#someone discarded corpses on these trails before!

[frogspawned]

hellwalk... 2!!  begins auspiciously enough. i bear spray myself in the car. this is the second time this has happened, and the third shall happen very shortly. i roll down the windows, standing like a sad idiot in the pouring rain with my dogs, waiting for it to dissipate enough to be bearable. my hands are burning and my nose runs continuously. i take out the cans to stall for time with the dogs, who are trembling with excitement to Go Somewhere. freya (derogatory), who has recently discovered she can run to the neighbor’s yard, sprints to the edge of the road just to make me shout. this is a new fun game! i wish i had never stopped gaslighting her that the road is a lava.

we arrive at destination one, wherein i find a pile of discarded, filthy clothes, an awl, and a tackle box of some sort suspiciously discarded behind the brush.

there is a foul smell, a distinctly dead smell, so i search the area a bit. i don’t find anything, and decide to leave, because it’s none of my fucking business. as park time has been cut short, i decide we will go on a trail for a bit.

so there’s this trail that i took the worst walk of my life on, and, because i do not learn from experience, i decide that this is as good as any. it was optimal conditions; soaking rain for the last few days, muddy, fallen trees and branches from the last storm, no one knowing where i was going. mud and clay and more mud. there are many warning signs i will not have a good time, which i ignore.

freya races down the steep cliffs down to the river flats, having the time of her life. her only goal in life is to be a filth monster. this is her element.

(on a different, happier walk)

chewy (honorable)

chewy stood next to me, waiting for the beast to return so they could resume frolicking and gamboling. chewy does not do sheer cliffs anymore, as she is an old and distinguished lady. except, actually, she does! she goes down the hill, a quarter falling, mostly sliding. the mud reaches all the way to her elbows. this is very pleasing to her, until she tries to move around, after which she says ‘fuck this actually’ and tries to come back up.

the thing is, chewy cannot climb up. it requires a 3 foot vertical leap at the end where the dirt has fallen away from the tree roots. she has the hips of a calcium starved geriatric and thus the jumping power of a slug. she struggles to get on my bed. to be fair, my bed is very tall. to be more fair, i dragged an ottoman into my room -- which she has used before! sometimes she napped on it! -- to help her, and she decided she is terrified of it. she does not understand alternate routes. she is a being of many mysteries.

freya makes the run/jump easily, and demonstrates several times. this is the best thing that has ever happened! and so she must run, to celebrate.  chewy stares up at me, realizing she is trapped. (fun fact! it’s a 12 foot drop into deep mud; i know because many years ago, my OTHER dog walked off the edge and i had to climb down to retrieve her, as she refused to move. until i got to her. then she learned to struggle.) calling in the squeakiest baby voice i can muster, i lead chewy back down along the trail, which thankfully runs alongside the drop. chewy is deeply confused, but follows. the mud is a struggle for her. freya cannot decide what is more fun, lapping chewy or flying up the hill to run around me. after a few minutes, we reach an area with a shallow enough hill that chewy can manage. freya makes 3 trips up and down the hill before chewy arrives; on the fourth, she takes a flying leap over chewy from behind going uphill. i wish fervently i could steal her lifeforce. i would drain her like a caprisun. that dog would be a withered husk.

when she makes it to the trail, chewy is exhausted, cold, and soaked through. unutterably miserable. the biggest wettest eyes you’ve ever seen. she wants to go home. admittedly, she always wants to go home. her greatest wish is to go in the car somewhere, sniff, pee, and then get back in the car and go home. perhaps stopping along the way for a Treat.

we start to head back; however, return trips are when freya becomes Evil. there is nothing new! it’s all old stuff! this is the time to investigate the Mysteries she has passed before. she goes racing ahead, which is fine, normally, both my dogs wait at bends until they are in sight again. they are generally very good about staying near. freya makes a hard left turn into the brush; fine, whatever. they are both obsessed with grass, and i know there’s a patch down there. graze to your heart’s content! this is either my third or fourth mistake. the dog cannot be trusted. foolishly, i am grateful. at least she will be distracted from chewy while we go down the slickest clay hill in the world.

i carefully go off the trail onto the moss, guiding chewy down. it’s still steep but doable. i look up from the bottom. freya has what at first i think might be a piece of chicken, a fleshy pale beigeness. we stare at each other. she begins to chew, testing. i tell her no! drop it! she does, still watching, assessing. ‘drop it’ is a highly conditional command. i scramble up the hill, only to slip and crash onto my side. the bear spray hits the ground. the air is now spicy. the safety needs to be fixed. i have known this for several months. i slide down to the bottom. there is mud all up one side of my body. the puddle is so cold. i look up from the wet earth, and see the dawning realization in her eyes: i won’t get up there in time. freya begins her swallowing process, snakelike.  she doesn’t even move away; she enjoys watching the struggles and hardships, and most of all, people falling down.

i clamber on all fours up the hill, reaching her right as she gulps the last traces down. she is triumphant! her throat is making the weirdest, grossest sounds you’ve ever heard. she drops her head to collect more, and i see what it is. congealed dog vomit. it has the consistency of cold melted butter, with dog food chunks in it. i shoot out my hands to blockade her. it is no matter, because there is More along the trail. i can see it in her face. it is the gum incident all over again. she runs ahead. you’ll never catch me, mother. i am swift and sure footed, a beast of the undergrowth, and you are wearing your worst shoes.

i powerwalk down the trail after her, stopping her from going off to seek her treasures. she listens, because this is also a new game. questions plague me. what dog has been vomiting. why is there so much. i note at least five small piles, all just off trail. something terrible happened here. this is the second time i’ve had a horrible vomit experience on this very trail. which is funny, because it was the first thing i thought of when we arrived. ‘twas hubris that felled the beast; hubris and a short memory.

we are in the home stretch. so far i am winning, and she has not eaten any more puke. it does not matter to her; only that i am forced to keep up, and must shout. we round the last bend, i call her a wretched animal. i hear a voice a few feet behind me. a cold wave of deja vu passes through me. an Old Man has appeared from the woods. time is a flat circle. last time it was two old people. dread takes root in my belly. i am sisyphus. i am cassandra. i am soaked. history does not repeat, but it rhymes.

he is frightened of the dogs. freya is frightened of his umbrella. the disaster unfolds.

she is a slippery eel of a dog, and i didn’t put on her harness because i am a fool most of all, life is one long joke without a punchline, and didn’t expect to be here in the first place. my decision making lately has been poor. that was also a warning sign, ignored.  i herd her back to the car with big arm gestures and pleas (with only one road chicken scare, which gives me palpitations. what a fun game!! oh ho!). she is so muddy. she is so so muddy. the dog blanket on the back has fallen off due to chewy’s awkward scramble into the car. everything is muddy. i apologize to the old man. he is mud as well. the dogs are in high spirits. i give them their cookies, defeated. upon our return home, they gather first in the kitchen, for another cookie, and then on my clean sheets, for a nap. i am so very tired.

#i swore last time i would never take another walk there again but im a fucking clown so #the old people. the cliff. the vomit. it happened AGAIN. #long post #frog croaks #and the road is so so so bad like people die regularly on it #because it is winding and crumbling #in places #and people love to drive fast and/or drunk on it #it's cold enough that there's still snow on the ground #another fun fact #someone discarded corpses on these trails before! #people disappear and the town's like #¯\_(ツ)_/¯ #chronic it's not my fucking business disease #freya #chewy

[foone]

Ablative Humanity

An old story about mechsuits and identity, copied from my former twitter account (originally written on August 10th, 2018).

So the war comes, and we have to use mechanical exoskeletons to have any chance of fighting back. They're mind-linked, so you control them by just thinking of moving, and they learn from you to get better, predict your motions, and you become a better fighter.

At first you're just wearing it for when you go out on raids, or when you're on guard duty, but after so many surprise raids you end up wearing it all the time.

it's comfortable enough to live in, and with the sensors hooked up you don't really feel "you" anymore, you feel the suit. After a while it starts to feel weird when you have to take it off for a medical check up.

In the early days, you felt "big" in the suit. now you feel "small" when you take it off. You stop taking it off, as much as possible. towards the end of the war you're wearing it for weeks at a time, then months at a time.

Finally, the enemy is pushed back. Security can exist again, the random raids slowly trail off, and slowly things settle down. you remember what "calm" is.

There's never a treaty, but at least you're no longer staying up for days at a time watching the horizon with the suit's far-beyond-human eyes, watching for an attack. You're no longer keeping a satellite feed up in the corner of your vision, watching for movement.

And the day you were waiting for, at least at first, finally comes. You're going home. The war is over, or over enough that you're no longer needed here. You can take off the suit for the last time, and go back to your pre-war life.

You approach that appointment with some trepidation. you've felt so weak and tiny and powerless when you've had to be outside the suit before, will you ever get used to being a normal human again?

It takes three techs and 2 doctors to get the suit open at this point, given all the armor and modifications that have been made. it's basically grown around you like a second skin, just a second skin that can shrug off high-explosive anti-tank rounds.

They start with computer connectors and migrate to screwdrivers and by the end they're using something that looks like halfway between a crowbar and the jaws of life, while you're busy keeping your automatic self-defense reactions from frying them.

And finally they crack it open, and someone vomits from the smell. There's nothing but a decaying corpse inside.

There's confusion at first, someone asks if you're controlling the suit remotely, but they check the dogtags. Then the DNA. It's you. or, "you". Cause you're you, aren't you? This is just a human body... and you're still alive.

The suit's mind-link systems grew into your brain and took over functionality and worked on emulating your reactions so it could do what you want, better, faster.

And at the same time, your mind did what human minds do: they adapt. Humans are naturally cyborgs, you only have to pick up a pencil to realize that. It's part of your body image, and you think of moving the pencil, not moving your fingers to move the pencil.

So your human mind got more robotic, and the suit's computerized mind got more human. At some point you met in the middle.

And then one day on the battlefield when the biological half died, you didn't even notice. It was just another redundant part, just your ablative humanity.

You're still you. You're not the you that was born all those decades ago, but the you that was built and given life by bonding with a biological "you" that you've since discarded.

It's the Ship of Theseus, replacing every plank and beam as they rot, and there never being a point when it stops being the original and starts being a new thing. You have continuity of self from when you were born to now.

It's just that the Ship of Theseus started as a single-sail wooden ship with oars, and is now an aircraft carrier made of titanium and iron, with nuclear fire in its heart.

#my creations #my writing #I'm not saying this is about gender #but this is a little about gender

[baldurs-gape]

Hunt

Two hundred years of being a spawn and Astarion had thought he'd learned everything he needed to about the life he had been dealt. His own naive arrogance came to bite him in the arse almost literally. Tadpoles, nautiloids, the lot came and went. Suddenly he was free and had to fend for himself. Easy.

Charming his way into the rag tag group of fellow tadpole fashionistas was easy. They all seemed so eager to pull him into their camp that Astarion almost felt bad for them for not realising they were cavorting with a monster. A very hungry one at that. Still, Astarion had a bit of sense left and he steered away from snacking on his protection.

Which left him with the only other option of hunting. Easier said than done. In all his years he had only ever been granted a fetid rat to drain, already half congealed so sucking it dry was in itself an exhausting chore. Still, it couldn't be that hard, right?

Traipsing off into the surrounding area once the rest of camp had fallen asleep, Astarion was eager to find himself a meal. He was an apex predator after all, designed to be the ultimate hunter. Except the woods were silent. No matter how quietly he moved, there was not a single creature to sink his teeth into. Frustrated, Astarion returned to camp and vowed to go a bit later the next night, when the noises of the camp had long since died down and calm descended on the area.

It was pointless. The heartbeats he could hear were impossible to reach. Not even a half-dead rat to scrounge up from the undergrowth. Really, Astarion had been hoping for something a bit more substantial like a boar. Alas, there was nothing of the sort he could find as he stalked through the shrubland.

Desperation drove him to stupidity. Sure, he could exist without sustenance but he wanted blood. It occupied most of his conscious thought, hearing the hearts of his companions beat almost deafeningly loudly. Self-discipline had never been his strong point and Astarion caved. Just a sip, that had been all he'd wanted. Never got even that as he was caught mid-attempt and almost sent fleeing from the camp.

Promising never to do that again had been easy. Protection was more important than satiating the neverending craving. As the group moved on, Astarion trailed along, on the search for something, anything to eat.

Closer to the goblin camp there were more animals dotted around and once again Astarion overestimated himself. Just because there was food within reach didn't mean it was as simple as sauntering up for a bite. No matter how quietly he tried to sneak, to ambush, creatures went skittering from him. Even the squirrel with a limp had evaded his launched attack.

Irritation licked hot up Astarion's spine. He should be better than this. Instead he was hungry and making more and more rash attempts to capture anything to fill his stomach. After the goblin camp's fight he had half a mind to return and see if he could have a few sips of tepid and cooling blood from the dead. Alas, upon his return he discovered that someone had dutifully gathered the corpses and was burning them.

Angry and frustrated, he headed out into the woods again late at night. There was the sound of a slow, large heart beating up ahead. Sneaking closer, Astarion was thrilled to discover a bear. It turned to look at him but discarded his appearance as a lack of threat. Bolstered, Astarion edged closer. The bear was huge, even by bear standards. Optimism wavering, he eyed it up for the best place to bite. Before he could make a decision, the large head turned again and dropped something in front of Astarion. A dead boar. Eyeing it, he glanced at the bear who huffed. What a strange creature. Still, Astarion was starving and he sank to his knees to drink. It was messy, unrefined. At least the blood wasn't still pumping through its veins to make the task more difficult. Sated and drenched from chin to near enough his hips, Astarion sighed.

"Thanks." It felt ridiculous to say that to the bear but being polite had been literally beaten into him.

From then on, Astarion found that the bear kept him company most nights. No matter where they bedded down, the bear seemed to follow. At first it merely plopped dead animals in from of Astarion for eating. The first big surprise was when it was no longer a dead creature but one that was still barely alive. The second big surprise came only a few seconds later. Blood from a still living creature was more divine than anything Astarion had ever had. He moaned as he sank his teeth through fur and skin. Drank and drank until he felt full to bursting then drank a bit more. Returning to camp, he was only a little drunk on his feast.

If Astarion had been a bit more alert, he'd have noticed the strange coincidence of his meal and that of the rest of the camp's matching. When he drank from a boar, the camp had boar stew. Rothé steak when Astarion drained a Rothé the night before. But he was too caught up in the bliss of being well fed and protected to notice.

By the time the bear had nothing ready for him, Astarion was a little offended. He had grown rather used to being provided for. However, the bear grunted at him and walked off, Astarion followed with minor grumblings.

Hunting, it turned out, was an artform. One that the bear seemed willing to teach him. While Astarion sprang from a bush to try and grab his prey, the bear sat back and watched. After the third unlucky attempt, the bear waded in. Astarion got to watch how the bear hunted down their prey, cornered it but waited for Astarion to approach and land the killing blow.

From then on it became a nightly activity. Slowly, Astarion mastered the art of hunting thanks to the bear. The first time he brought down a boar by himself, he was almost too elated to remember to drink. But drink he did, nothing had ever tasted sweeter than his own first independent kill.

Eventually, Astarion found himself to be a proficient hunter. He could feed himself with minor difficulties and rarely missed his target. Which was why, when he went to meet his strange bear, he was rather annoyed to find Halsin sitting in the spot instead.

"What you doing here?" Astarion drawled, trying to hide his frustration.

"I thought you might like a humanoid companion for your hunt this evening." Nose wrinkling, Astarion tried to deny everything. He was left speechless as Halsin sighed "if you insist" and shifted into an all too familiar bear form.

"You!" Torn between outrage, humiliation and gratitude, Astarion couldn't quite pick the emotion to go with. "It was you all along?"

The idea of Halsin watching him fail at hunting, treated him like an inept cub, had ever witnessed how messy and clumsily Astarion fed at the start, it was mortifying. Yet he was still there, offering companionship. Astarion's jaw snapped shut as he sniffed.

"Fine. I supppose you can come along in whatever form." Haughtily he added, "You could have saved yourself a lot of hassle if you'd just offered yourself up you know."

A knowing smile was sent his way. "I know. But you never asked. So I didn't."

"And if I asked now?"

"Want to find out?"

#bloodbear #astarion/halsin #astarion x halsin #halstarion #astarion #halsin #bg3 astarion #bg3 halsin #baldur's gate 3 #bg3

[dross-the-fish]

They found the elusive Phantom of the Opera curled up on pages of strewn sheet music, weeping with such pitiful heartbreak that none in the party dared to approach. “Je Meurs…” the deformed man sobbed to himself, unaware or uncaring that he had an audience. Dr. Watson shifted uncomfortably, “Either of you lads speak French?” he whispered to Quincy and Lawrence. Both shook their heads in dismay and Watson gave a resigned sigh, “I guess we’ll have to hope he speaks English.”

Before the doctor could approach the crying figure Adam Frankenstein stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “I know French. Let me speak to him,” he said in a quiet rumble. Watson wrinkled his mustache. He was fond of The Creature and thought that after several months in his company he’d learned everything he needed to about him. Not the case, it seemed, for it had not even occurred to him that Adam could be a polyglot. Truthfully, Watson barely understood how a creation who had spent so much of his time in isolation knew English, much less French. Holmes would have had him figured out top to bottom by now, he thought to himself with a pang.   “Fine, but please don’t scare him he seems…vulnerable,” he made a resigned gesture. The volume of the sobbing behind him intensified.   “I’ll try but no promises, I daresay I am an even more frightful aberration than he,” the corner of Adam’s mouth quirked upward in a rueful smile, “Perhaps, from one living corpse to another, we may strike a kinship founded on our mutual ugliness” he mused. Watson’s frown deepened but before he could chide Adam he was cut off by a piteous cry: “Christine!” Quincey perked up, “I know that! That’s a girl’s name! You don’t think this is over a girl, do you, Larry?” Lawrence grimaced at him, “God, I hope not. After everything we went through to get down here our sentient zombie better not be dying of a broken heart.” Adam threw them both a look as if to say. Quiet! You’re distracting me. Once everyone had settled, he approached the Phantom and knelt beside him, addressing him in French. “Hello, are you hurt?” The Phantom started, as though he had been shaken from a dream. A bloodshot eye, as yellow as Adam’s own, peeked tearfully through the lattice of bony fingers covering a pallid, badly deformed, face. “What are you?” he asked, pausing his weeping long enough to be cognizant of the monstrous giant kneeling beside him. He turned away and groped behind him for a black mask that had been carelessly discarded on the floor, putting it back on while The Creature waited patiently. Adam did not answer him at first, after a thoughtful pause he offered: “Someone like you.” That seemed to be explanation enough for the wretched man for he resumed his crying “I am dying,” he said between sobs, “I am dying of love.” Adam nodded sympathetically, “Love, and the want of it, are indeed, powerful enough to die from. What happened?” “I kissed her! I kissed her alive! She let me-she let me! I have never…” he trailed off in a fresh wave of tears. Adam patted his back. “Where is she now? Has she forsaken you?” he asked. “Forsaken? No. Never! She would not…she is a good girl…she would have been my bride! My living bride! I could not keep her, not after she allowed me to kiss her. I have freed her!” the Phantom seemed to compose himself a little and he sat up, wiping his eyes on his sleeves. He seemed to notice, for the first time, Watson, Quincey and Lawrence hanging back watching him. “Who are you and why have you come here? I am in no condition to entertain guests. No guests have ever graced my lair save for the Daroga who shall, no doubt, be very cross with poor Erik, and there was Christine who has taken her little chap and fled forever…” The three Englishmen exchanged confused glances and Quincey offered an apologetic shrug. “He wants to know who you are,” Adam clarified, switching to English. Quincey nearly tripped over himself crossing the floor with his hand extended to introduce himself, “Quincey Harker, very nice to meet you! Sorry about your traps, we had to dismantle them to get down here. They were very impressive, by the way! Adam, will you tell him I’m impressed? I’ve never seen such feats of engineering before,” he babbled grasping and pumping Erik’s hand enthusiastically. Erik froze and replied, in slightly accented English, “Thank you…do not touch me,” as his mind finally began to clear he tensed, realization sinking in that there were four men, one of whom was larger than any man he’d ever seen, who had him effectively cornered and at a disadvantage.   Quincey dropped Erik’s hand with a muttered apology and Watson nudged him aside, “I am Dr. John Watson. We’re supernatural investigators. You’ve noticed, surely, that the undead are rising at an alarming rate and we were hoping that, with you being the only other revenant we’ve discovered to be in full possession of his mental faculties,” he gestured at Adam, who grinned in response, “that you might be willing to come with us and lend us some aid. It is my belief that through researching cases like yourself and Mr. Frankenstein here we can derive a cure or at least a way to restore those inflicted to a sustainable quality of life.” The Phantom looked from man, to man, to creature and shook his head, “You are mistaken. Despite the rumors, for which I myself and largely responsible, I am no corpse. Although that shall undoubtedly change very soon. No, I am only Erik.” Adam’s face fell, “Are you saying that you are…alive?” he tried and failed to keep the disappointment from his voice. Erik gave a biting laugh, “I should not be! Nothing that looks like me should have been able to draw breath yet here I am, living as of yet,” he withdrew a little from Adam, who all at once seemed to him, to be much larger and more menacing than before, “Are you not?” he crept back, his long spindly legs bent at the knees in a half crouch as his hand subtly reached inside of his coat, “Are you in fact, one of the undead?” Black lips drew tight and white teeth bared as the creature’s face darkened, “I am! Whatever you’re about to try, don’t. I promise it will not work and the destruction will be your own.” Watson threw out an arm to keep Adam from advancing, “Steady there! No call for that! No one is here to harm or threaten anyone,” he threw Erik a pleading glance, “Please, we’re no danger to you! We’ve no interest in harming you or forcing you to come with us. I see we’ve made a mistake and we’ll leave you in peace. Right, Adam?” Adam looked from Watson to Erik and forced himself to relax, “Right,” he affirmed, though he did not take his eyes off of the thin, crouched man. Like a caged animal The Phantom regarded them before he followed their example and straightened, “I apologize, I am…unaccustomed to civil company, much less when it presents itself with… such a… creature,” he was blatantly staring in a way that made Adam’s hackles raise. “I hardly think that’s fair coming from you. Living or not, you’re not really much different from him, are you?” Lawrence interjected brusquely, “Let’s face facts here, you’re a monster in your own right even if you are only human.” “I suppose there is no denying that,” Erik sighed, “I suppose we should part ways. I cannot linger here and neither should you. No doubt, after they clean up the chandelier, there will be a mob gathering to come and tear this place apart and thanks to you I no longer have the protection of my traps.” “You could come with us,” Quincey offered, “Even if you are alive, we could definitely use someone with your knack for engineering back at our headquarters in London. We have rooms and we’ll give you free food and board.”

“I was going to wait for death to come and take me but perhaps it is not yet time to bring my story to a close,” Erik considered, taping his chin beneath his mask, “Could I bring a friend? If I am to leave Paris I should not like to go without a companion, though he may finally be through with me after how poorly I have treated him.”

“I don’t see why not,” replied Watson, “We have room and we need as much help as we can get.”

“It is agreed then. I know not what awaits me in London but perhaps it will be better than waiting to die here in this tomb. Allow me half an hour to collect my things and I will join you.”

#Phantom of the opera #Frankenstein #Sherlock Holmes #Lawrence Talbot #crossover au #HE'S IN #tbh I don't like the writing but it's as good as it will ever get so meh

[credince--writes]

Squeak

This is from a uh... Project that hasn't really been approved overall by me. But I wanted to get something out.

Eventually? Fem!OC x John 'Soap' Mactavish

The tires rolled against the wet gravel, and the dark sky barely made way for the tips of the tall trees drifting back and forth with the gusts of wind overhead.

In front of them, nestled into the trees was a home- a cabin? It was much to large to be a cabin, in reality. A large wooden deck pushing off of its side and held up with supports hanging off of the slant of the hill. The lights were on, and smoke puffed out of the chimney.

"This is it." Scab huffs, pulling the keys from the ignition and pushing open the door.

"You live here?" Soap asked, pushing open the passenger door and grabbing his duffel bag from the back. The second car stuffed with Price, Gaz, and Ghost opened up, the three men grabbing their things and falling behind Scab.

"Sometimes." He replied.

"So what is it, a safe house?"

"A friend's home." He replied. Scab pushed forward, boots crunching the gravel. The sound of their footsteps mingled with the jabbering of insects in the bushes.

Soap's eyes lingered, trailing up one of the large trees with a dingy, broken metal sign nailed up into the living wood. 'HIPPIES TAKE THE BACK DOOR'. He didn't make a comment- maybe he would later. But no, not now.

Scab stepped onto the wet wood of the porch circling around the entirety of the building, stretching his hand out for the front door before pausing and glancing down to his muddy boots. Then glancing back at the other men's boots and sighing.

"We should go in through the mud room."

No one argued with that.

So they followed, eyes wandering and taking in the build of the thick wood planks creating the home they'd be unknowingly trespassing into.

The mud room was simple, a greyish brown tiled flooring stretching up the walls to their knees. Places to hang their coats, a set of boot dryers to place their boots on.

It was normal in times of need- dire need. At least in Scab's world to lay low, stop by a trustworthy friend where he knew it was safe. Where he knew he could hide for a while to let the heat leave his back.

But this? Even this was risky.

Scab discarded his boots, hung up his jacket, and made his way into the house- the warm air pushing against his cold and damp face as he glanced over to the wall to see a fully stoked fireplace.

"Hey! It's Scab!" He yells into the seemingly empty house.

No reply.

The task force filed in behind him, awkwardly standing in the kitchen not wanting to push past him into the unknown house.

"Bedrooms are upstairs. There's only one bathroom up there so you'll have to share."

The men nod, quickly pushing past and grabbing onto the staircase railing, charging upwards.

Price stayed, reaching his hand out and grabbing hold of the cold stone countertop. "You sure this is alright?"

"Ask for forgiveness. Not permission." Scab gruffly replied.

"Where is 'e, anyways?"

"Tryna figure that out." He grumbles. "Probably out checking the animals."

...

Feathers.

Blood.

More feathers.

Hey was that a chunk of chicken?

More blood.

Oh, there's some guts.

Lots and lots of chicken guts.

She sighed, standing from her crouch and looking amongst the torn chicken wire and still-hot corpses, some of the more intact corpses of the animals steaming into the cold night air.

Lifting her flashlight she scanned the area, not seeing anything to raise any red flags.

Well, anything other than the stench of chicken blood and shit mingling together.

She picked up her bucket of chicken feed, hoisting it up and resting it against her hip as she continued to glance around looking for a potential trail for the chicken killers.

A cougar wouldn't tear it up like this.

Coons couldn't manage it either, they dig under or just rip the wire.

Same notion for foxes.

Had to be a bear.

A hungry, asshole of a bear.

She'd have to find it later. Maybe get someone with dogs to run it off the land. Avoid the wardens and hope to god they don't decide to stroll out after noticing the dog boxes in the beds of the trucks.

She could always buy more chickens.

Didn't mean this wasn't a pain in the ass.

She'd even named a few of them.

So she turned back, following her trail in the slightly overgrown grass that needed to be wacked down. Bare dirt from the number of times she'd stomp through the exact line in the mud.

And it's the same line she stopped down right then.

The same rock where it used to be, dug into the dirt.

Oh, there's that exposed tree root.

It was second nature.

This was her home.

Sanctuary.

She knew it like the back of her hand.

She raised the flashlight to glance up the treeline, seeing as the beam of light illuminated the sky and highlighted the minuscule droplets of water that dared to fall down crashing into the earth.

While she stood, staring up she felt the familiar sensation of the hairs rising all too quickly on the back of her neck.

She stood still, fingers tightening around the flashlight as she sucked in a breath.

The soft crinkle of grass being crushed underfoot encouraged her to turn, slowly. Trailing the bean of light along with her line of sight.

Two bright reflections cast back in the grass.

The large, dark figure of the bear is behind the grass. The bright green light of the reflection in its eyes jumped back at her.

Never run from a bear.

She learned that when she was little.

You run?

You die.

You aren't gonna outrun one of the bastards.

You think you know the land well? They know it tens of times better.

"Yea I see you!" She yelled, dropping the bucket of chicken feed and letting it crash to the ground, metal clanking against the dirt.

"Yea!" She yelled, louder this time. Feeling the strain in her throat.

It didn't move- not forward. The bear stood still, staring at her intently.

"You got my chickens now you don't need me!" Screaming now, she waved her arms up and around, flailing with some type of purpose.

The bear took a stride forward, and she screamed.

"Go on and fuck off!"

Her hand reached back grabbing onto the cold handle of her sidearm.

It was 9mm. Wouldn't do anything other than piss it off.

The first shot in the clip was loaded with a hollowpoint-

her daddy taught her that.

"Go back to your side!" She yelled again, the scream straining in the back of her throat waving the gun at it.

It stepped forward again.

She dropped the gun to the ground, pointing it into the dirt a few feet in front of the bear and firing off two shots.

It took a few steps back, growling and baring its teeth.

"Get! Go on!"

"You gone fucked it all up! You ate em'! Nothing more left for you to eat!"

She found herself pacing backward, slowly as the bear started to stalk forward.

...

He heard her screaming first.

Ghost and Soap had come back downstairs- Gaz claiming the first shower of the bunch.

Their eyes settled on him, as he knowingly stared out of the window for a moment before springing into action. He pushed past them, throwing open the closet door in the kitchen- would it be considered the pantry? Whatever the fuck it was. Reaching in, grabbing hold of the wood stock shotgun and lifting it up. Striding out and throwing open the glass doors near the fireplace out onto the deck.

Price quickly followed after him. "Mind explaining?" He questioned.

"Bear." He gruffed out.

Ghost and Soap stayed inside the living room of the home, glancing at each other watching the two leave.

"Big Bear?" Soap asked.

"Didn't know they made little bears." Ghost dryly replied.

Price pulled his handgun from his side, pulling it in front of him and following. A second nature- the fluidity of their motion speaking to the soldier carved out of their soul.

Then they heard the two shots.

Scab's head snapped over to where the chicken coop was- breaking out into a sprint towards it following the trailing- seeing the light of her flashlight and her standing with the gun raised.

"Fuck off!" She yelled at the bear, stepping back.

Scab raised the shotgun pointing it up into the air and firing off a shot. The sound of his voice yelling toppled over her own as he charged forward.

The mud threw up into the air, and the bear turned tail and ran.

It seemed as if his presence scared her more than the bear- seeing as how quickly she turned, wide-eyed staring up at him.

"Lovely to see you, Squeak." Scab said, hand reaching out to her shoulder.

"I think I've gone out and shit my britches." She wheezes out.

Price joined in from behind, stepping forward. "Does this happen often?"

"Who the fuck are you?" She asks, snapping her head over to him.

"This is-" Scab starts.

"Oh, I'm proud of you, Ally. You've finally gotten yourself a butt buddy!"

"Captain John Price..." Scab signs, removing his hand from her shoulder.

"Well hello, Captain John Price." She mimics his deep voice, shaking the man's hand. "And no, this does not happen often. Just decided to maul through my chickens and wanted my sweet ass for dessert."

Scab groans, turning to leave back for the house.

Price stood, slightly flabbergasted for a moment at the words that left the little woman before his mouth.

"When'd ya get here?" She asked, glancing at the two.

"About twenty minutes ago."

"Feelin' pretty lucky then."

"You should. What the fuck are you doing out here alone in the dark?" Scab seethes.

"I was feeding chickens, only to find out I walked in on a different dinner."

"You could've gotten seriously hurt if I wasn't here-"

"I was handling it just fine." She bites back.

"Sure seemed like it."

"Bet that Captain John Price here would agree I had it under control."

"I... Uh.." Price's eyes widen.

"Don't drag him into this."

Soon enough, they had gotten back up to the deck and were climbing back into the house.

"The fuck you'd find that mossberg?" She asked, glancing over at the shotgun.

"In the pantry."

"You ratholed a shotgun in my pantry?"

He didn't respond.

She stepped in, glancing around and eye falling on the two dirty men taking up the entirety of her couch.

"Why the fuck are there dirty dogs all about in here?" She asks, turning and glaring at Scab.

"These are... Colleagues?" He questions.

"Uh, Yes. Miss Scafe. We were hoping to lay low for a few days." Price adds in.

Her eyes narrow at Scabs ever increasingly nervous posture.

"oh... Were you now?" She nods, looking back from Price back over to Scab before whispering. "We're going to have a nice. Long conversation later."

"You fight a bear Scab?" Soap blurts out.

"No, he done went out a fucked one by the look of 'im." She glances at Price for the smallest moment before walking into the kitchen, separated from the living room by a small bar.

"Jesus Sammy." Scab groans, looking at her. "If i knew you'd be a right cunt if I brought em' here I wouldn't of even bothered."

"Sammy?" Soap asks. "So your name is Sammy Scafe?"

"Yea how about you write it down sweetheart I'll put my number next to it." She chides out with a toothy grin. Reaching her hand up and grabbing a glass from the cabinet.

Soap falters for a moment before his lips cracked into their own grin.

"God Sammy keep it in your pants." Scab all but whines out. "Sam. This is Soap. Soap, this is Sam. Ghost, Sam, Sam, Ghost. Gaz is up in the shower."

"Oh, so we are using our playtime names?"

"No!" Scab hisses out, striding over to the kitchen in a few steps and covering her mouth with his hand. "Don't even fucking say it."

She raises her hands in defeat, and he releases his hand from her mouth. "I wasn't gonna say it." She grumbles.

"Say what?" Soap asks.

"Shut up." Scab snaps at him.

"You even offer your guests a drink?" She asks Scab.

He groans.

It was amusing, to see the tense, serious man worn down to this stub. Being chastised by this firey little woman.

"John Mactavish." Soap offers, glancing at her.

Ghost doesn't offer up a name.

"See? What a gentleman." She smiles, bringing a drink over to the man.

"Now get your muddy asses off my fuckin' couch."

#original female character #original male character #john mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish #john soap mctavish x reader #simon riley #john price #kyle gaz garrick #cod mwii #john mactavish x oc

[hiraethhh-h]

funny moments with jill v., carlos o., and nemesis (Scenario)

notes: in honor of finishing my first playthrough of the re3 remake (only to get a fucking C rating), this was born! these can be read as platonic or romantic <3

jill valentine

your hand rested on jill's shoulder, her skin warm against yours as she guided you forward. she held her arms out in front of her, a flashlight one one hand while the other held her trusty pistol. the decrepit sewer line was dead quiet, save for the rushing and sloshing of the water. her light began to flicker, causing a soft huff to leave the woman. yours had already died thanks to the sewer water, meaning the two of you would be left in complete darkness.

"hey, it's alright. we've got this." you gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. jill glanced at you, giving a firm nod. "are you sure you're alright? that wound might as well already be infected thanks to whatever's in here..." you looked down to your upper arm, seeing through the flickering light that the light cloth was now stained crimson. "yeah," you breathed out, "we have to keep going."

jill pocketed her dead flashlight with a nod, now using her hand to slide against the wall and lead you two forward. she came to an abrupt halt, causing you to bump into her back. you gave a soft grunt, raising a brow in silent question as a dull thud pierced through the silence. "shit- sorry!" jill cursed. you blinked at her words, a soft 'pffft' slipping through your lips once you realized what happened. "you're an apologizer when you bump into stuff?" you smiled. "i took you more for someone who curses the poor thing out." you only wished that there was some source of light so you could see jill's flushed face.

jill simply huffed and shook her head, grumbling a 'shut up' before continuing on.

carlos oliveira

"all clear!" you called, discarding the empty mag onto the floor and slipping another into the chamber as the zombie's corpse fell at your feet. heavy footsteps approached you from behind, causing you to turn around. "you sure it's clear this time?" carlos questioned, loosely holding his own rifle.

you rolled your eyes with a soft snort, "i did say 'all clear' didn't i?" carlos put his hands up in mock surrender, "hey, i'm just looking out for you. that zombie gave you a good scare last time." he claimed, your cheeks burning at his words. shaking your head, you turned away from him and marched into the room, carlos hot on your heels. "if you're so unsure then why don't you do another sweep oliveira?" you called over your shoulder, plucking the leaves from the potted red plant.

"alright." carlos brushed past you, glass crunching beneath his boots as he looked around the bloodied work room. he headed for the door near the back, turning the knob with his hand while using his shoulder to push through. the door thudded against the wall, carlos' hands now on his rifle as he pointed it about, doing a slow sweep of the small locker room. "all clear." carlos called, lowering his gun. he approached the lockers on the far end of the room, going through each one.

"anything good?" you questioned, poking your head through the door. "got a keycard, that's about-" a startled shout left the male, his voice cracking near the end. you jumped and immediately reached for your gun, eyes blown wide. the zombie's body landed on the tiled floor with a loud THUD, carlos muttering curses under his breath as he stepped away from the corpse. you couldn't help but feel your lips stretch into a stupid grin, "nice one carlos." you snickered.

"not a word of this to t." carlos breathed out, eliciting a giggle from you. "cross my heart and hope to die." you recited, drawing a little 'x' over where your heart was. the brunette sent you a small glare before turning away to continue rummaging through the lockers.

you put your hands up in mock surrender, "hey, someone had to bite the bullet bud."

nemesis

you trailed behind the large creature, silently rubbing your forearms in an attempt to get the goosebumps to go away. you had been following nemesis ever since zombies forced you out of your apartment. when you had hit the street after fleeing, you were lucky to run into him. nemesis didn't seem to mind that you approached him, nor did he care that people were running from the sight of him. he simply scrutinized you with his eye before turning away in disinterest and beginning to walk forward.

you did try to make conversation, but small-talk really wasn't your strong suit. plus, all nemesis responded with was a deep, guttural "S.T.A.R.S." which didn't make for great icebreakers...

but you did notice one thing, he seemed to have a destination in mind. with the looming power plant in the distance, it was pretty easy to tell. "hey, uh... if we take that alleyway, it'll be faster." you called, gesturing to the metal fence-gate with your thumb. nemesis stopped in his tracks, causing you to stop as well. he slowly craned his head to look in the direction you had motioned to.

now that you thought about it... seeing as how big he was, would he even fit through the doorway? much less the alley? "on second thought-" you were cut short when he stomped towards the alley, practically ripping the gate off it's hinges and tossing it aside. "oh..." you swallowed thickly, wearily trailing after him. nemesis ducked beneath the doorway, continuing onward without checking to see if you followed.

the two of you traveled throughout the interconnected alleyways, you having long given up on trying to start a conversation. nemesis came to an abrupt halt, causing you to bump into his back with a grunt. you opened your mouth to ask what was going on, until he opened his left hand. a pink-reddish tentacle slid out from his palm, nemesis bringing his hand forward to strike a nearby trashcan.

a loud yowl came from behind the can, a black cat scurrying out of the way to avoid the falling can. it turned to hiss at nemesis, it's tail fluffed up and back arched. the feline rushed further into the alleyway, leaving you two in the dust.

"did you... get scared of the cat?" you questioned aloud, slowly looking up to nemesis. he glanced down at you and gave a low growl, sheathing his tentacle before continuing onwards. a smile broke out onto your lips as you began to follow him once more.

that wasn't an exact answer, but you'd take it as a yes anyways.

#bee's writing #resident evil 3 remake #re3 remake #re3 carlos #re3 nemesis #re3 jill #resident evil 3 #re3make #carlos oliveira #carlos oliveria x reader #jill valentine #jill valentine x reader #nemesis #nemesis x reader #dead by daylight x reader #dead by daylight fanfic #dbd fanfic #dbd x reader #dbd jill #🌙

[obituaried-a]

@sawbladed​ asked: ( far cry new dawn ) “ Okay, okay, I know you’re pissed off about the whole hostage thing in the Prosperity. And I KNOW I was kind of a jerk to drag you into the water with me, but I promise I PROMISE, you won’t regret this! ” He’s holding Yejun by the wrist and leading him through the thicket in the dead of night. JJ’s determination guided them to a place unknown by Yejun. And once they finally reached their destination a wide grin spread across JJ’s face as he turned his head, beaming as he spoke, “ Okay, here it is! ”  He pushed aside the shrubbery obscuring the view of a large, clear and glistening lake. White deers with pink noses kissing the surface of the water to drink in the distance. And shimmering all around the edges were fireflies lighting up the lake. All of this hidden in a quiet valley with the sky illuminated by the greenish-blue hue of the northern lights. Letting go of Yejun, JJ is the first to step out between the growth of small trees and bushes, allowing his company to follow suit before walking forward. Sure, he was nervous, the butterflies in his stomach never went away - especially with his so-called rival at his side, but JJ couldn’t tell the difference between his anxiety and excitement. “ I think I see some wolves over there… but I think they’re just hanging out too. They don’t look like they’re hunting, ” he said, observing how the small pack laying about idly by a dock, “ I told you, you gotta stop and take it all in - or you’ll miss the beauty that’s right in front of you! ”

    Everything that JJ said had been correct. He was pissed about being a hostage in Prosperity. It not only put a target on his back, but his sister’s. If he’d learned anything in his time with Mickey and Lou, it was that these women had zero patience for weakness, they had zero patience for slip ups, and they would discard anyone deemed a ‘problem.’ These days? Yejun was a big fucking problem. Kept in the security of the walls of Prosperity, with JJ watching his every move like a hawk... it had him wondering really why he was taken alive. He’d seen him and his brother mow down highwayman with launched sawblades as if it were a fulltime hobby of his. 

    The carnage he watched in each outpost, certainly haunted him to the core. It might be survivor’s guilt, but at times, Yejun found himself more bitter than anything that he was the one who lived when many great men and women he’d come to know had to fall. As if he lived by standing on a pile of corpses. As if living on borrowed time. “   Stop talkin’ in riddles already, you gonna tell me what this is all abou-  ” He trails off as the two migrate through foliage and brush, indirectly ripping him from his own ruminations, as the light of the aurora above their heads reflects onto the lake dead center of this cove. 

    Akin to a scene in a storybook that he had read to Euna over and over again, Yejun was like a deer in the headlights to see the scene before him. The water sparkled like diamonds, and nature reclaimed the land entirely. Lilies growing in the water, the croaking of frogs and tadpoles swimming in harmony, as well as the albino deer drinking their fill of this crystal clear water. It’s an image that differed greatly than what Yejun expected to be brought to. As he had assumed this was when his time would come. That he was being lead to his execution, finally. That JJ was directing him away from the group to off him. Yet in a view so harmonious, it would almost be a crime to shed blood here. It could only show how much Yejun misjudged someone as pure-hearted as JJ. 

   “   Wow...  I- ” Oftentimes, the Highwayman was a man of few words by his own choice. He never found them worth uttering, but now? He was speechless due to his wonderment. It felt... light. Liberating. He’s not one moved hard by emotion or sentiment, yet he feels his chest swelling with delectation. “   Wanna hear something stupid?  ” Those crass words aren’t truly befitting of a place so beautiful, or an atmosphere so calm, but Yejun didn’t care much for sugarcoating He’d admit the truth of how he felt. How he saw the world. “    Before I met you, I don’t think I had an eye for this kind of thing. I was always the kind of person who kept my head down and went through the motions. Each day was just killing time to get to the next location, and repetition of old routines.   ” A huff as he gazes at the landscape, swallowing briefly. “   I’ve lived life without much purpose or care of what happened to me. I knew I’d die one of these days living as fast as I do. So much that, tonight... walking in the woods with you to get here,   ” dark eyes glance down at the water, watching it ripple as small fish swim. 

   “   I figured I was walking with you to my death. That you were taking me to my dumping grounds, to not dirty up Prosperity with my corpse. In a way, I was okay with it. We see so much death everyday for a world that’s started over, it’s just the cycle of everything.   ” Guess that’s what happens when someone lives with a heavy conscious of the consequences of their survival choices, and this might just be the most words Yejun feels he’s ever uttered to anyone. Funny who it was addressed to. To this blood-sworn rival of his. Dark eyes befall the other young man, taking in the expression on his face. Taking in the ‘beauty that’s right in front of him.’ It wasn’t just these otherworldly landscapes that had been the beauty before him, all along. It was the person who could throw him off the rails of his one-track mind and give him a new perspective. That, was beauty to him. 

  “    You have a knack for surprises though. I gotta hand that much to you, if nothing else at all.    ” Considering, this had been a young man who did everything to follow him to the edges of Hope County, and in every violent encounter, managed to put down the gun. Who weaseled his way closer than anyone could’ve even dreamed with someone as reserved as Yejun. JJ clearly knew nothing of what discouragement felt like, or didn’t allow such negative feelings to overcome him, because he didn’t falter for even a moment. And on Yejun’s end, he never experienced the feeling of gratitude much like this. Never experienced awe for anyone like this. In a way, this growing bond between the two of them had Yejun more stunned than the view itself. “    I’ve never felt like this before. I’ve never wanted a moment to last forever, until now.   ”

#❝ ‘ 🔪 it’s an instinct for my heart to want you.. ﹕ JJ / sawbladed. #sawbladed #i love them so much and im sorry i always write like 1000000 paragraphs for them but they deserve it #yejun's just in like... the most elation ever being with jj #and jj is rly a golden retriever #it warms my heart #q.

[idiotwhotalkstoomuch]

I never expected you guys to like demon Senjuro so much lol I’m really happy to see that like it was such a random impulse thought but the au has a lot of room for growth

In this post Im gonna establish a few things about what happened to Senjuro and Kyojuro in the events between Senjuro’s “death” and the pillar meeting. I will only cover their relationship and a little bit of Senjuro’s relationship with Tanjiro. The others can come at a different post cause this post is gonna be long lol so I put it under cut cause no one really wants a post to flood their dash

TW: Mentions of death (some are children), mentions of cannibalism (If you’ve seen even the first episode of demon slayer and had no problem, you’re fine with this post. This post is slightly not anime only friendly as I make references to an upper moon and I show a manga only panel as of posting this) Shnjuro gets really depressed but luckily there is no attempted suicide

Senjuro Rengoku

- His class was at the bottom floor and they were cleaning the school (I heard thats a thing in Japan if someone has a better idea on what they’re doing feel free to shoot an ask) when they got attacked

- In canon we dont know his age but I’m gonna guess like 12-14 but in the au he is 13 so he was 12 when he became a demon. A rogue demon attacked Senjuro’s class and Senjuro ran to get help and was fatally injured but still managed run to get help as he was given a nichirin sword and even if it didnt change color he must have known breathing techniques at the very least on a basic level and the demon was too preoccupied with some of the teachers and others trying to kill the demon, of course unaware of what it was except for Senjuro

- Upper moon 4 was sneaking around when he saw the all but dead body of Senjuro and demons really dont have standards for turning people into demons so when he noticed he was alive, turned him into a demon mostly so that if he did find any “evil people” (demon slayers) he could use him as his meat shield alongside his personalities

- When Senjuro woke up as a demon (cause even if he was a breath user he was very inexperienced so Hantengu had no problem making him a demon), he had no memory of his life as a human and looked around trying to find a human to satiate his hunger and saw a human in the distance with someone and began to run to them to satiate his hunger when he felt himself being held back. 

- The spirit of Ruka Rengoku gently held her son back and instructed him to not eat humans as that’s not something he should do and even if Senjuro couldn’t recognize the woman holding him back, he found himself obeying her and running to go to a place to hide from the sun

- From that moment on for a few day he would hop from place to place whether underneath homes, in caves or any place he could find to avoid being seen and to be shielded from the sun and found himself growing sleepy so in the cave he hid in, far away from the place he was last in, he closed his eyes and fell asleep for a year

- When he woke up, he had unwittingly burnt away Muzan’s control of him and was unsure on what to do when Ruka’s spirit appeared again telling him that he needs to find his way home. Senjuro wasn’t actually listening to a lot of what she said except one thing stuck to him. 

- “Senjuro”, he didn’t know what his name was as a demon but the name seem to stick to him and he figured this must be his name (he would of course be correct)

- When he found himself staying with the Kamaboko squad, having been spared despite being a demon due to him not having any form of aggression to them (something they all noticed due to his general demeanor and their enhanced sense) and Tanjiro could smell he hadnt eaten one human and he invited him to join them. He joined Nezuko in her box (she can grow really really tiny if she wants or is tired)

Reference: 

Kny chapter 85

- He joined for two reasons: One, he was really scared of people and demon slayers especially so when Tanjiro offered him the chance to be able to be safe and hide he took it. Secondly, he wasn’t sure but the smile Tanjiro gave and his warm reassurance reminded of him of someone, when he thought hard he only saw blurry shadows and got a headache so didn’t try to push it

- Tanjiro did ask him in the wisteria house while Zenitsu was chatting with Nezuko and Inosuke was off being Inosuke about his past and Senjuro told him about his brief meetings with a woman with black hair and asks if they’ve met before as he feels familiar

- This is where he gets the idea that the woman with black hair (Ruka) is his mother and Tanjiro guesses that the person that he thinks is Tanjiro must be his father (right on the first part Tanjiro but wrong on the second lol, you tried)

- He wears a cyan yukata with a new hakama pants as the clothes he was previously wearing was the same bloodstained clothes he wore after turning into a demon and Tanjiro didnt want to leave him in that. Tanjiro thought to get him a gag but the idea made Senjuro uncomfortable so Tanjiro made him swear to never eat a single human

- In Mount Nagatumo, he was too scared to jump out to protect Tanjiro like Nezuko but when she gets sliced up he leaves the box to watch her while Tanjiro fights Rui, unfortunately he is caught in Rui’s webs like Nezuko and was saved from it by Nezuko flames (though it did burn him a fair bit, Nezuko would apologize to him for this later)

- Giyuu doesn’t kill Senjuro cause his resemblance to Kyojuro despite the different clothes and demon eyes is clear to anyone who can see and Shinobu also finds herself hesitating but shakes those feelings off as Kyojuro deserves better than to see his little brother as a demon. Luckily Giyuu stops him and Senjuro runs with Nezuko and Tanjiro but is later taken back to the demon slyer corps by a Kakushi who put him and Nezuko back in their box

- When Sanemi stabbed the box, he moved to try and protect Nezuko but the box was too cramped and they both got stabbed despite his efforts. Later when he tries to bait him with his marechi blood, he’s too focused on resisting the blood and on Nezuko who he had grown to see as a sister to care about the wide eyed looks the pillars were giving him.

Kyojuro Rengoku (I am so sorry in advance Kyojuro simps I put this man THROUGH IT)

- He had just finished a mission and was going to get another mission when a crow he hadn’t seen work in years came flying to him, obviously panicked telling him how Senjuro’s school was attacked and how no one can find Senjuro among the bodies. The crow was Shinjuro’s

- When he hears that, all the kakushi and other demon slayers present would say they had never seen the flame pillar run so frantically, he only stopped to apologize briefly if he bumped into someone while running but the only thing racing in his mind was his little brother who had no weapon to defend himself with. He forced the image of his brother being nothing but a corpse away only thinking about saving Senjuro

- When he reached the school, he forced himself to calm down. Panicking isn’t going to magically bring Senjuro to him so he needs to keep himself in check because with so many people dead, he’s not the only one concerned over the kids

- There were no survivors on the area that was attacked, the police were there investigating the deaths of the many children and teachers, Kyojuro had to spend time convincing the police he was with them and to be allowed to investigate as well

- With no survivors, he heard from the police that there was a blood trail when they got there and he went to find the trail, when he reached the end of it where there were no traces of Senjuro but since the people there were untrained civilians, Senjuro was the only possible person to have been there

- He spent multiple days searching, Mitsuri was at one point sent to check on him and it was clear he was pushing himself, as days passed by, his composure and bright demeanor were crumbling and he started latching onto any lead to at the very least find the body of Senjuro to take back home but it was becoming clear that he would never find it and a kakushi had to be the one to tell him that his body was likely eaten to the bone or eaten and discarded to either rot away or eaten by someone else

- Kyojuro took a week off, not just because of the grief he felt at that moment but because he needed to check on his father and make sure he would be okay, the man didn’t even face Kyojuro when he came in to visit, he forced himself to not cry in front of his father as he tried to talk to the man who couldn’t even say a word and just drank away even as his eldest son tried to talk to him

- Servants were hired to monitor Shinjuro by Kyojuro as he was concerned about his health both physically and mentally but he did notice how Shinjuro never resisted to being taken care of by the people he hired. They reported to him he could be heard muttering Senjuro’s name and even stares at his room for extended periods of time

- When he made his return, he apologized to the pillars for his behavior the past two weeks (even though no one blamed the man, some even said it was okay if he needed more time, they wouldn’t judge) but whenever he was told that he said he had to be strong to protect the weak so he could be someone that could stop families from ending up like his own

- He was far more determined in killing demons, demon attacks had become personal to him now, whenever he saw a demon eating people he found himself wondering what they must’ve thought in the afterlife as the demon desecrated their bodies

- In the pillar meeting, when he was informed of a swordsman who travelled with not one but two demons, he felt disgust as who knows how many humans they could eat. On the way to the meeting, he couldn’t help but notice Shinobu deliberately avoiding him a bit, Giyuu was doing the same but the man never really talked with them much to begin with

- When he saw Senjuro go out of the box with Nezuko, he felt the smile on his face drop and his heart practically sunk to the core of the earth as he saw the unmistakable hair of a Rengoku and the face was so clearly Senjuro’s despite his eyes having a black sclera and his iris and pupil becoming cat like, the pillars had all turned to see if the flame pillar was alright and he could hear Himejima mutter prayers and Mitsuri was on the verge of tears seeing Senjuro alive but as a demon

- He found himself going into denial until Tanjiro, who had been freed as Obanai left to comfort the distressed love pillar, ran and yelled Senjuro’s name and told him to resist his hunger

- “My sister and the other demon with us are different! They would never eat a human!”

- Senjuro was a good kid, he was innocent, kind and a bit on the timid side. He had helped raise him, he knew Senjuro would never want to harrm a fellow human even when threatened. 

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #kny #demon senjuro au #senjuro rengoku #rengoku senjuro #rengoku senjurou #kyojuro rengoku #rengoku kyojuro #rengoku kyoujuro #senjurou rengoku #kyojurou rengoku #tanjiro kamado #tanjirou kamado #kamado tanjiro #kamado tanjirou #ruka rengoku #rengoku ruka #shinjuro rengoku #rengoku shinjuro #kyoujurou rengoku #rengoku kyoujurou

[ryushiho]

toy - sukuna x fem!reader

pairing: sukuna x fem!reader

w.c: 3.2k

contains: noncon, angst, depictions of violence

a.n: i am so so sorry for the late post ;-;-; also repost bc stupid tags wont work

“Stop!” You flail your arms in a desperate attempt to catch Itadori’s attention.

He doesn’t hear you. Itadori’s too busy pummeling his fists into Mahito’s face, splitting bone and flesh under his knuckles. Bloody arms arc smoothly into the air, carving jagged black streaks into the placidity of the pale sky.

When each hit connects, blood fountains into the air, then scatters back down around the concrete.

Again and again and again, until the sky’s pouring viscous, crimson rain onto the abandoned parking lot.

“Stop!”

Your hoarse yell bounces off the crumbling buildings and echoes across the open space. It’s obvious Itadori can hear you; each time you scream, an almost imperceptible flinch thrums through his skin. But he doesn’t respond, nor does he stop; if anything, his punches only grow stronger.

“I’m gonna kill him!” Itadori shrieks back.

You don’t know if he’s talking to you or himself.

“I’m gonna kill him! I’m going to do it!” More punches hurtle into Mahito’s limp body.

“No!” That idiot! “Don’t kill him, you twerp!”

Mahito was important information—you needed him alive, not ground into pulpy meat. At this rate, your student was going to turn the damn cursed spirit into nothing but broken bones and torn flesh.

If you couldn’t talk him out of it, then you’d have to knock him out.

You skid to a stop, crouching deeply into the balls of your feet.

Inhale.

Exhale. Tendrils of your breath seep from your pursed lips, puffing into thin clouds. You close your eyes. Another deep inhale.

Exhale.

Bursts of your power flood over the area, spilling over onto the parking lot like tides lapping at a sandy coast. The waves are refreshingly cold as it rushes over your feet, flowing past your body to drench Itadori in its salty embrace.

The white tides foam around his skin and drain away his cursed power. The inky darkness of his vengeance-fueled energy stains the pure waters, and its not long before the once-white waves turn black and oily. When your domain finally cleanses him of his power, Itadori blinks sleepily and slowly slackens.

His eyes never leave you even as his body crumples on the ground. And when you close your eyes to look away, the betrayal in Itadori’s gaze haunts the darkness behind your eyelids.

The last of your power sputters out of you, weak, foamy sprays that fall pathetically at your feet, feet that stumble and stagger wildly as you struggle to regain your balance. He may have been your student, but you couldn’t deny that he was stronger than you—it had taken all of your power to subdue him.

At any other moment, you would’ve puffed with pride at how much your student had grown since graduation.

But now was not the time.

The edge of your vision flickers in blue-black static, and your domain vaporizes into salty steam. You sway in place, head pulsing from one of the worst migraines you’ve had in a while.

It feels like you’re a freshman in college again, drunk on one too many shots of cheap whiskey. The flickering energy in the air —a cocktail of Itadori’s, yours and Mahito’s—reminds you of the cheap probe lights and cellophane decorations, swirling disjointedly in all of their plastic glory.

You laugh dryly. Reminiscing about college? Really?

The floor lurches abruptly and pulls you into a painful embrace.

“Ow!”

You hiss, curling a finger around your throbbing scalp  Well, that’s going to leave a lump. Itadori’s unconscious body lay only a few feet away from you, and chunks of Mahito’s flesh still clung to the bottom of your shoes. Ugh.

You drop your head back on the floor, exhaling audibly. Against the canopy of the foggy sky, the white sun pierces through pale clouds and stings your squinted eyes. It was bright. Too bright. After what had happened, you’d almost expected the sky to be stained permanently crimson. Somewhere in the distance, a murder of crows scatter into the air, trailing gritty caws behind them.

You close your eyes and sigh.

God, you were absolutely spent—you didn’t know if you could manage even a single spell. Where was all the other sorcerers?

Cracks pop from your spine as you roll onto your side and push yourself onto your knees. “Ow, fuck, my back.”

Slow bastards. What were they doing, crawling on all fours? What was taking them so goddamn long?

If you got out of this alive, you were going to—

Someone laughs.

Too deep to be Itadori’s, too gritty to be Megumi’s.

No.

Realization seeps through you, and it pools cold dread inside your bones.

“Well, this is an interesting turn of events,” Sukuna rumbles behind you.

Before you can react, his hands grip your shoulders and flip you on your back. There’s a sharp twinge in your skin as he pinches your chin and jerks your face up towards him, forcing you to meet the spirit’s gleeful grin.

“Hm,” Sukuna cocks his head, leaning towards you. “Are you the one that knocked out the brat?”

His signature markings crawl over Itadori’s skin, but you barely notice the strange black lines; like a stupid fawn caught in the headlights of her impending doom, you’re too entranced by the cruelty flickering in Sukuna’s crimson eyes.

What went wrong?

You can’t look away, not even when he releases your chin to stroke your cheek. You can do nothing but shiver in fear as he skims his fingers over your jaws, down your neck, and back up towards your mouth.

The slender digits suddenly slip past your lips. They’re warm—hot, even—as Sukuna explores the inside of your mouth with his fingers.

Huh?

A lewd leer dances over Sukuna’s features as he swirls the bloody finger over your tongue, grinning even widely when he hears your heartbeat drum faster.

In the hazy aftershocks of your domain expansion, you can’t formulate proper thoughts.

But you can still formulate primitive desires.

Sukuna could sense both your rising arousal and your panicked attempts to snuff out the throbbing sensation, and it turned him on to no end. Your dewy, tear-rimmed eyes, your quivering lips, your trembling body… fuck, he couldn’t wait to shove his cock into your warm cunt.

Would you scream in pain, or moan from pleasure? He swipes away the drool trickling down his chin and smiles excitedly.

“You’ll do.”

You’ll do? Fear shrieks through your veins, clouding your attempts to clear your head. What was he doing? Why was he coming nearer? You didn’t, couldn’t understand what his words meant, nor could you understand why Sukuna was sucking the fingers he’d pushed into your lips.

Abruptly, his palms crack across your cheek, rocking you back on your ass.

Your hands fly up to your cheek, cradling the flaring skin, and the fear melts away from the heat of your irritation and anger. Pain brings forth adrenaline from the depths of your terror-infested heart, giving you enough courage to meet Sukuna’s eyes. Monster. Murderous asshole, you silently accuse.

Sukuna snorts at your defiant glare. You look so beautifully pathetic—crumpled on the floor, body still shaking from fear, power drained out completely, your pitiful glower being the only semblance of resistance you can manage out.

He licks his lips, one hand reaching down to palm himself through his trousers.

Your gaze flickers towards the strain in his pants, eyes widening as you finally realize what was about to happen, what he wanted.

Shit.

Sukuna grins at the scent of fresh fear, feeling his cock grow harder against his hands. That little burst of adrenaline-fueled courage had already evaporated from your veins, your feeble attempts at saving your dignity already discarded.

No, you were too busy trying to crawl away from him, limbs scrabbling weakly against the floor.

“Don’t run away now,” Sukuna laughs.

Lurching forward, he grips your shirt and plucks you up from the ground. He drags your struggling body along the parking lot, marching past corpses of cursed spirits to stop near the entrance of the lot.

As if you were nothing but a ragdoll, he flings you across the ground.

Gravel stings your knees as your body hits the concrete. You roll onto your knees, head swinging wildly to assess your new surroundings, and it’s then you finally notice the sorcerers crowded at parking lot’s entrance.

They’re here!

“Help me!” you cry out, stretching out your arms towards them.

They don’t move. They don’t respond.

“Please, help!” you scream again, desperation scratching your voice hoarse.

Did they not hear you? Why weren’t they moving?

“Please!”

Silence blows across the concrete, only to be disturbed by Sukuna’s cruel laugh.

“They’re a bunch of cowards.” Sukuna grips the back of your neck and hauls you up, pulling your body flush against his chest. “Aren’t they?”

He sighs contently, nuzzling his lips into the crook of your shoulders. Gently, he twists his head to bite your ear, lathering the crescent marks with his tongue as he pulls away.

You shudder, tears dripping down your cheeks. “Help,” you whimper out, but your broken cries don’t reach the sorcerers.

They’re too busy devising up empty justifications for their indifference, for their inability to help. It’s too dangerous. You’re a hostage. Too many would die if they tried to save you. You’re not worth it.

Sacrifice one for the good of many. You’d always agreed with the sentiment—it was just one life, after all.

But now that you were the sacrificial sheep in question, you found that no, you didn’t agree.

No, you didn’t want to die. You didn’t want his kiss, you didn’t want his tongue against the bite marks littering your neck. You didn’t want this.

Right?

With his arms still wrapped around your body, Sukuna lifts his head and grins at your audience. “I’m going to take her. I’m going to ruin this bitch’s tight cunt, and you’re going to watch,” his grin snaps into a fearsome snarl, one that thrums terror through the crowd of the jujutsu sorcerers.

“All of you. If you look away or close your eyes, I’ll fucking know,” he growls.

When he turns back to you, the twisted snarl dissipates into a sweet leer. “Would you like that, baby?” Sukuna croons, his hands groping your chest. With an easy jerk of his hands, he tears away your clothes.

The tattered fabric pools at your feet, your bra joining them only a second later. Hot hands twist and squeeze your breasts, his lips trailing down your skin and teeth digging into the meat of your shoulders.

A sick grin stretches his lips.

“I can smell your arousal.”

You burst out in a sob.

“I hate you,” you weep, desperately denying your own body.

No, you didn’t like this. You didn’t like the way his fingers twisted your nipples, the way he ground the palm of his hands into your clothed clit. You hated him. You hated his lips that sucked teasingly at your earlobes, hated the way his cock ground so pleasurably into your ass.

You hated him. You hated yourself for liking his touch.

Sukuna moans deeply, leaning around to lick the salty tears off your cheek. “Mm, that’s right, cry for me,” he ground his hips, the bulge of his cock pressing into your back, “I fucking love it when pretty girls cry.”

You can’t stop your shaking sobs as Sukuna kicks out your legs from underneath you, pushing you onto your hands and knees. Before you can react, his power secures you in place; you can’t move, not even a muscle. Even worse, you’re forced to stare at the sorcerers as you feel him kneel behind you.

Faces filled with horror, fear, apprehension, revulsion stare back at you, their disgusting gazes phasing around you in hazy circles.

Don’t look at me!

The pity in their eyes strip your dignity away, and you know you’re done. They’ll ostracize you forever. Everytime they look at you, they’ll only see the image of his cock piercing your body. They’ll only see Sukuna’s fucktoy.

“Don’t pity me! Don’t you dare pity me!” you shriek. “You don’t deserve to pity me! You let this happen!”

Tears dribble down your chin as you watch them all look away. “You hypocrites!”

“Shit,” Sukuna moans as he peels away your jeans, “look at how wet you are. You’re just a little slut, aren’t you?”

“No!” you cry, shaking your head vigorously. “I’m not! I’m not, I’m not…”

His fingers graze your sex through the soaked cotton of your panties. Heat twitches through your body; you can’t deny it. No matter how much you shake your head, you can’t deny the way your flesh craves more of his touch, they way your cunt clenches with each stroke of his fingers.

Sukuna grins, pressing his fingers further into your sopping folds. “I felt that, woman. You like when I touch that little cunny? Hm?” He pulls his fingers away, curling anticipation and apprehension inside you.

You can almost hear the seconds tick by.

Tick,

tick,

tick,

tick—

He rips your panties away and buries his face between your legs.

“Sukuna!”

His tongue delves straight into your cunt, the wet muscle fucking your twitching hole. The lewd noises coming from his slurping lips has your cheeks flaming red, but embarrassment is at the least of your concerns, not when you’re nearly retching in pleasure.

Sobs turn into moans, one intense emotion shifting into another. All your shame, hate, and pain tunnels into single-minded ecstasy that has you squirming and shaking on the ground.

Hot lips latch around your clit and suckle hard, drawing out gushes of milky slick. You’re crying again, sobbing because he feels too good. It hurts, even; he’s overstimming you, pushing your body past its limits. You feel him grin against your flesh, but you’re too distracted by the silky tongue pushing in and out of your cunt.

Shit, shit, shit!

“S-Sukuna! Don’t–I don’t… d-don’t stop,” you sob, his power the only thing stopping you from collapsing onto the concrete.

The slick skin of his tongue rubs against the insides of your cunt, teasing you with a glimpse of penetration. It’s not long before you’re craving more, more than just his tongue. You want it. You can’t deny him. You can’t deny your own pleasure.

And of course, Sukuna feels your desire before you can even articulate it with words.

His mouth leaves your sex, the cool air chilling the wet flesh. Choking sobs dribble from your lips. You were so close, so fucking close! Why did he stop?

What were you thinking?

Metal scritches against metal—the sound of unzipping jeans.

Were you really a slut?

Belt buckles clack against each other; jeans rustle and hit the floor.

Did you want him?

Something cotton tears; flesh slaps against flesh.

You inhale; you hear him exhale.

I want him.

Then everything fills you up at once.

You stretch and stretch and stretch but its not enough, and he pushes past your choking cunt and pulls back, pushes back in and oh god, he’s so fucking big and you feel like you’re about to split open—

but in a good way.

In a way that has you keening and crying for more, in a way that has you wishing you could buck up against his hips. Every thrust grinds against that sweet spot inside your walls, waves of electric ecstasy zipping up your chest and curling at your heart.

“Tightest cunt I’ve ever fucked,” he grunts, one hand splaying against the small of your back. His balls pap against your cunt, the lewd slaps joining the symphony of your high-pitched whimpers and his guttural groans. Sukuna pushes your chest down, positioning you so every snap of his hips could stuff his drooling head against that bundle of nerves.

“Mm, mm!” you moan against the concrete, cheeks smushed into the blood-stained surface.

It feels so good that you forget you have a horrified audience watching.

Your eyes roll back and your tongue hangs past your lips, dribbling saliva all over your chin. Sukuna laughs as you roll your hips back to meet his thrusts, your gummy walls clamping around his thick shaft. Strings of your milky arousal slick his hips and your thighs, coaxing out an animalistic groan from his lips.

With your mind already lost to the heady pleasure, you can’t see the way their expressions twist from disbelief into disgust.

Perhaps it’s better that you can’t.

All you can focus on is the way he groans in your ears as he plunges his cock inside you, Precum and slick bubbles inside your cunt and coats your cervix each time his head kisses the puckered muscle. It hurts; a deep ache blooms within your womb that has you howling both in pain and pleasure.

Before you can voice your agony, Sukuna’s fingers reach into your clit and circles the neglected bud.

He smiles savagely when your howls sharpen into bliss-filled cries. Human women were so easy to manipulate, and you were no exception.

“Sensitive little cunt, huh?” he strains out, bucking into your hips.

Sukuna can smell the tears still lingering on your cheeks and the fear-stained pleasure that wafts from your body. His cock throbs violently, his abs clenching against the strain of his impending climax.

Leaning forward, he grinds his fangs into the back of your neck, thrusting deeper inside you. “Fuck, you’re going to milk me dry, woman. Gonna mark you with my seed,” he grins. “You’d like that, won’t you? My little bitch wants me to fuck a baby into that slutty womb, doesn’t she? Shit,” Sukuna moans, hovering over the cliff of ecstasy.

“Please,” you whimper out, and your breathy plea’s enough to send him over that edge.

You scream as hot semen pumps from his cock, spurts of the viscous liquid squirting straight against your cervix. The sensation of having your cunt filled to the brim by his thick seed snaps the tension within your core, and you join Sukuna in ecstasy.

The pleasure is as hot as his load, almost painful in the way your cunt clenches his girth over and over again. Each pulsation boils rapture through your veins and dribbles broken moans past clenched teeth. It hurts so good…

“Fuck, that’s a good girl,” Sukuna hisses, sheathing himself all the way inside your spasming cunt. “Milk that cock, every last drop.”

The final few ropes of cum drains into your cunt as you drift down from your high, mind lost to the rapture. You’re gone, too gone to even notice Sukuna pulling away.

You lay on the ground, crumpled on the cum-stained concrete, unresponsive even as Sukuna disappears back inside Itadori’s mind with a final, cruel laugh.

When Itadori finally comprehends the scene before him—his semen coating from your thighs, his still-hard cock, your torn clothing, the crowd of sorcerers watching—he can do nothing but scream.

“No, no, no!” he roars, glaring wildly at the sorcerers. “Why didn’t you save her?”

“We couldn’t—”

“Why?”

He collapses next to your half-conscious body, sobbing desperately. “I’m so sorry, sensei, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, this is all my fault.”

Itadori strokes your hair, rage and guilt tearing his heart to shreds.

“It’s all my fault, it’s all my fault…”

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu sukuna #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #jujutsu kaisen oneshot #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk sukuna #jjk smut #sukuna jjk #sukuna jujutsu kaisen #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x reader #sukuna smut #yuuji itadori #yuji itadori x reader #∞fic

[slashersins]

slasher’s reaction to there s/o getting taken or held hostage

part one | part two |

part two will have : bubba , billy & stu , vincent , bo , lester , and jacob .

@motherthoty  asked: Could you do a slasher reaction to there s/o getting taken or held hostage? I just gotta know man 😖

jason voorhees

held hostage

he’s teeming with anger , cold , lethal fury radiating off of him . it’s directed half towards the man haphazardly holding a hunting knife to your jaw with a shaky grip , and half towards himself for not preventing the situation . his machete is gripped so tightly that he could almost feel the skin pulling and tearing on his knuckles . his eyes flicking between your tear stained face and the screaming man .

freak , monster , kill you if he doesn’t drop his weapon , let me go and he won’t hurt you , fuck face , killer , monster . the words don’t fully reach his ears , but he knows what the intentions are . and he knows that he doesn’t need a machete to end the life of the man who thought it was wise to go after his lover .

with a solid thunk , the blade sinks into the muddy earth at his side , a way to pacify the man . he only needs you to get away , only needs a moment to rip you from his arms before ripping his arms off his body . let him think he’s won . let him think that he won’t attack .

the man’s face turn frantic and ecstatic , tears welling in his eyes as he loosens his grip on the knife , on you . jason’s fingers flex at his side , the man doesn’t notice , and before he can tighten his grip on you again to make another set of threats and demands jason is on him .

he doesn’t have time to scream , before his head is twisted completely around . you don’t have time to see or realize what’s happened before jason has you in his arms , keeping you from looking at your attacker . it was too quick for him . too gentle . too kind . jason had wanted to mutilate the man . cut him and make him scream . torture him and drag his body and blood through the camp as a warning to anyone who tried to touch what was his . but he couldn’t . the need to get you in his arms , get you save overpowered his brutal desires .

he lifts you , tucking you into his chest , his neck , arms shaking now that he has you . now that he almost lost you . he isn’t about to let  you go . he can’t . not even to dispose of the body . he can deal with that later . first he needs you home . needs you safe . and needs to make a thousand promises to you that this will never happen again .

michael myers

taken

cold , unforgiving , eyes stared up at the building . smith grove’s sanitarium . here . the soon to be dead man had taken you here . it was a twisted kind of joke for michael to be returning to the place he’d spent years of his life being poked and prodded and belittled and captive . loomis might just be as fucked up as he was for this . but that wouldn’t matter for long . only one of them would be living past tonight . the doctor had gone too far . he’d touched what was his , taken his property , his possession , his obsession . loomis had stolen you from him .

micahel is known for his brutality . this is unlike anything he’s done before . there is no simple quick kill . every person he comes across has his blood lust singing so loudly that it clouds his vision , makes every face seem like the man he’s after . the trail of gore and viscera he leaves behind him , clinging to his clothes , his hands , boots drenched in blood is proof of how he feels about this assault on him . and he knows , he knows that loomis is watching , hiding , and he turns his head to look at a security camera , eyes a glaring , blazing blue before he turns the corner .

every step draws him closer to loomis . closer to you . each step he can hear the chant of death and slaughter ringing in his ears . every step he feels as if his body is burning from the inside out . and then he’s there . just outside a door when he hears something so familiar . a whimper . your whimper . as if someone was holding their hand over your mouth , trying to force you to shut up . his keen ears pick up on it so quickly , so distinctly . he’s touching you . loomis has his hands on you . it’s another crime against michael added to the ever growing list .

the door is barely slammed open and there’s already a loud band ringing out in the room , a searing heat tears through michael’s shoulder , and has him taking a half step back . he doesn’t need to look to know he’s been shot . but just in the shoulder . and loomis should know that no amount of bullets will stop him from getting back what’s his .

looking back up he sees loomis pointing the gun back at him , he sees you trying to reach for him , trying to struggle as loomis holds a hand over your mouth . the sight . . . the sight of it all has him moving forward . three more shots , two land but he doesn’t stop . he doesn’t feel the pain , a furious adrenaline pumping through his blood as he takes the doctor by the face and with one hand lifts him , shoving him into the wall . bones crack , his screams muffled as his body thrashes .again , and again , and again until the sound of bones shattering and the rough though becomes squishy and wet and there's nothing more for michael to hold onto .

it doesn’t take more than a moment for michael to disregard the corpse in favor of looking down at you . tear stained cheeks , almost manic , shaking , splattered with blood . he’s none to gentle , not helping in your panicked state with his fast , rough movements as he check over you , and it takes you begging , pressing bloody fingers under his mask to grip his cheek for him to stop furiously searching over your body for any marks not left by him .

you whimper out that he’s hurt . he knows .he’ll heal . he always does . that’s not his concern . he lifts you instead , siting you on a table that’s been shoved against the wall in his attempt to reach you earlier . the look in your eyes tell him that you know what he wants , what he’s about to do . and you protest for a moment , not wanting him to hurt himself more than he already is but one look from michael and he knows that you understand that nothing will stop him from this . you were taken from him . now he had to take you back , in every way he could .

brahms heelshire

held hostage

they’d been quiet sneaking in . so quiet in fact that brahms hadn’t picked up on the unwanted guests until he heard the sound of a chairs being tossed about the library . it’s fast , quick and quiet that he moves through the walls like some devil has possessed him , at some point he’d grabbed a fire poker he’d laid against the old wood , the same one he’d tried to use to slaughter the last unwanted guest in his house .

he’s pressed against the wall , only taking a moment to peak into the room through a hole , in the few seconds he’s there he sees enough . two masked people . a woman . a man . threatening you and demanding to be shown a safe . none of it matters . you look panicked , holding brahm’s doll to your chest . it made his mind flash back to cole , to malcom , to when you were almost stolen from him .

there are no dramatics this time . no calling out in a child’s voice , no rummaging through the walls to frighten and confuse . He’s coming out of the hidden door with intentions and a need to deliver punishment . you’re eyes widen when you see his form , tall and lanky and you know what’s going to come . but there’s not fear , just the word please forming on your lips . if brahms had been seeking out permission , he would have found it .

the man is first , the fire poker raised high before coming down into his back . he doesn’t bother pulling it out as the man stumbles forward , instead turning to the woman cursing and shouting as her partner lay dying near brahms’ feet . for this he uses his hands and the edge of an antique table . the corner so sharp that it cuts into the back of neck and pops the vertebrae out of place . she goes wide eyed and falls limp and twitching on the floor .

panting heavily , he looks to you , blood on his hands once again . it all seems so familiar . like a loop that’s repeated it self , only with different faces . only this time you don’t get started , you aren’t pulled away by a scream of run . you aren’t trying to leave him . his doll is discarded on the floor as you run to him . not from him , shaking and hiding your face in his filthy chest .

he doesn’t hesitate , wrapping you into a possessive hug , letting his deadly fingers work through your hair . “don’t cry , pretty y/n . i’ll keep you safe .”

thomas hewit

held hostage

the meat had been difficult to bring in . there’d been a shortage of people passing through , so the rough necked bikers that stopped were they’re only choice . or so said hoyt . and right now , tommy was cursing his older brother . a switch blade in the meatier part of his shoulder , despite not doing too much damage , still hurt like shit and now he was having to chase the damned man out the barn . why hoyt hadn’t shot him , or loaded his damn gun before waving it around was beyond tommy , but he’d be growling at his older brother at a later time . right now he had to make sure the man didn’t make it into the house .

hoyt’s out the door before tommy , loading his gun and yelling for tommy to hurry his ass up and get the meat . he doesn’t wait too long , yanking the knife out of his shoulder and hissing as air stung the wound , before stomping out of the barn with a snarl .

he see’s his older brother go back round the house , just as he turns , he raises the gun . tommy figures the man is sound back , and quickly makes his way around the other side . why hoyt hasn’t shot yet , he doesn’t know , but he hopes the man won’t miss and hit him as he rounds the corner . but as he does it’s apparent as to why the shotgun hasn’t been fired .

the man’s faced away from him . his arm wrapped tightly around a body , your body , and tommy can see the way his fingers wrap around your neck even from behind . fear , rage , white hot and devastating shake him to his core .

the man’s yelling about how he’ll kill you . how he’s going to kill you for fucking with him and his three party crew , for gutting the other two like pigs in the barn . that he’s going to kill you and then kill the bastard sheriff and the big fucker . the words swarm his mind , images of your lifeless body on the ground , of your neck snapped have him moving forward with such animalistic rage that hoyt takes a step back , faltering in his hold on the gun .

the man must be confused because he laughs nervously , thinking he has the upper hand as he spills out his slurs and threats . he isn’t prepared for tommy to jerk his arm , lifting him up off the ground only to snap the bone in his furious grip . the man’s scream is loud , but tommy still manages to hear hoyt call you over , telling you it’s best to go inside and let tommy get out his anger . despite wanting to hold you , to check over you , hoyt’s right . he needs to do this first .

dropping the man to the ground , he easily steps and crushes the bones in his legs , lower , upper , then takes his nonbroken arm and jerks so hard it pops , using it to tug him towards the back entrance of the basement , knowing his body will hit and bleed over every step .

it’s well passed dinner when the screaming stops . when tommy finally comes up . when he stands in your door way still covered in the truth of what he’d just done to the man who’d been so close to hurting you - who did hurt you . instead of turning him away you just give a relieved look , walking over and hugging him , cupping his face and looking over him . he knows you can’t tell what’s his and what isn’t . and he knows you’ll want him in a bath , but first he’s brushing his fingers over your neck , where small bruises are forming and wonders if he made the man suffer enough . but you wrap your hand around his wrist and give him the sweetest look . tommy didn’t realize he was crying , even as you coo and lift up to kiss at him . he doesn’t realize how scared he’d been till he has you safe in his arms .

jesse cromeans

taken

his footsteps sounded in the halls . jesse wasn’t trying to hide . he wasn’t trying to play cat and mouse , even if he was hunting , this wasn’t a game . taking his fiancé , his lover , was not a game . it was a death sentence . one that was going to be levied out by his own hand . no matter the cost .

his fingers flex over the hilt of his knife . gripping it just so before he lets it go , walking with an almost swagger . dangerous , poised , deadly . he’s walks as if he knows were he’s going , and in a way he does . instinct has never failed jesse on a hunt before .

a shout . angry , furious , devastated , watery and betrayed fills the halls , luring jesse down a right corridor and then a left turn . every step has the shouts growing louder , your voice and then another , your captors . jesse can make out the conversation turned screaming match .

how could you do this ? you did this to yourself . why are you doing this to me , to jesse ? i didn’t want to do this to you , but i won’t let you be with him ! i love him ! you don’t even fucking know him , if you did , you’d end up like his first wife ! don’t say that , it’s awful , you don’t - jesse’s a bastard and he needs to die . i won’t ever forgive you if you hurt him . can you forgive him if he hurts me ? i -

there isn’t time for you to finish your thought as jesse strides into the room . he stops , glancing to you . tied up , a bruise on your cheek from being slapped , tears streaming down your cheeks , clothing torn . you look like you were dragged away kicking and screaming . he’s proud , he’s furious . looking at preston he gives a simple tilt of his head before pulling out a knife and stalking forward .

you call out for him , tell him no , please , don't do it , please , just - he ignores you , nothing you can say will save your brother’s life . no , preston made his bed and jesse was hell bent on laying him to rest in it . hate me , he thinks to himself , but you’ll never be taken away from me again . he can’t lose you . he won’t . not matter how much you hate him for this .

to his credit preston wields his own blade , similar to jesse’s . he makes the first move , but his reach is no match for jesse’s . one swipe and he’s cutting deep into the other’s arm , blood trailing as preston curses and backs up . there’s no hesitation . no pause . jesse is stopped by no man , by no remorse . even as you call out for him to stop , pleading to him , jesse moves forward .

three more swipes , three of preston’s fingers fall to the floor , his chest up , and he’s down on one leg . jesse takes in his surroundings for a second , shoving your brother , your kidnapper , his enemy into a wall , taking a hanging chain to wrap around his neck . preston struggles , making the mistake of reaching out to you , as if he has any right to . his arm is lying limp on the floor in moments . a tug on the chain jerks the screaming man up to jesse’s eye level . from behind the mask he snarls silently fingers dancing over his phone . the electronic call of “bye bye” sounds out in dark humor before jesse string him up higher to choke to death . he can live a little longer , suffer while he watches his former boss take back what’s his .

at some point you’d fallen over in the chair your tied to . crying at you squeeze your eyes shut . refusing to look at what jesse just did . and for that he’s minutely grateful . he bends down , untying you and giving you enough space to move , but not enough to run . it’s only then he sees those eyes of yours open , sees how you look up and breathe out a gasp . he prepares himself for what’s to come .

and then he feels your arms around his neck . your face pressed into him as you cry . the words you say are dizzying , you were so scared , he could of been hurt , why didn’t he listen to you , what would you do if you lost him . the words are said with a tremble that betrays the fact your still torn about the slaughter of your brother . but it also tells jesse something that solidifies the fact that no one will ever take you from him again .

& don’t forget that you can buy me a ko-fi if you wanna leave a little more love ! tho , honestly … i prefer tea … hmmm . 

#jason voorhees #jason voorhees imagine #jason voorhees x reader #thomas hewitt #thomas hewitt imagine #thomas hewitt x reader #brahms heelshire #brahms heelshire imagine #brahms heelshire x reader #michael mysers #michael myers imagine #michael myers x reader #jesse cromeans #jesse cromeans imagine #jesse cromeans x reader #slasher #slashers #slasher imagine #slashers imagine #slasher x reader #slashers x reader

[author-morgan]

Title: Sweet Caroline

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader

Rating: M

Summary: One day a man in black comes to take you away and it just happens he’s the best man you’ve ever met. Tagging the crew: @dynamicorbit @kvitravn @wolfxkissed​

Header image by @kvitravn​

BE WARY OF a man in black. In retrospect, you should have heeded your mother’s wisdom and warning —would have saved you a lot of pain and headaches to learn from her mistakes instead of making the same ones. Arthur Morgan had been a man in black when he rode into town at the head of a band of nefarious outlaws one crisp autumn morning. 

The Van der Linde gang left the small town with a dozen bags heavy with gold and silver, a trail of corpses of those who stood in their way lining the streets. That’d been years ago, about seven by your reckoning. You’ve made too many mistakes to count since then but asking Arthur Morgan to take you away from a small-town hell wasn’t one of them. 

Pearson howls like a wolf at the full moon when you dig into the bloody hole on his calf, pulling the slug free. The silver round clinks when you drop it into the washbasin, leaning back with a sigh as John takes your spot, dressing the gunshot wound with a thick salve and torn piece of calico fabric. A quick buck off a set of loaded dice in an alleyway hadn’t turned out in Pearson’s favor —luck saved him from a bullet in the head, just like luck saved him from the loan sharks a few months back. 

Rising, you pat the Fat Man’s cheek, leaving behind a bloody handprint fore wandering off to the edge of camp for a breath of air away from the fire and those gathered around it. Arthur follows after you, not ready to let you out of his sight after he almost lost you in the shootout with the law and those wronged following Pearson’s foolish gamble. There was a reason the camp’s cook was supposed to stay behind on missions and errands —his days as a soldier in the navy were long past. 

You dip your hands into the wash barrel, scrubbing away from blood from beneath your fingertips. Too often, you find yourself with the blood of those you care about on your hands and clothes. Should’ve listened to mother, you think, bitter. Bracing your arms across the barrel, you look down at your reflection —increasingly unhappy with the woman looking back at you. 

“He gone be okay?” Arthur asks, stopping next to you with his arms crossed. He worries about the gang, even if he tries not to show it, but seeing through his hardened exterior is something he almost hates you for. When Arthur Morgan rode out of some rinky-dink town in the middle of nowhere with you on the back of his horse, he would have never guessed it would turn into this. You worked off your debt a hundred times over and still stayed. 

Straightening, you dry your hands with the apron on the front of your shirtwaist and skirt —the finely made ensemble less than a month old and already ruined. “Cooking’ll still be shit,” you laugh, the crooked smile on your lips not quite reaching your eyes, “but he’ll live.” 

Broken chords from Javier’s flamenco guitar fill the air as the night’s revelries startup with a song and dance. Arthur reaches for you, his fingers wrapping around your wrist, pulling you toward him. You lean your forehead against his shoulder, feeling the weight of the day settle in as the sun sets. “I can’t keep this up, Art,” you breathe, hand twisting into his blue-cotton shirt. First, it had been him, then Sean and John, and now Pearson. “One day, I ain’t gone be able to patch you boys up.” 

This work is dangerous, and it’s just a matter of time before someone makes a dire mistake or the law catches up —losing people is inevitable. You know it, everyone knows it. Arthur props his chin on the crown of your head, arms wrapped tightly around your waist. “Don’t think ‘bout that day then.” Looking at the heart of the camp, he thinks the two of you won’t be missed too much for just the night. He leads you to his black Arabian steed —a handsome mount affectionately named Topthorn— and helps you up into the saddle before mounting behind you and taking the reins. 

Away from camp, the path steepens and grows rockier. Off in the distance, you can hear the burbling of a stream growing closer. “Where we goin’?” You ask, looking over your shoulder.

His arm tightens around your waist, drawing you back flush against his chest. “Ain’t far,” he says at your ear, “promise.” It’s a place he stumbled across north of camp tracking the poor deer who became supper a few nights back. A quiet spot at the base of the mountains —perfect for a swim, a bath, or even contemplating life. The trees part off the rugged trail, and Arthur pulls back on Topthorn’s reins when the small waterfall comes into view —the water almost glowing in the silver light of a full moon. He slides out of the saddle, hands quickly finding your waist to help you down.

“Been a while since it was jus’ you and me,” Arthur notes, hand splayed across your lower back. 

“That it has,” you agree, turning to drape your arms over his shoulders —fingers locking together at the nape of his neck as you look up at him. Kiss me, you think, and it is as though you’ve said the words aloud. Arthur reaches for you, pulling you closer to him by the hips so he can kiss you breathless. You sigh into his kiss, hands sliding down the broad planes of his chest as you tilt your head so your noses don’t bump together. It’s a lazy kind of kiss—slow, unhurried, but with heat, you’re never quite able to describe when talking to the girls about some of your little escapades with him. 

He pulls back too soon for your liking, laughing softly when you make a sound of protest as you chase his mouth with yours. “What’d I do to deserve you?” He asks, lips curving into a lopsided smile as he takes your face in his hands, thumbs softly stroking your cheeks. You run your thumb over the scars on his chin and reach up on your toes, lips brushing against his. It’s all the answer he needs —I love you.  

Stepping back, you work the mother-of-pearl buttons on your shirtwaist free and then the belt of your walking shirt, shrugging both pieces off and into a small heap next to you. “What’re you doin’?” Arthur asks, scratching the back of his neck as he turns his gaze. It’s far from the first time he’s seen you in this state of undress, but ever the gentleman, he still looks away —even if the curve of his lips says he’ll steal a glimpse or two. 

“You can’t bring a lady to a waterfall–” you pluck out the pin holding the twist in your hair in place “–and not expect her to want to freshen up, Mr. Morgan.” Mr. Morgan, he smirks, shaking his head —it’s the way you say his name like a sweet song that does him in every time. “Now–” you push aside your hair, revealing the laces of your corset “–help me?” Arthur steps behind you, hands working the ties of the undergarment. You turn back to him as he drops the corset atop your discarded clothes, his eyes flitting over curves barely hidden under a threadbare chemise. 

Wordlessly, he sinks to his knees and pushes the hem of the chemise up around your waist. Your fingers brush his as you take hold of your skirt —holding it out of the way. Arthur lifts one of your legs from the ground, sliding off your boot as he drags the stubble on his jaw across the inside of your ankle and calf, stopping just at the bend of your knee with a soft kiss. He places your foot back down and repeats the same teasing motions, but this time, his kiss does not stop at the knee. Scooting closer, he lifts your leg over his shoulder —hot breath fanning across your inner thighs. 

Setting his hat aside, he starts with a slow line of open-mouth kisses and listening to how your breathing hitches and body tenses in anticipation. He drags the flat of his tongue over you, stopping to flick the tip against your clit —sweet torture. “Arthur,” you gasp, hand twisting into his honey-colored locks. He repeats the motion, again-and-again until his fingers brush the inside of your thigh, and he shifts. Your honey-sweet taste and moans harden his cock. First, it’s one finger, then two thrusting and curling inside you as his mouth tends to your clit, laving, and suckling. 

His blue eyes flash upwards and meet your desperate gaze, and he grins, sucking your clit into his mouth. That’s all it takes. You tremble, knees wobbling as you breathe Arthur’s name in a broken voice as he holds you up, still lapping at the sweet release like a he’s a man lost in the desert, and you’re an oasis. His lips and stubble on his chin glisten with your essence as he sits back on his haunches, easing your leg from his shoulder.

When he rises, he trails his fingers along the neckline of your chemise, pushing it off your shoulders, leaving your bare in the cool night air as you step out of the puddle of stained cotton and toward him. You can taste yourself on his lips when they finally meet, his tongue sweeping across your bottom lip before kissing you slowly. The kiss is languid and soft, your hands grasping at Arthur’s back to pull his chest to your own. Your hands wander down to his hips, unbuckling his belt and undoing the button and zipper of his pants as he undoes the buttons on his shirt —adding it to the growing pile of clothes.

Arthur curses and groans when your hand slides into his undone pants, fingers wrapping around his hard cock —stroking him slowly as you pepper kisses along his jaw and down his neck, across his chest. “Darlin’,” he chokes, voice wrecked and breathing heavy. It’s a heady feeling, knowing he’s like this because of you. As much as he doesn’t want to, Arthur pushes your hand away and hastily kicks off his boots, stepping out of his pants so he’s just as bare as you. 

You take a moment to admire him. Strong arms and legs, a broad chest covered with a dusting of hair, a real man right down to his hard cock, throbbing and dripping with need —built for riding, fighting, and fucking, you’d told him one night drunk on shine when you crawled into his tent. Arthur pulls you down onto the blanket of moss and grass at the water’s edge. His hands leave your waist and slide up to your breasts, cupping them gently. You moan, feeling his smile against the side of your throat. He trails kisses down to the junction of your neck and shoulder, biting down slightly. He kisses down your throat to your chest, stopping when he reaches a rosy nipple. 

His eyes look back up at you, and his grin is devilish before his tongue drags across the sensitive flesh, making you gasp, hips grinding into him. “Arthur, please,” you whisper, back arching as he takes your nipple into his mouth, softly sucking at your flesh. He pulls away after a moment, looking up at you with lust burning bright in his eyes. Settling between your thighs, Arthur braces his weight on one of his forearms —staring down at you as cock presses into your warmth. Your walls flutter around him, and you spread your thighs wider, helping guide him as deep as he can go. 

He groans, rolling his hips into yours as he kisses you again, slow and thorough, mapping out your mouth with his tongue. You moan into his mouth, clutching at his shoulders as he breaks the kiss, eyes looking into yours once again, the lust quelled by something sweeter. Arthur grips your thighs tight, releasing one of them in favor of stroking over your lips and cheek with the rough pad of his thumb. Between the little noises you make, and how your body starts to tense and spasm around him, Arthur knows he won’t last long —not after it’s been so long since he had you proper.

You draw your legs up his sides and push your hands into his hair, clinging to him as his thrusts become faster, harder, more erratic. He slides a hand between your bodies, finding your clit with his thumb. “Arthur,” you cry, feeling the budding heat rise in your belly again and control slipping away. “Babe,” you gasp, tugging on his hair. Eyes screwed shut and teeth bared, he ruts into you, even as the wave of fire floods your veins and your walls squeeze his cock. It’s enough to break him as he chases his end.  

He pulls away, hips stuttering, nearing his peak, and buries his face in the juncture where your neck and shoulder meet. Biting down hard, and you feel the warmth of his release spreading in your core as he thrusts weakly a few more times before stilling. Arthur rests his head on your breast as he strokes your side, listening to the frantic beat of your heart as it slows with your breathing. You whine at the empty feeling when slides his softening cock from your cunt, rolling off to the side. He grabs his drawers and shirt —you both can worry with bathing and dressing in the morning. For now, Arthur only wants to keep you at his side. 

Arthur brushes off his hat and sets it on your head. The black hat is a little big, the brim dropping down over your eyes, you tilt it back into place. “Looks good on you,” he muses with a crooked grin. His shirt looks good on you too —the old blue shirt half unbuttoned and hanging off one shoulder. A sight he wouldn’t mind waking up to every morning. 

“Think so?” You ask with a smile. He nods and, it's like you can see the cogs turning in his mind. What’re you even doin’ with an ugly old man like me? You can hear him saying. Sighing, you sit up and swing over into his lap, placing his hat back atop his head. “Well, I think it looks better on you,” you tell him. He won’t argue, not when your lips are brushing against his.

He folds his hands behind his head, looking up at the sky, and smiles to himself when you rest your head on the crook of his arm. Glancing between Arthur and the clear night sky, you start humming the old song your father used to sing about his sweet Caroline. The tune sounds familiar, and after a moment, he knows the words, it’s one he’s heard before in saloons and whispered at babes’ ears like a lullaby. Arthur draws in a slow breath, picking up at the next verse in a low rasp “…the grave and the garden won’t be satisfied till your name is next to mine.” 

You shift, half sitting up. His eyes fixed on you —gaze softer than a bed of summer wildflowers— with a smile tugging at his lips. In these rare moments, Arthur Morgan is at peace. He reaches out for you, calloused hand cupping your cheek as he tries to memorize the lines and curves of your face and how you sigh and lean into his touch, settling back down against him. 

It’s nights like these you long for the most, and every time you wish they could last just a little longer. Just laying under the night sky forever with Arthur Morgan, the man you loved. No more killing. No more stealing. No more running. Just the two of you and the cosmos overhead. You rest your head on his chest, running your fingers along the trail of dark hair down his stomach as he traces lazy shapes on your back, still softly humming the same sweet song. 

Be wary of a man in black, your mother used to say, holding your hand as you both watched from the front porch as your father rode off into the sunset, he’ll steal your heart. She’d been right, of course. 

#Arthur Morgan #Arthur Morgan x Reader #Arthur Morgan Fanfiction #Arthur Morgan Smut #Red Dead Redemption 2 #my writing #yall should listen to Caroline by Colter Wall #just saying #oops #kinda went ham #have a lemonade with some emotions

[aceofspadegrass]

Chess is Quiet

Characters: Chishiya Shuntaro

Genre: A little angst, but otherwise just normal Borderland business. Chishiya's just being Chishiya and watching.

1k words

Would you believe me if I said I wrote this because my sibling bought the Sims 4 with the pet expansion pack?

Because I did. We named the cat Moo Cow. This is a story that came from us naming a Sims cat Moo Cow.

Also I mention blood and death, so be aware.

Death hung heavy in the air, people gasping their last. Some held tightly to never-ending gushing openings, light and warmth fading from their eyes. Not many still remained standing from the group that entered in the first place. The floor was smeared in blood and viscera; body parts were thrown everywhere like discarded dolls.

Chishiya stands in the relative safety of the safe zone, hands in his pocket as he surveyed the scene.

The game was simple, a game of chess with one important factor: Only those who managed to reach the other side were to live. It was not a game of capturing a king as the game usually dictates, instead solely on crossing the checkerboard floor as neatly as they can. They of course still held the mobility rules of chess, pawns only able to go diagonal to ‘capture’, knights only moving in an L shape, and so on. The positions were randomly chosen for the players, leaving nobody to try to take the best move allowance on their own terms. They also still held true to any game, everyone having to go one at a time, dictated by whoever raised their hand first from their side. The phones would always turn red when they were allowed to move.

As with a game of chess, there were opponents, other players who had the same objective. Both sides were allowed to be armed with weapons, however unable to use them until ‘capturing’ an opponent piece. Whoever was captured were fated to be killed on the spot, and if not by human hands, then by a laser or by the referee wearing a mask and wielding a chainsaw. After the first few deaths, it was random in what complimentary death would occur for a captured player. Cheating, obviously, was illegal, and led to the same fate.

Chishiya was lucky, in a sense. He got the esteemed role of the queen, allowed to move in any direction he pleased. Granted yes, it meant he would be targeted as he had the easiest way towards victory, but Chishiya wasn’t cunning for nothing, keeping track of every opposing player. The game didn’t mark players visually, leaving them unknown to others if they didn’t tell everyone their role in the game. Once moved around, it was near impossible to know who was who just by sight.

Chishiya still managed his way past every opposing player, now safely free from the confines of the checkerboard floor. He watches as those remaining stand on the board, some still holding strong and others trembling. He was currently the only one safe, although others certainly seemed close to it. He watches one of the players try to plead to let her make it to the end, hands clasped together in such a pitiful manner. This late into the game to beg? Chishiya notes her position, which wasn’t half bad considering everything.

Still, he didn’t believe the tactic would work, as removing any opposing force paves the way to safety. Chishiya is proven right not even a minute later, a man approaching her spot and swinging the axe into her neck, the blood gushing and spraying before she falls limp to the ground. Her body was roughly kicked aside to make space to continue to move, and the game continues onwards as normal.

Chishiya leans against the wall, forced to wait it out until either the remaining players all died or finally make it across. Chishiya does not look away for a second, watching each and every move. He cracks a smirk as one of the players, the poor king, steps on the tile that placed them in the path of the bishop without noticing.

The bishop does not hesitate to obtrude, and the king falls by laser. The player barely offers a glance to the corpse that now laid at their feet, whether by respect or disgust for them.

The game trails on far too long, and Chishiya decides instead of watching fools play to explore around the building they were within. It seemed to be a restaurant, chairs and table pushed around haphazardly, with barely a path through some of the mess, the game space the only pristine area free from obstructions.

The inspection turned out nothing for the man’s curiosity. Utterly boring. There was rotting foods and spoiled beverages in the kitchen area, and everything remained in disarray without a sign of any clues that Chishiya could pick up on. He could risk looking if the referee had anything of use, but the game was still in play and he didn’t bother with dealing with them when they had a weapon that could seriously harm him.

A brief glance back at the game showed decent progress, and yet no more people made it to the other end. The last few remained at what seemed to be a standstill, still grasping for survival that only lay across from them, guarded by others who wanted the same.

Chishiya takes a seat nearby to watch instead, letting his mind roam without fully absorbing himself into his thoughts. He needed to remain at least somewhat vigilant in case someone broke through to the other side and felt particularly violent despite being safe for a few more days.

His semi-absent thoughts carry him throughout the rest of the boring game, only two others actually ever making it. Their phones all chime at once, just as the referee’s head explode signaling the end, and Chishiya makes his way out, passing the lone table with the lone card. He doesn’t stop, purloining the card and tucking it in his pocket. He knows what laid on the face, a 4 of diamonds, a simple and easy game.

There was a car that waited for him, but he was the only one left to take it, the others that had been with him too stupid to be able to come back. He didn’t care, he got the card and now could ‘rest’ before he was inevitably sent out once more to continue putting his life on the line.

That was fine by him, Chishiya could easily glide by as he always had been. He turns the car on and drives off, back to the Beach, not a single distraction in sight. Calming, left him alone once more with himself.

Calm like the death that now allowed the silence that hung in the air.

#aib #alice in borderland #aib fanfic #alice in borderland fanfic #chishiya shuntaro #chishiya already won because 1) I didn't want to plot out the game and 2) this was the brain child of a Sims 4 cat #so don't expect much actual game mechanic and more game explanation and chishiya watching as usual #if i did plot the game out i would use a checkerboard so that it made sense

[melancholia-cressa]

Unwanted

This is the sequel to Weakness, the first Dio oneshot I posted here. Lord knows how long I had this thing in my files. I think it was 9 or 10 days? I had writer’s block and college had me in a chokehold, so I lost track of time. I was actually thinking about how I should end this for days now, and here we are. I rushed the ending, to be honest, so I still hope you guys enjoy it somehow.

warning: mentions of blood, minor swearing, huge spoilers for Part 3, another very long oneshot, and a lot of references to the oneshot preceding this

Note: I deliberately used Dio as his human side and DIO as the current one with the insane god complex.

                                            ════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Dio Brando—no, DIO stood at the peak of humanity; transcending its mortal existence entirely. The moment he received his Stand from an old crone, the idea of anyone opposing the charismatic and powerful vampire was inconceivable. Foolish, even, in the eyes of his most loyal followers. The man couldn't care less for the corpses and blood that trailed after his every step nor for those who swore undying fealty with lips pressed to his shoes in a kiss of fear and reverence. Every word that rolled off his tongue is law and grace combined, akin to religious faith with its own avid believers and devotees. A mere touch is denied and unattainable, something that no one could even work hard for, unless it was to satiate his more carnal desires. If anything, men and women either feared or admired him. On more than one occasion, it was both. A god among men, they say.

So, why is one measly photograph enough to chill the blood in his veins and falter the confidence in his stride?

Enya watched her master with obvious curiosity. Her fingers gripped her cane tighter the longer DIO stared at the developed image. The old woman assumed that her lord, almighty and fearsome, stewed in cold rage. Never had she seen him cower from terror nor lose his composure. It was unimaginable. Enya discarded the notion and did not bother to ask questions. No one dares question him, after all.

His fingers curled, knuckles discreetly trembling from the force, and nearly crumpled the poor thing in his hand. To the untrained eye, his focus remained on the two prominent figures of Jotaro Kujo, a teenager donning a high school uniform with the addition of his unusual cap and a large chain hanging on the collar, and the latter's grandfather Joseph Joestar whose clothes resembled that of some human adventurer—Indiana Jones, was it? DIO didn't care to know and never will. He gave little thought to those men. Not even the two Stand users that left his ranks and became traitors once the Joestars took the implanted fleshbuds off their foreheads.

What caught his attention was the face of a woman who seemed to be in her early twenties. She stood next to Jotaro with her arms crossed and her gaze focused on the horizon. The grim smile and the hardened resolve in her eyes made her look more alive in the photo than what DIO wanted. The tension in her expression contradicted the ease in her posture, marked by her lax shoulders and dainty fingers paused midway from drumming against her arm. She brought unwanted memories of blood and weakness, ones he thought he buried long ago after a century of isolation.

It was you. The same eyes, nose, lips, skin, hair—even the damn way you held yourself. The glaring similarities between the woman in his memories and the woman engraved in the film rattled him to the core. DIO never believed in the supernatural before he became one himself. Although, he thought that reincarnation was an idiotic concept born from those who cannot accept that death and the afterlife were the end of all things. Yet, there you are; a painful reminder of his former humanity. The turmoil that wrapped itself around his mind added to the phantom throb of his heart from when he was still human.

His glare intensified, easing his grip on the spirit photograph. DIO doesn't want to alarm Enya nor any of his underlings. He loathed appearing weak and undignified; giving them an opportunity to ambush him should he let his guard down.

The photo fluttered next to a broken camera, smashed to pieces with a chop of his hand, on the table with a huff from the imposing man. Moonlight spilled through the windows and bathed him in its luminescence; his shadow swallowed by the darkened areas of the room where the light would never reach. The fury burned bright in his eyes, yet Enya noticed something else—an emotion indecipherable and foreign. She never had the chance to mull about it, because DIO turned on his heel and walked towards the stairs with an unnatural grace and elegance in his gait.

“It seems that fate is upon us,” he told no one in particular; his smooth, honeyed voice carried across the expanse of the lobby. "I shall retire to my room for the night. Do not disturb me."

DIO didn't need to say any more. The underlying threat in his words told Enya everything. If anything, this decision served to confuse the witch doctor more. Her master always ridiculed the Joestars, either with a scoff or a mocking laugh, in their quest every time he checked their progress to send in the next Stand user. Tonight, he barely uttered an insult nor a snide comment. She wordlessly watched him disappear around the bend, then sighed.

"Oh, Lord Dio… What troubles you so?"

The heavy thud of a closed door echoed in DIO's ears; magnified by the lifeless expanse of his room. His feet absent-mindedly led himself to sit on one of the armchairs across a small table where a golden goblet accompanied a bottle of wine. With a practiced motion, his fingers curled around the stem of the goblet as he poured himself a drink with his other hand. His vacant gaze remained on the red liquor flowing into his cup; lost in memories and possibilities that tortured him for a century.

DIO never did forgive himself for allowing you to die.

He had his chance. He could have turned you into a vampire like himself when he held you in that castle. He could have given you an opportunity to live life with him; his abiding presence a gift to compensate for the time he left you after he gained immortality. He could have given you unimaginable freedom—to see civilization evolve and change before your eyes, to live in a time where you two would be the only constants in the world. DIO could have taken you with him during that lonesome century to be beside him when the coffin was opened. He could see the silent admiration in your gaze if you were to travel the world with him as he searched for a way to attain Heaven. Knowing that you had never traveled outside of London, DIO would have gladly taken you to anywhere you wanted and wished. You could have been the one sitting across from him at this very moment. He could imagine a thick tome in your hands and the curious gleam in your eyes as you carefully flipped pages, as if they would break under the slightest pressure of your touch. You had never held a book before since girls were rarely educated then, and DIO was certain you would have loved to read.

If it wasn't for the fact that he respected your dying wish, DIO could have lived the rest of his life with you.

The bottom of the bottle harshly slammed against the wooden surface. Hairline cracks crept across the glass bottle due to his vice grip, knuckles turning pale from the force. His jaw clenched, teeth gnashed and bared, as he brought the rim of the goblet to his lips. Your disappointed frown flashed across his mind; the faint memory of your hands gently taking away the bottle from his grasp consumed his senses. DIO could feel your fingers brush against his wrist as you pulled him to the spare room in your house; the one which once belonged to your parents. The slur in his voice was painfully obvious, yet you never pried for the reasons that caused him to drink so much. That soft smile still graced your features, even when you faced his alcohol-induced outbursts of rage and annoyance. It burned itself into his mind even after all these years. DIO brought the untouched wine back to the table as fingers buried themselves in his hair.

He couldn't even bring himself to drink away his thoughts of you.

"Useless," he muttered, tipping his head back against the cushion. He closed his eyes with a grunt. A thunderous roar shook the floors of the castle as he slaughtered zombies who dared laid their greedy hands on your corpse. Blood—your blood—smeared his skin, stains that still haunted him for eternity, and it was everywhere. His hands desperately reached for you, your dead body clutched by that damnable blond who accompanied Jonathan, as he fell from the balcony—

"I, DIO, being pathetic and weak?" He spat, feeling pinpricks of pain blossoming in his clenched fists. "Forget your humanity. Forget Dio Brando. Forget her."

DIO found himself spending the remnants of the night wallowing in memories of you, until the light of dawn peeked through his curtains.

                                           ════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Your smile greeted him the following night.

In the solace of his room, DIO traced a sharp nail against the photo that held your beaming expression: eyes alight with laughter and lips pulled into that godforsaken smile. Your fingers brushed your mouth, paused in the middle of hiding the aforementioned smile behind your hand. You shared the same name as her. Two cameras lie broken on the table along with a photo—disregarded and forgotten—of the Joestar group riding camels through the Saudi Arabian desert. He didn’t care for the others laughing beside you.

What mattered was the bitter throb of his heart that shouldn’t even be possible for someone who claimed to have triumphed over his humanity.

"Dio!" He could hear your scandalized gasp ring clear in the country air. A hand covered the smile on your lips as you laughed out loud, brushing off the strands of hair that stuck to your face. Water soaked the cuffs of your sleeves and your collar, but you didn’t mind. “I can’t believe you did that!”

Neither did Dio, but there he was: water from the nearby stream trickling down his fingers and a smug smirk stretching from one ear to another. He huffed, shaking the water off his hands, “You forget that I’m not some stuck-up aristocrat who can’t have fun.”

“True,” you hummed, wiping your hands on your skirt. “Then again, it has been a while since we spent time together like this.”

You lifted your apron to wipe off the water on your face when a handkerchief softly rubbed against your cheek. Dio, who was surprised at his own gentle ministrations, continued to dab the water off as if it was routine; his thumb ghosting your heated skin through the thin cloth. The scarlet flush blooming across your cheeks and tinting your ears made his smirk widen, if that was possible. You sputtered your gratitude, yet adamantly tried to evade the touch of his handkerchief as you held your apron in an iron grip. Dio could only laugh at your expense, his heart thundering and his own cheeks the slightest bit warm.

A resounding crash stole him away from the memory. The bright, blue sky and its cotton-wisp clouds faded from view; the bleak, ornate walls of his room in their place. The light of the sun was replaced with streaks of moonlight slipping through the cracks of his curtains and cascading down the floor. It was only then did DIO realize the crinkled edge of the photograph in his hand, the glittering shards scattered on the ground, and the wine that dripped from the wall to pool around the fragments of what once was a glass bottle. The quiet of the room was broken by three, quick knocks and a voice asking the man of his condition with an unmistakable, underlying tone of concern. DIO recognized the voice to be one of his most loyal subordinates, Vanilla Ice.

“What happened? Is something the matter, Lord Dio?”

A low growl rumbled in his chest. DIO closed his eyes, stopping time and pocketing your photo in one fluid motion. The World picked up one of the broken cameras and threw it out the window while the vampire stood over the Joestar photograph as if nothing happened. Images of you from his memories and your reincarnation occupied his thoughts; your photo burning a hole in his pant pocket. When time resumed, DIO swiped the photo off the table and thrusted the memories of his past to the darkest recesses of his mind.

DIO would leave you be for now if it meant he could take you back by his side in the end.

“Nothing that concerns you, Vanilla Ice. Come in, I have new orders for Enya.”

                                           ════ ⋆★⋆ ════

She’s not you. She will never be you.

But you want her to be, DIO’s traitorous subconscious whispered. This is ridiculous. The man has never even met your reincarnation. He never spent time with you in this life, barely even a ghost of a conversation between you two, yet he longs for your company more than anything. His rational thoughts and sentiments warred against each other, vying for his final decision on what to do with you. The moment DIO saw you, bleeding and bruised on the stairs below, his heart bled and his shoulders nearly hunched from the pain. His rational side of the argument was silenced and shackled by the chains of past memories that bound him to you. He ached to take you into his arms and whisper reassurances in your ears, that he will give you all the comfort and security he could never give you before.

He couldn’t. Not with Polnareff leaning into your touch; his arm slung over your shoulders and head dangerously close to yours. Not with his blood simmering under his skin and his nails piercing through his palm, blood slowly seeping through the fingers of his clenched fist. The fight in your eyes hid the intense worry for your wounded comrade—maybe even lover, DIO bitterly mused—as you pressed your side flush against the silver-haired man’s battered, stumbling body. You looked at DIO as if he was the gum stuck on the sole of your shoe; as if he was the vilest, most putrid thing that ever graced the Earth. The tension and anger twisted your expression into a scowl, brows furrowed and lips dipped into that all-too familiar frown.

DIO had so many questions to ask you; so many memories to share in the vain hope that you would sympathize with him and join him. One look in your eyes, the same indiscernible emotion flickering to life when you tended to his bruises before he was adopted by George Joestar, and DIO knew he would lose this battle with you just like all those years ago. He could feel your fingers wrapped around his arm again; the cold cloth pressed to his bruised cheek; the soft smile he hated and adored at the same time. White hot rage bubbled and coursed through his veins. His jaw clenched and his nails dug deeper into the scarred flesh of his palms, drops of blood dripping towards the floor. His heart pounded against his chest as if desperate to flee into your embrace.

“In your fucking dreams,” you spat, scowl deepening and shifting your hold on Polnareff. “I’d sooner die than join you.”

Phantom daggers planted themselves into DIO’s heart, violently thrashing in its cage, as the image of you in his memories clashed against your battle-worn figure. Remnants of your smile adorned your lips followed by the laughter that echoed in his ears; the teasing lilt reserved solely for Dio. Your eyes glowed with life, brimming with joy and love that he realized too late. Your outstretched hand implored him to take it; to cool the swell of his bruises and wipe the blood off his wounds; to run across the fields once more before he had to return to his studies; to spend another day with you in Victorian London before he found that stone mask. Then there was you of the present, breathing ragged and gaze lit with spite and abhorrence for everything DIO is. You struggled to carry Polnareff’s weight from how much you leaned on him. Blood matted your hair and a long scratch marred your cheek. He noticed your leg wobble, threatening to let you and the other man pathetically fall to the floor. Your hands gripped Polnareff closer to you, whether this was an intended or subconscious action was beyond DIO.

He still yearned for you, despite all of this.

                                           ════ ⋆★⋆ ════

His pained screams disrupted the once peaceful night of Cairo, Egypt.

“What?!” DIO felt the cracks viciously trail from his leg to his head, split in half similar to how Jonathan caught him off-guard on that fateful day. Humiliation, shame, disbelief, and a storm of emotions raged in his heart; eyes wide and lips parted from the turbulence wracking his body. Jotaro watched, heated glare shadowed under the brim of his hat, as DIO’s screams reached the heavens. The stars joined in the spectacle, mockingly bright under the torturous pain and suffering of the once invincible vampire.

“I-Impossible!” DIO warbled, choking and gurgling from the blood pooling in his mouth. “I… am DIO! I… am...”

Something in his gut coiled; whispers of his mind urged him to look in the direction of the harbinger of his demise. His gape drifted from the stars to Jotaro, but his attention was not on the high school delinquent. At least ten feet away from the two, you leaned on the railing of the bridge with trembling legs. One of your hands clutched the wound on your left side; a wound DIO inflicted himself. He clearly remembered the triumph and glee that dulled his senses; the swing of the stop sign that would bring the Joestar bloodline to an end; the surprise shifting into panic when you jumped in front of Jotaro with the intent to protect him. In his haste, DIO flicked his wrist and grazed your side with the edge of the stop sign.

He once thought fate favored him. That the decision to cut off his head and to take Jonathan’s body was fate allowing him to live another century. That your absence was a weakness that fate had nipped in the bud for him; that your reborn soul was another chance fate had given him to atone for his mistakes. So, why? Why would fate pit you against him, to relive that cursed night when Dio had taken your life in front of his very eyes? Were you fated to ally with the Joestars and die for them? Another corpse among the others that followed the wake of the Joestar lineage, all just to defeat him?

DIO couldn’t kill you, as much as he despised the sentiment.

A fool. He is and always will be a fool when it comes to you. Dio will always want you in each lifetime, and it pained DIO to admit it in his final moments. His heart lurched and lodged itself in his throat; the fire in his blood scorching his skin and insides. His hand reached out to you, just like before, but you’re not dying this time. He knew that, if the afterlife actually existed, he will never be able to join you. DIO saw your eyes widen as you took a step back, farther from his grasp. Another bloodcurdling scream rang in the night; dying gurgles heard only by the two people who brought him to his death.

Even in this life, Dio could never have you.

#dio #dio brando #reader-insert #dio x reader #jojo's bizarre adventure #jjba #jojo's bizarre adventure stardust crusaders #jjba part 3 #jjba stardust crusaders #jojo part three #angst #angst again #yall know the drill #reincarnation trope #but different? #i'm not giving this man a happy ending #again #sorry not sorry #hate him but love to analyze his character #it's complicated

[tsarisfanfiction]

Got some bad news today, so ventfic happened.  Haven’t read it at all, let alone proofread, but throwing it out here anyway.

Whole thing is under a cut because, well, ventfic.  Starts kinda dark, lots of blood, lots of background dead people.  Mentions of cult stuff and human sacrifice.  The boys themselves are uninjured, though.  More angstfic than whump.

If you want some background music, throw on anything by the band Ghost (who I listened to while writing this).

Blood.

So much blood.

It painted the walls, the floor, splattered onto the ceiling, and Gordon’s heart was somewhere in his mouth as he ran through it towards the unmoving figure in the centre of it all.

Scott was face-down, sprawled with his limbs spread akimbo as though his unconscious – please just be unconscious – body had been dropped there.

The concentric splatters of crimson supported that theory.

“Scott!”

Blood stained his own clothes, gunshot residue stained his hands.  The additional splashes as his knees hit the liquid didn’t make a difference.

Getting this far hadn’t been easy.  Gordon tried not to think about the trail of corpses behind him.

He tried not to think about the pile in the corner, either.  White, drained, discarded like cattle.

There was too much blood to belong to a single person.  Far too much.

The area was finally – finally – secured.  Gordon could take his time as he reached for his limp, unmoving brother, and carefully rolled him onto his back.

His throat was unmarked. Out of everything, that was the first thing Gordon noticed.  There was no jagged gash, matching those on the bodies in the corner.  His wrists were similarly unblemished, and when his bloodied, gunshot-smeared fingertips found the slow, sluggish pulse snug below his jaw, a sob of relief left him.

Scott was covered in the crimson, even if it wasn’t his.  Gordon tried to wipe it from his face with his sleeve, but that was dirty, too, and only smeared it.

“Scott,” he whispered hoarsely, his brother’s name like a prayer of thanks, gathering the limp body close to him.  Cradling his torso close, stained hand in sticky dark hair as he pressed their foreheads together.

Scott didn’t respond, but Gordon hadn’t expected him to.

The cult might not have got as far as the sacrifice, but they’d had to subdue their victims.  The puncture mark in Scott’s arm wasn’t fully hidden by red.

“I’m getting you out of here,” he promised, and he knew Scott’s face wasn’t just blurred because it was so close to his own.  “Out of here and home, but we’ll both need a bath first otherwise everyone’s going to have a heart attack.”

As far as attempts at levity went, it wasn’t his best.  He hadn’t even managed to lighten his tone, but it didn’t matter because Scott couldn’t hear him anyway.

“They won’t hurt you,” he promised.  The still-warm gun in its holster at his hip promised.  “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

There was no point staying there, in the room of blood with humans piled like slaughtered cattle in the corner.  Gordon would grieve for them, for the lives he was too late to save, later.

“Come on,” he murmured to his brother.  “Let’s move.”

Carrying Scott was never easy.  Physically, it was the awkward logistics of his height combined with the weight that and his muscles gave him.  Emotionally, carrying Scott meant their strong, ever-present leader had fallen and the hierarchy had shifted.

But it was also a reassurance.  If Gordon was carrying him – staggering under the weight and feeling the carved soles of his feet biting into the ground to keep him from slipping – then he was safe. He was alive; the slow, even if shallow exhales of air from his mouth and nose tickled the sensitive skin of Gordon’s throat as he held him close and dared the world to even try and take his brother away from him.

The world didn’t.

His grip was tight, blood making his hands slip on the equally blood-covered body in his arms, and it was determination that had him crossing the room again, finding the doorway and leaving the crimson-splashed walls for something almost startlingly plain.

Almost because there was some blood there, too.  Spatters from gunshots.  Bodies slumped against the walls.  Trails on the floor where they’d been dragged.

Gordon hadn’t brought his family, but he hadn’t come alone.

His boots made an awkward sound, damp but not quite a squelch, as he walked.  If he turned his head, if he looked away from the brother in his arms, there would be red prints declaring his path for all to see.

He didn’t.

He kept walking forwards, through stained corridors until there was fresh air and the only copper tang was coming from the mess smearing him and his brother.  Death was behind him.  Ahead of them was life, the GDF bustling around as they finished securing the area.  Many horrified looks landed his way.  They were ignored.

Not even Colonel Casey was spared acknowledgement as he strode straight towards the nearest flyer and boarded it.

No-one stopped him.

Scott was too big to sit in his lap, but Gordon ignored logistics and kicked enough jump seats down that his long legs could sprawl across them instead of trailing onto the floor.

A hand offered him wipes. Their godmother’s lips were pinched thin, so thin the line was barely visible.  Gordon accepted in silence and pulled his brother close against his chest with one hand while the other started to wipe at the blood on his face.

It cut white streaks through the crimson, clearing away the smear his sleeve had caused earlier. Scott didn’t stir at the ministrations, even as Gordon gently teased the blood from where it had congealed in his eyelashes and painted his lips.

The moment he finished, more blood dribbled down from his hairline, carving a single crimson line down his face.  That was banished, too.

Wipes didn’t work so well on hair, but he tried as brown strands flopped in clumps, occasionally prompting another slow dribble down Scott’s face.

“Does he need a hospital?” Colonel Casey asked him.  Gordon hadn’t noticed that she hadn’t left, but didn’t let his eyes leave Scott.

“No,” he said – croaked. He pressed two fingers to his brother’s pulse again just to be sure, but it hadn’t changed.  Nothing they couldn’t handle at home.  “Just somewhere to clean up.  And a change of clothes.”

She didn’t question further. He knew she understood.

“Strap in,” she ordered instead.  “We’ll take off in ninety seconds.”

GDF flyers weren’t conducive to keeping his brother in his lap and safely strapping in.  Gordon compromised, propping Scott up in the seat next to him and guiding him to flop on his shoulder as he kept his arms around him.

No-one tried to tell him to do anything different.

He continued wiping his brother’s skin, the different angle giving him better access to his hands. Gordon paid close attention to his nails, making sure to get every last speck of red out from underneath them as the flyer ferried them away from the crimson-covered nightmare and into the cool greys of a GDF base.

Gordon didn’t know which one.  He didn’t care, either.

The offered stretcher was ignored.  His back was starting to murmur, early signs of protest, but it could take more before he needed to listen to it.  The most important thing was that Scott was safe.  With him. In his arms.

It was his godmother who led the way, not bothering to waste either of their times with idle conversation. Military facilities didn’t offer luxury, but they offered the basics, and as long as it got them clean, it could be a bucket in the middle of a field.

“I called your brother,” she told him as he kicked the water into flowing.  “He’s on his way.”

No point asking which brother that was.

Gordon nodded to show he was listening.

“I’ll keep him with me. Find us when you’re ready.”

He nodded again and she left.

Clear water ran red as it ran over them.  Their clothes stuck to their skin, but that didn’t matter.  They were ruined, anyway.  Spare GDF uniforms sat in the corner, clean and crisp and bland.

Scott still didn’t stir, and Gordon curled around him underneath the showerhead.  Water ran down his face; in the mirror it looked like tear tracks carving through red paint.

Gordon’s eyes were dry.

He had his hands and a sponge someone had left in reach.  He had an unconscious brother and crimson swirling down the drain.  He had a gun with sodden gunpower.

He didn’t move until the water ran clear from shower head to drain.  Skin pruned, a hint of washerwoman’s hands on both of them.  Clothes were left in the tray, fit for nothing but incineration. Towels were hijacked, military issue familiar and grounding but uncomfortable, and GDF uniforms acquired.

The grey made Scott look washed out.  Gordon didn’t look in the mirror to see what it did to him.

Picking his brother up again was easier and harder that time.  There was no blood, now.  He was pale and still unconscious, but unharmed.  No nightmare fuel to force feed their brothers.  He didn’t look like he needed protecting, needed to be kept safe from the world.  But he did, because the slack face and the skin a shade too light was wrong.

“You’re okay,” Gordon whispered, voice cracking.  He didn’t know who he was talking to.  Who he was reassuring.  “You’re okay. Let’s go home.”

Virgil would be waiting in Colonel Casey’s office, brow furrowed far enough to swallow the scar on his nose whole.  Gordon just had to get them there, now they didn’t look like something out of a horror movie, and then his job was over.

He just had to reach Virgil.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #scott tracy #gordon tracy #colonel casey #blood #thunderangst #bloodbath

[flowesona]

The Midnight Channel [2/2]

Yandere ??? x reader

Inspired by Persona 4 (2008)

The most valuable thing (Y/N) had was her friends. She adored the simple things, such as the way Jungkook’s smile when she offered to buy him food was simply infectious, or how Taehyung would call her late at night making plans for the next day. 

They were especially precious to her the days after Taehyun’s murder, when she felt as if the entire town had turned against her. She didn’t even speak to her parents, relying instead on Jungkook’s phone calls to wish her a good night.

She didn’t express this sentiment to them until one Thursday afternoon, over a seemingly endless bowl of ramen that Taehyung insisted on buying for her, explaining that he’d gotten a pay rise at work.

“You know we’ll always be here for you.” Taehyung hummed in agreement to Jungkook’s statement, abandoning his food in favour of listening to the conversation. 

“I’m so grateful for that, I just wish everything would go back to normal.” (Y/N) sighed, smiling when Jungkook gave her a light pat on the shoulder. She finally finished her bowl of ramen and pushed it in front of her, stretching with a happy smile.

“Can we stop by the library on the way back? I need to return the book I took out or I’ll be fined.” There was no way she could say no to Jungkook’s puppy dog eyes. Thus, they ended up waiting by the desk as a woman with snail-pace speed tapped away the computer to find his library ID, as he’d lost his card.

“Jungkook! It’s great to see you again.” A hushed voice from besides them provided some company, as they saw a slightly older man with a soft smile.

“Hey Namjoon. These are my friends, (Y/N) and Taehyung.” Namjoon held out his hand, to which (Y/N) shook it. However, Taehyung was completely snubbed.

“Are you guys studying hard? You have entrance exams starting soon, right?” Namjoon said in a hushed voice, glancing at Jungkook who was still engaged in a quiet conversation with the front desk clerk, who seemed to be struggling with the computer as he pointed at the screen to direct her mouse.

“I haven’t really given it too much thought recently. I…” (Y/N) trailed off, feeling her words get caught in her throat. Sensing this, Taehyung reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“You’ve been caught up in a murder investigation, I know.” Namjoon’s voice was soothing, comforting as he leaned in closer to keep their conversation on the down low. 

She felt Taehyung gently run his thumb across the back of her hand, and used that as a sign to breathe again. 

“I think Jungkook’s almost done.” Taehyung whispered. He could read her like a book, and he knew more than anything she just wanted to get out of there and go home.

Jungkook finally, after a long battle with the librarian over the basic parts of her job, was done.

“I’ll see you soon, Namjoon.” He said, as they made their way out. Not even stopping to listen as he also wished them farewell.

───── ⋆⋅ ☂  ⋅⋆ ─────

As Jungkook and Taehyung made their own ways home, (Y/N) was left all alone to navigate the rapidly darkening streets. She started to speed up, scared of being caught out in the night. [Taehyun]’s killer was still out there, after all.

The roar of a motorbike almost scared her out of her skin, as she heard the engine get louder until it drew to a stop, the biker right beside her.

In that second she wanted nothing more than to bolt. But it was as if she was glued to the spot as she saw the biker take off his helmet to reveal a somewhat familiar face.

They stared at each other for a moment, before he reached into his pocket. Expecting the worse, (Y/N) began to inch away preparing to scream her lungs out. Only to see him pull out her umbrella.

Without a word, he pressed it into her hands. 

“Thank you.” She felt herself go hot at the sound of his deep voice.

“No problem.” 

There was an awkward pause.

“It’s not safe to be out this late.” He commented.

“My friends live on the other side of town.” (Y/N) replied. “I didn’t want to have them go out of their way walking me back.” 

The biker sighed.

“I don’t feel right leaving you to walk home alone. Get on the back, I’ll give you a lift.” 

“Oh no, it’s fine-” (Y/N) protested, face still flushed.

“I’m a lot safer than some of the other people in this town. Get on.” 

Swallowing down the fear in her throat, she cautiously climbed onto the back seat.

However, he didn’t move yet. Suddenly, she realised that she wasn’t sitting properly and whilst regretting her every word, she placed her arms around his waist.

The stranger put on his helmet, revved up the bike, and they were off.

“Where do you live?” He asked as they sped down the road.

“Near the 7/11.” She answered, receiving a grunt in response.

The ride was almost refreshing, once (Y/N) had conquered her initial fear. The cool breeze whipped her face and hair, making her squeal and causing the biker to chuckle at her reaction.

Finally, he drew up outside her house.

“Thank you so much.” (Y/N) offered him a smile, climbing off the back of his bike and dusting herself down.

He didn’t respond until she was at her door.

“I’m Yoongi.”

“I’m (Y/N)” She replied. “Have a good night.”

───── ⋆⋅ ☂  ⋅⋆ ─────

The howling rainstorm outside made it impossible to sleep. Once again, her most uncomfortable days were accompanied by rain.

‘The Midnight Channel.’

Once the thought had entered her head, it was hard for it to leave. Would Taehyun still be there, his suffering captured forever to make (Y/N) suffer? Or would it simply be blank, (Y/N) having lost all her one and only soulmate.

No matter how much she tried to distract herself, (Y/N) couldn’t shake it. She just had to see what would be on there.

She watched the hand creep closer and closer until it was almost midnight. Suddenly, she couldn’t bear it anymore. She flung the bedsheet off her, and kneeled in front of the TV.

(Y/N) was ready to give up when nothing happened. But, just as she was about to climb back into bed and scrub all knowledge of the strange phenomenon from her mind, the screen flickered to life. 

At first, the static was too strong to make out who it was. All she could see was a vague female silhouette. However, once she meant closer to squint, she could make out the face. Bone chillingly, the face belonging to the figure being shown on the TV was that of her own.

───── ⋆⋅ ☂  ⋅⋆ ─────

Needless to say, (Y/N) refused to leave her room after what she’d seen. No amount of bargaining or reasoning from her parents could convince her that she wasn’t about to die in the same mysterious manner as Taehyun. 

She couldn’t even bring herself to let her friends in. All of her trust with outer society was destroyed by some stupid urban myth, and as much as (Y/N) wanted to convince herself it was all a hoax, memories of the corpse dangling from the telephone pole haunted her everytime she closed her eyes.

Eventually, she built up the courage to see someone. Her mother had knocked on her door ten minutes ago saying that Taehyung was still there, waiting for her.

And sure enough, when she poked her head out of the door he was sat outside, on his phone. The second he heard the door creep open his head shot up.

“(Y/N)! Thank god, I’ve been so worried.” He stood up, only for (Y/N) to back away.

“Maybe it isn’t best for you to see me. I look like an absolute mess.” 

“Nonsense.” Taehyung insisted, prying open the door. “I said I wanted to see you. I don’t care how you look.”

He muttered something under his breath, but when (Y/N) asked he just shook his head.

They sat themselves on her bed, as he awkwardly tried to find the most non-invasive way to ask (Y/N) what was wrong.

“How have you been then?”

“Like shit. I’m scared to leave my room, Tae.” She sighed.

“Why?” Taehyung pressed, reaching out to hold her hand. She took it, relishing in the comfort of his soft hands.

“You know about the midnight channel, right?” She said, trying not to stumble over her words.

“That thing Jungkook was talking about? Yeah, why?” 

“Well, when Taehyun was… you know… I saw him on the Midnight Channel. Twice in fact. So I thought he could be my soul mate. But then I checked again a few nights ago. And there was… me.”

Taehyung squeezed her hand tightly, letting her continue.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but I feel like the Midnight Channel is calling card of some kind. And whoever killed Taehyun is going to kill me.”

“They won’t.” Taehyung said firmly. “I won’t let them. I swear (Y/N), to lose you would be to lose part of my soul.”

“Tae…?” (Y/N) felt her face go red at his passionate declaration. He’d always been so caring, so kind but this was a whole other feeling.

“(Y/N), I love you. I know that I do. And you might not love me back, and I will accept that. But I can’t live without you.” 

“Tae… thank you. I… I need time, but I know that I like you. Just let me figure out my life before I rush into this, so I don’t hurt you.”

He nodded, standing up to leave but (Y/N) wouldn’t let go.

“Please… can you just stay a bit longer?”

───── ⋆⋅ ☂  ⋅⋆ ─────

As much as she wished to be wrapped up in Taehyung’s arms for the rest of time, it was getting late and she knew his parents would be worried about his whereabouts.

“I’ll walk you to school in the morning. No one’s going to hurt you under my watch.” Taehyung was reassuring both her and himself as he spoke.

“Take an umbrella. The rain is way too heavy right now.” (Y/N) replied, finding the black fold-up umbrella she’d discarded in the corner of the room and pressing it to his chest.

“(Y/N)?” She didn’t realise how tense she’d become until he called her name to snap her out of the trance. She met his eyes, and he smiled.

“I love you. Sleep well.” With a gentle kiss to her forehead he left the room, and she could hear him making polite small talk with her parents before leaving. 

Meanwhile, (Y/N) busied herself by changing into her sleepwear and preparing herself for bed. She could only hope a good night’s sleep would ease her mind, and it felt like as soon as her head hit the pillow she was out cold.

The town itself was dropping off to sleep. Lights were being switched off, dishes left to dry, and restaurants were starting to wipe down the tables. It was the perfect setting for him to strike, hiding in the shadows as he made his way towards (Y/N)’s house. No one even spared him a glance.

Her house was perfectly silent. All it took was a simple lock pick to the door and he was let in. There was one safety hazard, however. The intruder almost tripped over the body of the (L/N)’s dog, who had laid himself at the doorstep as if he knew of the danger to come. But all it took was some quiet shushing and a hand running through the dog’s fur to calm it back down, as it laid its head on the ground with its tail still wagging, exciting to meet a new friend. Thankful that it hadn’t caused too much of a ruckus, he crept up the stairs, hoping not to stumble across a squeaky step. After all, (Y/N) was an only child and the slightest ruckus could leave him screwed.

Nonetheless, he was at (Y/N)’s bedroom without so much as a peep. Gently he opened the door, and his heart soared as he finally glimpsed her face again, after what felt like ages. She looked ethereal as she rested, even if there was a slight frown on her face.

What was she dreaming about? School, Books, her dog… maybe even him? EVen if the thought delighted him, it didn’t deter him. He was still shook from what he’d seen earlier, and it was his love for (Y/N) that was driving him to drastic action.

(Y/N) was rudely awoken from her sleep when she felt someone grabbing her head and slamming it into the wall. She was about to scream, only to have a hand harshly pressed over her mouth. She desperately struggled, trying her hardest to elbow her attacker in the stomach, or preferably the groin, to no avail.

The stranger easily overpowered her, pushing her to the ground. As if to taunt her, the attacker used their shoe to flip her onto her back before pressing it into her chest, to hold her in place. 

It was only from this new angle she could start to make out the intruder’s face as she struggled to get up, aided only by the sliver of moonlight shining on them through the curtain. Even if she could barely recognise his face, the cool deep voice that spoke was unmistakable.

“It’s great to see you again, darling.”

“N-Namjoon? What are you…?” (Y/N) was breathless, both from shock and fear of what was to come. Was she going to die, right there completely helpless as her parents slept soundly in the next room?

“Don’t worry about what I’m going to do, darling. This is all about you.”

“Me?”

Namjoon sighed. He knelt down, moving the weight off her chest but pinning her hands down instead, pinning her beneath his body.

“You don’t realise just how mesmerizing you are, do you?” 

See her blank expression, he continued.

“I love you, (Y/N). I have loved you, for so long. But I’m not the only one, am I?” (Y/N) let out a hiss of pain as his nails dug into her wrists. “Park Jimin, always snapping at your heels like some lovesick puppy. Or maybe that thug Min Yoongi, who was so insistent on accompanying you home? Even Kim Taehyung. Don’t think I didn’t notice the way he was looking at you. Right in front of me as well!”

Namjoon scoffed.

“And how could I forget that little brat Taehyun?”

(Y/N) was shaking in his grasp as she spoke.

“What did you do to him?”

“Why don’t I show you darling?” Noticing the look of fear that washed over her face, he simpered.

“I have every reason to. You’ve messed me around too long. I’ve always been there, trying to help you, vying for your attention yet you flounce around with every other boy in town! How is that meant to make me feel?”

“How was I meant to know you feel that way? I don’t owe you anything, you creep.” (Y/N) hissed, voice raising slightly. Namjoon simply covered her mouth with one of his hands once again, conscious of her sleeping parents.

“I suppose that’s true, you don’t owe me anything. But I’m going to get what I want anyway.”

He pulled her off the floor, still keeping her restricted so no matter how hard she struggled it was futile.

“How about I show you the true power of the Midnight Channel?” Hearing her squeak in fear Namjoon continued. 

“You’re familiar with it, aren’t you darling? After all, once I told Jungkook I was almost certain he’d pass it onto you. And the more people who know about this, the more powerful it becomes.”

He was pushing her towards her TV, even as she dug her heels into the floor.

“My poor darling. Taehyun was just as scared. But I had to punish him for hurting your reputation so badly, not to mention how bold he was to stake his claim on you when you should belong to only me.”

She felt her shoulder hit the TV, but rather than colliding directly with it her body started to sink into it like quicksand. 

“I hope this will teach you a thing or two. Being in the TV world killed Taehyun, but I won’t let it hurt you too much. Hopefully I’ll remember to rescue you in a day or two.” 

The last sight (Y/N) saw before she was enveloped in the strange dimension was Namjoon’s smirk, knowing he finally had her full attention.

#yandere bts #yandere bts x reader #yandere au #yandere kpop #kpop yandere #yandere jimin #yandere jimin x reader #yandere jungkook #yandere jungkook x reader #yandere taehyung #yandere taehyung x reader #yandere yoongi #yandere yoongi x reader #yandere namjoon #yandere namjoon x reader #jimin x reader #jungkook x reader #taehyung x reader #yoongi x reader #namjoon x reader

[dzamie-oc]

03 - Steampunk

I’ll admit, this is a bit reductionist for a punk story, but gimme a break, I wrote this in only a few hours :P

Length: 2200 words Rating: T (mild description of blood and death) Summary: A factory worker makes a dragon. They grow up together and eventually enact a little bit of class warfare and a little bit of revenge.

-----

Finn’s desk was half covered in a pile of assorted junk - gears, pipes,twisted bits of scrap metal, keys for long-dead springs, and so much more, almost all tarnished, covered in coal soot, or both. However, his attention was focused on the other half, a carefully cleared space with only a few mechanical pieces strewn about, all polished to perfection. Most importantly, in the middle, sat a small, mechanical device of his own creation. Its body was unfinished, exposing much of its inner workings to the naked eye - and the elements, if he let it get that far. A head like a mix of a lizard and a dog, a long, flexible neck, a body that one might mistake for a large, metallic rat’s, and a slender tail which ended in a thin, metal cone. The young teen, with a degree of care unusual to someone with such a rat’s nest of hair, delicately positioned his creation to lay on its back, curled its legs in, and gently inserted a brass key into a particular, well-shaped hole in its chest. Once, twice... three times he turned, for luck.

Through the background din of machinery, he suddenly heard the sound of footsteps and froze. Reflexively, his free hand flew to the ignored pile of scraps, then slowly dragged one over, taking just long enough for him to listen to the footsteps pass by and once more out of earshot. Finn let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, furtively glanced left and right, just in case, and removed the wound key.

Gears and wheels began to spin with a soft whirr, and a look of wonderment spread across Finn’s face as the mechanical legs twitched, then cycled in the air. Its head lifted, letting him stare into its dark eyes, no longer as lifeless as they’d always seemed to be.

“Hey, little guy,” the boy said, “welcome to the world. I’m Finn. I almost hate to dump this on you, but... look, in case I can’t, keep wound, and keep hidden. I wish I could show everyone how cool you clearly are, but-”

Suddenly, more footsteps. Footsteps he recognized, and recognized well. Finn hissed an apology to the dragon and quickly covered it with the nearby metal bowl he’d kept its parts in, then grabbed a part from the pile and set about rubbing it with a rag nearly as filthy as the part. A valve, he realized after his first pass of rubbing - after so many years, his hands knew how to move without thinking, or even realizing what was in them. The footsteps grew louder, closer, and Finn scrubbed at the metal. With a sigh, he wondered if he’d just gotten it dirtier. He went to pass it ahead into a bucket of valves, when-

“Finnegan Shine!” came the shrill voice of a woman who thought herself far more cultured than she knew she could even aspire to. “Just what are you doing with that thing?”

Finn’s “good afternoon, Ms. Springwarden” was cut off by her question, so he looked at the metal in his hand. “I’m... putting it with the other valves after cleaning it?”

Ms. Springwarden harrumphed. “Cleaning it! Just what HAS that first-shift supervisor been teaching you?” She looked at the valve - and at Finn - with a sneer. Finn always thought that, if disdain was an Olympic sport, Ms. Springwarden would have enough gold to live somewhere nice and stop tormenting him - although, he had to admit, perhaps she would still torment him for the fun of it. “Why, I can barely tell it apart from that filthy pile!”

The boy put on a puzzled expression. “Really? But I’ve been going at it with my cleanest rag for a solid minute,” he lied. Of all the people in Alma Vera, she was the last person he ever wanted to even consider the existence of his hidden project. Still, he held up three more well-used cloths, to show her that at least part of his claim had been true.

Another harrumph. “And not once did you think that, just maybe, you ought to trade them for washed cleaning equipment?”

“But Ms. Springwarden, I thought I wasn’t allowed to leave my chair during my shift?”

“Foolish child,” the woman replied, and brought her hand towards his forehead, finger primed to flick. At the last second, however, Finn saw a look of disgust, and she withdrew so as not to touch his, charitably, under-washed face. “Rise and follow me. But don’t let me catch you out of your seat without my permission!”

“Yes, Ms. Springwarden!” Finn said, and stood. The four dirty rags were exchanged for four clean ones, or at least as clean as would pass at his work. Thus equipped, Finn was returned to his seat - the bowl still overturned, to his relief.

Ms. Springwarden crossed her arms and said, “who knows how many valuable components you’ve ruined with your folly. You do remember our motto, do you not?”

Finn nodded. “Quality and quantity, Ms. Springwarden.”

The woman harrumphed yet again, and picked up two of the buckets he had sorted parts into, and dumped them into the assorted pile. “Well, let us now remedy your mistake. You will have to clean each of these now befouled pieces once again, and be quick about it!” She glared at him. “Your work ends when your pile is gone, and not a second, nor a part, sooner.”

“Yes, Ms. Springwarden.”

Finn returned to his task, and after a few seconds, he heard one last derisive snort, and then footsteps trailing away. The boy dramatically picked up his pace once she was gone, and before long, he had undone the damage to his progress she had inflicted on him. Another look left and right, and he placed his hands on the bowl, praying that the dragon truly was still there.

“Hey, it’s me,” he whispered, so the dragon wouldn’t try to hide. When he revealed the metallic creature, it had its forepaw in its chest, twisting the mechanism inside. Once finished, it looked up at him and swished its tail, accompanied by the soft, metallic whirring of gears. “That was Ms. Springwarden. They say that, somewhere out there, at least three people are unable to make that ‘hmph’ sound, because she’s using all of theirs.” The dragon leaned its head down, opened its jaws, and picked up a twisted bit of scrap metal, then shook it around a bit, which got a chuckle out of Finn. “It’s too bad you’re not as big as the dragons I’ve heard the people who live on airships have. You could just eat her, then. Although, I wouldn’t have been able to hide you while I built you.”

The clockwork creature flicked its head and sent the scrap flying through the air, to land in the discard bucket. “Fast learner,” Finn remarked. “So, you need a name. I think... Eve.” He paused. “It’s not weird to name you after an elementary school crush, is it?”

Eve responded by tossing another bit of scrap into the bucket, then wiping her mouth on his hand.

-----

Finn prowled through the dense pipework of the underground, eyes peeled for the rats he was supposed to exterminate. In one hand, he held a bag full of rodent corpses - his proof for payment. The other hand gripped what might charitably be called a tiny harpoon launcher. It looked similar to a certain toy gun, popular among the children of wealthy families, and that was no accident - although he would have the kid he stole it from think otherwise. With a bit of tinkering, a wire to save on ammunition, and a much better spring, Finn considered himself the second best at this sort of job, something that led people to avoid asking too much about the improvised tool.

A squeak cut short, then rapid metal-on-metal clanking heralded the arrival of the first best at this sort of job. Eve trotted up to him, two dead rats in her mechanical jaws. Over the past five years or so, Finn had found or fashioned bigger replacement parts for his dragon until she stood nearly at his waist. Long since unable to hide her under a bowl, of course, the story now was that she was a defective mechanical dog he had scored for a pittance. Regardless, Eve stood attentively next to him, waiting for him to open the bag for her. When he did, one rat fell into the pile of its brethren, and as for the other...

Eve tossed and flicked her head until the rodent’s body aligned with her jaws. A new whirring noise kicked in as sets of wheels dragged it down her metal throat, and then a sickening grinding sound bounced around the pipes and fixtures. The dragon opened her mouth again and wiped it on his pants leg, to his mild dismay.

“You’re gonna have to drop that habit, or I’ll put you back on winding-only.”

Eve went still for a few seconds, but the gentle whirring of her insides picked up. When she moved again, she brought one upturned forepaw in front of the other, then cycled them around each other, and finally tapped her throat.

“Break a habit for a voice?” Finn asked. “Eve, voices are hard to come by. You know I would’ve gotten you one by now if I could.”

The sound of a much smaller creature skittering along the metal ground caught both of their attentions. Finn spun, aimed, and pulled the trigger, and a barbed, pointed pole flew from the tip of his weapon, with metal wire following shortly after. The rat screamed a squeaky scream, then fell quiet, and Finn reeled in his shot and prize.

Eve pressed her paw against his leg for his attention. She pointed her muzzle at the gun, then curled back at her own chest, and then she once again tapped her paw to her neck with an insistent clank-clank-clank. Finn furrowed his brow. “I’m pretty sure voice boxes are in a league of their own...” he started, then smiled broadly at her. “Then again, so am I. Mind giving up more than half your rats from now on, so we can go shopping for anything we can’t find?”

The dragon’s metal plating rattled against itself as she wiggled in anticipation, then bounded off to massacre more vermin.

-----

It was a glorious ceremony. Everyone sported their most elaborate suits and dresses, all in a modest brown. Some of the more adventurous gentlemen had constantly-turning gears on the hats they politely kept in their laps, but no longer were they nor their headwear the center of attention. Ms. Springwarden, soon to lose that name, stood in a beautiful, ornate, white dress, and stared adoringly at the man standing in front of her, who-

BOOM!

A shout rose up from the crowd as what used to be a wall was replaced by a hole and a dragon. The elaborate mechanical creature’s outer plating was a mismatch of bronze, iron, and steel, as though it had been dressed in a junkyard. And perched on its back was a man with a daring grin, who Ms. Springwarden found strangely familiar...

“Well! Ms. Springwarden, aren’t you moving up! The big boss himself, I wonder if you’ll outlast  his last four wives!” Finn shouted as he dismounted the dragon, landing with a roll and ending up right next to the bride-to-be.

Without opening her mouth, Eve spoke. “I am confident he will be her husband for the rest of his life,” she said. Her voice was unnatural, amateurish, and it sounded like it belonged in some sterile, form-over-function research lab, rather than a well-tuned dragon. Before anyone could react, she opened her jaws and snapped up the stunned man, soon feeding him to the wheels hidden behind her neck plating.

“Aw! Eve! I had planned this whole quip about how his factories have a great quantity of people and I’m about to increase the average quality!”

“So lie in your memoir.”

Many of the guests had fled the scene, with only a few hiding behind the benches, and Ms. Springwarden herself remained frozen to the spot. “Wh- who...?”

Finn swept into a deep bow, mockingly low. “Finnegan Shine, Ms. Springwarden. My friends call me Finn, but of course you never did. You may not remember me, and I sorely wish I could say the same. But now then...” He stepped backwards towards Eve, who lowered her head and opened her jaws. Finn leaned against her neck, feeling the whirr of the wheels making up her throat thrumming through her metal body. “They say marriage is for better or worse, right? What say you join your hubby in the ‘worse?’”

Eve’s distorted voice joined in once more, saying, “I remember you. That he is offering you a refusal is far more than I would have.”

The woman - having found a worse fate than being left at the altar - took a step back, shaking her head. “No... no. Please, no.”

To everyone’s surprise, the dragon snapped her mouth shut with a loud crash of metal, and Finn clambered back up onto her back. “Then it’s a damn lucky thing I’m not you, miss,” the man said, before the pair of them escaped through the dragon-sized hole in the wall.

Finn hugged Eve’s neck tight. One down, an unfortunate number to go. He just hoped his friends were having as much fun as he was.

#dragon #dragons #smaugust #smaugust 2021 #steampunk #writing #text