#mama mortar

[minkdelovely]

catharsis

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“we are more

than our disguises,

we are more

than just the pain.”

Alastor x Lucifer ; RadioApple ; MDNI 18+

tags/warnings: angst (w/a happy ending), established relationship, hurt/comfort, crying, mentions/allusions of abuse, mentions of death from illness, sexual content (biting, blood/blood play, kissing, palming)

word count: 2.5k

author’s note: guess who’s writing angst again?? this kinda hit me out of nowhere, but is fully inspired by @sunlit-mess / SOL 1 x 1 (on twitter) recent works (linked HERE and HERE) with alastor seeking luci’s comfort. seeing these back-to-back just set something off in my mind and i couldn’t rest until it was out. a special thanks and shoutout to our darling @fraugwinska for helping me get a title on this baby — without her y’all would have been reading ‘untitled’ 😂💖 quote is from twin flame by weyes blood. without further ado, buckle up and dive in; i hope you enjoy 😌 (also posted on my ao3 if that’s your preference)

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It was surprising, even to himself.

Alastor couldn’t recall the last time he had cried, much less in front of a witness. Composure and a display of strength were hard-won attributes he had built upon himself. Each unpleasant memory in his mind was a brick in his fortification; the tears he denied himself to shed the mortar between them.

He hadn’t always followed his own code of conduct and taken the ugliness of life on the chin. Before he had found his own strength, he could admit to being swayed by the will of others. Alastor found words to be harsher than the switch and was more than familiar with the sting of both. Though the switch was a boy’s punishment… A closed fist was more suitable for raising a man.

Or so his father had thought.

Mama’s boy… Just my luck. I got me a mama’s boy... C’mere you little pansy!

The repulsion in his father’s words hadn’t lost any of its potency, even after all this time. Alastor recalled them with more clarity than the face of the man they came from, which only served to plunge him further in his despair. Hadn’t he proven his resilience? Not only in body, but in mind and spirit? Perhaps not as much as he thought, with the way he was sobbing. If his father could see him now — bereft of stoicism and drenched in tears, drool, and mucus — he’d have been absolutely disgusted. Alastor loathed how much that bothered him. The fear of inadequacy lurching in his gut like a bad tonic.

Hot, angry tears flowed down the streaks that shame had carved on his face. Not that Lucifer would be able tell the difference with the way Alastor had burrowed into his chest. It was merely a fresh bout for the candy-striped vest to soak up. The saline fabric was beginning to chafe Alastor’s face, but he didn’t feel ready to surface; arms tightening around his lover’s waist as his hands gripped Lucifer with a desperation he assumed was buried long ago with his innocence.

Stop hidin’ behind your mama and come take your whoopin’ like a man!

Alastor choked on another sob and gasped for breath, heaving in Lucifer’s arms as the angel held him firmly. Gloved hands petting red hair and anguished, downcast ears. Hushed words of comfort spoken into the crown of Alastor’s head to soothe in tandem as they both shook from the force of the demon’s sorrow.

“I’ve got you. Shh, honey, I’ve got you.”

So much love conveyed in so few words. Alastor still grappled with accepting it. Evidenced by more tears fighting their way through his clenched eyes and a muffled, heart-wrenching cry into Lucifer’s chest. The pain of it went straight through the King’s heart as he pressed a firm kiss to Alastor’s head, feeling the distress on his face as he did so. How he wished to unburden the demon of his suffering. More than anyone, Lucifer could understand what it was like to be wracked with such melancholy.

If only Alastor could remember what had set him off, if he had, in fact, been triggered at all. He had just woken up this morning feeling low. Why was he dwelling so much on things that were better left to the past? Unbeknownst to either of them, they were sharing the same thought. And both knew that dwelling on things that couldn’t be changed did nothing other than inflict harm. Must they be plagued by the ignorance and rejection of their fathers for eternity? The cost of the scorn they’d endured seemed to grow ever higher some days.

That was one of the first things they had bonded over, sharing self-deprecating laughter to hide from their aching wounds. When love is built on a foundation of hurt, it’s only a matter of time before the walls crumble. Most times they were Lucifer’s, and sad as it was, it felt much easier to navigate. The angel was much more comfortable wearing his feelings, after all, and he’d had millennia of experience weathering his storms. Alastor was no stranger to being the shoulder to cry on. If anything, it came to him too naturally; a trait he couldn’t be sure was born in him or a side-effect of the wall he had built.

When Alastor buckled under the weight of his grief, it was devastating. He repressed himself for such long bouts of time that the force of his woe had the impact of an avalanche. Sadness, anger, shame, and regret cascading through his lithe frame until he was utterly hollowed out. Lucifer’s task of mending him was only beginning, he knew. It would be days before Alastor returned to himself, but he was more than willing to put in the work. Stitching his love back together with his needle of assurance and thread of devotion.

It was impossible to tell how long they spent this way. Alastor kneeling on the floor between Lucifer’s legs, knees sore and body aching, face still smothered in the drenched clothes donning the angel’s chest. Lucifer on the sofa in their bedroom, comforting the demon with every ounce of strength he could muster.

Until finally the tears stopped, replaced with uneven, sometimes stuttering breaths and hiccups. And soon enough those were gone too. Lucifer’s right hand rubbing Alastor’s back as his left cradled Alastor’s head. Before long, the demon was stirring. Sniffling a bit as he nuzzled his face into the mess of fluids he had left on the King’s vest and shirt. Lucifer didn’t mind, knowing that he could have it all gone with a snap of his fingers, but it wouldn’t do any good for Alastor to try wiping his face on his clothes in the state they were in.

“Let me clean your face, love. You’ll get a rash if you stay there,” Lucifer chided softly, manifesting a warm, damp handkerchief as he bent down to kiss Alastor's forehead for good measure.

It wasn’t a very convincing threat, both of them knowing that if Alastor did suffer a rash Lucifer would heal it in an instant. But Alastor conceded, and gingerly peeled himself away from the safety of the angel’s chest. His poor face was raw from tears, eyelids chapped red with irritation; dried salt crusted his cheeks like the vestiges of sea foam on the shore.

Alastor knew he looked awful. He could see himself reflected in Lucifer’s eyes proving as much. Every bit of moisture his body had was soaked into Lucifer’s chest, and he could feel the headache promised by dehydration blooming in his forehead. He was wrung out and exhausted but nearly began crying again, too moved by the tender act as Lucifer gently wiped his face. His Sire hushed him, voice calm and gaze full of adoration. Not even bothering to clean himself up before ensuring that Alastor was taken care of first.

The swell of affection Alastor felt in that moment was overwhelming, and he swallowed thickly as he closed his eyes, succumbing to the comfort of his lover’s hands tending to him. His father’s cruel words fading into darkness with every soft swipe of the warm cloth.

You’ll find someone special someday, mon amour.

Alastor was grateful for his mother’s memory, and wondered — not for the first time — what she would think of Lucifer. She had been a God-fearing woman, after all. A fear that she did not pass down to her son, choice of partner aside. He had turned his back on God long before his eyes had set their sight on the fallen angel. If she could see him from Heaven, he hoped that she would be happy. The Devil wasn’t all he was made out to be, if the way he cherished Alastor wasn’t proof enough.

His mother never pestered him about settling down, but worried for him deeply when they realized that she was sick and wouldn’t be getting better. Alastor was self-sufficient by then, with a year of working at the local radio station under his belt. Not that he didn’t take her concern to heart. If anything, when it came to her, he took things all too seriously. He wasn’t weighed down by the need for partnership or marriage, especially not when his career still had traction to gain. Alastor would try to tell her as much, assure her that she had nothing to worry about, and they would drop the subject and speak of other things. But he never left the sanatorium without receiving her prayers; his large, warm hands looking almost comical in her frail, cold grasp. Her hold on him was as fervent as the words and wishes she spoke to someone Alastor knew wasn’t listening. Though that didn’t make the act any less sincere or appreciated.

It was a brand of care Alastor thought he would never know again after his mother finally succumbed to her illness. The near-decade that passed after this had only cemented that fact. He didn’t seek companionship nor did he deny it when the mood struck. But beyond his small circle of friends, Alastor was content with his solitary life. Besides, a partner or spouse would have only made his nighttime affairs much harder to juggle — if not damn near impossible — and having the reputation of an elusive bachelor only helped with his fan base when it came to his radio segment.

It wasn’t until Lucifer had broken through his defenses that Alastor understood how he had barricaded himself from the world. And that he wanted support and comfort and understanding more than he cared to admit.

There are things you need that you can’t take care of on your own.

Basked in the warmth of Lucifer’s affection and his mother’s memory, Alastor hummed and opened his eyes, a tired smile curling his lips. Lucifer smiled back at him, expression benevolent and soft as his hands found their way back into Alastor’s hair to resume their petting. And grateful as he was, Alastor couldn’t ignore that Lucifer had yet to address the mess setting into his clothes. He fought against the pain as he uncurled his fingers, stiff from the grip on Lucifer’s waist, and silently began unbuttoning the candy-striped vest he had come to adore as the angel’s signature.

“Hey, you don’t have to —”

Alastor stopped him with a kiss, his fingers continuing their work as Lucifer sighed against his lips. The tension in both their bodies deflating as they shared hungry pecks and inhaled each other’s breath. All the while, Alastor’s hands remained busy with the undoing of buttons. First on the vest, then on the white shirt beneath it. Each open button providing relief like the snapping of a taut string.

Perhaps it was the musician in Alastor subconsciously rising to the task, but Lucifer would never cease to be caught flat-footed by the demon’s impeccable timing. How Alastor’s fingers managed to perfectly sync with his kisses was a feat Lucifer could only describe as divine. As if the acts were always meant to be one, never separate. It made the golden blood in his body turn molten; roiling through his veins as he sighed and chased every touch with relish. He was not often given these affections without needing to ask, whether with a look or an outright plea. Games that Lucifer was content to play, knowing that anticipation and a good tease left them both more than satiated.

With the collar of Lucifer’s shirt loosened, Alastor straightened his back and bent his neck to suckle and kiss down the angel’s pristine throat. The demon took his time with this, hoping to convey his gratitude and desire with every press of his lips against the milky skin beneath them. When Alastor made it to the junction between neck and shoulder, he was unable to resist the urge to sink his teeth in; the flesh yielding to his fangs like a ripened peach, and the nectar that soon coated his tongue was a gift in itself.

Lucifer hissed through the bite, hips jerking in space between them as Alastor groaned and languidly sucked and licked the blood rising from the wound. With his hands free from buttons, Alastor let them explore. How he adored the feeling of Lucifer’s small frame beneath them. Endlessly fascinated by the twitches and sounds he could elicit from the angel with little more than the slightest drag of his claws against sensitive skin.

Alastor released himself from Lucifer’s neck with a salacious pop and licked his lips for good measure. The whine that escaped Lucifer from the action had Alastor’s ears and groin at attention. The low creaking sound of antlers branching out mingled with their shallow breath. Alastor’s crimson eyes drank in the almost bashful look on Lucifer’s face, accented by a golden flush that made his abdomen tight with hunger.

How lucky he was, truly.

The silver lining of Lucifer’s descent was heavily in Alastor’s favor. Had Lucifer remained God’s favorite, he’d be in Heaven — a place Alastor had never planned to be. In truth, he never intended to be in Hell either, which is where luck came into play. He wasn’t destined for mortal companionship, but for something transcendent. Not a god to worship, but a sin. A king.

An angel.

“I’m unworthy of your benevolence,” Alastor lamented, desperately kissing and kneading the supple skin of Lucifer’s chest. “But I’m devoted to you, always.”

It was a sentiment he had expressed before, feeling much like Mary Magdalene washing Jesus’ feet with her tears. But it made Lucifer’s heart jump all the same; its rapid beat calling to Alastor like a siren from under skin and bone as his teeth latched to Lucifer’s breast. Their pleasured moans harmonized as Lucifer cupped the back of Alastor's head, encouraging him to continue with a whisper of his name. Alastor happily obliged. Tongue lapping at the pert nipple, hot and fervent, as his mouth and teeth provided a deliciously sharp suction, drawing out the ambrosia in Lucifer’s veins.

Lucifer struggled to remain cognisant, lost and overwhelmed as Alastor’s mouth peppered a trail of kisses from right to left. Alastor shifted slightly between Lucifer’s legs as teeth sunk into the top of his left pectoral just as Alastor’s left hand palmed his groin. The wanton cry that echoed off the walls of their bedroom only served to make Alastor desperate for more. Eagerly succumbing to his need to worship the angel, the agony he had suffered earlier behind him but not forgotten.

An offering of gratitude and declaration of fidelity in a language they shared when words failed. When adoration was beyond articulation and the only thing strong enough to quell their aching hearts was propinquity. The evening had started with Alastor falling apart in Lucifer’s lap… but it would end with Lucifer falling apart in Alastor’s hands.

And they would wake in the morning with tangled hair in wrinkled sheets. Sharing hushed jokes and lazy kisses as the early morning sun colored their room in a hazy, pink glow.

Healing each other one day at a time.

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tag list: @fairyv-ice, @wat4r, @midorichoco, @raynerrold, @krak-jj, @tremendoushearttaco, @redfoxwritesstuff, @chibistar45, @kaylopolis, @cutiebimbo, @lousypotatoes, @rfox1998, @cosmiccandydreamer, @hyperfixations-keep-me-going, @cherry-cola-100, @wonderlandangelsposts, @catticora, @velvette3, @sailorsmouth, @reath-solia, @junieshohoho, @cxrsedwxrlds, @littlebluefishtail, @hazelfoureyes, @sugoi-writes, @nxcxllxsevens, @swagkittybear

[quinloki]

Charlotte Katakuri - BITTER

Requestor: Anonymous (you were wise to request this anonymously I think XD ) Reader Vibes Requested: AFAB she/her CW: I don't know how to warn this. ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK. It's short and SHARP.

Your scream of terror rang in Katakuri’s ears like a siren. Just like the mythological beast’s enchanting song, he couldn’t get the sound of it out of his head.

It echoed with every thump of his heart.

Your eyes wide with fear, the way you went ghost-white at the sight of him. Everything about him was monstrous to you, not just his size, or his fangs, or his lineage. His very existence within your home had struck you as wrong.

Things had been slow going between the two of you, since your marriage by Mama’s will nearly a decade ago. It had taken almost a year for you to each truly relax around one another. Months after that before you could consider what you did to be called cuddling.

Slowly, carefully, and steadily, the two of you had grown closer. Responsibility turned into affection, turned into trust.

Turned into love.

A sweet love that was the soft tangle of fingers as you sat together. A gentle love that was full of deep breaths and slow movements, consummation within the confines of what intimacy you could handle. A love that was akin to a tree, more than a flower. Slowly taking root, but sturdy and strong, branches hefty enough to cradle you both well.

It was all gone now.

He didn’t even have to ask why. He didn’t even have to ask how.

Slumping to his knees, Katakuri presses his forehead to the ground, doing everything he can to look smaller, to look less threatening, to look as fragile as he feels.

“I won’t hurt you.” He says, voice even and firm, held together by decades of practiced control. He repeats the phrase a couple more times, until the thundering of your heart calms a little. Until the shivering in your legs and arms aren’t skittering through the floor against his skin.

“I promise, I will never harm you.” He says finally, eyes and face still pointed toward the floor. He doesn’t have his scarf nearby, he hasn’t needed it while inside his home for a long time. He could use his power to get it, but if you’d lost enough of your memories that you didn’t even know what Devil Fruits were, he didn’t want to send you into a panic right now.

He could look ahead.

Should.

But he can’t.

Every ounce of his control is focused on his own heart, his own words. He cannot spare a drop of concentration for anything else, or he will fall apart. The perfect son of the Charlotte family, defeated by a single wail.

Countless battles. Internal and external. Enemies and weaknesses laid low and set as mortar and brick to separate himself from anything that could crack the mask he’d made.

Scraps of film were left on the floor. Shattered pieces of the remnants of your memory.

Left behind on purpose.

Left behind on command of his mother.

Left behind as a message, more than even the state you were in.

He had dared to put something above himself. Above his family. Above his mother. He had dared to love you so completely that only a fool would’ve missed how far he’d fallen.

To dare to love anyone more than his family.

This was the cost.

[ageless-aislynn]

Title: “15 Minutes” (8/?) Author:  @ageless-aislynn​ Characters/fandom: Master Chief John-117/Reader, Halo the series Summary: You've got work to do. John worries. Things get a little more intense. Series: How to date a Spartan (without even trying) Rating:  T (PG13) Length: 1,945 (this chapter, 19,693 total so far) Spoilers/warnings: Set in the Silver Timeline of Halo the series, not the games or novels. Though we began with the events of Halo 1x06, there will be no more show spoilers. We are still firmly seated in the AU Warthog, merrily driving out to places where there’s only a passing nod to canon. 😉 Disclaimer: Definitely not mine but I do enjoy borrowing them just for a bit! 😉 A/N:  Text is both here in this post or available at AO3, however you like to read. Halo season 2 has finally arrived! However, this fic continues to zip along in the AU Party Warthog, so, while we began with season 1 way back when (and you'll see a few more things from s1 along the way 😉), we'll not be venturing into s2 territory at all. Unless s2 is going to take some verrrrry interesting twists, lol! Chapter 9 is still in progress by hand but I hope to have it ready soon. 🤞😣🤞The next chapter will also see us entering into some hurt/comfort for a bit but I tend to lean heavier on the comfort, in case you're worried. Or, you know, would be disappointed. 😉 If you read, I hope you enjoy! ⭐💖⭐

Taglist: @pinheadbanger​ @mysardencut​ @laurenstacy610​ @sporadicbelievernightmare​ @ultrablackwidower​ @bxmxtx​ @jellotherelol

If you would like to be tagged in my John/Reader fics, just let me know! I also write John/Kai, John/Cortana and Kai/male Reader, so I’m glad to tag you for whatever you’d like. If you would like to be removed from the taglist, also feel free to let me know, no harm, no foul. 😉 💖

Halo fic masterlist ⭐

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7

The Troop Transport Warthog hit a particularly rough patch and you held on for all you were worth to keep from being ejected.

"Sarge," Private Taylor yelled. "Where are we?"

"That's need to know and none of you need to know, marine," Sarge shouted back from the passenger seat. "Just keep your head down, do your job, and you'll be home 15 minutes before your mama has breakfast on the table."

You couldn't particularly tell if it were dusk, dawn or high noon, the air was so heavy with the greasy remains of mortar rounds. In the distance, a nondescript cityscape occasionally flared with either continuing pockets of active combat or just the remnants of the devastation that had passed through.

Wherever you were, it felt like you were barreling at top speed through a graveyard of vehicles: Warthogs, Mongeese and even the odd Scorpion, some overturned, blackened and smoldering, others weirdly intact as if their drivers had merely stepped away for a moment.

This was a salvage and recovery mission, tasking your unit with marking vehicles as repairable, recyclable or a total loss to be abandoned.

The next hour or so, that had been your focus, moving from Warthogs and the occasional Mongoose, conducting a quick evaluation, then using your spray gun to mark a green circle on the hood to send back to Reach for repair, a white slash to send it to be stripped for usable parts or a red X to abandon, not worth salvaging.

You marked a Mongoose with a red X, though the gun sputtered and you had to give it a few whacks before it sprayed properly, then you moved on.

Next up was a Warthog that seemed in decent condition from the outside, short of the rear antenna twisted until it resembled a curly tail. But the electronics were fried and the entire undercarriage looked like it had plowed over a series of flaming spikes, all major parts gouged out and burned. There might have been a few nuts and bolts reclaimable but since you'd just recently been writing up requisition for needed parts, you judged that it was more effort than it was worth.

You made the call to abandon it but as you tried to spray the red X across the hood, nothing emerged, even after shaking the sprayer and giving it a few more hits with the heel of your palm. With a slightly frustrated noise -- who was checking to make sure that the sprayers were in working order before they were sent out? -- you headed to get a replacement. Along the way, you caught a private going in the opposite direction.

"Hey, see that 'hog there? Would you red X it for me? Thanks."

"Um, sure," the blond man said and headed where you gestured.

You were still looking for somebody who had a spare sprayer when Sarge drove up in the Troop Transport again.

"Wrap it up, it's about to get hot," he shouted.

You quickly joined the rush back to board the Pelican and scrambled into a seat just as it lifted off. A split-second after you'd clicked the restraint down, the Pelican rolled to one side, shuddering from an impact.

Alarms began blaring, mixed in with the pilot calling out coordinates, and you automatically tried to look forward, as if you'd somehow be able to spot what was shooting at you. All you could really see was the anxious faces of the other marines around you. You spared a couple of breaths to be glad that neither Maria or Jamie had been called in for this.

The Pelican took a second, more glancing blow and the resulting shudder rattled your teeth.

"Covvies?" somebody asked over the engine whine and the private across from you shrugged.

"Who else?" she said. "But that felt like surface-to-air to me. What about you?"

She met your eyes and it was your turn to shrug. "I'm not sure. Never been hit by any sort of missile before."

"Oh well, congratulations on your first missile salvo," she returned with a crooked grin.

The Pelican rolled once more, this time in an evasive maneuver, then thankfully smoothed out and made its escape without further incident.

Your unit was taken to the covert off-world depot known colloquially as The Pit, where everything that had been marked for repair or recycle would be delivered for further sorting. In the center of the large warehouse area was a compactor pit for all of the scrap to be sent into. Several cranes were already busy moving the smaller vehicles like Warthogs and Mongeese into berths to be stripped down while the still operational vehicles were lining up to be loaded onto heavy transport carriers to be returned to base.

You finished stripping your second Warthog for salvageable parts and signaled the nearest lift operator. The clawlike crane clamped onto the 'hog's shell, picking it up and carrying it towards the compactor while you moved on to a Mongoose with a crumpled left rear wheel.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spotted a Warthog with a particularly distinctive twisted rear antenna being dropped off into the line to be loaded up and returned to FLEETCOM.

Frowning, you wove your way through the other mechanics, avoiding the occasional flying part, and found a green circle sprayed onto the hood.

Shit, the private must've heard me wrong when I told him to red X it. It seemed like an odd mistake to make but things had been hectic.

You grabbed a sprayer and neutralized the green and sprayed over it with a red X, then went to the nearest crane operator.

"You see that 'hog with the X on it? Drop it in the line for the compactor, please."

"Got it," the woman said and you waited until she'd picked it up and deposited it appropriately before you returned to work.

You were elbows into a Gauss 'hog's engine bay when you heard your rank and name called. Looking up, your heart gave a little skip: John in full helmeted Mjolnir strode your way with thundering steps you could hear even over the rest of the cacophony.

"With me," he said tersely, passing by and disappearing through a doorway at the back of the warehouse.

You had to hustle to catch up and he had already stopped by the time you joined him in the otherwise empty hallway. He turned, removing his helmet with a slight pneumatic hiss.

"Are you okay?" you both said at the same time.

The angle of the hallway meant you were shielded from most of the work floor. He set his helmet down and very carefully took your hands in his gloved ones.

"Insurgents took the field," he said, looking you over from head to toe. "Did you see combat? Intel was unclear."

"No, we got out but the Pelican took a few shots. Somebody said it felt like surface-to-air but I didn't remember Covenant using anything like that. It was insurgents, then?"

He nodded distractedly, glancing away to mutter, "I'll be right there." Then he looked back to you. "I have to go. Your unit's being sent back to Reach but if they divert you into combat..."

He trailed off, clearly realizing there was no way to finish that sentence the way he wanted.

"Tell them, nah, I'd rather not, thanks?" Your mouth twitched and you squeezed his fingers.

He gave a resigned chuckle. "Yeah, try that, please."

"You're the one who'll be much more in the thick of it," you pointed out. "You be careful, okay?"

"Always try," he said, bringing your hands up to press a kiss to the back of both.

Kai leaned around the door, her visor glinting green. "Chief, sorry but we've got to go."

"Copy that." He released you with clear reluctance and picked up his helmet. "Stay safe. I'll see you soon."

He vanished through the doorway and you took a breath, exhaling slowly. John suddenly appeared right in front of you again, leaning down to cup your face in one hand.

You were just about to ask if something was wrong when he kissed you.

For a moment, for forever, the universe shrank to just the two of you, his mouth on yours, a little frantic at first, then slowing, steadying out.

You felt like you were hovering off the ground and then realized you were; he'd picked you up at some point, pressing you gently to his chest plate. Your hand dropped to the 117 etched near his heart and it was gritty with sand and dirt. You were both grimy and sooty but it didn't matter. It couldn't have been more perfect if you were in a flowing ballgown and him in a tux, slowly spinning together on a glittering palace floor.

He set you back onto your feet but you only parted a breath away from each other.

"I... I'll get better with practice," he mumbled.

You smiled at him, feeling wobbly, lightheaded and more grounded than you'd ever been before, all at the same time. "John, if you were any better at that, I'd have to show you how fast I can get a Spartan out of their Mjolnir with my bare hands."

He was near enough to see his pupils dilate and that was incredibly gratifying. "I'll hold you to that," he said, his voice dropping an entire octave, making your toes literally curl inside your boots.

Then he put his helmet back on and left. You took a moment to compose yourself, then exited as well. There was no sign of Silver Team. No doubt, the Pelican waiting for him had taken off the second he'd boarded.

Cutting through the busy deck, you looked for any vehicle marked with a white stripe, still waiting to be stripped. On an impulse, you diverted to the line being dropped one at a time into the compactor. There was no sign of the curly tailed Warthog.

It could've already been compacted, you were thinking when you saw it going by overhead, clutched in a crane claw and heading back towards the line to return to Reach.

You didn't stop to think, you sprinted for the crane's operator booth. "Hey, put that 'hog down!"

The operator looked at you and you realized in a burst that it was the blond man you'd originally told to mark it with the red X back on the battlefield, who'd apparently designated it instead to come back to The Pit.

No, to go back to FLEETCOM.

Recognition went across his face at the same moment and he bolted from the booth. The lift automatically stopped, the Warthog swaying over the crowded deck.

You knew. You just knew.

You ran as fast as you could and slammed the alarm on the wall. "Bomb!" you bellowed over the shrill klaxon. "Bomb! Clear out!"

Jumping into the operator booth and grabbing the controls, you quickly scanned the area as marines scattered everywhere. There was only one place you could think to go.

You swung the arm around, guiding the curly tailed 'hog firmly clasped in its grip towards the compactor pit. It felt like it was taking a year to get there but you couldn't release the controls or the safety would bring it once more to a stop. Once the Warthog was finally in position, you opened the grip.

What if I'm wrong? you thought as it began to fall. I'll feel like such a fool if--

There was a saying that if you were close enough to an explosion, you would never actually hear it.

It was true.

end note:

If you want to, you know, imagine that Sarge's full name is, sayyyyyy, Avery Johnson, well then, who am I to tell you that you're right or wrong? 😇

If you don't know the Troop Transport Warthogs, here's one in action from Halo: Reach. It's on the level "ONI: Sword Base" and is scripted to be destroyed but there's a way to save it and the marines in it and take it with you for a great deal of the rest of the level! I love saving the Troop 'hog, even if it always still looks like it's on fire. Nah, it's fiiiiiine, no worries! 😎👍😂😉

[wing-ed-thing]

Foul Creature (Tobirama x Reader) Part IV

Synopsis: You would say that you grew up together. From children, to teenagers, to young leaders, you did nothing but be who you were and Tobirama would forever name his love for you as the reason he hated the Uchiha.

Word Count: 3.5k

Tags/Warnings: @brokennerdalert​ Teen!Tobirama, Teen!Reader, Uchiha!Reader, Fem!Reader, Slight Madara x Reader, Forbidden Romance, Ancient Warrior Society, Timeline Divergence, Canon Typical Politics, Minor Original Characters, Arranged Marriage, Reader Has a Family, Sexism, Mama Uchiha isn’t pleased

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX Part X Part XI

Notes: This shouldn’t have taken me as long as it did... you know, I had a direction for this and then I saw the troupe on “top 5 worst story troupes that everyone hates” hahaha... we’re just improvising hahaha... ha.. ha...

You returned to the river the next day to make good on your promise, and so started a trend. Each day, you met him early in the morning under the guise of foraging. Then during the day, you were sure to finish your chores with haste and with a rigor that your family had never seen before in order to see him at night. You were sure to smuggle an assortment of freshly baked goods into your basket before running off to comb your hair. No one said a word about your suddenly elevated mood, bewildered by your sudden giddiness you seemed to have developed overnight. Surely, that would pass. But no, your chipper mood was there to stay as long as you were seeing Tobirama by moonlight.

“I am concerned about you.” Madara frowned, crossing his arms as he studied the bags that had begun to form under your eyes. As usual, you were alone in the apothecary. You frowned, dismissing his prying fingers. You turned around before taking to grinding some herbs with a mortar and pestle. His words made a sharp pang reverberate in your chest, worried that someone was onto your nightly activities. “You look very tired.”

“How kind…” You were barely paying attention to your own words as you let out a fretful sigh. You glanced out the window to the sun. To your disappointment, it wasn’t anywhere close to setting.

“You know what I mean.” 

Madara crossed his arms and leaned his back against one of the many counters that ran along the perimeter of the room. He held himself in his usual imposing stature. His presence was tall and dark, ever imposing in your peripheral vision. Even when not in battle, pieces of Madara’s armor adorned his shoulders and forearms. 

It only took him a moment to get bored of his position before he stalked over. You didn’t make eye contact as you continued to focus on your work. Madara paused for a moment before placing a large hand over the end of your pestle. It was only with this physical obstruction that you finally met Madara’s gaze. His face appeared hard, serious, and something else. 

“You work too hard,” he said sternly with a curt nod of his head. “You will be helping no one if you continue to drive yourself to exhaustion.” Your shoulders relaxed with a deep exhale. 

“Madara,” you spoke his name with a patient inflection as you swatted his hand away. “You need not worry yourself about me.” You continued to grind your herbs, somewhat hoping that if you didn’t look at him again, Madara would let the subject go. He leaned the side of his palm against the countertop as he thought. You paid no mind to the process.

By now, you were used to his hovering for Madara had always been a physical being. Physically imposing. Physically unignorable. Excellent in combat, a physical art. Even when he was with his thoughts, he hulked with his large stature as he silently pondered. 

“Is it the war effort? Is that why you are concerned?” Madara’s features softened. You didn’t answer, instead turning to grab a vial from one of the many surrounding cabinets. Of course you were concerned about the war effort against the Senju, but your feelings were more mixed than Madara could ever know. But when you turned back around, you found that Madara was still staring at you.

“Truth be told, I do not want to be at home right now.” You grabbed one of Madara’s hands, unfurled his fingers and stuck the vial right in his grip. He let you, only continuing to gaze and listen as you began to slowly spoon your crushed herbs into the container. “You know how the clan gets. Worried about the future generations and progeny. And with old-man Makihara getting so old in age… well, the apothecary needs more attention than my prospects of marriage.” You corked the vial with a lopsided smile and slipped it from Madara’s hand. “Nothing ever comes of matchmaking meetings anyway, so why bother?”

“Spending your time here all day, every day is hardly the solution to the inevitable,” Madara lectured. You snorted, rolling your eyes at him. You placed the new container of powdered herbs on an eye-level shelf to your left. 

“Is your aunt not also a working woman?” Madara handed you the mortar and pestle. The weight of them made your palm drop.

“She is indeed a working woman.” He conceded with a nod.

“A single working woman?” Madara straightened his shoulders.

“A single working woman, yes. But she never had beauty nor ability that would have otherwise been wasted.” You mouthed his final word to yourself with a roll of your eyes, not completely understanding. Madara didn’t seem to notice as he continued. “Your father tells me that you have been spending a ridiculous amount of your time here. That you have been rising early each morning to forage even before the sun rises.” Your features crinkled in amusement and acute confusion as you leaned down to store away your equipment.

“My father updates you with my foraging habits?” You quirked a brow, chuckling to yourself as you continued your task. But you soon stopped again, your smile disappearing off your face. “Why are you talking to my father?” You shot up from your crouched position, smashing your head on the corner of a half open drawer as a loud pounding came from the front door.

“Madara! Madara!” By the time you recovered and emerged out from under the countertop, the door had already swung wide open. Madara stood alert, ever-physical. —“Senju raid on the east end—!” 

He hardly bid you farewell— let alone an explanation— before he ran out the door.

***

They came close. 

Closer than they had ever before.

The apothecary sat just a few buildings inward from the settlement’s border. Surrounded by a modest herb garden, the wooden ridges of the roof stood proudly pointed towards the sky. You could hear the clattering of weaponry outside. The shouts varied in distance and from your hiding spot curled inside of a tucked away storage closet, you couldn’t tell where they were coming from. 

While you were trained from youth in the art of combat, you knew that if the Senju were to lay the village to waste and you were to flee, you would not be able to hold your own against a strategic attack by yourself. But even so, your skill with the sword was purely ceremonial and nowhere near as trained as your male counterparts. Uchiha women were, after all, expected to be able to defend the home— not participate on the battlefield.

Light from the setting sun projected shadows onto the thin, paper lining towards the top of the closet. Only the thin building paper and a line of wood separated you from the monsters lurking outside. Weaponless, you balled yourself up between some storage boxes, waiting for the fighting outside to pass. You kept alert, eyes glued to the shadows passing on the paper above, praying that you wouldn’t smell fire. 

But then arose a large, dark figure. It traveled slowly from one end of the paper towards the other. You held your breath as the figure grew closer. Time seemed to stop and the Senju warrior stalked outside. You became aware of your sore back and your feet in your sandals. Your activated sharingan followed the figure’s every movement.

A thundering crash came from somewhere behind you. Your mind immediately went to the glass bottles you so unceremoniously shoved into the cabinets in the main sector of the apothecary, but it was too late. A small shriek escaped you before your hands could fly to your mouth to silence it. 

The figure outside immediately pivoted. You could see the shape of a blade as the Senju warrior moved past the paper and made his way towards the back door of the apothecary. You waited with bated breath.

The first step leading up to the back door creaked. Then the second. 

You sat up on the balls of your feet, ready to make a run for it. You never let go of the pestle you were carrying earlier. You gripped it tightly in your palm.

You heard the back door shift in its frame as the Senju warrior grabbed a hold of the back handle.

Time stopped.

The door opened.

And just as you saw light from underneath your closet door, the clattering of swords pierced your ears. Fueled by adrenaline, you shot up and burst out from your hiding place. You shot out the door, ready to make a break for it, when a large, strong arm shot out and wrapped around your abdomen. 

Your momentum made you stumble and you would have fallen to the ground if it weren’t for the tight grip of your robes to stabilize you. You let out a scream fit for the battlefield as you swung several smashing blows with your makeshift weapon. 

“Get a hold of yourself!” Izuna’s familiar voice snapped you back to your senses. He shook you by your sleeve. His sharingan eyes glanced around wildly, looking for any signs of the warrior he had just chased off. Izuna turned back to you, concern swimming in his swirling, black patterns as he gripped onto you tighter. He hauled you to your feet, practically throwing you back towards the direction of the apothecary. “Get back inside. There is no place for a woman out here.” 

You turned towards him as you stumbled backwards. The backs of your ankles hit the lower step leading up to the back door. You gripped onto the side railing. Izuna clenched his teeth, averting his gaze from you as he clenched the hilt of his weapon. 

“Get back inside,” he commanded once more, trying not to let his acute fluster show through his hardened exterior. You retreated immediately into the apothecary, just barely hearing Izuna mutter to himself, “Madara will be outraged…” 

You barricaded the back door with some cleaning supplies, wondering what any of this had to do with Madara.

***

A large, tender bruise appeared on your forehead by the next morning, just on your hairline. Tobirama stared at it with a serious, pensive expression as he traced it gingerly with his fingertip. You sat between his knees, facing off to his left. After a certain amount of rendezvous, the two of you found a hidden grotto just inside of Uchiha territory. You sat together, fingers intertwining. 

“And the powder has a sort of, um, antiinflammatory effect. At least I hope it does. It is probably the quickest I have put this sort of thing together, but I feel as though I am really showing an affinity for the north-eastern herbs.” Tobirama traced your knuckles with the pad of his thumb as you spoke. You glanced quickly at his face from the patch of leaves that had captivated your attention for the past couple of minutes, catching a soft, amused expression around his eyes. “What?” 

“You are absolutely brilliant,” he smiled. You looked off into the greenery once more. “I would be fortunate to call such a brilliant woman mine someday.”

“A working woman,” you almost spat, the words tumbling from your lips before you could even think. They came out of nowhere, surprising you. Tobirama’s slender brows furrowed slightly, his head cocking slightly to the side. 

“Eh, yes…” he said, thrown off by your tone. Tobirama gently caressed the side of your face, but you continued to stare off into space. He tilted your chin to face him and only then were you snapped out of your thoughts. “I thought you enjoyed your time in the apothecary.”

“I do.”

“So there is no issue.” Tobirama started deeply into your eyes. His tender yet confident grip on your chin left nowhere for you to hide as he seemed to silently back you into self assurance. You nodded. Tobirama glanced up to your forehead, brows once again scrunching at the bruise you received earlier. His hand left your jaw and he traced it gingerly. “Although, I will sand down the corners of your cabinets,” he finally said after what appeared to be a moment of thought. He huffed, nodding his head a single time and you laughed at his certainty. 

“Nothing compared to yours.” You swatted his hand away. A playful, boyish smile crossed Tobirama’s lips. He squeezed your sweaty palm with his other hand. You reached up to touch his cheek, brushing your thumb under the deep, dried gash that drew a line from his lower temple to just a few inches under his eye. Your pretty irises met his red ones in jest. “Must have been a vicious cabinet.” 

“Vicious, yes, but no cabinet.” Tobirama glanced down at your lips. You were taken with his vibrant eyes. He kissed you. It was a short kiss, albeit a bit too eager as kisses between teenagers tended to be. Tobirama pulled away quickly, his thumb tracing over the skin on the back of your hand nervously. “You know…” He trailed off, quickly looking downward and off to the side. “I do not fear the Uchiha.” 

The mere mention of your clan made you freeze. You stared at him with wide eyes, wondering if he knew that you were of Uchiha blood. And if he knew, when did he find out? You shifted in his lap, beginning to inch away from him as you turned to face Tobirama. You always liked the seriousness of his face, but now, his stoic looks only served to make you nervous. 

Perhaps he knew all this time, but if that was the case, you couldn’t help but wonder why he picked now of all times to bring it up. It had been, at this point, weeks since you started seeing each other. Or maybe, you considered, something happened recently that would have revealed your secret…

He still had you by the hand.

“For the short while I have been seeing you—” He took your palm in his and held it up to his lips. —“I have only grown more fearless.” 

Your heart skipped a beat. He had to know. You just felt it.

“Do you mean this?” you asked, voice mixed equally with excitement and fear. His words made your face contrast too quickly into joyous relief as a flurry of a thousand different emotions hit you. You wondered if you managed to beat the odds, that perhaps he knew that you were an Uchiha all along and still came to accept you as you did. In your youthful haste, flashes of an idealized future skipped across your mind. A few tears began to well in your eyes.

“It is true,” he said. You let out a shallow laugh. You let another deep sigh escape your chest. Your unoccupied hand came to wipe a bead of sweat from your forehead. Something pounded from deep in your chest, shaking you at your core.

“What a relief—”

“I partook in my first raid today. A raid on the Uchiha.” 

And in a moment your heart dropped. The feeling in your center dropped faster than a rock in the river. 

You went to instinctually move away, but Tobirama raised your hand to the slash mark across his cheek. You felt the warmth of his firm skin under your fingertips.

“I joined my brethren in battle today,” he said with a certain giddiness. He smiled a toothy smile at you, the stretch across his face uncharacteristic and uncanny for his face. “I have fought by my father’s side since I was a boy, but this is the first time that I have been able to participate in a raid.” 

You had to stop yourself from covering your mouth with your hand in horror. Tobirama’s clenched fingers served as just enough resistance to remind you where you were and who you were with. Memories of earlier that day came flooding back to you. Your ordinary conversation with Madara had quickly morphed into hours of hiding in the storage room of the apothecary.

Tobirama’s second hand came to envelop yours.

“What is wrong?” He caressed the side of your face, playing with a piece of your hair between his fingers. “I thought you would be pleased.”

“I despise the conflict.” Your diplomatic words tumbled from your lips, spurred on by nerves. 

“I do as well. Do you know why?” Tobirama shifted to sit directly in front of you. His hands returned to yours, holding them loosely in his palms. He leveled with you and a look of determination settled in his eyes. “Because the Uchiha conflict keeps me from you. When all of this fighting is over, we can be together truly and authentically.” He kissed your cheek and lingered to whisper in your ear. “As much as I love sneaking around with you, I would much prefer being able to see you openly.”

You laughed together, nuzzling his cheek with your own. Only sixteen and not knowing better, you didn’t understand what his words truly meant. 

Light showed through the leaves, and despite being obstructed by foliage, you could sense your time coming to an end. Tobirama pulled away from you just enough to study your face. He did so often, although you never really noticed. Tobirama had always been methodical and pensive, even as young as he was. 

“You are worried,” he stated. The gruffness in his deeping voice did nothing to curb the softness of his tone. “But do take this before you go.” You blinked back to reality as a folded cloth settled in the palm of your hand. Tobirama unfolded the discrete handkerchief. “I am not as knowledgeable about these things as you are…” He trailed off.

Within the wrappings sat a bundle of mixed herbs, all of which resided within the Senju territory. You ran your fingers over the stems, admiring the trimmings as you split your gawking between the greens and Tobirama. Some of the herbs still had a root, as if Tobirama had pulled them from the ground with brute force alone. It is likely, you reasoned, that that was exactly what happened. Others had yellowing spots and they were absolutely beautiful. His cheeks formed deep dimples as he tried not to smile. 

“I have only seen these in books…” You offered him a sentimental expression. And in my childhood, a voice somewhere in the back of your head said. 

You rose from where you were sitting, as did Tobirama. He seemed to grow taller by the day. At this rate, he would soon be a full head taller than you. Tobirama leaned down slightly and placed a kiss on your forehead.

“Know that I will always protect you. Even if it is dangerous territory, I will come to you.” 

As he stood, his sentimental expression quickly morphed into a deep scowl. You stood by his side as he appeared to ponder. Tobirama crossed his arms. You had never known a truly serious Tobirama, you considered. His face was naturally hard with the sides of his lips taking on a natural pout. But the boyishness of his face always offset the growing soberness of his features. You thought about his reluctant smiles and dimples creased into his young face. You always considered him playful in his own way. Despite his piercing eyes, a warm softness always radiated through. But you had seldom seen this Tobirama.

“Be careful.”

***

By the time you returned home, it was already beginning to get dark. Lanterns glowed in the windows of your home, letting off a light that was a similar hue to the sky. You slipped into your own quarters, taking the herbs that Tobirama gave you out from the breast pocket of your robes. You held them in your sweaty palms and held them gingerly up to your nose.

The aroma of them was fresh and subtle. The ends of the stems were bent and just the slightest bit tattered, as if Tobirama had made an attempt to pick them gently. You barely had enough time to admire them before shoving them underneath your pillow. Your mother’s hurried stomp echoed down the hall before she whipped the sliding door of your sleeping area open. You could have sworn the paper at the top of the door ripped.

“Where have you been?” she scolded in a whispered tone. “We have guests! I thought I told you not to run off today!” You scrambled to your feet in alert. Your mother took you by the hand as she hurried you down the hallway.

“What guests?” you whispered back to her, matching her intonation. She didn’t answer. 

You almost crashed into her as she stopped at the kitchen door. She glanced at you from over her shoulder, holding one finger to her lips as she shushed you before opening the entrance into the kitchen. 

The lantern light was a stark contrast to the dimness of the hallway. 

Your breath hitched in your throat, confusion clouding your mind as you saw a familiar face. You met his dark, severe eyes. Even without his armor, he sat ever-physical across from your father at your kitchen table. 

“What is going on here, Madara?”

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed and otherwise supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

Notes: This fic probably has some of the weirdest pacing of anything I’ve ever written

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX Part X Part XI

[dxzziie]

Any reason in particular Mama’s drinkng from a mortar?

Like… not even a bowl?

cuz its easy

why dirty another bowl if you could just drink from the source

[lasatfat]

Artifacts of Thedas: A plaque denoting the Hero of Ferelden’s birthplace (Eireann Surana & Zevran) ~@lordgoretash

artefacts of Thedas | @dadrunkwriting | @lordgoretash

I don't have a title for this one yet. Help me out!

When she was crowned Queen of Ferelden, one of Anora Mac Tir’s many promises was to rebuild the city of Denerim, with new techniques and sturdier materials. So much of it needed to be rebuilt anyway, and it made sense to do so in ways that would have the city last for centuries to come. The city’s elves assumed that they would be left to their own devices – the crown has showed little care for them in the past. How strange it was, then, for human construction crews to arrive in their alienage. The sewers were properly covered, and cast iron water pumps were installed in the square. Many of the old, ramshackle houses were deemed unsafe for habitation, and pulled down one by one to be replaced by apartments with sturdy foundations and fire-resistant materials.

One little hovel remains. Zevran has been here before, and so has the woman beside him. She’d been carrying the little girl then, too, but in her womb, rather than in her arms. There’s a plinth to the left of the door now, built of stacked stones and mortar, and bearing a bronze plaque.

This plaque was erected to mark the birthplace of EIREANN SURANA Hero of Ferelden Vanquisher of the Archdemon Urthemiel Born on the seventh of Harvestmere, 9:12 Dragon

“I didn’t know I was born here,” Eireann says, absently.

Zevran frowns. “Is that so?”

“I should have,” she continues. “I should have, I don’t know…worked it out.”

It does seem an obvious assumption, but obvious assumptions are often wrong. He would say so, but Eireann isn’t finished. “No, no, I should have known. I should have been able to learn it. Why does the kingdom of Ferelden know more about me than I do?”

Zevran folds his arms, and stares at the offending plaque. No doubt it was placed in good faith, with an intention to honour a truly remarkable woman, but it has also served as a reminder of a childhood lost. Or rather, a childhood stolen. He might be able to relate to that, but he’s not so sure he ever had one to steal.

Little Farah must pick up on her mother’s distress. She lets out a worried little whimper, and hugs Eireann around the neck, resting her head on her mother’s shoulder. She may be the luckiest of them, in more ways than just material.

“To think you, solecito, were born in a castle! Quite the change, no?” As he speaks, Farah lifts her head to look at him. Zevran tickles the babe’s cheek, and she chortles heartily – she might be the cheeriest baby he’s ever met, though admittedly that’s a very small pool. He lays a hand on her mother’s free shoulder, and squeezes firmly. “You must teach her everything you wished to know about yourself. She will know the stories of what you have done, but she must know where you started.”

Eireann kisses her daughter’s head, and smiles at him. “Thanks, Zevran.” She looks over to her mother’s new house, made of stone and mortar, warmer and safer than anywhere her mother may have lived before. “Mamae is making extra leek and potato soup. There will be more than enough for you.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he replies, and Eireann rolls her eyes.

“Come on. You know she loves you. I’m surprised she hasn’t tried to adopt you yet.”

They both laugh, and Farah giggles too, as if she understands completely. Perhaps she does. Zevran wouldn’t know.

“Alright, potato and leek soup it is,” he agrees, “as long as she hasn’t added any Denerim rabbit.”

Eireann looks scandalised. “Would my mother ever?”

“She did when we were last here!” he argues.

“Oh, you mean when the alienage was quarantined?” Eireann retorts. “I wonder why she had trouble getting to market for ingredients.”

Their playful argument echoes well off the new stone walls and freshly cobbled streets.

[h4ngedmcn]

⸺ ⟳ # 𝐇𝟒𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐃𝐌𝐂𝐍 ⋯ a  study in a saga of wounds birthing wounds, faith and hope crumbling like sandcastles in the tide. The deepest treachery, sown by those who gave you breath. A fragile dance to hold the seams for the one who was your world — even as their heart whispered its wish to fade away. The weaving shadows of living nightmares, threading them into tales of horror that speak your truth.

And yet, the ache of endless gray lingers, a companion from the first light of your days. A quiet despair that clings to the edges of your soul, hungry and relentless.

Presently stationed at @helltownfms. Kindly refrain from further interaction unless aligned with the aforementioned group. Created and overseen by rei.

𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗦𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗬 𝗠𝗔𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗘 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗗𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗡𝗔𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗘 𝗢𝗙 𝗛𝗘𝗥 𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗬, 𝗣𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗦𝗘 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗖𝗘𝗘𝗗 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗘𝗫𝗧𝗥𝗘𝗠𝗘 𝗖𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡.

⸻ olivia cooke, thirty-four, cis-female, she / her ; ] … the photo on the missing poster is of MERYL SILVERBURGH. they are THIRTY-FOUR, and have been missing for FOUR DAYS IN ARCADIA. when the sun rises, they work as BESTSELLING HORROR AUTHOR / STILL FIGURING OUT HOW TO CONTRIBUTE. rumors in town say they can be MACABRE and PRODIGIOUS. they chose to live in THE DOCKS, and have an uncanny resemblance to Claudia de Pointe du Lac ( AMC'S Interview with the Vampire ), Maki Zen'in ( Jujutsu Kaisen ), Brenda Chenowith ( Six Feet Under ), Rowan Mayfair ( The Witching Hour ), Maria ( Silent Hill 2 ), Angela Orosco ( Silent Hill 2 ), Alan Wake ( Alan Wake Series ). can they survive another night ?…⸻ a blistered tongue, seared and branded by transgression and abuse and GUILT; the mortar holding together a stalwart dam; echoes of the past, cloaked in spectral veils, transmuted into whispered horrors — a delicate alchemy of pain and poetry.

INQUIRIES ;

How did your muse spend their first night in Arcadia, and where?

You remember the drive, the Colorado air crisp against the weight of what lay ahead. Your twin sister sat beside you, gnawing her nails to ragged edges, her anxiety palpable, vibrating through the car. The plan was simple: All Points North Lodge, a sanctuary for healing. But fate, sly and twisted, had other ideas. A fallen tree blocked your path, forcing you to veer onto an uncharted route, where the GPS suddenly fell silent, leaving you adrift in an unfamiliar maze. When you arrived, the small town loomed like a mirage of simplicity, yet it unraveled the moment your sister’s screams suddenly pierced the air. Words spilled from her in a frenzy, tangled and incomprehensible, leaving you scrambling to soothe her. Your efforts only fueled the chaos. "Is there a hospital? Clinic? Anything?" you pleaded, your urgency mirrored by the stranger’s hurried directions.

Minutes later, she was sedated, her anguish momentarily silenced. But as the sun dipped, unease settled in its place. You noticed how the staff meticulously locked the doors, strange amulets dangling like sentinels against the unknown. Concern turned to curiosity, and you questioned, probing for answers. Their explanations sounded like the stuff of your own horror novels, a macabre fiction too outlandish to be true. You laughed, the sound brittle, but their eyes held no humor — only grim certainty. Night descended like a predator, and with it came the sound. A screech, primal and unholy, from the room where your sister slept. You rushed to her, only for a nurse to block the door, her grip white-knuckled and desperate. Yet you saw it — her face twisted with terror — as your sister opened the window and called out with childlike innocence: “Mama?” The word hung, fragile and trembling, before the thing wearing your mother’s face tore into her.

The nurse’s words blurred as she shouted for barricades, but your instincts roared louder. You acted, grabbing a pipe to jam the door, piling a heavy table against it, anything to fortify against the nightmare clawing to get out. Hours passed in the suffocating dark, the air heavy with unspoken horror. When the sun finally broke over the horizon, it found you hollowed, your heart a broken vessel incapable of tears. You’d survived, as you always did, but the cost lingered in the brittle edges of your soul, the kind of wound no daylight could heal.

Why did your muse choose to live where they do?

Beyond the bond you share with your twin, solitude has always been your sanctuary. Growing up in a house where every corner whispered danger and no room offered refuge, you learned to keep the world at arm’s length. Misanthropy crept in like a shadow, not by choice but by necessity. Writing became your lifeline, each word a fragile bridge out of chaos. You’ve always found solace in silence, the emptiness between words a comfort compared to the shallow noise of small talk. Overly friendly faces make your skin crawl; their warmth feels like a threat, a prelude to betrayal. You guard your boundaries fiercely, bracing for attack should anyone stray too close. Intimacy, for you, is a door that only opens when you hold the key, and only on your terms.

The boat is your retreat, a drifting fortress where privacy is absolute. The gentle rhythm of the waves soothes something primal, a lullaby for the fractures in your mind. Here, you can breathe. Here, you can think — sift through the wreckage of your past and try, in your own quiet way, to make sense of it all. It’s always been this way for you, and maybe it always will be.

What was your muse doing when they came across the tree?

You were behind the wheel, steering your twin toward a sanctuary draped in promises of healing — a high-end haven meant to save her from herself. It was a journey long overdue, yet one you’d dreaded with every fiber of your being. She had always confessed, in whispers broken by sorrow, that she wasn’t as strong as you. The abuse had long left it's scars that wouldn't heal over. Her longing for death stretched back further than you could bear to imagine, a shadow trailing her every step. You knew the feeling well but you preserved.

The thought of losing her, your mirror in both mind and spirit, felt like the universe tearing itself in two. She wasn’t just your sister; she was the only soul you’d ever loved without hesitation, the other half of your fractured heart. So, no matter the cost, no matter the weight of it all, you were willing to do anything — everything — to give her one more chance at life.

Has your muse left anything behind that they are desperately trying to return to or escape?

The truth is, you’ve never truly been given the chance to feel alive. While your sister confessed to yearning for death for as long as she could remember, you’ve existed as a husk — a vessel moving through the motions, surviving because there was no other choice. Once, long ago, you tried to escape. That was the night you shattered, the night you killed your father and brother in a frenzy of self-defense, their cruelty finally pushing you past the edge. Acquitted, yes — but not absolved.

You built a life from the ashes, a dazzling facade of success. Ivy League halls bore witness to your brilliance; you rose as valedictorian, celebrated and admired. Through storytelling, you created an empire, a way to transform your pain into purpose. Yet, in the quiet of it all, you never found where your heart belonged. It beat only for her — for your twin, the one soul who shared the marrow of your being.

The thought of losing her consumes you, a grief unlike anything you’ve ever known. On your third, harrowing night in the town, as the boat rocked gently beneath the weight of your despair, you considered stepping into the jaws of the monsters that roamed the darkness. To be torn apart, to surrender, seemed almost merciful. But weakness is a luxury you’ve never allowed yourself. Not after all these years of fighting, of clawing your way through life’s relentless torment. And though exhaustion clings to you like a second skin — though you are so very, achingly tired — you cannot abandon her memory to oblivion. If you were to die, who would carry her name? Who would remember her spirit, her pain, her existence? The thought roots you to this world, however cruel, and so you press on. You bury the agony, choke down the shadows that threaten to devour your resolve, and step forward into this new nightmare.

After all, you’ve escaped one before.

[danieyells]

Hello there! Not an anon that you know, but someone with something to share or ask.

After seeing some things about Yuri from Tokyo debunker, a part of me can’t stop but think about one quote from Princess Caroline:

“You just want a ‘Mommy’ you can slide your d*** in and out of!”

I don’t know why this keeps popping up in my head every time I see Yuri and the mama situation. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I am a bit concerned about the story in that dorm specifically. 😅

Hello new anon! o/

OH BOY I LOVE EXPLAINING THINS lmao /sincere) So to be extremely fair. The degree to which the mommy thing is gonna happen is entirely unknown lol SO FAR IT'S HAPPENED TWICE AND NEITHER WAS REALLY IN THE STORY ITSELF. We're just having fun goofing, Yuri's main notable trait is largely "haughty doctor performs questionable experiments on dubiously willing participants". We're just having a little fun with the mama thing. U: It's 98% fanon.

The canon bit we're playing off of is that he accidentally almost calls the player 'mama' once in a non-story line of dialogue at high enough affection, and says goodbye to 'mama'(the pc is the only one present but it isn't necessarily directed at them so much as his real mother) in a pre-prologue part of the game that's implied to be the end of the game, and you only get this line of dialogue if you choose him(which gives you his SR for you to start the game with.)" WE REALLY DON'T EVEN KNOW WHY HE SAYS IT. HE'S BEEN IN THE MAIN STORY LIKE ONCE SO FAR AND IT DOESN'T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH ANYTHING WE'VE EXPERIENCED OF HIM SO FAR.

As for a mommy he can put his dick in. . .well, we don't kinkshame here :3c and I mean if his actual mommy isn't available he can make find a new one! No problems with that!! But that is an accurate statement for the mama thing, anon lmaooooo

I think Mortkranken's chapter will probably be a bit more focused on the pc's curse and learning about curses and anomalous illnesses. Maybe some views into Jiro's history and whether or not Zenji turns out to be his brother, and maybe learning a little about The Clash. . .and obviously we might hear a little about Yuri's history at some point, since I imagine he's going to be unhappy about the progress that isn't being made on the PC's curse and he hates/is afraid to have his patients die I think. The 'mama' thing is definitely going to come up, I think. That or it's gonna be a long time before we learn what's going on there lmao.

However we haven't seen the story of Mortkranken's dorm at all yet, so we don't know the story there either haha. Assuming we don't get a break between Obscuary and Mortkranken, we'll see the Mortkranken chapter July 25th?

I can try and go over what little we do know about Mortkranken though!

Mortkranken is essentially the medical house in Darkwick. Everyone there studies and works in varying kinds of medical specialties, particularly anomalous medicine. (If you don't know at all, "anomalies" are anything considered outside the realm of common sense--so anything from ghosts to curses to demons to monsters and whatever else. Anomalous medicine focuses on the healing of illnesses caused by anomalies or using anomalous sources for medical purposes, as far as we can tell.)

Mortkranken's dorm advisor is professor Nicolas! He makes many of the medicines used on campus and available in the campus store himself. He makes all manner of remedies(including a dry skin remedy that Romeo uses.) According to Professor Hyde, he's great with a mortar and pestle, but terrible in a fight. Romeo(a greedy, perfectionist mafioso who's obsessed with his own apperance) calls him a "smiley old prude." He's been very nice so far!

The Dorm Captain of Mortkranken is Doctor Yuri Isami! Yes, the guy we gave a mommy kink.

So far what we know about Yuri for certain is that people find him pretty terrifying because he frequently experiments on anomalies and anyone he can get into his lab, especially other ghouls. He's excited by the ghouls being injured on missions. He loves classical music and constantly hums and sings loudly to whatever he's listening to. He's extremely self-assured and demands respect. He hates Frostheim(the dorm largely full of rich, powerful, influential people.) He attends all of his classes despite his self proclaimed genius. He claims he's the only legitimate doctor on campus, and thus that the health checks he and Jiro have to run on students are not worth his time when he should be doing more important things(but he does them anyway.) His sense of direction may be questionable? He frequently pulls all-nighters and sleeps on his operating table. He personally administers the treatments Jiro needs every day and stitches Jiro up himself. He's the only one who knows how to administer Jiro's treatments, so Jiro has to protect him on missions. He is terrible in a fight, so Jiro fights for him. His artifact appears to be a giant needle. His patients always keep their lives, although he can't promise nothing else about them won't be changed or lost.

Speculation: something happened to his mother, or she's in critical condition, and he somehow relates this to the player character, hence slipping up and calling her 'mama'.

Jiro Kirisaki is the Vice Captain of Mortkranken! If you follow me you may have seen the Jiro dub/noncon and force impregnation posts. . .not in character, just fun.

What we know for certain: was in an extended coma and thus no longer eats solids. His body is constantly in delicate condition and Yuri uses him as a test subject and bodyguard. He'll die without Yuri and needs four treatments from Yuri a day. He has wounds on his stomach that are stitched closed and occasionally bleed if a stitch breaks. He doesn't remember why he started studying anomalous medicine, just that he realized he had a knack for it and kept going one day. He likes reading medical journals. He makes confectionaries now and then because he finds the process of following exact measurements and recipes similar to making medicine. He didn't have attachment to food, clothing, or shelter as a child and he doesn't think much of them now either. Working with Yuri in Mortkranken is the only work environment he's ever been in so it hadn't occurred to him that staying up for multiple nights in a row for work was abnormal. He doesn't have the best understanding of normal social customs. He doesn't remember what having a family is like. He's extremely intelligent and humble. His artifact is a chainsaw, but it's shit at cutting stuff.

Speculation: Zenji Kotodama(a ghoul from the house of Hotarubi who died during The Clash but lingers as a ghost unaware to most) might be his brother.

All in all we don't know a ton about them at the moment besides what we've gleaned from the non-story things available to us atm. 99% of what you've seen has been fanon inspired by something unexpected lol sorry if it's been confusing for you!

[blueshistorysims]

Late October, 1916, Newcrest, England

The military had caused Byron to be an early riser. Sleeping in wasn’t an option when you never knew when mortars were going to rain hellfire upon you. But he hadn’t gotten much sleep that night regardless. He’d been too consumed by what he’d accidentally stumbled upon. His sister was kissing her friend. He wasn’t the only deviant in the family. What was he supposed to say to her?

His question didn’t wait long to be answered when he turned his head to the opening door and saw the person in question. He tried to smile at her as she stood next to him. 

“I was looking for you,” she began.

He stared at the pair of swans that had lived at the pond for as long as he could remember. “How so?”

“You’re leaving back to France today. I don’t want you to leave.”

“I’d go to jail if I didn’t.” He swallowed. “Giselle?”

“Yes?”

“I want you to know that I’ll always be here for you. You’re my little sister, and I love you very much. And… and in light of our-our brother’s death, I want you and Edeline to know that especially.”

She nodded. 

“...And if there’s anything, you can always tell me.” He swallowed, raising his eyebrows as he stared at his sister.

Giselle said nothing, but her face grew pale, and she gulped loudly. “...You saw us kiss, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” 

“Oh, please don’t tell Mama. It wasn’t what you thought, oh please Byro-”

“Giselle,” he interrupted. 

She closed her mouth.

“I am not going to tell Mama. I won’t tell anyone. …I would be a hypocrite to do so.”

What do you mean by that?”

“...Let’s just say I have a tendency that could be compared to those of an Oscar Wilde-sort.”

“You’re a homosexual?”

“Say that louder, why don’t you? And no, I am not. I like men and women. ...How insatiable.”

“I’ve… never had an interest in men. I just thought I hadn’t met the right person. But she was here all along.”

Byron smiled sadly as he pulled her into a hug and kissed her cheek. “Be careful. Both of you.”

She nodded. “You too.”

[antigonenikk]

-to the state fair-

Fandom: The Pacific

Pairing: Merriell "Snafu" Shelton/Eugene Sledge

Summary: the mortar squad adopts a mini-horse as their mascot in the first months of okinawa.

“Instead of replying, afraid he might start screaming, he keeps his silence. Head buried in Myrtle’s side, he lets Snafu rub his dirty hand over the nape of his neck, just like he would with the pony. Tender and with too much force. Like he’s not used to gentleness. The panic inside of him does not pass.”

Warnings: bittersweet, mini-horses, tender homoerotic moments

Burgie is the one to find her. She’s tiny. Maybe the tiniest horse Eugene has ever seen. Her head comes up to Gene’s elbow, and her coat is a silky smooth brown. The color of the deer he used to spy on in the forests near his home as a child. At first, no one knows what to do with her. Burgie looks just as lost as the rest of them, holding her wooden bridle, standing in the middle of a muddy road on patrol. But with no fighting going on in those early days, it was quickly decided that she could be allowed to stay at camp with them.

She grew on them quick. Burgie was prone to reading to her before they had to head to their foxholes for the night. Jay, hesitant at first, was constantly checking her feet for injuries, hovering like a mother-hen over her shoulder the minute she seemed thirsty or hungry or tired.

Snafu, Eugene thought, had taken to her the fastest. He seemed to have a supernatural connection to old Myrtle, as they had lovingly dubbed her. In the morning when they all sat down for chow, Snaf could be found leaning against her hide, whispering french into her ear. Before patrol he would pat her on the nose. Once for good luck. Then run back a second time for a quick kiss. The other’s might have razzed him for it, but Myrtle had become their mascot. And each of them loved her with a fierce devotion you reserved only for the dearest of pets. She wasn’t just sweet, but strong too. She would carry boxes of ammo strapped to her back for the squad, meandering down steep inclines with dogged determination. Eugene had never liked horses in particular. But Myrtle was special. She reminded him of a character from an old Jack London story. Hearty and full of love and hope, navigating a world torn asunder by man’s sickness.

One night, he joined Myrtle and Snafu at the cliffside by their camp. Artillery fire could be heard from halfway across the island. But for now, things were peaceful. The sun was setting, gusts of cool air were blowing through the pine trees and into their faces from the Sea. They took turns feeding her sugar rations, petting her muzzle, and talking about home.

‘My mama took me once, to the State Fair. Had a pony like Myrtle there. Not as brave as our gal o’course. But I remember sitting there for an hour. With the goats and sheep and ponies and all. Everyone else, my brothers, went on to the rides. But me and mama stuck together….”

It was said in a lilting drawl. With stops and starts. As if Shelton was scared Eugene was going to judge him for a simple childhood memory. He could feel those eyes on him. Blue and wide and lovely like a girl’s. He wanted to fidget. Wanted to touch. Wanted to be anywhere else. Wanted to move closer to Shelton’s wiry body, radiating heat.

Eugene had never been to the State Fair. Just the circus. But he can imagine going there with Snafu, the two of them. Eating funnel cakes and riding the Ferris Wheel and letting themselves get trampled by little barnyard animals. The thought makes him so homesick he could cry. He feels a bit like Dante, overlooking the entrance to hell. Nowhere to go but down and down and down. He doubts, deep in his heart, that he’ll ever get to see something as simple as the circus again.

Snafu must be able to tell he’s upset. Because when their hands brush over Myrtle’s coat, almost touching, Snafu moves to place his calloused palm on his wrist. Eugene exhales, inhales the scent of pine again. When he turns to look he sees an expression on his friend’s face he knows all too well. More than affection, less than grief. Something beyond loss or desire. Beyond spoken words.

The sky is purple, red and pink striations marking out the warmth of Shelton’s skin. Eugene looks down to Myrtle and wishes they could bring her home together.

‘I’ve never been to the State Fair.’

Snafu cracks a grin at his admission.

‘Yeah?’

He nudges Eugene’s shoulder.

‘I could take you, if you like. When all ‘dis is over.’

He chokes on his own tongue. Lets the moment rest. Can’t let it rest.

‘You think we’re going home?’

A look passes over Snafu’s face then. And it makes Eugene regret ever bringing it up in the first place. Myrtle whinnies and Eugene presses his face to her flank, chilled by his own fatalism.

‘You’re going home, Sledgehammer. You’re going home.’

He says it with such conviction that Eugene can’t possibly contradict him. He says it like he knows it’s true. Like he’s willing to do just about anything to make it happen. It doesn’t make him feel less afraid. He doesn’t want to let go of Shelton. He doesn’t know what he would do if the other man died, especially trying to save him. Because that’s what he means. Shelton doesn’t think he’ll make it. Because he’s determined to die to make sure that Eugene does.

Instead of replying, afraid he might start screaming, he keeps his silence. Head buried in Myrtle’s side, he lets Snafu rub his dirty hand over the nape of his neck, just like he would with the pony. Tender and with too much force. Like he’s not used to gentleness. The panic inside of him does not pass.

Two days later Eugene stares Myrtle down, her black eyes wide open and beseeching, full of uncomplicated love. He gives her a single sugar cube ration. And feels himself tearing up. They march out again today. And everyone has agreed. It’s not safe for her anymore. Not with them. The others have gone ahead, each giving her their own private goodbye. Snafu stands waiting for him, machine gun over his shoulder, a living ghost. Eugene pats her once and places his face to hers. If he closes his eyes, with Myrtle in front of him, and Snafu at his rear, he almost feels like he’s home. Like there is hope for the future. Possibility. He imagines the scent of powdered sugar. The sound of children laughing and carnival rides. The flashing neon lights of a game being won. And then he opens his eyes and the moment is over.

He and Snafu walk in silence, down past the cliffside where they sat together what feels like a lifetime ago. Time bends, and snaps, and comes back together. For a moment, Snafu’s pinky hooks together with his own. Then they separate again, and continue marching. Eugene hopes beyond anything, beyond his own will to live, beyond his desire to see Snafu through the war, that that damned little pony doesn’t die. At least not where he can see it.

[greatbigbellies]

Yesssss mama tell me about the Gatling Groink in between spoonfuls of ice cream

....it's one of two enemies in the whole game that will revive after being killed if not returned to the ship or onio- mmmph....

...onion, more whipped cream please, and it also has a very short "shake off pikmin" animation which makes it even more da- mmmm-...

...dangerous in the rust dungeon floors because it send then flying into bottomless pits... Another please.

mmh, thank you. Also people misunderstand their mortar attack. All three pellets explode bu- mmmmph-

That was a big one. Slow down tiger, I've still got another pint left. Anyway the exploding pellets are fired in a random spread in groups of three, but only one explosion harms pikmin, the other two just send them flying. That's why they seem to randomly not hurt your squad- don't stop rubbing- only hurt your squad sometimes, and other times decimate like 10 'min. Also the pellets are visually indistinguishable.

I hope you bought more ice cream than that.

[zombirps]

Me: "I'll do asks today!"

Also me: Baba yaga troll riding mortar chimken named snickers. Name her mama yaga.

[twigg96]

Daddy! Daryl X Reader Fic

Is this an excuse to write my first Daryl X Reader Fic? Maybe Lol. But how can anyone blame me? Boi is just a god damned dream <3 I can only hope I do him justice here and I hope to write more fics like this featuring him later.

Princess

A Daddy! Daryl X Reader Fic

Warnings: touches on histories of child abuse and neglect, Merle (Drug/Alcohol abuse)

Pronouns Used: She/Her

Summary: Taken within the memory of Daryl himself, told in the form of a bedtime story, the archer retells the tale of friendship, sweet summertime crushes, lasting love, and the crushing fear of an epidemic.

"Long before the walkers had become a threat to any common society. Before the quaintness of the forest had become a warzone and any feeling of peace were lost to the chaos held within the shadows. Before the fall of the major cities and the government itself. There stood two children. One child was forced to face the perils of the world too early. The harsh reality of adulthood thrust upon him without remorse. Beaten. Bludgeoned. By the very man, he was supposed to trust. His protector was thrust into jail once more. This time for a minor scuff protecting the very boy himself from the very man they both begrudgingly called father. The second child lived not too far of a life different than the first. Neglect wrecked this child's body down to the bones. Dirt stuck to her skin and dug deep into her nails even after minutes of scrubbing under hot water. The child's hair was cut short to prevent matting or bugs. Hunger constantly pained her. Illness wracked her body from lack of nutrition. However, together the two children were unstoppable forces of nature. Together, they grew as the saplings that refused to succumb to the fowl weather they were forced to grow under."

Bright blue eyes grew wide as the little tot scrunched deeper under the heavy woolen blanket. At only five years old the little girl had asked her father to tell her a story to keep the nightmares away and lull her to sleep as the moans of the dead had only gotten louder outside of the prison walls.

"The best of friends from the day the two met in the public hell hole-" The little girl gasped out cutting Daryl off. "Daddy cuss word." She chastised. With a roll of his eyes Daryl continued. "Public-crap hole they called school. The forest behind their trailer park served as a playground and a better school than any the state of Georgia could offer out of brick and mortar. It was there Daryl-" The little girl gasped out smiling widely at her father. "That's your name Daddy! Does this mean this is a story about you and Mommy?" She giggled, all too pleased to be able to piece together the puzzle by herself. Smiling down at his daughter, Daryl chuckled leaning down to kiss her forehead. "Yeah, it is." He whispered sitting up with a smirk as his little hellion kicked giddily. "Now lay still and listen, or yer mama will be pissed." He laughed, "Where was I... Oh! Daryl taught his best friend to hunt using only a stick, string, and tiny pocket knife to craft a simple bow from the elements around them. He taught her the value of patience. To hold as still as possible despite the adrenaline and jitters caused by the hope of a fruitful dinner. She in return taught him all she knew. She taught him to fish and how to lay traps in the warm months. Taught him never to waste a single article of a meal and to thank the land for any food taken for then nature would be more fruitful come the next bounty. But most importantly. She taught him to trust, to love."

The little girl made a show of making large doe eyes at her father batting her long lashes at him. "That's beautiful." She whispered dramatically. "Oh trust me, baby. You haven't heard the best part." Daryl whispered back caressing his thumb over her checks.

"Years passed. Daryl got his license. With every right, he could have run. He could have chosen to leave everything he knew behind and start life anew. He could leave his father behind without so much as a second thought. He'd miss his brother but held some lingering hope that after his extended stay at the state penitentiary for drug possession, Merle would find his way to him." The little girl blinked up at him sadly. "You mean... Uncle Merle?" She asked sadly. Daryl couldn't meet his daughter's eyes this time, simply nodding and continuing his story. "He'd gotten along fine without him so far. But he would be damned if he left her behind. Daryl had dropped out and gotten his GED the first chance he'd gotten.-" Daryl paused meeting his child's curious gaze. "That just means I... Daryl quit school to work." He answered the question he knew was lingering at the back of her mind. The small girl nodded in acknowledgment.

"He refused to give her a solid answer why the day he did it. He guess he just assumed she was planning on doing the same. But... she didn't. She told him she was determined to stay and finish her degree out. The thought truly baffled Daryl. They both had talked about how much they fucking-" The little girl gasped out in shock once more looking completely appalled. This time Daryl knew he messed up however when he heard her whisper a little. I'm tellin' momma. "ain't no reason to tell yer momma! I'll change the damned word just... go to sleep." Daryl sighed scrubbing his face. "They both had talked about how much they really despised school. How they hated the town they lived in. From what he gathered the plan was to leave as soon as possible. He heard Atlanta had work. Lots of it. They could just go there and get jobs now instead of wasting another year and a half in a town they both despised. But she insisted it was something she felt she needed to do. It was only a year and a half... Fine... Daryl hated it but he could live another year. It gave him time to start saving for that ring he saw in the jewelry store window."

The little girl giggled once more earning a pointed look from her father. "What is it?" He asked a little less patiently than he intended. "Daryl's gonna buy her a ring! It means he like likes her." Daryl couldn't help the snort that escaped his throat at the absurd statement. "Yeah, baby. He really like likes her." He responded pinching the bridge of his nose. "Daddy." The girl whispered out grinning from ear to ear. "I like like a boy." She teased earning a low groan from her father.

"One and a half years passed." Daryl continued making a point to ignore her obvious teasing. "The glittering diamond ring now sat proudly on Daryl's best friend's ring finger. A promise for a future untold as she walked proudly to accept her diploma. Daryl had never been so proud of anyone in his life. Nor had he ever been so happy while wearing the most uncomfortable clothing he could possibly imagine. A white button-down, Khakis, dress shoes, and a tie he "borrowed" from Merle's closet. None of it matched the piercings he refused to remove or the tattoos the sleeves and shorts failed to cover. But she loved him so deeply anyway unbeknownst to her that he would look even more handsome in a few months' time standing next to her in the courthouse in his rented suit. With Merle standing by their side he would never look prouder to be a big brother in his life than when he looked on at his little brother and his wife."

"So they got married?" The tot asked sweetly, sleep finally winning as she yawned. "Yes. baby. They got married."

"Another two years. Another blink of an eye. Daryl stared at his apartment with his brother and wife. If he had any say in the matter it would just be he and his wife but Merle was fresh out of jail... again and the pain in his heart every time he watched his older brother throw back more and more liquor or use whatever the drug of choice for the day was kept him from throwing him out on the streets. He knew where Merle's pain was rooted from. The difference, was Merle hadn't been sheltered or protected as much as he was... which wasn't an excuse but warranted warmth from him. This time was different, however. His wife was pregnant. She was going to have a little girl. Fantastic news for the little family. Even Merle seemed excited to have a niece. But the time would come when the baby would come and Daryl and his wife would need their trailer to themselves..."

Daryl's daughter's eyes grew heavy but the small tot fought sleep, curling her self around Daryl's middle and laying her head in his lap. "Is the baby me?" She whispered sleepily. "Yes, princess." He whispered combing through her soft hair.

"Well... that's not exactly how things turned out. It had been exactly six months after the birth of their beautiful daughter, Phoenix that the world went and crapped itself. When his little family had first heard about the outbreak, Daryl specifically remembered Merle laughing before telling his wife to change the channel before it gave the baby nightmares. She did. The news broadcast was on every channel... No matter what they turned it to. Cartoon Network. The Food Channel. All of it was covered by a constant feed of various news anchors covering the horrific new virus everyone should be aware of. Live footage of people... human beings devouring each other in the streets filled the screen and all Daryl wanted to do was turn it off. But Merle has glued a seriousness plastered to his face he'd only ever seen twice before. It scared him. "This has to be a fucking joke..." He remembered whispering, holding Phoenix close to his chest to lessen the soft whimpers of her cries until her mother could fetch a bottle for her to feed with. But as some glass broke outside of the trailer followed by the high-pitched screams of their neighbor, Daryl wasn't entirely sure anymore. Merle had been the one to creep to the window peeking out of their broken blinds before stepping back and looking horrified. "We gotta get the fuck outta here." That was all Merle said as he started grabbing furniture and shoving them against the flimsy door of the trailer. Grabbing whatever they deemed important, they stuffed everything into duffle bags. Guns, arrows, bows, baby supplies, baby food, blankets, and survival gear. They'd all unfortunately trained for this moment. For a life of hardship outcast into the forest to fend for themselves. Daryl, his wife, and Merle. But poor Phoenix... How Daryl and his wife had wanted more for her than what they knew."

Daryl waited for Phoenix's feedback but smiled when he heard none, only feeling her grip on him tighten when he moved and a soft sigh escape her tiny body as she got comfortable. Daryl wanted to be the kind of dad that told his daughter fairy tales of princesses, dragons, trolls, vampires, monsters, and fairies. Not life before the turn. He didn't want to tell her stories to keep her safe from the walkers that existed just outside the prison gates or even the people that could harm her if he or his wife weren't there to protect her. He wanted to be the dad that took her to t-ball and dropped her off at school bawling at the drop off on her first day. Not took her to the courtyard of the prison to practice how to hold and use a pistol should the need arise, shoot a bow just her size to hunt should she ever be left alone for too long, or worry what a lack of education was going to do to her in the long run. Looking up as his wife climbed the stairs to their shared sleeping area Daryl tried to push all his anxiety away. Kissing his best friend, his greatest love, his wife, the mother of his child so deeply before she laid down beside Phoenix he tried to convey that love. He tried to let them know they were the princesses to his fairy tale.

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

𓅨 Dreamswept: Chapter Two

Dreamswept: In which Dream’s imprisonment brings out his darker side. Y/N’s mother works for the Burgess’s as a nurse, and after stumbling across what is hidden beneath Fawny Rig’s mortars one summer, Y/N’s life will never be the same. A darkness has attached itself to her and no matter how long she is kept from the Endless in the basement, he has not forgotten her kindness and brief moments of comfort. No, he has not forgotten, and now he craves it. 

Warnings: Blood & Injury, Blood Magic (That I Made Up), Child!Reader Makes a Deal With Morpheus (Without Knowing the Consequences), Morpheus Latches Onto The First Scrap of Kindness He Can Get (And Will Never Let Go). 

To Note: Dark!Morpheus/Dream x Female!Reader, Inspired by 'Claiming His Queen' by @moonmaiden1996 (Go Read It!).

Word Count: ~2.5k

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“I’d really like to know how you got in here,” You spoke as you chipped away at a corner of the glass ball with a garden trowel you had nicked from Paul’s garden shed. “I mean there’s no opening, how’d they put you in here in the first place?” The star-eyed man as you had dubbed him, said nothing as you prattled away as usual. Since discovering him down here, you had made trips down to the basement to try and break him out. But your efforts were to no avail. He was stuck in there even after two weeks of trying. At least you had someone to talk to though. You weren’t sure if he even cared to hear about how your day had gone but it beat wandering around in boredom. At the very least, he paid attention to you while you yammered on. “I tried raiding the library to look for a book on those symbols… found a book but I didn’t understand any of it. Being an adult looks complicated and boring if all your books are like that one.”

His face twitched in amusement. He never spoke but you were accustomed to the micro changes in his usually blank face as a response to your rambling. 

“Like what does taxidermy mean and why is there an entire collection in the library on it?” Your face scrunched in memory of the pictures you had seen after curiously opening one of the books up. “The book had pictures and it looks gross.” Your ramblings continued as you angled the garden trowel into a better angle between the glass and steel frame, and jabbed it in. “Anyways, I got good marks on that exam I told you about. Mama’s been too busy to bother telling, but Paul was happy for me. It’s sometimes hard to tell if—” The garden trowel had hit just right to chip out a small wave of glass shards at your face. “Ouch!” 

Gasping, you jerked back and slapped a hand to your face where your skin stung viciously. The man jerked forwards from his usual folded position and pressed his hand against the glass. Star-filled eyes now held concern. You blinked rapidly and prodded your cheek, feeling warm liquid dripping down your cheek. Your gaze dropped to see blood dripping down onto the magic circle encompassing the glass cage. Crimson merged into faded red and for a moment, you could have sworn that the ground beneath your folded knees shook. Another concern quickly wiped that thought away.

“Rats, I’m going to have to come up with an excuse for this,” You sighed dramatically, rubbing your palm into your still-stinging cheek. The glass had dug in well. “Mama is going to be—“ You paused when you lifted your eyes to see that the man had moved his entire body and was now staring at you intensely with his hand pressed against the glass. “I’m alright you know,” You spoke to him waving the garden trowel. “It’s just a scratch. I’ve bled before… nicked my knees and elbows a few times exploring the grounds… I’m more worried about hiding it from mama and Paul.” 

His eyes darkened in disagreement and leaning forwards, you pressed your forehead against the glass with a sigh. 

“I’ll get a plaster for it, I promise, probably will have to go roll around in the dirt to have an excuse for why my cheek is bleeding. Mama’s going to be so cross with me,” You stated, closing your eyes briefly to fight back the burning tears that wanted to erupt. You felt a hum of energy run across the glass and opening your eyes, you saw that his hand was pressed over the area where blood still oozed from your cheek. He didn’t look convinced by your promise, but there wasn’t much else you could do because the little timer you brought with you to time how long you had alone down there, started going off. It was time to go. 

With great reluctance, you withdrew from your new silent friend and dusted the place you had been kneeling to rid the evidence of your presence. There was almost a glimmer of sadness in his eyes as you rose to your feet, but you passed it off as another reflection of the bright lights. There wasn’t much you could do about the blood that had splattered on the dirt and painted symbols. The entire way to the dumbwaiter, you felt his eyes on your back and after climbing in, you gave him one last look. His eyes glowed a soft silver. You reluctantly closed the door and started pulling yourself up. 

It was a bit of a mad dash to get to the garden unseen, but you made it to a particularly rocky and dirt-filled patch and all but face-planted. Perhaps you had rolled a little too much in the dirt because some of it ended up in your hair, but it did the desired job. But now you had to go back to the manner and face Paul and mother, not a task you were going to enjoy. You probably stood in front of the front doors for ten minutes, stalling entry because you knew just how much trouble you would be in… but at the same time, your cheek hurt ever so badly. You gave in. 

Slipping your way into the manor, you dragged your feet in the direction of the parlor where your mother would be with Paul, tending to afternoon tea. You pressed your hand against your oozing cheek and grimaced, trying your best not to let the gathering tears fall. You were ten, not a baby who cried over little cuts. The moment you entered the parlor, Paul sighed and your mother went pale. 

“Oh darling, what have you gotten yourself into this time?” Paul gently mused as your mother hurried up to you. 

“Y/N!” She exclaimed in a scolding manner. “Whatever happened?”

“I tripped in the garden chasing a frog,” You answered quietly as mother pulled your bloody hand away from your face to take stock of the damage. She clicked her tongue in worry. 

“Y/N, you’re going to need stitches! Oh darling, what were you doing!?” She exclaimed. “When will you learn to stop chasing frogs and act your age?” Your lip quivered a little at her scolding as she dragged you to the butler’s pantry and rummaged through a drawer for a first aid kit. “You are supposed to be behaving yourself here, you know how important this job is to me.” She continued before conversing with herself. “To us.” She clicked her tongue once more. “You are positively filthy! You need to act like a lady!”

“I just wanted to have fun,” You whispered in a pitiful defense, trying not to be upset by the fact that she was scolding you heavily for a lie. It was also hurtful to hear that she still thought you to be so childish. Were you not being a good daughter and staying out of her way while she worked? Did you not respect Fawny Rig? (Your trips to the basement excluded). You stayed quiet for the time it took for her to properly dress your cheek. 

Mother ended up having to put stitches in your cheek to stop the bleeding and the entire time she did so she spent berating you for being a reckless tomboy chasing after stars and dreams that did not exist. Her words stung. You weren’t sure when she had started demanding that you act more ladylike but it was an increasing experience. Perhaps the influence of Alex was rubbing off on her. 

It was over a week before you were able to sneak out from under her watchful eye to go back to the basement and continue your efforts. While you were slowly making your way to the basement through the dumbwaiter, your mind churned in anger and hurt. 

You weren’t a spiteful child, but your mother had just made you so angry by telling you to act your age. You didn’t know where this rage was coming from but you needed to take it out on something. That glass cage was a good target in your mind. When you reached the basement and harshly yanked up the door, you dropped your feet to the dirt and marched up to where your trowel was tucked away. You picked it up and went to the spot you had been chipping away at, ignoring the looks of concern from the star-eyed man. You jabbed the end of the spade harder into the glass, making little pieces of glass fly from the curve. Your cheek twinged in pain from your nose scrunching in anger. On your next strike, the spade cracked the glass, and you were thrown back by a burst of air. Your head cracked against one of the metal columns and you were knocked right out. 

You were standing in a forest that stretched as far as you could see. To your left was a creek bubbling away, frogs croaking loudly. It was the perfect place to explore. Paradise. You walked forwards towards the creek and stared at the frogs hopping around. It brought a smile to your lips and crouching down, you reached out to dip your fingers into the water. Crimson dripped from your fingers before you even made contact with the crystal-clear water. Twisting your hands in front of you, you stared at your ripped-up palms that constantly leaked blood. Your picture-perfect paradise wasn’t so perfect after all. Rising to your feet, you turned around and walked away from the stream. 

“Leaving so soon?” The calm voice had your head looking to your right. It was the star-eyed man. He was free from his glass cage and dressed in all black. He looked very regal. 

“It’s not real,” You said simply, holding out your hands, palms up to show off the gruesome wounds. Blood welled and slipped from your skin. “Mama says I need to grow up and stop acting so childish.” You wiggled your fingers about, watching as more blood slipped from your hands and splattered to the forest floor. He moved forward to stand in front of you and leaning your head back, you looked up into his star-filled eyes. “I’m to stop daydreaming and act like a proper lady.”

“And how should a proper lady act?” He questioned. You shrugged, not knowing the answer. 

“I don’t know. I’m not grown up yet.” His lips twitched ever so slightly and his eyebrow rose. 

“Then why should you be expected to act as one?” He had a point. You looked back down at your hands. 

“I don’t want to stop chasing stars and dreams,” You said with a sniffle.  

“You don’t have to, little one,” The star-eyed man answered. He reached for your shaking hands and held them in his. “I am the King of Dreams and Nightmares and it can be my will that you dream as much as you wish, Y/N. If you so choose that path.”

“How?” 

“You’ve already sacrificed blood to me, that is more than anyone else has given me in centuries. Will you give your dreams to me for safekeeping?” You didn’t know what he meant by that, but if your dreams were going to be kept safe…

“You promise to keep them safe?” You whispered. His eyes glowed with stars. “I don’t want to lose them when I grow up.”

“With every part of my being, I promise that I shall hold onto your dreams until the End.” He solemnly promised.

“Okay, you can have them.” His starry eyes blazed silver shortly before he was bending down and pressing his lips against the edge of your palms. Your fingers twitched as a rush of tingles ran through them. Then your eyes widened as your oozing wounds started closing over and the blood that had stained your skin faded to nothing. It was like your pain was being melted away. Then there was a warm feeling washing over your body, enveloping you like a blanket. You shivered. 

“Keep chasing your stars, Y/N,” Your star-eyed man spoke to you one last time. The dream faded as sleep pulled you back to its dark depths. 

You woke up with a bad headache that felt like someone was taking a hammer repeatedly to your skull. Whimpering, you raised a hand to press your fingers against the spot from which the headache came. Your fingers were intercepted. 

“Oh Y/N!” Mother gasped, her fingers clutching yours fervently. You blinked against the bright light and tried to settle your blurry gaze on her. 

“Mama?” Your voice came out in a rasp. Mother’s bright eyes which mirrored yours loomed over you, concern and grief etched deep within her face. 

“Oh my darling, thank goodness you’ve woken up!” Mother continued, pressing her lips against your hand. “You’ve been asleep for days. We’ve been ever so worried!” You were so confused. 

“Mama, what happened?” She looked at you with confliction. 

“Do you not remember? You were in an accident Y/N/N, you hit your head pretty badly.” Mother explained, reaching up to brush her fingers over your hair. “Cracked your skull open. You’re lucky you have a hard head.” She let out a strained chuckle. “Everything is well now though darling, as soon as you rest up and get back on your feet you get to go to one of England’s finest schools in London!”

London? But you lived here in Wych Cross…

“Are we moving again mama? Did I make you lose your job?” You whispered, tears gathering in your eyes. She shook her head at your and ran her hand over your hair once more. 

“No darling, Paul and Alex wish to send you to the best school England has, you’ve won their hearts over you know.” You had? But did that mean you were to be going to school by yourself? Mother sniffed and patted your hand. “You’re a big girl now, it’s time for you to learn how to be a proper young lady.” You were being sent away. Then you remembered. 

“Mama, what happened to the man?” You asked, looking at her with renewed interest. “Will you tell me if he’s alright?” Mother looked shocked for a moment before she frowned. 

“Y/N, what man? You were found in the basement all by yourself! Heavens knows how you got down there… but the guards found you lying in a pool of blood. You must have tripped and knocked yourself out!” 

“But—“

“Hush now, darling,” Mother said, shushing you. “You hit your head against a solid metal beam, I wouldn’t be surprised if you thought you saw something.” You pressed your lips together in confusion but decided to let it be. Your head hurt terribly and your mother still looked worried. You closed your eyes and dreamed of stars and shimmering blue eyes.

Date Published: 9/28/22

Last Edit: 4/3/23

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[quicksilverdrabbles]

Sophie: Hi, mister! Would you like to buy some flowers, please?

Xelzaz: *kneeling down* Flowers? What sorts do you have?

Sophie: Um.. I-I'm not too sure the names of them, but.. I've got blue ones, yellow ones, purple ones.. *holding out a small nightshade flower*

Xelzaz: Now where on earth did you find this? Nightshade is very poisonous.

Sophie: O-Oh, is it? I thought they looked pretty.. a lot of them grow where they buried mama and papa.

Xelzaz: ... I see. No harm if you didn't know, but be careful who you sell these to. Someone could turn them into very dangerous poisons.

Sophie: Yes mister! I'll be careful.

Xelzaz: While I'm thinking about it.. *he places a large sack of coins in her basket* I'll take all of your flowers. You can keep the extra money to buy yourself a room for a few nights. Try the cornerclub, the innkeeper of Candlehearth would likely just kick you out, the bitter hag.

Sophie: Are you sure? Thank you so much, mister!

Xelzaz: *watching her run off* Hm.. Do you think there's anything to be done for that poor girl?

Merlyn: I'm working on it. I give her most of the spare money I get from our work, but from what I understand, the townsfolk just steal it from her.

Xelzaz: She doesn't deserve that sort of life..

~One year later...~

Sophie: *dressed in a brand new yellow dress, watching Xelzaz curiously from the doorway* Uncle Xelzaz?

Xelzaz: Yes, Nightshade?

Sophie: Can you teach me how to do what you do? Turn flowers into potions?

Xelzaz: You mean you want to learn Alchemy? I'd be happy to teach you, but... You should go and ask your mother first. I'd rather she approve it before she kills me for even letting you touch a mortar and pestle.

Sophie: Yay! *she runs off* Mama! Can Uncle Xelzaz teach me potions??

Merlyn: Alchemy? *turning to Kaidan* What do you think, love?

Kaidan: Aye, let the lass learn. It's good she's curious about her plants.

Merlyn: Alright, but be careful. And listen to everything Xelzaz tells you.

Sophie: Yes! Thank you, Mama! Thank you, Papa!

[rwby-encrusted-blog]

Fun fact about Prismeya (Mama) Arc.

She has a prosthetic leg.

There is a cannon in her prosthetic leg.

It's a Knee Mortar.