#LONG CLAW IS RIGHT THERE AND 6 FEET UNDER

[smallpwbbles]

People suggesting Tom is going to die because Sonic needs to experience loss like Shadow did I need you to STOP

[animasola86]

🟩 A SHOT TO REMEMBER

slime x f!reader 🔥 very explicit 🔥 words: 2.8k

After you drank a mysterious green jello shot, you don't feel so good. But don't worry, you'll soon feel a lot better...

WARNINGS: NSFW! Explicit sexual content! Slime monster! Tentacles! Triple penetration! Aphrodisiacs! Mind control! Overstimulation! (READ ON AO3!)

A/N: This is part 3 of my CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE smut series! 1 🔸 2 🔸 3 🔸 4 🔸 5 🔸 6 🔸 7 This is OPTION 2/PART 3 - but can be read individually, let me just set the scene:

CONTEXT: You were invited to a Halloween party in a mysterious house, dressed as Little Red Riding Hood, and on your search for the bathroom because your stomach is acting up a little, you come to a long hallway full of doors, and you decide to go through the door a few feet away.

ADDITIONAL WARNING: If you're a little squeamish, you should probably pass on this. Mentions of vomiting and slimy things and orifices being filled with the hint of dubcon.

As soon as you pull open the door, you know you're at the right place. The bathroom is huge, though. Dark tiles all the way up to the ceiling, a fancy chandelier in the middle, its light warm and not as bright as you'd expect from a bathroom, a large floor-to-ceiling window showing nothing but darkness beyond the thick red curtains pulled to the side a little. There's a fancy bathtub on clawed feet in one corner, a more modern shower nook with a wide glass door opposite it, large enough to at least fit five people, and then you have a long vanity sporting two sinks and a giant mirror, and a fancy looking toilet on the other side.

The perfect mixture of vintage and modern – but you only have time to look at it for so long before your stomach starts churning badly once more. You stumble to the toilet, its lid opening automatically as you approach, and before you know it, you're hugging the bowl and dry-heaving into it, your whole body shuddering under the exertion. But strangely enough, nothing comes out, despite the feverish attempts of your convulsing body. All you can do is gather the saliva in your mouth and spit it into the porcelain, before you stand up on shaking legs and walk to the vanity, rubbing your hurting belly.

You feel full (and you wonder why). Seeing your messy reflection only makes it worse. After washing your hands, then your face, you decide to wash up completely, and a few moments later you stand in the shower, stark naked as one should, and marvel at the fancy apparatus in front of you. There's a rain shower, but also several nozzles embedded in the wall, and you have no idea which of the many buttons you have to press for it to do something, so you just press them at random, yelping in shock when a few of them send their hard jets straight at your cramping stomach.

You bend over, leaning away from the harsh water spray, and this time you feel something moving up your esophagus as you retch violently. Your head is spinning as you put one hand on the tiled wall, trying to steady yourself. Your lips part as you squeeze your eyes shut under the strain, and it's the strangest sensation when something slimy rubs along your tongue before it falls from your open mouth and right between your feet, splashing down.

The cramps are gone, but the sticky feeling in your throat remains, and when you straighten up and open your eyes, looking down, you almost slip when you try to get away from the little green thing on the floor. At first it looks like the jello shot you forced down earlier, but then it moves, changes form, becomes more rounded before little antennae spread across its body. You stare at it in sheer horror. That thing was inside your stomach? You feel as if you're going to be sick all over again.

But it gets worse. It grows. As you press your back against the shower wall, unable to move or look away, the slimy thing gets bigger, those little protrusions growing longer, thicker, its round form swaying under the constant spray of water from above. It looks almost see-through, the green shimmer growing fainter the larger it becomes. There's an eerie squelching sound as it rubs itself against the opposite shower wall, stretching, moving upwards, using its countless appendages to carry itself higher – until it stands at your height, a shapeless almost-transparent green blob with swaying tentacles, staring at you without eyes or even a face.

And you're frozen in shock, unable to process what is happening, what you're seeing. You must be drunk or high or completely out of your mind. This isn't real. You are not standing in the shower with a strange slime monster. No way. Fighting the reality of it, you don't even move or make a sound when the thing reaches out to you and brushes the tip of one of its tentacles against your leg. The touch is cold and wet, testing, careful. Your eyes follow its many movements, but you soon feel dizzy trying to count its tendrils or make sense of its shape.

More tentacles move towards you, and you stay completely still as they coil around your ankles, your wrists, seemingly holding you in place while others slither up and down your body, exploring every inch of it. It's when you feel them rubbing against your shamefully erect nipples or between your wet folds, that your heart beats faster. You struggle against the soft looking tentacles, but they're stronger than they appear. As the first sound escapes your mouth, a weak little whine, another tentacle rises and quickly pushes between your lips, forcing your head back as it pokes straight at the back of your throat, triggering your gag reflex, causing your body to convulse violently.

Desperate muffled whimpers try to choke past the tendril in your mouth, but that only makes more spit gather on your tongue before it drips past your lips and down your chin. You are utterly helpless, held in place, and all you can do is watch the slime thing come closer until it presses against you, from head to toe, its texture cold and sticky as it engulfs you completely. The strangest thing is that you feel eerily calm as that happens, all panic gone in an instant, and you can even breathe as it closes around your head. Maybe it's that tentacle that's forcing its way down your throat, maybe you are dreaming this after all.

It doesn't feel real, and how should this be real? You are being absorbed by a large slime monster, turning into a blob yourself, even though you feel more like an insect being encased by sap, soon to turn into amber, frozen in time, preserved for all eternity. It's the last conscious thought you are able to think before you feel your body being moved, and you end up on your back, suspended in the air, held up by the large translucent mass around you. It's taking up the entire lower half of the shower now, the pitter patter of the water against its wobbly form almost soothing, with how distant it sounds in your prison of slime.

Even though your mind is empty, spinning slightly in place, you can still feel everything that's happening to you. Despite being enveloped by a firm and wet substance, with the consistency of jello, you don't feel restrained, not that you want to move anyway. You're floating, body reclined, legs hanging in the air, wide open, arms extended in an almost T-pose, but you are relaxed, swimming inside the gelatinous body of the slime. The tendril in your throat is just resting there, supplying you with oxygen, seemingly, it's not even a bad pressure, it's just there.

Just like the other tentacles that push out of the mass and into any orifice they can find. It's literally filling you up, stuffing your ears, leaving you deaf to your own sounds except your steady heartbeat, poking at your nostrils until they join the larger thing in your throat. Somehow you're still able to see, even blink, as you watch what's happening to you in a deep daze. You've never been this calm before, even as you watch more tentacles form out of the unassuming mass that are clearly bound to fill up all your other holes.

You still flinch a little when you feel two of them poking between your ass cheeks, like tiny fingers, pressing against your sphincter before they breach the tense ring of muscles, but they don't push in, they only hold your hole open, stretching it gently, before you are being moved a little lower, allowing the slime to press its form into you. You moan around the tendril in your throat as you feel it hardening against you, assuming the shape of a very thick tentacle that is eager to invade every available inch of your ass – and beyond.

You feel it pushing in, first in little undulating motions to ease your muscles, before it presses harder, forcing its way deeper. You can't fight it, and you don't see a reason to do so either, and it's not as if the monster gives you time to adjust to the sensation anyway as it focuses on your last hole next. A deep thrumming motion goes through the wobbly mass, causing you to shiver and your thighs to twitch, and all you can do is watch with hooded eyes as not one but three tentacles glide against and between your folds in a dizzying rhythm.

Your head is swimming, eyes threatening to roll back, but you want to keep watching as they stimulate you, rubbing and rolling, it feels so good, so gentle, like waves lapping at your skin, a cool sensation against your heated flesh. You'd moan and mewl, buck your hips against them, but you're immobile, gagged, unable to do anything but watch and feel.

Luckily the creature seems to sense what feels good to you (maybe it can read whatever lurks in the depths of your empty mind?), and it starts moving exactly like you want it to move. It lifts your hips, up and down, in tandem to the strokes of its undulating appendages, causing your wetness to gather between your folds, and you wished you could hear the squelching sounds or at least be able to moan properly without anything blocking your throat. No matter. It still feels too good to be true, and when one of the tentacles slips beneath the hood of your throbbing clit, a deep shudder crashes through your body as you convulse on the waves of bliss.

The slime seems to feel your ecstasy and doubles it efforts, rubbing and prodding harder, firmer, faster, until you come properly, your eyelids fluttering shut as lights explode behind them, your thighs twitching, your still empty cunt clenching around nothing. You do squeeze around the thick tendril in your ass that stopped moving when it reached your bowels, just resting there now, deep inside you, filling you out, holding you up as if you were a mere doll impaled on a ventriloquist's fist.

Your orgasm subsides slowly, and when you open your eyes lazily, you notice just in time how the tentacles between your legs meld into a particularly large one before its tip presses right between your puffy labia, poking at your entrance, and you'd scream if you could as it plunges into you, forcing its soft form into any crevasse it can find before pulling back and impaling you again, and again, until your tense muscles give way for it to penetrate you deeper.

It's a strange sensation. It's clearly a heavy mass inside you, pushing against your squishy walls, pressing deep until your cervix stops it, but it's also soft enough to mold itself to your shape, filling you out, and in doing so stimulating all the sensitive spots deep within you. You are a writhing mess as it starts moving inside you, pulling back and pushing in, in and out, back and forth, moving alongside the tendril in your ass as it guides you into its thrusts, and you're like a boat in a storm, pushed and pulled, that way and this, unable to do anything but feel.

It feels too good to complain. Head empty, just bliss. You can't even focus on your orgasms because they just come like you do, gentle at first, a soft wave crashing over you, then getting more intense, more and more, until your whole body is spasming in the slime's hold, your juices seeping into its body, getting absorbed, and it seemingly feeds off them, grows bolder in its movements, faster, harder, more relentless.

And it never stops, or so it feels. You are floating on that incredible high, disconnected from the world, it's just pleasure, no pain, orgasm after orgasm, and you'd think you'd faint from the exertion, from how your heart pounds in your stuffed ears, but somehow the slime keeps you conscious enough to feel it, over and over again. And how you feel.

All its tendrils move in a synchronized rhythm, in and out, the one in your cunt hammering into you, the one in your ass undulating as it feeds more and more of itself into your body, and the one in your throat moves as well, gently up and down, like little vibrations that thrum down your esophagus, and you'd think it would reach your stomach soon, to be met by the other one pressing from the other side, but you can't think about it, can't think anything, just feel...

You're drifting, slipping in and out of consciousness, but you always come back to another wave of pleasure, held up by the slime's mass and its unrelenting tentacles, head spinning, eyes hooded, drool dripping past your lips and right into the gelatinous mass encasing you. The same happens every time the thing in your cunt makes you squirt by pummeling into your g-spot with vigor, when the heat from deep within pushes out of you with force, only to be absorbed by the monster holding you captive.

It's an endless cycle of coming and being let down only to be propelled back up again, over and over, and every time you orgasm the thing around and inside you moves faster, vibrates more, seemingly grows stronger and bigger, putting its new strength into ramming its tentacles into your holes more fiercely, and it's when it finally reaches what can only be its max capacity that a sudden jerk goes through the wobbly mass.

It's only a second when it pauses, but it's enough to allow you to watch out of tired eyes as its massive body presses against the glass door of the shower, spilling over it, losing some of its dense form, and you feel yourself slipping in its hold, its tendrils impaling you but unable to hold you up any longer. It even slips from your ears, unplugging you, and the first thing you hear is the shattering of glass as it pushes out of the shower, making the door explode into tiny shards that get stuck in its outer shell.

It slips through the large opening, pulling you with it, and you glide out of its mass like a newborn calf, wet and slimy all over, shivering as the cold air of the bathroom hits your exposed skin. Its tentacles withdraw from your holes, and you feel strangely empty without them, your muscles still trying to clench back into their original form. The one in your throat is the last to leave you, and once it does, you feel the sudden urge to cough, to inhale sharply, to get as much air into your burning lungs as possible.

With the need to breathe comes the need to think, and when your mind restarts from its forced slumber, you blink in confusion, trying to make sense of your position on the floor, why you're so wet, why the shower door is broken, why you feel so weird all over. Weird, but also... good? Filled even though you're empty? Satisfied beyond belief?

Slowly you sit up, wiping at your face, pushing a strand of hair out of your forehead. As you scramble to your feet, which proves difficult with how much your legs are shaking, you see something out of the corner of your eye, a motion, something green disappearing out of sight. Frowning as you turn your head to look around the bathroom, you wonder what happened, having no recollection whatsoever.

Apparently you slipped in the shower, broke its door and woke up after who knows how long, just lying on the floor? Perhaps. Doesn't explain the sticky feeling between your legs, but maybe you just had a wet dream, stranger things have happened. Nothing to worry about. Let's wash up and move on, hm? you think to yourself as you step back into the shower, not even wondering where all the glass shards of the broken door have gone.

After you cleaned up properly, you dry off with the provided towels and get dressed again, before you check your reflection in the mirror one more time. Looks good enough. Time to get back to the party. Because that was why you came to this house. Where they gave you this strange jello shot... Before your memory comes crashing back down on you, you turn to the door, shaking your head to clear it, feeling as if you were in dire need of some fresh air.

Because whatever you think to remember happened, could have never actually happened. Nope. Not in a million years. You just have a very big imagination.

So you slip out of the bathroom back onto the hallway, hoping nobody would notice the missing shower door or the mess you made on the floor.

1 🔸 2 🔸 3 🔸 4 🔸 5 🔸 6 🔸 7

YOUR NEXT OPTIONS ARE:

reach for the door opposite you

good to the end of the hallway

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

KINKTOBER 2024 MASTERLIST

[symbiomancy]

be aware wolf —werewolf

—summary: you venture into the woods to hunt for werewolves | 1.5k | AO3 | monster masterlist

—warnings: monster x human, monsterfucking, p in v sex, knotting, creampie, stomach bulge, mounting, outdoor sex, implied voyeurism

It’s a simple cycle. Enter the woods. Keep the local werewolf population under control. Retrieve any animal carcasses you come across in the woods. Make pelts out of said carcasses. Keep them or sell them. Receive payment from the town for your hard work. Pack your things and find the next town with a werewolf problem.

There are quite a few steps, but it’s a simple, straightforward cycle.

You sling your shotgun onto your back and place a hand onto the handgun at your hip. Your other hand rests on the belt of silver bullets around your hips. The ground is dry and this place hasn’t seen rain in weeks. There are no tracks to go off so you settle for scouting tufts of fur.

Something catches in the corner of your eye as you step around a grand oak.

You whip your head to the side and meet the pair of yellow eyes from the distance. It’s late August, and the blessing of the summer solstice only lasts so long. The sun is long gone and the full moon has crested. Darkness creeps around you, the tall trees shielding you from the moon’s glow. A cool breeze caresses your bare arms. You can just about make out the creature’s outline in the shadows. It’s large, maybe about 6 feet tall.

Slowly, you slip the shotgun from your shoulder and raise the barrel in the wolf’s direction. You whistle.

“Here boy,” you call. The pair of eyes blink at you languidly. “C’mere. I got treats for ya.” Indeed, you do; an opened pack of beef jerky in your back pocket. “C’mon, I have a whole pack of you to hunt tonight and I like to be efficient with my time.”

The werewolf rises onto its hind legs. Oh, great, you think, there’s different species in the same genus for these fucks. Perhaps 8 feet tall is more accurate.

You adjust your hold and cock the shotgun.

The werewolf is gone in a blink.

Your pulse picks up and you whirl on your heel, shotgun still raised. These things are fast, always are but they’re also big. How hard is it to shoot one?

The sound of a branch breaking has you whirling around, finger on the trigger to take the shot —

A claw strikes out at you and catches on your belt, ripping it like it’s paper. Your belt and the bullets in their holster disappear from your waist, your pants ripped and a superficial gash in your hip. You lose your footing on a protruding root and fall onto your back, barely keeping your head from slamming against a thick root.

The werewolf drops onto all fours legs, standing over you, its front paws planted on either side of your head. Its warm breath fans against your face, your arms. Its teeth are bared. Saliva dribbles from its maw.

You spare a glance away from its face to assess your situation — maybe there’s a way to roll out from underneath it and scramble towards your shotgun, wherever it landed. Instead, you find yourself staring at its bulbous member, fully erect. It’s long and thick, precum glistening on its tip. You look away, heat flooding to your cheeks and cunt. In your defense, it looked at you first.

You slowly draw your foot back and strike out, hit the beast’s hind leg. It howls in pain and you scramble out from underneath it, roll onto your stomach and stumble upright. Your shotgun is just a few steps to the right.

A heavy weight slams into you from behind and sends you onto the ground. Your jaw collides with the ground and your teeth snap together. You groan, rest your weight on one elbow and place your free hand against your jaw, pressing against the sore muscles. Hot breath fans the back of your exposed neck and something heavy and slick presses against the flesh of your hip. U kick again and scramble forward, your gun just about in reach. Claws swipe at ur body, snag on your shirt and tatter ur barely intact pants.

The cool night air hits your throbbing cunt. You try to ignore it, want to ignore it so bad, to finish the job and go take care of yourself — the werewolf shoves its fanged snout against the back of your neck. You still, heart leaping in your chest. Its heavy member rests on the swell of your ass, hips rocking back and forth, shallow thrusts as if it’s looking for a warm hole. Your pussy clenches at the thought.

It finds that warm hole, pressing its cock against your entrance, just barely breaching it, and you groan. It’s not going to fit but damned if the beast won’t try to make it fit. Maybe it will fit. The wolf grabs your waist — fuck, it’s hand is big enough to nearly wrap around your entire torso — and jerks its hips forward. You gasp as it pushes in all at once, filling you so completely, so deliciously that you nearly see stars. It’s so big and thick, you swear you can feel every vein and ridge of it.

The wolf snarls, beads of saliva dripping onto the back of your neck and thrusts forward shallowly. You struggle onto your knees. It pulls out shallowly and thrusts back in until the bulb at the bottom of its shaft nudges against your pussy.

Heat pools in your stomach as the werewolf drags its cock in and out of your hot cunt. The ridges and veins of his cock feel like bliss, have you gasping for air. Its furry hips connect with yours, the sound of your bodies colliding muffled by his coat. But you’re so wet, every thrust into your sopping cunt is nothing but a wet squelch. It thrusts in without resistance, going in all the way and pulling out with ease. It pushes so deep into you, drags against your walls like nobody ever has. Your thighs are wet, almost shaking at the strain of holding yourself up on all fours.

Your hand slips out from underneath you and your shoulder collides with the ground. The werewolf presses forward — it mounts you, places a clawed hand next to your head for balance and drives in with newfound vigor. The tip of its cock hit so deep in you that you nearly see stars, try to blabber something, something incoherent between ‘no’ and ‘yes’ and ‘more’ and ‘please please please please’. The wolf pistons in and out of our shopping cunt. Its tongue lolls out of its mouth, slobbers onto the back of your neck. The bulb at his crotch nudges against our opening with every thrust and dives slightly in each time. It’s wide and big and you gasp a pitiful sound when it slips into you with a painful stretch. It’s too much and too little at the same time. You try to clench around it.

The werewolf pauses and you want to cry out, beg it to keep going, to bully its way into your pussy until you can take its knot. You’re so full, so full, this thing is everywhere, in your pussy, in your guts, in the back of your throat. All you can manage is a pitiful croak before the beast is back on you again, resting its weight on your back. It picks up the pace, ruthlessly pistoning into you, bullying your throbbing, leaking pussy, rutting his bulb against it, almost stuffing it inside. It places one large clawed hand onto your thigh and pulls it to the side like that will give it more room. Perhaps it does but the stretch of your cunt and your thighs is too overwhelming to not focus on.

You press back against him as much as u can from your contorted position, meet his hips with urs in a frantic attempt to get your release. Your chest heaves as you attempt to match his pace, pressure building in the pit of your stomach. You’re babbling now, you absolutely are, begging for it to push you over the edge and stuff you full. It speeds up as if it understands you, pressing its weight on top you. Your cheek scrapes against the ground and in the corner of your eye, you can make out the bulge in your stomach as the werewolf thrusts in. It’s too much, too good, too deep, rubbing against that spot, knocking the breath from your lungs with every thrust.

You come with a wail, pussy throbbing and clenching around its cock, sucking it back in to keep it there. The wolf howls, head thrown back and buries its knot inside you. Its cock spasms and spills into you. Rope after rope of hot cum coasts your insides until you’re full, and then some. You feel it slide down your thighs, dribble from your pussy. You try to adjust yourself to get a look and clench involuntarily around the beast when you spot the shape of his cock protruding from your stomach.

The cool night air feels pleasant against your heated skin.

You look away from the unholy sight buried in your guts and let your eyes unfocus to bask in your post-orgasmic bliss.

One, two, three, four —

There are at least four pairs of yellow eyes observing you from the darkness.

note: I'm open to hearing about dead batteries!! be as graphic or non-graphic as you'd like:)

banner & divider by @/cafekitsune

[the-froschamethyst4]

Making the Biscuits

𖤐Pairing: König x F!Reader

𖤐Pronouns: She/Her

𖤐Warnings: EXTERNE FLUFF, language, some slight jealously,

𖤐Summary: Y/n was a black cat she named King. She got the cat before she met König, she jokes saying it was fate but King hates König and vice versa but what happens when König has to watch King for the first time??

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König stared at the black cat that hated him with a passion, the cat carried an evil look on his face, but right when Y/n pets his head he looks so happy.

"So the directions on how much food to give King is on his cat food, scoops in the bag...that should be it, for now, anything else I'll probably call me or text," she says, looking at her boyfriend König.

"Of course, Liebe," he says, standing up from the couch and placing his hands on her waist. He looks over her shoulder seeing the black cat, discreetly flipping the cat off, earning a hiss from King, and a quick bat at his finger.

Y/n didn't believe her King was a bad cat, she loves her cat with a passion, König just picks on the poor cat, calling him names and batting at the cat like he does to König.

"Behave, I'll be back in a few days," she tells König and kissed his lips. She turns to her cat, squishing his face in her hands and peppering his head and face in kisses. "I'll be back," she tells him.

"Damn cat," König mumbles under his breath.

"Okay, have fun, bye," Y/n says, leaving her house.

And immediately King hissed at König and ran off into Y/n's home office.

"STUPID CAT!" König yells at the cat, like he could understand him.

-------

12:00PM

König sat on the couch turning on the TV and King had come out from the home office, he perched himself on his cat tree just next to the TV, batting at the ball that was hanging, there was a bell inside, a very annoying bell inside the ball.

King was doing it to annoy König, but König had the patience of a saint and that a loud high pitched bell wasn't going to break him.

When King realized that König wasn't going to break, he jumps off his cat tree and went to the dark brown leather couch where König was sitting, rubbing his head and back on the leather couch and then deciding to sharpen his claws.

König turns and shoos the cat away.

"Stop that," he says, pushing the cat away, King swatted at König's hand drawing a bit of blood on his hand, but that didn't bother König, he's had worse happen to him.

König had gotten off the couch and grabbed a squirt bottle filled it with water, and he would spread it at King if he did it again, which wasn't long, King started to do it again and König sprayed him.

King went crazy and headed to his cat tree. He's never been sprayed before, so it made him go a bit insane.

König leaned back against the couch again, King was off his cat tree again and headed to the front door, he jumps at the handle getting König's attention.

"Do you need to go out?" A low gruff meow came from King as he bats at the door handle again, König gets off the couch and opens the front door for King, who took off immediately, then it hit König.

"Wait...KING YOU'RE NOT AN OUTDOOR CAT!!" König can't afford to lose his girlfriend cat on his first day of watching him. König grabs his shoes and starts running after King.

"KING!!"

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3:00PM

3 Hours later and König was walking back home with King in his arms. King was trying to break free from König's arms but he wasn't going to put King down.

König opens the door and drops King on the tile just in front of the door and he runs to his cat tree.

König sits on the couch, head back against the window and his arms fell at his side.

If it wasn't for the little girl who found King, König would be 6 feet under, with a headstone saying Dead: lost his girlfriends cat.

"Cat...I hate you, and I know you hate me...but...we need to get along...for Y/n, anyways," King's head jumped up hearing Y/n's name but of course didn't see Y/n.

König gets off the couch and heads to the kitchen seeing King's cat food, it was close enough for King to be fed. König grabbed King's cat dish that was a matte black with gold lettering of his name, he grabs the scoop from inside the bag and pours his one cup of food.

Once King heard his food hit his dish, he comes running into the kitchen with his gruff meow, he looks up at König pawing at him to drop his bowl.

König placed his bowl back on his mat next to his water dish looking like his food dish, König then grabs his water dish refilling it with water and placing it back next to his food bowl.

King was eating and König was finding something to eat. He opens the fridge and pulled out some leftover spaghetti and reheated it in the microwave and taking it to the living room.

King came waltzing in licking his lips and jumping on the couch sitting next to König who popped open a can of beer. King then meowed and pawed at a lose noodle hanging off the plate.

"HEY!" König moved his plate away from King. "You just ate, it's my turn."

King just meows and climbs on König's lap, he holds his plate up higher from King's reach and König had to eat by stretching his neck and eating, King would meow and try to stretch to reach the plate.

"Cat...get...off..." König was saying in between chewing his food.

Meow! He says loudly.

"Knock it off...I'll spray you with the bottle again," he threatens but King still keeps trying to get at König's food.

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10:14PM

König was getting ready for bed now, he was only in sweatpants and was drying off his face, he steps into the bedroom he shared with Y/n and her dumb cat.

King was stretched out on König's side of the bed, like usual.

"Sucks for you bud, but I like Y/n's side better," he yanks up the covers disturbing King's sleep and getting under the covers on Y/n's side of the bed.

King hissed at him and fell on König's pillow. Clawing at the pillow, König swats at King making him stop.

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6:30AM

The sun was peaking into the bedroom. König still asleep letting out his usual low snores. King had made himself comfortable on König's eyes, his soft body blocked out the sunlight.

König's snores were cut off and was waking up, his hands went to the soft body over his eyes, and started to pet King's soft body.

King hisses at König and got off of him.

"You're the dumb cat who was sleeping on me," König says, getting off the bed and heading to the shower. He had work today.

After his shower and giving King his usual scoop of food before he leaves for work.

King walks around the house meowing for someone. He goes to the living room and didn't see anyone. He heads to the window that was behind the couch and perched himself there.

-------

"König, how's babysitting your girls, cat?" Soap teased him.

"That damn cat hates me. I wake up and he's on my face, I pet him and he still fucking hisses at me."

"He laid on you?" Price asked, coming in and sitting next to him.

"Yeah, surprised me too, he's never laid on me, last night after I fed him and I was eating, he was trying to eat my food, something he's also never done before, he doesn't even do that with Y/n. King is ALWAYS with Y/n, so he's acting a bit different," König says.

"Maybe he's finally warming up to you?"

"Maybe, Y/n should leave you two more offend," everyone laughs.

--------

4:00PM

King laid on the window seal still looking outside, he was waiting for someone, but who exactly? King yawns and when he does, König pulls into the driveway.

King stretches up and heads to the front door, he hears the door knob turn and he starts meowing and clawing at his pants.

"Bud," König bends down and pets King's head, he stands on König's knee and paws at his mask. König puts his hands on King's waist picking him up. King didn't hiss, didn't fight König but instead rubs his head on König's mask.

"What do you want?" König asked, King who just meowed at him.

-------

König hasn't put down King since he's been home, King won't let him put him down. König tried to change out of his uniform and King would just meow, meow, and meow till König picked him back up.

He sits on the couch with King next to him, his arm on King's side as König was watching his usual Crime fighting show. King paws at König's leg then King started to make biscuits on König's thigh.

King never makes biscuits on König, he's seen King make biscuits on Y/n before, this felt like an honor that King was doing this.

King then made biscuits on König's stomach.

-------

A few days Later

Y/n had walked through her home calling out to her boyfriend and cat. She walks to the kitchen seeing König dance around shirtless and in sweatpants, King sitting on the counter watching him make lunch.

King then looks and saw Y/n and let out a soft meow, making König turn and look at Y/n.

"Hey," he says.

"Hi," she smiles, walking to them both, kissing König's lips and petting King's head and kissing between his ears. "How was everything?" She asked.

King and König looked at each other.

"Good," König smiles and King meows rubbing his head on Y/n's palm.

"Well, that's good, I'm glad you two are getting along," she says, kissing König's cheek.

[lillybearrie]

Jason is tragic not because he died, because let's be honest every character dies at least once it's practically a right of passage. No it's not that he died or even that after coming back he felt that his life had no impact it ment nothing, no it's the fact that this child who spent his whole life taking care of and managing the emotions of the adults in his life, who always tried to keep a smile on his face for his parents sake who let the adults in his life project what they wanted to on to him Who spent so long being the good kid the happy robin still felt that it didn't matter the he hadn't mattered.

Jason was good when his mother invited men over and sent him on errands to keep him out of the house, jason was good when he became the sole provider for both his mother and him, jason was good when he watched his mother died, jason was good when Bruce adopted him as a substitute for the son who left, jason was good when he heard Bruce and Dick fighting down the hall and pretended he didn't, jason was good when he learned to be robin,jason was good when he prioritized school over the mission, jason was good when he smiled and hugged batman, jason was good when he made the batman smirk, jason was good when he defended the citizens of gotham, jason was good for so long. For so long he was told to chose the high road and he did (with some notable exceptions-) for other people.

And then he wasn't good he got himself benched, and he wandered back to the narrows, he found out the woman who raised him was not the one who have birth to him and in the interest of learing more about himself he used those detective skills he learned as Robin to find his bio mom, he tried to protect her from the Joker and in return she sold him out and took a smoke break while listening to the sounds of laughter and a crowbar sattering bone, and still after that he tried to be good he tried to still save her, ignoring his own pain he dragged his broken and battered body over to untie her and he helped her to the door as he himself struggled to stay upright and then... it was locked. He failed to protect her and now he was gonna die. The building collapsed around him and he could hear Batman calling out but he couldn't respond and he died.

Then he wakes up 6 feet under and has to claw his way back to the surface, and upon eventually regaining most of himself he returns to gotham to find it unchanged. He spent his whole life being good for the sake and for the benefit of the adults in his life and even then despite everything even in his death they didn't change nothing changed Joker is still breaking out of Arkham on a bi-weekly basis, Batman is still doing the same things, and Bruce put a new kid in the robin suit and no doubt started pushing his issues on the kid like he did with both jason and dick. Jason was replaced both as Robin and in the Wayne family and everyone moved on like he was never there to begin with his life had so little impact ment so little to the people who were his whole world that the moment he was no longer right up in their faces the forgot about him.

And after being so good for so long he finally said fuck it. He said fine I'll do it myself and started cleaning up the streets his way without batman's rules and you know what? It was working. And that just reiterated in his mind that Bruce could have avenged him if he really wanted to but he didn't.

Do do you guys understand why this little shit consumes my brain yet?? Arararara

Also large parts of this are headcannon because depending on what comics you read the are several different interpretations of Jason as Robin (as well and the other characters) but this is how I like to read him because frankly it doesn't really matter if he was the happy robin or the aggressive robin because either way he died came back and is now the red hood but I personally find this read far more interesting than "he was volatile before and the only thing that stopped him from killing was batman and now that he doesn't have someone telling him not to he became the red hood because that who he always was deep down" but that's just me if you like that interpretation as it's a fairly common take in comics post-under the red hood but it's just not for me. Now do I have thoughts on his repressed rage issues and how they are not longer uh- yk repressed rage issues and how it parallels Dick (because boy howdy do i have thoughts on Richard Grayson-) absolutely i do but this post is already way to long so we aren't gonna get into that anyway like I said this is just how I chose to read Jason because I personally find it a more compelling story.

[moonlight-stalker]

# Dcu x Dp 142

In the center of Gotham there stood two unique and strange statues.

One of the statues was of a humanoid man that stood up straight at 5 feet 8 inches both of his hands resting on the top of a sword that was in front of him. He wears a cape that was sculpted to look like there is fur on the edges a chain holds the cape in place, where the chain meets the cape there is a human-looking skull on both sides. His head is slightly tilted down so if you stood a couple of feet away he would be looking at you, he has a soft open smile on his face if you look closely enough you can see he has fangs. His hair looked as though it was floating, on top of his head sat a crown, he had pointy ears the hands that rested on top of the sword had nails that looked like claws. He wears a bodysuit baggy pants and what looks like combat boots, on the center of his bodysuit there is a D with a P inside symbol.

At his feet lays the other statue, a big Rottweiler. The dog came up to his hip while lying down and was at least 7 feet long, his head was by the man's hip and his body was curled behind the man's legs. The dog had his mouth open partially with his tongue hanging out you could see his teeth when looking at him the dog's head was looking at the same spot that the man's head was looking at. The dog wore a collar with spikes at the front there was a tag that had the name Cujo and on the back of the tag the same symbol that was on the man's bodysuit. One of the dog's paws was resting on top of an actual dog toy made of rubber.

They both are on a stone pedestal that is about 3 feet tall and 6 feet wide the pedestal is decorated with symbols of death and protection. You can find other humanoids sculpted into the pedestal and over time people have noticed that you can also find the Bats and Birds symbols on the front of the pedestal and in the corners you can find symbols that represent the rogues.

The statue had both precious gemstones and metals decorating it. The statue of the dog had the least, the dog's eyes are made of rubies the claws are made of obsidian. The spikes on the collar seemed to be an actual metal, in between each spike a star sapphire sits. Under each spike, a small chain is attached and connects to the next spike.

The man had much more, his eyes were made of Alexandrite stones but changed from Emerald to Sapphire and they changed at random. His freckles are a combination of Opal stone and Moonstone that are spread across his cheeks and nose, and his claws and sword are made of obsidian. The cape outside of the cape has small silver spots, and on the inside, there are many different gemstones that are decorated to look like stars in the sky. Crown is made of a combination of Amazonite and Malachite and is decorated with Ammolite, papagoite, shattuckite, and star sapphire. Bracelets are made of Azurite with grandidierite, he has Paraiba tourmaline earrings with one star sapphire earrings hanging from his right ear. He has three rings one made of Garnet, the second one is made of Grandidierite, and the last one is made of Jeremejevite. On his left hand, there are some cracks that disappear underneath the sleeves of his bodysuit and appear again on his left cheek the cracks seem to be filled with emerald ( the bats know it's not emerald it's crystallized LaArus water ) it is like a kintsugi.

Several things make these two statues very unique

1. No known history there is nothing about who made the status or why they were placed there

2. Destroy or steal no matter how many times people try to blow up the statues or smash them no damage can be done, and no one can remove any of the gemstones that are on them. The person would also become sick or be injured after trying

3. Can't be Recorded or take pictures it's difficult to get clear pictures and videos unless they're from an older model

4. No one can buy or take them many wealthy people have tried to buy the statues and take them but every time that's happened the machines and cars that were there to move them were shut down and the person who tried to buy them would get extremely sick and be haunted by nightmares, night terrors and paralysis.

5. Crused and blessed as mentioned before people would get sick be injured get nightmares, night terrors, and/or paralysis. People that stand in a 15 feet radius of the status can't get infected by any of the gass that are release and people that are already infected by them are inside the radius will get cured, and has also protected people from getting attacked inside the circle .

[baiabay]

No Role Modelz (ATSV Black Cat Variant! Reader Insert)

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6: Current Chapter

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^^links 2 chapters!! this story is also on ao3, wattpad, and quotev under the same name

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Chapter Six: Bye Felicia!

-------------------------------------------------

Fucking exhausted.

At this point you weren’t even thinking, just letting adrenaline drive your movements. But the thing about adrenaline, it runs out. And you weren’t sure how much of it you had left, or how long this mess was supposed to last. 

While dodging debris and hauling around citizens, you came to a realization. Unlike the others, you didn’t have powers. You were never bitten by a radioactive kitten, and neither was your father as far as you’re aware. You didn’t shoot out hairballs from your palms or have super-strength, you couldn’t claw your way up walls or always land perfectly on your feet, unlike the others, you were just human. And your human-ness was really starting to weigh down on you right about now, as you felt your feet slide out from under you, and your wrists start to ache while you did your best alongside Pav to keep a city bus from toppling over the edge of a broken bridge. 

You grit your teeth and groaned, nothing in your mind but fuzz, body fueled by the desperate willpower the screams of civilians around you provided. Squeezing your eyes shut, you felt the ground rumble behind you, deepening the cracks that formed around your feet. A pained shout of Miles’ name from Gwen sounded out. 

After what felt like forever, the strain on your arms had been slightly relieved. You cracked your eyes open, met with Hobie by your side, joining you in the upward pull of the city bus. After a few more hearty tugs, the bus was finally on solid ground. You heaved a heavy sigh, finally feeling the full weight of your adrenaline crash. Your mind spun and your stomach churned. Under you, your legs began to wobble. With nothing but exhaustion on your mind, you embraced the slump of your body that followed. Before you felt yourself hit the ground, a firm hand gripped your shoulder, steadying your unstable form. Besides you, an English accent mumbled some sort of consolidation your ringing ears didn't manage to pick up. Still, in your hazy state, you turned your head towards Hobie and shakily parted your lips. “...Is it over?” 

Before you could catch a response, you felt a new pair of arms wrap themselves around your form. You clamped your eyes shut in surprise, and by the time you opened them, the intimate squeeze that engulfed you was gone. In front of you, Pav stood with a hand on his chest, head lowered in a silent ‘thank you’. Despite everything, a smile crept its way onto your face. 

The tender moment was quickly cut short with more rumbling. But this wasn’t another signal of more destruction, it was different. This time it felt…warbled…time bending. In the direction of the noise, what looked like a giant, spider-shaped ship descended from a bright portal. It landed with a heavy thud, and opened its large mouth to release what looked like…more? Spider-people…? You let out a wry laugh. You were beginning to sense a pattern.

Walking first out of the ship with an air of authority, was a familiar face. “Okay, guys, secure the area, clear all civilians, and let’s contain this quantum hole.” Your mind flashed back to the night you and Miles jumped headfirst into this mess. In the midst of Spots’ destruction that night, her holographic form stood alongside Gwen. Just as you were about to turn to mention this revelation to Miles, he was already taking confident strides towards the pregnant hero. Not before grabbing a hold of your wrist and dragging you behind him, forcing you to join him in his determined trot towards the now-frowning Spider-woman. Of course.

Your brows began to knit together and a nervous smile plastered itself on your lips. “Hah…Miles, what do you think you’re doing,” You tried to tug your wrist away, which he did loosen his grip, but his stride didn’t falter once. Breaking your train of worry, he spoke your name. “Just trust me with this.” He replied with a shrug in his shoulders and a smile clear in his voice. “Trust me.” He squeezed your wrist before letting go and quickening his pace, now walking in front of you. 

Similar to his determined stride, the cheeriness in his voice refused falter as he began to address the Spider-heroine. “Hey, I’m Miles, and uh, that’s Black Cat back there,” The pregnant hero jutted her chin into the air, walking with clear frustration thinly veiled with nonchalance. Despite her obvious display of ignorance towards him, Miles continued. “Uh- we all actually met before, when I was invisible and Cat-” A knot began to weave and tighten in your stomach as you felt the gaze of the older woman meet yours. She lowered her chin, looking at you through her eyebrows. She walked quicker now, towards you. You gulped. “I know who you are,” She mumbled, finally addressing Miles. “But you, Hardy,”

huh?

 She stopped before you, never once breaking her glare. She let out a deep sigh, letting her shoulders slump. You, on the other hand, couldn’t be any more tense. “You’re really not supposed to be out here.” 

How did she know my name?

“How do you know my-”

“Okay- wait, let me explain-” Gwen stepped between the two of you. “Miguel wants you back at HQ.” Gwen was quickly shut down before any sort of explanation could escape her masked lips. “Wait, where are we-” “All of you.” Your confused sentiments were quickly shut down as well, met with a quick sweep of the hand of the hero before walking off towards the ship. The knot in your stomach loosened. Only slightly. Beside you, Miles whooped excitedly. “I’m going to HQ?”

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I just can’t catch a break, huh?”

You shouted towards the rest of the group from the ceiling. Or was it the floor? Or maybe just a wall? This building made no sense to you. Granted, it probably wasn’t designed with Cats in mind. While Miles, Gwen, and Hobie walked comfortably upside-down, their feet sticking effortlessly to every surface they touched, you relied on swinging your form around via grappling hook. Occasionally, gravity would be on your side and you would catch yourself walking like normal across what you assumed was a floor, but just as you would start to get comfortable, you began to fall upwards. Or would it be downwards?

“It’s a bit much, innit?” Hobie mumbled back. “Pff,” You chucked. “More than a bit- SHIT-!”

Doubling over in pain, you let go of your hook. Screaming out, you tried to grab at yourself in an attempt to ground the sting that shot through your nerves. You tried to grab at yourself, but you felt nothing. You felt like you were coming undone. You were coming undone, you were falling apart, you were-

“Here.”

And as the pain was never there, it was gone entirely. A pressure on your wrist. Looking towards your arm you were met with  a bright blue rubbery band.

“It’s a day pass. Keeps you from…” You heard the same pained grunt from Miles, who now crouched beside you, face contorted in pain. “…doing that.” He snapped the band across his wrist, sending you a worried glance before helping you up. 

Continuing your trek through the HQ, you subconsciously felt yourself grow more on guard. You recognized this feeling, it was the exact same one you would always feel while sneaking past security during heists, the exact same feeling you would get slinking around CCTV cameras late at night. 

You were being watched. 

Glancing around the space, you easily confirmed that yes, you were being watched. Quite intensely too. As you trudged behind the group you instinctively rested your hand on the holster of your whip, noticing how the masked eyes of the Spider-people around you seemed to follow your every move. You lifted your chin, adjusting your posture to walk with a stronger, cockier air in your step. The staring turned to whispers, the whispers turned to murmurs. Your lips began to pull into a smirk. Once again, The Black Cat was watched, feared, the center of attention. 

Would it be wrong if you said you missed this feeling?

If you focused enough, you could decipher the mumblings that floated around you. And one thing especially kept on putting you off. 

…The Black Cat…Cat is here?...Black Cat…Hardy…Cat Burglar…Thief…Hardy…Cat.. Hardy?…Hardy…Hardy…

…Felicia?

They all knew your goddamn name. Your last name, at least. Fearful mumbles of ‘Hardy, Hardy, Hardy’ filled your ears, mixed with another name you didn’t recognize. ‘Felicia, Felicia, Felicia’. You tried to not let how disturbed you were show on your face. Lifting your head higher, you continued your strut.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Who’s in these lazer cages?”

You asked, eyes illuminated orange by the glowing prison before you.

“Anomalies,” Answered above you, a small, weirdly fashionable, digital avatar. “Folks who ended up in the wrong dimension. We kick their butts and send them home.”

Glowering looks were sent in the direction of the group as you and Miles curiously peered at the multiple caged anomalies in the room. Men with eight tentacled arms strapped to their backs, tall figures with crystal balls for heads, a man with the posture of a vulture, a literal vulture- the oddities were neverending. 

One in particular caught your eye. A leaner, more feminine figure stood with a cocked hip and arms crossed. The knot was back. Tightening, twisting, as you stepped slowly towards the orange enclosure. As you got closer, more features made themselves apparent to you. Thin heeled boots blended seamlessly into a skin-tight, grayscale suit. Crossed arms lined with white fur lead into ladylike hands, with long, pointed nails decorating their fingertips. A deep v-neck, prominent collarbones, red-painted lips, blue eyes, a tight, high ponytail-

Cat ears.

It seemed both you and the lady before you felt the same way about each other's presence, watching with wide eyes as hers widened as well. By now, the knot has doubled, tripled, tied around itself and every organ in your body. Whatever type of confidence you managed to muster in yourself earlier was long gone now. In front of you, plump, red lips parted to speak. 

“Felicia?”

That name again. Shocked still, you shook your head ‘no’. The lady let out a wry laugh. “I know a Cat when I see one,” The click-clacks of high heels sounded out as she stepped closer towards the edge of the cage, now crouching so her face was leveled with yours. She had an elegant, mature face. Her lips were stretched into a small, relaxed smile, but the pained scrunch that was knit into her forehead told you that relaxed was the last thing she was feeling at this moment. “But you’re so…young.” A sigh, followed by a feline-like stretch as she stood back up in her enclosure. “They’re not gonna like you in here, y’know. They’ll make you ‘Go Home’ as soon as he finds out who you are.” 

“Wait- wait,” You finally spoke up, breaking out of whatever trance the two of you were caught up in. “Who’s ‘he’? And who are you? And why do you look like me but not…really? And everyone in here knows my last name for some reason and it’s been driving me fucking crazy-”

“Let’s go!” Down the hall behind you, Hobie called out over his shoulder. Another sigh from the anomaly. “Listen, kid. Stay safe. Please.” “You’re not telling me anything-” “It’s too complicated to explain right now, kid.” “I’m not a kid-” 

“Felicia Hardy. Black Cat.”

“...you’re…but I-”

“And you’re not the first, or the last, that’s been in this place. Trust me, I’ve seen my fill.” 

“But…how?”

“I don’t know how. But I do know that you need to be careful, please. Knowing you, er- us, getting tangled in situations as big as this never ends well-”

“Cat, c’mon!” Hobie called out again. Felicia pressed her lips together, sending you a knowing gleam in her blue eyes and a slight nod. Backing up from her cage, you nodded back. A silent pact, a mysterious bond formed between the two of you that you didn’t really understand. Nevertheless, you trudged on.

“Coming!”

[who-knew-a-sheep-can-write]

Police Dog: Bigby Wolf x Fem!Cop!Reader - Chapter 6

To say things were tense would be a horrible understatement.

The cab was silent, the driver kept his lips sealed after you had given him the address to the Woodlands as though he already knew why things were so strained. You felt like you were suffocating just sitting there in the backseat with him barely two feet to your left. He hadn’t said a single word to you, most likely afraid of what you might do- what you might say. He was nearly pressed up against the side of the door, brawny arms tucked, hands limp in his lap, eyes trained to look out of the window at the city passing by. He was almost still enough for pigeons to mistake him for a statue had it not had been for his knee bouncing ever so lightly, most likely afraid to shake the cavity of the cab and draw even more attention to himself.

That’s the last thing he needs right now.

You could see his hands, you could see those knuckles and nails. His knuckles were all scratched and busted open but shockingly sealed up to be light scabs, the bruising just made them look more worse for wear. His nails still had blood underneath, all crusty and dusty and needing a good long wash. It was odd to you, obviously never seeing a werewolf in real life before, that just maybe ten minutes ago those pale nails of his were just long black claws. The rest of his person was in nearly the same state as his knuckles, blood speckling the bottom hem, but he had solved that issue by tucking the loose ends into his dark slacks- though you could still spot a few little drops here and there just peeking over his belt. His tie was missing, his collar was completely rumpled and needed to be pressed again, and the top few buttons he kept closed were torn open to reveal his chest.

It felt wrong looking at his chest, heat pooling in your cheeks- from embarrassment or something a schoolgirl would feel, you couldn’t tell - and looked away, staring out your side of the cab’s windows.

Your mind was wandering; whether you let it or not, you knew it would round back to the same question: Are you really the right person for this? With how things just went down, does Bigby still want you around? You’re only here to “keep him on a leash” as Bluebeard had stated, but what all could you do with something like this?

Instead of numbing your mind with the thoughts of doubts, you instead picked at a loose stitch in the backseat of the cab, messing with it using your nail when you realized you too had blood under your nails. You tried to pick it out only to be jerked out of your haze when the cab driver stopped short and announced that you had arrived.

You exited first, Bigby only getting out when you were already closing the door. He kept his gaze low and fished in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes and his metal lighter. He lit it effortlessly as you both passed through the brassy gates of the Woodlands before heading inside. He grunted softly when you held the gate door open for him, busying himself on shoving both things back in his pockets, not that you minded the missing words. You thanked him back when he held the door open for you, the sheriff looking away, eyes still holding shame as he avoided looking at you.

The lobby was still the same lobby, nothing much had changed besides the doorman sleeping in a different position; Slumped over onto his desk where he had knocked down a cup of pens long ago, the mess getting all over the keyboard and floor.

Bigby walked past you and hit the call button for the elevator as you debated on picking up the mess when the chime summoned you.

The elevator ride was just as tense if not more than the cab. At least with the cab, there was a dull hum of the engine and the not so faint noises of Manhattan to fill in the void. In here, it was just the stale buzzing noise of the elevator and the clunking of old and probably rusted gears carrying this death trap up a few floors. That and Bigby’s breathing.

‘Say something,’ your mind chided.

You probably should. It’s not like it was his fault that it happened. You both were being attacked and you went down. It was two versing five, you’re human going against Fables. You couldn’t blame him. Besides, he was probably thinking some awful things right now if how he reacted to you nailing the tense vibes on the head your very first hour of being here proved anything.

“Hey Big-”

“I’m so-”

You both found yourselves staring at each other, eyes wide and mouths a little agape. The tension became a little more bearable. He seemed more apologetic, blowing smoke away from you and tapping the ashes off.

“You go ahead,” he offered.

“You can go,” you countered back.

“No, no,” Bigby shook his head a bit. “I interrupted you, I’m sorry.”

For someone who’s made out to be the villain in all of these scenarios, he was really acting like a gentleman. It made your stomach feel light.

“I was gonna ask if you’re alright.” Bigby didn’t answer, but he kept his eyes locked on yours. “I know you’re not supposed to do that, right? That’s the whole reason why I’m here; So you don’t werewolf out?”

“Yeah,” he stated begrudgingly.

“I don’t blame you, and I’m not scared of you if that’s what you’re worrying about. It was a shock to see it, yeah, you only ever see werewolves in movies or whatever, but I know why it happened.”

Bigby puffed out another cloud just as the elevator came to a stop. He had an unreadable expression as he left the elevator. You followed quickly behind him, keeping pace with him as best as you could.

“I’m not supposed to do that. Do you know how many years I’ve been like this? I shouldn’t lose control like that, especially after what happened the last time.” He stopped walking for a second, nearly startling you as you came close to colliding with his back. He turned to face you, cigarette now between his fingers as he looked down at you with eyes full of remorse. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that. And I’m sorry I dragged you into all of this.”

You shrugged your shoulders.

“I signed up for this.”

“You signed up without knowing you’re gonna be tethered to me; and I’m a goddamn walking trap for trouble.”

“I still signed up for this, I don’t plan on quitting anytime soon.”

He was taken back by that, shoulders slouching a bit. He took another drag on his cigarette before nodding behind him.

“C’mon, I don’t wanna keep Snow waiting. It’ll only make my ass reaming worse.”

He started back down the hall to where the Business Office was. You felt both a little hopeful and pretty standoffish. From what you heard about her, Snow seemed to be the only other voice of reason around here. But if she was going to reprimand Bigby for what happened, you would feel a bit bad about it all. Bigby opened the door to the office and held it open for you before he let it swing closed behind you.

Almost immediately you heard the faint clicking of heels on the polished floors.

“Bigby?” a woman called out. “Bigby is that you?”

“Yeah,” he chuffed out blankly as he took another drag of his cigarette.

You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of seeing this place. You stared around in awe once again, completely distracted by all of the magic going on. You caught sight of that green monkey Bigby mentioned, the little guy flying around with a bottle in his hands, perching himself in the rafters.

“So, how did it go?” her voice called from beyond the bookshelves. You spotted her stepping out just as Bigby walked up to what looked to be her desk. “Judging by your hands, I don’t think they gave you the answers peacefully.”

She was very beautiful. Tall and slender, it was no wonder she was a princess who started an entire industry for you humans. Her hair was as black as coal, her lips were blushed red almost like a rose, and her skin was unblemished and pale like snow. She wore a simple navy blue blazer with a matching pencil skirt with a light gray blouse underneath, and her hair was tucked back in a low bun.

“Not at all.”

“Do you mind putting out the cigarette, Bigby?” she chided like an exhausted mother. “Flycatcher just polished the floors.” She pushed forward an ashtray, manicured nails shined from the expensive-looking polish she wore. “I take it you didn’t get any good answers out of them?”

“They said they didn’t do.”

“Typical,” she rolled her eyes. She was busy going through her desk, messing around with papers and such. “Nothing of interest, I assume?”

“No. But (Y/n) tried asking questions before shit hit the fan.”

Snow stopped her rummaging and cocked a questioning brow.

“(Y/n)?” She suddenly bolted up, eyes wide as she finally looked over at you. “I’m so sorry!” she gasped as she hurried over to you. “Things have been so hectic around here, I’m so sorry I didn’t notice you.” She took your hand and shook it firmly. “Snow White, Deputy Mayor of Fabletown,” she introduced herself.

“(Y/n) (L/n), NYPD.”

A chirping noise came from her wrist and upon pushing her sleeve up, she scoffed at the expensive looking watch she wore.

“I’m sorry to cut things short, but I have to take this.” She shuffled around in a few more drawers of her desk before pulling out a thin folder. “I got a call from someone, I don’t know who, but there’s a male Fable that was causing trouble last night. I took down what I could, but they hung up pretty quick,” she handed the folder to Bigby. She looked to you again and offered to shake your hand once more, and you did. “It was great to meet you, and I’m sorry it’s been a rocky start to things. Hopefully, we can catch up soon.”

And with that, she was off, hurrying out the front door of the Business Office as fast as she could in her heels. You looked back at Bigby who was looking through the folder. You looked around a bit more, eyes wandering over to a small table by the near bookshelves when you noticed it had books opened regarding pirates and Neverland as well as some books seemingly used to keep track of the Fables around here.

You walked over, marveling at the books. The book on pirates was opened to Captain Hook, but he only had two pages to himself compared to the other pirates, and one page was nothing but an intricate drawing of him and his ship.

The book on Neverland was opened to Peter Pan’s little makeshift abode in The Hangman’s Tree when you noticed something obvious staring you right in the face.

“Hey, Bigby,” you called. He made a noise as he kept reading. “Can you come over here?”

You heard his heavy footfalls start to come closer to you as you kept your eyes pinned to the eight heads on the pages. He stopped right beside you and looked over at what you were staring at.

“What’s wrong?”

“How many lost boys are there?”

Bigby closed the folder in his hand and stayed quiet for a minute in serious thought when it suddenly dawned on him as well. He looked down at exactly who was missing, the blond kid in the fox clothing with that stupid smug grin on his face like he was already mocking you both.

“Fuck,” was all Bigby grit out. “I knew something was fucking wrong.”

“What are we gonna do?”

“I’m gonna go back to that fucking club and get some answers,” Bigby tossed the file onto the table. “Stay here, I’ll be back.”

You stopped in your tracks, eyes wide as you were taken back by his choice of words.

“Excuse me?”

[etherial-moon-blog]

Burning

Pairing: Miles Quaritch x Reader

Warnings: drugging, dubcon, slight somnophilia 

Wordcount:2K

All characters depicted in this fic at 18+ minors dni

A/N Divider by cafekitsune

Quaritch had been having a long day. Jake Sully had managed to slip away from him yet again and it caused him and his recoms to scur the forest for hours looking for him. After returning empty-handed, the general ordered them to rest up because they were heading out early the next morning. 

Despite returning with nothing, the recoms decided they’d make the most of their night by having a few beers and shooting the shit outside. Quaritch joined them but decided to retire to his room early for the night. 

As he made his way back inside, he could slowly feel the effects of the alcohol working through his system. His head was swimming more than it normally would. His new body was much more of a lightweight than he remembers being.  He stopped briefly to gather himself when you came up behind him. 

“Are you alright colonel?” You ask concern etched onto your face as you watch him. 

“M’fine. This new body of mine is just a lightweight. Seems it's not quite used to drinking yet.” He attempted to take another few steps and nearly crashed into the wall but caught himself against it last minute. What was going on? Did he drink that much?

The second you see him nearly crash into the wall you’re immediately helping him right himself. 

“Alright, let's get you back to your room alright?” You say as you help him stand upright. The two of you quite frankly looked ridiculous. Despite you being nearly 6 feet tall, he still towered over you at 9 feet, so as you helped him to his room he still had to lean against a wall when he could for extra support. 

Finally, after what felt like the longest walk of his life, the two of you enter his room with Quaritch collapsing onto his bed the second the two of you enter the room. After helping him onto his bed you sit on a chair opposite the bed and watch him. 

Is it normally this warm in here? He questioned as he raised a hand to wipe at the sweat that had begun collecting on his brow.  He began to pant as his body became too hot to bear. Grasping at his shirt, he barely manages to pull at it before your hands are around his, helping him pull the shirt above his head. 

His breathing didn't slow as his body grew hotter. Instead, a new problem arose. It seemed that as his body grew hotter his pants got tighter and tighter. It was becoming unbearable but before he could even do anything, there you were ‘helping’ him again. 

Somehow in this state, he didn’t notice that you had begun to straddle him. It was only when he began to claw at the waistband of his military-issued pants that he finally realize your position. 

Your hands were swift as you deftly undid his belt and began to unbutton his pants. Quaritch let out a groan of relief when he finally felt you sliding his pants down and off his body. His body felt a singular degree cooler but it quickly didn’t matter as the heat continued to spread. He could feel himself straining against his underwear and groaned, but he was too hot to move much at this point. 

You were still straddling him, careful not to sit down completely. Soon he felt your hands on him. This time they were caressing him. His chest, his arms, his thighs. Everywhere you touched cooled his body but left burns in their wake, leaving him craving more of your cooling touch. He wanted…no needed you to touch him in those places again to soothe his burning skin. He needed that relief. 

You watched him squirm under your touch, soft pants and groans slowly became louder and more frequent as your hands danced across his body.  Each time your fingers would dance dangerously closer and closer to the waistband of his boxers, never quite touching them, merely grazing the skin just above where the line met his skin. 

Quaritch had determined that was where most of this infernal heat was coming from. Maybe if he took them off he’d be free from feeling like this. Weakly his hand raised and he tried to pull down his waistband but his body failed him.

He let out a frustrated groan as he felt another pulse of heat go through his body. He couldn’t take this anymore but his damned brain was too foggy to let him think clearly. 

“Here let me help you with that.” Your words are dripping with the same concern from earlier but it felt different. He couldn’t dwell on it for long as he felt your fingers hook into the waistband of his boxers and begin to pull. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back onto his pillow as you pull his boxers down, completely freeing his cock. For the first time since getting into his room, he could finally understand what was happening to him. 

His cock was standing at full attention, finally being exposed to the cool air of the room. It was….different than what he had before. Instead of having a smooth thick shaft topped with a mushroom-shaped head, he now had a slightly longer and thicker shaft that had small ridges halfway up his length leading up to an open spade-shaped head. 

His cock pulsed and through his hazy brain he could understand that he needed to relieve the pressure that was slowly but surely building up again. Driblets of precum were leaking from his dick like tears and despite his best efforts to turn his mind elsewhere, his cock throbbed every second it went untouched. A strangled groan claws its way out of his throat despite his attempts to hold back. He couldn’t take it anymore, he needed this to end. 

As Quaritch opens his eyes, he sees you perfectly perched on his lap, watching his every move. Through the haze clouding his brain, he could almost swear that you had a predatory glint to your gaze. As he locks eyes with you, you begin to speak. 

“Looks like you still need help, Colonel. Do you want me to keep helping you?” Your voice. That damnable voice of yours was like a lighthouse, guiding him through the fog and right where you wanted him. 

“P-please” He hated the way his voice cracked and broke as he spoke. It seemed you needed no more encouragement as the second the last syllable left his lips, you were on him. 

Your hands were caressing his skin again but this time they managed to find themselves on his cock. Soft hands and fingers wrapped themselves around his shaft causing him to hiss as your cool hands touched his super-heated skin.

“Shhh don’t worry, you’ll feel better soon I promise.” You cooed as your hand began to move. Aided by the copious amounts of fluid coving his cock, your hand easily glides up and down his length, taking special care to gently thumb his leaky slit. 

Quaritch felt instant relief as you stroked him. His legs widened on their own accord as you sped up, your languid strokes becoming faster as you stroked him. Under your practiced hand, Quaritch was rapidly approaching his end. 

He felt a shift on his small bed and soon your lips were brushing against the hot skin of his neck. He could feel your warm tongue pressing against his even warmer skin and his cock rapidly pulses in your hand at the contact. His legs widened as he weakly bucked his hips into your hand, chasing his imminent release. 

In between leaving kisses against his neck, you whisper sweetly into his ear, encouraging him. “There we go Colonel, go ahead and take what you want. You deserve it for being so good.” Your grip on his cock tightens ever so slightly as you speak, providing him with the final bit of pressure he needed before he came. 

Quaritch’s eyes screw shut and a broken whimper comes from his lips as his cock begins to pulse and all at once cum erupts from his slit, covering your hand in thick pearly spunk. His hips keep bouncing as he fucks your fist, chasing another release. You do nothing but hold your hand steady and whisper sweet nothings into his ear.

His second orgasm comes quicker than the first, the cum spurting from his slit and covering your hand yet again. You let him ride out his orgasm, and after his hips finally still he’s left panting. Quaritch’s second orgasm had finally given him some reprieve from the unbearable heat he’d been feeling, but it didn’t completely stamp it out.

 And soon enough he’s squirming around as the heat within him returns and begins to burn him once again. His cock, which was flaccid, was starting to stiffen and harden again. It was enough to make him let out a frustrated groan as he felt his cock harden and pulse out of his control. 

“Oh you poor thing,” You whisper into his ear “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you feel better soon.”  He feels your lips on his neck again but you pull away before you reach his collarbone. He feels your weight shift and he opens his eyes to see you, holding his cock as you begin to lower yourself onto it. 

He sucks in a breath as he feels the head of his cock briefly kiss your slit before it is fully enveloped inside your cunt. You let out a barely audible moan as his cock sinks into you fully, the warm wet walls of your pussy immediately aiding to suck him in further.  He watches as you lean over him and press a kiss to his lips, your tongue sliding across them as you pull away to whisper in his ear. “Don’t worry, I’ll go slow” He can practically hear the smirk in your voice as your hips begin to move. Slowly at first until they pick up a bit of speed and he can hear the sounds of your hips coming down onto his cum splattered ones. 

Your pussy feels divine but it seems that he’s been fighting the heat overtaking his brain for too long and as he begins to close his eyes he feels your hips still and hears just two words before he slips into unconsciousness. 

“Sleep well….”

~The next morning~ 

Quaritch awakes with a start, causing him to almost fall from his bed. He looks around his room for signs of you but you’re nowhere to be found. In fact, when he looks down at himself to check for the mess he left behind, that's gone as well and he’s also wearing his boxers. Nothing is out of place and as far as he can tell last night was just the dreams of a drunk man.

It seemed like all he had from that night were memories(?) and a dull ache in his head. He swings his legs off the side of his bed and rubs at his temples. “I really gotta stop drinking with those knuckleheads, this damn body can’t handle it.”  After a few moments, he finally manages to get up and prepare himself for what he already knows will be a long day. 

After going about his routine he goes to sit on his bed to lace up his boots when he sees something sticking out from his pillow. Picking it up, he immediately feels the soft cotton material and near instantly recognizes what he’s holding. 

Panties. He stares at them for a second before bringing them to his nose and taking a sniff. Your panties he soon discovers. So last night wasn’t a fever dream, it was real. Well…this changed things. 

Maybe later on today he’d pay you a visit and have a talk with you about last night but for now, he had things to do. He carefully tucks your panties away into one of the many pockets on his pants and heads out for the day. 

He sees you working at one of the lab stations as he walks by and smirks, he had already begun thinking of ways to repay you for your ‘help’ last night. 

Taglist: @melllinaa @fev0ir @iaratezaewa @hotdsworld @zaddyskye69 @kasai @darktyrantwinner@doctorswife221b@atxxokirina@iameatingmyhair@thepineapplesimp@lo707@lyra997 @shadydreamlanddetective@atokirina-writings@plooto @luvv4j4ybe11 @xylianasblog

[nostalgicnarrator]

Over Hill and Under Mountain

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Word Count: 5,243 Parings: Thorn X Bilbo Description: Bilbo is fed up.

Chapters: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6

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─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

⚠️ WARNING ⚠️

Mild mentions of physical violence.

Note:

this is it, we've come to this stories end, i hope everyone who has stuck it out this long love this story as much as i have loved writing it. good day, afternoon and night

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Bilbo was vaguely aware as he drifted in and out of consciousness, a tone of voice or a few words would make it to him in the void he was stuck in.

His mind felt like it was floating in mud as it throbbed in pain. He hadn’t been sure how long he had been like that.

He had dreams, or was it memories?  He couldn’t tell anymore, they were all blurred together, strange fragments of what once was or had never been.

He opened his eyes in the shadows of Mirkwood, he stumbled a bit as he walked along with his friends. The trees loomed, their twisted limbs stretching out like skeletal hands, clawing at the air as if to snatch any who dared trespass. 

A thick mist curled around the underbrush, muffling the sound of crunching leaves. The world was cast in an unsettling twilight, where everything seemed to move in the corner of his vision but disappeared when he tried to focus on it.

He looked around, he felt sluggish as he looked at Dwalin, Nori, Fili, Kili, and Thorin. his friends. Right, he had been with them hadn’t he? They had all marched together once, but that was a time ago by now was it not…? 

Bilbo looked around again attempting to make sense, his friends had their blades drawn, each held a grim face. He felt like something was wrong. He hadn’t been here like this, where was he…?

He was suddenly aware of the unnatural silence that clung to the forest, suffocating. And then, they struck.

Out of the trees, from above and below, the spiders came. Massive creatures, larger than horses, with blackened bodies and legs as thick as a man's arm. 

Their eyes held a hunger Bilbo did not remember from before, they seemed darker than before, their fangs dripping deadly venom, Bilbo was acutely aware that these terrors were not the same as the spiders he had faced before. 

The air was thick with the sound of limbs rustling through lives, the crackling sound of skittering feet, an orchestra of death as they descended upon them.

Before they could react, one of the beasts lunged for Dwalin. The dwarf swung his war hammer hard, splattering the spider they came at him all over the ground. But there were too many.

Another came from the side, pincers snapping, and dug its fangs into the dwarf and wrapped him in its sticky webbing with terrifying speed. 

He struggled, but not for long as the venom quickly kicked in and the last Bilbo heard of the dwarf was a roar of fury, Bilbo watched as Dwalin was quickly hoisted into the air, bound in silken threads.

The others shouted, Bilbo whipped his head back to them, he watched as they hacked and slashing at the swarm that was descending on them. 

Bilbo watched as Nori managed to dodge the initial attacks, his knives flashing as he severed the limbs of one spider after another. But soon he, too, was overwhelmed. 

Bilbo tried to shout to warn his friend as a shadow loomed over him, and before Nori could react, he was bitten and wrapped in webbing and dragged screaming into the branches above.

Bilbo covered his mouth when the scream was stopped far too abruptly. Fili and Kili were next, Bilbo watched as they fought together, Fíli twirled his twin blades as he brother notched arrows drew back and released.

Fíli cut through the legs of one of the largest spiders. But they couldn’t keep the pace, soon Kíli released his last arrow and Fíli lost a sword. 

Before they had a chance, webs tangled them up. Kíli called out to his brother desperately, he begged for help. But it wasn’t long before they were bitten and dragged away into the shadows.

And then came the whispering.

The voices slithered through the trees, a sickening melody that wormed its way into Bilbo’s ears. "Tasty, delicious... so tender..." The spiders were speaking, their voices like poison seeping into his mind.

Thorin was last. His sword was cast aside as it had fallen to the ground, Bilbo’s eyes felt wide as he watched Thorin stare up at the towering spiders as they descended. He could see it clearly now-Thorin's face, twisted in horror as the creatures bore down on him.

Bilbo couldn't move, he couldn't speak. It was as if his body had betrayed him, leaving him frozen in place, forced to watch. He could hear the cracking of bones, the wet squelch of flesh torn apart.

The largest of the spiders opened its jaws, revealing rows of jagged teeth, Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut. He let out a whimper. He could still hear the horrible noise. Then it fell silent and Bilbo dared a peek. 

Before he could really see anything the world around him began to fall away, the forest of Mirkwood bled into something else. Soon enough Bilbo found himself standing in a deep valley, a familiar mountain range not far ahead now, this was a place he was sure he recognized. 

His mind told him that it was all too familiar. The wind suddenly whipped viciously around him, carrying with it a horrible smell. He whipped his head around as he heard the snarls of wargs and the harsh, guttural speech of orcs.

The enemy came like a wave, crashing over the horizon with a force that shook the ground. Wargs with their fur matted mounted by orcs with gnarled faces, Bilbo was sure the reek of blood came from them.

The group, who just moments ago had been caught in Mirkwood, wrapped up in a hellish web, were now surrounded, barely able to react. Dwalin swung his axes, Nori darted around as well as he could manage, and Fíli and Kíli fought side by side. But there were too many-too fast.

When Thorin fell the rest followed just as quickly, Bilbo barely registered the screams, the flash of steel, and the bodies hitting the ground. It all blurred together horribly. His eyes darted from one friend to another, each of them falling, each death a punch to his gut. He could feel the panic rising, choking him as he was once again forced to watch. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly

Once more the world fell silent and Bilbo opened his eyes after a moment, but before he could make anything out his vision blurring, he squeezed his eyes shut again as dizziness began to take over.

He felt himself begin to fall so he snapped his eye open and gasped, it was becoming difficult to breathe. He looked around afraid of what horror waited 

Snow fell heavily around him, it whipped and clawed at him, quickly the snow turned a blinding white that made it impossible to see more than a few paces ahead. 

They were on the narrow path of a cliffside, their steps precarious as the wind threatened to knock them off balance. Bilbo began to wish he had a coat. Something warm to hide from the wind with.

Bilbo watched as Thorin led the way, his eyes set forward, determined. The look was etched into every line of the dwarfs face. Bilbo trudged not too far behind him, then Thorin’s boot slipped, and in an instant, Thorin was gone.

He could hear Kíli and Fíli scream, the sound piercing through the storm. They rushed to the edge, reaching out, Bilbo watched as Thorin tumbled down, down into the abyss below. 

Kíli let out a broken sob as he watched his uncle disappear. Thorin’s body twisted in the air, his arms flailing as he tried to grab onto something, anything, but there was nothing to grab. The dwarf disappeared into the blinding depths below 

The group stood frozen, helpless, as Thorin disappeared into the darkness. No sound followed his fall. Just silence. Then it all faded away. 

Next he remembered inky darkness, the eerie silence. He vaguely wondered when he got there. Sometimes Bilbo would see large pale eyes watching him from the shadows of his mind, sometimes he would hear the music and whisper again. 

It was as if Something was calling out to him, beckoning him. It wanted him to go somewhere. He wanted to follow it, but then he would hear a deeper voice telling him he can’t just yet.

So he would stay. Bilbo wasn’t sure why the voice didn’t want him to fallow the other but he listened. The music he once heard slowly became less and less and instead he could hear a different tone.

A soft voice would sing in rolling sounds, sounds he came to hear under his feet when in the shire. He remembered them from when he was a child. 

The voice was of a woman, her tone was warm and caring. It reminded him of his mother, of a warm place and a soft bed. Of the love of the shire.

Eventually when Bilbo came to, the first thing he could understand in his fevered daze was the sound of arguing. Voices, not singing or humming, normal voices, reached him, distant at first, but growing louder, pulling him from the depths of his sleep. 

One painfully familiar, a deep, tone that sent a wave of warmth coursing through him like warm tea on a cold day. Bilbo felt his heart leap. He knew that voice.

“Th…Thorin…?” Bilbo croaked, his voice barely a whisper. He tried to lift his hand, reaching out for something, anything. The arguing stopped abruptly, replaced by a heavy silence. 

“Thorin…?” He asked again-

“I’m here, Bilbo, I’m right here,” Thorin’s voice broke the stillness. Bilbo felt his hand being taken in a firm tender grip and the warmth of Thorin’s calloused palm.

“Thorin… you made it,” Bilbo murmured, his lips curving into what he hoped was a smile. “I was worried… you wouldn’t.” His voice was softer than he meant, causing Thorin to lean in closer.

Thorin squeezed his hand gently. “We’re here, and we’re all safe,” he assured, his tone soothing. “You’ve nothing to worry about now.”

Despite the pain, Bilbo felt a wave of relief wash over him at Thorin’s words. He could hear more mumbling, but the words were indistinct, blurred by the haze that clouded his mind. 

Whatever was said, had Thorin nodding gently, though his eyes never left Bilbo’s face. Bilbo found he couldn’t look away ether.

“You need to sleep, Bilbo,” Thorin urged softly. “Rest now, and I’ll be here when you wake.”

Bilbo’s eyes fluttered, his body fighting against the pull of exhaustion. “Promise… you’ll stay?” he whispered, his grip tightening slightly on Thorin’s hand.

“I promise,” Thorin replied, his voice a low, comforting rumble. “I’m not going anywhere.”

With those words, a calm settled over Bilbo, and he allowed himself to relax, slipping into a dreamless sleep, comforted by the knowledge that Thorin would be there when he woke.

The next time he woke up, it was to the soft light of dawn as it filtered through his room. His eyelids fluttered open, still heavy from sleep, and he blinked a few times before his eyes settled on a figure sitting on the floor beside his bed. 

Thorin was there in the room, an elbow resting on the bed, his face softly framed by the golden morning light. Thorin looked out of the window. Bilbo shifted a bit to get a better look at the dwarf.

Thorn turned to him and smiled, Bilbo stayed quiet as he looked over Thorin's face. Despite the darkish bags under the kings eyes the gold of the rising sun made his eyes gleam ‘He looks handsome like that’ his mind supplied to him and he couldn’t help but agree

“How do you feel…?” Thorin eventually asked, breaking the silence.

And Bilbo’s heart thudded a little harder in his chest at the dwarfs' voice, his face suddenly felt very warm. ‘Answer! Answer him you fool of a Took’ Bilbo blinked blearily.

Thorin kept waiting patiently for an answer, he had turned to face him now, Thorin’s rough hand took Bilbo’s gently. Thorin let his thumb trace over Bilbo’s knuckles.

He watched Throin’s hand for a moment before turning back to looking at him, “…alright… I-…you’re pretty…” Bilbo felt himself say. ‘No! Don’t say that! Stupid’ his mind yelled at him

Thorin looked up at him then chuckled, the sound low and genuine as a smile broke across his features. Bilbo felt his face get even hotter. 

Thorin had to take a few moments before he was calm enough to answer. “Oh, thank you Bilbo, why don’t you go back to sleep?

Bilbo blinked and whined, “no, I wanna be with you.” 

“I’m not going anywhere, I promised I’d stay. Okay?” And when Thorin smiled a little more Bilbo felt himself try to melt.

Bilbo couldn’t help but nod, his gaze remained fixed on Thorin even when Óin entered the room. Thorin turned to quietly talk to him. Bilbo turned to watch the healer for a moment as he moved around the room, and busied himself with preparing herbs. 

Bilbo decided that he was boring so his gaze drifted to Thorin again, watching the dwarf as if afraid he might vanish the moment he looked away.

The days started to pass, as slowly as Bilbo had expected them to. At first it was a hazy mess of thoughts and watching his dwarf. Thorin stayed true, he never strayed far from Bilbo’s side. 

It had been a few days by the time Bilbo found himself lying in bed, watching Thorin, it was strange, almost like waking up but never sleeping. He wasn’t sure how long it had been.

He watched as Thorin sat near him, his mind wondered after a moment, drifting and settling somewhere he couldn’t quite name. He couldn’t place it; he was sure it had one.

It was something that Bilbo hadn’t always felt, but he had come to know it after he met Thorin. something that made Bilbo’s heart feel lighter even on the most difficult of days. 

He didn’t understand it, he couldn’t. But it was always there when Thorin was nearby, and as he got to know the dwarf the loneliness he had once wished for seemed less appealing. 

There was something about Thorin that calmed the constant buzzing. Bilbo hesitantly extended his hand. Thorin didn’t hesitate, when he noticed, his hand reached out immediately and took Bilbo’s.

Soon Bilbo found himself looking forward to every opportunity he had to see Thorin. The dwarf would bring him tea and sit with him for hours. Or on the rare occasion they would talk and on the less rare occasion he’d just sit quietly and hold Bilbo’s hand.

Bilbo also found himself huffing in annoyance when Óin eventually had to shoo Thorin away and make Bilbo rest. Thorin’s presence became as vital as the sunlight filtering into the room.

And as Bilbo got better, Thorin’s visits grew longer, the dwarf staying until the stars curiously peaked through the trees. Bilbo often found himself smiling more easily, his heart feeling lighter each day.

Óin would, each and every morning, check Bilbo’s  wounds. He would often shake his head with a frown that almost bordered on disbelief.

Óin shook his head and sighed again. “By all accounts this doesn't make sense. A recovery this quick… by rights, it should’ve taken months, not weeks.”

Gandalf, who had been watching from the doorway, spoke. “Indeed you are right my dear Óin. It’s been many years since I’ve witnessed such a thing.” Gandalf stroked his beard thoughtfully, his eyes twinkling with a familiar knowing gleam. 

“Is your magic doing this then?” Óin asked, “honestly Gandalf I would like to know when you-”

“No no, nothing like that Óin, I could not help with these injuries more than I have. There are few forces in this world stronger than myself, except, maybe, perhaps,” But Gandalf didn’t finish; he mumbled to himself, nodded and walked away. ÓIn sighed and began changing Bilbo’s bandages.

“Wizard’s” the healer said and Bilbo nodded.

One afternoon, as the sun dipped behind the trees, casting a soft golden light into the room, Bilbo glanced over at Thorin. The dwarf sat comfortably in a chair, pipe smoke curling lazily around him. 

Bilbo watched as Thorin absentmindedly fidgeted with the silver ring on his finger, his brow furrowed in thought. The sight of him, calm, steady, it made Bilbo feel something strange, something warm. It made him feel safe.

Bilbo had been told that he should stay in bed. Óin had been quite stern about it. To the point where the dwarf had rules, No sitting up too long, no wandering, and absolutely no trips outside or anywhere, not even to the balcony. It was maddening. 

Bilbo could feel his restless energy building up inside him like a storm. He longed for the open air, to feel the breeze on his face, to see Rivendell’s beauty firsthand. But most of all, he just wanted to do something. Anything.

Then, an idea struck him.

“Thorin…?” Bilbo asked, turning his gaze to the dwarf. He hadn’t meant to speak so suddenly, and he was surprised to find Thorin’s eyes already on him.

Thorin hummed in response, his deep blue eyes caught Bilbo’s and for a moment he couldn’t help but stare, Thorin’s eyes were deep and blue, but Bilbo felt that comparing them to water or the sky would cheat them of how beautiful they really were.

Bilbo was suddenly sure he was silent for too long as Thorin’s expression shifted to concern. “Bilbo? Are you alright…?”

“YES! Of course, yes!” Bilbo said, perhaps a bit too quickly. He cleared his throat and smiled. “I mean, yes, I’m fine. I just… Well, will you do something for me?”

Bilbo felt his breath leave him as Thorin’s expression softened, and for a moment Bilbo felt his question disappear from him. 

“Always.” Thorin said, smiling. Bilbo had to look away for a moment. His face heated up as his mind began racing. ‘What in vala’s name is wrong with you’ Bilbo looked back at Thorin as he kept talking. “What do you need? Are you hungry, or-“

“No, no, I’m alright for now,” Bilbo quickly interrupted. He offered a smile to Thorin. Bilbo could still feel his heart thumping wildly in his rib cage. 

Thorin tilted his head a bit and put his pipe away quickly. “Then what is it? What’s wrong?” Concerned began to take Thorin’s face.

“Nothing! I’m okay! Just… Could you read to me?” Bilbo asked quietly.

Thorin blinked once, the again. Bilbo could tell he was clearly taken aback. “Read… to you? You want me to read to you?”

“Yes! If, if it is not too much trouble,” Bilbo replied, hoping he didn’t sound foolish. He surely felt a bit foolish asking, he felt a bit childish too. But the need for some form of distraction soon waved that feeling away.

Thorin furrowed his brow, a flicker of doubt passing through his eyes. “Bilbo, I haven't read-I don’t think I’ll be very good at it.”

And Bilbo felt himself deflate a bit at that, but he wasn’t going to give up here. “Oh, come now Thorin! I’m sure you’re a wonderful storyteller.”

Throin took a deep breath and looked outside to the balcony of Bilbo’s room. “I don’t know, Bilbo-“

“Please?” Bilbo pushed himself up some and flinched a little, Bilbo fought a grin as his plan worked, Thorin immediately got up and pushed him back down gently. Bilbo grabbed his hand and kept it on his chest.

“…I’m terribly bored Thorin, as much as I love youuu-‘re company, if I don’t do something soon, I’m going to go mad!” Blibo looked up with as pleading a look as he could manage, he hoped it looked pitiful enough to work. “I would read them myself but Óin nearly had a fit the last time I tried.” 

Thorin gave a long-suffering sigh, and Bilbo grinned at him as he walked over to the small pile. “Alright, alright. Just one chapter.”

Thorin reached for one of the books that had been left on the bedside table, flipping it open, he flipped a few pages and scanned the words for a moment before he began to read for Bilbo.

Thorin’s voice was deep and steady, it was clear and strong yet soothing, Bilbo struggled to pay attention to the words that Thorin was saying.

Bilbo’s eyelids began to grow heavy. The warmth of Thorin’s presence, the sound of his voice, was almost too much. It wrapped around Bilbo like a blanket, soft and reassuring.

Before long, Bilbo’s eyes fluttered shut, and he drifted into a peaceful sleep.

Bilbo could feel something simmering between him and Thorin as the days went, something that had been there for some time. He hadn’t been sure if the name he wanted to call it was true 

But now Bilbo was sure, It was love. Simple, undeniable love.

He felt it whenever Thorin looked at him. He was sure of how his heart would flutter and speed up. The way his breath caught in his throat, the way he had to fight the blush that crept up his neck.

Then, Bilbo wasn’t so sure anymore.

Thorin’s visits became less frequent and at first it was small things; Thorin sitting farther away, the conversations growing shorter or stopping abruptly. 

Bilbo really did try not to dwell on it. Thorin was, after all, a king. And being so far from his kingdom was sure to make him busy. 

The days began to drag on again, Bilbo couldn’t help but notice the distance anymore. And when Bilbo had to remind himself of this over and over, to try and convince himself that it wasn’t anything personal. Thorin was simply busy.

It began to feel like a lie, Thorin was in Rivendell, halfway across the map and a storm had apparently taken to settling over the Misty’s, that no raven would want to fly through.

So what could he possibly be doing? And why was it taking so long? Why did it feel as though Thorin was slipping through his fingers? Then there was the avoidance! 

If Bilbo could manage to slip away from Óin long enough to find Thorin the dwarf would basically run away from him, disappearing in some cases.

So Bilbo decided to try to distract himself, focusing on anything else. Bilbo had begun to spend more time with Dwalin, Fíli, Kíli, and Nori. But it felt like people were hiding things from him again. Keeping secrets. He decided to test his theory.

“Where’s Thorin today?” Bilbo asked one afternoon, trying to sound casual as Fíli, Kíli and himself were playing a game of cards.

Fíli glanced at his brother before shrugging. “Busy with… things, I imagine.”

“What kind of things?” Bilbo muttered, frowning as he looked up from his cards. That was the same answer Dwalin and Nori had given him the day before. 

Kíli looked to his brother and they both looked a little uncomfortable as Bilbo watched them. “Uh…wouldn’t know. I believe it’s your turn Bilbo.” Kíli said and offered a fake smile.

It most certainly was not. Bilbo tisked and nodded.

Another time, Óin had come to check on him, the healer was still prodding Bilbo’s bandages, “You’re healing fine, lad. I’d say you can take all the stitches out soon.”

Bilbo nodded, he tried to be subtle as he asked. “Do you know what Thorin is up to, have you seen him?”

Óin didn’t look up from his work. “Oh, …I’m sure he’s around lad.” was all he said.

Frustration began to claw at Bilbo’s insides. Later that day Bilbo caught Gandalf. He wasn’t meant to be up but his patience was nonexistent at this point. “Gandalf, do you know what Thorin is doing?.”

Gandalf looked at him, his face frustratingly neutral. “I’m sure Thorin is occupied with important matters, Bilbo.”

“Important my left foot! What is so important for him to ignore me,” Bilbo pressed, he threw his hands up in frustration. “He hasn’t visited at all! Runs away at any attempt I make to talk to him!”

Gandalf’s gaze softened. “Give him time, my dear boy. Thorin will come around and tell you in his own time.” With that, the wizard walked away, leaving Bilbo feeling more frustrated than ever.

Days turned into weeks, and Bilbo’s frustration simmered, his thoughts circling endlessly around one question: Why? Why was Thorin avoiding him? What had he done wrong? 

He replayed their conversations over and over in his head, searching for some clue, some indication of what had gone wrong, but found nothing.

That’s when he felt something snap, weeks of worn patience. The excuses about “kingly duties” didn’t add up, ‘we are in Rivendell. What kind of kingly tasks could Thorin possibly be doing’ 

He had had enough.

Ignoring Óin’s warnings to take it easy once again, Bilbo threw off his blanket and on his cloak then marched out of his room, a determined fire lit inside his stomach. His injuries be damned, he needed answers.

The sunlight was filtering through the trees of Rivendell, casting soft patterns of gold across the path, but Bilbo did not pay it mind. His attention was fixed solely on the figure he spotted in the distance. 

Thorin was there, standing in the gardens, he seemed to be speaking with a raven, one Bilbo hadn’t seen before. It was much bigger than Hugin was, Bilbo vaguely wondered if Raven‘s really could get through the storm that settled over the mountains. 

That thought was swiftly pushed away. As if sensing Bilbo, Thorin’s head jerked up, and for a split second, panic flickered in the king’s eyes. He turned to leave but Bilbo would not let him.

“Thorin—THORIN OAKENSHIELD, DON'T YOU DARE RUN AWAY FROM ME!” Bilbo’s voice rang out, clear and sharp, startling the birds from the trees and causing a few passing Elves to pause before quickly averting their eyes.

Thorin froze mid-step, his broad shoulders tensing. Slowly, he turned back to face Bilbo. The raven on his arm tilted its head side to side as Bilbo came closer.

“Bilbo,” Thorin began, his voice low, almost apologetic.

But Bilbo wasn’t in the mood, and he really couldn’t stop himself from snapping at the dwarf. “No,” Bilbo said as he stopped not too far away. “Don’t you ‘Bilbo’ me. You’ve been avoiding me for days, Thorin! And no one will tell me why, at least not the truth! I’ve done nothing wrong- at least, I don’t think I have!” His voice wavered, the frustration and hurt bubbling to the surface.

Thorin opened his mouth as if to respond, but Bilbo wasn’t finished.

“I don’t understand!” Bilbo’s fists clenched at his sides. He threw his hands up and began pacing back and forth. “You came all the way here, risked everything to make sure I was alright. And then what? You disappear? Is that it? Was it just some sort of duty to you, Thorin? A box to tick before you move on to whatever ‘kingly duties’ you’ve been so conveniently busy with?” He scoffed, he turned to face Thorin. He pointed to him aggressively. “We’re in Rivendell! There’s no kingdom here for you to rule!”

The accusation hung in the air like a blade between them. Thorin’s face, for a moment, stirred with a thousand different emotions, but it landed on anger.

Thorin’s brow furrowed and he lifted his arm up dismissing the raven. “Bilbo, it’s not—”

“Then why are you ignoring me?” Bilbo pressed, he couldn’t feel his frustration boiling over inside him. “What have I done? I don’t understand! I’m sorry if I’ve upset you!”

Thorin raised a hand as if to placate him or tell him to stop talking. “You have not-I’m not upset, Bilbo-”

“THEN WHAT?” Bilbo shouted, his voice cracking. “Tell me!”

“If you would let me-!” Thorin growled out angrily.

“NO! No! No more excuses, no more lies!”  He had reached Thorin now, standing right in front of him, he stood on his tippy toes to glare up at him. 

Tears begin welling in his eyes as his dam of emotion he’d had been trying to keep in all these weeks burst, and he fought to keep them from spilling over. 

Thorin’s expression was torn between anger and something softer, his hands hovering in the air as if he didn’t know whether to reach out or keep his distance.

“What is it?” Bilbo choked out, his voice barely a whisper. “TELL ME! What is so horribly wrong with me that you will not visit me? You came all this way, Thorin, you braved a raging storm to find me, and now you cannot- no, you will not, be in the same room as me for even a moment! Tell me! You insufferable Dwarf!”

Bilbo’s voice broke, dissolving into a sob as angry tears streamed down his cheeks. His whole body shook with anger and sadness and- he didn’t know what and he didn’t care what!

Thorin’s eyes softened as he watched Bilbo crumble, his anger seemingly melting away. “Well?!” Bilbo demanded again, his voice had begun to go hoarse. “SPEAK, DAMN IT! TELL ME!”

Thorin’s face contorted with emotion, and when he finally spoke, his voice was raw. “I AM IN LOVE WITH YOU!”

Bilbo froze, the words ringing in the air between them like a thunderclap. He reeled back, shock rooting him to the spot. Bilbo felt a little numb as he stared at Thorin.

Thorin let out a shaky breath and stepped closer, his hands moving to grip Bilbo’s forearms, steadying him-or perhaps anchoring himself.

“I-I am in love with you,” Thorin repeated. “I do not know when it happened, but it did. It was so subtle, I didn’t even realize it until it was too late. When we’re together, I… I forget everything else. For a while, I am not King under the Mountain, not Thorin Oakenshield. I’m just… Thorin. And when I realized what that meant. I felt that, I thought, if I stayed away, it would go away. But it hasn’t. I am in love with you, Bilbo, and I’m sorry. I understand if-”

Thorin’s confession was cut short as Bilbo, driven by he didn’t know, but he couldn’t stop it, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Bilbo reached up and pulled Thorin into a rough kiss.

Thorin stiffened in surprise, but then melted into the kiss, his arms quickly wrapped around Bilbo. One hand found perches at the back of Bilbo’s head.

When they finally pulled apart, both were breathing heavily, their foreheads resting together. Bilbo’s cheeks and neck felt incredibly hot “Oh, you insufferable Dwarf,” Bilbo huffed, “You horrible fool. I wish I could hate you.”

Thorin’s lips curved into a small smile, he held Bilbo’s face gently. “But you don’t,” he whispered, his voice rough.

Bilbo shook his head, he couldn’t help as a wet chuckle tumbled out of him. He had to fight tears again, but a different kind. “No,” he whispered back. “No, I don’t.”

For the first time in weeks, the weight between them lifted, and they stood there, Thorin's hands still holding Bilbo's face. Neither spoke, but in that quiet moment, neither needed to.

They had both found exactly where they were meant to be.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

farewell for now

@m4yh4ps @bllbabaggins

but just real quick:

Bilbo: Thorin? Thorin: yes Amrâl? Bilbo: Who was that other raven I saw? Thorin: ah, that is my raven Valka. I have raised her, and her family for many years now. Bilbo: oh! Does she know Hugin? Thorin: I would hope so Kurdel, she is his mother Bilbo: oh! …tell her I think she looks very pretty. [Thorin laughs and nods to Bilbo]

[jadienjaystoriesandart]

Had this idea for a Super Hero AU in a dystopian future. Based slightly in Hermitcraft. With some magic and fantasy elements.

A world that is set in a post apocalyptic time.

Watchers have pretty much desired the world’s ecosystem and atmosphere.

Humans died or became pets to them. Those that did escape made these advance dome cities in the sky, land, and underground.

Two people made and created the Mod Project.

Which took 13 humans and mixed their dna with that of various hostile mobs to create Super Soldiers to fight the watcher and protect their chosen city.

Of the 13 only 8 survived the process.

These soilders don’t need sleep. They feed on the blood usually of Watcher monsters they’ve slayed.

Because most people don’t travel outside their chosen city they don’t have much contact with each other.

Meaning each solider of the dorm city has various levels of what they consider to be ‘morally right’.

They can also eat normal food but not as much as a normal human.

Hybrids do exist in this. Often these were the first attempt of the Mod Project. They still need basic human functions. And have bred with humans to make natural born hybrids by this point.

The story follows HotGuy, the ‘hero’ and ‘protector’ of the Crystal Dome City. In the east. His code name is The Vex

As to why humans don’t leave the city. The oxygen levels around the dome are of 60%

The farther you get from the dome the less you have and the more monsters you encounter.

The Dead Zone to the far west has only 10% oxygen.

Supposedly a few miles from it is a dome city in the sky? Land? They aren’t sure. And is protected by their solider called The Dragon.

There is one under ground run by The Warden

Two in the sky to the far north called the Phantom and the one to the south called The Blaze.

And one to the east also near the coast line, roughly a few weeks from HG’s city. It’s under the protection of The Guardian.

It’s unsure why the ‘Dead Zone’ is so well dead. But some speculate that this is where the Watchers first started their assault of Planet Craft.

There are 8 creatures with their own city.

-

The Vex

The Guardian

The Warden

The Phantom

The Blaze

The Dragon

The Ender

The Spider

-

The failed ones were

The Wither

The Husk

The Skeleton

The Piglin

The Ravager

-

They failed mainly because during the process the human died before the full transformation could be realized.

The Vex, or Hotguy/Scar, is able to turn into a monster like vex. He’s taller than the usual vex, about 6 or 7 feet tall. Long claws, sharp teeth, perfect hearing and smell. But has low eye sight in daylight, mostly can only see when something moves. He also has an aversion to fire in this form as vexes are cold beings.

The story in my head is HG with his friend Mumbo are trying to get back in contact with the 8 cities the Hart Foundation is still in contact with. In order to try to come together to stop the Watchers once and for all.

Of the ones he’s met so far is The Warden (Cub), The Blaze (Tango), and The Guardian (Grian). (Yes we are going with Sea Grian for this.)

Each of these groups of ‘Heroes’ have different ideas of what they consider to be ‘good’. Mainly due to the fact society is very different for each of them.

The Warden’s city is in the east but is deep underground.

The Blaze’s is in the south and is a city far in the sky. The only reason HG got tos we is is because, after contact with the Guardian and Warden, the Blaze opened up his teleporters to meet with The Vex in person.

Despite being of the same project, they don’t know each other and have foggy memories of their time being tested on.

Feel free to write for this or draw if you guys want. I’m just coming up with ideas. I’ll write a oneshot later.

If you have any questions feel free to ask. :3

Btw the ‘oxygen levels’ is mostly the amount of ‘breathable air’ for them. It’s not the amount of pure oxygen, it’s just the percentage of air that is breathable.

[trashland-llamas]

I Was a Human

[Written as part of the @mcyt-halloween gift exchange for @kozzax]

Jack remembered the burning inferno that was hell. How the embers had eaten away at his flesh and the smell of brimstone filled his lungs even though he was no longer there. Even now on the surface again, his eyes saw the desert basin with its red and purple sand. It was all still at the forefront of his mind but he couldn’t tell if it was a dream or reality. Clawing his way through the topsoil, he climbed up to his feet. His limbs felt so sluggish, so heavy. Barely able to use his body after months of laying in a tomb. His brain wouldn’t move his leg despite mentally screaming for it to move. It took a few tries before Jack could make his way to the front of the Big Innit hotel. 

Unclear if days or months had passed by. Walking through the doors, he made eye contact with Captain Puffy at the front desk. ‘But you’re supposed to be dead.’ Those words filled his body with a sense of dread. ‘Can I at least take a shower before dealing with all of this?’ Referring to the concept that was socializing. ‘Yea, sure. Take as long as you want.’ Handing over a random key card to an unused room. Not that the hotel had many patrons to begin with.

It annoyingly takes three separate attempts before the key card actually works like it’s supposed to. He didn’t have the energy to kick down the door nor the money to replace the damages that would cause. Sighing, Jack let the door fall shut behind him. The layout of the room is just the same as every hotel room he’d seen in his life. Immediately going to the adjoining en suite, he paused when he came into view with the mirror. Is that really what he looked like? Half of his body seemed to be composed of robotic elements. 

Hissing, he retracted his hand from where it had touched a patchwork of wires and stitches. No wonder Captain Puffy had looked at him with such a shocked expression. The components looked to be melted into the skin somehow. Scar tissue surrounding the edges. ‘How am I still alive?’ Jack asked himself in a low whisper, just now noting the caked dirt and blood under his fingernails. The right half of his body that was still skin, was more bloated and had a waxy consistency to it. Able to see his veins with the pallor, cheek bone extremely pronounced with its hollowness. Turning on the skin, he scrubbed under his fingers, watching as the water turned murky. Once happy, he pulled his upper lip up to see the state of his teeth. Not surprised at the yellowness and slightly irritated gums. 

Debating whether to get in the shower as he was unsure if he’d end up electrocuting himself. He had already died once and had gotten hell that time around. Who was to say he wouldn’t get some other realm the second time? With this ‘fuck it’ type mentality, Jack continued on, turning the facet to a random temperature he guessed to be lukewarm. Emitting a string of cuss words when he felt the water to be frozen cold. Ultimately discovering that he in fact wouldn’t electrocute. The robotic side did explain why his limbs had refused to operate earlier, heavier than his muscles. Asking himself if he’d have to incorporate polishing into his daily or weekly routine.

‘Thought Tommy was running this place, how long has it been since I died?’ Jack asked, now sitting across from Captain Puffy, wearing what clothes she could find from the lost and found that would fit him. ‘Tommy asked me to fill in for him today. Temporary thing. But it’s been…6 months since you died.’ Filling the cups in front of them with tea.

‘...6 months?’ Jack echoes, his mouth suddenly dry. He had been gone for half a year now, roughly 182 days. Yet the server had seemed unchanged. ‘Did–was I given a funeral? Did anyone mourn?’ His voice was hoarse from disuse, the phrasing stilted. If Captain Puffy didn’t know any better, she would describe his tone as angry. ‘No. You weren’t given a funeral, not an official one, but Ponk did write you a death certificate. Death by sinkhole, I believe.’

‘So no one?’ The question was a defeated one. He had gone through all that pain and suffering for what? To come back, barely half a man? ‘Jack, I’m merely one person. I can only give you my perspective. No one on this server keeps track of everyone, always involved in their own stuff. Ask around, there has to have been someone,’ Puffy sternly responded. While she was done being the server’s therapist, she wasn’t going to watch Jack run himself into the ground when he had done the impossible. When he had somehow managed to acquire his three lives back. ‘At least ask around. Give this living thing another shot. You used to be as thick as thieves with Niki.’ Giving him a vague starting direction. 

‘What if I can’t find a purpose?’ Jack asks. All that was left of the tea was the leaves at the bottom. Seeing a butterfly in the graininess as his finger ran around the cup’s rim. ‘You’ll find something. It’s only your first day back. You’re bound to rebuild,’ Puffy then tells him to sleep on it, cement the memories of the 6 months he spent in that hellscape. To Jack, it didn’t feel like 6 months. In fact, it had felt exponentially longer. Trapped in a purgatory where nothing looked recognizable. Where all he heard for miles were screams. And now he was dropped in a different state of limbo.

The rest was well needed as it made Jack realize what he had to do to gain some semblance of peace. The brain fog lifted and once he had spent enough time getting used to his new body, he left the hotel in search of Niki. Assuming she might feel the same, having been dealt a similar card by those in power thus far. They didn’t care who or what was lost when they played house, the presidential, special edition version. Noticing two people had been at the center of each and every conflict; Tommy and Dream. No one knew where to find Dream with his aloof nature, thus he’d have to go after the former. There’d have to be some consequences for treating others’ lives so carelessly. In itself, it was its own form of cruelty.

Alas, the journey ahead filled Jack with a fiery, bottled up rage that made it clear he’d only stop once he saw this endeavor to the end.

[cupiditas-and-ao3]

Kinks-Your-Tober Day 6

Seems right up the monster fucker alley

“You reek of desperation, witch. What is it that makes a witch so desperate that she would apologize to the monster she created, but not desperate enough to offer a cure?” 

“I am not desperate,” Circe barked back at the beast that held her. 

Pride. Always pride. 

This close to Scylla’s face she could see the lashes that collected ocean spray like beaded diamonds, the eyes that looked like tide pools, the lips that had thinned and pulled away to bare her teeth. Circe wondered if Scylla knew there was a star of orange and pink in her eyes, like a starfish on the wall of a pool, next to a splash of anemone purple. Circe had never loved a fisherman. 

The beasts were licking at her feet, tasting the salt and blood and fear off of her, nicking her with their fangs sharpened with magic and time and death. She was painfully aware of how long Scylla’s nails were, thin needle claws that dug into her shoulder and spine where she’d wrapped them around. Of the scaled tentacles that served as legs behind her. Six monstrous heads at her waist, twelve legs of scaled tentacles, and one terrible and beautiful sea nymph at the center of it. 

“Then you have come to be devoured,” Scylla held her above one of the heads that began gnashing, that drolled and lunged for her feet. Circe tucked her feet up, pulled them as far as she could from those jaws of black death. 

Its teeth pulled at her calf and she screamed with the pain. 

“I come to bargain,” she cried. “Please.” 

Pride was always so foolish an endeavor. 

Scylla snapped her long fingers and the beast resumed growling sulkily on the cave floor, reaching for any beast or fish that happened too close to the edges of the cave. She heard the cries of a dolphin as it was snatched and torn. As another head joined in the carnage. As the splatter of innards and blubber and flesh decorated the walls and was washed away by a fierce wave. As the spine was snapped between two heads, now three heads, now swallowed in pieces by all six. 

Circe swallowed down bile. 

“Bargain, witch?” Scylla’s voice was just as cruel as the sounds of the feasting beasts. “You have nothing for me.” 

“I have something,” Circe said cryptically. 

She was buying time. 

Scylla waited. Waited for the explanation, for what the witch who cursed her could possibly have if she did not have a cure. When it did not come she barked impatiently and one of her beasts threw a chunk of raw flesh. The monster caught it with one hand and chewed, blood dripping down her pale seafoam green chin and matting in her kelp-like hair. Circe shuddered and looked away from the display as the grain of the muscle tore under Scylla’s nails. 

“What do you wish to bargain for, witch?” The barking voice was made sloppy with chewing and saliva and blood. 

“A man will sail past you,” Circe began. Scylla snorted. Spat a wad of gristle and blood onto the ground where it was eaten greedily. “He must live.” 

Scylla seemed to contemplate it. Seemed to be deciding. 

“You aim to take another man from me, after all?” 

Her voice was, for a brief moment, not the barking of a new howling pup. It was the lyrical song of a naiads, it was what she had once been. Circe was captivated. 

She had never loved a fisherman. 

“He is not yours to be taken from you,” she began and then that snarling was back. 

“He is my right! He will sail past me and I will devour him and everyone on his ship as is my right! As is my only right after you have made me this,” Circe was thrust so close to Scylla’s face that she could see nothing. Nothing but blurs of color that were the entire world of the ocean. Like opening her eyes underwater and looking up at the sky. 

“He is,” Circe admitted. She hated that she was shaking. Hated that she could hear the beasts lapping the blood from her still bleeding calf off the ground where it dripped. 

“Then you take him from me,” Scylla’s voice was a warning growl. 

“I bargain for his life, and the lives of his crew. His life is promised to another before he sails before you,” Circe chose her words so carefully. 

Scylla thought. Chewed it over like a sauce she’d dipped her bleeding chunk of meat in. She set Circe down in the circle of gore and beasts and ran her long urchin-like spines that served as nails through her hair. 

“So you are respecting the claim someone else lays to a man?” barking laughter rang between her words. “I suppose even a witch can change. What do you expect me to do? Let him sail as if I am not there?” 

A claw pulled Circe’s jaw so she was craning her neck to look in Scylla’s fearsome eyes instead of at the beasts circling her like constrictors. 

“I am not that kind,” Scylla growled. 

“Not to ignore them. To only attack once. Take what you are owed, but take it once. Whoever they escape with lives to see their next trial.” 

“And what do you give me in this bargain?” 

Scylla’s nail pierced Circe’s jaw. Blood trickled and the beasts lapped at it. 

“Myself. For any vengeance you can meet while they sail.” 

That stopped her. It stopped everyone. It stopped the gulls crying in a distance, it stopped the shriek of the wind and the crash of the wives, it stopped the barking and gnashing of the beasts, it stopped Circe’s heart. It stopped Scylla. She didn’t even blink, so frozen by the offer. 

“You think you are enough to trade for an entire ship?” 

Pride. Always pride. 

“I think your rage is enough.” 

A beast at her hip lunged, teeth wrapping around Circe’s midsection and slamming her into the wall. Ignoring that it slammed its own face into the wall. Ignoring that the rocks took a sacrifice of the beast’s blood. 

“What do you know of my rage?” Screamed through the entire sea. 

Even Zeus would have heard it. 

Even Hades. 

Even the Furies. 

“What do you know of ‘enough’?” Those nails ripped into Circe’s hair, pinning her to look at Scylla, pinning her to watch the rage and destruction and sorrow and death on the monstrous face. 

“Show me,” she taunted. 

Pride. Always pride. 

“Witch,” Scylla tore the dress from Circe in one motion, claws caught in the neckline ripping the fabric away easier than the flesh she had earlier torn. 

The teeth sank into Circe’s stomach, into her hips, into her thighs. A gaping maw that drew a waterfall of blood as the others fought over the puddle pooling under her feet. She couldn’t feel her legs. She’d heal. Even a minor goddess would heal. If she wasn’t swallowed whole. 

She was buying herself time. 

Scylla hadn’t agreed to the terms yet. But hadn’t she? 

“I was beautiful,” the almost lovely voice barked. “I was loved . I didn’t want Glaucus’ attention. I didn’t want your attention. But you gave it to me. I was happy ,” her voice broke like waves on the jagged rocks below. 

The scaled tentacles were twining around Circe’s arms now, spreading them apart like she was waiting for a spear to the chest or the embrace of a lover. And wasn’t she? 

“You couldn’t just fucking leave me alone,” Scylla hissed. “I just wanted to be left alone.” 

She couldn’t apologize. Couldn’t breathe. Blood was filling the bottom of her lungs, she felt it as easily as she felt her eyes blinking. And then the mouth was releasing her and more scaled tentacles were moving. They wrapped around her legs and spread them until she was spread eagle against the wall. The scales tore at her, the edges as razor sharp as the teeth, but they didn’t puncture deep into her organs. They didn’t sever nerves and sinew. They threatened.  

And she healed. It was slow, she could feel the nerves and muscle and veins reconnecting themselves. Scylla didn’t mean to kill her. Perhaps torture. 

The shreds of her dress, wine dark and blood stained, fell into the pool of her blood where the beasts snarling tore at it. Her skin replenished, knit back together over wounds still healing. Skin healed so quickly when it wanted to. 

“You think that the gods would allow me to heal if a hero decided I was to be slain?” Scylla hissed. Her face, the face that was once a nymph, was so terribly close. She smelled of the rotting things on the surface of the sea, sickly sweet and salt and brine. Circe wanted to gag. 

Scyla’s kiss did not make the urge dissipate. 

Her kiss was all teeth. Razors and needles in a mouth that had been built for sin before it had been corrupted for things far worse. Circe’s lips bled as her mouth opened. She didn’t know why or what she hoped to accomplish. But then her tongue tasted raw meat and her own blood and her lips screamed with pain. 

Tentacles were tearing the inside of her thighs with their scales, bruising her wrists with their constriction. New ones, there were so many more than the four used to restrain her, pressed heavy razor blade weight along her chest. A slice over a breast as one slid down her chest. A slash over her freshly healed hip. A dig into the curve of her soft stomach, the rolls where the meat and fat over her ribs turned to hills and valleys. 

Circe had dreamed about being in the nymph’s arms. It had haunted her since she’d used that gods’ damned potion. She imagined that ocean wave laughter as she held the nymph in her arms, she imagined the way she would bounce like waves, the way she would caress and brush and kiss and soothe. 

This was anything but that. 

This was rough. This was sharp. This was harsh cracks and barks of words meant to wound and touches meant to torture. It was anything but what Circe had dreamed of. 

And something in the back of her mind nagged that it was just what she deserved. She created this. She should suffer its consequences. 

The kiss broke with a wail of pain and fury and the tip of a tentacle, so sharply ridged and so painful, thrust into Circe’s core. She screamed. Of course she screamed. And she bled. But the blood only served to lubricate the tentacle’s way further inside of her channel, delving and twisting and diving. She screamed and sobbed as the tentacle twisted further into her, curling and stroking and pulling blood and pleasure from her depths. As much as it hurt, being filled felt good . Being punished felt good . Being in Scylla’s embrace felt good .

“You bargained, witch, do not give me anything less than what you offered. I want my vengeance,” the nymph growled, her teeth scraping the edges of Circe’s throat. “I want my rage.” 

So Circe screamed. She screamed and wailed and sobbed as she knew Scylla must have when she’d discovered the trick placed upon her. But she didn’t pull away. She thrust her breasts into the painful ridges of scales and into the punishing squeeze of sinewed tentacles. She clenched around the tentacle inside her, around the second when it joined, and she cried with relief and pain and embarrassment as she came around the intrusion. 

“Did you enjoy that, witch? Did you derive pleasure from the abomination you created?” Scylla scorned. Her tentacles dove again, holding Circe’s bleeding and ravaged pussy open for more exploration, more vengeance. Scylla’s tentacles curled and stroked, slicing at a spot that made Circe see stars. 

She’d never loved a fisherman. 

As Circe felt her body tensing, felt the touch of the world unraveling, Scylla pulled her tentacles from the spot deep within her core. And Circe whimpered. She begged with her motions, with the thrust of her hips, with the bounce of her breasts. She cried and begged and needed. And she looked down and saw a tentacle, different than the others, sliding up the bloodied edge of her thigh. 

This was not scaled. Was shorter than the others, had been hidden under Scylla’s twelve scaled tentacles. It was slimy, coated in a substance that soothed the wounds on Circe’s thigh as it explored. And when it slid inside of her sorely abused pusy she let out a moan that would rattle Olympus. 

It kept going, slicking over the wounds that the scales had torn inside of her, sliding at such a slow and measured pace that Circe almost wondered if it wasn’t deliberate. When she opened her eyes, eyes she hadn’t known she’d shut, Scylla’s head was thrown back. She was panting, her hands stroking over her own breasts and tentacles. The beasts were lying on their sides, panting and writing as if in masturbatory pleasure. And there was the single scale-less tentacle, pressing between her spread thighs from between what could have almost passed for Scylla’s mass of legs. It was thick, far thicker than anything Circe would have tried to take on her own. But after the stretch and abuse of the tentacles, this girth was nothing. Until it hit the wall of her cervix. 

Circe shrieked, eyes watering as the tip of the member hit the wall at the back of her pussy, the thin layer separating her womb from the channel that had already been pushed beyond the limits of the human capacity for pleasure. But the intrusion didn’t halt. Circe willed her eyes open, watched the writhing of Scylla’s tentacles and beasts intensify. Watched the monster’s hands running over herself. Listened to a whimpering moan echo through the cavern. And felt the push of the appendage deeper inside of her. 

“What-” she slurred, pain and exhaustion too much for her brain now. 

“Gonna use you good, witch. You offered me vengeance. You offered me rage. You offered me your body. And I am going,” she cut off abruptly with a trembling moan as the appendage pierced through to the narrower part of the channel, into Circe’s womb. “I am going to use it for. All. It. Is Worth. ” 

The appendage thrust and Circe heard someone screaming before she realized it was her. That her throat was raw and tortured. And then Scylla’s tongue, the slimy and blood tasting tongue, was licking behind her teeth, was choking her and making her gag. And then something moved inside of her. 

A bulge slid through the appendage - through the ovipositor, as Circe realized what it was - and into her hole. The bulge, the egg , was deposited deep into her womb. Where children embryos would have taken root and grown and matured into children had she ever been so inclined. But she hadn’t. And now Scylla was laying eggs inside of her. She moaned, gutteraly, as Scylla released her mouth and leaned back to watch. They watched together as the ovipositor thrust into Circe, as the bulge ran its course through Scylla, into Circe, and then into her stomach. The whining twitching beasts lapped at Circe’s thighs, at her clit, at her hole around the ovipositor, at her ass. 

And it felt good. It felt good to have all of the wet slithering tongues on her. To be prodded into. To be full. So deliciously full. And then when she thought that she was so full nothing that Scylla would stop, when her stomach was distended enough that she could no longer feel the member latched inside of her womb, she let out a final trembling orgasm and fell limp in Scylla’s hold. 

And then another egg slid into her. She screamed. She looked up. She looked into Scylla’s eyes which were once again so close to her. 

“You said I had you while they sailed. They haven’t even reached the cliff yet. You are still mine, witch.”

[hottpinkpenguin]

The Way of Winter - Chapter 3

Joel Miller series Female reader insert A/n: takes place at the end of episode 6 (spoilers if you haven't seen!). I took a few liberties with the location. Taglist: @missdragon-1 @this--is--music @caravelofthesun @ishouldclean @mezmerwrites @babypeapoddd @ay0nha @tpwkstiles @one-sweet-gubler @coolninjavoid @ameliabs-world @superflymaterial Word count: 1,715 | Tags: slow burn | Warnings: none

*y/e/c = your eye color*

Joel woke up like he was coming off a nasty bender. He felt dizzy and disoriented, his limbs heavy like lead. He opened his eyes and squinted against a wan, early morning light. He tried to sit up, but the stab of nausea in his gut and an accompanying burn of pain on his right side made him think better of it. He settled for gently turning his head around to take in his unfamiliar surroundings. 

He was in a small, one-room log cabin. An old cast-iron stove sat in the dead center of the cabin on four clawed feet, a long slender chimney climbing up to where it disappeared through the ceiling. Its top was flat - a cooking surface, judging by the soup pot sitting on top of it and steaming merrily. Near the foot of the bed he was in, he saw Ellie, curled up under a thick wool blanket, her brows knitted together even in sleep. Joel felt his chest loosen slightly at the sight of her, apparently unharmed. 

“How do you feel?” The voice startled Joel. He tried to twist towards the speaker, but that same white-hot agony ripped up his entire right side, stealing the breath from his lungs.

Joel laid back against the pillow, trying to regain control of his breathing as he heard footsteps make their way around his right side. He looked over to see a woman crouching down next to him, her y/e/c eyes gliding over him and inventorying his condition with a stoney expression. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but where he knew her hung just out of reach of his mind like the contents of a dream.

“Like shit.” 

The woman’s lip twitched in a half-smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She offered Joel a mug, the comforting smell of bitter coffee tickling his nostrils. 

“Probably should drink water, but you seem like a coffee kind of guy.” Joel took the mug gratefully as he slowly, gingerly, sat up. He moved cautiously, testing each movement as he made it. The pain in his right side ebbed and flowed, but with slow motions he was finally able to prop himself up on an elbow and take a sip of the coffee. It burned his tongue, but the bracing heat felt good. 

After a few sips, Joel began gently prodding the painful point on his right side with his fingers. It hurt too much to turn his head, but he could feel a ragged seam of his skin stitched together with something thick and smooth. His brows knitted in confusion as he tried to remember the last few hours, few days maybe. The woman watched him curiously for a few moments before she stood, moving around him to stir whatever was in the soup pot on the stove.

“You got stabbed, apparently,” she offered. Joel’s memory swam with a few scattered recollections at the woman’s explanation, but he couldn’t force the memories to organize into a story. 

“You stitched me up?” he asked. The woman nodded, her attention on the soup pot. Joel thought he smelled brown sugar. 

“Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me til you’re better,” the woman countered as she ladeled what Joel now recognized as oatmeal into three bowls on a counter at the back wall of the cabin. “You lost a lot of blood. You need to rest and let that wound heal up before you and the girl head off.” 

Joel shot a worried look at the chair, where Ellie was still ensconced in sleep. 

“We won’t overstay our welcome, ma’am,” he replied softly. The woman walked over to Joel with two bowls in her hands and offered one to Joel. He set his coffee mug down hastily on the floor next to his cot, breathing in the sweet aroma of the brown sugar mixed into the oats. 

His host walked over to Ellie, shaking her gently in the chair. Ellie woke with a start, her eyes instantly settling on Joel as her face split into a grin.

“Joel, you’re awake!” She nearly leapt off the chair in his direction before the woman’s hand gripped her shoulder. 

“Easy, tiger,” she chided. “If he rips those stitches, you’ll be doing the next round of sewing.” 

Ellie shook off their host’s hand in irritation, her attention fixed on Joel. He returned her bright grin with a close-lipped smile of his own, careful not to show her the half-chewed oatmeal in his mouth.

“You alright?” he asked her after he’d swallowed. 

“I’m fine.” For the second time that day, Joel felt himself relax a little at the confirmation of Ellie’s safety. He nodded, shoveling another spoonful of hot oatmeal into his mouth. The soggy oats didn’t have much taste, but the warmth felt good on his raw throat. The three of them ate in companionable silence for a few minutes. 

“What happened?” Joel asked Ellie after he’d cleaned his bowl. He noticed that the woman was watching him intently from where she leaned against the deep basin sink, her expression inscrutable. The intensity of her gaze made him prickle slightly with a feeling he didn’t quite recognize. 

“You got stabbed,” Ellie mumbled through a mouthful of oatmeal. 

He rolled his eyes at her smart remark. “I meant after that,” he shot back. Ellie shrugged, helping herself to another heaping spoonful. 

“Rode for a while,” she replied vaguely. “You fell off after a while.” 

Joel thought he remembered snippets of being on horseback. Images of the snow-dusted ground drifting by from a few feet above danced in his mind, the gentle bounce of a horse’s gait. He also remembered the feeling of warmth on his back, and two strong arms holding him upright in the saddle. 

“Found you two on the railbed,” the woman chimed in, interrupting his reverie. “Good thing, too. Doubt you would have lasted long in last night’s snow.” 

Joel’s ears pricked at the word snow, his mind suddenly lurching into muted panic.

“It snowed last night?” 

The woman and Ellie nodded in unison. 

“Our tracks… did anyone follow us?” Joel’s mind spun with the possibilities. He couldn’t name exactly who had stabbed him, but there was a nagging sense of danger at the base of his skull that he couldn’t ignore. He saw Ellie’s eyes widen slightly at the thought, her head swiveling to look at the woman who’d rescued them both and brought them - apparently - to her home. She took an easy sip of her coffee, nonchalant. 

“No one’s tracking you,” she replied confidently. 

“How do you know?”

“My dogs would have smelt them.” Joel couldn’t remember any dogs from the day before, but under the aura of terror that had seized him his memories felt even more nonsensical than before. Even so, the knot of dread in his chest loosened slightly at her reply. 

“Thank you for that,” he breathed out, wincing as the motion caused a jab of pain on his right side. 

“Don’t thank me,” the woman replied. “The dogs don’t protect you, they protect me.”

Joel recognized the hardened defenses of a person who’d been fending for themselves - and only themselves - for a long time in the woman’s tone. He nodded in acquiescence.

“Well, I thank you all the same. You’ve been mighty generous with your time and supplies.” 

His words hung in the air like smoke for a few breaths before the woman set her coffee down on the counter suddenly. 

“I got to check on the animals,” she offered. “Bathrooms outside. But don’t go too far. Snow’s deep.” She moved towards the small door nestled in the back corner of the cabin from where Joel’s cot was, throwing on a thick jacket hanging from pegs next to the door. Joel watched as she shimmied into fur-lined boots, zipping the jacket all the way up and throwing up the hood before she opened the door to the cabin. A blast of cold air swept through the cabin and a puff of dust-like snow danced into the warm air of the interior. The woman paused halfway out the door before turning back to look at Joel. The bright morning sunlight dancing off the fresh snow made her eyes look like glowing embers. 

“You should get some rest, Joel. You’re not out of the woods.” Without a backwards glance, she closed the door behind her, the inside of the cabin returning to a hush as her footsteps faded to silence outside.

Joel turned to Ellie. “Where are we?” 

She shrugged, setting her empty bowl down on a cluttered side table atop a stack of books with spines so cracked from use that Joel couldn’t make out the titles. “I don’t know. We rode for about an hour, mostly north on the railbed.”

Joel tried to summon a mental map of the area where they’d last been, but he felt himself sliding down towards sleep. Using his remaining clearheaded consciousness, he turned towards Ellie.

“You need to find a map, figure out where we are. We can’t stay here too long.” The need to get Ellie linked up with the Fireflies burned like a signal fire in Joel’s mind. 

“We aren’t going anywhere until you’re better,” Ellie replied stubbornly. Joel resented the paternal tone in her words. 

“We’ll leave as soon as I can ride,” he growled through gritted teeth. Out of the corner of his eye, Ellie shook her head. 

“I need you to get better, Joel.” Ellie’s voice turned serious and worried. The sound tugged on Joel in a way that frightened him. He turned his head towards her, struggling to keep his eyelids open. 

“We’ll be fine here for a few days,” Ellie replied calmly. She took a sip of coffee, grimacing at the bitterness. “Y/n’s alright. She sewed you up pretty good, after all.” Joel wanted to argue, to press Ellie on what else she knew about their host, but he was hurtling towards sleep. 

“Keep your gun close,” he urged her. Ellie nodded seriously, pulling back the blankets sprawled over her lap to show Joel the pistol he’d gifted her tucked between her knees. He nodded, wishing desperately to do more but eventually giving in to the tug of sleep as he slipped under the edge of exhaustion.

**********

You stepped off the small porch of your cabin into two feet of fresh snow, your legs sinking in up to your knees. The biting cold from the night before had eased somewhat under the light of the morning sun. You plodded your way to the barn, the legs of your jeans soaking through quickly and sending a cold chill up your back. Your entire body felt knotted up and stiff as a board, making your movements lumbering and uncoordinated. 

You swung open the heavy barn door, the damp smell of animal waste assaulting your nostrils. You left the door open for light and fresh air as you stepped inside, slamming the excess snow off your boots by stomping on the hard packed dirt floor. The dogs leapt up from their straw pile bed at the back of the barn, swarming around your ankles and licking your hands in greeting. You greeted each one with a gentle rub on the top of their head, making a mental note to take them out and check the rabbit snares later that day. 

Rambo and the chestnut mare that Joel and the girl had ridden lifted their heads up and over their stall door. You’d penned them in together last night, knowing they’d like the shared body heat in the night’s cold. Both of them were still fully tacked from the night before, and they were both chewing on their bits in frustration. You set to work on removing their bridles first, then their saddles one by one. Your back screamed in protest at the effort of lifting the heavy, double-seated saddle off Joel’s mare’s back and onto the saddle rack in the center of the barn. You noted the fine handiwork of the saddle and the sheen on the newly oiled leather, along with the fully stuffed saddlebags.  

“Seems our new friends are rather well supplied,” you mused quietly to yourself. Rambo’s ears pricked at the sound of your voice and he nuzzled your shoulder affectionately. You smiled, scratching the sides of his head and up behind his ears as his eyes softened. Joel’s mare regarded you warily from the opposite corner of the stall, grateful to be relieved of her tack but unwilling to approach you. 

You set to work on the rest of the barn’s residents: a half dozen chickens, two goats, and five rather scrawny pigs. The chickens hadn’t laid in almost two weeks, and you were disappointed to find their nests empty again this morning. The goats, for their part, gave you almost a full pail of fresh milk. The pigs rutted happily when you emptied the meager helping of your food scraps from the prior week into their trough, although your mind turned sour as you pondered on how you were going to feed an extra two mouths. You made a silent inventory of all the traps you needed to check later that day, cringing when you realized that meant you’d have to get back in the saddle, your seat and thighs already bruised and tender like a brown apple. 

You’d just finished slinging a fresh bale of hay into the horse’s stall when the sharp, staccato pop of gunfire split the quiet, winter morning outside. You startled, almost knocking over the pail of frozen water next to you in the process. Your body hummed with adrenaline as you moved quietly, half crouched, toward the barn door. You grabbed the spare rifle you kept propped against the wall next to the door as you leaned against the doorframe, leaning carefully out into the light and surveying the vast, white expanse in front of you. A few hundred feet away was the cabin where you’d left Joel and the girl, a faint wisp of smoke curling out of the chimney in the center: a dead giveaway that there was someone inside. 

Another chorus of pop’s drew your attention up the slope on the other side of the cabin to the treeline at the top of the ridge where a handful of dark shapes swam into view. You squinted against the bright light as you pulled the cocking lever on the rifle gently, a soft click of the cold metal indicating the weapon’s readiness. You lifted the rifle up to your shooting eye, closing the other and aiming the gun’s muzzle up towards the dark shapes. Through the gun’s scope, you counted seven mounted riders bobbing through the sparse woods that ran along the ridge’s spine. For a half second, you wondered if Joel’s fears had come true and someone had managed to track you, although in the next instant you realized these riders were coming from the opposite direction. A coincidence, you realized. They’d probably ended up here by accident, gotten disoriented in the snow storm maybe. You couldn’t imagine where they were from, although that hardly mattered now. All that mattered was that they would pass you by without incident. 

You followed their progress in your scope, a few more pop’s announcing their presence. The lead riders seemed to be shooting at something on the ground, jerking their horses in haphazard zigzagging patterns, pursuing a prey you couldn’t see. None of them so much as lifted their heads in the direction of your cabin, and for a few tense moments it seemed that luck would be in your favor. 

All but one of the riders had disappeared over the opposite edge of the ridgeline when the last one suddenly turned their head in the direction of your cabin. Shit. Your heart dropped in your chest.

“Keep on riding, pal,” you urged the distant figure. “Not today. Not this. Not now.” 

As if in spite of your wishes, you watched as the rider reigned their horse up sharply, their eyes fixed on your cabin in the middle of the freshly snow-coated field, its chimney merrily smoking like a calling card. The rider whistled to his comrades: sharp and high and shrill, but faint at this distance. A few moments later, the others came back into view. You watched as the riders exchanged a few words, gesturing wildly back and forth amongst themselves. For another fraught moment, you dared to hope that they might decide to pass your place by, even after spotting it. 

Your heart fell out of the bottom of your feet when the group all reigned their horses around in unison and kicked off into a trot down the slope in the direction of your cabin. You wondered if Joel and the girl had seen them yet. Although he had the steely composure of a man who’d seen his fair share of tight spots, you doubted Joel would be much use in a gunfight in his condition. 

Knowing what you had to do, you took a deep breath in as you steadied your shooting arm, lining up the frontmost rider in your sights. You let out an even, slow breath as you squeezed the trigger, the deafening shot shattering the peacefulness of a bright morning light on new snow…

**read chapter 4 here let me know if you'd like to be tagged if you like this series, check out my Joel Miller masterlist for other works

[nomsfaultau]

Daily ask №27!

Turn the lights off x Fault edition because why not!

For context TTLO is my unpublished fic that I'm working on. The main plot is that Tommy accidentally gets into the cryptid world where he meets new friends and uncovers the truth about his past.

1. In TTLO cryptids are people who have died in some unusual way and then stayed in the community's memory as folklore, cautionary tales, etc. After some emotions and belief are poured into them, they reappear as monsters aka cryptids. That could include anything from vampires to sirens to a girl who cut their head open on a rock and emerged as some mushroom monstrosity. Now that that's out of the way, what sort of cryptids would Fault characters be, if they were one?

2. What sort of a cryptid would YOU be? On that note, I might've made you canon in TTLO for the funsies. You're a mute author who lived in the main town quite some years ago, but one time the town's connection to the other towns got temporarily cut off for whatever reason and with that, a paper and ink shortage happened. You, due to not being able to express your stories and ideas, went completely mad and wrote all over your walls with blood. And died shortly. Now you're chilling in the cryptid world. Thoughts?

3. Do you have any fic ideas that you really enjoy but don't even try to fulfil because you know you won't be able to? Share 'em!

4. How would YOU like to mess up my story if you got the chance to enter it? Yk how I interact with the Fault characters but in reverse. Go on, cause chaos.

5. Would you actually be interested in me ranting about TTLO? Not in asks, of course, just in general? °👉👈°

Philza.

There’s an old man who lives at the edge of town. Been there far longer than you or me, and some say our grandparents could claim the same, and so could theirs. His smile is meltingly warm, but something ain’t right. Might be the look in his eyes, distant, like he’s lookin at a memory instead of you. Might be the crows that always circle over head, like they know he’s already decomposing. The old man’s nice enough folk if you ever talk, but don’t ever linger too long. Not that you’ll run out of welcome; it’s the opposite you best be worrying about with that one. Every few years a kid gets too curious, gets taken underwing by the old man. He collects the oddballs, the ones who don’t quite fit in. Always young, always someone who won’t be missed. The kids who go to him look happier but…only for a little while. Hard to smile when you’re gone. Anderson was the most recent, good head on that one. He is going big places one of these days. Or was. Now his only destination is 6 feet under. And the old man? Well. There’s a young man who lives at the edge of town. Been there far longer than you or me, and some say our grandparents could claim the same, and so could theirs. 

Wilbur. 

Nobody looks the homeless in the eyes. Fingers drumming on dashboards, pinned on stoplights and passengers and mirrors and anywhere but the man on the street corner whistling for loose coins. Nobody looks the homeless in the eyes, and so no one sees when the winter hollows them out to something hopeless. No one sees when starvation claws out everything inside until all that’s left is hunger, hunger, hunger. No one sees when life leaves those eyes. No one sees. Today there was a new stranger in town. It doesn’t draw more than glances despite being a head taller than the crowd. No one can bear to look the new stranger in the eyes. Maybe he doesn’t have any. But the town does notice when people begin to go missing, if only because these ones were important enough for their deaths to matter. The new stranger doesn’t beg like the others do. He doesn’t need to. The new stranger whistles a jaunty tune as it drifts in and out of so-called society, its lips stained with blood. 

The Blade. 

A good soldier never falters, never loses, never ceases. They say he was the best soldier, once. The war was a brutal one, long and cruel. Maybe there was honor in it, maybe there wasn’t. It doesn’t matter so much when there’s an enemy before you and a threat to your life. It matters even less when you’re losing. The fort was over run, the flag long since ripped down. His fellow warriors bled out in messy, unremarkable ways. Sudden, with no time to mourn or care, as if they weren’t his brothers in arms. The invading army was taking prisoners if you lay down your weapons and accepted indignity. Not for a second did he consider surrender, though there wasn’t a hope of surviving when outnumbered twenty to one. But a good soldier never falters. They say he was the best soldier, once. He did not hesitate, throwing himself at the next foe, and the next, fighting tooth and nail. One man can’t take on an army, but he tried. The soldier fought day and night. It was not an enemy that laid him low but the collapsing of his own exhausted body. Sleep claimed him once and for all. But a good soldier never loses. They say he was the best soldier, once. So he simply picked himself back up and continued until panting and soaked in viscera he alone stood in the husk of the ravaged fortress. And yet, he had not yet won. A soldier’s duty does not end with one battle. One man can’t take on a war, but he did. The soldier hunted down every last opponent, a wave of slaughter shredding through battalions until the brutal was over. But what is a soldier during peace? Nothing. Relentlessly, the soldier continues to wage war upon any and all he encounters, prowling the wilderness and waiting for the next fight. Because a good soldier never ceases. They say he was the best soldier, once. They don’t say what he is now. 

Tubbo.

You hear about Rhodes’ kid? Shame. Damn shame. Such a sweet kid, friendly. Too friendly. Got drawn in like a moth to flame with those- well, I mean cult’s strong language and I don’t want to tread on toes with whose god is right, but…mm. Bad sorts. Sweet as honey, sure, but I had a feeling in my gut it was going to break bad when the kid started hanging around at their church meetings. Should’ve opened my mouth, but you know how desperate they were for friends. You remember the news article, right? How many pieces did they find the kid in again? Somethin like four hundred thousand? Huh. Well all I’ll say -and you don’t tell Rhodes this yah hear? He don’t need no more heart break. But I don’t see how the cops figured out it was them. And- and you really can’t repeat I said this- but I could’ve sworn I saw his kid today, handing out fliers for that cult like they weren’t all arrested years ago. Hey! I know they’re dead! And yet…well. Couldn’t’ve been anyone else. Maybe it’s nothing, Mrs. Fletcher, but I saw Jasmine talkin to them, and- and has she come back from school yet? …oh. Maybe we should round up the search party. Better safe than sorry. 

Tommy. 

They had to chain the door to the water tower, though it’s far too late. Not that anybody lives in the surrounding town anymore despite all the new vacancies; they say the tap still tastes of iron. The chain is bulky and intimidating, but everyone knows it was locked before too and it didn’t save anyone. If anything it makes it a challenge, and all the threatening signs they put up after would only tempt more dares from reckless teens if the town still had those. It had to have been a dare gone wrong. Had to be. Because otherwise that meant there was someone in town who’d drag a teenager all the way up a water tower just to drown him, and nobody could handle the thought. The faucets ran red for weeks after. The health officials swore up and down it was safe despite the color. Maybe they were right. Maybe what happened after had nothing at all to do with the dead kid, but nobody really believes that. Because even if no one held that kid down thrashing and gurgling, surely there was someone to blame. Everyone, maybe. The friends who pressured him to climb up, the parents who didn’t enforce curfew, the maintenance worker who forgot to lock the facility. Each dragged out, their every flaw magnified and contorted into something intolerable. The lucky were ran out of town mottled with bruises. The justice didn’t stop there, of course. Onto the bully who must’ve driven the teen to it, the neighbor who could’ve warned the parents when he snuck out of the house, the passerby who might’ve seen them crossing the street. Fewer and fewer survived the trials, the fingers pointed at one another quick to turn into claws. It spiraled out into uncontrolled accusations, mobs descending upon any and all and soon unraveling into pure anarchy. The town ripped itself apart. Literally, viscerally. The rivers ran scarlet with their blood, staining the banks and their hands. It couldn't be helped. The town had developed a taste for blood. 

brooo your world building is so sickkkkk ahhh.

2.Yeah that’s probably how I go out tbh. I’d not be functional without the ability to write or draw. Hope someone at least copied down the bloody words otherwise that was waste of time smh. Some people just don’t appreciate the fact that the ~5 liters of blood the average person has doesn’t actually go that far. 

And God already assigned me vampire for my monstersona. But a couple years ago I had a dream about a fallen angel who was deeply in denial about it. They were a thick ring of white feathers and periodic wings covered in golden eyes that wept as they were forced to confront the fact that the human world was soon to be invaded by demons, and the forces of hell would be slaughtered. So like ideal bod am I right gamers. 

3.Not a fic, but a game. Multiple endings. Had it before SBI, but more vague notions in the years I’ve had it. Starts with Phil moving into a new house. Some clear trauma hidden, world building set up. Then teen hero Tommy stumbles into his house suffering a concussion, thinking it’s his house. Real bad off. Phil helps him out natch, ends up with a bleeding kid asleep on his couch and is just trying to cope with that. When Tommy gets better he’s freaked out and defensive and runs away immediately. But also…now he knows someone who can do stitches. And so the next time is weeks later and he’s dragging in a hissing and panicking fellow teen hero, who is far less okay with a civilian knowing they’re hurt and possibly learning their identity. Cue Phil beginning to run into more and more teen heroes and slowly earning their trust. It’s mostly about picking the right dialogue to build up rapport, though with some minigames for things like giving the kids medical aid, getting them the right presents that are helpful for either vigilante or civilian life, and making tasty food to fill their scrappy bodies and win them over. It is very, very difficult though. 

Cause like. The reason they’re all kids is because heroes kinda don’t last long enough to become adults? It’s a very gritty setting, focusing on the factors that drive kids of all different backgrounds into becoming heroes and the poor ways they cope with the pressure. With Tommy it’s like a sanctioned way to get out his anger issues and receive adoration. Techno’s dead parents were villains so he feels like he has to prove he isn’t like them bc of societal pressure. Probably in foster care, so it’ll be time consuming to try and adopt him. Tubbo was meant to be a sidekick but got shoved into the role, technically with the support of a hero agency but there’s way too much pressure to fill an adult role. It’s a toxic situation, but Tubbo is convinced he has to do this to save everyone (but himself) and the heroes have enough power to make things very difficult for Phil if he tries to help Tubbo too much. Niki is absolutely seething about the state of things, and is honestly more a vigilante because she refuses to sit back on corrupt ‘good guy’ practices. She’s homeless, but wary of any authority figures so has to warm up to consider crashing at Phil’s. Stuff like that idk its very nebulous and I’m kinda making stuff up rn. Thoughts about abusive parents, or parents that force into the good hero role in a perfectionist way (Ranboo maybe?), maybe a kid starting villainy? It’s a very extended cast thing. 

Some are way more trusting, others have bad experiences with adults, others think Phil is a civilian and so needs to shut up and be protected. Bonding scenes like helping protect a secret identity, or distracting a villain in a fight, or patching up wounds, or baking to keep up with superhero metabolisms, or giving life advice (be it for prom date or nemesis). Phil is running around herding cats and lots of the time supporting one means others might not stay safe. Also Phil in the past got like ptsd from a villain attack and so has to deal with his own problems, idk details. And also finds out his corporate job is helping the BBEG uh oh. Phil probably get kidnapped to draw out all the heroes to save him. Or, well, the ones with negative relationships are unlikely to help, making it harder for the rest to succeed. 

The endings come into play considering how many kids you’ve managed to take care of/win the trust of/get to safer situations. Some are far far harder to convince to trust Phil, or may be down but Phil’s ability to help may be limited. Essentially, the higher the relationship bars are with everyone the better the ending. Neutral or negative relationships lead to stuff like injuries or deaths, though not necessarily related to the kid with the low stats always. Cause obviously you’d care more about the kids that you went through the effort of getting their routes right. So it could be like a teammate failed to help, or they weren’t able to cohesively function as a group, or Phil hadn’t knocked in enough sense to stop being self sacrificial/more invested in taking the villain down than making sure no one’s hurt, or the kid that could’ve dragged the injured one to get healed by Phil didn’t trust him and the injured hero died without medical intervention. With better endings being very difficult since a lot of the kids have conflicting needs and you’d have to play like perfectly to get even good stats with everyone (impossible to max out everyone). But that leads to things like no one getting hurt, and progressing to getting kids with the highest stats into safer lives thereafter and more support for others.

4.I don’t know too much, but based on the world building I would try to disrupt all the folklore that the characters survive off of. Make like a youtube/podcast debunking all the myths, get hella famous, and do everything I can to disrupt the word of mouth belief that the cryptids rely on. In the human world I'm hailed as fighting disinformation. In the cryptid world I'm like thanos probably.

5.I am SO DOWN oh my God yes please. 

[awingedinsect]

-Flood me like Atlantic-

Chapter 6

Word count: 2.7k

Warnings: swearing, blOOd, allusions to witchcraft, nudity, reference to drug use, wound cleaning, talk of de@th.

The forest is trying to swallow him. He wants to close his eyes and banish the vision of the branches reaching for him, draped in billowing sheets of moonlight and clawing at his limbs. But every time he does he falls; tripping over the bony roots choking the gravel path.

His feet are numb now, and his knees scraped from the countless amount of times that they’ve hit the ground. He wants to be held. Wants any arms but his own to wrap around his shaking shoulders. But all he feels are his own nails, skittering over his body and digging new marks into his ashy skin.

The moon seems to be changing shapes above, but he concentrates on the tiny stones as the light flickers on them like a dying bulb. He needs to move. He needs to find somewhere to curl up and sleep for as long as possible. And maybe then, just maybe, he’ll wake up from this nightmare.

There’s new voices in the wind and it terrifies him. The light flickering on the leaves around him are a million eyes and they’re watching him. Taunting him. Staring at his inadequate self and how much it’s failing him. His voice is stolen- even the sobs slipping past the wobbly line of his lips are silent and pleading, so that not even a god can answer them.

The moon flickers with its last bit of strength before zapping out in the big black ceiling. It abandons him, and so does the ground beneath.

He falls either up or down and loses his own body somewhere in the darkness, probably never to get it back. And he’s resigned to either wake up some day or just die here, where the night has claimed him as its own.

“Hey mate, you alright?”

Gravel is crackling somewhere beside him. He’s still not awake.

“The fuck you on, bruv, you need me to call an ambulance?”

He groans hoarsely, unable to peel his face off the rocks. His body is curled up on the ground and leaking black blood between the tiny ravines, gluing him in place as what seems to be a hand comes up behind him and turns him over.

“Jesus Christ, you’re fuckin bleeding man! What the-“

He’s vaguely aware as he’s flipped over and his face is brought into the light. There’s a moment of nothing but pure silence; the newcomer suspending his limp body like fresh roadkill. Then he’s fucking dropped back to the ground and an obnoxious cockney accent starts cursing in rage. He thinks they walk away.

Seconds later, but what feels like a small eternity, the hand is back on him and flipping him over with less ceremony than before. His eyes are glued shut with blood and tears and exhaustion. But either way, he doesn’t give a fuck what’s going on as long fingers grab his face harshly and inspect him in what seems to be revived moonlight.

“What the actual fuck.” The voice bites.

Where has he heard that voice? He swears it’s pissed him off before. And yet right now, it sounds like music to his battered ears. He could almost cry, feeling lean arms snake under his and start to haul him across the gravel. The ground shreds his heels, a hot breath cursing above his sticky bangs. He doesn’t remember getting cut in the forehead, but then again-

Everything is hazy.

He’s vaguely aware of being dragged through a doorway before everything goes black once again.

• • • •

“I don’t know, he was passed out on the fucking driveway!”

Vessel hears a distant voice seemingly screaming into a phone. The few seconds of silence between bouts of panicked explanation sounds like they’re coming from the end of an enormous tunnel; probably somewhere back in the land of the living.

He groans, feeling his skin come in contact something cold and slippery as he tries to move.

He’s in a tub.

And not one he can flop out of easily; as his vision comes to, he sees his own blackened body sprawled out in what appears to be a vintage claw foot, set in a tiny bathroom filled with shelves and the musk of dried herbs.

It’s dark in here, save for a few candles dripping down the sides of a drawer table, casting his sprawled body in a flickery orange that makes him recoil. He was evidently dumped here, long limbs stuffed quickly into this porcelain prison, and abandoned.

“…no, no, stay right fucking there.”

The voice is starting to come clearer through the wooden door. “-Both of you. I can handle it.”

Vessel rolls his head over the back of the tub and is immediately clobbered by the spout. As if he wasn’t in enough pain.

“I don’t fucking know! I’ll figure it out. No, no, I’ll figure it out. I know I can’t bring the cops up here. Where the hell did you put the gauze though? And I need, like, disinfectant or something. Fuckin’ wanker was rolling around in something and he’s absolutely disgusting.”

Vessel doesn’t care what happens at this point. However, he’s starting to feel his mind clearing up. And it’s now that the situation is slowly, truly seeping in.

He’s shaking uncontrollably, trying to look down at himself. His head is throbbing, probably from the latest in a succession of falls. He wraps an arm around his stomach, panting and feeling his fluttering heart rate climb in his carved-up chest.

The bleeding looks like it’s stopped, for the most part. But he can feel the lack of blood turning his mind and body to tar. Every move hurts. He starts to grit his teeth, trying at all costs not to scream when his thumb touches the slash down the front of his stomach.

There’s tears in his eyes again.

“It’s the same fucking guy, I’m telling ya.” Comes the voice. “He’s covered in ash and shit. And… and runes. Bad fucking runes. Like, I don’t know if I’ll get it out of the house, bruv. I’m serious.”

Vessels sticky eyes roam slowly, wincing painfully with every breath he takes. This place reeks of witchcraft. And noticing the collection of little bones on the window sill, he wonders if he’s gonna get sacrificed again.

If so, he wishes they’d get it over with.

He’s shivering so harshly he swears it’s shaking the room, then suddenly he wheezes and scrunches his eyes when the overhead light flicks on and the door swings open.

And now he remembers.

It’s the bass player from the Blacklit Room. His hair is down and in eyes, but Vessel can feel the wrath in them all the same as long legs and dubious intentions carry him to the side of the tub, staring down at the pitiful sight. Vessel suddenly feels very exposed.

“You?” He croaks up at him. He hasn’t heard his own voice in hours, not since he’s pretty sure he spoke to a god. It’s hoarse from screaming.

“Shutup.” The man commands, bending down to pull a square basket out from under the drawer table and shuffle through it. He doesn’t look him in the eyes. “Don’t fucking talk.”

Okay.

Crumpled up against the wall of the tub, there’s nothing he can do but try to stay conscious while he waits for whatever happens next. And after some muttered curses in an accent almost too thick to understand, the bass player gets down on his knobby knees, long fingers clasping a collection of medical tape, bandages, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol in a talon-like vice.

“Hold still.” He commands, setting the articles on the lid of the toilet and reaching for the dangling detachable shower-head. He turns the handle above Vessel's head in tiny increments, until a thin stream of ice-cold water splatters into the tub and makes Vessel seethe in shock.

“I’m gonna rinse off the bad bits and bandage em up quick as I can.” The man… III? Says. “Then you’re getting the fuck out of here.”

Although that’s fair enough, the idea of continuing to pursue existence he’s not directly forced into living makes him want to throw up. But all he does is nod, a pained, deep sound that he hopes resembles confirmation leaving his cracked lips. He closes his eyes.

“The light.” He whispers half-intelligently. His voice sounds like a broken motor, wheezing on smoke and rumbling from somewhere deep. He hates the sound of it. “Off. Please.”

“I said shut up.” III says, continuing to adjust the knob until a semi-warm stream trickles over Vessel’s chest. Then he hunches over him, the bathrobe on his shoulders falling in as he starts making circles with the water across Vessel’s torso. Black water runs off in little waves to reveal pinkish white skin beneath, turning a harsh red around the path of Venus's knife. He shudders hard at the feeling.

Murky grey water rises slowly up around his hips, and he’s at least thankful for the warmth for a second before III notices and unplugs the drain, leaving him once again a shivering and now wet shadow of a person.

He wants to simultaneously kiss and murder this man.

After a few minutes, III deems him sufficiently peeled and turns the water off. Vessel watches through tunnel vision as he grabs a roll of bandages off of the toilet and starts unwrapping them on his large hands, eyes flitting between the cuts and the antiseptic as he apparently forms a plan.

“…Why don’t you call the cops?” Vessel whispers, wet bangs dripping into his mouth. His eyes drag up to IIIs, wondering if they’ll meet. They don’t. “Aren’t you… confused?”

Surprisingly, III doesn’t tell him to shut up. Only glares at him briefly as he unscrews the bottle of alcohol.

“Think they’d help you?” He asks. “Look at yourself in the mirror, blud. You look like you got jacked up on shrooms, rolled around in the ashes of your victims, and turned yourself into some kinda human sacrifice.”

“I didn’t kill anybody.” Vessel says, voice severe. “…It wasn’t fucking me.”

III pulls the bandage off his hands and sets it down momentarily, reaching into the tub to pour the contents of the bottle over Vessel’s stomach. “Sure, man.” He says. And immediately, Vessel decides that even though he hasn’t killed anybody so far, tonight might actually change that.

“Fucking Christ!” He screams, writhing under the liquid fire as it’s poured mercilessly over him.

“Fuck…”

“Hold still.”

“Fuck you.”

“And you, bitch.”

After a few seconds he stops, reaching instead for some cotton. And Vessel is left to sit there in the aftershock and pray that things take a less painful turn.

They don’t, really. Over the next few minutes, he’s completely at the mercy of the musician. And he can feel his frown growing, lips curling as he fights hard to stop the tremble in his jaw. Eventually, as a hand splays over his chest and III starts to tape down the strips of cotton, he does catch a sight of himself in the mirror behind his nurse’s bowed head. And the sight is a pitiful one.

His face is still mainly black, with big white trails cutting down his cheeks and pooling in the dip of his neck. His eyes are blown out and swollen, not as hidden as he’d wish by his hair. But as he looks he could almost swear he sees something strange on his forehead. He notices for only an instant before he’s startled by a hand touching him exactly there; pulling his face back into the light and swiping his bangs with a long thumb.

“Fuckin- what are you-“

“I've fixed up your stomach, now I gotta deal with this shit.” The bassist mumbles, now holding Vessel’s face in one hand and squishing his mouth no doubt on purpose.

“Jesus…”

“What is it?” Vessel asks, unperturbed by the palm over his mouth.

“You should know, you were there.” He replies. “You’ve got a symbol on your forehead. Branded, like some sick fuck. You telling me you had nothing to do with it?”

“Branded?” Vessel repeats, eyes stinging as the skin on his forehead is pulled and prodded beneath the pads of calloused fingers.

“Of course I had nothing t-to do with it. You think I’d do this to myself? What’s it say?”

III sighs, releasing him only long enough to grab more cotton and rubbing alcohol.

Brilliant.

“I think it’s a mix of some old runes. And no, I’m not gonna read them. There’s probably enough bad mojo in this place as it is to have me making protection spells for weeks. But it’s ain’t cute, blud. It ain’t cute.”

There’s something vaguely sensual about the next few minutes. It’s probably the blood loss. III’s hot breath on his face as he holds his hair out of the way, dabbing carefully above his eyes…

It doesn’t sting as bad as it did earlier, either. And Vessel honestly feels close to falling asleep again. It’s only when his eyes finally meet III’s that he clears his throat, looking up hazily as the last bit of bandage is wrapped around his head.

“Thank you.” He says quietly.

III looks down at him, silently, tucking the end of the cloth strip in. He pulls Vessel’s hair out of the front and lets it fall back into his eyes.

“I’m gonna find you some fucking pants.” He says, standing up quickly and collecting the crumpled paper and mostly-empty bottle on the toilet.

“I can’t get up.” Vessel says, testing his limbs and immediately wincing. He’s sore as all hell.

“Give it a minute, you’ll be fine. Just get up and wash your fucking face, you look like a fuckin’ pound hound.”

Suddenly Vessel is hit in the face with a towel, and if it weren’t for literally everything else he’d have something to say about it. But he just counts it as a blessing, instantly doing his best to wrap himself up as he stumbles out of the tub like a newborn giraffe.

“You can have the sofa.”

Although he hasn’t even half-considered finding a way back to his motel, the invitation surprises him all the same.

“Do you live alone?”

“No, dipshit, but my boys are at the doctor an hour out. Getting a checkup on that fucking arm you broke.”

“I broke?” He repeats, still struggling to make the little towel enough for his whole body as he collapses against the wall. He rolls his head back against the flowery paper, wishing death on himself once again. “You mean that bloke IV?”

“Met him?” III asks, washing his hands and opening the door. Vessel glimpses a short hallway and some more modest furniture beyond, yellow light leaking into the space as the bathroom overhead turns off. “Fucker. You don’t get his room.”

“Hey, I’m still getting over this fuckin’ black eye, you know.” He shoots back. “You absolutely flattened me, you bastard.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t hard. You’re built like a twig and now you’ve got the strength of one, so watch your damn mouth.”

Vessel watches from the doorframe as III leaves down the hall, shouting back at him and turning into another room. “They’re gonna be back in a few hours, so don’t be a cunt and stay on the fucking sofa, else I’ll dump your ass back outside. Understand?”

Vessel ignores him, instead doing his best to stay upright as all the pain in his body flares. After a minute, III returns, chucking black sweatpants at his head with a final command to wash his fucking face. He does so briefly, bringing a handful of water up from the sink and smearing it around before spending ten minutes putting his pants on.

He throws up bile and the few bites he took of a bagel sandwich for the next five.

Once he finally leaves the bathroom, the cabin is dark, III nowhere in sight. But he couldn’t care less as he finds his way to the living room and falls down on the leather, hoping to god that when he wakes up, he’ll be anywhere but here.

He barely manages to pull a quilt off the floor and onto himself before passing out deeper than dreams can find him for the next several hours.