#this was prompted by disintegration

[tadaxii-i]

There he is

*intense screaming*

[vulturevanity]

Finally doing 60 min lkdt again sfter so long. Timed challenges always stress me out but they always push me to experiment and take shortcuts :v

Anyway ep 15 moment

[celestialpaperhaze]

Me: Okay, TONIGHT I'll finally do something productive. Maybe I'll write a little drabble or hum a tune...

Also me:

[firepassed]

MORTAL

pain. the pain that hits her form even before she drops to the ground from her elemental form. she feels herself loose balance, but she's determined, and she stands her ground. never in her life has keyleth felt this much pain. shes died before, yes, but that felt like suddenly blink her eyes, unable to open them, then nothing.. then an ache. this? this felt like she’s been ripped apart.

is... is that what's happening? is she dying? what will the rest of vox machina think? will they be able to feel it? and what will happen to her people?

no... no she's taken hits like this before. certainly this feels different then anything she's been attacked with before, but she knows what she's doing. even if she's a little out of practice, she's got things to do, and people to protect, her eyes briefly shifting out to orym's mercenaries, trying to see what they are doing, how they are, expecting the attack on her to be ending and that she will be able to patch herself back up but she doesn't get the chance.

-another strike. she's, the voice of the tempest, the half-elf, is on the ground, and still being hit and hit time and time again. she feels blood filling her throat and the world spin, her hands grasping on the ground to try her best to keep awake and aware, trying to fight without fighting, even as her vision is beginning to blur. blurring vision or not, it's hard to deny the sudden chill in the air, hair standing up on her arm, then the sight in front of her.

...vax? coming to walk her into the beyond? then why is he...?

" don't you even dare. "

an unconscious answer. he's here. he's protecting her. beyond the veil the champion of ravens is here for her. with her.

somehow, though it felt as though it was slowing, her heart began to thunder inside of her chest and she feels herself steadying, trying to heal herself so that she might stand and stand beside him, though she does not even have a chance to note that it's not working as it should as suddenly her vax'ildan is screaming. and transforming... and is gone... her entire being wants to scream, to shout to cast, to do something to save him---

but she can't even move to react-

and then she wakes, the memory having her mind aching and pounding in her head, and though the tempest still feels weak, and as she stands her legs shake threatening to give out on her she moves and gets to work.

it felt as though she is still being torn open, like the blade still carves into her, cutting into her mind, body, heart and soul. blood still drips from the five deep gashes all over her body, she can taste it in her mouth, feel it soak the loose bandages that had been wrapped around in attempts to do to what arcane healing could not, she feels the sweat dripping from her head, hopefully something she's bringing about on her own as she sits on the floor, besides her open window, and not her getting rest as she knows she ought to. in her lap, a notebook, in her hand, a feather, hand shaking as she tries to think on what to write other than to my most dear friends...

how is whitestone?

something happened?

is everything okay after the solstice?

are you both safe?

vax is -

im sorry it's all my fault

i am afraid and scared and beyond that, extremely angry and i think i might die and you need to know something before i do

frustration bubbled inside of her, hot tears prickling at her eyes that drips from her eyes, one hitting the paper a second after a spot of deep red hits the paper, keyleth muttering a curse as she rips out and crumbles up the letter and lets it join the pile that is on the ground. for a moment, she lets her head rest in her hands, not caring if ink spilled on her face, not caring about anything as she tried her best to keep herself together and unable to do so, instead staring at the empty ledge that is unfamiliar, but echos the very feeling she feels inside of her chest.she sniffs. she swallows, and tears still slip unashamed, unembarrassed, wondering if perhaps with the blood still seeping gently from her wounds if perhaps the matron might give her fucking ear with the blood still seeping on the occasion from her wounds. wouldn't that be amusing?

' if you kill me now, i will despise you even more than already. and i will throw everything in my power at you when you come to collect me. ' do. she thinks and she scoffs, her eyes looking beyond as though she might see a raven, familiar or not but again, there's nothing. it doesn't matter. so she instead tries something else to offer. ' if you kill me now, you will never get him back. you need me .' the thought making a smirk stretch on her lips, the goddess of death having something they both understand about each other now, the main difference between them being she is going to do anything and everything that she can even if she must keep true to her duties.

and one of those duties is to vox machina, to her family. and so again she writes---- and when she finishes, she goes through the motions to send it, snowdrop and a blue hyacinth inside the envelope alongside the letter .

dear percy, i know you both are very busy almost constantly but something has happened. i would come to you to make things easier on everyone, but i know not if i can at the moment. i need your help. i need vex's help. and i might need vox machina's help but i know i for sure need the both of you here as soon as you are able. write back if you can, when you can. keep safe. i love you both so very much and give my love to the children. - keyleth

send MORTAL for a scene from my muse's past in which they had a brush with death, either themselves or someone close to them

[likelyslumbering]

.

[nightingale-prompts]

Danny can't taste- DCxDP Prompt

The problem with being half dead is that so are your senses. While certain foods are still as tasty as ever they are relegated to food found on offering plates like bread, fruits, cheese and wine. But Danny just wants to eat a good burger and unfortunately, those aren't offered to the dead.

This has led to Tucker and Sam burning food offerings for Danny in the past, but there has been another solution.

Danny just adds copious amounts of extra stuff to his food to satisfy his numbed tastebuds.

20 sugar packages to his coffee, a flood of hot sauce on his burgers and anything else he could get his hands on.

One afternoon after class Danny ended up meeting Tim at the Batburger on campus. There Tim watched in horror as Danny filled a cup of Sprite, added blue raspberry sour Death Ball candies to it, added citric acid, added plutonium 9 hot sauce, and extra sugar. It was the most horrifying baby blue concoction Tim had ever seen. It looked like a normal soda but it was liquid death.

And Tim wanted to try it next.

(A drink that would cause a small Victorian child to disintegrate)

[avocado-frog]

Hi Isaac! 8. Is there any character you don't like at all, even though you've written them?

Hey!

I have plenty of characters that I use for general antagonists (a very long google doc page) but those are mostly just names and a few picrews if they're special enough. I have two characters that have been lurking in the background since the first version of the story. They're not in it anymore but i might give them a cameo later. been thinking about it

Out of the kids though.. Marcy. Literally she has nothing going for her. She has MAYBE six lines total, and the only reason she didn't get cut was because by the time i decided i wanted to, i had already posted the first chapter and I didn't want to edit her out. There's a secret twelfth character who got cut out right before I started posting and sometimes I find stuff I've written that still has her in it

[ceilidho]

prompt: ghost and you are the only survivors of a military plane crash. you spend weeks alone in the wild together. (ns/fw)

-

In the years you’ve worked as a flight attendant, you’ve never experienced a plane crash before. It’s exactly like what you would’ve expected.

Clear skies rapidly turn grey outside the tiny windows to your left and right; you notice it almost instantly because it casts a pall over the interior of the aircraft. It makes the small group of men that you’ve been travelling with sit up a bit straighter in their seats, only a few of them looking genuinely concerned. Military men often do; it’s in their nature to worry and fret. You feel it like a twinge in your gut, like something telling you that you don’t usually fly through dark clouds. 

The soft ding of the seatbelt sign comes on a handful of seconds later. The turbulence only a few moments after that.

Pilots are trained to avoid cumulonimbus clouds like they’re a harbinger of death (and they are). Even large airliners avoid crossing the path of a cumulonimbus. Your pilot should’ve known to divert and fly around the cloud, avoiding the possibility of flying through a thunderstorm altogether. The pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom for everyone to fasten their seatbelts and you notice distantly that his voice seems frazzled. 

Your hands grip the seat as you strap in. This is exactly the kind of scenario you’ve prepared extensively for, but in the face of it, your stomach tosses and turns. Practice can only hope to ape reality; it often falls short. 

From across the aisle, you lock eyes with the lieutenant in the skull mask that politely refused a beverage ten minutes ago. The plane jostles you violently in your seat as it passes through a rough patch of turbulence. Even the lieutenant, twice your size and rooted into his seat, his hands clamped around the arm rests, grunts when he’s rocked side to side. 

There’s a loud pop outside the aircraft and the plane teeters dangerously to one side. The bags in the overheads bash against the doors, the plastic squeaking under their weight. 

Someone screams. The other attendant sitting across from you is already shouting, “Brace! Brace! Brace!” The mantra bursts from his chest along with spittle and the singular, quivering note of fear. There’s not much more you can do but follow his lead, dropping your head to your knees and wrapping your arms around your legs.

Your stomach drops when the plane descends far too suddenly. You would’ve been pulled back against the wall if your arms weren’t wrapped around your legs. You have enough time to peek up briefly to see all of the other men assuming the same position, some with their heads pressed against the seat in front of them before the aircraft nosedives and there’s a sharp whistle in your ear and the lights flicker ominously in the cabin and something tears and tears and tears and—

Then it’s dark.

Your grip must have loosened because the world disintegrates after you hit your head. There’s only a faint buzz and something ice cold, something that grips you from the inside and slithers over your skin. The aftermath of a crash is so quiet for the devastation it brings.

The big one in the scary mask is the one who drags you from the wreckage, lifting you into his arms when you’re still too dazed to do more than whimper pathetically. Fear and pain and adrenaline have crumpled you up into a little ball. 

“Keep your eyes open,” he says, and maybe it’s a shout. His voice is so loud. When you open them, you nearly close your eyes instinctively when you see the gaping hole in the plane where it’s been torn apart. 

“Where are—” it hurts to speak, but you have no choice, “—the others…”

He doesn’t respond. That makes it worse. You slip your arms around his neck so he can hike you closer up his chest. Slung over his shoulder is a black duffle bag that he must have pulled from the overhead, or what’s left of them. When your head turns on a swivel, you startle at the sight of the other attendant still strapped in his seat, his neck snapped back at an odd angle. 

You turn your head away. 

“My leg hurts really bad,” you sob, fingers clutched in the sweat-matted fabric of your saviour’s shirt. 

He palms the back of your head and tips you just enough for you to meet his eyes. Something dark shutters over his face for a split second. If your eyes weren’t filled with tears, you might’ve noticed it. It passes fast though, too quick for you to register it in these conditions.

“‘Gonna be okay, sweetheart,” he says, gentler this time, rough-sounding like he’s not used to using that tone. “Gonna get us out of here and then I’ll check your leg. Just hang on to me.”

It’s hard to catalogue every moment because you drift in and out of consciousness. You feel the man shift you in his arms whenever he clambers down the side of the mountain your plane must have flown into. There’s debris from the wreckage scattered around the rocks, the other half of the plane not too far away. When your eyes blink open briefly, you see how decimated the other half is. 

There aren’t any other survivors. Only bodies. He doesn’t stop for them.

Far off from the wreckage, he sets you down onto the soft earth and rifles around in the bag he took. There’s a first aid kit with supplies that he uses to wrap your ankle, which is swollen and tender. The adrenaline crash is nearly more violent than the plane crash you just survived. It wracks through your body as the lieutenant strips your shoes and socks, gently manipulating your foot in his big hands. You notice he’s also lost the mask.

Ochre yellow and green plains spread outward from the mountains. You remember from the flight maps on board that you were somewhere over Mongolia, but the exact mountain range eludes you. This could be the Khangai or the Sayan or the Altai, but you have no way of knowing. 

“Is there a…a phone in the bag? How’s anyone gonna know we’re out here?” You sound helpless, smaller than you’ve ever sounded. 

He shakes his head. The tight ball of tension in the middle of your chest grows tighter. The thought that you’re stranded in the mountains in Mongolia, thousands of miles away from home and no way to get help is almost enough to send you into a panic attack. 

A hand cups under your chin to tilt your head up. His face up close is exquisite and haunting—weathered in the way that career military men often are, burn marks and old scars littered across the delicate skin, lips perpetually chapped, and a nose that looks like it’s been broken way more than once. You can’t look away. 

“Someone’ll be looking for us,” he says. It’s reassuring only because he says it like it’s a certain thing. “Don’t know if you saw who was on that flight roster. A lot of important men were supposed to arrive in Germany at twenty-one-hundred hours.”

You nod, tears still dribbling down your cheeks even when he swipes his thumb across to rub them away. He’s not wrong. There was a colonel on your flight after all. Dead now, hot corpse still steaming in the wreckage half a kilometre away, but he would’ve been important enough to warrant an immediate rescue. 

You go still under his touch. “You weren’t on the flight list.”

He shakes his head. “Never am.”

“But you were with them?” You remember someone on the flight addressing him by his rank. It was early on in the service, when you were still strapping down bags and doing cross-check, making sure everything was in place. But you remember, even then, seeing that there were more bodies on the plane than names on the list; you’d brought it up to the captain, but he’d brushed off your concerns. Maybe he knew the reason behind the lieutenant’s name being held off the passenger list. 

It’s all moot now anyway. 

“Can’t bring a ghost on a flight,” he says darkly, like it’s a joke. Like you’re in on it together. “Can’t put it on the roster at least. S’bad luck after all.”

It’s a monstrous joke at a time like this. Your life feels cracked in half and the scarred brute of a man that pulled you from the wreckage makes jokes like it happens to him every other day. When the sky splits later that night and pours out a lake’s worth of rain, it feels appropriate. You huddle with the lieutenant at the base of a densely branched tree and shake.

Five weeks in the mountains go by slowly. 

The shelter he builds is haphazard but meticulous, composed of various materials that Ghost scavenges from the plane wreck. A door becomes a makeshift roof. He makes you sit and wait as he collects dozens and dozens of branches, chopped down from the surrounding trees and fashioned into a lean-to. Padded with moss and leaves. 

“I can help with getting the leaves,” you protest when he catches you hobbling around and carries you back to the nest of blankets and tarps that he’d pulled from the plane. He goes back every so often to see what remains and what can be used. It’s the only time other than when he hunts that Ghost leaves you alone for even a second, preferring to be within arm’s length of you the rest of the time.

“You can help by sitting your ass down,” Ghost grunts without even looking up at you. 

You frown, fingers digging in the dirt by your feet. It’s a silly complaint but there’s never anything to do but wait. 

In the early morning hours, Ghost goes off and hunts for you, when the world is still quiet and the animals are still asleep. They’re sluggish when dawn still hasn’t peeled its pink belly off the surface of the world. Ghost comes back with a deer slung over his shoulders one week, his knife still protruding from its neck, and your stomach only twists a little bit. Not used to seeing where your meat comes from. 

There’s not much choice when you’re on your own in the elements. Every day, you expect to see a helo appear over the horizon, and you end each night crestfallen when it doesn’t. 

It’s not like you haven’t completed basic training, a prerequisite to applying as a military flight attendant, but admittedly it’s been several years and basic never taught you to hunt for your food. You did other things that seemed, at the time, inconsequential to your career path, like learning to rappel and how to wait an hour for your NCO to show up for PT in the morning. 

Even if your ankle hadn’t been badly sprained, you wouldn’t be much help. Ghost’s remarkably self-sufficient. It makes you question whether he’s done this before—whether he’s gotten stranded in the woods for weeks on end and had to learn to live hand-to-mouth. 

“Have you…where’d you learn all of this?” you ask him in the dead of night, when the wind is a shrill hiss through the trees and you cower close to him in your sleeping bag (also salvaged from the wreck, though his has a tear down the side of it).

Ghost is quiet for a moment. “All over the place. Been doing this for years, love; had to learn.”

“Anything ever like this?”

Even with the absence of his mask, it gets so dark at night that you can’t see his face. You can hear the wry smile that plays on his lips in his voice though. “I’ve had worse days.”

There’s a story there that you see like a fish darting under the water. Too quick for you to catch with your bare hands. 

You wake up with your cheek pressed against his pillowy chest most days. It’s embarrassing at first, but you learn to let it melt off you when you meet Ghost’s eyes and there’s nothing there but piercing blue. They root you in place most of the time but they never tell you to move. 

It takes a while before your ankle starts noticeably healing. In the intervening weeks, Ghost almost dotes on you, in a rough, untested sort of way. Like he doesn’t have much experiencing tending to another person besides himself for weeks on end. As the weeks drag on, it morphs into something unrecognizable, like a wounded animal healing wrong. 

It starts when Ghost insists on sharing sleeping bags. It’ll be easier for him to pull you close if something tries to drag you off in the night (and doesn’t that thought put you on the brink of a panic attack until he shushes and soothes you). It escalates when you make the mistake of tending to the meat hanging over the fire while he fiddles with the little radio he’d dragged back from the plane, and the look he gives you when you tell him that supper is ready borders on reverent. 

It gets even worse when he has you both strip your clothes off on a particularly cold and rainy night, wrapped around each other for warmth. 

“Sweetheart, you’re shaking,” you hear him rumble, big hand drawing a line down your back. You do tremble at that. “C’mon, get closer. Gonna warm you up.”

You wake up in the middle of the night when your ankle is starting to feel solid enough that you think you can manage to go off on your own to relieve yourself instead of waking Ghost up again. That’s the plan anyway. Before you’ve even managed to crawl all of six feet away from your sleeping bag, a rough hand pins you by your shoulder to the ground and the heavy, over two-hundred pound body of your companion drapes itself over you.

“Where the fuck do you think yer going?” Ghost snarls. 

For the first time in a week, there’s a moment of genuine fear. It’s like realizing for a split second that the animal you’ve let creep up behind you is a lot more dangerous than you thought it was. 

“I have to pee,” you whisper-hiss, heart still skittering in your chest.

He’s silent behind you while he mulls that thought over; you think maybe he’s still half-asleep, his body acting on instinct before his brain’s ready to take over. The tension only releases you when he finally picks himself up off you, but it’s immediately made worse when he insists on accompanying you into the woods. 

He doesn’t even turn around while you pull your underwear down and squat. Ghost’s eyes are bright in the dark, trained on you like it’s the thing that gives him purpose. 

Things change in the woods. There are people who are only one bad thing away from reverting to their neolithic mind; as the weeks go on, you see the way his eyes change when they fall on you, no longer detached but gluttonous. 

There’s a brown bear that slouches past your camp one day, sniffing around only because it’s curious, and Ghost all but completely obstructs your vision with how he shoves you behind him. He puffs up big when the bear gets too close, keeping you hidden until it snorts and ambles off, not interested in the pair of you. 

Do animals act like this? He curls you around him in sleep, legs tangled together. When you soak in the lake under the glare of the sun, he slips into the water and comes up behind you until his hands close around your waist and he tugs you closer to the edge, away from the deeper parts. It’s testament to how long you’ve been out on your own that you’re no longer unaccustomed to the feel of his hands on your bare flesh. 

His lips on your bare shoulder are a little less commonplace, but you only shiver and stare out at the mountains. 

Then one day, you look up into the sky away from the sun and there it is, a black dot on the horizon at first. You scream for Ghost, who’s skinning a fish on a damp log near you and start waving your arms wildly in the air, unbridled joy streaming out of you. He’s quick to pull his mask on when the chopper lands a few hundred yards away and two similarly dressed soldiers spill out. 

You ignore the stiffness in his body as he sits beside you in the chopper, pinning you against the side. Ignore the way he answers for you when the men start asking questions. 

What does it mean to come back worse?

“Wha’s that, love?”

“Trauma bonding,” you repeat, swallowing nervously. It’s months later, but the weeks on the mountain and the forest still haunt you. The real world seems flimsier now that you’re back in it, less real somehow. Here, no one hunts for their food. “The therapist said that we trauma bonded. And—and that’s why you won’t—”

Here’s where the words can’t seem to come out on their own. 

He sleeps in your bed these days—can’t stand to be more than a room away from you at any given time. Follows you into the bathroom when you need to clean up at the end of the day, crowding you into your too-small shower. The you from a month ago wouldn’t have been able to imagine inviting a six-foot-four soldier into your apartment, but—and here’s where your brain scrambles a bit to catch up—you didn’t invite him in. 

He lifts a brow. The mask comes off in your apartment, so you’re able to see the way his lips slip into something unimpressed. “Why I won’t what?”

You swallow. “You know. Leave.”

“Do you want me to leave, love?” 

That’s the crux of it. The heart of it. You really don’t. In the dark sometimes, if the wind rustles outside your window just right, shrill like those weeks in the forest and out on the open plains, your heart pounds in your chest until it grows so tight that you think it’ll just stop. 

“No,” you whisper in response to his question.

Most nights, you wake up drenched in sweat, still half in a dream where you turn your head and the other flight attendant is staring back at you with wide, empty eyes. Blood dribbling down from his head. Where a plane is ripped in half, grey metal strewn across a mountain and the valley below is a dark pit where you go to die. 

Then you roll over in your bed and Ghost is there, already awake and cupping a wide hand over your cheek, laying kiss after kiss across your face. Murmuring that it’ll be alright, that you’re safe. That he’s got you. 

His breath is hot on your skin.

You let him roll you over and spread your legs when he says those things. Let him be a bit filthy after being so kind to you in the woods. 

He spits on your pussy and rubs it in with a coarse thumb, chuckling when you yelp all breathlessly and squirm away. Sometimes when you fuck, he gets rough with you and slaps it, but he’s always tender with you after a nightmare, content to sooth you with his mouth on your pussy until you’re close to hyperventilating. 

“S’alright, sweetheart,” Ghost breathes, spearing you on his turgid length, barrel chest heaving when he finally crams it all in. Always a bit too big for you to take without crying. “I got you, I’ve got you. Not gonna let anything happen to you.”

It’s a new development, but it feels older than time. You could’ve let it happen in the woods and you might have, if no one had ever come. 

“Look at me, sweet girl,” he tuts when you turn your head to the side, holding your face in one hand until you have no choice but to stare at the bulk of him straining over you. He has shoulders like mountains that roll when he pushes into you. “Didn’t I say I’d take care of you?”

You don’t want to acknowledge what this is: that you found something in the woods and it followed you home.

[stychu-stych]

day 29 < Day 30 "Disintegrate" > day 31

Continuation of this one

Prompt list

yeah I think I've made typo in my prompt list for that day shnshs not the first, not the last time

[moonsaver]

I’m just imagining the arranged marriage thing but this time it’s Sunday who is head over heels for reader (maybe he was the one who set this up in the first place! This could also tie into reader being higher status but Sunday does something to make them fall and then saves them by entering a relationship with the head of the oak family) but reader doesn’t like him or is into someone else, the angst….i feel like Sunday would do everything to make them love him but it just won’t work so in the end he just begs them to at least pretend they love him and that’ll be enough. A happier prompt on this could be he does actually succeed in getting some of their genuine love in the end. Anyway just thought of this after seeing a clip of Aqua and Akane from oshi no ko. Don’t judge me.

Okay, tons of possibilities here so lets go turn by turn because i really like this idea and unfortunately let it marinate for way too long

And it might have become unintentionally yandere, so i might redo it lol + there's not much fluff.

1 . Sunday arranging the marriage himself because he really likes reader – normal au

Sunday would definitely do this if he was pushed to his wits’ end. If his feelings for you not only disintegrate, but instead worsen and delve deeper, and on top of that, if he senses you yourself are drifting away from him. The added pressure of not reaching you in time after a conclusion to his own feelings is scary to him. In his desperation, he might as well pull some or the other reason out of his ass to marry you, even going as far as to even bribe your parents/guardians or anyone who has the power to object on your behalf.

Negotiations, contract handling, etc.. are all planned by him, so if you have a problem or you want to object, you can only do it by directly confronting Sunday himself. The added intimidation of his knowing, mysterious smile when he stands before you, almost irking you to continue in silence when you hesitate at wanting to object is something he almost relishes. Any problem you might have, has to be directly communicated to Sunday.

In the actual marriage? He's much easier on you. The hard part of coercing you into the marriage was over. He allows you more freedom in the marriage than he does outside of it.

He allows you separate rooms, reigns in any affections for you until you're comfortable, and even openly lets you know you two won't have to immediately consummate your marriage. He'll generally make sure you're comfortable in your marriage.

Of course, deviations and exceptions occur if you happen to still have lingering feelings for.. some nobody. He's bitter about it, so so bitter you can feel the tension in the air when his smile slightly falters at even the mention of their name. Sunday might try to hasten the process of you getting “comfortable” and perhaps even start forcing a few affections on you, such as kissing or holding your hand, brushing your hair in the morning and before bed, lingering his eyes on your lips. He might even not so subtly try to pressurise you, by telling you things like “at this rate, many might not even think we are married, my dear”. 

He plays slightly dirty, but there's so many moments of clarity that he hesitates still. He doesn't want to force you to love him - he wants it to happen on it's own. He's often so loving to you from afar in hopes you'll notice and maybe even return them, but when you look away in anxiousness or discomfort, Sunday's smile falters into a resigned, solemn expression. It hurts, deeply.

2. Sunday arranges the marriage with a reader of higher rank

Its similar, but you'll find the process is hastier. Perhaps it even causes a few slip ups in the middle.

Sunday would be practically tearing at his own hair before he finds the key to catalyze the negotiations of your marriage with him. If it's something that happens to knock you down or push you into unfavourable circumstances, he hesitates. But if you happen to like someone else? All that hesitation vaporises in an instant. He's practically over the moon when you have no one to turn to, his hand is almost shaking from excitement when he reaches it out to you. 

He's much more.. smothering if it makes sense, but he's not outright/direct about it. He always wants to be wherever you are, sometimes stands too close for comfort beside you, and even puts you in circumstances where you won't necessarily be able to push back in the case you damage your already fragile image or so. He's so elated, it's almost creepy. If you don't seem to be driving the relationship, or remain stagnant, his suspicions will grow immensely regarding your feelings for anyone else. Whenever you aren't present, he probably rifles through your belongings, scours for any possibility of traces of that nobody in your life.

He insists on spending the night with you – a familiar knock at the exact same time almost every night on your room's door. He stays with you, talking until it's late at night and you're too tired to shoo him away. But he'd never think himself superior than you, rather he almost takes advantage of it. He's constantly telling you how much incharge of the relationship you are. He disguises choices he wants to make on your behalf as something you can decide on. “Would you like a separate room for us both, or would you like us to have connected doorways?” , “shall I spend the morning with you, or the night?” , or so on. Not doing anything with him makes him sour, but he hides it with a smile. Sooner or later your plans are sabotaged, and in the end he joins you in “fixing” them anyway, and well.. since he's already been here for so long, it won't hurt to have him stick by until the end of it, right?

In some extreme cases, maybe one where the reader is desperately trying to leave the marriage or push back against anything that solidifies it, Sunday might even insist that you two consummate as fast as possible, regarding it as something necessary or even vital. He's so persistent about what he wants from you, like a dog begging and whimpering, that you're practically coerced into giving it to him.

He often poses himself on his knees to you, and stares so tenderly at you, you might crack. It hurts to not give him what he wants. There's times where begging words almost slip out of his mouth when he has to pull you closer. He wants your love so desperately it hurts.

[weepingtalecowboy]

Hyrule Warriors strategy lol

Fanfic prompt: A thing I absolutely love about Hyrule warriors is how the game needs strategy and how said strategy evolves

You go from

“Please go there I will carry you there but please don’t run off”

Too

“GET OVER HERE RIGHT THIS SECOND OR ELSE…!,!”

like you end up barking orders like a literal drill sergeant

You have absolutely no faith that anyone would go where they need to

I spent more time in the menu barking orders than I did actually holding and taking over zones

Even funnier is how replaying the game absolutely makes a difference

Where in games like windwaker or twilight princess you are forced to progress slowly through the game

No matter how good you get at them you still need to wait for bosses to enter second and third phase

Or more specifically need to either tear down the barrier (or skip it but that’s hard) or turn into a hylian in both games

The only thing that changes is that you can play the game better and more reliably than before

In Hyrule warriors the learning curve makes replaying the game hilarious

Because the second you genuinely understand the strategy for the game you play it completely differently

Fighting Volga the first time is literally more about precisely mashing buttons and aiming at him every single time than anything else

I beat him in like ten seconds flat

Like from a time travel fix it perspective Hyrule warriors let’s you do everything immediately

Like imagine warriors getting sent back in time to the first ever fight in Hyrule warriors and literally the second he gets promoted he goes full drill sergeant mode on people

Where first time you learn the usefulness of dragging people to do stuff rather late

You also eventually don’t trust anyone to do stuff if you aren’t outright controlling them immediately

This time around warriors got the confidence to scream at people right after he got the promotion lol

It probably looks so funny when a near new recruit gets the audacity to threaten everyone the second he gets promoted

And then out drill sergeants a higher up and finishes missions in like half an hour the most (respect speed run )

But only because he scared everyone into obedience (like npcs run like they would die if they don’t get to the ordered position right this second)

And kept tabs on all the zones that need to be held

While also ignoring literally every enemy except the generals , redeads and other special forces (honestly redeads make NPCs a new level of ineffective… way to slow)

Only doing side missions for two seconds and then doing the main ones exclusively

And boosting moral like crazy (because of how fast you get side missions done)

You legitimately become a tank at some point in Hyrule warriors and not even replaying the entire game would balance it out

Tune and mask probably feared the captain when he went drill sergeant (and you go drill sergeant way too often in this game)

We need more drill sergeant warriors in the fandom

Because in the game nobody disobeys your orders and runs like their lives depend on it

The chain needs to experience drill sergeant warriors when fighting a boss (maybe dink)

No honor for the evil … you trap them in a corner and keep beating them into submission and don’t stop until they disintegrate

Cia didn’t even have a chance lol

We need more time travel where the character simply immediately becomes their best possible form because they simply had a growing as a person arc they could skip this time around

Arguing with that guy about stuff involving missions is probably not recommended

Time and wind just sit back and watch as warriors get into drill sergeant mode and wait till one of the links gets to do pushups

You have better luck with literally any other type of discussion but not military or mission related lol

[daisymbin]

hii can u pls do angst #50 with seungcheol? and ofc, not an happy ending >__< i love ur writing sm, thank you!

ah!!! yes I can!! thank you for requesting 🤍

request your own: full prompt list!

check out my masterlist! // cheol's m.list

angst prompt #50: "I hope they're worth it."

seungcheol stumbled through the front door, the faint scent of alcohol and guilt clinging to his skin. the clock on the wall read 8:23am, but he didn’t need to check the time to know he was late—too late. the moment he stepped inside, he saw you sitting on the edge of the couch, arms folded tightly, face pale and blotchy, with dried tear tracks staining your cheeks.

you had been crying.

"you’re home," you said flatly, your voice raw like you’d been screaming into a pillow all night.

his heart sank. he’d spent the entire cab ride rehearsing what to say, but the words disintegrated in his throat. his voice came out hoarse. "yeah. i… uh, i lost track of time."

you laughed bitterly, the sound low and hollow, and reached for your phone. you slid it across the coffee table, the motion sharp, deliberate. the screen was lit, an image burned into it—a picture of him kissing someone at the bar.

someone who wasn’t you.

his breath caught. his fingers trembled as he picked up the phone, staring at the evidence of his betrayal. the rush of blood to his ears drowned out everything else.

"you weren’t even going to tell me, were you?" your voice cracked, anger bubbling just below the surface of your words.

"i—" his voice faltered. "i didn’t mean for it to happen. i was drunk, and—"

"don’t." the single word stopped him cold. you stood abruptly, wrapping your arms around yourself like you were holding yourself together with sheer will. your eyes shimmered, fresh tears threatening to spill, but you blinked them back, your voice sharper this time. "don’t insult me by blaming it on the alcohol."

his chest tightened, the weight of his mistake pressing harder with every word you spoke. "it was a mistake. i swear, it didn’t mean anything. i—"

"you don’t get to decide what it means, seungcheol." your voice broke, and this time, a sob slipped out. you pressed a hand to your mouth, as if you could stop it, but it was too late. the tears were falling again, streaming down your face even as you tried to stand tall. "you don’t get to brush it off like it’s something small, like it’s something i’m supposed to forgive just because you feel guilty now."

he moved closer, his hands trembling as he reached for you, desperate to bridge the chasm he’d created. "please, it was a moment of weakness. i love you—"

"love?" you let out a strangled laugh, the sound choked by tears. you wiped at your face with shaky hands but didn’t bother to hide how much you were breaking. "is this what love looks like to you? leaving me here all night, wondering if you were safe, only to find out you were with someone else?"

his knees felt weak. he sank onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. "i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to hurt you. i don’t even know why I—"

"stop." you cut him off sharply, your voice steadier now, though the tears kept falling. "don’t sit there and act like you don’t know why. you knew exactly what you were doing. you just didn’t care enough about me to stop yourself."

his own tears started to spill, hot and heavy, but he didn’t wipe them away. "it was a mistake," he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his guilt. "it didn’t mean anything."

"it meant enough for you to do it," you shot back, your tone trembling but firm.

you bent down to pick up your bag from the floor, your movements slow, like every step you took was crushing you.

"wait," he blurted, panic lacing his voice. "where are you going? we can fix this. we can—"

"we?" you turned to face him one last time, your tear-streaked face filled with heartbreak and resolve. "there is no ‘we’ anymore, seungcheol. you destroyed that the moment you kissed her, the moment you decided i wasn’t enough."

his throat tightened as he tried to hold back his own sobs. "i’ll do anything. just… don’t leave. please."

you shook your head, the weight of the tears on your lashes making them shimmer in the dull morning light. "i hope she was worth it," you said quietly, your voice trembling as your lips quivered. "i really do."

he could only watch as you walked out the door, the sound of it closing behind you echoing in the empty apartment.

he stayed on the couch, staring at the spot where you’d stood moments ago, his tears falling freely now. the silence was suffocating, filled with the weight of everything he’d lost. he buried his face in his hands again, but this time, there was no one left to comfort him.

and he knew he deserved it.

[bekkachaos]

I wish I didn't linger on every thought

8x06 coda | 700 words

Buck goes to Eddie's so he doesn't have to be alone. They don't really talk, but they don't really need to. aka, a continuation of the final scene in 8x06

Eddie didn't get up to turn the music off, in fact he was quite enjoying it. He never really played music around the house and it had been far, far too quiet lately.

As he leant back he turned his head to look curiously at Buck. He looked like someone had dropped him in cold water and put him out on their doorstep. Then there was the way he had already finished his beer when Eddie was only halfway through.

He took another bottle from his six pack and held it up, looking back at Eddie who just shook his head and gestured to his own bottle.

Buck sighed, cracking it open and taking another long swig.

"Slow down there," Eddie said, nudging Buck's knee with his own. "You only brought six."

He smiled like he was prompting Buck to do the same, but he didn't.

"I'm sure you've got one or two in the fridge," he said instead, sullen and monotone.

"Probably," Eddie said, putting his bottle to his lips.

He bobbed his head to the song as it played, taking in a deep breath and resting his head against the back of the couch. He was trying really hard not to feel guilty for taking a moment to feel joy, to do something silly and frivolous just because he could. It felt nice, and he was going to lean into that. He had to.

He turned back to look at Buck, now with his elbows propped on his knees and his fingers peeling at the label on the bottle in his hands.

"You... want to talk about it?" he asked, watching the way Buck's lips tightened as he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

"No, not really," Buck said in that same listless voice.

He turned his eyes to Eddie, and god they were so sad. Eddie thought that maybe there might have already been tears, or that they were so glassy because he was desperately trying to hold them in. He knew when to push and when to just let him be though.

If Buck wanted to talk then he would (usually it was impossible to get him to stop), but that didn't seem to be what he needed right now.

Buck's eyebrow cocked slightly as he gave Eddie a once over look.

"Do you?" he asked.

Eddie smiled, shaking his head and letting out a low chuckle.

"Nah," he said, taking in a steadying breath. "No I'm um, I'm good."

It might be the first time in a long time that he's said that and actually meant it.

"Good," Buck nodded, turning away from him and back to the disintegrating label at his fingers.

"You want to put a movie on or something?" Eddie offered.

He didn't mind just sitting there with Buck, but he seemed like he could use something to take his mind of whatever seemed to be revolving around in his head, not to mention some company.

"Yeah," he said, lips growing soft in the corners. "That sounds good."

"Any suggestions?" Eddie asked, and Buck turned to look at him.

"Risky Business?" he said, completely straight faced.

Eddie just looked back at him a moment, holding his eyes until he saw just the hint of a sparkle, and his lips pulled up in a smile.

It was a shadow of his usual one, but it was there, it was enough to let Eddie know that he was okay, just hurting.

Eddie let out a laugh and shook his head.

"Alright wise guy," he said fondly, getting to his feet with a groan and reaching for the rest of the beers at Buck's side. "Give me those, I'll put them in the fridge, you just pick something."

He started walking towards the kitchen when he heard Buck's voice call him back.

"Hey Eddie?"

He turned, resting one hand on the wall and looking over at him with eyes that answered his soft question.

"Can I crash here tonight?" he said, eyes crinkling in the corners. "I just... kinda don't want to go back home."

Eddie's smile was warm, feeling. Seeing Buck so in need of comfort left a tugging sensation in his chest.

"Couch is all yours, anytime. You know that."

Buck let out a sharp sigh and Eddie watched just a little bit of relief flood over him.

"Thanks," he said.

Eddie just gave him a nod, watching for a moment as Buck reached for the remote before going to put the beers away, and check that he had enough in the fridge in case Buck needed just a little more.

[bonesofapoet]

ruination [ lucanis dellamorte x rook ] author's note: i am sleepy and threw this together, but I wanted to share lucanis reacting Badly to rook being reckless in battle so! yeehaw kids let's goooo word count: 839

Everything disintegrated upon your return to camp. 

The copse of trees sheltering the clearing sighed with your weary bones, welcoming you back to this makeshift home after a mission gone so magnificently, catastrophically sideways. Your tent beckoned you into it's sweet embrace, in which you were seconds away from answering it's call - yet a body grazed past, a mere breath away from clipping your shoulder.

A tightness began to slip around your ribcage, burrowing deep and harsh and stubborn into your unsuspecting heart.

Lucanis veered off towards his tent, soundless in voice, yet lacking stealth in his execution. Twigs snapped under boots, metal twanged as gear unclipped and fell to the ground. 

It was obvious how he felt by the way his brows fell together, eyes narrowed so their corners crinkled. Arms were crossed over leather armor upon your approach, half discarded with a grip tight enough to bunch up fabric exposed and straps hanging loose. Angry, would be an understatement, you decide. Livid, however, seemed to be a more accurate description.

"You could have - you almost died."

He sees the rise and fall of your chest as your breath deepens. The audible sigh of an exhale being the prelude to something he knows is going to rile him even more, knowing you. And he does - know you, that is - more than he'd like to dwell on. He knows you and that, apparently, seems to be the trouble.

"Yes," you nod once. Hold yourself a step back, giving him his space. "But I had an opening, and you were busy, if you recall-"

"I was there, yes -"

"I'm sorry." The harshness of his tone was enough  prompting for the words to come spilling through your lips. They still tasted faintly of blood and sweat and magic. You wished he would come near and kiss it away.

Your words sounded scratchy, rough almost. Sincere, for sure. Lucanis wishes he could reach for you and -

"You're sorry."

"I -" you hesitate, unsure how to navigate what you may have just broken. It's new, this version of your Crow. You haven't met him yet, not directly, and now balking in the face of such an occurrence seemed like the thing to do, when caught so off guard.

Truth be told, you hadn't been expecting a confrontation. At least not one so. . .personal.

"I reacted," you mend. "And I suppose in hindsight, I see how it - how I miscalculated. Obviously." the hand not wrapped in bandages raises, gestures to the remnants of the fight marring your skin. It all aches, but you're not going to let him see that. 

Lucanis stares, and stares, and stares. The grip on his elbows lessen, and he shakes his head, stepping back to create more distance. He sees you watching him, eyes wide and clouding with something like hurt, when he backs away from you.

His response is quick, sudden in the way he tears off his gloves and finishes unlatching the buckles of his leathers. They don't fall to the ground so much as they are aggressively dropped, a pile of bloody gear laying at his feet. He needs to take a minute. To breathe, to think, anything - because he's not sure he can hone this kind of anger into anything useful at this very moment. Except -

Except.

You catch the way Lucanis hides the tremors of his hands by busying them with his blades. The way his response time is longer when he removes the bandolier across his chest. How they shake when reaching down to unearth hidden knives in boots and daggers secured in hidden sheaths. He says nothing, yet doesn't turn you away, doesn't walk away, either.

Because Lucanis had come face to face with a possibility he had not allowed himself to foresee. You could have died, and he would be here, in camp, mourning over your pyre instead of hiding how impossibly, magnificently, gut-wrenchingly unprepared he is to lead a life void of - well, you.

A few paces away, your boot toes the ground. You can't look at him either, right now.

"Right. Well. I'll leave you to it then."

Lucanis stops. Slips his gaze to where you stand, a picture of valiant failure to appear nonchalant. He sees the regret tainting your expression, coloring your vibrant heart into melancholy shades of mountain greys. The way you hold yourself back from anything remotely resembling yourself in the wake of a mistake, yes, but - don't you care you almost died?

The blades in his hands fall to the ground, their CLANK clattering loud in the mutual silence. The way your eyes shine as you turn and walk away - 

He lets you go, this time, a hand ripping through hair, an exhale tearing up his lungs. He knows he's hurt you, but until he calms the hell down - it's something he can live with, even if it reopens wounds he thought he'd burned shut.

This dance is tearing both of you into a million pieces, because neither of you will take the goddamn lead.

[danwhobrowses]

Now that Critical Role's VOD of episode 120 is out and everyone in the fandom's had a moment to breathe, simmer, and adjust to this all. I wanna do a big talk about my favourite idiot punk rock, Ashton Greymoore.

Because over these last few episodes, I've been so proud of them.

Many people have had vocal opinions on Ashton, not all of them positive either; I've seen many berate them and say they're selfish, not a team player, or that they 'don't add anything to the group'. But over the past few episodes, I feel like Ashton has been an unsung hero in the battles with Ludinus and Predathos, with their contributions, oftentimes selfless and cooperative, ending up providing the floor for others to deliver strong and impactful actions.

While Dorian and Imogen will rightfully get the lion's share of praise for their clutch moments - Dorian's Force Cage on Ludinus saving Liliana and defeating Predathos' first stage alongside Imogen's Power Word: Stun setting up Ludinus' death and defeating Predathos' second stage - Ashton's actions were often the prelude to moments that could not have succeeded without them, including these clutch moments. Their attack on Ludinus in 117 prompted the Silvery Barbs that burned up his reaction - which allowed Dorian to successfully use Force Cage without being Counterspelled, their high-damage attack on his neck hole in 118 broke Ludinus' concentration on Ravenous Void - which somehow later got credited to Chetney - which gave Imogen the freedom and mobility to get in range for Power Word: Stun, they got the Insight check whisper on Predathogen in 119 to know that Imogen was physically inside of the body and needed to be pried out - which Imogen achieved herself thanks in part to Fearne reaching her, and recently in 120 they pulled Imogen out of Predathos' maw, abandoning the Hammer synonymous with their character (to the point that Keyleth titled them the 'Paradox Hammer') to prioritize saving their friend, which - following Dorian's healing - gave her the chance to use the Ring of Remembrance for the finishing Meteor Swarm. Not to mention all the other damage they dealt and tanked throughout the four fights, the passive d4 bonuses and advantage they gave the party (almost acting partly as a secondary paladin or a tertiary bard) to buff their damage and saving throws, and accepting the risk of disintegration when Laudna used their Hammer's spell splitter - which forced Predathos to use its final Legendary Resistance.

The Disintegrate moment itself was tense because we all know that Ashton is high among the Hells who would sacrifice themselves to save the group - a mentality most of the Hells likely shared in this fight - but fortunately they don't have to, they'll never have to, and they gained something just as if not more valuable than a heroic sacrifice: they get to live. The person who before meeting these chucklefucks believed they'd likely die face-down in a ditch in some backwater alley and thrown into an unmarked grave AT BEST gets to live, and the people that mean most to them get to live thanks to their efforts, their successes. And that's the most important part; for all the times they couldn't help or save someone because they were unconscious or out of reach, for all the times they let their imposter syndrome tell them they're just a fuckup undeserving of trust, praise, or love, and for every fear they had that one day they'd mess up and this new family of theirs will abandon them like the Nobodies did, this time they were there standing beside their people to the very end - and they helped get them out alive. No mistakes, no carelessness, and no-one left behind.

For that, I am proud of Ashton Greymoore; not Bells Hells' Weapon but their Helm, not a Blunt Instrument but a Protector, and not a Hero who needs to do 'what needs to be done' but a Friend who is saving their people no matter the odds. Under all the hardened and rugged exterior that has always been who Ashton is - the perfectly flawed character they are.

[nightingale-prompts]

The Bridge-DC xDP prompt

The universe has its own way to correct itself. Even chaos has its own god. But there are things beyond gods because even beings of belief can not encapsulate the whole of the universe. What is belief and faith in the face of knowing?

The creation of a mere god is small in comparison to an ancient...an endless. It meant that the fundamental law of the universe had been changed and that a new reality had been created.

This was the fault of Darkseid. The universal collision alone had done untold damage let alone the crossing of life and death. The overload on reality itself created a need for something to correct it. Order must be found and a way to sort the contradictions without erasing all of creation.

The ancients acted quickly to discuss what should be done but the universe itself had answer.

The boy king who called himself the bridge between worlds would be The Bridge. Simply that. He would be the concept of The Bridge. He would link all that is unstable and create an infinite path. The long roads. Interconnection of all things. The breaking of reality no longer possible because now it just bends. The travel between universes is no longer an impossibility but etched into new stone.

The Bridge is all paths, Life to Death, Light to Dark, Good to Evil. All roads to travel to their next destination. All transitions to new states of being.

To be The Bridge the boy did nothing. Being the anchor of a universal law didn't require upkeep. All he needed to do was exist in some form or another. It was a pretty easy job and the perks were great. He could block access to the people crossing the lines of life and death and into the infinite realities because now there were firm rules in place and someone who could control it. Kind of like how people can time travel because of Clockwork's existence make it a real concept.

Its pretty easy work until mortals start begging you for stuff.

'Oh ancient please bring my son back to life'

'Please kill that guy for me'

'Please give me some of your powers'

Its all the same and all Danny can say is.

"What's your offer."

Danny understands why gods don't do things for free. Imagine the workload if everyone got what they wanted just for asking.

Its kind of annoying. He could use some help. Someone who's familiar with the boundaries of reality to manage the new gateways.

The name Constantine was popular in the demonic circles and pretty easy to get ahold of once he disintegrates a few demons.

He would be the first mortal to make a pact with him. This Constantine should be happy to be in a non-demonic pact from now on.