#But I need to finish this fanfic first

[purplepixel]

Happy SWSAnniversary!

This one's for you @psychologicalwarclaire! Finally can give a proper thank you for writing my favorite rise fic of all time. Here's to a Spider's Web with Strings Attached's one year anniversary! What better way to commemorate this with a little comic featuring the very beginning?

For those who are just stumbling on this comic, please go read the fic its based on! I cannot praise and recommend it enough!!

[amerasdreams]

I would like to know this as well! I will always write bc I can't help it. But it would be nice to have a nice enthusiastic fan base perhaps that grows modestly

It would be nice to earn a living w writing...... but that may not be likely and I'm definitely not just writing fast and sloppily for genre, I'm writing the kinds of books I want to write.

Instead of "20 books to $50k" or "how to increase readership by writing and publishing a book every month that is exactly like every other popular book out there," I need the kind of marketing advice that goes along the lines of, "hey, here's how to get a modest fanbase and sell enough books to justify this as a side gig without having to go crazy and spend more than you earn on marketing." Because honestly, all the advice I find these days either a) requires me to put way more time and money into marketing than I am able to do, or b) requires me to write fast and sloppy in very specific sub-genres, and that's really not why I write stories.

And like Emily Starr, I would--and will--continue to write stories regardless of how many people read them, but it would be nice to be able to reach more than a dozen readers, and to be able to reasonably look on my writing as a part-time job rather than an expensive hobby.

(It doesn't help that there are so many articles out there claiming that self-publishing is dead! It's gotten too bloated and now only a handful can make a living off it! But wait--traditional publishing is also dead! It's gotten too greedy and now only a handful can make a living off it! Mid-level authors? Whether traditionally published or self-published, they apparently no longer exist)

[dehydrated-turtle]

Champagne and Marble

//warnings// +16, mdni

//contents// Bruce wayne x transmasc!reader, vaginal sex, squirting, semi public ig??

//synopsis// Bruce had not seen his husband in too long, his lewd thoughts lingered around in his head during one of the Wayne galas and he couldn't contain himself when he saw you. based off this ask from @blueberrymori <3 - wc: 1.9k

//on ao3//

The infamous Wayne gala charity event where Gotham’s elite have an excuse to flaunt their riches and pretend to be good people by donating to a cause they couldn’t care less about. Bruce only hosts these things to continue on a tradition that is older than himself and to please his conscience which always tells him to continue on his parents’ legacy. Normally, Bruce is better at these things, faking smiles and pretending to have rousing conversation with his guests and the press. This night was different however, his answers were short and pithy and he didn’t start a single conversation because his mind was elsewhere. On you. He had not seen his husband in so long, being away on “business” for weeks and not being able to touch you drove him up the wall. He wondered the first hour of the party where you were, looking among the crowds for you and soon giving up, assuming you hadn’t gotten there yet. This was his first chance to see you since before he left and he was going to make the most of it. 

He let his mind wander as he sipped his champagne, thinking about what he could do to you once the guests had left. He thought about how you would look underneath him, his tie in your mouth muffling the sounds of your moans, his hand around your neck, keeping you down as he slammed into you. His lewd thoughts were rudely interrupted by a twitching feeling in his restricting dress pants. He looked around to see if anyone had noticed then frantically walked away. On his way, he saw you standing on the grandiose stairs, talking with another socialite, smiling and laughing gently. His mind started to wander again once he noticed how you looked in your suit, the jacket hugging your arms and laying flat on your chest, the dress pants laying gently along the skin of your thighs. He saw that you were gleaming as always and he couldn’t help but smile. Bruce sauntered his way toward you and this nondescript socialite and butted into the conversation. 

“I’m so sorry but I am afraid I’m going to have to steal him from you, Mrs. Henning,” he said, voice smooth as velvet and placing his hand on the small of your back, “Honey, would you help me find some more glasses in the back?” 

“Of course, my love. My apologies, Mrs. Henning.” you apologized and walked through the crowd with your husband. “What a lame excuse, you must be desperate.” 

“I haven’t seen you in weeks, darling, of course I’m desperate.” he remarked, looking at you with a certain glint in his eye. You entered the kitchen as promised but instead of looking for glasses, “ALRIGHT EVERYONE OUT, CLEAR OUT I NEED THE KITCHEN CLEAR, YOU ALL CAN GO JOIN THE PARTY IF YOU WANT YOU JUST CAN’T BE HERE. THANK YOU.” 

He held you close as he waited for the last of the cooks and wait staff to leave before pushing you against one of the cold marble countertops with a heated kiss. He lifted you from the back of your thighs so you were seated on the counter, legs wrapped around Bruce’s waist, pulling his hips closer so you could feel his throbbing cock against your swollen clit. He started to grind into you, pulling you as close to the edge as possible without falling off. His hands trailed up and down your back, stopping only to take off your tux jacket and throw it somewhere in the kitchen. He broke the kiss with a soft moan to hastily undo your shirt buttons. His speed and agility at undoing your buttons turned you on just a little bit more, but it was the eye contact that made it even better. You moved your focus to the front of your shirt, looking at Bruce’s fingers work your buttons but before you could, one of his hands moved up to your chin and lifted it so you were looking back at him. 

“Ah-ah, look at me… good boy.” You could feel your cheeks go red as the words processed in your head and you looked directly into his piercingly blue eyes and adoringly dilated pupils. He untucked the rest of your shirt and pulled it back over your shoulders, exposing your chest. Bruce’s hands traveled up your back before bowing his head to the crook of your neck, pressing his lips against your newly cold skin. You held the back of his head and let out a breathy moan into his ear as you felt his tongue graze your collarbone. His lips left wet and sloppy kisses along your chest and down your sternum, trailing all the way down to where your waistband lay against your skin. He looked back up at you before breaking a sly smile and working on undoing your fly. 

“Lift.” He less than asked, instructing you to lift your hips off the counter so he could slip your pants under them, which is exactly what you did and exactly what happened. He slipped your boxers along with your pants so when your ass hit the marble, you flinched, not thinking it would be that cold and let a gasp escape your lips. 

“Shh shh, It’s ok…” there was an obvious and titillating contrast between the chill of the counter top and the welcoming warmth of Bruce’s hands, drawing pretty patterns along your neck and jawline. 

You just now realized that you were stark naked on a countertop in a kitchen where anyone could enter from the bustling party going on just a single door away. You glanced quickly at said door with some slight concern on your face until you realized that your clit was throbbing at the thought. Bruce saw where you were looking and reassured you that ‘no one would think to come in here’ and ‘all the cooks left’ with soft whispers against your skin. 

His lips trailed along your skin, moving ever downwards and looking up at you occasionally with those piercing blue eyes. His hands settled on the inside of your thighs, keeping them open as he admired your dripping cunt for a couple of moments before resting his head on your thigh with a soft moan. Your fingers interlaced themselves in his hair, scratching his scalp gently as he closed his eyes briefly. Once he lifted his head back up, he left some peppered kisses along your inner thigh before softly placing a kiss on your clit making your breath hitch. The very minimal contact was driving you up the wall. His tongue licked a sling stripe through your folds and to your clit, taking none of the salty taste for granted before pushing his tongue into your hole. Reaching all the right spots, you let out a loud moan and pulled at his raven hair. He lapped quickly and vigorously, moaning into your cunt, the vibrations sending a shiver throughout your whole body. 

His hands kneaded the flesh of your ass and your thighs, making you feel somehow calmer and more aroused at the same time. His three day old stubble scratched gently on your skin as he buried his face into you, smacking his lips and sucking your clit. Two of his fingers found their way to your cunt, slowly pushing in and curling up into you, ensuring maximum pleasure. As his fingers grazed the walls of your pussy continuously, you felt a familiar sort of pressure build up in your lower abdomen. You could barely get out a coherent sentence but you said enough blabbering gibberish that Bruce understood what you were getting at. He sped up the pace with his fingers while still being diligent and skillful, trying to tip you over the edge. You let go with a high whimper, spraying rivers of clear liquid onto Bruce’s face and clothed chest, some dripping down his chin, some falling into his mouth. He lapped up the remains of your orgasm from your pussy before standing back up and gripping your jaw then pulling you in for a heated kiss. You could taste the salty remains of your juices on his lips as he kissed you sloppily. 

“You always taste so fucking good.” he whispered against your lips, still groping your thighs and holding you close. 

Your own hands started to meddle with his fly, unzipping it and pulling down his pants and taking his briefs with them so they rested just under his ass. His red, throbbing, and hard cock sprang free with a slap against his abs leaving a string of precum connecting the two. You ran your thumb over the tip, sliding the slick around a little bit, earning a low moan from the large man. With one hand gripping the fabric of his shirt and the other on his cock, you pulled him closer to you, sliding his tip along your slick. He got the hint and slid gently into your cunt, making sure you were comfortable before starting to thrust. The girth of his cock definitely made a stretch in your pussy but it was nothing if not pleasurable, the tingling sensation put a layer of added lust to it. You felt his cock reach your cervix as his hips met yours repeatedly, a perfect fit. 

The once bustling kitchen was now only filled with the sounds of skin slapping and gentle moans along with the faint sound of the party still going on outside, sans host. Every time his balls smacked against your ass, you could feel yourself coming closer and closer to another orgasm, still sensitive from the last one. Bruce’s pelvic bone hit your clit repeatedly as his hands wandered along your back, gripping whatever flesh he could and moaning into your ear, his hot breath tingling against your skin and whispering sweet nothings with his low gravelly voice. 

“Mm, my husband, so good for me… taking all of this, all of me. Such a good boy.” You clenched around his words, getting somehow more wet, gripping and clawing at his back. “Getting close, honey?” your head lolled back and your eyes rolled, he took that as an answer, “Cum on my cock, baby boy… Hm, just like that.” His hips thrusting faster, brows furrowed and about to cum as well. 

Your climax came with no surprise but an unexpected intensity, your moans became loud and shaky as you tipped over the edge and your juices trickled down Bruce’s cock and soon after, his thighs. He kept fucking into you as he was so close, balls slapping against the wet skin and cock still pushing into all the right spots. His cock twitched before the hot cum poured into you in long white streams ebbing and flowing along your walls, filling you up proficiently. Your head rested on his shoulder, nuzzling into the crook of his neck and kissing it ever so gently as he slowly gave a couple more thrusts before pulling out and watching his cum drip out of your folds. The thought of his cum sitting in your boxers for the rest of this party flooded his mind, so he grabbed your pants and slid them back on to your legs. 

“All that cum just sitting in there, no one will know but us, darling.” he remarked as he buttoned your shirt back up, “It might keep you lubed for later tonight too.” 

Just the thought of it got you wet again and eager for what he had in store for after the party.

[wandixx]

one-shot snippet

Duke was running out of fumes to run on. The last few days would be exhausting if it was just vigilante or just civilian stuff but no, he had to have it both. Because of Arkham break out, he had been called in three nights in a row, not for a whole patrol but he couldn't exactly sleep it off during the day like others did, especially not in a week when every teacher decided they needed to have test or quiz or what not. Naps meant he wasn't as sleep-deprived as he could be but he needed far more. But he couldn't because crime in Gotham never sleeps so he had normal patrol to finish and there were about two hours left.

Would something bad happen if he just stopped for a moment and laid on a roof? Ten up to fifteen minutes. It was a slow day too…

Yeah, no, he deserved a moment to rest and if something disastrous was to happen in the meantime he would shame other Bats for not giving him enough time to sleep.

It certainly said something that he found gravel covering this roof to be quite comfortable. He set a timer for ten minutes and let himself close his eyes.

When the loud screech of the timer jolted him awake, he was suddenly fully aware that he wasn't alone anymore. He sat up a little too quickly.

"Oh, you're awake" white white-haired girl around Damian's age chimed, sitting cross-legged just a few feet away from him. She wore something that could only be described as a lab safety hazmat suit, white and black with popping green accents. When had Gotham gotten a new vigilante/villain/whoever the girl was? "Good, I just returned from a snack hunt," she added, gesturing at a big textile bag lying next to her. Duke didn't have enough brainpower to do anything more than ask.

"What?"

The girl shrugged, take-out from BatBurger in her hand.

"You look like you have a bad day if not a few days, so I've got you my cousin's bad day combo or at least the closest thing I could. BatBurger burger isn't as good as NastyBurger but you certainly have better fries" As she spoke, a second take-out bag, 1 liter bottle of energy drink, juice bottle of the same size, and pack of convenience store brownies joined greasy paper bag sealed with a sticker.

"Is your cousin a speedster?" Excuse Duke, it was a totally valid question, he saw with his bare eyes both Wally West and Bart Allen when they visited Manor. No one else would be able to stomach the amount of food they inhaled during their stays.

"Nah, we're not that fast or that hungry. Though I think I may get closer to the speed of sound." So, clearly, a meta if white hair and weir aura that let his eyes rest weren't enough indication "My cousin when he has a bad few days often forgets to eat so this combo has to help with there too. But I'll steal your fries of course."

Duke was not going to look a gift horse in the teeth, so he grabbed one bag and tore it open. There was a classic combo with bigger fries and NightWings inside.

"Thank you…" he trailed off, hoping that the girl would take a clue and introduce herself but she didn't. She just drowned her fries in ketchup and started munching. She had her own juice.

"My cousin always said that each part of this combo has a different purpose." she explained instead, slightly muffled because of the fries in her mouth "This" she gestured towards the fast food meal "is to soothe your stomach. This "she tapped energy drink "is to soothe your brain and kick it back online. This "she raised a bottle of juice "is to soothe your taste buds because energy drinks are war crime against them and this "she nudged brownies "is to soothe your heart because Ancients damn it, this day is awful and you deserve it. At least that's what he told me when I had day bad enough to deserve that" she shrugged, licking ketchup of her finger. Suddenly she froze "You aren't allergic, are you?

"No, I'm not" he confessed bewildered.

"Good"

For a long moment, they sat in silence, devouring food the little girl brought. Duke distantly wondered if this was how the night shift spent their snack breaks. It felt nice.

He was finishing his part of the brownies when the girl spoke up again.

"Do you feel better now?"

"Yeah," he was a little surprised to realize that t it was true. He'll have to note down what she put in this 'bad day combo'. "Thank you"

"Don't mention it." she shrugged with a general gesture of dismissal "You're one of my cousin's favorite heroes because you're vaguely his age and handle Gotham alone during the day and I quote "She did honest or God air quotes at that" 'As only hero in Amity-' which is a lie by the way, Val is doing great and even if he suddenly got problem with how she feels about his alter ego, he still has Sam and Tuck even if they're usually more of moral support. And I helped when I visited, so no, he isn't the only one. Anyway as he said 'As the only hero in Amity, my heart goes out for anyone who deals with this type of bullshit so Dani if you absolutely have to prank heroes, leave them out of it, especially Signal, he can't be older than Jazz, he doesn't need any more mess to handle.' All aliens and lanterns are also off-limits because he is a space nerd. But you aren't space-related so I'm like 80% percent sure he has a celebrity crush on you" She slurped more juice, unbothered.

Duke was thankful he wasn't swallowing anything because for sure she would choke. He took a split second to consider addressing… this whole situation and choose against it. He was not ready to be anyone's celebrity crush.

"Your name is Danny?" he asked instead.

"Dani" she corrected" with an I"

"Ok. It's nice to meet you Dani-with-an-I" She giggled, nodding her head slightly.

"It's nice to meet you too Signal"

Duke stood up, stretching a little. Dani joined him after hastily putting all the trash in her bag. She was a little higher than expected.

"I have to get back to my patrol"

"Cool," she drifted back a bit, making him realize that she was floating a few inches above the ground. She fixed her bag on her arm.

"Hey, can I hang out a little bit more? My cousin will go green out of jealousy when I tell him" she added with a mischievous smirk but Duke could tell there was more to it. He took a moment to consider it, which apparently made the girl nervous "I can be invisible the whole time, like before." she offered, disappearing in the meantime. He could still tell where she was, because of her heat signature, and aura but for regular people, she would be no different than the surrounding air.

"Yeah, you can hang around and you don't have to be invisible. Just don't get in my way when I have to actually do some fighting."

She popped back to the visible spectrum and pouted like Damian whenever he got benched.

" I can fight, y'know? I stopped mugging on a snack run."

It was ten goddamn minutes, how could she get so much food and stop a mugging in such a short time?!

Oh, right, superspeed. Still, impressive.

"I haven't seen it" he started, channeling all Dick-trying-to-wrangle-Damian-into-socially-acceptable-activity' energy he could muster "So I don't know how you fight or even what powers you have. If we tried to fight together we would trip over each other" It was a bare-faced lie, Bat Training made sure of that but he knew for a fact that if he said anything else, the girl would be mad and probably did her own thing.

Was that what Bruce thought about all of them?

Oh no.

Dani still looked displeased but after a moment of consideration, she nodded with a defeated sigh.

Suddenly she straightened like she got struck by lightning and whipped around.

"Wha-"

She just shushed raising her finger to her mouth. Duke did indeed quieten.

"I have enhanced hearing" she whispered "There is a mugging somewhere this way."

"Let's go then" he shot his grapple, waving his other hand at Dani to come with him before he jumped off the roof. He heard the girl giggle as she flew right after him.

" After this, you'll show me the coolest gargoyles, okay? Sam asked for photos"

"Okay"

It seemed that the end of this patrol wouldn't be as bad as the start was. Hopefully.

And afterward, he was going to lock himself in his room until the sky fell or he was well rested.

Yeah, that was a good plan.

*******

how do you like it?

[bad12amcomic]

Taking the Plunge

A prologue to the events of https://archiveofourown.org/works/54364717/chapters/137699632 by @sillyfairygarden

Uhhhhhh behind the scenes work huh…. Uhhhhhhhh

Here’s the ref I made for this comic

And here are some memes

[seventh-district]

Midnight Hour

With the warm haze of sleep fading from you, your brow furrows as your right hand presses lightly against his lower abdomen, your thumb sweeping up and down in a small attempt at a comforting motion. You quietly call for his attention, voice still thick with sleep.

“Star? Is everything okay?”

His typically silent breath suddenly hitches, and his head angles down to face you. Now that he’s turned toward the light, you catch the way his eyes shine, and the way the light reflects off of what you quickly realize are tear tracks, running down his cheeks.

You awake in the middle of the night to find your lover in tears.

Pairing: Astarion x Reader

Word Count: 3,139

Content Warnings: [crying (obviously)] [non-specific mentions of Astarion's past trauma] [this fic was written by someone who hasn't actually played the game and that might show in the details/the lack thereof]

Blinking your tired eyes open, you squint at the light of the crackling fire in front of you. Closing them again, you let out a soft sigh as you try to guess at the current time. Given that you woke on your own, you’re assuming it’s likely close to, but not quite, time for you to take over tonight’s watch shift.

Your group has fallen into a routine where you pair off into teams of two, and a different team keeps watch each night. Tonight’s turn belongs to you and Astarion, and he’s taken the first half of the shift as usual. You usually, ironically, sleep your best on the nights that he keeps watch, in spite of only getting half the amount of sleep as you do on the nights another team has the job.

You suppose you can credit the fact that, at the end of the day, Astarion is a creature of the night. Something about knowing he has the upper hand when it comes to any unwanted nighttime visitors your group may encounter is… reassuring. To you, as well as to the others in the group, loathe as some of them may be to admit it. That is, once they all felt confident in his promises to not make a surprise midnight snack of them, at least.

Tonight is a bit of an exception, though, and you’re not quite sure what woke you early this time. You typically sleep soundly until he gently coaxes you awake, nails combing through your hair, voice soft and apologetic in your ear. He’s always somewhat reluctant to wake you, but he does so nonetheless, having learned his lesson after the first time he made the executive decision to let you sleep the whole night through. His arguments of “You really looked like you could use the rest.” and “What’s one sleepless night? I can sleep when I’m dead.” didn’t hold much water in the face of the way he dragged ass through the entire next day.

In “the spirit of fairness” and “proving that he can stick to an agreement,” he never tried to take the whole shift by himself again. It definitely didn’t have anything to do with how guilty he felt when he heard the disappointment in your tone when you awoke that first morning and discovered he hadn’t stuck to the plan. Definitely.

Laying there in the quiet, you try and fail to pinpoint what feels different about tonight. You don’t hear any strange noises, nothing feels unusual, and blinking your eyes open again you raise your head a bit to look around the fire. The rest of the group are circled around the other sides of the heat source, sleeping soundly. You figure that you’re probably just getting used to this routine by now, and your body simply woke up around your usual shift change time on its own.

Still, that doesn’t explain the vague, unplaceable feeling that something is just… off.

You let out a sigh that turns into a yawn as you stretch and roll away from the fire onto your back. Letting your head roll further to the left, your eyes land on the familiar sight of your lover’s back as he sits in his usual position beside you, diligently watching your six.

He’s taken to placing his bedroll right next to yours, insisting that you lie between the fire and himself. You couldn’t really argue with his point that he can’t feel the cold anyways, so there’s no need for him to be the one next to the fire. Nor could you argue with the benefits of having him as a line of defense between you and whatever lurks beyond the reach of the firelight.

The feeling of security and protection that he provides you with is still relatively foreign to you, and a soft smile blooms on your face at the warm feeling it brings. Your smile then falls a bit as you remember the silent question you ask yourself on the regular, of whether or not you provide him with the same.

You roll the rest of the way to your left, and shuffle further toward him, closing what remains of the small gap he’d placed between the two of you. Lying halfway on your bedroll and halfway on his, you curl your body around his seated form, bringing your right arm up and gently placing a hand on the right side of his waist. He flinches slightly, and if this were earlier on in your relationship, you’d retract your hand. He’s long since informed you though that his reaction to unexpected touch is simply involuntary, and as long as it’s you, you’ve no need to pull away.

You recall the quiet, restrained desperation in his voice when he first explained it to you, all but begging you not to pull away. He can’t control the way his body reacts to touch, given that before you, he couldn’t recall the last time being touched meant anything other than pain. In spite of that though, he wants it. He wants you. That’s obvious in the way that he, without fail, immediately relaxes under your gentle touch once his mind and body process that it’s coming from you. The way he’s come to not only relax, but to lean into it. Lean into you.

You’d never push past his boundaries, never in a million years, but he’s made it quite clear after about a thousand of your quiet requests for consent at every minor touch, that he’s entirely welcoming of your non-sexual physical affections. Getting the man to verbally admit that he actually enjoys cuddling with you, without the truth being concealed beneath a heavy layer of playful banter and practiced, honeyed words didn’t come easy, but he came around to it in his own time.

So, you don’t pull back, instead following through with the motion and slowly snaking your arm around his waist. You press your front against his lower back and curl around to rest your left cheek atop his left thigh. You can’t help but notice that he doesn’t relax into you in the way he usually does, and your head turns to the right a bit, struggling to get a half-decent look at his face as you’re both turned away from the fire light.

He remains tense, still, and unresponsive to your movements, gaze seemingly locked dead ahead of him, staring out into the dark forest.

With the warm haze of sleep fading from you, your brow furrows as your right hand presses lightly against his lower abdomen, your thumb sweeping up and down in a small attempt at a comforting motion. You quietly call for his attention, voice still thick with sleep.

“Star? Is everything okay?”

His typically silent breath suddenly hitches, and his head angles down to face you. Now that he’s turned toward the light, you catch the way his eyes shine, and the way the light reflects off of what you quickly realize are tear tracks, running down his cheeks. He’s actively crying, tears dripping from his chin, and now with his head tilted down at you they take a different path, running down to converge and fall from the tip of his nose.

You nearly bolt upright in your shock, quickly unwrapping yourself from him and clambering around on all fours until you’re sat down in front of him, your hands gripping tightly to your upper thighs in worry. His wide-eyed gaze followed your every movement, and even now that you’re sat still in front of him, his eyes still dart around, frantically scanning you, for what, you don’t know.

“What- what’s going on?”

You keep your voice as quiet as you reasonably can in spite of your shock and concern, not eager to wake your companions and have everyone witness… whatever this is.

He doesn’t respond, looking just about as lost as you feel, shaking his head in silence as more tears fall. It’s one hell of a sight, and it suddenly hits you that this is the first time you’ve ever seen him cry.

Unsure of what to do and what even caused this, you resist the urge to wrap him in a hug, not wanting to overstep in this unfamiliar territory. Instead, you glance back over your shoulder and once again see and hear nothing of note before trying another question.

“Is there a threat? Did you see something that scared you, honey?”

He takes a long moment to answer, seeming unsure, before eventually settling on another shake of his head. His lack of confidence in his answer isn’t the most reassuring thing at the moment, but given that you aren’t detecting any danger either, you decide to believe that he really didn’t see any threat. At least, not here. Not right now, in the present moment, in front of him. He seems about halfway here and halfway gone, and if your growing suspicions are correct, he’s probably been sat here lost in the dark corners of his mind for a while now, given the state he’s in.

You catch movement to Astarion’s right side and watch as Karlach raises up from her prior position sprawled out face-down on her bedroll, propping herself up with her forearms beneath her. Her expression of concern is too aware and her eyes are too awake for her to have just now woken up, and you quickly gather that she’s probably been awake and laying there long enough to have heard your questions and Astarion’s lack of any verbal response. She doesn’t say anything though, and doesn’t move, just letting the situation unfold and keeping a watchful eye on the darkness behind you.

Relaxing slightly at the knowledge that someone else is awake and helping to keep watch now, your focus shifts back to Astarion, who’s gaze has moved to his lap, tears still falling fast. It’s almost unsettling, the way he cries. There’s no sound, no movement, his breathing is hardly even affected, nothing more than the occasional shaky breath to give away any sign of struggle at all. You don’t have to guess why it’s like this, given what he’s told you about his past. You’re sadly certain that he learned to cry like this ages ago. Silent and still, sat alone in the dark so no one would notice.

You don’t want to think about the sorts of punishments he’s endured as a result of showing such pain and emotion, but your mind pulls from what experiences he’s shared and offers up a few anyways, making you begin to feel sick.

Leaning down and trying to catch his gaze, you ask another question.

“Astarion, are you with me right now?”

He blinks, more tears spill, and his lips finally part as he responds to you with a strained whisper.

“I’m trying to be…”

You smile in spite of your current emotions and the general mood of the situation, doing your best to be something positive, something gentle, something safe for him to focus on.

“There you are…”

You say it to yourself as much as to him, relieved to finally hear his voice, as laced with pain as it sounds. You hold out your hand near where his lie balled into fists in his lap, offering him contact without forcing it on him.

“I want you to keep trying, okay? Do your best to come back into the present with me. You can take my hand, if you’d like?”

He stares down at your offered hand for a long moment before shakily unballing one of his fists. He hesitates, fingers trembling, before reaching out and placing his hand in yours. His skin is even colder than usual and slightly damp to the touch, and you couldn’t be less put off, or give less of a fuck about the messy state of him right now, or ever, if you’re being honest. You just want to help him, however you can.

You curl your warm fingers around his palm, wanting to pull him into a hug so badly but restraining yourself, letting him call the shots.

“You’re okay now, Star. You’re safe right now, here with me. We’re safe.”

He’s quiet for another long moment as he shuts his eyes tight, taking in your words. His other fist unfurls, and his body trembles almost imperceptibly.

“I… I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

Your heart breaks.

“Honey, you have nothing to apologize for. Nothing at all, I promise you.”

He shakes his head in disagreement, his voice an insistent whisper.

“I shouldn’t be doing this.”

Your shoulders drop from where they’d been tensely held up, body slumping with a silent sigh as you watch him still try to hold this wall up between the two of you. You’d made it past a number of his walls already, but this one… this one you’ve yet to be granted access behind.

“It’s okay to cry, you know?”

Another shake of his head, this time with far more force behind it, almost vehement.

“No.”

You soften your voice, insisting.

“Yes. It is. You can cry now, Astarion. No one’s gonna hurt you. No one’s gonna judge you. I swear on my life, that’s the truth.”

His breaths become more labored, uneven and shaking.

“You aren’t his anymore. The old rules don’t apply. You can let it out, now. No one, and I mean no one, is going to punish you for it.”

His eyes pinch closed and his head shakes hard side to side, like he’s fighting his own mind, and his hand opens and closes like it wants to grab onto something. He then moves, wrapping his free hand around your arm and suddenly you’re being pulled toward him, desperately, insistently.

You follow the motion as he continues to tug at you, first leaning forward and propping yourself up with your other hand on the ground as he continues to pull you closer. You quickly gather what he wants as he lets go of your hand in favor of latching onto your other arm, pulling you upward, choking back tears all the while.

You raise up on your knees and his hands move once again to hook beneath your arms as you allow yourself to be pulled up onto his lap with physical strength you keep forgetting he possesses. Hooking your legs around his waist, you wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him into you. His arms wrap tightly around your waist and he buries his face into the fabric of your shirt at the collar, muffling the soft sound of his crying which has now turned to full-blown sobs.

He’s still shockingly quiet in spite of it all, and you imagine it’s a mixture of being unable to let go of what’s ingrained into him, and not wanting to alert the entire camp to his current breakdown.

Your thumbs stroke up and down in place on his back, not wanting to let go of your hold on him but still wanting to give him some sort of comforting motion to focus on. Besides, you figure petting across the entire expanse of his scarred back might do the opposite of calming him down, so you refrain and keep your arms wrapped firmly around him. Turning your head down toward his, you whisper to him in between soft kisses to his temple.

“That’s it, love. Let it out.”

“You’re safe now, Astarion, I swear.”

“There’s nothing wrong with this.”

“I’m so proud of you.”

“You have every right to cry. No one ever should’ve taken that away from you.”

He grips you even tighter as you shower him with painfully unfamiliar affection and acceptance, comfort unlike anything he’s ever felt before in his horribly long life. His forehead presses against your right shoulder as his crying slows, trying to ground himself and catch his breath. You make a point of holding him securely against you, breathing slow and deep to give him an example to follow.

You catch movement in your periphery and glance over at Karlach as she quietly sits up and makes a series of silent lip movements and hand gestures that you don’t entirely grasp. You work them out to mean that she’s gonna take over watch for the rest of the night, and you can rest with Astarion. You send her a grateful look and mouth a “thank you,” to which she waves you off with what you think you read as a silent “don’t mention it” on her lips.

After a short while spent focused on slowing down his breath and bringing him fully out of his memories and back here with you, you whisper quiet words in his ear.

“Your work is done, Astarion. You can rest now.”

You mean it in both possible interpretations of the words, and he seems to understand that, his body finally relaxing against yours for the first time tonight.

“You wanna lie down with me, love?”

He seems like he almost nods, but stops himself, whispering back in an exhausted voice, scratchy and thick from crying.

“Someone has to keep watch.”

You hesitate to inform him that Karlach has already taken over that role for tonight, sure that he’d get no sleep at all if he knew she’d witnessed this. You know you’re gonna be awake watching over him for the rest of the night anyways, so instead, you offer a compromise.

“I can hold you and keep watch at the same time, love. Just… let me sit and you can lay against me.”

He gives the suggestion a moment of thought before nodding his head, reluctantly loosening his hold on you. You maneuver the both of you carefully so as to avoid allowing his tired eyes to catch sight of your obviously awake companion sitting behind him.

It isn’t much of a task considering his eyes are halfway closed already, his only remaining focus locked on you. You settle down at the head of his bedroll, guiding him to lie down and bringing his head to rest in the center of your lap.

Your hands take turns gently combing fingers through his white curls, and you feel his tense shoulders begin to relax at the feeling. You bring a thumb down and gently stroke over the lines creasing his brow, quietly encouraging him to release the tension he likely doesn’t realize he’s holding. You watch him pull in a deep, albeit still slightly unsteady breath, and you can practically feel the relief that washes over him when he exhales.

Words aren’t necessary between the two of you at this point, not in this moment, but you offer him a few anyways, hoping they’ll resonate in his tired mind as he slips into sleep.

“You’re safe here, Star. Rest easy.”

A/N: Like I said in the CWs, I haven't played the game for myself (yet!) so I only know what I've seen in the hours of (mostly Astarion-focused) scenes I've watched on YT. As a result, this might have read a bit funny if I've gotten certain details wrong. For instance- I have no idea how resting at the camp actually goes, whether or not someone keeps watch all night, etc. Also I'm not sure if Astarion even needs to actually sleep or if he meditates/falls into a trance and just calls it sleep, but for the sake of simplicity, (and me being clueless,) when I say he falls into sleep just assume he's doing whatever he'd normally do to rest. On a different note- this little fic was inspired by a combination of two things. The lovely art and additional commentary on this post, by @velnna , and also by me listening to Midnight Hour by Sierra Eagleson on loop for like, an hour, and daydreaming up this specific scene before proceeding to write it out. It is a beautiful song that is now the title and theme-song for this fic, and I encourage you to go give it a listen if you haven't heard it already. Header Image Source: x

[justanothermachine]

Sonic Hater Club

also slightly different camera angle w/ more glitter?

[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober 27 - Voiceless

title: we cannot push ourselves away from this quiet

fandom: hermitcraft smp

cw: muzzles

another part in my sleep cycle series, comprising of days 8, 23, and 26 :)

~

They found Mumbo in the basement.

Grian hadn’t been allowed to come along, as much as he’d fought for it. Four Hermits had gone missing out of nowhere—throwing Grian into a mess like that would have been just asking for trouble.

They hadn’t even been looking for Mumbo. As far as anyone knew, Mumbo was just off taking a break from the season. They’d been looking for the other four, only missing for a week—Doc, Ren, Impulse, Tango. Apparently, when they found them, Doc had gone on and on about the basement and how someone needed help down there, and when Gem and False had gone down to check it out, they’d found Mumbo.

He wasn’t too badly hurt, luckily—malnourished as all get out, with a couple of scrapes and bruises, but he was in better shape than Impulse and Doc, which, considering he was there for so much longer, was pretty good.

Now he’s back, and Grian couldn’t be more excited.

He hasn’t gotten to see Mumbo, yet—he came down with a cold the day the rescue happened, so had been banned from the medical building they’d set up—but he can’t wait.

He wants to throw a party—he doesn’t, but he wants to. Xisuma had laid a strict no-overexcitement-for-the-kidnapped rule, no matter the circumstances. So Grian does not trap Mumbo’s base with a glitter bomb or prepare any special gifts. He just stops by for a visit.

Mumbo’s got his back turned toward Grian when he arrives, digging through a shulker box and tossing various pieces of junk on the ground. For a moment, Grian’s about to sneak up on him and tap him on the shoulder, but he decides that would be a pretty poor idea, as far as his ideas went.

No-overexcitement-for-the-kidnapped, and all that.

“Hey, Mumbo,” he says loudly, approaching slowly.

Mumbo’s surprised jump is not subtle, and he spins around, letting the lid of the shulker box drop with a resounding crack. He also jumps at that, shoulders shooting up practically to his ears.

“Hey,” Grian says again, and geez, Pearl was not kidding about the malnourishment.

Mumbo’s always been thin, but not like this. His cheeks are sunken, his jawline harsher and clavicle clearly sticking out. His suit coat is missing, but even his white button-up hangs loose on him, and his slacks are actually held up by his suspenders instead of simply held in place.

He hasn’t shaved, either. Clearly, he has shaved since returning (three days ago, mostly spent in Scar’s bed shop-turned-hospital), but it’s been long enough that the stubble on his cheeks and chin is visible. That, combined with the oily shadows under his eyes and the bone-thin frame and his too-long hair, clutches at Grian’s heart with an iron fist.

But he puts on a smile. “I missed you,” he says. “Settling in all right? Do you need anything?”

Mumbo’s eyes dart around. He shrugs, tongue flicking out to moisten his lips. Then, belatedly, he twitches, opens his mouth.

“Er, no. Thanks.”

It’s all he says. Those three syllables are uttered so lowly as to be near-whispered, and after a half-attempt at a smile that fails miserably, Mumbo turns back to his shulker box.

The grip on Grian’s heart squeezes tighter.

“Okay,” he says, toning his own voice down. “Is it okay if I just hang out with you? We don’t have to talk, just . . . parallel working.”

He might be mistaken, but he thinks he sees Mumbo’s shoulders relax a fraction of an inch.

Mumbo nods, back still toward Grian. So Grian plops down a shulker box of his own and starts organizing, occasionally offering little comments or detouring to tell Mumbo a story about something that happened while he was gone.

Mumbo never says anything back, but he relaxes more and more. When Grian leaves a couple of hours later, the smile on Mumbo’s face is small, cautious—but genuine.

Grian doesn’t know what happened to him, or why he doesn’t want to talk.

That’s okay. He’s here for him, no matter what.

-

“He didn’t choose you,” Milo murmurs, gently running his hands through Mumbo’s hair. “We gave him a choice. He didn’t choose you.”

As much as Mumbo wants to pull away from the touch, he doesn’t.

Mumbo used to talk to himself. He would explain various redstone concepts, design new machines, picture his builds in his mind’s eye as he detailed everything aloud.

It was mere days before his guards tired of his noise.

He’s been muzzled ever since.

At first, the muzzle had been on conditionally. If he agreed to work for them, they would take off the muzzle. They would give him something solid to eat. They would let him work unbound, with a bed and a bath and everything he might need.

Those aren’t on the table anymore, he thinks. They don’t even demand his skills anymore, they just leave him in this dark room and sometimes feed him disgusting blends of food.

There are tears in his eyes. He’s been here by himself for so long, his only visitors his tormentors. Unable to speak, unable to open his mouth.

Milo had come in hours ago, had told him that they had one of his friends. He said that the friend would be given a choice: to free Mumbo of the muzzle, or free someone else of their muzzle. Inconsequential decisions. Zero repercussions for choosing one of them, no other stipulations.

Why wouldn’t he choose him? It’s been so long, so long, he’s going to die if he has to spend another moment without being able to move his mouth, with the leather strap that seems to have melded into his skin, tight and heavy and world-ending.

He can’t talk. He can’t talk, and it’s been so long that he doesn’t know if he ever will talk again.

“I know. It’s hard. He cares more about a stranger than he does you. I am here.”

He’s being stockholm syndrome’d. Mumbo knows it.

Knowing that doesn’t make the tears fall any slower. Knowing that doesn’t mean he drags himself away from Milo’s hold.

-

Mumbo circles down, down to where Grian is polishing Grumbot, and lands on the rocky ground, stumbling a bit. He waves hesitantly, and Grian hops down from Grumbot’s shoulder.

“Hey!” Grian greets, offering a smile. Mumbo smiles back, then starts setting down shulker boxes.

“A swan, today?”

Mumbo bites his lip, then nods. “Y-yeah,” he manages, the word oddly loud. He cringes, cheeks burning red.

After waiting for a nod, Grian wraps Mumbo in a soft hug, gently squeezing. “That’s all right,” he says into Mumbo’s chest. “It’s okay to be a swan.”

Mumbo eases into the hug, squeezing Grian back.

Despite Mumbo’s swan days (days where talking is uncomfortable for him) being almost more common than his talking days, he’s always willing to accept physical affection. Grian makes sure to hug him as much as possible, remind him that it’s okay to struggle.

Mumbo’s never told him why he struggles to speak, and Grian’s never asked. It feels too personal, too demanding.

What Mumbo has told them, though, is how long he was in captivity.

Two months.

Two months, compared to the week of everyone else, so doesn’t he have ample reason to not talk sometimes? After all, Doc still refuses to be by himself, Ren spooks when anyone touches him, and Tango spent the first week avoiding everyone only to now be inseparable from Impulse, and they were only gone for a week.

Trauma is trauma, and it isn’t Grian’s place to judge how it affects his friends. He’ll be there for Mumbo whether it’s a swan day or not, and he won’t press for answers.

Interestingly, Mumbo doesn’t even send messages when it’s a swan day. They’d tried that, once, but he had only managed to message a couple of words before shaking his head.

Maybe he doesn’t really think in words on swan days. Maybe it’s just exhausting to form them.

Grian doesn’t ask, and it really doesn’t matter. Today, he hugs Mumbo, then chatters on while he cleans and Mumbo sketches out some redstone plots.

It’s only been a month since they brought him home, and already his suit fits better. He’s shaving regularly again, his eyes are brighter, the shadows under them not near so heavy.

Today, Grian smiles, and Mumbo smiles back.

[ps-cactus]

Shades of Silver Lining - Ch.2 - posted ✅

the first post aka story teaser <- Ch. 1 | Ch.3 ->

word count: 3326 ✨ [ AO3 ] ✨ [ Wattpad ]

🫳🏻 c'mere, let's go spend some time with Ominis ✨ fluff plus angst, hurt/comfort are served today 🥣

thank you @asallowgrave for beta reading! Go check out his works!!

a/n: ER - first days dating. Also, I'd call this chapter a last breath you take before chapter 3 takes it away. So, hope you'll enjoy 🥰 lil excerpts under the cut:

・・・ “Can you try, if I’ve got this one right, please?” Ominis handed her a piece of parchment. She placed the fingertip onto the rune that had been encircled multiple times and shut her eyes, concentrating on the feelings beneath her touch.

With enough focus and while directing all her attention to the rune under her finger, she could first feel a feather's soft, smooth parts, which, after a gentle pulse, morphed into the sensation of a thin, metal needle. She could even gently slide her finger over it and feel the needle's point, sensing just how sharp it might be.

“Feels really accurate,” Alyn said as she opened her eyes, nearly losing the sensation from the rune as her focus drifted. “That’s amazing.”

It was just that moment when Alyn noticed the marks on his hand, and her gaze shifted briefly to the tiny dark spots on the parchment that she hadn't paid attention to earlier. “Your hands…” she said softly. ・・・

・・・ Ominis didn’t speak for quite a while. Alyn kept a close eye on his frowning face and the way his hands clenched around the wand. The silence allowed her to hear how he let out a slow sigh after a few short breaths when he chose not to speak.

“Fuck,” he said tiredly at last, making Alyn blink in surprise. ・・・

[jackfrostimposter]

genuinely why is there so much misinformation about the guardians of childhood book series?

[zephyrins]

So, dear fanfic writers, since Luminary Mohg, Lord of Blood, beat the allegations, how about writing more fanfics about him? Pretty please?

[itsamenickname]

Attention all Bowuigi fans and supporters! I come to you with a wholesome Bowuigi idea:

Luigi eavesdrops on a conversation between Bowser and Kamek and/or Kammy, but instead of Bowser talking shit about him, Luigi discovers that the one and only Koopa King is actually talking about how much he loves Luigi and how he thanks Grambi and the Star Spirits every day that someone as sweet and innocent as Luigi wants to date a fearsome and selfish monster like him.

[wildlyfreemoon]

Red string of fate satosugu au but suguru cuts his string (angst, no happy ending)

[reds-skull]

Revenant Side Stories

Story IV: Price

[Konchar] [Graves] [Gaz] [AO3]

This one is a little different from the other side stories, but I have to say I had a lot of fun diving into the way Price experiences his powers from his POV.

This one is probably the most plot-relevant story, in relation to part 2. Hope you enjoy it!

The human mind is a deceptively complex subject. No person thinks the same way, Johnathan has found - some see images scrolling by, vague hieroglyphs symbolizing thoughts. Others narrate their day-to-day life, to themselves or to an imaginary audience. Once, he came across a woman, who, being deaf from birth, imagined words as hand signs.

He could take decades studying a single person, exploring the connections in their grey matter. If he wasn’t devoted to keeping his hands dirty to keep the world clean, John would’ve considered working in a field more suitable for his powers.

As it was, the people he comes in contact the most become the subjects of his investigations.

The first of his boys was the hardest. John met Simon merely a few months after his own Reaping, while the grasp he had on his powers was far weaker. He remembers the first time he arrived at reading distance from the Ghost; the sharp, fractured mind of the then-Sergeant was like a physical ache in his own, and he had to shamefully retreat to the bathroom to vomit.

They were both newly not-quite-dead, both far too powerful to allow back to the field while they didn’t have a tight leash on their abilities. So, they trained together.

Simon, or Ghost as he insisted on being referred as, really shouldn’t have been cleared to stay in the military. John didn’t have to be a shrink to tell, the choking feeling of the Sergeant’s memories and flashback almost bringing him to his knees countless times.

The kid went through worse than most veterans have. He had the powers to match.

Limbo. An ability never seen before in the entirety of recorded human history, the first revenant of the Void Reaper. The higher brass saw it as a cheat code for warfare.

John saw it as a defence mechanism of a broken man.

Ghost’s mind was his first, and perhaps biggest, hurdle as a commanding officer and as a revenant. It took weeks before he could stand to be in the same room with him for longer than an hour, months for the inky, tar-like miasma coating each of Simon’s thoughts to clear.

Ghost began to trust him. See that John is the closest one to really understand what made him a revenant, the fundamental reason of Limbo’s existence: It was never about being an off switch to hostile soldiers, like General Shepherd treated it.

Limbo was a world in Simon’s full control, a place where for once in his life, he could make sure he wouldn’t be hurt.

But that wouldn’t be apparent, from just watching him on the field, from reading mission reports on his unmatched powers. No other soldier, General, or Spiritulogist saw what John saw.

And while he tried to explain, it all fell on deaf ears.

John carries many regrets in his life, but allowing Limbo to become a hostile realm toward Ghost might be his worst one.

Guilt isn’t an uncommon emotion among soldiers. Some hide it better than others, but Captain Price learned to see through mental walls a long time ago. While he didn’t have the opportunity to peer into many revenant minds, it was even more prevalent in theirs.

That is to say, Kyle Garrick shouldn’t have surprised him.

He met the young Corporal barely two weeks after his death, the sight of crushed bones still terribly fresh in his mind. It didn’t deter Price like Ghost has - he has learned a lot since, lived through worse - and instead intrigued him. Call it morbid curiosity, but the sheer amount of care Kyle has for each and every soldier on his team, dead or alive, was a sign he will go far, in Price’s eyes.

That value, as admirable as it was, was currently eating the young soldier from the inside. Before he could take Gaz under his wing, he was forced to watch from the sidelines as the regret and shame weighed on Kyle’s heart. It gave him a considerable amount of comfort, to watch the man grow when they had the chance to work together.

Despite knowing both of them, Price wasn’t sure how Ghost and Gaz would handle a mission together. He knew they would be as professional as ever, but Ghost’s reputation precedes him by many paces, and it unfairly emphasizes times when he either was out of control due to the unimaginable weight of his past, or under orders.

So it came as quite a shock when Ghost not only complimented the Sergeant, but in his mind thought he would be content with working with Gaz again.

Price was already meaning to get Gaz on the 141, but seeing how well the two mashed with each other made him all the more certain of the need for the taskforce. He initially pitched it to the higher brass with an explanation of the tactical benefits of gathering their strongest revenants and training them together, allowing for the soldiers to explore unique and powerful ways to combine their abilities.

But secretly, it also allows Price to keep an eye on them, be their commanding officer, and make sure nobody will take advantage of those otherworldly powers without taking in consideration that maybe, despite already dying, revenants aren’t any less human than their fellow soldiers.

And for a long time, it was them three, against whatever fate threw at them. The taskforce gained infamy as the only revenant-exclusive squad in the world, mission after mission joining a long line of successes.

It wasn’t all perfect behind closed doors. Ghost’s Limbo continued to be hostile towards its owner, forcing him to work alone. Gaz was still burdened, and while having other revenants around him helped, showing him he’s not alone in his struggles, sometimes it was not enough.

Their team had their flaws, but it was better than any other alternative they had.

Then, Soap found his way in.

Sergeant MacTavish was an odd revenant, even among the unusual. From the first time meeting him, Price noted just how much the Scot seems to repress, even within the comfort of his own mind. Peering in, it was as if thick concrete walls were erected around his thoughts, sectioning off the different parts that made up Soap.

His personal file wasn’t much better - full pages blacked out, especially any pertaining to his Reaping. Price knows the smell of red tape, and Soap’s file was reeking with it.

It brought him years back to Simon, the way both of them appear to be afraid of themselves.

He decided to assign them both to a simple mission. Ghost resisted at first, as he always does when Price tries to get him out of his shell, so to speak. Luckily for him, and unfortunately for Ghost, he has the final word as a Captain.

It ended up a shitshow, because it always does when Price needs it not to. Or, that’s what he thought at first, hearing the initial reports.

Ghost’s demeanor was almost somber when Price asked him about Soap. Regret, and what Price could define as the feeling of missing out, surrounded the Lieutenant’s thoughts. Something about Soap caught his attention.

It took months before an opportunity arose, and an incredible effort from his side to not spill those thoughts accidentally (lest his plans fail, and his boys become disappointed), but Price managed to convince his superiors that the taskforce needs a new member. That member, of course, being Soap.

Price did not foresee just how much that addition will change his team. To say he regrets it would be a lie… but knowing what he knows now, he might’ve considered it longer.

Seeing how happy the three of them are, how things simply click better with Soap around, Price believes he would’ve made the same choice again and again.

Price came across a few revenants in his life, gazed into their thoughts more than once. Each of them were wholly extraordinary. The experience of dying and meeting a Reaper alters one’s mind irrevocably.

Out of all of those revenants, there’s only one that made Johnathan Price feel an innate sort of dread, one whose thoughts were disturbing enough to keep him awake at night for weeks after their short meeting. One that forced his own to a breaking point, made Price physically hear the creaking of his crumbling brain attempting to process what it is seeing.

That mind being, Vladimir Makarov’s.

John’s Reaper isn’t of the chatty kind, the one that tries to control its revenants with an iron fist. For the most part, it let him do as he pleases, occasionally warning him from this mission or another.

The sudden shift between their world and his Reaper’s realm never ceases to send a bolt of shock through him. He has observed minds when they were brought to distant places beyond their understanding. It made his eyes bleed.

This one is no different.

“R-Reaper. To what do I owe the honors?” John asks, wincing as a headache attacks him, brain overstimulated by the shifting shapes around him, concepts he has no words for appearing and disappearing with a blink.

“You are to be sent on a mission in a few hours.” the Reaper responds, a wild mass of flashing lights, like synapses of a starless sky. Price’s gift allows him to see the hidden messages between the words.

“Interest. Warning. Fear.”

…Fear…?

What… could make his Reaper… afraid?

The ancient voice continues, “You will be asked to kill a man. A revenant.”

“Danger. Blood. Enemy.”

John’s brows scrunch in confusion, “Reaper-?”

“You cannot kill that revenant. Under orders of Fate, you will not kill that revenant.”

“Command. Terror. Fate.”

John opens his mouth, to ask one of the billion questions swirling in his mind, but the synapses flash, his body gets the feeling of falling, and-

John gasps, eyes rapidly taking in his surroundings. Back in his office, kicked out of the Reaper realm before he could let out a peep. He sighs, wiping sweat from his brow, nape still tingling with the wrongness of his Reaper’s messages.

Something is scaring his Reaper to obey… ‘Fate’. John’s not sure what exactly that is, but he knows who will.

He’s about to punch in the number of the resident Spiritulogist on base, when a knock sounds on his door. “Open!” He calls loudly, his mind already supplying him with the orders the rookie is about to tell him.

They have a mission lined up for him, and he’s to be debriefed immediately. The rookie mumbles as such, and John waves him off.

His stomach churns in a way it hasn’t for a very long time.

“Bravo 0-6, what’s your status?”

Price brings a hand up to his comms, “solid, in position, no sign of the target.”

The watcher copies his response, clicking off channel. John swallows thickly, adjusting the hold on his sniper. On paper, this mission should be simple - a man named Andrei Nolan has been observed to be making moves in favor of several international criminal rings. The SAS needs him dead, and Price is here to make sure of that.

The intel suggested a possibility of the man being a revenant, but with no confirmed Reaper, the information doesn’t help him in the slightest.

The port he’s overlooking is said to be housing missiles in some of its shipment containers. Nolan will arrive to buy them from a local arms dealer. They would’ve not sent someone like Price usually, but not only did Nolan evade capture several times, he recently ramped up his activity, pointing to a new employer.

Any other day, Price would’ve killed him with no hesitation. Today, however, the words of his Reaper echo within his mind, dread spreading through his synapses, the emotions that coursed through the interdimensional being now flowing through him.

Reapers don’t lie, and his certainly doesn’t mince words. If it didn’t see a reason to warn John, it wouldn’t have.

There wasn’t enough time to explain that to his superiors, though. Humans don’t understand the connection Reapers and revenants have, hell, they barely understand Reapers as a concept, let alone their intricate oddities.

He inhales deeply. John hopes he’s close enough to read Nolan, when he finally shows up. Perhaps the man’s mind might have a clue as to why his Reaper needs him to stay alive.

And as if his thoughts have been heard, Andrei Nolan shows his face. Or… is that Nolan? The description given in the brief fits him, black hair, brown eyes, Eastern European man in his 30s, wearing a black suit and a red tie. But…

His left eye is closed, lower lid pink like it’s infected, and Price can’t tell from the distance, but… there seems to be a red line, almost like a tear, drawn down his cheek.

Price frowns, adjusting the zoom on his scope, analyzing the face as much as he can while the man moves. The seller arrived already, and is now showing “Nolan” the goods, but he doesn’t pay mind to him. The left eye seemingly confirms the revenant status, something about it is unsettling in a Reaper’s way, but if that’s the case, wouldn’t the intel note that?

“0-6 to Watcher.” Price mutters, eyes not straying from the supposed target, “I’ve got eyes on a man fitting the description, but something doesn’t line up.”

“This is Watcher, what is the problem, Lieutenant?”

“His left eye is shut, red marking down his left cheek. Sign of a revenant, don’t know who’s.”

The line goes quiet for a few beats, “...standby, 0-6.”

The crease between his brows deepens, John sighs and waits. The alleged Nolan and the seller are still discussing something, probably pertaining to the deal.

After a few long minutes, his radio crackles, “Watcher to 0-6, we’ve consulted Dr. Novikov.”

The head Spiritulogist of the SAS regiment. If there’s any non-revenant he could trust on such matters, it’s him, “what did he say?”

“No PID. Nolan has not been documented to have markings like the ones you’ve described, and they’re impossible to acquire after Reaping.”

“...So we don’t know who this man is?”

“Negative.”

Price shuts his comms for a moment to curse. He radios back in, “Watcher, requesting permission to move closer to target.”

“Explain your reasoning, 0-6”

“I want to use my powers on him. Check his thoughts, might give us an ID.”

The Watcher’s voice becomes muffled as they talk to another person in the room, “granted. Make sure to not be seen, Price.”

“Copy.” he answers, adding under his breath, “not a bloody rookie, am I…”

He leaves the sniper on the hill he previously perched on, preferring to go as light as possible. The target and the seller have moved since the conversation with Watcher, opening a shipment container and examining its contents. With their backs towards him, Price weaves between containers, climbing up a few to get a better view of the guards.

His range on complete strangers is shite as ever, a disadvantage he can’t train out of him. John stays low, sticking to the sharp shadows cast by the steel boxes, creeping closer and closer to the target.

The target is still focused on the illegal missiles, and he needs to step just a few more meters to get into range-

The man sharply turns, his eye locking with Price’s. A chill goes down his spine, and he freezes in place. He couldn’t have noticed him.

Price’s muscles don’t dare move, thoughts both reeling and dead still, as the man raises a hand, and slowly, slowly peels his left eyelid up.

The red line on his cheek continues up into the eye whites, going all the way into his disturbingly crimson pupil.

The seller stares at the target, expression confused when he is ignored. The target steps forward, and John has to force his legs to stay put and not run, because every single cell in his body screams of danger.

“Danger. Blood. Enemy.”

The target enters his range, and smiles. But why would he smile? He has no reason to, because he doesn’t know that Price is a Revenant of the Mind, doesn’t know the limits of his powers.

He doesn’t. He can’t.

And yet when their thoughts link, the first words he can farce are…

“Johnathan Price… just on time.”

John’s thoughts escape his mind before he can get a semblance of control on them, questions like “you shouldn’t know my name, how do you know my name?!” and “who are you, what Reaper fucking reaped you?”

To that, the target smiles with perfect, unnaturally white teeth, “you should know by now, people like me and you operate in realms considered impossible by most, Lieutenant.”

Price grinds his teeth, forcibly pulling his mind back, taking control of his powers, of what the target sees, “you’re not Andrei Nolan, are you?”

The Target chuckles, “you’re far more pathetic than I expected.” the image in his mind is not of Price, but of the entire SAS. “No, I’m not Nolan. I’ll let you know my true name, because rest assured, Johnathan, we will meet again.”

Price scoffs incredulously. There’s no doubt in the revenant’s mind, despite stating something he couldn’t possibly know.

“You do not believe me.”

“I’ve read enough minds to know an overconfident one by now, mate.” Price glares.

The revenant’s grin widens, peculiarly pleased. “It appears that I need to provide evidence for my claims. Very well.” he sweeps two fingers on the red marking on his face, a sort of thread materializing between them. Price’s breathing picks up, something in the revenant’s mind poking at his, a red haze enveloping his thoughts.

He takes half a step back, eyes wide and staring at the thread hanging from the revenant’s fingers.

“I can promise you, Lieutenant, you will not stay in disbelief for much longer.”

The thread shoots forward in a sudden rush, Price stumbling back, but no man or revenant could escape those unnatural strings.

The moment it wraps around his throat, images begin flashing in his mind.

A burning city, smell of flesh overwhelming his senses.

Emptiness. Living statues, covered in darkness.

Endless skies, clouds and stars, moon and sun, falling and falling and falling.

Piles of broken bodies, some familiar and others not, all far too young to be dead.

A photo passed towards him, of the very revenant that is invading his mind. The smell of alcohol burns at his nose.

Realms beyond his own, a fabric weaved with crimson strings. Hands, knitting it together. Three eyes, identical to the revenant’s.

Words. 

“Fate”

“Unescapable. Indestructible. Unchangeable.”

“Nothing but a puppet on red strings.”

A cruel smile, human teeth grafted onto the blood-red skin of a Reaper. Suffocating satisfaction, unfathomable knowledge, power great enough to bend Reaper will.

“Under orders of Fate, you will not kill that revenant.”

“The Revenant of Fate.”

“Vladimir Makarov.”

The string snaps.

Price finds himself on all fours, shaking. The screaming around him doesn’t die down, and it takes him minutes to realize it comes from his mouth. Little red tears drip between his hands, his eyes crying blood.

The revenant - Makarov - laughs. In his thoughts, the sound bouncing in his cranium, unescapable.

“When I tell you we will meet again, Johnathan, I do not lie.” Makarov says, condescending. “But for now, our business is done.”

He feels Makarov leave his range, not before he says, “you should consider yourself lucky, Lieutenant Price. Not many receive this gift, to see their own fate. Until next time.”

John doesn’t dare lift his gaze for what feels like hours, the shaking in his limbs taking long minutes to subside. Eventually, the dread in his gut lowers enough for him to look up.

The seller’s body lays dead in front of him, shipping containers still full to the brim with missiles. Makarov didn’t come for them.

His only goal was Price.

“This is Bravo 0-6 to Watcher, how copy?”

“...Price?! We’ve been trying to contact you for hours, where have you-”

“Target was not Nolan. He wasn't after the missiles, either.”

“Lieutenant-”

“What do we know about the Reaper of Fate?”

[cringefail-clown]

on my hands and knees looking for more jakehal content. jakehalers where are you. my brethren. we are shrivered up and dying, in dire need of nourishment

[myymi]

traumatizing tails again