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sp4ceboo · 1 day

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CHAPTER 5 ~ VISIONS

beneath a crimson sky masterlist | ch 1 | ch 2 | ch 3 | ch 4 | ch 5

pairing: stray kids ot8 x afab!reader

genre: apocalypse au, dystopian, dark, adventure, action, thriller, fighting, eventual smut, romance

a/n: for someone who's terrified of any sort of horror etc i sure get the urge to write it

chapter warnings: gore, lots of vivdly described disturbing stuff, illness, starvation, hallucinations

chapter word count: 2.5k

Hissing in your ears, the shadows bear you up in their arms, whisking you so high that you thrash in their shackles, screaming for them to let you down.

The whites of their eyes show as they laugh at you.

You sob, trying to grab at the inky chains they’ve fixed around your wrists and ankles, but they turn insubstantial the moment your fingers close around them, dissolving away in curls of cold smoke to reform away from your touch. Grinning faces surround you, multitudes of strange faces you cannot explain: an army assembled to mock you.

In a flash, they are gone. Bony fingers crawl over your face. Flailing, you try to bite down, but another hand clamps over your mouth as the fingers creep upwards, digging into your eye sockets and scooping. Cold envelops you, and you spasm, back arching as sight returns to you.

There’s bloody tears dripping down your face.

You weep.

Below you, a vast crowd stretches, wreathed in flames and lined up in endless rows, so far that you cannot see their ends. Dressed in rags that they treat as finery are a man and a woman, standing at the head of the formation, their faces slack and empty. Their bodies are not theirs to control.

The woman’s blonde hair hangs limp and matted around her face. There’s a glint of something metal at her waist. It’s the hilt of a knife, snug between her ribs, and though blood oozes down her clothes and soaks into her rags, she acts as if it isn’t there. Beside her, the man sways, bronzed skin pallid and coated in a sheen of sweat; he looks not entirely healthy, as if he’d just recovered from an illness.

A figure rides up. Even from so far above, you feel the blaze of his hate. His horse is a steed forged from an inferno, red and fiery, and you catch a glimpse of sharpened iron teeth as its lip curls, tossing its flame weaved mane and pawing at the ground, the air around it undulating with heat. You begin to tremble.

The rider’s face is terrible and beguiling. His flesh drips from his bones, sizzling where it touches the horse's flanks. You are struck through with terror as his eyes find you from where you are suspended in the wine tinted sky; they are deep and endless and full of an ocean of loathing. For a moment, you are drowning in them, and fire tugs at your limbs, ripping your skin off them and gnawing through you until it finds your heart.

A wretched sound leaves you as the rider stretches out his hand and plucks it from your chest. The worst thing is that beneath the fear and the acrid scent of your burning body, there is an unexplainable elation, planted there against your will. It swells in your chest, and you begin to laugh, laugh and laugh and laugh, as the rider brings your heart to his bloody mouth and sinks his teeth in.

Pain explodes through you, and suddenly you are back in the sky. You clutch at the shadows now, pleading for them to keep you away from the rider, pleading for them to make it stop.

Again, they laugh, a chorus of shrieks and cackles, shrill, the sound boring into your head.

Though your limbs are weak with fear, you still find it within you to struggle against them. Wordless, frightened noises leave you, for below, the rider is cradling the face of the woman, close as a lover, and she is transfixed by him. You scream, begging her to pull away, to resist, but a dumb smile crawls over her face and she drops to her knees before the rider. As she falls, he grips the blade in her side and pulls it out. She does not even twitch.

You can only watch in horror as he moves onto the man. He too kneels without a fight.

Pulling the broadsword from where it is slung over his back, the second horseman draws it and rests the flat of it on the woman’s shoulder. For a panic stricken moment, you think he will behead her right there and eviscerate her beside the man, but he doesn’t.

He knights her, then the man next.

The rider gestures at them, and together, they stand, their movements jerky as if pulled on by puppet strings. You cry out when you see their eyes - deep and murky, insidious darkness leaking from their irises into their blood woven sclera.

All semblance of humanity has been erased from them.

They are nothing more than vessels.

Cool hands cup your face.

Moaning, you lean towards them, willing them to stay there and beat back the scorching desert beneath your skin. You can hear voices, but they’re far away. Your breath comes out short and laboured.

It sounds like you’re dying.

The same cool hands ease your jaw open, and water floods your parched tongue. At first, you cough, but you choke it down, so thirsty that you barely pause to breathe. Blearily, you open your eyes, but they don’t make out anything but light and dark blurs.

“She’s drinking, thank god,” the cool hands say.

You frown. It’s Minho’s voice, flat enough that you can’t read the emotions swirling beneath it, but his words sound relieved. You can’t think why Minho would be relieved that you’re alive. The room is slowly swimming into focus, and you spot two smears of black, one a little taller than the other.

A rough palm touches your cheek. “She’s still burning up, though.”

That’s Seungmin. Turning your head, you try to claw your way to lucidity, but it evades you. The cool hands sweep a damp cloth over your forehead as you begin to register his words.

“Burning,” you rasp. “He’ll make them burn everything down.”

Minho pauses, opening his mouth. The shadows sink their teeth into you before you can hear what he says.

This time, they leave you under a reddened night sky devoid of stars. No shackles bind you, but you can sense them slinking in the corners of your vision and where you cannot see, waiting to pounce. Turning in a circle, you scan the darkness, searching for the next horror that awaits you.

The sound of horse hooves rings out. You whirl around, trying to find their source, trying to ignore the tittering of the shadows as they mock you with their derisive faces.

You blink, and then the third horseman is there before you.

She sits astride a horse so black that it had blended into the circle of shadows as it approached. It is glossy and healthy looking, yet it froths at the mouth, snapping its teeth at you. The rider places a soft hand on its flank, and it calms. She smiles at you, saccharine, and it incites so much comfort inside you that you know it’s a lie.

Her extrasolar face is cold and so beautiful it cuts you, her lacy hair like cobwebs where it hangs around her face. It drapes, dripping, over her shoulders - a veil.

There’s blood on your tongue.

You take a step back, and the gentle look on her face turns ugly. Holding up her hand, a pair of scales appears between her fingers, and she places a delicate feather, white as a lamb, in the first dish.

Though there’s nothing in the second dish, the moment she releases the feather, it hurtles downwards - the scales shriek shrilly as they move, and you watch in horror as the feather begins to bleed until it is soaked red. The rider turns to you, and now there is nothing comforting about her sharpened smile. Heart pounding, you back away, but the shadows push you back towards her, and what you believe must certainly be your doom.

She raises her hand and points at you.

Immediately, you collapse, your stomach cramping. You are filled with a sudden craving, a hunger so vast you cannot think; you merely scrabble at the floor, tremors wracking your body as you cry out, needing to fill the yawning cavern inside you. It erodes you from the inside out, so acute it burns like vile acid.

Wailing, you claw your way forward until your vision is filled with the hooves of her horse. You are weak with hunger, so weak that it is a battle to raise your head and look up at her, your mouth hanging open to plead for her to release you from the pain. No sound comes out.

Caressing the horse’s mane, she leans forward and whispers into its velvety ear. You quake as you look up at her, wondering what she said, wondering if she will take mercy on you and knowing she will not.

Whinnying, the horse rears, and you scream as its hooves slam down and punch right through your ribcage.

The combined agony radiating from your crushed torso and the gaping hunger in your stomach paralyses you, locking your muscles so tight it hurts. Your body begins to spasm, and your teeth close around your tongue. Panic spears through you as you begin to choke on your own blood.

Your skin tears, your bones cracking and popping and rearranging within you. You’re aware of protrusions pushing their way out of your back and down your arms, burrowing through your muscles and forcing them to reform around them. When you look up, the rider has dismounted her horse.

Tenderly, she touches your lips.

As if it has its own will, your body bends like a tree in a gale, and she kisses your forehead, her scarlet mouth terrible and searing against your skin, yet upon its touch, the pain in your ribs recedes, reforming you into something new.

The hunger roiling and snapping like a beast within only sharpens its claws.

“Go,” she murmurs. “Slaughter awaits.”

The world shakes with how hard you’re shivering, yet you can’t help but kick off your blankets. Someone secures them more tightly around them and you lash out, but your arms are weak and all it does is flop your hand against their leg. A voice floats down from somewhere in the sky.

“You need to eat.”

“Chan?” You groan, words slurred as strong hands ease you upright. “Changbin?”

“We’re here,” one of them says, although you’re not sure which one.

A spoon is pressed against your lips, and you hold back a cough long enough to swallow - they’ve mashed food so it’s liquid, easier for you to get down and keep down. Your head spins, the faces before you blurring. You realise Jisung is also with them, crouched beside Changbin, his face pale as he watches you.

“What did you mean before, about slaughter?”

Another face swims into view. Jeongin. You stare at him, bewildered both by his question and why he is bobbing up and down in front of you like a rubber duck caught in the crashing waves of the sea.

“I - I don’t remember,” you mumble.

Chan puts his hand on Jeongin’s shoulder. “It’s fine. She’ll tell us when she’s better.”

He says it like it’s final, like he’s sure that you will get through it, like there’s no other option. You want to believe him.

The shadows craft you a leash out of the ephemeral material that clothes them. Laughing, always laughing, they secure it around your neck, so tight that only strained gasps of air make it out of you, and drag you along with them, letting your body get broken and battered by the rocks in their path. Mud chokes your lungs, settling heavy in your chest when you inhale it, and fragments of rubbish and twigs tangle into your hair.

They’re bringing you to someone.

You begin to kick and struggle then, tearing at the leash, but it sinks deeper into your flesh, and your own torn nails leave gashes in your skin. As normal, your screams fall on deaf ears, and you writhe, knowing that who they’re taking you to will be far worse than the previous you’ve seen.

The collar of shadow rings tighter around your neck. Tighter and tighter and tighter until an abyss gapes open below you, and you fall right through, and this time even the shadows forsake you, letting you descend into the blackness as they recede from your vision. Somehow, it brings you no comfort, for they too fear he who has summoned you.

Your bones crunch and snap as you land; it is certain that the fall has ended you, and now your soul is trapped in the cage of your broken ribs, fluttering and trying to shake itself free. You cannot move. You cannot flee.

A pale horse walks towards you, yet its hooves make no noise. Fearful, you raise your eyes to see its rider.

He too is pale, and wreathed in a colourless cloak that casts a shadow over his face, yet you can see his skeletal features, motionless and terribly still within his cowl. The arc of the scythe in his fingers winks at you, even in the dark, and he uses the end of it to hook you and drag you from your body. Your bones clatter as your essence leaves them.

Death holds you in the palm of his hand, and you are captivated by the darkness within his hood. You know that this is the moment that your life rests upon.

“I have come to reap,” he says, with a voice like the slam of nails into a coffin lid. “Yet your time is not up yet.”

Again, you are falling.

There’s someone talking to you. You can see his face, see his lips moving, but you don’t understand a word he’s saying.

You don’t remember his name, nor the name of the one beside him, but you know who they are: there’s the blonde angel, his eyes earnest and worried as they search your slack face, and the dark haired prince, his handsome face etched in fear as he wipes your brow with a damp cloth.

The angel clasps your hands in his small ones, and this time, his words are audible, drifting down to you as if he talks to you from the top of a canyon while you’re tied to the bottom of the gorge, straining to hear his words. You fight to pick them out from the whisperings of the shadows, the freckles on his face swirling like constellations.

“Fight it,” he says, squeezing your fingers. “Fight just a little longer.”

You want to. You want to fight it, but the shadows creep closer, tugging at your limbs, and suddenly you’re just their puppet, them the cruel puppeteers.

You watch in horror as your own hands rear up like snakes and claw at the angel’s face.

taglist: @estella-novella@0bticeo@lixies-favorite-cookie@smashleywow@realrintaro @extremechaoswarning @4l17h4 @hyunjinsjeans @insufferablyunbearable @lovemepie67 @needsumcomfypillowstosleep @loumin908 (let me know if you want to be added)

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mcyt-builds-contest · 1 month

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The castle of Time

Contained : LDShadowlady, ch!Mabel, ch!Olm, ch!Belial

Series : Avid Adventures

Propaganda : Built by the incredibly talented LeonSBU and... corrupted...? into a full time-warping dungeon by the command block genius AvidMC, the Haunted Castle is a location dedicated to LDShadowLady and full to the brim with traps, puzzles, and straight-up time travel. Its decor is both fitting and functional, and both versions of it are incredibly cool-looking -- to say nothing of the Abyss below! ...Oh, right, as for why it's a prison? There's a place called the Abyss in the lore of the Shrouded Isles, home to some of the most dangerous entities in existence. The dark god Olm was trapped there before being freed, where they then proceeded to unleash eras of terror on various civilizations, outright destroying an entire one and slowly corrupting the key people of another. The demon Belial was also kept there, and when forced out of this prison by Olm proceeded to wreak havoc on the citizenry of Cloud's Rest, which still bears the scarring and curses from his attack. It's unclear or unknown what exactly Mabel, the Queen of Ghasts and boss of the Haunted Castle, can do... but whatever it is, it caused her to be considered so dangerous that she wasn't just kept trapped in the Abyss, but assigned three separate jailers and imprisoned further within the Castle of Time until, well, the end of Time itself. (Lizzie also very confidently declares that Mabel is an evil alternate future version of herself. I don't know what this implies. 🎶Haunted castle at the end of time!🎶

The Well:

Contained : LyinginBedmon

Series : Witch in the wood

Propaganda : Intended to be one of many horror-movie themed builds in the series, a replica of the well from horror movie The Ring, the Well... wasn't supposed to be a prison. Not until someone sealed Lying -- the Witch -- inside of it. After being trapped inside for an uncertain period of time, the Witch descended into even more madness -- no longer content to recreate horror movie sets, they now intended on becoming a horror movie villain themself, a sort of Fear Itself figure. The ritual they performed to eventually free themself caused the death of approximately 1% of all Lyings across the multiverse, which is a lot, and also technically transed their gender in the process (nice). This ritual also created an amalgam of very angry ghosts called Kyofushin that Witch!Lying then proceeded to trap inside a magical rock so they'd stop bugging them. (This is an extreme oversimplification.) After freeing themself, the Witch turned their former prison into their new base of operations, creating a variety of setups, especially for the magic mod Witchery. There's a straight-up immortality machine in there that makes them virtually unkillable, for one! Still. It was a prison for long enough to drive its sole inhabitant mad. That definitely counts for something. (Also -- the CC behind the series is on Tumblr. They've probably been here longer than most people in MCYTblr and are quite well habituated, so if there are any additional questions or needed propaganda, Lying themself will probably be able to add on. (There's also a short wiki entry on Witch!Lying here, which contains links to every series with them in it.)

#mcyt base contest #best prison brackets #polls #avid adventures #witch in the wood

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deceptive-daydreams · 1 year

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Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 | Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 | Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13 | Ch. 14 |

Smoke Signals

Chapter Eight - Sweet as Apple Pie

W/C: 6.9K

Eddie x Fem reader - Grumpy!Bartender!Eddie x Shy!Reader

Honesty ensues well into the quiet hours of Halloween.

A/N: this chapter is so full of dialogue....do y'all prefer a lot of dialogue throughout chapters or more scenery descriptions? Or a good amount of both?

Masterlist

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The living room was only illuminated by the flashing, gory scenes from the TV playing A Nightmare on Elm Street. It wasn’t your first choice and you had made that clear as you talked your way through the intense parts, keeping your focus on the popcorn bowl in your lap as you scavenged for a melty M&M. You preferred something more lighthearted but your unintentional guest insisted that with it being Halloween and all, it was ‘like the law’ to watch a horror movie. Perhaps you were somewhat okay with it, at least you didn’t have to pretend to have fun at a party and you were in fact cozied up on the couch watching a movie while eating your Halloween candy like you’d longed for in the first place. The only difference was the blood and violence playing out on the screen that you hadn’t planned to endure.

“You’re not even paying attention.” Eddie tosses a pillow your way, sending popcorn and M&Ms tumbling all over your lap.

“Eddie!” You scold.

When you glare at him, you’re met with an expression that can only be recognized as the kind someone exhibits when doing all they can to contain their laughter. Crinkled eyes and pursed lips ready to explode in a fit of boyish giggles. He wasn’t drunk anymore, no longer able to escape your incessant teasing should you choose to hold it over him.

A handful of popcorn mixed with candy is flung at him, a piece successfully clinging to his hair and several M&Ms rolling down his chest into the crevices of the couch that would never see the light of day again. There’s no ignoring the adorable pout on your lips and the way you’d become such a stubborn thing from the smallest inconvenience.

“Haven’t I been through enough tonight?” He frowns, dramatically picking the snack out of his hair to toss it toward you, landing somewhere on the rug below for you to some day clog your vacuum with.

Ignoring his question, the bowl is abandoned on the coffee table, movie long forgotten about as you bring your legs up to your chest and shift your eyes directly to him. Beneath his remaining eyeliner, you can make out the exhaustion forming under his eyes, bags growing more intense with every waking hour, his chapped lips parted ever so slightly as the light from the TV flashes over his features.

You begin to feel selfish for changing into your fluffy pajamas earlier, your pants a checkered orange and black pattern while you opted to wear a well loved gray t-shirt with faded letters that could barely be made out anymore. Eddie remained in his black jeans and tattered cut off, his jacket that previously adorned your shoulders hung snugly on the hook near the door.

There was no way you had anything that would accommodate his long legs although you could probably get by with offering him one of your larger shirts. You wonder if his skin is covered in goosebumps or if he tends to run hot and remain unbothered by the chilliness of your home. Embarrassingly so, you hadn’t learned how to use the fireplace yet. Blankets were a necessity and you found yourself cuddling up with nearly five at a time as the weather grew more frigid.

“I meant to ask, what is your costume? Yourself?” You question. An attempt to ease into offering him something warmer to wear as well as genuine curiosity.

“No?” He leans forward laughing, his attention bouncing between you and the movie. “Ozzy. Ozzy Osbourn.” He states proudly.

His tattoos draw you in as he brings his arms up to cross over his chest, his posture uncharacteristically comfortable on the opposite end of your couch. You were sure he was almost sober so it must have been sleep deprivation allowing him such luxury. A laugh bubbles in the back of your throat as you process his costume, something so convenient as it was practically his actual wardrobe, only a tad more revealing than what you were used to him wearing.

“What, so you just smudge some eyeliner on and you're Ozzy?” You giggle.

“Oh.” He scoffs. “And you put your hair in pigtails and you’re Dorothy?”

“Um, no?” You cock a brow. “A lot of work went into my costume. It just looks like you shredded up your poor shirt and smudged black all over your eyes.”

A giggle vibrates through his body, an actual giggle, almost a squeal as he buries his head in his hands. Another postcard for the space in your brain that was becoming larger with each interaction.

“Also, aren’t you cold? I’m fucking freezing and I’m covered in layers–”

Eddie continues to laugh, the image of a slap happy boy becoming clearer and clearer. His heavy hand makes contact with his thigh, deep chuckles following as you study the crows feet forming at the corner of his eye. Extra prominent tonight.

“I am–I’m fucking cold.” He throws his head back.

It’s contagious, the energy lingering in the air as you join in. You’re unaware of what’s so funny; it seems the mundane act of being alive is hilarious.

Tears threaten to spill, the kind that don’t come around very often; the kind that hold pools of joy, seas of dopamine longing to spill down your cheeks. A salty mess that would paint the prettiest memory, glossy eyelids and parted lashes more immaculate than any piece of art Eddie could imagine. Before you can allow him to indulge in such a sight, fat tears of euphoria are sucked back in, any excess wiped on the pads of your fingers.

“Do you…want a shirt? I-I dunno if I have any that’ll fit comfortably but…if you’re cold? Or I might have a sweatshirt!” You hop up, recovering from your fit of laughter in your moment of realization.

You don’t give him time to answer, immediately retreating to your room. His heart feels as if it's gnawing through his chest at the way you worry about him; the fact that you would even be concerned for his well being is still something he would never get used to. Not many people have offered him that courtesy throughout his life, always equating his family name to something undeserving of any friendly gesture.

When you return, an oversized navy blue sweatshirt in hand with a grin on your face, he swears his heart convulses on the spot. And when your fingers brush against his as you offer it to him, his lungs are rendered breathless, the desire to linger a little longer pulling him in like gravity. Your soft skin against his rough fingertips is enough to mess with his brain chemistry, reducing him to a useless man at your mercy, though he’d never admit it. Not because he didn’t want to but because he was him, and why would someone as delicate and kind hearted as you ever settle for someone as damaged and twisted as him?

Someone so dainty, so lovely, would never in a million years look at him and find him desirable.

When he thanks you, it comes out as an ungrateful mumble, his eyes suddenly glued to his lap in insecurity. That look on his face that you’d come to recognize, a look of absence. His mind fed on him and sucked him dry of emotion, eyes blank and devoid of the life that just seconds ago they were so full of.

“You okay?” You ask, a gentle approach, voice velvety soft with hints of concern.

He doesn’t give you a verbal answer, only nodding while his gaze stays on his lap, the sweatshirt held weakly between his ringed fingers. His silence is reason enough to believe that it was a lie. You just couldn’t put your finger on what exactly had happened in the time you’d left the room to you handing him an article of clothing.

“Do you want…to go to sleep?”

The question pierces his doughy brain, stuffed with self depreciation and alienation, only a smidge of room available to process your words. But even as the words puncture his thoughts, the self hatred won’t deflate fast enough. So he stares. He stares at you, those big chocolatey eyes dipped in sadness and self loathing, the ambience now melancholy. An ache seeps into your chest, traveling up your throat and stinging your eyes at the sight of such a sorrowful man who had just moments ago blessed your ears with his deep laughter and looked at you with such glee. Suddenly he was gone and once again, he was chasing his inner monologue, you could tell by the way he stared off into the distance, how he had removed himself from the room momentarily.

“Hey, what’s going on?” You crouch in front of him, the blue light from the TV the only thing allowing you to map out his features.

“Nothing.” He whispers, snapping out of his trance.

His irises warm up, only slightly, but you can still make out the muted glaze cast over them leftover from his moment of despair. He isn’t out of the woods yet.

“I-I’m fine. Sorry, was just…thinking.” He mutters, slipping the sweatshirt over his head, the material fitting comfortably over his torso, hair now frizzier than before.

“What are you thinking about?”

You almost lose him again, thoughts swallowing him and nearly drowning him right before you. But the touch of your hand over his pulls him out, a token of your kindness. A wordless reassurance that reels him back in.

“Everything.” He sniffles, head shaking as if to ward off the waterworks.

Eddie doesn’t let any tears fall, withholds them. Forces them back into his tear duct, regretting the vulnerability he was further pushing onto you.

“Like what?” You gently push, thumb stroking over the back of his hard working hand.

Moments follow your question, contemplation behind his gaze while he hesitates. The world seemed to never be patient enough for him. So you would.

For him, you would.

As the gap of silence grows larger, you only give him more encouragement in the form of your thumb continuing to stroke his knuckles, your stare soft on his profile. There was no rush, not when he’d just hours ago welcomed you into his tortured past. Not when his nose crinkled as his eyes grew wet again, lashes coated and lip bitten between his teeth anxiously.

“Um–” He chokes out, not a single tear allowed past his waterline.

You offer a squeeze of your hand, sympathy pouring from your touch into him. He only tenses up at the sentiment, its effect foreign to him.

“I should go.” Dragging his hands down his face, he’s puzzled when you stop him from standing.

“Eddie.” You maintain eye contact with him, even as his eyes dart around the room, you attempt to keep him focused on you. “I don’t know what’s bugging you but…it can’t be anything crazier than what you’ve told me tonight.”

Uncertainty pools in his dark irises, honey hues nearly gone in the almost-dark room. The TV lighting only offers you the tiniest crumb of espresso and swirling caramel that usually brought him to life. Though, you aren’t entirely sure they’d even be there had you turned the lights on, his grim demeanor clearly yanking away any happiness he had experienced moments prior.

“I-I–why…why are you trying to help me?” He struggles to get the question out, appearing to be engaged in an internal battle, almost as if he was blindly attempting to make his way back to you, his mind holding him hostage.

You can’t hide the surprise taking over your face, the utter horror at the fact that he would ask such a thing. Maybe he regretted sharing everything now that he was allegedly sober again? But that didn’t change your feelings on the topic, you cared. Whether he word-vomited due to his scattered brain thriving off the alcohol or whether he was stone sober, his feelings mattered to you and you wanted him to know it.

“Because you’re a person, Eddie.” You begin, once again taking his reluctant, clammy hand and draping your touch over his knuckles. “Any person deserves compassion. So what’s bugging you? I won’t judge. Promise.”

Holding your pinky out, an empathetic smile paints your lips.

“Pinky promise.”

Within seconds his eyes go from dark discs of despair to those famous honey pools of fondness. You take note the way he doesn’t hesitate to wrap his pinky around yours, warmth blossoming in your chest and spreading all throughout your body. And if he needs another moment of quiet after that, he doesn’t communicate it but you gladly welcome it.

My feelings. My feelings are bugging me. Taking me hostage.

It’s what he wants to say but realistically he shoves the dreadful words into the back of his throat as he comes up with something else, another way to convey his thoughts without simply outing himself, making a fool out of himself that you would surely laugh at.

“I-uh, I’m not very good at this.” Eddie tries to escape the conversation.

To be fair, he did the same thing with his therapist, it wasn’t anything personal. It was his own flaw. But you may have better luck than his therapist, he regrets. Simply because he would become something he didn’t want you to see him as: an emotionally stunted boy with too many complicated feelings, love drunk on the first girl who had given him more than the time of day. Just because you were nice to him, didn’t entitle him to reciprocated feelings.

“That’s okay. I don’t think anyone is.” You whisper.

Eddie’s eyes shut tightly, his thoughts too painful to voice yet he forces them out–or rather they claw their way out of his throat the second he looks into your begging eyes. Wordless pleas reach out to him as his brain threatens to shut down any and all communications.

“I just–I don’t…I shouldn’t even be here.” He sighs deeply. “I-I don’t deserve to be here.”

At his admission, you find it difficult to voice anything comforting. Any words you had waiting for him were swallowed at the raw emotion he was displaying. The look on your face forces him to continue, he needs to fix the situation but he fears he may just make it worse and chase you further away. He had been digging his own grave for some time now, never learning when to just stop and lay in it.

“Chrissy–um, Chrissy.” He whispers, eyes fluttering shut.

None of it made sense and he was trying his hardest to wrap things back around and allow you to make the connection in your head.

“You–you remind me of…C-Chrissy.” A tear trails down his cheek, his hand rapidly wiping it away as he pathetically attempts to repair the conversation.

Instead of offering another squeeze to his hand, you make your way onto the couch next to him, thigh dangerously close to his as you run a hand up and down his back. You expect the discussion to end there but he only continues.

“And–and that scares me. Cause, it-it should’ve been me, I should’ve been dead–I should be dead!” Eddie’s face grows more red, the topic clearly weighing heavy on his heart. “I can’t–I can’t do it again.” More tears flow down his tinted cheeks, uncontrollable at this point.

“It feels–it feels l-like it’s going to–to happen again.” He becomes more and more worked up, barely breathing while he rushes the words out in one breath. “Like–like the universe or some shit i-is gonna punish me.”

Your eyes sting, that uncomfortable frown beginning to pull at the corners of your mouth as you watch him self destruct before you. Something you’d never ask of him though he was voluntarily spilling the contents of his bleeding heart into your hands.

“Okay, okay.” You begin to soothe.

“I d-don’t get good things.” “G-good things don’t–don’t happen to me.” He hiccups.

“Shhh, you don’t need to get upset with yourself.”

Bravely, you go to use the corner of a nearby blanket to blot at the tears trailing down his face to which he flinches away, shaking his head. That alone would normally be enough to send you to the other side of the couch, bashfully avoiding eye contact until he took the initiative. But something within you realized that he shouldn’t be left to take the initiative. Not when he was displaying such pain, such vulnerability that you were convinced not many people had ever seen.

“God, so pathetic.” He utters under his shaky breath.

“Hey.” You softly scold, hand wrapping around his forearm. He doesn’t flinch at your advances this time. “You are not pathetic.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Eddie.”

“Don’t throw me a pity party.” He grits.

“I am not throwing you a pity party. Stop that.”

It’s out of character, the way you stand up to him. If it were anyone else you probably wouldn’t have made it this far into the conversation but you can feel your blood boiling as he dismisses his emotions. You can’t sit by and allow him to continue throwing punches at himself. Your sudden anger appears to silence him, his glassy eyes glancing at you in disbelief but still obeying your demand.

“I’m being a hypocrite but I-I just…stop.” You whisper, the devastated look on your face enough to bring him to his knees if he were standing. Instead he remains seated with his focus solely on you.

“I know…” You search for the right words. “I know what it’s like to feel like you don’t deserve good things.”

Eddie doesn’t interject your speech, only listens intently with sad eyes and wet cheeks. He doesn’t deserve the time day let alone your dedication to his sorrows and worries.

“I, um, I grew up practically raising my siblings.” You begin to explain. “And, um, that responsibility really makes it feel like your needs come last. And it just gets worse and worse as the years go on because…it’s hard. Feeling emotionally neglected while tending to everyone else’s emotions.”

His gaze doesn’t once wander, completely devoted to you, to your story. There’s not an ounce of judgment seeping out of him. The familiar feeling you were so used to when you opened up every once in a blue moon where you felt deeply misunderstood and silently criticized was nowhere to be found. All you could make out was pure empathy. Compassion. Curious brown eyes searched into your soul, not just scraping the surface but fully diving into the depths you so willingly lead him to.

“I-I don’t know what it’s like to lose someone like that–like you did Chrissy.” You tread carefully, as if you were afraid to even mention her name. “I mean–I lost my dad recently but…I didn’t witness anything and it was because of health issues. We weren’t close and I actually…really hated him.” You nod, staring meanly into the carpet.

“But, I, um, I know what it’s like to keep people out. It’s not fun but it’s all we know isn’t it?” You chance a laugh, earning you the tiniest upturn of his lips. “And I mean, things are fine with my siblings and my mom, I guess. But it still feels like I need to shut them out. To protect their emotions. And for some reason it just…makes sense to leave them out of it? I dunno.” Your voice trails off, confidence wavering.

“It does make sense.” Eddie speaks up, voice scratchy.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” He bites his lip, canine digging into his own flesh before releasing it to speak again. “Feels like they wouldn’t get it. Or they shouldn’t have to. At least that’s how it feels with Wayne. I know I can tell him anything but…why bother him with all the shit going on in my life when the man has already gone through hell because of me?”

He takes in a deep breath before sighing and continuing. “Fuckin’ had to raise a kid that wasn’t even his.”

There’s a certain disappointment to Eddie’s tone, a condescending scowl splayed across his face, only directed at himself as he twists his rings around his fingers.

“Um.” He pipes up again, seeming to snap himself out of a trance he’d lured himself into. “‘Nough about me.” A smile spreads over his pretty lips, not a genuine one.

“Eddie.” Like silk, your tone is soft.

“Stop doing that. You don’t have to do that. Not around me.”

His chest deflates with an exhale, his pretty eyes still wet and wandering around the room. There’s a lost child hidden within them, someone desperately trying to cling to the current adult reality but appearing to get lost in the process. That look was too familiar and there was a sliver of relief in knowing you weren’t the only one who wore it but it yanked on the most tender parts of your heart to know Eddie was suffering just the same as you, if not more.

“T-tell me about Chrissy.” You whisper. “Only if you want to.”

When Eddie’s roaming gaze finally lands on you, he never would have expected to be met with such sincerity. Not a drop of malice in your voice, not one trace of aggression. The kind that he was buried in when forced to confront a whole town who suspected he was responsible for her death. Every mention of her name was always followed by an accusatory finger and seething anger, pitchforks practically aiming for him. The worst part was he didn’t blame them. Now, he didn’t mention the hellish underworld beneath Hawkins to you and had explained that the earthquake took Chrissy with a vengeful force right in front of him. You had no reason to believe him, but you did. You could’ve believed he was a murderer as everyone else. You didn’t. A piece of him wishes he could go into detail about the horrors that once lurked under Hawkins but he’d already breached his contract enough telling you that he was attacked by “creatures”, never going into full detail and telling you that they were gigantic bats. And you didn’t seem to mind, never pushing for further explanation, only taking what he was willingly giving to you.

“I…” He begins. “I…she…she was…”

“I’m sorry, you don’t have to–”

“No.” He whispers. His fingertips swipe underneath his eyes, collecting a fair amount of running eyeliner. “I-I uh, I want to.” He nods to himself.

“Chrissy was uh, was one of the good ones. Not a mean bone in her fuckin’ body.” Eddie starts. “Even if she was in the ‘popular crowd’ she never bullied anyone. She thought I was mean and scary at first but…she never…she never showed it. She’d wave to me every now and then.” He laughs at the memory, only making your soul ache.

“Now that I think about it, maybe she only waved because she was scared of me.” He chuckles in self deprecation. “Can’t blame her. Everyone’s scared of me. Always have been.”

“I’m not.”

Your sudden interruption has his brows knitting together, a softness overcoming his eyes. He was a mess of a man and you continued to tend to him as if he was deserving of any of your attention. He wasn’t, and he truly believed that.

“What?” Eddie attempts to buy some time, stupidly racking his brain for something of some kind of intelligence.

“I’m not scared of you.”

“I–thought you were. I mean, I wasn’t exactly…nice to you when you first moved in. I yelled at you all the time–you don’t have to lie to me.”

“I used to be, yeah. I’m scared of practically everyone before I get to know them so it wasn’t just you. But I’m not anymore.” You explain honestly. “Keep telling me about her. If it’s not too much. She sounded like she was a lovely person.”

“Yeah. Yeah, she was. Had a crush on her for like forever. Like since middle school when we kinda hung out at the talent show.” Suddenly, he’s shaking his head again, as if to erase his previous thought. “It’s stupid. ‘M twenty four and I’m whining about–”

“Stop.” You whisper, a bold hand squeezing at his knee. The action sends his nerves into a frenzy.

“Nothing you say is stupid.”

No one has ever been so patient, so accommodating over his feelings and deepest tragedies showcasing themselves in his darkest hours. It’s strange enough that he begins to wonder if someone is pulling a prank on him. If he’s being played like a violin only to be laughed at when the curtain is pulled back. He couldn’t help it, it was all he had come to learn after all. Eddie knew you didn’t have it in you to commit such a heinous act against another individual but his mind had been poisoned time and time again, only sending him into a spiral of ‘what-ifs’ any time positivity lingered just out of his reach to grasp if he was brave enough.

“I barely even knew her.” He seemingly gives up, hand lightly smacking down on his thigh. Your touch remains on his knee, burning a hole into his bones as he stares at it.

“That’s okay. You clearly care about her.”

It makes him want to scream, the way you validate every sentence he utters out. It’s not what he’s used to, his therapist never even gives him this amount of attention. And it’s not fair that a soul like yours had been damned to hear his problems and witness everything that made him ugly. Eddie was convinced that his soul was tainted and if he imagined what it looked like, it was an inky black stain on reality with hardly any signs of life. If he only knew that in the two months you had known him, he was the most vibrant and adoring soul you had ever come across.

“I–we just–we really connected. Right before she died.” He manages to struggle through his mind demanding that he internalizes his thoughts. “It felt–good. She saw me…for me. Instead of some–some motherfucker that poisoned the town’s precious ecosystem and she didn’t see me as…a freak.”

You offer a nod, an encouragement for him to keep going. His heart that he kept locked up tight in his chest had been slowly oozing out of him, trickling into your living room.

“She, um, she had a boyfriend. Jason.” He clears his throat, staring at the ceiling. “He was an asshole. Not to her, he treated her real nice. But when Chrissy wasn’t around he was a douchebag. Started a manhunt for me when shit went down. He thought I—he–he thought I killed her and—and sacrificed her?” Eddie almost questions, as if he couldn’t believe his own words.

“All because…I was the leader of a Dungeons and Dragons club.” He admits bashfully. You only let your thumb glide over the rip in his jeans, a comforting gesture. “Everyone, uh, thought it was a cult. Satanic panic and all that shit.”

“That’s fucked.”

“I agree. Super fucked. Especially because it dragged everyone down with me. Dustin basically put his life on the line for me, I’ll never be able to make it up to him.”

As he expresses his gratitude, Eddie pulls his right arm out of the hoodie sleeve, pulling the material up to display his bicep to you. The one with the very badly doodled character, somewhat resembling a gnome.

“But…” He drags out, slapping the ink proudly. “This did really excite him at least.”

You examine the drawing, taking his bicep in your hand without a second though as you try to determine exactly what you were looking at. You didn’t want to offend him but you genuinely couldn’t make out the picture. It was messy and scribbly and could have been created by a five year old. “Eddie, I’m sorry but–what is it?”

“Dustin drew it. It’s his D&D character.”

“Oh!” You smile brightly.

“You don’t have to pretend it's good, he’s a shit artist.”

“Not shit. Just…inexperienced…maybe?” You joke, wincing at your own words.

“Very.” Eddie confirms. “Dustin’s more of a brains kinda guy. Gareth and I took care of all the artwork, y’know like logos for the club and our band–”

“You had a band?” A grin sneaks past your lips.

“I–uh–yeah.” He admits with defeat, his shoulders slumping.

It’s only then that you realized you still had been tracing your fingers over the inked drawing, not one protest stopping you from doing so. In fact, Eddie only glanced down briefly and smiled, his cheeks tinting pink. It wasn’t clear whether it was because of your touch or because of embarrassment.

“Hang on, when did this all end up being about me?” He glares at you with mock anger.

“No, no, no. Don’t turn this around. What was your band’s name?”

“Jesus Christ.” He whispers, distress evident in his tone though his face only conveys amusement.

Eddie didn’t have to entertain the playful conversation that had suddenly engulfed the two of you. He didn’t have to banter back or let you touch his arm. He didn’t have to talk about Chrissy even though his mind was plaguing him and he was the one who brought her up. Nothing was required of him and you made sure he was aware of that.

But oh, how you reveled in his endearing blanket of an aura as he allowed you to peek behind the oh so heavy curtain that hid his deepest and most tragic thoughts.

–

Marvin’s Grocery had become more and more familiar with your frequent trips over the weeks. You were determined to perfect an apple pie recipe that would make anyone melt at the taste. Donnie had extended an invite to her famous Thanksgiving dinner and though it was weeks away, preparations were still under way, your oven enduring more use than it ever had in its short lifetime.

Guilt ate away at you as you placed the freshly baked pie on the counter to cool. You didn’t want to be an intruder but Donnie was so insistent when gracing you with the plans back at the supermarket. It would be your first Thanksgiving away from home and you were set on spending it alone, preparing to create a one person feast and pig out all by your lonesome. Now, you were going to be faced with at least 30 other guests according to Donnie. That was intimidating enough and when you tried to reject her invitation to save yourself some embarrassment, she only interrupted you, stating that everyone is going to love you and that even your short time in the spotlight at the Halloween bash left a great impression. That everyone wanted to get to know you.

Then she bestowed the responsibility of one dessert upon you. Everyone was required to bring at least one dish, store bought or homemade…it didn’t matter as long as you contributed. You had weeks to perfect it and though you didn’t need to go through the trouble, the people pleaser in you raged on.

Cinnamon and nutmeg graced your nose, a comforting scent that had you salivating and yearning for a piece of warm, gooey apple pie. The kitchen was a mess, bowls scattered along the counter top and a bag of flour leaking onto the floor. You were usually consistent in keeping clean as you worked but the daunting task of perfecting your pie held your complete and undivided attention.

Buttery, flaky crust called your name as you finished folding your laundry. The TV blared some popular sitcom that had to have been new as you didn’t recognize it. Regardless, the pie had interested you more.

It came out beautifully, nearly commercial ready with the criss cross crust and everything. This was your best outcome yet and you only hope it tasted just as delicious as it looked. You’d finally perfected the design and it didn’t completely deflate on itself this time, a win in your book.

Regretfully, you cut into the perfect dessert, forming the perfect triangle and plating it as delicately as possible. This was your baby as far as you were concerned and the passion that had gone into it was going to be recognized, even if only by you. A quick dollop of whipped cream is placed on top, the only thing missing was ice cream although you weren’t the biggest fan of pairing the two treats, satisfied with just the baked slice of heaven.

It was too flawless, the slice had been perfectly cut and presented like a five star restaurant had prepared it. Such perfection could not be recreated and you simply needed at least one witness to applaud your work or at the very least acknowledge your newly discovered baking skills.

–

Two knocks and no movement. Yet…

The breeze nips at your cheeks, leaving you to regret not throwing a sweater on even if only for a few seconds. Your hand shields the fresh slice of pie, a desperate attempt to conceal its warmth. Your masterpiece would not be spoiled at the hands of the inevitably changing weather.

Another two knocks. A bit more urgent this time.

You can hear shuffling just beyond the door, an eager shiver running down your spine. Irritation begins to build within you at the stinging sensation at the tip of your ears, the temperature being especially unforgiving.

Two more knocks.

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’.”

You hear the grumble and can’t help but feel your spirits lift.

“Wha–Bambi?” Eddie reveals you, a shivering mess on the porch with your hair in disarray and a plate of pie in your trembling hands.

Without hesitation, he steps to the side and waves you in. There’s a certain coziness to him, his hair extra frizzy as if he had been laying on it and his eyes a tad puffy. Almost like a large teddy bear. His black sweatshirt swallows his torso although he’s wearing shorts, a psychotic move in this kind of weather.

“Try this.” You demand, holding the plate out in front of him.

His eyes only stare widely at the treat, grogginess obvious in the way he rubs his eyes and yawns. Another postcard moment.

“What is it?” He asks gravelly. It just about melts you into a puddle on his floor.

“Apple pie!”

Your enthusiasm takes him back, a surprised expression pulling at his features as he hesitantly takes it. It crosses his mind that you mentioned taking on baking recently, a slow shift at The Bourbon pulling you both into mindless talk as you cleaned. He gathers that you were at the peak of your sugar rush, no doubt stealing licks of batter and tastes of sugar as you baked. If this was the result of you baking all day, he needed a minute to wake up.

“Okay, okay.” He sighs, brushing past you to set the plate on his kitchen counter, snatching a fork from one of the drawers.

“Why do you need me of all people to taste test?” He asks a bit unkindly. He doesn’t mean it but you did wake him from a deep slumber, one of the best naps he had in a while. Probably the only nap he’d taken in a while as he recalls.

You don’t seem to recognize his irritation, thankfully too caught up in the bubbling excitement around your homemade treat. “Cause it’s for Thanksgiving and I really want it to be good.” You explain, bouncing on the balls of your feet impatiently.

An eye roll has you blushing–it shouldn’t–but it does. All of Eddie’s little quirks whether they were forming out of grumpiness or not, only made him all the more endearing. The fork finally meets his mouth, heaven about to bless his taste buds–or at least you hope.

As he chews, he makes it a point to keep a straight face, watching you squirm with anticipation being far too fun for him.

“How is it?”

Eddie shrugs. Okay, maybe not all of his quirks were endearing.

“Eddie!” You wail, hands gripping the edge of the counter.

“Alright, alright.” He mumbles, taking a step back as he swallows. The crust crumbles just right on his tongue, warm gooey apple goodness filling his taste buds and sending him right back to his childhood. The happy parts. “Really fuckin’ good. You have any more?” He asks, going in for another bite, a smug grin displaying across your face.

“No, you were being rude.”

“Wh–c’mon.” He just about whines as you steal the plate from his reach, tucking it behind your back.

“Say sorry.”

“I’m not sorry, now give it back.” An adorable frown pulls at his mouth.

“Eddie.”

“Bambi.”

Big brown eyes stare into yours, stubborn intent evident behind them. It instantly fades when you give him your best pout, your eyes shining with a silent plea. With a deep sigh and another eye roll, he gives in. It was like stealing candy from a baby except even easier as he fumbled his stoic expression and contorted his face into something more apologetic.

“‘M sorry.” He mumbles.

“You’re what?” You smile, acting oblivious.

“I’m sorry!” Eddie throws his hands up in surrender. “Happy?”

“I guess.” You sigh, placing the beloved dessert back on the counter for him to devour.

“Why you baking so much?”

His mouth is crammed with pie after he asks, crumbs resting at the corners of his mouth and whipped cream decorating his upper lip. You determine that he’s a messy eater, sloppily shoveling pie into his mouth until it physically can’t hold anymore.

“Thanksgiving. I’m in charge of a dessert. What are you bringing?”

“Nuffin’.” He mumbles through a mouthful.

“Why not?” You practically whine.

With a rough swallow, Eddie licks his lips, leaving no trace of the coarse sugar that was previously sprinkled on the crust. When you glance down, the plate is empty, the pie had vanished into Eddie’s stomach.

“I’m not going.” He says simply.

Not going? If he couldn’t go back to Indiana for Thanksgiving, where was he going to go?

“I don’t uh, I don’t do holidays.” He elaborates.

“Don’t do holidays.” You scoff. “You did Halloween just fine.”

It should gross you out when he retrieves a carton of milk from the fridge and starts chugging it straight from the container. It doesn’t. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he sets the milk on the counter, eyes meeting yours as his elbows come to rest on the counter, his head propped up in his hands.

“Then that’s the only holiday I do.”

“You have to go.” You whine like a child, stomping your foot.

“I don’t have to do anything.” There’s a certain kind of attitude in his tone, a playful attitude that wasn’t actually meant to offend you, only to spur you on.

“You have to go or else you can’t have any more pie!” You complain. “Please Eddie! You’re like one of the only people I’ll know, you can’t not go.”

Your worried eyes and pouty lips are convincing enough though he might as well have a little fun. Get under your skin.

“Now you’re being mean.” He juts out his lip.

The look on your face is priceless, eyes widening and mouth hung open in shock. “Am not! You’re going to Thanksgiving because if you don’t then I’m gonna feel guilty the whole time I’m trying to pig out.”

“Guilty?” An amused grin plasters itself to his face, his figure returning to tower over you as he ceases leaning over the counter.

“Yeah, you can’t spend Thanksgiving alone.”

He swears there are tears in your eyes, making it unexplainably hard for him to tell you no. Then again, he always found it hard to tell you no. Just last week you and Jett begged to decorate the bar with pumpkins and other Fall objects. The only reason he said yes was because you looked up at him with those perfectly pleading puppy dog eyes, your hands behind your back as you swayed back and forth. And because you offered to use the pumpkins from your porch, the bar’s dwindling budget sure to be untouched.

“Tell you what…” Eddie begins his proposition, you listening eagerly as you lean over the counter with your head propped in your hands as he had done seconds ago. “If you make me my own personal pie—“

“Done.” You chirp.

“I will consider it.” He finishes, glaring at you.

“How about…I give you the rest of the pie I have sitting at home right now and you promise you’ll go?” You light up at your own idea.

“I will consider it.” He repeats.

“No deal.”

You cross your arms stubbornly, eyes closing as you tilt your head up in a snobbish manner. A groan escapes him, you peeking an eye open only to see his nose scrunched in defeat, his tongue licking the back of his teeth and clicking.

He lost the battle.

“Fine.” He sighs, exhaling through his nostrils in annoyance.

You don’t miss the tiny smile tugging on his lips as he collects the remaining whipped cream from the plate and licks it from his fingers. His front was faltering, the big scary dog ready and willing to fall at your feet if you just said the word.

~end~

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lacedinweb22 · 1 year

Text

Knight in Glitching Armor

(Miguel O’Hara x reader)

🕸️ Entangled series 🕸️ ch. 4 prev part

(Another flashback in between part 1 and 2 of the chapter “Drunk and Crushing”!!! This chapter is important to that storyline :D)

Summary: After your physics lab ends later than expected, you walk home alone rushing to meet up with your best friend, Miguel. When you’re attacked in an alleyway, a tall, mysterious figure with holographic armor, saves you.

TW: attempted SA, mugging, mauling, beating, blood.

*to skip the attempted SA, start at the paragraph with the violet colored beginning*

My lab ended late thanks to a couple of my group members messing around and spoiling our lab results one million times before they were deemed acceptable. The rest of my group agreed to go to a bar after, but I promised Mig we would watch a horror movie at my apartment after my lab. He said he would be interning late tonight at Alchemax, so I walked off of campus alone. It was dark and uncomfortably quiet. The city was especially lonely tonight. I knew Miguel would come pick me up if he sensed I was in danger or in this case, walking alone, but I didn’t want to be a bother especially while he worked; a text would suffice.

Me: I’m sorry Mig my lab ended a bit late :( I’ll be there super soon. Could you text and stay on the phone with me?

…

Fuck.

I looked down at the chat, waiting anxiously for him to respond. The text remained on delivered.

My gut instincts kicked in, which manifested in the echoes of Miguel's voice in my head: “Don’t walk home alone, Y/N, I’m serious, especially at night. Don’t be annoying, just call me, and I’ll be there.” Yeah, yeah whatever.

I sped walked by the sketchy alley I always avoided. A tall man stood by the edge, leaning against the brick wall. I picked up my pace, when I felt him pull me back by my shoulder. “What the fuck?! Let go,” I screamed, pushing him off of me. He grabbed my wrist and dragged me into the alley. “Come on, I just want to talk,” he hissed through gritted teeth. I screamed, and pulled my wrist hard away from him.

He ripped my school bag off of my shoulder, then ripped my jacket open, pulling me down to the floor. He dropped onto his knees, now in between my legs. “You fucker! HELP! GET OFF!” I kicked his crotch and punched him in the face. He groaned and dropped his face into my neck, “You’re going to be fucking sorry for that,” he grunted, furiously. “Please, no,” I breathed out, tears streaming down my face.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a figure jump down from the side of the building as I fought with the man. He pounced onto the man, pulling him off of me and onto the asphalt. I stood up, then backed away, stumbling back against the brick wall. He beat him into the ground, relentlessly throwing his fists at him. I watched in horror, failing to catch my breath.

He hovered over him, tearing the man up, mauling and growling. His back was huge and muscular, flexing as he demolished his prey. His suit was dark midnight blue and blood red, glitching and glowing as he moved. Is that him… Spider—?

His mask suddenly glitched below his nose, exposing his fangs, his mouth ready to bite the man’s neck. He turned abruptly to the side, and looked up at me; his mask glitched back closed.

He slashed the man’s throat fiercely, blood spraying onto him and the brick wall beside him. He slashed the man a final time, leaving a huge bloody gash across his body, spilling through his clothes, as he immediately stood up from the momentum of his final blow. He took a deep breath then looked back up at me, then back at the body.

I dropped to the floor, backing away in horror. “Is that Spider-man?” I whispered to myself. No shit. “Are—are you…?” I called out. He looked up at me slowly, nodding, clearly expecting what I was asking. He still hovered over the man’s dead body. I stood up, pulling myself together, shivering from fear and the cold.

His deep voice began, “are you… okay?” He stood up; he was so tall, almost the same height as Miguel.

“Fuck, I don’t know,” I whimpered looking down at the bruises on my wrists, then lifting my skirt up to reveal even more bruises on my thighs. “That was— I don’t know,” I adjusted my clothes and straightened myself out, trying to process everything that had just happened. “I’m going to go home… thank you, umm Spider-Man,” I muttered, slowly walking away. I felt the tears stream down my face. My stomach ached, and my body felt sore and exhausted, like I had just run a marathon.

“Wait— Y/N, I can walk you home,” he called out, “if you want, only if you feel comfortable… with that.”

I hesitated then took a deep breath. “I just watched you fucking mutilate and murder a man, and now— now what? You want to walk me home? I don’t— wait, how do you know my name?” I replied, quickly. He paused then replied, “My mask has… face recognition,” he said, pointing to his masked eyes. “Oh, cool, great,” I replied sarcastically, nodding.

He tilted his head at me, “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t realize you wanted me to watch him mug and murder you, then you know, just let the rapist live and continue walking freely around Nueva York!” he exclaimed, pacing, his hands up in the air. I rolled my eyes.

“I– I don’t usually murder, but this was… different. He was attacking you,” he said, firmly, looking down at me. “I know, okay? I fucking know he deserved it! I just— that was a lot. You slashed his throat!” I cried out, trying to catch my breath.

“I’m… sorry okay? But you shouldn’t have been here, and god damn it! You shouldn’t have seen this, or seen me like this,” he exclaimed frustrated and pacing. I stood across the alley from him, observing his emotions under that mask. “Seen you? You’re Spider-Man, right? This is how you’re supposed to be seen,” I said, confused and perhaps harshly. Seen him like this? Mig— no. Nope. His voice is too deep and he’s at Alchemax working late. He wasn’t the one to save me tonight.

“I meant— I just, I protect and I try to do what’s right, and here, that meant ending a predator, but yeah, sure, see it that way,” he said, sarcastically. He looked up at me, then down at his bloody claws, “Yeah, I guess this is how I’m supposed to be seen,” he muttered.

“Fuck, I know alright, you’re right. Thank you,” I replied, backing off.

“Don’t thank me. Let’s just head to your apartment,” he muttered. I nodded and adjusted my ripped jacket over me. We began to walk towards my apartment complex, which wasn’t too far.

“Why are you out so late? And alone?” He asked. I couldn’t tell if he was judging me or trying to distract me from the traumatic events that just occurred. “Late class. I go to Nueva York University,” I replied, pointing back to the huge campus buildings. I continued, “And… my lab ended super late, and the rest of my group decided to go drink, but I have plans with a friend,” He nodded, “I see. How do you like it there? Are the students friendly?” He asked, softly. “I actually really love it. And yeah, for the most part they are. There are always going to be pretentious assholes but no importa, I’m just focusing on school, and the people I actually value,” I shrugged. “Who do you value— I mean who are your best friends? What are they like?” “Do you always ask your damsels this many questions? Is this an interview?” I asked, slightly annoyed. “Pretty much. That’s the Spider-Man rescue tax,” he shrugged. I scoffed.

“I have Jenn and Rosalynn, and… Miguel,” I replied, softly smiling at the thought of him. “You’re… smiling,” he pointed out. “Yeah, no shit, I love my friends,” I responded, quickly.

“Is Miguel… your boyfriend?” He asked, slowly.

“No, no he’s not,” “Wow, so defensive, I’m just asking,” he chuckled. “He’s my best friend, he’s really important to me, you know, and I don’t want to ruin things.” “How could you ruin things?” “By telling him— by wanting anything more,” I responded, hugging myself and looking down as we walked in the cold.

“How do you know he doesn’t want the same?” he muttered.

“I don’t know, I guess I just don’t see why he would,” I muttered. Why am I having a full on therapy session with Spider-Man? It feels oddly natural though, like I’ve known him for years. Oh god, I’m delusional. The trauma is getting to me.

“God, you’re good, Spider-Man. You should go into therapy, you’re clearly good at this.”

“I just care, it’s part of my job,” he responded. “Hmph, I can see that.”

We arrived at my apartment complex.

We entered the lobby and walked to the elevator. He was so tall beside me, having to duck when we entered doorways. “You must never take elevators, huh? Since you, you know, have those red web thingies,” I said, pointing to his hands. I pressed my floor number.

“I mean, I exist amongst normal people too so I kind of have to function like everyone else to blend in,” he said, pressing the close-door button. I nodded.

The elevator arrived at my floor, opening to reveal two old women waiting their turn. They both looked up at Spider-Man in shock, then down at me. I nervously smiled, then walked past them. “Good evening, ladies,” Spider-Man said to the ladies, who both giggled and said goodnight back.

He followed after me to my door. I stood in front of it, fidgeting with my keys as he looked down at me. “So… I guess this is goodnight and goodbye?” I said. He nodded, “I— I’m sorry about tonight… but take this as a lesson,” I rolled my eyes, interrupting his stream of thought. His mask’s gaze softened, “Just don’t walk alone at night again, please. There’s been too much going on, Y/N. Wouldn’t want to run into you again,” he said dryly, awkwardly nudging me. “Hmph got it,” I scoffed, breaking a smile. Hilarious. I unlocked the door then went inside, lingering in the doorway to say goodbye. “Thank you for being there. Goodnight, Spider-Man,” I said, looking up at him. He nodded, his face hard to read under the mask. “Goodnight, Y/N. Sweet dreams,” he said, softly. I closed the door slowly. I need therapy.

✮⋆｡°✩ ✮

next part

taglist: @wingedturtledream @that-one-weeb-buts-its-the-main @infirebaby @skaochii @bat-yo-us @lostpirate79 @renn-pumkin-head @princessa-micomicona @qundadedingle11 @waiif-uwu @punpuun @migueloharaslxt @thbidkbutok @00macy2022 @acehyacinth @thetoetickler @kaqua @qiaipia @i-live-in-a-fantasy-daydream @inafantasyworld10 @imnotyourbcbe

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jadededge · 10 months

Text

Siren | Christian Yu - Ch. 2

Pairing: Christian x You

Genre: Demon AU, Romance, Smut, slight Horror

Rating: M

Summary: That voice. It started calling me during the darkest moments of the night, like a siren luring me further into the deep and it has continued for weeks.

Wattpad | AO3 (will likely always update these 2 places first)

Navigation: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

I'm awake. "I'm awake. What was that?" My heart was racing as I tried to cling to the details of what I'm sure was just a dream. A very vivid dream. But it felt so real. As I tried to sit up, I wince. My body is sore all over but I can't remember what happened to me.

After laying for what felt like hours, I got up to get ready for work. I slowly make my way to the mirror and take a look at myself. "What is that?!" I zero in on a strange bruise just below my right breast. It's got a funny shape, but I cant remember exactly how it got there.

In the distance of my mind I vaguely recall bits of what happened in the dream but with every passing moment I forget more and more, including his name. I can only see clearly his eye, his eyes. And that voice.

Shrugging off the unease that crept up my spine, I continued my routine, inspecting my body for anymore abnormalities. I wasn't looking forward to going to sleep that night but I told myself, just get through today and worry about that later.

Though, since that day, I stopped hearing the voice. The first couple of nights, I was afraid to fall asleep. I was afraid I would be lured back into his or its lair. But nothing. I slept peacefully for quite a few days. On the sixth day, I chalked it up to my imagination. The bruise disappeared, and I slowly began to go back to normal. His eye, his eyes, and that voice were the only memories of the dream that remained.

On the 7th day, however, my literal world turned upside down.

"I'm exhausted. How much longer must we carry this load." My coworker Kira laments as we chat during lunch at a café near the office. "It's been 3 weeks since Jason got fired and we're still carrying these extra assignments."

"I know. I didn't think he was the type to steal. He's honestly the best director I've worked for. You know, other than the stealing thing." I add.

She nods, "Same! I heard they may be close to finding someone. They need to hurry it along. We've got a deadline and a butt load to go."

I nod in agreement.

Once we arrived back at the office, we noticed quite a few people up and gathering around one of the manager's door. Another coworker Andrew is hanging back and looking on.

"What's going on?" I ask.

"Boss found a replacement for Jason. Guess they finalized everything over lunch." He whispers to Kira and I.

"Oh wow! I wonder if he's cute." Kira says excitedly causing Jason to roll his eyes.

I can't clearly see the new person from where we're standing. But just as the crowd parts slightly, I get a clear view, and my heart stops.

I gasp and freeze in place. "You okay?" Kira asks.

I can't answer and my vision tunnels. As if he sensed me, he turns to me and stares directly into my eyes and smiles slowly, a bright devious smile. I start to panic.

"I'm uh. I'm okay. I just need to sit down for a second." I retreat to my office quickly and shut the door.

"It's him. I- I can't remember what he did but it's him. How?" I start panicking. I really wanted to go home. I can't think straight and there's no way I'm going to get any work done. "Let me at least email Kira and let her know I'm working from home the rest of the day." And tomorrow.

As I'm packing my things to go, a knock at my door broke me out of my thoughts. "Come in."

I don't know why I didn't expect him to walk in, because of course.

"Hi." He steps in smiling brightly at me. Something about it was sinister. "You must be..."

"You." It slips out before I'm able to contain myself.

He tilts his head to the side, still smiling. "Me?"

"Yes. Y- you" I'm stuttering I never stutter. I realized I'm scared, but I cant scream. I can't ask for help. His voice sounds similar but not the same. It's not as deep. Am I imagining things?

"Yes I'm Christian. Your new supervisor." He steps further into my office, not closing the door completely. That does little to comfort me. "You must be..." he extends his hand to shake mine.

The way he sounds when he says my name makes my head spin. It was much deeper. Guttural. Just like that voice. Deep down, I know it's him. But he shows no signs of skipping a beat. I feel like I'm losing it again. I quickly stand trying to grasp my sanity. I place my hand in his and it all comes back to me. The dream I had mostly forgotten. I've got to get away from him. I pull my hand back quickly.

"I'm uh-sorry, I was leaving early for the day. I'm not feeling well and I really need to leave."

"Oh I'm sorry to hear that. I hope you get some rest." He's just smiling.

#dpr ian #DPR #dpr ian smut #dpr ian fanfic #kpop fanfic #krnb fanfic #Smut #eventual smut #romance #christian yu fanfic #christian yu smut

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meowmeowriley · 4 months

Text

Changes: a Poll-Fic

Ch. 4 Remove the Blindfold and Muzzle

Ch. 1 Ch. 2 Ch. 3

(Cheeky link to Ch. 5->) Ch. 5

CW: Graphic Depictions of Gore, Body Horror, Bug Stuff

The only thing worse than being captured and restrained, was being muzzled like an animal. Dehumanized. "Ghost." He called, announcing to the other man that yes, he was here. His Johnny was here. Ghost, and only Ghost, could call him that.

Ghost sighed in relief, his chains jingled as his shoulders and body slumped. "Johnny."

The giggling had not stopped.

While normally Soap wouldn't be able to see his face due to the mask, he desperately wished he could see his facial features in that moment. The way his face would soften, the thin stubble that wouldn't grow over his scars, his crooked and jagged teeth peaking out when he smiled. "Gaz, be advised: I found Ghost." Soap had begun approaching the other man.

"He broken?" The only thing broken it seemed was Gaz's voice coming through comms. Reception was shite however many kilometers he was under the surface.

"He's still standing." Soap had reached his Lieutenant at last. Through the green haze of the NVG's he made out darker stains all over the man. He wasn't dumb, he knew dried blood when he saw it. It was caked in his hair, dripped out from the slits in the muzzle and underneath it, down his neck. His neck was a sight. "Creepin' bloody Jesus..." Soap brought a hand to the man's neck, where a flat metal band was so tight it was embedded in the skin. Soap couldn't tell what they were made of, but spikes of some kind jutted out of Ghost's neck above and below the collar- because what else could soap call it- and wrapped over it, digging into the flesh on the opposite end from which they protruded. The flesh was angry and warm even through his glove, and when he touched one of the spikes it felt like a hardened shell or coating of some kind, plastic or-

It moved. Several of the others moved in response, like a wave. It reminded Soap of the centipede. Way too fucking much like the centipede.

Ahahahahahahuhhhhh...hhhmmmmmmm...

The laughing had tapered into a pleased hum. Soap's stomach seized. His head throbbed. A part of him deep down screamed to back away. Whatever that was was unnatural. He withdrew his hand from Ghost's neck. The humming stopped.

"Johnny?" Ghost tilted his head. He sounded worried.

"Sorry, Sir. My heid's mince. Been worried about you, havenae slept much." He closed back in and pushed the blindfold out of the way. Crusted blood flaked and crunched, and made it difficult to tug off. He knew to expect the worst, but to see that Ghost had had both of his eyes removed nearly caused him to void his stomachs contents all over the both of them. Dried blood trailed down from both sockets, down behind the muzzle.

"Can't wait to get back to base, sleep in my own bloody bed." Ghost said calmly, as if he didn't have a horrifying career-ending disfigurement.

As Soap tried to force his tongue to form some sort of reply, a quip or snide remark, anything to lighten the mood or keep himself from barfing, he noticed the centipede climbing over Ghost's muzzle.

"Oh ye fecker-" Soap was about to swat the damn thing off of Ghost when he was interrupted.

"Took you long enough." Ghost huffed. The centipede reared back, holding on with only its posterior end, and regarded the man whom it was perched upon. It seemed to look from one socket to the other, debating perhaps? "Like what you see?" Ghost asked it, and the laughing picked up in full force, reverberating off the walls. The abomination seemed to come to a decision, as it nodded, and then continued its ascent up Ghost's face. It crawled up into his hair, then began crawling in reverse. It burrowed its way underneath Ghost's loose right eyelid, pincers first. Soap watched. It was all he could do to stop himself from retching as the centipede curled around inside the socket. Once it found where it evidently wanted to be, it buried itself into the walls of the cavity with a wet squelching. Rivulets of blood, macabre tears, fell from the corners of his eye as it settled. Then Ghost blinked. The eye flitted about the room, before landing on Soap. His cheek raised, his eye squinted. Ghost was smiling. The only indication of what he'd just witnessed was a single leg from the centipede that had been left protruding out from the far corner of the socket, nestled amongst Ghost's crows feet.

Only one thought found it's way to the forefront of Soap's mind. He shouldn't be able to see me. For a split second, with the giggling wrapping around him like a blanket made of wriggling centipedes, Soap felt inclined to turn his gun on the man he'd just come to save.

"Johnny?"

Soap shook himself. How dare he even entertain the thought of the man he so loved revered. Whatever they'd done to Simon, whatever he'd just witnessed, didn't matter. Rescuing Ghost was his one and only goal here. Whatever the bio weapon was, Soap was sure it was the cause of what he'd just witnessed.

He cleared his throat. "Sorry, sir. Told you, not feeling great." He forced an apologetic smile, feeling that despite the darkness and the fabric covering his face, Ghost would see it.

"Let's get you out of here, Sergeant." As if you're not the one in chains. Soap's resolve returned to him, and he reached back behind Ghost's head to unbuckle the muzzle. As he fiddled with it, however, he heard footsteps. Many footsteps.

"Soap, hide." Ghost ordered. But where? Soap finally took in the room around them, something he should have done upon entering. Jars and canisters were set upon open frame metal shelves. Saws, pliers, scalpels, and many other tools sat on a tray next to Ghost. The rest of the room was bare. He kicked himself for opting to remove the blindfold instead of the chains, at least if Ghost were free he'd have had extra hands to help fight.

A glow grew and shrank, then grew some more in the hallway. Someone was approaching with a flickering light. A flame lamp, or a torch of some sort. Soap tried to focus on the footsteps, determine how many men were out there, but the echo made it impossible to know. His only option was to hide behind the door he'd broken down, and hope he could overtake them. He knew he didn't have the element of surprise, they would have seen the picked locks and known that someone was down here. The outlook was bleak, but when was it not, in the 141? The odds were never in his favor, no need for things to be different now.

Shh shh... hmmmheeheh... shhhhh.....

A man entered the room and immediately swung his gun around the crooked door, aiming it at Soap. Instead of reaching for his own Gun, Soap forced himself against the door. The abused hinges gave, and he slammed the guy between the door and the wall. It had the desired affect of disorienting the others. He could see three other men in the hallway. He couldn't have them shooting into the room, it risked injuring Ghost, so he dove towards the group in the hopes that they'd engage in hand to avoid the risk of accidental friendly fire.

He was correct. All his assailants dropped their guns and reached for various other weapons, two grabbed knives, one, a tazer, and the fourth, the poor bastard who'd been pancaked against the wall, opted for his fists. Soap pulled his own knife once more, and set about taking out the enemy before him. He wasn't some rookie, Soap was an expert combatant, and could hold his own against multiple enemies. He still had his NVG's down, however, and the light from the flame lamp was bright, fucking up his ability to see. Pancake guy got a quick jab to his throat, he'd bleed out quickly and painfully. Shouldn't have brought fists to a knife fight.

One of the knife wielding assailants clearly didn't know what he was doing, as he swung the knife in a wide arch towards Soap. Soap grabbed the man by his arm and sent him careening into the other knife holder.

Tazer guy took the chance and slammed the tazer into Soap's side. It wasn't perfect contact, but it was enough to momentarily stun him. The knife wielders closed back in, one bearing down as the other swept his feet out from under him. Soap went down, brought his hands up to defend himself, but the lamp was so bright, he couldn't see quite what was happening. He managed to deflect the man to the side, but didn't get his hand out of the way. For a moment he felt pressure on his pinky and ring finger on his right hand, just above the first knuckles, but then just as quickly he felt nothing at all. Nothing but warmth.

He threw the man off of himself, tossed his own knife into his left hand, and sank it into the man he'd just thrown. Three quick jabs to the throat. Overkill, just for good measure. And revenge.

Soap scrambled back up, tazer guy and knife guy were bearing down on him again, and he found that he was back in the room with Ghost. They attempted a pincer maneuver, coming at him from both sides, so Soap lunged towards the man with the tazer, taking the hit to his armor plated chest where he wouldn't feel it, and tried to get his blade in the man's neck as well. The man feinted back and tripped, falling towards Ghost. Ghost seemed all too happy to join in, restrained or not.

AHAHHAHA HHHAAAHAHAHAH!

The laughing was outright deafening, and Ghost had joined in as he rested all of his body weight on the chains restraining him. He brought his legs up and wrapped them around the fallen man, who'd dropped his tazer. "Hahahahaaaa!"

HAHAHAHH AAHHAH AHAH HAHA!

This gave Soap the opportunity to take on the remaining man with a knife, stabbing his own into the man's arm, dragging him forward and dispatching him much as he had the rest.

He stood, turned towards Ghost to dispatch the fourth, and watched the fight bleed out of the man as Ghost used his thighs to choke the man to death. He scrabbled against the thick muscles enveloping his throat in vain. As he slumped, and Ghost let him go, Soap knelt down and forced his knife through the man's quickly bruising skin for good measure. A manic thought flitted through his mind, I wouldn't mind to die like that, Simon. Luckily he managed to keep that thought internal.

Ahah... heh... hhmmmhhmhmhmmm heh...

Soap brought up his right hand, and saw he had in fact just lost two fingers. He glanced around but didn't see them. The stumps throbbed and blood spurted out from them.

(Cheeky link to Ch. 5->) Ch. 5

#call of duty #ghoap #ghostsoap #soapghost #fanfic #modern warfare #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ao3 #cyoa poll #cyoa #horror #poll fic #choose your own adventure #tumblr polls #fanfic wip #cyoa fic

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the-name-is-z · 7 months

Text

SKELETONS | ch. 1

daryl dixon x f!oc

masterlist

a03 link

Summary: After the apocalypse took everything Iris held dear, a new opportunity presents itself in the form of a bag of guns. Little does she know, that bag of guns starts something much bigger than she ever could have anticipated. Warnings/Information: AMC's The Walking Dead OC Insert | 18+ Advised | strangers to lovers; the slowest of slow burns; gore; angst; horror; humour; m/f; gun violence, gang violence, offensive terminology for gang members and daryl, salty language

Chapter 1 - The Bag

It was Iris' favourite word lately. Repeated like a mantra, over and over. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The repetition gave her a little bit of comfort, but not enough. Nothing was ever enough. During trying times such as these, Iris took comfort in whatever she could. But it was hard to feel comfortable with blood on your hands. And face. Neck. Clothes. The butchered end of what was once a sledgehammer. The actual hammer part had been gone for a while, but a big stick covered in blood was as best as you could do these days.

Iris sat panting against the door to the bar, trying to ignore the smell of rotting human flesh that seemed to follow her around. A few hungry fists beat against the wood at her back, but the door held strong.

The bar was once a cheerful place, as cheerful as it could be when it smelled like stale beer and the old velour barstools it was soaked into. The wall to her left was decorated in frames filled with leather vests, the biker gang logos on the back dating back a few decades. The most recent one matching a small patch Iris kept in her pocket.

A few months ago, there were still people milling about the bar. Stu, the bartender, kept the place as tidy as he could while people took shelter from the infection. Now Stu was laid out all pretty behind the counter with his throat in shreds and a bullet hole between his eyebrows.

Corpses, memories infested the bar. Ted's reanimated body was impaled on a chair, his wiry, blood-covered arms reaching out toward Iris as she scanned everything. He was too weak to lift a pint when he was alive, nevermind pry his lifeless body up off the broken furniture. Iris used to be the only one to ever beat him at darts.

As the dead gave up with the door behind her, Iris stood up, pushing the jukebox in front of it. Her footsteps were too loud on the creaky wood, following beer and blood stains up to her little camp. Other sleeping bags were left abandoned around the small apartment over the bar, hers the only one left who's occupant had a heartbeat. She was the last one.

Carefully, and sparingly, Iris poured a bottle of water onto her hands, washing them clean of their daily sins. She never was religious, but extinction events such as this were too often associated with the wrath of God.

There had been a bag of guns out there today. Iris had made a habit of hopping rooftops across Atlanta. It was the only real way to get around when the dead flooded the street below, mindlessly wandering. She remembered the day the tanks came in, blowing up cars, shops, banks filled with people, living people dying, dead people getting back up.

There was one tank in particular that she ran past every time she went out. But someone living had been there on that roof. She'd climbed the ladder, eyes immediately drawn to the pool of blood and a pair of handcuffs. One cuff was locked to a steel bar, which had been welded to the roof, and the other was covered in fresh gore.

The door was open, but Iris had no intention of entering the department store building, not when a severed hand lay halfway between her and the door. He'd been living when he cut his hand off. But he did it well, considering the little amount of blood and flesh covering the hacksaw a few feet away.

In addition to the severed hand, there was a dead horse on the road. That was unusual only for the fact that they were in the city, and the horse was wearing a saddle. Someone had ridden it in, expecting... not this, probably. Making the point to a triangle involving the horse and the tank was a black Sheriff's duffel bag with a few gun barrels poking out of the top.

That was what she really needed, even though she appreciated the few cans of food she'd taken out of a food bank box. The city was good for scavenging, but dangerous, and unsustainable. There was a part of Iris that didn't want to leave, despite every nagging instinct telling her the opposite. The bar she inhabited had been home to her for a long time, way before the dead started walking. She didn't want to leave it behind.

But self-preservation overruled the internal argument, and Iris wrote out a small plan in her mind. Tomorrow, she'd go and get the bag of guns. She didn't need a whole lot, given she was alone, but one could never be too prepared. At least, that was what she thought to convince herself.

After another restless night's sleep and a mediocre breakfast of canned pineapple, Iris gathered her things. The small collection consisted of her lucky patch, a bandana that she wore over her face, a leather jacket three sizes too big, a .22 she'd snagged from a dead cop, and her prized possession: a set of knives.

While it was completely impractical prior to the world's destruction, Iris had stumbled upon a very fancy set of knives post-apocalypse and had finally found a use for her deadly aim. Knives were not the same as darts, but they worked a hell of a lot better. She'd used Ted's hands for target practice.

The bag was the priority. Other scavenge-able items could be obtained later. Iris began her trek into the city. She made it by the afternoon on foot. It would have been faster if she'd driven one of the bikes from the auto shop beside the bar, but they were loud.

She made it to the right street, ducking from alley to alley instead of her usual comfortable path along the rooftops. The bag was on the ground, and the walkers were surrounding it, but not on top of it.

Her heartbeat was pounding in her ears as she sprinted past the dead, the bandana stifling the stench as much as it could. They growled in her direction as she brushed past them, gurgling in interest.

Her fingers wrapped around the handles of the bag, but quick-paced footsteps halted her movements. Iris' head snapped up as she met the gaze of a young man, his eyes panicked. He was unarmed. She took the opportunity and ran, leaving him to keep running.

"Wait!" He hissed, running after her.

Glenn swore under his breath as the woman took the bag and ran. He grabbed Rick's hat, strewn across the road, and ran after her.

"Ayúdame! Ayúdame!" Someone yelled, their voice echoing off the walls of the city. He ran after the girl, who was running toward the alley where Daryl waited.

"Fuck." Iris mumbled, stumbling into the nearest alley. Only, instead of a clear escape route, she found four guys with violent looks in their eyes. Well, three. The fourth was lying on the ground, fighting against a man with a crossbow pointed between his eyes. The other two started beating the crossbow guy with pipes, looking up as they noticed her. The kid from before skidded into the alley behind her, only for his eyes to blow wide at the sight.

Iris shoved the kid forward, retreating. She'd find another goddamn alley. He yelped as one of the other guys grabbed him by the shirt collar.

"That's it! That's the bag, Vato! Take it!" He yelled. Iris made it only a few steps before she was tackled to the ground. She wrestled with the guy on top of her, the bag of guns digging into her spine.

"Let go of me! Let go! Daryl! Daryl!" The boy from before screamed as one of the guys dragged him from the alley. A rusty car pulled up quickly as the walkers started to close in. The man on top of her and the guy holding the kid got into the car, tires squealing as they retreated to wherever they came from.

"Fuck." Iris repeated as she pulled a knife from the sheath at her waist, killing the nearest walker with a grunt. She made to kill the next but a coloured arrow speared through its skull, the corpse collapsing in front of her. The man from before, albeit bloodied and bruised, grabbed the bag, still strapped to Iris' back, and hauled them both behind the chain link fence blocking off the alleyway.

"Where'd they go?" He spat, pointing the crossbow in her face as he pinned her against the wall. The fourth man, less of a man than a kid, saw his chance and ran down the other end of the alley, only to come face to face with the barrel of a pistol. Two men, the one with the gun in a sheriff's uniform and the other unarmed, marched the kid back to the mouth of the alley, where the crossbow was held to Iris' forehead. "Where are they?" He repeated.

"I'm not with them." Iris hissed, pushing the crossbow away and taking a defensive stance. Daryl grunted and made to attack her, but the sheriff grabbed him, pulling him away.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Stop it!" He urged, holding him back. Iris was clearly trapped between the fence and the rest of them, but the ladder to the rooftop was close. The other guy, holding the kid, saw her eyes shift and moved to guard it. The guy with the crossbow snapped like a rabid dog, going for the kid, who was now closer.

"I'm gonna kick your nuts up into your throat! They took Glenn. This little bastard and his little bastard homie friends! I'm gonna stomp your ass!"

"Guys, guys! We're cut off!" The guy holding the kid yelled, gesturing to the fence behind Iris. She glanced back at it, the chain links wavering against the growing mob. Iris narrowed her eyes at the obstacle between her and her freedom.

"Get to the lab, go!" The sheriff instructed, the unarmed guy taking the kid to wherever this lab was. He picked up his revolver, pointing it at Iris. "Come on."

"Damn, let's go!" Crossbow guy snarled. The sheriff grabbed his hat from the ground, nodding his head at Iris when she didn't move. It was between them, and the army of dead things behind her. If she was honest, she might've preferred the latter. She started after the man with the crossbow, flanked by the sheriff, regretting this little adventure with each step.

They rushed into the back door of a building, the inside torn to shit. Iris followed to one room in particular before she was shoved toward a wall. She whipped out her knife with a flash, angling it toward the hunter's neck. He grimaced, backing up a step. The sheriff walked in, an air of dominance in his step. It was clear he didn't know what he was getting into.

"Those are our guns." He said, looking to the bag pointedly. The hunter tried again to grab the bag from Iris, but she angled the knife toward him again.

"Haven't you heard of 'finders keepers?'" She asked tauntingly. "Or are you gonna arrest me for stealing?" The sheriff didn't react, just looking between her and the kid.

"Those men you were with. We need to know where they went." He stated.

"Like I said before, I'm not with them." Iris grumbled.

"I ain't telling you nothing." The kid said through his split lip. He had a weed tattoo on the side of his neck, a silver chain hanging beside it. It looked stupid.

"Jesus, man, what the hell happened back there?" The strong guy asked, shaking his head.

"I told you. This little turd and his douchebag friends came out of nowhere and jumped me." The hunter replied. "Then she comes out of nowhere with our guns."

"You're the one who jumped me, puto." The kid drawled. "Screaming about trying to find his brother like it's my damn fault."

"They took Glenn. Could've taken Merle too."

"Merle? What kind of hick name is that? I wouldn't name my dog Merle." The kid muttered, the hunter lunging at him. The sheriff stepped in, hauling his ass back.

"Damn it, Daryl. Back off!" He huffed. The hunter, Daryl, huffed in frustration, going to his bag and grabbing something wrapped in a bandana. Iris watched the exchange carefully.

"Wanna see what happened to the last guy that pissed me off?" He asked, unwrapping the bundle and throwing a severed hand into the kid's lap. Iris' eyes narrowed in recognition. The kid screamed, stumbling away from the hand as Daryl unsheathed a pocket knife, pointing it toward the kid. "We'll start with the feet this time."

"Would your brother happen to have been handcuffed to a roof?" Iris asked, drawing his attention away from the stupid kid. Daryl spun on his heel, nothing behind his eyes but rage.

"You fucking--"

"He was gone when I saw the handcuffs. The hand." She explained, nodding to the hand as he aimed his knife at her.

"You know where he is?" Daryl asked, a small tweak of sadness cutting through his voice. Iris shook her head slowly. The sheriff sighed, kneeling down to the kid.

"The men you were with took our friend. All we wanna do is talk to them, see if we can work something out." He explained. The kid looked down at his feet before he opened his mouth and told them everything.

Iris watched the trio argue amongst one another when deciding what to do. The sheriff sighed, turning toward her and approaching slowly.

"You alone?" He asked.

"No." She lied.

"Those guns belong to us." He insisted, gesturing to the large 'SHERIFF' label on the side of the bag.

"I don't know which cop you skinned to get the uniform, Officer--" She glanced at his metal name tag. "Grimes."

"I'm Rick. Alright? We need those guns to get our friend back." He explained.

"Yeah, I know. I'm standing right here, I heard you. Your little negotiation idea won't work." She replied, narrowing her eyes. "Gangbangers don't really do diplomacy."

"Hey, shut up, bitch! We're not gangbangers!" The kid protested, only to shrink back at the sight of a crossbow in his face.

"Don't look that way to me." Daryl murmured.

"What's your name?" Rick asked Iris, drawing back her attention. She regarded him closely for a moment before pulling down her bandana.

"Iris." She replied. Rick put his hands on his hips as he nodded.

"Well, Iris, if you really are alone, as I suspect you are, then we might be able to cut a deal." He offered slowly.

"Alright..." She nodded for him to continue.

"You don't need all those guns yourself. Take a look inside the bag, see for yourself. You give the bag to us, we give you a cut, them a cut, and we get a cut. And we can all go exchange our people."

"Got anything to sweeten the deal?" Iris asked after a moment, raising an eyebrow. Rick nodded in understanding, glancing nervously back at his two companions.

"Well, you could come back with us to our group." He reasoned. The two others exchanged a small look of protest, but said nothing. Iris looked back to Rick.

"What makes you think I want that?"

"Strength in numbers? Self preservation? Get out of the city? Safe place to eat, sleep..." He trailed off, analyzing her reactions.

Iris considered. She really did. And Rick was right, for the most part. Being alone in this was hard, but making friends was harder. And living was impossible without guns. So, she agreed.

"I'll go with you." She said quietly. "I got your back. But I won't promise to stay with your people."

"Alright." Rick nodded, content with her answer.

#thenameisz #skeletons #daryl dixon #Daryl Dixon x original character #twd daryl #the walking dead #the walking dead daryl dixon #twd daryl dixon #Daryl Dixon x oc #Daryl Dixon x f!oc

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reliand · 2 years

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Draco Malfoy and the Talon Brand || Ch. 12 Broken Baubles || by Starbrigid

excerpt from book 5 of Starbrigid’s The Mirror of Ecidyrue series:

"Salazar, Harry, look up!"

Harry frowned, not seeming to process it at first, and then wonder filled his face. "Mistletoe," he breathed, and the horror that Draco had expected didn't appear there, only a slow-spreading blush across his handsome face, color rising high in his cheeks, which looked like they would be very hot to the touch- hotter even than his fingertips, which stopped where they had been trailing up and down Draco's palm to linger there.

"Enchanted mistletoe," Draco corrected. It was a very important distinction, and Draco was very proud of his ability to make it, or even to think once he looked up and saw what it meant he and Harry had to do. Suddenly the taste of Amortentia came to his tongue, those lips that fluctuated so uncertainly before him marked for his by some law of the universe or some aberration in it, some turning of Hecate's wheel, sending berries growing overhead and Harry's eyes locked on his with perhaps something of the same thoughts in that head, something of the same-

Desire?

I had a lot of fun drawing this one! I was pleased with the intense way Harry was looking at Draco’s lips. There were a bunch of little details I liked adding, such as: The “Have a Harry Christmas” bulbs with Harry on them, The “S” shaped hair clasp in Draco’s hair, and the Antipodean Opaleye dragon necklace from Draco’s collection. I’m excited that I actually finished this before xmas, so Happy Christmas everyone!!!

This is part of an ongoing series of drawings I’m doing for the fic, which are linked below:

Book 1 || Book 2 || Book 3 || Book 4 (drawing2) || Book 5

#drarry #harry potter #draco malfoy #draco x harry #harry james potter #draco lucius malfoy #hp fanart #fanart #art #my art #my artwork #xmas #christmas #drarry fanart #the mirror of ecidyrue #the talon brand

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i-just-want-to-destroy · 8 days

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the last chapter for walking study in demonology was CRAZYYY im so happy you updated. im so curious about what your thought process in writing it and if youre willing to share?? you dont have to if you dont want to btw! but in any case thank u so muchhh

hey thank you! appreciate it

okay super long answer below

honestly this one was difficult. idk if its bc its been a while since i write fics from scratch so i might have forgotten how difficult the whole thing is, but this one was tough. ch 8 wasnt from scratch tho cos i had the drafts since like 2022 or smthg lol

ik the formatting is non conventional in ch 8 and i was aware that itd be hard to read for some people. but i do think abt the readers often when i write.. mainly not what the readers want in terms of storyline (altho ofc i consider this too sometimes lol) but what the reading experience will be like for them.

i.e consider if id written the chapter in a linear, traditional way and narrated the confrontation between 1-A and LoV (or even other wackier “Villains” like godzilla and invading aliens or whatever). the truth is, although def easier to read, that version will be very boring.

(i know bc i tried and scrapped those versions.)

(im sure a better writer can write it interestingly but i am not a better writer.)

the thing w writing these traditional fight scenes is tht im sure — im 1000% positive in fact — that the readers have read it before. there r literally thousands and thousands of bnha fics out there with great fight scenes, on top of the actual manga, where youve read these characters fight their assorted villains. why would i make you read that again, esp when i know i cant do it better? i already know the readers r just gonna skim the chapter if thats the case. ive been a reader, ik what fic fatigue is like — esp with bnha when everythings been rehashed infinity times in infinity different ways.

same thing also applies with even the “metaness” of the fic itself.

i dont want the fic to come off like its talking down to readers, whom i believe alrdy have the instinctual knowledge of what the fic is trying to do. im willing to bet tht the readers have read something similar to this before, like multiverses n time loop n meta stuff, also cosmic horror. i still end up narrating some things even though often i feel im being too explanatory. i jst feel like the readers will know what im talking abt by virtue of their familiarity to the tropes involved.

therefore the least i can do is serve it in an interesting way, aka the fuckass formatting. like although the tropes im doing r done so many times before, at the very least i cld let the readers hopefully have fun by piecing it together puzzle-style with the fragmented formats — so its more of an experience thing rather than jst a lore dump. i dont like lore dumps, they can be condescending.

demonology def doesnt succeed in avoiding that however. in fact its fallen to that exact trap. ch 4 and 6, those r very lore-dumpy. i tried to make it fun w the humor dialogue style but its not perfect. i know tht by ch 8 that tricks alrdy old, and the readers have all the puzzle pieces at this point anyway so itd be even more repetitive than it alrdy is. even so i still feel im being too explanatory esp with the emotional arcs but thats a skill issue on my part

overall i feel demon can be more oblique and “elegant” in its mechanics.

but anyway, it IS crack… it was never meant to promise intelligence, least of all eloquence lmfao. its never meant to be taken seriously.

of course, at this point u can tell that i actually am taking it pretty seriously LOL. i never meant to write meta fiction. i have some gripes w it, namely that i feel meta fiction is used by weaker writers as a storytelling crutch n it can come off as lazy — demon is guilty of this too. but now that i end up writing meta fiction, i might as well fucking commit and try to push it as crazy as i can. if its not gonna be good, at least it can be interesting, or weird.

blah blah im yapping. point is, ik the end product might look very “random” and pastiche as if i was jst doing whatever i wanted … which, true … but it went thru a lot of trials and errors until this final version. you would not believe the amount of time ive rewritten this chapter, due to all those ^ considerations.

however i always knew i was going to start ch8 with the classic mary sue “fanfiction” — that segment was written a long time ago like in 2022/2023?? and mostly stayed unedited since, unlike the rest of the fic which i stripped and repainted and restripped again lol

ok thanks for reading abt my wack anime crack fic writing process that, again, shld not be taken seriously. i will admit however that i do put a lot of effort n heart into it so i cannot pretend i am aloof and disaffected. id be lying if i say its been easy. i consider it a miracle i updated at all. i keep saying its not meant to be taken serious but if i managed to make it even a little bit meaningful, id be very happy.

ah also. bnha ending actually forced me to scrap a lot of things too. but it kinda ends up for the better, maybe.

#ask #demonology deku #fic stuff

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sakublogs · 11 months

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Tumblr Fanfiction thread:

On this blog, please tag your favourite DCMK fanfics ( any ship and type) this can be either linked in the comments down below or reblogs. However,this is for TUMBLR FANFICS ONLY

if you wanna add any non tumblr fanfics please so so in the comment sections/reblog of this post:

This is all to keep things organised and so everyone can find what they want to read.

I want to give a special shoutout to @heizuha-queen

At her page, you can find any #heizuha fanfics that you like.

LIST: This is @gisachi's masterlist

This is @purplellamanator's masterlist:

This is @defectiveconantoy's masterlist By @subbe93 These posts have all the chapters: click on ch 1/prologue to read from the beginning: It has always been you The Symptoms of Love: The Diagnosis The Light in my Nightmares The Roulette of Destiny One shot: Yukiko/Yusaku: Our Greatest Masterpiece Eternal Flame ShinRan's firstborn About baby Ran jr. part 2 The background story for Black Knight & Princess AU Memories of a little princess in a pink dress Day 3: Those lucky ones Fan shorts #1, Fan Shot #2, Their Secret by @ckiine Fireworks by @dcsr392 A Genius Like Him by @lollipop1141 A Christmas oneshot by @yzkhr Kingdom come by @detcodrivels Congratulations on your wedding by @alitheakorogane A Titanic Night by @quite-a-character Shinran oneshot by @azure-bliss Just a call by @myfriendsarerealidiots December 21 Summary by @akemimiyano Rosebud by @ravenclawwitchc Shinran week: Day 7: Detective in Distress Day 6: Like in the Old Days Day 5: I wish I could tell you that I love you Day 4: The Lucky Princess Day 1: Forced rest Day 5: Your Face, My Face Day 6: Healing Touch Day 4: Kiss and Tell Day 7: Through your eyes Day 1: Horrors in the Darkness MINI-PROMPT Day 4: "Not so good" memory Day 7: Only a matter of time Day 6: Can I have this dance? Day 5 Day 2: I just called to say I love you By @sadisticwoof-dcmk until the flowers bloom again Love Flows in You by @marisandini-chu-blog and @sadisticwoof-dcmk in this life I pray we are happier the light we see in each other

I want to give another shoutout to @deducingcircumference ‘s idea to do a secret Santa exchange ( I personally think this idea can be applied to any ship) however, if you do fulfil their idea please credit.

#shinran #shinichi kudo #ran mouri #mori ran #kudo shinichi #mouri ran #dcmk #shinranweek #fanfiction prompts #support fanfic writers #dcmk fanfiction #adding this to my fanfiction list #fanfic prompt #fanfic #fanfiction #support tumblr events #tumblr thread

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midnightsequia · 2 months

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Killing Dead -JTK

After the events the unfolded mere hours ago, you now find yourself fighting with the complex feelings of letting someone go into the wilds or allowing them to have safety under the same roof as you.

Chapter 2: Survival of the Fittest

Jeff the Killer x Reader

Ch.1 < click here for first part!

The two of you sat in silence in your living room. Jeff had bandaged you and is now peaking out of your curtains looking for an escape. "This just happened over night jeez." He leaned away from the window and covered his face in his hands. "They're just everywhere out there." You took a turn to look out the curtain. Your once cute neighborhood was now a horror show.

The street lights illuminated the blood spilt in the street and the crashed cars into each other or houses or sign posts. Your neighbors across the street had their door wide open, inside you could see blood stained walls and some pooling on the floor further in. "OK you're all patched up, I'm going to go before things get worse. We are even."

"You can't just leave!" You were shocked he even suggested that, he would probably die immediately. Didnt he literally try to kill you a few hours ago?

"What? Do you love me or something? I'm not fucking staying here." He scoffed and went upstairs again, you followed close behind.

"Did you see out there? You could die!" You were paused on the stairs, behind you was the corpse still laying on the ground in his own filth. "Look at this guy. No one deserves that fate." His head barely attached and arms covered in holes due to something ripping into him, possibly infecting him too. Jeff had gone into your bedroom and was carrying one of your bags. He shoved passed you down the stairs, but you caught the strap before he went further down. "If you are leaving. You are not taking my bag. Or my food. Or my water."

His wide eyes were boring holes into your skull. His hand crept it's way back into his hoodie pocket and grabbed the bloodied knife. Your eyes flicked over to the gun on the table down the stairs, cursing to yourself for leaving your guard down. "You're right. I won't take any of that." The tip of his knife poked your chin, drawing some blood. Didn't he stab the zombie with this? You leaned away from him as far as you could against the railing he was pinning you to. "I could stay here. Maybe tie you up to that bed in there," He tilted his head towards your room.

"You- You said you wouldn't kill me." Your voice quivered.

" 'You- you' I never said I was going to kill you. I was going to tie you up. Maybe have my way with you, and I'll live here. Barricade the doors and windows. Loot the neighbors." He mocked you and leaned more onto you, making the railing creek. You couldn't stop thinking about the blood contact you were currently having with the infected knife. You shoved him. Hard. Down the stairs and onto the corpse. Jeff had made the body ooze more, his blood had splattered onto the wall and further onto the floor. His knife flew out of his hand, "You fucking BITCH." His voice carried in the house, you could feel it in your bones. He tried to get up but his hand gave out under him, and into the man below. His arm was sticking out of the man's chest now, and blood covered his face.

You ran up the stairs and into your room, looking for a spot to hide you glance over the options. Closet, under the bed, dirty clothes pile. Hearing his steps up the stairs caused you to leap under the bed. You covered your mouth and watched the door looking for his shoes. Your light wasn't on and the hall light was not on making it difficult to see. You are going to have to kill him if you want to get out alive, and have a chance of living. Your gun was still downstairs, and he was currently standing in the doorway perfectly still. His boots had a sheen to them from the blood now coating them, tracking dirt and blood into your bedroom and closing the door, he took a deep breath and whistled.

Am I capable to kill this man?

His stride was slow and heavy. Your spot was starting to feel a little too obvious, your hands came to cover your mouth and barely your nose to try and steady your breathing. Your plan was simple in theory: Crawl out from here, trap him in your room, and grab your gun. And then kill him? Yes you had to.

"Oh come on sweets. What happened to your spunky attitude?" It sounded like the closet door was ripped off of its hinges from the force he used. He was directly behind you so you brought your feet up higher, positioning them to help propel yourself out and to the door. He continued to the opposite side of the bed, which happened to be on the other side of the door. Using the opportunity, you kick your legs and jump up to the door and slam it back closed once you are out. Holy shit!

Amazed with yourself, you continued down the stairs, jumping over the body, and grabbed your gun. Jeff was on your heels. And now the two of you stood still in the center of the living room. "Well this is interesting." He smirked. The right side of his body was drenched in blood, and his once paper white face was now dusted pink with flecks of red.

"It is." Your arms were shaking, and your shoulder was killing you. Your dominant hand had dropped to your side and your other held the gun shakily. "I will live." You said to yourself.

"Oh will you now?" He pointed behind you, there were two silhouettes, one leaning on the glass pressing her face to the window showing bloody teeth and bloodshot eyes. The other was facing the opposite way. "You need me."

"For what?"

"Have you ever killed someone? You've never stitched yourself before, you probably don't know anywhere outside of a five mile radius. You look weak, and you are." He sat down. "If you wanted to kill me. You would have, so you won't. And I know you won't. Because you are pathetic." He kicked his feet up and made himself at home again. Something came over you and you shot the wall next to him, he didn't jump. Didn't even flinch. "Oh did I make you mad?" His smile stretched across his face. Your arm fell, he was right. You had no idea how to survive. You looked over yourself covered in your own blood and now scarred. If it were only you, it would have ended up getting infected or worse."Yeah, you need me." You sat on the opposite side of the couch from him.

Yeah you just might. "What do you want from me?" You wouldn't look at him. Jeff's arms were draped over the back of the couch and his head lolled to the side.

"Company. You are funny, I'll keep you around for a little. Then maybe ditch you somewhere bleeding out." He yawned and slid down the couch some more. "I'll keep watch first. You can calm your little head and catch some z's." You got up from the couch with that, grabbed your gun putting it in the back of your pants and went into the kitchen.

"We need to barricade the windows and doors." You grabbed a dining chair and leaned it on the front door. "And also to get rid of our friend here." You pointed to the body on the ground. From the looks of it, all of his blood is on the ground and you would be surprised if any more was inside him. His chest also now had a gapping hole in it with black sludge inside.

Jeff was watching you closely, he was staring at you the way someone would look at an animal, a pet. You would probably make it out there if you tried, but he didn't want you to. He watched you bend down to try and move the body, you instinctively went to use your dominant arm but the pain soared through your body.

"Are you trying to prove something?" Jeff got up and walked over to your pathetic hunched over form. "Pull with your other arm." You shook your head, you should probably go lay down. It's been non stop action for you for a couple hours with no actual break, aside from when he stitched you. "You can't even pull a body?" He laughed at you. "Do you need me to do this for you??" His voice got higher as if he was talking to a baby. Your hand formed a fist and you brought it up to punch him. "It's okay to need help you know. All you have to do is say please." He smiled with his teeth. It was a sight to behold, his eyes did not shrink and you could see all of his teeth. He lightly pushed your hand back down, expecting you to say something back to him.

You had no energy left and instead just motioned your hands to him, you waved him off and went up stairs towards your room. It was either you died by his hands or you died outside. And you would prefer to go out on your own terms. You dragged yourself into your room and made sure to lock your door before going to bed that night.

The next morning you came downstairs surprisingly unscathed, and saw a pile of food on your kitchen counter. That was not bought by you and the body gone, but a trail leading to the front door. And Jeff asleep on the couch with a bloodied arm over his eyes and his legs draped over the back and the arm of the couch. You made your way to the kitchen and took a look at the new food you had, it was canned food mostly, but there were fruit and vegetables mixed in. It wasn't a lot, but there was more here than in your pantry and fridge at the moment. You peered back into the living room and he was now turned towards the back of the couch curled up in a ball.

You wished he wasn't on the couch covering it with blood and mud. You wished he wasn't here at all, you could have killed him when you had the chance. But he put down his weapon and sat down leaving you with conflicted feelings. You don't want to end a man's life unsure. He's also instilled insecurity within you, you need him to survive whether you like it or not. He is your key.

"You're awake." Jeff strode into the kitchen with you. "I see you're looking at my food."

"Your food?" You stepped away from him, "we are sharing this." You pointed over to the cans and bottles. "Where did you find it anyway?"

"We are not sharing it. I looted it on my own with no help from you because you went to sleep since you were just so sleepy." He walked over to the food and began to pick it up. "Get your own." You were flabbergasted to say the least.

"This is my house? That is our food." Jeff looked down at what he was holding and what was left on the counter. He didn't get a lot, just what he could carry which was a few cans and bottles of drinks and some bags of food. You weren't super worried about food at this time but you did not have easily preserved foods therefore you would have to eat them sooner rather than later. And he had all canned food. "I can help you loot. I know of more places than you do around here I bet. And I know people so I can convince them to give us something."

Jeff slowly turned around to look towards you with a wide smile. "Oh you can help me loot all right." He was formulating a plan. "Fine. Next time we need something we will go out, and you will help. And listen to me."

---

#apocalypse #creepypasta fanfic #jeff the killer #jeff the killer headcanons #jeff the killer x reader #zombie #killing dead

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talesofthedm · 1 year

Text

Silence — Escape the Nautaloid

Woo, I finally got the chapter written and proofed. If anyone is interested, I will be writing out a combination of all 7 of my concurrent playthroughs (Tav + all the companions) and it is 100% a writing exercise and not because i have brain rot its both. By virtue of having those 7 playthroughs, it means I get to write out the romances between party members.

I'll be cross posting between here (summary and chapter below the line) and on AO3 as it goes. General tags/warnings will be applied to AO3, as well as I'll be doing chapter specific warnings in the notes section. Here will just get chapter specific ones. (Summary below the line).

Word Count: 6.8k

CW for this specific chapter includes: mentions of panic attacks, alien abduction, forced experimentation, graphic depictions of gore, body horror, implied stroke, and concussion.

Excerpt:

It felt as if her arm would be torn from her socket as she fought to pull herself up. Slender fingers curled around the clubbed tentacle, sticky and slick in the worst ways imaginable. Her mind screamed with a million thoughts—not all of them her own—and six lives that forced their way in. They did not supplant will as the mindflayers, but added to its strength; unified by the single desire to survive and live. The hallucinations took hold as dream and thought and reality collided along the Astral Sea. Hands scarred and beaten and broken and healed haphazardly in service to a loveless god. The delicate hands that had known no hard labor in his life despite carrying so much. Hands thrumming with wild energy that threatened to devour his very soul. Clawed hands of a deadly warrior dedicated to futile cause. Rough hands of a hero who would make every mistake again if asked. And burning hands betrayed and cursed by a devil. Their minds lurched as one with the ship as Freya ripped the last tenuous strand of life it had apart and suddenly gravity made sense again. Her body ripped from the crashing ship along with her new companions.

Summary: Freya lost her hunting partner two years ago. And then again three months later. And another a month later. Now she's pretty sure she's cursed. And being abducted her first day back in training really isn't helping that idea. Now she's trapped, it reeks of Avernus, something burrowed its way into her head, and she has to fight a small army! Even for someone who hunts the monsters roaming Baldur's Gate, this is a little much. Hopefully she can get back home and figure out what's going on before it gets any worse.

CH 1: Escape the Nautaloid

A large crack crawled along the edges of the glass as if it itself was alive, a parasite not unlike her own. Crawling, digging, tearing its way to ruin its host. She could still feel her own. Crawling. Burrowing. Itching. Settling somewhere between her optic nerve and pituitary gland.

The illithid didn’t even disarm her, the smoothed wood of her bow the only thing grounding her from another panic attack—not that it mattered even if they did. All she knew was that horrible clicking at the base of her skull that caused her limbs to seize. Docile as a doll, trapped within her own body. She would have preferred a bed of hot nails or a pair of fangs at her throat. Hells, she would have preferred if they simply ripped her skull open with the horrible slurping she had only read of in books. But that wasn’t the case now.

She jammed the tip of her bow through the broken seal, trying with all her might to pry it just a bit more, to open it just a touch farther. To breathe something that wasn’t so sterile and soulless—even if that meant burning lungs and acrid smoke. What she didn’t expect was the stench of Avernus; sulfur and heat and blood. So much blood.

Freya collapsed onto the floor rather pathetically. The floor was a smooth, strange metal that provided no purchase or traction despite its design that reminded her more of carapace than anything she knew. The sole of her boot slid this way and that as she fought to stand, knees knocking like a newborn deer. She refused to be such easy prey.

But the violent jostling of the nautaloid certainly wasn’t helping.

The world slid and Freya braced herself as best she could. The contents of the central vat sloshed over the edges, burning groves into the leather soles of her boots. It was a creamy sort of color, thick and viscous like porridge. A shame, really. She used to like porridge.

There were people—innocents—trapped as she was. Trapped behind tinted glass held by scaled plates made of crisscrossing membrane and kept alive by things that were more tentacle than tube. Freya doubted the raised designs were simply that. Perhaps they were like veins—carrying within it the lifeblood of the machine.

Men, women, elves, humans, gnomes… She wasn’t even sure if they were alive. What was the rising of a chest and what was the pulsing of the machine?

Even among the roar of fire and the shouts of the blood war, Freya heard the creature’s claws dig their way into the metal of the ship. Crawling, scraping, desperate and dying, towards her. Her body seized; her mind went still. Consumed entirely by a single thought that was not her own.

Feed…

The dying gasp of a desperate animal—if she could even call it that. It was all the mindflayer could think out before a chunk of plating collapsed inward, crushing its skull with a sickening squish…

Do they have skulls? Freya half wondered, gazing at its now flattened head. It had burst, a particularly nasty boil that now oozed out the sides where its brain once throbbed with life. She watched pink slime trickle its way across the rapidly warming metal.

She had to get out of here before the hells melted the entire ship around her.

Freya didn’t want to think of the door, the way it twisted and churned her stomach. The way this ship was almost a mockery of something. Not wholly alien, the designs plagiarized and stripped from nature. It would be better if it was entirely new, entirely unknown. Instead, she was walking through the literal butthole of the ship. The ridiculousness of it all made it all seem worse.

Gods, I hope they aren’t all like that.

But the next room was better. Cleaner. The smell was still stale, purified in a way no air should ever be, but also dotted with sulfur and blood; two things she should never be grateful to have. But her lungs no longer screamed, her eyes no longer burned. Best of all, she knew the bodies were dead.

A goblin laid across the table—though, she more thought of it as an altar with the care and reverence the owner had left his tools. The skull had been torn open with such delicate care; the brain cavity now void of anything she could call as such. The stem had snapped, leaving the ball of grayish-pink tissue to roll about in a pool of its own liquids. A shame, really. It would have made something so perfect…

Freya shook away the thought, refusing to believe it was her own. Instead, she took stock. Even if it was rather… pitiful. A training bow. Blunted arrows. Even her armor was no more fit for hunting than her nightclothes. It was soft, pliable. Something designed for sparring. Yet, here she was, shaking and vision blurring. Fighting for her life.

Free Us.

A distant thought called at the edges of her mind. Not her own—but not a command, either. A part of her softened at the voice. Like a parent hearing a newborn laugh.

Save Us.

Her limbs moved automatically towards the platform and before she knew it, she was standing before a control panel. At least… that’s what she thinks it was. A single, pulsing orb the color of blood. Tentacles protruding from it, reaching for her. Freya reached for it, in turn. It was warm, smooth. A gentle rhythm not unlike a heartbeat. And then the platform moved.

It deposited her only one level up, surrounded by jars and vials and tubes that did nothing but house still-living organs. Hearts and stomachs and patches of skin and brains. So many brains… Samples? Experiments? Aquariums? Terrariums? Either way, there was a primal kind of fear rising up in her at the sight. Something that she was never designed to see—no one was designed to see—and it was put on display as one would a collection of insects. To be pretty and pinned and studied and cherished.

The worst of it all was the twitching form in the chair. Shirtless, scalpless. The only things left of the elf was a blood-spattered body and an echoing voice that in no way belonged to him. Here. We are here. If Freya wasn’t so close, if she hadn’t seen the floating tentacles and the rhythmic pulsing of his exposed brain, she might have mistaken him for a lord sitting atop a throne. A dark, spiked throne of chitin and spines. His head lolled back and forth as if to say ‘no,’ the echoes of his final words still playing on repeat even though no sound came out. No no no no no no no. His mind was gone, his body a husk on autopilot.

We are trapped.

Freya approached with caution; her footsteps as soft as she could make them despite the pounding in her head.

Yes! You came to save Us from this place, from this place you’ll free Us! Please, before they return.

They return, the voice echoed across her mind, consuming all thought and supplanting it with its own.

No brain should move. No brain should twitch, quivering in excitement and anticipation. Freya could not help but study it, the squishing mass of tissue that had swollen to fill the entirety of the cranium. The edges of it were darkened, misshapen and discolored from its beating against the skull that held it. Blood vessels spread out from the center, curling and reaching through to every crevice. It reminded her of trees or vines or winding rivers on a map. It was an image of life itself, now perverted into something slopping and disgusting.

“Why do you sound so afraid?”

The enemy! So many enemies. As if to invoke pity, tears streaked down the elf’s face. A constant, steady stream that washed away the bloody stains. Or worse, there was something left of the man. Left in a silent scream of pain and agony as his very will was ripped and torn by tiny claws.

“You’re past the point of saving,” she pleaded to the man, not the brain. “I can’t—”

The voices drove into her mind like an icepick; a hundred, a thousand, a million of them. Her father, her mother, the children she would hear running between the streets at dawn and dusk, her coworkers chatting it up in the tavern… her partner. Please! We are newborn. Remove us from this body.

Freya grit her teeth against the onslaught. The idea of manipulating her—using pity and memories that in no way belonged to anyone but her—was enough to drive her over the edge. She gripped the brain, digging scarred and callused hands between the squelching tissue and smooth walls of the interior skull. Clear liquid splotched out onto the ground at her feet as her fingers dug deeper, displacing whatever remaining spinal fluid still lingered underneath.

The newborn screamed, piercing and painful. Whether it was calling for help, or begging for mercy, she did not know but it only spurred her on. It, in turn, was clawing at her mind. Digging mental claws, tearing and biting at distant memories she would better preferred stayed buried and forgotten—anything to save itself.

She dug deeper still, slipping deft fingers into the furthest recesses of the skull as she searched blindly for the spot dead center—the dull, constant thud of the heart of a dying man pulsing its way through his arteries and into a brain that was no longer his. Freya tore through the circle of veins with ease, more blood than she always thought possible slopping onto the ground.

And then it was quiet. Sweet, sweet, silence as she tuned out the raging infernos and battle cries just beyond the walls.

Something had torn into the side of the ship long before she had awoken, exposing what could only be described as open bone and straining tendons to the searing heat of the hells. A strangely sweet scent on the air—sickeningly so—as the tissue shriveled and burned and died.

Freya made her way back to the platform, and from there the floor below. She had to get out of here, had to escape. Even if it meant traversing Avernus itself; she would sooner sell her soul willingly than have it forcibly taken.

Carapace-metal turned to squishing flesh. Her boots sunk into the new terrain, a welcome adjustment from having to constantly fight the frictionless surface. Especially as the rush of air nearly knocked her over, the great beating of wings as two red dragons rushed past in a torrent of fangs and claws and fire. They weaved through the air, dodging beams of psionic energy before tearing the canons away and tossing the scraps into the valley below. Even in the hells, surrounded by an ever-burning sky and flying over a river of lava, she could feel the heat of their breath. Her skin crawled at the heat, feeling the memory of her face puckering and scarring over again. A faint waft of oil and a bad memory.

Still, this was not what had Freya on edge. That kind of sixth-sense, the one where the edges of her hair stood on end and had her taking back alleys she normally avoided crawled its way up her spine. The sense of being watched; of being hunted.

Her bow was braced and primed before the Githyanki landed, the roar of yet another dragon soaring overhead. “Abomination. This is your end.” The sword was at Freya’s chest, mere centimeters from tearing through the leather and sinking into her flesh. At the same time, she was mere seconds from releasing the string and sending the arrow flying into the Gith’s eye.

They were at a stalemate, as far as she was concerned. Either run her through and die in the process, or disarm her and give her time to run. Even blunted, arrows could do damage if they were aimed well enough.

The two were on the ground before they could realize what was happening. The pounding, throbbing pain of memories flooding both their minds. Of dragon wings and tearing fangs, of silver swords and poisoned tipped arrows. Of each other as seen through the others eyes.

One tall, one short. One lean muscle and the other strong. The copper skin of a wood elf beside the green and black streaked skin of a Githyanki. Each under prepared, taken by surprise and held and used as nothing more than an incubator.

Both hunters in their own right.

“You are no thrall—Vlaakith blesses me this day! Together we might survive.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“First, we must exterminate the imps.” Freya looked over the Gith’s shoulder, finding the tiny creatures tearing away at the innards of a fresh carcass. “Then we find the helm and take control. We can address the matter of a cure once we reach the Material Plane.”

Lae’zel took off running before she could even respond, blade arching its way into the skull of the imp. It’s twin set of horns split, the curved bone all but shattering from the force. It gave a short cry, one no more suited for a babe, let alone a demonic creature. There was something almost… excited in her motions. A happiness Freya understood. Of not being stranded and alone in all this.

Freya stayed further back, allowing her new companion to take the brunt of the attacks for her if she was so insistent on charging into battle. The Gith had armor—she could take it. Bow in hand, the weight at least familiar if useless. She drew the string, knocking her arrow with it in one practiced, fluid motion and took aim between its ribs.

Her eyes blurred, limbs shaking, as that thing crawled around inside her. She could not aim, let alone target the weakest points of the imp as it danced around the sky. She doubted she could hit a simple target in her state… Freya shifted her attention, instead aiming for a much larger target than the tiny space between two equally tiny ribs.

The arrow pierced its leathery wing, tearing delicate veins that would leave more bruise than any deep wound. Even still, it collapsed to the ground, the force of the shot sent it tumbling off the edge and into the chasm below. No wings, no flight. And it being a million miles from the ground… The only thing she regretted was losing the arrow, making her already dismal supply even worse.

A beating of wings lost in the torrent of wind; she didn’t realize it was upon her until the blade bit into her shoulder. The curved edge of a scimitar—as long as the imp was tall—narrowly missing her ear. Freya swore, realizing the remaining flying pest was smarter than she would have liked. Her arm was useless in this state. She backed up, feet dragging against the metal so she would not trip and make her situation worse. At least, until she felt her heel teeter on the edge, nothing below but decrepit earth and endless war a million miles below.

It glided forward, beating of its wings matching Freya’s heart. Its eyes burned like fire, but held nothing but cold and pain and promises of a torturous eternity no matter if she lived or died. Closer and closer, perhaps wanting to inch her off the deck of the ship rather than sully its already blood-stained blade. Curved talons reached out, not to strike but to push her that last half-step into the chasm below.

Freya sidestepped the fiend the moment it came within reach, the creature only finding empty air. Horrible screeches of anger, one that made her ears bleed and resolve steel, left behind nothing but an empty promise as the elf drove a blunted arrow into the literal fire of its eye. The blaze turned to a single, fading cinder that could just as easily be snuffed out by a pair of fingers. Its body went slack, crumpling to the ground. If she hadn’t just killed it, she might have mistaken it for a prop or toy of some rich noble who pretended his life was worth more than it was.

“Ugh!” Lae’zel screamed, silvery blade slashing wildly through the air as the final remaining imp dodged between attacks. It taunted her, tongue out blowing raspberries and throwing rude gestures with every missed hit. The Gith was panting, seething, out of breath far sooner than she was used to.

At least Freya wasn’t the only one suffering any ill effects.

Her shoulder screamed with every motion, its tendons now nothing but thin strands trying desperately to hold her together. She knocked the arrow, drew back the string. She aimed, watching as the tip shook with each shuttering breath and the world blurred from a mixture of pain and tadpole. It—the fiend—danced and fluttered as gleefully as a child between each attack. She would never be able to hit it, not with the Gith swinging and the creature dancing… But she had to aim at something.

The arrow went loose, Freya shifting her weight and her aim at the last possible moment to account for herself and prayed to whatever god that could hear for it to miss its mark. The blunted tip veered off course almost immediately, striking the imp through the back instead of the glinting red gem of the Githyanki’s armor. It collapsed, dead.

“Tchk. Perhaps you are not as useless as I believed, after all.” Lae’zel kicked the fiend’s head, confirming its death.

Freya reached down and picked up the scimitar with her good arm, the weight of it unfamiliar and the rapidly heating metal causing blisters where it met her skin. It was another option, at least. And it would have to do—swinging wildly was a better chance to hurt something than her bow. She just had to pray it wasn’t herself.

Or Lae’zel.

The Gith took off running, leading the charge with an eagerness Freya only associated with the apprentices.

Webs of membrane spilled out over the ledges. Of course, she would have to climb in her state…

But the glowing mist of a machine beckoned her. Thousands of thin, strand-like feelers with bulbus tips, a strange blue fluid leaking from them. It smelled of fresh rain and sweet wine, brandy and herbs and the first peeling of a fresh orange. It smelled of her rest periods, the times between hunts when she had herself and silence and possibly her dad as he visited after his own work.

She stepped onto the platform, textured and shell-like and alien even compared to the rest of the ship in its organic nature. The mist surrounded her, the fluid dripping and evaporating on contact with a hiss. There was no pain, no itching, not even a numbness as her shoulder stitched itself together, layer by layer, fiber by fiber. Not even a scar, just fresh, healthy skin.

“Hurry up,” Lae’zel called from the top of the membrane rope. “The Ghaik do not wait, nor do the hells.”

The top was more chitin-metal, seemingly untouched by the heat and the blasts of devils and dragons. Another puckering door that gave way at the slightest intrusion, and beyond it a monolith of spines.

An elf and a human and a tiefling, not bound but held prisoner all the same, slept in some form of deep statis. Each one wearing the same clothes, baring the same crest that itched the back of her mind with its familiarity. A downward triangle, a front facing skull locked in a grimace, and a bloody handprint to cover it all.

Their energy was being sapped, stripped away by the altars they lied upon and fed into the monolith in the firm of twisting, red energy. The interior of it pulsed, spasmed as if it itself was living. Like a leech or vampire, feeding off of the hapless victims. Though it was not lifeblood it stole, but something equally as precious.

Freya just did not know what it was.

The control panel in front of it was comprised of more tentacles and wet tissue. Massive orbs she could only describe as tumors gave a soft glow about them, each one labeled with a strange word she could distantly remember in a book but otherwise ascribed no meaning. She was not sure what was button, what was lever, what was joystick, and what was merely design.

“You!” A panicked voice echoed behind tempered glass from across the room. “Get me out of this damn thing!” A woman with dark hair and silvered armor, bearing religious iconography across her entire being—eclipses and shadows.

“I’ll look around—there must be some way to get this damned thing open.” Freya craned her neck, looking at the pod and its construction. It was wrapped in a strange energy she had not seen before—red with flecks of a golden orange. There was no latch, no lever, not even a hinge to show it was capable of opening… she had pried hers off. Was she truly only alive because of another fluke?

“Tchk, we do not have time. We must reach the helm!”

Freya ignored her companion’s complaints. “The pod’s stuck fast. I’ll look around, there must be some way to get this thing open.”

“The contraption next to the pod! They did something to it when they sealed me in!”

The console was dormant, unlike the counterpart she had previously found. The life thrumming through it was minimal, possibly asleep or dying. Cancerous bulbs only gave a faint pulse in time with her breaths. Freya punched it, her fist digging half a foot into the fleshy gray matter-like tissue before her momentum slowed to a stop. She pulled back, a sticky strand of clear mucus trailing behind it. Ugh.

There had to be something, anything, to save someone. And then there was: an empty socket.

Now if only she knew what was supposed to go in it.

“It’s missing a piece! I’m going to look around, see if I can’t find something—”

“Please!” the woman cut her off. “Hurry!”

Perhaps the next room would have a key or a hatch or an escape. All Freya knew is she could not leave the girl with shadowy eyes. She could not save everyone, but she could save someone.

But, gods, she hated these damned doors.

She wasn’t sure what to call the chamber, a suspended platform above a cancerous mound of sticky flesh. An antechamber? An observation deck? The six thrones spoke of unequalled power and the central pod said nothing but voyeuristic torture. Even the architecture expressed only violence.

At first, Freya mistook the statues for wasps, with their long, curved thoraxes that tapered to an unsettling point. But the lack of legs, of wings, gave her pause. More larva than insect, with the piercing maw of a spider and the thousand legs of a centipede. She could feel it now, squirming and crawling and nestling deeper into her brain. The pointed stinger dragging, leaving trails of pooling blood that blurred her vision and numbed her limbs and confused her mind.

The room was a monument to all things absolute.

Absolute power.

Absolute control.

Absolute perfection.

The two of them stepped over a dead body, a human that looked stronger than either of them felt at the moment. Another escapee, another runaway. A failed one, at that. Clutched in her palm was a single key. Something she was desperate enough to die for… Freya took it, slipping it in her pocket.

Another pod stood front and center. Harsh lines, plated chitin, but it was not pulsating. The tubes that ran in and out were dead and dull, the once living prison now more like stone. The woman inside was trapped, too dazed to realize who she was, let alone the danger she was in.

But she was moving. She was moving and blinking and breathing and—“We have to find a way to open it. Get her out.”

“We will not! Our mission is the helm, not to waste our energy on every ishtik we come across.”

Freya whipped around, trying her hardest to ignore the way the world was suddenly doing summersaults. The woman was fidgeting, palms itching and shoulders pinched and teeth bared in such a way that it betrayed her thoughts. She itched to reach back, pull the gleaming longsword from its sheath and strike through Freya’s body in one swift motion.

But she didn’t.

Her palms itched not from impatience, but from beads of sweat that made Lae’zel too uncomfortable to be in her own skin. Her shoulders pinched not as an enraged animal, but as something cornered. She bared her teeth like fangs only because she had none.

She was afraid.

“One less captive, one less mindflayer. One less threat.”

Her new companion bounced impatiently. “Our mission is the helm. Not this,” she restated. But otherwise, Lae’zel made no motion to flee, or strike, or otherwise betray her.

There was another living module at the far end, riddled with cancerous tumors and sticky tentacles. Freya reached out, tentatively and sunk her hand into the very center of it. She had a vision of it—of reaching into the proverbial lion’s maw and hoping it did not bite back.

A voice, one so distant and indistinct that it could not be understood, echoed in both their minds. To be born, to perfect, to be changed…

The woman in the pod screamed. One that stole her breath and threatened to tear her throat with its intensity—but it was muffled. She beat desperately against the glass as every muscle in her body seized. Her neck strained, snapping violently to the side as her limbs jerked violently in the wrong directions. Her bones snapped, commanded by a higher will to destroy itself in order to be born anew. Violet tentacles tore their way through her throat and out her mouth, choking the last of her life away before consuming her in its entirety. A face, a brain, crawling its way outside a fleshy prison and into the light the way a hatching might break its egg. The woman’s body flipped inside out, destroying anything of her that might have been saved. And then there was a mindflayer.

Dampened behind tempered glass, the woman’s last acts of humanity had been to make sure that her “saviors” knew the pain and torment they had condemned her to. Freya wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse.

“Kaincha!” Lae’zel swore. Freya might have not been able to speak the language, but she understood all the same.

Fuck.

“We must be purified, or this may be our fate!”

“No arguments,” Freya responded. There was no fight left except that of survival.

The two ran back to the previous room as fast as they could manage and gave another cursory glance. To find explosive, acids, poisons, weapons of any kind that may help them survive the waking nightmare they were in.

The same woman from before continued to beat against the glass, desperate for escape as they were. Freya was about to leave her and save her own skin if it hadn’t been for the damned chest and Lae’zel.

The reliquary was odd in its normalcy. Something mundane, inanimate, yet resting atop a nautaloid table as if it belonged. A deep purple, obsidian or perhaps a rough amethyst, and wrapped in gold. And locked. Very very locked. The key clicked in place, turning with no resistance and revealing a meager contents. A few coins. A small gem.

An alien-looking slate.

It called to her; sang in that special way she had come to associate with everything nautaloid. Another key, this one begging to be placed back in it’s socket like the piece of a puzzle. Begging to be made whole once more.

There were no screams, thankfully, when Lae’zel pressed a hand against the button of the central control panel. The sleeping forms feeding the great machine spasmed, purple spikes of energy snapping through the air and piercing the very fabric of their minds. They collapsed in silence, died in silence, and now bleed out onto the ground in silence.

“What the hells?!”

“We dealt with ghaik your way. Now, we try mine.”

“They were not ghaik,” the word felt strange on her tongue, a series of sounds she was not used to stringing together in such an order. “They were people! They were—”

“They were nothing but tralls feeding the Grand Design. Your saving,” she spat the word. “Only invites death upon us.

Lae’zel stalked to the woman’s pod, prepared to continue her slaughter. “No! Please!”

Freya ran as fast as she could, shocking the Gith woman with her speed. She flung herself between her companion and the pod, arms out to protect from whatever attack she had planned. “No more death! No more loss!”

“Then you invite our own! A thrall cannot be shown mercy—”

“A thrall who’s begging to be let out? Afraid to become a monster?” Lae’zel stood speechless. “She is no more thrall than you or I, Lae’zel.”

“I would appreciate it if you did not debate my death while I’m standing right here!”

Freya ignored her, continuing. “She is conscious, and she is talking, and she is as much afraid as you or I.”

“Those worthy of Vlaakith do not know fear,” she spat, but otherwise did not refute the statement. The Gith leaned back on her feet. She did not concede ground but did not advance, either. Freya carefully stepped over to the dormant console, only turning her back to the Gith and the pod when she was forced to.

The slate slid in without effort, locking in place as alien muscles contracted and held it there. The same strange red and golden light emanated from the center of it, as if it had been infected by an equally alien disease. It pulsed, a dull thud that sounded in the back of her head as much as it did in front of her. It was not a mind, but a beating heart… what would happen if she killed it?

The parasite squirmed in Freya’s head as she reached towards the console. She could feel the web of veins in her brain strain and tear as the creature burrowed deeper, contented with the soft warmth of fleshy gray matter that gave way around it. Her vision blurred again, the side of her body suddenly feeling numb.

But then the sensation was gone, the discomfort fading into the dull ache of dehydration and sore muscles, and a new one flooded in. A familiarity of being held, of never quite being alone. An intimate connection that whispered power and belonging and control. Authority.

Freya clung to that feeling despite every cell in her body screaming otherwise. She was in control. Her will would supplant all others.

Even the nautaloid itself.

The pod would open.

She felt the command buzz across every synapse of the living ship at the speed of thought. Processing. Considering. Yeilding.

The pod shifted, the chitin plating parting as the glass slid away on unseen hinges. The woman stood on her own two feet, prepared to take her first steps to freedom.

Perhaps it was the sudden shift in pressure, of stale air being stolen from her lungs and flooding back in with the caustic smell of smoke and antiseptic. Perhaps it was the adrenaline crash, her body realizing that, for a brief moment, she was safe. Either way, eyes rolled back and her knees buckled. She collapsed onto the floor.

“Pathetic,” Lae’zel spat.

Freya ran over, sliding onto her knees in an instant to help the woman up.

“I—I thought that damn thing was going to be my coffin. Thank you—” both of them keeled over in pain, minds lurching into the familiar but unwelcomed dance. The barest glimpses of memory—distant and shadowed as the rest of her—and gratitude and wariness. No one helped without cause, and there was a Gith standing behind both of them.

“She’s an ally,” Freya responded to the question before it was even asked.

“We will take the helm. Escape and cure us of this infection.” As if it was a simple wound to be cleansed.

The woman nodded. “We’ll need all the help we can get. Let’s get off this thing together.” She stood on wobbly knees and took a few tentative steps before a moment of realization came over her. “One moment.” She turned, fetching a discarded pack from the floor of her pod. A red vial, a scroll, and a strange device that she seemed too keen on hiding from her new companion’s watchful gazes. “Lead the way.”

The helm had been right around the corner, a simple right instead of the straight path they had originally taken. “Follow my lead once we are inside,” Lae’zel commanded.

The door spiraled open onto a long interior, the chitin floor melted and burning under the hellish fires of Avernus. Literal devils slashed away at the tentacled freaks—mindflayers. One locked in a deadly conflict, blasts of psionic energy warping the very fabric of reality around them as the devil took stab after stab with a flaming sword. A second combatted his own further back before he was disarmed and forced to his knees.

The alien creature wrapped its tentacles around the devil’s face, forcing the moist appendages down its throat so the devil would choke. A horrible, shuttering noise came from the mindflayer, more akin to a drill bore than anything normal. Blood spirted in wide arches, decorating the alien in a veil of glory as it slurped the brain from its cavity and the devil fell down limp. Freya had never seen one feed before. And, based on her companions’ reactions, none of them had.

Imps crawled their way into the room from between cracks and open windows, like parasites themselves. One, two, three slashes across the Illithid’s body and face and arms. Its own blood intermingled with the devil’s. It did not matter what was what or whose was whose; they both collapsed beside one another in death.

A blast of psionic energy pushed the last remaining devil flat on its ass, buying the creature enough time to survey the destruction around it. The alien’s eyes met Freya’s and immediately formed a mental connection.

Thrall, connect the nerves of the transponder. We must escape. Now. Command. Authority. Pleading. Fear. Desperation. Impotence.

It could only pray she obeyed, its mind immediately dragged to more pressing matters as the Devil stood itself up and cleaved into its side.

“Heed its command,” Lae’zel said. “We will deal with the mindflayer once we are back in the material plane!”

Freya took off running without a second thought. She didn’t even notice the hellish creatures tearing through the corpses before her until the hellsboar took a swipe with its burning tusks. It gouged into her leg, cauterizing the wound the moment it was made. So, she kept running.

An imp erupted into golden flames before collapsing to the ground at a single wave of the shadowed-woman’s hands. Fuck, Freya swore to herself. How could she have forgotten? Maybe she wasn’t as useless in a fight as she thought.

Two more creatures collapsed around her as Lae’zel picked off imp after imp with her bow. Part of Freya hoped the Gith was providing proper cover and not just blindly aiming and praying that she missed enough in the right direction to be useful.

Freya left the cambion devil and the mindflayer in the dust, each step reverberating up her legs painfully with the force of pushing herself faster and farther than she was capable of in the moment.

The two struck at each other desperately, the mindflayer too dazed and weak to be useful anymore. The cambion, on the other hand, was deadlier than ever. Its ever-burning blade tearing through lilac flesh with all the diabolical grace Freya had come to associate with the Nine Hells. The battle was almost laughable—but she was more afraid in the moment of what would become of them if the ship fell before its time.

“Incante!” Freya screamed, a newly summoned hellsboar erupting in golden light before collapsing to the ground, a charred husk of an already charred husk.

She was so close. So, so, so, so, so close to the transponder. To the writhing tentacles that controlled the ship. To home.

With a final scream, the mindflayer fell; useless in death as it was in life. Freya did not have time to survey the scene, to find out who the Cambion would reach for next in its slaughter. She hardly had time to think, being so incredibly close to the end of it all.

The shadowed woman stumbled, the heavy armor she wore suddenly unfamiliar in its weight as the ship lurched. The final master now dead, the ship was dying. The Gith took an unaimed shot, desperate to distract the fiend long enough to buy time. It went wide, a mere nuisance in the way a particularly annoying fly might have been, and the cambion lifted its blade to strike a critical blow. One that would cleave the woman in two, leaving her bleeding out on the floor of the ship until the heated air dried it to flaking clots and empty breaths.

Freya gripped the tentacled arms of the transponder, delicate feelers reaching from the clubbed head. It latched on to her in turn; consuming, feeding on her very will. She grabbed a second one at random, forcing the two ends to meet in the middle. An endless loop, the ship feeding off of its own dying energy. The tentacles went taught as a string. And, like a string, she flicked it. A gentle hum reverberated throughout the ship and the surrounding air.

The ship lurched again more violently than before. The cambion lost his footing mid strike, sending him flying into a curved pane of glass, cracking it, as gravity suddenly had no reason. The blade spun through the air, having been lost in the fiend’s fall. Spinning, flipping one end over the other until it finally sunk with a final thud and though its wielder. Web-like designs crawled along the pane, cracking and breaking until, finally, it shattered and the cambion fell through to its death.

Lae’zel found herself suddenly on the ceiling and then again splayed across the floor. Her weapons scattered to the winds as her lungs protested the lack of air around her. A familiar pain, one she had grown used to in her travels between planes and across the Astral Sea. Her body willed itself to breathe, willing the very fabric of dreams to solidify into oxygen so she would not die. No, in Vlaakith’s name she would. Not. Die.

Freya clung desperately to the tentacles of the transponder, her own lungs burning and her limbs screaming with the strain of holding on in the violent tumble out of Avernus. Gravity ripped this way and that, no rhyme or reason as the ship drove at impossible speeds to worlds unknown. They had to go anywhere, anywhere, but here. Anywhere in the material plane—anywhere close to home.

Hands scarred and beaten and broken and healed haphazardly in service to a loveless god.

The delicate hands that had known no hard labor in his life despite carrying so much.

Hands thrumming with wild energy that threatened to devour his very soul.

Clawed hands of a deadly warrior dedicated to futile cause.

Rough hands of a hero who would make every mistake again if asked.

And burning hands betrayed and cursed by a devil.

Their minds lurched as one with the ship as Freya ripped the last tenuous strand of life it had apart and suddenly gravity made sense again. Her body ripped from the crashing ship along with her new companions. She fell a hundred feet, a thousand feet, a million feet to the rapidly approaching beach below, fully conscious yet strangely calm in the face of her impending death. A searing pain in her skull as her brain collided with the interior of it.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #balders gate 3 #bg3 spoilers #astarion #karlach #bg3 gale #shadowheart #astarion x tav #gale dekarios #lae'zel #slow burn #my writing #fanfic #shadowheart x lae’zel #shadowheart x halsin #wyll ravengard #wyll x karlach #gale x lae'zel

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unknought · 7 months

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Hey you should read Tatterdemalion, a story I wrote a few years ago. It's a post-apocalyptic fantasy about people trying to survive surrounded by things much bigger and scarier than them --angels and eldritch horrors and old machines-- in a world that's been repeatedly torn open and stitched back together. It's also, if you squint just a bit, a story about growing up queer in a small town.

It's unfinished and it's never going to be finished, at least not in its current form. But I think the ten thousand words of it that I did write are pretty good on their own.

Here's the first chapter and here's the table of contents.

content warnings below the cut:

body horror and parasites

coercive sex and attempted rape, neither described in explicit detail

death

hell

giant spiders

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wakethedead-group-re-read · 7 months

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Ch. 10 Discussion Post

Feel free to discuss whatever you want, not limited to these questions... but keep in mind that some people have not read the whole book yet, so put any future spoilers below a read more/page break.

Be respectful of all! Different opinions aren't only allowed, they're encouraged! But be polite to others.

Remember, if you post any screenshots, etc., be sure to tag @wakethedead-group-re-read so I can reblog here.

You can discuss all week - it's not limited to just today! Any questions, just shoot me an ask!

If you want to be removed from the tag list, or tagged in future posts, please let me know!

You can find all chapter discussion posts here.

Discussion questions:

1. The gang's time at the amusement part is quiet a contrast to the horrors they encountered at Ironmount last chapter. Do you feel breaks like these will help them? Or are they merely distractions that do not benefit them? 2. Did you go on any of the side jaunts with the Shannon, Troy, Angel, or Eli? If so, did you choose platonic routes or romantic? What did you learn about each character, and did your opinion/thoughts of any change as a result? Is your MC pursuing a single LI, playing the field, or skipping romance all together in this playthrough? 3. Who did you scare in the graveyard, and how did they take it? 4. A lot took place, but it is rather individualized depending on your choices. Share your hot takes on this chapter.

Please share any screenshots and thoughts, and PLEASE, if anything inspires you to create, DO IT! We'd love to see it, so tag us!

If you want to be removed or added to the tag list, please let me know!

@oh-so-youre-a-nerd @allthingseurope @missameliep @dutifullynuttywitch @tessa-liam @jerzwriter @aallotarenunelma

#wake the dead #wake the dead replay #eli sipes #troy hassan #angel savage #shannon fox #playchoices

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dolly-macabre · 1 year

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Obscura Macabre Ch. 1

“For you, there’ll be no more crying

For you, the sun will be shining

And I feel that when I’m with you

It’s alright, I know it’s right

To you, I’ll give the world

To you, I’ll never be cold

Cause I feel that when I’m with you

It’s alright, I know it’s right

And the songbirds are singing

Like they know the score

And I love you, I love you, I love you

Like never before”

Chapter 1

(197?, Tomahawk, WI)

“♬♪♫♩Now here you go again. You say you want your freedom. Well, who am I to keep you down? ♩♫♪♬”

*Flick*

A beat-up lighter comes alive, warm, and inviting. Unlike the frigid Fall rain outside of the tiny Wisconsin home. A brief flash of lightning, followed by a low rumble came from above and a single light remained on, glowing softly from the attic window. Inside, a record player sang with the sweet sound of Stevie Nicks’ voice while a plume of smoke billows out to fill the whole room with a funky-smelling haze.

“♬♪♫♩Like a heartbeat drives you mad in the stillness of remembering what you had. And what you lost. And what you had. And what you lost. ♩♫♪♬”

Dolly could never get enough of Stevie’s captivating vocalization. She sang along, every note more heavenly than the last as she sat on her twin-sized mattress, attempting to tackle her math homework.

Why do they have to make this shit so confusing?? Whoever came up with algebra should be drug out into the street and shot….

Thankfully backup was on the way! She had invited over her best friend that night for a good ol’ triple S. Study and smoke sesh. Downstairs, Dolly’s Aunt Jade snoozed away in her room. She had to be the heaviest sleeper in the world. Her snores could wake the dead.

Fortunately, that’s what she was banking on, loving nothing more than the late-night company it granted. Unfortunately, her eyes were growing heavy. Her mind tended to drift to dark places when she slept. Preferring the insomnia over the nightmares, she slapped a hand on each cheek to wake up.

“♬♪♫♩Now here I go again I see the crystal visions. I keep my visions to myself ♩♫♪♬”

Her eyes fluttered again, this time she was met with a horrid image. Before her, shrouded in darkness, stood what appeared to be a scraggly figure with glowing eyes. They seemed to pierce through her like a knife.

*TIC*

Dolly’s eyes were wide open now, horrified to close them again. Beads of sweat dotted her pale forehead.

One too many horror movies… Shit

Lightning overtook the sky once more.

“♬♪♫♩Thunder only happens when it’s raining. Players only love you when they’re playing. ♩♫♪♬”

A deep rumble seemed to shake the whole house this time.

“Enough of this album for now..” She made her way over to her record player and switched it over to Fleetwood Mac’s White Album. As she headed back to her blanket nest on the bed she was startled by a clicking against her window.

*TIC-TIC*

Who’s chucking shit at my window???

“Oh shit! Pickles!!”

She shook her fear off, throwing her patch-clad denim jacket on as she hurried down the stairs as fast as she could. After fumbling with the lock on the front door, she saw her friend sitting on her porch. Soaked through and through, he looked sorely dejected. His leather jacket rested on one shoulder and his head was low, watching as the rain pattered against the wood below them.

“Oh, dude… I’m so sorry… I started dozing off and-”

A sob caught in his throat, eyes refusing to meet hers. But she could catch a glimpse. They were swollen and very red.

“Hey… Whoa…” She sat down in front of him peering closer into his pained gaze, “Is Seth fucking with you again??? I swear to god I’m gonna horsewhip that bastard…”

“Not Seth… Not this time…” he choked out.

Dolly crawled next to him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, bringing with them that warm aura of hers. He buried his face in her shoulder, he was safe now. Her smell was the most comforting to him. Cigarettes, pot, strawberries, and musk. So sweet and familiar.

Must be that Betty Boop Angel spray. I helped Jade pick out for her birthday this year. She wears it all the time now.

He breathed in deep and melted into her.

“C’mon. Let’s go in. I got some tunes goin' and I can smoke you up! I think I still have that small bottle of whiskey stowed under my bed too!” Her hands met his cheeks, giving him an encouraging smile. Inevitably turning them a little pink. She didn’t seem to realize just how much and for how long he yearned to just kiss her. Or maybe she did and he was just bad at picking up signals.

“Let’s talk about it. You’ll feel better. I promise.”

“Kay…” He took her hand, following her past Jade’s room and up the stairs to hers. The air already reeked of weed before they could even open the door. Her record player clicked, waiting for side 2. While she attended to that, Pickles plopped down in her bean bag chair, removing his damp jacket.

“You need somethin’ dry? I can throw what you got in the dryer and borrow you something! I’m sure I gotta have somethin’ that’ll fit ya…”

“♬♪♫♩Have mercy, baby, on a poor girl like me. You know I’m falling, falling at your feet.♩♫♪♬” Stevie sang gracefully.

The words made Pickles blush even more. Across the room, Dolly dug through her dresser, throwing articles every which way until at last she plopped a pair of basketball shorts and an oversized Black Sabbath tee.

“I’ll just wait outside the door for ya, okay?”

“Yeah, okie..”

Pickles went to work, peeling his soaking clothes from his freckled skin, and removed the soggy athletic tape that was binding his chest.

“I just did the laundry a little bit ago so they should be nice n' warm!” she said through the door.

They were… and it felt like heaven.

“♬♪♫♩Cause when the lovin’ starts and the lights go down. But there’s not another living soul around. You woo me until the sun comes up. And you say that you love me♩♫♪♬”

Why does she always gatta play that sahppy stuff..

He thought as his face grew red. Not that he didn’t find the music well-made but this was too much. Was she trying to hint at something?

Nah she’s just a Stevie fanatic...

He finished dressing and opened the door between them and in an instant, she had her arms around him again. His hand came to rest on top of her head. She was so short. Even compared to him. He liked that about her. It made him feel big about himself.

Once the bottle and pipe were passed between them, they basked in the glow of their intoxication. Just enjoying having one another in the same space.

“So… What happened, man?” Dolly was the first to speak up.

Pickles let out a haggard sigh.

“I gaht into it with my folks…”

“I kinda gathered that..” her voice was soft, “Do you wanna talk about it? We don’t have to if-”

“Mom found out I’ve been tapin' my chest... She threatened to take me to a surgeon who can ‘fix me’...”

He could feel her anger seething from across the room.

“And him… That fuckin’ bastard… He told me I belong in a garbage can, cause ‘no son of mine is gonna be a fuckin’ fruit.’”

His dear friend was quiet for a moment before she crossed the room, dropped to her knees, and held him close once more.

Pickles bit his lip, trying to keep his emotions at bay.

“Maybe he’s right… I mean, there’s obviously sumthin wrahng with me..”

“There is NOTHING wrong with you… If anything, there’s something wrong with all of them…”

“I’m runnin' away, Dolls... I can’t take another day in that fuckin’ house..”

“You can always stay with us! You’re a part of the family here..”

“No, I’m goin’ to LA… I’m gonna make sumthin’ of myself... Then they’ll be sahrry..”

He watched as her face fell. The excitement she momentarily felt, was gone.

“I- I don’t know what to say… All I know is that you need to do what’s best for you… I’ll.. I’ll really miss havin' you around..” tears started to form in her eyes but she did her best to hide it with that caring smile.

“Come with me…”

“What?? But- But what about Jade… and school?? I can’t just uproot myself… I promised her I’d go to community college... I-”

“Think about it, Dolls… We could start fresh... Really make a name for ourselves. I know you’ve always dreamed of singing somewhere other than karaoke night at Styx… I jest… I don’t wanna do this without you…”

“What’re you saying, Pickles…”

“I’m sayin’ that I…” He struggled to put the words together. All of this vulnerability was almost too much to bear, “I need ya…I- I think I kinda love you or sumthin'…”

She sat there stunned. He instantly regretted it. There was no way. She was so cute and she had so much promise. She’d do just fine without him…

“Fuck… What was I thinkin’? I can’t-”

Her lips quickly found his. They were just as soft and tender as he imagined.

“D-Does that mean yer comin’ with me?” he asked, a glimmer of hope in his sweet green eyes.

“Of course it does Ding-Dong!” she grinned.

Her smile could melt even the coldest of hearts. He initiated this time, catching her lips with his. It felt different now… A little sloppy and awkward but lovely nonetheless. They got to their feet and migrated to her bed,not once breaking the kiss. They were closer to each other than they had ever been.

They were just kids, but they had been through more together than any teenager should have to go through. Life was unfair, there was no questioning that. All they had was each other and that was enough.

***

Their cigarettes glowed in the dimly lit space as they huddled close together as the night grew colder. Winter was well on its way…

Maybe we can avoid it this year!

She thought to herself. After all the years of dealing with “Wisconsin weather,” she was very much ready for a tepid Winter.

“Do you think things are gonna get better now?.. Do you really think we can make it out there?” Dolly extinguished her cigarette in the little pinch pot on her nightstand

“Yeah... I really do.”

He kissed her forehead and pulled her gently to lay against his chest.

“We’re gonna make our dreams come true, Dolls. I jest know it..”

#mtl fanfic #dollym.writing #my mtl #oc x canon #self insert #obscura macabre #mtl oc #dahlia birkett #dolly macabre #pickles the drummer #dickles

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