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jammyjams-safespace · 7 months

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Hug the Scares Away

Request: Fanfic for caregiver Wilbur and fem!regressor reader for anon

Heavily apologise for this taking so long!! Only recently got the motivation to finish writing this fic!!

I made a mini reference to my other fic Baking Mishap. Can you spot it?

Summary: Wilbur and Y/N decided to watch a show while they were hanging out, but Y/N has a slip so now their plans had to change a little

Word count: 764

Wilbur and Y/N sat quietly on the sofa, occasionally commenting and making fun of the little plot holes and mistakes that were left in the show they were watching, Squid Game. Like how in the scene where Gi-hun bumped into Sae-byeok, the latter’s actor was laughing, and in one of the lunch scenes the actor of the main character scooped up nothing and put the empty spoon in his mouth (pls it’s very funny).

Wait, but how did they get here? Well, when Wilbur decided to invite his little cupcake over, Y/N couldn’t say no to spending time with her favourite caregiver. It was the evening and they both wanted to do something more chill, being tired out from the fun they had earlier that day. How they chose the show? Well it was trending, and Tommy seemed to like it, and they trusted his opinion. And he was right! It was definitely pretty good. Maybe a bit sensitive but it was alright.

It was… something… to binge watch an entire season of gore and blood, especially since it would take up most of the two's day. It was fine, it was the weekend, and they didn't have any extra plans for it. Well, they didn't watch the ENTIRE thing. There was a bit of a… slip?

Y/N squeaked in fear at the sound of the gunshot, hiding away in her caregivers arm. Wilbur immediately took notice of the change in behaviour, pausing the show as fast as possible so the little one didn't have to be scared anymore. Y/N whimpered as he pulled her closer.

"Cupcake, what's wrong?" He rubbed her back gently. "Was the show too scary for you?" He spoke gently. Y/N nodded as she curled into his embrace. Wilbur softened. "What would cheer you up? Cuddle time with Mr Waffles?" He gently held up a little blue dragon plush and smiled softly. Y/N immediately made grabby hands towards the plush and cuddled it close once it was in her hands.

Wilbur grabbed the remote and switched over to Netflix Kids. He put on a cute children's show called Hilda, a young and free-spirited adventurer that moved from the wilderness to the bustling city. Y/N was immediately entranced by all the sweet looking characters, eyes following the very bouncy weather lady. Figuring that she would be okay on her own for a few minutes, Wilbur got up and headed to the kitchen, pulling out some leftover chocolate chip cookies that Tubbo and Ranboo had baked him from the fridge. They were shockingly decent. He put the cookies on a glass plate and placed it in the microwave to heat up.

Wilbur tapped his foot as the microwave hummed, peeking out of the kitchen as he heard the silly lines from the bird, followed by joyful giggles from the girl on the sofa. The microwave beeped not long after, and Wilbur pulled out the now warm cookies. He quickly looked out to observe Y/N. Her speech seemed to be fine, albeit higher pitched and maybe a bit lacking in usual vocabulary, and she seemed to understand what the weather spirits were saying. He took a guess that she was possibly around 7-12 years old. He grabbed some milk from the fridge and poured it into a plastic cup before bringing the snacks back to the living room.

"I have cookies and milk!" Wilbur said, placing them on the coffee table in front of the sofa. "But we have to share, okay?" Y/N nodded in understanding.

"Alfred can have some!!" She smiled. Wilbur furrowed his brows in confusion but smiled fondly anyway.

"Alfred?"

"The elf!!" She giggled.

"Ohh, the elf!" Wilbur played along. "One of the little men that I can't see, right?"

"Mhm!" Y/N picked up a cookie and broke off a small-ish piece, placing it on the table for the 'elf' to eat. Wilbur just sighed, knowing he'd have to clean that later. The two continued watching the show, the girl giggling happily as she ate her cookies. Wilbur let her take most of them.

Eventually, Wilbur felt a weight on his shoulder. Looking down, he saw the little sleeping softly against him, hugging Mr Waffles close. He smiled and gently moved Y/N so that she was lying comfortably on the cushions of the sofa. He turned the TV off and put a blanket over the sleeping girl. He switched the lights off for the living room and headed to the office in his home.

"Sleep well, my little Cupcake."

#dsmp agere #mcyt agere #sfw agere #agere fic #cg!wilbur #little!reader #my writing :D

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josieblueart · 7 months

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Day 2-Flesh

Fun fact! The poor dude that gets Nothing There’d is named after a character from Sinclair’s literary source, Demian!

~🫁~

Come to the old L-Corp branch in Calw for our meeting. Don’t be late~

~The One who Grips

That was the letter that was delivered to Alfon’s door this morning. No explanation, no meeting time, nothing. Had he even scheduled an appointment or something?

Nevertheless, he couldn’t bear to think of what would happen if he was late.

It took some time to figure out how to get into the facility, but even once he got in, he had no idea where she was. The more he wandered, the more uncomfortable he became. Various torture devices, presumably used on heretics, were scattered around the area. Strangely, the smell of blood was more overwhelming than metal or oil.

Finally, he came across a doorway. Instinctively, he knew that this was where she wanted to meet him. A shadow in the corner of his eye swiftly moved, though he was unsure if he had actually seen something.

He was about to knock when a sound caught his attention, making him hesitate. It sounded like a low growl, as if a wild animal had snuck into the facility.

Finally, Alfon knocked on the door, to which it was quickly opened.

“Alfon!~ I’m glad you made it!”

She seemed so cheery, not what he was expecting from The One who Grips. “I’m honored to be called upon, O One who Grips.” He said, trying to hide his slight anxiety. In response, she laughed. “Oh please, just call me Kromer. Now come in here.”

As he followed the woman, he couldn’t help but wish he was back at his room drunk off his ass, with how unsettling the facility was. “I’ve been testing the EGO equipment left over from this old place.” She paused for a moment, turning to him. “You do know what I mean by EGO, right?”

His mind scrambled for a quick response that didn’t seem stupid. “Yes! Of course! Ever since L-Corp fell, its technology was made public by The Head.” She smiled at him, before continuing.

“Good, that will make things go by quicker.”

He watched Kromer approach a nearby chest, digging in it for a while. Finally, she procured a set of armor, resembling the standard inquisitor outfit. The only difference was that the right arm piece was colored red. “I’ve been able to infuse the original EGO with the inquisitor uniforms, just so it fits in better.”

He didn’t get time to question her priorities before it was shoved into his hands. “Put it on.” She ordered. Alfon was quick to obey, hurriedly equipping the armor. After it was fully equipped, a strange feeling of comfort washed upon them.

Then, without warning, the comfort was replaced with a horrible tightness. As he fell to his knees, Kromer started to speak to him once more. “You feel it, don’t you? There’s a reason why I chose you.”

Something was slowly attaching itself to his skin, making his skin crawl. Just as he wished for it to go away, however, it retracted. “Even if it’s a diluted version of the original, there are still requirements that you must meet, so that you won’t be taken over.”

The more he continued to resist, the harder it became to stay in a steady mind. All the while, she continued to speak. “Nagel und Hammer values the flesh more than anything, and this EGO…” She laughed, a sound that grated his ears. “Oh…it’s wonderful, and now, you’ll get to experience its gift.”

She crouched down, a horrible smile painted across her face. His mind continued to become clouded. As he looked down at his arm, his blood ran cold.

It was covered in a red mess, covering every last inch. Spikes had protruded from the skin, and holes started to open, either revealing an eye or a mouth. The growth had already started to spread beyond his shoulder, and onto his face.

It was nearly impossible to think straight. Kromer continued to speak about humans and the body and whatever, it had become white noise at this point. One sentence had pierced through the static in his mind.

“Just give in already.”

For a moment, he stopped his resistance. He was nothing but a tool for her crusade, why should he be resisting? Everyone else did so, it was only natural, right? All his time, he devoted himself to following her orders, after all, it was the closest thing he had to home. But for something like this? It was insane!

Alfon, in his conflicted mind, had let down his guard, and in turn, his body was taken over.

By the end, he was simply a beast of flesh. His right arm transformed into a blade covered in spikes, eyes, and mouths. The right half of his face was covered in the growth as well, the eye becoming useless. Kromer laughed at the sight. “That’s better. Now come along, I have a place for you to rest.”

Without hesitation, the humanoid followed. He was nothing of his prior self, yet everything of what an inquisitor should be in Kromer’s eyes. The purest example of what she wished for.

#my writing :D #limbus company #kromer lcb #Alfon [oc]#body horror #horrortober

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flowerbeds-and-fairywings · 11 months

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i wrote a little wren x illinois thing because i suddenly felt like it :))

Campfire ( Wren x Illinois )

tws : references to death word count : 1.6k ( i’m sorry what )

( reblogs / comments appreciated !! i like reading things ✨ )

( art tag list ! : @heartofalark @squips-ship @wisp-herr @voidselfshipp ( let me know if you'd like to be added / removed ! ) )

—————

The firewood crackled and popped as it burned, the light of it casting dramatic shadows on the surrounding trees. The stars shone overhead, dotting the cloudless sky in a brilliance that couldn’t possibly have been witnessed from the city where their journey had begun.

The pair had stopped for the night in a clearing that Illinois deemed safe. Firewood was gathered from the surrounding forest and a fire was struck while sleeping mats were rolled out. One person could keep watch while the other slept, was the agreement they arrived at; it would keep them safe and provide a sense of security, and it also managed to force both of them to get rest instead of one of them deciding to stay up all night.

Illinois lay on one of the mats, his back to the ground and his eyes on the sky. Wren lay just next to him, buns arms around his torso and buns gaze watching the fire as it danced. It was peaceful.

Wren had realized quickly that amidst the chaos and panic, there were moments of beauty and tranquility. The train ride away from the city had been fun. The view from the top of the small mountain they’d climbed was beautiful. The sight of the stars above them in that moment was something they’d been longing to see for so long, and finally had the chance to. Adventuring was a dangerous business … but it brought along with it the kind of treasures that couldn’t be held or physically beheld. Instead, the kind that could only be preserved in photographs, and even those could never do them justice.

Illinois draped an arms around Wren, his hand reaching around to the opposite side of buns waist. His thumb lightly brushed circles against their side in a soothing motion.

“ … You didn’t tell me that adventuring could be this peaceful.”

Illinois chuckled. Wren could feel it in his chest, from where their head rest against it. “I didn’t think you’d believe me, treasure.”

The beginning of their relationship had been rocky, to say the least. Illinois’ reputation preceded him, and his naturally suave persona did nothing for him once he arrived. Sparks of the negative sort had flown between them almost immediately, and those sparks had been enough to start a burning fight that lingered whenever they passed within ten feet of each other.

It had taken a lot to get them to see past each other’s outward impressions. Illinois was no playboy, no flirt — natural smoothness and the uncanny tendency for people to fall for him had created that easy assumption. He was a work-focused man, with no room in his heart for heartless romances, but so much love to give. Wren was no doormat, not rude nor snappish — quiet nature and the occasional sharp quip entered at the wrong times. Illinois, in his occasional visits to the museum Wren worked at as an archivist, had only short meetings with them that seemed to all end badly … until another employee handed them a second chance. That second chance changed the fire to a flame of another kind, which had only managed to keep being stoked to that day.

“Mm … I probably wouldn’t have. It’s hard to believe, with all of the other stories you tell me. Something perilous, some new location, some enemy encounter … You really need to get better at watching your back, Mr. Jones,” they teased. “You’ve been on enough adventures just like this.”

“I haven’t. Not really.”

Wren lifted buns head, a confused expression upon their face. They laughed, a confused little sound. “Of course you have. You go on adventures all the time.”

“Not like this.” Illinois shook his head. He turned away a little, not quite looking at Wren. “I’ve never had you with me.”

“ … You’ve had other companions.”

“That wasn’t the same. They … they weren’t anything real.” Illinois let out a slightly shaky breath. “ … Everyone who’s come with me on an adventure has either betrayed me or died. I didn’t want you to come with me, before, because … I don’t know what I’d do if either of those happened with you.”

Wren’s heart dropped a little. Their expression shifted from confusion to regret, to worry. Their brows furrowed. They propped themself up on their arms, a hand on the ground on either side of Illinois’ torso so that they could look at him properly. “Neither of those is going to happen to me, Illinois.” Shifting their position, they sat sidesaddle on the ground next to Illinois.

He wrapped his arms around their hips and pulled them closer, head falling back against the ground as he finally looked up at them. “That’s what I keep telling myself,” he said, a nervous (and disbelieving) laugh in his words, as though he were still trying to convince himself.

Wren reached over and gently brushed some of his wavy hair out of his face. Their fingers lightly trailed along the side of his face, then down to his jaw, then threaded back through his hair along the side of his head. As they spoke, they idly worked out some of the tangles that had worked their way into his dark mess of waves. “I’m not going to betray you. I love you much for that … not to mention that my morals are far too high to let me be bribed into it. I’m not going to die, either. I can handle myself … and I trust you. I wouldn’t have joined you if I didn’t.”

“ … but those others put their trust in me, too.”

Wren cupped his cheeks, gently urging him to look at them and pay attention. “But I’m not them. Those times aren’t now. I’m going to be okay, Illinois. I promise.”

It may have been the firelight reflecting off of his eyes in a different way, but Illinois’ eyes seemed to be shining. Before Wren had the chance to ask on it, he sat up and pulled Wren into an embrace. He tucked his head by their neck, mumbling against their collar. “How did I manage to end up with someone like you … “

“Mm, by coming off as a pompous jerk and getting on my nerves so quickly that we managed to form a rivalry?” Wren joked. Bun continued messing with Illinois’ hair, their voice softening. “By being an amazing person that I don’t think I deserve to have … “ Then, they added, teasing again, “the handsome looks help, too.” Illinois chuckled, and they could feel the puff of breath against their neck. Wren sighed, which not only expressed emotion but also helped to shake off the slight chill that had run up their back from Illinois’ laugh. “I mean it, my adventure. I call you my adventure for a reason.”

“And I call you my treasure for a similar one,” Illinois responded. He lifted his head to look at Wren, but not before pressing a little kiss to buns neck. “No treasure I’ve ever found has ever, or will ever, compare to you.”

Wren was suddenly very thankful for how hard the light of the campfire was to see by.

“ … That’s why I want to protect you.” Illinois’ voice softened. “You’re more precious to me than anything I’ve ever found.”

“I know, Illinois … “ Wren tucked a curl back behind his ear, then cupped his face again. “It’ll be okay. I promise you, we’ll both be okay. We’ll make it back to the city at the end of our adventure, all in one piece and all limbs attached. We’ll have some amazing stories, and I’ll have finally been able to see what your life is like when you run off on these trips.” They smiled and chuckled. “Hey, at least it isn’t the other way around. My job is dreadfully boring sometimes, especially compared to this … I just sit at a desk all day.”

Illinois seemed to relax. A little smile appeared upon his lips, and he tightened his hold around Wren, giving bun a reassuring squeeze. He buried his face against them again. Wren draped buns arms around his shoulders and rested their head against his. Even out in the wilderness, his hair managed to smell nice. Some strange combination of coconuts and mangoes with a little bit of firewood that Wren had never been able to understand but had always liked.

It was just one of those uncanny things about him, like how a whip crack sound effect somehow managed to play every time he winked. Wren was still baffled by that one. Illinois never seemed to notice it.

“I love you, so much … ” Illinois mumbled.

“I love you, too,” Wren whispered.

The quiet settled. Nothing but distant crickets and the far-off sound of what may have been a coyote, and the constant crackling of the fire. The quiet settled … until Illinois decided to break it.

Without any warning, he leaned back, carrying Wren with him. Bun let out a tiny yelp of surprise as they fell with him, buns arms pulling back. Illinois hit the ground with a quiet “oomph”, but the sound quickly faded into tiny laughter. He kept his arms around Wren, keeping bun close. Buns arms folded down, tucking between their chests with buns hands near his collarbone. Bun lay down buns head against his chest.

Illinois returned to looking at the sky. Wren returned to watching the fire. Both of them had smiles on their faces and renewed buzzing warmth in their chests.

An adventure it would surely be, with guaranteed treasure at the end.

#i’m emotional #don’t look at me #-////-#i had a vivid image for a scene in my mind about an hour ago and then bam suddenly there was a fic #he has been consistently on my mind for the past three days help #ೃ ❥ an adventure sounds lovely 🧭 ( illy )#my writing :D #selfship fic #selfship fanfiction #markiplier selfship #self insert #totally okay to rb !#death tw #death mention tw

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bangobeep · 2 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Jazzpunk (Video Game) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Characters: The Editor (Jazzpunk) Additional Tags: Weapons, Violence, Blood, Murder, Panic Attacks, Vomiting, Manipulation, PLEASE DO TAKE A LOOK AT THE TAGS !!, anywayyyssss, Editor has a Terrible Time, Editor's real name is Edmund, pre-game, Editor is 19, Mentions of alcohol, Inspired by Pangolin-404's "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now" Summary:

The boy didn’t expect stuff to go as far as it did when he first got the job. Minor crimes like theft or fraud were something a stupid 19-year-old like him could handle. His life takes a sudden, incredibly dark turn when his boss tasks him with the murder of a man!

Or, alternatively: Editor's unwilling first dive into the big leagues.

#Jazzpunk #The Editor #The Editor Jazzpunk #my writing :D #READ THE TAGS #OF THE THING #IT'S VIOLENT !!#gimme attention please <333 #reblog my shit or i'll cry 😽

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hhhhunty · 23 days

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How funny that she never considered that.

#one piece #boa hancock #monkey d luffy #i really disagree with how oda writes her #i think she likes him in the way a little girl crushes on the first boy to ge nice to her #simply because she thinks that's how it must work #she did not have the time nor was she safe enough as a child to feel those things #this was the first ever man other than rayleigh to not view her as an object #so she thinks she *must* love him #these have been my long-winded hancock thoughts #thank you

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wizard0rbs · 3 months

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when the academic article is so good it has you giggling and kicking your feet

#im sitting in my uni library trying really hard not to jump around with joy #this article is soo fascinating and has so many interesting points ugh #also itll be very helpful for a paper im writing so double yay #its 'the trick of the runes in the husband's message' by john d. niles btw and its available on jstor #in case anyone is interested #OE studies #aca #studyblr

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littlelightfish · 25 days

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This... this is a whole different kind of psychic damage here. When nightmares got Marcille, we get to knew that her's biggest fear is outliving her friends. This isn't even canon probably, but look at this. This isn't a "I don't want my friends to die" kind of dream. This is a "I'm terrified of loosing my daughters, of something killing them, and being incapable of stopping it" kind of dream. It's so simple yet it explains perfectly the whole of chilchucks character. He loves, he cares, deeply. But he, or doesn't acknowledges, or doesn't know what to do with that knowledge.

Besides that. Someone had to wake him up after this. Imagine the devastation in this man after he wakes up. He just saw his three little babys murdered corpses (or maybe he saw them die, wich isn't better). He would possibly not talk about it, and that would worry the hell out of the party, because we'll, they see him all down and only one of them knows what he saw. Imagine being the one to pull him from that nightmare. Seeing this man, usually so composed, fuking staring with tears and terror in his eyes to the composes of what you can only assume are his daughters. It would be heartwrenching.

Idk, I love this man so much...

#dungeon meshi #chilchuck #chilchuck tims #if someone wants to write a fic on this #@ me #PLEASE I WANT TO SEEEE #or dm me so i actually see it #please #if someone makes something of this post...#swnd me an ask with a link #this post exploded i cant with all the notifs #i wouldnt know if someone @'d me #i did a tags recap down on the notes and wrote a bit of #chilchuck angst #for the simps out there #my shit

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soranker · 19 days

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my girlfriend

#trigun #trigun maximum #nicholas d wolfwood #i saw a tweet the other day that was like. do u ever like a character SO MUCH that u feel shy/embarrassed even drawing them #AND I WAS LIKE .... YYEAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#yall dont even kno how hard i cringe at myself whenever i post abt this guy.. but i power thru OTL #these r a few weeks old btw ive been busy so i havent gotten to draw him in like a month and it feels so JHDSGF&UY EIY$NU&RHGFJDG!@JFHBD #save me. save me nicholas d wolfwood #why did i write all of this DO U SEE WHAT I MEANN my head is in my hands rn

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citrenecult · 1 month

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Drew the Lamb, Narinder, and the Follower Bishops.

Some close ups.

#cult of the lamb #cotl lamb #cotl narinder #cotl leshy #cotl heket #cotl kallamar #cotl shamura #cotl referenced sheet #my stuff #my art #was gonna do more head canon writing but it is very hard to type with fake nails on #oh the things I sacrifice for prom #they do look very nice though #so it might be worth it #it was at least a very fun mother daughter bonding experience :D

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dr3amofagame · 1 month

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Sixteenth Day Event Prompt:

Anticipation & Survival

woo :D was able to participate this time with a little fic, hopefully this means i'll have the time to try and write more consistently again :') hope you guys enjoy 2.8k words of c!Dream being Normal and Fine and c!Sam being absolutely miserable.

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The prison is working out well.

Dream spins the clock. The background is mostly a sunny blue sky, with the slightest creep of dark blue rotating in along the right. The sun is a bright dandelion yellow. It’s afternoon. Maybe two, three o’clock. He’s been tracking the days by sunset, when the clock is split in equal halves of blue and navy. Ranboo visits too, to corroborate the time, but it’s a good habit to keep track while he can. It’s been seven days. A whole week.

Besides Ranboo, there’s been one visit. Tommy. He’s seen three people, since being put in here. Tommy, Ranboo, and Sam. He’s eaten twenty potatoes. Counting is mundane, but so is everything now. There isn’t much to do in prison. Just sweat, and stare at lava, and stare at obsidian when that makes his eyes hurt, and wait for Sam to come in and check that he’s not been doing anything stupid, and wait for visitors, and eat and drink and sleep. It’s not a big room. He wouldn’t say it’s a particularly small one, either. The ceiling’s a little low, and there’s not anywhere to run, of course, but there’s plenty of room to pace and sit and lie down straight and he can sit down on the chest fine without hitting his head on stone. It’s not like he’ll need much space to carry out any plans in the foreseeable future. The cell is absent of certain comforts—a cot, for one, for obvious reasons—but once you get used to that, and the food, and the heat, it’s really not that bad. It’s not like he’s any stranger to roughing it.

From a certain point of view, it’s almost relaxing. Sam is predictable. Almost more of a clock than the clock he’s given him, which is half the reason Dream throws it in the lava at all; Sam is reliable. His reactions are reliable. He gets food delivered twice a day, once in the morning, once at night. The nightly visit is accompanied by questioning, and occasionally Sam comes into the cell around midday to interrogate him too. Dream cooperates. Why shouldn’t he? He’s already spilled his whole plan to everyone on the mountain, gloated to Tommy, who has surely run his mouth to everyone within earshot by now. There’s no point to him being cagey at this point; no, better to rave and rant about Tommy and exile and his plan in the mountain, better to let Sam get all the information he wants and watch his eyebrows knit in disgust. Sam raises his voice, Dream answers his questions, Sam storms off. He’s even started watching the clock, just out of curiosity, and Sam leaves his cell pretty much the same time every day. Clockwork.

There was one day when Sam didn’t come at all and Dream had—a moment, admittedly, embarrassing enough, just a string of disconnected thoughts about what would happen if the Warden of the prison suddenly dropped dead and died—but Sam had been right there the next day, looking more miserable than Dream has ever seen him. He made a quip about skipping work that made Sam snap at him; Dream takes it as a good sign, that the man guarding him seems to be more pained about the fact that he left him alone for a day than Dream was bothered about the disappearance of the single person responsible for every aspect of his life for the foreseeable future. That’s Sam, though. Dependable. Dedicated. Never one to not take his job seriously. If Dream put Sapnap in charge of the prison, he’d probably starve to death before the first month was up, but Sam looks like he’d rather fall on his own sword than leave Dream alone for a full twenty-four hours again; Dream has it in him to feel bad that he’s putting the guy to work for the sake of his own vacation. Just, a little bit.

Back to his point. The prison is relaxing. Really. It’s boring, sure, but obviously he expected that; he’s never had so little to do before. He wakes up at night (he’s been attempting to sleep at nighttime, just because the light apparently is supposed to mess with you, but his sleep schedule has been shot for months so it’s not like it really matters to him all that much) with his brain racing, grasping for a list of tasks to do, only to come up empty. It’s a bit of a marvel. He thinks it’s funny. Yeah, brain, he’s in his—vacation arc. They’re doing nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just like they planned. Nobody’s getting into this place to kill him, not without smacking face-first into, like, a billion security protocols, not without dealing with Sam’s workaholic Warden schtick on their ass. He’s even getting food hand-delivered to him. Full service! Or something.

He spins the clock again. Tommy gave him books to write. Sam flipped through them, asked questions, Dream answered. He’s not writing answers for them. He might throw them in the lava, if Sam doesn’t just confiscate the damn things; Dream knows he wants Tommy nowhere near him. Fair enough. Maybe he can write some long-ass manifesto about how much he wanted Tommy’s discs for Sam to chew on, if he gets bored enough. He laughs a little at the thought as he thinks it—okay, yeah, nah. He’s not at that point yet.

He lies down. Horizontal. The ground is hot, but everything’s hot, and he’s getting used to it at this point; better hot than cold, honestly. He’d rather sleep here than out in the snow. The ceiling is a plane of unbroken black stone. Dream raises his hand, splays out his fingers. His nails are starting to get long. Nothing to file them down with in here…teeth it is. Whatever. He lets his hand fall back to the ground, sighing. His eyes glance over at the clock.

Barely any time has passed. Still hours before Sam comes back. Dream bites back a low groan. Fine, fine, the boredom is getting to him. A little bit. He’s not surprised—it’s not like he’s ever done well with sitting still—but it’s still, annoying. He waves his arms and legs like he’s making a snow angel in the obsidian. Or doing jumping jacks. He should do jumping jacks, maybe. He’s got a basic workout routine to do daily—or several times a day, when there’s nothing else to do (there’s always nothing else to do, but whatever), but he’s not in the mood for it right now.

He clicks his tongue, just to hear himself. He talks to himself, sometimes, but he has to be careful what he says. Not that it’s not a good thing to keep up, though, for the madman routine. It’s much better to talk to himself when he knows he has an audience, muttering Tommy, Tommy, Tommy in those minutes before Sam enters his cell. Fun, even. Sometimes he writes out evil speeches to give in his notebooks, burning the pages in the lava before Sam arrives. He shouldn’t get reckless with it or anything, pushing the things too far past the point of absurdity, but at this point he could probably get away with saying—just about anything. He could blather on about how he wanted to keep Tommy in a cage and play his dumb little discs to him all day until he goes insane, and Sam would write all of that down in his—book with his face twisted up under his helm while Dream tries not to break down laughing and give away the whole ruse. Not that laughing doesn’t work out for him either, to be fair. He’s gotten pretty good at the villain laugh.

Dream stands up. He looks at the clock mounted in the item frame; the sliver of night sky on the right side has grown just slightly wider, enough to expose the slightest edge of one white-dotted star. Still hours before sunset. He pulls it off the wall, watching the background tick ever slowly forward. The gold gleams, polished to a mirror finish.

Sam’s craftsmanship is unmistakable, even with something as small as this. He almost feels bad for what he’s about to do.

He holds the clock up to the lava, keeping it in his hand for as long as he can handle it before the heat against his palm makes him shove it entirely under the flow, watching it disappear through strings of smoke. The crackling noise fades back into the normal hisses and pops after a few seconds; the smoke will linger for longer. Dream stands there, the lava’s heat at his face. It hurts his eyes to look at.

…whatever.

He backs away. Then claps, brushing his palms against each other. Clock’s been burned. Another item of his daily itinerary handled—not that he does this daily. Has to keep Sam on his toes, right? The crazy prisoner isn’t supposed to be the predictable one, not like the ever-punctual Warden. This is—important, he’s decided, for his image. Well, not important, maybe, but it’s calculated. Beneficial. Nobody sane takes the one thing they have in their cell and destroys it repeatedly for literally no reason. Sam’s prisoner, the crazy guy that was trying to take over the server, isn’t sane. No one questions why an insane guy tries to control everyone with a bunch of shit he doesn’t even have, why he thinks he can keep someone locked up in a two-by-one box with a couple of iron bars, why he listens to a guy threatening to kill himself when he can literally raise the dead. It’s all set dressing. Method acting. One or the other, or both; it’s not like he’s ever watched a real play in his life. All that matters is that everyone thinks he’s crazy because no one asks a crazy guy why he’s acting crazy, and crazy people do stuff like obsess over stupid pieces of vinyl and talk to themselves and destroy their own shit for no reason.

(Which probably makes Tommyinnit a crazy person, ha.)

Sam will come back. Soon. He will bring potatoes with him, and investigate the cell, and see the missing clock. He will complain. He will threaten Dream, rave about the destruction of prison property, telling him that he won’t replace it. He will question him about Tommy. And tomorrow morning, a new clock will be put in its place. Honestly, Sam would probably give himself an aneurysm if he had to look at the cell with one of its components missing. It seems like the kind of thing to bother him too much not to set straight. And tomorrow, maybe Dream will throw the clock into the lava again, and maybe he won’t. He’ll see.

He’s the one that decides, in the end.

—

Sam checks his comm again as he waits for the lava to fall, head already pounding. He’s had an on-and-off migraine ever since his night with the Egg, and the current wave shows no sign of abating any time soon. If he could have it his way, he’d be back in his bed, Fran curled up beside him, where it’s dark and quiet and comfortably cool instead of sweating half to death in a suffocating suit of full armor. Instead, he’s nursing a headache that only gets worse with every notification he reads off the log pulled up on his screen; he doesn’t even bother counting the string of [Dream tried to swm in lava] that appears under today’s date. The fact that it’s a seemingly longer list than the days previous does little to help his already bad mood.

He still has no idea what Dream hopes to achieve by doing this, besides attention. Not that Sam has even been trying to give him that, these days; he visits twice a day, once at 9 the morning and once at 6 in the afternoon, and then leaves the prisoner to himself. Sam doesn’t answer to him. He’s not going to get the same reaction he got the first time he pulled this stunt, when Sam had rushed into the cell in the middle of the night, heart in his throat after running halfway across the server, only to find Dream waiting for him in the middle of his cell with his mask smiling back mockingly. If he’s hoping to stir Sam into a panic again, he’s sorely mistaken. But still Dream continues. He’s probably just doing it to get a reaction out of him. He probably thinks that’s funny.

Dream is standing, waiting for him. Muttering to himself, he thinks he can hear. Sam pulls the lever for the bridge and steps on it, his sword in hand, wanting to get this visit over and done with as quickly as possible. He might sleep in the Warden’s quarters here, tonight, just to avoid the commute back to his base. Yeah, that sounds good. All he has to do is survive one conversation with Dream.

The prisoner has stopped talking to himself by the time Sam steps into the cell, lifting his chin as he looks at him.

“Hi, Sam.”

Sam makes a vague noise of acknowledgement, not more than a low grunt. His eyes scan the room from left to right, stopped prematurely by the sight of the empty item frame mounted on the wall. His headache grows exponentially worse in an instant, a stabbing pain hammering itself into the back of his skull. He grits his teeth.

He should’ve expected this. He knows he should’ve expected this.

“Prisoner.”

“Sam,” Dream replies, his smile audible in his voice. Sam closes his eyes, a prayer flitting across his overtaxed mind. God help him.

“Where’s your clock.” What’s the point of asking, even. Dream sways from foot to foot.

“I burned it?”

“Why did you do it. Again.” Dream shrugs. Sam steps forward, shoves him back. “Don’t be so dumb, Dream.”

The prisoner barely seems to react, his back hitting the wall. His voice is nearly sing-song. “Ohhh. I got you though.”

Sam wishes, not for the first time, that he didn’t have the work ethic that keeps him from coming into the cell drunk. Surely the prisoner cannot be any more infuriating to handle with the help of some alcohol. He holds the prisoner by his jaw and knocks his head back against the wall, gauntlet digging into the pale skin under the bottom edge of his mask.

“What is wrong with you!” Dream struggles, slightly. Sam kicks at his legs. “Don’t move. Answer my question.”

“Let go.”

“How many times have I told you not to burn the clock, Dream!” He knocks the back of his head against the wall, harder this time. The struggling stops. “Do you think it’s funny? I don’t have to replace your clock!”

Dream sounds a little dazed when he replies, arms crossed at his chest. “I just wanted to burn it. So I did.”

“That’s ridiculous. What is your problem.” He shakes his head by his jaw, once, then lets go, giving himself enough distance to swing a fist into Dream’s side, making him double over. He scoffs at the sight, anger white-hot. He knows he shouldn’t be letting the prisoner get to him. Knows that Dream is only doing this to mess with him, mess with him the same way he messes with everyone, trying to get into his head. His skull feels like it’s being split apart.

Dream stands up straight again. All Sam can see is the flat, smooth plane of his mask, that smile, unchanged. His hands, knotted into tight fists at his sides, shake. The heat pulsing behind his eyes feels like rage, and also almost feels like he’s going to cry.

He can’t do this. The realization is abrupt, but sure. Not tonight, not with this headache, not with Dream. He can’t go through the same song and dance, can’t sit here and examine the cell and give the prisoner his potatoes and go through questioning for an hour, can’t spend the rest of his night going over his words with a fine-toothed comb looking for the nuggets of truth hidden in the midst of the prisoner’s crazed ramblings. Hasn’t he done enough? For the whole server, for everyone, day after day he stands and faces the monster before him and day after day he stands strong; retreating now feels like weakness, but he can’t. He honestly, truly, can’t. He ignores the weight of the potatoes in his inventory and turns.

“Sam?” Dream speaks again when he’s reached the edge of the cell, sounding slightly winded. “What are you—?”

Sam pearls across the gap, slamming the lever to lower the lava wall as soon as his vision clears. Tomorrow, he will be the Warden of Pandora’s Vault. Tomorrow, he will stand toe-to-toe against the one he has been entrusted to keep and stand firm. Tomorrow, he will do as he must, as the one responsible for the survival of everyone and everything he holds dear.

Today, it’s just too much. He looks back to a wall of unbroken lava, only able to stare at it for a few seconds before turning away.

#my asks !!#writing !!#my writing :D #the sixteenth #sixteenthdayevent #everything is going fine. :)

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emuanon34 · 2 months

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#James Somerton #HBomberGuy #Todd In The Shadows #ToddInTheShadows #Writeing #Writers #writeblr #Inspiration #Insparational #I cracked my skull when I was a toddler and I’m still gonna cite sources for my fic.#I was apparently trying to feed a tank of fishes on a shelf. :D #I don’t remember it but I’m also not embarrassed by it #I thought about watermarking this picture but I think it should belong to everyone dealing with imposter syndrome

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josieblueart · 7 months

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Day 1-injection

OH ENTITY™ WE’RE REALLY IN IT NOW

~💉~

This was it.

The man in rags stumbled into the abandoned building, serum in hand. There were more of those flowers, but he barely took notice of it. He was tired, so tired. It was nigh impossible to keep going, every moment was filled with hurting and fatigue.

Any moment, he could collapse onto the floor, but he continued on. Now, he had what he hoped was the cure to it all.

Inside the syringe was a glowing, orange liquid. Breathing heavily, he stared into the liquid. It was either the cure, or a poison that would finally end his misery. Worst case scenario, it would do nothing, and he’d have to continue living in this hell. Perhaps death would be kinder than life.

He tightened his grip, before stabbing the syringe into his chest. Pushing down the plunger, he prayed for a quick release.

Instead, a wave of pain rushed through his body mere moments after it entered his body.

It was as if his veins, lungs, face, everything had been filled with magma. His entire body was burning from the inside, and it hurt. The worst of the pain was in his head. His face felt like it was melting, it hurt so much. All the pain caused him to screech inhumanly, clasping his aching face. Yet, it only made it worse, the action causing the burning liquid to crawl up his throat.

Stumbling backwards and uncovering his face, he saw his hands were covered in orange, vein-like markings. Still, it was the least of his concerns, it hurt so much.

The cracking of bones quickly filled his ears, joining the groans of pain. He could feel his form being stretched ever unevenly, yet something on his back was forming, weighing him down. In his hands, something was digging its way out. As he hunched down further, the appendage was freed from its prison.

Another finger, one on each hand. They were deformed, but were still able to be moved. It was horrifying, yet the sight was quickly forgotten by the blazing pain in his mouth.

From the depths of his throat, the orange serum ejected itself through his mouth and onto his jaw. It was burning, his body had become an inferno. He felt his jaw falling lower and lower, becoming harder to keep it shut, not like he wanted to imprison the burning substance to allow it to damage him further.

The growth on his back, which was an afterthought until now, was finally too much to hold up, and he collapsed onto his knees. Was this how he would die? Was this his punishment for all the pain he caused?

Still, he accepted it. He wished to die, only then would the pain and hunger cease.

As if his infected form heard his wishes, the fire in his body started to cool down. The pain was still there, but it was more of an afterimage of what once was. As he looked upon himself, a growing despair joined the infestation within his body.

Mutated was the only word that came to his foggy mind.

He was uncontrollably drooling out saliva, which had become colored in orange. His jaw had become nothing but a long, loose piece of flesh that could only move slightly. Orange tumors covered his body, something he didn’t even notice until now.

He could feel his mind gradually slipping from him, clouded by the horrible desire to feel the burning in his veins once more. All the while, a voice spoke out to him.

“Ease yourself, Talbot. I can fulfill your desires.”

Whatever remained of Talbot inside the distorted mind, it listened intently.

“All I need of you is a few tasks you must complete.”

A small, almost imperceptible creak from the other side of the building signified another presence had entered.

“Bring them to me, and I shall give you your reason for life.”

A second voice spoke out to the hunched over figure. “Hey! Are you alright?”

“Have them fear your name. The Blight, that shall be your identity.”

It lifted its head, before turning to the figure. As it screeched, the last remaining bits of Talbot Grimes disappeared, replaced by a hollow shell.

“Bring them to me.”

#my writing :D #dead by daylight #talbot grimes #the blight #i may be cringe but i am free #body horror #horrortober

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flowerbeds-and-fairywings · 2 years

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a little drabble fic i wrote because i am quite emotional and happy <3

no warnings, just under the cut because i’m a lil embarrassed / nervous whoops

Lovely

a wrenferre fluffy drabble <3

{ also here’s a little taglist because why not ! please lmk if you’d like to be added / removed ! : @lovinglittlecrow @canongf @squips-ship @enter-the-phantom }

“ What do you think of it ? ”

“ Mm ? ”

Turning his head, Ferre was met with the sight of a tiny bouquet. One small and pieced together with the wildflowers that populated the meadow, held gently between careful fingers.

“ What do you think ? ” Wren asked again, holding the little array out to him.

After examining it, he gave a thoughtful hum. “ I don’t think it matters what I think. What do you think ? ”

A slightly exasperated ( though endeared ) sigh slipped past Wren’s lips. Facing him with a lightheartedly annoyed look, lip stuck up just the slightest bit to pout, they dropped their hand to their midsection. “ You know that isn’t what I was asking. ”

“ It isn’t, but it’s the answer I wanted to give you. ”

“ I can’t believe you, sometimes. ”

“ You can’t believe me ? Does that make me enigmatic ? I believe that people tend to like that in a man. ”

Stifling a small laugh, Wren shook their head. “ I think it would take more than that. Besides, some people may, but I don’t.”

“ Then what do you like ? ”

“ What do you think ? ” they asked, a slightly smug smile appearing in their expression. The setting sun glinted in their eyes — the last rays of the day created a scene akin to a landscape as they sat beneath the bows of an old tree.

A light scoff of disbelief, and Combeferre shook his head. “ I think that you’re the one who can’t be believed. ” Leaning up a bit, he propped himself up on his elbow to be on his side, facing his company. With a focused look, he studied the blond’s face — watching each aspect, as though it had not long been devoted to memory. “ I think that you like freedom. Not in the same way that Enjolras does, but the freedom to be yourself with someone. You like beauty, but not in the manner of face and fancy clothes. Rather, in the manner of how the wind and the sky hold beauty. Heart’s beauty. I think that you see people for who they are, and that’s what you like. ” He took up Wren’s hand, careful of the small gathering of flowers still cradled within. “ You like imperfections, because they’re what makes something beautiful. You like a person for who they are, and you like a person who feels the same for you. To answer your question from earlier, properly so this time, I think that the flowers are beautiful. Perfectly imperfect, just like me, and just like you. ”

With the smile that graced his lips, lit up eyes of deep blue met watering light green. A field, freshly filled with dew. Beautiful in its emotion.

“ You could have just said that I like you. You would have been right, ” Wren said, voice ever so faintly broken by emotion — but not everything that’s broken needs to be fixed.

“ I could have, but that wouldn’t have been as poetic. ” Lightly nuzzling his partner’s face with his, a soft chuckle preceded a kiss alighted to their forehead. Then, to their nose, and then, to their lips. Picking one of the flowers which had not been used in the mini bouquet, he tucked it behind Wren’s ear, amidst the golden waves of hair. His free hand snaked to intertwine his fingers with their free hand, gently brushing his thumb across the back. “ There’s no simple way to describe you, and I wouldn’t have it any other way, my love. ”

#this little drabble took itself where it wanted to go and i ran with it #and i love it ☺️#where is this ? who knows but they’re in a field somewhere #and it’s pretty 😌#fluffy fluff <333 #i feel very nervous because i don’t particularly like talking about myself but ! i am being brave !! look at me go !!#my writing :D #ೃ ❥ storybook love 📖 ; wrenferre #⭐️ shine little starlight ;; positivity <3 #totally okay to rb !!

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