#hold me down & still i rise by any means i will survive

[nausicaaandhermouth]

A Kiss For Loyalty

masterlist

young!silco x gn!reader [1.2k][AO3]

summary: You find him after the attack on the bridge, and you're left to figure out how to tread the fragile state of him.

tags: young silco, a few hours after vander tries to drown him, angst, established relationship, hurt silco, not betad

a/n: mid-lecture we were looking at photos of gash wounds and i couldn't help but think of young silco's face fresh after the drowning, so ofc i had to write a comfort fic for him. kinda comfort. it's mostly angst.

Vander couldn’t look you in the eye, couldn’t form a single word. And at first, worry was what overtook you—Silco hadn’t survived, lost in the fight. But the more you looked at the larger man who had returned, the more you recognised something else: the aftereffect when he’d had too much to drink, had raised his voice, had felt guilty. Regret.

You find Silco in your bedroom, curled up on the worn mattress that had held you both some countless nights. It had overheard the visions for your new nation, the sloppy passion of drunken evenings, the quiet rise and fall of breaths during winter. Now it’s witnessing something new.

You’ve never heard Silco cry. Your bedroom shrinks at the sound of it, as if the corners darken and round themselves to hold and hush him. It’s a sharp sting, an undeniably pained cry bleeding into his palm, cupped around his mouth.

When you approach, you’re silent—assessing, investigating, worrying if this isn’t something you can fix. He’s never been so evidently broken. You’re not sure whether it’s about Vander or at the failure of their uprising, both of which had taken a large portion of his heart.

“Silco?” you whisper, taking another step forward.

“Don’t,” he manages, his sobs becoming quieter, but affecting his breath, bubbling out of him in squeaks and chokes. “Please,”

You shake your head, keeping your ground but keeping your eyes on him. He’s refusing to remove his reddened hands from his face, his hair curtaining over his left side, black, wet strings.

“You’re hurt,” you furrow, focusing on the blood down his hand. You rush forward, chest attempting to wrangle in a frenzied heart. “Show me, hey, S—”

“Stop!” he inches away from you, a childlike recoil that makes you freeze.

It’s a foreign behaviour, a desperation he’s never worn, never come close to mimicking. As far as you’ve known him he’s been the opposite. Even in pain, he stitched together a composure so convincing it made others doubt he could ever truly feel the hurt he was raised around.

You suppose that it’s something he’s worked on, refined throughout the years after taking on the responsibility of becoming Zaun’s face, alongside Vander. His ideologies had spilled straight from his heart into your ear. You understood why he worked so hard to maintain a strong face.

That man was gone; he hadn't entered the room this time.

He’s hiding, you see, shielding his face from you. This, you understand, is something he thinks may spare you from even a fraction of the pain he must be feeling. He’s always been so. To hoard the suffering and smile.

“You don’t want me to see you?” you ask, kneeling by the bed and retracting your hands.

Silco doesn’t answer, the chokes of suppressed sobs the only sound from him.

“It’s alright,” with a shake of your head, you turn around, facing the other way and leaning against the bed. “I don’t have to see you. Just… just talk to me,”

You wait a beat, then another, waiting for his voice, willing his voice to regard you again. Anything with a meaning that you could warp into a sign of hope.

“Please,” you add. It’s unintentionally desperate, pleading, giving him the power of controlling where the conversation goes. Something he needs, you suppose, something he’s certain is still predictable.

You hear a sharp breath behind you, then the shuffle of your bedsheets. Your eyes slide the farthest they can without turning your head, attempting to see any glimpse of him.

Then his hand enters your periphery, pale skin against scarlet, fingers twitching and shaking as his forearm rests on your shoulder.

You take gentle hold of his hand, turning it this way and that in search for wounds. But nothing. “Who…” your breath escapes, “Is this your blood?”

“Yes,” he responds, a word that pricks at your lungs sharply.

You see the moment clearer now. A wound so deep that to reveal it is its own pain.

You recall Vander’s face. The shame that distorted his features, how ugly it becomes as you try to piece together the fragmented pieces. 

“Vander did something,” you surmise. Your breath quickens, a sneer creating brackets around your flared nostrils. “Did Vander do something?”

You feel Silco’s breath near the top of your head, but before you’re able to turn, a weight settles over you. Momentarily, you hold, letting the firmness of his muscles process on your body, around your shoulders, his other arm snaking over your bones and holding you backwards to him.

You hear his soft sniffs over your head and slightly to one side, the bone of his cheek pressing against your crown.

There it is again. It’s a spear through your body, the sound of him. It strikes a fissure along your lungs, each sudden inhale a crack veining in your airways, each tremoring breath he takes an earthquake on your skull. Vander, what have you done?

You take his hand and hold it to your cheek, the cool back of his hand against the warm apple of your face. You interlace your fingers, a familiar practice, just as fluid as the locking of legs in the night, or the pressing of palms for a prayer.

Next was the chaste kiss on his index knuckle, for loyalty. Then on the middle knuckle, for liberty. Another on the ring knuckle, for luck. And lastly, a kiss on the pinky knuckle, for love.

It was a silent conversation he and you had made, meeting mouth to bone always easier than devoting a voice to each word.

His other hand wrapped around your wrist, bringing your arm upwards and over your head, your own knuckles meeting his familiar lips. But they tremble.

He breathes a kiss, gentle, on your index knuckle, starting, then failing. His breath falls jagged on your skin.

For a moment he restarts, the warmth of his air hovering over your knuckle. But again he fails.

Your frown deepens. Even more so when he moves your hand and skips to your pinky knuckle, the only promise fulfilled.

“How bad is it?” your voice slightly muffles against his hand near your mouth.

He swallows, clearing his throat. “At the… we were at the river, he—” he grips your hand slightly tighter.

“It’s still hurting?”

His clothes shuffle. “Yeah,”

“Let me look?”

Silence.

You start to think he’ll reject you again, not yet prepared to face you in whatever shape Vander had left him. But he loosens his arm around your shoulders and moves away, his presence at your back fading.

Your other hand remains in his, the anchor, as you shift on the floor and turn.

You look up and your eyes meet. No. One eye meets yours.

You sense his panic by how the one remaining blue jumps between your eyes, tips of his mouth downwards. He brushes aside his wet hair.

The left side of his face had been marred, a trench of exposed muscle, skin, and blood bared at you. The blackened sclera is haunting, a flame moving in tandem with the watery blue of his other eye.

You’re more than certain there’s nothing but indignation gushing through your veins. Yet, Silco remains beautiful. You realised a long time ago it was difficult for him to not be, no matter the state of him. And still now, left eye diseased with the molten of betrayal, mouth frowned by grief, fear in his good eye.

“It’s not over,” he whispers, leaning forward as you reach up and cup the unmarred side of him. “We’ll take back Zaun,”

There he is. No man, no river, could ever kill him. “You’ll show them,” you press a kiss to his index knuckle.

[fastandcarlos]

Victim Of A Bad Day : ̗̀➛ Oscar Piastri

summary: after what can only be described as a nightmare of a day, oscar ends up coming home only to take it all out on you

Your smile was soft as Oscar walked through the apartment, putting your phone down and rising to your feet. You went over to him, holding your arms out, but Oscar’s head shook back at you. 

“Please, no,” he told you, walking straight past you through the living room and into the kitchen. 

You turned around as you watched Oscar walk away, debating what to do next. You slowly followed behind as you watched him grab a glass from out of the cupboard and fill it with water. Every movement was done with a sigh, thudding around the place like a toddler running around. 

“I’m guessing your day could’ve been better?” You asked, trying to bring a smile to his face. 

You stood and waited for Oscar to acknowledge you, but instead he carried on walking around. His head was down as he moved, his eyes not even looking across in your direction, as if you weren’t there. 

“Oscar, you know I’m here for you,” you told him, beginning to get concerned with his behaviour. It was unlike Oscar to be so quiet, to close off from you and deal with everything all by himself. 

A shrug came from Oscar as he walked out of the kitchen and into the living room, throwing himself down on the sofa. He grabbed his phone, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table, almost groaning when he noticed that you had followed right behind him. 

“So, we’ll just spend our evening in silence, shall we?” You asked, perching on the end of the sofa. 

“Suits me,” Oscar bluntly responded, still staring down at his phone, ignoring the sigh that came from across the room from you. 

Your head shook in disbelief at how cold Oscar was, never had you seen this side of him before. “I don’t know what’s happened today Oscar, but you could try and at least treat me with even the smallest bit of dignity tonight.” 

“Just leave me alone,” Oscar requested, throwing his arms up into the air. “Just because I’ve not come home and thrown my arms around you and talked your ear off doesn’t mean I need constant questions. Just take the hint and give me a bit of space.” 

Your body tensed up at how loud Oscar’s voice was, not quite sure how to react. “You’re not you Oscar, what would you like me to do? Pretend that everything is fine? I didn’t realise that caring about you was such a crime, next time I won’t bother worrying about you.” 

“I don’t need caring for, I haven’t asked you too,” Oscar replied. 

Your eyes widened in surprise at what Oscar had to say, stunned by how blunt he was. Perhaps you had been a little overbearing, but all you were guilty of was worrying about him.  

“That’s fine then,” you told Oscar, picking up your phone and sitting opposite him. You sat back, stretching out across the sofa, deciding to switch off to the fact that Oscar was even in the room. 

His eyes watched you though, shaking his head as you mimicked him. “I don’t ever remember asking for someone to worry about me, you know I’ve survived long enough all by myself.” 

Your heart ached as Oscar spoke, the hurt clear on your face as your eyes flickered across to Oscar. As he met your eyes, Oscar’s frustration disappeared, replaced by concern that he was the reason for your disappointment.  

“I don’t even know what to say,” you shrugged, shaking your head disapprovingly, full of despair. Rising to your feet, Oscar kept an eye on you as you left the room and went into your bedroom. 

Time apart was exactly what the two of you needed as you let the events sink in. You were both full of anger and upset, unable to believe that the two of you could ever have such an argument. It was unlike any other disagreement that you’d had with Oscar, leaving you rather shellshocked as you laid down on your bed. 

You found yourself staring up at the ceiling as you replayed the argument again and again in your head. A shiver ran down your spine each time you heard Oscar’s voice in your head, the resentment and annoyance so clear, somehow you being the reason for it too. 

After a while, you could hear Oscar moving through the apartment, knowing exactly where he was heading. You picked up your phone to make yourself look busy as the bedroom door opened, with Oscar quietly walking in, sitting on the end of the bed. 

You didn’t respond as Oscar turned to face you, laying himself down beside you. His hand rested against your stomach as he tried to get your attention, knowing that he had plenty of making up to do. 

“I’m sorry,” Oscar murmured, “the way I behaved then was completely unreasonable and out of order.” 

You placed your phone down, brows knitting together as you glanced across at Oscar. His heart sunk as he saw how upset you still were, guilt eating away at him knowing it was all his fault. 

“I don’t want to hear it.” 

“Please,” Oscar sighed, expecting you to dismiss him. “I shouldn’t have said what I said, I know that you care so much, and that’s one of my favourite things about you. Having you take care of me is the best feeling in the world, I don’t know what I’d do without you around to support me.” 

As your body turned slightly to face Oscar, you could see a faint smile on his face. Knowing that you were at least listening to him was a start for Oscar, hardly expecting you to fall into his arms and forgive him as quick as a flash, but at least it was a sign. 

“I don’t care how bad your day is Oscar; I don’t expect to be spoken to like that. I was only caring, and maybe I was a little too much, but if you’d have just told me that you needed space then I would’ve known what you needed from me, rather than just being shouted at.” 

“I was stupid,” Oscar told you, “there’s no explanation for it, bad day or not.” 

You could see the effects of the day in Oscar’s eyes, there was barely any colour there, letting you know just how bad of a day he must’ve had. 

“Everyone has good days and bad days,” you whispered, “including me, but yours are not my fault. I don’t want you to shut me out Oscar, I want to be able to help you, even if there’s very little I can do, at least it’s something.” 

His head nodded, pressing a kiss against the top of your shoulder. You were spot on, you were the last person to blame for how Oscar’s day went, you just so happened to be in the wrong place in the wrong time. 

“I’m always here for you,” you reminded Oscar, “it doesn’t matter what’s happened, you know I’m always going to be with you, right?” 

He continued nodding as you spoke. “I’m sorry I made you feel like I don’t appreciate you being with me today, because I do appreciate it, more than anything.” 

“Will you remind yourself of that next time you come home after a bad day?” 

“I promise that I’ll never forget it.” 

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

[vioartemis]

Charlotte Matthews

(Post rescue! Lottie Matthews x non Yellowjackets! Fem! reader)

You meet lottie at a mental institution you were both sent to, and quickly, a bond creates between you two.

I am back from the dead lol. I don’t know what this is, or if it makes much sense tbh, but yeah I tried something. Title is shit idk 😓 I just love Lottie sm (this was written after watching the very beginning of season 3)

For some reason it was decided that you would have a new cellmate/roommate -you never knew what to call it- and it made you nervous. Charlotte Matthews, that was her name. You’d seen her around, of course. She was hard to miss. But you never tried to talk to her.

Not that you didn’t want to. You did. It did too. And for that exact reason you kept a safe distance between you and her. That being said… you couldn’t help but feel drawn to her.

“Are you okay?”

Her voice brought you back to earth, and you realized you were staring at her while being lost in thoughts.

“Ah- yes, sorry…”

You looked down at your lap where your book rested, hoping she’d go back to journaling or whatever it was she was doing.

This wasn’t a good idea. Both of you in the same room wasn’t a good idea. You knew it because It was content. She seemed like a nice person, you didn’t want her to get hurt.

“You look… preoccupied” she remarked, putting her pencil down

“I’m not” you replied quickly, too quickly to be honest

Even if you weren’t looking at her, you could feel her gaze on you.

“I’m not your enemy you know?”

Her voice was soft, inviting.

“I know”

“Talk to me then. I can help you”

She closed her notebook and put it down in her bed, scooting closer to the edge of the mattress to be closer to you. You want to believe her. But no one can help you.

At your lack of answer, she tried again,

“What led you to ending up here?”

It was a nice way of asking what was wrong with you. You grabbed your bookmark and put it in your book.

“I went caving with a group of people. We thought it was safe but a tunnel collapsed and we got stuck in there for god knows how long”

You paused, trying to find your words and selecting which parts to tell. You didn’t want to talk about It. Whatever It was, you were sure it was with you down there in the caves. And It was not good.

Charlotte was silent, looking at you patiently.

“We barely had any food, and tensions were quick to rise. People died for stupid reasons. We all… did bad things in there. To survive.”

A longer pause. You weren’t sure how to finish your story.

“What happened when you got rescued?” she asked, noticing your struggle

“We didn’t”

“What do you mean?”

Here came the hard part.

“We didn’t get rescued. One day a… another part collapsed. It created a hole. I barely fit through it, but I managed. It lead to the outside. None of the others followed me. I don’t know if they didn’t fit or if it collapsed again after me. But when I found help and told them, they said it was too risky to try to save the others…”

You still felt guilty. Maybe you could’ve helped them out if you had tried to make a bigger path. If you had insisted to try to save them anyways. If you had-

“It’s not your fault”

You heard her words at the same time as you felt her hands holding yours. She was kneeling in front of you, dark brown eyes looking up at you with sympathy.

“You did what you had to do to survive”

You had a weird feeling that she knew how it felt. You looked down at her, your eyes meeting.

You both stayed like that for a moment, in silence, looking in each other’s eyes. Reading in each other’s soul.

You didn’t need words to know. You saw It in her eyes. And she did too.

From that moment on, you got closer to Lottie. Her presence was comforting. Her touch soothing.

You both had your fair share of nightmares at night, and found solace in each other’s arms to the point where there barely was any night where you didn’t sleep in the same bed.

“Can’t sleep?” Lottie finally asked after you shifted in her bed for maybe the twelfth time

You shake you head no.

“Come here”

She pulls you in her arms, a hand on your back, the other in your hair.

“What’s on your mind?” Her voice was soft, as always

You didn’t know what to answer. ‘A lot’ was a little vague. ‘You’ was too honest.

“Nothing” a lie, not much better than the other options

Lottie’s hand went from your hair to the back of your neck, tilting your head up slightly.

“Look at me”

And you did, almost immediately. It was almost amusing to her how quick you always did what she asked. She found it cute.

She took a moment to get lost in your eyes, giving you some time to get lost in hers as well.

You knew she could read you like an open book, but you didn’t mind. It was easier than saying it out loud.

She rested her forehead against yours, the tip of her nose touching yours.

“Stay with me?”

“Always”

You both knew you meant it. This wasn’t like anything either of you had ever experienced. It was natural. It felt right. It would probably come for you both at some point, but at least you’ll be together.

It was content, for now, and so were you.

[ohburgee]

𝐅𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫

Noli x Myth-Hunter!Reader

tw: implied physical violence, threatening behavior, stalking, obsessive behavior an: i can't stop thinking about Noli so i decide to make a fic of him then i remember when i was a myth hunter before with no knowledge about ways of hunting, try to investigate Noli because i was interested on his myth story. summary: you are a myth hunter deicide to visit Noli once again after you heard about him disappear and no news about him, you decide to check him on his place when you got captured and teleported to this mysterious place.

You feel a sharp pain in your head as you try to clear your blurry vision. Slowly, you sit up from the ground. Once your vision begins to clear, you look around, confused and disoriented.

You don’t remember much, but one thing is certain; you were captured. Now, you’re in some unfamiliar place.

Another strange, mysterious location... You rise to your feet, bracing yourself for what’s to come. You’re used to this, these weird, unexplained situations. As a myth hunter, you’ve learned to face whatever lies ahead, even if it means risking your life.

You begin walking, carefully observing your surroundings like you always do. It’s quiet. No signs of people. You’re unsure of where you are, but you keep going.

Eventually, you reach what appears to be the center of a map. Behind a large, untouched stone, you spot a broken generator. You approach it cautiously and begin fixing it. Just as you're about to finish, you see movement, someone running.

Two figures come into view. They stop when they notice you, just as confused as you are. You look at them with suspicion while continuing to work on the generator.

“Who are you two?” you ask.

“I’m Elliot, and this is Shedletsky,” one of them replies. You study their faces, still unsure.

“Where am I?” you ask, trying to piece together the situation.

They exchange confused glances. Before they can answer, a loud thud echoes nearby. Elliot grabs your wrist, and the three of you sprint into a nearby cave.

“I swear, what the hell is going on!?” you demand.

Elliot cautiously peeks outside. “Answer me,” you insist.

“We’re in a survival game,” Elliot says. “We have to survive until the round ends.”

“I didn’t choose to be here,” you mutter, pacing in a small circle as you try to recall what happened. That’s when you notice a shadow approaching from outside the cave.

You turn to Elliot and point toward a broken hole in the wall. He quickly understands and pulls Shedletsky with him into hiding.

You duck behind a large rock just as someone slowly enters the cave. You hold your breath, heart pounding. Searching for a distraction to get out, you spot some small rocks nearby. You toss one to the opposite side of the cave. The figure in purple-glitching smoke pauses and turns toward the sound. You throw another rock, drawing their attention further away.

Once the coast is clear, you rush over and whisper for Elliot and Shedletsky to move. Grabbing them, you all sprint for the exit, until the figure notices and acts.

A tendril shoots toward you three. Without thinking, you shove Elliot and Shedletsky out of the way. Then you freeze.

Your eyes widen.

It’s Noli.

How? Was he the one who captured you and brought you here?

He gazes at you, amused, smiling in recognition. He remembers you.

You hear Elliot and Shedletsky calling you. You glance back at them, but Noli’s gaze shifts to the two and he begins to pursue them. “Run!” you yell, and they do.

You chase after him. You know Noli better than they do. He’s worse, far worse, than any other myth you’ve encountered.

But you lose them in the chase. When you finally catch up, your heart drops. Elliot and Shedletsky are suspended by tendrils, hanging upside down.

You kick at the tendrils, trying to free them, when suddenly, everything goes dark.

Your vision clouds with thick, suffocating fog. You look around, trying to see through the haze. “I know it’s you,” you mutter, spinning to catch a glimpse of him.

You hear footsteps, then laughter. It rings in your ears. This is new. You don’t remember Noli having this kind of power.

Then you see him, smiling.

“Hello, my lovely hunter,” he greets, and tendrils coil around your waist, lifting you off the ground.

“I’m so glad you arrived safely, no injuries from the teleport,” he says as your vision clears, revealing his new form.

“What do you want, Noli!?” you snap, struggling in the tendrils.

He chuckles, circling you like a predator. His gaze is intense.

“When I was offered something greater, I took it,” he says. “The Forsaken made me stronger than a mere myth.”

You blink, confused.

“I’m no longer just a myth. I’ve become something far more powerful, this new body, this power… and I accepted the role of killer in this game.”

He draws you closer with the tendrils and gently brushes his hand against your cheek.

“I love this new me. The thrill of hunting, the fun of killing, chasing prey like a true predator.”

He laughs again, clearly enjoying every second.

“And now, with my favorite myth hunter here… doesn’t that sound fun?” he whispers before suddenly kissing your cheek.

“You’re no longer out there investigating and searching for answers. You’re stuck here with me now. And I’ll make sure you see me.”

[girlactionfigure]

There’s a Jewish holiday coming up in two days, It’s called Passover.

And for those who aren’t familiar, I want to share what this time of year really means to Jews — and especially to me — and to all religious and Orthodox Jews around the world who observe it.

See, from the outside, a lot of people think Jewish holidays are just about food, family, wine, gatherings — like a big dinner party.

But Passover is different.

Passover is hard work. Passover is a lot of preparation. Passover is soul-searching.

For weeks before it even begins, our entire lives shift. We (by we, I of course mean our wives…) clean our homes like absolute crazy people. And not for spring cleaning. Not for guests. Not because company is coming over — but for something called chametz.

Chametz is any food made from grain — wheat, barley, oats, spelt, or rye — that has come into contact with water and risen. Bread. Pasta. Cake. Cookies. Even tiny crumbs.

And on Passover, Chametz is completely forbidden.

We scrub down our kitchens. We check every pocket of every coat. We vacuum cars. We clean toys. We search by candlelight the night before Passover to make sure not a single crumb is left in our homes.

Why?

Because chametz represents more than just bread. It represents ego. Arrogance. Laziness. The things that puff us up and hold us back.

And when Passover comes in, we want a fresh start. A clean sheet. A home, and a heart, without chametz.

And then comes the heart of Passover: The Seder.

Seder means “order.”

It’s not a meal you rush through. It’s not about eating and moving on.

It’s a night where we sit, usually for hours, surrounded by family, by friends, and most importantly, by our children.

Because the entire purpose of the Seder is to tell our story to our little children.

The story of the Jewish people. The story of Egypt. Of slavery. Of exile. Of pain. Of miracles. Of redemption.

We read from a book called the Haggadah — which literally means “the telling.”

We dip vegetables in salt water to remember our tears.

We eat bitter herbs to remember the bitterness of slavery.

We eat matzah — flat, dry bread — to remember how quickly we had to run to freedom, with no time to wait for the dough to rise.

We drink four cups of wine to celebrate the four expressions of freedom promised to us by G-d.

And we sing.

We sing songs our ancestors sang. Songs they whispered in hiding. Songs they cried in exile. Songs of hope. Songs of faith. Songs that say — we are still here.

That’s what Passover is.

It’s not just a Jewish holiday.

It’s our origin story. It’s our identity. It’s everything we’ve survived — and everything we still hope for.

And at the center of it all is this powerful line we repeat every year at the Seder:

“In every generation, a person is obligated to see themselves as if they personally left Egypt.”

It’s not just history. It’s personal.

We all have our Egypt. We all have our struggles. We all have things we’re trying to break free from.

And Passover reminds us — freedom is possible. Miracles happen. And our story is still being written.

And every year — in every Jewish home where there is a Seder — no matter where that home is in the world…

It always ends the same way.

After hours of storytelling, of singing, of laughing, of crying, of remembering who we are and where we come from… comes this moment. 

Everyone rises. Everyone’s voice comes together — loud, raw, emotional, sometimes through tears — and we scream at the top of our lungs:

“L’shana Haba’a B’Yerushalayim!”

“Next year in Jerusalem!”

“Next year in Jerusalem!”

“Next year in Jerusalem, Amen!”

[mochiwrites]

couldn’t help writing a lil thing from @plumadot’s arts (linked here and here!)🥺👉👈 third life scarian possessed me so hard I broke out of my burn out for this reblogs would be really cool and awesome okaythankyou

——————————

“And how are preparations for Doom Day going, my good sir?” Scar’s voice is a light sound behind him, tone cheerful and inquisitive all at once.

Grian turns around from where he’s knee deep in sand, a small hole dug out in front of him. Scar comes to stand beside him, red eyes staring down at him. His gaze is soft, far too soft for a man who’s meant to be anything but.

With a soft noise, Grian pushes himself up to stand while dusting off his hands. He leaves his shovel in the ground by the hole. His wings flutter.

He hums, surveying the area. He gazes at the holes of sand, where the tnt will be set down, at the place where a bunker will be built. “Not bad, I’d say. I think this place’ll be ready by tomorrow or some time ‘round then.”

Scar whistles, moving to casually wrap an arm around the green life’s shoulders. “Amayzin’!” His lips lift in a smile. “Man, those Dogwarts guys won’t know what hit ‘em!”

“That’s if this trap even works, Scar,” Grian mutters, unable to hold back the bitterness in his voice. His traps have hardly worked all game, and he’d be lying if he said he isn’t worried about this one failing too. “It has to,” he says, brows knitting together, “there’s too much riding on this one.”

His eyes trail over to Scar, who doesn’t seem to share his worries.

“Aw, c’mon G,” Scar starts as he pulls the other toward him. He tugs so that Grian’s facing him, their faces a few inches apart. Grian can feel how warm Scar is this close, can see the way his chest rises and falls. “I have total trust in you and your trapping skills. So relax a little, yeah?”

Grian frowns at him in turn. Speculation and trust aren’t good enough when up against his fail rate. He needs one hundred percent certainty. But he can’t just test this one. It’s a one time pull. “Scar—”

Careful fingers grab his chin, rough and calloused from the harsh conditions of the desert but still far too careful. Red names aren’t supposed to be careful or gentle, and yet here Scar is.

“I trust you,” Scar says again, and Grian doesn’t think this is how things are supposed to go. It’s not the first time he’s had this thought, and he’s sure it won’t be the last (provided they both survive this, that is). “You really do worry too much.”

“One of us has to while you’re off gallivanting around without a shirt on,” Grian grumbles while reaching for the edge of Scar’s cloak. He holds onto it, fingers digging into the fabric.

Scar lifts a playful brow at Grian’s comment, “Does that mean I look good while valligaggling?”

Grian snorts, the action laced with too much affection. “That’s not even a word, Scar,” he replies with a little laugh, one that makes Scar’s grin widen.

“It’s close enough,” the man hums in answer, their faces moving closer. His hand drops to Grian’s elbow, the other drawing him in closer by the waist. Red eyes flutter shut as his breath ghosts over Grian’s lips. “And it made you laugh.”

“Your priorities are seriously mixed up,” Grian’s voice is hardly above a whisper as watches as Scar draws in closer.

Their lips meet seconds later, chapped and warm. Grian stares at Scar’s face, the way the creases in his forehead smooth over and relax. He looks so content, a funny feeling to express when the powder keg is seconds from exploding.

It hardly takes any time at all for Scar to deepen the kiss, raising his hand from Grian’s elbow to hold the edge of his jaw. His thumb settles too close to Grian’s throat, yet not an ounce of fear runs through him. His eyes shut as he presses his lips back against Scar’s, a bit more pressure than the other applies. He catches Scar’s wrist in his hand, and his grip is a little tight at first (too tight for a green name). He has to remind himself to loosen his hand, but Scar never gives a reaction.

He simply angles Grian’s chin up slightly, hand shifting to cup his cheek. His fingers tangle in his hair, brushing against his ear.

It’s kind of a shame they’re blowing up the desert. He wouldn’t mind sharing more kisses with Scar out in the open chilly air like this.

Scar kisses him like he’s something fragile, something precious. He kisses him like he’s afraid of breaking him, and really it’s laughable how gentle he is with Grian. His eyes say he shouldn’t be.

(Ironic then, that Grian is wearing more red than him.)

It’s with a soft sigh that Scar pulls back, setting their foreheads against one another. So easily, so fluidly, he holds Grian’s face in both of his hands, one of his thumbs brushing along his cheek. There’s a fond smile on his face, and Grian feels a little dazed by the sight.

“Gri,” Scar says quietly, a moment shared for only the two of them, “I need you to know, I—”

Some kind of alarm rings in Grian’s head, and he knows he cannot let Scar finish that sentence. Panic runs down his spine like electricity, zapping him. He sets his hands on Scar’s front, gently pushing back as he turns his head away.

“H-Haha, we’ve wasted enough time, haven’t we?” he questions, some kind of desperate attempt to change the conversation. “We have a war to prepare for, remember?”

He doesn’t watch Scar’s face as he turns away, unable to face it. He turns his back to Scar, wings twitching behind him. Grian purposefully looks down at the sand before him, reminding himself of what he’s meant to be doing. “We, uh, have much to do still,” he says, trying to focus on anything but Scar. “I mean, unless you want me to lose my first life!”

Grian goes to say more, but two hands land on his shoulders, stopping him. He jumps just slightly, startled. Yet it doesn’t last long as he feels Scar’s warmth against his back. “…Scar,” he mumbles.

Arms wrap around him proper, holding him close. He feels Scar bury his face in his hair as the smell of lilacs and poppies flood his senses. “Just a little longer, okay?” the red name murmurs so softly.

Let me hold you for a little longer.

Stay with me for a little longer.

Pretend this’ll last for a little longer.

How selfish, Scar is. Grian looks down at the sand below, its mocking grains. He grabs hold of Scar, keeping him right where he is. “…I’m not going to die, Scar.”

“Promise me.” Scar’s arms tighten around him, giving away how much he needs Grian to stay alive. How much he treasures Grian, both his partnership and company.

Grian squeezes him. He supposes he’s a little selfish as well. “…I promise.”

Scar lets out a shaky breath, burying his face further into Grian’s hair.

They don’t move for a little while. A gentle red name and a green name clothed in far too much crimson. Together they stand, selfishly.

[reveryfics]

Strangers

Daryl Dixon x Male Reader

Summary: Sometimes being alone means nothing when you stumble across the right person.

A/N: Actually curious if you guys want more non Marvel fics, if you do requests are open. In the meantime I have 4 other TWD fics ready to post, and I'll eventually get around to the Scott Lang requests I have.

TW: Slight violence - Blood

The world ended, and you watched it happen from the supposed safety of your isolated campsite. You saw the dead rise, the familiar world crumble into chaos, and you learned the brutal lessons of survival. Each day was a masterclass in adaptation, a solitary struggle where trust became a dangerous luxury. You trusted no one, not since the first scream echoed through the empty streets. That was your mantra, your shield against the horrors that lurked beyond your firelight.

Now, you walk beside a still, man-made pond, the silence amplified by the weight of your solitude. Your compound bow, a constant companion, rests in your grip. A freshly snared rabbit hangs heavy on your pack, a testament to your hard-won skills. Your senses, honed by years of isolation, are razor sharp. You perceive the subtle shifts in the air, the minute changes in the forest's rhythm. You've become a ghost in this shattered world, attuned to its every whisper.

Then, a disturbance. The distant rustle of leaves and snapping twigs, too panicked, too heavy for any animal you know. Doubt gnaws at you. Hesitation, a familiar companion, whispers warnings. You could ignore it, retreat into the safety of your solitude. But something, a flicker of something you can't quite name, holds you back.

You hoist yourself into the nearest tree, climbing just high enough to gain a vantage point. Below, a man stumbles through the undergrowth. His long, greasy hair obscures his face, but his movements betray a desperate panic. He’s running, trying to disappear. You watch, your breath held, a cold knot forming in your stomach.

Soon, the source of his fear emerges. Two men, their voices raw and loud, crashing through the brush like clumsy predators. Their noise, you know, will attract more of the walking dead, a death sentence in this silent world. You could leave, disappear into the shadows. Let them tear each other apart. The isolation you’ve embraced screams at you to do just that.

But you hesitate. You knock an arrow, the metal cold against your skin. You watch, a hunter stalking its prey, your breath shallow. As one of the men passes beneath your tree, you release the arrow. It finds its mark, piercing his neck, silencing his screams. He collapses, choking on his own blood.

The distraction buys the fleeing man time. He throws the remaining attacker to the ground, a desperate struggle unfolding amidst the fallen leaves. You climb down, your movements fluid and silent. You retrieve your arrow, then plunge your bowie knife into the attacker's skull, ending the fight.

You stand back, watching, ensuring the threat is gone. Then, you turn to leave, to disappear back into the solitude you've carved for yourself.

"Hey!" The man's voice, rough and desperate, stops you. "Just gonna help and then walk away?"

You sigh, adjusting your pack, the weight of your solitude pressing down on you. "I helped you. There's nothing else for me to do." You point out, your voice flat, devoid of emotion.

Silence hangs between you, a tense, unspoken question. You study him, searching for any sign of deception, any reason to distrust.

"How long have you been alone?" He asks, his voice hesitant.

You shrug, the question feeling both ancient and immediate. "My whole life, basically. But to answer your question, since it all started."

You talk, brief and guarded. He asks questions, probing for information, testing your boundaries. You answer in clipped sentences, revealing little, trusting less. With each response, he seems to grow more… something. Trust? It’s a foreign concept, a dangerous vulnerability you’ve long since discarded.

"I have a group," he says, his voice low, almost a whisper. "I'd like you to join me, if you’d like."

A group. The word feels strange, unfamiliar. You've been alone for so long, the idea of shared survival seems almost impossible. Fear, sharp and cold, grips you. Trusting others is a risk you haven't taken in years.

"Am I free to leave when I want?" You ask, your voice sharp, demanding.

He nods, licking his lips, a nervous tic. "Ain't nobody gonna stop you if you did."

You look around, at the ravaged world, at the endless expanse of trees, at the weight of your own solitude. Then, you look back at him. You extend your hand, a hesitant offering. Your name slips off your tongue, barely audible to the man before you.

He hesitates, his eyes searching yours, before shaking your hand. "Daryl."

Being alone had its perks. You learned to survive, to rely on yourself and your instincts. But the question lingers: is isolation a choice, or a prison? Could being with others, even with the risk of betrayal, be a different kind of survival? You don't know, but you’re about to find out.

The woods swallowed them whole, a silent, green labyrinth. You walked, your senses stretched taut, every rustle and snap a potential threat. Daryl trailed behind, a watchful shadow. He glanced at you intermittently, his eyes tracing the lines of your movements, the way you navigated the treacherous terrain with an almost predatory grace. He seemed to be cataloging you, trying to decipher the enigma of your solitude.

The silence between you was thick, charged with unspoken questions and unspoken fears. You felt his gaze, a constant, probing presence. It was a strange sensation, being observed, being assessed. You'd spent so long as a ghost, unseen, unheard, that the attention felt almost invasive.

"You seem like you own these woods," Daryl finally remarked, his tone a dry attempt at levity.

You shrugged, your eyes scanning the dense undergrowth. "Been in 'em so long I might as well be a part of 'em." The words were simple, but they carried the weight of years spent in isolation, years spent becoming one with the wilderness.

The journey to his camp was a silent testament to your contrasting lives. He, a member of a struggling community, clinging to the remnants of civilization. You, a solitary predator, forged in the crucible of survival. The difference was stark, a chasm you weren't sure could be bridged.

Within a day, the dense foliage gave way to a clearing, a ragged encampment carved out of the wilderness. Daryl stopped, a subtle shift in his posture, and you followed his gaze. The camp was a hive of activity, a cluster of makeshift shelters and wary faces. You felt a wave of unease, a primal instinct screaming at you to turn and flee.

The group gathered, their eyes fixed on you, a stranger in their midst. You could feel their suspicion, their fear, their unspoken questions. It was a palpable tension, a silent accusation. You braced yourself, expecting hostility, expecting rejection. You’d known this feeling before, the outsider, the one who didn’t belong.

The faces blurred, a sea of wary eyes. You recognized the familiar sting of isolation, even amidst a crowd. You expected them to dislike you, to see you as a threat. You’d already lived a life of distrust, so this was nothing new.

But as the days bled into each other, a subtle shift began. You noticed the way Daryl stood beside you, a silent protector. You saw the flicker of something in his eyes, a flicker that might have been… friendship? Trust? Or something more complex, something you were afraid to name. You realized that, in this chaotic world, his acceptance, his silent camaraderie, was all that mattered. The opinions of the others faded into the background, a distant hum. You had found a fragile anchor, a tenuous connection in a world that had tried to break you.

[empressgeekt]

Transformers - TFO/Earthspark Time Travel fic summery - An Aged Reflection au (part 1...maybe)

Okay, so the recent movie (GO WATCH IT!) Transformers One, had reignited my hyper fixation for this franchise and as such I come barring a plot summery for a fic prompt. If anyone wants to use this plot in a fic, please just link me so i can read it!

Once more I'm assuming people have seen the movie and at least the first season of the EarthSpark cartoon.

On to the plot!

We start in the past. After getting thrown from the transport train, Orion, Dee, Elita and Bee, are stuck on cybertron's surface, and while a very beautiful place, it is also filled with unknown things, not all of them safe...though it doesn't stop Orion from being curious. What little vegetation the rust wastes have, is fascinating to him and it's only Dee holding him back from him faceplanting into his first patch of grass to "See what it feels like". There are abandoned buildings and some part of Orion wonders what they mean, likely there were some bots who lived on the surface long ago before the quintessions, and he wants to know what their lives were like. To live in a world underneath the sun, with stars to sing them to sleep.

Dee is the only one who actually entertains Orion's questions. Elita is too focused on her map, and Bee is rambling too much to pay attention to anyone else talking. And Dee has to admit, it does make him wonder too. Sure the surface is clearly dangerous, especially to some bots who don't have any survival instincts, but seeing all that was left behind before they were forced underground, there is a sense of loss. What would've been life if the Quintessions never invaded? It likely wouldn't have effect him being a no-cog, but would there be cities up here? The Primes would still be around, maybe they would've expanded globally. Some part of him imagines living a city built by Megatronus. It would've been grand, no question. Looking out on the horizon of his home planet, he hopes to come back here once it's all over. Maybe with the Matrix returned, Sentinel would start construction on a city on the surface. Maybe Dee could visit. He would like to see the sun rise again in his life.

However, Dee would later regret Orion influencing him with curiosity As half way through the journey, the ever shifting surface of Cybertron opens a fissure a head of them, and they can't cross until the landscape changes again. Deciding to camp out and try again in the morning. During the night a weird light comes from the fissure and long story short they all get sucked in...and blackout...

Orion wakes up in a pool of water, though he doesn't recognize the liquid. He's in an underground cave but the walls aren't made of the metallic stone he's used too, they are too soft and crumbly. The others are knocked out around him, but quickly come too. Thankfully the cave isn't too deep and they make there way back to a surface...but it's not the surface of Cybertron. The ground is too soft, the sky is blue, and the world is covered in "weird nature". First theory, the fissure transferred them to a new biome on Cybertron's surface, however that is quickly disproven when their map glitches out saying their location is not found. Much everyone's but Bee's frustration. Orion tries to keep the spirits up, saying they'll find help. If this is another planet they could be the first to make contact with aliens, to which Elita responds, "Oh great aliens, you mean like when the quintessions found us?"

His efforts are unappreciated...Especially when they were sudden surrounded by Arachnamechs.

All this is going down late season one of Earthspark, so Mandroid has already joined up with Croft, and once four unknown energon signatures showed up on their surveillance systems, they would be going after our no-cog crew. Especially since they don't read as a Con or a Bot.

Our youngling group have no weapons to defend themselves with, Miners weren't allowed to have any and they didn't have any built in, so they try to run. Dee making sure that the others have shielding from the laser fire, however the GHOST troops mistake him for a decepticon due to his Megatronus decal. So, they end up focusing most of their assault on him, eventually nailing with a T-cog disrupter. However, due to his lack of cog, the only thing the device can do is paralyze him. Which freaks Dee the frag out, like he already can't transform, moving is really the only control of his body that he has. These aliens are tiny, but they already have an effective way of taking them down. He sends one last comm to the others, to run, and find the matrix, the planet needs it more then him...even if he's scared out of his mind.

It takes a lot for Elita and Bee to pull Orion away from the sense but they can't help Dee if they captured too. They need to regroup, get more information.

Let's switch gears. Megatron had been sticking around the Malto home for the past day or two. Robby is supposedly cured from what ever was making him ill, but the big mech wants to stay close by just to be sure. He hadn't been able to be around while his Nephew was ill due to Croft sending him out on a useless assignment, but the moment it was over he demanded the time off he was in fact entitled too (all Ghost employees got two weeks of vacation a year). The only reason that the agents who did his release papers didn't die of fright was that he was more concerned for the children, and he was more pissed off at someone else. Quintus Prime. Fancy title or not, dead or not, Primus above you don't mess with his niblings. And as far as Megatron understood it, it was Quintus' cyber-sleeve that was making his nephew ill. Now he was grateful that the aliment was treated quickly, but it shouldn't have happened in the first place. Robby was a child, and didn't deserve what happened.

Though, maybe his frustrations with the whole situation came from his own personal experiences with Primes. Sentinel's betrayal against his people is something Megatron had never been able to forget, and the cyber-sleeve is sort of the same non-consensual body alternation that Sentinel pulled so long ago with the mining class's T-cogs. Don't get him wrong, Megatron cared about his niblings, all seven of them, but the other's lives shouldn't cost one of their siblings'. It's a good thing the little ones have him distracted with a game of dodge ball, otherwise he'd be researching how to hunt ghosts, despite him not believing in them.

Twitch gets him out and he's forced to sit on the sidelines with Dorothy. The human gripes about her signature scanner acting up again, and Megatron takes interest. Apparently for the last couple hour a few un-identifiable signals, popped up and three of them hadn't gone away. Seeing as the children were still far from done with their game, He decides to give the location a fly by before the next round started up. He doesn't notice Twitch sneaking off to follow him.

Meanwhile, with D-16, he's kept paralyzed during the transport and is eventually taken down to the brig. Which doesn't not make him feel better. Every decepticon inside of there is staring at him, and it makes him feel much smaller then he really is. The bots in the cells had cogs, weapons. They were taken down by what ever these aliens were, no wonder he didn't stand a chance. What were these little things, hopefully they couldn't get off world, if they invaded cybertron...Dee is uncermoniously thrown into a cell, where he curls up in the corner, trying vary hard not to be noticed.

Croft does however. The bitter human woman, when informed of the weird reaction that Dee had to the T-cog disrupter, is paranoid that the cons are finding a way to hack into their defense systems/weaponry. So, she clues Mandroid in on the new...specimen. She wants to know what makes this little con tick.

Soundwave, keeps his eye on the little new comer, for two reasons. One, no one had seen any cogless bots since before the fall of sentinel prime, and two, merely the age of this con. He's young far too young to be in a place like this. No way this little one committed any war crimes yet. And judging by the pity filled glances shared between him and his fellow decepticon's he's not the only one to notice. Heck, this kid wasn't even using a translation program, still speaking Iaconian and looking very confused whenever the humans spoke in English. Perhaps the little one was a recently activated protoform that was saved when they left Cybertron? Soundwave doesn't know and he doesn't get a chance to ask. The little con is paralyzed again and is taken to the room, where bots are broken.

The remaining miners are still wandering around aimlessly. Bee is now rendered silent after Dee was kidnapped. Elita is still trying to get the map to work, while Orion is just trying not to have a break down. He wanted to help his planet, not get his best friend abducted by aliens. They had stumbled onto what looked by a settlement, but even Orion's curiosity about these creatures was overridden by fear of getting captured. Clearly they weren't friendly. So needless to say when the Arachnamechs, track them down again. They run, and Orion tries to draw the attention of the drones away from Bee and Elita, and accidentally jumps off of a cliff. In the middle of his screaming as he watches the ground ever quickly rushing to meet him. and un-known voice calls out "grab on!" A rusty red colored drone flies over head and he latches on with all his might.

Twitch might have gotten lost, when she chased after he uncle, but in her defense his alt-mode was much fasters then hers, besides she wasn't really lost, mom had taught her all about navigating the woods. However, the weird bot that just leaped off of the water fall cliff, clearly didn't have the same training. Twitch immediately turns back and catches him, shooting the Arachnamechs with her emp, and then landing on the far river bank. It's only after she transforms that she realizes this guy is just a little bit taller than her and that's kind of surprising, after all, she's tiny compared to other transformers. Though his size is probably the only reason she could carry him.

She's not the only one surprised by the size similarities, Orion is as well. No bot with a cog was ever this small, or at least he hadn't seen one. Twitch as she introduces herself, is wonderful in his understanding, most cogged bots would've let him fall and Orion knows this, however she saved him and helped calm his panic ranting when he realized that only some of the Arachnamechs followed him when he broke off from the group. Twitch listens and is horrified to learn that Dee was kidnapped and offers to help, saying they need to find her "uncle" (whatever that word meant), and transforming to take off. Orion is baffled by her confusion over the fact that he's cogless. When he gestures to the empty slot in his chestplating, he wasn't expecting the heartbroken look on her faceplate, but thankfully Twitch doesn't dwell on it, and instead leads Orion through the forest on foot.

While running in the direction of where he, Eltia and Bee split off from each other, Orion just can't help but ask a number of questions on his mind. Like Where they were? How did a cybertronian get here? What were those little drone things

"Oh wow, lot's of questions. Okay first off, we're on earth, and I didn't get here I was born here. I guess you like call me a sub-species of cybertronian, created by Quintus prime."

"Quintus Prime? But he's been dead for cycles."

"Yeah I know, he once sent off little emberstones, to planets far out of reach to make new life on them, me and my family are the result of one of those stones."

"Oh, so, you're earthians???"

"*giggle* We call ourselves Terrons, thank very much."

Orion is fascinated to learn that Quintus had tried to make colony worlds before his demise, maybe it had been a last ditch effort to escape the quintessions, or some way to make new recruits for the high guard in secret. Either way it didn't matter, clearly Twitch or her "family" (what did that word mean?) hadn't been in contact with cybertron for a long time, likely meaning what ever Quintus was planning failed to happen. Still, this meant Orion could actually get help with a home team advantage, and Twitch did say she's help get Dee get back. Twitch had already proven she understood the weird planet around them when she pointed out that she was tracking Elita and Bee by following the footprints in the soft ground and broken nature surrounding them, two factors that Orion had completely missed. He'd have to meet this "Mom" to see if she'd teach him how to read an organic world like that.

Meanwhile with Megatron, tracking the signals had been easier then he thought, whoever these saps were they were not good at covering their tracks. When the signals split up he decided to go after the bigger group. One bot was easier to pin down then two. Besides one of them was screaming very loudly, and it was for a good reason as Megatron would soon find out. Two very small figures, one pink one yellow, were dashing away from a sizable snare of Arachnamechs. Later he could let himself ponder as to how Mandroid survived, and why he was still going after transformers, but first he needed to keep these little ones out of the madman's hands. He calls out for the bots to take cover as he swoops in to make quick word of the drones.

Elita wasn't expecting for a giant warframe to come flying out of nowhere, but she wasn't about to disobey someone of higher stature when they were helping them. She didn't recognize the grey mech, though Bee's quiet panic rambling through out the chase gave a couple of theories, a surviving member of the high guard, maybe one of the mechs sentinel trained, or maybe a rogue gladiator who decided to say frag it and go find real monsters to fight for the pit of it. By watching him fight it was clear that he was at least trained in combat. Then Bee mutters something that sends chills down Elita's nerve struts, "He's wearing the same sigil as the guys who took Dee!" Elita, in probably the most stupid thing she could do (she blames pax's influence), punches the unknown mech when he gets close.

Megatron was not upset at the pink bot for hitting him as soon as he turned, some bots just had lasting battle reflexes and would lash out against a stranger...or more likely a perceived enemy...it was actually a really good hit too. They wont come of the large rock they too cover behind, and the yellow one won't stop screaming, but eventually Megatron gets a good look at who he's dealing with and is suddenly struct with flashback galore. The first thing he notices is their cogless status and parts of him burn with rightous anger and need to protect them. Then he notices their faceplates, faceplates from a time before, a Bumblebee who was still slightly crazy from long term isloation, and an Elita who was young and brash before Optimus softened her drive for success with his love and dorkyness. Denial sets in rather then acceptance, no way was this happening now, then Megatron hears the voice of his young niece and with her is someone who makes it very clear THIS IS NOT A DREAM!!!

Orion was initally very concerned when he heard the sound of blasters in the woods, but Twitch recongized the sound, as her "uncle"s gun, so he tried not to panic. They end up catching the tail end of the scrummage, and wow, this Terron, as he was lead to believe, was huge! Big, silver, covered in weapons, and with red optics that burned with the fire of a great warrior. It was both awe inspiring and terrifiing to watch, sure Orion had seen violance in the mines, Darkwing was not a peaceful person, but it was nothing like this. Twitch wasn't shocked, clearly used to this, if Terrons had to deal with whatever those little creatures that took Dee were, maybe Terrons had to fight to stay alive. Twitch only added more to Orion's wondering when a lone Arachnamech leaped out of the trees, after the fight was seemingly over, and shot it point blank, ("Uncle Megatron! Look out!" "Well, done Little Bird").

Megatron never thought he would see Orion Pax again. Yes, he saw Optimus on the daily, has for centuries but Optimus wasn't Pax. When Orion was given the matrix, when he shot Orion, some part of Megatron was convinced his friend was dead, gone with the allspark. That he had killed his brother...his grief and guilt coming out as unchecked rage...when Optimus ascended, Megatron rejected him, this wasn't his brother, this was a monster, the Primes were using his brother's corpse to hold power over all bots like him, puppetting him around with that matrix they held so dearly. When he had swore to kill Optimus all those stellar cycles ago, it wasn't for revenge, it was to put his brother to rest peacefully. It had taken a long time, bad blood, and many mistakes for Megatron to see the Pax in Prime again. Yet, here standing in front of him is a perfect re-creation of Orion Pax. However, Twitch pulls him out of his trance by rambling, about everything that happened to her and orion, and hearing that his niece met the young version of his brother after he fell from a cliff, only convinces him that this is a case of time travel.

Orion tries to ignore the look the bigger terron gave him in favor of talking to Elita and Bee, he starts rambling about how this planet also had transformers and everything else Twitch told him, however his excitement is dampered when Elita pointed out Bee observation about the big terron's sigil. He doesn't' want to believe it, looking at the mech, and how he is so gentle with Twitch getting down to her level and paying close attention to her flurry of words, but at the same time, he was still such a fearsome warrior,. Orion really wants to the trust Twitch, after all she had no reason to lie to him, and she did save him from the fall. So, Despite Bee and Elita 's hesitanece, when the big silver mech turns to them.

The mech introduces himself as Megatron (big fan of Megatrounus, obviously, Dee would like him) and seems to be questioning Orion about everything that he had told Twitch, the younger cybertronian was a bout to ask why, when this jem of a line left Megatron's mouth, "Of course, you are from right before everything went to the slag, Dang it, Pax I just had to forget your horrible timing."

Orion never told this mech his name, nor did twitch, which prompted the young terron to ask if her uncle knew Orion.

"I'd recognize the mech i woke up to every morning for the first cycles of my life."

"Dee...?"

"It's good to see you Pax."

Megatron is almost surprised that he can still read every single emotion, that rapidly washes over Orion. Denial, disbelief, and everything else. Thankfully though it only took Megatron mentioning the incident where Orion tired to transform with out a cog, for the group to believe him. Though he could've done without little bee sobbing and clinging to his leg, saying "What did those monsters do to you!" Which led to an explanation about how he was not their kidnapped friend, but rather who D-16 would become in the future. There's a lot of very fast questions from all the younger bots and eventually Megs has to tell them to go one at a time, And that he'll answer their question as they walk, because he needs to get them all out of the open and back to the Malto farm to keep them safe.

And boy do they ask questions..."How long has it been for you?" "Couple million cycles." "Why are you wearing that sigil." "to stay our of trouble." "You changed your name?" "D-16 doesn't really count as a name on earth." "What's an uncle?" "Earth functions differently socially then on Cybertron, the youth are given to older members of society to be cared for and taught, rather then being put to work right after the well. I am not one of Twitch's main caregivers, her "mom" and "Dad", however i am close to one of them, making me a secondary role model for her, an "uncle"." "How'd you end up on earth?" "A very long story." "How'd you get a cog?" "A very VERY long story."

Twitch is a little baffled through out the ride home like, it's weird enough to meet the younger version of the older bots in her life, but they are all so different then their older selves. Orion is so much more energetic and reckless then Mr. Optimus (Uncle Megatron had to talk him down from storming the Ghost headquarters at least twice in the same conversation), B-127 is constantly chattering and Twitch feels so bad he doesn't have an actual name either (she tells him he changes it, and he asks if it's "badassatron", which makes bother her and Megatron laugh), and young Miss Elita is such a stickler for rules!

Bumblebee is the one who first sees them at the the farm, seeing Megatron first ....

Megs: Bumblebee! Do you recall how we met?! before all the slag his the fan?!

Bumblebee: Do you mean back in sub-levels? Yeah why?

Megs: Do you ever remember taking an unplanned visit to the future after we reached the surface?!

Bumblebee: What?!

-----

I'll do a part two if people want to see it

[angstywaifu]

Black Dahlia - 14. Little Girl Gone.

Dahlia has survived and bonded a dragon, but now she must face her father who awaits her back in the flight field. With a dragon very much known to the both of them.

Set Pre Fourth Wing/Books

Garrick Tavis x OC (Dahlia Aetos)

Black Dahlia Masterlist | Masterlist

”It will do for now.” I joke back, his breath wafting over me as he chuckles behind me.

I can’t help but feel a sense of Deja vu as I turn to face him. The clearing so similar to the one all those years ago as I take him in. Only this time he’s far closer than he was that day. Ironically it almost feels like a dream seeing him here in front of me. Like I would wake up any moment back in my bed.

But he was real. And he was mine. As if sensing my thoughts he inhales loudly, his chest puffing out proudly with the movement. His sapphire blue scales catching the setting sun as the silence settles around us.

”We should start heading back. You’ve ventured a fair way in.” His voice startling out of my trance.

I raise an eyebrow at him before taking a few steps back to prepare to mount him. “No thanks to you.” I retort.

He lowers his head, eyes narrowing at me at my words. I know he won’t harm me, but I can’t help the panic that briefly sets in as he eyes me.

”You survived didn’t you?” He snaps at me before extending his leg out for me to mount.

”For the most part.”

I now knew what the gauntlet had prepared us for. The last part almost perfectly replicating the run I needed to do to mount him. Though clearly it was made for dragons a fair bit smaller than my own. I take off, doing what I can to gain as much speed as I can before grasping onto his scales and climbing up his back.

”I can see. You might want to clear up that blood before we head back.”

Shit, I’d nearly forgotten about my nose. I slowly reach up and touch it. It hurts, but it’s luckily not broken. I grasp the sleeve of my shirt, tearing it off to wipe away the blood. I definitely didn’t get all of it, but hopefully it looked better than it did. I lower myself down onto the smooth divot of his back, reaching out to grab the thick ridge of scales Kaori had referred to as the pommel.

Clearly happy I’m seated properly, he bends slightly before launching us up into the sky. I try to hold back the yelp that escapes my lips, but it escapes before I can stop it. Nothing could have prepared me for this moment. But at the same time it feels so natural to me. As if I was made to sit on this dragons back. As if this was what I was always made to do. The sound of his beating wings and the rush of air is all I can hear as we rise above the trees.

As I look around I spy a few other dragons with riders heading towards the flight field. But with how few there are and the setting sun, I know we’re one of the last ones to head back. Meaning anyone still down there is most likely unbonded or dead. With the dragons too far away, I’m unable to tell with riders are on their backs. I hope Bodhi, Austin and Liz made it. No, they did. They would all be down in that flight field waiting for me.

”Why did you protect me the other day?” I ask as we bank towards the flight field.

It had been a question on my mind since Presentation Day. And honestly a question on everyone’s minds. No dragon had ever protected a cadet on Presentation Day. Especially not like that. But it was extremely rare a cadet would have met or known their dragon prior to that day. Only a handful like myself, a child of a Dragon Rider, had seen a dragon up close before coming here.

”I thought it would have been obvious to you by now.” I had a feeling if I could see his face, his words would have been accompanied by an eye roll. Can dragons even roll their eyes?

”Well it’s been a few years. Wasn’t sure if you actually remembered me.” I retort before he throws us into another bank, causing my to fumble for my grip on the pommel. Bastard.

”Little flower, I watched you grow up for most of your life. You might be older but you still look the same.”

”That doesn’t answer why you defended me. And stop calling me little flower.” I snap back as we level out, starting out decent to the flight field.

”I defended you because I knew you we’re my rider. I have been waiting for you since the day my last rider passed. I would have done anything to make sure no harm came to you little flower.”

Clearly we were not giving up on the little flower nickname.

Without warning his wings starting beating faster and faster before launching us upwards at an alarming rate. It’s now I remember Kaori had warned us all the dragons would put us through our paces, making sure we could keep our seat and to put on a show for those below. I sneak a glance to my left, below us hundreds of dragons and riders line the field. Most likely all with their eyes on the last of us to make it back.

His wings stop beating as we hand in mid air, a weird feeling of weightlessness falling over me. I feel the slight change in gravity as we go to drop, but instead of falling with it he spreads his wings beating them loudly as we flip backwards into our decent, another yelp escaping my lips as we start falling towards the ground in a spinning motion. I was now secretly glad I’d barely eaten breakfast as I would no doubt be struggling to keep it down right now.

Just when I think we’re going to crash into the ground he spreads his wings wide, pulling us upright as we descend into the ground. A ferocious roar of celebration echoes around us as we descend. Hundreds of dragons line the edge of the field, as well as spectators who have filled the stands to watch the bonded riders. As we touch down onto the ground, I notice the formation of dragons. On our side are the new first years with their newly bonded dragons. Across from us are the dragons and riders in second and third year. If it wasn’t for the fact he was my squad leader, I would have thought my dragon picked out spot based on the other dragons colour. Across from us is a dragon I’d only heard Bodhi and others speak about. The biggest and most ruthless dragon in the quadrant. Sgaeyl. Though with how she was eyeing us off, I had a feeling we now rivalled that position.

As my feet touch the ground, I’m met with a different set of eyes. The ones belonging to the rider of Sgaeyl. Xaden. He offers me one of his signature smirks and a brief nod of his head before his attention shifts to his right, where another set of eyes are looking at me. Garrick, who has his usual unimpressed look on his face as I meet his eyes. I give him a vulgar gesture which only worsens the look on his face before I turn to my way down to the roll keeper.

”Do I want to know what you’re problem is with him?”

”Everything. Now what do I call you before I make a fool of myself in front of the roll keeper and that thing I call a father.” I snap back as I start down the make shift path down the middle of the flight field where a line of cadets waits to give their dragons name.

Movement on the dais catches my attention. I knew he would be here. Knew he would be waiting for Dain and I to bond our dragon. I hadn’t even bothered to see if Dain had made it back on my way down. And I wasn’t turning my back on my father to check.

His eyes don’t meet mine. Still too focused on the dragon behind me. I don’t have to be an inninstic to know what he’s thinking. I know exactly what he’s thinking and the lecture I’m definitely getting after I tell the roll keeper his name.

The rider ahead of me finishes telling the roll keeper their dragons name, moving aside to let me move forward. She looks up and offers me a smile. “Ah, Dahlia Aetos. Congratulations on bonding a dragon.” She says as she writes my name down. “For the record, please tell me the name of the dragon who chose you.”

Behind her my father steps forward, close enough to hear the name leave my mouth. I hold my ground, shifting my eyes from the roll keeper to his. The same brown eyes Dain and I inherited. Eyes that I cowered under as a kid. Eyes I had hoped and wanted to look at me with love and adoration while I was a kid. But not now. Now I couldn’t care less how he looked at me, as long as I proved him wrong.

“Now would be a good time to tell me your name.”

”Prothoenor.”

I square my shoulders and lift my chin, the corner of my mouth lifting into a smirk I know my father hates before I announce his name.

”His name is Prothoenor.”

She nods happily, before writing down his name next to mine and motioning for me to move along. I pivot on my heal, tearing my gaze from my fathers. I barely get ten steps away before I hear rushed steps behind me as a hand roughly grabs my arm and spins me around.

I resist the urge to shove my hands out and shove my father away, knowing I will face far worse punishment for disrespecting leadership. It didn’t matter if he was my father. I was a rider and he was a Colonel who out ranked me. It seems the last few days were out to get me with Deja Vu. The last time I had seen so much hatred and rage in his eyes was back in that clearing. The day mother had died. They had he had told me I was no daughter of his.

”What are you playing at bonding that dragon?” He snarls at me as he tightens his grip on my arm as I try to tug it free.

”I am not playing at anything.” I snap back.

”Don’t mess with me girl. You know who that dragon belong to before you.”

I tug again on my arm, finally succeeding at getting it free as I step back. “Yes I am aware who his rider was before me. He was the last family I had left before his suspicious death.”

He recoils slightly at my words before leaning back towards me and pointing a finger at me. “Your grandfathers death was not suspicious. And as I’ve told you before, we will not be discussing his death ever again.”

”You can’t tell me, that sending his squad to an abandoned outpost near no enemy activity and none of them surviving isn’t suspicious.”

Everything about his death sent alarm bells off in my head, especially as I got older. Something never sat quite right with me about it. But any time I’d brought it up I was locked in my room until he’d seen fit to let me out again. And now I had bonded his dragon, I knew his was scared I might find out the truth behind it all.

He goes to step towards me but comes up short as he averts his gaze over my head. Gasps sound around me as those around us turn their gaze behind me. So far our little conversation had gone unnoticed. Until now. The familiar shake of the ground tells me who is approaching. His words from earlier echoing in my head.

I would have done anything to make sure no harm came to you little flower.

And apparently that also extended to my own father. My father who quickly steps back, giving me a fleeting glare before walking back to his place on the dais.

@imtoanonymousforyou @simplyme-fornow @omalmal @lalaluch @wolfbc97 @leptitlu @fullmoon-94 @the-fandom-ness

[hazymoonlinh]

Lighter x Reader

Lost n Found

Part1

(Just love this place a lot muehehehe)

Don’t mind the pic

(So the mc was lost in the hollow and having a meltdown after her companions didn’t survive)

The ground beneath you felt cold, the cracked earth pressing into your palms as you slumped against the wall, trying to catch your breath. Your body ached all over—deep, sharp pains where the Ethereals had struck, but it was nothing compared to the heavy emptiness sitting in your chest.

Again, you’re the only one left.

You didn’t even flinch when you heard his footsteps pounding against the hollowed-out ground, his voice slicing through the ringing in your ears.

“There you are!”

Lighter’s voice was hoarse, frantic, raw in a way you hadn’t heard before. You knew he’d find you eventually. He always did. It should’ve mattered. But it didn’t. Not anymore.

You didn’t look up as he stumbled to a halt in front of you, his breath ragged, like he’d been running for days. “Hey. Hey!” He crouched down, trying to meet your eyes, but you kept staring at the ground—at the blood smearing the dirt under your fingertips.

“You’re hurt. Come on, we need to get you out of here—”

“Why am I still alive?”

Your voice broke through his words, soft but sharp enough to make him freeze. He blinked down at you, as though unsure if he’d heard you right.

“…What did you just say?”

You laughed—short, hollow, bitter. It escaped your lips like a cough, a broken thing you couldn’t quite contain. “I fought them. I fought, Lighter. But I shouldn’t have. I should’ve just let it happen. I should’ve just let them take me.”

Lighter’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he didn’t say a word. Then:

“Don’t.”

His voice was low, tight, a warning. But you ignored him.

“I mean, look at me,” you continued, a shaky, almost manic edge creeping into your voice as you gestured weakly to yourself—your torn clothes, the blood staining your skin, the bruises blooming across your arms. “I’m a mess. I can barely stand. I feel like hell, and—”

You cut yourself off with another bitter laugh, your head falling back against the wall. “At least I feel something, though. That’s gotta count for something, right? Pain’s better than nothing. It’s better than the emptiness.”

“Stop it.” Lighter’s voice cracked this time, and you finally looked up at him.

He was staring at you like he didn’t recognize you, his hands trembling at his sides. His green irises burned with something wild, desperate—something you’d never seen in him before.

“Why?” you shot back, your voice rising. “Why should I stop? Why do you care so much, Lighter? Why am I still here? What’s the point of any of this?”

“Because you’re alive!” he snapped, the words exploding from him like he couldn’t hold them back anymore.

Your chest heaved, your fingers curling into the dirt beneath you as you shook your head, a humorless smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah? And for what? I didn’t ask to be saved. I didn’t ask for this life—for this never-ending fight, for this pain that just keeps coming. I didn’t—”

“Stop!” Lighter’s voice thundered through the air, loud enough to cut you off. He grabbed your shoulders suddenly, shaking you just enough to make your head snap up. His hands were firm, his grip almost bruising, but his eyes—those red-ringed eyes—were wide, frantic, pleading.

“You think this is easy for me?” he hissed, his voice rough, unsteady. “You think I haven’t been there? You think I don’t know what it’s like to wake up and wish you hadn’t? To stare down that abyss and want to let it take you?”

You stared at him, stunned, as the cracks in his voice became impossible to ignore.

“I’ve been where you are,” he said, quieter this time. His hands loosened their grip on your shoulders, but they didn’t let go. “I’ve felt it. That weight—the one that keeps pushing you down until you can’t breathe anymore. I know. But you…” He shook his head, swallowing hard. “You don’t get to give up. Not while I’m still here.”

You let out a shaky breath, your lips trembling as you looked away. “You don’t understand—”

“I do,” Lighter cut you off, his voice breaking. He exhaled sharply, letting his hands fall away from your shoulders before running them through his disheveled black-green hair. He looked like he was falling apart right in front of you, trying to hold himself together with shaking hands and broken words.

“I do understand. But you wanna know the difference?” he asked bitterly, dropping to sit in front of you, his knees scraping against the dirt. “I kept fighting. I didn’t think I’d make it out. I didn’t even want to. But I’m still here, and you know why? Because there were people who didn’t give up on me—even when I wanted to give up on myself.”

Your chest tightened painfully, your vision blurring with tears you didn’t want to shed. “Lighter…”

“Don’t you dare tell me your life doesn’t matter,” he said fiercely, his red pupils locking onto you like they were holding you in place. “Don’t you dare. Because it matters to me. You matter to me. And if you think I’m gonna let you slip away just because you think you’re too far gone—”

He broke off, his voice trembling as he looked away, fists clenching at his sides. For a moment, he couldn’t even speak. When he finally looked back at you, his eyes were glassy behind the sunglasses , the sharp edges of his anger softened by something far more painful.

“…I can’t lose you too.”

You choked on a sob, covering your face with your hands as the tears finally spilled over. The pain, the exhaustion, the hopelessness—it all crashed over you like a wave, pulling you under.

The silence that followed your words was sharp, cutting through the air like broken glass. You let out a hollow, humorless laugh, the sound scraping against your throat as you stared at him through blurred vision.

“It’s funny,” you murmured, voice thin, trembling, “because I’m the one who’s supposed to be screaming in despair… and yet…” Your head tilted back against the wall as you looked at him, a ghost of a smile pulling at your cracked lips. “Here you are, doing it in my place.”

Lighter froze. The way you said it—so tired, so empty—made his chest ache in ways he couldn’t explain. You were mocking yourself, mocking him, and yet there was nothing playful about it.

He clenched his jaw, his breathing sharp and uneven as he stared at you. The red in his pupils flared faintly, like embers struggling to reignite. “You think this is funny?” he said, his voice low and strained, trembling with something he was barely holding back.

You shrugged weakly, the motion barely there. “It’s all kind of ridiculous, don’t you think? Me, like this. You, still trying.” You laughed again—a breathless, broken sound. “I don’t even know what you’re fighting for anymore, Lighter.”

“For you,” he snapped, his voice raw, the words tearing from him before he could stop them.

Your mocking smile faltered, your expression slipping as you stared at him. He was breathing hard, his shoulders shaking, his fists trembling at his sides.

“I’m fighting for you, damn it,” Lighter repeated, softer this time, but no less intense. He ran a hand roughly through his hair, his eyes never leaving yours. “You think I’m screaming in your place? Fine. I’ll scream. I’ll yell. I’ll fight as much as it takes, because you won’t. Because you can’t. But that’s why I’m here. That’s why I care.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. Lighter dropped to his knees in front of you again, closer this time, his face inches from yours.

“I’ll be the one to pull you back,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less desperate. “I don’t care if you mock me for it. I don’t care if you think it’s stupid or pointless. But you need to understand something—”

His hand reached out hesitantly, trembling before it brushed against your cheek, so light it was barely a touch. “You’re not alone. Not anymore. You don’t have to carry this by yourself.”

Your eyes stung, your chest tightening painfully as his words washed over you. You wanted to argue, to push him away, to tell him he didn’t understand. But the look on his face—the raw, unguarded way he looked at you—stopped you cold.

Lighter exhaled sharply, his thumb brushing against the tear that slipped down your cheek. “Let me scream in your place. Let me fight. Let me carry the weight until you can stand on your own again. Just…” His voice cracked as his hand dropped away. “Don’t you dare leave me here alone.”

You looked at him, your lips parting as if to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you let out another broken laugh, softer this time, as you wiped your eyes with a shaking hand.

“You’re so stubborn,” you muttered weakly.

Lighter huffed out a breath, his lips tugging into a faint, humorless smile. “Takes one to know one, sweetheart.”

The silence that followed was different—no longer sharp and heavy, but fragile, like glass balanced on the edge of a table. You didn’t know if you believed him, if you believed anything would get better.

The world around you had begun to blur—sounds fading into distant echoes, shapes losing their edges until they became nothing but hazy smears of light and shadow. Your body felt heavy, unbearably so, as though the earth itself was pulling you down. The warmth of blood seeping through your clothes spread like ink in water, but you barely registered it.

All you could see, all you could focus on, was Lighter’s face hovering above you.

His usually steady, cool demeanor had shattered completely. Hair clung to his forehead, disheveled and damp with sweat, and his sunglasses were gone, revealing the vibrant red of his pupils that burned with raw panic.

“Stay with me,” he choked out, his voice rough, thick with desperation. “Come on, sweetheart, stay with me.”

You wanted to respond, to say something—anything—to ease that look on his face. But your lips wouldn’t move, your voice wouldn’t come. All you could do was stare at him through heavy-lidded eyes, watching the way his hands trembled as they pressed against your wounds, trying to stop the bleeding.

“This isn’t funny anymore, damn it,” he muttered, his voice cracking as he leaned closer, his breath uneven. “You’re not leaving me. You can’t leave me. I won’t let you.”

You managed a weak smile—a barely there tug at the corner of your mouth—as if to mock him. It was all you could offer, a bittersweet gesture, as the edges of your vision darkened further.

“Please…”

His voice broke on that single word, and you felt his hands press harder, as if trying to keep you tethered to him, to this place.

You could still see him—just barely. His eyes, usually sharp and unwavering, now shimmered with something raw and pleading. His gaze was locked on yours, as though his sheer willpower alone could hold you here.

“Don’t do this,” he whispered hoarsely. “Don’t you dare—”

But his words slipped away, dissolving into the background noise as everything around you faded to black.

The last thing you saw was him—his worried, desperate gaze burning into yours. The last thing you heard was the sound of his voice, fractured and trembling, as he screamed your name.

And then there was nothing.

_____

(I genuinely was having a broke down writing this. Life sucks btw)

[rosegoldrosieee]

so high school

while flesh-eating walkers had seemingly crushed your long-held dreams of experiencing romance as a teenager, carl grimes made you feel so high school.

♡ carl x f!reader, fluff, implied suggestiveness, friends to lovers (sorta), ambiguously alexandria, reader has a spine

a/n: wrote this yesterday hiding in the bathroom during lunch on my school-licensed chromebook for maximum immersion

it was times like these, standing outside on someone’s back porch to get away from boisterous conversations and forced interactions, that reminded you of stupid high school chick flicks with cheesy one-liners, twenty-something actors playing sixteen-year-olds, and predictable love triangles.

you never got to navigate and, most importantly, surmount pubescent awkwardness, nor gush about crushes at sleepovers, because by your twelfth birthday, the dead somehow began to roam the earth.

out of sheer necessity, you’d eschewed any shot at teenage romance for survival skills, and effectively turned into a wallflower when you rejoined civilized society.

a gentle tap on your shoulder snapped you out of your reverie.

“hey.”

there stood the very reason you were even thinking about early-2000s romance movies in the first place: a chronically flannel-clad, one-eyed cowboy, notorious for merely sharing the same last name as the de facto leader of alexandria, now two feet in front of you holding a shot glass of fruit punch.

“didn’t mean to scare you.” he says with a sheepish grin plastered on his face.

“the only thing that’s scaring me is what you’re using as a vessel for your fruit punch.”

“everyone used up all the solo cups so i had to dig around in the cabinets,” he replies nonchalantly, holding up the glass. “why are you out here?”

why were you out here?

…

you can’t even remember.

“i don’t know.”

it’s hard to think, much less remember, anything when carl’s looking at you like that, arms crossed and leaning forward onto the banister, blue eyes boring into your own.

“did you even hear me?” he taps your hand that’s resting on the ledge gently, his lips quirking up with the ghost of an amused smile.

your eyes flick up to meet his attentively. “…what?”

“wow, you’re really out of it today,” he laughs, sipping from his shot glass. “forget it.”

you shift your weight, shaking your head. “well, i’m listening now, so tell me.”

his fingers are fidgeting with yours, you realize. tapping gently on your knuckles. intentionally, unintentionally? it was cute either way.

he tilts his head. “i just want to know what you’re thinking about.”

you shrug, as dismissively as you possibly can. swallowing down the butterflies that threatened to crawl into your throat.

“getting away from this stupid ass party.”

he raises an eyebrow, tone skeptical. “and?”

you narrow your eyes. it was a bad habit, using vitriol to mask your emotions. you were well aware. “what do you mean, ‘and’?”

“‘cause you’re smart,” his lips curl into a smirk. “that’s not all you’re thinking about. you’re never all…spaced out, like this.”

fuck you, carl grimes.

“i’m just tired,” you fib. your eyes drift to your hand, intertwined with carl’s, before quickly looking away. “you’re reading into it too much.”

“only because you’re not acting normal,” he teases, a dimpled grin gracing his features before he adds, “and you definitely would’ve pulled away by now if you didn’t want this.”

you steal a glance at your entangled hands again, heat rising to your face before you ask, skeptical, “what are you trying to do, exactly?”

“what do you think i’m trying to do?”

you glance to the side furtively, tongue-tied, still able to hear the muffled revelry through the shut screen door, before your eyes trace over his features again.

you wanted to wipe that shit-eating grin off his face so badly.

tugging at the collar of his unbuttoned flannel, you shift your weight to the balls of your feet, connecting your lips to his fruit-punch-stained ones.

you swear you’ll never drink hawaiian punch, or any drink with red-40 in the ingredients list, again without imagining the taste of him lingering on your lips.

expression tinged with a gradient of conflicting emotions when you pull away, you open your mouth to say something— and then he pulls you in this time, words dying in your throat with a soft whimper.

the party fades into an afterthought until you hear the screen door open just around the corner, thudding against the frame. quickly, you disentangle yourself from his arms, faces still flushed.

it’s rick, his rugged, stubbled face and piercing gaze (so it must be hereditary, you wagered) flickering between the two of you suspiciously, nodding at you curtly.

“carl.”

thank god for your quick reflexes — those, at least, hadn’t deteriorated just because you were sheltered by alexandria.

carl swallows, freckled face flushed as he quickly looks at you, panic etched on his face. the evidence of your little affair conveniently disguised by the shadow of his cowboy hat and the darkness of the night.

“dad, can’t we stay a little longer?”

“think the party’s ‘bout over.”

you peer into the ajar casement windows, abandoned solo cups decorating the vacant living room, watching abraham stagger into the mudroom and nearly take a shelf with him when he topples forward. rosita, unamused, rolls her eyes, grumbling something unintelligible before dragging him along.

before the grimes family gets into a fight, you take it upon yourself to leave first, retrieving your cardigan that was hanging on the banister. “see you around, carl. bye, mr. grimes.”

both of them wave as you disappear into tree-lined streets, intermittently illuminated by uniform streetlights.

as soon as you’re out of earshot and out of sight, you let out a pleasant sigh, smiling from ear to ear like an absolute idiot as your hands reached up to feel your flushed cheeks, still hot to the touch as you giggle to yourself at the incredulity of it all.

at home, once the high had worn off, or more realistically, ebbed for the time being, you shed your cardigan, scrutinizing the crimson patches blooming on the side of your neck in the mirror, smiling like a fool.

these were the only kind of bites you’d ever tolerate.

[yandereunsolved]

How do you think various mgs characters (whichever ones you want) would deal with a hiding darling? wether it be in a box or emth else

Assuming darling is probably attempting to escape, ik my ass is trying at every opportunity. As most would try. After all mgs's whole thing is sneaking about

-📦 anon

Me when Box Anon appears: 😍 .ᐟ

You always have the best asks.

Evil polycule (Big Boss, Kazuhira, and Ocelot), Liquid Snake (MGS1), & Raiden (MGS2 and MGRR)

“ ‎Big Boss ” ― He loves it if you hide. Now, he sees it as an act of not only disobedience but also betrayal; however, he still loves it. It's a chance to pounce on you. To test you. To get an adrenaline rush and have an excuse to be nearer to you.

You hiding from him...? Big Boss himself. The master of stealth. disguise. and more. It's laughable. But if you give him a good challenge then he won't be as angry.

Hiding in boxes is incredibly obvious to him. Points to you for going to the classics.

Likes pining you down when he finds you. He likes making you flustered. He's obsessed with seeing you reacting to him. Will either tease or threaten you, depending on his mood.

tease

"Mhm, so the Snake caught its prey. Should I swallow you whole or savor the taste? How poisonous do you think my fangs are?"

threaten

"Careful, doll. One could mistake this as deserting. Soldiers who desert their posts deserve to be punished. You'd rather not survive that."

“ Ocelot ” ― Let's be honest, you were probably escaping his 'interrogation'. He doesn't like dragging these things out. But he wants to test you. He likes seeing your instincts kick in. Just how good are they?

He'll be speaking to you in Russian. And if you do understand Russian, then he'll switch to a language you don't understand. He drops little hints here and there. They are important pieces of information that could help you escape. If only you understood. You could be one step closer to freedom.

Alas, he isn't that kind.

Watch out for the needle(s) he's carrying. He'll put you down and out as soon as he finds you. You've already fought back enough. Now it's time for a nap. Sleep well. You'll be regretting your decision when you wake up.

“ Kazuhira ” ― Pre-Peace Walker Kaz is sillier about it. He's worried but he laughs it off. It's creepy. He has this strained smile. His hand struggles to run smoothly through his hair. He can't stop his deranged chuckles. He thinks you hiding in a box is just another part of your trickery. It's an invitation. You're hiding cheekily. You want to have fun. He's more than willing to participate.

Post-Peace Walker Kaz is more somber. He's like a grumpy old man. He walks down the corridors briskly and shouts at any soldier that tries to question him. It's safe to say that he isn't the least bit amused. And he sounds like a strict parent.

"Stop this foolishness. You are old enough to use your words. You know being found is inevitable."

He may go soft for a moment when he finds you hiding, especially if it's in a box. He'll huff and shake his head.

"Old habits die hard."

If you don't attack him then he may sit with you in silence. He'll use his arm to pull you closer, urging you to take comfort in his presence.

"Why?"

Oh, that is a dangerous question. Tread lightly, or you may end up in the hands of your sadistic Russian lover.

―

“ Liquid Snake ” ― He treats it like it's a game. He has this eerie hum he does while searching for darling. He slowly becomes more unhinged the longer darling hides from him. His patience runs thinner, which means your punishment will be worse.

"Are you done playing this game? Come on out, darling. You know I'll find you. It's just a matter of time."

He revels in the power he holds over darling. When he finds them he'll bend down and smile, patting their head as if they were a child.

"Found you," he murmurs, "playtime's over."

―

“ Raiden (MGS2) ” ― Gets spooked. He thinks someone took you. He tries not to panic. Still, the nasty feeling rises within him. He feels like he needs to vomit. It's like someone took his heart and plunged it into his bowels.

Treats darling almost like a cat. He's softly calling out to you. His movements are slow and purposeful. They are swift. He checks under every box. Twice.

There's a chance you may encounter him after a switch. Jack doesn't know what's going on. All he knows is that you aren't here anymore. He may start crying.

There's a 50/50 that it's a manipulation tactic. He may genuinely be scared.

After he finds you, or you come out, he cuddles you for awhile. He holds onto like a lifeline. Even if you tried to attack him he'd hold you. He's convinced you're just having an episode. This isn't how you really feel. It's just your silly mind making a silly little decision.

Part of him can't fathom why you'd want to escape him. Is he not good enough for you?

“ Raiden (MGRR) ” ― It depends on what mood you have caught him in. He may try to coax you out. He more than likely already knows where you are. He's just giving you a chance before Ripper takes over. Raiden does his best to make sure that does not happen. A part of him understands what you are going through. Another understands that it's selfish to keep you.

But doesn't he deserve to have one person in his life that loves him?

The Ripper may force his way out. And he isn't one to waste time. It doesn't matter where you're hiding. You'll be yanked up and carried back to where ever you were being held.

"Wrong choice... love. You're lucky I like you more than my blades. Try again―and that may change."

(Jack will apologize profusely later, patching up whatever injuries you sustained from Ripper's rough treatment.)

[neon-kazoo]

A Hero’s Guide on How to Get the Fuck Out of Town

(50% success rate!!)

Chance of survival guaranteed

So you’ve found yourself in a bit of a predicament.

Say, you accidentally caught a glimpse of your nemesis with their mask off. Maybe your nemesis caught you catching a glimpse of them with their mask off. Possibly, they have been chasing you around nonstop since, vowing to end your life the second you slip up and make a mistake. If things are really going bad for you, said villain might be the most well-connected in town with plenty of friends to help hunt you down. One of those friends might even be the mayor.

Just as an example.

Don’t you worry, this guide is here to help save the day by teaching you the foolproof method of how to run the fuck away.

That brings us to our first and most important piece of advice.

Don’t make a mistake.

Seems simple, right?

Yeah, right up until you face plant in the middle of the sidewalk and roll into oncoming traffic during a close foot pursuit.

Hypothetically, of course.

That brings us to our second, and slightly-less-important-but-still-very-relevant piece of advice.

When you do make a mistake, don’t panic.

Calmly rise to your feet and make a timely exit out of the roadway. Freezing in the left hand lane and flailing like a half-dead piece of roadkill won’t make the situation any better. In fact, it will only allow the villain to get closer and greatly increase the risk of an auto accident. You might even lose a finger or two between a tire and the asphalt.

Not that that would ever happen to you specifically, but trust me it could.

But just in case you do end up panicking, all hope is not lost. Here’s what you want to do:

Make the best of it.

Use that flailing to flag down a passing car. Get a phone and call for backup. If you stumble over your words urgently enough, the driver might even let you hitchhike. Or, if worst comes to worst, a simple carjacking might be in order. Just be sure to pay them back later.

Or don’t. Once you’re out of town, you’re going to need to stay out of town. No contact. Can’t let rectification be the reason you are found.

Speaking of being found, you might want to dump that tracker the villain put in your shoe. Throwing it out the window of the car you may-or-may-not have stolen should work.

Now, you may be more or less fingerless, but at least you’ve gained some ground. Try backroads, there’s less cameras for the villain to gain eyes on and less people around to keep an eye on. That is only, however, if you know your way around, which highlights our next point:

Know how to read a map.

Brush up on your Never Eat Soggy Waffles skills, cause you’re gonna need them. GPS can be hacked. A simple brochure map you nicked off a tourist, however, cannot. If you can hold the map right-side-up, you’re on the right track. I cannot advise against driving around in circles enough. Sure, you might confuse your enemy for a second, but ultimately it will get you no where. Literally.

Speaking of directions:

Be random.

North, South, East, or West? If you have a coin, flip it. Preferably more than once, unless your coin has four heads. Don’t head for your vacation home or your best friend’s house. That one town you planned a trip to as a project in elementary school? Absolutely not. Not even your boss’ cousin’s wife’s dog’s breeder’s childhood remote cabin. I mean random. Never heard of it? Perfect. Population of 60, bingo. Population of 10 million, also a winner. Forget logic, forget means. Just don’t be predictable.

Next:

Trust your gut.

If it looks like the gray SUV has been behind you too long, that’s not just paranoia. If you think you’re being followed, you probably are. To lose a tail, you just need to be able to do one thing:

Move like a bat out of hell.

Driving? See that pedal on the right? Step on it. Forget the brakes, red lights, pedestrians, and any signs and drive like you were taught by your blind aunt who secretly wanted you dead. Don’t worry, that thud was probably just an orange cone. Once all you see in the rear view is skid marks and destruction, feel free to lighten up on the gas. Enjoy a slight reprieve before our next tip.

Use cash.

All that running made you hungry, I get it. Your fuel tank is probably running pretty low, too. You’re going to want to stop at the sketchiest gas station you can find. I’m talking open drug deal in the parking lot here. The attendant smoking near the pumps look like they’re straight out of a wanted poster? Perfect. The least amount of questions they ask, the better.

Don’t think this makes you safe, though. Remember:

Stay suspicious.

Clerk being a little too friendly with an awkward laugh and sweat dripping off his brow? Gaze keep darting around and not in the typical high as a kite fashion? You might want to grab your mini m&m’s and run.

Relatedly:

Civilians are not your friends.

Don’t learn this the hard way. It doesn’t matter if you saved their kitten from a tree once, it only takes a wad of cash or the flash of a gun to turn somebody against you. Next thing you know, that very same clerk is pulling out a rifle from behind the counter and pointing it straight at your back. This is where our next piece of advice really pays off.

Be aware of your surroundings.

Does the pharmacy, perhaps, have mirrors angled on the wall that you can use to catch the bolt being pulled back just in time to dodge the bullet whizzing past your head? If it does, excellent. If it doesn’t…well I’d suggest you don’t turn your back on anybody. And watch out for those middle-of-the-aisle displays if you plan on walking backwards all the way out of there. Wouldn’t want to die falling on a heap of beanie babies, would you?

Don’t dilly dally.

Forget dodging, start running. Make your get away swift. Just make sure you pumped your gas first. (And don’t drive off with the nozzle in your tank, that would just be embarrassing.)

Let’s take a moment to discuss unexpected obstacles.

Your number two nemesis, let’s say: the roadblock. So maybe you were a little too loose with the rule about randomness, or maybe your villain has a doctorate in statistics. That doesn’t matter now. Now, it’s fight or flight and, quite frankly, this is not a guide on hand-to-hand combat. I have but one thing to say on the matter:

When in doubt, flee.

Now, this may be covered under no dilly dallying, but I believe it’s worth restating.

Every moment is precious.

It’s all about timely decisions. Two ways to turn and don’t know which one to pick? Allow only a split second to make the decision. A fraction could mean the difference between life and death at an intersection. Channel your inner try-hard and run in a direction like you’re a fifth-grade boy playing tag.

And at that, we finally arrive at one last piece of advice (and I fear this one may be nonnegotiable):

If the villain is waiting for you around the left corner, you might want to go right.

[flowercrowngods]

a tiny thing for @eddiemonth day 06: crush & sincere

“I will crush you beneath my heel like vermin.”

Like thunder, the evil wizard’s voice rolls over the battlefield, leaving fear in the heart of everyone who’s alive enough to hear it and rattling the bones of those who aren’t.

Men and women alike, soldiers and knights and able bodied young men, watch with bated breath as Sir Steven, the bravest of them all, rises to his feet again beside the black-clad wizard, his grip on his trusty sword never wavering as he wipes blood and sweat from his face.

There he stands, heroic as ever, meeting the evil wizard’s eyes with a heated glare of his own.

“Try,” he says, standing his ground as his voice, too, is carried over the battlefield. Carried, indeed, for the wind blows in his favour, the sun shines only for him, and the ground beneath his feet holds him up like a trusted friend, a most beloved brother.

Sir Steven reaches towards his neck, feeling the band of leather against overheated skin, a charm resting just above his heart — right where it belongs.

The wizard doesn’t have what he has.

***

A soft chuckle abruptly changes the scenery and rips Eddie into a different world once more; sun glazed battlefields replaced with the darkness of his room, hard soil replaced with the softness of his bed, and a knight turns into a beautiful boy wearing his favourite shirt.

“A magic used guitar pick necklace? Is that what the evil wizard king doesn’t have?”

Steve’s eyes are closed but the smile on his lips shines bright, and Eddie can’t even be mad about the interruption. He reaches out a hand and trails his fingers through Steve’s hair, gently combing back the locks sticking to his sweaty forehead. The smile dims a little, turning into something more genuine.

“I can’t believe you interrupted me at the best part there, Stevie. I was going to make a heroic entrance as a dragon shifter, called to the knight simply by touching the charm.” He keeps up his slow and gentle caresses, his hands trialing down to Steve’s cheeks and neck, where Eddie’s necklace clings to overheated skin indeed. “It means a lot, you know, a charm like that.”

Steve hums, moving closer to Eddie, seeking his warmth and his touch alike, and Eddie can’t possibly refuse him.

“It could save the world, you mean?”

“Hmm. The world. A young boy’s heart. And everything in between.”

Steve blindly reaches for Eddie’s hand and brushes a kiss to his knuckles, and another for good measure.

There’s a weight to their words that’s not meant for moments like this, but it hangs in the air nonetheless, and Eddie breathes it in. The weight of a past survived and a future acknowledging that. Both of them shared like this moment. A promise.

“So what happens next? With Sir Steven and the evil wizard, and with Eddie the dragon shifter. That’s very fitting, by the way, you little hoarder,” Steve laughs, still keeping his eyes closed, and Eddie can’t help but join in, overwhelmed with affection for this boy.

This sunshine boy who’s having a bad day and a fever but still manages to be the most radiant thing in the world. This wonderful boy who asked Eddie to stay and tell him a story until he falls asleep.

“Don’t feel good? Do you wanna stay in bed, baby?”

“Yeah. Can you stay?”

“Of course. Cuddles?”

“Could you maybe… Could you tell me a story?

“I’ll tell you any story you want, sunshine.”

This incredible, insufferable boy who’s too nosy and too sassy for his own good, interrupting Eddie here and there to ask questions or give a snarky little comment that’s dripping with fondness whether he’ll admit it or not.

This boy. His boy. With the smile and the wild bed head and the insistent tug on Eddie’s hand to tell him what happens next.

And so Eddie continues his story about the evil wizard being defeated and the world celebrating the heroics of the knight and his dragon and their unlikely band of friends. If he adds a little Lord of the Rings imagery here and there, Steve won’t know about it anyway.

Before he reaches the end, Steve’s hand goes slack where it’s tangled with Eddie’s, and his breath evens out, the smile never quite fading from his lips. Eddie keeps talking, though his voice is hushed now and thick with a smile of his own now.

He loves him. God, he loves him so, so much, he can barely stand it.

“Good night, Stevie,” he whispers even though it’s barely three in the afternoon. He gets up and out of bed, tucking the blanket around Steve’s sleeping form and brushing one more kiss to his hair before sneaking out of the room on slow, quiet steps.

Outside, Wayne is reading a book on the porch, a cigarette in his hand. Eddie snatches one from the pack and leans over his old man to brush a kiss to his hair, too, feeling far too full of affection right now and needing to let it out. There is a sincerity inside him that needs to be shared.

Wayne lets out a gruff kind of hum, but Eddie isn’t so easily fooled, smiling as he lights his cig.

“How’s your boy?” Wayne asks.

“Asleep for now.”

“Good.” There’s a moment of silence between them and Eddie closes his eyes against the afternoon sun for a moment, drawn back to his story. “You let me know if he needs anything.”

“Of course. Thanks, Wayne.”

“Sure. Just wouldn’t wanna be crushed like vermin, is all.”

The laugh bubbles out of Eddie before he can help it, sincerity replaced by something lighter, something manageable for now as he lets his uncle bully him for telling ridiculous stories to the boy he loves so endlessly.

[canary-prince]

Poems I Associate With Various Yellowjackets Characters

I'd make edits of them if I was motivated enough. I can't find one I like for Mari and I have a single stanza I like for Akilah but wish something more substantial and had showed up for her. If you guys are into poetry, feel free to make suggestions.

Shauna: deeply-rooted, Spider Perry, full text

mugwort and the water boils red willow and the sickle harvests pennyroyal and the sun dries juniper and the tea steeps wild carrot drink deep, drink up silphium we will hold you through it black cohosh until you rise from your bed of blood Natalie: To The Young Who Want To Die, Gwendolyn Brooks, full text

Sit down. Inhale. Exhale. The gun will wait. The lake will wait. The tall gall in the small seductive vial will wait will wait: will wait a week: will wait through April. You do not have to die this certain day. Death will abide, will pamper your postponement. I assure you death will wait. Death has a lot of time. Death can attend to you tomorrow. Or next week. Death is just down the street; is most obliging neighbor; can meet you any moment.

You need not die today. Stay here–through pout or pain or peskyness. Stay here. See what the news is going to be tomorrow.

Graves grow no green that you can use. Remember, green’s your color. You are Spring.

Lottie: Crepuscule, e.e. cummings, full text with modified formatting

I will wade out until my thighs are steeped in burn- ing flowers I will take the sun in my mouth and leap into the ripe air with closed eyes to dash against darkness in the sleeping curves of my body Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery with chasteness of sea-girls Will I complete the mystery of my flesh I will rise after a thousand years lipping flowers and set my teeth in the silver of the moon

Misty: Me Up At Does, e.e. cummings, full text

Me up at does

out of the floor quietly Stare

a poisoned mouse

still who alive

is asking What have i done that

You wouldn’t have

Laura Lee: Queen of Swords , Judy Grahn, brief quote

She is veiled You can only see part of her at a time-- a crescent, like the moon. Even so, she is so luminious she hurts the eyes.

Van: Death Comes To Me Again, Dorianne Laux, full text

Death comes to me again, a girl in a cotton slip, barefoot, giggling. It’s not so terrible she tells me, not like you think, all darkness and silence. There are windchimes and the smell of lemons, some days it rains, but more often the air is dry and sweet. I sit beneath the staircase built from hair and bone and listen to the voices of the living. I like it, she says, shaking the dust from her hair, especially when they fight, and when they sing.

Taissa: Let July Be July, Morgan Harper Nichols, full text

Let July be July

Let August be August

And let yourself be

Even in the uncertainty

You don’t have to fix everything

You don’t have to solve everything

And you can still find peace and grow

In the wild of changing things

Akilah: Tea, Leila Chatti, single stanza

I can barely get out of bed. So I make tea. I stand at the window while I wait. My feet are cold and the radio plays its little sounds. I do the small thing I know how to do to care for myself. I am trying to notice joy which means survive. I do this all day, and then the next.

Jackie: a girl is asked about herself for the first time, Spencer Wollan, full text

i was at the dinner table the first time someone told me, “God does not exist.” I haven’t had a dream since then.

sometimes, i imagine dying like it’s a good magic trick—sometimes, i imagine dying and it feels like driving home

often, i want to pry open the mouth of a lion cut out her tongue, and wait for her to fight back with just teeth

what i mean to say, is i’m nothing to scream about. nothing to shine a light on or give a pair of hands to.

what i mean to say, is i’m just another way out of the ocean.

what i mean to say, is i drove home from my own baptism fully believing i had just narrowly escaped drowning.

Mari:

Travis: If I Never See You Again, Charles Bukowski, full text with intact formatting

If I never see you again I will always carry you inside outside

on my fingertips and at brain edges

and in centers centers of what I am of what remains

Melissa: Her Kind, Anne Sexton, full text with slightly modified formatting

I have gone out, a possessed witch, haunting the black air, braver at night; dreaming evil, I have done my hitch over the plain houses, light by light: lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind. A woman like that is not a woman, quite. I have been her kind. I have found the warm caves in the woods, filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,    closets, silks, innumerable goods; fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:    whining, rearranging the disaligned. A woman like that is misunderstood. I have been her kind. I have ridden in your cart, driver, waved my nude arms at villages going by,    learning the last bright routes, survivor    where your flames still bite my thigh and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.    A woman like that is not ashamed to die.    I have been her kind.

Callie: The Girl With Antlers, Ansel Elkins, First stanza

I tore myself out of my own mother's womb. There was no other way to arrive in this world. A terrified midwife named me Monster and left me in the pine woods with only the moon. My mother's blood dripped from my treed head.

In a dream, my mother came to me and said if I was to survive I must find joy within my own wild self.

When I awoke I was alone in solitude's blue woods.

[wardenofdragons]

|| Iskar of Ravenholm - formerly known as the Huntsman

They say that when he appears, it's like a great shadow passing over the sea. His dragon's wings are big enough to blot out the Sun, and before you know it, your ship has burst into flame.

Smoke envelops you, the air fills with the screams of your crew and the roaring of dragons, and through the hellfire you see his silhouette.

The Huntsman.

And next to him you see his dragon, already eyeing you.

It's a Night Fury. It's bigger than any other you've seen, with scales that blend into the black smoke and wings bigger than the sails of your ship. It's eyes look white against the sea of red around it, and as it begins to prowl closer, snarling, teeth flashing, you find yourself thinking,

This must be what Death looks like.

But the Huntsman holds up a hand, his voice rising above the crackling flames as he says, "Wait." and the dragon halts.

One word.

One word, and Death listens, and turns away from your cowering form to return to its master's side. The Huntsman's outline is dark against the raging inferno that is now your ship, and through your blurry vision, you can see dragons swirling along with the rising smoke. The same dragons you spent weeks trapping and transporting from ship to ship, now free, their angered cries loud enough to make your ears ring.

They all scatter like embers in the wind, until all that remains are you and your crewmates on the burning ship.

And the Huntsman.

He turns to you, then, and you see him properly for the first time since he arrived. The head of the black wolf skin he wears rests on his shoulder, it's glass eyes glinting in the firelight. The Huntsman's face is covered by shadow, but his eyes are bright, and for a moment you can't tell them apart from the wolf's. He's clad in black- or perhaps it's the light behind him that shrouds him in darkness.

He takes a step toward you, dragon in tow.

"Please..." you beg, certain of your demise. If he doesn't kill you, the fire surely will, but that doesn't stop you from trying. He stopped the dragon from attacking you that first time. He's only human. He can be reasoned with.

He stops to stare at you. The dragon at his side looks ready to rip into you at a moment's notice.

Emboldened, you continue, "Mercy, please...! I-I have a family waiting for me, I have a son. Please, don't take his father away!"

He seems to consider you for a moment. Firelight dances across his face revealing hardened eyes smeared with dark charcoal, but you can't read his emotions. Something in his eyes still makes your stomach churn, though.

You know that look. You see it on your crewmates' faces whenever a new dragon is captured and brought on board; a cold, uncaring nonchalance. Your life means nothing to him and you both know it.

The seconds seem to stretch into hours as he stares at you. You don't dare move from your spot, even though you're sure the rest of the crew has already fled the ship. You bought them enough time to escape, and you can't help but think that no matter what happens to you now, you would die a worthy death.

It happens before you realize it. The Huntsman steps forward in the blink of an eye- you see the flash of an axe head, hidden until that point, and feel a sharp pain in your temple before it all goes black.

...

You wake up on the shores of some foreign beach.

There's sand in your teeth, waves blanketing you up to the waist and a throbbing headache behind your eyes. Sunlight blinds you as you peel your eyes open to look around.

The charred remains of your ship surround you in the sand and in the water, blackened wooden planks floating like drowned corpses in the distance. You have no idea where you are. The Sun beats down on you mercilessly, and the water you sit in feels blissfully cold against the searing heat.

You're alive.

It dawns on you slowly and yet all too suddenly, the revelation making your head spin with relief. You survived meeting the Huntsman. You stared into the eyes of Death itself and lived to tell the tale.

And that is exactly what you'll do, you think to yourself, beginning to walk along the shore.

You will continue to live and to tell the tale of the man who arrives like a hurricane, sudden and devastating, bringing fiery destruction down on anyone unfortunate enough to stand in his path.

...

I cannot stress enough how much fun I had while drawing him. He holds a special place in my heart, so I'm very happy to finally have art of him that lives up to my own standards and expectations.

Please welcome the star of the blog and the whole reason it exists in the first place: Iskar of Ravenholm!

(The link in the title leads to his character playlist on Youtube. You can read an extremely abridged version of his story in the playlist's description.)

Alternate version under the cut to show off the Huntsman design better:

Booyah