#more like a kind of disease? virus? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ddollipop · 7 months

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CURB THIS SICKNESS. . . ! — ( SOFT YANDERE!PLAGUE DOCTOR OC X READER. )

#. synopsis! — there's a virus outside that's snuffed out the lights of many. . . and lucian refuses to let you meet such a miserable fate .

#. contains! — f!reader , explicitly nsfw content , multiple orgasms , vaginal fingering , implications of paranoia , cum swallowing , oral sex , cunnilingus , blowjob , vaginal sex , obsessive behavior , frequent usage of endearment terms (love, darling, angel) , missionary position , bathing , established relationship , slight choking , slight hair pulling , creampie , biting .

#. word count! — 5.1k .

#. oc carrd! — click here to find more information on lucian + other original characters of mine that i might write for in the future! xx .

When the virus began to spread in all directions from its alleged location of origin, —you were certain you’d be dead before winter. If not from sickness, then certainly from another disease, or at the hands of some twisted maniac just searching for someone to slaughter that nobody would care enough to miss. You thought it was only a matter of time before you succumbed to hunger or thirst or the changing chill of autumn, or maybe something completely different: but something was bound to happen, and you were sure of it.

And it did. . . But it was nothing like what you had in mind.

Lucian may have seemed like something out of a horror story passed down through generations, still clad in his working attire the night he scooped you up in his arms from a shabby alleyway like a stray kitten, but he was surprisingly gentle (and perhaps unusually quiet.) He wasn’t very talkative, but he cared for you in a way you were completely unaccustomed to, —prepared you a warm meal, brewed you chamomile tea, ran you a hot bath, and gave you a place to sleep for the night. He said you were slightly fevered and a bit malnourished, but all things considered, it could have been worlds worse.

“You’re lucky,” he hummed, a gloved hand smoothing over your jaw, “the pestilence hasn’t taken hold of you.”

Even back then, that wasn’t why you felt lucky. . . No, much to the contrary, you felt lucky because this man had taken you in without expecting anything of you in return, and he sought to keep you safe from the rot of the outside world. Thus, little by little, you stopped caring much about going out there.

His place is a bit quaint for two, but it’s homey, and it smells perpetually of lavender. Over time, he’s shifted the sleeping arrangements, and now you rest in his arms each night; about as close as one can get to being a lover without having the label.

A part of you is sure you could get it if you asked, but to you, it doesn’t matter much. At the end of each day, he comes home to you, and that’s what counts. You take care of the housework while he’s away (not that there’s ever much to do.) For as odd as he is, his living space is free of most things, —no trinkets unrelated to his work (which you are not keen on touching), and he’s meticulous about picking up after himself and keeping all his items in order, so your unofficial duties are few and far between. Otherwise, the rest boils down to cooking meals, washing clothes, and keeping yourself entertained while he’s away. . . Like some kind of glorified trophy wife.

And sure, this will probably get old eventually, but for now, this is what you’re working with. He likes to have you close and to know where you are, —to know that you’re safe and not out getting infected by anyone or anything. If you’re at his home, you’re safe from all the filth of the outside world, and heaven knows it’s so nice to come home and lie next to a body so utterly unmarred by the grime of society.

You’re sure once the virus has stilled, he’ll ease up.

But tonight is not that night. Lucian all but stumbles through the door, and you can hear his rapid breathing through the long, beak-like shape of his mask. He seems startled and frantic, and you rush over, a concerned expression crossing your features.

“Lucian? Are you alright?” You ask, reaching out to put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

In an instant, he snatches your wrist and grabs for the other, holding one in either hand. His grip is fervent, but far from painful, and you become more confused the longer he goes without explaining the state he’s found himself in.

“Lucian—”

“Darling,” he cuts you off, “you mustn’t get near the door.”

“Okay,” you nod in compliance, “but why?”

“The pestilence has taken hold of this city,” he replies. “The air out there, you wouldn’t believe the thickness of that putrid aroma. It’s suffocating.”

Before you can ask if there’s something you can do to quench his worries, he tugs you away from the entrance and into the bathroom. He removes his gloves and sets them aside, reaching down to begin running a warm bath. Then he looks to you, almost expectantly.

“Strip, please,” he encourages, —saying it like he’s desperate for the act, albeit not necessarily under the context you’d prefer of him.

“Lucian—”

“Darling,” he hisses, “please, do as I ask of you.”

His bare hands cup your cheeks.

“Please,” he repeats.

It’s hard to deny him when he asks like that and has been so good to you, and it’s not as if he’s asking for a lot. He’s just having a bad night, and if scrubbing yourself down will help ease his mind a bit, you’re willing to put in that sliver of extra effort for his sake.

Lucian sighs in relief as you begin to disrobe.

“Thank you,” he comments. “I really don’t have a clue what I’d do if you fell ill. . . I don’t think my heart could handle such a thing.”

You slip the last of your clothing off and step gingerly into the filling tub. It’s not long enough to stretch out in, so you bunch yourself up neatly to fit the space and look up at him once more.

“I feel fine,” you assure.

“I’m glad,” he replies. ��Even so, it’s much better to air on the side of caution. The human body is a dangerously fickle thing, and it can be incredibly fragile. I’ve seen as much firsthand more times than I can count. In its infancy, this virus is little more than a common cold, but progresses into something fatal at a rapid pace.”

You simply nod as he kneels next to the tub, rolling his sleeves up.

“Your breathing is ragged, Lucian,” you state, “you should take that mask off and get some fresh air.”

“After,” he answers quickly.

He reaches for the half-used lavender soap bar and lathers it on his palms, then reaches out to smooth the suds over your arms and neck. His motions are a little rough and all too urgent. This is far from the first time he’s accompanied you for a bath, but it is the first time he’s ever done so and been this aggressive in his approach (if only as a result of his own anxiety.)

For the time being, he seems to avoid your breasts, instead reaching for one of your legs to hike it up out of the water. He repeats this process with the other, cleaning you until he seems satisfied. When he makes no move to revisit your chest, you take the soap from his hand and lather it yourself, placing it in its previous spot before leaning back slightly and allowing your hands to travel where you’d have liked for his to go.

Lucian watches but doesn’t touch. Your fingertips nudge at your nipples, feeling them harden under the minstrations, your bottom lip slipping between your teeth. If nothing else, he should be getting the hint by now.

Surprisingly, you’ve never had sex with him in all the months you’ve spent curled up in his arms, sleeping in his bed. He’s watched you take care of yourself on a number of occasions, has helped with his fingers another few times, —and allowed you to wrap your hand around him once a few weeks prior; but anything beyond that has seemed to be off limits. You’ve chalked it up to his shyness, or perhaps his distaste for human contact as a result of the pestilence; but tonight feels distinctly different.

Even in his previous state of frazzlement, Lucian seems all too content to sit back and watch you fondle your own breasts, soapy fingers clutching and releasing in tandem. You’ve always liked for him to watch you do things like this. Though his mask obscures the view of his face, you just know his eyes are trained on you, soaking up every movement, and you like to think he’s drooling at the way you grope yourself for his enjoyment (and for your own.)

“Lucian?” You prompt, half-lidded eyes glancing over to him.

His shoulders straighten as you say his name.

“You’re very beautiful,” he says, words almost too muffled by the mask to be made out.

“You think so?” You smirk a bit.

“I do.”

Ah, but that’s nothing new, and it’s nothing he hasn’t shared with you before. On the very night he took you in and washed your hair, he smoothed his gloved hands against your scalp and mumbled about how pretty you looked, even with dirt still caked on your skin. Even covered in filth from the alleyways you’d been sleeping in, he thought you were nothing less than stunning, —a real vision to behold, and he’s never skimped on such compliments.

You pause for a moment, reaching out to grasp for his hands. He allows the gesture, though he seems a bit confused, leaning in closer to the rim of the tub as you position him to your liking.

“Do you think I feel feverish?” You inquire, placing one of his hands on your neck and another on one of your breasts.

He makes no move to pull away, firming his grip up almost instantaneously, as if he’s been itching to feel you this way.

“Perhaps a bit warm,” he mumbles, taking a moment to roll your nipple between two nimble fingers, “but body temperature is known to rise during times of. . .” he trails off, clears his throat, then utters: “arousal.”

You trail your nails down his arm, letting your head tip back again. His hands are a bit calloused, but they feel so good against your skin, and you let a few moans slip past your lips. It’s not often he touches you like this without his gloves on, but the flesh-on-flesh contact is electrifying.

“Not to worry you, but I do feel a bit strange,” you huff slightly.

Through the slightly tinted bath water, Lucian can still watch your hand as it travels between your thighs.

“I’m just a throbbing mess,” you hum, giving him a pointed stare; “but you’ll take care of me. . . Right, Doctor?”

It may just be your imagination, but you could swear you heard his breathing shudder at that request. You’ve never been this forward with him, but something apart from the facial expression that’s still hidden away tells you that he likes where this is going. His fingers clamp down on the column of your throat, squeezing just enough to make taking in air a bit more of a struggle, but not anywhere near hard enough to be fatal.

The bit about being a throbbing mess was by no means an exaggeration on your part, so you take matters into your own fingers for the time being, drawing circles on your clit beneath the water.

“Of course,” he finally finds the voice to agree, “—I’d do anything to keep you from feeling unwell.”

That is what you like to hear.

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

His grip tightens on your throat again, for emphasis, and with that, he seems to come slightly undone.

“Darling, that’s why I’ve demanded you stay here in my home, —our home. It’s safe here, free of contaminants and filth and anything that could cause you harm,” he says, the words spilling out like he’s been holding them back since he first set his sights on you.

“The world outside is ill, not just this rotten city. I’m working tirelessly to combat this pestilence, but as things stand now, the safest place you can be is here. With me. You understand that, my love. . . Don’t you?”

You’re only half listening, but you nod in agreement anyway. Whatever he’s saying, you trust his opinion on the matter.

“Of course,” you gasp, almost slipping a finger inside yourself to the tune of his melodic voice.

“I knew you would,” he continues, loosening the grip on your neck again. “You know I only want what’s best for you, that everything I do is to ensure your safety, —to eliminate the possibility of you ever falling sick.”

“Of course,” you repeat, head growing cloudier by the minute. “You’ve always taken such good care of me, right from the very beginning.”

God, he’s so elated that you’re seeing things his way. The way this makes him feel is almost too much to handle.

“I try so hard, darling, I truly do,” he says, both hands coming up to cup your cheeks.

“Please, Lucian,” you mumble desperately, “I need you tonight.”

He complies, shedding his long coat and draping it over your shoulders once you’ve stepped out of the tub. The chill of the air against your wet skin leaves your nipples hard and sensitive, and as he leads you to the bedroom, you hope he realizes just what it is you’re asking for. His fingers are a plentiful start, and you just know they’ll feel so good stuffed inside you, curling to hit all the right places, —but they’re nothing compared to the cock he’s stingily hidden away for all this time.

Tonight, you want him in all his glory in the glow of the lanterns on the walls. You want to strip him bare and gag on the length between his thighs, feel him twitch against the roof of your mouth, tease every vein that runs up his shaft. It’s not enough to grind against him while you’re half asleep or hump his clothed thigh until you’ve left his pants damp and your pussy sopping, just begging to be fucked by this man who might just love you more than he could ever fear any virus that lurks outside these walls.

“Don’t fret,” he tells you, though it sounds more like a command than a gesture to soothe any worries, “just lie back. I’ll be sure to give you. . . A proper examination.”

You could cum just hearing that.

With half your body pressed against the headboard and his coat nearly slipping off your body completely, he sets to work in his underclothes and mask. It’s by no means an uncommon sight, but there’s something distinct about him this late evening; the way his black attire contrasts so beautifully with the stark paleness of his skin and the mystery it shrouds him in that you’re just dying to sink your teeth into. Everything hidden beneath that cautious wardrobe and that long mask. . . You’ve gotta have it. It’s a necessity.

His fingers, ungloved, begin softly with your calves, tracing senseless lines.

“I’m not so fragile,” you remind him.

For as oblivious as he can be, Lucian takes the hint, and by the time he’s reached your thighs, he’s content to give them the same treatment as your throat.

The way he splits you apart is almost painfully clinical, a thumb on either side of your lips, peering through the eye holes of his mask to admire the way your folds glisten in the orange lantern light. A few prodding strokes leave you biting your lip again, body waning in anticipation for the moment he finally turns his hand over and sinks the longest of his fingers inside you, —slowly, but deliberately. It’s impossible to see his expression, but you hope his mouth hangs open a little at the way your cunt suckles on his finger, encouraging him to prod more and maybe stuff another few inside for you to grind against.

There’s something about the warmth of his fingers that gets you off almost in equal amounts to the way he moves. Another finger inside, and you whine, halfway to an orgasm from this alone.

He’s not particulary rough in his execution, but there’s a clean meticulousness in every movement that leaves every cell in your body craving more, begging for anything he can offer. Months upon months of wanting, of dropping hints, of hoping he’d catch on and finally see things your way, —and at last, you’ve made it. And now that you’re here, you’re content to simply lie still and let him have his way with you.

“Please don’t stop,” you beg, nearly choking on the words when the tips of his fingers brush just the right spot.

“Before you’re satisfied?” He sits forward a bit, resting his free hand on your stomach to press you down onto the bed. “Darling, I couldn’t fathom it.”

You will your upper body forward, grabbing for the hand on your stomach to move it up to your throat. He squeezes, scissoring the fingers inside you, watching closely as your body shakes and your eyes roll back a bit in ecstasy.

“I’ve tried,” he says to you suddenly. “I’ve tried so desperately to be gentle with you.”

You smile.

“I appreciate that,” you answer. “But I don’t want you to be gentle at the moment.”

“That’s a dangerous request, my love,” he warns.

God, you hope so.

You reach forward and grab at the beak of his mask, pulling it upward gently until it begins to slip off and reveal the handsome face underneath. Dark hair, dark eyes, but skin almost pale enough to be sickly, you meet his gaze just long enough to ask for permission, then lean in to kiss him on the mouth. It’s the first time, and it’s electric. He’s avoided this for months, —avoided your mouth, your unspoken pleas, all the passes you made for the sake of keeping himself at bay. But here you are now with two of his fingers stuffed inside you, his hand on your throat, and your lips slotted against his own.

“Please,” you murmur, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt.

And you can feel the restraints of his mind come unwound.

He’s no longer gentle in the way he fucks you silly with his fingers, hammering them over and over and over again into that delicious spot buried deep inside you, squeezing your throat hard enough to cut your breathing off. The way your pussy spasms as you cum is blissful, and he loves the way your arousal soaks his digits, loves the way your back arches, soundless moans spilling forth as he makes you orgasm.

“I fucking tried,” he says again.

It’s almost manic, so desperate and sort of pathetic in the kind of way that turns you on. This is the first time you’ve ever heard him curse, and it dawns on you that even the filthiest of words sound so unendingly elegant when they’re spoken by Lucian.

“I tried to be gentle. I tried to keep you safe here, —to shelter you from whatever forsaken wasteland remains out there,” he insists, his fingers still buried in your twitching cunt. “I just wanted to protect you.”

He lightens the grip on your throat as you lean in to kiss him again, cupping his face in your hands.

“You have,” you assure him.

“You take such good care of me, Lucian,” you mumble into his ear. “Let me show you how grateful I am.”

The fingers stuffed inside you slowly slip out, and reach for his hand, guiding them to your lips, taking his digits into your mouth to taste yourself on them. He watches with hunger and interest as you clean him with your tongue. He leans in to kiss you to get a taste of it himself, grasping your hair near the scalp and taking a fistful hard enough to make you gasp.

“I can’t let you leave,” he murmurs. “It’s not safe out there. When this pestilence has been subdued, I’ll do this all correctly. We can start from the beginning, and I’ll be a gentleman.”

“I look forward to it,” you answer softly.

“You’ll stay until then?” He inquires.

He’s clearly overreacting, but it’s hard to care when you just want him inside you. Lucian has seen death day in and day out, —so it’s no wonder it feels like it permeates everything around him. He just doesn’t want you to suffer such a fate, and you’re confident that you won’t, as long as he’s yours.

“Of course I will,” you answer.

It’s like something primal takes over. Suddenly his lips are on yours in a bruising kiss, and his hands are grasping roughly at your breasts, pushing you down onto the bed as he crawls between your legs. He pauses, hovering just above your dripping cunt, turning his head to sink his teeth into the meat of your thigh. It makes you squeal a bit, and he kisses the teethmarks he left behind as if in apology.

You can’t help but wonder how long he’s been yearning for this. It’s like every part of him is thrumming from the thrill of it all, and this man who has previously refused to even kiss you on the mouth is now stationed exactly where you want him, tongue lolling out to lick a solid stripe up your folds. He laps like a man starved, then spreads you apart with his thumbs to suck your clit mercilessly.

It’s good enough to make your vision go blurry, and you can’t seem to form proper words through the haze. Desperately, your fingers claw at the sheets of this mattress, and he moans against your hot cunt, sending a vibration rippling through your core that makes your back arch on instinct. You mumble something that comes out like gibberish, pussy convulsing against the flat of his tongue.

His arm comes round to press your hips down, forcing you to be still. It’s the kind of toruture you’re sure you’ll learn to live for. There’s only so much you can wriggle under his arm, which has a surprising amount of force despite his rather lanky stature.

From what little friction you manage as you attempt to grind against his tongue, you tip yourself over the edge and as the knot in your stomach unties for the second time tonight, he continues licking, lapping at the juices that spill forth.

He stands and reaches for the top button of his shirt, not bothering to wipe his face, chin and lips glistening with your aftermath. You watch him undress with lustful eyes, propping yourself up on your elbow, then slinking back against the headboard once again, resting your weary body against it. The quiver of your thighs doesn’t stop you from nudging at your swollen clit.

“I wanted to be a gentleman,” he comments, untucking the shirt from his pants and pulling the front open.

It’s not skin you haven’t seen before. In fact, you’ve seen every inch of him at one point or another; just never all at once, and now, you’re waiting with bated breath to see him completely exposed for your eyes only.

“I truly did. I wanted to give you comfort and security, —to love you as you deserve. And I knew from the moment I saw you that only I could give you exactly what you’ve always needed.”

You hum in acknowledgement as he continues to strip himself bare.

“But it’s so clear to me now that I’ve neglected you,” he continues. “This beautifully desperate display is all a result of my negligence. . . I failed to realize just how much you needed me like this. How much you needed the touch of a man. . .”

He sounds apologetic, but your eyes are fixated on his half-hard cock. The last time you saw it, he asked that you keep your mouth away; insisting it wasn’t sanitary to use it for such purposes, terrified that you might contract some sort of illness if you sucked his dick for the sheer enjoyment of doing so. This time, however, you have a feeling you’re well past that.

To test the waters, you let your hand fall away from your cunt, slipping off the side of the bed to kneel before him. He gazes down at you as you open your lips and let your tongue fall out, encouraging him to make what he will of it.

“My love,” he says, placing four fingers under your chin to rest his thumb against your tongue for a moment, “—I’ll make everything up to you. . .”

His free hand pumps his cock once, twice, thrice, —then he places it gently on the flat of your tongue, letting you feel the weight and the warmth of it. He sighs.

“Darling,” he groans, “ah. . .”

It takes very little for him to come close to cumming in your mouth, just a few minutes of sucking him off, listening to him moan, feeling him quiver at your touch. You hum with his member stuffed down your throat, and he cants his hips reflexively, an orgasm bubbling up beneath his skin.

Your non-dominant hand holds his cock steady while the other is stuck between your thighs, rubbing furiously at your clit, making you whimper along his shaft. When he notices, Lucian finds that wholly unacceptable and snatches you up to position you on the edge of the bed, relieving the pressure on your aching knees. You weren’t down there for long, but kneeling was hardly comfortable on the hard floor.

He spreads your thighs apart and smacks the pads of his fingers against your slit.

Whatever he’s doing, you’re sure you’ll enjoy it to the fullest, so you occupy yourself with his cock again from this new angle, bending awkwardly to mouth at the reddened tip. His fingers find their way inside you once more, working their delicate magic, brushing against all the right places. At this point, you’re more desperate for his dick to slip inside you like this, but you take what he offers in stride (and more of him into your mouth in the process.)

He’s vocal, and that’s utterly divine. His gravely moans and the pump of his fingers leave you cumming for a third time before his first orgasm arises, depositing a sizable amount of his seed into your mouth.

“I love you,” he huffs, —and if he were anyone else, you’d be certain it was just the oral sex talking, but no. . . Lucian wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t mean it.

Of course, he’s made similar confessions over the months, and has certainly treated you like it long before he ever expressed it so directly, but still. . . It feels nice to hear it, if nothing else.

“I love you too,” you answer honestly, urging him closer with your arms wrapped around his neck. “I’m yours tonight, completely. . . If you’ll have me. . .”

“Oh, darling, don’t be foolish,” he remarks, kissing you deeply. “You’ve been mine since the moment we met.”

Your back to the cool sheets, he lingers over you now, his shadow looming over you so monstrously. There’s a stark flush of red on his face that has begun to spread down the length of his neck, and one of his hands finds its way to your breasts as the other smoothes across your thigh. The head of his cock kisses your sopping entrance, sending a series of chills from the top of your spine to the bottom.

His breath on your neck makes your chest tighten, and he finds your lips with his own again as he sinks inside you, filling you up.

“Lucian,” you whimper, helpless to his touch as he pauses, buried down to the hilt inside your cunt.

He presses a few gentle kisses to your throat, murmuring something about how nice it feels to be stuffed inside you. He feels your nails dig into his shoulders as you adjust to his intrusion.

“You must understand by now,” he says, mumbling the words right next to your bitten earlobe. “Everything I do is for you.”

“I do,” you gasp slightly.

As he begins to move, your walls clench around him, and he exhales deeply against the junction of your neck and shoulder. You roll your hips to match his pace, but as he goes faster, that becomes fruitless. Eventually, you resign yourself to the fate of lying there against the pillows, speared on his cock, him making a mess of you as you moan uncontrollably.

This was everything you’d been hoping for and then some, like some erotic dream come to life. Lucian’s lips travel where they please, —stopping to peck at your jaw, then to suck on your throat. Your breathing is haggard, and he smooths a hand down your side, resting it against your hip for a moment.

“Just a little more,” he whispers, as if to be reassuring.

“Just look how stunning you are, angel,” he murmurs, “how pretty you look like this.”

He kisses you once more.

“You take this so well, like your body was made for me.”

You’re delirious enough to believe that might be the case.

His cock pounds a little harder, and he hits the perfect spot, tearing a desperate yelp from your throat. You’re overstimulated and weak, but your high is itching just under your skin, and you couldn’t bear to see it disappear.

“Please,” you whimper to him, completely at his mercy, “—please, I’m so close.”

He loves the desperation that clings to your voice. The hand on your hip travels to your clit, pressing roughly against the abused little button, making you jerk slightly. He rubs a few heavy circles against it, and you come undone, cunt spasming around his cock as he chases his own release inside you.

Lucian is sloppy near the end, which may just be the only time you’ve ever known him to not be perfectly calculated and precise. His breath hits your neck again, over and over as he huffs through the hunt, finally sinking his teeth in when he comes to a finish. His cum sits hot inside your cunt, and he catches his breath for a moment, head resting against your throat.

“I apologize,” he utters. “I hope that wasn’t too much for you.”

You exhale slowly, his cock still buried in your heat.

“Don’t apologize,” you murmur, “I enjoyed myself.”

You feel him smile against your neck.

“I’m glad, darling.”

For the first time, he sleeps next to you without clothing, letting you touch every part of him, tangling your limbs together. Your face buried in the crook of his neck, breath fanning softly against him, as close to sleep as you can manage without tumbling over the precipice, Lucian reaches for his long coat and drapes it over your body, holding you closer.

#oc #original character #plague doctor #original character smut #oc smut #oc x reader #yandere x reader #yandere smut #yandere x you #yandere oc x reader #yandere oc #yandere original character #yandere original character x reader #yandere oc smut #yandere original character smut #soft yandere

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yesimwriting · 6 months

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omg i’m so happy ur taking young coriolanus requests!! i’d love a oneshot of him falling for reader (whos from the districts) and him trying to deal with it

Summary: Coriolanus has no interest in his assigned tribute beyond her potential assistance in helping him win the Plinth prize...or at the very least, that's what he tells himself.

Warnings: Coriolanus being kind of delusional (in deep denial) and possessive, jealousy, a crush being treated like a terminal illness, Coriolanus trying really hard to talk himself out of said crush by comparing the reader to an animal/pet in his internal thoughts

----

His nails dig into the soft skin of his palm with enough force to leave stinging crescents in their wake. He's too far gone to feel the marks, to know when to relieve pressure to avoid breaking skin.

When the idea of having the best and brightest of the Academy's senior class was initially presented, the concerns about having such prominent members of the Capitol interacting so closely with representatives of the districts was highly contested. Most of the outcry had been from concerned parents--wealthy fathers and overly doting mothers desperately attempting to convince their leaders to not subject their poor, innocent children to that kind of proximity with something considered so other.

After all, those from the districts are closer to animal than man. If an outburst of hatred doesn't result in a Capitol heir's life and potential being cut short, perhaps some sort of disease would take them instead.

Coriolanus had found that part ridiculous. Not the way the tributes were seen, but the level of coddling the Capitol elite were willing to openly mark their children with. There are ways to mentor from a safe distance and there hasn't been public knowledge of a strange and fatal virus running through the districts in some time.

Now that he's here, standing at the zoo's entrance under the cover of night, food that he can't truly afford to waste tucked into the pocket of his coat, he realizes how naive he had been to not head their warnings. He's come down with something, that's the only explanation for the sweat coating his palms and the nervous turning of his stomach.

This infliction is something that you've done to him. Unintentionally, of course--your lack of cut throat nature and maliciousness had been a disappointing discovery at the time--but still true. Why else would he come here to feed you when his family can barely feed themselves?

Coriolanus walks further and further into the zoo until the familiar cage is in view. There are a no peacekeepers inside of the space and less than a hand full patrolling the perimeter. It's late and the games are tomorrow morning, any of the tributes that wanted to cause problems would have done so by now.

It shouldn't matter to him, none of them would turn him away. The mentors weren't explicitly told to stay away which means that the peacekeepers wouldn't bother him. He could always say that he's here to discuss last minute strategy, that the earlier bombing had cut his time short and that Dr. Gaul had given Academy students permission to make up that time if they so wished. But the thought of having less of an audience soothes him slightly.

He stands where he had stood beneath the daylight, near the corner, as far from the other tributes as physically possible. Regret begins to knot his stomach. Everyone's asleep. This will be the most alone together the two of you have ever been. It's also so dark, and you're likely asleep as well. How will he find you? Is it wrong to disturb the last peaceful rest you might ever experience?

The more he thinks, the more an urgency he can't wraps itself tight beneath his bones. The sensation, a likely byproduct of his ailment, makes him wish that there was some way to scratch beneath his skin. Right no longer matters, and neither does his growling stomach that begs him to just eat the food he had taken from the Academy's lunch and disappear back into the night. He needs to see you, to see that--

"You're going to be okay." Your voice, a soft whisper that brings him back to the present.

You're awake, the vague shape of your crouched form resting against one of the artificial rocks. You're also comforting someone with a much larger frame. Something in his chest turns to stone.

Here he is, wandering the Capitol streets in the dead of night, a pocket full of food that he had hidden from his own family for your sake and you're--you're not thinking of him at all.

Maybe his infliction had been more intentional than he thought possible. Your kindness could be a ruse and Coriolanus has heard rumors of your people. Some say that your ancestors practiced spirtual arts in order to enchant others. Perhaps you've bewitched him.

His own naivety burns through his chest. You're supposed to be his. If that's how it is, then he's freeing himself of you and your kind eyes and honey-laced voice. He'll--

"Coriolanus," a surprised, careful sound that's much warmer than your attempts at soothing someone had sounded.

His name forces the pinching feeling in his chest to be replaced by an uneasy warmth that crawls its way up his neck. He's suddenly glad for the darkness.

He follows your silhouette as you quickly push yourself to your feet with no regard for the boy next to you. Your movements are swift yet quiet, and the care behind them keeps him steady. You don't want to wake anyone; you want this to be just you and him.

"You're--" You stand so close to the bars that it'd take nothing at all to reach for you. "You're here." You place a hand on the bars that divide you, fingers curling around the cool metal. "Are you okay?"

The question is laughable. He's at the tribute zoo only a few hours before the games begin because some instinct had made seeing you again feel as important and necessary as breathing.

But you're not asking about that. You're asking about him, about his injuries from the bombing. "I'm fine," he assures you, "A little scraped up from the debris and I did lose consciousness, but I was treated for all injuries."

You're finally close enough for the moonlight to make a difference. He can make out the unruliness of your hair from the way that life has treated you since your reaping, the form of your tattered dress, your facial features and...the long gash that now marks your forehead.

"And I was told that you were as well." Someone in passing had mentioned that the tributes were cleaned up after the bombing. They weren't prioritized or given valuable resources, but they were cleaned up. Injuries were cleaned and dressed to prevent infection from getting in the way of the games.

You frown, tilting your head slightly as if to hide the length of the mark. Something in his chest tightens again, the sensation much more aggressive than before. Your smooth, gentle skin now marred...

His own defensiveness hits him like a physical blow. Coriolanus blames the feeling on familiarity. The desire to keep you in the best condition possible is no different than what someone would feel for a prized pet. You're his tribute, after all.

"It sort of happened after."

Panic seizes at his chest. After. One of the peacekeepers or another tribute had hurt you. "Who?" The coolness of his own voice shocks him.

You angle your head downwards, the motion distinctly dismissive. Coriolanus won't accept that. Who are you to hide something like this from him? After everything he's done for you, don't you trust him? His arm moves forward without his permission, pulling at your arm so that your body shifts closer to the bars. His other hand then slips between the poles and grasps your chin firmly between two fingers.

He tilts your head, giving himself the space needed to examine the entirety of the cut. It stretches down the start of your hairline and stops just short of your eyebrow. Not too long or wide, but the dried blood still smeared on you implies that it's deep.

"Who did this to you?"

His hold on you is steady, but not so tight that you couldn't step away if you wanted to. You hold still as he takes the time to examine the rest of your face for injuries. Your acceptance leaves a metallic taste in his mouth. Coriolanus releases you like you might burn him.

"I don't--" Of course you don't want to tell. Your nobility runs so deep, you don't care what it costs you.

An odd wave of distress washes over him. The night air feels wrong against his skin, too cold for the thin clothing he put on in his hurry to get to you. "You shouldn't alienate your mentor the night before the games."

Your lips pull down into what feels like a pout. You stare at him with wide eyes. "I'm not trying to alienate you." The genuineness of your words knots his stomach. "I--I'm glad that you're here, that you're okay." Usually, sugar coated words from you are enough to crack at his exterior. He's feeling a lot less amicable tonight. "The girl from district 4 was aggravated tonight. I think she wanted to intimidate the other careers into listening to her so she targeted Wovey and I was kind of--around."

Translation: your too-good-for-the-arena heart took over and you inserted yourself in a conflict that had nothing to do with you. "I told you to be careful."

You nod solemnly at the reprimand. Your lips part, but before you can say anything, the sound of your name steals your attention. You turn away from him, keeping one hand on the metal bars. "Yeah?"

"Are you coming back soon?"

The question jabs at him like a thumb finding a bruise. The tribute you were comforting may come from the same district as you, but that means nothing in the grand scheme of things. By morning, your destiny to be rivals in the arena will be sealed. He won't risk anything for you the way Coriolanus is. He'd snap your neck in an instant if it meant going back home. Surely, even you're not kind hearted enough to not see that.

You crane your neck to look back at him, but your body stays angled towards the other tribute. The urge to hold you in place, to bring your attention back to him physically aches. Is your final meeting before the games really going to be cut short because of some other tribute? The look you give him is apologetic enough to make his chest constrict. After all he's done for you.

"I'm talking to my mentor." Your response dislodges something from his chest. "Why don't you check on Wovey? I think that'll help."

The sound of shuffling fills the space, and then that's that. The two of you are as alone as two people like you can be.

"It was nice of you to come here," the admission leaves you carefully, "I-I tried to see what happened to you after, but they brought us back here so quickly, and I--"

"It's alright."

He never expected for you to be at the hospital. The mental image is strange enough as a concept in itself. You, sitting in one of those stiff hospital seats, waiting desperately at his bedside. You, in the same room as his cousin and grandmother, all three of you concerned and co-existing. It doesn't fit, you're not like them. You're district. That's inherently lesser, inherently replaceable no matter the level of your charm or--or appeal.

But if that's reality, than why was your name the first thing that stumbled past his lips when he woke up? Why was his first thought after being discharged about getting back to you? Why does the fact that you were sitting with the male tribute from your district turn his stomach? Why does he now have a personal vendetta against the girl from 4? These can't possibly all be things that someone would feel for a favorite pet, can they?

This train of thought is nauseating, and the last thing he wanted for the final night before the games. "I was worried." You force these words out in a jumble of colliding syllables, like if you didn't pry them out fast enough, they'd never manage to find their way out.

Coriolanus watches you carefully, imprinting the details of the small crease between your eyebrows and your nervous eyes to memory. The look tugs at something dangerously close to fondness. "Then you know how I'lll feel tomorrow." That, in itself, is a confession pulled from him the same way a rotten tooth would be extracted. "How I'll feel until you come back."

You stare at him, eyes wide. "If this is about the prize money the peacekeepers talk about, you're doing a good job."

There's a stiffness to the way you say this, a guarded quality that soothes him more than it should. The thought of him only being invested in you only because of what he can get out of your success displeases you.

It's instinct to want to ease you. It'd be easy, too. All it would take is a comment that implies that he can be here for more than one reason. The response sits at the back of his throat. Is that why he's here?

The natural answer is of course. Why else would he lose sleep? What other reason could he have for risking taking Academy food and exposing his poverty? Something he's rarely willing to do for himself and his own family.

"A person can want more than one thing at the same time."

You can't hold his gaze, eyes cautiously darting downwards. The display of shyness makes things feel a little warmer. It makes him bolder. Coriolanus moves his hand again, letting his fingers cover yours. You don't move away.

"I almost forgot." His free hand makes its way into the pocket of his coat, finding the carefully folded napkin. He's going out of his way to emphasize the casualness of food. The only thing caring about this gesture is that he had thought to come, not the food itself. There's no such thing as scarcity in the Capitol. "Here."

He offers the neatly tied fabric in the gaps between the bars. You don't attempt to take back the hand pressed between the pole and his own palm. You take the gift in your free hand and don't attempt to let go of him until you realize that you won't be able to untie the makeshift parcel with one hand.

You open it slowly, examining the contents of his offering carefully. Two biscuits, a few crackers, a small wedge of cheese, and another baked good that reminds him of a denser, more durable version of cake.

"Thank you," The truth to your gratitude forces something uncomfortable to wedge itself between his ribs.

You don't start eating right away, your head instinctually turning back. He realizes what you're doing almost instantly. "If you're going to share everything I give you, there's not much point in bringing it."

A little harsher than he meant to be out loud. It's not your fault. Your family is large and of a taking care of each other mentality. If there's food for one, there's food for all.

You nod, accepting the criticism the way you usually do. It's a good thing that you're so pliable, that you're eager to keep the usual comfortable atmosphere between the two of you. Sometimes, though, it feels a bit like kicking a puppy.

Carefully, you bring a cracker to your lips, chewing cautiously. Taking anything makes you guilty, another byproduct of your upbringing. Sometimes Coriolanus wonders if all of this would be easier if you were brought up like the majority of district children, more ravenous and unapologetic.

You'd told him about your mother before, a free spirit who works in a textile factory that produces lavish fabrics instead of standard peacekeeper uniforms. Even though the work isn't much different, you spoke about it like it made all the difference. My mother loves beautiful things so much she doesn't even care about who they're for.

That had been the first time he had found himself thinking about your appearance. If your mother's love is reliant on beauty, he realized, then you must have grown up with consistent affection.

You speak of her, of your entire family, in a way that confirms his hypothesis. You've told him stories of the way she hangs up the prettiest fabric she can find to hang up and turn one room into two--a necessity with so many of you living in a set of conjoined apartments.

"You're..."

You trail off, pressing your lips together nervously in a way that he's gotten used to. It usually signifies that you're concerned about being impolite. That's another thing that doesn't fit the district mold, even here you hold onto manners and social cues. Even when you first met him, you had fallen back on habit. He had introduced himself as your mentor and you absentmindedly asked how he was in that way that people do when they run into an acquaintance.

Normally, if he presses or even just prompts you once or twice you'll reveal your initial thoughts. They're rarely what he expects them to be. Instead of responding to the light raise of his eyebrows, you pick up a biscuit before stretching your arm towards him.

"Oh, no I'm--"

"You're hungry." That's what you almost blurted out.

You don't mean anything by it, or, at the very least, not anything beyond the realm of worry. Heat rises up Coriolanus's neck slowly but surely. You know nothing of his world and yet you knew that to have his hunger exposed would be embarrassing. You know that it's not the kind of hunger that comes from missing a meal or two on a particularly busy or chaotic day.

"Don't worry," you tack on, "It's not noticeable unless you know what to look for."

The comment is a little too reassuring, too on the nose. Can you read him that easily? Coriolanus takes the biscuit before he can pick apart your comment any further. The corner of your mouth shifts into an almost smile. You then break apart the wedge of cheese and try to hand him that along with most of your crackers and a piece of the pastry.

"No, I can't take all of that."

You stare at him oddly. "You've been injured," you stretch your hand out again, "You need your strength."

There are several reasons why you need your strength more than he does, but he can't figure out how to insist on that without making it seem like this is a final meal. He doesn't want to give you a chance to see it that way, so he takes the a little less than half of what you're offering. "Compromise."

You nod, accepting his terms. He's unsure who starts it, but the two of you end up sitting in front of each other. You smooth the napkin out in front of you, setting up what's left of your food like a makeshift picnic. "My mother used to take me for picnics."

"Yeah?" There's something about your stories about your life back home that are attention drawing. It's not so much mundane content of life in district 8 and the fact that it still managed to produce someone like you, it's the way you speak. You're expressive and bright.

"Mhm," you finish off your first cracker, "Eight isn't exactly full of nature, but there's this wooded area past the factories and if you know where to go, you'll find this clearing that's practically untouched. She'd go there sometimes on days off when she needed to collect wildflowers to turn into paints and she'd bring who she could...me, my siblings, cousins..."

You pick up a piece of cheese, setting it on a cracker. "Neighbors, sometimes." Your voice wavers in a way that sticks out. Despite an initial tearing up on your first night, you haven't cried or behaved in anyway that indicates that this could be your end. He doesn't want you losing hope now. "Tanner used to go with us."

It's whispered with the intensity of a confession. The boy you came with, the boy you were speaking with--you grew up with him. That's a bond that's not as easily dismissed. That's something strong enough to challenge his connection with you.

Why does it matter? He's earned enough of your trust, you spoke in a way that earned more donations than anyone else. You trust him enough to actually fight in the arena. It--it doesn't matter if you...

"Do you care for him?" The question surprises both of you equally. His own bluntness, the slight edge to his tone...it's too much for a mentor.

"Uh," you sniffle once, "He was a good friend when we were little, our families know each other." An knot so tight it's difficult to stay sitting there twists his stomach. "We're a little less close these days."

If you comforting him during the dead of night, losing sleep during your last chance to rest is your version of less close, Coriolanus doesn't even want to imagine your normal. "You shouldn't expect any loyalty during the games, the second the count down begins, there's no such thing as friendship."

You wipe at your face with the back of your palm. "What makes you so sure?"

Your question isn't a challenge or an attempt to convince him that the boy would never hurt you. You're asking because you're curious, because you want to know his thoughts. "Human nature."

It's more nihilistic than he usually is in front of you, but his patience is wearing thin. The soreness of his body is starting to catch up with him and wasting the little time you have less discussing someone so insignificant is draining.

His annoyance has to stem from how little the other tributes matter to him. That's the only reason he can piece together, especially when his brashness is likely pushing you away.

"Then why can I trust you?"

Another question that you mean. It's not a slight or an attempt to indicate that you're not there yet with him. He didn't come here to cast doubt on the bond he so carefully helped build.

He can't look at you as he speaks, "Because I'm going to do anything I can to get you back."

You nod, your eyes retreating to focus on your lap. "For the prize money, for your school."

He picks at the edge of his biscuit, a few crumbs falling to the ground. "I already told you, I want more than one thing."

That's not exactly what he said...this reiteration of it is more blatant. Heat burns his face. You peak up at him through your lashes.

If you had been born in the Capitol, you would have done well. You're found of civility and social norms despite a lifetime in the Districts and despite only knowing you stained in various levels of grime, he can tell that our features are pleasing. Polished, dressed, and brought up differently, you would have been a regular Capitol darling.

Coriolanus shakes his head once, an attempt to dismiss his thoughts. Why care about what you could have been? Why imagine what you'd be like if you were part of his word?

"You're not going to--to rely on him in the arena." It's framed as a question, but in reality, it's more of a hopeful statement.

You pause, genuinely thinking about your response. "No." You rest a hand on your bent knee, gently scratching at the skin. "Not rely."

The answer isn't concrete enough, but he has no right or reason to say much else. "Don't let your guard down. Not for anyone."

You nod, reaching for what's left of your biscuit, "I won't, I promise."

"Good, I'll be watching and I'll remember when you get back."

Get back. You wipe at your cheek with the back of your palm. "Yeah, when I get back."

The dryness of your voice cracks at him. If you consider yourself defeated before even stepping into the arena, you won't come back to him. For him. For the Plinth prize.

He shoves the thoughts down as deep as they'll go. They don't manage to get very far, crowding his throat in a way that makes it hard to breathe. Coriolanus doesn't trust himself to speak, so instead he slips his hand between the cage's bars. He lets his hand sit there, palm facing upwards in a silent offering.

Coriolanus stares at his arm as a way to prevent himself from taking in your reaction. A beat passes, and then the tips of your fingers are brushing against his before settling against his palm. He squeezes your hand tightly, so tightly he's aware that it's probably uncomfortable, but the prospect of holding you so tightly that you can't vanish is too assuring.

"Do you have to--to go soon?"

He adjusts his hold on you, bending his fingers so that they can rest between yours. The rest of his household is asleep by now, but they'd be able to tell if he spent the night here and that would worry them. It would also make the morning much more complicated...he'd have to shower and change before the games begin in order to hide where he spent the night.

"No," it leaves him before he realizes what he's saying, "I can stay as long as you'd like."

A hint of a smile tugs at your lips, "Good."

That makes something in his chest feels like it's going to burst. He shouldn't care. He should see this open display of clinginess as an inconvenience. And why would he risk getting caught as someone that spent the night on the floor of the zoo when there's nothing left to convince you of?

The answer strikes him so harshly he nearly lets go of you. He didn't just want you to ask him to stay to prove something, he wanted the excuse to stay. He--he wants to be near you...and not in the way that someone wants to spend time with a puppy.

The truth to it is simple. Straightforward. He cares about you.

He can hear that you're speaking, but your words are too distant to mean anything.

"Coriolanus?"

No. No. He--he isn't meant to care about you of all people, to feel these kinds of--No. No, he can't. He's not biologically wired to. And yet, he can't let go of your hand.

"Coriolanus?"

He squeezes your hand even tighter. "You didn't ask me."

"What?"

"The other thing I want, you didn't ask me about it." The words leave him in a rush, an uneasy mess that he needs out.

Confessing turns these kinds of thoughts into reality, an undeniable force that he wishes he could vanish. But maybe if he gets it out, the ache of it will be expelled from him. Maybe he'll finally be able to think about something else that doesn't involve analyzing your every expression like your life depends on it.

"No," your eyes are wide, a deer realizing they're not the only ones at the watering hole, "I-I didn't."

A small part of him is disappointed that you don't take the opportunity to press. You usually do, chatting like you're a regular friend and not his tribute. "I'll tell you anyways." He swallows, gripping your hand like a lifeline. You squeeze back, a silent display of support. "It's you."

Your hand goes slack in his. Coriolanus warns himself that it's best to keep his eyes away from you, to not read any--he breaks, gaze snapping upwards to watch you.

"Me?" Your voice is fragile and impossible to read. You lift your intertwined hands as best you can between the poles that make up the cage. You lean forward, pressing your lips against the back of his palm. Your eyes briefly fall shut.

"I--" You set your intertwined hands back in place. "I think the practical thing to do would be to forget about me." The rejection cuts through him. All he can do is stare. "You know what's going to happen tomorrow."

Your twist your hand in an attempt to steal it back as you push yourself upwards, adjusting so that your weight is on your knees. Coriolanus instinctively shifts forward, grabbing your arm to keep you close. He moves to sit up on his knees. "You're going to come back." You stop trying to push him away. "Do you care about me?"

"You're being unfair," your whisper is harsh, "Even--even if I win, where would that leave us?" He's silent. "I'll be back in a cage and you'll stay on the outside, only this time they won't be in proximity to each other."

You're logical. You're right. And he can't bring himself to care. "Do you care about me?"

"Of course I do," the response is frustrated, exhausted, "I think I might even--" Your mouth clamps shut, eyes briefly leaving him. "I think I love you." You drop head, giving Coriolanus only the slightest glimpse of your now glassy eyes. "But what does that matter?"

The word loosens something in his chest. He gets as close to the bars as physically possible, pulling on your arm in a way that almost makes you fall forward. The new proximity seems to drain any remaining fight from you.

He leans forward, his lips finding yours in the space between metal. It takes you a second to catch up with what's happening, but once you do, you return the display of affection. He pulls your bottom lip between his own before releasing you enough to let you breathe.

"Is this real?" The question takes its time coming out, slow and through pants. If he thought thinking about you before was a type of sickness, then this is something terminal. You nod instinctually, urgingly. "Then we'll find a way." You're both resting your head against the bars. If it wasn't for the invasive metal in the way, you'd be resting against each other. "Just come back to me, and everything else--we'll figure it out."

He can write to you. He can find an excuse to bring you back to him. Maybe another aspect of the games--something that requires victors to visit the Capitol.

You nod, acceptance finally coloring your features as you squeeze his hand. "We'll figure it out."

----

a/n i've gotten so many Coriolanus/thg requests,, pls feel free to keep them coming <3

#the hunger games #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow #the hunger games x reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes x reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #coriolanus x reader

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maysileeewrites · 6 months

Text

a helping hand - John Murphy x reader

Summary: „Why are you helping me? I’m the bad guy, in case you forgot.“ Set during 1 x 10 (I am become Death), based on this teaser.

warnings: mentions of blood + injuries, angst, Murphy being Murphy (yes, he does have a soft side in this, but that doesn’t mean that he’s not still a dick); please lmk if I forgot something!

AN: I’m not quite sure whether anyone will still care for Murphy x reader in 2023, but I love my trash son so much, I just had to write something about him. Please let me know if you liked it!

You dip the bloodied cloth into the bucket filled with water, watching as the water slowly turns red. Your hands are bloody as well and there’s dried blood crested under your fingernails, but with all the sick teens around you needing medical attendance, you don’t have time to try to thoroughly wash your hands, so you just dip them into the water, grabbing a bar of soap, watching as the water turns an even deeper red.

Blood.

There’s just so much of it.

You sigh, standing up again. There’s no time for dwelling on your thoughts, not when the whole first floor of the Dropship is full of sick, coughing teenagers that need your help.

You go to Fox and Connor next, checking up on them. But apart from trying to clean them up - they’ve started coughing up blood as well - and getting them to drink some water, there isn’t much you can do to actually help them. You have no medicine, no painkillers - apart from Monty’s moonshine and considering that a painkiller really is a stretch in your opinion -, nothing. Only a few spare blankets you and Clarke gave out earlier, in order to help keep everyone warm.

A sudden wave of anger and irritation at your helplessness when faced with this unknown, dangerous virus overcomes you and you clench your fists in frustration. You allow yourself a moment to try and bury that emotion deep inside - because being this emotionally overwhelmed, you won’t be any help to the others -, closing your eyes and breathing deeply.

When you open your eyes again, they land on Murphy - who’s looking right back at you with his good eye, the other one is still swollen shut.

You gulp, trying to swallow down the nervousness that is suddenly clawing its way up your throat. Murphy’s the one who brought the disease into the Camp.

After being tortured by the grounders for days, you try to remind yourself. After being unceremoniously tossed out of Camp for a murder he didn’t commit. And while he’s definitely a rude asshole that can be a bit unpredictable at times - though you think more often than not he’s just lashing out when provoked, attacked, or in case of the whole Charlotte incident, wrongfully accused - you don’t think that he’s as bad as everyone makes him out to be.

But maybe that’s just you being naive, always wanting to see the good in people. He did try to go after Charlotte, after all. Though, you think, that probably had more to do with him seeking justice - a twisted, self-righteous kind of justice, but still justice - than vengeance.

You sigh, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Whatever the deal with Murphy is - and whatever the reason for you to suddenly spend so much of your thoughts on him is - right now, it doesn’t matter.

Right now the only thing that matters is that he’s sick and hurt and he needs someone to help him clean up his wounds and that’s exactly what you’re here for.

So, you take a deep breath and square your shoulders, before walking over to him and dropping down in front of him. His blue-green eyes - the good one at least- meet yours for just a split second, but then he’s looking away again. You dip the cloth into the bucket of water - after helping Fox and Connor you’d gone out to get some fresh water - and reach out for him, but just when you’re about to touch him, he twists away from you.

„What’re you doing?“, he says, his voice low, distrust and irritation evident in his expression.

„Helping you“, you answer, gesturing to the wet cloth in your hands. „Someone needs to clean up your wounds, Murphy.“

He scoffs. „Yeah, right.“

You frown. „Look Murphy, just let me help you, please.“

He doesn’t say anything to that, doesn’t acknowledge your words with anything other than a raise of his eyebrows, but you decide to just take his lack of a verbal response as a good sign - or at least as a sign that he hopefully won’t refuse your help any further.

You wet the cloth cloth again, before carefully reaching your hand out to him again. This time, he doesn’t twist away from you, so you gingerly touch his bloodied and scarred cheek with your fingertips, before carefully applying pressure with the cloth.

All the while, Murphy looks at you, an undecipherable emotion in his blue-green eyes. The intensity of his gaze is distracting, and you swallow, trying to concentrate on cleaning up his wounds, trying to ignore the burning heat of his gaze. Though it’s impossible to really ignore it, with you two being so close that you can feel his warm breath ghosting over your skin, causing you to shiver.

Something shifts in Murphy’s expression then - if you weren’t paying so much attention, you might’ve missed it, but as it is, you can see the bitter smirk that crosses his lips for an instant, before he bites down hard on his lips.

Your eyes meet then. You swallow - you feel caught in his stare, unable to look at anything but him.

„Why are you helping me?“, he asks you, his voice low and raspy and laced with something that almost sounds like desperation. „I’m the bad guy, in case you forgot.“

„Because you need help“, you say, underlining your words by lightly trailing your fingertips over the deep cut on his left cheek. „And because I want to understand you.“ It’s true - you do want to understand him. You want to know how he came to be who he is today, why on earth he set fire to a room on the Ark.

And fuck. This - this is dangerous.

That bitter smirk crosses his face again. „Oh, so you want to know why I’m such a jerk, why I told the Camp’s location to the grounders, is that it?“

„You were tortured“, you say softly, but Murphy only scoffs.

„Yeah, I’m afraid that doesn’t count as an excuse“, he says, voice full of bitterness.

„Wha-“, you start to say, but then you remember that you saw Bellamy talking to Murphy earlier. And yes, that would certainly explain Murphy’s comments about his being tortured not being an excuse for giving up your location.

You sigh frustratedly. Of course you know that Bellamy only wants to protect everyone at Camp, but you also know him well enough to imagine him making some kind of petty remark how he wouldn’t have caved under torture, wouldn’t have given up the Camp’s location.

Which - fuck that. Anyone would eventually cave under torture, even someone as strong-willed and fierce as Bellamy.

Murphy’s hiss of pain when you accidentally linger too long on one of his cuts with your fingertips draws you out of your thoughts. „Sorry“ you say, biting your lip.

Murphy just shrugs and suddenly you’re hit with the desperate urge to help him, even though you’re not quite sure if there even is anything you can do that could make his situation better - apart from cleaning up his wounds, which you already are doing.

„I’m sorry for what happened to you“, you say then, looking at him. „That’s not - I can only imagine what you went through and I really am sorry that that happened to you.“

Murphy looks at you, confusion and irritation evident in his expression.

„And I know that won’t change anything-“

„No it won’t“, Murphy interrupts you, but this time, there’s no venom in his voice - just pain and resignation. „But it’s nothing I haven’t experienced before.“

Now it’s your turn to be confused. As you continue cleaning up his wounds, you mull over his words in your mind, trying to understand what he’s implying with his words. Does he mean that he was tortured on the Ark? But that can’t be right, can it? Yes, the Ark’s council is strict and unforgiving, but you haven’t heard about them torturing somebody.

„Can you even see anything like that?“, Murphy says, interrupting your thought process, and suddenly he’s reaching out with one hand, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

You swallow, trying desperately not to show how much that one little touch affected you. But your heart is thundering so loudly in your chest that you’re convinced that he’s able to hear it.

Especially once you can no longer pretend to re-inspect the cuts on his face yet again - you really need to take a look at the wounds on his chest.

You clear your throat, trying to sound more confident than you feel. „I - uh - I need to take a look at the wounds on your chest, judging by all that blood I’ll probably need to do some stitches … uhm could you - uh - maybe take off your shirt?“

Kill me, you think, wanting to die from embarrassment. Of course, the first time you’ll see a boy without his shirt on - apart from some of the boys that walk around Camp shirtless in the morning and you don’t think that they actually count - has to be in this weird situation.

As if reading your thoughts, Murphy just smirks, before taking off his shirt. But just when’s almost free of his shirt, he hisses, his face screwing up in pain.

„Let me“, you say, helping him.

For a moment, you just stare at each other breathlessly.

Then, so quietly that you’re not quite sure whether you’ve imagined it, he says: „Thank you.“

You nod, clearing your throat. Not knowing what else to say, you start inspecting his chest, lightly trailing your fingertips over the various scratches and other wounds - trying not to be distracted by his muscles you can feel under your fingertips and his burning gaze.

Murphy hisses again when your fingers brush over a particularly deep wound. „Sorry“, you murmur, leaning in even closer to get a better look at his wound. „This wound needs some stitches, I’m, uh, going to get a needle and some thread.“

You get up and walk over to where all the medical supplies are stored, thankful for this short moment away from Murphy, his intense stare and your confusing thoughts about him.

„Here“, you say, after sitting down in front of Murphy again and hand him the bottle of moonshine you’ve grabbed as well, „you might want to drink this before I get started on those stitches.“

Murphy just nods, taking the bottle of moonshine from you and taking a long, big sip. „Do your worst“, he says, prompting you to roll your eyes.

„Thanks for the vote of confidence“, you murmur, though you can understand why he’d be apprehensive about this. If it were you being in his situation, you’d rather be stitched up by a trained doctor as well, but since you teens are all on your own and Clarke, the only one of you with actual medical training is currently getting some well-deserved sleep, you’re his only option. Unlike Clarke, you haven’t received any actual medical training but you do know how to give stitches - in theory at least - so you hopefully won’t screw this up.

Here goes nothing, you think, getting started on the stitches.

Murphy bites down hard on his lips, though a slight hiss still escapes him.

You cringe, shooting him an apologetic smile before concentrating on his wound again. „Sorry.“

Murphy doesn’t say anything in response, just nods.

You’re both quiet as you continue with the stitches. Then, when you’re almost done, Murphy suddenly says: „I got real sick when I was thirteen … only made it because my dad stole some medicine for me ... course, he got floated for it …“

You swallow, meeting his gaze. You don’t know why he’s suddenly telling you this - you just know that the story he’s about to tell you most likely won’t have a happy ending.

Murphy looks away from you then, laughing bitterly. „My mother … she was never the same after his death … She started drinking. Blamed me for his death. Told me everyday that I’m a worthless good-for-nothing that’s responsible for his father’s death. She died three years after him … and I just-“

He stops talking then, shaking his head.

„Murphy, I-“, you start to say, though you stop as well, not quite knowing what it is that you actually want to say. Murphy suddenly opening up to you is so confusing and his story so heartbreaking, you’re not quite sure what the appropriate words for this situation are, let alone if there even are any.

„Anyway“, Murphy now says, voice tinged with bitterness, „I just - I had all this pai- anger in me and I didn’t know how to handle it, how to let it out. So I set fire to those rooms, got arrested.“

„Murphy …“, you say, your voice hollow, your heart breaking for the broken, angry boy in front of.

He laughs dryly, though the sound has a wheezing quality to it that instantly worries you. „You wanted to know, didn’t you? Wanted to understand why I became such a jerk. Well, there you have it.“

„I do“, you say, putting away the needle and thread and looking at Murphy, meeting his gaze. „I do understand you, Murphy. I still think you’re an opportunistic jerk, but I understand, I really do. I - I know that it’s not worth much, but I am sorry that this happened to you, it’s awful.“

Murphy just shrugs, not saying anything.

But he’s still looking at you and now that you know what to look for, now that you finally understand him better, you see the pain in his expression.

Not just due to the torture. There’s so much more, pain that’s probably been building in him for years and that he turned into sharp, pointed hate and anger, because he didn’t know how to deal with all of his pain.

You want to help him, though you don’t really know how and why. Yes, he is a rude jerk and at Camp he was also somewhat of a bully, but you think that that’s most likely due to him not knowing how to communicate in something that’s not just anger and aggression. But you also believe that there’s more to him - that he’s not just this lonely, broken, rude jerk that that’s probably just a facade he’s hiding behind.

„I understand, Murphy“, you say again, still looking at the storm of emotions in his green-blue eyes. Something shifts in Murphy’s expression then - he’s listening to you and something in his gaze tells you that he believes your words, believes you. „I truly do. But there’s more to life than just pain, anger and aggression.“

With that, you reach out a hand, softly grasping one of his hands with yours. You’re not quite sure why you’re doing it, you just know that you want to be there for Murphy, that you want to help him - and that you want him to understand that you truly mean your words.

Murphy’s arm jerks, as if he wants to rip his hand out of your grasp, but then he grasps your hand, squeezing it lightly. He reaches up with his other hand, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

Just like before, your breath hitches. But this - this is different than before. This time, there’s no venom in Murphy’s gaze, no quiet challenge, no pent-up anger. Just curiosity and something softer that you can’t quite describe.

„I still don’t really get why you’re helping me“, Murphy says, leaning even closer to you. You’re so close that you could count the lashes on his good eye. You feel his breath ghosting over your skin and you shiver in anticipation.

„But I’m glad that I let you.“ With that, he leans in even closer, searching your eyes and whatever he sees in them, must convince him. He presses his lips to yours and you’re so overwhelmed that you don’t know how to react. But just when you feel Murphy starting to pull away, you kiss him back, bringing your free hand up to his neck.

You feel him smirk into the kiss and if you weren’t currently kissing him, you’d definitely roll your eyes at him. As it is, you continue kissing him, though you give his hand a squeeze that’s probably a bit too harsh.

Murphy just smirks again, deepening the kiss and tangling his hand in your hair. You can feel your heart start to beat faster and there’s a curious sensation in your stomach that feels like those butterflies that you’ve read about in books.

You lose yourself in the kiss, in the feeling of Murphy.

Kissing Murphy feels good, though his lips are chapped and dry and he hisses in pain when you overeagerly lean a little too much against him. But still - kissing Murphy feels good.

And even though you’re still confused and you know that one conversation won’t suddenly make him sunshine personified - you like his dry sarcasm way too much for that - you also know that you want more. You want to get to know Murphy, really get to know him, you want to be there for him. And if there are more occasions to kiss him along the way of getting to know him and helping him, then you certainly won’t complain about that.

Murphy gives you one last, bruising kiss, before breaking the kiss, breathlessly leaning his forehead against yours.

„I - Murphy - what …“, you stammer, still too wound up from the kiss.

Murphy smirks. „That was thank you.“

You can’t help but roll your eyes. „I see“, you say dryly.

„For stitching me up … and for not giving up on me“, Murphy adds, his voice serious again.

You smile softly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of his eye. „I’ll be sure to stick around then.“

Murphy grins, though there’s a vulnerability to it now that wasn’t there before. „Doesn’t sound too bad …“

„Yeah, it doesn’t“, you agree, before leaning up to kiss him again.

You feel him smiling into the kiss, causing you to smile as well.

Yes, the road ahead is not going to be easy - this is John Murphy, resident sarcastic, rude asshole, after all - but you’re not afraid to walk it with Murphy.

#john murphy x you #john murphy x reader #john murphy imagine #john murphy the 100 #john murphy #the 100 #the 100 imagine #the 100 tv #richard harmon #john mother fucking murphy #the 100 x reader #the 100 x you #maysileewrites

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thegnomelord · 28 days

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speaking of a cod apocalypse (i think actually idk i just skimmed over my tl) thoughts on the boys becoming some sort of fucked up mutated creatures?

like they're soldiers, right? and assuming the government sends them out to deal with whatever apocalyptic shit there is, surely one of them makes a stupid mistake that'll cost them their lives. fast forward to them succumbing to whatever radioactive shit decided to live in their bodies, and they're dead but alive? and like... just grotesque things. they're still them, just more brutal and monstrous. maybe their skin is melting off, maybe they're growing another limb or two, maybe they have teeth growing on their head.

anyways, thoughts on this kind of genre???? :))))

(i think itd be cool if like.... some of them merged together, just a mass of limbs and skin :33)

Okay, consider: Horizon zero dawn world, full of killer machines and tribes n shit, combined with the virus from the Prototype (that and darksiders are my fav games of all time tbh) also body horror, specifically the blend of machine and flesh bh, is my favorite shit :Dd this is a rough idea

So like as killer machines were sweeping across the planet, devouring everything in sight and replicating, a disease was created that, it was hoped, would be able to infect and eat away at the metal. But it fails, the virus ends up infecting the soldiers that are fighting against the machines and just, combining the human and machine.

The world eventually goes so far to shit that everything on the planet dies. The war machines become deactivated and some of the machine/human mutants are sealed away in bunkers to be used as experiments.

And just like, the 141 becoming a blend of steel and flesh in the grotesque approximation of what they used to be, able to strip away parts of other machines and graft them to their own forms.

Gaz was the first, fighting on the front lines back when he had foolishly believed the killer robots could be defeated. He had gotten separated when he got infected, the fear secondary only to the pain as his flesh literally melted into the corruptors, bone and muscle becoming tangled in gears and wires until all he could feel were his numerous stilt like legs now scrambled to gain purchase on the blood soaked ground . Turned into some weird metal scorpion bellow the waist, weaponry weighing on his back and coolant full wires snaking across his body, Kyle had passed out from the pain, his body further changing in his slumber to grow skin and eyes over the raw metal.

He woke up deep underground in a bunker, turned into a science experiment.

Price was next. He was a soldier turned scientist, working on a subfunction of the teraforming AI that would work to clear the world of the virus that had unleashed. He was the soft voice of comfort Kyle would listen to when they pricked and prodded him, the person Kyle spilled his heart out time and time again.

It came as little surprise when Price became infected. He had started to feel lethargic and sick for the few days, all of it going unnoticed as no one knew how the virus affected humans. That was until he came in contact with a Plowhorn, that changed him into a bulwark of flesh and metal, a living tank with a heavy crest of horns sitting on his head and thick metal plates to protect him.

Price and Kyle kept each other from going insane, figuring out the worst part of the virus — they had become immortal like the machines, but still felt pain like people, pain muddling their brains when pistons and gears would grind against flesh again and again until it regrew in a different way.

They were finally freed when the people experimenting on them died and the AI released the locks of the doors. They emerged hell knows how many years later, taking the first steps into a reborn world that was still crying in it's cradle.

Soap was amongst the first humans to emerge from the mechanical cradle, thrust into a wild and untamed world full of strange machines, with no tools but his hands. While out trying to scavange some of the metal from downed glinthawks he was attacked by Scrappers, ending up infected with the virus that had been slumbering in the earth. Soap became like the sphinx, glinthawk wings attaching to his back with wires, talons merging with skin and pushing out bone, the body of the scraper combining with his own until he was unable to stand on two legs, forced to crawl on all fours and screech in pain through distorted vocal chords until Price and Gaz found him. They took care of him until he was used to his body enough to soar through the air about as well as he could run across the earth.

Simon was the last, born to a tribe that valued strength and worshipped the machines above all. And Simon is the only one who's convergence to steel has any semblence of thought or preparation. He had spent years hunting Fireclaws, tearing off the intact pieces and pistons after every hunt until the shamans of his tribe deemed him ready to become one of the metal gods. The change was slow and painful, bones melting and hardening around new metal, body getting bigger and flesh stretching to fit the new frame, heavy claws weighing on his muscular arms until Simon had become Ghost.

It wasn't what he expected. What he had done in an attempt to fit in amongst his kin served to further push him away as his tribe worshipped him as one of the machine gods, erasing his name as Simon. It was a relief when he met the others, finding comfort in their disfigured and grotesque bodies that looked so similar like his own.

And then you meet them.

Maybe you're a foolish mercenary that stumbled too far into the wild, maybe you're one of the subfunctions of the original teraforming AI that gained sentience. Either way, you didn't fear them, you tried to talk to them, to get to know them even when every societal law of your tribe deemed them as monsters and demons.

And on one random evening, when they had all settled into a rough cuddle pile, scarred flesh over sharp metal creating enough of a cushion for you to sleep in the middle of them all — safe and warm... It occured to them: you are nice, you are kind, and they want to to stay by their side.

#gnome correspondence #trinckets of the hoard #cod mw2 #horizon zero dawn #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x reader #kyle gaz garrick #captain john price #kyle gaz garrick x reader #captain john price x reader

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afeelgoodblog · 1 year

Text

The Best News of Last Week

😷 - Mask off, but guard up! Seems like we're out of the tunnel

1. Abandoned dog seen wandering Detroit streets with stuffed toy rescued, now receiving care

An abandoned dog is preparing for a new home after animal rescue groups spent days trying to find her when she was spotted wandering Detroit with a stuffed toy. Nikki's owner recently died, and she was left to wander the streets with her favorite toy.

As Nikki receives her care, the animal workers are making sure she is ready to head to her foster home. Almost Home is collecting donations to help pay for the treatment and Niki's care. Donate here.

2. New foster care agency matching LGBTQ+ kids with queer carers to become ‘their amazing, wonderful selves’

A new foster care service has been launched to help match LGBTQ+ young people with supportive carers and families in the South East of England. Apex Q, a service from agency Apex Fostering, will help encourage more LGBTQ+ foster carers, provide training and create more placements for queer children.

Apex Fostering, which covers north and east London as well as several southern counties, including Hertfordshire, Essex and Cambridgeshire, launched in 2021 and claims to have already placed more than 60 young people with foster families.

3. Newquay Zoo celebrates birth of rare 'warty' piglets

A pair of rare piglets has been born at Newquay Zoo in Cornwall. The Visayan warty pigs, named for the three pairs of fleshy "warts" on the boar's face, which protect it while fighting rival pigs, are part of a breeding programme at the zoo.

The species lives in the forests of the Philippines, where there could be as few as 200 animals left.

4. New Alzheimer's drug slows disease by a third

We could be entering the era of Alzheimer's treatments, after the second drug in under a year has been shown to slow the disease. Experts said we were now "on the cusp" of drugs being available, something that had recently seemed "impossible".

The company Eli Lilly has reported its drug - donanemab - slows the pace of Alzheimer's by about a third.

5. Covid global health emergency is over, WHO says

The World Health Organization (WHO) has declared that Covid-19 no longer represents a "global health emergency". The statement represents a major step towards ending the pandemic and comes three years after it first declared its highest level of alert over the virus.

But Dr Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus warned that the virus remained a significant threat.

6. Doctors have performed brain surgery on a fetus in one of the first operations of its kind

The baby’s condition, known as vein of Galen malformation, was first noticed during a routine ultrasound scan at 30 weeks of pregnancy. The seven-week-old is one of the first people to have undergone an experimental brain operation while still in the womb. It might have saved her life.

Before she was born, this little girl developed a dangerous condition that led blood to pool in a 14-millimeter-wide pocket in her brain. The condition could have resulted in brain damage, heart problems, and breathing difficulties after birth. It could have been fatal. The baby girl was born healthy. She didn’t need any treatment for the malformation.

7. Lastly, watch this father stork brings a blanket to warm up mother stork

youtube

----

That's it for this week :)

This newsletter will always be free. If you liked this post you can support me with a small kofi donation:

Buy me a coffee ❤️

Also don’t forget to reblog. SUBCRIBE HERE for more good news in your inbox

#best news of last week #Youtube

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preservationofnormalcy · 10 months

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[I am in a nature preserve in rural Louisiana. A small ranger station-like structure in the middle of the wetlands welcomes me through chain link fences as my driver signals his approach, and as I exit my vehicle, a man steps out of the station.

He is heavy-set, tall, a little overweight but in that working-man sort of way where his strength is evident. He’s wearing a white labcoat over a colorful shirt and jeans, with messy hair and old school mutton chops. I can’t decide if he’s going for a vintage look or just doesn’t want to deal with his facial hair. Huge hands clap together once as I walk up to the building, and he smiles.]

Meghan] Mr McCollough?

Jethro] Please, please ma’am, call me Jethro. Please, come in.

[The first room seems typical of what I would expect a station in the middle of the swamplands to look - a cot, couches, radios and locked long glass-paneled cabinets with guns. A large metal door on one end leads me into the next room, and this one is different. Computers, rows and rows of filing cabinets, and haphazard piles of paperwork on a laboratory benchtop that yield to clean, colored tape-zoned areas holding glassware, boxes of “Vacutainer” tubes, plastic racks. A well-used benchtop centrifuge in the sun-bleached cream and baby blue colors of equipment from the 80s holds tubes of separated liquid – clear on top, a strip of white, and deep red at the bottom. Another metal door on the opposite side leads further into the building. He gestures to a somewhat empty table with a chair on either side.

Jethro’s accent is slight but noticeable, quiet but gregarious. He doesn’t sit yet, but fumbles with a kettle and a hot plate.]

J] Don’t get many visitors out here. Pardon the mess. Tea?

M] Oh. Please, actually.

J] Yes, ma’am. The people above my head tell me you’re here to ask questions.

M] That’s right. I saw the, uh… immunization posters in the Virginia site I toured.

J] Oh, sure. That’s been routine for decades, now. Since they were developed in the 50s. Lots of progress, of course, but always lots to do. Half the issue’s the paperwork, you know. But, uh, yeah.

M] Does everyone get immunized?

J] If I had my way, yes. That’d be the right way to do it. But no, it’s only really required for so-called high risk zones, that’s what they decided.

[He gives me a wry smile over his shoulder.]

J] This here’s a high risk zone, ma’am. But…you won’t be here long enough for it to matter.

M] …here’s hoping. Umm. I had a list of questions.

J] Top of the list is probably “Jesus H, they’re real?”

[He laughs briefly at his own joke.]

M] …my work is more about the efficacy and efficiency of the Office’s divisions, departments, and programs. But yeah, kind of.

[He pours the hot water into two teacups, and hands me one, sitting on the opposite side of the table. His cup looks comically small in his large hands.]

J] Get the feeling you’ll be asking that a lot in the next months.

M] I do too. Let me see… what is the objective of the… Abnormal Virology Department?

J] So our mission statement is about the research, control, and prevention of diseases – viral diseases specifically, but other stuff comes up, but y’know, that’s another story – uh, diseases that fall outside the Office’s definition of “normal,” and our big goals hopefully are curative or preventative treatments for those diseases. It’s a tall order.

M] And… lycanthropy is a virus, like the flu?

J] I mean, as much as any virus is like another. Each one’s unique, even the flu subtypes, but yeah. If I may use some jargon,

[He pauses with a hint of eagerness for affirmation before continuing.]

J] It's a lysogenic virus, so if you get infected, it integrates into the host genome, more like, uh, I guess herpesvirus is one most people would know. Once you get it, you got it for life because it hides in your DNA. Like herpesviruses too, you have lytic phases too, where it becomes active again, it emerges out of the genome based on cues from environmental pressures or host conditions. Like the phase of the moon, you know, which is kind of unique. When it’s not actively causing disease, when it’s just sitting in your genome at these sequence specific integration sites across the chromosomes, it also screws with normal gene regulation. The sites it sits down, you get dysregulation of normal transcription, you start growing more body hair, eyes change color. Where the virus integrates is a little different across host genetic backgrounds, think like ancestries; do you know SNPs?

[He clears his throat.]

Anyway, that lysogenic, passive phase is why we need the boosters, it’s laying low, immune cells don’t see anything to protect against, and it preferentially hides out in memory B cells, some lymphocytes, and that also kind of messes up a normal immune response. Which is why you have the immunoglobulin in the shot too, but that’s getting into the weeds. Because if you don’t have a way for the immune system to stop it quickly when it decides to jump out of the genome again, then, of course, you have the active phase, which… you can guess about that.

M] How successful would you say the treatments are?

J] It’s pretty good, especially given this stuff is almost the same as we were using mid-century. If you have a healthy immune system, if you’re vaccinated at least a few weeks before exposure, so you have your standard immune repertoire ready to go, and then they’re exposed – assuming the inoculum isn’t, you know, that can be pretty high sometimes – then they probably won’t “catch it,” so to speak, it’s neutralized and doesn’t integrate into the genome, so you don’t have a permanent case of it. We can also suppress symptoms with treatments for those with especially bad cases. Treatment’s kinda heavy, with the administration and the side effects; not like you’re just popping a pill under your tongue; but once it’s taken hold, there’s no, uh, no real cure.

[Jethro is quiet for a moment, taking a glance out the window as he drinks.]

J] … listen, ma’am. I’m biased. I got a personal stake in all this. I’m kind of a lab guy, sure, but sometimes I go out there and actually… you know. I’m the boots on the ground here too. And I don’t carry the big guns like the guys in Security do, no, I’m here giving out shots to kids and families. There’s communities in this country, whole towns out in the swamps or up in the hollers that are majority-infected. They live with it, they make do. And they have a chance at that, at life, because of us. Hard to quantify, of course. If you’re looking for hard numbers, I can try and find ‘em–

[He gestures to the filing cabinets.]

J] If you got a week or two.

M] We can… coordinate records later. But we’ve successfully eradicated things like… you know, smallpox. Can we eradicate things like lycanthropy?

[He gives me a strange, wary look and picks up a plastic knife from the table, oddly stirring his drink. I take a sip of mine.]

J] I’d be careful, talking like that. Lotta people don’t just think they’re sick, they- we’re talking about people. People with a condition, sure, but the minute you start talking about eradicating is when we start having camps again.

M] … again?

J] There’s rural areas in this country that the Office hasn’t been in for decades. We aren’t welcome.

M] Can I ask what happened?

[Jethro takes a deep breath.]

J] In ‘55, the United States rolled out its polio vaccine program. Of course, the Office used the infrastructure, hustle and bustle of the whole thing as a cover for our own lycanthropic treatment programs. We, and when I say “we,” I mean the Office in general of course. I wasn’t even a pup then. But a couple Office research groups, the Wagner lab, they’d done deep research into the condition, validated a few hypotheses, and they were ready to pilot the production of a vaccine. They just needed plasma. From infected hosts.

M] … I think I see.

J] Yeah. Yeah, back then infected folks were basically ignored unless they were in legal trouble. Legal personhood hadn't been extended to lycanthropes yet.

M] Legal personhood?

J] Ask Ferd about that when you get back to Virginia. Unfortunately, that plasma was taken from… people who didn’t volunteer. Inmates at first, murderers. But scaling up collection, then it came from people who stole some cows, and then people who were even just accused of things. When the Wagner people showed the shot was actually working, the Office needed a lot more to even think about rolling it out everywhere it was needed, and people weren’t really volunteering, so…

[He sighs.]

J] We shouldn’t have been surprised when a lot of communities then rejected us after that. Word travels fast, and the symbol–

[He taps the OPN crest on his badge.]

J] –became the mark of the Beast. Figuratively. It’s been decades getting to the point where we can help people, and pardon my bragging, ma’am, but it’s people like me who are the reason why we can. Part scientist, part… social worker, I guess.

[The phone rings, and Jethro slides over on his rolling chair to answer it. He seems immediately worried, and after a moment of conversation he hangs up and rubs his face.]

J] Real sorry ma’am, gonna have to cut this short. I know you had a long trip. Maybe I can meet you somewhere that ain’t so out of the way.

M] Oh. That’s okay, Jethro. Um. How’s next Saturday?

[He rolls over to a calendar on the wall. July 2021.]

J] No… no, I’ll be needing a day or two off ‘round then. For the… weather.

M] …I think I see. I’ll call you, we can finish over the phone.

J] Probably for the best, ma’am. If you’ll excuse me, I got an emergency downstate. Small outbreak just confirmed, got some of that social work to do.

M] Should I be worried?

[He grins, throwing his labcoat onto a chair and pulling a dirty jumpsuit out of a pile.]

J] Hell no, ma’am. We’re professionals. Ain’t gonna be any rowdy gators causing any trouble.

M] …gat–

J] I trust you’ll see yourself out, ma’am.

(Buy the poster here!)

#HUGE thanks to my good friend for editing the virology stuff #and giving his perspective #office for the preservation of normalcy #werewolves #lycanthropy #lycanthrope #interview

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mrs-snape5984 · 25 days

Text

“Oh, breathe, just breathe…”

“'Cause you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable. And life's like an hourglass glued to the table. No one can find the rewind button, girl. So cradle your head in your hands and breathe, just breathe…” (“Breathe (2AM)” by Anna Nalick)

Sometimes, you just have to accept, that there are things, that can’t be changed or fixed anymore…at least not right now. I guess, I’m more and more coming to terms with this insight, considering the fact, that it just doesn’t make sense to wrap my head around the reason for my disease ME/CFS.

I can’t alter my previous decisions. For the past two years, I’ve blamed myself for catching Covid on an Open Air concert of my German favourite punk rock band “Die Ärzte”…especially viewed in the context that I avoided social gatherings since late 2019 because of my medicinal immune suppression. But when I got these tickets as a gift in 2022, my brain must have shut down and I started to belittle the potential risks of catching the virus by telling myself, that I would stand in the back of the crowd, beneath the open sky. This was also the first occasion, when I didn’t wear my mask…after enduring being bullied and mocked for wearing masks everywhere and rejecting every single invitation to parties and simple get-togethers.

Well…only one week later, my life- as I knew it before - came to an abrupt halt. I don’t want to go into detail about my current situation in this post. Whoever knows me and also my prior posts, is probably already fed up with my complaints about ME/CFS and its results for my life.

So, all I can do now, is to breathe. Deliberately slowly…breathing in…and breathing out. Calming my nerves…soothing my troubled mind with my fantasies of Severus and my absolutely self-inserted OC Jules…

I’ve commissioned someone new for this project. Someone different from all those lovely artists of Snapedom, who I regularly contacted for my usual coping mechanism of commissioning artworks of Sevy and Jules.

This time, I reached out to @pinklovecharm, an incredibly kind and understanding artist, who made me speechless with this drawing. I asked her to help my imagination of Severus and Jules, being on a walk in the forest, come to life.

I can’t tell you, how much I’m missing this simple activity of enjoying the autumn sunshine and some fresh air on a walk in the woods. In my fantasy, Severus would apparate us to a secluded path in the middle of the forest, wrapping his arm around my waist to support my steps. We wouldn’t talk much…but Severus would remind me of the importance of breathing…and he would exercise it with me…patiently waiting for me to eventually calm down. He’s my safe haven…my home.

My dear Sadie, you can’t imagine, how much you soothed my soul with your mesmerising art and your kind-heartedness. You really achieved to put me into my OC Jules…with all her emotions and physical attributes….and you even integrated my cane into your drawing! Normally, I don’t show my reference pictures publicly, but I’m too impressed by your dedication to the details of my appearance, that I can’t stop myself from presenting them here. Thank you for everything, you wonderful person! I hope, we’ll stay in touch and that I may commission you again.

🖤Severus & Julia🖤

🖤Sevy and Jules🖤

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drdemonprince · 7 months

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genuine question, I get why blaming people who have just caught covid for it is some fucked up victim blaming bullshit, and highly analogous to shaming ppl who've gotten an STI, but is it okay to assign blame/responsibility to people who *give* others covid? it seems to me that just like with STIs (particularly HIV and HSV bc they're not curable) its your responsibility as like, a person who has sex and isn't a total asshole, to do a reasonably good job of knowing whether you have these things, and then either give people who might catch it from you the ability to consent knowing that, or only interact with people in such a way that transmission is highly unlikely. In other words, having or getting an infection is morally neutral, but failing to break the chain of transmission isn't, especially when that failure results from complete inaction/ignoring the problem, as opposed to *attempting* to break it and failing due to factors outside your control. I've seen people saying that beleiving this is the same as slut shaming people who get STIs, and tbh that seems ridiculous to me, but what do you think? is "if you have covid and pass it on to someone, especially by going around in public without a mask, you are morally responsible for the harm the disease causes them" incorrect/going to backfire in some way I'm not seeing? I do get how the same statement about HIV is not good, but also you can't give someone HIV by eating in the same restaurant, so it seems like there are some important differences.

The passage on moralizing HIV transmission in Sarah Schulman's book Conflict is Not Abuse is a real stand-out passage in an otherwise (to me) highly underwhelming tome -- because Schulman has been involved in AIDS activism since its early days and is very conversant in the laws that have been used to incarcerate gay men and others for having the virus, and for supposedly passing it along to other people.

We can philosophize all we want about how wrong it would be for a person to knowingly go about infecting other people, but when we're actually dealing with how such matters go in the real world, it's not a useful moral or practical question. How do we know that someone knows they have the virus? Do we consider a person morally culpable if they have the sniffles but brush it off, not realizing it's something more serious? What about an Autistic person or trauma survivor with alexithymia, who is not closely attuned with their body states? If I can walk around with a bleeding gash on my leg for hours or a bloody UTI and not know it, I can have a mild cold and not know it. Am I too blame for spreading the virus then? What about someone who does know they have COVID but has no legal protections in their workplace and no financial support and determines they have no choice but to do a shift at the grocery store, because otherwise they'll be fired and at risk of homelessness?

These might sound like extreme examples, but we're talking about collectively millions of people's everyday experiences here. If a person is at fault for any disease that they spread, what then? What logically follows from that declaration? Should we make knowing transmission illegal? We've already seen in history how such a policy is used to terrorize and oppress gay men. It's an impossible thing to enforce, because someone's knowledge state is impossible to fully know or surveil, especially when we're not, you know, providing tests to anyone in any kind of systematic way, and in fact our government and most of our employers are actively discouraging us from testing or knowing too much.

Of course, I doubt that you actually want any kind of legal policy like that very much. I'm certain what you are really asking about is what responsibilities we should reasonably expect individual people to hold. And the answer is, well, look at how they are holding them now! Clearly people do not have adequate support at the moment to even be cognizant of their status. It's not a useful question. It just isn't. If we were providing free tests every day at major public access points and legally protecting people's rights to call off sick whenever they did test positive, and paying them lost wages, then we could talk about people being irresponsible and knowingly spreading a disease out of malice or laziness. but we don't have any of that, so we can't.

The solution to a population failing to take the "right" actions is always to look at the external factors that makes taking the right action hard. And right now? Being responsible surrounding covid is very, very hard. We can condemn every person who spreads COVID (or HIV) to another person morally all we like, but it's not going to save lives, and it's going to harm a lot of vulnerable people in the process, so why do it? Why not instead ask ourselves what we can do as a society to help make it easier for a person to behave in pro-social ways?

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wazzappp · 5 months

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Ok @moosemonstrous here we fuckin go.

OK SO. I apologize if it comes off more Evangellion than Pacific Rim but I thought that making The Charger more slender would help to differentiate it and allow for a focus on agility (also helps it to look more skeletal and unsettling).

The Charger is built in layers. An outer layer that constitutes the armor, a thinner covering, metal scaffolding, secondary thin covering, and then finally the essential wiring that makes the 'nervous system' of the Jaeger. Most of the damage (corruption scars, nicks, paint chipping) is just cosmetic, and the structural nature of the Jaeger is intact.

HOWEVER. The same can not be said of the reactor core. At some point (maybe during Eli's death?) corruption made its way behind the main fans of the outer engine and into the main reactor that powers the Jaeger. In theory this should lead to a catastrophic failure, but in this instance Im thinking there was a chemical reaction that essentially stabilized the corrosive nature of the Corruption (were gonna circle back to that).

For the most part my version of Robbies suit is fairly standard. I added an orange tint to his helmet screen for flavor because hey. Why not.

The spine of the suit is probably newly integrated to allow for an updated interface, I imagine theres at least a little development in the technology between the time Eli dies and Robbie comes into play. That would make the suit a weird mishmash of past and new technology which could be VERY fun.

Also I LOVED the white accents @cicada-candy added for their design but I didn't want to steal ideas so I just added it in my own places. Your art fucks severely bro I just wanted to make sure and let you know that <3

TIME FOR MY FAVORITE PART: SPECULATION ABOUT THE CORRUPTION AND ITS THEORETICAL GENETIC EFFECTS IN DOSES ON A SUBJECT!!!!!! (AKA self indulgence part 2 electric boogaloo)

I believe you mentioned the Corruption being a Neurotoxin which would be Very fun and VERY cool but I also have a suggestion. Mainly because you also referenced an increase in Robbies strength, as well as another person who got fuckin deaded shortly after.

A rapid growth in muscle density to allow for this strength would be very interesting, but why would the Corruption cause that? Simple answer; it isn't. At least not intentionally. Whats actually happening is a kind of nerve damage that changes the brains regulation of muscular exertion. Our brains really only let us use a certain percentage of our real strength, because if we just let loose and used it all we would cause significant physical damage to ourselves. Like. ripping your own tendons free from their anchors. you could break your own bones. you would die SO fast bro.

Now it is POSSIBLE to access this strength in situations of extreme stress and thats how you get people lifting cars off of loved ones, but this does still cause damage. It also gets more complicated when you consider Fast Twitch muscle reactions but for the sake of simplicity: You Would Die.

So a release of cortisol and other stress hormones, combined with a lessened ability to control strength. This means they would be USING that strength A LOT against ANYONE AND EVERYONE. But maintaining this sort of metabolism is not reasonable. Someone suffering from Corruption would likely also suffer from Hypoglycemia fatally. So extremely strong, extremely scared, and extremely short lived is the kind of deal we would be talking about here.

SO. Having said ALL OF THAT. WHAT IS ROBBIES DEAL. Well heres my proposal: The Corruption is a virus that causes neurodegenerative disease.

If Robbie was exposed to very small amounts of it as a child, it's possible it was inactive or defective, which would have allowed for an immunization point. Its also highly possible that this is a virus that can not survive (well i say survive very lightly. theres significant debate as to wether viruses are actually alive at all but I digress) outside its usual area AKA Inside a demon. He could have been exposed through contaminated water, direct contact, maybe even breathing burned version through the air. Either way, he came into contact with a weakened version of the virus and it helps him later on.

As he comes into DIRECT contact with Corruption via plugging into The Charger this is when we would start to see some more interesting effects. This Corruption would still be different though because of the aforementioned stabilizing chemical reaction in the reactor. Also, because I think Eli's DNA would be integrated into it. This provides Robbie with genetic compatibility for the virus to jump off of. Remember, viruses don't want to kill a host, they just want to reproduce as much as possible (which does end up killing a host but still). And a fun fact about viruses is that we never actually get rid of them, we just get rid of the symptoms. Once you have it its in you forever.

SO. 1. Immune response from Robbies body begins to cause the nervous damage that would allow for his rapid increase in strength. 2.Immune system recognizes the genetic material is familiar (Eli doing something good even inadvertently I guess). 3. Immune system neutralizes the virus and incorporates it into Robbies genetic coding. All good right? Happy ending? WRONG.

BECAUSE WHEN THERE ARE COPYING ERRORS IN YOUR DNA (SOMETIMES FROM VIRUSES) WHAT DO WE CALL IT?? DING DING DING 10 POINTS TO THE MUTUAL THAT SAID ✨MUTATION✨

This virus still carries genetic material from demons, this would also be getting integrated into Robbies DNA. Places like his spine which would have the most regular contact with the Corruption would probably take the brunt of these changes. It's possible that the nerve damage never truly goes away and he continuously tears and then rebuilds those muscles, resulting in overall increased strength thats technically?? stabilized?? Also I could totally see his body going 'oh shit were finally growing with decent access to fuel? BET' and just. Reactivates the growth plates in his bones ('Look! I've fixed his runt of the litter insecurity!' 'YOU FUCKED UP A PERFECTLY GOOD PILOT IS WHAT YOU DID. LOOK AT HIM. HES GOT ANXIETY ABOUT THE STATE OF HIS HUMANITY').

Oh yeah its also worth noting that this would be like. Pretty painful. We're talking constant soreness, cramps, deep aches that just won't go away. General suffering <3

Of course tapetum lucidum OF COURSE TEEF obviously as if I could go without it. You can get funky with mutations because hey. fucky wucky demon genome integration whoop whoop. Also could be interesting to see damaged areas on the Charger manifest on Robbie as damaged tissue. His skin says 'AH. Damage' and copies itself as scar tissue instead of the usual.

Oh god Ive been writing for a solid hour and a half I was supposed to be asleep a while ago ok. Moose I love this au and its making me unwell thank you for sharing with the class I hope you will consider my virus proposal for body horror purposes.

#love the idea of him just getting up one morning and going '??? Was the floor?? that far away before??'#im a sucker for it dude #also I am like. not a biologist . just enthusiastic about biology without the education. so take everything here with a grain of salt lmfao #i gotta go to sleep now. how am I gonna do that. much excitement. i make responsible choices like an adult.#ughhhh #robbie reyes #ghost rider #im prolly gonna look at this in the morning and edit the hell out of it because in my joyus haze of bullshit I didnt connect paragraphs #but fuck it we ball #pacific rim ghost rider au #my art #digital art #sketch #oh its also worth noting that the ✨mutations✨ im talking about generally result in like. cancer. very cancer #eli morrow #<- naughty. goes at the bottom of the list

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cripplecharacters · 2 months

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Mods

[large text: Mods]

Sasza

[Large Text: Sasza]

Hi! My name is Sasza and I use he/him pronouns. I am a disabled artist who loves to write and draw characters like me! I am autistic, (mildly) intellectually disabled and have several physical conditions including-but-not-limited-to dyspraxia, severe hyperkyphosis, cranial nerve diseases (causing double vision, chronic pain and a facial difference among other things), and hypermobile joints. Sometimes I use a cane. I'm very passionate about accessibility and disability representation in all kinds of media - books, comics, video games, and any other kind of art that's out there!

Bert

[Large Text: Bert]

Hello! I'm Bert (previously Mason), and I use he/they pronouns. I am a writer who loves to write plays and fiction with characters like me and my friends. I am autistic and have ADHD, I have psychotic PTSD and a DID system. Physical health-wise I have migraines, fibromyalgia, and a lateral lisp. I love talking about representation and ways we can make a kinder and more inclusive space everywhere we go.

Sparrow

[large text: Sparrow]

Hi, I’m sparrow, they/he for me. I’m a disabled artist who makes a lot of disabled characters like myself and probably like a quarter of the world. I have autism and ADHD, among other brain things, as well as chronic pain in both my jaw and my knee and ankle. I also have POTS and some sort of sleep disorder. I am a sometimes cane user as well. I really enjoy research and thoughtful art that makes people feel seen. Aside from that, I am a huge fan of historical fiction and really enjoy fantasy as well.

Rot

[Large text: Rot]

My name is Rot, I use all pronouns including neo pronouns as well as any rot and insect themed nounself pronouns. I’m an artist who loves putting disability in my stories. I’m mostly undiagnosed due to medical neglect and have chronic fatigue, hypersomnia & chronic pain that ranges from mild to debilitating. My known disabilities are pots, ganglion cysts, nerve damage, tics, autism (level unknown), asthma, GERD, anxiety and psychosis. I have a metal implant, use a cane and am mostly verbal and use aac infrequently. I have experience with temporary palsy, needing carers (family members who stepped up, not hired carers) and being in a wheelchair, though I currently don't have any of those.

Patch

[Large text: Patch]

Hey! We’re The Patchwork Quilt but please call me Patch! I use sof/soft/softs, red/red/reds, they/them/their, and ae/aem/aeir pronouns. I’m autistic (level 1, the very high end of low support needs, unreliably/semi-speaking, AAC user), and I’m a system with highly complex dissociative identity disorder (we use we/us and I/me language interchangeably. Please don’t ask who’s fronting). I also have hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder, specific learning disorder with impairment in mathematics (AKA dyscalculia), developmental coordination disorder (AKA dysgraphia/dyspraxia), chronic fatigue syndrome, essential (kinetic) tremor, avoidant restrictive food intake disorder, dependent personality disorder, severe auditory processing disorder, psychosis (likely somewhere on the schizophrenia spectrum), and Tourette’s syndrome. I use a rollater that can turn into a powerchair. I love drawing, writing, and playing D&D and coming up with creative ways to incorporate disability into those three things. I will be attending college for a degree in disability studies this fall.

Virus

[Large Text: Virus]

Hello! I go by Virus and I use She/Her but anyone can use any pronouns for me, have fun with it. I'm a writer—mostly fanfiction—who has been in fandom very long and used to be a classical musician. I have Hypermobile Ehler Danlos Syndrome along with it's fun co-morbidities (MCAS, POTS, Gastroparesis, Fibromyalgia, and Von Willebrandes). I also have Pan-Hypopituitarism which is the following: Adrenal Insufficiency, Hypothyroidism, Diabetes Insipidus, Precocious Puberty, Growth Hormone Deficiency, Hyperprolactinemia/galactorrhea, as well as High Estrogen and Testosterone issues. I have Pituitary Dwarfism/Proportional Dwarfism, Myoclonic Epilepsy, and a Speech Disorder. I used to have a Port-a-cath, Picc-Lines, and a feeding tube, amongst many other things. Phew, now that that's over. I love every art form with a favour towards music, writing and the fiber arts. I love seeing representation no matter how big or small especially in medias that rep is often glossed over!

Rock

[Large Text: Rock]

Hi! I am Rock; any pronouns are okay. I am a writer, mainly of sci-fi and fantasy, and I love adding all sorts of disabled characters. I am hard of hearing (mild-moderate bilateral hearing loss) and have profound auditory processing disorder. I have scoliosis, POTS, and lower-body muscle weakness so I am a full-time mobility aid user. I am also intersex; I have several hormone deficiencies among other conditions as a result of my intersex variation. I am excited to join the mod team!

Aaron

[Large Text: Aaron]

Hey, I'm Aaron, he/him. I'm a writer of fantasy, science fiction, dystopia, utopia, and historical, and I like writing incorporating casts of disabled characters into all of them and reworking magic, technology, and science to accommodate them. I have a TBI, a lot wrong with my speech, cognitive issues, slight developmental disability, myofascial pain syndrome, medium support needs autistic but fully verbal, OCD, multiple types of anxiety, PTSD, depression, severe ADHD, dyslexia, dysgraphia, articulatory initiation anomia, medically significant migraines, a chronic headache, chronic pain, and chronic fatigue. I'm also visibly disabled (one of those people who looks autistic) and transmasc. And I can't wait to see what amazing things you guys come u with.

#mod sasza #mod intros #cripplecharacters about #mod bert #mod sparrow #mod rot #mod patch #mod virus #mod golem #mod rock #long post #not writing advice #mod aaron

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digitalafterlife · 2 months

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dosac is kind of like a petri dish into which a contagious virus has been introduced (malcolmspeak) everybody gradually gets more and more infected. with the disease. nicola after working there a week composes metaphors like “i am standing in a factory that makes fans and a man has walked in with a giant shit spraying machine”

#the thick of it #jamie.txt

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bots-and-cons · 4 days

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Silly ass request but can I get shockwave and knockout with part vampire and or fruit bat reader headcanons lol

A/N: I wasn’t really sure if you meant it as vampire or fruit bat reader, or vampire bat or fruit bat reader. So what I decided to do was make a vampire reader that can turn into a bat. I just felt I would get more out of it this way. And again this is a bit of a bad ask because that’s just a character trait and not a situation, which is a big reason I decided to go with the vampire thing. There's also this old post about a vampire reader

~Knockout~

•Being a vampire, you of course need blood, and that’s not really easy to get sometimes

•Knockout is working on synthesizing it for you, but it’s not really going well

•There are people who willingly give blood to vampires, so you usually just make use of their services

•Anyway, the first time Knockout learned you were a vampire, he wasn’t really sure if you were joking or not, because to his understanding, vampires weren’t real

•Like sure he’d seen the twilight movies, but that didn’t really seem to be you

•You don’t sparkle under sunlight nor do you feed from animals unless you don’t have any other options

•And then there was the tiny thing of you being able to turn into a bat

•Knockout honestly finds that to be the most interesting of your abilities

•It’s probably because of the transformation aspect, but also because WTF?

•You like flying circles around his head, or hanging upside down from his audial fin

•You’re like an earring when you do that

•You don’t deal well with sunlight, as in it will burn you eventually, but it’s not like you explode into a cloud of ash if a sun ray touches you

•But it is incredibly uncomfortable, eventually painful and dangerous, and gives you a wicked headache.

•Knockout has tinted windows, so you can go for a drive even during the day if you want to

•Knockout isn’t really bothered by the fact that you’re dead, and he’s very glad you’re immortal, because that just means more time with you

~Shockwave~

•Shockwave is of course interested in how your transformation works and the whole “being dead” thing is also interesting to him

•Because your body doesn’t have the normal functions you’d see on a human, no heart beat and no need to breathe

•Your need for blood is also of interest, but he doesn’t seem to be able to figure out why you need it

•You of course tell him it’s some magic reason like life force and stuff, but Shockwave isn’t really satisfied with that answer

•This mech needs something scientific, not some “magical” explanation that doesn’t actually explain anything

•Shockwave is of course interested in how you became this way, but you don’t really know much yourself

•You know you died with vampire blood in your system, but you don’t know who it was that actually turned you

•Shockwave of course speculates that it is some kind of virus or blood disease, but you’re more on the magic side of that debate

•You don’t have to be that careful at the lab, because it doesn’t really matter if you get exposed to some fumes or something, because you don’t breathe

•Of course if something corrosive were to fall on you that wouldn’t end well, but the wounds from smaller drops or spills heal quite quickly

•You turning into a bat is the one thing about you, he doesn’t even have a theory for, because that’s just abnormal

#transformers #tfp #transformers prime #decepticons #knockout #shockwave #tfp headcanons #reader insert #tfp x reader #transformers x reader #platonic transformers x reader

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dixieconley · 18 days

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The Red Death

Thorn: I feel terrible. I think I coughed a lung up. Can I fake my death and take a day off? Thire: Not feeling so hot either, vod. Can I take the war off? Fox: ::flatly:: If I don't get time off, you don't either. I don't remember the last time I felt good. Thorn: So you're not sick like the rest of us? Fox: …

::flashback 1:: Triage: One of Hound's people brought back a fast-acting virus with them after visiting the lower levels. Most of the Guard is already infected and the rest are likely to get it soon. Fox: … Fox: We can get sick? Triage: Apparently. I don't know what this is. If I could, I'd find out what it is and see if there's a cure. But I don't have the training or the tools. Fox: … Triage: Best case scenario, we quarantine the Guard and wait to see how many survive. Fox: And the worst case scenario? Triage: … Triage: You don't want to know.

::flashback 2:: Fox: Your excellency, may I speak with you? Palpatine: Of course, commander. It would be my pleasure. Fox: I-- Palpatine: And commander, take your helmet off, would you? I like to see the faces of the people I'm talking with. Fox: … Fox: ::takes helmet off:: Sir, it would be in the best interests of everyone if other parties took over the Guard's duties for the next few days. Many of my men are ill and my chief medical officer tells me that it's likely all of us will be by the end of the week-- Palpatine: Oh? And why would you think you deserve something like that? Fox: I-- ::vomits on Palpatine's imported handwoven carpet:: Palpatine: Disgusting. Truly disgusting. No, commander, you'll do your duty or you die. You're all replaceable anyway. Perhaps your successor will be more competent than you. And less pathetic. Succumbing to a common virus, really. Hardly worth the money paid for you.

Fox: It doesn't matter. We do our duty or we die. Thire: Or we do our duty and we die. Thorn: That's the spirit! Always look on the bright side, vod!

And Fox would say something, but Thire's not wrong. So…

Fox: Business as usual, vod'e. Dead and dying to the medbay, pair up so that if one person passes out, the other can cover for them and try not to vomit on any senators. Thorn: If I can't puke on a senator, can I puke on the chancellor instead? Fox: … Thorn: Fox, you magnificent hypocritical bastard. You didn't. Fox: I only got the carpet. Thorn: I want to be you when I grow up.

And so the Corries get on with their jobs because no one cares if they're sick or not while Fox resigns himself to signing off on several decommissioning orders by the end of the day because the majority of senators have an extremely low tolerance for clones behaving like anything other than droids. (That a significant number seem to think of them as sex droids? Fox would like to see how they fare against the real thing.)

What no one realizes is that the Vode were genetically engineered to be better than their progenitor. To be more resistant to disease, to heal faster and, whenever possible, to not get sick at all. For them to all get sick at once? Requires something highly contagious and more along the lines of a deadly bioterrorism agent, not a mere common cold.

And so:

Thorn: Fox! Fox! Fox: ::irritable and feverish:: What?? Thorn: The chancellor is dead! And so is most of the senate! This is just the Best! Day! Ever!! Fox: … Fox: What happened?? Thorn: I don't know? They just started keeling over. There's bodies everywhere. It's great. I guess it started with the worst of the shiny raping demagolka and spread from there? Triage: This is the worst case scenario I was afraid of. Natborns aren't built to handle the kinds of things that the Vode are. Interesting that it crosses the species barrier though. Thorn: And I got to puke on Free Ta when he tried to stick his kad down my throat! This really is the best day ever! Fox: … Fox: I'm giving everyone the rest of the day off. We'll revisit in the morning. Triage: Why? It's too late to quarantine the Guard. The disease has already spread to the Senate and likely outside of it as well. And recovery will take more than a day in any case. Fox: … Triage: You are quarantining the Guard, right? That is what you're trying to do, isn't it?? Fox: … Fox: Once everyone's gotten some sleep, we'll reassess. Thorn: And throw a party! Because it's not every day you kill the biggest bastards in the galaxy by heaving your guts out.

#commander fox #crack fic #sw clone wars #fix it fic #sw fanfic #coruscant guard #palpatine dies

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lu-vin-it · 9 months

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I. The Queen's Decision

── ⋅⋅⋅ ────꒰ ୨ ♡ ୧ ꒱───────

The Lady's Hand M.List

Summary: Hundreds of years ago, a plague broke out, killing most, and turning other’s into violent creatures. Many thought all was lost, that was until three unlikely leaders came together and formed three kingdoms: Demesne, Theign, and Azure. Those kingdoms still stood to this day, and now, the most recent heiress of Azure is of age and is intended to marry (much to her dismay).

Pairings: Ellie Williams X Reader

Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1.7K

Warnings: Death of a loved one

A/N: I DID IT!! I HIT 950!!

Thank you to @stqrluvr for proofreading <3

Centuries ago, when the world was overcome by the virus, cordyceps, many people thought all was lost. People would fight, kill, and maim just for a can of food. You were more likely to run into a clicker than a person, but back then, that was preferred. That was until three unlikely leaders arose and formed kingdoms within the broken world. The kingdoms were called Demesne, Theign, and Azure.

Demesne was a strict kingdom. Every king and queen since the beginning led with an iron fist. The laws were never broken, not out of agreement, but out of fear. When you broke a law, even one you wouldn’t think mattered much, you risked being put to death. The current rulers were no different than their ancestors, and the eldest prince was the same. The youngest prince, Simon, however, was like a beacon of hope for the people of Demesne, he was kind, always wore a smile, and all the kingdoms talked of his optimism.

There isn’t much to say about Theign, it was a smaller kingdom with a population of two or three thousand. They were loyal, and they had a reputation of being strong despite the size, so Azure and Demesne both sent their future knights there to train. The king and queen liked their solitude, only having one child. Your Father spoke highly of Theign, saying that if anything or person threatened the likeness of Azure or Demesne, they would come running immediately.

The kingdom of Azure was that of a fairytale. The people were kind and selfless. They were the type of people to give and never take. In the public’s eye, the King and Queen were sweet people, the Princess was a responsible girl who everyone had their eyes on, being the only princess of this generation. Of course, each had their secrets. Ones that would only show inside the castle walls, in bed chambers or parlors. You should know, considering you are the princess.

Life as a princess was tiring. Not to say you weren’t lucky, you were, but you were born into a life full of responsibility that you couldn’t get away from even with death. It wasn’t all expensive things, fame, and fortune. It was working 24/7, not knowing who you could trust, and defamation every corner you walked around. It was corsets being way too tight, an unloving mother, a dead father, no friends, gossiping maids, a whole kingdom of people who looked to you for help.

It was constant pressure. Especially now that your Father had died of a mysterious illness. You still remembered the day he died. It was raining, the castle was quiet, you were sitting in the parlor alone with a book when a maid burst through the doors to tell you to come quickly. You asked her why and all she had to say was “Your father” before you started sprinting. It was unladylike, you knew that, but this was your Father.

He was dead when you got to the room. Your Mother was staring at his dead body with anger. You couldn’t even fathom being angry with him seconds after he had passed. Tears came pouring down your face and you sat down besides him,

“Get away from him, Y/N. He could be carrying the disease.” She said with such malice in her voice. You shook your head wordlessly and grabbed his hand. You broke down even more when he didn’t hold your hand back like he always did. You wished it could have been you instead.

After the funeral, you almost ran away. If it weren’t for the knights at the gate, you would have, too. They brought you right back to the castle though. When your Mother got wind of it, you thought you were a dead woman. Instead, she just locked you in your room for a day. When she let you out, she glared at you over every meal and refused to say a word to you for a week. You almost preferred it that way, you hated talking to her anyhow.

It wasn’t as if you hated your Mother, you didn’t, really. You loved her. But you didn’t like her much at all. She was selfish and ignorant. She didn’t care about the people of Azure. She was only with your Father because of a contract her parents signed with his own.

You often watched them interact with each other in private. It was like they were strangers and not husband and wife. But when in public, they seemed like the happiest of couples. You hated that. You swore you would never marry out of obligation, only love. But of course, your Mother had to strip that away.

Two weeks after your Father’s death, your Mother called for you. Upon entering her room, she told you her plans for your marriage. She had put together a competition for your hand as if you were a cow at an auction. You had never felt more humiliated in your life. Noblemen from Azure, Theign, and Demesne, would compete against each other in three different competitions. The first would be a joust, the second, fencing, the third, archery.

The worst part of it all, was that only men were allowed to enter the contest.

You begged and begged your Mother to not go through with it, but to no avail, she did. She planned everything before even telling you. You cried yourself to sleep that night. How could she do this to you? Force you into a life you didn’t want?

All the while this was happening, Lady Ellie Williams sat in her drawing room with her Dad, Joel, and her sister, Sarah, holding an invitation.

“Dear Viscount Miller, I hereby invite you to compete for Princess Y/N’s hand in marriage, Woah. Isn’t she my age?” Ellie asked. Her sister, who was embroidering her initials into a handkerchief looks up with furrowed brows.

“Yes, she is. Father? Why are you being invited?” Joel takes the letter and reads it quickly.

“I believe they’ve made a mistake. There’s no possible way they meant this to be for me. They must’ve thought Ellie was a man.” Ellie glances down at her attire, dirty pants, a sword, and a cotton shirt. She shrugs. “I’ll write back and inform the queen of her mistake.”

“Or..” Ellie starts, standing up. “I could compete.”

“For the princess’s hand..?” Sarah wonders.

“Yes, dear sister, for the princess’s hand!” She looks at her Father who was crossing his arms. “Oh come on, I’ll cover my face and hair, no one will know the difference until we’re married.”

“That is if you win. I’m sure they invited noblemen from Demesne and Theign. For heaven’s sake, Els, I love you.. but you cannot beat a Knight from Theign.” Sarah points out.

“Have you ever seen me jousting? Fencing? Shooting? No, you haven’t. I’m the best at all of them in all of Azure. I could win.” Joel still just stares at his adoptive daughter.

“Why do you even want to marry her?” The man asks, shaking his head.

“She hasn’t a choice in the matter, I’d treat her more fairly than any of the snobby noblemen who will compete.”

“There’s no talking you out of this, I suppose?” She shakes her head. This wasn’t the first time Ellie Williams attempted to do something illegal, and unfortunately for Joel, this wouldn’t be the last, he was certain.

You see, Viscountess Ellie Williams was known for her rebellious ways. Ever since she was adopted by the revered Joel Miller when she was merely 14, everyone knew that. She entered the kingdom with a bite mark on her arm and clicker guts on her shirt. Plus you would hardly catch her with a skirt or a dress on. She was a bad influence on all the children, and the parents knew that. That’s why for most of her life, she was alone. Her only company being Joel, Sarah, and her uncle, Tommy.

The fact that she was a bad influence was only fortified when she was sentenced to death when she was only sixteen. She was caught lying inappropriately with a prostitute. Of course, Joel paid the constables off and she was able to evade the charges without so much as a little scuff on her already bad reputation.

“You can try, but you will not succeed.” Joel sighs.

“Fine, but if you get caught, I know nothing of this…nor does Sarah.”

“Okay, deal!”

You sat on your throne besides your Mother with a fake smile on your face as you watched carriages line up in front of the castle.

“Lord Thomas of Azure.” A short man exits

his carriage, almost falling as soon as he steps on the ground. “Crown Prince Benedict II of Demesne. Queen Adrienne of Demesne. King Benedict of Demesne.” The prince is the first to exit the fancy carriage, then he helps his Mother, and finally, his Father exits as well. Everyone bows. Your Mother stands up and walks to the group.

“What a pleasure it is to have you all here. I’ve missed you dearly Adrienne.” She gives the stoic woman a small smile. “A maid will show you to your quarters.” She then walks back to her throne and sits.

“Lord Arthur of Azure!” Arthur was a redheaded man. From what you had heard, he was nice, too.

“Dukes Gregory and Edmund of Demesne.” Twin boys clumsily exit the next carriage. They each give you a smile and then walk off. “Prince Sebastian of Theign.” The next carriage rolls up and out comes a burly man, who had to be at least ten years older than you.

“Mother?” You whisper to her. She glares at you before turning back to Prince Sebastian and smiling.

“Marquess James of Theign.” What you thought to be the last carriage pulls up and out comes a man whom you can only describe as average. Painfully average. “If all contestants will make their way to the courtya—“ The announcer is cut off by a masked man on a horse riding up just as quick as he can. He dismounts the horse and walks up to the announcer. They whispered among themselves for a moment before the announcer cleared his throat. “Viscount Miller of Azure.”

── ⋅⋅⋅ ────꒰ ୨ ♡ ୧ ꒱───────

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