i'm kelly, a 37 y/o living in southern california with her pets! sometimes i write fanfic, but mostly i just reblog things i think are funny. look for me on bsky @bentsage!
The only thing that keeps Captain Raymond Clark somewhere in the ballpark of sanity are visits from traders. Unfortunately, not every visitor deals in caps and fishing bait.
(In which Raymond is stabbed and the fisherman comes to the rescue.)
gratuitous weird wound-related semi-smut based on the true mlm couple of fallout, a violent fish creature and the broken man bound to it by an eldritch horror from which there is no escape
i'll post it under the cut too just like i used to, because it's VERY short. 2.3k words, to be semi-exact about it! PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU ALSO SHIP THIS I AM DYING OUT HERE IN THE WASTELAND
Captain Raymond Clark spends the majority of his time lost in the fog. Time passes without him realizing it, denoted only by momentary breaks of sanity where he can see reality for what it is. Too often these days, his mind is a maze of fractured memories from which there is no conceivable escape. One moment, he's aboard the Linda Lee, referring someone to coordinates; the next, he's been swallowed by dark woods on a wet shore. His mother's unrecognizable voice taunts him from the corners of his mind. Then, Fisherman's Rest will briefly but firmly assert itself, reminding Raymond where he is and why he's so desperate to retain his memories of humanity. Labyrinth or no, he will remember who he is and what he's done.
The physical fog that overtakes the Mire at this time doesn't make things any easier. It's cold and damp out here, and Raymond sometimes struggles to tell whether it's real or all in his head. He's staring out into it when shadows begin to form across the milky atmosphere. Cool droplets of sweat and condensation roll down his neck, but before fear can truly grip him, the large shape resolves itself into a pack brahmin with its traders in tow.
Finally, capitalism serves a proper purpose, grounding Raymond in a way no holotape or notebook can. It's nice, speaking with humans without the Fisherman's presence to disturb him. The creature had left hours ago, avoiding attention while accomplishing whatever dark deeds it's been compelled to complete. Pity, that; this is one of those days where even the foul fish-man's presence would be welcome over being alone. It's a phenomenon that's become alarmingly more common the longer they settle into the Mire.
Not that he's ever truly alone. Even now, he can feel the presence asserting itself like kudzu over his mind. He imagines it's the same for the fisherman, binding them together to the same dark power that's forced them together. There's no telling whether the fisherman is better liked than him, but he isn't so foolish as to believe the monster's any more in control than he is. It may understand their mission on a level he cannot, but that doesn't mean it has any say in what's happening to them.
Best not to think too hard about it. Even hypothesizing about the thing causes a headache he doesn't need.
All too soon, the traders leave and he finds himself alone once again. Even now, without a soul in sight, Raymond finds himself unable to run. The bars of his cage are all in his mind, and yet as impenetrable as a bank vault. He can stare out in the direction of the mainland for as long as he wants, but his feet will never leave this tiny island. Unlike the fisherman, he's well and truly trapped.
A new group of traders arrive as the physical fog begins to subside. No pack animals to be found, just three men and their backpacks materializing out of the fog. They're wearing road leathers and boots caked in mud and viscera. The way they carry themselves trips warning bells in the back of his mind, but consumerism stays his desire to bolt to the safety of Linda Lee. Trappers, cultists, raiders ā a free market doesn't care, and so neither does he.
"What'll it be, lads?"
There's no immediate answer as his customers approach the counter, craning their necks to look at the stock laid out across the fisherman's usual spot. The tatos are about to go off, but they don't know that, and the otherworldly need to teach them to fish is equaled out by the capitalistic desire to sell them fishing supplies. Business, after all, is business.
"I can walk you through the stock if you'd like," he offers, voice cracking under the weight of faux joviality. "Or perhaps I can interest you lot in some fishing gear?"
The leftmost trapper visibly weighs the offer, but it's the middle one who responds, turning his bloodshot, unblinking eyes to Raymond.
"We need food," he says.
"Well, teach a man to fish, eh?"
The three share a laugh with each other, which is most certainly as menacing as it's meant to be.
"We don't eat fish."
Ah, goddamn it.
"Vegetarians?" Raymond asks with no little amount of desperation.
The leftmost trapper lunges for him; he's a split-second faster than his assailant, lifting the butcher's knife from its block and burying it into the man's wrist. Blood sprays from the artery, coating the stock and supplies and splashing across Raymond's jacket. He half expects them to turn on their fallen comrade, but it seems that there's honor among cannibals as they remained focused on him.
They move to corner him behind the counter, but Raymond is faster than that. Linda Lee chitters in alarm as he scales her, scrabbling against moldy ropes and rusting hull. Startled, she begins to sway in an attempt to dislodge him, but it's the cannibals themselves that do the job. A rusted animal control pole hooks around his ankle, and one hard yank is all it takes to bring him low.
Raymond lands haphazardly beside Linda Lee, nearly shattering his ankle in the process. One of the trappers, clothed in fetid long-johns and a leather harness, crouches down over his battered form. One meaty fist pins his sternum to the ground, while the other raises over their heads, a massive hunting knife held in its white-knuckled grip. It's as if Grognak himself is about to gut him like a fish.
All he can do is reach out with his own hands ā but why? To grab the knife? And then what? Wrestle it away from his attacker? Survive this encounter and return to fish-mongering with his monstrous fellow inmates? He doesn't know. He isn't truly thinking about it. His mind is on his mother, desperate to remember her face just once more.
The water by the dock churns loudly against the old wood. It knocks familiar animal fear right back into him, and he screams bloody murder as he swipes for the hunting knife. It's far too late, but at least now he'll go out fighting.
The knife-wielding maniac wins their split-second altercation. Raymond has time to suck in one sharp breath before the blade slides in between his lower ribs. The pain is immediate, a white-hot sensation that radiates through his muscle and scrapes against the bone. That breath he took is immediately released in a guttural gasp, his muscles shuddering all at once as his vision begins to blacken around the edges.
Efficient, at least. He could thank someone for that, although certainly no god that's listening.
The knife remains in his gut, but the cannibal is ripped away from him with alarming force. He tries to follow the trajectory of his assailant, but every sense is delayed and useless. One moment, he's staring up into a cavity-flecked grin and the next, there's only sky above. It takes so long to recognize the screaming that it's almost over by the time he notices it. Interspersed between these strobing impressions of reality are deep, guttural roars, as if they'd somehow disturbed a nesting deathclaw.
The last reedy wail dies with a wet crunch. Linda Lee settles at last against the dock. Raymond can't breathe, but damn if he doesn't try, gasping in agony and tasting blood behind his teeth. It's the only sound for what must be miles.
He sees a blur of yellow above him. A great gaping maw of jagged teeth surrounded by raincoat. He tries to scream but can only manage a wet gurgle, unable to get the words out to stop the fisherman before it descends upon him.
There's no stopping the beast as it tears the knife out, tossing it aside and ripping the clothes around the wound. All he can do is writhe uselessly against the ground until the creature's hands pin him by his gut and sternum. When physical pressure alone can't stop his jerking movements, Raymond feels the weight of its mind pressing against his own. It's different. It doesn't hurt, doesn't pierce his skull like an ice-pick. It's simply a persistent, heavy presence in his thoughts that insists on stillness.
Raymond can't fight it. He goes limp in the creature's arms. When it bears its teeth and bows its head over his gushing wound, all he can manage is a humiliating, terrified whimper.
The knife had been sharpened and wielded by a professional hunter. The fisherman's teeth are jagged needles designed to devour, burning as they sink into his skin and seal around the wound. Raymond struggles to breathe at the bidding of the presence in his mind, body jerking wildly as the fisherman's throat swallows a mouthful of his blood. Chum is the only word that comes to mind.
Its tongue traces the broken skin. Raymond's muscles shudder, instinct attempting to overtake the mental fog, but he's simply no match for the monster lapping at his wound. His vision grays, his stomach churns. He desperately wishes to pass out. He wishes he were dead. The horror of this moment outweighs every horror before it, and his breaths get shorter and sharper with every panicked inhale.
The fisherman's hand wraps around his throat and squeezes. Raymond takes a deep breath on reflex, flinching in pain before realizing he only feels a faint prick under tingling numbness. The creature forces him to breathe in this manner for what feels like hours, and Raymond is helpless to fight back. He can only breathe on command and focus on the pressure probing deeper into his wound. He doesn't want to think about it. He cannot think about it. All he can do is breathe.
Every muscle has given up control, his body gone slack against the damp wood. The hand on his throat is now back on his chest, and his breath comes shakily but without pain. The fisherman's mouth flexes rhythmically, teeth sending warm jolts through the meat, and its claws no longer dig into his unresponsive meat. The sky, once dark with pinpricks of light, now spreads above him in oily hues. Milk white and butter yellow smears wind through a purple and blue backdrop. The crickets chirp. The frogs croak. The fisherman swallows noisily against his flesh, tongue writhing deep in the knife wound that should have killed him.
At last, the dizzying pressure retreats. Something terrible happens when it does: he moans. More terrible yet, he doesn't care. Doesn't even hear it. He only hears the rumbling growl in the creature's throat, feeling it vibrate through his chest.
Its teeth pull out of his flesh with a wet sucking noise. His body spasms. He almost forgets to breathe until the hand on his chest presses down in unspoken command.
The monster rises to its hind legs and lurches to the counter. Raymond tries to follow its movements, but he can't so much as lift his head. He's left to float in a miasma of unnameable sensations, staring at the sky boiling with color above him. He'd been so cold before, but now he's nearly feverish. His skin goosebumps, caught between the internal heat flooding him and the chill in the air.
He's nearly dozing when the fisherman returns, crawling back to his side on all fours. Raymond manages to tilt his head a few degrees, just enough to catch its eyes as it crawls on top of him. He's thunderstruck by his flushed reflection in them, then distracted by the strangely human way its jaw clenches behind bloody lips.
It unscrews the lid of a small glass jar, swiping two fingers through the oily green salve inside. Raymond tracks its hand as it moves to the wound, but he can't see what it's doing. He can't feel it either, not really ā all he feels is a tender, tingling pressure against his skin. Slow, methodical strokes spread the sensation across his chest, and though he continues to do as told, his breaths become shallow and gasping. His eyes drift again to the fisherman, finding its unblinking eyes transfixed on his face.
It huddles low over his belly, head tilted to mirror his own. It drops the jar, reaches up, and wraps its hand around his throat, palm flat against his thundering pulse.
Raymond is laid low by the barest hint of pressure to his windpipe. He shudders through an orgasm as the creature chokes a groan from his throat. It stares down at him, and he's unable to do anything but tremble under its inhuman gaze. The unreality of the situation threatens to smother him. He realizes he's crying only when his view of the monster blurs.
"Forgive me, God," he moans. Wishes he could remember the right prayer for a soul as well and truly fucked as his. But he's long since lost the words that human gods need to offer help, and the only thing listening now has no interest in saving his soul.
The fisherman's hand slips from his throat, sending a cold shiver down Raymond's spine. Its mouth is still stained with his blood, its eyes still fixated on him. When it rises to its feet, it takes Raymond with it, lifting him like a sack of tatos and carrying his helpless body to the shack on the pier. Blood, gore, and viscera from the trappers is everywhere, but it's Linda Lee can't fix. She's eaten much worse.
The fisherman crouches before it drops him onto his mattress, as close to a kind gesture as he'll get from the thing. His muscles still refuse to follow commands, but he manages to touch his hand to the wound at his side, marveling at the scab that's already forming. When he looks up to the creature, he finds it staring at his gut as well, claws flexing at its sides.
It turns to leave. Raymond almost says thank you, but the words die on his lips. He can't be certain that it's done him any favors at all, and so it goes in silence.
The only thing that keeps Captain Raymond Clark somewhere in the ballpark of sanity are visits from traders. Unfortunately, not every visitor deals in caps and fishing bait.
(In which Raymond is stabbed and the fisherman comes to the rescue.)
gratuitous weird wound-related semi-smut based on the true mlm couple of fallout, a violent fish creature and the broken man bound to it by an eldritch horror from which there is no escape
i'll post it under the cut too just like i used to, because it's VERY short. 2.3k words, to be semi-exact about it! PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU ALSO SHIP THIS I AM DYING OUT HERE IN THE WASTELAND
Captain Raymond Clark spends the majority of his time lost in the fog. Time passes without him realizing it, denoted only by momentary breaks of sanity where he can see reality for what it is. Too often these days, his mind is a maze of fractured memories from which there is no conceivable escape. One moment, he's aboard the Linda Lee, referring someone to coordinates; the next, he's been swallowed by dark woods on a wet shore. His mother's unrecognizable voice taunts him from the corners of his mind. Then, Fisherman's Rest will briefly but firmly assert itself, reminding Raymond where he is and why he's so desperate to retain his memories of humanity. Labyrinth or no, he will remember who he is and what he's done.
The physical fog that overtakes the Mire at this time doesn't make things any easier. It's cold and damp out here, and Raymond sometimes struggles to tell whether it's real or all in his head. He's staring out into it when shadows begin to form across the milky atmosphere. Cool droplets of sweat and condensation roll down his neck, but before fear can truly grip him, the large shape resolves itself into a pack brahmin with its traders in tow.
Finally, capitalism serves a proper purpose, grounding Raymond in a way no holotape or notebook can. It's nice, speaking with humans without the Fisherman's presence to disturb him. The creature had left hours ago, avoiding attention while accomplishing whatever dark deeds it's been compelled to complete. Pity, that; this is one of those days where even the foul fish-man's presence would be welcome over being alone. It's a phenomenon that's become alarmingly more common the longer they settle into the Mire.
Not that he's ever truly alone. Even now, he can feel the presence asserting itself like kudzu over his mind. He imagines it's the same for the fisherman, binding them together to the same dark power that's forced them together. There's no telling whether the fisherman is better liked than him, but he isn't so foolish as to believe the monster's any more in control than he is. It may understand their mission on a level he cannot, but that doesn't mean it has any say in what's happening to them.
Best not to think too hard about it. Even hypothesizing about the thing causes a headache he doesn't need.
All too soon, the traders leave and he finds himself alone once again. Even now, without a soul in sight, Raymond finds himself unable to run. The bars of his cage are all in his mind, and yet as impenetrable as a bank vault. He can stare out in the direction of the mainland for as long as he wants, but his feet will never leave this tiny island. Unlike the fisherman, he's well and truly trapped.
A new group of traders arrive as the physical fog begins to subside. No pack animals to be found, just three men and their backpacks materializing out of the fog. They're wearing road leathers and boots caked in mud and viscera. The way they carry themselves trips warning bells in the back of his mind, but consumerism stays his desire to bolt to the safety of Linda Lee. Trappers, cultists, raiders ā a free market doesn't care, and so neither does he.
"What'll it be, lads?"
There's no immediate answer as his customers approach the counter, craning their necks to look at the stock laid out across the fisherman's usual spot. The tatos are about to go off, but they don't know that, and the otherworldly need to teach them to fish is equaled out by the capitalistic desire to sell them fishing supplies. Business, after all, is business.
"I can walk you through the stock if you'd like," he offers, voice cracking under the weight of faux joviality. "Or perhaps I can interest you lot in some fishing gear?"
The leftmost trapper visibly weighs the offer, but it's the middle one who responds, turning his bloodshot, unblinking eyes to Raymond.
"We need food," he says.
"Well, teach a man to fish, eh?"
The three share a laugh with each other, which is most certainly as menacing as it's meant to be.
"We don't eat fish."
Ah, goddamn it.
"Vegetarians?" Raymond asks with no little amount of desperation.
The leftmost trapper lunges for him; he's a split-second faster than his assailant, lifting the butcher's knife from its block and burying it into the man's wrist. Blood sprays from the artery, coating the stock and supplies and splashing across Raymond's jacket. He half expects them to turn on their fallen comrade, but it seems that there's honor among cannibals as they remained focused on him.
They move to corner him behind the counter, but Raymond is faster than that. Linda Lee chitters in alarm as he scales her, scrabbling against moldy ropes and rusting hull. Startled, she begins to sway in an attempt to dislodge him, but it's the cannibals themselves that do the job. A rusted animal control pole hooks around his ankle, and one hard yank is all it takes to bring him low.
Raymond lands haphazardly beside Linda Lee, nearly shattering his ankle in the process. One of the trappers, clothed in fetid long-johns and a leather harness, crouches down over his battered form. One meaty fist pins his sternum to the ground, while the other raises over their heads, a massive hunting knife held in its white-knuckled grip. It's as if Grognak himself is about to gut him like a fish.
All he can do is reach out with his own hands ā but why? To grab the knife? And then what? Wrestle it away from his attacker? Survive this encounter and return to fish-mongering with his monstrous fellow inmates? He doesn't know. He isn't truly thinking about it. His mind is on his mother, desperate to remember her face just once more.
The water by the dock churns loudly against the old wood. It knocks familiar animal fear right back into him, and he screams bloody murder as he swipes for the hunting knife. It's far too late, but at least now he'll go out fighting.
The knife-wielding maniac wins their split-second altercation. Raymond has time to suck in one sharp breath before the blade slides in between his lower ribs. The pain is immediate, a white-hot sensation that radiates through his muscle and scrapes against the bone. That breath he took is immediately released in a guttural gasp, his muscles shuddering all at once as his vision begins to blacken around the edges.
Efficient, at least. He could thank someone for that, although certainly no god that's listening.
The knife remains in his gut, but the cannibal is ripped away from him with alarming force. He tries to follow the trajectory of his assailant, but every sense is delayed and useless. One moment, he's staring up into a cavity-flecked grin and the next, there's only sky above. It takes so long to recognize the screaming that it's almost over by the time he notices it. Interspersed between these strobing impressions of reality are deep, guttural roars, as if they'd somehow disturbed a nesting deathclaw.
The last reedy wail dies with a wet crunch. Linda Lee settles at last against the dock. Raymond can't breathe, but damn if he doesn't try, gasping in agony and tasting blood behind his teeth. It's the only sound for what must be miles.
He sees a blur of yellow above him. A great gaping maw of jagged teeth surrounded by raincoat. He tries to scream but can only manage a wet gurgle, unable to get the words out to stop the fisherman before it descends upon him.
There's no stopping the beast as it tears the knife out, tossing it aside and ripping the clothes around the wound. All he can do is writhe uselessly against the ground until the creature's hands pin him by his gut and sternum. When physical pressure alone can't stop his jerking movements, Raymond feels the weight of its mind pressing against his own. It's different. It doesn't hurt, doesn't pierce his skull like an ice-pick. It's simply a persistent, heavy presence in his thoughts that insists on stillness.
Raymond can't fight it. He goes limp in the creature's arms. When it bears its teeth and bows its head over his gushing wound, all he can manage is a humiliating, terrified whimper.
The knife had been sharpened and wielded by a professional hunter. The fisherman's teeth are jagged needles designed to devour, burning as they sink into his skin and seal around the wound. Raymond struggles to breathe at the bidding of the presence in his mind, body jerking wildly as the fisherman's throat swallows a mouthful of his blood. Chum is the only word that comes to mind.
Its tongue traces the broken skin. Raymond's muscles shudder, instinct attempting to overtake the mental fog, but he's simply no match for the monster lapping at his wound. His vision grays, his stomach churns. He desperately wishes to pass out. He wishes he were dead. The horror of this moment outweighs every horror before it, and his breaths get shorter and sharper with every panicked inhale.
The fisherman's hand wraps around his throat and squeezes. Raymond takes a deep breath on reflex, flinching in pain before realizing he only feels a faint prick under tingling numbness. The creature forces him to breathe in this manner for what feels like hours, and Raymond is helpless to fight back. He can only breathe on command and focus on the pressure probing deeper into his wound. He doesn't want to think about it. He cannot think about it. All he can do is breathe.
Every muscle has given up control, his body gone slack against the damp wood. The hand on his throat is now back on his chest, and his breath comes shakily but without pain. The fisherman's mouth flexes rhythmically, teeth sending warm jolts through the meat, and its claws no longer dig into his unresponsive meat. The sky, once dark with pinpricks of light, now spreads above him in oily hues. Milk white and butter yellow smears wind through a purple and blue backdrop. The crickets chirp. The frogs croak. The fisherman swallows noisily against his flesh, tongue writhing deep in the knife wound that should have killed him.
At last, the dizzying pressure retreats. Something terrible happens when it does: he moans. More terrible yet, he doesn't care. Doesn't even hear it. He only hears the rumbling growl in the creature's throat, feeling it vibrate through his chest.
Its teeth pull out of his flesh with a wet sucking noise. His body spasms. He almost forgets to breathe until the hand on his chest presses down in unspoken command.
The monster rises to its hind legs and lurches to the counter. Raymond tries to follow its movements, but he can't so much as lift his head. He's left to float in a miasma of unnameable sensations, staring at the sky boiling with color above him. He'd been so cold before, but now he's nearly feverish. His skin goosebumps, caught between the internal heat flooding him and the chill in the air.
He's nearly dozing when the fisherman returns, crawling back to his side on all fours. Raymond manages to tilt his head a few degrees, just enough to catch its eyes as it crawls on top of him. He's thunderstruck by his flushed reflection in them, then distracted by the strangely human way its jaw clenches behind bloody lips.
It unscrews the lid of a small glass jar, swiping two fingers through the oily green salve inside. Raymond tracks its hand as it moves to the wound, but he can't see what it's doing. He can't feel it either, not really ā all he feels is a tender, tingling pressure against his skin. Slow, methodical strokes spread the sensation across his chest, and though he continues to do as told, his breaths become shallow and gasping. His eyes drift again to the fisherman, finding its unblinking eyes transfixed on his face.
It huddles low over his belly, head tilted to mirror his own. It drops the jar, reaches up, and wraps its hand around his throat, palm flat against his thundering pulse.
Raymond is laid low by the barest hint of pressure to his windpipe. He shudders through an orgasm as the creature chokes a groan from his throat. It stares down at him, and he's unable to do anything but tremble under its inhuman gaze. The unreality of the situation threatens to smother him. He realizes he's crying only when his view of the monster blurs.
"Forgive me, God," he moans. Wishes he could remember the right prayer for a soul as well and truly fucked as his. But he's long since lost the words that human gods need to offer help, and the only thing listening now has no interest in saving his soul.
The fisherman's hand slips from his throat, sending a cold shiver down Raymond's spine. Its mouth is still stained with his blood, its eyes still fixated on him. When it rises to its feet, it takes Raymond with it, lifting him like a sack of tatos and carrying his helpless body to the shack on the pier. Blood, gore, and viscera from the trappers is everywhere, but it's Linda Lee can't fix. She's eaten much worse.
The fisherman crouches before it drops him onto his mattress, as close to a kind gesture as he'll get from the thing. His muscles still refuse to follow commands, but he manages to touch his hand to the wound at his side, marveling at the scab that's already forming. When he looks up to the creature, he finds it staring at his gut as well, claws flexing at its sides.
It turns to leave. Raymond almost says thank you, but the words die on his lips. He can't be certain that it's done him any favors at all, and so it goes in silence.
The art for my Patron Saints set is finally complete! Foil print versions are on their way to me and will be available for sale on my Etsy soon for anyone interested, so keep an eye on this post for updates if you want prints! Iām so happy with how both of these came out. I wanted them to be drastically different in tone while being very similar in all the ways that matter. Theyāre both holding the hope of their respective universes in their hands <3. Details below the cut!
When I found something like a scale texture to use on Simon I was so fucking hyped dude. Oh my god. Procreate texture brush āFerneauxā I owe you my LIFE.
this whole fucking time people have been talking about an age gap between simon and ryland, my timeblind ass was like "okay so markiplier's like 27 then huh" ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME HE'S 36. YOU'RE TRYING TO CALL A 10 YEAR DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A 30 AND A 40 YEAR OLD AN AGE GAP????? am i fucking crazy??? when people say age gap i assume someone under 30 with someone over 40, not literally just a normal relationship age difference between two adult human beings like waht sdlkfj;sakdlfsdf
im not tagging this because it's shameful to admit that i, a 38 year old woman, have never watched markiplier despite being a rabid youtube consumer but i feel like i live in an upside down realm in fandom nowadays that baffles the absolute shit out of me
but nothing is funnier than gul dukat showing up on ds9 in the middle of an automated cardassian security disaster, laughing at them and trying to force kira through a humiliation ritual based on his subjugation of her species,
and then the automated system tells him he's also going to die and he just like. jim looks at the camera and shrugs. like what the fuck lmfao you fucking idiot
but nothing is funnier than gul dukat showing up on ds9 in the middle of an automated cardassian security disaster, laughing at them and trying to force kira through a humiliation ritual based on his subjugation of her species,
and then the automated system tells him he's also going to die and he just like. jim looks at the camera and shrugs. like what the fuck lmfao you fucking idiot
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