#man it feels great to draw gore again

[littleblueberryartist]

For the record I completely blame xia for this one <3

Speedpaint under the cut!

I might've gotten a bittttt carried away with the screentones

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Hi! My request is Aemond x reader based on the first episode of season 2. When Blood and Cheese enter Aemond’s room, they find his wife there instead. She resists them, fighting for her life and is able to harm one of them. Aemond arrives and strikes one with his sword, while the other is after executed by Vhagar. Once he sees her on the ground, he runs to check on her and she crumbles into his arms. Aemond is shocked at first, not used to physical touch. This ignites a feeling of great protectness towards reader he didn’t know he had and decides to gift her a knife in case she ever need to defend herself. Hope you enjoyed it ❤️

I could have gone very gore and violent with this one (I'm a horror movie girl), but decided against it as it can be triggering for some

Warnings: violence, blood & cheese, protective!Aemond

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

The castle had turned quiet as night fell outside. You undid the braids from your hair, placing each pins on your vanity, before disrobing and replacing your dress with a light nightgown. Aemond had promised he would be joining you shortly, having business to finish with Ser Criston in the drawing chamber.  

You reached behind your neck to unclasp your necklace, but it seemed to have gotten caught in your hair. A sigh left your lips. You tried again, but were unsuccessful. 

Just then, the door of your chambers opened — Aemond was there. 

You stepped out of the bathing chamber, seeking your husband’s help. ‘’Could you help me with my necklace? It seems to be caught in my hair—’’ 

Air caught in your throat when you saw a man you had never seen before stuffing his pockets with gold pieces he found on a table. Before you could ask who he was — or scream —, another grabbed you from the back and pressed a blade against your neck. You froze in his hold.

‘’Cheese,’’ the man behind you said, pressing the blade harder and cutting your skin. 

Cheese, who was stealing, glanced at his friend, confused. ‘’Who the fuck is she?’’

‘’She is the one-eyed prince’s lady, Cheese.’’ He laughed maliciously, pressing the blade against your neck whilst pulling at your hair to expose your neck. ‘’If you scream, I’ll slice your neck.’’

Terror shot through you. 

‘’A son for a son, he said,’’ reminded the other one. ‘’Does she look like a fucking son to you?’’ 

‘’I-I have a necklace. It’s of great value,’’ you offered, your voice trembling.

Your aggressor’s grip tightened, his breath hot and foul against your ear. ‘’You think we’re here for trinkets, woman?’’ he sneered. ‘’We’re here for blood.’’

‘’Where is the one-eyed prince?’’ Cheese asked, ripping your necklace from your neck anyway. 

Who were these men, and why did they want your husband? 

‘’He…he is not here,’’ you stammered, trying to think of a way to get yourself out of Blood’s grip.

You knew there was a dagger hidden in the bedside table. Aemond kept it there in case he needed to defend himself in the middle of the night and couldn’t get to his sword. But there was no way of grabbing it without the two men seeing through your plan.

‘’Would you like more jewelry? Or gold pieces?’’ 

The chances of your plan working were very slim, but if you didn’t do anything, your survival was almost impossible. You were not valuable to them. You were just the wife. 

Blood didn’t seem interested in money, but Cheese's eyes gleamed with greed. Maybe he would take your offerings, and you could fetch the dagger.

Cheese stepped closer, considering your offer. ‘’Jewelry? Gold?’’ He grinned, glancing at Blood.  

‘’Yes. I can get them for you…if your friend releases me.’’ 

Blood grunted and reluctantly released you. 

You moved towards the bedside table, feeling wetness drip down your neck. Luckily, the cut was not deep. You opened the drawer, feeling the two men’s eyes on you, ready to pounce if you tried to escape. First, you pulled out a few pieces of gold, and made sure Cheese could see them. Then, you reached for the dagger, your fingers closing tightly around the hilt. 

You thought your plan had worked, but Blood saw the blade and lunged at you, pinning you against the wall. 

‘’Uh uh,’’ he said, madness in his eyes as he raised his other hand to press his blade against your neck again. ‘’What were you trying to do?’’ 

You said nothing. Blood’s hand on your sternum was making it difficult to breathe. 

Now that you made him mad, your life was hanging by a thread. So you kept eye contact and blindly drove Aemond’s dagger into his side. Blood gasped, eyes wide with shock, before letting go of you and collapsing to the floor. 

‘’Ahh! Fucking cunt!’’ 

You got away from him, but Cheese charged in turn. 

Before he could get to you, the door opened and Aemond entered the room. He instantly noticed the presence of two strangers and his terrified wife, rage flaring within him. Who were these men? How did they get in? What were their intentions? Those questions and more ran through his mind, but he couldn’t even begin to find the answers right now.

Aemond’s jaw clenched in anger as he reached for his sword. It was a silent, swift and deadly movement that echoed through the room.

Having heard the door, Cheese turned, his eyes widening in surprise when seeing the prince, but it was too late. Aemond’s sword struck with precision, piercing through Cheese’s chest in one swift motion. The thief gasped, blood bubbling at his lips as he collapsed to the floor, lifeless.

Aemond didn’t bother to look at Cheese for even a second. He knew he was dead. He stepped over the body of the thief and came closer to you. The thought that these men — these thieves — had broken into your chambers and touched you. Rage was pumping through his veins, but he needed to make sure you were alright. 

He marched over to you, his eye fixated on your neck where the cut was. When his arm touched you, the dagger you were holding clattered on the floor as you crumbled into Aemond’s arms. He caught you, his body becoming stiff from the physical contact. 

Your hands clutched at Aemond, refusing to let go of him, shaken and traumatized from the attack. ‘’They were here for you,’’ you mumbled against this chest as tears of relief fell from your eyes. 

Aemond furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. For him?

From the corner of his eye, he saw Blood’s body move on the floor and his grip on you tightened slightly. ‘’Let’s get out of here. I must alert the guards and my brother.’’ 

For weeks, you refused to be left alone in your chambers, scared more rat catchers would break in. To ensure your protection, Aemond had a guard standing outside the door at all times. He never wanted you to be hurt because of him again.

For extra protection, Aemond sat you down gently and presented you with a velvet-lined box. ‘’I had this made for you by our best blacksmith,’’ he said, opening the box to reveal a dagger with dragon scales intricately wrapped around the handle and a sapphire stone set in the hilt. 

It looked expensive and exquisitely crafted. 

Your fingers traced the scales gently. “It’s beautiful, Aemond. You…you had this made for me?”

‘’Yes,’’ he confirmed, watching you as you examined the dagger. ‘’I wanted you to have something to defend yourself with, should anything like that ever happen again.’’

Flashes of that horrific night coursed your mind. Cheese had died on the scene, his lung pierced by Aemond’s sword. Blood was imprisoned and burned by Vhagar two days after he was found in the tunnels of the Keep. 

Aemond moved your hair behind your shoulder, revealing the scarring cuts from Blood’s knife. Guilt filled his stomach. He was your husband, he was supposed to protect you. It was his duty. ‘’I should have been there to protect you.’’ 

‘’You can’t always be there to protect me. I should have locked the door—’’ 

‘’None of this was your fault,’’ Aemond said firmly. ‘’I refuse to let you think that. Whoever paid these fucking rats is at fault. Not you.’’

—

House of the dragon taglist: @khaleesihavilliard @domoron @ididliquorice @lover-of-helios @lover-of-helios @shine101 @tanyaherondale@mikariell95 @serrendiipty @lantsovheiress @gilliananderfuckme @shine101 @tetgod @clayzayden@memeorydotcom @tnu-ree @futuregws @blackravena @winxschester @mysteriouslydelightfulchaos @xxlaynaxx @secretsthathauntus @pilarxxxaguayo @emmavan39 @stargaryenx @erylilly @bbblackmamba @rainedrop97 @dreamer087 @gothicgay14 @ashlatano7567 @superkittywonderland @justaproudslytherpuff @evesolstice @buckysmainhxe @padfootsvixen @scarletmeii @evesolstice @dkathl @kaywsworld @tetgod @padfootsvixen @domoron  @weird-addiction @angeliod @xjennyx2 @adaydreamaway08  @mymultiveres  @secretsthathauntus  @puffycreamcakes @thirsty4nonlivingmen @naty-1001 @katiepie67 @moshpot24x @hc-geralt-23 @lovelynerdytraveler @saturn-sas  @zgzgh @sssjuico10 @tabloidteen @timetoten @deekaag @wondxrgurl @aerangi @strmborns @astridyoo15 @daemonslittlebitch @queenbeestuffs @severewobblerlightdragon @agentstarkid @msliz @vane1999-blog @fairyfolkloresposts @todaywasafairytale07 @otomaniac @zgzgzh @thebeardedmoon @golden-library @kikyrizuki @hnslchw @camy85 @winxschester @armstrongscommentsection @withfireandbl00d @randomstory56 @JudgmentDays-Girl @darylandbethfanforever9 @darylandbethfanforever9 @aegonswife @dakotapaigelove @jays-bullshit

All and more taglist: @kenqki@hawkegfs@gillybear17@black-rose-29@fudge13@cece05@laylasbunbunny@gemofthenight@beautyb1ade@mellabella101 @vxnity713  @bisexualgirlsblog@queenofslytherin889 @thatbxtchesblog @softb-tterfly @ethanlandrycanbreakmyheart  @xyzstar  @graceberman3   @mikeyspinkcup @jackierose902109 @daisydark @laurasdrey @mischieftom @fanatic4niall @peterholland04 @idkwhattonamethisblogs  @lexasaurs634  @notasadgirlipromise @zoeynicolas @thejuleshypothesis @multi-fandom-bi-bitch @lexasaurs634  @notasadgirlipromise @thejuleshypothesis  @katherinejess  @rafesgirlstuff   @lafleshlumpeater @iamluminosity  @Anouknani-2305 @books0fever @papichulo120627 @qardasngan @ghostlyvoidydragon @M0rgans1nterlud3 @dahlia-blossom21

[danibee33]

The Queen’s Guard

*COD medieval au - Simon Riley x reader

cw: arranged marriage, dark themes, attempted sa & non-graphic sa but pls *read at your own discretion*, gore/violence, sexual themes, etc.

word count: 1.1k

“Again.”

You can’t help but to flinch at the sound of swords being drawn; it rings in your ears, echos in the recesses of your brain. The piercing, metallic clangs resound throughout the room-

How long had you been here, anyway? Judging from the sunlight that peers through the high transom windows, its golden rays giving the great hall an ethereal sort of glow, it must be nearing time for dinner-

“I’ve seen enough, thank you.”

With a dismissive wave, you rise from the bronze throne and turn on your heel, eyes focused straight ahead, fixated on the intricate carvings in the doors, your escape just within reach-

“Your Grace..”

General Leon’s voice is laced with exasperation and warning, and your long history with him is the only reason you halt, your handmaid nearly bumping into you as you turn again- the young woman struggling to rearrange the ridiculous train on your gown as the man speaks,

“You cannot continue on without a Queen’s Guard- His Grace demands the position be filled.”

Oh, of course. How thoughtful of your kind husband. The husband who only sees you when the physicians deem you fertile enough to produce an heir. The husband who you’re not even sure could pick your face in a crowd because he only ever fucks you from behind, your face pushed down into the animal furs beneath you.

The husband who killed your last guard, gods rest his soul.

Yes, I’m sure he’s very concerned for my safety..

You give a heavy sigh, fighting the urge to roll your eyes as you feel the placating smile tug at your lips; the one you’re so, so good at. The practiced smile that puts everyone in the room at ease, the one you’ve perfected in your relatively short existence of being groomed for this very life.

The life everyone dreams of, a life of royalty, of the highest privilege and power- how little they truly know.

“Of course, please, let us meet the next one then.”

Taking your place upon the throne once again, you sit properly, prim and demure, just like you were taught. The very picture of perfection in your emerald colored silks, not a single hair out of place-

Yet, inside, you were wasting away, your thoughts boiling and raging, your anger smoldering just under the surface, like a vein of coal in the earth that’s been lit aflame- the embers never dying, but never able to turn into the inferno they so wishe to be.

You don’t bother to spare your gaze when the doors open with a low groan, the quiet footfalls that enter the space only really given away by the shifting of chainmail and armor.

They’re confident strides, you notice- long and steady, and without even seeing him yet, you can feel the energy shift around you, his presence seeming to fill every available void,

“Ser Simon Riley, Your Grace.”

With one look, you’re utterly struck by the imposing man walking towards you- shoulders and hips swaying with each deliberate step, left hand resting lazily on the hilt of his long-sword.

His armor plates are dark, obsidian in hue, so different from the usual flashy silver you see everywhere you look. He is a looming shadow in front of you, somehow as wide as he is tall, if that were possible- and his eyes. The skin around them have been smudged with kohl, making the mottled amber of his irises look preternatural, his unmoving gaze entirely focused on you, even when he bows,

“Your Majesty.”

Your mind screams danger, much like it would if a fully grown wolf had just sauntered through the doors, looking for its next meal- and yet, for as much fear as he inspires, there’s something that draws you in- like a siren singing to sailors lost at sea.

Returning his gesture, you gently nod, holding his eyes until the General calls him back to assume a fighting stance; and even then, you swear you see his head tilt just so, just enough to flash you an arrogant look as the guard takes his place across from him. Ser Simon must easily stand a head and a half taller than the other man, you think, his figure even more impressive than it was before.

The men exchange nods before drawing swords, their dance beginning the same as all the others, assessing and calculating each other until the guard makes the first move-

The heavy whoosh of his blade is dodged with little effort, the giant wraith of a man moving far faster than any of you expected. He gracefully ducks under the other’s still outstretched arm, placing himself in the perfect position to swing his own sword towards his opponent's exposed neck- a maneuver surely meant to behead if this were anything other than a mock duel.

“Reset-”

“No.” You stand abruptly, stepping down from the throne much to your own surprise, “Ser Simon, what experience do you have as a Royal Guard?”

“Your Grace, this is-”

With a raised hand, you quiet the General, watching the mysterious knight sheath his sword once more, bowing again as he faces you,

“None, Your Majesty.”

Well, at least he’s honest.

“What experience do you have then?”

His head tilts to the side, and you watch the other guards tense when he takes a single step closer, those damned eyes gleaming down at you with a hunger you’ve never quite seen before,

“Battle, Your Grace. I’ve seen far more than most.”

This time, it’s you moving towards him, and when you step closer, the Kingsguard follows suit, though it seems nothing goes unnoticed by the towering specter.

“Well, Ser, I do not go into battle.. You might be better suited for my husband’s army, no?”

You watch the very corners of his eyes crinkle slightly, his gaze narrowing in amusement, and you’re positive you would see a devilish smile on his lips if he removed the helmet,

“I might.” He says flippantly, broad shoulders shrugging as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, “But, I came here to serve you, My Queen.”

A deep and burning chill blooms in your core at his words and the resolute way he says them; it lights every nerve on fire, every cell and molecule, every atom in your being vibrating at a frequency you’ve never felt as the title rolls off his gilded tongue.

No, you’ve never met a man quite like this, and part of you questions if he truly is just a man at all- because no man has ever felt like this, no man has ever been able to pick you apart so quickly, make you feel bare with just his gaze alone.

He terrifies you as much as he excites you, and oh, how you’ve longed to feel something other than loathing, and boredom.

There is nothing practiced or placating about the smirk on your lips now as you nod toward your General, your handmaid once again adjusting the cumbersome fabric of your gown as you move forward-

“Well, you’ve gotten your wish, Ser Simon.” You coo as you breeze past him without a parting glance, “General Leon, make sure my guard is taken to his new quarters, will you?”

They fall into a sweeping bow as you exit, a quiet acknowledgement being the last thing you hear before the deep pulsing of your own heartbeat fills your ears.

What in the seven hells have I done..

[chapter 2 >>>]

[unsoundedcomic]

Whumptober 2024 - 12 - "Starvation"

Your aunties and nannas, your sisters and grammas sent you to me, little eggs? Little eggs, to me? Well, I don't have time to draw in the dirt for you all the arteries of the underneath nor the roads of the world up above, but yes, I am Half Spear Flann, and I have walked both, and I have cut spiderpaws down by their shinbones and finished them at the throat.

Yes, that is the way to do it, little eggs. I'm here in your village to refill my flasks, to fatten my packs, and to lay close with your aunties and nannas, your sisters and grammas, to make more little eggs to kill more ugly spiderpaws, but yes, I am Half Spear Flann, and I will tell you the story of why that is my name.

Many years ago in the village of Small God Umyaralech, the salt dog that was the servant of the great salt lizard Shaensigin, I was only Flann, but there was not one better with the long spear than Flann. I could pin a beetle at a hundred paces, slay Redcaps by the dozen. The wanderers heard this and wanted me badly; wanted Flann to join their wandering along the shores of the Deep Hungry Sea.

I trained and packed, and waited for the wanderers to return to Umyaralech's village. I would leave with them and be a Man then. But long past the mating time, they still had not appeared. More time passed, and the Still Season was soon upon us. The wanderers had not brought meat, had not brought roots. The little eggs bawled and fussed, tired of only bug and saflesh on their plates. The Elders took up spears. They took up lanterns. They kissed the wet snouts of their little eggs and left, to travel themselves towards the hinters in search of the wanderers.

Then, one day, a strange light burned from the blackness outside the gates of Umyaralech. Little eggs thought it our elders and wanderers, and whooped and ran to greet them. But this light was not the blue of lymph nor the warm amber of fire. This light was the colour of sickness, and even the bagmoths would not circle it.

For this light was made by the evil spellery of Spiderpaws, and it poured into our village like plague.

Cutting shards flew as the enemy barked its spells. In pieces, the little eggs tumbled to the ground, heads cut from necks, arms cut from shoulders, tails cut from flanks. I took up my spear as our leaders let loose our traps. For we were not so far at the periphery, we of Umyaralech, that we had not heard tale of the ugly giants raiding inak lands in search of ogre bones and sparkling stones. So stones we gave them! Down carved chutes, boulders thundered from the dark, crushing the fragile bones that hold spiderpaws tall. They are very weak, the spiderpaws. Break the knees, shatter the legs. Their bared bellies are soft as pig wool, and their throats open at a touch.

Flann opened many throats that day, and the nannas were like beasts in defence of clutch and kin. Soon, only two spiderpaws remained there in our home. They looked around at the bloodied village that I think they had not expected to find so large, so angry, so hard. Upon the taller of them, three inak set, raking his back open so the white bones showed through the red and we all saw the thump! thump! thump! of his terrified heart! It thumps still! Don't pity the monster, but that long thought thumps still!

The last human was left to me. Towards my snout he flung his monstrous glowing paw but Flann was not afraid. I threw a body at him - small yellow Sarb, my dead friend, who could sing and braid so well - I threw her body, and the demon's spell bounced against it. I vaulted forward, to that soft and unguarded spot between the thighs, and plunged my spear high. Oh, his scream, little eggs. I was drunk on it, as with a cup of bitter aret juice I had enjoyed when the Fanare'she visited. I wanted more! Into his dancing body I twisted my spear head, again and again, until the shaft snapped, I could no longer feel my fingers, and there was no blue of me left beneath the coat of my enemy's red gore.

Yes, inak mine, yes. Always celebrate the death of evil! Draw it out and celebrate it! For it is rare, and it is precious, and you must not be ashamed to find it beautiful.

Weeks passed, and still no wanderers. Still no elders returned from the dark. We did not expect them to. Among the dead spiderpaws we'd found my Nanna's fine jewelled belt, and many of the wanderers ancient and holy blades. We knew they had died in glory and sacrifice. We knew they never again would return home to taste Shaensigin's salt nor embrace little eggs beneath the blue lymph of Tidalsong. Yet, we of Umyaralech would not starve, there, in the Still Season. We would live, and make new eggs, and one day kill more and more spiderpaws. Little eggs would become elders, and I, Half Spear Flann, would become a wanderer and gather more wanderers to me.

And so though there was no roasted fish on our plates then, nor crisp sea cotton nor pinchers nor salt dog, we ate well that Still Season. Spiderpaw flank is not so fine a meal, but it grows little eggs into inak men and inak elders, and if you have opportunity to taste it, my fierce ones, dig your fangs deep.

Now away from me! Go and make sport with the beetles and balls. But send your nannas hither! For the Dark is deep and cold, and Flann would take into it better memories than these red tales that make your young eyes glisten and gleam.

[yelena-bellova]

Twenty Years Later: Joel Miller x F!Reader - Chapter Four

Chapter Four: Luck

Plot: Joel, Y/n, Tess and Ellie encounter Clickers, and sacrifices are made.

Warnings: tlou ep.2 spoilers, language, violence, gore, blood, guns, death, (16+)

Word Count: 4.4k (what else for chapter 4? lol)

A/N: So the only reason I was able to get this out so fast is because chapter three and this was supposed to be one big chapter. It ended up being too long, so it got split. Please don’t make this your expectation 😂

I love reading all your comments, even if I’m horrible at responding to them. I’ve never had this kind of response to my writing and it’s a lot to keep up with. I, once again, have to reiterate that this is a 16+ series and if your name is not listed on your page, I will not be tagging you. Gotta look out for younger eyes 👀 I hope you enjoy this chapter! There’s no flashback, but a lot of hints about things to come later…I’m a terrible tease 😂🤫 Enjoy!!

———————

The museum doors were covered in fungus.

“This feels like a great plan,” Y/n sarcastically stated.

Joel ignored her disapproval, going ahead and kneeling down at one of the fungal sites. He ran a hand over it before breaking through it with the butt of his rifle.

“It’s bone dry,” he reported, “It could mean they’re all finally dead in there.”

Could was the key word of the sentence. ‘Coulds’ were like ‘probablies,’ hope with barely a breath left in it. The adults all started going through their packs, puling out their flashlights.

“Oh, man…” Ellie muttered.

Joel whipped out his light and looked exepctantly to Ellie, “Marlene pack you one of these, or just sandwiches?”

“Yeah,” Ellie answered, searching through her pack.

Y/n nudged the kid’s arm, drawing her focus. “You stay behind one of us at all times,” she instructed, “Slow and steady. Do not wander. Got it?”

Ellie nodded, “Got it.” When Tess crossed her hands, a gun and a flashlight in each, Ellie took notice. “I have a spare hand.”

“Congratulations,” Joel noted sarcastically.

With her pistol drawn, Y/n watched Joel move forward. It bothered her that he had been leading them the whole way. Their talk on the highway proved he thought he was capable of more than her. He assumed that just because he’d known her when she could afford to be delicate, she couldn’t have possibly grown into a fighter. Setting caution aside, she marched forward to walk parallel to him.

“Get back,” he ordered.

“Get bent,” she grunted.

The four of them moved as silently as they could through the museum’s lobby, posters and signs proving it had once been a landmark. Y/n moved alongside Joel, at one point taking a step ahead of him and finding a corner full of dry Cordyceps.

“We’re good,” she announced.

“Oh, finally,” Tess remarked, “Some fuckin’ luck.”

“I guess we should’ve gone this way in the first place,” Joel acknowledged.

“Oh, shit!” Ellie exclaimed, the three of them ran to join her. She’d broken Y/n’s third instruction like it was nothing.

There lay a body, covered in fresh blood and claw marks through its clothing.

“What the fuck did that?” Ellie inquired.

Y/n, Tess and Joel shared a knowing look.

“Maybe,” Tess’ voice shook as it lowered, “Maybe he was attacked outside and crawled through the doors. The door was open. Could’ve been him. I don’t hear anything.”

“Who would you hear?” Ellie asked.

The adults shushed her, Joel held up a hand.

Ellie lowered her voice, “Who would you hear? Are you saying an Infected did that?”

“Shh,” Tess crooned.

“Because I’ve been attacked by one and it wasn’t like that,” Ellie added.

Joel took a breath, it was all he could allow himself. “Okay, from this point forward, we are silent,” he whispered, “Not quiet…silent.”

“What-“ Ellie began.

“No, no questions,” Joel stopped her, “Just do it.”

Having very little trust in the man who had openly admitted to wanting to kill her, Ellie peered at Y/n, who nodded in solemn agreement. Things had suddenly become very, very real.

The four of them made their way to the museum’s staircase, taking slow steps up the creaking steps. Joel and Y/n made it to the top first, only having to stop when a piece of debris fell in a cloud of dust. They shined their flashlights across the way, a massive piling of death and fungus-covered bodies laying tragically still.

Crunch.

The exes spun around to see Ellie baring her teeth nervously, a skeletal hand below her sneaker. Everyone held their breath. There was creaking coming from above them, every step they took was a step closer to being buried alive.

Joel and Y/n made it into the Independance Hall exhibit, taking stock of their surroundings and coming up clean. Ellie followed with Tess close behind her.

Suddenly, there was a crashing sound; the building was finally giving out. Lightining fast, Y/n surged forward and grabbed Ellie’s arm, pulling her forward as Tess nose dove to the floor. Y/n let go of Ellie to extend a hand to Tess, who braced herself with it and got to her feet. They barely had a second to gather their thoughts before a loud, animal noise echoed through the room.

Then came the clicking.

Y/n and Joel drew their guns together, aiming in the direction the sound had come from. They slowly backed up, Tess and Ellie moving behind them, as the noises drew closer.

Fear can stop a clock, and none of them could tell how long they waited until the snarling, shriveled monster stepped into the room.

Y/n and Joel’s grudge ceased to exist as they moved in sync, silent as the grave they prayed they weren’t about to meet. As their group passed a doorway, more clicking sounded through it. They startled, backing up as the erratic footsteps came closer.

Two. There were two Clickers.

The foursome sought shelter behind a glass display case as the Infected began to roam the room. Each of them were processing the situation spearately, but they needed to move together as one.

Joel saw the fear in Ellie’s eyes, he couldn’t take it from her, but he could prepare her. “They can’t see,” he mouthed, leaning over Y/n, “But they can hear.”

On the other side of the display case, one of the Clickers walked past, shrieking as it jerked around. It had been over a year since Y/n had been this close to one of them, she’d forgotten what it was like. The way experience melted away and fear overtook all your senses.

Joel held up a finger to the three of them. If the Clickers could pass through without noticing them, they could make a straight shot up to the passageway and be gone. Everything rested on how the next thirty seconds went.

Y/n was too afriad to shut her eyes and too scared to face the creature head on. She simply stared ahead, trembling with each sound the monster made.

They listened as it turned the corner of the display case, until it was mere inches from them.

Ellie gasped.

Y/n grimaced.

The creature spun around to them and screamed.

Joel unloaded his rifle on the creature, who reached out and dragged him forward.

“Run,” Joel screamed.

Tess took off with Ellie, shooting at the other Infected before escaping the room. Y/n stayed, firing shots at the creature as it fought Joel. It knocked the rifle out of his hands, leaving him with only his pistol. Y/n was able to wound it enough to momentarily stun it, giving Joel and her time to run away.

They sprinted down the hall, Joel turned around and fired a shot before they dove into the next room. He knocked over a podium, creating an obstacle in the Clicker’s path, buying him and Y/n a few extra seconds. Joel grabbed her wrist and threw them behind a shelving unit.

Now fear, it turns out, is a powerful thing. It can cause people to turn on one another, or it can bring them together. Y/n had spent the last twenty four hours listing all the ways she wanted to kill Joel Miller, but face to face with the reality of losing him, she was doing everything she could to save him. They both were.

Joel’s hands shook as he reloaded his gun, his flashlight tucked between his shoulder and his chin. Y/n stretched her arm out over his chest, her breath trembling in time with his as they waited…

The Clicker was right next to them.

Joel shone his flashlight around the corner, the Infected was a mere ten inches from them. Mercifully, it hadn’t sensed them, and headed around the other side of the shelving unit. Y/n peered through the dusty screens, charted a clear path, and motioned for Joel to come forward. They crouched as they walked, Y/n spotted Ellie hunched against another display case.

Joel and her quickly crossed the space and got down alongside her. Joel looked to his side, signaling for Ellie to follow them around the case. They crawled in the opposite direction, the Clicker only a few feet away from them and but a second from discovering them. It just needed to take a few more steps and then it would be in the other room….

A piece of glass crunched under Joel’s boot.

The three of them stopped.

The Clicker screeched and leapt across the case, tackling them to the floor. Ellie thrashed and yelled as it pinned her down. Joel and Y/n each kept an arm against its chest, pushing it away with their combined strength. Y/n freed her arm from between her and Ellie’s bodies, pressing her gun against the Clicker’s abdomen and shooting it three times. It stunned the monster, giving Joel time to shove it off of them. Y/n shielded Ellie, who was gripping her jacket, and Joel shielded Y/n. Joel aimed his pointed at the Clicker once again, and gunned it down as it ran towards them. He fired a few final shots, just to ensure it was dead.

The second Clicker charged towards them, Joel and Y/n shoved Ellie behind them, no time to draft an attack plan. Saving the day, Tess came from the side and lodged an axe in the Clicker’s head. Thinking quick, Joel left Y/n and Ellie to retake his rifle, firing one shot before a second that did the creature in.

Joel surveyed the Clicker, examining the bloody chunks of fungus laying around its head. Fear was enough to create doubt, even in front of fact.

“You all right?” Joel asked Tess, who was getting to her feet.

“Twisted ankle, but…yeah,” Tess answered.

Y/n turned to Ellie, “Are you okay?”

“Well, I didn’t shit my pants, so…” she responded, glancing around her in case they’d missed one. She stopped and rolled up her sleeve, revealing a bloody mark, “You fucking kidding me?”

Y/n didn’t know whether or not to be scared. Joel knew exactly what to feel.

“I mean, if it was gonna happen to one of us,” Ellie muttered.

Joel didn’t let his anxiety come over him often, but he could feel it building. Tess was tuned into him enough to see it happening.

“Hey,” she coaxed, “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

The four of them filed out the top window, Y/n offering Tess her hand to help her onto the roof. Joel went to work immediately, pulling out a first aid kit and a piece of cloth.

“Put this around your arm,” Joel instructed Ellie, handing her the cloth. In the chaos, he hadn’t even thought to ask Y/n if she was injured. “You-“

“I’m fine,” Y/n said coldly, eager to settle back into blind hatred.

Ellie made her way to the makeshift bridge, a few wooden planks, and took the first step. “Over there?”

“Yeah, I know,” Joel spoke as he examined Tess’ ankle, “It looks scary.”

“That was scary,” Ellie replied, “This is wood.”

Y/n followed Ellie, her legs steadying more with each step across the divide. In the world they lived in, fear had to pass as quick as a summer storm.

“Are they always like that?” Ellie asked once they were both on the rooftop.

Y/n sighed, “Not at first. I mean, they’re always scary but at the beginning, they look…” she paused, forcing the memories out like a tide in the ocean, “They look normal.”

Ellie hummed, wandering off to the edge of the building. As Joel crossed the plank, Y/n went to stand beside Ellie. The sun was shining gold down on the remnants of Boston, illuminating the good and the bad.

This. This was what still gave Y/n hope. She needed to believe that maybe, maybe, there was a way to restore the world back to its beauty. That was the key difference between her and Joel; she still wanted to find what little good was left out there.

Joel came to stand on Ellie’s other side, peering over at the girl. “Is it everything you hoped for?”

“Jury’s still out,” Ellie gave a half-shrug, “But man, you can’t deny that view.”

Tess rejoined them, walking with new purpose. “C’mon, let’s get there before it’s dark,” she grunted, climbing over the edge and scaling down some siding.

Joel and Y/n stood at the edge of the roof, each staring out into the horizon lost in their thoughts. Their severed connection lived in the space between them, sparking and straining as it tried to pull them together.

But they’d had twenty years of ignoring one another’s memory. It was going to take more than a fight and a sunset to come to any kind of truce.

Y/n silently climbed down the side of the building, leaving Joel on his own. He glanced down at his watch, taking a valued second to himself, before heading down after the rest of them.

—————————

The rest of the way to the State House was spent in quiet suspicion. Everyone watched Ellie with more interest than before, waiting for something to happen.

When they arrived, Y/n spotted the truck that was supposed to transport Ellie and her. There was supposed to be someone outside waiting to meet them and yet, the place looked as deserted as the rest of the city.

Joel glanced at Y/n, silently asking if this was right. She answered with a distant shake of her head as she looked around them. She drew her gun and got up, stepping strategically through the grass. Joel huffed in exasperation, coming out in the open to follow her.

Y/n approached the truck cautiously, her breath already trembling like she’d already seen what lay inside. She ignored Joel practically breathing down her neck as she swung open the vehicle’s door. Empty.

Joel held up a hand to Tess, who stood with her gun aimed and Ellie protected behind her. “Stay back,” he mouthed. When he turned back to Y/n, he found air.

Y/n rounded the vehicle, examining the other side before her eyes and nose were drawn to the ground. There was a bloodied body laying underneath the truck. She knelt before it, whatever had happened to it hadn’t been more than an hour or two ago. The blood was still new, but the flies had already found the poor soul.

Joel was at the rear of the truck, bracing himself for whatever fight lay inside it. He threw the back door open and took a stance, finding the same nothing they had in the cab.

“Joel?” Tess called, coming to join them, “What the fuck is going on?”

“I don’t know,” Joel said, looking around the corner of the truck to Y/n, “What was the plan?”

Y/n sighed and ran a hand through her hair, “Driver was supposed to be waiting here, one or two Fireflies just to verify it was us…we were supposed to jump in the truck and go.”

“They went inside,” Ellie announced, staring at the steps leading to the State House. The three adults peered over to see the bloody footprints painted on the staircase.

“Come on,” Tess grunted, grabbing Ellie’s hand and letting the blood tracks show them the way.

“Tess,” Joel called, Y/n wasn’t waiting for him to call the shots. She jogged up the stairs with the same urgency as his partner. “Tess!”

Tess burst through the doors, holding both Ellie and her pistol in front of her. Y/n flanked Ellie, ready to attack whatever could been lurking in the building. Joel followed the women, exhausted by their recklessness.

What they found was worse than they could have imagined.

Every Firefly body was on the floor, their blood spread across the slick marble.

Y/n could feel her chest cave in on itself. Her comrades, the plan to take Ellie west, hope itself, it all dead lay around her.

Tess showed the same panic Y/n was trying so hard to contain. “Okay, I mean there’s gotta be a fuckin’ radio or something, right?”

“Start looking,” Y/n holstered her gun, running to check the crates, the equipment…anything that could offer them a morsel of chance. If she could get in contact with Marlene, they could form a new plan. She’d take Ellie herself, if necessary, doubts be damned. They couldn’t admit defeat so easily.

“Tess,” Joel called, having already deduced that one Firefly had got infected and it had spread to the others, “What’re you doin’?”

Y/n threw open crates, scouring the contents for a radio, with Tess searching beside her. They both ignored Joel.

“Where did Marlene say you two were going?” Tess asked Y/n.

“Tess-“ Joel tried again.

“Just west,” Y/n answered, her breath quickening, “We were supposed to get the exact location here.”

Tess threw her hands out in exasperation, “Just west. Fuck. Okay…well, one of ‘em’s gotta have a map on them, right?”

Y/n was already examining the bodies without touching them, “Check each one.”

“Joel, can you help us?” Tess impatiently asked, kneeling next to Y/n and searching through the victim’s pockets.

“No,” Joel bellowed, refusing to indulge the fantasy any longer, “Tess, it’s over. We are goin’ home.”

Tess spun around, shooting daggers out her eyes, “That’s not my fucking home!”

Her cry was loud enough to silence the rest of them. Tess hung over one of the bodies, fighting back her tears enough to stand up and face Joel.

“I’m stayin’.”

Y/n stayed on the ground, confusedly watching the scene play out.

“I mean…” Tess almost laughed, “Our luck had to run out sooner or later.”

Joel stood perplexed. Perhaps he’d have figured it out if he had looked in between her words. In her eyes. In her quivering lips.

“Fuck,” Ellie exclaimed, her voice lowering to a whisper, “She’s infected.”

Joel felt the very ground they stood on crack down the middle, a divide separating him and the only person he’d allowed himself to care about in twenty years. The unspeakable plague had finally come for one of them, and it had attached itself to the wrong person.

“Show me,” he muttered.

“Joel,” Tess said softly, taking a step forward. Joel flinched, jumping back an inch away from her. He regretted it immediately, it was pure instinct.

Tess pulled back her jacket and shirt to display the reddening bite mark.

Y/n got to her feet upon seeing the wound, unafraid to close the distance Joel was putting between them. Joel threw out a hand to pull her back, but Y/n smacked it away and placed her fingers around Tess’ wound. In another life, it could have been extremely well done Halloween makeup. She wanted it to be.

“Oops,” Tess tried to smile, “Right?”

Y/n rubbed her fingers against Tess’ shoulder, if these were her last minutes, she wanted her to feel human touch one more time.

“Take your bandage off,” Tess ordered Ellie.

The girl unwrapped the cloth from her arm, showing the adults her newest bite mark. It was already healing.

Tess surged forward and took Ellie’s arm, holding it up to Joel. “Look. Joel? This is real,” she pulled Ellie forward, “Joel, she’s fucking real.”

Joel and Y/n spotted it at the same time: Tess’ hands were beginning to shake.

Tess retracted her arm into her person, her breaths quickening with passion. Passion for a future she would never see.

“I need you to get her to Bill and Frank’s,” Tess stated.

“No,” Joel started to argue, a flurry of emotions hitting him at once. It was real. This was real.

“They’ll take her off your hands,” Tess continued, unstoppable in her pleas, “They’ll handle it from here.”

“No, no, no,” he shook his head, sounding like a child in denial, “I can’t. They won’t take her. They’re not gonna take her.”

“They will,” Tess insisted, “Cause you’re gonna convince them.”

“I’ll take her,” Y/n said from behind Joel, “Tell me where they are and I’ll get her there.”

Tess squeezed her eyes shut, “No, it has to be him,” she looked to Joel, “I never ask you for anything. Not to feel the way I felt, not to-“

“No,” Joel said, a kneejerk reaction. He had spent so long caring for her as much as his grief would allow him.

“Shut the fuck up,” Tess snapped, “Cause I don’t have much time. This is your chance. You get her there, you keep her alive…” she bit back her tears, “And you set everything right. All the shit we did…please say yes, Joel, please.”

Joel could feel what was left of his heart beginning to break. He couldn’t lose anyone else.

A strained gasp from one of the Infected Fireflies echoed behind Ellie, “Oh, fuck!”

With all the tranquility of a piano melody, Joel stepped forward, cocked his pistol and blew a chunk of the one-time human’s brains out.

The strands of fungus began to stretch out around the Infected’s hand. The signal had been sent. Within minutes, hordes of Infected would descend upon the State House.

Joel exhaled, realizing what he’d done and ran to the building’s door. He could hear the distant snarling and choking of the Infected. Whatever pitiful amount of time they’d possessed had just gotten slashed in half.

“How many?” Tess asked calmly.

“All of them,” he reported, “Maybe a minute.”

Y/n took a shaky breath and raised her gun to Tess’ head. Joel was quick to aim his rifle at her head.

“Don’t you fuckin-“

“Do you want me to do it?” Y/n ignored Joel, locking eyes with Tess. It wasn’t an act of anger, it was an act of mercy. She was trying to save what was left of Tess’ life.

Tess shook her head, taking stock of her surroundings and rushing around the room. She tipped over barrels of gasoline and crates of grenades, letting them spill across the floor. Twenty years of sin and her last act was to save. This was Tess Servoupolis. Not her reputation, not who she’d been forced to become to survive…her.

Joel watched, heartbreak etched in each line of his face. He wanted to scream, to cry, to punch, but time had numbed his emotions enough to be able to keep it all inside.

Tess finally came to face Joel, keeping a foot of space between them. She couldn’t handle watching the man she loved move away from her like she was…what she was.

Y/n backed up to stand with Ellie, feeling like they were intruding on an intimate moment.

“Joel…” Tess said his name one last time, knowing just how much weight the words she was about to say carried, “Save who you can save.”

He was holding so much back, so many things he wanted to say, even just to touch her one last time. His grief overwhelmed him, for both women he wasn’t able to save. But if he couldn’t heed Tess’ final wish, he’d never be able to look himself in the mirror again.

Joel took one last look at her, the two of them committing each other’s gaze to memory, and Joel turned on his heel, grabbing Ellie and dragging her away.

“No!” Ellie yelled, hitting Joel’s arm to try and break his grip, “We’re not leaving her! Get off me, you fucker!”

Y/n, let them pass, standing firmly planted in front of Tess. She wanted to say something, but nothing rivaled the weight of the moment. She wanted to thank her for her sacrifice, tell her how sorry she was that she was about to what was to come…something to let her feel some sort of compassion before she lost herself entirely.

“I-“

“Protect her,” Tess urged, staring straight past the Joel and Y/n’s resentment and into her soul, “Protect him.”

Y/n’s breath shook as she considered what Tess was asking of her. She wanted to know the man she loved would live to see the days she wouldn’t. Y/n couldn’t fault her that, it was so easy to care about Joel. If Tess was a better woman than Y/n and had earned that devotion he showered upon a select number of people, she would feel the same devotion to him till death.

Y/n wanted to run in the opposite direction, but she wasn’t so heartless that she wouldn’t obey Tess’ last request. She nodded, pouring out her condolences through her pained stare, and took off the same way that Joel and Ellie had.

Leaving Tess to die.

She found them outside, Ellie still fighting Joel tooth and nail. Y/n pressed her hands to Ellie’s back and urged her forward, running alongside them in a desparate effort to escape the tidal wave of Infected encroaching.

They’d put a safe amount of distance between them and the State House when the building exploded.

Joel wrenched Ellie forward to shield her, letting him and Y/n take the heat of the blast. They drew their guns, waiting for a stray Infected to pass through the violent flames, but none came. Tess had succeeded.

The three of them stayed perfectly still, except for their heaving chests, watching the fire consume the State House. Twenty years ago, Joel would have allowed himself to break down. He would have let his knees hit the dirt, his fists ball and his grief would have spilled out of him as if he was made of it.

Twenty years ago, he could feel whatever he wanted. But to survive, you had to bury your desires with the dead. Joel knew that better than anyone.

And so, skipping the eulogy and going straight for repression, Joel lowered his rifle and walked away.

Y/n, who wasn’t as hardened as her ex-love, could no longer keep her tears at bay. She crouched down in the dirt, pressing her hands to her lips in a praying position, and allowed a silent rain stream down her cheeks. Losing anyone was awful, but losing someone who wanted redemption, who wanted to atone for their sins and leave the world better than they’d found it…that was tragic. Tess had sacrificed herself to save them, to save Ellie, to save a future she could only hope came to pass. Perhaps Joel couldn’t mourn her, Y/n knew his grief was the match that lit his whole being ablaze, but she could. She would.

Ellie stood beside her, tears filling her once-innocent eyes. Her naivety had always been on life support, but it was fading with every minute she spent outside the Wall.

Deciding her momentary memorial would have to serve as enough for Tess, Y/n got to her feet and wiped her eyes. “Come on,” she whispered, her voice strained as she put a hand to Ellie’s back. She led them down the dirt, following Joel’s ghostly silhouette…

————————

TYL Taglist: @bachiracore @stolenxkissess @kayleezra @the-wistful-reader @allthesesonsofbitches @goth-detectives365 @trippovert @rh1nestonecowg1rl @emiliaserpe @khaleesihavilliard @frietiemeloen @gracie7209 @dorck26 @thegirlnextdoorssister @alanis-altair @mariwinns16 @whosscruffylooking @endofthexline @alexiaricciardo @eonnyx @pedrosmexicangf @scarlettequinn @ao-sleepy @toinfinityandbeyonce2 @deanlovescassie @turmoil-ash @sorrowjunky @kpopslur @xxlilyxx90 @midgetpottermills @presidential-facts @scoopsnini @tubble-wubble @jamesdeerest

Joel Miller Taglist: @xsnak-3x @xmoonknightlyx @simplybarnes @stolenxkissess @mandoshoney @alexiaricciardo @eonnyx @deanlovescassie @paintlavillered

[eldritch-nightmare]

Had smth in mind based on those Jeff Headcannons you did,,,,,What about The Doll Maker or Bloody Painter(or both idk I’m indecisive) yandere Headcannons but with a willing reader,,,Thought abt that while listening to Ayesha Erotica, idk how

a/n: your wish is my command. going with the bloody painter since i haven't really written much for him here yet. this one got away from me a bit. sorry if it's messy, but i hope you find enjoyment from it nonetheless <3

yandere bloody painter with a willing s/o.

warnings: gn!reader, yandere content, puppeteer cameo bc why not, crush at first... smile?, reader goes to an art school, reader has some questionable morals, stalking, possessive behavior, murder, blood, breaking and entering, the public nor authorities doesn't know that helen is the bloody painter in this btw, morbid painting, a brief description of gore, idk art so sorry if i describe it incorrectly.

Oh, man. I can see him behaving in two different ways. One is the way he'd behave around you if you were there in his childhood and the other is if he met you after everything happened. For this, we'll focus on how he behaves after everything happened.

Helen is very emotionally reserved and pretty apathetic, to be honest with you. It's very difficult to get close to him. I like to think that you two met while he was getting some more art supplies.

He saw you struggling to pick between two paints and, being the artist that he is, he decided to do something a little nice for once and help you out.

And, a little bit to his surprise, that led to a rather lengthy conversation about art as you detailed to him the art project you were working on and how you really weren't sure what direction you wanted to take it because the prompt given to you didn't give you any ideas.

And as we all know, Helen is nothing if not an artist. So, obviously, he listens to every little detail you provide him and offers some advice that may help you out before you two go your separate ways.

And--

Huh. Why'd his chest suddenly feel all warm at the sight of your smile?

He finds himself drawing your smiling face later, thinking that maybe the warm feeling in his chest was just a random burst of inspiration. I mean, he is an artist after all. Inspiration tends to strike at the most random times.

His dear friend seems to think otherwise.

"Aw, does Helen have a little crush?" -> "If you don't have anything of value to say, then please keep your mouth shut."

He doesn't have a crush on you. Not that he knows what it's like to have a crush, I mean he's never been in love before, but he doesn't. No way.

Then he sees you again, and damn. I guess The Puppeteer was right. He does have a crush. Oh well. He accepts this revelation immediately and comes to terms with this newfound feeling rather quickly.

It's just a small crush, one that he's sure will go away soon. But he's never felt this way before, and the feeling leaves him curious, so he finds himself actively seeking you out.

He doesn't consider it to be stalking at first, just... studying. But then he follows you home one day, and he realizes that maybe these feelings of his aren't as small as he thought they were.

Does he feel bad for stalking you? I think, momentarily, he questions why he's doing this but... he's not a great guy in the first place. He does kill people and use their blood as paint, after all.

And you're aware that someone is watching you. You can feel eyes on you most nights. You should be scared, you know that, but... for some reason, you don't. If anything, you start leaving your blinds open more often.

Helen will sometimes even sketch you while he watches you. The way you hold yourself and the way you move around... it just makes him want to capture every moment he can in his sketchbook. He even briefly considers picking up photography as a hobby the longer he watches you, but he decides to just stick with his own form of art.

But he really likes it when he gets to see you make your own art.

And that's when he breaks into your home for the first time. You were out with some friends, and when you came home, you noticed your door was unlocked. At first, you didn't really think much of it, but when you went to your room, you couldn't help but feel as if something were off.

It took you a while, but you soon discovered that some of your drawings were missing. Thankfully, none of the ones you drew for class were missing.

You had no means of contacting your stalker, which you suppose is a good thing, so instead you just wrote on a piece of paper and taped it to your window.

'Glad you like my drawings.'

And the next day, taped on the outside of your window was a little doodle of a smiley face.

You didn't give this odd relationship much thought, to be honest. You thought it was kinda cute that this random stranger seemed to derive some type of joy from watching you. He hasn't done anything to hurt you, and his intentions don't seem malicious, so you honestly had no problem with it.

Of course, your friends definitely thought it was weird. They think that you need to report your stalker to the police, but you choose to ignore their concerns. You reassure them that if you ever feel as if you're life is in any danger, you'll inform the authorities about what's happening.

So, it goes on like this for a while. Helen would mostly stick to watching you from afar, but sometimes he'd break into your place while you're sleeping just to get a closer look at you. Sometimes, you'll wake up and there will be a drawing of you on your nightstand. You keep those drawings tucked away safely in one of the many empty sketchbooks you own.

Then a... domino effect of sorts took place.

You started going to a new café since it was closer to where you lived and closer to the school you attended. -> There's a cute barista there who always flirts with you whenever you buy a coffee or get yourself a treat. -> You humored their behavior because you thought it was cute, so you would flirt back sometimes. -> It became routine, and a couple weeks into the routine, the barista just up and vanished.

You thought they had quit, but you overheard some of the other employees at the café whispering about how they hadn't heard anything from them.

Something that should have been completely unrelated, you lose your red paint. You can't find it anywhere.

Continuing on with the domino effect, a day or two goes by and you hear on the news that the barista you had been flirting with was found dead in their home, drained dry of their blood. The police believe this to be another victim of The Bloody Painter.

You wouldn't have thought much of it, but then you notice a note taped to your window.

'There's a gift for you in your kitchen.'

And when you went to your kitchen, you saw a container resting on the counter. It wasn't translucent or see-through, so you couldn't see inside of it, but there was another note resting on top of it.

'I saw you were out of red paint, so I got you some more. We should meet up this week and paint together, don't you think? I'd love to see what you can create with this.'

And the note wasn't signed with a smiley face this time. It was signed with a name.

Helen Otis.

You set the note to the side and one quick look inside the container told you that he had given you blood to use as paint.

It didn't take you long to piece together what was going on here. The blood he had given you was no doubt the blood of the barista who had been murdered, which means... your stalker was that serial killer that's been all over the news these past few months.

The person who has been breaking into your home and leaving you those drawings was a serial killer. And he... he trusted you enough to tell you his name?

Holy shit, that's a lot to take in.

You should be panicking. Hell, you should be calling the police to let them know about all of this. You'd be doing the world some good if you did that, and it would save a lot of lives.

But your gaze drifts back to the note, and your mind wanders to all the drawings he's made of you, and... this was just so...

Cute. It felt romantic, even.

He killed a person you had been flirting with and gave you their blood as a gift. That has to be his way of letting you know that you were his.

You didn't even think about what you were going to do. You took the container of blood and you took it to your room. It didn't take you long to set up a tarp on the ground since it was no doubt going to drip onto your floor and you really didn't need blood stains in your carpet.

And you searched up a reference of what you wanted to paint, and you immediately got to work.

Later that night, while you were sleeping peacefully in your bed, Helen was breaking into your home for the nth time.

The reason why is because you had left a note for him to see on your window, one that had certainly caught his attention.

There's a gift for you in the kitchen.

You've never left him a gift before, so his curiosity was certainly piqued.

He made sure to be quiet as he made his way to your kitchen, not wanting to wake you up. He wasn't ready to meet you. Not yet.

When he gets to your kitchen, he certainly wasn't really expecting to see a canvas resting on the counter, a white sheet covering whatever was painted on it. A sticky note was placed on the sheet as well, and Helen stepped closer to it to read it.

This is what it looked like, right?

p.s. I'm willing to take you up on that offer.

And on the corner of the sticky note, there was a small smiley face doodle. How cute.

With the note read, Helen wasted no time carefully removing the sheet from the canvas, a subtle excitement coursing through his veins.

And... oh. Oh, you're as fucked up as him, aren't you?

What he sees is a downright devastatingly beautiful piece of work.

The painting was completely done with just the blood he had given you, with a few pencil marks for shading, and it depicted the murder he had committed just a few days prior.

He imagines that it was rather easy to find a photo of the crime scene online, but you were somehow able to capture the scene perfectly and you weren't ever there.

From the way the body was hanging upside down from the ceiling, a few buckets underneath it to collect the blood dripping from it. The way lifeless look in their eyes that you had done with a pencil... the gashes all over their body...

You had passed the test he had set up for you.

He took this as a sign of acceptance. A sign that you wanted to be his. You wouldn't keep the blood and make such a masterpiece with it if you didn't, right?

A slight smile formed on his face at the thought, and he stood there and admired the art you had made for him.

Hmm... maybe he'll stick around until you wake up...

[the-whispers-of-death]

Reader is male & his hair is described to be long enough to reach his nape (will be explained why in the Drabble). I just made up kingdom names. Part One, Part Two TW: Blood, Gore, Death

**

You were standing in the middle of a battlefield, your horse most likely one of the horses that were running away from all of you. You were swinging your sword, wielding it with skill that took years of war to perfect.

Enemies and your own soldiers were falling down all around you, but you focused on the enemy king. The king of Loria, a stocky fellow who thought it was a good idea to try and invade your kingdom, Eridies. You've long forgotten his name, but it didn't matter.

All that mattered was that you were not going to die today. Your kingdom wasn't going to fall into his greedy, blood-soaked hands.

You sliced through the enemy soldiers who stood in between you and your foe, blood splashing on your armored uniform and your face but you pushed past all of that. Rage filled your veins as you made your way through, drawing closer and closer to the enemy king with each step you took.

"King {Name}, I'm surprised you graced us with your presence," the king sneered at you. He was slicing through your own soldiers to get to you. "I thought the reigning royals of Eridies didn't step onto a battlefield ever since your great-great-grandmother. Are you cocky enough to die by my hand?"

You didn't deign him a response, merely snarling like an enraged wolf. You lunged forward, swinging your sword. Unfortunately for you, he parried your blow and swung his own sword to quickly try and overwhelm you.

It was working, your heels trying to dig into the blood-soaked dirt as you got pushed back with each blow you parried. You kept trying to land a hit, your teeth gritted.

The king managed to unarm you of your sword, your eyes watching as it flew out of your hands and drop so far away to the side that you couldn't reach it. Knowing that you didn't have time to dive for it, the king grinned wickedly beneath his helmet as he raised his sword, aiming for your head.

"My king."

Your eyes shot open, shaking you awake from your nightmare as you sat up. One of your hands reached up to feel the hair that was growing to your nape, your hair being able to be long again since the war was over and long hair was a symbol of peace in your culture.

The war was over, you had killed the king of Loria. The war was over, you had killed the king of Loria.

Taking a deep breath to calm your racing heart, you turned your head slightly to look at the man who had woken you up. Your most trusted knight in your personal guard, one who had been with you for years.

A man most people knew as Ghost, though you knew his true name: Simon.

He wasn't wearing his signature white skull mask, only his black balaclava. He didn't even have his armor on, probably because he had been dismissed by you for the day, which meant one of the knights on the night shift had woken him up to attend to you.

"Ghost," you murmured, using his nickname since you didn't know if the knights outside were listening or not. "Why are you awake?"

Ghost, who was hovering nearby, kneeled down at your bedside. "One of the knights guarding your bedchambers woke me up, said you were whimpering. She figured that you'd appreciate it if I woke you up."

Well, that was embarrassing.

Not that you were woken up by Ghost, but rather that a knight of yours heard you whimpering in your sleep. You were a king, you didn't have the luxury of appearing weak to your subjects.

Though you suppose, being vulnerable among Ghost as your only audience was okay. He was loyal, though you never knew if it was to you or the throne, but he had seen you be vulnerable before and hadn't decided to stage a coup. So you figured you could trust him.

You ran a hand down your face as you sighed. "Had a nightmare," you said softly. "About the last battle of the war."

"You're alive, my king," Ghost replied, his gloved hand hovering in the air like he was contemplating giving you physical comfort. His hand fell to his side shortly after. "You killed King Tresniar of Loria. You won the war."

Ah, so that was what the king's name was. You probably should've remembered it, considering you're the reason Loria was in power vacuum. Perhaps you should've conquered the kingdom fully and merged it with yours.

"You're right, my dear knight." You sighed again, laying back down and getting comfortable beneath your blankets. "I should go back to sleep, both of us should."

Ghost nodded, standing up. But he didn't leave, he walked over to the wall and stood there, facing your bed. "I will stay for a while, my king. To make sure your dreams don't turn into nightmares. Sleep well, I will protect you. I swear upon it."

Hearing your most trusted knight swear to protect you made you relax, your eyes closing.

Ghost stared at your sleeping face, resolving himself to stay by your side for at least an hour before he retreated to his own bedchambers. His brown eyes softened at the sight of your chest rising and falling, a sign that you were peacefully at sleep.

Most of the other knights thought he was loyal only to the throne. The throne meant nothing to him, only that you were sat upon it. And he desperately tried to tell himself it was simply because you were a good king.

He couldn't fall in love with you, he couldn't. But he was, even if he didn't admit it.

Reblogs are welcomed & appreciated! Asks are open, feel free to pop in and talk or request something! (SFW requests only, please and thank you)

[thalassomania]

what is “what happens next” about if you don’t mind me asking? :)

i've been sitting on this ask for a while now because WHERE! DO I! BEGIN!!!!

ok. so. what happens next is a currently ongoing webcomic by max graves, beginning late in 2021. it is a story told in multiple chapters about multiple characters, but one could argue that its protagonist is milo holliday. milo is a trans man, pastel blogger, toy customizer... and accomplice to a murder.

one of the first panels of the comic is a screenshot of the dni page on milo's tumblr, which got me IMMEDIATELY interested in the comic because it's such a unique way of storytelling:

[image description available for the above]

and we get a lot more pages like this that are screenshots of websites, social media profiles, and the like. the comic is a mixture of in-person interactions, online communication, and occasional flashbacks, all of which are important pieces of the story.

so when they were teenagers, milo's best friend griffin petty killed two people, and milo helped mutilate one of the bodies. while griffin was sent to prison, milo spent years in a psychiatric institution that stunted his emotional growth and forever altered his view of the world. a drawing he makes while institutionalized provides a window into milo's perceptions of the event:

[image description available for the above]

the whole comic is an uncomfortably accurate reflection of mid-2010s tumblr culture, right down to the sanrio traumacore and crytyping. milo's suffering is multifaceted: in reference to the people harassing him online, he says "it doesn't feel like they hate me for what i did... it feels like they hate me for the way i am," referring to his being an autistic trans man. and given that many of his detractors seem to come from sites like kiwifarms (notorious for its transphobia and ableism), he isn't entirely wrong! but at the same time, his relentless depictions of himself as the victim erase his contributions to haylie's death and the ways he's made himself and others' problems worse.

not every part of the comic is about milo, though! i'm only scratching the surface of it here: all of those pages and links are for the first part, titled "dog names." in the second part, "someone else," we're introduced to gage ludemann, a gore blogger and true crime fan who has entered a long-distance relationship with griffin, and once again, screenshots are used to masterful effect:

[image description available for the above]

but screenshots and characters' drawings are one thing, and max's art is another. starting in the third part, "no matter what," panels are shown in full color, and his color choices are great. what i really love, though, is the amount of detail max puts into character design and facial expressions. i could show you so many different panels that i think show off max's art, but i'll try to narrow it down to one:

[image description available for the above]

soooo yeah!! i have SO MANY THOUGHTS about this webcomic and i keep trying to get close friends to read it, haha. i've read a lot of webcomics and i can say with certainty that there is NOTHING out there quite like what happens next. it's a story about true crime fanaticism, psychological trauma, social media presences, existing as a transgender person, and so much more. the comic is currently on its fifth part, "you'll all be sorry," which seems to be about the characters vikki escamilla and xandra blumberg. if you decide to check it out please feel free to tell me all about it! i'm not connected to the comic at all, but i really love it and i think everything about it is just fascinating.

and max graves, if you're somehow reading this... hiiiiii i'm a huge fan!!! love your work!!! i hope i've represented it at least somewhat accurately here!

@kukai

[slashmagpie]

Blood & Snow

Pt. VII

Directory: {Pt. I} {Pt. II} {Pt. III} {Pt. IV} {Pt. V} {Pt. VI} {AO3}

The final day for @hermithorrorweek! Ngl, this one barely fits the prompt, but, well. I had to end the fic somehow. TWs for this chapter include: temporary character death, vomiting, non-consensual body modification, body horror, minor gore, pain and panic

VII. FROM BEYOND

What even is a game?

Dictionary definition, an activity one engages in for fun. Stupid definition. Boring. Incomplete. Throw it away. Who needs dictionaries, anyway? So—what is a game, then? Something with rules. With challenge. With balance. Something that draws people in, that rewards them for their time.

It’s—fun. Games are fun. Really, at the end of the day, isn’t that the most important part?

Decked Out is not a game anymore.

It had been, once—until very recently, in fact. Even as it awoke, began to breathe, began to consume and transform, it had still been a game. People had been having fun. He’d been having fun. It’d only stopped being fun when—

When what?

Back in season seven, when it was quiet and lifeless, when it had only been played a couple hundred times, nowhere near as engaging as its sequel, verging on a thousand? When he’d come up with the idea for a sequel, started drafting out plans, discarding and creating mechanics to bring everything up to the next level and beyond? Sometime during those thirteen months in a hole, turning cold and blue, afraid of the sunlight, isolated from his friends? When he’d dug for hours on end, dyed his skin red with redstone, ushered in beasts and monsters at cost to his health? 

No. No, all of those things were fun, in their own way. It was only when—

When he became—

Why? Why did—?

The issue isn’t that Decked Out isn’t a game. Decked Out isn’t a game right now, because Decked Out is currently a person, and that’s not supposed to happen, and that’s why it’s not fun. Game’s busted, everyone go home. Dungeon shut down for maintenance. They were right, the hermits, all those times they yelled at him to fix his game. No one enjoys a game that’s broken.

So if that’s not the problem, then what is?

His body feels small and cold. There are arms wrapped around him, warm and solid when every part of him is frozen. He can feel Hypno breathe above him, below him, chest fluttering as he gasps for breath, and the dungeon quivers as Tango does the same. Flesh. It wasn’t meant to be flesh, the Burning Dark—the name wouldn’t make sense, if it were flesh. It’s just flesh because Tango’s flesh, and Tango’s the dungeon right now, and he doesn’t really want to be.

…So it wasn’t want, then. That’s good. He hadn’t thought he’d wanted to be a dungeon, but you can never be too careful with subconscious desires. So—not want, then. Then what? What? 

“Tango,” Hypno whispers. “Tango, we need to go.”

Tango tries to open his mouth, and slams a hazard door open and closed. Great. He tries again, and gets a breath out, a frigid wind blowing down a tunnel on level one. His face scrunches in concentration and discomfort, and Rusty heals one tick, sending a cascade of treasure and embers onto the empty floor of his cage.

“Would love to,” he slurs at last, and his voice sounds like cracking stone and noteblock jingles. “But if you haven’t noticed…”

He can’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t know how. How could he possibly explain—

He doesn’t even know how to explain it to myself.

“Don’t make me carry you, man,” Hypno says. “I’ll do it.”

Tango doesn’t respond. His fingers twitch. Two floors above their heads, a shrieker howls. Hypno can’t hear it, of course. Tango hears it. Tango hears everything.

“Right,” Hypno mutters. “Right. Okay then.” 

And then—movement. Tango is lifted, slowly, painstakingly, and his leaden limbs are moved without his permission. His spine cracks, and the dripleaf parkour slips into hard mode. It’s embarrassing, really, having so little control over anything, over neither of his bodies. His head lolls back in Hypno’s arms. A ravager spins and turns to walk in the other direction.

“Okay.” Hypno takes a step. “How long do you reckon it takes to punch through flesh? Can’t be that hard, right…?”

And Tango—

The dungeon seizes, all the doors opening and closing at once, all the beasts opening their mouths to wail, every noteblock and disc playing at once, and the sound is cacophonous, agonising. Hypno cries out out the sound. Deep within the skulk-covered walls of level three, Cub lets out a groan. Far above their heads, Gem clamps her hands over her ears and shrieks, giving Pearl, Scar, and Bdubs just the opening they need to slip a sword between her ribs and send her off to her base to respawn.

Do no do not destroy the dungeon do you know how long that took do you know how much it took do you know don’t—

The dungeon settles. It feels like it takes an age, but beside the heartbeat, and the sound of dripping blood, and harsh breathing, level four is quiet again. Hypno hadn’t even made it to the wall, much less torn through it. It’s funny, because he’s never really been afraid of pain before—the amount he smacks his face into walls, he can’t afford to be—but just the idea of Hypno breaking through the dungeon makes him recoil in a way he can’t—

Wait.

Oh.

He’s been asking the wrong question, hasn’t he?

It was never about Decked Out at all.

The dungeon sighs, long and low and whispery. Thirteen months—three years, really, if he considers the first one—and now, now he realises what he’s done—

(It was worth it, though. Maybe it’s just because he’s tangled up in it still, can’t tell the difference between his body and the dungeon’s, but he can’t help but think it was worth it.)

(He doesn’t want it to end.)

(And that’s the problem, is’t it?)

He puts all his energy, all his focus (that system’s gone, was scrapped, redundant, useless—focus. Frost Focus, Moment of Clarity, focus) into opening his mouth, into choking down a breath, into croaking out, “Kill me.”

Hypno nearly drops him with the force of how hard he jumps. “Jeez, man, you scared the crap outta me—I’m not killing you, dude, what the heck?” 

“Kill me,” Tango insists. “You got that sword, right? Cheater.” He tries to snort. The dungeon manages it instead. That’s—fine. Whatever. Won’t matter soon. What matters is that he needs this thing carved out of him—

“Well, yeah, but I wasn’t gonna use it on you—the ravagers, probably, if anything—”

“Gotta,” Tango whispers. “Kill me. Then—go—go tear out the, the—” He can’t breathe, all of a sudden, the weight of the entire dungeon on his lungs, crushing the air out of him—

Those aren’t the only lungs he has anymore.

The dungeon breathes, “Redstone.”

“What? Wouldn’t that break the game?”

He—laughs. The dungeon laughs. His head swims. “Kinda the point,” he manages, the dungeon manages. “Game’s over.”

“Oh.” Hypno is quiet, for a moment, and then unceremoniously drops Tango without warning. He hits the fleshy ground hard, sinks back into soft tissues, stares up at Hypno through half-lidded eyes. Hypno draws his sword. Bites his lip. “You’re sure about this, Tango?”

“Yeah,” says the dungeon, and Hypno nods.

The sword comes down, and there’s a burst of pain, and Hypno’s face melts into red, red, red—

And then there’s only black.

----

Tango had gotten the idea for Decked Out from somewhere else. Something else. Another game, actually.

Clank. A board game. Making it into a real thing, a minigame, had been a fun challenge—and then it had been so fun that he’d just had to do it again. He’d taken this thing and made it his own. Made Tango synonymous with Decked Out, with dungeon, with hazard and clank and frost embers. All that time, all that effort spent—he’d put so much of himself into the project.

…It’s no wonder, really, that things had ended this way. He’d put all of himself into the game—

And now, in order to pull himself out, he needs to destroy it.

Game’s over.

Hypno’s sword slices through the flesh walls of level four, and then he uses his fists to punch out the black concrete beyond. He pulls himself into the cavern beyond and begins to crawl up the half-finished wool buslines, up towards the spaghetti soup of redstone above. Once he’s there, once he’s found the card sorter and the clank blocker and the—everything important, really—he takes handfuls of wool and redstone in his hands and begins to tear.

Tango screams. The dungeon screams. In her bed, blocks and blocks away, Gem screams, hands twisted in and tugging at her hair as the stone slowly leeches out of her skin. On level three, Cub screams, pushed out of the skulk-infested grave he’d made for himself, the rot sloughing from his flesh and leaving bloody open wounds in its place. Upstairs, Etho is doubled over, clutching his stomach and retching up pieces of Tango’s soul.

Decked Out screams, and thrashes, and fires every piston in an attempt to fight, in an attempt not to have the life ripped out of it—

But Decked Out is a game. A dungeon. A thing made of stone and wool and redstone. A thing animated by sound, by beast and bane, by every player who'd ever dared to play it. It is not a thing that is alive by itself. It can do nothing to stop its undoing. It cannot prevent its own death.

Dying takes an eternity. Blinding pain, and panic, and Hypno’s shaking hands tearing him to pieces, gutting him from the outside in. It’s agonising, neverending, and he screams himself hoarse before it's done, chokes on his own cries and whimpers and sobs and writhes instead, because the pain is too much for silence and stillness—

And then, all at once, it’s over.

Tango sits straight up in his bed, the scream in his throat echoing around the walls of his storage room, and then doubles over to throw up skulk rot and blood and redstone all over the sheets. He vomits for—longer than is healthy, probably, and when it’s finally done he collapses back on his elbows, shivering and empty. He should—move, probably, destroy and dispose of the sick-covered bed, but he doesn’t have the energy. 

He doesn’t…

He flops back onto the pillow and holds a shaking hand out above him. The skin is faintly pink, soft and warm and wholly alive. His throat burns. His head swims. But—

He’s alive. He’s in one piece. And he isn’t…

“Tango!”

They come clattering down into his storage room, Pearl first, Bdubs and Scar behind her. Tango’s sure he must look a mess—he sees Scar gag at the sight—but he finds it in himself to muster a smile and a wave at the sight of them.

“Where’re the others?” Bdubs demands. 

“Etho—should be upstairs,” Tango croaks. His voice is nearly gone. “Cub’s on level three, someone should go get him. Hypno’s in all the redstone spaghetti out there.” He gestures vaguely with a hand. “Might wanna get him too.”

“Right,” Bdubs says. “I’ll—no, Pearl should get Cub. She knows level three the best.”

“Got it,” Pearl says. “I’ll be right back.” And then she’s off, firing rockets and flying out into the dungeon, into the places no one but Tango ever goes.

“I’ll go get Hypno,” Scar offers, and then he’s gone as well, and then there’s just Bdubs and Tango. They’re quiet for a moment. Tango’s breath rattles in his chest.

“Okay,” Bdubs says. “You gotta get out of that bed, man, that’s disgusting.”

Tango groans, but Bdubs has a point. He uses what little energy he has to wriggle out from beneath the covers and roll onto the floor, where he lies, breathing heavily. Bdubs steps forward to break the bed.

“I think what’s even more disgusting,” Tango says after a moment, “is that all of that was inside of me.”

Bdubs pulls a face. “Eugh.”

“Right?”

“You’re… good, now, though?” Bdubs asks. “You look better. You’re all orange and red again.”

“Am I?” Tango blinks. “Oh, that’s good. Yeah, I’m…” He winces. His throat really does hurt. His voice sounds like he’s been gargling rocks. “I’ll be okay,” he lands on in the end.

“Oh, good! I mean—I wasn’t worried at all, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But the others—the others were worried! So it’ll be good to tell them the, the good news…”

“Oh, yeah,” Tango mumbles. “Game’s over, isn’t it. Gonna have to let everyone know.”

That’s… gonna be fun. He’s surprised more hermits didn’t end up as entangled in the dungeon, honestly, with how into it a lot of them are. So that conversation’s gonna be…

“They’ll get over it,” Bdubs says with a wave of a hand. “We’ll throw a party or somethin’, distract ‘em.” 

“Yeah.” Tango snorts. Then—“Hey, does this mean Etho won the game again?”

A rocket fires, and footsteps touch down on the ledge into the room, and Hypno cries, “He better not have! Restart—I wanna restart. Or a recount. Or something. You can’t let him win again, Tango, he’s gonna be insufferable—I can go put the wiring back in, we can do one more phase, surely, right—”

Tango covers his face with his hands and laughs.

(The dungeon, lungs and brain and heart and soul ripped out, does not laugh with him.)

[starsurface]

Back again hehe! (Not anon now tho) Literally adore this page sm! Content is so heartwarming I can’t get enough of it and is easily one of my new fav accs to look through :3 Maybe some MK1 caregiver Reiko and Regressor General Shao Hcs? TY✨

Awhhhh, thank you!!! I love your account as well!!! It's so wholesome and so fun to go through 🥺 (Also the emoji's I used are: 🗡🛡!!)

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

CG Reiko w/ Regressor Shao Hcs

🗡 Shao regresses kinda young, about 1-3

🛡 This is probably mostly because he holds back his regression for a super long time because he's busy, he's the general, he doesn't need relaxation time, this, that, etc, etc

🗡 So when he does regress, he's a baby that just wants to be held and loved 🥺

🛡 I like to think Shao involuntarily regressed for a super long time before even knowing what age regression was

🗡 But also never really fully slipped and was probably stuck in between headspaces without knowing

🛡 It was too scary, feeling fully small and fuzzy, what if someone caught him snuggling his blanket or babbling to his favorite stuffie!!

🗡 It was a deep secret he had where he'd find some time to relax and snuggle with his blankets and hide from all his big kid responsibilities

🛡 The first time Reiko ever saw Shao regressed was when they were doing reports together and Shao started getting frustrated because the words were getting too hard and the acts on the page were too horrid and too big for his tiny mind

🗡 Since Reiko already knew of regression, he kinda just went with the flow

🛡 Said that Shao was too tiny right now to be doing any kind of big kid files and they should take a break and do something fun! Like sword fight or wrestle (Reiko's personal favorite little activities)

🗡 Instead they just kinda cuddled in bed because Shao doesn't like doing those things when he's tiny

🛡 He already has to do them when he's big, don't make him do it while he's small 🥺

🗡 Shao doesn't fully regress regress without Reiko

🛡 He can't, it's too difficult and scary

🗡 Plus what is someone walks in? Or he forgot to lock the door? Reiko's big and strong, he can protect him!!

🛡 One of both their favorite activities is story time

🗡 Reiko has a lot of war experience, and he can use some of his victories into great outlandish tales he's done!!

🛡 (^ keeping most of the gore and stuff to practically nonexistent, and maybe fabrotacting a few things here of there, gotta keep the baby entertained!!)

🗡 You know those big dogs that think they can jump on you and sit on your lap like they're the smallest thing in the world?

🛡 That's Shao, 100%

🗡 What do you mean he's gotta be careful when he's trying to get cuddles? He's just a baby 🥺

🛡 (^ Don't worry though, Shao gets all the cuddles he wants, Reiko’s super strong!!)

🗡 Does have to be careful of his horns though, he doesn't wanna poke someone by accident, that'd hurt :(

🛡 If he did accidentally poke Reiko with them, he'd probably just get a gentle reminder that we gotta be careful when we have super cool horns because sometimes we can hurt others

🗡 Please do not yell at this man, he will cry

🛡 Or, more have tears weld in his eyes and start blubbering when you turn away

🗡 He's a big boy, he doesn't cry!! >:(

🛡 . . . Lier

🗡 Positive reaffirming and gentle redirecting work best with Shao

🛡 He doesn't like getting yelled at, or going to a naughty step, or any type of punishment

🗡 He already has to bark orders all day, deal with people he despises

🛡 Luckily, Reiko can turn very soft when he can read a room

🗡 He gets very patient when Shao does something naughty, leading him in the direction rather than yelling

🛡 Will rarely have to every put his foot down because Shao doesn't actually break too many rules

🗡 Most of their rules are for safety anyhow, although he still doesn't understand why he can't draw on the walls 😒

🛡 When Shao feels a little bit older and not baby baby, he's very bossy

🗡 What does Reiko mean he has to write one more sentence on his paperwork? No he doesn't! He can come cuddle him right now!! That's an order!! >:(

🛡 Stomps and huffs when he doesn't get his way (and Reiko has to finish his job, stupid paperwork)

🗡 Doesn't like feeling tiny and Reiko's not there, its scary

🛡 Reiko's got a full time job on his hands, bossy baby on his hip 24/7, fr

🗡 Doesn't like others babysitting him either, right now only Reiko knows and he has no plans on changing that

🛡 Reiko doesn't mind, they'll move at his pace

🗡 Horn scratches are must!!!

🛡 Well, any scratches are a must, lightly on the arm, back scratches while cuddling, almost anywhere Shao has scales

🗡 For being a lieutenant, Reiko has really nice nails that are perfect for scratchies

🛡 Reiko's favorite CG nicknames are Papa or Bubba (when Shao's really small 'Ko cause Shao will repeat it and it makes Reiko feel all big and proud)

🗡 Shao's favorite little nicknames are Little One, Fierce Guy, Tough Cookie, Baby-Bear

🛡 I could probably see Shao being a dragon regressor too??

🗡 And that means he steals all of Reiko's nice shiny stuff for his blankie nest, its his now, Reiko doesn't have a choice >:(

🛡 He's also much more active in this headspace and will play more games like tag or hide and seek

🗡 Shao also likes being called Hatchling when he's a dragon

🛡 Overall, he's either a very cuddly baby, or a little bossy baby (still super cuddly though)

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

I know they're mostly focused on Shao but I hope you like them!!! :D

[latibvles]

when i'm all over your mouth.

part two of the priest x vampire au that nobody asked for. read part one here. Rated M for Mature, toeing that line of being rated E for Explicit because hey maybe no clothes come off but we certainly are toeing some lines over here, aren't we. this really got away from me. I may or may not also be throwing this on AO3 because great Googly Moogly this got long. Gore and blood warnings apply yada yada yada also not proofread again we die like men

She remembers the last time she fed off a person. She wishes that she was older — so that the memory might fade into a life she doesn’t remember living. But if she’s learned anything, it’s that getting what she wants isn’t very likely. She’ll live a dozen lives and likely never forget a thing. If things went her way, she might’ve been able to avoid this journey of coming to terms with her own existence. Her being wouldn’t have taken new meaning at all.

She remembers her mother’s eyes, cold and lifeless, and she remembers how every part of her was so terribly pale. The mangled state of her throat — the creature, no, soldier, with that same blood on the front of his white shirt, staining the lower half of his face and dripping from his beard.

He’d turned her into what she is now and all she saw was red. She hardly remembers the details, but she’ll never forget the taste of his blood — so dark it was near black. It clung to her throat, burned, made her retch and vomit long after she’d torn his windpipe from him, long after she’d hacked his head off with the ax they used for chopping wood to ensure he wouldn’t rise again. It was bitter. It burned. It stank. She’d screamed and cried and cursed him for allowing her to live as she does now. And she hadn’t had a drop of blood from another person in the eighty-four years since.

Until Ron, which wasn’t her plan. But she knows if she were to tell him it was never going to happen again, he’d call her bluff.

He was good at that — reading things, reading her, and it’s frightening in its own way. The only thing to truly frighten her since that day. More than the wars she’d served in, more than the sun in winter.

Twice more, she drinks from his wrist, because he offers, and they argue until they can’t anymore. He’s good at that. Arguing. It’s frustrating, because his logic is always infuriatingly sound. It’s annoying, because yes, he’s right, black burns that would’ve taken weeks to heal are healing quicker now and it is because of his blood.

She doesn’t know how to tell him the taste of him undoes the foul taste she always wished to forget. The very thought makes her feel as though she’s teetering on the edge of a ledge that crumbles a bit more with every brush of her mouth against his wrist, every time his pulse hammers against her awaiting lips and he stares straight through her.

He’s the sickness. He can’t also be the cure. That isn’t how anything works.

Ron draws her closer each time she sinks her teeth into his wrist — the third time, what she hoped to be the last time, his fingers dug into her hip, tight enough to leave an indent on her skin, leaned up against her countertop and she couldn’t help but hold his stare.

The air between them was tense afterward. Or maybe tense wasn’t the right word. Electric felt more apt, he stared at her lips in a way she recognized.

Daisy was no stranger to the look of desire on his face — the look on any man’s face. What was foreign to her was the fact that if he kissed her breathless right then and there, she wouldn’t have minded. She might’ve turned to putty in his hands. But if she had, would that make her any better than the invasive bloodsucking myth her existence stemmed from? She didn’t think she had it in her to take from him when he’d already given to her — more than she’d ask of any person.

Just a drop of him, from his wrist no less, and she swears she might be hooked. Her curiosity is piqued — something she has to beat back now for the sake of herself and his personal safety.

One of the few things she prided herself on was her dedication to learning more about her condition — the science of it, not relenting despite the scarcity of reliable source material. She knows through personal experience that all blood tastes… different. Depending on the creature, depending on where it comes from. She knows that his wrist would be different from his neck, knows that to many, there’s an implication behind it that she won’t inflict him with. He isn’t hers to keep and being hers would likely be forsaking the principles of his line of work. It wasn’t fair.

There are other traditions she’s learned about that aren’t nearly as damning, even treading the line of sentimental.

“You’re good at that.” He observes, watching with a curious eye as she dices carrots on the cutting board. It’s a compliment, she knows it is, but she can’t help but snort at the boyish way he watches.

“If I didn’t get good at this with eighty years of experience then there’d be a problem.” He shakes his head, trying to dissuade that twitch of the corner of his mouth at her attempt at a joke, which makes her smile in turn.

“And this is…”

“Well I could call it a thank you,” Daisy keeps her gaze trained on her hands now, in part not to cut her finger and in part because she can already feel Ron’s stare honing in on her. “Or me paying you back, but that makes things sound too… transactional. So we’ll just say it’s my turn to feed you for a change,” she continues, the only other noise being the sound of the cutting board hitting the wood. “Plus, it’s chilly out. That’s stew weather.”

She dares take a glance at him through her peripheral vision, at his messy hair and innately imposing stature. This morning, he was in the typical black shirt and white collar she’d seen on him so many times before. His hair was combed and he stood a fair distance from those who came to talk to the Father, his face straigh and stern, hardly shifting when she approached him.

It’s like he’s shed a layer in her personal space like this, hair tousled from the winter wind kicking up on his way over. Handsome would be the way to describe it, and that very fact has her face flushing, heart pounding in her ears — although not nearly as quick as she anticipates it to be. There’s something domestic about the whole thing in a way she always assumed would remain foreign to her. She’s about to take the carrots to the pot by the stove, but he takes them first.

“What’re you doing?” He shrugs, brings it over to the pot and slides it in.

“Helping.” Ron’s reply is so simple she could strangle him. Daisy scrunches her nose.

“You make it really hard to pay you back, you know that?” He’s crossing that small space to approach her again, lays the cutting board flat on the countertop with a small shrug and quirk of his lip. Daisy’s deciding he gets far too much amusement out of bewildering her in the way he does.

“So don’t pay me back,” Ron counters, with his hand curling around her own on the knife. “Cook us dinner, and let me help.”

“You told me you were no good in the kitchen.”

“I think I can handle a knife.”

“Your affection for pointy things mildly concerns me.” Ron grins at that again, and in their back and forth he’s gotten closer to her. She can feel the warmth radiating off of him, identify those flecks of green in the hazel of his eyes. More importantly, she sees how his pupils almost dilate at what she’s just said — and Daisy’s now acutely aware the knife isn’t the only pointy thing in the room.

And not the only thing that holds his affection.

She can feel her heart begin to beat a little quicker, but the rhythm in her chest doesn’t match the one in her ears. She doesn’t even think he realizes she hasn’t quite moved until she tilts her head up to look at him. He’s not flushed like she is, holding her stare and looking her over with what she can only assume is relative ease. Still, the air feels vaguely like it did the last time she drank from him.

Electric.

Daisy leans a bit closer to him, despite that voice in her head screaming for separation. She wants to be closer. Impossibly so. Pressed flush against him and feel the warmth of him. Was it hunger? Or just plain desire. Daisy isn’t especially sure. She lets go of the knife and instead he takes a hold of her hand, squeezing as she tilts her head up and towards him. There’s that pulse beating through his wrist, his hand, as she approaches. Quickening, the only thing matching that pounding in her ears. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.

She can hear his heartbeat.

Don’t.

It’s her teeth in his neck before she even realizes she’s gotten close enough to reach him.

That dark taste of his blood spills onto her tongue like spiced liquor, as though it were waiting for her bite. She can’t help the noise muffled by his skin, the whimper that escapes. Ron groans and Daisy thinks her knees might go weak. He’s not even pliant against her, he’s pulling her towards him with steady hands, lowering into one of the chairs at the kitchen table and pulling her into his lap. His entire body shudders against her and his pulse hammers against her lips once he settles. His fingers weave into her hair, like he’s trying to press her closer to that spot. Liquid fire, water in the desert, sweet and spiced and intoxicating and somehow so very Ron.

His being floods her senses. She lets him.

A ship in Boston Harbor. Girlish laughter. Warmth. Gunpowder. Snow. Dark alleys. Cigarettes. Men’s laughter. Shellings. Running, running, running. Kisses in a back alley. Hands fisting skirts. Whispered sighs. Nothing of the holy man he’s meant to be. His nails digging into her hip pull her back into the present and it takes all the sense she has to pull off him. Ron is panting, and so is she as she stares at him — chests heaving in time.

She can still hear his heartbeat. She’d be able to even if his front wasn’t so shamelessly pressed to hers. She thinks she’d know it even if she were blind.

“I’m sorry, this isn’t—” she stammers, and she’d climb off him were it not for his grip on her, still so sure, so tight. Keeping her in his lap like he meant for her to be there the whole time. Instead, she hides, ducking her head into his shoulder. “This isn’t why I invited you over I— I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t stop.”

The words are so hoarse it barely registers that it’s Ron saying it. Not until she lifts her head to look at him, and gets a good look at what exactly she must’ve done to him.

Only now, is his face flushed, lips parted and hand still in her hair as though he means to caress it.

“What?”

“Don’t stop,” he repeats, firmer now, more coherent. “And don’t apologize, either.” It’s stern, the way he says it. Like the voice that flooded her senses — barking commands, bringing a woman to her peak. Part of her could sink her teeth in right now, but she’s scrambling for some kind of sense, reaching for self-control.

“I- I can’t— that wasn’t, isn’t—”

The hand in her hair pulls her towards him until his mouth is crushing against hers in a way that’s so messy it has her lips parting on a gasp, her hips rolling almost reflexively. The words hunger and desire flash behind her eyelids once more and she pushes it to the back of her mind to focus on the feeling of his lips, of his teeth dragging on her bottom lip to tug at it. He tastes like a cigarette and mint. She can feel it — the scraps of his resolve are crumbling beneath her, how he breaks whatever promises he made to his God with each squeeze of her hip.

He pulls away only after he’s effectively stolen the air from her lungs, his mouth now stained with his own blood.

“Yes, you can, sweetness,” Ron breathes out, his breath fanning over her face. “Bite me. Drink from me. It’s fine. I want it.” His voice toes that line between almost soothing and downright commanding — a line he somehow managed to create.

But that was the thing about him. Intoxicating, baffling, frustrating, she isn’t especially sure how it is he exists in the way he does. But she’s grateful that he does. She says nothing for a few moments, honing into that sound of his heart beating, now nearly in perfect time with her own.

“Not here,” Daisy settles on. “Can you– can you stand? And do stairs?” She doesn’t think she’s taken enough to leave him physically weak, and he nods, loosening his grip so she can climb off him and he can rise to his feet. She doesn’t miss the wobble of his legs and were it not for… everything else she would’ve laughed at how quick he is to turn off the stove and take her hand. Ron lets her lead him up her stairs, towards her room.

The whole time, she wants nothing more than to sink her teeth into him again, or for him to crush her with the weight of his lips. Preferably both.

“The bed. Lay down. More comfortable that way.” She realizes that her own voice is edging on desperate when she opens the door with her foot and lets him go. Which he does, goes so far as to kick off his shoes, backing up and holding her stare from his spot propped on his elbows.

Maybe she’s too quick to follow after him, crawling on top of him and letting her fingers graze the curve of his cheek, the line of his jaw.

She leans down, drags her tongue across the spot where she’d bitten him until it’s clean as his hands find purchase on the tops of her thighs beneath her skirt.

“Didn’t want it to go to waste, sweetness?” That nickname, it makes her shudder and in response she drags a tooth along his skin, leaving a pink line of a scratch in its wake.

“You’re not funny.” She huffs.

“Wasn’t trying to be,” Ron grunts, “How’re we doing this?” Daisy lifts her head to look at him again.

Desire on others is cloudy, barely coherent, parted lips and mumbled incomprehensible words. Desire on Ron is precise, aware, a sharp-eyed look like he knows exactly what he wants, exactly how he plans to get it. She doesn’t have to say it aloud for him to already know he can have her.

“You’ll feed me,” Daisy breathes out, before searing a kiss of her own to his lips. She swears it's the only thing more intoxicating than the taste of him. “And then I’ll feed you.”

They’re damned. Her for being so terribly greedy and him for desiring her in the way he does. They both know it. But even beneath her now Ron looks nothing like the blushing, scandalized virgin of folktales and films. His eyes are dark and stormy, his fingers are digging into her thighs and he’s staring at her like he’s challenging her to go through with this. Like it’s her final chance to back out of this entirely.

“Bottom’s up, then, sweetness,” Ron teases, but his tone lacks any sort of lilt.

Daisy lowers herself to his neck to drink her fill, as that low groan of his lights a fire in her belly that had laid dormant for far too long.

[flbrokensoldier]

Hi, I don't know if it's possible, but how about a scenario with the Overwatch characters with an s/o, which has no face (not in the gore sense) but is literally just a black space where you can only You can see your eyes and that you usually wear a mask so as not to scare people, how would you act? (If you need more reference images let me know) the genre can be of the s/o can be at your choice.

Have a nice day/afternoon/night :D

Woah, this is definitely unique! I love the creativity but writing this kicked me in the ass so it took a while to post 😭

I love this idea though, it's very unique and out of the box!

Cole Cassidy

As a friend, he would not mind at all.

I'm fact, he'd think it's cool!

Anyone who picks on you, gets a nice introduction to Peacemaker.

He doesn't stand for anyone picking on you other than him.

Even then, if it bothers you, he doesn't continue it. He'll stop ASAP.

He loves drawing on masks you don't use anymore and accidentally makes some nice art, which you can either hang on your wall or wear it.

He loves poking the mask, as if it'll do something interesting.

He's all about physical touch, even if he is in this circumstance.

Beware of boops.

They will happen.

Can't avoid them anymore.

Mwahahaha!

NOW AS A BOYFRIEND.. He would probably be a bit upset, seeing as there's no face to kiss and this man is VERY VERY physically affectionate.

Again, he loves physical touch.

He still loves you for who you are though.

He will spoil you with kissed on the mask though, even if he gets none in return.

Be prepared for more snuggles than anyone else gets.

He loves you for who you are, remember that.

OH AND HE'S NOT AFRAID TO SHOW YOU OFF AS HIS S/O.

And he's not afraid of you, never was <3

Hanzo

Let's be honest, he'd probably be shocked and confused at first but wouldn't mind.

If anyone tried to bully you for it, they'd get an arrow at their feet.

"Next time I won't miss." Is usually what they hear after they see who shot the arrow.

He loves to decorate the masks though.

He may not say it but he's really good with art.

He paints most of your masks when they need a new paint job.

It makes him feel important so let him do that for you.

He also likes to watch over you, he realizes you are special and he feels the urge to protect.

Let him do that too, he'll feel great if you let him. <3

As an S/O he wouldn't mind at all, he'd kiss the mask regardless.

He'd do it in public too just to confuse people and get a rise out of them.

It amuses him and gives him a reason to beat them up.

Like Cassidy, he isn't scared and never was.

He treats you as if you were another person in a crowd of people.

Yet he loves you like no other.

Genji

As a friend, he was fascinated.

He could stare for hours, not to be rude though.

As being a cyborg himself, he thinks it's cool he finally has someone he can relate to. (In a sense)

He absolutely is protective of you.

He makes sure you're by his side during battles or that you're within his sight at the very least.

He would try to find an extra mask of his to give to you if you're in a tight situation and your other mask broke. (Can't tell me he don't carry spares with the amount of headshots people do)

He would have your back in that situation 100%

He would probably be the type to try and touch the nothingness, just to see if it has any feeling to it.

If you get annoyed he'll gladly stop.

Get use to cuddles. He will cuddle too, seeing as you guys can't kiss, he will cuddle.

Now as a friend he'd have your back.

Give you plenty of affirmations because he has them for himself and figures he'd share. (Which is so cute <3)

And he'd still be just as protective.

Mercy

Now Mercy, even if there is no cure, she'd help with whatever she can.

She'd probably try to see if there's a cure, not out of spite or being mean, just out of the fact that she's a doctor, she's curious and truth be told her approach about it all is super sweet.

She likes to kiss your hand as a sign of respect and love.

She will hug you a lot.

She loves watching over you in battle, your own guardian angel.

SHE WILL FLY OFF WITH YOU IF NEED BE.

If you're out in public and your mask falls for some reason or broke, she will cover for you.

Overall she's a deeply caring lady and she would literally die for you.

She also shows that she loves you by writing little letters for you before she leaves for work, or she leaves little craft things she made which are always cute and always say something super sweet.

Your room is filled with her craft pieces.

For dates, if you're comfortable you can go out in public, or stay at home watching movies or shows. Either way she's down for whatever.

She spoils you when she can, either with food, little gifts, or something you mentioned you wanted. she will remember that and she will give you whatever you wanted at that time. <3

Again, I hope you like it! I'm so sorry this took so long, also this is my first time writing for Genji, Hanzo, and Mercy! (Also Kiriko isn't in this because I couldn't think much after this.)

If this also came off offensive or aggressive apologies! 😭

Anyways ty for the request!

[dovithedarklord]

Age of Monsters - Chapter Five

Pairing: OFC x Simon "Ghost" Riley, OFC x König

Tags: Slow Burn, Slow Build, Enemies to Lovers, Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, POV First Person, Not Beta Read, Medical Inaccuracies, Military Inaccuracies, AFAB OC

Trigger Warning: The story will contain violance, blood and smut in detail. Please, keep that in mind!

⚠️MDNI⚠️

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

Author's Note

An intimate moment passes with the team, and Riley and Leona go on an even more enjoyable getaway.

Hello!

I don't have a special trigger warning for this chapter, I'll leave that for the next one :) Have fun!

I.M.L. - Infected mammalian form

if you're interested you can find the story on AO3: Chapter Five

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

Suddenly, all the air is forced out from my lungs, as I promptly fall on the floor of the fighting ring with such a loud thump, that it is a pleasure to listen to. My brain doesn't even register the pain that this causes in my lower back, because at this moment there isn’t an area in my body that doesn't scream from every movement I make. I only have time for a few quick moments to stare at the ceiling and ponder all the decisions I've made in life, because Price immediately appears above and looks down at me expectantly, all with such unnerving calmness and cheerfulness, that the murderous irritation moving inside me rekindles my motivation to fight.

"Come on, stand up, Woods!" He urges me, and such a disgusting amount of energy radiates from him that I feel like checking whether someone has stuck up a handful of batteries in his ass. Still, how in the rotten, unholy, goddamn life does he have so much stamina left in him, after continuously smacking the shit out of me in different creative ways for three fucking hours!? "We still have work to do, so get yourself together!"

"Be this enthusiastic when I finally put my hands on you..." I grunt listlessly, as I hiss when the agony tears into my back while I struggle to stand back on my feet, promising the bloodiest revenge possible to the man, who is not affected by my threats, but is only put in an even more chipper mood. Although I could have gotten used to the fact that Price, despite his general seriousness, can be quite relaxed and friendly when it comes to imparting life's great lessons to others. But again and again, it dances on the battered threads of my nerves, when, amused by my suffering, he continues to push me to work my ass off. It's a good tactic, but still drives me insane. However, it is an irrefutable fact, that I have improved a lot during the last month spent here, even if I would only be willing to admit this to one of my trainers, if it would save me from a mutant crafting a scarf out of my guts. But maybe not even then.

"I'll be waiting for that to happen." Responds Price with a cheeky smile, and from this comment, I feel the hot wave of anger heating up my insides, which once again prompts me to take up the fighting position and start one of my pitiful attempts to attack him. Of course, it would be a lie to say that I am the lamest student in the world, but my success is insignificant compared to the educational failures that I'm submitted to. And I shouldn't be so hard on myself, because he could pack me up with one hand like a suitcase if he wanted to, but even so, my pride registers every mistake in my mind with bloody seriousness and tries to find new ways to inflict pain on the sadistic lunatic mocked as captain.

The opening of the door cuts through the empty silence of the room with ear-splitting sharpness, and as Price reflexively turns his head in the direction of the noise, my little evil side comes to life, and seizing the opportunity, my legs swing towards him. The arc that my foot draws in the air is almost masterful, and it's even more artistic when I hit the man right in the middle of his stomach and push him backward. And despite the fact that it feels as if I've kicked a brick wall, the captain still lets out the surprised, but strained moan of delicious pain. Once again, taking advantage of the chance, I step towards him, and my hand slams down on his throat with the speed of a snake in ambush. I put just enough energy into my fingers to help him become dizzy for a moment, and as he comes tumbling down onto his ass in the ring from this cunning little trick of mine, I am filled with frantic joy. And when Price, sitting on the floor, just blinks at me with sincere amazement at first, and then a faint but appreciative smile slowly spreads across his face, I yet again feel the tingle of warmth starting in my stomach, which inexplicably appears more and more often during the training sessions with him. Because even though he tries to push me to my limits in the most inhuman ways possible, when he pats me on the shoulder for a good move or tactic, I inevitably get this disgustingly soft feeling that I last experienced some time in my childhood.

"Bloody hell!" One of the arriving strangers who provided my little distraction breaks the silence suddenly, and at the familiar Scottish accent, my head involuntarily turns towards the edge of the ring so quickly that my neck crunches in protest. I find MacTavish's figure, and I furrow my brows in disbelief as my self-gratification is mixed with confusion at the man's irrationally enthusiastic glee. "That was amazin’!" The Hunter continues with a thrilled exclamation, and from this small praise, the horrifying fuzzy feeling continues to spread into the depths of my rough little soul, which I immediately try to erase with the self-satisfied expression on my face, because my nervous system cannot process so many positive stimuli at once.

"I didn't expect anythin' else from a criminal!" Garrick joins in as well, and I would swear to any entity, they appear so randomly at this point that I seriously start to suspect they just grow out of the ground. "I'd better watch my back, ‘cause you might pull a nasty trick like you did to the cap'!" The man states quite playfully, and it's clear from his tone that he just wants to tease me, evoking the usual atmosphere at our trainings, because for some reason he finds it extremely enjoyable when I start to lose my marbles. Now, however, I feel so sickeningly pleasant that I don't have the strength to be irked by his jokes, since I know that his only driven by his cheerleader enthusiasm.

"If you give me the chance openly, you deserve it." I simply shrug my shoulders, with a small smile on my face, completely in agreement with my statement, because if nothing else, they may have learned in the short time we spent together that I am a mean bastard, and I will strike accordingly if necessary. Garrick just returns my smile with an amused snort and makes himself comfortable sitting down on one of the benches, but despite all his good mood, I notice the dark circles around his eyes and the tiredness hiding in his posture. My glee dims for a moment, because despite my every muscle screaming at him and MacTavish at the end of each day, I can sense that something is definitely not right with the Hunter.

"Good job. But you won't always have the chance to use distractions." Notes Price, and I turn my attention away from Garrick back to the captain, and, having mercy on him, I selflessly extend my hand to him. When he accepts it and slides his palm into mine, I help him to his feet. "You have to find the holes in the defense even if there is nothing to distract the opponent with." Continues the bearded man, and I nod my head in agreement with his observation after an exhausted sigh. Of course, it's easy for someone who, if necessary, breaks through the enemy's defenses by force, since he is like a human tank. Stupid little girls like me have to be tactical, or else they're going to end up quite dead. And even though my self-esteem deeply suppresses this admission, I know he's right, even if I happen to be a self-proclaimed master of distraction and manipulation.

"Point taken." I give only my brief reaction to his explanation, because my eyes are instinctively drawn back to the Hunter resting on the bench, whose normally warm brown skin now looks unnaturally pale in the neon light of the gym. But the uncomfortable, anxiety-like tightening in my stomach immediately helps me to see that the lighting has nothing to do with how crappy the man looks at the moment. "I hope you don't look like a corpse washed ashore because you couldn't torture me today, Garrick." I address the person in question, and as he raises his dark eyes at me, recognition splits into my head, and I understand what the problem might be.

"You wish!" Garrick straightens his back, perhaps trying to become a more pleasurable sight to look at, but it only makes the situation worse, because this way I have the opportunity to observe the slight trembling of his hands. "The I.M.L.s were just a bit more work than I expected." He begins to explain, and this only further confirms my assumption that Hunter's little energy stores are getting close to being exhausted. And while I haven't had the luck to witness this state many times in my life, I still have enough knowledge and observation skills to identify the signs. Although for now, Garrick might be far from the condition where he would rearrange his surroundings like a bloodthirsty beast, he is worn down just enough to make even a mop look healthier in comparison.

"He's acting tough, but he's not okay." MacTavish corrects his comrade's statement, to which the Hunter with the mohawk is rewarded with a rather dark expression. And as small worried wrinkles appear on his face, I know that Garrick is in fact not okay, to put it mildly, if even his Scottish friend gives way to his concerns.

I feel Price's heavy hand on my shoulder, and he doesn't have to say a word for me to know what he wants to ask from me. And the feeling that helps me climb over the ropes of the ring without further delay to make my way to my new patient is entirely unknown to me. My stomach tightens as I get closer to Garrick, because I can see the damp sweat on his forehead, the feverish glint in his eyes, and the throbbing, darkening line of veins on his neck. This can't be the first time he's been in this state, as he's handling the whole situation quite casually compared to the fact that he probably feels like a cornered, starved, and beaten dog. The Hunters, no matter how strong and talented they may appear, in addition to their advantages, fate has given them many disadvantages, which everyone knows terribly well. Each Hunter has a certain amount of energy at their disposal, like a tank full of sand. The more a Hunter opens the tank's tap by activating their abilities, the more and more sand flows out. And the less sand is left, the closer they are to their inevitable weakening, and that’s when they become defenseless and vulnerable, and above all, increasingly aggressive and uncontrollable. Then, when not a grain of sand is left, something in their body flips like a switch, as if the last strand of a thread stretched to the breaking point would’ve snapped. And because of this, in their final desperation, they fill with the beastly strength, which they can still squeeze out of themselves, and at that point, all hell breaks loose. Because then they lose all their sanity, their self is reduced to the level of an animal, and they go on a desperate rampage to find the one thing that can alleviate their suffering. And if they are lucky, there will be a Healer nearby who will risk their life to help them. But if not... then the horror story of the massacre of Colony No. 34 repeats itself, and they wipe out an entire sector with their bare hands.

And while previously, solving this wasn't one of my problems in the slightest, and if I were even a little bit pettier, I wouldn't consider it so now either, but the worry gnawing at my stomach pushes me to aid the Hunter. And this is at least as foreign of a feeling to me as the fact that I allow my mind to lull me into vain and naive dreams about being accepted by these people. Because even though my soul is softened by the kind words, the humorous and cheeky encouragement, praise, and advice, I know that I am an outsider. And even if Riley gets on my nerves and regularly tramples on my self-esteem, I still have to appreciate that he always willingly reminds me of this reality. But now I push these gloomy facts aside to the depths of my consciousness, and flopping down next to Garrick, I study every square centimeter of his body, which makes him stiffen with sufficient surprise.

"I can see that it's starting." I point my finger at the swollen vein on his neck that is outlined with a sickening grey color, and he involuntarily puts his hand there to cover it from my prying eyes, but it's already too late. "Why didn't you come earlier? Do you want to rearrange the base so badly? " I ask cynically, but I can't keep the reproach out of my voice or the seriousness from my face, which makes him feel ashamed for a moment. If not because of my scolding, then because of the truth of what I said. Although I suspect that Price, who slowly wanders next to us, and his disapproving aura, presumably similar to mine, also contribute to the sudden uncertainty of the Hunter sitting next to me.

"I wanted to give you time to get used to things." Garrick explains his voluntary diet, and as he looks at me, abandoning his previous sense of guilt, I try to swallow the tangled feelings coming through my dry throat. "It's not a coincidence that you've been hiding from this until now, and I didn't want you to feel like I’m trying to force you." He continues, and each of the words that leaves his mouth is filled with such empathy that it awakens completely unknown reactions in me. Because I never thought in my life, that I would receive this much compassion from a Hunter. "I know what it's like when you have to helplessly let shit happen around you."

My chest tightens as the unmistakable furrows of pain and bitterness appear on his face from his statement, and he doesn't need to explain any further for me to understand his message. It doesn't surprise me that he, and probably the rest of his buddies have a couple of painful experiences and memories under their belt, because in the circus that the fucking world has become after that damn virus appeared and turned most of the mammals on the planet into monsters, there is not one soul who has not suffered a loss. Yet a part of my heart aches, that I thought I had safely encased in the fancy packaging of selfishness and arrogance. I may be a pompous, insensitive, and manipulative bitch, but I'm not completely heartless. And when I see the shadows of the haunting past appear on the face of the man who, for the first time in many years, showed me a shred of kindness and honesty with his companions, I feel the visceral urge to help. The one way I know I can.

So, only taking strength from the cavalcade of emotions awakening in me, I extend my hand towards Garrick with a tired sigh, who is jolted out of his gloomy thoughts by this act and just stares at my extremity pressed in his face with an uncomprehending look.

"That’s very nice of you, but despite appearances, I'm tough. So give me your hand." I divert the topic, because I feel an insurmountable need to banish the lump that is tightening in my throat, which makes my soul want to become less harsh in a completely irrational way. And I can't let that happen, because it's not only part of my image, but calculating superiority and mockery are also the all-time and most loyal companions of my life.

After a second of hesitation, Garrick carefully slides his hand into mine, and as his cold fingers wrap around me, I close my eyes and send the first sparks of my energy into his body, which makes his grip jerk in surprise. Almost immediately before my mind’s eyes appear the intricate network of his veins, which run through the organs and muscles with an angry red glow. The power that makes the Hunters special and invincible smolders in his blood with a dull light, causing his entire body to shine like the neon lights of the night city under the touch of my energy. The hunger, that I know all too well, screams from his every cell, yet his clings to my power flowing into him like a hungry leech that has finally found a victim. The way his whole being pulls me towards him is demanding and greedy, and I have to control myself especially firmly not to yield to the violent tug from Garrick. I know he doesn't do it on purpose, because it's just an instinctive reaction to when a Hunter and a Healer meet so cordially. But this is precisely the interaction due to which a Healer, if they are unable to control their energy, can be sucked "dry" by a Hunter who does not want to take care of their playthings. However, now the many years of persistent practice seem to be paying off, and although the motivation behind it was obviously dubious and nefarious, but it provided me with useful skills nonetheless.

And when I direct my energy into him in the first steady wave, a relieved sigh leaves Garrick's mouth, and I just watch the man with a faint smile, whose skin is slowly but surely starting to reclaim its healthy warm glow again. And this stirs up some completely new kind of gentle joy in me, which makes my stomach tighten with this disgustingly tingling again and fills me with pride, as if I were a fucking little schoolgirl who was praised by the teacher. Therefore, I once again resort to the safe tool of distraction, and I turn to MacTavish, who is peacefully loitering a few steps away, studying us curiously.

"If you're already here, you can join in too. I've never been in a threesome, but this time I'm making an exception." I wave at him with my free hand, concentrating all the carefree confidence and relaxation into myself, because I'd rather get rid of the annoying thoughts buzzing in my head with work than give room to the speculations that my gray matter wants to engage in. I don't need to dwell on how damn good it feels to get an ounce of trust from someone. Because my isolated lifestyle has not become my comfort zone because I am an innocent victim of the injustice of the ugly world. But because I chose it. No matter how hard every fiber of my body screams to get out of it.

"Naughty girl!" MacTavish laughs, the cheerful ring of his deep voice filling the void of the gym. He approaches us with a playful grin, as he removes his fingerless glove from one hand to make room for me to do my little magic trick. He doesn't hesitate even for a minute to accept my outstretched hand, and as his hand confidently encloses around mine, I immediately get to work.

"Don't get used to it." I warn him with feigned seriousness, and I have to forcefully suppress the annoying warm tingle that seizes me when he rewards my deadly admonition with just a mischievous wink. And as his fingers gently squeeze me, encouraging me to start my little activity, I close my eyes once again, forcing myself to be calm, so that I can instead throw myself into meditation and devote all my nerves to the mapping of his body. He doesn't seem nearly as "drained" as Garrick, but the burning power coming from him only pulls me in a slightly less aggressive manner.

Silence settles into the vast emptiness of the room once again, and only the steady breathing of the four of us reflects off its walls, which gives the impression of an almost idyllic peace. And in this comfortable stillness, I can focus all my attention on the network of blood vessels behind my eyelids and the red glow pulsating evenly in them. My mind clears out during concentration, and for the first time in weeks, I feel that it is freed from constant analysis, gameplaying, and frustration. I never thought that regenerating Hunters could be such a peaceful process, because if I realized a little earlier that with a little luck, this could be a very pleasant arrangement, then it is possible that I would've protested a little bit less against it with tooth and nail. But it's useless to muse on that now.

"You seem quite professional, considering that you are healing for the first time." Garrick says suddenly, and I break out of my rather deep focus and look at him. Now that the dark veins have become paler and the damp sweat has disappeared from his skin, he has taken on a form fit for a healthy human again, and accordingly, he found the mood for chatter again. However, his observation is indeed apt.

"It's not the first time. Price was kind enough to be the sacrificial lamb." I remark, looking at the man leaning on one of the iron monsters called an exercise machine from the corners of my eyes, who just pulls an amused smile on his face. I probably wouldn't have stepped into the field of action so selflessly if Price hadn't already grounded my experience with a rather pleasant first encounter. Because I would accept the idea of regeneration with exactly the same reluctance as when he invited me to the solitude of his office after one of our training sessions and asked me to fill him up with my neat little skill. And of course, my first reaction was a mixture of suspicion and anger, but even I was shocked at how effectively he calmed my hostility with his words. Because when the Hunter assured me without a shadow of a doubt that there would be no consequences if I rejected him, and that I wouldn't have to fear being completely drained by him, for some reason my mistrust quickly disappeared. And when he firmly took my hand, even though he knew what I was capable of with my little paws, my wariness disappeared for good. Of course, I would never thank him openly for trusting me and helping me get through this experience with dignity. But I know he’s able to surmise my gratitude without me voicing it.

"What kind of captain would I be if I didn't sacrifice myself for the team?" Price asks, with a playful edge to his voice as he turns his gaze to our little trio. And I know that it was really because of his commitment to his team that he was the enthusiastic test subject of my first regeneration. It could have easily gone wrong, I could have even killed him to get out of here. But he still took the risk and did me the favor that makes me now so readily serve his cronies.

"I thought I could be the first." Answers MacTavish with a rather authentic dejection, but the mischievous glint in his bright blue eyes reveals that while it's possible that he's sad that he couldn't be the hero to try out what I'm capable of first, when I'm not killing or knocking others out, he still has a damn good time.

"I'm sorry, MacTavish, but you've missed out on this in many ways." I inform him without any trace of enthusiasm or seriousness, and I can't stop the sly little smile that moves to the corner of my mouth because of the man's rather humorous mood. Although our first meeting may not have been ideal, the fact is that, over the past few weeks I have strangely gotten used to the Hunter's style and personality. And despite the fact that I hate to admit it to myself, with his endearing personality he successfully calmed my desire for revenge fueled by his and Garrick's sadism.

"Now that you're inside me, I think you could call me Soap." The man with the mohawk offers, wording his statement with extreme equivocality, which causes a stifled chuckle to emerge from Garrick hanging on my other hand, and his chuckle is swiftly accompanied by a cocky grin soon after. "Then I wouldn't feel like you're just using me for my body."

"How generous." I shake my head with a tired sigh, but the careless smile continues to stay on my face, because no matter how indifferent and relaxed I may appear, his teasing really does amuse me. "But someone might get the idea that we're friends." I note simply, and although there is still a hint of sass in my voice, I express what the delusional hope living in the depths of my soul cannot admit. Because no matter how much it seems, based on the playful jabs and cheerfulness, as if everyone has forgotten why and how I got here, I still remind myself of this small detail. My obedience may have softened them up towards me, but I know that I am far from being an accepted member of their little group. Even if admitting it feels like getting hit in the stomach with a baseball bat.

"Why? Aren't we?" MacTavish asks suddenly, and as sincere confusion appears on his face, I quickly lose my calmness and confidence. I don't understand why do the worried wrinkles appear on his forehead, and why it seems as if the admission of the facts perceived by me would really affect him. Because if I try to analyze this now, I will only push my brain, which is already struggling to keep up with the events and emotions, into an even deeper hole.

"Good question." I answer in a rather aloof tone, trying to force a mask of indifference on myself, because I don't want them to think they can screw me over. Although I realistically know that their behavior towards me is not an accident, I don't think it is the result of my charming personality either. And common sense tells me, that the goodwill with which they have turned towards me so far is more just a manifestation of the behavior appropriate for civil and adult people. Because they also only benefit from it if they butter me up and I help them voluntarily. And there's nothing wrong with that, because everyone wins.

But when Garrick's fingers tighten meaningfully around my hand, drawing my attention to him, I am jolted out of my rather dark tangents. And as I take in the firm seriousness on his face, my stomach shrinks tensely. All the playful glints in his dark eyes are gone, and his features take on a hard edge, which makes me feel the inexplicable need to run off and never look back at this increasingly complicated situation.

"We wouldn't let you get this close if we didn't think so." He declares with such an emphasis in his voice that I know that there is no lie behind his words. From this realization, for a nerve-wracking moment, the doubt that grips me in an iron fist calms down, and as I turn my gaze to Price, who is still standing motionless, the hold of uncertainty eases. Because, when only an omniscient smile appears on the man's beard-framed mouth, and with a small nod of his head he gives his blessing to the message delivered by Garrick, I feel the tension return to my throat again. And I have to forcefully fight off the temptation of the prickling pain moving into my eyes, because the thought that these people really see me as a friend or companion makes me want to shed tears for the first time in years. And I'm definitely too old for whimpering like a child.

⃰*

I watch wordlessly as the barren landscape passes by us through the car window, and with every meter, the restless tension that dominates my muscles grows, which compels me to consider that maybe I should just throw myself out of the moving vehicle. Of course, I know that I still have a better chance of surviving in the company of Riley and the suffocating silence than in any corner of the yellow zone, but that doesn't stop my mind from devising an escape plan. Although I know that even with the utmost luck, I would end up in several pieces, if I had to venture into the remains and ashes of the destroyed cities where nature took domain again.

We've been enjoying the car ride without a word for half an hour now, and during this time I've found plenty of possible explanations for why the Hunter dares to take me outside the gates of the base. This morning, instead of starting our usual shooting and training, Riley just gave me a few short sentences to let me know that today's training was going to be a little different. And the fact that this idea filled me with suspicion from the first minute is a very subtle statement. But, when he guided me into the jeep in the middle of the yard, and without any further explanation started off with me towards the exit of the base and then towards the great freaking unknown, it fueled my speculations even more. Because my first, visceral thought was that now he is finally taking revenge on me for everything I have done against him in the past month and a half.

Since the excitement of our lunch together, Riley has once again fallen into a state of unapproachable coldness, and although I'm starting to get used to the invisible tension between the two of us, I now understand that his tranquility mostly meant the calm before the storm. Everything continued in its usual, but no less nerve-wracking course, and this sufficiently increased my uneasiness about the Hunter, because, in a hidden corner of my head, I waited almost perversely for when I would grind up the last crumbs of his patience. Of course, I guessed that, unlike his teammates, he was far from softening up in my direction, as I continued to make the complicated and gloomy situation between the two of us more and more tangled. I suspect, that this car ride will lead to the climax of our "relationship", and I know that whatever the man has in store for me, I won't be happy about it in the least.

At the edge of the field of my vision, the outline of a forest slowly but surely emerges, and as the vehicle gets closer to it, the trees adorned in lush, green foliage become sharper. And despite the fact that for the first time in my life, I am meeting this fascinating sight of nature up close and personal, my soul does not rejoice with joy, because my gaze almost immediately wanders to the darkness between the trees, from which the promise of thousand unknown dangers winks at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I only glance at the unbothered Hunter behind the wheel, and for the first time, the mask on his face really annoys me, because it only increases the tormenting grip of doubt in my stomach. And even though I'm slowly decoding what every small movement of his body may indicate, this does not give me enough information to put an end to the maddening assumptions swirling in my mind. And this packs every fiber in my body with tension, which makes my hands clench into fists with an almost painful force to distract me from the first waves of nausea that hit me. It would be an exaggeration to say that the man's aura hadn't filled me with fear so far, but the morbid masochism hiding inside me even enjoyed it a little when I managed to rile Riley up with my nice remarks. Now, however, there is no trace of the excited feeling that appeared in my distorted little soul under my provocations, but instead, deadly seriousness and awful foreboding settle in my head.

As we reach the thick line of trees, the car suddenly halts, and I reflexively reach for the dashboard to soften the violent jerk due to the unexpected stop. There is already a sarcastic remark on the tip of my tongue that I would use to address the man's driving style, but I rather keep it to myself, because even I feel that now is not the time for it. Instead, when Riley unbuckles himself and jumps out of the car without a comment, I mirror him and step outside of the vehicle, my eyes following his every move with keen attention. I had already been worried about how well-supplied he had set out on this trip, but now, when I take a closer look and realize that he arrived fully equipped with weapons and ammunition on his tactical vest, my mood becomes even more grim. Almost immediately, the rather dangerous idea flashes in my mind, that maybe an execution masquerading as an accident had brought me to this no man's land. And it wouldn't even be a far-fetched assumption, because there isn't a soul near or far who could tell how he ended my pathetic little life. But even if my chances are slim to none, I will have a word or two before I let that happen.

Standing next to the jeep, I slowly measure the endless line of trees rising above me, and as the cool breeze coming from inside the forest catches my hair tied in a ponytail, goosebumps prickle on the back of my neck. Although the rays of the spring sun are already burning my skin through the dark material of my turtleneck and thick pants, I still feel a frozen stiffness in all my limbs as I continue to scan the darkness in the depths of the woods. Only the chirping of the birds filters out from the multitude of tree trunks, but in my ears, their melodious songs are distorted into deafening cries, and the image flashes in my mind about an animal slowly emerging from one of the shadows, which is disfigured beyond recognition by the virus and only vaguely resembles of its original self. I can almost feel it on my skin, as the monster's hot breath reeks of decomposing flesh, even though the whole image has only manifested itself in my mind. Because I know that from the moment I left the safety and the proximity of the base and the colony, this nightmare became very real. And although the yellow zone is still mostly harmless, the devil does not sleep, and these beasts are even less so.

Behind me, I hear the trunk closing with a loud bang, and I vigorously keep my attention away from the man bypassing the car, because I don't want to give him the pleasure of making my insecurities obvious. If he brought me here to kill me, at least I'll kick the bucket fighting and with my pride intact.

"How kind of you to bring me on a trip." I note, forcing lightness into my voice, and when there is no response to my comment, I turn my head towards him, steeling my face and conjuring superiority on my features. A large black backpack lands on the hood of the jeep with a dull thump, and I only raise one eyebrow to look into the Hunter's eyes that flash from the darkness of the mask. "You prepared for a picnic?" I inquire, gesturing towards the bag with my hand, and now every nerve fiber of mine is working to solve the mystery of our adventure today, because the ambiguity of the situation does not please me in the least.

"We came so you can prove yourself." Riley finally speaks for the first time since we headed out, and I furrow my brows with sincere confusion, because this one sentence caused complete mayhem among the hypotheses I had lined up so far.

"What do I have to prove here?" I ask the first logical question that pops into my mind, and almost immediately I regret my curiosity, as the man opens the bag and pulls out a pistol similar to the ones we've been playing with during our practice so far. The metal of the weapon gleams silvery under the rays of sunlight, and all my limbs instinctively stiffen as my gaze wanders from his hand back to the man's dark eyes. "If you want to kill me, I recommend aiming for the head. I recover quickly otherwise." I advise him, and all my previous cheerfulness disappears, because I realize that today's outing will most certainly not end in a way that I will be satisfied with in any shape or form. However, it gives me at least some joy that even if he wants to eliminate me, he does it in a cowardly way. Up until now, he could have struck me at any time, yet he wants to get over with this while hiding from responsibility, and he prefers to settle the matter by pretending that it was an unfortunate accident.

But my incomprehension only increases as he puts the pistol on the hood and takes out a ridiculously small backpack and a communicator from the bag, which he slowly and precisely lines up next to each other. I suddenly dismiss the possibility of open bloodshed, because the signs point more to him letting me go and leaving the dirty work to the mutants. Why the hell did he put a whole scout pack together for me?

"This forest is a Hunter training site. Those who survive and reach the safe house on the other side can enter F-class." He begins his little lecture, and I am immediately swept away by the stomach-turning tension again, because I slowly but surely start to understand what kind of fun the man planned for me. "You have until sunset to get through. You can take this equipment with you. The communicator has a map of the forest on it." He motions with his head to the small travel package he has prepared for me, and he does it all with such ease, as if he had not just handed out my death sentence neatly and to the point. Because I'm well informed enough to assess what he means by the title Hunter training site, and by that I know this forest is full of traps at best, and at worst a fun-loving I.M.L. or two also lurks in it. It is a well-known fact that the preparation of Hunters, and especially the tests required for class advancement, are not exactly famous for being a walk in a park. And it doesn't fool me in the slightest that this forest takes the hapless surviving idiot to the entrance of the lowest class.

"How exciting." I respond to him nonchalantly, and now I am completely overwhelmed by curiosity as to what he wants me to prove with this task. It occurs to me, that he would like to receive feedback on the quality of the training I have received so far in a very radical way, but I am not that naive. I know that this is a rather personal matter, and he wants to put an end to the animosity he has been feeling towards me from the very beginning. "You could motivate me a little. What if I win?" I quiz him, and I want him to believe that I am confident enough to know that this story cannot end badly. And my pride, as well as my instinct for survival, really tries to convey this to me.

"Then you can stay in the unit." He states, and as he folds his hands in front of him and looks down at me leaning against the side of the jeep, his gaze suggests that this unlikely development should be the least of my problems. Because he mostly expects me to fail miserably, which we both know can be quite deadly. And the knowledge, that he really believes that he will get rid of me so easily awakens a mixture of anger and shame in me. There can be no doubt that he now wants to make amends for all my mean tricks against him, and he doesn't care how dirty he has to get his hands in the process. And it seems that he is so calculating and cold that he is willing to potentially strip his team of its new Healer, if he can teach me a lesson with it.

"Careful, I might end up hunting you down." I raise my head defiantly, and I know that at this point I have nothing to lose. Even then, if I continue to provoke him, my fate has already been sealed, and in cunning, yet at the same time spineless way, he entrusts my pathetic life to the wilderness and its inherent dangers. And it incites immeasurable rage in me that, in light of the events that unfolded until now, he doesn't even respect me enough to take my life with his own hands.

"If you can touch me even with a finger, then I'll become the fuckin' fairy godmother and grant you a wish." He offers, and for the first time, there is an elusive lightness in his deep voice, which gives him the aura of an actual human being for a moment, and could lull anyone into the false impression that this whole scenario is just a harmless, fleeting moment between two friends. But since I am well aware of the distance between the two of us, I can easily interpret the essence of what he is saying, and understand that he considers this possibility too improbable even for a joke. And the self-esteem that resides inside me pumps a burning poison through my veins, and suddenly I get the insatiable need to step over the dangerous reality of the situation, and prove how fucking wrong he is if he thinks that I will walk into that damn forest with the hopeless calm of an underdog.

"Don't forget your word." I bite back, and the nasty smile that crosses my lips is filled with the frustration I feel towards him and this shitshow. Because I will pass this fucking test even if it is the last thing I do in my life, so I can debunk his confident ideas and shove his own words into his face in the end.

It seems that he is not very impressed by my threat, and instead of rewarding my statement with an answer, he throws the communicator and the gun into the small backpack resting on the hood, then grabs my equipment and closes the distance between us with a few firm steps. He hands me the package, and I tear the bag out of his hands with more vehemence than necessary, and slip my hands through its straps to put the thing on my back. He watches silently as I fasten the safety belts around my chest, and I get the feeling, seeing his expectant gaze, that he still wants to tell me a very important piece of information.

"If you don't reach the safe house by sunset, you've failed." He explains to me the completely self-explanatory fact, and I am much more interested in what kind of retribution he cooked up for me if I'm unable to pass his little test. There are a thousand and one ways to fail, and I doubt the only punishment for me is to die by a trap or a monster. I know that, despite appearances, he knows much more creative ways to show me what it's like to regret being alive.

"Why, what will happen if I fail?" I ask him the very important question, to which whatever answer he gives, it will certainly give me enough motivation to fight my way through the impossible challenge in front of me, even if I have to carry my guts in my own hands until the end. And I have to consciously stop myself from backing away when, with one last step, he comes almost dangerously close to me and towers over me, and as I raise my chin and our gaze meet, his brown eyes fill with that sharpness that I know all too well.

"If you fail, I'll head back at sunset and leave you here." He says simply, and I'm honestly shocked at how harmless the punishment he imposed on me seems, since every other alternative I can think of sounds much crueler. But as his eyes narrow and an unmistakable glint of contempt appears in them, I already know I can't get away with just that. "And then you can take your shit and run off."

"Why?" The question bursts out of me before I can stop it, because an unfamiliar feeling wells in me, and I'm overcome with indignation by what he is trying to suggest to me. I know that I should be overjoyed at the fact that he offers me the opportunity to do what I originally wanted to achieve on a silver platter, yet a bitter taste moves in my mouth at his words. Because for some time now, the thought of my escape has been sitting in my mind less and less, although I haven't fully explained the reason behind it either.

"I know you've been planning this since you came here. I'll give you the chance to run away." He announces this with such noble simplicity that for a moment it hides the caustic disdain behind his implication. And the feeling that is born in my chest from his speech shouldn't have to force the air out of my lungs. Because it would be futile to deny that he's right, and yet he stirs up a deep ire in me as I hear my own motivation echo back from his mouth. "You have no place among us if you're not able to stay of your own accord." He almost spits at me, and his words hit the target with such force, as if he had at least punched me in the stomach. My jaw clamps painfully as anger takes over my features and puts a murderous glint in my bright eyes. "There is no point in keepin' someone with us who only poses an unnecessary risk."

"Fuck. You." I throw my classy answer at him through clenched teeth, because he stepped way too deep into my soul with his little remark, that I feel the need to rearrange his face with my fist. But I know that it would be utterly unnecessary for me to get upset even more than this, because I would only confirm that it was a good decision to bring me here into the fucking nowhere two steps behind the god's back.

I do not gift him with any further reaction to address his farewell, because I am afraid that not a single word would come to the tip of my tongue that could sufficiently express the hatred surfacing in me, which suddenly takes over my mind. And I know that I shouldn't get worked up about what he said, because he correctly assumed the ulterior motive that had been working in me during my stay so far. But still, as I set off with determined steps, without giving him a single glance, into the unknown behind the trees stretching to the sky, I feel a burning tension moving into my throat, which feels like I've swallowed shards of glass. And now, for the first time, I'm happy as the last lingering image of safety steadily disappears behind me, because I can still feel the Hunter's gaze burning my back. And within a short period of time, my true feelings threaten to surface for the second time due to the relentless pain settling into my stomach. But now it's not some warm and puzzling emotion, but helpless anger and hurt that wants to burst out of me so eagerly.

And as I march forward, ad I get slowly swallowed by the depth of undisturbed nature, the determination is born in my mind, that no matter how, no matter at what cost, I will be there at the safe house by sunset and survive this fucking ordeal. Because there's no way I'm letting Riley win.

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

𓅨 Fortuna: Chapter Four

Fortuna: Born with what seemed to be the worst luck in the world, you have managed to get into, and out of, life-threatening situations all your life. That is until the plague of 1514. You had escaped Mother Death countless times before, but not this time. Mother Death has taken a liking to you, and with your kindling relationship, you become that which historians whisper about. You are the great Fortuna, Goddess Incarnate of luck, and ruler over fortune and fate. No one could have anticipated what your ties with Death would bring you: Pain. Torture. Death. Love.

Warnings: Language, Gore Description, Blood, Wounds, Painful Wound Care.

To Note: Morpheus/Dream x ImmortalSpanish!Reader, Reader’s nickname is Fortuna. Fortuna is the Roman Goddess of personified luck and ruler over fortune and fate.

Word Count: ~2.8k

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In the following days since your capture, you and Dream had remained in peaceful silence. Your captor, Roderick Burgess, had yet to venture back into the basement to continue his demands, and the guards that watched you constantly never spoke to you. They never slept, either, constantly popping pills from these little brown bottles. You had asked Dream about them, and the lack of sleep, and he had given you a clear answer: “I am the King of Dreams and Nightmares, the moment one falls asleep in my presence, they are at my mercy.” But that power also came with a drawback, the binding circle beneath the hanging glass cage repressed much of Dream’s power. If you were going to get a chance to escape, someone had to break it. That likelihood wasn’t going to come soon, but eventually, eventually, someone would make a mistake. You just had one problem: it was getting cold. 

You forced yourself not to shiver against the glass you were slumped against. The cold air of the basement nipped at your skin and made goosebumps pickle your skin. Your only saving grace was Dream’s body heat but considering that you hardly knew the Endless, you were not going to push your luck past that which he had already granted you. Your leg. Your injured leg had not been moved since you woke up, for good reasons too. The broken and bloody flesh pulsated with the beat your heart made and occasionally oozed in place. You knew that it was infected, and your skin did not look good. But what could you do trapped in your glass prison? The only thing you had going for you was that Dream had a steady grasp and stopped your trembles from causing you more discomfort. 

In the quiet basement, filled with the ticking of the clock that sat on the desk of the guards, you counted the number of stones on the far wall for what felt like the hundredth time. How many were you at? 100? 200? You had lost count, better start again, it wasn’t like you had anything to do. Just as your eyes dropped back to the rock you always started with, there was a grating of metal on metal. You frowned, it wasn’t time for a guard change yet, they weren’t even halfway through. Rolling your head to the left, you eyed the little draw bridge as Roderick Burgess came striding in with a few more men. What did the pathetic old man want this time? You let out a small huff and went back to counting stones. You hardly felt inclined to entertain the man. Certainly when you felt so terrible. 

“Are you feeling more agreeable now? Hmm?” You already hated the sound of his voice. So haughty and arrogant. Dream was silent as always, not even giving him the honor of hearing his beautiful voice. No, that voice was only for your ears it seemed. Deafening silence filled the room. “Still just as stubborn then… well what about you Fortuna.” Your eyes rolled to stare at Burgess. His eyes glittered with greed and egocentrism. “Well? What do you have to say, Goddess Incarnate.” 

“Nunca,” (Never.) You stated coldly, enjoying the way his eyes tightened in confusion and anger. He slammed his cane on the cold floor. 

“I do not speak Spanish wretch! I know you speak English tongue, you are on English soil and you will do so.” 

“Que te folle un pez,” (Get fucked by a fish.) You spat back, enunciating your statement. One of the guards near him started turning red in the face. Clearly, he knew enough about your native tongue to understand the message you were conveying. Burgess snarled at you. 

“Well?” He growled. “What did she say!?” The man who had understood your words looked ill for a moment and coughed. 

“Well, sir, what she said was no compliment…” Clearly. Burgess didn’t like the fact that he wasn’t translating what you had said. His anger and irritation churned behind his eyes. You smirked at him, enjoying getting in a jab at the human. 

“Tell me, I will not ask again.” Burgess ground out, his eyes tightening. The guard looked like he wanted to die but slowly opened his mouth. 

“It— uh, it means—“ Burgess spun around to glare at him. “Sir— really, you don’t—“

“Spit it out!” 

“It means ‘I hope you get fucked by a fish���!” The man all but squealed, his face now the color of the tomatoes your mother use to grow. You felt like laughing, no, you did. Everyone in the room froze your muffled laughter the only sound in the decrepit basement. You basked at the moment with glee and smugness, you had caught them unawares. Burgess finally turned back around, his eyes glittering with unbridled rage. You stared back, undaunted by his gaze. 

“So you’ve the mouth of a whore,” He snorted in disgust, eyeing you like you were the very thing he had called you. “And to think the Spaniards hold you in such high regard.” He sneered at you. “Very well, we shall see how you like solitude, Fortuna. For I will not let you out until you agree to my wishes.” You kept your face cool and passive for you had no desire to ever give in to his demands, nor did you want to ever give him the satisfaction of knowing that confinement terrified you. Burgess turned around and strode away, leaving you and Dream to once again sit in peace and quiet. You went back to counting stones. 

Morpheus stared intently at your ankle, his eyes training on the puffy flesh. Then to the darkened bits of your skin where death had taken shelter. While the wound on your cheek was healing nicely, your ankle was an entirely different story. Streaks of discolored skin spread out like a sunburst, indicating that infection had settled in and was spreading. What was worse, the skin that you had torn and fought against while chained had darkened to black. Gangrene was what the humans called it, death of body tissue. If it was not addressed it would only spread. You were already running a fever and Morpheus knew that without intervention, you would only get worse. 

It was a gamble whether Burgess would help you. You would simply be revived if you died of the infection, but the human did not know what would happen if the gangrene spread and your body entirely broke down. You could become useless if that happened and Burgess could not have that, so he fetched a doctor to take care of your ailing limb. Your treatment required preparation, he needed to gather his disciples and arrange extra guards to hold you. You would surely be a hellcat the moment you were brought out of the cage, infection or not. The day finally came and you were staring outside your glass cage with a glassy-eyed look, your mind trying to repress the great aches and pains you felt in your body. The iron gates creaked open and Burgess led the guards, his disciples, and the doctor into the chamber, his eyes set on your shivering and lethargic body. 

While the doctor used a nearby table to spread out his medical and surgical supplies, the disciples gathered in a circle around the summoning circle. Burgess approached the glass cage, directing the extra guards to the place where the cage opened. 

“There, you will grab her from there, and do not break the summoning circle.” He called strictly, his eyes shrewdly examining you. You didn’t appear to have the energy to glare back at him, or even spare him a glare in the first place. The guards gave you a look, their eyes passing over your naked skin and eyeing the dried blood that still clung to your skin long after your neck had healed. Morpheus eyed those that gathered in a circle, an unsettling feeling emerging within his body. They would most likely use magic to hold him at bay while you were retrieved. Morpheus’s guess was correct because the hooded men and women started chanting and he felt oppression weigh down on his shoulders. The guards made fast work of removing the panel of glass and roughly grabbing your limbs, yanking you from the confines of your prison. Morpheus’s eyes never once left your body as you groaned in pain at the movement and handling. 

The moment you seemed to realize that you were no longer confined in the glass cage, your struggles started. You jerked your arms around, nailing one of the men in the face with your elbow. He shouted as blood dripped from his nose. You then kicked another in the shoulder. It was a struggle as you thrashed in their hold, and your struggles only increased when you saw the doctor laying out several instruments, a scalpel included. You could only think of the worst possibilities of why you were being dragged out and towards the doctor, your fever-addled brain unable to consider that he was there to help you. You started yowling like an angry cat, lashing out with your nails, scratching, clawing, you even tried to sink your teeth into an arm or two. Hellcat indeed, you were not going down without taking one of them with you. Your struggles continued until you were dropped onto a frosty metal table and your limbs held down. 

Gasping from the cold that jolted your body, you felt your pained ankle get grasped and pressed down to the table by hands on your shin. You tried to kick with your other leg, but hands were soon grabbing that limb as well. A slew of slurred curses was quick to leave your pale lips. “La Madre que te Parió!” (The mother that gave birth to you.) You shouted. “Quítame las manos de encima, Serpiente!”(Take your hands off me, snake!)

“Shut the wretch up!” Burgess snarled, irate with your endless jibbers in Spanish that he didn’t understand. For a useless little speck of a thing, you sure had the hellfire of even the strongest of English lasses. As hands grappled to get your writhing body under control, your eyes strained to stare Burgess down with the fires of your Spanish heritage. 

“El burro sabe más que tú,” (Donkeys know more than you.)You hissed at him as a heavy leather belt was shoved between your teeth. Your words were now garbled but still, you continued barking curses at them and jerking against the hands holding you down. You were huffing and puffing, your energy draining quickly from your infection-riddled body. The moment gloved hands started poking around your ankle you yelped in pain, sharply jerking against the hands holding you down. The doctor held your puffy ankle tightly, and started flushing your infected wound with an antiseptic wash. Just from the rush of liquid across your raw skin, you felt blistering pain run up your leg. 

You started yanking harder on your ankle, tears rapidly burning their way into your eyes. Your teeth bit into the leather in your mouth with almost painful pressure. There was a brief moment of relief as the doctor drew back to switch out instruments. You took to glaring at the man closest to you. There was a sharp pinch of pain near the base of your ankle and you squawked. Then the blistering pain started to dull around the circumference of your ankle. You nearly started relaxing. Nearly. What you couldn’t see was that the doctor had picked up a scalped and examined the gangrenous skin flaps that had turned brittle. Unfortunately, he was going to have to cut away all of the dead and diseased tissue from your flesh so the gangrene didn’t spread. The doctor eyed the guards holding you down. 

“Better tighten your grip, lads, this’ll get rough.” The doctor spoke. The guards tightened their grip, expecting more violent thrashing from you. The scalpel descended towards your flesh and at the first cut, a piercing shriek echoed in the basement making every single man who heard it, flinch. Even Burgess flinched at the scream of agony. Dream, however, clenched his fists so hard that crimson started dripping from his closed fists. His eyes were brilliant mercury, glowing with the embers of a nova. The doctor, however, had been expecting your cry of pain and continued his work of cutting away the disease and dead flesh. You were writhing in the guards' hands, doing everything you could to pull away from the pain the doctor was inflicting. He was quick but thorough on his cuts, making sure that the pain he was causing you wasn’t for naught. Everyone sighed with relief when your muffled cries went silent and your body fell limp. 

Methodically working, the doctor worked to remove all of the gangrenous flesh from your leg and gave you several Salvarsan injections around your freshly cut skin, a new drug that proved to be a powerful healer of syphilis and other infections. It would certainly rid you of any lasting disease. Pleased that your ankle had been properly treated, the doctor wrapped it up with surgical dressing and gauze before packing away his supplies. 

“I have done everything I can, the Salvarsan will destroy the rest of the infection.” The doctor announced, looking at Burgess over his spectacles. “You will see improvement in her condition within the week, but the flesh wound will need several months to heal under proper conditions, including not overbearing the limb.” Burgess huffed. 

“She won’t be going anywhere, anytime soon… that is until she is more agreeable,” Burgess explained, his eyes then coldly regarded your still body. “Put her back, lord knows the trouble she’ll cause if she wakes up. Troublesome hellcat.” The guards picked up your dead weight and carried you back to the glass cage as the disciples started chanting again. Morpheus was once again oppressed and severely weakened as he watched them open the glass cage and shove your body back in. You ended up sprawled across Morpheus’s lap, your head lolling against the curved glass. Even with you unconscious, Morpheus could still feel your tremors and shakes. He remained in his drained state long after the basement was cleared and the doctor left. The guards had returned to the morning's paper, ignoring you and him once more. It was then Morpheus finally moved. 

He first gathered your upper body close to his chest, cradling you against himself to give you a more comfortable position. Certainly, you were deserving of such after being put through such pain, your screams alone would haunt him. Then Morpheus brushed his hand along your injured leg, glaring at the wrapped portion of your ankle. Your wound might not kill you, but you would be left with immortal scars of the memory. Morpheus had to concentrate on your even breathing to calm himself down from the rage that churned like a violent tornado within himself. Even though you were a firecracker and defiant, you were still, at the end of the day, a little human battling against the monstrosity of men. You were a survivor, but Morpheus worried that at some point, you might break. 

You had a pounding headache upon rousing from an unconscious stupor. Your head ached in the worst way, but it wasn’t as unbearable as the raw sharpness that wrapped around your injured ankle and dug into your flesh like razor wire. An agonized moan bubbled in the back of your throat as your entire body tensed for a few moments. Then you shivered and sunk closer to the warmth enveloping your left side. You hadn’t been this warm since your capture. Ever so slowly, your eyes cracked open to see a fuzzy wall of pale skin. You blinked in confusion, then realized your arms were pressed against warm skin. No, your entire body, was pressed against warm skin that provided the head your own begged for. It was at that point you choked on a gasp in realization. You were cradled in Dream’s arms, sitting in his lap! Despite the lethargy in your body, you attempted to pull away. Your ankle screeched at your movement and your bit down on your lip to stop the scream that wanted to crawl out of your mouth. 

Warm hands were immediately stopping your movement. You whimpered into Morpheus’s neck, trying to breathe through the pain your sudden movement had caused you. Your right hand pressed into his chest, your back ridged from the electricity spiking up your spine. You almost howled but silenced the noise by sinking your teeth deep into your lip, smothering the noise. A hand stoked your shoulder soothingly and you sputtered, cursing softly. You didn’t need verbal words to know that Dream wanted you to stay put. So that’s what you did. 

Date Published: 11/20/22

Last Edit: 11/20/22

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[anachronisticmech]

Please tell me about your ocs I’d love to hear <3

YAY okay so my first oc is Marius (they/them or he/she, I haven’t decided yet. White[?], intersex polyam aroace, seems to be in their 40s, started off as a sona but is still a self insert), then we have Bonnie (she/her, aboriginal, bi polyam trans woman/sistergirl, seems to be in her 40s), and finally Edward (he/him, Indian and Dutch, polyam bi trans man, seems to be in his 40s)! Relationship wise, Marius is in a qpr with Bonnie and Edward, who are married.

Content warning for like violence and minor descriptions of gore and cannibalism and unhealthy relationships and (mcd) death and corpses!

So Marius is an Angel sent to earth (specifically Australia because hell yeah represent) to help the survivors of a major world wide nuclear destruction or attack. Marius soon learns that most survivors are vampires, who feel the affects of the radiation much slower. Marius eventually gets eaten and gutted and killed by a group of vampires before being picked up by another group of vampires and taken to this shelter/institution where Bonnie and Edward work together to bring Marius back to life.

Also worth mentioning that Marius had known and helped Bonnie back when she was still alive/not a vampire with like science shit and also before bonnie dug up Edward and brought him back to life (Bonnie did this in the 1970s and Edward had died in the 1940s)

So Marius is brought back wrong (used to be really happy and cheerful and shit but is now really angry and aggressive but still loving. I’m pushing all my aggression and possible npd/bpd traits into them it’s great) and is now an atypical vampire (since they were just given vampire body parts that corrupted the rest of their body instead of being sired)

Marius struggles with like religious guilt and shit as well as new feeling of decay

At this point I should also share the vampires in my worlds like idk shit.

Vampirism is more of a chronic illness. Most vampires are not sired, and are born with vampirism. Once they die of the symptoms (usually in their 40s-60s) they are now a vampire. Vampires are constantly going through the human decaying process at a slower rate to normal corpses, and don’t feel affects of other illnesses the same or at all. Every month or so they have to bury themselves in the ground to restart the decaying process and get their body back in shape. It can take longer depending on how far into the decaying process their were. Also they have to do this if they are badly injured. They will fully decay and not be able to be brought back (unless I guess bonnie the mad scientist she is brings them back) if they don’t bury themselves.

So anyways Marius doesn’t know how to show their love for Bonnie and Edward, and is also being visited by their Angel spouse (don’t know anything about them yet) so they are just having a rough time with those emotions and also just vampiric stuff. So marius thinks the best way to show their love is to cannibalise Bonnie and Edward. Keep in mind marius thinks this is a human kind of thing to do. This relationship actively hurts everyone involved but they do love each other very much so yay we love toxic yuri/yaoi 💪💪💪

There’s some stuff with the ending where basically marius’ Angel spouse comes and is upset and they argue about marius not loving them anymore and marius cannibalises them but that just kills them and then heaven is sent down to take marius back and punish them so they get Bonnie to kill them and never bury them again it’s pretty wild

FUCK okay edit I forgot to mention that the shelter/institute is a shelter for any vampire who wants to stay and for vampires to research the nuclear shit around them as well as general vampirism shit. Bonnie is just the token mad scientist but Edward is the leading librarian as well as Bonnie’s lab assistant. Bonnie is girlboss and Edward is loser husband <333

I have a wip drawing I can show! No ID or alt because I’m very low on spoons from all this typing and calling people earlier but here they are :3

I also have an oc sideblog I don’t use much @mariustheangel

OKAY SECOND EDIT here is my playlist for all the characters

[ko-fanatic]

Oh My Savage Empire: Chapter one

Rating: Mature Pairing: Rome x Wales Characters: Wales, Rome, England Content warnings: Grooming, Ephebophilia, Blood and Gore, Violent Intrusive Thoughts, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Strained Family Dynamics Summary: Wales throughout the millennia learns one thing: He is beautiful. Over, and over, and over again. It starts with Rome, and gets volleyed from country to country until it all fizzles out once again. He just wants peace. AO3 link (inc. authors note, with explanation of historical references)

It was cold.

Obviously, Rhydian thought to himself, the rain beating down on his face as he looked up at the black and grey sky. The ground beneath him was reduced to mud, staining the bright hue of his trousers and smearing onto his many bracelets and torc, hiding the shine of that brilliant gold in the washed out colours. The only brightness left on him was the woad, swirling in beautiful patterns around his torso and face, but the darkness obscured even that.

His hand gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, strength gone, but he valiantly scrounged whatever he could to just keep holding on. Those bastards could be back any moment, and he couldn’t allow himself to be captured. Not like this. The heavy rise and fall of his chest barely bothered him, compared to the reason why he was laying alone in the mud in the first place. 

Gingerly, he pressed his dirty hand to his abdomen, feeling the silky guts that splayed haphazardly from the deep slash through his body. If they weren’t attached to him, he wouldn’t be able to discern them from the pig intestines he’d removed from a carcass just this morning. 

They’d eaten well, preparing to fight that man once more, washing their hair and adorning themselves as they would. They’d prayed and danced the night before, fires roaring and the blood of the sheep on the altar. He’d never see the Dryad of Death with his own eyes, being what he was, but he still celebrated with his fellow tribesmen. 

Where were they now? The slice through him had been clean and deep, and he’d been very literally floored since then. All he could hear was the yelling and clashing of swords, unable to discern victor or vanquished. He couldn’t even sit up to see how the din had silenced. 

He lay there for what might have been minutes, or what might have been hours. All he knew was the sun didn’t shine and the rain didn’t stop, but the rumble of thunder and flashes of lightning came eventually. Great flashes streaked through the oppressive, black clouds; almost as if a warning. 

Footsteps approached at the apex of the storm, and Rhydian couldn’t do anything but still himself further. He didn’t dare draw breath, he kept his eyes open and skyward, the only thing he allowed himself to do was grip his sword tightly. 

Playing dead. How noble.

Those footsteps were not those of a man, however. They were too light. He wouldn’t call them hesitant by any means, but it wasn’t the resilient marching he’d come to know. All of this, preparing him for something unexpected. 

A pudgy hand upon his still youth-bare cheek, turning his head to the side to spy a child. Rhydian’s hair was fair but held a strawberry tint to it, whereas this child’s was nearly yellow as straw. Held the same texture, by the looks of things, as it stuck out and spiked in all directions. The child’s eyes were a dark green and his thick brows pinched, lips drawn in a line far too weathered for someone of his age. 

Rhydian could understand. Despite seeing many, many harvests, he looked barely older than fourteen, still unable to even grow stubble and holding a petite frame. He wasn’t a God by any means, and his tribesmen knew, but he also wasn’t mortal. He made up for this in leaps and bounds, using his unusual strength and resilience for the benefit of those around him - hunting, gathering, holding everything he could together. 

How many harvests had this child seen?

“You alright?” The little thing asked plainly, “I know you’re alive.”

Shit. 

“‘M fine…” He breathed out, so softly, “But… must be quiet… Or he’ll come back…”

“Who?” The child frowned, head tilted to the side like a young wolf pup. He wondered if the other had seen the beast before, whether he’d been hurt by him too, whether this tiny creature had known death for a mere moment before starting once more, like waking from a nightmare.

He hoped he hadn’t. That boy was too young to know the staccato of a heart that stilled then was unnaturally compelled to beat once more.

“The monster… dressed in shining silver…” He ground out, “The one… with the golden sword…”

“The only sword I see is yours,” The boy shrugged, eyes drifting to the glowing runes of his sword - his Caledfwlch, “It’s very pretty.”

Rhydian decided to drop it there, he was simply too exhausted to continue that line of questioning. He felt his sword slip back into the small area of the spirit world it went to when he no longer could hold it, and had no ability to pull it back. The child was the only one there now, and he doubted he’d be able to sit up in this state - much less swing and slice and stab as he needed to.

“What is your name, bach?” He asked the boy, forcing his eyelids to stop their fluttering. To keep his mind rooted. After all, why was there a small child in the wake of a battlefield? 

“Albion, but people call me Arthur sometimes,” The child stated plainly, “What’s yours?”

“My people call me Rhydian,” He smiled frailly, the cold of his skin seeming to warm at the memory of fires and laughter, “I have no other name than that.”

Albion hummed, deciding to flop down onto his bottom rather than stay where he was on his hands and knees. Strangely, Rhydian didn’t even feel the cold anymore, his hands, feet and even his nose numb. 

The silence was awkward for a few moments, breaths were hard for him to draw in now, and he couldn’t even think of the first thing to say. Perhaps, he should tell the child to go, to not allow such a young thing to see the (albeit temporary) death of a soldier. Although, in the same line of thought, he’d already seen his exposed intestines strewn over his thighs like an odd dress of sorts. Perhaps he was young enough to think he was merely sleeping. 

“I like your trousers,” Albion stated plainly, after the silence had stretched further and he’d obviously tired of it, “I’ve never seen linen so bright. I like yellow, too.”

What an odd thing to choose to talk about, really. He was fading fast, and here this child was, talking about the apparently exquisite colour of his trousers. He could laugh, if he could catch his breath. 

“Thank… you, bach…” 

Valiantly fought or no, his eyes slipped shut, unable to be propped open once again. His vision was blurred and dark around the edges, anyway, but he knew it was close to finished now. 

Finished? No, not really. Just this small chapter. This one fight. This one breath.

Then, as always, he’d startle into life once more, and it would all begin again.

He was so, so tired.

“Mr Rome! Mr Rome!” Albion screamed, footsteps scampering off, and didn’t he feel the fool?

Of course, that monster sent a small thing like that to disarm him. He hoped that he’d rot for all the things he’d done to him. Him and his countrymen. His…

“C… Combrogi…” He barely whispered on his last breath.

Then all faded to black.

***

He startled awake during sunset. 

The rain had left, the thunder and lightning too, leaving a few scant, fluffy clouds about the pink hued sky. It was cold still, but he was no longer soaked to the skin and caked in mud. 

His gaze flew to his torso, meeting corded, cat-gut stitching holding his writhing entrails in place once more. He swore he could still feel them squirming, like maggots under a sheepskin, but even that painful discomfort was overshadowed by his dream. 

Rhydian had dreamed of fire, fast and all consuming, igniting the ground beneath him before the flames licked onto his clothes. The soot and ash clouded the sky, and nothing could be seen beyond the thick smog - no sunlight, no birds, nothing. Trees stood as charcoaled corpses in the distance, bare and black, and there he was. Albion. In the thick of it all with a smile much cruller than any mortal child could ever possess. 

He’d screamed, then he was awake. 

He drew a deep breath, taking a moment to observe his surroundings and generally take stock of himself. 

He was still on the floor, though he could raise his head. His hands were bound behind his back - by ropes, not the metal he’d seen these men carry before - arms feeling crushed beneath him from the hours he’d spent in the same position. His fingers tingled as he moved them, blood unable to find its way to the tips, and everything just felt sore.

Not even a few hours of mortal death could give him the respite he needed. 

He’d been set next to the campfire to dry off, the mud and woad seemingly wiped from his skin and hair; not to mention he was no longer in his brightly coloured trousers. A plain tunic covered his lap, although it seemed to have slipped from his shoulders during his “sleep”. He wasn’t too concerned by this. His tribesmen mostly fought shirtless with trousers, but barely ten harvests before he would’ve been fighting completely bare, bar his jewellery, of course -

His jewellery.

Beyond the centurions going about their business, beyond horses and whatever else being either pulled or led around the camp, was him. Albion. Those pudgy hands that turned his face to see him fiddled with one of his bracelets, his torc sitting in the trickster’s lap as he turned the gold over and over. 

Those horrifically wide eyes almost reflected the gleam of the metal, even at their distance, and he couldn’t keep calm another minute.

“GIVE THAT BACK, YOU VIPER!” He yelled, the other men surrounding him seemed to jump out of their skins as he pulled himself to sitting, guts screaming at the tension put on them, “YOU’D ROB THE DEAD?!”

Albion stilled, bracelet slipping from his grasp as he ran his gaze over Rhydian’s snarl, and the dangerous narrowness of his eyes. A few soldiers ran from it, breaking ranks in the unexpected interruption of their evening downtime, but Albion was caught in the epicentre of the former corpse’s menacing glare.

One of his tribesmen once said it felt like burning alive, to be caught in his fury. He’d made an effort to circumvent his anger since then - around them.

“But… But you weren’t…” The child stuttered, lip wobbling, obviously taken off-guard by the seemingly sudden change in Rhydian’s temperament, but he had little sympathy. Prophetic dreams he can overlook for the moment, but that thing had to steal from the dead to top it all.

“Give them back,” He growled lowly, chest bowed towards the ground, sharp canines bared as if daring Albion to refuse him. He’d gotten a foot underneath himself, telling the boy that he could launch at him anytime he wished - bound or not. 

Not a word was uttered by those around them, but Rhydian didn’t dare break eye contact. In the back of his mind, he could perhaps recognise that he was acting more wolf than human, but this… This had gotten every hair at the nape of his neck to stay on end. Every hackle to raise. His heart beat in his ears, and everything was at a standstill.

That is, until a quiet voice on the breeze became louder with the approaching march of footsteps.

“... Golden hair and garb, and such resplendent colours on their cloaks and trousers! Their women are very beautiful, I hear…”

“That’s all, Virgil!” That familiar, grating voice chirped, and Rhydian had his sights on that creature once more. 

Broad, muscular shoulders were accentuated by shining armour. Thick thighs and calves had the eye drawn to them by crimson fabric and leather. Tanned skin and dark curls likened the creature to some of his own tribesmen, but it set off sparks of rabid hatred within his newly sewn together guts. 

A creature so like him, but who used that same strength for death and conquer. For war. Rhydian was no stranger to war, in-fighting came and went with the seasons, but this was an entirely different beast. 

“But you’re definitely right about pretty!” 

Rhydian didn’t expect the behemoth to smile so guilelessly, his large hand gripping his face in a strong, vice-like grip and turning it to and fro. With his hands bound, he simply glowered at the man through his eyelashes, teeth bared and a feral growl running through his throat. A warning. 

Their eyes lock, his heart skips a beat, and there’s a scream. The monster released his grip, blood pouring from his wrist. The bite is stark and deep, and everyone rushes around like that thing had been savaged by an animal.

He grins wild and red. 

***

There was no daring escape, calling his countrymen to action and throwing the glimmering bastard out of their lands themselves. He didn’t even break his bonds. While his thoughts flew with the birds, iron on his tongue, the beast simply wrapped his wound and sat by him once more. 

In later years, Rhydian would take the fact that the man kept more distance between them after that as a very small victory. And in the years that came after that point, he’d come to think of that as a very sad minor victory. But, in that present moment, he simply glared at the thing that had killed his kinsmen with every hint of hatred in his heart. 

Silently, though. His anger had never been loud. Still, it seemed that silence was all too often mistaken for reluctant compliance. 

The man had taken it upon himself to ignore the burning gaze and ramble on and on about things Rhydian will admit he didn’t particularly understand. Duties and procedure and conquerings. He could honestly say that he’d never been particularly interested in the lands that lay beyond his people’s. Perhaps it was the guileless way the other spoke, as if it wasn’t a burden to kill. As if it didn’t affect him. 

“It’s my job as a nation, after all!”

“... Nation?” Rhydian questioned, head tilted to the side in thought and his scowl losing some of its intensity, “What do you mean by that?”

A shift in tone. It was like the wind changed directions, turning him with it as the man’s eyes widened, looked him up and down, and grinned. 

“What we are. I’m the personification of the mighty empire of Rome, and you the untamed western parts of Brittania,” The man - Rome, he assumed - proclaimed. 

Golden hair, long and braided and curly in the midday sun. Murmured words from lips pressed into the short, downy hair of a newborn babe. Weaving and singing and arrows sharpened to deadly points. 

A woman screaming. 

The vision had hit him quickly and brutally, blanking out his sight. It seemed Rome had gotten impatient, now snapping his fingers in front of his face and an unreadable look on his features. It was jarring, snapping in and out so suddenly, but he had to remain stoic to his enemy. To crack and fall was to lose in this incredibly one-sided battle he was fighting. 

“So, are we to fight ourselves and leave innocents out of it?” He challenged, sneering, “I grant you that I’m not mortal, that much is obvious. If you wish to conquer us, kill me and leave them alone; and if I kill you, then your men should return to Rome.”

The laugh Rome let out was hearty and insulting, and all too long. As if Rhydian - West Britannia, perhaps? - were a fool. 

“No, no. Who said we were going to kill you?”

The bisection was his first hint. 

“No, I can think of something better,” Rome smiled, “Something that will benefit us both.”

***

“Have you never seen yourself?”

There was humour in Rome’s voice as Rhydian observed himself in the polished silver he’d been handed, turning his face to and fro as the older man had that day. He ran a critical eye over his nose, his eyes, his jawline and cheekbones. The way his hair had grown out from his tribesmen’s old style had left him blinking pale strands from his lashes, and had gotten yet another compliment from the man.

Rhydian fucking hated him. 

“In still waters, yes,” He answered, tone completely civil, “Not like this, however. You were right, I am quite pretty.”

Rome laughed, then, running a hand through Rhydian’s hair and leaning the boy back to rest on his chest. The younger closed his eyes, swallowing hard, but let Rome do as he wished; he didn’t have much energy to spit and hiss as he’d done when the older man first saw fit to see him settle into the “new home” he’d “so graciously” provided. 

The house was beautiful, he couldn’t fault it for that, but it just felt so… unnecessary. Merely decorative. Rome had laughed before about his “mud huts” and Rhydian hadn’t appreciated it at all, throwing the cup of wine the other had given him in his face - staining the brilliant white of his toga - before the young nation marched out of the dining hall and to bed. 

“It’s a personal quirk,” He continued, shrugging, “We have mirrors, too. Made of bronze rather than silver, though.”

“You can see the truer colours with silver,” Rome hummed, “See how lovely your eyes are. The rosiness of your cheeks. Your pretty hair.”

The last utterance was punctuated by a kiss, right on the crown of Rhydian’s head, and the mirror clattered to the floor. 

At once, he was on his feet, chair falling away as he pushed out of Rome’s admittedly soft hold, eyes wild and heart hammering. He called Caledfwlch to his side in an instant, poised and ready to defend, and Rome only met his aggression with more laughter. 

Rhydian dreamed of cutting his throat, letting the blood bubble up every time the older man tried to snicker in that infuriating manner, but he never did. It was better to settle, live alongside the Romans and share their cultures. To just calmly accept it all and roll with the punches. He wasn’t conquered like Albion apparently was. It wasn’t perfect, but an uneasy truce was a truce nonetheless.

And the figs Rome had bought him were sweet. 

His shoulders slowly lowered, breathing out the tension, but his sword was still in hand. Just in case. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you should relax?” The older man asked, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, and Rhydian swallowed against glass shards, “Not every touch is mean spirited, or an attack.”

No, but they could be. 

“You’re right,” He falsely acknowledged, the flesh of his cheek between his molars as Caledfwlch was sent away once more, “I’ve never been good with uncertainty.”

“You really don’t know where you stand with me, do you?”

The words were spoken in the closest thing to sadness that Rhydian had heard from Rome in the past months, nearly year long they’d been going through this back and forth. It made his shoulders slump further, a faint metal taste in his mouth at the kicked-dog expression the other was wearing. 

Am I really the bad guy here?

“I don’t,” He concurred, voice quiet, “Why capture me to release me? Why flounce between Italy and Albion, only to come back here and spend the whole time feeding me strange food and calling me pretty.” 

There was that silence again, but it didn’t stretch as long. Perhaps it was the tentative understanding that starts to build from this sort of time together. Not the same as tribesmen, nothing near, but familiarity. Like how he knows Rome will indulge in red wine until he’s sick several times over, and how Rome knows he likes leek with his rabbit and will nibble on cherries for dessert. 

“You’re more valuable to me as an ally, I think,” Rome admitted, “Your metal work - both weapons-wise and jewellery - is extremely impressive. You make so many small details look so effortless, and craft some truly delicate pieces. You’re also willing to bite and claw and scratch to keep your freedom, no matter how much it costs you. It’s almost inspiring. Besides…”

Rhydian swallowed once again, that sharpness increasing tenfold, blinking back a sting in his eyes at the praise. At the admittance of how talented and tenacious his people were. Feeling proud and yet so, so small all at once, in a way only Rome could accomplish. 

“You have a face that makes me want to dote on you, show you the ways of the world.” 

A step towards him, and another, and another until those big hands encircled his own wrists. Looking up at that soft, guileless smile, he felt his stomach swoop in something dread-adjacent. He wasn’t scared, but was certainly apprehensive of what expectation was held in each gentle touch. Body language exchanged in the silence of the newly built villa and filled the empty space with tension. 

Rome’s face whispered go on without uttering a single word. He let himself be led to the bed - metal and precious and expertly crafted, topped with a soft down mattress - and Rome took a seat first. A guiding hand pulled him onto the man’s lap, and he put up little resistance, but didn’t meet his eyes. 

The older’s hand dipped into the little box on the bedside table, offering its spoils as he was delicately perched. Like he had to be treated gently, like the wind and rain didn’t mould him, like he was soft and sweet. He felt like he was absent from his own body, somewhere to the side of himself, floating in that same space that Caledfwlch disappeared to when he no longer needed it.

Like he no longer needed his mind. Like he could simply float in the ether. 

Rome offered his hand, pressed his fingertips to his lips, and Rhydian took a bite.

The pomegranate was sickly sweet.

***

“I’ve thought about what you’ve said. I want to call myself Cymru.”

Rome looked up from the rabbit he’d laid on the kitchen table, seemingly startled by Cymru’s sudden presence. He’d always had quiet footsteps, barefoot on heated tile not producing much noise to begin with. 

Cymru had shed his old tunic, yellow and red plaid, to don a bright white tunic and toga, thinly bordered by rich purple. No trousers either, as he had before, and the way Rome looked at him made him want to be swallowed by the floor. His lips were wine-stained from lunch and the rosiness of his cheeks were flushed. 

It wasn’t that he was completely drunk, but his younger body certainly had trouble keeping up with the older man. Rome was more pliant when he acquiesced to his whims, and he’d felt unnecessarily wary about revealing his choice of name. 

“Who says you need a name?” Rome inquired, going back to skinning the animal in front of him, barely sparing a glance upwards once he did so. It threw Cymru through a loop, really, after what had been said to him that day in the Roman camp. 

“If I am a nation, I should have a name. It means… means ‘compatriots’. Like Combrogi. Felt fitting,” He explained, feeling as if this should all be obvious, “You have one, and we’re equals -”

“What?”

Hands stilled once more, placing the knife he’d been using aside. Cymru hadn’t realised before that he hadn’t been staring at Rome’s face, but his large hands as he separated pelt from flesh, soft rabbit fur sodden in the creature’s own blood. Suddenly, the tension was back with the silence, like it had never left, and it was like that night had never happened. 

Perhaps it hadn’t. Perhaps he was dreaming strange things again. Perhaps he was sorely mistaken about where they really stood. 

For two men to do what they did, they had to both be free, and by extension be equals. Rome and Cymru were locked in an uneasy truce, but they weren’t truly on the same level. Rome came over, pressing new foods to his lips, providing him with new building techniques and other advancements, and Cymru… Let him? 

Well, that wasn’t wholly true. There was gold, and zinc, and bronze, and fertile farmland. But it was always a hassle, his land rocky and uneven and imperfect. He was a hassle, really. 

“Nevermind,” He waved away, “A passing fancy of mine. You know what I’m like.”

He took a seat by the table, balancing his cheek on his hand and looking up at Rome as the skinning started once more. The concentration on the man’s face, his steady hands, his brunette curls highlighted by the setting sun. 

He was going to throw up.

Was this Rome’s attempt at fatherly, like those children in those sundrenched lands far away? Was this Cymru wanting what he shouldn’t, taking more than he needed? Was this selfishness, and if it was, which one of them was guilty?

The rabbit’s pelt on the table didn’t even look grey anymore, instead dyed a hundred hues of crimson. 

“... I’ll call you Cambria.”

Cymru startled at the interruption of the uneasy silence, looking up once more.

“Why not Cym -”

“It’s easier to say,” Rome explained, hoisting the pink, bloody remains of the rabbit by its hind legs, “Cambria. It sounds pretty, which suits you better.”

Cymru hiccuped, suddenly bending double before retching painfully, wine and acid-bitten fruits splashing to the floor as Rome leapt towards him, hand on his back and rubbing between his shoulders. 

“Should’ve known that’d be a bit much for you,” He murmured, and Cymru, with the echo of it suits you better in his ears, couldn’t help but agree.

***

Cymru got into the habit of wearing tunics and togas in front of Rome. 

He hadn’t meant to, really. He just wanted the man to stay sweet on him, to stay a little longer and spoil him a little more. Sickening behaviour, really. He shows off the tender flesh of his calves and thighs, feels the appreciative hum in the older man’s throat with the touches, squeezes, pinches. 

He should’ve known. 

He pinches the flesh of his stomach between his fingers, hard enough to bruise. There was softness there, made of figs and cherries and rabbit and whatever else Rome felt apt to feed him. Gifts he didn’t turn down, that he showed himself off for, and here he is. 

He remembers his tribesmen - how long since he’s seen them? How long has he isolated himself? How long has he assimilated? - had rules. The circumference of a man’s waist was not to exceed a certain figure, or he’d be fined. Men were to be strong, hunt and protect and all that. Excessive softness didn’t lend itself to that. 

He didn’t remember the number - how long is a piece of string? - but it made something uncomfortable lodge in his chest. What would they think of him? Their proud Cymru who fought and clawed and bit… Allowing himself to be soft?

He scoffed aloud, turning back to his parchment. Rows of latin stared back at him, the reed he’d used to write them inkstained and abandoned by its side. What a joke. Someone gives him figs and he starts learning to write latin, dresses up in their clothes, and gets soft. 

A glob of ink drops from the tip of the reed to the table, and his guts churn. 

Maybe they were never sewn up properly - writhing and inflaming into this small swell he found himself with. The wound had long since stitched together with silver scar tissue, but the reminder would always be in him, feeling like he was stuffed with mud and leaves slowly left to rot. 

He wasn’t - he was stuffed with cherries and meats.

***

“What the hell brought this on?!”

Rome doesn’t swear often, doesn’t yell often, isn’t angry often. It’s enough for Cymru to spiral smaller and smaller yet again. He’s not wearing his tunic and toga, but not wearing his favourite Celtic trousers and tunic, either. They don’t fit him right anymore. He made these himself and, while he’s never been the best at making his own clothes, they aren’t overly poorly crafted. They don’t pinch his soft stomach, and they cover the new swell of his hips and thighs. Sure, the old stuff would close, but not comfortably. 

These are a nice blue colour, and he can pretend he still feels so very pretty in it. 

Rome is in front of him, brows drawn and teeth grit, and Cymru really thinks he should be paying attention, given how furious he’s made the man with the mention of a single word. 

VOMITORIUM. 

“So… I take it that you don’t do that…” Cymru swallows hard, heart stuttering, and the disappointment is palpable in his voice, “I didn’t mean to… imply anything, Rome.”

It’s the truth, he really didn’t. Not about Rome, at least. He’d been intrigued, hearing of the method; feather in, food out. If Rome was so insistent about him sharing all these foods, then he could share in this, also. Then the softness would go and he’d be fit to be seen as Cymru once again. 

A nation for barely five years, and he’s messed it all up already. 

“No… No, I know you didn’t…” Rome pinches his brow as he says it, like he has a bad migraine, and Cymru swallows spit, sour from the few days of fasting he did before the other man’s return from visiting his home country.

If Cymru was cuter, like his boys, would he stay?

“They’re just rumours. Something, something, look how gluttonous and wasteful Rome is, something…” Rome gesticulates vaguely to punctuate his point, but Cymru feels like a stone is tied to him, dragging him down into the dark waters. 

The first time he died, he drowned. 

“Cambria,” Rome begins, and Cymru wants to scream at him for no good reason. 

There’s more awkward silence, in which he pictures Rome dying in various, violent ways to pass the time, and then all’s forgotten. 

“I brought more cherries.”

Of course he did. 

***

Cymru is a quick study.

His handwriting is flawlessly beautiful. His jewellery is pretty enough to make Rome coo. He can drive a chariot so well it rivals the drivers in the ludi circenses.

He can purge his meal in five minutes, and he can make Rome cum in two. 

Though, not at the same time. He feels like the sentiments couple together beautifully, however. Rome will sit him on his lap and feed him, once the box is empty he’ll flip him over and the night will reach its inevitable conclusion. Once the bute’s asleep, Cymru will sneak outside, stick his fingers down his throat, and be done with it. 

He doesn’t need the extravagance of a peacock feather. He’s always liked simple and practical. 

He’s back to wearing the toga. It’s impractical for daily wear, but it’s not like he does much when Rome is visiting. He just has to sit there and be pretty. Occasionally bend over on the bed and pant and moan, but he tells himself he enjoys it. 

Why else would he be back to wearing the toga? He knows where that leads him. 

The issue, however, is that with every new thing he shows off, Rome gets more and more distant. His dainty hands, the other leaves for Albion for a week. His pretty collar bones, he leaves for Caledonia for a month. 

When he presented his thigh gap, another phenomenon happened. Albion is all but dumped on him the next day, Rome gives some half-hearted explanation of brotherly bonding, and back to Italy he goes. They don’t fuck goodbye, as they had, and he hates that it makes him feel sicker than ever. 

When Albion looks up at him, older than before but still as wide-eyed, he pictured kicking the little fucker across the room. 

“Why aren’t you wearing your colourful trousers?” Albion asked, innocent as a child could be, and Cymru could only taste blood. 

“I don’t like them anymore.”

“But they were pretty!” 

“They were old.”

Cymru turned his back on Albion, his long strides carrying him to the kitchen, where he proceeded to put away what had been set out for Rome’s visit. A visit where Rome and he would eat and drink, Rhydian would leave to vomit, and then they would fuck until the older man climaxed. That was supposed to be what happened. 

“And the toga’s new?”

“Yes. Yes, the toga is new.”

Instead, if he had no one worth pretending for, then he’d simply put it all away and fast for longer. He didn’t need to be fucked to feel good. He was finally feeling better in himself with a new pair of visible ribs. 

“Oh. I don’t really like them.”

“Good for you.”

So what if he was cold, irritable, and hadn’t left the villa in a good month. Perhaps longer. He was useless and unimportant and ruined everything. His countrymen were better for him staying out of their lives. At least he used to be able to distract Rome with fleeting things - wine, foods, jewellery, his body - so everything could be normal!

“If I knew how to make such a nice yellow -”

“Albion -”

“Oh, that’s not my name anymore!” The boy said brightly, a smile that seemed like a distant memory on his own features painted across the boy’s lips, “It’s Britannia now.”

“My precious child. My dearest -”

A crash. Blood dripped from Cymru’s hands, a swear spat from his lips. Shards of terracotta on the floor were streaked with the same red, and Cymru could only stare, eyes wild. One of the cups Rome had gifted him, amongst a speech about craftsmanship and care. Broken amongst his blood. 

You didn’t need to be a bard to see the cruel poetry in that. It was even planer as he fisted the brilliant white wool of his toga to staunch the bleeding. 

He turned slowly, the child white as a sheet as he stared at the blood on the floor, and Cymru will admit the tug of guilt in his chest, until a simple utterance of: 

“Cambria -”

“Get out.”

It was barked between gritted teeth, all but growled. Feral and wolfish and unfair. Still, Cymru just… couldn’t. Rejection had burned, and now there was this insult. The name he’d reluctantly allowed his somewhat-lover to call him uttered by the omen that ended his peace. The trees of their apparent family - if Rome were to be believed - as barren and blackened as his vision. 

He felt no affection for this thing that could soften the blow. 

“But -”

“I said: out!”

The boy ran from the room, the scream that tore itself from Cymru’s throat seeming to echo across tile and marble. It made him sick. It made him rabid. A snarling animal trapped in his chest, clawing until his insides were ribbons and his ribs shards. 

Like the terracotta on the floor. 

Still, he was pushed. He was chained and beaten and goaded. It was only a matter of time before it hit breaking point and he savaged again.

Horrible little viper.