#graphic depictions of bodily injury

[elysiaheaven2]

𝗛𝗢𝗦𝗧 𝗣𝗔𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗚𝗢𝗡 𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗙𝗔𝗖𝗘- 𝗥𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗻 𝘅 𝗚.𝗡 𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 (Part 1)

Used to be on @elysiaheaven

This is the request!!

01: Host-Pathogen Interface

Words:4000

Genre: Red Room Reader (G.N) Gore

Summary: A sadistic captor fucking you <33 livestreams their torture, taunting a shackled victim while performing brutal acts for an online audience. They theatrically respond to viewer suggestions, twisted glee, blending dark humor with horrifying violence. The chat eggs them on, turning the view into a grotesque spectacle.

This happens before you meet Ronin! (Basically

Trigger Warnings:

Graphic Violence: Depictions of physical harm, torture, and injury.

Self-Harm: Indirect references to bodily harm or deterioration (e.g., breaking nails).

Psychological Torture: Mental manipulation, humiliation, and emotional distress.

Gore: Detailed depictions of blood, injury, and bodily harm.

Blood: Intense, graphic descriptions of bloodshed.

Trauma: Psychological and physical trauma inflicted on the victim.

Moral Corruption: Exploration of a character’s lack of remorse, twisted logic, and corruption.

Content Warnings:

Disturbing Imagery: Vivid descriptions of torture, suffering, and victimization.

Emotional Manipulation: Using guilt, fear, and despair to torment the victim.

Organ Donation: The idea of using a victim’s organs for medical purposes, which could be seen as dehumanizing.

Dark Humor: The use of dark humor surrounding violence, suffering, and exploitation.

Exploitation: The character finds satisfaction in the suffering of others.

Dehumanization: Treating the victim as an object or tool for personal satisfaction or manipulation.

EXTRA: He's a character from a game named Killer chat! Please play it! It's so good!

⟡ The show must go on

Welcome dear viewer, Read the warnings before reading this hell!

"Breaking news! A monster in human skin has committed atrocities beyond murder! This criminal, vile and unrepentant, has torn apart not just strangers but their own family as well. They didn’t stop. They didn’t care."

The reporter extended their hand toward the screen, fingers trembling as though desperate to reach those watching.

"These acts are beyond comprehension. What they’ve done is worse than death itself. If you see this person, don’t hesitate. Don’t hide. Report them immediately."

The screen flickered, and the reporter leaned closer, their hand trembling slightly as they pressed a button. A distorted image appeared—grainy yet unmistakable. A face. Vacant eyes stared out from the screen, their expression hauntingly neutral, as though untouched by the chaos they had wrought.

“This is the face of the devil walking among us,” the reporter whispered, voice low and quaking with disgust. “You won’t find them easily. Authorities haven’t. But their trail is marked by the missing… the abused… the broken. Those they left behind whisper of horrors too ungodly to repeat.”

The screen darkened, leaving a reflection of yourself staring back from the glass. You smiled, slow and crooked, as if the image had shared an inside joke only you understood. With a quiet chuckle, you turned, your steps echoing in the hollow hallway. Not toward the comfort of a home, but to your sanctuary.

Not Your office. It was a special place.

Sliding into the chair, you reached for the camera and flicked it on. The red recording light blinked to life, casting its glow across your desk. The scene you’d prepared came into view.

Ropes. Tools. A backdrop streaked in abstract patterns of red. The room smelled faintly of copper and bleach, but it didn’t bother you. Your stream began with a soft, almost gentle giggle. But it grew, morphing into something jagged and unsettling. The sound of it filled the small room as your viewers began flooding in, the chat bar rolling with their messages:

“What’s tonight’s special?” “The Pathegon's back!” “Are they still alive?”

You leaned in close to the lens, your breath fogging the glass as your giggle shifted to a low, manic whisper:

'Let's start the bloodbath!"

The first thing they noticed was a pounding headache.

Clicking… sharp, deliberate, like nails tapping against glass.

Their eyes cracked open, blurry shapes bleeding into focus. Kneeling on the cold, unyielding floor, arms wrenched above their head, they tugged instinctively—only to hear the heavy clatter of chains.

You stood in front of them.

"Right on time," you said, your voice slicing through the silence like a blade. "It’s 9 p.m."

They flinched, jerking against the restraints, but the chains held fast.

Their gaze flickered to you, wide and desperate. You tilted your head, watching them with a cool detachment, like they were a bug caught under glass.

"Where—?" Their voice broke, trembling.

"Try to remember," you interrupted, your tone as lifeless as the expression on your face.

"It hurts… You said you’d help me," they rasped, panic rising in their throat.

"I did," you replied, calm and matter-of-fact. "I took you away from the police, didn’t I?"

"But…" Their voice cracked. "I saw the news! It said I ran away!"

You smiled then, the kind of smile that doesn’t reach the eyes.

"You did." As you spoke, they darted frantic glances around the room, trying to make sense of their surroundings. Their eyes locked onto the cold glare of cameras, all pointed directly at them.

"Don’t worry," you said, voice unnervingly casual. "We’re going live in two minutes. You don’t need to worry about the police—they won’t catch you."

Their mouth opened, a protest forming, but you had already turned away, your attention fixed on the array of equipment surrounding you.

Their stomach twisted as they took it all in: monitors, wires, and blinking red lights.

"What the hell! Are you filming me, you sick—"

"Shh, shh!" you interrupted, a finger pressed to your lips as you glanced over your shoulder. "We’re starting."

You turned back to the screen, your tone shifting to something unsettlingly cheerful.

"Hello, everyone! How’s the feed?"

You weren’t talking to them anymore.

Their confusion turned to horror as your voice softened, addressing a live audience.

"Hihi! Everyone’s here! Oh, Goreboy, play nice in the chat, no bullying tonight!" Your fingers flew across the keyboard, tapping rapidly as you giggled, the sound high-pitched and unnerving.

"Yes, yes! We’ll pull this guy’s guts out!" you typed, glancing at the screen with glee. "Oh, Goreboy, that’s perfect! Love the creativity, even if you’re not donating. Your ideas for gore? Chef’s kiss."

The person on the floor thrashed against their chains, a strangled scream tearing from their throat. You looked over your shoulder at them, a playful glint in your eyes.

"Relax, it’s a metaphor," you said with mock reassurance. "We’re just going to do something… small. Don’t worry."

"What the fuck is this?!" they shouted, their voice cracking with panic.

You tilted your head, the grin slipping into something colder. "Radio silence," you said sharply, holding a finger to your lips. "You’re ruining the vibe."

"This isn’t a fucking show!" they cried, their voice trembling with hysteria.

You crossed the room in three deliberate steps, crouching down to their level. Your hand reached out, gripping their face tightly, forcing them to meet your unyielding gaze.

"What you did," you whispered, your tone venomous, "was justice, wasn’t it? You made choices—choices that led you here. So, tell me…" Your grip tightened slightly, enough to make them wince. "What the fuck makes you think you deserve anything better than this?"

Their breathing came in ragged gasps, their eyes wild with fear and disbelief.

You smiled then, a slow, deliberate curve of your lips, and released them, standing up and brushing your hands off like you’d just handled something filthy.

"The show must go on," you announced brightly, spinning back to the camera. "Alright, chat, who’s ready for the main event?!"

You turned back to the camera, fingers dancing over the keyboard as you laughed, a sound that sent a chill through the room.

"Chat, you won’t believe this one," you said, voice dripping with giddy malice. "Our guest tonight? Oh, they’re not just anyone. No, no, no! They’ve got a history. You wouldn’t think it, looking at them now, but…"

You spun around to face them, your eyes glittering with a deranged light.

"Should we tell them, hmm? Should we talk about how you snapped and tore your own family apart? Oh, I bet chat would love the details—the blood, the screaming, the mess you left behind."

Their face drained of color, their chains rattling as they thrashed. "Shut up!" they yelled, their voice cracking.

"Shut up?" you mimicked, tilting your head like a curious predator. "Why? Is it because you remember? You remember how it felt, don’t you? The rush, the heat, the way the knife felt in your hand as it went in again, and again…"

" "Stop it!" they screamed, their voice breaking into sobs.

"Oh, but why should I?!" you barked, your voice rising with manic energy. "You did it, didn’t you? You made sure they’d never stand in your way again. Your own family. And for what? Some twisted idea of justice? Some self-righteous, pathetic excuse for power?!"

They shook their head violently, tears streaming down their face. "I didn’t—I didn’t mean—"

"‘Didn’t mean to’?!" you interrupted, a sharp, mocking laugh escaping your lips. "Please. Save it for someone who cares, because here’s the thing—chat loves this shit. They eat it up. You? You’re a goldmine. The more depraved you are, the more twisted your story, the bigger the payout. And trust me, I’m going to milk every single second."

You leaned in close, your voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "Oh, and let’s not forget the other things you’ve done. The theft, the blackmail, the drugs…" You giggled, pulling back with a theatrical flourish. "You’re an all-star of illegal shit, aren’t you? Chat! Can we get a round of applause for our guest here?"

"Good evening, everyone!" you chimed, your voice bright and saccharine as you gazed into the camera. "I’m so glad you could join me on such short notice—Oh? Oh, Goreboy! Missed me, huh?" You let out a soft, teasing giggle. "Chat! Can you believe it? Goreboy’s being sweet tonight! Usually, they’re my harshest critic. What’s that, darling? Missed my streams that much?"

You laughed again, high-pitched and lilting, the sound dancing unnervingly in the air.

"Yes! Yes! My delightful patrons of exquisite taste, welcome back!" you said, raising your voice theatrically, your arms spreading wide as if to embrace your audience. "The block is gone, babies! I’m back and better than ever."

Your expression shifted subtly, a crack in the cheerful mask, though your tone remained syrupy sweet.

"And boy, do I have a treat for you tonight!" you cooed, spinning dramatically toward the camera. "Rottenlings, meet our fresh face! Please give a big, warm hello to Victim No. 66!"

You stepped aside and gestured mockingly toward the chained figure behind you.

"I plucked this one straight from the hands of justice itself," you announced with a flourish. "Oh, the police? They think they ran away. Poor, clueless idiots! But don’t worry, chat. I’m here to make sure justice gets served properly."

The person on the floor squirmed, their eyes darting toward the glowing monitor. Their heart sank as they realized what they were seeing: a live video feed of themselves, surrounded by a scrolling chatroom full of excited, laughing messages.

People were watching.

"You sick fucks!" they screamed, straining against their chains. "Why aren’t you calling the police? What’s wrong with you?!"

Your sharp, manic laughter sliced through the air like a knife.

"Oh, you poor, stupid thing!" you sneered, turning back toward them. "Do you think they care? Do you think anyone in this room—" you gestured at the screen, the chat still buzzing with twisted excitement— "is on your side?"

You leaned in close, your grin wide and predatory.

"This is Goreboy’s arena, sweetheart. Big win for them tonight, huh, chat?!" You shot a playful wink at the camera, then turned back to your captive, your expression mockingly soft.

"You’re begging them? Them?" you laughed, louder this time, your voice echoing around the room. "Oh, honey. You don’t beg for mercy here. You entertain."

The person trembled, their voice breaking into raw, desperate sobs. "Please! I’m sorry! Just call the cops! I’ll do anything!"

You tilted your head, feigning pity.

"Another one for the beg bucket, chat!" you teased, your voice sing-song. "Honestly, I don’t know why any of you bet on these fools. Mr. Duck, sweetie, let’s see how your other bets fare tonight, hmm?"

The chat erupted in laughter. No one called the police. No one even flinched.

You turned back to the screen, reading another message from Goreboy.

The chat erupted in laughter. No one called the police. No one even flinched.

You turned back to the screen, reading another message from Goreboy.

"Oh, Goreboy!" you said, giggling as you typed. "That’s disgusting! Hahah! Maybe later, hun. One day we’ll meet, but not now. Patience, my dear!"

You hit send, then turned back to your captive, the grin fading into something colder, sharper.

"Now," you said, crouching down to their level, your tone like ice. "Let’s see if you can make this interesting, Victim No. 66."

They tried to pull away, but their hands were bound—shackled together and chained tightly.

"Alright, my lovely audience! Place your bets! What should I do next, hmm?"

"AHHHHHHH!"

Their scream echoed sharply as you yanked their finger back with a brutal, deliberate twist. The sound of bone grinding against itself cut through the air, sickening as always—but you didn’t falter.

"Oh? Should I fix it for you?" You teased, your voice lilting with mock concern before grabbing the mangled finger again. Without hesitation, you forced it back into place. The wet crunch of it snapping back made bile churn in your stomach.

But you laughed—loud and cruel. "Hah! Just kidding!"

And then, with a merciless twist, you snapped the fingers holding the knife they’d dared to wield.

Screams. Screams. A melody sweeter than any you’d ever heard.

Turning sharply, you faced the computer, a smirk splitting your face.

"Well, well! A donation like that deserves my full attention! Fingers again, madam? Oh, you know me so well."

You chuckled, eyes narrowing on the username. "Ah, Goreboy suggested that one? You always know how to make me smile. You should visit me more often, you know—I’d love to see you in my streams, but you never act on it. Tsk, tsk. Let’s not skip ahead, shall we?"

With a theatrical flourish, you bowed low, a sick mockery of grace.

"Now then, my darlings—let’s see what we can do!"

You straightened up, spinning on your heel as you stalked back toward your captive, menace dripping from every step.

You glanced at the screen again, the bright flicker of another donation lighting up your face. The amount was juicy, and the request? Deliciously cruel.

You giggled—soft at first, then sharper, like broken glass grinding against stone.

“Well, well, what do we have here? ‘A clean slice this time,’ huh?” You read aloud, eyes glinting with dark amusement. “I like the way you think. Quick and clean—but where’s the fun in that?”

The knife glistened in your hand as you turned back toward them. It wasn’t elegant—worn, slightly rusted along the edges—but it did its job. And tonight, its job was simple.

“Don’t squirm,” you cooed sweetly, crouching down to meet their tear-streaked face. “You’ll ruin the show for everyone.”

Their eyes widened in horror as you grabbed their hand, gripping their trembling fingers one by one as if you were inspecting them.

“Let’s start with this one, shall we?”

The blade pressed against their skin—cold, biting. You didn’t hesitate. With a sharp pull, you sliced through the first finger, the knife slipping through flesh and bone like paper.

Their scream ripped through the air, a raw, broken sound that sent shivers down your spine.

“Ohoho, there we go! That’s the sound I wanted—don’t be shy, darling, let it out!” You glanced over your shoulder at the camera, giggling as blood splattered across the floor. “Are you all hearing this? Such raw emotion. Truly unmatched!”

Another donation alert flashed. Your eyes sparkled.

“Oh, another request! You all spoil me!” You gripped the next finger tightly, blood slicking your palm as you lined up the blade once more. “Shall we keep going? I think they have a few more fingers to spare, don’t you?”

The knife cut down again—swift, unrelenting. Another scream, another bone snapped, another rivulet of blood trailing to the floor.

You couldn’t help but laugh, head thrown back as you bathed in their agony.

“Ahhh… music to my ears.”

Turning to the camera, you grinned, lips and cheeks splattered crimson.

"You were always so… predictable," you said, eyes gleaming with sadistic delight. "Begging, pleading… You never even tried to fight back, did you?"

Chop. Another slice, this one to their thigh. The skin split with a sickening sound, a cry of agony escaping their lips as they tried to curl away from you, but there was nowhere to go.

The blade danced in your hand, a fluid motion, as you shifted positions to stand over them. The chains that held them were nothing more than a slight inconvenience to you. They could barely move, their arms and legs bound, while you towered over them, each strike faster, sharper, more merciless than the last.

Chop, chop, chop.

The rhythm of it was almost musical, a cruel symphony played out with the sounds of metal biting into flesh, followed by their pained gasps and helpless cries. Blood splattered, staining the floor beneath them, staining your hands, your clothes.

Their body was slick with blood now, each movement an agonizing reminder of how helpless they were, how trapped they’d become in this nightmare. They whimpered, desperate for it to end, but you weren’t done yet. You never were.

You pressed the blade deeper, feeling the pulse under their skin, the warmth of blood soaking your hands. A twisted smile curled on your lips, but it wasn’t a smile of satisfaction—no, it was something far colder. The silence between the strikes had grown deafening, and now, you spoke again, your voice sweet and venomous.

“Do you know what’s funny?” you whispered, your breath hot against their ear, a cruel contrast to the sharpness of the blade. “You think this will end soon, don’t you? That this... torture, this agony, will stop when you beg enough. But the truth is, you’re not dying tonight.”

Their eyes flickered in confusion, exhaustion, desperation. “What... what are you saying?” they rasped, barely able to form the words through the pain.

“Oh, sweet, sweet fool,” you purred. “You really thought I’d end your misery. No, darling. You hurt them—your family, your loved ones—and now, I’m going to make sure you feel it. You’re going to remember the weight of what you did long after this moment, long after your body is no longer able to fight back.”

The blade hovered above their chest now, drawing slow, shallow cuts along their skin. Each mark was a reminder of the harm they’d caused, the consequences that would never leave them.

“You thought you could escape the aftermath of your choices, didn’t you?” you taunted, drawing out the words as if savoring the slow breakdown in their expression. “I’ll make sure you never forget. Every inch of your body will burn with the guilt you can never outrun. And when you beg for mercy again... remember, I’m the one you’ll answer to now.”

You stood over them, chest heaving slightly from the rush. Their sobs echoed in the room, broken and ragged, as they cradled their ruined hand to their chest. But you weren’t done. Oh no—not yet.

With a casual hum, you stepped back to the computer, wiping the blood-slicked knife against your shirt. The screen blinked again, another donation flooding in. You glanced at it, a wicked grin curling your lips.

“Ah, I see you all are in a particular mood tonight,” you murmured, voice soft but laced with menace. You grabbed a nearby folder—one you had prepared for this moment, knowing it would come. With deliberate care, you fanned the photographs out across the table, one by one, before turning back to your audience.

“Now, my darlings, it’s time to turn up the fun, don’t you think? We’ve had our share of blood—let’s break something deeper.”

You knelt in front of them, holding the first photograph up to their tear-filled eyes. Their gaze trembled as they caught a glimpse—a snapshot of someone familiar.

Their brother.

The photo was crisp, taken in that final, quiet moment before you got to him. “Look at him,” you whispered, your tone a mocking semblance of pity. “He was so peaceful, wasn’t he? Didn’t even scream when I—”

“STOP!” they wailed, thrashing against their chains, tears streaming freely down their face. You tutted, reaching out to grip their chin between your fingers, forcing them to look at the image again.

“Ah, ah, don’t look away. You owe him that much, don’t you? After all, you’re the reason this all started. You really shouldn’t have crossed me, sweetheart.”

You let the photo flutter to the ground and held up the next one. Their father this time—face slack, eyes empty.

“And him? Oh, he fought. I’ll give him that. A real family man, wasn’t he? Told me to spare you if I had to choose. Isn’t that sweet?”

Their sobs turned to screams—raw, desperate. They yanked at the chains, the cuffs cutting deeper into their wrists as they thrashed.

You laughed softly, soaking in their misery like it was the sweetest wine.

“Aw, don’t cry,” you crooned, brushing a bloodstained finger across their cheek. “They’re not in pain anymore. You’re the one who has to live with it now.”

You leaned in close, your voice dropping to a whisper, dripping with venomous glee.

“And when I’m done? I’ll make sure you see each and every one of them waiting for you. Won’t that be nice?”

You straightened back up, turning to the camera with a theatrical flourish, spreading your arms wide.

“Well, there you have it, folks! I’d say tonight’s stream is going splendidly, don’t you agree? Emotional devastation, physical ruin—everything you could ask for!”

A flood of donations pinged on the screen, the sound filling the room as you beamed at your audience.

“Keep those requests coming! After all…” You glanced back at your captive, their broken sobs barely audible now. “We’ve got plenty of time—and I’m far from done.”

The show did go on <3

"Why let a monster's body go to waste?" you murmured, your voice dark and chilling as you circled them, each word dripping with twisted logic. "Why let evil walk away unscathed when their heart could beat inside someone pure? Their lungs, keeping an innocent child alive, their hands, building a future for someone who deserves it. If their mind is corrupted, their flesh... their flesh can still redeem them."

You paused, the sharp blade gleaming under the low light. Their chest rose and fell in erratic breaths, their body shivering from more than just physical pain.

"You think this is torture, don’t you?" You chuckled softly, almost fondly, but the sound was anything but kind. "No, darling. What you're about to experience is... redemption. A form of cleansing that you’re far from ready for. You hurt people. You destroyed lives. Now, we make sure the world can still benefit from the leftovers of your broken, filthy soul."

With a cruel laugh, you reached for their hand, grabbing their wrist with the kind of brutal strength that matched your words. You dragged them forward, a twisted sort of calmness in your touch despite the violence in your eyes.

"How much would you beg for your own skin to be saved now? Would you fight back if you knew that every piece of you, every organ, could serve a better purpose?" You let the blade hover above their finger, glinting menacingly. "I’ve got no use for your nails, but someone else might. They’ll make a good memory for someone who knows how to truly suffer."

Each breath they took was ragged, desperate for release. But you weren’t done yet.

"You’re not dying, not yet. You’ll live long enough for me to make sure you never forget what you’ve done. Your body’s gonna be stripped of its evil, piece by piece."

You couldn't help yourself. The laughter bubbled up from deep within you, a dark, mocking sound that filled the space with an eerie resonance. It was a sound of triumph, of cruel satisfaction as you watched them break, piece by agonizing piece.

"You really thought you could hide from this, didn't you?" you taunted between fits of laughter, your voice shaking with cruel delight. "You thought you could walk away, escape the damage you caused, the people you destroyed. But look at you now."

Their screams intensified, raw and desperate, echoing off the walls like a symphony of agony. "Please! PLEASE! STOP! I DIDN’T MEAN IT, I DIDN’T—!"

After some time, the air had settled into a chilling stillness, the only sounds being the faint sobs of the broken figure slumped against their chains. You sat back at the computer, fingers dancing over the keys with practiced ease as you typed a single message into the chat:

“Will Send this one off to organ donation. All tonight’s donations will go directly to the little boy’s treatment fund. Isn’t that just heartwarming?”

The chat exploded. Messages flooded in, filled with adoration, awe, and sick fascination.

“You’re an angel!!!” “Saving lives AND giving us a show? King/Queen.” “I can’t believe how selfless you are! This stream is legendary.”

You leaned back in your chair, laughing softly—almost sweetly. Turning to the camera, you rested your chin in your palm, eyes gleaming as you scanned the incoming flood of messages.

“Aww,” you cooed, voice dripping with condescension, “I didn’t know you all cared so much about happy endings. It’s so touching, really. Sick fucks like you still want to feel good about yourselves? That’s cute.”

More comments rolled in, their tone shifting, teasing, and pushing:

“But YOU should’ve taken the organs yourself!” “C’mon, don’t you want to be hands-on with this one?” “We know you’re the real surgeon here. Give us some blood, maestro!”

You sighed dramatically, letting your shoulders slump as if their demands were such a burden. “You all really don’t let me rest, do you? Fine. Fine. Since you’re so persistent…”

You stood, rolling your neck with a quiet crack before grabbing a nearby surgical kit—polished steel tools neatly arranged and waiting, just for this. The captive’s head snapped up, their bloodshot eyes wide with renewed panic.

“No—no, no, no, please—” they choked out, words dissolving into incoherent sobs.

You ignored them completely, addressing the camera instead as you slipped on a pair of gloves, the snap of latex cutting sharply through the air.

“You asked for this. Remember that.” You picked up the scalpel, holding it up for the audience to admire. “Let’s get started, shall we? I’ve always been a fan of hands-on work.”

You stepped toward the body—your expression blank, detached, almost bored as you knelt beside them. The cold blade kissed their skin, tracing a slow, deliberate line just below the ribs.

“Now, I’m no doctor, but I do know my way around a body.”

The first incision split them open, and blood welled up instantly—thick, warm, dark. The room filled with wet, sticky sounds as you worked, hands steady and sure, your movements practiced like a grotesque symphony.

You paused briefly, glancing back at the camera, your gloved hands slick with crimson.

“There’s your blood, chat. Are you happy now?”

The chat erupted, filled with cheers, donations rolling in like a tide:

“YESSSSS BLOODDDD!” “This is art. You’re a god.” “More, more, more!!!”

You laughed again, the sound low and breathy as you reached deeper into the cavity, fingers curling around what you were searching for. You lifted the organ slowly into view, the slick muscle glistening under the dim lights.

“Well,” you murmured, holding it up for the audience to admire, “they won’t be needing this anymore, will they?”

Blood dripped onto the floor in a rhythmic patter as you turned to the camera one last time, a triumphant grin splitting your face.

“Don’t forget to donate generously, my loves. After all, we’re saving lives here.”

You worked with deliberate care, gently placing each organ into the sterile metal tray beside you. Liver, kidneys, lungs—each glistening under the dim light as blood pooled around them. The wet squelch of the final piece being set down echoed in the room like the last note of a haunting melody.

You straightened up, gloves slick with crimson, and turned back toward the camera, face illuminated by the screen’s soft glow. With a swipe of your forearm, you wiped a streak of blood from your cheek, your grin bright and satisfied.

“And done! There you have it, chat! A perfect collection. Hope you enjoyed tonight’s little… performance.” You gave the camera a theatrical bow, smearing your gloves against your chest. “All thanks to your generosity, of course.”

The chat exploded:

“You’re insane, I LOVE YOU!!!” “This stream was god-tier.” “BYEEE ANGEL, YOU’RE SO CUTE!”

You pouted playfully, tilting your head as you rested a bloody glove against your cheek. “Aw, you all know how to make me blush… if only I wasn’t covered in—” you gestured lazily to the gore streaked across your shirt—“well, this.”

Then, a message popped up that made you pause:

Goreboy69: “What now, darlin’? Gonna leave me hangin’? Don’t tell me you’re tired already.”

You squinted at the chat, a half-smile curling on your lips as your fingers hovered over the keyboard. “Oh? Someone’s feeling bold tonight.” You typed quickly, your tone sharp but teasing:

“Leaving. Bye, Mr. Goreboy. Don’t miss me too much.”

The response was instant, his reply lighting up the chat like a flare:

Goreboy69: “Too late, sweetheart. Already do.”

You froze for just a moment, a flicker of something unspoken passing through your expression before you masked it with a sharp laugh. “Well, isn’t that sweet,” you murmured, shaking your head as you leaned toward the camera.

With one final look at your blood-splattered stage, you winked.

“Alright, my darlings. That’s it for tonight. Be good—or don’t. Either way, I’ll be back soon.”

You reached for the mouse, hovering over the “end stream” button as the chat flooded with protests and goodbyes:

“Nooo don’t go yet!” “Byeee CUTIE!!!” “Best stream EVER.”

You grinned one last time, your voice dropping to a low murmur, just for them:

“Goodnight, my loves.”

With a soft click, the screen faded to black.

You thought you will end your life with this.

Then, came a idea to write.

Then came him..

It had been almost a year since you and Ronin had been together, and things had been… comfortable, even in the darker corners of your shared lives. You’d both found your own spaces, with your gruesome world of streaming and his quiet, almost enigmatic nature. You had your gore, and he had his secrets. Neither of you had yet come to know the whole truth about each other. (You were the only one liar) He never suspected you were the streamer everyone in the underground chats adored—and you had no idea that he was Goreboy69, your loyal fan and the one who teased you so affectionately on the livestream

#ur-angel-or-yuor-devil-or writer darlin who's a maneater

[Angelic]- Y/n, you weren't online for some time.

[You]- I was busy ;-; Job was killing me

[Goreboy]- Darlin, There's a Angel Two now. But seriously did your boss made you Overwork again?

[Angelic]- Don't bully them, Ronin.

[Goreboy]- I'm not. I'm Worried Angel, They're My Partner

[You]- I'm fine, even my boss told to rest but I want to work for this case...I need to sleep tooo ahhhh!!!

[Goreboy]- Dm me. Angel. Sorry I'm taking my Lover for sometime.

[Angelic]- Since, when you start saying it that loudly ;)

[Goreboy]- Haha, Don't make me revive-

[Angelic]- Ronin, What the fuck?

After some time...

You settled into your chair, the glow of the screen casting faint shadows across your face as you stared at the video call. Ronin’s voice drifted through your headphones—smooth, teasing, always holding that edge of danger and flirtation. He lounged casually on the other side of the camera, the faint hum of his mic picking up the distant sounds of his apartment. His dark hair was mussed like he’d just rolled out of bed, the sly grin he always wore firmly in place.

The server call buzzed with energy. Truth or Dare had turned into its usual chaotic mess, but you didn’t care to play this time. Instead, you just kept pressing him for details about his latest… “hobby.”

“How’d your kill go, Mr. Crowbar?” you asked, feigning nonchalance as you swirled your drink in hand.

Ronin’s eyebrow quirked up. He chuckled low and sharp, voice dripping with that same playful tone that always made you pause. “Now that’s new, darlin’. You never ask me about the details. What’s got you so curious all of a sudden?”

You shrugged. “Just in the mood. Humor me.”

Ronin’s grin widened into something sharp, something that tugged at the edges of darkness. He leaned closer to his screen, as if to close the distance between the two of you. “If you insist, sweetheart,” he purred, stretching his arms behind his head as though he were telling you a bedtime story. “Well, y’see, there’s somethin’ so poetic about a crowbar. Personal, messy, and it leaves a mark. You know exactly what did the job.”

“Of course it was a crowbar,” you muttered under your breath, rolling your eyes. “Predictable.”

Ronin laughed—a deep, satisfied sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “You wound me! Predictable? I call it classic. But since you asked so sweetly…” He leaned back, cracking his knuckles before continuing with exaggerated theatrical flair. “Guy was scum. The type of fella whose face just begs to be rearranged. A couple swings later, I turned his skull into modern art. … Abstract, really.”

You tried to mask the way your lips curled upward. You didn’t want to let him know how much his words intrigued you tonight.

“Messy,” you replied simply, voice cool as you leaned into your chair. “But I expected nothing less from The Devil’s Butcher.”

That earned a gleam in his eye. He tilted his head, watching you through the camera like he was seeing something just out of reach. “Hah. You’re full of surprises tonight, doll. Didn’t think my little bedtime stories were your cup of tea.”

“They’re not,” you shot back, fighting the smirk threatening to break through. “But tonight I’m making an exception.”

Ronin hummed, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he gave you that grin again—sharp, teasing, always bordering on something you couldn’t quite name. “Y’know, you’d make a good audience for my streams, darlin’,” he said offhandedly, though there was a hint of something heavier beneath the surface. “Too bad you’re such a softie. You wouldn’t last a minute.”

You stiffened. For a split second, your heart skipped a beat before you forced yourself to laugh it off. “As if. I could handle your ‘gorefest’ just fine. It’s you who doesn’t know me, Mr. Crowbar.”

“Oh?” His voice dipped lower, amusement dancing in his tone. “Is that a challenge?”

“Take it however you want,” you shot back, biting back your grin.

Ronin watched you carefully for a beat longer before he leaned closer to the camera, his tone soft but dripping with meaning. “Careful, sweetheart. You might surprise yourself. You never know how much you like the darkness… ’til you’re drowning in it.”

You met his gaze through the screen, your pulse racing in your ears. Neither of you said a word for a moment, the silence between you charged and unrelenting.

You broke it with a casual, “Yeah, yeah. Whatever, Devil.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and dangerous all at once. “Always playin’ hard to get. One day, darlin’, you’ll admit you’re just as curious as me.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the way his words sent a thrill through you. “Keep dreaming, Ronin.”

The call moved on and others rejoined the conversation, you couldn’t shake that lingering feeling—the way Ronin’s words sat heavy in your chest. You didn’t know why tonight felt different, why his details about his kill caught your attention more than usual.

And you definitely didn’t want to think about the unsettling idea swirling in the back of your mind—that maybe he was someone else entirely. Someone whose streams you knew far too well.

But that couldn’t be, right?

Ronin’s voice crackled through the call, that usual teasing tone dripping with curiosity. “Darlin’, you look like you’ve been through hell—what’s with the eyebags? You chasing ghosts or something?”

You groaned, letting your cheek rest against your palm as you lazily stared at the video feed. His smirk was too smug, as always, like he’d already won some game you weren’t playing yet. “It’s research. Even if I became a writer because of you, I’m still a reporter at heart.”

His brow quirked at the mention. “Research? What poor bastard you chasin’ now?”

You adjusted your position, letting out a slow breath. “Shithead of the year, honestly. A hacker who made millions off stolen data, killed a dozen people—including his own wife—and stole drugs. The worst part? He abused her into silence for years, and when she finally came forward, he killed her, too.” Your tone sharpened with disgust, almost venomous. *“He’s scum. The kind of filth that makes even *you* look almost… disgusting.”*

Ronin’s expression shifted at that. His smirk twitched, just slightly. “Almost disgusting, huh? Can’t tell if I should be offended or flattered.”

Your lips curled into a thin smile. “Does this guy make you angry or somethin’, Ronin?”

For a beat, he was silent, his eyes narrowing. Then, he gave a small nod, his fingers drumming against the desk he sat at. “Y’know what? Yeah. I’d say he does. Kinda wish…” His voice trailed off, almost testing the waters before continuing. “Kinda wish someone like Pathegon would grab him first.”

Your heart froze, all the blood in your veins rushing to your face. It felt like you’d been dunked into ice water. Pathegon. That was your red room stream name. No one else should’ve known. Your voice barely left your throat, a fragile whisper. “…How do you know that name?”

Ronin blinked at you, tilting his head with that same casual grin, as if nothing about this situation was remotely shocking. “Huh? Oh—nah, nah. I didn’t mean you, I meant this streamer. Gorey as hell, almost like a twisted love letter to the worst kinds of scum: abusers, killers, lowlifes—name it. Pathegon’s… good. Real good.”

Your body went stiff. You stared at him, pale as a ghost. He kept talking, too nonchalantly for your comfort, but his words were like a blade sinking deeper and deeper.

He's Goreboy69?!

You could barely hold your composure. Ronin laughed then, sharp and loud, like this whole thing was the most fun he’d had in years.

“Wait—no—hold on.” You stammered, pulling yourself together. “Was it you who gave the police intel on that guy? On… him?”

He grinned wider, teeth flashing in the dim light of his camera feed. “Bingo.” He leaned in, voice lowering into something sickly sweet. *“What can I say? I play both sides. Can’t leave *all* the fun for the cops. Someone’s gotta keep the game interesting.”*

You stared at him, stunned, before the anger boiling inside you started to twist into something darker. Something… dangerous. Your fingers curled tightly around your mouse as your lips parted, words spilling out before you could stop yourself. “I wish I could kill him myself.”

The room fell silent. For once, even Ronin seemed taken aback. His eyes flicked over you through the screen, studying every inch of your expression, as if trying to see if you really meant it.

“…Well, well.” His voice dropped to a low murmur, almost like he was savoring the moment. “Now, that’s somethin’ I wasn’t expectin’. You’d make a real good serial killer, y’know that?”

Your face burned. “No, I wouldn’t!”

But Ronin didn’t stop there. His smirk deepened, his tongue running over his bottom lip as he watched you with a strange gleam in his eyes. “Nah, nah. Don’t sell yourself short, darlin’. Picture it: that piece of shit tied up, bloody and broken, beggin’ for a mercy he doesn’t deserve. You’d look real pretty standin’ over him, crowbar in hand, paintin’ the walls red…”

You gawked at him, your mind spinning. “Ronin!”

He laughed—deep, low, and unrestrained. He looked almost giddy, a blush faintly dusting his cheeks as he leaned closer to the camera. “What? Can’t blame a guy for admirin’ talent when he sees it. You’re finally speakin’ my language, sweetheart. Didn’t know you had it in ya.”

You threw your head back, groaning, but you couldn’t ignore the way your heart pounded at his words, or the way his eyes lingered on you like you were the most fascinating thing in the world. He was still grinning when you looked back, that dangerous, teasing edge in his voice.

“Careful, darlin’. Keep talkin’ like that, and I might fall even harder for ya.”

You glanced at the clock on your monitor, eyes widening in panic. “Shit! Ronin, it’s almost 9 PM!”

Ronin tilted his head, visibly unfazed. “And? Time’s a social construct, darlin’. You goin’ somewhere?”

“You’re literally gonna show our stream to the whole server. I need to get ready.”

He pouted, slouching in his chair dramatically. “Tch. You’re ditchin’ me? You could stay a little longer. You always bolt the second I’m startin’ to have fun.”

You sighed, trying not to let your voice waver. “I can’t stay. I… have a show.”

Ronin’s brow quirked suspiciously. “A show? You didn’t mention that before.”

You glanced away, fiddling with the edge of your desk. “I just need to sleep, Ronin. That’s all.”

He didn’t argue further, though his exaggerated sigh was loud enough to be heard. “Fine, fine.” He leaned closer to the camera, sticking out his tongue as he smirked—a glint of silver shining off the piercing he had there. “I’ll be nice just this once. Go get your beauty sleep, angel. You’re already lookin’ kinda rough.”

You scoffed but couldn’t help a faint smile.

Before you could hit the end call button, his voice cut through softly. “Hey��before you go.”

You froze mid-motion, glancing back at his face. His tone wasn’t teasing anymore; it was quieter, almost… earnest. “How’s the relationship?”

You blinked, momentarily stunned. “…Relationship? I’m fine with everyone, I guess.”

Ronin rolled his eyes, leaning forward until the glow of his screen cast sharp shadows across his features. “Not what I meant. I’m talkin’ ‘bout you n’ me.”

The words landed like a punch to the chest, leaving you momentarily breathless. You stared at him, unsure how to respond at first, before a small, stunned smile tugged at your lips.

“…Happy,” you murmured softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “All my life, I never thought I’d… date someone like you. A serial killer.” Your throat tightened as the words escaped you. “But I do care about you, Ronin. I really do.”

Ronin didn’t say anything. He just watched you, the usual cocky demeanor softening around the edges.

Your hand trembled as you held it out toward the screen, palm open as if reaching for him, for something intangible. Tears threatened to well up in your eyes, but you blinked them away. “You’re my dream come true, you know that? My wish fulfilled.” Your voice cracked faintly. “I just… hope we can be like Vince and Ai one day, even if we can’t ever get married because of… everything. Because of your past, your trauma, your beliefs. That doesn’t matter to me. I’m just happy I’ve got someone who respects me, even if you play with me sometimes.”

Ronin’s face softened, his cocky grin finally faltering as his gaze locked on yours.

You swallowed, gathering the last of your resolve before whispering, “I love you, Ronin Beaufort.” Your hand stayed raised, trembling slightly, before you quickly ended the call without giving him a chance to respond.

The screen blinked black. Silence swallowed the room, save for the sound of your heartbeat thrumming in your ears.

—

Meanwhile, Ronin sat there, unmoving, his hand still resting on the mouse as the call screen went dark. His face was frozen in a stunned expression, his mouth slightly ajar as if you’d knocked the wind out of him.

The faint blush on his cheeks deepened as your words replayed in his mind over and over again. “I love you, Ronin Beaufort.”

“…The hell was that?” he muttered under his breath, fingers tapping nervously against the edge of his desk. A crooked grin ghosted across his lips, but it couldn’t hide the flush creeping up to his ears.

Ronin stared at the dark screen, completely still for a moment… and then he burst into a grin—one so wide it nearly split his face. His hand shot up, running through his shaggy hair as he leaned back in his chair, teeth flashing through the growing smile.

“Shit.” He let out a breathless laugh, a giddy, uncontrollable noise that echoed in the quiet room. His shoulders shook as he covered his mouth with his hand, trying (and failing) to smother the wild grin that refused to leave.

“They said they love me…” He muttered it like it was the most unbelievable thing in the world, like he needed to say it out loud just to confirm it had really happened. A giddy warmth spread through his chest, an unfamiliar and exhilarating feeling that left him downright giddy.

He couldn’t stop smiling. His cheeks hurt, but he didn’t care. His hand slammed down on the desk as another breathless laugh escaped him. “They actually said they love me. God—what the hell?”

Ronin tilted his head back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling, face still flushed as pink as his tongue piercing. “They’re so damn cute.” His voice dropped into a low mumble, but the fondness lacing his words was impossible to ignore. “Holdin’ out their hand like that, all teary-eyed. Gonna give me a fuckin’ heart attack one day.”

His grin only grew as he replayed the moment in his head—you reaching for him, whispering “I love you, Ronin Beaufort.”

“Goddamn, they’re insane,” he muttered to himself, though his voice was dripping with affection. “Insane for lovin’ someone like me…” He paused, his grin softening just slightly as he added, “…but I guess I’m insane for lovin’ them back.”

His eyes flickered to the corner of his monitor, where your last message still lingered. He dragged his fingers through his hair again, his smirk returning but more dangerous this time—like he was plotting something.

“I’m gonna wreck ‘em, one day.” He snickered under his breath, a dangerous gleam in his eye. “They don’t even know what they’re doin’ to me…”

And still, he couldn’t stop smiling. Like crazy. Like he’d just been given a secret that no one else could understand.

“I love you, Ronin Beaufort…”

Those words echoed in his head like a melody on repeat, and for the first time in a long, long while, he actually believed it.

[moeitsu]

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Ch 12 - Though Mine Beat Faster Far Than Thine (Part 1)

Summary: Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God in a world that is ugly with violence and hate.

Ao3  Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters  Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

PLEASE READ BELOW:

Content Advisory 18+: This chapter contains graphic depictions of bodily torture, unsettling imagery, themes of death and child loss, grief, mourning, blood, gore, bodily fluids, and implied sexual assault. If you are sensitive to these adult themes, please approach with caution.

This is your warning: The content within this chapter is intense and may not be suitable for all readers.

A/N: Part 2 of this chapter will probably come out next week. I was originally going to do it in one part but this chapter alone is 13.5k words. I apologize in advance for what's about to unfold. Pls don't hate me.

Tag List: @photo1030 @ariacherie @thatweirdcatlady @ultraporcelainpig

**please let me know if you would like to be tagged in future chapters!

Story Tags: Widowed, Original Character(s), High-Honor!Arthur Morgan, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby!Arthur Morgan, Canon Divergence, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Sex, Eventual Romance, Emotional Sex, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort,Touch-Starved, Sexual Tension, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Infant Death, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Torture, Blood and Violence, Survivor Guilt, Aftermath of Torture, Caretaking, Injury Recovery, Period-Typical Racism, Anxiety, Self-Hatred, Night Terrors, Emotional Constipation, Self-Doubt, Men Crying, Bathing/Washing, Sweet/Hot, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff

Under the blazing Lemoyne sun, finding relief from the heat was like chasing a mirage. But in the heart of Clemens Point, life thrived despite the drought. The grass was a vivid green, speckled with bursts of colorful flowers that seemed to defy the arid conditions. Birds filled the air with their lively chatter, while bees and butterflies danced among the blossoms, competing for the sweet treasures hidden within.

Meanwhile, Arthur, Dutch's trusted right-hand man, was as busy as ever. Always on the lookout for opportunities to line the gang's pockets, his latest adventure had involved a risky venture to rob the Valentine bank. Alongside Bill and Karen, they'd pulled off the heist with typical outlaw flair, though not without facing down some trigger-happy lawmen on their way out. Despite the thrilling danger of the heist, Arthur couldn’t help but shake his head, wondering when this will finally be enough. 

Arthur had grown accustomed to Dutch's evasive responses whenever he attempted to discuss the gang's plans. Each time, Dutch would offer vague reassurances that everything was under control, leaving Arthur feeling more frustrated and in the dark than ever. The mention of Tahiti had become little more than a running joke among the gang, a distant dream that seemed increasingly out of reach with each passing day.

And then there was Micah, always worming his way into Dutch's good graces with flattery and false admiration. Arthur watched with a mixture of disdain and apprehension as Micah spun his tales of Dutch's unparalleled brilliance and leadership. Despite Dutch's apparent blindness to Micah's ulterior motives, Arthur saw through the facade, recognizing the dangerous influence the sycophantic outlaw wielded over their leader.

Arthur leaned against the post at the back of the gang leader's tent, as Dutch and Micah strategized inside, his gaze drifted to the shoreline. There, he watched Kate teaching Jack to skip stones, her laughter carrying faintly on the breeze. Each moment with her seemed to deepen his feelings, from the gentle touch of her hands to the genuine concern he felt for her safety. He found himself constantly drawn to her, seeking her out in quiet moments when he wasn't consumed by work. Yet, despite the intensity of his emotions, he couldn't find the words to express them.

As the afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the scene, Arthur wrestled with his growing affection for Kate. Her presence had become a beacon of warmth and solace in his turbulent life. He longed to confide in her, to bare his soul and share the depths of his feelings. But fear held him back, fear of rejection, fear of vulnerability. And so, he remained silent, his emotions simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to emerge. Her words a constant echo in his mind; don’t keep hidden what matters, even from yourself. 

“Are you even listening to us, Morgan?” Micah’s voice sliced through Arthur's reverie. With an exasperated roll of his eyes, he pushed himself off the post, turning to face the tent. Inside, Dutch lounged on his cot, a cigar dangling from his fingers, while a map sprawled across his nightstand. Micah, on the other hand, stood opposite him, arms crossed with a casual arrogance that made Arthur's skin crawl.

As he glanced around, he noticed Molly sitting just outside the tent, her presence a silent witness to their conversation. The ongoing disputes between her and Dutch had become a constant source of tension within the gang, their arguments echoing through the camp at night. Despite the turmoil, Molly still remained by Dutch's side, despite how miserable she appeared. Always resisting the efforts of the other women to draw her into their daily routines and conversations. Arthur felt sympathy for the young woman.

With a weary sigh and a shake of his head, Arthur responded, “Yeah, I heard you. And it sounds like a load of horse shit.” The weight of frustration hung heavy in his words as he braced himself for the inevitable clash of wills.

Earlier that day, Pearson had approached Micah with intriguing news. According to him, he had encountered some of Colm O'Driscoll's men in town. They professed a desire for peace, claiming that Colm wished to negotiate a parley with the rival gang. Arthur immediately smelled a trap. He couldn't fathom a man like Colm harboring anything but pure hatred in his heart. The feud between Colm and Dutch ran deep, stretching back to a time long before Arthur had joined the gang as a child.

Micah, however, seemed unfazed by the potential danger, dismissing Arthur's concerns with a nonchalant wave of his hand. "Well, since you've been running around digging us into even deeper shit, I reckon this might just lighten the load a little," Micah retorted, his tone dripping with arrogance.

Arthur's jaw clenched as he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Placing his hands on his gun belt, he took a step closer to Micah, his voice laced with irritation. "You mean your shit, Micah. Pearson ain’t got half the brains to con this mess. This has your dumbass written all over it," he shot back, the jingle of his spurs punctuating each step on the wooden floor of the makeshift room.

Micah's words hung in the air, thick with false hope and calculated manipulation. “You’re always tellin’ us Dutch, do what has to be done…but don’t fight wars that ain’t worth fightin’. Maybe Colm finally wants peace.” He explained.

Arthur's gaze hardened as he watched the scene unfold, his brows furrowing in frustration. The way Micah twisted Dutch's principles to suit his own agenda made Arthur's stomach churn with anger.

Hosea's timely interruption added a layer of gravity to the situation. His voice, filled with wisdom born of experience, cut through the tension like a knife. "Colm wants a parley?" he questioned, his tone laced with skepticism. "It's a trap," he asserted, his words carrying the weight of undeniable truth.

Micah's sigh of resignation seemed almost rehearsed, his arms extending in a theatrical display of defeat. "Well, of course, it's probably a trap," he conceded, his tone dripping with sarcasm. But then, with a pleading look directed at Dutch, he continued, "but what have we got to lose finding out?"

Arthur gritted his teeth at the sight, his frustration boiling beneath the surface. The way Micah spoke to Dutch, manipulating him with false hope and veiled threats, made Arthur sick to his stomach. He couldn't understand how Dutch could tolerate it, let alone seem to enjoy it. 

"We could get shot," Arthur interjected bluntly, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. 

Dutch's silent nod of agreement spoke volumes. "Colm ain't one to do things so… gentleman-like," he mused, his expression clouded with uncertainty.

Micah's dismissive shake of the head implied that the concerns were unfounded, mere misunderstandings in his eyes. "We ain't gettin' shot, because you'll be protecting us," he stated confidently, his hand resting heavily on Arthur's left shoulder. It was clear from his tone that he had already made up his mind; he would appoint himself as the right-hand man during the parley, regardless of Arthur's objections.

Arthur shot a disapproving glance at Dutch, silently pleading for his support. But Dutch's expression betrayed no hint of intervention; he seemed to be already envisioning how the situation would unfold.

"If it's a trap, you shoot the lot of them. If it's not…" Micah's voice trailed off, leaving the implication hanging in the air.

With a frustrated huff, Dutch walked past them, his irritation palpable. "I'm not really seeing the point in any of this," he muttered, making his way over to the table where Hosea sat, reading the paper.

Micah followed behind like a persistent nuisance, his voice bordering on whining. "It's a chance we gotta take!" he insisted.

Dutch sighed heavily, leaning his arms on the table as he shared a somber revelation. "I killed Colm's brother... a long time ago. Then he killed a woman I loved dearly." The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, casting a solemn pall over the group.

A moment of silence passed amongst them, punctuated only by Micah's sympathetic hum. But he quickly interjected once again, his tone brimming with impatience. "As you say. It was a long time ago, Dutch."

Dutch gazed out at the water, his mind undoubtedly consumed by the weight of their shared history. With a final puff of his cigar, he threw it into the dirt, his decision made. "Alright. Let's go then. You and me, with Arthur protecting us," he declared, his voice firm with resolve.

Arthur's frustration was evident as he shook his head, a deep furrow forming between his brows. With a muttered curse under his breath, he threw a hand up in the air in exasperation, a gesture of his growing annoyance. Resigned to the unfolding events, he fell into step behind Dutch, his footsteps heavy with irritation as he made his way to his trusty mare, waiting patiently nearby.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate hadn't intended to eavesdrop, but the weight of Arthur's frustration and concern in his voice drew her curiosity like a moth to flame. Along the grassy shoreline, she quickened her pace until she caught up to Arthur just as he was about to mount Belle.

Drawing his attention by placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, she couldn't help but inquire, "What's this I hear about a parley?"

Turning to greet her Arthur let out a heavy sigh, his irritation palpable. "Micah seems to think Colm O'Driscol wants peace, apparently," he muttered, his tone laden with disbelief.

"Peace? From the same man who's been chasing you lot since Blackwater?" Kate's incredulity rang clear in her voice.

"Yep, that's the one," Arthur replied, his spirits low.

Kate exhaled sharply, frustration evident in her features. "That's clearly a trap," she remarked, stating the obvious.

"I know," Arthur admitted, his voice tinged with resignation.

"Then why are you going along with it?" Kate pressed with unmistakable concern.

Leaning against the side of his saddle, Arthur gave her a sympathetic look. "Someone's gotta make sure Dutch doesn't get his head blown off."

"If he's foolish enough, I say let him. Maybe they'll shoot Micah as well," Kate quipped with a roll of her eyes.

A brief chuckle escaped Arthur's lips, her irreverence momentarily lifting his sour mood. "Wouldn't that be somethin’,” he mused. “But I can’t let it happen. I'll be up in the hills with a rifle, trained right on Colm. Just in case he tries anything."

Kate let out a deep sigh through her nose, her brows pinching with unease. "I still don’t think it’s a good idea. If you’re protecting them, who's protecting you?" Her tone carried a weight of seriousness, the gravity of the situation settling heavily upon her shoulders.

With a soft chuckle, Arthur reached out and gently squeezed her hand. "I don’t need protecting darlin’. I'll be just fine," he reassured her, though the lines of concern etched into his features betrayed his words.

"What if I come with you?" Kate suggested, brushing aside his reassurance with determined persistence.

Arthur shook his head slightly, his expression turning somber. "I don’t want you gettin’ roped into all that. Colm’s a nasty man, and I don’t need him comin’ for you too." His eyes bore into hers with genuine concern. He wished he didn't have to involve himself in Dutch's risky schemes, but loyalty demanded otherwise. If there was one thing he could protect Kate from, it was getting entangled in Dutch’s dangerous endeavors.

With a defeated sigh, Kate lowered her gaze. "Just promise me you’ll be cautious? And you’ll shoot him if he tries anything," she implored, her words more of a command than a request.

"I promise, Kate," Arthur vowed solemnly, his tone tinged with determination. With a final nod, he mounted Belle and tipped his hat in farewell before riding off into the camp to catch up with the others, leaving Kate behind with a heart heavy with worry.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting shadows across the camp, Kate found herself amidst the nightly routine of caring for her beloved mare, Lorena. Yet, unlike other evenings, Lorena seemed unusually restless, her ears flicking nervously, her hooves stomping the ground, and her pacing creating a small cloud of dust around her. Kate furrowed her brow in concern, attempting to soothe her companion's nerves with a gentle song, though she couldn't discern the cause of her distress.

Observing Lorena's behavior, Kate couldn't help but notice the absence of her mare's newfound companion, Belle. The two horses had formed a deep bond, she often watched them grooming each other, playing together, and even sleeping side by side. It was a testament to the camaraderie that extended beyond the human members of the camp. Kate suspected that Lorena's unease stemmed from Belle's absence, as any disruption to their nightly routine tended to unsettle her.

With Belle on her mind, Kate couldn't shake the thoughts of Arthur and the conversation they had shared before he departed. Though Dutch and Micah had returned to camp hours ago, Arthur was conspicuously absent. Kate brushed aside her worries for the time being, reminding herself that Arthur often sought solace away from camp. However, he never failed to return by dinner, and Kate found herself eagerly anticipating his return, awaiting to hear about the outcome of the supposed parley.

As the night wore on and Arthur's absence stretched into the hours after dinner, the seeds of doubt began to sprout in the back of Kate's mind. She couldn't shake the feeling of unease, her worry growing with each passing minute. Arthur was never one to linger without reason, especially not when the job was risky.

With a worried brow, Kate contemplated seeking out Dutch for answers. Perhaps Arthur had mentioned something about his whereabouts before he left. It wouldn't be the first time he had set out on one task only to find himself entangled in another. Determination spurred her forward as she made her way over to Dutch's tent, the crackling of the fire and the gentle lapping of water providing a somber soundtrack to her troubled thoughts.

To her surprise, Dutch was nowhere to be found, replaced instead by Molly, sitting quietly under the warm glow of an oil lamp, her pen scratching across paper. Kate hesitated, unsure of how to interrupt her at such a late hour. Molly's dark orange curls framed her face as she looked up, a hint of surprise in her eyes at Kate's unexpected presence.

"Hi Molly," Kate greeted awkwardly, fidgeting with her hands. "I um, I was just wondering if Dutch mentioned anything about Arthur?” Molly looked puzzled at her question. “You know, from the parley with Colm earlier. I haven't seen him return yet."

Her expression softened with sympathy as she processed Kate's inquiry. "No, I'm sorry," she replied gently. "Dutch didn't say anything to me."

With a heavy sigh, Kate nodded, her heart sinking with disappointment. "Oh, I see. Sorry for bothering you."

But before she could turn to leave, Molly offered a small reassurance, sensing Kate's distress. "Arthur's always disappearing," she said softly. "I'm sure he's alright."

Kate forced a small smile, though her worry remained palpable. "So I've learned," she murmured, her thoughts clouded with concern as she retreated into the night.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Arthur awoke to a relentless pounding pain that felt as though his skull might split in two. Each throb sent waves of agony crashing through his head, leaving him disoriented and gasping for breath. Slowly, he forced his heavy eyelids open, only to be greeted by a swirling mass of black stars dancing before him. The night air was frigid and thick, seeping into his bones as he lay sprawled on the unforgiving ground. Wrists and ankles bound. 

As his vision began to clear, he realized he was not nestled safely by the campfire at Clemens Point. No, the harsh reality of his surroundings sent a shiver down his spine. He was alone in the darkness, surrounded by eerie shadows that danced menacingly in the flickering light of a distant campfire. Panic surged within him as he struggled to piece together the events that had led him to this desolate place. The last thing he remembered was a hazy blur of faces and voices, fading into the abyss of his memory.

Fear gnawed at his insides as he fought to push through the fog of confusion that clouded his mind. Had he been ambushed? Kidnapped?

The memory of the parlay with Colm played like a haunting melody in Arthur's mind. He could feel the weight of his rifle against his chest as he lay hidden in the tall grass, his breath shallow with anticipation. The tension in the air was palpable as Dutch and Colm exchanged terse words, the promise of peace slipping through their fingers like sand. Arthur's jaw clenched as he watched the failed negotiation unfold before him, his finger poised on the trigger, ready to act if things took a turn for the worse.

But nothing could have prepared him for what happened next. As Colm turned to leave, his gaze seemed to linger on Arthur with a chilling intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. Before he could react, the world spun violently as a blinding pain erupted in his head, the sickening crunch of bone meeting metal echoing in his ears. Darkness swallowed him whole as he succumbed to the ground, the last thing he saw were the menacing silhouettes of his assailants looming over him like specters of death.

Arthur's mind swam in a turbulent sea of pain and confusion, each wave crashing against the shores of his consciousness with merciless force. The memories of being hoisted onto the back of a horse, his body dangling limply over the beast's flank, stirred a sickening cocktail of nausea and disorientation within him. The rhythmic bounce of the horse's gait only served to intensify his queasiness, threatening to unleash the contents of his roiling stomach onto the unforgiving ground below.

In the midst of his torment, a grim irony dawned on him like a blink in the night. The sensation of being transported as prey, his captors seemingly relishing in his helplessness, echoed the plight of those he had pursued relentlessly in his own chase as a bounty hunter. It was a bitter realization, one that clawed at the fringes of his consciousness as he struggled to maintain his tenuous grip on reality. That must be it, Arthur thought to himself. He chalked it up to be a group of bounty hunters, looking to turn in his head for the $5000.

As consciousness ebbed and flowed like the tide, Arthur's senses gradually sharpened, revealing the harsh reality of his captivity. With painstaking effort, he managed to pry his leaden eyelids open, his vision obscured by a haze of pain and exhaustion. Through the murky veil that shrouded his perception, he discerned the silhouettes of his captors seated by a crackling fire, their voices a distant murmur in the vast expanse of his disoriented mind. With a grunt of exertion, he attempted to shift his weight, the world tilting dangerously on its axis with each agonizing movement.

Arthur's heart hammered in his chest as he dragged his body across the unforgiving earth, the coarse ground tearing at his skin with each agonizing inch. His bound hands clawed desperately at the soil, fingers digging into the earth as if grasping for a lifeline in the depths of despair. Every movement sent waves of searing pain coursing through his battered frame, a relentless reminder of the brutality he had endured. If he could just reach the horses, he could escape. 

In the dim glow of the campfire, the shadows danced like demons, casting sinister shapes upon the ground as Arthur's tormentors remained oblivious to his silent struggle. With every labored breath, he willed himself forward, his mind consumed by a singular purpose: escape. The rhythmic cadence of his groans mingled with the hushed whispers of the night, a haunting symphony of suffering that echoed through the darkness.

But as Arthur's faltering movements drew the attention of his captors, the weight of their scrutiny bore down upon him like a suffocating shroud. The sudden cessation of their conversation sent a chill down his spine, the air thick with anticipation as their gazes fixed upon his trembling form.

In the eerie silence that followed, the voice of a young Irishman pierced the night like a dagger, his words laced with contempt and malice. “Well ye just gonna sit there and let the bastard git away?” 

"Calm down, Nolan, he ain’t goin’ nowhere," came a voice, tinged with a cold indifference that sent shivers down Arthur's spine. He heard the heavy thud of boots against the earth as one of his captors rose to his feet and approached.

"Well evening, sugar," the man sneered, his voice dripping with disdain as he loomed over Arthur's broken form. "You ain’t dead yet, is you?" With a cruel shove of his boot, Arthur was forced onto his back, the impact sending shockwaves of pain radiating through his broken body.

The man chuckled darkly, relishing in the sight of Arthur's mangled visage. The bruises on his face had blossomed into grotesque shades of purple, his features marred by cuts and dried blood. "F-fuck you," Arthur managed to spit out, his voice hoarse amidst the agony that consumed him.

The man merely tsked in response, his amusement palpable as he delivered another vicious blow, his boot connecting with Arthur's ribs with brutal force. As Arthur curled in on himself like a child, gasping for air through the haze of pain, he realized with a sinking heart that his torment was far from over.

In the darkness, Arthur's fingers scrabbled desperately in the earth, seeking refuge in the jagged contours of the rocky terrain. If he could just grab something, anything. Even a small rock could be deadly in his hands. But his efforts were swiftly thwarted by the cruel descent of a heavy foot, grinding mercilessly into his hand. The bone-chilling crunch of his fingers being crushed beneath the merciless weight elicited a primal cry of agony from deep within his chest, muffled by the suffocating grip of pain.

Nolan's voice returned, dripping with sadistic anticipation, cut through the night like a blade. "Once Colm gets his hands on him, we're gonna be free as birds," he gloated, as if reveling in Arthur's torment was the key to their liberation.

The mention of Colm sent a wave of fear down Arthur's back, his thoughts a murky whirlpool of anguish and bewilderment. Through gritted teeth, he fought to rise again, a glimmer of defiance flickering in his eyes as he attempted to leverage himself against the unforgiving ground. 

Above him, the voices of his captors continued their sinister discourse, the weight of their words heavy with ominous implications. "Are we really turning them into the law? If it were up to me I’d say he ain’t worth the risk," the one closest to him questioned, his skepticism palpable in the darkness. 

But Nolan's response offered little solace. "Quit bein' stupid, Connor. That's his plan, remember?"

"Do you really think he gives two shits about this washed-up cowboy?" Connor's voice dripped with disdain, his words laced with a venomous edge.

The irritation in his tone was palpable as he continued, "Colm says he knows how to play Van der Linde. Once he realizes we have him, his whole posse will fall right into his trap."

Arthur knelt in the dirt, his body trembling with a mixture of pain and fear. With a herculean effort, he pushed himself to his feet, each movement an agonizing battle against the relentless grip of gravity. Stumbling forward, he fought to maintain his balance, his vision swimming with dizziness. Desperation fueled his every step as he clumsily veered away, a fleeting moment of hope igniting within him as he drew nearer to the horses. If he could just reach one...

But his hope was shattered in an instant as a bullet tore through his ankle, sending searing waves of pain coursing through his shattered limb. With a gut-wrenching cry, he crumpled to the ground, his world engulfed in a haze of excruciating agony. Blood pooled beneath him as his legs quivered with adrenaline, a futile attempt to numb the relentless torment that consumed him. Gasping for air, he rolled onto his side, his breaths ragged with panic as he struggled to suppress the rising tide of agony threatening to overwhelm him. Tears threatened to spill down his blood stain cheeks. 

As he lifted his gaze, he was met with the sight of the two men looming over him, their faces twisted with sadistic amusement. The one who had fired the shot let out a cruel laugh, his eyes alight with malice. "Did I kill ya yet?" he taunted, the callousness of his words echoing through the darkness like a death knell.

Arthur's attempts to speak were drowned out by a guttural moan, a haunting sound that echoed through the desolate night air, mirroring the agony that gripped his shattered body. Fear and desperation clawed at the edges of his consciousness, threatening to engulf him in its heavy embrace.

“Let’s see if you survive this,” Connor’s voice taunted, each word full of tormented amusement, a cruel promise of further suffering.

A chill swept over Arthur as he felt the icy touch of metal against his left shoulder, the unmistakable sensation of the barrel of a rifle pressed against his flesh. With a sharp intake of breath, he braced himself for the inevitable onslaught, his heart hammering in his chest like a thunderous drumbeat.

Searing pain ripped through him as a bullet tore through his shoulder, sending shockwaves of anguish coursing through his already beaten form. The world around him blurred into a hazy fog of suffering, his consciousness slipping away into the abyss as darkness swallowed him whole.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The passage of time seemed as fleeting as the shifting clouds above, their transient dance across the sky mirroring Kate's restless thoughts. With each passing moment, her imagination wove a tapestry of dread, painting vivid scenes of tragedy. For every dire scenario she conjured, she grasped desperately for the slender threads of reason, clinging to the hope that Arthur's absence was merely a benign twist of fate. Dutch would have surely said something had the parley gone awry. 

But like a persistent tick embedded deep within her psyche, the gnawing sense of unease persisted, burrowing beneath her skin and refusing to be ignored. Despite her best efforts to quell the rising tide of fear, it lingered in the recesses of her mind, a haunting whisper of uncertainty.

Engulfed in a flurry of chores, Kate sought refuge in the mundane tasks of camp life, each action a feeble attempt to distract herself from the relentless thunder of worry. Yet, amidst the hustle and bustle, the absence of Arthur's reassuring presence weighed heavily upon her, a silent void that echoed with unanswered questions.

Yearning for solace, Kate longed to confide in someone who understood. With Sadie and Charles occupied elsewhere, she found herself adrift in a sea of unease, her anxious pacing along the shoreline of the camp a silent testament to her inner turmoil.

Beside her, Lorena mirrored her distress, her restless movements a silent plea for communication. Kate had to hitch her to a tree just shy of her tent, or else she feared Lorena would take off. Chasing, or running from something; Kate did not know. 

As the night stretched on, their shared distress only deepened, casting a shadow over their sleepless vigil. In the quiet darkness, they stood as silent sentinels, bound together by the unspoken fear that lurked just beyond the edge of sight.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

In the embrace of unconsciousness, Arthur drifted through the realm of dreams. The reality of his situation melted away like morning mist beneath the sun's gentle caress. In his coma, he found himself in a fantasy of domestic bliss, woven from the threads of his deepest longings and desires.

He stood within the sturdy confines of a wooden cabin, its walls shielding him from the world outside. With each breath, the scent of crackling firewood mingled with the sweet melody of Kate's voice, a symphony that filled the air with her warmth and comfort.

Looking around he saw tables and chairs worn by the effects of time, a home filled with comfort.

Summoned by the will of his imagination, Kate stood before him with her back turned. A vision of radiant beauty bathed in the golden hour of the sun. Her silhouette cast against the rustic walls, each line and curve a testament to her grace, her beauty. It framed her like a shining halo. In that moment, she was not just a woman, but an angel sent to soothe his weary soul. 

His own corner of personal heaven. Perhaps whatever God watched over him truly was a forgiving one.

With each step forward, Arthur felt the weight of the world fall away, replaced by a sense of peace and contentment that he had waited his whole life for. With arms outstretched, he enveloped her in a tender embrace, the warmth of her body a balm against the chill of his uncertainty.

With whispered words of love and adoration, he pressed his lips to her cheek, each kiss a vow of eternal affection. Her giggle felt like warm honey against his skin. In that fleeting moment, everything else ceased to exist, leaving only the two of them, bound together in his dreams.

Amidst his tender kisses, a symphony of innocence pierced the air—a soft patter of footsteps. Arthur turned, his heart aching, to find a shadow of a child standing in the doorway, a small horse plush nestled in his tiny grasp. Wordlessly, the child reached out, beckoning to be cradled in the safety of Arthur's embrace.

As he lifted the boy into his arms, a sudden chill seeped into his soul. His gaze drifted over the features of the boy's face, and realized it was son Isaac.

No, no this can't be –  He recoiled slightly at the icy feeling that lingered on his skin like a ghostly touch. 

Sorrow and confusion washed over him. He looked back to Kate for some explanation, and he froze. In her place stood another woman, a face from a past life. A life he fought to keep buried. Her apparition draped in the hues of bygone days. 

The sunlight waned, its golden tendrils fading into shadows that enveloped the cabin in an embrace as cold as death itself. And there, amidst the encroaching darkness, Arthur's worst fears took shape—a vision of Eliza.

Arthur felt like a fool to think he could ever be given a chance at redemption. Heaven would always be beyond his reach. 

Eliza's porcelain skin bore the scars of untold suffering, her once-vibrant eyes now veiled in a haunting white mist. A silent scream echoed in the depths of Arthur's soul as he beheld the gaping wound that marred her chest—a stark reminder of the violence that had torn her from this earth. In her last act as a mother to shield her child from the blow; his child.

With a heavy heart and trembling hands, Arthur attempted to retreat from the weight of his sin before him. The grief bearing down upon him like a heavy wet blanket. Cold, damp, and suffocating. 

As he cradled the lifeless form of the child in his arms, he could only utter a prayer—a whispered plea for forgiveness in the face of a tragedy too cruel to bear.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Eliza. I should have been there. I'm sorry. 

Eliza stood before him, undead. Her lips parted in a voiceless plea, a mournful wisp of breath that stirred the stagnant air. With hesitant steps, she approached Arthur, her gaze a haunting orchestra of longing, despair and pain. 

Arthur recoiled from her embrace, his heart aflutter with a tempest of emotions. Panic gnawed at his senses, the oppressive burden of the cabin's walls bearing down upon him like the burden of his guilt. 

Each of her steps echoed through the old cabin; her cabin. Once a warm bustling home, that he only visited in fleeting moments. Avoiding his duty as a father at almost any cost. 

Beneath his trembling feet, the floor lay slick with the crimson tide of regret, a macabre testament to the lives lost in the wake of his relentless pursuit of hatred and vengeance. Amongst the faceless of the fallen, he glimpsed the lifeless forms of Eliza and Isaac, their silent reproach a damning indictment of his failures. And yet, amidst the sea of carnage, Eliza stood undaunted, a haunting reminder of the family he had forsaken and the wounds that could never truly heal.

I was a fool Eliza, a goddamn fool. I know I shoulda been there for you and the boy. And I suffer for it everyday. 

With Eliza drawing near, Arthur found himself cornered, his back pressed against the hard wall. Yet, even in the throes of despair, he clung to Isaac's lifeless form, as if his embrace could breathe warmth back into the cold hands of death.

As Eliza's lips parted, a chilling sound pierced the silence—a twisted echo of Arthur's own voice, a haunting refrain of his darkest truths laid bare. Each word echoed through the chamber of his soul, a relentless cascade of self-condemnation that tore at the fabric of his being.

"I was born sick, unloved, and unwanted. But I am the master of my own torment," his voice whispered, a lamentation of a soul consumed by the flames of its own creation. "A prisoner of my own choosing, condemned to walk the path of the damned. I am just a vessel of violence, a predator in the shadows, thirsting for the blood of innocence."

In that moment, Arthur faced the reflection of his own sins, mirrored in the eyes of the woman he had failed, and the child he had forsaken. And as the weight of his remorse threatened to engulf him, he knew that redemption lay beyond the grasp of a soul consumed by the darkness within.

Arthur shut his eyes tight. Grief flooded him in waves that threatened to escape his eyes in hot tears. This must be a nightmare. He prayed it was only a nightmare. Unsure how he would deal with himself if this was his eternal damnation. Facing his past was a worse fate than death. 

Eliza continued, as he steeled himself, her sound began to grow louder in his ears. 

“I am not worthy of a woman such as Kate. I am a shadow in her light. I am like a cancer that thrives on her warmth. With every touch, I know I will take a piece of her body, mind, and soul with me as I am dragged into the darkest pits of hell. As heaven is not fit to house a man like me, and my love will never be enough.

But I fear I will do it all again anyways.” 

—

Arthur awakens with a groan, the sound distant and detached, ripped from a place within him he cannot recognize. At first, there is no pain, just a dreamlike fog enveloping his senses. Slowly, he peels open his heavy eyelids, feeling the weight of them threatening to fall from his skull. As the darkness begins to clear, he discerns the faint glimmer of light and the outlines of two figures. Blinking against the sliver of sun filtering through the cellar door above the stairs, he realizes where he is.

The voices of men reach his ears, and suddenly, pain floods through him like a relentless tide. A weeping moan escapes his lips as consciousness slowly returns. His vision is blurred, everything tinted red with blood. Each beat of his heart sends a throbbing ache through his head. His toes barely graze the ground beneath him as his wrists are bound above his head, a tight knot cutting off circulation to his arms. Suspended from the ceiling, his left arm remains numb, unable to twitch even his fingertips. Waves of burning sensation radiate from the rifle wound in his shoulder, coursing through his body like white flames.

Arthur strains to look down at himself, his neck protesting against the movement. Panic shrieks through his mind as he takes in the sight. Clad only in his red union suit, the buttons ripped down to his underwear, his stomach laid bare like a gruesome canvas. Yellow and purple bruises mar his skin, mingled with shallow cuts and the cruel imprints of cigarette burns.

Turning his head to the left, he gazes at what remains of his shoulder. His undershirt peeled back, sticky with blood and soot, the fabric singed at the edges. His eyes fall upon a black crater, a mutilating wound that sends waves of pain unlike anything he’s ever known coursing through his body. His side is soaked in his own blood, thick and cold, a chilling testament to the violence inflicted upon him.

Time becomes a blur as he hangs there, suspended in agony. He doesn’t know if it has been hours or days since he was captured. Fear gnaws at him, the weight of his own body threatening to tear his arm from its socket. Agony drowns out any coherent thoughts, burning hot and filling every pore of his body. Arthur mewls pathetically as he tries to move, his feeble attempts to escape futile against the overwhelming pain.

“Fuck, I think the ugly bastards finally awake.” Arthur was yanked from his haze by the voice of the young Irish O’Driscoll. He fixed his eyes on where they sat at a dusty and broken wooden table.

"Shit, and I was just gettin’ to the good part!" Connor's voice dripped with sarcasm as he tossed a leather book onto the table.

Sickened, Arthur felt the urge to curl into a hole and rot. He recognized that old binding anywhere—they were reading his journal. His most personal inner thoughts laid bare for these boys who hunted him, mercilessly beat him, to know the depths of his very soul. Every guilt, shame, love, and loss spilled across those pages. His darkest, most tormented thoughts exposed to the cruel light of day.

Arthur's spirit felt raped in a way it never had before.

Connor rose to his feet, sauntering over. Arthur could only stare at his legs, unable to lift his head to meet his eyes. Suddenly, the man pulled out a knife, and Arthur braced for the sting. But instead, he felt the rope above his wrists being cut. In the next instant, his head collided with the ground as his heavy body collapsed hard. Arthur coughed as the air was knocked from his lungs, his whines sounding wet and pained.

Nolan's voice cut through the air, dripping with snark, "Ya think that Kate girl will show up with the rest of 'em?"

"I'm counting on it. Colm might even let us keep her," came the dark chuckle of his companion. "As a reward."

A guttural noise clawed its way from Arthur's throat, a desperate denial. “Nghh-no.”

A flirtatious whistle pierced the tension as Nolan flipped through pages upon pages of drawings of Kate. "Christ, this fella's obsessed with her. You think he's some kind of pervert?" He tore one of the sketches from the journal, holding it up to the light. "She's a pretty thing. I bet she screams real nice too," he added wickedly before pocketing the paper.

Arthur's heart hammered in his chest. Would Kate arrive with Dutch and the gang? Was she walking into danger? He writhed on the ground, grappling with the dirt beneath him, consumed by the need to warn or stop them.

The conversation between his captors resurfaced in his mind. "When the law shows up, they'll fall right into his trap," they had said. Colm had orchestrated it all.

Images of Kate flashed through his mind, her face contorted in pain. He envisioned the horrors they might inflict upon her, and the realization struck him like a hammer blow. It would be all his fault, his negligence costing yet another innocent woman her life.

With a desperate cry, he attempted to rise from the ground, his belly scraping against the dirt. But before he could make any progress, a thick-heeled boot pinned him down, forcing the air from his lungs in a desperate squeal.

"You have something to say, piggy?" Connor spat, pressing down on Arthur's back.

"I-I'll kill,” he huffed, “y-ou," Arthur managed, his breaths coming in wheezes.

Connor chuckled, dismissing Arthur's threat with a wave of his hand as if he were a child. "What do you wanna do with 'em, Nolan?" he asked, ignoring Arthur's gasping for air.

Nolan rose from his seat, looming over Arthur's broken body. "Colm won't be here till tomorrow. I say we have some fun with 'em. Long as he don't die."

The pressure on Arthur's chest eased, allowing him to suck in a dusty breath that sent him into a fit of coughs. Before he could fully recover, he was yanked up by fistfuls of his hair, eliciting a wince of pain. He tried to grab the man's arm in vain.

From behind, the other man reached around, grabbing Arthur's bound wrists. A scream tore through him as his shattered shoulder was wrenched backwards. His ripped union suit slid off his shoulders, exposing his vulnerable chest. Kneeling before his captors, he felt utterly helpless.

"Mmf-st..stop.." he pleaded, his voice raw and dry.

"Aww, I think piggy's a little thirsty," Nolan taunted, his voice dripping with malice.

His lips were suddenly greeted by the cold, unyielding touch of a bottle. The overpowering scent of whiskey flooded his senses, drowning out any rational thought. Before he could even think to hold his breath, the fiery liquid surged down his throat, choking him.

Gagging and coughing, Arthur attempted to move his head, to resist the forceful flow of alcohol, but it was futile. One hand gripped his hair, holding his head in place, while the other shoved the bottle deeper into his mouth.

With no other choice, Arthur was forced to swallow. He sputtered and struggled to keep up with the relentless stream, the liquor dribbling down the sides of his mouth and soaking his chest. His feeble attempts to resist earned him a punishing blow to the gut.

"Quit wastin' it, I'm bein' generous!" the man boasted callously, releasing his hold on Arthur's head, leaving him to collapse under the weight of the pain. Arthur coughed violently, his nose burning with each harsh exhale, the sound of his hacking mingling with the haunting laughter that filled the room.

"Guess the fella can't handle his booze," the Irishman taunted, bending down to Arthur's level.

Arthur groaned, his body wracked with agony as he struggled to alleviate the pressure on his throbbing shoulder. The pain, coupled with the fiery sensation in his belly, left his chest heaving with each labored breath. Nausea churned in his gut like a relentless storm, threatening to overwhelm him. With a desperate effort, he managed to rise slightly from the ground, the weight on his knees straining his body. As he lurched forward, a warm sensation crept up his throat, signaling the imminent release of his body's revolt.

"Hurl on me and I’ll kill you right now, big fella," the man warned before delivering a punishing blow to Arthur's stomach with his boot.

A strangled groan tore from Arthur's throat, raw and primal, like the cry of a wounded beast. He couldn't control it—his stomach convulsed, expelling its contents onto the filthy floor and down his chest. Acid scorched his throat and nose as he desperately turned his head to avoid drowning in his own vomit.

Violent tremors wracked his body as he fought to stay upright, struggling to draw in breaths amidst the agony. Hot tears and saliva mingled on his chin, his chest heaving with the effort to gulp down air. He wanted to plead for mercy, but he felt utterly powerless already.

The O'Driscolls reacted with disgust, their chorus of revulsion echoing in the dimly lit cellar. One of them approached Arthur, leaning in close to his ear with contempt dripping from his voice. "Filthy pig," he spat, his saliva landing on Arthur's face. "You're going back to sleep."

A heavy hand seized Arthur's neck, forcefully pressing his head into the solid ground, into his own sickening mess. His vision blurred, the world spinning as darkness enveloped him once more.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

As the sun dipped on the horizon of the third day, Kate's resolve solidified. She could no longer abide by the passive whispers of concern that lingered unspoken in the shadows. Arthur's absence loomed like a gaping wound, and she refused to tiptoe around it any longer.

Seated alone by the fire, she felt the weight of uncertainty pressing down upon her. The flames flickered, casting dancing light upon her face as her mind whirled with plans. No longer content to wait for answers that may never come, she made a silent vow to look for Arthur herself.

With each passing moment, her determination grew stronger. Nobody in camp seemed to question Arthur’s absence, and it drove Kate mad. Had no one else thought the parley was suspicious? No one questioned Dutch on what happened? There were missing pieces to all of this, and Arthur left the biggest hole in her puzzle. 

With a resolute nod, Kate rose to her feet. She knew she couldn't rely on anyone else for this task. Charles and Sadie were miles away on their own assignments, leaving her to face this alone. Setting her sights on Rhodes, she vowed to start her search at the sheriff station

As Kate turned, she collided with Molly O’Shea, the unexpected impact nearly causing her to stumble backward. "Oh! Sorry, Molly, I didn’t hear you walk over," she apologized quickly, her movements indicating her intention to go around her.

Molly's eyes held an air of unease that mirrored Kate's own for a fleeting moment. Sensing the gravity of the situation, Kate paused, her concern evident in her voice as she spoke. "Is everything okay?"

“I heard Dutch say last night that Arthur was supposed to meet them after the parley,” Molly blurted hastily, her thick Irish accent hushed with urgency. “But he didn’t.”

Kate felt the heat drain from her body as her mind raced to process Molly’s words. She realized with a sinking feeling that it wasn't Dutch who was in danger—it was Arthur.

Struggling to find the right words to convey her gratitude, Kate's mouth went dry as she attempted to speak. Before she could utter a single word, Molly gently grasped Kate's wrist, her touch imbued with a sense of urgency. “I snuck a look at Dutch’s map. The meeting was held between the twin stacks path. Arthur was supposed to be on the slope facing Emerald Ranch,” Molly whispered, her words echoing in Kate's mind as she repeated the location to herself.

"I-I don’t know how to thank you, Molly–" Kate stuttered, her voice trembling with emotion.

“Good luck, Kate,” Molly whispered in response, before walking away as if their encounter had been nothing out of the ordinary.

Without another word, Kate hastened toward her horse, Lorena, whose restless movements reflected her own unease. As she mounted her steed, Lorena reared up, pulling at the reins with a sense of urgency. Before Kate could fully settle into the saddle, her mare was already in motion, galloping like a bolt of lightning out of Clemens Point and down the winding path that led to the fateful meeting spot where she and Arthur had first crossed paths.

Molly returned to her seat in the solitude of the empty tent she shared with Dutch. Cooling herself with a paper fan. She had been a silent witness to Kate’s nightly ritual of pacing the shoreline, her silhouette framed by the moonlight reflected off the water. Each night Arthur had not returned Molly felt a pang of empathy. She knew all too well the ache of devotion, mixed with fear. When the one you love vanishes without a trace.

It resonated within her own heart, the longing echoed in her soul. Her thoughts drifted to Dutch, the man she loved dear. Though he had not disappeared from her physically. Each day she felt him slipping away, morphing into a man she did not recognize. A ghost of the person she once knew. She prayed her information had spared Kate from that kind of torment. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Nothing I do is ever good. Nothing I do is ever good enough. 

Time becomes a blur for Arthur, lost in the dark confines of the cellar-turned-prison. Pain surges through him in relentless waves, crashing against the shores of his consciousness like a violent storm.

When he awakens, it's with a sharp intake of breath, his vision swimming in a haze of stars and swirling shades of red and brown. He realizes he's been moved, his captors stringing him up by his ankles while he was lost in silent, dark unconsciousness. His head hangs just a few feet from the ground, blood trickling down his legs once more, the shackles around his ankles digging deep into his flesh under the impossible weight of his own body.

Gazing up at his toes, now swollen and blackened, Arthur feels a sickening dread grip his heart. The blood pounding in his head threatens to burst his eyes from their sockets, forcing him to tightly shut them against the unbearable pressure.

Every inch of his body screams with agony, a symphony of torment orchestrated by his captors' relentless brutality. He feels broken, bruised, numb; yet aflame with searing pain.

Amidst the haze of suffering, distant voices drift in and out of his awareness. Arthur longs to retreat into the comforting embrace of unconsciousness, or perhaps even embrace the release of death, anything to escape the unending torment.

But he is not granted reprieve. Unseen hands assault him, tearing at his clothing and underwear until he is completely exposed to the biting chill of the cellar air. Violated, helpless, he endures their cruel touch, their probing fingers exacerbating his wounds, their blows landing like thunder against his battered form.

Silenced by the agony of his soul, Arthur can only shudder and gasp, his protests drowned out by the symphony of his own suffering.

The cruel banter of his captors cuts through the stale air of the cellar, their words dripping with venomous amusement. "Look at the size of this fella," the Irishman sneers, his tone thick with bitterness. "No wonder that Kate lass is stickin' around. Probably only usin' 'em for his cock."

Their laughter echoes like the cawing of carrion birds, feasting on the remains of a fallen prey. "Well, he's got three holes now," another voice chimes in, laced with malicious glee. "I reckon that mouth of his is soft and warm like her cunt."

Arthur's stomach churns with revulsion and fear as he listens to their degrading remarks, feeling utterly defenseless in the face of their cruelty. The sound of shuffling fabric signals Nolan's approach, his presence looming over Arthur like a shadow in the darkness. His hips suddenly inches from Arthur’s face.

In a moment of desperate reprieve, Arthur's consciousness fades into blackness, a merciful respite from the fear, shame, and agony that threaten to consume him. When he awakens, it's with a choking cough, his own sickness coating his face.

With a trembling hand, he wipes away the vile residue, his body racked with pain and exhaustion. The cellar's frigid air hangs heavy with the stench of vomit and decay, suffocating him further as he struggles to draw breath.

Each inhale is a laborious effort, his lungs rattling with the strain as they gasp for oxygen. With every passing moment, the weight of his battered body grows heavier, his limbs hanging limp and lifeless in the oppressive darkness.

As the cellar door groans open, Arthur stirs from his fitful slumber, the sound of three distinct sets of footsteps descending the stairs sends a chill down his spine.

"Arthur Morgan," a familiar cloying voice, slices through the darkness like a dagger. Arthur winces as the figure steps into the flickering candlelight, casting ominous shadows against the damp stone walls. Unmistakably Colm O'Driscoll.

A wave of dread washes over Arthur, and he recoils instinctively as Colm draws near. "How's that wound treating you?" His words drip with false concern, a mockery of compassion.

Coughing weakly, blood staining his parched lips, Arthur manages to murmur, "c-can’t…fe-feel it any…more," his voice trembling with pain and despair.

Colm leans in, his expression twisted with disdain as he inspects Arthur's festering wound. The skin was turning black and yellow. The putrid odor assaults his senses, and Colm's lip curls in disgust. "You ain't allowed to die yet," he sneers. "I wanna see the look in your eyes when Van der Linde and that so-called family of his gets a bullet to the skull."

Arthur croaks, “D-dutch…is-is he…” His mind whirls with thoughts of Dutch, Hosea, and Kate, their faces blurred by anguish and uncertainty. He struggles to recall why he's here, and if his friends are even still alive. Perhaps they've already fallen into his trap, and he's the lone survivor, kept alive for Colm's sadistic pleasure.

Colm grips Arthur's hair tightly, yanking him closer with a cruel smirk etched upon his ugly scarred face. "Could've saved yourself a lot of pain if you'd worked for me," he taunts. "We could've been partners in crime, making real money together."

Rage surged through Arthur like a wildfire, fueled by a defiance that refused to be extinguished. It was never about the money to him. "I-I'll fu-fucking…k-ill y-you," he spat, the words punctuated by a wad of blood and mucus aimed at Colm's face.

Colm's features contorted with fury as he jerked Arthur's head back, sending him swinging on his shackles. Dazed and nauseous, Arthur felt the impact of a heavy fist against his stomach. A sickening warmth spread down his body, mingling with the stench of blood and vomit. He realized with horror, the fullness of his bladder now emptying uncontrollably, adding another layer of humiliation to his degradation.

Drenched in his own bodily fluids, Arthur trembled with fear. "P-please," he choked out, his voice a desperate plea for mercy. "Just…l-le…let me go—" His words dissolved into sobs, his pride shattered by the harsh reality of his helplessness. He knew he sounded pitiful, weak, but in this moment, all he could do was beg for the slightest glimmer of hope, completely at the mercy of Colm's tenacious grip.

"The way I see it," Colm continued, his voice flowing with disdain, "the law gets Van der Linde, and they forget all about little ole me." He taunted, his filthy fingernails tracing over Arthur's bruised abdomen, descending to the tangled hair below his navel.

Arthur only whimpered in response, his body squirming and contorting under Colm's touch, indifferent to the pain shooting through his ankles. He kicked his feet desperately, not caring if he ripped the flesh. A futile attempt to escape, accompanied by the distant snickers of the other O'Driscolls.

"We grab all of ya, let the law have their fun…then we disappear. Leaving you here to rot in your own shit," Colm continued, his grin sinister as he yanked a fistful of hair, as if trying to tear it from the follicle. Arthur's breath hitched sharply, coughing up more blood onto his lips.

"Ngh..s-stop…please," he pleaded, his voice strained with anguish.

As the fog in his mind began to clear, Arthur realized the gravity of Colm's words. He had been kidnapped not for ransom, but as bait for Dutch and the gang. They would come charging to his rescue, only to fall into a trap orchestrated by Colm, sealing their own fates.

"You're his right hand man, Arthur, oh he would be so mad if he knew what I'm gonna do to you." Colm's laughter echoed through the cellar, cruel and triumphant, as he used his grip on Arthur's hair to spin him wildly. He thrashed in agony, his cries drowned out by the darkness.

Abruptly, Colm halted the motion, leaving Arthur's head spinning with dizziness. In the haze of his vision, he caught sight of Colm retrieving a small knife from his pocket.

“Get m’f-fuck…away fr’m-me!” He mustered, his voice broken like a beaten dog. 

Before he could even brace himself for the inevitable blow, Colm thrust the knife into his belly.

The scream that tore from Arthur's lips was primal, guttural, a symphony of agony that reverberated through the cellar. Like the sound of an animal being burned alive. Breathing heavily through his teeth, the pain engulfed him. Splintering inwards. A relentless torrent that seared his insides with a fiery intensity. Blood and bile rose in his throat, threatening to choke him with their suffocating heat.

Colm stepped back, wiping his hands on his jeans with casual indifference, as if he had just completed the mundane task of skinning an animal. "We'll come wake ya when the party arrives," he spat, his voice laced with contempt. "Make sure ya get a front row seat for the show."

With heavy footsteps, Colm and his companions departed, leaving behind an oppressive silence that enveloped Arthur like a shroud. Alone in the darkness, his sobs mingled with the echo of his labored breathing, his fragile existence sustained only by the stubborn beat of his heart.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

In the waning light, between the towering monoliths of the twin stacks, Kate stood alone, her gaze fixed westward toward Emerald Ranch. The memories of their first meeting still vivid in her mind. Every step forward felt heavy with dread, each breath drawn laden with uncertainty. She braced herself for the task ahead, steeling her resolve to confront the unknown. 

Amidst the barren expanse, an object caught her eye—a solitary figure in the dust. Arthur's hat, a weathered relic of countless battles, lay abandoned upon the ground. Its frayed edges whispered tales of long sunny days on the prairie, and cold rainy evenings as it shielded his face from the oncoming storm. A silent testament to his indomitable spirit.

As she reached out to retrieve the hat, a surge of anguish washed over her. Arthur's absence echoed through the empty landscape, like a gaping void in her heart. Yet the hat remained, a tangible reminder of his presence.

Kate brought the hat to her face, inhaling deeply the familiar scent of pine and musk mingled with campfire smoke. Arthur’s smell. A familiar scent she had begun to associate with home. Tears threatened to blur her vision as she clung to the cherished memento, her heart heavy with worry and longing. It was one piece of himself Arthur would never leave behind, not if he could help it. His gamblers hat was an extension of himself. 

Amidst the intruding darkness, she traced the crimson stains upon the rocky earth, following their trail with a sinking heart. Three sets of tracks emerged from the shadows, leading northward past the stacks—a grim indication of Arthur's fate.

Kate knew at that moment the law didn’t have him. The closest sheriff station was back east. Had he been arrested, news of his capture would be in the paper by now. The gang would have already planned to break him out. Before he would be hanged for his transgressions, his death a spectacle for the crowd. Like his life was nothing more than a circus act. 

Kate was no stranger to the harsh realities of the world, she had once wielded the blade herself, inflicting torment upon any who dared challenge her. If Colm's men had taken Arthur, she knew they would subject him to unspeakable horrors. Time was slipping away, and with each passing moment, his fate was slipping through her fingers.

Climbing back in the saddle she took off, following the tracks as the sun set to the west of her, casting a deep shadow onto the land. Like a bird in graceful flight, its silhouette gliding over the sun, the darkness mirrored its ghostly journey on the earth below.

"I'm coming, Arthur," she whispered, her voice carried away with the evening breeze. "Please, don't give up on me."

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Hours later, Arthur stirred from the depths of sleep, his body an orchestra of aches and throbs. Yet amidst the pain, the surge of adrenaline lent clarity to his thoughts. For the first time in an eternity, his mind emerged from the murky depths of fear and uncertainty, guided by an unseen force, a flicker of determination that refused to be extinguished. An arm of support that gently held his heart, and willed it to keep beating.

In the recesses of his consciousness, Kate's presence loomed large, her tender care a distant memory amidst his current turmoil. He recalled the night she had tended to his wounds, her gentle touch and warm words a soothing balm to his battered soul. Oh, how he yearned to hold her, to envelop her in an embrace and bask in the warmth of her presence.

Her words that night, soft as a whispered prayer, stirred a tempest within him. Regret washed over Arthur like a relentless tide, for not seizing the moment to bare his soul, to taste the sweetness of her lips in that fleeting moment. A vulnerability, veiled by fear, held him captive, yet now he feared the chance might never come again.

"I'm always here if you need a hand," her offer, a mere echo in the vast expanse of their shared moments, resonated deep within his being. Beyond the surface, he understood its true meaning, Kate had shown him time and time again that she was patient and resilient. She had already pledged unwavering loyalty, a vow to stand steadfast by his side. 

With certainty, he envisioned Kate riding alongside Dutch, her fate entwined with theirs, destined for a violent end. He could not bear the thought. It was like barbed wire around his throat. Arthur couldn’t allow that. He was the protector, he was the strong arm. He would shield her from every blow if it ever came to it. 

He would crawl home on his hands and knees if he had to, back to the gang, back to the closest thing he had to family. Back to her. 

In the dim candlelit room, Arthur's senses swam in a haze of crimson. His eyes, heavy as lead, strained against the oppressive darkness. Alone in the cellar, he listened to the distant crackle of a fire and the muffled voices beyond the stone walls. He quickly realized he was alone.

With a groan, he lifted his gaze to his body, bathed in the flickering light. His torn union suit exposed to the chill of the dank air, while the glint of steel protruded from his belly. The knife, a silent tormentor, surrounded by angry, swollen flesh, oozing rivulets of blood like winding red streams.

It was his only chance, a gamble with his own mortality. With a determined resolve, Arthur braced himself and grasped the hilt of the silver dagger. A muffled cry escaped his lips as he wrenched it from his abdomen. A rush of warmth flooded his side, pooling around him in a macabre embrace. As the wine red tide gushed, the world spun around him, threatening to engulf him in an abyss of darkness from which he might never return.

Summoning every ounce of strength, Arthur clenched his teeth and pulled up. With the knife gripped tightly in his good hand, he strained against the weight of his own body, reaching desperately for the lock that bound the shackles to his ankles. Each labored breath expelled blood onto his chest, a stark reminder of his life threatening state.

Years of Dutch’s patient tutelage in lock picking flashed through his mind, a skill honed in moments of leisure now turned to desperate necessity. With a primal cry, Arthur thrust the blade into the lock, his hands trembling with fatigue and adrenaline. Time seemed to stretch into eternity as he wrestled with the unforgiving metal, his fingers numb and unresponsive.

Then, with a sudden, almost miraculous click, the lock yielded to his persistence. The shackles fell away, and Arthur collapsed onto the cold, unforgiving floor, his body trembling with exhaustion. Every fiber of his being screamed for rest, for the sweet embrace of surrender. Yet, even as despair threatened to engulf him, a flicker of determination ignited within his soul. He refused to yield, refused to succumb to the weight of his own despair.

Despite the agony coursing through his body, Arthur mustered the strength to turn himself over, his groan echoing in the dimly lit cellar. The slick floor beneath him bore witness to the blood trail he left in his wake as he reached for his journal and satchel, discarded amidst his own filth.

With determination etched into every line of his beaten weary face, he stretched out his good arm, using the wall for support as he dragged his battered form inch by painstaking inch toward the door. Each movement sent waves of pain rippling through him, threatening to engulf him in darkness. Fueled by an unyielding resolve, he pressed on, driven by an instinctual tug toward freedom. Dragging his knees up each step of the cellar.

He refused to succumb to the pain, pushing himself forward with sheer force of will. Each labored breath threatened to be his last, but he refused to entertain the notion of surrender. This would not be his final chapter, and he would not allow Kate to suffer the same cruel fate. He held out hope that he would see her again, even if it was his final moments he would spare no time in warning her of the threat that loomed just out of reach. Waiting like a snake in the tall grass, ready to strike its unsuspecting victim. 

The fools had left the door unlocked, a small oversight that granted Arthur an opportunity. With a grunt, he pushed against the door, surprised by its lightness. In an instant, he was bathed in the cool embrace of the night air, a welcome respite from the stale confines of the cellar. The night air is fresh and crisp, but like a soothing balm against his weakened lungs. 

The darkness enveloped him in his embrace as he emerged, the stars above his only witness. In the distance, a flickering campfire cast dancing shadows, accompanied by the murmur of many voices. More of Colm's men lingered nearby, their presence a reminder of the danger that lurked. 

Arthur wasted no time, he needed to be quick before they realized he had escaped, frightened by the idea of what they would do to him if they caught him. With caution born of desperation, he lowered himself onto the dew-kissed grass, the sensation offering a fleeting comfort to his battered frame. Every movement was accompanied by a sting of pain as twigs and rocks scraped against his skin, but he persevered, inching his way toward the side of the house.

A sudden scuffle in the dark sent Arthur's heart into a frantic rhythm. He braced himself for danger, muscles tensed for a confrontation that never came. Instead, a soft whinny broke the silence, a familiar sound that stirred a glimmer of hope within him.

Arthur looked up, his vision swirled, but he would recognize that pearl white coat anywhere. Belle. His mare was hitched to a tree just shy of where he had been kept prisoner. With renewed determination, he quickened his pace toward her, each step a struggle against his battered body.

Reaching out to grasp her reins, Arthur was met with unexpected resistance as Belle recoiled, fear evident in her wild eyes. He coaxed her gently, murmuring soothing words as he leaned heavily against the sturdy trunk of the tree. In the dim moonlight, he noticed the dark crimson stains marring her once perfect white fur, a grim reminder of the violence that had unfolded in his absence.

"Oh, my sweet girl… What did they do to you?" Arthur's voice was a tender murmur as he reached out to her, his fingers brushing against her shaken form.  Belle trembled before him, her hind legs quivering like fragile branches in a fierce storm. "Shhh, shh. You're alright now…"

Belle's ears twitched nervously in response, but Arthur knew he couldn't linger. The pain pulsating in his side intensified with each passing moment, and the trail of blood he left behind painted a grim picture of his dwindling durability. Summoning the last shreds of his strength, he untied her reins and hoisted himself into the saddle, his movements slow and labored.

Every motion was agony, every breath a struggle against the darkness threatening to consume him. With great effort, he swung his leg over Belle's back, his body hunched over her pristine mane. Arthur held on tightly, the warmth of her presence offering a faint glimmer of comfort amidst the chaos.

As Belle began to move, Arthur rocked gently in the saddle, his body protesting with each jarring step. But there was no time to dwell on pain or weakness. With a surge of determination fueled by fear and longing for freedom, Belle broke into a gallop, carrying Arthur away from the shadows that had haunted them both.

The rush of wind against his face felt like a bittersweet embrace, a fleeting taste of liberty amidst the suffocating grip of captivity. And as the darkness closed in once more, Arthur surrendered to its embrace, his consciousness slipping away like a fading whisper in the night.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate felt like she was staring down death between its eyes. 

She had spent hours following the trail, a winding path that seemed to vanish and reappear at will. With the setting sun, darkness enveloped the landscape, making it increasingly difficult to discern the tracks from the myriad of others imprinted upon the earth. The prints of three riders merged seamlessly with those of the countless travelers who had passed this way before, creating a labyrinth of confusion.

Despite the growing sense of desperation gnawing at her heart, Kate refused to succumb to despair. With each passing moment, her pulse quickened with the weight of impending dread, the relentless march of time driving her forward. Each minute stretched into an eternity, a torturous reminder of the urgency of her quest.

Undeterred by the encroaching darkness, Kate retraced her steps, her eyes scanning the ground for any trace that might lead her to Arthur's captors. Determination burned within her, a fierce flame that illuminated the path ahead even as shadows threatened to consume her. She knew that she would search until the first light of dawn if necessary, unwilling to abandon her friend to the mercy of his tormentors.

As if guided by a twisted hand of fate, she stumbled upon a vantage point overlooking a serene waterfall. Bathed in the ethereal glow of the moonlight, a sudden glimmer of white caught her eye amidst the darkness, resembling a fleeting star in the night sky. Squinting against the veil of shadows, she discerned a figure sprawled on the ground below.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as she approached on horseback, the air thick with anticipation. Realization dawned, and with a desperate urgency, Kate flung herself from the saddle and rushed to Arthur's side. His body lay crumpled in the dirt, a haunting sight that sent shivers down her spine.

A surge of panic gripped her, rendering her mind blank as she absorbed the gravity of the situation. It was as if she was staring into the abyss of death itself, uncertainty clouding her thoughts like a turbulent storm. With trembling lungs, she dared to wonder: am I too late?

In a sudden moment of awakening, Arthur emitted a low groan, stirring Kate from her daze. With tender hands, she reached down and cradled his battered face, the chill of his skin a stark contrast to her warmth. Once handsome features now bore the brutal marks of violence—black and blue bruises adorned his visage, while deep cuts marred his brows and lips.

“Oh, Arthur,” she murmured softly, her voice a delicate whisper as if afraid to disturb a baby from its fragile slumber. A tremor coursed through her lip, tears welling in her eyes and blurring her sight.

“Arthur,” Repeating his name like a sacred invocation, she sank to her knees in the dirt, wrapping one arm around his torso. Her breath hitched at the sight of the gaping wound carved into his left shoulder, a dark abyss that seemed to swallow the very essence of hope. Gently easing him onto his back, her throat constricted with a wave of anguish as she beheld the extent of his injuries.

His torn undersuit left him exposed to the unforgiving elements, his stomach and chest stained with a mixture of blood and dirt. Bruises, a tapestry of purples and yellows, painted almost every inch of his battered skin. But it was the festering wound in his stomach that seized her attention, a steady bubbling stream of blood served as a grim reminder that she was still running out of time. 

She couldn't fathom how he managed to escape, but in that moment, it didn't matter. Arthur was back in her embrace, and time was their only remaining lifeline.

As Kate attempted to lift him, he winced in agony, his eyes fluttering open. Once a beautiful deep blue, they were now swollen and obscured by blood.

Arthur had shed copious amounts of blood since extracting the small steel knife from his side, his mind teetering on the edge of delirium. Hovering between the realms of existence and oblivion, he questioned the reality before him. When the familiar warmth of Kate's hands caressed his cold, weary face, he entertained the notion that perhaps she had been his guide all along, a psychopomp leading his fractured soul into the unknown.

She spoke to him, but her words were drowned out by a deafening ringing in his ears. In that moment, he felt it might be his final breath, but he found solace in the thought of resting beside her, his last act of devotion to warn her of the impending danger.

"Kate," he managed to rasp, his voice strained, "it’s…it’s a t-trap." With trembling fingers, he reached out to grasp her arm.

Her voice, a soothing melody in the chaos, reached him, "I know, honey, I know," she reassured him, her thumb tracing gentle circles on his cheek.

Arthur's urgency escalated, "Th-they'll k-ill… you," he struggled to rise, his efforts met with a wince of pain, "Dutch, I… I-I have to… warn him." He fought against the agony, his body writhing on the ground in an attempt to compose himself.

"Shh, easy, honey, I'm right here," Kate comforted, her words a balm to his panicked soul, "I'm going to take you home." She knew Dutch wouldn't come for him. She was his only hope.

Tears, warm as summer rain, streamed down her cheeks as Kate beheld him in agonizing pain. She longed to erase the brutal images of his torture etched in her mind, willing to claw her own eyes out to rid herself of the haunting sight. Regret gnawed at her, wishing she had searched for him sooner, trusting her instincts and her faithful mare who sensed the danger from the start. If only she could shield him from suffering, but all she could do was cradle him in her arms and summon the strength to lead him home.

His breaths quickened, lips trembling, cheeks shimmering in the moonlight as tears mingled with blood and grime. Kate pressed her forehead against his, placing a tender kiss on the bridge of his nose. "I'm so sorry, Arthur," she murmured amid her own silent tears. "I promise to bring you home. You're safe now. You're safe," she repeated, a whispered mantra of hope and solace.

The moonlit night felt strangely empty, punctuated only by the distant murmur of the nearby waterfall. With a sharp whistle, Kate commanded Lorena to kneel, bringing her closer to the ground.

Bracing herself, Kate wrapped her arm around Arthur's waist, feeling the weight of his pain with each whimper that escaped his lips. "I've got you, Arthur," she murmured, determination lacing her words. "I won't let go. Just hold on tight to me, alright?"

His labored breaths filled the night air as she maneuvered him into the saddle, settling herself in front of him. The task seemed insurmountable; she needed one hand for Belle's reins, the faithful mare bearing the burden of her own torment. With her free hand, Kate clung to Arthur, his cold, wet form pressing against her skin. He seemed to embody death itself, his scent a sickening mixture of the metallic tang of blood and bodily fluids.

Kate's heart pulsed with the weight of his condition, each beat echoing like a stone sinking into a tranquil pond. His body, cold and broken, found solace in the warmth of Kate's embrace. She was his guiding light, a beacon amidst the darkness that enveloped them. In her arms, he felt a sense of security, akin to a child cradled in the arms of a loving mother.

With his trembling hand clutching her tightly, he whispered her name, “Kate…” his voice a desperate plea for solace, for reassurance, for escape from the torment that surrounded them. Kate could offer nothing but her unwavering presence, her words a gentle murmur of comfort as they embarked on the long journey home.

As Lorena maintained her steady stride, the passage of time stretched before them like an endless expanse. With her hands occupied, Kate placed her trust in her faithful mare, each hoofbeat a testament to their shared urgency.

Alone with her thoughts, engulfed by the fear that Arthur might slip away from her grasp, Kate turned to the only refuge she knew: prayer.

She prayed to her mother for strength, her father for wisdom. With a heavy heart, she sought solace from her siblings, urging them to extend their gentle hands of comfort to both her and Arthur. In the depths of her anguish, Kate's prayers reached out to her husband and daughter, silently imploring for their support and guidance. She longed for their presence to envelop them both, for she needed their reassurance now more than ever.

The ache of losing yet another loved one gnawed at her soul, a pain all too familiar. Kate feared she would not withstand the agony if Arthur were to slip away. The thought of starting anew, of becoming someone else after this loss, felt unbearable. It was as if God had marked her hands since childhood, decreeing that every soul she held dear would be untimely ripped from her embrace.

A poignant memory of River flooded Kate's mind, the day he mourned the loss of his wife and child. Amidst his anguish, he had railed against his God, offering his own soul in exchange for theirs. He had once confided in her that their God watched over them, listening to their pleas. Sometimes it intervened and sometimes it did not. 

In a moment of desperation, Kate cried out into the chilly night air, invoking the ancient tongue River had taught her—a language born of the elements: water, fire, air, and earth. “I will make a deal with you,” she cried. To whom she addressed her plea, she could not say. "If this is our fate," she implored, her voice trembling, "so be it. But spare him and take me instead. I offer myself for his salvation," her words echoed through the silent darkness. "I was given a chance at redemption long ago, but please, give him a chance to seek his own. His heart is pure, I know it."

But of course, nothing replied to her in the night. Save for the whisper of an owl and the rustle of leaves in the wind. "Take my soul for his," she whispered, her voice barely a murmur against the darkness.

Arthur stirred in his slumber beside her, his lips yearning for the kiss he once denied. In his dreams, they met, releasing the longing he dared not express.

The world seemed to unfold anew, reborn in her presence. Her voice, like the gentle morning, whispered into his soul, slowly emerging like the dawn. His heart swelled in her presence, lifting him to new heights, unwilling to look down.

--

AN: This chapter was so hard to write. I had to take frequent breaks just for my own mental health it was breaking my heart. Since Arthur doesn't have TB in this fic, this event will kind of be the turning point for him. His injuries are going to render him disabled and he'll be forced to confront the idea that his days as a gunslinging outlaw are finally at an end. You'll start to see more of that in the upcoming chapters. I wish I could say that the next chapter will be happier, but alas, it's now Kates turn to suffer. But she will do everything she can to save Arthur from his torment. As always thank you so much for reading/commenting/reblogging, this story has become so important to me and I appreciate every single one of you that's supporting me on this journey!

[wynnyfryd]

goooooood morning, I watched Hoard twice last night (US friends you can rent it on Youtube here) and I come bearing thoughts and content warnings

There are no scene-specific spoilers below the cut because I’m trying to wait until everyone has a chance to watch, but if you need more details/want to know if this movie is okay for you then feel free to message me and I can tell you more✌️

initial thoughts:

- AHHHHH WTF NO NO NO AHHHHH

- the chocolate button eyes are buttoned baby jq is so sad wet and pathetic

- this is a gorgeous study of motherhood and grief

second watch opinion:

The film is pretty stressful/gross/hard to watch at times, but it never feels like it’s trying to shock you. It’s just a brutally honest look at the hurts our mothers hand us and the director’s belief that grief can never be healed, it can only be gestated to full term and given a still birth. What I found especially fascinating was the way the movie itself serves as a representation of this theme — the filmmaking process is a labor of love and grief that the filmmaker must endure, but once the finished product is out in the world, their ‘baby’ is effectively dead; it’s a static object that can never grow or change. Its mother loves it anyway.

Art is grief, and grief is mess, and this story will smear its grubby hands over your mouth and demand to be listened to.

general content warnings:

- child abuse

- depictions of mental illness

- hoarding/unsanitary living conditions

- graphic bodily harm/injury

- graphic animal death

- major character death

- so much spitting

- mutually dubious consent in pretty much every sex scene

- discussion of stillbirth

- infidelity

- dissociative episode

- teen pregnancy

- trash, filth, grime, sticky hands/mouths/etc, everyone in this movie needs a shower so badly

[wildbluesorbit]

London II: Uncensored || JTK

18+MDNI

LONDON SERIES MASTERPOST

Paring: Jakexreader(f)

A/N: Howdy! I am honestly so nervous about the turn of this story. Although London is only my first, and is honestly a big smut sandwich, I’m a whore for character development and really wanted to challenge myself to dive into the potential of these characters …for now. This piece in particular exists in two variations. In the interest of everyone looking for the easier read, mama @tommie-gvf advised a revision to care for all their soft readers, which dawned the “London: Refined” alteration. However, for all my trauma junkies alike you’re in the right place. I still wanted to share my original draft for the full teeth-gritting, soul-grating, angsty flourish. I’m really crossing my fingers y’all enjoy the twists and turns to come but I am honestly already awed by all the love received. As always I am very open to criticism so pretty please let me know what you think!

p.s. I apologize for all these alliterations you’re about to read

Summary || Wounds fresh and head spinning, you try and find your footing without Jake in the picture. However, you are found by the dawn of a different peril.

Content Warnings || toxic relationship, depressive disposition, sickness such as fever, fatigue, vertigo, nausea, vomiting, and fainting, verbal aggression, graphic depictions of physical aggression/voilence/sexual assault and bodily injuries such as bruising, gashing, swelling and inflammation, and body aches, ptsd, nervous breakdown, mentions of alcoholic consumption and drugging, brief mentions of being undressed and bathed while unconscious, technical kidnap, allusions to rape

Word Count || 7.4k+

The sweeping sound of the door swinging shut behind Jake only solidifies his parting words. Like a fool praying for snow in the desert, you remain still, naively pinning for him to rush back through that door and take back what he said. You swear to every star if he will just reappear you’ll forgive and forget every trivial thing he’s said to hurt you.

You are more than capable of leading a fruitful life without him, you just have no desire to. With every molecule of your being you ache for him to please just walk back through that door.

When he doesn’t, you can’t help the hot tears that now downpour.

Consternation weighs heavy on your limbs with the understanding of just how bonded you had become with the concept that there is always a next time with Jake. You had taken advantage, maybe even abused, his phone number underneath your finger on speed dial; you became cozy in the comfort of knowing that when you pressed it he would always answer.

It harrows you to think Jake might be right. Maybe you are no good for each other. Maybe he did the right thing. Too little too late is a cruel ascertainment; Jake is not just an ecstasy, a high you procured an addiction for, but he had become a sanctuary. One you’ve never met in anyone else. A shelter not even you could provide for yourself and like a child you went and broke it.

You will your begrudging limbs to ooze forward but as soon as your feet lead their trek the walls around you begin to whirl worse than before. You don’t dare let it deter you though; you fear the grief that threatens to swallow you whole in that very bathroom if you’re to stop for air.

You catch the corners of the sink for stability, your disheveled appearance ruthlessly relays your casualties. You smooth your hair down, wipe your running mascara, and run your hands down your skirt.

You sloppily make your exit out of the bathroom, no longer being able to withstand the ghosts of the haunted room where Jake had just kissed you goodbye.

You spill into the hall and rashly scour for any signs of your deserter. You figure he’s fled from the flat entirely as his twin has now vanished as well. Despite the vertigo, you propel yourself towards the table where Claire is without a Kiszka twin as well, but is now flirting with her own stranger.

Positively glowing, she radiates delight. A presence to be demolished by the foreboding whirlwind that you are. The last thing you want is to be the helpless girl who’s best friend can’t finish her regaling tale of a handsome stranger because of your shitshow, especially when Claire has made her stance sorely evident.

Mercy for Claire’s night presents itself in the form of a fleeting drive-by. You swiftly breeze past with a sweeping touch on her shoulder and briefly whisper in her ear that you need some air and are going to step out for a minute.

You know she protests but you make it your mission to distance yourself by half the room by the time she can process your abrupt bulletin and conceptualize her inquiries of, “But..," and, "What happened?”

It helps that your vertigo has germinated past tolerance; the sensation demands you not slow down or your body might continue its course without you, making a rolling tumbleweed out of you, held prisoner by this illness’s tempestuous winds.

You clumsy and cleat a path through the thicket of socializing bodies until you finally topple into an exit. You sling your body mass against the heavy portal to be transported to a stairwell that you pray spits you out in the main street.

You thrust yourself upon the railing and cling to it as you slosh down the stairs like a teetering toddler. The stairway traffic makes its way around you as if you are some stationary obstacle, some even slow down to behold the scene unraveling on the steps. Fortunately, the only concern that permeates through the fumes is the night’s cool air at the bottom of the staircase that promises remedy, and you have only a flight to go.

You brake your staggering down the incline to briefly rest against the wall. Fatigue has found a home as it settles in your bones. However, regret seeks you out the moment you become motionless as the spinning now invites a monstrous nausea.

Your want for fresh air has mutated into a need for your own bed. Any and all will to stay awake evaporates into the torrid air, and the concept of supporting your own weight any longer than necessary becomes a daunting notion.

You coach yourself into mobility again, telling yourself that you just need to make it out to the street and into a cab. You would feel better after you have a chance to recompose in a taxi until you reach your flat.

After you endure the marathon of the final flight, you achieve ground level; the price being your senses, including your best judgment, fogged by the fever’s stupor.

Foolishly, you pour out through the first exit door you spot and catch your weight against the opposing wall of a narrow alley.

You clamber against the wall a bit further to see where the alley lets out. By the time you realize the backway has no outlet the door has swung itself shut, the unnerving slam of the metal mass sending a jolt through your entire frame

You sluggishly creep back towards the door, your stomach kneading itself into nauseating knots as you discover the steel barricade is locked from the inside with no way back to shelter. With your sickly strength, you bang and beat on the door, begging for someone to free you.

You can barely hear your own knocks suffocated beneath the overbearing bass. Having foolishly spent what was so little of your energy left on trying to be heard through the steel frame, you finally accept that no one is going to find you unless they come looking for you.

You slump back against the wall once more, the fever journeys to the pit of your stomach. You hunch over, your weight finding balance against the brick wall and some sort of electrical box as your whole body begins to tremble devoutly. You burn alive as the high-grade heat rises to your face and you expel your guts right there.

Having all frail muscles tense up in commitment to the deed, you plunge to your knees and land on all fours. As soon as you feel able, you rock back on your legs and wipe the residual sickness from your mouth. You optimistically anticipate the familiar wave of relief to wash over you but it never arrives.

This sickness was not brought on by alcohol, this is something else entirely.

You momentarily careen, scrambling to summon strength to find your way back on two feet again just as the alley door swings open and you hear Hunter gasp out your name.

He runs over to you, paying absolutely no mind to the door due to shut behind him.

“The door,” you wheeze out and weakly gesture towards the entryway just as the lock clicks securely.

“What- Oh, I’ve got a key, don’t worry,” he mumbles as he leans down to gain access to you, “What happened?”

Your touch shoots for Hunter’s shoulders to regain your structure and you prompt him to help you back inside. Your request generates something of an indecipherable grimace to dart across his features. You can see the cogs turning in his head and you find your hands instinctively retract back to your sides. You watch the prospect of salvation wither away before you.

He must recognize your sudden vigilance as he immediately agrees to comply, but only after he’s made sure you’re okay. Hunter bluntly forces his mulish hands to your waist and sharply hoists you up against the wall, triggering upsetting shards to pierce your aching muscles.

Once you become vertical, you expect him to retire as your personal forklift and give you breathing room but he instead confines himself within your orbit, hands still digging into your hips.

“Okay, I’m up now,” you try to shoo him, “Would you just open the door?”

“Not yet,” he protests impetuously.

No longer bothered to maintain the cordial facade, Hunter’s gaze is now fully enamored by your pallid body; panic’s tide rising higher and higher.

His hands, ice cold against your feverish skin, shocks a hiss from you as his fingers slither their way under the hem of your top. He shrilly hushes you and takes liberty to plod his trail upwards towards your ribs. Forcibly, Hunter dips his fingertips into every ridge in your cage, eliciting another pained sibilation from you.

You make an effort to jerk away from his molestive frisking but are far too wasted to make any sort of adequate escapade. You huff at your defeat as your exertion only results in you scantily swaying to the side. A defenseless speck absurdly fighting to escape the current it's been sentenced to.

You manage to limply place your hands against his chest in an attempt to disturb his afflictions.

“I’m just trying to help,” Hunter poorly disguises his unwelcomed touch as a well-intentioned examination of your health.

With your hands still planted against his sternum you thrust in order to pry him off, but you know the only force you create is a dull pressure, your fingertips barely even sinking into his flesh. He almost snickers at your second failed escape; fatigue only setting in deeper by the second.

“Get off me you, fucking creep,” you grunt, still sickly yet stubbornly squirming.

“Oh, really-,” he hisses, ”you were so into it earlier though. Why are you being such a fucking bitch now?”

Hunter intrusively shoves his gangly frame into yours, further crushing your achy flesh into the callous concrete rooted against your backside.

He brutally crowds your head with his, invading your earshot, “Keep squirming if you want to make this worse for yourself.”

You ignore his warnings and he closes in trying to force his mouth onto yours. His foul breath reeks of liquor, cigarettes, and an unidentifiable sulphuric odor that stirs your nausea. You snap your head to the side to gag.

“Be that way but your body won’t be able to fight off that drug much longer. I’m only taking what would have been mine had that wanker not ruined my night.”

And there it is, he confirms your suspicion of foul play and you immediately remember how he brought you a drink and seemed so pleased when you finished it. But this isn’t what angers you most from his admission, but the way he slanders Jake.

The very thought of Jake’s name in Hunter’s cruel disparaging mouth catapults you to new heights of contempt. He doesn’t even know Jake and doesn’t deserve to. How could he possibly categorize your Jake and a piece of shit like himself in the same league.

Although the last few affairs had been less than ideal, you had seen the most concentrated parts of Jake. To most he is some mysterious charismatic poetic rockstar invention of a man, but whether he meant to or not, Jake had let you behind the curtain to reveal the inventor.

You found behind the facade is a truly kind and attentive man. A man who loves to laugh and will do whatever he can to bring a smile to anyone else. A man who hides behind big words because he still gets nervous when he speaks. Someone who doesn’t like being angry and always tries to be the bigger person. Someone raised on chaos, morality, and the classics. And no matter what he endures, he’s a family man first. He likes to operate on a low profile but won’t hesitate to become loud and brash to make sure everyone around him is taken care of. A delicate wholesome rarity. To know Jake is to love him and you know anything he asks of you is already his.

Therefore, hearing Hunter traduce Jake’s name like some foul swear, only to implicate your night that would always belong to Jake was actually his set you ablaze.

You rear your head back towards Hunter’s face and spit on target, “Let go of me you sick fuck!”

He flinches as your saliva coats his face and his lip peels back in a snarl of disgust. You can’t help but feel some regain of control as one of his hands releases you to wipe his new glaze.

You unwisely decree this your opportunity to flee, gaining some advantage by shoving him away. Yet, Hunter only refills the space and barbarically thrusts you back into his pinhold. Your vulnerable skin catches the teeth of the exposed brick as it grates into your backside, eliciting a broken cry from you.

He irately swipes the back of his hand over the rest of his contaminated features and lifts it to the air in a fist. He tempestuously brings it down to make agonizing contact between your eye and cheekbone.

The sudden blow sends trauma throbbing throughout your head. The abrupt pain bleeding into the drug induced haze is paralyzing. You stand apathetic, striving to stay conscious at this point. Hunter matches his left forearm up to your shoulders to pin you against the wall and he moves his right to untie your blouse Jake had just gracefully done up minutes before. He yanks the material off your shoulders, the dark’s frigid wind and Hunter’s greedy gawk pricks your helpless frame against your concession.

Hunter reaches his hand to grope you freely now, lingering in annoyance where you're sure the love marks Jake had left behind are beginning to develop.

Even as hope for some sort of salvation begins to flicker out, you refuse to concede in your tussle to shimmy out of his hold.

He lets out an offended grunt, as if you are being a rude victim. He rolls his eyes and moves swiftly and precisely to jab you in the ribs, knocking all air out of your lungs and remaining will from your limbs; as well as pummel whatever fortitude your body was using to brave the drug’s gravity.

“I don't even know why you’re being so stubborn, you’re little wanker boyfriend isn’t around to see what a slut you are,” he growls through concentration and clenched teeth.

Out of all the elaborate ways he could have invented to torment you, this cuts you deepest. Simply because he is right.

Jake isn’t here. And it’s all your fault. If you hadn’t driven him away, you wouldn’t be here.

You’ve never possessed a moment more worthless than this moment. The thought of Jake seeing you like this is a weight you are sure you wouldn’t survive. You hope to never see him again. He would be absolutely heartbroken.

All the torment and tears you had stifled while fighting for your freedom suddenly bubbles and bursts to the surface. You are startled by the loud ugly sob that leaves you. A howl so eerie and animalistic, you hardly recognize it as your own. You immediately throw your head up in a sharp inhale to abolish any other cries that plan to escape on their own accord, as if this would preserve some portion of your pride.

Hunter forcibly snatches your jaw into his hand and steers your face towards his so that no matter how you maneuver you are forced to hold him. His pupils swivel back and forth across your face studying this new breed of terror your eyes produce.

He curtly arrives at a diagnosis, “Oh, I see, he broke you.”

The last fiber of your sanity slipped through your clenched fists: the notion no matter how fucked up he was, he couldn’t possibly read how shattered you are. The only thought keeping your head just above the violent current.

But he now stripped that from you too.

The concept that he might feel some perverted pity for you only diminishes your spirit further. But as quickly as it comes, he zones back into his mission.

Instead of returning his hand to your chest, Hunter travels to fumble with the zipper of your skirt. As he struggles to pull it open, clarity of what is about to take place cuts through the smog. You contemplate what is about to be stolen from you and just how powerless you are to stop it; how you will most likely struggle with the unrelenting haunt of this moment for the rest of your days.

Your pathetic shrieks voidly echoes throughout the lifeless alleyway, “Stop! No- Red- Get off- please!”

He grows impatient, demanding you shut up as a note of tattering intersects your imploration. He mercilessly pinches the hem of your skirt and tears the material apart, the two assaulted shreds hanging from your hips granting him full access.

Enslaved to complete stupor, he’s admitted to run his fingers over the waistband of your underwear.

You finally accept this as your fate. You accept that this will be the horror story you will have to recite everytime someone inevitably asks why you are so prodigiously fucked up. You accept this is the warning label you will have to tow around for the rest of your existence.

Your teary vision starts to tunnel and you finally feel your conscious giving way to the void. You just hope it consumes you before his deed.

Just then, you feel a gap finally open between you and your oppressor. You spill onto unkind asphalt once again, scrambling to register what has occurred but you're unable to refocus. The only sight you can identify is the hazy reflective neon glow against the wet blacktop.

You flail about on the ground to best cover your indecency. As you can’t see, you listen for any clue of the phenomenon proceeding just above your head, except your audio is now faltering too.

You hear the slurs of two tussling and shouting. In between the intervals of din, a familiar rasp of your name rips through the tumultuous turbulence to grace your ears. Then again. And again.

You snap your head upwards to decipher whether this is just another trick of the drug. You can only make out his silhouette as your line of sight slowly becomes clouded with black spots.

It is Jake. It has to be. You need it to be.

Yet, you do not trust your senses as they are obviously failing. You hold your hand out to ward off the figure now reaching for you and faintly crawl away. The being flinches at your motion and frets your name out like a mantra, begging for something you can’t seem to process.

However, the poison in your blood holds no regard for this development. You are suddenly enwrapped in the amplified feverish fire you felt earlier and almost immediately eject the rest of your stomach.

All tension finally leaves your muscles as your body becomes a burden too heavy to support upright. You recognize the sensation of falling backwards but everything becomes so still, so quiet, so black before you ever feel the ground cruelly collide with you.

It's the sensation of the cool crisp white bed linens caressing your dormancy heated skin that wakes you. You force your lead heavy eyelids open and peer around what you suspect is a hotel room.

The space is dark except for a halo of light around the blackout curtained window, so you know it is daytime wherever you are. You tense in a stretch, freeing your bones of the deep slumber you had just escaped. You feel as if you have been asleep for a thousand years and struggle to recall anything existing before the darkness.

The recollection of how you ended up bedridden rushes through your mind in a searing headache. You spring yourself upward to find that the nausea and vertigo has left you but the febrile aching and a throbbing head remains.

Your first instinct is to flee until all at once your senses flurry with him.

Jake’s aroma fills the sheets and emits from your skin as well. You seek refuge in the sight of his well-loved shirt draped against your torso; along with a pair of boxers, and fuzzy socks. You assume he must have helped you shower and dress at some point.

You reach over to tug the remaining blanket off your limbs, the simple shoulder motion detonates a chain reaction of sore strain all over your body. A pain induced squeal resonates through you and against the foreign vanilla walls of the vapid hotel room.

You freeze and bite your bottom lip in an effort to stifle any other oncoming cries. You survey the room as if your siren can disturb anything within the lifeless compartment.

Nothing.

You draw in a deep breath against your aching rib’s wishes and wincingley scoot to the edge of the mattress to discover the bathroom is a few yards away. You vacillatingly make it on your feet, your legs shake as you stand but you are devoted to wobbling over to the bathroom.

Pitifully exerted from your trek, you throw your balance towards the counter and assign your weight to the marble slab by bracing the edge with your hand; careful to contain your yelps this time. You stabilize yourself before feeling out the wall behind you for a light switch, deliberate in your objective to only move the parts of your body necessary for this daunting task.

Immediately, regret pierces your eyes in blinding light. You swear the sudden attack on your sight is so vile it causes a ringing in your ears. What you logically know is mere seconds, seems to last for hours until your eyes finally focus.

As you cower your head to shield yourself from the bright sting, grisly bruises on your palms and legs that weren't visible in the bedroom are now illuminated.

You laggardly drag yourself over to the full body mirror in hopes the gruesome hues are an optical illusion and your reflection would prove you unharmed. You reexamine the skin in question, only for the glass to cruelly confirm your injuries. Sleeves of sporadic purple, green, yellow, and blue are strewn against your every limb.

You want so badly to be outraged at the sight. To be irate at how you were wronged. Yet the only words your mind will carve out for you are how could you be so foolish and so weak as to let this happen? It only further mocks your grief that you can’t seem to purchase any strand of anger.

But you don't let yourself succumb to the bleakness; your intuition anticipating the worst is yet to come.

You hesitantly raise your shirt to heed the discoloration traveling up your ribs. The sight abruptly brings back the petrifying sensation of Hunter excruciatingly shoving his prickly fingers into the crevices of your torso.

The intrusive recollection makes your stomach swell into your throat. For a brief instant, you think you might have to somehow shuffle to the toilet to be sick but you swallow it down.

You continue to raise your top past your breasts just enough to uncurtain your shoulders. The skin there is littered with dark fingerprint devised bruises.

It isn’t your victimhood now recorded all over your body that corrodes and eats away your insides, but is your inability to differentiate the assault from Jake's love marks. A palette of colors Jake left as a reminder in that moment you had given yourself to him completely; that he’d seen all of you, every last inch, and still he wanted more. He needed to consume you more than physically possible. A token he wants you to think of him just as much as he is thinking of you. A note that no matter how many times he unconvincingly tries to deny that he cares, he blatantly thinks of you as his. An objet d’art now defaced by the stains of a sick thief.

It is getting harder to see your reflection as grief starts to pool in your eyes and any desire you’d once had to examine your abrasions flees. You decide to barrel through the rest of your appraisal as you know your dark inquisitiveness will not let you rest till you have dug up the entirety of this aftermath’s hidden bones.

You try to lift the loose shirt completely from your body but are seized by an inadmissible fire catching throughout the flesh of your backside. Certain strips of your skin feel as if they’d split if you move too fast. Stubbornly, you trudge through the flames, determined to remove the piece of clothing. The sound of air shooting through your clenched teeth joins in with the rustling of the cotton material.

You finally rid yourself of the restriction and twist to see your back in the mirror, your expedition arriving at the concentration of the calamity; your skin tone a minority against the tyrenous bruising.

A shudder delivers the image of savagely being thrashed into that brick wall, rattling around your head like a pinball stuck on its course. A small sob drills its way into the room despite the defense of your palm sealing over your lips.

White rectangular bandages are taped exactly over where you had felt the splintering pressure threatening to tear your skin. You remove your hand from your mouth, no longer bothering to contain your shrills, and contort to the most accessible bandage starting at the bottom of your ribcage and extending to your pelvic bone. Your lethargic inertia only enables you to peel the material off slowly, the adhesive taking its time to part with your raw skin.

Fixating your gaze to your handiwork, you tug the gauze about halfway off to notice it is not white like the outside. The threads are dyed with streaks of dark red, brown, and discharge. Your eyes quickly flit up in the mirror to see a deep vile gash that hasn’t even yet begun to scab.

Your glistening brown eyes now overflow into warm streams down your cheeks. The left side of your face is pierced by a stinging sensation at the introduction of the salty tears.

You realize you have been avoiding your reflection above your shoulders and for the first time since the bar bathroom you allow yourself to study your own face. To your dismay, you discover your left eye and cheekbone are grotesquely swollen and bruised.

Ugly.

There is no other way to put it. No other word your brain would provide. No further way to break it down. You had never felt so broken and unlovable in your life.

You had never felt so fucking ugly.

You futilely attempt to wipe your tears away as they are already being replenished. As you vainly swat at your face your attention is drawn near the nape of your neck; alluring as it is the only pristine scene amongst your features. Your hair has been neatly brushed and delicately laid back into a single looped messy bun; just the way Jake always does his own.

A cruel notion ripples its way throughout your mind. Jake witnessed you beaten in that alley. He graciously undressed and bathed you and aided your wounds. He got to shelter you in his clothes and fix your hair and put you to bed.

And part of you hates him for it. You hate that he got to see you in such a vulnerable odious state. You hate that you let him.

How could he proclaim you are no good for each other only to turn around and take such inordinate care of you? You loathe his words of disownment that crash against such ardent acts of affection for you. This deep level of intimacy is the first for the two of you and most likely the last. Yet, you aren’t even sure if you were conscious, you certainly weren’t in your right mind. You don’t even get to archive the moment. He had no right.

You yank the band from your dotingly tied up hair, tangling it once again and thoroughly erase any evidence it had recently been combed. You thrust the band with as much might as your body will allow, intent for it to land in some bathroom abyss, never to be seen again.

Your glossy eyes dart to the population of hygienic products to pinpoint the first-aid supplies within the cluster. You swing your arm towards the kit, sending the medical equipment soaring off the counter. The clattering din of the tools crashing to the floor reverberates throughout the small room and rings in your ears.

You don’t even realize you are yelling until your voice cracks against you gasping for an air supply. You can’t bear the concept of facing your execrable appearance any longer and find your hands and knees bracing the piercing chill bathroom tile.

You give in to the malaise. You are swallowed whole by your own laments, the suite humming with the songs of your weeping howls. You have no will to ever cease your decimation. No desire to ever lift yourself from this very bathroom tile. You are going to decompose here.

But as quickly as you give in to your grief you are snatched from it. More than startling you, two hands from behind graze around your shoulders. You hadn’t heard any doors open or close, much less were you aware of any life stirring in the room.

Before any discernment or recognition can approach, you careen forward, leading with your pounding chest to cower near the floor.

You blare your terror in a panicked squeal, “No! Get off of me!”

“Whoa-,” the voice announces itself and you immediately recognize the lull as Jake, “hey- babygirl, you’re alright. It's me.”

He circles in front of you with his hands up indicating your safety and crouches down so he is eye level with you. Your favorite eyes, the prettiest pools of amber and fresh autumn now plagued by uneasiness. You immediately dive your beaten face into your hands not wanting to be held by those tormented brown eyes.

“You’re alright, you’re safe,” he passifies.

Jake places his hands to cup yours and slowly peels away the mask they were providing. You fling his hands away with your own and find you gain some unexpected relief from the slight blow.

Instinctually, you start to throw your hands towards him to achieve whatever contact you can, shoving at his shoulders and beating your fists against his soft chest. Jake doesn’t fight back or stop you or even protest. He only scrunches his eyes shut and lets out a shaky exhale; as if you are some toddler and he is simply tolerating your tantrum. He cups your jaw, freezing your thrashing movements.

He searches your eyes through his glassy ones and begins to fuss, “I know, babygirl, I’m so sorry.”

His sentiment does little to console you though. You shove him from your vicinity harsher this time, releasing you of his touch and knocking off his balance. He gently lands back against the nearby bathtub wall but he is still in reach. He frowns as you gain momentum again, thirsty for a mere drop of the initial remedy your first feeble impact released. Anything to rid you of this eroding ache in your chest.

His eyebrows turn upwards in clemency, which only makes you drive through your swings harder. However, it doesn’t seem to make any difference as he catches one of your wrists in his stark hands mid-swing, and then the other.

In one skillful motion, he jerks you forward into an upward kneeling position by both arms. Jake slings your limbs around his shoulders, causing you to lurch into him. Before you have any chance to protest, he nimbly takes hold of your hips and delivers the rest of your body into his lap.

Every nerve under your skin is on fire with the impulse to retreat, “No, Jake! I’m not worth it!”

Your own words draw light to why you are so hellbent on repelling from Jake’s touch. It hadn’t been that he said you are no good for each other but that some part of you had always felt he is too good for you. That's why when things got tough you would argue and run to someone else. You were constantly trying to flag his attention that never veered from you. He had fooled you with his placid exterior but little did you know you only had to ask and he would grant you the world.

You are not good enough for him, yet he still spoils you and when it came down to it he was your salvation; harbored you away from the monster that had its claws around you.

But you’re more trouble than you are worth. You are tainted now, only baggage he would grow to resent. Jake did not deserve to be dragged down by you. You won’t allow it. You certainly wouldn’t survive it.

You try to evacuate his embrace but he only squeezes you tighter, “I’m sorry, I never should have left you!”

You squirm further, lifting yourself to your knees in preparation to somehow walk away. But Jake is not having it. He clings to your waist and stabilizes you by placing his knees to the back of your thighs.

You frantically beseech him, “Jake, please, there’s no room for junk in your world, trust me.”

He shakes his head and nuzzles his face between your jaw and collarbone, sighing against your neck to speak a muffled decree against your skin, “Don’t speak about yourself that way. You’re more than worth it.”

Your need for space is overwhelming, but your urgency to be held together overpowers anything else in existence. Exhausted from fighting, you let your weary body go limp and melt back into his gravity.

He loosens his arms a bit that are sealed around you, no longer afraid you’re going to make a run for it. Your head heavy, you rest your forehead against his clavicle and your hands center against his supple chest, trapping your arms between bodies as you bend your legs to the side and lean into him.

Your grief returns to you as soon as you stop moving and you concede to its demands. You find that these clamors, though, are different. They’re muffled as they’re collected by someone else. Not echoing void into space, an expression lost and forgotten with no purpose once they’ve passed from you. Now there is someone to record your sorrow, you are no longer just an inconsolable calamitous clutter on the bathroom floor. You let yourself fall apart in the arms of someone you trust can put you back together again.

“Jake, he almost- I-,” you struggle through your hiccuping breaths.

“I know,” he doesn’t pressure you to finish your thought.

Your voice becomes concerningly soft, “You saw?”

“I did,” he gulps.

“I wish you hadn’t,” your shame doesn’t let you speak above a whisper.

“Don’t say that- what if," you can hear his voice begin to crack and splinter, rendering him unable to finish the unbearable horror, "what if I hadn't been there in time? What if I hadn’t- you could have-”

For the first time it occurs to you that you are not the only victim. You imagine Jake must have lost his mind at the sight of you. You most definitely would have been petrified if the roles were reversed. And though he doesn’t owe you a thing he took you upon himself as his own responsibility. He acted while his mind must have been racing up and down, pondering the right thing to do. Whether you would wake up okay or not. Whether you’d wake up and blame him. Would you forgive him for leaving?

But you would never blame Jake for this. Even if you had, you’d never been capable of sentencing Jake to your storm for long. You’d forgiven him so many times before for a hundred things and you would continue to do so for the next ten-thousand offenses. And you prayed he’d never wake one day with enough sense to forget about you because you know now that you need him in this new season.

“Jake, hold me tighter,” you heedlessly pule, acutely aware of how needy and demented you sound, consumed by the exigency to be closer to him than ever, “tighter, please?”

“I want to, baby, more than you know, but I don’t want to hurt you,” he fretts.

You could hear the compulsion to accommodate you in his trembling tone and the sudden tense of his arms that carefully circled around you.

“How could I be so invisible? I feel like some foul disposable thing,” your own words ambush you.

A blubbering tumble into the air on their own perturbing accord; subconscious thoughts you had not dared let slither into the forefront of your reality. Mere shadows come from the corners of your mind that have expedited any real contemplation.

“And I know I'm not supposed to but I feel like this is all my fault,” you sob out the confession.

Your sadistic ears register the fractious cries inhabiting the small room now as the same ones that haunted you in the alley. Sounds you hadn’t known you were capable of prior to your casualty. You have no idea whether the grotesque marks along your body would stay with you in a scar but you know that this despairing tune was one of an everlasting requiem and these tears would never dry.

Jake pulls away from you to tug his sleeves over his fists. He examines your face and shakes his head before swiping his cuffs to carefully towel the tears away from your afflicted skin. He kisses both of your eyelids shut and draws back into you, cradling the nape of your neck to bury you further into his shelter.

“Nothing you did, my love,” he begins to vow, “was even remotely deserving of what happened. Don’t you ever let anyone ever make you feel less than beautiful, not even me. You are perfect, I swear it.”

Your consoler rakes his fingertips along your backside, between your shoulder blades, down to your tailbone and back again. However the migration of his hand doesn’t follow your spine. The irregular pattern of his touch graces around your wounds without him having his eyes navigate. How long he must have studied your comatose skin to plot a mental map and detour your injuries. The cozy concept grounds you, enabling you to finally catch your breath.

The air eventually stills. The only stirring sounds of your sniffles and shared quaking breaths.

You hoarsely whisper, “Jake, where am I?”

“My hotel room, babygirl,” fragments of his side of the nightmare begin to spill out, “and I know I should’ve taken you to a hospital or something but- I’m sorry- I didn’t- I was terrified they might make me leave or not let me see you or something and I couldn't- I just- no- and we had to move on to the next city- I was not leaving you again- or ever.”

Now he holds you tighter as if he can no longer deny the urge; afraid you could still be confiscated from him, a kid clinging to his favorite blanket.

“I had one of the medics I trust come check you out,” he rambles on.

You choked a bit at the thought of another man having access to your unconscious body, “He-”

“No, no. She said you were going to be fine and your body was working through whatever it was you ingested. She only handed me pain meds and some heavy duty first aid for liability. I tried to dress your wounds as best I know how. I’m sorry if i-”

You slip your arms around his neck, cradling his nape to bring him closer into your orbit, “Stop apologizing. Thank you, Jake.”

“Don’t thank me, you could have told me you hated me a million different ways in that bathroom and I still would have done the same thing,” he precisely threads his words, conviction weighing down every syllable, “I take care of what's mine.”

The room grows quiet once more as you bask in contemplation of his last words. Jake starts to rub your back again and you find yourself tempted by a drowsy spell once more.

“Jake?”

His hand springs from your back, “God- Am I hurting you? I’m sor-,”

“No, just thank you for taking care of me,” you drowsily sigh against his skin as slumber cocoons you in its grasp.

You flicker in and out of consciousness until you wake to Jake carrying you back to bed. He sits you down on the edge and pulls a bottle of pills from his pocket.

“For the pain,” he gives the bottle a good shake and pulls a water canister from the amenities on the dresser, handing it to you.

After you’ve taken the medication he encourages you to drink the rest of the water. Once you appease him, Jake helps you recline, careful not to lay you on your back. In his assistance, you grab his hands, the bruised and split sight commandeering your regard.

“Your hand- It's bruised,” you gasp.

He lets out the smallest chuckle, “Yea, I broke his nose.”

“Jake, that's not funny,” you lethargically scold.

“I know-”

“But thank you,” you make sure he understands your gratitude before he can beat himself up.

Still holding onto his hand, you pull Jake to lay down next to you and curl around him. He reciprocates by tucking your head under his chin. The grounding warmth of him travels across your skin and brings you to safety.

He tilts his head towards your ear and bashfully asks, “No more games?”

“No more games,” you concur.

He draws in a breath deep of solemnity and panic as he runs a finger down your temple and tucks your hair behind your ear. You prepare yourself for his bad news before he can even speak the opposite.

“I think I love you but I can't keep chasing you from halfway around the world,” his confession so subtle you almost miss his first five words.

“Well, lucky for you I don’t think I can go back to London and I have nowhere else to go,” your antic tone does less than mesh with your words.

Jake mimics your earlier sentiment back to you, “That’s not funny, baby.”

“I know- I just- I don’t want to go to London,” you drop your facade.

“You know I have a few guest rooms at my house,” he begins fidgeting, twirling your hair around his fingers, “but they never see any guests. And I know my house gets so lonely when I’m gone.”

“You mean- your house-,” you gulp, “in Nashville?”

You can hear the smirk in his voice now, “Yes, gorgeous scenery and a lovely people. It also happens to be very far from London. You’d be doing me a real favor if you came and looked after it.”

You ponder his proposal as if you have a choice. As if you hadn’t slowly been moving towards this leap since the dawn of Jake and you. As if you could ever grant your caretaker any answer that isn’t yes.

And of course any life with Jake would be better than a life without but still you never thought the question would come, certainly not before others. You are clueless as to what role you are to play and what life is supposed to look like after this, outside of London. How would you even fit into his tumultuous musician’s life?

He breaks your thought flow. You can tell Jake is trying not to pressure you but your silence terrifies him, “What’s swirling around in that pretty head of yours?”

You tilt your face up towards his and speak against the corner of his mouth right where his lips begin to curl when he gets giggly.

The course hair there prickly against your whispered affirmation, “I love you too, Jacob.”

pretty please let me know what you think🫶🏼

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[forwhump]

You Know Not What It Is

a/n; this was supposed to be kind of a fun random chunk of silas backstory reveal which is why i picked it but then i realized it’s actually just more of point being a dickhead so if you’re in the market for that buckle in & let’s go & if you’re not, sorry ! the next one will be smth fresh & brand new I promise <3

tw/cw: graphic depictions of violence, guns, torture, psychological torture, mentions of noncon, misgendering, transphobia, vomiting, racism, grievous bodily harm, dehumanization, execution, major character death

living weapon whumpee

Silas is mostly dead the first time he hears anything about who he used to be.

It happens on the floor of the common room, and Silas hates dying in front of the unit. He’s sure they all know well enough that he’ll be back, but it still seems to traumatize them each time it happens. The horror of it, Silas supposes. He never goes gently.

“Pathetic,” Point scoffs at them. “You are soldiers. You should be above forming such attachments to the…machinery.” He looks down towards Silas, gurgling on the concrete, drowning from the inside.

Silas can’t die, but Silas isn’t made of stone. Silas can be wounded. Silas scars. How many traumatic brain injuries does he get to walk away from? How many more times can he get shot in the face?

He gets to find out.

“It bleeds,” Point says, and points his gun down, “but it is not like you. It doesn’t need you to save it.” He pulls the trigger. He shoots Silas in the puckered hollow of his empty eye socket.

Silas doesn’t really have any recollection of losing consciousness but he loses a weird chunk of time. He hears the gunshot, he feels the heat of the impact in his face, and then he’s staring up at the ceiling but he can’t really see anything that isn’t red mist and his ears are ringing at a pitch that’s giving him a migraine, that’s making the red mist wet and weird and kind of watery.

There’s a weight on his chest that makes it hard to breathe, that makes him wretch, and he only knows it’s Point because of the mocking pitch of his voice when he speaks, sitting with all his weight on Silas’ fractured ribcage. “What keeps bleeding but just doesn’t die?” He teases.

Silas vomits but he can’t move or turn his head at all and he chokes, trying to heave with a chest that’s been crushed. It hurts more than he thinks he’s ever hurt. It hurts in every nerve and fiber and the hollow of his bones. He vomits again. His lungs have been punctured. There’s a bullet in his brain.

“You were all here,” Point explains, conversational, cross legged on Silas’ chest as it caves in, “before its name was in the news, so it’s of no surprise to me that none of you knew who it was. Usually, there would be no reason to say, because it’s of no consequence. But,” and Silas doesn’t need to see or even hear him clearly to hear the smile in his voice, even through the ringing, “you all protect it so staunchly, and you know not what it is. Do you know where we found the body we used for the prototype? Where we found Silas Park?”

Silas gurgles. A sort of dark haze has started sifting through the red mist and he doesn’t think that means anything good for him.

“His name was all over the news before we got our hands on him,” Point continues, almost grandeur. “It was every headline. His face was everywhere. Would anybody like to guess why?”

Silas would swear he could hear Point’s face stretch as he grins.

“No?” He says. “There are a few reasons. The barbarity of the murderers was a big one. The number of them. The trial, of course, was a big controversy, because of his behaviour and because of his fan club. You know how girls are about serial killers when they’re young men.”

Silas can’t see and he can’t really hear and his brain is still trying to fire but he isn’t really capable of thinking about anything except how much everything hurts, how heavy he is, how tired. He can’t breathe and his chest hurts but everything else hurts, too.

Still, Point’s voice rises above the ringing and it sticks out in the part of Silas’ brain that hasn’t been liquified. Serial killer.

Silas doesn’t remember anything about himself or his life before this place, but he knows that can’t be true. It can’t be. Silas is violent as the result of genetic manipulation and bioengineering. Silas is violent because of this place. Silas isn’t bad.

“He was very arrogant,” Point says. “Very unapologetic. He butchered so many people. Sentenced to death,” he explains, “which is how we got our hands on him. State didn’t care what we did with him and it saved the taxpayers the cost of having to execute him. That’s why it’s here,” he tuts. “That’s why it was chosen to become what it is now. Your sympathy for it is bullshit because now it’s a weapon and before that it was rotten. Your sadness is wasted.”

It isn’t true because it can’t be true. Silas isn’t rotten. There’s parts of Silas that are almost still human, and they’re the parts that are supposed to be good.

“I’m still human,” Point says. “I’m capable of remorse. I feel no remorse for the machine because of what it was before and because now it isn’t much of anything. It’s a tool for me to use. Sometimes it backfires. In such a case, it needs to be corrected. Nothing more.”

It’s loud in his wake; something wet is churning in Silas’ ears and he can hear the awful hiss of his breath like he’s breathing through his ears but it’s still quiet, it’s too quiet; nobody in the unit says anything for such a long time.

Silas almost thinks he might’ve lost them and it’s a devastating blow as he twitches with blood loss. But —

“You’re not any more human than we are,” Hal’s voice says from somewhere far away, from somewhere in the next room over. Silas can barely hear him. “You’re a monster.”

Point laughs and the rumble of it against Silas’ chest makes him vomit. His head lolls to one side, not with any conscious thought but with the force of his convulsions, and his chest hitches as he vomits blood and foam onto the concrete next to his face. Point laughs again and the process repeats. To Hal, he says, “we took a huge gamble with you, y’know, Singh. Your local 7/11 fell apart without you.”

“Fuck you,” Hal spits.

“You’re not my type. But the girl’s easy,” Point offers, “if you don’t mind ‘em used.”

“Motherfucker,” Wren spits.

The rumble of Point’s laughter makes Silas see white spots of light. “Careful, baby,” he coos. “You know to watch how you speak to me.”

“Leave him alone,” June snaps, not any closer than Hal but with a sort of ferocity that Silas would laud if he weren’t foaming bile and blood onto the concrete.

Point makes an amused sort of sound, a kind of click. “Him. It’s cute,” he says, “that you all kinda entertain her little delusion. It’s like your little inside joke.” He laughs again, a loud, condescending sort of sound that pushes Silas’ ribcage back into his body and he loses another chunk of time.

When he comes back to himself he’s foaming from the mouth and the nose and he can’t breathe around it. Point had climbed off of him and Silas is kind of hunched over, his cheek sticky against concrete that’s hot with blood. The same heat still pours from the exit wound at the back of his head, unslowed. The same heat trickles down his face from the hole blown into his eye socket.

Silas doesn’t even see red mist anymore, just a hazy sort of darkness that ebbs and flows as he gags.

He only feels Point’s boot against his hair when he shifts, grinding Silas’ face further into the concrete.

“I’m starting to think you may not be shaping up to be the soldiers we need you to be,” he’s saying, and he sounds like tin. “The empathy in this unit is just fuckin’ astounding. It disgusts me.” He makes a sound like he spits on him, but Silas can’t tell. Every inch of naked flesh is already wet and tacky, sweat and blood and foam and bile. “We’ll rid you of it yet. I’m disgusted, but I am not concerned.” Somewhere too close, his gun clicks. “We’re going to start with some exposure therapy. How many times do you think you’ll need to watch the freak die before you’re desensitized?”

He probably fires more than once, but Silas is none the wiser. He’s dead after the first round to the side of the head.

[munson-blurbs]

Ghostin' (Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader): Chapter 8

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven

Summary: With Vecna defeated, Little Bean has decided to make an arrival--a month early. But you still have a lot of tough decisions to make, and they may require encouragement from surprising sources.

Warnings: depictions of labor, injuries, S4 is canon

WC: 2.9k

A/N: The final chapter! I hope you all enjoyed this series :)

Divider credit to @firefly-graphics

Taglist: @kaybee87 @sidthedollface2 @chelebelletx @livsters @atombombbibunny @tattooedkiss13 @manda-panda-monium @charming-winchester @corroded-hellfire @sweet-villain @slightlyvicked @hxllfired @yogizzz @tlclick73 @thefreakofhawkins86 @sheisjoeschateau @harrypotteranna23-blog @harringr0ve @josie955 @luna-munson83 @blhemmings @lxvesickreality @palmtreesx3 @stephierro

The ride to the hospital is far too long for your liking, even with Murray flying over the speed limit. You sit in the backseat with Steve, who whispers sweet nothings in your ear to keep you relaxed, and Joyce, who spends the drive rubbing your back with utmost care.

“Deep breaths,” she urges you. If it was anyone else, you’d snap at them for reminding you to engage in an automatic bodily function, but Joyce’s calm voice is exactly what you need. “We’ll be there soon, and the doctors will be able to figure out what’s going on.”

Tears bulge at the corners of your eyes. “It’s t-too early,” you stammer, pain and fear surging through you. “This is all my fault…there was too much stress…”

Why didn’t I stay home? You silently berate yourself. Why couldn’t I let everyone else handle this? What kind of mother knowingly puts her unborn baby in danger–danger that involves an alternate dimension, nonetheless?

You don’t have time to search for answers to your rhetorical questions before another contraction hits you, leaving you doubled over in pain. 

“Any way we can speed this up?” Steve calls out to Murray. “I’d really like to keep my girlfriend from having a baby in the car.”

“Seriously, Murray,” Joyce hisses. “Now is not the time to do the speed limit.”

The older man rolls his eyes but begrudgingly puts more pressure on the gas pedal. 

Steve winces as Murray hits a pothole, jostling the car and everyone inside. “Everything will be alright,” he tells you, though you can sense the doubt in his tone. “I’ve got you, okay? Whatever happens, I’ve got you.”

“Just…get me…to the goddamn hospital!” you mutter through gritted teeth. You’re unsure whether you’re trying to bite back sadness or pain; probably both. You rest your head on Joyce’s shoulder, and Steve uses his right hand to hold yours. “‘S not fair,” you mumble, blinking back tears. “All I w-wanted was one thing to go right, but Steve got hurt, and Eddie’s r-really dead now, and my baby is going to be born early.” The dam breaks, and breathy sobs escape your lips. “I f-feel like I’m b-being p-punished for something.”

“No.” Steve shakes his head in vehement disagreement. “No, baby, none of this is your fault. You didn’t ask for any of this.” He unlaces his fingers from yours and places his hand on your cheek to wipe away the tears. “We’re gonna get to the hospital, and whether we meet Little Bean today or not, I’ll be by your side the whole time.”

“Actually,” Joyce pipes up, poking her pointer finger in the air to interject, “you’re gonna go get bandaged up, and I’ll stick with Y/N until you’re done.” Steve opens his mouth to protest, but she quickly cuts him off. “You’re not gonna be any use to us if you hurt yourself more. Murray will take you.”

Murray grunts from the front seat. “Will you stop volunteering me for stuff?”

Joyce ignores his grumbling, turning back to you and Steve. “When you’re good to go, you can meet us in the maternity ward.”

You’ve quickly learned that there’s no winning an argument with Joyce Byers, so you sit back and try to think positive thoughts. Steve will be okay. Little Bean will be okay.

But will you be okay?

Labor is fucking hard.

Joyce presses a cold compress to your head, guiding you through the breathing exercises she remembers from her own Lamaze classes. “You’re doing amazing,” she whispers. “Your body knows what it’s doing. You were meant to do this, and Little Bean will be here before you know it.”

“Wh-Where’s Steve? How long has it been?” you cry out, squeezing Joyce’s hand as another contraction rips through your core. 

“Two hours, hon,” Joyce says after checking her wristwatch. “The doctors will patch him up and Murray will bring him right over, okay?”

The pain of labor has completely erased any semblance of a filter on your thoughts. “What if he’s not here in time? I-I can’t have the baby without him here!” You throw your head back on the pillow and tug the itchy wool blanket up to your chin. 

“Let me tell you something: you can do anything. You’re strong, you’re capable, you’re a mom.” Her tone is kind but firm.

It takes another thirty minutes for Steve to make his way to the maternity ward, a crutch under one shoulder and his arm wrapped in cast. “Did I make it? Is Little Bean here yet?”

“Not yet,” Joyce shakes her head, standing up from her spot next to you and relinquishing it to your boyfriend. “She’s already eight centimeters dilated; this baby wants out.”

Steve frowns when he hears your teeth chattering, noticing your whole body shaking with shivers. “Why is she shivering like this? Is…is something wrong?”

“That’s just a side effect of the epidural,” Joyce explains calmly, rubbing his shoulder. “Everything’s looking good. She’ll be pushing in no time.” She leans over to you and adds, “I’m gonna get going, but you got this.”

You reach out to Steve, saying his name with a whimper. “I don’t know if I can do this, Steve.”

“Yes, you can. Y/N, holy shit, you can. You’re gonna be the best damn mom in the world. And I can’t wait to watch you do it.”

He repeats that as your labor continues progressing, letting you grab his uninjured hand as tightly as you can as you push. You grit your teeth, willing your body to do everything it can to let Little Bean arrive safely and quickly.

“Dad, you wanna see your baby being born?” the nurse asks, and Steve instinctively races to watch. It takes a few seconds to realize that he’s Dad; maybe not biologically, but he’ll treat Little Bean like his own child.

“Babe, I can see the head. I can see our baby’s head!” he exclaims, and he brushes the tears from his cheeks. “You’re incredible! I can’t believe you’re having our baby, holy shit!”

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“For the love of God, stop talking and hold my hand!” 

Glancing down at the newborn baby in your arms, you press a soft kiss to his nose, careful not to wake him. “How…how do I love him so much already?” you murmur. “Hi, Little Bean. I’m your mom.” Your eyes well up at the statement; you’re someone’s mom.

“You did amazing,” Steve says, running his forefinger along Little Bean’s tiny knuckles. “He’s perfect. I’m so proud of you, and…and I know Eddie would be, too.” He moves his finger so it grazes the baby’s hair. “Does he have a name? Or are we gonna call him Little Bean for the rest of his life? ‘Cause I gotta be honest with you; I think that’ll be a problem when he starts school.”

You smile, not wanting to take your eyes off of your son. Your son. “I was thinking that his first name could be Jimmy, after Jimmy Page,” you tell Steve, “because Led Zeppelin saved your life. And then his middle name would be Edward, so he always has a piece of his dad.”

“What about his last name?” Steve asks. It’s an innocent question, but to you, it’s loaded. You have no idea what last name Little Bean–Jimmy–will have. Eddie is biologically his father, so it could be Munson; but Steve will be the one helping you raise him. Is it too much to give him the last name Harrington?

“Can I come in?” a soft voice calls from the doorway. You manage to pry your gaze from Jimmy’s sleeping form to see Wayne holding a bouquet of daisies in one hand and a little gift bag in the other. Bunched up blue tissue paper spills over the sides.

You nod, giving him a smile. “Of course. Come say hi to your grandson.” 

“He’s beautiful,” Wayne says, placing the flowers on the bedside table. “How are you feeling, darlin’?”

“Exhausted,” you admit, “but so happy. He’s here, and he’s healthy, and…I never knew how badly I needed him until now.” You kiss the wisps of hair atop Jimmy’s head. “Wayne, I’d like you to officially meet Jimmy Edward.” You wince as you try to shift your baby into Wayne’s waiting arms, still sore from labor, so he hands the gift to Steve and leans over to help you.

“Hi, Jimmy,” he whispers, gently rocking him. “I’m your grandpa, and I’m gonna spoil the h-heck outta you.” He lets out a nervous chuckle. “Not used to watchin’ my language; guess I’ll have to get used to it.”

“Don’t worry, you still have plenty of time before he can start echoing everything you say,” you reassure him.

Steve lovingly squeezes your shoulder. “I’m gonna leave you two to talk, but if you need me, I’ll be right outside.”

“Thank you, babe,” you say gratefully. You watch as he hobbles away with his crutch, but not before taking one last look at the woman of his dreams and the most adorable baby he’s ever seen. I’m so lucky, he thinks. It’s the little family he’s always wanted, and he’ll never let it go.

Wayne cradles Jimmy to his chest, visibly melting when he coos. “I can’t believe I have a grandson. Never thought…” he pauses, using the shoulders of his jacket to wipe tears from his eyes, “...never thought it’s happen. ‘Specially after Eddie…”

“Wayne?” you break in, voice wavering with nerves. “I don’t…he doesn’t have a last name yet. I know he’s Eddie’s, but Steve…I’m just so confused.”

“Well, seems like an easy choice to me,” Wayne chuckles softly, looking at you intently. “Darlin’, there’s one last name this sweet boy should have. Yours.”

“Mine?” you squeak out. 

He nods, making silly faces at the newborn in his arms. “You are the bravest, strongest person I’ve ever met. I mean, anyone who goes through pregnancy and labor is a goddamn superhero in my eyes. But doing it at nineteen? While dealing with everything you’re dealing with.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “I couldn’t do it; that’s for sure.”

Wayne stays for a few more minutes until he sees you struggling to keep your eyes open.

“‘M sorry,” you mumble, embarrassed that you can’t stay awake. The pull of sleep is too inviting to fight off any longer, despite the soreness that radiates through your lower body.

He places Jimmy back in his bassinet and shoots you one last warm smile. “Ya did good, kid.”

“Sweetheart? Are…are you awake?”

You blink a few times at the sound of an all-too familiar voice. Wiping the sleep from your eyes, the hazy shape begins to focus. The frizzy brown curls, denim jacket covering a mud-spattered Hellfire shirt, and torn jeans can only mean one person.

“Eddie?”

He nods, stepping towards you. “It’s me. Really me this time.” He takes in your incredulous look and offers a small smile. “I can prove it: ask me anything. But, uh, don’t take too long. ‘M kinda on borrowed time here.”

“Where was our first date?” you try, cocking your eyebrow with disbelief.

“It was supposed to be at Enzo’s, but their power went out, so we ended up splitting gas station sandwiches at Lover’s Lake.” Eddie answers easily. 

Your eyes well up with tears and you let out a sob you didn’t know you were holding. It’s so loud that you wake up Steve, who sits up with a start.

“Wh-What…Munson?” he sputters, hobbling to your side and grabbing your hand with his good one. “Baby, is he…”

“It’s him,” you confirm, wiping your cheeks. You feel Steve relax, his fingers untensing but still remaining laced with yours. You reach into the bassinet and carefully lift Jimmy, doing your best not to wake him. “Eddie, this is your son. His name is Jimmy Edward.”

“My son,” Eddie repeats incredulously. “Holy shit, my son.” Steve shifts over so Eddie can stand next to you. His fingertips appear to brush against the wisps of Jimmy’s hair, but pass through them, a somber reminder that he’s not truly here. But your baby stirs slightly as if he can feel his father’s touch. It’s comforting, and he falls back to sleep without so much as a whimper. 

“Hey, little guy,” Eddie whispers. “It’s me…y-your dad. I’m glad I got to meet you.” A tear slips down his cheek. “This is kinda a weird situation we got goin’ on here. I mean, I can’t stick around for too long. But your mom and Steve are gonna be here for you, okay? And I’ll be watching over you, lookin’ out for you. 

“It might not seem like it, but you’ve got a pretty sweet deal, kid. You’ve got the best mom in the world. She was seriously the most amazing thing to ever happen to me.” He looks at Steve with a warm smile before bringing his attention back to the snoozing baby. “And Steve? One of the greatest dudes I know. Total badass, and his hair? Impeccable.” 

“Shut up, man,” Steve mumbles, but he’s grinning when he says it.

“I mean it,” Eddie insists. “I know…I know he made you think that I hated you. But I don’t. You took care of Y/N, and you’re gonna take care of my kid. I’m so fuckin’ grateful for you, dude.”

“You promise you’re not mad?” Steve asks dubiously. “‘Cause I’d get it if you were.”

“Steve.” Eddie tilts his head and starts to place his hand on the man’s shoulder before remembering that he can no longer do that. “Just make sure you aim your hairspray away from his sensitive little eyes.”

A tinkle of laughter echoes through the hospital room, followed by brief silence. “Eds?” you say finally, voice tinier than you wish it was, “How long can you stay?”

His brown eyes are filled with remorse. “Not long. I needed to meet him. And tell you how much I love you.” The kiss he tries to press to your forehead has no weight, just a slight chill, as though there’s a gentle breeze blowing through. “Look at you, Sweetheart. Just had a baby and you’re as gorgeous as ever.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes; the cold stickiness of dried sweat all over your body begs to differ with his statement. “I’m a mess.”

“No,” Eddie shakes his head. “No, you’re not. And you’ve got two guys who think you’re the most beautiful woman in this dimension, or any other.” He raises his eyebrows at Steve, cuing him to chime in.

“He’s right,” Steve agrees easily, rubbing your shoulder with his thumb. “The most beautiful, badass, strongest woman I’ve ever met.”

“See?” Eddie shrugs. “Now you can’t deny it. I mean, what are the odds of us both being wrong?” 

This time, you do roll your eyes.

Eddie flickers, like some sort of glitch, and you know exactly what that means without even having to ask. “It’s time for me to go,” he says. The reflexive upwards curl that dances on his lips is a mixture of sadness and relief. He’s free, he’s finally free, and Vecna can no longer rob him of the experience of a peaceful afterlife. “But you can bet that I’ll be watching over you. My…my family.” He once again glances at Steve; this time, it’s for approval.

“‘Course you’re our family, Munson.” If Eddie were really here, in the flesh, Steve would sling an arm around his shoulder and pull him in tight. Instead, he settles for a kind smile. “We love you.”

Eddie bites his lower lip. “I love you all, too.” His voice warbles, though you’re unsure if it's from emotion or from his waning presence. “Good-bye, my love. I’m so glad I got to meet our boy.”

The next time you blink, he’s gone.

You think you dreamed it. In fact, if Steve wasn’t here to corroborate what just happened, you’d swear on it.

“Did that just…” Steve starts, shaking his head. “There’s no way, right?”

“Y-Yeah,” you stammer in agreement. “There’s no way.” But as you look over to Jimmy’s empty bassinet, you notice something that hadn’t been in there earlier.

A red and black guitar pick.

Steve sees it, too, and gingerly places it in the palm of his hand, as though he expects it to vanish just as Eddie had. When it remains there, he lets his gaze drift to Jimmy.

“Little Bean–Jimmy–I’m gonna make you a promise right now,” he starts, rubbing his thumb over the pick. “I’m never gonna shut up about your dad. You’ll know all about how awesome he was.” He clears his throat of the lump that builds. “And I-I know I can never take his place, but I’m gonna be the best father figure I can be.”

The energy that fills the room is like a warm hug. The threat of Vecna is gone, Steve is alive and by your bedside, your son arrived in the world healthy and happy, and Eddie got to meet him.

You know that there are many long days and sleepless nights that stretch ahead of you, but for now, you allow yourself to be enveloped in love.

We'll get through this, we'll get past this  I'm a girl with a whole lot of baggage But I love you, we'll get past this I'm a girl with a whole lot of baggage, yeah

[theearlgreymage]

“Relax, my darling,” Erwin’s voice travels up his body in prickling waves. “Let me take care of you.” Erwin does take care of him. He’s given him more than he ever could have wanted in the years they’ve known each other. Erwin makes him feel loved. The voices are silent when Erwin leaves after a light breakfast. They know what they’ve done, Levi can feel their malicious grins plastered up the length of his spine. Deep rooted sentiment and fervor have ensnarled themselves in the gaps between his ribs. Blooms of white Carnations, Wisteria, and Tulips have pierced his lungs and the thorns of roses have nested themselves in his heart. Sprouts of undying love have planted themselves so deeply within him, that he doesn’t even know where to begin in digging them out — can’t imagine plucking them free without removing a vital part of himself with them.

So, I may have gone off the deep end this time. Kind of wrote my first Dead-Dove fic. And it kind of possessed me for nearly two weeks while I wrote all 90 pages of it.

Anyways. It's a lot. The tags are a bit spoiler-y, but I do recommend looking at them before reading this.

I also recommend pouring yourself a glass (or bottle) of wine while you read this one.

Enjoy!!

Read it here on AO3

Additional information is below the cut ✂

Chapters: 3/3

Fandom: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con

Relationships: Levi Ackerman/Erwin Smith, Levi Ackerman & Erwin Smith

Characters: Levi Ackerman, Erwin Smith, Hange Zoe, Moblit Berner, Mike Zacharias, Nanaba (Shingeki no Kyojin), Keith Shadis, Eren Yeager, Kuchel Ackerman, Kenny Ackerman, Special Operations Squad | Levi Squad, Original Special Operations Squad | Original Squad Levi, New Special Operations Squad | New Squad Levi, Squad Hange (Shingeki no Kyojin), Petra Ral, Oluo Bozado, Eld Jinn, Gunther Schultz, Dot Pixis, Darius Zackly, Krisa Lenz | Historia Reiss

Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ackerbond | Ackerman Bonding (Shingeki no Kyojin), Psychosis, Hallucinations, Loss of Bodily Autonomy, Loss of Virginity, Dubious Consent, Sexsomnia, Loss of Control, Forced Pregnancy, Miscarriage, Abortion, Major Character Injury, Character Death, Minor Character Death, Canonical Character Death, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Gender Dysphoria, Forced Detransitioning, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Trans Levi Ackerman, Falling in Love, Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Oral Sex, Riding, Breeding, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Drunking sex, Kissing, Boys Kissing, First Kiss, Rough Sex, Gay, Bottom Levi Ackerman, Top Erwin Smith, Bottom Levi Ackerman/Top Erwin Smith, Unreliable Narrator, dark ackerbond, Fucked Up, Cock Warming, The Paths, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Necrophilia, Rape/Non-con Elements, Gaslighting, No Beta We Die Like Pixis - Doing What We Loved to the Bitter End

Summary:

The gravity of the whole conversation strikes Levi then. It weighs him down with vulnerability and emotions he’s not equipped to handle. Erwin’s offering him something he’s never held before, something he doesn’t know that Erwin’s ever even offered before.

“Okay..” Levi settles back into sheets. He lets Erwin peel their clothes off, one article at a time, and then rolls onto his side. Erwin pulls him in for another kiss.

It’s easy, like this, for Levi to relax. The voices have retreated to a hushed corner in his mind, leaving him to bask in Erwin’s attention, uninterrupted. Erwin’s kisses are serene, with little flicks of his tongue and docile fingers tracing the slope of his spine. Tension seeps from Levi’s muscles, he feels unbound — malleable. Everything is saccharine, as though he’s been dipped in golden honey with the way Erwin devours him in the most tender way possible. He has to hold onto Erwin, twist his fingers in pale blonde locks and grip sun-kissed skin. If he could, he’d carve both of them open, pry both of them apart at the seams, just to stitch them back together with a curved needle and silken thread.

[firstprince-ao3feed]

Sweetheart

by starry_pisces “Alright sweetheart, we’re going to get you taken care of, okay?” Henry was thankful his back was to the patient. It gave him a moment to close his eyes, to take a deep, calming breath. He was no use to this person if he wasn’t in control of himself. One more steadying breath as he snapped on his gloves, and he turned to face the bed. He wished that it was different. That a man this strong, strong enough to be awake through such disaster, could live. But Alex had called him “sweetheart”. And every single doctor and nurse in that bay knew what it meant when the best trauma surgeon in the state put on that soothing voice and called a patient “sweetheart”. OR 3 times Alex called a patient "sweetheart" and 1 time someone called Alex "sweetheart" Words: 14957, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Categories: M/M Characters: Alex Claremont-Diaz, Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, June Claremont-Diaz, Nora Holleran, Percy "Pez" Okonjo, Ellen Claremont, Shaan Srivastava, Zahra Bankston Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, hospital au, Minor Original Character(s), Original Character Death(s), Grief, Panic Attacks, Major Injury, Gun Violence, Car Accidents, Blood, Bodily Harm, fuck buddies, Pining, Pet Names, Surgery, Angst, seriously there is angst, Hurt/Comfort, detailed medical trauma, Whump, On Screen Character Death, Friends to Lovers, Friends With Benefits To Lovers, Friends With Benefits, Eventual Smut, Rimming, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex via https://ift.tt/dIF1gnH

[holymolyineedtherapy]

Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Recommendations

Separated AU (WIP) by: @cupcakeslushie

AU, where at a young age, the turtles are kidnapped. Raphael still lives with Splinter, Michalengelo is taken by Big Mama, Donatello is taken by Baron Draxum, and Leonardo is taken by Shredder who has been revived for a longer time.

Warnings: Themes of Torture, Major Character Injury, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Personality Disorders

Like Father Like Son (WIP) by: @eternalglitch

Draxum wasn't quite ready to give up on his plan to use the turtles as his ultimate weapons just yet. When Leo is taken by Draxum, it's up to the other three turtles to get their brother back before it's too late.

Warnings: Themes of Torture, Major Character Injury, PTSD, Identity Crisis, Graphic Depictions of Violence

The Aftermath (WIP) by @starrcrossrose

Leo knows this isn't about him; not anymore. But that doesn't stop the nightmares from haunting him every night, or the fact that he may have to wear a leg brace for a long time. It doesn't stop his shell from hurting, or his breath from catching when the air is too stagnant. Leo knows his brothers are struggling, too. But, in the aftermath of what happened to him - to them - he's having a really hard time getting back to normal.

It's going to take the patience, understanding, and love of his family to heal him. That way he can help heal them, too.

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Body Horror, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Self-Harm, Mentions of Suicide

A Tale of Spirits (WIP) by @unorthodoxx-page

"We do not know of your brothers, Great Spirit,” Zuko answered, stuttering more like it. “I’m sorry we could not be of more service.”

The spirit frowned and stood up. “That’s weird, we were just together.”

There was a shift and Uncle’s head came up. They stared at this strange spirit. It turned its back to them and Zuko was breathless at the show of disregard. Figures a spirit would not consider him a threat. He shouldn’t take it personally, but he’s been dismissed his whole life. He’s tired of it. A hand gripped his trembling one and he takes a breath. There is no use getting upset over the ways of a spirit. They both studied its small form and Zuko was caught by its profile. The spirit’s back held three repeating and somewhat glowing symbols. It curved in a familiar motion.

“A turtle,” Uncle whispered.

Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Depictions of Bodily Harm, Violence, Crossover, Hurt/Comfort

Trial and Error (WIP) by @ apatheticrobots

The world ends. The Krang win. Leo failed.

It was supposed to be on Casey's shoulders (and his shoulders alone) to go back and make sure the invasion never happened in the first place, but apparently his student had a little more inherited stubbornness than he'd thought.

Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Implied Character Death, Hurt/Comfort

Odd Man Out (WIP) by @threestripeslider

Leonardo is dead.

Or, at least, he should be. Instead, he is floating within a colorful vortex that reminds him too much of his own portals. He tries not to think too much about it. But, eventually he is forced to when the vortex spits him out into a world that used to be his home, many, many years ago.

Or; the one where Future!Leo somehow managed to luck out on a one in a million mere millisecond chance of a freak glitch in the space-time continuum that sends him back into the present, where the Invasion has been successfully driven back. And it looks like it was a one-way ticket travel.

Obviously, everybody is So Very Normal about this.

Warnings: Mentions of Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of PTSD

Blood Is Thicker Than Ooze (WIP) by @ mybrainisacandywrapper

Purple is the son of Draxum, a great warrior alchemist. With his help, Draxum will eradicate the prophesied human threat, and restore yōkai to the surface.

Purple doesn't understand why these three turtles are trying to stop them.

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Child Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse

Mutant Ninja Midlife Crisis (WIP) by @mutantninjamidlifecrisis

Leo’s pretty sure the afterlife isn’t supposed to hurt this much.

In the midst of attempting to make peace with his death at the hands of the Krang, Master Leonardo is suddenly yeeted over two decades into the past, courtesy of his little brother.

Now faced with the challenges of reconnecting with a family he’d thought lost to him forever, the constant reminders of his past failures, and the antics of his sixteen-year-old self, Leo swiftly concludes he’s too old for this, and has to wonder if it’d been better had he not returned at all.

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Character Death

Cass Apocalyptic Series (WIP) by @somerandomdudelmao

The tales of the future told through a much BRIGHTER AND HAPPIER LENSE

Warnings: Mentions of Character Death, Chaotic Brother Shenanigans

[backtothefanfiction]

The Angel In The Garden of Evil | Chapter Fourteen: Family Feud at the Funeral

Summary: As the team lay Felicia to rest, emotions get too much for Peter and Angel.

Warnings: 18+ Only, genre typical content, graphic depictions of dead body, bodily harm, funeral, grief, angst, complicated marriage, drug misuse

Word Count 2.5k

A/N: So I didn't say much in my authors note last chapter but trust me killing characters for the sake of it isn't my thing and I had no idea that that would be where the narrative would take me but we really needed something to break our characters and push them to the end. It goes without saying but don't abuse drugs.

FOURTEEN

Her funeral was held a week and a half later at the same cemetery Angel and Peter used to visit all those years ago. Although the group of them was small, the security detail they travelled with was large. It was the perfect place for The Vulture’s next attack but Angel knew he wasn’t that cruel. 

When Peter and Hobie had gotten down to the Huntsman it wasn’t a pretty sight. Carl and a young bartender called Robbie, had carried her body inside from the alley, the young bartender the only one with a strong enough stomach to carry out the task. They laid her on her back on top of a table downstairs, a meeting room that never really got used anymore after Peter had expanded his operation and set up an official office across town. She had slashes all over her skin, her throat was bruised and across her chest had been carved a giant spider with a large X through it.

Peter thought he had a pretty solid stomach after all of these years, all of the bodies he had seen, the people he had killed and tortured; but seeing her body lying there like that, someone he held close, the only person who connected with him when he felt most shut off from the rest of the world when Angel left, his stomach turned, bile rising in his mouth.

Her Father’s body was still unaccounted for. They had just found out from Eddie that Felicia’s father, Walter, was suddenly missing after he got jumped in the prison yard at lunchtime, when they arrived home. Peter had gone to visit Lydia out of respect, to tell her what had become of her daughter and husband. A mother’s wails over losing a child never truly leave you.

Angel and Peter clung tight to each other at the funeral, each with their own reason. He wanted her close to protect her. It was the first time she had left the building since he’d transferred her from the hospital back home. It would be just their luck that someone would try to take her out again and Peter was determined to protect her at all costs, even if it meant sacrificing his own life for hers.

Despite her still healing injuries, Angel had tried to be by Peter’s side as much as she could the moment he had gotten home that night. It was three thirty in the morning and she remained sitting patiently in the living room until they had returned. She saw from the look on his face the moment he walked through the door that he was not okay. As much as he would deny it, Angel could see that Felicia had meant something to her husband. She had been there for him when she hadn’t been. Not to mention she knew better than anyone that you can’t just have sex with no strings attached, sooner or later, someone’s feelings always got involved; that’s how her and Peter had got to where they were in the first place. She was also still on a large concoction of pills to help her function through the pain in her still healing ribs.

Nurse Temple had stopped by again two days ago to check on her bandages, change them for some new ones and re-set and wrap her ribs. She also dropped off another prescription slip, written out by Dr Healey which Angel had used to full advantage, doubling up her dosage to get her through the next two and half hours of proceedings and the start of the wake, which was being held at the Huntsman. She felt like she was floating, holding on to her husband just to keep her grounded. She was grateful for the large pair of black Prada sunglasses she wore on her face, hiding her eyes so no one could see just how spaced out she was. She was trying to focus on the officiant speaking next to the casket, a jet black number Felicia would have been proud of, but her eyes kept wandering back and forth. They suddenly came to a stop, focusing in on a large figure standing by a set of graves a few rows over. She blinked hard, sure she was seeing stuff. Sure enough, when she looked again the figure had gone. She tried to turn her head back towards the casket and the picture of Felicia that was displayed on top of it but- there he was again. Her Father.

No that couldn’t be, he was dead. He was definitely dead. She had seen his body. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. When she looked again, just as she suspected, he had gone. She slipped her hand into Peter’s squeezing it tightly. 

Peter didn’t need his spider senses to tell him something was wrong. He knew his wife well. When the service was over he helped her to her feet but didn’t move, waving everyone else away, telling them to start moving back towards the cars as he turned her to face him. She was swaying slightly. His fingers reached out carefully for her sunglasses, lifting them carefully from her face. Her pupils were blown wide. “Fuck, Angel!” He sighed. “How much did you fucking take?”

“I knew we weren’t going back to the apartment for hours so I doubled up.” she said but she was clearly distracted. One second she was looking at him, the next she was looking at something over his shoulder. He turned his head but there was nothing there. She blinked heavily as she swayed and tried once again to get a handle on herself. “OH MY GOD CAN YOU JUST FUCK OFF!” she suddenly snapped. Peter gripped her face in his hands forcing her to look at him but she wouldn't; she just kept looking past him. “Great, now there’s two of them.” she huffed.

Peter looked around again but there wasn’t anything there. “Angel.” He said her name trying to ground her and get her to focus, “Princess. Baby.” Nothing, nothing was getting through to her.

“Go away! Leave me alone!” she said forcefully.

“ANGEL!” Peter snapped and her eyes locked onto him with one harsh blink. “What the fuck is going on?!” he said forcefully.

“My Dad.” she said.

“But your Dad’s dead.” He said. She was expecting for her to give him one of those looks she usually gave him. The ‘my husband is an idiot look’, but she didn’t.

“You don’t think I know that.” she just said to him as her eyes wandered again. She groaned as she forced her eyes closed. She breathed deeply and counted to ten under her breath, Peter’s hands moving to rub soothingly over the tops of her arms. When she opened them again her father was gone. Peter felt her breathe a sigh of relief. He observed her eyes closely. Her pupils were still big but not as large as they had been a moment before.

“You gonna be okay?”

Angel swayed again then blinked before saying, “Yep.” but Peter wasn’t convinced.

Harry and Hobie were stood waiting by their car as they approached. “Everything okay?” Hobie asked.

“Yeah, this one here’s just decided to start seeing dead people.” Peter deadpanned frustratedly. Angel rolled her eyes equally frustrated. “Harry, can you get her in the car?” Peter ordered as he sidled up beside Hobie.

“Yeah, sure.” Harry said as he reached a hand out for Angel to take so he could walk her round to the other side of the town car and help her into the backseat.

“She’s popped one too many pills.” Peter sighed as he began to have a muttered conversation with Hobie, his voice keeping low as no doubt he thought she’d be eavesdropping. 

“I can do it, I can do it.” She said, holding her hand up to Harry who was stood awkwardly at her side with the passenger door open, trying to work out what he was supposed to do to help her in. When she was sat, his hand reached for the seatbelt. “I swear to god Osborn.” her voice chastised once more, stopping him in his tracks.

“Fine. Fine. Jeez.” Harry said as he let the seatbelt go, his hands thrown up in surrender. “I’ve got it.” she heard his voice quietly mock as he closed the door forcefully on her.

Despite the amount of painkillers currently flowing through her system, Angel rubbed a hand over her forehead, a headache forming. She allowed her eyes to close as she leaned to press her head against the cold glass of the car window, continuing to breathe deeply, once, twice- DING.

She knew who it was going to be before she even looked at the message. It was that unknown number again. Another picture attached. This time there was a little message with it. ‘Such a touching ceremony.’

It made her skin crawl. She had tried to message back multiple times but he never responded to her messages. Her questions. Her demands. She just stared at the screen, her eyes blurring at the edges. When the car door opened on the other side of the car, she quickly put the phone back in the pocket of her black trenchcoat. 

She tried to ignore Peter as he unbuttoned his blazer and smoothed down his shirt as he climbed into the car beside her.

“I’m taking you home.” he said curtly, not making eye contact with her.

“Pete, I’m fine-” she tried to protest but he wasn’t having it.

“Angel, you are not fucking fine. I’m stressed enough today without having you hanging around like a fucking liability.”

She looked at him as if he had just slapped her. “Are you serious right now?” she shrieked. He continued to ignore her. “LOOK AT ME!” He finally snapped his head towards her. She noticed he had that look in his eye. “You’re fucking ridiculous.” she spat at him. Although he didn’t say anything, she knew her words were getting to him. Could practically see the bubbles under his skin as his blood began to boil. “Fucking man child.” she hissed. “However the fuck did you manage while I was gone, huh? You know ever since- I was the one- who got blown up, you’ve been acting like a lost little child without his Mommy there to hold his hand-” her rant was cut off by the feeling of his hand squeezing at her wrist.

His grip was tight and bruising and his chest heaved, nose chuffing as he tried to keep himself in control, trying not to lose it completely. She continued to meet his stare, not letting him intimidate her but she had never seen him look at her that way before. Never felt him touch her that way before. He suddenly released his grip on her, pushing her arm away as he turned to look out the window instead.

“You’re going home Angel, there’s no debate about it.” His word was final.

“Boss.” Miguel said as he came to a stop in the car park. 

“I’ll be back in a minute.” Peter said as he got out of the car.

Angel snapped her limbs away from him when he tried to help her from the car. “I can do it.” She snapped but her legs wobbled as she stood and Peter had to hold an arm out for her to steady herself. 

“And you called me a child.” He said as she rolled her eyes, frustrated by her body betraying her and needing to take his help after all.

He was a silent force at her side the whole way upstairs, helping her into their bedroom where he sat her on the end of the bed. “You know if you go back without me people are gonna talk more than they already do.” She said as he knelt to take off her shoes for her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asked her, exhausted.

“About you and her.”

“I told you, she meant nothing-“

“Really? Then why have you been acting like-“

“-BECAUSE SHE WAS STILL MY FRIEND ANGEL! FUCK!” He shouted, drowning her out.

“SURE!” Angel fired back. “IS THAT WHY HE KILLED HER THEN? JUST BECAUSE YOU WERE FRIENDS PETE? COME ON!” She fired back. “HE KILLED HER BECAUSE HE KNEW IT WOULD GET TO YOU.”

“Fucking Hell! It’s like trying to have a conversation with your FATHER!” He spat at her.

“You take that back right now! I am NOTHING LIKE MY FATHER!”

“REALLY BABY, Because you seem to act JUST LIKE HIM!”

“Are you KIDDING ME!” She said standing.

“You know I think this is EXACTLY what your Father wanted!”

“What’s that supposed to mean!”

“I mean, I think he knew he could turn you into a bomb and FUCKING DESTROY ME!” He said, hand beating at his chest. “Ever since you’ve come back, one second I think I know you and then the next BOOOM. You’re just a fucking grenade baby. Just another pawn in your Fathers game.” He said as they squared up to each other. “Even in death.” He hissed into her face.

She was silent as the words hit her like a slap to the face.

“What happened to you?” He asked softer. “What happened to the girl I pulled out of that burning building all those years ago. The girl who visited her mothers grave religiously. Who told me she didn’t want to have anything to do with her Father’s business.”

His words brought tears to her eyes but she swallowed them back. “She married a man who couldn’t help but get himself in her Fathers business and play his games so he could destroy him. How did that go for you Pete? Huh? Because I saw how you were with Jackson Brice. Seems like you became a real expert at the game.”

“ANGEL! PEOPLE ARE DYING! THIS ISN’T A GAME!”

“LEWIS! HAZEL! VERONICA!” She began listing off names. “DAVID! SANJAY! LIZ!” His hands flew into his hair as he paced away from her, realising what it was she was doing. “THEY’RE ALL DEAD PETE! ALL BECAUSE THIS SHIT IS A GAME TO THEM! DON’T YOU KNOW THAT BY NOW! IT'S ALL A GAME! ALWAYS HAS BEEN” Peter turned his back to her as she continued to rant. “MY DAD. THE VULTURE! THEY DON’T CARE!”

Silence. She watched him closely as his gaze moved to the floor as he shook his head. “I thought you knew that.” Her voice became wistful, the sadness of a long forgotten life, a long forgotten goal falling over them. She watched as he recognised it too, his fingers moving to play with the wedding band on his finger, twisting it back and forth. 

Her stomach lurched as she watched him pull it from his finger. He still wouldn’t look at her. He took a long hard look at the ring, turning it over in his fingers. “Well maybe I’m done playing games.” He said and he walked away from her, placing the ring on a side table next to the door as he left.

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

New chapters go live on Wednesdays and Fridays! If you want to be added to the tag list make sure you put it in writing for me. Also if you are enjoying the story don’t forget to tip me like you would your waiter by reblogging and leaving feedback and letting me know what you think!

@scmdsblog @angiexsv @thef1nalgirl @did-someone-change-my-name @sincericida @tarzinnia @liz-allyn @blacksoul09 @humxncrxvings @sunnycolors @suicide-sweetheart636 @ahryi @ms-wild-card-56

[casteliacityramen]

Common and Applicable Content Warnings For This Blog (WIP)

Preamble/Forewarning:

This blog revolves around many characters who are in the process of healing from traumatic incidents surrounding death. Some of the topics may not be suitable for all audiences.

I cannot promise that upsetting topics will always be hidden underneath a readmore / properly tagged due to genuine ignorance or negligence.

When I share posts within discord servers or other social media, I will do my best to provide content warnings.

I will do my best to depict traumatic moments respectfully and tactfully. However, if downplaying those events does a disservice to those who have gone through similar events, I do not want to pull punches.

The following tags are pulled from a "common triggers" list. If you do not see one that is particularly specific to you, I apologize.

| Link back to pinned post |

Topics that may not be tagged

Alcohol / Drunkenness

Violence

Blood

Death

PTSD

Medical Procedures/Surgery

Topics that may be tagged with “cw: ___” but not pre-warned with a “readmore”

Blood / Bodily Injury and Harm

War

Abuse (emotional, verbal)

Topics that will be tagged with “cw: ___” in conjunction with a “readmore,"

Self Harm Behavior

Suicidal Ideation

Graphic depiction of injury. Short-form: Gore

Domestic Abuse

Common Sensitive Topics I don't intend to touch upon (red topics are subject to change)

Explicit porn

Abortion

Drug Addiction

Homophobia / Biphobia / Transphobia

Incest

Pedophilia

Pregnancy

Rape

[elysiaheaven2]

𝗛𝗢𝗦𝗧 𝗣𝗔𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗚𝗢𝗡 𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗙𝗔𝗖𝗘- 𝗥𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗻 𝘅 𝗚.𝗡 𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 (Part 2) end!

Used to be on @elysiaheaven

This is the request!!

02: SO MUCH FOR THE TOLERANT LEFT

Words:4000

Genre: Red Room Reader (G.N) Gore

Summary: A sadistic captor fucking you <33 livestreams their torture, taunting a shackled victim while performing brutal acts for an online audience. They theatrically respond to viewer suggestions, twisted glee, blending dark humor with horrifying violence. The chat eggs them on, turning the view into a grotesque spectacle.

This happens before you meet Ronin! (Basically

Trigger Warnings:

Graphic Violence: Depictions of physical harm, torture, and injury.

Self-Harm: Indirect references to bodily harm or deterioration (e.g., breaking nails).

Psychological Torture: Mental manipulation, humiliation, and emotional distress.

Gore: Detailed depictions of blood, injury, and bodily harm.

Blood: Intense, graphic descriptions of bloodshed.

Trauma: Psychological and physical trauma inflicted on the victim.

Moral Corruption: Exploration of a character’s lack of remorse, twisted logic, and corruption.

Death (explicit deaths with violent descriptions)

Torture (including the use of tools and sadistic behavior)

Psychological Manipulation (character dynamics that involve power and control)

Content Warnings:

Disturbing Imagery: Vivid descriptions of torture, suffering, and victimization.

Emotional Manipulation: Using guilt, fear, and despair to torment the victim.

Organ Donation: The idea of using a victim’s organs for medical purposes, which could be seen as dehumanizing.

Dark Humor: The use of dark humor surrounding violence, suffering, and exploitation.

Exploitation: The character finds satisfaction in the suffering of others.

Dehumanization: Treating the victim as an object or tool for personal satisfaction or manipulation.

Physical Harm (depictions of severe bodily injury, bruising, and broken bones)

Blood and Injury (detailed accounts of blood, wounds, and brutal attacks)

Blood Loss and Dismemberment (specific references to body mutilation, such as the use of crowbars and knives for dismemberment)

Psychological Control and Trauma (psychological torment and manipulation, including the fear of death, taunting, and intimidation)

EXTRA: He's a character from a game named Killer chat! Please play it! It's so good!

⟡ The show must go on

Welcome dear viewer, Read the warnings before reading this hell!

Ronin sat hunched over his computer, the screen illuminating his face in the dark. His fingers hovered over the keys, but he couldn’t quite figure out how to word it. How could he explain what was happening inside of him? This giddy feeling, this knot that tightened in his chest when he thought about Angel. He felt so... out of control, and he hated it. His mind was swirling with a mess of emotions, and the only thing that seemed clear was that something was happening that he couldn’t fix.

He stared at his message, his thoughts racing. His thumb finally pressed the keys.

Ronin: Angel, I need help. My heart is like... giddy? What the hell is this? It feels like I’m gonna burst. I feel so shit right now. I don’t know what’s going on inside of me, but it’s ugly. I just want to rip out my aorta and wash it but I don’t even want to do that? Wtf is wrong with me?!

He hit send and immediately felt a wave of frustration flood through him. Why couldn’t he explain himself better? It was like his insides were fighting each other, wanting something they couldn’t have. His heart, a traitor, racing when Angel even looked his way, and yet, he was ashamed of it. What was he supposed to do with all these feelings?

Angel didn’t take long to reply, their message popping up with an almost teasing wink emoji. Ronin stared at it for a moment, his pulse quickening.

Angelicc: “What the hell are they fixing you, Ronin?”

That response hit him like a bolt of lightning, igniting something deep inside him. His mind, once clouded, suddenly cleared, and he smirked.

goreboy: *Why would you care? he texts back with a playful yet taunting tone. It’s not like you could handle me if you tried, Angel.

There. He’d done it. Ronin’s fingers tapped out the last bit of the message, the little bit of frustration that had been building finally manifesting in this teasing banter. But beneath it all, his mind screamed for some kind of resolution—anything to make the knot in his chest loosen.

Angelic: God, please give me the energy to shoot you, Ronin You're so...

Ronin leaned back in his chair, phone still in hand, when the familiar ping of a notification pulled him out of his spiraling thoughts. His sharp eyes glanced at the screen. The message was from the streamer.

His lips curled into an intrigued grin as he clicked it open.

Streamer: Got the guy you were talking about. Stream starts at 9 PM. Gonna be a good one.

Ronin's grin widened as he read it, his mind briefly flicking back to their conversation about the so-called "big bad" that had captured his interest. They’d actually found the guy. This was going to be fun. He couldn't wait to see how they handled it.

"Guess they’ve got a little flair for drama after all," he muttered, tossing his phone onto the desk for a moment.

But the thought lingered—there was something about this streamer that felt familiar, like a puzzle piece he hadn’t quite placed yet. They were sharp, clever, and knew just the right things to say to keep him hooked. Almost... too much like someone he already knew.

A part of him toyed with the idea, but no. That would be too wild, wouldn’t it?

Picking up his phone again, he typed out a quick message:

goreboy: Rest up, yeah? The guy’s caught, so your job’s done. You should sleep well.

He hovered over the send button for a moment, noticing your status was offline. With a sigh, he hit send anyway.

"Offline, huh?" he murmured, leaning back and letting his head tip against the chair’s edge. "Figures."

He stared at the empty room, the soft glow of the phone screen lighting his face. His heart, usually so calm and guarded, ached faintly.

It wasn’t a bad ache, though. It was warm.

"You really got me wrapped around your little finger, don’t you?" he whispered to the empty space.

Ronin closed his eyes, letting the weight of the realization sink in. He really loved you, didn’t he? His heart, as much as he hated to admit it, wasn’t lying.

The clock hit 9 PM, the moment you had been waiting for. Your heart raced in anticipation as you adjusted your mask, staring at the reflection in your screen. You were ready. Tonight’s stream would be one for the books.

The camera flicked on, and there you were, in full glory—your usual enigmatic persona, concealed behind the mask, your voice a controlled calm with just the right edge of menace.

On the other side of the screen, the man they’d just captured was already cursing, his voice a mixture of panic and fury. His words were a desperate mess of threats, accusations, and confusion, but you couldn’t help but smile at the chaos. It felt so… right. So deliciously satisfying.

You leaned forward, fingers expertly typing on the keyboard, your voice sharp as you addressed him.

“Quiet down, you filthy coward,” you said, your voice cold yet somehow amused, the words slipping from your lips effortlessly. “You’re not in control anymore. The world you once ruled is crumbling around you, and you're nothing but a puppet with its strings cut.”

You could practically hear his jaw clenching. The man had thought he was invincible, and now he was nothing more than prey in your game. And you? You were the hunter, enjoying every moment of it.

"Why don’t you shut your damn mouth and listen?" you continued, raising your hand dramatically, the camera capturing every movement. "Your sins have caught up with you. You think you can get away with everything, but tonight, you’re going to pay for all of it. I’m not just going to show you your fate—I’m going to make you feel it."

The man’s curses grew more frantic as he struggled against his restraints, but you didn’t care. You kept your focus, savoring each word you spoke, each moment of this twisted satisfaction. This was your show. You had the power, and you weren’t letting go.

"Stop squirming, it’s pointless," you added, voice dripping with mockery. "You wanted attention, and now you have it. Just sit tight, the real fun’s about to begin.”

As the stream began to settle into its rhythm, you leaned forward, gazing into the camera with that unsettling calm. The chat was flooded with messages, and your viewers were eager, waiting for the night’s show to unfold. Among the sea of usernames, you saw it—a familiar one. Goreboy69.

It barely registered among all the chaos of names scrolling by. But then it clicked—that name, those letters, the symbol of chaos that you’d recognized. You looked at it again, eyes widening for a split second. It was him.

Ronin.

The realization hit you like a jolt of electricity through your veins. He was here. Watching. Your Ronin.

You swallowed back a lump in your throat but quickly regained your composure, the same sinister smile curling onto your lips. This was your moment. Your game. The perfect twist.

"Welcome, everyone," you said smoothly, your voice smooth and warm like honey, as if everything was perfectly normal. You glanced at the chat again, giving a special nod to the man in question. "And of course, a very special welcome to... Goreboy69. You know who you are."

You let the words linger in the air, giving him a playful wink, even though you knew he couldn’t see it. The chat lit up with confusion and excitement, the viewers unknowingly swept up in the tension of the moment.

"Tonight, we’ve got someone truly special for you all," you continued, turning to the restrained man at the center of the stream. His eyes widened as he realized what was happening. But it was too late for him to do anything about it. You controlled the narrative, and he was just another pawn in your sick little game.

"Tonight's special victim has done unspeakable things," you said, slowly pacing in front of the camera, giving the chat time to catch up. "You know, he’s not just some run-of-the-mill criminal. Oh no... this one has a special kind of depravity."

The man on the screen struggled, his curses muffled by the gag in his mouth, but you weren’t interested in his weak protests. Instead, you leaned in closer to the camera, your voice dropping to a low, almost playful tone.

"You see, this lovely gentleman has stolen millions, ruined lives, and even killed—oh, the things he’s done. And tonight... well... tonight, I think he’s going to pay for them all."

You paused for a moment, savoring the tension in the air. You felt it, the rush of power. This was what you lived for.

As you started detailing his crimes, your voice began to shake with barely contained laughter. You couldn’t hold it in any longer, the absurdity of his actions tickling your sense of humor in a twisted way.

"And the best part?" you said, smirking as you bent down toward the man, your hand barely brushing against his face. "He thought he could get away with it. Thought he was untouchable."

You stood back up, chuckling darkly as the chat roared with excitement. "Well, tonight’s the night he gets to learn the hard way... that no one is untouchable."

The man struggled against his restraints, his face turning pale as you recounted his heinous acts—how he had killed people in cold blood, how he’d abused his power, how he'd ruined countless lives without a second thought. You could barely keep your laughter contained as you continued.

"Look at him squirm," you mocked. "Isn’t it just hilarious? All his bravado crumbling in seconds. You should've seen the look on his face when he realized who really has the power now."

Your laughter bubbled up again as the man began to choke on his words, his breathing shallow from both fear and the gag, but it didn’t matter. You were in control now. Every moment of his suffering was a triumph, and you knew he couldn’t escape it.

"Isn’t it just beautiful?" you murmured, gazing at the screen with twisted satisfaction. "Justice... and so much more."

You let the man suffer in silence for a moment, savoring the absolute control you had over him. And as you glanced again at Goreboy69's name, your heart raced with a mix of excitement and curiosity. Was Ronin watching? Yes you idoit!

You couldn’t wait to find out.

You leaned over the bound man, your smile never fading as you tilted your head, eyes gleaming with sick delight. His terror was palpable, a fragile thing he clung to in a desperate bid to escape, but there was no escape for him. Not here. Not with you.

You taunted him, your voice dripping with mock sympathy as you circled him slowly. "Tell me," you whispered softly, leaning down to his ear as he trembled, "How could you kill her? Your wife. The one you swore to protect, to love. How did you bring yourself to do that?" You let the words linger, his eyes wide, filled with dread. He was barely holding himself together, but his body was still betraying him with every ragged breath.

Without waiting for an answer, you swiftly grabbed a knife, its cold edge gleaming under the dim light, and drove it into the muscle of his arm, the blade sinking deep with an almost sickening ease.

His scream echoed, muffled by the gag, but the sound of it was pure, raw emotion—the kind that only came when a man realized how powerless he truly was. Tears sprang to his eyes, his body writhing against the restraints as he sobbed.

And it was there, in that moment of utter defeat, that you felt the thrill deep within you. You loved this. You loved the power, the control, the rush of watching someone break in front of you. It made everything feel real, alive.

You straightened, taking a step back, your eyes still fixed on his broken form. You were about to speak again, but then... you noticed something in the chat.

There it was again—Goreboy69—that username flashing across your screen. You grinned, recognizing the familiar pattern of messages, but this time, there was something more.

He wasn’t just watching. He was engaged. You clicked on the notification, reading the latest message from him:

"Do it. Make him feel it. Don't hold back."

Your heart skipped a beat. He... wanted you to go further. He was encouraging it. Your grin widened as a wild idea bubbled to the surface.

Ronin. Ronin was here, watching you perform. But he didn’t know it was you, did he? He had no idea. You were about to show him just how much damage you could cause.

You couldn't help the giggle that bubbled up from deep within you. You almost felt giddy at the thought of him watching, probably thinking of you as someone else entirely.

Your gaze flicked back to the man before you. He was gasping, his body trembling with the shock of the pain in his arm, and yet you weren’t done. Oh, no. You still had plenty to do.

You lifted the knife again, this time moving slowly toward his eye. His fear skyrocketed as he saw the glint of the blade, his body stiffening in a futile attempt to escape. You leaned in closer, your breath warm against his skin as you hovered just inches from his face.

And that’s when you whispered, “What if I just... pluck your eye out, hm? How would you like that?”

The terror in his eyes deepened, his chest heaving as he shook his head violently. But you couldn't help but smile wider at his futile attempts to flee. He wasn’t going anywhere, not with you in control.

But then, your gaze flickered back to the chat, and the message from Goreboy69 appeared again:

"Give him hell."

You giggled again, a wicked laugh that sent a shiver down your own spine, before turning your attention back to your captive. Ronin didn’t even realize it, but with every word he typed, he was pushing you further, guiding your actions. The connection between the two of you, unspoken and unacknowledged, made everything feel even more intense.

He didn’t know who you were, but you knew exactly who he was.

And that only made everything more delicious.

Your knife hovered just above his trembling eye, the sharp edge glinting in the dim light as his fear radiated outward in waves. The man’s body jerked instinctively, pulling against the ropes, but there was no escape. He was trapped. Completely at your mercy.

You stopped, just as the knife was about to make contact, holding it steady in midair. The sharp point was so close, the breath from his panicked gasps hitting your face. You could hear his heart pounding in his chest, faster and faster, the sound of it almost more satisfying than any scream.

His voice broke through the silence, a desperate cry filled with hatred and fear. "You—bitch!" he screamed, his words muffled by the gag but still full of venom. "You're a sick monster! You think you're some kind of god? You're nothing! NOTHING!"

His words didn’t affect you. In fact, they only made the thrill more intense. You smiled wider, your eyes narrowing as you leaned closer, the cold metal still inches from his eye. "Oh, you're right about one thing," you whispered softly, the knife edge almost touching his eyelid now, "I am a monster. And you're about to find out just how real it can get."

His body jerked again, this time his face contorting in an even more horrified expression, his whole being consumed by terror as he realized how close he was to losing an eye. You could see the sweat pouring down his forehead, his chest heaving violently with each breath. But you couldn’t resist—it was too tempting, too sweet.

You let the knife edge touch his skin, just for a moment, teasing the fragile layer of flesh. He screamed again, but this time it was different—a scream of pure terror as he realized he was so close to something irreversible.

And then, just as his voice broke with another desperate curse, you pulled the knife back, letting it fall to your side with a quiet, almost playful chuckle.

"You know, you’re lucky," you said, your voice light and sweet, as though you weren’t holding his life in your hands. "I’m in a good mood today. But don’t think for a second that I won’t finish what I started."

The man’s breathing slowed, but only slightly. He was still a broken mess, realizing just how close he had come to death. He cursed again, shaking his head violently in the restraints.

You turned your attention back to the screen, noticing another message from Goreboy69 pop up in the chat. You glanced at it, reading his words carefully:

*"You’re doing *great. He deserves everything. Don't stop now."

A sly smile curled on your lips. Ronin. You could almost feel his presence, even if he still didn’t know it was you. His words pushed you, made you want to go further, to make this man suffer in ways he could never have imagined.

"Well," you whispered, turning back to your victim with a grin, "I guess we can’t let him off that easy, can we?"

The man’s eyes widened in horror as you reached for the knife again. This time, there would be no hesitation.

You knelt before the trembling man, a thin, gleaming metal instrument in your grasp. Its delicate design contrasted with the brutality of its purpose.

“This will hold your eye open,” you murmured, your voice calm and detached, as if explaining a benign procedure. The man’s breath hitched, and he immediately thrashed, shaking his head violently in protest.

“NO! NO, PLEASE—”

His plea was cut off by your other hand gripping his face with unyielding strength. Your fingers dug into his skin, forcing his head to still. His terror-filled eyes darted in every direction, searching for an escape he knew didn’t exist.

“Stay. Still.” The command was firm, your tone leaving no room for disobedience. You brought the metal instrument closer, positioning it against his swollen eyelids. Despite his muffled screams and jerking motions, you carefully pried them open. The exposed orb quivered, blood pooling around its damaged edges.

“There,” you cooed, almost gently, as if offering some twisted reassurance. “Now we can get to work.”

You raised a scalpel, its blade catching the faint light, and twirled it between your fingers for the camera to see. The gesture was as elegant as it was menacing, the audience no doubt captivated. A few cheered in the chat, but one name stood out: Goreboy69.

"Perfection. Don’t stop now."

You smirked, the encouragement fueling your performance.

“I’m only cutting away the bad parts,” you explained sweetly, tilting your head as if you truly believed your words were merciful.

The man’s screams intensified as the scalpel touched his flesh, the blade slicing into the delicate tissue of his eye socket. Blood welled instantly, streaming down his face in dark, sticky rivulets. He convulsed in his restraints, his voice cracking under the strain of his terror.

The sound was exquisite: the wet scrape of the blade against ruined flesh, the metallic click as your tools grazed one another, all punctuated by his raw, guttural cries.

You carved with precision, each movement deliberate, as though you were an artist shaping a masterpiece. The chat exploded with messages—some in awe, others begging for more. Your focus, however, remained unwavering.

“Almost done,” you murmured, your voice carrying a detached serenity as though the man’s agony was merely background noise.

When you finally stepped back, the once-pristine blade was smeared crimson, and the man before you was nothing more than a shaking, sobbing wreck. You held the scalpel up for the camera, giving it a little twirl once more, your signature flourish.

The screens blazed with cold, artificial light, casting an almost clinical glow over the room. Your masked face was illuminated as you turned back toward the man, a faint smile playing on your lips.

"Ah, my apologies," you said with a soft chuckle, tilting your head in mock contrition. "I was getting carried away. But isn’t tonight’s star a bit… mundane?"

Your eyes flicked to the chat, where the messages scrolled rapidly. One caught your attention, and you read it aloud with a sly grin.

“‘No mental games today?’” You giggled, the sound saccharine and sharp. "What a vulgar question, darling! But…" You turned your gaze back to the man strapped helplessly before you, your tone dropping to a dangerous purr. "Physical pain has its own… unique ability to open and close doors, wouldn’t you agree?"

The man whimpered, barely audible. "S-save me…" he whispered, voice trembling, broken.

His wide, frantic eyes darted around the room, taking in the countless cameras positioned at every angle. He jerked against his restraints, panic overtaking him.

“What… what the hell? Why are there so many?!” His voice cracked, the fear palpable.

You ignored his frantic movements, instead feigning an air of absentminded curiosity as you rummaged through a tray of tools. Your hand paused on one particular item, and your fingers curled around it with deliberate slowness.

"I'm sure you're familiar with this sound," you said calmly, just as a loud BANG erupted, the sharp crack ricocheting through the room. The man flinched violently, his body jerking as far as the restraints allowed. His breath came in shallow, rapid bursts, his eyes darting in search of the source.

“It’s a nail gun,” you said matter-of-factly, stepping closer. You circled him with a predator’s grace, the heavy thud of your boots echoing ominously. Finally, you stopped behind him and pressed the cold, unfeeling metal tip of the pneumatic tool against his shoulder. He gasped, the contact forcing a shiver down his spine.

“Do you know what a pneumatic nail gun is, mister?” you asked sweetly, your voice dripping with mock politeness. His head lolled back, his pupils unfocused as he tried to comprehend.

“I’ll fucking kill you!” he spat, though the defiance in his voice was betrayed by the quiver of his body.

BANG!

A sharp, sickening sound rang out as the first nail was driven into his flesh. He screamed—a visceral, agonized wail that echoed in the confined space. The light from the monitors caught the glint of the metallic tip protruding from his arm, a bead of crimson welling up around it.

“Oh, it is a nail!” you cooed mockingly, as though this revelation amused you. Without hesitation, you pulled the trigger again.

BANG!

His body convulsed as another nail punctured through muscle and sinew.

BANG!

And another.

BANG!

His arm hung limp now, blood trickling down in dark, sticky trails as his screams turned hoarse, his body trembling uncontrollably.

"Pull them out," you instructed suddenly, your voice light, almost playful. “Go on—I give you permission.”

His swollen, shaking hand inched toward the nail lodged just below his elbow. Tears streaked his face, mingling with the sweat dripping from his brow. His trembling fingers brushed the nail’s edge, and with a ragged sob, he gripped it.

He pulled.

The slick, nauseating sensation of the nail sliding free from the meat of his arm made him lurch forward, gagging on his cries. Blood spurted from the open wound, and he froze, trembling, unable to move or speak.

You crouched beside him, tilting your head like a curious child.

“See?” you whispered, your voice as soothing as it was sinister. “Pain can teach you so much more than words ever could.”

You turned to the chat, the scrolling messages flashing across your monitor. A particularly enthusiastic suggestion caught your eye, and you tilted your head, a mischievous grin tugging at your lips beneath the mask.

"Oh? Power tools, you say?" you cooed, running your gloved fingers across the array of instruments laid out before you. "Darling, you're positively spoiling me with ideas tonight."

Your hand hovered over a blowtorch, the sleek metal gleaming under the harsh lights. Picking it up, you tested the weight in your hand before turning to your guest of honor. His bloodshot eyes widened in absolute terror as recognition dawned on him.

"You know what this is, don’t you?" you teased, igniting the torch with a sharp flick. A controlled flame roared to life, casting flickering shadows on the walls. The man screamed, his cries raw and piercing, his body thrashing against the restraints with renewed desperation.

"Please—NO! STOP!" he begged, his voice breaking, but the words only seemed to delight you further.

"Shh, shh…" you said softly, your tone almost soothing. You leaned in close, the flame dancing mere inches from his face. "I just want to see how much heat you can take before you… break."

The flame licked toward him, and he jerked his head to the side, trying to evade the searing heat. You chuckled, the sound cold and devoid of mercy, as you brought the torch down toward his arm.

The fabric of his shirt began to singe, curling and blackening under the intensity of the flame. He shrieked as the heat seared his skin, the acrid stench of burning flesh filling the air. His screams were guttural, primal, as though the agony had reached into the very depths of his soul.

"Music to my ears," you said with a laugh, pulling the torch back momentarily. His chest heaved as he gasped for air, his face contorted in agony.

You turned back to the chat, which was erupting in chaotic glee.

"Too much already? Or should I keep going?" you asked, tilting your head at the screen. The responses came in fast, a flood of sadistic encouragement that made your grin widen.

"Ah, it seems they're not satisfied yet," you said, turning your gaze back to the trembling, broken man before you. "And I do hate disappointing my audience."

You crouched down to the trembling man's level, tilting your head as if inspecting him with genuine curiosity. He was panting, his face glistening with sweat and twisted in agony. Slowly, you raised the blowtorch again, the flame roaring to life with a menacing hiss.

“Don’t worry,” you cooed, your tone dripping with mock reassurance. “I’m only doing you a favor. These open wounds? They’re… unsightly. We wouldn’t want an infection now, would we?”

He screamed as you guided the flame toward one of the nail punctures in his arm, the raw flesh exposed and oozing. The moment the fire kissed his skin, his entire body convulsed violently. The sound of sizzling flesh filled the room, accompanied by his blood-curdling shrieks.

“Shhh,” you whispered, pressing the blowtorch closer. The flame lingered, sealing the wound shut with a grotesque crackle. The scent of charred meat was overpowering, and you wrinkled your nose playfully. “You’re lucky I’m such a perfectionist. I wouldn’t want to leave you half-done.”

You moved to the next wound, repeating the process with deliberate slowness. He thrashed against the restraints, his muffled sobs and cries blending into a pathetic symphony of suffering. Each press of the torch elicited fresh screams, his voice growing hoarse from the relentless abuse.

Finally, you clicked the torch off and set it down with care, the room falling eerily silent except for his ragged breathing. “There. All sealed up. Isn’t that better?” you asked, tilting your head as though expecting gratitude. He merely whimpered, tears streaming down his face.

But you weren’t done yet. Not even close.

You reached out with your gloved hand, gripping the scorched, charred flesh around one of the wounds. “Now, let’s not waste good food,” you said with a sadistic grin, peeling away a burnt piece of flesh. The man recoiled in horror, shaking his head violently as you held it up in front of his face.

“Open wide,” you sang, your voice lilting with dark amusement. He clenched his jaw shut, his entire body trembling in revulsion.

“Oh, come on,” you said, your tone darkening, the glint in your eyes dangerous. “Don’t make me force you.”

When he didn’t comply, you grabbed his jaw with one hand, squeezing until his mouth popped open with a guttural cry. You shoved the charred piece of meat inside, your gloved fingers pressing it against his tongue.

“Chew,” you commanded, your voice icy. He gagged, tears streaming down his face as he bit down reluctantly. The crunch of the scorched tissue was nauseating, and his sobs grew louder as he swallowed.

You purred mockingly, patting his cheek with your bloodstained glove. “Now wasn’t that delicious?” You turned back to the chat, where the messages were pouring in, a cacophony of unhinged excitement and demands for more.

You turned your attention back to the man, his face contorted with pure, unfiltered terror. His sobs were erratic, broken by sharp intakes of breath as he trembled beneath your gaze.

“Ah,” you sighed theatrically, dragging a gloved finger along the edge of his mangled arm. “All this lovely flesh… it feels like such a waste, doesn’t it?”

He whimpered, shaking his head in weak protest, his voice barely above a whisper. “Please... no more...”

But your grin only widened, a glint of sadistic delight in your eyes. “Oh, come now. You don’t want to waste the gift of life, do you? And what’s more personal than… sharing a part of yourself?”

You picked up a small, serrated blade, twirling it deftly for the camera. The chat was ablaze, cheering you on, demanding more. One message caught your eye: "Feed him to himself! Ultimate justice!"

“Such a poetic suggestion,” you mused aloud, chuckling softly. Then, without hesitation, you grabbed his wrist and pressed the blade into the fleshy part of his palm. He screamed as you sawed through the muscle, carving a small, bloodied chunk free. The meat dangled grotesquely from the tip of the knife as you held it up for the camera.

“Here we go,” you cooed, bringing the knife closer to his face. He thrashed weakly, his body utterly spent from the torment. “Open wide, darling. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“No! No, no, no!” he cried, his voice cracking, but his defiance only seemed to fuel your amusement. You let out an exaggerated sigh before pinching his jaw open once again, forcing the piece of his own flesh past his lips.

“Chew,” you commanded firmly, your voice like steel. He hesitated, and you pressed the flat of the blade against his throat. “Now.”

Tears streamed down his face as he obeyed, his teeth grinding against the sinewy meat. The sound was sickening, wet and gristly, and his gagging made it clear he was fighting every instinct to spit it out. But you wouldn’t let him.

“Swallow,” you ordered, your tone low and threatening. His throat bobbed as he choked the piece down, and you clapped your hands together mockingly.

“Bravo!” you said, turning to the camera with a playful smirk. “He’s such a good boy for all of us, isn’t he?”

The chat exploded with messages: "More!" "Make him eat more of himself!" "This is ART!"

You hummed thoughtfully, glancing down at your trembling victim. “Well, chat has spoken,” you said cheerfully, picking up the blade again. “Let’s see how much more we can get before he starts losing consciousness, shall we?”

His scream echoed through the room as the blade met his flesh once more.

The man’s screams turned to desperate sobs, his head lolling weakly as he struggled to stay conscious. Blood dripped steadily onto the cold floor, pooling beneath him in dark, sticky puddles.

“P-please,” he gasped, his voice hoarse and broken. “Please… just kill me. End it. I can’t… I can’t take anymore.”

You tilted your head, as if considering his plea, the blowtorch still idling in your hand with its ominous hiss. “Kill you?” you echoed, your tone light and almost amused. “Oh, but where’s the fun in that? If I just kill you now, we’ll miss out on all the potential, all the possibilities.”

Tears streamed down his face, mixing with sweat and blood. “Please…” he whispered, his words barely audible. “I’m begging you...”

You knelt down, bringing yourself to eye level with him, your mask glinting in the harsh light. “Begging, huh?” you murmured. “You begged your wife, too, didn’t you? When you hit her? When you—” You didn’t finish the sentence, your voice curling into icy disdain.

His eyes widened, his breath hitching as shame and fear mingled in his expression. “I... I was wrong... I know! Please, I deserve it! Just—just make it stop!”

You let out a soft, almost pitying laugh, reaching out to cup his bloodied cheek. He flinched at your touch, but you held him firmly, your grip unrelenting.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you purred mockingly, “death would be a mercy. And mercy is something you don’t deserve. Not yet.”

You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a whisper. “You don’t get to take the easy way out. You’ll suffer, piece by piece, just like your victims did. You’ll feel every ounce of their pain until there’s nothing left of you but regret and broken pieces.”

The man sobbed uncontrollably, shaking his head as if trying to deny the reality of your words. “No… no more… please…”

You straightened up, flicking the blowtorch off with a decisive click. “You’re not going anywhere, darling,” you said, your voice saccharine yet sharp. “We’ve only just begun.”

Turning back to the camera, you offered your viewers a cheerful wave. “Chat, should we take this slow and savor it? Or should we get creative with our next session? Let me know!”

You turned back to the screens, your voice bright and chillingly cheerful.

"Who's ready for the grand finale?" you announced, the smile behind your mask almost audible. "You came here for blood, and blood you shall receive!"

From behind your back, you produced a knife, holding it out toward the broken man slumped before you.

"Here," you said softly, almost kindly. "They want to see blood. So give it to them. It's the least you can do."

His trembling eyes flicked to the blade in your hand, a flicker of understanding and horror crossing his face. Slowly, his shackled hands reached out, the sound of metal scraping against metal filling the tense air.

"They want blood," you repeated, your voice a honeyed whisper as he grasped the knife. "Give it to them. Become the spectacle you always were."

He stared at the weapon in his shaking hands. The weight of it felt heavier than it should have, as though it carried more than just steel. His breath hitched, and with a sharp intake of air, he slashed at his own arm.

The cut was clumsy but deep, a line of crimson blooming against pale flesh. He gasped, then slashed again—harder this time, more frantic. Blood began to pool, spilling over his lap and onto the floor.

You took a step back, folding your arms as you watched him spiral into madness. The audience in the chat was electric, messages flooding in with cheers and disbelief.

He was unraveling. You’d broken him.

The knife hovered at his stomach now, the trembling tip pressing into soft flesh. He froze, unsure, his blood-slicked fingers hesitating.

You tilted your head, your voice dropping to a low, venomous hiss. "Do it. Die by your own hands, bastard. That’s your punishment. Become the show—like you did to her."

His eyes widened, a flicker of defiance mingling with despair, but it wasn’t enough. With a sickening squelch, he plunged the knife into his own abdomen. His scream was raw, guttural, the sound of a man tearing himself apart.

You stepped closer, kneeling before him as he coughed up blood, the crimson liquid staining his chin. Without hesitation, you grasped his trembling hands and guided them.

"Deeper," you commanded coldly, dragging the blade through layers of flesh and muscle.

The room echoed with his wet, choking cries as his insides began to spill from the gaping wound. He dropped the knife with a clatter, his bloodied fingers fumbling to touch the viscera now exposed to the cold air.

And then, trembling and weak, he reached inside himself, his expression one of awe and horror as he grasped something warm and slick. With a guttural cough, he pulled it free—a glistening, pulsating mass dripping with blood and bile.

The chat erupted. Messages flew by faster than you could read them, a frenzy of horror, fascination, and exhilaration.

You smiled, rising to your feet and turning to the camera.

"Now that," you said, your voice calm and composed, "is what it means to put on a show."

You stepped closer, the glint of something metallic catching the light as you unraveled a thin, taut wire from your pocket. The man, slumped and delirious, barely registered what you were doing until you slipped it around his neck.

"Please…" he croaked, his voice shredded and weak. "Let me live… I’ll do anything—"

You pulled the wire tight.

The sharp, strangled gasp he let out was drowned by the symphony of his panicked gurgles. His hands shot up instinctively, clawing at the wire digging deep into his skin, but it was useless.

"Live?" you mocked, your voice lilting like a twisted lullaby. "You want to live after everything you’ve done? After you begged me to kill you just moments ago? Make up your mind, darling."

He choked, his eyes bulging as blood trickled from the thin, precise lacerations forming around his throat. His body convulsed, every muscle spasming in desperation, but your grip on the wire remained steadfast, unyielding.

The room echoed with his choking cries, the metallic scent of blood thickening in the air.

"Beg louder," you sneered, leaning in close. "Scream if you want to be heard, but I don’t think anyone’s listening."

He gurgled, his words reduced to wet, incoherent gasps as the life drained from his face. You held the wire tighter, your own bloodied hands trembling—not from exertion, but from the sheer euphoria coursing through you.

And then, with one final shudder, his body went limp.

The blood pooling beneath him was a gruesome masterpiece, and his lifeless eyes stared at nothing, wide with terror. The room fell silent except for your own ragged breathing.

And then you laughed.

It started as a soft chuckle, but it grew—wild, unhinged, echoing off the walls like a symphony of chaos. The chat erupted in hysteria, but you barely noticed. You were drunk on the moment, every fiber of your being alight with exhilaration.

You wiped the blood from your hands onto your already-stained clothes, turning back to the camera.

"Well," you said, your grin audible even through the mask, "that was fun, wasn’t it?"

You continued to laugh, a manic, bone-chilling sound that filled the empty space, bouncing off the cold walls. It wasn’t just amusement—it was the high of control, of domination, of having broken another soul to your will. The laughter bubbled up, unstoppable, each giggle darker than the last.

The chat exploded, flooding the screen with messages, all calling for more, egging you on. You could see it in their words, in the thirst for the chaos you just unleashed. They wanted more, always more. But you knew—no one could handle what you had just done.

"Look at him," you said, still laughing, voice crackling with delight. "What a beautiful mess he is. The blood. The agony. His desperate attempts to cling to life... Pathetic."

Your fingers traced the outline of the knife, still slick with the remnants of his suffering. The screen flickered for a moment, the feedback of the camera shifting with the sickening pleasure you felt watching the lifeless body slump in its final form. You wiped your lips with your sleeve, almost theatrically, as if savoring the last drops of something far sweeter than any wine.

The room, drenched in the aftermath, felt like a stage—your stage. Your laughter rang out, drowning the voices of the audience, who had become no more than background noise to your performance.

"Don't you love it, darling?" you murmured, the smile on your face never leaving. "This is what you wanted, right? This is what all of you want—someone, anyone, willing to go just a little bit further, to rip it all apart for the thrill."

You leaned into the camera, your voice low and seductive, the mask a mere formality now.

"Tell me, what next? What should we do with the next one? Hmm?"

You leaned back, the laughter from the screen still lingering in your throat. It echoed in your mind as you looked at the chat, the names disappearing one by one until only one remained.

Goreboy69.

You smiled, a cold, knowing smile that stretched across your face, and without breaking eye contact with the camera, you spoke directly to him.

“Stay,” you commanded, voice dripping with malicious sweetness.

He typed back, confused: “Hm? What is it?”

You let the silence hang between your words. Slowly, deliberately, you met his gaze through the lens, unblinking, like you were staring into the very core of his soul.

"Are you the Devil's Butcher?" you asked, your voice as calm and steady as if you were asking about the weather.

The response was almost instant, "Huh? Looks like Someone's onto me? What now Darling?"

Mockingly, you chuckled. Of course, you knew who he was. —he just didn’t realize it yet. But that was part of the fun, wasn’t it? Keeping him in the dark while you played your own game.

You leaned in, your lips curling into an even darker grin as you addressed him through the screen, voice sharp.

“So, how was the show tonight?” you asked. Your smile widened. "Did you enjoy the blood?"

He replied quickly, boasting: “Pretty good, still not as good as me in gore. I could teach you.”

Your laughter bubbled up again, light but chilling. “Teach me? Oh, darling, I think you should learn from me,” you teased, not bothering to hide the amusement in your voice. “But I’ll give you one thing... the next show’s guest will be you.”

You paused, letting the weight of your words sink in. Then, you finished with a final, gleeful laugh.

“Be ready for a bloodbath, Ronin Beaufort. HAHAHAHA!”

And just like that, you ended the stream, the screen going black as you leaned back, savoring the thrill. You'd sent him a message.

Ronin's mind spun with confusion and amusement as he muttered to himself, his hand tapping the edge of the table. "How the hell did they know my name?" He laughed softly, though there was something darker behind it, a smirk curling on his lips as he leaned back in his chair.

It was a question that gnawed at him, a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. The cryptic message, the strange connection... it didn’t sit well, but something about it ignited a spark. Maybe it was the audacity of the person on the other side, maybe it was how easily they played his game.

The Devil, after all, was always watching, always playing his cards.

His smile widened as he whispered under his breath, almost to himself, “Pretty good... but I’ll show ‘em who’s really in charge.” There was that same glint in his eyes, the one that screamed danger and thrill, the one that promised nothing but chaos to whoever dared to provoke him.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard again, he typed slowly, savoring the weight of every word. His thoughts dripped with venom as he set the next scene in motion.

The next day, you noticed something strange in the server. Ronin was acting… off, or at least, different than usual. He had pinged V, of all people—V, the one person who hated his guts, almost as much as Ronin loved messing with him. But this time, it wasn’t the usual insults or jabs. No, this time, Ronin dropped a chilling message.

"Damn @k9, someone’s gonna kill your kill."

You understood immediately. He was playing a game, one that only he fully understood, but you weren't going to let him take the lead on this.

You didn’t respond right away, though. You knew better than to react impulsively. Instead, you asked, "What happened?" knowing full well what he was talking about. You wanted him to keep talking, to give you more.

In the middle of all this, there was V. The thorn in Ronin's side, and the perfect counter to everything Ronin stood for. Their relationship was a mess of contradictions. On the surface, they were complete opposites—V, the so-called "righteous" killer, and Ronin, the chaotic force of evil. They didn’t like each other, of course. But somewhere beneath that intense animosity, there was something else. A kind of respect, even if they wouldn’t admit it.

Neither of them would ever say it out loud, especially not under threat of torture, but the truth was, they were perfect for each other. V, with his morality complex, hated Ronin because he embodied everything wrong with humanity, while Ronin despised V for trying to impose some false sense of order on the chaos of the world. It was a dangerous and sickening dance they did, each one trying to outdo the other, each one pushing the other further into madness.

Ronin never minded baiting V. He enjoyed it too much. The way V’s righteous fury bubbled over, how it drove him to action. It was all so easy. But the thing that bothered Ronin, that gnawed at him in ways he wouldn’t show, was the simple fact that V hated him for being everything V wanted to fix. Ronin loved every minute of it.

And now? It was getting worse. Everyone in the server was worried. Angelic had even mentioned something about a streamer saying they were going to kill Ronin. Even she was doing something to find who it was... Even V was searching for the address. The irony was thick enough to cut with a knife—V trying to play hero, trying to hunt down someone like Ronin, all while completely ignoring the hypocrisy of his own existence.

Ronin, though, wasn’t worried. He was too smug for that.

“Aww, someone’s worried for me?” Ronin typed, his usual teasing tone evident. “V’s trying to find the address to kill me before they get the chance, huh?”

You rolled your eyes at his cocky attitude and typed back, “Shut up. Why are you so excited about dying?” You were practically daring him to answer, testing his response, knowing he'd find a way to twist it into some dark joke.

Ronin’s reply came quickly, and you could almost hear the smirk through the screen. “Excited? Nah. Just thinkin’ about how boring it’d be to die by someone else’s hand. I’ll die on my terms. I’ll kill them first.”

But you knew better. Ronin, for all his bravado, wasn’t the type to shy away from death. In fact, he’d almost welcome it, in his own twisted way. He loved the game, the thrill of it all. So why was he suddenly talking about being killed? Why the warning, the cryptic messages, the tension?

“Ronin…” You typed, your tone taking on a darker edge. “You wouldn’t really let them kill you, would you?”

Ronin didn’t respond immediately, and that silence left you with a sense of unease you weren’t used to with him. He’d always been a step ahead, unpredictable, always knowing the game and how to play it. But this… this felt different.

You stared at the screen, your hands trembling slightly as you typed. His words echoed in your head, and despite the cruel taunting, something deep within you twisted. You had expected it, of course. Ronin thrived on chaos, on destruction, and on pushing others into the darkest corners of their minds.

But there was a moment of vulnerability in him now—something that made your chest tighten as the realization hit you: you couldn't let him die. Not like this. Not in the hands of anyone but you.

You typed the words, your fingers frozen for a second before they continued moving, faster now, more desperate.

"I won't let you die, Ronin," you wrote, your voice a little shakier than you intended. "I won't... I can't."

The silence on the other side of the screen seemed to stretch. Then came his response, a taunt dripping with condescension. "Pathetic," he typed, his words sharp and mocking. "You really think I need saving?"

A bitter laugh followed. "Even if I die, it’s not the end of the world, darling. It’s just another show. Another performance. You’ll move on, just like everyone else."

You felt a pang in your chest. The words cut deeper than you expected. This wasn’t just a game to him. For Ronin, death was something he'd flirted with for so long, it had become a part of his identity, a mask he wore as comfortably as his twisted smile. But hearing it, coming from him... it stung more than you'd like to admit.

You stared at the message for a long time, fighting the gnawing feeling in your gut. But then, slowly, you typed back.

"Stop. Just stop," you wrote, your voice softer, though still tinged with an underlying desperation. "You think it's just another show, but it’s not. Not for me. You can't just throw your life away... again."

For a moment, you could almost hear him chuckle through the screen. The nerve of him—acting like he was invincible, untouchable. He wanted to break you, wanted to make you feel like you were just another part of his endless game. But you wouldn’t play by his rules anymore. You couldn't.

You stared at his last message. "What if I want to die, though?" it read. "What if that’s the only way out? You can’t save me, sweetheart. I’m too far gone."

Your heart raced, but there was no time to waste. You didn't care how twisted he was, how deep in his madness he had fallen. You couldn’t let him slip through your fingers.

"You’re not beyond saving," you typed quickly, almost angrily. "Don’t you dare say that. You’re not too far gone for me."

He was silent again, but his presence hung in the air, like a storm waiting to break. You could feel it—his confusion, his teasing, and yet... maybe something else. Maybe something beneath it all that he never let anyone see.

Your eyes blurred with tears as you typed, every word feeling heavier than the last. You couldn't shake the longing that twisted inside of you, the need to see him again. Not through a screen, not in the hollow confines of this digital game you’d both become part of. You wanted him—no, you needed him—alive, in front of you, where you could touch him, see the chaos in his eyes up close.

You wiped your face hastily, trying to fight the burning desperation in your chest. It wasn’t about saving him anymore. It was something darker, something far more dangerous.

"I want to see you," you typed, the words flowing out like a whispered confession, full of ache and longing. "I want to see you in purgatory alley side again..."

You paused for a moment, your heart pounding in your throat. The alley was their place. A place where you had both walked the line between pleasure and pain, life and death. You had felt his presence there, so close, so real, and now, you wanted it again.

You typed the final words with a trembling hand. "Come to me."

For a moment, the screen sat still. There was no immediate response. You could almost hear his voice in your head—smirking, mocking you, telling you how absurd you were for asking. But you needed it. You needed him to walk into the space between you, to make this more than words, more than empty threats.

His response came, slow and deliberate. "You want to see me?"

You took a deep breath, holding back another wave of emotion. "Yes. I want you to come."

There was a silence on the other end. And then his message blinked onto the screen, full of that same mocking tone you had come to expect from him.

"Well, well... You’re either braver than I thought, or just as insane as me. Purgatory it is then. I’ll be there, sweetheart. You better be ready for what you asked for."

Your breath caught in your throat. There it was. He was coming.

You closed your eyes for a moment, the rush of emotion overwhelming.

The alley smelled of damp concrete and rust, the cold air biting at your skin as you stood there, heart pounding with anticipation. Your eyes searched through the shadows, the darkness swallowing the world around you. Then, you saw him.

Leaning casually against the wall, his posture relaxed, but his eyes sharp, full of that twisted amusement you both thrived on. Ronin stood there, his crowbar slung over his shoulder, the faint moonlight glinting off its metal surface. His presence was unmistakable—almost like a storm just waiting to break.

The moment your eyes locked, your heart skipped a beat. Every rational thought in your mind scattered to the winds. You stepped forward without thinking, your body moving on its own as if it was drawn to him like gravity itself.

And then, without hesitation, you threw yourself into his arms.

His surprise was fleeting, replaced quickly with that unmistakable, dangerous smirk. He let you hug him, but the laugh that escaped his lips was laced with mocking curiosity.

"What’s wrong?" His voice was low, almost playful, but you could hear the darkness underneath, that ever-present edge. He didn’t push you away, but the way he tilted his head, his crowbar now hanging loosely in his hand, was a challenge—a dare.

You pressed your face into his neck, your breath coming out in ragged sobs. Tears spilled down your face, but you didn’t care. They mixed with the blood on your lips, your emotions raw and unfiltered. You could feel the heat of his body, the weight of his presence anchoring you to reality. Your lips brushed against the cold skin of his neck as you whispered, "I just… wanted to see you. Wanted to feel you here…"

He stood still for a moment, seemingly unbothered by your tears, before letting out a soft, cruel chuckle. His fingers ran lightly through your hair, the gesture tender but twisted, like he enjoyed the way you broke down in his presence.

"You’re pathetic," he mused, his voice almost a mockery of concern, though the hint of something else—something darker—lingered. His breath was warm against your ear as he leaned in closer. "You think I’m gonna save you? Is that it?"

You could feel the tension in his muscles, his amusement mingled with something far more dangerous. You pulled yourself tighter against him, not wanting to let go. He was everything you wanted, everything you needed, and yet, the line between pain and pleasure was so fine with him.

"No," you whispered, your voice breaking as you pulled away just enough to look into his eyes. "I don't want you to save me, Ronin... I just need you here. I need you to show me that you see me. That you care."

For a brief moment, the world seemed to pause, as if the air itself held its breath. Ronin’s eyes darkened, his smirk deepening into something far more dangerous. His fingers slid from your hair to your throat, a gentle pressure that felt more like a promise than a threat.

"You want to know if I care?" He whispered back, his voice so quiet, you could barely hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat. "You already know the answer to that, sweetheart. But be careful what you wish for..."

With a sudden, predatory movement, he tilted your chin up to meet his gaze, his thumb brushing over your lips. The raw energy between you both crackled, and for a moment, the world outside this alley—this twisted moment—didn’t exist.

And then he laughed again, that same dangerous laugh, before leaning in just enough to press his lips to the shell of your ear.

"You’re mine," he said softly, "and I’m not letting you go. Not now. Not ever."

The alley smelled of damp concrete and rust, the cold air biting at your skin as you stood there, heart pounding with anticipation. Your eyes searched through the shadows, the darkness swallowing the world around you. Then, you saw him.

Leaning casually against the wall, his posture relaxed, but his eyes sharp, full of that twisted amusement you both thrived on. Ronin stood there, his crowbar slung over his shoulder, the faint moonlight glinting off its metal surface. His presence was unmistakable—almost like a storm just waiting to break.

The moment your eyes locked, your heart skipped a beat. Every rational thought in your mind scattered to the winds. You stepped forward without thinking, your body moving on its own as if it was drawn to him like gravity itself.

And then, without hesitation, you threw yourself into his arms.

His surprise was fleeting, replaced quickly with that unmistakable, dangerous smirk. He let you hug him, but the laugh that escaped his lips was laced with mocking curiosity.

"What’s wrong?" His voice was low, almost playful, but you could hear the darkness underneath, that ever-present edge. He didn’t push you away, but the way he tilted his head, his crowbar now hanging loosely in his hand, was a challenge—a dare.

You pressed your face into his neck, your breath coming out in ragged sobs. Tears spilled down your face, but you didn’t care. They mixed with the blood on your lips, your emotions raw and unfiltered. You could feel the heat of his body, the weight of his presence anchoring you to reality. Your lips brushed against the cold skin of his neck as you whispered, "I just… wanted to see you. Wanted to feel you here…"

He stood still for a moment, seemingly unbothered by your tears, before letting out a soft, cruel chuckle. His fingers ran lightly through your hair, the gesture tender but twisted, like he enjoyed the way you broke down in his presence.

"You’re pathetic," he mused, his voice almost a mockery of concern, though the hint of something else—something darker—lingered. His breath was warm against your ear as he leaned in closer. "You think I’m gonna save you? Is that it?"

You could feel the tension in his muscles, his amusement mingled with something far more dangerous. You pulled yourself tighter against him, not wanting to let go. He was everything you wanted, everything you needed, and yet, the line between pain and pleasure was so fine with him.

"No," you whispered, your voice breaking as you pulled away just enough to look into his eyes. "I don't want you to save me, Ronin... I just need you here. I need you to show me that you see me. That you care."

For a brief moment, the world seemed to pause, as if the air itself held its breath. Ronin’s eyes darkened, his smirk deepening into something far more dangerous. His fingers slid from your hair to your throat, a gentle pressure that felt more like a promise than a threat.

"You want to know if I care?" He whispered back, his voice so quiet, you could barely hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat. "You already know the answer to that, sweetheart. But be careful what you wish for..."

With a sudden, predatory movement, he tilted your chin up to meet his gaze, his thumb brushing over your lips. The raw energy between you both crackled, and for a moment, the world outside this alley—this twisted moment—didn’t exist.

And then he laughed again, that same dangerous laugh, before leaning in just enough to press his lips to the shell of your ear.

"You’re mine," he said softly, "and I’m not letting you go. Not now. Not ever."

As soon as the air between you and Ronin thickened with a tension you both reveled in, your smile twisted into something dark—something sinister. Your grip tightened around his neck for just a moment, and in that instant, you pulled something from your pocket.

A handkerchief, folded neatly. He didn’t even have time to register the movement before it was pressed firmly against his mouth and nose. The scent of the sedative hit his nostrils almost immediately, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. But the familiar coldness of the chemical didn't take long to overwhelm him.

"What the hell...?" His voice was muffled, his words slurred as his body began to react to the drug. His vision blurred, his breath growing shallow, his mind starting to fog. His knees buckled, and before he knew it, the floor met him with a sickening thud.

You stepped back, watching him fall to the ground, his face contorting in a mix of confusion and disbelief. He tried to fight, tried to push himself up, but the sedative had already taken hold, dragging him into unconsciousness. He collapsed, barely managing to lift his head to meet your eyes before everything went black.

For a long, still moment, you stood over him, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the way his body trembled slightly as he fought the drug's effects. Then, as his eyelids fluttered closed, his gaze locked with yours.

It was in that brief instant, when his eyes flickered open one last time, that he saw it. The unmistakable recognition in his pupils, the terror and realization sweeping over him like a storm. His lips parted, but no words came. Instead, the air grew heavy, thick with the understanding of who you were.

"Wait... you?" he mumbled, barely audible, his body too weak to do anything but watch.

You smiled at him, your grin widening as you leaned down, looking into his eyes with a strange, knowing gleam. "Surprised?" you teased, your voice soft but full of twisted satisfaction. "I told you, Ronin... you know me more than you think."

His breathing grew shallow as his eyes roamed over your face. There, in your eyes, he saw the same fire, the same malicious delight he'd witnessed in the streamer's gaze—the one he'd taunted, the one he'd laughed at. The one who had watched him, followed his every move. The one who had been waiting for this moment.

His voice barely a whisper. "The streamer... it’s you."

You giggled softly, leaning in close to his ear, your lips brushing against his skin as you whispered, "Yes. It’s me, Ronin. The one who knows all about you. The one who's been waiting for the right moment. The one who’s going to make sure you never see the light of day again."

His eyes fluttered, and his body began to tremble, the realization sinking in deeper, but it was already too late. His body went limp, and the last thing he saw before succumbing to the sedative was the twisted satisfaction in your gaze.

As Ronin slowly regained consciousness, his mind felt sluggish, weighed down by the remnants of the sedative still clouding his thoughts. His body was stiff, his limbs heavy, and his vision was blurry at first. But as he blinked, trying to clear the fog, the familiar darkness of the alley came into focus.

What stood out more than anything, though, was the suffocating sensation around his face. He lifted a hand, but before he could fully process what was happening, he realized it was a mask. A mask... of him.

His butcher mask.

It was molded to his face, covering him completely, suffocating him in its dark, twisted representation of himself. The leather was tight against his skin, the eye holes just barely allowing him to see through.

He didn’t panic—no. Ronin wasn’t the type to panic. Not even when things were twisted, even when the situation felt... off. A faint, mocking smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he moved his fingers to touch the mask.

"Not bad," he murmured to himself, a low chuckle escaping his lips. "A little... personal, though."

He shifted slightly, his hands trying to pry at the mask, but something was holding him in place, binding him. And then it hit him—he wasn’t alone. The presence of another person in the room, in the shadows, made his skin crawl. He could feel their eyes on him.

The sudden realization surged through his veins like a lightning bolt. It was you. The streamer.

Without thinking, his eyes darted around, and he saw the familiar glow of a screen—the soft light of a chat window blinking to life before his very eyes. Your messages were appearing, and the chilling thought settled in his chest: You were here. You were typing, watching, playing the game.

The recognition was immediate. Your words, your tone, your presence—it all clicked into place. You’d been there all along, watching, waiting, controlling the narrative. The same person who had laughed at his pain, tormented him, had been the one watching all along.

With a mocking grin, Ronin let out a slow breath. He sat up, casually tossing the mask aside as if it were just a trivial part of his game. But his words? They were a challenge. A flirtation, as always, despite the situation.

"You’ve been a sneaky little thing, haven’t you?" Ronin’s voice was smooth, teasing, like he was having a conversation with a lover, not someone who had just drugged and trapped him. "I knew you were watching me. Thought I was gonna be surprised? Nah, darling... I’ve got my ways."

He leaned back, stretching his arms out and crossing one leg over the other, a relaxed confidence radiating from him. His eyes never left the screen, his gaze dark, but not one of fear. No. He was intrigued. There was no fear in his eyes—only amusement.

"You didn’t think you could hide from me forever, did you?" He tilted his head slightly, a smirk forming on his lips. "Funny, though. Here I am, thinking you're just a little puppet, hiding behind the screen. But now..." His voice trailed off, and his smile widened into something predatory, playful. "Now you’ve got me curious."

He looked straight into the camera, making sure you could see him. His words dripped with flirtation, but there was a dangerous undertone hidden beneath it.

"You think you’re the only one who can make things interesting? You’re not the only one who plays with knives, darling."

He let out a soft laugh, completely unbothered by the situation, like it was just another game. Another round of their twisted dance.

"You know, I really should be scared," he continued, his voice low, teasing. "But here’s the thing, sweetheart. The Devil doesn’t get scared. He plays." He leaned in closer to the camera, his face now inches away from the lens, a twisted gleam in his eyes.

"But you..." He paused, his voice turning darker. "You might just be worth my time."

As he finished speaking, he leaned back again, eyes still locked on the screen, a glimmer of curiosity, a bit of arrogance, and far too much self-assurance in his gaze.

"And I know you’re there, darling," he added, smirking knowingly. "Now, why don’t you tell me... what’s the next game?"

He didn’t expect an answer immediately—

He saw again and saw a camera.

The camera in your hands felt heavy, its cold weight a stark contrast to the boiling tension in the room. You didn’t speak, didn’t respond to his words. You just focused on him, the lens capturing his every move, his every word. Your silence was deliberate, a choice. The camera was an extension of yourself now, recording the scene as though it were the most mundane thing in the world.

He noticed the shift. His eyes locked onto the lens, and a smirk danced on his lips. His words were laced with mockery, yet there was something deeper—a strange admiration, perhaps, mixed with that edge of chaos that defined him.

“Is this the beauty all of your victims saw?” he mused aloud, his voice soft and mocking. “Why would anyone curse you? You’re so messed up and pretty. How could they curse you, darling?” He almost whispered the last part, as if he were speaking to a lover. “Eat my darling. That's what they should have said."

His eyes sparkled with a strange blend of adoration and twisted fascination. He leaned in slightly, watching the camera, his movements languid, almost playful. The way he spoke your name, darling, twisted into something sick and possessive, as though he were admiring a beautiful, broken object that he couldn’t quite get enough of.

The words stung, but you didn't react. You kept recording, capturing his every movement, the play of emotions on his face, the dark gleam in his eyes. There was an intensity in the air, thick and suffocating, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he knew—if he realized exactly what he was saying.

Ronin tilted his head to the side, watching your reaction—or lack thereof—with increasing amusement. He was a master at reading people, but you... you weren’t giving him anything.

“That’s what they saw, right? The beauty,” he continued, laughing softly. “How could they? Look at you.” His eyes drifted over you with an almost affectionate intensity, as if he were cataloging every inch of your being. “They were too weak to see the truth. You’re not messed up, darling. You’re perfect. You just needed the right... touch.”

His grin widened, teeth glinting as he leaned back again, the air around him practically crackling with the chaos he always embraced so effortlessly.

“I like this,” he said, his voice low, almost purring with satisfaction. “You don’t talk, you don’t react. It's like... you’re letting me run the show. But you know what? That’s fine with me. I’ll be the one to take charge, sweetheart.”

Ronin’s gaze softened for a split second, just long enough for a flicker of something almost tender to surface. But then it was gone, replaced by that same dangerous gleam.

“You know, I don’t mind being your monster," he said, voice thick with mocking affection. “But let me make this clear: you’re the only one who can make me feel... alive.”

His words were twisted, like everything else about him. Still, there was an undeniable sincerity buried underneath the layers of cruelty. He was in this moment, with you, and everything else didn’t matter.

The camera was still recording, capturing everything—his madness, his seduction, his sick fascination with you. You could feel it, the weight of his gaze, the intensity of the atmosphere between you two.

But you didn’t answer. Not yet. You were waiting for him to slip. Waiting for him to reveal more.

You set the camera down with a deliberate calmness, positioning it just right to capture both you and Ronin in the frame. The subtle click of the tripod adjusting its stance felt like the beginning of a ritual, a performance for an unseen audience. Your eyes remained locked on him as you adjusted the angles, ensuring that everything was perfect for the viewers.

The light from the screen flickered in the dim room, casting long shadows on the walls. The soft hum of the camera was a comforting constant, a background melody to the madness unfolding. You glanced toward the monitor, watching the feed from the camera, a brief moment of calm before the chaos resumed.

“Welcome, welcome!” you said, your voice sweet and casual, almost too casual, as though this were just another day. “I know, I know, you’ve all been waiting for this. The main event. The Devil’s Butcher... here in my little corner of the world.”

You smiled at the camera, your eyes never leaving Ronin’s. His expression had shifted, that dark gleam still in his eyes, but now there was a flicker of wariness—he wasn’t sure what was coming next.

“Let’s see how much fun we can have, shall we?” You took a step back, surveying him with a tilt of your head. The camera captured every detail of his tense posture, the way he was still watching you like a predator waiting for its chance to pounce.

“But first... for those of you just joining, let me remind you what we’re here for. This is where the thrill starts, where the fun truly begins. Blood, chaos, and a whole lot of love,” you purred, emphasizing the last word with a teasing lilt. The dichotomy of the words you spoke—so sweet, yet dripping with malice—seemed to delight you.

The chat was already buzzing, the messages flying by too fast to read, but you didn’t need to. You already knew what they were expecting, what they were hoping for.

“You’re all here to see the Devil. To see the Butcher. To see what happens when the world gets broken,” you continued, your voice dripping with dark amusement. You glanced at Ronin, that mockery still dancing in your eyes. “And oh, don’t worry, darling. You’ll see. You’ll see it all.”

Ronin’s lips quirked up at your words, though there was no warmth in the expression—just that dangerous, sharp edge he always carried. He wasn’t scared. No, he was amused, even intrigued by the way you were playing the game. He liked this. He thrived on it.

“Don’t think I’m going to be your little puppet,” he said, his voice low, playful, though the undercurrent of threat was ever-present. "But I’ll play along. For now."

You gave him a quick, almost imperceptible nod. “Good boy. See, we’re all just here for the entertainment, aren’t we? So let’s make it worth everyone’s while.”

You looked back at the camera, your smile widening as you leaned in just enough to speak directly into the lens, your voice dripping with a dangerous sweetness. “Sit tight, chat. We’re just getting started. You wouldn’t want to miss this, would you?”

And with that, you pressed a button on the camera, the feed streaming live to your loyal viewers. The countdown had begun.

You glanced at the chat, the messages rolling by in a steady stream. . "A user had suggested a "friendly stream" one day! Can I do it today!"

“No donations necessary today, folks,” you said with a smile, letting your voice drip with an eerie sweetness. “No need to worry. I’m in a good mood today. Just a nice, friendly stream… no gore… for now, anyway. We’re all just having fun here, right?”

The chat seemed to react in kind, almost too kind. The usual thirst for violence had been replaced by a strange, almost sympathetic tone. You noticed the messages offering support, people telling you to take it easy today, to relax. A few even said they hoped you were okay.

You could feel Ronin’s eyes on you, his brow furrowing, his confusion palpable as he watched you interact with the screen. It was as if the energy of the stream had changed, but not in the direction he’d anticipated.

You turned back toward him, flashing a grin, your eyes playful and mischievous.

“Oh, come on, darling,” you purred, still reveling in the strange mood shift. “You didn’t think I was all that bad, did you? After all, you’re here with me.” You motioned to him with an exaggerated gesture, almost as if presenting him to the camera.

Ronin’s gaze was steady, but his lips were pressed into a thin line. The words from the chat, the sudden shift, threw him off, and for once, he didn’t quite know what to make of it.

“You,” he finally muttered, his voice laced with that sharp, teasing edge, “are strange. I was expecting bloodshed, pain, chaos… but instead, you’re playing nice?” His tone was mocking, but there was a hint of uncertainty in his words.

You couldn't help but laugh, a soft, almost melodic sound that didn’t quite match the usual intensity of the situation. You leaned back in your chair, your eyes narrowing playfully at him.

“Strange?” you repeated, tilting your head. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to see how well you behave when there’s no threat of death hanging over your head.”

Ronin raised an eyebrow at that. He didn’t respond immediately, just watched you with that predatory gaze. He was never one to fully trust a change in dynamic, especially not with you, someone so unpredictable.

But you couldn’t help but notice that despite his confusion, the tension between you two hadn’t vanished. It was still there, only… softer now. Less lethal, more intimate.

Your smile deepened. You looked at him again, studying him—his posture, his eyes, the familiar yet dangerous aura surrounding him. There was a strange comfort in knowing that, despite everything, he was still here with you. Your boyfriend, your devil, your butcher.

With a sudden movement, you stood from the chair, the casualness of the action almost mocking the seriousness of the moment. You walked over to him slowly, circling around him like a predator stalking its prey. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move. Instead, his eyes followed your every move.

You stopped just in front of him, leaning down to meet his gaze, your voice dropping to a whisper that only he could hear. “You’re still mine, aren’t you? Even with the whole world watching. You’re my Butcher, my love… and I’m not going to let anyone forget it.”

The chat continued to flow in the background, almost oblivious to the subtle power struggle that unfolded between the two of you. But in that moment, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the game you were playing, the strange bond between you two, and the way the world could fade away when you looked into each other’s eyes.

Ronin’s lips curled into a smile, but it wasn’t quite the same as before. It was more… genuine, though tinged with something darker, something that matched the chaos he carried inside. “Yeah,” he murmured softly, his voice low and almost tender, “I’m still yours, darling.”

You turned back to the camera, smiling brightly as you addressed the chat one last time. “And that, my dear friends,” you said in a teasing tone, “was the surprise guest of the day—my boyfriend.” You let the words hang in the air for a moment, enjoying the reactions in the chat. There was a flood of surprised, confused, and even excited messages filling the screen.

You could hear Ronin’s soft laugh behind you as you clicked the button to end the stream. The chat still buzzing with comments, but now it was all just background noise. The show had come to its conclusion, and you had made your statement—loud and clear.

“Alright, that's it for today,” you said, your voice lighter now, almost playful. “Don’t worry, we’ll be back for more chaos soon. But for now... enjoy the rest of your day, everyone. Byeee!”

With a final click, the stream was over.

You turned toward Ronin, who was now slumped in the chair, his arms still bound. You circled around him slowly, the smile never leaving your face. He looked up at you, eyebrows raised in mock confusion.

“What the hell kind of shitty prank was that?” he asked, his tone still taunting. But as he saw your grin widen, something changed. He wasn’t angry—far from it. There was amusement there, that dark glint in his eyes that only you could see.

You crouched down in front of him, brushing a lock of hair from your face as you untied the ropes binding him. He didn’t protest, didn’t make a move. He was letting you have your moment, like always.

Once the ropes were gone, you leaned back, your gaze locked on his. “Well?” you giggled. “How’s it feel, huh? Getting pranked by your own girlfriend?”

Ronin's laugh rang out, low and dark, as he rubbed at his wrists. His eyes sparkled with something dangerous, yet there was a strange satisfaction in his expression. “You know, you’re fucking crazy,” he said, shaking his head, but his lips curled into a smile. “And that—” he gestured around, to the mess, the stream, the tension—“was fun. In its own fucked-up way.”

You laughed too, a light, musical sound that made the moment feel oddly intimate. He liked this, you knew it. He always liked the chaos, the unpredictability. It was his game, just as much as it was yours.

You leaned in close, your breath warm against his ear. “How’s it feel, huh?” you whispered again. “Being my Butcher... my boyfriend. Not so bad, right?”

His lips curled into that familiar grin, the kind that made your heart race. “Not bad at all,” he murmured, his voice laced with both affection and something darker. “But next time... you better make it more interesting, darling.”

You pulled back slightly, both of you laughing again, the tension easing into something that felt almost comfortable. This was your world, your twisted little game, and Ronin? He was exactly where he wanted to be.

“Well, I’ll think of something,” you said, eyes glinting with mischief. “But for now... you’re stuck with me.”

Ronin leaned back in the chair, his gaze never leaving you. “Yeah,” he said, his voice calm but filled with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. “I guess I am.”

FINN!

EXTRA!!

You blinked in and out of consciousness as the world around you swirled, your head pounding from the blow. The sensation of being bound was the first thing you registered—a sharp, tight feeling around your wrists, the roughness of the rope digging into your skin. You tried to move, but your body felt heavy, too weak, the blood throbbing in your temples from the impact.

The voice that broke through the fog made you snap your head up, squinting in the dim light. It was harsh, low, filled with fury. "You killed the boss's son!" The words were spat at you, venomous, like a curse. A chill crawled up your spine as reality began to sink in.

You were no stranger to this world. You knew what it meant to be caught, to be seen as a target, but the mention of the "boss's son" made you pause. You barely processed it before the realization hit: another victim. Another person who would find out the hard way what you were capable of.

A dark, twisted thrill ran through your veins. You couldn't help the smirk that pulled at your lips, despite the blood in your mouth. Slowly, you gathered yourself, spitting the blood to the side with deliberate force. “Oh, sweetie," you mocked, the taunting edge clear in your voice. "Did you really think you could get away with that?”

Your eyes narrowed as you scanned the space, trying to get a grip on the situation. You could feel the heat of their anger, the tension in the air—but you weren't scared. No, you were too far gone for that.

The man’s voice cracked again, fury building in his tone. “You think this is funny?! You killed my boss's son—you're gonna pay for this!”

You could hear the sound of footsteps as he moved toward you, but you didn't flinch. You'd been through worse, dealt with worse. This was just another round of the game.

Before you could say anything more, you felt a sharp strike to your side—pain exploded in your chest, and the air was knocked from your lungs. Your body recoiled from the hit, the pain searing through you as you gasped for breath, but even then, you couldn't stop yourself from coughing, blood spilling from your mouth.

You laughed weakly, tasting the copper on your tongue. "Is that really the best you’ve got?" you rasped, voice rough but still dripping with mockery. "You know, you’re gonna have to do better than that to break me.”

But even as you said it, you knew that this was just part of it. This was the game. You would play, you would mock, and you would survive. The game had rules, even if no one else followed them. You were never going to let them have the satisfaction of seeing you break.

The man’s grip tightened as he grabbed you by the chin, forcing you to look at him. His eyes burned with hatred. "You’re not getting out of this alive."

You smiled, despite the blood that trickled down your face. "We’ll see about that, won’t we?"

As you lay there, tied up, the pain still radiating through your body from the earlier blows, a sense of desperation started creeping in. The room was dimly lit, shadows twisting across the walls like ominous figures. Your breath came in shallow gasps, a mixture of panic and confusion settling in as you tried to make sense of your surroundings.

The kidnapper’s voice had been relentless, his words cold and venomous as he taunted you about your past sins, about killing the boss’s son. The way he had spoken to you, the way he hit you—it made it clear that he had no intention of letting you go. Your mind raced, trying to think of a way out, but the ropes around your wrists and ankles were tight, the pain from the blows slowing your thoughts.

Panic began to bubble up inside you as the seconds ticked by. The blood in your mouth tasted metallic, and you could feel your vision blurring, your consciousness slipping. What if they actually did it? What if this was the end? For a split second, a feeling of helplessness crept in, and you wondered if there was any hope of getting out of this alive.

But you quickly shoved that thought away. You weren’t done yet. You weren’t about to let some random asshole decide when your story ended. You were strong, you were capable, and there was no way you were going to die here—not like this. Yet, the doubt lingered, that small nagging feeling that maybe, just maybe, this time was different.

The air was thick with tension, and the kidnapper’s taunts grew louder as he circled you like a predator. "You're done, you sick freak. You're gonna pay for what you did."

And then, as if the world had turned against you, you felt the cold pressure of a blade pressed against your throat. A shiver ran down your spine as the kidnapper whispered in your ear, a sickening satisfaction in his voice. "Say goodbye."

In that moment, your heart began to race in earnest. The overwhelming sensation of death closing in on you, the sharp coldness of the blade against your skin, made everything feel so... real. The thought that you might actually die here, alone, with no one coming to save you, started to take hold. It wasn’t just pain you were feeling now—it was fear. For the first time, you weren’t sure you could fight your way out of this one.

Then, as if summoned by the gods themselves—or maybe just pure dumb luck—there was a crash, the unmistakable sound of a door being kicked open. Your kidnapper froze, his grip loosening just slightly on the knife. The sudden noise filled you with a strange sense of hope, and for a moment, you dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t going to die after all.

"You're making a big mistake," a voice drawled, low and mocking. You knew that voice.

Ronin.

You barely had time to register what was happening before he was there, the sound of his footsteps so calm, so deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world. The kidnapper turned, panic flashing in his eyes for just a moment before it was replaced by defiance. "Who the hell are you?!" he demanded.

Ronin didn’t answer right away, instead taking his time as he approached, the sound of his boots echoing through the room like a death knell. You could hear the smirk in his voice when he spoke again. "You’ve got two choices," he said, each word dripping with dark amusement. "You can either stop what you’re doing, or you can keep going. But I’m not gonna lie to you, if you keep going... you’ll regret it."

The kidnapper scoffed, clearly not intimidated. "And who the hell do you think you are? Some kind of hero?"

Ronin’s laugh was low and menacing.

Before the words had even finished leaving his mouth, he was on the kidnapper, moving so fast you barely had time to process it. A violent struggle ensued, but Ronin’s movements were fluid, calculated—he was in control, always. With one swift motion, the kidnapper was on the ground, gasping for air as Ronin stood over him, his weapon at the ready.

You let out a shaky breath, the panic starting to ebb away now that you knew Ronin was here. But there was still a part of you that couldn’t help but feel shaken. You had almost died. The thought lingered in your mind as you watched Ronin handle the situation with ease. He wasn’t even sweating.

"You know," Ronin said, looking down at the kidnapper with disdain, "I don’t like people who think they can play with my partner." He glanced over at you, his eyes flicking up just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his signature smirk. "How’s that for a rescue, darling?"

You couldn’t help but smile through the lingering fear. "You’re late," you teased, though the words came out weak.

Ronin’s eyes narrowed, his smirk never faltering. "Would you prefer I let him finish the job?" he asked, mockingly. "Or did you want to enjoy the last few moments of your life without me?"

You laughed, despite everything. "You’re a real asshole, you know that?"

"Yeah," Ronin said, kneeling down to untie your ropes. "But I’m your asshole."

And just like that, everything felt like it was going to be okay again.

Ronin casually strode over to him, crowbar in hand. The sound of it scraping against the floor sent chills down your spine, but you couldn't tear your eyes away. You knew what was coming—Ronin wasn’t the type to leave loose ends.

With a single, swift motion, Ronin raised the crowbar high and brought it down hard, the metal connecting with the kidnapper's skull with a sickening crack. Blood sprayed in all directions, splattering across the room and even hitting you in the face. Ronin didn’t flinch. He didn’t even seem to care. He just kept going, each strike more violent than the last, the blood coating his hands and dripping from the crowbar as he worked his way through the kidnapper’s defenses.

The screams, the gurgles, and the sickening crunch of bones and flesh were drowned out by Ronin’s low chuckle, as if the entire thing were some kind of sick performance. When he finally stopped, the kidnapper’s body was barely recognizable, a broken, mangled heap of blood and meat.

Ronin wiped the crowbar clean with a piece of cloth, tossing it aside like it was nothing. He looked over at you, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement, and gave you that twisted grin you knew so well.

"Now, that’s how it’s done," he said, wiping blood from his cheek, as if the whole thing had been some kind of casual art project. "That’s what I call proper gore."

You stared at him, wide-eyed. The sheer audacity of the man. After all that, all that bloodshed, he looked at you like you were the one who had done something wrong.

"Your gore videos suck, by the way," he added nonchalantly, throwing you a glance as if he had just made a simple observation.

You blinked, your mind racing. "What?! Why the hell are you such a fan?" you shot back, a mixture of disbelief and irritation flooding your words. "You just killed someone in the most disgusting way possible, and now you’re criticizing my videos?"

Ronin chuckled darkly, that same cocky smile never leaving his face. He leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing with that predatory gleam. "Because I’m the real deal, darling," he said smoothly, enjoying the shock on your face. "You just don’t have that... finesse. You’re all about the blood, the mess—but me?" He tossed his head, almost smug. "I’m a master."

Your mouth hung open for a moment as you processed his words. He was the last person who should be criticizing anyone’s gore skills, but here he was—proud of the bloody chaos he’d just created.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. You stuck your tongue out at him playfully, the defiance in your eyes clear. "Well, maybe you should just teach me then," you said, a challenge in your voice. "Show me how it’s done."

Ronin’s eyes gleamed as he leaned in, his smirk only widening. "Oh, trust me. I’ll teach you plenty," he said, his tone low and seductive, with an edge of something dangerous lurking beneath. "But, darling... don’t get too cocky." He ran a hand through your hair, his touch strangely gentle compared to his previous violence. "You might not be able to handle what you learn."

You rolled your eyes, but despite everything—Ronin was a devil in his own right, but hell if he wasn’t entertaining.

[thesomewhatliterateaxolotl]

Witch Hat Atelier Content Warning List

[Plaintext: Witch Hat Atelier Content Warning List]

[ID: A panel from Chapter 1 that shows the magic spellbook as Coco flips through it from offscreen. /End ID]

Witch Hat Atelier is an ongoing fantasy manga by Shirahama Kamome. Since getting into WHA, I've heard many comments from readers long the lines of "I thought it'd be a chill slice-of-life, but...!"

Though WHA has lots of idyllic moments, it contains heavy themes that may distress some readers. I'm always happy to shill WHA, but I also want potential readers to have a content warning resource if they need it. I couldn't find any lists that were up-to-date, so I made my own.

This list will update as the manga continues. It's as spoiler-free as possible whilst remaining informative. If you need exact page numbers or clarification on anything, you are welcome to DM!

Also, this is my first time making a full content warning list for a work, so feedback is always welcome!

Child abuse

[Plaintext: Child abuse]

This is a recurring theme. Child abuse/abusers are consistently denounced.

Ch. 70 includes mostly-off-page-but-still-clearly-there depictions of childhood physical abuse as well as the aftermath (physical scars, PTSD).

Flashback of an ableist teacher emotionally abusing their disciple for having traits that can easily be read as autistic. The child does receive help and moves to an atelier where they are loved and their boundaries are respected.

Disownment and verbal abuse from a child's parents.

A (former) teacher emotionally abuses a child with severe anxiety and self esteem issues.

An adult stalks a child.

An adult attacks a child with magic and threatens them with a sword.

An adult tattoos a magic glyph on a child against their will.

Children experience eye trauma (see sections below).

Discussion of unethical experiments being performed on a child.

A child is shown in a coffin after being buried alive. They survive.

Children are threatened by police.

One chapter contains an (off-page) instance of CSA in a character's past; see the section below.

Sexual assault

[Plaintext: sexual assault]

Chapter 49 deals with SA and CSA. Shirahama included a trigger warning in both the magazine and volume versions telling you where to skip if you need to. It's skippable plot-wise, though it does carry thematic significance.

For context: An adult character discovers and confronts a voyeur. This triggers a flashback to the sexual assault they experienced as a child. The assault itself is off-page, but there is emotionally intense imagery and dialogue that may be triggering to some.

Depiction of victim-blaming by a superior (this is treated as wrong).

The chapter treats all forms of sexual assault with gravity. On a meta level, the chapter is often read as a commentary on harmful manga tropes that make light of sexual assault.

Body horror

[Plaintext: body horror]

Graphic/gory depiction of someone getting transformed into a monster made of leeches. It'll be foreshadowed right before it happens.

The leech monster is present for several chapters. If you have a phobia of leeches or related animals, you may have a hard time avoiding them without missing out on plot.

There are other instances of humans being transformed into various creatures or turned to stone, though they aren't as graphic.

Recurring symbolic imagery of a tree with many eyes all along its trunk and branches.

Gore

[Plaintext: gore]

Eye trauma: One character's eye is plucked out off-page, and their bleeding eye socket is seen afterward.

Frequent depictions of blood and injury, particularly post-Chapter 63.

Vultures are shown eating a corpse (ch. 45).

Restrictions on bodily autonomy

[Plaintext: restrictions on bodily autonomy]

The government prohibits magic on the body, including one's own. Unwilling victims of this type of magic are still treated as criminals by law and society.

Numerous characters have their memories wiped, by the police and others.

Systemic ableism

[Plaintext: systemic ableism]

The aforementioned laws are shown to disproportionately affect disabled individuals. This is explored and critiqued extensively by the narrative.

A group of adults destroy a child's mobility aid and harass them.

Ableist remarks are made (and treated as wrong).

Discussions of genocide

[Plaintext: discussions of genocide]

A history lesson is given about a city-state that committed genocide against marginalized groups by turning them to gold and making them fall to their deaths.

Those are the biggest ones. Here are some miscellaneous warnings that don't fall into any particular category, but are still worth mentioning:

Parental death

Mentioned unethical experimentation on animals

Animal death (ch. 71)

Impalement

Drowning

Claustrophobia

Panic attacks

Explosions

Nightmares

Hospital scenes

Gaslighting

There's also quite a bit of eye imagery so I'd put a general scopophobia warning on the series.

If I missed anything, please let me know!

(8-23-23: Updated to reflect current chapters, and for clarity and accuracy)

[tanjir0se]

As the World Caves In, pt II

Pairings: Rengiyuu (Rengoku x Giyuu) Words: 5.4k (7.8k total) Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Everybody Lives AU Warnings: (full fic) Graphic depictions of canon-typical violence, medical procedures, blood, bodily injury

If you let him live, I’ll tell him everything, I swear. 

It was now or ever. And now he’d gotten so close to never, closer than he’d ever thought he’d get in all his wildest nightmares, that the unbridled fear of it now carried the words unspoken up his windpipe, threatening to burst. 

“K-Kyojuro,” Giyuu began. And Kyojuro looked at him with those stunning, earnest eyes--eye--and Giyuu’s next words fell from his mouth in a huff. “Damn it,”

This is part 2/2. Read the previous part here!

You can also read the full fic on AO3!!

“You ought to be more careful, my friend!” Kyojuro chided as he unbuttoned Giyuu’s uniform. “Look, you’ve ruined another uniform shirt!” He was referring to the large slash on the shoulder of Giyuu’s uniform, courtesy of the demon they’d just taken down together. Though they’d only known each other a few months at that point, Giyuu had learned that Kyojuro apparently preferred to dress his wounds himself despite Giyuu being fully capable, and he knew Kyojuro better than to try to argue. 

He said nothing while Kyojuro frowned at his bare and bloody chest, appraising the long but superficial wound that spanned across his pale skin, coming to a stop at the hollow of his throat. He did tilt his head slightly back to allow Kyojuro to inspect the full extent of the wound, his quiet way of thanking him. Kyojuro hummed to himself. His golden eyes suddenly flicked from Giyuu’s wound to his face, stealing away Giyuu’s breath in a surprised huff. 

“Does this hurt?” he asked, abruptly serious. Giyuu shook his head. Rengoku had a habit of making him lose his train of thought when he looked at him like that. “You shouldn’t have jumped in front of me. I would have been alright!”

Giyuu stared at him. The demon they’d been fighting had prepared one vicious strike right after another, while Rengoku had been finding his footing from the previous. Rather than allow the strike to land on the Flame Hashira, Giyuu had stepped in with dead calm, both sparing Kyojuro from the attack and causing it to fall on himself. 

To Giyuu, his actions made perfect sense. Kyojuro was obviously the superior Hashira. He felt it only natural to protect the greater asset to the demon slayer corps, even if it meant putting his life on the line. 

Kyojuro raised an eyebrow and cracked a small grin. “I know that look.” He said. It was the look Giyuu did when he was about to try to argue with him on something: brows slightly furrowed, gaze steady with heavy lids, lips parted. Realizing he was caught, Giyuu relaxed into a half smile and allowed Kyojuro to gently dab dirt and debris away from his wound. 

“You may be reckless,” Kyojuro began, “But I have to admit, that eleventh form is incredible! How on earth did you learn something like that? Ah, I bet I could practice for a hundred years and never even get close!” His gaze now focused on Giyuu’s wound, he didn’t notice how bright pink his friend’s face had become. Kyojuro spoke highly of everyone, but praise of his swordsmanship coming from someone as incredible as him was still a high compliment. 

Kyojuro continued. “Such fantastic work, I’m truly lucky to be on your good side!” He laughed and patted Giyuu’s chest with one hand and retrieved a first aid kit with a suture needle with the other. His hand was rough but warm against Giyuu’s permanently cold skin. 

“For now.” Giyuu joked back. Kyojuro blinked once, surprised and a little disbelieving that Giyuu had actually cracked a joke, but after noticing the tiny upward tilt of his lips, smiled even wider and laughed even harder. 

“I’d better toe the line then! Otherwise I’ll be the one needing stitches!” He laughed at his own joke while stitching his wound and Giyuu actually smiled along. Few could melt through his icy silences like Kyojuro could. Few understood what he was trying to say even when he was silent like Kyojuro did. “Ah, you always know how to make me laugh.” Kyojuro added with a sigh that made Giyuu’s heart ache. 

Kyojuro’s half-open eyes saw white, made hazy by tears clinging to his dark lashes. White drifted above him, and for a moment he drifted with it, unaware that he was even conscious, just floating. Once his mind returned to him he tried to blink to dispel the haze but found himself unable, paralyzed, flat on his back and floating through nothingness. For a few moments he believed himself to be dead. Until the pain struck him. 

He considered himself no stranger to pain, but this was unlike anything else. His entire body felt shattered. Even something as simple as breathing was a battle, as if his lungs and the walls of his chest themselves were locked in combat against one another. If he was indeed dead, this must be hell. 

He thought so, until he heard a distant voice reaching to him from beyond the endless white oblivion around him. There were gentle hands on him, as if bringing him out of the haze and back into reality. 

Someone was cradling the back of his head, tilting it slightly upward as they removed bandages from the left side of his face. The light changed slightly as they did so, though nothing came into focus. Fingers brushed lightly over his left eye. Whoever the hands belonged to, whoever was nursing him, sighed. 

The bandages were replaced. A warm rag brushed against the aching skin of his arms. A hand rested lightly against his chest, directly over his heart, feeling it beating steadily. Kyojuro still couldn’t move or speak but whoever was tending to him apparently didn’t mind. The voice was silent while they worked but the silence was as gentle as their hands. That silence, its softness, the coolness of the hands on his body reminded him of something…

The haze slowly began to lift, as if his nurse’s gentle tending was pulling him back up out of the nothingness and into reality. As his mind cleared he groped for anything to anchor him back to the present; he remembered a cold wind, a column of flames. 

“Another letter from Tanjiro today.” His nurse said quietly over the rustle of papers. “And…one from Uzui.” 

Kyojuro would have leapt out of bed, if he could move. The kids! The train! The upper rank! I’ve got to get back there!  Kyojuro wanted to reach out, tell the speaker I don’t care about a bunch of letters when Tanjiro and the others could be in danger— 

A letter from Tanjiro? He’s alright?

“Uzui’s letter first, then?” The voice said. More rustling of paper. A clearing of the throat. “Dear Rengoku, I apologize for my absence, since this damn mission is taking longer than I expected, I’m absolutely certain you’re beside yourself with grief that yours truly isn’t there with you—” the speaker scoffed, and Kyojuro would have laughed too, if he could move. “Anyways, I’ll spare you the non-flashy details and regale you with the full story when I can see you again. Please get better soon, the mansion is too boring without you. Tengen.” 

In full earnest now, and with little else to do but lie there, Kyojuro tried to remember what had happened. The last image he could conjure was the electric flashing of blue and pink, a crazed laugh, and distantly, someone crying and calling his name. 

He assumed he was recovering in the butterfly mansion, but how long had it been since he’d fallen unconscious? Long enough that he was getting letters. He wondered if he’d gotten any from Senjuro. Or Giyuu. 

Giyuu. 

He’d just been dreaming about Giyuu. One of the first times he’d noticed Giyuu blushing at him, one of the many times Giyuu had made him laugh. That’s what the silence had reminded him of. With great difficulty, with everything he had, Kyojuro managed to grunt softly. 

Halfway through Tanjiro’s letter, the voice stopped. Even unable to see, Kyojuro could feel eyes on him, knew them to be deep and indigo and discerning. He sucked in a labored breath against the pain wrapping around his ribs, and this time managed a groan. 

“Kyojuro?” 

God I’d know that voice anywhere. 

Kyojuro’s eyes slid closed, then open once again, still heavy-lidded, still teary, but open. The fog around him lifting, the first thing he saw was his nurse, pale skin, a mess of raven black hair and a set of indigo eyes. 

In spite of everything, he smiled. “Giyuu,” he murmured. 

Giyuu felt his heart stop in his chest, his relief so intense it nearly paralyzed him. Kyojuro was looking at him. Kyojuro was alive. His world had crashed back into orbit again. He grabbed his friend by the arms and held him there tightly, desperate not to let him go again. 

“Kyo! God—” Thank god, thank god you’re alright! I was so worried, I was lost without you! His throat was so tight he could hardly breathe let alone speak. “You’re awake.” He managed stupidly after a moment. Kyojuro opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out for a moment. For once, Giyuu actually spoke instead. “Kyo…” he found himself saying again. 

Kyojuro lifted his head and tried to sit up, straining against the unbelievable pain that shook his entire body. He caught a glimpse of a large, blood-shadowed bandage over his abdomen before his forehead suddenly bumped into Giyuu. He must’ve been closer than he’d thought. The unexpected bump sent him back down against the bed with a groan. Giyuu still hadn’t taken his hands off of his arms. 

“Please don’t try to get up.” Giyuu murmured. “Your depth perception is probably quite off.” 

Kyojuro frowned at him and opened his mouth to ask why he’d say that, but another bright pulse of pain behind his left eye answered the question for him. Giyuu watched him with an expression Kyojuro had never seen him wear. His eyes were wide, tearful, endless. His pale lower lip trembled along with his hands, though he didn’t say anything.  There was about a million things Kyojuro could ask: What happened? Where are the kids? How long has it been? He decided on something different. 

“Kyo, huh?” He asked, his lips turning slightly upward into a smile. Giyuu stared. “Where’d that come from? I like it.”

Leave it to Kyojuro to say something like that at a time like this. That little smile on Kyojuro’s lips made Giyuu want to smile with him, to laugh and grab him tightly and never let him go. But he remembered the feeling of those lips against his, the taste of blood as he breathed for him, and the beginnings of his smile faltered. He came so close to never seeing that smile again. The weight of that knowledge pressed down on his shoulders so heavily that Giyuu dropped his head down and pressed his forehead against Kyojuro’s arm, as if in prayer. Overcome. 

Kyojuro watched him and his heart ached. He’d never seen Giyuu this upset, or at least he’d never shown it this plainly. It seemed like a fairly strong reaction to a simple battlefield injury…there must be something more to this situation he didn’t understand. He called Giyuu’s name softly and waited for him to look up. “I’m alright.” Kyojuro said, softly for once, his throat dry and raw. “It’s alright.”

Giyuu looked up. “No, Kyo, you’re not. You were dead.” His brows fell heavily over his eyes in apparent anger. “I had to beat your heart for you, I—I had to breathe for you!” His voice was low, tightly measured because if he spoke any louder or with any more ferocity he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep tears from falling. 

There was a brief silence while Kyojuro appeared to consider what he’d said. “And the train passengers? The kids?” 

Giyuu’s eyes briefly widened in shock, but his brows were quick to pull down again. “Are you not hearing me? You were dead. It’s nothing short of a miracle that you aren’t dead now!” Kyojuro looked at him, still waiting for his answer. Giyuu’s frown deepened but the quiver in his lower lip betrayed him. “Will you worry about yourself, just for one moment?” 

Though Giyuu had pulled away, Kyojuro still found an errant strand of his hair to curl between his fingers. “Why would I do that, when you do it so well?”

“Kyojuro, please.” Giyuu begged. “You—” he dropped his gaze again and struggled to conjure the words he meant. “You’ve been in a coma for more than three months. An upper rank had his arm through your solar plexus!” Kyojuro managed to look down at that shadowed bandage on his stomach, then back up at Giyuu as he continued.

“Kyo, you may never wield a sword again. You came very close to never breathing again! And I—” he snapped his mouth shut and averted his gaze from Kyojuro’s. 

Still fighting through shockwaves of pain, Kyojuro watched as Giyuu stared at the bandage on his stomach. “Giyuu.” He said gently, cautiously. He knew Giyuu to have a temper, but he was acting differently than Kyojuro had ever seen, like there was something he needed to say but couldn’t find the words. “If I would have died, I would have done so gladly! It’s the risk we take as demon slayers—” he fell into silence as Giyuu looked back up again, his eyes filled with tears. 

“Am I supposed to have been glad, too?” He asked bitterly. “You talk about yourself like your life is not worth anything! As if—” he stopped again. His breaths were coming faster and faster now. Giyuu did not continue, so Kyojuro did. 

“My life isn’t worth any more than anyone else’s…” he began. Apparently on a roll of surprising him, Giyuu cut him off. 

“Well it isn’t worth any less, either!” He exclaimed, not shouting, but with an intensity that rivaled Kyojuro’s. “God you remind me of Sabito!” He added in a huff. 

That stopped Kyojuro dead, all attempts at argument shut down. Giyuu never mentioned his family. Not even silently. He’d only learned he’d had a sister after they’d already known each other for more than a year. Sabito and Makomo he only learned of through Urokodaki. He watched Giyuu’s face and waited for him to continue. He did, though silently. 

Giyuu looked down and shook his head, his brow furrowed. You’re making this so difficult. Kyojuro watched his jaw clench and unclench, his mouth opening for a moment before clamping shut again. I need to tell you something. Fat, heavy tears fell from his eyes and onto the backs of his hands, which tightened themselves onto the blanket near Kyojuro’s forearm. It’s killing me. 

Looking down, head bowed, Giyuu was thinking of the bargain he’d made. If you let him live, I’ll tell him everything. He felt as overwhelmed as he was when he’d first come to the horrific scene at the train crash, his world spinning. His foolish and hopeful and frightened heart cracked deeper and deeper and threatened to come apart altogether as he tried to find the words to make Kyojuro understand.   

It was a long time before Giyuu spoke aloud again, and when he did, his voice shook. 

“Kyojuro.” he finally said. “You think to be brave is to be selfless. As if you have no regard at all for your own life. That isn’t bravery. It’s self destruction.” He remembered the feeling of Kyojuro’s ribs snapping beneath his hands. He remembered feeling Sabito’s, too. He couldn’t meet Kyojuro’s gaze, knowing without trying that the look he found there would burn his resolve away in an instant.

“You may think your life isn’t worth more than anyone else’s, but—” closing his eyes, Giyuu breathed out a sigh. “It is. To me.”

That was a surprise. Kyojuro stared at him, his shaking hands and the gaze that refused to meet his. He was even more surprised to find a faint pink blush spreading over Giyuu’s cheeks and nose. 

They fell into silence while Kyojuro watched Giyuu’s blush deepen. 

He’d always loved Giyuu the same way he loved anyone or anything else: loudly. My friend, how wonderful to see you! You always know how to make me laugh! Every compliment, every smile, Kyojuro was saying it over and over without ever saying it. I love you I love you I love you. 

But Giyuu had never been the type to do anything aloud. He loved quietly, privately, almost invisibly if someone wasn’t paying attention. Knowing his order at their udon cart without asking. Stepping in front of him to spare him a strike from a demon. Gripping onto the blankets of his cot, unwilling to meet his eye, unwilling to let go. I love you I love you I love you. 

Kyojuro was more than glad to allow their I love yous to remain unsaid, unspoken but still there, always there. He had become fluent in Giyuu’s body language, the soft silence that fell between them when they were together. 

But now the silence was uneasy with tension, as if there was something aching to be said. 

If you let him live, I’ll tell him everything, I swear. 

It was now or ever. And now he’d gotten so close to never, closer than he’d ever thought he’d get in all his wildest nightmares, that the unbridled fear of it now carried the words unspoken up his windpipe, threatening to burst. 

“K-Kyojuro,” Giyuu began. And Kyojuro looked at him with those stunning, earnest eyes--eye--and Giyuu’s next words fell from his mouth in a huff. “Damn it,” he cursed, moving as he spoke, finally releasing the blanket and grabbing instead onto Kyojuro’s arm. 

Before Kyojuro could ask what he needed to say, Giyuu had closed the distance between them, taken him gently but quickly by the sides of his face, and kissed him.

Kyojuro was so surprised he didn’t have time to move or react, just let Giyuu kiss him, his hands gripping tightly onto the sore sides of his bandaged face. Eyes wide open Kyojuro watched Giyuu’s brow pull up, his eyes tightly shut as if in great pain. 

And he was. Giyuu had never felt such agony, such elation, such horror at feeling Kyojuro’s lips on his again. It had never occurred to him until that moment that Kyojuro may not feel the same as he did, that his friend—could he call him a friend?—may be shocked, or worse, disgusted. But he couldn’t bring himself to care, now that Kyojuro’s lips didn’t taste like blood anymore. 

The ecstasy of finally letting out what had been clawing up the inside of his throat since the first moment he ever laid eyes on Kyojuro, bright and beautiful in the Master’s garden, and the fear of losing him, the trauma of coming very close, raged a battle in his chest that crashed through the rest of his body until he finally was forced to pull away, gasping. 

Kyojuro didn’t dare speak, just watched as Giyuu slowly let his breath out and leaned back. 

“I can’t lose anyone else I love.” Giyuu concluded. His voice was no louder than a whisper and yet it echoed through the room as if he’d shouted it. The fear eventually coming out on top in the battle raging in his aching heart, Giyuu tried to move fully away, to stand and brush off his haori and regain whatever dignity he had left. Once again Kyojuro’s hand came down on his wrist, stopping his escape. 

Kyojuro stared into his face until Giyuu looked at him, marveling at what he’d just done. Kyojuro had known for a long time that he loved Giyuu. And he’d known that in his own, quiet way, Giyuu loved him too. But now he’d said the quiet part out loud. What bravery it must’ve taken. Kyojuro looked at Giyuu’s lips, pale and thin and pressed into a hard, nervous line. He looked down and stared at Giyuu’s wrist in his hand. He released it, but captured Giyuu’s hand instead. 

He kissed the back of Giyuu’s hand, his fingers, the inside of his wrist, the back of his forearm, pulling him down and down again until their faces were inches from each other, indigo eyes meeting gold. All those times he’d watched Giyuu flush pink at something he’d said, all the tiny moments he’d noticed the tiny changes of expression on his face, and Kyojuro had never dreamed of kissing him. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he’d accepted long ago that they would always share something unspoken, and that would be enough. 

They stared at one another, breathing heavy. Giyuu watched as Kyojuro’s eye traveled down his face and landed on his lips before Kyojuro pulled him down far enough to kiss him back. 

It was as if he’d never been injured in the first place. All the pain that had rattled his ribs just moments prior was gone and it was a hundred times worse. His chest no longer ached and it ached more intensely than ever before. In fact he’d never felt more aflame, Giyuu’s icy cold lips on his burned away any other thought besides Giyuu’s name. 

He felt Giyuu take a breath and relax against him. He felt his lips part slightly beneath his. And then in spite of himself, in spite of everything, Kyojuro smiled. 

Giyuu felt Kyojuro’s lips turn upwards against his, then felt him shake slightly as he began to laugh. Giyuu opened his eyes and found Kyojuro’s closed in joy, his head thrown back as far as he could manage while still lying in a cot, laughter beginning to peel from him like church bells. If it were anyone else, Giyuu would assume they were mocking him. But not Kyojuro. 

“What could you possibly be laughing at?” Giyuu murmured, resting his hand on Kyojuro’s cheek. Kyojuro tried to stifle his giggles and Giyuu realized how red his friend’s face had become. 

“All that time,” Kyojuro began with a sigh. “All that time I wanted to kiss you…Who knew I had to do was die!” He laughed again despite the pain in his stomach. Giyuu frowned at him, trying very hard to be serious. 

“That isn’t funny.” He chided. Kyojuro just laughed harder, louder, stronger, as if Giyuu’s kiss had healed him. Giyuu rolled his eyes, but for once he didn’t think about how close he’d come to never hearing that laugh again. He didn’t think about how Kyojuro’s eyes had been staring blankly up at nothing, how his golden skin had paled and his chest fallen still. That laugh was like the sun parting through clouds, and for once Giyuu just sighed and chuckled with him. The sound of his laughter made Kyojuro laugh even harder until they both devolved into giggles. 

Since Kyojuro’s laughter was both very distinctive and quite loud, it was bound to attract attention as other inhabitants of the butterfly mansion began to follow the sound. Giyuu leapt nearly a foot in the air when he heard a voice from behind him. 

“Mr. Rengoku?” Giyuu quickly moved back from Kyojuro, who released his hand, though both relaxed when they saw Tanjiro standing in the doorway, his eyes already filled with tears. “Mr. Rengoku!” Tanjiro shouted, and sprinted forward. 

“Young Kamado!” Kyojuro grinned at the way Giyuu moved back to allow Tanjiro in beside him. “Ah, how good to see you!” 

All Tanjiro managed to say was his name as his eyes welled with tears. Kyojuro put his hand on his head. “Don’t cry, I’m alright!” He said softly. “Besides, I don’t want you tearing that belly wound open again!” 

Tanjiro looked up, then at Giyuu, whose face was neutral and measured. “Mr. Rengoku, my stomach is all healed. It’s been three months.” 

“Ah. So it has.” Kyojuro shifted and tried to get a better look at the boy. Without speaking, or having been asked, Giyuu slid his arm beneath Kyojuro’s shoulders to help him sit up. 

Tanjiro couldn’t help but let out another sob. “I’m so glad you’re alright! Mr. Tomioka hasn’t left your side since you got here!” Though escaping Tanjiro’s notice, Giyuu went bright pink and set his jaw. Kyojuro grinned at him. 

“That doesn’t surprise me at all.” He said softly, speaking to Tanjiro but looking at Giyuu as he helped him settle in the new, more upright position.  

Next to follow the sound was Shinobu herself, who was so surprised upon appearing in the doorway to find Kyojuro looking up adoringly at Giyuu, holding him by the shoulders, his face bright pink, that she actually froze for a moment. It did not take her long to realize what Giyuu had done, and she smiled, blinking away tears. Finally. 

Then she put her hands on her hips, blinked the tears away, and gave Giyuu the chiding of a lifetime for daring not to tell her that Kyojuro had awoken. Inosuke appeared next, already yelling, leaping onto the foot of Kyojuro’s bed and declaring Kyojuro the master of death itself. Zenitsu was quick to follow, carrying a half-awake and tiny Nezuko with him. Once her bright eyes fell onto Kyojuro’s she leapt from Zenitsu’s arms and joined Inosuke on the foot of Kyojuro’s bed, her delighted voice muffled by her muzzle but still clearly excited. 

Any Hashira who wasn’t on a mission joined them. Mitsuri’s bright—if shrill—sobs of joy briefly drowned out anyone else’s attempt at speech, Sanemi sternly but firmly put his hand on Kyojuro’s shoulder, his jaw clenched tightly, Gyomei offered a prayer of gratitude. But the room stopped when Senjuro arrived. He stared at Kyojuro in the doorway for a long moment, as if disbelieving that he was really awake and breathing. It took both Shinobu and Giyuu to keep Kyojuro from leaping out of bed to greet him. Senjuro ended up sitting on the bed beside his brother, handing him letters that Giyuu had handed him and helping Kyojuro catch up on three months’ worth of missed correspondence. 

It was only then that Kyojuro’s attention was jarred enough from Giyuu to look around at the scene surrounding his sickbed. On a table behind Giyuu was a stack of letters, cards, and notes. Beside the letters were gifts, wrapped in colorful paper or fabric, stacks upon stacks of bento, boxes of candy, several vases of flowers, several more wilted bouquets of lying on the floor beside his table. All of it had been carefully organized; The notes had all been gently unfolded and stacked in chronological order, the bottom boxes of bento had been opened, likely emptied of their contents before they could spoil--it had been three months, after all--rinsed and replaced on the table. The flowers had clearly been traded out for fresh ones each time the previous bundle wilted. Kyojuro couldn’t help but smile even wider at Giyuu the more he noticed his work. There he was, saying it over and over without anybody but Kyojuro knowing. I love you, I love you, I love you. 

Though typically Kyojuro never seemed to tire, he had just cheated death after all, and so much commotion from so many well-wishers was becoming difficult to keep up with. Shinobu was quick to pull rank even on other Hashira and clear the mansion out when she noticed his eyelids becoming heavy. Only Giyuu and Senjuro lingered while she caught Kyojuro up on his injuries. 

“I'm sure you’ve already noticed the injury to your left eye. It was ruptured. We treated it with medicinal ointments and managed to close the wound, but your pupil doesn’t react to light anymore…I’m afraid that eye will be permanently blind.” Kyojuro nodded slowly, remembering feeling Giyuu changing the bandages there before he was fully awake, remembering how he’d bumped into Giyuu’s head with his new lack of depth perception. 

Shinobu continued, though her voice became gentle and slow. “The wound to your solar plexus was the most severe. It went all the way through your torso and damaged your spinal cord.” She told Kyojuro. Senjuro and Giyuu had already heard this from her, but it hurt a little to watch Kyojuro’s reaction to the reality of his injuries. His eyes wandered down his own stomach, across the bandage, and toward his feet. “It caused damage to the nerves that control your left leg. So far it seems like it still moves, but I don’t know how strong it will ever be.”

You may never wield a sword again, Giyuu had told him. Kyojuro had breezed past the statement at first, just glad to be alive. Now, staring at his left foot and trying to wiggle his toes, finding with a strike of fear that he could only manage to move the foot a matter of millimeters, Kyojuro swallowed but set his jaw, stiff-lipped, trying to look strong in front of his brother. 

“I see.” He managed. 

Shinobu laid out an aggressive rehabilitation plan for him, to start as soon as he was ready, then parted with an oddly knowing look that made Giyuu squirm just a little. Nothing got past her. Senjuro lingered a bit longer, but as intuitive as he was, nothing really got past him either. He could see his brother’s head beginning to nod as exhaustion overtook him. And he could see the way it nodded toward Giyuu’s faithful and unwavering hand on his shoulder, his cheek falling against the back of Giyuu’s palm. Senjuro slid off of the bed and invented an excuse to leave, letting Kyojuro begin to drift. Before he left though, he met Giyuu’s eye. 

“Thank you, Mr. Tomioka.” He said quietly. Giyuu nodded silently at him; he’d been thanked by Senjuro several times before during the blur of these three months, once the boy learned how his brother had managed to survive the battlefield. Senjuro’s eyes were on Giyuu’s pale hand as Kyojuro’s cheek fell against it. “Thank you for saving my brother.” Senjuro continued in a whisper. 

Giyuu nodded again, though this time it was because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Senjuro left the two alone in the wing of the butterfly mansion, the light of evening turning gold around them. Giyuu nodded a third time, this time just to himself, because he couldn’t think of a way to say Kyojuro is the one who saved me aloud. 

He felt Kyojuro sigh against him and looked down. Kyojuro’s good eye was open again, looking down at his own feet. “What’s going to happen?” He asked, mostly to himself, trying to move his defective left leg and frowning when he failed. After a moment he looked up to meet Giyuu’s gaze. 

“I don’t know.” Giyuu admitted. With a defunct left leg and no depth perception, it was quite clear Kyojuro wouldn’t be wielding a sword any time soon, perhaps ever again. He’d be forced to retire as a Hashira. He swallowed and watched Kyojuro, who seemed to be thinking very hard. 

He’d been born a Hashira, the blood was in him from the start. He’d always thought he’d die a Hashira, too. It wasn’t just the cornerstone of his identity but the very basis of it; everything else was built up from there. His entire concept of himself was going to crumble without his sword, without the flames curling from his lips as he wielded it. Without the knowledge, the certainty that he would eventually die in service of their cause. Now, Kyojuro didn’t know what he was going to die for. 

Kyojuro looked into Giyuu’s eyes and watched them carefully as they began to shine. His ivory skin was glowing in the dying evening light, his hand was cool and soft against his cheek. He looked past Giyuu at the stacks of gifts on the table, the letters Senjuro had read for him and left for him. And he smiled. And he kissed Giyuu’s hand again and he smiled even wider, lips still against his cool skin. 

“Me neither.” He said softly. 

He did know what he was going to live for. 

Evening fell into night with Giyuu by Kyojuro’s side, where he’d been all along and would be as long as he allowed him to remain. Their hands eventually entwined again, Kyojuro every so often kissing Giyuu’s as if in awe that he could. Each time Giyuu felt a little more faint. Each time he watched Kyojuro’s chest move up and down he relaxed a little more. By the time the sun had slipped down over the horizon Giyuu was practically asleep too, leaning against Kyojuro’s cot. 

Kyojuro watched the back of Giyuu’s head, tiredly carded his hand through Giyuu’s mess of black hair, couldn’t keep from smiling. 

“I love you.” He whispered aloud to Giyuu. Because he could just say it now, because he still had breath to whisper it into the dark room, because his heart had kept beating long enough to see Giyuu turn slightly to look at him, eyes heavy. 

“I love you too.” He whispered back, aloud. The words came as easily as breathing now. He settled his head back against Kyojuro’s cot, keeping his neck craned back so he could look at him for just a little long before sleep overtook them both. I love you too, he said, silently.

[ghost-in-the-hall]

Band of Sisters, Band of Thieves (Medieval! Powerwolf x Fem! Princess! Reader) - Part III

WARNINGS: Depictions of battle, description of wounds/bodily injury, fatal arrow wounds, short graphic description of a decapitation, swearing, I think that's everything if I missed any please let me know!

Part II - Part IV

My Masterlist! ~ AO3 Link!

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"Good morning, Your Highness." You couldn't keep the smile off your face as he quietly entered the room. You quickly sent your maid off, assuring her you would be fine in the mercenary's capable hands

"Sir Charles, good morning." You close the book you were reading, offering to pour him a cup of tea as he sits in the chair opposite you.

"Oh, thank you Princess, but I wouldn't want to put you through the trouble." He chuckles. 

"We go through this every morning, it is no trouble at all to make you a simple cup of tea." You meet his gaze, raising an eyebrow at him. 

"Fine, but only because you look like you're about to stab me if I refuse." He teases you with a laugh, you couldn't help but join in with giggles of your own. You carefully pour the tea into the waiting cup, Charles focusing intently on your small, delicate hands as they worked.

"See something interesting?" His eyes quickly snap up to your face, a gentle smile gracing your features. "You're staring."

"My apologies, Princess." He lets out a flustered chuckle. "I just always forget how petite your hands are." You hand him his cup and saucer, his fingers brushing over yours in the exchange.

"Surely it can't be that much of a difference." He held out his hand to you.

"May I?" You give him an apprehensive nod, letting your hand slip into his. He held his up alongside yours. His rough, calloused skin incredibly warm against your own. Your fingertips barely reached his first knuckle, his palm nearly twice as wide as your own. He chuckles at the sight before pulling back. You let your hand fall back into your lap, fighting off the heat that was slowly building in your cheeks.

"So, what story have you come to share today?" He ponders it for a moment, taking a long sip of his tea.

"Let's see, where did we leave off last time?" He hums pensively before continuing, "if I'm not mistaken I was telling you about one of our trips through the mountains?" You nodded, thinking back to the tale he had told you yesterday. "We were crossing the border into the next kingdom over…"

"I'm telling you, something doesn't seem right about this place." Matthew says, keeping a sharp eye on the treeline of the trail. "I feel like we have eyes boring into us from every direction." He looked ahead at his commander, Attila who was also unusually tense. The three of you alerted at the groaning of a tree branch overhead. "Get down!" Matthew shouts, an arrow whizzed overhead just as he ducked down, sticking into a nearby tree.

"My, my, if it isn't Commander Dorn in the flesh, my mistake gentlemen!" A chipper voice rings down from the foliage. Charles readied his axe, he was having trouble pin pointing exactly where the voice was coming from. Was this some kind of enemy attack? If it was, why was he wasting so much time talking? More branches creaked over head, the group trying to follow his path. He appeared from the leaves, dropping into the middle of the path, bow still in hand. "There's been a lot of bandits around these parts recently, forgive the confusion." Charles instantly recognized who they were looking at. Every town they had come across seemed to know of him. Rumors of a lanky man with a bow, a greater shot than Agilaz himself.

"You're that ranger they're all talking about, the one that came down from the North." The man quirks and eyebrow at him.

"Oh, so you've heard of me." He gives them a showman's bow. "Well, flattery will get you everywhere." He chuckles. "Name's Falk, I'd like to venture a guess at you being the Wolfborne Company."

"How have you heard of us all the way out here?" Attila asks, his stern expression never shifting.

"You've had some incredible exploits Commander Dorn, there isn't a single person around these parts that hasn't uttered your name. The fearless leader that carries a sword with a brass wolf head on the hilt." Falk's eyes narrow as they flash down to his Commander's weapon. Attila stares the man down, silently analyzing him.

"You have a horse?" He questions, Falk nods.

"He's a ways off in the woods, but yes."

"You're welcome to ride along with us if you'd like. A man with skills like yours would be a great asset to my company." Falk smirks, slinging his bow over his shoulder.

"Riding along side a band of mercenaries like you? I think it's the other way around." They planned to meet in the next town a couple miles up the path.

"Are you sure we can trust him?" Matthew asks Attila.

"No." He responds bluntly. "But whether we can trust him or not is irrelevant. We're much better off with him as an ally."

"So he's a good shot with a bow, I think he's awfully full of himself-"

"He missed Charles on purpose." Attila explains. "A ranger like him wouldn't miss such an easy shot, especially at a fraction of a centimeter like that."

"Don't think that warrants him riding with us." Charles mumbles.

"Ah, don't be so tough on him." Attila chuckles. "If he was in any way personable I'm sure he would've been snatched up by an army by now."

"It sounds like you and Sir Falk didn't get along at first." You giggle.

"Not in the slightest." Charles responds with a laugh. "Falk has a very… spontaneous personality, to put it lightly. He likes to get himself into trouble by rushing headfirst into things. I'm definitely one of the most tactical of the group. I have a tendency to overthink things."

"I can see why the two of you would butt heads." You say with a smile. "But, you two seem so close now, what happened?"

"Patience Princess, I was getting there." Charles assures you, chuckling at your eagerness. "We had been traveling with him for a couple weeks. We had decided to join up with another group of mercenaries we had worked with in the past, try and get a little extra money before the colder months came. They failed to mention how strong our opponents would be."

For the first time since the battle had started Charles was able to pause for a brief moment to take in the scene that was unfolding around him. The deafening clang of metal against metal never ceased, friend and foe alike lay dead at his feet. He had lost the other members of his company in the chaos, leaving him much more vulnerable than he would have liked. He whirled around at the sound of a loud thud behind him, a giant of a swordsmen falling to the ground, an arrow piercing directly through his throat. Charles' eyes drifted behind his attacker to find Falk standing there, bow still drawn. The two of them stared at each other, neither knowing what the appropriate thing to say in response would be. "Behind you!" Falk suddenly yells. Charles caught a flash of the ranger charging in his direction as he turned to face the threat. He swung his battleax wide, not knowing where his enemy was he would at least stand a chance at hitting him. The edge of his blade grazed the man's arm, not enough to do serious damage but enough to startle him backwards. "I'll cover you, take care of him. We have three more approaching on my side." Charles heaed the thunk of Falk's bow string as he sent an arrow. "Two more." He states smugly. 

"Just don't get yourself killed." Charles says gruffly, he had more important matters to attend to than babysitting his Commander's golden goose. He locked eyes with his enemy, his prior look of surprise now nothing short of pure bloodlust. Charles stood his ground, carefully analyzing the man's movements as he prepared his attack. He was inexperienced; the grip he had on the hilt of his sword was awkward and noticeably too stiff, he took no sort of battle stance, the tip of his sword shook with unease. He charged forward with a yell, his voice cracking as he almost stumbled face first into the dirt. Charles stepped to the side, bringing his ax down swiftly on the man's blade, cracking it in half with ease. The man looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes. It was apparent to Charles now that this was no man, no warrior of this kingdom's army, the boy cowering before him couldn't have been more than seventeen. Charles nods in the direction of the treeline, "get out of here, there's a town about a three days walk through the woods, if there's anyone left of the army they won't go looking for you there." The boy nods, scrambling off before Charles has a chance to change his mind. 

"Shit!" He hears Falk curse. He spins on his heels to find him splayed on the ground, struggling to fight off the knife being forced towards his throat. Charles charged forward with a yell, throwing his full weight behind his swing when the man was in range. The blade sliced through his neck in one fell swoop, his head bouncing off of the ground with a full thud. Falk rolled the man's decapitated body off of him, panting as he struggled to catch his breath. "Charles… thank you." Charles holds out his hand to him, hoisting him from the ground. He brushes off Falk's shoulder.

"I thought I told you not to get killed." They share a laugh. Charles readied his ax at the sound of a snapping twig, by that time Falk had already retrieved an arrow from his quiver and shot it into the approaching man's neck.

"I know it probably doesn't mean much coming from me, but I'm eternally grateful that you saved my life."

"I'd hope you'd do the same for me, that's all." Charles responds with a smile.

"Not to get all emotional during battle, but I'm glad I got to join up with your company, you're a fine group of fighters." He states proudly.

"Save the tears for the victory banquet, we've still got work to do."

"What are you telling her that old, boring story for?" Falk appeared in the doorway, leaning up against the frame and crossing his arms over his chest.

"I need to make sure she knows how insufferable you used to be." Both of them laugh. "I take it I'm being summoned?" Falk nods.

"Roel was supposed to return from his expedition this morning, we're going to ride out to look for him." Charles informs him he'll be along shortly.

"I'm sorry to cut things short today, Your Highness." He apologizes, bowing his head slightly.

"There's no need to be sorry Charles." You reach out and carefully take his hand in yours. "I'm sure you'll find him, but good luck, and please… please be careful." He gently squeezes your hand in his, breathing out a chuckle at how tiny you were compared to him.

"I'll be careful, Your Highness. You have my word."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag List: @ramblingoak @mustluvecho @kissingghouls @moss-the-moth @the-hole-in-terzos-shoe @jennmakesitweird @gothdaddyissues @angellayercake @angel-layer-cake @iamsarahsaysso @belnovacaine @vampghoulette @canarycolemine @copiousloverofcopia @rabidghoul

[forwhump]

Don’t Do This

a/n; I was gonna try and take a couple days off posting ‘cause I felt bad for being way too much but I’m addicted to the panicky feeling that a new post gives me & I could only hold out for one day :’) hello again

I wrote this world in drabbles so that’s a big part of the reason it’s getting posted in drabbles but the conundrum I’m having now is that two or three of them are now actually following the plot & the rest are all just completely random so WHAT is the rhyme or reason here ?? there isn’t one buckle in

here’s another random ♡

(introducing the rest of the unit ! fun fun fun)(I’ve created a universe that’s just so much fun for everybody involved)

tw/cw: grievous bodily harm, mutilation, disfigurement, life altering injuries, rape, noncon, guns, graphic depictions of violence, gore, transphobia, misgendering, psychological torture, torture, amputation, humiliation

living weapon whumpee, creepy whumper, super soldiers, punishment

word count : this one’s long as hell, like almost 4K words, that’s why you’re getting the heads up <3

Good days, in a place like this, are far and few in between.

Most days are wrought with some kind of torment, haunted by something unimaginable. Silas’ day to day can be averaged out to mutilation, brain surgery, training exercises — a game of slaughter for the soldiers — and field tests — a game of slaughter for Silas.

Silas doesn’t have a lot of good days.

When he does, they just make him tense.

It’s like something is missing, and how fortunate it is that the missing piece is some kind of agony but Silas finds himself bracing for it all the same.

They’re sprawled across the common room, across the couches and the mismatched carpets, and Silas isn’t in surgery, nobody else is in training, their wounds are all healing. Silas is dwarfing the loveseat but Wren had fit himself into the spot at his side and he’s so warm next to him that it’s a good day. It makes Silas’ fingers twitch. Something’s just —

Something isn’t right. It’s electric, and it prickles at the back of his neck. He’s already looking at the door when it chirps to life; a keycard is accepted, then a fingerprint, then the vault lock is unsecured.

Silas was right. Something’s wrong.

The door grinds open and a cavalry of soldiers explode into the room like a swarm of flies. It’s an ambush. They move quickly, covering the door and the perimeter of the common room, shouting over each other, shouting commands.

They flood through the common room, guns pointed towards them.

Wren’s small hand finds Silas’ quickly and Silas squeezes. He helps Wren to his feet as guns are aimed into their faces and soldiers shout at them, commanding and militant, “on your feet, asset! On your feet!”

They’re herded into a row, which gives Silas a cool, uneasy feeling he doesn’t let show on his face. Standing next to each other, they’re too drastically different in size to hold hands in any practical way, but Wren keeps close at his side, fingers woven through Silas’ sleeve so tightly his knuckles are white.

It gives Silas a pang of — not of reassurance, because it’s next to impossible to ever be reassured in a place like this, but something a bit more akin to resolve. Something’s wrong, but it really doesn’t matter what it is. If Wren’s in any sort of danger, Silas will raise fuckin’ hell. No harm will befall even a hair on his little blonde head as long as Silas has something to fuckin’ say about it.

He shifts, only slightly, shielding Wren behind his arm just as Point saunters into their unit, hands behind his back, at ease. He walks with casual, unhurried footsteps, pacing up and down the line of them, and he’s quiet for a long time. He stops once in front of Wren and Silas doesn’t like the way he looks at him.

“Assets,” he greets finally, loud and commanding. “It has come to my attention that this unit has been causing me some trouble. Again.” He stops, turns to face them, arms still at ease. “One of you,” he says, “has been feeding some information to the big guy —“ he points at Silas “— that we suspect will make him extremely volatile. That puts us in danger, and that just won’t do, will it?”

Point looks down the row of them before he settles on Wren, close against his back. “And it was you, wasn’t it?” He asks. “You weren’t a very good girl.”

Wren inhales sharply at his back and Silas isn’t sure if the race of his heartbeat is Wren’s or his own. Something cold starts to trickle down the back of his neck, just as cold as whatever’s started to frost over the inside of his ribcage.

“I asked you a question,” Point says.

Wren’s fingertips dig into Silas’ arm so hard he probably draws blood. “No,” he breathes, so soft it’s barely audible.

Point grins at him. “No?”

“No,” he insists, just as soft. “I’ve never — no. They don’t — they don’t know.”

His eyebrows lift. “They don’t know?” The way his smile spreads wider across his face is grotesque. “My,” he says. “Didn’t this just get a whole lot more interesting?”

“Please,” Wren whispers.

The way Point grins at him makes Silas’ stomach bubble. He pushes Wren behind him entirely. “Fuck off.”

Point’s gaze flickers up to Silas’ face, almost appraising, before that awful, grotesque smile spreads across his face again. “That’s why you’ve got such a soft spot for her,” he says. “She never told you she’s a whore.”

Wren inhales sharply and Silas is going to rub that smile off Point’s face with the concrete floor.

Before he gets the opportunity, Robin says, “it was me.”

He doesn’t break line, he doesn’t change face, a proper and trained soldier. But, “I talked to Silas. Wren didn’t know.”

Point turns his head before he follows the movement of it, stalking the line of them to Robin.

Wren’s older brother, the familial resemblance is undeniable; they have the same white hair, the same dark eyes, the same cheekbones. The difference between them is that Wren is a person, soft and warm, and Robin is a super soldier. He’s big and he’s broad, his hair cropped short above his ears. When he isn’t in combat, he wears round, dorky glasses. He’s always scared the hell out of Silas and Silas doesn’t quite know why. Not much else scares him.

Robin had come to him maybe a week ago, and he hadn’t said much. He didn’t know much, even. Wren hasn’t really been…himself, he’d said. More than usual. He won’t tell me what’s going on with him but I was hoping you would…keep an eye on him. He trusts you.

He really didn’t even need to ask, because Silas was always keeping an eye on Wren but Robin was worried about him and Silas knows more than enough how that feels.

He keeps his chin up as Point approaches. Wren is shaking at Silas’ back. “You?”

“Sir,” Robin agrees.

Point hums thoughtfully. “This unit is just full of surprises today, isn’t it?”

He just barely looks at his men, tipping his head towards Robin. The militia descends on him, shouting and aiming and threatening, getting Robin to his knees, hands behind his head. Two of them hold him there, kneeling on the concrete as Point stands in front of him with a grin.

“Asset,” he says. “You have been charged today with inciting violence.”

“No,” Wren breathes. “No, please —“

“Normally,” Point says, grinning wider, not turning his head, “the punishment for inciting violence is execution. But we’ve made exceptions for the freak,” he explains, his eyes flickering to Silas, “so we’ve decided to show you mercy. You will get to walk away.” And he grins, flicking his wrist, and a buck knife slides out from his sleeve and glints tauntingly in the fluorescence. “We just need to make absolutely certain you are no longer capable of inciting violence in our facility. Precautions need to be taken.” With his other hand, he grabs a fistful of Robin’s white hair and he drives his knee into his windpipe.

Robin chokes, gasping for ragged breaths as Point takes a step back, just far enough that he can boot Robin in the face and throw him off his knees, onto his back. From there, Point stomps down onto his face, and the pitch of the gurgling noise that Robin makes gives Silas goosebumps.

“Today,” he announces, “we will take your tongue. We will no longer have to worry about threats of violence, and you will be used as an example to your unit. We don’t make empty threats. We will not have any more insurgence in this fuckin’ place, do I make myself clear?”

“Please,” Wren breathes, peeking out from around Silas’ arm and Silas tries to shield him again but he’s stubborn, he’s insistent. “Please. Don’t do this.”

Point looks at him and he looks for a long time. It makes all the hair at the back of Silas’ neck stand up, and he holds out an arm, not shielding Wren, just blocking him, just in case. Silas can see the idea form in the way that Point’s face lights up, cruel and delighted. He clicks his tongue at Wren, angling his head, some kind of signal. “Bring the girl over here,” he commands. “I want to be inside her while I cut out her brother’s tongue.”

“No,” Robin grunts, with the wet strain of somebody bleeding down the back of his own throat.

“No,” Wren breathes, taking a quick step back.

A wall of black tactical gear and assault rifles closes in on him quickly, and Silas moves without any hesitation or conscious thought at all.

He pivots. He’s gentle, he’s so gentle with Wren as he pushes him behind himself and barricades him from the nightmare cavalry. Wren’s hand finds his arm so tightly that Silas’ bones grind together and it’s his resolve. He won’t let anything happen to Wren — he can’t. Over his dead fuckin’ body.

Robin — whatever. Silas could take him or leave him. But he means a lot to Wren, and Silas won’t let Wren down.

“I fuckin’ dare you,” he spits.

Give lifts his gun. “Stand down, asset.”

“Tell you what,” Silas says, lifting his chin. “If you get me down, I’ll stay down.”

Give aims his gun towards Silas’ dick. “I don’t think that’ll be too hard.”

But the funniest thing about these soldiers is that they know Silas. They were here for his creation. They’ve witnessed every field test. They know what he can do. They know exactly what he’s capable of. When Silas needs to be escorted from the unit they’ll argue amongst themselves, throwing weight and rank around, about who has to stand in front because none of them want to put their backs to him.

They’re scared of him. They’re right to be, but they’re scared of him. But there’s something in this unit — maybe it’s because Silas is corned and drastically outnumbered, but it makes them cocky. It’s like they forget to be scared.

They should always be scared.

Silas rips the gun out of Give’s hands and shatters every bone in his face with the base. He drops into a limp pile of limbs and Silas can’t tell if he’s breathing. He struggles, sometimes, with how little it actually takes to kill a human being. Overkill, sometimes, but he’s never tried to tone it down.

“Asset!” Preach bellows, and Silas hooks his foot behind his ankle, sending him sprawling. Once he’s on the ground, Silas drives his heel down and right through the centre of his face. He hits concrete, and bone tears through his sock and bites open the bottom of his foot.

He’s rewarded with a knife between the ribs.

It’s whatever, it’s a knife to the ribs, it’s definitely not Silas’ first. But it hurts, of course it fuckin’ hurts, it hurts all the way through him and deep into his chest and he rips the knife out of his side with a roar. Rock, still standing close at his side, exhales an, “aw, fuck,” before Silas gives him back his knife. He brings it up, through the underside of his chin, into the roof of his mouth. Blood pours out of his face like a faucet had been turned on. He hits the ground with a noise like a splatter.

This time, he’s rewarded with a bullet to the face.

It isn’t lethal, but Silas is still shot in the face.

His cheekbone shatters on impact and he goes completely blind on his left side. For a second, for only a second, the world around him blurs completely, but it happens for a second too long. Silas sways, and when the vision clears in his right eye they’re all close, they’re all way too fuckin’ close.

“Back up,” he snarls, but then everything blurs again and their hands are on Wren and they’re trying to wrench him from his side.

“NO!” Silas roars.

“Silas!” Wren cries. He reaches for him, and Silas grabs him quickly by the hand.

While his arm is outstretched, Need strikes, and he breaks all the way through Silas’ elbow with a buck knife.

It crackles with pain for barely a moment before Silas stops feeling anything in his arm. It falls to his side, useless and limp, and Silas quickly reaches for Wren with his other arm but Silas thinks he might be losing a lot of blood and quickly isn’t quick enough.

Wren is hauled away as Silas is surrounded, guns aimed at all his most vital spots, fingers on triggers.

Wren fights, begs, struggles, but Tide and Vineyard make easy work of dragging him across the concrete. His wrists are tied behind his back, and when they drop him at Point’s feet, they drop him on his back, his hands trapped against the concrete. There’s something really helpless about it and it makes Silas really nauseous. The knife is still pierced through his elbow.

Point lifts his boot and presses it down against Wren’s throat, holding him there.

Silas doesn’t snarl so much as his chest makes some kind of noise, something low, like some kind of predatory animal. The barrel of a gun is hoisted, cold, against the nape of his neck, a warning.

“This is getting just fuckin’ ridiculous,” Point snaps at the room at large. “Ridiculous! All of this fuckin’ trouble! For some whore!” He looks down at Wren and tells him directly, “you are not worth all this fuckin’ trouble.”

Something akin to hatred knots in Silas’ chest, something akin to hatred but something so much stronger, something he doesn’t have the words to describe. It’s heavy, and it’s restless under his skin. The knife is still pierced through his elbow.

Point coils Wren’s braid around his fist and drags him over to Robin as Wren cries. Robin tries to protest, makes a hiccuping sort of sound, but he doesn’t speak. He probably can’t. He’s drowning.

“You people have been giving me a lot of trouble,” Point announces. He props Wren’s head up against Robin’s chest. “I’ve earned this.”

Wren sobs and it’s the single worst sound that Silas has ever heard. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget it. The knife is still pierced through his elbow.

“Please,” he begs, “please, please. Don’t do this. Please.”

Point grins at him. “You know how much I love it when you beg.” In a single, fluid motion, he hauls Wren’s joggers down his thighs.

The knife is still pierced through Silas’ elbow. He takes quick stock. He can still use one of his arms and he can still see from one of his eyes. He’s probably still at an advantage over a regular, human soldier.

Except Hal is swarmed, too. Not the same as Silas, because Hal’s a little more human than Silas, but he’s swarmed, and still, he shoves a soldier out of his way by the side of his head as he shouts, “you can’t do this!”

Point looks up quickly. He kind of scans the room before he settles on Hal. “Excuse me?”

“You can’t fuckin’ do this!” Hal cries.

“Stand down,” a soldier warns him and Hal pulls that guy’s knees out from under him.

“Are you fuckin’ serious?” He protests. “This is fucked up!”

Point looks down at Wren for a long time, who cries quietly and doesn’t look back. Finally, he leans over him, up to Robin, and pries his mouth open. Robin doesn’t fight him. He doesn’t even hiccup this time.

Point eases his tongue from his mouth and severs it with a flick of his wrist. Stepping over Wren and Robin, he sidles up to Hal, getting right up in his face. “Which one are you?”

“Singh,” Hal answers. He adds, mocking, “sir.”

Something flickers in Point’s jaw. “Singh,” he agrees. “They tell me you’re not very bright, so I will give you the benefit of the doubt. I will choose to believe it is ignorance and not defiance that has made you think you have any right to stand up to me or to tell me what I can’t do. You do not. I can do anything I’d like. I can do whatever I want to you people. Do I make myself clear?”

Hal doesn’t deign that with a response.

Point flicks Robin’s tongue into his face and bellows, “do I make myself clear?”

Hal doesn’t flinch, but he closes his eyes.

Point delights in it. “Soldier,” he says, and when Hal looks at him, he goes on, “you know to look at a superior when they’re talking to you.” He looks at Vineyard. “Both eyes. Left and right.”

Vineyard nods.

Hal says, “what?”

The swarm is back at him in a second and it’s bigger this time. They force Hal onto the ground, onto his back, they pin him there by his arms and his legs and his wrists and his chest and his chin. Tide holds his eyelids open.

Hal thrashes. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me? This is bullshit!”

“You should’ve known better than to misbehave,” Point says.

He hands Vineyard the same knife he’d used to amputate Robin’s tongue. Vineyard flips it over in his fist, and straddles Hal’s chest. Hal thrashes again, trying to throw him off. “Get the fuck off me! You can’t do this shit! This is fucked!”

“What did I just say?” Point snaps. He snaps his fingers, and Vineyard carves both of Hal’s eyeballs out of their sockets.

He screams the whole time.

He screams himself hoarse, and when Vineyard climbs off of him, when the swarm depletes, he’s a pile on the floor, head down, and Silas can’t tell if he’s still conscious.

“I am getting sick,” Point spits, “sick of the behaviour from this fuckin’ unit. You are livestock. You are property. You belong to me. You have no power here. And I’m delighted to let you know, livestock, that you aren’t even our best. You aren’t special. If you can’t learn to behave yourselves, you will all be put down, and our efforts will be relocated to another unit and you will not be missed. Except the girl,” he adds, mostly to Wren, standing over him again. He winks. “What a waste of such fuckable meat. We’ll keep her in the barracks until we get bored of her. She will be kept busy.”

Wren sobs and Silas’ fingers twitch. His arm is hot with bleeding.

Point crouches down above Wren again and makes a sound, a mock sigh. “I was really looking forward to fucking you while I cut his tongue out,” he says, pulling his joggers the rest of the way down, “and now I’m really disappointed. So you’re gonna have to make that up to me.”

Wren sobs again. His voice is trembling as he begs, “please, please. Please don’t do this. Please.”

“Be good,” Point tells him, and there isn’t even any mocking amusement in it. “I’m already disappointed. Don’t put me in a bad mood.”

“Please,” Wren sobs.

Point pulls him a little closer, pulls his head off of Robin’s chest. “Be a good girl,” he says. “I’m not asking.”

His hands find Wren’s waist and Wren wails. “Please.”

Something shifts in Point’s face. His bad mood. “Just be a good girl!” He cracks his fist into Wren’s face so hard that the back of Wren’s head ricochets off the pavement before he goes completely, unsettlingly still. His cheekbone is already bruised as Point snaps, “fuck sake.” With a grunt, he spits in Wren’s face. “Dumb bitch.” As he stands, he looks right at Silas. “Not as much fun fucking her when she’s not awake to fight me off.”

Silas is a violent person, but the kind of violence that Point stokes in him is something like nothing else Silas has ever experienced. It’s dizzying, not a thirst but a lust, and Silas doesn’t just want to kill him but he wants to eviscerate him.

He makes it half a step closer before the soldier standing closest, Vienna, lifts his gun and shoves the barrel tight against the bottom of Silas’ chin.

“Stand down.”

Silas doesn’t even have time to remove the knife from his arm. Silas grabs Vienna around the throat and crushes every bone in his neck with his other hand. He’s dead before he has time to react.

Two gunshots are the soundtrack to his body hitting the concrete. The pain registers a moment later.

It explodes through both of Seven’s kneecaps, one at a time, a white hot sort of pain that seeps into the marrow of his bones and hurts from the inside. He drops to his knees, and fire licks up into his hips, his chest, it churns his stomach with something hot and acidic that crawls up the back of his throat as he bellows.

Point lowers his handgun. “He told you to stand down.”

“Eat shit,” Silas seethes, and Point fires another shot into the already shattered plate of his right knee. The way the pain ripples through him knocks the wind out of him, and Silas groans through his teeth, breathless.

“Down, boy,” Point says. Silas snarls as he saunters closer, gun raised but almost mocking in its brandishing. “You embarrass yourself, you know,” he tells him. “Losing all this blood for the sake of the fucksleeve. This is a waste of your talents.”

Silas snorts at him. “Get fucked.”

It brings back Point’s grin, and he points at Wren’s limp body. “Like your little girlfriend’s going to be?”

Silas rips the knife out of his arm. He means to throw it, but he doesn’t get that far.

He gets shot in the face. Again.

It blows everything to darkness for a second and when Silas comes back to himself he’s on his back, looking up at Point, illuminated ominously by the fluorescent lights.

Point grins down at him again. “For constant belligerence,” he says, “left leg. Below the knee.” He holds out a hand, and Vineyard hands him an axe. “I’ll do the honours. Shame the girl isn’t conscious for this one.” He turns the axe in his hands, brandishing it dramatically before he hoists the end of it towards June.

“Tollier,” he says. “Any grand, heroic gestures for this one before I amputate his leg?”

June looks at Silas like she might try.

He shakes his head against the concrete.

She looks at him for as long as the moment will allow. Still, she doesn’t look away when she whispers, “no.”

“Hmm,” Point says. “Good girl.” He looks at her with an almost genuine approval. “Two fingers from your left hand for general insubordination,” he orders. “But I’ll let you pick which two fingers.”

Vineyard’s grin glints in the overhead lights.

Silas is sure June screams, but it sounds like his ears are full of water and he can’t hear much of anything else.

Point grins, wide and maniacal. It’s the most evil Silas has ever seen him look. “Brace yourself, big guy,” he says, and he leans in real close to make sure Silas can hear him. “This is really going to hurt.”