#Rabid REALLY HATES BEARS

[rabidwerewolfie]

Just An Opinion No One Cares About

If I was stuck in the woods and had to choose between encountering a man or a bear, I'd rather encounter a man and try to convince him to help me kill the fucking bear.

[theultimateultimateweapon]

Bad news: I found out what's making me a completely anti-social, cranky troll-under-the-bridge gremlin and it's my working night shift

Good news: I'll be moving to evening shift soon (the most optimal shift for me!)

More bad news: It isn't for 6 more weeks at least and I have to do offsite training 2 hours away during rush hour traffic for a week

[hedwig221b]

You are amazing ✨✨✨

Do you have any feral Derek fic recs?? Especially if he’s stuck as a wolf?? Bonus points if Stiles thinks he’s just a big friendly dog 🥹

Hi, love! Thank uuu! I absolutely love feral wolf Derek, it always delivers. Here's a very long rec list, enjoy!

Waiting by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

Not wanting to think on it too much, Stiles took a step forward and passed his hand between the bars, moving the bleeding side closer to Derek’s mouth. “Not too close, he bites.” Stiles snatched his hand away just as Derek had been about to lick at it. The snarl he got in response was not comforting. “He what?” Stiles asked nervously, turning to Deaton. The man looked a little amused. “Don’t worry, only if he doesn’t like you.” “Well, he probably hates me, now!” Stiles insisted, turning back to Derek. He looked extremely displeased.

You're My Sanctuary by lilmissdaydreamer

The Argent Wolf Sanctuary. It’s been Stiles’ dream since he was five years old to work with the wolves, ever since his mother took him up there to see the magnificent creatures on one of their ‘full moon runs’ that the Sanctuary does once a month. The wolves are beautiful and much larger than Stiles would’ve thought, or at least, the newest wolf is. The owner had said he’s a special breed. Stiles just didn’t realize quite how special he is.

Stuck in This in Between by calrissian18

“You’re not getting better, Derek.” And it was the first time he’d called him that since he’d realized he wasn’t really.

The Feral Alpha by halcyon1993

Derek has lived in a half-feral state in the wilderness ever since hunters killed his family. When the hunters return years later, he gets his revenge and finds his true mate in one of the boys they were holding captive. He claims him immediately.

Safe Mind by LadyDrace

Derek goes missing for a while and comes back full wolf. Only problem is that his mind has gone wolf too, and for some reason the only one he'll allow near him… is Stiles.

Of Blood and Feral Wolves by Flicker_Ash

After Stiles is hurt in a surprise attack, Derek's wolf takes over and won't let anyone near him. Doesn't matter if it's Scott or a paramedic, when there's blood and no sarcasm, no-one's touching Stiles.

Light at the end of the tunnel by Lesatha

“Careful, Stilinski. Don’t think you can go around telling me what to do, or coddling the werewolf.” “What does it matter to you?” “If the feral alpha kills you, it will be my fault, as your supervisor.” Stiles’ head whipped towards the werewolf. He couldn’t see much of him apart from his red eyes, always following Stiles. Crazy as it might sound, it comforted him. The werewolf wasn’t the rabid animal Elis seemed to picture. He was just… hurt.

Feral by melofttroll

Scott’s yelling now as the Jeep comes to a halt, and Stiles ignores him as he clambers from the seat. The skid turned the Jeep completely around, and his headlights are pointed at something that is decidedly not dog-ish, or bear-ish, but very, very human. And by the shuddering breaths coming from the man’s chest, very much alive. Feral!Derek, Sterek AU

Lessons in Humanity by exclamation

Fleeing from werewolves, Stiles comes face to face with Derek, a werewolf human in shape but animal in his mind. Stiles is terrified of being killed, but it seems Derek has decided Stiles would make a suitable mate. Unfortunately, his idea of a romantic gift is a dead animal on the doorstep. Stiles must help Derek remember what it is to be human… and figure out how to explain his new werewolf stalker to his dad.

Throw Away the Key by mommymuffin

Stiles knew it was stupid to go to the hunters’ headquarters all by himself, so when he finds himself caught, he can really only blame himself. It shouldn't surprise Stiles when the situation quickly goes from bad to worse as the hunters throw him to a feral werewolf waiting to tear him apart. Sucks that it's Derek, though.

Thanks for Thumper, But I Prefer Cheeseburgers by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

The wolf’s head whipped around so fast, Stiles felt like he was watching The Exorcist. Stiles wondered if he could just stand still enough to make the wolf think he was a tree. A very bright red and jean-clad tree. He doubted it, but one could hope. He knew it was a lost cause when the wolf turned fully, lips pulled back from its sharp teeth—so very sharp, good fucking Lord!—and began walking towards Stiles. “I didn’t see anything!” Stiles shouted, both hands out in front of himself and sweat instantly breaking out across his skin. “I swear to you! I didn’t see anything! I didn’t see anything! I won’t tell anyone! I won’t! I’ll keep this to myself, until the day I die! I promise! I promise!”

What I Did On My Summer Vacation by grimm

There's something weird about Beacon Hills that Stiles can't quite put his finger on. The way everyone in town knows his name the day he arrives. The way they insist the melancholic howling that echoes through the forest every night is just a dog. The way his dad denies getting a dog, even though Stiles comes home to find one sprawled across his bed, some big black thing whose eyes gleam red in the right light. The way that massive oak tree out in the woods vibrates under his touch, pulsing with sickly life. There's something weird going on in this town, and Stiles is determined to get to the bottom of it.

Hallowed Grounds by damnfancyscotch

Everything in Beacon Hills is the same when Stiles comes home from college. Well, except for the fact that he's a published author now, Scott is halfway across the world with a travelling circus, Erica's epilepsy has been cured, her boss offers him a job too, and there's this weird black dog that seems to be following him around just to judge him. Oh, and the murders, of course. But other than that stuff… totally the same old BH.

There Are No Wolves in California (Werewolves on the Other Hand…) by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella), KioFox

“I’m not calming down until you call animal control! I fucking saw it! There were fucking wolves!” “There are no wolves in California, Mr. Daehler,” the principal said, sounding exasperated, like this was the third time she’d said it to him. “Well clearly there are!” he shouted back, showing such a lack of respect for the woman, Stiles had to applaud her for her fortitude not to smack him in the face. “Perhaps you were mistaken,” she said calmly. “No I wasn’t fucking mistaken,” Matt insisted, sounding incensed. “No way these were dogs, they were massive!” For a second, Stiles felt like the world had slowed considerably as those words wormed their way into his brain. Because—he knew a dog that was massive. Honestly, he’d also brushed away the idea of the dog being a wolf because there were no wolves in California. But… what if there were? Holy shit, had Stiles literally spent his lunch break with a fucking wolf cuddled into his side while he pet it?! Good God, he was lucky to still have all his limbs!

Where the Real Beasts Are by kaistrex (weishen)

Crown Prince Stiles is gifted a direwolf on his eighteenth birthday by King Gerard I of Venatia. The only instruction? Never remove the collar. Stiles never has been one to do as he’s told.

The Soul Knows What the Heart Wants by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

“Holy—shit,” Stiles breathed, Bacon stopping in what he was doing, still staring at him intently, as if begging him to understand, for someone to finally understand. Stiles felt like he’d been electrocuted and he leapt out of his chair, kneeling in front of Bacon and grabbing at his furry face. “Holy shit! Oh my God, are you—wait, holy—you’re not fucking with me, right?!” Bacon let out two quick barks, which Stiles chose to interpret as ‘no.’ "Oh my God, are you a real person in there?!” Stiles shouted in the wolf’s face, staring him right in the eye. He was still holding the wolf’s head with both hands, but Bacon dipped his muzzle in confirmation and Stiles officially lost his mind. “Oh my God!” he shouted again, releasing Bacon to clutch at his own hair. “Oh my God! Dude, for real?! You’re—holy shit! Holy shit!” He didn’t know how to react to this news. He had no fucking idea how to react. This was a person?! But how?! How was this a person?! People didn’t just turn into wolves!

Rabbit Hearted by secondstar, Tsuminoaru

Storytellers were known for their talented tongues, their ability to weave tales and enthrall the listener. Their stories held weight, taken as truth as they were passed down from generation to generation. A tale of a cursed pack of wolves was one such story that Stiles had known since he was a child. Never did he think that he would become part of that tale, or that its weight would be up upon his shoulders. A tale of curses, sacrifices, and acceptance of one's inner self.

Being Close to You by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

Realization dawned and Derek cursed himself viciously. How could he be stupid enough to forget Scott was a Werewolf? He could fucking smell him! Scott knew it was him! “Stiles?” Scott asked uncertainly while Stiles started opening and closing various cabinets, looking for who knew what. “That’s not a d—” Derek snarled and let out a loud bark, eyes glowing blue in Scott’s direction since Stiles couldn’t see him from where he was standing. Scott scowled at him, moving closer to him and inhaling pointedly. “What are you doing here, Derek?” Scott asked, voice low enough that Stiles wouldn’t hear. He wasn’t listening anyway, still panicking and randomly opening things.

(You) Bring Out the Beast (In Me) by Ember

“Should I make out the wedding invitations?” Stiles swallowed his mouthful of soda.”What?” Lydia smirked. “Well, you and Derek have seemed awfully cozy lately. Just wanted to be supportive.” “Oh, yeah, because that’s exactly why I went into wildlife preservation.” He rolled his eyes. “Beastiality jokes.” +++ Aka the one where Derek is a wolf and Stiles is his trainer, and then magic and transformations and feelings happen.

A Boy’s Best Friend by KnottheWolf

Stiles was just having some ‘me time’ when things escalated with his dog, Wolf. Or at least, he thinks it’s a dog.

"good boy" by quackquackcey

Stiles doesn’t think his senior year can get any worse with his best friend turning rabid every full moon, until he finds himself stuck with a massive black wolf overnight that doesn’t even like jerky. But on the bright side, the hot guy with the half-dying sister he met at the gas station seems to be in town for a bit, so there’s still a chance that his senior year, his supposed best year of high school, isn’t a complete lost cause…right? That is, if he can manage to juggle the sassy wolf that he takes care of at night and the hot guy that asked him out on a date for some reason.~ 🐺🍕

Other fic recs: angsty fics | possessive Derek | historical AU | baby/mpreg | outsider POV | smut | mafia | hurt/comfort | magical!Stiles | Stiles gets kicked out of the pack | BAMF!Stiles + pt2 | alive Hales | omegaverse | witch!Stiles | creature!Stiles + pt2 | bad friend Scott | pack mom!Stiles | unrequited love | werewolf!Stiles | dark sterek | single parent!Stiles | arranged marriage | Stiles is underestimated | mpreg w/o abo | accidental knotting | jock!Derek | jock!Stiles | spanking | royal abo au | oblivious!Stiles | longfic | void!Stiles

[ryemackerel]

The moment you've finally been waiting for... One of the ship duos that I barely ever draw aka TordEdd, AKA BACON COLA, AKA!!! One of the sweetest ship duos ever imo. Featuring a song I associate with their theme songs and pairing a lot. :-)

Tord isn't really the type to do a lot of physical affection, and even moreso just being accustomed to receiving it in general. You pair someone who isn't very physically affectionate up with an entire household of very VERY physically affectionate people, and you get stuff like this. It's not that Tord hates hugs, he's just really awkward when he receives an overwhelming amount of love Imao.

Edd is always really gentle with Tord and just gives more physical affection as Tord slowly eases into it.

That and Edd loves flooding Tord with all of the "I love you's" and "You're really pretty" compliments, solely because he adores seeing Tord get SUPER flustered.

Edd and Tord are the equivalent of this big bear guy who's super fluffy and the stinky rabid dog that probably smells like a rat. Bacon Cola forever.

[ltash]

Rabid

He was feral, rabid, a bringer of death. Now the queen was down, he was the one who snatched your crown until you came crawling back to him.

Simon'Ghost'Rileyxfemalereader wc- 9k approx

Warning: 18+, mdni, dark, angst, mentions of murder, sex.

It all started when he was sent to Dubai, tasked by Price to provide security for a business tycoon, an assignment he had little interest in, another rich bastard who needed protection from threats they'd never see coming.

He hated the damn place. Too garish and ostentacious. The opulent excess of the golden city was enough to make anyone lose their damn mind, him included, and god was it loud. Even in the quiet of the meeting room with the heavy oak doors shut, he could feel the damn music from next door thrum in his bones.

But a job is a job, and when Price asked you to guard a spoiled little rich kid with 'Daddy's money, he didn't hesitate, even if he wanted to.

He never had a soft spot for the rich. The world was cruel, and there was no shortage of wicked men out there, but he had to admit that for spoiled little brats, they were some of the worst. Never knowing any hardship, thinking that everything was owed to them. They were just as bad as crooked politicians, only less discreet at keeping their skeletons in the closet. Still, business was business, and he had a job to do. It was all about keeping up appearances, after all.

It was like that now, as he stood by the door, eyes lazily trailing over the room, and your bare legs tucked away into your leather chair. The white silk shirt you wore was tight around your form, and as his eyes followed the way you shifted, he caught a glimpse of a thin, lacy number underneath.

His gaze lingered a little longer and a little darker than it should, mind spinning with fantasies that he had no right to have.

The itch inside him was telling him to turn away, run as fast as he could, never to turn around and look at you, but the dark, twisted part, the beast which lurks beneath him, the one who comes out only when he has a bullet to fit between an enemy's eyes or an itch to scratch told him to strip you off bearing, to bring you to a verge that you had nowhere to run but to him.

It was all just so... wrong. Everything about it. But no matter how much he hated it, the thoughts were there, and the images in his head were not ones a man like him should be having. But he could no longer look away and pretend that they weren't there, not when he knew what he wanted.

And it was a goddamn shame he was a dog on a leash, because if he were a free man, he'd have you on the conference table in seconds.

And then you turn to face him. All pretty, prim, proper and perfect. Beautiful so much like the heavens have sent you down on earth with skin gleaming like gold. Like the innocent doe who never flew, but was ready to be caged, wings clipped.

He hates it, hates how pretty you are, how goddamn perfect that skin of yours is. And he's a damn bastard because all he wants is to ruin that perfection, spoil the innocence. But it was your eyes that really set him off, wide and clear, completely guileless to the animal he was.

That beautiful doe didn't even know the wolf was watching. He watched from the shadows as you smiled at him, friendly and cordial.

And boy oh boy, at that moment he decided, that he will possess you, destroy your facade until it crumbles the foundation of your existance, make you so weak for him that you will forget everything, just remember him. Make you only want him. The dark twisted side of him ate all the sense of marolity, he wanted you at his feet, at his mercy at somepoint of his pathetic life.

He was so tired, so sick and tired of always doing the 'right thing', of always going by the damn book. He was sick of playing the good damn dog, of leashing his desires, of keeping that darkness that prowled underneath from surfacing.

And then you were there like something straight out of heaven, an angel of destruction who had come down to Earth just for him. You were so goddamn perfect, but you didn't even know it, and that only made the hunger inside him grow all the more. He wanted to have you. He had to have you.

He was fucked.

Completely and utterly.

For one night with you, he'd damn his soul to hell and back.

He'd kill for you, he'd do every disgusting, depraved thing you wanted, just to hold you in his arms.

It didn't even matter that you were a spoiled brat who had never known a day of hardship in your life.

What right did he have?

He was a damn guard dog, and you were a pampered little princess who had no idea what was coming. But the thing about dogs was that they could be trained. Trained to do things they would never do.

He was completely, utterly, and unashamably, utterly and wholly, absolutely, completely, and undeniably, 100% beyond any shred of doubt, so very, very, and perfectly,

Fucked.

"So you've been here all this time, standing there silently, colour me surprised." You put your arm on the table, a pen rolling between your fingers.

His eyes trail after your fingers, gaze sharp and focused, before meeting your eyes.

One of his thick, broad shoulders rose in a lazy shrug. He had a voice like sandpaper, rough and gritty, and he was more wolf than he was man. "Just doing my job," he said, voice casual but words laden with a dark, prowling promise.

"What, who are you again if you don't mind me asking?"

You asked so casually, your tone so insulting like the man standing infront of you held no regard.

One of his eyebrows rose at your tone, gaze sharpening as he leaned back against the wall. He was an imposing figure, his stance relaxed but coiled tight as a wire.

"Ghost," he said shortly, words clipped as he crossed his burly arms over his chest. The muscles of his arms flexed, straining against the fabric of his shirt, and a dark glint of mockery crept into his eyes. "Simon Ghost Riley, at your service."

"Another guard dog." You muttured under your breath. Your whole demeanor spoke of arrogance and privilege.

Your tone didn't escape his notice, and his dark gaze hardened, eyes narrowing as he studied you, taking in how perfectly you fit the stereotype he had of you. The princess sitting on her throne, safe from all the dangers.

His tongue clicked in his mouth, words sharp and edged with sarcasm. "Watch it, rich girl," he said, lips curled into an ugly sneer. "Or this dog might just give you a damn good bite."

"You are forgetting that I don't let dogs bite me, I keep lions, break their canins and declaw them." You stood up slowly.

A sharp, mocking bark of laughter left his lips at that, eyes darkening at your words. He pushed off the wall, taking a slow step towards you, gaze roaming over your form before stopping before you.

"Is that right, rich girl?" he said, a smirk toying at his lips. "You like playing with lions, huh? Well, let me break it to you, sweetheart, I'm not some tame beast that you can keep on a leash."

"But you are on a leash, Riley, aren't you? So behave like a good dog. Rabid dogs are euthanized."

The words, so casually spoken, hit him like a shot to the gut. He went still, the dark glint in his eyes hardening into something dangerous, like the gaze of a prowling wolf. He could already picture it, his big, strong hands wrapped around your delicate throat.

But he reined it back, words cold and clipped as he bit out, "Just because you have a silver spoon in your mouth doesn't mean you own everyone around you."

A spark gleamed into your eyes, your delucate throat bobbed as you swallowed. "Relax, I was just testing your self control."

"My self-control," he repeated, a hard edge creeping into his voice as he took another step forward until he was so close to you he could pick up on the light scent of that sweet perfume you wore.

"You're testing my control," he said again, words low and rough, a dark promise. "You know what's going to happen if that leash breaks?"

You smiled, a cruel, mocking smile.

Your smile didn't suit you at all. It was cold and calculating, but his gaze was caught on your full, red lips, and how they curled into that cruel smirk. The beast inside him howled, a dark hunger rearing it's head.

He took another step forward, invading your personal space and bringing his face down to yours, so close that you could feel the hard, coiled strength of him, like a predator ready to pounce.

"I'm gonna tear you apart, sweetheart," he said quietly, gaze locking onto your every minute movement, taking in every little detail, every little flutter of your eyelashes, every subtle change in your expression. "Shred you open until all that pretty gold of yours is gone, until you're nothing but a bare little pup. Then you'll know how it feels to be on the leash."

He was right in your face, so close that you could feel his warm breath ghost over your cheeks, and his big, broad form loomed over you, making you feel helpless, cornered.

But instead of being scared, all you could feel was something dark and twisted crawling under your skin.

God, he was so damn feral, so dark and dangerous and utterly feral and a part of you *wanted* it. How messed up was that?

"Right now, your job is not to bark or rip me apart but to guard, do your job Riley, I don't have to say it again." You snarled.

His jaw clenched, the desire to rebel warring with the need to obey. Goddamn. It was like someone had lit fire under him.

He took a slow, deep breath in through his nose and then out, his gaze never leaving yours. "Yes, ma'am," he said, his tone clipped and cold as he took a sharp step back.

He'd do his job, that was what a good dog did.

"Good boy!" You said, malice dripping from your tone.

The words sent a jolt through his body, a cold shiver running down his spine. He hated how they made him feel, how they made him feel like he should bare his throat in a submissive gesture.

He could picture it, the image clear in his head, on all fours, kneeling at your feet, his head in your lap, being a good boy.

What the hell was this power you had over him?

But he was a rabid dog more like a wolf who had a habit of tearing throats apart, he couldn't be tamed.

He was a damn wild thing, untamed and unchained. He was all rough edges and barbed-wire tongue. And that was why he hated this, this pull he felt towards you, this need deep within him to be tamed.

He was the wolf; he should be the one to bite, to mark, to *ruin*. It was the prey who should be trembling at his feet, not him, the goddamn predator.

The door opened and the board of directors started to pour in. You went back to your seat, posture straight, alert and commanding.

Ghost took his place by the door, every muscle in his body on high alert, as if waiting for a command. He couldn't stop his eyes from taking every little detail of you, damn, you were just so *proper*, sitting with your legs tucked into your chair, so damn proper and poised.

He wanted to see you ruined.

He wanted to see that cold, calculating mask of yours shatter, see it break into a thousand pieces and crumble into dust. And he would be the one to rip it off, to tear away your composure until all that perfect, golden facade was gone, leaving you bare and exposed.

He was a wildfire that had you in his sights, and he was going to burn you to the ground. He was going to set fire to everything you had, all those things that you so carefully protected: your company, your privilege, your damn innocence.

He was going to destroy it all and watch the flames burn it to nothing. And then, when all was in ashes, he'd lift you up, pull that pretty neck of yours against his chest, and take what was left, everything that made you **you** and claim it as his own.

You were the phoenix, all rising and glory. You were the goddamn daughter of Apollo, so pure and perfect, but he was the goddamn Grim Reaper. You were life; he was death.

And he was determined to show you what a little bit of death could do to the most beautiful things.

He was already making plans.

He'd make your company suffer, and all of it would be his doing.

And he would watch you suffer.

He would watch you struggle, he would relish in it, every moment of your pain would be his delight.

And then, when you were down on your knees, gasping like a fish out of water, he'd be the one to pull you in, to wrap you in his steel arms, and hold you, and make you his.

Because he was a twisted bastard like that, he couldn't help himself, he just saw a pretty little toy that he wanted, and he was sure damn going to have it.

The nights he spent in your apartment as usual, guarding the premises like a good 'ol guard dog.

Watching you sleep everynight was one of his new habits, the rise and fall of your chest, the soft melody of your breaths. And when you slept he would sneak into your dresser, fingers carressing on a beautiful set of lingerie.

He knew he shouldn't be doing it , he was supposed to be a goddamn professional, after all , but he couldn't help himself.

Every night, he'd creep into your room, like a thief in the night, and let his fingers linger on the soft fabric of your lingerie.

He'd touch them, caress them, imagine you in them, and he could barely keep himself from tearing them off of you. He was a depraved bastard, yes, but he wanted you so desperately that his thoughts were clouded, his judgement blurred.

It was like an addiction, one he couldn't shake, one that he didn't even want to shake. He'd let himself linger, imagine, fantasize. He had every part of your body memorized , the curve of your hip, the slope of your waist, the softness of your thighs.

He was beyond reason, deep into the pit of carnal hunger. Every thought, every moment was just about you, and how he desired you, and how badly he wanted, no, needed to have you.

He was your goddamn shadow, always there in the background, watching, listening, observing.

And you were so very good at pretending he didn't exist. You'd go out for dinner with your fancy little friends, laughing and talking and having fun, never once sparing a glance or a thought for the dog at your feet.

He hated it, how you treated him, like he was nothing but a mere accessory, disposable and worthless.

He hated it, hated how you just saw him as an ornament, a piece of furniture. He was more than that, so much more, but you just didn't see it, didn't notice how he burned hot beneath his cold exterior.

He wanted to grab you, to drag you away, to make you damn look at him, to make you acknowledge his presence.

He was a damn special force soldier, a highly trained assassin, a master of combat and stealth, but instead he was here, pretending to be a bodyguard, playing a role.

The fact that he'd allowed himself to be in this situation was a damn embarrassment. He was a warrior, not a bloody babysitter.

Underneath the surface, a tempest was brewing. His calm exterior was just a cover, concealing the storm that raged beneath.

The more he watched you, the more he wanted to tear down your arrogance, to show you just how much power he held in his hands.

He was plotting, he was planning, and he was damn determined to bring you to your knees.

And his time had just begun.

Your father was the first obstacle-the immovable force standing between Ghost and what he wanted. A man of power, wealth, and unshakable authority, used to controlling everything, including you. But Ghost had spent his life eliminating men like him.

The downfall began in whispers-deals collapsing, allies withdrawing, wealth slipping through his fingers like sand. The empire he had built with blood and steel crumbled, piece by piece, until he was left exposed. Vulnerable.

And then, Ghost finished the job.

The shot came from over a thousand meters away. Precise. Silent. A .338 Lapua round that tore through your father's skull before his guards could react. No struggle. No warning. Just death, swift and absolute.

And the sniper? It was him. It had always been him.

But you would never know.

To you, he was just your silent shadow, the ever-present bodyguard watching from the sidelines. The man who stood in the background when the news shattered your world, when you clutched at grief and uncertainty.

He was there to protect you now. To keep you safe.

And you would never realize that the greatest threat had never been outside those walls.

It had been beside you all along.

It was a damn perfect shot, smooth and clean, his fingers steady as he fired into the head of your father.

He'd done it, he'd brought down the king, and now all that was left was the princess.

He was a predator, a creature of the shadows, the deadliest hunter, and he'd just claimed his prize.

And now he was guarding that prize, and the only person that could stop him was in his arms.

"Daddy's gone 'n' left you, huh sweetheart?" He asked, his tone hard.

He stood silently behind you, his gaze trained on your grief-stricken figure, as you clutched at the news of your father's death.

His fingers twitched, itching to reach out, to touch you, to provide some comfort, but he held back.

He was your bodyguard, your loyal shadow, the one who was supposed to shield you from harm.

But he was also the one who'd orchestrated it all, the one who'd brought ruin upon your father, and by extension, upon you.

He was the wolf in sheep's clothing, standing guard while you were unaware of the true cheess player.

The days that followed were a blur, as the world outside the protective walls of your home descended into chaos. People talked, whispered about a power struggle in the empire, about the loss and uncertainty. But within the shelter of your home, Ghost, he kept you oblivious.

Every day he watched you, broken, shattered by the loss, but he also saw something else. Something he didn't expect.

Resilience.

With your father gone, the empire was left in your hands, vulnerable, exposed, ripe for dismantling. And Ghost? He played his cards with precision, pulling strings from the shadows, setting fire to everything you had ever known.

It started small. Lawsuits, regulatory fines, whispers of corruption spreading like rot through the heart of your pharmaceutical empire. Investors lost confidence, shares plummeted, board members turned on each other like starving wolves. You fought, desperately, brilliantly, but the war had been lost before you ever realized you were fighting.

Because Ghost wasn't just watching from the sidelines. He was inside.

Your closest advisors, your most trusted allies, they weren't yours. They were his. Feeding him information, sabotaging deals, ensuring every move you made led you deeper into the trap he had set.

And when the walls finally crumbled, when the empire your father had built lay in ruins, there was only one person left standing at your side.

Him.

The protector. The shadow. The man who had orchestrated your downfall with his own hands.

And now, there was nowhere left to run. Now, you belonged to him.

He watched you fight, the fire in your eyes burning bright as you did everything in your power to salvage the crumbling empire that used to be your everything.

But it was all vain effort, a pathetic display of desperation, like trying to stop a sinking ship with nothing but a holey bucket.

The final blow was all that remained before checkmate.

Ghost had been meticulous in his destruction, patient in his execution. Every move calculated, every step precise. But this, this would be the killing stroke.

The latest batch of medication, once a beacon of hope in the medical world, had been tainted. A subtle, undetectable alteration in its formula, so slight that even the most rigorous quality checks wouldn't catch it until it was too late. A drug meant to save lives would now take them instead, slowly, cruelly, inevitably.

The first reports trickled in like a quiet storm on the horizon. Patients reacting violently. Unexplained deaths. Doctors questioning. Panic spreading.

Then came the headlines, Pharmaceutical Giant's New Drug Linked to Fatalities!

The lawsuits followed, swift and merciless. Government agencies intervened, forcing immediate recalls. Entire shelves emptied overnight, stocks crashed to nothing, and the name your family had built over generations was poisoned beyond repair.

And you? You stood at the center of it all, watching helplessly as everything collapsed, as the world you had fought to hold onto was ripped from your grasp.

And when the dust settled, when there was nothing left but ruin, Ghost was there. Unshaken. Unmoved.

The only one left standing.

He had won.

He watched every minute of it, watched as the headlines screamed of ruin and catastrophe, watched as your eyes widened in disbelief as the weight of it all truly sank in.

When it was over, when you were left with nothing but rubble, he was the only one left standing. He had torn down everything, ruined you completely.

A twisted sense of satisfaction washed over him, a dark pleasure at seeing you standing amidst the wreckage of your former glory.

This was what he had wanted all along, to watch you crash and burn, to see you on your knees, and now, he had finally achieved it.

He was the winner in this game, the master of your downfall.

Your world had crumbled to dust, and now, so had your last sanctuary. The lavish Dubai penthouse-your gilded cage, your final refuge-had been seized, just another casualty in the long, calculated war against you.

The silence inside was deafening as you packed what little remained. Once, this place had been filled with luxury, with opulence. Now, it was just hollow, stripped of its grandeur, as empty as the life Ghost had methodically torn apart.

And then, like a shadow slipping through the cracks, he was there.

"Leaving so soon?"

The voice sent a cold shiver down your spine, smooth yet laced with something dangerous. Mock sympathy dripped from every word, his tone carrying just enough amusement to make your blood boil.

You didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge him. You just kept moving, folding the last of your designer clothes into a battered suitcase that looked almost pathetic compared to the life you once had.

A slow, deliberate set of footsteps approached, stopping just behind you. Close enough for his presence to suffocate.

"Tough break," he murmured. "One day, you're untouchable. The next? Just another nobody in a city that won't even remember your name."

Your hands curled into fists, nails digging into your palms. Don't react. Don't give him the satisfaction.

"You should've been smarter," he continued, a ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "Should've known the moment your father dropped that you were next. But you didn't, did you?"

A sharp exhale left you, rage coiling tight in your chest. "What do you want, Ghost?" you bit out, finally turning to face him.

He tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question. What did he want?

"Nothing," he said easily, watching you like a predator who already knew his prey was trapped. "Just wanted to see how the mighty heiress looks when she finally hits rock bottom."

You swallowed the lump of fury and humiliation in your throat. "Enjoying yourself?"

He exhaled a quiet chuckle. "More than you know."

The words burned, but you refused to break, meeting his gaze with a defiance that made something dark flicker in his eyes.

Ghost took a slow step back, as if he'd had his fill of the moment. "I'll leave you to it, then. Can't imagine it's easy going from penthouses to, what now? Cheap hotel rooms? Or are we thinking hostels?"

Your jaw clenched. You hated him. Hated that he was right.

He turned, walking toward the door, but paused just before crossing the threshold. His voice came softer this time, almost a whisper.

"You'll come back to me," he said. Not a threat. Not even a promise. A fact.

And then he was gone.

Leaving you alone in the ruins of the life he had destroyed, knowing full well that when you had nowhere left to turn, when the world finally crushed you under its weight...

You would come crawling back.

He left you there, standing alone in the wreckage of your former life, watching as you seethed with anger and humiliation.

He knew he had gotten under your skin, had struck a nerve.

And he couldn't help but feel a twisted sense of satisfaction at the thought of you, broken and humbled, coming back to him, begging for his help.

You were a fallen queen now, and he was the one who had yanked the crown from your head.

The world was indeed a cruel place. One moment, you had everything, the power, the wealth, the name that made people stand in line just to breathe the same air as you. The next, you were nothing.

Your name was a stain, spoken in hushed whispers, cursed by the families who had lost their loved ones to the medicine that had once been your legacy. Headlines screamed your downfall, reporters hounded you like vultures picking at a carcass, and every door that had once been wide open was now bolted shut.

And the money? It was slipping through your fingers like sand, running out far too fast. No accounts to fall back on, no investments left to salvage, Ghost had made sure of that. What little you had left was barely enough to keep you afloat.

Your phone was silent. No friends, no allies, no one willing to be seen with you, let alone offer help. The very people who once groveled at your feet now pretended you didn't exist.

For the first time in your life, you were helpless.

And somewhere, watching from the shadows, he knew it.

Knew that soon, when there was nothing left, not pride, not hope, not even the illusion of control, you would have no choice but to crawl back to him.

He watched as your world crumbled around you, as you stumbled and fell, stripped of every last bit of power and authority.

He watched as you struggled, as hope drained out of you like water from a broken vessel.

And he waited. Patiently. Silently. For the day when you would break, when you would admit defeat and come to him, begging for his help.

Just as he had planned.

Because in the end, he was the puppet master, pulling the strings, manipulating every part of your life.

And you were his marionette.

You stood in the dimly lit hallway of a rundown Manchester apartment complex, your once-perfect world reduced to this moment. The air smelled of cigarette smoke and damp concrete, a stark contrast to the scent of fresh-cut roses and expensive perfume that had once filled your penthouse.

Your suitcase-the last remnant of your past life-stood by your side, scuffed wheels scraping against the cracked floor.

Your hand hovered, fingers curled in a knocking gesture, hesitation thick in your throat.

This was it.

You had resisted, had tried to claw your way back from the ruins he had left you in, but the world had been merciless. Now, you had nowhere else to go.

And he knew it.

Taking a slow breath, you knocked.

Once

Twice.

A moment of silence. Then, the sound of heavy, measured footsteps approaching from the other side.

The lock clicked. The door creaked open.

And there he was.

Ghost.

He leaned against the doorframe, clad in nothing but sweatpants, his bare chest scarred and toned, shadows cast across his sharp, unreadable face. His mask was gone. No barriers. No pretense. Just the man who had burned your world to the ground standing before you, looking utterly unsurprised.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. His gaze dragged over you, taking in the exhaustion lining your face, the defeat in your eyes, the sheer helplessness of your presence here.

Then, he exhaled a slow, amused breath, tilting his head.

"Knew you'd come back."

He stepped aside, holding the door open just wide enough for you to step inside.

Your pride screamed at you to turn around. To walk away. But there was no other choice.

So, with the weight of your ruined past on your shoulders, you took a step forward.

And walked straight into the lion's den.

His gaze followed you as you hesitantly crossed the threshold of his apartment, your face a mask of defeat.

There was no surprise in his eyes, no shock or even the hint of guilt. He had known this moment was coming. He had planned for it. He had orchestrated it.

The door shut behind you with a soft click, and you were trapped.

Trapped in this dimly lit space, surrounded by the remnants of his life, the remnants that spoke volumes about who he was.

A man of violence. A man of darkness. A monster.

He watched as you stood in his apartment, your body tense, your eyes conflicted.

You were broken. Defeated. Desperate.

He almost pitied you.

Almost.

Your pride, your dignity, your life, everything you once held dear was held in his hands.

As you stood there, frozen in place, the reality of your new situation sank in.

You were at his mercy. Completely and utterly.

Each day was the same, a never-ending cycle of degradation and submission. Gone was the world of luxury, of power, of control. Now, you scrubbed floors until your fingers were raw, cooked meals you weren't allowed to sit down and eat, cleaned up after the very man who had torn your life apart.

And all the while, he watched you. Judging. Amused. Relishing in every moment of your downfall.

The apartment, small and suffocating, had become your prison. Your existence had been reduced to this, picking up after him, following his orders without question. And he made sure you knew it.

"Missed a spot," he'd murmur from his chair, voice lazy, mocking. You'd glance up to find him lounging, legs spread, a cigarette between his fingers, watching as you scrubbed the floor beneath his feet.

Sometimes, he would flick the ashes onto the surface you had just cleaned.

Other times, he'd drop the entire cigarette butt, waiting for you to bend down and pick it up.

And you did. Because you had no choice.

The worst part wasn't the work, the pain in your knees from hours of kneeling, or the humiliation of being at his mercy.

It was his gaze.

The way he looked at you, like you were some broken thing, something conquered. His eyes traced your every movement, dark and unreadable, and no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, it burned into you.

You hated it.

You loathed it.

But you endured. Because you had to.

And each night, lying in the cold, tiny room he had given you, your mind raced. You thought of what you had lost. What you had once been. And what you had been reduced to.

The spark of defiance still burned within you, deep and buried.

But for now, you swallowed it down.

You worked. You obeyed. You waited.

Because one day, this would end.

The world tilted beneath your feet.

One day you barely had the strength to stand, your vision swimming as fever burned through your veins. The wooden spoon trembled in your grip, the rich scent of simmering gravy filling the air as you tried to stir through the haze clouding your mind.

But your body betrayed you.

The pan slipped from your weakening grasp, tilting dangerously, the scalding liquid about to spill-

And then, he was there.

A strong arm wrapped around your waist, steadying you as your body sagged against him. The warmth of his chest pressed into your side as he grabbed the pan with his other hand, setting it back onto the stove with a controlled ease. His fingers turned the burner off in one swift motion, cutting off the heat before disaster could strike.

"Bloody hell," Ghost muttered, his grip tightening around you. "You tryna burn yourself alive?"

You couldn't respond. The fever had drained every ounce of strength from your body. Your breath was shallow, your forehead damp with sweat.

"You're burning up," he said, his voice lower now, scrutinizing.

You wanted to push away from him, to reclaim some semblance of dignity, but your body refused to obey.

A sigh left him, one of frustration rather than concern. "You need a doctor."

You barely remembered the ride to the clinic. The fever had blurred everything into a fog, your head lolling against the window, every muscle in your body aching. The only thing grounding you was the steady presence beside you, his calloused hand firm against your wrist as if making sure you wouldn't slump over completely.

And then, you were in a sterile white room, the fluorescent lights burning into your eyes as the doctor examined you.

She was a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes, flipping through her clipboard as she asked a few routine questions.

"How long have you been feeling unwell?"

You tried to recall, blinking dizzily. "Since yesterday. Maybe longer."

The doctor hummed, writing something down before glancing between you and Ghost, who stood with his arms crossed, impassive as ever.

"Are you two married?" she asked.

Your breath caught in your throat.

"What?" you blurted, cheeks flushing. "No, we're-"

"I only ask because fever, nausea, and dizziness are common early pregnancy symptoms," the doctor continued, unfazed. "Have you two been trying?"

Your face burned hotter than the fever coursing through you. "N-no! I mean-there's nothing like that between us."

The doctor arched a brow but said nothing, simply jotting something else down.

You risked a glance at Ghost.

He stood there, silent, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his mask. He didn't react, not a twitch, not a shift, not a single damn thing.

Like he didn't care. Like the question hadn't meant anything at all.

Something twisted in your chest, but you swallowed it down.

"It's just a viral infection, then?" you asked, trying to change the subject.

The doctor nodded. "Most likely. You need rest, fluids, and proper meals. I'll prescribe something to help with the fever."

Ghost exhaled sharply, like the whole thing was a nuisance, before turning to you.

"You heard her," he said. "No more collapsing in my damn kitchen."

And just like that, the moment passed.

But as you lay in bed later that night, staring at the ceiling, you couldn't shake the memory of the doctor's assumption.

And worse, you couldn't shake the fact that Ghost had said nothing at all.

The night was heavy, the silence almost oppressive as you lay in bed.

The fever had subsided for now, but your mind was still feverish, racing with thoughts and feelings that you couldn't push away.

And all of it was centered on him.

He hadn't said a word since the clinic. Hadn't even looked at you with anything other than his usual indifference.

The doctor's words echoed in your mind, the image of Ghost's stoic face burned into your memory.

Pregnant.

The very idea was absurd. Ridiculous. Impossible.

You were his prisoner, his toy, his plaything to use and discard at his leisure. Nothing more.

Yet, the thought of carrying his child, of creating something so vulnerable, so innocent, with a man as cold and unfeeling as him, sent a shiver of dread down your spine.

The very thought made you nauseous. Not because the idea of being pregnant was repulsive, but because of who would be the father.

You shut your eyes, trying to push the thought away. But it was like trying to push back the tide.

The darkness seemed to press in around you, the walls of the apartment feeling suddenly claustrophobic.

You tried to slow your racing heart, to force your mind to think of something-anything, else. But every time you closed your eyes, you saw his face.

His dark gaze, the sharp lines of his jaw beneath the mask, the cold indifference in his eyes.

You hated it. Hated the fact that he had any kind of effect on you at all.

But even more so, you hated how your body betrayed you at the thought of him.

Next morning you stood near the kitchen sink, your hands inside the soapy water as you scrubed dishes, you wore denim shorts and a tshirt, you were braless. Your hairs in a messy bun and you were trying to push the lose strands of hair with the back of your hand.

Ghost was at the dining table, going over some paperwork. His gaze flicked up from the stack of papers as he heard you moving around, his eyes instinctively drawn to your figure.

He watched silently, his gaze tracing over your form. The way your shorts hugged your curves, the way your tshirt clung to your body, the way your bare skin peaked out between the layers of fabric.

The sight was... Distracting.

Ghost shifted in his seat, forcibly redirecting his gaze back to the papers.

He tried to concentrate on the words in front of him, but his mind kept wandering, drifting back to your figure in the kitchen.

He'd seen you in less before, of course-this was hardly anything new. But there was something about the domesticity of the situation, the casual way you moved around in your comfortable clothes, that made it... Different.

Ghost gritted his teeth, silently scolding himself for this sudden weakness.

He couldn't let you get to him like this. Not again.

He forced himself to focus on the paperwork, his eyes glazing over the words without really seeing them.

But his thoughts kept returning to the memory of your body, of how it had felt beneath his touch. The smooth softness of your skin, the way you'd responded to him...

No.

He clenched his fist around the pen, his knuckles turning white.

He needed to control himself.

But he couldn't deny that he always wanted you, and this time he couldn't stop himself.

So he stood and silently approached you, stealth was his game.

You were so focused on the dishes that you didn't hear him come up behind you. It wasn't until you felt the heat of his body pressed against your back that you realized he was there.

You froze, every muscle in your body tensing. You could feel his breath on your neck, the faint scent of his aftershave filling your nostrils.

"Keep scrubbing," he murmured, his voice a low rumble.

His hands settled on your hips, large and warm and possessive.His grip was firm, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips as he pressed against you. The heat of his body seeped through the thin fabric of your shirt, making it impossible to ignore the sheer size of him, the way he dwarfed you, caged you in with nothing but his presence.

Your breath hitched.

The soapy water swirled around your fingers, forgotten, as his voice rumbled against your ear. "I said, keep scrubbing."

Your hands trembled as you forced yourself to continue, the dishes clinking together under your unsteady grip. But how could you focus on anything when he was right there-when every inch of your back was flush against the solid wall of his chest?

His thumbs brushed over the curve of your waist, slow, almost lazy. Like he was savoring the feel of you. Like he owned you.

You swallowed hard. "G-Ghost-"

"Shh."

His lips ghosted over the shell of your ear, not quite a kiss, but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

"You know what I think?" he murmured, his voice dark, rough, laced with something dangerous. His fingers trailed higher, tracing the hem of your shirt, just skimming over the bare skin beneath. "I think you like this."

You clenched your jaw, refusing to answer.

But your silence only seemed to amuse him.

"You walk around here, dressed like this..." His hands slid lower again, over the swell of your thighs, gripping just enough to make you inhale sharply. "And expect me to just sit back and watch?"

You felt his breath against your neck, his chest rising and falling in steady, controlled movements.

This wasn't about tenderness.

This was about control. About reminding you exactly where you stood.

And the worst part?

He was right. You did like it.

The way he was touching you, the way he was talking, it was all so wrong, so wrong. And yet...

You couldn't deny the way it made you feel. The way your body responded to his touch, the flutter in your stomach at the sound of his voice.

"I..." you started, your voice barely above a whisper. But before you could continue, his hands moved again, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt.

His fingers were rough, calloused, and the feeling of them against your skin made your breath hitch.

His hands found their way into the soap water, slowly encircling your wrists. Then he took the sponge from your hand.

You felt the warmth of his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, teasing, taunting.

He squeezed the sponge over your t-shirt.

The soapy water trickled down your torso, tracing slow, tantalizing paths along your skin, and the wet fabric clung to you like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination.

His hands, rough and unyielding, kneaded your breasts through the drenched fabric, his fingers pressing into the softness of your flesh with an intimacy that left you breathless. His palms, calloused from years of experience, contrasted starkly against the slickness of the soap and the silkiness of your skin. A sharp gasp escaped your lips as he tightened his grip, a mix of pleasure and something dangerously close to surrender pooling in your stomach.

"You know..." he whispered, his voice dripping with amusement as he nipped at the edge of your ear, "I was reconsidering the words of the doctor."

A delicious tension coiled in your core, tightening with each passing second. The implication in his words sent your thoughts spiraling, your mind hazy from the sheer heat of his touch. Your hands, submerged in the warm water, clenched involuntarily as another wave of sensation coursed through you.

"What... what do you mean?" you managed to breathe out, though your voice trembled, betraying the war waging inside you.

He chuckled darkly, his fingers rolling over your stiffened peaks through the sodden material of your shirt, making you arch slightly against him. His grip firmed just enough to remind you of the power he held in this moment, over you, over your body's reactions, over every shaky breath you took.

"That you need to rest," he murmured, his tongue flicking against the pulse point on your neck. "That you should take it easy."

A sharp contrast to his words, his hands moved with a sinful intent, kneading, teasing, making a mockery of the so-called 'rest' the doctor prescribed. You could feel the smirk against your skin when he spoke again, his voice a low, knowing drawl.

"But looking at you now... I think you're doing just fine."

His Calloused palms moved with slow, deliberate purpose, sliding beneath the damp fabric of your shirt, tracing the shape of your waist, your ribs, before grasping the hem. He peeled the shirt from your body in one fluid motion, the cool air kissing your exposed skin in contrast to the heat of his touch. A shiver ran through you, though you couldn't tell if it was from the temperature or the way he was looking at you, eyes dark, heavy-lidded, burning with something raw and possessive.

Without a word, he turned you to face him, his grip firm but unhurried. You barely had time to take a breath before his lips found your jaw, warm and insistent, his stubble scraping deliciously against your skin. He trailed slow, open-mouthed kisses down the curve of your neck, pausing just long enough to suck lightly, leaving ghost-like marks in his wake. His lips continued their descent, dragging lower, mapping the delicate line of your collarbone before reaching your sternum, where he lingered, exhaling softly against your skin.

Your pulse hammered against your ribs as his mouth traveled lower, his tongue flicking out to taste you, teasing, testing your resolve. Then, with a calculated slowness, he took one of your nipples between his teeth, a feather-light graze before his lips closed around it, sucking with aching softness.

A sharp gasp left your lips as his mouth closed around you, the heat of it sending a rush of sensation through your body. His tongue flicked over your nipple before his teeth grazed it, a teasing, maddening pressure that had you trembling in his grasp.

Pregnancy.

The word echoed in your mind, drowning beneath the wave of pleasure he was drawing from you. It was too much, too sudden, too real. You should have pushed him away, should have protested, should have demanded an explanation for why he was saying this now, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

But his hands were steady, moving with purpose as they gripped your waist, thumbs stroking over your ribs, his touch both possessive and reverent. His mouth trailed from your breast to the valley between, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your sternum, as if savoring every inch of you.

"You'd look beautiful carrying my child," he murmured against your skin, the words laced with something deeper, something that made your heart stutter. He kissed the underside of your breast, his fingers kneading the flesh he had just abandoned. "So delicate... so full with me."

A shiver rolled through you, not just from his touch, but from the weight of his words. It wasn't just desire in his voice, it was intent.

You swallowed hard, your hands instinctively gripping his shoulders, as if grounding yourself. "You can't just decide something like that," you managed, though your voice was weak, breathless.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and unreadable. "Can't I?" His tongue traced slow, teasing circles around your other nipple before he took it between his lips, sucking lightly.

Your body betrayed you, arching into him, fingers tightening against his bare skin. He felt it, your surrender, no matter how reluctant.

"We'll talk about it," he murmured, dragging his mouth up the column of your throat, his breath hot against your ear. "Later."

But the way he was touching you told you exactly how he intended this conversation to end.

And after he is done with you.

His body shudders against yours, his forehead pressing into your shoulder as you both come down from the high, breathless, wrecked, utterly consumed by one another.

And even as the aftershocks of pleasure ripple through you, you know, this isn't the last time he'll have you like this.

Not even close.

Your vision explodes into white-hot oblivion, your body trembling violently as pleasure sears through every nerve, stealing the breath from your lungs. It's too much, too intense, so all-consuming that for a moment, you feel weightless, adrift in a universe made of nothing but sensation. Every star in the galaxy bursts behind your eyelids as you convulse around him, pulling him deeper into your euphoria.

You barely register the way he groans out your name, his voice wrecked, desperate, before he stills inside you. His broad shoulders shudder as he buries himself to the hilt, spilling every last drop of his release deep inside you. He ruts against you in slow, deliberate movements, dragging out the last waves of his ecstasy, ensuring you take everything he has to give.

The exhaustion that follows is suffocating, a heavy, inescapable fog wrapping around your limbs. You're barely conscious of the way Simon moves, his body still flush against yours, refusing to part from you. His softened length stays buried inside your overstimulated core as he shifts the both of you beneath the covers, settling you into the warmth of his embrace.

Strong hands smooth over your back, tracing soft, lazy circles against your bare skin. His lips pepper your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, each kiss a stark contrast to the primal, devastating way he just took you. His mouth lingers on yours, slow and deep, as if sealing a silent promise between you.

"You did so good," he murmurs against your skin, voice laced with quiet reverence. "So fuckin' good for me."

And though your body is too spent, too satisfied to listen, somewhere, deep down, you know.

This was just the beginning.

[nightscythe]

let the world burn

→ talos valcoran x inquisitor (unnamed, she/her) → 6.6k, 18+ (no smut), tw character death, mentions of and implied torture/flaying, usual inquisition and night lord antics ig → post-heresy, talos is captured and challenges an inquisitor that ends up trusting him with both her life and her death

“I will take you,” Talos says, dividing the peace between them momentarily. She raises her eyebrows, though lets him continue. “Wherever you want to go. I will show you the stars. I will show you everything.”

“You truly believe we would make it that far?”

“Would you trust me enough to try?”

She should hate herself for answering without question. “I’d trust you with everything.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

The air is freezing. 

It was usually cold in rooms plagued with heresy and abominations, but this was something different. This was frozen and heartless, the souls of thousands of innocents dragged around to follow their killer. Even with the smoke of the incense, the quiet hymns of the God Emperor dragged through the otherwise silent room, it was undoubtable that this man was evil. 

She’d read his file. She’d heard the stories, watched the tapes closely. Heard his words of praise for his long-dead primarch’s dream. Every single note made on him was in her possession, yet she could not have prepared herself for the man before her. 

He cannot see her. Not yet. He stands against the wall, gravity chains preventing him from moving, his psychic presence dimmed to a near non-existent level. She had watched the men go in before her. She’d not grimaced as they beat him, used every trick they knew to try and get him to speak, not even as they flayed him. Each time another blow hit him, he laughed, never showing an ounce of regret or pain. She’d ordered it to be worse each time they returned. Revenge, she saw it, for everything his legion had done. 

Her jaw tightens as he looks towards the glass she stands behind. To him, it should have appeared black, though she could feel his eyes directly on her. He makes no movements. Blood drips down his body, his skin a mix of its usually pale shade and blue and purple, but he doesn’t even look angry. There is… nothing. 

She crosses her hands behind her back, letting her eyes fall to his file once again. She believed she was in his head, though what really was there to think about when he was little more than a rabid dog? Feral, unwanted, evil. To others, he was a prophet of darkness from a time long before. To her, he was another monster to be used, catechised, and discarded. 

She hears his laugh as the door opens, another set of servitors returning from receiving nothing. He mocked them, even without words. It was a futile effort. It was her turn. 

She closes his file. Her approach to the door is silent, until she curls her fingers around the steel handle of the door, when a quiet voice behind her speaks up. “Will you require us with you, Mistress-Inquisitor?”

“No,” she answers. She pauses for a moment, catching the gaze of the monster through the small viewing port. “It is not effective. You are dismissed.”

They obey her command and leave her in the room, though she knows they reside behind the next locked door. He had been given the most security they could afford. One locked door with the chains and every other precaution was never enough. A silent prayer leaves her lips.

He doesn’t react at first. He watches, silently, as she closes the door behind her. The long dark robes that cover her sway against the floor, her golden jewellery shining against the dim candles that offered just a touch of light. When she stops before him, they watch each other. She feels sick with just the sight of a man like this. Her lips curl downward as she looks down at him. 

He laughs. 

He’s been forced on his knees, stripped of any armour or protection that remained, laid bare before strangers, and taken further than most others could bear. 

Yet he laughs. 

She doesn’t speak, expecting him to stop. He tries to double over, but the chains stop him from moving so far. She hears the hiss in his laugh as his wounds pull and snap, but it doesn’t deter him – not until his laugh turns to a cough, which he tries to ignore. He coughs blood to the ground below him. A drop, no bigger than a coin, decorates her right black boot. 

She doesn’t take her eyes away from his. She moves her foot forward, using his own tortured flesh to wipe the blood away. His thighs are visibly tense. He smiles, blood covering his teeth. 

“Come to play?” he jests, amusement in his tone interrupted by more coughing. She takes a step back to avoid his slaver this time. “What could you possibly have to threaten me with, Mistress-Inquisitor?”

She watches his dark eyes, almost as black as the night sky, look over her. “Everyone has a limit. Everyone has something they want.”

“You’d assume so much of me?”

“Of everyone,” she tells him, “but you would know what it’s like to break people. You have spent far more time than I ever have looking into the eyes of the innocent and watching as they realise you never meant mercy. What is it your father said? No justice without fear, no fear without suffering.”

His laughter falls flat. His movements still. “You believe your beloved Imperial truth does not cause millions to suffer each day?”

“It is the will of the God-Emperor.”

“It is the will of the False Emperor.” He pulls against the chains once more. She does not react. “You see me as a monster. A tyrant seeking death and destruction for every moment of hate we have received. Yet you would turn a blind eye to all the death and destruction your empire makes, shielded by the gold lies you all worship. Do you think we are any different?”

She breathes, her response slow. “I would not kill a child.”

“But if your corpse-god commanded it?” he asks. 

“I would not make that decision of my own will. I could not say the same for you.”

He hums. He leans back in his chains and, for a moment, lets his body relax. He breathes a heavy sigh, his head falling back, eyes falling shut. “Should I be ashamed?”

“I would be.”

For a moment, there are no words. He recovers. His scarred and bloody skin is given time to rest. She does not interrupt him. She could, but there is no need. It would be harder later. She would not prevent the servitors from returning to flay him, to beat him, to torture him until she returned. 

“We are no different, Inquisitor.” He finds her eyes again. “We both use fear to control others. We both commit hideous acts in the name of the truth we believe. But I can admit my failures, Inquisitor. Can you?”

Her jaw tenses. She lets her hands fall by her sides, burrowing them into the loose pockets of her robes to disguise the tremor in her fingers. Her heart rate increases, more than she would have liked until she can feel her pulse in her entire chest.

“I do not fail,” she tells him. 

“No.” He looks to where her hands would be in her pocket as a smirk creeps onto his features. Another slow, denigrating laugh that he drags out for longer than needed. “None of you ever do.”

She does not answer him. She can feel his eyes burning into her as she walks away, her steps vicious and strides long. She clenches her hands into fists in her pockets, her heart still racing. A nod to the servitors has them scurry back into him. 

She leaves his file on the desk, she closes the door without looking back at him. She moves on. She leaves him behind for the evening, working on everything else left to her. She doesn’t think of him again. Not until she closes her eyes to try and sleep, and she sees him staring right back at her. 

He would not be so easy to forget.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

She stands at the edge of the room. She does not look at him, she does not speak. 

She waits. 

For what? Time will tell. She had been here every day. She had asked questions of the future that he was fated to tell, bearing the gifts of his father given to him by the benevolent God-Emperor. She had queried what he knew, what he understood to be true, what he had seen of the future. He never told her. Every question was answered with a riddle, another question, a test of her faith. 

She did not fail. 

“You believe yourself to be the smartest person in this room.” His voice echoes over the silent music. It was not the first time he spoke, but it was the first time she decided to listen. Silently, not giving him the justification of a stare, but she was intrigued. “I don’t need you to answer me. You have to listen to me. Because I may give you what you need, hidden between words to hatred to your corpse-god. You have to hear everything I say.”

He rattles his chains. She pulls a book from her pocket, a small black journal with a golden trim. She reads her own words, forcing herself to not truly listen. 

“Your empire believes it must be cruel to survive, doesn’t it? You must sacrifice those who do not listen, who do not blindly trust the leaders, who lie to you each day about your god emperor that protects you all. You would have all burned in his eyes.”

She doesn’t look up. She rereads the last sentence she wrote over, and over, and over again. 

“Do you even know what your emperor wanted?” he asks. She stops reading. Her eyes just flicker above the page. “He never wanted to be a god. He despised it. Yet you all listen to it. The words you use each day, the teachings of his holiness? It was given to you by a traitor you would wish to burn. He never was a god. He used us all, and you use everyone in the exact same way.”

“It is as easy for you to lie to me as it is for me to have you killed,” she reminds him, keeping her focus on the book. 

“You believe that so?”

She hums. 

“I suppose I would also feel the same if I had killed millions claiming to protect them. I would be able to sleep soundly in my bed thinking my god emperor loved me for my dedication because I was the perfect specimen in his eyes, protecting the world from the powers each and every one of my seniors use behind closed doors.”

“Millions have not died.”

“No?” He laughs, amusement clear. “You have not heard how many planets have had their final order given by your very own Inquisition? To protect the life of others, who would never have even known that the planet existed?”

She looks up to him, nostrils flared. 

“Are you dense?” he questions, voice falling flat, “or are you just ignorant?”

“I have faith.”

“In a broken system that destroys itself?”

“In…” Her words are not finished. She looks up at him, placing her journal back in her pocket. She takes a silent, deep breath. “In the God-Emperor. In what my family and I have fought for our entire lives. You tell me this to make me doubt my faith, to turn me to a blackened faith like all traitors, in the name of your false gods. You spin tales and mock me as though I would have ever believed a word that left the mouth of a monster.”

He does not answer. Not immediately. Their gaze is locked, neither wanting to back away. She feels intimidated, so small before him, but knows she is protected. She would have him wish he had never spoken to her, she’d make him wish that he was never even born. 

“In the name of false gods?” he asks, as though curious. 

Her thoughts pause. The temptation to have the servitor’s return is high but stopped momentarily. Her hand grips the journal in her pocket. 

“I do not care for the gods,” he tells her, “I do not fight for any god or any being. Nothing I know is worth fighting for.”

“You lie.”

“I have no reason to lie to you.” His words send a chill down her spine. “I only have reason to make you see the truth you so easily ignore.”

She couldn’t even bring herself to deny it one last time.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

She had locked the servitors behind the third door. She had ordered them to leave him, days ago now. She had seen him slowly regain strength, rebuild his own body as she stayed chained to the imperial prison around him. 

“You know more of the Emperor than I ever will.”

Her thoughts are open. She does not look at him as she speaks, instead, her eyes are focused on the hem of her robes, curled against the floor where she sits. Her back is against the wall. Her jewellery was left behind. She no longer hid behind the Aquila of her faith. 

“I only knew that he hated us,” Talos tells her. He breathes deeply, not looking at her either. “Our father hated us. Our Emperor hated us. Who else could have been so lucky?”

She looks at him, lingering over his body for longer than she meant to. His eyes flickered in the candlelight, more brightly now she allowed more to be brought in, yet still darker than any others. “Why?”

“Did he hate us?” he finishes, finally meeting her gaze. He laughs, though it is not like before. It only mocks the life he had and what he knew. “We were not what he wanted.”

“Why did you continue to follow him?” 

Talos pauses. His gaze falters, and he looks to the floor for a moment. By the time he returned to look at her, she had sat up taller, finding herself interested in the answer. Not out of spite. Not because she wished to punish him. It was because she felt pity. 

“I did not want to be like the others,” he answers. He pulls on the chains once more, sighing when he cannot sit how he wished. “They would slaughter for fun. For thrill. For their own pleasure. But that was not the aim. Our Primarch did not want us to kill without meaning. I did not want to kill without meaning.”

“What meaning does your killing have now?”

He pauses one more time. “Vengeance. Vindication. So my brothers did not die in vain.”

 “They did not.” She pushes herself to her feet swiftly. He watches her, though his interest piques when she nears him. She stops before him, merely inches away from him, and sinks to her knees. She is still smaller than him, she still looks up to him. “You and I are different.”

He doesn’t answer her. 

She gently runs the tip of her finger across the scar that runs the length of his right thigh. She brushes over the new scars formed by the people around her. Her lashes flutter as she looks back at him. 

“You are stronger than I could ever be,” she admits to him. Her hands tremble ever so slightly. She feels him pull at his chains again. Instinctively, she reaches into her pocket. He follows her movements like a hawk. “You were not deceived by those around you, not led to believe every lie spoon-fed by those who wish for power.”

She stops moving her hand. His breathing catches, she only just hears it. “You will kill me?”

From her pocket, she pulls a chain of keys. Each is comically embezzled and extravagant in its purpose. She knows which one controls his chains, she had memorised it before he was placed with her. She pulls the key out, fingers running over the cold metal. After a moment, she reaches behind him, placing the key in its lock, turning it ever so slightly. 

Then, a click. 

She stops breathing. 

He doesn’t move. 

She reaches behind him to where his hands were chained to the wall. Her hands seem so small compared to his, yet she doesn’t hesitate. She knew that one movement and he could kill her with those hands. She unlocked their chains with one, swift movement. 

“Why should I decide who is to live and die?” she says, voice softer than a whisper. She sits back on her knees, looking down to the floor. He still doesn’t move, even with his hands freed. “The only person in my life that has not lied to me is you. How can I say who is right and who is wrong?”

She stands without looking at him. Her thoughts ran from her, any logic or sanity fleeing what remained. Had she intended to let him go? No. Did he deserve it? Perhaps not. But to live in a world that lied, to uphold the values she did without question… Not anymore. 

As she turns to leave, she feels his hand. It wraps around hers, and though he does not hurt her, he holds her tight enough she cannot walk away. “We haven’t finished.”

“What is there to say?” she asks. She turns back to him, eyes stopping on every scar she had caused on the way. When she reaches his eyes, she struggles to keep her lips still. “I will die at the hands of this empire, be it today or in the years to come. Take your freedom whilst you can.” 

“Your death is no more deserving than mine.”

He releases her hand. She feels it shaking and hides it in her pocket once more. She takes a deep breath and turns from him. Her steps are smaller, she feels the watchful eyes of sin around her, degrading her, but she cannot turn around again. 

There’s no sound of pulling on chains, there’s no vengeance for his torture. She grasps the handle of the door and expects to feel him behind her, but there’s nothing. She reaches for the keys once more and throws them to the ground below. As the door is pulled open, he tries again. 

“I will not be the one that signs your execution order.”

She nods once. Her head turns ever so slightly to the side, and she can see him still in the same position, still kneeling, still holding his arms at his side despite his freedom. She doesn’t reach for the keys. She doesn’t even bother to shut the door properly – no one would come here without her order. 

She leaves him with only a few words. “Then we shall see each other tomorrow, Talos.”

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Neither speaks. 

It is not an uncomfortable silence, nor one brought on by the lack of conversation. It was a natural pause. A moment of reflection. 

It felt like he always had a question for her, always prepared with another truth to teach her. She did not idolise him, she wasn’t even sure how she felt, but she had found herself seeking answers as though the world was entirely new. She would sit beside him. She would have her fingers tracing the marks on his skin. She would not leave at night so she could sit beside him and hear the voice that haunted her dreams and lingering thoughts. 

And this was a night like the others before had been. 

“I will take you,” Talos says, dividing the peace between them momentarily. She raises her eyebrows, though lets him continue. “Wherever you want to go. I will show you the stars. I will show you everything.”

“You truly believe we would make it that far?”

“Would you trust me enough to try?”

She should hate herself for answering without question. “I’d trust you with everything.”

It had been 47 days. She’d spent every single one of those in his company, for hours on end at the very least, and now… she’d been with him for almost 84 hours straight. She only left the room to refill the jug of water afforded to him and share her rations. It wasn’t a lot, it wasn’t enough, but it would do. Just for now. 

“Then you would trust me to leave this place with you?” he asks. She looks at him with slightly widened eyes. His tone is flat, he did not laugh or smile. He doesn’t allow her to answer him yet. “I have seen my death, and it’s not in this room or by the hands of anyone here. I will leave this place and live for years to come.”

Her heart sinks just a touch. She stops tracing his scars just above a connection point. “Why haven’t you left?”

“I wouldn’t live with my decision to leave you behind.”

“You would not be responsible for my death if you did. I let you escape. That is my choice.”

“It is not for that reason, Inquisitor.” 

“Do not call me that.” She turns her body from his, just enough for him to notice, but his hand on her knee, lingering just up her thigh ever so slightly, prevents her from moving. She sighs. “Your power armour is kept in—”

“I will not leave without you.”

His words create another silence. This one is not natural, though not uncomfortable either. She doesn’t know how to answer him. She turns back to him, their bodies just touch, and she notices how his skin burns. He leans to her ever so slightly. His fingertips dig into her skin so she won’t move again. 

“I will not leave without you,” he repeats, momentarily glancing away. The keys that she dropped before were never touched. He hadn’t moved more than a few feet since she unchained him. “You trust me. Then let me take you from here. You will not have to work under the name of the false emperor again. I do not care what you believe in. But you will be free.”

Her heart thumps in her chest harder than ever before. She trusted him. She believed that he would give her the freedom she desired after learning the truth those around her hid from. 

Her breath is shaky, her voice quiet. “You could kill me.”

“I could have from the moment you met me,” he tells her. His admission does not surprise her. Not now she fully understood. Her life was meaningless to the system that held her. He places his hand over hers and holds it tight. To him though? She was significant. She mattered. “Though I don’t think I could ever harm you. Not now.”

The silence continues once more. She watches him, her eyes grazing each of his features, though her hand still sits beneath his. He must feel the way it trembles; she could barely control it – lest she control the way her heart hammers against her ribs. 

He wouldn’t leave without her. 

It was not doubt in him. It was not doubt in herself. It was doubt in the world around them. She felt her chest growing tighter, his stare, his presence, all of it becoming so suffocating. Her entire life had been her belief. Her parents told her stories of the evil that men like him committed. Her seniors told her stories of the evil that his legion brought with them. She followed every order, so blindly, so stupidly, and now given the choice…

“You are afraid.”

Her jaw tightens. She feels embarrassed for him to say it so easily. She can’t look him in the eyes, not without a denial. 

He takes his hand away from hers, though replaces it on her cheek. He’s so gentle. Not the monster everyone made him out to be. His fingers follow the curves of her cheek, softly lifting her face to his once more. “I trust you, too.”

“Why?” she asks, “I ordered your torture. I ordered all of this.”

“And you listened when I spoke. You stopped when you realised that it was wrong. You have slept on my shoulder, knowing at any time I could squeeze that pretty neck of yours and kill you in a matter of seconds. You branded me a monster and now you let me hold you.”

He exhales slowly. His hand feels so rough against her, the calloused and scarred skin leaving its trace on her, no matter how careful she is. Words fail her, just for a moment, but he does not care. He lowers his forehead until it rests against her own. He’s tense, he’s a natural-born killer, never meant to have an ounce of emotion leave him. Yet, for the smallest moment, she feels it all. 

“I’ve never known a life outside of this,” she admits to him. She tries to pull back from him, one final defence, but it’s futile. He moves with her. “This… it’s all I know.”

“You will learn.” His promise is met with lips that ghost over her own. “Just let me show you.”

His breath tickles her skin. Her hand moves to his cheek, mirroring his own actions. She believes him. She feels her eyes burn, relief washing over her, but she refuses to let herself cry. Not yet. Everything feels still. Everything outside of the room seems to disappear, just for a moment. 

But there’s a subtle click. 

They both hear it. A soft that would have been missed if either had spoken, but as fate would have it, the barest scrape of the metal door had threatened them. Her heart stops, neither of them breathes. Her fear is matched by his calculation. 

He doesn’t hesitate. He pulls back from her, standing to his feet as his gaze snaps towards the door. Without armour, without any weapons, he was limited, yet he was ready to kill. She stands behind him, her hands balled into fists. She knows. She has to choose. 

“Talos?”

He doesn’t look at her again. “Stay behind me.”

She silently accepts. His choice. His command. His promise to her. 

He would never leave without her. 

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

He taught her survival.

She had listened intently as he showed her how life worked outside of the protection her status once brought her. Her parents, devout and respected, never showed her the life that dwelled beneath them. They did not show her the hive city underbelly that crawled with crime, desperation, and hatred. But he did. 

He was obvious, stuck out like a raven among doves. No human looked like him, acted like him, or was built like him. A tool of war, an angel of the emperor – now nothing more than a fugitive hidden between spaces in a world of others wishing to remain invisible. 

“Trust no one,” he had told her one evening, using his own body to keep her warm. She’d had to ditch the gold-laden robes of expensive fabrics, hidden away with the power armour that made him all the more obvious. “Assume everyone lies. Assume everyone only cares for themselves. Assume you and I are alone for the rest of our lives.”

And would it have been so bad?

Would she have found it so troubling to be within the arms of a man she didn’t even know a year prior?

No. It wasn’t because she needed him – which she did, in many ways – but because she would have been lost without him, and he would have been worse without her. She remembers his bitter laugh the day they met. The mocking tone he used as he called out her beliefs. The sneer of disgust at what she was.

Now he looked at her as though his entire world would burn if she had disappeared. He stood in front of her at the slightest threat. He told her stories of a past she could have only dreamed to understand. He let the littlest snippets of his heart shine through, between the pain, the suffering, and the monster that resided below.

She had taught him hope. 

“Perhaps one day there will be peace,” she told him. Her head rested on his arm, and though his eyes were closed, he was not resting. Merely enjoying the small moment of reprise that the midnight hours brought. She leaves him to define where the peace would lay. “It wouldn’t matter to me, though.”

One of his eyes opened. “It wouldn’t?”

“I am already at peace,” she replies, “there are times when things could be easier of course, but I have made peace with the future I chose.”

He had not answered. His arm, slung loosely over her waist, tightens ever so slightly. He pulls her body into his, the concrete they sleep on forgotten for a moment. He mumbles something, incoherent on purpose. 

“I know they will find us one day.” She had guessed his words, but the way he stiffened beneath her meant she was somewhat on par with him. “I know they will kill me for what I have done.”

“I would not allow it.”

She hums, turning to him. She’s so close to him that their noses brush. “You cannot protect me from everything. I will die one day, as will you.”

“You will not die at the hands of the Imperium you once served,” he tells her, a quiet promise. He looks behind her, as though he can see her future as well. “And if they try, they will all burn.”

They hadn’t spoken of it again. 

The days passed, weeks, then months, and life moved on around them as though they had nothing to fear. She was never sure how he spent his days, manual labour she supposed, quiet work to ensure silence and somewhere to stay. She had done the same, working for rations and clothes or anything else essential. Nothing special. Nothing she would remember days later. 

She had felt her hope growing stronger. The longer her presence was kept a secret, the more likely it was that he would do everything he promised. He’d show her the stars. He’d take her to places he spoke of. He’d return to his warband, he’d keep her with them – with him.

He must have felt it, too. He spoke often of his brothers. The ones he respected, more so. The quiet tales of comradery and triumph they had once felt. He had shown her a memory for every one of the scars on his body. He’d explained every chink in his armour, every stained bit of paint. 

Talos had sworn to her when he kissed her softly, that there would never be a life without them together. 

Everything she thought she knew was challenged. He trusted her. He helped her. He may have even loved her, in his way. Astartes were not meant to do this, let alone from a traitor legion. He should never have wanted to kiss her, hold her, feel her in every way, but he initiated it each and every time. 

Everything she knew was a lie. 

And everything she was beginning to believe was short-lived. 

She should have paid attention to the eyes that followed her. She should have thought to say more to him when a figure followed her through the streets. She should have taken them somewhere else instead of revealing everything. But she was worried. She thought it was someone waiting to harm her. She thought, if anything happened, she would rather be with him. 

She led the end straight to them, and neither had realised. 

The rain poured outside. The midnight sky left only the candlelight available to them. She recorded her thoughts, those which related to the day and some of her more private thoughts, in her journal beside a candle. He sat behind her, meditating, away from the world for just a few moments. 

She’d looked back at him more than once. Admired him, silently with a smile, wondered how she had even managed all of this. She thought about what may have happened if they had stayed, if she’d been more careful when he was in his cell so could have just an ounce of extra freedom than they did now. She was lost in her thoughts of possibilities, daydreaming as she watched over him.

He had reacted before she did. His eyes opened; she frowned. 

“What?” she asked, noticing him looking around. His eyes tried to locate the source of whatever he had heard. He stopped on a crack in the wall that resembled a door, though it was not because someone was outside. “Talos, what is wrong?”

He doesn’t look at her. “They have come.”

“They?”

“For you,” he tells her. He finally looks at her, rising to his feet in one swift movement. He takes a step towards her, reaching his hand to cradle her cheek. “You must go.”

“Not without you.”

“You do not have a choice.”

“I do,” she insists, standing as well. He shakes his head, but she protests still. “We go together. I won’t leave here without you.”

He swallows, a momentary pause as he looks back to where he had heard whatever noise. “You won’t leave here at all unless you go.”

She reaches for his hand, dragging her attention back to him. Her lips are parted, though no indication of sound leaves them. She silently protests, wanting to tell him no, but knowing he is far better at this than her. 

“I will find you,” he tells her. He lifts her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. She nods, though hesitant. “Do not look back. Do not trust anyone. Go.”

And she does. 

She runs, she never stops. 

She hears the screams from where she was before. She clutches the journal in her pocket as her tattered shoes wear against the stones and concrete of the streets. She feels her eyes burn, and she lets herself cry this time. 

But just when she finally stops to catch her breath, never to look behind, never to speak to another soul, she feels them all right behind her.   

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Her eyes burned. 

Not like the first time she trusted him. Not like when she ran. This was something else entirely. 

She had cried a thousand times, each tear shed for another lie told to her. They called her a sinner, a heretic, a traitor to their beliefs. They kept her in a room, maybe the one she had once sat in with him, but they did not ever send someone to beat her, to burn her, to flay her. They left her in darkness, in silence, on her own. 

She knew what it meant. She knew exactly what her fate was to be. 

They’d dragged her from her cell. They’d stripped her of all her clothes and dignity, paraded around her as they dowsed her body in sacred oils that she once held as well. They’d prayed, never for her, but for their beloved emperor, then draped her with symbols of what it meant to betray them in such a way. 

She was a display. She was a message. 

They’d strung her body to the pyre. She never had the will to fight it, allowing them to hold her in place as the ropes wrapped tighter and tighter around her skin and sunk into her flesh, causing an array of cuts and bruises. She’d let her head hang, the sky too bright for her to look up to, and wondered if maybe she’d see him again when her soul was freed. 

And the last thing on her lips as the priests started singing their chants, as the public was invited in to see in real-time what would happen to a traitor, as they held her lips to a drink meant to guarantee her death, was his name. 

Talos. 

She had missed it all. 

Her eyes barely opened as the screams started, as the shots were fired. They had misjudged him, they had expected him to run. In some way, she had thought he did too. She had forgotten that maybe, just maybe, he had been following along this whole time. One step behind them, until they stopped moving. 

No one had started the fire beneath her. Maybe their mistake. He’d have stopped if he saw her burning, knew that he had no chance to save her. He’d have hesitated for just long enough for them to kill him as well. She’d have known, if she saw him, standing in a room filled with bodies of those who would have watched her burn in the name of their corpse-god. 

It was his hands she felt first. She didn’t care for the blood that soaked her skin, it was no different to the oils she had been covered in already. She didn’t care how desperate he was as he pulled the ropes from around her, how he accidentally caught her in his swift and untamed movements. 

He held her in his arms, carried her like she still had a chance, not knowing her fate had been sealed. Like they knew. Like someone had seen him come here for her, and they knew it would be his ruin. Like they would allow everyone in this room to be killed just to prove a point. 

“You’re okay,” he whispers, so gently she almost misses it. 

Her eyes flutter open, slowly, still heavy and burning. She feels the smile that lines her lips when she’s able to make out his features, his body knelt beside her. She silently says his name, but her throat is full, her mouth tasting metallic. 

“I can help,” he tells her. He rests her body on the floor, away from the slaughter, careful to support her. As he lays her down, her body feels limp already. She wasn’t sure how long it had been. He must have realised that she was not spared. “I will find something and I… I’ll—"

She reaches for his hand. Though it takes some time to find it, she’s able to just curl her fingers around his own. It stops him, just long enough for her to croak out words in a low voice. “…you can’t.”

“I can.”

She grips his hand tighter, not allowing him to leave. “Don’t… leave me… to die for them.”

“You will not die.” There is hesitation in his voice. He’s unsure. He knows she is correct. “Not for them. Not now.”

“Don’t let it be them.”

Her eyes fall to his bolter. He follows her gaze but immediately shakes his head. “No.”

“Please,” she tells him. She chokes, turning to her side to cough some of the blood lining her teeth and mouth to the ground. She winces as her lungs are hard to fill, blood drenching their every fibre. “Please, Talos.”

He neglects her an answer. She struggles to keep her eyes open, instead leaning into the cold press of his armour as he carefully picks her up once more. She can feel the gravity around her as he sits on something, not the ground, resting her in his arms. Her head falls to his shoulder, just tilted enough so she can see his face. 

“My last breath,” she whispers, hand drifting over his armour, trying to find something she remembered, “it’s yours.”

She doesn’t cry. No more tears are lost, there wouldn’t have been many left anyway. 

She was certain of her fate and held no other wish. Her thoughts stilled, her body becoming numb as the seconds moved on. She saw the way his jaw clenched, how his eyes lost any hope that remained in them. She felt his breath on her face as she struggled to keep her eyes open. 

He whispers, knowing she may understand. “You were the only thing worth fighting for.”

She remembered the way he once held her like this as they watched the stars. She’d feigned an injury in the hopes he would carry her – in truth she wanted to watch the way the stars twinkled in his dark eyes, feel his warmth on her skin, and know that maybe he did care about her the way she did for him. He’d hesitated then, but picked her up without complaint. He’d never wanted her to leave his arms after that. 

She never heard the shot. She never felt the pain. It was over too quick. 

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

a/n: I wrote most of this between the hours of 2am - 5am so I am so sorry about all the mistakes. I will eventually go back to correct them. I hope this captures talos well enough as I dont know much about him bar common knowledge. anyway, thank you for reading!!

[superconductivebean]

#1606: Fig's Death Theory, Everyone

I have chosen angst and violence tonight.

Eleazar dies not so much from a physical injury but from inhaling the junk from the repo after it has been dismantled, and veined the entire area with what we know is called 'pain'. Then, Eleazar subsequently suffers a heart arrest (supposedly).

The junk is not really 'pain'. It is not Ancient Magic either; everyone is able to see them. Pieces of souls, these are. Memories. Something that stings you in the very heart when a thought of something happy, painful, awful, horrifying, or aggravating crosses your memory in that very specific way that makes your mind screech I MISS YOU / I HATE YOU / I AM MISERABLE / I MISS MY LIFE / I WISH TO HAVE DIED.

It's melancholy—or the bittersweet longing for something ethereal of depression. A dream, maybe, or a wish for something that cuts that pain—that sting—that scald away.

As all scalds, it can sit deep. Rather, this repo junk are the condensed spirits of Depression, or the amplifier of rage and violence in us—the Desperation.

Someone like Ranrok or Isidora, idealists to the brim deep within themselves, are also *violent* and stubborn. They are most prone to fall in the state of rabid desperation. They are pained by not seeing a better world; they want to bring it closer, in a way they imagined it.

They got lost in how best to achieve it, if they even thought of any plans whatsoever past a certain point. Ranrok's Loyalists, some of whom used to be peaceful protesters and activists, had fallen for that feeling as well (Belgruff the Bludgeoner, to name an one).

That was their demise, ultimately.

Someone like Eleazar—a kind and a simple man, honourable, nor prone to get what he needs by force or deception, well, except just a little but he fails a it—would succumb to grieving upon taking in some of that junk.

Throughout the game, rarely a scene passes where he is *not* mentioning Miriam or *not* being fascinated by her findings and research or, evidently, being very much in love with her; he keeps a tiny letter near his bed, written in her hand, where she wrote that he was right about the bowtruckles and that she owed him 3 knuts. He remembers. He loves. He does not let go.

He would've been overwhelmed—on top of suffering from an injury.

Perhaps, he could've got by just fine. He is a strong man. He had never betrayed his composure, and when it did happen, we see it only briefly and in passing, fleeting even. But at the last moments of his life, he was also extremely proud of MC.

He saw his young charge of just four fucking months* defeating an unfathomable creature of unknown powers and abilities. They were at their prime, they have also shown that to the entire staff body minus few people; they are everything Miriam could've wanted to see, plus the fight with Ranrok.

It would've *hurt* because it's how the Depression-Desperation just might manifest. I am going to give an insight into this, it might feel like TMI, but Depression is my brand so please bear, hee hee.

Sometimes, it's the feeling of being left behind and needing to keep up—without dissection, it translates to spurs of envy. What you really feel is, you aren't as productive and/or as amazing in raw quality, which are just… skills. It shouldn't eat you up like this. You can and will learn, and you will develop your own techniques.

The feeling of happiness for yourself or someone else, but it burns you away because just *feeling* feelings is unbearable, like washing a fresh cut in a lukewarm water or breathing on a burn. It's just… too much sensitivity.

The feeling of trying to comprehend the *comprehensible* but the sheer scale of it frights and induces a weird sting of panic that you will not ever understand what you have just seen, let alone repeat. If you have ever learnt a difficult skill or another language, you know how it feels sometimes.

Eleazar, overwhelmed with grief for Miriam, but also brimmed with pride for MC, dies from his heart stopping, unable to process such complex and intense feelings. Maybe, he was just too old for this. Or maybe, the injury wore him down just enough for the third thing to play its part—the stress. Anyway. He had too much. And yet. On the deathfloor, he does not just remember Miriam.

He acknowledges MC as a friend, of him and Miriam, who would've absolutely *loved* them to be around and not just *liked*. Well. I lied. His heart was able to process—but not keep up with it.

Thank you for staying by my brief violent moment of indescribable sadness. I ascend, okbye.

*the game starts on sept 1ts, 1890. the fourth trial and the final repository quests happen shortly after christmas, so it must be january, 1891, perhaps, even early january, still during the christmas break. i typically place the repo quest on jan, 4th, 1891.

tags @espressoristretto-patronum @endeavour12345 @girl-named-matty @thriftstorebabayaga @the-magiarcheologist lets commiserate

[jdorian]

istg if the twitter crazies ruin this for us and get him fired while edy stayed for a whole season despite what she said/did literal weeks ago, not years.

they won't get him fired, I highly doubt Tim gives a crap about what is being said on twitter. I'd wager that the only person on the show who is actually seeing this shit is Lou. (I mean, I bet Oliver has a burner but yk lmao)

but if it gets to a certain level, I would absolutely not be surprised if he'd pull back from social media or the show itself. I have no idea about his inner workings, he's essentially a stranger to us (so is the rest of the cast) but he spoke about getting hateful comments a few years ago and how he didn't really mind, since his fans always came to his defense, so he didn't really have to worry about it.

his filmography is filled with noname small appearances though, aside from S.W.A.T. and that show doesn't have half the size of the fandom as 911 —nor is he the subject of shipping wars turning people into rabid dogs on the internet over fictional men to the degree that he is on 911twt.

so who knows how much it's getting to him. I really couldn't care less who likes and dislikes any of the actors, but harassing other, real people, be it someone on the show or other fans will never be an okay behaviour and it will never go without an impact, unfortunately.

but one thing that I don't see any of these 911 "fans" considering is the limitless pettiness of Tim Minear.

if, after sending him death threats over cut scenes just this year, they end up chasing away the guy who played the characer who gave Tim such a refreshing opportunity to finally go there with bi Buck and the accidental writing genuis that is the invisible string theory, then made him exit before Tim could work out his storyline to its natural progression — which is a phrase we're hearing a lot in the interviews and for a reason — yeah, I don't know how keen he would be on catering to that side or the fandom.

also yeah, no one gaf about Edy, so I really don't think this would break the camel's back with a character that has an actual personality and some bearing on the story, instead of being a pushover cardboard cutout who was only kept around because having two off-screen breakups didn't scratch Tim's writing itch.

[hughiecampbelle]

Random Headcanons About Baby Roy:

Warning/s: addiction, addiction mention, drugs, alcohol mention

A/N: I think about Baby Roy all the time, lol. I just love them. I thought some fun headcanons would be nice :) Based on these headcanons and this fic series!

Baby loves screamo. Anything and everything screamo. Also any alternative artist! The more raunchy, the better. Any car or room they're in, they're listening to it or humming it or playing it in their headphones. Everyone's come to expect it and ignore it as best they can. Especially Karl and Frank, they hate it. Gerri just shrugs. it's not hurting you or anyone else, leave it be

It absolutely drives Connor insane, especially when you and Roman gang up on him and recite verses. Roman doesn't love your music, but it's so worth it to watch your other siblings cringe and get all uncomfortable

"That d*ick tastes like yankee candl-" I love Ashnikko lol

"Y/n, please."

"You wanna hear a so-"

"No."

Baby unironically plays Where's My Juul?? by Lil Mariko in front of Connor who has no idea what a juul actually is lol

Baby has a wicked sweet tooth. Kendall's been sneaking them candy since they were little, but it seems like you always have something sweet. A lollipop, gumballs, gummy bears, etc.

"You'll get a cavity."

"This is my one vice, let me be."

Shiv is always holding out her hand for whatever you've got. She doesn't ask, she just expects it. You never mind, it's nice to share with her. Besides, it makes her feel like a little kid, too

Baby loves gory movies. Growing up, when all the kids were together, they'd have movie night. When it was your turn, you always chose the goriest thing you could find. Rome would sit with his hands over his eyes and Connor would hold a pillow, But you, Ken, and Shiv would be totally into it

"Just wait! His head gets ripped off!"

"This can't be appropriate."

Baby is actually very smart. Despite all the partying, their grades were perfect. Logan had no need to worry. Maybe you weren't showing up to class, but you were there for tests and that's all that mattered. You throw your intelligence in your brothers faces

"Can you even spell egotistical?"

You make endless jokes about your sobriety that none of them like except for Roman. The others shoot daggers at you with a look that says "not funny" You think it's funny though, and that's all that matters

"I'll be at the bar, you guys chat. Kidding! I was kidding, jeez."

"Does anyone else need a strong drink right about now?"

"They say the food is like crack, but I know crack and this isn't that."

"I used to take handfuls of pills to this song. Now look at me, I've become a monster."

Connor is horrified. Every time you say anything, he's speechless. Shiv gets very serious and Kendall spirals, but Rome likes it. If you can't joke about it, what good is it?

Baby has lots of tattoos and piercings. It's the only socially acceptable way to self harm that isn't drugs and alcohol. Logan hates them and Connor thinks they're unsightly, but you don't really care. Gerri always wants to see the new ones you got, though she prefers they be covered up in the office

"I like that one, that one's very cute."

"Thanks, Mommy."

She hates when you call her that. For you, your and Gerri's relationship, it's not at all sexual like it is with Roman. She is genuinely your mother figure. She is warm and caring and only wants the best from you. She can always tell when things are getting bad again

"Oh honey, you don't look so good."

"Mommy, I don't feel so good."

She really does love you. Someone has to. She knows your mother and Logan don't. Someone has to be there for you

Both Karl and Frank are afraid of you. Between the music, the addictions, the tattoos, the piercings, everything is intimidating to them. You're not competing like your siblings, that scares them the most. You want nothing to do with the company

"Think they're rabid?"

"Might be."

You love it, the way they always back away when you get too close, like you're demonic or infected

Baby, I think, would write a lot. Not just your feelings, which are so hard to put into words, but good things that happened, reasons to stay sober

You have a notebook or something that they use to write in. You've brought it to every rehab you've ever been to and constantly reread it over and over. No one knows about it, and if they notice, they don't bring it up. It's yours

Reasons To Stay Sober: Connor, Kendall, Shiv, Rome. Connor, Kendall, Shiv, Rome. Connor, Kendall, Shiv, Rome. Connor, Kendall, Shiv. . .

You have a sobriety birthday and every month you bake a cake. It always turns out shitty, lopsided, and burned and runny at the same time, but decorating it makes you feel like a kid again

You're always wearing your siblings clothes. You're always stealing someone's jacket or socks or shirt or sweater. You like it. It makes you feel close to them

They've just come to expect it

"You look better in that shirt than I do, keep it."

"I was going to anyways."

You have those moments of deep regret and embarrassment and self-consciousness that always end up in tears, but your siblings are there to pick up the pieces

Connor especially will just hold you as long as you need and listen to everything you have to get out

You feel so deeply sorry for hurting them and scaring them so much. You just wanted it to stop. You wanted not to he angry anymore

They tell you they understand, but you know they don't. Not really. They can't unless they've felt the way you have

Baby falls asleep on all the siblings. Even Roman will let them get away with it, but no one else. You snuggle into them and have the best sleep of your life

"Quit moving."

"Don't use me as a pillow, then."

You get away with (mostly) everything because you're their baby and they love you so much. They love you so much it's gross

Connor still prides himself on the way he raised you. There were bumps in the road, but you ended up perfect. Absolutely perfect

They all pride themselves on how they raised you. It wasn't always good, they weren't always there, but they're making up for all that now. Logan is gone. Slowly they're breaking the cycle, for you and for them

Things will get better. You've hit rock bottom so many times and always found a way out. This is that. This is your out

[silvyysthings]

off topic but as Timmy fan I feel some Timmy fans needs to chill (majority) the f down. It’s like some just cannot bear to see any form of criticism whether justified or not or any valid opinion of other people (who are not fans). No I am not talking about blatant rude comments or remarks. But a discussion should be allowed, valid criticism should be allowed (as otherwise how would people grow and improve) as long as this is respectful and not personal or derogatory and other people’s opinions should be allowed(they are allowed to have them and express them even if we disagree with them). It’s like a defence army out there online that polices everyone negative thing said about him or ACU and calls out everyone who even mildly raises valid questions or issues. It starting to irk a lot of people and his fans are now seen a rabid wackos. That’s not a good look and I think fans need to understand it is ACTUALLY harming him and his work/success. People really need to chills and act as a grown ups.

p.s. not directed at you Silvy but it’s really painful to watch as a fan.

I agree, in my blog discussions are always allowed if made without insults. I hate fandom police honestly 😅

In some cases, however, they are useless because either the topics have already been discussed a lot of times or because we have to realize that it is not our life and these are his decisions .

[rabidwerewolfie]

I cherish my sleep. I mean I REALLY REALLY value it. Me and my bed are on a first name basis.

So it's a REALLY bad idea to piss me off by interrupting it repeatedly.

But this bear has been bother Debbie and I for WEEKS now and decided that tonight was MY turn!!

First I let Sutter Cain out. usually he's enough to chase them off, but this bastard was stubborn and kept coming back to go after my garbage can.

I keep bottles of ammonia around just for this purpose. So I splashed a bunch on, in, and around my can. Not 10 minutes later, guess who comes back and makes me get out of bed.

Ok, I thought, I'll show you. I added bleach AND ammonia to the can. HAve a faceful of THAT, sucker! I thought for SURE this time I would be able to go back to bed. I had JUST closed my eyes when the dogs begin barking and I hear the BANG of my can being knocked over again.

This time after I chase it off, I grab one of my home made spears and set it by the door. Make Sutter Cain stay inside so I don't accidentally hurt him. My aim is pretty good so I threw it as the bastard was running away and tagged his flank.

Most likely it didn't penetrate, but he felt it. I tried going to bed ONE LAST TIME!!! Nope, he came back again.

At this point, I have finally had enough. I grabbed my spear, set up a chair, and I waited outside. The thing with these bears is that as long as you don't move, they will walk right past you. So I let this son of a bitch, his big ugly head would come up to my waist if I were standing up, come to within about 5 feet of me, and then I stabbed him RIGHT in the chest. I KNOW that penetrated because I felt it.

Not enough to kill the damn thing, sadly, but it's going to sting a bit.

Bear lurched back, hissed, half raised a paw, then swung around and DASHED through my son's little blue wading pool to get away form me. In the morning I'll check if there's a blood trail and deal with it if so.

It's been almost an hour now and blessed silence. Not a single warning bark, although Sutter Cain is still outside on patrol. Hopefully he finally got the hint he's not welcome around here.

You can assume I'm exaggerating, straight up lying, or simply insane, as long as you let me fucking sleep.

[sharpvst]

always an angel ,

never a 𝖌𝖔𝖉.

felix river catton.

��𝖍𝔢 𝖌𝔬𝖉.

I.

" he was right. river is quite silly. but i suppose you don't pick your child's name imagining one day you'll think about what it will look like carved on a headstone. choose a font . . "

life after the death of a god.

saltburn spoilers. 🍷

trigger warnings ; mentions of death , slight sexual themes.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

oh felix . . beautiful , beautiful felix. not a day goes by that oilver doesn't think about him. his one true love — his one true lust. he misses him , somewhat. life after felix catton hasn't been the same. it seems like farleigh was right. he's clinging onto that one summer , jacking off to the former feeling.

he just can't help himself.

it's been years since saltburn , and oliver cannot get it out of his mind. that time — that place. the people. felix. oh . . oh felix.

he loved him , hated him , despised him , lusted for him , loved him , loved him , hated him. killed him.

what is he to do now ? sit and rot for years to come? that's what he's been doing. after saltburn everything changed — he thought it would be for the better but it's just for the worst. now he knows how poor dear pamela felt.

he clings onto the final moments with felix , the silence , the sound of felix's breath on his skin. i don't know what you are , but i do know that you make my fucking blood run cold.

farleigh was right. oliver may have just been one of felix's pets but felix was more than that to oliver. oliver was a bashful stray dog that felix adopted , fed , and shaped into the dog he is today. he's rabid , almost as if he's infested with rabies.

he goes feral for the past , always rutting onto his bed sheets like a dog in heat. oh how he wishes thing's could've ended better. in truth , felix didn't have to die. but at that point and time oliver thought it would be for the best. but something within him . . regrets it.

everyone moved on — but he stayed there.

farleigh moved on , back to america he trotted to collect his bearings and move on. he's relatively the same . . just alone. after saltburn he has become unable to get close to anyone. unable to make friends - make love , anything. he's a hallow shell of a man now. farleigh still visits the family grave every year.

meanwhile , oliver does not. oliver sulks alone in his bed most days. sobbing like a rotten child into his bedsheet pretending that felix is there coddling him. oliver cannot move on from that time and place. he thinks about it too much. he thinks about the beautiful venetia , and how it was such a shame how it ended with her. but those words , what she called him - everything. he remembers them all.

oliver has to remind himself most days to do everyday normal human things — he has to remind himself that he's still living in breathing while felix's corpse is well past decomposition. felix is a pile of bones whilst oliver is still breathing. it feels wrong.

oliver wasn't meant for this world , oliver wasn't really meant for anything. he should've just went back to the factory where they made olivers. maybe one day he'll come to terms with what happened that summer.

but as the summers pass on and on , he grows older and older . . things don't change. he's feelings don't change. he truly never grew up after saltburn. deep down he's still that nineteen year old oxford boy.

what is he to do now other than rot alongside his long lost love. he deserves it after all. oliver fucking quick isn't meant for anything but death.

[ferylcheryl]

The first chapter of my western t4t Hartnell/Blanky fic, The Dogs of Spring, has been posted. Link under cut.

I’d heard all the way from Arkansas about Tom Blanky, how he’d talked a dog out of being rabid and charmed silver to the surface of the rock, how he could drink his hollow wooden leg’s worth of whiskey and not so much as stumble. He could break any horse, they said, but he didn’t like to do it because he thought most horses were better than most men which was correct. My favorite story about him though was the one about the she-bear who chased him into a cave and came out pregnant.

Having heard all this, and having thought that Tom Blanky was a made-up man like John Henry or Pecos Bill were made-up, not even a man exaggerated but nonexistent, never was, it was sure a funny mix of delight and disappointment to find him asleep under the stair leading up to the second floor of Beechey’s one saloon, which was also a cathouse and the one place to eat and the stagecoach stop. I couldn’t afford a room though so the barkeep Dig told me I could bed down under the stairs so long as I left the girls upstairs alone and would neaten up their rooms in the morning. There weren’t many people there, which was strange given it was coming on evening. At the moment, in fact, the only ones about were a girl I assumed was one of the upstairs girls sitting at the end of the bar with her yellow hair piled up on her head like a wedding cake, and in a corner there was a big man slouched back in his chair snoring. His mouth was open and he had his head slung back and every several seconds a deep snorting snore came out like it was coming from somewhere deep.

Beneath the rickety-looking stairs there was a beadboard wall with a little door sitting crooked on the jamb. I noticed without really noticing a dingy wooden leg propped against the wall like maybe some veteran’d lost it in a game. You’d see wooden limbs around in those days, crutches propped in corners. Little empty bottles of codeine and laudanum drained and set down on porches and fenceposts. You’d see things like that and didn’t notice them much anymore. Crouching down, I eased open the door to reveal a little cupboard type place no bigger than a coffin and saw too that there was already somebody in it. A head of grayish brass-ish hair stuck out all coarse and untidy from a swaddle of rags and you could see him breathing deep and even.

I hated to wake him but I did anyway, gently shaking his shoulder. He turned to look at me through one squinted eye. Then he grinned. “Guess Dig decided to send old Tom some company after all.”

“What?” It took me a second to figure out what he meant and then my cheeks got hot. “Oh! No sir, he said I could sleep here is all.”

He rolled over to face me, giving me a merry good-time kind of up-and-down as he did so like he had further thoughts on the matter, but then instead he sat up and scratched his head. Yawned.

“Fair enough, son. Gimme a minute to clear out.” He was a small man with a big shaggy head and a rough scraggly beard, and under the blanket he was wrapped round in a duster so tattered it was no color that had a name. None of this could hide how bright and sly his eyes were and I couldn’t help thinking that I wouldn’t mind if I was meant to be his company after all. He unbundled out of the grimy rags that served as blankets to reveal just more layers, though his trousers on one leg were tied off with twine above right above the knee.

“Hand me over my leg, wouldja?”

“I wouldn’t put you out, sir. I can find somewhere else to sleep.”

“If you’re trying to bed down here I’m guessing you’ve about run through your other options.”

“I can camp up on the bluff. Done it last night. Just wanted out of the cold is all.”

He was eying me again, still good-natured but all the mischief had gone out of it, which I was queerly sorry for. “It’s <I>damned</I> cold, son. I reckon it was 20, 25.”

“Yes sir. It was cold, sir.”

“Sir?” He gave a raspy laugh so nice and warm it made me grin too. He stuck out his hand. “Tom Blanky. Not <I>sir</I>, lessin’ that’s your thing.”

“Yes sir. I mean no sir. Are you <I>that</I> Tom—”

He waved his hand like to cut me off. “Don’t you have a name, son?”

“Thomas Hartnell.”

“Thomas? Tom? Tommy?”

“Thomas sir. Full regular name.”

“All right, Thomas. How ‘bout you help me with my leg and we’ll have ourselves a drink. Figure it out from there—be even colder tonight.”

More here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64491799/chapters/165608962

[yharnamcrow]

Musharna Malice! A nightmare meant for another… or perhaps not a nightmare so much as the jagged fragments of a memory.

You’ve always wanted to visit the ocean. You were born and raised rather far inland, far enough inland that you spent most of your winters perpetually halfway frozen, and while you haven’t returned to your childhood home in a very long time—you can’t ever anymore, though you prefer not to think about that—the city of Yharnam isn’t exactly coastal either.

But Yharnam is home, in all its bloody glory, and you simply don’t have the time to travel beyond it often. Nights of the Hunt are long, and hard, and when those don’t occur there is always more work with Byrgenwerth in the catacombs.

You’ve always wanted to visit the ocean. So, when you heard about a special opportunity—a research expedition to a fishing hamlet—you’d signed on almost without hesitation. Almost, because Byrgenwerth is still Byrgenwerth and the fact that they were hiring as many blades as will sign in for a simple expedition didn’t bode well for the hostilities they anticipated finding there… but they were paying well, and you really do need the money.

So here you are. The scent of salt on the breeze is strong. There’s something else there, too, something you can’t quite put a finger on. Something unsettling.

You bury your unease and press on after your mentor, for his scythe is easy to pick out in a crowd of scholars and you’d generally trust him with your life. Though it’s interesting, thinking about it, that he signed on for this expedition. He certainly doesn’t need the money. 

Maybe they wanted him specifically?

You could ask. Maybe you will once your work here is done. There are too many strangers here, too many people who would hear an outsider’s accent and actively hinder you doing your job.

Sometimes, you hate Yharnam a little. But it is home.

And, honestly—as far as Yharnamite hospitality goes, you almost miss it compared to how this hamlet treats outsiders. They regard the entire party from Byrgenwerth with unconcealed suspicion, but if they bear weapons they are far more concealed.

You keep a hand on your own. A warning, nothing more and nothing less. The hamlet is strange, certainly, but its people are a far cry from the mindless foes you have faced down in the catacombs or the rabid beasts that result from the plague.

Not for the first time, not for the last, you wonder why Byrgenwerth wanted you. Why they wanted any Hunter. What are they expecting to find here?

The answer, as it turns out, is… not at all what you were expecting. There is a great something washed upon the shore from the water, half of it still drifting in the tide in a vague facsimile of life. Laying eyes upon it alone causes your head to ache—

No. Not it. 

Her.

Your newfound insight makes you all but certain that this is what Byrgenwerth is here for. And that her name—whatever she is, or was—is Kos.

One of the scholars starts forward. You are intimately aware of the villagers watching, of the murmured discontent. You risk a glance at your mentor. He hasn’t taken his eyes off the—off Kos. Or whatever may be left of her.

The scholar—you never caught his name, but he seems to be the leader of this group—looks back at you and Gehrman, sizing the both of you up. His gaze lands solidly on you. He motions you over, towards what you are growing increasingly certain is a body of… something.

You suppress a shiver, and move to join him.

“That sword of yours looks sharp enough,” he says, his voice high and nasally, and you’re disappointed but not surprised that he doesn’t know what a twinblade is. “You’ll do to make the incision.”

You are starting to think that you didn’t hear him correctly. The confusion must show in your eyes, because he suddenly looks much less forgiving.

“The incision,” he presses, speaking slowly as if addressing a child or someone particularly dumb. “A cut?”

You do not appreciate him insulting your intelligence.

“I am quite aware of what the word means,” you say in a low voice. “You could stand to be more precise in what it is you wish for me to do.”

He looks like you’ve hit him in the face. He must have recognized your accent. 

…You honestly wish you had hit him in the face. Unfortunately, you likely wouldn’t get paid then, and you really do need the money, so putting up with pretentious fools like him it is.

“A single lateral cut should do,” he says, after a long moment, and points. “Start there. Don’t go too deep, we need what is inside intact.”

You somehow doubt that he would be willing to tell you what is inside. You suppose you’ll see for yourself soon enough, though you really did not sign up to assist in dissection of… ocean creatures?

It doesn’t matter. You can certainly make the requested incision. You could likely do so in your sleep.

Your blade meets flesh. Rends it.

The screaming begins. It isn’t coming from your group. You wouldn’t be certain that you weren’t imagining it, except that scholar’s white-knuckled grip is on your arm—you hate him immensely—and he’s hissing, “Keep going!”

So you do. The flesh parts easily, too easily, beneath your blade. The scholar frees your arm, surges forward to peer at what has been revealed beneath it—

—and his body jerks back from the javelin that has erupted through his upper body. You gasp, looking up.

The hamlet’s inhabitants, arrayed about the cliffs above you, are the ones who were screaming. But they’ve stopped now. They all hold spears, save one, a man positioned at precisely the angle to be the one responsible for the scholar now choking on his own blood.

Your pistol is in your off hand immediately. You shoot without thinking.

A body falls from the cliffs. Everyone watches it fall, until it hits the beach below.

And then—

Then, it is chaos, for the entirety of the fishing hamlet is upon you. You draw your blade, splitting it into two, because you truly have no choice now. You must fight, or you will die. The foolish scholars under your protection will die.

You fight. 

Blood soon covers the strange viscera upon your blades already, so much of it that you have little hope of ever truly washing it away.

No one remains alive, save the Byrgenwerth group, by the time that the sun sets. The expedition leader’s second seems rather unconcerned about his superior’s murder, about the fact that the expedition’s ‘protection’ were tasked instead to slaughter an entire village. He seems even less concerned about the village. They’re less than human to him.

So, you realize, are you. But the past cannot be undone. The incision cannot be unmade. The dead cannot be unburied.

You catch a glimpse—only a glimpse—of the thing torn from Kos’s body. You couldn’t say what it looks like, because that glimpse alone is enough to make the dull pain in your head intensify to a crescendo the likes of which you have never felt before. You think it would hurt less if someone drove a stake through your skull.

But you know, now—you Know exactly what you have done. Exactly what you did it to.

That corpse should have been left well alone. It wasn’t. Now countless people—innocent and less so—lie dead because of you, and Byrgenwerth’s scholars are all too happy to dissect the ones you murdered for good measure. Almost like they’d planned on that all along. Almost like they’d intended to provoke them into attack, so that you—or someone else—would strike back.

When you leave the hamlet, blades still bloody despite your desperate, fervent attempts at cleaning them, you are not the same. You never will be the same again. Nor do you deserve to be.

(When you awaken in the real world, you can still faintly smell blood in the water. And for a moment—but only a moment—you can almost see fresh blood on your hands.)

Th at... oh goodness... my sweet friend, is that... is that why? I s that why you were gone?

[catindabag]

TBOSAS on Crack short take (21)

*When the 24 OG Mentors discussed The Hunger Games*

Clemensia: Ok. Be honest. Whoever annually watches the Hunger Games, raise your hands!

Everyone:. . .

Clemensia: Really?! No one? Well, I’m kinda relieved to see that.

Felix: Clemmie, we stopped watching Highbottom’s Killer Kids Game since we were in grade school.

Clemensia: But why though?

Androcles: Not fun.😔

Sejanus: Extremely and insanely cruel and inhumane.😡

Lysistrata: Fortunately, my mom said “no” because there were too many body parts flying on the screen.

Festus: I threw up my cheesecake the first time I saw a live decapitation on television.

Coryo: That’s your only reason?

Festus: Bro, you don’t understand. That was my last free cheesecake coupon for the whole year.🥲

Coryo: Well, I just quit watching the games the moment I saw a kid bit off another kid’s fingers.

Festus: So?

Coryo: He swallowed them.

Festus: Oh.

Coryo: You all know that I hate cannibals, right?

Persephone: *starts crying*

Coryo: Not you, Price.🙄

Livia: Well, I just don’t watch the games because it’s not really my cup of tea. I mean, there’s no romance, no gossips, no breakups-

Juno: Nothing. I gave it a zero.

Arachne: True. It lacks that ✨reality drama✨ that we girlies crave for.

Dennis: I watched it once with my mom and my very sensitive dad. Never again.

Coryo: Why? What happened?

Dennis: My poor daddy had nightmares for a whole year. Even now, he’s still crying about it.

Coryo: Wait. Is that why your mom now runs and rules the Capitol Black Market without him?

Dennis: Yup! My daddy officially decided to become a stay-at-home househusband.

Persephone: Like mine!😀

Dennis: No, Price. Not like yours.

Persephone: Not like mine? But my sweet daddy is also a stay-at-home househusband.

Dennis: For the wrong reasons.

Persephone: He’s just living his best werewolf life!

Coryo: No offense, Percy, but your sweet daddy is clinically insane.

Palmyra: Like us!😀

Coryo: I know that we’re all insane, but not Nero “I am a scary werewolf” Price insane.

Persephone: But-

Coryo: He hunts rabid raccoons for breakfast and howls at the moon.

Gaius: Cool.

Coryo: He also fought 10 wild coyotes, 5 Peacekeepers, and a stray brown bear for some lima beans once. It was epic.

Felix: Was he arrested?

Coryo: No. You can’t arrest a self proclaimed werewolf. It’s illegal.

Felix: Illegal? Who approved of that law?

Coryo: Your granduncle.

Felix: *sighs* That checks out.😑

Persephone: Aren’t we talking about the Hunger Games?🥲

Coryo: Oh, yeah. How about you, Moss? Why did you stop watching Highbottom’s Killer Kids Game?

Iphigenia: It’s too brutal for my liking. And my grocery store has a sh*tty TV. How about you, Ney Ney?

Vipsania: No introduction, no narrative, no story. Just plain killing.😪

Palmyra: There’s no food commercials after every kill!

Coryo: What the heck, Palm Palm!

Felix: My crazy granduncle- I mean, the President of Panem usually invites me over to one of his exclusive ✨THG Watch Parties✨, but after the 4th time watching, puking, and screaming, I just couldn’t stomach the gore anymore.

Clemensia: Ok? So if you’re in charge of The Hunger Games, what would you change? What would you like to do if you recreated the games from scratch?

Everyone: Everything!

Sejanus: And no killing!

Felix: Yeah! Let’s agree and write a “no killing” policy!

Coryo: Make sure to add the “no gore” and “no cannibalism” rule as well, Class Pres.

Felix: On it. *scribbles*

Apollo: Hear me out. ✨Hunger Games: Panem’s Next Top Model✨!

Diana: No! It should be ✨Hunger Games: Dancing With The Stars✨!🤩

Livia: Ew. Your ideas suck! It should be ✨Hunger Games: LOVE ISLAND✨!💅

Sejanus: No! ✨Hunger Games: The Great Panem Bake Off✨ is gonna be the best program ever!

Coryo: Babe, what are you talking about?! ✨Hunger Games: Panem’s Got Talent✨ is the superior show!

Io: No! You’re all wrong! ✨Hunger Games: 90 DAY FIANCÉ✨ will have the most views!

Hilarius: ✨Hunger Games: Single’s Inferno✨ is better and spicier!

Palmyra: Suck it, Hilari! ✨Hunger Games: Fear Factor✨ will be the most iconic show!

Urban: You guys are not thinking! ✨Hunger Games: Project Runway✨ is the best concept! Just you wait! I will revolutionize Panem’s fashion industry!

Festus: What?! No! You’re so wrong, Ban Ban! ✨Hunger Games: TOP CHEF✨ will revolutionize Panem’s food industry!

Domitia: I kinda agree with Creed.

Dennis: Yeah. A food competition sounds nice.

Persephone: Oh, c’mon! ✨Hunger Games: Big Brother✨ will be a certified classic!

Pup: You’re kidding, right? ✨Hunger Games: Panem’s Ninja Warrior, Ultimate Beastmaster✨ will get us the most sponsors!😎

Felix: Slow down! All of your ideas and suggestions are great!

Palmyra: Thanks!☺️

Felix: But I can’t keep up with all that shouting!

Livia: Just do your stupid job, Class Pres! And FYI, mine’s the best. So make sure to highlight ✨LOVE ISLAND✨.

Festus: Oh, Horn of Plenty! I have another great idea!

Coryo: Fire away, Creed.

Festus: Hear me out. ✨Hunger Games: Keeping Up With The Ravinstills✨!

Coryo: Festus, my dumpster brother from another mother, you are a certified genius!😂

Sejanus: I’ll even trade my scheming old man to see that show air anytime!

Felix: That doesn’t even make sense?! How can the Tributes participate on that show?!

Juno: No offense, Felix, but we also want to see the chaotic family drama that you and your cousins are currently living in.

Coryo: I kinda agree with Juno, Class Pres. I mean, just last week, four out of your eight uncles got arrested by your other four uncles, just because of “illegally” breeding Bichon Frisé puppies inside your crazy granduncle’s secret basement.

Felix: How did you even get that private information?!

Coryo: You told us yourself.

[eversnark]

You know how a character being generally disliked will make the fans of that character just 10x more rabid and weird about them? I'm that way with bugs.

Most spiders are just friendly little guys. Daddy Long Legs hang out on my arms and shoes sometimes when I'm working outside and yeah, it freaked me out at first but they're just like.. chilling.

Stink bugs? They're just trying to not get squished, man. They don't even really move that much.

Centipedes and earwigs? Yeah they creep me out too, but they usually only live in places where they can be left in peace. I have never seen one in like, a lived-in house.

I genuinely think some people who pretend to be afraid of tarantulas are faking it, bc at that point it is basically pet sized. That could be a hamster. Calm down.

Even mosquitoes, which I hate, should not be eradicated bc that is such a bad idea oh my god. No. 1 mosquito defender is not a titled I claimed, but one that was forced upon me and I shall bear honorably.