#dry needling side effects

[labsportstherapy]

Benefits of Dry Needling in Physical Therapy

Dry needling offers several benefits, particularly for those dealing with muscle tightness, strains & chronic pain. The technique helps reduces muscle tightness, eases muscle strains, improves range of motion, decreases pain, enhances recovery.

[soyoursoulisgreen]

5, 11, and 30 for the artist ask meme!

5. Estimate of how much of your art you post online vs. the art you keep for yourself

It's increased over time! Well, actually, it's been a bell curve, kind of. Maybe more like a roller coaster lol. Obviously before I was online I wasn't sharing any of the stuff I drew; I drew for about seven years before posting anything - casually, for my own entertainment - and then for a while I was posting almost everything in some form or another; if I didn't post the original doodle, it was because I cleaned it digitally! But I got pretty burnt out on that haha - it does still come and go in cycles lol. Nowadays I probably keep back about 30% of what I draw? Although it can be hard to quantify - if you upload to an audience of zero, is it actually online? Haha ♪ Or an audience of one! Just because it's shared using the internet as a middle man, does that count as "posting"? :0 I don't know! I think it's an interesting question tho!

11. Do you listen to anything while drawing? If so, what

Yes! It really depends on what I'm drawing; my go-tos are always Reddit story readings since I don't have to think too hard about picking one, they last a while, and they keep my auditory brain occupied while my hands and eyes are busy. For a couple days of Requestober, especially the Portal/Stanley Parable days but also the song prompt, I was listening to themed stuff - GLaDOS lines, Narrator lines, the aforementioned song haha. I hate having to stop to pick the next thing! It makes editing my footage harder and throws off my flow :P

30. What piece of yours do you think is underrated

A lot of my Law Abiding Citizen stuff probably - LAC is such a good series!! I wish more people would see it/were still into it. We're few, and I was late to party, but my love still burns! If I had to pick just one thing tho, I think it'd have to go to one of my Just Desserts comics - I cried while drawing it initially, and I still think Charm's transition from her smiling-crying face to her angry-crying face is so well done ♥

[infartoomanyfandoms]

Omg I also get the worst health panic attacks. Not where I'm worried for my health but when I'm ✨too aware✨ of what's happening in my body, my brain does not like that. (Vividly remember 3 separate occasions where I nearly fainted or threw up in high school biology bc of this lmao) So every time I remember that my brain chemistry is literally changing I need to lie down for 10 minutes.

Medication was a great idea!

So I finally went to my doctor about mental health and got prescribed some lovely SSRIs 🤩

Fabulous, brilliant even, can't wait for them to work, however they are giving me such bad nausea and my gag reflex is constantly irritated. Like I'm not feeling ill at all, my gag reflex is just on overdrive.

Also my iris muscles are relaxing and it's giving me light sensitivity headaches

All of these mild inconveniences are making me wonder if it's even worth it 💀 But I'll stick it out for a few weeks and we'll see

[leiascully]

Fic: Cosmic Brownies At The Blood Center

1200 words; G for gentle gen fic; okay they're in love but they're not together so it's gen enough; sometimes @thursdayinspace dares you to write a fic so you do; tw: blood and needle mentions and a reference to the cancer arc (AO3)

“I really don’t see why we have to go through all of this.” Mulder shrugged out of his jacket.

“Do you want me to hold your hand?” Scully asked, not looking at all like she meant it.

A technician in scrubs approached, carrying a rack of vials and a bundled bag. “Sir, which arm?”

“The left,” Mulder said. The technician guided him to a reclined chair. He climbed into it and laid his arm on the broad armrest.

“Do you have an allergy to latex or iodine?” the technician asked, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm.

“No,” Mulder and Scully said simultaneously.

“Okay,” the technician said, looking very slightly taken aback. “Um, I’m going to swab your arm for thirty seconds.”

“Be my guest,” Mulder said.

“One of us ought to give blood,” Scully said. “And I can’t.”

“Don’t meet the criteria?” The technician put a rubber handle in Mulder’s hand and told him to squeeze it as she pumped up the cuff. Mulder obliged. “I told you you needed more than bee yogurt for lunch. We’ll get a nice greasy burger and fries after this, what do you say?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m ineligible because of the medications I’ve taken in the past few years.”

It was oblique enough as a reference to her cancer, but it still made him wince.

“Sorry,” the technician said, pressing what looked like a straw deeper into the tender skin inside his elbow. “Just marking your vein. Squeeze and hold?”

Scully’s cool fingers tangled briefly with Mulder’s, hidden on the other side of the chair, as the needle slid into his arm. The technician taped the tubing to his arm and sampled his blood into vials. It was cool in the room, and the contrast between the chilly hair and the heat of his own blood flowing through the tubing felt strange. Scully squeezed his hand and released it, taking a rolled up issue of a medical journal out of her pocket.

“Looks good,” the technician said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Yell if you need anything or if you start to feel faint.”

“Will do,” Mulder said. He turned to Scully, who was staring intently at her journal. “Here’s the thing, though, Scully: what if the Powers That Be Interfering decide to divert my blood on its way to the bank, thereby giving them access to my genetic material and allowing them to clone me or otherwise use my DNA for spurious purposes?”

“Mulder, what makes you think they don’t already have access to your genetic material?” She looked up. “Aside from the vast conspiracy that includes the cataloging of millions of individuals, including you and me, via vaccination campaigns, I’m sure you’ve left enough of it lying around to sample.”

“Very funny.” Mulder tapped a finger on the top of her journal as she tried to go back to it. “What about the various and sundry unknown maladies we’ve both contracted? Potentially alien viruses. Exotic bacteria. Radiation.”

“They’ll test your blood before they add it to the blood bank,” she said.

“For all that?” Mulder scoffed.

“Whoever gets your blood will also get any antibodies that might be lingering in it,” Scully mused. “It might actually have some protective effects. All the more reason you should schedule regular donations.”

“Is this my doctor’s advice?” Mulder asked.

“Not that you take my advice,” Scully said in a dry voice. She got up, circling the chair. “Looks like you’re almost finished here. Someone will be grateful for a pint of O negative.”

“Are you jealous that someone else is doing medical things to me?” Mulder teased.

“If I wanted your blood, I’d just take it,” Scully said. “It’s nice to outsource these responsibilities from time to time, when you’re not in mortal danger.”

“My life in your hands,” Mulder said softly.

Scully smiled at him. “Death can’t have you on my watch.” She checked the machine again. “Not that you’ll die from losing a pint of blood, a big healthy specimen like you.”

The machine beeped a cheery little tune. The technician came back, edging around Scully, unhooking Mulder from everything and bandaging his arm. She ran through a list of post-donation instructions, handing him a paper with the same information. “Don’t forget to have a snack and something to drink before you leave, okay? And stay for at least 15 minutes.”

“Don’t worry, she’ll make sure I don’t pass out.” Mulder swung his legs off the side of the chair and climbed down. Scully put a hand on his shoulder as he walked to the snack area and perused the offerings.

“Cosmic brownies,” he said, unwrapping one. “They sprang for the good stuff.”

Scully surveyed the snacks. “Personally, I’d go for the oatmeal creme pie.”

Mulder rolled his eyes. “Of course you would. And then you’d probably confess the indulgence.” He bit into his brownie.

Scully set a paper cup of water in front of him. “Drink this.”

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the burger,” Mulder said around a mouthful of brownie. “You promised.”

“I did nothing of the sort,” Scully said, taking her journal issue out again as if he’d never interrupted her. “I just neglected to decline.”

“In a debate, failing to address the premise means you assent,” Mulder said, washing down another bite of brownie with the tepid tap water from Scully’s cup.

“We’re not debating,” Scully said, but her mouth quirked at the corner.

“Aren’t we?” Mulder asked.

She looked away, still with that secretive smile. “Mulder, you tease me for eating bee pollen, but excessive consumption of red meat is linked to an increased risk of certain cancers.”

“Then we won’t consume excessively,” Mulder countered. “Burgers today, salad tomorrow. After all we’ve been through, I think we’ve earned it.”

“You do need the calories,” Scully relented.

“Let’s face it, you were going to order a salad and steal half my fries anyway,” Mulder said.

“I never have,” Scully said, but now she was openly suppressing a grin. They both knew the truth.

“The results of my investigation say otherwise,” Mulder said. He downed the last of his water. “What d’you think, Doc, am I safe to re-enter society?”

Scully gave him a quick onceover, thumbing his hair out of his eyes and touching the back of her hand to his forehead. “As much as you ever are.”

He got up slowly. “I’ll take it.”

“I’m driving,” she said, and fished the keys out of his pocket.

“My life in your hands,” he said. “Again.” Maybe it was the blood loss that had his heart thudding. Maybe it was just her: against the dingy backdrop of the donation center, she was all chic competence and incisive blue eyes. The brownies weren't the only thing that was cosmic. Scully was spun from stardust, a glint of the divine in his shadowy life.

She flashed him a smile like sunshine. “I’ve gotten you this far.”

“To the end of the road,” he promised. “As long as that road ends with burgers.”

“I can make that happen,” she said, and it felt like a vow.

[kurishiri]

n.4 . . . “ the dangerous promise between the hunter and the intelligent yakuza ”

— this translation may not be 100% accurate or may contain creative liberties for characterization or narrative flow purposes. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging, but don’t repost or claim these as your own!

— thanks again to @ndoandou and @drachonia for helping me look over the jude lines!

— cw: blood and injury, smoking.

Jude: Speed up n’ get stitchin’ ya quack of a doctor.

The man named Jude was stabbed pretty badly, and was nearly killed. That was how reckless he was on a normal basis.

Every time he stumbled in the clinic, I would take him in, treating him in secret.

Roger: It’s not every day I run into people who have made so many enemies in their life. Well, show me your stomach.

R: Ohh, you managed to dodge it pretty well this time too. It won’t be too hard to suture. You have my praises.

Jude: Ah? The hell are ya doin’, stickin’ a needle in me n’ takin’ my blood?

Roger: It’s needed for the treatment. I thought that was obvious?

Jude: Ya damn quack, don’t go takin’ my blood if yer gonna dilly dally like that!

J: Ya braindead or somethin’? My blood’s already spillin’ from my stomach, now yer drainin’ me dry.

(...Tch, he found me out. Well, at least I can have the blood I already drew out.)

Roger: I get that you’re Cursed, but I can’t help but wonder if you’re Cursed by a fairytale if you’re just cursed with a sharp tongue.

R: Ah, as I thought, Ellis is the only good kid around here, being such a kind person and all.

Jude: Yer eyes must’ve gotten worse, ‘cause I think ya mean man’s clearly got a screw loose.

Roger: Okay, I get it, I won’t take Ellis away from you. Though honestly, I could use an assistant.

Jude: Ow—!

J: Oy, ya wanna get drowned? Don’t go stabbin’ people with needles without a warnin’ ya quack!

Roger: Yeah, I make it a rule of mine to not listen to someone who can’t quit smoking a single cigarette.

Jude normally kept a pack of cigarettes in his pockets, and no matter how many times I told him to stop, he didn’t even try.

(I heard that he had problems in his bronchial tube, so that’s why he came to see my dad, but was all that a lie?)

But, my doubts would be flipped over on a certain night.

Jude: ...Gegh—*cough* ...Hah—

Roger: Was that an asthma attack...

Ellis: I went to collect some debts, but there in the basement, there was tobacco smoke everywhere…

Jude: …Ah, bloody hell…

(So my dad wasn’t wrong about Jude in his medical records?)

Roger: Jude, I’m gonna make you feel better as soon as possible tonight.

I had given Jude some medicine a bit on the stronger side, and so by the time he awoke, it was the next morning.

Roger: Awake now? …Ah, looks like your breathing has stabilized too.

Because of some side effect of the medicine, somewhere in his gaze seemed a bit hollow.

Jude: What of Ellis…

Roger: Said he was gonna finish up some stuff for work at your company.

R: He figured you’d be worried about that when you woke up. Ellis really is a good right-hand man.

Jude: …Hah… that stuff’s the bottom line.

Roger: Hey, Jude.  You really should quit smoking.

R: As far as I can see, you don’t seem to be smoking because you like to do it. In which case it’s better to just not smoke at all.

R: And if you’re doing this because of your work…

Jude: It ain’t just my work.

Roger: ………?

Jude: The smell when I smoke reminds me of that stuffy ass room.

J: All the smoke n’ the fumes, n’ the gloom in the air would make me cough up a lung.

From within those hollow eyes I could clearly sense loathing.

Jude: …Every time I remember that, it makes me bloody seethe to the stomach.

J: N’ that’s when I thought…

J: All the ones who looked down on me, n’ the ones who tried to look down on me…

J: …Ain’t no way I’ll kick the bucket ‘til I make every last one o’ those shits fall to the pits of Hell.

Then, one night, I chanced upon Jude by his lonesome on a street corner.

While holding a cigarette in his mouth, he was gazing up at the moon with a vacant look.

Such a look was reminiscent of having given up on something, just like that…

If anger and loathing was the fire that Jude needed to live, and smoking was that fuel—

Roger: …Jude. I will always be against smoking.

R: But in the end, you can do what you want, and how you want. That’s all up to you.

R: Ahh, and also—

R: If you’re about to die again, then I promise I will save you. If you’re willing to pay a steep price in turn, that is.

Jude: Don’t go throwin’ the words “I promise” around so willy nilly.

J: If I end up suddenly droppin’ dead ‘cause yer a quack, I’m gonna have Ellis kill ya.

Roger: You got yourself a deal. If that happens, we can enjoy a drink in Hell, the two of us.

Jude: …Hah, now that one’s for the birds.

J: Somethin’ like yer favorite beer probably ain’t gonna be down in a place like that.

—— Present time ——

(…I just keep thinking about the old times today.)

Scattered about before my eyes were the medical records of the Crown members.

Their ways of living and personalities were all over the place, but there was one thing they all had in common.

And that was the fact they all were Cursed with a “tragic fate” they could never escape from.

I sucked in a breath unconsciously.

(At this rate, they can’t die with a smile on their faces.)

(And maybe, if they weren’t Cursed, they could be living more freely than they do now.)

Roger: Jeez, since when did I feel such things? It’s not like me.

——is what I said, when footsteps sounded outside the door.

They resembled the steps of a puppy, and they seemed to be in a hurry.

(It’s Kate.)

Before I heard the knock, I called out to her.

Roger: You can come in.

Kate: Roger, there’s trouble…

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full masterlist ⌛️

[brandyllyn]

Silk from their soul (13)

The Ghoul / Cooper Howard x f!reader [no use of y/n]

Rated: T Words: 1.7k Summary: Daisy, Daisy

Series Masterlist My Masterlist

Sunlight wakes you up.

Your Cowboy isn’t nearby and he definitely didn’t wake you up for your watch. You stretch, noting the bandage wrapped around your arm. You can’t even imagine how tired you must have been to sleep through him removing the needle.

Then again, yesterday had been quite the day.

There’s a bottle next to you, filled with distinctive red and yellow pills. You swallow one down, figuring the lingering effects of the Rad-Away will stack well enough with the Rad-X. No sense in not being careful, and their presence is signal enough that your Cowboy has his mind on some things.

Good, so did you.

The fire is out and you slowly sit up, digging in your pack for breakfast. You’re halfway through a ration bar when he strides back in, all confidence and cocksure grin.

“Looks like we might make the foothills today if we hustle.”

You nod, swinging the pack on and climbing to your feet, mouth half full of dry oats. The sudden movement makes you wince and you try to shift your weight as inconspicuously as possible.

He notices, of course.

“You hurt?”

“Sore,” you mumble, trying not to meet his eye.

“Sore? From wha-?” He seems to suddenly realize and that cocksure grin of his gets even wider, if that’s possible. “Well now, can’t say there’s much I can do about that.”

“Well, I’m going to need some recovery time,” you tell him primly, trying to hide your smile when he laughs.

“Sure thing, sweetheart,” he catches your hand and presses a kiss to your fingers, slipping one into his mouth briefly before letting you slide away, “plenty of other trouble we can get up to.”

Was it hot in here? You were suddenly sweating.

Thankfully - for your journey more than your sanity - he sets off for the day after that exchange, pace steady and sure. The ground is mostly dirt and you walk side by side down what’s left of an old road.

“Can I ask you a question?”

He glances your way from under the brim of his hat. “S’pose that depends on the question.”

“What do you do?” He blinks at you and you rephrase, “I mean, you’re obviously pretty good with a gun, you’re… what you are. I’m just wondering - what do you do? To earn caps? To pass the time.”

“Oh,” he turns from you to scan the horizon, drawing the word out, “bit of this, bit of that.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Never said I would.”

You huff, picking your way around some rubble. “Gigolo?”

It gives you a little too much satisfaction to see him stumble, head turned back to look incredulously at you. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’d be good at it,” you say blandly as you pass him. You don’t get far, his hand catching on the back of your skirt and pulling you back into his chest.

“They do say if you’re good at something, never do it for free.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have any caps on me,” you sigh theatrically, reaching back to slink a hand behind his neck, “do you take any other forms of payment?”

He bites you in retaliation, his tongue quickly soothing the flesh. You should be more concerned, you know that. He’s necrotic and by all accounts has been for a long time. The chance he’s eaten a person were pretty high - although you can hope they weren’t alive at the time and deserved it a little.

“I think we can make some arrangements,” he drawls into your ear and you giggle, twisting away from him. There’s a group of abandoned buildings ahead of you and you dart towards them, listening for his footfalls behind you. He’s quick to follow, a gruff laugh escaping him as he gives chase.

You turn to skip backwards, grinning at him. “C’mon, you can do better than that.”

He bares his teeth at you and starts to say something when his eyes dart over your shoulder and suddenly he’s next to you, pushing you behind him.

“Well howdy fellas, something we can do for you?”

You turn and see them - four men, each with guns, standing in the road ahead. There’s another on top of a building nearby.

“We’re after the girl.”

“Well I’m thinking you might have to find one of your own, this one here is mine.” He’s keeping himself between you and them and you have no problem letting him. He’ll heal up a heck of a lot quicker than you anyway.

“We ain’t lookin for trouble, ghoul. I imagine we’re all after the same thing.”

He cuts his eyes to you before turning back to them. “I thought you might say something stupid like that.”

The first gunshot takes you by surprise, his pistol jumping into his hand so quickly it looks like magic. One man goes down instantly as his compatriots scatter. Your Cowboy goes for the next but you lay a restraining hand on his arm, pulling him behind a wall.

“I thought we agreed on not shooting first and asking questions later?”

“I don’t intend to ask them questions, darlin’,” he responds, unholstering his rifle and casually taking aim around the corner. The shot makes you cover your ears but you still hear someone scream in the distance. The wall next to his head explodes and he jerks back, a piece of stone embedded just beneath his eye.

“You’re hurt!” you cry out, pulling his face towards yours. He shrugs you off, touching the area before refocusing. 

“It’ll be fine.”

You pull at everything in you and force him to look at you. “Let me talk to them.”

He curses but doesn’t shoot again, glaring at you all the while. You wait a moment before calling out in your sweetest voice, “It seems we got off on the wrong foot.”

“That bastard killed Darryl!”

You glare at your Cowboy who looks entirely unrepentant. “Well, you were holding guns on us, it’s a dangerous place out here.” 

A breeze caresses your face and you take a chance, stepping around the wall over your Cowboy’s spluttered protests. Your skirt whips around your knees and against the back of your neck as you hold your hands up. “I’m sure we can come to an amicable agreement!”

A head pops up, the scarred face staring back at you slack jawed. “Well hell you look just like her, Daisy Mae in the flesh.”

Groaning softly you try to keep your expression chipper. “Ain’t that something! May I ask what you’re here for?”

“You know what we’re here for.”

Well shit, you did. It was too much to hope that that asshole hadn’t sent people after you. But you really didn’t want them talking about that. “Well, then I think you also know that I’m not really interested in acquiescing.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“She ain’t going with you, numbnuts.”

You try not to roll your eyes at your Cowboy’s words. He gives you a look of wide-eyed innocence. “Want me to rephrase that as a question?”

There’s the sound of a shot, and suddenly pain blooms along your side. You clutch at it automatically, gasping softly, and then he’s there. Your Cowboy. One arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you out of the line of fire.

Distantly you hear yelling, hear the men arguing with each other. But all you can see is the burned face of the man above you. 

“Ah shit,” he grunts, pressing a cloth to the wound, “you ain’t got enough blood to be losing this much.”

“Sorry,” you mumble in return, trying to give him a halfhearted smile, “I’d rather it be on the inside too.”

He gives you a quick smile, pressing your hands to the cloth. “Am I allowed to do some hurting now?”

You wave a hand weakly, “Have at it.”

It’s efficient, whatever it is. Seven shots over the course of less than a minute. All of them from him as far as you can tell. None of them sound far enough away to be anyone else. You poke at the wound as he does it, grimacing at the ragged edges. Hopefully it wasn’t organic - you could probably heal up from a bit of metal if you were careful - but organic stuff had a tendency to fester.

Boots crunch on rock and you barely glance up as your Cowboy drops into a crouch next to you. He’s got a pack in his hand, a bandage in the other. You try to wave him off but he bats your hands away. 

“It ain’t much, but it’ll set you up til we can find somewhere safe.”

“I’m fine,” you try to tell him even as he presses the somewhat clean gauze to your wound. “I don’t need-”

He cuts you off with a hand around your wrist, pulling you to your feet and throwing your arm over his shoulder. You cry out in pain and he freezes for a moment before wrapping an arm around your waist. 

“You’ve been shot, so unless you and I got a fair bit more in common than you’ve been letting on, we need to get it treated.”

You nod, biting your lip. It hurts like a son of a bitch and you do your best to keep quiet as he leads you off in a different direction, towards what looks like a decently preserved building. Inside there are bedrolls and the remains of a fire - even a cot in one corner which he leads you near before leaning you against a wall. A moment later he reappears with a blanket from your pack, throwing it over the stained mattress and guiding you to lay down.

“Wait here, don’t move. I’m going to go roll the bodies, see if they have anything on them.”

“Roger that,” you say weakly, trying to give him a halfhearted salute. He snorts a laugh before heading out.

You close your eyes, just for a moment. Just to keep your head from spinning.

☢ ☢ ☢

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[revelisms]

By some strange, verboten miracle, the body breathes: the heart throbs: the blood blooms, and blackens, and bubbles shut—crusted seams a grotesque crystallization down the skin of a specimen barely beating, pale as one kissed by death, but the consummation denied.

No—still living.

Still living, and demanding of it.

And it's wondrous.

His notes slide, gradually, from recordation to eulogy. Moulded beneath his hands: a gnashing beauty. In the binds of his own creation: a monstrous hell, unleashed.

Beyond it, the subject finds ways to surprise him.

First, by its spiteful survival. Generations of filth devoured and reclaimed; poison peeled to sustenance.

Second, by its spiteful tongue.

"Your notes would suggest you have a creature in your midst, Doctor."

Corin hums. "Otherness requires a degree of neutrality."

A scoff through chipped teeth; dead eye a flame-spark in the dim. "Is that what you call it? Otherness."

And what else could he say, to describe a Kindred reborn? An old god entombed, vengeful in a lilac-veined host?

"Topsiders hadn't much care for you, had they?" says Silco, hunched by a microcosm of tubes and vials. He speaks with the chilled arrogance of one who only seeks confirmation for an answer already known.

They are both often cruel in their motives, and not often kind.

The commonality is a welcome one.

"They hadn't for your father, either," Corin rasps, squinting at a serum oil-slicked and effervescent. He ticks the bubbles free. "And they won't, for you."

Silco's scarred mouth cuts sharply at one side. "Presumptuous."

"Is it?"

An answer he, himself, already knows.

Their retribution was always due to come—and, with it, their plague.

This man is as much his own creation as that of the gluttoned city above.

The smirk falls; eyes seafoam and molten narrowing, hazed with a violet glow. Slowly, Silco straightens. "Don't get smart."

Corin offers a dry smile. One day, the lips will be gone, the teeth exposed, only a mottling of singed flesh. It will become his namesake, as this man's rotted eye will become his own.

"A new strain," he mutters then, ambitions shelved, and clicks the vial into an injector. The subject is well-trained, knows the times they are due, has become expectant of them. He is keen to think he has control of the strings, these days. Still, he waits at Corin's heels.

"The side-effects?"

His chair squeaks. "Mild hyperesthesia. Increased sensitivity to light is also likely. But the regenerative properties are more stabilized."

"For how long?"

Corin eyes him. "Long enough." He waits, turns the glass between his fingers, flicks its needlepoint at the stool beside him. "Sit."

Always obedient, no matter his spittling mouth. A spindly hand dragged through dark hair: feigned vanity in the face of nervousness. More anxious than his knife-edged stare suggests.

Greenish and gold, blue-fire and ember, framed by lashes that flicker. Corin drags a coarse thumb beneath one eyelid. A hush of tobacco-stained breath fans over his jaw. "Hold still."

The needle pierces smooth as silk. Violet blooms: dragon's blood and black spice. Veins lurch beneath his fingertips: the lungs contract: the body contorts into a shiver, a husken wheeze, a ragged gruff, ecstatic and tortured in turns.

Corin smooths the stream of violet from the subject's chin, ungentle and unfeeling. Captivated.

The destruction, beautiful. The remelding, enrapturing.

Silco's temple slumps into his palm, clammy and weakened, but the weakness misleads—in the simple coffin of the flesh lies a thrashing thing; a century of starved retribution, unearthed. A hunger that will stand on the bones of the living and dead—on the shell of this city, in full—before it could dream of being sated.

The thought earns a shiver of its own, deep in the recesses of Corin's blood.

In the face of a dream long-buried, a shred of pride is unavoidable: awed at the horror, the holiness, of realization.

To some, perhaps, it could be called love.

His thumb disobeys him, skirts against the fish-cool neck. "Well done, boy," he hushes.

The body tenses. The hairs rise. Beneath his touch, a pebbling of skin.

And only with a clinical intrigue does he permit himself to admire it.

singed and silco / the created

[whumpetywhumpwhump]

Posting one of my actual (fandom-related) full fics on here... be nice!!

This is some good ol' intubation whump because it's my favourite.

(for slight context of character, see this old post)

When the call comes in, everybody in the ER is hoping it isn't Coop. Especially Neela.

Severe asthma attack. 26 year old male.

Somehow, because it's his day off and he really ought to be relaxing, it seems almost impossible for him to find himself back in the hospital as a patient. It just… isn't fair.

That doesn't stop the wheels of the gurney from rolling through the doors, though. Doesn't change the fact that Coop is laying half-conscious on top of it, his quick, shallow breaths fogging a nebulizer mask, his skin so pale it looks ashen.

“26 year old male,” the paramedic conducting the transfer restates. “Severe asthma attack with symptoms pointing to onset of status asthmaticus. Albuterol administered, as well as 0.5mg subcutaneous epinephrine, both to minimal effect.”

Dr Lewis, the attending on the case, moves to Coop’s side, slipping the chest piece of her stethoscope underneath his t-shirt as they continue to move into one of the trauma rooms. Her expression, when she withdraws it, is severe.

“His airways are pretty much closed up. He needs more epi now.”

Abby hurries to drag a crash cart in, and Neela follows the gurney all the way until it's positioned in the trauma room, at which point she starts readying an IV kit with shaking hands.

Coop does not look good. Even when compared to the time she almost killed him with epi. At least then he'd been alert, sitting up, and his skin hadn't lost all of its colour like it has now.

Dr Lewis returns from fetching some more equipment, and as she waits for Abby to arrive with the crash cart, she strokes Coop’s hair reassuringly.

“Hang on, sweetheart, we’re going to help you feel better. Just keep breathing for me, okay?”

Through weak wheezes that emerge from blue-tinged lips, Coop nods. His eyelids are heavy with exhaustion.

Neela hasn't seen an asthma attack this severe in person before, but she knows from med school how dangerous they can be- especially when the patient is as tired as Coop is. It isn't clear how long he's been struggling this much to breathe. The colour of his skin (or lack of, for that matter) tells her it's been too long.

If they don't work quickly, his body will run out of energy. He'll stop breathing, too exhausted to even inhale anymore. He'll lose oxygen.

He'll die.

“Neela, I need an IV of 100mg hydrocortisone.”

She turns to find Dr Lewis’ keen gaze on her. There's a thinly veiled panic in the attending’s eyes that quickly disappears as she turns back to Coop, gently trying to reassure him as he fights for air.

“I’m going to page Pratt as well, alright, Coop? He can get you some more albuterol so your nebulizer doesn't dry out.”

Neela can't see whether Coop replies, but if he does, it isn't audible. All she can hear is his terrifying wheeze and the hum of the nebulizer, shortly joined by a rapid beeping as a nurse finally helps him take off his shirt and hooks him up to a monitor. She doesn't dare turn around to look at his oxygen saturation. It's likely going to keep plummeting.

Instead, she focuses on setting up the cannula in Coop’s trembling arm, her left hand holding it steady while her right slides the needle in.

“There we are, Coop.” she murmurs. “You're doing so well, sweetheart.”

The pet name feels stranger coming from her lips than Dr Lewis', but at this point her slight blush is the least of their worries. While Coop’s this sick, it doesn't matter what she calls him. He just needs to start breathing properly again.

Once the IV site has been secured with a clear sticker, Neela measures out the dose of hydrocortisone. 100mg. When they're giving it as a steroid over a longer period of time, they prescribe 20-30mg a day, in two doses. The fact that they're pumping him full of this much at once is testament to just how emergent his case is.

“100mg hydrocortisone going in.” she announces. Connects the needle to the cannula. Pushes down on the plunger of the syringe.

Despite her accumulated knowledge surrounding medication, Neela still half expects the effects to be immediate. For Coop to suddenly relax, his airway opening up again, the colour gradually suffusing his cheeks. For the wheezing to fade as he breathes in properly for the first time in hours.

It doesn't. None of this happens.

Minute by minute, Coop continues to deteriorate. Abby brings in the crash cart. Dr Lewis injects the epinephrine beneath the skin of his forearm and, unlike before, he doesn't even react to the needle. His eyes flicker like his awareness is slipping away from him.

By the time Pratt arrives to switch out Coop’s nebulizer, such a small intervention becomes pointless. Even if Coop were able to breathe properly, time has proven that albuterol, on this occasion, just isn't working. Pratt sets down the new nebulizer and instantly crosses to Coop’s bedside, brow furrowed.

“Coop, man, can I listen to your chest?”

A barely perceptible nod.

When Pratt presses the cold stethoscope against Coop’s heaving chest, it seems more of a confirmatory action than one that's actually necessary. He sighs, shaking his head. Coop, as evidenced by the blue tinge to his lips, his rolling eyes, the pallor of his skin, is officially status asthmaticus.

He's in respiratory failure.

Things suddenly grow a lot more urgent. Pratt gives Lewis a gesture that she reciprocates, and a nurse pulls the crash cart closer to the bed. Neela’s heart sinks just as Abby sinks into position right at Coop’s bedside, crouching next to him as she strokes his hair and updates him.

“Sweetheart, your breathing isn't where we need it to be, okay? You're not getting enough oxygen. We need to put you to sleep for a while… intubate you. Do you understand?”

Coop closes his eyes, humming in assent even as a frightened tear slips down his cheek.

“Ju-just… d-d-do… iiiiit.”

His voice is shot. Weak. Resigned to his fate.

It's the same phrase he used when Abby shocked his heart back into a regular rhythm a few months ago. Back then, though, it had simply been a plea to get things over with.

Now, it seems not only a desperate entreaty, but also a solemn reminder:

I’ve been here before.

Neela knows, just as the other staff do, that Coop’s been super sick a couple of times. He knows what it's like to wake up in the ICU feeling like you're breathing through a straw. He knows what it's like for weeks to pass in the span of a minute.

He knows that when he's tubed, he can breathe, and that’s all that matters.

“We’re going to look after you, sweetheart, I promise.” Abby says, her own eyes a little misty. She brushes the sweat-damp hair from his forehead and squeezes his hand. One of the other nurses adjusts the bed so it's laying flat. The tears, terrified, continue to stream silently down his cheeks.

Abby lifts his hand, pressing an almost motherly kiss to the back of it, while Pratt slots a syringe full of medication into the cannula of his other hand.

“Propofol and some muscle relaxants are going to go in now, man. Just relax and let yourself drift off- we’ve got you.”

As the syringe is pushed, Neela can see Coop’s grip on Abby’s hand loosen. The thick tears decorating his cheeks seem, in themselves, to slow down, the scared expression in his eyes melting away beneath the anaesthetic. He blinks once. Twice.

Gone.

There's something so unnerving about Coop being still. How, as Pratt brushes his index finger underneath Coop’s eyelashes, the latter doesn't stir at all to crack a smile. When Dr Lewis gets into position behind his head and adjusts her patient accordingly, he's limp and movable. Floppy.

“Pratt, can you get that nebulizer off?”

“Sure.”

There are red marks across Coop's face from where the straps of the mask dug into his skin for hours. Now, he doesn't breathe at all. He looks dead. According to the dropping numbers on the monitor, he may as well be dead.

“Laryngoscope.”

“Here. Laryngoscope.”

A nurse places the metal instrument into Dr Lewis' awaiting hand. Her other hand gently tilts Coop’s head back.

“Alright… sliding laryngoscope in… got slight cord visualisation. Tube?”

“Tube.”

Neela watches her angle the endotracheal tube in with bated breath- and for good reason.

“C’mon, Coop.” Lewis murmurs, desperately trying to gain access. “I need to help you breathe, sweetheart. Let me help you breathe.”

Pratt steps up next to her, arms crossed. “Difficult airway?”

“Nearly impossible. Haven't seen this level of inflammation in a long time. Poor guy must have been so incredibly uncomfortable.”

The monitor continues to blare. Coop’s oxygen levels continue to drop.

Abby, still positioned right next to him, stroking his hair even as he lays there unconscious, glances worriedly at the screen.

“His sats aren't looking good.”

Dr Lewis sighs. “Yeah, I know, I'm just trying to- there.”

Her relief is palpable, and Neela knows at once that she’s finally in. She watches the tube slot into place before Lewis inflates the cuff, and Pratt connects everything up to the vent.

“Tube’s misting.” Abby says gently, as everyone begins to relax. “Looks like good placement.”

Pratt pulls his stethoscope out from around his neck.

“I’ll check.”

He moves to Coop's side and checks his breathing, first auscultating the left side of his chest, then the right. It's odd, Neela thinks, to observe how natural his breathing looks now, when only moments ago it was erratic and desperate- but of course, it isn't technically him breathing now at all. They've taken over for him.

After a few more checks with the stethoscope across Coop’s chest and neck, Pratt stands up, slinging the device back around his own neck.

“Bilateral breath sounds. You're in.”

Everyone in the room seems to relax at once, especially when the numbers on the monitor start to creep up to normal.

“Alright,” Dr Lewis breathes, turning to Abby. “Secure it, then we'll get him down to ICU. Keep him on max settings until we know it's safe to start weaning him off."

She moves back, as does Pratt, and Abby stands, giving Coop’s hair one last gentle run through with her fingers before she moves away to fetch the tube holder. Neela's eyes remain fixed on him, though. It's impossible not to when he's so completely still.

“You alright, Neela?” Abby asks gently as she returns a few moments later.

Neela nods. “Yeah, I just… it's so different when you know them. I didn't realise how sick it would make me feel.”

Abby gives her a small reassuring smile, then focuses her attention back on the packaging she's just picked up, tearing it open and pulling out the holder before she starts to peel off the tape on the pads.

“I know what you mean. It's not easy seeing somebody you care about like this, and it's somehow even harder with a person like Coop. He's always smiling, always moving, always there, and now…” She presses the first pad against his cheek gently, thumb brushing against it to secure it. “He's not. He's always there to take care of everybody else, and now…” She applies the other pad, movements just as careful and attentive. “He needs us to take care of him.”

Neela hums affirmatively, watching her secure the tube.

“There's just so much at stake. So much that could go wrong, and nearly did. Maybe it even has.”

Abby finishes, standing up fully again and adjusting things ever so slightly. Coop looks like the other patients in the ICU now, and it makes Neela’s stomach roll with anxiety.

“It isn't easy.” Abby responds. “But that's what the ER’s like, even if it happens with one of our own. It's fast-paced, it's risky, and sometimes the worst happens. Sometimes, we can't easily cure a patient, and we have to hope that they'll fight enough on their own to get through things.”

“Do you think he will? Coop?”

“There are no guarantees, but if anyone's going to, it's him.” She looks down at him with a mixture of affection and admiration. Her thumb strokes along the curve of his jaw. “He just needs to hang on long enough for the inflammation to go down. He just needs to do something which is pretty alien to him, and rest. Let us do some of the heavy lifting for a while until he's strong enough to do it on his own again.”

Neela nods. “He'll get through it.”

Abby smiles. “Exactly. He'll get through it… You’re a tough one, aren't you, sweetheart?” She brushes back some more sweat-damp and unruly hair from his forehead. “Let's get you somewhere you can rest, hm?”

Coop remains still, the only sign he's still there at all being the beeping of the monitor and the fogging of the tube. But somehow, as Neela helps Abby raise the railings of the bed ready for transport, she knows he's going to come out of this.

He always does.

[loweya-blog]

Cinderella (Obey Me Edition) Part 3

Part 1, Part 2

The next morning you had awoken from the ball, back at your home with dreamlike memories of the ball. Had it been real at all? There were no signs of the carriage or dresses, leaving you to believe it was just some wonderful but temporary dream. Work was the same tedious business with the displeasure of dealing with people. By the time you got home, exhaustion took hold and nothing sounded better than a nice warm bath. 

The water was simple since you couldn’t afford fancy bath salts or balms but it was pleasant. Until you felt the water rising above your head. You hadn’t left the faucet on. It felt as though you were sinking in a bottomless pit. Panic rose through your chest as you felt yourself sinking into the water. 

Before you could sink too far, someone grabbed your hand and pulled you out. You gasped for breath… only to realize you were in a garden, stepping out of a pond. When you looked up, there was the man from the first night with dark green hair. 

“I’m glad you could join us,” The handsome man said. 

When you looked down, the water of the pond had morphed into a gorgeous outfit soft as silk, leaving you with dripping shining jewelry and a mask upon your face. The moment you were out of the water, you were dry as a bone. 

“Where-” 

“Today is the second day of the masquerade. Please enjoy yourself.” 

With that interruption, he walked away, abandoning you to your confusion. Glowing warm lanterns and fairy lights hung from the nearby trees as the sound of laughter and chatter reached your ears. Perhaps last night wasn’t some dream after all….

As if on instinct, you go to find Mammon. The feeling of pins and needles spread across your feet and legs, maybe a side effect of that strange spell the butler had? Demons danced upon the water of the lake while others flew through the open gardens in their glittering gowns and finery. Bells and gentle music echoed while you searched for your friend. After hours of searching, he still hadn’t shown. You had a sinking feeling you’d been stood up. 

With a dejected sigh, you retreated to quieter parts of the garden. There was a cute little pond hidden by large orderly bushes and flowers. There was even a statue huddled in the corner with horns and a long black tail. It was as if it was trying to hide. When you stepped forwards, you tripped on a rock and landed on the statue, which was surprisingly soft. 

“EEK!” The statue screeched. 

Apparently not a statue. 

You immediately jumped to your feet and were about to apologize-

“Y-you! T-this isn’t some anime! You can’t be pulling that trope!” The not-a-statue protested with a blushing face. 

Under the gentle glow of the fairy lights you could see a masked demon with an awful mop top haircut and long scaly tail. 

“You like anime?” 

For some reason that was your first question. The demon blushed and barely managed to stutter out a response. 

“Y-yeah? So?! Anime is an important artform! Not that a normie like you would understand…” 

He’d once again retreated to his ball form as if somehow he could shrink enough to become invisible. His eyes lingered on the goldfish swimming around in the small pond. 

“What’s your favorite?” 

“The Magical Ruri Hana: Demon Girl! It’s an anime about a demon who moves to the human world in order to learn more about it. However, in doing so, she loses some of her magical powers and turns into a young girl, only regaining her original form when she returns to the Devildom. And-” 

The rant continued for a long long time and by the time he was done, he had ranted the whole plot of season one.

“-there’s other anime that I like but most of them are in the human world. It’s not fair!” 

“Not fair?” You had to ask. 

“Of course not! Why should all humans get the best anime, mangas and videogames? Sure we have some in the devildom but not on the same level! I wish I could go to the human world and just play them instead of having to search the web for whatever the others were able to get,” The demon whined. 

“Is that why you are here instead of at the party? You don’t want to meet the humans who have access to that stuff?” 

The demon’s eyes widened with realization. It was as if he had entirely forgotten that humans in disguise were at the party. 

“You are the GOAT!” He exclaimed before shrinking back. “But there’s no way a dirty filthy otaku like me could possibly find a human in that crowd, let alone ask them.” 

“Why not treat it like you’re in an anime?” You suggest. 

He blinked in confusion. 

“…you know one of those animes with scandal and nobles and court rivalries?” 

“Oh! Like That Time I was Reincarnated as A Noble Villainess Then Had To Rise To Be Empress!” 

Wow. That was a mouthful of a name. Were they paid by the syllable? 

“But even then….those characters are smart and clever and had a hundred harem characters backing them up. I’m just a useless icky otaku….” 

“I’m no harem character but maybe I could help?” You say, offering him a hand. 

There was a hint of a smile on his face and even more blush. His tail swished from side to side as he cautiously took your hand, as if you’d betray him any moment. 

“I-I’m Leviathan.” He managed to say in a nervous voice as you both went to challenge the party and find those other humans. 

Entirely pretending you weren’t human of course. The both of you managed to make your own fun while at the party, avoiding those overly chatty while scouring the crowds for hints of who might be a human and who might not be. Leviathan used his horribly inaccurate anime information to slim down the possibilities while you just looked for the one other human. Eventually you both came across this Solomon fellow who Leviathan began begging for anime and other otaku resources from the human world. 

After he made his request, the both of you retreated back to your goldfish pond, the designated hideout. He yapped on and on about the human anime and manga he was looking forward to enjoying while you suddenly felt the sense of loneliness fade away. 

“H-hey…. Thanks. For um, for helping me. Maybe…. Maybe we can play a game or two together?” He asked. 

“That sounds nice,” You responded with a smile as the both of you sat next to the quiet pond. 

Then you heard the chiming of the castle clock echoing across the garden. Midnight. Before you had the chance to explain to Leviathan, you felt yourself surrounded by sea foam and bubbles. You reached out to him right before you were whisked back to the human world. 

When you woke up, you were in your bed with a soft robe wrapped around your shoulders with only the memories of goldfish and an otaku demon.

(@spffldlbrnf, @completelyshatteredbrokenmschf, @rxpher, @akiitemo, @8-sinner-8)

[8-rae-rae-8]

He's a dog with a bone

Phillip Graves, with Shepherd as his handler... He was wrapped around Shepherd's finger. Loyal to a fault

TW: drugs, fighting ring AU, handlers, abuse

A needle stung at his side almost every day. For work, he would remind himself.

In the cold, dark room that's all he could feel. No hands holding him down, but they wouldn't have to. He was limp, sore and tired.

These drugs, if they were even that, made every feel like it was flipped around. He could ride the high for a few minutes then growl with bloodthirsty rage.

For all he knew was that they would send him out during his times of anger. He'd fight raw and dirty, only to go back to that cold, dark room when he was no longer useful.

Scraps were his earnings. Cut meats, and breads if he was lucky. When he wasn't completely limp, he'd eat until the plate was empty. On the days he wasn't fed, bugs crawled the walls and floor… he wasn't above eating them alive. Food or not, that injection would come and all he could do was let the effects work. An empty stomach would be a disaster.

These were fighting rings. Through his constantly blurred vision, he could see that. But he'd never heard of anyone being treated in such a way that he did.

He was a mean dog, they told him. He bit accurately, fought messily and didn't hesitate to break bones. If he wanted to make it another day, with blind hope, then he had to win these fights.

He was on a leash, his handler holding it very tightly.

“If you're good, you can have a bone…” His handler would say.

That meant anything from bones with meat, to completely meatless. Still, he would salivate and work his hardest to get the food he wasn't even guaranteed to get.

He was a good dog, his handler told him when he won his fights. His handler spoke with red, evil eyes, yet the praise was like water to his dry throat.

But then he was a bad dog when he lost. A finger would mockingly point at him, tell him the meanest things then leave him without dinner.

He was all muscle and bone. Clinging to bone without the excess fat to soften any blows. He wasn't granted the privilege of clothes beyond underwear and shorts.

All to fight, only gear if he was allowed any more.

On good days, the perfect ones, he was given a bed. A dog bed, but a bed nonetheless. It was better than the blanket he laid on most of the time. It was a luxury to his bruised and bloody form.

For a long time, his name was lost in his own mind. He knew who he was. But he wasn't called by his name for so long. It was all cruel names, calling him a dog, a toy.. whatever his handler could say that would get his attention.

If his handler was very angry, it was a quick snap of “Graves!” to get his attention. To get him back on his feet. It never failed, and would always reel him back in.

He was a violent dog. That he wouldn't deny. He was violent. He bit anyone who tried to help him, even the hand that fed him. It was sickening when he would realize his mistake.

But he was a loyal dog. He ate from his handler’s hands, even if he had times that he would bite. He leaned into the rare affection that kept him so attached.

He was given tests of his loyalty. If his handler was attacked, they wanted to see if he would fight back. And he did. He guarded his handler with his life. With his life. It would leave him more bloody than his fights, even though it was a test, because he didn't know. He didn't know it was a test. The praise he would get for being so good and protecting was better than any win, better than any drug.

It was brainwashing, realistically, that had made him so dependent and loyal. Years of being dumbed down into just a mutt. His personality remained in the form of being defiant, sometimes a little goofy, but rough. Very rough.

He had his moments, playing with toys or watching a show as a treat for being good. Usually after his “tests”. There were moments that he was happy. He was given food, toys and entertainment. This was one of the ways that his handler kept him wrapped around his finger. It was easy that way.

Those nights, he'd go to sleep in a bed. A real bed. He'd even wake up there and be allowed more rest. He was lucky.

His handler would be nice the following day, but it would immediately be back to the floor and fights. The sheer possibility of that kind treatment was enough to keep him going, to get the possibility of being content for even a few hours.

It was truly common knowledge that he was wrapped around his handler's finger. The way he watched his handler for orders, waiting to be told what to do. He was so loyal, too loyal, but nothing broke that trust he had for his handler. After everything, even the pain he'd suffered at his hand, he was loyal.

Loyal like a fucking dog.

[crowbird]

original thought/concept, pervious part

The cosmos is much like a forest. One seed, one idea can birth a world, and any alternate timelines branch off as the tree goes but it is still the same base concept. The rules are still the same and the statistical probability one exists on another branch of their tree is never zero. You do not however have that same probability should you look to another tree. A willow cannot grow acorns and a birch does not shed needles.

Worlds can branch on into the infinite levels of plausibility but each remains it's own even if the origin is one in the same. But the chance of someone slipping from their tree and falling into another is, well, not exactly typical. In fact it's so atypical that people often assume the multiverse and alternate timelines are the same thing. But the multiverse is the other timelines, it only becomes another universe entirely when the very rules that govern reality are different. Even the slightest difference of origin or technicality can prove effective but regardless it remains so.

There are entities who plant the trees and worlds who spring from the seeds dropped by others, but the forest is vast and does not end for neither does infinity and if it ever started is beyond even the oldest of gods.

One day, at the peak of a festival in a backwater capital in Europe a part of the world slipped and broke, the power coursing through the area of old gods and new, the birth of those ascended and descended shook the world so greatly that a contest of the festival was knocked from their branch. They did not fall into the void but rather managed to catch themselves on the branch of another tree.

For as much as a birch will not grow needles it can mutate, a new branch can be grafted onto another, one entity can plant multiple trees. And as such it is a gross oversimplification to simply say that you were from another world.

It would not be an oversimplification however to say that communicating such information is beyond your ability. After all the vastness of the forest is beyond human comprehension as are those entities that roam between it. As such the both of you decided it would be more believable to say you were from another world if pressed further.

"That just begs the question then why do you believe me?"

An excellent question, one Jason was still unsure of himself. The thought haunting the back of his mind for the better part of a week now. You'd think that he'd have other things on his mind—you know like patrolling the building that as of late everyone in the narrows had avoided like the plague. As if some festering illness was rooted in the walls, yet black mold it was not. Old floorboards and peeling paint may expose insulation old enough to ensure the presence of asbestos.

You would think he'd be more concerned about potentially falling through the rotten floorboards or getting snagged on a rusty nail. Nope, none of that was present in his mind. Rather the one that lingered was your words as a a pain beyond any other in his left leg shot through his left leg, the source only partially unclear. It was only the influence of the Lazuras that kept him standing long enough to put a bullet through the man's outstretched arm.

The hand once outstretched dropped to his side, limp and bloody not from the bullet but rather the brutal mutilation of a sigil cut into skin. One he recognized even as back at your shop, in between a discussion of intentions, you had drawn out several sigils, explaining their origin with the various old gods of your world. A request that if he comes across the symbols in his to let them know. After all you had said it yourself, who were you to know if you were the only thing that fell through.

He was fairly sure it wasn't the symbol you wore on your flesh but he was a little busy dodging to check the fine details.

The man's smile grew wider, the desert dry skin of his face cracking more with the expression, eyes vacant and bloodshot all at once. The garb was something like a priest but even with the crimes done in the name of religion Jason did not want to believe this thing was a priest.

Raising his other hand the priest let out a laugh, Jason in turn let out a rather embarrassing yelp has his jacket caught fire. Throwing the red leather off, he once again launched himself across the room to put distance between them. This man would kill him. He knew that, instinctively, the fear settling in the depths of his bones as it settled there to fester under his skin.

Call it innate, call it instinctual, call it learned, call it observed, call it a thousand different things but regardless of how he simply knew. Knew that if he did not kill this man this man would kill him, and Jason Todd had no desire to die twice, least of all by whatever this was. So it was with little shame that a bullet found itself in the man's head. Body crumbling to the ground, old floorboards groaning with the sudden weight. The walls sighed a gasp of dust at the effort and Jason lets his shoulders drop.

The body doesn't move. Which is good. It would be very bad if the body moved. Jason let out a sigh, he had barely finished the book he bought a few days ago and looks like he'd be going back for another one within the hour.

crow's note: once i set up the like barebones plot i promise I'll write something silly and fun, alternatively you could drop something in my inbox and i will write something silly and fun as well

series navigation

[b0g-b0y]

Ghost x M Reader Requested:@imcoughing

Key: c/n code name

Trying my hand at slow burn.

Well writing this I have no idea what I’m doing;-;

———————————————————————

Walking through the base with boots that were still caked with blood that seemed to be dry, giving small smiles to new recruits well you walked by ignoring how they would slightly move away from you. Y/n was tired he just finished a mission and knew he would get chewed out for a slip up he made but it wasn’t his fault he killed to guards they were in his way to get to the intel and instead of letting them walk away y/n decided to save time by just killing them.

Well, continuing the walk down the hall with a smile on his face, lost in his own thoughts of a nice shower and his warm bed, and getting lost in thought meant he wasn’t paying attention as his body ran into someone else.” Oh shit sorry lieutenant”. You said as you looked at the man with the skeleton mask. All you got back was a glare as he continued on his way. After taking care what you needed to do y/n couldn’t help but find himself running into Ghost more often it wasn’t on purpose, but even time you ran into him you’d give him a friendly smile and a small hello most of time y/n didn’t get anything back in return to his small jesters.

After a few days of not seeing Ghost you assumed he was out on a mission y/n found himself missing the man even if every conversation was one sided. The sound of the electric kettle finishing boiling brought you back to your surroundings now finishing making your expensive tea. Hearing a deep laughter in the hallway along with a Scottish voice that you knew belonged to Soap. Without thinking you started to make the lieutenant a cup of earl gray as well. Ghost seemed to walk in at the perfect time because you finished making the cup.” Ghost! You want a cup of tea”. Y/n spoke with the biggest smile on their face.” A man after your heart LT”. Soap spoke, well giving him a friendly bap. Ghost just looked at you as he took the cup from your hand.”Thanks c/n”. Ghost said. The both of you just stared into each other’s eyes getting lost in the moment. Who knew the fastest way into Ghost's cold heart was a cup of tea.

Ever since that day you and Ghost talked more and every time the both of you would ignore Soaps little comments about how terrifying cute the two of you are together. To be fair Ghost was the one to tell you to ignore Soap. But at times when it was just you and Ghost no Johnny just the two of you, Ghost found himself falling for you the way you would ask if you could touch him made his heart race c/n treated him so gently even though he was a big guy and could take a beating out on the field. Ghost found himself looking forward to seeing you smile every time he saw you. It hit Ghost hard when the realization set in that he might be in love, instead of facing this head on he was trying to run from it. He was Simon Riley, a Ghost of a man he didn’t need love but what he really meant was that he was scared he was scared that he’d end up like his brother and all over again it would be his fault. These thoughts kept him up at night. It had a big effect on him. He looked terrible every morning, he would be met with concern from you, your worried eyes being too much to handle for him. He would only tell you that he was fine and just couldn’t fall asleep. That was a lie. Sometimes he would go find Johnny late at night he felt safe with him he would talk to Soap about his issues even if he was half asleep. But things were starting to get out of hand y/n was getting worried about Ghosts he would ask Soap about it and get back I don’t know what you’re talking about, you also noticed his little comments about you and Ghost stopped needles to say you were worried, and if Soap would tell you what was wrong you would just go to someone that would give you an answer and would do something about it. Who might that be no other than Captain Price himself. It wasn’t ideal to go to a captain for something silly like this but it was killing you inside you cared for Ghost a little too much. So here you were standing at his door giving it a knock waiting for a come in.”c/n what brings you here I hope it’s not more paperwork”. Price said.” No sir, I come here because I’m concerned about one of the members in 141”. You said. Price put down his pen and lit up a cigar. He prayed to god that Soap didn’t blow something up, he also hoped Ghost didn’t lose his temper at a new recruit again beat the poor boy to a pulp.” I’m worried about Ghosts don’t he's been sleeping much, he’s been more distant and snappy lately. I tried asking Soap but he won’t tell me anything and I’m getting so worried”.y/n finished. “ Fucking Simon”. Price mumbled. “ I’ll take care of it, thank you for bringing this to my attention”. Price spoke again.

And Price clearly did something about it because the next thing you knew an angry Ghost was walking your way there was no way out of this you couldn’t run in the opposite direction you could only hope he walked past you.” THE BLOODY HELL DID YOU SAY TO PRICE YOUR OUT OF LINE SARGENT! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT GOING TO MY CAPTAIN LIKE YOU DID. MAYBE THAT'S WHY NO ONE FUCKING LIKES YOU ALWAYS IN PEOPLE BUSINES? YOU THINK YOUR TOUGH BUT YOUR NOTHING MORE THAN A PIECE OF SHIT ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD THAT PEOPLE AVOID YOU FUCKING STAIN”. Ghost yelled in your face. You could feel the tears threatening to spill. You hated how you didn’t do well when people yelled at you.” I was worried, Simo-Ghost. I was worried about you I-I just wanted to know you were ok, Soap wouldn’t talk to me you avoid me I didn’t know what else to do”. Your voice cracked as you spoke. You only hoped Ghost wouldn’t notice your slip up of using his name after hearing it come from Price, it's all that you could think about. He noticed. “ You don’t get to call me that”. Ghost spoke his words laced with venom. Before leaving he kicked the side of your knee causing you to fall giving one more hard kick to your body before he left. Word of what happened spread like wildfire eventually finding its way to Soap and everyone else in 141. Price wasn’t pleased, Gaz didn’t really care, Soap was worried, he had Ghost confess late at night that he loved c/n and how it scared him. Soap went to Ghost and had a long talk with him ending up getting through to him that he fucked up and need to go talk to c/n.

Eventually when Ghost tried to talk to an apologies it was clear that the damage was done, he wasn’t met with your warm smile and bright eyes that he loved but a look that made him upset c/n looked like a kicked puppy. Before c/n could walk away Ghost grabbed his wrist only to be met with you trying to get out of his grip eventually he let go.” I’m sorry”. Ghost said. You couldn’t believe it, all you got was a sorry, the man in front of you not only yelled insults at you but he also kicked you multiple times and all you got was a sorry.”I’m sure you are please go away”. You responded.” I’m sorry I hurt you and yelled I’m really sorry I lashed out… I was scared”. Ghost didn’t meet your eyes.” Are you sorry lieutenant? I was just worried about you and you responded like I did the worst thing to you”. As much as you loved him you tried to push it down. You shouldn’t love someone like that.” I was scared of loving you, I’m scared that you’ll end up dead”. Ghost said softly.” I love you too sir but I don’t I don’t know”. Looking at Simon you didn’t see a scary military man but more like a scared kid.” Please can we work something out, I’ll try to open up more. I'll try not to push you away please just don’t leave me”. Ghost said.” Ghost the best I can offer is baby steps jumping into a relationship right away might not be good. I'll be yours and you can be mine but baby steps”. You said. “ You can call me Simon, but I’ll take baby steps y/n”. Simon said.

[journey-to-the-attic]

3rd anni req 4: [RPG AU] solomon / past life

ao3 link

note: i really enjoyed writing this one! i've been meaning to do more for this au for ages, it's just such a fun concept to work with, but i just never get around to it

brief context if needed: fantasy rpg au setting, solomon is a reincarnation of the evil sorcerer solomon who was trying to evade persecution, and in his new life he is best friends and travelling companions with young hero ik, and here he finds out the truth about himself

∎ ∎ ∎ ∎ ∎

This place feels more like a mausoleum than a house.

The reports say that the owner died decades ago, and that the house has lain undisturbed ever since - up until recently. That isn’t the story Solomon’s seeing here, though.

It’s dusty, but it doesn’t feel like a place that’s been abandoned for eighty years. Try five, maybe.

He brushes a finger through a thick layer of dust on a shelf. These odd contraptions littered around the place - cogs and glassware with no rhyme or reason - aren’t ancient by any stretch of the imagination. He picks up something that resembles a wind-up toy and turns the key. The wheels still spin smoothly.

Welcome home.

He jumps. “...IK?”

No response. He listens hard - he can hear footsteps coming from upstairs. But that voice came from just behind him - surely she can’t move that quickly?

“That wasn’t funny,” He calls, attempting bravado.

Really? I thought it was hilarious.

He manages not to jump this time. He swings around and presses his back to the wall, hand falling to the knife at his hip.

Hey, there’s no need for that, says the strange voice, amused. I’m a friend.

“A friend,” He repeats warily.

Quite an intimate friend, agrees the voice, and he hears the groan of wood from just around the corner. Come with me. I have something to show you.

Don’t bother, it adds as he makes for the hallway, to call IK down to join him. There’s nothing here worth the little girl’s attention.

“Don’t call her that,” He grunts with a spark of indignation. “And—”

I daresay what you’ll find would only hurt the youngster, adds the voice, and at this he pauses.

“...fine.” His mouth feels dry - he hears the irregular pattern of his own breathing as if from miles away. “What do you want to show me?”

Follow me, croons the voice, and something shimmers at him from around the corner.

Let me show you something remarkable, it tells him. The brightest mind in any generation. The most prolific mass murderer this land has ever seen. There’s plenty to learn.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” He growls. “But I don’t want any part in it.”

And yet he finds himself following the voice anyway.

Aren’t you just a little curious?

Wouldn’t you like to just take a little peek?

So close now. What a shame it would be to miss out.

And what a shame it would be to not know more. How close-minded!

Sharp pain lances through his temples - he stumbles, catching himself on a red velvet curtain, gripping the side of his head with a groan. “What— what are you playing at?!”

Side effects. Don’t mind those.

“I…” He can hear colours, taste sounds - feel as he’s never felt before, like millions of icy needles drawing fire from his skin. “...this…”

Why don’t you take a look behind the curtain? The voice whispers.

His mind feels in free-fall - he shakes his head blindly, but he finds himself reaching forward. He seizes a fistful of cold velvet and pulls.

Everything around him seems to shrink to a point. His own pale face stares back at him through the mirror.

“Is this some sort of joke?” He mutters.

His reflection grins back at him. “Welcome home, Solomon. It took you long enough.”

“What…” He tries to step back, but his feet feel anchored to the ground. “...I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t! Poor, gullible human that you are.” Mirror-Him laughs. “How cute. Did you have fun living with the mundane, at least?”

He tries to find words, but the reflection doesn’t wait for an answer. “I suppose I don’t need you to tell me. I’ll know soon enough. Now, come here. It’ll all make sense in a moment.”

He doesn’t move. His reflection frowns at him.

“Slow on the uptake, aren’t you?” Mirror-Solomon presses a hand against the glass. “It’s me - I’m you. I’m the part of us that had to die so that you could walk free. Me and you - two pieces of a glorious arcane puzzle.”

He feels his own hand moving to meet his reflection, and fights to keep it still. “That’s ridiculous. I’m not—”

“Not a sorcerer?” Mirror-Him sighs. “I’ve got news for you, cupcake. You wouldn’t be able to see me if you did.”

His head thumps. He says again, lost, “I don’t understand.”

His reflection’s expression softens a little. “I told you, didn’t you? We are the brightest mind any generation has ever seen. Before I died, you prised secrets of life straight from time’s mouth. We unlocked it together - in death, you would be reborn.”

“And when we reunite, I will be whole,” He recites, then claps a hand to his mouth. He doesn’t know where the words have resurfaced from.

His reflection grins at him. “Now you’re getting it. Come on, Solomon. Set us free.”

I know you.

I’ve felt the weight of your sins everywhere I’ve gone. Every place you’ve touched, people have died. Every time I bring your face somewhere new, it’s as if the land itself remembers what you’ve done. I hated it.

Now I understand. I feel it now - your hatred. My anger.

IK is upstairs. I can’t let you hurt her.

“Worried, are you?” His reflection leans closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I’ve got a secret to tell you. Once you remember everything, you won’t care.”

That’s exactly what I’m afraid of, he thinks, and the pain in his head suddenly intensifies. It’s all he can do to keep himself from crying out.

“You’ve been waiting for me - you just didn’t know it.” Mirror-Him doesn’t sound surprised by his disobedience. Perhaps that’s the worst part.

A thought, a foreign memory - he’d known this would happen, and that he wouldn’t be able to resist it. He’s a weak-willed mortal, after all.

He moves before he can stop himself. His hand meets the reflection - the cold of the glass cuts into him, and in one silent instant, everything ends. And everything begins.

He feels his legs collapse beneath him - he lands against the wall with a cough, heaving for air as if he hasn’t tasted it in years. Indeed, half his soul has starved in that mirror for the past five years.

Solomon stares down at his hands and sees blood. His fingertips buzz - warm sparks dance across his palms, as if the magic itself rejoices to be reunited with his mortal body. He feels himself smile.

He stands up. His reflection moves with him now. To be honest, part of him had been worried the mirror wouldn’t hold up for long enough - but he hadn’t exactly had time to seek a crystal looking-glass. Oh, that’s new. I remember…

“Oh, how I’ve missed you,” He says to himself.

He imagines this is how the man in the desert must feel - who finally finds water after hours in the scorching heat. How clever he is - a lesser being wouldn’t be able to cope with even a fraction of this operation.

His two sets of memories melt into each other easily. Like simply adding water to a jug. And—

“Solomon? I think we should get out of here.”

He whips around, and immediately knows he’s made a mistake. IK blinks at him from the end of the hallway, clearly unnerved by how quickly he reacted.

“...I think we’re dealing with magic scraps here,” She says after a moment, still eyeing him warily. “Some kind of crazy wizard or something. We need to get someone who knows about that kind of thing to look at it.”

“Crazy wizard?” He repeats almost incredulously. He’s blinded fools for lesser insults.

“I’ve never seen some of the stuff upstairs.” She grimaces. “The shadows were all moving - I swear one of them had teeth.”

Her left arm is dangling uselessly at her side, and he suddenly registers the dark red stains on her sleeves. He feels a familiar rush of worry, and hurries forward without thinking.

“You got bitten?” He reaches forward to inspect the wound, then thinks better of touching it just yet. “Are you alright? How do you feel?”

“Just stings like hell. I’ll probably live.” She attempts to make a thumbs up with the injured arm, then sucks in a breath and shakes her head. “...I’ll ask Luke to look at it later. We should really get going - I don’t think it’s safe here.”

He thinks about telling her that this house is under his control - that the shadows she saw were likely the remnants of failed experiments, that they’re some botched form of life that didn’t know how else to play. He thinks about telling her that that bite might well have been venomous, and that only he knows how to prevent the toxins from rotting her arm from the inside out.

He thinks about telling her that it’s all been for nothing - all the times she’s had to defend him from mobs, everyone from royal guards to fruit vendors, who’d seen him for what he was and rightfully spat at his feet. He thinks of telling her that there’s no need to shield him like this as they leave the house.

He thinks about telling that he knows fifty ways to kill her right there without leaving a trace, and hundreds more that would leave some far worse than a corpse.

But he doesn’t. He lets IK take his hand and lead him down the hill.

He can’t seem to smile now. His hands are clean, and yet he tastes iron each time he tries to speak.

What happened? What happened, Solomon? How did your master plan go wrong?

There was one contingency he didn’t plan for. He’d known he wouldn’t have the power to reject his old self - but somehow missed that, equally, he couldn’t simply abandon his new life, either.

Solomon realises now that his plan had been spoiled from the moment IK helped him out of that pit. The sorcerer, in all his wisdom, had failed to consider this - that he could love and be loved in that next life.

It feels as if the earth should swallow him whole, and yet nothing seems to have changed. The local lord greets him cheerfully when he rides past on a hunting expedition. He remembers poisoning that boy’s father.

New knowledge supplanted by the old, and memories from both past and future in tandem. What could he possibly do now?

[lazybutsmexy]

Emotional Support Bird Pt. 2

Pt.1 Pt. 3

Ghost x fem!reader (Canary) (x Soap but he's barely mentioned here)

Warnings: mention of injury, nightmares, panic attack

Summary: Ghost has a nightmare, and Canary an idea.

Word count: 600~

Canary stirred awake, her dream dissipating in the air as she blinked in the darkness of her barrack, wondering what woke her up. She stilled, only her chest moving up and down as she listened for any hint of a disturbance. 

Then she heard it again, a faint, almost drop-of-a-needle sound that came for the next barrack - Soap and Ghost's. She let her thoughts simmer for a minute before she remembered that Ghost was sleeping alone that night. 

Soap had been - very reluctantly - confined to a cot in the infirmary until his wound healed properly. The bullet had passed through him, too close to his lung for comfort, and the medics decided to keep him there and watch his oxygen intake just as a preventive measure. 

Another faint noise. It wasn't particularly unusual for Ghost to get nightmares - these came with the job, after all - but his were different, carrying a baggage of several years, of which she knew just bits and pieces of. 

Canary slid out from beneath her covers and shivered when her naked feet came in contact with the cold floor. She wrapped her arms around herself and stood up, sleepily shuffling towards the door and walking out as quietly as she could. 

Seconds later, she was inside his barrack and clicking the door shut behind her, which effectively woke Ghost up. Even when deep in the realm of dreams, his fighting instinct was strong, and sat up on the bed with a start, panting heavily as he stared at the intruder. Once he saw Canary's sleepy face, he relaxed only slightly, still panting hard. 

"Did- Did I wake you?" He managed to choke out, his throat felt dry and tight, giving him the feeling of drowning in the middle of a desert. 

"...Yeah," she mumbled, stepping closer to him and handing him a bottle of water, before sitting down on the edge of his bed, facing him, "but I don't mind."

"...sorry," he sighed. Canary watched him as he gulped down the water, his hands were twitching in unrest, his skin was covered in a thin layer of sweat, and his chest was still heaving up and down. 

"...lay down, Simon," she placed her hand on his chest, gently pushing to get her point across.

Ghost hesitated for only a few seconds before he did as he was told. He was still exhausted and his nerves were too fry-wired to think of anything. Following orders was easy enough. He left the bottle on his side table and laid down, watching her as she stood up. 

Carefully, Canary climbed fully under his blankets, straddling him with her legs on each side of his hips. Unsure of what she was trying to accomplish, Ghost kept his hands on his sides.

"...I'm- I'm not really in the mood for that right now, Birdy," he groaned, although he knew that if she insisted he wouldn't be able to resist. 

"I-... It's not that," she stammered, and Ghost could almost feel the heat in her face as she leaned closer to him, "I'm just doing my job." She huffed and pressed her chest flush against his, burying her face in his neck and pressing her hands against his chest, rubbing up to his shoulders and back down. 

Ghost began to relax under her touch and her weight on his chest. "...and what job is that?" 

"...guess," she mumbled against his neck, pressing her lips to his pulse and kissing softly, "now relax and go to sleep, we've still got a few hours before the morning call."

Ghost snorted a chuckle and settled down, not ignoring the fact that his breathing was slowing down and matching hers, and his hands had stopped trembling. One of his hands rested against her thigh, while the other settled on her back, keeping her secured against him. He pressed his cheek to the top of her head, inhaling her scent as a small smirk found its way to his lips. 

Johnny would flip his shit when he found out that this happened while he was in the infirmary. 

[ask-the-desrosiers]

Terry Whump - Abduction, Drugging & Spanking [SFW]

@thewhumpywitch Here you go :3 the first half of what was promised :3

<><><>

Terry has never been spanked before. Which means you’ll need to gather first-hand experience for yourself. A simple one and done spanking doesn’t need too much effort beyond the right timing, opportunity and slipping the right drug into the target’s system, one way or another. 

It’s midnight when you see Terry leave the bank where he works afternoons. His suit is perfectly put together, his gait smooth, head held high; the look on his face, shadowed in the dark of the night, the unreadable expression of a marble statue of the gods. You don’t see something like that too often in this world anymore, that icy regality. 

It’s unnatural. 

As he sits down at the bus stop, his shoulders slump slightly. He reaches up and tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear. He doesn’t know you’re there behind him yet. 

Your hand slips over his lips to yank his head back. His eyes barely have time to widen before you prick his neck, carefully wriggling the needle into the safest, most effective vein as you press the plunger and watch the drug spill into his system. 

His fingers dig into your wrist and pry you off right as you rip the needle out of his throat in time to slam your fist right into his ear, sending him sprawling to the concrete. 

He doesn’t have time to push himself back up before the sedative hits his system. It just lets him faceplant on the ground with a dull crack. 

Pulling his head up by that short, soft hair lets you watch the blood dripping down from his broken nose. Over soft, plush lips relaxed out of that impassive line, down his chin and neck in pretty rivulets.

You shake his head a bit. His breath flutters. 

You haul him up over your shoulder and take him away. 

He’s lighter than he should be. 

<><><>

By the time he begins to stir, you’ve already stripped him of his glasses, gloves, belt, shoes and socks, rope tying together his clothed knees and ankles, handcuffs digging into his bony wrists. To keep from having to deal with any speaking- you’re not in the mood to entertain demands for answers right now- you’ve shoved a silicone squeaky-toy ball between his teeth, threaded with rough rope to knot behind his head. 

His hot tears still dry on his cheeks from when you reset his nose with your fingers by the time his lashes begin to flutter. 

You look up from your phone as the man draped over your lap lets out a soft noise, and set it down to give him your full, undivided attention. 

His thigh stiffens beneath your hand. 

You run your hand up his thigh and ass, feeling through the stiff fabric. Not a lot of give. More muscle than fat, certainly. He jolts as you give his ass a firm squeeze. 

When he tries to perk his head up to get a look at the dimly lit room and yourself, you grab him by the hair and shove his face into the mattress. He squirms atop you, garbled noises muffled as he suffocates beneath your hand. 

Your fingers hook under the waist of his unbuttoned pants and yank down. 

Dark, silky blue boxers cling to the tight muscle of his well-rounded ass. It really is as nice as it looked in his pants. 

His thighs clench uselessly.

His squirming weakens, cuffed hands clawing for air at the mattress above his head. Oh, right. You release his hair and let him twist his head to the side, letting out a wheeze through his nose. Your hand settles over his eyes. His damp lashes flutter against your palm. 

Before he can try to speak through his gag, your hand lands hard on the meat of his ass, and he yelps. 

You don’t give him a chance to gather his bearings. Even as your hand begins to sting. To ache. 

Twenty has him squirming all over again like a worm caught on a hook, squeaking the toy between his teeth with every smack. He’s trying to muffle the sounds he makes. 

As punishment, you put your whole weight into the next ten slaps, forcing yelps and choked-out whimpers with every strike. He’s quivering by the time you go back to the force of the first set of strikes, to better conserve your energy. You don’t give him a reprieve. 

You don’t pause until you reach fifty, palm red with the force of your open palm. He’s shaking beneath your hand as you rest it against his ass. When you pull back the waistband of his boxers, you catch a peek of his red, swollen flesh. No welts; not yet. Just bruising. When you let the waistband snap against his waist, he flinches into the mattress. 

After a few moments, he tries to push himself up onto his knees, trying to get away all over again. All you have to do is give him a sharp, heavy strike to have him collapse all over again with a wheezing whimper that comes out wet and raw. 

Your thumb runs over his skin, along the outside of his eye, and he shivers. His cheeks heat, slick with tears. Droplets of sweat tremble on his exposed nape. 

When you start again, his back arches away from you with a pained whine. 

It’s almost impressive how it takes twenty-one more strikes before the first ragged sob rattles out of him. 

You reward him with twenty-nine more. 

Sweat slicks the back of your neck when you give yourself a break, your captive hitching quiet sobs into his arms. He no longer needs your hand to know better than to look at you; he seems almost too afraid to try. 

Feeling over the hot flesh of his ass has him flinching with a little whine in the back of his throat, all kicked puppy cowering in the corner, even under the thin fabric of his boxers. Finally, you feel welts raising from his delicate skin, even through the silky, stretchy cotton. About time. 

The clench of his sore ass and his little flinches are the only resistance he puts up against you anymore. 

You run your hand up and down his clothed thighs, and he shakes. 

Your wrist aches. Clenching your hand sends little beads of pain shooting under your skin. Warmth coils pleasantly in your veins. 

Maybe you should keep him a little longer than planned. 

A broken yelp escapes him as you suddenly stand, stepping over his shaking body to leave the room. His cuffs are chained to the floor; he won’t even be able to stand with those on. 

He curls up on the mattress in a pathetic little ball, not even bothering to clean himself up, as you plunge the empty basement in darkness behind you. 

The basement door clicks shut. 

He still has no idea what’s going on. No idea what he’s done wrong, what he’s done to deserve this. You never even let him hear your voice.  

He’s not going to get to learn anytime soon. 

[freetheshit-outofyou]

I have had a lifelong fascination with wildlife from all over the world. I am always reading things about a new species found in one place or another. About a sighting of some animal thought extinct 100 years ago, I just eat that stuff up.

Throughout my readings and observations one thing has been a constant truth “This species is one of the largest and certainly the most dangerous Australian..." If it is coming out of or around Australia it is going to have a warning like "Contact with this species produces extremely painful wounds which may take one to several months to heal.” and can lead to a very slow painful death.

I mean when you read about Australian animal and plant life, it all reads like the rare but severe side effects list from most medications.

Contact with anything in Australia may cause but is not limited to:

Liver Failure Abnormal Heart Rhythms Skin rash or dermatitis Dry mouth Internal bleeding Burning, crawling, itching, numbness, prickling, "pins and needles", or tingling feelings in your arms and legs. Pounding in the ears. Pounding in the ass. Activation of mania/hypomania Cognitive impairment Unusual excitement An overpowering need to listen to, but not limited to Air Supply, Inxs, The Triffids, Bee Gees, Divinyls, AC/DC, Little River Band, Men At Work.

In more rare cases the following but less likely symptoms may occur:

Death... either very rapidly and unexpectedly or very slow and painfully. Neither is good.

Hallucinations, visual, auditory, olfactory, tactile, gustatory, and general somatic ALL AT ONCE.

Thinking you can play the didgeridoo.

Priapism, nuf said.

Compulsive Behaviors. see all of the above.

None of this has changed my mind about wanting to go there for my entire life.