#gnashing and ripping and clawing and screaming

[professorcloak]

Beneath the Bloodstains

warnings: gore, injuries, fluff, weapons

The first time you meet Daryl Dixon, he barely spares you a glance.

You don’t take it personally. He’s like that with everyone—gruff, distant, always half a step away from disappearing into the trees. It’s been that way since you joined the group a couple of weeks ago, scavenging supplies and keeping your head down. You weren’t looking for friends, and neither was he.

But then you save his life.

It happens fast—too fast to think. One second, he’s tracking a deer in the underbrush, the next, a walker barrels out of nowhere, snarling and snapping, its decomposed flesh sloughing off in thick, putrid chunks. The stench is overwhelming—rot and bile mixed with the sickly-sweet scent of decay. Its yellowed, broken teeth gnash inches from Daryl’s throat, gnarled fingers clawing at his jacket as it forces him to the ground.

Before he can reach for his knife, you’re already there. Your machete arcs through the air, sinking deep into the walker’s skull with a sickening crack. The blade splits bone and brain matter, a spray of dark, coagulated blood splattering across your hands and face. The creature twitches violently, its fingers convulsing before going limp. A thick glob of rancid gore dribbles from the caved-in skull, pooling on the dirt.

When you turn back, breathing hard, Daryl’s staring at you. Really staring. There’s a flicker of something in his blue eyes—surprise, maybe. Or something deeper. Then, just as quick, it’s gone. He shoves the corpse off with a grunt, wiping gore from his face with the back of his hand before nodding once, a gruff sort of thanks, and retrieving his weapon without another word.

After that, something shifts. It’s small at first. A nod when you pass each other in camp. A second portion of whatever stew is cooking over the fire, left near where you sit. An extra knife, slipped into your gear without a word. Daryl doesn’t say much, but he’s always watching, always nearby.

You don’t push. He doesn’t like questions, doesn’t like people getting too close. That’s fine—you’re not looking for anything, not really. In a world where survival is everything, attachments can be dangerous.

But some nights, when the firelight flickers and the world feels a little less doomed, you catch him watching you again, something unreadable in his expression. Like he’s figuring you out. Like maybe, just maybe, he’s starting to let you in.

Then the next attack comes.

It’s a routine supply run gone bad—too many walkers, too fast. The group is scattered, forced to fight in pairs or alone. You and Daryl are back to back in an abandoned store, the air thick with the rancid stench of the undead. The walls are splattered with dried blood, shelves overturned, their contents long since raided. Rotting bodies are slumped in the corners, their eyeless sockets staring into nothing. The faint buzzing of flies hums through the stale air.

Your blade is slick with gore, your breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. The floor is a slick mess of crushed skulls and decomposing viscera. The moans of the dead echo off the ruined aisles, growing louder, closer.

Daryl’s crossbow fires with deadly precision, each bolt punching through rotting flesh and bursting out the other side, leaving gaping holes dripping with congealed black blood. But there are too many, and when one lunges from behind a toppled shelf, you barely have time to react. Its clawed hands rip into your shoulder, jagged nails peeling away fabric and flesh, the pain instant and white-hot.

The walker’s breath is a rancid, wheezing rasp against your ear, its teeth snapping inches from your neck. The coppery scent of your own blood floods your senses, mingling with the putrid stench of rotting flesh.

Before you can scream, Daryl is there, his knife flashing in the dim light. He drives it into the walker’s temple, the blade sinking in with a sickening squelch. The thing spasms violently before collapsing, its ruined face twisted in a permanent grimace.

Daryl grips your arms, steadying you, his hands warm and firm despite the blood smearing between you. His eyes dart to the wound, his jaw tightening.

"Ain’t deep," he mutters, but there’s an edge to his voice, something almost frantic beneath the gruffness. His grip lingers, fingers pressing just a little too long against your skin before he pulls away. "C’mon. We gotta move."

He doesn’t let go of you until you’re safe again.

The moment you’re back at camp, he pulls you toward the fire, his grip rough but careful. He pushes you down onto an overturned crate, then crouches in front of you, fishing a bottle of alcohol from his pack. He doesn’t say a word as he douses a rag with the harsh liquid, pressing it against the torn flesh of your shoulder. The pain sears through you, sharp and blinding, but you grit your teeth and bear it.

Daryl doesn’t meet your eyes, but you can feel the tension rolling off him. His hands are steady, but his jaw is locked tight, his breath coming in slow, measured exhales. The firelight flickers, throwing shadows across his face, making the lines of worry stand out sharper than usual.

"You should’ve been more careful," he grumbles finally, voice low, almost accusing.

You huff out a tired laugh. "You’re one to talk."

His gaze snaps up to yours, a flash of something dangerous in his eyes—frustration, maybe, or something deeper. He doesn’t answer, just presses the rag harder against your wound, making you hiss through your teeth.

"Daryl—" you start, but he shakes his head.

"Don’t," he mutters. "Just—" He exhales sharply, looking away. "You scared me, alright?"

The words are barely above a whisper, but they hit you harder than any walker ever could. You stare at him, heart pounding, the pain in your shoulder momentarily forgotten.

He doesn’t wait for you to respond. Just finishes wrapping your wound, then stands abruptly, muttering something about needing to check the perimeter before stalking off into the darkness.

You watch him go, fingers curling over the fresh bandage on your shoulder, and for the first time in a long while, you feel something other than just survival. --

just a short lil fluff story :)

[annwayne]

Having anxiety while also being an incredibly logic driven kind of autistic is so frustrating.

I Know that everything will be fine. I Know that I can keep up with my corse load. I Know that the people in my classes will overall be pleasant. Hell, I Know the campus and department already! I've done this before at this same school!!

Yet today, the day before classes start, I'm an anxious mess. My heart hurts, my hands are shaking, there's an overall sense of dread hanging over me no matter what I do to try and calm down. I'm so panicked because my brain is releasing chemicals telling me that I Am In Danger!!

I Am Not In Danger!! I Know I Am Safe!!

The logic doesn't matter. It can't override the chemicals spilling in my brain. Only other chemicals can, and I don't have them. So I'm stuck in agony all day while my brain decides to sabotage me.

[chetter-holmgren]

THIS IS A PERSONAL ATTACK 😮‍💨

[icyowl]

Save Me

Pairing: Vampire Megumi Fushiguro x reader

Synopsis: You discover Megumi's true nature in the worst way: when he nearly devours you in a frenzy. Gojo saves your life, but Megumi is held captive under the school, starving, unable to consume any blood. Can you save him? Will you try after what he's done?

A/N: I promise i'm not dead! Sadly I keep running out of steam before I finish any WIPs, but I powered through for you on this one! Been wanting to do vampire megumi foreverrrrrrr

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

The hot blood pouring from your shoulder had been reduced to an afterthought now that the vampire who nearly tore your neck open was barreling after you. There was only one thing you could do:

Runrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrun

Out the bedroom, through the hallway, down the stairs — you passed through most of the building without really taking it in. All that existed were the dank/steaming/slobbering/moist snarls behind you and the burning in your lungs. Air couldn't come fast enough.

His weapons — a pair of bloody inch-long canines and countless claws — were one bad step from having their way with you.

A flash of guilt had your steps slowing for a fraction of a second. You could maybe reason with him or somehow pull him out of it, so, against better judgement, you turned-

“Megu-”

The crazed animal that took his place slammed head-first into the wall next to you, missing your carotid by one flinch of your quivering muscles. Splintered wood sprayed everywhere. If your survival instinct hadn't kicked in when it did, you'd be right in his war path, and likely ripped open (again). Face still partially embedded in the wall, mouth gorging on wood fractures, one of his pulsating eyes fixed you in its wild gaze.

Red hot, with a slitted pupil constricted to a razor sharp sliver.

It wasn't simply inhuman; it was the farthest thing from human. Curses didn't compare to whatever was in those now-ruby eyes.

You gave yourself splinters trying to yank yourself out of his reach. Maybe you could have reasoned with him, maybe you should have, but you didn't trust him not to kill you if you tried. What about the movies where the monster's love interest could subdue his deadly instincts? Yeah, this wasn't a movie. Fuck that.

Every slip of your feet on the hardwood flooring sent a bolt of fear through each nerve in your body. Where could you go? Did you stay away from people and keep them safe, or try to find help? Could you manage that while keeping yourself alive? Air stung your lungs with every brash inhale and your legs began to fatigue. How much longer could you keep this up?

You exploded out of the dorm into the muggy summer air. In time, he would catch you, end you, devour you. Bad idea or not, you needed help.

A bear trap full of claws closed around your side. You screamed as they tore through your clothes and into your skin. In a fit of sheer willpower and for the second time that day, you deliberately pulled your skin from him, the ripping and tearing only worsening. It sucked, but you didn't have a choice. Could you try and lose him in the forest? Lock him in a building? Lure-

You were too busy keeping an eye on the gnashing teeth and snarling yowls of your boyfriend to stop yourself from running head-long into someone. After recovering from the initial shock of hitting the ground hard and heavy, you looked up to a moment of great stillness.

Gojo stood, one hand in his pocket, and the other outstretched to Megumi. What had once been your violent animal now floated helplessly in the air, his lashing talons catching nothing but the humid breeze. He growled deep in his chest, trying with everything he had to break the invisible chains keeping him suspended and kill you, and yet Gojo simply smirked, humored by it all.

“Megumi,” he chided, “I told you something like this would happen.”

It was almost laughable — almost — now that you were safe, alone, staring down your ordinary visage in the bathroom mirror. Three days until you could get a full night's sleep, five days until every sound didn't send your heart into overdrive, and now, one week removed from the incident, you could nearly believe it never happened. Apart from the bandages. Megumi had done a number on you and likely would have feasted on you had Gojo not happened to be in the way. His moans were pained, and when his words turned to garbled growls. . . all this time, he was so different from you, and all this time, you hardly suspected a thing. How could you not see something so important? How could he have deceived you so completely? Would he have ever told you? Was he fine with hiding so much of himself from you?

Your shoulders dipped down and forward. Megumi’s backpack was still at the foot of your bed. His cologne was on your pillow. You smelled it last night before you dreamed of him — a ballad of warmth and peace. Every time you looked at your phone screen you saw a glimmer of his grin from that trip to the carnival however long ago. Dark bruising curtesy of a healing hickey on your throat snickered at you from the mirror; he had been so gentle then.

You would have gone to him already, had Gojo not turned you away at the basement door. It probably wasn’t a good idea to go down there before you’d healed — what if you made it worse? If Megumi lost control from some kissing, what would he do when he saw the bandages or smelled the stitches digging into your skin? But it didn’t feel right to know he was locked up just a ways away while you hid like a child in your room.

Your phone’s buzzing nearly sent you through the ceiling.

Principal Yaga.

“Hello?” You asked warily. Was a week really all he’d give you before he sent you back to class? Your wounds could hardly be considered healed.

“Fushiguro needs your help. Come to the sealing chambers if you can. We're out of options.” His tone was grim (when wasn’t it?). All at once your heart galloped like you were back in the courtyard running for your life. You didn’t see your reflection in the mirror. The lack of color, slack jaw, none of it. All you saw was an image of the man who read to you at night now locked away in a dark room, bound and gagged, a starved circus animal.

At the first door of the sealing chambers it wasn’t Yaga who met you but Gojo. Even with the blindfold, you could tell he wasn’t happy. He held the door open without a word. As soon as you entered the dark hall, tortured cursed energy pressed in on your chest. Sealing tape lined the long corridor Gojo led you through, along with every staircase and every doorway. Talismans of different origins and scripts from countless religions hung from the ceiling. You’d be fearful if Gojo’s words hadn’t kept you preoccupied. Megumi had been unable to keep down any blood he’d been given since your attack, and, since he’d been starving enough by then to trigger a frenzy. . . he was in dire straights now.

“Why can’t he keep anything down?” You asked.

“It’s called taste aversion. You get food poisoning from a restaurant, you never want to go to the same company or get the same kind of food again. His goes beyond that, though. The mind is an incredibly powerful thing – the shame, self-loathing, guilt – his psychological barriers are just as real as any physical ones. Without consuming any nutrients… he’s dying.”

As soon as you walked through the next door to a long, narrow walkway with cells on one side, the shouting and thumping reached your ears.

“No! Don’t bring her in!” Megumi said from down the hall. He could smell your cozy allure, the infernal whispers beckoning the frothing beast under his skin to break through. His teeth ached.

Your stomach squeezed when you saw him; shackles held his wrists on the end of chains bolted to the ceiling. He was on his knees, covered in grime, and wearing the same clothes you’d last seen him in. Stains and a few empty bloodbags dirtied the floor.

As soon as he saw you, he shoved his head in his shoulder to the point of cricking it and slammed shut his bloodstained eyes.

“Get out!” He screamed.

You looked at Gojo who was already studying you. His message was clear: do what you think is right. No judgement. If you ran away yelling, he wouldn’t hold it against you. This was merely something he was willing to try, if you were too. You looked back at Megumi. Dried blood caked his wrists where the cuffs had dug in. His skin touching the metal puffed out smoke where the skin underneath burned. They must have chained him with silver. His skin was pale and gaunt, a sure sign of a starving man. Bits of his hair lay around his knees where it had fallen out. Around him, the walls were etched with staines, fingernail scratches, and symbols of faith.

You knelt across from him. The hard floor pushed at your knees. All you could think to do was roll up your sleeve and hold it out to him. “I’m letting you take my blood, so no more of this aversion stuff. I’m telling you it’s okay, so you can’t reject it.”

Something guttural made you flinch back. He kept his eyes shut even when he turned to say: “I’m never touching you again. I don’t want you here, understand?”

You sighed. Water flooded your mouth and eyes. “You have to eat, Megumi, or you’ll die.”

“Then let me.” He bit back.

You looked to the teacher for answers. Gojo held you in his eyes for a long moment before nodding and bringing up two fingers. Using infinity, he forced the cuffs open. Megumi’s ruby eyes shot open, looking at his hands, sharpened nails still present, to you, and to Gojo.

Megumi only had time to hiss before Gojo was behind him, wrapping an arm around Megumi’s neck and wedging his student’s chin in the crook of his elbow. Gojo’s other hand spread out on the back of Megumi’s head, forcing it forward and putting him in a suffocating headlock. Megumi lurched and growled but couldn’t budge Gojo’s insurmountable strength. He turned frantic when you approached and his noises turned to snarls, hating showing this side of you but hoping he’d reach that primal flight reflex inside you and get you to fear him, to run and leave him in his misery.

“Don’t do this.” Megumi warbled out. His voice was whimpering and tortured. It broke off with a foreign growl. His instincts tried to make him submit. Your heart pulled itself from your ribcage when his eyes watered and his canines descended against his will. Every part of his body was trying to reach for your supple skin, close the gap, find that sweet release, but his mind was fighting valiantly to resist the pull. In the middle of the war was his heart, damaged and vulnerable and begging for salvation.

“It’s okay.” You tried. You pressed your arm against his lips. Still, he wouldn’t budge. You pressed harder, until his teeth were smashed to your skin, yet he wouldn’t bite.

Gojo tightened his hold until Megumi involuntarily gasped for air, giving you a chance to dive your arm into his open mouth and impale it on his fangs. It fucking hurt, sure, you yelled and flinched in spite of yourself, no doubt making it worse for Megumi, but you were far more focused on him. Megumi clawed at Gojo’s arm, trying to pull away, but soon the sensation of your blood flowing down his throat hit his nervous system and he stilled, eyes glazing over and a tear escaping down his cheek. Audible swallows interrupted the sudden quiet and you let out a heavy breath. As scary as he might have looked, glowing eyes and snarling face and intermittent growls, the relief you felt at hearing those quiet gulps washed over you from head to toe.

His claws turned from trying to push himself out of Gojo’s hold to pulling you closer. Megumi’s grip became untamed, readjusting and tightening, not caring how he tore open your skin. Hot tears fell from your eyes. You weren’t sure how long you could keep from wailing. “How much does he need?”

“Depends.”

Sweat was breaking out over your face. “What?”

“If you can hang in until he recovers himself, he might see he can control it. That should cure the avoidance, but it won’t be fun, and it might not even work. It’s up to you.”

Your neurons turned to sludge, so all you did was nod. Against your will, your sense of balance was leaving you. To comfort Megumi, and anchor yourself, your other hand rested on his head, petting the thick, unruly strands.

“It’s okay. Even when I saw what you were. . . I trusted you. That’s why you bit me before; because I believed you wouldn’t kill me. I’m sorry I wasn’t someone you thought you could trust. I. . . I’ll be better, from now on.”

Again Megumi’s struggling changed. His eyes, previously wide open yet unseeing, slammed shut, his face pinching in a struggle. Moans of pleasure became grunts of effort. Your forehead fell against his. From here, you could smell your blood and his shampoo in the small space between you. “It’s okay, don’t fight it. I want to help you. I want this.”

Though he writhed against Gojo’s abominable strength like a predator in a bear trap, you were growing statuesque. Cold crept up your arm. Blood turned frigid in your veins. Shadows settled in your ears and eyes until the world seemed very far away. All you felt were the fine serrations on his canines as Megumi’s movements wove them deeper into your sinew. His growls took on a melodic quality, a primal war chant from a bygone era. It was a deep rumble you imagined sounded just like the thrum of the earth. This was easy. Peaceful, even.

A herculean pull yanked your arm off his canines with a squelching pop and spray of blood. Megumi’s effort made you tumble onto your back. Blood poured from the wounds on your arm. When he could finally get his eyes to focus, you were unconscious and unmoving.

Some sort of hissing moan escaped him. The fresh blood in his belly threatened to come up. “No. . . no.” He groaned around his fangs. His words were unintelligible. Gojo could sense his cursed energy - the guilt within - and let him go. Megumi crept to you, and stopped with his hand just above your arm. He strained over the sound of his tears to barely catch the whoosh of your breaths. Alive. Still alive.

Something gripped his muscles - not hunger or thirst, but a different kind of insatiable desire. A feeling to have you, not as food, but as. . . something necessary all the same. He had to draw you to him or risk some kind of death; he could feel it in his bones. At the edge of your consciousness, your latched into his grimy shirt, right where the lurch in his stomach had begun to calm. Megumi worried about his claws on your skin - he’d hurt you so many times with them already - but nevertheless couldn’t let go.

“That’s pretty cute, like a dog growling over its bowl.” Gojo remarked, smirking at the glare his student was giving him. Megumi didn’t even notice the hisses leaving him or the baring of his sharp fangs. “Tell me, do you feel sick?”

Fire or love tinged his vision an opaque red. His teacher, the prison, even you were reduced to a slurry of wavering shapes and twisted movement. The blood had begun to settle in his stomach, and with it came the grip of shame. Fck, what had he done? He was such a monster he couldn’t even see that carnage he left behind, but he smelled the blood mixing with the dirt on the ground under you, could feel it coagulating between his fingers and cooling under his nails, heard the weak rasp of your lungs fighting for every inhale. He had ruined you.

Something gnawed at his stomach. His hand rushed to his mouth. The blood roiled in his belly and began digging its way up his esophagus. How could he have done this to you?

Still blind, he felt your chest tense, heard your hand push through the air, but nevertheless flinched when your wobbling fingers brushed at the blood and tears drying on his cheek. Your thumb pushed away his upper lip to caress the flat of his fangs. “Please,” you whispered, “don’t stop me from helping you. Don’t keep me from loving you. It’s what I want more than anything.”

And more than his desire to protect you was his need to fulfill you.

Megumi swallowed the tears and the blood at the back of his throat. If this was what you wanted, then he had to try. If he was good for anything, let it be this. He pressed his forehead to yours, staining your face and filling your nose with the stench of dirt and blood. Who knew love was so vile.

“Not that this isn’t cute, in a teen angst sorta way,” Gojo chimed, “but she needs a transfusion. You need to let go.”

Megumi’s eyes cleared. The first thing he saw was your gaze, glassy and sluggish, but unwavering from his own. He smelled the oxytocin wafting from you.

“No,” he shook his head while his fingers kissed your face, “she only needs me.” His hand dove into his mouth and with a silent snarl he burrowed his fangs deep in his wrist. You tried to stop him, but weren’t fast enough. The sound of it should have made you flinch, but the gleam of his scarlet eyes and the slitted pupils had you fascinated. He pulled his mouth away with a wet schlop and held it against your lips.

You pulled your lips around the wound and began to suck. To be fair, you didn’t expect to feel different right away, but as soon as you swallowed, a warmth spread out from your core - knitting the cuts, curing the bruises, and healing the puncture wounds. The pounding in your head, the adrenaline dumped in your veins, it all dissipated in the gentle heat of a morning sun. After a couple of gulps Megumi’s own bite mark had closed, leaving nothing but a pleasant aftertaste under your tongue. Even his own blood didn’t want to harm you by tasting bad.

Megumi’s head lurched towards the door, seeing past Gojo, hearing something far away.

“Who’s coming?” Gojo asked.

“Yaga. Nanami and Ieiri, too. They’re not happy.”

A rush of hurried steps followed some time after. Yaga was sweaty and livid.

“Gojo,” he roared, “she was meant to comfort him, not feed him!”

Gojo rose to stand in front of him. “I wasn’t gonna let anything bad happen.”

“This,” he threw a hand at the two of you, “doesn’t count as bad?! You’ve endangered your own students!”

Gojo was having none of that. His playful tone evaporated. “If I thought for a second he might kill her, I’d have stopped him instantly.”

The bickering continued in your peripheral. All you concerned yourself with was brushing the dirt off his face while he watched, listening to the ever-stronger beats of your steady heart.

[skellymom]

"LAST ISLAND WOLF"

BAD BATCH ALTERNATE ENDING!

Creepy Alternate Ending to the wonderful story written by @kybercrystals94 ! And upon request for some cryptozoology storytelling suggested by reader @fionas-frenzy !!!

To read the original story, click on the icon below. I included an excerpt of it to bridge the alternate ending. Kyber's part is italicized and my collab is in orange lettering. No worries readers, I did get the ok from Kyber ahead of time to do this!

ENJOY!!! (Happy Friendsgiving, y'all!)

Word Count: 778

Warning: Wolf bites human, horror trope.

He wishes that such security extended to himself as well.  

Crosshair listens to their breathing even out, listens to the fire crackle and snap hungrily, listens to the wind in the treetops. He watches shadows stretch in the moonlight and dance in the firelight. It is peaceful. It is safe. He even has his firepuncher nearby, just in case this is all an illusion. But it’s not, this is their new reality. Safe. Content. Home. His eyes feel heavy, and he wants to sleep. But he can’t seem to allow it. 

“Cross?” Hunter’s voice is soft, groggy. “You still awake?”  

He almost doesn’t answer, pretends; however, Hunter is impossible to fool.  

Kriffing enhancement.  

“Yeah,” he says, rolling to his back.  

“Why?”  

“Dunno.”  

Hunter hums. “I think you do.”  

“I’m not tired,” Crosshair lies.  

Hunter sits up, props his forearms on his knees. Crosshair watches the movement out his peripheral, keeps his gaze skyward. Hunter mutters, “It feels strange not having someone on watch, doesn’t it?” 

Crosshair hides his surprise behind a retort, throwing Hunter’s own joke back at him. “Why? Scared the island wolf might get you while you sleep?” 

Hunter’s voice curves around a grin...” No...” 

Crosshair turns to face his brother. 

Hunter’s face is shrouded in dark shadows.  His features undiscernible in the gloom... 

He lifts his nose to the air and inhales deeply.  The movement causes Hunter’s retinas to glimmer and flash in the firelight. 

“I can SMELL your fear” 

Crosshair’s blood runs cold.   

Before he can speak, Hunter is on him. 

Crosshair’s ONLY saving move is blocking Hunter with his rifle.  His brother...this THING...strains over Firepuncher growling gutturally, teeth gnashing and snapping at Cross.   

He’s SO MUCH stronger than I remember! 

Hunter’s hands grip Crosshairs and dig into them with his...it’s claws.  Crosshair instinctively releases his grip on the rifle.  

He CRIES out in pain, and the futility of his struggle. 

It’s ripped from his grasp.  He watches Firepuncher sail away and hit the ground... 

...near Wrecker and Omega... 

Their eyes glow in the firelight as they passively watch Crosshair struggle... 

It is the LAST thing Crosshair sees before Hunter sinks his teeth into his brother’s throat... 

... 

... 

... 

Crosshair awakes SCREAMING! 

Hunter is above him...both hands holding back his own as Crosshair blocks his brother with Firepuncher. 

“CROSSHAIR!  SNAP OUT OF IT!!!”  Hunter shouts in Cross’ face. 

Hunter can sense the abject TERROR in Crosshair.  His brother’s eyes WILD in the firelight. 

Crosshair glances over Hunter’s shoulder to see Wrecker and Omega stare at them in utter shock and concern. 

It slowly dawns on Cross that he had one hell of a nightmare.  He relaxes and lowers the rifle, exhaling, tension releasing from his body. 

Hunter let’s go and stands up. 

Crosshair sit’s up, mopping sweat from his brow... 

A bloodcurdling howl rises from the shadows around them. 

Crosshair IMMEDIATELY snaps to sniper position, scanning the perimeter through his scope.  Ready to blast WHATEVER emerges from the darkness... 

Something in the underbrush slowly crunches toward them... 

Cross’ finger hovers over the trigger... 

Hunter steps forward.  He QUICKLY yanks the rifle up and skyward. 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”  Crosshair hisses. 

The crunching become louder and closer... 

... 

... 

... 

Tech emerges from the darkness RIGHT in front of them. 

“Well, that prank could have ended horribly.”  He sasses “Wrecker, I TOLD YOU this wouldn’t work.  Besides, I ONLY have Loth Wolf recordings.  The Island Wolf SHOULD sound MUCH MORE ominous and otherworldly.” 

“Aww, how should I know he’d get TRIGGERED” Wrecker scratched his head.  “There are NO Imperials in that story!” 

“Horrible choice of wording, Wrecker.  Besides, Crosshair is exhibiting a CLASSIC PTSD response.  I warned you...”  Tech plops down next to the fire, tapping away at his datapad. 

“WAIT..!”  Crosshair panics, staring at Tech.  “YOU SHOULD BE DEAD!!!” 

Hunter pats Crosshair’s shoulder.  “You had a nightmare.”  He soothes his brother and carefully takes Firepuncher away from Cross. 

“...but...”  Cross sputters...staring at everyone. 

They stare back at him...as though he had gone insane. 

Hunter steers Crosshair to sit next the campfire, setting the rifle aside.  Wrecker offers Cross a canteen of water while Omega snuggles up next to him, attempting to hug away the night terrors. 

Hunter, Wrecker, and Omega resume their campfire small talk. 

Crosshair takes a long drink, muttering to himself...” You were supposed to have died...” 

He exhales and splashes some water on his face.  Then glances across the crackling fire to Tech. 

Tech, sensing Crosshair’s stare, slowly raises his head from the datapad... 

His goggle lenses flare and flicker... 

...Tech smiles nefariously at Crosshair unbeknownst to his other siblings... 

...a SHARP smile at that.... 

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[vilevenom]

You don't have to do this one.....

While fighting against Black Doom's mind control, Shadow goes insane because his mind can't take it. Sonic is forced to kill him.

WOW this is dark

HAHA, yeah, I might not of had to, but I did. Because, damn, I like writing sad, dark stuff, apparently. Remember, Anon, you asked for this! Enjoy 💕

Sonic stared into the middle distance, sparks of golden energy still crackling around his body, his chest heaving as he struggled to suck in air. It had been a hard battle, the chaos emeralds almost not even helping to match the ferocious energy and power he'd been forced to face. But if he hadn't, then what would have become of the earth?

"…Sonic?"

The world was static around him, his ears barely recognizing the sound of his own name, his mind only able to focus on the warm, wet feeling coating his right hand and arm. He'd really had no choice in the end, with how the battle had raged on. Too much was being destroyed. No matter how much he pleaded, begged, or bargained, nothing was getting through. And the chaos emeralds had a time limit, especially when he was pushing his power so hard.

"C'mon, Sonic…"

Through the static buzzing in his ears, Sonic swore he could still hear Shadow's screams. Primal, beast-like things, with hints of alien screeching from how his vocal chords had obviously been stretched. He stared right through Sonic, his eyes unseeing, changed from their usual striking ruby red to horrific, sickly yellow. Black Doom's laugh had echoed around them as tendrils of black swirled grotesquely around Shadow, the hedgehog hybrid borderline unrecognizable from how much the alien overlord had warped him.

"Maybe…Maybe we should just wait until the emeralds power down…"

He'd gone for Black Doom first, hoping that with the overlord dead, Shadow's mind would be freed. It had worked before, so it had been a sound plan. But, when he turned from the overlords corpse with a grin, he'd been tackled down into the dirt by a screeching, writhing thing that still vaguely resembled Shadow. That was when the pleading had started. Desperate attempts to bring Shadow's mind back, to free him from the torture and torment Black Doom had afflicted his mind with. It was when the power of the emeralds began to flicker, the thing that was once Shadow getting the upper hand, that Tails yelled over the comms that Shadow's mind may be too far gone to bring back. That Black Doom may have finally won, in the end, taking his 'finest creation' down with him.

"But…He's still holding-"

"Shh. Let's just wait. It won't be long, now."

Sonic had doubled down on his tactic of trying to remind Shadow of who he was, dodging more aggressively instead of parrying attacks, regaling the other with stories of their adventures together. He hadn't even noticed when tears had begun to spill from his eyes, or when his voice had risen in volume to screams, begging for Shadow to come back to them. To him.

Ultimately, he'd had no choice. The chaos emeralds were weakening, and the thing wearing Shadow's face had pinned him to the ground, fangs too long for his mouth gnashing near Sonic's throat, and claws ripped clean through leather gloves clawing at Sonic's arms. If he didn't stop him, he was going to kill Sonic, and then everyone else. And then he'd move on to the world that Black Doom had so desperately wanted to destroy, and there would be no one left to stop him.

Those last few moments kept relaying in Sonic's head over and over again.

"I'm sorry, Shadow…"

When the power of the chaos emerald finally faded and scattered into the seven winds, Sonic snapped back into the present, sucking in a sharp breath as his right hand spasmed around what he'd been clinging to for the last several minutes. He blinked hard, tears still in his tired eyes as he glanced down at his hand, only to flinch and fling the thing away with a horrified shout, just before he turned and puked all over the ground next to him.

It had been the only way he could think to stop the ultimate lifeform. The way his chaos empowered fist had so easily shattered Shadow's sternum made his stomach roll, but it was the warmth and feeling of the hybrid's still beating heart in his hand that made him curl over and purge his stomach once again. He could have sworn, for that split second before he pulled, Shadow's eyes had looked clear, like his mind had come back from the tangled mess Black Doom had made of it. But then Sonic was pulling his hand back, while pushing Shadow away, and that had been that.

The alien hybrid made pathetic, wet gurgling sounds as it flopped to the side, black tendrils squirming across the ground in desperation, before it finally stilled, blood rapidly spilling from its ripped open chest cavity, creating a sticky pool around Sonic's feet as he stared into space, his mind not quite comprehending what he'd just done.

"I think it is safe to approach now…"

"Sonic," Tails voice finally registered to Sonic's mind, his quills quivering as he forced himself to stand up straight, wiping bile from his mouth with the back of his left hand.

"Yeah, bud?" Sonic wheezed, turning to face his little brother, while doing his best to avoid looking at the mess of black appendages on the ground.

"Are you…Can I-" Tails faltered, wringing his hands in front of himself, obviously unsure what to do.

"Let's get out of here, yeah?" Sonic offered, pushing the urge to throw up once again down, while forcing a shaky smile onto his lips. "I could really use a shower."

"Y-yeah. Okay," Tails murmured, biting at his lip as Sonic stumbled towards him, offering Knuckles a short grunt of thanks as the echidna moved to support him as they walked away.

[daryltwdixon]

The Heart of Us: Chapter 21

You

The weight is unbearable. Walkers press closer, their snarls rattling in your ears, their rotted hands grasping for purchase on your clothes. Their claws scrape against the fabric of your jacket, but you twist and thrash, refusing to let them pin you. Your arms are trapped, your muscles burning as you shove against the rancid weight pressing you down.

Not like this.

The thought cuts through the chaos, sharp and furious, but then everything stills. The noise fades into a low hum, and for a fleeting second, your mind quiets. You see Daryl. His blue eyes, silently talking to you across the room, holding you just this morning, his voice low and raspy in your ears. 

You close your eyes against the rising panic, against the burning tears threatening to break through. You were not going to die like this, with him off somewhere with no clue what’s going on. Not when you have so much left to live for–to live for him, to be with him. To try and have a life in Alexandria–you would try. You won’t die like this. You won’t. You will fight.

The quiet snaps. The walkers’ growls surge back into focus, and your rage roars to life. It’s hot, all-consuming, and it drowns out everything else. Your breath catches as you force your head to turn, your eyes locking on the nearest walker. Its jaw gnashes uselessly, its teeth clicking inches from your face.

You want to eat me? Fine.

Trying your best not to yell, you jerk your hands up, grabbing the walker by its jaw. Its decayed flesh tears under your grip, the smell almost enough to make you gag. But you don’t stop. You twist, using every ounce of strength you have left, and pull hard. The head rips free with a sickening snap, blackened blood spraying everywhere.

It coats you—your arms, your face, your clothes—and for a moment, the walkers almost seem to…hesitate. Their snarls falter, confused by the sudden onslaught of the scent. No longer fresh, writhing human blood, but the decaying blackness of one of their own. You roll the body over yourself, letting it slump across your chest as the others jostle around you, their movements slower, less focused.

Your chest heaves as you take shallow breaths, your hands trembling as you reach for your knife. It’s just there, under a few of their feet, slick with blood and sweat but mercifully within reach. Your fingers reach silently and close around the hilt, steadying you.

Move now. Before they figure it out.

The moment stretches, unbearably tense, and then you act. Your blade flashes upward, sinking deep into the base of a walker’s skull. Its body collapses into the pile, but you don’t stop. You shove the headless walker off you, twisting onto your knees, and stab another through the temple. Your motions are fast, precise, fueled by the fire burning in your chest.

Another lunges, but you sidestep, swinging your knife in a wide arc that opens its neck. Blood sprays, splattering the ground, and the walker collapses in a heap. The others stagger, still confused by the stench coating you, and you use their hesitation to carve a path.

You slash at them, shoving their bodies that step into your path, keeping their hands and teeth away from you as you push forward. A walker stumbles forward, and you drive your blade into its eye socket, twisting until it goes still. Your muscles scream, your vision blurs, but you keep moving, slicing through the horde with ruthless precision.

Finally, a gap opens. It’s small, but it’s enough. You force yourself through, your knife cutting down anything that moves too close. The sunlight nearly blinding you as you stagger to the chain link gate around the property, your chest heaving, every nerve in your body alight with adrenaline.

The walkers are still behind you, their snarls growing louder as you grab onto the links, not daring to look back. You force yourself up, your breaths coming in sharp, ragged bursts as you hoist yourself up and over, your fingers trembling. The world feels muted, the sounds of the horde fading into the background as the fight drains out of you when you collapse on the other side. Over the pounding of your heart, the ache in your limbs, all you can feel is pure relief, even if only for a moment.

I made it. I’m alive.

➳

Daryl

The hum of the car engine fills the silence as they pull up to the warehouse. Glenn sits in the passenger seat, his fingers gripping the edge of the seat like he’s bracing himself for impact. Daryl leans forward from the back, his eyes locked on the building ahead, every muscle in his body coiled tight. Rick, behind the wheel, brings the car to a slow stop a few hundred feet away.

“There,” Glenn says, pointing toward the expanse of cracked pavement in front of the warehouse. “That’s where it happened. That’s where she—” He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply as he shakes his head. “That’s where we lost her.”

Daryl doesn’t wait for the car to fully stop. As soon as the tires crunch to a halt, he’s out, crossbow slung over his shoulder, his boots hitting the ground hard. Rick follows, shutting the door with a soft click, his hand hovering near the grip of his revolver as he surveys the area.

The warehouse looms before them, its broken windows and rusted frame casting long shadows in the morning light. The silence is unnerving, broken only by the faint groans of a few walkers still shambling aimlessly near the building. It’s not the horde Glenn described the night before—most have scattered—but there are enough to keep them on edge.

Daryl’s eyes dart over the scene, taking in every detail. “Show me where,” he says gruffly, his voice low as he turns to Glenn.

Glenn points toward a stretch of pavement near the loading dock. “Right there,” he says, his voice tight. “That’s where we saw her last. The walkers... they surrounded her.”

Daryl’s chest tightens at the words, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he starts moving, his boots crunching over broken glass and debris as he heads toward the spot. Rick is right behind him, his gaze sweeping over the area, his revolver drawn but lowered.

As they approach, Daryl slows, his sharp eyes scanning the ground. The pavement is streaked with blood—black and sticky in some spots, dried and flaking in others. He crouches, his hand brushing over a dark stain near the center of the chaos. His breath catches as he examines it closer.

“It’s not hers,” he mutters, his voice cutting through the stillness.

Rick steps closer, frowning. “What?”

Daryl looks up, his eyes fierce. “It ain’t human blood. It’s walker.” He straightens, glancing around, his grip tightening on his crossbow. “She ain’t here.”

Glenn exhales sharply, his expression conflicted. “We saw them, Daryl. They were on her. There was so much—” He stops himself, his voice cracking. “We couldn’t get to her.”

“You didn’t see her die,” Daryl snaps, his voice sharp. “You saw walkers. That’s it.”

Rick places a steadying hand on Daryl’s shoulder, his eyes meeting his. “We’ll find out. Let’s keep looking.”

Daryl nods tightly, his chest heaving as he steps forward, his eyes scanning for any trace of her. His heart pounds as he moves, his focus razor-sharp. Near the edge of the bloodstained pavement, something catches his eye—a faint print, almost invisible in the dirt and grime. A boot tread.

He crouches again, his fingers tracing the faint outline. “Here,” he murmurs. “Footprint.”

Rick kneels beside him, his gaze following Daryl’s line of sight. “Blood under it,” Rick notes, his voice low. “She stepped in it.”

But that’s not all. As Daryl straightens, his eyes catch something else just ahead. A faint trail of fallen walkers, their bodies scattered like breadcrumbs leading away from the chaos. Most are half-rotted, their skulls split cleanly by knife strikes or boots. 

“She fought her way out,” Daryl says, his voice steady but rising with emotion. “She didn’t just sit there. She cut through ‘em.” His eyes follow the trail, his heart hammering faster as he takes a step forward. The downed walkers form a clear path, leading away from the worst of the bloodshed.

The trail leads toward the fence surrounding the warehouse yard. At the base of the chain-link, the prints stop, but something else catches Daryl’s eye. His breath catches as he spots it: more blood, smeared across the metal links. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough to glisten faintly in the morning light.

“She climbed,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. His chest soars, hope blooming against the cold dread that’s gripped him since last night.

Rick moves beside him, his expression thoughtful as he studies the blood on the fence. “Looks like she made it over,” he says, his voice steady. “No walker could’ve done that.”

Daryl’s jaw clenches, his heart pounding in his ears. “She’s alive,” he says, more to himself than to Rick. His hand tightens on the fence as he lets out a sharp breath. “She made it out.”

Glenn approaches cautiously, his face a mix of disbelief and tentative hope. “You really think she did?” he asks, his voice soft.

“She ain’t here,” Daryl says, his voice firm, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “No body, she ain’t one of them,” he points around to the shambling walkers that are starting to notice them. “She got away. She’s out there.”

Rick places a hand on Daryl’s shoulder, his grip steady. “If she made it out, we’ll find her,” he says. “We’ll keep looking.”

Daryl nods, his chest still tight but no longer with dread. The cold knot in his stomach has eased, replaced by something warmer, something fierce. He turns, his eyes scanning the fence line and the trees beyond.

She’s out there. She made it. Of course, she did. She’s Y/N.

[lulublack90]

Prompt 30 - Diamond

@jegulus-microfic March 30 Word count 992

Previous part First part

Peter cowered in the middle of the cell. James and Sirius stood in front of him, glaring down at the pitiful man. 

Evan had put a block on Peters's magic while he’d been unconscious so he couldn’t transform into his animagus form. 

Sirius twirled Peters's wand in his hand, looking eerily like Regulus. Peter didn’t stand a chance. 

They’d decided, in case anything went wrong, that it was best if only the two of them were seen by Peter. Remus was supposed to be with the werewolves. Regulus, the Rosier twins and Barty were supposed to support Voldemort. If Peter somehow wormed his way out of this, he could potentially ruin everything they had so far accomplished and put them all in danger.  

“James, please!” Peter begged from the ground. “I was scared. I didn’t know what I was doing.” James clenched his jaw. Peter was lying to him. He caught the back of Sirius’s robes to stop him from leaping on Peter. 

“You knew exactly what you were doing, Peter when you got me to reveal that Sirius was still alive. You took me out to lunch and wheedled it out of me, and then you went straight to your master and spilled your guts. How could you betray me? How could you betray Sirius?” He was spitting by the end of his tirade.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. The Dark Lord he—he threatened my life if I didn’t do as he said.” Peter was crying now. Fat tears dripped down his face and turned the stones beneath him black.

“And Sirius would die if Voldemort decides to send someone after him because of the information you fed him.” He had to stop as his voice began to feel thick. 

“We were your brothers, Peter! We would have done anything for you! We would have died for you. You could have come to us if you were scared. But you know what? I don’t think you were sacred. I don’t think he did threaten you. I think you went to him yourself. You always were a little rat.” Sirius pounced, his hands curling into claws as he attacked the screaming Peter. 

James dragged his friend off the quivering mess on the floor. 

“Sirius, calm down. We need to find out what he knows.” James whispered harshly into Sirius’s ear. Sirius growled and spat on the floor beside Peter. 

“Then, let’s hurry up and do it, James. I don’t know how much longer I can keep myself from turning into Padfoot and using my teeth.” Sirius gnashed his teeth together as though Padfoot was already trying to break through. James ran a calming hand down Sirius’s back, and his friend immediately unpuffed his chest and backed away from Peter a step. 

“Come on then, Peter. What else have you told Voldemort?” James’s voice was cold. He’d never been betrayed like this before. Even Regulus had never hidden his intention to join the Death Eaters, though, with Regulus, it was because his mother had given him no other choice. Peter had had many options, and he still chose Voldemort. 

“N-n-nothing. I haven’t told him anything else.” Peter whimpered. 

“Liar,” Sirius snarled. His eyes twitched as he stared at Peter. It took James a second to realise Sirius was performing legimency on Peter. 

After a few minutes, Sirius turned away and strode out of the cell. James conjured heavy manacles and chained Peter to the wall. He found Sirius curled up in Remus’s lap. He looked up when James walked in. His eyes were dull. The usual diamond gleam and sparkle that resided there had been ripped away by whatever he’d seen inside Peter’s head. 

“He told them everything.” He croaked. “Everything we’ve ever said about our assignments, everything from the meetings.” He let out a sob. “James, he was planning to help death eaters get into your parent’s house.” James felt the blood drain from his face and Regulus’s arms wrapping around him. 

“How—how far along was his plan?” He choked out, looking back at the door he’d just come through. 

“Not very. He hadn’t even mentioned it to Voldemort yet. I think they’re safe.” Sirius still looked panicked. They were his parents as much as James’s. 

“Anything else?” James asked, not sure if he wanted to hear anymore. 

“I was right. He joined them voluntarily.” James felt any loyalty he felt for Peter slip away. That man wasn’t his friend, and he couldn’t believe he’d ever trusted him. 

“What do you want to do?” Regulus asked, holding him close. James bit back the pain. He’d deal with it later. 

“We need to give him to Moody and make sure he knows he can’t make a deal with him.” 

It took some juggling, but they eventually managed to get Peter to one of the Order safe houses, and Moody appeared moments later, wand raised. 

“What are you doing here without permission?” He barked, still not lowering his wand. 

“We caught your spy. You’re welcome.” Sirius growled at him. 

“That wasn’t the plan, Black.” They were glaring at each other. 

“Yeah, well. He was planning on killing the Potters, among other things. He went to Voldemort and asked to join them. It’s time he was caught.” Moody didn’t argue. Effie and Monty Potter were loved by all, and even the grizzled Alastor Moody didn’t want to see anything bad happen to them. 

“Fine, I’ll get the rest of the information out of him and find somewhere to keep him.” He grabbed Peter’s shoulder and began shoving him further into the house. 

“No deals, Mad-Eye.” James’s tone was a warning. Moody scrutinised James from head to toe and snorted through his nose. 

“Fine, no deals.” 

James and Sirius went to the Potters house, needing to see they were safe and hug them. James had a quick conversation with Regulus, explaining what had happened between them and Moody, and then he was in Effie’s arms. 

Final part

[alan-in-the-outernet]

OGH i did share one tiny bit of a wip about destruction a few days ago - i don't know if i'll end up finishing it, so i'll just share now 👍 this would be in the regular timeline after destruction forces a merge

…What… is this? thought Alan, and thus, so did every other facet of this new being. It echoed between cracks and fissures, reflected off jagged walls- emanated from one mind and resonated through another.

That thought was not Destruction, not Creation - and yet, it was, now. Their minds were the same now.

It was unfathomably painful.

They were whole, but the seams cracked, gnashed their teeth and fought their stitches, before clawing themselves back together. It wanted so badly to break free- and to stay here- and to lay waste to everything- and to keep its children safe from the wreckage- and to fight, fight, fight…

And, perhaps worse still, it remembered everything. Alan remembered everything. The god remembered everything. A kaleidoscope of hundreds of lives, folded in on itself, an impossible amount of complexity embedded in minuscule mortal lifetimes… And a great, screaming silence, burning fury that lasted a thousand years… And all that came before, every fiber of everything that ever was, the beginning of life and the end…

And though it could not see outside itself to the world that was surely in flames, it knew, it knew that this could not hold for much longer. Despite the part of it clinging to its new being, the seams were ripping it apart from the inside.

Please, the part of it that was Destruction pleaded, screamed. Please stay with me.

But they were not the same anymore.

It remembered a child's smile. It remembered its first brother's hope and love. It remembered the relentless embrace of cold and death. It remembered the mage that took everything. It remembered the mage that gave everything in return.

A final thread snapped, glass shattering, mountains falling, stars collapsing-

And it was pulled apart from itself.

-----

Alan awoke coughing, sputtering, gasping for breath. He wasn't- it- his mind had been gone, why -

Thoughts and memories of a god scraped and shrieked against his head. Memories that were his, but weren't. It had only been… a few moments, surely, but it was enough for Alan to see everything, and that vast ocean struggled to fit inside the pathetic vessel of a mortal body. Energy rippled below his skin, and it took all his strength to fight it back down.

"Why…" Then there was a voice, and Alan flinched, looking up at Destruction. The god's plan - a plan Alan remembered it dwelling on for a thousand years, though the foreign memories were already beginning to blur at the edges - had failed.

"Even now, with you in front of me, I cannot fix this gaping hole…"

Despair turned to rage.

"Even now, mortals continue to take everything from us!" Ashen trees cracked, scorched earth churned, and the god's white light pulsed with new flame. "They steal you and lock me away, they break you - break us - beyond repair… And deny even this final solace…"

that's the wip cutoff yippee. they all died the end (slash jay)

HELLO???

I LOVE THIS???

It's so painful.. the descriptions so clean and nice and mixing together so well yet showing how confusing and mixed and- GAH... I love it...

And Destructions DESPAIR and ANGER... it wants so badly to be whole, but Alan does and doesn't... changed... the links still there, but his will and memory enough to break free..

Even if it would likely be painful for him, too... something he wouldn't like... but the godly energies beneath his skin wanted to be whole just as much as Destruction did...

"And deny even this final solace..."

GAH... HNGH... I love it... I love it so much...

[insertlovelyperson]

As We've Done Before - Bookworm0303 - The Quarry (Video Game) [Archive of Our Own]

Rating: E

Pairing: Ryan Erzahler/Dylan Lenivy

---

“Ryan, I don’t have much time. I can feel it like it’s fighting to get out. If you let me bite you and you heal—”

“Then I’ll have to kill Chris.”

Ryan lurched free from his grandmother’s grasp, dragging himself across the floor, desperate to get away in time. Because it was over. It was over when Ryan shot Chris. And it was over again when Laura shot Silas. Goddammit—it was supposed to be over. “Get away…” he begged, choking down the low, rumbling growl that began clawing its way up his throat.

“Ryan,” he heard the woman plead, already scrambling after him, “please, you’re gonna hurt yourself—”

Gnashing his teeth, he clawed viciously at his shirt until the fabric began to tear. Vision clouded with a glowing red haze, blood pooled in his mouth as his teeth ripped through his cheeks. Bones breaking and reforming as he felt ready to burst from his skin, Ryan finally screamed:

“GET AWAY FROM ME.”

---

or a partial blood-pack ending continuing three years after the events of the game.

[rosella-writes]

happy friday! for dadwc this week, perhaps "Using your body to shield them from attack." from the acts of service prompts for a pairing of your choice :3

Thank you!! For @dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Eilonwy Amell x Morrigan Rating: M for gore and violence Tags: darkspawn gore, wounds, body horror Words: 439

~~~

Eilonwy sensed the hurlock before it struck — its sickly song was more than its gurgling groan, more than the whistle of air around its striking weapon, more than the patchwork armour that creaked when it moved. But even her sense for the creature couldn’t help her turn fast enough to intercept its blow. 

But Morrigan could. 

Her body furled around Eilonwy like a closing petal. Bones groaned, skin stretched, and the tang of her magic on the air was thick and cloying with pain — she disappeared into a burst of feathers and a drip-drip-dribble of blood. The hurlock, bewildered and lacking its weapon, reached for Eilonwy now with bare hands. 

Her thudding heart threatened to choke her. Rage, such as the Templars had guarded against, felt like fire in her veins. The charred tip of her staff flared coal-bright — the skin on the hurlock’s fingers peeled back like burnt paper.

Eilonwy’s own two hands reached back — her staff lay between them, no more use to her than a scorched branch — and her pale skin was lurid and bright as sunlight against its rotten skull. Its gnashing teeth nearly caught one of her fingers. Its burning hands scrabbled against her Warden armour. Its face began to melt like wax beneath her palms. 

She hooked her nails between plates of bone.

Its screeches of battle dissolved into screams. She felt the rip of that noise in her own throat — maybe she was screaming too. 

Its body was beneath her now, pinned by her knees. She hunched over it — primal as the magic she’d once rejected in favour of the study of entropy — and clawed into its face, down its throat, into its sinuses, its brain. All burned at her touch.

Wild magic snapped and crackled around her, completely out of control. 

Something ripped at the creature’s throat. 

Eilonwy glanced down, nearly blind with rage and tears, to find a familiar ferret, black as night, trying to help. A great wound gaped in its side, but it wriggled in between Eilonwy and the hurlock’s chest, chirping and scolding and pausing only to gorge on darkspawn vocal chords. 

The hurlock was no longer moving. 

Eilonwy fell back on her haunches, something she now recognised as sobs ripping through her chest and throat. The ferret came with her — it wriggled up to span her shoulders instead. It still scolded, sounding not unlike the witch herself on a normal day. Eilonwy clutched it close. 

“Morrigan, why did you do that?”

The ferret only chittered. Eilonwy petted the length of its spine, murmuring and sobbing, and slowly willed the wound in its side to knit closed.

[tabitha42]

The Wizard's Apprentice - Chapter 8

Saffron is just a lowly apprentice with barely a successful firebolt to her name. So what chance does she have with the arch mage she's slowly falling in love with?

Gale x Tav, slow burn, eventual smut

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For a moment neither of them moved as the creature’s call echoed in the air around them, dangerous, threatening, and getting closer.

Quickly Gale ran to his tent and grabbed the quarterstaff he’d got from the grove. Saff followed behind him but stayed back as he instructed her to. He stood in front of her protectively, watching the trees as the noise grew closer and closer…

Suddenly it came, faster than anything, a four-legged monstrosity charging towards them. Gale barely had time to react before the gnoll was on top of him and he was thrown to the ground, slamming onto his back. He managed to raise his staff just in time to catch it in the creature’s mouth, desperately holding it off as gnashing teeth came down at him. 

“NO!” Saff screamed, reaching out to him. Quickly she gathered her wits and raised her hands. 

“Ignis!!” 

The firebolt slammed into the creature’s side, singing off its fur, but did nothing to deter it as it continued to claw at Gale, getting closer and closer as he could barely hold it off. She tried again and again, throwing firebolt after firebolt, but they seemed to do nothing. 

Finally the creature reared up, ripping the staff from Gale’s hands and throwing it aside. It dived down again with a bite, and this time Gale had nothing but his arms to protect himself with. He screamed out in pain as teeth sunk through the leather of his bracer and into his flesh, blood gushing down his arm. Saff’s heart nearly stopped, and she didn’t even register what happened next - she acted on pure instinct. She ran towards them, raising her hands as she did, throwing all her body into the movement. “Detono!!” 

The sound of thunder rang through the camp as the creature was thrown into the air before hitting the ground hard, sparks of static rolling over its skin. It whimpered as it got back to its feet and glared at them, teeth bared, wanting revenge. 

Saff wasted no time and ran in front of Gale, a ball of fire already burning in her hand. “Ignis!” 

The fire slammed into its side but again seemed to do little to it, and suddenly the creature was charging towards her. 

That won’t work.

Her hands fumbled for a new gesture as she knew she had to try something else, and ice began to form at her fingertips.

“Glacies!” 

The ice spear slammed into its leg and left it stumbling as frost formed over its paw. Quickly she summoned another, then another, each attack leaving it reeling. She took a step closer with every spell, throwing everything she had at it, until finally the creature turned and ran, whimpering as it retreated into the forest.

For a moment there was just the sound of her own breathing as the adrenaline gradually died down, her hands shaking as she watched the trees where it had disappeared. 

Then she turned and ran back.

“Gale!!” she gasped as she jumped over the scattered camp supplies and fell to her knees by his side. He was sat on the ground, clutching his wounded arm, covered in blood. 

“Gods…” she whispered in horror as she looked at the gore in front of her. But she knew she couldn’t let this get to her and had to act. Quickly she ran over to the supplies box and dug out the first aid kit they’d got from the grove, then ran back to him. She carefully began to remove the ruined bracer, trying not to let herself get distracted by his gasps of pain as she pulled the leather over the ripped flesh. Eventually she had it off, and after carefully peeling back the tattered, bloody remains of the sleeve, the severity of the wound was there to see. Huge lumps of flesh dug out, all the way down to the bone. She knew some basic first aid, but this was way beyond anything even a trained doctor could fix with such a basic first aid kit. A few bandages wasn’t going to help with this…

A feeling came to her. Something deep inside, telling her what to do, whispering a word to her. It wouldn’t work, she was sure… but that feeling told her to do it anyway…

She raised her hands and held them above his arm and closed her eyes. Gale watched her in confusion, unsure what she was doing. It was hard to make himself hold his arm there when every instinct wanted him to do something, anything, to try to stop the pain and the bleeding… but he trusted her. 

His eyes widened as he saw a golden light begin to envelop her hands. 

“Te curo.”

Her voice seemed to echo as her hands grew brighter, bathing them in warm, golden light that wrapped round his arm. Under the light he could feel the skin knitting itself back together as the pain diminished, and after a few moments the light faded away. His arm was still covered in blood, but the worst of the wounds were pretty much healed. It wasn’t perfect - a few cuts remained - but compared to how it had been earlier, it felt to him to be good as new. 

“You… you know Healing Word??” he gasped as he held his arm, looking at her in shock. 

“It’s… never worked before…” she whispered, equally in shock, til a huge grin spread across her face. “It worked! I can’t believe it!” 

He looked down at his arm again, looking at where the skin had knitted back together. 

“But… healing spells can’t be cast with arcane magic…” 

“No, but they can be cast with primal magic.” 

He looked at her, realising what she was getting at. 

“Druidic magic… you can cast druidic magic??” 

“Apparently!” she couldn’t help but laugh, being almost giddy with excitement. “I never could before! But just then I, I don’t know, I felt something and… it just… happened!” 

She looked at his arm again, and only now noticed the remaining cuts. 

“Wait, is it actually healed?” she asked, suddenly panicking. 

“More or less,” he answered, holding his arm out for her to see. She gently took it in her hands, carefully inspecting the wounds. 

“There’s still a few cuts… but I think I can deal with those the old fashioned way,” she said, reaching for the med kit. She took out a rag and a bottle of clean water and began carefully cleaning his arm. He closed his eyes and tried to focus his mind elsewhere away from the pain, though she could still see him wincing slightly as she dabbed the wounds, and tried to keep her touch as light as possible. 

As she washed the blood away she couldn’t help but wonder - had it tasted as bad to the gnoll as it had to Astarion? The gnoll didn’t seem to react at all, though maybe gnoll palettes just weren’t as discerning as a vampire’s. She considered asking him about it… he had said a story for another time, after all, and now was another time. Yet something stopped her. As if… she didn’t want to know the answer. 

Eventually the blood was all washed away revealing the cuts fully. They’d probably be considered quite bad if they weren’t compared to the state his arm had been in before. 

“I’m going to need to stitch some of these up,” she warned him. He just nodded, trying to keep his mind focused elsewhere. 

The stitching process was long. She felt awful every time the needle pierced the skin and she saw him wince, but it had to be done. After what felt like an eternity it was finished, and she began bandaging his arm up. Eventually she was done and his arm was clean and treated, unlike the rest of him, which was still covered in blood. 

“There,” she said softly, lowering his arm down. He finally opened his eyes and looked at the bandages, turning his arm over slightly. He was very quiet for a long moment, his breath still slightly raggedy. “Are you alright?” she asked, gently putting her hand on his shoulder. He took his eyes off his arm and looked to her, finally managing a smile. 

“Yes. Thanks to you,” he said gratefully. “Gods Saff, that was incredible! Not just the healing, but the way you fought that gnoll… I daresay the lessons have paid off,” he said with that smug grin again, and she knew from that he was definitely alright. “Though in hindsight perhaps teaching you the loudest first level spell in existence wasn’t the best idea…” 

“You think it attracted the gnoll?” 

“It’s a possibility we can’t ignore. Quieter spells from now on, I think.” 

“I don’t think I can manage any more spells today anyway,” she said with a weary sigh. “And you definitely need to rest.” “I think, more than that, I need to bathe,” he said, looking down at himself. 

“As someone who also recently lost a lot of blood, I’d say you should stay seated for a bit longer. Even if it’s unpleasant,” she said, glancing down at his blood-soaked robes. He chuckled softly. 

“As you say, doctor…?” he prompted, deciding to turn the roleplay around to learn her surname. She chuckled at the attempt, but shook her head. 

“Doctor Saffron, I suppose. I don’t really have a surname.” He blinked in surprise. 

“You… don’t have a surname?” 

“Nope,” she started as she got up and began to prepare him some food and water. “I never knew my parents, I grew up in an orphanage. They said I was left on the doorstep in a box one morning with just a note that said “Saffron”. So either it's my name, or someone ordered some spices and were very disappointed when they received a baby instead,” she said with a laugh, though Gale couldn't join her in that. For a moment he was shocked into silence, until he finally spoke. 

“I'm… sorry…” he said quietly.

“Don't be, it wasn't so bad,” She said, handing him a plate of food and a drink. 

“Still, to not know your parents… do you have any idea who they were?”

“Nope, and I don't care,” She answered simply, sitting next to him. “My mother was probably a single mother, or teenager, or prostitute too poor to keep me. That was the case for most of the kids there. My father… gods only know. But it doesn't matter. The matriarchs at the orphanage were my parents, and the other kids there were my siblings. Even if I found out who my parents were, that wouldn't change.” 

“Sounds like you were all very close,” he said with a smile as he ate. It was a nice change to the stereotypical idea of orphanages. “What was it like growing up there?” 

“It was… well, to be honest I hated it at the time, but looking back now, with the knowledge of how bad some orphanages were, I was very lucky really. The matriarchs were kind. The building was clean, if a bit cold in the winter. Food was… not exactly abundant, but we didn’t starve. It all got a lot better when I was around 10 and some wealthy patron donated a huge stack of books to the orphanage. I read every single one, multiple times. I suppose they provided an escape. I loved them, especially the ones about adventurers. But there was one in particular that was my favourite. It was about magic. It covered all the different types of magic, and most importantly, it had instructions for casting a few basic spells. For months I tried to cast those spells. I started to think the book was actually wrong and I was wasting my time, but then finally it happened. Just a slight shimmer at first, but it was there. Maybe I should try to find out who that patron was, thank him for introducing me to magic.” 

Gale smiled as he listened to her. It was a heartwarming story in a way, and he always loved hearing how people got into magic. 

“To be able to teach yourself a spell at that age, even a basic one - that’s impressive,” he complimented. 

“Thank you, though it was years before I could do anything more than a few shimmering lights. When I hit 18 I had to leave. I moved in with a few of the older girls I’d known in the orphanage and got a job serving tables at the local tavern. Spent most of my evenings in Sorcerous Sundries, reading all the books I could. Saved up to buy some of my own. Learnt some more spells, started looking into druidic magic. After a few years of that I met Malitas. He saw me clearing a table with mage hand and asked what a wizard was doing waiting tables. I told him about myself and my work and he said he'd take me as his apprentice. That was about three years ago now. He has a small annex on his tower that he said I could live in, gave me all the books I needed, told me to focus on my research with druidic magic.”

“And told you not to learn combat magic?” Gale asked, still a bit suspicious about that. 

“He said every wizard in the world is researching combat magic, and that I've got something unique, and I should focus on that. Plus, he said he'd be furious if I accidentally burnt down his tower,” she said with a small chuckle. 

Maybe it was as simple as that, the guy just didn't want errant fireballs flying around. Yet it still didn't sit right with Gale.

“I know you think it's odd,” Saff said, noticing his unease about it. “But he's given me everything I wanted. Lessons, a space of my own, the resources I need. I wouldn't know half the magic I do if it wasn't for him.” 

“He taught you a lot, then?” 

“Yes. And not just magic. Alchemy, too. And history, etiquette, all that sort of stuff. He always said if I was to become a full wizard I must learn to fit into wizard society. Be a proper lady, one no one would ever guess grew up in an orphanage and waited tables.”

“Hmph,” Gale murmured disapprovingly. “He makes it sound like those are bad things that you should be ashamed of.” 

“He said they are, if I want to be a respected wizard. And that, while he didn’t agree with it himself, the most powerful wizards of the land wouldn’t accept someone with such a poor background and that I mustn’t tell such people where I really come from if I want to be accepted.” “What a load of nonsense,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “Some of history’s most powerful wizards have come from humble backgrounds. I’m glad to see you didn’t believe him.”

She narrowed her eyes a bit as she looked at him. 

“What makes you think I didn’t believe him?” 

He looked back at her, slightly surprised. 

“You told me everything without hesitation,” he answered. A smile came to her lips. 

“Ah, yes. Well, I didn’t think you were like that,” she explained, bringing a smile to his lips that mirrored her own. 

“I’m glad to hear it. I certainly wouldn’t want to give off that impression.” 

“You don’t, don’t worry,” she said sincerely. There was a pause before she spoke again. “It’s really not true, then? Wizards aren’t like that?” she asked, sounding a bit surprised by that.

“Well… some wizards are like that. But any wizard as bigoted as that isn’t one you want to associate with. You will go far in wizard society based on your skills, not your background.”

She smiled to herself. 

“Good. I’m glad to hear it,” she said softly. He looked at her for a moment in concern. 

“I’m surprised he would tell you such a thing…” 

“Well… you said some wizards are like that, right? I guess he didn’t want me to miss out on any opportunities with them. Plus, maybe it’s different in different places. Waterdeep and Baldur’s Gate have plenty of differences, that could be one of them. He’s an elf too, so maybe it’s different in elven society.” 

“Perhaps…” Gale murmured, less convinced. “Either way, I think a master should focus on teaching their apprentice magic, not… social etiquette.”

“Do you? Have you had many apprentices, then?” she challenged, not entirely agreeing with his critical appraisal of her master. 

“Not many, no. I've tried teaching in the past, but if I'm honest, I would always get too frustrated if they proved inept.”

“Gosh… how are you putting up with me?”

“You are far from inept,” he said with a chuckle as he looked over at her. “Teaching you has been a joy, in fact.”

She couldn't help but smile to herself. 

“Well, thank you. I'm glad,” She said, hoping he couldn't see the slight blush on her cheeks. “Did you ever have a master yourself? Or I suppose you knew everything already and didn't need one?” She asked jokingly. 

“Heh, no, I did have masters. Several, throughout my time at Blackstaff Academy, including the Blackstaff himself in my later years. And others after that, various teachers and mentors. Some were… more helpful than others,” he said with a chuckle, before taking the last mouthful of food and finishing his drink.

“I’ll tell you about them sometime. Right now though, I think it’s about time I washed this blood off,” he decided, putting the plate aside and looking down at himself. 

“Try not to get your arm too wet. Open wounds and river water don’t go well together…” she warned.

“Indeed they don’t. Not to fear, I’ll be careful. Wouldn’t want you to so valiantly fight off that gnoll only for me to die of an infection,” he joked as he stood up and headed to his tent.

“Don’t you dare,” she laughed, giving him a playful warning look. 

“I assure you, I don’t plan on doing that,” he said, giving her a smile before disappearing into his tent to get changed.

[heylittleriotact]

🩸WIP Wednesday🩸

I was tagged by @xxnashiraxx and @preciouslittlebhaalbae and I come bearing VIOLENCE on this day.

I was writing this whole ass BG3 thing this one time and I've been taking a break and picking away at the parts I want to write the most, and this is part of one of them if anyone is amused by the idea of having an archfey shaped piece of chaos interjecting themselves into the Cazador fight.

“And get me the hell out of here!”  Echo was already calling magic to her, preparing to Misty Step across the stone dais - time was of the essence, that much was clear. The incantation was halfway past her lips when she halted, distracted by the sound of long claws scrabbling over polished stone.  Cazador was apparently just as surprised by this as she, because he turned at the sound and snarled at the werewolf that had just skidded around the corner and came into view at the top of the stairs.  “These intruders slaughtered your siblings in your absence!” He jabbed his staff towards where Echo and the others stood. “But you may make up for your failure yet: destroy them!”  The werewolf, smaller and lighter in colouring than the others, sniffed the air and rose on its haunches to better catch the scent of her prey. Her eyes glowed fiery orange, and her powerful muscles flexed as her primal glare locked on Echo, her claws gouging marks into the floor as if it were butter. A deep growl rumbled through her chest and through her jagged fangs and Echo felt real terror at the sound.  “Gale…” she muttered as quietly as she could to the wizard at her side, not daring to break eye contact with the wolf. “Please tell me you’ve still got something up your sleeve that’ll reduce that thing to a pile of ash?” “And then some.”  Echo grimaced at the sound of squealing stone under razor sharp claws: it was like the stone itself was screaming out in agony.  “What are you waiting for?!” Cazador screamed. “Kill them! I command it!”  The other wolves were feral in their bloodlust: they hadn’t hesitated for a moment before attacking. Why wasn’t this one? The werewolf gnashed her jaws, sending thick beads of slobber sailing through the air, and a horrific, wet tearing sound filled the chamber. Echo didn’t realize what it was at first or where it was coming from, but her stomach lurched when it dawned on her that the wolf was making that sickening noise.  It twisted and arced in place, grunting ferociously as stitches snapped with soggy pops, and flesh strained and ripped, sending clumps of light gray fur adrift in the tomblike air.  Echo watched on in horror as Cazador continued to bellow orders at the creature and it continued to undulate and squirm like a birthing Gnoll. She flinched back an entire pace when a bloody hand burst out of a torn seam and started pulling at the werewolf’s skin from the outside, freeing another hand moments later, and with a final tremendous tear, the skin tore completely and sagged down to the waist of the parasite inside of it.  It was a monster - gore-slicked and blood drenched, its long hair hanging in wet sticky ropes stained red; its face a stern mask of perfectly calibrated murder. Lightning sparked from its eyes, glistening over the slick muscles of its lithe arms.  This monster belonged on an ancient battlefield, slaughtering an efficient and brutal path to victory - completing whatever joyless and wrathful task was asked of it to keep its benefactor - its beloved - safe: the historically avowed champion of the Benevolent Spring Tiding, Lady Lillian, compelled by ruthless and violent purpose. It could be here for only one reason.

[blackjackkent]

Further investigations into Father Lorgan's murder:

Rakha talks to a fellow in the kitchen (the very Brother Donnick responsible for SOUPS OF THE REALMS BY BROTHER DONNICK), from whom she learns that a) nobody much likes Valeria the Hollyphant investigator, b) Brilgor was a nice guy who "didn't seem like the murdering type", and c) his only likely theory for Lorgan's enemies were the people who didn't like that he was nice to the refugees.

In spite of my dismissive tag on my previous post, I think Rakha's fascination with the religion of Ilmater continues, although she's not quite sure how she feels about it. It is, however, helpful in distracting her from her automatic more hungry interest in the murder itself. Reading through some writings of Lorgan's and comparing it to writings of other priests in the building, she discovers that he was somewhat unlike most of them, who seem to have revered suffering for its own sake. Lorgan assiduously espouses that "to suffer is not holy; to suffer is a consequence of holy duty made practice." She's particularly fascinated by one paragraph of Lorgan's writing, which she looks at for a long time: "Some may ask of you, if you are loved by your god, why does he allow you to suffer? Why does he allow anyone to suffer? The question is strong rhetoric, but it has an answer. One cannot be healed without first being hurt. One cannot truly know joy without knowing its absence. But to live a life full of absence, full of suffering, would be to know only one thing. We enact balance in the name of the Lord on the Rack, for it is right and it is just." She has caused so much suffering. Jaheira speaks often of balance, and so does this text... but there is no balance in her, not yet. Perhaps... perhaps one day she will find it, but it seems an overwhelming task at present.

Most importantly, she finds one of Lorgan's journals hidden away in a chest, where he describes hiding and helping people in a hidden area of the temple cellar, which was - probably not coincidentally - also where he was murdered.

Another Bhaalist reference in an old manuscript: "And lo, he walked among us! But for a brief and brilliant moment, the Crying God wept upon our earth with the tears of a most fortunate faithful. He took the cur of Gehenna, this most defiled creature of Murder, and held it in His immutable embrace. In His most perfect knowing, he walked with it into the Sea of Fallen Stars - the cur clawed and screamed and ripped and tore, but he brooked no quarter. And when the sea ran red with the blood of the Divine, the wailing and gnashing ceased. The creature was dead. No trace of His commanded faithful remained, save for a humble iron helm, which washed ashore with nary a scratch or sea-rust about it." From this, Rakha discerns that she is correct in seeing Ilmater as an antithesis to her Bhaalspawn nature. But this is not an image of forgiveness as the priests out front promised, but instead of obliteration. She pictures herself as this "cur", dragged into the sea and drowned. It's an image that makes more sense than she would like.

She talks to a super grumpy priest named Sister Rose who is overseeing Lorgan's dead body. Rose is impatient, thinking Rakha's coming for medical attention; one of Rakha's available dialogue lines is "Do I look diseased to you?" which is pretty funny since Rakha currently looks like this:

She does provide some useful information, though - specifically that Lorgan was hit with a paralytic poison and had his hand sawed off while he was still alive, before he was killed. The beast in Rakha's head enjoys this mental image quite a lot, unfortunately.

She finally gets some use out of the Speak With Dead spell that she's thus far only used to talk to Z'rell's corpse, by using it on Lorgan. She definitely thinks she's being clever and hopes this will just blow the case wide open, but unfortunately it's not that simple.

"Who killed you?"

"Dwarf... dressed in red..."

"Why did he kill you?"

Narrator: The corpse remains silent. It does not know.

"What were you doing when you died?"

"Hiding Brilgor... from Fists..."

"Why were you hiding Brilgor?"

"Must protect innocents... Ilmater's will..."

"Where did you hide him?"

"Took him to the tunnels... with the rest... fool... fool..."

Well. That does seem to promisingly indicate that perhaps Brilgor wasn't responsible - unless he was a dwarf who wore red regularly - but it doesn't provide a lot of information on an alternative.

This whole situation has Rakha feeling genuinely mixed up in a lot of different ways - the Bhaalist taint in her is thrilled about the murder, she herself feels jumbled about the religious elements in question, Wyll and Jaheira want to see the refugee exonerated, Minthara and Lae'zel want to leave. It's more of a mess of a situation than she expected coming in the door, that's for certain.

But in the end, she presses forward, leading them down into the basement. It feels like the right thing to do... though she trusts her own judgment on that less and less.

[theunseelieif]

A commission I did for @stephschoices featuring her werewolf!MC Cyra and male Morgan. It was originally 500 words but got out of hand lol!

The dried blood is sticking your shirt to your upper arm in a way that you know will be painful when you rip the cloth off. Then the mostly-healed wound will be torn open, and you’ll be right back where you started. Nevertheless, you shimmy halfway out of it, mourning the cute blouse for a moment before gripping it tightly as you brace yourself to pull.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Morgan avert his gaze, hesitant and unsure. You nearly laugh; he’s seen far more than this…but that was before. Before, not now. You’re hardly strangers, no longer lovers; you exist in some odd in-between that threatens to crack every rib to devour your heart.

Back to the matter at hand, you remind yourself with force. Your throat bobs as your hand jerks. The shirt flies off with the fresh scabs, leaving your right shoulder raw and bloody once again. Those claws had gotten you good, and now you feel the marks as if they’re being freshly carved into your skin once more.

“Cyra, are you-?” Morgan croaks as you slam your hands down on the top of your vanity, your fingers curling into fists at the pain.

You bite your lip, sharp canines pinching and gnashing as you choke down a scream. Your mom is asleep in the other room; waking her up is not an option.

“Cyra?” Morgan repeats, hovering nervously at your side.

Already the flesh is stitching itself back together, your accelerated healing both a blessing and a curse. You force a thin smile, not wanting to worry Morgan any more than you already have.

“I’m fine,” You say, though it comes out more as a wheeze, “Really.”

His brows knit together, his hand hovering over your back as if fearful of initiating contact. You can feel the cold of his skin radiating before he even touches you, a stark difference from your own warmth.

“I don’t believe you,” He whispers.

You glance up and meet his eyes in the mirror. His skin is pale, his green eyes dark; he’s a ghost of who he used to be. That’s fine, you think; you always knew you’d love him even in death.

His gaze drops down to your shoulders, to your wound, and he freezes. You see how his pupils dilate, and you frown, twisting slightly so you aren’t just watching his reflection.

You hesitate to ask, “Is it-?”

“No.” He snaps out of it, shaking his head sharply, “It’s not…I’d never…”

“I know,” You say, as softly as possible.

“It was…the tattoo. I saw the tattoo.” The words are clumsy as they escape him, “That’s new.”

The tattoo on your left shoulder isn’t actually new at all; you’ve had it for almost two years. You recall how you’d stumbled into the tattoo parlor in your college town about a week after Morgan’s funeral, bordering on a breakdown. You’d asked for a rose through a haze of tears, trembling from the cold and grief.

A rose, because Morgan was born in June.

He had gotten a daisy tattooed on his forearm right after you graduated since you were born in April. You had thought at the time that a matching sentiment might connect the two of you across life and death. The rose helped in some small way, even though you’d thought its counterpart was six feet under.

It wasn’t, though. Morgan stands before you, and you can see the furling leaves of the daisy peek out from under his rolled-up sleeves. Never in a coffin, never beneath the dirt, but still not close enough for you to touch. He stands barely a foot away, yet it feels as insurmountable as six.

“So you…” He blinks, rolling his lips together, “I don’t want to assume-”

“It was for you.” You interrupt firmly.

The grief of what you both lost is thick in the air, but you don’t have much time to linger in your melancholy. The words hit him like a physical blow, and he takes a staggering step back before collapsing.

You go to your knees with him, sinking down without reservation to finally, finally pull him into your arms. He shakes in your grasp, so you just pull him tighter to your chest, trying to physically express what words can’t even begin to.

His hands reach up and grasp at where the tattoo is, leaving your skin chilled but flush at his touch. It’s thrilling to feel his skin against yours after going so long without it. You card your fingers through his hair, so much shorter than in your memory, and ignore the ache of your knees against the hardwood floor.

“Cy,” He whispers into your shoulder, his voice breathy, “Cy, Cyra, I’m-”

“You’re okay,” You press a kiss into the crown of his head, “You’re with me, and you’re okay, do you understand?”

It only breaks him down further, and he just about goes limp in your grasp, his body sagging against yours.

“I’m sorry, Cy,” He practically whimpers, “I’m so sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” You insist, your voice kind but firm, “It was never your fault.”

“I’m different-” His voice catches, “I’m-”

You deny the notion fiercely, “You’re Morgan.”

He doesn’t speak anymore; if it’s because he’s unable or simply too tired, you’re not sure. You stay curled around him on the floor of your childhood bedroom, surrounded by memories and haunted by what could’ve been. You block it all out, too focused on the version of the man you’re presently holding to be bothered by his ghost.

You know the truth, lodged in your heart like a bullet that cannot be dug out, and that’s the fact that you never got over Morgan. You never could have, even if you’d tried. Now, as the grief in your heart migrates back to love, you know you’ll hold him close for as long as you both need.

[pampushky]

Creature (Both Haunted & Holy)

Vinsmoke Sanji/Reader - chapter 5 - 2k

Arlong seeks to finally break you, just as the Straw Hats arrive to deliver justice.

Warning: This chapter does have descriptions of violence and the slaughter of a village, as well as the discussion of abortion. Given the genocides that are now occurring, I ask you all to be careful with your mental state.

Furthermore, it cannot be said enough, but free Palestine, free Congo, free Sudan, and free Haiti. Wars and occupations should not be legal. The only one who should have control over your own body is you, no matter your identity.

ao3 | series masterlist | masterlist | next part

You are dragged into the park by the strap on your muzzle, thrashing all the while until you are thrown into a wall, a muffled yelp released from your lips before Arlong is upon you, teeth gnashing in his fury, looking down upon you as though you are an ant caught stealing a crumb from him. And still, you fight, the water in the pools around you starting to tremble with your anger, hands slamming into his chest, leaving blackened handprints of frostbite. It is a short-lived attack back, as he slams you into the wall again, and you can physically feel one of your ribs breaking, a choked cry silenced by your muzzle as you crumple. 

“You dirty, useless creature!” Arlong roars, holding you against the wall. “After all I have done for you, this is how you repay me– the termination of my pups!”

The fishmen in the gathered crowd let out gasps as you writhe, unable to respond to him as you choke on the muzzle.

“You underestimate my knowledge of your kind,” Arlong pulls you close to his face, breath hot against your cheek, forcing you to look at him. “I know that you go into a heat, like some common dog on the street, yet you haven’t, not yet, not around me,” he snarled, before running his mouth over the bite on your shoulder, biting down again and reopening the wound, making you tense, freezing as you felt the blazer rip as he pulls away. “You are my mate, and you belong to me.” He drags you into the main building, with you fighting all the way, as the crew turns to the gate, looking at the two swordsmen who enter, Arlong simply waving his hand to deal with them.

“I bet you let him bed you,” Arlong looms over you, growling as you push yourself into the corner of the room. You’re still clutching Sanji’s blazer, trying your best to envelop yourself in his smell, anything that isn’t Arlong. You feel dizzy from blood loss, and even more guilty from the fact that the jacket is now torn, missing part of the shoulder. There’s already a new bruise forming around your neck, in the shape of a single, monstrous hand, “Hm? Bet you didn’t take any pills for him, did you, my selkie?” 

You don’t answer, only rumbling in warning, even if you can’t do anything. You’ve been muzzled, and your claws have been dulled by files weekly since you’ve gotten here. Arlong laughs at this, grabbing you easily by the leg, and pulling you towards him, despite how you scream and thrash, hitting him with your fists. He pins you down, knee to your chest, and then picks up something to the side, holding up a thick iron collar, the rattling of chains filling your ears as he holds it up for you to see.

“We’re not going to risk any more escapes,” He drawls, fitting the cool iron around your neck, and locking it into place “Not that you’d have a reason,” he grins menacingly, stepping back to admire his work. He watches as your eyes widen, feeling the collar around your neck, feebly attempting to pull it off with both hands. “Oh? Where’d the fire go?”

He leans in again, hooking a finger under the collar, forehead pressed against yours. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. I would have destroyed your home village for that little stunt you pulled, running away with that little swordsman,” He cackles at the way you start to hyperventilate, shaking your head no at him, protests muffled by the muzzle. “But, you’re lucky. I already destroyed it the day I took you.”

Your heart stops, and he watches the will to fight leave your eyes, body slumping. Finally, after two years, it seems he’s fully broken you. He brings his mouth close to the straps of the muzzle, tearing it with his teeth, and laughing as you struggle to find your voice.

“What?” You manage to croak out, eyes starting to glisten with tears. “You— You promised me,” You start to shake, and he lets you fall to the ground. “You said you’d let them be!”

“Oh, my little selkie,” Arlong coos, and you flinch under his touch, pulling away, “I couldn’t just let anyone walk into your village and have such a powerful selkie for themselves now, could I? Your island is fine. The selkenfolk still swim free, yes, but your family,” He shrugs and then pinches your cheeks with one, webbed hand. “No more Seal’s Drop.”

You let out a wail, holding your face in your hands as you shake with sobs, no tears falling no matter how hard you cry. Arlong pulls you onto his lap, laughing at how you curl inwards on yourself, unable to escape his scent, his touch, and his voice.

“Don’t worry,” He coos in your ear, nose already scratching a new line along your cheek, which he laps at, making you shudder. “I’ll be sure the seed takes this time. With enough fattening up, I’m sure your cycle will start again, any time now.”

“And then, you’ll have a new pod,” He grins at you, setting you down on the floor, leaving you in a stunned heap, giving you a grand view of the park from the third floor, and the celebrations he’s planned for the success and manipulation of not one, but two, innocent people as he stares out the window. “And you will belong to me, my pretty little mate.”

“You,” your voice quivers with rage as he turns to look at you, “Will never, be my mate let alone a member of my pod!”

He scowls down at you, before ripping the blazer off you, tearing it into shreds before your eyes, and dragging you before a dirty mirror, gripping your face to force you to look at your reflection. The bleeding on your neck has stopped, though it looks inflamed now, sore and tender. Your ribs are bruised, and beneath the shackle, your neck is darkened. 

Arlong squeezes around your waist, making you cry out in pain, the way your ribs have broken being used against you, “As if anyone else will have you after me.” He tosses you back to the corner, and pulls your pelt up from his bed, holding it tauntingly in the air, before tearing it, just slightly. You scream in pain, fingers digging into your scalp, even after he’s stopped. 

He leaves you with a harsh kiss, nipping your bottom lip with enough force it starts to bleed, sauntering down the stairs, laughing all the while. Your pelt lays lazily across his bed, just out of your reach, and a permanent reminder that you are helpless here. 

All you can do is scream until your voice goes hoarse, slumped against the wall in defeat, shoulders shaking with silent sobs as the sun rises. Mercifully, you pass out from exhaustion or fall asleep, not exactly sure of which.

A fight has started outside, you realize when you hear shouts of rage, and a tremor shakes the building. Arlong had long since left you alone in his room, sitting in the tatters of Sanji’s jacket. As you drag yourself as close to the window as the chains allow, looking down into the courtyard, you watch as Luffy, Usopp, Sanji, and Zoro walk into the courtyard. Luffy is without his signature hat, and while you can’t hear what is being said, you can see how Arlong tenses, and the way his crew is gathered around him, some protective, some cocky. 

You watch as Luffy slams two of his charging opponents' heads together when they try to attack, his crew of fishmen fanning out around him, much too casual for how dangerous the situation is. You try to get closer, but the shackle tugs on your neck, and you can’t help but let out a small groan, wincing at the pain as it pushes against your windpipe. Somehow, Usopp looks up at that exact moment, a look of shock on his face as he does, making eye contact with you, before nudging Sanji, pointing at you through the window, and speaking something to the blond. 

You tug against the shackle again, fighting against it before pulling your fist back and slamming it against the window, winding you as you fight to regain air. The water in the pool outside tremors once again, and you repeat the process, this time, making a tiny crack appear. The iron groans as you pull against the chain, and your lungs beg for you to stop. 

Arlong follows Sanji’s gaze, a low growl in his throat as he realizes what you’re doing. You make eye contact with him, furious, and this time, use both hands to smash against the glass, shattering it, and spilling it over his crew. You let out a hoarse cry, the water from the pool now turning choppy as you howl, frost starting to form in the room around you. You are injured, yes, but you are pissed. The water grows even rougher in the pools, and you slam your hands down on the now-broken windowpane, blood trickling down the wooden exterior as you cut your palms.

Arlong stands from his chair, stomping down on the ground. “You bitch! Stop!” You let out another cry, with your teeth bared at him, distracting Arlong just enough for Luffy to slam his fist into his face, not only breaking you out of your daze but also sending the fishman flying into a wall. This is when the brawl started in earnest, shackle keeping you chained, and your body exhausted from how you had just fought against it. 

The sound of the fights outside fades as you settle down on the floor, panting, even as the building shakes around you, dust falling from the ceiling as something large crashes around outside. The smell of the terrible creature, Momoo, fills your nose, and you’re shocked to hear it wailing in pain, the stench of fear filling your nose. You look at the now open window, seeing the giant cow creature crying, before the front of the room is smashed away, Arlong’s bed thrown against the wall near you. 

And there it is. Laying before you, hanging from the edge of the newly created opening, your pelt. You let out a warble, grabbing it right as it’s about to slip, catching it on a jagged piece of rebar. You let out a cry of pain when the metal tears it slightly, somehow still holding it tightly as you inch forward to get a better grip. Arlong watches from where he is leaning against the wall, furious when he realizes just what you've gotten your hands on.

“Drop it!” He snaps, pushing himself up, and you whip your head to look at him, breath stuttering. He’s never looked quite this furious before, and part of you wants to cower. Wants to drop the pelt and plead with him to spare you, promising that you'll behave. Yet another part roars. Seethes with rage, full of the memories and all the pain he has caused.

So you don’t.

You manage to pull it up without tearing it anymore, and your pod’s scent washes over you as you clutch it to your nose, eyes closed as you inhale. Kelp and seawater greet you, and you can’t help but let out a high, blissful trill as you slip it over your shoulders. You’re aware you must look monstrous to those below you, and your form warps and shifts. The room trembles again, and something heavy falls from the ceiling, right onto the chain, making it snap with a loud clang. More debris falls, and you can hear Arlong’s screams of rage as you take a step forward. The shackle still rests against your neck uncomfortably, even as you slip your pelt over your shoulders, the garment engulfing you as you leap from your spot, body fully changing for the first time in a long time as you dive into the pool, the metal collar sinking to the bottom with a clink.