#split your lungs with blood and thunder

[epicwin64]

Mastodon - Blood and Thunder

Leviathan (2004)

[azazelsazaleas]

Saw a clip on the old Insta of Scott Ian and his kid jamming out to Blood and Thunder and I wanted to nerd out to one of my all time favorite metal bands but everything on the Mastodon tag here is about the social media platform so here’s some metal.

[furiouszealot]

SPLIT YOUR LUNGS WITH BLOOD AND THUNDER

[moonmaiden1996]

Bound by Fate Chapter 8

1, 2,3,4,5,6,7

Yasopp, Lime Juice, and Hongo dragged you through the chaos of the marketplace, weaving through a crowd that had devolved into a panicked, writhing mass driven purely by terror. Shanks’s unleashed Haki had transformed the once-vibrant bazaar into a battlefield, its air saturated with fear and desperation. Bodies littered the ground where they’d fallen, unconscious or trembling, their faces twisted in agony. Others staggered and screamed, their cries swallowed by the suffocating pressure of his overwhelming presence. Stalls that had once burst with color and life now lay in ruins—splintered wood, crushed fruit, and shattered glass trampled underfoot in the frantic exodus.

The air was a choking haze of sweat, blood, and smoke, every breath clawing at your lungs. The raw tang of destruction lingered on your tongue. Around you, the world blurred into a hellish whirl of fragmented sounds and jagged motion. The cacophony of breaking stalls, desperate wails, and distant roars hammered at your senses, but within the protective cocoon of the pirates surrounding you, the chaos was dulled—eerily muted, like the muffled calm at the heart of a storm. Your pulse thundered in your ears, drowning out all thought. The sting of your bitten lip was the only thing grounding you to the present.

Lime Juice led the charge with unyielding determination, his grip firm but not cruel as he hauled you forward. His movements were precise, each step navigating a path through the carnage with an almost preternatural focus, as if he alone could see the way. Behind you, Yasopp was a shield against the press of bodies and debris, his movements fluid and practiced. He swatted away anything—or anyone—that threatened to close in, his sharp gaze scanning the crowd with deadly intent. Hongo flanked your other side, every muscle tense and coiled, his hand hovering near his weapon as his eyes darted relentlessly, searching for danger amid the pandemonium.

“Move faster,” Lime Juice growled, his voice low but edged with urgency. The command cut through the noise like the slash of a blade.

Nearby, the rest of the Red-Haired Pirates stood as living barricades against the tide of panic. Lucky Roux, his usual mirth nowhere in sight, was a wall of grim resolve, batting aside fleeing townsfolk with methodical precision. Monster’s massive frame dominated the streets, his movements deliberate as he swept through the chaos like a wrecking ball, clearing a path. Bonk Punch’s booming voice thundered above the hysteria, rallying his comrades with commanding orders. They were unrelenting, each one a fortress holding back the storm, carving a fragile path to safety in a world consumed by madness.

Finally, the edge of the marketplace came into view—a sliver of reprieve from the hellish chaos. As the cacophony dimmed, a narrow side street stretched out before you, its stillness oppressive after the turmoil. Half-shuttered windows cast flickering shadows over the cobblestones, their pale light trembling in the heavy air. The sharp scents of spilled ale and charred wood lingered, a bitter reminder of the devastation left behind. Lime Juice released your arm abruptly, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. Still, his body remained taut, as if ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. Yasopp and Hongo closed ranks around you, their stances tense, eyes scanning the darkened street.

“Don’t stop moving,” Hongo ordered, his tone sharp. Yet, beneath the edge of command, a flicker of unease betrayed the mask of control he fought to maintain.

From somewhere distant came the echoes of battle—clanging steel, the sporadic crack of gunfire—an unrelenting reminder that safety was still far out of reach. Then, splitting the night like a jagged blade, came Shanks’s roar. It was a primal sound, raw with anguish and fury, a force that made the very air tremble. The sound reached inside you, twisting your chest and clawing at your resolve, as if it were not merely heard but felt in the marrow of your bones.

Yasopp exchanged a tense glance with Lime Juice. “Where to now?” he asked, his voice taut but steady, a thin veneer over the strain beneath.

“We keep moving,” Lime Juice said firmly, his jaw set like iron. The words felt more like a mantra than a plan, as if he were convincing himself as much as the others. “We can’t let him catch us.”

The unspoken truth lingered, heavy as lead: If he did, none of them would survive.

The vibrations of the battlefield seemed to chase you, rattling the stones beneath your feet and pressing on your shoulders like an invisible weight. At last, Lime Juice veered sharply into the shadows of a dimly lit cafe, its door hanging slightly ajar. Inside, overturned chairs and scattered crockery spoke of a hasty abandonment. The stale scent of burnt coffee clung to the air, bitter and sour against the tension that clamped down on your chest. Without hesitation, Lime Juice dragged a table against the door with practiced efficiency, the scrape of wood against stone grating in the tense silence. Yasopp guided you to crouch behind an overturned booth, his hand briefly squeezing your shoulder in reassurance before he turned to scan the room.

Hongo paced restlessly, his agitation crackling like electricity. His fingers brushed the hilt of his sword with every step, and his jaw tightened with each pass. His sharp, darting gaze flicked to the door repeatedly, as though expecting it to burst open at any moment.

“We shouldn’t be hiding,” he muttered, his voice low but brimming with frustration. “Shanks is out there. The others are out there. We should be fighting.”

“Enough,” Yasopp snapped, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed his own misgivings. “This is the plan. We follow orders.”

Hongo froze mid-step, his glare cutting through the shadows. “That doesn’t make it right,” he said, quieter but no less intense. “We’re sitting here while he’s tearing himself apart out there—for what?”

“For her,” Yasopp replied simply, jerking his head toward you.

The weight of their argument pressed down on you like a physical force, guilt coiling tightly in your chest. “This is my fault,” you whispered, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. “It’s not fair. I haven’t done anything—”

“Don’t start that,” Lime Juice interrupted sharply, his tone clipped.

“But it is!” you cried, tears stinging your eyes. “He’s fighting because of this—because of me!”

“Because he loves you,” Yasopp said, his voice calm and unyielding. “That’s why we’re here. He gave us an order—to protect you.”

The words struck you harder than any roar or crash of battle. You opened your mouth to respond, but another deafening explosion shook the walls of the cafe, followed by Shanks’s guttural roar—feral, raw, and unrelenting. The sound reverberated through your bones, making the air itself feel alive with tension.

“We can’t stay here,” Hongo muttered, his hand already on his weapon. “We need to move.”

Lime Juice hesitated, his jaw tightening as he weighed the options. Finally, he nodded. “We’ll find a way out. Lock the door behind us. Don’t move from this spot,” he ordered you, his voice firm. “We’ll calm him down.”

Yasopp crouched beside you, his gaze steady but softened. “If anything happens—”

“I’ll be fine,” you cut him off, forcing a resolve you didn’t feel into your voice.

“Spicy food calms the nerves, you know.”

The door closed behind them with an ominous finality, leaving you alone in the cafe’s suffocating stillness. The silence felt alive, pressing down on you like a heavy shroud, broken only by the distant echoes of battle. You pressed a trembling hand to your chest, feeling the frantic hammering of your heart beneath your palm, as the weight of the night threatened to crush you.

The voice, warm and weathered, broke the suffocating silence like a crack of thunder. You spun around, heart hammering. An old man sat at a corner table, his sudden presence unnerving, as if he’d materialized from thin air. A tattered hat obscured most of his face, but his eyes—bright, sharp, and too knowing—pinned you in place.

With a steady hand, he pushed a steaming bowl of pasta toward you. The aroma struck immediately—rich and fiery, the heat of chili oil curling through the air. “Chili oil pasta. Eat. It’ll help.”

Your breath caught. “Who are you?” you demanded, your voice a tight thread of suspicion. “How did you get in here?”

He chuckled, the sound low and grating, like boots on gravel. “The door wasn’t locked,” he said simply, as if that explained everything. “And who I am? That’s not important.”

You stepped back instinctively, keeping the overturned booth as a barrier between you. The spicy aroma seemed to cut through the lingering chaos in your mind, the bowls curling steam rising between you. “Why are you here?” you asked, your words slicing through the tension like a blade.

The old man sighed, his shoulders sagging as though under an invisible weight. “To apologise,” he said. “The pollen—this bond. It wasn’t meant to unravel this way.”

The air in the room thickened. “You know about the pollen?” you asked, your pulse roaring in your ears.

He nodded slowly. “My grandmother used to tell me stories about Devil Fruit pollen. How it could forge unbreakable bonds between souls.” His voice dipped, heavy with regret. “I’d never seen it work before, but I thought…” He trailed off, his gaze falling to the table. “I thought it would bring balance. That it would awaken something natural between you two– mutually.”

His words struck like a cannon blast. Your hands gripped the edge of the booth, trembling under the weight of his confession. “Why?” you demanded, your voice raw with anger. “Why would you do this to us?”

His gaze darkened, his voice dropping to a quiet, resonant tone. “Because the world is breaking,” he said. “It’s choking on greed, despair, and cruelty. But love—real, unshakable love—brings hope. It inspires change. You and Shanks…” He met your eyes with startling intensity. “You’re going to make him stronger. Better. And through that strength, you’ll inspire others. The world needs heroes.”

The room seemed to warp around his words, their weight twisting in your mind. “You think forcing bonds will save the world?” you spat, fury shaking your voice. “You think you had the right to decide this for us?”

“I didn’t force anything,” the old man replied calmly, almost sadly. “Love either thrives or it doesn’t. The pollen only awakened what was already there.”

His words sank deep, unsettling something within you that you couldn’t name. You wanted to refute him, to deny the implication, but a small, unyielding part of you hesitated. “Shanks would never hurt you,” the man continued, his tone unwavering. “He can’t—not truly. His soul yearns for you. And this…” He gestured toward the door, where the faint, distant sounds of battle rumbled on. “This is his soul, fighting for you.”

The world narrowed to that single statement, its gravity pulling you under. “His soul?” you whispered, barely able to hear your own voice over the storm in your mind. “That doesn’t—”

“Make sense?” The old man smiled faintly, a shadow of sadness and understanding passing across his face. “It rarely does. But love—real love—makes heroes unshakable. Remember that.”

You glared at him, anger bubbling to the surface. “Pirates don’t make good heroes,” you said bitterly.

“Better than none at all,” he replied, his voice quiet but firm, as if it were a truth carved from stone.

Before you could respond, the old man stood, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He tipped his hat toward you in a strangely formal gesture, and without another word, he turned and walked to the door. Panic clawed at your chest.

“Wait!” you called, scrambling around the booth to follow him.

But by the time you reached the doorway, the night swallowed him whole. The cobblestone streets stretched out before you, empty save for the distant flicker of firelight. The battle raged on, its chaos a constant backdrop. You stepped out, searching frantically for any trace of him, but it was as if he’d vanished into thin air.

The cool night air pressed in, vast and suffocating all at once. You stood frozen, your thoughts churning. Somewhere in the distance, the echoes of Shanks’s fury roared, vibrating through the ground beneath your feet.

Had a very crappy week with exam presentation and work. So looking forward for the winter holidays and being able to write again.

LIKE. COMMENT. REQUEST

@commanderfreethatdust @hauntedluna

[mazikeenhyde]

Oh Baby, Pain is Pleasure FINALE - Part 1

I have had to split the Finale into two parts as it was just getting too long to post altogether, and I enjoy making you all wait…. 

POLY JUDGMENT DAY X READER (WRESTLER) 

Y/W/N �� Your Wrestling Name 

Y/W/N/F – Your Wrestling Name Finisher

WARNING – THESE WARNINGS COVER ALL PARTS OF THIS FICTION/ IMAGINE STORY- THEY MAY NOT BE SPECIFIC TO THIS PARTICULAR PART! - 

SERIOUS SMUT,  GIRL X GIRL, MAN X MAN, POLY RELATIONSHIPS/SEXUAL, BDSM, BLOOD, PANIC ATTACKS, SPANKING, VIOLENT REFRENCES, INJURY, ABUSE (CONSENTUAL) CHEATING, STALKERS/ STALKING, SMOKING/ CIGARETTES 

Part 1 Word Count - 4.5k (Hence why its in 2 parts!)

Tag List - @babybatlover @p0is0nl0ve @babiidee28 @darlingnikkisixx @commandershepardofthedas gooses-pond  rhiamaymay  scaraskzzs  (SORRY IF I MISSED ANYONE, IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED OR I MISSED YOU LET ME KNOW BELOW)

Oh Baby…Pain is Pleasure – Finale Part 1  

The stadium erupted into an overwhelming flood of cheering and chants from the many thousands of fans surrounding the ring. The barricades holding them back shook as they lept to their feet, signs which had been discarded in the air from excitement now lay on the floor amongst hundreds of sets of trainers, boots, high heels and the younger bare footed audience members. The once loved handmade card treasures, plastered with slogans and beloved wrestler’s names now trampled upon by wet footprints and washed out by the rain. 

The thunderstorm was now in full force, rain hammered down into the arena as thunder shook throughout, echoing inside that hellish cage. All hell had broken out inside the ring with every member from the opposing families in an absolute free for all brawl out with each other. 

Damian had Rowan up against the ring post as the two continued to trade blows with each other, their faces both semi blinded by the rain and fuelled with an anger which bestowed a look of utter discontent for any form of peace. These men were in it for pride, for love and for honour. Damian, who had now got one up and over a certain ramblin rabbit had climbed onto the second rope, pinning Erik against the post as he continued to hammer blow after blow to the head of the monstrous man. 

Finn and Dexter had somehow made their way out of the ring and into the gap between the steel framed cage as each of them were scrambling to pin the other one down long enough to secure any kind of balance. Dexter, who had made it back to his feet, grabbed Finn by the trouser cuff and launched him back into the ring whilst Dominik and Huskus were fighting tooth and nail across the mat, exchanging blows, kicks and punches. Again, neither one had quite managed to one up the other in such a well-balanced fight until I had run past in an effort to lock back up with Uncle Howdy, kneeing Huskus in the face and allowing Dominik to climb on top of him. 

Rhea and Abby meanwhile were tearing each other apart, feral and fearless as neither woman would let up or give in to their pain. 

With no referee inside and not one person willing to step back in line, it hadn’t taken long for management to act accordingly. Because if this war was ever going to settled, and they knew it needed to be, some form of control needed to be restored. 

The lighting colour scheme was quick to change, black and green lights flashed up across all the LED boards, glowing lettering plastered across each barricade…

‘ITS TIME TO PLAY THE GAME!!!’ 

Smoke bellowed through the doorways and down the entrance ramp as Triple H made his way into centre stage, shouting at the top of his lungs in an attempt to bring about some order of control. 

“ENOUGH!!!!” Paul’s voice was loud with a strong sense of authority, demanding his entitlement for respect. 

“CUT THE MUSIC! CUT THE LIGHTS! CUT THE GOD DAMN DRAMA FOR A MOMENT AND LISTENNN!!!!” 

The audience’s heads turned between the stage and then back to ring as not one person stopped fighting and not one person from either side of the battle was willing to listen or stand down. 

“STOP!!!!” He screamed out again before his voice shallowed out, trying to control the fury that was making his blood boil. His emphasis on specific words made his statements land in the dark parts of the soul that could recognise fear… and when someone meant every word they said. 

“The next PERSON to move from where they are standing! The next PERSON to throw a punch or lay their HANDS on another will be SUSPENDED!” 

We all froze, eyes deadlocked onto each other, with barley the ability or willingness to blink, body parts shaking in anger and fury as we all listened for the next ‘commandment’. Rhea’s hand was wrapped tightly around Abby the witch’s neck with her opposing fist raised in the air, while the witch’s knee was inches from being lodged into Ripley’s rib cage. 

Damian and Finn were being held against adjoining ropes by Dexter and Rowan as the two monsters had only just gotten the advantage before Triple H had come out to ruin our revenge. 

Dominik and Husk had managed to brawl and in turn fall out of the ring to the floor, they were now trapped in between the gap of the cage and the ring post like Finn had been before with Dex, exchanging blows to each other before the interruption. Dom’s hand now pushing Husk’s face further into the ground as he allowed his body weight to ease onto him, building pressure. That clever boy knew he had him pinned and that he wasn’t going to be able move anytime soon. He smirked down to the feeble weakling under his grasp, enjoying the dominance he rarely got to feel. 

Meanwhile I had already retrieved a beloved Kendo stick that had been secured above from the top of the cage and I had climbed my way back to the top of the ring post, gripping the top of the frame while howdy had been in pursuit. I was ready to use an aerial advantage and take this fucker out but after stopping my grip on the steel frame was starting to slip out from underneath me. My desire to drive the weapon straight across the back of Uncle Howdy felt like a dream come true. Shame I hadn’t been able to finish the job…yet. 

“Back. Away. From. Each. Other” Triple H’s words were blunt and begrudgingly we did as we were told, though admittedly I was relieved to finally let go of the cage that I had been slipping out from. Damian and Finn squared up to Rowan & Dexter as they were released from their grasp before making their way over to our side of the ring. 

Rhea had released Abby and tossed her to the side before reaching down to offer a hand to Dominik and help him back into the ring, though the boy wasn’t quite ready to allow Huskus back to his feet. But he did eventually do as he was told after Rhea gave him one of her stern looks and upon doing as he was told, a sultry wink after as a reward. She leaned into his ear, covering her lips and whispered…

“Enjoying being the dominant one I see Dom Dom, you make Mami very… very proud”  

Dominik grinned, licking his teeth and wiping the blood away from a busted lip before placing a hand over his crotch, jiggling around his package to try and calm down the ever-growing tension between his legs. 

I however, standing strong, stood face to face with the prick before me. Uncle Howdy looked down at me, his height towered mine to a degree and his demeanour was infuriating. It felt like he genuinely believed he was better than all those around him, as if he was far better than I could ever be.  He laughed as he stepped to the side and returned back to his family with open arms. Their celebrations glinted at the idea they had won the first battle, like they had gotten one over on us. It felt almost rude, it felt offensive to see him walk away from me, and it made my blood boil, my skin began to heat up, my heat raced, so I spun around on the spot to react the only way I knew how, with violence! But a strong set of arms wrapped around me before I could take another step forward and pulled me back, whispering in my ear. 

“Easy baby, easy” Rhea’s breath was warm, I could smell the sweat on her tattooed skin, the blood from scrapes and scratches from the pre-war fight. Her scent radiated throughout my senses, and it was addictive. Goosebumps took over my entire skin as she pulled me back in line with the others, still keeping her grip tight across my body as we now stood together. The Judgment Day vs The Wyatt Sicks. 

“I feel like there must be some… confusion in the air? There must be some misunderstanding between you all as to who is in charge around here? Some people clearly don’t understand their role in this company. Some people… seem to believe they have the… Authority? To do as they please…when in fact they don’t have any. You all have decided to start a war that, whether you like it or not, is NOT going to end the way YOU ALL want it to” Paul’s voice was clear and precise, but he sounded calm, and that was the most concerning part… Until he wasn’t. 

“Your roles within this company are clear, they are set out. You do as you are told; you go where I tell you to go. You behave like the good little puppets on a string you were designed for, and you DO NOT DISOBEY” 

Each of us turned for a moment to face Triple H, breaking the death glares we had locked on to our opponents. A sense of concern and confusion as to what Paul was going to do next hung in the air, all I wanted was to get my hands back on Howdy, claim my championship and go home to rather unwholesomely fuck my lovers into next week.

“This war will be fought, and this war will end here at WrestleMania…” Triple H turned to the crowd as they all began to cheer and chant. “But… Y/N, you will not be in this cage, you will not be a part of it” 

My Heart ran cold as I threw Rheas hands off me and raced toward the front of the cage in shock, gripping onto the steel frame. The rest of Judgment days reactions, very similar to my own followed behind me as the Wyatts laughed hysterically behind us. We all began shouting our frustrations towards Paul, questioning what possible reason he had to kick me out of this Championship match I had trained so long for, worked so hard to get to?! 

Triple H raised his hand up to silence us and the crowd as the entire arena chimed in with the deafening booing and shouts of discontent. 

“SILENCE!” Paul demanded, turning his attention back to my direction. 

“Because…y/n… “ Paul smirked before raising the Women’s World Championship up from behind him, having secured it from a security guard to his right. 

“As Dakota Kai has now retired injured… YOU, will instead be fighting for THIS, against Abby the Witch, in an adjoining cage. I am declaring RIGHT NOW, that this match, is a Ten Man-Grand Slam all in one, no disqualifications, no count out, no holds barred, all is fair in love and war double caged firefly street fight. Abby the Witch & Y/W/N will be locked inside one cage, whilst Rhea, Damian, Dominik and Finn will be locked in the other with Erik Rowan, Dexter Lumis, Joe Gacy and Uncle Howdy. This match will run for 1 hour and to secure victory Y/W/N, Abby, you must PIN your opponent. Your families in the opposing cage must also pin their opponents one by one to secure victory. Once pinned, you will be removed. Once the championship has been claimed, once one team comes out on top over the other, only then will this war end. Now, if the hour runs out and the championship has not been claimed, you forfeit your right to it. No arguments, no complaints, those are the rules. Suck it up and move on. I am the puppet master, I am the boss, I am THE AUTHORITY!” Triple H commanded to us all. 

“Now a referee will now come down and unlock the cage. You will all return backstage, the battle commences in 20 minutes… Good Luck.” With the rain now finally clearing, Triple H bowed his head and looked up to the heavens, in respect for the loss of Bray Wyatt before moving to exit the stage.

The lighting returned to normal, and the standard WrestleMania music played out as we began to exit the ring one by one, security keeping a lengthy distance between the Wyatts and the Judgment Day. Fans desperate to get their favourites attention were scrambling over the barricades, leaning their body weights over in an attempt for a high five, but we were all far too distracted. 

Suddenly, Uncle Howdy halted and turned on his heels grabbing a microphone and smirking down at us from the other end of the ramp. 

“Y/N, I do wish you the very best of luck, you know as well as I… I am just the ghost of the man who saved this world but, who are you? You cannot hide from it; you cannot hide from me? The truth will set you free y/n…did you tell them?” Howdy’s words were playful and taunting as he pointed to each of my lovers standing just behind me. 

“I told them! I told them everything!!!” I screamed back up at Howdy. 

He chuckled and turned his back on me, whispering into the microphone before disappearing backstage, “but did you tell, the world?” 

---------------------

THE JUDGMENT DAY CLUBHOUSE 

Swinging the door open I rushed through and began pacing the centre of the room, nervous, anxious and fearful of what could happen if the world ever found out about my past. 

Social media had gone crazy, fans and viewers speculating and debating over whether this had become the greatest WrestleMania of all time, whether Abby the Witch or Y/W/N would become the new Women’s World Champion, how brilliant it was that Rhea would be fighting against a team of all men and that they knew she would beat their asses. But alongside all this there was also the debates over what my secrets were, how they could find out, and with these debates’ rumours had started to spread, like wildfire. Unbeknown to me, Liv Morgan was backstage hiding out, and she was fuelling that fire. 

I was in full panic mode as the others also piled in through the door, Finn entering last locked the door behind him and turned to face me. He took a brisk walk forward before grabbing me by my shoulders and slapping me straight across the face to break my panic. I stood in shock, as did the others, what the actual fuck was he playing at. 

Then, not more than a second later he pulled me in tight, wrapping his hands around my face, my neck, then one hand on my back as he locked his lips in against mine. A full make out session had my hormones come flooding in and my body temperature spiked. My inner core heating up as I felt an all too familiar tingle rise up between my legs. Finn pulled himself off me for a second and looked me dead in the eyes.

“We are going to win this war y/n. You will become champion. There will be absolutely no distractions in that ring, do you hear me!” His Irish accent purred across each syllable, even if he meant to be stern it just sounded beyond sexy to me. I nodded in response to his questions. 

“Good. Because no distractions works both ways and you being in this new gear well, it reminded me that I have been waiting to fuck you for far too long.” The other members of Judgment Day nodded in agreement, Rhea ran her tounge along her teeth, her tounge piercing clinking across each tooth. She turned to Damian who was smirking down at her. Dominik stood running his hand across a growing bulge in his tight black and white printed leggings and watched as Finn tugged at my black and pink leather strapped top, locking his lips back onto mine as he pushed me back onto the wall. His hand quick to prevent my head from hitting the wall before kneeling down and throwing my left leg over his shoulder, Finn began planting kisses up my inner thigh towards my panties, the heartbeat inside growing stronger with every inch he covered. 

I reached out and motioned a grabby hand towards Dominick who didn’t hesitate to race forward and takeover where Finns lips had been. Our tongue’s entwined in a deep desperation for each other as his hands began exploring over my chest, pulling down the front of my top to expose one of my breasts. Dom twisted and tugged at my nipple as Rhea came over to join, swiftly followed by Damian. 

She turned his hips, so his back was against the wall as Dom and I continued to kiss and Rhea pulled down on his pants, exposing his dick to the cold air. It bounced for a moment in its solid form but before it could react to the fresh air she began running her tounge along it and took it in its whole form to the back of her throat. Beginning to bob her head up and down Dominik’s knees became weak and Finn grabbed onto one of his thighs to support him, pressing him back against the wall. 

Finn tugged at my wrestling gear shorts, knowing full well time was not on our side to be able to fully undress. Instead, he tugged at the fabric pulling it to the side, exposing the mini black laced thong I had worn, hoping to finish off a championship winning night with a trip to our sex pit of a bedroom back home. 

Finns warm tounge moved its way up between my folds, the man clearly enjoying the fact I was already soaked down there as he began playing with my clit, his tounge reaching its peak before motioning backwards and repeating the movement over and over. My breath hitched in my throat as I broke the kiss off from Dominik, riding out the pleasure of my Irish lover between my thighs, desperate moans escaped my lips which only drove him to speed up. 

Damian reached out both his strong arms and positioned himself between me and Dominik, his strong legs fitting in the gap between Rhea & Finn who were both on their knees already, busy enjoying themselves. Lowering his black ripped jeans Damian took our hands and placed them on his dick as he leant back to the wall, exchanging make out sessions between myself and Dom as we both tugged, rubbed and fondled his cock together. Damian’s cock was something to behold, the sheer size and girth that man wielded made anyone’s insides turn to jelly. To this day I still say a prayer and thank the sex lords from above and below that I get to call him mine. 

It wasn’t long before the knot in between my stomach began to build, and my thighs began to shake as Finn bought me towards my climax. My grip on Damian loosening and Dom now taking over in full as Finn pinned both my wrists against the wall by my sides. His grip so tight on me small bruises had begun to form, but this only drove my inner sex goddess wild as she was dancing in the awash of my orgasm as Finn drove his fingers deep inside me, pounding three at a time with the inward curl that drove every inch of my body crazy, while his tounge punished my clit. 

“Oh shi..Oh sh..Finn, Finn, shh…shhii” My words were loud and broken as I took quick rapid deep breaths, riding out an all-time high that I had waited so long for it seemed like my body wasn’t quite ready for this flood of pure hormonal ecstasy. 

Rhea, Damian and Dominik all turned their heads to watch as I reached my orgasm, face fully flushed and legs trembling. Dominick followed quickly behind as my summit had driven Rhea to a desperation of her own and a few deep throated swallows later saw her lapping up the delicious cum shot Dom had gracefully given her. 

Finn was quick to drop my leg and rush to his feet, taking a fist full of my hair and dragging me over to the arm of the sofa. He threw me across and pulled at my hips raising my arse higher in the air for a better access point. He was quick to lower his wrestling gear leggings too as he didn’t hesitate to forcefully ram his rock-solid cock deep inside me, I was now wet enough he could easily bury himself. He began thrusting aggressively, pounding his cock deep inside of me as Damian ditched his hand job from Dominik, planting a final kiss on the boy’s lips and then moved to position himself in front of me, opening my mouth and easing in his cock to touch my tonsils. 

Surprisingly, something had clicked inside of Dom who had pulled Rhea up to her feet and had attempted to throw her over the foldup chair in the corner of the room, not far from where Finn and Damian were fucking me front to back. Rhea had smirked at his attempt and wagged her finger in his face before pulling him into a deep kiss and whispering in his ear, “Aye Papi, look at you being the dominant one.” She smirked and winked before finishing her sentence; “Beg me baby boy”. 

Dom grinned and got down on one knee, peppering her thigh with sweet intensive kisses as he began his pleas. Taking a handful of his hair she pulled the boy up to his feet and walked them both over, kicking the stool over and having Dom take a seat. Then Rhea placed one hand on Damian’s shoulder and had him remove his cock from my mouth before Rhea climbed on the sofa cushion in front of me and pulled me into a deep sensual kiss. Damian didn’t hesitate to lower Rheas black leather gear shorts and bury his cock inside of her. 

Dominick sat watching his four partners in front of him, his two girls being fucked intensely by his two dominant daddies. His dick was quick to harden up again as he reached a hand inside his crotch and palmed at himself, ever so loving the view. 

Between the four of us our moans and groans were loud, desperate and full of passion. They echoed throughout our clubhouse, through the hallways and out of the locker room. It was obvious to passersby what was going on, but no one dared comment. It had become common knowledge regarding the relationship between us all, whether people agreed or not, they were instinctively too afraid of Rhea, Damian and Finn to dare comment. 

 Both men now thrusting in unison, groaned deeply and reached out mirroring each other, taking a handful of their girl’s hair to arch our backs as they reached their penultimate high. A warm sensation filling our cores before releasing their grip on our hair and letting us go. A hard slap on my ass from Finn gave me the go ahead to stand up, Damian knew better with Rhea and stepped back allowing Mami to return to her feet on her own accord. 

“Fuck...” I said, turning my head and stretching out my back as I looked in the mirror to see my now full after sex appearance before noticing the clock which stated we had less than 5 minutes until we needed to be at gorilla. 

“Oh Fuck! Shit, look at me!” I stated trying not to laugh, Rhea was quick to grab my hand and pull me over to the dressing table stationed in the corner where she was fast in fixing my make-up, followed by her own. 

The boys all took a seat on the couch, fist bumping each other for a ‘job well done’ while we girls just laughed. 

Once Rhea had given me the all clear I stood up and began stretching out my arms and neck, readjusting my gear and doing all the final checks. 

“Hermosa, I would have thought Finn had stretched you out enough already, no?” Damian chuckled as Finn looked up and winked in my direction, biting his tounge. 

“Very funny…” I said, looking over to them as we all began to make our way out of the clubhouse. 

---------------

We briskly raced our way to Gorilla, as each member of the judgment day walked behind me, psyching up for the match ahead. One way or another, I would be walking out of WrestleMania as the new women’s world champion! They all believed in me, heck I believed in me, and I knew I could do this. 

But it was short lived as when we reached the backstage section with the rest of production team, everyone seemed to be looking over in hushed voices or concerned looks. 

Pushing past them all I followed behind Rhea and Damian, holding on tight to Dominik’s hand as Finn closed in behind us. Security were quick to cut us off as they blocked the entrance to the ramp. 

“What the hell? What’s going on?!” Damian was furious at their actions as he came face to face with one of the security guards, Rhea in a stand-off with the other. 

“I’ll tell you what’s going on…” Hunters voice boomed out from behind us as we all turned, Finn now leading our group as my grip on Dom’s hands became tighter with anxiety and he pulled me in close to his side. Behind him, lurked Liv Morgan who was wearing a devilish grin. 

“You four…” Hunter pointed to Rhea, Damian, Dominik and Finn, “are late, get to the ring now! The match is starting in less than one minute! Liv Morgan will be joining you; she will go 1-1 against Abby the Witch for the Women’s world championship”. 

“The Fuck man?!” Rhea shouted, pushing Dom, Myself and Finn out of the way. She stood head on from Hunter, the fire in her eyes burnt with fury. 

“The Hell she will!” Damian’s voice was loud as his voice filled the room. Finn stood staring down the boss in front of him. Triple H held up a hand in Rhea’s face, his persona calm and collected as he turned to face me, smiling. 

“And you y/w/n ...........” 

His words were blunt, cold and full of the authority he loved to push in everyone’s faces. 

...

...

...

“You're fired.” 

[wchswift]

As the World Caves In ༉‧₊˚ 

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader Summary: The end of season 5 rewritten with you and Dean, inspired by the song As the World Caves in. Content: angst, apocalypse, spoilers for s5, canon violence, mention of blood, Lucifer, mentions of murders, not proofread, English isn’t my first language :) this follows the canon plot line but some things might happen and be described differently Word count: 1036 A/N: I was listening to As the World Caves in from Matt Maltese and this song reminded me so much of the last episode of season 5 that I had to make a drabble of this scene inspired by the music.

mdni 𖤐 18+

The ground beneath Stull Cemetery trembled, cracks snaking through the earth like veins. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the chaos in staccato flashes. Dean gripped your hand as you both stood in the Impala's shadow, the roar of thunder a cruel backdrop to the battle about to unfold.

“You don’t have to come with me,” Dean muttered, his voice rough, but the words were soft, almost pleading.

You snorted, tugging your hand free only to grab the lapels of his jacket. “You really think I’d let you face this alone? C’mon, Dean. You know me better than that.”

For a second, his green eyes searched yours, vulnerable in a way they rarely were. He sighed and nodded. “Just—stay close, okay?”

The fight that followed was a blur. You and Dean moved in sync, as if every step, every strike, had been choreographed in advance. Castiel’s grace flickered like a dying light, and Bobby’s shotgun boomed over the din. But it wasn’t enough.

When Lucifer turned his attention to Dean, you saw it coming a second too late. You didn’t think—you didn’t have to. As Lucifer raised his hand, you threw yourself in its path, your body colliding with Dean’s just as the blast struck. The impact hit like a freight train, ripping you off your feet and hurling you backward.

Pain exploded in your shoulder as you collided with the jagged edge of a broken gravestone. The sharp stone tore into your flesh, sending a fresh wave of agony through your body. The world spun, and for a moment, all you could hear was the ringing in your ears and Dean’s muffled shout.

A sting flared up suddenly, stealing the breath from your lungs as you hit the ground. Dean was there instantly, cradling you in his arms. His voice cracked as he called your name, his hands trembling as they pressed against your wounds. Blood soaked through your shirt, warm and sticky, and every breath was a struggle.

“Why the hell did you do that?” he rasped, his face inches from yours.

“Because I’m not losing you,” you whispered, forcing a smile despite the pain. “I promised, remember? ‘Til the end.”

His forehead pressed against yours, his breaths shallow and uneven. “You’re gonna be fine,” he said, though his eyes betrayed the fear he was trying so hard to hide. “I just need to—dammit, I need to stop the bleeding.”

You gripped his wrist weakly, forcing him to look at you. “Dean… go. Sam needs you.”

“No. Not until—”

“Go,” you insisted, your voice firmer than you felt. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”

His jaw clenched, torn between staying and going. Finally, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering. “You’d better be. Just hold on. Don’t leave me.”

You reached up, your fingers brushing against his stubble jaw. “You’re stuck with me, Winchester.”

But there was no time to linger. The battle called him back, and with one last look—raw and desperate—he laid you gently against the Impala and charged back into the fray.

᭝ ᨳଓ𓂃⋆.

Sam's knuckles were covered with Dean's blood. Each blow landed with a sickening crunch, Lucifer—Sam’s face twisted in a cruel smirk.

“Sam!” Dean called out, his voice rough with emotion, mouth full of blood. “Sammy, please! I know you’re still in there, man! Fight him! You can beat this!”

Lucifer’s anger flared. He raised his fist, and in the next moment, Sam—under Lucifer’s control—struck Dean hard across the face. The punch sent Dean flying backward, crashing into the dirt with a sickening thud.

“Sam…” Dean gasped, blood streaming from the corner of his mouth as he struggled to lift himself up. “Please... don’t do this.”

But it was too late. The punch wasn’t enough to keep Dean down. Sam’s voice was barely audible now, but Dean heard it, the desperation in his brother’s words.

“Dean...” Sam whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry…”

Dean’s heart pounded in his chest. “No, Sammy. You’re still in there. I know you are. You’ve got to fight him.”

Sam’s eyes flickered with recognition, and a final surge of strength exploded from him. Lucifer’s grip on Sam’s body loosened for just a moment, and Sam—weak but determined—mustered every ounce of willpower he had left. He reached for the Cage.

Dean’s voice cracked, his hands outstretched as he ran toward Sam, desperate to stop him. “Sammy, no! Don’t do this!”

But Sam’s hand shot out, and with one final act of self-sacrifice, he threw himself into the Cage, dragging Lucifer and Michael with him.

“Sam!” Dean screamed, his voice shattering as the Cage slammed shut with a resounding finality.

The first rays of dawn crept over the horizon, pale and hesitant, as if afraid to touch the wreckage left behind. You were leaning against the Impala’s crumpled hood, your wounds hastily bandaged with strips of Dean’s flannel.

He returned to you like a ghost, moving slowly, his face etched with exhaustion and grief. Without a word, he collapsed beside you, his head resting against your shoulder.

“It’s over,” he said, though it sounded more like a question than a statement.

You nodded, your fingers tangling with his. “Yeah. For now. We will get Sam back okay?”

The silence stretched between you, heavy with everything that had been lost and everything that might still be salvaged. Finally, Dean broke it.

“I thought I’d lost you back there,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

You turned to him, your lips curving into a tired smile. “Takes more than the devil himself to get rid of me.”

A huff of laughter escaped him, and for a moment, the weight lifted. He pressed a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering as if grounding himself in your presence.

“𝘠𝘦𝘴, 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘐 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩,

𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥, 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯”

As the sun climbed higher, you both sat there, bruised and battered, but together. And for the first time in what felt like forever, there was hope.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

[novaursa]

Between Pride and Fire (the curse)

- Summary: It was a challenge of the hunt that drew the lion to you, but it was your fire that made him yours.

- Paring: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (for blood, violence, death and gore)

- Previous part: the blessing

- Next part: the final chapter

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @punk-in-docs @barnes70stark

- A/N: Merry Christmas! 🎄❤️

The Riverlands were soaked in blood.

The sky above was a flat expanse of gray, heavy with clouds that promised rain but held back, as though the gods themselves paused to watch the carnage below. Jason Lannister sat atop his destrier at the edge of the battlefield, his armor glinting faintly in the muted light. Around him, the banners of House Lannister and House Targaryen snapped in the wind, a stark contrast to the muddy fields strewn with bodies.

Before him, the forces of the Reach and their Riverlands allies moved in formation, their own banners fluttering defiantly. They had come to reclaim lost ground, bolstered by promises of glory and vengeance for their fallen kin. Jason could see the determination in their ranks, but he also saw hesitation—the way some men glanced nervously at the dragon sigils flying beside the lion.

"Hold the line!" Jason barked, his voice carrying over the din as he turned to his men. His green eyes flashed with the fury of battle. "We make our stand here. Let them come to us, and we’ll break them like waves on stone."

A grizzled knight beside him, Ser Aldred, grunted in agreement. "They’ve brought numbers, my lord. But numbers won’t help them when the field’s this narrow."

Jason smirked grimly. "Narrow fields make for close quarters, Ser Aldred. Close quarters mean blood. Let’s give them plenty of it."

The Greens advanced with a steady rhythm, their spears glinting in formation as they moved toward the Lannister-Targaryen lines. Jason raised his sword high, its blade catching the faint light as he shouted, "Archers! Loose!"

A volley of arrows hissed through the air, their black shafts streaking toward the enemy. The first ranks of the Greens stumbled, men screaming as arrows found gaps in their armor or pierced their flesh. Jason didn’t pause to watch; he turned to his cavalry and barked, "Follow me! Break their flanks!"

The charge began with the thunder of hooves. Jason led the way, his golden armor an unmistakable beacon as he drew his sword back. The moment the two lines clashed, the battlefield erupted into chaos.

Jason’s blade slashed through the neck of a spearman, blood spraying as the man crumpled. He turned swiftly, his destrier rearing as a knight in green and gold lunged at him with a mace. Jason parried the blow with a grunt, his muscles straining as he forced the knight’s weapon aside and drove his sword into the man’s chest. The knight let out a gurgling cry before slumping forward, lifeless.

The air was thick with the sounds of battle—steel clashing, men screaming, horses whinnying in terror. Jason pushed forward, his sword rising and falling with relentless precision. He cleaved through a soldier’s helm, the force of the blow splitting the man’s skull with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed across Jason’s face, but he didn’t falter.

Ser Aldred rode up beside him, his own blade dripping with blood. "They’re folding on the left flank, my lord!" he shouted, his voice barely audible over the din.

"Press the advantage!" Jason roared, pointing his sword toward the crumbling lines of the enemy. "Show them what it means to face a Lannister!"

He spurred his horse forward, leading a charge that cut deep into the Greens’ formation. The screams of dying men filled his ears as his cavalry tore through their ranks, breaking spears and shattering shields. Jason swung his sword in a wide arc, severing an enemy soldier’s arm before plunging the blade into another’s chest.

The mud beneath their feet turned red with blood, the metallic tang of it thick in the air. Jason’s destrier slipped briefly on the slick ground, but he steadied the beast with practiced ease, cutting down another soldier who dared to come too close.

Amidst the chaos, Jason spotted the enemy commander—an older man with a battered helm and a green surcoat emblazoned with the sigil of House Vance. The man shouted orders desperately, trying to rally his fleeing troops. Jason’s lips curled into a feral grin.

"Ser Aldred!" he called. "With me! The commander is mine!"

The two men charged, cutting through the panicked soldiers who tried to block their path. Jason reached the commander first, his sword clanging against the older man’s as they clashed. The commander fought with the desperation of a cornered animal, his strikes fast but wild. Jason parried each blow with calculated precision, his movements smooth and deadly.

"You’ll fall today, lion!" the commander spat, his voice hoarse.

Jason laughed coldly. "Not before you, old man."

He feinted left before driving his sword into the commander’s gut, the blade slicing through mail and flesh. The man gasped, his eyes wide with shock as blood poured from the wound. Jason pulled the sword free and let the commander collapse, his body joining the growing pile of dead.

The enemy’s will to fight broke soon after. The Greens scattered, their forces in disarray as they fled the field. Jason reined in his destrier, his chest heaving as he surveyed the carnage. The battlefield was a sea of blood and broken bodies, the banners of the Greens trampled into the mud.

"Victory is ours, my lord," Ser Aldred said, his tone weary but triumphant.

Jason nodded, though his face remained grim. "For now," he muttered, wiping the blood from his sword. "But there will be more battles to come."

As the sun began to set, casting the battlefield in shades of autumn, Jason dismounted and knelt briefly in the blood-soaked mud. His thoughts turned briefly to Dragonstone and to the Westerlands, to his wife and children waiting for him. He closed his eyes, his lips moving in a silent vow.

"I’ll come back to you, Y/N," he whispered. "No matter what it takes."

The air in the great hall of Dragonstone was heavy with the scent of salt and smoke, the ever-present reminders of the sea and the volcanic heart of the island. You sat across from Rhaenyra at a simple table, the remnants of your midday meal between you. Outside, the faint roar of a dragon echoed, distant but unmistakable, as one of the great beasts soared above the island.

Rhaenyra, clad in a gown of deep black and crimson, leaned back in her chair, her expression softer than it had been in weeks. There was a faint smirk on her lips as she studied you, one hand idly tracing the rim of her goblet. It was a rare moment of calm, one you cherished in the storm of war and grief that had consumed your family.

You set your fork down and sighed, your hand instinctively resting on the slight swell of your belly. “I’ve been thinking,” you began, your tone thoughtful. “Before I start to look like a barrel, I’d like to take Morrath out for a flight.”

Rhaenyra raised a brow, her smirk widening into a genuine smile. “A barrel?” she repeated, laughter lacing her words. “You hardly look like a barrel now, sister.”

“Not yet,” you replied, your own lips twitching upward. “But give me a few more moons, and I’ll barely fit in Morrath’s saddle.”

Rhaenyra chuckled softly, shaking her head. “You’ve always been dramatic,” she said, though her tone was warm. “But tell me, what brings this sudden desire to fly? Morrath hasn’t stretched her wings with you in some time.”

You shrugged lightly, your hand absently brushing the table’s edge. “I miss the freedom,” you admitted. “Being above it all—the winds carrying you, the world shrinking below. It’s… freeing.”

Rhaenyra’s expression grew thoughtful, and she nodded slowly. “It is,” she agreed, her voice softer now. “There’s nothing quite like it. But are you sure it’s wise, in your condition?”

You shot her a wry look. “I’m pregnant, not an invalid,” you said dryly. “I’ve flown while carrying before, as you well know.”

Rhaenyra laughed again, the sound filling the chamber. “Yes, I remember. You insisted on flying Morrath when you were heavy with Leona and Loren. Jason nearly had a fit when he found out.”

You smiled at the memory, shaking your head. “He always worries too much. Morrath is as gentle with me as a dragon can be. Besides,” you added, a teasing glint in your eyes, “I’ll be careful.”

Rhaenyra leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her hand as she studied you. “You always were stubborn,” she said, though her tone held no malice. “Very well. But don’t push yourself, Y/N. The skies may be freeing, but they can also be dangerous.”

You nodded, your expression softening. “I won’t. I promise.”

The two of you fell into a comfortable silence, the crackling of the hearth and the distant roar of dragons filling the air. For a moment, it was as though the weight of war and loss had lifted, leaving only the bond of sisterhood that had carried you both through so much.

Rhaenyra broke the silence first, her lips quirking upward. “You know,” she began, her tone light, “if you do start to look like a barrel, I’ll be sure to remind Jason of his contribution to your predicament.”

You burst out laughing, shaking your head as warmth filled your chest. “Oh, he doesn’t need the reminder,” you said, still chuckling. “He’s quite aware, and more smug about it than he has any right to be.”

Rhaenyra’s laughter joined yours, the sound echoing in the hall. For a moment, the shadows of the war seemed to recede, leaving only the bond of two sisters sharing a rare moment of levity.

And though the weight of the world pressed heavily on both your shoulders, in that instant, you felt lighter than you had in weeks.

The winds atop Dragonmont were fierce, carrying the scent of ash and sulfur from the volcanic mountain. The jagged terrain was alive with the faint rumble of activity deep below, the heartbeat of Dragonstone itself. As you approached the plateau where the dragons were kept, the unmistakable roar of Morrath greeted you, low and rumbling like distant thunder. Her massive black form was silhouetted against the smoky sky, her amber markings gleaming faintly in the shifting light.

The Dragonkeepers moved with practiced precision, their dark robes flowing as they prepared Morrath for your flight. They adjusted the thick leather saddle strapped to her back, their hands deftly securing the bindings. Morrath’s tawny eyes, sharp and intelligent, fixed on you as you approached, her long neck craning downward in recognition.

“Hello, my girl,” you murmured, reaching out to run your hand along the warm scales of her snout. Morrath rumbled softly in response, a sound that vibrated through the ground beneath your feet.

The Dragonkeepers stepped back respectfully, bowing their heads slightly as they completed their work. One of them, a tall man with graying hair, spoke in a calm voice. “She’s ready for you, Princess Y/N. The winds are favorable today.”

You nodded your thanks, turning to examine Morrath’s saddle and straps yourself, a habit ingrained from years of dragonriding. As you ran your fingers over the bindings, the distant roar of another dragon drew your attention. You looked up just in time to see the brilliant scarlet form of Meleys descending from the sky, her wings casting a vast shadow over the plateau.

Meleys landed with a thunderous impact, her claws digging into the rocky ground as she folded her massive wings. On her back, Princess Rhaenys sat with the regal bearing that had earned her the title of "The Queen Who Never Was." Her silver hair streamed behind her, and her violet eyes were sharp as ever as she dismounted with ease, a confident stride carrying her toward you.

“Y/N,” Rhaenys greeted, her voice calm but tinged with curiosity. “I didn’t expect to see you here today.”

You offered her a faint smile, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “I needed to stretch Morrath’s wings,” you said, gesturing toward your dragon. “It’s been too long since I’ve flown her, and I feel I should take the chance before... well, before I’m unable to.”

Rhaenys’s eyes flicked to your slight belly, and a knowing smile tugged at her lips. “Ah, so you’re indulging in a final flight before the little lion cub arrives. Sensible, though I imagine Jason would be less than thrilled with the idea if he knew.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “He would not thrilled, no. But he always knew better than to argue with me when it comes to Morrath.”

Rhaenys chuckled, folding her arms as she glanced at Morrath. “She’s a fine beast,” she remarked, her tone admiring. “One of the few dragons that could give Meleys pause, I’d wager. Though I doubt it’ll ever come to that.”

“Let’s hope not,” you said, your tone light but sincere. “I’d rather not pit our girls against each other. There’s enough fighting in the realm without dragons tearing each other apart.”

Rhaenys nodded, her expression turning thoughtful. “Indeed. Speaking of fighting, the Gullet remains quiet for now. Corlys and I have done what we can to keep the Greens from making further advances, but the tension is palpable. It feels like the calm before a storm.”

You frowned slightly, your hand resting on Morrath’s side. “Do you think they’ll strike soon?”

Rhaenys shrugged, though her eyes betrayed her concern. “It’s hard to say. They’re consolidating their forces, that much is clear. But for now, we hold the advantage in the Gullet. As long as the blockade holds, they’ll have to think twice before making any bold moves.”

You nodded, your gaze drifting to the horizon where the sea met the sky. The weight of the war was ever-present, a shadow that lingered over every conversation and decision. But here, with Morrath at your side and the wind tugging at your hair, you felt a brief sense of freedom.

“I should let you rest, Rhaenys,” you said after a moment, turning back to her. “You’ve done more than your share for the realm today.”

Rhaenys smiled faintly, a flicker of weariness crossing her face. “I’ll rest when the war is won, Y/N. For now, there’s still much to do.”

She reached out, clasping your arm briefly in a gesture of solidarity before turning to tend to Meleys. You watched her go, her scarlet dragon towering over the plateau like a living inferno.

Taking a deep breath, you climbed the saddle atop Morrath, her warmth seeping through the leather beneath your hands. The Dragonkeepers stepped back, bowing as you tightened the straps and secured yourself. With a final glance at Rhaenys, you urged Morrath upward.

“Sōvēs, Morrath!” you called, and with a powerful beat of her wings, she launched into the sky.

The world fell away beneath you, the wind rushing past as Morrath soared higher. For a brief, blissful moment, there was nothing but you, your dragon, and the open skies—free from the weight of the world below.

The air above the Crownlands was crisp and biting, the sky a dull gray canvas streaked with the faintest hints of sunlight. You urged Morrath higher, her massive wings slicing through the air with rhythmic precision. The winds howled in your ears as your dragon carried you northward toward the Vale. Her eyes scanned the horizon, ever vigilant, a reflection of your own heightened awareness.

You had chosen a less-traveled route, skirting the edge of the Crownlands to avoid unwanted attention. The war had made every stretch of sky treacherous, but the thought of Morrath’s power beneath you gave you comfort. She was no small dragon, and her ferocity in battle had been proven more than once.

But even Morrath’s power could not prepare you for what awaited.

The first sign was the shadow—a massive, unnatural shadow that swept across the landscape below like the omen of death itself. You turned your head sharply, your heart plummeting as the unmistakable form of Vhagar emerged from the clouds, her ancient, hulking mass blocking out the sun.

On her back sat your half-brother, Aemond, his silver hair whipping in the wind, his single eye blazing with malevolent intent. He looked every bit the conqueror, clad in dark armor that caught the light like a predator’s gleam. He raised a hand in greeting, though the smirk on his face made it clear this was no friendly encounter.

“Half-sister!” his voice rang out, carried by the wind. “What a surprise to find you so far from Dragonstone. Shall we have a family reunion?”

You gritted your teeth, gripping the saddle tightly as Morrath growled beneath you, her wings shifting in preparation for a fight. “Turn back, Aemond!” you shouted, your voice sharp. “This isn’t your sky to command!”

Aemond laughed, the sound cold and mocking. “Oh, but it is,” he replied, gesturing to the vast expanse around him. “The skies belong to the strong, Y/N. And you—” he leaned forward, his grin widening— “are not strong enough to face me.”

Before you could respond, Vhagar roared, the sound reverberating through the heavens like a clap of thunder. Morrath answered with a roar of her own, her body coiling as she prepared to engage. There was no time for more words; the battle had begun.

Vhagar struck first, her enormous jaws snapping toward Morrath with terrifying speed. Morrath banked sharply to the left, her wings slicing through the air as she dodged the attack. You held tight to the saddle, your body pressing against the leather as Morrath twisted and turned, her movements agile despite her size.

Morrath retaliated with a burst of flame, the amber-tinged fire blazing toward Vhagar. The older dragon roared in defiance, her wings beating powerfully as she ascended, avoiding the flames with a grace that belied her massive frame.

The two dragons circled each other in the sky, their roars shaking the very air. Vhagar dove suddenly, her claws extended, aiming to rip into Morrath’s flank. Morrath twisted mid-air, her tail lashing out and striking Vhagar’s side with a bone-shaking thud. The ancient dragon roared in fury, her massive body swerving as she regrouped for another attack.

Aemond held tight to Vhagar’s saddle, his grin never faltering. “Is this the best you can do, sister?” he called out, his voice carrying over the chaos. “You’ll need more than that to best Vhagar.”

You ignored him, focusing all your attention on Morrath. “Steady, girl,” you murmured, your hands gripping the reins tightly. “We’ve faced worse than him.”

Morrath roared again, her wings propelling her upward as she prepared for a head-on strike. She met Vhagar mid-air, their massive bodies colliding with a force that shook the sky. Claws raked against scales, and jaws snapped with deadly intent. Morrath’s amber eyes burned with fury as she lunged for Vhagar’s neck, her teeth sinking into the older dragon’s thick scales.

Vhagar bellowed in pain, thrashing violently as she tried to dislodge Morrath. The two dragons spun through the air, locked in a deadly embrace. Morrath’s tail lashed out again, striking Vhagar’s wing and sending the larger dragon into a momentary spiral.

But Vhagar recovered quickly, her experience in battle unmatched. With a deafening roar, she surged upward, using her massive weight to slam into Morrath’s side. The impact sent you reeling, your grip on the saddle the only thing keeping you from being thrown off. Morrath let out a pained cry, her wings faltering as she struggled to regain balance.

“A valiant effort,” Aemond taunted, his voice cutting through the chaos. “But you’ve always been second to me, Y/N. Just as your dragon is second to mine.”

“Go to hell, Aemond!” you shouted back, your voice raw with fury.

Morrath roared in defiance, her amber flames erupting once more. This time, they struck Vhagar’s wing, searing through the leathery membrane. Vhagar screeched in pain, her massive body twisting as she retaliated with a burst of her own fire. The flames narrowly missed Morrath, scorching the air as the two dragons continued their deadly dance.

The battle raged on, each dragon trading blows that sent scales and blood raining down to the earth below. Morrath fought valiantly, her speed and ferocity matching Vhagar’s raw power. But the ancient dragon was relentless, her attacks growing more brutal with each passing moment.

Then, in a final, devastating move, Vhagar surged forward, her claws tearing into Morrath’s side. Morrath roared in agony, her body shuddering as her wings faltered. You clung desperately to the saddle, your heart pounding as you felt the shift in Morrath’s movements.

The two dragons spun wildly through the air, their forms tangled in a deadly embrace. The ground rushed up toward you, the wind roaring in your ears as Morrath and Vhagar plummeted toward the earth below.

The last thing you saw before impact was the fierce, unwavering amber gaze of your dragon, her roar echoing in your ears like a promise.

And then, there was nothing.

The great hall of Dragonstone was unusually quiet, save for the low hum of conversation between Rhaenyra, Jacaerys, and Leona. A large map of Westeros lay spread across the stone table before them, weighted down by iron markers in the shapes of dragons and lions. Despite the calm of their surroundings, dread hung thick in the air.

Leona stood beside her aunt and cousin, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her face was pale, and though she tried to appear composed, the worry in her eyes betrayed her. It had been two days since her mother had taken Morrath for a flight, and still, there was no word of her return.

"Perhaps she stopped at the Vale," Jace offered gently, his voice calm but uncertain. "Lady Jeyne Arryn might have insisted she rest after the journey."

Leona nodded faintly, though her lips pressed into a thin line. "Maybe," she replied, her tone clipped. "But Mother wouldn’t disappear without sending word. She knows we’d worry."

Rhaenyra, seated at the head of the table, reached out to place a reassuring hand on Leona’s arm. "Your mother is strong, Leona," she said softly. "And Morrath is no ordinary dragon. If anyone can weather whatever trouble they might have faced, it’s her."

Before Leona could respond, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the hall. All three turned toward the doorway as a young messenger burst into the room, his face flushed and his breathing labored. He stumbled to a stop before Rhaenyra, bowing deeply.

"Your Grace," the boy panted, his words tumbling out in a rush. "News—urgent news—about Princess Y/N."

Leona’s breath hitched, and she stepped forward instinctively, her heart pounding in her chest. Rhaenyra rose from her seat, her violet eyes sharp and commanding. "Speak," she ordered, her voice steady despite the fear flickering in her gaze. "What news do you bring?"

The boy swallowed hard, glancing nervously between the queen and Leona. "She… she was seen falling, Your Grace," he stammered. "On the border of the Crownlands and the Vale. A shepherd tending his flock saw it—her dragon, Morrath, locked in battle with Vhagar. They fell together."

A heavy silence fell over the room, the messenger’s words hanging like a death knell. Jace’s face paled, his hands gripping the edge of the table as though to steady himself. Leona took a step back, her expression a mixture of disbelief and horror.

"No," Leona whispered, shaking her head. "That’s not possible. Mother wouldn’t fall—Morrath wouldn’t fall. They’re too strong."

Rhaenyra’s jaw tightened, her hands curling into fists at her sides. "What else?" she demanded, her voice hard. "Did the shepherd see more? Did he see where they landed?"

The boy nodded quickly. "Yes, Your Grace. He said they fell into the foothills near the Eyrie, where the mountains begin to rise. Smoke was seen in the area, and he sent word as soon as he could."

Leona turned sharply to Rhaenyra, her eyes blazing. "We have to go," she said, her voice trembling with urgency. "We have to find her."

Rhaenyra reached out, gripping Leona’s shoulders firmly. "Leona," she said, her tone steady but strained. "We will. But we must be cautious. If Vhagar was involved, Aemond may still be in the area. I won’t risk losing you as well."

Leona’s hands clenched into fists, her body trembling with barely contained emotion. "She’s my mother," she said fiercely. "I can’t just sit here while she—while she—"

Jace stepped forward, placing a hand on Leona’s arm. "We’ll find her, Leona," he said firmly. "I’ll go myself if I must. But we can’t act rashly. Not now."

Rhaenyra nodded, her gaze softening as she looked at Leona. "Jace is right. We’ll send a search party immediately, but we must do so with care."

Leona’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she nodded reluctantly, her voice breaking. "She has to be alive," she whispered. "She has to be."

Rhaenyra pulled her into a brief but fierce embrace, her own voice trembling as she murmured, "She’s strong, Leona. And so are you."

The messenger stood silently, his head bowed as the weight of his message settled over the room. Rhaenyra turned to him once more, her expression resolute. "You’ve done well bringing this news," she said. "Go and rest. We’ll take it from here."

As the boy bowed and hurried out, the three of them remained frozen in the sinister stillness of the hall. The sound of the fire crackling in the hearth seemed deafening in the silence that followed.

Leona broke away from Rhaenyra, her shoulders squared despite the tears threatening to spill. "We will find her," she said, her voice firm now. "No matter what it takes."

Rhaenyra nodded, her gaze filled with determination. "We will," she promised. "And when we do, the Greens will answer for this. I swear it."

The air in the Riverlands was heavy with the stench of battle—mud, blood, and the faint coppery tang that clung to every soldier after a skirmish. Jason Lannister stood amidst the aftermath, his golden armor streaked with grime and blood that wasn’t his own. The Lannister banners, though tattered, still flew defiantly in the brisk afternoon wind, the lions roaring proud and unyielding against the gray skies.

Jason wiped the sweat from his brow with a gauntleted hand, his green eyes scanning the battlefield as his men regrouped. The skirmish had been brief but brutal, another attempt by the Greens to claw back territory in the Riverlands. But they had failed, and Jason felt a grim satisfaction in their retreat.

“Ser Aldred,” Jason called, turning to his trusted knight, who stood nearby, blood streaking his weathered face. “See to it that the wounded are tended to. We’ll hold this position until word comes from Harrenhal.”

Aldred nodded, his expression as hard as stone. “At once, my lord.”

Jason turned back to his horse, adjusting the straps of his saddle when the sound of hurried footsteps caught his attention. He looked up to see a messenger weaving through the camp, his face pale and his breathing labored. Jason’s stomach tightened immediately—he had seen that look before, the expression of a man carrying dire news.

“My lord!” the messenger called, nearly stumbling as he reached Jason. He bowed deeply, his voice trembling as he spoke. “Word from Dragonstone, my lord. Urgent.”

Jason’s heart sank, though he kept his expression impassive. “Speak,” he commanded, his tone sharper than he intended. “What news?”

The messenger swallowed hard, his eyes darting nervously. “There has been… a battle, my lord. In the skies above the Crownlands.”

Jason’s grip on the saddle tightened. “A battle? Between whom?”

The messenger hesitated for a moment too long, and Jason stepped forward, his presence looming. “Out with it, man!” he barked. “Who was involved?”

The messenger flinched but obeyed. “Vhagar… and Morrath, my lord.”

Jason’s breath caught, his mind racing. Morrath. Y/N. He felt the blood drain from his face as the weight of the words hit him like a blow.

“And?” Jason demanded, his voice low and dangerous. “What of the riders? What of my wife?”

The messenger’s voice faltered. “The battle was seen from the foothills near the Vale. Morrath and Vhagar clashed fiercely, and they… they fell, my lord. Together.”

Jason’s world tilted, his heart pounding in his chest. “Fell?” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. “Fell where?”

The messenger took a step back, fear evident in his eyes. “A shepherd saw it, my lord. Near the border of the Crownlands and the Vale. Smoke was seen rising where they fell, but no one has yet dared to approach.”

Jason’s hand shot out, gripping the man by the collar. “And my wife? Was she seen? Did anyone find her?”

The messenger shook his head, his voice trembling. “I do not know, my lord. The shepherd only reported what he saw. There has been no confirmation of survivors.”

Jason released the man abruptly, his hands trembling as he stepped back. His mind raced with images of Y/N, her laughter, her sharp wit, the way she’d smiled the last time he saw her. The thought of her falling from the sky, of Morrath—his heart twisted painfully.

“Get out,” he muttered, his voice hollow.

The messenger hesitated. “My lord, I—”

“I SAID GET OUT!” Jason roared, his voice echoing across the camp. The messenger scurried away, leaving Jason standing alone amidst the chaos of his thoughts.

Ser Aldred approached cautiously, his expression grim. “My lord,” he began softly, “what has happened?”

Jason turned to him, his face pale but resolute. “Y/N. She… Morrath and Vhagar fought above the Vale. They fell.”

Aldred’s eyes widened, but he said nothing, simply bowing his head. Jason took a deep breath, his fists clenching at his sides.

“I’m going after her,” Jason said firmly, his voice steady despite the storm inside him.

“My lord, that’s madness,” Aldred replied, though there was no challenge in his tone. “The Riverlands are still dangerous, and the Greens—”

“Damn the Greens!” Jason snapped, his voice raw. “Damn the Riverlands, damn this war! My wife is out there, and I won’t sit here while she might—” His voice broke, and he forced himself to steady. “I won’t abandon her.”

Aldred hesitated before nodding. “I’ll gather a small party, my lord. We’ll move quickly.”

Jason shook his head. “No. I’ll go alone. A small group will draw less attention. I’ll find her.” He turned to mount his horse, his mind already fixed on the journey ahead.

As he tightened the reins, his jaw clenched with determination. “She’s alive,” he murmured to himself. “She has to be.”

And with that, Jason spurred his horse forward, the battlefield behind him forgotten as he rode toward the unknown, toward the woman who was his heart, his soul, and his reason to keep fighting.

The hall at Harrenhal was dimly lit, the massive stone walls seeming to swallow the flickering torchlight. Daemon Targaryen sat at the head of the long table, a cup of wine in hand as he studied the map before him. His sharp violet eyes scanned the Riverlands, noting troop movements and the vulnerable paths the Greens might take. The air was heavy with the scent of damp stone and smoke, the oppressive atmosphere of Harrenhal pressing down on all within its walls.

Across from him, Lord Simon Strong sat, his expression wary but composed. The man had proven cooperative since surrendering the castle, but Daemon’s presence clearly unsettled him—a fact Daemon found mildly amusing.

A knock at the door broke the tense silence. One of Strong’s retainers entered, bowing deeply. “My lord, I bring news.”

Daemon glanced up, his gaze sharp as a blade. “Speak,” he commanded, his tone clipped.

The retainer hesitated for a moment, as though weighing the consequences of his words. “It concerns Lord Jason Lannister, my prince.”

Daemon’s expression darkened, his grip tightening on his goblet. “What of him?”

The retainer’s eyes darted to Lord Simon, who gave a subtle nod, granting permission to continue. “Lord Jason has… abandoned the field, my prince. He rode north with haste, taking only his personal horse.”

Daemon’s brow furrowed, the news surprising but not entirely alarming. “And why would he do that?” he asked, his tone laced with irritation. “Surely he wouldn’t desert the fight.”

The retainer shifted uncomfortably. “It seems, my prince, that his reason is… personal. Word has reached him of a battle—between Princess Y/N and Prince Aemond. Her dragon, Morrath, and Vhagar were seen clashing above the Crownlands. The shepherds report that they fell.”

Daemon froze, his entire demeanor shifting. The goblet in his hand hovered mid-air, forgotten, as his mind processed the words. His niece. Fighting Aemond. The implications struck him like a blow, though his face betrayed no emotion beyond a tightening of his jaw.

“Repeat that,” Daemon said, his voice low and dangerous.

The retainer swallowed hard, his hands trembling. “Your niece, Princess Y/N, and Prince Aemond were seen fighting above the Crownlands. Morrath and Vhagar fell from the sky. Lord Jason received word of this and… left to search for her.”

The hall fell into a tense silence, the weight of the news pressing down on everyone present. Lord Simon shifted uneasily, his hands gripping the edge of the table as though seeking stability.

Daemon placed the goblet down with deliberate care, the sound of it meeting the table echoing in the stillness. His gaze, sharp and calculating, fixed on the retainer. “And this information comes from where, exactly?” he asked coldly.

The man stammered. “Shepherds near the border of the Vale, my prince. They sent word after seeing the dragons fall.”

Daemon leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he stared into the distance. The room seemed to grow colder, the oppressive weight of Harrenhal’s walls bearing down on everyone present. After a long pause, he finally spoke.

“And what of Aemond?” he asked, his voice deceptively calm.

“There is no word of him, my prince,” the retainer replied cautiously. “Only that the dragons fell together. Their fate remains unknown.”

Daemon exhaled slowly, the stiffness in his frame visible even in the dim light. His mind raced with possibilities—his niece, brave and fiery, challenging Aemond in the skies. It was a bold move, but one that carried immense risk. And now she was missing, her fate as uncertain as the dragons themselves.

“Jason Lannister,” Daemon muttered, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the gravity of the situation. “Riding off like a knight in some foolish song to find her. Stubborn, reckless fool.”

Lord Simon dared to speak then, his voice cautious. “My prince, what shall we do? Shall we send word to Dragonstone? Or perhaps dispatch riders to assist Lord Jason?”

Daemon’s gaze snapped to him, his violet eyes like twin flames. “No,” he said firmly. “Dragonstone must not be burdened with this yet. And as for Jason…” He paused, his smirk fading as his expression hardened. “Let him find her. If anyone can, it’s him.”

The room fell silent once more, the tension thick enough to cut with a blade. Daemon rose from his seat, his presence commanding as he loomed over the table.

“Prepare the men,” he ordered, his voice cold and decisive. “If this is Aemond’s doing, he’s not far. We’ll hold Harrenhal, but I’ll have eyes everywhere. If he dares show his face, I’ll end this.”

Lord Simon bowed his head in compliance, though his expression was uneasy. The retainer scurried out of the room, eager to escape the suffocating atmosphere.

As Daemon turned back to the map, his mind lingered on his niece—her fiery spirit, her defiance, and now, her peril. He clenched his fists, the image of Aemond burning in his mind.

“Son for a son,” he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible. “But for my niece? I’ll take everything.”

[the-kr8tor]

Snake Eyes

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 7.6k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), TW death, CW blood and gore, CW violence, TW abuse mention, CW injury, CW guns, Cowboy AU, Wild west AU.

Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist

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CHAPTER 6 >>> CHAPTER 7

Hobie looks at you before he exits the train car, wind blowing in his face, the loud chugging of engine roaring in his ears— but the only thing he could think of was you, you who stands behind him quietly as if you weren't right behind him. He'd take your hand in his, grasp blindly from behind to hold you and make his heart feel at ease with the simple gesture. He'd take your hand in his if not for his hands occupied with instruments of death. He hates that he can't stand not seeing you.

He still feels that he doesn't deserve you, he still feels that he hasn't done anything to deserve his atonement. In his entire life he has faced the worst things, dodged a hundred bullets, shot a hundred more, endured the soil in his lungs and faced death itself— but this is nothing compared to those, because you weren't there to see it, you weren't there to experience it just like how he did. You weren't caught in the crossfire, until now.

“Hobie,” your voice cuts through the fog that envelopes the mountain side where the train tracks wrap around like a snake eating itself. Your hand lays on top of his own that tightens around the doorknob to the next car. The same calloused hands that carry the weight of all of his wrongdoings and death he has committed. And yet, you still hold on to his rough hands like light at the end of a dark tunnel. “You're trembling,” he flicks his eyes downwards, seeing his hand shake under your own. “We can do this.” You smile, brightening up his view.

“What if we just leave.” His mind speaks before he even lets the thought escape. You blink, sliding your palm over to his thundering pulse. Everything overwhelms him, how his lips felt upon yours, how the smoke clings to his clothes and how everything is loud in his ears akin to lightning hitting and splitting a tree. He feels like that tree. “Uncouple the caboose and take the horses out of ‘ere.” He already knows what you're about to say. Leaving means giving up on the innocent bystanders behind the door, but if it's between them and you? He'd choose you everytime.

“And leave them?” You point towards the car door with your head. “What about Clementine and her family? We can't leave all those people behind, Hobie.” Your eyes shine in the moonlight, and he nods.

“Alright,” Hobie's vision plays tricks on him, he sees blood and carnage all over you. Your once hopeful eyes now lifeless, staring back at him without the shine he's used to. His heart pounds in his chest, he can tell that you're terrified too. “Just stay close to me, yeah?”

You grip tighter on his hand, feeling how cold he is and none of the usual warmth you're used to. “I'll stay close, I promise I got your back.”

“The second I open the door you duck and find a table or a fuckin'—”

You cup his jaw gently, “we'll be fine, we'll get out of this and ride into the sunset with Bucky and Cherry.” You try to be positive for him.

Hobie inhales, letting your honeyed scent waft over him. “If we get separated, head towards our cabin. We'll meet there.”

“And then what?”

He nervously chuckles. “I've got no bloody clue, love.”

“Me neither.” You snort, laying your forehead on his bicep briefly. “You ready, Mister Larry Brown?”

That puts a smile on his face. With a twist of the doorknob, you're met with a handful of men wearing shiny gold pins on their chests. They're startled by the sudden sight of you, and Hobie takes their shock as an opportunity to fan his gun, palm on the hammer, trigger finger pressing, bullets flying and hitting its mark quickly. They couldn't even take out their guns. The sound of their bodies hitting the ground made you sigh in relief. You think it's awful of you.

“Good shooting, Hobs.” You pat his back, hand lingering on his coat. Maybe it's your own nerves that's making you say such things.

Hobie recognizes that this is how you cope. “Rate it?”

You crack a wobbly smile, gun heavy in your hand. “Eight point five.”

He makes a face, “not that bad—” The sound of a bottle rolling across the floor immediately has Hobie raising his gun. An old man you recognize as the conductor comes out of the bar, hands raised in surrender. You both now notice the passengers hiding under tables and behind the bar. They're all unharmed, except for a few bruises and scratches. “How many?” His gun is still comfortably in his hand aiming below just in case. He's not taking any chances.

The older man doesn't speak, only shaking his head. He might be afraid of you and Hobie, seeing how the man next to you just flattened five men without hesitation. You want to tell him that there's nothing to be afraid of, but you fear that he won't believe you.

“He doesn't know. Knowing our bounties— if I was them I'd bring the whole cavalry.” Hobie mumbles, thanking the man with a nod. He takes bullets from his belt, immediately reloading the ones that he used up, metal rains down on the carpet. With a click, he gestures for you to follow while he walks towards the other side of the car; stepping over dead bodies and leaving blood trails in his wake. There's determination behind his jade eyes, and anger swirling behind them like a dust storm rolling just across the field. “They brought out the whole bloody lot of them for us.”

“Guess we're special.” You crouch down to take a rifle from one of the dead men. It's weirdly looking, there's a hunting knife strapped above the muzzle, all tied together by a thick rope— a makeshift bayonet. You figure the former owner is a psychopath for adding a blade on his gun, it's not like the bullet wasn't enough but he still wants his pound of flesh. A part of you is glad that he no longer breathes. After taking the rifle, you then lift up his torso to grab his bandolier, putting it over your shoulders and wearing it like a sash. Taking inventory of the gun, checking if it has jammed, Hobie takes watch on the door, peeking from the sliver of opening from the ajar door.

“You good, love?”

“Yeah, I'm a better shot with a rifle.” You holster the gun Hobie gave you as your last resort.

He knits his brows. “I've never seen you hold a rifle back then. I taught you with a six shooter.”

Shrugging, you hold the rifle in place, the butt of it is rough against your shoulder, barrel cold on your palm. “I taught myself with a rifle.”

“Huntin’?”

You sigh, giving him a weak smile. “Sure. I didn't see Clem or her parents behind the bar.”

“They might be inside their cabin.” Hobie understands the worry behind your words. “We'll find them.”

You nod shakily, licking your dry lips. “We will, I know it.”

Hobie gives you a once over, he doesn't ask if you're alright or to tell you to stay behind because he knows the answers to both of those questions. “Okay, opening the door now.”

The wind rushes inside as he flings it open, rusty metal squeaking on the door hinges. Droplets of cool water hits your cheeks, knees aching a bit, cold breeze howling and nipping at your neck. Rain is coming.

You stalk behind Hobie, he enters the door, you follow. He shoots, you shoot the stragglers that can still hold their gun up. It's an elaborate dance of death.

Blood seeps into the floorboards and on the soles of your boots. Your eyes are alert, heartbeat raging in your ears as you don't falter in your aim, trigger finger always on the metal. You smell like gunpowder and steel, and there's crimson splashed across the men's once gilded badges.

“You still good?” Hobie asks in front of you, his footsteps are calculated and silent save for the soft clicking of his spurs. “Y/N,” he asks once again when you don't answer within a second.

“I'm okay, sorry, I was looking for them.” You scan the dining car. The tables have drops of red coating the white marble, plush chairs reeking of gore. It's devoid of any passengers, you're not sure if that's a good thing or a bad one.

Hobie is already positioned at the door, waiting for you. “Alright,” his mind keeps telling him that your luck will soon run out. That the element of surprise won't be on his side the next time he opens the door. He's never been this afraid since he was buried alive five years ago. You arrive at his side, he can finally breathe. “The next car is the kitchen. They might've heard us coming by now.”

You nod, you're terrified but not for your own safety but for Hobie's, and the passengers. You've made your peace that you might not make it out of this alive just like how you've done when you escaped that horrid place. “I'm ready.”

He looks at you for a second before sliding his hand over your cheek, calloused hands that almost feel soft atop your skin. His thumb rubs along your cheekbones, silently wishing for an outcome where you both live to see the sunrise. “Don’t die on me.”

You lean to his touch, moving your head slightly to kiss his rough palm. He stops breathing for a second. “I won't die on you if you don't die on me.”

With a soft smile and a peck to your forehead, he nods his promise. “I promise.” He opens the door, the drizzle has turned into a downpour, it soaks his clothes, sticking to his scarred skin, and cold water splashing over his hat and atop the warm barrel of his gun. He opens the door with a creak after crossing the small distance.

You're both met with a barrage of bullets, Hobie pushes you to the side, effectively hiding you behind a counter while he gets nicked by a bullet across his thigh as he jumps behind a metal box.

“Fuck!” He yells, taking off his bandana to wrap it around the wound. Crimson immediately drenches the cloth, turning the already dark bandana into a darker shade.

“Hobie!” You call for him above the sound of guns going off and bullets hitting where you stood. Your breath gets stuck in your throat when you see the identical gold ring wrapped around a piece of twine, the necklace sits pretty on his clavicle, shiny and well taken care of; A stark contrast to the jagged scar lined on his neck.

He gives you a thumbs up, unbeknownst to the mixture of emotions you're experiencing. He even winks at you while he groans in pain. Your eyes are full of longing, tears pricking at the corners. He points at the gunmen, counting down, waiting for them to use up all their ammo.

He puts a finger down, three. One by one, the guns click.

Two. You hear panicked yells behind the counter.

One. The bullets stop flying. They frantically reload, metal scraping against metal.

Hobie nods and quickly lifts himself off his cover, fanning his gun, he shoots them down while you do the same. You both hit your marks just as when the last of your ammo pings out— metal meets flesh in a firework of rubies and torn insides. The entire kitchen smells of iron and gunpowder, you hide behind the counter again to reload.

“Shit.” You whisper as you reload the rifle, it makes a ping sound when you take out the cartridge. Fingers sliding on the metal from how the rain water has slicked your palms. Your pulse beats to the tune of the thunder outside the train. Trees whizz by the windows, raindrops clinging to the fogged up glass outside. Just as you finally finish reloading, you see Hobie stand up and confidently walk forward with his gun raised, shooting until not a single one of them twitches. You watch him work in awe.

The door next to you suddenly opens, the unmistakable silver muzzle of a gun peeking from the door that hides the man from your view, strong hands aiming directly at Hobie who's reloading. Without hesitation, you shoot the door where you've calculated where the man's torso is supposed to be. Splintered wood flies all over you, the gunshot rings in your ears, and your face is covered in something warm.

Hobie watches as the man goes down, almost dead, choking on his own blood for you have shot at the stranger's trachea. He scrambles towards you who's covered in blood. Crouching down, he slowly moves the barrel of the rifle away from him to wipe your face clean. Your eyes are wide, staring at the body lying just a few feet away from you. The man still desperately breathes, hand uselessly cupping at his gaping wound, blood seeping through his fingers, teeth stained with crimson, and dark bloodshot eyes looking at you. You watch as the light in his eyes goes out, and you realize, you're the last thing he ever saw.

Your ears stop ringing and you can finally hear Hobie call your name. “Love, just breathe.”

“I'm okay,” you say, blood smudged all over your soft skin. “I'm okay.” You utter it like you're trying to convince yourself. He hates that he has made you into this, a killer.

“Can you stand up?” His hand clasp your own, fingers kneading at your shaking palms.

“Yeah, I-I think so.” You stand up on wobbly legs, inhaling deeply, a mistake on your end, for the air has gone stale with iron and boiling water from the abandoned pot.

Hobie's palm is on your chest, encouraging you to breathe. In and out, in and out, you almost gagged. “You're doin' great, just keep doin' that—” A shot rings out, two men enters the train car, one is huge in form, brandishing a pistol. The smaller one has a shotgun with a crazed look in his eyes. The bullet misses your head by mere inches, leaving a gash across the shell of your ear. “Fuckin' wankers!” Hobie exclaims, the hand on your shoulder makes you sit back down, the other shooting at the men. Your blood soaked your once pristine collar. You don't feel the pain.

“Not her, you moron!” The bigger one shoves the other, Hobie is emptying his bullets, gunpowder permeating the stale air, mixing in with the iron and heat.

Everything else was a blur to you as you look at the pool of blood that's slowly making its way towards you. You hear your heartbeat quickening, the metal of the rifle in your hand stings, leaving indents on your palms. With a pained yell from Hobie, you wake up from your trance, just as you stand up, you're met face to face with the man who wields a shotgun. He yells, the butt of his gun aimed at your head. But you're faster, so you jab his stomach with your rifle, digging the bayonet into his flesh, blood seeps out of his white shirt from the knife. Despite his size, you've got the advantage, you've got everything to lose if you fail, so you fight, and survive, and will fight again because you promised Hobie.

Your attacker's gun falls from his grasp, staggering on his own two feet. He yelps as you push and push him into a table as you launch yourself quickly. The edge of the table stabs the small of his back, groaning, adrenaline rushing through you, you don't hesitate in pulling the trigger.

“No, wait—!” There's a gaping hole in his stomach, his entrails lay bare to you. That warm liquid is on your face again, it coats your white shirt, on your shoes as it drips down, and now your hands.

Hobie hears the gunshot, he looks over his shoulder to check, a mistake for he gets a punch to the gut. Hobie desperately fights the other assailant, dodging fists as they've both run out of ammo without time to reload. The man is visibly bigger than him, taller, and with more muscle. He's outmatched but he's not going to give up. Hobie has his fists shielding him, standing just a few feet away from you, if the man wanted to get to you, he had to get through him first. while the lawman does the same, both of them spit out blood that stains their teeth. The stranger smirks, eyes flicking over to you who just shot his partner. Before he could rush towards you, Hobie leaps up effortlessly, hands gripping a metal pipe above, swinging his legs towards the man to kick him. Steel toed boots hit his chest, but it's no use, even with the momentum, the kick barely fazed him.

“Fuck—” Hobie groans as the man grabs his middle, pouncing on him, trying to take him down but Hobie's grip on the metal is too strong. His legs wrap around his opponent’s neck, squeezing in hopes that it’ll choke him. Hobie’s side stings while the attacker takes a few hits in, using him as a punching bag. He squeezes tighter, trying to twist and snap his neck. The man gasps for breath but his fists still connect to his side.

You take out your gun from the man's dead body, rushing towards them, rifle aimed at Hobie's attacker. You pull the trigger but it clicks and nothing happens. It's jammed, your mind quickly decides for you, with the adrenaline rushing, mind addled, you pick up the boiling pot with your bare hands. It's hot, but only for a moment. You fling the searing water towards the man's back, Hobie lets go before the water hits him, lifting himself on the pipe, legs raised up and perpendicular to his body as he dodges the boiling water. Steam and water flies, landing directly at the lawman's face just as he turns towards you. He screams in pain, his shirt now burning into his skin, melting into his flesh. Hobie drops down, the pot clangs as you let it go.

The screaming gets into your ears, worming its way into your ear canals, so you do what you should've done to the man behind the door while he suffered— you put him out of his misery. Quick drawing the six shooter Hobie gave you, you shoot, hitting your mark as his body falls loudly on the floorboards.

Hobie heaves, and you stare at the carnage before you, carnage you've had your hand in. You suddenly feel rough hands on your own, he helps holster your gun back before checking the damage on your palms. The pot burned your skin, it's red and angry, lines in the shape of the handle have permanently etched into your flesh, right next to the scar Hobie helped stitch years ago. Weirdly enough, you can't feel the blinding pain.

“‘m sorry,” he says, reluctantly letting your hands go as he picks up his fallen gun off the corpse-ridden floor.

“What for?” Your voice cracks, barely recognizing it as your own.

“For everythin’, we shouldn't have gotten on this train in the first place, or any train.” Hobie sees how dull your eyes have become, the iris of your eyes have become restless, always moving, always checking for threats. You've become like him in the span of a few minutes.

You try to smile, it ends up looking like you're in pain. “Apology accepted, make it up to me by surviving the night—!” There's a lasso around your neck, you see Hobie's face contort into horror as you get pushed down on the floor, noose getting tighter as you gasp for air. Before he could shoot the one on the other end of the lasso, you're quickly dragged across the floor, body flailing like a ragdoll as the one dragging you around laughs.

“No! Y/N!” Hobie's thundering footsteps follow behind, shooting someone behind you. But you're still getting dragged around through train car to train car, rain battering your body whenever the person hauls you outside, the rough floor stings against your back. “Let her go!”

Black dots dance around your vision as your fingers try to get between the harsh rope and your neck. Your other hand reaches desperately at your gun holster. Fingers brush along the cool metal, ceilings whizzing above you. You're running out of air, and Hobie's running out of ammo. His panic and the rattle of the train makes his aim terrible. The man continues to lug and pull you as if you're a prized doe that they just hunted down.

The rope is choking you, leaving you with a mark around your neck and a skinned back from the floorboards that slash at your coat.

Gasping, you lift your leg up, finally reaching for the gun, quickly pushing down the hammer and leaning your head back to aim. The man dragging you about keeps moving from side to side, you shoot a couple of times but to no avail, panic sets in as your arm gets weaker, breath getting shallow, and your eyesight blurring. Your gun falls from your grasp, left behind as darkness envelops you.

Bang!

A body thuds, Hobie runs after you, the barrel of his gun still smoking as you lay limp on the carpeted floor. He gets to your side, immediately untying the noose around your sore neck. Your eyes fly open and you gasp for air, laying on your side as you try to take in breaths. You blink away the black dots and you're met with Clementine’s familiar eyes. Her mother holds her to her chest, hands covering her daughter's ears. While her father shields them both even with blood coating his forehead. They're terrified, you wonder if they're terrified of you.

Hobie pats your back for you to breathe better. “‘m sorry, fuck, Y/N,” he gingerly holds your face. “Look at me,” there's unshed tears in your eyes. He was almost too late, if his aim was just a few inches off— he doesn't want to think about it. Your eyes are glued to Clementine’s terror filled expression. “Oi, love, can you look at me please?”

You turn your head, neck aching and tender, you're met with soft viridescent eyes that smile when you finally stare back. He briefly turns his attention to the family cowering in their cabin before turning towards you again. “I have a plan,” he says while you hold his wrists, unable to speak. Hobie's heart aches at the sight of your bloodshot eyes. “We need to get to the engine, there's more comin', I can hear them.” Hobie struggles to breathe, so you slide your palm on his chest just like he did to you, wordlessly telling him to breathe. Nodding, he inhales deeply. “Uncouple the engine from the rest of the train. That's the only way we can get out of ‘ere.”

“What about them?” You manage to let out, you don't recognize your own voice. He knows what you mean.

“They're after us, not them. The most they can do is question them.” He tries to convince you even though he's not convinced himself.

You gesture towards Clem's father. “He's bleeding from his fucking head, Hobie—!”

“I'm alright,” Jesse chimes in, his wife nods along but she doesn't let go of Clem or his hand. “I got this because everyone started running away from the gunshots. I got trampled but I'm fine now.” His eyes pleads with you. “He's right, they won't touch us.”

“What if they do?” Tears cling to your lashes.

“There's more of us than them.” You don't expect him to chuckle, the pistol in his hand glimmers under the yellow light of the cabin. “Trust me, we're more trouble for them. I'm from the south, these kinds of things happen on the regular over there.” The scar on his brow tells you of his struggle, telling you that he can protect his family. “Worry about yourself.”

Hobie nods, thanking him silently while he still holds on to you.

“Get out while you can, sweetheart.” Florence addresses you. “I don't know what you two did but we don't care about them, just you. And you've got a good heart, so go.”

“Thank you,” you say, voice breaking. “Get to the caboose, there's more people there.”

They take your advice, standing up while Florence carries Clementine. Jesse goes in front of them, gun at the ready. Hobie helps you stand up and you watch as Clem waves goodbye to you.

“Bye, Clementine.” You whisper, a jar of honey rolls around the cabin and you frown, mind telling you that you might've traumatized the poor kid.

“They'll be alright.” Hobie brushes his knuckles against the back of your hand, careful of any injuries you're not telling him. “Let's go, love,” as he leads you outside of the cabin car, you spot a few more passengers running towards the back of the car.

You swallow thickly, neck stinging, burn marks left at your palms and neck. Your back throbs, but all the pain doesn't compare to the torture back home. Your great aunt throws despicable words at you, as if her jabbing you with stationary wasn't enough, with your so-called uncle always watching every punishment from the corner like a peeping tom. And him, he'd do worse than those two combined, perhaps he learned how to hurt you from them. And perhaps he has mastered the torture.

Suddenly, you're back at home in your pretty dress, pristine and looking like the perfect lady. But your velvet sleeves and satin skirts hide the tiny pin pricks and drying blood, the expensive jewelry outshines the apocalyptic look in your eyes. The ring around your ring finger keeps it all hidden— they call you lucky, they say that you glow under the chandeliers like the diamonds around your neck, yet, they pretend to be blind from how you stare outside the mansion like a doe caught in a bear’s trap longing to be free.

The rain hitting your face wakes you back to the present. Hobie's arm is around your middle, hovering just above your wounded back. With the cold raining down on you briefly, entering the next car, a group of men greet you on the other side.

“Finally made it.” The man in the middle says, he has a gilded star on his chest, twirled mustache on his face, and crow's feet around his green eyes. There's a hand cannon on his hand, the metal is all worn out and scuffed. “The name's Lee, I'm the sheriff around these parts.” He says, stubbing his cigarette atop a plush seat. You're in a regular train car that's lined with seats for the ones who're not in for the long haul. The rain outside keeps battering the windows, their guns are aimed at Hobie. “There’s a bounty on your head, Mister Brown. And I heard someone's lookin’ for you, pretty lady. You two got us running without our heads out there while you were on the dodge. But we got you now, eh?”

Hobie gets shoved from behind, and you both stumble forward. A couple of Lee's men appear, pushing you both closer to the sheriff with the muzzle of their guns. Hobie holds on tighter to you, and your gaze pierces the man in front of you.

You're surrounded. And Hobie feels like he's being buried again.

His eyes flick towards the windows, behind the water droplets lie a familiar view of a large lake— he knows this place, he knows where they're heading, all he needs to do is stall for time.

“You're lawmen, not bounty hunters.” Hobie taunts, “government not paying enough, sheriff?”

The man in front of you chuckles, lighting up a new cigarette with a flourish. You feel the acrid smoke enter your lungs. “A man's gotta eat, y’know?”

“Yeah, I know. Just like dumb and dumber who tried to ambush us by the river.” Hobie has a smug look, acting nonchalant, but his grip on you says otherwise.

You're worried when the lawman drops his confident stance. “What are you doing?” You whisper to Hobie, eyes never leaving your enemies.

“When I tell you to run, you run.” He whispers back, glancing briefly at you.

You don't protest, trusting him completely. You don't say, ‘alright,’ or ‘okay’ for confirmation that you'll follow whatever he's planning. Instead, you say the three words you've wanted to say to him, the real him, not the one from your dreams or hazy illusions— Hobie, your Hobie who used to greet you with a boyish smile under the oak tree. “I love you.”

His brave façade falls, you smile sweetly at him as you lean your head against his clavicle. Hobie makes an oath right there and then that he'll say it back when he deserves to say it to you, when he gets you to safety. For now, he holds onto you like how he desperately grasps onto the memory of you while you were thousands of miles away from him.

“That's a sweet sight,” the sheriff drawls, “looks like she knows that it's all over. But I can see that you don't.” He exhales smoke, it fills the cabin with sickly air. “You're off to the widow, mister Brown.”

Hobie smirks, you can see the cogs in his mind turn. “I think I remember you now, old man.”

Lee licks his teeth, the men at his command adjust their hold on their guns. “You remember now haven't you?” His spurs click against the floor when he moves closer, you notice he walks with a slight limp that he tries hard to not be noticeable. Hobie flicks his eyes outside.

“Yeah,” Hobie laughs to your surprise, “how's your leg? Or better yet, how's your son?”

“You motherfucker! Hobble your fucking lip!” Lee finally raises his pistol, cigarette ash falling from his lips that curls around the stick. It makes Hobie more amused. “Bet you don't even remember his fucking name.” He says through gritted teeth.

Hobie tilts his head, clicking his tongue, pretending to think. “Was it Jerry? Or Ronald? I don't remember, he didn't leave much of a mark on me.”

“I should shoot you right now.”

“Why don't you?” He raises a brow. A tall willow outside whizzes past. Hobie counts down in his head.

“Because the pay is higher if I bring you alive.” The man's green eyes stare at you. You feel like you're being scrutinized on stage. “Besides, I don't want to shoot you in front of your woman.” He gives you a toothy smile. “Why don't you come over here, sweetheart, I won't do you any harm. I'm just going to bring you home.”

You shake your head, trying to act brave now that the adrenaline has sapped out all of your energy. “That's worse than hurting me, sheriff.”

“Now why is that? Your family misses you.”

“I'd rather you shoot me with him than bring me back home.” Hobie listens in, guilt gnawing at his insides.

Sheriff Lee makes a face, befuddled by your words. “You’d rather die?”

“Without hesitation.”

He nods, looking like he's weighing his choices. “Now that's the love of a woman right there. I've only seen it a couple of times, one is from my own wife.” More ashes fall from his cigarette, the stick getting smaller and smaller with every exhale. Hobie uses it as a countdown. It's near, he can feel it from the rumble on the tracks.

Hobie scoffs, “‘m surprised that your wife stuck around with your ugly mug.” His fingers subtly unclasp the whip hanging on his belt.

Lee runs out of patience, clicking the hammer of his pistol, “this is for my son.” The last of the ashes from the cigarette falls, light completely going out from the stick.

Your eyes widens, body already moving to shield Hobie. In an instant, He yells, “Run!” Darkness engulfs the entire train car, gunshots let out muzzle flashes of light as the lawmen shoot with panic in their trigger fingers. You run forward, bodying Lee in the process. You hear the crack of a whip as you shield your head with your arms.

You land on the metal door, vision still dark while you blindly feel for the doorknob. Panicking, a familiar form presses behind you, immediately finding the doorknob and opening it for you. Stepping outside in a rush, you almost fall off the train if not for your reflexes making you hold onto the railing beside you.

With a creak of the door closing, gunshots muffling, you spot Hobie's silhouette amidst the darkness, you can't decipher what he's doing with the door. Noticing the rain has stopped, you look above, but in a second, rain hits your form like a waterfall, and the moon shines brightly. You were in a tunnel, and Hobie knew that the dark would give you an escape.

“Holy shit!” Like a thunderbolt, you whirl around to face Hobie to either kiss him or hug him. But you're met with his pained face, hand clutching his side as blood seeps out from his fingers. “No, no, no!” You press hard on his wound, he yelps, but he's grinning at you. “This isn't funny!”

He smiles wider, you think he has lost it. “It isn't, I just can't believe you told me you love me in there.”

You'd smack his shoulder if not for his injury. “You're an idiot, Hobie Brown,” he laughs, you smile, “a brilliant idiot.”

“I am quite brilliant.” You nod, tears mixing in with rain water, kissing his cheeks, you hear a muffled, “I can't believe that worked.” From him, so you pepper more kisses on his wet cheeks. “‘m lovin’ this, but we need to uncouple the cars. And we have an audience.”

You look over your shoulder, hands still on his wound. Two men look at you from the smokestack, one pauses from shoveling coal into the engine while the train driver blinks rapidly in shock.

“We're commandeering this train,” Hobie straightens up, jumping over the gap to get to the controls. Both men don't even protest, just silently raising their hands in mock surrender. He makes them stand in the corner that's further away from the controls, they obey. “C’mon, love.” He beckons you over, fingers opening and closing.

You hold out your hand just as when there's loud banging on the other side of the doors. Jumping the gap, you stand chest to chest with Hobie. There's hope yet for you two to safely escape.

The door doesn't budge from how Hobie locked it using his whip to tie the doorknob around the railing on the side. But it won't hold on forever.

The scenery has changed from the mountainside to a straight muddy plain. The tracks seem to go on forever, and you can see the next station just a few meters away.

“Alright,” He looks at the confusing controls. “Which button to unclasp the cars?” He thanks his adrenaline for keeping him on his feet.

“No button,” the one with the official looking uniform says. “You have to do it manually.” He glances at the floor where there's metal connecting the engine to the carriages.

You immediately get on your knees, wet hands sliding on the rusted metal. Desperately pulling on the large nail that connects both winches. You keep trying to pull it off. Your hands slide off so you try again. And again. Your hands smell of rust. And again. But it's all in vain, the hold is too strong.

“Shit—!” Hobie tries to help by crouching down but his wound denies him. Wincing, he lays his head against the wall, eyes flicking between you and the door that's barely holding on. He weakly raises his gun, seeing the chambers now devoid of any ammo. “Fucker.” He tries to find more bullets from his bandolier and pockets, but he finds none.

You look at the two men wordlessly watching you fail. The rain and harsh wind still smacks your face. “Please, those men on the other side will kill us if you don't help.”

The driver shrugs and joins you on the floor, but instead of pulling onto the nail, he leans further down, sliding his hand underneath the winch and turning a wheel counter clockwise.

“You turn, not pull.” He says to you, continuing to loosen the connection.

“Now you tell me.”

Hobie tells the other person to keep shoveling in coal so when the engine is free, the four of you would be way ahead of the car. The engine runs hotter with every coal shoved inside, you suddenly feel warm, clothes slowly drying from the intense heat.

You can see the metal loosening, you'd exhale a relieved breath but the door bursts open. Sheriff Lee comes out covered in blood with a pistol. One eye closed and bleeding. Behind him, you can see the bodies of his men littered around the car, all shot to bits, the seats covered in their blood. Only Lee and a couple of them survived who now stood beside him while clutching their gunshot wounds.

“You made me shoot my own men!” He seethes, without a beat, he shoots but his aim isn't straight. The bullet pierces the man helping you. His headless body falls limp and falls out of the train and under the tracks, leaving crimson trails behind.

You don't have time to scream when his warm blood splashes across your face and sleeves. Hobie grabs you to the side, a small sliver of metal wall shielding you both. His hand shields your head, arms encasing you. The train passes by the last station in a blur.

The other train worker does the same, crouching down on the other side, shielded by the same small wall. Hobie sees the man's pistol hidden in the waistband of his denim jeans.

“Oi!” He yells above the gunshots, “throw me your gun!”

“What?! No!”

“You're not even bloody using it!”

“You're an asshole!”

“Just give us the fucking gun!” You yell back in a quick tone.

With a shake of the stranger's head, he reluctantly tosses you the gun. Lee sees the opportunity and shoots the guy's hand. He screams as blood gushes out, the gun clangs on the floor just an arm away from you.

The poor man's screams get louder, and suddenly he stands up, pushing himself off the floor and jumping out of the moving train and into the muddled swampy ground. You don't know if he survived the jump, or if the gators got to him first.

Hobie whispers a shocked, “what the fuck,” in your ears. He groans as his wound gets rattled by the tracks. “The gun,” before he could even get a toe outside, a bullet nicks the steel point of his boots. Taking his foot back, he curses and punches the wall behind him in frustration.

You stare at the weapon that's slowly moving downwards and into the space between the cars and engine. It's going to fall off if you don't act fast.

“They need to reload.”

“What?” Hobie asks tiredly. He hears the guns click, indicating that they've run out, “wait— Y/N, no!”

Without missing a beat, you reach towards the gun swiftly before they finish reloading. Hobie yanks you back the second you get the gun in your hand. A bullet pierces the floor where you were just a second ago.

“Get the fuck out of there!” Lee taunts.

You clutch the gun on your chest. Checking the chamber, you only see two bullets in it. Hobie leans over to see it. “Fuck!” You both say simultaneously.

“We've got two shots at this, Y/N.” Hobie looks at you, his green eyes gets darker even though dawn is just about arriving. His hand slides around the gun and your hand. “Let me do it.”

You shake your head, briefly laying your forehead on his. “No, you've done more than enough.”

He furrows his brows, “let me do it, love, I owe you that much.” It's not because he doesn't trust you and your aim, he knows better than that. He just doesn't want you to be in their crosshairs again.

The gunshots seize, without a reply, you leave his side, sliding on the floor to shoot. You find no one on the other side, just a brief last look at Lee's retreating back. Hobie pulls you back in, “they left.” You say, confused. Standing up, you help Hobie up, eyes widening at the front of the train.

“Cowards.” He says with a victorious smile. He expects you to smile back but you only have a look of terror. “What is it?” He follows your line of sight, and sees the lack of tracks looming closer and closer. “Fuckin' hell!” Hands immediately trying to pull down the brakes, he ignores the pain on his side as he keeps trying to push it down with his weight. “Y/N!” Looking over his shoulder, he sees you crouched down, uncoupling the car from the engine. Within a second, you free the train cars, leaving it in the dust as it slowly comes to a stop. He thinks of Bucky and Cherry, and the innocent passengers.

You turn to face him with glossy eyes, the rain has subsided, grey clouds parting away for sunlight. Hobie shakes his head, refusing to give up as the train chugs on, smoke billowing out. Pushing the brakes down, he feels your hands wrap around his own.

“Together.” You say, smiling softly just like how you did amidst the crowd back home.

He nods, your hands are uncharacteristically cold against his own. “Together.”

With one final push from the two of you, railway workers run away from the tracks they're working on as they see you continue to move fast. They yell and wave their hands to get your attention, but your eyes are only on Hobie's face. Everything happens slowly, the brakes screech, sparks flying as metal hits steel, but the momentum is too fast, and the engine bursts from the speed and heat. You slam against the controls with a sickening thud. Arms embrace you as the train crashes and you're once again in darkness.

—

Hobie's head throbs, he feels numb, fingers tingling, and his field of vision is blurry. Blobs of colours fly past him, screams muffled in his ears as if he's caught under the tides. He tries to blink the fuzziness away, after a few weak tries, he sees your bloodied soot-covered face, and feels your hands on his cheeks.; desperately holding on to him.

“Hobie!” You cry. He wants to comfort you and tell you everything will be alright. “Someone help us please!”

His perception darkens, inky spots appearing just as he sees a metal beast creak and groan while it burns in the fiery destruction. There's hundreds of fiber-like metal bursting out from within, like an angel losing its wings, fallen from grace. That's the last thing he sees before he succumbs to the pain.

—

“Try to keep him awake!” An unfamiliar person says.

Hobie feels like there's water inside his head, sloshing around in his pain-addled brain. He forces his heavy eyelids to open, Bucky's face greets him. I'm dead, he thinks, then your hands wrap around his own, squeezing a dozen times. “I'm in heaven then,” he tries to speak but it only comes out as a jumbled mess of words.

“Stay awake, Hobie!” You yell, “please! Hurry up, mister! He's starting to bleed from his ears!”

“Love—” he says before blacking out again.

—

His nose picks up something musty in the air, it's humid, crickets chirping outside, and he's sweating a lot. His head still aches, a pounding pain right behind his eyes. Hand reaching upwards, he feels bandages wrapped around his head, groaning in pain at the simple gesture. He smacks his lips, realizing that his throat is dry. Time has passed, he surmises based on how his wounds are starting to itch, indicating that it has been at least a few days.

He opens his eyes wide, panic settles in his stomach, remembering your terrified bloody face looming above him. Sitting up from the lumpy bed, his sight darkens for a second from how fast he sat up. Whispering your name, he coughs dryly, arm perching him up. He calls again, a bit louder this time, but he doesn't hear a pip anywhere except for the rushing water outside and the insects.

“Love?” He heaves, rolling to the side. Moving his heavy head up, he sees your coat draped over a lone armchair, but still no you. “Y/N!” Yelling with all his might even though his head bangs against his skull. After a few seconds, his ears pick up your muffled voice that seems to be coming below him. He calls once again with a soft smile on his lips, hands fisting the sheets when a wave of pain crashes down on him.

Ears ringing from the blinding pain, he's sure he hears numerous unfamiliar voices downstairs. He blinks the warbling vision away, then his heart picks up pace from the sound of a loud thud. Eyeing the plain door, your piercing scream brings his greatest fear come to life.

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[brightlight-dazzlingeyes]

what am i to you | pablo gavi [part iii]

🌧️synopsis: It’s well past midnight when a knock on your door stops you in your tracks. You don’t want to open it – you already know who it is. And when you see Pablo, drenched and drunk, standing in the rain, all you feel is anger. tags: angst, reconciliation, love confessions, happy ending. (written in 2nd person but no mention of yn) (around 2.9k words) (this part is dedicated to @htpssgavi)

you can read the first part here.

The storm outside has you on edge. Each gust of wind rattles the windows, and the rain beats down so hard you swear the roof might cave in. The rain outside is relentless, thunder growls in the distance, each rumble sending shivers up your spine. You’ve always hated storms – how they make the world feel unpredictable, out of control. The power flickers once, twice, but holds steady. Wrapped in your too-thin pajamas, you pace the living room, arms crossed tight against the cold seeping in from every corner. 

You look at the clock. It’s well past midnight, but sleep feels impossible. You’re alone in the house, and it’s too late to call anyone without sounding pathetic.

You’re shivering and should grab a blanket, but every time you think about it, a flash of lightning freezes you in place, and you’re stuck listening to the wind howl like it’s coming for you. You're pacing back and forth, back and forth, trying to burn off the nervous energy. Your feet ache with every step, still hurting from the past few days, but you don’t care. It’s better than sitting still. 

Lightning flashes, illuminating the room for a split second, and you freeze. A loud knock at the door follows, startling you so badly your heart leaps into your throat. You stand frozen, listening, hoping you imagined it. But then it comes again – three sharp, insistent raps. 

You swallow hard, the icy fear of the unknown crawling up your spine. Who could possibly be out in this weather? Who would show up at this hour? Your hands are trembling as you inch toward the door. Each step feels like it takes a year, the storm outside roaring louder with every second. When you finally peek through the peephole, the air leaves your lungs all at once. It’s Pablo. Of course, it’s him.

You’re not relieved. You’re furious. The sight of him standing there, drenched to the bone, just makes your blood boil. What the hell is he doing here? Your feet ache worse as you stomp the rest of the way to the door, anger bubbling up with every step. Your fingers tighten on the doorknob, and for a moment, you consider not opening it at all. 

When you yank it open, the cold wind rushes in, biting at your skin and making your shivering even worse. He’s soaked to the bone, rain dripping from his hair and clothes. He looks as miserable as you feel. But instead of pity, all you feel is anger.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you snap, your voice sharp enough to cut through the storm.

“Can I come in?” His voice is barely audible over the rain. Still, you don’t move.

“Are you drunk?” you ask, your eyes narrowing. The smell of alcohol is faint but undeniable.

“Yeah, a little,” he admits, not meeting your eyes.

“Are you kidding me?” you spit, crossing your arms even though the cold air is biting at your skin. “You show up here, like this, in the middle of the night? What do you want, Pablo?”

He takes a shaky step forward, and you instinctively step back. His shoulders sag, and he looks at you like he’s about to break. “What do you want me to do?” he says, his voice cracking. “Do you want me to kiss you? Would that fix this? Would it make it hurt less?”

You gape at him, stunned into silence for a moment before the anger surges back, hotter and heavier than before. “Are you serious right now? You better remember this, Pablo. You’re the one who is destroying our friendship. It isn't my feelings for you. It is the fact that you’re an asshole.”

You hate how your chest twists at the sight of him soaked and shivering. Hate that even now, a part of you wants to pull him inside and make him warm. But you’ve learned the hard way that letting him in never ends well for you. Your jaw tightens and you say: “Go home, okay? I’m not doing this.”

He flinches like you’ve slapped him, and for a second, you think he’s going to leave. But instead, he just stands there, looking lost and small and so incredibly stupid. “Can I sleep here?” he mumbles. “I can’t drive!”

“How did you even get here?” you demand, your voice rising with disbelief.

“Uber,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Then Uber yourself home,” you snap, already stepping back to close the door.

“My phone’s dead,” he says, and there’s something so pitiful in the way he says it that you hesitate. “Why can’t I stay? I’ve stayed here a hundred times before.”

“Because we’re not friends anymore,” you say, your voice shaking with anger. “Are you even listening to this conversation?”

He looks genuinely confused, his brows knitting together as he stares at you. “What are you talking about?” he says, his voice soft and bewildered. Then, he looks even sadder. “What do you mean we’re not friends?”

Your anger wavers, just slightly. 

You sigh, the fight draining out of you all at once. “Fine. Go to sleep,” you mutter, stepping aside to let him in. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

He nods, looking like a scolded child. “Thank you.”

The silence between you is heavy as he stands there, dripping water onto your floor. You toss him a towel and point toward the couch. “Sit. And don’t talk.”

But, of course, he doesn’t listen. “I had a dream,” he says suddenly, his voice quiet but insistent. “About you.”

You whip around to face him. “I don’t care, Pablo.”

He looks down, rubbing the back of his neck. There’s a faint flush on his cheeks, and when he finally meets your eyes, there’s something there that makes you nervous. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it,” he continues, ignoring your protest. “It felt... real. Too real.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “What, did you dream I magically forgave you? That we’re friends again?”

He rubs his neck again, avoiding your eyes, his words tumbling out too quickly, like he’s trying to outrun his own embarrassment. ‘It wasn’t... just that,’ he stammers. “It was... different.”

Your eyes narrow. “What do you mean, ‘different’?”

He looks away, running a hand through his damp hair. “You know what I mean.”

You think for a second…

“Oh my god. Are you seriously implying –”

“I didn’t come here because of that!” he says quickly, his face burning now. “I just... it made me think about us. About you. And how I’ve been such an idiot.”

“You think one stupid wet dream changes anything?” you say, your voice rising. 

“I’m not saying that,” he says, his voice steadying. “I’m saying I’m sorry. For everything. For not seeing what was right in front of me.”

You shake your head, tears stinging your eyes. “You don’t get it. I’m serious, just shut up!”

“No, listen,” he says, stepping closer. “I need you to know that I –”

“Don’t,” you interrupt, holding up a hand. “Don’t say it.”

He stops, his expression crumbling. 

You stare at him, the weight of his words pressing down on you. Finally, you sigh, gesturing toward the couch. “Go. To. Sleep. We’re not talking about this anymore tonight.”

You walk away, leaving him alone with the storm outside and the cold silence inside. You slam your bedroom door shut behind you and lean against it, heart racing. You don’t know if you’ll sleep tonight, not with him just a room away.

part 2

A pale light filters through the curtains, casting cold streaks of sunlight glow across your bedroom wall. You’ve been awake for a while, if you even truly fell asleep. Your mind’s been running in circles, replaying the storm, the argument, Pablo’s stupid, pretty and sad face.

You can’t stay in bed any longer, so, quietly, you push your door open, the hinges creak just loud enough to make you wince. The living room is still dim and you expect to find him passed out, maybe snoring. Instead, he’s sitting on the couch, awake. He’s shirtless, his damp shirt draped over the armrest to dry. He’s holding a glass of water, staring into it like it might hold all the answers to last night’s mess.

He looks up when he hears you, his eyes soft but tired. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

You shake your head, crossing your arms over your chest. “Not really.”

You’re not sure what to do. Your plan was to creep out, grab a cup of tea, and avoid him until daylight made things less awkward. But here he is, looking... smaller somehow. He sets the glass down on the table and leans back. “Sorry about last night.”

You exhale slowly, sitting down in the armchair opposite him. “Which part? Showing up drunk? Talking about your dream? Or just being an ass in general?”

He flinches, but there’s no anger in his eyes. Just regret. “All of it,” he says, “I shouldn’t have come here like that.”

You let the silence stretch out between you, not ready to fill it. Outside, the first birds start to sing, the storm has passed without you even noticing.

Finally, he speaks again. “I wasn’t lying, though. About the dream. About what it made me realize.”

You lean back, crossing your legs as you watch him carefully. “And what’s that, Pablo? That you can’t live without me?” There’s sarcasm in your voice, but it doesn’t land the way you want it to.

His expression softens, his brows drawing together like he’s trying to find the right words. “Maybe,” he says quietly. “Or maybe... that I’ve been an idiot. That I’ve been so scared of losing you, I never let myself imagine what it’d be like to have you.”

Your heart stumbles in your chest, but you don’t let it show. “You were pretty clear about not seeing me that way. More than once.”

“I didn’t know,” he admits. “Not until now.”

“And now, what? What if you’re just confused?”

“What if you’re confused?” he counters, his voice calm but pointed.

“Did you really change your mind because of a dream?”

“I know, it sounds stupid.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But I was wrong. I thought keeping you at arm’s length was the right thing to do. That it’d protect us, protect our friendship. But all I did was push you away.”

Your voice wavers, rising in defense. “Boys are disgusting. You’re just horny. You don’t even like me.”

“I love you,” he says firmly.

You shake your head, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. “Yeah, but you don’t like me.”

His lips twitch into a faint, sad smile. “If boys are disgusting, then girls are confusing. Tell me what you want.”

You don’t respond right away. You’re not sure how to.

You’re so tired of having this conversation, it takes physical effort for you to get words out. “I want to mean to you what you mean to me.”

“I was thinking,” he continues, “About all the times I ran to you when things got hard. How you were always there, always patient, even when I didn’t deserve it. And how I’ve spent so much time telling myself you were the one thing I couldn’t have, I never stopped to ask if I actually wanted more. If I was just scared to want it.”

You swallow hard. “And now? What do you want now, Pablo?”

He looks at you then, really looks at you. The sunlight catches the edges of his face, highlighting the beauty of his features. “You. I want you,” he says simply. “But only if you still want me.”

You just sit there, the silence stretching out between you again. The birds are louder now, the morning fully settling in.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” you admit.

He nods, like he’s been expecting that. “I’ll prove it,” he says, his tone steady. “Whatever it takes. I don’t want to lose you again.”

The sincerity in his voice feels like a balm, soothing some of the ache you’ve been carrying. You don’t have all the answers yet, and neither does he. 

“You’re making breakfast,” you say, standing up and heading toward the kitchen.

He blinks, caught off guard. “What?”

“You heard me. If you’re serious about proving it, you can start by making breakfast.”

A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and for the first time since he knocked on your door, you feel like you can breathe again.

part 3

The lake looks the same as it always has. Flat, endless, reflecting the blue sky and the thin wisp of clouds. It’s peaceful, like it’s always been, and you’re starting to think that’s why you came here. Why he came here.

The breeze is gentle, carrying that earthy lake smell that you love so much. It’s early, the kind of early where everything feels softer, slower. Like the world is waking up at its own pace, unbothered by alarms or responsibilities.

You’re leaning back on your hands, legs stretched out in front of you, toes digging into the cool, damp sand, while Pablo sits cross-legged beside you, idly tracing patterns in the dirt with a stick.

He’s barefoot, his sneakers tossed somewhere behind you, and his shirt is wrinkled from where he must’ve balled it up to use as a pillow earlier. His hair’s still damp, messy from when he dunked his head in the water on a dare you didn’t even make. You’d rolled your eyes and called him an idiot, but you’d smiled, too. You couldn’t help it. 

“This is weird, right?” he says, breaking the silence. His voice is light, teasing. “I mean, we’ve been coming here forever. But it feels different now.”

You look at him, raising an eyebrow. “Different how?”

He shrugs, “I don’t know. It just does. Maybe because you’re not yelling at me for skipping rocks wrong this time.”

“That’s because you’ve finally stopped skipping them like a toddler,” you shoot back, and he laughs, his head tilting back just enough for the sunlight to catch on his cheekbones. It’s unfair, how good he looks when he laughs.

“I wasn’t that bad,” he says, feigning offense.

“You were terrible.”

A bird calls out from somewhere across the water, and the breeze ruffles his hair just enough to make you want to reach out and fix it.

“You remember the first time we came here?” he asks, his voice softer now, nostalgic. “You made me row the canoe the whole way because you were too scared to touch the oars.”

“I wasn’t scared,” you lie, and he chuckles, shaking his head.

“Sure. And I didn’t almost tip us over trying to grab that stupid hat you lost in the water.”

“You’re the one who knocked it off my head,” you remind him, your tone sharp. “And it wasn’t stupid. It was my favorite hat.” You groan, covering your face with your hands.

He laughs again, the sound warm and familiar, and you let yourself smile behind your hands. When you drop them, he’s watching you, his expression is sweet.

“You’re my favorite person,” he says suddenly, “You know that, right?”

You blink, caught off guard. “Don’t say stuff like that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“Because...” You trail off, looking away. The lake’s surface ripples gently, the reflection of the sky breaking into pieces. “Because it makes it harder to… stay mad at you.”

“Good,” he says, nudging your shoulder with his. “I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stuck with me,” he says, grinning.

The sun climbs a little higher, the golden light spilling over the trees and turning everything warm. You sneak a glance at him, catching the way the sunlight dances off his skin, how his hair falls messily into his eyes. He notices you looking and raises an eyebrow, a small, teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“What?” he asks, his voice soft.

“Nothing,” you mumble, looking away quickly, but you can feel your cheeks heat up.

He chuckles, low and warm, and it makes your stomach flutter. You hug your knees to your chest, burying your face against them for a moment, but then you feel his hand, warm and steady, brushing against yours.

“I like when you do that,” he says.

“Do what?” you ask, your voice muffled by your knees.

“Stare at me,” he says.

You peek up at him, “I don’t stare,” you say weakly, but even as you say it, you know it’s not true.

He shifts closer, and suddenly his knee is touching yours, his hand reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“You’re allowed to,” he says quietly.

You don’t move away, and then he leans in, slowly, giving you all the time in the world to pull away. You don’t. His lips meet yours, soft and familiar but still electrifying, like every time before and yet somehow different.

The kiss is gentle only at first, but it deepens, his hand moving to cup your cheek, and you feel yourself melting into him, into the kiss. When you finally pull away, you don’t look at him right away, your face burning. It’s silly, really, considering this isn’t the first time. But something about kissing him here, in the open, with the sky and the lake and the whole world around you, it makes you still –.

“Still shy?” he asks, but there’s no teasing in it, just something soft and fond.

“Shut up,” you mutter, burying your face in his shoulder, and he laughs, wrapping an arm around you to pull you closer.

[iron-cutler]

New game!

WHITE WHALE is a four-player tabletop game in the style of Moby Dick and other nautical adventures. Players take on the roles of sea captains voyaging across the Sea of Grand Fortune, each one in pursuit of a colossal sea-beast on which they have sworn eternal vengeance. Will you slay your ancient foe, or will you be scuttled beneath the waves? Download the game at the link and find out!

[sculptorofcrimson]

Snowfields

Synopsis: A cold walk atop the mountain with Valdor.

Relations: Valdor x female Emperor shard

Warnings: Suicide attempt

This is relatively tame for what I write, and I wrote it in one sitting when I had roughly 20 minutes to spare. Ty for your time!

“Do you remember Ararat, my liege?”

No. No, she didn’t remember Ararat. She has never heard the name before. But she will. By the gods, she will. 

The air was cold. It rattled through her lungs when she tried to breathe. The white seemed to stretch forever, like malignant bones, the wind laid bare and rattling its screams. It would rise like a frosty howl around the two of them, wailing like a soldier who had lost a limb, weeping its cries for eternity. The cold bit at her, tore at her, the snow would have frozen mortal blood solid in mortal veins. Thunder grumbles in the distance. A crack of lightning splits the sky in half, purplish white against the ghoulish grey. 

His cloak was warm when he wrapped it around her. But his touch, without doubt, without even question, was unfathomably cold. Without even thinking of it, she had shrunk away.

Valdor’s grip had only tightened then. He fastened the clasp of the too-large cloak, the stench of incense and parchment wafting from the silk. A small smile, the emotionless movement perfected by a mind that could not actually smile, flashed briefly across his visage as he took her wrist, trapped it so effortlessly between his fingers and kissed the soft skin there.

“There was a Primarch once. A magnificent man. One that even I respected, in some regards.” Valdor led her, slowly and patiently, holding her up when she stumbled through the knee-high snow. The mountaintop seemed to rage against her. Well, too damn bad. She hated mountains, and she hated snow, and she was about to teach him a lesson out of spite. It was pure pettiness, but it was hers, it was one last plan she held to herself, one last wish she was certain was hers and not his, and if she was going to die, drowned limb by limb into the unseeing gold, she wished to at least pain him with it. 

How had it gone so wrong? How had angels of such glorious aurite turned into nightmares wrapped in gold and crimson? 

She yanked her arm away. Valdor let her go without struggle, simply rising back with a singular, elegant motion, as if he were a dancer performing a long-awaited waltz. When she stumbles over another snow-covered rock mere moments later, he was there, as if he had never left, one arm gently wrapped around her waist as he hauls her upright. This time, when she tries to pull away, his grip only tightens, as if he was defying the very storm itself.

“The snow reminds me of him. The Cataegis Primarch of the IVth legion. You watched us duel atop a mountain not so unlike this one, my liege, when the storm ended. It felt like the top of the world. We were in a deadlock when you appeared, your attention straying just for a moment to our fight. I snapped his wrist with a twisting motion, and slammed him into the ground hard enough to snap part of his spine. Your attention had departed by then, but it was enough. You still remember the frost, do you not?”

No. No. She didn’t. She couldn’t. Valdor’s hand, so gentle, so damnably gentle, placed itself under her chin. It stroked her hair, his gauntlets’ touch heavy yet tender, the jewels flashing dully through strands of hair that were quickly becoming darker, swallowed first by brown and then by black. He had not forbidden her to cut it. Out of spite, she had ordered him to cut it for her. 

It didn’t matter.

The strands had grown back, with an unrelenting zeal, glossy and luxurious and flowing like ink over water. She was innocent once, she was mortal, she lived among men and walked amongst mortals, and she will never be again. She will never live again, and that truth was simply so jagged, so broken, so horrifyingly caught between her chest and her throat that it was as if something broke a little further every time she took a breath. Valdor had only quietly polished, brushed and glossed over her hair, his movements methodical and calculated, even when silent tears rolled their way down her cheeks, her vision blurred by the salt and the water but just visible enough to see the flakes of gold swirling in her pupils. Still clear enough to see herself die.

She had felt Valdor’s fingers through her hair then, braiding it carefully in an intricate style she had never seen before, but one that tugged at familiar roots she had never felt before. 

Her hair. Some mewling, broken part of her(was it her dream or His? Was there a difference anymore?) instinctively felt like it should be darker. Longer. Wreathed with gold, and weighed down by a crown. But it was her hair. It was her hair, once upon a time, and she had lost it strand by strand, inch by inch, as the gold swam up through her vision and blocked out her eyes.

A rock clattered over the side of the mountain, followed by dull, distant thunder. It jolted her back to her mind, to her body, to the world that she did not rule over and should have never ruled. 

Numbly, she felt herself shake her head. Valdor only raised an eyebrow, and adjusted the clasp.

“I remember the rock, my master.” Valdor was saying. His voice rose and fell like a litany, carefully retracing steps the Emperor had once guided him through, when He was a king and gods walked the earth. She felt so small against him, so tired, so far from the invincible god-warrior he had once served, but that was alright, He had returned to him, and he would shepherd Him, guide Him, protect Him, through this life and through this death till the last. “Even the rocks felt cold. It was black, and it glistened like oil whenever the sun shone. There were storms every day of that campaign, as if the heavens themselves were against us, as if the gods had conspired to strike you down, but yet you gave us the order to march. And the wind. You told me that you heard it screaming. Malcador jokingly asked that if you should live again, you would choose to enact Ararat during the summer instead, if only out of sheer annoyance from the wind.” Valdor’s smile was nothing more than a reflex. There was no humor in it, nor human emotion. “Do you remember it then, my master?”

The wind. Had it screamed then, as it screams now? Had it screamed, beneath the weight of the betrayal, wailing with the sheer horror of what it had taken? Did it scream, singing a threnody with the thunder, as the skies growl and hail shudders from overcast clouds ahead? She shivers underneath her layers. The finest climate suits had been prepared, coupled with the Custodian cloak over her shoulders, but she felt cold, so unspeakably cold that it was nearly painful. 

Oh Throne. She was cold, so cold. 

“Constantin?” she rasps. Her voice was not her own. It was rusty from disuse, and cracked, and weak, but yet some part of it resonated, it echoed like the tongue of a god, speaking through the plaintive shell of a mortal, just enough to hiss like a shadowy undertone. It should have been more sonorous, it should have been softer, it should have been the voice of a conqueror, it should have been the voice of a girl snatched away from her home by an angel and transformed into a god. It should have been hers, but it was His instead. She licks her lips and tries again. “Constantin.”

“Yes, my lord?” he was at her side(was he always so close?), the memory jarringly left unfinished. The hand once gently guiding her and became more insistent as he knelt down until they were eye to eye. 

“I don’t remember the mountain.” she replied flatly. Her voice was weaker than a whisper. She didn’t care. She knew he’d hear it anyway. And if he didn’t, she no longer cared enough to ensure he did. She no longer believed she had the strength to stomach that voice any longer. 

The cliff looked dizzyingly as she peered over the edge. She wondered if even a Custodian could survive a fall at such a height. 

“I don’t remember the snow, Constantin.”

“That is alright, my liege.” He was so sweet, so sickeningly sweet, so unerringly gentle. It made her want to claw at him, to crack him, to see what could finally burrow under that invincible flesh and make him howl. It made her wonder how the Emperor broke him to make him the man he had become, how deeply He must have laid His tongs in the forge of flesh and fire. 

She wondered what his screams would sound like, if he could scream at all.

“Do not trouble yourself, my liege. Your form is still young.” Of course, he could afford to wait. He had waited for ten thousand years, and he would gladly wait for ten thousand more. In that broken, delusional mind of his, it was only just, after all. He’d speak litanies of loyalty, roaring them over the screams of her brethren, he’d speak praises so numerous that they’d drown out the sobs of her family. “Your memories will return, when given due time. I can tell you about them. The preliminaries, the campaigns, the plans you undertook.”

Of course. They’d have to return. They must return. They will return, and He will live again, born out of this mortal shell under Valdor’s guidance. Valdor simply could not be, must not be, could not accept, could not live in a world where his liege has fallen forever. 

The snow was no longer biting her. It seemed to have been cowed, laid low beneath the vengeful eye of its rightful master. Even the storm seems to have settled, briefly, at least for now. For the eye of the King, the Emperor, the god-sorceror. 

It was so cruel, the revelation, the realization that welled up in her when she gazed dully back at him with listless eyes. The revelation that came for her, and not for him, for he would be nothing if not for his delusion. How quickly she understood the truth beneath why she had called him here, why she had suddenly finally accepted his offer to visit the mountain, when she had been delaying it, dreading it, putting it off for weeks upon months. 

The edge. 

The end. (And not the death).

She wondered if even a Custodes could survive a fall from this height. She wondered if it mattered anymore. 

The plan had been formulating itself for weeks now, brewing like boiled flesh in a cyst, nursing itself, grieving its wounds, growing stronger, gaining weight. First she had refused to eat, then to bathe, then to move at all, all the dreary, listless days crushed into the same monotony as brass as she had sat still upon a throne she did not want and stared off into oblivion, as he occasionally knelt by her and asked for her commands while she numbly stared off in the distance, her eyes a thousand yards away. Her gaze had been lost in a time beyond time, beyond memory itself, and not even dreams could steal her away. 

First it had only been how she stopped even trying to hide from him. She simply let him follow her, on her aimless, little walks aboard the massive ship that had become her only location. Then it had been how her tongue had stalled and she no longer even greeted the serfs that occasionally came by to deliver her food she did not eat, water she did not want, utensils she did not use, how she simply stared ahead, as reactive as a corpse, about as conscious to the world as the dead. Valdor had cared after her then, when even her memory had failed her, when she lay still and sullen like ash, the weight of the world upon broken shoulders, silent, painful tears trickling a cheerless trail from her eyes to her duvet. How he had lifted her up and cradled her to him, asking which stories she wished to hear, which glories she wished him to recount. Which memories that were not hers but soon will be, tales he regaled her of His conquests, of His victories and His lessons, His mantras drilled into her bones as they have been drilled into his.

She had left the world, bit by bit, husk by husk, until she felt as if she weighed no more than one of His eagles’ feathers did, frailly clinging onto the world with a whisper and a dream. It was as if she was sinking into some calm, clear, colorless water and feeling the waves close in above her, but there was no sensation of drowning, no voiceless cry in the deep. Simply the noiseless struggle in her own dreams, as she prepared herself for the final breath before oblivion. 

(Did she have the strength? Did it matter any longer, when he could overpower her no matter the answer?)

It was so beautiful, up here, at the edge of the sky. She could hear the storm breathing in the clouds. It was close enough that she could close her eyes, and dream of Ararat, listening to Valdor’s words. An end. An end, just like the Thunder Warriors He(and she?) slaughtered so long ago. The final unraveling. She didn’t want to die, but was she truly living? An immortality without life, without passion, without even joy itself, was that truly living when she was little more than a corpse, kept alive through obsession?

If the Emperor had loved them, He would have never created them at all. What merciful god would create such grotesque angels? 

If the Four were merciful, they would have sought Valdor, as they sought the Primarchs. They would have whisked him away, upon winds of change, tainted him with their mark, made sure He would never accept him as a servant again. They would have saved him, corrupted him, broken him, taught him what it felt like to dream, before the golden light shone again, and His dream took over his. 

But he was a servant, not a master. He was not a leader. He knelt, instead of ruling, and the Emperor had sunk in His claws so deep even the Four could not pry it out. And so he was His, forevermore.

He died ten thousand years ago. And somewhere, inside that twisted, broken Palace that was a mind, His dog was still waiting loyally at the door, waiting for Him to return. 

He was kneeling beside her now. She had never even heard him move. With infinite reverence, he cups her features, admiring the black strands falling over his gauntlets, the golden eyes - so broken, so gorgeous, so His - staring back at him.

“It was the end of the Unification Wars, my liege. And the start of your rule. The Imperium was born that day, your coronation happened atop that bloodstained snowfield, when Malcador held up that laurel, and crowned you King. How could you forget how I, the first of your Custodes, knelt first and rose last, when the ceremony ended?” 

So careful. So gentle as not to hurt her.

“Tell me about them.” a small, cruel smile had found its way onto her face. She was no longer looking at him, instead smiling serenely, blankly staring out upon the sky. The mountain truly was beautiful. It was such a shame this was where she would die. She should have felt something then. A sense of guilt, perhaps. A moment of horror for what she had become, for taking advantage of something so deeply broken into him that it was written into his very bones. Obedience was carved into his blood, seared into his marrow. He would know no other way but to obey. 

“The Unification Wars?” Valdor asks, the question poised so effortlessly, head tilted like a loyal dog, perfectly prepared to obey his master’s every word. 

It would be almost easier, she thought, if he had been a crueller man. Easier to break him, easier to hate him, easier to gaze upon that perfect, immaculate features and wonder what if he had lost those duels. If he had been taught to be mortal, what his screams would’ve sounded like, what sounds of pain he might wheeze out when his perfect, immaculate dancer’s grace falters and he learns, he learns the price for immortality. 

He was never meant to love. 

Not for the first time, she wonders if he can feel pain. If she’ll even care, if it’ll even matter. For a creature who loved no one but his master, would it even be a sin?A sin, to teach him what it meant to fear? To taste the copper tang of terror, to twist the knife in him as he had twisted the knife in her. And to die, exalted, knowing she would have hurt him, knowing she brought down a demigod. 

You can’t reason with a mad dog. You can’t plead with someone who knows they’re right. You can’t gaze into the eyes of Constantin Valdor and expect to see reason back, when his master was right in front of him and alive, so sickeningly alive he would rather kill than forget Him again.

Would he even mourn this time? Did he even know what mourning felt like? She had an inkling that he did, however twisted it may be. Because, for him, the tale isn't over yet, the tale must not be over. His Emperor is not dead, it cannot be, he cannot be, in a world without the Emperor, it simply is not possible. Without Valdor, the Emperor could not lead His Custodes, but without Him, the Custodes could not live. 

“No.” she replies. “The mountain. Tell me of them.” The smile that stretched across her face felt nothing like her. It did not belong to this life. It was too old, too heavy, too sad and too cruel for a face that was once joyous and wide with mischief. She had an inkling of the words Valdor was about to say, the bitter, treacherous words she would weep to hear, and regret ever having forced him to speak. 

“The Thunder Warriors.” she murmured. She had closed her eyes again by then. The plan was formulating, inking itself together with the same mindlessness of crawling, squirming things beneath the earth. And she didn’t want to see what the ground would look like when she fell. She didn’t want to see what it felt like to die a second time. This was only a distraction, a charade, a pitiful illusion built by a mind almost broken. There was no one here but a madman, a broken girl, and the ghosts of the storm calling out its mournful rage overhead. 

“Tell me what became of them. Of that Primarch you spoke so highly of. And no lies.” she sighs, and the voice that whistles out of her is too old, too broken. She brushes his hand away. This time, he doesn’t even insist on remaining. “Tell me what happened on Ararat. I want to hear the truth from your lips.” 

If there had been anything left of her heart, she might have mourned for him. For what he had become, living not for himself but for another. Living His life for Him. And when He died, what could become of him? What could become of him except to endure? When he had slaughtered brothers, lovers, children upon the snowfields, betrayed loyalists and watched life fade from their eyes, all in the name of Him, what could be left of him if not to serve?

He served, and loyalty was its own reward. Loyalty, unyielding, unbreaking, even in death his duty would not end.

Valdor tilts his head like a confused dog. “What good will it do now?” 

She utters a dry, raspy laugh. It had no inflection within it, no actual human emotion. 

“I command you, Valdor.” she spoke. There was nothing behind it, nothing even when the command hurt him. It stirred nothing but a deep, dull ache and the brief knife of guilt, which was quickly surpassed by the lasting numbness that did not seem to leave her bones. “I command you to speak of them. On Ararat. What happened on Ararat?”

She turns from him, walking slowly, and without care. She needed to be on a ledge. Distantly, thunder shrieks, and the storm crashes down. Lightning briefly illuminates her features, skin half-tanned, black hair flowing and golden eyes peering through the brume, and in that radiant flare of lightning she looked positively divine, a half-god caught on earth, if not for the weary, haunted gaze of a hunted animal. Her shoulders were hunched, her movements withered, as if her bones could no longer support her weight. She walked without a singular care in the world, and Valdor trailed immediately afterwards. She knew to jump was no longer an option. Even the stormclouds seemed to mock her. It was foolish, so foolish, she knew. He could not let her die. He would move faster than she could even think, he could catch her, snatch her around her waist and carry her to a safe distance before she could even advance an inch towards the edge. 

She could not die here. He would not allow her to die.

And they both knew that.

Voicelessly, soundlessly, she gazes up upon the stormladen sky. Its grey dances across her golden irises, the stormwind playing with her hair. Thunder crashes, and she feels herself scream back, wordlessly, soundlessly, without even conscious thought. Dully, she knew she was raging, screaming, that her mind was seizing at the clouds and tearing at them, begging them to save her, but physically she made not even a single move. Her body was frozen, the snow pelting her shoulders, Valdor’s cloak swirling from the wind. She felt frozen, too. Her mind was no longer wreathed with such self-pity it once had, it was churning, clawing, raging like a caught rabbit in a trap, desperately wishing the ground would open up and swallow it whole, not as a kind of freedom, but as a final form of spite to the hunter.

Thunder crashes around the two of them. Neither of them move. The edge was close, so dizzyingly close that she could feel the wind gusting around her. Valdor was watching her closely, the same way a starved wolf may watch a weakened deer.

When Valdor finally speaks, unable to resist the bluntness of her command, his eyes were still distantly focused on the memories of Ararat. And his voice was passionlessly dull, carefully kept neutral and utterly without pity. 

“I slit his throat.” he confesses dully, flatly, without even a hint of inflection. “The Primarch. I slit his throat on Ararat, from ear to ear, then from ear to clavicle. I only stopped when I felt bone scraping against the edge of my knife.”

Surprisingly she laughed, and the sound was garbled, as grim and as dry as bones. “I suppose you killed him then?” she asked. One more step. One more step and she would be at the edge. He would not let her. He would move faster than the earth could drag her down anyways. But it did not matter. Slowly, incredulously, she could feel herself smiling. It was going to be alright. She could feel it in her bones, the static, the storm. Even the snow seemed to be on her side. For a moment, she felt like a god, standing at the top of the world, the conquered earth groveling beneath Him, knowing that even the elements would fall beneath His gaze. 

She could taste the ichor then, sweet and lifeless and pouring from the sky along with the snow, the charge in the sky and the thunder. The vengeance it held. The sheer rage, an echo of her own. She would rule them. She did not want to rule. She would rule, for one singular moment in her wretched life, she would rule, and she would hurt him, as he had hurt her. For the serfs he terrorized, for the Sisters he slaughtered, for the martyrs he first betrayed and then hung out to die. All in her name. All for her wishes. She no longer wished to wish. She no longer wished to reign. 

Let her abdicate the throne of skulls. Just once. Just once, she prayed. 

“No.” Valdor shook his head. He was already moving, one hand reaching out to grasp her arm and drag her back before she could approach the edge. “It would have been a kinder fate if he had died then. It would have been a kinder fate if-”

“-if you had granted him an honorable death.” she finished for him. She spoke softly, plaintively, as if this was a comfort. She had turned her face a little, just enough to see him, just enough to see his elegant features illuminated by the storm. To gaze upon him, one last time. The way he held himself, like a dancer, his lean features accentuated by the lightning as the thunderbolt carved the sky open and struck the ledge beside her. The way his auramite had shuddered from the lightning as he had, for the first time in her memory, stumbled, his gait not utterly perfect before the divine rage. The first word she had heard him say that was not perfectly calculated.

The lightning snaps the ledge like bone.

The surprised intake of breath she had uttered, a squeal that was nearly a gasp as the rock beneath her feet had caved in, and then crumbled as she had desperately hoped, the weathered stone no longer capable of supporting its own weight bending and breaking and shattering as the lightning arced through it, the smite separating the ledge like the same way Valdor had carved through that serf. That poor, poor serf who had slipped her a kiss upon her request. It was little more than a peck, that poor thing. And he hadn’t even been able to scream when Valdor separated his bones like paper. 

In a silent vow to him, in a wordless vow to them all, the corpses he laid so she could climb atop her throne, she promised she wouldn’t scream as she fell.

Grimly, lips drawn in a tight line, she only felt the distant thunder as she descended like a one-winged eagle, her face utterly expressionless, lightning briefly dancing sparks against her hair as if in reverence. 

Valdor’s cloak, still wrapped around her, its silk as crimson as spilled blood, unfurled around her as she fell.

Distantly, from somewhere beyond the mountaintop, thunder roared. 

~~~~

It was warm, when she finally awoke. She muttered something, tried to turn, and decided to burrow deeper against the warmth instead. There was a rumble, a purr-like sound, and the slow, drifting scent of incense as one titanic hand came up to rest against her hair. 

With careful reverence, it adjusted the master’s laurel. 

“Welcome back, by lord.” the voice purred. “You expressed quite the interest in the Cataegis Primarch.”

She groaned. Golden irises flickered back and forth, as if in distress, beneath her lids. Valdor’s other hand reached up to stroke through her hair, careful not to upset the laurel.  

“I had thought you would have recognized him, my lord. It was, after all, his grave that I showed you that night upon the mountain.”

He makes a long, slow chuckle, almost like amusement, if he had been capable of it. “I had expected you’ve greeted him already, my master. You were standing atop his bones.” 

Somewhere, distantly, thunder growled. And without even being conscious of it, she shivered, and tried to burrow closer to his warmth.  

Pinglist(checks notes, holy fuck!): @nonus-secundus @badbobdooley @bleedingichorhearts @starfrost740 @katie-faye1 @sigtamds @troylovesdoomguy @the-pure-angel @metronix36-blog @krynnmeridia @distantmoonbeam @futuristicchaospoetry @liar-anubiass-blog @subtle-like-a-brick-to-the-face @squishyowl @slaanesh @absent-still @sharenadraculea @idonotknowhowtochoosenames

[projectmoon-smash-or-pass]

propaganda:

✅ "SPLIT YOUR LUNGS WITH BLOOD AND THUNDER

WHEN YOU SEE THE WHITE WHALE

BREAK YOUR BACKS AND CRACK YOUR OARS, MEN

IF YOU WISH TO PREVAIL

THIS IVORY LEG IS WHAT PROPELS ME

HARPOONS THRUST IN THE SKY

AIM DIRECTLY FOR HIS CROOKED BROW

AND LOOK HIM STRAIGHT IN THE EYE!

WHITE

WHALE

HOLY

GRAIL"

❓ "i think ahab is married to the whale"

✅ "smash ahab she would be rough with me and degrade me and reduce my self image to ashes but id be into it the whole time because shed gaslight me into it. And id thank her"

✅ "Ahab is so disgusting. She hasn't bathed in ages and she stinks of booze and rum and fish guts. I want her gnarled weatherbeaten nasty hands so deep inside me I contact MRSA of the pussy and perish within a week."

✅"i remember seeing yuri artwork of her and hermann once where they made ahab actually look like an 80 year old women and thats based of them showing actual old women yuri"

❌ "She managed to gaslight me during the canto"

❌ "As much as I love older men and women and the fact that her design is hot, I do not- cannot vibe with Ahab. The sex would be horrid. I'm sure there are stronger and/or more deranged(affectionate) people out there, but I am not one of them"

[red-riding-wood]

Yellow Light

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x F!Reader

Summary: Jonathan is your guide as you escape Arkham Asylum.

Based off the song "Yellow Light" by Of Monsters and Men (original version here and acoustic version here). This song is really special to me and helped me brave my heart surgery in August. A lot of this fic is a projection of my own experiences, trauma, and health issues over the past several years -- but Arkham can represent absolutely anything you want it to that you or the character is trying to escape.

Song lyrics are in bold.

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, depictions of PTSD (hospital trauma specifically), drug addiction/use, psychosis, hallucinations, fear of death, blood.

Will also use similar themes to my upcoming series "Darkness Until Dawn" and OC Cassie Hart but this is a standalone x reader fic.

I also feel like Crane might come across a bit OOC in this fic because he's in an established relationship with the reader and he's in a comforting role, but I promise I have some very fucked-up stuff for him coming up where he's an absolute menace.

WC: 3309

Sounds of Hell threaded themselves into the night air. Howling, bleating, baying down the streets. Whispering thoughts of death into your ears. Thoughts that formed into icy talons that raked down your spine, that stirred goosebumps along the bare flesh of your arms. That froze you in place, your heart slamming against your ribs as they tethered you to the cold concrete like vines.

Frantic looks cast to your left, to your right, you turned, stumbling over your own feet as you whirled, the darkness of each alleyway sinking into your soul. Staring back at you as if to say, you cannot escape me.

I’m looking for a place to start. Everything feels so different now.

Which way was out? Which way was back there? Back to the dingy halls of Arkham, the acrid stench of spoiled cafeteria food, the howling of patients that still seemed to echo back to you from the alleys.

The maw of a great beast parted, razors of teeth glinting silver in the dark, stretching from one brick wall to another. Hurtling towards you, wisps of black smoke emerging from the darkness and curling round you like hissing tongues. The roar started as a peal of thunder, and ended as a shockwave, razor teeth shattering into glass as the beast collided against your skull. Dizzying waves sent the world spinning, brought you to your knees before the Devil himself.

She’s good as dead.

The beast’s maw burned hot as hellfire, breathing smoke into your aching lungs, ripples of molten lava racing beneath your skin. Teeth tore into your shoulder as your hand met the ground, shaking fingers settling into the grooves of the concrete like cold tiles. Death’s talons wrapped around your throat as a cry twisted from your larynx, pointed nails morphing to scalpels and tearing down your sternum, splitting open your ribs and baring your bleeding heart.

Crimson freckled the concrete, splatters of your blood landing hot and thick against the back of your hand as cold washed over each limb, the darkness creeping in from the corners of the alleys. You reached your free hand to your forehead, and nearly cried out again in pain, but you couldn’t speak; something sharp wedged itself between your fingers, something sticky attaching webs of hair against your clammy palm.

Your hand came away with a shard of glass protruding from the stretch of skin between your fingers, red dribbling down flesh too pale to be living.

Your stomach buckled, and you curled in on yourself, eyes rolling to the back of your throbbing skull and voices pouring in like a tide.

Get back here! She’s running. Running away. Where does she think she’s going? She’s not going anywhere. She can’t escape us. You can’t escape us.

Patients rattled the bars of their cages, threw themselves against their padded walls. Screeched warnings and mournful wails and haunted cries into the stale air of the hospital, into the icy chill of night.

Fingers seized into talons as they closed around your ears, attempting to block out the noise as it built into a terrifying crescendo, wails and whispers melding together as if the darkness were mocking you but the chill that swathed your impotent form reminded you of your isolation.

GET OUT! your lips parted to say but fell silent upon the words of the damned. Let me go. Let me go, let me go.

Warmth brushed your shoulder, and you blinked saline from your eyes, streaking salt down your lip, dampened hair falling over blurry vision as you looked up to the hand held to you in the darkness. The white cuff of a shirt disappearing beneath a black suit.

Just grab hold of my hand. I will lead you through this wonderland.

And his voice, soft and warm and human, cut through the noise. Hollowed a path through the tunnel of voices and breathed life into lungs that gasped for air. Sent a tremble of fear through death’s icy talons and made the demons crawl back into the earth.

I’m here, he said.

You couldn’t straighten your claw-like grip as it brushed the warmth of his hand, but his fingers entwined in yours and the glass split his palm and bled over your knuckles and he pulled, your shoulder screaming in pain and your legs wobbly beneath you, but you stood.

Your fingers balled into a fist, the touch of his hand dissolving like a pill in water, like sutures that held you to together for one moment only to leave you in pieces, scarred and bruised and broken. For a moment, you thought you’d fall again.

Faintly, a glow emerged from the blackness, silhouetting the lazy fall of a feather, so tranquil in contrast to the tendrils of ink black that writhed in your peripheral. You swiped a hand out to the feather, its softness akin to his hand, but the voices hissed at you to look up.

The jagged peaks of the skyscrapers groaned above, folding in across the dim sky and curling into black tides that came crashing around you as pressure mounted in your skull.

The darkness devoured you. 

Water up to my knees. But sharks are swimming in the sea.

The ocean came flooding in around you, dampness seeping into the cuffs of your trousers, rising as the blackness pressed in around you. Ahead, the light glinted yellow, casting a thin line of white against the waves. The feather bobbed along the surface, chased by current that now buffeted the backs of your knees.

One foot placed before the other, you waded through the water, each step weighing heavier than the last. Each time, the light ahead grew just a little brighter, though the sides of your vision darker.

Wretched creatures began to emerge from the darkness, hissing and snarling and reaching for you in tendrils of smoke and ink. Gravity began to pull you downward, the current guiding you forwards as the alleyway morphed into a tunnel, and the voices of the underworld rang louder in your skull as you descended into the bowels of the city.

She’s heading into the darkness. The rot.

A giggle, echoing against the walls of the chamber that reeked of all things barren and desolate. Her mind’s a disease.

The reach of death grew thick here, in twisted ropes and vines that swallowed the arched ceiling, that bore down on you like snakes and streaked through the sea like eels of tar, the water itself no longer seeming so heavy in comparison as they engulfed each limb. Tightening. Shuddering.

She can’t get very far. She’s killing herself.

She has to. She has to live.

The voices were starting to argue.

Some were even voices you knew; they came to you past the iron bars nestled into pockets of your memories, depressions in the walls – people you’d known in that awful place cried out to you, cursed you, their faces fuzzy but still recognisable even in the darkness. Fellow souls trapped in the place that knew not of the sun’s warmth against your skin or the whistle of freedom through the wind.

Look. Look, girl.

Your brow furrowed, and your eyes scanned the darkness. With each face they landed on, the symphony of wails seemed to spike in volume along to the frantic thud of your heart, the little weaving line of a monitor etching itself across your mind’s eye.

Not there. No, not there.

Can’t she feel it?

It’s too late. The rot has her.

Soon it will reach her soul.

Your heart came lurching to a burning throat as the waters stirred and a creature emerged from their murky depths, slivers of metal protruding from its back before it disappeared, for half a moment resembling the wicked tips of syringes that still pricked your swiftly numbing skin.

Tearing your hands from the water, you froze, paralysis seeping in to every pore.

Ink tendrils snaked across the pallor of your flesh. From your fingertips to your elbows, the rot had taken you. It tightened round your forearm, your fingers turning completely numb.

You screamed.

Shhhhh, he soothed. Just come to me, darling. I’ll make it all better.

“JONATHAN!” Your mangled cry turned into something intelligible, the name sweet like honey on your tongue despite the bitterness of bile at the back of your throat.

Just follow my yellow light. And ignore all those big warning signs.

You began to slosh through the water, seeking him out in a frenzy, your teeth gritting as the walls of your skull began to cave in, as the rot spread to your shoulders and turned the water to pitch.

And at last, you saw him. Like the feather, silhouetted by the light, but unmistakably him. He paused, looking over his shoulder, strands of his black hair wisping this way and that. His face was shadowed, the sockets of his eyes black. The frames of his glasses glinted silver in the dark, like the teeth, the scalpels.

And he disappeared round the corner that twisted, walls shifting and shuddering as if forming a maze for a path.

Death’s icy fingers pried their way beneath your skin as the cold seeped past your blood and bones and settled somewhere deep inside the dwindling warmth of your soul. Freed from the water at last, you turned the corner and raised a rot-wreathed hand to the light fractured by a criss-cross pattern that reminded you of the bars of the asylum’s gate.

And the damp air became dry and musty, and the sewers morphed into dingy halls, alabaster wallpaper peeling back to reveal the black rot. Your pace quickened as these walls closed in, groaning with curses of the damned.

Just a little farther, the soothing, slightly-lilted baritones of his voice encouraged you on, but every turn you made down the narrowing halls, he managed to evade you, disappearing just out of reach. At the end of each hallway, what must’ve been a sewer drain and not a gate yawned from the blackness, little pockets of light stretching wider with each turn.

The feather crunched beneath your toes.

Fingers wrapped around the bars of the gate, and the hinges squealed as it swung open, your feet slotting into indentations along the walls as you desperately attempted to pull yourself up.

Warmth made you shiver in your cold sweat, and whispers funnelled into thin threads and lay buried beneath the ground as his hand met yours. In the faint glimmer of the light, you witnessed the rot dissipate, chased away by his touch. Purified.

“Jonathan,” you breathed, pulled flush to his chest, the mint of his breath raking across your lashes and the familiarity of his musk inhaled deeply through flared nostrils. You buried your face in his wrinkled tie and dress shirt and sobbed, your tears still tasting like saline. You savoured this moment, trembling beneath his touch, his hand petting the back of your dampened hair. You pulled away only as he hissed in pain.

“Jonathan, I’m scared,” you whimpered, guilty that you had seemed to wound him but caring only for sanctuary in this moment in which you knew nothing but fear. “Please don’t leave me. I’m so, so scared.”

“I know you are,” he said, squeezing your shoulder. “But you have to keep going.”

“Where? Where are you taking me?” You stared into the hollows of his eyes, still pitch black past the glint of those silver frames. Why couldn’t you properly see him? Could he see you? Was he just another shadow, a trick of light on the wall?   

Somewhere deep in the dark, a howling beast hears us talk.

Sirens wailed from the alley behind, and your blood ran cold. Jonathan stepped away, his touch tearing from yours almost painfully. Like he’d left the shards of glass in your palms.

“Don’t let them take me!” You pleaded, stumbling forward through the darkness. “I can’t go back! I can’t! COME BACK!”

She’s so afraid. So pathetic. She can’t do this without him.

The light grew in intensity, tinted more gold now than yellow, bathing the walls in a soft glow as they drew impossibly close, tapering the air in your lungs, building the pressure against your temples until your shoulders sagged under the weight of fatigue and white-hot fire cleaved your skull in two.

Jonathan paused, and turned. “Close your eyes,” he told you. “It’s not so dark here when you embrace it.”

I dare you to close your eyes. And see all the colours in disguise.

“NO!” You screeched, afraid that if you so much as blinked, he’d disappear, and you’d be lost to the darkness forever. You lurched forward on your heel, wedging yourself between the shuddering walls that closed in around you, following the same – and only path – he had taken. Turning sideways, you gulped in a breath of air, fingers scraping madly against the brick walls as the tide beginning to pool again round your ankles. The sky collapsed, pinning you, forcing your only breath from your lungs and snapping your ribs around your stuttering heart.

She’s gone. She won’t make it. She can’t reach him.

The air grew stuffy, stale. Your own breath bounced off the walls and flushed your cold, tear-streaked cheeks.

“Just trust me,” Jonathan said. “Just let go.”

Running into the night. The earth is shaking and I see a light.

With the darkness claiming you and the ground beneath you quaking with wrath, the howls of the damned echoing through a familiar hall, the world swaying on its axis, you had no choice but to suffocate your fear, to shutter your eyes closed on the light that seeped through the crack in the walls, warm against your skin in the cold dread of night.

She’s giving up.

She’s fighting.

She wants to die.

She wants to live.

The yellow-gold exploded across the backs of your eyelids, streaking like fireworks along the pitch black. Your skull still throbbed in pain, and your lips parted, the sound of a window banging against old hinges as death whispered to you through the alleys, the sewers, the hallways.

Next time.

Jonathan’s touch met your clammy palm, and the world fell silent, the walls disappearing around you and the emptiness of air spilling around your limbs.

I’m here, he reminded you.

The light is blinding my eyes, as the soft walls eat us alive.

Your eyelids peeled back to reveal the checkered, rose pattern of your wallpaper, the bright fluorescents of the bathroom, the blue eyes that bore into your own past silver frames. Slivers of ice encroaching on ink black pupils, cold and calculating yet echoing a familiar warmth.

He loosened the makeshift tourniquet from your arm, pins and needles racing from your fingertips to your elbow. A syringe of your favourite poison lay on the bathroom tile, beige powder swirling in a sea of saline.

“Come back to me. Come back to me, please,” he begged, as if for this moment alone, he allowed himself to believe in the higher power you knew he cursed.

Water seeped into your clothing like the sea of pitch, spilling from the bathtub that you had left on. It carried little rivulets of crimson around a minefield of glass. He didn’t seem very concerned with turning it off right now, despite always bitching at you about saving electricity or water. His eyes were on you, and only you.

“Jonathan,” you mumbled weakly, though you thought you screamed; your eyelids fluttered and your heart pounded faster in your chest as the darkness threatened to spill across your vision again. Your nails dug past the fabric of his suit, gripping his arm tight so that he could never let you go.

“I’m here,” he breathed, and reached his other hand around your neck to cup your head, to bring you forward. You glimpsed the white ceramic of the bathroom sink, bloodied where you’d tried to steady yourself with your hand after you’d bashed your skull against the mirror – your ineffectual attempt to cast the demons out. Glass shards lay scattered against the tile. Fragments of your broken reflection.

You still remembered the haunted look you’d hoped to banish from your eyes.

“You have to get your head out of that place,” he murmured against your scalp, his fingers bloody and sticky as he brushed shards of glass from your hair, seemingly immune to the pain. “You’re not in hospital anymore. You’re here. With me. You have to come back to me.”

Your lower lip trembled. “I can’t escape them,” you admitted, voice a mere whimper. “I can’t escape it. You’re here to take me back, aren’t you? You’re gonna lock me up.”

For a moment, you really thought that he might; his palm still rested, warm and bleeding, against your cheek, but his cold blue eyes studied you not as his lover but as his patient, assessing your condition. He sighed, as if disappointed. Shame crawled its way beneath your skin like the cockroaches that had infested the asylum’s lower wards. You had always been so desperate for his approval, he rarely saw this side of you since your rehabilitation. It wasn’t until slivers of ice shattered into twin pools of blue fire that relief began to seep into you, slow and warm but whelming.

“No. No, I’m not,” he said, voice gentle, soothing. Blue eyes glanced to your head again. “Though, you are showing symptoms of a concussion…”

Your heart sped in your chest, and the icy talons of death speared your soul, the darkness hedging the borders of your vision. Innerved by your fear, you reached for the bottle of tiny white pills that lay open, haphazard next to you. But the warmth of his hand left your face, and your fingers clenched around nothing. In a blur of movement, Jonathan threw the bottle at the toilet and it clattered against the back of the seat. You jolted, gasping, wincing as the jagged teeth of the beast sliced through your clothing.

“You prescribed me those,” you told him. “They’re supposed to make me better. You said so yourself.”

“I’ll fill you a new prescription tomorrow. Taper you off. They were no good for you,” he said, and laced his fingers through the bloodied locks of your hair. Pulled your forehead to his so that your breaths became one, and the demons in your skull grew muffled, and his warmth chased away the icy touch of death.

“What am I gonna do?” you whimpered, sobbing, hands grasping feebly at whatever you could grab hold of – his sleeve, his tie, his collar. You felt as if your soul, your mind, were laying in fragments around you like the glass, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t piece them back together. “I just want to be free. I just want to be okay.”

“I know.” He inhaled, closing his eyes, and his grip tightened on your hair, scalp stinging slightly at the almost needy action. Like in this moment he was more afraid of losing you than you were him.

Even he thinks she’s a lost cause.

And Jonathan was never one to utter false truths; because you knew this about him, his silence unnerved you. But finally, after what could’ve been hours or minutes of your pitiful sobbing and the endless drone of the tub, the trickling of water against the tile, he said,

“I’ll be right here, darling. All you need to do is take my hand.” The warmth of his palm slotted into your own, and you wove your fingers so tight that your knuckles turned white around the blood that trickled down both your wrists from the jagged glass that barbed your flesh. A seal. A pact.

“I will see you through this,” he said. “All of it. I promise.”

MASTERLIST • REQUEST

Please let me know if you would like to be added/removed to any of my taglists and notified of new works!

Taglist: @emotionalcadaver @zablife @shelbydelrey @look-at-the-soul @brummiereader @mrkdvidal1989 @fiercelittlemouse @ohwellthatslifesstuff @purplesnorlaxplush @drcranessweetestdoe @goblinjnr @mizzbel @s0urmarvel @onasmoko @elenavampire21 @rysko @chris-seb-marvel @muhahaha303 @novemberschy @thatonesinglefriend @forgottenpeakywriter @your-nanas-house @onehornedbeast @kiss-me-cill-me @ilovefictionalpsychopaths @birminghamshelbyboys @sometimes-i-sing @olivialveshbc @urlivingdeadgirl @kadethomes @iwannadie07 @persephonaoflove @ssweetleaf @a-nemoiia @cillianhead

[secretlyaraven]

Little Sounds of Pain

That tadpole had been your bittersweet salvation. Cursed for a bargain not of your own doing, damned by those you called family, and doomed with the knowledge that one day, each and every one of the vessels in your body would rupture. Your life forfeit at the hands of those you once cared so dear.

Spawn Astarion x Tav (Gender Neutral Reader)

w/c: 12.5k . ao3 . song . 18+ only . nsfw Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

a/n: Not my first bg3 fic but certainly my longest, this will be three parts split across the acts. Updates may be slow as I've a busy couple of months ahead, and this has been in the works for about 5 months? I hope you enjoy!

tags: canon typical violence, blood drinking, angst, hurt and little comfort (later chapters), cursed tav/reader, death

One morning you woke to your nose bleeding. Blood coagulating in your throat as you retched up the sticky mass.

With a resigned sigh, you had slumped at the foot of your bed; staring blankly at the ceiling as a gentle trickle seeped into your mouth.

This occurred for a week, each day brought a more violent bleed and new symptoms.

The next had been the bruises, dark purple welts developing in the soft of your flesh; painless, but a reminder that this body was not to last.

On the seventh day you finally glanced in the mirror, at first you did not recognise yourself; skin pallid, spiderlike blooms of red spread across your cheeks, the once white sclera now a deep crimson.

“I don’t suit red”, you laughed almost bitterly.

On what you felt to be your final day, you left the small room you called home; locking the door behind you as you pulled your cloak tighter around yourself; shielded from the would be stares of passerby’s.

What a lovely day it was, if not for the obvious.

The gentle warming your skin. The sound of vendors setting up their stalls for the day. One of the many local children shouting headlines from the Gazette.

It was perfect.

Yet that almost tranquillity was shattered like a club to bone.

A looming shadow.

Piercing screams.

The distant thunder of the belltower.

Your feet carried you as fast as they could, lungs burning like a wildfire as you stumbled to the ground. Chest tight, you gripped at your shirt as you gasped; a familiar copper taste filling your mouth.

That shadow grew larger.

Darker.

Then there was nothing but darkness.

You remember the parasite, the way it screeched at you, tendrils reaching towards your eye; the way it gripped and slithered over the globe, leaving an uncomfortable cold ache as it nestled behind your optic nerve.

Things were a blur, the nautiloid was attacked, you had dug your hands into an elf’s skull to free a brain; you’ll never forget how supple the flesh was, the squelch as fingers met tissue.

You made unlikely allies, a githyanki fighter, and a reticent cleric; an odd pairing for sure.

You should be dead, why do you care.

Yet here you were, traversing Avernus and ready to crash at any moment.

Honestly, the curse should have hurried up if this were to now be your fate.

Time moved impossibly fast, instinct kicked in as you hurtled towards the transponder, as your allies battled with imps and hellbeasts; creatures you never thought you’d see in your wildest dreams.

Grabbing hold of the fleshy nerves, you felt the spark between them and the jolt as the nautiloid warped itself through time and space. Weightless as your body failed to stay steady with the speed of the ship.

It was nauseating.

Without warning you were thrown out into cool nighttime air.

No longer did the smell of sulphur clog your nose, flames no longer licked at your skin.

But you were falling.

Rapidly.

Dizzying thoughts raced through your mind.

Is this the end? Has your fate finally caught up with you after your little excursion? Is this perhaps crueller? Why couldn’t things have been simple?

The impact did not come, but you did land rather ungracefully.

Woken by a throbbing behind your eye and a scream caught in your throat, you breathed in salt air, the feeling of fine sand and pebbles under your fingers, the gentle sound of the ebb and flow of waves.

You were alive, that’s for certain, but everything else? Unsure. You were a day past your death date and that fact sat uncomfortably in the pit of your stomach.

The earth was owed a body.

Bad things happen when debts are left unpaid.

You found the cleric from the nautiloid, a strange metal artefact lay next her; you heeded it no attention as you shook her awake.

“You look terrible.” She remarked, “and in desperate need of healing.”

You shook off her concern.

“It’ll pass.” You lied easily, she looked unconvinced.

Two tadpole infected heads were better than one the pair of you had decided, your new charge; to rid yourselves of the parasite.

Thus began your new borrowed life.

The next tadpole host you met was a pale elf with a suspicious disposition, a dagger to the throat was not your usual greeting; yet here you were once again rolling in the dirt. His sharp laugh when you informed him the tadpole would turn you all into mindflayers had you raising an eyebrow.

His smile was too easy, and his gaze was hardened like stone; you recognised it for a lie.

Well, another companion to your merry band didn’t sound like a terrible idea. Liar or not.

“You look like you’re at death’s door.” The elf commented as the three of you set off in search for a healer.

“I’ve seen better days.”

“Clearly.”

Just how many people were infected with these parasites? A wizard with a kind gaze and a strained smile stuck in an ancient sigil, the githyanki from the nautiloid trapped by tieflings in a cage; a few persuasive words soon freed her.

A warlock known as the Blade of Frontiers, voice like honey and an uneasiness simmering under his skin. His kindness towards the tiefling children made something bitter twist within you. Few had shown you a kindness when your affliction started to dig its talons into your body.

You turned away, a scowl on your face.

“You look positively murderous.” Astarion tittered, wearing an all too amused smirk. “The bloodied eyes don’t help.”

You rolled said eyes, stepping in the direction where this supposed healer called Nettie was meant to be.

“A discerning feature of mine, I’m sure.”

Now, whilst Wyll’s kindness to the tiefling children had riled you, you couldn’t stand by and let a power drunk druid sentence a child to death; your own death sentence hung heavy over your head as you demanded the child be let go – perhaps to the ire of said druid.

Guilt would have eaten you alive had she died. The relief from her parents upon her return was palpable and soothed an open sore that had stung for years.

A small kindness in the world.

Nettie did not fill you with hope in the slightest, instead had you swear that should you start showing symptoms of ceremorphosis that you would poison yourself with wyvern toxin. You saw how Astarion physically recoiled in distaste at the suggestion, even Shadowheart wore a grimace. There was one ray of hope, Halsin, the missing Archdruid; squirreled away by goblins no doubt.

The search went on.

Murmurings of an upstart god called the Absolute were common conversation at camp, goblins having order amongst their ranks and acting on the orders of three leaders. These were strange times indeed, and stranger yet that with each elapsed day you still drew breath. Even the angry red of your sclera began to calm down, the bruises that had bloomed on your body had become smaller and there were no new instances of violent nosebleeds.

Your curse was in stasis, and you could only attribute it to the tadpole.

However, talk of removing it made you uneasy, you knew, should it be removed, you would succumb immediately; but nor did you want to become a mindflayer.

What was worse? Every single vessel rupturing, your nerves on fire as the world turns dark? Or to watch your body twist and warp into something unrecognisable, your soul lost forever and a pale imitation takes your place?

Your mood turned pensive, deciding to turn in early for the night. Your companions watched, some with mild concern as you dipped into your tent, bringing the flap down making it clear you did not wish to be disturbed.

A certain elf decided to ignore the clear sign, standing outside your tent as he gazed at his nails with practiced boredom.

“I must say, I didn’t think you’d be so upset about getting rid of our stowaways.”

“Who said I was upset?” You shot back, perhaps a tad too forcefully. You could hear the grin in Astarion’s voice.

“Darling, it was obvious.”

You peered out of your tent up at him, brows pinched.

“Care to elaborate?”

“I don’t think I will. But I will say this, something more going on with you, isn’t there?” His stare was scrutinising, head cocked to one side brow raised; gone was his usual arrogance, replaced with a curiosity that you weren’t sure came out of malice or a place of concern.

You regarded him for a moment, holding his stare.

“Goodnight Astarion.” You said as you retreated back into your tent.

“Urgh, really?” Came his petulant response, but he did leave soon after; you assume to join back with the others.

Another day, another infected. This time a tiefling burning hot as the hells; you remember her. On the frontlines of the Blood War, slicing and dicing through demons, a fierce rage in her screams. She was desperate. Her gaze held an indescribable hurt, but there was a softness to her that endeared you.

It was certainly no issue to you if a trio of “paladins” went missing, you had become awfully adroit with a dagger as of late.

As Karlach raged and burned hotter than imaginable, you wiped the blood from your dagger onto your trouser leg; a dash more wasn’t going to make a difference to the already saturated fabric.

“I’m in need of a bath.” You muttered, sheathing your dagger before you began to rummage through bags and sacks, a little bit of soap would be lovely whilst you grappled with the novelty of camp life.

“Aren’t we all.” Astarion lamented, idly picking at a lock; helping himself to the spoils inside. “I miss my oils; nothing like a nice smelling bath at the end of the day.”

“Aren’t you fancy.” You teased, stashing the bars of soap you had found into your pack; they didn’t smell particularly strongly of anything, but you couldn’t complain; simple pleasures and all.

“It’s the small luxuries in life, darling.”

An ex-sanguinated boar left brazenly in your path was not on the list of things you had expected to see. The poor thing had been completely drained, as you knelt next to the creature you eyed two neat puncture marks in its neck.

“Strange, not many creatures can completely drain a carcass.”

Astarion shifted uncomfortably, huffing as you examined the boar.

“The pig’s dead my friend. Staring at it won’t bring it back.”

You glanced back at him, eyes narrowing.

“Come on. We’ll never fix these brainworms if we stop and gawk at every piece of carrion you find.”

“Give me a moment.” You said, taking a closer look at its neck. There was barely any blood surrounding the wound, just a light bit of bloodied matted fur.

“And? Is it dead enough for you.” You could hear the simmering frustration in Astarion’s voice, the way his eyes fixated on the boar and suddenly drifted when you locked onto him.

“You know something? Don’t you?” Your tone accusatory, your other companions’ gazes flitted between you and Astarion, you saw the way his eyes momentarily widened, his lips parting before that hardened stare crashed back down.

“I…” He hesitated, “it’s been drained of blood with wounds in its neck. It’s been killed by a vampire.” He glanced towards the boar before back at you. “I didn’t want to say anything because I… didn’t want to worry you. They’re ferocious creatures.”

Liar

“But don’t worry, I’ll keep watch tonight.” He assured. “We won’t have to worry about nocturnal visitors. Now please, let’s go.” That last part was said a little too quickly for your liking, he was trying to hurry you along, distract you.

You weren’t sure what he was hiding, but everyone has secrets; even you. It’d be hypocritical of you to judge; even if you didn’t trust whatever secret he kept tucked away.

Nocturnal visitors.

It would be almost funny if you didn’t have fangs inches away from your neck.

As Astarion swore and backed away, you rushed to your feet; glaring angrily at him.

“So it *was *you!” You hissed, “you snacked on that bloody boar we found.”

“It’s not what it looks like! I swear.” His body swayed, unbalanced, his expression a picture of guilt and embarrassment.

Under normal circumstances you might have enjoyed putting him on the spot.

But there was something deeply uncomfortable about this.

An element of desperation lingered in the air; you could almost taste it.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just needed – well, blood.”

In the dim firelight you caught a glimpse of two small protruding fangs, glinting in the light. The crimson of his eyes reflecting his sanguine nature.

“How long as it been since you last killed someone? How can I trust you not to kill any of us?” You shot back at him.

“I’ve never killed anyone!”

As Astarion regaled you of his usual feeding habits, a cool feeling washed over your mind; a momentary connection – his mind slipping over yours, half-truths revealed. You felt the nerves twinge and delved deeper, plucking at the fractured and errant memories.

The feeling of matted fur and congealed blood sat heavy on your tongue, you wanted to retch; all the while a commanding voice ordered you to feed.

“You – you fed on animals because you were forced to.” A sick feeling pooled in your stomach, unsure whether it was from the memory or from the invasiveness of what just transpired.

Astarion’s stare became cold, his frown deepened.

“Yes, I ate whatever disgusting vermin my master picked. So you can see why I’m slow to trust you, besides…“ his tone took a lighter, more mischievous nature, “the connection goes both ways, darling. I’m not the only one with a secret.”

Paralysed to the spot, a deer caught in in the hunter’s trap. You could feel you heart thrumming in your ears; that rush of blood threatening to drown out every living sound.

“Come now, hardly seems fair that I have to spill out my guts meanwhile you get to keep whatever your sordid little secret is.”

He was toying with you, like one would play with their food.

It made your blood boil.

“Why should I divulge my secret? Why should I trust you?”

“Because I trust you. And you can trust me.” It was hard to discern if he was being genuine or just trying to placate you, he could taste your fear just as much as you could taste his, perhaps there was an element of truth to his words.

“That hardly seems like a reason…”

“It’s up to you my dear, but the fact you haven’t staked me yet is enough of a reason for me to trust you at the moment.”

“I…” you hesitated, “whatever you saw; I’d be grateful if you kept it quiet.”

Astarion wore an expression you couldn’t quite decipher. Understanding? Concern? Whatever it was, it was a far cry from his usual cocky demeanour.

“Alright, then perhaps I could ask for a favour? In… exchange.” He looked like he loathed to say the word.

Tilting your head a little, you look at him curiously.

“What do you need?”

“I feel… weak. If I just had a little blood, I could think clearer, fight better. I only need a taste, I swear.”

Perhaps what little charm Astarion had was working on you, or perhaps you felt for his plight. Concern dropped like a stone, what if your curse was passed to him? Could you live with that knowledge? What implications did it have for you? Would his actions be the catalyst to your unavoidable fate?

“And if my blood is… tainted?”

Astarion huffed a laugh.

“You have a habit of getting bloodied up, if there were anything wrong with it, I would have known by now.”

Well.

That was a comfort at least.

You think.

“Alright, but not a drop more.”

“Really? I- of course, not a drop more.” His momentary shock soon patched back up, his easy smile and courteous demeanour once again falling back into place. “Let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?” He gestured to your bedroll, a silent invitation.

You eased yourself back down onto your bedroll, trepidation and uneasiness swirling in the pit of your stomach, your hands felt clammy as you heard your heart thrumming in your ears once more.

Astarion loomed over you, his eyes locked onto your throat. It all happened so fast, that ice sharp pain as he bit down; a gentle warmth spread through your body as your heart hammered harder. You whimpered as Astarion bit deeper, reaching out to grasp the front of his shirt in panic as he cradled your head.

A cool numbness began to spread, dark splotches creeping in on your vision whilst the world began to drown by a ringing in your ears.

“Ast-Astarion,” you gasped, “no more, please.” Trying to push at him, arms like lead.

In an instant he pulled back, catching his breath.

“Ah- apologies… that was… incredible.” He wiped at his mouth with a finger, licking off the smudge of blood. Breathless with euphoria. “I feel good, strong, happy.”

You placed a hand over the tender wound, hot to touch, your neck aching. You let out a small groan as you winced.

“I look forward to seeing you fight. I hope this was worth it.”

Astarion merely grinned.

“Shouldn’t take long, so many people need killing.” Giving a mock courtesy he continued, “now if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more filling.”

Unsteady and slightly breathless, you stared as he stalked towards the woods. He paused for a moment, glancing back at you. Sincerity tinged his voice.

“This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.”

You watched as he faded into the darkness of the woods, confident, and poised to hunt.

Gods help the poor beast that was to become his prey.

Morning was interesting to say the least.

Your neck throbbed each time you turned, and the pounding in your head was reminiscent of the early stages of your curse.

But you still drew breath.

And your heart beat steadily in your chest.

The dizziness you could do without, along with the overwhelming feeling of fatigue that settled in deep in your bones; each movement like wading through mud.

Astarion certainly looked rejuvenated, as you walked over to him you saw how his eyes were brighter, his complexion slightly less deathly, and a new thrum of confidence you hadn’t seen in him before.

“Good morning. How do you feel?”

The look on your face said it all, as his eyes lit up and that damned smirk graced his features once more.

“Oh dear, a little woozy, are we?”

“I’m sure it’ll pass. My neck bloody hurts though.” You waved him off, bringing your hand back to the puncture site to try and alleviate some of the throbbing.

“Be grateful I’m not a ‘true’ vampire then, one bite from them and you may wake up as a vampire spawn, like my good self.”

You questioned Astarion on his vampiric nature, querying his ability to stand in the sun. Most knew of vampires and their fatal relationship with the sun, to have one stood before you was certainly a novelty.

Yet, Astarion’s voice was filled with a childlike wonder, the perfectly mundane privileges of everyday life now once again available to him – albeit the vampiric hunger, but the question on how he was going to be kept fed was for a later date.

Presently, your companions had edged their way over, a mixture of curiosity and disdain at having a vampire amidst them. Had they been anyone else you’re certain the pitchforks would have already been drawn and a stake sharpened ready. You caught a glimpse of Astarion’s hesitation and worry, a sadness panged within you. His secret had been revealed, but at what cost?

“A vampire? Well, that explains the pallor.” Shadowheart remarked, perhaps a little bit too amused by the revelation. You were starting to peg her as an odd one. “I just better not wake in the night to find fangs at my throat.”

Wyll was almost mirthful in his approach, or perhaps that was a cover for the utter contempt he felt at the prospect of travelling with a vampire.

“Hunting with vampires. Never thought I’d see the day.” He regarded Astarion with a serious gaze, however his tone still took on a light note. “No wisecracks about having us for supper.”

Astarion did nothing to hide his eye roll. You stifled a laugh. All things considered this was likely the best outcome for your toothsome friend. Even if he was taut like a bowstring, tension working in his jaw whilst his hands twitched; ever eager to reach for his dagger and shed a little blood.

Goblins.

Wretched creatures at the best of times, more so when united by a new god. Yet, easily influenced. As the tadpole burrowed deeper into your brain, you could feel its wriggles of excitement – it wanted you to command. To exert authority.

You could command these goblins to let you pass into their camp, you’ll learn little else if they’re all dead, and you didn’t fancy wiping shit on your face either.

A bright blistering spark of power shot through your nerves, the tadpole shrieked in delight as it connected to the minds of the goblins; commanding them to stand down.

Your party passed with ease, bewildered, if not unsettled by the tadpole’s power.

But as you walked, a familiar warmth trickled down your face.

You blinked, stopping in your tracks as you tried to stem the bleeding. A bubbling panic welling up inside of you. Breath caught in your throat, heart quickening.

“What a waste.” Astarion tutted, “perhaps leave the parasitic powers to us, hm?”

You nodded in absent agreement.

The rest of your companions eyed you with concern. Shadowheart gave you an assessing look, bringing her hands close to examine you. You side-stepped hastily, avoiding the contact.

“It’s just a nosebleed. I’ll be fine.”

She didn’t believe you.

Goblin revelry was certainly… something.

The writer you had previously encountered at the Druid’s Grove looked incredibly uncomfortable as he sang accolades about someone called Dror Ragzlin – one of the three leaders no doubt. Stuttering and stumbling over attempts to ingratiate himself with the goblins.

So much for trying to get a first-hand account.

Your presence had him fumbling more, quick as a whippet he was dragged away for his failure of a show.

You supposed you now had someone else to search for, as much as the writer grated on your last nerve with his exaggerated truths and unwillingness to listen, a certain guilt bloomed at the prospect of leaving him in the hands of the goblins.

As you wandered the courtyard you found yourself roped into a game, chicken chasing the goblin lady had called it; although that was no chicken you were chasing, instead it was a terrified owlbear cub. His high-pitched chirps a signal of fear.

After a light bit of persuasion to keep him, you slowly approached him; holding out your hand.

An invitation to find you later.

The owlbear ran, undoubtedly finding somewhere to hide until it was safe to leave.

Dubious meats and ale ran aplenty, goblins filling their tankards with alarming frequency. You pondered on how inebriated they were, but you didn’t doubt that they could still put up a decent fight; especially in groups. Your eyes drifted over to where a goblin was filling at least his fifth tankard since you’ve been there.

“Why don’t we liven up this party?” A hushed voice said behind you.

Startled, you whipped round to see Astarion wearing a devious grin, twirling a potion in his hand; you recognised it to be an invisibility potion you had pilfered from a particularly annoying druid.

“How did you-“

“Now, now, let’s not draw attention to ourselves.” He purred, “I just need you to provide a distraction.”

“And how am I meant to do that?” You raised an eyebrow at him, “I don’t know if you’ve failed to notice, but this place is crawling with goblins; I’m not about to become the next Volo.”

Astarion merely chuckled.

“A little drop of poison in the barrel, and these goblins won’t know what’s hit them. Although they will look for someone to blame.”

You stared at him incredulously, mouth agape.

“I’m sorry, you *want *me to take the fall for your nefarious little plan?”

He just shrugged.

“You aren’t the one poisoning them. Feign innocence, whatever need be; but let’s not get our blades out just yet.”

Reluctantly you agreed to his plan, as he slipped out of sight you situated yourself next to the roasting meats; stomach turning, something smelled disgustingly off. You watched as the goblins gulped down tankard after tankard, your eyes flitting to the barrel, you wondered if Astarion had poisoned it yet; a shifting to your side and a satisfied hum told you all you needed to know.

A goblin trudged over to you, thrusting an overflowing tankard in your hand. Its contents sloshing and spilling.

“Uh… thanks.”

“C’mon, a toast! Gather round you lot, this one ere’s gonna make a toast.”

Astarion barely suppressed a giggle.

“… to your good health? And everlasting tyranny.” You raised your tankard in the air, shouts and cheers echoed round you in celebration.

“Oh please.” Astarion muttered under his breath. He glanced to you, raising an eyebrow, waiting for your next move. The goblins were waiting for you to drink, bringing the jug to your mouth you pretended to empty its contents. More cheers of jubilation rippled through the crowd as they began to down their own poisoned brew.

One by one goblins began to drop to the ground.

As panic began to rise you tipped out what remained in your jug into the sizzling fire behind you. You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of amusement at the chaos, your amusement was short lived. The goblin who encouraged your toast looked furious, pointing an accusing finger at you.

“You poisoned us!”

You scoffed.

“If I had poisoned you, would I still be standing here? Your companions were weak.”

She scrutinised you for a moment, features relaxing as she shrugged.

“S’pose you’re right.”

Astarion couldn’t keep his enjoyment to himself as your party entered the now long since desecrated temple. Shaowheart scolded him on being so obvious, he refuted her claims.

“It was a little fun though, wasn’t it? Don’t lie.”

You had little connection to the gods, but seeing a once splendorous temple now in ruin sat uncomfortably with you. Statues of Selune in ruin, walls crumbling; marked with blood in strange symbols you couldn’t decipher. The further you entered, the greater the uneasiness built.

A mockery of a priestess making proclamations of the Absolute as she branded new followers caught your attention, and you caught hers.

“The Absolute has touched you, hasn’t She? Priestess Gut needs to touch you too.”

You recoiled from her grasp.

“I’d rather not be branded, thank you.”

She looked dismayed at your refusal, but unsurprised. Instead, under your suggestion you retreated to her private chapel to “talk.”

You had no intention of letting her live.

As the door came to a gentle close, you fiddled with a bottle of alchemist’s fire behind your back, lightly tapping the glass as Gut rattled on. Your companions looked just as eager, practically itching to draw their weapons and end the twisted priestess’ life.

The fight couldn’t have gone more wrong, the bottle had shattered at her feet but she narrowly missed the hit; shouting for reinforcements. You were all overwhelmed.

Goblin after goblin after goblin swarmed the chapel.

You’re not sure how many times you were hit, only that a searing pain ripped through your side, forcing you to the ground. Vision a blur, you could vaguely make out someone or something running towards you ready to strike.

The world became red, blood splattered on your face as a body slumped next to you.

“Get up darling, of all the places.” You felt yourself being hauled to your feet, you had little time to steady yourself as you evaded another attack.

You had never seen so much blood before.

Footsteps splashing in the sticky substance, you surveyed the room littered with bodies. The pang of guilt was soon swallowed whole, you were dealing with a cult; a dangerous one at that, and still two more leaders drew breath.

Your body ached, bones screaming for rest, but you couldn’t stop now.

One leader was down, how long until someone noticed?

And how long before they came for your head?

Fortunately for you, finding the other two was hardly a challenge.

Dror Ragzlin’s booming assertions were difficult to miss, goblins cheered and shouted at each decree of The Absolute’s will.

“He’ll be difficult to take down.” Wyll commented, eyeing the rafters. “Let’s leave him until last, and use height to our advantage.”

“Agreed, I don’t fancy becoming spider food.” Shadowheart murmured.

The drow, now she was secluded away from the rabble, instead inspecting what looked like a map whilst berating the incompetency of the goblin in her presence. You overheard mentions of the grove, how no one had breached it yet, scouting groups failing to return.

She was frustrated.

Perhaps that could play in your favour.

You saw Astarion ready his bow in the shadows, you placed your hand atop to halt him.

“I’m not sure we should kill her…”

“Are you actually insane?” He hissed, “she’s a drow, she will not hesitate to kill us as soon as she finds out we’ve been picking off leaders.”

“Look, it’s just a feeling.”

He rolled his eyes, huffing.

“*Fine. *But if this gets us killed, I’m blaming you.”

Without warning he fired an arrow at the goblin with such precision the creature was dead before it hit the ground.

You could have smacked him.

In an instant you were dragged into another fight, Astarion rashly pinning you against a wall out of sight.

“It was your idea to spare her, then you can figure out exactly how you’re going to do that.” With that he released you, slipping further into shadows to hunt.

The drow did not take kindly to be assailed.

Unsurprisingly.

She was ferocious and mighty, highly skilled and a trained fighter. One hit could very well be your last.

You could laugh.

Here you were still living on borrowed time, yet you were worried about being killed?

You should have been dead days ago.

Whittling down the drow’s energy was your plan, you didn’t have a backup; if absolutely necessary you knew you had to kill her, but still, something stirred within you. Your tadpole longed to reach out to hers feeling that faint crackle psionic energy.

Her mind was shuttered to your interference.

Shadowheart seemed particularly intent on bludgeoning her.

Wyll and Astarion kept back, picking off any goblins that came your way.

Your lungs were starting to burn. There were only so many near misses you could take, thighs burning and arms aching.

She could feel your exhaustion just as much as you could feel hers.

Blood red eyes flickering with resolve, a cold calculating stare gauging your next move, but as you anticipated her actions you could see that hairline crack starting to develop.

Fear.

As Shadowheart took a swing at her, you took the opportunity to rush her, far too close for comfort; she could gut you on the spot should you fail. Swallowing down the fear, you pommelled her, weapon connecting with skull, a sickening crack that left her off kilter. With staggered steps she backed away before collapsing to the cold stone floor.

Hesitantly, you stepped towards her, quickly checking for a pulse. A slow thrum confirmed all you need to know.

“So, you saved her just to give her brain damage.” Astarion criticised, cleaning off his blade, vague annoyance pinched in his brows. “Can we go now?”

“A moment.” You breathed, pinching the bridge of your nose. Fatigue creeping into your senses like spiders crawling in the dark.

“I’m not certain we have a moment.” Wyll hedged, “who knows how long we have until she wakes up, not to mention there is one more leader we need to take down.”

“I’m inclined to agree.” Shadowheart added, “we can’t rest. Not yet.”

All things considered, your party weren’t faring terribly, the odd bruise here and there, a couple of scratches; nothing a couple of potions couldn’t sort out. You pilfered a few healing potions from the drow, knocking them back as if you were parched; the carmine liquid trickling down your chin.

You felt lighter.

Relived almost.

A temporary stay, you knew you’d be paying for it later.

Looking towards each other, you nodded silently.

Time to finish what you started.

As you crept up ladders and across the rafters, you all spotted goblins carrying barrels.

“What do you suppose is in the barrels?” You whispered.

“If I were to guess, I’d say smokepowder.” A wily smile spread across Astarion’s face, “now wouldn’t that be fun.” Slipping a hand into your pack, he retrieved another bottle of alchemist’s fire.

You stared at him in disbelief.

“What? You’re closest.”

You rolled your eyes, turning your attention back to the goblins below.

Dror Ragzlin sat on a crude throne, a mindflayer corpse in front of him; must have been one from the nautiloid wreckage, you felt little sympathy for it. As Ragzlin delivered his sermon and edicts, pairs of goblins carried the heavy barrels behind him. Astarion spotted them too his grin growing wider, as they began to pile the barrels next to a store; fumbling with keys.

You watched as he launched the bottle. That deadly glow fading away.

A thunderous explosion had you shielding your face.

Shrieks and screams filled the sanctum, bodies flung into the air.

Ragzlin knocked to the ground, his shouts furious as he scanned the room for the offenders.

You knew smokepowder was no joke, but even you were surprised at how many goblins it had taken out; even the humans amongst the crowd didn’t stand a chance. A handful of wounded goblins, including Ragzlin were left.

Easy pickings.

Whilst you had managed to avoid being punted off a rafter, and narrowly evaded the odd ice spell, the effects of those potions you drank earlier were beginning to wear off.

You were exhausted.

Your chest felt tight and your legs threatened to give way. You felt yourself sway, teetering far too close to the edge.

Wyll pulled you against his chest, steadying you.

“Careful. It’s quite the fall.”

You gripped onto his arm like a vice, vision swimming as another headache threatened to swallow your senses.

“We need to leave. The leaders are down and we’re sitting ducks.” Shadowheart said, watching as goblins began to frenzy, spats breaking out between groups as panic began to fill the air; their leaders gone, orders abandoned – it was chaos.

“We still haven’t found the druid.” You tried to argue.

“Druid be damned, I’m not losing my hide, and you’re in no state either.” Astarion countered.

“For once I agree with the vampire.” Shadowheart responded, an almost disgusted look on her face which had Astarion sneering.

You looked to Wyll, concerned, but he merely shook his head. Still steadying you, he spoke gently.

“Have faith. The goblins are in disarray, if there were an opportune moment to escape; it would be now.”

“We don’t even know if he’s alive.”

Wyll, ever the optimist, and painfully pragmatic had an answer for that too.

“He’s no use to them dead.”

You decided to trust his judgement.

You were tired.

So, so, tired.

You’re unsure how you made it back to camp, a vague blur of red and screams flitted through your mind, body moving on its own accord as if strings were attached to a puppeteer.

And now, those string had been cut.

The world faded to darkness once more.

Your dreams flitted from one memory to the next, spinning and swirling nauseating colours filling your vision. The voices of your companions echoing in the vast nothingness. You dreamt of your childhood, summers in the Gate paddling in the shallows of the Chionthar; fish circling your ankles.

The riverbanks dissolved into your childhood home, barely an adult, you spied your parents talking to a cloaked figure, the way they glanced towards you unsettled you. Hands clasped; a deal struck.

A flash of red.

A searing pain.

You lurched awake, gripping the thin material of your bedroll, heart pounding as you gulped down air as if it were too thin. Your vision swam, pressing your fingers into your eyes you took a steadying breath.

You listened to the world around you.

You were in your tent, your companions were talking outside, you could hear a gentle breeze rustling the leaves in the trees above, long grasses swaying and birds singing.

It was peaceful.

With a groan you shuffled towards the flap of your tent, wincing as you pulled back the fabric and light filtered in. For a moment you watched as your companions busied themselves. Gale appeared to be cooking something, the faint scent of cooked meats filled the air; you were a little bit hungry.

Pulled by the enticing scent, you wandered over, sitting on a log near the campfire. Gale greeted you warmly, handing you a warm bowl of what you think was soup? A roll of bread and some cuts of the meats that had been roasting.

“How are you feeling?” He asked, joining you on the log, a needed break for tired hands.

“Confused.” You admitted as you slurped from the bowl, “I don’t remember getting here.”

“Oh! Now that’s a story to tell.”

His words filled you with little confidence.

“You were a bit out of sorts. Barely standing from what I could see. If not for our talented cleric I’m unsure if you’d even be awake right now.”

“That bad?” You sounded simultaneously unsurprised and mortified, whilst the fatal effects of your curse were currently held at bay, some of the more minor inconveniences certainly liked to make themselves known. Ringing in your ears, unpredictable nosebleeds, hazy memory – these were all things you had become accustomed to.

Your companions on the other hand, well, you wondered at what point they’ll finally decide you’re a liability.

Gale’s voice wrested you from your thoughts.

“An overindulgence of potions will certainly do that to you. Do take care in the future. Now, eat up, we have a party to plan.”

You blinked owlishly at him.

“A… party?”

“Of course! You weren’t awake for the details. A few of us returned to the Grove to inform Zevlor that the goblin leaders had been -ah, *indisposed. *A night of revelry before the tieflings journey forth!”

A party. Certainly a welcome distraction from the horrors you face. What’s one night to relax and forget your problems? Good company, and potentially good wine would make for a merry night. It’s nice to be recognised for something good for a change.

Nightfall came, and the camp teemed with life. Wine flowed freely as people chatted, sang, and danced with abandon. From your little alcove of peace you watched on, tiefling children chasing each other; Mol squirrelling away a couple of bottles, no doubt to extort people later. You saw Rolan putting on a show for his siblings, colourful sparks of magic bursting into existence before shimmering away.

Wyll had secluded himself away by the lake, but you saw how Karlach approached him, a spring in her step and a smile on her face; she may not be able to touch, but you were confident that by the end of the night she would have plucked a laugh or two from him.

Shadowheart and Lae’zel kept to their own corners of camp, after their spat the other night, you’ve been wary about the pair being in close proximity. The hatchet may very well be buried, but that doesn’t mean someone won’t go and dig it back up. Perhaps best for now they enjoy their own company.

Gale appeared to be entertaining a group of tieflings, or perhaps that was a grimace you saw on their faces? Whilst Gale was regaling them of tales from Waterdeep, Scratch intently eyed a rather tasty looking link of sausages; you saw him creep over to where they were roasting, tentatively nibbling before yanking the lot and darting into the bushes. The tieflings laughed whilst Gale yelled at the dog.

You ought to make rounds, mingle, show your face to those eager to thank you.

As you surveyed the festivities, your eyes caught sight of an abnormally large elf with deep scars that bisected his face; despite the rugged appearance, his eyes held a gentleness to them. He greeted you warmly when you approached him, introducing himself as Halsin.

“I must thank you for your help with the Grove, I would have done so sooner but I understand you were resting.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” You murmured, wincing at your tone. “I’m glad we could help, although I must ask, how did you escape the goblins? We hadn’t even found you… apologies.”

Halsin merely laughed, no hint of anger or malice in his voice.

“It appears your indisposing of the leaders caused quite a stir; I was able to use the opportunity to escape.”

You briefly mentioned the tadpole behind your eye, which Halsin responded to gently; telling you that it was no ordinary tadpole and that removing it would almost certainly kill you. He did not miss the way your expression shifted, a resigned sigh leaving your lips. Seems that no matter what happens; you’re destined to die.

His voice brought you back to the present, warm and jovial.

“Go on now. Don’t waste your night talking to me. We’ll discuss your problem tomorrow.”

“Why don’t you take your own advice? Go on – mingle a little.”

“Later, perhaps. Don’t worry about me. A night under the stars amidst nature’s creation is just what I need after being locked up in the goblins’ dungeon.” Halsin looked to the very stars he mentioned, gesturing to the world around him as a certain peace settled on his features. He smiled at you, motioning to the various bottles of wine that threatened to run out soon.

“Go on, enjoy yourself. Seek out some wine before it runs dry – there are a lot of thirsty people around here.”

You bade him a good night.

Bottle in hand, you wandered the camp; the taste of the liquid sweet and fruity on your tongue, by far one of the better beverages you’ve had recently. Although the same could not be said for your vampire companion. Astarion positively grimaced with every swig of the bottle.

“That bad?” You asked as you walked over to him.

He sighed dramatically.

“I would have liked more for my trouble than a pat on the head and vinegar for wine.”

“Tastes fine to me.” You remarked.

“You’ve clearly never tasted finer things in life.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, taking another sip from your bottle. Swirling the contents and watching it whirl.

“These days I’ll take what I can get. Never know when it’ll be my last.”

“Hm, I’m inclined to agree with you.” He looked to his own bottle disdainfully before his eyes met yours, a spark of cunning flashed behind them. “All I want is a little fun. Is that so much to ask?”

“Knowing you?” You raised a brow at him, “probably, or it could mean you want to kill something. It’s hard to tell at times.”

He flashed a sinister grin.

“What’s life without a little danger? A little death, so to speak” His expression shifted to something more intimate, his tone suggestive as he closed in on the space around you. “We could create our own entertainment, get to experience each other’s *full portfolio of talents, *if you catch my meaning.”

You knew exactly what he meant.

But you wanted to hear it from him directly.

“And what would your meaning be?”

He knew you were teasing, by the glint in your eye and barely suppressed smirk. He responded in kind, with exasperation and a roll of his eyes. Leaning in close.

“By the hells. Sex, my dear. A night of passion.”

He leant back, a more relaxed smile in place; he looked almost pleased with himself.

“Let’s wait until things quieten down. Once the others are asleep, we’ll find each other.”

You couldn’t remember the last time you were intimate with someone, perhaps not long after you were burdened with your curse, before its talons had fully embedded themselves into your flesh.

What harm could one night bring?

As the party had settled down and your companions slept soundly in their bedrolls, you pulled back the fabric of your tent; it was almost eerie how silence fell over the camp like a blanket muffling the sound. Only the gentle crackle of the fire could be heard, its embers floating up into the sky.

You caught glimpse of Astarion slipping out of his tent, he knew you had seen him, overconfident; without even turning to look at you he stalked towards the forest.

You huffed at his arrogance, but followed nonetheless. Steps quiet as a mouse until you were sure no one could hear you.

The forest was still, but not silent; a gentle rustle of leaves and the call of nightly birds filled the air. Moonlight filtering through the leaves as an evening mist settled like a shroud. As you took in your surroundings you were aware of a presence slipping out from the copse of trees.

Astarion looked beautiful in moonlight.

The way the light shone through his hair like a halo, the shadows that sculpted his face.

You were staring, the telltale smirk on his face told you he’d caught you.

“There you are.” He purred, “I’ve been waiting. Waiting since the moment I set eyes on you.”

He stepped closer to you.

“Waiting to have you.”

You regarded him for a moment, these were honeyed words to charm you.

It would be a lie to say they weren’t working.

But you’re a stubborn kind, and do rather enjoy teasing.

You huffed a laugh.

“You held a dagger to my throat when you set eyes on me.”

“Darling, don’t ruin the mood.” He chastised lightly. “Besides, you’re here, aren’t you? And I don’t think you want to talk.”

Caressing the air in front of you he continued, his voice dipping.

“I think you want to be known. To be tasted.”

You tilted your head; he certainly had a way with words, but there was a certain tenseness to him you couldn’t place. He was too put together, too poised.

“And what do you want?”

He faltered for a moment, a glimmer of surprise and uncertainty flashed across his features before his clever tongue picked up the pieces.

“What do any of us want? Pleasure. Yours. Mine. Our collective ecstasy.”

That uncertainty returned not a moment later, his eyes searching yours for an answer to a question only he knew. Hesitancy creeping into his voice.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it? To lose yourself in me.”

That last part sounded more like a statement.

“I want us both to have fun.” You breathed.

Astarion looked unsurprised.

“I thought so.”

A cold hand took your wrist, pulling you closer as cool lips closed over yours. Gentle, eager, too soon he was pulling away, merely grinning at you. Barely a heartbeat later his lips were back on yours, teasing and playful, he pressed you roughly against a tree; its bark digging into your skin.

You gasped, heat flooding through your body as you held him close like a lifeline.

He pulled away once more, gone was his hesitancy from before; replaced by the overbearing confidence of a practiced dancer.

How many times had he danced to this particular tune?

An element of mischief bubbled up inside you, with newfound confidence you pushed Astarion down onto the ground, straddling him with a mischievous grin; head tilted exposing your neck, your intention clear. He gazed up at you, eyes wide, a faint surprised smile on his lips, sweat beading in his hairline.

Playfully he rolled you beneath him, a ghost of a kiss against your throat before that ice sharp sting took over. You moaned, instinctually pulling him closer as he lapped at your neck; warmth trickling down it.

Breaths mingled.

Bloodied kisses.

Your senses overwhelmed, Astarion was everywhere; lavishing attention upon you in reverence. Skin tingling at his every touch as he explored every expanse of your body. When he wasn’t whispering sweet nothings in your ear, his clever tongue had you gasping out his name like a prayer.

If his intention was for you to be quiet, then he was doing awfully, but the way your cries seemed to spur him on told you otherwise.

Head full of dizzying pleasure, you trembled in his arms; you could hear him speaking; soothing even, it made little sense to you.

A telltale warmth, an almost repressed groan and Astarion relaxing told you everything.

Breathless, sticky, your heart hammering in your chest. You lay in each other’s arms, no words passed between you, only the ragged breaths of two people who bared all to each other.

You were exhausted.

The gentle lull of sleep claimed you when the shadows began to dance in your vision.

If you thought Astarion looked beautiful in the moonlight, then he was positively radiant in the sun. Gentle dappling of sunlight glittered against his skin, gone was his deathly pallid tone; replaced by a warmth simmering under his skin – the throbbing in your neck was almost worth the sight.

Despite his devastating beauty, your eyes wandered over a large scar so crudely carved into his back. The sharp, complex, and almost methodical nature of his scars stirred a memory within you. You had seen similar markings before, not on flesh, but they were unmistakable – Infernal, language of the Hells.

You groaned, pushing yourself to your feet.

“You sleep light. I thought you’d be exhausted.” Astarion teased, glancing back at you as he continued basking in the sun.

“I am. But I can’t spend all day on the floor now, can I?” You quipped, “as much as that may delight you.”

“Darling, I’m hurt.” As he was about to turn back to the sun, he caught how your gaze slipped to his back, an unreadable expression on your face. His own tone soured. “You’re staring. What is it?”

You shook your head.

“Sorry… your scars, do you know what it is?”

“No, I don’t.” Astarion said condescendingly, “it’s not like I can look at it in a mirror.”

With a pained sigh, he told you with little detail how he fell into Cazador’s clutches, how his flesh had been carved and revised over the course of a night; the unspoken told you enough.

“Why did he write in Infernal?”

“Infernal?” Astarion looked shocked, blinking almost owlishly at you before his usual frown fell back into place, “who knows? The bastard was insane. Anyway, enough pillow talk. Let’s go before the tieflings drag us into another mess.”

With a huff you gathered your strewn clothing, whilst you were almost certain the rest of camp were aware of your late-night tryst, you preferred to not be so obvious about it.

Morning brought discussion of shadow cursed lands and a lead to your tadpole problem. Moonrise Towers, not a place that rung a bell in your memory but a place that offered a potential cure to your affliction – and certain death if it were to be true.

Halsin warned of the dangers of travelling overland, and whilst he loathed to say it, suggested the Underdark be a safer passage.

Speak of Dark Justiciars perked Shadowheart’s ears, for better or for worse.

Your camp of misfits packed their belongings, readying for their next part of adventure. You were going to miss this particular camp, so much had transpired in such a short time and the prospect of moving on brought a sickening feeling of dread. What other chaos was to be thrown your way? How many more bodies must you step over to preserve your own safety?

Lae’zel had become quite vocal in her interest of locating the Githyanki creche; perhaps less out of interest and more necessity, whilst the thought of wandering into a Gith stronghold with Illithid parasites burrowing deeper into your grey matter didn’t fill you with joy, a part of you was curious about their supposed “cure”. Either it cured you of your parasite and you perish, or it backfires terribly and you still perish; truly nothing to lose in that case.

“Fine, let’s find this creche. But after that we travel the Underdark.”

The mountainous trek was arduous and your legs burned with fatigue, the scenery however, now that was quite breathtaking. The odd grumble parsed between your companions about the trek, Shadowheart wished you all had horses to which Astarion countered that they were temperamental beasts and bite.

“We keep you around, don’t we?” She responded, a short laugh left your throat, Astarion glaring at you as you tried to cover it with a cough.

It appears people have a habit of repurposing places of worship.

Rosymorn Monastery, a once glittering jewel nestled in the mountains that basked in the Morninglord’s splendour.

Rather ironic that death now paints its walls.

Lae’zel’s demands thankfully granted you access to safe passage, for now. Still, you couldn’t help but feel as though this fragile peace would soon shatter. Eyes bore into your skulls, your every movement tracked and calculated for weakness – how easy would it be to overwhelm you all? How many flaws had already been detected?

Well, you were somewhat free to roam; may as well make use of it. A trade here, a barter there; you soon realised that the Gith were receptive to the odd coin. Whilst a few brows were raised at just how many healing potions you had bought it was brushed off as your kind being much weaker, fragile bones and all.

Whatever works.

That tentative peace did not last long.

The Gith’s insane purification device backfired spectacularly, shattering into shards of metal and chunks of flesh. Lae’zel gripping her head, screaming just as your mind splintered apart. You could taste the blood at the back of your throat, swallowing thickly, grimacing as you willed the ache and taste away.

Astarion gave you a sidelong glance but remained silent.

You had hoped to have avoided a fight; however, your deception had much left to be desired and the Ghustil did not take kindly to blatant lies. Lae’zel agitated, she had not wanted to fight against her people but their patience had limits, and your wandering with an Illithid parasite buried in your skull left you all with little choice.

Lae’zel wiped the blood from her eyes.

“Come. We must inform the Inquisitor there is a hshar’lak in our midst.”

“And also tell him we just butchered a load of gith too?” Shadowheart raised a brow, “I’m certain that’ll go well.”

“Chk. Their misguided pursuit is what lead to their downfall. I will not be held responsible for the faults of others.”

“Let’s just get going.” You hedged, “I don’t relish staying here a moment longer.”

Abysmal.

That was the only word that came to mind as you recounted the events within the Creche. You had met with the Inquisitor, and in turn had an audience with Vlaakith herself.

You were far from the pious type, and her domineering presence partnered with Lae’zel’s undying devotion made something twist sickly in your stomach. Even still, you found yourself listening to Vlaakith’s request come order, descending into the astral prism to confront the person who has protected you this entire time. They had appeared in your dreams, told you of their own desire and plight, how they protected you and would continue to do so. Their presence was soothing, to kill them was suicide.

You did not want to kill them.

You couldn’t.

Decision made, your return to the creche was a bloody one. Vlaakith be damned, she had no intention of letting any of you live.

Yet still, Lae’zel remained devoted to her.

You wanted to scream at her, tell her to open her eyes – you knew it was fruitless.

Leaving the creche was an even bloodier mess.

Venturing further into the depths of the monastery, disarming one trap after the next, your party entered a dimly lit cavern; a glittering jewel at its centre. This must be the blood of Lathander you had heard whispers of.

With no clear route forward you had yanked the mace from its resting space, the cavern sprung to life, whirring and clunking, lights dazzling you as you shielded your eyes.

Then you were levitating.

“What in the hells-“

Everything was doomed for destruction, and that place was set to be your grave unless you acted.

“Get me out of this thing before the whole building collapses!” You had screamed.

“I’ll get them free – you get out of here!” Astarion had yelled to the others, you looked at him in surprise as the others bolted towards the exit.

Turns out scrolls can be very useful in a pinch, and once free the pair of you had ran as if hellhounds were at your ankles. The very stone beneath your feet cracking and collapsing, deafening rumbles as stones crashed to the canyons below, the earth swallowing it whole. With a leap you made it to safety, back to the ground as to stared up at the sky, the cacophony of destruction echoing still.

You caught your ragged breath rolling onto your stomach, gazing over the rubble of the monastery, head pounding as the urge to vomit rose, a metallic taste stuck in the back of your throat. You glanced to Astarion who appeared to be in marginally better shape, the adrenaline wearing off as he sagged against a tree.

“Why did you help me?” You said between breaths, easing yourself up.

“Most people say thank you when rescued from mortal peril.” Astarion huffed, “No matter, I’ll take it.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Astarion narrowed his eyes before rolling his shoulders, levelling you with an unreadable stare.

“Being crushed to death is hardly pleasant. I’m sure we could have asked that withered skeleton to bring you back, but I’d rather not waste the gold.”

You scoffed, pushing yourself off the rock you were resting against, moving your way past Astarion, his hand against you shoulder stopping you in your tracks, eyes narrowed.

“I can smell the blood in your mouth.”

You paused, glancing at him, muttering derisively.

“Worried? Or enticed?”

“Neither.” He frowned, “but I am curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“Oh, but I’m already dead. It hardly matters anymore.”

You shrugged him off, your bedroll was calling and your weary bones needed the rest.

You tossed and turned in fitful sleep, nightmares a plague behind your eyes, heart hammering in your chest. Sinew and muscle warped and torn, the pressure behind your eyes building and building until the vessels burst and your vision distorts. Your teeth felt loose, rocking in their sockets as blood began to fill your mouth.

You were destined to die.

To choke on your own blood until your gurgling was silenced.

Cold hands shook you awake, with a sharp gasp you sat up suddenly, world spinning around you. You pressed your palms into your eyes trying to relieve the pressure behind them.

“Quite the nightmare you were having.”

Astarion’s voice was soothing, gone was his usual mocking cadence, replaced with a mild concern that seemed almost odd on him. You stared at him for a moment, reorienting yourself with the world.

“Are you quite alright? You look worse than when I first met you; and that’s saying something.”

You groaned, wiping at your face and pulling away when you felt a sticky substance against your clammy skin.

“You could smell the blood.”

“No late-night surprises from me, I assure you; however, it is hard to ignore when someone spontaneously bleeds in their sleep.”

If your head weren’t currently splitting apart you may have found humour in his statement.

“I know what I saw in your head. None of it good.” Of course, he was going to remind you of the half-truths you let slip, he had that over you – could use it for the smallest bit of leverage should he wish to damn you further, yet, his expression spoke not of deceit, but that of understanding. With a grimace he handed you a cloth, lips pressed into a thin line as he watched you mop up the blood that still flowed freely.

“If I didn’t know better, I would say you’re dying.”

You glanced away; cloth pressed firmly to your nose as you gathered your thoughts. You could lie, a small lie, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things but just enough to sate his curiosity. Or… you could be truthful, sate his curiosity and tear open the wound that had barely begun to heal once again.

“You’re closer to the truth than you realise.” You sighed.

A deep frown settled on his features, his gaze flicking from your face to the bloodied cloth that now sat in your lap.

“I’m definitely missing something here.”

A wry smile tugged at your lips.

“It’s a long story. Let’s just say I was the unfortunate bastard caught in a bargain not of my own making. Fey are tricky creatures.”

“Deals with devils rarely go well, look at dear Wyll – Pride of the Gate with a devil on his tail. But Fey? They’re just as cunning and twice as cruel.” He paused, regarding you for a moment. “How in the hells did you manage that?”

“Oh! Believe me, this was not my choice, let’s just say my doting family felt that I had more use to them as a conduit. Why waste precious resources, just another mouth to feed after all.” Bitterness laced your words like an acrid poison, any love you once held for your family had long since been eaten by the gnawing void in your chest. “They knew the cost, there was little point in the fey dressing up their words into a neatly packaged riddle – ‘a drop of blood to keep you flushed, a skipped beat for added time.’”

Fists balled, crescent moons digging into your flesh, you took a shuddering breath as your temper rose. How long had you dampened your feelings? Accepted your fate and made peace with it? When had you ever spoken of your plight to another soul? The rage you had felt the day you were betrayed came surging back in a violent flurry that flashed red behind your eyes.

“The day I was captured by the Mindflayers was the day I was meant to die. To complete the deal, and grant those who I once held dear a life free of disease, of aging, but not immortality – no, they couldn’t afford that price, but they got close to it.”

You threw the rag into the corner of your tent in fury.

“I hope they rot.”

You refused to let tears spill, your family were not worth it, instead you gritted your teeth, voice thick.

“If we remove these parasites, I will succumb to my own personal oblivion, but I don’t want to become a mindflayer either. I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.”

A tense silence fell upon your tent, your pulse quickened as the urge to empty the contents of your stomach increased. This was a mistake; you shouldn’t have told him; not only is he now privy to your secret but now he shares the burden of keeping that secret. Cat out the bag, it was only a matter of time before the others found out. You stared down at your hands, when had they gripped the hem of your shirt? Little jolts of nerves rattled through your body; you were shaking.

Then the tears fell.

“Gods damn it.” You hissed, furiously wiping at your eyes.

Astarion said nothing, but that look, was that sympathy? His eyes flitted to the side before resting back on you, clearly, he wasn’t used to this sort of vulnerability. As his throat bobbed in hesitance, you filled the silence.

“Sorry… this is a lot. I’ll be fine… eventually.”

Astarion sighed, finally breaking his silence.

“You’ve truly been dealt a vile hand. I suppose we’re more alike than I first thought.”

You barked a harsh laugh.

“I suppose we are. At least there’s a future for you.”

It was Astarion’s turn to laugh, terse and cold.

“My future is meaningless if I fall back into Cazador’s clutches.” He gestured to his own head, “these brain worms are the only thing protecting me, I’ll be damned to return to the life I knew.”

“Providing we don’t turn into mindflayers and I don’t suddenly keel over, you won’t need to.” There was a peculiar confidence to your tone, not quite a promise, but an assurance. Your future may be limited, but Astarion’s needn’t be, you felt a strange affection for the man; neither love nor friendship, a curious solidarity.

Astarion laughed once again, softly, a tentative warmth in his voice.

“Don’t make promises darling.”

“I’m doing no such thing. Only a fool makes promises.”

“Indeed... Well, seeing as you’re not going to die on me at any moment, I shall take my leave.” He held his hand up to silence you, anticipating your request for privacy. “I won’t tell the others, but… at some point you will have to.”

That day was only going to creep closer.

Neither of you spoke of what happened the next morning, instead packed for your trek to the Underdark as if it were a normal day with a parasite wriggling in your brain. You had burned the evidence of the previous night’s bleed, no need to be concerning the others; there’s more pressing issues at hand.

Truthfully, you just wanted to press on, the less you had to think about your own situation, the better.

“So, the Underdark.” Astarion started, “I wonder what manner of terrifying foes we’ll meet there.”

“Well, I dare say we may come across a bulette or two, and I hear it’s a fantastic place for myconids.” Gale answered, “I for one am intrigued if not a little apprehensive.” With glee he regaled of the various creatures he had read about, Astarion look to you; unimpressed. You merely grinned at him before continuing to pack.

The Underdark felt like it was a realm away, deep caverns with jagged rocks, steep edges and sheer drops; one misstep into gnawing nothingness. Glowing mushrooms illuminated the way, some exploded, others… well let’s say hearing your companions lose their minds with laughter was both hilarious and terrifying. Curiosity was no friend of yours here.

Violence always found your merry band of misfits, one way or another. Be it in the form of defending yourself from a bulette – Gale was very smug about that one. Or by venturing into a blistering forge to decapitate a drow; a truly awful experience, to feel how muscle and tendon went taut against your blade, still warm blood dripping onto your hands and down your arm, the cracking and crushing of bone; why this particular task was left to you was beyond your understanding. You were sorely tempted to throw the head at one of your companions.

“My, my, don’t you look dashing covered in blood.” Astarion teased, his eyes lit up in delight as you scowled.

“And here I thought you’d be eager to do the deed yourself. I distinctly remember you saying decapitation was a ‘fine way to go’.”

“Did I say that?” He feigned innocence, “well, I’m sure another opportunity will arise.”

“I’ll make sure to volunteer you for it then.”

“Certainly.”

Absently he reached out, smudging a drop of blood on your cheek before licking at the crimson on his thumb. Blinking owlishly, you could feel the heat rush to your cheeks.

“Are you always this off-putting in public?” You could barely contain your distaste, scrunching your nose and looking away, almost ashamed at the interaction. “Can your hunger not wait for later?”

Astarion merely chuckled, relishing in your discomfort and the apparent discomfort of your companions, all of whom suddenly found interest in their nails or a “new” speck of dirt on their clothing.

“I suppose it could wait.”

It was impossible to tell if it were daytime or nighttime, although as the hours waned on your body certainly let you know. Lounging against a particularly sturdy mushroom, you watched as your companions setup their tents and prepared for the night ahead. Scratch and the owlbear cub chased each other playfully, tussling and tumbling; a playful nip here and there. At least someone was having fun.

Halsin had made himself comfortable and adapted well to camp life, he sat by the fire whittling whilst Gale prepared a meal with whatever resources had been procured. Wyll chatted with Karlach who lounged in her open tent. Even Shadowheart and Lae’zel appeared amicable, comparing weapons and discussing tactics.

Your vampire friend was nowhere to be seen.

Surely, he hadn’t gone hunting here? Of all the places, the Underdark was probably the most dangerous, there was a distinct lack of boars and bears and you shuddered at the thought of what would be considered close.

Dubious of Astarion’s whereabouts, you elected to wander the camp, inspecting all manner of secluded areas; noting some for when you wanted your own privacy. It didn’t take long for you to find Astarion, although you weren’t expecting to see him in a manner of undress. His fingertips grazing at the scars on his back, red angry marks where he had repeatedly traced particular areas.

“Bloody Infernal, how is anyone meant to read this garbage?” He hissed, attempting to contort his arm more than it naturally could.

“And I thought you didn’t care for what Cazador wrote on your back?” You said, arms folded as Astarion turned in surprise, eyes wide as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“Ah! There you are. I admit, I got curious.” His little smirk gave way to a frown, a sombre expression, gesturing to his back as he spoke. “I’ve been tracing the scars on my back with my fingers, trying to read them by touch, but I can’t.”

“Want me to take another look?” You offered, watching as he considered; almost as quickly as that sliver of vulnerability peaked through, the walls were up again like a fortress.

“I – This isn’t your problem you know.”

“It’s your choice. I may not be able to read your scars, but at the very least I can draw them.”

“I…” Astarion pursed his lips, regarding you for a moment; unsure if this was trickery under a guise, unwilling to be so open once again. He gave a resigned sigh. “I’d… appreciate that.”

Turning around, you once again bore witness to the swirling patterns hacked into his flesh; how crudely it had been carved. You could see where the deepest scars took the longest to heal, raised and purple; just how long did it take him to recover? There were signs where wounds had healed and reopened, skin barely knitting together, now thick and tough. With a deft hand you scribed into the soft soil below, mirroring each terror inflicting mark to completion.

“There…” You murmured, “you can turn around now.”

A scowl etched into Astarion’s features as he laid eyes upon the sigil, centuries of wondering what secrets his scars held only to be met with more questions.

“What in the Hells… What did he do to me?”

You grimaced.

“Any idea what it says?”

“I have absolutely no idea. But it’s no poem.” His voice wavered slightly, “two centuries carrying this, and I can finally see it.”

A strained silence fell between you, Astarion staring down at the sigil, eyes flitting from one etching to the next, the rage simmering under his skin was palpable.

“Disappointed? Or...” You began.

“Perplexed.” Astarion interrupted. “This was a surprise, and Cazador’s surprises are never good.” He shifted slightly, body still taut like a bowstring, but voice minorly relaxed, inquisitive even. “Then again, even he couldn’t know I’d be kidnapped. Whatever he had planned, it’s gone wrong. Which gives us an advantage.” He kicked at the dirt, marring his reflected scar into obscurity. “Whatever I’ve ran off with, he’ll be furious.”

He looked to you; expression softened faintly.

“Thank you, by the way. This is… well, it’s something.”

“I would say make sure it doesn’t get us killed, but…” You gestured to yourself.

Astarion smirked.

“Hells forbid.”

You didn’t sleep well that night, whilst your body was exhausted your mind was awake and racing; as one thought appeared it was devoured by another. Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you pondered on what lay ahead, tomorrow you will continue to Moonrise Towers; a desolate place shrouded in shadow if Halsin’s warnings were anything to go by. Perhaps you’ll find out more about your wriggling friends, or maybe you’ll succumb to whatever lay in wait.

How were you meant to protect yourself against a curse that threatened to swallow every light and living being whole?

You squeezed your eyes shut, shifting onto your side, bringing the covers of your bedroll up to your ears; you felt… cold.

With a heavy sigh you stared into the dark of your tent, the snores and mumbles of your companions brought little comfort. Astarion’s words from the other day swam in your mind. Guilt washed over you like a wave, they all had their own horrors to deal with, all of which they had confided in you; yet here you were, squirrelling away your secrets. Did you not trust them? Or was it the pity you were scared of? To be known, to be seen.

If you made it through the shadows alive, then you’ll tell them.

A promise to yourself.

You fool.

[tgrailwar-zero]

You prepared your healing Code Cast. NERO held out a hand, stopping you.

NERO: "There's no need. This ends here. I only need your applause."

You activated your Thunderous Applause Code Cast instead, a burst of shining light erupting in the middle of the Theater. The shining golden walls appeared to glow even brighter. Swiftly, NERO gained the offensive. The scene was intense, daring, your heart pounding just watching it. Like a skater upon ice, she spun around the PRIESTESS, attacking again and again.

A thunderous assault, accompanied by thunderous applause.

You could only watch in amazement as the flurry of attacks continued, fierce and devastating. While the PRIESTESS had been almost effortlessly been defending herself, she was now struggling. One blow cracked her mirror, the other ripping apart her kimono, her eyes growing wide and her ears twitching rapidly, the shining light of her tails flickering as they bristled.

A dance of death. Certainly, this would be her grave.

Blow after blow, slash after slash, a crimson blur was all you could see of the Emperor as she attacked again and again. You heard TAMAMO-NO-HIME scream in pain, body nearly collapsing as NERO grabbed the collar of her thick kimono, holding her up with one hand as the other handled her flaming blade.

NERO: "Goodbye, Shadow of Casko. I can at least commend your ability to fight until the very end."

Then, she struck.

The sword was lodged deep in her bosom, NERO having dipped TAMAMO-NO-HIME deeply with her final blow, their faces close enough that if this were a romantic story being performed before you, even a romantic tragedy, you would not think it odd if they were to kiss.

However, the timing had been well-chosen.

With this blow, TAMAMO-NO-HIME would fade away, along with the Golden Theater.

That was, unless she had an encore.

The issue was, Servants were supposed to fade. And if she wasn't a Servant, then she'd surely bleed.

You looked closer.

She was bleeding…

Wasn't she?

No, there was something oozing from the wound, but you didn't think it was blood.

It was red, certainly, glowing red, as the gash around the sword began to split open. Fingers slowly began to emerge from the gash, ripping apart the sword wound even further. NERO's eyes widened as she started to pull the blade away, but it only budged an inch before something caught onto it and pulled it back. She tried to let go, but three tendrils emerged from the wound, one of them firmly gripping the blade, one wrapping firmly around NERO's waist, and one around both of the Emperor's arms.

A figure began to emerge from the gash, which had now expanded to cover the entirety of the PRIESTESS' torso. A figure, feminine in body but vulpine in demeanor, slithered out of the darkness. Her body was nude, though she was cast entirely in silhouette, her body dripping with that crimson, accursed blood-like ooze.

FOX DEMON: "Hanzoku… my Hanzoku…"

The emerging entity moaned.

You watched KUKULKAN leap out of her seat, rushing towards NERO.

The Emperor prepared to let out a shout, before the FOX DEMON lunged towards her, tackling her to the ground as her sword scattered to the wayside.

You couldn't tell if it was a kiss, or if NERO's face was being mauled.

Dark fog began to surround them both, the force of the winds pushing the smog heavy enough to knock back KUKULKAN with a scream. She hit the ground with a heavy thud as the walls of the Golden Theater began to crumble.

No, not crumble.

This Theater was a pillar of human history, one of the remaining structures of the Judeo-Claudian dynasty.

And as such, when taken into the hands of this Tail of the Beast, there was only one thing it could do.

Collapse.

The fog surrounded you, made it difficult to breathe. You felt a heavy hand on your shoulder, and a bulky figure blocking the dark wings from battering against you. Two more figures drew close, SUZUKA and KUKULKAN. A good call- you felt as if these winds could knock you away for miles.

When they faded, the intense wind pressure was replaced with heat. Nothing but heat. Burning grass, scorched earth, the scent of smoke filling your senses and making it difficult to breathe. It was a similar sensation as the Bounded Field she had called her 'Palace' before, but amplified at least tenfold.

You heard around you the chattering of animals.

No, the screeching, throaty gekker of foxes.

The longer you listened, the more it sounded like mockery.

Laughter.

Off in the distance, you heard one howl louder than the others, causing the very ground to rumble.

You heard the PRIESTESS' voice. The FOX DEMON's voice. But it was lower, more malicious, and had the seductive predatory chill of a monster that would love nothing more than to strip you down to your bones and flay the meat from your body.

VOICE OF THE FOX GODDESS: "Certainly, that was a beautiful performance. Did I put on a good show? Pretending to die is always so much trickier than you would think. I have to give that Emperor acclaim for her acting as well. So much so, that I wanted to cast her in a show of my own. Surely, as her Masters, you don't mind… do you?"

Each word echoed through the air, clinging to it like a thick miasma that settled upon your

VOICE OF THE FOX GODDESS: "That Nero… she would never shut up. But she said something. That she possessed that 'Bestial spark', or whatever poetic drivel she used to describe it. Regardless, I thought… 'certainly, then we must be compatible'. Oh, and we are. I do love corrupt rulers. Our Original may deny her counterparts, but I know that I've loved many. Di Xin. Toba. Ji Gongsheng. Hanzoku. Love after love, lost to me. And so, I'll make Nero my new love. I've been so lonely as the Priestess, you see… but she knows me. She claims to, at the very least. I'm not a picky goddess, blessed be to me."

VOICE OF THE FOX GODDESS: "You see… a woman like her, she'd do wonderfully as my misfortune-speckled King Hanzoku. But I'm rewriting the story. Just tiny adjustments to the script. There's no Buddha to save him now. No Buddha to save you either. Just monstrosities. They'll kill you, and then I'll eat your heads. Peel off your skin, and devour your sinew and muscle. But you'll have to die first, so do be a dear and do that quickly. I'll have my Hanzoku help you."

You heard a heavy thud.

VOICE OF THE FOX GODDESS: "My dear King Hanzoku. If you slay the man, I'll give you a country. If you slay the women, I'll give you all the riches in the world. And if you slay the shadow… I'll make you immortal in every way you can imagine."

You saw a figure approach. Large, powerful, demonic, draconic. An embodiment of sin and tragedy. The aura radiating off of them was not dissimilar to DRACO. It was as if NERO had been flayed, and one of her worst qualities had put on her skin and made it their own. Their own armor pierced their body, blood running down their chest and staining their clothes. You couldn't see their eyes, but you could feel their gaze burning into yours.

A being of evil.

Sin and greed.

Collapse and applause.

AVARITIA-HANZOKU: "…Of course, my Queen."

They raised a hand, and demon after demon began to manifest. Monstrous, many-toothed beasts that began to lumber closer.

KUKULKAN shifted into a battle stance, charging forward. However, the normally bright, verdant, sunny light that emanated from her body flickered and sputtered out as she crashed onto the ground, inches away from one of the demons.

It raised a mighty claw, moments away from slamming down on her head before it reeled back from a sudden strike, the AVENGER dashing in and attacking. One armored, clawed arm wrapped around the normally bright goddess as she coughed, looking over at SUZUKA.

SALIERI: "We leave. This is a losing battle."

She nodded.

SUZUKA GOZEN: "Totally. Let's move!"

You felt SALIERI grab you as well, as he sprinted away, SUZUKA close behind as she cut down any demons that got too close. He picked a direction and moved, intent and navigation be damned, as there was nothing to do but move… lest you all be eaten alive.

You heard more laughter echoing around you.

VOICE OF THE FOX GODDESS: "Oh, come now. Didn't you want to be entertained? Didn't you so boldly state that you'd 'live or die by the sword'? Wasn't I not trying hard enough? Didn't I say you'd regret not taking my head when I so generously offered it to you? I've set up such a lovely stage for your demise. Welcome to my world."

The voice of the PRIESTESS rumbled, a deep echo that tickled your eardrums and reverberated within your very minds. Sweet, poisonous, and malevolent.

"KALMASHAPADA HELL."

Yes.

Hell.

This was certainly Hell.

You found a cave, slipping inside. SALIERI put you down, KUKULKAN next to you. He looked over at her, kneeling down next to her.

SALIERI: "…What's happening to her?"

He loomed over her, as she attempted to sit up.

KUKULKAN: "I'm… I'm fine…"

That didn't last long as she grimaced, laying back down again.

She normally had too much energy. So for her to be completely depleted like this was disturbing, to say the least.

LITTLE GUY…?: "...This is a lightless, sunless place. Or rather, the only true Sun that exists is your enemy here..."

You heard a voice. The cadence was familiar, sure, but the timbre was much, much deeper. A rich, slow, masculine tone rather than a chipper, rapid, boyish one.

Your gaze trailed over to the source.

A man, tall, slim and handsome, with an aloof expression on his face mused as he gazed out of the cave.

The last time you had seen him… which was today, he had looked much, much younger.

LITTLE GUY (?): "...The only things that thrive in these lands are suffering and curses... Kukulkan cannot shine here, and Suzuka Gozen's own brightness is dwindling..."

SUZUKA GOZEN: "I hate to admit it, but he's right. I'm still not at 100% after breaking the Talisman, but I feel my power level's totally being limited here... though not as badly as girlie over there. So, he's…"

SUZUKA GOZEN: "He's…"

She stumbled back, hands instantly falling on the hilt of her blade.

SUZUKA GOZEN: "Ge…General Yin?!"

Your AVENGER stepped forth, raising his own Wildfire blade and pointing it at the man.

SALIERI: "Who are you?"

YIN YUANSHUAI: "I apologize… Am I not welcome? I can take my leave... I perfectly understand if you wish not to be accompanied by a god of misfortune…"

[kiwi-solace]

Devotion’s Fall (Teaser)

Brief: While living may not be as easy and comfortable as many, it was just fine to Y/n. Resigning herself to the circumstances, she’s come to accept her life and the future. When assisting a friend in attending the annual party of the kingdom’s prized royalty in finding their final soulmate for the first time, she expects a few days of playing pretend of what she wishes to be. But one should always be careful with the words you speak into the world.

Word Count: 993

Warnings: moderate injury, yandere (you know the drill), controlling behavior

A/N: Would you believe me if I said this was supposed to be finished in March? Btw Italics are not being spoken out loud! It’s in her head that’s all. Anyways, feel free to message me (￣∇￣)

...

Keep moving.

That’s all she could think of as she navigated through the dense forest that surrounded the kingdom’s domain. Seeking safety was top priority even if it brought her further away from a place she almost called home. 

Dodging the various roots and vines of the forest floor had taken a toll on her bare feet. There was no time to care about something as simple as shoes when there was rarely a moment of opportunity for this getaway. Deluded were she, to ignore the signs and fall victim to their sweet nothings and reassurances. There had to be a catch. It was stark in hindsight.

Lungs has since yelled for her user to stop for a simple break, but that’s too much of a luxury to afford for the situation, let alone being in a simple nightgown. The alarm bells keep the adrenaline pumping, knowing you only had a small headstart. You can hear the storming footsteps behind you even on this stormy night. The thunder unable to drown out those sent after you–those coming after you themselves. They’re getting too close for comfort.

“Find her now! If you come back without her you’ll have bigger problems to deal with than finding a mere human.” 

“We’re tired of this game of cat and mouse love.”

“It’s too dangerous outside for you— stop running.” 

There it was. Those damned commands they started using within you. Their blood is the cause of this. The entire connection is cursed. Why had she been chosen for not just one, but eight creatures that have sought not just her heart, but her unconditional love and obedience. 

Fighting the command with all her might slowed down her pace, a splitting headache begins in dismay of her disobeying. I will listen to you no more.

Being within a 50 mile radius of just one of them— let alone the eight of them— was more dangerous than the outside world. It’s sunshine and rainbows compared to them. With that thought, she attempts to speed up once again, only to trip on a slippery root infront of her beyond the kingdom’s wall. While the rain did aid in masking her scent with its downpour, it came to be her downfall when traversing haphazardly. It mocks her really. To know that you’re so close to being free from their jurisdiction, but even then there’s only one question: what happens? She laughs to herself at the thought. Maybe it’s the adrenaline or she’s losing it completely, but what’s to stop their pursuit even after fleeing the kingdom. They’ve proven to know no bounds when it comes to getting their way. Manipulation. Lies. Murder. It’s nothing new.

Groaning from the fall and newly acquired bruises, she attempts to get up again only to give out as another command is forced through. “Stop Now.” 

Everything begins to hurt as you try to resist again, but it’s futile. Finally, with her knees to the grown and head hung, she stops. 

Things never went accordingly. From your failure in aiding your friend in being chosen all the way to the hell that was to come as being the “missing piece” in this kingdom’s royal bloodline. It’s a curse. She doesn’t know who she wronged in life to be given such circumstances, but they succeeded in making her life miserable and seemingly temporary.

This was never her wish. Her words were twisted from a mere joke. It just goes to show how a person should always be careful with what they put out into the world. She can hear the gods laughing at her.

“Surround the area, I’m approaching!” Not like I can move.

She knows she won’t be let off easily this time being caught. Feigning innocence isn’t possible in this situation when knowingly disobeying the commands of her lovers— the king and his seven princes. The very beings responsible for the well-being of the kingdom and its prosperity.

Beings that promised when they found their missing bond, would they cherish and take care of them wholeheartedly. They’d know nothing except leisure and comfort as they delivered on their word of giving them the love they deserved. Thinking back, is this what she deserved? Tension, anger, exhaustion, skittish, helplessness—all things you’ve felt since your life had been uprooted from its natural continuance of a humble life.

“What did I deserve?” She spoke to no one.

Death seems to be the only way out from here. Her humanity a reminder that she still has something against them—something she can proudly claim. A way out. Maybe she should’ve been one of the many men and women throwing themselves at them. It looks like they got the better end of the stick with just dealing with rejection rather than this. Leaning against the trunk of a tree, she brings her knees to her chest slowly so as to not disturb her injury and rests her forehead atop her knees. The rain still pelting around her seemed to mask the approaching footsteps, or maybe she just didn’t care anymore. There’s no time to decide which one it is when said figure crouches beside her and places a hand on her shoulder.

“Did you finish your little adventure?”

Yeosang. It wasn’t said aloud, either to let the others into the conversation through their connection or because he knew she wouldn’t reply verbally. She didn’t care.

Met by silence, Yeosang sighs before repositioning himself to lift up his prize as the fragile princess he believes she is. The trek back wouldn’t take too long for him even with her in his arms.

“As much as we love you, you know the others will not let this go so easily,” he said out loud knowing it didn’t matter if there was a reply. Effective enough, the threat alone made her shiver because she knew what was waiting for her back in the castle would be the final descent into madness they’d want. Full compliance.

Their heaven, her soon to be hell.