#look i don’t get it either i don’t get why horror and gore is something that’s made to be compatible with children audiences | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

beenbaanbuun · 7 days

Text

blood w/ poly!ateez

so i feel so sane about this… definitely no evil thoughts filling up my brain right now. none whatsoever :)

i want to write so much more about this universe and i’m literally sending the biggest kiss ever to @ateez-main-yapper to requesting this because i will be thinking about this for the rest of my life!

words - idk

genre - smut, horror (there’s a bit of gore i guess)

warnings - vampire!ateez, mafia!ateez, human!reader, smuggler!reader, blood, scarification, collars, ownership, blood, surgery mentions, nicknames (little mouse, princess, sweetheart), dancer!yeosang, security guard!mingi, ripper!doctor!yunho, mommy!seonghwa (don’t look at me like that, i had to), hand kink (mentioned), no actual sex but it’s talked about a lot, hair pulling, i think that’s all??

——————————————————————————

the scent of stale blood haunts the hallway you find yourself walking down, clinging to the back of your throat until yourself gagging on it. no matter how many times you find yourself down here, it never gets any easier to cope with; even a slaughterhouse would be more pleasant than this.

it begs the question why you’re back. by now, you’ve bled them of enough money to never have to work again, so it’s certainly not the pay. the job itself is harder than most, and not at all rewarding when you have to lie and cheat your way into success. there’s no doubt that the stress of hiding a smuggling operation behind the guise of a blood donation clinic has taken a good 20 years of your life from you. you can guarantee that job satisfaction isn’t what’s keeping you here either.

it’s only when you turn a corner and your eyes land upon them that you remember exactly why you’re still so willing to walk these halls. it isn’t something keeping you here but rather someone; multiple someones, in fact.

“mingi!” your footsteps quicken as you get closer the security guard that stands waiting outside of a heavy metal door. despite the fact that you’ve been on the other side of it multiple times, it still sends a shiver of curiosity down your spine. it’s not an anxious curiosity as it was when you first landed yourself in this position, but more of a morbid one. you know the horrors that lie behind it, you’ve experienced a few of them too, yet you still yearn to see more. “long time no see,” you offer a polite smile once you’re close enough to lower your volume from a shout, “san told me hongjoong had assigned you to pest control. is it not going well?”

mingi gives you a slow blink, his jaw set in stone and his eyes steely as he stares you down. he’s always looked far more intimidating than he actually is, although you suppose it serves to his benefit when his main job it scaring away anyone who might wish to disturb the peace. you’re only grateful to have had the chance to see behind the mask he wears; to watch his eyes melt and his lips part in the wonky grin he gets so little time to wear.

“you’ve not seen me in months and the first thing you ask me is about my demotion back to security?” he quirks a brow at you and you have to bite back your grin. in truth, you’d heard all about it from seonghwa over the past few weeks, your main contact within the clan more than happy to share life details with you as though you’re a lifelong friend rather than a mere employee. their favourite employee, sure, but still at the bottom of the pecking order.

“i just wanted to know more,” you lift your arms in defence, not missing the way his eyes flicker to the bandage on your left forearm, “like you said, it’s been a while.”

mingi hums in agreement as he examines the clean cloth. a long finger reaches out to trace the spot where the fabric meets your skin, the touch lingering and soft. it’s more the real mingi than it is the security guard mingi; it warms your heart to see.

“when did this happen?” he whispers, voice barely above a whisper.

“about two weeks ago,” you i pull your wrist back, letting mingi’s hand drop back down to his side, “hongjoong wanted to approach me about it, but i didn’t take much convincing,” actually, it was you who approached him but for some reason that’s much harder to admit, “you guys are much… kinder to me than the other clans i supply, well, supplied to. it was a no brainer to ditch them when given the chance.”

“so you’re ours?” he asks, voice dipping a little too low for the question to be purely innocent.

“i’m mine,” you confirm, “what i supply, however, is all yours.”

there’s a smirk on his lips, not as easily defeated by your sense of self worth as you’d like him to be. he knows as well as the rest of them what the mark on your arm means, after all. he knows as well as you do that there’s no getting away from them now. the moment yunho took his sweet, sadistic time carving their mark into your body it wasn’t just your business that belonged to them.

“sure you are, little mouse,” he whispers as he leans in close, his icy breath fluttering against your face. your stomach drops but you choose to ignore it. this was your decision, after all, “now, scurry along; you wouldn’t want to keep anyone waiting, would you?”

with the flip of a switch, the metal door clicks open and your immediately met with a blast of cool air and a wall of sound. you’ll never understand the clan’s need for these constant frivolities, especially when you’re on the other side of this getting your hands dirty, but you suppose it is a good way to hide their more secretive operations. no one is going to notice the door in the corner when there’s so much going on out here, right? it’s an extra layer of security, and a darn good one at that.

when you step inside, the door clicks shut behind you and you immediately get to scanning the crowd of partygoers for a familiar face. amongst the hoard of vampires, they’re harder to spot, their ashy skin and red eyes sticking out a lot less than they would next to a human. instead you look for a familiar hair colour, recalling the angry text you got from seonghwa about the den’s main bathroom turning pink with hongjoong’s hairdye. nothing sticks out at you, though, and so you’re back at square one.

your arms stretch out before you as you go to push through the crowd. it’s moments like this that you’re glad for the metal, almost collar-like band around your neck. yeosang had created it as a way to keep your pulse hidden from any less-well-meaning vampires. he’d insisted that the tag dangling from it with the clan’s emblem engraved was all hongjoong’s idea, but you recognise the same possessive glint in all of their eyes. it’s the same one yunho had given you when engraving that very emblem into your body, and the same one san had given to you when wrapping your bleeding arm up in a fluffy white bandage. yeosang is just like the rest of them, even behind his sweet exterior.

but right now he isn’t crafting some marvel of engineering out of metal scraps and a dream, but instead on the stage at the front of the room. it’s not often he’s up there instead of one of the others, but as you watch him elegantly dangle from a hoop that hangs from the ceiling, you find it hard to see why. he’s utterly ethereal, like a butterfly about to emerge from a chrysalis; one of those blue ones with the wings that seemed designed to capture your attention with their beauty. you’re entranced, much more so than the rest of the party-goers who seem to have grown blind to the creature moving elegantly before them.

his body moves not at all like a butterfly though, instead flowing smoothly like a viper along the branch of a tree. he extends his arms in such a way you’ve never seen before, silken and smooth as he reaches out to his audience. it pulls you in further, your feet shuffling as you push through the final layer of people to get to the stage. you stumble forwards, catching yourself on the edge of the raised platform. if he notices you there, he doesn’t show it; the stoic expression he wears remains steady as he gracefully shifts his body into yet another position.

you watch him like that until the end of his performance, unblinking with your lips parted in awe. even the way he tumbles to the floor and bows to an uninterested audience holds so much more grace than you think you will ever possess. to think that this is the man that spends half of his time smeared in motor oil with a puppy-like grin on his lips is strange, yet it feels so right.

“hello, little mouse,” he echoes the familiar nickname as he makes his way to the front of the stage, crouching down in front of you and running an all-too-confident finger along your jawline to your chin. he snaps your mouth shut in a way that is so far from the yeosang you know that part of you believes this must be his much cockier twin. “hongjoong is out tonight; some trouble on south side caught his attention so he wanted to clean up the mess before the police got there.”

“i’m meeting with seonghwa then?” you murmur, too starstruck for your mouth the form words properly.

yeosang shakes his head.

“seonghwa and san went with him,” the finger from your chin shifts down to the piece of jewellery that fits snug around your neck. his touch catches against the tag, the jingling sound reminding you of a bell on a cats collar. you try to ignore the smirk that rises to his face as sees you make the connection, instead shifting your gaze to the pendant around his neck that shares the same symbol. “yunho is busy with whatever sick shit gets him off, me and mingi are working which means…”

fuck.

“jongho and wooyoung.”

“clever mouse,” yeosang’s tone is venomous, despite his words being soft. clearly performing does something to his ego; inflates it until every sign of the sweet mechanic is hidden behind a thick shroud of confidence. it’s deliciously cruel, mirroring the sick sadism of yunho or the vast overconfidence of mingi, and holy fuck do you want a taste. perhaps later, once business is over.

if business is over.

“i wouldn’t worry too much about those two, though,” he continues, tugging on the tag of your collar—because despite your pride, even you have to admit that there’s no other way to describe it—until you’re face is merely inches from his own, “hongjoong promised yunho their balls if they can’t learn to control them. maybe you’ll finally be able to have a meeting with them before getting your pussy stuffed, hm?”

you feel yourself getting warmer, your face flushing as yeosang so blatantly talks about your track record with the pair of resident trouble makers. it’s not like you’ve let slip about all the times jongho’s had you sitting on his cock with your mouth wrapped around wooyoung’s the second you step into their office which means that they must have instead. it makes you wonder what they talk about whenever you’re not here, and how much each of them know about your less than professional escapades with each of them. it’s a troubling thought, and yet it’s still manages to light a fire deep in your belly.

“see you later, yeosang,” is the only thing you can mumble in response as you pull away from his touch, the tag of the collar bumping gently against your neck as it slips free of his fingers.

——————-

“you told the others about fucking me?” you scoff as you barge your way into the office where the two youngest vampires await your arrival. it’s nice to see them here already, since they usually arrive far later than the agreed upon time. although, you suppose with the delays of mingi and yeosang, you’re also late on this occasion. you let the passive-aggressive comment about time keeping slide, knowing it won’t help you right now.

“hello to you too, mousy,” wooyoung hums from where he lays on the green sofa in the corner of the room, “it’s nice to see you again! we’re doing wonderfully, by the way; thanks for a—”

you let the door slam behind you as you storm your way towards him, completely ignoring the curious gaze of jongho.

“cut the shit, wooyoung,” you grab hold of his shirt collar and lean in close. it’s supposed to be intimidating but the wide grin on his lips lets you know otherwise. “you’ve all been talking about me when i’m not here? what the fuck, man!”

wooyoung chuckles in your face, his dangerous fangs glinting beneath the overhead lights. you know he’d never bite without your permission—people have been killed by hongjoong for much less—but it still sends a shiver through you whenever you see them.

“you’re not exactly discrete yourself, princess,” the office chair creaks as jongho stands, making his way around his desk and towards you. although you keep your gaze firmly on the little rat who still sits giggling to himself, you can’t help but be hyper aware of the presence behind you. a large hand traces its way up your spine, not stopping until you feel his fingers lace themselves with your locks and tug. your grip fall limply from wooyoung’s shirt as you’re hauled back into the soft muscle of jongho’s chest, your neck craned awkwardly over his shoulder to keep you in place. “what do you want us to say when san is asking about who’s cum he’s eaten from your pussy? do you want us to lie to them?”

you squirm, wincing when his grip on your hair doesn’t loosen despite your attempts to break free. they call you little mouse and right now, you really do feel the part—you walked right into a trap of which there’s no way out.

“maybe i should let you fuck me again just so i can watch when yunho rips your fucking balls off your body!” you grunt through gritted teeth.

jongho hums in amusement, “it was hyperbole, sweetheart,” a pair of cold lips meet the hot skin of your cheek for just a second before pulling away, the softness a stark contrast to the harsh grip he still has you in, “he doesn’t care how much we fuck you as long as we get the job done. after all, he’d be a hypocrite to complain about us fucking you when his dick is inside of you twice as often, hm?”

you watch with cautious eyes as wooyoung stands from his place on the sofa, grinning as wide as the cheshire cat. it reeks of danger, yet you’ve never been the type to give into that sort of thing. you’re a human working for a bunch of vampires; danger is just a regular part of your life at this point.

“besides, mousy,” the cheshire cat purrs, “you think we’re the only ones who talk? you don’t think we know just how much you love calling seonghwa mommy when you ride him? or how much you love it when yeosang spits in your mouth whenever he’s fucking you dumb?” wooyoung brings a hand to your cheek, dusting over your bottom lip with his thumb, “you’re ours, little mouse; we can talk if we want.”

#ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez oneshot #ateez fluff #ateez scenarios #ateez fic #ateez smut

187 notes · View notes

faeriekit · 1 year

Text

Health and Hybrids (XIV)👽👻💚

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

PART ONE is here PART TWOis here PART THREE is here PART FOUR is here and PART FIVE is here PART SIX is here and PART SEVEN is here PART EIGHT is here PART NINE is here PART TEN is here PART ELEVEN is here PART TWELVE is here PART THIRTEEN is here and this is part fourteen! Yes I messed it up this morning yes I had to wait all day to correct it it's all goooood

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts

Where we last left off... Bart is a good egg who is having a Bad Time waiting for his friend :(

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

💚👻👽👻💚

Danny wakes up with a gasp.

He’s—where is he? Everything hurts. He can barely think. Danny groans, long and loud, and lifts up an aching hand to his temple.

His fingers come away green. Aw, fuck. What happened to him? What’s going on? Why is his hand…blurry? Is he concussed? Is something wrong with his eyes, or with his head??

(He hopes it’s not his head. It’s waaay easier to heal from one than the other.)

Danny tries to sit up, and— NOPE. Ow. Bad idea. Suuuuuch a bad idea. His arms and hands and his neck and his back are screaming at him, now that he’s awake enough to pay attention. Ughhhhhhhhhhh.

He lays back down. His eyes don’t—well, they don’t shut all the way, which part of his brain labels as very bad, actually, but the world does turn darker and greener as he tries to shut his eyes, and that’s close enough to closing his eyes that Danny can mostly zone out past the pain.

He licks his sore lips. They taste like copper. And battery acid. …And Pixie Sticks.

Ugh, ecto-blood. His own, he assumes.

Everything is blurry and everything kind of hurts and he doesn’t know how he got here or what’s going on. Danny tries to roll over, tries to get more comfortable, but something starts dragging on the inside of his arm, which means intravenous lines.

Ugggghhhh. He hopes it’s got pain meds at least.

Awake him can deal with this later. Danny zones out, his labored breathing evens.

He’s asleep before he knows it.

Danny wakes up next to quiet murmuring, and to weird sensation of something moving in his arm.

He yawns—and his jaw cracks apart farther than usual, with more clicking noises than his jaw usually makes. Weird. His arms come up, his eyes unblur…

The tugging sensation doesn’t go away. Danny sniffs blearily. Blinks.

Two white-coated humans(…?) in PPE pause at his bedside, a half-dissembled IV shared between them.

Danny stops breathing. He can’t—is he—

His eyes go to the ceiling. The floor. He doesn’t recognize the room he’s in. He doesn’t understand. Is this the Guys in White again? Is he— Did he never leave? Is he trapped? Danny doesn’t—he can’t—

—One of the white coats starts making worried noises, which. Danny’s never heard that before. It’s usually threats. They raise both their arms, and Danny flinches back—

…And so do they. Huh. Hm. Are the Guys hiring scaredy cats now? That would be a change of pace, if they were as scared of Danny as Danny is of them.

The second person clicks the new IV bag into place. Danny stops focusing on number one and starts focusing on number two.

They don’t make any overt tells either. The IV line is already in him, and the bag is… Well. It’s not red and Danny’s not in any pain, and it’s not green either. It’s just. Kinda opaque? Milky? The person doesn’t start cackling evilly or telling Danny how screwed he is, either. They both just sort of…tidy up?

The first one doesn’t get closer, either, but Danny can mostly tell that they’re scanning him visually. Their attention goes from his face, to Danny’s visible arm, to the puncture point in his elbow for the IV needle.

Danny also eyes his IV point. Well. It looks like a needle. Doesn’t hurt all that much.

Someone says something he doesn’t catch. But the tone isn’t…mean, or anything. If anything, it sounds quiet, and low, like they’re trying to keep him calm.

Danny doesn’t understand.

He moves as far out of the way of them as possible. It only has the effect of a few inches and it's so painfully slow. If that. He— he remembers. He’s supposed to be scared of— something. No, he knows it—

The labs. He’s supposed to be scared of the labs. The smell is rank there and there’s always screaming and Danny had been hurt there; really, really hurt.

He’s still hurt. He’s still in a lab. In a room. In some sort of too-small prison, and now his barely-sewn together lungs are trying too hard to keep air in his body and it’s not working, and—

Danny barely pays attention when the first doctor leaves. He sees the other back into the door and reach for the phone line, and he can’t stop breathing and he can’t calm down because that means that they’re calling for help and they’re going to hurt him all over again. Tie him down. Cut him open. Shock him, until he can’t breathe without screaming—

Someone new comes in. They look— rushed. Danny can see her actively tying up long black hair, threading a mask up over her face, pulling on one of those paper shifts the doctors wear. The only difference is that she doesn’t put boot covers on.

She has big, bright boots that go all the way up her legs. With his green vision, they look kind of…greyish? (Maybe they’re pink..?)

Either way. They look…ridiculous. Danny doesn’t exactly forget to be scared, but also…what the fuck.

The woman sees that Danny can see her. She waves.

Danny presses back against his— cot. Bed.

That doesn’t stop her. She pulls latex gloves from out of the paper slip she’s wearing and snaps them on, revealing a thin layer of something shiny underneath her elastic-bound sleeves. Once that’s on, she does a visible body checkup of herself: boots, gown, gloves, mask, hair.

…No hair net, though. Or goggles. The Docs in White always wanted to be fully covered when they saw their victims. Being able to see her eyes is a lot…friendlier.

She figures herself out. Straightens. Gives a double thumbs up.

…Danny's eyes roam around. There’s no one nearby. There's only a wall behind him. Is she looking at…him? Is that directed to him?

She doesn’t move immediately— and once she’s in, the second doctor leaves the room entirely.

…The new person takes over. She goes from monitor to monitor, getting closer, but with none of the focus on Danny, per se. She reads his stats, verbalizes them out loud, which, doesn’t sound like…English? But enough to confuse him? It’s kind of like trying to discern Esperanto when he's not thinking about how it's not English.

Ancients. The pounding in his head is getting worse. Maybe Danny has a concussion or something.

The woman doesn’t…get. Him. In fact, he seems to be the least interesting thing in the room to her. Her time is spent on reading the charts and the machines waiting around him, putting something into a…fridge? A Cabinet? In the corner of his room? And otherwise, she leaves him alone.

Until. She does get up and look at him, and all of Danny tenses up painfully. He can’t move. Something’s holding down his legs, his body’s stiff, and all of him is so tired that he genuinely can’t tell if his waist is tied down or if he’s just that exhausted.

He can hear his heart rate monitor kick up. He can’t move, not really. He tries to go intangible but his core just throbs with misery, and—

She mostly just pats his sheets. Not his person, even. Apparently the torture is being held off for now. “Eow eart wel?”

…Danny squints. That is almost English.

“Eom hebbjan yift,” she adds, leadingly, as if Danny is a friend she can tease and not a subject under threat of the knife. He doesn't like it. It hurts. Nothing is real and everyone hates him and all he wants to do is leave but his body is rejecting him and—

Something light and plastic thumps down onto the bed.

Danny blinks. He looks—down. (His neck makes him regret that.)

Is that a…is that a space shuttle? No, ‘cause Danny thinks he recognizes it. It’s Discovery? Isn’t it? That’s the one they just retired. He tries to grab it, but— ouch, oof, his fingers can’t even stretch, bad idea—

The woman gently guides the shuttle into his hand. It doesn’t even hurt. And.

It’s cold to the touch. The model is plastic, it shouldn’t be so cold, but the sensation is distinctly cool and kind of familiar.

…Oh. Danny struggles to flex his fingers around the thing.

It’s him.

Or. Well. The shuttle is his. It has his ectoplasm imbued all throughout it. He can even sort of feel the sensation of carefulplayingcareful he’d have felt while near it. The feeling is weak, and timid, but it’s still there.

So. Then. When did he get it? And…why? Why was it allowed to him? How did he get it?

Is this how they’re feeding him now? Instead of showering him with poorly filtered ectoplasm every time he gets rowdy, are they actually trying to feed his Obsession? For real?? That’s—that’s brand new behavior from the—

Danny blinks. Wait. That’s not it either. Because there’s an IV in him. So…they know he’s getting human food.

So. Uh.

Hm.

Danny doesn’t want to get his hopes up. But this…might not be the Guys in White.

Of course, they might not be better than the GIW either; it’s a total possibility that Danny’s getting suckered into some scheme where every gentle permission and soft voice is a debt he owes…some new reason to take…

His eyelids twitch as they try to shut. He’s so tired. Fear kept him mobile, but now…everything is so heavy.

The lady carefully shushes him, ever so gently. She pulls up his blanket for him. Pats it down.

Danny shivers. He’s so, so scared.

“Ræste þiht,” the woman whispers. The words sound fond. Danny’s so scared, but he’s so tired. His heart is beating so fast. “An freond becymþ hraðe.”

It’s reassuring.

Danny doesn’t want it to be.

He falls asleep the way the desperate do—clawing at the last traces of wakefulness, only to have his consciousness ripped from him.

#Diana: Hi friend! :) I'm glad you're awake!#Danny: *dialling 911 and failing* HELLO???? POLICE?? ANYONE?? HELP???#HE'S UP AND HE'S PEOPLE!#also shoutout to everyone who thought Danny was too concussed for English. Nope! This is a Fundamentally Different English y'all.#health and hybrids #dp x dc #dpxdc #dcxdp #danny phantom #tw gore #tw medical #tw body horror #dcu crossover

292 notes · View notes

staycalmandhugaclone · 12 days

Text

Fool's Errand Pt 7

Part (7) of Fool's Errand, the next arc of Doc's Misadventures! If you're new, start at the beginning with Touch Starved!

Gonna call this the halfway point, maybe

Warnings: impatience toward a child (kinda? I mean, yuh know... Crosshair), guilt, medical procedure/ gore, fantasy profanity (that warning always makes me giggle), sexual innuendo ish, gonna also add romantic tension because it's not really sexual tension, self-depreciating thoughts, body horror

WC: 3,755

“That's my arm… leg… That's still my arm…” There was a faint growl in the sigh that followed as the child continued pestering the irritated sniper, and my lips ached from how tightly I had to bite them to hold back my grin.

Wrecker offered none of my self-restraint, expression softened beneath a deep warmth, though there was no hiding the underlying sorrow in his gaze.

“How's the leg?” I asked quietly, attention focused on checking Hunter's chest tube and vitals before moving to look over Tech as well. He gave an almost bored shrug.

“Hurts a bit, but not like before.” He didn't take his eyes off the pair across from him as he spoke.

“When we reach the Marauder, I’ll give you something to relax, then we'll see if Cross and I can get it back in.” I told him gently. He let out a quiet hum in response.

“Think she means your armor.” He called out, voice still strangely hushed. I glanced over my shoulder to see Crosshair shoot his brother an unamused glare, but, when the girl pointed to his forearm, he let out resigned huff.

“Vambrace." He said, word perfectly monotone, and the excited gasp that followed left him dropping his face heavily into his hand, instantly drawing a wide smile across my lips. Wrecker returned that smile only briefly before sinking back into a quiet shame.

“She'll warm up to you.” I promised, leaning over to bump my shoulder against his, but he merely replied with a halfhearted nod.

The girl still hadn’t said a word, soundlessly communicating with a nod or a frown, though her expressions were so vibrant, we needed little assistance in understanding her. Meanwhile, Hunter and Tech remained unconscious. Though both were stable, the longer Tech’s arm remained in that tourniquet, the greater the risk of it causing damage to the limb.

“N- Those aren’t toys.” Cross nearly snapped, only belatedly forcing his voice into a tense murmur. I looked back to see the girl still tugging at one of the reflector disks at his waist, undeterred. He let out a poorly stifled growl before snatching at one of the disks and tossing it to her, earning a beaming grin.

“Why don’t yuh sit down? We’re still a few minutes away, an’ yuh look beat.” Wrecker asked softly. An excuse danced readily over my tongue, but, as I turned to face him, as I noted the gentle concern in his bright eyes, that excuse faded before ever being granted voice. And he was far from wrong. I felt the way my shoulders sagged despite some lingering attempt to fight back that oppressive exhaustion, the weariness of muscles long since pleading for respite, and I couldn’t help but let out a quiet sigh.

“Maybe you’re right.” I murmured quietly. “Just for a bit.” He offered a small grin as I settled into the seat beside him, gaze wandering over Crosshair once more with an air of amusement at his resigned glare while the girl practically sat in his lap as she leaned over to tap his bandoleer.

The medbay of the Marauder was never meant for this; it was meant to offer only a liminal reprieve while en route to a proper medical center, more akin to a transport than a place of actual healing, but this was war, and what was once the bare minimum quickly became fantastical ideals in the face of necessity. There was no surgical suite. There was no hope for sterility nor endless supply of equipment, but none of that changed the reality of what was before me; Tech would either bleed out or lose his arm if I couldn’t locate and fix the vessels that had been severed in the crash.

He lay unconscious atop my bed; the same bed in which he’d spent nearly a week suffering beneath the horrors of withdrawal from those wretched fungal spores; the same bed that had seen each of the brothers relax upon as I eased their aches with leisurely massages; the same bed Crosshair and I had slept together in nearly every night since the loss of my brother.

It felt like I’d barely slept a few minutes when Wrecker woke me. A quick glance at my chrono confirmed exactly that, but we’d reached the Marauder, and there simply wasn't time for anything more. I rubbed weary hands over my eyes, forcing back the nausea that so often followed in the wake of a far too short rest, and pretended not to notice how closely Crosshair was watching me.

With his help, we'd gotten Wrecker on board first, then Hunter. The movement had woken him, and we’d barely made it up the ramp before he shrugged us off. I’d nearly objected, nearly thrown the words “chest-tube" and “collapsed lung" at him through snarled lips, and demanded he let us help, but the handful of steps weren't worth the fight, and, at the moment, Tech was in far greater danger.

“What do you need?” Crosshair asked, shoulders drawn back, eyes hard as he studied the pale form of his brother between us. I’d almost taken a moment to find something for him to do, some way for him to help, but I didn’t have time to walk him through how to help, nor did I have the energy.

“I’ve got him.” I promised quietly, already guiding a pair of shears around Tech’s shoulder to cut away the sleeve. “You should talk to the girl – no, I mean actually talk to her.” It wasn’t scolding, but, from the disdain that twisted his face, it might as well have been. “She may know something,” I pressed, “and, right now, she seems to like you the most.” His shoulders sank, eyes narrowing into a weak glare, but he knew I was right.

“I'm not a damn babysitter.” I had to fight back a smirk at the indignation in his voice, stealing a quick breath to quiet myself before responding.

“So, interrogate her. Nicely.” His glare deepened, but I merely rolled my eyes.

“I don't do nice.” He hissed, drawing a sigh from me. Movements unrushed by impatience or annoyance, I set down the sheers and walked around the bed toward him, lips barely hinting at a warm smile.

“I think we both know that's not true.” I murmured softly. He started to object, scowl just beginning to twist his face, but the heat behind it faded as I reached for him, hand moving up to brush lightly over his chest before caressing his jaw, his cheek, fingers subtly pulling him down. “You can be very sweet.” That harshness abandoned him as he let himself be drawn toward me.

“Just because you get special treatment doesn't mean I've gone soft.” He tried to rebuke, lips even tensing with the beginnings of a frown, but, again, his retort fell into something far too gentle for the words he’d said, annoyance robbed by the sight of the grin toying with my lips.

“We’ll have to talk more about that ‘special treatment’ later,” I nearly teased, “but, right now, Echo needs to focus on monitoring troop movement, Hunter and Tech are both out, and she's…” I didn't want to say it, the words cloying up my throat, “she’s afraid of Wrecker… You're the only one she trusts enough to hopefully open up to.” With an almost growled sigh, he stood back to his full height, reluctantly pulling away from me as his jaw jut forward, narrowed gaze turning toward the door.

“Seems to trust you just find, too.” He pointed out. I released a slow breath, exhaustion unsatiated by those few minutes of rest stolen during the flight now making itself known once more through both weariness and the beginnings of an impatience I fought to stem.

“I can't take care of Tech and talk to her, Crosshair.” I tried not to let my voice fall into a grumble, but it was near enough to draw his attention back to me, shoulders sinking slightly at what he saw, and my jaw tensed as I caved beneath the urge to look away.

“Alright.” The way the innate rasp in his voice quieted into a careful whisper sent a flutter of warmth through my chest, the heat of it both comforting and crippling as it stripped me of the meager strength granted by an impatience I was simply too tired to fully hide, and what stillness followed as my eyes rose to find him studying me with a concern that nearly brought a flush to my cheeks was a far too gentle thing amidst the knowledge of what grizzly tasks still awaited me.

I replied only with a grateful nod, lips tensing with a smile I couldn't quite manage before turning back to Tech. Crosshair didn't move at first, and I wondered what thoughts held him for those handful of seconds. Was he searching for some final excuse that might convince me to withdraw my request and free him of his dreaded task? Or was he waiting for me to falter, unconvinced by the determination I forced back into my eyes as I returned to his brother’s side?

Regardless if his hesitation was from doubt or concern or reluctance, he waited only a moment before finally leaving, granting me an isolation that offered just as much strife as it did comfort, absolving me of the need to maintain some façade that I might pretend I wasn’t fighting how heavily my shoulders sagged the instant the door slid shut even as it emphasized just how alone I was in this. After doing what I could for Tech, I'd need to check Hunter again before moving on to Wrecker. There was no luxury of a break, no hope for reprieve lest I risk sacrificing the well-being and safety of my men. So, I allowed myself to waste no more time, gaze traveling over the deep gash marring Tech's upper arm.

We like to feign knowledge even where nothing can be guaranteed. The human body exists in a constant state of change, and even aspects held as fact cannot be relied upon in the face of independent cases. Anatomy is based on averages which, at best, grant perfunctory guidance and, at worst, acts only as a distraction. Even clones proved far more unique than the Kaminoans liked to believe. Genetics may offer a foundation, but who and what we become develop independent of, and occasionally in spite of, that primordial code, from the moral of our character to how our actions alter the physicality of muscle and bone through years of hardship and abuse. Anatomy claims knowledge of where veins and arteries nestle beneath skin and tissue, but immaculate diagrams and ancient names meant nothing amidst the gore of shredded flesh and thickening blood.

It felt like hours passed in the span of a single, endlessly held breath as I carefully sought out severed vessels, each one needing meticulous care to be knit back together around a shunt and flushed of all threat of clots. Repairing the muscle was easier, and I was relieved to find no severed tendons. Still, the moment I finally released the tourniquet, my heart raced faster with each passing second, eyes glued to the monitors for any signs of distress. Did I miss something? Had I taken too long? Symptoms of compartment syndrome, limb ischemia, embolisms, stroke, and endless other complications roared through my head. If anything happened, if he was hurt even worse because I wasn’t careful enough or quick enough, there was no one to blame but me… But his heartbeat remained steady… There was no sudden change in protein levels in his blood… Still, I couldn't let myself breathe… not yet… I set what equipment I had to monitor him for any change, but... he seemed okay.

I watched him for a long moment, as though my very presence might delay or prevent complications, locked in that fear that something would go wrong the instant I so much as blinked, before forcing myself to walk away. There was more that needed to be done.

Strides heavy, I trudged through the door, absently working a wet cloth between my hands. Logically, I knew the latex gloves worked as intended, that my skin was untainted from his blood just as his wound was safe from whatever bacteria thrived on my fingertips, but I could still feel it: thick and viscous and everywhere, the scent of which clung to me just as relentlessly as the nauseating texture.

“Doc?”

My eyes darted up to find Wrecker watching me carefully, concern heavy atop his brow as his jaw hung open with an unspoken question, body frozen where he stood in the kitchenette, hand still outstretched toward a cabinet.

“Wrecker, what are you doing up?” I asked quickly, already trotting forward.

“Uh, just… figured I’d get the kid somethin’ to eat.” He answered absently, thoughts clearly elsewhere. “Tech…” He started, and I realized why he seemed so distracted, chest bucking with a sharp inhale to answer him quickly.

“Recovering.” He let out a small sigh at my quiet reassurance. “There was a lot of damage, but it looks like I was able to repair it in time to keep the tourniquet from causing even more problems.” He was just about to reply, lips pulled into a relieved grin, but I interrupted him, words just shy of biting. “Speaking of ‘causing even more damage'…” There was a brief moment in which he seemed honestly confused. It took a mere flick of my eyes toward his knee, however, for a light blush and nervous smile to wash over him.

“Ah, well… with you being so busy, and we can all tell yuh need a break, Cross an’ Echo helped to just…” He motioned innocently toward the leg as he lifted it, bending the limb a few times as if to prove it was fine, but his hope for forgiveness crumbled amidst the darkness I could feel stealing over my expression. I knew they hadn't used muscle relaxers – I didn't keep any in my pack and no one had tried to sneak into the medbay while I tended Tech.

“Sit.” I ordered firmly, pointing to the small table. He hesitated, but held back whatever excuse or objection bated across his tongue as he sulked to the nearest chair. Without another word, I marched back into the hall, boots clicking loudly against the metal walkway as though to emphasize my annoyance.

The bunks were empty, as was the cabin when I entered it. Upon leaning down to grab my pack, however, footsteps sounded from the fore of the ship. I paused as Crosshair approached, not trying to hide the lingering annoyance from my gaze. He hesitated, confusion drawing his brows together.

“What?” The defensive snarl in his voice only furthered my irritation.

“I'll deal with you and Echo later.” I stated firmly. His expression pinched with indignation, but I didn't grant him time to form a retort before starting back toward mess, unable to deny the slight taste of pleasure at the note of apprehension that stilled any urge he may have had to follow with a sharp-tongued quip.

Wrecker hadn’t moved from the chair, hands thoughtlessly picking at his glove as he waited for me to return. His eyes snapped toward me as soon as the door opened. Whatever annoyance or anger I’d had abandoned me at the almost pitiful look on his face, tension fleeing me with a slow sigh.

“Didn’t mean to make yuh mad…” he muttered, teeth working over the inside of his cheek, and I had to fight the guilt that twisted through my chest.

“I’m not mad.” I whispered, walking quietly toward him. “I just… thought we were past this…” His head tilted slightly, looking at me with an uncertainty that further stoked my guilt. “This… dealing with things without me… Not letting me help you.” His eyes widened in understanding, back straightening as he drew a quick breath to respond, but I didn’t give him the chance.

“I know you’re strong.” He quickly stilled beneath the gentleness of my voice, the faintest hint of a blush just coloring his neck. “You’ve had to be – you and your brothers… You couldn’t rely on anyone else, so you had to figure out a way to survive alone – to make do…” As I spoke, I gently unwrapped the brace from his knee and held the scanner steadily over the still swollen joint, gaze studying the small screen. “And I know that you’ve taken on a lot more of that burden than anyone gives you credit for.” His shoulders sank slightly, gaze falling to the ground though he offered no objection.

“You calm them down when things get too heated… get them to laugh when everyone’s too angry or sad or tired to realize that that’s exactly what they need… what we need.” I corrected, acknowledging how often he’d done just that for me, as well. He remained silent, but I could feel his attention shift back to me as I began carefully working my hands over the wealth of muscle that tapered at the end of his thigh, touch flowing around areas the scan revealed to be damaged that I might ease some of the swelling before redressing it.

“I know it hurt.” I continued softly, a deep sympathy quieting my voice even further. “Reducing a dislocation… It feels a lot better afterwards, but…” Again, his lack of even a dismissive grunt only confirmed my statement. “And you… all that muscle…” I let my fingers spread over the dense cords stretching down his thigh, “It doesn’t matter how hard you try, with an injury like that, you can’t relax them. It’s an autonomic response, that’s why we use medication to help make them relax.” I glanced up at him to let him see the concern in my eyes as my hands returned to that careful, rhythmic ebb and flow along the abused tissue.

“I know you’re strong… probably barely even grunted when they did it… but forcing it like that, it can tear ligaments and tendons, and rip all that muscle that’s locked up trying to guard the joint… then it takes even longer to heal, and, even then, it usually doesn’t heal as well as it could have.” His jaw shifted absently to the side, teeth grinding in a mixture of guilt and resignation, rekindling my own guilt.

“I’m sorry.” I barely whispered it, hands coming to a stop atop the broad curve of his calf. A fresh confusion pulled at his handsome face, mismatched eyes studying me with a focus that was somehow just as quieting as it was penetrating.

To anyone else, seeing him like that, expression pinched with powerful brows drawn together and that broad jaw tensed enough to emphasize the cords of muscle lining his cheeks, he may have looked frightening. I knew others would have found him frightening… but I also knew what drove the intensity of his gaze; the desperate need to truly understand those around him; to read them before he might do or say something that would offend or scare absent need or intent. That’s why he was so gentle; so adept at buffering the fiery tempers of his brothers or, if the mood struck him, stoking the tempers of any unfortunate enough to garner his ire. Now, however, he stared at me like that neither to soothe nor harass. He studied me because those words didn’t make sense amidst the blame he believed himself responsible for, and he needed to understand before he could make it right. But I didn’t want him to feel that way. I only wanted him to be okay.

“I should have been faster.” I didn’t stop at the flash of realization that came over him, nor from the almost pained remorse that followed. “Leaving you with a dislocated knee for… hours – kriff… I really can’t blame you for wanting them to fix it any way they could.”

“Doc-” He called, shoulders sinking, but again fell silent as I looked up at him with a weary, apologetic smile.

“But next time,” I pressed, sowing something of a command back into my voice, “at least check with me first… Alright?” He was quiet for a moment longer before nodding, but the words that followed made my stomach sink.

“I mean… not like popping a knee back in is more important than saving Tech’s arm, so…” He said it was such offhanded disregard, body shifting in a dismissive shrug. When he looked at me, however, he froze, and I could only guess at the deep heartbreak surely painted across my face.

“You’re important.” I breathed the words into the too-great distance between us, pressing each one into existence with a desperate plea, begging him to believe me. “You’re important, Wrecker.” I said again, reaching up to cradle one of his hands between mine. It always surprised me; the sheer size of him. It was somehow so easy to forget amidst his vibrant, caring personality until moments like this when I could see how he dwarfed me, palm too wide for my fingers to fully wrap around.

That size also made it easy to imagine him as this invincible, impenetrable force, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I’d seen how deeply the girl’s fear had wounded him, how beaten he looked from the mere threat of my anger, and I hated myself for having caused him such hurt, for ever allowing him to think of himself as lesser than his brothers. Chest jerking with a sharp inhale, I pulled his hand toward me, lips pressing gently against his knuckles, and I mourned the cause of every scar marring that stunning, calloused skin.

“I never want you to think you’re not… not to me.” His hand shifted ever so slightly between mine, twisting as though he meant to reach for me, fingertip only just brushing against my chin before he pulled away, throat shifting stiffly as he swallowed whatever thoughts he’d robbed of any hope of being born. With a final, jerked nod, he leaned back, and the room felt that much colder without the heat of his touch, but I merely drew a deep, steadying breath and let my attention return to his knee, already reaching for a tube of bacta.

“All right. You going to drop your pants, or do I need to cut them off of you?”

Click here or message me if you'd like to be added to a taglist!

Click here for my Masterlist.

Taglist: @arctrooper69 @eclec-tech @jennrosefx @echos-girlfriend @starqueensthings

@manofworm @merkitty49 @idoubleswearimawriter @abigfanofstarwars @chopper-base

@daftdarling222 @pb-jellybeans @bacta-the-future @rosechi @legalpadawan

@drummergirl1701 @6oceansofmoons @dangraccoon @ji5hine @dathomiri-mudpuppy

@mooncommlink @isthereanechoinhere96 @inneedoffanfics @totally-not-your-babe @delialeigh

@blondie-bluue @ray-rook @iabrokengirl @arcsimper5 @rndmpeep

@amorfista @wanderneverlost @flawsandgoodintent @passionofthesith @followthepurrgil

@roam-rs @foodmoneyandcats @savebytheodoresnonjosestuff @9902sgirl @captainrex89

@waytoooldforthis78 @msmeredithrose @mythical-illustrator @sleepycreativewriter @anythingandeveythingstarwars

@littlefeatherr @thegreatpipster @melonmochii @totallyunidentified @mickeyp03

@hipwell @echos_pile_of_bones @leotawrites @Asgre_Thar @fruityfucker

@babyscilence @skellymom @youreababboon @echo9821 @heidnspeak

@Callsign-Denmark

52 notes · View notes

gremlinmodetweeker · 1 month

Text

A Very Bad Movie Night

I'm sorry, but movie nights with our favourite Austrian giant are either nice and cuddly or downright terrifying, depending on who picks the movie.

It's not that his movies are bad, he's just into really extreme horror and always searching for the scariest movies he can. He's not just pure 'blood, guts, gore' either because he's really into psychological thrillers and cosmic horror. He just loves to get his heart beating in his chest. He loves the scariest he can get, and he's especially into found footage or atmospheric horror. Don't get me wrong, he's down for a good slasher or a gory film like Saw, but if he can get a movie like Blair Witch Project or As Above So Below? He's very happy.

He has seen all the Guinea Pig movies. He won't force you through them (thank God for that), but you gotta know that sometimes this guy watches some fucked up shit.

He's a man built for war. He'll be cute and give you back massages and make pastries for Disney movie nights, but just remember that this guy has seen the worst of humanity, and it shows.

Anyways, I know it's a dumb little fic, but I wrote a little example of you trying to get 'The Big Boy' tm to try and open up about his favourite movies.

TWs: Gore (not described in detail, but talked about) and scary movies

Story below the cut

A Very Bad Movie Night

The tv remote on the coffee table acted as an effective wall between you and König.

On one side, you sat with a bowl of popcorn and a blanket. On the other, König sat armed with a bag of chips and a bottle of pop. Between you, the tv remote sat, awaiting its ultimate fate.

“We watched your movie yesterday. It is my turn,” König leaned his elbows on his knees.

“You always want to watch the same movies,” you pointed out, “we’ve watched Blade Runner three times this month.”

“Was? Nein!” König snapped, “we only watch the same movies because you can’t handle my favorite movies!”

“Are you seriously trying to pull that card on me?” you scoffed.

“I’m not ‘pulling a card’, I’m telling the truth,” König sniffed.

You rolled your eyes. Every week, you had this argument, like clockwork. It was a never ending struggle between the two of you. König insisted you couldn’t handle his movies, you told him you would, he would poo-poo your suggestions, and then you’d be stuck rewatching some old movie he approved. That ended tonight. Tonight, you would pull on your big kid pants and show him what’s what.

“You know what, try me,” you sneered.

König looked at you as though you were an angry baby rabbit.

“I can handle it!” you insisted defiantly, “I can!”

“You are not very…” König tilted his head to the side, “brave.”

“I’m not what!?” you snapped.

König winced, then carefully took your hands in his, “You are not well equipped to handle horror.”

You looked at him for a good long moment. After a hearty pause, you broke up laughing.

“You’re saying I can’t handle horror?” you snickered, “that’s what you’re worried about here?”

“I am not worried,” König told you flatly, “I know.”

“But you don’t!” you complained, “you don’t know at all! I’m great with horror! It’s like, my favorite genre!”

Okay, the last part was a lie, but he didn’t have to know that.

“Then why do you always want to watch your Disney princess movies with me?” König glared at you like a displeased parent.

“Because they’re cute and I like being cute with you?” you told him like it couldn’t be more obvious. You thought it was, but he seemed to disagree.

“If you want cute, we can watch Unicorn Wars or something,” König offered.

“Isn’t that the one where teddy bears kill unicorns in war?” you asked carefully.

“Ja! That’s the one!” König cheered.

You grimaced and König rolled his cold blue eyes.

“See? See that right there. That’s why we don’t watch fun movies,” König threw his hands up in dismay.

“What no! We watch fun movies!” you argued, “didn’t you like Howl’s Moving Castle?”

König was about to snap back before hesitating. With a tired sigh, he slumped in his seat, “Yes, that was good, but that silly ice woman movie? I did not like that.”

“Frozen?”

“Ja.”

“You’re just dumb.”

Your eyes widened as König slowly raised his head to lock eyes with you. Even behind his black sniper’s hood, you could see the gears clicking together in his head as he stared you down.

“I’m dumb?” König chuckled darkly.

“Not dumb, just…” you gestured with your hands, “not that educated?”

König nodded, gesturing for you to keep going.

“I mean it’s not that you’re uneducated, you’re just not that knowledgeable? Wait wait wait hold on, stay with me for this one, I have a point I promise-No I really do don’t look at me like that!”

König raised a single bushy blond eyebrow.

“Listen to me!” you clapped with your words, “I’m just saying you’re not up to date with the times!”

König crossed his arms over his broad chest and leaned back into the pleather sofa.

“So you’re calling me old.”

“I’m not calling you old, I’m calling you out of touch!” you spat before immediately reconsidering your sentence.

König’s eyebrows raised as he let your words sink into the living room.

“No don’t look at me like that!” you spat as you desperately looked for a way out, “I’m… You know what? I’m standing by what I said. I’m right. You’re out of touch. You’re not even forty and you act like you’re ninety. You’re a grouchy old man.”

König nodded along as you spoke, amusement creasing in the corners of his eyes.

“Your back cracks when you touch your toes,” you could feel yourself digging your hole with a drilling rig, “and you keep saying you’re ‘too old for all this’ when you hear about your nephews’ talking about memes on Tiktok.”

“Tiktok is a mistake,” König grumbled under his breath.

“It’s a mistake, yeah, but you’re not making this any better for yourself,” you argued.

“I am only thirty-five,” König pointed out.

“Still getting up there,” you countered.

“So you think I’m old and out of touch, ja?” König laughs coldly, “and that’s why I don’t like your sweet pretty princess movies?”

“I think that’s a pretty significant factor, yeah,” you retorted.

“That is not why I dislike those movies.”

You snorted.

“Oh yeah?” you leaned in on your knees, “then what’s really stopping you from hopping on the Disney train?”

König sighed and rolled his eyes, “It’s not that I don’t like your Disney movies, it’s just that I prefer something… Grittier.”

“Like what?” you asked, intrigued.

“Like…” König closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded and looked at you with a menacing glare, “how about we watch a movie?”

-------

You buried your face further into König’s chest. The screams were too much for you to bear. This was König’s favorite kind of movie? What kind of man did you marry?

“This is a funny part,” König laughs, “she wakes up and her fiance’s head is sewn into her stomach.”

“You think that’s-” you spluttered before giving up, “this is awful.”

“This is fun!” König teased you light-heartedly as the woman screamed bloody murder.

“This is fucked up,” you grumbled and dug further into his side.

He laughed heartily at your response. Rubbing your side lovingly, he asked (over the screaming), “This is all fake! It’s not real!”

You groaned. You didn’t know if you were more frightened by the movie your boyfriend put on or the fact that this was the movie he put on after telling you ‘it’s one of the easier ones to get through’. On one hand, it was a fantastic true crime mockumentary, on the other, you were going to have nightmares about this for weeks.

König hadn’t pulled any punches, or so you thought. You’d realized pretty quickly that if this was what König considered ‘light’, then you had a whole lot of work to getting used to this. As much as the movie horrified you, the story was terribly compelling.

“I just hope they catch the guy,” you were practically behind König at this point.

“Nein, this movie is not so nice,” König chuckled, “but I understand your feelings.”

“Wait they don’t even catch the guy?” you balked.

“Nein! Don’t you remember the beginning?” König scratched your hair affectionately.

“Wait…” you trail off as you realize he’s right. God, this movie just kept getting more and more fucked up.

“It’s alright,” König pressed a kiss against your shoulder, the closest thing he could reach with your head being burrowed into the sofa behind him.

You grumbled, but the movie played on.

By the end of the movie, you’d decided that König was now your favorite sociopath. You wouldn’t stop loving him, but how this was a good movie to him defied any and all logic. Well, the camera work was good, and the story was well-written, and the acting was impressive, and-NO. No this movie was awful. There was no way you were letting König win this time.

König crawled off the sofa, freeing you from the ending credits of The Poughkeepsie Tapes once and for all. When he turned and saw your terrified form, he barked another laugh before sauntering over and ruffling your hair.

“My little liebling,” König picked you up into his arms, “was that too much for you?”

You huffed and turned away with a pout, drawing a deep belly laugh out of your pet sociopa-sorry, boyfriend. He apologetically pressed a kiss against your cheek and carried you to the bedroom.

“Does my little liebling need me to keep the lamp on tonight?” he laughed as he tucked you into your side of the bed.

“No,” you scoffed petulantly.

“Then you should be fine when I..” he flipped off the lights, “do this.”

Immediately you scrambled to turn the lamp on the bedside table on.

König mercifully tugged on the light, casting a soft warm glow over the bedroom.

You glared at him, but thankfully he didn’t tease you any further.

Over the course of the night, you woke up several times, but thankfully, König held you close, lulling you back to sleep with his soft snoring and warm arms around you. When the morning came, you’d need to figure out some sort of revenge, but that was in the morning. You had all night to stew.

PS. The Poughkeepsie Tapes is a very intense gory movie about a man kidnapping and killing people, told through detectives documenting the data and uncovering the tapes the killer makes. It's very good, but also, very scary. I would watch at your own risk! Make sure to check the warnings on that movie on https://www.doesthedogdie.com/ which is a great website to check for trigger warnings in a movie you want to watch.

Story Masterlist

67 notes · View notes

astroboots · 2 years

Text

RED FLAGS ║ PART 12

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector (x hints of Jake Lockley)

Summary: You get more than you bargained for when you follow Marc out into the night. Or alternatively: 🎵 Fighting evil by moonlight. Winning love by daylight 🎵

Content: Cthulu horror, violence, blood and gore, angst, yikes overall.

Word Count: 6.2k words

Series Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[PREVIOUS] - [NEXT]

You’re not thinking straight.

Somehow you’re already at the end of the hallway, pushing the button for the lift and having a staring contest with the red floor indicator, and you don’t even know if you managed to lock up behind you.

The lift is stuck at the ground floor, apparently unwilling to do the one bloody thing a lift is supposed to do and lift itself. You can’t be bothered to wait. Before you even properly register making a decision, you’re already down the five flights of stairs, out the building's front door and onto the street, cheeks stinging from the bone-chilling cold.

Usually, the residual heat from the bustle of city life coupled with fumes from the busy traffic will keep London warm enough even in the dead of night. But now, as you make your way down the cramped street, it’s so cold that your breath is frosting in front of you.

It’s eerily quiet for Central London. The only sound is the one made by your feet carelessly splashing through the puddles of rainwater filling the potholes in the cracked pavement, and it seems to echo off the tall concrete walls on either side of you.

You don’t know what you’re doing.

It would be better, safer, smarter for you to go back upstairs where you could stay comfortably warm under the covers while you wait for Steven to return to you in the morning.

You know all of this, but you don’t turn around. Don’t even hesitate. One foot after the other, you stride determinedly down the narrowing passageway that’s lined with pungent beer bottles and deep fried chicken bones, until you reach a fork in the street.

This is all so stupid.

You don’t know which direction Marc went—right or left—don’t know what his intended destination is or if he even came this way at all. But you do know one thing.

Marc Spector loves you.

His quiet voice still echoes between your ears. ‘I love you too’, he’d said, and it was real.

You chance left into an even smaller alleyway. You don’t know why, other than that the dark tapered alley seems like a more likely place for Marc to have slunk off to in the middle of the night.

There are no street lights here, and the walls on both sides seem to narrow in on you, until you feel like they're practically scraping against your shoulders. Somehow, even though you’ve been more or less living in this area as of late, you’ve not ever come across this path before.

A foetid smell lingers in the air, like someone’s left rotten eggs out in the sun. London’s never exactly smelled good, but the sudden overwhelming odour stings your nostrils, invading your throat in a way that threatens to have you doubled over, dry-gagging.

The rain is coming in heavier now, but it does nothing to help with the smell. Just permeates every single layer of your clothing, until you’re soaked all the way down to your socks.

You’re bloody freezing.

Something doesn’t feel quite right, but you chalk it up to the fact that you've chosen to take a stroll down a dark alley in East London in the middle of the night by yourself. Not your brightest decision ever, but here you are.

A tingling at the back of your neck makes you throw a quick glance over your shoulder, checking to see if someone’s watching you, but there’s nothing there. All you see is the same depressing-looking alley that you just came down. Red-rusted brick walls above a concrete street covered in manky puddles and rubbish, just like every other dirty little alleyway in East London.

Somehow, this does nothing to reassure you.

The skin between your shoulders itches, prickling with uncomfortable heat despite the cold, and it feels like a warning sign.

Despite the fact that you’re wearing sturdy boots and covered from toes to chin, you still feel uncomfortably exposed. Like any minute now something might start nipping at your heels from behind. It’s the same illogical fear you feel when you’re alone in bed at night with your feet sticking out from under the covers. You’ve left yourself defenceless and vulnerable to the monsters under the bed. It’s only a matter of time before something from the darkness will reach out and grab you by the ankles, dragging you under.

You continue forwards, hurrying your pace with every step. It’s irrational, but you can’t shake off the feeling that if you don’t, something will catch up to you.

Some sort of.... clicking starts up behind you, and you slow to a stop. Some lost survival instinct is screaming at you, telling you to freeze. To hide so it won't see you.

The unsettling noise continues, rattling oddly in your ears and growing ever more distorted as it echoes off the walls around you. You’ve never heard anything like it, and you wish you weren’t hearing it now. It’s… strange. Not quite right.

Other.

The noise stops, leaving just the sound of your breath rasping in and out of your too-tight chest. You force yourself to move; fighting the warning siren of your heart hammering painfully hard in your chest, you turn slowly to look over your shoulder at the alley behind you.

There’s nothing there. You're alone.

Slowly, slowly you turn the rest of the way, but there's still nothing. Aside from the usual smattering of rubbish, the only thing in the alleyway is the image of the moonlit sky mirrored on the rain-covered, empty pavement.

You let out a breath you didn't realise you were holding, and force yourself to keep breathing, fighting the stubborn tightness of your chest to take in deep, calming breaths that turn visible as you exhale against the crisp air.

So you heard an odd sound. And what of it? Probably just someone’s ancient radiator clicking up a storm. That’s all. Everything else is just your overactive imagination. Might even have been a bird. Someone’s escaped parakeet doing a strange mating call perhaps. What do you know? London wildlife has always been unpredictable and strange, after all.

You’ve nearly managed to convince yourself, about to turn on your heel and continue on your way when you spot it. The gentle ripple pattern spreading out across the thin sheet of water covering the grey concrete. Not unusual in the least, given that it’s raining. Except it’s a large ripple. Too large to be from the rain.

Despite the freezing temperature, your spine prickles with cold sweat underneath your thick coat.

The noise starts up again. It warbles and clicks-clicks-clicks. You can’t pin where it’s coming from. It’s disorientating. It comes from the ground, rattles off the walls and lingers in the air above. It’s everywhere.

Water splashes on the ground some feet away from you, a small spray going up in your peripheral vision, like something stepped on it. Something heavy. Something large.

But there’s nothing there. And that maddening clicking noise won’t stop.

You can’t see anything in the empty space over the water puddle in front of you. Nothing, not even the smattering droplets of the pouring rain. The water is eerily still which… can’t be right.

You narrow your eyes at the puddle, dragging your gaze upwards, and…

There’s a hole in the rain.

A void of some sort, defined only by the absence of the falling water. Following the empty space upwards, you can see a clearly defined boundary where the droplet starts again. Like the rain is bouncing off a transparent surface.

There’s something there. Something solid. Something big.

A huge eerie shape. As you squint at it, you begin to recognize that the water is outlining crouching limbs and a torso. Your brain keeps trying to pin down what it looks like, but it’s not the shape of any animal you know of. There’s something not right about its form. It's disproportionate; all overly sharp edges and grotesque bulging curves that make your skin crawl. The angles are wrong somehow in a way that makes your brain itch to look at them.

It’s...

It’s…

Not of this world.

You hold your breath, standing motionless, feet rooted to the wet pavement as rain pelts your face so hard it stings.

Click. C-Click. CCCCClick.

The noise rattles closer. Louder now. It feels like it’s burrowing under your skin. Into your brain. But the warning sirens blaring inside your head are louder still. Deafening. Every instinct and nerve ending in you is screaming one thing.

RUN.

You turn and run, one leg leaping in front of the other. You run without looking behind you. Running even as you almost stumble, feet skidding against the slippery-wet concrete. Your lungs burn, but you don’t stop. Don’t dare look back. Eyes fixed on the dim, rain-fogged light at the end of the alley in front of you. You run.

There’s a loud crash behind you. A percussive thunderclap of sound that hurts your ears. The crunch and clatter of concrete being torn apart.

But you don’t stop. Don’t look behind you to investigate. You run.

You run, ignoring the bile pushing its way up your throat. Run, ignoring the shrieks of sound erupting behind you. Running from the sound of a wounded creature, like no animal that you have ever heard in your life. A hellish scream that doesn’t sound of this world, tearing through the thin space. A pain that is born out of pierced flesh and broken bones. You run.

Stupid. You’re so fucking stupid.

Why are you here? Why didn’t you just stay in the safety of your home, tucked up in bed under the covers? The stinging wetness in your eyes blurs your vision as you tear down the alleyway. Does it open out into another street or dead end? You can’t tell yet, but there’s nothing else to do. You run.

You collide with something solid and firm.The impact knocks the wind out of your lungs, and a strong pressure surrounds you from every angle, grabbing hold of your shoulders and constricting around your ribs. You can’t run.

You can’t breathe. There’s something clamped over your mouth and nose. Coarse gauze pressed into your nostrils, suffocating you.

You make a desperate attempt to free yourself, arms trying to push out against the tight hold, hands clawing at whatever you can reach, but your pathetic attempts are no use. The grip only tightens at your resistance. It’s too strong. You can’t get free.

This is it. There’s nowhere left to go. You’re trapped. It’s over.

Still, you can’t stop fighting, thrashing in every direction, trying to squirm yourself loose.

“Stop! Stop!”

You recognize that grumpy, impatient voice. You’d know it anywhere, even muted as it is by the blood thundering in your ears. You register that the solid weight holding you captive is a person.

Marc.

You go limp. Shoulders slumping into his hold. Legs no longer kicking as your feet settle onto the ground below.

“I’m gonna let go of you now. I need you to not fight me. Or scream.”

You nod into his hand, and the pressure finally gives, as does his grip. Then you’re free.

Turning around, the sight that greets you nearly has you screaming and running after all because it’s not Marc at all. It’s…

A mummy.

Layers upon layers of white gauze are wrapped like bandages over every inch of the body before you. Wound around limbs and woven over a broad torso, continuing up to shroud the face.

And the eyes…

Where the eyes should be, the eye sockets are hollowed out. The gorgeous brown you expected is absent, replaced by a white glow that blinds you when you try to look directly at it.

You wobble on your feet, a sick nausea filling your throat.

It spoke like Marc. Used his voice.

Oh god! Is this some monstrous creature that mimics human voices to lure in its prey?

Did it eat Marc!?

Is it going to eat you!?

The glowing eyes narrow into impatient triangular shapes, the shoulders pulling up and back while the feet shift in an almost nervous gesture. An odd sense of recognition fills you.

“M-Marc?”

The eyes narrow further into a scolding glare. Even without a mouth, you can tell he’s scowling at you. The thing growls, but it’s a human sound. And a familiar one.

Marc, definitely Marc.

Only he could manage to scowl behind a hoodie, three layers of mummy bandages and a glowing Halloween mask.

As you watch, the hood and mask recede, evaporating into thin air. White bandages give way to golden-tanned skin, and you’re greeted by the face you know so well. Hard eyes staring down at you above steel-cut cheekbones and a jaw set with displeasure.

“Marc!” Thank god! Relief floods your chest, but it’s short-lived. That thing could still be out there. “We need to go!”

“Why are you here? You can’t be here,” Marc grates out, resisting your attempts to pull him into motion. He’s clearly furious, but right now the two of you have got more important things to worry about.

“We need to go,” you repeat, pleading with him, hands grappling for his, trying to tug him in the direction you were running before, but he resists you effortlessly, like he’s anchored to the spot. You might as well be trying to tug a stone statue.

“Marc, please! There’s something out there! Like a– a–” you fumble, unsure of what to name it, because you don’t know what the hell that thing was.

An invisible monster? A demon? A boogeyman?

“I don’t know what it was! Some kind of… creature. Something big,” Your voice breaks. Your fingers tremble where they’re curled over his arm, and you grip harder. Digging them further into the bandages, trying to get them to stop. “You have to believe me Marc!”

He’s not going to believe you, is he? He’s going to think you’ve lost the plot and need to be sectioned. God, maybe you do.

But the vexation in his face fades as he watches you, his expression shifting into something softer, filled with worry. His hands reach for you, the bandages soft against your cheeks.

“Hey. Hey, it’s okay.” He tips your chin up, eyes searching your face, and if he thinks you are mad or hysterical, there isn’t a trace of it in his gaze. There’s no disbelief. “I know.”

His calm acceptance stuns you.

“What do you mean you ‘know’?”

“I know because I…,”—he hesitates, mouth set in a grim line—”I took care of it.” “You took care of… what? Marc, what–? What do you mean by that?”

Marc falters at that, and runs one gloved hand over his hair. His eyes dart around like he’ll find the answer hidden somewhere behind the overflowing rubbish or carved into the worn brick of the alley wall.

“I…,” He hesitates again, glancing at you and then away, like he can’t make himself hold your gaze. “This is what I do,” he finally spits out. “I tried to keep this shit away from you. It’s not something you were ever supposed to see. I need you safe.”

The unhappy set of his mouth makes your aggravation falter, but you need to understand.

“What do you mean? Tried to keep what shit away from me?”

“I–” He breaks off, eyes darting up and across the wall of the building across from you, high above your head. “Shit. We need to go.”

Oh sure! Now he wants to leave. (Though it’s not like you’re going to argue.)

Marc grabs your arm again, and you do your best to keep up as he hauls you along down the alley.

You try to watch the alley walls and street as you run, searching for any sign of the grotesque invisible creature from before, but you can’t make out anything in the pouring rain this time. You try to listen instead, but you can’t hear anything over the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Marc stops suddenly, and you stumble to a halt as well, crashing into his back and nearly falling.

“Mar—“

“Quiet,” he cuts you off with the low demand, and the quiet urgency of his voice has you freezing instantly. He stares at the mouth of the alleyway, then up where the moon is just barely visible in the gap between the buildings, eyes wide and alert, face rigid with something like fear. It makes your own fear balloon, your pulse screeching in your ears.

Suddenly there’s a scraping sound, and small bits of brick fall from above, skittering down from the wall on your left. You peer at the shadowy face of the building, but there’s nothing to be seen.

Another grinding sound, closer this time. Something large and heavy rubbing against brick. Another shower of gravel and debris, but you still can’t see where the bloody thing is.

Dread curls in the lining of your stomach.

Then it starts again, that otherworldly clicking that seems to burrow right into your skull. You cover your ears reflexively. Would claw them right off if only it would make the noise stop.

Marc reaches for you then. Moving slowly and deliberately, he wraps an arm around you, scooping you close against his chest and taking you with him as he backs away.

You huddle against him, staring up at his determined profile. His eyes are trained on a spot on the building across from you, clearly seeing what you can’t.

Without looking away, he leans in closer to you and whispers, “Get ready to run.”

He’s barely finished speaking when the wall crumbles above you, and Marc’s arms untangle from you, leaving your side.

You think you catch the sight of something moving in the rain, a slight distortion visible as the shape crosses in front of the moon, then you’re shoved to the side, voice echoing in your ears.

“Run!”

You weren’t ready.

Shoes skidding backwards in the slippery rain, you lose your footing, and go down. You land hard on your bum, and can’t seem to get up again.

Everything is happening too fast.

Your chest hurts. Breath stuttering in your lungs, too quick and shallow to let you take in any oxygen. Your heartbeat is pounding so rapidly against your ribs that you’re sure it’s going to rip a hole straight through your chest to the open air.

It’s too bright.

The light from the moon above seems to flood the alleyway, and your eyes throb.

Too loud.

A solid thud reverberates through the air mere feet away from you. It’s the sound of knuckles meeting flesh. A blood curdling shriek rips through the space.

Too much.

Marc's forearm is held up, parallel to the wall, like he’s pinning something that isn’t there. Something large and thrashing. Your eyes are fixed on the bizarre scene before you. You don’t understand what you’re seeing. Don’t understand how the man who folds your clothes in neat squares and makes you lukewarm tea is the same man as the one who stands before you now. Poised and calm in the violence. Holding his own against an otherworldly monster, and winning.

None of this feels real.

His fist slams forward, landing some distance away from the brick. Punching into the invisible air. But there’s a horrifying squelching sound with each landing punch that lets you know something is there that you’re not seeing.

You watch, so focused on Marc and the damage he’s meting out that you almost don’t notice when a damp gust of air grazes against the fine hairs on the back of your neck and sends the soft skin underneath prickling. You fail to take it as the warning sign it is.

Fuck. There’s another one!

You don’t have time to react. No time for anything. Just the sound of glass crunching against asphalt, and something slamming into your back, so forcefully that the impact threatens to crush your ribs.

You land face first this time, cheek kissing the concrete with a painful sting. There’s a heavy weight on your back, and mud in your mouth. Or maybe blood. Everything tastes like pennies.

Marc shouts your name. His voice is raw, panicked. So full of fear it's almost unrecognisable.

You want to go to him.

Anchoring your elbows on the gravelly ground, you try to push up against the heavy weight pinning you to the ground. It hurts. Everything hurts. Your shins are stinging. Cheek too and your forearm where your sleeve must have ripped. Your ribs are one big throbbing blotch of burning pain. But you manage to lift your head up in time to see Marc leaping towards you.

He seems to be suspended in time, one hand pulled back, the other outstretched in mid-air as he reaches for you. Droplets of rain sparkle where they’re caught in his hair, and others seem to trickle leisurely down his forehead above his brown eyes that are wide in blind panic.

You feel it before you see it.

His fingers curl around your wrist, the solid weight of his hand clamping tight around your forearm. Time speeds up again at the touch. You hadn’t realised sound had gone missing too until it returns with a deafening fury.

The suspended rain smatters down all around you. Marc’s other hand impacts the creature pinning you down with a sickening squelch, and a grotesque shriek tears through the space behind you, tapering off into a rheumy deathrattle.

Marc’s face fills your vision, the terror in his expression just starting to shift into relief when some small distortion, barely seen out of the corner of your eye, breaks into your line of sight, and he’s ripped away from you again by some invisible force.

You don’t understand what you’re seeing. There’s some disconnect between what’s happening in front of you and your brain’s ability to process it.

You know that can’t possibly be Marc hurtling through the air, white cape billowing behind him like a white flag of surrender. Surely there’s no need to worry because of course you aren’t seeing his body impact the side of the building with a horrifyingly meaty thud that reverberates in your bones, and then tumble to the ground in a shower of broken masonry

You stare at the pile of white fabric and brick pieces there on the ground for a moment, and your heart pounds so forcefully that you feel lightheaded.

It’s a horrible nightmare made reality, and your brain wants to fight it. To pretend it’s not happening. Tell you that it’s not Marc’s lifeless body lying facedown on the ground in front of you.

But… it is.

You can feel the bitter acrid taste of the truth carving itself into your throat.

You scramble up, ignoring your bloody knees and the searing pain in your side, not stopping until you’re hunched over Marc’s body. He’s terrifyingly still. You grip his shoulder, tugging hard until you’ve managed to turn him onto his back, all the while begging to any deity or higher power who might be listening to please let him be all right; let him be awake; let him still be alive.

Please.

He has to be.

Cupping his cheeks in your palms, you have to swallow the raw sob in your throat at how cold his skin feels against yours.

A pulse. You need to check for a pulse.

You shove two fingers against the column of his throat up under his jaw, trying to find the right place, but the stupid bandages are too bloody thick. You can’t feel anything through them. You tug at them, trying to rip them free or wedge your fingertips underneath to get at bare skin, but they’re hard as steel. You don’t stop though, clawing at them now because you’ve got to–

A heavy, thudding footfall lands on the ground a short distance away, and you jerk your head up.

The creature is there in the alley, right in front of you…

All you can see is the malformed outline, silhouetted by the cascading rain refracting in the moonlight. It turns slowly towards you, feet grinding against the pavement.

Absolute terror swamps you. Every cell in your body is screaming. You need to escape!

RUN!

You scramble to get ahold of Marc, barely managing to wedge yourself underneath him until you can wrap both your arms around his chest from behind and heave, straining to drag his uncooperative body away from danger. You don’t get very far.

Marc is heavier than he looks, and your feet scrape and skid against the wet concrete as you desperately try to drag both of you backwards. You barely manage to budge him at all, gaining at most a few inches before the creature begins clicking again.

You can see the outline more clearly now. If you squint you can just make out mangled tentacles protruding from where its head must be and writhing grotesquely in a way that your eyes refuse to focus on. Your breath seizes in your chest and you have to look away, your body wracked with shivers.

You watch it come out of the corner of your eye, thick limbs advancing on you one torturously slow step at a time. You don’t understand why you’re still alive. The creature certainly seemed capable of ferocious speeds when it had attacked Marc before. You get the feeling it’s mocking you. A giant supernatural cat playing with its prey before it eats, and you’re the hapless dinner.

The thought sickens you.

You tighten your grip on Marc, wrapping your arms around him with renewed determination. Clutching him as close as you can in a futile attempt to protect him from this thing. Unwilling to let it have him.

There’s more loud clicking, closer still, scraping against your brain like nails on a chalkboard and making your spine curl.

You’re out of time. Out of options. Your brain furiously scans through a lifetime of collected memories and information for any shred of useful knowledge. Anything to help get you out of this, but there’s… nothing. No secret escape route. No Hail Mary play.

It’s hopeless.

You wish it hadn’t come to this. That you could somehow save Marc and Steven and yourself. That you had more time.

You wish you had taken the time to eat the breakfast Steven’s made for you with him yesterday morning. That you could have had the chance to taste Marc’s pancakes again. That you had kissed Steven more often (should have done it every opportunity you had), gotten to see that sunshine smile of his light up the room one last time. That you could’ve told Marc you love him in person.

But that’s the thing isn’t it?

You don’t have all the time in the world. You never did. Everything has an end.

You hug Marc closer to your chest. You’re just glad you got to face your end here with him, together.

Searing pain rips into your ankle as cold claws sink into your flesh. The breath you’ve been holding all this time is knocked out of you. Any small shred of peaceful resignation you’d been able to muster in the face of certain death is ripped away, and you react without thinking.

Your foot flies out in a swift kick. The heel of your boot connects with something soft and pulpy that yields with a sickening squelch.

There’s an angry clicking shriek. It rattles your eardrums painfully and vibrates through your chest, like standing too close to a speaker at a club. The monster takes a step back, but the taloned grip around your heel doesn’t ease, dragging you with it.

You kick again. Firm sponginess that makes you think of decomposing flesh. Unnaturally soft for something still moving. You think you might vomit.

The thing screeches but doesn’t loosen its grip. Asphalt and shards of glass dig into your back as it drags you along. You try to cling to Marc, but you can’t. You might as well be a flea for all the hope you have of challenging its strength.

You twist around onto your front. All you see is mute greyness of the alley. The increasing distance between you and Marc as the thing drags you along. You try to claw at the ground but there’s nothing to hold onto. Your watch, somehow miraculously still on your wrist after everything, pops free now, and you watch it disappearing from your sight, growing smaller and smaller as you’re dragged away, and somehow that’s the final staw. You squeeze your eyes shut on a ragged sob, draw in a half breath to scream, and…

Everything stops.

It’s dark behind your closed eyelids. Your throat is raw, burning. Are you still screaming? You must be, but you can’t hear anything anymore. There’s no more clicking. The rain seems to have stopped. You can’t feel it falling onto your skin or the asphalt scraping against your torn clothes.

Are you… dead?

If you are, why do your knees hurt so much?

You crack your eyes open to find yourself staring up at the pitch-black sky lit by a perfectly circular moon.

Something white flutters in the periphery of your vision. A white… flag? No, it’s a long flowing white cape that hovers over your body.

Marc!

Or… is it?

Something’s different.

Tracing the cape upwards, it takes your frazzled brain a second to register what’s changed. This mummy is missing bodyparts! Or… no. His costume is just a different colour. Solid black ink runs up his legs instead of the white bandages that were there before, masking his outline against the black sky above..

Is this someone else?

You crane your neck towards where you last saw Marc’s body lying on the pavement, but he’s not there any longer.

This must him, then.

…Isn’t it?

He’s standing hunched over empty air, a vicious brutality emanating from his entire body that wasn’t there before as he delivers repeated bone-shattering punches to…. nothing. His fists sink into the space that you know isn’t really empty. You can hear the impacts now, even if you still can’t see the creature. The dull wet thud of knuckles connecting with flesh over and over and over again, with almost mechanical precision.

With each blow the same hellish scream you heard earlier rings in the air, but it’s growing weaker, soggier each time until finally it fades all together. And the stomach twisting crunch of bones breaking grows ever louder as his fists sink deeper and deeper into the invisible mass.

Then, finally, silence falls.

Squinting your eyes open—when did you close them?—the first thing you see is his silhouette standing some feet away from you. Right where you last saw him, but he’s standing upright now, towering over you and what’s left of the creature, a now semi translucent mass that glints wetly.

There’s an unsettling calmness to him as he takes a step back, head tilted to the side as his eyes narrow, observing the thing with disdain. One leg lifts, rising above the ground, poised like an executioner’s axe… and then falls.

The creature isn't making any sounds anymore, not even a whimper when that foot comes down, delivering an earth-shattering stomp that shakes the ground beneath you.

There is only a stomach-churning, pulp-crunching sound, of something moist-yet-solid being torn through. You clamp your eyes shut, stomach roiling, trying not to think about what is there that you can’t see. Instead you imagine he’s stepping on a bag of rotten fruit. Repeatedly.

You don’t dare to open your eyes again until everything goes quiet.

But the horror of the moment isn’t quite over yet. He stands still in the same spot, unmoving. His shoulders squared but loose as he stares at the place the creature had been with a disdainful sneer on his features, eyes flat and blank. He eyes it like he’s inspecting a squashed cockroach stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

The hairs on the back of your neck are still standing on end. Your body is screaming out to you that the danger hasn’t passed. Something even more dangerous is standing before you. The scene plays out like some twisted nature documentary where a rabid bear was just ripped apart by a monstrous wolf.

Marc tips his head to stare up at the night sky. Something changes. The whole of his body seizes, shoulders pulled taut, head thrown back like he’s being yanked up by invisible puppet strings.

The linen covering his body slithers down his limbs like receding snakes. Every inch of the primordial gauze disintegrates into dust and smoke, giving way to the much more familiar tight jeans, form-fitting t-shirt, and loose jacket.

As if finally satiated, whatever force had its hooks in him relinquishes control, and he slumps forward, feet still firmly grounded to the asphalt, and opens his eyes.

And then Marc is back. You think…

Marc seems disoriented at first, breathing erratically. His body language is a stark contrast to the one he held mere moments ago, as though the calm callousness has disintegrated with the mummified gauze. Now he’s hunched over, tense, and appears confused, eyes darting around the alleyway until they land on you, still flat on your ass on the concrete ground.

His eyes stay on you as he covers the distance between you in three great strides, his footfalls skidding along the rain-slick concrete before he falls to his knees beside you. You turn your head, trying to look behind you to observe all the damage, but Marc cups your face in his hand before you can see anything.

“Hey. Hey, you look at me,” he says, voice rough but hands gentle as he smooths your hair back from your face. His eyes search your face frantically for a long moment. It must eventually penetrate that you’re all right because the panic in his eyes finally melts into relief, and seems to spread to the rest of him. The harsh line between his brows relaxes slightly, and he lets out a long breath, the tight line of his shoulders softening.

Then he’s cupping the back of your head in one hand, and hauling you into his chest, and holding you there, pressed tight against him. It makes it hard to breathe, your face mashed up against his firm chest, nose and mouth partially buried in his shirt and jacket, but you only want to press closer, have him hold you tighter, for as long as he possibly can, even if it chokes the breath out of you.

“It’s okay,” he says after a long moment, “You’re okay. You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

You’re not sure if he’s trying to reassure you or himself.

His voice is gentle and comforting as he rests a firm hand on the small of your back and keeps it there. His eyes are soft now, no longer cold and blank, even if they do look sad.

“You’re safe,” he tells you.

It’s not until he says it that it finally sinks in. The rigid muscles in you melt. Your heightened survival instincts dim, your body finally willing to accept that the danger has passed.

His grip around you loosens, and the palm of his hand roams over the top of your shoulder, fingers resting on the pulse of your neck, before ghosting under the place that stings and smarts on your cheek. There’s a tremor to his touch, but he’s still meticulous as his hands run gently down your arms, across your back, stomach, and ribs, inspecting you for injuries, and cataloguing the location and gravity of each.

A long time passes before Marc is satisfied and finished with his examination. Then he lets you go and leans back, shimmying off his jacket—the very one you’d been haunted by when he lent it to you once before—and settles it around your shoulders. Residual heat from his body still lingers in the fabric, instantly warming you and making you aware of just how cold you were before.

You stare up at him, through the rain as the pale moonlight shimmers off the droplets of water caught in his hair. The familiarity of it makes your heart squeeze tight in your chest. Once again the two of you find yourselves in the middle of the rain with Marc’s jacket wrapped around you. It’s a deja-vu you wish you can relive a thousand times over.

“C’mon,” Marc says, holding out a hand and helping you to your feet, “Let’s get you home.”

~ Continue ~

Dedicated to @thirstworldproblemss because I am just very happy I have a friend like her in my life and that I get to share this story together with her.

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow @astroboots-writes and turn on notifs 🤡💖🤡

#oscar isaac #moon knight #marvel #marvel mcu #steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #steven grant #marc spector #moon knight fanfic #moon knight fic #moon knight fanfiction #jake lockley #steven grant x you #marc spector x you #jake lockley x reader #jake lockley x you #moon knight x reader #moon knight x you #cici writes

765 notes · View notes

derangedanomaly · 4 months

Note

AHHH GOING TO SCREAM yugioh anon back cuz its the weekend and oh my heart i adore horror stuff sm <333 now bc i am obsessed with blade and need to kiss him on his little forehead ya get some deadly obsessive blade :3 (blade is vv jd “meant to be yours” inspired)

tw: murder !! vv unhealthy relationship !! angsty as hell !! putting eyes in jars level of gore !! you still love him in the end but uhm. hm.

Making a sound here would be death. Calling for Chaos wouldn’t fix anything either, he’s out and you made the mistake of staying. The others made it clear they’re neutral with whatever he wants with you. Despite your mental scolding, tears well up in your eyes. Your hands shoot up to your mouth, roughly grasping your cheeks to distract your fear with pain. Only instinct fills your thoughts as you hear him.

“C’mon baby! You SAID you wanted to stay and I can make that happen! And! And! Because you’re so special, I’ll even give you a kiss as I steal your heart!” He offers, talking with his hands as he scans the area for you. He’s not found where you are yet but he’s not moved from the area, he knows exactly where you stopped when you dodged him throwing knives at you. You know he isn’t being metaphorical about the heart thing either, judging by the grotesque doodles you found in his room when you went to show him a cute cat game you installed.

A deer. You feel like a deer in headlights, a prey animal. If you move, you’re dead. If you don’t, you’re dead. Distracting him with a rock won’t work, he’s been a murderer for years surrounded by OTHER murderers! You feel sick. You loved him, heard him out, defended him and you get a tragedy in return. He’s coming closer, you hear his clock-like steps crush leaves.

Tick. Tock. Tick. You desperately hope he’ll just go. Tick. Tock. Tick. Would running here even help? He’d just grab you! What are you thinking! Tick. Tock.

“Time’s up, baby!” He gleefully calls, stabbing a knife decorated with glittery hearts directly in your shoulder. You screech in pain, trying to move back but groaning as it only sinks deeper into your flesh. As you look up at him, he smiles wide. He always loved it when you had your eyes on him. Was it strange to still care for him? Blade, your former beloved, answers with running another knife (this time decorated with a photograph of you alone in your room, smiling while watching a comforting show) through the side of your stomach. You don’t have the energy to scream anymore.

“Do you even KNOW how cute you are when you just look so scared? Don’t worry, baby, I’m here for you!” He reassures you. You’re unsure if he actually thinks he’s helpful.

You’ve decided your last move. Reaching up weakly, wincing as the blades cut through you more, you hold the side of his skull in your hands. Funny how you’d be a skeleton in a while. He stills. You always did this when you wanted to comfort him and the first time you ever kissed him. He would always pause like that, as if he wondered if it even happened. You couldn’t speak, but it was your way of telling him you still believed in those times. That maybe not everything was a lie. He drops the new knife he was holding (you recognize it as the first knife he showed you when you saw his collection) and turns his skull to kiss you on the hand. He then leans in and kisses you on the forehead. As he does so, you feel that knife he dropped run directly through your chest. In your last thoughts, you pray Chaos will help them and are glad.. you’re glad that he at least loved you back.

(STORY BONUS: Blade preserves your eyes in jars and literally begs Nightmare to make a doll of you. Blade decorates it with a wedding dress and tears the eyes out of it to place yours in it. It feels fake. He doesn’t get why it doesn’t feel good this time when he stares you in your eyes.)

AHHHHH I LOVE THIS SO MUCH!!!

You know how I said I'd draw you something the next time you'll grace me with an imagine? IT'S HERE! :D

Masterlist

#undertale #undertale fandom #sans undertale #chaos sans #undertale au #utmv #utmv au #art #undertale art #killer sans #killer sans art #killer sans x reader #overcopy

34 notes · View notes

dreaming-of-lu · 1 year

Note

Heyo💖 I hope you are having the bestes time!

I was wondering if you can write a scenario of reader trying to hold the boys hands!

It can be anyone, but like either the reader is upset and is getting stuck in their head. They need one of the boys to ground them, but like they don’t want a hug, just need a hand.

One of the boys just woke up from a nightmare and they can’t stop seeing the images from the dream. Reader notice this and is trying to comfort or ground them.

Something like that!

By the way you look gorgeous today💕💕

A/N: I am! Also thank you for being patient and shhiiieeettt, why thank you, you look gorgeous too doll 😘 Buckle in. CW: Gore, body horror and vomit (Hyrule), Panic attacks

o(〃＾▽＾〃)o Part 1 of 3 (Twilight, Hyrule, Legend)

Twilight

The cold feeling of ice that slithered down him had encased his entire being, freezing everything within him, from blood to veins to nerves. He stood rooted to his spot at the sight of all the portals opening right before him. What was clouded previously in purple smoke and shadows was now standing a pure crystal blue, beckoning them to step through to come home. There would be no more fighting, no more monsters to deal with, no more shadows, no more nothing. The journey was over, they were free to rest now, but an ache deep within his heart tore at the flesh, tissue, and muscle.

It was too good to be convincing, but it meant goodbye to everybody, especially you. You, who came bounding up to him, your face so giddy that it stung deep in his heart. You, who smashed your way through his heart and now leaving him; cold and all alone.

"Well," you excitedly bounced on your feet, beautiful colored eyes that stared into his own, making him weak in the knees, "this is it!"

"Yeah, haha."

Twilight gives a shaky grin, masking the feelings that rose deep in him; his inner voice and nerves yelled at him and begged him to beg you to stay with him. He wanted to be selfish, just this once; he wanted to be absolutely heedless, but he couldn't bring himself to do that to you.

"It's time for me to go; it was a long journey, but I'm glad I got to know all of you!"

'Please, don't leave me! Please!'

"I love you all, do take care of yourselves!" The sight of your bright smile made his chest clench to where he felt as if all the air was sucked right out of him, the feeling of being sucker punched hard in the gut. Sound slowly dispersed as his ears loudly began to ring; it was deafening. He didn't notice that one by one, all of them left except him. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he stood rooted to the spot.

Every sound made it sound like he was underwater, feeling chained to the floor as he watched the portal you went through disappear.

His eyes watered, the feeling of his heart threatening to burst through his chest as he heavily breathes, hoping to will himself around to head into the portal to his home. He couldn't shake himself out of it even as darkness began to edge along his vision. You were gone. Gone. He was all alone. Again. He whimpers, feeling like a child, lost and afraid, without the person they clung to. He sobs and sobs, begging loudly to the heavens for you to come back.

"Please," he keens, "don't leave me all alone."

Shadows encased him; a voice so faint yelled his name. It grows louder and louder, shaking him deep into his core.

"Link! Wake up!" His entire body jolts up, heart in his throat, panting wildly with wide eyes as they searched frantically. Body hunched in defense, ready to leap into a fight. He flinched at the feeling of a hand that quickly receded. So many thoughts and questions ran through his mind. Where was he? Who woke him up? They ran for miles.

"Link," the voice sounded so far away and warbly, "you need to breathe."

He greedily sucked in the air, heaving deep breaths before the heart in his chest began to slow from the terror that took him. With a blurry sight beginning to clear, he sees you. You. You sat before him on the bed in the shared bedroom in the same home, staring worriedly at him. Hair was a mess, your sleep-riddled eyes, and you were wearing one of his tunics; it slowly slipped off your shoulder, yet you still looked so gorgeous to him. The gentle feeling of your hand on his cheek made him sigh blissfully, nuzzling into your palm at the peace you held.

"Want to talk about it?" you voice nothing more than a whisper to his ears, soft enough to not shatter the air that overtook the bedroom. Twilight weakly shook his head,

"No," teary blues gazed into yours, "can I hold you?"

"Yes, always, darling."

Hyrule (Warning if you haven't read it in the note: Gore, Body horror, and vomit. Please skip if you are uncomfortable with this.)

"No, no, please!" Hyrule sobbed, his hands frantically pressing against the wound. Violently sobbing as he watched hopelessly at the blood that stained his hands, staining yours and his tunic, the smell of iron that made his stomach churn on the spot when it began to leak past his fingers. You swore you would stay out of this fight! You swore! Why did you have to be so foolish?! He can handle his own in a battle; Hyrule's like the other Links, always comes out victorious in the end. He was shaking. Shaking so bad.

Yet you don't know when to call it in when they are out of your zone. You weren't like them, any of them! You don't hold a triforce, you're not a holder of the master sword, and you're not a reincarnated Link!

"You are," Hyrule choked on his spit, "such a fool! You know we had it handled!"

He could use his magic! Hyrule closed his eyes, willing forth the ability to heal the wound.

Why? Why was his magic not working? Why does he not feel it? Hyrule looked panicky at his hands, hoping to see the familiar glow, only for the same red liquid that dyed his hands to glare right back at him. His brows furrowed, mind racing, digging into his memory at anything that could help heal you. A movement under his hands caught his attention.

He stared in horror as the wound widens before his eyes, skin and tissue peeling back to reveal organs. He felt his hands slowly sink into you; the blood stuck his hands together, forming them almost like crystallization; no matter how hard he pulled, they didn't budge. Your intestines began moving, wrapping around his wrists, tightly squeezing them, and bile rose in his throat at the feeling of them.

He began to yell loudly with the hope that somebody in the group would come to his aide, only for silence to answer him. He looks over his shoulder to see darkness staring back at him.

Hyrule jolts at the feeling of a hand clutching his arm; static crept up his arms and down the back of his neck.

Your wild, bloodshot eyes stared back at him. Your hand aggressively grabbed his tunic, forehead against forehead. Blood, spit, and bile spew from your lips and spat across his horror-stricken face.

"YOU COULD'VE SAVED ME!"

Hyrule's body shot forward, his legs scrambling out of his blanket, stumbling over his feet to book it little ways from camp. He fell onto his knees harshly, his body lurching forward, dry-heaving until vomit came out, crying harshly at the burn and the haunting image that never left his mind, burning into his lids.

"-ulie!" He sobbed. Everything hurt. His gut felt like it was squeezing the life out of him, eyes and nose burning. He couldn't stop crying; he cried harder when a hand rested on his back.

"Rulie, Hyrule," the voice sounded so far, yet it was near; he clung to it like a lifeboat upon the roaring waves of the angered seas that never ceased its brutal pounding. It was his anchor when the voice repeated itself,

"Hyrule," oh, so soft, so sweet, "you're safe; it was just a dream."

"Please," he whimpers, "please, don't leave me alone."

"I won't, Link. I won't."

Legend

Everything was screaming at him.

The endless tyrants, the never-ending feeling that he was in danger, consistently in fight or flight mode. Shadows lurked on the edge of his vision, threatening to completely shut the light out as his sight blurred. Everything was spinning; the breath he had escaped him, short gasps left his lips, and the sounds of the forest were drowned out by his own heartbeat pounding loudly with his ears.

'It's not safe! We're not safe!' His brain screamed at him, emotions going wild, flickering like a lit candle between every feeling. Not stopping on one or two, just continuously speeding rapidly like his eyes that ran back and forth in the haze of colors that overwhelmed him.

"Please," he gasped, "make it-"

He felt caged within his mind, feeling like he was stuck in his rabbit form, bouncing off the steel walls, hoping that he'll escape. How many minutes has it been? Two? Elven? He wasn't sure anymore, but the feeling tightened its hold on him, never letting him loose, just as if a Hinox had him in its hand.

"-end," it sounded so far and muffled. Feeling a hand land on his clenched one, he opens his and quickly traps it in his. The buzzing of his nerves vibrated through his hand, and he clenched it tighter, holding the person's hand to his beating chest.

"-end," muffled, "ca- -u -ar -e?"

"NO!" He sobs.

The voice sounded so far; he felt like he was head-first underwater again, relieving the nightmare he witnessed when Koholint Island disappeared and he woke up on a raft in the ocean.

"Please, don't let this be a dream!" He sobbed harshly.

"I got you, but I need you to breathe right now; can you do that? Follow my breathing."

In.

Out.

In. 2. and out. 2.

In. 2. 3. 4. and out. 2. 3. 4.

In. 2. 3. 4. 5. and out. 2. 3. 4. 5.

His sight clears, the first thing he sees was your eyes and your gentle smile.

"Hey there, bunny."

#.bea's writing #linked universe x reader #lu twilight x reader #lu legend x reader #linkeduniverse x reader #lu hyrule x reader #lu x reader #cw: gore #cw: panic attack #cw: vomit #cw: body horror

272 notes · View notes

the-name-is-z · 6 months

Text

SKELETONS | ch. 14

daryl dixon x f!oc

masterlist

a03 link

Summary: As everyone reels at the events of the past few days, Glenn reveals a big secret, causing a larger conflict to develop. Warnings/Information: AMC's The Walking Dead OC Insert | 18+ Advised | strangers to lovers; the slowest of slow burns; gore; angst; horror; humour; m/f; group conflict, threat of violence/murder, Shane is an asshole, killing walkers that used to be loved family members (including children)

Chapter 14 - Out of the Frying Pan

The sound of steel scraping against stone did nothing to make the morning less awkward. Iris felt like she knew too much of everything, and she wanted it off her shoulders. Carol was cooking eggs over the fire, and Andrea was loudly and incorrectly sharpening a knife.

“It’ll be more comfortable if you swipe the other way.” Iris said quietly, coming to sit down on the chair beside Andrea. She looked up, staring questioningly at Iris. Andrea looked back down, at Iris’ plethora of knives, before she changed her grip, swiping the knife against the rock a different way. Iris nodded in confirmation. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you or put myself in between you and Daryl. I’m just… glad it’s over.”

“It’s okay.” Andrea nodded after a moment. “I get it. I respect you, Iris. I could probably learn a lot from you. But you have to give me the chance.”

“That’s fair.” Iris replied. She extended a hand. “Truce?”

“Truce.” Andrea agreed, smiling as they shook hands. Iris pulled something out of her pocket, handing Andrea her survival knife sharpener. It had several slots depending on the size and type of knife, and Iris pointed to the second one.

“It’ll work faster. Pull evenly, in one motion. Also, if you’re gonna use a rock as a whetstone, it should be wet so you don’t damage the knife.” Iris explained, motioning with her hands. Andrea followed her instructions, examining the blade of her knife.

“Thanks.” She said with a half-smile. Iris nodded. Carol called the others for breakfast, dishing out portions of eggs as the group gathered around the fire. Shane kept a bit of a distance, considering the glares Iris was shooting his way.

“Um, guys?” Glenn called, standing up from a small tree stump. Iris paused, fork halfway to her mouth. Everyone looked up, turning to him. “So… the barn is full of walkers.” Everyone stopped, the sounds of chewing and polite scraping screeching to a halt.

“I’m sorry?” Iris asked, glancing from Glenn to the large barn a little ways away from the house, the one Hershel was fairly secretive about. The group collectively pilgrimaged across the land toward the barn, peering in through the wood slats to hear soft moans and shuffling coming from inside. Shane lurched back as a walker spotted him, pressing itself against the wall from inside. “No shit.” Iris murmured. Shane stalked back to where the group was gathering, at a safe, respectful distance.

“You cannot tell me you’re alright with this.” He hissed to Rick, brushing straight past him.

“No, I’m not, but we’re guests here. This isn’t our land.” Rick replied sharply. Shane scoffed, pacing.

“This is our lives, man!”

“Lower your voice.” Glenn warned.

“We can’t just sweep this under the rug.” Andrea protested, folding her arms.

“It ain’t right, not remotely. Okay, we’ve either got to go in there, make things right, or we’ve just got to go. Now we’ve been talking about Fort Benning for a long time—” Shane started.

“We can’t go.” Rick hissed.

“Why, Rick? Why?”

“Because my daughter is still out there.” Carol answered, and Iris was impressed she stood up for herself and her daughter. Plus, she was right.

“Okay.” Shane almost laughed, rubbing both hands down his face. “Okay, now I think its time that we all just start to consider the other possibility.”

“Shane.” Lori scolded.

“We’re not leaving Sophia behind.” Rick said firmly.

“We’re close to finding this girl, Iris and I just found her damn doll two days ago.” Daryl protested.

“You found her doll, Daryl, that’s what you did. You found a doll.” Shane replied.

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”

“I’m just saying what needs to be said! You get a good lead, it’s in the first 48 hours—”

“Shane, stop!” Rick yelled.

“Let me tell you something else, man. If she was alive out there and saw you coming all methed out with your buck knife covered in blood, she would run in the other direction!” Shane spat. Daryl threw himself at him and Rick shoved himself between the two before they could start swinging at each other. Everyone had to pull them apart, shoving them in opposite directions.

“Just let me talk to Hershel. Let me figure it out.” Rick told him.

“What are you gonna figure out?!” Shane cried.

“Enough!” Lori hissed.

“If we’re gonna clear this barn, if we’re gonna stay, I have to talk him into it. This is his land.” Rick insisted.

“Hershel sees those things in there as people.” Dale announced, turning to everyone. “Sick people. His wife. His stepson.”

“You knew?” Rick asked, feeling somewhat betrayed.

“Yesterday, I talked to Hershel.” Dale explained.

“And you waited the night.” Shane hissed.

“I thought we could survive one more night.” Dale shot back. “We did. I was waiting till this morning to say something, but Glenn wanted to be the one.”

“The man is crazy, Rick, if Hershel thinks those things are alive or no!” The noise they were making was aggravating the walkers and the chains on the barn doors began to rattle. They pounded up against the door, the wood shaking and creaking. Iris sighed.

“How many are there?” She asked quietly.

“I don’t know. Maybe… two dozen? More or less.” Glenn replied. Rick sighed, running a hand over his face. Shane stormed off and started to walk around the barn, scoping out its stability.

Glenn turned to go talk to Maggie, to inform her of what he’s told them. Carol, Andrea, Lori and Carl went back to the campsite to keep a safe distance. Iris and Daryl stood with Rick and Dale at the front of the barn, Rick and Dale conversing about how they could speak to Hershel in an amicable way.

“How do you think they get them in there?” Iris wondered, watching the barn doors shake every so often. Daryl shrugged.

“Does it matter?” He asked. Iris pursed her lips. She supposed not, but… a hundred what-if’s spun through her mind. “We gotta go look for her. I’m gonna go get the horse again.”

“You can’t, you’re still injured.” Iris protested, following after him. “And Rick had to talk Hershel down from skinning you when he found out you almost stole them last time.”

“I don’t care.” He grumbled.

“Well I do.” Iris replied, stepping in front of him. “We can go out later to follow the trail with Rick.”

“Yeah, well, I ain’t gonna sit around and do nothing.”

“You almost died, Daryl. We don’t even know if we’re gonna find her.” Iris continued, her voice faltering at the end. He blinked, looking down at the ground. “I can barely look Carol in the eyes thinking about it. But we can’t afford to lose anyone else.”

“You gonna come with me then? Or not?” He asked after a moment, his voice ever-so-slightly less harsh. Iris sighed, looking back at the barn before turning to him.

“Yeah. I’m coming with you. After Rick talks to Hershel.”

“Fine.” He replied. He paused, looking down at her for a moment before trudging back up to their campsite.

Rick talked to Hershel, going out to see Shane at the barn a little while after. They had what seemed like a small argument before Rick stalked back to the campsite. He gathered those that wanted to search for Sophia and brought them to their usual spot, at the map on the hood of the station wagon.

“It also shows she could be moving this way south.” He murmured, moving his finger along the creek. “If Sophia went in that direction, she might have gotten out of the forest and into the farmland. So we take 74 up to Ivy Road, then push down south on foot through the forest till we hit Christopher, go east a couple of miles, then double back.” He explained.

“Rick.” Iris mumbled, jerking her chin over to Hershel, who was rolling his sleeves up as he walked toward them.

“Rick.” Hershel called.

“Hershel.” He replied. “We just have out guns out because we’re gonna go look for Sophia.”

“Before you do that, I could use your help with something.” He stated, putting his hands on his hips.

“Count me in.” Andrea said instantly. Iris waited, raising an eyebrow.

“Thank you, but I just need Rick.” Hershel said, looking to him expectantly.

“We’ll be waiting for you when you’re ready.” Iris told Rick, and he nodded to them, following Hershel toward the field.

“Iris, can I talk to you for a sec?” Carl asked, walking over. Iris nodded, stepping away from Andrea and Daryl with the kid. “I know Shane thinks Sophia is dead, but that’s bullshit. We’ve gotta stay here until we find her.”

“I know cowboy, I know.” Iris agreed, grinning. “That hat fits good, you’re like a real cowboy now.” He nodded. “Carl, we’re not gonna stop looking, okay? And if you heal before we find her, you can come help us look, okay? But not before.”

“Okay.” He nodded. Iris smiled softly. He took it all so seriously.

“And watch your language. Your mama will have my head if she thinks I’m teaching you bad words.” Iris joked, and he relinquished a smile. Shane stormed past them toward the RV, looking for the guns, presumably. Except Dale had taken them.

“Iris!” Shane called, stomping toward them.

“You go see your mom, alright?” Iris said quietly, sending Carl running to Lori. “What, Shane?”

“Where’d he go?” Shane asked.

“Where’d who go?” She asked, looking up nonchalantly.

“Don’t bullshit me, girl.” He spat, pushing her up against a tree with one arm across her shoulders. She shoved at him, but he was clearly stronger than her.

“Hey!” Daryl called, running over.

“You’d better learn some respect.” Iris snapped. She hooked her foot behind his knee and tugged, sending him off balance as she grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back, brandishing her knife. She held it away from him, but the looming threat was evident. Daryl paused in front of them, Andrea following suit. Iris kicked Shane forward. “I’m sick of your shit. You want to find Dale, go find him, but don’t expect to push me around.”

He pushed up off the ground, looking at her like he looked at Dale that day. He turned away and stormed toward the SUV. Andrea paused before jogging after him, and Daryl raised an eyebrow at Iris.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” He asked, looking her up and down.

“I grew up in a bar. Didn’t have a choice.” She replied. Iris sighed, recalling her teenage years. “Assholes like Shane are not hard to come by.” Daryl sat back, seemingly satisfied with that answer as he looked over his shoulder at Shane and Andrea’s animated yet muffled conversation.

“Where the hell is Rick?” Iris asked, walking over to Glenn and Maggie who sat beside one another on the porch. Daryl and Andrea strode beside her, T-Dog and Carol coming up the other side.

“You know what’s going on?” T-Dog asked.

“You haven’t seen Rick?” Glenn asked in response.

“We were supposed to leave a couple hours ago.” Daryl grunted.

“Rick told us he was going out.” Carol said, shrugging.

“Oh, good. Brutus is back.” Iris grumbled as Shane appeared, the bag of guns slung over his shoulder and a rifle in hand. “What did you do to Dale?”

“He’s on his way.” Shane replied lowly. “Time to grow up.” He started handing out guns. “You already got yours?” He asked Andrea.

“Yeah. What’s going on?”

“I thought we couldn’t carry?” T-Dog asked.

“Yeah, well, we can and we have to.” Shane spat.

“Oh god.” Iris muttered, running a hand through her hair. “Shane—“

“I don’t wanna hear it.” He yelled, pointing a finger at her. She raised an eyebrow, folding her arms. Beth and Patricia came over from the other side of the porch, Carl in tow. “Look, it was one thing sitting around here picking daisies when we thought this place was supposed to be safe, but now we know it ain’t. How about you man, you gonna protect yours?” He asked Glenn, offering him a shotgun. He even turned to Maggie. “Can you shoot?”

“Can you stop?” She retorted. “You do this, you hand out these guns, my dad will make you leave tonight.”

“We have to stay, Shane.” Carl said firmly.

“What is this?” Lori asked, storming out from inside the farmhouse.

“44 BC, The fall of the Roman Empire.” Iris replied.

“We ain’t going anywhere, okay? Hey, look, Hershel, he’s just gotta understand, okay? He— well, he’s gonna have to. Now we need to find Sophia, am I right?” He knelt down in front of Carl, offering him the small pistol he’d stolen yesterday. “Now I want you to take this. You take it, Carl, and you keep your mother safe. You do whatever it takes. You know how. Go on, take the gun and do it.”

“Rick said no guns. This is not your call.” Lori hissed, pulling her son away from Shane. “This is not your decision to make.”

“Oh shit.” T-Dog murmured. They all turned to see Jimmy emerging from the forest, clapping his hands loudly. The noise was attracting walkers. Two, specifically, that also happened to be caught at the end of two snare poles that Rick and Hershel held. They were herding the walkers… somewhere.

“What is that… what is that?” Shane spat, bursting into a sprint.

“Shane, wait!” Daryl yelled. They all shot out after him, running across the field.

“What the hell are you doing?” Shane yelled, running over.

“Shane, back off!” Rick retorted.

“Why do your people have guns?” Hershel asked, scowling.

“I feel like there is a more appropriate question for this situation.” Iris pointed out, skidding to a stop as one of the walkers reached for her. Rick pulled it back and the others raised their guns, just in case.

“Are you kidding me? You see? You see what they’re holding onto?” Shane yelled, circling them.

“I see who I’m holding onto!” Hershel snapped.

“No, man, you don’t.” Shane replied simply.

“Shane, just let us do this, and then we can talk.” Rick grumbled as they continued shoving the walkers toward the barn.

“What do you want to talk about, Rick? These thing’s ain’t sick! They’re not people! They’re dead! Ain’t gotta feel nothing for ‘em, ‘cause all they do, they kill! These things right here? They’re the things that killed Amy! They killed Otis! They’re gonna kill all of us!”

“Shane, shut up!” Rick yelled. They were almost to the barn, but Shane put himself in between them and the barn, his pistol tight in his grip.

“Hey, Hershel, let me ask you something, man. Could a living breathing person, could they walk away from this?” He asked as he shot the walker Hershel was herding. The bullets went straight through it, the dress it was wearing already shredded.

“No!” Hershel cried.

“Stop it!” Rick yelled.

“That’s three rounds in the chest.” Shane snapped. The walker still lunged for them, bloody, broken nails scratching the air. “Could someone who’s alive, could they just take that? Why is it still coming?” He shot again, two more rounds in the chest this time. “See that? That’s it’s heart! Why is it still coming?” Three more rounds.

“Shane, enough!” Rick yelled.

“Yeah, you’re right, man. That is enough.” Shane growled. He stalked forward, and once he was in arms reach, he put a bullet through it’s brain. The walker collapsed, Hershel lamenting at the loss of someone he probably knew. Jimmy’s hands were on the back of his head in shock and Patricia clutched her chest. “Enough risking our lives for a little girl who’s gone! Enough living next to a barn full of things that are trying to kill us! Enough! Rick, it ain’t like it was before. Now if y’all wanna live, if y’all wanna survive, you gotta fight for it! I’m talking about fighting! Right here, right now!” He moved to the barn doors.

“Take the snare pole! Hershel, take the snare pole!” Rick urged. “Hershel! Listen to me, man. Please! Take it now! Hershel! Take it!” Shane cried out as he went at the chains on the barn doors with a stray pickaxe, pulling at the locks, the boards.

“Rick!” Lori yelled from closer to the house, holding Carl close.

“No, Shane! Do not do this, brother! Wait!” Rick pleaded.

“Don’t do it!” Glenn yelled.

“Rick!”

“Come on! Come on! We’re out here!” Shane yelled as he tossed the board aside, slamming on the doors. There was one chain left at the top that he couldn’t reach, but the walkers could make quick work of that.

“This is not the way!” Rick continued. “Please!” Everyone trained their weapons on the barn as Shane took a few steps back, pulling out his gun.

The chain was nothing to the walkers, the barn doors folding like cardboard. An undead young man, tall, bald with overalls, was the first to push his way through, snarling, bleeding from every orifice. Shane kept his gun trained at them, shots firing, and Andrea ran forward as more started pushing through. That young man. A young woman. A teenage boy. A middle-aged woman, an elderly woman. The others began stepping forward, guns firing. There was double what they thought.

“Maggie…” Glenn breathed, asking for permission.

“It’s okay.” She replied, sobbing as she held her father tight. Iris took that as her cue. She pulled out her gun and joined the fray. Shot an elderly man. A teenage girl. A middle-aged man. Shane made a point of turning around and shooting the walker that Rick was still holding in the snare pole. One by one they fell, in a semi-circle of corpses around the door of the barn. It wasn’t difficult, it went quickly. At some point, Hershel’s wife. His stepson. It was impossible to know who, but if they were in there, they went down. There was a wave of silence as they seemed to stop coming.

Iris was worried about the gunfire attracting more walkers, but the thought dissipated rather quickly when the final walker stumbled out from the doors of the barn. Iris heard Carol sob somewhere behind her. The walker with short brown hair in little bow clips away from her face, a blue t-shirt with a glittery rainbow. Khaki capri pants and sneakers with red socks. Soft growls and slow shuffling. There was no denying it was Sophia, but it was a shock to see her anyways. No one moved but Carol, who darted to her daughter. Daryl was quick to catch her, holding her back even as she collapsed to her knees.

“Sophia! Sophia! Oh no, Sophia!” She wailed. At one point in her life, Iris would have looked away, but she stared through that walker, straight into her dead eyes. Lori was muttering to Carl, who had fat tears rolling down his cheeks. Sophia moved forward, her gaze cloudy with decay, stumbling over the bodies.

“Don’t watch.” Lori whispered to Carl.

In the end, it was Rick who stepped forward, taking his gun from it’s holster and pulling the trigger.

TAGLIST:

@heidiland05

@ryoujoking

@catlalice

@maxinehufflepuffprincess

@lowkeyhottho

#thenameisz #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x original character #skeletons #the walking dead #the walking dead daryl dixon #twd daryl #twd daryl dixon #daryl dixon x oc

23 notes · View notes

kiwiwinjindouche · 7 months

Text

Nightmares From the Void: a horror Dishonored AU

(unless this title is already taken by something else or idk sfwjdwmfjdj i've not found anything? but let me know if it does)

I've talked about it a little some time ago, and even if I have to figure out more things (this is really getting out of hands), I have some bits to share!

Putting all this under a 'read more' cuz this is going to be a huge post.

I'd love to have your thoughts about it, if you feel like it!! <3

Quick description:

This may be a Horror!AU, but it’s definitely not just “OOOO JUMPSCARES AND GORE”. Horror isn’t just that, you know? And the best part about this is looking for references and more information because this is so interesting and so much better than just blood and viscera everywhere. I really wanted them to have their own little vibe, despite everything, and playing with the different kinds of horrors and fears. This all needs a bit more thinking yet, I’m sure, but I really like it so far.

There’re uh, changes, and maybe I’m thinking this too much like a third person game? I don’t know, maybe in first person it’d still look great.

This is just about Dishonored 2 (for now, at least?), and I mostly though about the main villains, to be honest. But as time goes by (and as I’m writing this post), I want to explore the other areas too.

I find some of the ideas a bit too obvious, somehow, but eeehhh :fingerguns: My mindset was kinda 'how could we go further, and into the horror genre, than this?"

After the ritual to bring back Delilah, in 1849, powers from the Void started to spread into Aramis’ mansion, crawling into the veins of those who were here. They slowly turned them into more monstrous versions of themselves. The closer to the ritual you were, the bigger the impact the Void had on you. Some of the guards got infected as well, but way less than the main crew. Memories of alternative lives flashed through them too.

Differences for the coup crew:

Mission 1: A Long Day in Dunwall

Enemies: /

Description: Something feels off, as a puppet-ish Luca arrives. Then, Delilah appears, and the crowd is horrified by her look and all the vines and flowers.

Additional notes: Delilah can flee with Alexi’s corpse, so the player must fight her later as an undead.

Boss battle: Ramsey is not affected by the Void, so nothing changes.

Mission 3: The Good Doctor

Type of horror: Kind of slasher, ‘virus’, body horror

Enemies: The guards are infected with bloodflies and mushrooms (? Virus?). They technically are undead and immortal, but weak. They can be killed for good with fire. Guards + Bloodflies.

Description: The player tries to escape Grim Alex’s grip. They can carry a torch to keep her away.

Additional notes: There are a torch, blueprints and upgrades regarding fire equipment in Vasco’s belongings.

Boss battle: First, the player must find the main nest of the bloodflies and burn it. Grim Alex follows the player, and she can control the bloodflies. If the player tries to kill her, her body gets infested with bloodflies and she charges back. She is afraid of fire. Her fight only has one phase, and the player either helps her with the serum or kills her for good.

Why this? Because Alexandria is already kind of infected by something, and I think she should be a bit more unhinged when you face her. I decided to go with a wendigo/rake vibe for her. She follows you everywhere you go, and you can’t really get rid of her if you don’t have fire. Everything feels more organic yet dead at the same time. There should be a spark of hope somewhere, though.

Inspirations: RE / TLOU / Redead / Scorn / Outlast / Bloodborne

Mission 4: The Clockwork Mansion

Type of horror: Psychological

Enemies: Cyborgs and clockworks. The guards are a bit weaker than the original soldiers, but they can share some capabilities. Guards + Clockworks.

Description: A kind of Hide and Seek in the mansion. The player gets knock out at the beginning and must find their stuff.

Additional notes: Sokolov is saved after the fight. They are eyes on the wall.

Boss battle: The player fights Kirin in his laboratory. He is waiting for them and jumps on his greatest clockwork (a huge one). First, the player fights the robot. Phase two, the fight is taking place beneath the laboratory, in the basement, room of the generator. The player can tear Kirin’s artificial arms/legs apart. The final move is pushing him against the generator and watching him getting electroshocked. Either it kills him or not is up to the player, depending on the power of the shock (player can get to the room before the battle).

Why this? I was thinking about more clockworks and mechanical things. In fact, the starting point of all this was for Kirin to build cyborgs too. Then, the idea of him having bugs features came to me, as a reference to him tearing their legs and such. But then, and as much as I wanted to avoid the spider thing, Kirin playing with you, as you try to escape his mansion (his web) sounded more fitting.

Inspirations: Lies of P / Shining / Bacterial Contamination / BG3 (Malus) / Mimic / Nosk / DrOctopus

Mission 5: The Royal Conservatory

Type of horror: Paranormal and jump scares

Enemies: Zombies and stuffed animals. The guards are slower but hit harder. Guards + Witches + Animals.

Description:

Additional notes: Lots of illusions. Aggressive skulls. Moving around through mirrors.

Boss battle: The player has the option to fight a big cursed plush to get the defective lens. With each hit the doll takes, it loses a member part (leg, arm…) and the player must destroy them too before they go back to the doll. Then, mirror labyrinth to get to Breanna, while the player is followed by zombies. Breanna’s fight takes place in a room surrounded by mirrors too. If the player goes behind the scenes before phase two, they can use the defective lens and remove Breanna’s powers, leading them to the non-lethal ending. Phase two, she is mostly stronger than before, but also helped by the doll if the player didn’t destroy it earlier.

Why this? I had the idea of zombies for Breanna for a long time. Again, just thinking about “how could we go further?” But zombies weren’t enough. And then I thought ‘well, there’re also a ton of dead animals there’. I also wanted to find something revolving around the lenses, or rather, glasses, hence the mirrors, and the illusions. As for the cursed plush, we already know witches have some voodoo plushies they use from time to time, so I thought it was a good reference to this too.

Inspirations: Twilight Princess (Blizzeta) / Collector (Hollow Knight)

Mission 7: A Crack in the Slab

Type of horror: Liminal spaces and gothic horror

Enemies: Ghosts. The guards don’t attack the player unless player attacks them first. They have 1 hp and respawn at each time switch. Guards.

Description: The player travels through Aramis’ mind. They must find all the broken memory pieces to restore Aramis’ health and spirit. The player starts with a 45 minutes chrono. After 15 minutes, the level starts to fall apart. The player can use clocks and hourglasses to slow or speed time.

Additional notes: The level falls apart, much like Aramis’ mind. Clocks, hourglasses. Maybe some enigmas. The player still can’t use their powers.

Boss battle: Race against time. The player must travel through past and present to stop the boss – who is TBD still (a strange chimera? And echo of Luca?). To help Aramis fully recover, the player must defeat it. Else, they can either decide to kill him or let him stay insane.

Why this? What better than liminal spaces and fear of the nothing for Aramis? His mind is falling apart, and so is the level. You must be a bit quick into this labyrinth. As I’m writing this, this needs some more thinking, but maybe thanks to a new power (or simply, a better ‘Possession’) you can go to Aramis’ mind instead of just wondering around his mansion. The idea stays the same, but still.

Inspirations: Backrooms / Crys Tales / Poes

Mission 8: The Grand Palace

Type of horror: Survival…?

Enemies: Puppets. The guards are more agile, dodge more the attacks. Guards.

Description:

Additional notes: Show off. The player must repair the false duke and the pieces are all around the palace. Inspired by the royalty and the Game. Some puppets and guards wear masks. There are music boxes in the palace (around the ballroom). Puppet and some bits of flesh.

Boss battle: Luca waits for the player in his ballroom, where they find multiple false dukes dancing with the ‘guests’. They must find the right one and defeat him. They can also be helped by a dysfunctional puppet they must repair first – Armando. Then, Luca twisted and turns into a giant puppet with wacky movements.

Why this? So, this might be the less ‘horror’ one, somehow. Depends on if you are fine with getting surrounded by puppets or not. But why puppets? Because Luca longs for control. He is creating himself a perfect little world where everyone will obey him. And yet, he is one of them, because Delilah is already using him. I had in mind a ballroom, more excessive and unnecessary shows off. He is rich, he is powerful, he doesn’t care about the others.

Inspirations: Little Nightmares / Steelrising (ambient) / Skull kid puppets / Nutcracker

Mission 9: Death to the Empress

Type of horror: Analog horror and strange imagery, a bit of dark fantasy but tiny bit

Enemies: A bit of everything and living paintings. The guards are moving when the player is not watching. The paintings can catch and block the player, attack them or simply scare them. Guards + Witches + Clockworks + Paintings.

Description:

Additional notes:

Boss battle: First, the player fights her outside, but there are other living paintings that attack them. Every weakness moment of Delilah, the player can reunite her with her soul. Then, she runs into her perfect world, the player shall follow her, but instead they find a crying Jessamine. They have a small chat together, until the player realizes it’s Delilah using her powers to stab where it hurts. The player then fights Delilah, but with Jessamine’s appearance. Lastly, Delilah charges a final blow, and statues are attacking the player. They must survive a certain amount of time. Then, the final blow explodes and both her and the player are thrown out of the painting. The player wakes up before she does, and either they decide to kill her or not by messing with the ritual.

Why this? Well, I know analog horror is also about found footage and doesn’t suit Dishonored, but the weird imagery looks just fine for a painter. Also, what about moving statues? Surely this is not new, and not all of them would move obviously.

Inspirations: Mandela Catalogue / A Hat in Time / Layers of fear / Canvas Curse (Drawcia)

And that's ... almost it? Wait, could this be... what's up there???

Epilogue: Secret Meeting

Type of horror: Cosmic horror

Description: If the player found all the runes and bonecharms throughout the game, after the credits they appear in the Void. The Outsider comes to them to talk about their run, their choices, and asks them if they wish to see his true form. Then, the player can decide to fight him.

Why this? Because I wanted to add cosmic horror to the list! And the Outsider is already kind of that, the Void is a space beyond true comprehension and such. I still have to figure out his ‘true form’ as a powerful being.

Inspirations: Lovecraft

AND NOW, that's about it so far! As you can see, some things still need a good thinking and such, to be worked on. I've also started to think about a playlist, but I'm not sure about it yet and this is going to be for later. There'll definitely be more to it, I just don't know when lol.

THANK YOU SO MUCH IF YOU'VE READ IT ALL, it means a lot!!!! 💗💗💗

#dishonored 2 #dagyne_scribbles #dagyne_rambles #horror!au #nightmares from the void #alexandria hypatia #kirin jindosh #breanna ashworth #aramis stilton #luca abele #delilah copperspoon #tw body horror #featured

25 notes · View notes

taissaswifelowkey · 29 days

Text

Yellowjackets watching horror films with you

1996 timeline, all characters aged up!

a/n: im getting along my way on tumblr, unc status is no longer in my list of achievements 😍

warnings: none, but light mentions of blood and lighttt spoilers of the show if you can recognise them. gayyy, yellowjackets propaganda, proofread but there light be lingering mistakes!!

📚 taissa would use her logic and reason upon watching the horror film you set up. she just needs to convince her brain that way her eyes are seeing are nothing but pure, overly exaggerated fiction. but that doesn’t mean she won’t rest her head on your shoulders and hold your hands in a tight grip. and no it’s bot because she’s scared, she’s just cold 🙄 you don’t say anything at all, knowing how she’ll get in conselour taissa turner mode. so yeah, you’ll pull her closer and comfort her, all while ignoring the slight pride you feel at being able to hold her in your arms.

🛹 there are no real chances of you and van completely focusing on the movie. every time you’d either hide in the covers, clinging onto each other, blocking each other’s eyes when a scene is too intense or bloody. once you got so scared from a scene that you stayed up to watch some kids' show afterwards 💀💀💀 but your most favourite part is when she would hold in her firm arms. she’s silly but she knows how to be chivalrous. listen listen, you two would wait for each other in the bathrooms. too scared that some malevolent entity or human is out there waiting to strike after the flush. is it ridiculous? yes but still plausible!!

🕷️ nat isn’t really fased tbh. that doesn’t mean she would not hide her face in your neck though. i know some people perceive her as this stoic person who can handle about anything, but she also has emotions and is just a girl :( you’re just her extra comfort to the movie that’s on. and both of her comforts? she’s in heavennnn. but trust she will pull some sneaky prank in the dark. like drag her fingertips on your arms or outrightly scream at a jumpscare. that little prick :( you definitely tried to payback though.

🪵 shauna will analyse the whole entire film, so you won’t be very affected by the jumpscares. she’s a true letterboxd girlie, will try to come go with a buy literary device to develop her point. she would apologise for rambling but you would just press kisses all over her face, telling her to continue. mostly because whenever she’d turn everything into an essay you’re soooo weak. you hardly even register the screams in screen, your attention focused on her. you focus on her every word, loving how much of a nerd she is.

🦉 we’ve seen misty’s reactions to the rat drowning in the pool…that girl can handle anything gory. from half a detached leg to…full detached legs. it might not look like it but she comforts you whenever there’s an unsettling scene. she would just look at it in awe, before sliding her arms around your shoulders, all “don’t worry it’s just fiction 🥰🥰🥰” a guy losing all his blood? please. that’s barely anything. after this she’ll definitely read christmas carol or something to you afterwards, as if she did not practically compliment the antagonist’s “surgery skills”.

🎀 lottie is too busy feeding you snacks to pay attention the movie. whenever you would talk about it or turn to hide your face from the splatter of gore, she’d be like :( how are you so pretty while you nearly choked on lemonade through your nose. unflattering. not your proudest moment. in fact you apologised while she just shushed your concerns, peppering kisses all over your face and whispering that nothing will ever happen to you as long as she’s there with you. before she’s back to paying attention to the film. that does not mean she didn’t get queasy though. she’s just better at facing these things with you.

🧸 horror movies with jackie? she’s ALLLL over you. like her body is practically slumped on you, refusing to look at the screen. why couldn’t you just…not watch something like a musical? or a sitcom? literally anything but that???? do you want your girlfriend to have a heart attack? so you, being the chivalrous knight in shining armour, hold her. even offer your sweatshirt before leaving, like that “she’ll always have a piece of you”. (you had to convince her to let you go before her parents came back, not wanting to overstay your welcome. it was already four in the afternoon 😭😭)

#Yellowjackets #taissa yellowjackets #van yellowjackets #misty yellowjackets #nat yellowjackets #shauna yellowjackets #jackie yellowjackets #yellowjackets headcanons #wlw #wlw post #wlw blog #lgbtq #bisexual

9 notes · View notes

amhrosina · 2 years

Text

The Great War (Frank Castle x Reader)

MASTERLIST // JOIN MY TAGLIST

A/N: I'm not gonna lie, writing the ending of this was a struggle. This takes place over the course of The Punisher S1 and is a friends to lovers sort of situation. I could definitely see myself writing a second part to this, but I'm not making any promises lmfao this last week before the end of the semester is KILLING ME (i educate middle schoolers pls send help)

Request: heyyy!! could you maybe do a fic with frank castle and the great war by taylor swift? i'm kinda getting a frank vibe with that one 🥹🥹 Request: okay but what about frank castle imagine inspired by the great war by taylor swift? i think that the song suits him so well 😭

Summary: You follow Frank as he deals with the repercussions of faking his death, losing his family, and possibly developing feelings for his oldest friend. (Over the course of The Punisher S1)

(Warnings: friends to lovers, heavy angst (what's new lmfao), Frank gets a lil aggressive when he realizes he's been betrayed, Frank Castle needs therapy, slow burn i guess?, blood, wounds (etc.), cursing, this made me sad and that's why it took me so long to write it lol)

My knuckles were bruised like violets

Sucker punching walls, cursed you as I sleep-talked

Spineless in my tomb of silence

Tore your banners down, took the battle underground

And maybe it was ego swinging

Maybe it was her

Flashes of the battle come back to me in a blur

Frank stood in your doorway, grim expression surely dawning his face. He didn’t remember the fight that had split his knuckles wide open, or the walk to your apartment afterwards, but the sudden appearance of your face in the doorway had brought his thoughts back down to Earth, to his bloody and bruised body. You looked him over, searching him for any external injuries. Frank never mentioned that the real ache was found deep in his chest, where his bleeding heart had been ripped in half the moment his family had been taken from him. You already knew, and you didn’t mention it either.

It was an unspoken agreement that had been in place since the incident. Frank had known you for what felt like his entire life, but really it was only as long as he had been in the military. You had nursed him, Billy, and plenty of other Marines back to health during your stint in the military. Technically, you were an ex-Marine too, but you wouldn’t mention it if you could help it. The military had stripped you of your heart and soul too, and Frank was all too familiar with the complicated transition from Marine to civilian. Therein lies your agreement: you don’t mention Frank’s family, and he doesn’t mention the horrors you experienced together in the military.

With a nod of your head, you turned and led him towards the bathroom, where a triage kit was already prepped and ready for use. You always did have a knack for knowing when Frank would need medical assistance. You began the all-too-familiar process of cleaning his wounds, beginning at the worst of the damage and working your way around. You were quick and efficient, which Frank liked, and you always cut to the chase with your questions, which Frank liked even more.

“You get ‘em?” You asked, dabbing at a particularly painful cut above Frank’s eyebrow.

The concentration on your face was something Frank had grown used to over the years. Being the type of guy that ran into danger headfirst had led him to your medical tent too many times to count. Now, though, there was a noticeable difference in your demeanor when you patched him up. Before, when you were fully immersed in the world of the Marines, you wouldn’t even blink at the site of Frank and Billy covered in cuts, blood, and gore. Now, a hint of concern always hid in your gaze, barely there, but noticeable by someone who knew you well. Frank didn’t think too hard about it.

“Frank? You with me?” You muttered, picking up the stitch needle.

The only response Frank could muster was a small grunt. The night still hadn’t caught up to him, and he had only just begun thinking again. It would be hours before the numbness in his body finally slipped away, making way for the weight of his grief.

“You get ‘em?” You repeated, pushing the needle through his skin and beginning the painful process of stitching the cut up.

“Mhmm.” Frank didn’t nod his head, though he had to actively focus on not moving. He’d done that exactly one time while you were stitching him up, and you’d reamed him out so thoroughly that he was almost afraid to do it again.

You bobbed your head in a quick nod, unwilling to take your eyes off the wound.

“Good.”

You had been unnaturally reasonable when you found out what Frank had been getting up to after dark. It wasn’t even a full conversation. He’d stumbled through your door one night, so woozy from the amount of blood he’d lost that he forgot to take the vest sporting the white skull off. You had noticed it at once, but didn’t mention it until the next morning, when Frank could finally stand on his own again.

“You’re the guy taking out the mobs around the city?” You had asked, sipping your coffee and reading through the literary section of the newspaper.

“Yeah.” He had responded, unable to think of an excuse. He had expected you to kick him out, demand he turn himself in, remind him of the oath he’d taken as a Marine, but you didn’t do any of those things. You simply turned the page of the newspaper and let out a simple, “Okay”.

You never asked him questions about his feats, other than the one you just asked while stitching up his cut. There was always an immense satisfaction that came from being able to tell you that he did, in fact, get them. Frank didn’t trust many people, but you were on his side, and that was enough for him. Even the lonely nights spent in his prison cell were slightly less miserable knowing that he had you on the outside, tirelessly working with his lawyers to exonerate him. When he’d faked his death, you had handled the burial without question, and still visited it once a week to keep up appearances.

You finished the stitches, tying them off and shifting your attention to his bruised and violently swollen knuckles. You softly lifted his right hand into the light, eyeing the nasty cuts that littered his skin.

“Not broken,” you noted, “but you keep fucking ‘em up like this and they will be.”

You lightly cleaned the area with an alcohol-dipped cotton swab, sending a sharp pain skittering up Frank’s arm. A sudden memory from earlier in the night of knocking a guy’s teeth out flashed in Frank’s head, and he winced. He could’ve just shot the guy and avoided any physical injuries on himself, but he liked the adrenaline rush he got when he fought with his fists. The pain grounded him, reminded him of the reason he started this war in the first place.

You softly set Frank’s hand down, picking the other one up and starting the process over again. He watched as you delicately cleaned the wounds, wholly focused on repairing his broken parts. The palm of his hand rested firmly against yours, and he tried to ignore the warmth blooming from where your skin touched his.

Tonight would end like every other night you shared with him. You would ask him if he wanted to stay on the couch and he would shrug your offer off, claiming that he would be fine. You’d tell him to text you when he made it home and he would forget by the time he made it home. You’d call him in the morning, making sure he didn’t slip into a coma overnight due to an unknown concussion, and everything would remain exactly the way it had since he’d known you. Frank was unwilling to give up the repetition of this routine, and you were too afraid to ask him to change.

You drew up some good faith treaties

I drew curtains closed, drank my poison all alone

You said I have to trust more freely

But diesel is desire, you were playin’ with fire

And maybe it’s the past that’s talkin’

Screamin’ from the crypt

Tellin’ me to punish you for things you never did

So I justified it

All that bloodshed, crimson clover

Uh-huh, the bombs were close and

My hand was the one you reached for

All throughout the Great War

Always remember

Uh-huh, the burning embers

I vowed not the fight anymore

If we survived the Great War

You stood in Frank’s doorway, regretting coming all this way in the first place. He very clearly wanted to be left alone, but you knew he’d been busy since you’d seen him last, and you weren’t entirely convinced he was patching himself up correctly. The door was partially cracked, and you couldn’t get a good enough view of his body to tell whether or not he was bleeding all over the place.

“Need something?” He grunted, almost like you were annoying him with your presence.

“Just wanted to check that you were alive.” You tried to play it off like this was a normal aspect of your relationship, even though you both knew it wasn’t. You could count on your hand the number of times you’d been at Frank’s apartment, and you certainly hadn’t ever shown up unannounced before.

“’m alive.” He tried to close the door, but the startled yelp of his name made him pause. He murmured your name, sighing and shaking his head. “What do you want?”

You balked at his tone, confusion quickly morphing into anger.

“What’s your problem, Castle?” You furrowed your brow, suddenly getting the urge to punch him in his nose. You were used to the quiet rage brewing inside him, but he’d never snapped at you because of it.

The sudden commotion of Frank’s neighbors exiting their apartment startled you out of your rage. You were upset, but you’d never be angry enough to draw unwanted attention to Frank. Most of the reason he was able to carry out so many hits was because of his alias, and you weren’t going to be the one to fuck that up.

Frank knew this, but he still gripped your arm and gently pulled you through the door. The soft click of the door shutting behind you was the only sound in the apartment, and it echoed in your ears until Frank finally said something.

“You can’t just show up here.” He had folded his arms across his chest, a signal that he had made up his mind about something.

You eyed his stance and rolled your eyes. “I just wanted to help.”

“If I need your help, I’ll call you.”

You huffed at his arrogant tone, still confused about the source of his anger.

“I know that. I just hadn’t heard from you, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t bleeding out.”

“Like I said. I’ll call you.”

Your patience with him was wearing thin. This was an act that you had seen from him a million times, but you were always a bystander during those interactions. He’d never turned it on you before, and the steady ache in your chest had you suddenly understanding how incredibly demeaning it felt to be on this side of his anger.

“I get it, Frank.” You rolled your eyes again, reaching for the doorknob. “Sorry for caring, asshole.”

“Why’d you really come?” He asked, voice noticeably softer. You paused, hand still wrapped around the doorknob.

“I came because I was worried about you. That’s what friends do, Castle.”

“We’re friends?”

The casualness in his tone wore down on your already thin-as-ice patience. You saw red, turning to fully face him.

“You’re saying we’re not friends? After all this shit you’ve put me through, Castle? What am I to you? A fucking acquaintance? Your fucking personal nurse? Get a fucking grip, Frank.”

Your arms swung around wildly in the air as you spoke, and every breath you took increased the rage boiling in your blood. By the time you finished, you were out of breath and so angry you could barely look at him. His expression was a carefully crafted façade, one that you probably would’ve seen right through had you not been so angry with him.

He didn’t speak, barely even glanced in your direction, and you huffed in annoyance. Why couldn’t he see that you cared about him? That you showed up for him because he was your oldest friend, and that’s what friends do? He was so far up his own ass that he couldn’t see how he was pushing away the only good thing he had in his life right now.

Oh. So that’s what this is about.

The understanding dawned on you, and your rage fizzled out as quickly as it had come. You’d taken his cold demeanor personally when you should’ve realized his true motives from the start. Frank was nothing if not protective and seeing as you were one of the last people in his life that he truly cared about, it made sense that he’d want to push you away to protect you.

“Frank.” You stated, shaking your head. “I won’t let you push me away.”

He tightened his jaw, watching as you slowly moved closer to him. You approached him like you would a wounded animal, carefully as to not spook him. You lifted your hand, hesitating slightly before placing it on the curve of his cheekbone. You didn’t miss the slight tilt of his head into your palm.

“I’ll be fine. I promise.” You murmured, softly stroking his cheek with your thumb.

“You can’t know that.”

The first words he’d spoken in minutes, and it sounded more like an exhausted sigh than a sentence.

“Frank, I’ll be fine.” You tried again, to soothe the ache in his soul. He shook his head, shifting his weight.

“I can’t go after these guys and keep you safe at the same time. I can’t ris-”

“You don’t have to keep me safe.” You tried to cut him off, but your interruption did little to deter him.

“What do you mean I don’t have to keep you safe? My family’s gone.” Frank was practically yelling, and you couldn’t blame him for it. “They’re gone because of what I know. I can’t let that happen to you. I can’t.”

“And what happens after, Frank? After you get the guys, if you push everyone away, what will you come home to? Nothing. No one. You will be eaten alive by loneliness, and it will be your own fault.”

The silence that hung in the air after your outburst was tense, and you immediately regretted saying it. You knew you’d never leave Frank high and dry, not completely, and Frank knew it too.

“If you get hurt because of this, because of me, I’ll be coming home to nothing too.”

You could understand that at his very core, Frank was afraid of losing you, but you had never been a damsel in distress, and you weren’t planning on becoming one anytime soon.

“You have to trust that I can handle myself. I have just as much training as you do. I’ll be okay.”

He closed his eyes as you spoke. You could only imagine the war raging in his head at the moment. He knew you were right, but he also couldn’t tame the side of him screaming to protect you. Finally, he sighed, fully leaning into your palm. He slightly nodded, squeezing his eyes closed at the compromise. If you ended up hurt or dead, he’d probably blame himself for the rest of his life.

“Be careful.” He pleaded with you, voice breaking. “Please.”

He leaned forward, briefly hesitating in his movement before pressing a soft kiss on your cheek. You sucked in a breath, stiffening as a fuzzy warmth bloomed where he had kissed you. You’d never known Frank to be an affectionate guy, other than with his wife, so the turn this evening had taken was completely new territory for you.

You eyed him carefully, not wanting to scare him away before you could figure out how you felt about his show of affection. Tension weighed heavily in the air as you studied his face, which sat mere inches away from yours. Something unspoken, but palpable, passed between the two of you. It seemed like Frank was trying so hard to explain how much you meant to him without actually spelling it out for you. That was a line that he clearly wasn’t ready to cross, and you decided, with a small shrug, that you were fine with that. So instead of making a big deal out of it, you did what you knew how to do best. You shrugged it off and lightened the mood with a carefully crafted joke.

“I’m always careful, Castle. You be careful. A girl can only afford so much gauze.”

It turned into something bigger

Somewhere in the haze, got a sense I’d been betrayed

Your finger on my hair pin triggers

Soldier down on that icy ground

Looked up at me with honor and truth

Broken and blue, so I called off the troops

That was the night I nearly lost you

I really thought I lost you

Life, after what went down with Frank that night, returned to normal for you. You went to work, volunteered on the weekends at VA hospitals, visited Frank’s grave, and saw Frank on an irregular schedule, typically when it was late at night, and he was covered in blood.

Your concern for Frank’s well-being didn’t fade. In fact, it grew tenfold every time you turned the TV on and saw stories on the news that couldn’t have been anything but Frank’s doing. Bad people were dying, and the police hadn’t been able to piece together who was responsible yet, though you guessed that they were probably beginning to wonder if Frank was truly dead.

You remained vigilant when you visited his grave, replacing the flowers that you had brought the last time you visited and clearing any leaves off the gravestone. There was an overwhelming nagging in your gut that indicated to you that you were being watched, but you didn’t want to set off any alarm bells before you could talk to Frank about it, so you kept up appearances.

All of this came to a head one afternoon when you clicked on your television and came face to face with a dashcam video of Frank sliding across the hood of a police car. The mug of tea that you’d prepared earlier fell from your hands, shattering when it hit the hardwood floor. This was bad. This was so bad.

You bolted out the door of your apartment, not fully understanding where you were going, just that you had to find Frank as fast as you could. You searched, to no avail, for hours. Back alleys, rooftops, and any of Frank’s old haunts were searched up and down, and every time you had to move on to the next place without Frank, the disappointment weighed on you heavily.

When the sun disappeared below the horizon, and the city grew cold and grey, you finally made your way back to your apartment, empty handed and frustrated. As you removed your scarf, gloves, and jacket, you eyed a piece of the broken mug sitting on your coffee table. When you’d left earlier, you were in such a hurry that you hadn’t cleaned up the pieces of the mug that had cascaded across the living room floor. There was broken glass all over the place, but you were almost certain there hadn’t been any pieces on the coffee table.

The hair on the back of your neck stood, and you reached for your gun, which normally rested in the inner pocket of your jacket. Your hand grabbed at the air, and you suddenly remembered that you hadn’t grabbed it before leaving earlier. It was likely sitting on your nightstand, where you placed it every time you returned home to your apartment.

“Shit.” You muttered, cursing yourself for blindly leaving the house without any form of protection.

You took a hesitant step forward, searching the living room for any indicators that someone was still in your house. You only got two steps before a sudden movement in the kitchen had you jumping backwards. Frank’s broad figure stood in the archway, and you sighed, immediately relieved.

“Jesus, Castle. You scared the shit out of me.” You placed your hand over your pounding heart, trying to calm it down.

Frank didn’t say anything. He barely moved, and you glanced over at him in confusion, only to be met by his furious gaze. Your confusion grew as you looked over his appearance. He was breathing heavy, sticky with sweat, and covered in some kind of debris. He was also bleeding out of multiple superficial wounds, but that wasn’t the cause of your concern either. His expression, the one that only the Punisher wore, was wholly focused on you.

“Frank?” You murmured, uneasy feeling building in your stomach. You’d never been afraid of Frank before, but you’d also never come face to face with him when he was dawning the Punisher mask.

“Did you know?” He croaked, barely audible. “About my family. Did you know?”

Your confusion grew, and you couldn’t help but stare at his clenched fists. Would he turn them on you?

“What are you talking about?”

Suddenly, Frank was in front of you, pushing your back into the wall. The aggression was surprising, and a spark of fear shot through you like a spring.

“Don’t be fucking dumb. Were you in on it, too? Did you know they were going to hurt my family?” He asked through gritted teeth, pushing your body harder into the wall.

In any other situation, you would’ve pushed back, fought, did something other than stand there and let someone push you around, but this was Frank, and your shock had pinned you to the spot.

“Why would I know they were going to hurt your family, Frank? You think I have mob ties or something?” You couldn’t help the bite in your tone.

“Don’t fucking lie to me.” He grunted, inching his teeth closer to your face. You cowered back.

“I’m not fucking lying, Frank! You’re scaring me! Stop!” Instantly, the weight of his hands on you lifted, and you cowered even further into the wall, unsure of his next move.

You looked up, expecting to meet the barrel of a gun, only Frank was halfway across the room, and he didn’t have any weapons on him that you could see. You stood to your full height, leaning heavily against the wall behind you.

“What the fuck is your problem, Castle?” You barked, watching as he paced back and forth across the broken glass on the floor.

“Billy knew.” He muttered, finally bending down to sit on the coffee table. He hung his head low in shame as you were stunned into silence.

“Billy…knew? Knew what?” You finally asked.

Frank’s voice was a horse croak as he spoke. “It was a hit, staged to look like an accident. They went there to kill my family, and Billy knew about it.”

You didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t blink for what felt like hours. Billy and Frank were best friends, brothers even, and you couldn’t believe the words coming out of Frank’s mouth.

“You think I had something to do with that?” You asked in a whisper, horror creeping through your tone.

Frank rested his head in his hands, groaning in agony.

“No.”

You leaned your head against the wall, looking towards the ceiling as you tried to blink away tears. You knew Frank’s judgement had been clouded by his rage. It seemed like Frank was being dealt blow after blow, and finally, after months of easily compartmentalizing it, he’d finally snapped.

Frank slowly made his way across the room, stopping an arm’s length away from you. He murmured your name as he took both of your hands in his.

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” he shook his head, staring at your intertwined hands, “Did I hurt you?”

You stared at his mouth as he spoke. You’d never heard Frank apologize to anyone before, and you couldn’t help the immense shock that overtook your body for a moment. He murmured your name again, this time more like a plea.

“No, you didn’t hurt me.”

He breathed a sigh of relief, and you squeezed his hands, unsure of the kind of affection he was searching for. You wanted to help him, wanted to scrape the anger and agony out of him, wanted to help him find his old self again, but you had no idea how to do that. Frank wasn’t the type of guy you could fix, and you weren’t sure it was even possible for him to back to the old Frank after everything he’d been through, everything he’d done to get to this point.

“What will you do about Billy?” You asked wearily, unsure if saying his name would send Frank into another fit of rage. Frank was quiet for a few minutes, and you studied his face as he mulled over his options. Even after what was probably a very long day, he still looked handsome. If the situation wasn’t so tense, you might’ve made a joke about it to lighten his mood.

“I gotta get ‘em.” He responded, squeezing your hands for emphasis. “Him and Orange are the only two left. I gotta finish this.”

You nodded in agreement, but his words activated the part of your brain that worried about him. He wanted to finish it, but at what cost?

“And after?” You prompted, searching his eyes for any sign of pending doom. Would he sacrifice himself for this war? Would he choose death if it came down to it? You didn’t know, and you didn’t think you wanted to know.

“After,” he started, gaze flicking back to your intertwined hands, “after, I go home.”

You didn’t know anymore what home meant to Frank, and you were terrified to find out.

And we will never go back

To that bloodshed, crimson clover

Uh-huh, the worst was over

My hand was the one you reached for

All throughout the Great War

Always remember

Uh-huh, we’re burned for better

I vowed I would always be yours

‘Cause we survived the Great War

Home, as it turned out, and for the time being, was your apartment. You’d only seen Frank once since the day he’d been betrayed by Billy, and you were genuinely afraid it was the last time you’d ever see him alive. He had slipped in through the fire escape window as you slept, softly stroking your cheek until you woke.

“I’m finishing it, okay?” He had whispered, pressing his forehead against yours.

In your sleepy haze, you’d surged forward, planting a kiss on his cheek.

“For luck.” You responded, cradling his head in your hands. “Come back to me in one piece.”

He had slipped back out the window before you were fully awake, and it was only then that you realized what you’d said. You’d told him to come back to you, as if that was a totally normal thing to say to one of your oldest friends who was about to carry out a murder in his dead family’s honor.

The waiting was torture. It was hours before you heard anything, and you’d spent most of that time pacing around your living room and flicking through news channels. Finally, you’d gotten a call from Agent Madani, who urged you to prep your apartment for a bloodbath. Frank was alive, but he was severely injured, and you going to have to fix him, which is how you ended up elbow deep in Frank’s blood in your living room.

After hours of dressing, undressing, and redressing wounds, Frank was finally stable enough to let him sleep the pain off. You had found the closest armchair to your bed, pulled it up beside Frank’s resting body, and sat in it to monitor Frank’s condition.

You must’ve dozed off at some point because the grunt that came from Frank’s direction startled you awake. You didn’t know how much time had passed, but the sun had risen, and the sound of New York waking up filtered through the glass of the window.

You surged forward, lightly pushing Frank against the bed before he could lift himself any further.

“Don’t try to get up. You’ll pop a stitch and I think I’ve seen enough of your blood in the last 12 hours to last me a year.”

He looked around, taking in his surroundings. His face was more bruise than skin and you winced at the thought of him getting as hurt as he did. You shuttered thinking about what he had done to his enemies if they looked even half as bad as he did.

“I came back to you.” He murmured.

“Yeah.” You nodded, “But not in one piece.”

The beginning of a small smile formed on Frank’s face but was quickly replaced by a grimace. Everything was going to hurt for a while. You leaned forward, cupping his hand between yours. He watched as you fiddled with his hand, finally bringing his bruised knuckles to your lips.

“I finished it.”

He said it so quietly that you almost missed it, muffled by the pounding of your heart in your ears.

“It’s done?” You asked, meeting his gaze. Your curiosity was begging you to ask more questions, learn the details that he was clearly leaving out of his explanation, but he hadn’t offered them, and you knew it was for a good reason. Frank always had a good reason.

He nodded, running his fingers over your palm.

“I came home.” He mumbled, pressing the palm of his hand against yours.

“You came home.” You mimicked, unable to stop your eyes from watering.

He slowly brought your knuckles to his lips, returning the kiss you’d given him moments before.

“Do you want to stay?” You asked, mostly out of habit, but also because you were really hoping he’d say yes when you asked this time.

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.” The corners of his mouth lifted into a grin, and for the first time in over a year, Frank Castle was able to rest.

Tag List:

@xleiaorgana @mukbee @dilfs5678 @kokoterainonago666 @blackwidownat2814 @mymamalife @minervadashwood @emiemiemiii @h4rrys @messymissy @mylifeispainandiloveit @mossexe @fightmilk @spikedhe4rt @fictional-hooman @merleisapartygod @babyslyth @legocity2 @quackson03 @certifiedhunter @deliciousfestsalad @dumb-fawkin-bitch @alexxavicry @hallecarey1 @km-ffluv @chiaraxtargaryen @trulylavandedarling @D0wnbad @deliciousfestsalad @lilyevans1 @imagineadream @22carolina08

Join my taglist!

341 notes · View notes

thereareeyesinsidethetrees · 4 months

Text

@callernumberthree sorry, it ended up taking a lot longer than expected!

so, for those of you not in the know, it was requested of to make a post about my gravity falls x slay the princess au thing. slay the princess is a good game, you should check it out (though be warned for gore and death and body horror)

anyway, everything’s under the cut!

let’s get the basics out of the way first-

-there are technically two endings that are canonical to this. i don’t know their actual names, but they’re the ones where you become a god and the one where you leave the cabin with the princess

-this au is centered around ford and stan. ford takes the role of the hero, stan takes the role of the princess (this will be explained in just a bit)

-the long quiet and the shifting mound are separate from the stans. this will also be explained in just a bit

-the echo is a shattered splinter of bill, left over from the memory gun. he does not know who he is, nor does he really know who ford or stan is. ford does not recognize him either, because of how fragmented bill is. he wants to kill stan because stan killed him, even if he doesn’t remember it. he knows that there’s something more to the situation (the shifting mound and the long quiet), but he’s really only using it as a motivator for ford

-the voices are technically also fragmented bits of ford. every time he dies, and things reset, it causes another version of him to appear. different timelines, different dimensions, different multiverses, who knows really? all i know is our friend voice of the smitten has been changed. his entire thing is that he is in love with the princess, but that doesn’t work for this au. instead, i think it would be interesting if he’s the only version of ford that can truly recognize stan, aside from the hero. the hero is the true ford, just as the true stan is trapped in the basement

-stan does change with each splitting path, too- or the reflection of him being puppeted by the shifting mound does, anyway

alright! now for the explanations i promised:

why is ford the hero (and the long quiet)?

-voices/multiverse connection

-harassed by manipulative entity that wants him to violence

-‘do this or the world ends’

-the long quiet fits him better in general

why is stan the princess (and the shifting mound)?

-it’s all about perception. stan is very much based around others perception of him. it felt like it fit. he has many masks (and maybe, just maybe, ford can find the true face)

why are the long quiet and the shifting mound separate from the stans?

y’know how possession works? yeah, so it’s sorta like that, but not. the physical bodies belong to the long quiet and shifting mound, they are made of them. and yet, they are ford and stan. ford, the hero, tags along the journey and gives his thoughts and can influence the actions of the body to some extent. stan is the face of the shifting mound, and envelops its personalities. he is not the shifting mound, though, and ford is not the long quiet

this is what it really comes down to- everyone wants different things

the echo, the fragment of bill, wants stan to die. he will do whatever he can to get ford there, even though he has no idea who either of them are

the long quiet and the shifting mound want to reunite, even if takes a while for them to realize that’s what they are and what they want

ford and stan? they just want to stop killing each other, for fucks sake. they’re not even entirely aware of what’s going on, but stan doesn’t like mauling ford and ford doesn’t like stabbing stan

it goes like this: ford awakes on a forest trail on a starry night. he makes his way down the trail, at the persistence of a certain voice, and comes across the shack. inside he finds a knife. in the basement, he finds his brother. in the end, they kill each other, no matter what they choose. it goes like this again and again, until ford and his multitudes are faced with the mirror and discarded upon the long quiet viewing itself in it. it looks like ford. it meets the shifting mound, holding a vessel. it looks like stan

this goes on again and again and again and again and again until everything shatters

ford, the hero, finds himself at the heart of it all. his body, the long quiet, finds itself enveloped in the all encompassing presence of the shifting mound

ford, leaving the knife behind, journeys into the basement and finds stan- the true stan. he offers a hand. his brother takes it. at the same time, the long quiet and the shifting mound join hands and shed their skin, then their muscles, then their nerves, then their blood, then their bones, until nothing remains of what used to be their vessels. they don’t need them anymore. they are everything and nothing. they are all and none

ford leads stan out of the basement, and then out of the shack, and then they are free

12 notes · View notes

rotworld · 11 months

Text

17: Rotten Fields

(previous)

jamie's advice on how to deal with a querrow comes in handy.

->sexually explicit. contains gore, noncon, non-human genitalia, spiders, terato, body horror, mentions of breeding, mentions of hard vore, religious content.

The shift came shortly after you fell asleep. It trickled into your dream, hissing and viscous, pouring fractals into the void. There were stars but they were inside out and strings of unwound clouds. The thing in the dark said nothing but there was pity in its great eye. An aurora curved tenderly around you.

In the morning, Jamie talks with the doctor. You’re given a bottle of anti-parasitic inhibitors to take by mouth twice a day. It’ll help, he says, but it’s not a permanent solution. You get changed out of the hospital gown and Jamie is quiet, looking out the window into the foggy parking lot. You expect a fight, an argument over what’s best for you, why you should stay.

Instead, they ask, “Where did you want to go?”

Anchor is east, says the heart. Nelton is south, says the divine. “West,” you say. “I need to go west.” It feels important. More than a delivery, more than homecoming, this is something you have to do. “What are you going to do?”

Jamie frowns, brows furrowing in confusion. “Go with you, obviously.”

“I thought you’d want to get back to the University.”

“Not unless you’re going.” They shrug and look out the window again, frown deepening. “The last couple shifts had barely a day or two between them. That’s extremely unusual.”

“You sound worried.”

They look up at the sound of your approaching footsteps and smile. They kiss your hand with the same desperate tenderness as yesterday. They’re right; the last few shifts came quickly. It feels like you’ve been on the road together for months now. “I am worried. Because I know you don’t care. You’re going to get back out there either way, so I’d better go with you,” they say.

Intimacy between you is easy, almost automatic. Jamie kisses you and it’s chaste, fleeting, just a quick peck on the lips, and it makes your heart flutter. The thought of them leaving, of an empty passenger seat, leaves a sick feeling in your chest. “Yeah,” you say softly, “I guess you’d better.”

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: BLACK MILK BY MASSIVE ATTACK]

Routeless driving is dangerous. You have no way of knowing how far it’ll be before the next town, if there even is a town. Some roads go nowhere. Couriers don’t talk about it much but you know it’s something most of you do at one time or another, a pilgrimage made in the wake of disaster. Your mourning is done across miles. In the absence of home, the road will always welcome you.

“I think I’m starting to get it,” Jamie says. “The road, I mean. It’s not like anywhere else.” They have a textbook open across their lap, an enormous hardback with creased, dog-eared pages and a worn spine. Drift parasites of every shape and size adorn the pages. “The last few days have been awful, but…we can always just leave. We’re doing it again, right now. It’s freeing.”

“Sounds like you’ve got courier instincts after all,” you say. “Most people would call it running away and say I do it too much.”

“Of course they say that. They have a home to go back to.”

The terrain becomes hilly, the road rising and falling over frozen waves of asphalt. You see open plains in the valley ahead, swaying green and gold. You see rows of corn and tomatoes, a patch of eggs growing in grape-like bunches. Spun hay bales dot the landscape. A weathervane squeals atop an old but well-maintained farmhouse, a truck parked off to the side.

“You don’t think of the University as home?” you ask.

Jamie smiles bitterly. “I don’t remember what ‘home’ is supposed to feel like for us. I have a house there. I have family, you could say. The other flukes have always looked out for me. I don’t feel like anything’s wrong, really. Just that…maybe I’m not done looking. That’s the home that was chosen for me, but I didn’t choose it.” They look away, guilty. “I’m sorry. That’s insensitive. You didn’t choose your home, either.”

You shake your head. “No. But maybe I should. Maybe we all should.”

Something stirs inside you; a flutter in your chest like a second heartbeat. The God of Nelton tries to lure you back into its comforting embrace, every pulse filling you with waves of warmth and adoration. “You chose me, angel. My love. My paradise. You chose.”

You didn’t choose. You were desperate and grieving, too heartbroken to fight back. And as angry as you are, as violated as you feel, you do feel a shred of sympathy and understanding. You saw those boys in the church. You felt their fear. “Home wasn’t kind to you, either, was it?” you murmur. You think of Compass Hill more and more these days, how much of an anomaly it is in the Drift and how unfortunate that truly is.

“I’d like to tell you not to feel bad for that thing, but then I’d be a hypocrite,” Jamie sighs, leaning against the window. “So much for a worm-free zone, huh?”

“Are you jealous?” You mean it as a joke, but you find Jamie leering at you through their lashes, a sharp and hungry expression you’ve come to associate with the influence of the fluke.

“‘Jealousy’ would imply a desire to have parasitized you myself, which is inaccurate,” they say. “No, courier. I am not ‘jealous.’ Simply lamenting missed opportunities. I respect your refusal of fluke implantation. I admit, it makes you more difficult to predict and manage, but I—we would have you no other way.”

“That’s sweet in a weird way.”

Jamie laughs and starts to say something, but the thought is cut off mid-sentence. Your gaze follows theirs down the road further to a frightening, familiar sight. The road is wrong. It splinters off in a dozen directions, circling back on itself, curled in impossibly tight spiral turns. You notice, increasingly, the rotten smell of death but you don’t see anything. You’ve passed several unremarkable farmhouses and there’s another ahead, a red barn behind it. You don’t see the typical signs of abandonment or subsequent Verlindan acquisition; there is no equipment lying forgotten and rust-speckled in the field, no crumbling roofs or gaping, glassless windows.

But it is quiet, you realize. No one seems to be home. There is no one in the field or the barn, no animals roaming the pastures. A full harvest waits on stalk and stem. Some of it has gone bad, unpleasant notes of musk and rot laced through the alluring fragrance of fresh vegetables. If something happened, it was recent.

“Anchorware malfunction?” you wonder aloud.

Jamie sits up straighter in their seat. “Pull over,” they say urgently. “We can’t use this road.”

There’s nowhere else to go. You pull over beside the wooden fence running the length of the field. The air is strange here, sticky somehow. “Something’s not right,” they say. They’re out of the car and hopping the fence without another word. You rush to follow, shoving your way through the cornfield after them.

“What do you mean not right?”

“That’s twice now that we’ve seen this kind of malfunction in just a couple days. I don’t think I’d even heard of anchorware failing for decades before this.” Jamie hesitates, waiting for you to catch up. They look nervous. They grab your hand before they start moving again. “I didn’t want to say anything before, obviously. You were already having a bad day. But I’ve dealt with people from the anchorware labs a few times before. I don’t trust them.”

You reach the edge of the field, stepping out of the corn and onto a dirt path, heading up to the porch of a two-story farmhouse. The exterior paint is old and flaking but there are ripe pumpkins on the front steps, neatly-trimmed shrubs beneath the windows. Jamie knocks on the front door and waits, glancing back at the road.

“I tried to get to Anchor for years and never could,” you say. “It’s not just the tunnel. Every road into that city has the same malfunction. That seems…”

“Deliberate,” Jamie nods. “That’s what I thought, too. Odd for a company so concerned about the spotless reputation of their product.”

This shouldn’t be the way to Anchor, though. This is another place, the outskirts of a city if it even is one, falling victim to the same problem. You’ve heard anchorware has a built-in alert system. That’s how repair technicians respond so quickly, even without anyone reporting malfunction. Did it just happen, too recently for anyone to respond yet? Is it too remote for them to care?

Jamie knocks again, harder this time. You don’t hear any movement inside. “Nobody home,” they mutter. “I was hoping we could ask someone what happened. This is a worse malfunction than the tunnel. We might need to drive through the field, just to be safe.” You both notice a slightly flattened portion of the field behind the house, tire tracks splattering blackened stalks of corn. Jamie walks alongside the tracks with a pensive expression, pausing now and then, closing their eyes. Sensing the way out, you assume. You’d rather not be alone so you jog after them, pausing at the sight of another trail.

They’re not tire tracks, but something did pass through and drag over the crops. You see gouges, something narrow and slightly curved raking through the earth, and the broader shape of something being dragged. They start near the house and curve around it, the dirt recently disturbed and cracked.

Crumbling, you realize too late. Unstable. A trapdoor entrance disguised with loosely packed dirt. You don’t get the chance to fall. Something surges up from below, something sharp slices your leg, and you are dragged down screaming.

Everything is pain and confusion, the world dark and spinning. Your skin scrapes raw against hard, snaking roots. Your head knocks against sudden turns and tightly-packed mounds of dirt as hard as concrete and you groan, disoriented and dizzy, unable to tell up from down. The pain in your leg gets worse with every dragging movement that pulls you further You weren’t just cut, you realize, you were skewered through the thigh. Something speared you through the flesh and now it drags you like bait on a fishing line deeper into the depths. The smell of blood is strong. You feel it, both freshly slick puddles and old, sticky scabs, lining the narrow passage.

Eventually, you hit the bottom. The landing is hard and agonizing. You feel like there’s an enormous, serrated knife stuck in your leg, shredding skin and muscle every time you flinch. It moves just slightly and you scream, blood gushing on the underside of the wound where the pointed tip pierces the ground, keeping you anchored to the spot.

Something jabs you in the side. It feels like a bite, a quick puncture that makes you wince but is over thankfully quickly. Numbness spills across the side of your body and spreads quickly to your limbs, cool at first and then boiling, hot enough to make you start to sweat Your breathing evens out and your heartbeat slows even as fear overtakes you. Your head lolls back into the dirt.

Something clicks and chitters above you. You hear something moving; the crunch of soil, the leathery squeal of something thicker than skin creasing. Hot breath fans across your face. There is something right in front of you. Close enough to kill you, if it really wanted to.

“Yessssss,” you hear, an animalistic hiss. “I have you. I have you, destroyer. You are mine.”

Hands caress you—human hands? Not quite, you think, close but too long and spindly, the skin smooth like glass and hard like bark, the tips pointed like needles. And too many. One is on your face and one is on your neck and one is tugging at your shirt, and there are more still groping and fondling. The more you try to struggle, the more the numbness spreads.

One of your hands flails weakly, brushing against a body that is nearly human. Bony shoulders and broad pectorals; a long abdomen with strange, thick protrusions down the sides, bony but flexible growths that shiver when your fingertips graze against them. One flexes and the pain in your leg intensifies. A limb, you realize. A leg. The footsteps you hear are like the driving of a stake into the ground, weighted, heavy, but the point of contact is small. You wish you could see anything in this subterranean darkness.

A burrow, you realize. That’s what this is. It laid a trap, struck when you got close enough. You never saw it coming. Jamie told you about these, you think. They’re called querrows.

That spreading numbness and the feverish heat building beneath your skin must be neurotoxin.

“Why return? Arrogance. You are weak now. You are helpless. You take from me. You take and you take.”

The sharp appendage driven through your leg suddenly wrenches loose with the wet, ripping sound of your flesh tearing open wider. You have just enough strength to sob quietly. The wound is gaping, blood puddling underneath your body. You’re starting to understand that you aren’t really numb. You still feel everything from the uncomfortable grit of the ground under you to the blood sticking to your hands. Too old to be yours, too far from your leg. The rusted stench of slaughter fills your nose. You are far from the first to end up down here.

“Now,” the querrow whispers, voice lilting with glee. “Now you will give.”

You try to scream. You try to beg. You try to crawl in any direction. All you manage is a slurred murmur and a slight twitch. It lifts you easily. Turns you over, leaves you face-down in the dirt without regard for your comfort. It’s a monumental struggle to turn your head far enough to avoid suffocating against the ground. Suddenly, it’s gone. Not far, but its hands vanish and you hear it pawing at the soil behind you. Digging? Burrowing deeper?

Help me, you beg the God of Nelton. You can’t do this alone. Can it move you? Can it burn through the poison in your veins? You feel a surge of helpless frustration. It can’t. It has tried. It has made your eyes a beacon of holiness but this thing cannot see well enough to be swayed. It is sad and afraid and angry at itself, thinking of home, of Malachi, of all the faithful. It has never been so far away, it admits. It didn’t know, didn’t realize the dangers of the world. You feel it twist itself up like an angry snake, but there’s no time for guilt or regret or self-flagellation. You need help.

“I will bring you salvation, angel. I will not let you die.” You can feel it unfolding across space, a cry echoing into the dark. It’s looking for Jamie’s fluke. You just have to hold on until it can find them.

The scraping sounds stop and something looms over you again. “P…please,” you manage. You can’t get all the sounds out properly, can barely understand yourself. “Don’t…don’t…”

Something stabs the dirt so close to your face that you feel the air shift and smell the stink of old blood right in front of your nose. “Please! Don’t!” it mocks you shrilly. It rakes its claws over your head and takes a fistful of your hair, dragging you head off the ground and making your scalp burn. “I am to listen to these sad sounds, am I? Why would I owe you my ear, destroyer? Why, when you would not lend yours to my kin!”

You have no idea what it’s talking about. Someone else must have been here recently—someone it feels has wronged it. “Not me,” you mumble. “Don’t…don’t know.”

You’re making it angry. The hand in your hair starts to pull and you are dragged across the ground, bruising and bloodying your knees, tossed against a mound of earth that digs painfully into your stomach. Is this what it was doing? Not digging, but shaping something from the soil? You can’t figure out why until it shoves you forward and you’re draped uncomfortably atop the mound, your head bent uncomfortably against the ground and your lower body elevated. Claws rake your back and your clothes unravel easily. It doesn’t undress you so much as it rips what’s in its way.

Sharp hands grasp your hips, yanking your legs apart. Your heart skips a beat. Jamie said they’re vulnerable, but where? On the legs, you think. Something about the exoskeleton being flexible, moving around when—

when they’re about to mate.

The querrow sinks its claws into your shoulder and you choke on a whimper, feeling yourself splitting apart on the sharpened ends of its fingers. “Did you think I would forget your scent?” it hisses. “How could I? You have been gone so briefly your smell still lingers.” It moves all around you, skittering limbs piercing the rocky walls of the burrow. Anchoring itself, hovering just above you. You inhale shakily at the sensation of flesh against your back, all segmentation and strange, bumpy ridges. This part of its body is far wider than its chest, easily eclipsing your entire form. It rubs clumsily against you. You feel the same rigid sharpness that pierced your leg return with gentler attention, dagger-point limbs arranging your lower half with surprising dexterity, hiking your hips slightly higher.

Smaller limbs, the length of your forearm and curved like fangs, clamp down on your waist. You hear a cracking sound followed by that same leathery creaking. The querrow slides itself up and down your back until you feel a damp spot along your spine. You mistake it for blood at first, something that rubbed against your injury, but its thicker than that. Slime-like, dribbling from an opening in the querrow’s body. Another back and forth motion, settling more of its weight on top of you, and you feel something emerging from that opening. A warm, wet pressure. A tapered head and a throbbing length of flesh covered in fleshy bumps and knobs.

“Do you plant the eggs of your kin, or do you lay them?” the querrow rasps. Its cock keeps emerging long after you think it should be done. It’s long, impossibly long, its heavy girth slapping heavily along your back as it shifts again, repositioning. It pulls back and then lunges forward, its enormous length stabbing between your thighs. Your heart skips a beat. That thing can’t go inside you. It won’t fit. You won’t survive. “Let me tell you a secret, destroyer. It does not matter.”

It rocks forward and even outside of you, without penetrating, the movement is brutal. Its body shoves you forward, grinding your stomach painfully against the mound you’re bent over. Its length is slick with the same disgusting slime that trickled out of it and all over your back, and you notice a tingling sensation spreading wherever it touches.

The legs. You have to hit its legs. You can feel them, their soft undersides where exoskeletal plates folded away, but you can barely lift your head. The querrow rocks back again and that thin, tapered head slips past your entrance. It growls. The grasping limbs on your waist lift you just slightly. The next thrust is a sharp jab that knocks the breath out of your lungs. It doesn’t miss this time. The tip of its inhuman cock punches inside you and it’s almost more than you can take. It hesitates. You feel it stiffen, hear it moan.

“You will…make me a father,” it grunts, its breathing labored. You’re begging for mercy, trying to scream with a constricted throat, as it lunges forward. More of its monstrous cock forces inside. You wouldn’t be conscious if its strange, sticky fluid wasn’t numbing your insides, soothing every scalding movement. It fucks you like it’s trying to kill you, every thrust a vicious stab. You’re full, beyond full, bulging around its hot, twitching flesh, and it’s not even halfway inside. “Your flesh will bear my eggs and feed my young. Your blood, their milk. Your bones, their nursery.”

Its body sways and your hands clench weakly into fists as you’re stretched even further, its cock churning your insides. To your horror, the ridges ringing its length rub against your inner walls in a way that sparks pleasure at the base of your spine. It shouldn’t feel good, none of it should. But every predatory lunge and softer, teasing thrust, every small movement it makes is accompanied by whispers of pleasant friction. It’s deep enough to touch things that make your toes curl and your eyes roll back in your head, deep enough to pound against them mercilessly. You don’t think it knows, don’t think it even cares, but it has you shivering and whimpering under it.

The legs, you think dimly. You need—need to do something. Need to—to do something, but you can hardly think. The querrow settles into a predictable rhythm; back and forth, in and out, and then it pauses, swaying back and forth in a gently rocking motion that you are ashamed you push back to meet with your hips. It makes you relax and let it in even deeper, that line of bumps along its cock dragging by that spot one at a time. It makes your mind go blank.

“You smell willing,” it rumbles. It breaks rhythm to reward you, a slow, circular grind against your hips making you whine and arch your back. “You break easily, destroyer. Look at you. So eager for my eggs and my seed. Why did you ever leave when you were made to be a querrow breeder?”

There is a voice in your head that is screaming, calling you angel, angel, my angel. It says you have to fight but the querrow pounds into you again, pumping another thick, viscous load of numbing liquid into your abused entrance. It says you have to run but the querrow is swaying its body and you are swaying with it, your mind melting from the sweet, filthy praise and the strangely soothing glide of its appendages along your sides and back. It says Jamie is up there waiting for you—

Jamie. The name is like ice water down your back, sudden clarity. Jamie said its legs are its weak spot. You can move but not well, not with precision. You don’t trust your legs. You might need to crawl out of here. You’ll only have one shot, you think, because the second it realizes you’re not paralyzed it’ll bite—sting—whatever it did before. You have to put everything you have into this strike and claw your way to the surface. But you don’t know which way is up, or which way is out, or how—

The querrow slams into you, the pleasure just edged out by pain. You ask the God of Nelton to guide you. The next time the querrow halts its merciless pace to grind softly into you, you lean slightly, feel where the nearest leg is—thick with a soft, fleshy underside right where it connects to the body—and you kick as hard as you can.

The sound the querrow makes leaves you momentarily deafened, your ears ringing for a long time after. It’s nails on a chalkboard amplified, a screech like a car crash echoing all around you. You feel it collapse because the whole burrow shakes from the impact, legs flailing, a claw raking your side as you make yourself twist and turn and get up to run.

Your legs give out after barely a few steps but you crawl, bruised hands and bloodied knees into the dark. The God of Nelton is your eyes, a steady voice in your head tells you where to go, when to turn, urging you onward even when your wounded, weary body wants to give up. You feel things—soft things, dead things, wet and rotting—but you have no time to think or worry or linger. You make yourself crawl until the tunnel starts sloping gently upward, and then sharply, yanking on snaking tree roots and stones lodged in the earth. A speck of light shines like a single star overhead.

Below you, not far behind, there is an enraged, earth-shattering screech. The burrow quakes with terrifyingly swift movement, a dozen long, graceful legs sprinting right for you. You know you can’t outrun it and you can’t outclimb it and you’re dead if it catches you, throwing yourself forward, higher, pushing through the acidic burn in your legs, the crackling heat in your lungs, your palms scraped raw and bloody, your nails breaking on the crumbling wall of dirt in front of you.

A hand catches yours just as you start to slip. Jamie hauls you out of the burrow so fast your heart feels like it’s in your throat. They sling your arm over your shoulder and then they’re running the best they can with you half-dragging beside them, shoving through the barn doors and out into the pasture. Your car is running in the middle of the corn, driver’s door hanging open. Jamie shoves you into the passenger seat and lets you handle the door, sprinting around to the driver’s side. Rotten corn squelches under your squealing tires.

You hurt everywhere. You twist around in the seat trying to find a position that doesn’t send searing agony up your spine. Jamie looks sympathetic but doesn’t risk taking their hands off the wheel to soothe you, too focused on navigating out of the field and the anchorware malfunction.

You look back just once, a quick glance in the rearview mirror. There is something in the field but it doesn't follow beyond the crops. An enormous spider-like limb pricks the ground, hesitates, and slowly retreats back into the corn. The thing must be the size of your car.

“You’re on thin fucking ice,” Jamie says sharply, making you flinch. “But yes. I am grateful.”

There’s a warm sensation in your chest, a proud little squirm from the God of Nelton.

(next)

#rotpeach writes #goretober #the drift

26 notes · View notes

bee-barnes-author · 4 months

Text

Writing Share Game

tagged by: @tabswrites

tagging: @johnna-oneal-trash-writer @jezwrites @milkhoney531 @violeaes

fuck it, here's the ENTIRE FIRST CHAPTER of my upcoming book, 'THE BEAST IN THE GLASS HOUSE'.

Anticipated release June 10 2025

Trigger Warnings: Misogyny, gore, body horror, graphic descriptions of murder and violence, abuse through controlling food, emotional abuse, emotional manipulation, allegorical rape, abuse of bodily autonomy, rape revenge.

Chapter 1

June

The first time I see you, I fall in love instantly. At the butcher's counter, ignorant to my stare at your back, you ask the clerk, “Can I get a pound and a half of ground beef? Ten percent fat, please.” I can’t pinpoint what it is about you exactly, but I can’t look away.

I’m not finished shopping, nowhere near, but when you take your cart to the cashier, I can’t help but follow along. There’s two couples and their full carts between us, giving me cover so I can watch you. You’re careless with your personal information, and say your phone number out loud instead of typing it into the pin pad. Thanks, in part, to my condition, I have a fantastic memory. This means I don’t need to scramble for a pen to write your number on the back of my hand.

I pay for the rosemary sprigs and half dozen eggs that are in my cart, and make my way to the parking lot. If you’re still here, I can catch your license plate tag, too, but I don’t want to make a fool of myself by rushing outside. A small part of my brain wonders why I’m so immediately connected to you. It’s not your looks that stole my breath away, though you aren’t lacking in that department by any means.

It’s something about your spirit. Something about the way your energy rolls off of you in waves, and crashes carelessly through others. I swallow down an eager, “Aha!” when I spot you in the parking lot, half folded into the trunk of a white Subaru. You deposit your armload of groceries, straighten, and close the trunk.

The way the sun glints off your hair stops me in my tracks. Then it hits me. You’re my mate. Oh. Of course you are. Finally. I’m on the older end of thirty. Until now, it felt like I would never find my perfect other half. I’m so stunned by the realization that I forget to note your plates as you drive by.

I know how that sounds, okay? It’s not like that—I’m not a freak with ill intent. I am simply a man in love, who has access to a wide variety of resources. One of those resources is a man named Mister Chance. He finds people for me. I don't ask how he does it; I don’t care either. All that matters is that he gets fast results and covers his tracks.

Instead of going back inside the grocery store to get the salmon filets I had originally planned on picking up, I go to my car. Once I’m home, I make two calls. One to Mister Chance and the other to a nearby sushi restaurant. I order a deconstructed sushi bowl with an extra serving of seaweed salad and a large side of fried calamari. My personal chef is off for the evening. I promised Elijah he could enjoy his date without interruption, and I intend to uphold my commitment.

Mister Chance is quick. Faster than the delivery boy on his moped. I’ve learned your name before I even have my chopsticks cracked open. Freya Moore. It sounds like an alias but Chance promises it’s God-given.

I have your address. The numbers dance across the computer screen as I stare. According to the map, you’re just over thirty minutes away by car. It takes every ounce of restraint I have to stop myself from going to your home right now. I want to discard my dinner and wait outside your window with a boombox like a love-struck idiot.

But I don’t. I eat my dinner and listen to Mister Chance tell me about you. You’re young, but that can’t be helped. Love is love and you’re, quite literally, my soulmate. Fortunately, twenty-two is a perfectly legal age for me to date publicly. I’ll learn to ignore the inevitable ribbing I’m to get from Elijah. Anyone seriously bothered by the age gap can fuck off, for all I care.

Sushi bowl in hand, I pace the length of my third-floor bedroom. My skin itches like it’s the night before the full moon. It’s been a long, long time since I had to battle for control over my instincts like this. I feel like a teenager again. Every nerve inside me screams at the distance between us. I need to be close to you.

My mind keeps rushing to catastrophic disasters that you could suffer while away from the safety I offer. Dozens of irrational scenarios that I can’t stop conjuring. Are you giving me an anxiety disorder, Freya? Is this what loving you feels like? I take a moment to pity your ex’s before I wish death upon them for touching you. No one will touch you but me from now on.

The only exception will be our children. A thrill sings down my spine at the thought. You will rebuild my pack. My perfect human mate. We’ll be the pride of the west coast again. An exemplary family that lycans across the nation will look up to.

My phone beeps. Mister Chance follows up our phone call with an email detailing everything we already discussed and much, much more. Including your work schedule, a digital clone of your phone so I can see everything you do on it as you do it, and access to your desktop computer if I want it. Hell, I can even sit in on your therapy appointments. I shoot a message to my assistant to let him know I won’t be in the office tomorrow.

I’ll be busy learning about you.

I finish dinner reading through medical files from your childhood. You had a suspicious amount of broken bones and emergency room visits all chalked up to youthful clumsiness. Apparently, you grew into your limbs and developed grace around fourteen because those visits stopped. Coincidentally, that was also around the time your father died from taking a nasty tumble down the stairs. They found no signs of foul play. Good for you.

For the moment, I set thoughts of you aside and go take a shower. I do my usual thorough routine, not skipping a step. I’m in no rush. Unless I’ve got a woman with me, I only take cold showers. Men like me, we run hot. Things get sweaty, so I take two showers a day to avoid stinking.

I crawl between my sheets with a smile on my face. Tomorrow, after breakfast, I’ll take a drive to see you.

Goodnight, darling.

***

The next day, blinking against the harsh morning sun even behind my sunglasses, I stand across the street from your place. There’s a Starbucks within eyeshot of your apartment building. I stop by for a black coffee. Of course I pay with cash. The timestamps on your bank statements imply that this is the place you get your morning brew when you’re in the mood for something more complex than black coffee and almond milk creamer.

You’re already two hours deep into your workday at the costume shop by the time I take my first sip. It’s not good but not bad either. I’ve just had better. My machine at home makes a much better cup.

I’m waiting for your roommate to leave while I read about her on my phone. Cindi Song—twenty-one, about to turn twenty-two in a few weeks—a full-time waitress in a full-time sports medicine program. A hard worker if ever there was one. I appreciate people with work ethics like Cindi’s. Her file mentions she’s in daily contact with her mother. Her mother also regularly sends you two small gifts she finds while online shopping.

I hear the barista's stomach digesting her breakfast. Gas bubbles in her gut. The sound travels like rocks through a tunnel, but I’m the only one that can hear it. Phlegm crackles in the throat of the old woman ordering her drink. The smell of the burned milk invades my nostrils and I take my not-good-not-bad cup of coffee with me to sit out in the sun. Ever since I saw you, my senses have heightened to a painful degree, like I’m subconsciously straining to find you at all times. I feel raw and on-edge. Normally, I wouldn’t give a shit about the mild noise inside the shop, but you’ve knocked me off balance.

Before long, Cindi opens the front door to your shared apartment. She’s in form-fitting athleisure wear with her big backpack protruding over both of her shoulders. She’s pulled her shiny black hair up into a high ponytail that bounces rhythmically as she jogs to her car.

I wait twenty minutes before I get up, toss my mostly full cup in the garbage, and jog off in the opposite direction that Cindi drove. A full block down, I cross the street, then make my way through the back of the complex to your unit. Casually, I walk to the sliding glass door on your patio and test the lock. It doesn’t budge. Good. At least you’re smart enough not to leave this unsecured.

It’s easy for me to grasp the handle with one hand, and grip the opposite edge of the glass with the other. Then all I have to do is lift it and wiggle it for a moment. I glance around as the lock pops open to make sure there aren’t any eyes on me. As far as I can tell, I’m in the clear, so I slip inside and slide the door shut behind me. Blinds and curtains closed, I’m left in a dark living room.

Even from out here, it’s easy to tell which room is yours. I recognize your scent from the dozens I came across at the grocery store yesterday. Your sweat smells like onions and musk. I love onions. Your room is tidy, but could still use a good dusting. I spy your bed pressed against the far wall. It’s dressed with a set of spring green sheets and a canary yellow blanket.

You have two pillows, and a giant stuffed husky dog resting at the top of the bed. Laundry detergent wafts up from the cotton sheets. It’s clear you washed your bedding in the past few days. I sit on the edge of your mattress and take the room in. You have two bookshelves. One is chock full of novels, mostly fantasies and thrillers. You’ve organized them by color. You stuffed the second bookcase with manga, and different gaming devices take up the remaining shelf.

In front of your window is your desktop computer. It’s a cheap gaming rig, but you have decent enough monitors that I don’t feel the immediate need to replace them. When you’re mine, you’ll have the best of everything. While I’m thinking of your shopping list, I decide to buy a sliding door lock and ship it to you under Mrs. Songs’ name.

I can’t do that until I have a key, though, so I head out of your room and into the kitchen to search the drawers. The website for your apartment complex stated they give one key per tenant over the age of eighteen, plus one to have as a spare before they charge for extras. I just hope you haven’t already gone through your free copy.

The universe must be thinking good thoughts about soulmates because I find it in the first drawer I open. Glued to the thick cardstock that was stamped with the apartment logo was the very key I wanted.

After I tuck my shiny new key into my pocket, I leave through the same sliding glass doors that granted me entry. With my keen eye for detail, I scan your home one last time to make certain I leave the inside of your apartment as close to the way I found it as possible. Speaking of your apartment, I hate it. As I leave, music pumps from your neighbors' unit, despite it being before noon on a weekday. Marijuana and tobacco smoke stink up the air. You’re surrounded by losers and dropouts. Useless members of society. As soon as I can, I’m moving you into my home. And if I can’t get you to move in with me, I’ll put you up in a penthouse downtown.

Never forget that your mate is a very wealthy man, my sweet girl. I won’t claim to be the wealthiest man in the world, but I know for a fact I’m quite high on that list. That much money gives me access to a frankly obscene level of influence over the world.

And yet my pack is weak.

We are fifteen men strong, but just that- we are only men; even among those chosen few, I’m the only born werewolf. I turned the rest of them over the course of the past decade as they proved their worth. It takes a spectacular amount of self control to turn someone. Vampires have it easy. All they have to do is share blood, stop the initiate’s heart however you please, then bury the corpse and wait for the fledgling vampire to rise in their own time.

Werewolves have a much harder time propagating our species. In order for me to turn a human into a lycanthrope, I must attack them. A single bite won’t do it. They have to be mauled so viciously that their immune systems crash, thus allowing the werewolf virus to infect them. Even then, it’s not guaranteed. The initiate must survive the fever and their injuries.

It’s better to allow the infection to spread over the course of a month, where it will grow to its ultimate form under the light of the full moon. This allows the initiate to adjust physically and mentally to their new bodies and new instincts. As the alpha of my pack, I take the month to bond with my new beta.

I bring them to my family’s estate in the mountains where we once had a very lucrative silver mine. Believe me, the irony is not lost on me. A family of werewolves that owns a silver mine? Ridiculous. Yet, own it we do. Of course, we had none of our kind down in the mine shafts themselves. We kept them above ground where they wouldn’t die of silver poisoning just by breathing the air.

The veins have dried up in the past thirty years, so now the property is used to contain newly turned wolves. Even though it’s only us out there for hundreds of miles, I don’t let my wolves run around, causing havoc. Until they’re under my control, and won’t lose themselves to their instincts, they stay in the mines on full moons.

If they don’t submit by the end of the first night, I break their will before the moon thins. I do not allow any wolf to deny my status. If they are in my pack, they bend to my whim. Loyalty is an utmost priority. If they can’t commit to the pack, I rip their hearts out. Fortunately, I’ve only ever lost one new wolf in such a manner. The fifteen other men I’ve turned so far have become integral to my way of life.

They’re all employees of mine. My driver, my private security team, my home chef, my doctor, my lawyer, and the two groundskeepers that stay year round on the mountain to manage the estate and keep the property in shape are in my pack.

Born werewolves like me are rare. Our mothers are humans, but come from lycan bloodlines. Meaning they carry the werewolf gene. Then, when combined with our werewolf father's genes, we born werewolves greet the world, kicking and screaming. You don’t seem to come from a lycan bloodline, but deep in my gut, I know you’ll provide me with lycan children.

A handful of blocks away from my destination, I pull a KN-95 mask out of its plastic wrap and stick it on my face. Then I put a plain dark blue baseball cap on. I tie it all together with a pair of thick wire-rim glasses.

As a werewolf, my eyesight is better than the best human's. The lenses are just for show. I don’t want you to recognize me later when I truly introduce myself. I want you to fall in love with a stranger who sweeps you off your feet and leaves you aching for more.

What can I say? I’m a romantic at heart.

I park my car outside of the business next to Costume Avenue. You’re visible through the front windows, even though you’re tucked towards the back of the shop. I have a clear line of sight. That must have been on purpose.

Half the reviews on Google are about you, so I don’t doubt that you’re a large draw for business. It makes sense your boss wants you to be easy for customers to find from the front door. Not many places have a full time historical customer on staff and your work is more than worth boasting over. For example, recently, an up-and-coming starlet wore one of your gowns to the Oscars after-party.

If you hadn't left so fast last night, perhaps we could have hit it off naturally. Your timing is off, is all. I have to admit, as impatient as I am to be with you, I appreciate the opportunity to learn about you. I didn’t become the rich and powerful man I am today by jumping the gun and rushing into things. In business and in love, I need to keep my wits.

I can’t wait too long, though. If I’m too slow to act on our soulmate bond, the possessive animal in my blood will lash out. I might wake up one day on your porch, naked as the day I was born, my wolf having brought us there to paw pathetically at your door while I was sleeping.

The double doors of the building are wide open to welcome in both customers and the cool late spring air. There aren’t any heads bobbing around inside aside from yours. You get up from your sewing chair to stretch and take a walk around the building, tidying shelves and racks as you pass them. You stand in the doorway to glance at the parking lot and your gaze passes over me as if I’m not even there. Good.

Your cell phone rings and you glance around for customers. Seeing none, you answer it. Your smile makes you look younger. “Hey! I can’t talk for long. I’m at work. What’s up?” I hear you say as a greeting to whoever is on the other end of the call.

A woman's voice says, “I’ll be quick. Shaun wants to know if I can cover his shift Saturday night, so I was hoping we could have girls' night Friday night instead?”

You tilt your head slightly in thought and make a wincing expression. “Saturday is two for one at the Forty-Five, though.”

“Please, Freya?” The woman wheedles, “I’ve been trying to get an in with Shaun for so long! This is my chance!”

You roll your eyes. “You cover his shift at least once a month.”

“But I can feel this time is different! I’m so close to getting into his study group I can taste it.”

You laugh, and it’s musical. “Okay, fine, but you’re buying the drinks.”

“Deal!” Your friend is grinning. I can hear it in her voice. “I’ll see you there at eight?”

“Friday night. Eight o’clock.” You agree, and the two of you exchange goodbyes before you hang up.

I’ve never been to The Forty-Five, but I’ve heard about it from my men. It’s supposed to be a respectable sort of place, and quite expensive, so I understand your hesitancy to agree to full priced drinks. You won’t have to worry about that, though. I’ll take care of you.

I start my car and drive back to my house. I think it’s time we meet face to face, and what better spot to fall in love than on the dancefloor?

7 notes · View notes