#rip to all the other rotting wips

[redrocketpanda]

My besties (@parad0xymoron + @1nchwyrm) were telling me about an Astarion (& Gale mod) which changes Astarion's physique into something without heavily sculpted abs, and then us discussing like why? Why is Astarion so stacked? We had always expected him to be really slender so Astarion-with-abs was a surprise

Is Astarion's physique just another way that Cazador controlled him? Making Astarion slave away year after year to keep himself so ripped, all for Cazador's own enjoyment? (side note: cackling over the image of some kind of vampire crypt gym AU)

And then @1nchwyrm offering such an interpretation of Astarion working out (in the crypt/in the camp) a la Love Island boys style. Making a whole thing out of going to work out, doing a couple of pull ups and then checking to see if anyone's watching him. He can't see himself but he's gonna make damn sure everyone else is looking

[rockwoodchevy]

Cold

Jackson!Joel Miller x F!Reader

summary: after an attack by raiders, you end up lost in the dead of winter. Joel doesn't take the news very well.

Word count: 2.9k

warnings: mentions of death (no actual death though), some swear words

a/n: hi all! this is my first piece of Joel workings so please let me know what you think! i have some WIPs that i am excited for as well so look forward to those as well! thanks for reading!

_________________________________________________

You’re smart enough to know that the fact that you no longer feel the cold isn’t a good thing.

The shaking has stopped, so have the pins and needles in your body. Your breathing is shallow and little puffs of what seems like fog come from your mouth as you exhale. The ripped up puffer jacket on your body is no longer keeping your body heat in, the thick leggings barely helped in the first place but now helping even less with the rips. In all honesty, you’re slightly surprised that you’re still alive or at least conscious. You know that you’ve probably lost quite a bit of blood from the stab wound in your upper thigh and maybe the laceration on your head. You can’t feel if the beanie you were wearing hours ago is still there but that thing was pretty itchy anyways so you don’t necessarily mind. The only thing you can feel right now is the pressure of your body pressed against the ground, your eyes locked on the sky. What seems like thousands of stars staring back at you almost taunting you, waiting for you to join them. You can’t feel it in the slightest, but a tear rolls down your temple. It’s a beautiful way to go, numb and looking at the galaxy above your head. 

You aren’t completely positive what happened, all you know is there was a yell from one of the others on patrol behind you and suddenly you were on the ground, head ricocheting off of something, what it was you aren’t sure. It took a second to come to, but everyone was a blur. The only person you could really recognize was Jesse who was fighting off some raider. In your attempt to help him, one of them stabbed you deep in your thigh. The last thing you remember is Jesse telling you to run and you didn’t second guess his words. You took off in the first direction that you saw, running until your leg could no longer hold you up anymore. You were losing too much blood and the cold was no help. You had no idea where you were or what your surroundings were. No idea how far away Jackson was. All you knew was that you were going to die here. No warmth. No pain. 

No Joel.

God, you almost want to pray to whatever deity was listening that your body would rot away out here after you die and nobody, at least nobody from Jackson, would ever find it. You would hate for Joel to have to see you like this. You know that he isn’t a very emotional man, but good God, does he love you. You’ve heard it from multiple people in Jackson; Ellie, Tommy, Maria, even people that you have never even talked to before. You can hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes, feel it in his touch. You’ve never had to worry with him, knowing that you were safe, appreciated and loved every second of every day. You couldn’t bear the thought of him having to see you like this; broken down and dying if that is what this is. Knowing that he’ll be in pain once you go, that is the worst part of all of this.

What you don’t know is that Jesse spent the better part of an hour searching for you. He began panicking once the sun went down and decided he had to make his way back to the town and gather a search party. He feared having to explain to Joel and Tommy why he was alone. As he rode up to the gates on one of the horses that was spared in the fight, he could hear one of the gatekeepers yell out ‘lone rider!’ and his heart dropped. He knew that Joel waited for you after every patrol shift that you had and that he most likely heard the keeper yell. As the gate opened, he could see multiple people, including both Joel and Tommy, run out to him. While a couple of the people including Tommy helped tend to Jesse’s wounds, Joel immediately started questioning him about your whereabouts. Jesse could only babble out what he could about the raid as he broke down into tears, explaining the attack and him telling you to run so you wouldn’t get more hurt all the way up to his search for you in the surrounding wooded area. Joel’s heart fell completely out of his body, freezing as it landed in the soft pile of frosted grass beneath his feet. He didn’t hesitate to help drag Jesse back inside the safety of Jackson’s walls, not to ensure their protection but to question the hell out of him as to where he looked. Jesse told him everything he could. After Jesse was brought to the infirmary, Joel looked to Tommy who was already looking at him wearily. 

“Joel-“ Tommy began, but Joel didn’t let him finish his sentence.

”I’m going whether ya like it or not. With or without ya.” 

In 20 minutes time, a search party of about 10 people, including Tommy, Maria and Ellie, had gathered together to search for you. Joel’s heart couldn’t stop its rapid beating in his chest. Jesse told him about your hit to the head and injury to your thigh. They didn’t know the severity of them both. The party headed off in the general direction of where both you and Jesse were attacked and spread out from there. Joel started to yell out your name in hopes that you would be able to respond to it. Tommy immediately began to shush him.

”Joel, we can’t just start screaming her name out here, there could be more raiders in the area-“

”I don’t give a fuck who else is out here,” Joel interrupted Tommy. “My girl is out here and we are gonna find her tonight.”

They agreed, much to both Joel and Ellie’s dismay, that an hour-long search would happen before they would all have to retire until the next day. They all separated in 5 groups of 2. Each with weapons to defend themselves, whistles around their necks and first aid in the hopes that they could find you.

But you had already given up mentally and almost physically. You couldn't ask for better company in death than the stars. The crickets. The wind. The trees. Death would be peaceful, painless, easy. The only thing you wished was that you could say goodbye to Joel. Kiss him one last time. Hold him one last time. The only heat you’ve had in a while bursts in your chest at the thought of him. You close your eyes, the heat dissipating. 

Maybe you’re dreaming or maybe you’re just hallucinating, but you think you can hear someone calling your name. You think it could be an angel calling you home or some religious shit like that, but no, you know that voice. You open your eyes, looking back at the stars. You hear it again and another familiar voice echoes behind it. 

Tommy and Maria are here.

You could cry, out of happiness or sadness you don’t know. Happy that you could be rescued and brought back to your home, regardless of either it was Jackson or Joel. Sadness because you know that there is a bigger chance of you not making it than there is that you will, and either they or Joel will have to watch it happen. But regardless, you’re happy it was them and not Joel. 

Your name is called again, slightly closer than it was before. You know that you won’t be able to speak, to call out that you’re here, so close yet so far away it seems. You worry that if you don’t make noise soon, they’ll turn the other way and your fate will be sealed. You think fast, remembering that small handgun Joel likes to shove into your pack. You muster up all the strength that you can and search for the pack without turning your head. Feeling the zipper, you undo it and slip your hand in, feeling around until you grasp the handle of the gun. Pulling it out, achingly slow since the burn in your muscles is agonizing. Tears fall down your temples again as you hear your name once more, now further away. Using all the strength you can, you aim the gun away, cock it and shoot. The sound of it is almost deafening, the shot making your arm fly back some. That shot is all it takes.

Tommy and Maria both turn towards the sound of the shot, both of them reaching for their weapons. They’re confused when they don’t see another raider but continue towards the area. Maria gets there first, gasping and throwing herself off of her horse and falling to her knees at your side. She touches your face a few times and says something to you, but you can’t hear it through the relief that floods your brain. More tears fall as Tommy slips off his thick jacket, laying it on top of you. Maria rubs her hands along your arms to attempt to warm you as much as she can. 

“We gotta get her back to town. She’ll die out here.” Tommy says hastily. 

They both aid each other in helping to lift you up and onto Tommy’s horse. He straddles it behind you, praying Joel will forgive him for doing what he has to in order to keep you both warm and alive. He pressed his front to your back, resting his head on your shoulder and immediately began to ride back towards Jackson as fast as he could. He was speaking to you, telling you that you had to hold on, that you had to fight because he didn’t know if Joel could take another heartbreak like this. He had one hand on the reigns of the horse, the other one rubbing against your thigh to try and help you gain your heat back. His hand felt wet and he pulled it back to see it covered in crimson. His stomach churned and he attempted to get his horse to ride faster. He couldn’t let you die, Joel wouldn’t be able to come back from this. He barely came back from Sarah, he couldn’t imagine what this would do to him. 

Maria rode back towards where the party originally separated and blew her whistle as loud as she could. She did it for a few moments before turning back towards the town while still blowing it. As she left the wooded area, she could see a few of the other riding back towards Jackson as well. Mostly, she could see both Joel and Ellie riding as hard as they could back to their little sanctuary. They all reached their within the same small time frame. Maria, Joel and Ellie all stormed towards the infirmary and saw Tommy’s horse abandoned outside. Maria could see the fear in Joel’s eyes as they stormed inside, pushing past the doors and into the main room. 

Joel pushed past a few people to get to the back room that they usually keep unoccupied for emergencies. When he pushed the door open, the doctor was hovering over Tommy who had her huddled in his lap, hands gliding up and down whatever inch of skin he could reach. Joel promised himself that this was the one time he would let that slide, especially since her life depended on it. Tommy made eye contact with Joel as he stormed over to them, subtly sliding her over to Joel as he sat next to them. Joel could feel her weight press down on him and first the first time that night, the tightening in his chest loosened just a little bit. He immediately started to run his hands up and down your body through the two blankets that were tucked around you. The doctor was speaking to him, but he wasn’t listening. He called your name a few times, hoping that you could hear him. 

“C’mon, honey,” he begged, “I need you to open those pretty eyes for me. Lemme see them.”

He was practically talking to a statue, the cold almost becoming you. Joel didn’t cry very often but he figured now would be an exception. They ran down his cheeks rapidly as he held back a small sob; he couldn’t care less that Ellie, Tommy and Maria were there to see it.

”Please, baby. I need you to look at me.” He sniffled some. “I can’t do this without you. I’m so sorry; I should have been there. I should have protected you. You… you’re everythin’ to me. Please don’t go. I promise I’ll do anything as long as you stay. I won’t… I won’t make it through this.” Joel shook his head, pulling you closer to him. “I need you to stay with me. I’m beggin’ you.”

Ellie had to turn and leave, she thought she was going to be sick. Maria left with her, not wanting to interrupt this moment, whether it ended good or bad. Tommy stayed with Joel, assisting in trying to get your body heat back to somewhat normal. 

You, on the other hand, felt like you were floating. You could hear Joel’s words, the pleading in his voice, the urgency in his and whoever else’s hands were brushing up and down your skin. You thought that the stars were the perfect company in death but now, you realize that if there was something you’d want to look at as you go, it would be Joel. You wanted so badly to let him know that you were here with him, that you could hear him but your muscles were so tight, so tired. All you could get out was a deep hum from the back of your throat that you weren't sure was even your voice, you couldn’t recognize it. But Joel did, pulling you tighter against him. 

Joel turned to Tommy quickly with an urgent look in his eyes.

“You gotta leave.” He told him.

Tommy looked at him oddly. Joel shook his head.

“Body heat. She needs body heat.”

Tommy finally understood, standing and exiting the room to go and find both Maria and Ellie. The doctor excused himself as well, standing outside the room in case there was some sort of emergency. Joel wasted no time in stripping off any layer of clothing that he could get to. It didn’t take much to rip off what was left of the leggings that you wore but he struggled a bit with your jacket. He laid you down on the small bed, taking off his clothes as fast as he could; he didn’t want you away from him, worried that even a second not near you could do more harm. He laid himself on top of your body, both of you now only covered in your undergarments. He knew that you would most likely complain about the fact that we were practically naked in a public place but at this point, he couldn’t give a shit. All he cared about was making sure you stayed alive. He covered as much of your body as he could while still whispering sweet nothings into your ear, trying to get some sort of reaction from you.

It took about half an hour but your body temperature was coming up slowly. You almost wished you were still numb because the pins and needles were returning, causing some discomfort. You found your voice a little while later, moaning out of pain. The dull throbbing in both your thigh, now stitched and covered up, and your head (which surprisingly wasn’t busted open like you thought it was) was hurting. Tears developed in your eyes and for the first time that night, you could feel them running down your face. You could feel a sob rising in your chest quickly before it came out of your mouth. And though it was a sign that you were in pain, Joel was ecstatic. Because it meant that you were warm enough to feel again. 

“I know, I know honey. I know it hurts. I’ll get you taken care of.” Tears rose in his eyes. He never thought he would be excited to hear you crying, but here he was. He continued to warm your body as he held you while you cried. You genuinely thought that you were going to die out there, alone with the stars and sounds of nature. You never realized how you had taken being held by Joel for granted and boy, did he know how to hold you. 

Once you could feel your limbs again and had full control over them, you slowly lifted an arm to warm around Joel’s middle, holding you to him as tight as you could. Joel released a sob at the touch of your skin on his. Like you, Joel started to realize how he had taken holding you for granted. The world was a scary, uncertain place. Every day, people walked a thin line between life and death and today, you almost crossed it. You were both so close to never being held by each other again and Joel couldn’t handle the thought of that. 

“It’s alright, honey. I gotcha. I always have ya.”

And you believed him. Because he saved your life. 

And unbeknownst to you, you had saved his too.

[rednightmare18]

Throwback to when I accidentally wrote the Suchdol Smooch TM two whole wretched years before KCD2 released...

(No real spoilers under the cut and no warnings necessary. This is KCD1-era fic drafted a long time ago and rotting in my WIP folder. Still, thought you Hansry fanatics might enjoy it now, so am letting it see the light of day. Maybe the rest of the fic will see the light of day too, but it is not this day!)

Hans lunges up and slams the door shut again—hard—ripping the ring handle out of Henry’s fingers, stopping him. He leaves the heel of his palm stamped on the heavy wood and his long arm is locked like a lance.

He looks sternly at him, bright-eyed and unhappy, impossible to lie to.

He says, “Are you still my man?”

Henry knows his answer—what it is and what it should be. He wishes often he had more to offer the world than who he is and what he loves.

But he doesn’t. Henry scrapes all his little parts and his chicken guts and his dreams of every color together and hammers them into something like a smile.

“Still your blacksmith, at least,” he says.

Hans kisses him. Just so and Henry forgets he’s not supposed to. He forgets everything. The only thing he knows is Hans’s fingernails fishhooked under his jaw until he is snagged and he’ll never get out. The kiss tastes like a sore throat, sticky with pink wine and some kind of sweet bread; it reminds him of coming inside from the snow.

They are apart. Hans tears in a ragged breath, eyes wet with hunger for air; Henry kisses him again. He seeks out the shape of Hans’s teeth, the sharp ones in the front and the one that’s twisted at a funny angle in the back, as Hans’s fingers dig uncomfortably deep into the fleshy tenderness below his ears. And he can’t tell if it’s that damned perfume or the eye medicine or something else, but Henry thinks of flowers now. He thinks of a rose he accidentally stepped on in the High Castle garden, of a warm night when they were crouched together inside a snarled bush row, hiding from Father Milosh, who had come to pray over the poppies. The sweet smell of its dying was undercut by Hans’s thin sweat after a long day chasing roebucks in the summer sun, and it smelled like all the happiness Henry had left in the world.

For a few fraught seconds, they are each other’s. Until a bell clangs outside, shuddering down the cliff and over the millhouse, and Henry all of a sudden remembers the other things, too. His fists sink into the back of the fine brocade and he pulls Hans away, unsealing them with a loud and embarrassing noise.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” he stammers. Hans looks blindsided by the loss.

“No, no. Don’t.” He paws for Henry’s arms, throat tight, frantic to think of a way to convince him not to leave. “Don’t say anything. Come back.”

“I shouldn’t have.”

“No,” Hans insists, chasing the thread unravelling between them. He pulls Henry closer and replaces his hands and tries to kiss him again, but each time, Henry seems to melt away. “It’s all right. Come here. Like you were. Come back, please.”

“It’s not. You’re wild now, that’s why, but it won’t be all right. You don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, fuck you, then. Fucking go on and—I don’t know. Break your own damned head open. Never speak to me again, I don’t care. I’ll hate you if you talk to me like that.”

“Hanush told me—”

“I don’t care, I DON’T care, I don’t fucking care.”

Hans doesn’t explain what he doesn’t care about or what he does. And Henry supposes that, after it all—after God or Sigismund or Holy Whomever put fire to the whole storybook of his life and broke him—he cannot do anything else but let himself be broken.

He grabs for his beloved—who is still, no matter the way they are told things must be, his beloved, at least so long as he loves him. He crashes upon Hans as if he has caught a jagged rock in a very cold and brackish sea, and he cannot let slip, not if he wants to live.

And perhaps Henry has never really had a say in whether he lives or dies. He still does not understand how swiftly everything in a good life can spoil; or how happiness tends to tumble over a ledge and smash before you even know to call it happiness; or how it is possible to be as completely battered as he has been, body and soul, and survive. Hans holds him so tight he can't feel anything else, even though his eye’s still black and his leg’s still twisted and his heart is still hurt by how long no one’s loved it.

And Henry really oughtn’t let him. But no one has held him in so long, he can’t help it. He hides his face in Hans’s shoulder and guiltily lets himself be comforted and hopes he doesn’t cry.

And he thinks that perhaps Radzig is right about the world, in his own stifled way. Perhaps they—and Hans, and Sir Peter, and everyone—are nothing more than carven dice meant to be shaken and tossed out by God, to see who will land and who won’t. Perhaps the Lord did not really set Hans Capon upon Henry to kick his soul back to life and save it. Maybe God’s design is chaos. Maybe none of it means a thing.

But if that’s so—if divinity is just joy and disaster scattered wildly about—then no one is righter about life than Hans is. No one knows better that fortune is just courage, unshackled by whatever future some God or uncle wants for you. No one knows better that sometimes, you just have to do something bold.

And there is no one left in God’s creation Henry loves more.

[starly-amazing]

ISAT fanfiction for Palestine

I realized I can feed two birds with one scone and motivate myself to write more and help raise money for charity.

Donate $10 HERE or to PCRF and I will finish one of my ISAT fic WIPs ASAP. All of these have been started but have been thrown to the wayside because of burnout.

All you need to do is send me proof of donation through asks or messages & pick which fic(s) and I'll get working right away. Should be done within a few days depending on how many requests I get.

0/3

(Full-game spoilers btw)

The 2nd chapter to my intersex Siffrin Hates Doctors fic. I was originally just going to have it 2 chapters but it might end up being 4 with Sif's interaction with the rest of their family over it + him and Mira dealing with useless doctors.

Alternate Act 5 scene where Isabeau sneaks back after Siffrin rips into him and overhears their conversation with Loop. He manages to talk them down and Loop gets them to tell Isabeau what's really bothering them. ($20 for this one because it's kicking my ass)

Loop is sent back to their own Universe after the 2hats fight right to the moment before they were sent back for the final time. They panic and their friends race them to the infirmary but they can't say more than a few one-word answers. When they finally give them space, Loop calls stardust and begs him to help on what to do now that they're not Siffrin anymore.

A continuation of Kamary's "Loop wins the 2hats fight and takes over Siffrin's body" where Isabeau loops back to right before the fight ends knowing what's going to happen.

Siffrin tries to loop back after Bad Touch Event but Isabeau grabs him and is pulled into the loops. Siffrin now has to face the consequences for his actions and spill the beans. ($20 for this one because it's also kicking my ass)

Post-loop Siffrin for some ~mysterious~ reason gets simultaneously transported back to the moments before he looped in every loop. Will be an anthology of sorts of several-months-free Siffrin's reaction to being back in the blinding building again. ($5 per chapter as they will be short.) Will go over most big events: Dying to the King, dying to a sadness, the rock trap, Loop's hangout, Bad Touch, Tutorial, and other events, getting stuck after wrong turn, something's failing, rotting, etc.

Fic based on my theory that Siffrin was the King's clone during my first playthrough. They figure it out while translating the diary in the Orrery room (which I misremembered as being written in the Forgotten Language) when it continues and reveals Siffrin is the King's clone who got separated when the Island disappeared. They have a breakdown in front of their family who have to fight through confusion to comfort them.

@commissions4aid-international

NSFW WIPS under the cut (Do NOT pick one of these if you are a minor)

Siffrin isn't able to kiss Isabeau in the Bad Touch event, and instead has a little feelings talky-talk and cuddle with him. This leads to them getting down and dirty in the woods and eventually causes Siffrin to let slip their predicament with the loops. AKA Siffrin fucks their way out of the loops.

AFAB Siffrin Bodycrafts a Penis and Isabeau helps test it. Compliment to my "AMAB Siffrin Bodycrafts a Vagina and Isabeau helps"

[tateypots]

WIP Wednesday

Check me out actually getting round to this on a Wednesday!!

Thanks to @604to647 and @evolnoomym for tags this week and for everyone who tagged me last week as well (sorry I didn't get round to posting anything).

So I am still plugging away at all my WIPs but 3 in particular have been getting a little more attention this week.

Firstly - Cult Stepdad Ezra because he is rotting my brain and the only way to stop it is to get it all written down.

"Did he - did he deflower you Birdie? Did you let him taint you?" "No Daddy!" you shrieked, throwing yourself onto your knees at his feet and throwing your arms around his legs, burying your face in his thick thigh and sobbing uncontrollably. "I -I swear Daddy, he d-didn't touch me, he wanted to kiss me and I wouldn't let him, I promise Daddy, I promise." "Your promises don't stand for much right now Birdie, your lies have ripped my heart right from my chest and torn my trust asunder." You wailed into his thigh, clutching him tighter. "I'm sorry Daddy, please believe me, I'm so, so sorry." He heaved a dramatic sigh, finally relenting and gently stroking your hair with his huge hand. He felt you loosen at the contact, the tension seeming to seep out of you at his touch. "Ok Birdie, ok. I know that you're sorry," he tipped your head back with his hand until you were looking up at him, tear stained face all red and blotchy. Beautiful. "But you're gona have to earn back Daddy's trust."

Second is Part 5 of To Keep You Safe. Not going to lie, this one I am finding quite daunting. I've never written any big action sequences before so it is very new for me and I love this story so much so I want to do it justice.

You’d waited in your position on the second floor of the abandoned building at the bottom of the street. You at one window, Tommy at the other. Ruth camped out on the landing by the top of the stairs, the only route up to the three of you. You’d waited with baited breath as you’d watched smoke begin to curl out of one of the buildings on the right hand side of the road. It was Joel’s party who had set the fire. He was down there, far too close to the danger for your liking. The thought of it set your heartrate spiking. If anything happened to him you’d never recover. You needed him like you needed air. Soon enough shouts filtered out from one of the buildings on the left. “FIRE, FIRE, FIRE.”

And finally part 9 of Collared. It's mainly just filth! Overall tw for the series of non-con, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome and manipulation. Please heed the warnings before reading.

Joel kept a watchful eye on your training over the next few days. Watched as you learned to take Tommy's cock further and further down your throat. You were such a good girl, listening to his instructions and never complaining. And Tommy was displaying more patience than Joel had ever thought possible. He'd expected by now that his brothers resolve would have broken and he'd have rammed himself in to the hilt and fucked your face whether you were ready to take him or not. But he'd seen the shift in the both of you ever since Tommy gave you that damn book. You still preferred his touch, of that Joel was certain, never giving yourself over to Tommy the way you did to him. But outside of the sexual you had become much freer with Tommy, conversation flowing easily, your giggles filling the cabin as he teased you. And Tommy lapped it up, always eager for your attention. Joel hated it. You were his.

npt for @magpiepills @baronessvonglitter @pedrosyouknowwhat @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @toxicanonymity @pedge-page @aurorawritestoescape @milla-frenchy

[lenreli]

WIP Word Train Game

Thank you to @tj-dragonblade for the tag! :D

The word is SMART so let's see...

S (from more corporate dreamling)

“Sign this,” Hob puts a touch-screen pen in front of his face, which he takes as he leans on the edge of the desk, leaning over to read what he needs to sign, recognising it from Hob’s morning call as he reaches the end of it, signing it with the pen. He can feel Hob’s eyes on him and Dream pauses, hopes that Hob does something. Shifting his head slightly, he catches the other’s eye.  Hob smiles, head resting on his hand, brows raising and Dream stands straight, biting the inside of his lip so he doesn’t pout. Matthew’s not here, the laptop says it’s past time for them to leave, and Dream tries to quash the building anticipation as he walks back―  “I didn’t say you could leave,” Hob states, voice pleasantly mild and Dream stops, hand near his office door. “Come back,” Hob’s more amused with his order this time, the casuality of it creeping up his spine as he returns, Hob smiling as he stares up at him, then holds out a hand, “tie.”

M (from that one with mob dream and bodyguard hob)

“My room here doesn’t have this,” he replies, waving a hand above the tub as Dream walks closer in socked feet. And then, Dream steps inside the bath, Hob raising his brows as Dream flops on top of him, fully clothed as the water ripples softly over the edge. Dream lets out a sigh and Hob can feel as he uncoils, tension seeping out of him as a nose brushes against his neck. A bony elbow brushes against his rib and he grimaces, a hand coming up to stroke Dream’s dark hair. “I was wondering where you were,” Dream says, voice small.

A (from a more enemies-to-lovers spy au that I should write more of eventually)

“Ah, yes,” a voice says and Matthew jumps, Dream flinching away at the sound of a voice as they turn around to rotting stairs, a man in a white coat leaning against them. “Because the British intelligence, sanctioned by the government, has never done any wrong. Ever,” the man says dryly. Dream scowls, immediately hating the man’s brown eyes and greying hair, the casual pose―  Matthew makes an agreeing sound and Dream’s head swivels to glare at him, “what?” Matthew squeaks, then speaks in an undertone. “He has a point!”

R (from that pirate au with captain Hob [but not drabbles] which I also should write more of)

“You will have to go on a raid one day,” Lucienne says plainly, “there’s no pressure, but one day you will have to, especially if you want to be accepted.”  “You have done a raid?” He asks, and feels silly as Lucienne raises an eyebrow. “Of course I’ve done one. It’s just that they trust me to deal with any stragglers from the other ship as well,” she nods at the ship, and Morpheus is now abjectly terrified for anyone who meets the end of Lucienne’s flintlock, or cutlass, “makes it easier for inventory too, since I’m here and I’m usually the one doing it.” 

T (from more of that eldritch dreamling one which! Also I should write more of!)

The tension is ― tight, a constant stirring behind his teeth, with him and Morpheus. He has managed to keep his hands off, that creature’s laughter almost a visceral feeling in his bones, even though he has yet to see it again.  As they cross the border into Luxembourg, something shifts ― an awareness, like reality’s shifted to the right when he wasn’t looking. The road’s all look the same, the sky still blue and the smell still the same. Looking around, he tries to see if the creature is there, maybe, folded within the fabrics of the world, ready to rip the thin seams of the known apart.

So yeah.

Tagging uhhhhh. @ofthedirewolves @five-and-dimes @cuubism with the word being HYMN!

[yandecifi]

The Bathroom ♤ Chapter Two

♠ masterlist

♠ cw: kidnapping, sa, violence

dabi/reader, psychological, wip shortfic

Every time you swallow, it kind of feels like parts of your throat go down with the spit, sloughing off.

Dabi has you wrestled against the cabinet, hand pressing roughly into your face while he fumbles about your thigh. A bottle of heat suppressant lies on the floor, open, almost empty.

He pokes the syringe into your thigh again. Your stomach strongly dislikes this. You huff, try to see what he’s doing, but he just pushes you further into the cabinet door. With every injection comes the cool sensation of it running through your blood.

Dabi’s hands shake as he refills the syringe with the last of the suppressant, as he stabs it into your thigh for the last time. You squirm beneath him, breath heavy, eyes darting around. The normal dose is half a syringe and he’s using the entire fucking bottle.

He finally releases you. You just stare at him, eyes red, lip wobbling, as he gathers up the trash and leaves.

Some amount of time later you start throwing up. You fall asleep, wake up in a vomiting fit, fall asleep, wake up in a vomiting fit, fall asleep, vomiting fit, fall asleep, vomiting fit —

You lie in your own filth. The people in the vent disappear, reappear, they argue and they joke and you hear Dabi down there with them, sometimes. You find yourself sleeping more and more.

You wake up to Dabi slapping you across the face. He narrows his eyes when you stir, despite being starved and covered in piss and vomit.

“Still kicking,” he mutters, crouched in front of you, nose wrinkled from the smell. “Of fucking course you are.”

You don’t have the energy to do much else but stare at him. He stares back, eyes heavily lidded, baby blue.

“What? Thinking about how ugly I am?”

You drop your gaze to your knees, to his scuffed boots.

“Typical omega.”

Your nose wrinkles. Typical alpha, you want to sneer back, but you haven’t been able to speak since you woke up here.

Dabi’s nostrils flare. He leans over until his arm is bearing weight on the cabinet door. He sticks his face into your neck.

You can feel every puff of air. He sniffs along your scent gland, or whatever’s not been left a blistering mess thanks to his hands. Something hot and wet drags itself up your neck -- his tongue. He’s lapping at you like a dog to a water bowl. You grit your teeth.

“You’re disgusting,” he mutters. His other hand plays with the hem of your vomit-covered work shirt. You turn away, the scabs on your neck stretching and tearing.

Disgusting, he says, but he’s sniffing up your scent like it’s a fine perfume.

Dabi burns a hole into the middle of your shirt and then rips it the rest of the way. The remains slip down your arms to leave you in your bra, underwear, and the vomit on your lap.

You stare at the mold on the shower curtains and imagine yourself as one of many. Mold lives in colonies, thousands upon thousands of individuals making up the itty bitty dots crawling up the curtains there. You can be somebody else for the moment.

Dabi has stopped. You hazard a slow change in focus, bring yourself back to look into the eyes you initially registered as baby blue, of all things. Now, they’re almost all black, the pupils blown as he stares down at your chest that’s rising and falling with each urgent wheeze, your shoulders trembling. Whatever expression you’re making makes him practically snarl.

“Fine, then. I’m too ugly for you? Fucking rot in here.”

Cool air replaces his overbearing presence as he gets to his feet and stomps out of the bathroom. You’re left right where you started, if not a little bit colder.

Despite how close he was, you couldn’t smell him.

You close your eyes. It’s too bright in this bathroom, too stuffy. You wriggle around your restraints for what feels like the thousandth time. Your stomach clenches and you throw up nothing for what must really be the thousandth time.

[moonlight-prose]

wip wednesday!

thank you for the tag @guiltyasdave darling! so this week has consumed me with my series rwylm, but i don't have enough written to put here today. so will pull from my other little series i've been hammering away at featuring joel miller and old man logan and lots of romance.

a case of you

Peace.

A subjective five letter word that once held no meaning to you.

When the world fell to the flames of hell and nature became the thing humanity battled, you found that holding onto small semblances of the past were what you abandoned first. There was no need for small joys. No time to make sure that you were feeding the good parts in your life; you'd grown accustomed to the bad.

What you may have deemed normal suddenly became soul consuming - a bitter awakening that ripped away any slivers of serenity you had left.

You fell victim to the constant fear. The baseline state of your being was no longer about harnessing hope, but of fighting off the darkness that ebbed into the center of your heart. The terror that ate away at your soul. Your body cannibalized itself, gnawed at emotions you would never have again, devoured the light that once existed in your eyes, and spit out the bitter anger that remained.

Life held no perpetual vow of peace.

It only offered a bitter ending served on a silver tarnished platter covered in rot.

The days were endless. Nights bled into the early morning dew that offered a welcome reprieve. Only for the nightmare to keep going. You weren't meant to be saved - none of humanity was - and the belief of one day making it out of this horror show alive soon melded into despair.

Shitty burnt coffee filled each corner and shadowy expanse of the house as you tugged on the worn (slightly frayed) denim jacket you found abandoned in an apartment building four years ago. The scent of decay would never leave the thick fabric, but you started to think of it as a trophy. Something to remember all the years you fought to survive, all the time spent clawing your way back to some version of humanity.

Jackson existed to give people a chance.

tagging: @ovaryacted @eupheme @cavillscurls @elflutter @superhoeva + whoever wants to do this!

[goodgirlgonebard]

WIP Wednesday whatever

Thank you for the tag @andromedaancunin 🥰 I’m not even sure who to tag because I feel like I’ve seen WIPs from everyone except for myself this week eeeeeep so if you’re reading this, tag, you’re it

This is a little bit of Goodnight, My Love chapter 56 — I’ve been stuck on it & 57 for a bit because writing fight scenes can feel a bit tedious to me, so I’ve been jumping ahead and writing, umm, other stuff instead 😝 so it’s still a WIP! But it’s cooking!

Just as I did in Shar’s Gauntlet, in the self-same trial, I run while my companions face off against the threat behind me, focused only on my part of this mission: freeing my lover from his chains. We couldn’t make much of a plan on the way here, unknowing what Cazador would have in store for us — and we certainly never would have guessed all of this — but there is one thing we were very clear on, and that was keeping Astarion from becoming a victim of this Black Mass. Because once Astarion is gone, sold away to a devil in this ritualistic deal, there is nothing we can do. And once Cazador ascends to hellish power, that of which has never been seen before, we don’t know anymore if we could take him down.

Bats rip through my hair and cold air tears into my lungs as I meet the other end of the disc, and a blockade of summoned wolves stand between my running body and Astarion — hanging in the air, struggling against the invisible power that holds him there above his sigil, awaiting the ending of his life if I cannot get to him fast enough. They aren’t normal wolves, either; they are undead creature summons, standing on their back legs and drooling all over themselves, teeth barred as I close in on them with no sign of stopping. Because I cannot stop. I have to get to Astarion.

I only have a split second to think, eyeing their claws outstretched and ready to rip through me like I’m nothing. A shocking grasp could only hit one at a time. A magic missile would not do enough to their thick skin. But if I encase myself in fire like I did with the Bhaalists, only a moment too late inside that similarly awful temple — that might do the trick.

My fingers work without input from my brain, and the words come out of my mouth before I even have time to think about them as I come face to face with the first of the werewolves. Before a claw can touch my body, suddenly a ward of fire covers it, and the smell of burnt flesh covers the stench of rot and decay all around me; but it isn’t my burnt flesh, to be sure. The one to my right whimpers like a dog as it falls back down onto all fours, and the one on my left retreats with a burning gash the size of a small, adult elf across its front, and the path to Astarion is clear.

[gloomiegalaxie]

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[psycheandthistle]

Novelette intro <3

Antigone Rides Alone

Summary - Set in 1891, Thebes is controlled by Creon, a powerful landowner with half the town in his pocket. When Creon forbids the burial of Polyneices, an innocent man deemed traitor, Antigone can't do nothing. She'll risk everything, defying him to honour her little brother.

Characters:

Antigone - our narrator, quiet and reserved, but fiercely loyal to the ones she loves, as well as extremely defiant against everyone and everything.

Ismene - Antigone's little sister, loves her brother, but not enough.

Polyneices and Eteocles - the twins, killed each other in rivalry. Eteocles awaits a funeral, while Polyneices rots inside a noose.

Haemon - Antigone's fiance. His bravery is too little, too late.

Creon - the "ruler" of Thebes. He's corrupt. Surely this will have no consequences for him.

Core theme - unconditional love for your siblings.

This is really just an adaption of Antigone, by Sophocles, but set in the wild west. theyre two vibes that is really wanted to smash together for the longest time, and i think antigone is a main character that really brings a lot of outlaw energy to the table.

im thinking this will be around 8k words, because at the moment its already 3k and i havent gotten past the first interaction between ismene and antigone 😭

anyway some excerpts:

“Antigone, the horse is tacked.” Haemon says. Haemon is a man unlike most around Thebes, which means that the word tacked fits oddly in his mouth, and Antigone is unsure if it’ll ever settle in. Being the prince of Thebes that he is, Haemon’s more civilized than anyone she’s ever met. He can read and write, and he’s pretty proficient with his words, but he can’t cuss for the life of him and he has yet to meet the eyes of a woman without turning all red and flustered. 

It should bother Antigone, as she is his betrothed and therefore will marry him in the near future, but now all she can think about is how when she’s gone, which she will be soon, she hopes Haemon finds a lady that’ll suit his softer edges better than Antigone ever will.

“I know.” She says, because she has his riding jeans on and is lacing up her boots.

“There ain’t no king in Thebes, Haemon, and what Creon is doing is a poor impression of what it would take to be one. He doesn’t have authority over me." Antigone says.

“Do you think that matters?” Haemon asks, ears reddening as his eyes narrow. “He’s as much of a king as we have. He has men. He has loyalty. He has horses and guns.”

“I’m more than willing to die for this.”

“No Antigone, you’re more than willing to die.”

But now, everyone, including Ismene, knows about Oedipus and his mother-wife, and Ismene wishes for nothing more than to rip the semblance of the Labdacus line off her face and for someone to love her again.

Antigone doesn’t want to say it, but she knows Ismene will have a hard time trying to achieve both those goals, she’s trying alright, she sweetalks just about every tender-footed newcomer and lies about the stories she tells. She bats her pretty eyelashes and prays to the gods that one day everyone will forget about her lineage.

Antigone knows that Ismene would discard her for less than that.

It doesn’t matter to Antigone, because Ismene is her sister.

also if youve read this far, tell me about your wip!!!! im literally so interested in being friends with other writers, so lets chat! :)

[novacorpsrecruit]

Better Without You

My other braincell @comicsbi-thebook and I came up with a steddie AU the other day that’s rotting my brain but I do not need another WIP

Steddie Rockstar/Country Star (breakup) AU based on Dixon Dallas’ song Better Without You

Steve and Eddie, who get together after the events of season 4. Eddie was hurt (he may been technically dead for a few minutes), but he’s alive and that’s what matters. He starts to heal over the next few months, Steve by his side, helping Wayne take care of Eddie and falling in love along the way. There were a lot of painful nights — memories, nightmares, wounds that reopened, stitches that ripped, lots of tears and fear that the Upside Down may come back. No matter what happened, Steve was by Eddie side, promising that he wasn’t going to leave him.

Maybe two years pass in their relationship and eddie’s got the record deal of a life time, but that means leaving everything behind. His family, his friends, his life. The agent saw Eddie with Steve and told him that he had to leave him if he wanted the deal. The label wouldn’t sign someone who was queer. This is his only chance on getting out of Hawkins, being known for something other than the town freak that’s accused of a string of murders. This is what he needs.

So he does.

He packs up everything and leaves, barely telling Steve goodbye. Steve is left with a broken heart, a shoebox of pictures and trinkets, and Eddie’s damn acoustic guitar.

He thought about breaking the guitar. Thought about smashing it in the parking lot outside their apartment. taking the broken pieces and lighting it on fire. He tried to return it to Wayne, but Wayne refused. “If he left it, it’s yours.”

Steve let the guitar stay haunting the bedroom, Eddie’s painted words taunting him. Reminding him of what he lost. So he grabs a rag and some alcohol and wipes it clean, removing the words. He learns how to play, stringing chords together and humming along. He learns how to play Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson. And eventually, the pain hurts less. He got a local gig — a paid one — at one of the dive bars, and they kept requesting him to come back.

Eventually, someone important hears him. They offer him a record deal. Steve nearly refused, because of Eddie. Eddie was told to get back in that damn closet if he wanted to break into the industry. Steve refuses to do anything except be himself. If the record wanted him, they’d take him as he is. And the record wanted him, so they agreed to his terms. Out and proud. He signs it and paints his own mark on that damn guitar, known as his signature machine. This machine heals broken hearts.

I hope you miss me when you think about me / and everything we could’ve been / and now you’re nothing but another memory / you know it hurt but in the end / I’m doing better without you, and I know you hate it / I used to think you were the one but you ain’t / no more dancing around it, and I hate to say it / but you damn sure ain’t the one I got away

Steve records a few songs, and instantly they were hits. His song, Better Without You, hit the charts and was played for weeks on the Top 40. Hell, he even broke the top 5.

His lyrics were raw, and any time he preformed the song live, the audience went wild.

I loved you at your worst / you left me at your best / I watched you fade away into the sunset / threw my heart into the dirt / you ripped it from my chest / tried to kill me but I ain’t dying yet

Eddie, known by his moniker MUNSON, is a huge breakout in the metal scene. He’s topped all the metal, rock and alt charts. He’s had a single or two hit the top 40 but most of his fans aren’t from the demographic. He’s done one North American tour with Pantera and he’s rumored to headline his own tour soon. But when he heard about the gay country artist making waves across the charts, he had to take a listen out of curiosity. As soon as the first verse hit, he recognized that voice instantly. He remembers the late nights years ago singing along to Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen years ago. He knows the song is about him and it breaks his heart. He hurts because he knows he hurt Steve. He loved Steve, he really did. He still does.

But Eddie’s so proud of what he’s done at an artist.

And he’s terrified to lose that. Terrified to going back to Eddie the Freak. Eddie the Loser. Eddie stuck in the hellhole of Hawkins, Indiana.

So he calls Steve. He finds a way to get in contact with him. Maybe he uses Dustin to help his number, or a way to talk with him.

And maybe Steve’s a little hopeful when they exchange pleasantries and Eddie tells him that he likes the song and he’s proud of Steve for making it and being out.

But then reality comes crashing down. “You wouldn’t …” Eddie starts, trailing off. He’s nervous, worried, afraid. “You wouldn’t out me, would you?”

This wasn’t an apology for breaking Steve’s heart. It’s a plea, begging for Steve not to out Eddie. And Steve can’t help but laugh as he feels his heart break again.

“Who the fuck do you think I am?” Steve laughs, hiding his pain. Hiding the tears that want to slide down his cheeks. “Do you really think I’d do that to anyone? Don’t fucking call me again.”

And maybe the next time he plays Better Without You, he sings some lyrics a little louder, while his heart aches.

I’m glad you came into my life, you really taught me well. / and I mean that from the bottom of my heart. / you showed me the devil ain’t exactly in a place called hell / you were tightly wrapped up in my loving arms.

[fearandhatred]

thank u so much to my beloveds @crowleys-bentley-and-plants and @seven-stars-in-his-palm for tagging me, kissing u both for this omg <3 i'm doing two of each because i can

For as many as you want of your published works, pick your favourite line/paragraph and post it up here. Let yourself feel proud of your creations.

transitional heart taxidermy [5986 words, wip]

They fit so perfectly together, the both of them, always. Not side by side like pieces of a puzzle, no, but like molten lava over sand; one over the other, one mellowing the other, changing its chemistry into something different, stronger, useful. The kiss tastes of Aziraphale, of copper and saliva and something holy. It's a taste he'll come to get used to, bloodied and bruised, a taste he chases after as the angel pulls back.

and one from an unpublished chapter:

It's been a day, two, maybe three. His hands are stained with blood and phantom glass, reeking of alcohol and rot palpable enough to taste. Aziraphale doesn't come for him, and he feels relief but also a pain so deep it's paralysing. It's a revelation in itself.

blood in my eyes [1953 words]

This is the first time in years he has stepped foot back into this place. It's a spontaneous decision, driven by a mellow melancholy and a soft wistful night. Muriel isn't in, so the bookshop is dark, and the streetlights cast an eerie, lonely glow on the ancient hardbacks. The rearing statue that once held his glasses every other day is coated in a thin layer of dust; he leaves them on.

Crowley wipes away a tear from Aziraphale's cheek with his thumb. It leaves a bright red streak. After, hours pass by before Aziraphale washes the blood from his face, imprinted in the vague shape of Crowley's hand. In those hours, when he sits in the quiet of a bookshop once again burned to ash, the blood stays there as a reminder, maybe, or as punishment.

sub-consequence [11567 words, wip] — six of crows

He wants to say everything he could possibly say to persuade Kaz to change his mind, because if he says everything in the world, strings together every word in every possible combination, there has to be at least one thing that would convince him to stay.

Sometimes Inej thinks Kaz cares about himself less than he cares about getting what he wants. It feels sometimes as if he's completely detached from himself, his own person becoming just another means to an end. People would scream at her that this isn't selflessness. It's ruthlessness, or psychopathy, or numbness. That's how the name Dirtyhands came about, after all. The willingness to do anything no matter the cost. To get his hands dirty with blood, be it others' or his own. But what is selflessness, really? A lack of selfishness, or a loss of self?

to sleep, perchance to dream [662 words] — the sandman

God, Calliope. His heart, face of cloud fields and white lily springs, a hope so blinding in contrast to his shadowed being that he had known from the start the hands of The Fates would pull them apart to opposite poles.

His lifetime of constraint allowed him to face the knowledge that any selfish will to see her in the wake of remembering all he had forsaken, all that had been ripped from him, would seal the vestibules to acceptance and he would beg with no dignity to stay by her side. And his heart burned, scorched unpleasantly at her parting words, just as the skin she touched and had once touched long after she was twice gone.

tagging those whose words i'd love to see (no pressure!!): @actual-changeling @sentientsky @irispurpurea @springofviolets @demonsandpieohmy

[cowboyemeritus]

dare i say... wip wednesday???

tw: violence and death

Time falls away, sloughing off like dead skin.

You can only afford to take half a week off. The spinning, headaches, and nausea persist long after the fight, and your wrist throbs with every minute movement, but Tom’s uncle says he’s in a bind (it seems everyone is, these days) and needs all hands on deck to keep the pub running. The kitchen is loud and bright, the exact opposite of what you need, but the attitude is laid back and your coworkers don’t get paid enough to care. No one chastises you for only having one hand to work with. They turn a blind eye when you puke in the sink an hour into your first shift. When the migraines get so intense that black spots creep into your vision, the line cook offers you pills from a clear plastic baggie. You politely decline, unsettled by the possibility that they might have passed through Emeritus hands.

The thought of setting foot in the gym makes you want to die, so when you’re not working, you’re sleeping. And because you sleep, you dream. When you do, you’re almost always back in the closet, watching in terror as a revolving cast of the influential men in your life are brutalized before you. One night it’s Daddy again, exactly how you remember. The next, Mary is being beaten, his head kicked and stomped on by fine leather shoes until it’s caved in. On the worst nights, though, it’s Copia. It’s always Copia. He's stabbed, beaten, shot, burnt. He's tortured, his fingers cut off, teeth ripped from his jaw. They take his eyes, his tongue, other unspeakable parts of him. Sometimes he dies quickly. Sometimes it takes hours.

And sometimes he screams for you to help him. You try to open the door, but your little hands are slick with blood and you can’t seem to get a grip. When you jolt awake, gasping for air, every inch of your body is covered in sweat. You lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling, until long after the sun has risen.

More than anything, you think of him. It’s impossible not to. No matter how hard you try, there’s a constant gnawing feeling in your stomach, like something terrible is about to happen. You failed. You failed him. It makes it hard to eat, to do anything other than lay in your bed and rot. You face the horrible dreams only because everything else is so exhausting.

Mary does his best to care for you. Begrudgingly, he heeds Copia’s warning to not take you to the hospital, knowing the trouble it could stir up. He knows you need dark and quiet and so he gives you that whenever possible, slinking away to write and practice with the band while you sleep. He sets food by your door and puts it away when you leave it untouched. On slow nights at work he pops into the kitchen to check on you and gets flustered whenever the waitresses remark at what a good big brother he is. Sometimes he orders food and encourages you to eat; even greasy pub fare is better than nothing.

You don’t remember much of what happened after the fight, and he stays tight-lipped about it. All you can recall is him screaming, then taking you inside and shutting you in your room.

Mary can scream, that’s for damn sure, but you had no reason to believe Copia would listen to him. Compared to the power he holds, your brother is just some squeaking gutter rat. If he wants something, he can by all means take it. But as the days pass with no word, that horrible feeling grows, becoming so massive it eventually collapses in on itself. All that’s left is a black hole where you think your heart should be. It consumes everything, and before you know it, an entire month has gone by. Your wrist heals, a scar forms where your eyebrow split, but each time you catch your reflection in the dishwater you look more dead than the last.

[lewis-winters]

I know I should be working on other WIPs-- and just working in general-- but I watched The Old Guard again yesterday so here, have the Winnix TOG Canon Divergence AU

tw for: depictions of death, the effects of mustard gas, gore, trauma, and angst!

"Stop touching it."

Dick doesn't. In fact, just to be annoying-- though mostly on reflex-- he brushes past the newly formed scar of Lewis's brow one more time, prodding and poking until finally, fed up, Lew waves his hand away with a weak growl. "You'll open it back up."

Ah. That gets Dick to back off, pulling away abruptly like he'd been scalded. And maybe he has. After all, there's blood on his mind, now. A memory both too fresh to do anything but hurt; but a situation too resolved to feel anything but indignation at his own continued terror.

It's been nearly a millennia since the beginning of their renewed existence, and while they know their lot of second chances are bound to run out one day, surely the familiarity with Death should have settled in their old bones by now. Yet, when She comes, She brings with her all the fanfare that accompanies all finality. Almost immortality does not always warrant camaraderie with pain and grief.

They were luckier this time, at least.

They hadn't been as eager to join this war as they had been the last. Not that he'd been eager to join that war, either. But just like all things, Dick's need for a cause called out to Lewis' need to make sure Dick doesn't lose his goddamn mind fighting until he drops. And so, in the midst of the 1910s, they managed to find themselves spending long nights in the deep, damp French trenches, huddled together in the dark. For two and a half years, they lived like that, shaking apart with fear, both real and imagined, as the rats nibbled on their fingers and infections slowly overtook their lungs and toes. Any warrior worth their salt would know that it's not the fighting that fucks you over, but the waiting in between. The rotting wounds left to fester. The fear that threatened to eat you whole from within, if the bullets about you didn't get to you first. Together, they passed days watching their boys die, either from sickness or bullets or both, their corpses stacked around them so high, in the dark they looked like fortress walls, caging them in as they waited for the moment it would all come toppling down.

Then, the gas came pouring in.

Lewis had taken the brunt of it, in the end, ripping his gas mask off in a desperate attempt to save what was left of Dick's face. Neither of them had enough sense at the time to hear him scream in agony, clawing at his eyes until they were nothing but pulp underneath his fingernails; but the echoes of it would have a chance to ring in Dick's ears anyway. The screaming didn't stop in France.

And it took Lew years to regain his old self, in both nerves and sight; and it took even longer than that for Dick to stop dreaming of scar tissue, gnarled and twisted and angry red, in place of dark brown eyes. The damage healed a lot slower than either of them have ever experienced before, and required more outside help than either of them were comfortable with. By the time the last of Lewis' sight had been restored to him, a whole decade and several new identities had gone by, and Dick had done his best to promise: no more fighting.

They made it through another decade before he broke that one. It barely felt like a blink of an eye.

And now, here they are again. Huddled together, blanketed by dark night, with each other's blood once again under their fingernails, a new scar on Lewis' forehead, and the tangible memory of a crater in the back of his head, where the bullet found its exit and his brains had spattered out of his skull.

"Hey," Lewis breathes, sensing the dark turn Dick's thoughts have gone and reaching out for him, touching his face with cold fingertips. "I'm sorry. That was a bad joke."

Yes. It was. But Dick is not going to reprimand him for it. He's learned that jokes are Lew's best defense against the weight of their prolonged existence. Just like drink. Just like nicotine. Or just like Dick himself, his only lone companion in this casually cruel world. How could Dick ever deny him this?

Tilting their heads together, Dick guides his lips to the new scar, and resolutely tries not to think about how much longer Lew bears the marks of his deaths, and what that might mean for him. "It'll be gone tomorrow," he says, more to himself than Lew. "You'll see. Like brand new."

"Like brand new," Lewis echoes. Resigned. Going boneless as he leans all his (dead) weight into Dick's arms and buries his face in his neck. "Always brand new."

Even against the heat of Dick's skin, Lew stays cold. Dick doesn't think he's ever known a time when he was warm.

--

Dick and Lewis were made immortal sometime between 58 and 50BC, when Rome waged war against Gaul, as explained in this deleted line: "Lewis was not made for warrior-hood like Dick had been, having gone from the luxury afforded to him by his roman senator father's fortune to a miserable roman centurion on the back of a single mistake alone. He'd known almost nothing the first time he'd fallen under Dick's Gaulic blade; that his own sword had pierced Dick's chest at the same time was a mere fluke he's since been unable to replicate."

[winvyre]

OC Questionnaire Tag!!!! (The Winvyre Show ep 1)

Thanks for the tag @paeliae-occasionally !!!! I'm going to have fun with this one ;)

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*Lights come up in a studio filled with audience members. The stage is empty aside from a couch and an armchair on either side of a small table. The background is a photo of Winvyre's face and on the table sits two hot chocolates and a plate of cookies.*

*The audience cheers as WINVYRE walks out on stage wearing a purple suit, flashcards in hand, smiling like their photo.*

WINVYRE: Welcome, bitches and benches, to the talk show portion of our program! I'm your host for this and all other segments: Winvyre!

*Audience cheers again.*

WINVYRE: Today we're breaking not one but two characters out of their canon settings to answer some of your questions! Please welcome to the stage the protagonists of my current WIPs... Connor Willard and Valerie No Surname!

*A very confused skinny teenager and a delighted white-haired girl appear sitting on the couch. The boy blinks in the light and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. The girl shields her eyes to pick out faces in the audience.*

WINVYRE: Hello, Connor and Valerie. Don't worry, you're fine, you won't remember any of this when you go back to your worlds.

CONNOR: What?

VALERIE: Where are we?

WINVYRE: You're in a pocket dimension I created just for this scenario. Just like I created you.

CONNOR: You what?

*VALERIE mumbles a similar statement through a mouth full of cookies.*

CONNOR: I have several questions.

WINVYRE: So do I! So let's get started.

CONNOR: Wait-

Do you have any hobbies? If so, what ones?

VALERIE: Ooh! I like to swim and climb trees and play with my stick and hoop and watch the Watchmen spar with their swords and play games!

CONNOR: I like to draw. I also play baseball but I don't really like it.

How good is your sleep schedule?

VALERIE: I go to bed at bedtime and I wake up when the sun rises just like everybody else! Mom sometimes reads to me and Kell. Fran thinks she's too old for bedtime stories.

CONNOR: My bedtime is whenever my mother goes to sleep because waking up due to someone yelling and pounding on your door is NOT fun. Even then I'm an insomniac.

Do you have any siblings? If so, how good is your relationship?

CONNOR: I'm an only child. Not sure if that's for the better or worse.

VALERIE: I have three! We're all adopted. Maurin's the oldest, he's sixteen, Francesca's thirteen, Kell's eleven, and I'm ten! Maurin went missing not that long ago... I miss him... Fran's annoying and acts strangely but Mom says that's just because she's hit puberty. Kell and I play together a lot but sometimes he does this creepy voice and says scary things.

What was the toughest time you had to endure while growing up?

CONNOR: Oh, how do I pick?

VALERIE: When Maurin disappeared. Mom's never cried so much.

What was the worst day of your life?

CONNOR: The day we moved. It was terrible on its own and it marked the beginning of... everything.

VALERIE: [WINVYRE presses a button on their chair to bleep out the spoiler]

What's your worst nightmare?

VALERIE: The hoary. They're scary!

CONNOR: That I'll feel empty forever.

If a monster asked you your worst nightmare, what would you tell it and why?

VALERIE: The hoary can't ask questions; they're mindless killers and they'll rip you apart and devour your flesh and leave you to suffer and rot soaked in your own blood and organs while you slowly die and-

CONNOR: What kind of world do you come from?!

VALERIE: A regular one?

WINVYRE: Her setting is much more fantastical than yours. Don't worry about it.

If a monster asked you your worst nightmare, what would you tell it and why?

CONNOR: The truth. Almost nothing about me is a secret, it's just that no one asks.

What's your relationship with your family like?

CONNOR: Do I have to answer this?

WINVYRE: Yep. This show doesn't stay on the air unless the people are entertained.

CONNOR: I... love my parents. I hate them too. I hate that I can't only hate them. I feel happy when they praise me. I want to get away from them. I like it when they hug me. I hate what I may lose to them. I want to tell them everything. I hope I never forgive them.

VALERIE: Do you want a cookie?

WINVYRE: What's your answer, Valerie?

VALERIE: Uh, good. I love and get along with everyone. Do you dream often? what about?

VALERIE: Riding dragons!

CONNOR: I had a lot of vivid, creative nightmares as a kid. Now the content is more horrific but they never really feel like nightmares anymore.

What is the one thing you would not wish on your greatest adversary?

CONNOR: Any of what I've been through. It really fucks you up.

VALERIE: Nothing! I hope the hoary gets her!

WINVYRE: And that's all for today, bitches and benches! Thank you for tuning in and don't forget to vote for our next topic- (What? No budget? Fine.) Let us know if you ever want another installment of The Winvyre Show!

@sableglass @davycoquette @daily-haley