s tired muscles throbbed in response. After a long, arduous day at work the last thing she needed was more time away from a hot bath and her comfortable bed. “I’ll see if I even go. This day has been hell.”

“Exactly why you should go.” Bryce straightened the front of his scrubs before heading for the door. “Besides, Sienna will probably drag you back if you go home.”

Bryce said something else but Lilac was no longer listening, her attention on a small colorful parcel taped to the back of her locker. Upon closer inspection, she realized it was a pack of Geysers Exploding Fruit Snacks. There was a note attached to it, scrawled in familiar handwriting.

Something to get you through Hell.

Lilac laughed, amused by his customary dramatics. There was one more line.

You are a terrible influence.

A/N: Just a little Halloween-ish fic for spooky season. Hope to bring you a few more!

Also, it appears people missed my latest smut piece: Versace on the Floor. Sigh. Tumblr... 

If I am not mistake, it was because I marked it as Mature. You have to go in and change your settings to see it. 

Anyway, thank you for reading! 

#open heart #ethan ramsey #ethan x mc #playchoices

[p-artsypants]

Blurb #34

I'm going to try to share 70 blurbs from my WIPs and unfinished fics to celebrate reaching 70 posted fics! To help with this endeavor, please feel free to send me a word or a fandom you know I write for, and I'll share the blurb. IDK if I'll get 70 prompts, but let's try it! Send as many as you want!

Robin got to his feet. Cyborg was right. This alien was tough, and his kicks weren’t doing enough. He crept around the room, avoiding the creature as the other Titans kept it occupied, then he ran to the cocoon. 

“Starfire! Starfire, can you hear me?”

There was only a soft sigh from inside. 

“Hang on, I’ll get you out!” He took out a birdarang and started to chip at the cocoon. 

“No!” Cried the alien. “You’ll ruin it! You don’t know what you’re doing!” 

Well, if the thing that was trying to eat Starfire was angry with what he was doing, then he was probably doing the right thing. He continued to chip away, careful not to stab too deep and hurt Starfire. 

Finally, it felt like he broke through, and he dug his fingers in the crack to try to pull it open. It was dark inside, and he couldn’t see Starfire.

“Stop! Stop it!” The alien protested, more frantically. Cyborg knocked it back everytime it started going for its prey. 

With a huge crack, the cocoon broke down the middle, and Robin reached in, looking for Starfire. A green, goopy hand wrapped around his arm, and started pulling him in. 

“Starfire, wait!” He yelled at her, trying to pull away. 

Another hand grabbed the back of his neck and yanked, pulling him off balance. He landed with a splat in the center of the crack. 

“Robin!” Cyborg called out, after seeing things were not going well. 

Thick ropey green webs overtook his body, and quickly pulled him inside the cocoon, despite his fighting and screaming. “Let me go!” 

The crack that Robin had made shifted and grew taller. Then it folded over itself, swallowing Robin up. 

“No!” Said the alien, throwing Beast Boy into a wall. “Look what you’ve done! You’ve ruined her! My perfect meal!” 

“Good,” said Raven, snarling. She wrapped the creature up tightly in webbing from the cave, just that only its head was sticking out. “Now start talking. What did you do to Starfire?” 

The alien wriggled, but couldn’t quite break free. “I did nothing to the Tamaranean!” 

“Liar!” Beast Boy yelled. “She was all weird looking! She had big feet and scales and ears and—!”

“She is simply going through the Transformation,” the alien hissed. “A perfectly natural part of her lifecycle. I did not instigate this!” 

“Wait a second…Starfire’s going through alien puberty?” Cyborg asked, wide eyed and embarrassed. 

“That’s certainly what it sounded like,” Raven droned. 

“But then Robin—” Beast Boy pointed to the cocoon. 

“The colorful one has tampered with the Chrysalis. He has tainted her!” 

“Uh, what does that mean?” 

“It means that you all have cost me my meal for this year, and I shall have to feast upon you instead!” And it finally broke free from its bindings and the fight began again.   

 Raven got the medal for MVP at the end. When she finally got pissed enough to launch the alien out of the cavern, it was over. 

The three remaining Titans assembled around the cocoon. 

“So, what do we do?” Beast Boy asked. 

“I don’t think we should even touch it,” said Cyborg. “Unless we all get pulled in. Raven, can you levitate it up to the ship?” 

“On it.” She created a platform under the cocoon and started floating it up the way they came.

#fanfiction #teen titans #animated tt #robin #starfire #dick grayson #koriand'r #dickkory

[yoshistack]

It is Code: Swap time my dudes.

Hey @feyinvestigations! I'm the one responsible for your @code-swap gift this year!

They wanted any kind of horror involving the monsters. And while horror's not exactly my usualykind of genre and the simulation bubble from Ghost Channel isn't exactly a monster, the prompt presented an opportunity that was too good to pass up on!

I hope you enjoy it!

AO3 Link: Right here my friends

-

Something is wrong.

The return to the past sends you tumbling back into your body from earlier today. Back into English class you go, once more taking notes about the importance of Shakespeare’s work as the teacher reads excerpts aloud in a dry tone to your class as an example.

You put your heroics from mere seconds ago away and slip back into the persona of an attentive student easily, even if in actuality you are just doodling in your notebook a picture of one of your fans from Lyoko (You’ve heard this lecture before and understood it the first time, it’s fine). Returning in time is always a disorienting experience, but this time, you think, doesn’t seem too bad. Minus a bit of a buzzing in your ears. Must be the lights.

And then your teacher stutters.

It’s not a normal slip of the tongue. Her words seem to catch on themself, like they're getting in each others way, repeating a few times way faster than they should, and then they seem to rewind before she starts speaking again. Same tone and volume as she’d been speaking with before. Like a faulty video that takes a few tries to play a particular section correctly.

The buzzing gets louder; your head snaps up to look at her and you see her fizzle. 

You’re not sure you're seeing things correctly. You only see the tail end of it—a strange series of jagged lines covering her form and the book in her hand for just a split second before disappearing just as quickly as you saw them. With a turn of the teachers page, they're gone.

Did you imagine that?

You look around to see if anyone else noticed, but no one looks up from their notes or whatever else they’re looking at. 

The teacher keeps talking as if nothing is wrong too. You duck your head back down and stare holes into your notebook as she keeps reading. The pencil has gone slack in your hand. No one seems to notice that either.

Maybe you’re just seeing things.

The lights buzz noisily above you.

Your drawing goes unfinished. And you don’t catch much of the rest of the lecture this time.

-

Something is wrong.

Jeremy is off on his own away from the rest of you. According to Ulrich and Odd he’s been sulking since they got back to class—something about being mad about Odd’s quippy comments about his sense of heroism from before. You want to talk to him about what you saw, but the others tell you to let him simmer for a little while longer.

You see him give you all a side eye from his spot near a tree before he returns his attention to his laptop. 

You think it’s a little weird. Jeremy’s not one to mope—at least, not over something like this. But then again maybe everyone’s entitled to an off day every now and again. 

Maybe.

Ulrich and Odd aren’t unconcerned with the news when you tell them, but they’re not entirely convinced it’s immediately dangerous either.

You’re not sure if you agree or not.

Your mouth feels exceptionally dry. You go to the vending machine to get a drink before your next class. The machine lets out its usual buzzing hum as you approach it; it’s strangely loud today. When you try pressing one of the buttons though, you feel a jolt of static course through your fingers. The buttons are crackling with fizzling edges when you pull your hand back.

You decide you’re not that thirsty after all.

-

Something is wrong.

There’s something off you feel when you enter the cafeteria. Something about the air around you, some kind of bizarre, almost electric-like energy to it as you pick up your tray from an uncharacteristically quiet and subdued Rosa. But there’s something missing from it too that you can’t pinpoint.

The lights in here are buzzing too. Someone should really look into that.

Ulrich and Odd arrive at your table before you can think too much about it. Their presence is a distracting blessing. Odd starts regaling you both to a story about his last skateboard competition and the ordeal that was replacing his broken wheels in the middle of it. He’s about halfway through shoving more food into his mouth and his tale when Sissi walks by.

Odd pivots to making a jab at her shirt color instead (it really is an obnoxious shade of yellow). She counters as huffy and haughty as expected before storming off to another table behind you. You all laugh. 

And then it happens again.

The world fizzles.

The chatter from everyone around you stops with a harsh crackle. Then rewinds, and plays out over again as if nothing happened. Sissi returns to her spot by your table without any of you noticing.

She insults you all again, this time without Odd saying a word about her or her stupid shirt. Ulrich and Odd seem absolutely baffled and look at you with wide eyes.

All you can focus on are the thin lines flickering off her curled fingers as she leaves.

-

Something is wrong.

You see Nicholas and Herve get into a fight out on the field during your break and their gym class. That’s not out of the ordinary for them—their relationship is strange and seems bounce wildly between the two ends of the sliding scale that is ‘friends versus enemies’ frequently on even their best days.

But then they start fizzling too.

The motions of Herve kicking and Nicholas backing away from him both pause in a freeze frame. A warping energy encases the two of them, they stay stationary yet move backwards—like a rewinding video. And then the whole event plays out again as soon as the lines fade away as if nothing happened. Your breath catches in your throat at the sight.

No one else acknowledges it.

But you can’t not.

You find Jeremy sitting conspicuously on the edge of the bleachers nearby. Which is weird; why isn’t he in class too? You try asking him, but he dismisses it as just a matter of handling Jim the right way.

That seems even weirder.

The weirdest part though, is his demeanor. He looks completely uninterested in the world around him or even what’s on his laptop’s screen as he types away on it. When he speaks to you, the usual bounce to his voice—his excitement about anything with his programming escapades or especially to do with Aelita—has gone completely flat, almost monotone even. He mentions not being able to get into contact with Aelita the same way you’d talk to a stranger about the weather. It's... bizarrely calm for him.

He’s not at all concerned about the… fizzling either. He barely even seems to register you saying anything to him, just tells you not to worry too much about it.

And that just makes you all the more worried instead.

His laptop is humming in his lap as you start to walk away from him. 

You swear you can still hear it buzzing even long after he’s out of earshot.

-

Something is wrong.

You feel it as soon as you walk through the front door. It’s eerily quiet, and not in a way your house should be at this time of day. No busied chatter about work, no soft music playing on the radio, no sounds of your mom cooking or your brother playing his obnoxiously loud video games. Instead all you hear is that buzzing sound that keeps ringing faintly in your ears.

It keeps hanging over you, like a faulty fluorescent or an old vending machine or an overworked laptop. But louder.

You don’t like it.

You ignore it and call out to your parents, letting them know you’re home.

Nothing.

The door closes behind you. The air feels strange. Heavy, yet charged with something frantic—like static. Whatever it is makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up all the same. It almost reminds you of how the air feels right before it’s supposed to storm. 

You’re not supposed to feel that inside.

There’s a distinct lack of any of the usual smells in your house too; you can’t catch a whiff of your moms favorite vanilla scented candle or smell any trace of the too strong floral freshener you know is plugged in nearby like it always is.

Have you smelled anything all day? That’s a strange thought to have…

A clinking sound nearby catches your attention. The lights are on in the kitchen. Is someone home after all? Maybe they just didn’t hear you. You move toward that room. You get to the entrance of the kitchen and find your parents both sitting around the table, your dad with a newspaper in hand and a bowl of god nearby, and your mom hovering around him. Your shoulders sag in relief.

Then your parents both fizzle.

And you almost scream. 

You stumble back toward the hallway wall and ungracefully crash your back against it with an audible this. Your backpack goes flying past the threshold into the kitchen. But you can’t take your eyes off your parents. They seem to almost warp in front of you, frames stuttering and shifting as a static like fog overtakes them both. They both shift into new poses as it clears away: now your dad is eating mindlessly from his bowl and your mother is cleaning around him. 

They don’t acknowledge your presence at all.

You just stare. You can’t move. Can you even feel your legs?

Then they fizzle again. 

And you run for the stairs.

They don’t make any move to try and follow you; you hear them buzz and shift again in the distance. But there’s not any following footsteps.

You feel like you can’t breathe. What’s going on? What’s wrong with your parents?

…

Where’s your brother?

You abruptly turn from your door towards his, only to find your blood running cold again.

His door’s not there.

It’s not there it’s not there it’s not there.

You run back downstairs.

They’re still fizzling. Flickering. Just… shifting into various natural looking poses in such horribly unnatural ways.

Something is wrong.

Your hand stretches tentatively forward towards your parents. You want this to be a horrible prank; a part of you knows it’s not. You want proof anyway.

Your fingers meet the space where your mom’s shoulder should be.

They phase through. You feel nothing but cold static in the place of a warm body.

Something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong something is-

You hear Ulrich’s voice. You called him on autopilot without realizing. You cradle the phone in your hands like a lifeline, cling on to the sound of his voice as you watch your dad cycle through various different poses without a single real glance towards you.

These aren’t your parents. They look like them, but they’re nothing more than facsimiles of them, cheap copies placed there to imitate the most basic idea of them. There’s no warmth in their eyes or care in their movements.

They’re flat, missing those small parts of them that make them… them.

Just like Jeremy’s voice.

Ulrich tells you to get out of there, that you’ll meet at the factory. You make him promise not to tell Jeremy to meet them there too.

Something is wrong with him too.

Ulrich hangs up. Your parents fizzle into a new set of poses that look right through you. 

Your ears are buzzing.

You bolt out the door.

#code lyoko #code: swap #codeswap2023 #yumi ishiyama

[nomsfaultau]

SBI Whumptober prompt 3) Dehumanization and 26) Shock (but only as a pun)

Disclaimer: this blurb is set in the SCP SBI AU I have called Fault, specifically prior to Part 1. Explanation of AU; tldr. 

(Wilbur)

[Exposure to object: ████’s voice may result in physical harm to ear drums. In extreme cases, it causes severe psychological distress that necessitates the termination of Foundation personnel. The objective of this treatment is to reduce the lives and sanities lost containing this anomaly, as its escape would cause countless casualties. 

As it is dangerous to check the content of auditory recordings, success will be measured based on the audio level in room 15021. Report attached below. For further information contact the archives division, but proceed with caution. 

(Legend: 60 dB is normal speaking range; 90 dB is a human scream; at 150 dB ear drums rupture.) 

Treatment introduced at 8:57 AM. No injuries were sustained. Post 9:23, object ████ did not produce volume above that of the 30 dB threshold. Treatment was suspended to permit sustenance intake. Early results are promising.]

— — —

The calming song he’d been humming pooled into the air. Velvety low notes, meaningless lyrics. Wilbur found it soothing. For all that he’d grown up with nothing to his name, music was always his if only because no one could rip it out of his hands like they did everything else. A small rebellion, but it was Wilbur’s, and it was a well-honed act of honey-sweet spite. 

It was a song to forever remain unfinished as footsteps echoed closer. A faint sound, but his gut was well-tuned to it by now. He backed away from the entrance as employees poured into his cell. “Stay still and make this easy or you’ll wish you had, ████.” 

Wilbur bristled at the moniker. “My name is Wilbur,” he snarled, jaw ripping apart into a horrendous, seething mass of teeth. He refused to let them steal his name, too. He wasn’t an object, or an it. For all that the Foundation refused to admit it, Wilbur was a person. 

“Unless you’d like to be tased again, cease the threat display.” The voice was bored for all the fear their words stabbed in Wilbur’s guts. Scowling, he wrenched his jaw back into place, shoving the mandibles to proper alignment with the rest of his skull. 

“So what’s up? Want to stab more needles in? Or, oo, you’re going to send more criminals in to see what happens? You humans really are eager to sacrifice your own,” he said conversationally even as he retreated from the sprawl of guards. Hands seemed to grab him from every direction and Wilbur just had to grit his teeth and bear it. “Come on fellas, there’s really enough of me for everyone, no need to get handsy-” He was scruffed, head shoved down. He suppressed the instinct to rip every one of them to shreds. Unfortunately, by now Wilbur was incredibly familiar with just how extreme Foundation punishments were, and he wasn’t eager to taste them. He’d been behaving, even, which was a tall order for him. All he’d been doing for days now was lay in his cell and hum stupid little songs to himself. Not jeopardizing people or devouring the world whole or anything! It made everything inside him howl, but even Wilbur could learn to submit to authority if the repercussions were extreme enough. 

So when they ordered him to shut up, Wilbur did, even if he had to bite his tongue to manage. Something snapped shut around his throat and he managed to make zero (0) snarky remarks. Phil would be proud. 

Almost immediately, the employees fled. Huh. That was a weirdly short experiment. Wilbur sighed in relief. Eventually, he prodded curiously at the thing around his neck. It was oddly bulky, tight enough to make him conscious of his pulse. What the hell?

A…collar? 

“What th—!?!” the world dissolved into pure agony. A horrific scream tore from his throat as electricity poured through it.

— — —

Legend: Asterix indicates when treatment was applied. Shaded areas average periods where object: ████ was in an inactive state and treatment was deactivated. 

Notes:

Day 1 offers a baseline for audio levels prior to treatment.

Treatment was introduced Day 2. 

Day 2: Volume spike at 21:41. If object: ████ is presumed to have a REM cycle akin to that of a human’s, it is hypothesized the initial increase in decibels was the result of a nightmare. This was an irregularity not accounted for when planning the procedure and thereafter was rectified by discontinuing treatment applications when it slept. 

Object: ████ is not given an artificial night block for obvious reasons and has an irregular sleep schedule. It tends to sleep whenever it collapses from exhaustion. Post 22:00 it was monitored for consciousness.

Day 3: At 3:20 AM it screamed in its sleep again. It did not immediately resume sleeping, instead staying up and continuing to produce sounds. Researcher █████ ███████ bravely volunteered to check the audio in case it was a security risk. Fortunately, researcher █████ ███████ was unharmed and reported it was mimicking vocal sounds ranging from soft humming to crying. It would not cease. At 4:10 treatment was applied to disincentivize exploiting the choice to leave the treatment device inactive during periods of unconsciousness. 

Conclusion: Object: ████ self-regulates volume to levels below 30 dB threshold, which drastically reduces the chance of harm for personnel. 

This Special Containment Procedure has been deemed a success.]

— — —

Wilbur rubbed his aching throat. It hurt, but it felt good to have the shock collar off his neck. Unfortunately, he reckoned the respite would only last the duration of the coming visit with Philza.

The Foundation hated the visits for their security risk. But the threat to humanity was far greater if Philza went unchained, and so they lured him in with promised glimpses of his stolen children. Wilbur hated to be a pawn, but there was nothing any of them could do. Still, he was grateful for the visits. He wouldn’t have lasted this long without them. 

He needed this to be normal. Jokes and quips and jabs and everything he needed to say before his voice was locked up again. Wilbur smiled brightly the moment the door opened and revealed Philza. 

And yet one look and concern spooled in his features. “Are you okay?” 

Yes. But the word never fell from his tongue. It should’ve been an easy lie, but Wilbur’s throat constricted, expecting punishment. Panic set in, this was supposed to be the one time Wilbur was safe and yet he couldn’t speak. His fingers jolted to his throat as if anticipating a shock simply for thinking of trying. 

Philza surged forward, wrapping him in a warm hug. “Hey, hey, I got you. What happened?” Wilbur tried to force out an answer, choking on it. Nothing came out. He tried over and over to speak only for his vocal cords to lock on him. It grew tight to the point of pain as his distress spiked. Philza ran a comforting hand down his back even as Wilbur clawed into him desperately. “You don’t have to tell me, that’s perfectly alright mate. Here, I saved some extra food for you…” 

He curled up with Philza the rest of the visit, sheltered in his arms. It was the closest he’d had to anything resembling safety in weeks. Philza’s heartbeat thumped comfortably from where Wilbur rested on his chest. Quiet, not loud enough to risk a shock. That was safe then. A low, sweet rumble began to vibrate in Philza’s chest, an ancient lullaby spilling over its gentle aegis. 

Wilbur shoved Philza away, terrified the current pouring through his body would be shared. It took a beat to realize there was no voltage forthcoming. Phantom electricity trickled down his spine, but it was all in his head. 

The lullaby stilled on Philza’s tongue. How often had Wilbur heard it as a child, the familiar tune used to lure him to peaceful slumber. It felt like a betrayal that a song that had soothed him so many times before now kindled only fear. Wilbur swallowed roughly, unable to look at Philza. 

“Sorry,” Philza murmured, confused. “I can be quiet?” 

Wilbur shook his head. He didn’t want the Foundation to win like this. Wilbur buried himself in Philza’s embrace, shoving the panic down and forcing himself to feel safe. Claws stroked through his tangled hair, lyrics half tumbled into gentle assurances. Slowly, the vice on his throat eased. Tentatively, he joined the song, so quiet it hurt. His throat ached from all the abuse poured into it, hoarse from disuse. Too far above the echo of a whisper and the fear returned, seizing his voice once more. Still, it got a little easier as the hour spent itself. 

But then the visit was over, and the panic spiked, knowing this might be the last chance he got to speak for the rest of the month. Wilbur pressed his mouth to Philza’s cheek in a parody of a farewell kiss. His words came out ragged and husky and so, so scared.

“I can’t do this anymore, Dad.”

#sbi whumptober #wilbur soot #wilbur soot fic #philza #sand duo #scp wilbur #scp philza #sbi scp au #fault au #sbi au #sand duo fic #scientific graphs? in MY fictional unethical 'human' experimentation? #its more likely than you think #shock collar #whump #dehumanization #scp foundation fic #scp foundation