#survivor fiction writers

[defire]

As someone with a few years experience in martial arts with sparring, I would like to explain some

Realistic reactions to being struck

Punched in the gut:

yelp of pain--like "ah!" And then a groan like "ohh" as the nausea hits

Curl protectively over their gut

Arms out to stop any incoming punches

After expelling air from the impact, they may not be able to breathe in. They may just lose some of their wind, or all of it.

If whumpee is trained (or used to it!) they may know to breathe out a little on impact, softening the blow and reducing the amount of air they lose

It hurts, so victim is going to be at least grimacing and guarding their stomach

Losing your wind is disorienting and panic-inducing, even for someone with training

A hard enough punch may be enough to drop whumpee, especially if: they are skinny (less padding), their body is trying to conserve oxygen (like they lost ALL their wind at once), they are panicked/outmatched (to protect themselves), or they're going to puke

Puking can also happen a bit afterward

[ak-harper-loves-fiction]

"After he cooled down from his fit of rage, he acted like my best friend. I forgave him. Somehow, I forgave him."

-A.K. Harper

[gladiatorcunt]

han solo wants what atton rand has

[1000headbash]

Thin walls. - Anji (100headbash) Jan. 25th 2025

[SUNDAY NOV 2018]

I’ve never paid much attention to the walls in this building.

Thin walls, people say, but walls are walls. They’re meant to separate spaces, lives, sounds. What difference does it make if you hear something through them? It’s just a noise. The kind of noise you get used to. A muffled argument on the other side. A door slammed. Shuffling footsteps. Nothing worth mentioning.

But lately, the noise next door has been… different. I can hear the voices, clearer now, sharper, more jagged. Nathan and Martha. Or maybe it’s just Nathan. You can always tell when it’s him.

His voice cuts through everything like a knife slicing the air between us. Not that he ever means to, but it’s how it is. The walls. They’re so thin you know? So thin. I don’t know why it never bothered me before, why it didn’t sink in, but it does now. It feels like I’m suffocating in here listening to it. Listening to them. And I’m caught in the middle.

Martha. I don’t even know her well, not really. Just an occasional wave in the hallway. Maybe a quick “hello” when we’re passing. But the walls will carry her frustration. Her anger. Her screams. Nathan, though, his voice has a particular edge. It’s colder. Always colder than hers.

It doesn’t make sense to me.

I wonder, does she want to leave him? Or is she just stuck? Does she even have a choice? Does anyone? I can feel myself pressing my palms to the walls sometimes, like if I just press harder, I can make the sound stop or push it away. But it doesn’t go away. It’s like the house just breathes it in and out with me, and all I can do is exist next to it, a quiet witness to their agony.

It’s 2 AM I think, when the first argument erupts, loud enough to fill my whole room, making my skin crawl. Martha’s voice is quiet at first—she’s trying to reason with him, but she never wins. Not against Nathan. He’s a hurricane in a room full of glass. I can hear the glass shattering in his words.

“You don’t understand. You never understand,” he shouts, his voice bellowing, not asking yet just demanding. She tries to talk, tries to calm him down, but it never works. He doesn’t listen. He doesn’t hear her. And she—Martha—she’s just… so quiet.

I tried to keep my comments to myself but all I am is an outsider of someone else’s lives. I should say something, though, I know I should mind my business and get out of it.

Before I could even leave a muffled thud can be heard. A pause. The sudden, sharp crack of something against the wall, then silence. I lean in, ear pressed to the cracked paint, hoping it’s nothing. Hoping it’s just the furniture shifting. But it’s not.

The shouting comes back, louder now, the crack becoming a rhythm in the night. It’s been this way for days now, maybe longer, but I haven’t counted.

Time doesn’t matter when the walls are so thin. They stretch out, long and narrow, and sometimes the walls feel closer together than they should. The arguments bleed through the plaster, the dust, the silence between one breath and the next. It’s exhausting.

[TUESDAY NOV 2018]

The days blur. I try to ignore it, but how could you? Every time I walk past their door, the echoes of their fights follow me. I see Martha in the hallway once, looking smaller than usual, her arms wrapped tight around herself. I catch her eyes and she looks away, but I say,

“Martha, hey. How you doing?” I don’t know why I ask. Maybe I just want to know if she’s real. If she’s more than just the voice in the walls.

She hesitates. It’s a second. Maybe less. Then she looks back at me, smiles—half-smiles—and says, “I’m fine. Just tired. You know how it is.”

She says it like a mantra. It’s always the same. Always the same words. Fine. Always fine. Her eyes tell a different story. Something’s wrong, I can see it. But I don’t say anything more. I don’t press it. What can I say? What good would it do? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The walls wouldn’t hear me anyway.

Days go on. The shouting intensifies, gets sharper, faster. There’s more crashing now. Dishes breaking. Something heavy hitting the floor. I hear the kids crying. Their sobs are small, helpless. The walls feel thinner now. Maybe I’m imagining it, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the pressure. It doesn’t matter. All I know is that I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t just stay here listening to the madness. To the destruction.

[THURSDAY NOV 2018]

I can’t. I’m awake again. The arguing’s louder this time. I don’t know if it’s Nathan this time. Maybe it’s both of them. Maybe the kids too. The walls feel hot, like they’re closing in on me, and I can’t breathe. I can’t. It’s suffocating. I hear Martha’s voice rising, softer now, fragile, but still trying to hold on. And Nathan? Nathan’s a wave crashing on rocks, roaring over everything. The walls start to feel like they’re shaking. The apartment vibrates, the sounds of destruction now echoing like hollow thunder in the space between us.

I hear Martha yell something I can’t quite make out, but it sounds like “Don’t…” and then a sharp silence. Then—thud. Another thud. This time, something different. Something heavier. A cry from one of the kids. More shuffling. More anger. More slamming. The walls are screaming at me, vibrating with the force of what I can’t see. I think of knocking. Just knocking on their door. But I don’t. I can’t. What would I even say? What could I possibly say? I know what it would be: “I hear you.”

But it’s not that simple. Is it?

Martha’s sobbing now. It’s soft. It’s broken. And it’s in the walls too, right here with me, pressing in from all sides. I don’t know what to do with it. So I stay. I listen. I wait. For something to stop.

And then, in the stillness, after everything has collapsed into quiet, the sound of children’s cries fills the space. Loud. Loud enough to split the night in two. They don’t stop. I can’t think. I can’t think about the walls anymore, about what they mean. About what they hide. I don’t know why the walls are still standing. I don’t know how. I don’t know how long I can keep pretending they’re just walls.

[…]

I’m still awake, still listening. Watching the shadows stretch out across the floor. The clock ticks. But nothing matters. The walls are too thin and they know everything.

—————

The arguments had escalated, louder, more violent, more desperate. The cries of the children pierced the walls like a physical assault and I couldn’t pretend I didn’t hear it anymore. Not when it felt like I was being crushed under the weight of it. Not when I could no longer ignore what was happening next door.

The final straw came one night when the shouting turned into slamming—a door, a wall, furniture—something breaking. A voice yelling obscenities, followed by a thud, then silence. And the kids cries, mixed with the sounds of something far darker now, too muffled to make out yet clear enough to send a cold shiver down my spine.

I picked up my phone.

My hands trembled as I dialed. The words came out sharp, more urgent than I meant them to be. “There’s domestic violence. I don’t know exactly what’s happening, but I can hear kids crying, and it sounds like someone’s getting hurt.”

I didn’t say Nathan’s name, I didn’t have to. The dispatcher knew what I meant almost immediately. Did they knew about this before?

The sirens came loud and bright, cutting through the night air. I stayed inside, pressing my ear against the wall, listening.

I don’t know what I expected—maybe some miracle where it all ended peacefully—but it didn’t. There was shouting, more shouting, then the unmistakable sound of cuffs clicking into place. Nathan. I heard him protesting, his voice full of bluster, but the officers were relentless. They arrested him.

The kids’ cries were still there but softer now. They didn’t stop, but they faded into the background as the noise from the hallway—the shuffling of footsteps, the creak of the door—seemed to swallow them whole.

Minutes passed then the door opened, and there she was—Martha, standing in the hallway with her eyes wide, her hands trembling at her sides. She was staring at the floor, not looking at me, as if the weight of the world had collapsed on her shoulders. The image of her so fragile shook me more than I could admit.

Her shoulders jerked up when she saw me with a startled expression, and she met my eyes for the first time. The look in her eyes was raw, pained, so… Wmpty. She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached for the doorframe, her fingers scraping along the wood holding herself up, as though she was afraid to let go.

“I called the cops,” I said. “He’s gone. They’re taking him in.”

She nodded, but she didn’t speak. Just… nodded. And for a long time neither of us moved.

The days that followed were strange, suspended in a quiet haze. Martha didn’t talk much at first. The children were taken to stay with relatives, but she didn’t go with them. She stayed in the apartment wandering from room to room, as though the walls had become unfamiliar to her like she didn’t know where she belonged anymore.

I tried to help but it wasn’t simple. It wasn’t enough to just say, “You’re safe now.”

The trauma of it all was buried deep in her eyes in her every movement.

I could see the weight of the years on her even in the smallest gestures. Her hands still shook even when she tried to steady them.

She started therapy. Slowly, tentatively, I helped her find a routine. I drove her to appointments. Sometimes, I just sat with her, letting her talk if she wanted to. Letting her stay silent if she needed to.

It took time. It took more than time—it took trust. It took years.

…

…

Eventually the trembling stopped. The silence—that painful kind of silence, began to soften. She smiled again, though it was different.

Softer. Not the nervous, forced smile I used to see, but something more honest.

The way she held herself had changed too—stronger, more grounded, less fragile. The walls between us, the ones that had once separated us as strangers had come down. Not all at once, but piece by piece, as we both learned to trust each other again.

I think I should’ve called the cops sooner when I had the chance.

[ardenla]

Book of the apocalypse - Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Farren - Book of the apocalypse

(This chapter has a different protagonist)

TW: Gore, psychological horror, spiders, depressing theme's

Word count: 1111

First chapter:

"Book of the apocalypse"

What is an apocalypse?

The dictionary will probably tell you something like:

Apocalypse

The complete destruction of the world or an event involving destruction or damage on a catastrophic scale.

Movies will probably talk mostly about zombie apocalypses in which the world has been taken over by flesh eating monsters.

But then I wonder...

Does there exist something like a quiet apocalypse?

Perhaps a personal apocalypse?

One in which life as we know it is destroyed for maybe even a single person.

Or perhaps it is the silent self-destruction of the world itself.

Slowly killing itself, wrapping itself in plastic until breathing becomes impossible.

Willingly suffocating itself.

Because it had always wished for death.

For silence.

For peace.

For the end.

For now you may call me Farren.

I believe that the world I live in is one of a silent apocalypse.

One in which humanity itself decides to extinguish their own flame.

A mind destroying apocalypse.

All the while acting as if nothing is wrong and everything is going great.

And perhaps it really does make some people happy.

Perhaps they want to see the end... and they might want to see it really soon.

My world is one of constant loneliness.

I'm surrounded by many people.

They walk past me without even batting an eye.

Well it's not like I am the one paying attention to them.

No, I'm just like them.

Isolated.

Alone.

Uncaring.

A cog in a machine that's killing itself off joyfully.

This story is about the apocalypse during a time of computers.

An apocalypse so silent no one notices.

And even those that do, try to ignore it.

To be born in a time like this truly seems unfair.

After all, I live in a world in which doing something else is seen as weird, insane or wrong.

Well then again, it's not like I care that much either.

I'm not brave, nor smart.

And rebelliousness is something that can be seen as the polar opposite of me.

Just like most, I work in this society like an ant.

An ant who does nothing else but what it's told.

There are moments though, moments in which I truly regret it all.

My life choices, my weaknesses, my birth.

If I had done this differently, then maybe I would have had a better position at my job.

Maybe if I had been less shy I could have made friends who would stay with me.

Maybe if I hadn't been born, the world wouldn't be this insufferable.

Well nothing I can change about it now, I too am stuck in my own personal bubble.

A friendless, lowly bubble.

Yet somehow still desperate enough to keep on surviving.

The sudden sound of my alarm clock awakens me from my daydreams.

Crap! If only I had paid better attention to the time, I might have finished more...

Well, again, nothing to be done about it.

I guess I just have to work harder tomorrow.

"Hey Farren!" A loud voice that immediately gives me shivers comes from behind me.

It's the manager of my floor.

Carefully I turn around, whilst trying to hide my trembling hand.

"Y-yes?"

Shit, I screwed up already.

"It's 'yes sir', for you."

Yes, he's pissed.

"Sorry s-sir."

He looks down at me almost like he sees before him not a human being, but instead a cockroach.

Or perhaps more something like dog poop.

Well, anyway, he doesn't try to hide the look of disgust on his face as he speaks to me, even keeping his distance to protect himself against the smell of the dog poop or the moving cockroach.

"You should know what this is going to be about."

His eyes stare threateningly into mine.

"Is this about yesterday, or..."

Honestly I have no clue, but it's better to guess than to admit it with him.

"Not just yesterday, lately Farren, lately."

"I should work faster...?"

God, I'm hopeless, especially now that fear has taken a hold of me.

Desperately I seek for an answer around me, while trying to avoid eye-contact.

"Like hell! You've been so slow lately, just what is your problem?!"

Thank God I guessed right.

"I-" I try, but he doesn't let me finish.

"No excuses, you should try to be more like Kathan. Great guy always on time at work and with his work."

"Kathan the intern?"

"So what, he does this a thousand times more efficiently than you."

Kathan is our unpaid intern, that's what I want to say followed by: of course he is better, because he literally works for free. But luckily I'm able to hold my tongue at the right time.

"I will do so, sir." I reply automatically, but it doesn't seem good enough for him.

He's always like this, belittling those he sees as lesser than him.

Makes me wonder if he talks like this to his wife and kids too.

"You know, I let you stay out of the goodness of my heart, even though you're older than most people I hire."

Bullshit, hearing that coming out of the mouth of a man at least twice my age sounds really weird.

Old? Yeah, to a teenager. I'm in my twenties, the manager is in his forties or fifties.

He just doesn't like me because I get paid almost as much as him, more than a sixteen-year old.

Also, he wasn't the person who hired me. It was our old CEO, who did care.

The floor manager continues his rant: "If you keep going like this, I will have no choice but to fire you."

I nod: "Yes sir, I understand."

Perhaps it's time for me to start looking for another job again.

Sucks, I've been working here for a couple of years now and even though the manager sucks, other things are okay.

Well...

I've avoided the bullying for now...

It's really stupid, when you enter the adult world, you learn how childish people can really be.

After his rant is finally finished, he lets me leave.

Kathan seems to have seen it all and wants to walk over to me, but I act as if I didn't notice and hurry out of the building.

I don't want to be pitied.

Exhausted, I take the train back home to my apartment.

It's a bit run-down, the building, but at least I have a place to sleep, shower and cook.

Even if all is just in two small rooms.

As I look outside I can see the dreary cityscape, reminding me how hopeless this world really is.

I drop myself on the couch (that's also my bed) and turn on the tv.

I watch video after video, mindlessly, not listening to anything.

Because in truth it really is just background noise to make my brain stop thinking unwanted thoughts.

After a while I look at the clock and notice that it's almost one in the morning.

I turn off the tv and fall asleep.

The loud noise of my morning alarm wakes me up again and I'm reminded that I haven't eaten since yesterday lunch.

Quickly I take a soda from the fridge and drink it.

The chance of me being late to work today is pretty high, so I rush out of the building without looking back.

[status-quo-book]

New Status Quo Chapter!

Chapter 6: Doors

Finally returning home from the surface, Phylum begins to notice cracks forming throughout his sheltered life. What was he running from?

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61109254/chapters/158679343

[baddieladdie]

FO4 Companions react to Sole's chem addiction

@falloutchicken Alright! Finished it~ Sorry it's a little long, I had an idea for a different format style and I ran with it - but I love how it turned out <3

tw: addiction, drugs, trauma, chem-use as an addiction

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

While trading at the Diamond City market, the Sole Survivor of vault 111 overheard folks whispering over their steaming noodle bowls about an abandoned shopping center filled with valuable loot. The only barrier between them and the score of a lifetime were the supermutants inside. The gossiping locals didn’t have the fire power for such an altercation, but the sole survivor did. And they certainly would not be going alone.

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

Selecting your companion:

Cait: I’ll come, but just don’t make me wear anything stupid

Curie: “Oh! Shopping!” She mused delightfully, her voice ringing with pleasure.

Codsworth: How delightful, mum! I do so miss shopping expeditions and, please pardon my saying, but your jumpsuit is looking rather drab. Off we go, miss!

Deacon: Sounds like my kind of dig! I could always use some new disguises.

McCready (sarcastically): Oh, we better hurry. I hear clothes practically fly off the shelves with their discounts.

Piper: Jesus, Blue. Sounds dangerous. Something wrong with the clothes you already have?

Preston: Absolutely, General. I wouldn’t want you facing this on your own.

Hancock: *heh* Thought you’d never ask. Let’s get the fuck out of Diamond city.*grumbles, muttering under his breath* Never understood how these bigots can sleep at night…

Danse: I advise against putting yourself in unnecessary danger. The gossip of strangers isn’t worth risking your life, but I’ll be damned if I let you face this alone.

Nick Valentine: Well, if it’s worth your time kid, than it’s worth mine *grabs his hat and coat before locking the detective agency door behind them* Lead the way

X6-88: I agree. We might find something useful. A large shopping center may have valuable pre-war goods. Right behind you, ma’am.

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

The Sole Survivor walks out of Diamond City with their companion, combat shotgun in hand. Though well armored and stocked with plenty of ammunition, they carefully made their way south through the ruins of Boston. Sole and their companion had not walked far from the Boston Police Rationing Site when they heard the unmistakable sounds of feral ghouls, clumsily kicking tin rubbish and bones left on the broken streets. Sole and their companion crouched behind the remains of a building’s wall. Daring a look, sole peaked above the wall, only to notice the dirty, ruined faces but unmistakable faces of her pre-war neighbors, Mr. Donoghue and Mrs. Donoghue. Sole immediately felt sick and dizzy watching the two ghouls stumble down the street aimlessly, eyes white and staring at nothing. Mr. Donoghue and Mrs. Donoghue were expecting a child as well. Sole had spent hours in their kitchen, chatting about the excitement of parenthood. They swapped ideas over coffee and pie. 200 years after the bombs dropped, while sole was safe in a vault, her neighbors had been turned into radiation monsters, void of the humanity they used to possess. Alive in a physical sense, but her neighbors were lost. Sole had no choice but to put them down and out of their miserable experience. It’s what they would have wanted…

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

Your companion reacts:

Cait: Jesus Christ, not a way to go. At least you had the ‘ol Vault-Tec treatment, eh? *Cait notices tears filling in sole’s eyes, rapidly decides to change her approach* I - er - um…..I know this must be difficult for you…I…I am here if you need to talk, or something.

Curie: One must wonder, what causes the deterioration of this ghoul condition? Some "ghouls" are in possession of their mental faculties. Others are not. I wonder why Mr. Donoghue and Mrs. Donoghue became feral while many other ghouls have maintained their mental capacities [Sole - Those were my neighbors, Curie. Not a science experiment] My apologies, sir/madam, I didn't mean to offend you. Grief can be managed with a well balanced diet, exercise, and spending time with loved ones!

Codsworth: Oh dear *emotional processors cracking through his speakers* Is that…the Donoghues? Mum, I’m…I’m so sorry *offers a hankie*

Deacon: Well, that was terrible *sigh* radiation, you unbelievable bastard.[notices how upset sole is] Ah..Look, I’m sorry. This…I mean, what you’re going through, I can’t even imagine. If you wanna talk or something…[trails off]

McCready: Oh man…*He pauses, letting the information sink in regarding sole’s neighbors* I’m really sorry. We can turn around if you want. That department store isn’t going anywhere. 

Piper: You okay, [sole]? You seem pretty shaken up. Why don’t we rest for a bit.

Preston: Oh, I’m really sorry, General. *he removes his hat, holding to his chest, tired eyes looking away in respect* Take all the time you need. I can help you bury the bodies if you would like to give them a proper burial.

Hancock: Ah shit. Old neighbors, huh? Hey, let's just get outta here. I hate seein’ you so broken up like this.

Danse: You’re awfully quiet. Want to tell me what’s on your mind? [listens intently to what Sole says about the feral ghouls they had recognized and killed] I see. Take as long as you need, soldier. I can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now.

Nick Valentine: “You seemed to recognize those two, who were they?” [response from sole] “Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss,” he spoke softly, placing a supportive synth hand on sole’s arm.

X6-88: Those were your neighbors? My condolences.

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

The sole survivor heaves in grief, but is eventually able to continue on, intrigued by the elaborate wooden welcome sign to Fairline Hill Estates. They had toured the gated community long ago when looking for a house. Sanctuary Hills, the houses of tomorrow, had captured their attention more, with all their technologically advanced features the estates lacked. But all that remained now were the corpses of friends turned into monsters from nuclear radiation and two lazy yao guai, chewing on the bloody bones of rotting brahmin.

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

Your companion reacts:

Cait: Oh! Such fascinating creatures! Shall we get a closer look? I wish to study the effects of radiation on these beasts

Curie: You’ve got be fucking kiddin’ me. yao guai? That’s the last thing we need right now.

Codsworth: Oh dear. You don’t think they can see us, right mom?

Deacon: That is disgusting *he giggles* How do you want to play this, boss?

McCready: *Chuckles gleefully, silently pulling out his well polished rifle* This is where the fun begins.

Piper: Well that’s just great. Breaking news: Diamond City reporter torn to ribbons by a giant, stupid, irritated bear.

Preston: Dammit, I think we're in trouble here *pulls out his musket, at the ready* I’m with you, general.

Hancock: We ain’t alone *drops shotgun ammunition into the barrels of his gun* Those yao guai are mean bastards, they hit hard. Just lemme know when you’re ready and I got your back.

Danse: Yao guai..Not to worry, we’ll send those monsters right back to hell [Charges, heavily clad in power armor, laser weapons firing away, breaking the silence of a sleepy afternoon] Die, you godless heathen! Die!

Nick Valentine: There’s no getting out of this without a fight *loads his 10mm with a satisfying click* You ready, kid?

X6-88: Good, I was starting to feel a little bored. You ready to engage, [sole]? This shouldn’t take long

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

The Sole Survivor and their trusted companion gawk at the yao guai corpses, bleeding from their many fatal bullet holes. Sole sighs in exhaustion, dropping to squat and holding their face in hands.Their companion rubs their back sympathetically and suggests the tempting idea of spending the night at Fairline Hills Estates. The area was relatively safe now, with Mr. Donoghue & Mrs. Donoghue and the yao guais dead. Keenly aware of the mental torment they both witnessed and given Sole’s fragile state, their trusted companion led the way to the southeast house. Sole collapses weakly on the sunken couch and watches as their companion wanders into the brokedown kitchen to prepare dinner for the night. They ate the meal peacefully without many words to be said about the days’ events. The sole survivor turned down every request to talk about the killing of her neighbors and the close call they had with the yao guai in what used to be a highly sought after gated community. Their companion accepted that sole just wasn’t ready to talk about. They offer to take the first watch to let the sole survivor get some much needed rest.

Once their trusted companion shuts the door to the house to begin their watch, the sole survivor slinks away to the attached garage. They had noticed the chemistry station earlier and knew exactly how to use it. There were piles of dead leaves everywhere, a natural fertilizer. Using the leaves along with the plastic from some junk lying around the house, sole knew they could craft jet - lots of jet. Sole gets to work, tinkering feverishly at the chemistry station, sweating from the withdrawal and desperate for relief. The Sole Survivor sighed in contented satisfaction, admiring their own craftsmanship. Not even bothering to step from the chemistry station, they begin taking hit after hit of jet. Sighing happily as the pain of memories and her broken heart eased into comfortable numbness. Sole wanted to take jet until they couldn’t remember who they were, much less what had happened to them. Sole stumbled back slightly, the room a spiraling blur. No matter, they take another hit and watch the world slowly rise until they felt their back hit the floor. The stared blankly at the ceiling, surrounded by empty jet cartridges. Hearing the loud THUD sole’s companion rushed into the room, fearing the worst (an intruder, a kind of murderous threat) only to find in their horror, a close friend in indescribable pain.

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

Your companion reacts:

Cait: “*tsk* Havin’ a good time now, are we?” Cait teased, pointing on the jet in sole’s hand as they slouched against the chemistry station. Cait’s eyes scanned the scene further, noticing the familiar signs of a serious addiction problem.Given the amount of empty jet canisters scattered on the floor around sole, it was a miracle they were even still alive.] I think you’ve got a wee bit of a drug problem, [sole]. Which ain’t right, especially after everythin’ you watched me go through. Why would you let yourself get hooked on the stuff? Can’t believe you’re doin’ this to yourself?!” She shouted, breathing deepling like sole had taught her to calm down. “You’re an idiot, [sole]. But I’ll help ya, just like how you helped me. Let’s go, we’re getting you cleaned up”

Curie: She stares curiously, “I have more than enough data on the physiological effects of chems, there is no need to provide me with more data, sir/madam.” She notices the dilated pupils, racing heart beat, the sweating… “Are you alright, sir/madam? I believe you should see a doctor, we cannot treat your condition here.”

Codsworth: “Are you well, mum?!” Codsworth panicked, desperately trying to assess the situation. A Mister Handy bot was designed for household duties, not crises.

Deacon: Wow, looks like you’ve been partying pretty hard with out me. Miiiight want to lay off cause I think you’ve enough.

McCready: *Slaps the empty get out of sole’s hand, they glare at him angrily, demanding an explanation* That crap is gonna rot your mind. This stops right now (Dad-mode activated)

Piper: Ooooookay (nabs all the empty jet cartridges) I think you’ve had enough, Blue. (Stares at the insane amount of jet in the room). I think we better get you to a doctor. I just hope it’s not too late (she sighs heavily, emotion tightening around her neck hotly) This is why I wanted to talk, Blue! So you - you wouldn’t do anything stupid! Arg! What a mess. Come on, (she lifts sole up) let’s get you to a doctor.

Preston: This is how it ends, [sole]. You keep this up and I’ll have to bury a friend. The Minutemen need you. I need you. And you don’t need those chems. You have people who love and care about you.

Hancock: “Woah!” Hancock froze, staring at the used jet scattered about the room. 2..4..6..three over there, that makes 9…pile of 5 in the corner makes…14? 14! How are they alive? Hancock glanced at the sole survivor, slumped pitifully against the chemistry station, empty jet still in hand. They just kept staring at his boots, completely unresponsive, but he could see the steady rise and fall of their chest with each shallow breath. Hancock began to sweat, panic sweeping in, staring at sole’s chest. What if it they stop…what if they breathing stops - he’s mayor, not fucking doctor.”H-hey, stay with me, now! Look,” He turn’s sole’s face to look at him only to be greeted with dull and empty eyes. “Hey, sunshine. It’s me, remember? Hancock. D-don’t go, you can’t do this to me. I need you, please. Don’t leave me alone.” Tears welled in the crevices of Hancok’s face as he sat beside the sole survivor, holding their hand. He gasped as a familiar smooth hand rested on his. “I could never forget you, Hancock.” The mayor choked back sobs, gripping sole’s hand like it could fade away any moment. “Don’t you ever do this again. Never trip alone. We’re getting you help. Like, now now.” He takes sole’s arm and wraps it around his shoulder’s, pulling them to their feet.

Danse: [Stares in stunned silence mixed with disgust and concern] He crouches beside sole, pushing the drugs away, and whispered angrily, “How can you fight when your brain’s clouded with those drugs? You’re going to get yourself killed. And I’m not just gonna stand here and watch brotherhood’s best, my friend, die unnecessarily. We’re getting you clean and that’s an order.”

Nick Valentine: “SHIT!” Nick hissed under his breath. He'd see a lot of folks at their worst in his line of work. He’d seen this scene too many times before. A case closed in an overdose. There were even some rare occasions where he found Mayor Hancock after a few too many chems. But usually, there were warning signs. How could he call himself a detective when he couldn’t even save his friend from themselves. Nick crouches beside the body, holding their limp wrist in his. A pulse, weak but still there. “Alright, now you’ve done it, kid” He scooped up the sole survivor into his arms. “We need to get you to a doc.”

X6-88: Oh god…[composes himself] You don’t look so good sir/ma’am, Might want to lay off the chems for a while. I’ll be throwing these away (disposes of all the chems the Sole Survivor made and had on their person)

The Sole Survivor wakes up in a familiar bed at the Castle, a stack of addictol was left on the nightstand. This was certainly a more permanent detour to Fallon’s Department store than they planned for. Sole’s companion apologizes for moving them and delaying their trip to the department store. But sole’s close friend promises profusely that it was and always will be for the sole survivor’s own good. They promise again and again that they do not feel any different about them and still deeply appreciate the relationship that they share. So much so, they couldn’t bare to lose their friend to addiction. After some time and regular check-ins with the Minutemen Surgeon General, The Sole Survivor will finally leaves thre Castle and continuing their journey.

[mysteriouslybluepirate]

Hi

Yeah, I've seen the 1 min 30 Izzy teaser. I've seen it many times. I'm choosing to not go crazy on here because the second I do, I will abandon my WIP, and spend all day going in mental loops.

I'm just stuck on feelings of- 'damn we were right' (happy) and 'oh, damn, we were right' (devastated).

[j-trow-95]

20 Questions for fic writers

Thanks for the tags for this @theearlgreymage and @wellbelesbian. I'm so slow at responding to these sorts of posts. Also, this one is going to be a little tricky, as I only have the one fic up on AO3, so I will be throwing in a few stats from my original novel, 'A Survivor's Revenge', as well.

How many works do you have on AO3?

Currently just the one, 'The Trails We Blaze'. But there is also ASR, my long term original novel, that I'm going to be focussing on again in November.

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

TTWB currently has a published word count of 20,059 words, with a total of 68,238. (the will only continue to grow - there's still so much of the original plot of El Dorado to adapt for this AU!) ASR on the other hand is already a monster. Before I split the original draft in two to make the first two books, the draft came in at around 130k, incomplete. Currently, the first book is sitting at 78,278 words.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Just Carry On. It's also the only fandom I read fanfic for.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

I'm still shocked by how well Trails is doing after only a month or so of posting, so thank you thank you THANK YOU for showing this fic so much love. 1,247 kudos is more than I thought the fic would ever get in its entirety, and we're barely scratching the surface of this chaotic journey.

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I've loved replying to comments on this fic. It's so nice to know that the fic is resonating with people, and what everyone enjoys about the chapters. I especially love when people pick up on lines from canon, and even mention things I didn't consciously notice when I was writing that reference canon. And just getting to nerd out about the research that's gone into this fic. Anyone who knows me IRL knows how much of a classics nerd I am (unsurprising given I have two degrees), and it's been fun flexing those muscles again. It's also been wonderful seeing what resonates with people over here on tumblr when I share snippets of ASR for WIPsDays. Everyone in the CO fandom has been so supportive of me sharing those snippets, and I can't wait for the day when I get to share Lauren and her story properly with the world.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Trails is unlikely to be especially angsty (I haven't actually planned the ending, but if we're going by the ending of El Dorado, there's likely to be a happy ending. But I don't know, it's a mystery to me at this point!) ASR on the other hand ... Book 1 and book 2 have especially angsty endings. Where the series as a whole is concerned, let's just say I made myself cry when I wrote a line for a scene from the final book. It'll be multiple books of build up for a gut wrenching finale. Only one character is guaranteed to survive from the entire cast. You have been warned.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

None so far, but it's likely to be Trails. Only time will tell!

8. Do you get hate on fics?

So far, no. Everyone has been so so lovely with feedback about ASR and Trails!

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I am an aro/ace bean who's not really experienced much, so whenever I try to write smut I struggle due to lack of practical experience (that's such a clinical way to put it, but brain no work right now, so that's the best way I can think to phrase it). But if I ever do write anything considered smutty, I try to focus on the emotions and sensations rather than the act itself. I love to read fic where the emotional intimacy is front and centre, but won't turn my nose up at reading some really raunchy debauched sex. As someone who's questioned her sexuality multiple times since first coming out I've lived under multiple labels before finding the one that suited me. Grey ace, ace bi-romantic, demisexual bi-romantic, I've thought all of them fit me at one time or another. It wasn't until last year that I realised dating wasn't working for me, it never would work for me, and that was ok. Aro/Ace isn't a zero sex/zero emotions identity, it's a spectrum in itself, and I've finally found something that suits me. Back on the topic of smut I write, I haven't written anything smutty for Trails yet beyond some heated kisses and heavy breathing. Maybe some rolling of hips. But I will be taking that M rating to its limit, don't you worry! As for ASR, again, nothing majorly smutty has been written, at least not what I would consider majorly smutty. Just a lot of emotional pining, and a bit of foreplay that starts to lead somewhere, and then DRAMA.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

Back when I was first getting into creative writing (we're talking pre-teen/very early teens Jess, before ASR was even a vague concept), I wrote fanfic without even realising that's what I was doing. It was just a self insert series of stories that crossed over with multiple franchises, as well as straight up stealing plot points and tropes from other franchises. Will I tell you what they were? Absolutely not! And they will never see the light of day, because they are absolutely God-awful!

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of, and I hope that never happens.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

No, but I'd love it if someone ever wanted to. For ASR especially it would be incredible to see it translated and reach more people around the world. Seeing published authors announcing translation deals is something I aspire to!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Not technically, but I suppose you could call Trails and Art-Collab fic, because Ashton's art is fucking fantastic!! Whenever I get to posting day and I wake up to see an art DM from her I get so excited! The style she's gone with for this fic was something we talked about for a while and she's just excellent at capturing the images and emotions I hope my writing is portraying. Ashton is a gem, and I am beyond lucky and don't know what I did to deserve her as a friend!!!

14. What's your favourite all time ship?

SnowBaz have been an obsession since mid-2021, and they show no signs of relinquishing the top spot in my heart when it comes to fandom ships. But it'd be remiss of me not to mention my OC's here. Lauren and Mike are my chaotic, dramatic, hopelessly and cluelessly in love MC's for ASR. You know how Baz pines in CO ... yeah, we're talking similar levels, if not slightly above that for Lauren and Mike. One of my favourite messages from my alpha reader was 'How in the hell did these idiots ever think their feelings were platonic?', and honestly, I don't even know. AND I WROTE THEM!

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I'm working on an epic high fantasy saga with a friend that we describe as 'Japanese mythology meets J R R Tolkein'. It's so fun writing with someone else, as we both have different strengths. Nori is very much at home with the darker elements, the world building, and character development, whilst I love writing the character relationships, romances, and political manoeuvrings. It's just difficult when you're in different parts of the country, and both have other WIPs you're working on. Maybe one day this saga will see the light of day.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I used to think this was a weakness, but since working on ASR edits I think I've become better attriting action sequences. At least, the comments on Trails have led me to believe this. I hope. Since writing that opening chase scene through Southwark it's really bolstered my confidence. But I think my main strength is dialogue full of banter and flirting. Give me a chance to have two characters in a room just bouncing off each other. No need for dialogue tags, just back and forth dialogue. Flirty dialogue is some of my favourite to write, and both SnowBaz and Lauren and Mike allow me to do this in spades! I also think writing pining is a strength, but that is a double edged sword that can cut the wielder if not used sparingly. Pining is great, when not overdone, and I'm praying I've not overdone it with Trails.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Action and intimate sequences are still aspects of writing I struggle with, and I'll tell you why. Pacing. Pacing is my nemesis. I just want to get from point A to point B and move on to the next scene. I know first drafts don't have to be perfect, but yeah ... pacing in certain scenes within first drafts is my biggest struggle.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I had to work out how I was going to tackle this for Trails with the most recent chapters I've been writing. HOW DO YOU WRITE A LANGUAGE THAT DOESN'T EVEN EXIST, AND IN YOUR FIC HAS BEEN DEAD FOR MILLENNIA? Atlantean has been a pain to try and work out, and I'm still figuring out a way to write the language itself in dialogue. I really want to try and get some actual Ancient Greek in here as well at some point, so if anyone wants to help translate some riddles and prophecies for me, hit me up! I'm a bad Classicist and never learnt any ancient languages!

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Published: Carry On The secret ones I'll never show anyone: that knowledge goes with me to my grave.

20. Favourite fic you've written?

Trails is my only published fanfic, therefore it is my favourite. But also I love the source material (both 'Carry On' and 'The Road to El Dorado) so much. But my favourite fiction I've written, out of all the original ideas and bad fanfic, has to be 'A Survivor's Revenge'. These characters and their story have been on my mind for the last fourteen years in some form or another, they are my babies, and I don't know what my life would look like without them in it. Lauren is my favourite morally grey chaos gremlin, and I'm so glad other people like reading about her whenever I share snippets.

Ok, so tagging. I have no idea who has and hasn't done this already, so I'm sorry in advance if you don't want to do this/already have done. Just think of it as me saying hi and how much I love the work you all do!

@aristocratic-otter @bazzybelle @bookish-bogwitch @chen-chen-chen-again-chen @cosmicalart @fatalfangirl @larkral @palimpsessed @phoxphyre

[defire]

I want to make whump films.

I'm considering forming a team of new filmmakers and actors from the whump community, to collaborate on mini series with survivor fiction/whump plotlines.

The goal would be to start bringing life to all of our whump stories that we never got to tell out loud. Eventually I would want us to be able to fund and produce high-quality episodic series on top of the existing content. Naturally there would be pain and angst all throughout each production.

So I'm wondering who would be interested in this.

*regular basis, meaning, creating a consistent stream of content with the goal of growing much bigger over time.

Bet I'm not the only one who would love to make this happen. I have more detailed ideas but I wanted to know if you guys are interested first.

Next update on this

[ak-harper-loves-fiction]

"But it doesn’t stop me from feeling like no matter what I do, I have no one. I can’t tell anyone anything. They’ll leave me one day, right? Everyone always does."

-A.K. Harper

[rogueonions]

I am late to this commentary, but I keep seeing it cycling around in fanfic and writing communities regarding the concept of "problematic fiction", and I keep hitting the same thoughts over and over again. Sorry if this is long, but I have to get the thoughts out of my head.

Themes like abuse, SA, murder, stalking, torture, and such, are problematic. And that's not to say they shouldn't be written. They are themes that have real world impact on readers. Which is why you should always tag your work appropriately.

But, on top of writing for yourself, there's the consideration of who your audience is. Not everyone is going to read for the same escapism, the same catharsis of chaos that horror genres offer. (And yes, I consider a story with heavy focus on abuse, SA, stalking, torture, or murder themes as "horror", this is not a moral judgement, only a simple classification).

Fiction is often a place to explore things that are not safely explored in reality. A chance to turn a lens on a society or community, a problem, or a trend, and examine it. It is also a place to go to escape reality.

Some people seek out or write horror because they like the fright, some because they like the chance to see a world that is more jacked up than the real world (an increasingly high bar for some populations lately). Some people seek out horror because it is absurd, otherworldly, or pure, unbridled insanity.

The call I see most often is to not call these themes problematic, as if fiction is immune from moral judgement. It isn't. It never has been. There is a reason there are people out there calling for books to be banned, there's a reason "Catcher in the Rye" was one of the most banned books. Since the invention of writing for pleasure, no writing has never been above moral judgement. Not even the many sacred texts from religions the world over.

But that's not the point I want to make. I do not condone banning books because they have troubling themes. I don't condone freezing out writers who focus on horror themes.

The point I make here is that horror stories can have, (and have had) real world impact on real world people. To the extreme cases: Stephen King pulled a book after someone used the themes and rhetoric of his fiction in a shooting. Other very fictional stories have inspired very real, very terrible events. And to the milder cases: triggering a trauma survivor because you left off a tag. (Please note, "triggering" is a gross oversimplification that fails to convey the real impact).

So you have to be aware of your audience, how you help them find you, and be aware of who you might be inspiring. If you didn't tag SA and someone reads the story and is hurt by this, you do have to shoulder some of the fault.

How can your audience find your work, and how can others safely avoid your work with this content, if you do not flag it appropriately?

I write fiction and fantasy. I bring in themes that can be problematic, but I do so for a purpose. It is part of the narrative, not the point of the narrative. I seek to inspire people to be themselves, to heal, to know they are not alone in their pain, in their healing journey. I write, in part, to heal myself, to allow myself to process my own struggles. But if someone read one of my stories and thought the scene involving torture or murder was inspiration, I would be horrified. If someone read my work, and came away with the mere notion that I condoned racism, sexism, fascism, etc, I'd be tripping over myself to make clear that was not the intent behind my words.

When it comes to knowing your audience, and your intended audience, it is important to also be aware of when or if you need to clarify messaging (even if you didn't think there was a message). Did you write it for escapism, because you cannot express that level of rage in reality without consequences? Did you write it because it was so absurd as to be nearly Lovecraftian in it's construction? Did you write it because you wanted to highlight the wrongs being done in a certain area? Or did you write it just because you could?

There's nothing wrong here, no moral judgement in the content you create. This is meant as caution, not chastisement.

Writing horror doesn't mean you are a monster. Writing about Nazis doesn't make you a Nazi. Enjoying murder stories doesn't make you a murderer in waiting. I love true crime documentaries (I'm listening to one right now), but I'd never intentionally hurt another human being.

However, if I wrote something that a bunch of fascists loved? I'd rip that content down and apologize to anyone who thought I condoned fascism. Because I owe it to my intended audience to curate my content, too. To make sure that, if I want to be a safe space for people, I curate my space for them.

As a writer, my greatest ambition is to write something my reader returns to again, and again. Something they can enjoy a little differently every time they read it. Can that be done in horror? Absolutely. There can be catharsis in these themes. There can be healing in found there. But it is up to the writer to make sure they safely steer away readers who know they don't want to be faced with that content.

On a final note regarding tags, and this is a peeve of mine in general: Stop inventing new tags for the same problematic themes. You cannot demand that people filter out tags if they don't want to see the tagged content, and then find new ways to tag it. Manipulating tags like that just makes it feel like an arms race, or a battle just to keep up.

[innocentlymacabre]

30 Days, 30 Lines Challenge: Day 8 post your favourite line that you wrote or edited that day

Always leave one survivor. Someone’s got to tell the story.

~~ Now They Call Me the Plague [x] This snippet is actually a full chapter - do with that what you will.

If you're enjoying these excerpts, I would absolutely love you forever if you could buy me a coffee to support its development!

[ardenla]

Book of the apocalypse - chapter 2

Chapter 2 - A place to rest

TW: Gore, psycological horror, spiders, depressing theme's

Word count: 801

Previous chapter:

"C'ome on! I even checked it for you, it should be safe enough."

"How can I... be sure of what... lies beyond if you... are... imaginary?"

Defeated, he sighs.

We have been arguing for a while now and the rain outside hasn't stopped at all.

"I'm going to...one of the stores... usually they have a room... in the back that can be... locked." Old words slowly enter my mind. I guess I didn't forget everything.

"But the clock tower has a better view, you can be certain of your surroundings and make better plans for when the rain stops!"

"Quiller... I am not going in there-!"

Quickly I place my hand in front of my mouth and stop talking.

I must have yelled too loud, because I hear something approaching us.

Something dragging.

Another walking faster.

Shit!

Taking out just one is already quite the feat, two might be impossible, especially in such a confined space.

I've lived like this for years, but only thanks to knowing when to run and when to fight.

After all... they aren't a lot like zombies from old moving pictures.

And it certainly wasn't a virus that caught them.

Not a virus any human or animal could have gotten.

Quickly and quietly I hide behind a corner.

I see the two- no... four!

There's four of them!

Goddammit!

They're still scanning their surroundings.

I just hope they don't-

The one that seems to be the leader looks straight at me, making a strange noise.

Quiller is standing by the door to the tower: "I think this really is our safest bet."

"You... you asshole, you knew didn't you?! You planned for this to happen!"

I don't look at his face, I don't want to look at it.

Wow, betrayed even by an imaginary fiend.

I hold my spear in a way to protect myself as one of them lunges at me.

Before I know it I'm surrounded.

Their half decaying flesh, half robotic faces look hungry at me.

"You assholes fight like... like bitches!" I yell at them, knowing full well the futility of it. The same strange words I recognize as curses leave my mouth one after another.

How strange... but it feels right.

Trying to give myself an escape route I slice off an arm from one of the creatures.

With a sloshy thud it falls onto the floor and rolls away.

Almost immediately a new arm starts to grow, one not made of flesh... but of some kind of metal.

A dark liquid spills onto the floor, smelling like a combination of something rotting and machine oil.

As I try to slice the new one off, I'm only able to dent it a little bit.

I feel my hope sink.

"I guess I have no choice but to use 'that'..."

I take a small machine from one of the pockets in my belt.

It's still a work in progress, but this is better than nothing.

Do I really have to use my piece of hard-work here?

Well... I guess it beats dying.

In a swift movement I press a button and make it stick to one of my attackers' heads.

I'm sorry...

The creature starts to scream.

A scream sounding more and more like that of a human it once was.

I'm sorry...

The others get alerted by the sound and start attacking their once fellow creature.

I hate to do this, but a better decoy doesn't exist.

Even if the creature had become fully human again, it would have died in an instant.

I haven't found anything against that yet.

Quickly and quietly I rush to Quiller.

I give him a glare, saying: 'Fine... I will do it your way asshole!' and get myself through the small door in the ceiling.

He seems to be slightly frightened by my cursing.

It's a good thing I've gotten used to doing parkour.

Jumping from one wall to the other and climbing up is nothing.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I notice that it doesn't end in a small space to crawl through.

I might have gone right back out if that was the case.

It's open.

I close the small door behind me, I really don't want those creatures getting up here and then I turn my flashlight on to look around.

The room is mostly empty, except for the layer of dust and an old couch.

The clock is the window, but it has gotten so dirty thanks to the dust, seeing through it is nearly impossible.

I scan through the room with the light in my hand, I really hope there is nothing up here.

There is a dusty, old couch in the middle and the only source of light is coming from the dirty clock, that's also somewhat of a window.

Luckily there is no one here.

"Hey, are you okay?" Quiller asks, looking rather worried: "You didn't get bit, right?"

I shake my head, I better not answer him right now.

Those creatures one floor below us, worry me.

I carefully walk over to the couch.

Maybe now is the best time to start reading that book.

I take the old object out of my bag and open it.

[lukethewitt]

FREE EBOOK for Kindle: The Drag of an Alligator – poetic novel about male rape victims and recovering from trauma

[j-rad-hewhowrites]

This page really drove home how very fish out of water I was when I interacted with anyone outside the cult. Had no clue.