#seedsplease

[simplegenius042]

LATE Music Monday, WIP Wednesday and OC Familiars Quiz

Tagged by @imogenkol @josephseedismyfather @direwombat @noodlecupcakes and @socially-awkward-skeleton

Tagging @adelaidedrubman @raresvtm @derelictheretic @inafieldofdaisies @voidika @cassietrn @aceghosts @icecutioner @shallow-gravy @strangefable @statichvm @cloudofbutterflies92 @carlosoliveiraa @g0dspeeed @wrathfulrook @starsandskies @ladyoriza @la-grosse-patate @thewanderer-000 @omen-speaker @alypink @shellibisshe @josephslittledeputy @skoll-sun-eater @afarcryfrommymain @strafethesesinners @turbo-virgins @florbelles @minilev @justasmolbard @softtidesworld @yokobai and @seedsplease + anyone else who want to join.

With Kinktober over I can catch up to all the Music Mondays, WIP Wednesdays and Quizzes I missed. Music for The UnTitledverse and Life, Despair & Monsters. WIPs will be for The Silver Chronicles, two focusing on the Bloodborne AU while one shows the Coroner!Silva AU. This Quiz will be for characters from my Wings And Horns WIP and A Radioactive Calamity of Love, Bombs & Gore series. Hope you enjoy below the cut:

At the SCP Foundation, there is often hours or days worth of breaching at the sites, whether it be because of a restless anomaly breaking out once more or an experiment gone wrong. This is no different in SCP: Confining Spaces from The UnTitledverse. Sure, some things escape. And sure, personnel die. But eventually a task force is set in to re-contain the anomalies and save the surviving personnel, or any trace of the site is wiped off the face of this Earth depending on how bad things will be. But ultimately, everything is "Fine and Dandy" in the SCP Foundation:

"I was there to witness The victim of a sickness He wants the world to notice That he's not worth the focus He could make an entrance But could not make a friend Now he's got lots of different scratches From trying here and then

And I say liberate your sons and daughters The bush is high, but in the hole there's water You can keep it well and hidden No one's perfect, but it's a living

Hey ho, here he goes Either a little to high, or a little to low Got low self-esteem and vertigo But he thinks he's fine and dandy Hey ho, here he goes Either a little to far, or a little to close He's pretending, that everybody knows He thinks he's fine and dandy

Ring a ring of roses Whoever gets the closest He comes and he goes As the war of the roses Mother wouldn't kiss him 'Cause of his condition Now he's stuck in a prison For his strange disposition

Liberate your sons and daughters The bush is high, but in the hole there's water Do as you will, it's much less work to ignore But if it don't feel good What are you doing it for?

Hey ho, here he goes Either a little to high, or a little to low Got low self-esteem and vertigo But he thinks he's fine and dandy Hey ho, here he goes Either a little to far, or a little to close He's pretending, that everybody knows He thinks he's fine and dandy

Liberate your sons and daughters The bush is high, but in the hole there's water Do as you will, it's much less work to ignore But if it don't feel good What are you doing it for? What are you doing it for? What are you doing it for? What are you doing it for? What are you doing it for? What are you doing it for? What are you doing it for? What are you doing it for? What are you doing it for?

Hey ho, here he goes Either a little to high, or a little to low Got low self-esteem and vertigo But he thinks he's fine and dandy Hey ho, here he goes Either a little to far, or a little to close He's pretending, that everybody knows He thinks he's fine and dandy

Hey ho, here he goes Either a little to high, or a little to low Got low self-esteem and vertigo But he thinks he's fine and dandy Hey ho, here he goes Either a little to far, or a little to close He's pretending, that everybody knows He thinks he's fine and dandy!"

The main crew of protagonists in Life, Despair & Monsters is made up of menagerie of original and canon characters, most of whom have been negatively affected (that's an understatement) by Sir Enigma Malvolio but I don't think I've discussed who exactly they're made up of? So here's (thus far) the cast out for Malvolio's head; Haoyu Anabuki, along with the DDLC crew Monika, Sayori, Yuri and Natsuki (all except Haoyu were targeted by Malvolio in my Doki Doki Literature Club WIP); Hatsukami Hinode, Icarus Galatos and Xavier Tulip, in addition to Hatter and their fellow heroic partners from France, Marinette/Ladybug, Adrien/Chat Noir, Kagami/Ryuko and Luka/Viperion (Marinette was personally targeted by Malvolio while the others were affected by association in my Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Chat Noir WIP); Sonya and Jennifer (both victims of Malvolio in my Sonnie's Edge fic); Guenevere & O.R.I.O.N, as well as Morgana, King Arthur and Lancelot (Guenevere & O.R.I.O.N were victims of Malvolio while the latter three were affected by association in my Guenevere WIP); Lora (not personally affected nor targeted, just in it for the adventure, from my Arcane: League of Legends WIP); Rico (affected by association, from my Cyberpunk 2077 WIP); and lastly Sydney, Dina and Sydney (targeted by Malvolio in my I Am Not Okay With This WIP). Now this may be updated with future Love Death + Robots characters or others from other fandoms depending if I can figure out a way for them all to naturally come together. Malvolio actually stopped caring about all of them when he got the data he wanted from them and left, however, when they kill his prized specimen, Edith "Evie" Bloodleech, that's when they get his attention. Here's a song I believe describes both the protags and Malvolio's thought processes toward each other:

"The bass and the tweeters make the speakers go to war Ah, the mighty trumpet brings the freaks out to the floor The bass and the tweeters make the speakers go to war Ah, the mighty trumpet brings the freaks out to the floor."

"Tell me, tell me, where the freaks at? Tell me, tell me, where the freaks at? Freaks at, freaks at, freaks at, freaks at-" "Tell me where the freaks at?!"

("Hey!")

"We get that bass thumpin', people jumpin' all over the world We got them speakers pumpin' Timmy Trumpet for the woman with curves Got that freak flow, freak show Welcome to the cicus Let the leaders lead, preachers preach Welcome to the circus!

Close the curtains on 'em if they're actin' like they never heard us See, we do this for a purpose just to keep that fire burnin' And we don't need no water, let that mother-mother burn Timmy, play your trumpet, let the people go berserk!"

("Hey!")

("Hey!")

"The bass and the tweeters make the speakers go to war Ah, the mighty trumpet brings the freaks out to the floor The bass and the tweeters make the speakers go to war Ah, the mighty trumpet brings the freaks out to the floor."

"Tell me, tell me, where the freaks at? Tell me, tell me, where the freaks at? Freaks at, freaks at, freaks at, freaks at-" "Tell me where the freaks at?!"

First snippet of the FC5/Bloodborne AU features the surprise introduction of Tracey Lader as the Hunter of Hunters! For those who don't know, the purpose of the Hunter of Hunters in Bloodborne (in the game it was Eileen the Crow) was to give mercy killings to Hunters who went insane from their blood lust or kill hunters who probably defected/threaten the safety of everyone. They wear crow garb and plague doctor like clothes (and mask to likely avoid the risk of being infected by the werewolf/Scourge Beast Plague (including the Ashen Blood Plague) with two sickle-like daggers called the "Blade of Mercy". Anyway, this is like two-and-a-half or less hours before Joseph's arrest, and Tracey is (kind of) chilling out with her fellow hunters (who may or may not become her victims depending if they can control their blood lust), and while they're mucking about, she suspects somethings up. Enjoy below:

'The Hunter of Hunters is a watchmen who admonishes those who were once our fellow brothers and sisters but have succumbed to the drunk haze of their own blood lust,' she recalled Paul inform her as he initiated her into the role, 'By taking this Oath, Tracey Lader, you not only adorn yourself the weight of the Garb of Crows and the Blades of Mercy, but you alone burden yourself with the sworn duty of putting your comrades, be they man or beast, friend or foe, out of their maddening misery, should they lose themselves.'

Tracey remembered how Paul sliced across the palm of her left hand, to allow the deep flow of blood to emerge from the necessary cut and had her place her bloody hand on the engraving that all Hunters had sworn bloodlessly to. Like she had once done. However, at that time, with her bleeding palm smearing the Rune of Hunters, it had felt different.

'Do you, Tracey Lader, as the next Hunter of Hunters, pledge yourself to remain strong in the face of your blood addled adversaries... to prevail with resilience and resist against the seduction of your own blood lust... and above all else, show a gracious disposition when taking the life of those you will call your comrades?'

Tracey kept thinking back to the very moment she had pledged herself to this life with a hardened yet sincere "Yes". How heavy the decision felt, to hold herself to the standards her Oath demanded. How Paul alone had crowned her the Hunter of Hunters, with no one to witness her inauguration, but the shadows of those she must follow. She brushed a thumb at the intricately-patterned badge of the crow. The only one to have ever been made.

Bestowed upon another escape from the pain and rage of facing the one person who she could not face, lest her tough persona fall. The ghost who roamed the monastery in those white shawls and was dressed as if she was a bride, a constant reminder of her failure she'd fail to endure if she chose to stay.

Tracey breathed in the floral incense in her mask's beak to calm her nerves, before exhaling. It had been years since she had last visited either the Convent or the Monastery, and many more since she's even spoken with... her.

She spent most of her time in the refurbished Prosperity where the Hunter's Chapel resided, a small chapel-like structure no different from Jerome's in Fall's End or the Lamb of God Church, although it was a story taller than the other two, with the bell tower affectionately referred to as the "Crow's Nest" as her predecessors inhabited the space.

Tracey had been less than impressed by the inheritance, but it was... something for her.

Even if it was in the Henbane, she thought with disgust. The region had undergone... some changes throughout the years, and not just from the Hunter's and Peggies use of it.

Weird shit was just happening here, and she wasn't just referring to the Bliss. No, strange sightings were being reported; some range from dancing women whose laughs echoed in the night sky, plus claims of dark shadow-like figures lurking from the mist or hiding in the corners of their eyes, and the smoke bellowing from makeshift chimneys coming from the abandoned Misery.

Those, however, Tracey personally believed were either Bliss hallucinations or just the cult being fucking shifty, and was also explained as such.

However the other reports were... less explainable. There had been some sort of reports of cloaked and hooded masked figures walking to or from the Peggies Pilgrimage, ringing bells and carrying stretches of wrapped up bodies either collected or disposed of. Not to mention the reports of unfamiliar beasts lurking in the foliage, bio-luminescent fluids sprayed on the few buildings that were here, the disappearances that neither matched what they've come to expect from both beasts and Peggies alike.

Hell, Miss Mable complained about the fucking moon, all because Peaches "didn't act like her usual self", even though she made the claim after a hunt had been completed, so Tracey dismissed that as just Peaches hating the hunt.

She sighed and leaned back against the wood, observing how the sun descended lower, reflecting off the lens of her mask. It would only be another two hours or so before the Sheriff's Department would come arrest Joseph... or so Paul had informed her.

It was... shocking when he said those words over the radio. After years of establishing a good connection with Joseph and his cult in spite of their shady operations, years of listening to her and many other's concerns but dismissing them in an assuring voice, and years of standing up for the Seeds in the face of backlash and gifting them two out of the three bunkers that were dens to the beasts... he finally does something about that wretched man.

At least, it's what Tracey assumes to be his doing. Likely couldn't ignore the warning signs with the recent spur between the county's residents and the Peggies decade-long growth of suspicion and resentment. Maybe trying to save face.

Regardless, if it leads to the downfall of Joseph and his cult, and the Sheriff's Department to get off their asses, Tracey can't not be satisfied by the outcome, right?

Though there was a lingering feeling, just at the back of her mind. A doubtful, bad feeling. And a few questions.

What does Paul get out of this?

It's not like Paul to just let his main ally who supplies him with numbers and resources against the scourge beasts to just be arrested. Hell, even with the beasts numbers almost depleted, they were still an issue. She hated to admit it, but Joseph and his family had been a fundamental reason to why they were succeeding thus far.

She pondered if Paul is doing this to gain all of Eden's Gate' resources and property. Some of which would present an advantage against the remaining beasts, especially if Joseph really had been proven as an obstacle to their goals.

Not only that, but it also would mean Paul would no longer have all of them bound to the restrictions of the Seeds' deal.

While impressive if Paul had truly planned that out, it brought up the problem of how Paul could stake claim on those resources if Paul and the Hunter's weren't collectively affected by the Peggies actions, personal bias and experience notwithstanding. Thinking more on it, Tracey noted how hush-hush Paul had sounded about Joseph's coming arrest.

She's made her objective assumptions on the reasons why Joseph would be getting cuffed, but she never got a clear confirmation from Paul himself before he cut off communication.

The sun blared while the sky grew more orange, and Tracey looked away from it. A reminder of her next question.

Why has Paul allowed this to happen now?

The timing itself didn't sit right with her... not the fact he's allowed this to happen nine years late, but instead with the growing darkness from every second that goes by, the sun gaining closer to the horizon.

She'd thought if Joseph was going to be arrested, Paul would have it occur during the day, or at the very least, at a time dawn would arrive.

Not late evening when the sun was setting. Not at dusk. Not at a time where by the time the Sheriff's Department arrived to Joseph's Compound, they'd all be violating curfew. Not at a moment where the Hunters would need to prep for a potential hunt.

Which lead to her final question...

Why was she and the rest of the Hunters all on stand by?

By now, the Hunters would have gathered their preferred weapons, mapped out the roads and areas where the beasts would most likely linger, set up the traps for the Sanctuary Hunters fortifying and guarding populated areas like Fall's End, the Monastery, the Convent, as well as Eden's Gate property and bunkers.

Plus here, she grimly noted, seeing no signs of the heavily garbed protectors. Nor of Alexander and his squire, Hannah.

Usually, Tracey would be the first to leave... after all, the Hunter of Hunters must take to the shadows during a hunt, and keep tabs on her comrades at all instances, and be swift and effective at the signs of their consumption to darker impulses.

But not this time. Paul had specifically ordered to stand by and await further orders. Not just for her, but some of her fellow hunters as well.

She glanced over to what was once the mayor's office; now a glorified lounge set up by Boshaw and Drubman Jr, with cushioned office chairs dragged out and set about a small bonfire with desks that had bottles of beer and pizza boxes.

The two were fooling about; Sharky blabbering on about some nonsense while fucking around with the parts of his flamethrower, and although Jess didn't seem too annoyed with Sharky's topic of conversation, as she pretended to inspect her arrow, Tracey noticed how she tensed whenever the device branched its aim almost towards her.

Hurk was throwing knives at the empty beer bottles he set up for target practice... to a surprising amount of success, to his delight.

The only one she couldn't find amongst the menagerie was Grace.

"Aren't you hot in that thing?"

Tracey turned to look beside her. Speak of the devil and he may appear, she thought to herself, though replace "devil" with "ally" and "he" with "she" and Tracey found Grace Armstrong in her dark green leather attire. It was reminiscent of her military uniform, but much suited for a hunting beasts rather than dispelling enemies.

"It's the middle of winter," Tracey pointed out gruffly, though Grace didn't seem too phased by her tone, instead she just snorted at her reply.

"Don't you want to at least get some fresh air before you use up all your incense?" Grace inquired, tone neutral. Though Tracey wasn't bothered by it, she understood the other woman's just looking out for her.

However, that didn't mean she wanted to be unprepared in case Paul's orders had some solidity behind it.

"Technically, I'm on the clock," she refuted with an excuse, eyeing the sun's descent closely, "We're all on the clock, and I want to be ready once the Chief Hunter clarifies further commands. And orders are orders."

Grace gave an understanding nod and appeared to take the hint to not push further, but she did say, "I understand. Though hadn't the Chief also ordered for us to stick close together?"

Tracey, with a tilting head, did in fact recall that, "Yeah...?"

"Then you wouldn't mind joining the rest of us by the fire then?" Grace responded with a raised brow. Tracey stared at her with wide eyes, though Grace couldn't likely tell from the beaked mask. Failing to come up with an immediate reply, Grace takes notice and simply states, "You don't have to. I know Boshaw and Drubman are... extreme company."

Tracey snorted at her words, Extreme is an understatement for any member of the Powder Kegs. How Paul approved of the coven was beyond her.

Last snippet of the FC5/Bloodborne AU (before we switch over to the Coroner AU) takes place many, many, many hours and I imagine chapters (probably somewhere in the midway point) after Tracey's last few hours of rest before she is fighting for her damn life. Here is a flashback of Tracey's reaction to Faith becoming their new Vicar after a year or so of being a regular Hunter and never seeing her face after the split, as well as Paul promoting her to Hunter of Hunters. Enjoy below: [TW: Descriptions of decomposing desecrated corpses, maybe borders on gore(?), weird plants and Character Death]

Tracey looked across the treeline through the dark purple shade of the clocktower's window, curled up against the window sill's wall, her hand gripping at the knee of her pants.

Rage, sorrow and confusion were mixing at the forefront of her mind. Wondering... why? Why, why, why, why? Why her? Of all people, why her?!

Tracey didn't think she'd find an answer, until she heard him climbing his way up the ladder to the head of the clocktower, ascending with a creak from each step he put his weight on.

Not far long, she glanced to see the black fingerless leather gloves grip at the last step of the ladder, and the familiar sight of blonde dyed hair was first to ascend as Paul pulled himself up.

He was out of breathe by the time her crawled onto the wooden floor, though she didn't blame him; after all, the clocktower had a lot of ladders required to climb up until one is to reach the top. She only did it because it's the most isolated room in the Monastery.

Which is why Paul must have found her so quickly. She kept her eyes to the window as he looked her way, but through the reflection she could see his hazel eyes perk up just as his lips curved into his signature jovial and excited smile.

"Ah, I knew you'd be here," Paul commented, not noticing the cold glare she sent his way through the glass pane, "Kamski reckoned you ran off, but I begged to differ. Now he owes me ten snails."

He let out a little laugh as he stood up, though when he noticed how she kept her gaze to the view, it faltered to a flat end.

Still keeping on his smile, he adjusted the brace around his left leg (at this point, the monastery had given up on trying to stop him from exerting that leg in spite of very valid medical concerns that he ignores, though on the plus side, Kamski still gives him shit) before he took a step closer as he chose not to beat around the bush, "I had noticed you weren't present for Vicar Faith's inauguration ceremony, which got me worried. Uh, you missed out quite the spectacle."

Tracey cocked her head as she tried to put her emotions into words towards Paul. Though this action seemed to have prompted Paul to tell her what she had intentionally missed out on, "Oh, yes. Once Faith was established the title of Vicar, Silva had taken the initiative in swearing the Old Hunter's to oath her. Took her hand, bowed down as she made her vows, and ended it with a kiss to the new Vicar's knuckles. A tad dramatic, even for her? Sure, but a passionate display of fealty I never expected from her."

Paul trailed off, mumbling some words Tracey didn't care to hear as her fist dug into her leg.

"Why her?" she finally asked the man, though her quiet tone made the words sound rougher when they left her lips.

Paul hummed in question, and approached closer. He placed a hand onto her shoulder, but she whacked it aside, to both of their surprise. She recovered quickly though, looking straight into his surprised hazel eyes as she inquired, louder, "Why Rachel?"

Paul blinked at her, clueless and ignorant, trying to make sense of her question, "Rachel? Your best friend?"

"Former best friend," she hissed out in correction, and grew hotter from the frustration of him not figuring it out, "The one who stayed with that cult to become daddy's little flower girl. THAT Rachel."

Paul sputtered at her words, shocked and confused as he tried to wrap his head around it.

"But Faith can't be Rachel? She's the Seed brothers sister... unless you're insinuating that Joseph adopted Rachel and had her become...," Paul trailed off as he paused and really thought about it, thinking back on things he's heard at some point and corroborating it with this recent information before reaching a realization, "...Huh."

Tracey waited for him to come to the rational conclusion of an apology or even go and rectify the mistake of bringing an untrustworthy ally into his inner circle, but instead he puts a gloved hand to his chin, lost in thought, "That's... actually very useful information. Grazie for letting me know."

Tracey stared at Paul, exasperation only fueling the growing embers of anger as she stood up, "That's it? THAT'S FUCKING IT?! That's all you have to say? Why is it good to know? Why did you put her in a position of power close enough to your own? Why have the Hunters allied with Eden's Gate, despite what I told you about them? WHY, Paul?!"

Chest heaving and breathless, Tracey tried to hold on to her ire, to direct it at someone she thought knew better. Because that'd be easier than confronting HER, wouldn't it?

In spite of her outburst, Paul regarded her with nothing but a concerned gentleness. His gaze was reminiscent of when he first met her; the same balance of pity and empathy he showed when he spoke to a teen with no home and no place in the world, given to her once more while she was barely entering her twenties now.

It was the same, it had to be; there was no condescension, no manner of coddling, just... understanding and patience.

She wondered if this is something he learned as a father while raising Silva. A brief thought came after that too, 'Does he see himself as a father to me?'

She dismissed it though. Paul was like this with every one of his Hunters. She supposed he attain some of his more fatherly qualities into his leadership, but she could understand that the authority of both roles could intersect.

She didn't need a father. Never had. But she respected Paul. He ran a tight ship based on comradery and loyalty, and wasn't afraid to get dirty with them if the situation called for it, something she can't say the same about Joseph and his brothers during her time in the Project, even with his whole bullshit spiel of "I am your father and you are my children".

She supposed, thinking back on it, she had assumed Rachel to be the same as her.

Maybe she should have brought Rachel here instead of listening to that old coot.

Paul slowly moved closer to her, a slight limp to his braced left leg. He was tall, at least a head taller than her, but he wasn't intimidating, not to her at least. Silva was intimidating, but only because it was like she knew things that Tracey didn't, and the latter was fine with that.

Even then, fear wasn't something used to lead here. Fear was a reminder that they were still human.

'Fear is one step away from courage, if you're willing to confront it,' she remembered Elsa once say. The woman was a box of mysteries, and not one Tracey had the patience to unwrap.

"I know you're worried," Paul acknowledged, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder, "I understand your concerns. If I had my way, I'd want nothing to do with the Seeds. But we need help against the beasts, and as luck would have it, the Project has the people and the resources we can utilize, in exchange for giving them the beasts' dens after we eradicate them."

Tracey shook her head as she tried walk past him, but he place another hand on her shoulder. Although it was gentle and held little strength, she decided not to push past him, and let him say his piece.

"I'm not being foolish here, Tracey," he assures her, giving a small pat, "I know their not trustworthy. I know bringing Faith in as our Vicar is a risk. I wouldn't do this unless I was confident I could counter anything they could try."

Tracey felt her outrage begin to dissipate, although it didn't leave completely. She was confused on why he'd still do this in spite of the risks, "Then... why?"

Paul looked away as he pondered an answer; or perhaps, whether or not he should disclose the information to her. Looking back to her though, he cracked and gave in, "Because game recognizes game. They're planners. Schemers. I am aware of the threat they pose, and I want to be able to keep a close eye on them, or at least have leverage."

Tracey narrowed her eyes at Paul; while she was glad he wasn't being ignorant to the threat and acknowledged the danger Eden's Gate can pose, she was alarmed by his last sentence, "Is Ra- Faith leverage?"

Paul cringed. Another contrast from what she's seen between Joseph and Paul; one kept a serene and almost otherworldly act up, as if he was close but still a messiah to be idiolized from afar... like the moon, in a weird sense. Beautiful and appealing from afar, but ugly and desolate up close.

Meanwhile, time after time, she's consistently seen just how... honest Paul was in his expressions. Joy and sadness, amusement and annoyance, patience and anger, pride and disappointment. And sometimes embarrassment. He was so... human, that it almost made her forget how she knew he and his daughter hide things from many people.

But that mostly related to whatever was in their past, some inner workings of the Hunters, and however the fuck 'Enlightenment' works. And frankly, two of those were none of her business, and all three didn't affect the public as far as she was concerned.

Paul spoke once more, though more hesitant she noticed, and less explanatory, "...I don't intend her to be. I really can't say much else than that, Tracey."

Tracey however wanted to confirmation, "But if it came down to it... would you?"

Paul frowned, looking almost apologetic, "I can't get things to go the direction I hope it will go... then sì. I don't like it, and I can guess how you feel, but it'll be the only advantage we have to keep Joseph on a leash. Or at dealt with."

Paul saw how conflict riddled Tracey's face, and he added, "I'm not going to hurt her. That had never been the intention when bringing her in, and you know, that's not what we do here. I need you to trust me, cara puma. Trust that... I can help her see something better than him."

Tracey looked to Paul, how his hazel eyes implored for her to believe in him. Such sincerity that she'd never see through Joseph's serenity. She gave a sigh, "I... guess I can trust you."

Paul looked relieved. Tracey though thought of those white shawls around the dress of the Vicar's garb, crowned by flowers and three blood gems forged by their rune masters Isiah and Gemini. A hauntingly beautiful visage that would roam these halls, and a reminder of how she wasn't enough for her in the end.

And she couldn't face her. Not now. So, she had to tell him, "But... Paul I can't be in the same building as her. I don't want to leave the Hunter's Coven... I really don't but if there's no other option...."

She left the rest unsaid, though seeing how Paul noticed her distress, she realized she didn't have to say it. He understood.

She expected him to accept her words as a resignation, but was surprised by his next words, "There is one..."

Tracey's attention was captured, and Paul continued, "I had wanted to talk to you about this for some time now. You see... in light of Hunter Elsa's death, there had been no successors, whether chosen by her will or volunteering themselves, to take up her mantle of the Hunter of Hunters."

"Silva and I had a discussion about it... trying to figure out who could be a worthy successor to her sorella," Paul explained, and Tracey felt her heat beat pace up as Paul regained eye contact with her, "And we agreed that maybe... if you're willing... it could be you."

Tracey, to put it simply, was at a loss of words. Paul, however, was not, so he continued, "Again, you can refuse. It's less an offer and more of a burden to ask of you. But it might help you get what you want... you can keep to yourself, you're not required to be with groups, only fight when you need to, and you don't have to set foot on the Monastery again. You'll be stationed at Prosperity in the Henbane, where most of the other Hunters reside. You won't ever have to cross paths with Faith, as we're mostly keeping her here and likely visits elsewhere, but not Prosperity."

"It's not ideal, but it's yours if you- woah!" Paul had to balance himself from the weight of the young woman hugging into him. Tracey couldn't fathom how a clusterfuck of a misunderstanding in the form of an accidental kidnapping lead to her finding like-minded people who were ready to fight for the county's freedom against the scourge. Nor the fact they show respect to her as a person.

"Thank you," she softly whispered, the gratitude carrying more weight than just this offer.

Paul slowly returned the embrace, lightly and clearly trying to avoid being too clingy, but he was at least relaxed.

He gave a small calming pat to her back, the rays of sunlight breaking through the window, shining a purple hue through the clocktower's tinted glass , "Anything for my Hunters."

--------

In the darkness that expanded in the maze of the catacombs, the decaying plant growth crunched under the weight of Tracey's boots, despite her cautious steps.

Through her mask's lens, she could see vines and moss cling dead to the walls, the ceiling and the ground. Mold spread along the walls and ceilings, sewage dripping from old rusted pipes and dust circulated in the air. But that wasn't all; there were two other unidentifiable flora growths in this labyrinth.

The first was a fat, pulsing bio-luminescent fungus growing from the cracks of the floor, spewing out what was clearly spores and leaking... something out of its cavity hole. Tracey was thankful to her beaked mask, breathing in the floral incense instead... whatever is in the air.

The second was less flora and more of a mini structure; a packed group of hexagonal prismatic columns stuck to corners of the expanse including the pillars, similar to that of a wasp nest or a beehive. Difference was, Tracey didn't believe these to be made of bee wax or dead leaves. It looked more like yellowed cartilage.

Tracey spotted buzzing yellowjackets writhing inside the hives. She swallowed on nothing, fear keeping her heart pounding, alive and on edge.

She could never picture the monastery having a basement level... especially one so deep. Pots of cremated ash laid at the bottom of the walls, the walls aligned with skulls, the age of which she couldn't tell.

She didn't want to waste time inspecting the architecture of a level she only felt unease in. She called out once more, "Lindsey! Are you here?!"

She saw on the other side of this room another set of doorways wide open, a possible indication that Dr. Lindsey went through there. She shook her head in frustration; this would be the fourth set of doors she'd go through in the Monastery, the first being the base level and the next ones descending further into the basement.

She decided to run through it until she saw the veterinarian or bumped into him.

She sped in a burst, dashing past the doorways, expecting to run down a curve of steps. Instead she stumbled and fell over two steps, managing to at least roll to avoid landing on her face.

She grunted, displeased. Tracey began to stand, pushing one hand down for support, but froze when she hear repulsing squish.

She down to where her gloved hand was, and saw it was pressed inside the decomposing corpse of a man; a Peggie, she noted, seeing the slashed marking of their cross. She retracted her hand away from it, keeping her hand close to the hilt of one blade.

She slowly stood up as she inspected the new room; similar to the architecture of the catacombs, the only difference she found were the four dead trees, the broken gravestones circling close the walls and corners of the room (with exception to the entrance and whatever opening was on the other side of the spore mist) and lastly the abundance of decomposing corpses, human and beast alike, male and female, big and small, strewn across the floor, the ground covered in their collective dried blood.

They all shared the same fatal wounds; one slash across the chests, stomachs and backs, or perhaps missing chunks of their bodies, or skulls busted open, and all having some form of their limbs and heads all separated from the body in a fest of gore. She wasn't even sure if the appendages she can see belong to any of the bodies or if some had been taken to... elsewhere.

Thoughts of the Misery invaded Tracey's mind, but she shook it away. Although what she witnessed there was... horrific, what she can see now was above it, if not equal to-

-elch!

Tracey froze at the distant sound. Heart hammering, she tilted her head, listening closely for small sound. She tensed when she heard it reverberate around the room again.

Squelch!

Breathing heavily, she gripped tightly around both her blades' handles, ready to draw them at the slightest hint of trouble as she maneuvered her steps around the corpses. Gaining closer, she heard it louder.

SQUELCH!

From a small distance, she could see a figure's silhouette through the mist. They lifted their arms, clearly holding a long, sharp-ended or perhaps spiked weapon that requires two hands, before bringing it down again, result in the disturbing squelch, this time with the addition of a crunch.

She unsheathed her blades just a bit, as she gained closer behind her distracted enemy. That's at least what she assumed they were. From the looks of it, human. Sharply dressed in what seemed to be yellow and black hunter's garb. A blood-drunk serial-killing Hunter? Now I've seen everything tonight, she thought to herself.

She found herself eating her words too early as she halted in her approach when she noticed three distinct details.

First, this hunter's figure and small raspy ragged breath indicated that he was male.

Second, he held a curved, hooked staff, the head taking on the familiar appearance of a curled wasp with with spikes along the back for a painful blunt attack.

And third, his left leg was adorned with a brace around it.

Tracey's eyes widened as she recognized who this Hunter was.

The nausea set in when he stopped cutting down the limb of the corpse. A recently bloodied dark-haired corpse that had a red slash across the teal shirt, crimson splotches staining the black vest and dusty grey pants.

The shattered rectangular glasses and dropped busted open med kit, the contents spilled from the fall, were only a confirmation of both the victim's identity and who the culprit was for the other corpses.

He released a deep exhale, while her breaths only increased. He calmly removed one hand from his weapon and leaving his other on it, all the while her hands trembled on the hilt of her blades.

She could only watch as his turned, not all the way, not revealing all of his features, for she didn't need to discern who he was even if he did, but to acknowledge her presence.

"Ah... Lader," Paul drawled out her surname with such serenity that it just sounded wrong. Tracey shuddered as he said, "I knew you'd come here."

[A/n] Psych! It was a flashback and the present moment! Also sorry Charles, but you're canonically friends with Tracey and happiness more-or-less doesn't exist in this AU.

Now let's cut to an AU that's more... not lighthearted but certainly not Bloodborne. A scene of my Coroner!Silva AU that's not actually part of the main Coroner AU fic No Snake, Only A Boa In The Garden since in that fic the Reaping doesn't occur. Pretty much it's less "story with themes and messages and character development stuff" and more "crack treated seriously". I find this version of the AU funny because there is NO badass deputy the Resistance can rely on. Instead they've got Coroner!Silva whose functioning below 4 hours of sleep, drinks when stressed or sad, and she's in no state to fight (at least with guns... she can give a good stab with her dagger but that's as violent as she gets). Like the Resistance here are handling with whatever scraps they can gather (while Eden's Gate has all the good shit) and Silva's utilized just as Lindsey is; aka the closest people they've got to medical professionals (except one usually deals with animals and the other usually deals with dead people). However, thing is, this Silva still knows shit and often gives advice and training, and though she's not fighting on the field, she is doing reconnaissance, marking property for the Resistance and plays messenger between the regions' Resistance. She still upholds Deputy!Silva's tradition of refusing to join the Seed's cult and finding all the ways to inconvenience/piss them off (except for Faith, because Coroner!Silva had the bright idea to attempt seduction and is somehow surprised she ended up in a situationship with the Seed sister). That's the gist of it. Enjoy the few seconds of Nancy's appearance:

Nancy spoke into the headset's microphone once more, desperate to receive any contact back after Earl's panicked voice rang in, "Come in... is everything OK? Over."

Silence responded back, no sound of the Sheriff nor the deputies. Not even the Marshal. Could have something gone wrong? came the worried thought, Had the arrest gone awry? Or had God decided upon their fates?

Feeling a pang of sadness if that was the case, she tried again once more, "Please, are you there? Are you there? Are you there, Sheriff?"

Receiving no response from Earl, she tried the next names that came to mind.

"Deputy Hudson, if you're there please pick up," She repeated, glancing around the room to see if anyone else was there. Specifically the department's coroner, Silva.

She assumed her to still be in her morgue, which brought Nancy a sense of relief.

It wouldn't do that poor woman any good to listen to this, she thought to herself, focusing back to her screen, Dear Lord, if it's within your plan, please spare them. They're important to more people than myself.

"Deputy Pratt? Are you there? Are you there?" she asked frantically, "Earl, com in. Over."

"Please, is anyone there?" Nancy spoke, voice quivering as the silence grew louder, "Please, pick up. I need to know what's going on-"

"Dispatch," came a voice, all too familiar to her, all too gentle, that it put her at ease.

"Oh my god," she breathed out in revered relief, knowing the Father was alright.

"Everything is just fine here," he spoke, his words carrying an assuring weight, a wordless message that told Nancy, They're alive. They're safe. They're with us now. At least that's what Nancy chose to believe as the Father instructed, "No need to call anyone."

Nancy gave a small smile, understanding the meaning of his words. The Reaping has begun. Ensure it remains uninterrupted.

"Yes, Father," she replied through the microphone, knowing her new purpose now, "Praise be to you."

She switched off the call, removing the headset to prepare for her next task.

Though she paused when she heard the clinking sound of metal being dragged off the counter and fast pace of shoes running against the floor.

The last thing Nancy saw as she turned around was the glimpse of a white coat and the end of the coffee maker before pain and then darkness.

---

Silva had not believed herself capable of committing any sort of violence in the present day. She though the days of pain and returning pain onto others was far behind her in this new life of hers.

Although, staring at Nancy's unconscious form that flopped from her seat and onto the floor with a purple-ish bruise already forming on her forehead, had the coroner rethink that belief.

Discarding the now inoperable coffee maker, Silva flicked the communications back on. Grabbing the headset and bringing the microphone muff to one ear, she called out, "Sheriff? Hudson? Pratt? Can you hear me? Over."

She received only static. So she tried once more.

"It's Silva! It's a trap. I repeat, it's a trap. Nancy's one of them," she tried to warn through the call, "Please. Someone respond."

Soon enough, the screen flickered with an error, the call cancelled or some form if interference, she'd assume. Silva slammed the headset down, distressed.

She cursed under her native tongue, dragging a gloved hand through her long dark hair. She looked down to the groaning form of Nancy, a sensation of confused ire at being deceived by someone she thought to at least be a close co-worker.

However, she couldn't focus on Nancy now; the other's were being lead to a trap, or perhaps had been, she couldn't tell. All she overheard was Nancy's affirmative yes to who she could only assume to be the Project's cult leader, and giving her praise to him.

Looking at the coffee maker, she cringed at the thought that perhaps she went a tad far in her reaction, but she digressed; Nancy was a traitor and the few people she could call the closest things to friends were now in danger or worse.

She had to do something. But what?

And finally, the quiz results for two OCs each from Wings And Horns and A Radioactive Calamity of Love, Bombs & Gore:

CADET AZRIEL (WINGS AND HORNS [ORIGINAL WORKS])

JEZEBEL BA'AL (WINGS AND HORNS [ORIGINAL WORK])

NATE GUST SARID (A SYMBOL FOR A BETTER WORLD [FALLOUT 4])

These are all surprisingly more-or-less correct for these three characters.

[awful-roffle]

I hate the current tile my pawns live on, but caravanning with ~20 tribal pawns sounds like a nightmare. I don't have seeds for hay or cloth (seedsplease lite) which most of the neolithic level vehicles I got need. What am I supposed to do here? 😭

[hopecountygazette]

Author Spotlight: @seedsplease​

1. Why did you start writing fanfiction? Was Far Cry 5 the first fandom you wrote for? 

My first fanfiction that I actually got into and posted was actually for Naruto haha, and I started that because I really loved the heroine and just wanted to explore her character through writing.

2. Why Far Cry 5? What led you to it? 

The game, the universe, some particular character...I loved the game and thought the idea of Far Cry 5's story was really interesting, but it didn't quite get to go as deep as I would've liked to have seen, so I really liked the idea of trying to explore these characters and this world through fanfiction.

3. Of everything you have written so far, which one is your favorite?

Hmm, I think maybe one of my pre-game AUs, like this one where the Deputy first meets John. I think pre-game stuff is just so fun to write because there's so much tension; it can be a perfectly innocent interaction happening, but because the audience knows what's REALLY going on and the Deputy DOESN'T, there's such a tense undertone there that's just really fun to play around with.

4. Any tips for those who are starting - or considering starting - to write fan fiction?

I really recommend reading your writing out loud, not just for finding little mistakes, but because it's really good for helping you figure out whether dialogue sounds organic, and it also just helps you figure out the flow of sentences. Something can be grammatically correct, but still read a little awkwardly, so I've found that reading out loud can really help me pick up on these things.

[fc5holidayexchange]

FAR CRY 5 HOLIDAY EXCHANGE 2019 FIC

‘redemption’

Deputy Rook Gordon/John Seed

@seedsplease

“Here’s my gift to you Tia! I hope you enjoy it - Rook was a joy to write, and I hope you don’t mind if I write something else for her again someday! Happy holidays! <3”

'Deputy Rook Gordon x John Seed, sharing a bed, fluff, humor, very slight angst, a little hurt/comfort, very very vague description of minor injuries’

Rivulets of icy water drip from the damp ends of her hair and collect in the crease of her neck, soaking the collar of her coat. Rook’s lived in Montana her whole life, knows the cold as well as anyone else that calls Hope County home, but she doesn’t think she’s ever felt it quite like this. Her cheeks are chaffed and numb, she can’t feel the tops of her thighs any longer, and if the tips of her ears aren’t frostbitten, it’ll be a miracle. Cold leeches from her wet clothes into what feels like her bones, and Rook finds herself longing for her tiny apartment above the Spread Eagle and the electric heat that rattles from the radiators.

Still, she thinks, there’s a silver lining to be gleaned from all this — she’s so cold that she can no longer feel just how battered she is from the car accident. Black ice doesn’t care if you’re the leader of the Resistance, she’s learned.

Wind bites at her skin. Rook doesn’t know how long she’s been walking. It feels like hours, but it’s probably only been half of one. When she’d first left the car, her steps were steady and strong, despite the shin-high snow licking at the denim of her jeans. Now, she can barely lift her feet out of the divots they make. Instead, she shuffles forward, leaving behind trenches that lead straight to her.

Over her shoulder, the wreckage of her car looks like a black dot against a white canvas. Ahead of her, she can see the smoky-grey silhouette of what looks like a cabin. She stops in her tracks, snow freezing her feet through her cheap boots, and weighs her options.

Bunker? People in Hope County are paranoid enough that Rook’s been able to find an empty bunker on just about every property she’s stumbled upon. If she’s lucky, there’s one close by, fully stocked with food and blankets. Based on the way the rest of her day’s gone, it’s probably buried under six feet of snow, too.

Cabin? The place looks as empty as anything else in the county these days. The windows are dark and covered in a thin sheen of frost, and snow has started to pile up against the door. Rook hasn’t seen a car for miles; if people live here, they’re doing it off the grid, and they’re doing it very well. She wiggles her frozen fingers and wonders if she has a chance in hell at picking the lock.

Her only other option is trying to find her way back into town before dark. The threat of nightfall has already started to tinge the edges of the sky dark grey, and as much as Rook wishes she could proclaim to know this place like the back of her hand, everything looks the same in the snow. There’s no way she’ll get back to Fall’s End before sunset – especially not on foot.

A shiver forces its way through her body, and Rook clenches her teeth against it, wrapping her arms around herself in search of warmth. It doesn’t come, but it does help her make her decision – if she doesn’t find shelter, if she doesn’t get out of her damp clothes, she’ll freeze to death in the middle of the Montana wilderness.

Too many people are counting on her for her to give up that easily. Too many lives depend on her.

Rook trudges forward, slow but steady. One step becomes another, one foot after the other after the other. Snow tumbles down the crevice between her boot and her foot, soaking through her sock as she walks. It’s another stab of cold to her already frozen body, but it spurs her on. Somehow, she finds herself at the front of the cabin, the door less than a foot away from her. Salvation in the form of pressure-treated wood. 

She wiggles her fingers again, trying to get the feeling back, readying herself for a fight with the lock, when instinct tells her to try the knob. It’s unlikely, improbable, a last ditch effort.

It works. 

Rook turns the knob and finds no resistance. The hinges creak when she pushes the door open, but it still swings inward, offering her a way into the inviting shelter of the cabin. 

She steps inside, feet slippery wet against the wooden floor, and shuts the door against the winter nightmare behind her. Immediately, she feels warmer. A figment of her imagination, maybe, but with the wind off her cheeks and the snow out of her shoes, Rook finds she doesn’t particularly care.

“Looking a little worse for wear, aren’t we, Deputy?”

Fear jolts her into action. Instinctively, she spins in the direction of the voice, dragging her gun from the holster on her hip. The grip feels like ice between her palms as she aims toward her attacker’s head. 

“Oh, fuck.”

John Seed stands in the middle of what looks like the living room, his back to a fireplace that roars with a heat she can feel, even from six feet away. It’s newly lit, the logs dry and hardly singed, and the only conclusion Rook can come to is that John’s only just made it here himself. 

“Language,” he chastises, watching her weapon sway in his direction. 

“Get your hands up,” she demands, hoping her voice sounds steadier than it feels coming out of her mouth. “Up. Get them up.”

To her surprise, he does as she asks. John lifts his arms, palms facing outward and elbows bent. Rook follows the lines of his body. There are clean, dry clothes here, she learns, because John isn’t swathed in his usual getup.

He doesn’t fill the borrowed shirt and sweatpants the way she imagines his eldest brother might - he’s too slender, not as defined, and the baggy clothes make him look more like a confused frat boy than an accomplished lawyer, businessman, and cult leader.

“Now, now, Deputy,” John drawls, a self-satisfied smile plastered across a face that’s paler than Rook remembers. “There’s no need for violence.”

Against her better judgement, Rook snorts.

“That’s rich, coming from you,” she spits out, trying desperately to keep from shivering. Her damp clothes stick to her skin uncomfortably as she adjusts her stance. “Little Johnny have a change of heart? Or is your torture room not doing it for you anymore?”

“Wrath,” he sings quietly, seemingly unfazed. He points a single finger in her direction, the smile still settled in place. “Come now, darling. Surely we can resolve this peacefully. What can I do to make things copacetic between you and I?”

End this fucking holy war, she thinks. Leave Hope County and go back to whatever pit you came from.

Give me back my friends.

“You know, John,” Rook says, filtering the words out through teeth that scream for her to let them chatter, “I could just shoot you. End this now.”

“Oh, you could,” John agrees, his hands steady next to his head. “But I think I have something you want.”

Ice floods her already frozen chest. She has a hazy idea of what he means. 

“Joey Hudson,” he drawls, before she can ask him what he’s talking about. He must catch the flash of desperation that crosses her face, because he nods just once, just like he’s coaxing a frightened animal out of its hiding place. “Hm? An impromptu truce, just for the night, and I’ll let you have your little friend.”

Admitting it to him would be unwise, but she knows she won’t kill John, even if he weren’t agreeing to give up his bargaining chip. There’s blood on her hands, no matter how hard she’s tried to avoid it, and Rook would give her right arm if it meant an end to all the savagery committed across the county - her own acts included. No, she won’t put an end to John Seed in this tiny, barely habitable cabin, but he doesn’t need to know that.

She doesn’t want to die alone in the cold, either. If that means cozying up with the enemy in picturesque Bumfuck Nowhere until her clothes dry and the sun comes out, well - Rook thinks she’d be willing to have a slumber party with just about anyone at this point, just to get a reprieve from the cold.

It’s apparent that she’s been waiting too long to answer. John is watching her with sharp eyes, the gaze of a man who knows what he wants and knows how he’ll get it.

“Well, Deputy?” John taunts, wiggling his fingers. “Do we have a ceasefire? Benevolence in exchange for your precious Joey Hudson?”

She won’t kill him, but god, she wants to hit him. 

There’s a telltale twitch to her hands that says that if she weren’t gripping her gun, they’d be shaking. John picks up on it almost immediately, his eyes flashing, and before he can get a word in edgewise Rook cuts him off.

“Fine,” she agrees, lowering her weapon. “Fine. A ceasefire.”

It’s not a perfect deal, but it’s something. Satisfied, she sets her gun down on the kitchen counter and looks around the cabin. She can feel John’s gaze on her, and out of the corner of her eye, Rook sees that he hasn’t yet moved from his spot by the fireplace. 

“There’s no power,” he supplies helpfully, even as she flicks the light switch next to the kitchen doorway up and down. “No water, either, though the former occupants were kind enough to keep some bottled water in the fridge.”

As thirsty and as famished as she is, the only thing she can think about is getting warm. Her clothes are sticking to her skin, chaffing in places she didn’t think could chafe. Rook turns to John, her damp curls stuck to her neck, and gestures at him with her chin. 

“The dry clothes. Were there more?” 

John nods, eyeing her sodden jacket.

“In the back bedroom,” he says. “There are a few drawers. You may find something that fits.”

She’s halfway to the bedroom before he even finishes his sentence, shedding her layers as she goes - her coat first, which she splays across the floor in front of the fire, then her shoes. When she hears him snicker, Rook looks up.

“What?”

“Nice socks.”

She’d forgotten about those. Her favorite pair, shin height with cat ears and a little nose. The surefire way to brighten a bleary, grey day - that had been her thought process as she’d tugged them on that morning, smiling at the printed whiskers. 

Now they’re soaked, probably ruined, and the center of her enemy’s amusement.

Rook balls one up and chucks it at his head.

—

There’s only one bed. 

It’s the first thing she notices as she steps into the bedroom at the back of the cabin, 

She doesn’t find any pants, but she does find a shirt she could fit inside of three times over. It’s grey and ratty, with the words ‘Testicle Festival’ plastered on the front in faded writing. Beggars can’t be choosers; Rook shrugs it over her head and curls into it. The hem sits just past her knees - her very own oversized nightie - and despite the lack of power or electric heat in the cabin, it makes her feel warm. 

There’s a fur throw tossed over a rocking chair in the corner of the room, and Rook snatches it up before she leaves the room. 

“That bed?” she calls, wandering out into the living area to find John seated on the rickety old couch, “It’s mine. Part of the ceasefire terms.”

The look he fixes her with is toxic, and it makes her unreasonably pleased with herself. 

Rook can feel his eyes on her as she crouches in front of the fire, holding out her hands to leech the heat from the flames. It’s positively heavenly; this cabin may not have running water or functioning electricity, but the warmth of the raging fire mixed with the blessedly dry clothing makes her feel like she could take on the world.

“You’re bleeding.” 

“Hm?”

The warmth is so inviting that she barely hears him as he points out the splotch of blood on her shoulder. Rook twists, body aching, and peers at the bloodstain, tugging at the shirt to get a better look. She’s bleeding, alright, and she’s suddenly more aware of her injuries than she ever was as she trudged through the snow. 

“Shit,” she mutters. So I am. “Is there a first aid kit around here?”

Springs creak as John shifts himself off the couch, his feet gentle against the floor as he pads down the hallway towards what Rook assumes is the bathroom. While she waits, she presses a finger against the spot of blood. It’s wet, fresh, and the pain that follows her own touch makes the corners of her eyes burn with unshed tears. 

A hand on her shoulder brings her back to herself, and she ducks away from the touch. John stands over her, a medkit in one hand and the other clutching the empty spot where she once sat, looking at her curiously.

“What the hell?” Rook frowns, staring at the offending hand like he might just use it to strangle her. When he reaches out for her again, she smacks him away, a noise of discontent tumbling from between her lips. “Quit it!”

“Stay put.”

“What, and let you carve me up like a piece of meat? I’ll pass.”

“I think you’ve done a decent job of that on your own, my dear,” John says. Through the haze of pain, Rook is surprised to find that he sounds genuinely concerned. “Let me help you.”

It’s not a tough call to make - she can’t reach the wound on her back, and she’s pretty sure John isn’t going to make an example of her here. With nobody to show his handiwork to but her, Rook can’t imagine he’s interested in carving her sins into her skin.

Hesitantly, Rook lets him tug the shirt up over her head. His fingers nudge the still-wet band of her bra down a little, giving him better access to whatever cuts and scrapes litter her back. 

“It’s a wonder you’re not dead, yet,” John mutters. “How did you manage this?”

The first brush of an alcohol swab along an open wound rips a hiss from her lungs. Rook jerks from John’s grasp and whines at the pain. 

“Car accident,” she bites out, trying not to twist as he holds her in place. The warmth of his skin against her battered back is an odd mix of pleasant and disquieting. “Ruined my favorite one, too.”

“Better than ruining you,” John muses, though he seems more focused on dressing her wounds than the words that leave his mouth.

The comment makes her cheeks flame. Rook thinks she’ll have to catalogue that particular response for later, so she can work on never reacting quite that strongly again. 

It’s quiet as John works, but Rook’s thoughts swirl around in her head like a storm. Her parents, thousands of miles away and across an ocean - do they think of her as often as she thinks of them? She misses them ferociously, wishes she were there with them now in her homeland instead of sprawled in front of a fire with a man she’s considered a monster playing surgeon on her open wounds. 

That’s another thought that nags at the edges of her consciousness. Why is he helping her?

“Why are you doing this?”

For a while, he doesn’t speak. His hands are unexpectedly gentle as they work along her midsection, washing away spots of blood and tracing over battered skin. The image is oddly dissonant coming from him; Rook remembers being duct-taped to a swivel chair in a room that was tangy with the smell of blood. She remembers the eerie red lighting, the terror in Joey’s eyes as John had entered the room, the manic expression he’d held as he leaned over her with a tattoo gun clasped tightly between his fingers.

She didn’t think those same hands could be capable of kindness.

“You’re hurt,” he says eventually, eyes drifting to her face. He’s just finished taping a thin piece of gauze to the wound in her side, stark white against the bruising just starting to settle in beyond it. “Hardly fair to kick the enemy when she’s down, hm?”

“Fair?” Rook forces herself not to jerk away as John wipes at the gash in her shoulder with the damp cloth. “When have you ever been interested in being fair?”

For what feels like a lifetime, John is quiet. She feels him work at her wounds, hears the sounds of bandages crinkling as he unwraps them and his murmured apologies when she hisses as he presses them to her broken skin. 

“Your definition of ‘fair’ is different than the Project’s.” 

Understatement of the year, Rook thinks. John keeps speaking. 

“You deserve to be saved,” he says softly. Fingers brush against her jaw and tilt it up, until John has her chin clasped between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re strong, smart, capable - everything we’ll need when the Collapse comes. I’m trying to save you, Deputy. I can’t very well do that with you frozen in a ditch somewhere.”

Rook jolts as his fingers skitter over what must be a cut on her forehead. It stings, but it’s still more tolerable than being the recipient of the intensity of John’s stare. A feeling she can’t quite place starts in her chest, fluttering along to the beat of her heart and spreading out toward her fingertips.

His sentiment is skewed, Rook knows, but a far-off part of her thinks that as wrong as it is, it’s also kind of sweet. 

Without thinking about it, she reaches forward to grab John’s wrist. He’s been in the cabin longer than she has, moving around and getting his blood flowing, and his skin is warm where her fingers graze it.

“Thank you,” Rook murmurs, voice low and earnest. “I—thank you.”

John stares at her a moment. His gaze wanders from her eyes to where her fingers curl around his wrist and back again.

“Careful, Deputy,” he says eventually, twisting in her grip just enough so he can grab her hand. “If I didn’t know any better, I might think you’ve grown fond of me.”

The heat fades from her hand as John lets her go, turning toward the living room. 

Eden’s Gate is manipulative, wrong, dangerous. John, his brothers and his sister, their followers - at best, they’re disillusioned believers feeding on the tragedy they hear and see in the world. At worst, they know exactly what it is they’re doing. At worst, they’re hiding their horrors under the guise of a religion that claims to save.

Eventually, she relents.

“We can share the bed,” Rook says tentatively. John looks up at her curiously, one of the fur throws still clutched in his hands as he stands next to the sofa. “It’s probably better that way.” 

The grin he gives her is uncannily sharp. It’s predatory; all teeth and curled lips, compensation for his brief moment of vulnerability, and it makes her wonder if she’s just made a terrible misstep. He looks thrilled, like he’s never been offered a more lucrative deal in his life. Slowly, that awful, smug smile crawls back into place.

“Change of heart, darling?”

“Shut up,” she scowls, regretting every nice thing she’s ever said to him. “We can both use the body heat, that’s all.”

He follows her down the hall, past their still-burning fire and into the bedroom.

“This,” Rook says sternly, patting out a thin strip of space in the middle of the bed, “is the demilitarized zone. Stay out. Don’t get any ideas.”

When she looks up, John is standing at the edge of the bed, eyes dancing with what looks like amusement. A fluttering starts low in her stomach, and Rook has to swallow the feeling down. She tenses her shoulders and focuses on the stab of pain that radiates from her wound – a distraction from the nervous energy she feels as John stares at her.

“You have my word,” he agrees, placing his hand over his heart. “Scout’s honor.”

Rook can’t help the way her eyes roll back into her head. She tugs the blankets down and slips into the bed, curling on her side. The covers offer a warmth she’s been missing since the minute she stepped out of her ruined car, and as she pulls them up to her ears, she feels safer than she has in hours. 

Next to her, the bed sinks as John slides in next to her. 

It’s a dark night. Rook has her back to the window, but she can tell the moon is only a sliver in the sky based on the depth of the shadows in the bedroom. Nights like this, she wishes she could be outside, staring up at the inky black sky and the stars that lie across it.

Their skin doesn’t touch, not with Rook’s mandated safe-space between them, but she can still feel the heat that John’s body generates as he lies next to her. Something about it is comforting - she doesn’t remember the last time she was this close to somebody. 

The bed shakes as John jostles around next to her. A curious part of Rook wonders if he’s always like this – always moving, always trying to settle himself, always looking for comfort.

“Tell me something, Deputy.”

John’s voice startles her. She rolls over to find him on his back, gazing up at the wooden boards that make up the ceiling. Talking to him as she lays next to him in bed seems too intimate, too close; it’s not something she’d planned to spend her evening doing.

“It’s late. We should sleep.”

A weak effort to shut him down, Rook learns. A smile quirks his face, and he huffs out a sound that might be a laugh. 

“Humour me,” he murmurs. “How did you end up in Montana?”

Rook settles on her back next to him, perplexed by the question. Is this a new game he’s playing? Is this another tactic to play with her emotions? She tugs the blankets higher, curling them just under her chin. The thought of looking John in the eyes has her skin itching, so she keeps her gaze firmly on the ceiling.

“My parents are from Fyvie, Scotland,” she says. Her voice is quiet, but it sounds loud and echoey as it travels through the room. “My mother got a job teaching, so she and my father moved here before I was born. I grew up in Helena.”

Silence settles over the room. Rook finds it deafening, almost unbearable, and the nervous energy settling in her chest implores her to speak to fill the void.

“What about you?”

The words come so suddenly, so unbidden, that Rook almost doesn’t realize she’s said them until John turns his head towards her. 

“I—” John starts, then cuts himself off suddenly. A few quiet seconds pass before he speaks again. “I followed Joseph.”

“I read his book.”

She knows her voice is tentative. She’s read the Book of Joseph – know thy enemy, and all that – and the stories of John’s childhood had all but gutted her. If it’s all true, then it explains a lot. If it’s a carefully crafted lie, well – the Seeds were never very trustworthy to begin with. 

“Then you know most of the story already,” John says easily, as if it isn’t a story filled with horrors. “Joseph found me in Atlanta, a shell of the boy he once knew, and rescued me. The life I was living before he found me…it was shameful. I was shameful. But Joseph, he looked past it. He saved me.”

The room is silent, save for the gentle noise of their mingled breathing. Outside, the wind has died down. The cabin no longer creaks under the pressure of snow squalls and ice pellets, doesn’t ache quite as much with the vestiges of the cold outdoors. Next to John, Rook is warm and comfortable despite the cuts and the bruises. 

“When my brothers and I found each other again, it was like all the broken pieces had finally settled into place. My sins, my addictions - they were my weaknesses, but they served a purpose. They helped put my family back together. After twenty years apart, we were suddenly back together, eating the wrong kind of soup in the dining room of my apartment, reminiscing about the night our biological father was arrested. All of those things brought me here.”

It’s not a story Rook expected. It makes the empath in her ache, makes her want to soothe this man who’s done nothing but torture her and her friends. It makes him a human, flesh and blood, for the very first time.

“You know, Deputy,” John muses, “I think you might be the first person I’ve ever told that story to.”

Rook’s heart stutters uneasily in her chest, an unexpected reaction to the vulnerability in his words, and she rolls her head to the side. John’s jaw is tight and tense, and she can almost feel the uncertainty that seems to roll off him.

Tentatively, she slides her arm toward him under the covers, past the safety net of space, and takes his hand. John freezes, like her touch borders on painful, then relaxes into her hold, squeezing her hand tightly. His skin is warm and soft where their fingers lace together.

Time seems to pass slowly the longer they lay there together. Dim light, just the light of those handfuls of stars, filters through the window. In the corner of her eye, Rook can map the profile of John’s face.

“You’re full of surprises, Baptist,” Rook murmurs sleepily. “Didn’t think you knew how to be kind.”

It’s so quiet that she thinks John may not have heard her, that he may have finally, mercifully fallen asleep. Waves of exhaustion lap at the edges of her consciousness, begging her to give in and rest. 

If he has anything else to say, Rook doesn’t hear it. Their hands still linked together, she lets herself drift away. 

—

Rook wakes, eyes heavy with the last dregs of sleep, and very nearly forgets where she is.

It takes longer than she’d like to realize that she’s not in her homey apartment above the Spread Eagle. There are no colourful pillows in this bed, no throw tossed over the back of the chair in the corner. The shadows don’t fall across the hardwood floor in quite the same way.

She’s warm in a way she didn’t think possible. It melts into her clothes from the body pressed against her, seeps into her bones at all the junctures where they touch, comforts in a way that’s unfamiliar but not at all wrong. 

Jagged lines of scarred lettering greet her as she blinks the sleep from her eyes. Sloth, it reads, a sin carved into flesh in a desperate attempt at absolution. The realization that this is John Seed she’s curled against, that he has his arms draped over her and her head tucked beneath his chin, doesn’t terrify her the way she thinks it should. 

He looks content. That’s the only word she can use to describe him as she follows the lines and scars of his body, the inky black marks of his tattoos that tell more of a story than any book ever could. John’s face is slack, relaxed, and for a moment Rook thinks she looks more like the boy she read about in the Book of Joseph than she ever thought possible. He’s soft, gentle; he’s not the monster the Valley has made him out to be. Not in this moment. 

Rook reaches out to drag the tip of a finger across each letter. She curls the pad of it around the ‘s’, scrapes the edge of her nail down the ‘l’, feels the bumpy surface of the ‘o’, the ‘t’, the ‘h’. 

Her mind is hazy, but she knows she has to get up. People will be looking for her, and if they find her wrecked car, the Resistance will send out the cavalry. This isn’t the place she wants to be when Sharky shows up wielding a flamethrower. 

Tentatively, hesitantly, she slides out from John’s embrace. His arm is loose around her, slack with sleep, and she knows he won’t wake as she slips out of bed and stands next to him. Rook can see into the hallway, sees her clothing spread out in front of the dying embers of the fire. With any luck, it’ll be more or less dry when she wanders out. With any luck, her socks won’t be destroyed. 

Sunlight filters in through the one window in the room. The warmth of John’s body is fading from her skin, but she thinks the worst of the cold is behind her. 

There’s a blue, fur throw crumpled into a ball on the floor next to the bed. Rook picks it up and shakes it out, then leans forward to drape it across John’s sleeping form. She gets close enough to brush her lips against his forehead.

Then, she’s gone. 

[naromoreau]

Snowed in

This one is for @seedsplease, you asked me for soft nsfw in front of the fire place at the Ranch. I hope you like how this turned up, because I don’t know where all the angst came from XD. Thank you! ________________________________________ Pairing: John Seed x Reader, John Seed x Deputy Raiting: NSFW You dragged the dead weight of the rifle slumping down your body, the muzzle carving a zigzag pattern on the fresh mud, and the strap digging a painful crease on the flesh of your shoulder. Maybe leaving everyone behind at Fall’s End wouldn’t be counted among your greatest decisions yet still you got what you wanted.

Striding under the heavy rain, your legs grumbled for the harsh treatment while the last rays of the winterly pale sun riddled through the foliage like through a sieve. The chill air seeped through your jacket, gnawing at your very bones, the freezing sensation magnified by your soaked clothes. If you could only find a fucking truck, before the drowsiness took over your brain, and even the voice in your head started to slur your panic.

The inclined path followed for a few yards carpeted by interspersed turfs. You lost your footing stepping into a divot, cursing between clicking teeth, until you spotted a wooden building greeting you in the distance. “Well, fuck me.” With no map and no GPS, you managed to land your ass at the front of Seed Ranch, the first place you wanted go, yet the last place it was good for you.

You hid a growl making your stealthy way around as much as your pained ankle allowed it, noticing that due to the unbearable cold all the guards had been removed. You dashed among crates and barrels while above you the now purple sky unleashed a cleansing fury, every drop of water drubbing in staccato over you, like under the direction of an overexcited conductor.

Your lungs fought to give you the air you needed, and well, perhaps it was time to actually rest for a bit. The flooded surface splashed under your boots as you sought an almost dry spot, and crouched in a secluded corner. Around you the rain turned into soft snow, delicate flakes carried by the wind, and you glanced at your nails. They were blue. It wasn’t that bad, you thought, as you forced your fingers to grip the flesh of your own arms and your teeth chattered uncontrollably, biting the tip of your tongue. The coppery flavor of your blood swamped in your mouth but the pain was almost nonexistent. The edges of your sight blurred into jagged black, before you catched faint, muffled footsteps approaching you. If you could only move your hand.

“My dear Deputy, what do I owe this honour?” John Seed ducked next to you before reaching a hand to touch your almost comatose body. “Shit, deputy, you’re freezing!” His voice tapped in your ear, the mocking tone completely gone and replaced by strained anguish as he got rid of his coat, putting it over you in a swift movement.

He lifted you from the ground, cradling you against his chest, protective hands grasping you hard. “It’s ok, my dear, everything is going to be alright,” he reassured you whispering into your ear, and the only thing you could do was shudder like a newborn pigeon.

Now he was almost running into the house, but his words still reached your words under a steady rhythm. “Hey, darling, hey!” he muttered as your conscience balanced at the edge of oblivion, “focus on my voice, don’t fall asleep Deputy, don’t!”

You tried, even if half your mind wanted to, just because it was him, and you’d go to great lengths to sour his life, but the desperation running on every word was a whiplash in your face. It must’ve been important.

“How do you get yourself in this kind of–” he trailed off, clutching you even tighter against him and you leaned into him. “It’s alright, sh, you’re safe now,” he said with a sense of finality.

You crossed the threshold of the house once you saw as an enemy fort, securely in his arms, and it irked you how good it felt. His spicy mint scent was one of the few things you were still able to recognize and it grounded you, every little wisp traveling to your haggard brain, reminding you who you were, who he was, even if you were still too weak to respond.

He placed you on the bearskin rug in front of the big fire at the center of the living room, tossing carelessly his soaked coat aside. Your entire body shuddered as he peeled the layers of sodden cloth out of your body.

“Listen to me, deputy, I’m not going to harm you,” he said taking off your boots and pulling down your jeans, “but you’ll die if I don’t get these off you,  you hear me?”

You locked eyes with him, and it striked you the deep concern etched in his brow, blue eyes surveying your face almost with pain. You lied naked on the rug in no time and he dashed off your side just to comeback ten seconds later carrying two magnificent wool blankets he placed over you. He was as soaked as you, and you lifted a dainty finger to point at him.

“John,” you finally said with a gruesome effort, “your clothes– wet–cold.”

He chuckled, grasping your hand. “My dear, you’re at the verge of dying yet you still worry about me, even though I haven’t treated you in the most gracious way.”

His hands made short work of his vest, and his shirt, and kneeled as he was next to you, you reached your fingers to trace the skein of tattoos and scars. The numbing cold was dissipating slowly, but now all you wanted to do was wrap your arms around him, to live again the fleeting moment when you were able to hear his heartbeat.

“Come,” you said, blinking slowly, “please, I’m cold.”

He looked at you as if he couldn’t believe your words, and quickly shuck off his trousers, sliding next to you under the blankets. He was warmer than you and between the strong fire at your back and the maddening heat in front of you, you finally felt a bit more alive.

You closed your arms around his body, pressing every inch of you to every inch of him, and he rubbed your arms and back, trying to diminish the shivers and goosebumps that flared on your skin. You tilted your head up, catching the blush on his cheeks, as your feet bumped against his shins and your muscles relaxed.

“Are you feeling better?,” he asked you with a wavering voice, and it only took you a roll of your hips to know why.

“Yes,” you said with the faintest of whispers, “but– I don’t– why are you doing this?”

He heaved a hard sigh, that mingled with yours, his arm possessively tugged around your waist. “I– don’t know, I don’t know really, maybe you’re waiting for this groundbreaking reason, but the truth is I don’t know.” He shifted in your arms, holding you even tighter. “Maybe is a sin, and it clouds my mind, but when I saw you there, dying out of cold, I told myself I couldn’t let that happen.”

“Because of Joseph?” you offered.

“No, no, no,” he said placing his chin on the crown of your head, “no, little bird, because of me. What if I told you, you changed something,” he grabbed your hand and placed it over his heart, “in here? You unburdened me, but I know I’m a sinner, and you’d never say–”

“Yes.” You gave your hips another roll and trapped his hard cock between your legs, his chest heaving with hitching breaths.

“Are- are you sure?” he gruffed, blue eyes delving deep into yours.

You kissed him as a whole answer, his tongue warring for dominance and you let him, your hips rocking with his rock hard cock rubbing between your folds. His mouth trailed down your neck, teeth nipping at your skin hard enough to bruise. He flipped you on your back and pinned down your wrists to the rug, your thighs clasping at his hard on.

“You really have no idea what you do to me, don’t you, sweetheart?” He whispered with a sliver of something wicked in his voice, and god in heaven, a gush of liquid trickled down the apex of your thighs.

A moaned escaped you, as he palmed one breast, diving down to catch your nipple in his mouth, his other hand stealing down your abdomen, his fingers trickling at your entrance and curling over your clit. “A little excited are we not?”

You wanted to respond, but your words were dulled by your whimpers, his voice soaking into your skin. He thrust forward, the friction of his dick against your clit, dragging small hums of pleasure out of your throat.

“Please, John,” you begged, your fingernails raking as he moved, pressing against you in all the right ways.

Your legs fell open, circling around his waist and now it was his time to gasp and groan as you closed your hand around his dick, to align him to your entrance just so. He devoured your lips as he slid slowly inside you, giving you time to adjust to every inch intruding in you. And you were certainly thankful for it, because he was by far the biggest you’d ever take. Your rough exhalations fanned against his neck and a growl tore from his throat unbidden the second he was fully inside you.

“My dear, you feel like heaven,” he grunted against your lips, now rocking his hips and you realized this was going to be a very short trip to the end line. Every ridge and vein in his cock stroked in all the right angles, his tip hitting against your sweet spot making you writhe and cry out with every thrust of his hips.

You were bracketed between his arms, his body arching against yours, and your legs closed tighter around him. You wanted him closer, wanted to trip over the line of your orgasm, grazing at it with every pump, with every assault of his cock to your cunt.

“Don’t fight it,” he mumbled, and it didn’t surprised you when your walls clenched around him, your back arching as the spark of white flared up behind your eyelids.

He kneeled between your thighs, hoisting your hips up and slammed every inch of that delicious dick inside you. “God, you feel good, so wet, so tight,” he breathed to the empty living room, “and just for me, my Deputy, my little bird.”

With a feral growl he came inside you, his body shaking apart until he finally collapsed on top of you.

He propped on one elbow, kissing every free spot in your face, tucking your hair behind your ear. “I didn’t save you for you to be bound to me by an obligation,” he said with a neutral tone but a possessive hand curled around you, fastening you to him, and you suspected that pushing him away would swiftly bring back the Inquisitor from deep within him. “You can leave if you want.”

It was really lucky that what you felt, was solid enough to keep yourself steady under those hypnotic blue eyes. “I want to stay, John, because of you, not because I’m bound to,” you said, reveling in the sensation of his come now dripping down your thighs. “I’m yours.”

He smiled giving you a sloppy kiss, all fervor and yearning, as through the window the flakes eddied down in the freezing wind.

[lexieheron]

Happy birthday to our sweet goat baby @seedsplease! I hope this day would be sunny and amazing for you honey, that you’ll surround yourself with people who love you and take care of you and make you feel great! 💖💖 Have fun babey Tia! 

We made this piece together with @naromoreau! Your Rook deserves some good smooches under YES sign 😊😉

[farcry5positivity]

I'd like to give some love to @seedsplease - she's incredible and kind and one of the first people in the fandom to welcome me. Plus, her writing is stunning!            

[outranks]

I KNOW I'VE ALREADY SAID IT BUT AHHHH HAPPY BIRTHDAY LAD, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR BEING SUCH AN AMAZING FRIEND AND AHH I'M SO GLAD I GOT TO KNOW YOU ♥ ♥ ♥ - tia

THANK YOU TIA!! for being the best person ive met in this fandom and making everything more enjoyable😭❤️❤️❤️❤️ idk if id still be here if we hadn’t started chatting every day and playing co op and sharing an entire braincell

[solesurvivorkat]

tumblr crushes challenge: where you post your own favorite blogs to spread positivity and get your amazing blogger-friends some more followers!

I was mentioned in a tag by @ton-of-bryks...

...which was surprising, b/c I know I'd liked your posts more than once, but I didn't know I'd caught your eye! Thank you - it definitely gave me a little lift! :-D <3

There's MANY blogs I follow, and many I enjoy... so if I don't mention you, please don't be offended and/or think you weren't good enough for a mention! I've been very busy this weekend and want to get some writing & FC5 gameplay in tonight (and I'm already very tired), so I'm gonna make this as quick as I can.

- @scorpio-skies = I would be very remiss to not mention you - not ONLY b/c you've been beyond amazing beta-ing my FO4 fanfic (and I would've been so lost w/o you thus far), but also b/c I always really enjoy the things you post! ❤

- @seedsplease = Started following you more recently, but I looooove reading the different FC5 stuff you post! The fics/ficlets are always awesome and I always really enjoy them!

- @teamhawkeye = No surprise here I'm sure, but your writing is some of my absolute FAVORITE to read, but I also love your drawings and your gameplay clips! Seriously - if you're into Far Cry 5, do NOT miss this blog!!!

- @the-dubstep-strawberry = Your FO4 fic is seriously so amazing, and I love talking with you! I always greatly enjoy our chats and you're such a sweetie! So glad you're my Tumblr buddy!

There are seriously many more people worth mentioning, but I'd be here all night! Just know that if I follow you or like your posts then I think you're awesome - and even if I don't, hit me up and I'd love to make more online buddies! And if any of you are ever on XBox Live & want to chat or anything: Katies XBoxName (...seriously, that's what it is, LOL). Feel free to say hi! :)

[martymcgee]

A variety of assortments.. Seeds please.. #mcgeehomegarden #seeds #seedsplease #donatedseeds #fortbraggca #fortbragglibrary #fortbraggbranchlibrary #fortbraggseedlibrary #seedlibrary (at Inglenook, California) https://www.instagram.com/p/BzFFb9ZFFgu/?igshid=1aizfw43kdl8y

[they-are-not-just-stories]

The part with the mother hen and John's rejected IKEA crib!! Ajksnshejd!! 😂😂😂😂

I loved this! Thank you!! ❤❤❤

Jacob headcanons for when the dep is having pregnancy symptoms? Love your writing bb!!! 😍😘💕

ahhh thank you so much

Warnings: Pregnancy

- Jacob will have noticed that something is off, even if he hasn’t quite connected the dots by the time Dep tells him. 

- Protective to a point. Of course he is naturally feeling protective and worried about the Deputy and all the things that could happen, but he’s well aware that they can take of themselves. Still, he is still classed as the protector of the Project, and will likely extend that to the Deputy; insisting that they stay with him at the Vet’s Centre, at least when they sleep. 

-The closer it gets to the Collapse, the more antsy he’s going to get. Every time there’s a storm or it’s cold night and the Deputy’s not with him, then he’s going to be pacing all around his office until it’s over; wondering whether they found shelter, wondering if they’re safe. 

- Is basically a mother hen when they leave him. Gives them a bag with supplies (oh, Dep already has supplies? No no, these are better supplies asdfghjkl), and gives them a carefully organised packed lunch, because he worries about them getting enough to eat. 

- Will insist that the Deputy should consider staying in his bunker, especially as the Collapse gets closer. He’s worried about them, and he knows he can offer the protection they’ll need during their pregnancy. When they finally agree, he’ll breathe a sigh of relief and sleep a little easier, knowing that it’s going to be okay. 

- Visits the Deputy during the day and tries to take them for a small walk - nothing too strenuous, but just enough to keep them getting some sunlight and away from the busy crowds in the Project. 

- If the Deputy tells him to back off - to stop being a mother hen - he will, even if it doesn’t stop his worrying. Again, he knows Dep is strong and capable of knowing themselves and their limits. 

- Will have a proper nursery being set up in his bunker, so his kids will have enough to help them learn and grow during the seven years following the Collapse. 

-Discusses baby names with the Deputy one evening when they’re curled up together in his bed. He’s not too keen on anything biblical - too many of those in the Project already - but he wouldn’t have any strong ‘no-go’ names aside from his parents’. 

- Probably builds the crib himself - despite John pouting in the corner with his rejected IKEA crib - and Jacob even lets Joseph come by and paint some flowers on the sides. John - despite still being a bit miffed over HIS crib being unneeded - begrudgingly joins in and helps paint some stars and clouds. 

- Jacob might be a bit worried, but he knows his baby is going to have a whole family to help look after them. Plus, it’s the kid of Jacob Seed and the Deputy. Jacob knows they’re going to be just fine.  

[chyrstis]

Fanfic Author’s Appreciation Day

If there’s one thing I’ll never be able to stop indulging in and enjoying, it’s fic. It’s a love letter to a series/game/show, and in other cases a much needed giant middle finger, and over the years I’ve been fortunate enough to read work by an almost staggering number of brilliant people.

Last year I was new to this little corner, and lucky enough to catch this day in time to send some love out. This year, I’d like to do the same, because there’s so many of you that I admire. So many that write, and write, and write about a variety of subjects, and in a variety of fandoms, and I hope you never stop creating, no matter what.

@writerofblocks​ @autumnyte​ @guileandgall @twistedsinews @siribear @kakumei​ @ofmanynames​ @thedivinemissema @joasakura @sharky-broshaw @amistrio​ @tommymillers @softmillers @foofygoldfish @redroci @shallow-gravy​ @ma-sulevin​ @narcis-the-monk @seedsplease @sneaky-apostate​ @finefeatheredgamer @outranks​ @painterofhorizons @geronimo-11​ @jackalopestride​ @solesurvivorkat @teamhawkeye @shellibisshe @somehow-saving-you​ @naromoreau @risenlucifer @tomexraider @raisinghellinotherworlds @ofravensandgenesis @starsandskies @marymay-fairgrave @faithchel @unclefungusthegoat @smithandrogers @chazz-anova @ja-crispea @gracethornwood @hawkfurze @words-and-seeds​ @weekend-writer​ @englass @shelliechen @strafethesesinners @mackie-hattwie @pd3​ @nightwingshero @spicevalleys @celesteennui @scarlettkat86​ @zacklover24​ @fuckin-nancy @fluttyseed @theoriginalladya @thessalian @pagerunner-j and a ton of other authors that I know don’t frequent here as much as they used to, but your work’ll always have a special place in my heart. I mean that 100%.

You all are the reason why I’ll burn through an entire fic at 1-2 AM with no regrets. Seriously, so many of you churn out fic after fic of incredible quality, whether it’s a drabble, a one-shot, or a long-fic (along with extensive headcanons that would be beautiful fics in their own right), and I can’t thank you enough for putting yourselves out there and sharing each and every one with us. <3,

[minilev]

Tagged by @vvitchofhemwick and @denerims (thank you bbs! 💜💜💜)

To do Fan Fiction Tropes Tier List Maker

Tagging @teamhawkeye @starsandskies @seedlingsinner @spicevalleys @theknifegame @curodole @xbaebsae @cryptcombat @refinedstorage @oktraoktra @fadedjacket @trustymikh @sagarvo @softpedropascal @rush-me-thomas @bintangy @outranks @naromoreau @roboscorpions @oliviawildesjawline @seedsplease @words-and-seeds @josephseeds-rosary @another-bryk-in-the-wall and you ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

[another-bryk-in-the-wall]

Last Line Meme

Tagged by @josephseeds-rosary

Tagging @seedlingsinner @seedsplease @oh-the-bliss @geronimo-11 :3c

This is from my Eddie Gluskin x f!reader AU

“Come here?”, he offered, taking more and more steps to gain her trust after six months. She obeyed to his wish, moving into his arms into his comfortable warmth. Eddie was a big man and felt like as if he had a built in radiator.  But she didn’t mind as she was cold all the time.

Thank you for tagging me xoxo

[nightwingshero]

So, yikes! This year has been one of the toughest I’ve had, if I’m being honest. I haven’t been on Tumblr very long, and I joined because of the Batman fandom. But then I started playing Far Cry 5 a few months ago, and that changed. I found a lot of talented and amazing people in this fandom, with a few others outside of it. If I don’t talk to you, it’s only because I’m too shy to reach out (I’m not good at making friends and some of you are so big in the fandom, it’s intimidating 😬 sorry!) but I appreciate and love all of you! I love seeing your content and I always get excited when you show up on my dash. You guys helped me feel welcome and even if we aren’t mutuals, I’m very glad I got the chance to meet such awesome people! 💖💖💖

@water-writings @racheljessopsfaith @deputycolt @johnathot-seed @seedlingsinner @chazz-anova @finefeatheredfarcryplayer @wolfnotadevil @seedsplease @princess-underthemountain @probsjosh @josephseeds-rosary @simonxriley @xbaebsae @spicevalleys @glowwormsmith @sharky-broshaw @pabstbeerpussy @oliviawildesjawline @idontgiveaflyinggrayson69 @mel-eficent-eightyeight @johnsrevelation @fluttyseed

Thank you all for everything I wish you the absolute best in this new year, guys! 💖💖💖💖

[words-and-seeds]

WIP Sunday

Tagged by @sharky-broshaw

Tagging: @teamhawkeye @seedlingsinner @seedsplease @englass @casino-lights and anyone else who wants to do it.

Three days later, April had decided that she preferred Jacob Seed comatose. The drugs had slowly started to work their way out of his system, and since then, he had been fighting her every step of the way, even if he couldn’t stand on his own without falling. He had even tried to check himself out at one point.

“As thrilling as the sight of your bare ass is, I’m going to have to ask you to get back into your bed, Jacob.”

The glare he sent her way made April check her eyebrows - she was actually afraid they might have been singed off.