#and time will sew my wounds shut anyways | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bestworstcase · 10 days

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Re: this post which kind of threw a gigantic wrench into one of the Subtle Early Series Things That I Will Not Shut Up About, what's your read on the pinkish orbs of light that spill out of Pyrrha's chest wound at the Fall of Beacon? For the longest time I'd understood it as the tiniest bit of Maiden magic that the ATM had put into her, as the only other time we've seen a dying character emit a visible mass of light was Amber (It was also my explanation at the time for Ruby hearing Pyrrha's voice in v4, that her little micro-maidenhood passed onto Ruby per the last thoughts rules [she looks over towards Ruby before she dies]). But. As you pointed out, the magic draining out of Amber doesn't match her aura. It's gold, not yellow-orange. It's possible I guess that visible soul-leakage was originally going to just be A Thing in the setting and was later walked back, but I still feel like it means something and can't wrap my head around exactly what that something could be. The main contenders I guess are either still something Maiden-related, or maybe its a SEW thing? Can Ruby just like, see people's souls sometimes?? Why would something like this happen for Pyrrha but never anyone else?

y’know how

and then adam flicks yang’s blood off his sword as he advances but there notably ISN’T any blood gushing out from her severed arm or pooling on the floor, after?

taps the gold glow. this isn’t just a stylistic choice to be tasteful and artistic about the gore; adam cuts off her arm and yang’s aura FLOODS there to cauterize the wound, burning off in the process. it can’t heal her severed arm, but it can save her from bleeding out.

similarly,

if that arrow pierced her sternum, there’s a good chance it struck through her heart or aorta and this is pyrrha’s aura flooding the wound to stop the bleeding.

there are four Other occasions when we see characters sustain similar injuries without this soul-leakage, but:

cinder ran weiss through with a burning-hot spear, AND weiss had just had her aura broken; so a) the wound was cauterized almost instantly and b) weiss may not have had enough aura left to flood in any case.

hazel gets impaled by weiss’s queen lancer, BUT hazel is noted to have extremely efficient aura regen (ergo: control of his aura) AND he has a semblance that can blot out physical pain AND there aren’t really any major arteries in that area. (on either side of the torso; even without aura being a factor at all getting impaled where weiss or hazel did is a very survivable injury.)

anyway the other two are

vernal and penny. vernal is kind of the odd one out here because i don’t think we ever see her aura At All (i’m inclined to chalk this one up to an animation oversight tbh? the battle of haven is a mite unclear / inconsistent about aura across the board). but with penny obviously any aura-flooding event just gets vacuumed by cinder’s arm. and then her aura’s down until jaune amps her with his semblance, which wouldn’t cause flooding because both his and her aura are under conscious control.

(though it’s also entirely possible that the ‘flooding’ effect was just discarded after the switch to maya for aesthetic reasons. lmao)

but yeah basically i think it’s like. a symptom of medical shock. where all your available aura rushes to stanch the bleeding and there’s such an intense sudden concentration of energy there that you essentially Bleed Aura to keep your blood inside… & if you have enough aura (like yang did) this can fully cauterize the wound in seconds whereas if you’re low (pyrrha, penny) you’ll run out of aura before the wound is sealed. and then we don’t see this with even quite serious injuries to parts of the body that lack major arteries or in cases where the injured person is either tapped out (weiss) or exceptionally skilled and focused (hazel).

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fromriches-tosin · 3 months

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Fun fact: It's-40°F where I live rn. I'm dying inside haha. Can I get some warm fluffy Reijean from you perhaps? Haha

-40?!?!

My dear friend, the newest chapter of Battle Tendency has some fluff, but it will not suffice, I'm afraid.

Today I was thinking about the ReiJean Cowboy AU, naturally, since we had been blessed with that gorgeous art this week. And hear me out:

Outlaw!Jean and Sheriff!Reiner go a long way back. Their history is one of violence, and blood spilled both fairly and unfairly. Of deception and mutual distrust. Of hatred and... fascination.

Jean might be a criminal, but he's not the worst guy out there. He has a code of sorts, a few simple rules he follows in order to make a living and don't overexert himself too much. He's not too fond of killing but also isn't afraid to get his hands dirty when the job calls for it. He's usually flying solo now that Reiner has caught his best buddy and sent him to a prison far, far away, but that’s okay. He will have Braun's balls for it one day.

And Sheriff Braun himself isn't really that bad, either. He could have had Jean's friend hanged but decided to spare him for reasons unknown. Perhaps Jean even feels a little bit indebted to him because of that. Reiner could have shot Jean a few times, too, but let him off with just a warning instead. And perhaps Jean warned him when some gang was about to raid Reiner's town or when an especially dangerous individual was around. Perhaps he eventually became Reiner's main informant.

It's not that Jean is afraid of competition, you see, he just... enjoys the status quo. He and Reiner have an unspoken deal, a partnership of sorts thanks to which Reiner can protect his town, and Jean can be free. But nothing ever lasts forever, right?

Having learned about what he was up to, Jean’s bandit community turns on him and decides to have him killed. Jean is ambushed at night, somewhere on the plains, and shot three times. Two of the bullets just graze him, but the third one gets stuck in his thigh. He narrowly escapes with his life but he’s in need of urgent medical attention; one he cannot afford both for financial and practical reasons. If he walked into a hospital, he would get arrested.

So, if the law is to come for him anyway, why not meet it half-way? Jean turns up on Reiner’s farm. The Sheriff is living just outside of the town, in the company of three large dogs that start barking and howling as soon as Jean falls off his horse several meters away from Braun’s property. Reiner walks out of the house with a rifle, and for a brief moment Jean thinks that perhaps he’ll just finish what the others started, but Reiner clearly has other ideas.

He helps Jean up and gets him inside the house.

“What happened?” he asks in a gruff voice, putting Jean’s beloved hat aside and taking a closer look at his injured leg.

Here’s a funny thing. Jean and Reiner met many times before. But they never really… talked. Sure, they exchanged some insults, short sentences and playful jabs, but mostly they just stared at each other.

Jean tells Reiner the truth, hoping the intel on the other outlaws will secure him a comfortable prison cell, but Reiner just glares at him in a way that makes Jean shut up mid-sentence. No one has managed that before.

“You’re not going back there,” Braun informs him after he has already destroyed Jean’s pants, cleaned his wound and dug out the bullet from his trembling thigh.

“What?” Jean hisses, trying to drown the pain in the same alcohol Reiner bathed his leg in.

“You’re not going back to where you came from.”

“Here’s to hoping you’ll at least send me to the same prison my friend is in,” Jean grumbles and drinks some more.

(Still there? We’re getting to fluff, I swear)

Reiner glares at him again. He doesn’t cauterize Jean’s wound like Jean expected him to, but instead he carefully sews it shut – making Jean moan and bitch in the process but leaving his leg in a pretty decent shape, all things considered.

Jean gets new clothes and almost a piggyback ride up the stairs. The Sheriff’s bedroom smells and looks surprisingly clean. When he helps Jean lie down, Jean has an impression Reiner himself doesn’t really sleep here. It all seems so… untouched.

“Stay?” he asks in a drunken stupor, holding onto Braun’s sleeve and hoping to turn it into a joke in the morning. “The nights are cold out here.”

The mattress makes a squeaking sound when Reiner gets into the bed – it’s large enough for both of them to lie comfortably and without any physical contact, but Jean is drunk and wants physical contact. There are photos on the bedside table, photos of a lady with blonde hair and a stern look on her face. She seems familiar enough, so Jean decides it must be Reiner’s mother. Perhaps the bedroom belonged to her.

It seems Reiner craves physical contact as much as Jean because he moves closer to him, close enough to be able to brush the hair out of his eyes.

“You need a bath,” he says, and Jean snorts.

“I need a lawyer.”

“I’m not sending you to prison.”

“No?”

“The nights are cold out here, you said so yourself.” Reiner wraps his arms around him, and Jean hums in response. “You’ve come to me of your own volition, so you’re staying.”

The moonlight is getting inside through the big window, falling on the star badge Reiner left on the table. Braun’s nose is buried in Jean’s longish hair, his heavy hand resting just below the bandages on his thigh.

“They’ll kill you if you go back.”

Jean knows that. He didn’t help his case by escaping into the arms of the same man he had been accused of conspiring with.

“I’ll keep you safe.”

Reiner’s deep voice is slowly lulling him to sleep, the weight of the old feather duvet holding him down. There’s a combined smell of soap and wax in the air, and Jean can’t stop himself – he reaches for Braun’s face and runs his fingertips over the stubble on his cheeks.

“Okay,” he says.

He’s drunk. And in pain. And not that young anymore. Maybe he can settle down on a nice little farm in the middle of nowhere and try to befriend Reiner’s dogs.

“Okay. Sleep.”

Braun’s lips brush against his fingers.

Jean feels naked without his gloves, even more so than without his pants. But he also feels good and comfortable, hidden under the covers and additional blankets, and with Reiner’s large frame as an extra source of warmth.

He almost purrs, pressing his forehead against Braun's and smiling at him sleepily. Reiner smiles back.

“That’s it. I’ve always wanted to tame a stray cat.”

#thanks for the ask ✨#reijean #reiner x jean #veecanons #jean kirstein #jean kirschtein #reiner braun

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pastelsapphy · 1 year

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"I've told you before: I don't smoke or drink." The words are forced through clenched teeth and heavy breathing.

"I think you can make an exception this once."

Vanderwood has never met a more stubborn kid in their life. Anyone else with a wound that big would be begging for anything to dull the pain. And to be fair to Seven, he did ask for something... at first, anyway.

"I won't let you bleed out if that's--"

"I know you won't," Seven cuts in. I trust you, as much as people like us can be trusted, is something that remains unspoken but understood between them. "That's not my concern. Just get on with it."

Vanderwood huffs out an irritated sigh. "I don't think a few shots of whiskey will count."

"This is the last time I will say it: if the closest thing you have right now to a painkiller is a bottle of whiskey, then I won't take it. Just. Get. On with it."

Seven's eyes are hard and unwavering. Vanderwood knows they're not going to win this argument. Why is he being so stubborn? "This is going to hurt," they say.

"It already fucking hurts," Seven snaps through gritten teeth. "It's a stab wound."

"And it's going to hurt a hell of a lot more when I'm sewing it closed."

"I'll be fine. I can take it."

"You're going to have to hold as still as possible. And be as quiet as possible."

The safehouse they escaped to should be too far for anyone to follow. Should being the keyword. If they have been followed, and Seven screams, it'll mean a lot of trouble.

Seven nods. "Yeah. Yeah I can do that, just..." He looks around for a moment, then grabs his jacket where it lay on the bed behind him. He balls up part of it and shoves the fabric into his mouth, biting down hard. He says something that sounds like "do it" and squeezes his eyes shut too.

Vanderwood sighs. They're not keen on doing this without giving Seven anything to dull his senses, but the other option is letting the wound keep bleeding.

"Okay. Last chance. Because once I start, I'm not going to stop," Vanderwood warns.

Seven shakes his head in a firm, final no.

"Okay. Keep pressure on it while I set up."

A few minutes and a sanitized needle later, Vanderwood walks back over to where Seven sits on the bed. His breathing is audible and deliberate. Slow breath in, slow breath out. In. Out. In. Out. Trying to focus on anything other than his leg. Vanderwood digs a knee into Seven's leg to hold him still and, with the hand not holding the needle, pinches the sliced flesh together. Seven's breathing gets heavier.

"Hold still and keep breathing. I'll be as quick as I can."

Seven nods. He twists his hoodie tight in his fingers and bites down even harder.

He doesn't scream when the needle pierces his skin. They've been working together for a few years now, but Vanderwood is still surprised by the kid's pain tolerance. He's not completely unaffected--Vanderwood doesn't miss the sharp inhale when they start--but he doesn't scream. Just bites down harder on the wad of cloth in his mouth and trembles with the effort of keeping still.

It feels like it takes forever--probably feels even longer to Seven--but Vanderwood finally stitches the wound shut. They wrap a bandage snug around it and let out a breath. "Okay. It's done."

Seven gasps and yanks the hoodie from his mouth. He takes big, gasping breaths, like he's just come up from underwater. His whole face is red and damp--sweat running down his face and drool on his chin. Vanderwood grabs a clean cloth and sits back down next to him. "Tip your head up and take your glasses off; you're a mess," they say.

Seven does and Vanderwood sees his eyes are red too; the tracks running down his face aren't all from sweat. Vanderwood doesn't comment on it. They just wipe his face clean. They're a little heavy-handed at the best of times, but they try to be gentle. After a moment the cloth is tossed aside and they're handing him a bottle of water. "Drink. You lost a lot of fluids."

Again, Seven does. That's how Vanderwood knows he's beyond exhausted--no comments or smart-ass remarks.

Seven gulps down half the bottle before stopping to take more gasping breaths. "Thank you, Vanderwood," he huffs out.

"Hmph. Good to know you appreciate me for more than just cleaning your house all the time."

"I mean it," he says. "Truly. Thank you."

If Vanderwood has ever seen genuine honesty from him, then this is it. If not, it's as close as they'll ever get. It's exceedingly rare and they're never quite sure how to respond to it. "Don't worry about it. I can't have you dying on my watch. Now finish drinking that and get some sleep. You look dead, and we can't stay here too long."

Seven nods, chugging the rest of the water before lying back on the bed. He's out cold in seconds, leaving the cabin in silence. Vanderwood enjoys it while they can (they won't admit that they miss Seven's chatter when it's been gone too long). They start repacking their medical supplies and catch sight of the bottle of whiskey standing on the table.

They make a mental note to double check that they're stocked up on painkillers in the future.

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sawtastic-sideblog · 6 months

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Mark stumbles into the bathroom, bloodied hands fumbling for a lightswitch. He finds it and flips it up. The light makes a dull buzzing before the room is washed in light.

"Fuck," the man grumbles as he goes to the medicine cabinet to search for the first aid kit. Once he finds it he sets that and Amanda's travel sewing kit on the counter. He starts to clean the wound, wincing as the disinfectant touches the raw flesh.

With trembling hands, Mark tries to thread the needle. He finally manages to get the black thread through the eyes of the needle. He braces himself against the counter and leans toward the mirror. The needle enters his flesh, he winces, but continues.

A rough, latex clad hand stops his movements. The reflection of Lawrence stares back at him. His expression unreadable.

Lawrence turns Mark around and gently pulls the sewing thread from his cheek. He is silent as he gets to work on Mark's face. The men stay silent for a time before Mark breaks it.

"Why are you helping me?"

"I'm a doctor. I took an oath."

"And, yet, you are an apprentice of John Kramer, the famed Jigsaw Killer."

A silence fall over them as Lawrence looks away, seemingly looking for an answer. Mark watches his hands thread the needle, with the correct thread, with a steadiness only a surgeon would have. Their eyes meet and they stay silent. The only sounds are their breaths, the buzzing of the light, and the movement and voices from their colleagues milling about the warehouse. Lawrence let's out a sigh.

"Fine. You were doing it wrong. It was going to scar. I mean, you were using sewing thread."

"So?"

"So," Lawrence says matter of factly. "I'm a perfectionist and you have a pretty face."

Mark's cheeks heat up. Well, one was already on fire, but now it's like someone poured gasoline on it. His stomach flutters. His eyebrows furrow. Why did Lawrence's words effect him like this?

The silence washes over them again as they stand in the bathroom. The sound of something metal hitting the floor in another room pulls both men from their thoughts.

"This is why we can't have nice things, Amanda!" Adam yells.

"Shut your fucking mouth!" Amanda yells back.

The corner of Lawrence's mouth pulls upwards at the exchange and Mark letsout a huff of air.

"Almost done. What happened to you, anyway?" Lawrence asks. As he pulls out bandages.

"Ray Jenkins happened. Bastard noticed me and threw a goddamned flower vase at my head. He missed, but he attacked me and held my face in the glass."

"Then that explains all the other cuts, the bruising, and the disheveledment of your person."

"Yeah, that explains it."

"All done. Take it easy for a few days, try to avoid eating on that side, and take some painkillers."

"Will do. Thanks, Doc."

"You're welcome, Detective," Lawrence says as he throws the gloves he had been wearing into the trash. He leans over to Mark and kisses th bandages above the wound. He grabs his cane and walks out of the bathroom, leaving a very confused Mark standing there. Mark's had goes to where Lawrence's lips had been, his heart racing.

"What the fuck?"

#here is a longer version #bonus points to anyone who can tell me what movie the subject is from #i now know they are called #3d shipping #saw 2004 #saw franchise #adam stanheight #lawrence gordon #leigh whannell #amanda young #john kramer #mark hoffman #saw fanfic #tobin bell

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conniebunny · 3 months

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An Angel's Kiss pt.4

A/N: okay imma immediately say: I‘ll continue the timeline as it is rn and work my way up (mainly bc i live in germany and we only got 23 parts and the 24th part is coming out in idk how many months I am dying from spoilers 😭😭😭) also like idek why I am writing Nikolai to be a total asshole he‘s my fave character but at the same time I just….. is it wrong to want tobe mistreated by a white haired man who definetly does not have all his cups in the cupboard (someone help It‘s 3am and that cupboard cup thingy is a german thing that we germans say instead of having some loose screws I am so fucked out)

TW: mention of near death experiences, blood, wounds, dirty talk, Nikolai is still just….. *sighs dramatically*, needles, slapping, for once (NAME) is being the weird one

What you did not expect this lovely morning as you woke up was….. Nikolai. In your bed….. well okay you sorta did expect it since he does not know personal space with you but the unexpecting part was that he was covered in blood, you were covered in blood and your sheets were covered in blood. You checked to see if that bastard actually dared to die in your arms but luckily he didn‘t.

While you coulhave done the world a favor and left him to die your dumbass‘ first thought was to drag him into the kitchen and pour cold water over him to wake him up and then get out the medkit. After all Fyodor‘s surgery book did help you sew some of the wounds shut. Well that was while Nikolai was still half asleep half dead but now he was neither half asleep nor half dead so he was just groaning like the fucking masochist he is.

And sitting there trying to treat someones wounds while they keep on saying:

“that‘s it darling….. just like that…. Fuck that burned….bet you like me like this don‘t ya, baby~ whimpering just for you~ ngh~“

Was not at all a pleasant way to pass your time so after the first 15 minutes you‘d had enough

“Can you stopdirty talking me while I treat you fucking wounds???“

„But baby, my pretty darling, don‘t you looooovvveeee meeee~“

….

when Sigma came in because he heard a scream….

…..

…he just immediately walked out again at the sight of you stabbing nikolai‘s main blood vain in the upper arm. Sadly he survived....

About 10pm you wanted to go to bed. A good plan indeed as Fyodor was finally out the house just as sigma and fukuchi so it was just you and Nikolai. Nikolai had gotten a set of rules from the others. Much against his will as they "chained him even more than he already was" and "he'll never be free" but at some point agreeing when fyodor told him he'll lock him up in an actual bird cage if he doesn't collaborate.

So you finally got your sleep. 4 lovely hours until you shrieked up from a nightmare. To terrified to go back to sleep in your own bed you took a light and walke dover to Nikolai's room. To your surprise he was already asleep wich you found weird as you didn't think he'd sleep before 3am but who cares anyway. You were gonna wake him up and make him help you somehow. I mean yeah he may not seem the smartest but he actually can have some brain.

So here you were. Sitting on Nikolai's bed. Trying to get the snoring bastard to wake up as he kept on sleeping. You got tired again so in the end you decide ife he can you andomly cuddle up to you so can you.

...

You don't know when you woke up but Nikolai was in a shock state. Looking at you with eyes wide open and an awkard grin. His arms tightly around your waist. Seeing this terrifying sight infront of you your flight or fight instict kicked in and you slapped him.

"OW WHAT THE FUCK (NAME)"

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING STARING AT ME LIKE THAT"

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING IN MY BED"

"I COULDN'T SLEEP IN MINE I HAD A NIGHTMARE"

"SO YOU DECIDED TO GET IN MY BED WITHOUT WAKING ME, CUDDLE UP TO ME AND SLAP ME AS SOON AS YOU WAKE UP"

"I TRIED WAKING YOU UP BUT YOU SNORING BASTARD DIDN'T WAKE UP"

Then silence made it's way through the room until Nikolai speaks

"let's get mclfurries"

"For once youhad a good idea"

A/N: idk wtf happened at the end i'm honest. It's 3am again I can't sleep HELP THIS WAS IN MY DRAFTS FOR 3 MONTHS OR SO

#bungou stray dogs #bsd nikolai #nikolai gogol #fyodor dostoevsky #bsd fyodor #bsd kamui #bsd sigma #creepypasta #bsd fukuchi #fukuchi ouchi #fyodor dostoyevsky bsd #bungo stray dogs x reader #bsd #bungo stray dogs

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just-some-random-blogger · 2 years

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Magic Means Deception

Dream of the Endless x Magician!Reader

Summary: You were born from a long line of powerful sorcerers whose very lineage is sworn to serve the higher beings. Present day though, after all the witch hunts, there's not much left of your family's prestige, which is why you worked as a magician for kids' birthday parties-- that is, when you're not doing mystic errands that leave you better off dead.

Word Count: 2k+

Warnings: multiple mentions of physical injuries and blood, gender neutral!reader, one curse word, bullying Matthew kinda, angst, hurt, typos, etc.

It was nothing short of a miracle that I managed to get to the venue on time. There is no way in seven hells I'm paying for a late fee, not after going through all seven hells for The Fates literally moments ago.

"Lord Almighty, why the hell do you look like that?" the woman whose daughter was having a birthday walked over to me, having received my text of arrival.

Although it was a horrible idea, I let go of my side to raise my hand in a pose and to give her a lopsided smile, "it's a costume, babe. My last party was... hell themed. The kid was really, really goth."

The look of concern that was etched on her face immediately evaporated, and the sight of my tattered clothes and blood oozing side was something suddenly impressive, "how did you do the blood?"

"Ohh, you know," I place my hand back, holding in my whine, "a magician never reveals their secrets."

"Well, I mean I could guess, it's probably a jug--" she steps forward, hand darting to my wound. I dart back quicker, raising my other hand, "ooh, trust me, you don't want to get this on your hands. It's a nightmare to get off," I give her a rather desperate look, "where can I change?"

"Oh," she shakes her head, "right. If the kids see you they'd break down and cry. Yeah, there's a storage room over-" I don't wait for her to finish as I immediately head to the direction she pointed her finger, not forgetting to say a quick thank you.

I grip my satchel and step into the storage room, half regretting turning the lights on. The storage room was about, not only as big as my apartment, but just as filthy, which says a lot about the owners of this establishment.

Then again, I drop my bag and sit on a box, catching my breath, it also says a lot about me.

I rip my shirt off without raising my right arm for that was the side of my stab. I then pull out a vial from my bag and down its contents, muttering an incantation under my breath for the pain. It takes a moment, one too long for my taste, but it worked nevertheless.

Once I could move without feeling like I was getting stabbed all over again, I began to stich my wound up.

Suddenly, I hear a squawk and then a raven flies to the shelf beside me.

"Good goly, why aren't you at a hospital?" Matthew croaks just a bit over head. I ignore him, too focused on my task at hand, too much anticipating the voice of his master. It never comes, he never speaks, only Matthew does, "I'm guessing your task was successful?"

My face pinches sourly as I sardonically answer, "funny this looks like success to you."

"Come on, I didn't mean--"

"But then again, you're right," I turn to the bird, "if I were unsuccessful, I would have ended up dead."

Those words glaze the room with cold silence for a long while. It was preferred, as I was trying to sew my bleeding side shut.

For a moment, my thoughts gnaw at me, and so I sneak a look to the side of the room. I nearly scoff but keep it in, feigning ignorance at what I saw. It seems he had been staring at me the whole time since he was, in fact, here.

Good. Let him. It was his fault anyway.

By the time I was almost done with my stitches, the numbing spell began to wear off.

"I still think you should go to the hospital," Matthew croaks as I finish off the last stitch on my wound. I forfeit a response, not wanting to do the, 'hospitals can't treat my wounds' spiel and instead begin to wrap my torso with gauze.

The bird squawks as I let out a pained grunt in my failing attempts to put the bandage on as each second the pain begins to intensify.

Matthew shifts on the shelf and stutters as I proceed with my actions, asking me cautiously, "should you be doing that?"

I raise my brow, not liking the idea of anyone else doing this for me at all, "got any brighter ideas, crow?"

"Hey! Not funny."

I roll my eyes.

"Boss, can you-"

"No." I reply quickly, forcing down the pain of my stitches that tore ever so slightly with every move I made, "heavens be damned if I ask help from-"

"Do not be stubborn," I hear his voice before I see him. In fact, I see his hand taking the gauze in my hand before I see his stupid face.

"Stubborn?" I seethe, as Dream of the Endless sinks down before me, moving too close against me as he quickly begins to trace the cloth around my lower ribcage, "you've been staring at me, offering no help whatsoever the moment you got here and I'm stubborn?"

I don't know why I'm letting him do this, why I allowed him to take the gauze from me. I dont know why I don't just Spartan kick his head off-- well maybe I do, cause if I kick him, I'm basically kicking all my stitches off.

What's possibly worse was he and I felt vastly different in this moment.

He looks at me as his deep voice calmly responds with, "I did not think you wanted my help."

Before I could even think, I move to punch his jaw. But before I could even move, he catches my wrist in his hand and warns, "do not be so foolish to waste your hard work over your anger towards me."

My eye twitches at that. How dare he read my thoughts? I don't know what angers me more, the notion he did that figuratively or literally.

Dream averts his gaze back to my wound, fingers brushing against me in the gentlest possible way, and yet it hurts more than my laceration.

I scoff, feeling tears prick in the corner of my eyes over the sight of his unruly hair, his eyelashes, his lips, his audacity... his nonchalance.

If I could breathe fire, my next words would have burned him, "why are you even here if you don't fucking care about me anyway?"

Right, Matthew thinks, before deciding the best thing for him to do is fly off to the next dimension. His next best option was anywhere immediately out of here.

As the bird flutters off, Dream's expression grows grim, his blue eyes contorting into one that could have been read as hurt, "you dare insult me with such petty lies?"

"and you dare insult me with indifference!" I whine, feeling my entire body tense as my tears begin to rush down my cheek.

Dream presses his hand on my side, "calm yourself."

I rip his hand off me and shove him off, causing him to topple back and nearly lose his balance, but alas that is impossible for a being such as him. And as I rise to stare him down, he rises too, looking down upon me. I feel no intimidation in my state however, especially not when his eyes where practically screaming apologies at me.

"Don't tell me to calm down when I've just nearly joined your sister, Death, without a booking!"

He never apologizes though. I think I never will behold it in my lifetime.

"You are bleeding," he states, hand going back to my side, the other pressing against my back. My heartrate began to rise again, but not because my body was flush against his, but because he was willing his eternal composure onto me. I will not have it. I refuse.

"Allow me to finish tending to your wound," before I could begin to resist him, he quickly adds, "please."

Hearing those words breaks something in me. I heave, beginning to only now realize how exhausted I really am. I push his arms off him with my left arm and sit back down on the box I made a chair of, "be quick about it. I have to go out there in 15 minutes."

"You will not attend to entertaining children in this state," his deep voiced demand echoes.

Yet, I feel my eyes go drowsy, "I will if I want to make rent. The Fates' gratitude over my service is unfortunately worthless to my landlord."

I hadn't realized I even closed my eyes up until I ripped them open after feeling my side sting at Dream's actions to finish up binding my wound. With wide blue eyes, he speaks, "I did not mean to. I apologize."

I scoff, thinking he probably heard my thoughts about his lack of contrition.

And it was unintentional, I knew he wouldn't be petty enough to hurt me, he and I are not the same, and yet I burst out with, "why not kill me now, while you're at it," I sigh, crossing one arm over my chest. I prop my elbow on my hand and rest my head on my fingers.

I'm incredibly exhausted, so much so I feel my emotions spilling.

Dream watches as tears fall from my eyes. He brings his hands to my face, "I would not have allowed my sister to take what is mine."

My eyes flutter open as I feel his thumb brush my tears away.

I take in his sorry expression. I take in the stars in his eyes and the slope of his nose, and I feel abhorred by his beauty, "I belong to no one, Dream."

His brows knit together, only but a fraction, as if it was something he had no control over, "must you lie even to yourself?"

I finally rip my sights off him and grab my shirt from the floor where I threw it, "a magician's life is built on deception." I release a pained groan as I stand up with my clothing in hand, forcing myself to put it on through the pain.

"After all," I stand, "what am I if I cannot do an illusion spell properly?"

Once these words leave my lips, I begin to do a recite a deception enchantment by heart, one that made the spellcaster look like how they wanted to appear no matter how contrary they actually were. So it would be, to untrained, mortal eyes, my hair was fixed, my shirt was clean and tucked, and my face was radiating jovial confidence.

I pull out a mirror out of thin air and look at my reflection, adjusting a few details of my appearance as I saw fit.

Dream moves close enough that his own reflection was seen on the mirror. I ignore him, and yet my whole being shifted around him as he whispered, "your illusions do not work on me."

I knew. I know. It would take a great and powerful magic to deceive the likes of him, and even then, he could comb through it like sand.

I look down on myself, beholding the ragged state of my clothing and the blood on my body, then turn to Dream's face, "it does not matter." I strike my arm to my side, causing the floating mirror to go up in smoke, "this does not concern you."

His brows tighten again. He was not given an opportunity to respond.

I push past him and walk out.

The moment I lock eyes with the host, I am introduced. All the attention is suddenly turned to me and my heart begins to race. I give a soft smile.

I conjure up a top hat, making the kids go wild, "are you all ready to be amazed?"

The high pitched squeals are enough to make me forget about my pain for the time being.

#dream of the endless #dream #dream fanfic #dream of the endless fanfic #dream fanfiction #sandman #sandman fanfic #sandman fan ficion #the sandman fanfic #sandman angst #dream angst #dream of the endless angst #dream of the endless x reader #dream x reader #the sandman angst

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deckofaces · 11 months

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Ok but like,,, what if u did a self insert piece

I gotta know what you go with

Angst? Fluff?? Neither??? Nothing at all????

Omg hi my loveee 😊 you know I can’t resist angst. Fluff can’t come without some hurttt 🫢🥰 I had fun with this one, I haven’t wrote a snippet in awhile but this definitely gave me some inspiration like omg. But anyways I hope you enjoy 💞

Red Dandelions

Tw: Angst, blood, injury, and cleaning and sewing (so also needle tw) of said injury

And just to preface, most hero and villain fics I write uses they/them pronouns, but since it is a self-insert piece, the pronouns used here are she/her.

Hero shut the door to her small home and instantly locked the door. After taking off her shoes, she took off her rose mask that concealed her entire face and identity and tossed it on the closest table. The sweet floral smell was immediately removed from her lungs and the air she breathed and all she could smell was the familiar scent of her old home she wished she had more time to spend in.

No matter how much Hero wanted to collapse on the couch in the living room or wrap herself in blankets on her bed, she instead went to the bathroom. On the way there she grabbed a towel from the hallway closet.

Upon entering the only bathroom in her home, she looked in the mirror. Hero’s long, brown, and sort of curly hair was a mess. Granted she was not very good at doing her hair, but it was far more knotted and messy than usual. Her eyes drifted to her face and saw it was probably the only clean looking part of her body at that moment. Most likely because it was always covered by her mask, it protected her face from a lot of debris when she fought. But what is most noticeable on her face is a tired yet pained expression. Her eyes looked towards what caused her pained look and what caused her to have to rush to the bathroom.

On Hero’s arm from near her shoulder to what she and to guess is two inches above her elbow sat an absolute disaster of bloodied dandelions. There were so many dandelions, and such a gross mix of yellow and deep red. She noticed some fell to the floor too. They were not good to use as bandages but that’s all she had.

One of her abilities allowed her to grow plants at will. Unfortunately they have to already exist in the area. And even more unfortunate for her, she had fought a villain in an alleyway of all places. The only plant she spotted was a rogue dandelion growing through a crack in the concrete. Her temporary bandage was born.

She washed her hands before she peeled the soaked flowers and threw them in the trash. She tried not to focus on the blood as she took off each flower. She hated the blood. Hero also hated the way they just seemed to fall apart when she pulled them off, leaving behind their tiny tiny petals on her skin near or on top of her wound. That’s going to suck to clean.

Every time her fingers brushed too close to the gash, she found herself hissing in pain. She wished anyone but herself could be fixing her up right now, but the medic that would be available at this time at her agency is on vacation. No one even bothered to find someone to take their spot temporarily, which bothered her to no end. So that left Hero with the option of going to the hospital and risking her identity being found out and waiting anxiously until someone blabs to the media or she could do what she’s doing now, and go through the painstaking process of fixing the gash up herself.

Speaking of keeping her identity hidden, she just realized she never checked if any villains were following her as she went home. She groaned from the thought that she let the pain of her arm distract her so much. She could worry about that later she supposed. She would have to.

Hero returned to working on her arm, running the towel she grabbed under the faucet. She squeezed it out and took the damp cloth and used it to gently wipe the excess blood and anything that remained of the yellow dandelions off her arm. She blinked back tears, god that was a fight she maybe should have avoided. Luckily she wasn’t hurt worse.

Hero took a little bit of soap and oh so gently cleaned around the wound. The small, delicate, and soapy bubbles contrasted with the sharp red on her skin.

Once clean, she used a clean portion of the towel and wiped off the soap. Trying to rinse the wound off in the sink would be far too awkward.

Hero took a deep breath. Next came the part she hated and worried about.

The stitching.

She hated it so much. She hated how much it hurt, blood grossed her out far too much (even hers), and she hated the needles. But she took a needle anyway and started to thread it.

When she first became a hero, she dumbly didn’t even imagine she would ever be in this position right now. Her younger self considered being a doctor but changed her mind as it all grossed her out. But she still wanted to help people, so she decided to use her powers and be a hero, to help people that way. It was almost sadly ironic in a way that she’s stitching her own wound, something she wanted to avoid when she decided a doctor is not her path.

But it’s fine, the sacrifice is worth it. She thought so anyway.

Hero took the needle to her skin with the deep cut. She tried her hardest to keep her hand from shaking. That she managed to do, but every time the needle went through her skin, it always threw her breathing off. Her hand was not shaky, but her breathing was. Sewing always made her uneasy.

She continued the slow process of sewing up her wound until she finally let out a tired but relieved sigh. The stitches weren’t the neatest, but at least it kept the gash closed. She finished with the worst part.

Hero took some proper bandages this time and covered the wound. No more dandelions.

With her arm bandaged, she was even more relieved now that she is done. She quickly cleaned up the mess she made in her bathroom and proceeded to head to her room immediately after to lay down.

Getting under the soft blankets was so comforting. Or at least that’s all the comfort she had at the moment.

Normally after a fight Hero would go to the agency to fill out the required paperwork after a fight. Usually about damaged property, where the fight took place, with who, and all the other boring details.

But now laying there, she couldn’t bother getting out of bed. She hurt and felt so tired. Doing more work felt like too much effort.. she was done being a hero for the day.

She felt so tired, if a villain did happen to see where she lived and found out her identity, she realized she didn’t even really care that much. At least for now. She might be worried about her carelessness from earlier, later.

When she laid at home alone, she sometimes questioned if being a hero is worth it. Of course these thoughts probably wouldn’t make her quit, but it was always the same. Go out, fight and maybe get hurt, return to the agency for extra work, and then go home. It felt repetitive. And it also made her feel lonely sometimes.

Of course Hero had friends, but she didn’t feel she connected with them all the time. She also didn’t feel she had someone to go to after a fight like this, or on any other bad day.

She sighed and pulled the blanket over herself with her non injured arm.

It’s fine, she was just tired. She’ll feel better in the morning she’s sure.

She’ll feel better and go back to the same routine.

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theladyofbloodshed · 2 years

Text

Part Two - Cassian's wounds are tended to by the exiled mortal, Nesta, in her cabin.

Part One ¦

This female was unlike the other mortals he’d spied in his five centuries of living. The ones that Cassian had fought alongside in the war had still been fearful of him despite calling themselves allies. They’d shrunk away in wilting terror at his approach. Females were kept far from him as if he was an animal unable to control his bloodlust. This one dismissed him as though she was completely unimpressed by his presence. That was surprising. Even amongst high fae, Cassian could draw attention. More surprising was the fact she’d shielded him from her own kind then invited him into her home as if he presented no threat at all.

‘Is there a name, sweetheart?’

‘Anything but that one,’ she said with bite. ‘Nesta.’

‘Cassian.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh?’

As Nesta leaned over the lamp to light it, Cassian tried not to look at the way her cream night gown rose higher on her long, bare legs.

‘I thought you’d have a name like Sorrel Elderflower the Hob of the Glen.’

Cassian couldn’t hide his snort. ‘Do I look I’m associated with flowers?’

She folded her arms across her chest. ‘At the moment you’re associated with savagery. You’re dripping blood on my clean floor. Take your boots off. And your weapons. This is a civilised place.’

If anybody in the Night Court had dared speak to him in that tone… No, they wouldn’t have ever dared to do such a thing. None, not even Rhys, would take that tone with him. And yet, this skinny mortal had flared her nostrils at him and her eyes were still burning a hole into his boots. Cassian was enraptured by her already. He’d originally thought a beautiful maiden had come to his rescue, now it seemed he was face to face with someone far more intriguing.

‘Your hospitality could use some work.’

Nesta remained on the spot, frowning at the hole in his sock exposing his big toe.

There wasn’t much to the cabin. There was a bed in the corner with rumpled sheets where she’d been sleeping. The rest of it was tidy and clean though with a wedding dress and another outfit hanging from the peg by the door in lieu of a wardrobe. A small table with two chairs was tucked near the empty hearth. One end was likely for eating, the other end held a basket of sewing materials.

‘Do you mind if I light a fire?’ The ash was making his body tired and sluggish, infecting his magic. He could feel the cold which was a rarity.

‘I need it to heat water to clean your wounds anyway.’ Her mouth twisted downwards. ‘That’s all the wood I have.’

A meagre supply was piled in a store. It was mostly tinder with a few thicker branches that had been snapped into pieces. ‘Do you have more stored outside?’

Nesta shook her head. ‘I’ve no means of cutting it. I gather whatever falls.’

‘Winter is coming. You will freeze.’

She gave a careless shrug and tossed her loose braid back over her shoulder. ‘Worry about yourself. You resemble a pin cushion.’

After ordering him to close his eyes so she could slip more demure clothes on, Nesta used his own knife to cut the fletching off the arrows and pull them through his wing. There was no easy way to do it other than saw through the wooden shaft. Cassian gripped the table, his jaw ached from clamping it shut, but a part of him – that primal part – wanted to prove to this mortal that pain was nothing to him. It did hurt like hell though; the ash wood burnt as it was tugged through the wound. For all her ferocity, Nesta was surprisingly gentle during the painful moments. However, the mortal had shushed him several times – and even dared to tap him on the head brusquely when he jerked in the chair.

Being in such close quarters with a mortal was dangerous enough, but telling her that every time she brushed her soft fingers along the membrane of his wing, he wanted to throw her onto the bed and plunge deep into her would likely result in his death. The pain around his wings was nothing compared to the torturous sensation of her touch. She didn’t realise what her languid strokes on his wing were doing to him. He had little doubt though that Nesta would likely run him through with his own blade if he dared touch her in return.

She cleaned the holes in his wings then dabbed tea tree oil onto them. Without Madja, it would be slow healing. His wings would need at least a few days to heal before he attempted flight again.

‘Just the shoulder now.’

Two of the arrows had pierced through his wings. The third arrowhead was still lodged in the muscle covering his shoulder blade. The fletching continued to catch on his wing uncomfortably.

He heard Nesta’s shaky breath as she tried to steel herself to delve into the wound. Cassian focused on the crackle of the fire. ‘Just do it. I’m as tough as I look.’

One hand gripped his upper arm and the other worked on tugging out the flint from his body. Involuntarily, when her elbow grazed it, his wing shot out, snapping Nesta in the mouth with the hard bone. He whirled around just in time to see her clutch a hand over her split lip.

‘Cauldron, I’m so sorry.’

The pain throbbing in his shoulder mattered little compared to the enormous wave of guilt drowning him. She shrank towards the wall. It was not fear lining her eyes, but anger.

‘Do you mind not smacking me with your wing when I’m trying to help you, you overgrown bat.’

‘You’re not hurt?’

She revealed the blood dribbling from her bottom lip down her chin. ‘Obviously I am hurt or did an arrow take your vision too?’

When Cassian engulfed her by the wall, as expected she showed no signs of her fear. Her prised her hands from her mouth gently to inspect it. Before he could stop himself, he was pressing the pad of his thumb over her swollen lip until it stopped bleeding. Those eyes would haunt him for an eternity. They were like two storm clouds rolling in, never wavering from his hazel ones.

‘My wings are very sensitive. It was a reflex. I am truly sorry, Nesta. Did it hurt too much?’

He grazed his knuckle down her cheek. Mother above, her skin was so soft. Her heart throbbed loudly against her ribs. For the first time since he had met her, Nesta finally seemed disarmed. Words melted on her tongue, unable to greet him. She let out a strange, strangled noise. There were only inches between them. His eyes dipped to her lips. A hand rested on his chest. He stroked a thumb against it. Wrong. Stupid. She was a mortal. What was he doing? Why was he touching her? She might gut him like a fish when his back was turned. Foolish to even think about her lips on his. Or the way her hand rested over his heart as if it was meant to be there. Or the way his siphon glowed in recognition of her touch.

‘It was an accident.’ Nesta swallowed and pushed him back a step with a steady, but gentle hand. ‘Return to the chair.’

Mortals were weaker, slower. Their lives so much shorter than the fae. Guilt and shame still writhed in his gut from the force of his wing colliding with her. Cassian thanked the Mother that she hadn’t been hurt worse by his clumsy reaction.

Nesta took special care now to avoid his wing, but it meant her body was pressed close to his face. Jasmine flooded his nostrils as she bent lower to inspect the wound. He tried not to inhale that intoxicating scent. Fought against the roaring instincts in his head that begged for her touch again and again and again.

‘What did you mean when you told the humans you would be dragged off to Prythian?’

She was reluctant to tell the story, but some probing and pleading that it would distract him had her opening up. Nesta told him of a curse that that fallen across the cluster of villages that hers was part of as she wiggled the arrow looser. Every two decades, some poor maiden was selected to be the sacrificial lamb to ensure a good harvest and their safety. Cassian listened to it all although he wanted to charge into the village and hold every barbaric mortal responsible for condemning innocents to death.

‘You are remarkably calm for one marked for death.’

The arrow was extracted so Nesta dabbed a rag with more tea tree and pressed it to his shoulder. ‘What should I do? Bleat like a lamb? Beg a foreign god to save me? It’s quite nice to have peace however short lived it might be. I miss my sisters, but I would rather it was me here than them.’

As she continued discussing the curse – and the fact that all the other females had never lasted more than two nights where she was approaching three months – a jolting realisation hit him.

‘Blue Annis.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Blue Annis was a horrid creature native to the Middle; a cobalt-skinned hag with iron claws and a taste for female flesh. Cassian had tracked her for years and yet she’d always managed to evade him. For a long time, she was dormant until she resurfaced on the edge of the Spring Court, fat and sluggish from feeding. It had been a mission of stealth to not be noticed by any of Spring’s sentries. Despite her slower state, Blue Annis was just as deadly. Her iron claws had nearly shredded to his heart when Azriel had rammed Truth-Teller through her neck. She had a cell in the depths of the Prison; it was dark and dank as she liked it, but lacking the females she so loved to devour.

‘I imprisoned her about twenty years ago,’ he finished. ‘Likely after she was digesting the last girl your people sent her way. That’s what your people have been sacrificing maidens to.’

Instead of relief or gratitude, those nostrils flared again. ‘And what am I supposed to do now?’

The abrupt tone in Nesta's voice struck him like a stone on his temple. ‘Say thank you?’

Her finger twitched and, for a moment, Cassian was struck with the fear that she might poke the gaping wound on his skin. ‘I cannot return to the village or my family’s lives are forfeit. Nothing is coming to take me away. I will be known as the failure, unwanted by a monster, whose village starved because of her.’

‘Blue Annis had nothing to do with your harvests. You were gift-wrapping her meals.’

‘And I’m supposed to return to the village and tell them the injured faerie I illegally harboured has told me this story?’

This female was unbelievable. One moment Cassian had pushed down on his instincts to lean forwards, cradle her face and kiss her, the next his blood pressure had leapt upwards and she stared at him with pure annoyance as if he were no more than a buzzing insect that she wasn’t able to swat.

‘You won’t be killed. Why are you angry about this?’

She pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Because now I will live my life in this damn cabin like a spinster. I can’t ever leave here.’

‘I can drag you off to Prythian if you so wish.’ Groaning, Cassian peeled off his top layer of leathers then the thin shirt underneath. Nesta’s eyes widened at the sight of his bare chest. Her fingers twitched as though they wanted to trace the whorls of ink and Illyrian runes branded into his skin. He gestured to a horrific scar that ran above his left pectoral. ‘That’s what Blue Annis did to me and I’ve had five hundred years of training. Trust me, sweetheart, be glad she’s imprisoned.’

Her eyes narrowed. Any tawdry thoughts she had from seeing him shirtless faded fast. ‘Don’t you ever call me that name again.’

‘Looks like I’m the only one paying a visit to you until your death, sweetheart, so you better get used to the name.’

Nesta threw down the arrow onto the table. ‘Get out of my house, you big brute.’

Cassian had always loved a challenge.

‘Make me.’

#the exile and the injured #nessian #cassian #nesta archeron

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melit0n · 5 months

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EUCLID ANALYSIS.

Part one -> Title and meaning

Part two -> Line by line analysis part one

Part three -> You're already here!

Part four -> Musical/instrumental notes

Part five -> The Night in Sleep Token

Part six -> Conclusion

“I play along with the life signs anyways” → ‘Play along’ implies acting or participating in something that may not be entirely genuine, it's almost childish; playing along with life like it's a joke.

Finishing the line with ‘anyways’ adds a sense of nonchalance to it all. It paints the image that Vessel is going through the motions of life, however, he hasn’t fully accepted it all yet. He’s in this middle zone, the twilight zone, of experiencing it all but through a dissociated state.

“But hope to God you don’t know this feeling” → This one can be interpreted as a direct message to us, as the listener. While Vessel has gone through mass amounts of distress in his lifetime, before he was Vessel and as he is now, he has taken the last option he has left; Sleep. He’s both hoping we don’t follow in his steps and hoping to the Dear God we have never experienced what he has been through and never will.

“Yet in reverse, you are all my symmetry” → And here is the first reference to Euclid of Alexandria and his symmetry.

The lyric, as a whole, expresses an intimately complex sentiment about the nature of Vessel’s relationship with Sleep or his partner. Even when viewed in reverse, the person holds a profound sense of balance (through the metaphor of symmetry) for Vessel; they completed each other perfectly despite their large differences, which eventually drove them apart.

I would like to mention this can also be seen as a response to the message Vessel received that stated he had ‘saved’ the writer. Vessel reflected on this in a speech, concluding that whilst the message is true, it is in an inverse sense. We saved Vessel. We are his symmetry even though we are so utterly different from him. It’s a wonderfully profound lyric, whichever way you decide to interpret it.

“A parallel I would lay my life on” → Symmetry again!

Despite it all, Vessel would lay his life in this relationship, this person; that’s how much trust he has. However, the reference to parallels presents the concept of parallel lines, which never meet. This suggests a distance or separation, which emphasises the unique and individual paths each person is on, whether that be because of fate or free will. Then, the statement that Vessel makes, saying he’d lay his life down for this parallel, indicates a deep and soulful commitment (or sacrifice) for the sake of symmetry. He’s saying he has full willingness to trust this person, even if their stars won't align again. Even if their paths won’t converge, he’d still have some sort of trust in them.

It could also be a callback to the main topic in Acensionism.

“So if your wings won't find you Heaven, I will bring it down like an ancient bygone” → The line calls back to TNDNBTG’s "and the night comes down like Heaven". This is Vessel willing himself to bring down Heaven for someone who deserves it, but cannot bring themselves to reach it, as a gift for them. A thank you.

Plus, the comparison to an ‘ancient bygone’ adds a layer of nostalgia or reference to the past, which suggests Vessel is drawing upon ancient or timeless methods to accomplish this; using the past to his advantage, for once in his life, which then links into the later lyric of "for me, it’s still the autumn leaves".

“Call me when you have the time” → A repeat of the previous refrain, but with changed words. It feels less like a cry for help, but more of a light-hearted question. A ‘Hey! I don’t need you right now, but call me when you’re free, yeah? I’ve got something to talk about’.

“I just need to leave this part of me behind” → Vessel has accepted his walls have closed in on him and have fallen down, and he’s realised he needs to move on. Yet again, it presents Euclid as a eulogy; a closing chapter for Vessel and maybe Sleep Token as a band itself.

“Do you remember me, when the rain gathers?” → Vessel’s past is coming back to him again, he’s finally accepting it all but he’s still clinging on, asking his partner, or Sleep, if they still remember it all.

Further, rain often carries symbolic meanings, such as renewal, cleansing, as well as melancholy. The question is more of a ‘Will you remember me now that I’ve changed? Am I still good enough for you?’

“And do you still believe nothing else matters?” → This line is a callback to Bloodsport’s "tangled with what I never said, and you say it doesn’t matter".

It also brings up change again. At the start of the song, Vessel is afraid of change, changing out of the mindset he’s been in for so long, but now he’s asking his partner if they’re still the same as before. If loving them is still a blood sport.

“For me, it’s still the autumn leaves” → Autumn symbolises change and is the in-between of summer and winter. The middle of constant sunlight and constant darkness; it’s twilight. It displays a long-awaited change and finally, the acceptance of it.

“These ancient canopies that we used to lay beneath” → As autumn arrives, the canopies of the trees change yet again. The trees Vessel his partner used to lay beneath become ancient with all the autumns that have passed. Eventually, his partner becomes an ancient bygone to him.

“No, by now, the night belongs to you” → Direct callback to TNDNBTG from Sundowning. The Night, lore-wise, is presented as something holy. It is their duty, as Vessels of Sleep, to constantly stay awake because the night belongs to Sleep; no one else. Vessel is rebuking against Sleep, stating that the night no longer comes down like Heaven, like he once believed, and belongs to someone entirely human now. It belongs to him. It belongs to us.

“This bough has broken through” → Direct callback to WTBB from One. When the bough breaks is an idiom meaning ‘when a situation has reached the point of no return’. In WTBB, this is in reference to how Vessel and his partner ignore how toxic their relationship has gone because neither of them wants to be alone in their suffering. The bough has broken through because Vessel has left this person, and he has changed. He has overcome the fear of being alone and has changed for the better.

“I must be someone new” → This is a direct statement of how Vessel must change if he wants to continue on. He must find a way to become human again while being a Vessel of Sleep. He has to get over his past.

The bridge then repeats the previous two verses, almost as if Vessel is trying to nail in his final point. He hasn’t got anything more to say, so he’s repeating all he’s said.

Finally, the fourth and final verse is a repetition of the second verse of TNDNBTG. The produced album trilogy, the loop, finishes here. As the listener, we are sent right back to where we first began; in a state of suffering and struggling to accept our new form, to accept our humanity. But, if you run it back, listen to albums again, you’ll be right back at Euclid. You’ll be back to facing the fact of change and guess what? Time has passed again. Could be a couple of hours. Could be a couple of days. Could be a month! But time has passed as you have revisited the past on an empty ceiling and you, as the listener, are faced with change again.

Euclid, in the end, lyrically, becomes the question of have you accepted it yet? Will you allow time to sew your wounds shut, or do you need to go back one more time? Go back to where your atoms stopped fusing, to where it was blue light over murder, or, do you want to face the inevitable?

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littledrawsandwritesstuff · 8 months

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I haven't done an update in a while, so... yeah, my hiatus is still going. Currently I am preparing to go to a wedding next week... where I know nobody but the bride. On the social anxiety website you probably get why this is immense mental stress. My husband... has been in rehab for a while and it was going well until his stupid surgery wound was like "Whoops, haha, guess I'll bleed again" and they examined him and decided to sew it back shut and let it heal. Where will he heal? At home. So I am getting my sick husband back home. While that means that hospital trips won't be done anymore, he needs help of course. He can act mostly fine in bed, but he is stuck in bed and I need to help him get food and stuff. But the most glaring thing is that the is carrying a stoma at the moment because of his colon surgery and we decided to keep it until he is mobile enough to go to the toilet again. For anyone who doesn't know what that is, ever heard of an colostomy bag? Yeah, that thing is catching the poop that comes out of a artificial colon end. Emptying that bag is not a problem, the problem is that this stoma liked to leak a lot and it takes quite some time to change it and clean up then. So it kinda depends on how hard this thing makes our life if I have time or not. I also have to write at least one more fic for the chain game I am into before I can even think of my own personal stuff again. And I probably will do some writing for my kink blog first anyway after that. So, my art hiatus stays, my writing hiatus is there kinda. And even after everything is over, please expect that I will get slower in general. I don't want to burn out myself again.

#about my writing #about my art #sorry for gross images

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3dnygma · 3 months

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If doors could scream (Welcome Home one-shot)

POV: you are a sentient house

Characters: Wally Darling & Home, Robert Dorelaine, no romantic/sexual relationship

Teen & Up Audiences, Angst, Existential Horror (more tags on AO3)

Words: 949

AO3 Link

If doors could scream, you think to yourself, then these creatures would never have a restfull night.

But your doors can't scream - they can only creek. So you creek and you snarl and let your windows fly open on a stormy night. Anything to at the very least inconvenience the parasite nesting within your organs that he calls "furniture".

Once, you tried breaking one of your own windows to see what would happen if his skin was cut open with your glass shards.

In the end, it wasn't worth having the postman over the following day, poking around your frames for hours in order to fix them and sewing the monster's wound shut, which had some fiber sticking out of it with no blood in sight.

And of course, there was the pain. You didn't know that breaking glass would feel as if breaking a human bone. A stabbing sensation, reinforced whenever even the slightest breeze would soar through your exposed frames. That's what breaking a human boned used to feel like, right? You remember once breaking a leg when you were younger, although you don't quite remember how. Back then, you were still going by Ronald Dorelaine.

But him? He didn't at all seem affected by the wound you had given him. Because, supposedly, life would have been somewhat fair if you had managed to cause him a fraction of the pain that he has been caused you over the years.

You think about that night - and all your other desperate attempts to garner some sort of revenge. And while you are lost in your thoughts, he opens his mouth.

"Good night, Home. Sleep well."

There it is. That voice you practiced for days while staring in the mirror and hoping that the movement of your puppet's mouth would match your words perfectly. You had modelled the voice after your uncle Fitz and yourself, two tender creatives. It was monotone, yet light, with a dreamy nature. Back then, you had no idea how horrifying it could sound.

You take it in, sliding the sofa back and forth around your livingroom, accompanied by some creaking of your eastern walls. In this complex language you've aquired over the years, that means: You imbecile.You know I don't sleep. When have you ever witnessed me sleeping?

He chuckles. "I had a wonderful day, thanks for asking! Barnaby and I went to Howdy's store. Howdy was missing some crabs...I don't know why Howdy has crabs, but he does. Anyway, Barnaby and I looked for them aaaall around Home. It was really fun! Howdy was really happy ... when we got them back. Then, he gave us hotdogs! They were really good."

I don't care, you utter through a creeking floorboard in the bedroom. Why should I care about your day if all I can do with mine is bending some walls?

"Yes, it was a very nice day. But every day in Home ... is a nice day! I can't wait to find out what will happen tommorrow. And the day after tomorrow ... and the day after that!"

You ruined my life. I wish I had never created you. You're not Wally. You're a demon! Yes, it must have been Satan that offered me that deal. And now he is controlling your limbs instead of me. Don't you remember? I made you! I sewed you out of my mother's yellow fleece blanket! And this is how you repay me? By turning my legs into pillars and my head into a rooftop? Fuck you! I hope you swallow some of your paint and choke on it!

"Haha. Silly Home ... Please don't swear. It's not very nice ... to use bad words."

You and every single one of your planks freeze. Did he just-

"What is it, Home? Are you ... surprised? Do you think that ... I can't hear you? Well, I can! Most times, I just don't feel like ... answering. You are just so boring and ... repetitive. Haha."

That laugh causes your drain pipes to shake.

He gets out of bed, with his dainty robes and nightcap on. Then, he scratches the insides of your walls. If this still was your human body, you would compare the sensation to a cockroach crawling through your intestines. Now, you finally realize that he has been doing this intentionally.

His voice splits into two ends, rubbing at eachother like a squeaking chalkboard. "You must remember, Home. We made you. Without us, there would be no Welcome Home on the Tee-Vee. You wanted this ... yes? You wanted ... to be heard and seen ... on the Tee-Vee. You wanted everybody to feel your love ... deep inside of them. And soon, they will all feel it ... just like you! Many friends and fun voices, deep in their hearts."

Your walls and floors are shaking - and yet, he happily walks back to his bed, not paying the breakdown that his house is currently experiencing any mind.

"And until then ... we will have ... lots of fun, together!" His voice stabilizes itself once more. "Tomorrow, everybody from Home will visit us. Barnaby, Frank, Sally, ... the whole gang. They will all be here, on your floors, in your rooms. It will be fun! Well, for you it will hurt ... but it will be fun!"

He pauses.

"That's all. See you tomorrow, Home."

Then, he is fast asleep.

One floor down, your sink leaks a few droplets splashing down the drain. Your rooftop trembles ever so slightly, trying to not to wake up the monster inhabiting your insides. You now have these late hours to yourself, before that horrific cycle starts again tomorrow.

If houses could cry, I'm sure there would be a tragedy written in your name.

#hellooo this is my first fanfic in a while hope you guys enjoyed it #welcome home #welcome home fanfic #wally darling #robert dorelaine #home (welcome home arg)#horror fanfic #welome home*#my writing #my fanfic #mine

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devils-pirate-crew · 10 months

Text

Johnny turns around again after a while, humming to himself as he opens one of the smaller books - its pages are filled with meticulous handwriting, and he flips until he finds a blank page. Dipping a quill on the table in its pot of ink, the surgeon scribbles a few notes, then cracks the well-worn spine until it doesn't threaten to close when he lies it down, open, on the table.

"So," he begins. "You want the good news or bad news first?"

"Uh - " Dawson swallows sharply, gripping the edges of the table-bed. "Good news?"

"There's none," Marino shrugs. "Unless the confirmation that you're not going to die is good news."

"I'll take it," the pilot's mate lies.

"Then there you go." He sets the quill back in the inkwell. "Bad news time. We're going to have to stitch that up." Dawson visibly winces at the information, rocking backwards. Johnny fixes him with an apathethic stare in reply. "Unless you'd rather have a gaping wound exposed to bad air. In which case be my guest, but I'd prefer not to get punished for not doing my job."

The surgeon looks back to his table, sliding a needle onto thread - the lantern that lights the room makes the needle shimmer. "Here's the deal," he continues as he prepares the rest of his tools. "We're going to take off the current bandages - nice work, whoever did that, by the way - and then clean up the wound. After that, we're going to put in the stitches. I originally thought we could do a dry suture, which would have me putting adhesive bandages on your face and sewing those together, but there's a few problems with that. Number one, it'll agitate the scar tissue you already have from - before; number two, the wound is fairly deep and I'm not sure it'll close properly; number three, the suture will fail if we set sail again, because the sea water and wind will destroy the bandages. And I think the captain wants to head back out sooner rather than later. Besides, dry suture is good if you don't want it to scar, which - " he waves a hand dismissively at Dawson, "I don't think you really care about. Not like you can make that much worse."

"Thanks for the compliment," Dawson mutters.

"So we're going to have to go for a standard suture. I think we'll need... nine, ten stitches a finger's width apart - good for the circulation." Marino nods to himself. "Then dress it up again. Probably change the dressings every other day, take the sutures out at two weeks if it's looking good..."

"Can you stop talking and start doing," the pilot's mate almost whines with anxiety.

Johnny nods, taking the required supplies over. "Not a chatter, eh Mercy?" Intercepting Dawson's terrified gaze, the surgeon laughs. "Don't worry. You're probably drunk enough that you won't feel that much, anyway," Marino rationalizes before getting to work.

First, he unwinds the bandages from Dawson's face, depositing them in a fenugreek-scented heap on the bed next to him. Johnny then examines the wound a little more, muttering to himself as he does, before grabbing a bowl in which sits a shallow pool of pungent liquid. He procures a sponge from his tools, dipping it into the liquid and reciting a paternoster before pulling it out, deeming it properly saturated. Taking Dawson's head in one hand, he drags the sponge over the wound - the vinegar stings, and Dawson tries to jerk away on reflex, but Johnny keeps his head steady. Once the cleaning is done, Marino reaches for the needle.

Dawson forces himself to keep breathing. To act like this isn't hurting. To pretend he can't feel anything, not this needle and not the needle years and years ago either. Everything is okay.

he's trying to kill you lock you up going to hurt you shut up shut up he's going to lock you up when he knows throw away the key put you on display for everyone to see run away run away run away listen to us why aren't you LISTENING LISTEN TO US WE WILL SAVE YOU ONLY WE CAN SAVE YOU

Everything is okay.

#storyline #d.mercer|91 #j.marino|6

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scrawlingmouse · 7 months

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Trick or treat! 🎃

FOR YOU some mild horror from the Echo fic that I am realizing was like 80-90% finished lmao

Anyways shits fucked when you're a massively telepathic monster the size of a two story building and your kid is the size of a regular human teenager oops

["Little Echo?" She presses against their mind but-- unlike every time before, they shrink away. Worry gnaws at her gut and she makes herself as small as she can to get to where they've hidden themself. "It is only me."

"Guards the Deep?" Fear. Pain. They reek of it. Their hatchling is shaking, burrowed in their cloak, but the moment they have visual confirmation of her their defenses drop and they cling to her mentally. Physically, they do not move. "I'm sorry, I didn't know. He felt like how you feel-"

"I'm sorry." Her mind curls around their's and draws it close, checking for lasting wounds from the psychic attack. "I should have shown you how to guard your mind, how to block my kind for at least a bit."

"I just let him in." Their mind is miserable, and she can feel them spiraling. "He was right, I'm not one of you-"

"You're hurt," she interrupts.

"I am??"

"You are." She can smell it with her nose now, thick and metallic in the air. "Show me."

Little Echo takes a bit, still reeling from the shock, but eventually they stick out a gangly leg, a deep gash running through the muscle. It must have either happened when she grabbed them, or when they made contact with the ruins. Either way… "It's too deep to wrap," she says, poking around their synapses. "You're going to have to stitch it shut."

Their fear spikes, and their hands shake. "I- I don't know-"

"I cannot do it, I am too big." She pushes on. "Your kind heals this way. If you do not, the wound will not heal, and you will die."

Their breathing picks up dangerously as they stare at the wound. "I can't." They can't. Their mind is spiraling, they can't focus. Alright.

Guards the Deep curls around their mind, wrapping them up in a warm mental hug, before pulling on their synapses like puppet strings. With their hands she opens their satchel, pulls out the simple sewing kit they use for their clothes. With their hands she prepares the needle, prepares the thread. They resist only when she reaches towards the wound, flinching back. "Don't fight me, Little Echo," she croons, pausing just enough for them to catch their breath before working on the stitches. She holds them, even as they begin to cry small, panicked tears. "It will hurt, but you will heal. Trust me, Little Echo."

They sniff, even though their hands are steady. "I do."

"I will do nothing more than this."]

Can Echo do this to other people now with their adult inherited telepathy????? Maybe :)

AND WHATS THIS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE BAG??? A PIECE OF THAT JOBI FIC I ALSO NEVER FINISHED??????

[There was a biblical story Gabi had told him once. Samson and Delilah. Samson was terrifyingly strong, and his enemies sent someone in to gain his trust and learn the source of his power, and that was Delilah. Samson fell in love with her, and told her that if she cut his hair she would render him powerless. There is vulnerability in leaning how to kill someone. The rest of the story goes on as you might expect: she cut his hair, gave him to his enemies who bound him and beat him until his hair grew out, and he pulled the building down on top of everyone. These days, John can't help but think. An undefeatable man, giving away his one weakness… was he awake when Delilah cut his hair? Did he feel her at his back, her hands in his hair? Did he feel the first cut, and simply lay back and let it happen? Did he give her the means to defeat him, just to feel what that defeat felt like?]

[There is some part of him, some part that is more lucid that balks at talking to her about these fears. She knows these fears, and he knows she holds identical ones, and it's not fair to all but beg her to fix his own. But he does.]

["I could hurt people, I could…" I could hurt you. I have hurt you. I'm a monster a weapon a feral rabid fucking dog put me down put me down please please please- his nervous system is static, his brain feels like it's going to vibrate out of his skull, his hands don't stop shaking until she takes them.]

[There is something intimate in telling someone how to trap you. Even moreso in letting them do it.]

Anyways HALLOWED BE THY WEEN 🎃🎃🎃

#Squeaking #Old writing is old writing but y'know I still like these #I should finish them one of these days

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endowataru · 2 years

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I’m sorry, I saw the notification, secret agent AU?

ldskfsldkjf i forgot i put that in the tags, but yes!! i thought of a lestappen secret agent au back when charles was still in his ferrari angst stage (though who knows if he's fully out of it...), so the entire thing is centered around charles (agent 16 ofc) from one agency being sent to work with max from another agency (rebranded from 33 to agent 1 ofc) on a mission. they initially butt heads but eventually grow close, and the main plot involves the two of them realizing that something is amiss with their orders and they have to decide whether to stick with them or go with their gut. charles takes some time to come around to the idea of disobeying orders but eventually they [insert vague description of taking down a big bad here] and live happily ever after <3 now that i've typed this all out it's kind of like the man from uncle movie remake, if you've ever seen that?

anyway, here's a snippet i've cleaned up from my notes, since i'm not sure i will ever write this:

(context for the scene: max goes to do some reconnaissance and returns to the safehouse wounded; charles bandages him up while scolding him for making him worry)

"Looks like I owe you a drink, no?" Max says. Despite not looking at his face, Charles can feel the amusement radiating off of him--which is so stupid considering Max was practically bleeding to death on the balcony before Charles found him. Max is so stupid.

"Shut up," Charles says, kneeling in front of him with the roll of bandages in one hand, scissors in the other. "You talk too much."

"I thought you liked my bedtime stories."

"Don't. You're such a reckless, hot-headed, and--"

"Oh, there's more?"

"--and a no brains idiot."

Max hums and shifts on the bed. "Is that a compliment?"

"Of course it isn't, you imbecile."

"Haven't heard that one before." Max starts shaking, then grimaces, holding his chest. "Ow, Charles, don't make me laugh."

Charles glares at him. "Then don't get yourself shot at." He wraps Max's chest in two, three, four--five? he's lost count--layers of bandages, just to prove his point.

Max stops him before he can unwind the last layer. "The bleeding's stopped."

Charles wrestles his arm out of Max's grasp. "I'm the one with medical training." He snips off the ends and ties them off with a harder-than-necessary knot. "Not you."

Max grunts and rolls his eyes. "We all have medical training."

"I could perform surgery on you with a butter knife. You can hardly sew yourself up," Charles says flatly. He saw the way Max's hands trembled the other day. It had been odd, to say the least, seeing proof of Max's humanity; a flaw amongst his many perfections. Max didn't tell him what had happened, so Charles didn't ask.

"So you were watching me after all," says Max, raising his eyebrows, a questioning smirk pulling at his lips.

Charles grits his teeth. He's so sick of it; sick of how Max turns every serious conversation into a joke. One of these days, Max will pay for it with his life, and there will be nothing Charles can do.

"Occupational hazard," he says. He picks the pair of scissors off of Max's lap, preparing to stand up and give his knees a break--just as a hand around his wrist pulls him back down.

"Charles," Max says.

"Unhand me."

"You're leaving?"

He couldn't even if he tried, Charles thinks. It's long past any talk of leaving.

Charles swallows around the lump in his throat, staring ahead at the stain on the faded wallpaper across the room. "I need to put this away," he says, gripping the scissors.

Max places two gentle fingers to the side of Charles' jaw, tilting his face up. "I'm back. I'm safe because you came to find me. I will always come back to you."

Charles' breath hitches, a small little sound that catches in his chest, hangs in his ears. The swirls of Max's fingertips burn through his skin. Even inside their safehouse, this is too much time spent in the same location to be smart, but he doesn't dare move.

Max studies him as Charles does the same--runs his eyes over the outward curve of Max's nose, the bold contours of his cheekbones, the freckle on his lip; that damn freckle that's been driving Charles insane since Max first walked into the room with his hands in his pockets and that confident smile of his, inviting and intoxicating. Sitting here in front of the open window, warmed by the fireplace and Max's body heat, he can't conjure up a single reason as to why he hasn't kissed that smirk off of Max's face yet.

He leans in and does the deed now.

Max flinches--a triumph that Charles files away in the back of his mind, in the cabinet labeled with Max Verstappen in permanent ink--but he's quick to get with the program, all but pulling Charles off of the ground and onto his lap. The scissors fall to the wooden floor with a muted thud as Charles nestles his hands over Max's chest.

"Careful with the ribs," Max murmurs against Charles' lips. "Still hurts a bit."

"Then don't get yourself shot at," Charles repeats, arousal low and wanting in his belly. Holding an emotion that's not trepidation or fear inside his body feels good; exciting. He presses his fingers around the core of Max's wound, feeling Max's heartbeat singing strongly through the bandages. "And anyway, I think red looks good on you."

"If you're trying to get me into your clothes, Agent 16," says Max, palming Charles' ass, "it's not going to work."

"I'm just telling the truth." Charles frames Max's face with his hands and dips his thumb into Max's mouth, scratching at the freckle. "Now shut up and kiss me, Agent 1."

#thanks for giving me the chance to talk a bit about this au <3 #askbox #lestappen #fic tag

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unprocione · 1 year

Text

* @blitzkriegers ︴ continued from 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔!

THUMBING FOR A SLIP OF GAUZE IN THE POCKETS THAT LINE HIS LONG LEGS, at the moment the dismissive words leave heisenberg's mouth, leon sets to tending and dressing the gash serrating his forearm with the remnants of his medical supplies. ❛ and this is something you're proud of? ❜ leon scoffs, subtly pressing for more information. in much of leon's other experience against bioweapons, lasting damage was a rarity unless you pierced through the skull and destroyed the brain. skin so easily pierced was either undead and rotting, making whatever injury taken pointless, or had an accelerated healing factor that would be notable by now. neither of which he could detect from karl - even if the other man did reek of the dead. so what was the alternative, if karl didn't sew his own wounds shut, and if they didn't repair themselves? the other man is etched with scars, too many to tally, and it put leon considerably more on edge that karl had lived through such horrific injuries without the regenerative mutation factor. underestimation was to be signing his own death warrant.

mention of the parasite draws a sharp pain in leon's chest, a pressure on his lungs, likely psychosomatic, but can he ever be sure? the thought of the plagas gleefully wriggling tendrils around inside his chest cavity is just too much to handle at the moment, leon's bruised knuckles whitening as he squeezes the roll of bandage like a stress ball. leon wears denial with a head held high, violently rejecting that the trespasser to his body and mind was a manageable personal failure, though it lingers, another failure of control in his ledger. his words to karl are sharp as they are cautionary, whether or not they fall on deaf ears, they're spoken anyways, reassurance to himself. ❛ it doesn't work like that. it's a parasite, not a tool. forget your ego the size of manhattan for a moment, because whatever you've got nested up inside you? if it's anything like this, anything stronger? you're an incubator, not a warden. either wake up and smell the goddamn roses, or continue to suit yourself and swallow down whatever fairytale helps you sleep at night, but don't act like this is a matter of control. you're not special - you're sick. ❜

not expecting his harsh response to be reflected back on him in flirtation, leon raises his eyebrows at the offer, rendered mute with a slight red flush rising to his face, suffering from a thorough mix of indignancy and embarrassment, but he recovers, quickly shrugging it off, fixing karl with a firm look of cold and unimpressed professionalism, crossing his arms across his chest. ❛ ... i'll pass, medical treatment isn't really my specialty. besides, whatever you've got, for all i know, it might be viral. ❜ it's a genuine concern, the oily taste of blood coating his mouth penned away already in an internal contamination report that leon knew he would have to fill out by the time this was all said and done with. ( he was betting his money already on some form of tetanus contracted from shrapnel impalement. )

initially prickling, inhaling to protest that if karl should want respect, he ought to do something respectful, disgusted at the premise of deferring to someone with such a twisted moral backbone, supporting only himself. leon finds himself biting his tongue instead, and looking at karl in silence. everything about the other man, the way he carries himself, is made to be intolerable, to draw the most ire, provoke the most argument. leon doubts very seriously it isn't intentional - learned, maybe, but carved and crafted to suit karl's needs, welded into a suit of armor. in the scarce minutes he's been near the other man, leon can speak to few redeemable qualities he's noticed, but it didn't mean that lord heisenberg was devoid of them - just very earnest to prove the assumption that he was.

❛ and what does my respect matter to you, lord heisenberg? you won't be a lord for too much longer, the way things are headed out there. when all of this, ❜ leon gestures to the diagram behind him with a wave of his hand, to the room around them with another motion. ❛ — is reduced to rubble and smoking ash, with no one left to remember what it is that made you a lord, will you still be one? in the corner of a cage, in and out of a haze after sedation, too weak to do anything but lay there as they carve away chunks of you day by day, taking away more of what makes you lord heisenberg.. drawing blood, injecting you with only god knows to see what happens, all with the intention of trying to find out what exactly makes you tick, up until you stop ticking, will you still be a lord then? ❜ leon phrases it all as a genuine question, not a waiver in his curious tone of voice or a twitch in his expression as the subject matter turns less philosophical and more threatening, word by word. another day, another disaster, another dollar, and still nobody cares how the sausage gets made. ❛ the bsaa doesn't tolerate idle threats. only dead or useful ones, and they often aren't useful for very long. it doesn't have to go that direction, but you're certainly not making it easy on yourself. i wouldn't wish being their lab rat on my worst enemy, and i certainly don't wish it on you, but i don't feel like getting myself involved out of just the kindness of my heart on your behalf, becoming a thorn in their side just because i don't like the thought of human experimentation. then again, i guess you're not really human, are you? ❜ dismissive, the same look returns to kennedy's eyes as before, when he initially entered the room, far less personable, the hardened stare of someone looking down the barrel of a familiar gun, rather than meeting eyes with the person holding it. karl, for a moment, is a bioweapon, and nothing more, once again, like leon has flicked an inner switch. ❛ maybe it's better if i just keep my head down and try not to think too much about it. turn a blind eye, you know? it certainly wouldn't be the first time in my career. ❜

karl approaches, and leon doesn't cower at the intrusion to his personal space, doesn't blush at the insufferable flirtation, but leans forward to invade karl's space before the man is fully within his own, and he cracks a patronizing smile as he does it. ❛ i seriously doubt that, but i admire the confidence, i have to say. most aren't so bold. but, unless one of miranda's little side projects involve little blue pills.. do you even still get it up, at your age? ❜ leon tilts his head at karl's grandiose movements, doesn't clap, doesn't flinch, observing the dutiful showman routine like he's seen it a thousand times over, which, he practically has, for all the monologuing he's been put through in his career. karl's performance would be endearing if the topic was of anything else, but as it is? it makes leon's stomach turn.

❛ i wish it were that simple, but it's not. put your selfishness aside for five minutes, and realize the world doesn't start and end here, with you. do you think the bsaa is here just because they have nothing better to do? do you think myself and chris are here just out of pure loyalty to the winters? ❜ while leon feels a stab of guilt and pity for the winters, ethan especially, and it took few words from chris to get him out here after the man, it is not his entire motivation, only the heart of it. ❛ as it stands, that research, those plans, are the blueprints to a whole different brand of devastation that everyone will want to corner the market on, it's a risk that we just can't afford. we've never seen anything like this before, this isn't anything like just another iteration of t-virus, what you're entirely capable of, i can't begin to grasp, but the idea of an army of you, i have some idea of what that's going to look like, and it's not going to be pretty. miranda may not have her sights on world domination, but i doubt she's the only person alive with access to her research, and i seriously doubt that once she's dead, they're going to let her projects, her designs, die with her. they'll all descend like vultures on whatever remains! ❜ karl's maneuver jostles him, and it sends leon instantly startling, gripping the front of the lord's coat tight in both fists as his entire frame goes taut with tension, expecting a fight, but not throwing the first punch.

besides, who says i won’t have company? i hope they packed plenty of aspirin. leon doesn't comment on karl's remark aloud, or the boast he makes of his capabilities, a wince playing across his features as he rises to his feet, but he stands steadily enough to bear his own weight, unwilling to be entirely at karl's mercy while seated before him. ❛ i'll find something, i have to, and if i don't? i can at least get some sleep instead of staying awake at night, worrying about what's fallen into who's hands, and whether i could have prevented it. ❜ as karl refers to him as fragile, leon gestures towards his throat, looking at karl's own, marked with a ring of teethmarks. ❛ are you sure you don't want some bandages, lord heisenberg? ❜

#» 🌱 ﹕ thread. ─ blitzkriegers. ╱ karl heisenberg. ❧#» 🕊️ ﹕ were you bitten or scratched? (ic.) ❧#✦ CLASS ﹕ * heavy reply.#the banner is so handsome... i can't get over it #how leon manages to say 'lord heisenberg' like an insult... he truly does attract bitchy blondes doesn't he #we tried the kindness of my heart way already how about you make yourself useful n i keep you from getting bled dry #there's so many points in this where leon's gonna look back post timeskip and go OH /FUCK/ OH /FUCK/ /FUCK/ /FUCK!!!/#can't wait to go over them in detail

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