#Blood and hallucination mentions

[blackwood-library]

I. Think I should start seeing a psychiatrist.

I just got sent home from work. There’s a bit of a story behind this one. Or. Less a story, but it’s. Weird?

I was prepping some veggies for one of our big batches of stock at the restaurant I work in. Nothing big, or strenuous. Just. Methodical chopping of carrots and onions. I just started to zone out or something, I think, but the next thing I know I’m staring at my cutting board and it’s just- it’s covered in blood, and in the center of it was a beating human heart, staked down to it with my knife.

I think I just stared at it for a minute? Because the next thing I know one of our other prep cooks is grabbing my hand and taking me to the sink to make sure nothing got in the cut in my palm.

I don’t know what happened, or why- I think I was daydreaming? Or hallucinating? It was weird.

My hand is ok! Though! No trip to A&E for me.

[screebyy]

Part 6: The Summit Prev | Next (Soon™️) | Start

Two parts left! sorry to end on a lil cliffhanger of sorts. also sorry i'm going to continue to be very mean to jolyon. also also sorry i will not be finishing this before tfs launches lol 🥲

ID below cut like and subscribe etc

Panel 1: Wide shot of Crow and Jolyon sitting on a rock on the summit of a mountain, looking down at the dreaming city below. The sun is starting to rise over distant mountains, and the dreaming city is covered in taken essence, with black taken orbs hanging all around it. Jolyon is leaning forward with his arms crossed and his elbows resting on his knees, while Crow is leaning back on his hands. Jolyon: “Thanks for doing this with me.” Crow: “Of course. It’s been… really nice, catching up.” Jolyon: “Yeah…

Panel 2: Close up of Jolyon’s hand from the side. He is curling it into a tense fist where it’s resting on his bicep. Jolyon: “... Can I ask…”

Panel 3: Close up of Jolyon’s face in profile. He is staring straight ahead with a pained expression on his face as he speaks. Jolyon: “Why now?”

Panel 4: Side view of Crow as he turns to look at Jolyon. He has a curious expression on his face. Jolyon (offscreen): “A few years ago… I heard about what happened, with Savathun. That you had remembered your past life.”

Panel 5: Side view of Jolyon. He is turning away from the Crow, and his expression is not visible. Jolyon: “When you didn’t reach out… I guess I just assumed you hadn’t remembered me.”

Panel 6: Side view as Crow looks at Jolyon with a mournful expression. Crow: “I…”

Panel 7: Crow turns forward again, looking down at the ground with a sad expression. Crow: “I’m not sure I did, at first.” Panel 8: Flashback of the Radiant Accipiter, idling in empty space. Crow is visible through the windshield of the ship, he is hunched over in the pilot’s chair with his head in his hands while glint floats beside him. Crow (Present day): “He was so far gone at the end - whenever I tried to think about his life, it was like a bomb going off inside my brain.”

Panel 9: Close up of Crow looking down past the camera. He is clutching his face with both hands, one hand is tearing desperately at his hair while the other is covering his cheek, nose and mouth. He has a horrified, distant expression on his face, and a tear is running down his cheek. In the background, a cracked surface shows many scenes from Uldren’s rampage. One fragment shows a close up of Uldren’s eyes as he turns towards the viewer with a hateful expression. Black rivulets of corruption are flowing from his eyes like tears, and the sclera of his corrupted eyes are black and seeping into the iris. Another fragment shows several dead corsairs lying on a stone floor in pools of blood. Another fragment shows a close-up of Cayde-6’s face, staring up at the viewer defiantly. His face plates have been badly damaged. The final fragment shows a close up of Uldren’s hand holding the Ace of Spades hand cannon, with smoke coming out of the barrel. Crow (Present day): “Nothing made sense, all I could feel was… what he felt. The things he did…”

Panel 10: A wide shot of Crow lying in bed, bundled up in his blanket. The room is dark, and a window is open, with bright sunlight shining in through the curtains. Crow (Present day): “But eventually…”

Panel 11: A close up of Crow holding Glint with one hand. Glint’s eye is closed, and he is humming gently. Crow (Present day): “I was able to start picking up the pieces.” Panel 12: Closer shot of Crow lying in bed. He is clutching Glint against his chest with one hand, rubbing his shell gently. With his other hand, he is holding a golden ring on a chain. He is staring blankly at the ring with a sad, tired expression. Crow (Present day): “To put together who he had been before.” Panels 13, 14, 15, and 16: A sequence of fuzzy, incomplete memories. The first is a shot of Jolyon in his uniform, from his waist to his chin. Most of his face is not visible, but he seems to be scowling. He is partially obscured by a misty, dark blue background. The second memory is a shot of Uldren lying back in green grass on a sunny day, eating raspberries. He is looking to his right, at someone just offscreen. He is laughing lightly, and looks peaceful as he holds a raspberry up to his mouth. The third memory is a shot of Jolyon’s dark blue Supremacy rifle leaning against a wall, next to where his green cloak is hanging. The fourth memory is a partial shot of Uldren resting on his hands and knees above Jolyon, who is not visible. Uldren is shirtless, and a golden ring is hanging from a chain around his neck. Jolyon’s hand is reaching into frame, holding the ring in his palm where it hangs. Uldren is smiling down at him warmly. Crow (Present day): “You were… A puzzle that took me a long time to figure out. A face I couldn’t quite name, a feeling I couldn’t quite place.”

Panel 17, 18, and 19: Another sequence of memories, which are more clear than before. The first panel is a head-on shot of Uldren, staring up past the viewer with a confused, strained expression. The scleras of his eyes are black, and the corruption is starting to seep out of them. The second panel is a head-on view of Jolyon, staring down at Uldren with an intense, searching expression. The third panel is of Uldren, who is looking away to scratch at his right eye with the heel of his hand. His hands are cuffed together at the wrist, and he looks frustrated, and distracted. Crow (Present day): “When it finally came together, And I realized how terrible he had been to you… I was too ashamed.” Panel 20: In the present day, Crow is leaning forward, and staring distantly down at the ground, while Jolyon watches him talk. Crow: “To let himself fade away like that, to forget you, while you were standing right in front of him…”

Panel 21: Close up of Jolyon as he looks away, and stares sadly into the distance. His brow is furrowed and he looks conflicted and tired. Crow (offscreen): “I didn’t think I could face you, after that. I didn’t think you’d want me to.” Jolyon: “...”

Panel 22: front view of Crow and Jolyon sitting side by side. Crow is leaning forward heavily, looking down at the ground with a grim, slightly frustrated expression. Jolyon is turning slightly towards Crow, though he is not looking directly at him and is expression is sad and distant. Jolyon: “What changed your mind?”

Panel 23: Close up of Jolyon’s face. He looks slightly surprised and is looking directly at Crow, offscreen. Crow (offscreen): Petra.

Panel 24: Shot of Crow as he hunches away from Jolyon, rubbing his right arm self-consciously. He is glancing out of the corner of his eyes back at Jolyon with an uncertain, guilty expression. Crow: “Last week, hunting Riven’s eggs took us… Somewhere that reminded me of you.”

Panel 25:  Close up of Jolyon as he watches Crow out of the corner of his eyes. His brow is slightly furrowed, and he looks uncertain.

Crow (offscreen): “After we got back, I asked Petra how you had been, and…”

Panel 26: Close up of Crow. He is smiling lightly, staring down at the ground with a distant, soft expression and blushing faintly. Crow: “She talked some sense into me. Reminded me that I shouldn’t just assume you were better off never knowing me. That I at least owed you the chance to make that decision for yourself.”

Panel 27: front view of Crow and Jolyon sitting side by side. Crow is turning back towards Jolyon with a soft smile. Jolyon is also looking at Crow, smiling faintly. Crow: “I guess… some things haven’t really changed, right?” Jolyon: “Ha.”

Panel 28: Close up of Jolyon’s face from the side. He is staring straight ahead again, smiling faintly. Jolyon: “Right…”

Panel 29:  Jolyon looks slightly down, his smile has fallen and his brow has furrowed as his expression grows distant. Dark, scratchy marks are bleeding into the edge of the panel, fading out the edges. Jolyon: “...”

Panel 30: extreme close up of Jolyon’s eye, squeezed shut. Dark scratchy marks surround the panel, creating a chaotic background and bleeding into the panel. Voice offscreen: “Jolyon…”

Panel 31: A younger version of Jolyon turns towards the camera from the side, with a confused expression. His hair is pulled back into a bun, and he is wearing a light green sweatshirt. The background is faded purples and blues, and Jolyon is outlined in surreal surreal shades of pink and purple. The panel is outlined by dark scratch marks, spiky thorns, and black flowers outlined in vibrant shades of pink, purple, and green. The text bubbles appear to be glitching out, with scratchy fragments coming out of them. Voice offscreen: “Why’d you do it?” Jolyon: “What?”

Panel 32: Shot of Uldren sitting on a rock, from behind. He is leaning forward, resting his hands on his knees, and staring down at the ground. His hair is falling over his face, and his expression is not visible. The surreal lighting continues in this panel, and Uldren is outlined in pinks and purples with the panel being surrounded by dark scratch marks, spiky thorns, and black flowers outlined in bright colors. Uldren: “Why did you come with us, Jol?”

[the-kr8tor]

Rotten Floorboards

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x Fem! Reader

Word count: 11.5k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, Cowboy AU, Wild west AU, CW hallucinations, TW poisoned without your knowledge, CW violence, religious talk, CW guns, TW abuse mention, CW food mention, CW panic attack, CW injury, TW death, TW blood and gore.

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CHAPTER 7 >>> CHAPTER 8

Skinned knees, scarred hands, and venomous words, you've endured it all back home. Survived it all— his tight, firm grip on your hand that only loosened around guests, finger always running along the gold band on your finger, a reminder of your hatred, a different reminder for him. Then your aunt's yelling in your ears until you could only hear her thunderous words at night even when you're alone. Her pen that does more than sign documents, the sharp end pointed directly on your palm, stabbing and cutting along your life line as if it could end your life right then and there— sometimes you wish it could. Then him, your uncle who had his hand in cutting your ties with the man you love, whose echoing footsteps walk outside your door at night, never giving you reprieve from the pain of being awake in that mausoleum of a home. All that pain, all that abuse you've suffered from your so-called kin doesn't compare to seeing Hobie's limp body under the monstrous weight of steel and ash.

Your heart has stayed inside your stomach since then, his green eyes closed, breathing shallow than the well that your uncle threatened to push you inside— you won't drown in it, you'll just crack your neck and your spine while you lay in tepid dirty water. You feel like that now, hopeless, blank eyes staring at the sky, seeing the world pass by from inside the well.

You've never left his side, feeling as if you'd regret it if you did even for a moment. You've regretted a lot of things, letting your parents go on that doomed expedition, and letting your aunt dictate the rest of your life. Never again. So you don't leave, you don't drink, you don't eat while the stranger who helped carry Hobie into the shabby inn treats him.

Your own wounds ache, festering under the heat of the southern sun. The humidity is clinging to your skin, making it all worse, making the pathetic bandage around your ear throb from the pain, tethering from infection. The walls of the small room they've put you in is suffocating, walls that feel like it's closing you in, dark hardwood that sweats from the sheer heat, and floorboards that creak and squeak from your footsteps. But you'd rather stay upstairs than what's below you. It smells there, especially when the day runs hotter than the surface of a boiling pot. It's probably because the whole building is old and moldy. Or there's something dead hiding underneath the rotten bloated wood.

The alligators outside your window hiss and groan, birds you've never seen before get eaten the moment they step foot inside the marsh. It's not fair, you think, for they only wanted to eat yet they ended up getting eaten themselves.

The night gives your nerves a break, the cooler air breezing through your injuries, taking the pain away for only a moment. Fireflies gather outside the willow tree that you've been staring at since you've arrived. Hobie sleeps under it all, from all the noise and the heat. You've held his hand the entire time, even with the bandages around your palms you could still feel him, feel his pulse, feel how he still breathes. Your eyes are dry and red, tears gone from how much you've cried on his bedside, and pleaded to the man to save him whatever it takes. The rickety armchair that has one leg missing has been your home, the room is your land, and Hobie has been your reason to stay.

You held his hand in yours, watching as his eyelids moved about, a sign that he still lives and thinks despite the trauma to the head he endured when the train crashed. The bandage around his head has turned red from his wound. He protected you, did everything to shield you from death. You'd cry if you still had any tears left to give.

Dawn has arrived, and you hear a knock at the door. It's quiet, almost silent as if the sound would disturb Hobie's slumber.

“Come in,” your voice is still hoarse from the noose that wrapped around your neck. It's small, barely there, barely having the resemblance of your former self.

With a creak, the door opens, and a familiar face pops out. “Just checkin’ on ya.” His southern drawl is thick, shaven face illuminated by the lamp he holds. “I need to change his bandages. And yours if you'd permit me.” Entering the room, he shakes his leather bound bag with the initials ‘T.M.’ embossed on it. The metal and glass inside clinks against each other.

You watch him carry himself with confidence, but with apprehension from his gait. “Do him first.” Moving the chair aside, you still don't fully leave Hobie.

“Alright,” his friendly eyes look at you with uncertainty. Kneeling down next to the bed, he examines Hobie's head, gently unspooling the cloth. That's the only time you look away, refusing to see him that way or it might wiggle its way into your dreams. “I’ve realized that I haven't asked for your name, miss.” You hear his bag unzipping while you stare at the outside world blanketed in deep blue. “Not your fault though, Holden brought you in haste.”

“Holden?” You ask, eyes scanning along the marsh.

“That's the big brooding man that carried him in. My name's Thomas, by the way, what's yours?” The smell of putrid ointment hits your nose, you refuse to cover the smell.

You give him a fake name, a name that isn't known to many, a name that isn't plastered in every bounty board across the country. “It's Clementine.”

“What a pretty name, I'd shake your hand but 'm occupied right now.” He chuckles, and you hold your breath while he continues to treat Hobie. After minutes of silence, you hear the rustle of fabric as he closes the bandages around his head.

You turn to look, the sight of Hobie just laying there is sobering. You've always known him as a strong person, always burying his heels in, independent in all the ways, and speaking his mind when he needs to be. The opposite of you, but right now, you have to be the one that's strong enough for him, to fight, care, and protect him if need be while he recovers. You don't know if you can do it, but it comes easily to you because it's Hobie, you've already done so a lifetime ago. You inhale deeply, finally meeting Thomas’ brown eyes.

“Thank you, for helping, you don't know us but you still helped. I promise I'm going to pay you back for the room and…” you look at the room that still bares Hobie's blood all over the floor, and his things thrown in the corner. “And everything else.”

“No, need.” Thomas smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. Crow's feet evident in his smile. “Just seein’ him get better slowly is enough for me.” You give him a weak but genuine smile. “Your turn, miss?”

“I'm fine.”

“I've been a doctor for twenty years, and you're clearly not fine. Especially that ear of yours. I've seen better ears from pigs in line for the slaughter.”

You glance at Hobie's sleeping face, finally relenting. “Okay.”

“I'll try to be quick, I promise.” You scooch your chair closer, immediately holding Hobie's hand like his skin is magnetized. “I don't want to ask but, this injury doesn't look like it came from the train derailing.” He starts to peel off the shoddy bandage that you hastily put on, your skin feels like on fire. You don't mind it anymore, you've felt worse.

You sniff, eyes glued onto the gold ring dangling from Hobie's neck. “A piece of metal from the train nicked it.”

“And your hands?” He nods at your burned palms hidden under cloth.

“Heat from the metal when I tossed it off him.” A half lie.

“Ah,” Thomas cleans your wound with the same putrid ointment. He tugs at your raw skin, you bite your tongue on instinct. “Maybe I shouldn't ask about your neck then.” The angry mark left by the lasso still stays, you know it'll stay there forever. If not, then in your mind.

You look back at the stranger, eyes pointed and daring. “Don't ask.”

There's new cloth around your ear, muffling the sounds made by the house. “Then I won't.” He seizes his movements, eyeing your hand around Hobie's. “May I treat your hands?”

“It's fine, mister Thomas.”

“It's doctor, actually,” there's amusement in his eyes. “I’ve got a license and everythin’. You should see it, it's very professional lookin’.”

You crack a smile, “sorry, doctor.” With slight apprehension, you slide your hands away from Hobie's before laying your palms on your lap. “Do you own this place?”

“I do, sort of.” He unwraps your hands, revealing the angry skin underneath. Sucking in his teeth, you already know it's healing badly. But he still tries, for that you owe him everything.

“Sort of?”

“It's my sisters’ you see, they went on this business trip to get more funds for the place so they asked me to look after it for a few weeks.”

“I'm guessing that you had to leave your practice.” You flick your eyes over to Hobie's rising and falling chest to check on him. Satisfied, you look back at the doctor handling you with care. “That must've been horrible.”

“Havin’ sisters?” He jokes.

“No, leaving it all behind.”

His smile falters. “Don't cry crocodile tears for me, miss, I'll be back there treating the sick in no time.” His head tilts curiously at the old scar on your palm, ghosting his thumb over it. “What happened to this one?”

You want to say that it was because of her, that she did it. But this is one of the rare times that it wasn't her fault. Yet, when it was, she's good at hiding the evidence. Your aunt wasn't an idiot, she knew how to turn a girl into her personal workhorse that you whip and punch to obey without leaving any marks, without showing the world and causing them any concern for your well-being. So you tell the halfhearted truth.

“It was a long time ago, there's no cause for concern on that one.” It healed, a remembrance, telling you that everything will heal if you give it time— that Hobie will heal. You meet his eyes, finding it hard to read the old man. “How about Holden and the others I saw? I didn't get a good look at them when I entered but I saw a few guests. Are they guests?” You question him because that's what Hobie would do.

“Holden lives nearby who just happens upon the train wreck. He has a small stable in town, in Saint Denis. If you want he can take in your horses? They're mighty fine, I don't want them getting soiled by the marsh.”

“That…” you think for a second. If the horses are gone then you'd lose your only way out. Hobie would say no. “No, thank you, I'll take care of them.”

“You sure? Fine by me, there's hay inside the stable for ‘em.”

“The others? You were talking about them.” You continue to push the subject.

“Ah yes, sorry ‘bout that, old mind and all. Well, there's Eli, he's been stayin’ with us for quite a while. A priest on a mission we call him.” You listen intently, taking note of every single detail. “Then there's Lucy, she's a regular ‘ere, always comin' and goin'. Accordin’ to my sisters.”

You nod as he finishes your hands that's now tightly wrapped with bandages. Thomas begins to stand up, gathering his things. “Will he be okay?” Will he wake up?

He sighs, there's something behind his eyes that you can't quite pinpoint. “It’s hard to tell.” Your heart hammers inside your ribcage. “But he has so far survived the night, I think he'll pull through.”

“Thank you, again. I'll repay you, I promise.” You reach for Hobie's hand, letting your warmth seep through his clammy hands.

Thomas' eyes flick between your hand and eyes. “Don't mention it. I'll bring a basin with drinking water for him. Drip water onto his lips every few hours so he won't dehydrate.”

You nod in understanding. “I will, thank you ”

“Then some food and water for you.” He smiles, opening the door and looking over his shoulder to glance at you.

“No need—”

“How would you care for him when you don't take care of yourself? You need the energy. What would he say?”

You chuckle, squeezing his hand tighter. “He’d call me a wanker for not eating.”

Thomas knits his brows, turning back towards you. “A what?”

“Nothing, it's something profane.”

He chortles, wiping his hand across his nose like he smelled something foul. And you smell it too— the sourness, the moment he opened the door. Maybe a rat died under the staircase. “I won't ask then. Get some rest, miss Clementine.”

The door clicks and you're once again alone with him. It hits you again, how dire your situation is. There's a rock in the back of your mind that keeps rolling about, reminding you how close Hobie was from dying in your arms. But there's another boulder in the pit of your stomach, it tells you of a fate that could befall you now that you're here, close to the person looking for you. You'd rather jump towards the alligators than be back in their hold.

Hobie will wake up, you know he will. For now, you'd stay by his side, play the good nurse and protect him as much as you can because he would do it if the roles were reversed. You hold his ring in between your fingers, letting the cold metal melt into your warm skin.

—

You whisper to him, words that you're afraid of letting go, words that you wish would wake him up. You wonder what he dreams of, is it home? Is it something good? Or is he dreaming of you? You'll ask him when he wakes up, he'll wake up, you know he will.

There's another knock at the door a few hours later. Thomas enters with a tray that smells of something savoury, you've forgotten how hungry you are. But how could you indulge when Hobie lays there like a statue?

“I have some duck for ya, and a loaf. It's not much but it'll fill you up.” He senses your trepidation. “Please eat, you'll get weaker if you don't. ‘sides, no one will take care of him if you fall ill.” The utensils rattles as he places the tray in your hands.

You stare at the food with a blank stare. Guilt eats you alive, grief devouring what's left of you. “C-can you…” you clear your dry throat, “can you check on him? See if his breathing is alright?”

Thomas nods curtly after a moment, placing his fingers above his pulse, timing it on a watch that dangles from his waist coat. You don't touch the warm food until he's done. “His breathin’s fine, he's a fighter.”

You finally feel like you can exhale again. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” standing up, Thomas points at the bowl filled with water where a cloth floats atop it. “That's for him, from what we talked about.”

“I remember.” You're already squeezing the cloth, releasing excess water before you place the tray on his bedside to slowly let the water drip on Hobie's dry lips. With every drop, you pray to whoever is listening to will him awake.

“I'll leave you to it,” the door closes, and you're once again left in your dark thoughts where your fears have come true.

In between eating and playing nurse, your eyes start to get heavy with every bite of the succulent meat. You couldn't help but finish it to the bone, letting it fill your belly, leaving half of the loaf for Hobie when he wakes up. After chugging a whole pitcher of water and emptying Hobie's bowl by slowly but surely letting him drink, you place the tray down on the ground to lay down next to him carefully. There's a headache forming in-between your eyes, maybe you're incredibly fatigued than you thought you were. You're mindful of his injuries but not your own as you lay on your injured ear. It's self flagellation, as if everything that has happened was your fault the moment you stepped foot in the new world. As your eyes get uncomfortably heavy, mind foggy, you fall asleep curled up on his side.

You open your eyes and you're back home. The gilded walls of your room open up to you like a theater curtain. Your chest heaves, eyes filled with tears that you refuse to let go. Chiffon and velvet dress hugging you tightly, too tight, suffocating you slowly like a hand on your throat. Hand upon your chest, you rip it all off as if the garment burns you. But it isn't enough to get rid of it all, so you walk over to your table in haste, grabbing a sharp letter opener to slash and tear at the threads putting it all together. One by one, the once pretty gown is torn to shreds at your feet, from bodice to skirt, it all lays on the ground like discarded meat. In a flash, your eyes see red and bloodied muscle still writhing on the floor instead of fabric. As soon as it appears, it's gone after a beat.

You stand there in your slip, but the heaviness in your chest persists, hands and legs going numb— a testament to your shallow breathing. Your hands glide along your body to find anything tight around you, gasping and still in a panic, your hands stop around your neck that holds a string of diamonds. Without a second thought, you snatch the shiny thing away from your clammy skin, breaking the chain in the process.

Air enters your lungs the moment it's gone. Palms above your chest, you inhale and exhale whilst hot tears flow out of your eyes in a shower of sorrow. Leaning over the table for balance, your eyes meet with a familiar handwriting addressed to you. You're brought back in time the second your hand touches it, brought back to five years ago when Hobie slipped you a note during a party. You read it again, telling you that everything was ready, that he's ready to run away with you, somewhere far away and that you should pack your things.

After you read it, the letter dissolves into dark ink that drips down to your feet. You're holding the new letter again, opening the plain wax seal, you read the contents. Then you read it over and over until you get your mind wrapped around the saccharine yet sorrowful words that are all written in his hand. Hobie, the one you've been mourning since the news hit you.

His address is written hastily next to his own name, you laugh and then sob, hugging the letter to your chest. The scene shifts as if you've entered the fog and into a new world. You're in front of the docks, a large ship looming over you. You're dressed in a pair of borrowed trousers from Peter's wife, whilst the older man himself speaks by your side but you can't make out his words. It's all a garbled mess. For some reason, his hands are dripping with blood, but you don't point it out.

You tell him something, and he shakes his head with a smile, eyepatch moving as he gently nudges you towards the ship. The night hides his face, and all the secrets haunting you, even with the full moon shining down. As you wave goodbye, the ship unfurls its sails, sailors reeling the anchor up, and the captain steering the ship towards your future. You watch as Peter's silhouette gets farther until he's a mere dot in your sight.

You raise your head up to watch the swirling sky, falling stars raining down, and the moon smiling back at you. Someone whispers your name, and you instinctively turn around, expecting a fate worse than death thinking that they've found you. But you're greeted by Hobie himself, still in the same clothes you last saw him in, hair short, and face flat.

“Hobie?” You sound like you're underneath the waves.

“Run.”

You're awoken by the squeak from the rotten hinges. Sitting up, your eyes adjust to the light, seeing a silhouette of a tall, bony man in black and white. Vision focusing, you see him awkwardly stop in front of the doorway, the white square on his collar tells you that this is the reverend Thomas was talking about. He has a patch work of a beard and an aura of weariness.

“Eli,” your mouth speaks before you could think.

“That's me,” he chuckles, clearing his throat right after. His hands are behind his back, prompting you to be more wary of the man.

“What are you doing here?” You sit properly, hand placed on your gun belt, feeling the cold metal of Hobie's gun on your palm.

“I–I was…” his blue eyes flick from your gun to Hobie's sleeping face. “Thinking of p-praying for him.”

“He’s not dead yet, reverend.” Your harsh voice cuts through the man.

“I don't mean any offense.” He holds his empty hands up, you glance at his rough hands and the tattoo on his wrist revealed from how his sleeve rode down. It's something you can't quite get a good look at. Noticing your stare, Eli brings his hands down, pulling down his sleeves. “Praying for his swift recovery. That's what I meant.”

“You can pray for him outside our door. Better yet, pray downstairs.” You stare him down. “Where's your book of prayers?”

“I'm sorry, I should've knocked.” You can't place his accent. “I thought you were asleep—”

“And that makes it alright to barge in?”

He balances on the balls of his feet, your eyes instinctively flick over to his leather shoes that are too shiny, too kept as if he just bought it or cleaned it for the occasion. “We got off on the wrong foot, I'm sorry, miss…Clementine. My name's Eli.” Reaching for you, you only look at his hand without shaking it.

“I didn't give you my name.”

The reverend takes his hand back with a wince. “I–I got it from Thomas.” Your jaw tightens, eyes boring holes into his forehead. Thankfully, he reads the room and your expression. “I should go—”

“You should. Goodbye.”

The reverend doesn't turn his back on you, opening the door with what you could read as a cursory apologetic look. “I'm sorry, again.”

You grunt in reply. With the door clicking close, you stand up, taking a spare chair that Thomas always sits down on to lodge it under the doorknob. Locking the door and battening down the hatches. It's what Hobie would do, it's what he always does when he thinks you've fallen asleep.

“Wanker.” You scoff out before sitting back down next to Hobie. You don't find sleep after that. Your mind is too noisy, too chaotic to find sleep even though your body demands it.

—

Two days in and Hobie is still unresponsive, he breathes, even twitches in his sleep but he's unable to wake up. It's pure torture for you, seeing him lay there while you try your best at taking care of him. You've even tasked yourself at watching the good doctor clean his wounds and replace the bandages so you could do it yourself. You miss his smile, his laugh, and how he holds your hand. It’s just like how you've felt for those five long years, but this time you can see him, touch him, and take care of him but he doesn't speak nor look back at you. You don't know which one is worse.

Thomas says he's getting better, but you still worry. You play his nurse and a grieving widow at the same time. Everytime Hobie's breath hitches or even when his finger twitches you sit up, frantically calling the doctor to check on him. He always says the same thing, ‘he’s just dreaming,’ it doesn't fill you at ease, especially if it's anywhere near the dreams you've been having.

Three meals are brought to you every day, and each meal has brought you to sleep. You blame the trauma you've experienced, the things you've seen, the things you've done— it brings you towards the precipice of life and death each time, and without fail, you dream of him. Hobie still sleeps on the lumpy bed, body lay still, breathing sturdy and true. You don't mind the sleep, but the dreams you've had aren't always good, so you'd rather keep your eyes open than face the horrors that sleep brings.

Sometimes your mind wanders off, vision whirling to something else, something worse than him laying unresponsive to the world outside. In the corner of the dark room, you see a bloodied fountain pen with soiled grain littered around it. You turn around to look away, and you see something worse, his pristine white suit is a glaring contrast to the almost dilapidated state of the room, acting like a beacon of pain for you. He doesn't smile, nor come closer to you, he just stands there, back straight like he owns the place, light green eyes aglow like the fireflies outside but none of the comfort.

The blood in your veins runs cold at the sight, so you turn away from him as he stands guard with his judging eyes. Your eyes land towards Hobie to calm you down and bring yourself back to reality. He still sleeps, bandages wrapped around his head, eyelids twitching while he dreams. With a sigh, you suddenly see a pair of eyes under his bed, you're frozen at the sight of a large hand appearing from underneath, nails dark and rotten, wounds littered around the arm, decaying and sour smelling. You see it give you a crooked smile. Heart thrumming, the hand grabs Hobie's wrist, blackened blood oozing from its touch. With horror in your belly but bravery in your heart, you yank the hand away, finding it bursting into a cloud of smoke the moment you touched it.

“You alright?” Thomas asks, he watches you catch your breath from the doorway.

Your hand is closed around nothing, still held up in front of you, gasping at nothingness. You inhale, clearing your throat and bringing down your trembling hand to your lap. “Y-yeah, I think I'm just too hot.”

Thomas nods, eyes roaming around the room. “You've been cooped up in this room for two days. I think some fresh air would do you some good.”

You immediately shake your head. “I can't leave him. Besides, there's a window here, I get enough air as it is.”

“Pardon my bluntness but, you need to stretch around, get a different scenery or you'll go mad seeing the same walls.” Thomas crosses the gap, tentatively placing his hand on your shoulder. His palm hovers slightly above your blouse, not truly holding you. “I can watch him for you, the worst has come to pass already. I know he'll wake up eventually.”

You glance at Hobie's face, he does look better than before. There's color on his lips again, his breathing stable, skin no longer clammy and his wounds are starting to scab over. And the horses need your attention too, you have no idea how they're faring since they got here. You ponder leaving him for a moment.

“...okay, j-just for a few minutes.” But you still don't trust Thomas enough to leave Hobie alone with him. “You don't have to watch him.”

“Alright, I understand where you're comin' from. Hell, I'll give you the key to the room if it makes you feel any better.” Thomas takes out a ring of keys from his pocket, and then he takes out an old key from the metal ring to hand to you. “Just bring it back after.”

“Alright, thank you, that actually fills me with ease.” You close your fingers around the key, letting the metal press down into your burned palms.

“I'll be downstairs. I promise if I hear anythin’, even a squeak I'll come runnin’ out to get you.” Thomas smiles, back already turned to leave.

Your voice calls him back. “Doctor, you've seen death, do you think there's an afterlife?” You suddenly ask him, Thomas stops in his tracks, chuckling softly.

“I don't know, love.” You raise a brow, head turning immediately to face him. “I think it's best if you ask the reverend that. I'm sure he can provide you with an answer.”

“But you've seen people die, right? From your patients, to just…living. I want your opinion on the matter.” You push the subject, eyes heavy and tired. You can feel every bone in your body as your vision shifts, seeing iridescent light pass through the windows and shine in Thomas' face. When your eyes focus, the light is gone.

Thomas scratches his head. “From what I experienced?” You nod, “I don't think so. I think there's just darkness right after.” He sniffs, hands placed in his pockets. “I really think you should talk to the reverend, he might provide a more comforting answer.”

“Maybe I should.” Your voice drifts off, eyes blankly staring outside.

“You sure you're alright?”

“I don't know.” You don't see how red your eyes have become, or the bags weighing it down.

Thomas leaves without another word. You don't leave the room after that, and the key stays with you to hold onto, letting the metal dig into your palms.

—

Startling awake, you sit up from the whispers that have managed to slither its way inside your ears. You look over your side, seeing Hobie asleep and safe, you begin to sit up, head pounding roughly against your skull as if you've been hit by something in your sleep.

More whispers echo out into the darkness, your eyes wander around the room, finding no one so you listen closely. You glance at the floor, ears straining to hear, you realize the voices are coming out from beneath.

Slowly clambering away from the bed, hand reluctantly releasing Hobie's hand, you make your way onto the floor, laying yourself down on the cool wood. Pressing your ears, you listen in on the murmured conversation.

“She barely sleeps!” A woman's voice exclaims, it's followed by shushing. “It doesn't even work on her. I'm at my fuckin’ limit.”

“We need to be patient—” Someone says.

You press your face down closer to hear better. “We've been patient. We need to—” the floorboards creak from your movement. And they immediately quiet down.

You lay there perfectly still, but no sound from downstairs can be heard. Standing up, you check the doors if you've locked it properly this time, and you pat the gun on your hip to feel if it's still there. The unfounded trust that you've given to the strangers downstairs are wavering by the minute. But you can't leave, not until Hobie wakes up, or you might disturb his healing.

—

You gasp awake, trembling in your seat, the wounds on your palms have reopened from how your nails have dug into your broken palms. It's another nightmare, another nightmare that has kept you awake. Hobie still sleeps, and you're still trapped inside the small dusty room.

The heels of your palms rub roughly on your eyelids, washing away the nightmare and sleep. Laying your head on the back of the chair, you stair at the ceiling and the cracking paint. There's a dark red spot near the middle, it's barely noticeable but it's there. The longer you stare at it, the bigger it gets. You fight a sob as you abruptly stand up, maybe you should take Thomas on his offer by going outside. It doesn't hurt to leave for a few minutes, right? Surely no one is awake at the break of dawn, so Hobie is safe to be left for a moment. And he's comfortable with the window opened, letting the cool early morning breeze inside.

You sit down on his bedside, hands gently cupping his own. “I'll be back, alright? I just need to check on Buck and Cherry.” He doesn't answer. “Maybe they can tell me how they managed to find us. Or maybe what you told me before was actually right, that they can smell us. Like loyal hounds we had back at the manor.” Your words drift away as your eyes lose focus, staring at the raised scar on his neck. You sniff, bringing yourself back to reality. “Please wake up, I feel like— just please wake up. Yell my name when you do and I'll come running back.” You kiss his knuckles, eyes glancing at the pair of white trousers standing in the corner. “I'll be back.”

You stand up, ignoring all the ghostly eyes staring at your back. They're not real, you whisper to yourself. Opening the door and locking it behind you before you could change your mind. The key is safely tucked away in your breast pocket. A headache rushes by, you almost fall on your knees from the pain.

As you stand shakily in the hallway, the floors seem to shift and change. It stretches before you while you walk, as if it won't allow you to escape the place. You close your eyes tightly, grounding yourself by holding onto the wall. When you open your eyes, you see your aunt standing at the end of the long hallway. She's clad in black, a long coat hiding her entire body, from her neck to the tips of her feet. Her hair is stark white against the dark material, strands that are longer than you last saw her. You can barely see her face, but it's odd, like something's amiss.

“Where are your eyes, dear aunt?” You ask in a small voice, as if you've returned to the young age you first met her.

She opens her maw, a deep dark crevice of sharp teeth all lined up in rows. You hear your name escape from her unhinged jaw, it's whispered close in your ears. “You can't leave.”

“I just did.” You say without remorse, and without guilt. “Watch me leave again.” With measured steps you walk closer to the vision, as you get closer and closer, her body turns transparent until you've walked through her. And everything returns to normal. You've reached the banisters overlooking downstairs, hand clasped tightly around the wood. Shaking, but victorious. “Not real.”

You look over the railing, eyes roaming around the small space. There's a small common room where a fireplace that doubles as the kitchen lies. A large man sleeps on the single couch facing the fireplace, snoring softly, arms crossed over his chest. A humble bar is placed across it, where amber liquid in foggy glass sits on the shelves. Leaning closer, you spot a door on the floor that could lead to a basement of some sort. The surfaces have been wiped clean except for the tops of the shelves that are caked in dust. There's minimal decorations, save for a few pictures hanging on the walls. Then it hits you, the smell of the place. From sour milk to rotten eggs, you can barely decipher what it is, only decay.

You can see the place being homely after a renovation if not for the stench.

The wooden bannister creaks when you put your weight on it, you flinch away before it gives out from under you. You walk slowly down the small steps of the stairway, legs shaking from the thrumming headache behind your eyes, feet swaying like you're drunk off of moonshine. You attribute it from the vision you saw and from how fatigued you are. But your shoes barely clack against the floor from your footsteps. Your eyes skim over the photographs on the walls, yellowed paper and old frames of family. You look for Thomas in any of the pictures, but he's absent in every single one.

You finally make it down without waking anyone. The man, Holden, you surmise based on the description Thomas gave you, still snores on the couch. Crossing the threshold, you unlock the front door to go outside.

The entire marsh is bathed in blue, sun barely peeking in the horizon. A breeze passes by, goosebumps rising on your arms from the cold. You should've brought your coat with you, but it's too late now. If you go back upstairs, you think you cannot go back down.

You already feel like you're coming back to your old self. Eyes still weighing heavy in its sockets but at least the air and the greenery have grounded you back to reality. You have no idea what has befallen you, why you've been having visions of your family. Maybe it's the sleep deprivation, or maybe the living has decided to haunt you for all the things you've done to survive.

Walking along the wooden paths that prop you up from the mud, you follow it further down towards the small stable. The birds are beginning to wake up, chirping just above the canopies of tall willow trees. With every footstep, your feet sink slightly into the mud, soil swallowing down the planks of wood laid down as a makeshift path. Flies buzz around your legs, you swat away any that comes near your healing wounds.

You finally make it towards the stable, opening the door with slight force since the hinges are long rotten from the wear and tear of the moist environment. You finally crack it open, seeing seven horses in their little pens on the side. The wood inside is in the same state as the inn, bloated and decaying from age. Light filters through the cracks, dust and bloatflies flying all over the horses.

Bucky peeks his head when he hears you enter, he immediately recognizes you, hind legs stomping in excitement. You smile genuinely at the dark horse, walking towards his stable, still swaying slightly on your feet. Cherry appears from behind Bucky, coat muddy and hair tangled. You guess that they had to share a pen because of the lack of space in the stable.

“Hi, you two.” You reach up towards their faces, Bucky nuzzles your hand while Cherry huffs against your palm. “I'm sorry, I should've visited you earlier. But Hobie needed my attention.” With the mention of his rider, Buckeye neighs, leaning away, almost standing up on two legs. You think that he worries for him. “It's alright, calm down, boy. He's getting better.”

Bucky shakes his head, so you scratch the back of his ear where he always seems to like. You coo at him, whispering kind words towards the horse for finding you and Hobie amidst the wreckage with Cherry in tow. You enter their pen, brushing your hands along his fur and hair. Hobie's canteen peeks from his saddlebag on Bucky, so you take it, taking big gulps before placing it back inside the pack. You feel a lot better already.

Cherry watches you and Bucky interact. When she's had enough of Bucky getting all of your attention, she nudges your shoulder, nodding and huffing like a petulant child. “Alright, alright, I didn't forget about you.” Chuckling, you rub along her snout, you find that she likes to be pet there the most. “Have you been good? I'd give you both an apple or sugarcube but I don't have any on me.” You spot the bundle of hay near the entrance. “Is hay good enough? When we get out of here I'll give you both all the sugar cubes and fruit you could ever want.”

Leaving their side after numerous pets, you grab a pitchfork laying on the corner to grab some hay to place in their pen. Once both horses are properly fed and petted, you look around the stable for a horse brush, but the only thing you could find were more horses looking at you with curious eyes. You're more confused though, you see five horses in each pen, but there are only four guests inside the inn that you know of. There's Thomas, Eli, and Holden that you've already met. Then there's the mysterious Lucy. Whose horse is it that is alone in the corner? Maybe it's a spare? Nevertheless, you feed all of them.

“I'll be back,” you fold your knees to grab a bucket on the floor. “Let me just get some water for—”

“You're speaking to horses.”

“Jesus!” You clutch your chest from the sudden intrusion.

“Just me, sorry.” A woman stands in the doorway, hands on her shiny belt buckle, red corset tight on her torso, revealing freckles dusted on her shoulders and clavicle. She smiles, showing a gold tooth in the bottom row of her teeth. The sun has now fully risen outside, bathing her back in light, shadows hiding her face from you. “I'm Lucy, you must be Clementine.”

You clear your throat before you almost made the mistake of correcting her. “Y-yeah. Nice to meet you.”

“Why are you doing manual labor? Aren't you injured?”

“I am, but I'm feeling a lot better now thanks to the doctor.”

“Thomas?”

“Yeah, is there another doctor here?”

She chuckles, stepping forward out of the shadows. You see her chiseled face, lips full and pretty, more freckles lined around her eyes and cheeks. Her blond hair is tied in a neat braid, cowboy hat perfectly fitted around her head. There's a hunting rifle strapped on her back, and a large ornate knife on her waist.

“I'll take care of the water. Breakfast is being served inside if you're hungry.” She says with a lilt in her tone. “There's sausage, the good kind. I think you'll like it.”

“You've got their water?” You ask, glancing at your horses.

“Yeah, I've got them.” She crosses the small distance towards you, you don't drop your guard even when her hand grabs the bucket away from you. “I've been the one looking after them.”

“Oh, thank you then. I hope they're not too much of a bother.”

“Not really. Especially your Arabian there, she's real pretty.” Lucy eyes Cherry like a piece of meat on the chopping block. “How much for her?”

“Excuse me?” You scoff. “She's not for sale.”

“Alright, understandable. How about the thoroughbred?”

“No,” you stand stiff, jaw clenched. “They're not for sale.”

She grins slowly, brown eyes flat and staring at your soul. Shrugging, she begins to walk outside. “Eh, it's worth the try. Your loss, I would've bought them at a mark up.” Her voice fades away as she leaves.

You stand there with your fists shaking, you're perturbed by the people residing in the inn. You think Thomas and Holden are the only decent ones inside.

Cherry neighs behind you, you look over your shoulder to meet with her eyes. “The nerve of some people, huh?” Buckeye agrees by trotting in place.

Walking back towards the inn already has you sweating from the humidity. Once you open the door, all eyes are on you. Thomas stands behind the bar, preparing a plate. While Holden eats on one of the empty bar stools with a cup of steaming coffee paused on his lips as he stares at you. The reverend was just about leaving the basement when you entered, hand frozen on the handle of the basement door.

The doctor breaks the awkward silence. “Good morning. Did ya have a nice walk outside?”

You flex your hands on your sides, biting the inside of your cheek. “It was…pleasant.”

Eli casually stands up and then sits on the sofa near the fire and the cooking pot. He opens a large book, reading like he didn't just leave the basement as if he owned the place.

“Come have breakfast with us.” Thomas beckons you over, sliding the plate he was just preparing over to you. “I was just about to go upstairs and give this to ya.”

“Thank you, I'll eat it in my room. I don't want to disturb you all.” You come closer to the bar, fingers placed around the porcelain plate. You feel eyes on you, Holden continues to eat in the corner of your eyes. Eli is mouthing scriptures at his seat.

“No, no, come stay!” Thomas hands you a cup of coffee. The smell brings you back home. It's not a good memory. “It'll do you some good to have company, even for a moment. Please stay.”

You nod, clammy palms rubbing along your trousers. “...sure, just for breakfast though.” Rubbing your nose, Thomas notices.

“Sorry ‘bout the smell. We think there's a rat that died in the basement but we can't seem to find it.” He picks at his own plate while leaning on the other side of the bar. “That's why the reverend was down there. It was his turn to look.”

You nod, glancing briefly at the trap door on the floor. “Can I have a glass of water instead? I don't like coffee.”

His fork clangs on the plate as he lets go. “Oh of course!” Turning around he takes a pitcher of water and then he pours you a glass. While he does that, you look at the pictures behind the bar.

“Which one are your sisters?” You gesture towards the frames, Thomas still has his back towards you as he continues to pour you a glass.

“Oh, the picture that's in the middle.” You follow where he pointed at. A photograph of two smiling women in front of the inn when it was still new and shiny hangs in the middle of the bar. Their faces are flat and serious but the way their arms are around each other says that they're particularly happy in the picture. If not for the long exposure needed to take the scene, they would be grinning widely.

You tilt your head at the picture, eyes scanning their features and comparing it to Thomas' face. “You don't look like them.”

He twists around, handing you your glass of water. “I've been told.” Chuckling, he looks back at the picture briefly before turning towards you. “They got my mother's features and I got my father's. Which parent do you look like the most?” His eyes watch the mouth of the glass against your lips.

“I barely remember their faces now.” You don't drink the water just yet to answer his question. “So I don't know.”

“That's too bad.” And yet, he smiles. “How ‘bout you, Holden? Who do you look like?”

“My mother.” He says gruffly, tone monotone and uninterested.

“Ah.” Thomas picks at his plate again.

“I haven't thanked you yet for saving him.” You address the large man. “Thank you.”

“I just happened upon the place. My eyes couldn't leave the train wreck.” Holden stares at the same spot on the bar, you follow his line of sight, once you've reached the end, you see a dark red splatter on a glass of gin.

Before you could ask, Eli interrupts. “As is his will.” He's now in front of the fire even though it's sweltering inside already. “It's very lucky that Holden happens to be riding that way.” Eli says those words with humour, as if the train derailing is the funniest thing in the world.

Thomas clears his throat, “I heard no one else on the train got hurt.” You sigh in relief, knowing the real Clementine and her family are safe and sound. “A few railroad workers were injured but they're fine now, last I heard.”

“Yes, it's good that no one else got severely hurt.” Lucy appears inside the inn, smiling at you. She stalks silently around you like you're prey. Your hand instinctively slides down towards your gun belt.

“Well, except for your lad.” Thomas says, you look at him with wide eyes, blood running cold, gun now fully in your hand. The world swirls around you, your breathing gets faster, heartbeat loud in your ears. The air shifts, everyone except Thomas stiffens. “We know who he is. He's a fuckin’ legend ‘round ‘ere, but don't worry, we won't tell any lawmen. We're not like that.” Thomas continues to speak even with your world crumbling around you. He doesn't know what he just revealed. “Drink your water, we don't want you goin' thirsty now.”

“‘L-lad?’” you almost whisper, but the entire room is silent, a pin could drop and you'd hear it. Your words are thunderous compared to the fire cracking in the fireplace. “You said you're from here.”

Thomas chuckles nervously, you stand up, eyes flicking over towards the occupants. The rotten stench under the floorboards has increased ten fold in your panic, the tiny splotches of crimson on the walls and glass aren't just dirt and grime.

It's blood, and the entire inn is covered in it. Hastily scrubbed off the surface, but the mark of death remains.

They all look at you, Holden stands behind you, his shadow casting over you. Lucy continues to smile while Eli looks on amidst the backdrop of the raging fire behind him. Thomas gives you a look, shaking his head subtly.

You don't miss a beat, gun aiming behind you to shoot. But no bullet flies, you don't hit your mark for the chamber is all emptied out without your knowledge. You don't know when it was taken out but you don't have time to ponder it. Running past Lucy towards the stairs, you yell his name.

“Hobie!” You manage to get to the third step before you fall flat on your face, nose harshly landing on the stair, shoulder oozing something warm. Looking over the source, you see Lucy's hunting knife embedded in your shoulder. “No!”

Lucy giggles, and the reverend joins her side, face downturned, eyes following how your blood oozes out of your back.

“Fuck! They said don't draw blood! What the bloody hell is wrong with you!” Thomas shows his true colours, yelling at Lucy angrily. You continue to crawl up the stairs despite the searing pain. “Fuckin’ grab her! Get the key, it's on her.”

“I'm…” you still fight, elbows pressed on the rough wood, crawling relentlessly up the stairs. “Going to fucking kill all of you.” You say through gritted teeth, ignoring the seething pain as your body trembles.

Eli's voice pipes up. “We just want to get you home. God will strike you down if you do that.”

“Strike me down all he wants. He knows where I am.” With determined eyes, you keep crawling even though your arms are split apart by splinters.

You're about halfway up the steps when you hear loud heavy footsteps walk towards your form. Groaning, you dig for the key inside your pocket. The second you find it, you toss it with all your might, it flies up and then it lands and slides under the bar shelves. It's your turn to cackle. Large hands grab you, turning you over. Holden's scowl looks back at you. Puckering your lips, you spit at his face, laughing as he lets you go, desperately cleaning his face.

“Move over, big guy. Do I have to do everything around here?” Silent steps cross over to you while you try to desperately climb up. You can't feel your back anymore. Suddenly, you feel a cloth press on your mouth and nose. You know this smell, it's sweet and tart, but there's an underlying bitterness. Recognizing it from the description on the botanical books you've read, the ones that they say a proper lady shouldn't read. And you know you're about to black out within ten seconds. You try to fight back but you're weakening.

“Shh,” Lucy coos, arm tightening around your neck as she presses the concoction harder on your nose. Her own arm hits the knife still in your shoulder, you gasp in pain, inhaling more. “Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

The last thing you hear is his voice calling out after you. You're not sure if it's real or not, but you still cling to hope that it is.

—

The rope around your body is rough against your skin, the hemp seems to tighten around you as you move. You feel bandages on your shoulder blade, stab wound aching and throbbing. Entire body covered in sweat, your clothes are drenched from the heat. Your vision swirls, mind tethering between reality and fantasy. You see your aunt standing near the rake you just held, your uncle crouched in the corner, watching you struggle against your binds. And him, who sits next to you, as if he's guarding you. His face crosses your line of sight, it shifts between Hobie's soft smile, and his grinning face.

“I told you, you can't leave.” He says, hand reaching up to touch your face. You know he's not real, that he's a result of what Lucy gave you, what they've been giving you— but you still feel the air around him shift, how his palm sits on your cheek like a hot pan against your skin.

“C–Cross,” you gulp down as much air as you can amidst your state. “What did I do to deserve this?”

He could only grin at you.

“You’re awake, good. Lucy didn't accidentally kill you.” Eli stands near the doorway of the stable with a gold gun in his hand. Fingers yanking off his tab collar.

“Eli, you creepy motherfucker.” You slur your words, but you fight the haze. “How much did they pay you just to bring me back?”

He sniffs, “a lot.” The horses neigh in the background, you turn your head and you see Bucky and Cherry frantically thump and kick their hooves inside their pen.

“You’re not even a reverend are you?”

“No,” He says, turning away from the doors to face you. “I was once though.”

“Let me guess, you weren't cut out to be one.” You lean up, almost folding yourself to squint at him. “Or they fucking kicked you out.” He flinches, it's subtle, but you saw it. “They did, didn't they? What did you do, reverend?” You taunt while you try to ease your wrists off from the rope. Your skin stings from the movement, but it'll be worth it once you get your hands around his scrawny neck. “Oh shit, don't tell me it's—”

“It was gambling. I've racked up a debt.” He was quick to answer, as if he's still trying to protect his reputation. “I used all the donations.”

“That's fucked up.” You scoff, riling him up, playing him like a fiddle. “Seriously, so fucked up. And you decided to what? Scam more people by wearing the uniform?” Eli doesn't answer, you see him bounce on the balls of his feet, anxiety rolling off him in waves. “Is there an afterlife, reverend?” You say in a small, weaker voice to rag on him on more. It works when he turns towards you.

“Stop talking,” He saunters over to you, crouching down to your level. “I've already heard all those words before, you don't get to hurt me back, girl.”

“Was it all of you? Holden looked like he didn't want to be in there.”

“Please, he was the one who recruited me. He knew that Thomas needed more men the moment he heard Hobie's name.”

You chuckle bitterly. “You know that one of you has damaged the goods, right?”

“Thomas healed you.”

“Yeah, but still, you've left a mark. That means the pay will go down, that means your share will go down thanks to Lucy.” You can practically see the cogs in his head turn. Tilting your head, you turn him against his own team. “Tell me, would it hurt if you got someone out? You know, increase your pay.”

“What are you saying?”

“There are plenty of alligators here. I'm saying that accidents happen.”

Eli knits his brows, “but which one—?” The unmistakable sound of a gun going off echoes around the marsh. It's so loud that the horses are startled, panicked neighing fill the stable, birds scramble off the trees to fly away. “That came from inside the inn!” He stands up, you drop your façade as he turns away. “Shit!” More shots ring out, then a dozen more, suddenly, it's quiet in the marsh again.

Eli is in the perfect position for you, his body shields you from the afternoon sun as he stands there in a worried state. His gun is in his clammy hand, hammer pushed all the way down. Without a thought, you sit up in a crouched position slowly without startling him. And then you push him on the back of his knees with your shoulder, earning a pained groan from you and a sudden bang when he falls that has you flinching away.

Rubies pool around Eli's body, and you realize, he has shot himself when he fell on his face.

“Fuck.” The voice by the doorway says, you can only see his silhouette, the setting sun directly at his back. He's hunched over, silver gun in his bloodied hand.

“Hobie, are you real?” You could cry, on instinct, you move to get to him but your binds prevent you. Tears cling to your eyelashes as he slowly makes his way towards you. “H-how?”

You can see his face fully now, blood coats his cheeks and neck, eyebrows contorted in pain but his smile tells you otherwise. “I woke up.”

“You did.” Sobbing, you try to hold him even with the ropes around your wrist. “Are you okay?”

Hobie holsters his gun, wiping the blood off his hands on his trousers, and then he cradles your face. Thumb brushing along the tears. “‘m alright, dizzy and a bit of a headache but ‘m alright.” His viridescent eyes are aglow, trapped tears glimmering. “Are you—? Did they hurt you?” He asks in a small voice, afraid of your reply.

You frown, and he already knows the answer. “I thought you wouldn't wake up.”

“With you waitin' for me, of course I'd wake up.” Hobie lays his forehead against your own. He's real, and he's holding you in his arms again. “‘m real, love. I'll never leave you again.”

You cry in his arms even when he cuts off your binds. Your mind is still reeling from the previous event. Body free, you embrace him, face tucked on the crook of his neck. He holds you, kissing your temple, hands rubbing up and down on your back. He apologizes against your skin a hundred times. And you forgive him a hundred more.

Hobie releases all the horses from the stable, all the now riderless horses gallop out in a rush. He guides Cherry and Bucky out to hitch them just outside on the trees and away from the inn and stable. Coming by to get you, who stands in front of the inn.

“I need to get my things.” He says next to you, pinky curled around your own. “Your letters are still in there.”

“I'll come with you.”

“No, you don't need to see that.” His eyes warn you of the sight ahead.

“Too late for that, Hobie.” You thump your head on his bicep. “I’ll watch your back. Just in case.”

“Stay close, yeah?” He smiles softly, letting go of your hand reluctantly. You nod behind him, gun drawn and loaded.

The door opens, you try not to look at the bodies at your feet but your eyes seem to gravitate towards the violence that was left. There's blood splattered all over the walls, Holden's body is hunched over itself, blood seeping out from his numerous gunshot wounds. You walk a bit more, following Hobie's path. Broken glass crunches at your feet, and you see Lucy laying on the ground with her own knife shoved inside her chest. Her eyes are wide open, mouth agape in surprise. By the stairs, in the same position you were in mere hours ago, lies Thomas with a shotgun wound on his back, making you see through him.

“H-how'd you manage this on your own?” Your nails scratch along the metal of your gun.

“You were in danger.” Was all he answered.

As you stand there, you hear something on the floor next to the bar, glancing downwards even though you've had enough of the sight, you find someone who shouldn't be there.

“Culver?” You ask, and he whizzes out.

“Help. Me.” He tugs at your trouser leg, he's drenched in crimson, from his face down to his boots.

“He was hiding underneath the floorboards with the bodies of the actual owners.” Hobie says, guilt is written all over your face. “It's not your fault, love, you gave him a chance and he spat at it.”

“P-please,” he wheezes out, voice hoarse and broken, “they hired me, I-I was just following orders.”

You sniff, fists shaking. “It was my aunt wasn't it?”

Culver shakes his head, desperate to please you, desperate for you to save him again. “No, it was your h—”

Your bullet cuts him off, he lays there, now unmoving, and the gun in your hand smoking. You feel like you're deprived of air. Hands shaking, tears flowing out freely.

Hobie reaches for you slowly, you don't flinch away so he pulls you in, letting you weep against his chest.

—

The flames ebb away at the building, ashes flying off into the air as the roof collapses down on itself. You let the smoke fill your lungs, watching the fire light up the entire marsh, but it acts as a beacon to where you are. And you can't risk being found, especially when he's back on your side.

You kneel down, placing the framed photograph of the actual owners on the ground, apologizing to them quietly.

“We should go, Hobs.” You softly say, tugging at his sleeves.

He nods, eyes flicking between you and the burning inn. His palm is pointed towards you, waiting for you to reach for him. When your hand slides on his own, all his fears melt away. You're safe, and he's alive— that's all that matters.

—

Midnight comes, you and Hobie rode further north and away from the chaos you two left. Bucky and Cherry sleep next to each other, both tired from the ride. You tend to the fire while Hobie cleans his hands in a nearby river. The murky water turns a dark shade of red as he scrubs his hands clean, there's blood under his fingernails. And shallow crimson slashes on his arms. Once all the blood has been washed away, he sees a slash on his palm, identical to yours, the one he sutured himself. He winces, and you turn around to check on him. The both of you had been quiet the entire journey, preferring to look on whenever one groans in pain or when either one of you shifts on the saddle. You don't want to talk about it, and he doesn't want to either. Both thinking that it was his and your fault for everything that had happened.

He holds up a hand to you, wordlessly telling you that he's alright. Nodding, you turn back towards the fire, your vision shifts from the campfire in front of you to the burning cinders of the inn. A wet cloth on your cheek jerks you awake.

“Sorry,” Hobie flinches, taking the cold cloth away from your skin. “You have soot all over your face.”

You smile softly, hand reaching for his wrist, gently placing the cloth back to your face. He understands, wiping away the ash off of your skin. You stare at him, face unreadable, bandage still wrapped around his head. “Hobie,” he hums in reply, continuing to wipe the grime off. “You said you had to leave but you never told me how you left. Please tell me what happened that night.” Why did you leave me?

Hobie scooches closer to you, knee to knee, hand still wiping along your forehead. “Hicks did it.” You listen, hands fisting his vest to tamp down your frustration and everything in between. “He was the one who found out, told your aunt and got a group from the factory to ambush me in our meeting place.” His voice breaks but he composes himself. “He was the one who slashed my throat and…” faltering, the cloth slid downwards to your neck, rubbing along your skin. “buried me alive under our tree.”

Your heart clenches, imaging him clawing his way out of the dark earth. “Hicks, h-he married my aunt six months after you left. That motherfucker boasted that he killed you, hid your body in the woods. But I knew better.”

Hobie runs his thumb under your eye, wiping away a stray tear. He gives you a brief smile. “Fucker wasn't content in bein’ the factory manager, he had to ‘eliminate the competition,’ he said. I wasn't even participatin’.”

“I'm sorry,” you wrap your arms over his shoulders, hands holding his jaw. You apologize to him like an acolyte asking for retribution in front of the shrine. “I'm sorry, I should've done something— I could've—”

“There was nothin' you could've done, love. Just like how I couldn't fight back.” He pulls you in, face pressed on the crown of your head. “They used you against me. Told me that you didn't want me anymore. Told me I was a burden to you.”

“No, never. I'd never do that.” You pull away, holding him close, meeting his emerald eyes that reminds you of the best parts of home.

“I know that now. I knew it back then too, but my anger and frustration got the best of me.” He presses a heavy kiss on your forehead as you close your eyes, listening to him breathe. “Peter helped me get out, and all he got from it was getting his eye taken out.”

You gasp softly. “He helped me too,” Hobie looks at you, hands still cradling your face. Hands that are warm against your soft skin. “He didn't tell anyone where you were, I didn't know until now, until your letter. He helped me get on a boat.” You remember that day, it was raining, it was also pouring down back when Hobie left. Your nails dig into your palms when your mind gives you the image of him digging himself out of the flooded soil, lungs inhaling in rain water and dirt. “I–I really wanted to look for you, to run after you but I couldn't.” Hobie presses you against his chest while you heave, tears flowing down your cheeks as you feel his own drop on your head. “They had me under lock and key, they guarded my doors for years, until—” You pause, hands bunched up on his shirt. “I'm so fucking sorry.”

Hobie cradles you in place, arms holding your form as he lets his touch calm you down, accepting your apology, and accepting his faults. “You did good, love, you survived. But I'm ‘ere now, you'll never be back there.” You nod against his chest, Hobie hides his sorrow filled face in the crook of your neck, lips pressed on your skin, mumbling apologies. “When I was runnin’ away while I was still bleedin’, I thought I should at least say goodbye to you. But I changed my mind and went towards the docks while Peter hid me in his cart.” He leans away, just like back then, he doesn't want to sink his teeth into you, to bite hard and draw blood. “I thought that you deserve someone who isn't me. Someone who's not broken. 'm broken, and 'm afraid I'll never return to who I was before.”

You reach up to touch his cheek tenderly, head placed on his lap, cradling your body just like he did under your oak tree. “You are not as broken as you think you are. Not to me, never. You are everything to me, Hobie Brown.” You hug him, for you have no idea how to tell him that you know he can't be ‘fixed’, that there's nothing to be fixed. That even if there was, you'd break yourself, break every muscle and bone in your body, tore it limb from limb so you'd be broken together. That you'll fit right in where his jagged edges lie just like before. But you know you don't have to, because you're just as broken as he is.

"Is there still room left in there for me?" You poke his chest right where his heart is.

His yearning has taken a form in you, it has your face, and it has your voice. You are love incarnate.

"Always. you've never left.” He says softly, words that are only for your ears. You nod, smiling, tilting your head up as he leans down. “Let's go home, love.” He wants to carve out your name in his heart, but he'll settle for the next best thing— etching your lips upon his own.

[thebad-lydrawn-sanses]

Dream: at least come out and talk to me

Villager: you need to stop talking to your brother. Prophecy Nightmare: WHAT? Dream: …excuse you? Villager: See? There's your attitude. Prophecy Nightmare: I Prophecy Nightmare: . . . Villager: He's corrupting you with his demonic powers. Prophecy Nightmare: KILL THIS MAN.

Prophecy Nightmare: HEY Dream: DON'T EVEN START.

Villager: his skull broke! can you believe that? all i did was throw his book at him and it CRACKED! like an egg! Dream: ??

Nightmare: uh. m Nightmare: hi! brother. i Nightmare: i fell out of the tree. again Nightmare: sorry Dream: oh! that's okay, i can patch you up :)

Dream: ARE YOU SULKING

[daisybell-on-a-carousel]

"Jason was the happy robin" this, "jason was the angry robin" that. Let's all be fully honest here Jason was the lonely robin

[kingly-court]

A niche thing from someone slowly relearning the lore and is messing around, aka; filling him in on stuff and then taking Fiddleford instead as a consistent puppet for Bill instead of Ford for one reason or another. Except, boy howdy do these mental pathways have some trauma! And it’s not just effecting specs.

(Dialoge one - SF; “We’ll be looking at your ocular changes under pose-” F; “What?”

Dialoge two; “F-Ford? I think- I think I’m hallucinating?”)

[loregirlsam]

Ikr! Especially because he was not technically supposed to survive possession. He was supposed to die in the fight so who knows what kind of side effects he's gonna end up with. Maybe he's left with some of Lucifer's tricks. Like he snaps his fingers once and the person next to him is instantly vaporized. That would be very fun for me personally

that would also be very fun for me <3 i love when sam is in pain and i think accidentally vaporising/killing someone with his powers would cause so much guilt for him, but also fear that dean will once again see sam as something to be hunted like he told him in s4. @supamerchant left some interesting tags about his emotions affecting his powers, so the more upset he gets with himself the more his powers fuck things up, a never ending feedback loop overwhelming him to the point where he'd do anything just to make it stop. and maybe his desire to make it all stop is fuelled by hallucifer taunting him that its his own grace left inside sam that's causing all of this, and sam thought being lucifers vessel was bad but having his grace linger in him might be worse.

i promise i do like sam i just like causing him pain ♥

[crash-bump-bring-the-whump]

Whump Week - Day 4

This one was SO fun omg thank you @week-of-whump!! Dw too much about being unfamiliar with this risen demon au just know that the war mages are dead now and all have grudges. c: Shout out to @whumpr for inspiring this one bc I WAS gonna do something fluffy but this sounded like way more fun.

Prompt: "Your blood looks so pretty" TWs: Intimate whumper, creepy whumper, whumper turned whumpee, whumpee turned whumper, death mention, murder mention, gore, hauntings, hallucinations, flirting but like in a threatening way

Luis rubbed his eyes, suddenly awake. The room was dark and quiet. His wife was sleeping peacefully next to him.

Nothing was lurking in the corners. No rings of white peered out from their halfway-open closet. He sat up. There were no fingers curling around the white frame of the door.

He'd been seeing things lately.

He needed some water. Something in Luis' gut told him to suck it up and go back to sleep--it said that something was in his house. He got up anyway.

Luis padded through the familiar, dark hall of his home and into the warm glow of the kitchen. The dim light above their sink wrapped him in safety as he drank long and slow. The winter chill of the water lanced through his head--a brain freeze. It grounded him, soothed the instinctive dread.

There was nothing to be afraid of.

This was his home, the space he shared with his wife. He'd lived in this house ever since they had first gotten married. He'd fixed leaks and renovated it, repaired it after bad storms, if it needed doing then he'd done it. He knew their house like he knew the scars on his palms.

There was nothing to be afraid of.

Luis washed the glass and put it away. He ran his hand under the tap and washed his face, breathing deeper as the cold pulled the rest of his tension from his shoulders. "I am being silly."

When Luis turned back to the hall, he stopped.

A tall, slender figure stood in front of his bedroom door. Its platinum blond hair hung down past its shoulders and glowed in the darkness. Two white rings shone out at him. They met his eyes. He knew that shape.

It started to walk closer.

It led its gait with its shoulders, prowling forward. He knew that walk. His war mages walked like that in their gear. Dimitri had walked like that even when he wasn't in his gear.

Dimitri had walked like that when he found Luis trying to hide Laredo's body. He hadn't stopped when Luis had ordered him to stand down. He'd pounced, instead, face contorted in fury as he flung himself into a fight he couldn't win.

Luis still remembered how Dimitri had sobbed and called him a monster.

Dimitri smiled, coming into the light. "Luis." He purred, sharp teeth glinting. "It's been a while."

Blood dripped down from Dimitri's throat, the hole that Luis had burned through him gaping and taunting him. Deep red splattered into the hardwood floor with every step Dimitri took. He had two sets of horns now, and feathery wings that filled the hallway. A long, thin tail swished, the pointed tip shivering happily, like he was a freshly-fed cat.

There was nothing to be afraid of. Luis knew that stress could cause hallucinations. Hallucinations couldn't hurt him.

Luis smiled. "It has, Dimitri." He met Dimitri's eyes, remembering how many times he'd seen that same sharpened bloodlust glittering on his most violent war mage's face.

Dimitri's hand raised to Luis' face, hovering less than an inch from his skin. He smelled like burned flesh. Blood dripped from his mouth. He was still in the clothes he'd been wearing when Luis killed him. Short shorts, a crop top, some fishnets and heels. It had been Dimitri's day off. He and Laredo had had something planned, some date. "You know, you were always very handsome, Luis."

"That's not appropriate to say to me, Dimitri." Luis said. It was habit. Dimitri and Laredo had always liked to jokingly flirt. An odd little game the three of them had played, usually to test Luis' mood.

"I know." Dimitri said, leaning closer. Their noses were almost touching. "But I'm not your soldier anymore. And I think you deserve to hear this." Dimitri's voice was soft.

Luis backed up. Dimitri followed. He matched Luis' pace, up until his back hit a wall. Brown eyes with their pupils ringed in white bored into Luis' own. Luis couldn't look away.

This was a very vivid hallucination.

Dimitri's hand came to rest on Luis' face. His thumb pressed into his cheek. Luis froze. Dimitri was warm. He was solid. His hand was smooth. He felt the points of Dimitri's new claws pressing against his skin.

This was not a hallucination. Dimitri was dead. Dimitri was right there, cornering Luis against a wall in his own home.

"Please." The word slipped out before Luis could stop himself. "I don't want to die."

Dimitri laughed. It was soft and quiet and the worst noise Luis had ever heard in his life. He wondered how many times Dimitri had cornered someone like this on the field. He wondered how many unexpectedly quick interrogations had wound up with the person not even an inch from Dimitri, like this, aware that their life could end in an instant.

Was this how Dimitri had felt? How Laredo, or Izan, or Manuel, or Mariano had felt? Had their hearts raced too quickly? Had the world closed in until it was just them and Luis?

"Oh, Luis. Sir. I'm not going to kill you." Dimitri's thumb pressed in harder against Luis' cheek. The point of his nail sank into Luis' skin. "I won't even hurt you. Not really. I just want to see you like this."

Luis flinched as Dimitri dragged his thumb along Luis' cheekbone. The claw sliced him open as easily as if Dimitri had pulled his favorite knife on Luis. Luis shook.

"It's a shame you didn't ever go on missions with us." Dimitri continued. "We never really got to see you on the field. All battle-worn." Brown, inhuman eyes followed a drop of blood as it escaped the cut, clinging to Luis' face, following the sharp curve of his chin and down his neck. "Because this is a good look on you. You have pretty blood."

Luis blinked.

Dimitri was gone.

The blood had disappeared from the floor. His face still stung. When Luis brought his hand up to his own face, he felt his blood smear.

Luis washed his face. He got another cup of water. He got a bandage from their first aid kit.

Luis could still smell cooking flesh and the metallic tang of his own blood when he slipped back underneath the blankets. His wife snuggled up to him again, oblivious to it all. He felt like he was vibrating.

As Luis was drifting off again, mind racing, he could've sworn he heard Dimitri laugh from the hallway.

[waywardwizzard]

River stared up at the ceiling of the shuttle, watching as bubbles of colour drifted past each other, throwing a beautiful rainbow onto the rusty metal.

She giggled when Orange and Turquoise bounced off each other with a soft popping noise. Blue and Purple chased each other around the outskirts of the group, Pink making gentle whooshing noises-

Something wasn't right.

She frowned and counted the bubbles.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8-

No.

No.

Frantically River counted and recounted, each time ending up with 8 instead of 9. What happened to the Green bubble?

A rush of noise made her flinch and scream, Yellow diamonds falling down, tearing into her skin, cuting, cutting, cutting deeper until she bled bright red (didn't look beter in red or blue, she had always been purple)

Seven, seven, lucky seven but why was Serenity seven if seven meant luck? Luck was fickle, good and bad in all ways but one, the only one that mattered (they weren't meant to be 7, why were they 7?)

"Why won't it stop?" she wanted to say but Yellow diamonds mixed with Green emeralds and Violet cried and drowned out her voice until nothing was left but air. Purple shrunk and disappeared and Blue cried too (simple blue, sad blue why would no one listen to you?) and where was Pink? Orange got bitter and turned red and Turquoise ran and burst and Red got redder and Orange-red (wrong wrong wrong- ) got Red and not Orange and everything fell apart because the rainbow, the beautiful rainbow (hope and love and the dawn of a new day and Serenity had been all of that and none of it) shattered and died, refracting into 9 different pieces neither of which could function (survive?) without the other 8 and wasn't that the problem?

A rainbow wasn't a rainbow without all of it's colours and a family wasn't a family without all of it's pieces-

Blue tears like sapphires rained down around her, gentle, loving, alive blue turning grey, grey, grey-

River woke up with a scream that echoed through Serenity, startling 8 heartbeats that were so intertwined with her own that she couldn't tell whose was whose anymore.

Glancing up at the rusty metal ceiling of the shuttle River saw 9 bubbles gently floating and flitting between each other, all of them throwing their own colour onto the wall, creating a beautiful rainbow.

She smiled and closed her eyes, letting her family's voices wash over her as she drifted off, the bubbles quietly following her into her dreams.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Author's note-

I am insanely proud of this one for some or other reason. I hope I wrote River ok-ish and that her ramblimgs sort of make sense (if they don't or something doesn't make sense, please let me know and I'll try and explain it)

Also, can y'all sort of tell which colour is which crew member? Let me know who you think each colour matches with.

(Am I making sense? I'm sorry if I'm not I'm so tired)

Set pre-BDM

[petrifiedcrange]

Stede Bonnet is not a human.

You're a monster.

A plague.

You defile beautiful things.

You've even managed to bring history's greatest pirate to ruin.

Chauncey's seemingly long forgotten words echo in his head, suddenly so loud and clear and true, when Stede, exhilarated from how well his plan, their little fuckery, was going, glanced back and saw Izzy stumble as he tried to keep up, saw his hand pressed to his side, saw blood glistening on the leather of his vest.

Izzy was hurt.

When?

How did neither of them notice?

Stede stumbles himself, nearly tumbles down the hill, and turns around, away from the sea, to hurry back to Izzy's side, to support him and help him limp along even as Izzy tries to wave him off and push him away, telling him breathlessly to fuck off, he's fine, but he's not and they both know it.

None of this is fine.

Stede doesn't even notice the figures of their crew dressed in Naval uniforms up ahead change into actual Navy before it's too late, too focused on supporting Izzy's increasingly dead weight, on keeping pressure on the wound, on Chauncey fucking Badminton of all people breathing down his neck every step of the way, whispering into his ear foul and thruthful things about how he destroyed everything he touched.

They are captured.

Surprisingly, Stede doesn't feel anything regarding the fact, not when they are ushered to another ship, the Naval one, not when Ricky meets them on deck, so damn pleased with himself.

Stede can't feel anything regarding those facts because all his thoughts and emotions are already swirling around Izzy, who rapidly loses consciousness despite his best efforts to keep him awake, bubbling some nonsense, and slumps alarmingly against his side.

The Navy are lucky they didn't try to separate them, let him help Izzy along to their ship.

Because if they did, then Stede would feel something over than increasing panic and helplessness and fear and guilt. Then he would fight and he would kill until Izzy was back by his side.

As it is, they are ushered below the deck and into the brig, Ricky taking one long look at Izzy and calling for someone, then diving straight into his evil monologue about how he is going to get revenge on all the pirates that escaped, dared to defy him, in one fell swoop with Izzy's and Stede's unwilling help, and Stede for the first time regrets not shooting Ricky back at Spanish Jackie's, regrets his stupid idea to take a royal hostage which seemed so clever in the moment, because if it wasn't for him, Izzy wouldn't be bleeding out in his arms and they would be back on Revenge, safe and sound, and that deranged minor Prince wouldn't be targeting everyone Stede loves once again.

But those thoughts go straight out the window when a man Ricky called for — apparently, some very expensive medic of his — enters the room and Stede has one unhinged, feral moment when he wants to curl around Izzy and snarl at the soldiers that reach to take him away but he forces himself to let Izzy go instead because Izzy needs medical attention and fast and if it comes from a man on Ricky's payroll because Ricky needs both of them alive to use as a bait for Edward and the crew... well, first thing's first — he needs Izzy to survive, and then they can make a plan to defeat Ricky for good and save their loved ones in the process.

Stede watches the medic examine Izzy with keen eyes, hoping, praying for some subtle gesture or expression on his face to show that Izzy is going to be alright, but the man's frown only deepens the more time passes and then he's turning towards Ricky with a grim, uncertain look and tells him quietly but loud enough for Stede to hear, for the ghost of Chauncey to repeat to him in a nauseating echo, that he lost a lot of blood and the odds are not good and there's no way of telling if Izzy will make it through the night, let alone survive in the long run.

Ricky pursues his lips and tells him to do the best he can and once the doctor is finished with the wound and Izzy is bandaged up, he is finally returned back behind the bars, back to Stede, and they are finally left alone for the time being, even Chauncey's ghost flickering out of existence for the time being.

For a moment, Stede just sits there on his knees on the wooden floor, breathing heavily, looking at Izzy, so still and pale he would look already gone if it wasn't for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, and willing a breakdown he can feel coming away.

He cannot afford to break down now.

He needs to take care of Izzy first.

He needs to get him warm.

It's a silly thought that's for some reason stuck on the loop in his mind since the moment he touches him, taking his hand, finding the rapid and too weak pulse, and feels how cold and clammy his skin is.

A small rational part of him knows that Izzy's cold from the shock and the blood loss and there's nothing Stede can do about it but he ignores that part of himself because he needs to do something or...

He doesn't want to even think about what would happen if he has nothing to do but sit and think and stew in his own guilt, so he gathers Izzy up, careful not to disturb his wound as he pulls him halfway into his lap, where it's softer, more comfortable than the hard wooden floor, and wraps his arms around him, trying to will his own warmth into him, and he doesn't know how much time passes, minutes or hours, but he thinks he feels Izzy's chest move even more shallowly and slowly against his own chest from where they're pressed together and he finds himself beginning to talk, pleading with Izzy to keep breathing, to stay with him, to not leave him there alone, tears welling in his eyes and threatening to fall because he never should have come back to Revenge, he should have died there in the forest and not Chauncey, because he only ever ruins everything and everyone he touches, even those he loves and tries so hard to protect — especially, them — and now Izzy is dying in his arms and Edward and the whole crew might die if they come to their rescue and it's all his fucking fault.

[ OPEN for Izzy that is based on this AU idea but can also work for other characters that might be on Ricky's ship at the time or, hell, Ed and the Revenge's crew who could catch up to this ship and take it with brutal force in the meantime because their captain and beloved unicorn are in danger; most of this is a set up so don’t even think about matching length ]

[naturalist-doctor]

winston lore post; studies on antidepressants and how i taught myself to die

tw [ death, mental illness, descriptions of blood and gore, suicide and suicidal ideation, guns. ]

Dr. Corvus toiled on the floor. His skull cracked and folded under his skin. Masses of flesh waltzed and crawled loudly begging for help, knowing there was a better way. But Winston is a stubborn man, who dared not to listen.

His abdomen crawled with life--something that wasn't him, something hopeful and naive and loud. He cried out to it, something about how he’d tried every antidepressant and drug and chore and it never worked. The pharmacy and the oils and the stars lied to him, how he couldn’t be cured. A life lived in eternity is a life which he sees no hope in. Not like this. Not like Corvus.

Every cough drew up more bile, decayed crawling remains of morning coffee, beady silver swimming and refusing to bond to the blackened blood draining down the man’s chin and throat and core. He grabbed the lump in his muscles and pulled and tugged and fought and it did not come loose. He didn’t want to live, but he is the plaything of whatever cruel deity lies above. Whoever granted him his birth--one truth--but refuses to grant him one more--his death. He collapses, hitting the hardwood and being forced out of whatever contortion he tried to maintain. He didn’t remember how it felt anyway.

Doktor Corvus was a desperate man ever since that day when he walked home from his studies and put a bullet to his head and his heart, stubbornly, loudly, defiantly beat in his chest despite his brains on the wall and his skull glistening like glass. Broken like glass. And he looked up from his state on the floor, denied death as the poison tore through his body and ran thick in his veins, and he saw a man. Tall, like him. Brown-haired, like him. His messy hair flowed around the cavern in his face where a heart beat, loudly, almost as if he was hearing it in his own head.

The man vanished into Hyde’s mind, and suddenly, he felt different: like his body wasn’t his, and that he wanted to live.

Hyde sat across the counter as Cattie mindlessly chatted with him, the doctor sipping on some fancy coffee. He lamented on how the attempts to clear his veins of the silvery medicine Jekyll had fed Winston when he was whole, and by extent, the masked naturalist, were unsuccessful. But he wasn’t the one searching for a way out of living. He was searching for a way out of living as a passenger in a train, a way to rid Jekyll of this body. 

After all, that man took no issue with throwing his birth given name away, so why should Hyde let him keep it?

[angeart]

... I would like to know about your OCs... pretty please?

-🎀

ribbon anon my dearest!! you wanna hear about them? 🥺🥰

the drawn characters are rei hayden and raven hayden, and they're meant to be twins. "meant to be" because... well, let's backtrack a little.

the story on raven's side starts on one fated new years eve. he's spending it alone, unhappy, contemplating his life. he makes an unwise and impulsive wish, yearning for something different.

this wish yoinks him and transports him to a very scary place <3 but dw! there's a guide person! and he recognises raven (which is odd :3c) and keeps saying this is a place for lost souls.

but he also says raven isn't lost.

the place kind of turns into a nightmare, the world shifting and reshaping around raven, and– there's a maze, and rising water, and lots of mirrors, except every single of his reflections looks different and acts on their own. (and not in a good way. they look kind of desperate.)

i'm trying to be concise here, so let me just say he gets out of this mid-world (by drowning while staring at one of his reflections that looks so so sad <3) and wakes up... in a bed. in an unfamiliar apartment. with a person with his face telling him to hurry up and get ready for school.

so! huh. that's weird.

raven's never had a brother, least of all a twin, but here rei is, flesh and blood, looking at raven in a way only an annoyed family member can.

here's some fun bits about the story:

raven is considered to have an irregular amnesia where he occasionally forgets everything about his life. this alludes to this not being the first time something odd has happened to some raven in this world. it's also not medically accurate, because, spoiler alert, it's not amnesia. and our raven remembers his life, and this wasn't it, thank you very much.

rei is the irresponsible brother. the troublemaker. the lone wolf. he also gets into fights and has enemies. he tries to reaaaally sell that he doesn't care.

raven kind of sees through that lie, gradually at first, then more steeply.

raven has a digital watch that stopped working the moment he was spirited away. which is 8 seconds before midnight on new years eve. it's his only possession that's carried over.

the new years eve hasn't happened here yet. it's before christmas.

you'd think this world is Nice and Safe and Normal, besides all that, but wrong! raven still sometimes catches his mirror reflection moving of its own accord, and he hears voices behind his back, and feels phantom touches that sometimes feel a bit too real. let's not forget about the nightmares.

he's exhausted and confused and scared and it's getting worse.

basically, he doesn't belong in this reality. these are the ways in which this reality is rejecting him, absolutely messing with his perception <3

there's a lot more going on here, about why he's here, and what happened before, and what the voices are actually telling him, etc.

there are other characters too! (but i tend to draw mostly just raven kjxbnk) the other characters include:

evia, a bullied girl with a horrible home life who just wants to escape it all, and gets tangled in with rei thinking he might be her ticket out (seeking out protection, even for the price of being used)

nick, a gang leader who doesn't shy away from violence, thinking rei needs to pay for some things he did in the past and learn his lesson (his methods are questionable; he's ready to hurt and destroy anything in rei's vicinity to prove his point and bring rei down to his knees)

and kye, nick's friend, who's genuinely only trying to do a good thing, but agrees with nick that rei needs to be stopped. he tries to take people away from rei safely, in order to protect them from the blast zone of this mess, convinced rei doesn't really care about them anyway.

here's a 2022 art of raven as a bonus <3

[fnaf7801]

Description:

This is like a comic book series where you can ask questions to the characters and yes for others who are following me like VOAdam or Hailysenpai can use my comics but be sure to credit me.

Rules:

Ask the characters one time (Don't spam)

Angst is always allowed

There are some backstories that can be asked including if they are hardcore.

I will tell you about their mental illnesses.

LGBTQ+ (Respect it, please)

Blood and Gore is allowed.

Don't be mean or disrespectful to me. I will block you if I have to.

The Pizza Servers 🍕🤎💛💜❤️🩵🧡🖤:

Name: Bonnie Bunnington

Age: 30's (38 years old)

Nationality: Brooklyn, NYC

Occupation: Guitarist, and chill father.

Love Interest: Chica Clucker (Wife)

Sexuality: Straight, Alley

Kids: Wolfstep (Adopted Son), Freddy (Adopted Son), Finn (Adopted Son), Foxy (Adopted Son), Goldie (Adopted Daughter)

Mental illness: None

Personality: Chill, fiercely overprotective of his kids and wife, will get angry if someone pisses him off.

Name: Chica Bonita Clucker

Age: 30's (34 years old)

Nationality: Mexican, Puerto Rican

Occupation: Cooker, and singer

Love interest: Bonnie Bunnington (Husband)

Sexuality: Straight, Alley

Mental Illness: None?

Kids: Wolfstep (Adopted Son), Freddy (Adopted Son), Finn (Adopted Son), Foxy (Adopted Son), Goldie (Adopted Daughter)

Personality: Happy, caring, gentle, and beautiful.

Name: Wolfstep Bunnington

Age: 18 (The eldest brother)

Nationality: German, France

Occupation: Bodyguard, fighter

Love interest: Meadowblaze (ex-girlfriend), Sparrowfeather (Crush)

Sexuality: Bisexual

Mental Illness: PTSD, Anxiety

Family: Darkfoot (Biological father), Nightfall (Biological mother, deceased †), Daniel (Older half-brother, deceased †), Blizzardclaw (Older half-brother, deceased †), Snowfur (Young half- sister, deceased †), Bluestar (young half-sister, deceased †), Freddy (Younger half-brother), Finn (Younger half-brother), Bonnie (Adoptive Father), Chica (Adoptive Mother), Foxy (Younger adoptive brother), Goldie (Younger half-sister)

Personality: Quiet, sleep deprived, and hostile if any hurts or harms his family.

Name: Freddy Bunnington

Age: 15 (Youngest brother)

Nationality: Italian, Spanish, French

Occupation: Singer

Love interests: Candy Cat (Ex-boyfriend), Scourge (Crush)

Sexuality: Gay

Mental Illness: PTSD, Depression

Family: Darkfoot (Biological father), Lilyheart (Biological mother), Daniel (Older half-brother, deceased †), Blizzardclaw (Older half-brother, deceased †), Snowfur (Young half- sister, deceased †), Bluestar (young half-sister, deceased †), Finn (Twin brother), Bonnie (Adoptive Father), Chica (Adoptive Mother), Foxy (Younger adoptive brother), Goldie (Younger sister)

Personality: Strong, brave, and bold. Overprotective if Goldie gets a boyfriend.

Name: Finn Bunnington

Age: 15 (Twin brother)

Nationality: Italian, Spanish, French

Occupation: Backup singer

Love Interest: Sandstorm

Sexuality: Bisexual

Family: Darkfoot (Biological father), Lilyheart (Biological mother), Daniel (Older half-brother, deceased †), Blizzardclaw (Older half-brother, deceased †), Snowfur (Young half- sister, deceased †), Bluestar (young half-sister, deceased †), Freddy (Twin brother), Bonnie (Adoptive Father), Chica (Adoptive Mother), Foxy (Younger adoptive brother), Goldie (Younger sister)

Mental Illness: ADHD

Personality: Dumb, lovable, silly boi-

Name: Foxy Bunnington

Age: 13

Love interest: None

Sexuality: Asexual, Acroace, Aromatic

Mental Illness: Bipolar Disorder

Family: Bonnie (Adoptive Father), Chica (Adoptive Mother), Wolfstep (Adoptive older brother), Freddy (Adoptive older brother), Finn (Adoptive older brother), Goldie (Younger sister)

Personality: Irresponsible, house breaker, rule breaker, funny, and reckless.

Name: Goldie Bunnington

Age: 18 months

Love interest: She's a baby-

Sexuality: None

Darkfoot (Biological father), Lilyheart (Biological mother), Daniel (Older half-brother, deceased †), Blizzardclaw (Older half-brother, deceased †), Snowfur (Young half- sister, deceased †), Bluestar (young half-sister, deceased †), Wolfstep (Adoptive Older half-brother), Freddy (Older brother), Finn (Older brother), Bonnie (Adoptive Father), Chica (Adoptive Mother), Foxy (Younger adoptive brother)

[ladyseidr]

desperate need to explore my michael's nightmares tbh. both in like a He's Totally the Protag Of The Nights In FN.AF4 And I Should Get To Write Him With The Nightmares way and just in a please let somebody recognize that he has nightmares and care way—

[kiirous]

"even if we're covered in scars we can smile if we're together"

This was interesting to read and very fascinating. It's really fascinating how graphic the self-harm was.

Basically this is Atsushi harming himself and Dazai finding out. Yes, they are in a relationship.

How ironic, that what once started out as a punishment has now turned into a release; a way to cope with the pain. But Atsushi soon realises that he doesn't have to cope alone.

It's important you read the tags.

[ofsyzygies]

◤┆✕ ° ○  001. LILY ·╱჻ [RETROSPECTIVE PARA]

DATED 15/01/89 TRIGGER WARNINGS; blood, substance abuse/self medication, implied accident, nightmares, suicide mention, implied depression, mental illness, auditory and visual hallucinations, trauma, ptsd, disability mention.

The sound of screeching tires and the flash of headlights attacked her senses; the woman was underwater, pressing her palms up against the glass, trying to break it before she ran out of breath. This happened nightly. On the other side of the glass were images; always the same: blood, glass, lights, lights, lights, and mangled metal. Every night, there was this glass wall she was trying to get through and on the other side was a limp body on the dashboard, and then every time, when the glass was just starting to GIVE, something happened——

She ran out of air, whatever oxygen she’d been trying to trap in her lungs escaping, and —

And Yuri woke up, just like that, every night. With heaving breaths and cold sweat clinging to her skin in a thin film. Cold sweat made auburn locks cling to her scalp, matted and messy and the soft skin of her face was always roughened by dried-up saltwater. It was so hard to breathe at first; she normally sat up hyperventilating for fifteen minutes that went on like those lazy, long days that refused to end and give way to the lull of nighttime. When she finally felt like she had caught her breath, she pushed herself off the bed, swinging her feet over the side. In her wake, there was a damp depression in the mattress from all the tossing and turning of her sweaty body. The British native walked over to the bathroom on shaking legs, now quite accustomed to this routine. After all, the nightmares had plagued her just like this for the past four years since her accident. Before, the nightmare was different, but the symptoms were the same, and those had lasted fourteen years.

She had come to despondently accept that being haunted was simply to be her reality.

When she left the bedroom, she made sure to slip out quietly as a force of habit. In the earliest years, when she was still living with her parents, it was always imperative not to wake anyone in the house. There was nobody she felt like talking to, anyway.

One clammy palm met the edge of the sink, coiling her fingers around it as she looked at herself in the mirror. Phantom pain travelled up an imaginary limb that had long been lost to her. The face that stared back at her was, as always, deceptively pristine, though dark circles resembling bruises were beginning to form around her eyes from the lack of sleep she had suffered over the past few days. Her skin, which was always snowy, was even paler from a combination of too much alcohol and too little sleep. The only splash of colour was the persistent flush that she had come to associate with her dependency on pain medication. A shaking hand found the knob of the faucet, clumsily palming it until it began running the cold water; she allowed the ice-cold water to fill the palm of her hand before splashing it onto her face. Yuri then turned off the faucet and faced the bathtub instead. Her breathing was still laboured and it felt like there was something stuck in her throat. With a frown tugging down on her full mouth, she pushed the stopper into the belly of the tub and turned on the water, allowing it to begin taking purchase within the stone-resin container. 

The entirety of her body was trembling, and she had to use whatever strength she had to hold herself up. She observed the water’s smooth cascade into the sink and thought she understood, for a moment, why Virginia Woolf was drawn to the water, then she thought about her mother and pulled out the stopper. When she was sixteen and had first attempted to do away with herself, following her return home and the crushing realisation that her life would never be the same, her parents had taken her to a therapist.

The doctor had explained to her suicide was unnatural. Even after the young girl said it felt like the only way to get uninterrupted quiet in her chaotic mind, he’d assured him that no matter what, she’d always end up pulling herself out of the water. Every morning, the doctor was proven right. The most base instinct was one of survival. Then there was all the horrors she saw with her eyes closed and water filling her ears. The bad things that happened, the very demons she had been attempting to escape. Splitting pain excited her temples, her stomach, her aching ribs as she thought about it. It was like watching her life shatter over and over and over again, like an unstoppable train crash—one she could neither face nor look away from. 

In a strange way, failure had taught her to stop chasing death as though it would hold all the answers. She began chasing life instead.

— — —

—The sound of screeching tires and the flash of headlights attacked her senses. Images filtered in through the water, creeping past her eyelids and behind her irises, making her see: lights, lights, lights, glass, blood, and mangled metal. A gasp made her mouth fall open, oxygen escaping her lungs in bubbles, and she clenched her fingers around the sink to keep herself down. Just a little longer. Just long enough. The insides of her body were a city fast crumbling down; the bricks of his esophagus disintegrating, the iron dome of her lungs breaking apart, and her heart, her ever faulty heart was the city siren wailing, beating so fast it almost drowned out the sound of the sirens in her eyes, and everything was breaking down so fast it was blocking out the images of the person she had left behind in the car, a person whose face was obscured at this angle. A face she could never see no matter how hard she tried to. Perhaps if she could get around somehow she would be able to see the face that haunted her so.

Just as she was about to break that final wall, she woke up again, the need for air within her dream so powerfully realistic that it made her gasp for oxygen. Spluttering breaths escaped her lips in heaves and wheezes. “God,” She moaned, hot tears stinging her eyes. “Oh, god.” The anxiety was back, clawing through her every breath, and her face was dripping wet, droplets sliding off her chin and hitting the crumpled bedsheets. She slowly opened her eyes, and they widened a fraction in horror when she realised what her face was covered in, what was dripping onto her hands and her sheets—blood.

Fighting down the bile rising up her throat, the woman scrambled out of bed like she’d been burnt, dragging her shaking limbs toward the vanity where she made for a small bottle of vodka she had concealed in her dresser, knowing that it was the only thing that would make her mind calm down. It was the only thing that disappeared the blood on her hands, rendered her hands clean enough to fool her for the day.

When she was finally drunk enough for the noise in her ears to be replaced with a buzzing hum, and her eyes to feel heavy-lidded and halfway asleep, she reached for the diary she always kept on the bedside table. It was leather-bound and the name LILY was etched into its face. 

Yuri never drank enough to be noticed, she drank until the shaking stopped just enough for her to function. It wasn’t something she was proud of, especially as a doctor, her dependency on substances she knew did more harm than good. After eighteen years of suffering, however, one tried just about anything to make the pain stop.

Sometimes, it felt like the pain was a part of her; an invisible appendage, a part of her biology. What else could explain the fact it never went away, no matter how much she tried to dull her senses with whatever she could?

Her bony limbs came crashing back down onto the bed, the diary falling open onto her lap where a pen was already inside. Her hands shook as she began to write, viscous black ink staining the pages in trembling cursive.

Dear Lily,

I think I dreamed of you again. I tried so hard to see your face, but I couldn’t. If our eyes meet, will you let me go? Will you finally forgive me? —