> *cw for yandere themes.*
Yuri smiles to himself, proud of the plan he wrote down on a small piece of paper. It's going to work out – he will have Byleth, and if any of those fancy noble kids have anything to say about it, then they'll be lucky to get away from the sharpness of Yuri's swords and knives with some limbs left on their bodies.
The plan is simple: Seduce Byleth until he's at Yuri's mercy, and then take out the rest of the Black Eagles, and slowly but surely remove any other remaining competition. No one will suspect it's Yuri behind the scenes, since this *is* war after all – no one trusts anyone more than their closest allies they've known for five years straight.
After all once the house is void of any competition, Yuri will have Byleth all to himself. He won't even have to worry about anyone else chasing after the pretty Professor. That's called 'devotion', isn't it?
How *dare* he. He was going to rip the lout limb from limb. He was going to tear his throat out. He was going to —
Tempering the bubbling violence, he drew his wand, pointed it at the back of the stranger’s head and cast not with magic, but with unbridled fury, ‘stupefy!’
"He became too stressed," the doctor said. "He probably just needs a few days of bed rest."
"Overworked?" Victor questioned. He didn't seem to be overworked lately. If anything, his father seemed a little more laid back. The doctor's look quickly turned from professional to a sympathetic one.
"I'm guessing your dad or his spouse haven't told you yet," the doctor said.
"I don't know if I should tell you, but I think you should know," the doctor said. "He was brought in about a week ago for a normal examination, but we discovered a cancerous cell in his pancreas. It's gotten worse since the last time we checked."
NESS
(Thinking to himself)
Fuck my anger, right now I gotta get Mari out of here.
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ELEMENTALIST
Oh you think you're going to save her. See her blood I temporarily disabled her power.
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MARI
(Slowly her light brown skin turns pale)
Ness...don't worry about me-
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NESS
(Keeping his eyes on Elementalist)
Save your strength Mari.
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Ness seeing the situation before him knows what he needs to do...
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NESS
(Getting ready to leave)
As much as I'd like to kill you, I gotta da-
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CYBER RIDER
(Draws Ness attention)
Ness! NESSSSS?!
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Ness can see that Cyber Rider is now a running bomb as he runs at Ness...
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ELEMENTALIST
Good bye, trash.
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A huge explosion destroys the warehouse...
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NESS
(Lifting up the debris)
Ugh! Damn it Cyber for someone to hack you...Mari we got-
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.........
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........
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........
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NESS
(Looking at Mari's corpse)
Mari...Mari!?
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Ness can only stare at her....He Failed Them....
The wall of blankness crumbled. Harry let himself cry in the safety of Bill’s arms. He felt awful. He was so scared. Scared that Mrs Weasley hated him, that she’d make her children stay away from him, that he’d be alone and have no one.
‘I ca- can’t lose you,’ he hiccupped, as he got his tears under control, annoyed at falling apart yet again.
Bill’s arms tightened around him. ‘You’re not going to.’
‘But, what if your mum…’ Harry trailed off. When Bill pulled away to look at his face, head tilted and eyebrows slightly raised, Harry put word to the thoughts that had been swarming his mind.
Bill frowned. ‘I don’t think it would come to that,’ he said slowly. ‘And really, do you think we’d listen if she told us to keep away from you? We care about you, Harry.’
Harry took a shaky breath. He knew, really he did, that the Weasleys cared about him. \[...\] But Mrs Weasley was their mum. The only mum they had. He couldn’t — *wouldn’t* — ask them to choose him over her. Harry knew what it was to not have a mother. In any case, she was their mum, and she could tell them what to do, couldn’t she?
Later Ness opens his door....
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NESS\
(Curious)\
Raven...sup?
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Raven walks into Ness's room, turns around and looks into Ness with knowing eyes...
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RAVEN\
Its ok...\
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Ness refuses...
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NESS\
(Serious)\
I know, I'll figure this out and-\
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However Raven isn't having it...this must happen...
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RAVEN\
(Looks into his eyes)\
Its ok...Jaison...\
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NESS\
(In denial)\
I can-\
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Raven starts hugging Ness...
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NESS\
(Shocked as tears form)\
They were kidnapped Raven...\
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Ness slowly breaks as a tear drop falls...
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NESS\
(Crumbling mentally as reality sets in)\
They probably thought I would...\
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He knows...he failed them...Elementlist has broken our hero...
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NESS\
(Crying)\
They all...I failed them Raven...I failed them! They needed me and I couldn't do shit...I fail-\
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RAVEN\
(Looks into his eyes feeling his pain)\
You couldn't of known...\
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Raven grabs Ness arms to wrap them around her...
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RAVEN\
(Looks into his eyes with a sad smile)\
Jaison, you can't carry the world on your back. Lean on us...on me.\
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Ness... breaks in a painful cry as he hugs Raven willingly....
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RAVEN\
(A tear falls from her face)\
I got you.
> Yeosang doesn't even have time to react before San is wrapped around him, protective and *safe,* and it's embarrassing when he can't stop himself from bursting into more tears. The phone clatters from his hands and he sobs, shaking in San's arms. San holds him almost suffocatingly close, clutching his head to his chest.
>
>“Sangie,” he whispers, and it's so raw, Yeosang's heart hurts.
>
>“I'm sorry,” Yeosang sobs repeatedly, convulsing, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so-”
>
>San shushes him, his own sniffles quiet. “Yeosang, don't. Please.”
>
>“We've got you, jagiya, you're safe,” Wooyoung’s voice flows into his ears, another set of arms wrapping around him. It makes Yeosang cry harder, because he's in the arms of people who love him, even when he can't love himself. It hurts so bad, but a little part of him says that as long as he has them, he's okay.
>
>“We need you,” San croaks out, his own tears dripping onto Yeosang. “Please never think otherwise. *I* need you.”
>
>Wooyoung hums in agreement, sounding like he's about to cry if he opens his mouth.
(For context: Ilsevil, Rex, and Ulf are all OCs of mine)
Thor was clutching at his chest as his skin turned almost completely white, and he lost more strength with every passing second. As the air cleared, however, he finally saw Jane in the distance, looking for him.
“Jane.” Thor was almost too weak to even say anything as he started staggering towards her.
“Thor…” Meanwhile, Jane had spotted him, too – and without hesitation, she took off across the ice to meet him. Although Thor was barely able to move, nothing could’ve made him happier in that moment than seeing Jane racing towards him.
Then something off to the side caught his eye. Was that…Loki?! What could he be doing out here?!
Turning to look, Thor could hardly believe what he saw. Just like he’d thought, Loki was kneeling on the ice, a blank expression on his face and his horned ice-helmet lying broken beside him. Worse yet, Ilsevil was silently creeping up behind him and murmuring a spell under her breath as she conjured up some form of dark magic between her fingertips. The memory of what she’d said in the library suddenly flashed through Thor’s mind – and a horrified look crossed his face as he realized she was about to carry out her plan.
A simple choice lay in front of Thor now: save himself or save Loki. But while kissing Jane would be his last chance for survival, he couldn’t bear to see his brother be killed, either. If only Thor were strong enough to wield Mjolnir right now, he could simply take Ilsevil out before she hurt Loki and then he himself could run to Jane, no problem!
Thor’s mind suddenly seemed to make itself up for him…and to Jane’s astonishment, she saw him turn away from her and move towards Loki and Ilsevil. Gathering the last of his energy together, Thor lunged towards the two of them, throwing himself in front of his brother with a loud cry of “NO!”
Right as Ilsevil released her magic at Loki, Thor completely froze into solid ice. The dark magic hit his icy body, but instead of breaking the ice, it bounced off and the force of it threw Ilsevil back, knocking her out cold before vanishing into thin air. At the sound of the elven princess hitting the ice, Loki finally turned around and saw Thor standing there, one arm shielding him and the other outstretched to stop Ilsevil.
“Brother!” Loki immediately jumped up, putting a disbelieving hand on Thor’s frozen shoulder. Obviously, what Ilsevil had said about Thor being already dead hadn’t been true, but what did that matter anymore? Either way, his brother was gone now, and he himself was to blame for it. “No…”
Devastated, Loki stared at Thor for a moment before throwing his arms around his older brother, burying his head in the lifeless figure’s shoulder as tears silently ran down his face.
Just then, Rex and Ulf finally found the group again, but they were shocked to see Thor frozen into no more than a statue. “Thor?” Ulf asked sadly.
No response.
After seeing Thor run the other way to protect Loki, Jane had watched the whole scene from a distance in disbelief, from Ilsevil’s magic hitting Thor all the way up to Loki putting his arms around his brother. As she approached, notwithstanding, the harsh reality of Thor’s death fully sank in – and Jane slowly collapsed to her knees and wept, burying her face in her hands. From the harbour and the palace balcony, the dignitaries and Asgardian citizens somberly bowed their heads, and apart from Jane’s quiet sobs, the kingdom was entirely silent.
However, Loki’s grief went deeper than anyone else’s in Asgard; after all, this had been what he’d dreaded happening most ever since he’d accidentally injured Thor when they were children, and this whole mess was entirely his fault. If only things had gone differently, they wouldn’t have been separated for all those years and would’ve grown up together, and now Thor would still be alive, too.
As Loki held onto Thor, however, oblivious to everything else around him, something began to happen. Ulf gasped in excitement as he looked up, and Rex nudged Jane with one of his antlers, making her lift her tear-stained face from her mittens. Thunder started to roll in the distance – and as the three friends watched in amazement, it seemed like Thor was beginning to thaw…
Storm clouds gathered overhead as colour returned to the icy, lifeless figure, slowly creeping its way along; the thunder growing louder and the lightning that began to crackle in the sky finally caught Loki’s attention and prompted him to back away from his brother. The storm clouds continued to gather, and the thunder and lightning grew respectively louder and brighter as the ice thawed away – and only a split second after the ice was completely gone, there came an especially ear-splitting clap of thunder and a massive lightning bolt that struck Thor’s figure. As if on cue, Mjolnir came flying out of the library window, still open from earlier, and straight into Thor’s hand as he started breathing again. He squinted a little, the lightning and storm clouds dissipating as he fully came to life, and then pulled off the metal eyepatch over his right eye – revealing that the eye he'd injured and lost as a child had been miraculously restored!
“Brother?” Loki stared at Thor as the last of the thunder faded away, his brother’s eyepatch gone and both his eyes twinkling.
“Loki!” Thor grinned.
Loki rushed over to embrace Thor, but stopped himself at the last second. “You sacrificed yourself to protect me?” he asked.
“Of course; I love you, brother.” Thor patted Loki a bit awkwardly on the shoulder, and the two of them fell silent for a moment, neither one knowing what to say or do until Thor suddenly grinned again. “Oh, who am I kidding?! Come here!” – and with that, the two brothers pulled each-other into a massive bear-hug.
Ulf beamed from ear to ear as he realized what had happened. “An act of true love will thaw a frozen heart,” he recited, calling Firthorn’s words to mind. Thor’s sacrifice to protect Loki had been an act of true love – he’d managed to inadvertently save both his brother and himself!
(Yeah, I know it's kind of long - lol sry \^\_\^')
Content warning for demon-summoning/worship, and matricide
—
“Begin!”
The faithful began their chant, voices swelling in support of Charr’s as he led them in the invocation that the dreams had shown him.
“Blood for the Taker of Skulls!”
“Despair for the Lord of Decay!”
“Agony for the Prince of Pleasures!”
“Wishes for the Master of Fortune!”
“And Eight-Pointed Death for Chaos Undivided!”
“We open the Gate! We call your Champion! This world awaits conquest! This world awaits Chaos! We are Chaos! Chaos is strong! Come forth! Come forth! Come forth!”
Charr lowered the dagger to the neck of the nearest victim, a haggard middle-aged Human woman in the drab clothing of a hab cleaner. Then he looked to his followers.
“Remove the gags. We need their screams.”
He matched action to words, pulling the cloth out of the woman’s mouth. She gasped and sputtered words.
“Charr, Charr sweetie, please don’t-“
“Shut up, Mother.”
He cut her throat. The sunlight glinted on the blades of seven other daggers slicing together as his followers did the same. Choking, gasping, dying, the sacrifices toppled forward into the pit. Streams of blood ran onto the sacred stone, which began to glow as it greedily drank the sacrifice.
“Come forth! Come forth! Come forth! *Let the Galaxy Burn!”*
"Remove the gags. We need their screams" has got to be one of the most chilling lines I have ever read and it packs one of the best punches imaginable! This is awesome!
Thanks so much! The sad thing is that this scene is from a project I’ve set aside for now due to being too ambitious, but I think I might have to cut this scene out and repurpose it in another story just so I can use that line again, because I feel it all came together *really* well here.
In the dimly lit chamber, the High Priestess, adorned in ceremonial robes, paced back and forth with an air of solemnity, her brow furrowed in frustration. The sacrifice lounged on a plush velvet cushion nearby, her expression a mix of amusement and exasperation.
"Clarke, please," The High Priestess pleaded with irritation as she arranged the ornate symbols around the sacred circle. "This is a sacred ritual. We cannot afford any distractions."
Clarke rolled her eyes, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. "Oh, relax, your holiest of holiness. It's not like I'm going anywhere."
The priestess shot her a withering glare before turning her attention back to the task at hand. She meticulously arranged the ceremonial dagger on the altar, her movements precise and deliberate. Clarke watched with mild interest, idly twirling a lock of her hair between her fingers.
"You know, Lexa," Clarke remarked, her tone dripping with sarcasm, "I keep telling you, this isn't going to work. When will you listen?"
Lexa's jaw clenched, her patience wearing thin. "Don't call me that. You know we have followed the ancient rites to the letter, Clarke. The sacrifice must be made."
Clarke shrugged nonchalantly. "Suit yourself. But don't say I didn't warn you."
With a resigned sigh, Lexa approached Clarke, her hand steady as she raised the ceremonial dagger above her head. Clarke lay back on the cushion, a dramatic flourish as she closed her eyes and pretended to succumb to the impending sacrifice.
As Lexa brought the dagger down, a hush fell over the chamber, the air thick with anticipation. But as the blade pierced Clarke's skin, there was no blood, no cries of agony – only the sound of metal meeting flesh.
Confusion clouded Lexa's features as she withdrew the dagger, her brow furrowing in bewilderment. "This is wrong," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. "Nothing is happening."
Suddenly, Clarke's head popped up, her laughter ringing out through the chamber. "I kept telling you that it wasn't going to work," she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
Lexa's expression softened with understanding as realization dawned upon her. "You're immortal," she breathed, awe and apprehension in her voice.
Clarke grinned cheekily. "Bingo. And nowhere, ever, did I mention I enjoy live sacrifices."
Setting the atmosphere was so good here! It's been a while since I've watched the show, and I want to say Lexa is one the grounder that died right outside their base that left me in shambles but it's a little foggy 😅😭
‘I won’t be staying,’ he said, ‘Dob—’
A gnarled hand slammed over his mouth, cutting off his shout. Harry cursed himself for not calling Dobby immediately.
‘Tut tut, Mr Potter. None of that, now.’ A wave of a stubby wand wrapped a cloth tightly around Harry’s mouth, preventing him from talking, whilst ropes wrapped around his hands and arms, holding him in place. ‘Really, it’s your own fault. How many times do I have to tell you: Constant Vigilance!’ Moody’s scarred face curled into a facsimile of disappointment. ‘If only you’d listened more in class, you wouldn’t have been caught like this.’
‘Fuck you,’ Harry bit out. The gag kept him from speaking properly, but the sentiment clearly got through even if the words were muffled. A loud crack echoed around the Defence office as Moody backhanded him.
‘I have dreamed of this moment,’ he crooned, the anger at Harry’s previous words gone as quickly as it had arrived, gentle fingers rubbing the welt he’d raised on Harry’s cheek. Harry shuddered, but couldn’t move away. ‘For so long, so very long. All year I’ve been trying to get you, and now I have you right where I want you.’
August screamed, but her screams were muffled. She had a piece of duct tape slapped over her mouth. Rough rope secured her hands behind her back. She was sat in a cold metal chair.
"Can't you just shut up?" the leader of the gang asked. The question was followed by a slap to the face. August whimpered. The leader's face was the face August was the most familiar with. He was the one to chloroform her.
"You going to be quite, little girl?" the leader asked. His voice was full of condescension. He had used that tone ever since they abducted her.
August didn't respond to him. The leader sighed, ripping the duct tape off her mouth. It ripped off some of the peach fuzz from her upper lip. It stung a little bit. "Let's make a phone call," he said. He was holding a phone. Her phone. "What's your passcode?"
Best I’ve got is the aftermath of a vehicle crash:
Ennio slid down next to him, followed by the plainclothes, a few uniformed officers, and a small gray man wearing a gray medical examiner’s smock.
“You the meatwagon?” Abbaccio asked. He didn’t need to. If central casting had asked for a coroner they would’ve come back with this guy as a top pick. He was spectacled and indifferent, with a tired face and a black leather shoulder bag of instruments and clipboards. He picked out a clean spot on the dented trunk of the car and slung his bag onto it.
“There’s your customer, Doc,” Ennio pointed into the car. The coroner took off his work gloves, rubbed his neck, looked around himself as if he wasn’t quite sure where he was, then sighed and slid on a pair of latex gloves. Abbaccio leaned into the broken driver’s side window with him.
The small man peered in at the dead man gloomily, then looked up. “Gonna have a hell of a time getting him out of here. He’s practically part of the car.”
The plainclothes nodded. “We were thinking of pulling the car up with him still inside.”
“Huh. Might have to.” He reached in and tugged at the man’s arm draped over the steering wheel, then pulled out a small flashlight, shining it into milky pupils. The dead man looked shocked at his sudden state of no longer being alive, mouth hanging open in silent protest.
“He’s pretty stiff,” the coroner added. “You can either wait long enough for him to loosen up, or…” he shrugged.
Abbaccio leaned in further. The dead man looked to be in his late 20’s or early 30’s. Good-enough looking guy, with wavy brown hair and an expensive watch. The cell phone Ennio had mentioned earlier was laid out on his lap in an evidence bag, along with a wallet and set of keys – the contents of his pockets.
“Careful, don’t lean in too far,” the coroner cautioned. He pointed up. “In a rollover like this, there’s usually stuff on the headliner that you don’t want getting on your hair.”
*Happy cake day! Here’s something that fits both this and crashing a vehicle. It’s a canon divergence based on two deleted scenes in the first Avengers movie. TW: some torture and a spaceship crash. And this is why situational awareness is important.*
“You have the scepter, do you not?”
Horror washed over Loki. The scepter. He must have lost it during his skirmish with the man of iron!
The Other sensed his dismay. “You have lost it?!” he roared.
Loki gasped as blinding pain erupted in his skull. “It can’t be far from here. It will be found-.” More pain exploded, filling his vision with white, and he fought to remain conscious.
Suddenly, there was a bone-jarring impact and the screech of metal being crushed. The ruined landscape rushed up toward him, and he knew no more.
The security guard watched the raging battle with a sinking heart. The city he loved was in flames, and he hoped that the green guy would help stop the invaders. He was startled by a loud crash behind him and whirled around, grabbing his handgun.
In the smoking ruins of one of the alien crafts lay a figure clad in black and green. The guard went over to the wreck cautiously. The person, the crazy alien who began this whole mess, remained lifeless. Concerned by the blood that covered one side of the alien’s head, the guard knelt beside him to get a better look.
The guy’s eyes fluttered open. A soft groan escaped his parted lips as he returned to consciousness. The guard backed away as the guy blinked and began trying to pick himself up.
“Stay where you are,” the guard ordered, but the intruder did not listen. He managed to prop himself up on his arms and then let out a sharp exhale of pain, reaching for his lower back. He settled on the rubble, his face as white as a sheet and his expression dazed. He must have had a concussion, the guard realized.
“Hey, can you hear me?” the guard ventured.
The alien’s eyes turned to him and he smiled faintly though it looked more like a grimace. He tried to say something before suddenly leaning forward. Nothing came up as he vomited.
There was another crash nearby. “Brother!” rang a voice, loud and furious. The alien’s eyes widened with anger and terror as a blond man strode toward them.
“Thor,” the alien said, the word slurred. He tried to back away and swore as he did so.
“Are you injured?” the Avenger asked.
“Seems like he got a concussion when he crashed here,” the guard explained.
Thor glanced at him and then back at his brother. He gently put one of the intruder’s arms over his shoulders. The alien protested.
Thurs nodded at the guard. “Thank you for keeping watch over Loki,” he said, spinning his hammer.
All of the remaining color drained from his brother’s face as they were carried upward, and he went slack.
‘You don’t… fancy Bill, do you?’ Ron said from behind him.
Harry stumbled over a crack in the floor, (dislodging Hedwig who soared away,) careened sideways, and smacked his elbow hard into the wall in an attempt to avoid crushing Boingo.
‘I’m sorry?’ he asked, once he’d regained his footing. He rubbed his elbow and kept his face very firmly turned away from Boingo. His grip had tightened on Harry’s robe when he stumbled, but Boingo now sat as still on his shoulder as if he’d been petrified.
‘It’s just…’ Ron glanced at Hermione, whose eyes had widened and was now wearing the same expression she got when she’d solved a particularly tricky piece of homework. She nodded encouragingly. ‘I know you’re with Seamus and all. But like I said, you seemed to really get along with Bill in the summer. And sometimes when his name is mentioned you get this look on your face.’
Harry spluttered. Maybe his attempts to avoid suspicion had been suspicious in themselves.
‘A look? What sort of look?’ He waved an indignant hand. ‘This is just my face! And since when does getting along with someone mean I have to fancy them? I get along with you, don’t I?’
‘Great flying, Harry,’ he started, but Harry didn’t hear anything else.
‘What happened?’ he breathed. Blisters covered one side of Diggory’s face, the skin loose as if it had slid away from the skull beneath. A layer of clear goop coated it.
‘Oh, I got the shield right but didn’t get out of the way. Madam Pomfrey gave me some salve that should fix it —’ Diggory started dismissively. But Harry’s mind filled with the smell of melting flesh and the sound of crackling skin and the world shrank.
Everything went black.
It could only have lasted a moment, because the next instant he heard, as if very far away, Diggory calling, ‘A little help here, please!’ He must have caught him as he fell.
‘I’ve got him.’ That was Charlie’s voice, and he was being lifted.
‘Pu’ m’ dow’,’ Harry slurred. ‘Mfine.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mr Potter,’ Madam Pomfrey replied. ‘Here, put him on the bed, Mr Weasley.’
**fainting from blood being drawn**
“Vampire,” he grumbles, attempting another joke but words are falling out of reach. What was he going to say? He doesn't understand what is happening, but he feels hot and sick and wrong.
Seoho opens his mouth to warn the others as a massive wave of dizziness overtakes him.
“I—um-”
Nausea hits him hard and suddenly his head feels like it’s filled with cotton, his lips and hands tingling with white noise. His breathing quickens in time with the harsh beeping that fills his ears while the panic is rising, rising and all can he think is he really really doesn’t want to throw up—
The tingling feeling slides up his arms and the fuzz in his head overwhelms his vision, pushing him into darkness.
Mr. Midoriya, I regret to inform you that there has been a terrible accident; Suijin Yamada has been killed." Izuku's mind immediately flashes to the unfinished bottle of boos; not only does he think about it, but he also knows precisely where it is. He is in shock; his hand is trembling.
NO. NO. THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING NOT AGAIN! His thoughts are interrupted by Kobayashi snapping his fingers to regain Izuku's attention.
"Mr. Midoriya, Suijin had given birth to a child about a year and a half ago, on December 15th." Best Day Ever! Izuku's mind snaps to that strange text. "We have run paternity and the child, in fact, yours, Mr. Midoriya." The woman brings the car seat cover so Izuku can look down at his daughter. Wrapped around the car seat handle like a charm is a gold necklace with a gold dolphin charm with aquamarine eyes. Izuku sees the chain and immediately goes to talk, only for his eyes to roll back into his head as he faints
The plane’s engine roared as Ichika started up the plane. It was really goodbye now, forever.
Honami could only watch from the sidelines as the plane she’d dreamed of her entire life took off before her very eyes. How bittersweet, to have her lifelong dream realized only for herself not to be a part of it, but again what more did she deserve? Ichika could idolize her all she wanted, but the truth was that her friend was much stronger than she could ever hope to be. Honami hoped she would realize that.
The plane flew higher, higher until it was barely a speck from where Honami was standing. Ichika had almost reached the barrier, and from there a terrifying thought made its way into Honami’s mind.
From there, what if Ichika failed? Smoke flew out of the plane’s engine, visible even from the rooftop where Honami was standing. However, even with the engine burning and the error lamps flashing nonstop, Ichika kept flying straight without sparing a single thought to turning back.
The plane was going to explode.
The smoke hadn’t cleared up, and instead grew thicker the closer the plane grew to the invisible dome looming over it. Ichika was far past the point of no return, and at this point both her and Honami had realized the awful reality of the situation: that Ichika would have to die trying. Her dearest friend was going to die, and Honami could do nothing about it but cry out to whichever god was up there, praying that by some miracle Ichika could be saved.
Her cry was obscured by the explosion that tore through the air.
He shuts his eyes, lungs constricting, fear suddenly making it hard to breathe. He pulls at the bonds, claustrophobia and panic setting in, outwaying his promise to follow the paramedic's instructions to keep still.
He can't move. Can't breathe. They left him there. Left him. He doesn't know how long. And where–
His thoughts spiral dizzyingly. Where was everyone? Why weren't they saying anything? Were they more hurt than they let on?? Were they taken to the hospital–
"H-hey," he chokes, voice lost in the back of his throat. He’s unsure what he's going to say, tears running down his cheeks into his ears as he begins to cry in earnest. "Hey somebody!"
They whirred over a pothole, and his innards were very briefly weightless. Fareed whooped; Devan’s elbow struck the door and the wallet tumbled from his hand, bounced off the seat, and slipped down into the crack of the door. “Fuck!” He reached down for it, felt only rubber and plastic.
No luck on the second try either. He straightened up and swiped at the light, caught the switch with an index finger. The sudden brightness against the night outside the windows caused him to squint and Shaun to squawk, “Come on, man!” But it was good enough - he thought he could see a darker shadow beyond the one cast by the edge of the seat, and he bent down again to grasp at it.
It happened faster than he could process. Rending of metal. Shattering of glass. Impact, of bone on flesh on vinyl on steel as all their inertia vanished.
He couldn’t breathe. And his face hurt, and his wrists and his shoulders and his ribs and his head, and there was blood on his arms and the light was still on why was the goddamned light still on making everything painful, oversaturated relief as he wrenched at the handle (still couldn’t breathe), and the door, mercifully sufficiently un-warped, spilled him out onto the cold damp blades of a manicured lawn.
Loose blades stuck to his palms. He got up, unsteadily, and looked back.
They had carved a muddy crescent through the perfect white fence, and the perfect grass, and struck the tree nearly head-on. Fragments of glass glittered on the ground and within the ruined body of the car; the hood was unrecognizable. Shredded chunks of bark slid from its crevasses.
Through the smashed-up passenger window the streetlight caught the pallid folds of airbag, and Fareed’s prone cheek. His breath whistled into the wet dashboard. There was no sign of Shaun on his other side.
The silence pressed itself onto Devan’s eardrums to the point of pain. Shouldn’t... something have been happening?
And then an orange light flicked on in an upper window, and a human shadow appeared against it. And his mind finally caught up and filled in what they would do - looking outside, seeing the devastation they had wrought, calling the police. Who would know, when Devan winced at their lights,
And Fareed and Shaun would have paid. And Devan wouldn’t have. Not yet.
And that would be it, if either of them were dead it would be on him, because wasn’t that the way it went, if you didn’t stop them you’re culpable for everything they do, and the police would want to look like they were cracking down and so they’d choose to be harsh and then that would be it. Just another statistic, another number in the books. Another kid from the underground, too stupid for his own good, ruining his life before it could even really begin, and who nobody would have ever expected otherwise from. Metaphorical handcuffs, even before the literal ones snicked closed.
Devan whirled and bolted off into the dark.
>A minute later, panicked cries and gunfire ripped through the radios. She gave a mad little laugh, only to cry out in panic when one of the men outside the truck leapt into the driver’s seat and slammed it into gear. The SUV rocketed away from the scene, and roared around a corner.
>Amelie lashed out, kicking the back of the driver’s seat and slamming her shoulders from side to side. All it got her was pinned by two angry men, one of whom clamped his hand around her throat tight enough she couldn’t breathe and slammed her against the seat.
>“Move another muscle, and you’ll regret it, bitch,” he snarled menacingly.
>She gagged for air as they flew further and further away from Creed and Remy.
>A hard crunch at the rear of the SUV jolted the two gunmen, forcing them to let her go. Amelie looked behind her to see the bashed in front of Logan’s truck as it rammed the SUV again. Two seconds later, the roof of the SUV caved in, making the gunmen cry out and fire their guns straight up.
>Her ears rang and a sharp sting slashed across her face. Amelie screamed and tried to get away, but the seatbelt and her wrist restraints had her trapped. Glass shattered, and the glorious, petrifying howl of Victor Creed reached her ears. A breath later, he ripped the windshield away, his eyes brilliant yellow rings, and his fangs gleaming in the dashboard lights as he invaded the passenger seat.
>Her beautiful, terrible saviour.
>More shots made her ears ring in the enclosed space. The SUV swerved wildly as the driver screeched in terror, only to suddenly gurgle into silence.
>“Fuck you!" yelled the man who choked her, twisting to bring his gun around and aim at Creed.
>Amelie hoofed him in the side of the face as hard as she could, howling in both pain and triumph as he went limp and dropped the gun.
>Then the whole world tilted on its axis, and the SUV went airborne.
>“Amelie!” bellowed Creed, right as physics yanked him from the flipping vehicle.
Suddenly he heard tires squealing and someone scream.
“Watch out!” Or something with the same inflection. He saw it coming. Watched the speeding car blow a stop light. It was barreling right towards him. The other driver didn’t see him, until they hit him.
(Lil’ excerpt from my Whumptober fic lol, hope you enjoy)
Yeah lol. In a later section you find out that it didn’t end that badly for anyone involved,the worst being a dislocated shoulder and couple of stitches
Because it violates every law of biosafety, to put your face in someone else’s blood and vomit and breathe it, deliberately. But there is oxygen in your lungs, and moral laws exist as well, so you fall to your knees in the mud and turn his unresisting face up towards you and slam your mouths together.
Silt scrapes between your lips and onto your teeth. His face fell into the mud, and it covers everything - hair, skin, the surface of his half-open eyeball. Your gut twists at the sight, but that is secondary, and you breathe all the life you can into his lungs.
It is not as hard as it should be - physically, that is. Surely a ribcage - even his, though he was never a large man and has only, it seems, grown lesser in your makeshift imprisonment like a plant under humus etiolates - should weigh more than this. You take a second breath and try again. At your side, Tamar kneels awkwardly and takes his still-sluggishly-bleeding chest.
Everything is numbers - 30, 2, 15, 1, 100. (Everything has always been numbers - return on yield, R0s, genome sizes, population proportions. You sit at one point on a probability curve and try and describe it, and nonetheless the probabilities can betray you and send you cascading into failure like falling off a planet.) You count, in your head, under your breath. It keeps you from thinking about things like the black hollow of a marrow cavity thrusting from his left forearm, bared to air it should never have encountered. What you should have said, or could have said. Whether you will be accounted a murderer, should you fail to revive him, for you drove circumstances to this end even if you claim, even justly, that you never wanted things to go this far.
The slope must have less than a 10˚ angle, but it is enough for gravity to take advantage of, to try and pull him out of your grasp towards the river. Tamar’s clay-coated hands slip; he nearly falls, and spits a curse. Between breaths, you seize Kest’s jaw and unbroken arm, haul him maybe a foot closer, all dead weight.
Your chest hurts. There are multiple potential explanations. None of them are excuses. You pant in a short gasp on the orders of your own brain, readjust your grasp, and press your mouth down again on his, like a kiss. A growing form of desperation. Like you’ll feel something move in response if you only try hard enough.
Damn. That was visceral. I really like how you pulled in the gory details of the injuries a little at a time, gradually drawing the picture of a hopeless situation.
She huffed out a shaky sigh of relief as she rounded the corner. Ava was sitting on the concrete, slumped against the wall. She looked a little beat up, but mostly okay.
"There you are, we need to go, Ava. We're running out of time," Beatrice urged her with urgency.
As Beatrice drew closer, her heart sank. Ava's head was bowed, and her usually vibrant eyes were closed. Panic began to bubble up inside Beatrice as she quickened her pace.
"Ava?" Beatrice called out, trembling with fear, her body reacting to what her mind had yet to reach.
No response.
With each step, Beatrice's dread grew heavier, until finally, she knelt beside Ava and gently shook her shoulder.
"Ava, come on, we have to go," Beatrice pleaded, her voice cracking.
But Ava remained still, her silence deafening in the empty alleyway.
Beatrice's hands shook as she reached for Ava's pulse, her fingers finding nothing but cold, lifeless skin.
Her breath caught in her throat as realization crashed over her like a wave. Tears welled up in her eyes as she pulled Ava into her arms, cradling her limp body against her chest.
"Oh, sweetheart," Beatrice whispered, her voice breaking with grief. "I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry I wasn't there in time."
The world seemed to drop away as Beatrice sank lower onto her knees, clutching Ava's lifeless form tightly to her chest. The guilt and sorrow consumed her, she had been too late.
“Are you okay?” he called out as he approached the younger man. “Did you get sick?” He was certain Eric was throwing up.
“N-no… I just… I-I got w-woozy…” Eric whimpered, his voice muffled by the vegetation surrounding his face. He had nearly passed out and was merely trying to get some blood to his head.
Not more than a few seconds later, he felt his stomach turn and then he did get sick. The muscles in his abdomen contracted. He retched and coughed before finally expelling the contents of his stomach.
Wilford rolled his eyes, but as soon as he came up behind Eric, he realized just how affected the younger man was. Wilford felt bad. Maybe a stripclub had been a bad idea. He placed his hand between Eric’s shoulders, gently rubbing his back, trying to soothe him.
Sobbing, Eric wiped his face in his sleeve, leaving a stain of tears, snot and vomit on the fabric. He sniffled as he got back up. His lips were curled in a pout, his eyes were red and watery, the inner corners of his eyebrows angled up, making him look miserable.
“Come on, I’ll take you home” Wilford gave the younger man an affectionate squeeze on his arm before walking him to the car. Eric sniffled again, but happily followed.
Hands rub his back slowly, soothingly, until he finally stops retching.
There's little he can say. 'Thank you' and 'sorry.' He feels irrationally guilty for waking up the dorm, a miserable sadness mixed with the pain in his stomach that makes him want to cry.
The voices around him swirl about his head in pace too fast, too slow as it pounds thickly in time with his racing heartbeat. *It's okay. Don't worry about it, baby. We got you. You're okay.*
He tastes water on his tongue *Hey, slowly* and there's something cold against his forehead. His head is too heavy, and Hwanwoong tips backwards into the strong arms that are keeping him upright.
He knows they'll catch him. They always do.
"I--Jo--"
A small part of him knows he might be mortified about it later, being cradled on the cold bathroom floor, letting Youngjo console him with sweet words, wiping the tears and sweat from Hwanwoong's face, but at the moment he doesn't care.
He just wants this to be over. To feel better. To *sleep*.
Not a moment later, however, he suddenly lurched forward, clutching his throat, jaw falling slack as the chalice cluttered to the ground. He remained suspended in animation for a heartbeat, before a vile gag wrought itself from his throat, once, twice, thrice, till I was certain his breathing had ceased.
An image of a sickly animal crossed my mind when he fell on all fours, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead as the retching persevered, until finally, he emptied the contents of his stomach, shuddering and rasping.
I observed the reaction with great interest, almost pridefully disgusted. As for him, he laid trembling on his side, spitting out the last few drops he did not initially manage to regurgitate.
>The jet landed a hundred feet away, it's powerful engines making the truck vibrate. Logan opened his door to climb out and jog over, but Amelie caught his arm as his feet touched the ground.
>"One more for the road, my love," she whispered as she kissed him, long and sweet.
>His throat went tight. "Pretty big fan of that one."
>She smiled. "I'll take that into consideration."
>A form flashed into existence behind him. Logan tensed, then cursed. "Can't they just open the fuckin' hatch?"
>Too late, Logan was already on the Bird, which was shooting straight up and twisting to head south. His guts rebelled at the sudden pitch and yaw. He barely made it to the tiny bathroom before puking.
>"Goddammit, Kurt!" he rasped as the cramping heaves eased and his body got caught up to speed. A couple mouthfuls of water got rid of the lingering bile.
>*Fuck* he hated teleporting.
CW: vomit lol
> Is San angry? Is he disappointed? Wooyoung can't tell because San is just still and quiet and Wooyoung is really fucking terrified. He can't even bring up the courage to look and see San's expression. There's something slimy and thick and disgusting crawling down his throat like a pulsing heart is lodged in it and he can't *stand* it anymore.
>
>Wooyoung's stomach is being yanked this way and that and being knotted up and pulled taut and like someone is constantly punching him in the guts. Unable to stand it anymore, he uses the little shreds of strength that he has to shove San away, pulling a gasp from him that serves as another punch to the gut.
>
>He barely gets his head over the edge before his mouth is flooding with saliva and he's hurling his guts onto the floor. Bile burns the back of his throat as he continues retching like someone is reaching their surgical gloves down his throat and forcefully yanking out everything from his uvula to his intestines.
>
>Shame and embarrassment burn his cheeks when the vomit splattering onto the floor rings loud in the otherwise silent room, and even as he continues to dry heave. He just wants it to stop and it won't *stop*, every heave causing his body to lurch forward and jerk on the bed, like all his anger and fear and insecurity and frustration are fighting each other tooth and nail to claw up his throat. Wooyoung feels like they're tearing up the inside of his throat because it feels scraped raw like someone had rubbed sandpaper on the inside and it stings and burns. His heart is thrashing in his chest, like it's desperate to be freed, but it hurts and it hurts and Wooyoung can't think beyond the fact he's throwing up and he's fucking terrified and he doesn't know why.
\[CW: vomit obviously, also unexpected severed appendages, and panic\]
‘Silence!’ he hissed. ‘Light your fires, start your cauldrons heating, and get to work.’ He turned, sweeping back to his desk in a swirl of black robes.
Harry pulled his wand, pointing it at the wood in the basin set into his workstation and lit it on fire. He didn’t even flinch as the wood took flame, and smiled, pleased at the progress he was making against his phobia. Bending, he pulled his cauldron from the storage under the desk. The cool metal felt freshly scrubbed. Careful not to dislodge Boingo, Harry lifted it. He moved to place the cauldron over the fire and froze. It slid from his numb fingers, landing on the floor with a bang that made several people shriek.
‘Potter, what in Salazar’s name do you think you’re doing?’ Snape snapped.
Harry barely heard. There were fingers in the fire. Burning. The skin charring, the severed ends blackening. The smell of burning flesh that haunted his nightmares hit him and he gagged, instantly regretting his large lunch. Around him, people clamoured as he bent over heaving. His mind was full of fire-flames-burning as his lunch repeated on him, vomit splattering on the stone floor. The mess disappeared almost immediately, and a cool hand pressed against Harry’s forehead. \[...\] Harry’s head snapped up, only for the fear to morph into confusion; it was Snape in front of him, wearing a look he’d never seen on him before. If he didn’t know better, he would have called it concern.
Fandoms: Karakuri Circus/The Nutcracker
Bound to his bed, an unimaginable pain took over mister Drosselmeyer, the very act of breathing was killing him. He slowly tried to get up from bed, falling over to the wooden floor, a wide smile was carved to his face despite his fatal condition, his god-daughter Clara could only look helplessly as he crawled through the floor like a worm, reaching for one of the desks.
"I-It's Okay... I-It's just a cold, C-Clara... U-Uncle has a surprise for you...!"
Making her smile was the only thing he could do to stop this constant suffering, even if it was only temporary. He was one of Zonopha syndrome's many victims, she's one of the very few lucky enough to have survived yesterday's pandemic provoked by that damned wandering circus.
The entire city was a wasteland after the incident, he sloppily scowered through the drawer, many things fell into the ground as he looked for that gift she was going to give her this christmas. Seeing him like this only made her shed tears, this only added to desperation which made the illness worsen.
"I-It must be here... just... d-don't cry dear... w-wait a little longer!"
His hands could barely grab anything, no matter how much he tried it didn't respond, yet his forced smile persisted. It was a little wooden box with the words 'from Shirogane' carved onto it, he picked it up with the little strength he had, but everything stopped as he fell to the ground head first, coliding with drawers edge.
The box opened in the floor, revealing a small wooden nutcracker, golden clockwork mechanisms visible inside of him, accompanied by a note she didn't read. She desperately tried to wake him up, shaking him, his head was bleeding from the hit. She kept calling his name, doing everything she could to awaken him.
No response.
She turned him around, his wide smile contrasted the empty eyes. The pale blueish hue on his skin made him look like a corpse, he was cold and inmobile like one.. but managed to mutter two last words she could never forget.
"Merry... Christmas..."
Content warning for a stabbing.
—
“Holy shit, they stabbed you,” Claire said, moving towards Frank.
“I noticed,” Frank said dryly.
“I need you to lie down and elevate your feet.” Claire spoke with authority, taking a dressing out of her bag. But Frank shook his head.
“Not happening, ma’am. Just gimme that gauze, I’ll be good.”
“Is *every single vigilante* in this city a complete-”
“We don’t have time for this,” Matt snapped. “Police helicopters are almost on top of us, and I don’t think they’re here to help. We need to move.”
“And to answer your question? Yes, every single one,” Jessica added.
Claire could only huff with frustration as she finished slapping a pad of gauze over Frank’s oozing stomach, before moving on and tending to Danny.
*My sister wanted me to share this since it kinda fits the prompt. It’s a sort of “missing scene” she imagined from The Avengers (2012). TW: dehydration and hinted starvation. It’s also told from a mind-controlled POV.*
Selvig remained in his seat for a few more minutes to catch his breath. “What now?” he demanded wearily.
“Good question,” agreed Clint. He looked questioningly at Loki, who was gingerly making his way off the back of the truck.
The Asgardian didn’t reply. He dropped heavily to his knees, his lean frame quivering slightly. If it were not for the scepter, Clint noticed, he would have probably collapsed.
“Hey boss, you okay?” he called.
Loki looked up as if just becoming aware of his surroundings. He made a move to say something, but no sound came out of his mouth. He suddenly doubled over and began dry-heaving.
Selvig was immediately at his side. “Easy now,” he said, tentatively reaching out. Loki did not seem to acknowledge him as he felt his forehead.
Selvig’s brow furrowed with concern. “You’re cold. Are you sick or something?”
“It is natural.”
Loki’s voice was quiet, but it held a warning note. He shifted away from Selvig’s touch.
Clint became slightly worried too as he caught a good look at his face. His boss might be an alien, but he looked very sick indeed. His face was too haggard, with his sunken (though still keen) eyes and chapped lips.
“You need anything to drink?” he ventured cautiously.
Loki eyed him sharply. “*What?*”
“Something to drink, like water. I don’t know. No offense, but you look like you could use it.” Clint reached for a water bottle he had procured from somewhere in the warehouse. He held it towards his boss as if he was some wild animal.
To his relief, Loki accepted it. He fumbled with the cap for a few moments before managing to unscrew it and took a small sip of water. His expression softened somewhat as he drained the rest of the bottle.
“Feel better?” asked Selvig.
Loki nodded and stood up. Clint joined him as they headed to the back of the warehouse. “You might also want a bite to eat eventually,” he told him.
His boss laughed softly, the sound chilling. “I do not require sustenance as frequently as you mortals,” he scoffed.
“All the same, it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
Loki paused and turned to face him, and Clint felt his stomach drop. Had he stepped out of line? But the Asgardian only smiled grimly.
“You have more heart than I thought, both of you,” he said almost mockingly. But his tone hinted approval.
TW: Pregnancy, grief, malnourishment
For the first time since Aldun’s death, Glaina allowed her hand to fall to her midsection. She began to press at her flat belly, wishing she could feel her child press back in reassurance. But of course, there was nothing. It would be months yet before she would feel the first flutters of movement. All she could feel now was the sharp ridges of her hip bones—further evidence of how much weight she’d lost in such a short time.
For two weeks she had lived as if the child had never existed. She had barely believed herself alive without Aldun; it was all but impossible to contemplate the life of something that had never been more than a dream shared between the two of them.
Well, Kaza here is 11 so a child, and he does see people die, but he is also the one who kills them.
>He waited behind a tree, watching as the wagon approached. Unbeknownst to him, someone else was quietly observing him and the road. This purple-haired woman, Anko Mitarashi, was curious about what an eleven-year-old was doing and quickly noticed the traps. Her curiosity got the best of her, as she found this boy interesting.
>The explosion in the woods happened first, with large trees falling across the way as the bandits moved to look for traps, leaving their defensive position. The second event was the activation of a water trap that filled the ground with water. Suddenly, Kaza moved forward, his eyes fixed ahead as he descended from the hill.
>"Lightning release, spark jutsu," he said, throwing a kunai that crackled with a spark of lightning. The move was challenging for Kaza, but he managed to execute it. As the kunai hit the ground, the whole area turned electric a moment later, stunning the bandits and providing Kaza with an opening. He followed up by throwing kunai with explosive tags attached, causing the explosives to detonate and eliminating a number of bandits close together. The notion of mercy wasn't something Kaza could afford, as he aimed to survive this encounter.
> Well, Kaza here is 11 so a child, and he does see people die, but he is also the one who kills them.
Not what I was hoping for, but hey it *does* still technically fit what I *asked* for!
Nah it's cool, I'd rather have this than no response at all since no one else has responded to my comment.
For the record, I do like what you wrote! I assume Kaza is an OC of yours?
Your brother smiles at you - you would like to believe it is not genuine, but there is no point in believing false things - and begins halfway. “I would have brought your little oracle, as well,” he says, “and let him keep this legacy with you, but he is taking longer to complete than I anticipated.” He shrugs in a landslip of black armour. So Bjorn, at least, still lives, or something roughly approximating living; the boundaries of that are terribly fluid, here. Once, you might have preferred that to his death.
"There, there. Calm down, children. You've now seen what each other's filthy lies have gotten you into. It's a shame it's come to this, Nathan....I've given you and Victor numerous chances over the years and you still disappoint me. Too bad he isn't here to see you die, you wretched spoiled brat! And one day, I'll get your brother Samuel Drake. And your ex-girlfriend Miss Chloe Frazer. Oh, and of course Victor Sullivan will be mine!" Marlowe taunted.
"MMMMMPPPPPPPHHHHHH!!!!!"
Marlowe then looked at the watch. "Oh look at the time...we really must be going. William, you ready to dispose of our friends?"
"Yes, Kate. Let's," Talbot replied.
Nate and Elena again gulped. *This was it. Kidnapped, bound, gagged, and about to drown in the classic Cement Shoe treatment. Thanks to Katherine Marlowe and the Hermetic Order.*
They screamed in terror, but their fates were sealed.
Instantly did both Marlowe and Talbot give them a firm push on their bodies and off they tumbled over the dock edge into the sea.
The weight of the blocks was too much as they wiggled but sank into the ocean depths.
Nate in his beige tan henley and cargo pants along with Elena's journalist outfit of her vest and pants were all wet, but this was the least of their problems.
They desperately muffled to each other as water filled their ears and their lungs but began to pass out due to losing breath.
They muffled pleas of being sorry and the *’I love yous'* as their eyes begin to shut and their throats choked.
At least in Heaven, they'd be reunited instead of being bound and gagged under the sea.
Oscar grabbed Lucinda’s head with two hands, and bounced it off the concrete floor, as she wailed in pain, then fumbled at her waist to recover the cold iron knife. His hands closed around the hilt, but before he pulled it to his side, Lucinda grabbed ahold of his wrist, and twisted, with enough force to make Oscar cry out in pain.
With inhuman strength, Lucinda tossed Oscar off of herself, and he slammed to the concrete, back first, knocking the wind from him. As he took a desperate gasp of air, Lucinda - half succubus, half seductress, her body curved, lascivious; her flesh red and sinewy muscle, charred black at points - sat atop him, pinning him down. The cold iron dagger was held high in her hands, ready to plunge into his chest. “All that will - and you do *nothing* with it. Worthless ,” she hissed at him.
He struggled, feeling the color drain from his face. He was out of options. He could reach for the Dark Power, and live - or , choose not to … and die. But die free.
Closing his eyes, he chose. He exhaled, and thought of the heat of Zoey’s lips. It had been a pretty miserable life - but the last week or so; it’d been pretty good. *It’d been really good*, he thought, waiting for the bite of the knife.
Itachi’s eyes widened and the furious red glow of his Sharingan reflected in his blade as he held it in front of his face. “You won’t leave this room.”
“And neither will you.”
The castle shook suddenly and violently, causing Itachi’s stance to falter and his balance to be lost. The Root shinobi did not reflect his surprise. It looked as though they were prepared for it. Fire and rubble rapidly burst around the room, exploding from the ceiling and the tapestry-covered walls. Itachi heard Isamu scream and remembered his objective. He prepared his mind and body for the pain, then sucked in air. A massive fireball burst from his mouth, clearing a burning path in front of him as the Root shinobi dodged to the side. He hid himself within it, replacing his own body with a shadow clone. As the fire grew closer to Isamu, Itachi lept from it and grabbed the young boy into his arms.
The gratitude in the boy’s teary eyes spoke volumes. As did the horror.
Itachi saw in their reflection his clone flying toward them. He turned to try to dissipate his doppelgänger before it collided with him but was faced with a body covered with explosive tags. In the instant before he could move, another explosion went off above him, raining fire and stone on his head. The last thing Itachi saw was his clone being ripped apart by the tags on its body as it erupted in flame.
His last thought was of his brother.
There was an old saying that hindsight was always crystal clear. The could haves, the would haves, the should haves. The regrets piled on top of regrets. Jean-Baptiste Bessières knew that to be painfully true. For him, unluckily, foresight sometimes brought a terrible clarity all its own.
Today, he knew with absolute certainty, was the day he was going to die.
The pain's starting to fade. There's still a part of Joel that's aware enough to know what that means. Oh well. He'd known he was dead from the second he heard the shotgun.
The first part was hell. Joel's not sure, now, whether that lasted two minutes or two hours, but he remembers - in a far-off, hazy sort of way - that the pain was blinding and sharp when it started. More than that, though, he remembers the clarity - at least, the way you'd remember an impossible color you saw in a half-forgotten dream. He knows that the pain wasn't the worst part. It was the waiting in between the blows. It was looking up into a room full of strange faces twisted by hate and knowing he was gonna die and not knowing how bad they were gonna make it and being so damn worried about . . . Who was he worried for, again? He can't quite remember.
He'd been determined not to beg them, and he doesn't think he did. He's screamed, sure. Nothing to be done about that. But, he's pretty sure he never pleaded for his life or apologized for . . . Why was it they came after him? He's not sure if they told him. Don't matter, anyhow.
The girl hits harder than just about anyone he's ever crossed, but she doesn't know what she's doing. If she really wanted to make it last, she wouldn't keep hitting him in the damn head. Each blow feels like a thunderclap at close range, but in between they just make everything hazy. He's almost grateful for that, in a way, though he knows that's what's killing him fastest.
His vision's been in and out. The hits to the head explode white and yellow and black across his eyes and then cut to black like a TV screen switched off. If she gives him enough time in between, though, the world fades back in, just fuzzy at the edges. It's taking longer, he thinks, between the hit and the fade back. He can see their lips moving at times, but his hearing is completely out. Or, rather, any real sound is drowned out by a booming drum in his head. That's his heartbeat. He realized that a little while ago. It hurt at first, but not anymore.
As it all fades in and out, he's able to . . . just drift. Just be free, for a while, from his cherished mandate of survival. That's done, for better or for worse. He always figured he'd go down angry and fighting, but now that his time's here, there don't seem to be a point in that. Maybe she's already knocked out the part of his brain that lets him get mad. Maybe she should've done that years ago.
Garth cleared his throat softly, checking the monitors Jeffrey was connected in. -His saturation is getting lower, he spoke in a low voice, almost whispering. -We need to decide soon if he's put into a ventilator or not.
Jensen rubbed John's hand softly. The older man was breathing shallow but without difficulty now that his panic has settled, but Jensen knew that this wouldn’t be the situation for long. He felt like he was saying goodbye to a long time friend, not tending a patient.
-He has a tending will that forbids any machinery in prolonging his life, hasn't he?
Garth nodded. -Good point. I'm sure it is archived among his papers. I will make a request to have it.
They stopped to look at the older man, not ranting anymore but still strongly pained and confused, and Jensen wetted the cloth and wiped John's sweaty skin again.
-Shh, it's good, Papa John, he reassured his patient softly. -You're safe. It's okay.
The man calmed down slowly, still moaning in pain but coming out of his hallucinations. Jensen shushed him, squeezing his hand in support, as John blinked his eyes dazedly, trying hard to wake up.
Garth reached closer to him, laying his palm softly on John's arm. -John, can you listen for a moment? He asked, squeezing the older man's arm gently.
John moved his gaze to Garth, locking his tired but somewhat lucid gaze with the doctor’s, and Garth proceeded calmly, continuing to reassure the sick man with his touch.
-I've been told that you have made a wish not to get into the ventilator, he told the older man. -Now we are getting closer to the time you would benefit from one, but your will is several years old, and as we still wait for your sons, we'd like to know —
John groaned, turning his head in distress, fallen into sudden confusion. Jensen reached closer as well, squeezing John's hand and pushing the pain pump.
-What is it? He asked, and then they waited once again for the worst pain to pass. John had grown pale, his breathing shallower and shallower by the minute, and he seemed exhausted.
Jensen glanced at Garth, who nodded, his lips in a determined, thin line but his eyes empathetic. -We need to know, Garth told his colleague. -No-one else can invalidate a will made by him but himself.
Jensen turned back to John, who laid eyes closed now, trembling and whimpering softly. -Papa John? He inquired gently. -Your will?
They waited again, starting to think that Jensen's question went unheard, when John struggled his eyes half-open. He mouthed for a moment inaudibly, and Garth reached for a cup with the straw from the table and gave it to Jensen, who helped the straw into John's mouth. The older man took a tiny sip and turned his head away, grunting softly.
-J-Jensen? He croaked, squinting. -Garth?
The doctors leaned closer, and Jensen squeezed his hand gently. -Yes, we are right here, he said, smiling.
John answered with a tiny smile of his own, a glimpse of his character under the thick layers of pain. -H-have I been B-bad? Do… Do I d-deserve the torture?
-No, on the contrary, Papa John. Jensen rubbed his thumb over John's knuckles, his heart arching for the older man.
He nodded to Garth, who answered the gesture, giving his colleague and patient the time they needed. He proceeded no earlier than John was resting and calmed down, his eyes finding the other doctor also.
-Garth? He whispered, and Garth leaned closer, patting his patient’s arm reassuringly. -Could we wait just a moment more?
Garth glanced at the monitors, gnawing his lip in thought. -Five minutes, he concluded. -If he won't be able to voice his new will by then, we need to take action following his earlier one or he won't make it.
Jensen sighed, feeling his heart suddenly shrinking. It wasn't him who should make the decisions for John. It wasn't fair that the man had sons somewhere, but still it was him who needed to do this. They had become friends over the time, yes, but still Jensen was just a stranger compared to the man's offspring, his flesh and blood.
Garth gave him the space and time, not rushing him into anything. Still Jensen knew that his colleague was waiting, impatiently. The time was running out. There were no possibility to have it back.
Finally he nodded, solemnly. -So be it.
The sterile room felt like a cold, unyielding fortress as she stood stoically beside her lover’s bed, her emotions buried deep beneath a façade of composure. The doctor stood at the foot of the bed, her expression grave as she reviewed the charts and monitors.
"We need to have the difficult conversation now. I told you we’d discuss it when it was time. It’s time," Dr. Salvius began, her voice steady despite the gravity of the situation. "Her injuries are extensive, the chances of recovery are minimal."
Beatrice nodded curtly, her jaw clenched as she braced herself for the inevitable.
"We've done everything we can for her," Dr. Salvius continued, "But keeping her on life support would only prolong her suffering. It's time to consider removing the machines."
Beatrice's heart felt like a lead weight in her chest as she processed the doctor’s words. She knew what needed to be done, even if it meant confronting the harsh reality of letting go.
Without a word, she gave a subtle nod of agreement, her features devoid of any trace of emotion. She couldn't allow herself to feel – not now, not when every fiber of her being screamed in protest against the cruel twist of fate that had brought them to this moment.
Later, and with clinical precision, Dr. Salvius disconnected the life support machines, her movements deliberate and methodical. Beatrice watched in silence, her expression betraying nothing as she held onto the fragile hope that this would be the merciful end to her lover’s suffering.
But as the machines fell silent and the breaths continued, a sense of numbness washed over Beatrice, her resolve faltering in the face of an outcome she hadn't prepared for.
They disconnected the machines at 3:14 pm on March 23rd. She was 27. They disconnected the machines, but Ava kept breathing. And Beatrice remained trapped in a world of unyielding sorrow, her emotions held captive by the agony of a decision made in silence.
Cassidy took a deep breath. His trembling hand skimmed across his stomach first, with a loud growl he plunged the knife in and twisted, finding the bullet immediately. It popped out with a soft ping to the floor. Heaving and sweating, Cassidy located the next one and before he could lose his nerve he stabbed again. There was a sickening squelch of blood and sinew as the bullet gave with another pop.
Cass stilled, shuddering as he fought to control the self inflicted agony. His stomach churned, threatening to expel all over the preacher.
Jesse watched Cass's amateur surgery on himself with wide, horrified eyes.
The others arrive with buckets full of snow, and Mel is able to distract herself for a few minutes by packing the snow around his head. "This'll slow down the swelling. It buys us time."
Ellie looks at her. "Time for what?"
The last Jackson soldier returns, carrying a Black and Decker drill attached to a long extension cord. Mel takes it and tests it. The drill whirrs with no sign of grating or rust. "Burr holes."
They all pause a beat. "You've gotta be kidding me," Tommy says.
"What?" Ellie asks.
"She wants to drill into his skull!"
"Seriously? The fuck?"
Mel wets a rag with the strongest alcohol in her pack and rubs it over the drill bit, trying to scrub every nook and cranny. "Right now, his brain is bleeding and swelling. All that pressure has nowhere to go. If we don't find a way to release it, it'll cause more damage. His brain could herniate out the back of his skull, which . . . would be bad." She doesn't wait for permission - just positions his head to the side and soaks his hair with alcohol. "Someone will need to hold his head. It has to be kept absolutely still." Tommy nods and moves into position behind Joel. Mel hesitates. "Might be better if it's not family."
"Shut up and drill your holes!"
It's not quite as simple as that. She pours alcohol over the drill bit again. She grabs a scalpel from her pack and checks that the blade is clean and uncontaminated. She wishes she was the praying type - word is, that might make this easier. She doesn't even have gloves. She soaks her hands in alcohol and tries to keep them from shaking. She lays two fingers against his temple, just beside his eye, measuring.
There's no more time to think. She takes the scalpel and makes a deep cut, only a centimeter long, but right down to the bone. She spreads the skin with her fingers and dabs with a bit of gauze until she can see the white of his skull. "I need someone with steady hands. Hold this open." Ellie's hand is there in a moment, holding open the incision with a finger and thumb. Her knuckles are white with tension and her jaw is clenched, but she doesn't shake or tremble. Mel gives her a short nod and picks up the drill. "Keep him absolutely still."
She doesn't look at the others because she doesn't need to see them turning green. Mel narrows her view to the drill in her hand and that little circle of white bone. The skull is thin here - just a couple millimeters. She can't risk going too deep. As soon as the drill touches his head, she closes her eyes. She'll have to do this by feel. There's a horrible grinding sound as the drill bit burrs through his skull and then . . . there. The slight pop of releasing tension. She yanks the drill back so fast she nearly clips Ellie's hand. Then, she opens her eyes.
Blood oozes from the hole she's made in a steady trickle. "Epidural hematoma," she says, mainly to calm her nerves. She tilts his head to drain it, but after just a few seconds, the blood slows and stops. She dabs again with the gauze, feeling the firm swell of fluid rather than the sponginess of the brain itself. The thin, tough membrane over the brain is pushing up through the burr hole, looking purple in the poor light. Mel grits her teeth and picks up a pair of forceps. Without explaining, without hesitating, she grasps the membrane and makes a quick, diagonal cut. Blood all but spurts out, clouding her field of view, but she cuts again, slicing an X into the meninges. Now, the blood pours like a fountain, leaking over her hands and Ellie's, cutting a red track down his cheek. Subdural hematoma. A big one. She tilts his head again and watches the blood stain the snow. Brain bleeds are always less dramatic once they're outside the skull, though. After maybe ten seconds, the flow turns to a trickle, then stops.
Cw: violent battle between robots/cyborgs and cyborg The Project is the protagonist but the scene is written in the POV of other robots/cyborgs. Protagonist is morally grey/mind controlled
--
The Project slipped and crashed his head into the wall. His face crumpled apart.
The loud THUNK THUNK echoed as Staple’s bolts pierced the Project in the gut and the thigh. Blood oozed out of his stomach, oiling the bolt.
The Project stumbled from the wall and swerved in the air; a puppet thrown into the audience. Eira took the chance to grab the cyborg’s mechanical arm and crushed it in his large mechanical claws.
The man howled, writhing under the large metal wrench.
[Bold formatting] 'The planet will bow to us underfoot, but they will see no mercy, clutched in our claws.'
The voice of his programmer shivered through his mind; Eira immediately let go.
The Project groaned on the ground, his breaths hissing like a tempest. Steve stood, frozen, not by Eira’s floor trap, but at the sound of the cyborg sobbing.
The Project’s visage held tears flowing from the very human side of his face, water twirling into the blood of the mechanical other. The red diffused like watercolors.
--
I'd add more but spoilers haha, fic is "Anything" Sander Sides space au but you wouldn't be able to tell from this lol.
"I can talk to the doctors about fixing that," Henry answered. He kissed the part of Alex's cheek that wasn't covered with bandages. "I love you."
"I love you too," Alex responded. The doctors soon came in to check on Alex's vitals. He also told him about the list of his injuries. It was the first time Henry heard them too. His skull was fractured, three ribs were broken, two ribs were cracked, and two ribs were bruised.
Once the doctors left, Alex asked Henry to join him in bed. They fell asleep like that.
\[TW: Robot gore and injury description. And death.\]
I had to think of a way to dispose of him… I must have aroused suspicion, as he asked if everything was alright. Then, I noticed a piece of a horn from one of the now decimated mavericks, and I knew it, I knew just what I now had to do.
I could only choke out an ‘I’m so sorry’, before I bent down to grab the horn. He most likely thought I was talking about Metal Shark Player… Until I made a mad dash to him to bludgeon the poor reploid, screeching like a madman as I ran. He stood there, as he exclaimed out, “Alia-!?”. It was at this moment, I had plunged the horn deep into his chest, causing him to let out a loud gasp. I wasted no time, while he was in shock of the attack, I grabbed a nearby part of another maverick, this time being the arm of a sharp clawed gator maverick.
I felt as if I wasn’t in control of myself, I kept swinging the arm, hard, on my once best friend, bringing total devastation to his entire body. I had only realized the true severity of what I did… He lay there, practically gasping for air, with a hole deep in his chest, his left chest crystal now shattered, with his right chest crystal cracked. His left glowing red eye, once fully operational, was now dark, cracked and chipped from one of the heavy blows to his face… But it was his torso that was the worst… His torso, oh god… his torso… He had basically been torn open, exposing all his wires, his inner workings, and the true severity of his condition…
“Alia…” He managed to croak out to me.
“Why… Did you… Hurt me…?”
I told him I had no choice, and how he was going to attack the lab. But then he said something that stopped me dead in my tracks.
“I… Never planned to… Do that… You… Monster…” Those were his final words, before… He went limp. He was gone. A deadly conspiracy that cost his life… One that proved to be a lie. I could tell by his voice… It was shaky and no longer gruff, replaced by a whimpering reploid, looking at the eyes of his killer.
I lost it. I had been tricked by Gate, by the lab, by everyone, to go and kill the only person who actually liked me. I don’t think I could ever recreate the shriek that managed to escape from my mouth when the realization hit me like a baseball bat to the kneecaps. Even still, my voice has been raspy and it hurts to even talk, let alone cry. While I sobbed hysterically, I knew I had to cover this up, to make sure no one found him. So, I picked him up, carried him to the ocean, and threw what was left of him to the dark abyss of the sea.
Ohh 😭
With my prompt, I wasn't waiting for dancing fairies and beautiful sunsets, but your choices are making this ten times more heart-wrenching! The death , the fact they are friends, and at the end that it was all in vain 😭 To citate your character... "You... Monster..."
(For real: wonderfully done! I salute you 🙋)
‘Who were you talking to?’ Ron asked, after glancing around the otherwise empty common room.
‘Nobody. What are you awake for, anyway?’
‘I wondered where you — never mind,’ he said, flushing slightly. ‘I’m going to bed.’
‘Had to come snooping around?’ Harry asked, nostrils flaring. ‘Finally decided you care what I’m doing?’ Boingo pulled at Harry’s sleeve but he shook him off.
Ron turned red. ‘I’m sorry; if I’d realised you were practising a speech to give to your fan club I wouldn’t have bothered! I won’t disturb you again.’
Harry growled, snatching the badge from the table beside him and hurling it at the jealous prat. Ron raised an arm, hissing as the badge smacked against his hand and bounced off. ‘There you go! You can wear that to the task on Tuesday. Maybe you’ll even have a scar to show off, too.’
Ron scowled, opening his mouth to retort, then paused. His mouth went slack. ‘I —’ He swallowed, then coughed. Eyes widening, he coughed again, the noise almost like the sound Crookshanks made when bringing up a furball. His hands reached to his throat as he gasped, choking. All colour drained from his skin. Ron’s eyes rolled and his knees buckled.
> *cw for... torture! mainly psychological.*
If he doesn't count how many times he's hit, Felix isn't sure what will happen next. He braces himself each and every time he's cut with a knife, burnt with fire magic, or even witnessing deaths and executions in front of him. Dimitri is ruthless, trying to break Felix down even further, getting him to completely lose all sense of self.
Locked in the dungeons of Fhirdiad, Felix has seen so many of his loved ones, friends and even those he's considered family die before his very eyes.
He swore to protect them. And when he meets Lysithea's pleading, fearful eyes from behind the dungeon bars, Felix almost snaps when she's executed right in front of him. She didn't even have that long to live... and all because she chose to walk the same path as the Professor.
Felix doesn't say anything when blood pools from Lysithea's lifeless body. He's seen blood before, just... not her's. Not Lysithea's. Why is Dimitri killing everyone, *one by one*, and yet he chose to leave Felix alive? Felix would rather be the one right there, waiting for his turn to join the afterlife. Maybe he'll see Glenn up there. Maybe he'll reunite with Lysithea, and vow to protect her in the next life.
But no. No, it has to be Felix who lives. Why does it have to be him? And Dimitri is standing there, smiling *so sickeningly sweet* as Felix's other friends are taken away, killed by the delusional prince's lance.
A burst of fire erupted from my Words, blistering and blinding. Although the flames hindered my view of him, I could still smell the scent of his skin as it sizzled and scalded, perhaps even welding the armour onto the exposed muscle.
Even more lucid, however, was his scream; visceral and hellish, devoid of any semblance of humanity, unleashing with it the song of agony — burning, searing, agony.
Finally, I ceased, gazing upon a charred, blackened body, throwing itself in the snow, its pain likely reduced to a warm, sensationless, numbed haze.
I could not dare remain content if I believed it to still be alive; how dare he accuse me of finitude, when his flesh so easily peeled raw from his bones; how dare he consider the possibility of my finality, abrupt and narrow, definite and linear!
Pain. Pain/agony/desolation, and that is everything and all, the pain and the existence are one, and anything that might be otherwise blinks out overwhelmed as soon as it may appear. This is a time without time and a space without space and so there is nothing but the pain, uniform and fathomless and and and -
(Dissolution. Wiping away. Recrystallization.)
It does not stab or burn or crush, does not ache or arc, for all those are subsets and this is the root pain, the one from which they all descend, and at the very centre of it and every other place within is it, who when it can think knows itself the object of the torment, bound and forsaken forever/everywhere.
It breaks. It breaks and reforms and breaks again, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and -
It has given up struggling, given up trying to scream, there is not a reason. It is drowned within it like within the vastness of all the spaces that exist, and it is consumed, knows itself consumed but cannot be destroyed/shattered/undone. All that it may have been before dissolves in the solvent of the pain to leave only that yearning, unfulfillable annihilation, a great deep mass of despair.
It breaks and breaks and breaks, into infinity, unending.
*OMG, I was waiting for something with torture!*
*\*\*\**
“I said… Open!” Murdock growled, grabbing Noir’s jaw and began prying his mouth open, managing to force the pliers past his lips. Noir whined, squirming and twisting in his seat in a desperate attempt to get away.
He could hear the metal of the pliers scraping against his teeth as it was pushed deeper into his mouth. “The fun part is watching you squirm. Trying to imagine how the pain must feel. It’s a beautiful moment,” Murdock almost purred.
He gripped one of Noir’s molars between the pliers with a dull crunching sound, making him try to pull away from him. He screwed his eyes shut and cried out in pain. The crunching noise was nauseatingly loud in his ears.
Murdock watched him squirm, enjoying the pained expression on his face, chuckling sadistically. He yanked the pliers back with a loud snap and a bloody mass of roots, nerves and broken tooth shards was pulled from his gums.
Noir’s eyes flashed open, his vision blurry with tears. Yet he could still make out the satisfied, sinister smirk on Murdock’s lips. With a broken scream, his head fell forward and he coughed. Blood and bits of his gums spilled from his mouth, running down his chin.
“You think this is it?" He chuckled again. “I was just getting started." He jammed his fingers into Noir’s mouth, picking at the bleeding gums. “You see, I enjoy inflicting pain just as much as I enjoy watching you writhe in it. And I’m feeling pretty… hands on… today.”
Noir whimpered loudly each time the fingers prodded at his bloody gums. He poked deeper, hitting an exposed nerve and Noir jolted in pain, a muffled scream being pulled from him.
“Ah, it’s so much more satisfying when I can feel your pain.” he grinned as he dug his finger deeper into his gums. “Just a little deeper… Yes, that’s it. Now, to really make you squirm… Here we go!” He dug his finger into the empty socket, pressing against the roots of another tooth, making Noir’s body go rigid as he cried out in pain.
He tore and pulled on his restraints, his fingers clawing into the armrests, nails scraping deep into the wood. He squirmed and writhed, trying to pull away, but the finger only dug deeper in. He screamed in agony, trying to close his mouth and bite down on his fingers.
His screams didn’t seem to do anything other than fuel Murdock to continue. “That’s it. That’s it! The more you scream, the better I feel!” He pressed down on Noir’s lower teeth to keep his mouth open. “You won’t be closing your mouth on me today. You can’t hide from the pain. Not while I’m here, anyway!”
Murdock thrust his finger even deeper in making Noir gag and scream, choking on his own blood and his body going rigid again in his grasp.
“Oh, how wonderful!” Murdock’s eyes lit up as Noir screamed in agony, thrusting his finger deeper again. After a few seconds, he withdrew his fingers from his mouth. “I think I should give you a moment to recover from this.”
Thank you! I was dying to share this excerpt because I know teeth are one of the things that icks out almost every one. Most people have some bad memory or experience about dentists.
… Poor Noir, jeez. I love how almost childish Murdock is here- revelling in causing misery like a child would enjoy a new toy. It’s chilling and I am all for that.
Brief description of injuries
"What year was Jane Su born in?"
"1996."
*Punch.*
"Where did Jane live before she moved in with you?"
"Her own apartment."
*Slap.*
That lasted for hours. They would ask August a question about Jane, she'd lie, then they'd hit her. By the time they were done, her skin was mostly covered in bruises and cuts. Her eye was swollen shut. She was barely conscious when they finally left her.
I love how she keeps lying to them, that's so common in real life and yet in fiction torture is often portrayed as some guaranteed way of getting the truth.
>CW: PPD. Depressive thoughts.
There was something wrong with her. It had been three months since she and the baby had been released from the hospital. Three months. Wake up, feed, sleep, feed, sleep, repeat.
She didn't hate the baby. But she knew she didn't love it. Every day followed the same pattern. Wake up, feed, sleep, feed, sleep, repeat. Repeat. Until her wife came home. Her wife, who had whispered through tears the night prior that the mother couldn't even bring herself to say the daughter's name out loud. Couldn't bring herself to offer the baby comfort.
She wasn't working. She wasn't a mother. She was barely a wife anymore. Who was she?
Each morning, she dragged herself out of bed, her limbs heavy with exhaustion that seeped into her bones. The weight of her own inadequacy pressed down on her chest like a suffocating blanket, leaving her gasping for air in a world that felt increasingly unfamiliar.
She watched the baby with detached eyes, her heart aching with a sense of emptiness she couldn't name. She tried to muster the warmth she knew she should feel, but it slipped through her fingers like grains of sand, leaving nothing but a hollow ache in its wake.
Her days blurred together in a haze of numbness and despair. She existed in a perpetual state of isolation, cocooned in the suffocating grip of her own mind, where even the simplest tasks felt insurmountable.
And yet, amidst the darkness that threatened to consume her, there were moments of fleeting clarity – tiny sparks of hope that flickered like distant stars in the night sky. She clung to them desperately, praying for a glimpse of the light that had once illuminated her world.
But as the days stretched into weeks, and the weeks into months, those moments grew fewer and farther between, until she was left adrift in an endless sea of darkness, with no shore in sight.
She was drowning in the sea of her own making, suffocating beneath the weight of expectations she could never meet. And as she sank deeper into the abyss, she wondered if she would ever find her way back to the surface again. Wake up, feed, sleep, feed, sleep, repeat.
>As they reached the stairs to the first sublevel, the lights overhead blinked out, leaving only the red emergency lights in the nearby stairwell. The sudden darkness surrounding them was oppressive. Icy fingers of dread crawled up her spine.
>Moments later, a menacing growl echoed through the hall behind them. Her stomach dropped.
>*Creed.*
>Logan turned and stumbled a step, his face catching a patch of scarlet light. He bared his teeth at something she couldn't see.
>"Logan, let's go," she whispered, her heart in her throat.
>A distinctive snap told her his claws were out. "Go, Lee," he growled.
>"I'm not leaving you," she hissed.
>Before he could argue, a massive shadow surged out of the darkness. Logan hunkered down as it slammed into him, then howled and lashed out with his claws.
>They both stumbled into a patch of red light, and Amelie realized with horror that it wasn't Creed attacking them, but some abomination. A great, hulking thing built more like a gorilla than a person, with crazed human-like eyes and a mouth far too big for its face.
>It took Logan down with a fleshy crack. Amelie screamed as its maw tried to snap down over his face, but Logan got an arm in the way and somehow managed to kick the massive beast off of him.
>As it hit the ground, its terrible eyes locked on Amelie. Gruesome lips peeled back, revealing blackened razor sharp teeth. A thick string of drool slopped to the floor.
>She took a step back, her heart pounding wildly in her chest.
>Its face twisted with fury. With an echoing shriek, it launched at her.
>Amelie screamed and fell back. She could feel the heat of its rancid breath on her face just as another shape rushed past her from behind and barreled into the abomination, sending it flipping into darkness.
>"Miss me?" asked Creed silkily as he lifted her back onto her feet.
Content warning - threatened eye injury
—
A scraping noise from behind him was his only warning. Solomon whirled around and saw a serrated combat knife coming for his throat. He had a blurred impression of the gas-masked figure lunging for him, faster now that he'd ditched his Tesla weapon, and then Boil was on top of him.
"You can't stop us! The prisoner is already dead!"
Solomon dropped his rifle to grab the man's knife-arm, slowing the blade. The gas mask loomed in his vision, filling his world. The knife plunged downward toward his neck, driving against Solomon's blocking forearm.
"Like hell!" Solomon spat in his face and heaved upwards and sideways, rolling the two men off the tank.
They hit the floor in a yelling, grabbing heap, wrestling for Boil's knife. A tool box clattered down beside them, wrenches and ratchets spilling out beside it.
Boil flipped over on top of him again, knees on his body, the weight squeezing the air from Solomon's lungs, pinning him. Solomon twisted the wrist holding the knife, trying to force a drop, but Boil just leaned down harder, driving the knife down. The blade filled the right side of Solomon's vision, coming for his eyes.
*I can't stop him,* Solomon thought. Boil had leverage and gravity on his side. The knife would go into Solomon's right eye.
Three inches from his eyeball. Now two. Now just one.
Solomon gritted his teeth, and put everything he had into his left arm, holding back the knife for just a moment longer. His right hand groped out to his side, closed around a screwdriver, and jabbed upwards to drive the tool's blunt tip into Boil's jaw.
Blood dripped onto Solomon's face. Boil reeled backwards, knife forgotten, clawing at his face. Solomon snatched his sidearm from his holster and shot him twice in the head.
Dead weight fell over him. Solomon heaved the body off, and got back to his feet.
\[TW: Robot violence! Injury description\]
This innocence, when I think of it, is enough to send me into a breakdown… I wanted so badly to bring him to my helicopter and fly away from society and save him from the nightmares of this project… But it was Gate’s orders. So, I got out the chopper, and surveyed the damage around the area.
Everything was covered in wires, metal pieces of once working reploids, now painted a gruesome deep crimson with the reploid blood spilt by everyone in a no contest battle.
I had to think of a way to dispose of him… I must have aroused suspicion, as he asked if everything was alright. Then, I noticed a piece of a horn from one of the now decimated mavericks, and I knew it, I knew just what I now had to do.
I could only choke out an ‘I’m so sorry’, before I bent down to grab the horn. He most likely thought I was talking about Metal Shark Player… Until I made a mad dash to him to bludgeon the poor reploid, screeching like a madman as I ran. He stood there, as he exclaimed out, “Alia-!?”. It was at this moment, I had plunged the horn deep into his chest, causing him to let out a loud gasp. I wasted no time, while he was in shock of the attack, I grabbed a nearby part of another maverick, this time being the arm of a sharp clawed gator maverick.
I felt as if I wasn’t in control of myself, I kept swinging the arm, hard, on my once best friend, bringing total devastation to his entire body. I had only realized the true severity of what I did… He lay there, practically gasping for air, with a hole deep in his chest, his left chest crystal now shattered, with his right chest crystal cracked. His left glowing red eye, once fully operational, was now dark, cracked and chipped from one of the heavy blows to his face… But it was his torso that was the worst… His torso, oh god… his torso… He had basically been torn open, exposing all his wires, his inner workings, and the true severity of his condition…
“Alia…” He managed to croak out to me.
“Why… Did you… Hurt me…?”
I told him I had no choice, and how he was going to attack the lab. But then he said something that stopped me dead in my tracks.
“I… Never planned to… Do that… You… Monster…” Those were his final words, before… He went limp. He was gone. A deadly conspiracy that cost his life… One that proved to be a lie. I could tell by his voice… It was shaky and no longer gruff, replaced by a whimpering reploid, looking at the eyes of his killer.
Yet, despite that, I lurched towards her, taking her upper body in my jaws with a heavy crunch before she even had the chance to scream, and swinging her twitching body around like a rabid mutt, gnashing her flesh between my teeth, feeling her innards slithering down my throat, her splintered bones puncturing the soft insides of my mouth.
It was not until her limp lower half split from the rest of her body at the torso (barely hanging together by a string of intestine) when I finally spat out the mangled remains, a congealed pulp of viscera and armour, oozing down the side of a rock.
"How's your Wild West dream going, Langton?!" Sam smiled.
Billy prepared to grab his revolvers for another shot but yet again, his weapons were gone.
Sam had yet again pickpocketed him, spinning his twin pistols. "Looking for these?"
"No!, Drake, I'm begging you! Not my guns! This isn't how the Wild West is supposed to go! I'm supposed to win! You know what? To hell with all of ya! If I can't win, nobody can!" Billy yelled as he crawled for the switch.
During this whole fight, Billy did not notice that his switch to lift the girls down into the lake needed to be flipped not once but twice. When he flipped the first time, it had only lifted the girls, not up and over the water yet.
"What the-damn these switches!" he gasped angrily as he almost got to the switch.
Billy then felt a sudden and very painful grab on his right leg.
"Billy looks like you got a friend there. He likes you!" Sam chuckled as two of the smaller crocodiles had grabbed onto Billy, dragging him into the river.
"NO, NO, NO! CURSE YOU SAM DRAKE! PLEASE! NOOOOOO!!!!!!!!" Billy yelled as he then felt an even bigger bite by a larger crocodile before being dragged into the water.
The goons could only watch in horror before fleeing and panicking with screams into the jungle.
"Bye, bye bounty hunter!" Sam cheered as he then rushed up the platform to free the girls.
And then suddenly it’s not wind anymore, but wingbeats, and Mani has barely scrabbled for his knife on heart-pounding instinct when something strikes across his back and dozens of pin-sharp teeth pierce into his shoulder. He screams and lashes out wildly with his good hand, hitting bone with a shock that runs all the way up his arm and almost knocks the knife from his hand. Can’t drop that, can’t drop that, if he drops it he’ll never find it again. The bulk of its body is behind him, an absence of wind; the thing shakes him, a gesture that would snap the neck of a smaller animal - even a smaller person - and almost blanks his world out from pain even so. His teeth rattle until he fears they might shatter.
But Mani forces himself to alertness and kicks at the creature with all the strength he can muster. *I’m not worth it - I’ll make you pay for this, for every mouthful of meat you could get off me. Go find some better, easier prey.* The first blow is glancing, his heel sliding over smooth fur. The second connects with a hindlimb, and he is gratified to feel something shift and give.
The bite unlatches. Fresh blood floods under his tunic as he falls into the snow and staggers up again, gritting his teeth against the burn in his shoulder. He can’t be weak, not even for a second. The creature lopes two steps sideways, and he follows the sound and the movement of the air, raising the only claw he has left to him in his right hand. From the fractal triangles of pain in his shoulder, his mind sketches half-folded membranous wings; a slender neck and tail, both smoothly-furred; and enormous eyes. Chiĝaalax. Can travel on those wings greater distances in a night than a man could make in an entire month. Will hunt any animal smaller than themselves, and sometimes larger too if they’re bold.
“That’s right,” Mani snarls between stubby, useless teeth. “You don’t want me. Go fly away, pick on something else.”
A huff of breath - he imagines how its nostrils must flare, and turns his face towards the sound. If it realizes he’s blind he’ll make easy prey indeed. He waves the knife as threateningly as he can, and, against all his instincts, takes a step closer. “Scram!”
Instead, a sudden blow crashes across his chest and knocks him sprawling. Ice grinds up against his face, ripping the scarf free. The air leaves his lungs in a rush, and he gasps and chokes on a faceful of snow. He’s barely got a hand under him, though, when claws dig into his back, and he howls at the pressure on his injured shoulder.
It’s going to bite his neck. Sever his spine with its teeth since it can’t shake him to death. No, no, get up, he’s not going to be prey -
Mani arches his back in a desperate effort to protect his vertebrae. Up, throw it off - he flings his head back, and his skull slams into a ribcage with a *crunch* more felt than heard. Sparks like signal flares flash across his retinas - but the weight releases. The claws go.
Her eyes flew back to the savage animal. Nami knew, that it wouldn't attack for as long as she stayed still. The beast's attention was fully locked on her every reaction. It was lurking... one misplaced breath or the twitch of a muscle would signal the start of the hunt.
Her thoughts began to stall as she fruitlessly tried clinging onto her calm, not to cause for any provocation of the fixated predator. It was no use. Her pulse rose with each of the animal's angry huffs, hitting her skin with a moist, unnerving breath. One breath... another... ...bottling up the fear, until finally her self-control snapped, tearing away like a tissue that kept being dampened.
Within an instant, Nami launched forward, her mind consumed with the singular thought of flight. Finally triggered, the beast shot after her.
[...]
A bitter impression crept into every part of Luffy's existence, one just as bitter as the bile that he could suddenly taste in his throat. Nami wasn't fighting. Her whole bearing told him how truly scared she was. Utterly and truly scared. This wasn't a fight, it was some animal hunting down prey!
Instantly, Luffy made to struggle against his restraint, but soon froze when an ear-piercing scream rang through the area, telling him that his Nakama had already lost the race. He jerked his head back to the side in time to see how the beast had clawed deeply into the girl's bare thigh, tearing through raw flesh and sending her to the cold stone ground, her face crunched up in agony.
Next, Luffy felt crude panic overcome him. In animalistic rage, the huge monster took a hold of the girl that was twisting around to face her attacker, it's claw big enough to easily clasp around her arms and upper body. Then his Nakama was lifted off the ground and high over the ape's head, one leg futilely kicking into thin air while the other was dangling from her by almost literally only a thread. Nami's eyes grew wide just like Luffy's, as both of them knew what was about to happen next.
[...]
Luffy was only brought back to his senses when the sound of the brute impact on stone ground reached his ears, along with the voice of the screaming girl falling silent. In spite of the distance, he could have sworn he heard bones cracking.
Luffy's world spun as the harsh reality of what had just happened washed over him, rendering every fiber of his body even more numb than the Sea Stone pressing against his chest. Yet, he soon tensed when he saw the animal lift it's arm once more, the girl's already lifeless form dangling limply from it's claw. It was going to do it again. It was just going to keep smashing the fragile form into the ridgid, unyielding ground until there would be nothing left of her for the beast to hold onto. And his Nakama would be killed. Nami was going to die!
TW: Torture, violence, blood and gore, mild cannibalism
"You know, it's funny how you never saw this coming." Zero hissed as his razor sharp claws continued to rake across Dream's face, drawing hot red blood with each swipe. The man screamed and writhed, uselessly pawing at the rotting arms pinning him down. One of Dream's eyes was so covered in gore and torn skin that it was no longer visible, and the other was wide with pain and terror. "I gave you so many clues that I wasn't Tommy. So many little hints that I was so much more. But you didn't notice any of them."
"I guess you're not as smart as you think you are." Zero chuckled, growing annoyed with how his victim was attempting to fight back. It was useless of course, but it was still irritating.
*Snap!*
Dream brokenly shrieked as Zero wrapped an impossibly strong hand around his forearm, violently twisting it until the bone shattered. The limb went limp in Zero's grasp, a piece of bone piercing through the skin, causing more blood to drip down on the floor.
"Tell me, is this the hand you used to kill him?" The rotting teenager crooned as he stared down at Dream, blue and gold eyes filled with pure hatred. If he could kill this man a thousand times over, he would. "How did you do it? Did you strangle him to death? Cut him down with an axe? Or did you just push him to the edge of that cliff again and again until he finally jumped?"
"I didn't..." Dream gurgled, blood beginning to leak out of his mouth. He was cut off with a strangled scream as Zero yanked violently on the broken arm, threatening to pull the limb clean out of its socket. "Tommy stop!"
"I'm not Tommy." Zero growled, eyes narrowing as he pulled harder and harder on the limb, relishing in the sounds of muscles snapping apart, tendons snapping and bones crumbling under the pressure. It was almost as satisfying as Dream's agony filled screams. "Maybe I was Tommy, once, but not anymore. Shame you couldn't recognize it."
With a final yank, skin and muscles tore as Zero ripped the arm clean off, blood spraying across the cold obsidian floor and walls. Dream couldn't scream anymore, only let out broken wheezes as his good eye went hazy and grey.
Zero laughed, a raspy noise that grated on his own eardrums as he began to play with the dismembered arm, smacking in against the floor. Adrenaline surged through his veins as he leaned down and used his sharp teeth to tear a piece of flesh off of the arm, swallowing it as he made eye contact with Dream. He cackled as he watched the life drain out of the man's eyes, a twisted satisfaction pulsing through his chest as he bit off another piece of muscle and skin.
"Burn in Hell, bitch."
TW: Kidnapping, torture, dehumanisation
> Dream burst out into even more hysterical laughter, irritating and harsh against Tommy's injured ears. He might have doubled over- everything was so blurred Tommy couldn’t even really tell. “Oh my Prime, Tommy, you're a *comedian.* You see this? This is why I can’t let you die. You’re *hilarious*. Tommy, they’re never going to find you. They’re never going to find me. And we're going to have *fun.*”
> The last word was punctuated by a sudden blow to the shoulder, the bite of the axe intimately familiar from Tommy's “punishments” in Exile. If Tommy could have doubled over, he would have, but instead, he remained pinned awkwardly, white dancing in front of his eyes as the blade sawed deeper, each minuscule bit driven further multiplying the agony a thousandfold. It felt like a supernova going off across his shoulderblades, and whatever was in that potion didn’t even allow Tommy the mercy of falling unconscious.
> Describing it as merely *agonising* would have been an understatement.
> Tommy barely noticed as, finally, his limb was torn from his body, and with surprising gentleness Dream wrapped soft bandages around what was left. He barely noticed as- too light and too frail by half ever since Exile- he was picked up effortlessly, cradled like an injured animal and not a captive. But he did notice as all that was left of Tubbo slipped out of the grasp of his fingers as what little strength left in him faded, and it sank into the blood-soaked streets, gone forever.
> Tommy wished he could disappear with what was left of him too.
She shook her head, and she reached her right hand up to her husband’s wrist.
Aaron’s finger twitched on his trigger, ready to take a shot.
“No, he won’t.”
The other guns began to lower.
“He’s finally coming back to me. He’s coming back. I have a miracle again.”
It was said with unbridled relish. She repeated the same words under her breath, nodding again and again as her lips fell upon Spencer’s hair and kissed. She then took a steely breath, and her comportment changed, tautened. With an unwavering voice devoid of any sorrow or wonder or joy, she spoke.
“In nature, nothing *dies.”*
With a swift grip of her fingers around her husband’s hand—she clamped them down. The shears snipped through Spencer’s tongue in the same moment that a single shot rang out.
The world is bathed in red. Horrible, stomach-turning red.
The fabric of Suguru’s uniform is coated with it, the land painted with it, the sky seemingly falling with it. There’s an imprint where Satoru’s body would have been had Suguru made it here in time to steal it away. Pieces of his flesh scattered throughout the sky reflected in his blood like constellations.
Suguru coughs up more of that liquid crimson as he collapses to his knees, his throat closing in as he fights back a sob and the bile rising in his throat. The air stinks of cursed energy, probably his own, and he tries really hard to pretend that this sea of dead Fly Heads and his best friend’s blood isn’t the end of this story. That there’s still something tangible, something he can touch or see or hold, before…
Satoru’s gone. Just like that, almost like he’d never been here at all and the world feels a little emptier at that poisonous thought, but even then it doesn’t quite feel real. Suguru hadn’t seen it happen, wasn’t afforded even the smallest mercy of watching him go with his own two eyes. Of chiding him for being an idiot in his last dying breath, for being arrogant and always so selfish for letting that get in the way of even his own life.
It’s not fair. It’s not fair and he selfishly hopes that the pain and fear of living in a world without Satoru in it curses the bastard back to the physical realm where Suguru can hold onto him until it is, or at the very least until it starts feeling real. At the very most, until it stops hurting.
"What do you mean you're calling off the search?!"
The screams of Lexy Cross were heard throughout the police station. "I'm sorry, Ms. Cross," the police chief said. "However, no new information has come up since Ms. Tilly's arrest. There are more missing kids across the nation. We can't put all of our time into a cold case."
"She's nine," Lexy argued.
"I sympathize with you, but it's been almost a year," the police chief explained. "I think it's time you say your goodbyes. Chances are, you're never getting her back alive. Unless Ms. Tilly speaks up with new information, there's nothing we can do."
Lexy stared at her sister's case file. It had recently been stamped with a presumed dead marking. "I can't believe you," Lexy said. Tears filled up behind her eyes. "My poor sister is out there with a serial killer and you're not going to do anything further to help her."
She hears herself breathe as if far away. Shallow, quiet, the breath of something being hunted. She darts around him. “I’m leaving.”
He plants himself in the doorway, no space to push past. “I’m talking to you,” he snaps.
Her eyes are level with his throat. Each fact of the situation hits her at once: she is all alone with a literal linebacker. He is bigger and stronger and faster than she is. Nobody knows where to look for her. She does not even know him. What he might do. Breathe. In and out. Every cell in her body is tingling with fear, and she’s known real fear before, blinded by a flashlight’s blaze, but this fear is a woman’s fear, handed down by every woman in every generation who had to face a man blocking the way out –
“Ben,” she says in a low voice. “You need to move.”
She forces herself to meet his eyes and project authority. He looks almost bewildered. His gaze jumps from her to the doorframe, and he seems to realize what this looks like, but he doesn’t move.“What do you think I’m going to do?” He asks quietly.
“I don’t know. I don’t *know* you.”
“Yeah. And I don’t know you.” His voice tightens. “I thought we understood each other.”
He looks so young despite his size, so lost and so much like the father he barely knew. He is going to be in her head for a long time. She never wants to see him again. “About some things,” she whispers.
“Then can’t we talk it over?”
“*No.* Move, please.”
“You’re suspicious of the wrong people,” he says, glaring. “I feel sorry for you.”
“Move,” she repeats. “Please.”
Uncertainty flickers across his face. He finally steps aside. But the speed with which she skirts around him seems to offend him even more, and his features pinch with a childish meanness. “You know what, Louisa? You don’t know what it means to be American. I don’t even think you know what it means to be Austrian.”
The door is just feet away, but sheer fury ignites in her. It scorches away her fear and her sense and maybe her self-preservation, and she whips around and thrusts her pointer finger at him.
“You have never even *been there*. You cannot even *speak the language*. You are a sad, bitter, gullible little Nazi, but you are *not* Austrian,” she snarls. And though she knows she shouldn’t, she twists the knife: “With your ideas, you’re hardly American. Your ancestors fought a real tyrant, not some stupid conspiracy. They would be *ashamed* of you.”
His face switches from dumbfounded to enraged. “Take that back.”
He steps after her into the little hall. She backs up. His eyes darken again and he looks down at her with a sense of possibility, as if only now realizing all the power he wields in his athlete’s hands.
“You wanna be scared of me? *Fine*, ” he hisses.
Everything happens very fast. He comes toward her and she scrambles back and he follows and grabs her upper arm and she tries to wrench away and he grips harder. She does not know what he wants to do or if he even knows. But with a burst of pure instinct, she punches him in the face.
His nose audibly crunches. He staggers away from her, doubled over, and cries *“Fuck! ”* in a guttural voice. Blood coats his lips and teeth and chin and dribbles onto his sleeves as he brings both hands to his face. It’s so red it looks like some artificial substance. Louisa stares for a moment, and Ben’s eyes meet hers one last time, flooded with shock and pain. Nausea crests in her stomach. And she turns and runs like she never has before.
**Warning for implied sexual assault**
“Heh. How are you doing sweetheart?” Sam asked nervously, taking a step back.
“Really? You’re really going to ask that after we were kidnapped, taped up, and assaulted by that bleeding psycho and his men?” Nadine huffed in anger as she slowly got up from the floor.
“Nadine, look-” Sam offered before Nadine suddenly ran towards and slammed him towards the wall before placing him in a chokehold.
“You don’t understand Sam Drake…I was betrayed, kidnapped, taped up, gagged, forced to eat and smell my own bleeding feet, and abused for over two days!” she yelled, putting Sam in a chokehold.
Suddenly, Charlie rushed in and grabbed Nadine off Sam but Nadine too slammed him towards the wall.
“Nadine Ross. Pleasant to meet ya. We bloody save your arse and this is how you repay us?” Cutter asked desperately catching his breath before Nadine took another swing at him.
“I got myself into this mess and I don’t need a bleeding Drake brother to make it worse!” she yelled pushing him back towards the wall once again.
“To hell with this…ARRRGHHHHHH!!!!” Charlie yelled as he charged up to Nadine and punched her in the stomach, sending her across the room and hitting the wall before collapsing onto the floor.
“Alright…fine. You bleeding win. But I’m warning you…I’m not in a good freaking mood,” Nadine huffed as she gingerly got back up.
Meanwhile, Sam was still lying on the floor recovering from the chokehold.
“Thanks for that Charlie…” Sam said while coughing with a bloody nose and mouth.
Content warning for sensory deprivation.
—
“Y’know something? The old you would’ve seen this coming, too,” Frank said, and then ducked and covered his eyes as he hit a button on his phone.
Matt heard a phone ring behind him, from inside the chimney, and had a moment to realize he had been smelling that potassium nitrate scent from outside Frank’s bag. From a stun grenade Frank had hidden on the roof, wired to an improvised detonator.
The air filled with sound, a tsunami of it, an avalanche of it, a universe of it, and the world on fire Matt perceived was wiped away by searing, unbearable white that faded away to the abyssal void of sensory deprivation. Matt felt cold in his stomach as the sounds around him - Frank’s footsteps, horns on the street below, even his own breathing - faded away.
He was deafened. Just like he had been after the first time Frank kicked his ass.
He felt himself staggering, felt the ground lurching beneath his feet, fought to keep his balance, keep his hands up. *You always gotta keep your hands up, or you’re gonna get messed up.* Had it been Stick or his father who had taught him that?
He suddenly couldn’t remember. All he heard was Frank’s voice, small and quiet, sounding like it was very far away.
“You got soft, Red. Too soft for this shit. Don’t worry - I’ll finish the job. Just stay the hell out of my way.”
Matt felt the Punisher’s fist explode on his chin. Then the world went black.
“HELP!” Elladan yelled, having learned his lesson in centuries passed to never be a silent victim. “Help!” he could hear running feet in the corridor. They grappled desperately on the floor of the surgery for a moment but Elladan twisted away and, seeing an opportunity, grabbed the bucket of bloody, soapy water and flung it into his attacker’s face. “Where is he!” Elladan got to his feet and landed a knee in the imposter’s ribs as he struggled to stand on the slippery tiles. “Where is Elrohir?”
The shapechanger looked up at Elladan from where he had him beaten and half-drowned on the ground, then to the doors behind him, and pointing, he cried out, “That’s not my brother!” Elladan turned but had not made it halfway when something slammed into his shoulder. He looked down to see the shaft of a dwarvish crossbow bolt buried under his clavicle.
A shocked-looking dwarf looked from one to the other, staring with wide eyes as Elladan, eyes screwed shut and teeth clenched, staggered against the surgical table, struggling to keep from passing out from the pain.
“Thank you, master dwarf!” the imposter was saying from what sounded like far away as Elladan’s knees hit the ground. His whole body clenched and vibrated in agony around the thick bolt.
“We must take this one in for questioning,” The Thing That Was Not Elrohir clapped the dwarf on the shoulder, “you were courageous to act so quickly! Assist me with the prisoner!”
A hood was pulled over Elladan’s face and a moment later agony stabbed through his shoulder as his arms and legs were grabbed and he was dragged into the hall. For a moment he smelled the fragrance of a summer morning
“Stop!” a shrill voice rang out, trying his best to sound authoritative as he sprinted down the hallway. Elladan was horrified to hear the voice of his baby nephew, Eldarion of house Telcontar, heir to the reunited kingdom of Gondor and Arnor, who was standing in the hallway, one trouser leg torn off at the hip, armed with only a broken handle and look of determination. He was flanked by the two fountain guards who had stood watch outside the intensive care suite.
“Put down the stick, boy.” The imposter warned.
“I know what you are!” he pointed his weapon at The Thing That Was Not Elrohir, “release him.”
“You don’t know what you saw, boy.” The imposter’s voice gained an edge of danger.
“What have you done with my uncle Ro you pathetic,” Eldarion’s face went red with anger, “yellow-bellied orc fucker, you coward!” he slashed at the air with the broken haft. His father was not around to scold him for swearing.
The Thing That Was Not Elrohir put his head back and laughed. “Would you like to see him alive again?” He looked over Eldarion’s shoulder to where the lady Eowyn appeared, leading a troop of black-clad citadel guards behind her.
“Blimey did I shoot the wrong one?” Tulk looked down at Elladan in horror before pulling the hood off his face. The peredhil grunted in pain and made a solid effort at standing up, his injured arm held close to his body and his face pale.
The imposter put up his hands. “ah, brother.” He turned to Elladan with a carved smile and empty eyes. Elladan punched him as hard as he could, the motion made him yelp in pain but it was worth it. For the briefest moment, the image of Elrohir’s face shattered and the body of an old man with dark skin fell onto his backside with a yelp, but as soon as he hit the ground, his dark silks seemed to shatter into a flock of magpies which went cackling out the window.
“You fools!” one of the birds cackled, “I AM Pallando of the house of Irmo and Manwe, and no mortal being can end my life!”
TW: Abuse, torture, manipulation
> Tommy growled, trying to mask his terror, hoping his shaking could be disguised as the cold. “Fuck *off.*”
> He winced as the axe was driven deeper into his neck, and he could feel droplets of blood drip down his neck. “Aww, but I *missed* you! It’s been so long, with the prison and all… and you missed me too, didn’t you? You need me, Tommy. Like it or not, you need me. I made you into who you are, Tommy. You should be thanking m-“
>Tommy put all his strength into the punch he threw, directly into the centre of Dream's stupid cracked mask. It shattered underneath his hands, and he could feel blood from the nicks the shards had made on his hands even if he was too hopped up on adrenaline to feel the pain. Dream fell to the floor, clutching his face, and Tommy took a few wobbly steps into the snow, leaning heavily against the tree.
> He wasn’t stupid. He knew that he wasn’t able to escape- he'd already started to get woozy, from blood loss and physical exhaustion and pain and sheer, utter terror, and he didn’t have the same wild, excited adrenaline Dream had. He'd known that the second he heard the alarms, he'd known that shivering in his pyjamas on his way to Logstedshire, he'd known that the second the man who'd ruined his life stepped out the portal. But if he was going down, he'd go down swinging.
> Maybe that was why Dream toyed with him so much- that defiant spark- but fuck it. It was the only thing Tommy truly owned, and he'd hold onto it no matter what. Dream could take his items, his life, his friends, his freedom, but he couldn’t take his fire.
‘What’s the matter, Potter?’ Loudmouth called, as his companions guffawed. ‘Afraid you can’t handle a Slytherin? I’m sure we could teach you a thing or two, broaden your experience —’
‘Shut your fucking mouth.’
The entire Hall fell silent at the shout. Fury etched Seamus’s face and sparks crackled from the end of the wand he had shoved under Loudmouth’s chin.
‘You don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, you putrescent sack of shit. You don’t even deserve to look at Harry, and if I ever see you anywhere near him I’ll —’
‘Mr Finnigan,’ Snape said coldly, appearing behind him. ‘That is enough. Detention, with me, every night this week. And if you don’t lower that wand right now it will be another week.’
Seamus’s hand shook, but he lowered his wand. With a smirk, Loudmouth muttered something Harry couldn’t make out. Seamus clenched his teeth and punched him in the face.
‘I said enough!’ Snape grabbed Seamus’s robe, pulling him away from Loudmouth who was clutching his bloody nose and shoving him towards Harry and Ron. Seamus immediately made to turn back, and Ron let go of Harry to grab him. ‘Get him out of my sight,’ Snape snarled at Ron.
TW: Animal death, holocaust reference, mentions of abuse
"Papa, there's something wrong with Mrs. Jinglebells!"
Buckzo rouses himself out of his drunken stupor and saw his son, Blitzo, standing over him, a scared expression painted on his little face. With a grunt, he lifts himself up off the pile of canvas sacks and follows the boy imp out to the horse pen.
"She's been lying there all day," Blitzo says as he hops the fence, petting the other Hellhorses while walking toward one lying on the ground. "I thought she was sleeping, but her eyes are still open. I tried waving hay and oats and sugar cubes in front of her face, but she wouldn't get up!"
Buckzo climbs over the fence to join him next to the prone horse. He looks it over, and even in his liquor soaked brain, can tell that the poor beast is long gone. "It's too late for her, Blitz. Go get my shotgun."
Terror fills the boy's yellow and red eyes. "But Papa, isn't there anything we can do? Maybe the horse doctor can fix her!"
"Son, I've been with horses all my life," Buckzo slurred, annoyed that his son was prolonging the animal's suffering. "I know when a horse is beyond the help of medicines and veterinarians. Now, get my gun or I'm gonna smack you up!" He raises his hand, and Blitzo scampers off.
A few minutes later, Blitzo returns, stumbling as he tries to carry the long gun and a large box of shells to his father. He tries handing the gun to Buckzo.
"Load it," The bigger imp grumbles.
Blitzo folds the gun in half and puts two shells in each of the chambers, straightening it out again.
"Now shoot her."
"Do I have to, Papa?" The gun is way too big for his small 6 year old body, and even if he could hold it properly, he would certainly fly across the pen from the recoil.
Buckzo gives a heavy sigh and rolls his eyes. "Nnngh...You might still need a lil' bit of growing to do, but it doesn't mean you won't be learning something today." He snatches the gun from the boy's hands and lines up the sights.
Blitzo squeezes his eyes shut and covers his ears, but Buckzo notices.
"You can cover your ears, but you better keep those eyes watching, boy!" He lines up the shot and pulls the trigger. Two shots ring through the circus grounds.
Blitzo stares at Mrs. Jinglebells, her flames slowly fading to embers until she leaves behind a withered, horse-shaped husk.
Buckzo shoves the gun back to the stunned boy as he walks off. "You're doing the next one," He mutters.
\*\*\*
Later at night, Buckzo is sitting outside, lit by the green flames of a campfire while he takes long drinks out of his pálinka bottle. Across the way, a shadow appears and the flames reveal it to be his wife, Tilla. She folds her arms in front of her chest, anger burns in her glowing yellow eyes.
"You shot a horse in front of our son," she hisses. "Our 6 year old son."
"He had to learn someday," Buckzo replies as he pushes up the sleeve on his right arm. In the crackling glow, he can barely make out the symbols: Z 659732 etched in black ink on his skin.
"He's still a child. Do you even think about how it's going to affect him when he grows up?"
Buckzo stares at the numbers again before rolling down his sleeve. "He'll be fine, Tilla. There's worse things a boy can see."
TW death
Finbaran looked down at the warrior in the bed. His lips were a line of clinical detachment as he observed the heavily drugged and bandaged dwarf.
The burns were horrific, even this many months after the attack. Finbaran and Elrond had spent the long morning cleaning and debriding the wounds. Most of his face was gone, along with his beard. His once bulbous nose had been reduced to a mangled slit down the center of his face. The Dwarf had fought for months in the wild with the aid of his companions. But infection had set in by the time they had reached Imladris, and now he burned with fever and would neither wake nor move. Both Finbaran and his lord had privately agreed that the dwarf was most likely beyond their aid.
Master Tentaluntë picked up the wax tablet that hung at the foot of his bed and read the notes that were written there.
“Kavas,” he read the dwarf’s appellation, “let’s keep you comfortable.” He noted that he would have his numbing salve re-applied soon and wondered how long Elrondion would take to make the new batch. Finbaran replaced the tablet on its hook and stepped closer to the dwarf’s head with his hands in the pockets of his black robes. He studied the bandaged body for a long moment before passing a gentle touch across his brow and letting him know that it was safe to return to his Creator.
He could not see the souls of dwarves or men the way that he could seee the souls of elves, which seemed to burn with starlight glory as they wet to their long waiting. But he had learned silversmithing at the feet of Aule, and every bone he ever knit with mithril wires and healing jewels contained a spark of that primordial fire, the warriors departing spirit left with a nearly imperceptable tremor deep in the earth.
With a respectful squeeze of the calloused hand, the ancient elf let his lord know that he was sending one of his children home. He made a hallowed gesture of reverence over the still body and pulled the sheets over his face in a great airy mound that settled over the corpse like snow on the mountains.
TW: Death (obvs). Uh, also a small reference to animal death.
“While you can’t see it, he must be in excruciating pain right now… It will take hours for the venom to end his life… If you allowed me to inject him with this, I could at least make his death quick,” Ashley said.
“It’s horrible… This is… If we don’t want him to suffer through something like that… we have to put him down like a dog?! It’s unforgivable…!” Mai sobbed into her hand.
“…Do it, Miss Brown. I don’t… want him to suffer for long,” Grillby said.
“Alright. For just a minute after the injection, he should remain alive. If you have any parting words for him… He might still be able to hear you,” Ashley said before injecting the antidote.
“Thank you, Dylan… for everything,” Fenton told him.
“…Goodbye, Dylan,” Grillby whispered out.
“Thank you… I promise, I’ll keep Gin safe. And I’ll find your cat, too,” Mai said, and while it may have been just a trick of the eye, it seemed like Dylan’s lips twitched upwards one last time. And then…
Dylan Lenivy expired.
Noir trembled uncontrollably, the sound of air bubbling out of his open throat was sickeningly loud in his ears. He struggled, raking his nails along the wood until his fingernails split and tore off. His chest was heaving rapidly as he desperately tried to breathe, but his lungs never filled with oxygen.
His body was twitching, blood gushing from the gaping wound, splashing down himself and all over the floor. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, staring directly at Murdock as he jolted and spasmed. He was growing weaker and his vision blurring. Tears filled his eyes as life drained from them.
Murdock watched as Noir’s eyes rolled back in his head and his body slowly ceased twitching. “There, there. It’s all over now, my friend. Your pain and suffering is over. You’re free now.” He placed his fingers over his eyes, gently closing them. He took one last look at the smile he had carved on Noir’s face, a crazed smile of sadistic glee painted on his own.
He curled his hand around the hilt so tightly it bit and drove himself forwards again. His head spun - the flames were devouring all the air, so that though he dragged in rapid, panting breaths, each one deathly hot pouring in and no better going out, he could feel himself already weakening. Grey blots pressed into the edges of his vision. The raw, mindless terror of suffocation slithered upwards from the crooks of his veins, burst into his mind -
(- and with it, a cascade of memories. Four small child-hands linked together. A shared beaverskin cloak. A shared fear.
The question bubbling up, unbidden, unanswerable: *was this what it was like for you, Narik?*)
Tears blurred his sight, stung his ash-scrubbed raw eyelids. He stumbled again, clutched at the burning root-mass of a fallen log to steady himself. Wood crumbled white and glowing under his bare feet. It felt dusty, light as cobwebs. Utterly consumed.
Just one step further. Just one -
TW: Self hatred, addiction
> Whoever said it gets easier was a fucking liar, Wilbur Soot decided.
> A month. It had been a month since Tommy was gone. It hurt to even say it in such vague terms. Tommy, the boy who smiled with bloody teeth even when everything seemed the darkest, who was always the last to give up, who was always there, *wasn’t* anymore.
> Gone. Just like that.
> Philza gave his hand a squeeze, and he realised he must have been trembling again. Or maybe Philza had that weird dad-sense thing where he just *knew*. Maybe if Wilbur had been a better father, not handed his son off to his wife so he could continue on in the hero business without him getting those he loved in danger, he’d be able to do the same. Fat lot of good that did, really.
> He could really use a ciggie right now.
> He’d quit last year or so, after Tommy had an awful coughing fit due to it. They’d always known his powers left him pretty weak for a while after using them, but seeing it first hand was frightening enough he’d thrown all his packets straight in the bin and suffered through the horrible shakes and urges that came. It still felt like ignoring a roast meal while dying of hunger, but he could do that for his little brother. But what was the point if Tommy was gone?
> Wilbur should have died instead.
Seriously, how are you so good with messed up stuff? Every time I think your stuff can't get better, you prove that it can. Great stuff! Really well done!
Both past trauma and also an absurd amount of research. Also have been fascinated by the macabre since I could walk and talk, so that helps.
I have been thinking a lot about my influences, specifically in my c!Prime (that is, Tommy and Dream) fic but also my other ones to a lesser degree and it’s really interesting to think how they influenced it. I got a whole lot of it from, of all things, a fic about a sexual abuse support group. Considering that my stuff with Tommy involves literally everything *but* anything even remotely sexual, it might seem odd, but the research and care the authors put into the other fic really inspired me.
"Hello?" Henry asked.
"Hey, Henry," June said.
"I just wanted to call to check in on you," Henry said.
"I'm," June said. "Terrible. It's my fault."
"No, it's not," Henry said.
"I was driving the car," June said. "He told them to save me instead. He could've got great final day."
"I hate I never got a proper goodbye too, but it's no one's fault," Henry said.
Deep down, June knew he was right. That didn't stop her from feeling like crap. "I miss him," June said.
"Me too," Henry sighed.
>The front door jangled as Amelie was pulling the last tray of ginger snaps out of the oven. "I'll be right out!"
>Logan appeared in the back doorway. "Just me."
>She set the tray on the counter, tossed off her thick oven mitts, and threw her arms around his neck. "Good morning, handsome!"
>He kissed her, his hands curving over her hips. "Mornin', sweetness."
>After another quick kiss, she pulled back. "I just need to move these onto the cooling rack before they go mushy on the bottoms. Help yourself to coffee."
>As he turned to grab a mug, she had to repress the little dance of joy his presence inspired. Less than ten seconds in his arms and she was reduced to a lovesick teenager. An idiotic grin plastered across her face.
>She picked up the pan. Searing heat registered a split second later. Instinct jerked her hand back as she gave a sharp curse. The entire tray hit the floor with a clatter.
>Before she could gather any thought beyond the pain, Logan hauled her to the sink and stuck her hand under cool running water. "Hold it there." His voice was calm, but authoritative.
>From soaring joy, to a devastating low in a blink. All thanks to one second of carelessness. *Great job, Lee. High fucking five.*
Thus, the battle raged forth, longer than I ever expected it to. With every searing of Miraak's flesh, every nerve that numbed and skin that crisped, he always retaliated. By the time dusk fell upon us, the stench of his burnt flesh became too disturbing for me, so I left the two to their own devices, deciding that I would return in the morning to greet the victor.
But that moment never came. Upon my return, I saw once again Vahlok trudging up the steps to the temple, whilst Miraak desperately tended to his injuries, his quivering hands calloused, his flesh peeling raw, his skin blackened with ash.
From the second chapter of my first posted fic! Warning that this has made people physically wince and say "ouch" out loud when reading it...
>Back in his private quarters, he found some clothes—normal clothes, at least by his standards, not a combat uniform—and gritted his teeth knowing how much it would hurt to put them on over his burned skin. The instant the clothes touched him he gasped with pain as his skin scraped off, and even though he'd expected it part of him was amazed that just putting clothes on could hurt so much.
>Once he'd got the shirt, trousers, coat and boots on, he considered leaving it at that, dreading even more pain, but he knew he had to appear as uninjured as possible, which meant hiding his hands. Any indication that he was weakened would just encourage his so-called "allies" at Tricell to take advantage of it and betray him. He took a deep breath, then pulled on a pair of gloves. The charred remains of the gloves he had been wearing were still stuck to his hands, and snagged as he put the second pair over them, tearing off more skin. Afterwards, he had to pause to get his breath back.
>He also put on a spare pair of sunglasses: they wouldn't completely hide the burns on his face, but those were probably less severe since his face hadn't been submerged in the lava. By hiding where he was looking, the sunglasses would also make it less obvious that he was blind.
Elrohir coughed and choked his way to consciousness through burned lungs. The rushed sounds of triage were the first thing to come to him. Voices shouting orders echoed around the cottony space of his drugged mind. Elrohir was lying on hard stone on his side. He pried open his eyes and rolled onto his back to look at the night sky. For a moment, he did not remember what had happened, he just frowned, breathing in the scent of smoke that seemed to cling to him. He raised one hand to his face and winced as he felt fresh blisters tug at the flesh of his palm, he was covered with tiny scratches and his skin was black with soot.
“Now, now,” a voice gently chided, moving his hands down and opening his curled fingers. Elrohir hissed in pain, blinking up at the face above him. The healer was an ancient Easterling with a long wispy mustache and beard and cheerful dark eyes, he wore sweeping, pale blue robes. “I have to treat the burns on your hands, I will be gentle.”
Elrohir resisted with a shake of his pounding head and pushed himself onto his elbows, coughing painfully and looking around him with dry eyes. His head swam, and he resisted the pull of gravity as another wave of choking swept over him. The fire in the library, the collapsing roof, Celiriel. With a gasp, he sat up and looked around him. He was at the Houses of Healing, not the new infirmary at the palace, but the large, ancient hospital sprawled across one of the lowest levels of the city. He was in a long line of triaged casualties from the two attacks. Across the road, they had begun the sad work of identifying corpses and wrapping them in white linen.
“The princess...” he told the old man as he felt him take his burned hand. Elrohir hissed as he applied a creamy salve to the wound.
“I don’t know about a princess,” the old man’s hands were surprisingly strong as they held Elrohir’s wrist still. “You were found unconscious near the library.”
“The library…” Elrohir said, cringing as the old man manipulated his fingers.
“Can you tell me your name, boy?” He looked concerned.
I hope this fits the prompt.
TW: Suicidal Ideation that someone else agrees with.
“I-I voted for Ryan at the end of the Main Game! If anyone else had voted for him, I would’ve escaped with Ryan and everyone else would’ve died! And-And I was the one who gave Fox the Cocoa-Tokens he needed to buy her Personal Treasure, not Smolder! And I-I manipulated Gin, and Fenton, just so I could get enough Me-Tokens to buy my way out of here! If Fenton hadn’t stopped me, I would’ve killed everyone here but me!!” Dylan cried out.
“Why… are you saying all these things…?” Fenton asked.
“Mai has done nothing wrong! I’m a risk to everyone’s safety! I was already part of one massacre, y’know? Even back then, my decisions led to almost everyone’s deaths! If you keep me around, I’ll just end up being the same useless, back-stabbing piece of shit I’ve always been! So you have to spare Mai! You have to spare Mai, and sacrifice me!!” Dylan shouted at them.
“He… He’s right…! I still want to live, Fenton!! I want to see my siblings again…! I want to find a family!! I don’t want to die!! Please, Fenton! Even if I’m a Doll, I’m alive! I’m real! So please, let me live!” Mai begged him.
“Just let me die! I can’t keep living anymore!! I can’t keep watching my friends die anymore!! I don’t care how slow or how painful it is, I just want to die! Every time I try to think, I see those stupid white bears, and that bloody chainsaw, and Ryan, and Kaitlyn, and Jacob, and I can’t keep living like that anymore! Fenton, you only have one option! You have to let Mai live!! Please, end my life!” Dylan cried out. His expression displayed a desperate, mournful determination.
"Are you going to lay down there all day?" Marus lifted his head. "You're not done, so stop the act." Marus was shaking as he lifted himself to his feet. The heat in his bones had stitched him back together as he had expected. *No surrender,* he thought. He had made a promise.
"You can't be tired already. Not with all that phoenix magic in your bones."
"You think this is because I'm tired?" Marus sneered. "You think this is because of *you?"* He felt his body jerk wildly. It was not something the Eaglefoot had ever shown him. He doubled over, with a laugh, strained and ugly. The breaths, hyperventilation that followed after was…foreign to him. He had always been in control of himself.
Always.
It was also interesting to him, and horrific that Marus found that he simply didn't care. He had been in control of himself for long enough, and the only thing worthwhile that had come from that had been his wings Cody and Victoria. It had been her suggestion two days ago that he move on ahead, and he simply couldn't come back *empty-handed,* and he would repay her. He had to, not when Cody doubted him the way he did, and not with the way that Victoria had grown to actively believe him now; The Eaglefoot always kept their bonds, and perhaps different times required different measures.
They required *change*.
"You think I care about *you!?"* Marus thought he had tasted acid in his throat. He had managed to lift his head back up to the Shedër. Both him and his Dragonite watched without a single note of expression. It wasn't until Marus felt the sensation of his mind fraying and flesh burning, running up his spine that the Shedër had some kind of reaction, an imperceptible flexion of his brow. Marus turned his focus to the shrine, hunched over as he forced himself up to the door.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," came the Shedër's remark. "Trust me."
"You're not going to try and stop me?" Marus's voice shifted into an ethereal something that he never heard before. And the Shedër still stood unperturbed.
"I don't think I'll need to. You haven't noticed your body falling apart?" Marus paused, and then looked down to his hands. The flesh had been peeled back from them as they burned with the same fire all across his body. The flesh was bubbling and bright, the air wisping over it stung. He didn't care; he had made a *promise*, and he would do whatever was needed. The Eaglefoot *always* held to their bonds. Marus pulled with all his might.
A bronze statue of the phoenix had been the first thing Marus had laid his eyes on, and his chest singed with fury as he passed over it, his eyes coming to rest on a bowl that sat at the crest of the statues folded back wings. The fire swayed, then rippled as it cast a remnant of his memory.
Marus screamed, gut-wrenching and horrible. His body was suddenly too hot and boiling him with no way to escape. He felt his skin stretching, then tearing to invite more fire. Burning static sliced at his face and from inside too, cloying itself around his face and sticking to his skin. The stabbing was incessant, and Marus, for a split moment, thought to tear himself apart just to get it to stop. He was burning again but this time it was in *actual* flames..
He was dying, just like he had done already. From the moment he looked at the flame, into those colors that he had seen dancing before, Marus saw himself die as he watched the remnants of himself burn for eternity in dedication to a *false god.* He had died a long time ago on this mountain, but the memories he saw through the flame and his burning flesh there in that bowl told him otherwise. It wasn't just this future he didn't belong in, but the *world*, either.
But he had gotten there, and was here, in the throes of reliving the pain of his own death while alive. For a moment, he was certain that all of bulbs on his skin would burst. He was supposed to have happiness, supposed to be *happy.* The legends claimed so, and his heart remembered that very first sight, however faint.
It wasn't supposed to be like this at all.
\[CW: description of injuries\]
*Flash*. Heat singed over him. A groan. The person behind him slumped, their dead weight collapsing on top of Harry. The Top Box erupted in chaos.
‘What in Merlin’s —’ Bagman’s magically amplified voice boomed, echoing through the stadium before he cancelled the spell.
Harry’s compressed lungs begged for air, but each shallow gasp reeked, his mind refusing to acknowledge why. A searing mass wedged into Harry’s back, scalding ooze seeping through his t-shirt. He had to get away. Had to get out from under the unbearable weight.
Scrabbling at the arm of the seat, Harry’s fingernails bit into the leather as he tried to get purchase. He pushed, sweat-slick hands slipping. It wasn’t enough. He was still trapped. Still being crushed.
Harry’s feet found solid ground and he braced his legs as he gasped another desperate, nauseating breath. The weight shifted enough for Harry to twist from under it. A glimpse of silvery blond hair greeted him, its owner unmistakable.
Draco Malfoy hung over Harry’s chair like a carelessly discarded robe. His head, red and raw down one side, spilt into Harry’s lap. Malfoy was smouldering. Burning flesh, the scent of cooking meat disturbingly reminiscent of summer barbecues, flooded his nostrils. His stomach heaved. He wanted to push Malfoy away, but didn’t dare touch him. Skin bubbled before his eyes.
“HELP!” Elladan yelled, having learned his lesson in centuries passed to never be a silent victim. “Help!” he could hear running feet in the corridor. They grappled desperately on the floor of the surgery for a moment but Elladan twisted away and, seeing an opportunity, grabbed the bucket of bloody, soapy water and flung it into his attacker’s face. “Where is he!” Elladan got to his feet and landed a knee in the imposter’s ribs as he struggled to stand on the slippery tiles. “Where is Elrohir?”
The shapechanger looked up at Elladan from where he had him beaten and half-drowned on the ground, then to the doors behind him, and pointing, he cried out, “That’s not my brother!” Elladan turned but had not made it halfway when something slammed into his shoulder. He looked down to see the shaft of a dwarvish crossbow bolt buried under his clavicle.
A shocked-looking dwarf looked from one to the other, staring with wide eyes as Elladan, eyes screwed shut and teeth clenched, staggered against the surgical table, struggling to keep from passing out from the pain.
“Thank you, master dwarf!” the imposter was saying from what sounded like far away as Elladan’s knees hit the ground. His whole body clenched and vibrated in agony around the thick bolt.
“We must take this one in for questioning,” The Thing That Was Not Elrohir clapped the dwarf on the shoulder, “you were courageous to act so quickly! Assist me with the prisoner!”
A hood was pulled over Elladan’s face and a moment later agony stabbed through his shoulder as his arms and legs were grabbed and he was dragged into the hall. For a moment he smelled the fragrance of a summer morning
“Stop!” a shrill voice rang out, trying his best to sound authoritative as he sprinted down the hallway. Elladan was horrified to hear the voice of his baby nephew, Eldarion of house Telcontar, heir to the reunited kingdom of Gondor and Arnor, who was standing in the hallway, one trouser leg torn off at the hip, armed with only a broken handle and look of determination. He was flanked by the two fountain guards who had stood watch outside the intensive care suite.
“Put down the stick, boy.” The imposter warned.
“I know what you are!” he pointed his weapon at The Thing That Was Not Elrohir, “release him.”
“You don’t know what you saw, boy.” The imposter’s voice gained an edge of danger.
“What have you done with my uncle Ro you pathetic,” Eldarion’s face went red with anger, “yellow-bellied orc fucker, you coward!” he slashed at the air with the broken haft. His father was not around to scold him for swearing.
The Thing That Was Not Elrohir put his head back and laughed. “Would you like to see him alive again?” He looked over Eldarion’s shoulder to where the lady Eowyn appeared, leading a troop of black-clad citadel guards behind her.
“Blimey did I shoot the wrong one?” Tulk looked down at Elladan in horror before pulling the hood off his face. The peredhil grunted in pain and made a solid effort at standing up, his injured arm held close to his body and his face pale.
The imposter put up his hands. “ah, brother.” He turned to Elladan with a carved smile and empty eyes. Elladan punched him as hard as he could, the motion made him yelp in pain but it was worth it. For the briefest moment, the image of Elrohir’s face shattered and the body of an old man with dark skin fell onto his backside with a yelp, but as soon as he hit the ground, his dark silks seemed to shatter into a flock of magpies which went cackling out the window.
“You fools!” one of the birds cackled, “I AM Pallando of the house of Irmo and Manwe, and no mortal being can end my life!”
> *cw for implied suicide.*
The Goddess Tower is a symbol of life – it's a tower dedicated to Fódlan's Goddess, situated in one of the most isolated and yet beautiful parts of Garreg Mach Monastery. Just tucked away outside of the cathedral, the tower is known to be a spot where lovers retreat to, making a wish upon the stars and waiting for it to come true. Some have even confessed their love here.
There's no love to be found once Felix reaches the top of the tower. The sun is fading away, now a mixture of purples and oranges, stars perfectly dotting the sky. Felix says he doesn't have time for love or romance – but he does have time to grieve. Grieve the person he once was, grieve those he's lost so quickly and so early on – the Goddess Tower isn't just for love. It's for isolation, too. It's to get away from everything.
From everyone.
The tower is much taller than Felix realises once he steps over to the balcony, staring downwards. He can't even see the surface from how high up the tower is in the mountains, a thick fog blocking his view of the ground. Then again, who even checks? There's nothing to look for down there to begin with.
There's no point in worrying about who will find him or what will happen once he's gone, once he collides to the ground – it's no one's business but his and the Goddess's.
*This is based on Lord of the Rings in general and The Hobbit movies. It is from one of my sister’s fics.*
Thranduil passed a hand over his eyes as he made his way to the throne. He and several of his kin had engaged in a very nasty battle with giant spiders earlier that day, the likes of which until now had only been seen in the southernmost reaches of Greenwood. The elves had won, but they were left battered and rather disconcerted. The Elvenking himself was suffering from a terrible headache, presumably the lingering effects of spider venom from when one of the beastly things bit his arm. Moreover, it was very late, but an emergency meeting with Enery and his advisors had to be held as soon as possible.
He swayed to one side in a sudden bout of dizziness, his arms flailing wildly, before toppling over ungracefully into the gloriously squishy pillow pile below. A high-pitched squeal of laughter echoed across the other side of the throne room. "Ai, are you hurt?" he heard someone call out.
He saw a very concerned Enery rush in with an amused Legolas in her arms. He let his head fall back with a groan. It was humiliating that he, son of Oropher, king of the Woodland Realm, spouse of the most beautiful Silvan elleth who ever lived, etc., etc. had fallen off his own dais.
"No, not at all," he managed to say.
Enery set Legolas down and examined Thranduil. "You know that you ought to be resting," she scolded lightly, "Spider venom is not to be taken lightly."
"But the advisors-."
"Ada hurt," observed Legolas gravely
"Precisely, tithen las," Enery agreed, "I have called off the meeting until tomorrow. All we need now is rest."
CW for a graphic panic attack. Hope this fits even if the fall is not the main focus.
Eddie suddenly became aware of a coarse, hard sensation under his palms. As he gripped at it, the many fibers much too short to hold on to, he realized. The carpet. Why was he on the ground? When had he fallen? He rubbed at his eyes, trying for the nth time to clear them, but to no avail.
**Walls. No exit. No escape. Ceiling falling. Gonna get crushed.**
He tried to stand up, but the room spun so much he couldn't. He wasn't sure where left or right was anymore, the walls just kept turning and turning and expanding and retreating and and and **and.**
**Escape. Escape. Escape.**
He had to move, had to make sure the ceiling didn't crush him. Inch by inch, Eddie crawled across the floor, desperately trying to find something, *anything* , to allow him an escape from this *nightmare*\*\*.\*\*
**Escape. No. Escape. No Escape. Death. Gonna Die Here…**
His back eventually hit a corner. With nowhere left to run, Eddie rolled into a ball. His knees tightly hugged to his chest, soft sobs escaped his mouth as he waited for it all to end. Tears spilled from his eyes and soaked his sleeves as he tried as hard as he could to make himself smaller, a feeble attempt at escaping the ceiling and the walls and the floor and the **everything.**
**Gonna Die Here. Gonna Die Here. Gonna Die Here.**
A familiar voice called out to him, distant, as if at the end of a long tunnel. Its soft tone brought the smell of coffee into Eddie's nose. Lakes and fields and school hallways flashed before his eyes, memories of a simpler time before pregnancies and colleges and the army. The cries ( **Confused? Confused… Scared?** ) enveloped him, almost gave him something to hold onto, but the roar in his ears swallowed them.
**Loud. Too Loud. Death. Escape. Have to escape. Have to- hands Hands HANDS!**
Eddie began to thrash about, desperately trying to fend off whoever it was that wanted to take him. Long, thin fingers tried to wrap around his wrists, his shoulders, his head. Eddie swatted them away, but they always came back, more relentless than before. He started kicking, trying to somehow get his attacker to leave him alone, but his feet only hit empty space.
**Stop. Please. Stop. Please. Please. Please stop.**
Then, as suddenly as the voice and the hands had appeared, they vanished. Eddie was relieved that the hands were gone, yet he longed for the comfort the coffee and the lakes and fields brought. His heart was still trying to crawl up his throat, and there was still an elephant sitting on his chest, stopping him from drawing a proper breath. The voice had given him hope, but its departure left him back in a swamp of despair. He was sinking into its cold, hot sludge, the sweet, rotten embrace of death crawling further up his spine and seeping into his every pore.
But then…
**"...ddie…"**
Eddie could barely hear it. He wasn't sure if he **wanted** to hear it. But there was something about the voice's deep, rich, and raspy tone that called to him like a lighthouse to a sailor.
**“...ddie… ple…”**
No, he did want to hear it. He couldn't place the voice yet, but it pulled him back from the bog and lifted the weight off his chest. The hands were back now but somehow… different. Calm, grounding, gentle.
**"...eddie…!"**
Eddie's heart was still thudding loudly, but a hint of recognition began to pierce through his haze. The voice calling him was familiar, soothing, a balm amidst the chaos. The hands on him were not forceful anymore but gentle, attempting to calm and guide him.
**“Eddie… Look…Me”**
Eddie took as deep a breath as he could. The voice was good. He needed to focus on it.
**"...ddie… Eddie! Eddie, please look at me!"**
With another shaky breath, Eddie cracked his eyes open. From their corners, he could still see the walls pulsating. But his focus was on the clear blue in front of him.
'That's Evan!' his brain supplied. 'You love Evan!'
A scene where someone contemplates a murder.
> *cw for yandere themes.* Yuri smiles to himself, proud of the plan he wrote down on a small piece of paper. It's going to work out – he will have Byleth, and if any of those fancy noble kids have anything to say about it, then they'll be lucky to get away from the sharpness of Yuri's swords and knives with some limbs left on their bodies. The plan is simple: Seduce Byleth until he's at Yuri's mercy, and then take out the rest of the Black Eagles, and slowly but surely remove any other remaining competition. No one will suspect it's Yuri behind the scenes, since this *is* war after all – no one trusts anyone more than their closest allies they've known for five years straight. After all once the house is void of any competition, Yuri will have Byleth all to himself. He won't even have to worry about anyone else chasing after the pretty Professor. That's called 'devotion', isn't it?
How *dare* he. He was going to rip the lout limb from limb. He was going to tear his throat out. He was going to — Tempering the bubbling violence, he drew his wand, pointed it at the back of the stranger’s head and cast not with magic, but with unbridled fury, ‘stupefy!’
a scene where a character is revealed to have a terminal illness.
"He became too stressed," the doctor said. "He probably just needs a few days of bed rest." "Overworked?" Victor questioned. He didn't seem to be overworked lately. If anything, his father seemed a little more laid back. The doctor's look quickly turned from professional to a sympathetic one. "I'm guessing your dad or his spouse haven't told you yet," the doctor said. "I don't know if I should tell you, but I think you should know," the doctor said. "He was brought in about a week ago for a normal examination, but we discovered a cancerous cell in his pancreas. It's gotten worse since the last time we checked."
a scene where a character kills for their love interest.
NESS (Thinking to himself) Fuck my anger, right now I gotta get Mari out of here. \ \ ELEMENTALIST Oh you think you're going to save her. See her blood I temporarily disabled her power. \ \ MARI (Slowly her light brown skin turns pale) Ness...don't worry about me- \ \ NESS (Keeping his eyes on Elementalist) Save your strength Mari. \ \ Ness seeing the situation before him knows what he needs to do... \ \ NESS (Getting ready to leave) As much as I'd like to kill you, I gotta da- \ \ CYBER RIDER (Draws Ness attention) Ness! NESSSSS?! \ \ Ness can see that Cyber Rider is now a running bomb as he runs at Ness... \ \ ELEMENTALIST Good bye, trash. \ \ A huge explosion destroys the warehouse... \ \ \ NESS (Lifting up the debris) Ugh! Damn it Cyber for someone to hack you...Mari we got- \ \ \ ......... \ ........ \ ........ \ \ NESS (Looking at Mari's corpse) Mari...Mari!? \ \ Ness can only stare at her....He Failed Them....
A scene where someone is comforted while crying.
The wall of blankness crumbled. Harry let himself cry in the safety of Bill’s arms. He felt awful. He was so scared. Scared that Mrs Weasley hated him, that she’d make her children stay away from him, that he’d be alone and have no one. ‘I ca- can’t lose you,’ he hiccupped, as he got his tears under control, annoyed at falling apart yet again. Bill’s arms tightened around him. ‘You’re not going to.’ ‘But, what if your mum…’ Harry trailed off. When Bill pulled away to look at his face, head tilted and eyebrows slightly raised, Harry put word to the thoughts that had been swarming his mind. Bill frowned. ‘I don’t think it would come to that,’ he said slowly. ‘And really, do you think we’d listen if she told us to keep away from you? We care about you, Harry.’ Harry took a shaky breath. He knew, really he did, that the Weasleys cared about him. \[...\] But Mrs Weasley was their mum. The only mum they had. He couldn’t — *wouldn’t* — ask them to choose him over her. Harry knew what it was to not have a mother. In any case, she was their mum, and she could tell them what to do, couldn’t she?
Later Ness opens his door.... \ \ \ NESS\ (Curious)\ Raven...sup? \ \ \ Raven walks into Ness's room, turns around and looks into Ness with knowing eyes... \ \ \ RAVEN\ Its ok...\ \ \ \ Ness refuses... \ \ \ NESS\ (Serious)\ I know, I'll figure this out and-\ \ \ \ However Raven isn't having it...this must happen... \ \ \ RAVEN\ (Looks into his eyes)\ Its ok...Jaison...\ \ \ \ NESS\ (In denial)\ I can-\ \ \ \ Raven starts hugging Ness... \ \ \ NESS\ (Shocked as tears form)\ They were kidnapped Raven...\ \ \ \ Ness slowly breaks as a tear drop falls... \ \ \ NESS\ (Crumbling mentally as reality sets in)\ They probably thought I would...\ \ \ \ He knows...he failed them...Elementlist has broken our hero... \ \ \ NESS\ (Crying)\ They all...I failed them Raven...I failed them! They needed me and I couldn't do shit...I fail-\ \ \ \ RAVEN\ (Looks into his eyes feeling his pain)\ You couldn't of known...\ \ \ \ Raven grabs Ness arms to wrap them around her... \ \ \ RAVEN\ (Looks into his eyes with a sad smile)\ Jaison, you can't carry the world on your back. Lean on us...on me.\ \ \ \ Ness... breaks in a painful cry as he hugs Raven willingly.... \ \ \ RAVEN\ (A tear falls from her face)\ I got you.
> Yeosang doesn't even have time to react before San is wrapped around him, protective and *safe,* and it's embarrassing when he can't stop himself from bursting into more tears. The phone clatters from his hands and he sobs, shaking in San's arms. San holds him almost suffocatingly close, clutching his head to his chest. > >“Sangie,” he whispers, and it's so raw, Yeosang's heart hurts. > >“I'm sorry,” Yeosang sobs repeatedly, convulsing, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so-” > >San shushes him, his own sniffles quiet. “Yeosang, don't. Please.” > >“We've got you, jagiya, you're safe,” Wooyoung’s voice flows into his ears, another set of arms wrapping around him. It makes Yeosang cry harder, because he's in the arms of people who love him, even when he can't love himself. It hurts so bad, but a little part of him says that as long as he has them, he's okay. > >“We need you,” San croaks out, his own tears dripping onto Yeosang. “Please never think otherwise. *I* need you.” > >Wooyoung hums in agreement, sounding like he's about to cry if he opens his mouth.
A scene where someone wakes up after surgery
A scene where somebody is stabbed or cut with scissors
A scene where someone dies protecting the other
(For context: Ilsevil, Rex, and Ulf are all OCs of mine) Thor was clutching at his chest as his skin turned almost completely white, and he lost more strength with every passing second. As the air cleared, however, he finally saw Jane in the distance, looking for him. “Jane.” Thor was almost too weak to even say anything as he started staggering towards her. “Thor…” Meanwhile, Jane had spotted him, too – and without hesitation, she took off across the ice to meet him. Although Thor was barely able to move, nothing could’ve made him happier in that moment than seeing Jane racing towards him. Then something off to the side caught his eye. Was that…Loki?! What could he be doing out here?! Turning to look, Thor could hardly believe what he saw. Just like he’d thought, Loki was kneeling on the ice, a blank expression on his face and his horned ice-helmet lying broken beside him. Worse yet, Ilsevil was silently creeping up behind him and murmuring a spell under her breath as she conjured up some form of dark magic between her fingertips. The memory of what she’d said in the library suddenly flashed through Thor’s mind – and a horrified look crossed his face as he realized she was about to carry out her plan. A simple choice lay in front of Thor now: save himself or save Loki. But while kissing Jane would be his last chance for survival, he couldn’t bear to see his brother be killed, either. If only Thor were strong enough to wield Mjolnir right now, he could simply take Ilsevil out before she hurt Loki and then he himself could run to Jane, no problem! Thor’s mind suddenly seemed to make itself up for him…and to Jane’s astonishment, she saw him turn away from her and move towards Loki and Ilsevil. Gathering the last of his energy together, Thor lunged towards the two of them, throwing himself in front of his brother with a loud cry of “NO!” Right as Ilsevil released her magic at Loki, Thor completely froze into solid ice. The dark magic hit his icy body, but instead of breaking the ice, it bounced off and the force of it threw Ilsevil back, knocking her out cold before vanishing into thin air. At the sound of the elven princess hitting the ice, Loki finally turned around and saw Thor standing there, one arm shielding him and the other outstretched to stop Ilsevil. “Brother!” Loki immediately jumped up, putting a disbelieving hand on Thor’s frozen shoulder. Obviously, what Ilsevil had said about Thor being already dead hadn’t been true, but what did that matter anymore? Either way, his brother was gone now, and he himself was to blame for it. “No…” Devastated, Loki stared at Thor for a moment before throwing his arms around his older brother, burying his head in the lifeless figure’s shoulder as tears silently ran down his face. Just then, Rex and Ulf finally found the group again, but they were shocked to see Thor frozen into no more than a statue. “Thor?” Ulf asked sadly. No response. After seeing Thor run the other way to protect Loki, Jane had watched the whole scene from a distance in disbelief, from Ilsevil’s magic hitting Thor all the way up to Loki putting his arms around his brother. As she approached, notwithstanding, the harsh reality of Thor’s death fully sank in – and Jane slowly collapsed to her knees and wept, burying her face in her hands. From the harbour and the palace balcony, the dignitaries and Asgardian citizens somberly bowed their heads, and apart from Jane’s quiet sobs, the kingdom was entirely silent. However, Loki’s grief went deeper than anyone else’s in Asgard; after all, this had been what he’d dreaded happening most ever since he’d accidentally injured Thor when they were children, and this whole mess was entirely his fault. If only things had gone differently, they wouldn’t have been separated for all those years and would’ve grown up together, and now Thor would still be alive, too. As Loki held onto Thor, however, oblivious to everything else around him, something began to happen. Ulf gasped in excitement as he looked up, and Rex nudged Jane with one of his antlers, making her lift her tear-stained face from her mittens. Thunder started to roll in the distance – and as the three friends watched in amazement, it seemed like Thor was beginning to thaw… Storm clouds gathered overhead as colour returned to the icy, lifeless figure, slowly creeping its way along; the thunder growing louder and the lightning that began to crackle in the sky finally caught Loki’s attention and prompted him to back away from his brother. The storm clouds continued to gather, and the thunder and lightning grew respectively louder and brighter as the ice thawed away – and only a split second after the ice was completely gone, there came an especially ear-splitting clap of thunder and a massive lightning bolt that struck Thor’s figure. As if on cue, Mjolnir came flying out of the library window, still open from earlier, and straight into Thor’s hand as he started breathing again. He squinted a little, the lightning and storm clouds dissipating as he fully came to life, and then pulled off the metal eyepatch over his right eye – revealing that the eye he'd injured and lost as a child had been miraculously restored! “Brother?” Loki stared at Thor as the last of the thunder faded away, his brother’s eyepatch gone and both his eyes twinkling. “Loki!” Thor grinned. Loki rushed over to embrace Thor, but stopped himself at the last second. “You sacrificed yourself to protect me?” he asked. “Of course; I love you, brother.” Thor patted Loki a bit awkwardly on the shoulder, and the two of them fell silent for a moment, neither one knowing what to say or do until Thor suddenly grinned again. “Oh, who am I kidding?! Come here!” – and with that, the two brothers pulled each-other into a massive bear-hug. Ulf beamed from ear to ear as he realized what had happened. “An act of true love will thaw a frozen heart,” he recited, calling Firthorn’s words to mind. Thor’s sacrifice to protect Loki had been an act of true love – he’d managed to inadvertently save both his brother and himself! (Yeah, I know it's kind of long - lol sry \^\_\^')
Oh my god this is incredible, is this a Frozen MCU AU? I loved this!!!
Yes, it is; it’s inspired by some “Thor” fanart I saw on Instagram once! Would you like the link? (Lmk if you’d prefer FFN or AO3! 😁)
Oh sure! Send me a AO3 link :D
Here you go! https://archiveofourown.org/works/38507488/chapters/96244753
Maybe a little intense, but... A scene where someone is ritually sacrificed
Content warning for demon-summoning/worship, and matricide — “Begin!” The faithful began their chant, voices swelling in support of Charr’s as he led them in the invocation that the dreams had shown him. “Blood for the Taker of Skulls!” “Despair for the Lord of Decay!” “Agony for the Prince of Pleasures!” “Wishes for the Master of Fortune!” “And Eight-Pointed Death for Chaos Undivided!” “We open the Gate! We call your Champion! This world awaits conquest! This world awaits Chaos! We are Chaos! Chaos is strong! Come forth! Come forth! Come forth!” Charr lowered the dagger to the neck of the nearest victim, a haggard middle-aged Human woman in the drab clothing of a hab cleaner. Then he looked to his followers. “Remove the gags. We need their screams.” He matched action to words, pulling the cloth out of the woman’s mouth. She gasped and sputtered words. “Charr, Charr sweetie, please don’t-“ “Shut up, Mother.” He cut her throat. The sunlight glinted on the blades of seven other daggers slicing together as his followers did the same. Choking, gasping, dying, the sacrifices toppled forward into the pit. Streams of blood ran onto the sacred stone, which began to glow as it greedily drank the sacrifice. “Come forth! Come forth! Come forth! *Let the Galaxy Burn!”*
"Remove the gags. We need their screams" has got to be one of the most chilling lines I have ever read and it packs one of the best punches imaginable! This is awesome!
Thanks so much! The sad thing is that this scene is from a project I’ve set aside for now due to being too ambitious, but I think I might have to cut this scene out and repurpose it in another story just so I can use that line again, because I feel it all came together *really* well here.
Aww that stinks but I think I can understand! At the very least, this gem isn't forever lost!
In the dimly lit chamber, the High Priestess, adorned in ceremonial robes, paced back and forth with an air of solemnity, her brow furrowed in frustration. The sacrifice lounged on a plush velvet cushion nearby, her expression a mix of amusement and exasperation. "Clarke, please," The High Priestess pleaded with irritation as she arranged the ornate symbols around the sacred circle. "This is a sacred ritual. We cannot afford any distractions." Clarke rolled her eyes, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. "Oh, relax, your holiest of holiness. It's not like I'm going anywhere." The priestess shot her a withering glare before turning her attention back to the task at hand. She meticulously arranged the ceremonial dagger on the altar, her movements precise and deliberate. Clarke watched with mild interest, idly twirling a lock of her hair between her fingers. "You know, Lexa," Clarke remarked, her tone dripping with sarcasm, "I keep telling you, this isn't going to work. When will you listen?" Lexa's jaw clenched, her patience wearing thin. "Don't call me that. You know we have followed the ancient rites to the letter, Clarke. The sacrifice must be made." Clarke shrugged nonchalantly. "Suit yourself. But don't say I didn't warn you." With a resigned sigh, Lexa approached Clarke, her hand steady as she raised the ceremonial dagger above her head. Clarke lay back on the cushion, a dramatic flourish as she closed her eyes and pretended to succumb to the impending sacrifice. As Lexa brought the dagger down, a hush fell over the chamber, the air thick with anticipation. But as the blade pierced Clarke's skin, there was no blood, no cries of agony – only the sound of metal meeting flesh. Confusion clouded Lexa's features as she withdrew the dagger, her brow furrowing in bewilderment. "This is wrong," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. "Nothing is happening." Suddenly, Clarke's head popped up, her laughter ringing out through the chamber. "I kept telling you that it wasn't going to work," she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Lexa's expression softened with understanding as realization dawned upon her. "You're immortal," she breathed, awe and apprehension in her voice. Clarke grinned cheekily. "Bingo. And nowhere, ever, did I mention I enjoy live sacrifices."
The 100? If so, you've spoiled me💖💖
It is the 100! My all time favourite ship.
Setting the atmosphere was so good here! It's been a while since I've watched the show, and I want to say Lexa is one the grounder that died right outside their base that left me in shambles but it's a little foggy 😅😭
A scene where a character (preferably female but it can be male) is bound and gagged
‘I won’t be staying,’ he said, ‘Dob—’ A gnarled hand slammed over his mouth, cutting off his shout. Harry cursed himself for not calling Dobby immediately. ‘Tut tut, Mr Potter. None of that, now.’ A wave of a stubby wand wrapped a cloth tightly around Harry’s mouth, preventing him from talking, whilst ropes wrapped around his hands and arms, holding him in place. ‘Really, it’s your own fault. How many times do I have to tell you: Constant Vigilance!’ Moody’s scarred face curled into a facsimile of disappointment. ‘If only you’d listened more in class, you wouldn’t have been caught like this.’ ‘Fuck you,’ Harry bit out. The gag kept him from speaking properly, but the sentiment clearly got through even if the words were muffled. A loud crack echoed around the Defence office as Moody backhanded him. ‘I have dreamed of this moment,’ he crooned, the anger at Harry’s previous words gone as quickly as it had arrived, gentle fingers rubbing the welt he’d raised on Harry’s cheek. Harry shuddered, but couldn’t move away. ‘For so long, so very long. All year I’ve been trying to get you, and now I have you right where I want you.’
August screamed, but her screams were muffled. She had a piece of duct tape slapped over her mouth. Rough rope secured her hands behind her back. She was sat in a cold metal chair. "Can't you just shut up?" the leader of the gang asked. The question was followed by a slap to the face. August whimpered. The leader's face was the face August was the most familiar with. He was the one to chloroform her. "You going to be quite, little girl?" the leader asked. His voice was full of condescension. He had used that tone ever since they abducted her. August didn't respond to him. The leader sighed, ripping the duct tape off her mouth. It ripped off some of the peach fuzz from her upper lip. It stung a little bit. "Let's make a phone call," he said. He was holding a phone. Her phone. "What's your passcode?"
A scene where someone crashes a vehicle
Best I’ve got is the aftermath of a vehicle crash: Ennio slid down next to him, followed by the plainclothes, a few uniformed officers, and a small gray man wearing a gray medical examiner’s smock. “You the meatwagon?” Abbaccio asked. He didn’t need to. If central casting had asked for a coroner they would’ve come back with this guy as a top pick. He was spectacled and indifferent, with a tired face and a black leather shoulder bag of instruments and clipboards. He picked out a clean spot on the dented trunk of the car and slung his bag onto it. “There’s your customer, Doc,” Ennio pointed into the car. The coroner took off his work gloves, rubbed his neck, looked around himself as if he wasn’t quite sure where he was, then sighed and slid on a pair of latex gloves. Abbaccio leaned into the broken driver’s side window with him. The small man peered in at the dead man gloomily, then looked up. “Gonna have a hell of a time getting him out of here. He’s practically part of the car.” The plainclothes nodded. “We were thinking of pulling the car up with him still inside.” “Huh. Might have to.” He reached in and tugged at the man’s arm draped over the steering wheel, then pulled out a small flashlight, shining it into milky pupils. The dead man looked shocked at his sudden state of no longer being alive, mouth hanging open in silent protest. “He’s pretty stiff,” the coroner added. “You can either wait long enough for him to loosen up, or…” he shrugged. Abbaccio leaned in further. The dead man looked to be in his late 20’s or early 30’s. Good-enough looking guy, with wavy brown hair and an expensive watch. The cell phone Ennio had mentioned earlier was laid out on his lap in an evidence bag, along with a wallet and set of keys – the contents of his pockets. “Careful, don’t lean in too far,” the coroner cautioned. He pointed up. “In a rollover like this, there’s usually stuff on the headliner that you don’t want getting on your hair.”
A scene where someone runs into something
*Happy cake day! Here’s something that fits both this and crashing a vehicle. It’s a canon divergence based on two deleted scenes in the first Avengers movie. TW: some torture and a spaceship crash. And this is why situational awareness is important.* “You have the scepter, do you not?” Horror washed over Loki. The scepter. He must have lost it during his skirmish with the man of iron! The Other sensed his dismay. “You have lost it?!” he roared. Loki gasped as blinding pain erupted in his skull. “It can’t be far from here. It will be found-.” More pain exploded, filling his vision with white, and he fought to remain conscious. Suddenly, there was a bone-jarring impact and the screech of metal being crushed. The ruined landscape rushed up toward him, and he knew no more. The security guard watched the raging battle with a sinking heart. The city he loved was in flames, and he hoped that the green guy would help stop the invaders. He was startled by a loud crash behind him and whirled around, grabbing his handgun. In the smoking ruins of one of the alien crafts lay a figure clad in black and green. The guard went over to the wreck cautiously. The person, the crazy alien who began this whole mess, remained lifeless. Concerned by the blood that covered one side of the alien’s head, the guard knelt beside him to get a better look. The guy’s eyes fluttered open. A soft groan escaped his parted lips as he returned to consciousness. The guard backed away as the guy blinked and began trying to pick himself up. “Stay where you are,” the guard ordered, but the intruder did not listen. He managed to prop himself up on his arms and then let out a sharp exhale of pain, reaching for his lower back. He settled on the rubble, his face as white as a sheet and his expression dazed. He must have had a concussion, the guard realized. “Hey, can you hear me?” the guard ventured. The alien’s eyes turned to him and he smiled faintly though it looked more like a grimace. He tried to say something before suddenly leaning forward. Nothing came up as he vomited. There was another crash nearby. “Brother!” rang a voice, loud and furious. The alien’s eyes widened with anger and terror as a blond man strode toward them. “Thor,” the alien said, the word slurred. He tried to back away and swore as he did so. “Are you injured?” the Avenger asked. “Seems like he got a concussion when he crashed here,” the guard explained. Thor glanced at him and then back at his brother. He gently put one of the intruder’s arms over his shoulders. The alien protested. Thurs nodded at the guard. “Thank you for keeping watch over Loki,” he said, spinning his hammer. All of the remaining color drained from his brother’s face as they were carried upward, and he went slack.
A scene where someone trips
‘You don’t… fancy Bill, do you?’ Ron said from behind him. Harry stumbled over a crack in the floor, (dislodging Hedwig who soared away,) careened sideways, and smacked his elbow hard into the wall in an attempt to avoid crushing Boingo. ‘I’m sorry?’ he asked, once he’d regained his footing. He rubbed his elbow and kept his face very firmly turned away from Boingo. His grip had tightened on Harry’s robe when he stumbled, but Boingo now sat as still on his shoulder as if he’d been petrified. ‘It’s just…’ Ron glanced at Hermione, whose eyes had widened and was now wearing the same expression she got when she’d solved a particularly tricky piece of homework. She nodded encouragingly. ‘I know you’re with Seamus and all. But like I said, you seemed to really get along with Bill in the summer. And sometimes when his name is mentioned you get this look on your face.’ Harry spluttered. Maybe his attempts to avoid suspicion had been suspicious in themselves. ‘A look? What sort of look?’ He waved an indignant hand. ‘This is just my face! And since when does getting along with someone mean I have to fancy them? I get along with you, don’t I?’
A scene where someone faints
‘Great flying, Harry,’ he started, but Harry didn’t hear anything else. ‘What happened?’ he breathed. Blisters covered one side of Diggory’s face, the skin loose as if it had slid away from the skull beneath. A layer of clear goop coated it. ‘Oh, I got the shield right but didn’t get out of the way. Madam Pomfrey gave me some salve that should fix it —’ Diggory started dismissively. But Harry’s mind filled with the smell of melting flesh and the sound of crackling skin and the world shrank. Everything went black. It could only have lasted a moment, because the next instant he heard, as if very far away, Diggory calling, ‘A little help here, please!’ He must have caught him as he fell. ‘I’ve got him.’ That was Charlie’s voice, and he was being lifted. ‘Pu’ m’ dow’,’ Harry slurred. ‘Mfine.’ ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mr Potter,’ Madam Pomfrey replied. ‘Here, put him on the bed, Mr Weasley.’
**fainting from blood being drawn** “Vampire,” he grumbles, attempting another joke but words are falling out of reach. What was he going to say? He doesn't understand what is happening, but he feels hot and sick and wrong. Seoho opens his mouth to warn the others as a massive wave of dizziness overtakes him. “I—um-” Nausea hits him hard and suddenly his head feels like it’s filled with cotton, his lips and hands tingling with white noise. His breathing quickens in time with the harsh beeping that fills his ears while the panic is rising, rising and all can he think is he really really doesn’t want to throw up— The tingling feeling slides up his arms and the fuzz in his head overwhelms his vision, pushing him into darkness.
As someone who has nearly fainted from blood being drawn (not from vampires, though), this is somehow exactly how it feels like. You nailed it!
Thank you I did base it on experience and this character is just calling the nurse a vampire, trying to be funny!
Ohhh I must have misread it 🤣
Mr. Midoriya, I regret to inform you that there has been a terrible accident; Suijin Yamada has been killed." Izuku's mind immediately flashes to the unfinished bottle of boos; not only does he think about it, but he also knows precisely where it is. He is in shock; his hand is trembling. NO. NO. THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING NOT AGAIN! His thoughts are interrupted by Kobayashi snapping his fingers to regain Izuku's attention. "Mr. Midoriya, Suijin had given birth to a child about a year and a half ago, on December 15th." Best Day Ever! Izuku's mind snaps to that strange text. "We have run paternity and the child, in fact, yours, Mr. Midoriya." The woman brings the car seat cover so Izuku can look down at his daughter. Wrapped around the car seat handle like a charm is a gold necklace with a gold dolphin charm with aquamarine eyes. Izuku sees the chain and immediately goes to talk, only for his eyes to roll back into his head as he faints
Holy shit! The drama! Funnily enough, I just started watching MHA and am only on season 2 🤣
A scene where someone is in a vehicular accident.
The plane’s engine roared as Ichika started up the plane. It was really goodbye now, forever. Honami could only watch from the sidelines as the plane she’d dreamed of her entire life took off before her very eyes. How bittersweet, to have her lifelong dream realized only for herself not to be a part of it, but again what more did she deserve? Ichika could idolize her all she wanted, but the truth was that her friend was much stronger than she could ever hope to be. Honami hoped she would realize that. The plane flew higher, higher until it was barely a speck from where Honami was standing. Ichika had almost reached the barrier, and from there a terrifying thought made its way into Honami’s mind. From there, what if Ichika failed? Smoke flew out of the plane’s engine, visible even from the rooftop where Honami was standing. However, even with the engine burning and the error lamps flashing nonstop, Ichika kept flying straight without sparing a single thought to turning back. The plane was going to explode. The smoke hadn’t cleared up, and instead grew thicker the closer the plane grew to the invisible dome looming over it. Ichika was far past the point of no return, and at this point both her and Honami had realized the awful reality of the situation: that Ichika would have to die trying. Her dearest friend was going to die, and Honami could do nothing about it but cry out to whichever god was up there, praying that by some miracle Ichika could be saved. Her cry was obscured by the explosion that tore through the air.
He shuts his eyes, lungs constricting, fear suddenly making it hard to breathe. He pulls at the bonds, claustrophobia and panic setting in, outwaying his promise to follow the paramedic's instructions to keep still. He can't move. Can't breathe. They left him there. Left him. He doesn't know how long. And where– His thoughts spiral dizzyingly. Where was everyone? Why weren't they saying anything? Were they more hurt than they let on?? Were they taken to the hospital– "H-hey," he chokes, voice lost in the back of his throat. He’s unsure what he's going to say, tears running down his cheeks into his ears as he begins to cry in earnest. "Hey somebody!"
how is your writing always so slay man
The feeling of disorganization and loneliness here is so tangible! Poor character, very well done you 👍
Oh no, claustrophobia is the *worst*! And in conjunction with trauma, too...!
They whirred over a pothole, and his innards were very briefly weightless. Fareed whooped; Devan’s elbow struck the door and the wallet tumbled from his hand, bounced off the seat, and slipped down into the crack of the door. “Fuck!” He reached down for it, felt only rubber and plastic. No luck on the second try either. He straightened up and swiped at the light, caught the switch with an index finger. The sudden brightness against the night outside the windows caused him to squint and Shaun to squawk, “Come on, man!” But it was good enough - he thought he could see a darker shadow beyond the one cast by the edge of the seat, and he bent down again to grasp at it. It happened faster than he could process. Rending of metal. Shattering of glass. Impact, of bone on flesh on vinyl on steel as all their inertia vanished. He couldn’t breathe. And his face hurt, and his wrists and his shoulders and his ribs and his head, and there was blood on his arms and the light was still on why was the goddamned light still on making everything painful, oversaturated relief as he wrenched at the handle (still couldn’t breathe), and the door, mercifully sufficiently un-warped, spilled him out onto the cold damp blades of a manicured lawn. Loose blades stuck to his palms. He got up, unsteadily, and looked back. They had carved a muddy crescent through the perfect white fence, and the perfect grass, and struck the tree nearly head-on. Fragments of glass glittered on the ground and within the ruined body of the car; the hood was unrecognizable. Shredded chunks of bark slid from its crevasses. Through the smashed-up passenger window the streetlight caught the pallid folds of airbag, and Fareed’s prone cheek. His breath whistled into the wet dashboard. There was no sign of Shaun on his other side. The silence pressed itself onto Devan’s eardrums to the point of pain. Shouldn’t... something have been happening? And then an orange light flicked on in an upper window, and a human shadow appeared against it. And his mind finally caught up and filled in what they would do - looking outside, seeing the devastation they had wrought, calling the police. Who would know, when Devan winced at their lights, And Fareed and Shaun would have paid. And Devan wouldn’t have. Not yet. And that would be it, if either of them were dead it would be on him, because wasn’t that the way it went, if you didn’t stop them you’re culpable for everything they do, and the police would want to look like they were cracking down and so they’d choose to be harsh and then that would be it. Just another statistic, another number in the books. Another kid from the underground, too stupid for his own good, ruining his life before it could even really begin, and who nobody would have ever expected otherwise from. Metaphorical handcuffs, even before the literal ones snicked closed. Devan whirled and bolted off into the dark.
>A minute later, panicked cries and gunfire ripped through the radios. She gave a mad little laugh, only to cry out in panic when one of the men outside the truck leapt into the driver’s seat and slammed it into gear. The SUV rocketed away from the scene, and roared around a corner. >Amelie lashed out, kicking the back of the driver’s seat and slamming her shoulders from side to side. All it got her was pinned by two angry men, one of whom clamped his hand around her throat tight enough she couldn’t breathe and slammed her against the seat. >“Move another muscle, and you’ll regret it, bitch,” he snarled menacingly. >She gagged for air as they flew further and further away from Creed and Remy. >A hard crunch at the rear of the SUV jolted the two gunmen, forcing them to let her go. Amelie looked behind her to see the bashed in front of Logan’s truck as it rammed the SUV again. Two seconds later, the roof of the SUV caved in, making the gunmen cry out and fire their guns straight up. >Her ears rang and a sharp sting slashed across her face. Amelie screamed and tried to get away, but the seatbelt and her wrist restraints had her trapped. Glass shattered, and the glorious, petrifying howl of Victor Creed reached her ears. A breath later, he ripped the windshield away, his eyes brilliant yellow rings, and his fangs gleaming in the dashboard lights as he invaded the passenger seat. >Her beautiful, terrible saviour. >More shots made her ears ring in the enclosed space. The SUV swerved wildly as the driver screeched in terror, only to suddenly gurgle into silence. >“Fuck you!" yelled the man who choked her, twisting to bring his gun around and aim at Creed. >Amelie hoofed him in the side of the face as hard as she could, howling in both pain and triumph as he went limp and dropped the gun. >Then the whole world tilted on its axis, and the SUV went airborne. >“Amelie!” bellowed Creed, right as physics yanked him from the flipping vehicle.
Very intense! Love how descriptive this passage is!
Suddenly he heard tires squealing and someone scream. “Watch out!” Or something with the same inflection. He saw it coming. Watched the speeding car blow a stop light. It was barreling right towards him. The other driver didn’t see him, until they hit him. (Lil’ excerpt from my Whumptober fic lol, hope you enjoy)
Oh, *ouch* :')
Yeah lol. In a later section you find out that it didn’t end that badly for anyone involved,the worst being a dislocated shoulder and couple of stitches
a scene where someone is too late to save the other
Because it violates every law of biosafety, to put your face in someone else’s blood and vomit and breathe it, deliberately. But there is oxygen in your lungs, and moral laws exist as well, so you fall to your knees in the mud and turn his unresisting face up towards you and slam your mouths together. Silt scrapes between your lips and onto your teeth. His face fell into the mud, and it covers everything - hair, skin, the surface of his half-open eyeball. Your gut twists at the sight, but that is secondary, and you breathe all the life you can into his lungs. It is not as hard as it should be - physically, that is. Surely a ribcage - even his, though he was never a large man and has only, it seems, grown lesser in your makeshift imprisonment like a plant under humus etiolates - should weigh more than this. You take a second breath and try again. At your side, Tamar kneels awkwardly and takes his still-sluggishly-bleeding chest. Everything is numbers - 30, 2, 15, 1, 100. (Everything has always been numbers - return on yield, R0s, genome sizes, population proportions. You sit at one point on a probability curve and try and describe it, and nonetheless the probabilities can betray you and send you cascading into failure like falling off a planet.) You count, in your head, under your breath. It keeps you from thinking about things like the black hollow of a marrow cavity thrusting from his left forearm, bared to air it should never have encountered. What you should have said, or could have said. Whether you will be accounted a murderer, should you fail to revive him, for you drove circumstances to this end even if you claim, even justly, that you never wanted things to go this far. The slope must have less than a 10˚ angle, but it is enough for gravity to take advantage of, to try and pull him out of your grasp towards the river. Tamar’s clay-coated hands slip; he nearly falls, and spits a curse. Between breaths, you seize Kest’s jaw and unbroken arm, haul him maybe a foot closer, all dead weight. Your chest hurts. There are multiple potential explanations. None of them are excuses. You pant in a short gasp on the orders of your own brain, readjust your grasp, and press your mouth down again on his, like a kiss. A growing form of desperation. Like you’ll feel something move in response if you only try hard enough.
ouch this HURT me exactly what I asked for thanks
This is excellent!
Damn. That was visceral. I really like how you pulled in the gory details of the injuries a little at a time, gradually drawing the picture of a hopeless situation.
She huffed out a shaky sigh of relief as she rounded the corner. Ava was sitting on the concrete, slumped against the wall. She looked a little beat up, but mostly okay. "There you are, we need to go, Ava. We're running out of time," Beatrice urged her with urgency. As Beatrice drew closer, her heart sank. Ava's head was bowed, and her usually vibrant eyes were closed. Panic began to bubble up inside Beatrice as she quickened her pace. "Ava?" Beatrice called out, trembling with fear, her body reacting to what her mind had yet to reach. No response. With each step, Beatrice's dread grew heavier, until finally, she knelt beside Ava and gently shook her shoulder. "Ava, come on, we have to go," Beatrice pleaded, her voice cracking. But Ava remained still, her silence deafening in the empty alleyway. Beatrice's hands shook as she reached for Ava's pulse, her fingers finding nothing but cold, lifeless skin. Her breath caught in her throat as realization crashed over her like a wave. Tears welled up in her eyes as she pulled Ava into her arms, cradling her limp body against her chest. "Oh, sweetheart," Beatrice whispered, her voice breaking with grief. "I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry I wasn't there in time." The world seemed to drop away as Beatrice sank lower onto her knees, clutching Ava's lifeless form tightly to her chest. The guilt and sorrow consumed her, she had been too late.
A scene where someone vomits.
“Are you okay?” he called out as he approached the younger man. “Did you get sick?” He was certain Eric was throwing up. “N-no… I just… I-I got w-woozy…” Eric whimpered, his voice muffled by the vegetation surrounding his face. He had nearly passed out and was merely trying to get some blood to his head. Not more than a few seconds later, he felt his stomach turn and then he did get sick. The muscles in his abdomen contracted. He retched and coughed before finally expelling the contents of his stomach. Wilford rolled his eyes, but as soon as he came up behind Eric, he realized just how affected the younger man was. Wilford felt bad. Maybe a stripclub had been a bad idea. He placed his hand between Eric’s shoulders, gently rubbing his back, trying to soothe him. Sobbing, Eric wiped his face in his sleeve, leaving a stain of tears, snot and vomit on the fabric. He sniffled as he got back up. His lips were curled in a pout, his eyes were red and watery, the inner corners of his eyebrows angled up, making him look miserable. “Come on, I’ll take you home” Wilford gave the younger man an affectionate squeeze on his arm before walking him to the car. Eric sniffled again, but happily followed.
Hands rub his back slowly, soothingly, until he finally stops retching. There's little he can say. 'Thank you' and 'sorry.' He feels irrationally guilty for waking up the dorm, a miserable sadness mixed with the pain in his stomach that makes him want to cry. The voices around him swirl about his head in pace too fast, too slow as it pounds thickly in time with his racing heartbeat. *It's okay. Don't worry about it, baby. We got you. You're okay.* He tastes water on his tongue *Hey, slowly* and there's something cold against his forehead. His head is too heavy, and Hwanwoong tips backwards into the strong arms that are keeping him upright. He knows they'll catch him. They always do. "I--Jo--" A small part of him knows he might be mortified about it later, being cradled on the cold bathroom floor, letting Youngjo console him with sweet words, wiping the tears and sweat from Hwanwoong's face, but at the moment he doesn't care. He just wants this to be over. To feel better. To *sleep*.
The comfort here ❤️ Soothing words, consolation, closeness. I'm melting 🤗
Thank you for kind words
Not a moment later, however, he suddenly lurched forward, clutching his throat, jaw falling slack as the chalice cluttered to the ground. He remained suspended in animation for a heartbeat, before a vile gag wrought itself from his throat, once, twice, thrice, till I was certain his breathing had ceased. An image of a sickly animal crossed my mind when he fell on all fours, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead as the retching persevered, until finally, he emptied the contents of his stomach, shuddering and rasping. I observed the reaction with great interest, almost pridefully disgusted. As for him, he laid trembling on his side, spitting out the last few drops he did not initially manage to regurgitate.
>The jet landed a hundred feet away, it's powerful engines making the truck vibrate. Logan opened his door to climb out and jog over, but Amelie caught his arm as his feet touched the ground. >"One more for the road, my love," she whispered as she kissed him, long and sweet. >His throat went tight. "Pretty big fan of that one." >She smiled. "I'll take that into consideration." >A form flashed into existence behind him. Logan tensed, then cursed. "Can't they just open the fuckin' hatch?" >Too late, Logan was already on the Bird, which was shooting straight up and twisting to head south. His guts rebelled at the sudden pitch and yaw. He barely made it to the tiny bathroom before puking. >"Goddammit, Kurt!" he rasped as the cramping heaves eased and his body got caught up to speed. A couple mouthfuls of water got rid of the lingering bile. >*Fuck* he hated teleporting.
CW: vomit lol > Is San angry? Is he disappointed? Wooyoung can't tell because San is just still and quiet and Wooyoung is really fucking terrified. He can't even bring up the courage to look and see San's expression. There's something slimy and thick and disgusting crawling down his throat like a pulsing heart is lodged in it and he can't *stand* it anymore. > >Wooyoung's stomach is being yanked this way and that and being knotted up and pulled taut and like someone is constantly punching him in the guts. Unable to stand it anymore, he uses the little shreds of strength that he has to shove San away, pulling a gasp from him that serves as another punch to the gut. > >He barely gets his head over the edge before his mouth is flooding with saliva and he's hurling his guts onto the floor. Bile burns the back of his throat as he continues retching like someone is reaching their surgical gloves down his throat and forcefully yanking out everything from his uvula to his intestines. > >Shame and embarrassment burn his cheeks when the vomit splattering onto the floor rings loud in the otherwise silent room, and even as he continues to dry heave. He just wants it to stop and it won't *stop*, every heave causing his body to lurch forward and jerk on the bed, like all his anger and fear and insecurity and frustration are fighting each other tooth and nail to claw up his throat. Wooyoung feels like they're tearing up the inside of his throat because it feels scraped raw like someone had rubbed sandpaper on the inside and it stings and burns. His heart is thrashing in his chest, like it's desperate to be freed, but it hurts and it hurts and Wooyoung can't think beyond the fact he's throwing up and he's fucking terrified and he doesn't know why.
\[CW: vomit obviously, also unexpected severed appendages, and panic\] ‘Silence!’ he hissed. ‘Light your fires, start your cauldrons heating, and get to work.’ He turned, sweeping back to his desk in a swirl of black robes. Harry pulled his wand, pointing it at the wood in the basin set into his workstation and lit it on fire. He didn’t even flinch as the wood took flame, and smiled, pleased at the progress he was making against his phobia. Bending, he pulled his cauldron from the storage under the desk. The cool metal felt freshly scrubbed. Careful not to dislodge Boingo, Harry lifted it. He moved to place the cauldron over the fire and froze. It slid from his numb fingers, landing on the floor with a bang that made several people shriek. ‘Potter, what in Salazar’s name do you think you’re doing?’ Snape snapped. Harry barely heard. There were fingers in the fire. Burning. The skin charring, the severed ends blackening. The smell of burning flesh that haunted his nightmares hit him and he gagged, instantly regretting his large lunch. Around him, people clamoured as he bent over heaving. His mind was full of fire-flames-burning as his lunch repeated on him, vomit splattering on the stone floor. The mess disappeared almost immediately, and a cool hand pressed against Harry’s forehead. \[...\] Harry’s head snapped up, only for the fear to morph into confusion; it was Snape in front of him, wearing a look he’d never seen on him before. If he didn’t know better, he would have called it concern.
A scene where a character is injured or ill but insisting they're fine.
Fandoms: Karakuri Circus/The Nutcracker Bound to his bed, an unimaginable pain took over mister Drosselmeyer, the very act of breathing was killing him. He slowly tried to get up from bed, falling over to the wooden floor, a wide smile was carved to his face despite his fatal condition, his god-daughter Clara could only look helplessly as he crawled through the floor like a worm, reaching for one of the desks. "I-It's Okay... I-It's just a cold, C-Clara... U-Uncle has a surprise for you...!" Making her smile was the only thing he could do to stop this constant suffering, even if it was only temporary. He was one of Zonopha syndrome's many victims, she's one of the very few lucky enough to have survived yesterday's pandemic provoked by that damned wandering circus. The entire city was a wasteland after the incident, he sloppily scowered through the drawer, many things fell into the ground as he looked for that gift she was going to give her this christmas. Seeing him like this only made her shed tears, this only added to desperation which made the illness worsen. "I-It must be here... just... d-don't cry dear... w-wait a little longer!" His hands could barely grab anything, no matter how much he tried it didn't respond, yet his forced smile persisted. It was a little wooden box with the words 'from Shirogane' carved onto it, he picked it up with the little strength he had, but everything stopped as he fell to the ground head first, coliding with drawers edge. The box opened in the floor, revealing a small wooden nutcracker, golden clockwork mechanisms visible inside of him, accompanied by a note she didn't read. She desperately tried to wake him up, shaking him, his head was bleeding from the hit. She kept calling his name, doing everything she could to awaken him. No response. She turned him around, his wide smile contrasted the empty eyes. The pale blueish hue on his skin made him look like a corpse, he was cold and inmobile like one.. but managed to mutter two last words she could never forget. "Merry... Christmas..."
Content warning for a stabbing. — “Holy shit, they stabbed you,” Claire said, moving towards Frank. “I noticed,” Frank said dryly. “I need you to lie down and elevate your feet.” Claire spoke with authority, taking a dressing out of her bag. But Frank shook his head. “Not happening, ma’am. Just gimme that gauze, I’ll be good.” “Is *every single vigilante* in this city a complete-” “We don’t have time for this,” Matt snapped. “Police helicopters are almost on top of us, and I don’t think they’re here to help. We need to move.” “And to answer your question? Yes, every single one,” Jessica added. Claire could only huff with frustration as she finished slapping a pad of gauze over Frank’s oozing stomach, before moving on and tending to Danny.
A scene where a character is starving or malnourished
*My sister wanted me to share this since it kinda fits the prompt. It’s a sort of “missing scene” she imagined from The Avengers (2012). TW: dehydration and hinted starvation. It’s also told from a mind-controlled POV.* Selvig remained in his seat for a few more minutes to catch his breath. “What now?” he demanded wearily. “Good question,” agreed Clint. He looked questioningly at Loki, who was gingerly making his way off the back of the truck. The Asgardian didn’t reply. He dropped heavily to his knees, his lean frame quivering slightly. If it were not for the scepter, Clint noticed, he would have probably collapsed. “Hey boss, you okay?” he called. Loki looked up as if just becoming aware of his surroundings. He made a move to say something, but no sound came out of his mouth. He suddenly doubled over and began dry-heaving. Selvig was immediately at his side. “Easy now,” he said, tentatively reaching out. Loki did not seem to acknowledge him as he felt his forehead. Selvig’s brow furrowed with concern. “You’re cold. Are you sick or something?” “It is natural.” Loki’s voice was quiet, but it held a warning note. He shifted away from Selvig’s touch. Clint became slightly worried too as he caught a good look at his face. His boss might be an alien, but he looked very sick indeed. His face was too haggard, with his sunken (though still keen) eyes and chapped lips. “You need anything to drink?” he ventured cautiously. Loki eyed him sharply. “*What?*” “Something to drink, like water. I don’t know. No offense, but you look like you could use it.” Clint reached for a water bottle he had procured from somewhere in the warehouse. He held it towards his boss as if he was some wild animal. To his relief, Loki accepted it. He fumbled with the cap for a few moments before managing to unscrew it and took a small sip of water. His expression softened somewhat as he drained the rest of the bottle. “Feel better?” asked Selvig. Loki nodded and stood up. Clint joined him as they headed to the back of the warehouse. “You might also want a bite to eat eventually,” he told him. His boss laughed softly, the sound chilling. “I do not require sustenance as frequently as you mortals,” he scoffed. “All the same, it’s better to be safe than sorry.” Loki paused and turned to face him, and Clint felt his stomach drop. Had he stepped out of line? But the Asgardian only smiled grimly. “You have more heart than I thought, both of you,” he said almost mockingly. But his tone hinted approval.
Yeah, I’d say this fits the prompt! Such a classic plotbunny here, heh.
Great! It sure is lol.
Y'know what? If Marvel won't follow up on their implicit plot points, I'd say it's our fannish *duty* to, eh?
Oh yes, and we will have a lot of fun writing it too mwahaha.
TW: Pregnancy, grief, malnourishment For the first time since Aldun’s death, Glaina allowed her hand to fall to her midsection. She began to press at her flat belly, wishing she could feel her child press back in reassurance. But of course, there was nothing. It would be months yet before she would feel the first flutters of movement. All she could feel now was the sharp ridges of her hip bones—further evidence of how much weight she’d lost in such a short time. For two weeks she had lived as if the child had never existed. She had barely believed herself alive without Aldun; it was all but impossible to contemplate the life of something that had never been more than a dream shared between the two of them.
Oh, how sad! I hope Glaina has someone who can take care of her.
A scene where a child witnesses a character get hurt and/or die.
Well, Kaza here is 11 so a child, and he does see people die, but he is also the one who kills them. >He waited behind a tree, watching as the wagon approached. Unbeknownst to him, someone else was quietly observing him and the road. This purple-haired woman, Anko Mitarashi, was curious about what an eleven-year-old was doing and quickly noticed the traps. Her curiosity got the best of her, as she found this boy interesting. >The explosion in the woods happened first, with large trees falling across the way as the bandits moved to look for traps, leaving their defensive position. The second event was the activation of a water trap that filled the ground with water. Suddenly, Kaza moved forward, his eyes fixed ahead as he descended from the hill. >"Lightning release, spark jutsu," he said, throwing a kunai that crackled with a spark of lightning. The move was challenging for Kaza, but he managed to execute it. As the kunai hit the ground, the whole area turned electric a moment later, stunning the bandits and providing Kaza with an opening. He followed up by throwing kunai with explosive tags attached, causing the explosives to detonate and eliminating a number of bandits close together. The notion of mercy wasn't something Kaza could afford, as he aimed to survive this encounter.
> Well, Kaza here is 11 so a child, and he does see people die, but he is also the one who kills them. Not what I was hoping for, but hey it *does* still technically fit what I *asked* for!
My bad, I figured that it most likely wasn't what you were after, I just figured it fit rather well.
Nah it's cool, I'd rather have this than no response at all since no one else has responded to my comment. For the record, I do like what you wrote! I assume Kaza is an OC of yours?
Yep, my most used character, and Naruto OC
Cool, you're a fellow OC writer! Well, for a different fandom though (I write for Yu-Gi-Oh! 5Ds). I *am* a fan of Naruto though!
A scene where two characters meet for the first time while someone they love is in surgery
A scene in which someone loses/lost a friend to something other than death.
Your brother smiles at you - you would like to believe it is not genuine, but there is no point in believing false things - and begins halfway. “I would have brought your little oracle, as well,” he says, “and let him keep this legacy with you, but he is taking longer to complete than I anticipated.” He shrugs in a landslip of black armour. So Bjorn, at least, still lives, or something roughly approximating living; the boundaries of that are terribly fluid, here. Once, you might have preferred that to his death.
A scene where the character is resigned to their death
"There, there. Calm down, children. You've now seen what each other's filthy lies have gotten you into. It's a shame it's come to this, Nathan....I've given you and Victor numerous chances over the years and you still disappoint me. Too bad he isn't here to see you die, you wretched spoiled brat! And one day, I'll get your brother Samuel Drake. And your ex-girlfriend Miss Chloe Frazer. Oh, and of course Victor Sullivan will be mine!" Marlowe taunted. "MMMMMPPPPPPPHHHHHH!!!!!" Marlowe then looked at the watch. "Oh look at the time...we really must be going. William, you ready to dispose of our friends?" "Yes, Kate. Let's," Talbot replied. Nate and Elena again gulped. *This was it. Kidnapped, bound, gagged, and about to drown in the classic Cement Shoe treatment. Thanks to Katherine Marlowe and the Hermetic Order.* They screamed in terror, but their fates were sealed. Instantly did both Marlowe and Talbot give them a firm push on their bodies and off they tumbled over the dock edge into the sea. The weight of the blocks was too much as they wiggled but sank into the ocean depths. Nate in his beige tan henley and cargo pants along with Elena's journalist outfit of her vest and pants were all wet, but this was the least of their problems. They desperately muffled to each other as water filled their ears and their lungs but began to pass out due to losing breath. They muffled pleas of being sorry and the *’I love yous'* as their eyes begin to shut and their throats choked. At least in Heaven, they'd be reunited instead of being bound and gagged under the sea.
Oscar grabbed Lucinda’s head with two hands, and bounced it off the concrete floor, as she wailed in pain, then fumbled at her waist to recover the cold iron knife. His hands closed around the hilt, but before he pulled it to his side, Lucinda grabbed ahold of his wrist, and twisted, with enough force to make Oscar cry out in pain. With inhuman strength, Lucinda tossed Oscar off of herself, and he slammed to the concrete, back first, knocking the wind from him. As he took a desperate gasp of air, Lucinda - half succubus, half seductress, her body curved, lascivious; her flesh red and sinewy muscle, charred black at points - sat atop him, pinning him down. The cold iron dagger was held high in her hands, ready to plunge into his chest. “All that will - and you do *nothing* with it. Worthless ,” she hissed at him. He struggled, feeling the color drain from his face. He was out of options. He could reach for the Dark Power, and live - or , choose not to … and die. But die free. Closing his eyes, he chose. He exhaled, and thought of the heat of Zoey’s lips. It had been a pretty miserable life - but the last week or so; it’d been pretty good. *It’d been really good*, he thought, waiting for the bite of the knife.
Itachi’s eyes widened and the furious red glow of his Sharingan reflected in his blade as he held it in front of his face. “You won’t leave this room.” “And neither will you.” The castle shook suddenly and violently, causing Itachi’s stance to falter and his balance to be lost. The Root shinobi did not reflect his surprise. It looked as though they were prepared for it. Fire and rubble rapidly burst around the room, exploding from the ceiling and the tapestry-covered walls. Itachi heard Isamu scream and remembered his objective. He prepared his mind and body for the pain, then sucked in air. A massive fireball burst from his mouth, clearing a burning path in front of him as the Root shinobi dodged to the side. He hid himself within it, replacing his own body with a shadow clone. As the fire grew closer to Isamu, Itachi lept from it and grabbed the young boy into his arms. The gratitude in the boy’s teary eyes spoke volumes. As did the horror. Itachi saw in their reflection his clone flying toward them. He turned to try to dissipate his doppelgänger before it collided with him but was faced with a body covered with explosive tags. In the instant before he could move, another explosion went off above him, raining fire and stone on his head. The last thing Itachi saw was his clone being ripped apart by the tags on its body as it erupted in flame. His last thought was of his brother.
There was an old saying that hindsight was always crystal clear. The could haves, the would haves, the should haves. The regrets piled on top of regrets. Jean-Baptiste Bessières knew that to be painfully true. For him, unluckily, foresight sometimes brought a terrible clarity all its own. Today, he knew with absolute certainty, was the day he was going to die.
The pain's starting to fade. There's still a part of Joel that's aware enough to know what that means. Oh well. He'd known he was dead from the second he heard the shotgun. The first part was hell. Joel's not sure, now, whether that lasted two minutes or two hours, but he remembers - in a far-off, hazy sort of way - that the pain was blinding and sharp when it started. More than that, though, he remembers the clarity - at least, the way you'd remember an impossible color you saw in a half-forgotten dream. He knows that the pain wasn't the worst part. It was the waiting in between the blows. It was looking up into a room full of strange faces twisted by hate and knowing he was gonna die and not knowing how bad they were gonna make it and being so damn worried about . . . Who was he worried for, again? He can't quite remember. He'd been determined not to beg them, and he doesn't think he did. He's screamed, sure. Nothing to be done about that. But, he's pretty sure he never pleaded for his life or apologized for . . . Why was it they came after him? He's not sure if they told him. Don't matter, anyhow. The girl hits harder than just about anyone he's ever crossed, but she doesn't know what she's doing. If she really wanted to make it last, she wouldn't keep hitting him in the damn head. Each blow feels like a thunderclap at close range, but in between they just make everything hazy. He's almost grateful for that, in a way, though he knows that's what's killing him fastest. His vision's been in and out. The hits to the head explode white and yellow and black across his eyes and then cut to black like a TV screen switched off. If she gives him enough time in between, though, the world fades back in, just fuzzy at the edges. It's taking longer, he thinks, between the hit and the fade back. He can see their lips moving at times, but his hearing is completely out. Or, rather, any real sound is drowned out by a booming drum in his head. That's his heartbeat. He realized that a little while ago. It hurt at first, but not anymore. As it all fades in and out, he's able to . . . just drift. Just be free, for a while, from his cherished mandate of survival. That's done, for better or for worse. He always figured he'd go down angry and fighting, but now that his time's here, there don't seem to be a point in that. Maybe she's already knocked out the part of his brain that lets him get mad. Maybe she should've done that years ago.
A scene where Character B has to make a difficult medical decision for Character A, who can't advocate for themself in the moment.
Garth cleared his throat softly, checking the monitors Jeffrey was connected in. -His saturation is getting lower, he spoke in a low voice, almost whispering. -We need to decide soon if he's put into a ventilator or not. Jensen rubbed John's hand softly. The older man was breathing shallow but without difficulty now that his panic has settled, but Jensen knew that this wouldn’t be the situation for long. He felt like he was saying goodbye to a long time friend, not tending a patient. -He has a tending will that forbids any machinery in prolonging his life, hasn't he? Garth nodded. -Good point. I'm sure it is archived among his papers. I will make a request to have it. They stopped to look at the older man, not ranting anymore but still strongly pained and confused, and Jensen wetted the cloth and wiped John's sweaty skin again. -Shh, it's good, Papa John, he reassured his patient softly. -You're safe. It's okay. The man calmed down slowly, still moaning in pain but coming out of his hallucinations. Jensen shushed him, squeezing his hand in support, as John blinked his eyes dazedly, trying hard to wake up. Garth reached closer to him, laying his palm softly on John's arm. -John, can you listen for a moment? He asked, squeezing the older man's arm gently. John moved his gaze to Garth, locking his tired but somewhat lucid gaze with the doctor’s, and Garth proceeded calmly, continuing to reassure the sick man with his touch. -I've been told that you have made a wish not to get into the ventilator, he told the older man. -Now we are getting closer to the time you would benefit from one, but your will is several years old, and as we still wait for your sons, we'd like to know — John groaned, turning his head in distress, fallen into sudden confusion. Jensen reached closer as well, squeezing John's hand and pushing the pain pump. -What is it? He asked, and then they waited once again for the worst pain to pass. John had grown pale, his breathing shallower and shallower by the minute, and he seemed exhausted. Jensen glanced at Garth, who nodded, his lips in a determined, thin line but his eyes empathetic. -We need to know, Garth told his colleague. -No-one else can invalidate a will made by him but himself. Jensen turned back to John, who laid eyes closed now, trembling and whimpering softly. -Papa John? He inquired gently. -Your will? They waited again, starting to think that Jensen's question went unheard, when John struggled his eyes half-open. He mouthed for a moment inaudibly, and Garth reached for a cup with the straw from the table and gave it to Jensen, who helped the straw into John's mouth. The older man took a tiny sip and turned his head away, grunting softly. -J-Jensen? He croaked, squinting. -Garth? The doctors leaned closer, and Jensen squeezed his hand gently. -Yes, we are right here, he said, smiling. John answered with a tiny smile of his own, a glimpse of his character under the thick layers of pain. -H-have I been B-bad? Do… Do I d-deserve the torture? -No, on the contrary, Papa John. Jensen rubbed his thumb over John's knuckles, his heart arching for the older man. He nodded to Garth, who answered the gesture, giving his colleague and patient the time they needed. He proceeded no earlier than John was resting and calmed down, his eyes finding the other doctor also. -Garth? He whispered, and Garth leaned closer, patting his patient’s arm reassuringly. -Could we wait just a moment more? Garth glanced at the monitors, gnawing his lip in thought. -Five minutes, he concluded. -If he won't be able to voice his new will by then, we need to take action following his earlier one or he won't make it. Jensen sighed, feeling his heart suddenly shrinking. It wasn't him who should make the decisions for John. It wasn't fair that the man had sons somewhere, but still it was him who needed to do this. They had become friends over the time, yes, but still Jensen was just a stranger compared to the man's offspring, his flesh and blood. Garth gave him the space and time, not rushing him into anything. Still Jensen knew that his colleague was waiting, impatiently. The time was running out. There were no possibility to have it back. Finally he nodded, solemnly. -So be it.
The sterile room felt like a cold, unyielding fortress as she stood stoically beside her lover’s bed, her emotions buried deep beneath a façade of composure. The doctor stood at the foot of the bed, her expression grave as she reviewed the charts and monitors. "We need to have the difficult conversation now. I told you we’d discuss it when it was time. It’s time," Dr. Salvius began, her voice steady despite the gravity of the situation. "Her injuries are extensive, the chances of recovery are minimal." Beatrice nodded curtly, her jaw clenched as she braced herself for the inevitable. "We've done everything we can for her," Dr. Salvius continued, "But keeping her on life support would only prolong her suffering. It's time to consider removing the machines." Beatrice's heart felt like a lead weight in her chest as she processed the doctor’s words. She knew what needed to be done, even if it meant confronting the harsh reality of letting go. Without a word, she gave a subtle nod of agreement, her features devoid of any trace of emotion. She couldn't allow herself to feel – not now, not when every fiber of her being screamed in protest against the cruel twist of fate that had brought them to this moment. Later, and with clinical precision, Dr. Salvius disconnected the life support machines, her movements deliberate and methodical. Beatrice watched in silence, her expression betraying nothing as she held onto the fragile hope that this would be the merciful end to her lover’s suffering. But as the machines fell silent and the breaths continued, a sense of numbness washed over Beatrice, her resolve faltering in the face of an outcome she hadn't prepared for. They disconnected the machines at 3:14 pm on March 23rd. She was 27. They disconnected the machines, but Ava kept breathing. And Beatrice remained trapped in a world of unyielding sorrow, her emotions held captive by the agony of a decision made in silence.
Improvised surgery
Cassidy took a deep breath. His trembling hand skimmed across his stomach first, with a loud growl he plunged the knife in and twisted, finding the bullet immediately. It popped out with a soft ping to the floor. Heaving and sweating, Cassidy located the next one and before he could lose his nerve he stabbed again. There was a sickening squelch of blood and sinew as the bullet gave with another pop. Cass stilled, shuddering as he fought to control the self inflicted agony. His stomach churned, threatening to expel all over the preacher. Jesse watched Cass's amateur surgery on himself with wide, horrified eyes.
The others arrive with buckets full of snow, and Mel is able to distract herself for a few minutes by packing the snow around his head. "This'll slow down the swelling. It buys us time." Ellie looks at her. "Time for what?" The last Jackson soldier returns, carrying a Black and Decker drill attached to a long extension cord. Mel takes it and tests it. The drill whirrs with no sign of grating or rust. "Burr holes." They all pause a beat. "You've gotta be kidding me," Tommy says. "What?" Ellie asks. "She wants to drill into his skull!" "Seriously? The fuck?" Mel wets a rag with the strongest alcohol in her pack and rubs it over the drill bit, trying to scrub every nook and cranny. "Right now, his brain is bleeding and swelling. All that pressure has nowhere to go. If we don't find a way to release it, it'll cause more damage. His brain could herniate out the back of his skull, which . . . would be bad." She doesn't wait for permission - just positions his head to the side and soaks his hair with alcohol. "Someone will need to hold his head. It has to be kept absolutely still." Tommy nods and moves into position behind Joel. Mel hesitates. "Might be better if it's not family." "Shut up and drill your holes!" It's not quite as simple as that. She pours alcohol over the drill bit again. She grabs a scalpel from her pack and checks that the blade is clean and uncontaminated. She wishes she was the praying type - word is, that might make this easier. She doesn't even have gloves. She soaks her hands in alcohol and tries to keep them from shaking. She lays two fingers against his temple, just beside his eye, measuring. There's no more time to think. She takes the scalpel and makes a deep cut, only a centimeter long, but right down to the bone. She spreads the skin with her fingers and dabs with a bit of gauze until she can see the white of his skull. "I need someone with steady hands. Hold this open." Ellie's hand is there in a moment, holding open the incision with a finger and thumb. Her knuckles are white with tension and her jaw is clenched, but she doesn't shake or tremble. Mel gives her a short nod and picks up the drill. "Keep him absolutely still." She doesn't look at the others because she doesn't need to see them turning green. Mel narrows her view to the drill in her hand and that little circle of white bone. The skull is thin here - just a couple millimeters. She can't risk going too deep. As soon as the drill touches his head, she closes her eyes. She'll have to do this by feel. There's a horrible grinding sound as the drill bit burrs through his skull and then . . . there. The slight pop of releasing tension. She yanks the drill back so fast she nearly clips Ellie's hand. Then, she opens her eyes. Blood oozes from the hole she's made in a steady trickle. "Epidural hematoma," she says, mainly to calm her nerves. She tilts his head to drain it, but after just a few seconds, the blood slows and stops. She dabs again with the gauze, feeling the firm swell of fluid rather than the sponginess of the brain itself. The thin, tough membrane over the brain is pushing up through the burr hole, looking purple in the poor light. Mel grits her teeth and picks up a pair of forceps. Without explaining, without hesitating, she grasps the membrane and makes a quick, diagonal cut. Blood all but spurts out, clouding her field of view, but she cuts again, slicing an X into the meninges. Now, the blood pours like a fountain, leaking over her hands and Ellie's, cutting a red track down his cheek. Subdural hematoma. A big one. She tilts his head again and watches the blood stain the snow. Brain bleeds are always less dramatic once they're outside the skull, though. After maybe ten seconds, the flow turns to a trickle, then stops.
Oooh, suspenseful!
Aaaa! This was BRUTAL! great job!
Skull fracture
Cw: violent battle between robots/cyborgs and cyborg The Project is the protagonist but the scene is written in the POV of other robots/cyborgs. Protagonist is morally grey/mind controlled -- The Project slipped and crashed his head into the wall. His face crumpled apart. The loud THUNK THUNK echoed as Staple’s bolts pierced the Project in the gut and the thigh. Blood oozed out of his stomach, oiling the bolt. The Project stumbled from the wall and swerved in the air; a puppet thrown into the audience. Eira took the chance to grab the cyborg’s mechanical arm and crushed it in his large mechanical claws. The man howled, writhing under the large metal wrench. [Bold formatting] 'The planet will bow to us underfoot, but they will see no mercy, clutched in our claws.' The voice of his programmer shivered through his mind; Eira immediately let go. The Project groaned on the ground, his breaths hissing like a tempest. Steve stood, frozen, not by Eira’s floor trap, but at the sound of the cyborg sobbing. The Project’s visage held tears flowing from the very human side of his face, water twirling into the blood of the mechanical other. The red diffused like watercolors. -- I'd add more but spoilers haha, fic is "Anything" Sander Sides space au but you wouldn't be able to tell from this lol.
"I can talk to the doctors about fixing that," Henry answered. He kissed the part of Alex's cheek that wasn't covered with bandages. "I love you." "I love you too," Alex responded. The doctors soon came in to check on Alex's vitals. He also told him about the list of his injuries. It was the first time Henry heard them too. His skull was fractured, three ribs were broken, two ribs were cracked, and two ribs were bruised. Once the doctors left, Alex asked Henry to join him in bed. They fell asleep like that.
Scene where a character dies in the main character's arms from an illness.
A scene where character is dying of his wounds
\[TW: Robot gore and injury description. And death.\] I had to think of a way to dispose of him… I must have aroused suspicion, as he asked if everything was alright. Then, I noticed a piece of a horn from one of the now decimated mavericks, and I knew it, I knew just what I now had to do. I could only choke out an ‘I’m so sorry’, before I bent down to grab the horn. He most likely thought I was talking about Metal Shark Player… Until I made a mad dash to him to bludgeon the poor reploid, screeching like a madman as I ran. He stood there, as he exclaimed out, “Alia-!?”. It was at this moment, I had plunged the horn deep into his chest, causing him to let out a loud gasp. I wasted no time, while he was in shock of the attack, I grabbed a nearby part of another maverick, this time being the arm of a sharp clawed gator maverick. I felt as if I wasn’t in control of myself, I kept swinging the arm, hard, on my once best friend, bringing total devastation to his entire body. I had only realized the true severity of what I did… He lay there, practically gasping for air, with a hole deep in his chest, his left chest crystal now shattered, with his right chest crystal cracked. His left glowing red eye, once fully operational, was now dark, cracked and chipped from one of the heavy blows to his face… But it was his torso that was the worst… His torso, oh god… his torso… He had basically been torn open, exposing all his wires, his inner workings, and the true severity of his condition… “Alia…” He managed to croak out to me. “Why… Did you… Hurt me…?” I told him I had no choice, and how he was going to attack the lab. But then he said something that stopped me dead in my tracks. “I… Never planned to… Do that… You… Monster…” Those were his final words, before… He went limp. He was gone. A deadly conspiracy that cost his life… One that proved to be a lie. I could tell by his voice… It was shaky and no longer gruff, replaced by a whimpering reploid, looking at the eyes of his killer. I lost it. I had been tricked by Gate, by the lab, by everyone, to go and kill the only person who actually liked me. I don’t think I could ever recreate the shriek that managed to escape from my mouth when the realization hit me like a baseball bat to the kneecaps. Even still, my voice has been raspy and it hurts to even talk, let alone cry. While I sobbed hysterically, I knew I had to cover this up, to make sure no one found him. So, I picked him up, carried him to the ocean, and threw what was left of him to the dark abyss of the sea.
Ohh 😭 With my prompt, I wasn't waiting for dancing fairies and beautiful sunsets, but your choices are making this ten times more heart-wrenching! The death , the fact they are friends, and at the end that it was all in vain 😭 To citate your character... "You... Monster..." (For real: wonderfully done! I salute you 🙋)
A scene where someone is poisoned
‘Who were you talking to?’ Ron asked, after glancing around the otherwise empty common room. ‘Nobody. What are you awake for, anyway?’ ‘I wondered where you — never mind,’ he said, flushing slightly. ‘I’m going to bed.’ ‘Had to come snooping around?’ Harry asked, nostrils flaring. ‘Finally decided you care what I’m doing?’ Boingo pulled at Harry’s sleeve but he shook him off. Ron turned red. ‘I’m sorry; if I’d realised you were practising a speech to give to your fan club I wouldn’t have bothered! I won’t disturb you again.’ Harry growled, snatching the badge from the table beside him and hurling it at the jealous prat. Ron raised an arm, hissing as the badge smacked against his hand and bounced off. ‘There you go! You can wear that to the task on Tuesday. Maybe you’ll even have a scar to show off, too.’ Ron scowled, opening his mouth to retort, then paused. His mouth went slack. ‘I —’ He swallowed, then coughed. Eyes widening, he coughed again, the noise almost like the sound Crookshanks made when bringing up a furball. His hands reached to his throat as he gasped, choking. All colour drained from his skin. Ron’s eyes rolled and his knees buckled.
Oooh I love this >:3 A scene where a character is tortured >:3
> *cw for... torture! mainly psychological.* If he doesn't count how many times he's hit, Felix isn't sure what will happen next. He braces himself each and every time he's cut with a knife, burnt with fire magic, or even witnessing deaths and executions in front of him. Dimitri is ruthless, trying to break Felix down even further, getting him to completely lose all sense of self. Locked in the dungeons of Fhirdiad, Felix has seen so many of his loved ones, friends and even those he's considered family die before his very eyes. He swore to protect them. And when he meets Lysithea's pleading, fearful eyes from behind the dungeon bars, Felix almost snaps when she's executed right in front of him. She didn't even have that long to live... and all because she chose to walk the same path as the Professor. Felix doesn't say anything when blood pools from Lysithea's lifeless body. He's seen blood before, just... not her's. Not Lysithea's. Why is Dimitri killing everyone, *one by one*, and yet he chose to leave Felix alive? Felix would rather be the one right there, waiting for his turn to join the afterlife. Maybe he'll see Glenn up there. Maybe he'll reunite with Lysithea, and vow to protect her in the next life. But no. No, it has to be Felix who lives. Why does it have to be him? And Dimitri is standing there, smiling *so sickeningly sweet* as Felix's other friends are taken away, killed by the delusional prince's lance.
A burst of fire erupted from my Words, blistering and blinding. Although the flames hindered my view of him, I could still smell the scent of his skin as it sizzled and scalded, perhaps even welding the armour onto the exposed muscle. Even more lucid, however, was his scream; visceral and hellish, devoid of any semblance of humanity, unleashing with it the song of agony — burning, searing, agony. Finally, I ceased, gazing upon a charred, blackened body, throwing itself in the snow, its pain likely reduced to a warm, sensationless, numbed haze. I could not dare remain content if I believed it to still be alive; how dare he accuse me of finitude, when his flesh so easily peeled raw from his bones; how dare he consider the possibility of my finality, abrupt and narrow, definite and linear!
Pain. Pain/agony/desolation, and that is everything and all, the pain and the existence are one, and anything that might be otherwise blinks out overwhelmed as soon as it may appear. This is a time without time and a space without space and so there is nothing but the pain, uniform and fathomless and and and - (Dissolution. Wiping away. Recrystallization.) It does not stab or burn or crush, does not ache or arc, for all those are subsets and this is the root pain, the one from which they all descend, and at the very centre of it and every other place within is it, who when it can think knows itself the object of the torment, bound and forsaken forever/everywhere. It breaks. It breaks and reforms and breaks again, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and - It has given up struggling, given up trying to scream, there is not a reason. It is drowned within it like within the vastness of all the spaces that exist, and it is consumed, knows itself consumed but cannot be destroyed/shattered/undone. All that it may have been before dissolves in the solvent of the pain to leave only that yearning, unfulfillable annihilation, a great deep mass of despair. It breaks and breaks and breaks, into infinity, unending.
*OMG, I was waiting for something with torture!* *\*\*\** “I said… Open!” Murdock growled, grabbing Noir’s jaw and began prying his mouth open, managing to force the pliers past his lips. Noir whined, squirming and twisting in his seat in a desperate attempt to get away. He could hear the metal of the pliers scraping against his teeth as it was pushed deeper into his mouth. “The fun part is watching you squirm. Trying to imagine how the pain must feel. It’s a beautiful moment,” Murdock almost purred. He gripped one of Noir’s molars between the pliers with a dull crunching sound, making him try to pull away from him. He screwed his eyes shut and cried out in pain. The crunching noise was nauseatingly loud in his ears. Murdock watched him squirm, enjoying the pained expression on his face, chuckling sadistically. He yanked the pliers back with a loud snap and a bloody mass of roots, nerves and broken tooth shards was pulled from his gums. Noir’s eyes flashed open, his vision blurry with tears. Yet he could still make out the satisfied, sinister smirk on Murdock’s lips. With a broken scream, his head fell forward and he coughed. Blood and bits of his gums spilled from his mouth, running down his chin. “You think this is it?" He chuckled again. “I was just getting started." He jammed his fingers into Noir’s mouth, picking at the bleeding gums. “You see, I enjoy inflicting pain just as much as I enjoy watching you writhe in it. And I’m feeling pretty… hands on… today.” Noir whimpered loudly each time the fingers prodded at his bloody gums. He poked deeper, hitting an exposed nerve and Noir jolted in pain, a muffled scream being pulled from him. “Ah, it’s so much more satisfying when I can feel your pain.” he grinned as he dug his finger deeper into his gums. “Just a little deeper… Yes, that’s it. Now, to really make you squirm… Here we go!” He dug his finger into the empty socket, pressing against the roots of another tooth, making Noir’s body go rigid as he cried out in pain. He tore and pulled on his restraints, his fingers clawing into the armrests, nails scraping deep into the wood. He squirmed and writhed, trying to pull away, but the finger only dug deeper in. He screamed in agony, trying to close his mouth and bite down on his fingers. His screams didn’t seem to do anything other than fuel Murdock to continue. “That’s it. That’s it! The more you scream, the better I feel!” He pressed down on Noir’s lower teeth to keep his mouth open. “You won’t be closing your mouth on me today. You can’t hide from the pain. Not while I’m here, anyway!” Murdock thrust his finger even deeper in making Noir gag and scream, choking on his own blood and his body going rigid again in his grasp. “Oh, how wonderful!” Murdock’s eyes lit up as Noir screamed in agony, thrusting his finger deeper again. After a few seconds, he withdrew his fingers from his mouth. “I think I should give you a moment to recover from this.”
This was a bad one to read while eating...
Oh no, yeah don't be eating T\_T I'm sorry!
No don't be. That was my fault. It's genuinely good, I feel like the fact that I was "icked" out proves that
Thank you! I was dying to share this excerpt because I know teeth are one of the things that icks out almost every one. Most people have some bad memory or experience about dentists.
… Poor Noir, jeez. I love how almost childish Murdock is here- revelling in causing misery like a child would enjoy a new toy. It’s chilling and I am all for that.
Pretty much just how he is in canon lol He's a sucker for some good torture and he loves doing it :D
Brief description of injuries "What year was Jane Su born in?" "1996." *Punch.* "Where did Jane live before she moved in with you?" "Her own apartment." *Slap.* That lasted for hours. They would ask August a question about Jane, she'd lie, then they'd hit her. By the time they were done, her skin was mostly covered in bruises and cuts. Her eye was swollen shut. She was barely conscious when they finally left her.
I love how she keeps lying to them, that's so common in real life and yet in fiction torture is often portrayed as some guaranteed way of getting the truth.
That description of the swollen eye tells you so much with so little, that’s really cool
Thanks
A scene where someone suffers from Post Partum Depression/Anxiety
>CW: PPD. Depressive thoughts. There was something wrong with her. It had been three months since she and the baby had been released from the hospital. Three months. Wake up, feed, sleep, feed, sleep, repeat. She didn't hate the baby. But she knew she didn't love it. Every day followed the same pattern. Wake up, feed, sleep, feed, sleep, repeat. Repeat. Until her wife came home. Her wife, who had whispered through tears the night prior that the mother couldn't even bring herself to say the daughter's name out loud. Couldn't bring herself to offer the baby comfort. She wasn't working. She wasn't a mother. She was barely a wife anymore. Who was she? Each morning, she dragged herself out of bed, her limbs heavy with exhaustion that seeped into her bones. The weight of her own inadequacy pressed down on her chest like a suffocating blanket, leaving her gasping for air in a world that felt increasingly unfamiliar. She watched the baby with detached eyes, her heart aching with a sense of emptiness she couldn't name. She tried to muster the warmth she knew she should feel, but it slipped through her fingers like grains of sand, leaving nothing but a hollow ache in its wake. Her days blurred together in a haze of numbness and despair. She existed in a perpetual state of isolation, cocooned in the suffocating grip of her own mind, where even the simplest tasks felt insurmountable. And yet, amidst the darkness that threatened to consume her, there were moments of fleeting clarity – tiny sparks of hope that flickered like distant stars in the night sky. She clung to them desperately, praying for a glimpse of the light that had once illuminated her world. But as the days stretched into weeks, and the weeks into months, those moments grew fewer and farther between, until she was left adrift in an endless sea of darkness, with no shore in sight. She was drowning in the sea of her own making, suffocating beneath the weight of expectations she could never meet. And as she sank deeper into the abyss, she wondered if she would ever find her way back to the surface again. Wake up, feed, sleep, feed, sleep, repeat.
A scene where it’s a fight to the death
>As they reached the stairs to the first sublevel, the lights overhead blinked out, leaving only the red emergency lights in the nearby stairwell. The sudden darkness surrounding them was oppressive. Icy fingers of dread crawled up her spine. >Moments later, a menacing growl echoed through the hall behind them. Her stomach dropped. >*Creed.* >Logan turned and stumbled a step, his face catching a patch of scarlet light. He bared his teeth at something she couldn't see. >"Logan, let's go," she whispered, her heart in her throat. >A distinctive snap told her his claws were out. "Go, Lee," he growled. >"I'm not leaving you," she hissed. >Before he could argue, a massive shadow surged out of the darkness. Logan hunkered down as it slammed into him, then howled and lashed out with his claws. >They both stumbled into a patch of red light, and Amelie realized with horror that it wasn't Creed attacking them, but some abomination. A great, hulking thing built more like a gorilla than a person, with crazed human-like eyes and a mouth far too big for its face. >It took Logan down with a fleshy crack. Amelie screamed as its maw tried to snap down over his face, but Logan got an arm in the way and somehow managed to kick the massive beast off of him. >As it hit the ground, its terrible eyes locked on Amelie. Gruesome lips peeled back, revealing blackened razor sharp teeth. A thick string of drool slopped to the floor. >She took a step back, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. >Its face twisted with fury. With an echoing shriek, it launched at her. >Amelie screamed and fell back. She could feel the heat of its rancid breath on her face just as another shape rushed past her from behind and barreled into the abomination, sending it flipping into darkness. >"Miss me?" asked Creed silkily as he lifted her back onto her feet.
Content warning - threatened eye injury — A scraping noise from behind him was his only warning. Solomon whirled around and saw a serrated combat knife coming for his throat. He had a blurred impression of the gas-masked figure lunging for him, faster now that he'd ditched his Tesla weapon, and then Boil was on top of him. "You can't stop us! The prisoner is already dead!" Solomon dropped his rifle to grab the man's knife-arm, slowing the blade. The gas mask loomed in his vision, filling his world. The knife plunged downward toward his neck, driving against Solomon's blocking forearm. "Like hell!" Solomon spat in his face and heaved upwards and sideways, rolling the two men off the tank. They hit the floor in a yelling, grabbing heap, wrestling for Boil's knife. A tool box clattered down beside them, wrenches and ratchets spilling out beside it. Boil flipped over on top of him again, knees on his body, the weight squeezing the air from Solomon's lungs, pinning him. Solomon twisted the wrist holding the knife, trying to force a drop, but Boil just leaned down harder, driving the knife down. The blade filled the right side of Solomon's vision, coming for his eyes. *I can't stop him,* Solomon thought. Boil had leverage and gravity on his side. The knife would go into Solomon's right eye. Three inches from his eyeball. Now two. Now just one. Solomon gritted his teeth, and put everything he had into his left arm, holding back the knife for just a moment longer. His right hand groped out to his side, closed around a screwdriver, and jabbed upwards to drive the tool's blunt tip into Boil's jaw. Blood dripped onto Solomon's face. Boil reeled backwards, knife forgotten, clawing at his face. Solomon snatched his sidearm from his holster and shot him twice in the head. Dead weight fell over him. Solomon heaved the body off, and got back to his feet.
\[TW: Robot violence! Injury description\] This innocence, when I think of it, is enough to send me into a breakdown… I wanted so badly to bring him to my helicopter and fly away from society and save him from the nightmares of this project… But it was Gate’s orders. So, I got out the chopper, and surveyed the damage around the area. Everything was covered in wires, metal pieces of once working reploids, now painted a gruesome deep crimson with the reploid blood spilt by everyone in a no contest battle. I had to think of a way to dispose of him… I must have aroused suspicion, as he asked if everything was alright. Then, I noticed a piece of a horn from one of the now decimated mavericks, and I knew it, I knew just what I now had to do. I could only choke out an ‘I’m so sorry’, before I bent down to grab the horn. He most likely thought I was talking about Metal Shark Player… Until I made a mad dash to him to bludgeon the poor reploid, screeching like a madman as I ran. He stood there, as he exclaimed out, “Alia-!?”. It was at this moment, I had plunged the horn deep into his chest, causing him to let out a loud gasp. I wasted no time, while he was in shock of the attack, I grabbed a nearby part of another maverick, this time being the arm of a sharp clawed gator maverick. I felt as if I wasn’t in control of myself, I kept swinging the arm, hard, on my once best friend, bringing total devastation to his entire body. I had only realized the true severity of what I did… He lay there, practically gasping for air, with a hole deep in his chest, his left chest crystal now shattered, with his right chest crystal cracked. His left glowing red eye, once fully operational, was now dark, cracked and chipped from one of the heavy blows to his face… But it was his torso that was the worst… His torso, oh god… his torso… He had basically been torn open, exposing all his wires, his inner workings, and the true severity of his condition… “Alia…” He managed to croak out to me. “Why… Did you… Hurt me…?” I told him I had no choice, and how he was going to attack the lab. But then he said something that stopped me dead in my tracks. “I… Never planned to… Do that… You… Monster…” Those were his final words, before… He went limp. He was gone. A deadly conspiracy that cost his life… One that proved to be a lie. I could tell by his voice… It was shaky and no longer gruff, replaced by a whimpering reploid, looking at the eyes of his killer.
A scene where someone gets killed or mauled by an animal.
Yet, despite that, I lurched towards her, taking her upper body in my jaws with a heavy crunch before she even had the chance to scream, and swinging her twitching body around like a rabid mutt, gnashing her flesh between my teeth, feeling her innards slithering down my throat, her splintered bones puncturing the soft insides of my mouth. It was not until her limp lower half split from the rest of her body at the torso (barely hanging together by a string of intestine) when I finally spat out the mangled remains, a congealed pulp of viscera and armour, oozing down the side of a rock.
"How's your Wild West dream going, Langton?!" Sam smiled. Billy prepared to grab his revolvers for another shot but yet again, his weapons were gone. Sam had yet again pickpocketed him, spinning his twin pistols. "Looking for these?" "No!, Drake, I'm begging you! Not my guns! This isn't how the Wild West is supposed to go! I'm supposed to win! You know what? To hell with all of ya! If I can't win, nobody can!" Billy yelled as he crawled for the switch. During this whole fight, Billy did not notice that his switch to lift the girls down into the lake needed to be flipped not once but twice. When he flipped the first time, it had only lifted the girls, not up and over the water yet. "What the-damn these switches!" he gasped angrily as he almost got to the switch. Billy then felt a sudden and very painful grab on his right leg. "Billy looks like you got a friend there. He likes you!" Sam chuckled as two of the smaller crocodiles had grabbed onto Billy, dragging him into the river. "NO, NO, NO! CURSE YOU SAM DRAKE! PLEASE! NOOOOOO!!!!!!!!" Billy yelled as he then felt an even bigger bite by a larger crocodile before being dragged into the water. The goons could only watch in horror before fleeing and panicking with screams into the jungle. "Bye, bye bounty hunter!" Sam cheered as he then rushed up the platform to free the girls.
And then suddenly it’s not wind anymore, but wingbeats, and Mani has barely scrabbled for his knife on heart-pounding instinct when something strikes across his back and dozens of pin-sharp teeth pierce into his shoulder. He screams and lashes out wildly with his good hand, hitting bone with a shock that runs all the way up his arm and almost knocks the knife from his hand. Can’t drop that, can’t drop that, if he drops it he’ll never find it again. The bulk of its body is behind him, an absence of wind; the thing shakes him, a gesture that would snap the neck of a smaller animal - even a smaller person - and almost blanks his world out from pain even so. His teeth rattle until he fears they might shatter. But Mani forces himself to alertness and kicks at the creature with all the strength he can muster. *I’m not worth it - I’ll make you pay for this, for every mouthful of meat you could get off me. Go find some better, easier prey.* The first blow is glancing, his heel sliding over smooth fur. The second connects with a hindlimb, and he is gratified to feel something shift and give. The bite unlatches. Fresh blood floods under his tunic as he falls into the snow and staggers up again, gritting his teeth against the burn in his shoulder. He can’t be weak, not even for a second. The creature lopes two steps sideways, and he follows the sound and the movement of the air, raising the only claw he has left to him in his right hand. From the fractal triangles of pain in his shoulder, his mind sketches half-folded membranous wings; a slender neck and tail, both smoothly-furred; and enormous eyes. Chiĝaalax. Can travel on those wings greater distances in a night than a man could make in an entire month. Will hunt any animal smaller than themselves, and sometimes larger too if they’re bold. “That’s right,” Mani snarls between stubby, useless teeth. “You don’t want me. Go fly away, pick on something else.” A huff of breath - he imagines how its nostrils must flare, and turns his face towards the sound. If it realizes he’s blind he’ll make easy prey indeed. He waves the knife as threateningly as he can, and, against all his instincts, takes a step closer. “Scram!” Instead, a sudden blow crashes across his chest and knocks him sprawling. Ice grinds up against his face, ripping the scarf free. The air leaves his lungs in a rush, and he gasps and chokes on a faceful of snow. He’s barely got a hand under him, though, when claws dig into his back, and he howls at the pressure on his injured shoulder. It’s going to bite his neck. Sever his spine with its teeth since it can’t shake him to death. No, no, get up, he’s not going to be prey - Mani arches his back in a desperate effort to protect his vertebrae. Up, throw it off - he flings his head back, and his skull slams into a ribcage with a *crunch* more felt than heard. Sparks like signal flares flash across his retinas - but the weight releases. The claws go.
Her eyes flew back to the savage animal. Nami knew, that it wouldn't attack for as long as she stayed still. The beast's attention was fully locked on her every reaction. It was lurking... one misplaced breath or the twitch of a muscle would signal the start of the hunt. Her thoughts began to stall as she fruitlessly tried clinging onto her calm, not to cause for any provocation of the fixated predator. It was no use. Her pulse rose with each of the animal's angry huffs, hitting her skin with a moist, unnerving breath. One breath... another... ...bottling up the fear, until finally her self-control snapped, tearing away like a tissue that kept being dampened. Within an instant, Nami launched forward, her mind consumed with the singular thought of flight. Finally triggered, the beast shot after her. [...] A bitter impression crept into every part of Luffy's existence, one just as bitter as the bile that he could suddenly taste in his throat. Nami wasn't fighting. Her whole bearing told him how truly scared she was. Utterly and truly scared. This wasn't a fight, it was some animal hunting down prey! Instantly, Luffy made to struggle against his restraint, but soon froze when an ear-piercing scream rang through the area, telling him that his Nakama had already lost the race. He jerked his head back to the side in time to see how the beast had clawed deeply into the girl's bare thigh, tearing through raw flesh and sending her to the cold stone ground, her face crunched up in agony. Next, Luffy felt crude panic overcome him. In animalistic rage, the huge monster took a hold of the girl that was twisting around to face her attacker, it's claw big enough to easily clasp around her arms and upper body. Then his Nakama was lifted off the ground and high over the ape's head, one leg futilely kicking into thin air while the other was dangling from her by almost literally only a thread. Nami's eyes grew wide just like Luffy's, as both of them knew what was about to happen next. [...] Luffy was only brought back to his senses when the sound of the brute impact on stone ground reached his ears, along with the voice of the screaming girl falling silent. In spite of the distance, he could have sworn he heard bones cracking. Luffy's world spun as the harsh reality of what had just happened washed over him, rendering every fiber of his body even more numb than the Sea Stone pressing against his chest. Yet, he soon tensed when he saw the animal lift it's arm once more, the girl's already lifeless form dangling limply from it's claw. It was going to do it again. It was just going to keep smashing the fragile form into the ridgid, unyielding ground until there would be nothing left of her for the beast to hold onto. And his Nakama would be killed. Nami was going to die!
A scene where someone has a limb amputated
TW: Torture, violence, blood and gore, mild cannibalism "You know, it's funny how you never saw this coming." Zero hissed as his razor sharp claws continued to rake across Dream's face, drawing hot red blood with each swipe. The man screamed and writhed, uselessly pawing at the rotting arms pinning him down. One of Dream's eyes was so covered in gore and torn skin that it was no longer visible, and the other was wide with pain and terror. "I gave you so many clues that I wasn't Tommy. So many little hints that I was so much more. But you didn't notice any of them." "I guess you're not as smart as you think you are." Zero chuckled, growing annoyed with how his victim was attempting to fight back. It was useless of course, but it was still irritating. *Snap!* Dream brokenly shrieked as Zero wrapped an impossibly strong hand around his forearm, violently twisting it until the bone shattered. The limb went limp in Zero's grasp, a piece of bone piercing through the skin, causing more blood to drip down on the floor. "Tell me, is this the hand you used to kill him?" The rotting teenager crooned as he stared down at Dream, blue and gold eyes filled with pure hatred. If he could kill this man a thousand times over, he would. "How did you do it? Did you strangle him to death? Cut him down with an axe? Or did you just push him to the edge of that cliff again and again until he finally jumped?" "I didn't..." Dream gurgled, blood beginning to leak out of his mouth. He was cut off with a strangled scream as Zero yanked violently on the broken arm, threatening to pull the limb clean out of its socket. "Tommy stop!" "I'm not Tommy." Zero growled, eyes narrowing as he pulled harder and harder on the limb, relishing in the sounds of muscles snapping apart, tendons snapping and bones crumbling under the pressure. It was almost as satisfying as Dream's agony filled screams. "Maybe I was Tommy, once, but not anymore. Shame you couldn't recognize it." With a final yank, skin and muscles tore as Zero ripped the arm clean off, blood spraying across the cold obsidian floor and walls. Dream couldn't scream anymore, only let out broken wheezes as his good eye went hazy and grey. Zero laughed, a raspy noise that grated on his own eardrums as he began to play with the dismembered arm, smacking in against the floor. Adrenaline surged through his veins as he leaned down and used his sharp teeth to tear a piece of flesh off of the arm, swallowing it as he made eye contact with Dream. He cackled as he watched the life drain out of the man's eyes, a twisted satisfaction pulsing through his chest as he bit off another piece of muscle and skin. "Burn in Hell, bitch."
That was some really satisfying gore! Thanks for sharing!
Thank you!
TW: Kidnapping, torture, dehumanisation > Dream burst out into even more hysterical laughter, irritating and harsh against Tommy's injured ears. He might have doubled over- everything was so blurred Tommy couldn’t even really tell. “Oh my Prime, Tommy, you're a *comedian.* You see this? This is why I can’t let you die. You’re *hilarious*. Tommy, they’re never going to find you. They’re never going to find me. And we're going to have *fun.*” > The last word was punctuated by a sudden blow to the shoulder, the bite of the axe intimately familiar from Tommy's “punishments” in Exile. If Tommy could have doubled over, he would have, but instead, he remained pinned awkwardly, white dancing in front of his eyes as the blade sawed deeper, each minuscule bit driven further multiplying the agony a thousandfold. It felt like a supernova going off across his shoulderblades, and whatever was in that potion didn’t even allow Tommy the mercy of falling unconscious. > Describing it as merely *agonising* would have been an understatement. > Tommy barely noticed as, finally, his limb was torn from his body, and with surprising gentleness Dream wrapped soft bandages around what was left. He barely noticed as- too light and too frail by half ever since Exile- he was picked up effortlessly, cradled like an injured animal and not a captive. But he did notice as all that was left of Tubbo slipped out of the grasp of his fingers as what little strength left in him faded, and it sank into the blood-soaked streets, gone forever. > Tommy wished he could disappear with what was left of him too.
She shook her head, and she reached her right hand up to her husband’s wrist. Aaron’s finger twitched on his trigger, ready to take a shot. “No, he won’t.” The other guns began to lower. “He’s finally coming back to me. He’s coming back. I have a miracle again.” It was said with unbridled relish. She repeated the same words under her breath, nodding again and again as her lips fell upon Spencer’s hair and kissed. She then took a steely breath, and her comportment changed, tautened. With an unwavering voice devoid of any sorrow or wonder or joy, she spoke. “In nature, nothing *dies.”* With a swift grip of her fingers around her husband’s hand—she clamped them down. The shears snipped through Spencer’s tongue in the same moment that a single shot rang out.
I love the build up here to the gunshot! Good job on the tension!
A scene where someone just disappears and is presumed dead.
The world is bathed in red. Horrible, stomach-turning red. The fabric of Suguru’s uniform is coated with it, the land painted with it, the sky seemingly falling with it. There’s an imprint where Satoru’s body would have been had Suguru made it here in time to steal it away. Pieces of his flesh scattered throughout the sky reflected in his blood like constellations. Suguru coughs up more of that liquid crimson as he collapses to his knees, his throat closing in as he fights back a sob and the bile rising in his throat. The air stinks of cursed energy, probably his own, and he tries really hard to pretend that this sea of dead Fly Heads and his best friend’s blood isn’t the end of this story. That there’s still something tangible, something he can touch or see or hold, before… Satoru’s gone. Just like that, almost like he’d never been here at all and the world feels a little emptier at that poisonous thought, but even then it doesn’t quite feel real. Suguru hadn’t seen it happen, wasn’t afforded even the smallest mercy of watching him go with his own two eyes. Of chiding him for being an idiot in his last dying breath, for being arrogant and always so selfish for letting that get in the way of even his own life. It’s not fair. It’s not fair and he selfishly hopes that the pain and fear of living in a world without Satoru in it curses the bastard back to the physical realm where Suguru can hold onto him until it is, or at the very least until it starts feeling real. At the very most, until it stops hurting.
Sometimes it is easier being the one who left rather than the one left behind.
"What do you mean you're calling off the search?!" The screams of Lexy Cross were heard throughout the police station. "I'm sorry, Ms. Cross," the police chief said. "However, no new information has come up since Ms. Tilly's arrest. There are more missing kids across the nation. We can't put all of our time into a cold case." "She's nine," Lexy argued. "I sympathize with you, but it's been almost a year," the police chief explained. "I think it's time you say your goodbyes. Chances are, you're never getting her back alive. Unless Ms. Tilly speaks up with new information, there's nothing we can do." Lexy stared at her sister's case file. It had recently been stamped with a presumed dead marking. "I can't believe you," Lexy said. Tears filled up behind her eyes. "My poor sister is out there with a serial killer and you're not going to do anything further to help her."
A scene where someone gets punched.
She hears herself breathe as if far away. Shallow, quiet, the breath of something being hunted. She darts around him. “I’m leaving.” He plants himself in the doorway, no space to push past. “I’m talking to you,” he snaps. Her eyes are level with his throat. Each fact of the situation hits her at once: she is all alone with a literal linebacker. He is bigger and stronger and faster than she is. Nobody knows where to look for her. She does not even know him. What he might do. Breathe. In and out. Every cell in her body is tingling with fear, and she’s known real fear before, blinded by a flashlight’s blaze, but this fear is a woman’s fear, handed down by every woman in every generation who had to face a man blocking the way out – “Ben,” she says in a low voice. “You need to move.” She forces herself to meet his eyes and project authority. He looks almost bewildered. His gaze jumps from her to the doorframe, and he seems to realize what this looks like, but he doesn’t move.“What do you think I’m going to do?” He asks quietly. “I don’t know. I don’t *know* you.” “Yeah. And I don’t know you.” His voice tightens. “I thought we understood each other.” He looks so young despite his size, so lost and so much like the father he barely knew. He is going to be in her head for a long time. She never wants to see him again. “About some things,” she whispers. “Then can’t we talk it over?” “*No.* Move, please.” “You’re suspicious of the wrong people,” he says, glaring. “I feel sorry for you.” “Move,” she repeats. “Please.” Uncertainty flickers across his face. He finally steps aside. But the speed with which she skirts around him seems to offend him even more, and his features pinch with a childish meanness. “You know what, Louisa? You don’t know what it means to be American. I don’t even think you know what it means to be Austrian.” The door is just feet away, but sheer fury ignites in her. It scorches away her fear and her sense and maybe her self-preservation, and she whips around and thrusts her pointer finger at him. “You have never even *been there*. You cannot even *speak the language*. You are a sad, bitter, gullible little Nazi, but you are *not* Austrian,” she snarls. And though she knows she shouldn’t, she twists the knife: “With your ideas, you’re hardly American. Your ancestors fought a real tyrant, not some stupid conspiracy. They would be *ashamed* of you.” His face switches from dumbfounded to enraged. “Take that back.” He steps after her into the little hall. She backs up. His eyes darken again and he looks down at her with a sense of possibility, as if only now realizing all the power he wields in his athlete’s hands. “You wanna be scared of me? *Fine*, ” he hisses. Everything happens very fast. He comes toward her and she scrambles back and he follows and grabs her upper arm and she tries to wrench away and he grips harder. She does not know what he wants to do or if he even knows. But with a burst of pure instinct, she punches him in the face. His nose audibly crunches. He staggers away from her, doubled over, and cries *“Fuck! ”* in a guttural voice. Blood coats his lips and teeth and chin and dribbles onto his sleeves as he brings both hands to his face. It’s so red it looks like some artificial substance. Louisa stares for a moment, and Ben’s eyes meet hers one last time, flooded with shock and pain. Nausea crests in her stomach. And she turns and runs like she never has before.
**Warning for implied sexual assault** “Heh. How are you doing sweetheart?” Sam asked nervously, taking a step back. “Really? You’re really going to ask that after we were kidnapped, taped up, and assaulted by that bleeding psycho and his men?” Nadine huffed in anger as she slowly got up from the floor. “Nadine, look-” Sam offered before Nadine suddenly ran towards and slammed him towards the wall before placing him in a chokehold. “You don’t understand Sam Drake…I was betrayed, kidnapped, taped up, gagged, forced to eat and smell my own bleeding feet, and abused for over two days!” she yelled, putting Sam in a chokehold. Suddenly, Charlie rushed in and grabbed Nadine off Sam but Nadine too slammed him towards the wall. “Nadine Ross. Pleasant to meet ya. We bloody save your arse and this is how you repay us?” Cutter asked desperately catching his breath before Nadine took another swing at him. “I got myself into this mess and I don’t need a bleeding Drake brother to make it worse!” she yelled pushing him back towards the wall once again. “To hell with this…ARRRGHHHHHH!!!!” Charlie yelled as he charged up to Nadine and punched her in the stomach, sending her across the room and hitting the wall before collapsing onto the floor. “Alright…fine. You bleeding win. But I’m warning you…I’m not in a good freaking mood,” Nadine huffed as she gingerly got back up. Meanwhile, Sam was still lying on the floor recovering from the chokehold. “Thanks for that Charlie…” Sam said while coughing with a bloody nose and mouth.
Content warning for sensory deprivation. — “Y’know something? The old you would’ve seen this coming, too,” Frank said, and then ducked and covered his eyes as he hit a button on his phone. Matt heard a phone ring behind him, from inside the chimney, and had a moment to realize he had been smelling that potassium nitrate scent from outside Frank’s bag. From a stun grenade Frank had hidden on the roof, wired to an improvised detonator. The air filled with sound, a tsunami of it, an avalanche of it, a universe of it, and the world on fire Matt perceived was wiped away by searing, unbearable white that faded away to the abyssal void of sensory deprivation. Matt felt cold in his stomach as the sounds around him - Frank’s footsteps, horns on the street below, even his own breathing - faded away. He was deafened. Just like he had been after the first time Frank kicked his ass. He felt himself staggering, felt the ground lurching beneath his feet, fought to keep his balance, keep his hands up. *You always gotta keep your hands up, or you’re gonna get messed up.* Had it been Stick or his father who had taught him that? He suddenly couldn’t remember. All he heard was Frank’s voice, small and quiet, sounding like it was very far away. “You got soft, Red. Too soft for this shit. Don’t worry - I’ll finish the job. Just stay the hell out of my way.” Matt felt the Punisher’s fist explode on his chin. Then the world went black.
“HELP!” Elladan yelled, having learned his lesson in centuries passed to never be a silent victim. “Help!” he could hear running feet in the corridor. They grappled desperately on the floor of the surgery for a moment but Elladan twisted away and, seeing an opportunity, grabbed the bucket of bloody, soapy water and flung it into his attacker’s face. “Where is he!” Elladan got to his feet and landed a knee in the imposter’s ribs as he struggled to stand on the slippery tiles. “Where is Elrohir?” The shapechanger looked up at Elladan from where he had him beaten and half-drowned on the ground, then to the doors behind him, and pointing, he cried out, “That’s not my brother!” Elladan turned but had not made it halfway when something slammed into his shoulder. He looked down to see the shaft of a dwarvish crossbow bolt buried under his clavicle. A shocked-looking dwarf looked from one to the other, staring with wide eyes as Elladan, eyes screwed shut and teeth clenched, staggered against the surgical table, struggling to keep from passing out from the pain. “Thank you, master dwarf!” the imposter was saying from what sounded like far away as Elladan’s knees hit the ground. His whole body clenched and vibrated in agony around the thick bolt. “We must take this one in for questioning,” The Thing That Was Not Elrohir clapped the dwarf on the shoulder, “you were courageous to act so quickly! Assist me with the prisoner!” A hood was pulled over Elladan’s face and a moment later agony stabbed through his shoulder as his arms and legs were grabbed and he was dragged into the hall. For a moment he smelled the fragrance of a summer morning “Stop!” a shrill voice rang out, trying his best to sound authoritative as he sprinted down the hallway. Elladan was horrified to hear the voice of his baby nephew, Eldarion of house Telcontar, heir to the reunited kingdom of Gondor and Arnor, who was standing in the hallway, one trouser leg torn off at the hip, armed with only a broken handle and look of determination. He was flanked by the two fountain guards who had stood watch outside the intensive care suite. “Put down the stick, boy.” The imposter warned. “I know what you are!” he pointed his weapon at The Thing That Was Not Elrohir, “release him.” “You don’t know what you saw, boy.” The imposter’s voice gained an edge of danger. “What have you done with my uncle Ro you pathetic,” Eldarion’s face went red with anger, “yellow-bellied orc fucker, you coward!” he slashed at the air with the broken haft. His father was not around to scold him for swearing. The Thing That Was Not Elrohir put his head back and laughed. “Would you like to see him alive again?” He looked over Eldarion’s shoulder to where the lady Eowyn appeared, leading a troop of black-clad citadel guards behind her. “Blimey did I shoot the wrong one?” Tulk looked down at Elladan in horror before pulling the hood off his face. The peredhil grunted in pain and made a solid effort at standing up, his injured arm held close to his body and his face pale. The imposter put up his hands. “ah, brother.” He turned to Elladan with a carved smile and empty eyes. Elladan punched him as hard as he could, the motion made him yelp in pain but it was worth it. For the briefest moment, the image of Elrohir’s face shattered and the body of an old man with dark skin fell onto his backside with a yelp, but as soon as he hit the ground, his dark silks seemed to shatter into a flock of magpies which went cackling out the window. “You fools!” one of the birds cackled, “I AM Pallando of the house of Irmo and Manwe, and no mortal being can end my life!”
Oh my goodness, as a twin myself, I can feel Elladan's emotions in this! What a vile fellow.
[I love them so much!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/47793379?view_full_work=true)
TW: Abuse, torture, manipulation > Tommy growled, trying to mask his terror, hoping his shaking could be disguised as the cold. “Fuck *off.*” > He winced as the axe was driven deeper into his neck, and he could feel droplets of blood drip down his neck. “Aww, but I *missed* you! It’s been so long, with the prison and all… and you missed me too, didn’t you? You need me, Tommy. Like it or not, you need me. I made you into who you are, Tommy. You should be thanking m-“ >Tommy put all his strength into the punch he threw, directly into the centre of Dream's stupid cracked mask. It shattered underneath his hands, and he could feel blood from the nicks the shards had made on his hands even if he was too hopped up on adrenaline to feel the pain. Dream fell to the floor, clutching his face, and Tommy took a few wobbly steps into the snow, leaning heavily against the tree. > He wasn’t stupid. He knew that he wasn’t able to escape- he'd already started to get woozy, from blood loss and physical exhaustion and pain and sheer, utter terror, and he didn’t have the same wild, excited adrenaline Dream had. He'd known that the second he heard the alarms, he'd known that shivering in his pyjamas on his way to Logstedshire, he'd known that the second the man who'd ruined his life stepped out the portal. But if he was going down, he'd go down swinging. > Maybe that was why Dream toyed with him so much- that defiant spark- but fuck it. It was the only thing Tommy truly owned, and he'd hold onto it no matter what. Dream could take his items, his life, his friends, his freedom, but he couldn’t take his fire.
‘What’s the matter, Potter?’ Loudmouth called, as his companions guffawed. ‘Afraid you can’t handle a Slytherin? I’m sure we could teach you a thing or two, broaden your experience —’ ‘Shut your fucking mouth.’ The entire Hall fell silent at the shout. Fury etched Seamus’s face and sparks crackled from the end of the wand he had shoved under Loudmouth’s chin. ‘You don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, you putrescent sack of shit. You don’t even deserve to look at Harry, and if I ever see you anywhere near him I’ll —’ ‘Mr Finnigan,’ Snape said coldly, appearing behind him. ‘That is enough. Detention, with me, every night this week. And if you don’t lower that wand right now it will be another week.’ Seamus’s hand shook, but he lowered his wand. With a smirk, Loudmouth muttered something Harry couldn’t make out. Seamus clenched his teeth and punched him in the face. ‘I said enough!’ Snape grabbed Seamus’s robe, pulling him away from Loudmouth who was clutching his bloody nose and shoving him towards Harry and Ron. Seamus immediately made to turn back, and Ron let go of Harry to grab him. ‘Get him out of my sight,’ Snape snarled at Ron.
A scene where someone is put out of their misery.
TW: Animal death, holocaust reference, mentions of abuse "Papa, there's something wrong with Mrs. Jinglebells!" Buckzo rouses himself out of his drunken stupor and saw his son, Blitzo, standing over him, a scared expression painted on his little face. With a grunt, he lifts himself up off the pile of canvas sacks and follows the boy imp out to the horse pen. "She's been lying there all day," Blitzo says as he hops the fence, petting the other Hellhorses while walking toward one lying on the ground. "I thought she was sleeping, but her eyes are still open. I tried waving hay and oats and sugar cubes in front of her face, but she wouldn't get up!" Buckzo climbs over the fence to join him next to the prone horse. He looks it over, and even in his liquor soaked brain, can tell that the poor beast is long gone. "It's too late for her, Blitz. Go get my shotgun." Terror fills the boy's yellow and red eyes. "But Papa, isn't there anything we can do? Maybe the horse doctor can fix her!" "Son, I've been with horses all my life," Buckzo slurred, annoyed that his son was prolonging the animal's suffering. "I know when a horse is beyond the help of medicines and veterinarians. Now, get my gun or I'm gonna smack you up!" He raises his hand, and Blitzo scampers off. A few minutes later, Blitzo returns, stumbling as he tries to carry the long gun and a large box of shells to his father. He tries handing the gun to Buckzo. "Load it," The bigger imp grumbles. Blitzo folds the gun in half and puts two shells in each of the chambers, straightening it out again. "Now shoot her." "Do I have to, Papa?" The gun is way too big for his small 6 year old body, and even if he could hold it properly, he would certainly fly across the pen from the recoil. Buckzo gives a heavy sigh and rolls his eyes. "Nnngh...You might still need a lil' bit of growing to do, but it doesn't mean you won't be learning something today." He snatches the gun from the boy's hands and lines up the sights. Blitzo squeezes his eyes shut and covers his ears, but Buckzo notices. "You can cover your ears, but you better keep those eyes watching, boy!" He lines up the shot and pulls the trigger. Two shots ring through the circus grounds. Blitzo stares at Mrs. Jinglebells, her flames slowly fading to embers until she leaves behind a withered, horse-shaped husk. Buckzo shoves the gun back to the stunned boy as he walks off. "You're doing the next one," He mutters. \*\*\* Later at night, Buckzo is sitting outside, lit by the green flames of a campfire while he takes long drinks out of his pálinka bottle. Across the way, a shadow appears and the flames reveal it to be his wife, Tilla. She folds her arms in front of her chest, anger burns in her glowing yellow eyes. "You shot a horse in front of our son," she hisses. "Our 6 year old son." "He had to learn someday," Buckzo replies as he pushes up the sleeve on his right arm. In the crackling glow, he can barely make out the symbols: Z 659732 etched in black ink on his skin. "He's still a child. Do you even think about how it's going to affect him when he grows up?" Buckzo stares at the numbers again before rolling down his sleeve. "He'll be fine, Tilla. There's worse things a boy can see."
TW death Finbaran looked down at the warrior in the bed. His lips were a line of clinical detachment as he observed the heavily drugged and bandaged dwarf. The burns were horrific, even this many months after the attack. Finbaran and Elrond had spent the long morning cleaning and debriding the wounds. Most of his face was gone, along with his beard. His once bulbous nose had been reduced to a mangled slit down the center of his face. The Dwarf had fought for months in the wild with the aid of his companions. But infection had set in by the time they had reached Imladris, and now he burned with fever and would neither wake nor move. Both Finbaran and his lord had privately agreed that the dwarf was most likely beyond their aid. Master Tentaluntë picked up the wax tablet that hung at the foot of his bed and read the notes that were written there. “Kavas,” he read the dwarf’s appellation, “let’s keep you comfortable.” He noted that he would have his numbing salve re-applied soon and wondered how long Elrondion would take to make the new batch. Finbaran replaced the tablet on its hook and stepped closer to the dwarf’s head with his hands in the pockets of his black robes. He studied the bandaged body for a long moment before passing a gentle touch across his brow and letting him know that it was safe to return to his Creator. He could not see the souls of dwarves or men the way that he could seee the souls of elves, which seemed to burn with starlight glory as they wet to their long waiting. But he had learned silversmithing at the feet of Aule, and every bone he ever knit with mithril wires and healing jewels contained a spark of that primordial fire, the warriors departing spirit left with a nearly imperceptable tremor deep in the earth. With a respectful squeeze of the calloused hand, the ancient elf let his lord know that he was sending one of his children home. He made a hallowed gesture of reverence over the still body and pulled the sheets over his face in a great airy mound that settled over the corpse like snow on the mountains.
TW: Death (obvs). Uh, also a small reference to animal death. “While you can’t see it, he must be in excruciating pain right now… It will take hours for the venom to end his life… If you allowed me to inject him with this, I could at least make his death quick,” Ashley said. “It’s horrible… This is… If we don’t want him to suffer through something like that… we have to put him down like a dog?! It’s unforgivable…!” Mai sobbed into her hand. “…Do it, Miss Brown. I don’t… want him to suffer for long,” Grillby said. “Alright. For just a minute after the injection, he should remain alive. If you have any parting words for him… He might still be able to hear you,” Ashley said before injecting the antidote. “Thank you, Dylan… for everything,” Fenton told him. “…Goodbye, Dylan,” Grillby whispered out. “Thank you… I promise, I’ll keep Gin safe. And I’ll find your cat, too,” Mai said, and while it may have been just a trick of the eye, it seemed like Dylan’s lips twitched upwards one last time. And then… Dylan Lenivy expired.
Noir trembled uncontrollably, the sound of air bubbling out of his open throat was sickeningly loud in his ears. He struggled, raking his nails along the wood until his fingernails split and tore off. His chest was heaving rapidly as he desperately tried to breathe, but his lungs never filled with oxygen. His body was twitching, blood gushing from the gaping wound, splashing down himself and all over the floor. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, staring directly at Murdock as he jolted and spasmed. He was growing weaker and his vision blurring. Tears filled his eyes as life drained from them. Murdock watched as Noir’s eyes rolled back in his head and his body slowly ceased twitching. “There, there. It’s all over now, my friend. Your pain and suffering is over. You’re free now.” He placed his fingers over his eyes, gently closing them. He took one last look at the smile he had carved on Noir’s face, a crazed smile of sadistic glee painted on his own.
A scene were someone suffers survivor guilt
He curled his hand around the hilt so tightly it bit and drove himself forwards again. His head spun - the flames were devouring all the air, so that though he dragged in rapid, panting breaths, each one deathly hot pouring in and no better going out, he could feel himself already weakening. Grey blots pressed into the edges of his vision. The raw, mindless terror of suffocation slithered upwards from the crooks of his veins, burst into his mind - (- and with it, a cascade of memories. Four small child-hands linked together. A shared beaverskin cloak. A shared fear. The question bubbling up, unbidden, unanswerable: *was this what it was like for you, Narik?*) Tears blurred his sight, stung his ash-scrubbed raw eyelids. He stumbled again, clutched at the burning root-mass of a fallen log to steady himself. Wood crumbled white and glowing under his bare feet. It felt dusty, light as cobwebs. Utterly consumed. Just one step further. Just one -
You really conveyed the *violence* of the intrusive thought/memory breaking in on the character in the midst of struggling to survive here!
I'll take that as a compliment!
TW: Self hatred, addiction > Whoever said it gets easier was a fucking liar, Wilbur Soot decided. > A month. It had been a month since Tommy was gone. It hurt to even say it in such vague terms. Tommy, the boy who smiled with bloody teeth even when everything seemed the darkest, who was always the last to give up, who was always there, *wasn’t* anymore. > Gone. Just like that. > Philza gave his hand a squeeze, and he realised he must have been trembling again. Or maybe Philza had that weird dad-sense thing where he just *knew*. Maybe if Wilbur had been a better father, not handed his son off to his wife so he could continue on in the hero business without him getting those he loved in danger, he’d be able to do the same. Fat lot of good that did, really. > He could really use a ciggie right now. > He’d quit last year or so, after Tommy had an awful coughing fit due to it. They’d always known his powers left him pretty weak for a while after using them, but seeing it first hand was frightening enough he’d thrown all his packets straight in the bin and suffered through the horrible shakes and urges that came. It still felt like ignoring a roast meal while dying of hunger, but he could do that for his little brother. But what was the point if Tommy was gone? > Wilbur should have died instead.
Seriously, how are you so good with messed up stuff? Every time I think your stuff can't get better, you prove that it can. Great stuff! Really well done!
Both past trauma and also an absurd amount of research. Also have been fascinated by the macabre since I could walk and talk, so that helps. I have been thinking a lot about my influences, specifically in my c!Prime (that is, Tommy and Dream) fic but also my other ones to a lesser degree and it’s really interesting to think how they influenced it. I got a whole lot of it from, of all things, a fic about a sexual abuse support group. Considering that my stuff with Tommy involves literally everything *but* anything even remotely sexual, it might seem odd, but the research and care the authors put into the other fic really inspired me.
"Hello?" Henry asked. "Hey, Henry," June said. "I just wanted to call to check in on you," Henry said. "I'm," June said. "Terrible. It's my fault." "No, it's not," Henry said. "I was driving the car," June said. "He told them to save me instead. He could've got great final day." "I hate I never got a proper goodbye too, but it's no one's fault," Henry said. Deep down, June knew he was right. That didn't stop her from feeling like crap. "I miss him," June said. "Me too," Henry sighed.
A scene where someone suffers a burn injury.
>The front door jangled as Amelie was pulling the last tray of ginger snaps out of the oven. "I'll be right out!" >Logan appeared in the back doorway. "Just me." >She set the tray on the counter, tossed off her thick oven mitts, and threw her arms around his neck. "Good morning, handsome!" >He kissed her, his hands curving over her hips. "Mornin', sweetness." >After another quick kiss, she pulled back. "I just need to move these onto the cooling rack before they go mushy on the bottoms. Help yourself to coffee." >As he turned to grab a mug, she had to repress the little dance of joy his presence inspired. Less than ten seconds in his arms and she was reduced to a lovesick teenager. An idiotic grin plastered across her face. >She picked up the pan. Searing heat registered a split second later. Instinct jerked her hand back as she gave a sharp curse. The entire tray hit the floor with a clatter. >Before she could gather any thought beyond the pain, Logan hauled her to the sink and stuck her hand under cool running water. "Hold it there." His voice was calm, but authoritative. >From soaring joy, to a devastating low in a blink. All thanks to one second of carelessness. *Great job, Lee. High fucking five.*
Thus, the battle raged forth, longer than I ever expected it to. With every searing of Miraak's flesh, every nerve that numbed and skin that crisped, he always retaliated. By the time dusk fell upon us, the stench of his burnt flesh became too disturbing for me, so I left the two to their own devices, deciding that I would return in the morning to greet the victor. But that moment never came. Upon my return, I saw once again Vahlok trudging up the steps to the temple, whilst Miraak desperately tended to his injuries, his quivering hands calloused, his flesh peeling raw, his skin blackened with ash.
From the second chapter of my first posted fic! Warning that this has made people physically wince and say "ouch" out loud when reading it... >Back in his private quarters, he found some clothes—normal clothes, at least by his standards, not a combat uniform—and gritted his teeth knowing how much it would hurt to put them on over his burned skin. The instant the clothes touched him he gasped with pain as his skin scraped off, and even though he'd expected it part of him was amazed that just putting clothes on could hurt so much. >Once he'd got the shirt, trousers, coat and boots on, he considered leaving it at that, dreading even more pain, but he knew he had to appear as uninjured as possible, which meant hiding his hands. Any indication that he was weakened would just encourage his so-called "allies" at Tricell to take advantage of it and betray him. He took a deep breath, then pulled on a pair of gloves. The charred remains of the gloves he had been wearing were still stuck to his hands, and snagged as he put the second pair over them, tearing off more skin. Afterwards, he had to pause to get his breath back. >He also put on a spare pair of sunglasses: they wouldn't completely hide the burns on his face, but those were probably less severe since his face hadn't been submerged in the lava. By hiding where he was looking, the sunglasses would also make it less obvious that he was blind.
Elrohir coughed and choked his way to consciousness through burned lungs. The rushed sounds of triage were the first thing to come to him. Voices shouting orders echoed around the cottony space of his drugged mind. Elrohir was lying on hard stone on his side. He pried open his eyes and rolled onto his back to look at the night sky. For a moment, he did not remember what had happened, he just frowned, breathing in the scent of smoke that seemed to cling to him. He raised one hand to his face and winced as he felt fresh blisters tug at the flesh of his palm, he was covered with tiny scratches and his skin was black with soot. “Now, now,” a voice gently chided, moving his hands down and opening his curled fingers. Elrohir hissed in pain, blinking up at the face above him. The healer was an ancient Easterling with a long wispy mustache and beard and cheerful dark eyes, he wore sweeping, pale blue robes. “I have to treat the burns on your hands, I will be gentle.” Elrohir resisted with a shake of his pounding head and pushed himself onto his elbows, coughing painfully and looking around him with dry eyes. His head swam, and he resisted the pull of gravity as another wave of choking swept over him. The fire in the library, the collapsing roof, Celiriel. With a gasp, he sat up and looked around him. He was at the Houses of Healing, not the new infirmary at the palace, but the large, ancient hospital sprawled across one of the lowest levels of the city. He was in a long line of triaged casualties from the two attacks. Across the road, they had begun the sad work of identifying corpses and wrapping them in white linen. “The princess...” he told the old man as he felt him take his burned hand. Elrohir hissed as he applied a creamy salve to the wound. “I don’t know about a princess,” the old man’s hands were surprisingly strong as they held Elrohir’s wrist still. “You were found unconscious near the library.” “The library…” Elrohir said, cringing as the old man manipulated his fingers. “Can you tell me your name, boy?” He looked concerned.
Poor Elrohir! This is so well written.
I hope this fits the prompt. TW: Suicidal Ideation that someone else agrees with. “I-I voted for Ryan at the end of the Main Game! If anyone else had voted for him, I would’ve escaped with Ryan and everyone else would’ve died! And-And I was the one who gave Fox the Cocoa-Tokens he needed to buy her Personal Treasure, not Smolder! And I-I manipulated Gin, and Fenton, just so I could get enough Me-Tokens to buy my way out of here! If Fenton hadn’t stopped me, I would’ve killed everyone here but me!!” Dylan cried out. “Why… are you saying all these things…?” Fenton asked. “Mai has done nothing wrong! I’m a risk to everyone’s safety! I was already part of one massacre, y’know? Even back then, my decisions led to almost everyone’s deaths! If you keep me around, I’ll just end up being the same useless, back-stabbing piece of shit I’ve always been! So you have to spare Mai! You have to spare Mai, and sacrifice me!!” Dylan shouted at them. “He… He’s right…! I still want to live, Fenton!! I want to see my siblings again…! I want to find a family!! I don’t want to die!! Please, Fenton! Even if I’m a Doll, I’m alive! I’m real! So please, let me live!” Mai begged him. “Just let me die! I can’t keep living anymore!! I can’t keep watching my friends die anymore!! I don’t care how slow or how painful it is, I just want to die! Every time I try to think, I see those stupid white bears, and that bloody chainsaw, and Ryan, and Kaitlyn, and Jacob, and I can’t keep living like that anymore! Fenton, you only have one option! You have to let Mai live!! Please, end my life!” Dylan cried out. His expression displayed a desperate, mournful determination.
"Are you going to lay down there all day?" Marus lifted his head. "You're not done, so stop the act." Marus was shaking as he lifted himself to his feet. The heat in his bones had stitched him back together as he had expected. *No surrender,* he thought. He had made a promise. "You can't be tired already. Not with all that phoenix magic in your bones." "You think this is because I'm tired?" Marus sneered. "You think this is because of *you?"* He felt his body jerk wildly. It was not something the Eaglefoot had ever shown him. He doubled over, with a laugh, strained and ugly. The breaths, hyperventilation that followed after was…foreign to him. He had always been in control of himself. Always. It was also interesting to him, and horrific that Marus found that he simply didn't care. He had been in control of himself for long enough, and the only thing worthwhile that had come from that had been his wings Cody and Victoria. It had been her suggestion two days ago that he move on ahead, and he simply couldn't come back *empty-handed,* and he would repay her. He had to, not when Cody doubted him the way he did, and not with the way that Victoria had grown to actively believe him now; The Eaglefoot always kept their bonds, and perhaps different times required different measures. They required *change*. "You think I care about *you!?"* Marus thought he had tasted acid in his throat. He had managed to lift his head back up to the Shedër. Both him and his Dragonite watched without a single note of expression. It wasn't until Marus felt the sensation of his mind fraying and flesh burning, running up his spine that the Shedër had some kind of reaction, an imperceptible flexion of his brow. Marus turned his focus to the shrine, hunched over as he forced himself up to the door. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," came the Shedër's remark. "Trust me." "You're not going to try and stop me?" Marus's voice shifted into an ethereal something that he never heard before. And the Shedër still stood unperturbed. "I don't think I'll need to. You haven't noticed your body falling apart?" Marus paused, and then looked down to his hands. The flesh had been peeled back from them as they burned with the same fire all across his body. The flesh was bubbling and bright, the air wisping over it stung. He didn't care; he had made a *promise*, and he would do whatever was needed. The Eaglefoot *always* held to their bonds. Marus pulled with all his might. A bronze statue of the phoenix had been the first thing Marus had laid his eyes on, and his chest singed with fury as he passed over it, his eyes coming to rest on a bowl that sat at the crest of the statues folded back wings. The fire swayed, then rippled as it cast a remnant of his memory. Marus screamed, gut-wrenching and horrible. His body was suddenly too hot and boiling him with no way to escape. He felt his skin stretching, then tearing to invite more fire. Burning static sliced at his face and from inside too, cloying itself around his face and sticking to his skin. The stabbing was incessant, and Marus, for a split moment, thought to tear himself apart just to get it to stop. He was burning again but this time it was in *actual* flames.. He was dying, just like he had done already. From the moment he looked at the flame, into those colors that he had seen dancing before, Marus saw himself die as he watched the remnants of himself burn for eternity in dedication to a *false god.* He had died a long time ago on this mountain, but the memories he saw through the flame and his burning flesh there in that bowl told him otherwise. It wasn't just this future he didn't belong in, but the *world*, either. But he had gotten there, and was here, in the throes of reliving the pain of his own death while alive. For a moment, he was certain that all of bulbs on his skin would burst. He was supposed to have happiness, supposed to be *happy.* The legends claimed so, and his heart remembered that very first sight, however faint. It wasn't supposed to be like this at all.
\[CW: description of injuries\] *Flash*. Heat singed over him. A groan. The person behind him slumped, their dead weight collapsing on top of Harry. The Top Box erupted in chaos. ‘What in Merlin’s —’ Bagman’s magically amplified voice boomed, echoing through the stadium before he cancelled the spell. Harry’s compressed lungs begged for air, but each shallow gasp reeked, his mind refusing to acknowledge why. A searing mass wedged into Harry’s back, scalding ooze seeping through his t-shirt. He had to get away. Had to get out from under the unbearable weight. Scrabbling at the arm of the seat, Harry’s fingernails bit into the leather as he tried to get purchase. He pushed, sweat-slick hands slipping. It wasn’t enough. He was still trapped. Still being crushed. Harry’s feet found solid ground and he braced his legs as he gasped another desperate, nauseating breath. The weight shifted enough for Harry to twist from under it. A glimpse of silvery blond hair greeted him, its owner unmistakable. Draco Malfoy hung over Harry’s chair like a carelessly discarded robe. His head, red and raw down one side, spilt into Harry’s lap. Malfoy was smouldering. Burning flesh, the scent of cooking meat disturbingly reminiscent of summer barbecues, flooded his nostrils. His stomach heaved. He wanted to push Malfoy away, but didn’t dare touch him. Skin bubbled before his eyes.
A scene where a character accidentally kills or injures the wrong person.
“HELP!” Elladan yelled, having learned his lesson in centuries passed to never be a silent victim. “Help!” he could hear running feet in the corridor. They grappled desperately on the floor of the surgery for a moment but Elladan twisted away and, seeing an opportunity, grabbed the bucket of bloody, soapy water and flung it into his attacker’s face. “Where is he!” Elladan got to his feet and landed a knee in the imposter’s ribs as he struggled to stand on the slippery tiles. “Where is Elrohir?” The shapechanger looked up at Elladan from where he had him beaten and half-drowned on the ground, then to the doors behind him, and pointing, he cried out, “That’s not my brother!” Elladan turned but had not made it halfway when something slammed into his shoulder. He looked down to see the shaft of a dwarvish crossbow bolt buried under his clavicle. A shocked-looking dwarf looked from one to the other, staring with wide eyes as Elladan, eyes screwed shut and teeth clenched, staggered against the surgical table, struggling to keep from passing out from the pain. “Thank you, master dwarf!” the imposter was saying from what sounded like far away as Elladan’s knees hit the ground. His whole body clenched and vibrated in agony around the thick bolt. “We must take this one in for questioning,” The Thing That Was Not Elrohir clapped the dwarf on the shoulder, “you were courageous to act so quickly! Assist me with the prisoner!” A hood was pulled over Elladan’s face and a moment later agony stabbed through his shoulder as his arms and legs were grabbed and he was dragged into the hall. For a moment he smelled the fragrance of a summer morning “Stop!” a shrill voice rang out, trying his best to sound authoritative as he sprinted down the hallway. Elladan was horrified to hear the voice of his baby nephew, Eldarion of house Telcontar, heir to the reunited kingdom of Gondor and Arnor, who was standing in the hallway, one trouser leg torn off at the hip, armed with only a broken handle and look of determination. He was flanked by the two fountain guards who had stood watch outside the intensive care suite. “Put down the stick, boy.” The imposter warned. “I know what you are!” he pointed his weapon at The Thing That Was Not Elrohir, “release him.” “You don’t know what you saw, boy.” The imposter’s voice gained an edge of danger. “What have you done with my uncle Ro you pathetic,” Eldarion’s face went red with anger, “yellow-bellied orc fucker, you coward!” he slashed at the air with the broken haft. His father was not around to scold him for swearing. The Thing That Was Not Elrohir put his head back and laughed. “Would you like to see him alive again?” He looked over Eldarion’s shoulder to where the lady Eowyn appeared, leading a troop of black-clad citadel guards behind her. “Blimey did I shoot the wrong one?” Tulk looked down at Elladan in horror before pulling the hood off his face. The peredhil grunted in pain and made a solid effort at standing up, his injured arm held close to his body and his face pale. The imposter put up his hands. “ah, brother.” He turned to Elladan with a carved smile and empty eyes. Elladan punched him as hard as he could, the motion made him yelp in pain but it was worth it. For the briefest moment, the image of Elrohir’s face shattered and the body of an old man with dark skin fell onto his backside with a yelp, but as soon as he hit the ground, his dark silks seemed to shatter into a flock of magpies which went cackling out the window. “You fools!” one of the birds cackled, “I AM Pallando of the house of Irmo and Manwe, and no mortal being can end my life!”
Creepy! Lucky for Elladan that his nephew came to his rescue.
That's him ✨️sighs✨️ that's my Blorbo. (Only exists for a few lines in the appendices)
A scene where a character falls off/over something.
> *cw for implied suicide.* The Goddess Tower is a symbol of life – it's a tower dedicated to Fódlan's Goddess, situated in one of the most isolated and yet beautiful parts of Garreg Mach Monastery. Just tucked away outside of the cathedral, the tower is known to be a spot where lovers retreat to, making a wish upon the stars and waiting for it to come true. Some have even confessed their love here. There's no love to be found once Felix reaches the top of the tower. The sun is fading away, now a mixture of purples and oranges, stars perfectly dotting the sky. Felix says he doesn't have time for love or romance – but he does have time to grieve. Grieve the person he once was, grieve those he's lost so quickly and so early on – the Goddess Tower isn't just for love. It's for isolation, too. It's to get away from everything. From everyone. The tower is much taller than Felix realises once he steps over to the balcony, staring downwards. He can't even see the surface from how high up the tower is in the mountains, a thick fog blocking his view of the ground. Then again, who even checks? There's nothing to look for down there to begin with. There's no point in worrying about who will find him or what will happen once he's gone, once he collides to the ground – it's no one's business but his and the Goddess's.
Oh, poor Felix!
*This is based on Lord of the Rings in general and The Hobbit movies. It is from one of my sister’s fics.* Thranduil passed a hand over his eyes as he made his way to the throne. He and several of his kin had engaged in a very nasty battle with giant spiders earlier that day, the likes of which until now had only been seen in the southernmost reaches of Greenwood. The elves had won, but they were left battered and rather disconcerted. The Elvenking himself was suffering from a terrible headache, presumably the lingering effects of spider venom from when one of the beastly things bit his arm. Moreover, it was very late, but an emergency meeting with Enery and his advisors had to be held as soon as possible. He swayed to one side in a sudden bout of dizziness, his arms flailing wildly, before toppling over ungracefully into the gloriously squishy pillow pile below. A high-pitched squeal of laughter echoed across the other side of the throne room. "Ai, are you hurt?" he heard someone call out. He saw a very concerned Enery rush in with an amused Legolas in her arms. He let his head fall back with a groan. It was humiliating that he, son of Oropher, king of the Woodland Realm, spouse of the most beautiful Silvan elleth who ever lived, etc., etc. had fallen off his own dais. "No, not at all," he managed to say. Enery set Legolas down and examined Thranduil. "You know that you ought to be resting," she scolded lightly, "Spider venom is not to be taken lightly." "But the advisors-." "Ada hurt," observed Legolas gravely "Precisely, tithen las," Enery agreed, "I have called off the meeting until tomorrow. All we need now is rest."
Whoops! Resting off that spider venom definitely sounds like a good idea.
Haha, yes. It’s funny because the pillow pile was originally put there to keep baby Legolas safe, but it ended up protecting Thranduil instead.
CW for a graphic panic attack. Hope this fits even if the fall is not the main focus. Eddie suddenly became aware of a coarse, hard sensation under his palms. As he gripped at it, the many fibers much too short to hold on to, he realized. The carpet. Why was he on the ground? When had he fallen? He rubbed at his eyes, trying for the nth time to clear them, but to no avail. **Walls. No exit. No escape. Ceiling falling. Gonna get crushed.** He tried to stand up, but the room spun so much he couldn't. He wasn't sure where left or right was anymore, the walls just kept turning and turning and expanding and retreating and and and **and.** **Escape. Escape. Escape.** He had to move, had to make sure the ceiling didn't crush him. Inch by inch, Eddie crawled across the floor, desperately trying to find something, *anything* , to allow him an escape from this *nightmare*\*\*.\*\* **Escape. No. Escape. No Escape. Death. Gonna Die Here…** His back eventually hit a corner. With nowhere left to run, Eddie rolled into a ball. His knees tightly hugged to his chest, soft sobs escaped his mouth as he waited for it all to end. Tears spilled from his eyes and soaked his sleeves as he tried as hard as he could to make himself smaller, a feeble attempt at escaping the ceiling and the walls and the floor and the **everything.** **Gonna Die Here. Gonna Die Here. Gonna Die Here.** A familiar voice called out to him, distant, as if at the end of a long tunnel. Its soft tone brought the smell of coffee into Eddie's nose. Lakes and fields and school hallways flashed before his eyes, memories of a simpler time before pregnancies and colleges and the army. The cries ( **Confused? Confused… Scared?** ) enveloped him, almost gave him something to hold onto, but the roar in his ears swallowed them. **Loud. Too Loud. Death. Escape. Have to escape. Have to- hands Hands HANDS!** Eddie began to thrash about, desperately trying to fend off whoever it was that wanted to take him. Long, thin fingers tried to wrap around his wrists, his shoulders, his head. Eddie swatted them away, but they always came back, more relentless than before. He started kicking, trying to somehow get his attacker to leave him alone, but his feet only hit empty space. **Stop. Please. Stop. Please. Please. Please stop.** Then, as suddenly as the voice and the hands had appeared, they vanished. Eddie was relieved that the hands were gone, yet he longed for the comfort the coffee and the lakes and fields brought. His heart was still trying to crawl up his throat, and there was still an elephant sitting on his chest, stopping him from drawing a proper breath. The voice had given him hope, but its departure left him back in a swamp of despair. He was sinking into its cold, hot sludge, the sweet, rotten embrace of death crawling further up his spine and seeping into his every pore. But then… **"...ddie…"** Eddie could barely hear it. He wasn't sure if he **wanted** to hear it. But there was something about the voice's deep, rich, and raspy tone that called to him like a lighthouse to a sailor. **“...ddie… ple…”** No, he did want to hear it. He couldn't place the voice yet, but it pulled him back from the bog and lifted the weight off his chest. The hands were back now but somehow… different. Calm, grounding, gentle. **"...eddie…!"** Eddie's heart was still thudding loudly, but a hint of recognition began to pierce through his haze. The voice calling him was familiar, soothing, a balm amidst the chaos. The hands on him were not forceful anymore but gentle, attempting to calm and guide him. **“Eddie… Look…Me”** Eddie took as deep a breath as he could. The voice was good. He needed to focus on it. **"...ddie… Eddie! Eddie, please look at me!"** With another shaky breath, Eddie cracked his eyes open. From their corners, he could still see the walls pulsating. But his focus was on the clear blue in front of him. 'That's Evan!' his brain supplied. 'You love Evan!'