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the-californicationist · 16 days ago

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Cali Cali bo-bali banana fana fo-fali me my mo mali! Cali!

I'm three Budweisers in and got an itch for alpha Price with a sudden need to breed (yay! Surprise rut!), and there's his sweet smelling omega neighbor who he's been keeping at arm's length because he's a professional dammit and has complete control of his urges, thank you very much.

Honestly, I just wanna see Mr. "I'm Married to My Job" lose it and show back up on base abashed and mated, and also ridiculously proud of his lil omega's claiming bite, because "she turned into a wildcat, lads. I couldn't stop her." *wink-wink*

Or not. I'm happy with any smutty Price fic you bestow on us, really. I'm just being weirdly specific because— alcohol = horny thots. ��😏🥴🫠

Drunken hugs 🫂 from Random Thot

RTG!! You are the most amazing person, and every time I see your pfp on AO3 or tumblr, I just get all gooey inside. Thank you for the ask! I wrote (and fully deleted) this fic three times because I wanted to get it right. I just pray that I could deliver. <3 <3 Hope this is what you were hoping for!!

MDNI/NSFW -- TW: damsel in distress, ABO dynamics, knotting, fuck-or-die scenarios, CNC, fluids, PIV sex, female OC

Glory, Glory

It was his last beer of the night, and he was ripping it apart. Curling, soggy shards of the torn label were stuck under his thumbnail, darkening the translucent edge and making it look dirty. They littered the sticky, lacquered bartop like ugly snow, falling in a tiny, chaotic mess. His hands were more than just dirty, the captain thought to himself as he used his wide thumb to itch at the glue-covered glass, rolling little, paper shards away from the smooth surface to reveal the amber liquid swirling within. The captain’s hands; they were covered in blood. Not innocent blood, but blood all the same. They’d never be clean again.

But, that was the job, and he was good at it. His hands were a direct reflection of his hard work. Killing evil bastards kept the world safe. Some poor sob in a factory could clean out the glue-painting machine that pasted these fuckin’ labels on all of these bloody beer bottles because of one unshakable truth: John Price was good at killing evil bastards.

Unfortunately, the killing would need to wait until after the mandated leave window closed again. His argument with Kate still grated inside of his head. He could almost hear her harsh, Yank accent in his ears.

“What do you want me to tell payroll, John? You can’t be here. You’ve got too many days. Go home. See your mom.”

“I see her plenty, Katie. Let me run that ops gig with Keller. C’mon. I’ll do overwatch,” he tried his best to weasel his way back into a bit of active duty.

“You’d be the world’s most expensive overwatch. Hell no. Here’s your ticket,” she shoved an envelope in his hands, “...and your money,” another envelope, “Go the fuck home, Captain. That’s an order.”

An order. More like a toothless threat.

But, alas, here he was, staring at a freshly shaved, buzzcut version of himself in a filthy pub mirror, undressing bottles left and right.

“Another, mate?” The barkeep pointed to his almost-empty drink, making a slight grimace at the paper graveyard that was sprinkled across his bar.

“No,” John sighed, pulling out a few notes from his wallet, “I’m off.”

“Happy Christmas,” the barkeep took the bills and didn’t bother to look up again, setting himself to sweeping the torn strips off of the surface, preparing for the next paying customer.

“You, too,” John muttered, tugging his black wool beanie over his ears before braving the classic cold, wet, and windy Liverpudlian night.

He didn’t live far. John’s mum had kept up his loft down by the docks, but it certainly didn’t feel like home. Home wasn’t real. Not anymore. As he walked along the Mersey’s edge, he peered into the black water, wondering if he’d ever truly go home again.

All of a sudden, he heard a shrill scream. Every sense that had been dulled by his lager was now as sharp as a blade and set on its edge. Again, a high-pitched shout pealed through the night air, beckoning him back to his heroism. That keening was the sound of some evil that needed stamping out, and he was hungry for it.

He sprinted through the warehouse district, chasing the noise of scuffling, ducking behind alleys and abandoned garages, looking for the source. Finally, there was a flash of red that caught his eye, so he ran towards it, his mind making sense of the scene in front of him.

Voices were jumbled and mashed up together, barely registering in his mind.

“Out here in a fuckin’ heat. Dumb bitch! C’mere.”

“She’s got a knife!”

“C’mere, you little slag. Get –”

In the middle of three huge, stinking Alphas, a tiny Omega was struggling, arm outstretched, brandishing her knife at them to keep them at bay. John came up behind the biggest one, some bald fuck with a dirty coat, and dropped him, cracking his spine in two places with well-placed fists, and breaking his jaw on his way down to the ground, leaving him groaning on the concrete.

One of his mates, a older man with thick, black eyebrows, lunged at Price, a look of indignant surprise on his face. The Omega screamed, her red coat yanked back over her face by the third man, her knife clattering to her feet. Price focused on Mister Eyebrows, dodging a lazy haymaker before popping him twice in the nose, drawing out his blood and knocking out at least two of his front teeth. Then, John grabbed him by the collar, pulling his jaw into his raised knee and listening to the satisfying splash as he fell into a murky puddle.

Finally, he set his sights on the last Alpha of the pack whose ropey arm was looped across the Omega’s neck, choking the air from her lungs. He growled at Price, his scent turning to rancid fear,

“Stay back! She’s mine, you big bastard.”

The captain had nothing to say. With a practiced ease, he side-stepped her assailant, breaking the elbow that controlled her throat, making him release her immediately. The evil bastard stumbled back, hand outstretched, bargaining for his life,

“Wait, wait. I’ll share her with you, how’s that? I’ll even let you have first go!”

A deafening howl came out of his mouth as Price’s boot heel made contact with his kneecap, forcing it to snap at a terrible angle. John’s hand shot out and grabbed the man by the hair on the crown of his head, tugging cruelly at his scalp. Without mercy, John slammed his face into a nearby bollard, and the howling stopped.

It was quiet again aside from the Omega’s trembling breaths. She had recovered the knife and was now pointing it towards John with shaking hands and wide, determined eyes.

“You alright, love?” Price asked, holding his hands up in a sign of peace, edging towards her in gentle, predictable steps.

“Y-yeah… Stay! Stay right there,” her voice was bright and clear, and he could hear her strength laced through her words. He stopped in his tracks, respecting her wishes.

“What are you doin’ all the way out here, darlin’?”

“They dragged me over here from Baltic Fleet,” she straightened up, getting her bearings, wiping the blood from a small cut in her cheek, “Fuckin’ bastards. Thank you, by the way.”

“Jus’ doin’ my job,” Price shrugged, waiting for her to lower the knife even further before he continued his approach.

“Police?” She asked, a little confused.

“Not exactly,” Price smiled, offering a hand out to her, “John Price, Captain of His Majesty’s RAF service.”

“Oh,” she studied him for a moment, and then her eyes fell to the hand, ready to bite but deciding to shake it instead.

When he touched her skin, Price felt her fever. Shocked, he tightened his grip, not meaning to startle her but too surprised by her temperature to ignore it.

“Christ, love. You’re burnin’ up.”

As quick as a flash, she yanked her hand out of his grasp and retreated back towards the wall of the warehouse behind her, scooting her way towards the corner to get out of his range, ready to bolt. She didn’t respond, but John watched as she wiped her brow, dotted with sweat and covered in concern.

“Hey,” he moved forward again protectively, “You can’t be out here alone. Not like this. At least let me walk with you. I’ll stay ten paces behind. It’s not safe.”

“I’m fine,” she said with more strength in her voice than what she was ready to produce.

“You’re not. You’re in a bloody heat. When did it start?” He watched as her knees began to tremble, and against her obvious wishes, he helped her sit on the warehouse deck, letting her keep the knife so she could feel safe.

“Yesterday…” She closed her eyes, trying to shake it off, “It’s… I’m fine. It’s never this bad.”

Now that he was close to her, Price was smothered by the scent of her body. The Omegan glands in her neck smelled like thick, wild honey, and her heat was mixing with her aroma, turning an already sweet smell into a lucious, decadent gourmand, pulling him in like quicksand.

“C’mon,” he helped her up, “Where’s your place? I’ll get you close.”

The clang of her knife made him glance up to see her eyes closed and her mouth slack. She was out, too weak to withstand the fever and the physical exertion.

Price felt his body react to her need. He was filled with rage, white and hot, at her situation. Those goddamn monsters were trying to take advantage of her in this vulnerable state. She should be home in her nest, being taken care of by her Alpha, covered in soothing oils and cool compresses, her needy little cunt stuffed full of his knot, staving off these symptoms and enduring them for her. Instead, she’d been hunted, chased, made to fight for her dignity out here in the middle of the docks. Something else inside Price’s chest curled around his anger.

Possession.

He tried to shake it off, knowing it came from being unmarked, but it had been so many years as a lone Alpha that he knew how to control it. Or, at least he thought he did.

Now, though, he found himself pulling at the neck of her coat as he held her in his arms, invading her privacy to check for a bite. He felt the shame wash over him as he covered her skin back up. He had no business searching for a mating bite. She was not his Omega, and he was not her Alpha.

After a few minutes out in the chilled wind, he made it to his apartment. Thankfully, it was late enough that his neighbors weren’t outside to witness what looked like a literal kidnapping, and he shuffled her inside without much trouble. Price lay her down on his long, leather sofa, careful to rest her head on the soft arm. He went to the kitchen to retrieve a cold rag and pressed it to her forehead, hoping to hold back the fever for as long as he could.

“C’mon, pretty girl. Wake up,” he whispered, trying to gently shed her coat and sweater, peeling her layers off to bring her temperature down to a more manageable level.

She moaned, her eyes wrenching shut even tighter, her face twisted in pain,

“My head…” She sighed, desperate for some relief.

“I know, love. C’mon,” John propped her up a bit, moving the rag so that the coldest parts would be against her skin, “What’s your name? I can find an address. Do you have your purse?”

“They… took it? I don’t… I dunno…” She muttered, obviously having a hard time stringing her thoughts together, “I don’t feel so good.”

This was not ideal. Price knew what came next. A high fever, exhaustion, fatigue, nausea, increased heart rate, and then…

“Alpha?” Her eyes were open, glassy and dark, the pupils fully blown, looking up at him with an outpouring of unfathomable need. Her scent rolled off of her in mind-altering waves, shoving Price’s carefully-built walls out of the way and sending shocks of desire straight to his heart and his fat, growing cock.

“No, baby. I’m not your Alpha. Who is he? Can you give me a name?” John asked, checking her coat pockets in a rushed panic. He was running out of time.

“Alpha, please… I need… Help me, please,” her shaking hands reached under his jacket and shirt, her knuckles rubbing against his furry belly, her strong fingers digging around for his belt buckle, getting right to the point.

Price felt the room flex around him, and he tried to breathe in air that wasn’t saturated by her vanilla spice, searching in the deepest recesses of his mind for some semblance of his self control.

“Easy, love. I can’t m–mmngh!” Her mouth slotted over his as he tried to protest, stopping his heart and his words at the same time.

She was heaven. Her smell was making his skin tingle all over his body, down his arms and up his legs, rushing to his central, sacral core. And her taste was even better. His little cinnamon roll, so sweet and warm, burning for him like a flame, hot and ready to scar him for life.

“Mngh… Love, mmm… Wait…” Price held her back, using more force than he thought he should need, surprised by her sudden power.

“John…” He met her eyes and found a particular clarity within them. She was coming out of her haze. But, it wouldn’t last. This was his final chance to keep her from doing something she would regret.

“Darlin’, I can’t. I’m not your Alpha.”

“You smell like you are,” she mewled, rubbing her wounded cheek across his engorged neck gland, spreading his scent all over herself.

“I can’t,” he moved away from her, trying to hold her in his arms for comfort rather than to bask in her expressive heat, “My work… I can’t leave you here, pretty girl.”

She sobbed out, trying to hold back from writhing against his body, doing everything she could not to make it harder for him to turn her down. Her eyes were rimmed red and pink from exhaustion, and she was staring down at her own hands, vibrating with tremors, slurring her words,

“Just lock me in the bath. I’ll run cold water. I’ll be fine…”

Something ancient and feral snarled in Price’s mind.

No.

“No,” he said, involuntarily, the voice in his head escaping from his throat.

“Please… I can’t stop myself… I want your knot, Alpha. Lock me up before I do something to you… Something you don’t want…” She could barely put two words together. Every thought was a struggle. He was losing her again.

He grabbed her and held her to his chest, clutching her like water in his palm, using all his strength to keep her with him,

“I want you, love. I want… Fuck, I need you.”

All of a sudden, the energy around their bodies stilled. That cracking, sparking electricity that bound them together was roiling just beyond John’s consciousness, ready to surge. But, he stayed perfectly still, waiting to see what she did next. She locked eyes with him and leaned in close, as if she would kiss him. But, she didn’t. She dipped her head down until she found his Alphic gland, swollen and bruised purple from him holding back his lust, nuzzling at it with the tip of her nose, rooting against him, testing his patience, checking to see if his temperament was true. Then, when he let her sniff him in his most potent spot, when she knew his soul was as pure as his scent, that he was true, she sucked his flesh between her lips, drawing his musk onto her tongue.

She’d accepted him. He reeled from it, unable to hold back a groan, his cock jerking against his zipper, thrashing to escape, flooding with hot blood and threatening to fill his knot before he’d even had a chance to taste her.

John pulled her mouth off of him and stared at her eyes again, in awe of her beauty, his mind swirling and yet perfectly sharp, begging her darkly,

“Give me your neck, Omega.”

The ritual had begun, and as she swept her hair away from her shoulder, pulling it around her back, she bent for him, arching her head down in a submissive bow, revealing her Omegan mating line. It looked like a keloid scar, the raised skin swollen and painful, like a pounding vein that ran from below her earlobe down to the top of her shoulder, full of her hormones and thick with her magic. One bite, and he would be in her thrall, pliant to her every whim, beholden to her needs until her heat had run its course.

Price had never given his bite to anyone. It had been easy to abstain. In fact, in his youth, he had a hard time understanding his mates’ commitments to their Omegas, scoffing at their lack of duty to their stations, doubting their commitment, and - moreover - doubting their loyalty. He remained a captain through and through, and he’d never made room for anyone or anything else. But, here he was, his teeth aching in his jaw, bigger and sharper than they should’ve been, his every sense heightened and taking her in like a drug, compelling him to punch through her delicate flesh and suck her nectar deep into his belly.

The feeling of her skin against his lips was enough to send a chill through his body. He was cooling from the inside out, and his body needed her heat. She was forcing a rut to take hold in him, and he could feel himself changing for her. Then, he bit down as hard as he could, breaking the thin seal of her mating line with ease, feeling the searing mixture of her oil and her blood filling his mouth and throat like a ripe plum, wet and sweet, and promising pleasure if he chose to swallow her.

He drank from her for as long as he dared, taking her in long, slurping gulps, letting her essence coat his throat, feeling the hot fluid burn inside of his chest and down into his stomach where it pooled and lingered, warming him up from the inside out.

“Alpha…” She moaned, raising her hand to cup his cheek as he sucked her life into himself, rubbing her thumb so softly over his shut eyelashes that he barely felt it.

John pulled away from her, his eyes fluttering open, her bright orange blood iridescent with her mating oil, making the red cells burn bright like a fresh-cracked yolk, gleaming, trapped between his teeth like gold. He watched it drip down her chest, staining her clothes, and he began to tear them off of her. She let him, limp and mute as he peeled her open, making her naked and pulling her into his arms.

He carried her into his bedroom, kicking open the door and busting the bolt through the strike, splintering the wood and not giving a shit about the damage. John lay her in the middle of the mattress and set to surrounding her with whatever softness he could find; his shirts, his blankets, even his scarves. Anything warm and comfortable was added to the nest, giving her as much support as he could before standing back to admire his work.

She eyed him from her recumbent throne, commanding him with her gaze. John stripped off his shirt for her, raking it up his back and over his shoulders, feeling as if he was moving his body for her and only for her. All of his motions, even his ragged breaths, were only escaping from his lungs because she wanted them to. His buckle clattered apart, and he popped open the button of his jeans, lowering the zipper in a sharp, metallic rip.

Once free, his heavy prick flagged, leaping forward and pulsating for her, proudly showing her his gleaming head. He was drooling an unrelenting stream of iridescent precome, his balls tight and full of Alphic oil, ready to coat her warm insides with his shining sex.

John climbed onto the bed, his face focused on her wet mound, admiring the plumpness of her, imagining her - in every delicious way - like a tender peach. He crawled to her, his mouth still stained neon orange from her gland, and he smeared her wet quim all over his lips and tongue. He wasn’t licking her so much as he was wearing her like warpaint, moving his nose and cheeks through her to ensure he was soaked in her heady slick, his body making wild, unbridled choices purely on instinct.

“Yes, baby, please…” Her voice went straight through him like a bullet, tightening his cockhead to an uncomfortable degree, and it jerked against the mattress in protest. Her hands were in his hair, scratching through his scalp, encouraging him to sink his tongue deep inside of her hole.

John obeyed, helpless to her desire, his mind wiping clean and being rewritten by her will. He was swimming in her scent, drenched in her slick, and gasping against her pussy, his eyes fixated on her form as it writhed above him. When she met his eyes, she bit the inside of her lip, crying out for him, rewarding him for his prostrated fealty. Then, she began to rock her hips against his jaw, fucking herself on his face, and he let her use him to her heart’s content, staying strong and sure, allowing his body to be used, objectified and glorified by it.

When she began to come, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He followed his tongue inside of her with two of his thick fingers, pressing against her walls, pushing her over the edge. She bolted upright, wrapping her thighs around his face, smothering him with her body, trapping him breathless between her legs. Her whole being trembled for him. He could feel the shimmer of her very soul, rattling and writhing with her siren-like keening. And just when he started to see spots in his vision, needing air just a little less than he needed to please her, she lay open for him, blooming outward like a flower, releasing him from a limbo he longed to return to, oozing with a stream of rainbow-tinted come, the Omegan oil within her womb escaping to advertise its promises to her mate.

Without knowing why, John found himself lapping it up from her pulsing hole like a hound, swallowing mouthful after mouthful and grunting with each pass of his broad tongue.

“John, I need... Please, put your knot inside me. I’ll be good…” She begged, tears shining at the corners of her eyes from her come-drunk bliss, her hands plucking at her nipples and trying to soothe herself down from her high.

“My pretty girl wants this knot, yeah?” John grinned devilishly, dipping his finger into her over and over and licking it clean like she was a jar of endless honey, “Wants me to breed this gorgeous cunt…”

At that comment, she spread her legs even wider for him, opening up for him like a blossom for the sun, ready to take whatever he had to give her. It was mesmerizing for John to see her like this. Everything about her was filled with intoxication and need. He was just a vessel for her pleasure, pouring himself into her to make her full again. Dizzy and drunk with adoration, he notched his girth at her entrance, struggling to fit even his cockhead within her.

“Fuck… so bloody warm…”

Her body was burning him with every millimeter he sank into her, the heat of her tight sex in such high contrast with his cool rut. It felt like he was swimming in a roiling pot of sugary caramel, clinging and cloying and sticking to every part of him, and yet it was not enough. He needed more. His hips thrust forward, savage yet steady, reaching deep inside of her like an anchor, rushing to settle himself within her darkness.

The way his Omega cried out this time was different, and it snapped him to her attention, his mind immediately sensing a new need.

“Love, tell me what you need.” He purred, his mouth kissing her lips and her neck, lapping at the now-healing wound his own fangs had made, talking to her between long licks of his tongue, “Tell me, and it’s yours.”

“You’re so big. I’ve never…” She sounded ashamed.

Price slowed to a creeping pace, focused fully on her face,

“Never had a knot before?”

She shook her head, her eyes full of worry. John wrapped her up in his arms, dragging himself out of her slowly before filling her up again as carefully as he could.

“Tha’s alright, baby. You’re mine, and I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

“Feels like I’m burning alive,” she sighed, her brow furrowing with distress, “John, I need… I don’t know how…”

“Look at me, alright?” He helped her focus her eyes on his, “Don’t… Just stay with me, right here. You’re gonna come for me, and then… I’ll give you what you need.”

“Please,” she whimpered, her voice so small.

Price set himself on a path with a purpose. He used his hand to rub small, rhythmic circles beside the rigid body of her clit, coaxing her pussy to drop even more slick around him, using every ounce of willpower he had left not to let his knot slip inside of her prematurely. His thrusts were jerky and restrained, but he felt her begin to rock back and forth with his hand’s movements, bringing her closer and closer to her glowing joy.

“Good girl,” he praised her, watching her as she began to fall apart around him, “Tha’s my good little Omega. Come for your Alpha just like that. Just… mmf-fuck! Like that! Holy fuck.”

The feeling of her slick pussy clenching and twisting around his cock’s tugid body was enough to make him see stars. He felt almost sick with pleasure, his whole core lighting up like a roaring fire, spitting and aching to bury himself within her.

At the end of her crescendo, he felt himself let go of the chain, and he rutted his knot inside of her, humping himself forward ruthlessly, his body contorting itself to fit her needs. His knot sealed him within her, and although he was not yet orgasming, he was filling her with his come, the creamy flow of it spilling out of his tip, filling her hole and coating his prick from inside of its hungry little sheath.

“Your come… I can feel it inside of me. Oh, my God,” she sighed with some sort of relief, her eyes rolling inside of her head, her arms losing their strength, and her back arching towards him, lifting up as if she would float right into Heaven.

And just like that, her fever began to abate. With his knot stuffed inside of her, locking his seed within her hole, his Alphic oils could soothe her heat, bringing her back to the realm of consciousness and delivering her from her wild state.

“John,” she lay back, her hand pressed to his cheek.

He didn’t answer her. Instead, he bent forward on his elbows and kissed her mouth, chastely at first, and then languidly, exploring her taste. When he did finally pull away, she was awake and alert, sated and happy. He smiled down at her,

“Hey, pretty girl,” he whispered, wiping her hair back from her face.

“Hey,” she smiled back at him, wrapping her ankles around his back for comfort, not knowing that it was just enough to set his cock on edge again, his Alphic instinct rejoicing at the feeling of being trapped by his mate.

“You alright?” John asked, a tinge of worry at the edge of his voice.

“I am now, thanks to you,” she sighed, tucking herself in beneath him, rubbing her hands along his ribs and the soft fur of his back and arms, feeling every bit of him as if she was seeing him with her touch, “You saved me, Alpha.”

“Aye,” he nudged her jaw with his nose, asking her wordlessly to give him the vulnerable softness of her neck. She obliged, and he spoke to her between sucking kisses, “All mine. My Omega. Innit that right, baby?”

She was practically lambent beneath the scrutiny of his possession, rolling in it like a wave in the sand, captured by it and surrendering to the riptide of his unbreakable grip. She nodded, humming her ascent, her expression turning a little rueful right at the end of his kisses. The sorrowful timbre of her voice broke his heart,

“I’m grateful. But, I know this isn’t what you wanted, and I’m so sor–”

“No,” he kissed her words away, feeling his length throb inside of her, urging him to kiss her again, “No, love.”

“I won’t bite you,” she promised, her gaze still full of apology, “You won’t be stuck with me.”

“Bite me, Omega,” he bent his head and buried his face in her shoulder, giving her his gland in total surrender, “Go on. I’m yours.”

“John…” She hesitated, but he could feel her body flood her hole, excited beyond measure at the thought of binding him to her as her mated Alpha.

“Go on,” he commanded in his smoky growl, holding her tighter and bracing for the ecstasy of her teeth.

He felt her lips first, and his balls tightened, ready to fling him into a messy orgasm as soon as he felt his gland shatter in her mouth. Her Omegan teeth wouldn’t break the skin, but he knew she was strong enough to crack the shell around his swollen node. The anticipation of her bite was wrecking his mind, and he was gasping for breath by the time he felt her jaw set itself against him.

“Baby, please…” He whined in her ear, his hips thrusting in short, jerking thrusts, unable to move much with his knot still trapped up inside of her, holding his gushing come in her hole, pushing it into her womb from the sheer volume of it.

Her teeth connected, and he could hear his unbroken shell give way beneath her strength, the hormones inside of it rushing through his system like wildfire, burning through his veins and making him scream for her. At the same time, John felt his core throw him into a raw orgasm, his whole body trembling above her, wringing himself from the inside out.

“Alpha,” she sighed, licking his neck to comfort him, “My Alpha…”

“Yours, baby. All yours.”

— — — — —

The new trainees filed out of the gym, sweaty, bloody, and eager to be out of the captain’s sight. Price had run them ragged, forcing them to spar with practice weapons, pitting them against each other in a strained, exhausting competition. Ghost and Soap sat with Gaz as they eyed their commander, their eyes glued to the fresh bite mark on his neck, shocked into a silent stupor.

“I cannae believe it. Mated? To which lassie?” Soap asked, dumbfounded.

“I didn’t think he’d ever take a mate,” Gaz marvelled.

“I thought he was savin’ himself for marriage,” Ghost quipped, earning himself a scuff from Soap.

Price made his way across the mat, pulling his sweaty shirt off his back to trade it for a clean one. The red welts and nail-marks across his shoulders and down his belly made Gaz let out a low whistle. But, his commander’s glare stopped him mid-note.

“Wha’s that, Garrick?”

“Nothin’, sir. Just… admirin’ your battle scars,” Gaz smiled, wishing his two teammates would stop snickering so loudly.

“Looks like a hell’uva fight, Cap,” Ghost added, looking everywhere but into Price’s icy eyes.

“Wha’s her name?” Soap asked outright, skipping over the double entendres and going right for the point.

Their captain sighed, zipped up his gym bag, and stood in front of his three officers, glaring down at them with a look that was on the border of dead-seriousness,

“If I told you that, lads, I’d have to kill you.”

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ameliathornromance · 2 months ago

Text

“(Y/N),” A short, but sharp wrap hit the lid of your coffin, earning a groan from you. “Suns gone down, it’s safe for you to come out now.”

You let out another groan, rolling over in the cramped space of your coffin and onto your stomach, “Noo.”

“C’mon, love, patrol will only take an hour. That’s a second in your immortal lifespan.”

With a sigh, you opened your eyes and creaked open the lid of your coffin and gave your Orc Boyfriend a bleary eyed glare. “You say that,” You pushed open the lid fully and sat up right, “but it can feel like an eternity.”

“Even with me?” Your Orc gave you a feigned look of hurt.

“That’s not what I meant! You’re putting words in my mouth.” You said grumpily.

Your boyfriend chuckled at your expression before he reached to a table behind himself, snatched up a copper flask and handed it to you.

Taking it from him, you took a swig of its contents, the cold irony liquid going down your gullet swiftly and smoothly.

He stood and stretched his arms above his head as if he was just waking up himself. “I’m going to go and grab a weapon. Don’t take too long getting changed.”

The two of you are quite the odd couple, aren’t you? It’s not every day that you see an Orc, big and brutish, together with a hauntingly elegant vampire.

When you two had first met, he was instantly taken by your disturbingly dark beauty, the way that you seemed to glide over to your victims and tell them a gorgeous tapestry of lies, before tearing it to shreds in the wake of your hunger for that sweet life blood that coursed through your victims veins.

He often wondered why you were hunting at this grotty little Tavern he frequented, you appearance was just so… out of place amongst the withered regulars, tired from the days work.

He had watched you for a few days, noticed a pattern of your victims – mostly people who were disrespectful to those around the bar staff and, if the opportunity presented itself, a monster hunter or two who were foolish enough to walk straight into your territory.

Once he felt sure that you wouldn’t take him for a target, he approached you.

It was like a spark had gone off the moment the pair of you got to chatting.

As he got to know you, he was surprised by how normal you were as a person. He had expected you to look down on him and all the other filthy mortals that surrounded you. But you didn’t act like that at all. He was also shocked to learn that you don’t sleep in a giant mansion or in a crypt in a graveyard like he had expected. “That’s a really funny stereotype.” You had told him when he brought it up to you. “I mean, it makes my life a lot easier, because it means that people don’t see me coming.” You’d laughed. “It just sucks that I have to return to a morgue every day. Just because I’m undead doesn’t mean I want to sleep next to corpses every night.”

You had wrinkled your nose, “and don’t even get me started on trying to lie in the exact same position that the coroners leave you in, it’s a nightmare. And I have to change morgues every week to make sure no one catches onto why my corpse hasn’t been buried yet.”

The moment he’d heard that, your Orc knew that you had to come and live at the encampment with him. Sleeping next to dead bodies? And having to move every week? At least when the encampment moves itself every few months.

When your boyfriend first turned up to the encampment, with you in tow, a lot of the Orcs freaked out. You found it funny that these giant creatures, born walls of muscle and ready to fight as soon as they could crawl, could be so easily frightened by something like you.

“You’re all being dramatic!” Your Orc Boyfriend had told them all, as the Orcs all crowded at the other side of the encampment as you sipped on a copper mug full of red liquid. “Look at her, she’s not going to hurt you!”

When you had smiled at them and waved – trying to be reassuring, but forgetting that you had bloodstained fangs from your beverage – all the Orcs had curled up even further away from you.

But, after a few weeks of you taking over night patrols and not drinking anyones blood – other than your boyfriends of course – everyone had decided that you could stay.

The thing that really convinced the Orcs that you would be a good ally, was when they woke up one morning, when the sun was just rising, to find that you had decimated a group of monster hunters, all of which had their throats ripped out or had been sucked dry, not even having a chance to defend themselves from your wrath.

From that point onward, all the Orcs in the camp saw you as one of their own and treated you like it.

With your new found acceptance into the camp, your Orc Boyfriend felt a wave of relief and reassurance that everyone had finally accepted you. He was worried that his feelings for you would be invalidated if he confided in any one of his friends about the nature of your relationship together, and whether or not your relationship would be accepted by the rest of the clan.

Even being with an Elf or Human would have been seen as a more acceptable relationship in their eyes over a Vampire.

But thanks to being accepted into the camp, he didn’t have to worry about anything like that now.

However… there was just one other fear.

Your boyfriend was snapped out of his memories of you, the flaps of your shared tent flying open as you stretched your arms high above your head and yawned. Fangs glinting in the faint torch light, you scratched the back of your head “Alright,” you said, “let’s get this over with.”

After picking up the axe that your boyfriend had been leaning on and grabbing a torch from one of the nearby guards, the pair of you set off to do a perimeter check.

Your Orc sank back into his thoughts as the pair of you walked around the camps wooden walls, tied together tightly with twine.

Just because his fears of you being accepted by the camp had been laid to rest, didn’t mean that there wasn’t anything else for him to worry about. There was this nagging, restlessness that writhed in the back of his head whenever he was left alone too long with his thoughts.

He knew it was stupid of him to ignore it. Your boyfriend had known it the moment the pair of you had gotten together and knew it was an inevitability: you would outlive him. Perhaps hundreds of years into the future… and forget about him.

Your Orc found it particularly difficult to ignore when the pair of you would go out on Patrol like this.

In the silence, where there was nothing else to be heard other than the hooting of owls or the trill of crickets, it was hard to distract himself with other more important matters, like guarding the encampment.

Of course, whenever you started a conversation, he would participate and reply… but that didn’t mean that the anxiety went away.

Your boyfriend was sure you were aware of your immortality too, but he supposed that you were just used to it. Another fear on top of that, how many other lovers had you loved and forgotten? Was he doomed just to become another one of those people? A small mark in the long life that would be yours?

“Babe?” Your voice broke him out of his spiralling thoughts. “Are you okay? You’ve been staring out into the darkness for ages now.”

Your Orc Boyfriend turned to look at you, meeting your worried eyes, brows furrowed with concern. “I’m fine.” Your Orc said with a smile.

You narrowed your eyes at him, doubtfully. “You’re hiding something.” You said, observantly.

His eyes widened as you raised an eyebrow. You were just too good at reading people.

“Really, it’s nothing.” The last thing that your Orc wanted, was to make you feel guilty for his anxious thoughts. He knew you had no control over your memory, or for your endless life span. It was only natural that over time you would forget things… even if they were once important to you.

His answer, clearly didn’t satisfy you. “Babe, please talk to me.” Your voice was tinged with hurt. “I don’t like it when you go quiet on me. It makes me think I’ve done something wrong.”

That made him smile. Even though you’d been alive for so long, you still acted like any worried girlfriend. Sighing, he stopped in his tracks and looked at you.

You stopped beside him.

“… How long have you been alive?” He asked you.

You recoiled, surprised by the question. After a moment, you frowned and curled a thoughtful finger under your chin. “Let’s see…” You murmured. “I was turned when I was twenty five… and that was… around four hundred years ago?” You guessed. “It became difficult to keep track of, so I stopped thinking about how old I was a long time ago.”

The next question your Orc Boyfriend wanted to ask caught in his throat. He swallowed, “and how many people have you taken as a partner?”

You pursed your lips, tilting your head. “Why does that matter?” You asked, suspiciously. You knew that your boyfriend wasn’t the kind of person to judge you based on your body count… murder victims or otherwise, but it was still strange that he was asking.

“Please, answer the question.” Your Orc pleaded. “It’s not anything weird I’m trying to get at, I promise.”

Sighing, you searched your mind for past love affairs, prospective partners names and anything else like that. “None that I can make a note of.” You said, truthfully. “All of them were flings or creepy weirdos who wanted to become a vampire.”

Upon examining your boyfriend’s face in the dim torch light that he held in his hand, you observed something sad behind his eyes. “What’s this really about?” You asked, crossing your arms.

“I… I sometimes think about what will happen after I die.” Your Orc’s voice came out in a whisper, as if he thought his words would draw danger near. “What will you do? You’ll be on your own again, to live the next few centuries… In that time, are you going to forget about me? About what we have?”

The question surprised you. You shouldn’t have been, as it was a very valid question to come from your mortal partner. It was the sad truth of being a Vampire. All the people you knew, friends, family, lovers, children – if you had any while mortal – will die. You will outlive them all.

You had grown used to it, moved on from the deaths of your family… Forgotten their names. The thought of the same thing happening to your Orc boyfriend sent a chill down your spine. An uncomfortable pit opened up in your stomach.

“That’s what you’re worried about?” A lump had formed in your throat.

It was always a possibility. That you would forget… But how could you forget someone like him? This Orc, who had the audacity to approach you in the middle of a Tavern – knowing and recognising full well what you were – and decided to chat you up? How could any Vampire- no, how could anyone forget that?

Even your creepy vampire obsessed victims hadn’t caught on until you had tried to take a bite out of them.

“You don’t have to be concerned about that.” You said, firmly. Taking your hands, you placed them on either side of your boyfriend’s head and pulled him down to your height. “You are not just anyone. You are the love of my life, and I will never ever, forget this. You decided to approach me,” You let out a small chuckle, “a bloodsucking monster-“

“You’re not-“ Your boyfriend began, but you shushed him. “I’m not done yet!” You hissed. “… and took the time to get to know me. How could I ever forget someone so brave and accepting? This is the most alive and happy I’ve been in years.” Pressing your forehead against his, you whispered, “you have made me feel mortal again. And I will never, ever forget that, so long as I live.”

The lump in your Orcs throat rose again as he pulled you close with his free arm, squeezing you tightly against his body. Although you are cold to the touch, your skin waxy and frigid, there was still a warmth glowing inside you, he could feel it against his own skin.

“I love you, you know?” You told him firmly, holding his gaze. “With all of my undead heart.”

“Even when I’m old and wrinkled?” Your Orc smiled.

“Darling I’d love you if you were a worm.” Pressing a kiss onto his lips, you smiled

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Taglist <3

@sunndust @greenie-c

#monster lover #monster romance #monster x human #monster x you #monster x female #monster x reader #orc fiction #orc boyfriend #orc romance #orc x reader #orc x you #orc x female reader #orc x reader fluff #orc x human reader #orc x human

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vamptits · 3 months ago

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hey girl are you an ant because you've been sprayed with a weird liquid and now your friends are taking you to the graveyard and you probably should tell them you're not dead but honestly you're not convinced.

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maybeelse · 3 months ago

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The Problem of Witches

"What is true power" is supposed to be one of those deep, philosophical questions with no real answer. It—and the thought experiments which grow on it like clinging weeds—are meant to become a mirror to the speaker's biases, to reveal how they think about the world. Let that be so.

To my mind, the answer is simple: true power is control of the context in which the world is understood. It is the ability to say "this is what the world is", and be heard.

It is intoxicating, and dangerous, and many-layered.

Seen through the fantastical lenses of works like This Is How You Lose The Time War and The Book of the War it is conflicting frameworks of the Commandant and the Garden or the Great Houses' anchoring of the thread (the creation of history with themselves at the center). It is the pinions which Exordia's Khai place in their subjects' souls, narrative prisons that make the Khai's success inevitable; it's Elden Ring's outer gods struggling for control of what the world will become.

In the real world it's the narratives which bind our comprehension of what the world could be, and what it is; and it's the processes which led to their current state. It's all of the choices that constrain the space of what's possible.

Perhaps this is an unsatisfying answer. Perhaps it is trite. Perhaps I'm just vaguely waving my hands and going "society's the real power, man! It's everything around us!" So be it.

In my own stories, there is magic: the ability to change parts of the world. Sometimes this is fundamentally altering part of the world (sunlight is a honey-thick liquid, that drips and stains and smells of sweet rot); more often it's changing the way something works (as long as you remember to chant these words once a day, your body will become soft and plump) or what part of the setting is like (things around the graveyard doll get spooky and sepulchral).

That's not an exhaustive list, by the way.

And then, there are witches, and the problems they create.

By the time a witchling becomes a small-witch, their existence has already begun to distort the world. Rules stop applying, or get more complex, or more conditional. There are loopholes.

Put too many small-witches in close proximity, and weird stuff happens. Things skew and break; points of disagreement or conflict gather narrative weight. There is always potential for escalation.

And then there are true witches. "A skin worn by a fragment of the Unreal", I said. "The hollow left behind by a hidden heart. Someday a sparrow will wear down the mountains which stand beyond the world and they will watch, uncaring." And then, lest I be misread, "their presence leaks into the world, corrupts narratives, stains souls. They become undeniable. Some call this a curse."

By their mere existence, they shape the world.

I've been grappling with the consequences of that ever since I started writing about them.

Because—think about it. What does that do to a world? What happens?

My forever-unfinished map of the City of Corrade shows that city as a series of thin bubbles, with buildings and forests and suns clinging to their pastel surfaces. Setting cast as a series of moods, as layers, as abstract bubbles of influence; a city seen through the lens of subway trains, connected-yet-disconnected. In many respects this is a concession to my writing; landmarks recur, and moods, but everything around them (and their relationships to each other) shift as easily as a dream's psychogeography.

That, then, is what happens to the people and places within a true witch's influence. They exist within her context, within her understanding of what the world is. In Corrade, capitalism only exists in the city's Downtown, whose striving spires cling tight to the Astral Witch's midnight observatory; the waves of gentrification and decay which lap at the city's client suburbs flow from the blended presence of several lesser true witches. Crossroads Station, HER orbital citadel, a relic of a long-ended war still ringed watchful angels, exists only because of the power slowly leaching from HER still-warm corpse.

And at their feet the lesser creatures squabble and struggle and try to thrive. Some become witches; most do not.

I grew up across the bay from San Francisco, all those years ago, and perhaps that tells you something of why I understand geography in terms of the great powers that affect it, of the titans whose movements shake the world and the fungal outgrowths of the lesser powers which serve their whims. Today I regard them as pathetic, all those child-kings clawing at the edges, desperate for more, for the glory of their unfinished apotheosis, for a final escape from reality's laws and constraints—but that's part of my witches, too. Abusers are fundamentally pathetic; powers grow so tangled in the context they create that they can never break free. They choke and die on their own success, still unsatisfied, still wanting more.

That hunger is all they are.

#worldbuilding #witchposting #essays #I have been very careful not to talk about capitalist realism here #or about marvel movies and the scope of possible narratives #but I'm sure you can see those shadows lurking just outside

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pendogcreative · 2 months ago

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Created in the era of rubberhose animation and the idol of Liquid Laff studios this cartoon mutt is a very well known character in modern times! But did you know in her early cartoons she was a bit creepy?

Abandoned in a graveyard, adopted by a living haunted house, raised by hundreds of ghosts..

Maisy the Mutt is probably the most morbid cartoon character hosted on this website, although such elements were not uncommon in older cartoons.

Maisy's association with the supernatural has always been strong, playing a gravedigger in her original background appearance. While most characters of the time were running away from monsters and being menaced by trumpet-playing ghosts, Maisy could often be found tagging along for the ride and being great pals with similarly ghoulish characters.

Maisy is a bit of an anomaly in how her early cartoons portrayed her, since interchangeable roles were not uncommon in early cartoons.

However, Maisy would just as often play the villain as she would the hero during her original run. Most famously in the first episode with her as the protagonist "Red Writhing Gloves," Maisy played a devil-like figure, selling a down-on-their-luck musician her pair of magic gloves...for a terrible price.

However, throughout her run, Maisy has ultimately been a force for good: antagonizing the haughty and mighty of her cartoon world and being a sympathizer to any creep, goblin, or otherwise outcast creature.

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cavehunting · 8 months ago

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rocket, my distrusting touch-starved raccoon, with f!reader

tags: post vol.3, reader’s from earth, reader comforting rocket, kinda fluffy but not really

It started with a comforting touch, much like how Drax had consoled Rocket after Groot sacrificed himself on Xandar

In your case, it was because of a nightmare

Though the High Evolutionary was gone, the team’s encounter with the egomaniac had been Rocket’s first run-in with him since he first escaped the Arête, and with it dredged up memories that had been kept locked away and only ever thought back on with a haze of blurriness

You had been keeping Peter company during his graveyard shift and was heading back to your quarters when you heard a distressed shout followed by a crash coming from Rocket’s bunk

Your steps faltered, debating whether or not to barge in and ask if he was okay

The two of you weren’t close—though you’d like to be—despite the three years you’ve spent together

After the war with Thanos, you had tagged along with Thor and stayed long after the god left, graciously accepting Peter’s invitation to join the family

The team had taken a quick liking to you. You were a good friend and an even better fighter. Nebula didn’t quite trust you at first; she didn’t really understand how you could do what you do and still retain some of that life that poured out of you. And Rocket…

Well, Rocket was respectful… sometimes… when he needed to be

Mostly, he ignored you. Other times, he was just a jerk

And depending on the day, you’d either let it roll off your shoulder or pretended that his words and the state of your relationship didn’t hurt you

“Shit!”

Rocket yelling expletives was not a new thing, but in your head you saw him lying in the med-bay, tubes and wires attached, foaming at the mouth

The events with the High Evolutionary was only but a month ago. Rocket wasn’t fully over it—you weren’t sure if he ever would be. And you, you definitely weren’t over it. The footage from the OrgoCorp file, the sight of Rocket nearly dead

It scared you, it still scares you

So you knocked and entered his room, knowing well enough that Rocket would never have opened the door or even shouted, asking who was bothering him

You first noticed the overturned cup and the pool of water near his bedside. His blanket had been tossed haphazardly to the floor, soaking up some of the liquid

You then met Rocket’s gaze, mirroring his frown—though yours was one of concern

“Rocket?”

Your voice was high-pitched and unsure, causing you to inwardly cringe

Rocket looked away, very much wishing now that he could bury himself under the covers

You walked toward the bed, noting how his ear twitched at the sound of your footsteps, how his brows furrowed and his nose scrunched up

If it were a totally different situation, you very well could have blurted out how cute you found him to his face

“What are ya doing? Get out of my room.”

He spoke with a gruffness that only comes when you stop yourself from crying but your throat still feels thick

You didn’t answer him, not really knowing what to say without sounding awkward. Instead, you cleaned up his mess. You found an extra blanket and draped it over his lap before joining him on the bed, your back against the wall

You figured halfway through cleaning that it wasn’t necessary for the two of you to talk about it. For now, at least. For now, you just wanted to offer your presence. To be somebody who’s there without making Rocket feel embarrassed about needing somebody in the first place

Rocket had been silent. His arms might’ve been crossed and his brows still tightly knit, but he hadn’t told you to leave a second time

You thought of telling him something funny but found your supply of witty remarks running low. You opened and closed your mouth, trying to muster any kind of words that weren’t “Are you okay?” and “You wanna talk about it?”

“You want to watch one of those Terran movies you like?”

You stopped fiddling with the hem of your sweater, and a smile replaced your cautious expression.

Of all the things he could have said or done…

You didn’t hesitate, lest he take back the rare offer.

“Sure.”

You didn’t do this often. Rations were low and trips to Earth were few and far between. But you wanted this to be special for him, so you grabbed Rocket by the hand, earning a grunt, and led him to your room.

Rocket had never stepped foot inside your quarters, let alone ten feet of it. He found it uniquely Terran, but even more uniquely you

Lamps and string lights you either brought with you from home or found in a junk shop, posters from favorite bands, television shows, and movies, plants—some more loved than others—and books you’ve read as a child

It was starkly different from Quill’s bunk, that’s for sure. Smelled better, too

You shifted some pillows and opened your laptop

“Make yourself comfortable. I’m just gonna grab some things. You can look for a movie in the meantime.”

You gave him a smile and was even bold enough to run a hand through his fur to the top of his spine. He was soft, and he didn’t flinch or bite at you.

You returned five minutes later with a bowl of popcorn, the last of your microwaveable packets, and found Rocket toying with a stuffed animal Drax had gifted you. It was quite ugly but the sentiment was there.

You nestled yourself close to the raccoon, pulled the covers up, placed the bowl between you two, and pressed play.

You woke up to heavy breathing. Next to you was Rocket’s form, his face twisted in anguish and his limbs twitching

You glimpsed your surroundings. A small desk lamp across the room was still on, your laptop and empty bowl were discarded on the floor, the covers had been kicked off by Rocket and covered only a portion of your legs now

You don’t remember falling asleep or even moving your things off the bed

You inched closer to him and rested your hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles. You felt the metal pieces embedded in his body

“Rocket. Rocket, you’re okay.”

Your voice was but a whisper, but his breath caught and his eyes opened to meet yours

“Hey. It’s still a little early. Peter’s still at the wheel, though he’s probably fallen asleep by now,” you chuckled. “It’s not your shift for a while. We should get some more sleep while we can.”

You didn’t want to bring up the nightmare or the fact that you both fell asleep together or the fact that you were touching him and he hadn’t shrugged you off yet

But you made sure to remind him of where he was, who he was with. The Arête’s no more. Rocket’s just on a ship, going who knows where with his friends, answering distress calls and saving the galaxy

He didn’t speak. His eyes darted from your face to your steadily rising and falling chest to the hand that rested on his back. With each second, his vision grew clearer and further away from his wretched memories

“Stay with me?”

You asked for his sake. Rocket nodded ever so slightly and shifted so that his back was to your chest, his head tucked under your chin.

You raised the covers and loosely draped your arm over his side. You didn’t want him to feel any more suffocated than he might’ve felt when dreaming.

“You’re alright.”

#hunter.writes #gotg #gotg fic #gotg rocket #rocket raccoon #rocket racoon x reader #rocket x reader

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dovithedarklord · 8 months ago

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Stucked - Part 7

You're trapped in a game and a new threat is lurking.

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Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x reader, Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader, König x reader

Tags: Mentions of death, Mentions of blood and gore, Blood and Violence, Sexual Scenes, Alternate Universe, No use of Y/N, Not Beta Read, AFAB Reader

Trigger Warning: Contains blood and gore, violence, injury, some body horror, and drugging. Please, keep that in mind!

⚠️MDNI⚠️

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Author's Note

The climax of the story is getting closer and closer, and now you meet someone who knows what kind of place you're stuck in.

Hello!

Sorry for the long delay, but I was finally able to get back to writing! The story is slowly coming to an end and the last important character enters.

Have fun! :D

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

.................................

The eerie silence of the forest penetrates every unprotected pore of your cold body like a latent sickness, as if the ominous uneventfulness would be a precursor to a deadly disease that can push you into a sick bed festering with ulcers at any moment. And you know that this calmness is only a fleeting mirage, because in every dark corner, in every hidden hole, something terrible can be lurking, which can ruin the unsettling ease with which you fled from your pursuers. Even though you're surrounded by the soft breeze of the night, the sighs of the branches dancing in the wind passing through the trees, the frightened shuffling noises of the feet of animals coming to life under the dead leaves, and even though the owls try to lull your suspicions with their melancholic songs, you already know this horrible prison all too well. And thanks to the last few hours, you won't make the mistake of trusting in its mercy again. Because in this fever dream, there is no benevolence, no compassion, only survival. And you do everything to win, because there is no other way out.

The time you spent wandering in the woods in the pitch-black night seems endless, and even though you know you're far away from the lake and the deformed creatures that turned the water into a putrid graveyard, the dull stabbing pain in your lungs reminds you of with what hurry you managed to disappear from the watchful eyes. You were just a hair's breadth away from being caught in the violent embrace of a beast, and if you hadn't found the pearls, you wouldn't have had a chance to make that daring escape with which you threw yourself into the thick of the forest before.

If you had any hopeful foolishness left in you, you'd think the game had given up on its cruel pursuit of fun and finally presented you with a generous gift. But you know that this goddamn purgatory feeds on the sweet nectar of suffering and will do everything to squeeze every last drop of luscious misery out of your flesh and bones. And as it flashes before your mind's eye, how the red and purple stains of the damaged blood vessels drawn into the tissues disappeared from your leg following the cool caress of the beads, you become more and more certain that it was all just a morbid coincidence. Maybe even this nightmare-like torture chamber can make a mistake, because you doubt that it offered you this miracle voluntarily. Like when a bug appears in a video game, causing the world embedded in pixels to slip for a moment, and through the distorted chaos, the system reveals secrets that you should have never seen. And maybe it did. Maybe this diabolical place is finally starting to crumble under the weight of its own evil.

But you know that now is not the time to ponder how the well-known hell will turn into a completely new kind of horror, because you only need to take a look at the map resting in your hand to know what your task is. On the yellowed page, the unknown gray building stands out with such definite outlines, as if someone had painted it there with liquid metal, and for a minute the sharp lines of the rough sketch seem to dance in front of your tired eyes. While trekking through the wild vegetation, you had time to decide where your path should lead you next, and although the knife-like anxiety in the depths of your stomach relentlessly pumps the warning acid of uneasiness into your limbs, you're aware that this new location didn’t appear without purpose. There's something there that makes this place important enough to have a prominent spot on the map, and that's enough reason for you to risk another disastrous adventure. After all, you have nothing to lose, right? A new killer, a new death, another damn mark on your skin, but a chance to find an exit. And at this point, you're ready to seize anything to get out of here.

It's almost cartoonishly comical, the way a small blood-red line on the stained page traces your journey so far, like a path sketched up with a crayon in the middle of the splotch-like woods, and this small detail only makes you even more certain that you're stuck in a grotesque game. The system keeps track of your progress, and although the knowledge that you cannot hide from the invisible gaze only increases the uncomfortable tightness in your chest, for once this atrocity has at least some benefits. For the dull edge of the gray building emerges with an uncanny glow from behind the dense curtain of foliage and branches, like a glimmering fragment of the imagination that may fade away at any moment. Even though the game follows your every move, it helped you to reach this point, and you're terribly grateful for it.

You keep your eyes fixed on the slowly approaching house with an unbroken focus as you carefully thread through the thicket of dry bushes, and it’s only due to random luck that you catch on your periphery those tiny, uncertain little blobs that rest serenely on one of the nearby trees. And when your brain finally registers the stimuli, you suddenly halt in your march, as if an unknown force had severed the nerve fibers wiring your muscles. There is something sickeningly familiar in the way the small human-like figures sway between the withered branchlets, and it dawns on you a few seconds later why your mind thought it was important to stop here. Because you saw the same dolls made of sticks at the shrine, where the map was waiting for you, and no matter how much this is a sure sign that you're moving in the right direction, you're unable to banish the instinctive sinister feeling stirring in your brain cells. At first, you thought that maybe they had erected that hideous monument in honor of the tentacled creature that lived in the lake, but now you know that they wanted to pay homage to something completely different. And whatever that unknown entity is, it doesn't bode well for you if teeth pulled from jaws, brown with blood, and clumps of hair lead to its grace.

But a completely new kind of confusion comes over you when you shift your attention from the sprawling tangle of dead twigs and finally spot the boot lying on the ground, almost hidden under the dry crown of curled leaves surrounding it. Perhaps you could chalk it up to a morbid coincidence, a background element without meaning, which fades into oblivion eventually, but the game has engraved in your mind with blood and pain that nothing here is just an insignificant detail. And as you step closer and examine the forgotten footwear, you discover those tiny, white shards on the faded leather covered in muddy dirt, which shine under the filtering moonlight like glitter. However, there is something quite unsettlingly velvety in the way the crushed pieces stand out from the grimy material, and as your vision finally sharpens enough to recognize the tiny red specks between the zig-zagged edges, you know what sits so innocently on the surface of the boot. Small pieces of grounded bones, which cover the abandoned object as if someone sprinkled it with granulated sugar. And this makes your stomach turn with such an elemental force that you stagger back from the horrible surprise, as if the very sight of it could breathe death into your cells. Because however that bone dust ended up on that unfortunate shoe, you don't want to suffer the same fate as its owner.

However, you’re jolted out of your stupor by an unexpected crack, which deafeningly pierces into the motionless quite between the tree trunks, and you crumple the map deep into your pocket with reflexive panic and turn in the direction of the noise, as if someone was pulling you on a string. And a completely impossible relief ripples through you, loosening the tennis ball size knot your stomach has shrunk into, as you find yourself face to face with an old woman, who freezes with her wicker basket full of chopped-up wood clutched to her chest, her face pale with a look of horrified shock like yours. You see the fright reflected in her eyes, as she looks you over slowly, and the thought arises in you that maybe you yourself might not present a more inviting sight than the boots. Because although the mementos of your wounds, colored with bruises, have disappeared, your dirty, wet clothes clung to your battered, paralyzed body, and at this moment you're quite sure that with your eyes widened with fear, you must remind her of a trapped wild animal.

A torturous, tense moment of stillness passes, and when you see the frail, worn-out old figure relax, anxiety releases its grip on your insides as well, and you let out the breath that has been trapped in the supple prison of your lungs with painful tension until now.

"Oh my… are you all right, sweetheart?" Comes the sincere question in a strangely accented voice, and the tenderness in her words hits you completely unprepared. And although an intimate, motherly concern moves between her features, as her thinning eyebrows meet under her gray hair with worry, you still can't suppress the flicker of doubt that whispers from the back of your skull to be careful. You don't dare to trust anything anymore, and a stranger rarely means good in this damn world. Yet, your tortured soul yearns for the tiniest spark of humanity with such pitiful force, that you involuntary let your spine loosen the painful stiffness that resides in it.

"I'm lost." You answer, carefully rolling the syllables on your tongue, savoring the caution that instinctively settles in your mouth and restrains your sociability. Although the woman seems defenseless, you already know how unnoticed a beast can hide behind the mask of sweet kindness. At best, she’s an insignificant NPC, an additional character who merely fills the void, who, like Pam and Rebecca, is condemned to eternal death, and waits unsuspectingly for the killer to appear to strip her of her aged flesh. And you want to hope that she's just a helpless puppet of the storyline and not another threat, because you want more than anything to have someone else suffer instead of you finally. Because you lost the compassion that would be appalled at this thought long ago.

"How about you come to my house?" She makes the timid offer, and as her gaze catches the thick layer of mud embedded in your T-shirt, you can see how her mouth curls into a line full of doubts. As if she would understand without asking any questions, that you've been through an endless hell that has soaked itself into your pores through the soft cotton, and can't be expressed with words. "I'll find you something warm to put on." She adds, and you feel the awareness with which she tries to dispel the restless rigidity radiating from her to not frighten you. As if she were talking to a trapped fawn, which would be able to take flight at the slightest thoughtless move, even if its shackles would flay its legs, trapped between the razor-sharp metal, alive in the process. And it makes you realize how pitiful it is, that the events of the never-ending night transformed you into a raw, pulsating nerve so easily. But you suspect that this is what has kept you alive until now.

Although the suspicion of the stranger has already settled into the depths of your consciousness, you still make yourself nod, because even if you don't know the woman and have no idea what might be hiding behind the defenseless exterior, you're aware that you're serving yourself as easy prey for the monsters in the forest. And you know it's only a matter of time before they catch a scent and appear breathing down on your neck.

"Alright... Come on, I don't live far from here!" She motions towards the building resting in the distance with her head, and you immediately know where her home could be. And if you had doubts, now you're quite sure, you've become involved in a new storyline, no matter how accidental this unexpected meeting seems. The game can always surprise you with new horrors, but as merciless as this world is, it's also as predictable. Because it's addicted to its habits, and you have learned to interpret its hidden signs. There are no coincidences, only tools that lead to your doom. And if you were already on your way to another trouble, then you let yourself be lead into its open mouth.

She hesitates for a few seconds, waiting to see if you change your mind and retreat into the desolate depths of the forest, but when you continue to stare at her like statue frozen in place, she turns around with the ghost of a small smile on her face, and beckoning you with her knobby fingers, she aks you to follow her. And you join her a moment later, keeping that respectful distance that speaks more to the mistrust swirling in your belly than to the thoughtfulness you feel for her. Perhaps an onlooker would think that you're just a scared little girl tagging along with her in the maze of tree trunks, but you feel the energy slithering through your legs, ready to run off at the very first odd move. You may be a slow learner, but you could repeat this lesson even after waking up from a dream. Don't let yourself be fooled. Because you've outlined the ideal possibility, but even the whirlwind of your imagination cannot authentically paint the worst-case scenario for you.

After a few meters spent in wordless peace, as the last remnants of the wild vegetation, frozen from the autumn cold, disappears, the concrete building, for which you decided to drag yourself through the goddamn forest, emerges almost abnormally in the small clearing. It stands out from the dark foliage as strikingly as an old silver ring forgotten in a black velvet box, and there is something quite unsettling about the way the tiny windows stare down at you from the monotonous walls. Like hungry mouths, waiting for a victim that they can grind up with their glimmering glass teeth. And you notice, what grotesque similes your brain is making, but you're unable to suppress the voice in your head that tells you, that there is no one in this artificial world who would call this their home with peace of mind. Because the structure looks more like a slaughterhouse with its inhospitable, barren frame, on which the holes from the crumbling plaster and the dry carpet of faded lichens bordering them gape like scars left behind by smallpox. The building may have been standing here since the game's universe was created, and in light of this, it’s even more baffling to you why it appeared only now.

But you can't ponder on that now, because you reach the house, and the old woman hurries to the shabby entrance with an agility that belies her age, pushing in the thick wooden panel covered with flaking red paint with a light movement, and opens the door of her home to you with the same helpfulness with which she led you here until now. Even though she doesn't say a word, you still understand the gentle plea with which she invites you in, because you see the worried light dancing in her eyes, with which she examines the uncertainty glued onto your features. And you want to believe in this softness more than anything, but what helps your leaden legs move the most is the knowledge that you know you can't turn back. Because Johnny and Simon are out there looking for you, and even if you were to avoid them, you'd already delved into a new thread of events. And you fear how the game would punish you if you were to deny its generous gift. Therefore, gathering all your remaining composure, you force the faint curve of a weak smile into the corner of your mouth and head towards the interior of the house, fighting the instinctive feeling that makes it seem like you're walking straight through the entrance to the scene of your execution.

As you cross the threshold made of rickety boards, the characteristic smell of old houses snakes into your nose, the fusty stench of moisture that has soaked into the walls over the decades and the stale essence of powdery, old perfumes, which awakens nostalgia in you with an almost visceral force. And there is something extremely homely about the old chest of drawers, forgotten in the small hall, and about the lace tablecloth spread on the top of it, chewed by time, on which a bouquet of worn plastic flowers sits in a glass vase, like the last witnesses of a couple of long gone, sentimental memories. The old nick-nacks accumulated over the years rests in neat order, and even on the walls, the frames, covered with pale gold, hang with measured precision, with black and white photos of unknown people in them, testifying that perhaps, according to the story, the woman might not have lived here alone once. They looking into the camera with blank expressions on their grim faces, and you swear that they're staring into your soul with their dull, dot-like eyes.

And when the woman rushes past you towards the inside of the house, disrupts the thin layer of dust that settles on the worn surface of the furniture, and as the musty smell traveling with the tiny particles settles into your nose, it occurs to you that, despite the homely atmosphere, it's as if no more than a few stray ghosts would actually live here. And your subconscious warns you about this small intuition, which makes you sneak after your host with careful cat-like steps, like a curious child who knows she's straying into an area that adults have told her a thousand times not to venture near to.

The lamp hanging from the ceiling is the only source of light as you enter the kitchen after the the old woman, and the light bulb casts filmy, yellow rays from under the milk-like porcelain onto the battered furnishings of the little room. She’s already busying herself, and shoves chopped pieces of wood into the dilapidated stove, scaly with peeling white paint, glancing over her shoulder as she hears the shuffling of your shoes on the worn linoleum.

"Sit down, I'll make you some tea to warm you up!" She speaks up, and by now all uncertainty has disappeared from her voice, giving the impression that it was not a torn stranger, but an old friend who appeared in front of her humble abode in the middle of the night. And, as she digs out an ancient teapot from one of the cupboards, and the faucet turns on with a loud creak, as she steps to the sink and fills it with water, you wonder what will come next. Now you can't rely on your routine, with which you were able to tell exactly which breath followed the other in the cabin, and this creates an uncomfortable, gaping hole in your insides. And that sends a robotic rigidity into your limbs as you walk over to the table in the middle of the kitchen and settle down in one of the thick oak armchairs, because fear begins to twist in the bottomless pit that anxiety has opened in you, as your eyes scan the room for danger. You should feel bad that you're so persistently looking for a trap in the woman's hospitality, but you have experienced firsthand how big a mistake it is when you let yourself to be overconfident.

"A few minutes and it's done." She comments on her haste, and turning towards you, she leans against the shabby kitchen counter, finding you with her searching gaze again. Now that you have entered the scene of another dangerous mission, your consciousness automatically accepts the stimuli that your brain may have tried to push away until now. And you see the sparks of interest swimming through the pools of her eyes, but despite the soft expression still sitting on the worn face, the stress is too strong for you to let your guard down. You'd like to think that only your paranoia brings out this visceral suspicion, but you're smarter than that. "How did you get lost?" She formulates the completely legitimate question, and your ear once again discovers the accent that, despite the light tone, gives her words harshness. As if tiny little pebbles would be gurgling in her mouth, making every consonant flow out a little harder from her paper-thin lips. Maybe Russian?

"We just went for a walk with my friends. I lost them." You finally break your silence with a half-truth, which is just honest enough so that your tone is not colored by the sound of lies. You have no reason to tell her what happened during the endless torture of the past hours, and you have a gut feeling that it wouldn't help you if you mentioned to her what kind of monsters this demonic place has entwined your fate with.

And when the telltale shadows of doubt creep across the old face, you become quite sure that you have made the right decision. You can tell from the little quiver that makes the corner of her mouth twitch that she doesn't believe you, but there's just enough goodwill in her not to try to inquire further. You see how suddenly her throat jumps as she swallows the demanding questions, and you're quite sure that she knows exactly what happened to you. She must have resided in the middle of the forest long enough to know its every evil nook and cranny, and you doubt that her innocent facade is what has kept her alive. Whatever the purpose of this storyline, it is not a coincidence that she lives here in the middle of nowhere, and there is even less chance that it was thanks to some harmless tricks that helped her home to stay so undisturbed. This also raises a series of dangerous assumptions in you, and you can almost feel how the buzzing of suspicion in your head sharpens as a result.

A sudden whistle interrupts the thread of your thoughts sinking into ever darker pits, and the woman, breaking your silent examination, settles back into her caring role, turning to the teapot angrily steaming on the stove amid soft curses. And you take advantage of this to explore the hidden corners of the room, searching for small signs that can reveal what you're dealing with. It’s quite obvious that another important clue will be hidden here, and you have to do everything you can to find it, because you don't know how much time you have until the two men or another killer find you, one who has been lying dormant waiting for the opportunity to play with you until now.

And now that you take a closer look at the room, you discover more and more little details you missed when you wandered in here. You can see the touch of old hands in the order that resides in the small hole of the kitchen, but you can spot the silky blanket of spider webs that weave the plates decorated with flowers on the shelves, as if no one has used them for decades. There are rich bouquets of dried plants hung on nails on the wall, but below them, you can clearly make out the yellowed newspaper articles written in a language unknown to you, on which the same black and white people you saw in the hall look back at you. And when you squint and try to observe the figure emerging from under the withered flowers of one of the herbs, you see how a little boy, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, is cut through by the unknown mark, which almost decapitates him with the edges engraved with graphite. At first, the drawing may seem like a simple scribble, but you recognize the needle-sharp points of a star in it, as if someone had carved a grotesque crosshair there…

The knocking of the mug's porcelain jolts you out of your investigation, and you wince with the surprise of a small child caught in mischief, turning your gaze back to the woman, who takes her seat across from you with a much tighter smile than before. And the tenderness on her face turns into something completely cold, as if only habit would keep the friendly curl in the corners of her mouth in place, and the softness that used to be able to inspire sympathy in your soul has disappeared from them. Now her expression transforms into sharp lines, which are deepened into gloomy furrows by the yellow light filtering down from the lamp, as if would the woman transform into someone completely different in an instant. Someone you shouldn't be around.

"Drink up. It will help." She pushes the cup towards you, and you know it's not just your ears when you feel the impatient tone in her voice, from which the offer sounds more like an instruction than a well-meaning nagging. And you don't react for a tense moment, and despite the anxiety churning in your stomach, you try to keep your cool, because now you recognize the fleeting shadow that hides under the gentle warmth. Like a hawk waiting to strike, she follows your movements as you wrap your fingers around the handle of the mug, but she can no longer deceive you, because you've seen the same expression before. Although it's not Johnny's handsome face and the sparks of his sky-blue eyes that want to divert the suspicion that is scratching your insides, the disguise of an old woman feigning cordial concern would just as effectively put anyone's doubts to sleep. But she can put on any mask, you're already able to distinguish the vileness under the sickly sweet surface. And this woman wants to hurt you, you're sure of that.

Still, you pull the steaming beverage in front of you with almost automatic movements, trying with every cell not to let her figure out that you suspect something. You need her to reveal herself, because that's how you can get her to lead you to the clues that can get you out of here. There is something hidden in this damned house, and you feel it in your bones that it’s important to find out what it is. All your fake innocence seeps into the way you touch your mouth to the porcelain, and the luscious scent of herbs and fruits snakes into your nose. And although you don't feel the sting of poison in the steamy clouds rising from the tea, it fills you with a bad foreboding when the woman leans forward with artificial benevolence frozen on her face, watching with almost intrusive interest how you start sipping the hot liquid. And you feel more and more tense with each passing second, like an ant stuck under a magnifying glass, which has just begun to feel how the rays of the sun breaking through the lens burn its legs into charcoal stubs. And you see the dissatisfaction when you hesitantly lower the cup.

"Drink it all. You need it." She encourages you, almost cooing, and her accent is more reminiscent of an impatient mother who tries to dictate medicine to her protesting child with a barely controlled temper. Gentle, but just as much as boiling water forgotten under the lid. And you feel how the little hairs rise on the nape of your neck, as her glassy eyes fixate on you with unblinking persistence.

Uncertain silence settles in the tiny kitchen, which makes the saliva in your mouth thicken into molasses as you return the woman's stare. Under the flickering light of the old bulb, everything seems to change, and out of the corner of your eye, it looks as if the flowers painted on the wall would turn into wax, dripping off the plaster dirty from grease. But you’re unable to turn your gaze away from her, as she studies you with the immobility of a predator, and you have to forcefully suppress the trembling that awakes in your hands as you raise the mug to your lips and take another small sip. And the excited light that passes over her features does’t escape your attention for a minute, as she follows the almost painfully sweet liquid traveling down your throat. And now you're sure that no matter how harmless this elderly woman seems, evil is hidden under her frail frame. Because the pearls hidden in your pockets come to life with an almost warning glow, as the strange, bitter aftertaste sits on your taste buds, which the sugar has been able to suppress until now.

Under the pulsation of the little red spheres, the light buzz, that the brew wants to envelop your brain in, has no chance of spreading, but you know you have to pretend that she was successful, whatever she smuggled into your drink. Because there's a reason why she's trying to knock you out, and maybe if you make her believe that you let her trick you like an unsuspecting fool, then she'll reveal what she's up to. That's why you let the fatigue throbbing in your limbs creep onto the fibers of your muscles, numb with lactic acid, and you let the exhausted yawn loose that, now that you're finally resting, falls through your mouth sincerely. And you hear that satisfied little hum with which the woman finally leans back, when she assesses the unexpected force of the sleepiness washing over you.

"Perhaps it would be best if you stayed here for the night." She offers, and there is nothing to unsure about the way she presents her proposal to you. A selflessly offered opportunity, behind which lies a statement to which no opposition is expected. And it’s exactly this determination that dispels the previous softness, and fills her old joints with an almost youthful energy, when she springs up and starts towards the kitchen door, giving you one last, almost painfully fond look. "You just stay here and rest." She adds, and you feel nauseous from the kindness under which the poison of cruelty ripples, and which creeps into your ear canals with snide unsolicitedness.

When, after an uncertain nod, you lay your head down on the table with languid weakness, she hurries away towards the maze of the corridor giggling, with such immense glee, as if an unexpected present had fallen into her lap. And you, closing your eyes, order every part of your body to remain motionless in anticipation, slowing your breathing to a trembling evenness, listening through your own shivering for the woman's footsteps. You have to remain unnoticed because you're sure that if she realizes that her tea has failed to relax you enough, she'll come up with something much more painful to get the desired effect. You're not sure what her goal is, but you don't have time to create unnecessary excitement for yourself.

For minutes, only the soft puffs of the air flowing through your nose fill the room shrouded in an almost disturbing quietness, but despite your pulse pounding in your ears with an almost deafening noise, you wait until all the sounds die down between the old walls. And when you decide that you have wasted enough time, you carefully push yourself away from the worn furniture and stand up with your eyes fixed on the shadows beyond the door, watching for an unexpected visitor with every move you make. But, when nothing happens, and only the low buzzing of the light bulb and the hooting of the owls filtering in from outside travel through the empty house, then you sneak towards the hallway.

As you step out onto the corridor, it takes a few uncertain seconds for your eyes to get used to the dense darkness, and when you're finally able to make out the pitch-black outlines of the furniture, you set off into the unknown. The age-old parquet floor creaks under your shoes, reminiscent of the soft squealing of a mouse, and with each step you take, the presentiment tightens its grip on your insides. Because you have no idea where the old woman could have gone, and the fact that she can appear from behind any of the doors lined up next to each other is just enough to awaken the needle-like prickling of stress in your muscles. As if a thousand tiny ants would be crawling under your skin, and clenching your teeth, you fight the tempting compulsion to escape. You know you're wading into the swampy abyss of certain danger, but you also know you have no other choice. And not finding a clue is not an option. You have to move on or you'll be stuck here forever.

You wouldn't be able to tell how deep you ventured into the uninhabited house, but everything turns into an unsettling uniformity as a dull entrance follows another insignificant door, and the pictures hanging on the walls serve as your only companions in your wanderings.The lifeless eyes following you send shivers down your spine involuntarily, because although they're nothing more than the imprints of strangers lingering in the past, yet there is something bleak in the faces of the people on them. But when you discover something familiar, you stop dead in your tracks to take a closer look at the many of photos hidden in the frames, and you don't have to think long to recognize the boy from the kitchen. Although he may be much older here, and the childish roundness of his face has already been banished by the hormones of adolescence, but the light eyes stare at you with the same stern expressionlessness as they did from the shadows of the herbs. There is something hard in them, something angry, lurking beneath the frozen stillness, waiting to strike. And the longer you stare, the more the unpleasant feeling intensifies in you, which plants the impossible idea in your mind that the next moment he will come to life and, reaching through the scratched glass, wraps his pale, thin fingers around your neck.

A thunder-like bang tears into the empty quiet of the building, and you, shaking in terror, break out of your paranoia-woven imagination to spin around and start searching for the noise with the alarm of a frightened animal. And when the sounds don't die down, but are enriched by the clanking of a chain and the murmur of a muffled conversation, then you come upon the worn door, ajar, on the tattered surface of which a star-like scribble greets you, roughly sketched up with blood-red paint, the same that someone drew on the boy in the newspaper article. And you become aware with an uncomfortable certainty that the game has finally revealed your next destination to you, no matter how much every cell of yours protests against venturing towards the source of the increasingly loud clamor.

Every single nerve of yours tenses as one, as you move closer, keeping your eyes fixed on the cracked varnish clinging to the wooden surface, considering each step before the next, and the closer you stray, the sharper the violently snapping words become, and even though you don't understand them, you can feel the simmering ire in them. You open the door with your trembling fingers wrapped around the doorknob, and the saliva crawls down your dry throat almost like shards of glass, when you try to dispel the lump that has grown there. But nothing welcomes you, only a set of stairs covered in faint light, which leads you down into the uncertain darkness, and you feel the force of fear twisting your guts, as you muster up your courage and set off to the rickety steps.

The lower you go, the wider the hidden world of the basement opens up in front of you, and the more painful the horrible smell, mixture of the sweet stench of rot and the sting of sweat, pierces your nose. With each breath, the stagnant, moldy air penetrates deeper into your lungs, and if your brain weren't occupied by terror, you would wonder what kind of disease you're filling your chest with so voluntarily. Although to your own ears, every noise your shoes mak on the old stairs is ear-splitting, you know, even through the uncontrollably roaring fear inside you, that the sounds of your arrival will be drowned out by the wild discussion unfolding on the other side of the wall bordering the stairs. You recognize the woman's voice in the furious foreign expressions, but that's not what makes you halt hesitantly on the last step. It's that unexpected, raspy male baritone that stops the momentum of your curiosity from taking you any further, because even though you can't see the face associated with it, you feel the deadly threat traveling in the growl-like rumble.

"ублюдок!" The woman erupts, and even you cringe instinctively from the caustic rage that sits in her tone. "You ungrateful wretch!" She spits in a way that you finally can understand, and you hear the crunch of the dirt and dust sliding under her shoes as she take a step forward, as if she were moving closer to someone, but further away from your impromptu hiding place. "I should have let them take you!" The end of the heated cursing snaps, and with this the stormy exchange of words turns into painful silence, as if the shadows hiding on the dirty floor had absorbed not only the rays of the faintly flickering light, but also the sounds. And from this, even you know that something came out of the woman's mouth that shouldn't have.

The basement falls into an icy stillness, and the tiny hairs on your skin rise as you lean against the wall and listen, wondering if you made a mistake by coming down here. However, as your frightened eyes wander around the dimly lit room, you discover something in one corner that catches your eye with its golden glow. And you lean forward like someone who has been mesmerized, trying to decipher through the dying light of the old bulb hanging on the ceiling, what might be hiding in one of the shelves under the piled-up, dusty mountain of junk. And the relieved joy that washes over you when you notice the lost key that leads to Johnny's attic, is almost ridiculous, and for a fleeting moment, you're sure that it's just your eyes playing games with you. But the tiny little object winks back at you with an unmoving serenity a few long seconds later, and you already know what your task is.

"Oh, my little boy... don't be angry! Mommy loves you, you know that, right?" You hear the apologetic shush, and you're filled with an ominous feeling as you lean forward from behind the wall, clinging to the crumbling bricks, to see how safe it is to get the key. And your eyebrows knot together in confusion when you're greeted by nothing more than the old woman, who, stepping towards one of the dark corners, spreads her arms as if waiting for someone to fall into her arms. Although at first, you're sure that age and loneliness have warped her mind so much that she imagines one of her loved ones in the shadows, but as your gaze falls on the mattress, brown with dirt, lying by the wall, and the plates soiled from the rotting leftover food, you dismiss your naive assumption. Someone is here, and based on the dried, yellowish stains on the torn bedsheet, they weren't forced to retreat here now. But you don't care about that. Whoever is imprisoned here, you're not here to help them.

"I found a new friend for you... She is much prettier than the previous ones! You want to see her, don't you? If you're a good boy, I'll bring her down for you... You do as mommy says, yes?" The woman continues, mumbling the kind words with an almost atoning tenderness, and it becomes painfully clear that whatever lives down here, this old bitch tried to drug you because of it. And when you remember the boot sprinkled with bone dust found in the forest, you banish the idea of thinking about what could have happened to those who were dragged down here before you. You have more important things to do than brood over the deaths of imaginary strangers… as cruel as that may sound.

But just as you finally take the first brave step and leave your hideout with careful stealth, the chain rattle comes to life again, and you freeze, forgetting about the key, when a dull crack silences the old hag. Like when a ripe, juicy melon cracks and splits into two when a knife sinks into it, but deep down you know that it's not fruit juice you hear splashing on the floor in fat drops. And you're unable to resist the pull of fear, which draws you in the direction of the noise against your will, but as soon as you see the woman slowly staggering back from the dark corner, you immediately regret giving in to the impulse. Because when your eyes find the handle of the large knife protruding from her head, you clamp your hands to your mouth, trying to force back the horrified scream that rises in your throat.

The woman clumsily stumbles backward, and you see the uncertain surprise in the trembling hands with which she reaches for her hair, slowly covered into a crimson veil from the blood, touching the wooden handle almost in disbelief. And there is something quite pitiful in the way she turns around in confusion, amidst frightened whimpers, brushing away the strands stuck to her eyes by the red streams running down her forehead. And you, swallowing the bitter taste on your tongue, take a terrified step back, as you suddenly see how impossibly tight the skin clings to the edges of the bones emerging from the sunken face, as if a parasite were about to break through a thin membrane. The pale tissues look unsettlingly papery, and you have a lingering fear that the dull, matte white of her jaw might penetrate them at any moment, as the woman's mouth opens in a silent scream. Unfocused eyes find you, and you're horrified to realize that maybe she wants to ask for help when she wobbles towards you with shaky legs, but you're frozen in terror, as you stare at her motionless, like a deer stuck in the headlights of a car. And you watch in shock, when after what seems like eternity, she, with a gurgling rattle, finally sprawls out on the dusty ground, like a sack full of rotten potatoes.

"You're finally here." You hear the hoarse voice from before, and as you look for its owner in terror, you see how a strong figure emerges from the darkness of the shadows, dragging the heavy shackle of the chain hanging from his thick neck behind him with a metallic clang. But what worries you even more than the muscles hidden under the torn clothes, is the pair of impossibly blue eyes that emerge from under the mask covering the unknown man's face, which look at you with cheerful interest, as if he had found a small bird with a broken wing. And from the cruelty glimmering in them, it immediately becomes painfully clear that he is the kind of person who would rip your wings out by the stem to free you from suffering. "I was waiting for you, Bunny."

(ублюдок (ublyudok) - bastard).

81 notes · View notes

thetxtdevil · 6 months ago

Note

TXT as greek gods seducing the mortal reader, pleeeeeease 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

That's it, that's the request (love your writing 💕)

This is such a lovely request, I just read a TXT Demigod by @beomiracles its so cute >_<

--suggestive--

Yeonjun - Zeus

What this god wants, he gets, so Yeonjun is not nonchalant with seducing you. Appearing in your room at night during a thunder storm after you had a stressful day. You worked in the vegetable garden and it seems like Demeter was not working with you as all your vegetation turned into mold. You were scolded at so much for your work it left you crying. The once blue skies rolled into dark grey showing the people that the gods were angered. Yeonjun wanted to make up for your bad day calming you and leaving soft kisses of reassurance. Eventually to open up to the god giving all of you for him to worship.

Soobin - Poseidon

The beach is your happy place, a place of soothing sounds and salty scents. The waves never settled when you walked by, the ocean never changed from is captivating blue, this had you coming back for more. One day you walk to the shore to be surprised to see the foam concave into a trail of the most beautiful sea shells leading you to the depths of water. The seashell trail led you to a grove, flat rock that was shaped like a lounging chair decorated with fresh seaweed. Looking up you see you're in a bubble of sea life, you admired the fish swimming above until you got a glimpse of a tall handsome man, he walks out of the water and into your air bubble. Soobin lifts your chin to look at his ocean eyes, "There’s more than the ocean to love, my dear."

Beomgyu - Dionysus

A little too much wine never hurt anyone, right? You sat there along the stone table amongst your fellow scholars having a party when a extremely beautiful man you've never seen before sits next to you. "Fresh grapes from my garden" the man says lifting a bottle to be acknowledged. You watch as He pours you a glass of wine, looking back into his warm brown eyes you see a suspicious glint in them. "You're not poisoning me are you?" Beomgyu chuckles, "I'd never sacrifice a gorgeous women like you." You smile and take the cup, the crisp complexity taste of the liquid instantly consumes you. One after another you turn drunk making you get your courage up, just as Beomgyu wanted. Too drunk to care of who’s watching you sit on the man's lap as he gladly starts kissing you.

Taehyun - Hades

Picking out flowers was your hobby, you made the most ratifying arrangements. However you found yourself giving these arrangements to the ones who’s passed. Little did you know you were sending them to Taehyun the god of the underworld. You've been running into many wilted florals but they all surround surrounding the most exotic petals. You picked them out to reveal the most divine bouquets of flowers you've ever made. Walking towards the graveyard a dark figure stops you, this figure made you shiver, fear built up in your stomach. "Those flowers are for you" Taehyun said "Oh, well thank you, they're beautiful" "Not as beautiful as you" he gets closer to you taking a flower putting it into your hair before kissing you.

Huening Kai - Hermes

Kai the messenger god always admired you going horse back riding. Your hair drifted with the wind, you knew how to steer the horse, you were magnificent to him. One lucky day of perfect weather you speed through the grassy field you come upon a man steady on his own horse. You couldn't help but slow the horse to greet the man. Looking at his full pouches stashed you ask "Do you have anything to sell." "More like a trade" Kai smirks lifting up a precious set of gold jewelry making you sit in awe. You leap off the horse walking up to the man to get a better look, "I have nothing to trade." His wrinkled smile made you weak, this man was so alluring. "Sure you do" you quirk an eyebrow at him, "in return you give me all of you."

P.s. my grammar is horrid especially in this fic and you’re going to deal with it :/

A nuisance,

TxT's Devil

taglist: @inkigayocamman, @naoristerling

#txt devil #txt imagines #txt x reader #txt x you #txt x y/n #txt devil asks #txt thoughts #yeonjun imagines #soobin imagines #beomgyu imagines #taehyun imagines #hueningkai imagines #yeonjun x reader #soobin x reader #beomgyu x reader #taehyun x reader #huening kai x reader #hyuka x reader

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noceurstars · 1 year ago

Text

”Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.”

Rupert Giles x Witch! Younger! Reader

You and the Scoobies try to have a normal Thanksgiving. Try, anyway.

[ w — age gap (20+ years), older man/younger woman, injured! reader, assumed unrequited love, short story, tv show-compliant only, slight canon divergence ]

— divider cred: @/inklore

Living above the Hellmouth meant that nothing would ever be normal. No holidays, no birthdays would ever be like the average person’s.

Thanksgiving and Christmas was the same. Monsters and creatures of the dark never took days off, not with their insatiable need to be evil.

Buffy sighed as she staked what was probably the 20th vampire of the night. Thanksgiving was a time to sit down with friends and family, having a lovely, large dinner and being thankful for the people in your life and the things you had.

But not for the Scoobies.

You huffed, rolling your sore shoulder. A vampire had taken a good chunk out of of your neck, but the second he tasted your blood, he instantly revolted, and you took a stake to his heart.

“You good?” Buffy asks, eyeballing your shoulder.

“Yeah.” But you hiss a little as pain flares through it. “It’s just gonna take a minute to heal. I’ll put some bandaids on it when we get back.”

Buffy cheerily and knowingly chips in a, “I’m sure Giles would disapprove.” That prompts you to give her a deadpan look.

“You know that he doesn’t like me like that,” you reply. You shove your hands into your pockets. “It’s a one-way street. Can we talk about something else?”

She shrugs. “Sure.”

The two of you walked side by side out of the graveyard. Buffy sighs, tilting her head down.

“I really wish Christmas could be normal,” she admits. “I miss it, from when I was a kid. It’s so much different from now.”

“Not as involved with monsters, you mean?” you say, and Buffy nods in confirmation. “Yeah, me too. I feel so… apathetic about it anymore. It doesn’t feel as important, as fun as it used to be.”

“Cons of being apart of the supernatural world,” she adds.

“Truly.” You laugh. “Not to mention—” A scream rips from your throat. Cold heat washes through you and up your spine, all the way up to your skull. Your head jolts back at the pain, and the cold heat leaves as the wooden stake leaves your body, now replaced by odd, liquid warmth.

Oh, you’re bleeding. Bleeding out, perhaps.

You heard the slaps and thuds of fighting as you fall to the ground. You try to have some semblance of control as you collapse in pain, but it doesn’t work. You bump your head into a headstone and more liquid oozes down your skin.

You hear the familiar hissing sound of dust. Buffy’s won. Now you see her over you, terror and fear written all over her features.

“[Name]? [Name]? You with me?”

You gulp, attempting to focus and swallow down the pain. “Kinda,” you hiss.

“Healing magic? Can it fix this?” she inquires hurriedly.

“Probably,” you reply, becoming more and more breathless.

“I’m gonna put pressure on it, okay? The second you feel any sort of clarity, start chanting.”

You let out a loud cry of pain, more blood coming out and staining your shirt. The pain signals the adrenaline in your body. It takes you a couple seconds longer than what you hope before you start chanting in Latin.

It feels strange, your body stitching itself back together. The strange feeling of blood coming out of your body disappears. You huff, the chant ending a minute later. Buffy takes her hands off the wound and you watch her examine it.

“How’s it look?”

“Looks good, head wound is gone, too,” she says. “But we need to get you back to the Magic Box. Giles and Willow might have something they can help you brew up to get you fully healed.”

You lean up using your elbows and hands. You take Buffy’s hand and let out groan of pain as you get to your feet. You two walk out of the graveyard and head to the Magic Box. You thank God it’s dark and no one can see you and your best friend walk through the streets of Sunnydale with her holding you up.

The Magic Box comes into sight not ten minutes later. Buffy uses her key to open the door, but neither of you expect to see the floor of the Magic Box completely cleared out, with a large, decorated table filled to the brim with food and drinks.

Xander is the first to turn his head up and see you and Buffy.

“Happy Thanksgiving, you guys!” he says.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Xander,” you speak breathlessly. And that’s when he knows something is wrong. His eyes trail down to your bloodied shirt and widen drastically.

“Oh, crap.”

“Oh, crap is right.” Buffy sets you down in one of the nearest chairs. “Get the others and tell them [Name] needs a healing potion… or some sort of healing magic. The wound isn’t as bad as it looks, but she needs help crossing the finish line.”

“On it.”

Xander heads to the back to get the others, who come rushing in not a moment after he gets them.

Unfortunately for you, all you can focus on through one eye (the other squinted in pain) is Giles, and the look of worry and concern on his face.

“She’s very pale,” Giles says. His voice is clearly worried. It almost seems borderline… terrified?

“Blood loss,” you say in a shakily exhale. “Healed, yes. Blood back inside the body? Not so much.”

“Can you do anything, Giles?” Buffy asks.

“Let me see the wound and we’ll see.”

You raise your shirt, showing off the nasty scar. It’s not fully healed, maybe three-quarters. You look away, eyes meeting Buffy’s, who’s expression is borderline teasing and full of amusement. You roll yours in return.

“Nothing out of my capabilities I can’t heal,” Giles says. He looks up at you and adds, “But I do have to touch it to heal it.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine.” The second Giles places his hand on the injury though, a large wave of nausea makes you shudder and groan.

“She looks like she needs a trash can,” Xander pipes.

“I’ll get one,” Anya offers, disappearing behind the counter momentarily to grab one. She places it next to you and you thank her.

Giles’ warm hand leaves your lower torso. The wound is completely healed, although you still feel faint from the blood loss. He looks at you again, scanning over your sick expression.

“I’ll be fine in a bit,” you tell, a smile appearing on your face. “I think some food in my stomach would do me some good. Thank you, Giles.”

“You are most welcome,” he replies, standing. “And I think you are absolutely correct. Shall we eat?”

Buffy nods and speaks for everyone’s hungry stomachs. “We shall.”

Dawn sits between you and Buffy. Xander, Anya, and Dawn are on the other side of the table. At the head of the table, between Xander and Buffy, is Giles. Just like a father should be, you think, humored.

“So… What happened? How’d you get such a wound?” Willow asks.

You and Buffy answer in unison: “Vampires.”

“Thought we were done and one caught us by surprise with one of the stakes,” Buffy explains. “[Name] used her magic, but she couldn’t heal it all the way.”

“Glad you both made it back,” Xander said happily. “This Thanksgiving dinner we put together would’ve been a total bust.”

Everyone laughs in agreement and digs into the food. Unknowingly to you, Giles can barely keep his eyes off of you, only looking away to take a bite of food off of his plate. Though he does try to it make it obvious.

Indeed, he’s glad you made it back. He’s glad he’s able to heal your injuries. Life would certainly be a lot more dull without you around.

But as Anya hands you the gravy, you catch Giles staring at you out of your peripheral vision. There’s a look on his face, one you know well, because it’s the same one Spike gives Buffy when she’s not looking.

You smile and raise your glass in a toast. “Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.”

Everyone raises their glass cheerily, downing a swig.

You thank this Thanksgiving for giving you hope. Even if it doesn’t last.

#giles x reader #giles x witch! reader #rupert giles x reader #giles btvs #rupert giles #giles fluff #giles oneshot #btvs #buffy the vampire slayer #buffyverse #btvs fluff

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the-froschamethyst4 · 2 months ago

Text

A Cold Beating Heart

𖤐Pairing: Gaz x Zombie! F! Reader

𖤐Pronouns: She/Her

𖤐Warnings: fluff, language, smoking, dead coming to life, L bombs, kissing, mute! innocent! reader, age gap (34-44), pink = Y/n's writing,

𖤐Summary: Gaz did something stupid, messing around with a so-called 'spell book' going to a graveyard and going to the first grave he sees and practice some so-called spells on this abandoned grave.

————

Gaz sat at the bar with his friends, they all laughed and joked, Gaz circled the rim of his glass as Price elbowed him.

"Smile, Gaz. You have some beautiful options," Price says, talking about the women in the bar close to Kyle's age.

"Nah, not tonight, I'm not interested in anyone right now." Gaz has been feeling down lately, Price doesn't know why, they thought about bring Gaz to a bar to cheer him up, but guess not.

Gaz looks over his shoulder at some girl, they were laughing with each other and all the girls just seemed to out for drinking and their friends, no funny business tonight.

"I think I'm going to head out for the night," Gaz says.

"Really?" Price says.

"Yeah, I got a busy day tomorrow," lie.

"Alright then," Price says, they exchanged goodbyes as Gaz heads out, walking down the street and lighting up a cigarette. As he walks down the street admiring some of the lights in the nighttime.

As he walks he passes a shop that was open a little late then other shops, the bright neon lit sign was the only thing one drawing his attention. On the sign the word 'open' was in bright purple lights, a cat sitting on the O and the Witch on her broom stick flying above it.

He walks in and was greeted with a small bell ringing to let the shop owner know someone has came inside. Gaz looks around at the creepy things sitting in jars of liquids, some dead things here and there and then a whole wall full of books.

Spell books.

Kyle scoffs at the books reading the titles.

"A Witches guide to know all? Test your potion skills? Love Charms and Spells...The Book of the Undead?" He says, looking around some more.

Why was he even in here? He doesn't practice magic, he does summon things. He was in here because it was the only place open and he didn't want to go back to that bar.

"Hi, how can I help?" A girl dressed like a Witch came from the back holding a box labeled "body parts" and a black cat sitting on her shoulder.

"Hi, no just looking," he says.

"Well, if you need anything, my name is Kiki, just yell," she giggles.

Gaz keeps looking at the books, till he finds one. "The Book of summoning."

"Oh you don't want that one, it's outdated," she yanks the book from Kyle's grip. "You'd want this one," she shoves a book called.

"Summoning the all Dead? Won't I be summoning all the dead, like the title says," he says with a cocky smile.

"Not if you do it correctly. You seem...lonely? Am I right?"

"The hell is that suppose to mean?"

"I'm really good at picking up on people, and when you walked in, I felt loneliness coming off you."

"If anything, that's my buddy, Ghost, you should meet him," Gaz says, putting the book back on the shelf.

"If you really want to find someone, I suggest the dead...they're good at listening." Kiki says. "Try it," she gives him the books, she opens her hand for payment and Kyle pulls out some cash for her. "Thank you," she says with a smile.

------------------

"You seem lonely," Gaz mocks Kiki. "The hell she knows?" He mumbles. As Gaz walks he walks by a graveyard. He looks down at the book in his hands.

"Cannot believe, I'm about to do this," he says, walking into the graveyard and walks around. He reads off the names one by one, but none spoke to him.

He finds a concrete bench and sits down on it. He let's out a sigh and feels like giving up. He turns just slightly when seeing a grave...it looked abandoned.

He gets up and walks to it, there was a grave. He bends down wiping his hand over the name.

"Here Lies Y/n L/n, a daughter, born 1837-1871. 34 years old huh...you passed too soon," he says, he looks down at the statue of what he thinks must be this Y/n woman.

The statue was on her laying on her back, hands holding some flowers, and she was dressed in Victorian era clothing.

Gaz sits down in front of her grave, legs crossed and he opened the table of contents to see where he needs to go to find the summoning spell.

"Here we go." As Gaz starts reading, then the small chants with his voice the wind starts to shift, blowing harder each time he would speak, the leaves landed wherever they could, once Gaz was done and was being a bit dramatic, rising his arms up to the sky as just perfect timing thunder cracked making him yank his arms down.

"Jesus," he says. He waits patiently but nothing, he closes the book and stood up. "What a waste of 20 bucks," he closes the book and walks off mumbling curses under his breath.

As he walks Gaz felt the ground shake, he stops thinking maybe it was an Earthquake, but he turns when seeing green light poke out from the ground, he falls on his back from tripping over a small grave.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" He yells getting up and then seeing a woman before his eyes. She was dressed in Victorian style clothes, but they were ripped to shreds, her face had flesh on one side and bone on the other, her arms were bone.

"Get the hell away from me, you-you demon!"

She just stops and stares at him confused. This is what he wanted right? To summon her.

She puts her hands up and waves them at him getting his attention.

"What?" He asks, confused. She points to the book then herself. "I-I don't understand-speak goddammit," he curses.

She looked offended that he would even speak to her like that. Even men in her era even knew not to curse in front of a lady.

"Why aren't you talking?" She holds her throat indicating that her vocal cords don't work anymore. "Right," he says.

"Sign language...do...Victorian era women know sign language?"

She shakes her head no.

"Great, will do this my way then."

----------------

Getting the zombie lady home was easier said then done. Most people thought the lady was dressed for Halloween which wasn't far away, then it was the dirty looks from people who thought she was being "too over the top."

Once home Gaz was just pacing wondering what the hell did he do, how long will this last, and does he need to do something else to send her back to her grave?

"Okay so..." she sits in front of him. "You can't talk, so maybe we can try...pen and paper," he gets up and walks to his office and grabs a notebook and a working pen and he hands them to her.

"Okay so...do you know you're dead?"

"I do."

"Okay, so, how did you die? Am I allowed to ask that?"

"I died by a carriage, not really that eventful."

"That's fine, I wasn't looking for a bad accident, just to know...what happened I guess...ummm h-how do I send you back?" He asked.

"Send me back? But I just got here."

"I know, I know, but...i-it was a mistake," he says.

"Mistake? So...I am not needed?"

"No not really, it was a dumb and stupid idea to do that, and I was just seeing if it actually worked or I got scammed by some witch."

Y/n looks like she was thinking and then started to write. "You are lonely."

"How the fuck-"

"Men, I know, also don't curse in front of women," she pops the notebook over his head.

"Okay, okay, I'll try and not cursing...just don't hit me again."

"Fine."

"Do you know a way for me to send you back?" He repeats his other question.

"No, I do not, maybe ask your witch you got that book from maybe she knows, but other then that, could I have a bath? I stink." Even when dead she cared more about her hygiene.

"Yeah, I'll go draw you a bath," he leaves her alone and heads to his bathroom.

---------------

He makes sure it's the right temp and she walks in, her dress giving her away from the loud movement.

"Your bath is small."

"Well, it's just me, I don't need a big bath-what baths were you using?" She just shrugs her shoulders.

She placed her notebook on the sink and starts removing her dress.

"WOAH! WAIT TILL I AM OUT OF THE BATHROOM!" Gaz says, covering his eyes. He leaves shutting the door leaving Y/n to strip and get in the tub.

"Are you in the tub?" He asks. Expecting a 'yes' but forgets she can't speak, he cracks the door seeing her in the tub. Her legs had flesh on them her stomach and torso did too, just her arms and half of her face were all bone.

"I-I don't think I can wash your clothes...they might disintegrate in the washer." She motions for him to give her the notebook and pen.

"That's okay, surely you must have clothes that fit me?"

"I might, let me go look." He leaves once again. He quickly comes back with some clothes. "I found an old band tee, and some running shorts...they're not mine."

"You are putting me in someone else clothing? Not even your own?"

"You want MY clothing?" She nods at his comment. "Fine, I'll go look for better clothes for you, your highness." He jokes before leaving the bathroom.

"I am NOT a royal," she wrote angrily and showed Gaz.

"I know you weren't...it was a joke."

"Joke?"

"Did you guys really not tell jokes back in the Victorian era?" She wonders.

"Men made it impossible to enjoy a lot of things," she wrote.

"Still like that today, I guess-not saying I'm like that, but I like cracking jokes here and there, but most of them are corny or stupid." He says shaking his head.

"Tell me one," she wrote with a happy face.

"No, no, I shouldn't," she keeps circling 'tell me' till Gaz smiles and shakes his head. "Okay, okay, I'll tell you one...let me think...Knock knock..." he waits. "You say 'who's there'?"

"Who's there?" She wrote.

"Candice."

"Candice who?"

"Candice joke get any worse?" He smiles waiting for a reaction from her. "You didn't get it did you?" She shakes her head no. "That's fine. Let me try..." he taps his chin. "Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

"Iva."

"Iva who?"

"I've a sore hand from knocking," she cracks a smile. "See funny right?" She nods.

------------------

It was close to midnight now and Y/n had walked around Gaz's apartment, Gaz was trying to contact Kiki, but she wasn't answering the phone.

"Come on, Kiki!" He yells.

Y/n walks around going to his bookshelf, she sees the amount of books he has, she pulls one off the shelf. 'The Idea of Working', she rolls her eyes and puts it back. 'The history of Germany', she puts it back.

Then she grabs one 'Taste of the Night,' she flips to the back and reads the back. It was a romance book. She goes to the coach and makes herself comfortable, bring her knees to her chest and flipping to the first page.

As she read Gaz came into the living room seeing her read the book.

"I've never really read that book. It didn't really go with my flow, and I'm picky when it comes to my books," he says, sitting next to her.

"I like the main character already." She wrote.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, she's how you say...a badass?"

"Should a lady be cursing?"

"No, but it's the only way I can describe her."

"Keep reading, I'll make up the guest bedroom for you," he says, tapping her knee and walking to the guest bedroom.

---------------

It's been 3 days now, and Gaz was walking on the same sidewalk before walking into Kiki's shop, but when he made it to the where he remembered the shop, it wasn't there anymore.

Just a big empty spot where the shop would have been, he was confused looking around like maybe he was on the wrong side of the street, but no, he remembers the book store and the flower shop, but where the hell did the Spell shop go?

Gaz then walks into the book store going to the front desk to ask the question.

"Hi, I was on this street a few days ago, I had ran into the spell shop...where did that go?"

"Spell shop? There was never a spell shop there? Not that I know of," the girl giggled at Gaz like he was crazy or something.

"No, no, no, no," Gaz left the store and paces outside.

-------------

Y/n had walked to the bathroom and touched her face, she felt like Gaz was embarrassed of her, which makes sense, she's dead and no one has ever seen the dead before, and someone might think she's a scare actor or something.

Y/n walked to Gaz's room, opening his closet and pulling out a shirt, she could smell his scent on it, she brings it to her nose and smells a husky scent of pine and wood, she takes a deep breath and sat on the bed, she removes the shirt she was wearing and put on the shirt she was holding.

She brought it to her nose and fell on her back, she loved the scent, she loved the feeling of the cotton on her upper half, she loved everything about wearing Gaz's shirt.

She walked to the living room and grabbed the book off the coffee table, she reads and every once and a while sniffed the shirt.

"MOTHER FUCKER!!" Gaz yells slamming the door to the apartment. "Apparently Kiki's spell shop is fucking gone! I'm so pissed off, I don't understand, where the hell could she have gone? I need to know how to send you back."

"Have you checked the book to see if there's a reversal spell?"

"The book doesn't have anything like that, just summoning the dead in different ways," he says. Sitting on the couch next to Y/n, he looks over and sees the shirt she was wearing. "That's my shirt."

"So? You gave me one of your old shirts, so what's the harm in wearing this one? And it smells amazing."

"I get that," he chuckles.

-------------------

A month, it's been a month and Gaz can't find any sort of trace of Kiki and her shop, but he started to grow...some sort of feeling towards Y/n, not wanting her to leave his side, he did at a point give looking for Kiki, and started to spend his time with Y/n.

Clothes had came in for Y/n she showed off her new wear to Gaz, from dresses to jeans.

"Women in my time weren't allowed to wear pants only skirts and dresses, I love pants," she smiles holding the tight denim that hugged her thighs.

"They look nice on you," he says, leaning back and smiled.

"I like this shirt too."

"Go try in that skirt, I know you weren't so sure on it." She nods and heads off to the bedroom.

Gaz smiles at the girl as she leaves to go put on a long skirt, Y/n was so nervous about it because the skirt had a slit on the right side, She comes back showing it off, he smiles.

"You look good."

"Not too revealing?"

"No, never. Do you feel comfortable?"

"Yes."

"Then it's perfect."

Gaz watched as her face lit up with a smile and her eyes showing the glint of happiness, she would never feel this good when she was alive in the Victorian era. Gaz gets up off the couch and walks to her, spinning her around.

"You look amazing," he says. He cups her face, he wasn't ever afraid of her, but grew to love her and like her.

"Did you give up?"

"On what?"

"Sending me back?"

"I did...I don't need to when you listen to me, and you...complete me in a way."

"Do I?"

"Yeah."

"Have you gotten use to me writing to you instead of talking to you?"

"I am, I...I do love you, I know it's too early, it's been a month, but you listen to me, you're like my friend better then my actual friends," he jokes.

"Don't say that, I'm only here because...you summoned me."

"I know." Gaz leans forward and his lips touched hers, Y/n didn't push away from him, but instead held him tightly her arms going around his neck to hold him close, his hands resting on her waist and then picking her up and while still kissing her, walking towards his bedroom with a smile on his face, and kissing her neck here and there.

The room was silent and all Gaz could hear was how fast Y/n's heart was beating, even the dead has a beating heart, he smiles when seeing her face slightly become pink and then she covers her face from the embarrassment.

"Don't hide from me," he says, pulling her hands back. She just shakes her head indicating she wasn't being shy, but she was. He smiles and kisses her lips.

"I know women during your time didn't really...have sex before marriage, I want to respect your boundaries."

"I'm fine...we...we can try, I won't feel anything."

"You won't?"

"I don't have a uterus or ovaries, and I've been numb since I've died. So if anything you feel something more then me."

"Right, maybe not."

"No, not right now, but we can still kiss," she hid behind the notebook when showing him what she wrote, he chuckles shakes his head and slowly pushes down the notebook cupping her face and deepening the kiss.

#cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod x reader #fandom #fanfic #call of duty #mw2 #cod #kyle gaz x you #gaz x y/n #gaz x gn!reader #kyle gaz garrick #gaz x reader #kyle garrick #gaz cod

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introvertllux · 9 months ago

Text

Chrono Heart (Future Trunks X Black!OC)

*I DO NOT OWN/CLAIM TO OWN ANYTHING IN RELATION TO DBZ. I ONLY CLAIM THE ORIGINAL STORY IDEA AND BLACK!OC IN THIS STORY!*

Chapter 1: The Relic and the Reawakening

The remnants of Dr. Gero’s lab were a graveyard of twisted metal and shattered dreams, a monument to the hubris of a man who played god with circuits and steel. Hidden beneath this forsaken ruin, a capsule hissed open, and from its depths, a figure emerged—Axa. With skin like polished ebony, eyes that shimmered with the golden light of a thousand captured stars, and hair that cascaded down in an untamed torrent, she was a sight to behold—beauty crafted by ambition, innocence shaped by design.

:readmore:

She stood, hesitantly, in the dim light of her metallic tomb, a stark contrast to the vividness of her form. Her limbs moved with an elegance that was almost haunting, yet her expression held the innocence of a child looking out upon the world for the first time.

Unbidden, Axa's body propelled her through the labyrinth of the city, every calculation in her head leading her to an encounter she did not understand. It was as if an invisible hand guided her to a serene park, where the familiar silhouette of Android 18 stood, lost in the simplicity of feeding ducks at the pond—a moment of peace in a life so often marked by conflict.

Axa’s presence cast a shadow over the tranquility, and 18 turned, her eyes widening in shock and recognition. "Axa? Is it really you?" she gasped, the breadcrumbs slipping from her fingers.

Their reunion was explosive—a symphony of fists and flashes of shared history. As they sparred, 18, amidst parries and takedowns, called out to the essence of the girl she once knew.

"Remember when we sparred with 16 in the orchard, the cherry blossoms falling around us like snow?" she grunted, dodging a swift punch. "Or the time we snuck into the city, 17 dared us to ride the rollercoaster and you laughed until you cried?"

Each word struck Axa deeper than any physical blow could, unlocking the sealed doors of her memory. "And that night, the four of us lay in the grass, making shapes out of stars, dreaming of freedom," 18 continued, her voice laced with nostalgia, even as she blocked a kick. "But then you were gone. Gero said you were defective, but you were just... you were just Axa. You were just a little girl, and I... we, I should have done something."

Tears spilled from Axa's eyes, liquid diamonds trailing down her face, an alien sensation that stopped her cold. Her hands came up to her face, fingers trembling as she touched the moisture with wonder. "What... what is this?" she whispered, her voice breaking.

"It's crying, Axa," 18 replied with a bittersweet chuckle, the fight draining from her. "It happens when you're sad... or happy... or even when you laugh so hard, you can't stop. It means you're alive."

Axa's golden gaze, now dulled by confusion and sorrow, met 18's. "I don't... I don't understand," she said, a lost child wrapped in the shell of a machine.

"I know," 18 said, stepping forward to wrap an arm around her. "I forgot to search for you when I found my own life. But now I’m here, and I'll help you. Let me show you the life I've built. You’ll fit right in. Krillin, my husband, Marron, our daughter—they'll love you."

The promise of a family warmed something inside Axa, a spark of belonging that she didn't know she needed.

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The scene shifted to the familial home, where the spark was met with a torrent of fear and misunderstanding.

The home that once held warmth and laughter was now a battlefield of words and emotions. The cozy living room, with its family photos and children's drawings, became the arena. Krillin's face was flushed with a mix of protective fear and incandescent rage. "18, how in the world could you think this was okay? Bringing her into our home without even a word to me?" His voice shook the very foundations of their sanctuary, a volume reserved for life-and-death battles, not familial disputes.

"You're not getting it, Krillin!" 18 shot back, her own voice a force to be reckoned with. "You think I can't see danger? I know danger. I've been danger. But she—" 18 jabbed a finger towards Axa, "—is just lost. We owe her this!"

Marron, with the blissful ignorance of childhood, had wandered over to Axa, offering a small stuffed dinosaur with a smile. "Do you wanna play with Mr. Dino?" she had asked, her voice a sing-song note in the dissonant symphony of the adults' conflict.

Krillin's eyes darted from Marron to Axa, and with a speed that betrayed his martial prowess, he scooped Marron into his arms. "Marron, sweetie, why don't you go play in your room, okay?" His words were gentle with his daughter, but when his gaze swung back to Axa, they were steel blades. "Stay away from her," he snapped at Axa. "We don't know you, what you're capable of—what if you're programmed to…to…"

His words trailed off, but the accusation hung heavily in the air, an invisible smog choking the room. Axa, who stood like a statue wrought from onyx, felt each word strike her. Her hands, which moments ago had explored the texture of the child's toy, now hung limply at her sides. The shine in her golden eyes dulled, a gloss of pain over the brightness.

"Krillin," 18's voice cracked like a whip, her anger transforming into something fierce and protective. "Listen to yourself! She’s not a threat! How can you judge her like this?"

The silence that followed was suffocating. Axa's soft, disbelieving sobs were the only sound, a heartbreaking melody that seemed to wrap around the room. She blinked rapidly, her human-like innocence clashing with her android perfection as she attempted to process the whirlwind of rejection and anger.

"I… I don't want to be a problem," Axa stammered out, her voice a mere whisper but slicing through the tension. "I didn't mean to cause trouble. I'm sorry."

Krillin, his face softening for a moment at Axa's words, struggled with the turmoil inside him. His duty to protect his family warring with the empathy he had learned from his wife. "18, I…," he started, but the words tangled, a mess of emotion and duty.

"No," 18 interrupted, her eyes glistening with unshed tears of frustration. "No, Krillin. She's not just some android. She's Axa. Remember that. She's not the past; she’s someone who needs us now."

In the quiet that followed, the trio stood, the balance of their world shifted, as they each considered the weight of what it meant to be family, to be human, or something akin to it. Axa, still caught in the eye of the storm, dared to hope for a harbor in this tempest—a place where she could anchor her heart.

The turmoil in the room reached a crescendo, a tidal wave of emotion that crashed over Axa with overwhelming force. As Krillin and Android 18's argument continued, Axa's mind began to fracture under the strain. She clutched at her temples, her golden eyes flickering erratically as memories—long suppressed—surged to the surface.

She was small again, diminutive and human, watching through the bars of a crib as giants in white coats and stern faces argued loudly above her. The cacophony of their voices was terrifying, a discordant symphony that crescendoed into an unbearable din. Words like "potential" and "failure" were thrown back and forth, volleying over her head like some high-stakes game she could not comprehend.

Her breath hitched, a robotic mimicry of a panic attack, and her body began to seize up. Her limbs locked in place, and the glow in her eyes sputtered like a dying star. "System… overload…" she managed to gasp out before collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut, her form going limp and unresponsive on the floor.

"18, we need to do something!" Krillin's voice was now tinged with fear for Axa, the protective instinct he felt for all living beings—especially those under his roof—kicking in.

18 knelt beside Axa, her fingers hovering over the android's inert body. Her heart, though not flesh and blood, ached with a mix of fear and protectiveness. "Dammit," she cursed softly, her usual composure fraying at the edges.

Krillin ran a hand through his hair, his eyes darting from his wife to the still figure on the floor. "Maybe… we should take her to see Bulma. She's dealt with… this kind of thing before."

Android 18's eyes narrowed at the suggestion. "Bulma has a good heart, but she's got that scientist's curiosity. She'll want to dissect every part of Axa's programming," she said, her voice a growl of resistance. "And Vegeta…" she trailed off, a scowl creasing her features at the thought of the Saiyan prince's unpredictable nature.

Krillin nodded slowly, understanding his wife's concerns. "We don't have to tell everyone, just Bulma. She'll know what to do," he insisted, his tone imploring. "Vegeta won't lay a finger on her—I'll deal with him if I have to."

The two locked eyes, a silent conversation passing between them. It was a gamble, but Axa needed help that they couldn't give. With a heavy heart, 18 agreed. "Fine. But we're not leaving her side. Not for a second."

Carefully, they gathered Axa's motionless form, her weight a testament to the gravity of their situation. Together, they stepped into the cool evening air, the weight of Axa's fate a heavy shroud upon their shoulders as they made their way to Capsule Corporation, and into the uncertain future that awaited them.

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More on Axa (Pronounced: Axe-e-ah or Ahh-x-ah)

*Apologies for inconsistent art styles. I utilized Art breeder. Unfortunately I don't see many resources to help create black!Ocs in consistent styles and diverse poses out there. If you know of any please let me know! As you continue reading the story imagine her in the DBZ art style. Thank you!*

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Taglist!

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