#skull grinder

[kgustin87]

Finished the first box of my Corpse Grinder Cult for necromunda

[warhammer-fantasy-muses]

🍷- How do they feel about alcohol?

"A FINE PAIRING TO A FRESH CUT OF MEAT OR A BOWL OF GUTS. EVEN MORE-SO IF IT IS A FRESHLY-MADE SKULL BREW, MADE OF ONLY THE PUREST BLOOD AND THE FINEST HERBS AND SPICES OF THE REALM. MY PERSONAL FAVORITE IS, WITH NO SURPRISE, MIXING BLOOD WITH SPICES OF GRAND CATHAY. NOTHING BETTER THAN TAKING FROM THE COUNTRY THAT TRIED TO KILL YOU! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA~!"

[stevviefox]

Now we need to find a way to grow watermelons big enough to use as diversion tactic when a dragon shows up.

If King Girion and King Thror had coordinated such an effort, Smaug would never have taken the mountain.

wotermelon

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (XXIX)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

🖤Chapter navigation can be found here🖤 Click to browse previous updates.

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts 💚 (now featuring mediocre mouseover translations, only available on a computer)

Where we last left off... Danny can't sleep alone! Wonder Woman gets angry! Batman gets yoinked like a sad cat! Informational breakthroughs are made!

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

Danny is in a different medical room than usual.

There are five white boards.

His hands are shaking.

Danny doesn’t want to talk about what happened to him, but this isn’t talking. It’s just Danny, a bunch of white boards, Diana, a blonde doctor woman he doesn’t know, and that one kid’s stinky cat dad.

Danny draws.

He draws The Box. He doesn’t know how big it was in reality, but he remembers it being cramped, and dark, and hungry. He was always hungry. He draws a granola bar and uses a red marker to strike through it a half-dozen times to really emphasize how much nothing there was to work with.

It feels bad to put a marker-drawn Danny in the box.

Marker-Danny looks scared. He looks sad.

Danny hands that board to the blonde doctor without looking at it.

Danny draws a bunch of gloved hands with scalpels and forceps and beakers and tubes, but to be honest, he was so out of his mind by that point he doesn’t actually remember a lot of it. He remembers being tied down, and he remembers scream—

...But he mostly remembers the visuals of hands in a bright spectator spotlight above, a dozen gleaming instruments poking inside him to see what of him was ecto-based and what wasn’t.

They always acted like Danny didn’t know what he was made of. Danny’s wondered if it was true ever since, and sometimes the thought pulses in his skin like a bad bruise.

There’s almost no detail in that drawing. It's only hands. It's only tools. Danny hands the board off without looking, again.

Danny draws Operative O, with his stupid chin and his stupid suit and his stupid earpiece and his stupid gun. He tries to get all the details from memory, but honestly, who cares if the guy’s lapels look right or whatever. He wipes the G I W initials off the man’s breast pocket before anyone can see the detail, and keeps his little black boots and sunglasses, and…yeah. Pretty much all of their stupid agents look like that.

He adds on a number of skulls and angry faces to that drawing before handing the board over.

He draws the Fenton Ghost Assault Vehicle as he mostly remembers it—and Danny remembers turning on at least some of the equipment as he tried to flee the building, leaving the hard steel shell of the GAV as scuffed and miserable as he’d found it abandoned in that garage but bristling with weapons. His parents are—they’d been so good at cramming weapons into every possible nook and cranny. Whatever engineers the GIW had been able to hire to dismantle it had never had a chance. The thing had been locked onto Fenton DNA, and Fenton DNA alone.

Danny isn’t sure where the GAV is now, but he remembers turning the rockets on. Maybe he’d…maybe he’d landed on the moon…in the Fentonmobile?

He still isn’t super clear on how he’d gotten here, or what of the truck’s defenses he’d gotten up and running on his way out.

But he remembers a clear line of sight down the barrel of Dad’s newest—and last—blaster he’d ever made, the hands on it a stranger's.

Danny remembers his flesh and ecto sizzling as his face bubbled off.

…Danny remembers his first driving lessons in the GAV with Mom in the passenger seat, encouraging him to brake carefully at stop signs if there were police at the corner. They went out for burgers after each driving session, since she knew it would make him happy to have something different for dinner. Danny remembers all the road trips they’d gone on to go visit Aunt Alicia, half-camping in the woods on her property while Dad taught Jazz and Danny how to fish.

He hands off the whiteboard, but he already knows what he wants to use the last one for.

Mom and Dad and Jazz stand around the intact GAV and smile, frozen in a dry-erase marker wave to a Danny that isn’t there.

Danny’s here now. In a chair. In space.

…With strangers.

When Danny doesn’t immediately offer the board to the blonde doctor like she expects, she only takes a picture of it for further discussion.

Danny is very, very careful not to smudge any of his family's faces or their suits or Jazz's dark sweater as Diana wheels him back to his cot in the medical wing.

He misses them.

He doesn’t know if they’re capable of missing him, wherever they are, but he misses them.

[bookofthegear]

There are times in life when you should hide, and times when you should run. The difficulty, as any adventurer will tell you, is telling which is which.

This was one of those times when you should have run.

You never get a look at the thing in the sunflower field, because the lantern’s off. But when it comes crashing through stalks toward you, you do try to skewer it with Grandma’s good stabbing knife. The point of the blade hits off something hard but oddly elastic, like bone, and slides along a surface full of bumps and hollows. Maybe it’s a skull. Maybe it’s something you’ve never even conceived of.

Whatever it is, it has…teeth? A grinder? Hard to say, since the excruciating pain is much more pressing than careful analysis of what has just seized hold of you.

“Jimmy, RUN!” you shout, which of course makes no sense—he’s going to fly, obviously—but given the circumstances, it seems rude to quibble. You feel the brush of feathers past your cheek as he takes to the air, and then there’s an explosion of light behind your eyes and you seem to be rushing down a dark tunnel toward it. What happens after that is Mystery, and not within the scope of this chronicle.

Probably, though, there are cabbages.

—YOU HAVE DIED—

[youhaveraybies]

Heaven Knows i’m Miserable now🍂

Part2!!! (hey guys so…uh…i’ve changed the format, decided i hated the use of Y/N and now just gonna use “you” and write it like that bc yeah..!! thank you )

PART 1

The pain from both the ground and shock of someone else being in the treehouse shocks you, shocks you so badly that your poor brain looses track of everything. The only thing it can focus on was the fact that someone had pushed you…sure they’d complimented you too but they’d pushed you, hurt you even. Caused your pretty little head to hit the floor, narrowly avoiding the tree roots..imagine if you had hit one..you’d have either died or maybe just passed out. You push yourself back up, head stinging and body tense, you’ll be sporting a couple of new bruises soon . You sigh, pushing yourself up before glaring up at the treehouse only to find…no one , nothing other than the stray autumn leaves blowing around the base of the wood.

You look around , standing up now and brushing everything off you , hands going through your hair before stopping at a now wet and..painful spot. You’d obviously hit your head and caused a minor bleed..? but did you know that? no. Were you now panicking and thinking your brain was going to leak out of your skull and you were inevitably going to die? yes. Yes you were. You rush up, hand gripping your head before you open the back door, watching it bounce back and almost hit you in the face before you open it again and step back into your..new home. You sigh out before the sound of humming hits your eyes, it’s soft and gentle..a nostalgic hum , the kind your mom would hum to either soothe your crying or maybe just to get you to sleep.

“Mom..? Mom..! Mom! Mom!” You call out , rolling your eyes once your mom stays humming in the kitchen , you shrug before following the humming . Finding what seems to be your mother..leaned over the counter, baking? Your mom had stopped baking once Alan moved him ; since he’d claimed he hated sweets or anything soft or chewy or even hard…What a freak.

Your mom turns to face you..only to be faced with someone who was not your mother . She stands there, smiling at you as she offered you a cookie . Maybe you failed to notice the cookie but you definitely noticed the blood dripping from her eye..was that a meat grinder stuck into her eye socket??? You gasp, covering your mouth in horror as you continue gasp for air. The women disappears just as quickly as she’d turned, leaving the tray of cookies in her wake..only now they were mold covered and blood soaked. You turn , gasping for air again as your eyes prick with fear and despair, the only proof of those emotions being the faintest of tears staining your face . You push away before slamming into something, screaming out as their hands grip your shoulders .

“Shit kid..are you good??” Your eyes snap up , shocked expression dropping once you stare at Alan, his hands soothing you as you debate telling him…he wouldn’t believe you, he’d just send you to church or maybe a shrink .

“no..i..i fell outside and then..uh…” You mumble out, watching Alan move away, he turns to hold an ice pack out , his eyes judgemental and almost sorrowful at you.

“Thanks…” You take the ice pack, holding it to the painful little blood bump formed on your skull, you definitely needed to let it heal before even washing your hair or else you’d just be in for the most painful shower ever.

“So..you climbed the treehouse..?” He asked , nodding towards the back door . The lump in the leaves from your fall, the broken off wooden block and..your phone still outside , next to your now snapped in half headphones. You gasp out , running outside as Alan follows like some annoying little excuse for a man. He stands there, watching you grab your phone and grabbing your headphones , pushing back inside to tape them up.

“uh yeah..yeah i did.” You hum out , taping your headphones together before holding one near your ear, hearing your music play along side some sort of whispering ??

“get out.!” the voice screams back , causing you to drop the headphones once again. Your ear now slightly deaf from how loud the voice had seemed.

“Yeah i’m thinking of tearing the treehouse down..i mean that boy killed his parents and ran up there and then fell..broke his neck and died…we can’t have that happen to you..” Alan hums out , unaware of literally anything that happened just then.

“right cause if i was gonna murder you and my mom..id definitely hid in the treehouse and not clean up..and then drive away.” You sarcastically nod, laughing before meeting Alan’s somewhat disgusted gaze. You gulp before rolling your eyes , “you can’t get rid of the treehouse .” You hum out , interest from the earlier events keeping your gaze back onto the wooden deck.

“Why not?” Alan scoffs out

“cause uh..i..want to keep it..yeah i want to keep it, it’s cool “ You nod, eyes flicking back to Alan as you smile , trying to seem like you actually want the treehouse and not like your actual desire was to know if the kid who’d almost murdered you stayed up there .

Alan rolls his eyes before turning around , grabbing one of the cookies , then taking a bite . You watch in horror as beetles, bugs and blood drips from the cookie , staining his face and crawling all around his features . Crawling up into his nose , into his beard and even into hair . You gulp before shaking your head , pushing..or rushing past him and bolting up into your room. Almost gagging in the process.

You shake your head before your eyes meet with…well..nothing . Everything seemed normal..somewhat normal..? What was normal anyways ? It definitely wasn’t this house and it definitely wasn’t alan and it definitely wasn’t you..either…was your mom normal?? No..definitely not.

You scoff out, moving around the room as you start to hang your own clothes up into the closet , taking note of the chalk scribbles and the…giant “get out” sign written in…blood? maybe it was just red paint..you shrug it off . You were way too tired to even care right now, the day was weird enough with your little hallucinations from your concussion and Alan.

Once you finish you sigh out , moving out of the room to the bathroom, flicking the shower on before noticing something moving behind the shower curtain, peeling it back to come face to face with a teenage boy. He laughs…this was the same guy from earlier . He winks at you, his hand moving to your chin, “shame you’re still alive…” he mumbles out , his face way too close to yours and his body oddly cold..the coolness of his skin against your warmth causing you to shiver .

He pushes past you, smirking , “you know…your little joke about killing your parents..? I loved it..! You should..” He laughs , his eyes darting over your features as he leans against the bathroom door before you blink and he disappears. Leaving you in the now freezing bathroom .

You turn and then turn back again, eyes scanning the bathroom before you calm yourself…you were just hallucinating…you’d hit your head and you were just…seeing things…or maybe going insane… You shake your head before slowly stripping and getting into the shower , hissing out against the water hitting your skull, causing a whine to leave your lips against the pain. You shower pretty quickly , not wanting to pain yourself anymore and…also wanting to just sleep. You sigh out , changing into a baggy t shirt and shorts . Eyes stuck on the words drawn into the steam on the mirror

“leave now. get out.”

You roll your eyes before opening the bathroom door , hair dripping down your skin and clothes stuck on your figure , you walk back into your room, noticing your puppy nuzzling into the air..what a weird dog. You sigh out before flopping onto your bed…scrambling to turn a light off before getting more comfortable into the bed , clicking your tongue for Buddy to jump in. The puppy jumps in, turning before laying down . You pull the covers over the both of you, yawning before your eyes flutter closed . Wanting the day to be over and..also wanting to sleep for the first time in hours.

You drift off to sleep..unaware of the boy now peeling your covers back..pushing himself up against you , his chest up against your back , arm lazily around your waist as he places the warm covers back over the two of you, “oh pretty girl…” he whispers against your ear,chuckling at your little movements, “come on..kill your parents…or just leave..leave the house..kill them…come join me..? hm? “ he whispers , nuzzling into your neck as you mumble something out under your sleep state .

[tomssexdoll]

omgg write a fluff w tom/ bill where him and the reader are high outta their minds that would lowk be hilarious it could also be a little smutty in the end 👀

HAHAHA YESSS

Stoned

PAIRINGS: Tom 2007 x Female reader CONTENT: FLUFF + SMUT (just a bit) SYPNOSIS: Y/N and Tom are high as FUCK, they are friends and she comes over to his house to try this "new" thing he has. She assumes it's some sort of drug or weird guitar solo, they watch movies, cuddle and at the end get a lil bit freaky... A/N: haven't been high in over a year so don't bash me if i get the feeling wrong, it's from what i remember lmao WARNINGS: teasing, kissing, drug use (weed)

Me and Tom have been best friends for over 10 years, he has been my rock, supporting me through everything. He never changed, always hanging out with me, showing me off to new friends. He was amazing.

One day he called me and said he had something to show me, something "new" he wanted to try out with me. I immediately knew it was a drug or a weird guitar solo, he is full of surprises I guess.

I got into my car and started to drive to his house, wondering what stupid thing was going to consume my day.

I arrived eventually and greeted Tom, hugging him tightly and walking inside, sitting in his room. He came in with a little baggie of what looked like weed, he handed it to me and I sighed "Tom this is a lot of weed, do you plan to smoke it all tonight?" he chuckled "no of course not, if we like it we can try it again at the party next week" he rummaged through his draws, pulling out a small black bong, decorated with skulls.

"Wowww real edgy" I rolled my eyes playfully, he laughed and slapped my arm playfully "shut up it was on sale, i'm not spending 50 fucking dollars for a small bong."

I stood up and grabbed the grinder that went with is, putting the bud in there and grinding it down, once it was finished I grabbed the bong, packing some of the weed in there.

"Wow you really know how to do this huh?" he smirked, admiring what I did. "Well my brother smokes and it's not like I haven't done it before so.." I shrugged and grabbed the lighter, sparking it and hovering the flame over the bud, sucking in the smoke. (did i just give you guys a tutorial..)

I inhaled it, feeling it burn the back of my throat but in a nice way, a familiar feeling to when I smoked cigarettes. "Fuck..that's some good shit..where did you get it from" I blew the smoke out, starting to get the effects already.

My head a bit woozy, eyes drooping ever so slightly and everything becoming a bit more brighter. I looked back at Tom, finishing the rest of the cone, the way he threw his head back when inhaling was so sexy..the way his lips slightly parted and his eyes slowly shut.

"I got it from Greg, you know, Janes older brother" he looked back at me, blowing out the smoke as well. "Oh.." I said slowly "well it's not dodgy weed I'll tell you that" I giggled.

Everything was a bit slower, my talking, movements. It felt wonderful, like I was as light as a feather.

"Let's have some more, cmon" he scooted closer to me and we had 3 more cones each, it was hitting hard now, things were much more slower, I looked down at my hands and they were slightly out of focus, like I had 4 hands.

I got up from his bed and grabbed his hand, going towards the kitchen and raiding his pantry, grabbing all the snacks I could find and a few cans of soda. I sat down and dropped everything onto the coffee table, laying down next to him, resting my head on his lap, "should we order pizza.." he mumbled, I nodded slowly and grabbed my phone, dialing the store and ordering 2 large pizzas, one cheese and one meat lovers.

"Fuck..we are gonna feast" he chuckled, his eyes super red and droopy, I smiled and picked a movie to watch.

After 45 minutes our pizza FINALLY ARRIVED. I ran to the door and quickly gave the pizza guy the cash, slamming the door and almost tripping trying to get back to the couch, "fuck!" I yelped, Tom just laughed and grabbed one of the boxes, stuffing his face with pizza.

"Mmm...so good" he groaned, I grabbed a slice and ate it, savouring the taste "has pizza ever tasted this good?" I said, it was like they put magic into it, usually pizza was mid but this time it was amazing. Our movie was ending soon, we picked a horror, which was kinda dumb because we were so high.

I sat up and held him tightly at the suspense, screaming and hiding my face into his arm when the jumpscare popped up "jesus" he chuckled "it wasn't that bad" I rolled my eyes and softly shoved him "shut up..wasn't even scary.." I mumbled

By the time we had finished 3 movies everything was DEVOURED. We decided to chill for a bit, have a talk and enjoy each others company. I layed down on the couch and he spooned me from behind, holding me close.

Usually we'd always cuddle, it was never weird to us but this time, the tension was super high. Not even in a bad way, it's like the air was thicker...the way his arms were wrapped around me and his face pressed softly on the top of my head made me feel some kind of way.

I turned around and looked up at him, it's like in that moment, we were the only people alive. His eyes washed over with desire and love, surprising me. "You know, you are so beautiful y/n, you're the most beautiful girl i've ever seen" he smiled softly, brushing a hair away from my face.

"Yeah whatever, I'm sure you tell every girl you hook up with that.." I rolled my eyes, secretly enjoying the praise. "No, y/n..I mean it, you are so beautiful" he leaned closer, our lips basically inches away.

"Tom..." my breathing hitched slightly, searching his eyes for deciet but all I saw was sincerity, love and compassion, I smiled softly, blush creeping onto my cheeks.

"I want to kiss you.." he whispered, his breath hot on my lips.

"ok pizza breath.." I giggled and leaned in, kissing him gently. He kissed back, wrapping his hand around to the back of my head and pulling me closer, locking our lips into a passionate embrace. His kisses got more urgent, his erection becoming prominent in his pants, pressing up against my leg.

"See how you make me feel? You drive me crazy" he moaned against my lips, slipping his tongue in my mouth. I reached my hand down and softly palmed his clothed cock, making him groan softly.

His hands snaked down to my waist, then to my ass, squeezing it softly. Then, his hand came back up, slipping under my shirt and grabbing my breasts, rubbing his thumb over my nipple, sending shivers down my spine.

I had grabbed one of his shirts earlier, removing my bra since you weren't able to see much anyway, it was getting a bit hot so I changed my outfit.

"My shirt looks so good on you..might have to fuck you in it" he mumbled, grinning widely.

I chuckled "we'll see about that", I rolled us over, flipping me on top of him, deepening the kiss.

[cario55555]

Gonna be taking a bit of a break from art and such and so, specifically cotl stuff mainly because i got abunch of wips in the backlog and others stuff to doodle but also i like this little freakshow im making too so have abunch of fun facts about the funny lamb universe i got goin on for now under the cut

⁍ The Lamb would canonically win in a fight against 4 Leshy's or 2 Heket's, but not 3 Shamura's or 2 Kallamar's. ⁍ The Goat literally just walked into the Cult and acted like he already knew everyone. This somehow worked for 3 years. ⁍ I have no idea if Narilamb is canon in this or not, but if it was then it would not end well for anyone ⁍ Plimbo is the best character, this is a fact and you cannot dispute it. I tried designing him like 8? times and I just couldn't get it in a satisfying way. this is because he is without flaw. ⁍ The Lamb was fully aware of the prophecy before the beheading. They were counting on it. There is blood on their hands. ⁍ Sozo is very dead. Whatever's walking around the Cult, that's not Dr. Sozonius. ⁍ Look at this thing I can do ☺ isn't that wild ⁍ It takes place in a permadeath save. This means that the Lamb's delusions of power definitely weren't helped by the fact that they BARELY even knew Narinder, and the fact they killed 5 gods without sleeping. ⁍ Also Lamb killed Narinder lol ⁍ Mystic Seller is named "That Which Takes" ⁍ Leshycat's canon but I'll never design them its just gonna be like in Tom and Jerry where they're just slightly offscreen at all times ⁍ Midas that rat fuck owes me 20$ ⁍ Surprisingly, Heket got the closest to killing The Lamb. She wears this as a badge of honor, or as a means to make fun of the other Bishops. I forget which. ⁍ I might make a fanfic one of these days based on cult of the sham but it'd literally just be an always sunny episode lol ⁍ Webber is literally the exact same as the one from Don't Starve. They had to put him down because he kept placing spider nests all over the Cult, and Pigs kept trying to throw down. ⁍ A little gnome just ran behind you when you weren't looking. ⁍ The Lamb is ambidextrous, this is because I keep forgetting which hand to have them hold stuff with. They also have no idea what this word means. ⁍ The gnome ran behind you again you gotta pay more attention to this stuff ⁍ ☺sorry i didn't mean to do it that time ⁍ Clauneck and Kudaai like switching clothes and acting like eachother to fuck with people, it works every time without fail. ⁍ Aym and Baal are hanging out with Forneus. The Lamb didn't let them do this, they literally just booked it as soon as they got the chance and Forneus totally could beat the shit out of The Lamb. ⁍ help its red now ⁍ nevermind we're good ⁍ Ratau was driven mad by the crown. He's had the knowledge of the gods ripped from his skull and delicately placed onto some psychopathic woolen beast. He's not all there. ⁍ Any time I'm working on COTL stuff I'm usually listening to King Gizzard and the Wizard Lizard. To get the general tone I try and set, listen to their album "I'm In Your Mind Fuzz". Good stuff. ⁍ The Industrial Meat Grinder incident was an inside job.

thank y'all for all the support, means the world that people actually like the delusional ramblings that come out of my brain at...

yeah that tracks.

also one more little mini preview for a drawing that might get finished one of these days idk

why is webber there i genuinely do not remember???

[divineprank]

Solving a 25 year old mystery...

Very early on in the game, we're informed that if the Kokiri dare step outside of the forest, they will die. That's a fairly heavy statement, but it does line up with more lore that we end up picking up as the game carries on. Anyways, this forest is a secluded, protected and magical place, a small haven that is effectively cut off from the rest of the world. As we carry on through the game, we learn that anyone who is lost within these enchanted woods--anyone who is NOT a Kokiri--will twist into one of two creatures: a Skull Kid if you are a child, and if you are an adult you will transform into a Stalfos. Why this happens is still a mystery, but one can guess it's likely connected to the Deku Tree's magic and the Kokiri being a vulnerable race. They're so precious to the Great Deku Tree; he views them as his children after all, and his children MUST be protected!

Makes sense, right?

So why is it, at the end of the game, we actually see a bunch of Kokiri outside the forest, partying it up with Guru-Guru at Lon Lon Ranch? They're spinning him on his organ grinder, and we even see a lonesome Mido situated next to a heartsick King Zora, both of them missing their special person.

Q: The Kokiri tribe is outside the forest at the ending. And the Zora too...

A: This is because Link's success has wiped out the evil forces, and the range of the Deku Tree Sprout protecting the forest has been expanded. The Zoras do not need to be immersed in water all the time. (Kawagoe, Cinema Scene Director).

And there it is! The answer to a burning question that many people have been wanting to know for twenty-five years now! The worst part is, this interview was published in an April 1999 issue of Nintendo 64Dream Magazine! We've had the answer to this question given to us only FIVE MONTHS after the game launched, and yet still to this day I think it is one of the most-asked questions about Ocarina of Time! Funny how things happen that way, huh?

[Source!]

...Aaactually, since I mentioned it...

Remember the cute little boy who is practically enamored with Dampé, the grave keeper? The one whose father you give the Keaton mask to and the very same child you give the Spooky Mask to?

According to this very same Dream64 magazine interview, this child ends up going missing before Link wakes up seven years later. In fact, five years after Ganondorf had invaded the sacred realm, this poor kid ended up taking it upon himself to search for his missing father, (the Hylian soldier stationed in front of Death Mountain's gate - the guy you trade the Keaton mask to!). Upon searching the forest for his father, he became lost and tragically succumbed to the forest's curse. He transformed into a Skull Kid at eight years old and apparently had an encounter with Link. He didn't bother to attempt communicating with Link, asking if he knew where his father was because Skull Kids don't trust adults. He attacked Link instead and I hate to think where that ended up.

Q:  Where did the little stalker in the graveyard go when you were in your time (became an adult)? A: Five years later, when he was eight years old, he wandered into the Lost Woods in search of his missing father and got lost. At that time, he became a Skull Kid. Skull Kid don’t talk to adults, so when he encountered adult Link, he just attacked him and didn't ask him what happened to him. (Koizumi, 3D System Director).

Grog is actually mentioned in this magazine, too... You know, the "People are disgusting!" guy? After we are given the medicine from the Odd Mushroom he had given us, we don't get to see Grog again. Instead, Fado appears and tells us that everybody who enters the forest turns into a Stalfos. Everybody. Stalfos. The dark and frankly unsatisfying conclusion to Grog's story, just after giving the poor fellow an ounce of hope, is quite jarring and it only left folks with more questions.

Q: What happened to Cucco Lady’s brother after he gave you the mushrooms?

A: Fado, the Kokiri girl who is waiting for you, is saying a meaningful message. "They all become Stalfos.” That's right, everyone who wanders into the Lost Forest becomes a Stalfos and lives in the Forest Temple. What? What about the human Link? Well, they are not Kokiri... Why is that? (Koizumi, 3D System Director).

While it's not a lot of information, we are given a piece of lore that gets my imagination firing off... Why would Grog--or any Stalfos--be drawn to the Forest Temple? Interestingly, if you show the Skull Mask to some of the Deku Scrubs, they will refer to the mask as looking like their "sacred forest totem". Could the Stalfos be related?

And for THAT matter... Why does the Skull Mask look so similar to Phantom Ganon's face?

[drarryspecificrecs]

2023.10 ~ Top 5 longest fics posted on AO3

1. Teddy by failsfordails [E, 159k]

►And without so much as a glance back, Potter's mop of disorganized black hair vanishes among the throngs pouring into the lifts. Draco rakes his nails over his skull, vibrating with a barely-suppressed wrath, broiled passion making him feel weak in his own skin. If Potter is going to be like that... This is going to be a lot harder than he thought.

2. When You Look At Me Like That, My Darling, What Did You Expect? by i_dont_read [E, 115k]

►After his partner dies in the field in a tragic accident, Auror Harry Potter is in over his head and desperately wishing for an escape. The last thing he expects, however, is for that escape to come in the form of Draco Malfoy. [...] Harry agrees to take the position only after learning that the Ministry revoked Malfoy’s wand and relocated him to a muggle city in New York, far from the crowds and press of the wizarding world. All of Harry’s expectations go out the window the moment he lays eyes on the now grown up—and infuriatingly attractive—Draco Malfoy. Everything Harry thought he once knew about him is turned upside down, and his life along with it.

3. Yes, Boss by lord_oberon2 [E, 105k]

►Rumors of Harry Potter being cursed circulate the wizarding community. He hasn't been seen in public for months. Bored, Alchemist Draco Malfoy hires him when Potter interviews for a security guard job. He has no idea that the wild, golden glint in Potter's eyes spells nothing but trouble.

4. Little Stars in Azkaban by Umeko [E, 92k]

►Draco and his father end up in Azkaban at the war's end. Harry Potter becomes an Auror, Life goes on until a burst of accidental underage magic in the infamous Azkaban. They find an badly abused Draco and he is not alone. Where did those children come from? And is that a pregnant wizard?

5. Apples and Oranges by @poljupci [T, 76k]

►Harry and Draco play gay chicken as they recreate ten dates Draco wrote in his romance novel. Harry tries to prove that ten dates is not enough to fall in love, while Draco tries to hide that he's already in love after the first.

—

※ Word count: 1k ~ 10k

※ Word count: 10k ~ 40k

Boxers, Quidditch, and Wolfsbane by fairy_rain_and_forests [G, 10k]

The Devil and The Bone Grinder by @mono-chromia [E, 13k]

Jungle Magic by JustOnePenny [T, 13k]

Leave The World At My Doorstep by inkedquill [G, 10k]

One Stitch at a Time by rezal [T, 25k]

Power Bottom by @cassiopeiasshadow [E, 16k]

Red, Green, and Toil Too by itsgivingcamp [E, 33k]

Release by @hsvh-hp [E, 39k]

Screw You by @amillionregrets [E, 15k]

Sweet reverence by mor (mornin) [E, 17k]

A Taste of Freedom by alcohen [T, 29k]

—

Ongoing Fest/Exchange

※ Fics would be listed elsewhere.

Bite Me Delight Me 2023 | @bite-me-delight-me-hp-fest

Discord Cultober Fics

Harry/Draco Career Fair 2023 | @hd-fan-fair

HD Sudsfest Lite 2023 | @hdsudsfest

HP Dead Dove Fest 2023 | @hpdeaddove

HP Drizzle Fest 2023 | @hpdrizzle

HP Kinktober 2023 | @hpkinktober

HP Soulmates Fest 2023 | @hp-soulmates

Pumpkin Spice Fic Fest 2023 | @pumpkinspiceficfest

Unleashed! Fest 2023 | @unleashed-fest

[eltystuffs]

🐶Grinder🐶

Catnip's goofy sidekick and bestie is finally here to cause crime 👹 Despite his antagonistic roles in Hello Kitty's Furry Tale Theater, this dude was just a soft goofball behind the scenes! Though he has to somewhat keep up the act so some black skulls were added to his necklace for ultra bad boy energy 💀

Now Catnip and Grinder have each other and can commit so many crimes fr! I can't wait for them to reunite with the rest of their cast buddies in the Netherlands!

[where-the-water-flows]

hey terrible di fortress logistics realisations that maybe everyone else has already had, but:

di fortress uses mind control bugs

di fortress also produces a lot of dead kids.

the other mind control bugs we see explicitly depend on human brain matter to...exist? reproduce??

which leads me to two interrelated points.

is part of the reason di fortress goes so hard for death match training (other than just the cult/brainwashing uses) that they need a constant supply of human heads to keep breeding their mind control bugs? 1.1. sub horror realisation - once you start using the kids who die in training to produce more bugs to train more kids, it's a pretty easy slope from 'we need more heads for more bugs' -> 'kill more kids in training' -> 'kids who are trained more brutally either survive to be better at killing or can produce more bugs, which we need, because the attrition rate is now Very High' ->'there are twenty of you in a room, only one of you will be alive come dawn'. (and that's before you tag in any cult/religious/social reasons that influence a group in the direction of being the jianghu's no good very terrible combination orphanage/meat grinder)

is part of the reason the di fortress bugs are 'lower level' than the karmic bugs not just that they're straight up less powerful, in the way that a stick of dynamite is less powerful than an atom bomb, but also because they're being raised in the skulls of children, and thus have less access to brain matter/marrow/whatever it is they're actually eating. like island dwarfism, but for mind controlling bugs.

[see-arcane]

Blood of My Blood: The Law's Delay

Shout out to @ibrithir-was-here for putting up with my never-ending goal of overfilling the glorious Blood of My Blood AU with my ramblings and extra shout out to @everchangingfungusthoughts and @animate-mush for tripping me down the slope of Writing Another Text Brick. Specifically via this whole thing.

Summary: Jonathan Harker, now fifteen years deep into his life at Castle Dracula, finds himself the unwilling guest of yet another frightful host and his company. Talk and violence and time tick by.

The sun sinks low.

The dead travel fast.

And a vital Lesson is taught regarding the Law of the land.

Warnings for graphic violence, suicide, and murder.

Jonathan’s head ached.

Partly from the agonized spot at the back of his skull where the cudgel had struck. Mostly from the state of his current company.

They were nomads, he knew, but not Dracula’s men. This lot were too fresh for that. In fact, some wore tailoring that the locals weren’t accustomed to apart from tourists and the occasional city dweller passing through. He wouldn’t bet money on how many were ‘donated’ from past victims and how many were afforded through helping themselves to said victims’ purses and personal cheques. They were a dapper group, whichever the case.

From what he picked up while feigning unconsciousness, there was someone missing from their assembly. Someone’s…paramour? Wife? A young woman close to the presumed leader. Some grousing about superstitious idiots. Counter-grousing about precaution and history and how somebody’s cousin’s friend was slaughtered by the ‘superstitions.’ A third sect was grumbling about how thin Jonathan’s pockets were for a supposed noble, monster or not.

“A half-full purse and a few strips of dried pork don’t particularly line up with your theory, Jacob.”

“Props, idiot. Would some common huntsman be wearing what he wears? Would he have these?”

Jonathan heard the heavy jingle of his set of the castle’s keys. They had taken the ring of them from its chain among a handful of other lightweight treasures. All that and his wedding ring. That would cost them.

“Oh, yes. Of course. Because all the revenants who run a swatch of the Carpathians’ government are surely wandering around with frightful things like jerky and house keys.”

“Are you blind? Do these look like house keys? Half of them look older than the mountains!”

“Well, perhaps that is the ‘prop’ of his property, eh? A fancy set of keys made to look old. They certainly haven’t any rust. It wouldn’t be a terrible gimmick these days. Everyone is a fiend for the local bogeyman or a good haunting. I would do tours with my own castle, dribble a little red sauce on my lip, charge a fee for the thrill and the courtesy of not killing anyone on the way out.”

“You talk like it’s a joke. This, when I was raised in these godforsaken crags, and my own neighbor lost their newborn and its mother in the same night! The father blew his brains out when he found what was left of them in the forest. His forest.” The words were hissed in Jonathan’s direction. “God! If we had known how easy it was to take him by daylight!”

There was a snort. The leader’s voice. Sour.

“You say ‘we’ like you weren’t still in nappies, Jake. Like the castle in question isn’t a fortress on a cliff in the dead center of the mountains, all covered with wolves and your frightful bloodsuckers. What would Mama and Papa do if they knew better back then? March all the way up with the neighborhood and hope they made it in time before sunset? That’s assuming the advised tools of the trade actually mean anything against the bastard in question. If he’s as old as legends claim, throwing himself through a hundred wars’ meat grinders with his head and heart and all his other giblets getting minced, with him still standing after it, who’s to say an axe and stake are enough?”

A kick was delivered to the chair Jonathan sat bound to.

“Assuming this piece of work is said bastard.” Spoken with equal parts resignation and frustration. “I’ll grant he looked a bit off in broad daylight. Sure as hell would pass for a cadaver. But if this is the man who had your slovenly little villages soiling themselves after dark, I’m not impressed.”

Snickers from most of the room. A few grimmer sounds from the believers.

“If you don’t believe us, then—,”

“I believe in precaution, Jake. There are strange things in the world. If we want to believe that talking pile of dust, Vordenberg, who I’ll admit was a museum exhibit in his own right, we had us a near miss back in Gratz. So, fine. We finish this in the fashion of the locals. We can even set the pieces on fire if it makes you happy. Not the point. The point is—,”

A hand caught in Jonathan’s hair and wrenched his bowed head up, making the back of his skull throb anew.

“—we know Katrina was seen with you last, you ghoul.”

Jonathan opened his eyes. It had a noticeably sobering effect on much of the room. His host even eased his hold enough to stop trying to rip Jonathan’s hair out. A glance was spared for the assembled party. Easier now that he wasn’t doing it through his lashes. They really were a well-dressed bunch. One of them even wore the silver watch taken from Jonathan’s pocket quite well, though it clashed somewhat with the dagger he was fiddling with. He’d sprung for a handle with a gold hilt.

“Well?” He received a last yank before the man flung his head against the back of the chair. “Where is she?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know anyone by that name. Could you describe her?”

“Oh, I doubt if she would give her real one out to anyone. But we know you know her, Count.”

Jonathan felt the headache blossoming into a migraine.

“Count?”

“Dracula,” the one called Jacob grated out. He stood close to the table with his hand near the aforementioned tools of the trade. A wood axe. A sharpened garden stake and a sledgehammer. Matches. But he, like the rest of his friends, was content to leave his other hand resting on the pistol at his hip. “Don’t think you can throw your word games around here, you leech. You are not boyar here. You are not even a monster by daylight. Just a man—,”

“A man I am talking to, Jake,” from the leader. He turned back to Jonathan. “You see we have some bias in the retinue. Now, Jake and his cadre believe you are, in fact, the same awful old man who likely played out his Báthory fantasies by killing off a few local rustics for kicks once upon a time. Same white hair, same carcass complexion, and some properly unhealthy-looking windows of the soul. As an aside, you have the same body heat as a slab from the butcher. If you had a chance of living beyond today, I might have recommended you see a doctor about your circulation.

“Because I, like the bulk of the room, am of the belief that you are Count Dracula in the sense that the original Count and some Countess loved each other very much and managed to squat your malformed self out into the world before croaking. And, before departing, father dearest passed on the family tradition of idly killing off whoever was convenient as a little hobby. Am I near enough?”

Jonathan said nothing. Chiefly because he was fighting a wave of nausea, but also because it allowed him to keep his gaze steady. The westward window was visible over his host’s shoulder.

“I asked you a question.”

“I will answer if you tell me how you possibly concluded that a middle-aged man walking in the woods was a nobleman.”

To his surprise, the man revealed his evidence: the tarnished gold clasp of a dragon sitting against a garnet setting. This would also cost them.

“Hard to imagine the average hiker idling around in that corner of the wilds with this particular emblem on his coat.”

“That’s true,” Jonathan nodded. “I am not a hiker or a hunter any more than I’m a count. I am only the castle’s retainer.”

“Ah, well. That’s different. We are men of the people, sir, and we take pride in doing our fellow servile class the courtesy of a quick death. It’s only the aristos and nouveau riche who get the extra effort. Them and bleached out old bastards who go around taking what’s ours. What’s mine.” Jonathan watched the man slide a handsome pearl-handled blade from his pocket. It had a very fine edge. “Case in point, a certain young lady, of the flaxen and doe-eyed variety, being spotted in town with an older man of very unique description, not two days ago. Who she left with in his goddamn caleche.”

The blade came down in a gleaming arc. It sank cleanly into Jonathan’s left shoulder. Jonathan screamed at this and at the blade being flicked out. The steel was wiped clean on his sleeve.

“It should go without saying,” the leader said over Jonathan’s noise, steadily dwindling into hard breaths behind his teeth, “that the locals have a few choice theories about just who and what the man driving those horses is. Human? Dead? Dracula or one of his cohorts? Anyone who’d know for certain is either underground or a living antique themselves. Oh. But they did point out you seemed polite enough, according to most. Not someone anyone is eager to shake hands with, but fair. If you are the old devil of before, the younger generation are relieved you’ve gone mellow with the new century. Well done on the new leaf.”

“They were lying,” Jacob intoned, the picture of exasperation. “We all used to lie about him! He had eyes and ears everywhere! You didn’t mention him aloud unless you wanted to wake up to your child missing or you yourself being drunk dry or taken apart! I’m telling you, Katrina is already gone or worse!” His hand clutched eagerly at the whittled garden stake. “Let us be done with this, Anthony.” 

Anthony gave his blade another cleaning swipe. He opened his mouth—

“The stake is wrong.”

—and closed it. He and the others peered down at Jonathan as he righted himself against the chair. The migraine was marching in circles around his head now, lighting fireworks and banging pans. At least his shoulder was a small distraction.

“Say again?”

“The stake. You haven’t finished the end of it. If you don’t burn the point down, harden it, the wood will just splinter if you don’t get it in one blow. One of you took the flint lighter from my coat, yes? Use that and save yourself the matches.”

The room looked owlishly at him. Jacob and his small band especially. Awkwardly, one of the latter fished out the stolen lighter and began cooking the point with its steady flame.

“See that? He’s already feeling accommodating.” Anthony clapped his palm with heavy chumminess against the wounded shoulder. Jonathan winced appropriately, stealing another squinting glance at the window. “Care to keep in this giving mood, or would you like me to even things out?” The blade pointed airily at Jonathan’s right shoulder.

“No need. I said before, I do not know anyone named Katrina. But I did give a ride to a young woman two days ago. Not ‘flaxen,’ though. Her hair was red.”

Anthony abruptly straightened. The blade twisted and fidgeted in his fingers.

“Red,” under Anthony’s breath. His brow furrowed. “She took the wig too?” There was a low murmur from the less vampirically-invested portion of the group, of that specific tone that declares ‘I told you so’ by vowels alone. Anthony whirled on these members like a viper. Several mouths snapped shut. “Did you lot have something you wished to share? Hmm? I’m all ears.”

Interest increased in the state of each other’s shoes, the floor, the lovely view of the mountains, and the progress of the stake. It was now neatly blackened and free of loose slivers. Jacob stood by with it, toying with it as Anthony had his knife. He kept trying and failing to meet Jonathan’s gaze.

“Ah,” Anthony grinned mirthlessly, “that’s what I thought you said.” The blade flashed. “Now, Count, Retainer, Whoever or Whatever, while you are being forthcoming, is she alive or dead? I confess I might be just as happy with one or the other at this point, so no need to fret over a lie.”

“She was alive the last time I saw her. I dropped her off outside Bistritz,” Jonathan said, clearly recalling turning the horses toward Bukovina. He winced again as Anthony laid a hand on the bleeding shoulder, driving his thumb against the wound as he leaned.

“And? How did the bitch pay for her ride? Did you introduce her to necrophilia or did she just throw my money at you?”

“Neither. I am a married man and you can tell I had no bank vault in my pockets. In any case, I must assume whatever she took from you was fair recompense.” Jonathan felt a shift come through him. The old cold tilt that made him lean three-quarters of the way out of humanity and into something else. Whatever it was that lit his eyes and froze the air around him. That made the entire room shift an unconscious inch back. “Considering the state of her face.”

Anthony’s own countenance squirmed between aggravation, anger, and a surreal flash of embarrassment. As if leaving the girl’s face mottled with patches in shades of plum and charcoal was the equivalent of friends overhearing a marital spat in the next room. The man’s lip curled, making the well-trimmed whiskers twitch.

“Do forgive me if my decorum isn’t up to your standards, sir. I tend to get a touch irate when the thankless sow I’ve been bedding not only comes within inches of blowing our cover over some brat who went and poked his head out at the wrong time, but has the gall to try and resign after a few threadbare months. As if I didn’t scrape the little strumpet out of the gutter with my own hands.” A storm roiled in the man’s face. “Had a whole life of gold ahead of her, getting to play out her idiot actress dreams, and she thanks us by taking off with three hotels’ worth of work. Over a goddamn toddler. But that is the way with women, isn’t it? Always falling apart over a babe.”

“Men as well, in my experience,” Jonathan hummed. His line of sight drifted back to Jacob, whose attention was now firmly split between Jonathan and the view from the west window. Even halfway through spring, the sunsets did still tend to rush in the mountains. Shadows were already starting to stretch.

“Personal experience?” Anthony asked with an appraising glance that saw value in the negatives with Jonathan’s mien. “Is there a little Dracula pup crawling around nursing on the countryside?”

“Oh, no. He’s grown out of crawling. Apart from roaming along the castle walls, when he wants to surprise me. There’s no getting away with it with his mother.” Jonathan swallowed a bitter lump, knowing it had to be heard aloud, “Or his father.” Jacob was looking at him now. This time Jonathan held his eyes as they grew an increment wider. A slight dew of sweat had formed on the young man’s brow. “I only know where they are half the time. But they can always find me.”

Anthony barked an acidic note that tried to be a laugh.

“Is this the part where you tell us you’ll be missed? That there’s some cavalry who will come seeking vengeance? Please spare yourself the storytelling. If you were anything other than a relic living off a skeleton staff you wouldn’t be driving your own horses or puttering around by your lonesome. Really, what we’re doing here is a public good. What’s the loss of one more parasite riding into the twilight of peerage’s relevance?”

“Regrettably, he has thought ahead on that,” Jonathan admitted. “The gold he’s already sitting on is kept partly for emergency seed money, but mostly as a memento. He’s been on top of the capitalistic pulse since 1652 going by the oldest records. Given another decade, I believe he’ll be a magnate in a dozen industries from here to the United Kingdom.” A genuine moue puckered his face. “He calls it investing in the live-stock. No, I didn’t think it was funny either.”

This he addressed to Jacob.

Jacob, who had to set the stake down because his hand was shaking.

Jacob, who had been keeping watch of him and the window and seen how blandly Jonathan greeted the approaching dusk.

Jacob, who had finally taken a closer look at what Jonathan wore under his coat. His coat, worn because he was always cold—a chill that he truly felt. Covering an ensemble of boots, long sleeves, and a high collar. In mid-April. 

“…You still have time,” Jonathan told him gently. “If you had your childhood here, you know there’s time. You still wear your crucifix, yes?” Jacob flicked his gaze up to Jonathan’s. His whole face seemed to shine with perspiration. He did not know what was wrong yet, what piece was missing, but he scented something. “Do you? Any of you?”

Jacob nodded jerkily. The men behind him did likewise. Some fidgeted at their shirts.

“That’s good. It sickens them, did you know? Stings them away from the throat.” Jonathan smiled for him. A sad curl. “Hold it out before you if you like.” He tipped up his chin. Just above the shirt collar was a glimpse of sickish color against the maggot-white skin. Something worse than a bruise. “You can check. Or ask one of your friends. But it does help to know for certain. To have it confirmed.” The smile grew worse in its apology. “There have been no vampire attacks in Transylvania for the past fifteen years. The youngest around here take it all as local legends. Parents’ and grandparents’ fairy tales. Because they grew up without knowing what you do. Without realizing why people stopped disappearing after dark when Count Dracula still rules here. When there are still sharp mouths to feed up in his mountains.”

Jacob gawped openly now. He looked strangely like the boy he might have been fifteen years ago, hearing his neighbors whisper and moan about the latest loss in the night. Fifteen years ago, when a foolish young Englishman had come to Castle Dracula, and everyone had known. No one had seen him again…supposing one belonged to a family who had moved away at last, daring their monstrous master’s ire to save their son.

“Oh, for God’s sake, what is this? Are we playing theatre now?” Anthony and his handful of fellow eye-rollers looked between Jonathan and Jacob as if expecting to spot some invisible party holding up script cards for them. “Jake, if you want to play at slaying the vampire, you are welcome to it. Get your stick and your hammer and have at it. Erik, take the axe.” He waved his blade like an impatient conductor with his baton. “Well?”

Jacob moved forward without the stake. His crucifix was held out as far as the cord would allow.

Then he hooked Jonathan’s shirt collar and pulled it open.

Jonathan hadn’t been able to get a good look at the full state of himself in some while. Occasionally he might steal a glance in a mirror for sale or a clean shop window in town. There was rarely anything good to see as far as his development went. Age was not weathering him the way it would an ordinary man. What should have become the easy creasing of crow’s feet and smile lines had given way to something sunken and grey. More than a few children had come to nickname him ‘Herr Geist’ when he passed through. On one occasion, he’d been approached by an American claiming to be a talent scout for a circus who thought Jonathan could easily bill as, The Walking Corpse.

But that was all just the effect of his face. He hadn’t seen his throat or a clear view of his shoulders in years; the real estate with the greatest number of visits for fifteen years. It had to be at least twice as unpleasant a sight as his forearms, pocked by only one hungry mouth’s nursing. To judge by the shudder of revulsion that jolted the entire room back on its heels, his neck was apparently quite the visual.

To judge by Jacob’s expression, the discolored map of ruined skin and old punctures was his own obituary in all capitals. Nor was it a very peaceful end it spelled out. His eyes rolled up to Jonathan’s like wet marbles. Jonathan could no longer maintain his smile, however somber. There was only condolence in the look.

“I told you. I am Castle Dracula’s retainer. At least, in the sense of a retaining wall. I have played the role of its inhabitants’ personal bloodletting pantry for a quarter of a century. Which would be cause enough to worry. But I am also a married man and that is worse.”

Jacob wobbled on his feet like a sapling in a high breeze. He almost fell over with a cry when the first thunderclap boomed over the cabin’s roof. A horrified look shot to the westward window. Sunset was less than a jagged slit across the mountaintops, already erased in the smear of a rushing storm. Lightning drew livid eyes in the clouds.

“I am sorry. You might have had a chance if you hadn’t been cautious,” Jonathan went on. “There would have been a coin toss if you had simply shot me dead in the forest. I fear I am testing everyone’s patience in that household by keeping to my contract against turning until the twenty-year mark. Special occasion and all that. But if you had gone with a bullet or a slit throat, that would mean that I would be undead by sundown. You would still be slain for trespassing on private property,” he gestured to himself as best he could with his bound hands, “but it would have been tidier. They might even be grateful for ripping off the plaster and booting me over the threshold. A mere snapped neck apiece.  

“Unfortunately, I saw your tools of the trade. I heard your plans for ‘destroying the vampire,’ or the madman playing pretend as such. Heart staked, head removed, burn the body. All very thorough. But because I saw and heard these things, they saw and heard these things. Just as they know your faces now.”

Thunder snarled again. An explosive sound joined with a noon-bright flicker of lightning. Wolves sang a violent song. Close.

Jacob’s friends within the gang were talking in frantic tones to each other. The rationalists of Anthony’s side of the room seemed a touch less comfortable where they stood, grasping at their holsters. Anthony himself looked as if he was waiting to wake from a particularly confusing dream.

Jacob’s eyes were running. Pleading. A man only five short years past being a boy.

Jonathan still could not hold a smile for him, but he spoke in the tone he had for Quincey the time he’d came across a bat with a half-broken neck in the forest. Wings smashed, head cracked open, it had been alive in the worst way. Quincey had been thirteen then, considering himself practically a skip away from adulthood. He had still gone to his Papa, eyes dewy with blood trying not to spill, asking please…please…

Jonathan thought back to how his son had hidden in his coat sleeve while he ended the creature’s pain with a brisk twist.

It was quick, you see? It won’t hurt anymore now, shh, it’s alright, son.

“It’s alright,” he said in the present. “You still have time.” Not much. A few minutes at most. But still, “You’ll be safe from it. From all of it.”

Jacob nodded with a twitch. A puppet on a caught string. His hand trembled as it held up the crucifix again.

“…May I keep this? After?” Jonathan nodded. “Thank you.”

Jacob kissed the Cross and tucked it under his shirt.

“Jake, I swear to God, if you don’t drop this act, I will—,”

Bang.

The sound was almost lost in another thunderclap. Not so for the sound of Jacob’s corpse hitting the floor, the new tunnel in his head oozing a scarlet pond out from under his skull. There was a moment of quiet.

Then the wolves bayed again.

The men bayed too. Curses and questions of equal inanity whirled around the room.

Bang.

The sound of Anthony’s own pistol firing a hole through the ceiling.

“Shut. Up. Every one of you, bite your idiot tongues.” The barrel swung to point at Jonathan’s temple. “He says he has people on the way? He says they’re vampires or werewolves or the Four Horsemen a-riding? Then it would perhaps behoove us to think rather than squeal like women over this,” his shoe struck Jacob’s corpse, “fool’s choice of exit. Coward.” He snapped his fingers at the room. “Come on! Block the windows, set up arms! Move!”

And so they moved. Some men scrambled and shouldered into each other trying to cover the windows. Chairs were broken into pieces for stakes. Guns were unpacked and loaded. Erik held the axe as if his hands were welded to it. Anthony, meanwhile, took one of the unbroken chairs for himself and perched at Jonathan’s side. Something between supreme irritation and a baffled sort of wonder shaped his face.

“I do have to give you credit if this is all improvisation on your part. You should have been booked at the Grand Guignol instead of rotting up here.”

Jonathan watched Erik begin to pace, gripping the axe as though it doubled for a shield.

“That or one of those hypnotist acts. Jake was always a nervous one. An easy mark, ironically enough.”

Jonathan’s peripheral caught on Erik’s figure as he came to a stop by the door. There was no peephole to spy through, yet he inclined his head toward it. His ear was cocked as if listening for something under the thunder and wolves.

“But supposing this amounts to something more than an act, I admit I’m curious to see what these things are supposed to be like outside the pulp on the bookshelves or clogging up the stage. Everyone has their opinion on them these days.”

Erik first frowned, then nodded at the bolted door. The anxious creases of his face began to smooth. A smile tugged his lips up as the axe lowered.

“Are they the same kind of horror show as you?”

“Usually quite the opposite,” Jonathan allowed. “But that is by choice. They make some rather impressive exceptions when the occasion calls for it.”

Erik set the axe down. His freed hands moved the wooden bolt aside and reached for the key on its hook. This didn’t go unnoticed. The nearest man, one of Jacob’s friends, jolted toward him.

“Erik, what the hell are you doing?”

“Didn’t you hear her?” Erik spoke over him in a dreaming lilt. “The girl outside. Lovely voice.” He turned the key in the lock. “She and her brother got lost in the storm.” He turned the knob. “Wouldn’t be right to leave them out th—,”

Bang.

Erik dropped like a felled tree. Jacob’s friend whirled on the rest of the room, his gun and free hand up. He had his crucifix worn outside his shirt now.

“I had to! You know I had to! Jacob and old Vordenberg laid it out, didn’t they? You invite the things in and it’s all over!” He pointed at the door with the new stain on its timber. “One of them is out there right now, trying to worm into our heads, so we’ll let it over the threshold.”

As every eye nailed itself to the man and the door and the second corpse within five minutes, no one paid attention to the fireplace. They had not lit it, having opted solely for lamps. Chimney smoke would give away their location to anyone happening by the area.

Only Jonathan stared at the open stone mouth of the hearth. Watching what crawled out. Watching it watch him.

Anthony swatted Jonathan in his bad shoulder. He looked up and realized he’d been asked a question.

“Pardon?”

“Is he. Telling. The truth. Or did Erik lose his brains over nothing?”

“A vampire cannot cross the threshold of someone’s home without invitation. I think, at a stretch, you could call this temporary base of yours ‘home.’ Strict definition is tricky for travelers. But if you declare this place yours—,”

“We do,” insisted half the room in unison.

“We do,” Anthony echoed, somewhat dryly. “Our lovely domicile, this. And we are strictly against welcoming any visitors tonight.”

“Understandable. But there’s still the trouble of this afternoon. It’s hard to be more insistent about an invitation than resorting to abduction.”

“And? What of it?”

The fireplace continued to purge its contents out and out and out. Cooling the room like a thin and steady gust. Heads finally began to turn as gooseflesh spread and the sight became unignorable: A thick mist had been pouring into the room since Erik’s brains splattered on the door.

“You thought I was Count Dracula. Whether I was him or not, he was the man you wanted here.” Jonathan looked Anthony in the eye. He was not surprised at what he found there as it squirmed and sweated. “I’m afraid you invited him in two hours ago.”

The lamps guttered. One snuffed. Then its neighbor. A third, a fourth. Voices raised in tandem with the weapons.

“Light them!” came the universal cry. “Turn them back up, come on!”

But the room blackened and blackened until it came down to one canny fellow who’d dived for a lantern. The same man who’d pocketed the flint lighter. He lit the lantern and set it shakily on the table, its glow seemingly safer than the lamps’. The lighter was almost as bright in his hand, making a spotlight for himself in the ruddy gloom.

“What? What is it?”

Every head was turned to face him. Every eye wide enough to show its whites, like the stares of startled horses. The man opened his mouth to utter a third query—and stopped.

There was a hand on his shoulder. Cold. Far colder than the man he’d taken the lighter from. Its fingers ended in claws.

Above his head, the firelight caught on what might charitably be called a grin. It was, in fact, the default state of Count Dracula’s jaw in this shape. A medley of the wolf and the bat and the nightmares that are born when children’s imaginations first start to sketch the things that will eat them in the dark.

Jonathan wished he could have closed his eyes for all that followed. He did try. But there was an implicit order sunk into his mind that demanded he watch. Had this been a decade ago, this may have been for the sake of an object lesson.

This is what I can do. This is what I would have done to your little hunting party at the right hour, with your guard down for an instant. This is what I will do to any sheltering cattle you try to run away to with wife and child. Watch, my friend. Watch.

But that was practically a lifetime past. They were coming up on a mere five years until the wait was over and his free will and the final fig leaf of humanity was forfeit. Which suggested that he was a captive audience solely for the fact that an audience was desired. There was some artistry to it all, in a medieval sense. Some of the acts performed with the makeshift stakes and the barrels of guns and certain repurposed bones reminded Jonathan of old woodcuts left out for him to see once upon a time, back in that first summer alone with the castle’s Master.  

By the time one of the men died choking on his own severed arm, the rest of the lot stopped shooting and herded themselves to the door, desperate. To their relief, there was no vampire at the threshold. They fled.

A heartbeat passed before the screaming began anew. Gunfire mingled with it. The screaming dwindled down and down, the choir thinning to a single shriek that ended on a terrible sound. Wet and crunching. Wolves were heard soon after.

Anthony had not moved from his position behind Jonathan’s chair. He’d resumed his grip on his hair, this time holding his blade just below the Adam’s apple.

“If you don’t have a head,” Anthony panted at the Count, now busy picking gristle from the spades of his nails, “you can’t be undead. The plays make a lot of fuss about staking the heart, but this?” He tugged Jonathan’s head back another inch and pressed the blade’s edge until the skin broke. “I figure it’s a fair bit more vital. I am a practiced man at my profession and quick when I need to be. You want him in one piece instead of two, you leak yourself out the door, call off your pets, and I’ll send him on his way come sunrise.” Though he couldn’t see him, Jonathan was certain the man was trying to smile. “If you’re amenable, perhaps we can even get a silver lining out of this whole thing.”

Dracula sucked a piece of sinew out of his thumbnail.

“I am accustomed to getting my hands dirty. While I’ve been in the habit of leading assorted hapless dregs around, I can easily see myself following someone worth respect. Your friend here indicated he’s on the edge of retirement anyway, and I imagine you could do with someone to step into the role. Or add to the ranks.”

Dracula busied himself with scanning the floor. He plucked up the silver watch still chained to a torso that was twisted like a wrung washcloth. A scowl was spared upon retrieving the key ring from a puddle of a head. Then the pouch containing Jonathan’s allowance. He deposited each bit of treasure found on the table. The last thing he discovered was Jonathan’s wedding ring. He seemed to ponder flicking it aside, but saw Jonathan watching. The ring was dropped in the pile the way one might discard a clump of dirt.

“Well?” from Anthony. “Do you talk or not?”

“I do,” from the Count. “Though not usually to vermin. Especially ones who raid my pantry.”

“Honest mistake on our part. I hadn’t realized you were the one-in-a-thousand legend that isn’t just the fumes of an invented ghost story.”

“I see.” Dracula bent and retrieved the stake that had its point burned. It left the holster of a man’s sternum with a damp sound. “And this too was a mistake?”

“Just trying to placate the skittish sorts in the party. You saw how Jake was.”

“I did.” The Count tapped the stake’s point against his chin, pondering. “In fact, I think I recall a face like his. A sailor I met once. He took to the sea, having no bullet in reach.” He leveled the stake at Anthony’s head. “You called him a coward for this, yes?”

“Am I wrong?”

“There is a fine line between cowardice and wisdom,” Dracula shrugged. “It moves more than you would think. Little Jacob was wise tonight, if sadly mistaken in his target. He was not the first of his type. Likely not the last. The same goes for you, vermin. You, who squeak and chitter about preying upon the predator, and then try to sell yourself to the cat.” Though much of his face had reset to a human shape, the Count’s teeth remained a bristling forest of white needles when he grinned. “I have had this land in my jaws for half a millennium. I have not gone a single century without your like slinking underfoot, thinking to kiss my cape and offer a tithe of others’ throats to win my favor. My power.”

“Way of the world, isn’t it? Strong bows to stronger. What makes this cadaver,” another jerk on Jonathan’s hair, another throb in his skull, “so special? Better resumé? Seasoned arteries?”

“A number of things.” Another shrug, a twirl of the stake like a toy. “He does so hate to hear it anymore. It has been so long since any kind of praise heartened him and age has made him shy. But he cannot shush me, so I can say he does far more than bleed, be it himself or his victims of old. He certainly has a more impressive history than robbing and gutting tourists for a living, and so is far more attuned to the Law of this land than any other. Not the yapping dogs of mortal authorities. Not your jailor or judge or bureaucrat. Not even those of the sciences, such as they are.”

Thunder cracked and lightning danced. The Count’s eyes burned brighter than the lantern.

“He knows that I am Law in these mountains. That my will, my word, and my want order all that is here. He knows that there is no escaping consequence for trespassing upon what is mine. But.” The Count clapped the stake into his open palm with the joviality of a cruel teacher with his yardstick. “Beyond all this, he is something which guarantees his value over yours or any other’s. He warned you himself.” The jagged grin turned almost saccharine. “He is a married man. And you have kept him out far too late for his spouses’ liking.”  

Anthony shifted behind the chair. The grip on Jonathan’s hair shuddered a moment as if suddenly repulsed to be touching it.

“God. Even the monsters are in on that depravity up here?”

“Depravity is a pastime of mine. But I am not so low as to debase myself by touching filth like yours.” So saying, the Count raised both hands in mock surrender. “I shall not waste my time or teeth on you.”

“Fine. Fine, you say that and I can believe you. Once you’re out the door.”  

The door, still open.

The door, which Anthony had not dared to look at for fear of taking eyes off the Count.

The door, full of mist.

“Ah, but I cannot go yet. There is a show I have been so looking forward to. You mentioned the Grand Guignol. Such a promising establishment! I plan to see it in person some night. But for now, we must content ourselves with your meager scene.”

Anthony opened his mouth to ask something. Say something. Maybe he was just drawing breath. Whatever the reason, his mouth froze in a voiceless O of epiphany.

There was a hand on his shoulder. Cold.

It distracted him from the other, decorated with its simple gold band, locking around the man’s forearm; the one responsible for holding the blade.

Snap.

Anthony’s mouth dropped open wider, belting a screech that left Jonathan’s ears ringing. Then the man was torn away from the back of the chair and all the noise of him was pinned and shrilling on the floor. Laced over the ensuing sounds of his dismantling, both vocal and visceral, was a voice that threaded through the mind more than the ear:

He cut you. Twice he cut you.

“I’ll be fine, Mina.” Said because there was concern in the statement. There was. But, more pertinently, there was the accusation. The condemnation. The citing of the crime.

He cut you. He meant to kill you. He meant to unmake you out of reach forever.

Anthony made a new and piercing noise. The kind just an octave short of a dog whistle. Jonathan winced.

“And he failed to. It’s alright, Darling.”

“Hardly,” from the Count, now turning Anthony’s abandoned seat around to face the slaughter. “You are too soft as always, my friend. Even when it comes to a rightful culling. Or do you think they deserved to live after their crimes?”

“I think this was excessive.” Jonathan withheld a sigh as Dracula hooked the back of his chair, hoisting and turning it so that his back was no longer to Mina’s work. She seemed to have an innate understanding of what could be taken apart and to what degree, the better to leave Anthony still clinging miserably to a thread of life. “And I also think I’m ready to have these off.”

He flexed his hands and feet as far as they could go against the ropes.

“Have what off?” Dracula asked as he swiped a finger into the shoulder wound. A child stealing cake icing. He clicked his tongue. “This would happen just after a feeding. All this guilt-free cuisine and your knights-errant are too full to enjoy the banquet. A pity. Have you eaten?”

“If I had my hands free, I could get my—,” Jonathan pursed his lips as Dracula brandished a bouquet of the retrieved dried pork. Deciding against waiting for the mesmer to prod him into it, he opened his mouth a crack. Bit. Chewed.

“Do you suppose the Grand Guignol has concessions? Any actual blood used in place of the stage swill?”

Jonathan swallowed. A nauseous feat, considering the piece Mina removed from Anthony in the same moment. 

“I doubt any director is so dedicated, Sir.” Anthony was growing quieter now. There wasn’t enough air in him. Jonathan could tell by the glimpse of lung through his ribs. “Does Quincey know about this?”

No. It was blocked from him. He believes we are out on business.

Crunch. Twist. Rip.

Anthony went silent and still at last. Dracula afforded this a light round of applause.

“Not wholly a lie, you will grant. Though I suspect the boy thinks it was code for a more,” the Count made a face caught between glee and disdain, “intimate excursion. Which should be an easy enough ward against any prying you fear from him. You may have made a sickening romantic of the boy, but there is never a child alive or undead who wishes to know what his parents get up to out of his sight.” The Count craned his head, squinting at what was left of Anthony. “Did you come across it?”

That depends. Where’s mine?

Mina stood with the dragon clasp in one red hand and her other held out and open. Dracula idled a moment or three longer than was necessary before the stolen wedding band was produced. Clasp and ring were thrown rather than exchanged. Jonathan had each reattached to him. Though the Count spared a curse in three different languages at finding the coat not only mangled at the shoulder, but torn where the clasp had been ripped away.

“As if they could not understand the mechanics of a brooch? You should have pinned this in his eye.”

You should have fed him the stake. Look at this.

Mina touched the nick on Jonathan’s throat.

I know you count my wound as a blessing, but I would think you’d not risk losing his voice.

“I had to stall while you cleared up the leftovers outside. I may as well have left you with the boy.”

And lost your show and your diversion.

“You—,”

“I cannot feel my feet anymore,” Jonathan announced. “And I would like to stitch and plaster myself before we head out. Whatever Quincey may think we’re up to, it will be easier to lie without me looking like I just left,” he gestured as best he could at the room, “this.”

A minor miracle came and went as there was no suggestion made that they simply lay a new bite apiece over the wounds. The ropes were cut, what was filched was returned to its owner, give or take a little scavenging of their own. Jacob and the others were left with their tokens of the Son. Outside, the wolves went on enjoying the meal Mina had left for them. Up until a titanic thunderbolt struck the cabin and sent them scrambling. The building went up like a great bonfire.

“I know, my friend, you were clearly looking forward to digging more graves. But you must admit my method is quicker and far more thorough in erasing evidence.” The nettling cadence waned. “I suggest you avoid wandering away from the castle for some time. Considering your state.”

Not while dressed in this, at the very least. It’s clear this insignia draws as much ire as it deters.

“A fluke,” the Count huffed. “Such degenerates as those are rare. The chattel know better. Besides, the folly was in drawing attention by playing Good Samaritan to the wrong victim and her maudlin pleading. Something else to keep in mind.” Jonathan tried and failed to keep his head down as the hook landed in his mind and turned his eyes up. Dead blue against burning red. “At least for as long you insist on holding to your last few years as…this.”

Jonathan bit into his last strip of the dried pork. Loudly.

“Five years. That’s all.”

“Four and a half.”

“Four and a half I mean to savor. In-between being waylaid.” The careful placidity fractured as his free hand drifted up to the back of his skull. Still aching. “I think I shall finish off the Golden Mediasch tonight.” His hand was plucked away by Mina’s own, her chilled fingers seeking out the tender place under his hair. Her fingertips felt the scabbing patch.

I should have skinned him.

“You are welcome to stroll through the fire and do so,” the Count hummed. But his smile stopped short of his eyes and his own hand swept Mina’s away to thumb at the ache. “The Mediasch is barely more than fruit juice. You will want something stronger.”

Jonathan didn’t argue. Nor did he protest when the horses of his ex-hosts were commandeered for the return to the castle. Quincey thrilled at the sight of them almost as if they had arrived riding wolves. Was this the business they went on? Tunet and Pretekár were quite new—and solid obsidian as the horses before had been—but it was good to see them gain more company. And they’d picked piebald this time!

“They’re beautiful. Do they have names yet?”

“Thought we’d leave that to you,” Jonathan managed lightly enough. Or nearly so. Quincey frowned at him, nose pricking at the smell of dried blood.

“Papa, are you alright? You—,” his eyes landed on the coat, “—what happened?”

 “Just a quick lesson from our new friends about minding their moods. I was tossed and landed in a less than opportune pile of rocks.”

Quincey scowled at that and scrutinized the stallions.

“Which one? I’m not riding him. Or petting him, even.” He considered. “At least for a month.”

“Seems a cruelty too far. I suppose I just won’t reveal the guilty party.”

“And what if I get on the wrong horse and I get tossed and land on a rock somewhere? What then?”

“Then you will get back up and be perfectly alright. Or am I misremembering the night you fell asleep on the side of the north turret and fell through half a tree on your way down?”

“Yes, well. They were fairly soft branches.” Quincey fought and lost the attempt to keep his smile up. “Papa?”

“Yes?”

“The horses weren’t the actual business, were they? You could have gotten them yourself.”

“That’s true. The horses were only picked up afterward. Quite a bargain, not counting the lumps.”

“Then what happened?”

Jonathan looked at his son. His Sweetheart, though the boy had finally started to bud into that stage that visits all adolescents, demanding a shedding of childhood names. There was a dusting of stubble barely fringing his jaw and his mother’s own whorls outgrowing the edges of his last haircut. But the eyes were still a child’s. Bright and molten as the sun at dusk.

“…There was some trouble two days ago. I aided a girl trying to leave behind some people who hurt others. Who hurt her. They had some less than scrupulous plans for the future and had already bypassed local authorities to get where they were by the time I crossed them. So I reached out for some assistance.” And, because he felt the air prickling with observation, “Your Father was very keen to educate them on the difference between the laws of other lands versus the Law of his land. And your Mum has always been of a rescuer’s bent as a rule. So.”

“So Mum and Father caught them? Together?” The sunset eyes gleamed at the prospect.  

“They did,” Jonathan nodded.

“Were they bandits?”

“Of a sort. But they won’t hurt anyone now.” Jonathan watched from the corner of his eye how the boy, so near to a young man, glowed over the notion of being a son to heroes.

He got to the tower before he felt his eyes begin to sting as sharply as his head.

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (XIII)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

PART ONE is here PART TWOis here PART THREEis here PART FOUR is here and PART FIVE is here PART SIX is here and PART SEVEN is here PART EIGHT is here PART NINE is here PART TEN is here PART ELEVEN is here PART TWELVE is here and this is part thirteen??? Hello??

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts

Where we last left off...

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

…Bart doesn’t really do patience.

He doesn’t have to, so he doesn’t. Growing up in a world that wasn’t exactly real didn’t make for a real strong understanding of reality, or timing, or estimating how long something takes, or how long it would take a garden-variety human to complete a task.

He sits in the chair. He kicks his legs.

So. Bart doesn’t really do patience. When he wants to make his way through a book, it takes a few seconds to read through the whole thing at his standard pace. It’s great! Finishing the Troy Dodson series had taken ten minutes. He watched the full set of movies on quadruple-fast mode in about half an hour, and then still had the time to show up to the tower for trivia with the team that afternoon. It had been Crash!

And when—when Bart had wanted to learn how to cook, he went through half the recipes in Ma Kent’s copy of The Delights of Cooking in two days flat. And that was with missions. He even taught himself how to prepare squirrel from the back of the book! It tasted…uh, weird, sure, but that might have been his substitution of Caribbean jerk seasoning for garlic powder.

Patience is… Well, when Bart is on a mission and he has to wait for everyone to go at a human-comprehensible speed when laying out the plan of action, that’s patience. Sometimes he jumps the gun a little, maybe—but usually it all works out!

And when Bart has to wait for Barry and Wally to be free and off work for their day jobs, because they’re adults with real world things they have to do and Bart’s just—well, he’s—he tries to be patient! And he distracts himself with other things, and he takes the time to explore the world and get in new experiences he couldn’t have before in his own little virtual world, and he tries new things, and he eats new foods, and then Wally or Barry shoot him a text or ring him up and then he’s back in town in seconds anyway!

…But there isn’t a way to speed this along.

The doctor with the cute cat lanyard and Wonder Woman both have been trying to explain to Bart how bad the damage is. But Bart can tell. He has eyes.

His friend is physical now, but he’s not…right. His face is caved in, like someone hit him really really hard, or someone gouged out the whole front face of his skull—Bart can’t see any red matter, but that’s because of the pulsing green sheath that’s covered all of his friend’s open injuries.

And there’s a lot of green.

That means he’s super injured. Bart can see most of his glowing green not-face through the window of the metal tube his friend is sleeping in.

It’s not just his missing face, his crooked jaw, or his barely-moving chest, or his green-soaked fingers anyway; there’s open pits in his chest, slathered in green goo that shifts when he breathes and glows just a little in the odd light of the medical wing, lumpy and half-scarred from stitches that were sloppily applied. Utilitarian.

Tim told Bart that the sutures were probably meant more to prevent extra clean-up in a lab setting than to keep Bart’s friend alive.

…Bart doesn’t really want to think about that.

There are lime-tinged scrapes and scars across and around his friend's hands and up his arms, verdant-veined legs that aren’t exactly the right shape and orientation legs should be, crevasses in his stomach, his chest, against his collarbone, and the clawed-out pit where a face should be.

All green. So green. Like grass… Like the Earth, when Bart comes home from space.

It’s scary. It’s frightening.

Wonder Woman gave Bart a hug and said it would be okay when the Medical team started to apply white-swathed casts around misaligned legs, and Bart almost cried. The medical team thinks the green is his friend’s body working on healing him. That Bart’s friend will be okay.

Bart lets everyone say comforting things, because it’s kind when everybody’s kind. But Bart’s been an experiment in healing the unhealable and he knows as much as anyone else does that there’s simply no way to know if his friend will be okay.

But his friend isn’t alone like he was. Bart makes sure of it.

So he sits at his friend’s bedside, eats a granola bar, kicks his feet in the stiff chair Medical had to offer him, and Bart practices his patience.

By the end of this, he might even be good at it.

[thefouraboveall]

Yet more Khorne updates. In order to give a nod to Khorne's interest in machinery, I decided to build on a previous update to his design. Originally, the spines I added were completely biological. Now, some of them are machine replacements, making Khorne effectively a cyborg creature. Not too far outside the realm of possibility-- Juggernauts, Skull Cannons, Soul Grinders, and the Clockwork Bloodsworn were are all cybernetic combinations of Daemon and Machine.

In order to preserve SOME consistency between this and previous designs, the back spines are retractable (and yes it is a bloody affair, naturally). That and I don't think sitting in a throne with those things out all the time would be comfy. The vague similarities to godzilla aren't an accident and in addition to fire, the Blood God's spines act as lightning rods. Red electricity arcs off of them, which he can also breathe in addition to fire.

He also has a tiny crown on his head, inspired by Hellboy, if you squint :3c

[pedge-page]

If Pedro dies in Gladiator 2 (very probable given his character description), please let it be a dramatic "stabbed in the stomach with a look of shock but slowly looks down at the quickly bleeding wound before collapsing" instead of ANYTHINGA TO DO WITH HIS HEAD. He's had enough HEAD TRAUMA RELATED DEATHS for a man ONLY 10 REAL YEARS INTO HIS CAREER. PLZ LEAVE THE FACE (and eyes) ALONE.

After eyes gouged out and skull crushed, shot in the head then head first into a meat grinder, and then more eye gouged out and tossed head first off a cliff, or stabbed with a pen in the neck ans eye gouged THEN decapitated, or a g*** **** to the **** (😶), IM DONE. IM DONE. Stab this man or get out of my FACE.

Or maybe... let him live 🥺