#fandom: original

[bonerfics]

Fic; Work Hazard

-> original, cisman/transman

-> some kinks:

noncon

violent force

fingering

spanking

rough sex

size difference

womb fucking

threats

degradation

dirty talk

begging

crying

new fic is up! mind the full tags!

[writinginslowmotion]

PrideWrite Day 3

Prompt: Bisexual Media: Art/Character Info Fandom: Original Character

On Day 3 of #pridewrite2021, I would like to introduce everyone to one of my OCs, Melissa Diaz! She is a bisexual WOC, known as Mel or Melly to her friends. Mel suffers from Hirsutism, and struggles with being perceived and making friends. She is very quiet, and prefers to be an observer. She also dreams of writing a fantasy novel one day, and loves dinosaurs more than anything.

[trash-ocs]

#17 OC: Oake

Full Name: Oake

Fandom: original!

Face Claim: Anya Chalotra

Gender: Female

Sexuality: Lesbian

Pronouns: She/They

Age: 23

Zodiac: Aquarius ♒

Birthday: January 21

Family: N/A

Birthplace: Sithse

Job: Warrior

Hair Color: Brown

Eye Color: Brown

Height: 5'8"

Other OC Associations: Millicent, girlfriend.

[horribella-monster]

A Walk in the Woods

“Look, if you draw a two thousand-mile-long line across the United States at any angle, it’s going to pass through nine murder victims.”

― Bill Bryson, A Walk in the Woods: Rediscovering America on the Appalachian Trail

Cautions: Language/Gore

Rating Adultish

Do not copy to other sites without permission.

 Branch and bramble tugged at her body as she plowed through the undergrowth of the forest. Hands frantic with terror pulled away at the gnarled vines as she continued her desperate race to find safety.  She crashed through another dark wall of twisted twig and bough then fell forward on to the detritus of forest floor.  Thorns, leaves, and decaying matter adhered to her skinned hands and knees.

 For a moment, she dropped her chin to her chest and fought to slow her panicked gasps.  Her disheveled hair pulled loose from her sagging ponytail and plastered to the smudged dirt and in her mouth. She grabbed the hair and spat it out.  The strong desire to just collapse there and surrender to whatever fate the forest decided warred with her simmering anger fueled will to survive and kill her therapist.

 The crashing sound of her nearing pursuer startled her into action.  She crawled to the nearest tree and pulled herself up on the twisted moss-covered trunk.  She took a deep breath and inhaled the moist earth tinted air.  For an alarming minute, her vision tunneled, and the sounds of the forest took on the muted quality foreshadowing an imminent collapse.  Her world stretched and then snapped back into terrifying focus as she gritted her teeth and willed herself forward.  

 Pushing herself back into motion, a mantra reverberating through her head. “I will not die here. This will not beat me.  I am going to kill my fucking therapist. Face your fucking fear. What a stupid fucking idea! I will NOT die here.  This will not beat me-“

 Her foot met air and her arms flailed wildly as she sought to recover her lost balance. Momentarily, her foot found a purchase as she tried to slow her fall and began to slide down the steep ravine. Her slide quickly became a tumble. She pinballed down the hillside, bouncing over the bumps and into obstacles. Her perception a blurry whirl of leaves, rocks, pebbles, and the decomposing stuffs of trees and weeds.

 Thud into Rock. Tree. Rock. Rock. Bump. Branch. Log. Then air, as she flew over a ridge.  The following impact with the ground drove the air from her lung as she bounced finally into a weathered tree.  

 The last jolt left her huddled trying to catch her breath.  She curled around her throbbing ribs and felt the symphony of discordant body aches and pain swelling into a crescendo threatening to overwhelm her senses.  

 The ever-present heavy thudding footfalls and splintering forestscape in the wake of the thing of tooth and claw that had chased her, focused her senses.  She had no idea what the thing was.  Maybe a bear. In her encounter with it, she had the sense of something huge.  It lumbered up and stood in the shadows behind her.  With a roar the thing had swept out a massive claw slashing her backpack off.  She tumbled and rolled up, sprinting away into this awful, awful forest. This thicket with its tall dark trees reaching upward to smother out the sky, the looming branches dipping, swaying and grabbing to rend and tear her away. The dark foliage hiding monsters and terrifying animals – Stop.  She had to not think about anything but running.  

 She wobbled to her feet. Swaying dangerously, she took a step and focused just on moving. One foot in front of the other.  One foot in front-

 Her one foot in front slid into a hole and her arms cartwheeled again trying to regain her precarious balance. The moment froze in time as she felt her balance give way and prepared for another bone jarring slam into the ground.  Instead it was cold, scummy water rushing into her mouth and swallowing her whole. The taste of algae filled her mouth as she came up sputtering, coughing in a slow-moving pooling stream. Really, more of a water filled ditch. A ditch just in the place to soak her head to toe.

 If she could have summoned the extra breath, she would have screamed.  All she could do was grind her teeth and shiver as she clambered up the bank. When she pulled herself from the water, she smacked her fist down on the packed dirt with an inarticulate cry. That bitch of a therapist was so dead, she was going to take an ice pick and shove it so far-

 Her tirade came to screeching halt when, she really looked at the packed dirt.  Holy shit!  She was on a trail.  It was well worn and easy to see even in the dim light.  Any sign of civilization was like a neon sign from God, finally her luck was turning for the better. She began a running limp along the trail putting distance between her and the menacing thing looking to make her a snack.

 If she hadn’t had a fear of the forest before, she sure as shit had one now.  Especially this dark, cold, and phobia inducing forest complete with a terrifying carnivorous predator. Supposedly, seeing what was in the forest was not supposed to be as bad as what she imagined.  Well that was bullshit, because this forest was hiding that… whatever it was with too many teeth and huge claws.  Not in one of her fear induced anxiety had she ever imagined that.

 Her therapist said she should read Thoreau, and that like her other advice was bullshit.  He was too in love with his own words and the tamed woods.  The Bill Bryson guy had it more correct. Woods were creepy and full of death inducing insects, diseases, and animals.  Her therapist was not amused by her choice of reading and pointed out that Bryson comes down firmly on the side of nature. She told her therapist; he was a sell out to big wood and then giggled helplessly through the rest of the session. Looking back, it made sense that her therapist sent her out to the woods, she was a terrible patient.

 Her pace slowed and she leaned against a misshapen trunk to rest and listen. She hadn’t heard the thing since she climbed out of the thick water of the ditch and needed to catch her breath.  Her heart pounding loudly in her ears, only the creepy sound of falling branches and whispering wind seeped past it.  With deep calming breaths, her heart slowed, and she really listened. There weren’t any animal sounds and only a few insects.  It was like the forest ate everything that came within it.  She shook the thought out of her head.  Seriously, not helping yourself here.  As her heart slowed, a far-off sound caught her attention. The tinny sound of music.  A radio! Fuck yes!

 She took off down the trail toward the sound.  Visions of warmth, safety, and alcohol danced in her head adding buoyance and speed to her steps.   Still wet, bleeding from various scratches and the pain her ribs pounded in time to her steps, she literally wasn’t out of the woods yet, but there was light at the end of the tunnel as the music grew louder and a generator’s chugging joined the chorus. Then there was smoke.  She hoped they were burning this rotten place to the ground.  Screw you, trees.  

 Shouting as she burst into the clearing, she immediately stopped.  There was a fire, a tent, and the tell-tale smell of ammonia. Two men armed with rifles stepped out of the large tent and the smell of ammonia became overwhelming.

 Her heart sank.  Here were some of Bryson’s “armed, genetically challenged fellows” maybe even as he put it, “loony hillbillies destabilized by gross quantities of impure corn liquor and generations of profoundly unbiblical sex” except they weren’t brewing alcohol, but cooking meth in the middle of Snow White’s fucking haunted woods.  She just knew she was going to be on a podcast about missing people or to support the adage of “don’t go into the forest”.

 The cocking of the rifles pinpointed her focus on the Walter White wannabes and she tried to summon a friendly face.  Considering the state of her clothes, hair, and bleeding, she supposed that she looked more like the after picture for noob goes to the woods, which was remarkable accurate.  She raised her hands.  “Hi.”

 One of the men spit a glob of black-brown goo at the fire and stepped forward. “What are you doing here?”

 “I’m lost.  I mean I have no idea where I am except in an awful forest. I just want to leave. Can you-“ She stopped as the other man stepped forward and leered.

 “You look lost.” Meth cook number one, the spitter, said.

 “I am.”

 “I’ll help ya.” Meth cook number two, the leerer, laughed as he grabbed his crotch.

 “How’d ya find us?” Meth number one asked.

 “I just told you, I didn’t. I’m lost.”

 “How’d you get lost?” Meth number two asked. “Were ya lookin’ fer love in all the wrong places?”

 First Meth guy glared at second Meth guy, “Shut it. Go back to work.  I’ll handle this.”

 “But Cletus-“

 “Bubba, now or I will shoot ya.  Ya know I will.”

 Bubba, and didn’t that just totally fit, huffed and sulked as he shuffled back to the tent, scratching his ass as he walked. Leaving just Meth guy number one, aka Cletus.

 “I don’t believe you. How’d ya get lost?”

 She tried hard not to roll her eyes. “I guess the usual way.  I knew where I was then I didn’t. Lost.” She said trying to give sincere smile, but from Cletus’ reaction it came off as a smirk.  This is exactly why her therapist hated her.  No one likes a smartass.

 “You think this is some joke girlie? You think I won’t shoot yer ass and drop it back in that stream? Cuz I will.  Yer in a world of trouble here.”

 “Yeah. Yeah, I am.  Kind of the story of the day. You know?”

 “Ain’t nuthin personal. Yer jus’ real unlucky.  We can’t have ya going back and telling them where we are.” He put the rifle up to his shoulder.

 Fear made her words breathlessly and spill out with ever increasing speed and volume, “I’m lost! I literally have no idea where I am much less you! For fuck sake, what about lost do you not understand!”

 Cletus frowned. “Ya ought’n ta curse. I think ya ain’t lost. Ya came up that path,” he gestured behind the tent, “from the road.”

 “I came from that way.” She pointed behind her.  “Do you think I used my obviously awesome forest skills to stealthily come up here and oh by the way jump into the disgusting stream and threw myself down a hill before that to complete the look?”

 Cletus chewed on something as he lowered the rifle.  He looked like he was trying to work out what was just said to him for a minute.  The hamster that ran the wheel in his brain must be out of shape because he gave up and shrugged. “Yep.”

 So not so much Walter White wannabes, but Jed Clampett’s much stupider inbred cousins. Inbred insane cousins armed and ready to shoot. “Please, come on.  I lost my backpack, I don’t have money or a mobile – but … if you take me to a phone and I can get some money.  Please!”

 Cletus placed the rifle butt against his shoulder again. “Sorry, can’t take a chance. ‘Sides I’m doin’ you a favor.  Bubba, he ain’t right.”

 “Wait-Wait… don’t!” She started to move back when she noticed Cletus’ mouth dropped open. Then the fetid breath from behind her, blew her loose hair and the smell hit her.  The overpowering stench of rot and filth wafted over her as a guttural growl vibrated her back.  She closed her eyes and turned slowly.

 When she opened them, she saw it.  Its massive maw opened, and thick saliva sluiced through huge yellow teeth.  It was almost on top of her.  Its heavy breath blew her hair again and then Bubba walked out of the tent.  

 “I don’t know why I have- What the hell is that!” He yelled and the stilled tableau burst into motion.

 The creature roared. She dropped to her knees.  Cletus fired.  Bubba fired. The creature charged over her into Cletus, its bite taking off the right side of Cletus’ upper torso.  He screamed. Bubba screamed as the geyser of Cletus’ blood covered him and dripped from the creature’s jaw.  Bubba literally lost his shit and fired until the rifle just clicked.  She rolled to her feet and took off running for the back of the tent and the path. She heard Bubba scream and fade into incoherent whimpering interrupted by the nauseating sound of chewing.

 It was not a bear.  She had no idea what it was, but some crazy cryptozoologist could figure that shit out.  All she knew was she didn’t want to end up in its gut and she had to run. She was sure that it had expended a lot of energy chasing her and didn’t think that the meth boy appetizers were going to sate it.  

 She ran for about a minute and then heard the muffled sound of an explosion as the volatile chemicals in the meth lab blew up.  She stopped and look back at the fireball rising from the forest.  Good. Burn baby, burn. Then turned and ran.  Her luck was nowhere good enough to suppose that the thing was dead.  

 The forest was darker after the bright explosion of light and the imminent setting of the sun.  But the deep dark forest didn’t bother her now. The crashing of branches and the heavy footfall behind her was her real concern. Where was that fucking road!

 The path narrowed and meandered between huge trees and small saplings.  She hoped that the narrow path would slow it down some but knew just like all prey does that it wouldn’t make that much difference.  She had to get to the road.  Cletus and Bubba were too overweight for it to be too far.  

 Then it appeared in front of her.  A two-lane black top.  An empty two-lane black top.  A dilapidated pick up truck, rusted through in several parts of the body was on the side of the road.  She didn’t pause to try and get in.  

 She sprinted up the middle of the road away from the path.  She was running uphill and already down into the valley of the next when she realized she could have hid in the truck.  Too late, she was committed to running and she was so close.  If only one car would show up.  Please just one damn car.  She nearly tripped over roadkill going up the next hill. and looked over her shoulder. She didn’t see it, but she didn’t pause. It was somewhere close.  She knew it like she knew that she couldn’t stop running.

 As she topped the next hill, she put on a burst of speed.  The road flattened and curved off to the right.  She made the curve and froze.  There were bright headlights and the screeching of tires as an eighteen-wheeler bore down on here.  She understood the deer’s point of view as her brain screamed move and her body just wouldn’t. It was almost on top of her when she moved.  The upside, it was committed to stopping, the downside this was going to hurt.

 The impact drove her breath out her body and added road rash to the list of her body’s grievances. She curled in on herself for a moment as the acrid smoke from the tires billowed around her.  

 She heard the semi’s door opened and footsteps headed her direction. She started moving slowly crawling up to her hands and knees, her head dropped to her chest, as the truck driver spoke, “Shit, shit! Are you okay? What were you – Good God All Mighty what the hell is that?”

 Adrenalin jerked her head and her body into motion, “Get in the truck.  Hurry up, go!”  She ran to him and pushed him toward the door.  “Stop staring and move! Jackass MOVE!”

 The trucker jerked at her profanity and ran away from the lumbering figure moving out of the woods.

 She sprang inside the truck and urged him on. “Please come on, come on!”

 He climbed in with the speed that only terror can instill in someone. He shoved her over to the other side and slammed the door as claws raked the metal.

 There was a bang as the creature rammed its body into the door and then there was a roar and a crack. The window was cracking as the cab of the truck shook.  

 The driver needed no more prompting and threw the truck into gear.  He gave it gas and the tires screeched again as he accelerated.  There was another bump and an accompanying roar as the tires ran over part of the creature and she smiled.

 “D-Did you see that? What was it?”

 She shook her head slowly, “I don’t know.  Something with lots of teeth and a never give up attitude. So, you might want to floor it.”

 Nodding, he pressed harder on the accelerate and shifted up. “We got to call someone.”

 She nodded, “Sure. Tell them about the bear.”

 “Bear? Ma-am that weren’t no bear. It was.. was-“

 “A bear.  Unless you want to tell them that some pebbly hided creature that was a cross between razorback feral hog, bear, and Creature from the Black Lagoon took a bite out of your truck.  Then I hope you have real good insurance, because you’ll be drug tested and psych ward bound.”

 “Right, bear. What about that smoke there?”

 She looked at the smoke rising above the forest as they passed the meth cooker’s pick-up truck. “It tried to eat a Meth Lab after eating the Meth guys.”

 He shot a disbelieving look and she shrugged, “It’s been a day.”

Patty, 10/16/2020

[itsawhumpthing-blog]

Bad Things Happen Bingo #2: Sports Injury

(What a great prompt and a perfect excuse to bring an old universe out of mothballs! This is an alternate reality in which Canada is good at soccer and has its own, pretty decent professional league; Kathy Fox is the first woman ever to sign for a Canadian professional men’s team, and Patrick Hatley is her childhood friend and rival)

(There should be a picture of my bingo card here, but tumblr won’t let me do that right now, so I’ll have to add it in later)

"You all right, Fox? You're walking kinda funny."

Nothing brings Katherine Fox down to earth quicker than having someone worry about her. She straightens her back and nods, adjusting her gait. "I'm fine. I think I slept funny." Her teammate gives her a dubious look.

"You slept funny on your ankle? Are you a flamingo?"

Laughter ripples through the Royal Windsor side of the tunnel- on the opposite side, the Quebec City players remain studiously silent, all but Patrick Hatley, who snickers. "It's called nerves, Fox!" he calls across the gap.

He looks just as relaxed as always, grinning that same dumb grin with his canine teeth sticking out, rocking on the balls of his feet with his hands on his hips like he's king of the world.

"Whatever helps you feel better about yourself, Hatley," she replies blandly, and he smiles and nods like that was exactly his intention. Not nerves, that much she's sure of. Kathy Fox doesn't get nerves. Her left ankle may be hurting, and it may have been hurting ever since she woke up this morning, but it's definitely got nothing to do with nerves.

After all, she's been looking forward to this game for months.

The atmosphere is already hot as they walk out onto the field. The chants are in French, of course, and therefore unintelligible to Kathy, but the venom behind the words is a universal language. Forty-eight thousand people (the attendance hasn't been announced yet, but this game could never be anything but a sellout) bounce in unison, rattling the old stadium's metal bones right down to the field. The away support is impossible to miss, sequestered as they are in the north corner with three rows of empty seats between them and the home fans, and they're doing their best to be heard above the chaos. 

The perfect atmosphere, in other words, for a late-season battle for first place. Kathy soaks it in, smiling, as the rituals get underway. She shakes hands with Quebec City's captain, calls the coin toss, and kicks off under a hail of boos.

"We're gonna psyche them out," Coach Leo had said in the locker room. "Start strong and fast. If we can dominate possession for a spell, keep them on the back foot, the crowd will get antsy. Score first, and they might just turn on their own team."

This was a well-documented phenomenon with Quebec City's supporters.

"We are not playing for a draw here. A draw will be the same as a loss, got that? They'll still be ahead of us, and their run-in is easier than ours. We're attacking."

Kathy doesn't mind that he was looking right at her for most of that speech. She's the captain, after all.

And she gets Coach's gameplan off to a good start less than five minutes in, sending number seven down the wing with a daring through ball. The crowd goes nearly silent until he blasts into the side netting, then express their relief with a shower of sarcastic applause.

Then suddenly they're cheering again, louder than ever, as a series of impressive one-time passes split the Windsor midfield all the way to Kathy. Her sore ankle almost lets her down, but she puts on a burst of speed to dispossess her Quebec counterpart.

He looks surprised, as they so often do. Sometimes it's nice to be a woman in a man's world.

"Don't wear out your stumpy little legs, Fox," says Hatley as he positions himself for the throw-in. He'd had a good run on goal, but he doesn't look too fazed by the lost chance.

"Don't waste your breath, Hatley," she replies.

He runs for the ball when it's thrown in and bounces a pass off his number ten. Dragging the ball through a wall of defenders isn't exactly his strong suit, so Kathy is somewhat taken aback to see him dodge past three of her teammates and suddenly find himself one-on-one with the keeper. The roar of the crowd builds to a peak; he goes for the bottom right.

It's a brilliant dive, and it just barely deflects the shot around the post.

The roar diminishes only a little.

"That was sloppy," she admonishes the defenders as they arrange themselves for the corner. They're all young, and the youngest is only nineteen- Akela Donovan from Toronto. He looks sheepish.

"Forgot he was fast."

"Don't forget again."

He nods earnestly.

The corner comes in high, with a dramatic curve. Patrick "Hat Trick" Hatley jumps for it, Windsor's goalie leaps to catch it, and three bodies collide in midair. The ball trickles away from the goal line, and Kathy lunges for it, clearing it away downfield.

"Fucker! That was a foul!"

Not Hatley's voice; he was never the type.

"Penalty!"

She backs away, not wanting to be associated in any way with the knot of Quebec players crowding into the referee or the knot of Windsor players trying to drag them away. Instead she glances towards the jumbotron, trying to get a sense for what just happened. Did Windsor's number four drag Hatley down? Was it the goalie? There's no good view, and the ref is unimpressed.

Play resumes. The crowd is livid; the curses thrown by the spectators in the fieldside seats can easily be made out through the roar. Hard to say if the gameplan is working yet; they're definitely provoking a reaction, at the very least.

The pain in her ankle is getting worse- now it's a deep, biting ache, and it's getting distracting, which is dangerous. One absolutely egregious pass to no one makes her suddenly wonder whether she should ask to be subbed off.

*Give it five minutes*, she decides, gritting her teeth.

It's an end-to-end game, much more so than Coach Leo wanted- he's getting red-faced on the touchline, and Kathy knows that at the next stoppage he's going to ask her what the hell is going on.

Hatley, on the other hand, is having one of his best games of the season, splitting their defense open with ease, and the frustration on her teammates' faces is starting to get to Kathy as well. It just figures, that he's playing like this while she's flailing.

She should really see it coming, what's about to happen. But she doesn't.

It's the thirty-sixth minute, four minutes into the five she's allowed herself. Her ankle doesn't want to bear her weight; she forces it to, exploding forward to beat her Quebec counterpart to a high ball, and makes what must be her best pass of the night to her number six. But his touch is poor, and the ball is gone from in front of him before he has a chance to recover.

Everything happens very quickly. Windsor's right fullback is backing up, trying to anticipate the Quebec winger's run, but the opposition player suddenly stops in his tracks and delivers a superb cross.

To fucking Patrick Hatley.

With a clear run at goal.

Akela Donovan is the only one near. "Go! Go!" Kathy screams, uselessly, sprinting after them. The crowd is on its feet- the stadium is vibrating- Donovan is three feet behind, he's not gonna make it, and Hatley is turning for the shot.

Donovan lunges in with both feet. Patrick goes down like a sack of potatoes, all six feet five inches of him, and Kathy stumbles in her tracks. The pain in her ankle is gone.

Her heart drops. She runs.

In the silence that's descended over the stadium, two sounds can suddenly be heard with terrible clarity. One of them is Akela Donovan, babbling in incoherent horror, and the other is Patrick Hatley, screaming.

She gets there first, falling to her knees beside him. "Patrick!"

"Hh... Kath..." His body is twisted, his fingers digging into the grass, but he opens his eyes to look at her. His gaze flicks downward.

"No, don't look at it," she gasps, grabbing his hand. "Look at me."

It's hard enough for her to see it, to see that brilliant right foot twisted to the side, looking so defiled, so wrong. And the blood... it's a testament to the amount of pain he's in that he obeys her immediately. She holds his gaze, and his hand, which clutches hers in a vise grip.

There are people all around them now. A voice is yelling for a stretcher. Kathy tries to smile. She wants to punch someone. "It's fine. It's not that bad. You... you should be ashamed of yourself, diving like that."

He tries to smile back. "You're... the one who... fell for it," he manages between breaths.

For a second she can almost believe that he'd fake this just to mess with her. Then the physios are there, and she's pushed aside, and Patrick just barely manages not to scream again as they lift him onto the stretcher.

The sound that comes out instead is almost as bad.

There's no faking that.

It takes Kathy a moment after she stands up to realize that Akela Donovan is already gone. She wonders if anyone spoke to him. She wonders if she can trust herself to do it.

All the spirit has been sucked out of the stadium; the game finishes dismally, with a 0-0 draw. As bitter a point as any Kathy's had in her career. She goes through the motions of sportsmanship afterwards, feeling aimlessly angry and very much like she shouldn't talk to Akela Donovan.

But there's no getting around it; he approaches her in the locker room once everyone else has left.

"Fuck, Fox, I'm sorry," he says, and the misery in his voice and on his face seems genuine. "I fucked everything up. I-"

"Don't apologize to me, Donovan. I'm not the one whose career might be over."

His face goes gray. "Over...?"

"Yeah. Or shortened. Missing a large chunk, at the very least. You-" She can hear the venom starting to seep into her words, and she cuts them off, waving her hand. "Now's not a good time to be talking to me. I know you didn't do it on purpose. Go on, get moving."

He does, quickly, and she follows.

The verdict comes through only a day later; Akela Donovan is suspended the rest of the season. Four games. They'll miss him, but Quebec will miss Hatley more.

She calls Patrick in the morning.

"Apparently it's pretty gnarly," he tells her with forced nonchalance. "The bone went right through the skin. Just popped right... ugh, fuck."

"You can't even describe it," she teases, grinning.

"Take off."

"How are you, though?" This is the loudest that she'll ever voice her concern. Patrick clears his throat.

"Well, uh, it hurts." He pauses, as if to let this sink in, before continuing. "I'm just trying not to think about it too much, because I won't know if I'm out for six months or forever until after the surgery. So until then, why worry?"

It's clear from his voice that he is worrying. "Shit."

"It's the fucking worst."

A commiserative silence fills the air for a few moments.

"I'll come and visit tomorrow," Kathy says.

"While the rest of your team flies home to Windsor? Don't be stupid, you'll miss training. You're the captain."

"We've got a bye week anyway. I'll get another hotel."

"Well, okay," he concedes quickly. She almost laughs, but it occurs to her that he might not even be aware of what just happened. She lets it go.

"I'm gonna eat breakfast now. I'll see you soon."

"Yeah, see you soon, Kathy."

No more than a minute after she ends the call, her phone is ringing again. Donovan, says the call display. She has to admire the kid's guts, at least.

She answers it. "Donovan. What's going on?"

"I'm doing what you told me to."

"Oh yeah?" She can't remember what she told him to do. Fuck off, maybe?

"Yeah. I'm going to apologize. I just thought you would want to know." There's a note of uncertainty in his voice; this is definitely new territory for him. She almost feels sorry for the kid.

"That's good. Good luck." It's tempting to tell him not to expect too much, but she knows he's not stupid; he must have come to that conclusion already.

However, she does take one precaution; once he has hung up, she texts Patrick.

F: Expect a possibly unwelcome visitor at some point today

H: What, you're arriving early?

F: Donovan wants to come say sorry

H: Oh

H: All right

She sighs as she puts the phone down. She's scared- on her childhood friend's behalf, and in general, a sort of all-encompassing dread. Was it wrong for her to put on a cheerful face, to banter with him like nothing was wrong, when she's this afraid? And if she's this afraid, what must he be feeling?

She slips the phone into her pocket and reaches for her shoes.

[amethystpath-writes]

Red is A Beautiful Colour

@badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: original

Prompt: phantom pain

TWs: blood (not detailed), torture (not detailed), captivity

******

Red. It was a terrible colour, one that Seera couldn't stand, physically or mentally. There was a time it was her favourite colour. It brought joy and an overwhelming sense of self, of indulgence. It was bliss and beauty. Red was tasty. But now...red was pain. And it was forced in front of her eyes everyday.

Yesterday was an older woman. She was dressed in rags just like all of the others thrown just out of Seera's reach. The woman was tolerable. She had a blood disease, would have made Seera sick.

Today was different. Today was a young man, though he could have been a boy. He might have looked to be 16 if it weren't for the mass swelling on his face. His lips were cracked, blood oozing out. Knees were bruised. Arms were traced with streaks of red from sharp blades. Whoever he was, the boy was young and he didn't deserve to be used as a...whatever Seera's captor's goal was. The boy was crying now; from the pain no doubt. Or maybe he was only afraid of Seera. There was no reason to be scared of her, she couldn't get anywhere. Whether it was from the weakness at not having a proper meal in days, almost a week, or because of the chain, she could never reach the daily lessons that the people who captured her threw in her room.

It was funny; how Seera's captor thought he could ease the creature out of her if he made her feel guilty. He didn't realize she was used to the cries and pleas of her prey. What he was doing made her feel more awful about her him than it did herself. By the time she was done feeding, she had the power to make her victims forget any trauma they felt at the initial attack and during the process. She could wipe away any dizziness they felt at losing a little of their red life essence. Now, when they were thrown at her feet, beaten nearly to death...that's when she knew she wasn't a monster at all.

The door was opening. She watched the boy in front of her flinch, then tremble some more. So he is more scared of then than me. Good to know.

"How do you feel?"

Seera rolled her eyes. It was the scientist. She shouldn't have expected anyone different. The scientist was always the first familiar person to visit her. He had to get his reports, see if his precious project was making any progress. "My teeth feel like hell," she said.

"Which ones?"

"The ones you wear around your neck."

The scientist hummed, jotted something down on his notepad. Seera was so sick of seeing those yellow pages. "And you, boy? Has she made any advances on you?" Seera watched as the boy tensed. He didn't say anything. "Has she made any advances on you?" the scientist repeated, being sure to enunciate if only to encourage an answer from the boy, who was now making every effort to scoot closer to Seera. Interesting, she thought.

"N-no," the boy muttered. "She hasn't, but I- but I am on her." The scientist didn't seem to hear the last part. Or if he did, he didn't care.

"Do you see this?" Seera laughed, or as much as she could with the pangs of pain shooting through her gums. There were no teeth anymore; they pulled them out. Why did it hurt so badly? "He prefers a death from a fangless vampire than a death delivered by your kind. Look what you guys have done to him." She lifted her chin, raked her eyes over the scientist's body. "I think it's time for a self-evaluation, no?"

Again, he wrote more on his pad of paper. Seera sighed. How stupid could a scientist be? Weren't they supposed to be the smartest bunch of humans? This young boy seemed more intelligent than the fifty-some year old man in front of her.

"So phantom pains," the scientist said. "Nothing else? Are you hungry? Maybe feeling a change of mentality?" The latest of the suggestions was the most obnoxious. It was the entirety of the scientist's experiment with Seera. His theory was that if he could make Seera feel bad for being a vampire, for preying on her natural prey, then maybe she could adjust to being a human. Part of this theory, of course, also involved de-fanging his captive. And here they were. Seera didn't feel bad for feeding. She only felt bad when seeing red because it made her nonexistent teeth hurt more than the chains she was stuck in 24/7.

"My teeth feel like hell," Seera repeated. Fascinatingly enough, the boy was now grasping her shoulder, trying to hold his beaten self up. "And I guess I could add that I couldn't stand if I wanted to." While the scientist jotted this note down, she whisperer to the boy, "Open the wound on your arm. Lift it to my lips when you're done." He obeyed, but waited until the scientist was done speaking since he'd started up again.

With the same investigative voice, the scientist asked, "Weak how, exactly? Do your limbs feel heavy, brain fuzzy? Describe your weakness to me."

"Let's see. My legs feel like there's lead attached to them. Maybe because there is. Perhaps you should take the chain off." She smiled even though the scientist didn't find it funny. "In all seriousness, they are heavy. And my heart," Seera held a hand to her chest. "Oh, right. I don't have one." She cackled as the man began scribbling out what he'd begun writing on his report. "My chest feels empty. I'm hungry. I-"

"-We gave you food."

"I don't eat bread."

He looked to his paper and scrunched his brows. "A moment, please. You're saying more than I can process." You are truly remarkable, smart one.

The boy lifted his arm. Shakily, but he managed to get it far enough that Seera was able to grasp it herself and lick the red streak. She hummed at the taste. Her absent teeth stung even greater, but she didn't mind. Seera felt like she could fly. She told the boy, "Are you sure you want this?"

"They'll kill me more terribly," he said with the barest of a nod.

Seera didn't usually kill her prey, but the boy was right. If she didn't kill him, the people that captured the two of them would, and he'd already been beaten to the point of crawling. If they had no use for him, if he didn't work for the scientist's purpose, then he didn't have a purpose at all.

She nodded. "Okay. I can make you sleep after some time. Would you like that?" He nodded. While the scientist was still writing, Seera pressed her lips to the open wound on the boy's arm and sucked as if her lips captured a straw. A growl rumbled through her as the blood coated her tongue and throat. The pain in her gums was gone and she could swear she felt fangs in the empty spaces once again. It was then that she eased the boy to rest while she finished taking his life. A part of her broke at the crime, but another assured her she was doing the right thing. She wasn't a monster, but everyone in that lab was.

Seera leaned the boy against the wall before standing. With one small kick of a leg, the chain burst away, then the other as she kicked with the opposite foot. It didn't take the scientist even a second to look up with frightened eyes. "How-" His eyes traveled to the drained boy. He dropped his pen and pad of paper."He-" Seera allowed herself a smirk while the scientist soiled himself.

"You may keep your souvenirs," she said and took a couple of steps closer to the man who held her captive. "I have new ones." She touched the teeth around the scientist's neck then smiled widely at him. Before he could yell for the guards, Seera sunk her teeth into the skin of his neck. She didn't bother putting him to sleep.

Red was a beautiful colour once again.

[amethystpath-writes]

A Gentle Blade Part 5

Part 4 here

First, I want to say thank you to all of my new followers (and the pre-existing ones ofc!!) I can't wait to share more with everyone! Enjoy! *kiss*

@badthingshappenbingo

Prompt: Bound and Gagged

Fandom: Original Work

TWs: Captivity, mentions of torture, mentions of needles (nonsurgical). If I ever miss any, let me know and I can always add them! XX

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The man was perhaps only a few years older than Leera. His build was thin and lean, his height towering the assassin's. Even if Leera was at full strength, she wasn't sure she could fend him off. Sir Robson trained her to be stealthy. That wasn't so easy when the man constantly had an eye on her, even had her leashed.

The leather on Leera's neck was uncomfortable, even more so when there was a metal ring attached to the back of it where a chain was attached, linking her to the man walking her.

So many times the assassin felt vicious words about to spew out of her, but in all honesty, it was better than the treatment she received from Queen Rennera. Leera was afraid that if she complained to her captor then he might make things worse, and she was in no condition to fight him. The assassin's strength was in her legs. If she could knock the man down, she might be able to wrap the chain attached to her ankles around the man's neck. The problem was that her legs wore sore, exhausted. And anyway, there was no way to knock him down.

Leera was forced to walk in front of the man, who she wished desperately to know the name of, forced to stay ahead so she was unable to try a thing. Even if she were close enough to knock him down, perhaps by tripping him, he would be up too quickly for her to be able to lower herself to the ground without hurting herself. Her hands being tied behind her back with thick rope meant she wouldn't be able to maintain balance, especially since she would already be using her legs. Attacking wasn't an option.

"You're aware who you're doing this for, yeah?" the assassin called over her shoulder. She didn't turn her eyes away from the path for fear she might trip over a tree root or slip in a puddle of mud.

The chain created a wave from the man's hand to Leera's neck before yanking tightly back. She jolted and staggered before continuing their walk. "I'm very aware, scum." The word scum sounded odd coming from his lips, like he was unsure of even using it.

"Then tell me who." Another wave and tug. This wave was larger, causing the assassin to duck her head forward to avoid another shock. When the man was done nonverbally berating her for speaking, she spoke again. If she couldn't fight him to get away, maybe she could convince him to release her. "Tell me how generous you think she is, how much she truly cares for the people of her kingdom, how much she delights when her pets lick at her feet. The queen doesn't care about you, nor anyone."

The man gave a dry laugh. Leera felt a pull at the back of her neck, a small one, just barely noticeable, but then there was another pull. She stopped walking, turned her head back. Her eyes latched to the man's hands. He was coiling the chain around his neck coming closer and closer, step by step, circle of chain by circle of chain. The assassin felt a pit in her stomach. Maybe talking was worse than trying to fight. At least she had some kind of chance if she knocked the man down. Insulting the man's beliefs about his queen...what was she thinking?

With a hand hovering at the back of Leera's head, the man smiled down at her. The other hand wrapped behind her as well and he gathered the assassin's raven hair in one hand before pulling it in front of her left shoulder. Leera swallowed as the man coiled the chain in his hand one last time, resting his fingers and the metal against the skin of her neck. "Look at me," he told her. Her eyes had been darting between his eyes, passed his shoulders, and to the fabric on his chest. It was in tatters, the shirt, she realized.

"Look at me," he repeated, his fingers digging ever so slightly into her skin. Leera grimaced, but looked into his eyes finally, not glancing away again. He brought the hand that moved her hair to her cheek, placed his fingers beneath her ear, thumb across her cheek bone. It was difficult not to look away. "I know the queen doesn't give a damn. She's calloused-" Like you, Leera thought. "-and only cares about shoving your pretty face in a pail of sewing needles." The assassin's eyes darted again.

A pail of sewing needles? Was that better or worse than a night in the king's coffin? Of course it's better, morally. But gods, that pain... Leera could see herself in that moment, in the dark dungeons, moist walls and floor, cold and deserted. She could picture herself on her bruised knees, arms tied back, a guard pushing her head down into a shining metal bucket, her skin being poked and scraped, torn apart as badly, but more consistently, as when the queen dragged a nail down her face. The assassin even heard her own pleas, then felt the needles poking her tongue, scratching her teeth as she begged. The man's thumb stroked her cheek; Leera peered into his eyes again.

"I never knew the queen. I don't think anyone ever did until you killed the king. Praise you for it," he said and Leera's eyes widened. "He was terrible; we all knew it, all experienced it in one way or another." The man's thumb stopped stroking Leera's cheek. "Didn't get better when the queen took the throne. If anything it got worse. She doesn't care, I know, but she's wealthy and she wants you. I'd like to live-" So would I. "-and if the only way to do that is to turn you in- well then- I have to do it." His hand fell from the assassin's face. The chain grew heavier to Leera as he uncoiled the metal from his hand, letting it droop. "Turn," he demanded.

"You can't take me back to her," Leera said. "Please. Please." Her voice was soft, scared.

"Turn." The man's voice went cold, distant, uncaring, opposite of what it had been just moments before.

With one tear following another, the assassin swiveled slowly on a heel, her back now facing her captor. For a minute, her heart leapt, not out of fear, but of joy. He was undoing the rope at her wrists. He was releasing her! But then she heard the shrill sound of a dagger being pulled from its sheathe, followed by the sound of rope being cut. The rope never fully left her wrists; he only unbound it partially before cutting a piece off, and before re-tightening the rope still bounding her.

His hands were in front of her eyes in the next moment, along with a string of rope. "Open, he said.

"What?"

"Your mouth," he specified. "Open it."

"No. No, please don't. It'll be all I have left. Please." He couldn't take her voice on top of everything else. "I won't speak the rest of the trip. I won't," she insisted. Still, the rope hovered in front of her eyes. Leera shook her head and stepped away, her back meeting the man's chest. His heart was beating quickly against her body. He didn't want to do this as much as she didn't want him to.

The rope was nearing her mouth, cutting the air as it came closer, with more speed, more determination. As it approached, just inches away, Leera sucked in her lips. The rope pressed firmly against them. "If you don't open your mouth," the man warned, "I will make you swallow a piece before I tie it around your head." For extra measure, he released the rope with one hand and brought it to the assassin's chin, squeezing tightly at her jaw until she gave, opening her mouth as widely as she could if only to stop the pain he was causing. He slid the rope between her teeth, pulling it back and commanding her to shut her jaw. Then he tied it tightly enough that the corners of Leera's mouth were pulled back as well. There was hardly any room to move her tongue. She was- literally- rendered speechless.

This was how the trip remained. Leera was bound at the wrist, chained at the ankle, and leashed at the neck. Her tongue was pushed back, unable to move. The assassin could only groan and mumble- not hum, as her lips couldn't touch. The man only ever said one more thing, just as they made it to the front doors of Queen Rennera's palace. "Be sure to scream on your own," he told the assassin, "Or else I'll have to make you scream for a reason."

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Part 6 here