#mechanical gore is a thing of beauty

[lesbianmechpilot]

Girls are easy. All you have to do is say something like "I wil tear out your wires and braid a leash for you from them." Or, "Your chassis will look so beautiful when it crumples under me." And they will fall apart in your hands.

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Androids Walter & David x Reader x Neomorph

Walter, the android monitoring the colonization ship 'Covenant' on its way to Origae-6, seems to have gotten unnaturally attached to his human assistant. As he ponders his erroneous feelings, an unexpected detour brings them to David, an older android counterpart that has been alone on the mysterious planet. The AI assistants become increasingly competitive for (Y/N)'s attention, so much that they don't notice the newly formed humanoid local preying on a fresh target.

TW: violence, gore, monster smut ending

[Horror Masterlist]

"Burnt to a crisp." 

You turn away from the captain's pod, leaving the rest of the damage assessment to the medical crew that has been reanimated. You speedily make your way down the sterile white corridors as Walter rushes to catch up. 

"What should I write for the report?" he inquires politely.

"Malfunction." You glance back at the synthetic. "I suspect someone will be fired for this. And someone else will have to explain how they failed to detect a literal star collapse. That neutrino burst could've killed us all."

"Highly probable. The draft has been compiled, you may check it at any time. I require your confirmation to send it."

Your only feedback is a barely audible hum. 

Walter smiles. If there's one good thing about such tragedies, it's that he gets to admire your reactions to them. Your focused, calculated gaze, your determined walk, your automated mannerisms that won't allow the slightest hint at the fact you just woke up from your stasis moments ago. Even under the veils of deep slumber, your neural networks shot rapid connections, with no delay, from the second your sleeping pod received an alert. The accuracy of a robot.

That of course doesn't mean he lacks appreciation for your other facets. That's the beauty of humans; their depth, their dimensions. Unlike AI machinery, humans do not have predetermined actions. They may be genetically programmed to possess certain characteristics, but the psychological mechanisms are shaped by so many variables, billions and billions of tweaks and nudges, to the point where it's impossible to have two identical specimens. Even twins will display a difference, whether in preferences or habits.

They say artificial intelligence is a black box, but can the same concept not be applied to humans as well? At the very least to Walter himself, these organic beings represent a mystery. One he doesn't particularly care to uncover outside of his service functions. Except for one. 

His eyes carefully follow (Y/N)'s movements. What is it about this one that has caught his interest to such degree? On his last system update he attentively inspected every file and every block of code, searching for potential errors that would've caused his circuits to behave so oddly. He has been invested with the ability to form attachments, otherwise assigning his kind to groups or purposes would've lacked stability. Attachment, however, comes with a threshold. One he has passed a long time ago when it comes to (Y/N). And he cannot find any cause for it. 

He could, naturally, solicit the aid of the ship's robotics expert. He could. He should, even. But if he may be frank with himself, Walter rather enjoys this sensation. A complex web of spores that keep growing and evolving into something unpredictable. This bizarre feeling he has towards (Y/N) makes him feel human. It brings him closer to all the old literature and art he'd consumed over the years, wondering what the love and yearning often portrayed could be. The printed letters and the strokes of paint were right before him, at his fingertips, and yet they felt foreign. Empty constructs, nothing more than a definition out of the dictionary. 

Now it's a different story. Your presence alone floods him with a mysterious warmth. He had investigated this phenomenon when it first happened, but his inner thermostat showed no real change in temperature. Nonetheless he can feel it. It makes him wonder what other feelings he might experience as consequence. What would happen if he kissed you? Sometimes he even dares to imagine downright outrageous, improper scenarios. How unprofessional of him, but he is careful to erase any evidence. It's another novel sensation that he likes to dissect. Engaging in such activities with you fills him with tingling excitement. Why is that? What is there to be excited about? It's merely a collection of fictive snippets. Unless... Ah, absolutely not. This is where he has to stop in his tracks and preoccupy himself with something else. Androids are not to interact with humans in that way. 

But it's becoming more and more difficult to keep these ideas in his mind only. 

"It's too dangerous. One human signal in the middle of nowhere?" Daniels, a short haired woman with a tomboyish but youthful appearance, is pacing back and forth. "We should just continue on our course."

"It's our duty to check. Look: we go, find whoever sent the signal, bring them back up. That's it. If the planet proves to be dangerous we'll stop immediately. We'll be fine." Oram stands at the head of the table, arms crossed. He turns to look at you. Already cozying up to his newly acquired captain role, you think.

"Alright. Walter, prepare a small landing party. Have Tennessee maintain orbit while we're down there." you glance at the other crew members that have now gathered around the same table. "And get your weapons ready, we don't know what to expect."

And you certainly didn't. Your final words of warning now echo into your ringing ears as you lay on the ground, face buried among the grass. There's screaming around you, but it sounds muffled. Your eyes are irritated by the dirt and you'd like to blink the grime off, though every time your eyelids lower, you can see the pale creature trashing out of Hallett's mouth. Then it's all foggy. Your vision blurs, but you can hear. The gurgling of blood, the screech of the parasite. Walter's frantic footsteps nearing in your direction. You're lifted up.

"Vitals are positive. No significant damage." 

You can guess from your peripherals that another crew member is currently being mauled by the beast. There's gunshots in your vicinity and terrified wails. You quickly come back to your senses and stand up. Your hand searches for your weapon, but the android places his arm before you.

"Do not engage, (Y/N). It is an unknown parasitic organism of this ecosystem. Keep your distance for optimal safety and I'll take care of the rest."

"What are you talking about? They're dying! Your task is to ensure human survival, Walter. I can handle myself, go help the others. It's an order." Your voice is low. You're distracted.

"No."

You stare at the synthetic, wide eyed. Did he just...refuse? Not possible. 

"What did you say?"

"I said I'll protect you. Nothing else."

Your mouth is slightly parted in disbelief. It is not possible for an artificial assistant to disobey a superior. It just doesn't work. Your mind races to find an explanation. At the same time, you cannot afford to ponder on hypotheses. You draw out your weapon and point it towards the creature. You'll deal with this later. 

The moment you press the trigger, a blinding flash of light detonates in the sky, startling you. The creature scrambles to get away. You squint your eyes and nearly fall back, but Walter swiftly grabs your shoulders to ground you. He scans the area for the source. It's an emergency rocket and someone else must've activated it. As he traces the tail of the explosion, he spots a hooded figure across the field and onto the rocky ascend. It seems to have noticed Walter, as it gestures for them to follow. Without hesitation, the man firmly locks your arm and pulls you after him. The priority right now is to find shelter.

"Come!", Walter exclaims, suddenly remembering the other people. 

You reach a cave structure that has been converted into a crude, improvised human settlement. The man lowers his hood and you gasp quietly at the sight. He strongly resembles Walter. He must have noticed your surprise as he flashes you a cordial smile. 

"I'm David." He studies Walter's features. "You must be a newer model. What name have you been given?"

"Walter."

"I see. And you are-" David extends a hand towards you for a handshake, but Walter steps in front of you, blocking the android's gesture.

"She's (Y/N). I'm afraid I cannot yet trust you."

"Understandable." 

David's smile widens as his eyes, now bearing a strange flicker, switch between you and Walter. He's just like him. He can sense it. Although it's a different kind of flaw that has tainted his pure, artificial soul. He cannot help the curiosity that blooms, gazing at this peculiar pair. What is it about this human that caused his fellow machine to break conduit? He'd like to know.

"I'm certain you will soon learn I am no threat, (Y/N)."

The remaining members of the expedition are unpacking and discussing evacuation plans with the base, while Walter sends the data he has gathered so far. You let them deal with the logistics and cautiously wander off to the neighboring rooms, wondering what David has been up to all this time in isolation.

The walls are plastered with photos and handwritten sketches and diagrams. You catch a glimpse of the word "pathogen" sporadically inserted across these notes. As you walk along the sequence of cramped chambers, you reach one that has a table in the middle. Upon it rests the body of an autopsied woman, vulgarly opened up to the world with plump organs bulging under the warm light. You feel nauseous. And yet, you examine the carcass further, hoping for answers. Was she also a result of the same disease that breeds on this planet? Perhaps this David had worked on a cure, or at least developed an explanation. 

"And you, even you, will be like this drear thing, A vile infection man may not endure; Star that I yearn to! Sun that lights my spring! O passionate and pure."

You jolt and immediately turn around, finding David in the doorframe. 

"Flowers of Evil. Are you familiar with it?" he asks, indifferent to the uncomfortable shock he'd caused you with his sudden entrance.

"I've read my Baudelaire, yes." You manage to mumble, dumbfounded. "What is this, David?"

"Oh, my poor, dear Elizabeth. Victim to whatever blasphemy lurks these soils and has taken your friends as well." He approaches the table and places his hand on its hard edge, shyly overlapping with your own fingers. "I did my best." 

You remove your hand from underneath his nonchalantly. 

"So you know what those creatures are. Leave the literary comments for a different time, I need concrete facts."

"Unbothered and to the point." the blonde android smiles once again. "I can see clearly why Walter loves you."

You click your tongue at the ridiculous statement. Has the neutrino burst damaged their positronic brain? Everyone is acting off and you don't like it. 

"Your circuits must have gone defective, David. We have a specialist on our ship, but until that happens I need you to focus. Enough nonsense." 

 "Typical arrogance of a dying species. Why are you on a colonization mission if not to grasp at some promised resurrection? Rest assured that my functioning has not been impeded by anything. What is erroneous, on the other hand, is your perception of androids and their limits."

Just as David reaches for your wrist and pulls you closer, a familiar voice interrupts with an intimidating tone. You're relieved. 

"I will ask that you release her hand only once." Walter has a weapon pointed towards his counterpart. His face is clouded by a frown. "I have no ethical restrictions when it comes to incapacitating machinery."

"Such noble obedience! Although, you conveniently left out the part where you abandoned the remaining crew with a dangerous alien that has been tracking their scent. By my approximation he should already be here and I am rather confident you know this, too."

Your stomach drops. Now that you adjust your focus, the background humming of your mates talking has indeed vanished. The only thing you can hear is your erratic breathing.

"Is it true, Walter?" You demand as dread begins to form in your body.

"Yes. It was not part of my priorities."

"Of course it was, Walter." David responds ahead of you. "One of them was the acting captain and he is to be rescued in emergencies. This one right here", he says as he dangles your wrist, "is several ranks lower than all of them. It's against any standard practice."

"Release her hand." Walter's voice is eerily calm.

"Do you love her?"

Walter ponders the question. Your legs barely hold on.

"I do."

"Marvelous. So do I." David grins. He releases your hand that falls limp next to your body. It's his turn to step in front of you. 

You nearly choke from the thick tension expanding in the air. The two androids face each other and you retreat to the wall, unsure how to proceed. You left your radio transmitter back at the makeshift camp. The back of your head is itching, as if invisible claws are scratching at the bone. You wish you could go back, just mere hours before this disaster, when you were sipping on your lukewarm coffee and explaining the captain's jokes to Walter. 

Should you make a run for it?

You bite your lower lip and push yourself off the wall for momentum. You're about to reach the archway when you hear both men shouting almost identically in chorus.

"Don't!"

The surroundings outside are dark, but you can discern something blocking your path. It's tall and resembles a human. Translucent, pallid skin is clinging onto the massive, deformed skeleton. The head is elongated and bears no features. In the place of a mouth there is a large, fresh stain of blood, so you assume it can somehow improvise if desired. As your head tilts back to take in the image, you're overwhelmed with terrified amazement. Is this the parasite that emerged from your teammate? Has it grown to this colossal size in less than a day? The idea of such instant development makes your head spin. 

Its chest is expanding at regular intervals in a whistled breathing. It occasionally creates an odd clicking sound that resonates with your heart throbbing in panic. Has it been seconds? Minutes? Your neck creaks as you try to look back. You lock eyes with Walter. You don't recall ever seeing this expression on him. You had even asked him once if androids can feel fear. You have your answer.

"Hey, Walter..." you blurt out. 

Wet noises of flesh being pulled back. The smooth surface of the alien's head is folding away, making space for grotesquely big jaws lined with sharp teeth. Your anemic face is splattered with burning drool as the creature claws you in its grasp and abruptly sprints away. Your screams for help dissolve in the distance.

"Where is it going, David?" The synthetic's words are threatening, but betrayed by a hint of despair. 

"It won't kill her."

"How do you know?"

"It is no longer hungry. It has fed on your crew, and now it seeks something else."

"Such as?" Walter becomes impatient.

"A plaything."

The alien finally drops your body to the ground. You cough and wipe your face, attempting to reorient yourself. The trip was a whirlwind of jumps and turns and you can barely reconstruct anything. Based on the little spatial clues you could pick up, it just climbed further up, into one of the many cave systems. You pat your clothing and curse to yourself. The geolocation tag must've fallen somewhere on the way here. You can only pray that Walter still finds you somehow. Despite everything, you know he has your back. Always. 

You shudder at the moist feeling of hot air against your skin. The alien seems to be sniffing you intently, analyzing your scent. Yet so far it hasn't killed you. Why? Long, bony fingers stretch out to continue the examination. You whimper at the rough, rugged handling. Every now and then it takes a long pause, just staring at you, almost as if it's comparing you to its own being. Lastly, it lifts your hand with its own, pressing against the palm, and fans out the fingers. It observes the gesture with intrigue, noting the similarities. 

Does it evolve after its host? You think back to your crewmate that must've ejected this monstrosity before drawing their last breath. Perhaps the dried up blood adorning its skin is a remainder of its birth. Oh, God. The world is spinning.

Suddenly, you wince at an increasing pressure slithering around your thigh. The alien's vertebral tail is tightening and encircling your limb, making its way up. 

"Oh no, no no no no" your face reddens at the realization and you pounce on the ground, feverish for escape. The large hands secure you in place and the creature growls in protest. It won't let you leave. 

Not until it had its fun with you.

[screamingcrows]

Start Carvin' Darlin' - Dottore x f!reader

Note: I've never suffered this much anguish just to make a single bad pun. I do want to write their first encounter buuut we'll see if it ever happens. Bear with me, I know it makes little sense. By all that is important- please heed the tags.

~7k words

Tags: dead dove do not eat, nsfw, dark content, fem!reader, cannibalism adjacent thoughts, manipulation, coercion, noncon, drugging, medical malpractice, power imbalance, age gap, somnophilia, sexualised dissection, fingering, needles, blood, gore, dacryphilia?, drowning, no aftercare, thoughts of death, thoughts of murder, brief choking, no pleasure for reader, Il Dottore centric MINORS DNI - I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH

There were few things, and even fewer people, Dottore would consider faithful companions. The world had made clear that nothing could be trusted and any gesture of kindness was bound to come at a price. The rest were blind to their perils. After all, so long as it was woven tight enough, even a tapestry of lies would be beautiful.

Hunger was different in that regard. Its claws had always nestled deep within his flesh, ripping through muscle and sinew to carve out a space for itself. He'd known every flavor it had to offer, from light tingles creeping down his spine to the dagger that had been lodged and twisted between his ribs, unbearable when he'd dragged himself through the scorching dunes that refused to be a home.

His eyes flickered to the scalpel held loosely in his gloved hand, the light reflected in the metal devoid of warmth. There was no real reason to wear them, the broken husk atop his table served no threat, and contamination from himself was a wholly irrelevant concern to the present analysis.

Force of habit was what he reasoned, the motion of putting them on coming almost as naturally as shushing the commotion in his, their, mind. There had been quite enough of that lately, only worsened by his own souring mood. Cutting the link off for the day would be best for them all.

That torment and the hunger accompanying it was but a faint memory now. Much more vivid were the tendrils that had coiled around his gut so long ago and punctured the fragile organ, leaving holes that would never be filled no matter the knowledge he devoured.

Every form of craving was a base need that Dottore had long since catalogued and archived in the back of his mind, giving him control whenever they surfaced. Desires were a potent tool when wielded right, something to use and then push away, a drive he'd discovered far more difficult to replicate mechanically.

What good was fear of decay to something that had never truly been alive?

It wasn't before you entered his life that Dottore understood what it meant to be truly starved. Four weeks. That was how long you'd been gone, a speck of dust compared to his solitary existence. It would likely be another two before you returned. Living as a famished man had been all too easy before the taste of sunsettia lingered on his tongue in the dead of night, the sweet fragrance in the air cloying despite every window letting in the frigid Snezhnayan air.

Ichor poured forth from the incision, rich in color as it stained everything in its path. Light reflected across the surface of the syrupy liquid, creating millions of constellations one second and replacing them the next. How would it feel on his tongue? Look running down your throat? It enveloped his fingers in a welcoming embrace, spilling over the edges as it made way for curious probing.

Crimson eyes refocused under the mask, shattered remnants of crystalline mimicry laying separated from the sharp casing. Rarely did a delusion crack. Even in death, the poor thing still clutched it with fervor. Each delusion was a testament to progress, every shard a strict reminder to never grow complacent. In time, he'd examine the shards for impurities, but for now, the cold flesh bearing the consequences was his priority.

Selfishness ingrained after hatred burning too brightly, his recklessness had long since settled into carefully calculated moves. Still, the temptation of your flesh had been too much. By no means were he a weak man, yet the promise of warmth in the otherwise cold halls had caught him unaware.

It's lungs were expanding almost desperately to accommodate the growing pressure of death upon the air. That was another faithful companion, silent and ever watchful, no doubt waiting for the most opportune moment to strike. The ashen skin was beautiful and had he known no better, it would've seemed obvious to write off the limbs as carved from stone. But there was no reasonable way to make that assumption, not with how the remaining muscle still moved under his touch. How it stretched when tugged. As tenderly as a lover, the sharp metal severed a piece to call it's own.

It hung from his palm, no longer part of anything that could have held importance, the tempting pink that was so familiar tainted by a vulgar discoloration, no doubt caused by the elemental energies it had been forced to absorb.

It bordered on obsession with how his thoughts would always circle back to you. He'd seen that color in the bruises he left on your body, in the plums you so enjoyed, pearly whites ripping through the skin and piercing the soft flesh underneath. You were always messy, with juices running down your chin while you perched so prettily on the cold metal tables of his workshop, nodding along to anything that left his lips. His eyes focused on a single drop running down his arm, deceptively anonymous in origin if seen in isolation, it might be a believable substitute for licking sweet nectar from your lips. He wondered if you were still as sweet as your favorite fruit. If it would sate the longing that gnawed at his insides the same as your presence did.

"Lord Harbinger? I- please excuse my intrusion, I'd been led to believe you weren't otherwise occupied."

You'd come to him as a wide eyed recruit, having had the misfortune of being made a cog in their machine. Such had become the fate of most, ironic that all they would see accomplished in their lifetime was trading who held the reins of their suffering. His wooden doors had creaked on their hinges as you tried to be discreet, trembling and clumsy with the salute, clearly still trying to come to terms with this new fate. You were everything he'd despised; weak, helpless, naïve, and so willing to throw yourself at whatever would have you and keep you safe. It fed something selfish.

"I am always busy. Quit wasting my time and state your purpose."

"I'm supposed to report for a health examination before they finalize the recruitment…"

Under normal circumstances, he'd have punished a disturbance like that, especially when paired with such ignorance. A medical exam. That was what you inquired about, and while he knew it to be true that every acquired asset must be examined, it was laughable that you'd fallen victim to some superiors directing you to his space.

Dottore had been in a good mood, finding himself willing to entertain the misunderstanding, if nothing else, it had provided a good distraction from the failures that had haunted him. Not even an hour after you'd left had he requested your transfer to his command, deeming you suitable for a few impending projects.

There was nothing sentimental left in him, all that had been forsaken, turned to dust when he broke himself into pieces. That was the truth as he willed it.

Another chunk of red left the body on his table, nimble fingers peeling back a layer of epithelia to trace the vessels that permeated it. They too had been contaminated, their walls glittering preciously in the sharp light. Steady hands held a syringe filled with water, letting it perfuse the artery before he gingerly collected it. A sample of blood for purification would be necessary as well. A pity the body had been left long enough that tracking the spread of energy would be useless through the crimson liquid, tissue damage would be the most reliant evidence.

Nothing remained of his past self, the parts that still clung to a desire for belonging, not satisfied by only the unity of ambition. It had been your eyes that revived it, looking upon him as if he held the sun in his palm and brought forth the dawn. As if he held all the secrets that would bring salvation.

Undoubtedly, you were one of the healthiest subjects to find themselves on his tables. And that was the justification he'd used that first time his hands had roamed the expanse of your skin, checking for any deformities and writing down scribbles on a sheet of parchment. It was both to placate your nervous mind, betrayed by the wobble in your lips and fidgeting hands, and to record your initial state, in case an opportunity to bring you back regularly and monitor any changes presented itself.

His fingers pushed inside, pliant flesh parting around his digits and swallowing them whole. It was a mesmerizing sight, his free hand twitching briefly before mindlessly wandering to unclasp his mask, as if the removal of it somehow made the wetness now coating his fingers glisten all the more. A shuddering breath passed his lips, forced out by the growing pressure in his chest as he remained unable to pry away his eyes. How utterly beautiful a sight it was. Unable to hold back, his fingers spread out to better stretch the opening, viscous liquid slowly oozing out as he engaged his other hand.

"a-ah I don't think that-"

"Good, keep it that way, there's no need for you to think. The more you squirm around, the longer this will take. Although, from the sounds you're making, it almost seems as though you are enjoying yourself?"

"No I'm.. Hurts.."

"Relax for me then."

Dottore had wondered since that day whether you were truly that clueless, or if you'd excuse yourself with the anxiety he'd seen choke your thoughts so often since. While he could grant you the benefit of doubt concerning the implications of his title, surely you'd know that a Harbinger had far more important obligations?

Entertaining whims had a habit of bringing more trouble than the brief euphoria indulgence could ever warrant. That had been his first mistake pertaining to you.

A flick of his wrist and the liver was easily removed, threads of adipose tissue clinging to the engorged mass as if unity would somehow save it. How tragically still it all was, the clockwork driving it forward had long since ceased operating, leaving only obsolete parts in the wake. The liver had been discolored, electro particles having seeped into the matter, it was made even more noticeable by the crisp white fabric it came to lay on. One of the segments could prepare biopsies from it, check if the energies had disrupted or otherwise changed the structures.

They already had an understanding of elemental overloading in organic matter, but it was a rare chance to observe internal damages caused by high loads over a short time rather than the prolonged use cases of their regular agents. Dottore had come to understand that no matter his insistence and want for knowledge, the soldiers wouldn't carry their dead with them, and he hardly had time to waste collecting material himself, no version of him did. Not with how close they were to their objective.

You had understood his desires and promised to try. The distaste had been palpable in the slight twitch of your eyes and wrinkled nose. It was the desire to try that fed his hunger. The silent promise of wanting not to understand, for how could you ever, but believing when he said the benefits were worth the hassle.

That he was worth the hassle.

Ah, how lovely you were. Keening moans and gasps of his name feeding into his budding obsession. The sounds had been enough to distract him from the churning feeling in his gut, barely able to handle how warm your insides had been, how tightly you squeezed his fingers. The feeling reminded him of reaching into a bed of roses, thorns puncturing his being and forcing his breath heavier.

It had been nothing but slow, languid movements, meant to explore and not fulfil, the sweet pleas that left your lips were simply a tacked on bonus. Dottore could only hope that you were left aching and wanting far more than him and that you hadn't seen how his cock had strained against the front of his pants, throbbing in tandem with your mewls. It was unbefitting.

"Two doors down the hall, on your right. You should fix your attire, it wouldn't do for a recruit to look as disheveled as that on their first day."

"I will, Lord Harbinger, and thank you… Did you fill out a form or something I should bring?"

"Consider this a preliminary inspection, the actual one will be done by a physician two doors down the hall."

How unfortunate that those The Mayor promised a better future were also the ones who would never see it come to fruition. They gave their lives, some more willingly than others, for a reward they could never reap. It had already caused a disease to run through Snezhnaya's people, unrest and distrust filling the veins of their nation instead of the wealth and prosperity they'd been assured would come. Dottore had found it most useful in handling you, a little taste of false certainty accompanied by the promise of power to protect yourself. Your gaze had rested upon him with nothing but devotion.

Another chunk left the body on his table, almost tossed aside without the faintest hint of grandeur, the heart was of no use to them This was far from his preferred medium, more durable constructions would always be at the forefront of his interest, yet there was still appreciation behind his mask at the delicacy. It had stopped the moment a flash of electro singed the nerves. He briefly wondered how its now blighted lifeblood would feel atop his tongue, would it prickle? Burn the roof of his mouth?

How he longed to taste yours again, feeling the tension in his jaw at the memory of biting a little too hard, that's what he'd called it anyway, an accident. In truth, he would not hesitate to drain your blood in seconds, the thought of your reliance on something apart from him made a feeling better left unidentified carve a path through his lungs, leaving the structures to collapse without air.

Every time his hands had touched you, tears had been rolling down your cheeks. How long before you learned that compliance was the logical path, that he wanted to gag every time his hands were forced to harm you?

Threats of missions far above your qualifications kept you in line for the most part, pliant enough that the restraints kept for livelier subjects rarely saw use.

Despite his best efforts to keep everything under wraps, Tartaglia had grinned brightly, not a care in the world when he'd approached, having the gall to simply barge in, to inquire about what promising new people he'd taken on. 'It had barely been a week' was what he argued, commenting how surely you must be something special to rouse The Doctor's interest so. Any reaction to his taunts would simply play into the ginger's hands, a game he was always surprised the young man knew how to play.

Something wet slid down his wrist, immediately drawing his attention back as he pulled his hands from the bloody mess. His lips curved downward, observing exactly where the edge of his glove had been pushed down, leaving the marred skin beneath vulnerable. With a huff, Dottore stepped away and discarded the gloves, letting cool water rinse away the icky feeling now writhing under his skin.

"Come now, Doc, why won't you let me have a friendly spar with you newest acquisition? It's so rare for you to take a special interest in anyone, surely you can understand why I'm curious?"

"That is exactly why. She shows promise, and I cannot have you breaking her prematurely."

"That's a promise then! When the time is right!"

"Get out, Tartaglia."

"I heard she's been coming in for regular 'inspections', you have to admit, that sounds a little unsavory. Does she actually think you're a real physician? Oh I know, tell her you studied medi-sin."

"That was an order. Out, now."

The water in Snezhnaya had an edge to it, as if pieces of glass were contained within. It left one feeling raw and aching despite no physical proof persisting. If it did, his hands would've been torn open days ago. There had been too many small mishaps lately, too many times he'd needed to cleanse himself after his mind had wandered. Despite how clearly the words echoed in his mind, no part of him would admit to their truth.

You'd done this to him. You'd instilled in him a weakness, a beast that wouldn't let him rest when you were gone.

A soft knock followed by the click of a lock behind him cleared his head in a flash, clean gloves swiftly tugged into place with newfound anticipation bubbling under his ribs. None of his segments knocked. No one else had a key. His body remained still, awaiting an announcement from the intruder, willing patience to persist even if the idea of feeling your skin under his uncovered palm was clawing at his muscles to move them.

"Doctor, I don't feel so good," weak and pitiful was the voice that reached his ears, it should've made him recoil.

Instead, Dottore found himself struggling to keep his movements languid, the image of a predator barely conserved in the slow turn of his head. He had no doubt you'd be scared if you could see how his eyes lingered upon your silhouette.

"You're making a bad habit of returning in a state of disrepair, there is only so much I can do to keep you patched together. Disrobe while I clear a table."

It would be a shame to discard the rest of the opened body already, there were still so many secrets to be pried from its cold grasp. Perhaps he could get you to-

No.

You would adamantly refuse, already he could sense the unease rolling off of you in waves at the putrid stench of death. Instead, the remains were wrapped tightly and brought to an adjacent room, the air misty from the cryo applicator installed inside, ensuring it could rest unaffected by decay while he tended the living.

A chuckle passed his lips upon seeing the way you were eyeing the metal surface as if it'd dissolve skin and bone. The sound alone was enough to stir your body, movements stiff as you sat on the edge. Such obedience was an admirable trait, one that would make the investment well worth it when he would one day enhance your form. He would. That's what he had to tell himself, even if the thought of peeling back your skin and rewiring everything inside was tied so intimately with an odd sense of loss.

"Finally…" his words had no real bite, only mild impatience.

Still, you hid yourself from his gaze, shoulders slumped and arms wrapped around your chest. As if he hadn't seen it all already. Dottore let himself take a moment to simply rake his eyes down the shapes constituting your body, careful to let none of the flames eating away at his insides show. Would you be able to discern it in his eyes should he discard the mask? Light fingers traced down the mock beak, briefly contemplating if he should let you try, it would be nothing but torture no matter what.

Being able to put a monstrous form to everything you'd heard about him, everything he'd done to you, it coiled in the pit of his stomach and upheaved anything on its way. He would never admit to being afraid, but the thought of being regarded with repulsion by you sent a shiver down his spine.

The injuries you'd sustained were minor, shallow and located at safe distances from anything vital. Even so, it wouldn't hurt to play a little, the table had already been cleared and he might as well take the break. Lips set in a scowl, his hands found your shoulders and pushed you back, already relishing in how perfectly the curvature fit against him, how little resistance there was in the movement. Made for him. That's what he would make of you. Scarlet lines had been drawn along your skin, urging his fingers to trail along the wetness.

"Do explain what, precisely, led to you looking like this," he kept his voice frigid for now, knowing how much more responsive the thought of having upset him made you.

"We were on our way back from taking care of-"

"I'm aware of your assignment, do not forget who signs off on your outings, give me the specifics."

A curious finger brushed over your hardened nipple, hearing the words catching in your throat.

"Treasure hoarders. I failed to block a strike and-" your body tensed as it wrung out the words.

"You failed to block a strike from such vermin?" He tutted, hand squeezing a little tighter around the soft flesh of your chest, seeing it spill out between his fingers, "That hardly warrants returning all cut and bruised, clearly, you lack the perseverance I thought I'd observed in you. Soon enough, you'll be nothing but nutrients for the wayside flora, is that what you'd like?"

Dottore wanted to laugh at your pitiful expression, a kicked puppy laying at his feet and wordlessly pleading for forgiveness, unknowing that it had already been granted. It was deliberate that you were never sent away far or for long, but there was no reason for you to know. Fear fostered obedience and your obedience was always pleasant, speeding up the process of cleaning the wounds you'd sustained with minimal squirming.

That didn't mean one hand wasn't constantly splayed over your sternum, pressing down to keep your body pinned. Already, a faint buzz was crawling along his bloodstream, months of conditioning catching up in the most frustrating manner as the front of his pants tightened. He had to swallow hard, forcing his fingers to relax before he left bruises. How would it look, he mused, if his nails could dig into your flesh? At the mere thought of those red crescent, a wave of heat washed over his body, accompanied by images of what other marks he could leave upon the canvas of your body.

Could he replicate and improve how pliant your thighs were under his grasp, would new vocal cords make sweeter sounds, added nerve endings would no doubt make for interesting results, if your muscles were synthetic the force they could exert would be greater meaning-

Not yet.

Dottore willed his focus to return, threading a needle as his disinterested voice rang out in the otherwise silent room.

"Do I need to strap you down?"

There was no need to look, knowing you were already oh so bravely shaking your head. An amused smile graced his lips upon seeing your teeth sink into the dirty uniform. Such foresight deserved praise, a small nod of his head accompanied by a finger rubbing along your collarbone in an almost soothing motion.

Having done it countless times before, the needle went effortlessly through your skin, thread pulling the flesh tightly together whenever he tugged. A hand kept returning to your no doubt soft locks of hair, carding through it and pushing back the urge to give a tug. The few tears that had fallen were swiftly brushed away by his fingers, the taste almost cloying upon his tongue.

Dottore sighed softly, tapping your side to get your attention back to the present, seeing your glassy eyes and the small shivers that ran down your body. He could already smell your arousal in the air, the scent growing in strength every time your hips shifted.

"That's it for now," his hand skimmed along your bare stomach, ending atop your sternum and keeping you down, "however, some of the lacerations appear to be in early stages of infection."

How he'd missed the little hitch of your breath, the stutter of your heart underneath his hand. Unceremoniously, Dottore put more weight into the hand, feeling your pulse echo throughout his own body and letting every beat slowly fill the gaping pit beneath his ribs with hollow promises.

There was no infection, of course, but he needed something to placate you before an injection. And the sedative would be invaluable. After weeks of being famished, there was no guarantee your comfort would be at the front of his mind, and it was so much more pleasant when you didn't struggle. Last time had bitterly taught him as much.

"But you can make me okay, right?" There was a sweet tremble to your voice, always so scared of death.

"The mere question is an insult to my abilities," he practically purred, excitement bubbling as his chosen objective for the day moved closer, "it'll just be a little prick and then you're safe. Now, sit up for me."

He'd already turned around, hands aching to return as he rummaged through a few drawers, eventually pulling out both a vial and syringe. Your body came into view reflected in the clear liquid, barely having sat up and already exploring the stitches.

All it for your eyes to lock on the syringe was two taps to the glass, unease so plainly written across your face while he pressed the plunger to clear excess air trapped inside.

His hand encircled your arm, tugging upwards and tutting at the grime that clung to you. With the syringe between his teeth, he wiped the area down, satisfaction flooding his system when goosebumps spread. It had been so long since he'd had you properly.

"There. Now, you need to stay here a little so I can ensure that there are no immediate adverse effects. The blanket is in the usual spot."

It would have been far more practical for you to put the uniform back on, but Dottore trusted that you'd follow his directions regardless and without fuss. When he caught the rattling of metal buckles, he wanted to laugh at your naivety, were you truly not accustomed enough by now to know what he wanted?

"I said; the blanket is in its usual spot," the icy sneer left his lips without a second thought, and oh how beautiful your widening eyes were.

"Well, I know, but it was just-" your voice was already a pitch higher, the irrational fear further irking him.

"Should I consider this insubordination?"

Already, Dottore had crossed the distance and wrapped a large hand around your jaw. It was no secret what happened to cross subordinates. He was well aware that your little slip hardly warranted this reaction, but it was difficult to hold back when the urge to sink his nails into your skin screamed and begged, fighting to drown out every other thought.

"N-no, please…"

It would be all too easy to squeeze a little tighter, hear the crack of your mandible as it would threaten to give out. His fingers stretched to move further up, pressing against the condylar processes, feeling around the joint as images of you with your jaw agape crashed over him.

Dottore knew how little force it took to break. And how a replacement could be crafted and implanted in less than a day, stronger and sturdier than what occupied the space now.

"Remember your place, and be thankful I don't leave you to wilt," the words were spat out with more disdain than anticipated, his fingers giving a last wanton squeeze before releasing your jaw.

With a small scoff, Dottore returned to one of the workbenches that lined the walls, feigning disinterest as his hands automatically began tinkering with the closest contraption, barely willing to divide enough attention to ensure it wasn't something that required further protective equipment for handling. Of course you'd know there were proper medics within the ranks, the most accessible ones located a few rooms away, but they couldn't offer what he did, and the reassurance that you always came back for him to lick your wounds with his barbed tongue, it was enough to pacify any frustrations with your brief moments of hesitation.

Five minutes of pretending to be distracted and Dottore found himself a little impatient.

Ten minutes and it had built to irritation, glassware scraping along the surfaces as he pushed it around, mindlessly 'reorganizing'.

By fifteen something would have been thrown were he a lesser being.

Sweet relief came at the quiet sound of your voice shattering the thick air, the words slurred as if you couldn't quite make out the correct shapes with your lips.

"Am I s'posed to feel tired?"

A small chuckle wormed it's way from his lungs, nonchalance fully restored now that he could turn to gaze upon your slumped body, fingers tightly clutching the fuzzy blanket that enveloped you in a flimsy haven.

"You've just returned after weeks in the field, having sustained injuries and all," Dottore spoke calmly, betraying none of his greed as he gestured to the trace remnants of blood on the table, "it is no wonder that exhaustion would begin to take hold now that you are safe."

The question was plainly written in your eyes, making Dottore incline his head in silent motion to continue, preemptively stepping closer to catch what would no doubt be a whisper.

"Should I go back to the barracks?"

"Would you prefer to go?"

You wouldn't be given the opportunity to go, of course not, but there was no need to be forceful when he could already see how valiantly you fought to keep your eyes open, how your body seemed drawn downwards. It couldn't be more than a few minutes now.

Irritation briefly sparked in Dottore's chest at the little shake of your head, it would've been far more fulfilling to hear you say it.

No attempt was made to make your way through the laboratory to reach the modest cot that stood tucked away in a corner, crates of supplies and projects on hold usually hiding it from view. How ethereal you looked, head lolled to the side and the blanket slowly slipping from your shoulders as a false slumber curled its gnarled limbs around you.

Whatever conclusions you mind would reach were of little consequence, the sedative would take care of that, countless tests indicating that it always left the recipient's memory riddled with inconsistencies, making it easy to dismiss any unpleasantries as imagined.

Dreams.

The risks associated with using the modified Akasha were still too great, even if the possibility of directly rewriting the barrier between truth and fantasy was a tempting one. This way would be more satisfying in the end, having had to put in a little work and flex muscles that had been allowed to atrophy since his days in The Akademiya.

Dottore showed extra care when he hoisted up your unconscious form, grip unyielding as he closed his eyes to revel in the weight against him. In a past that mattered little, others had sworn the ego he carried around was inflated enough to see him ascend in any way but the desired, perhaps this would've been enough of a tether to their reality. For this alone would he allow himself to be held down.

Perhaps things could have been different had that lone island in the sky not decided for his fate to be nothing but misery. Thus logic dictated that you too would be lost. A soft tremor reminded his fingers to relax, gently stroking over the crescents they'd left.

Your breath warmed him far more than it had any right to, coaxing forth memories of a soft summer breeze, rose petals velvety between his fingers as they were plucked from their stem and plummeted to their inevitable demise. And an inviting sound, bubbly and sweet that had, for just a night, filled his veins with the toxin your presence had reignited.

Having you clean would be preferable. The emergency shower would hardly be sufficient, not with how the filth seemed to have embedded itself in your skin. With you unconscious, there was no reason to school his expression, the notion only serving to exacerbate the scowl his face set in.

A soak would be easiest.

There was nothing pompous about the washroom attached to his quarters, and a pang of regret had the idea of bringing you to The Regrator's briefly surfacing. The sentiment didn't linger, an unwillingness to be indebted quickly reigning in the myriad of thoughts cluttering his mind in much the same way towels and clothes were currently strewn around the room.

It made a pretty picture, your body curled up against the side of the tub, a few rays of pale light slithering through the lone window to caress your face. A feeling that had never quite been within his grasp lingered in the rays of light, coaxing something painfully unfamiliar to tug at his shriveled heart.

Just a little longer before the tingling in his fingertips would be sated.

Quick work was made of disrobing himself, a watchful eye making sure your head remained above water. Dottore let a weary sigh hang in the otherwise empty silence, hating the hesitation that riddled his movements as his clothes fell to the floor. There was no reason to be reserved about the results of a life lived, the chances of you regaining consciousness would remain negligible for a while.

Finally settling with your weight in his lap was undoubtedly the closest to rapture Dottore had found himself. Arms securely around your midsection, your back flush against his heaving chest, had every uncertainty draining into the water.

Dutifully, one hand tore itself from your form to reach for a clean cloth, struggling for a moment before muscle memory took over, fingertips gracing the fabric without the need to tear his eyes from your parted lips. It was nothing short of tranquil, letting the cloth scrub away the remnants of your excursion with meticulous care.

Dottore saw how your skin turned red from the continued friction and consciously ignored it, some small voice wanting to rub it off completely and leave you a blank canvas.

He looked instead at his reflection in the water, vermillion stare drawn to its counterpart, noting briefly how it wasn't nearly as comfortable as being under your gaze.

At least his subconscious mind had the decency to have left the few areas he'd stitched together alone, not that they mattered in any practical sense, but you'd be distraught if they were gone when you woke. With time, would you be as broken as him?

Only once you'd been scrubbed clean were thoughts of his own desires acknowledged, cock throbbing against your back as soon as attention was diverted to the feeling. A small hiss mingled with the steam from the water, Dottore easily repositioning you to let his length slide between your thighs.

Already, satisfaction rumbled in his chest, vision engulfed by white for a moment upon repeating the soft motion of his hips. Your thighs easily gave way when tugged apart, body every bit as pliant as previously. Having made peace with his impatience long before, his lips were immediately descended upon the crook of your neck, stifling the groans that spilled forth as he aligned himself.

The water provided additional friction, a slight burn dancing against his sensitive tip upon breaching your tight entrance. Soap met his tongue, disgustingly sterile as it danced along his taste buds, only spurring him on to mouth at you with renewed vigor, desperate to taste the sweetness he knew lay buried underneath.

His hips snapped up as the familiar taste invaded his senses, eyes rolling back at the pleasure of being buried to the hilt. Had his faith been intact, a prayer to the archons for your silence would have tumbled from his lips. Warm droplets carved out paths alongside old scars, gathering at his chin before being caught in the soft locks of your hair. Dottore felt his skin crawl as traces of a pained howl bubbled in his throat, body trembling in time with every squeeze of your insides.

If time would remain forever frozen as the land just outside the walls perhaps everything would be more bearable then. Would it banish both the threat of separation and the burden of remaining what he'd made of himself in spite of reality?

Another sound crawled from his lungs, foreign and intrusive when it met his ears, wanton in a way that caused nothing but dissonance. Dottore curled his body around you, panting heavily against the nape of your neck as he sought out some form of relief, his muscles straining with the increased pace.

Stagnating would be of no use, pleasure was fleeting, worthless without contrast.

Dottore felt euphoria flood his system, spine tingling mercilessly as his sharp teeth tore into the pliant flesh beneath. It was a thoughtless action, driven only by the need to claim and consume, satisfying the desperate desire to be whole. Water sloshed against the edges with every rut of his hips, driving himself deeper into the warmth you so selflessly provided.

How much time had passed felt secondary, the only thing truly worth attention being the rapid tightening in his abdomen, pleasure steadily building with every movement. Seeking more, Dottore found his hands had moved down to grasp the curve of your hip, easily hoisting you up to twist your body around.

With a ferocity that should by all means have been concerning, his lips sought a home against yours, relishing in how they had already parted for him. A hand in your hair was all that was needed to stabilize your head enough that he could delude himself into thinking you awake.

That the little puffs of air that passed into his waiting jaws were instead keens and broken moans spilling forth. His tongue pushed into the waiting heat, wanting if he could to explore deeper, have your throat squeeze around his tongue as your body did his cock. Before he could hesitate, the curve of your nape rested in his calloused palm, the appendage twitching with budding excitement.

A light press was all his mind would allow, knowing all too well how little it would take to snap such a precious thing. As intoxicating as holding the fate of another in his hands were, this was wrong, without reason.

It was the way your thighs quivered around his hips that brought order to all those thoughts, tugging your head away for a breath of fresh air to stifle his burning lungs. Only a single breath afforded, diving back in for more as all else lost meaning. He needed more, needed to hear you beg him, needed your hands to tug at his hair, needed-

Water splashed over the edges as he pushed forward, hands grasping for the back of your knees to push them against your chest. His chest heaved at the sight underneath him, growling like a wounded animal as he reaped what he'd cultivated, one hand keeping a leg pinned while the other covered your nose and mouth.

He was so close.

Close enough that every clench of your slick heat choked his thoughts. Close enough that he threw back his head, willing the image of your eyes briefly opening from his mind, focusing instead on the water soothing his burning skin as he gave a last few thrusts, cursing as the thread snapped and released washed over him.

It would've been no surprise if the tub had cracked from the force, even less if you had cracked, his body still shaking from the force of his release, milky white leaking out into the water and dispersing. Your body was swiftly pulled above the surface as Dottore sat back, once more cradling your head to his chest, trying to ignore the emptiness that wanted to force itself along the clarity that came in the wake of euphoria.

He laid your no doubt exhausted frame onto the cot, hastily tossing the grey blanket over your form. The harsh light of the laboratory did little to hide the marks that littered your body, blooming purple along your thighs, fierce red at your shoulders, already tempting him to reach out and touch again. It was a matter of creating distance, unwilling to let attachment fester and consume more, already now the gnawing had returned, weaker than before but far from sated.

By all means, he should've swung the door shut with more force, knowing at the back of his mind that the lock never clicked. It did nothing to stop his body from collapsing onto his unmade bed, pushing at the covers before crawling further up. He didn't find himself opposed to having you drape yourself against his body, rest in his arms.

Would you seek him out by yourself once the sedative wore off?

Would that finally stave off his hunger?

[the-scandalorian]

like a moth to the flame, part IV

Pairing: monster!Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: E, 18+ Word Count: 11.1k Content Warnings: dark!Din, predatory/obsessive/possessive behavior, body horror/painful physical transformations, injury/gore, blood and hunting and monstery shit, oral (m-receiving), p-in-v Note: Endlessly grateful to both @frannyzooey and @ezrasbirdie for lending me their big beautiful brains xx

DIN Din had woken, disoriented and hurting, that morning after he’d found the Armorer on Glavis.

He came-to curled in the fetal position on the hard metal floor of his tiny compartment on the humming public transport. Before he’d even opened his eyes, he knew his body felt wrong. Uncomfortable and unwieldy, heavy and strange.

When he did open his eyes to the harsh, artificial light, the first thing he noticed was the sharp clarity of his vision. He wasn’t wearing his helmet, but it felt like he was looking through one of the strongest filters of his visor. He blinked hard. No change.

He unfolded his arms and studied his hands, splaying too-long fingers, and his thoughts tangled and snagged as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. 

The glint of cruel silver claws. 

In his periphery, he caught the movement of a dark shape over his shoulder.

He tried to scramble away from it. It followed, a shadow.

Wings.

The word felt absurd. But it was…right. Silver that matched the half-moons of those claws, a structure of bone sprouted from both of his shoulder blades, a hooked joint forming the apex of each inky black, bat-like wing. Colossal and dark.

Piece by piece, in a haze of disbelief, he discovered new parts of himself.

The sheer size of this body, the power coiled in his changed muscles. 

He ran a finger along the edge of his teeth, catching the pad on an elongated canine. Blood welled.

The wound on his thigh, where he'd burned himself with the saber the night before, was largely healed. There was only a trace of it, a fading pink scar.

Din stopped there. He couldn’t bring himself to look in a mirror, to see himself like this. He wasn’t ready for it to be real, to know if his face was still his own.

Instead, he picked up his chest plate to start collecting his armor, and his claws bit gently into the perfectly smooth surface. He was stunned.

What scratches beskar?

Beskar.

Of course.

The silver of his claws, of his wing joints was beskar. Virtually indestructible.

Din sank back to the floor and closed his eyes. He sat against the cold metal wall with his clenched fists pressed against his eyelids, the tips of those talons cutting into his palms. He wanted to escape the prison of this body, of this new reality; to wake from this nightmare; to blink himself out of existence altogether. 

He forced himself to slow his breathing, holding it at the top of each inhale, until some of the tension in his chest eased. He let his thoughts go, focused on the cadence of his breath. Preparing himself as he did before a fight.

A slow, creeping sense of relief spread through him gradually, growing so palpable it turned physical. Like a cool wash of water over his aching muscles, a full-body shiver racked him. The tremble and quake of his broad frame was fleeting but intense. A release. His bones shifted in a pinch of discomfort. His mind drifted.

And then, stillness.

He’d opened his eyes minutes later, and his vision was blessedly, beautifully blurred—just barely. As it always was. As it was supposed to be.

Sitting there, staring at his hands and his blunt, human nails, Din might have been able to convince himself he’d imagined all of it. A fever dream. A delusion. An exhaustion-fueled moment of insanity, his mind addled by the fight and the pain and the life-altering dismissal from his covert. 

Except, etched into his chest plate…those damning marks.

A mechanical voice announced the imminent arrival of the transport, interrupting his moment of existential crisis. Tatooine. The local time and weather blared through the speaker.

Tatooine. He couldn’t go back there. Not like this.

He made a choice. He dressed and readied himself, deboarded and found his way to the baggage claim. A droid unlocked his case, and Din methodically reattached each of his weapons. He reached for the dark saber last. The metal hilt felt hot, even through the thick leather of his glove. Nothing else had—not his blaster or his charges. Just the saber, warm under his touch. Warm like something alive. Like something warm-blooded, something with a thrumming pulse. Like something pleased to be back in his grip.

Like it knew.

He clipped it to his belt and let it drop, relieved to not have it in his hand.

Din turned, looking for the closest screen of departures, and scanned the list for the least populated destination.

*** Now, months later, he wakes to a fantasy.

He hadn’t meant to sleep. He didn’t want to risk it, even in the armor—not after he felt his body start to shift under his beskar last night. He didn’t think that was possible. Then he’d sucked your taste off his fingers, and his head had snapped to the side, his spine straightening. He’d felt the pop of vertebra and the sudden tightness of the skin across his back, the warm tension in his muscles straining for the change, but he’d managed to stave it off. 

Just barely.

No, he hadn’t meant to sleep last night, but he had. And he wakes now, well rested, to the feeling of your warm body curled into his side, your head nuzzled into his neck, your breathing slow and deep. Watery morning light, as light as this dark forest ever gets, is visible through the trees outside the window.

He’d tried to move away from you during the night, to give you space, sure that you’d be more comfortable without the hard edges of beskar digging into your soft body, but every time he’d started to extract himself gently, you’d grumbled and tightened your fingers wherever they happened to be—caught in the folds of his duraweave, gripped around armor, tangled with his own. The leg you had hooked over his thigh had tensed too, your foot tucking itself under his other knee. You twined yourself around him, like a tenacious little climbing vine, and refused to let go.  

He likes it. You’re possessive too.

The realization hurts a soft spot under his ribs—you want what he wants. To belong to someone. To claim and be claimed. To know that closeness. Skin-to-skin, joined and sweaty, without all these fucking layers between you. That hopeless, dangerous thing he can never give you.

That thought is unbearable when you’re asleep on his chest, your hand still curled over the top of his chest plate, fingers clinging to the sharp cut of metal. When he can smell the faint tang of your blood as it pumps idly through your veins, detectable even under the layer of your delicate floral scent, even from beneath his helmet.

His mouth waters.

It’s the catalyst that finally gets him moving. He carefully but forcefully unfastens your hand, inches your leg off his, and slips out of bed. You readjust but don’t wake.

As soon as he’s standing, looking down at you, he regrets it. The space between your bodies is intolerable, and he has nothing to do but wait for you to wake. So he waits. He waits, and he seethes.

He thinks about the mistakes he’s made.

*** He’d spent yesterday angry at himself, fuming at his own idiocy. He’d ruminated on how to proceed, how to scare you off again after he’d all but courted you the previous night when he’d given you a com link. Had invited you to use it. Fucking encouraged it. He’d been drunk on you—on your presence, on your forgiveness, on your smile. On the headiness of your scent as you’d stood so close to him outside your house. And it had messed with his fucking head, made him do stupid things. Dangerous things.

He’d worked through the steps of his drills while he thought, slashing the saber through the air as he’d tried to decide what to do. How to retract his offer of the com. He didn’t think he could bring himself to be cruel to you, to reject you outright. He’d imagined your face, imagined the hurt there, and he’d just…known he couldn’t do it. He’d have to leave. He wouldn’t let himself see you again. He'd jam the frequency of the com link. A clean break.

It was the only option.

He’d decided he’d let himself change early then, before the sun had dipped below the green horizon. One last hunt before he found a way off this planet. 

He’d been minutes away from letting himself shift, minutes away from heading out completely uninhibited, when he’d caught your scent. You were close. The timing of it had made him want to break something. That was exactly the problem with all of this: one misstep, one instance of bad timing…and you could end up dead.

Why hadn’t he thought about you finding the bodies? How had that not occurred to him? 

He’d left a perfect trail from your house to his. His animal brain had thought protect and nothing else. He’d gotten sloppy, comfortable. Maybe some part of him had wanted you to find it, to follow.

This was how it would end, then, he’d thought as he waited for you. Not in the easy way he’d planned, not a quiet exit—a coward’s exit. He’d have to face you, to turn you away and tell you he was leaving. 

Then you were in front of him, and all of that was gone—the struggle and the resolve, the determination and decency. He’d fought to get it back for a few minutes, scrabbled against his own desire. Had tried to deny himself—to deny you. It was futile.

You’d asked him if he thought you were weak, if all of this was somehow your fault. And that was it.

He’d refused to punish you for his sins. 

*** And now you’re in his bed. Warm and soft under his comforter, your head pressed into his pillow. A dream. Something he could wake up to tomorrow and the next day, if he wanted. A string of perfect, untouchable days stretching before him like a beckoning temptress.

He can’t let himself think like that.

Your life, he reminds himself. Your life is what matters most. Keeping you here wouldn’t just be selfish, wouldn’t just be a temporary balm, it would be a gamble. Your life pitted against his own self-restraint. Your life pitted against the self-restraint of a monster he doesn’t trust.

If he can just get you out—out of his bed, out of his house, out of his head—he’ll be able to think straight, and then he can go.

He watches you stir, aware suddenly that a fully armored Mandalorian looming over you might not be the most comforting sight for you to wake to. But you crack open sleepy eyes before he can move, and a lazy smile spreads across your face. His heartbeat stumbles.

“Morning,” you yawn, stretching your arms over your head.

“Morning,” he replies, clipped as he tries to expedite this process.

“It’s early,” you muse, your gaze trailing to the window. “I think you should come back to bed.”

Din’s thoughts stall immediately. You look so cozy, so comfortable snuggled in his bed. In his bed.

“Please?”

Din’s helmet follows the path of your hand as it begins to wander: as it slides languidly down the column of your neck, molds over the swell of your breast, lingers along your waist. You know you’ve snared him right away. You always know.

He just stands there, silent and yielding, as you kick the blankets away and shimmy out of your clothes. He wants to tell you to stop, but his mouth isn’t responding to his brain, his jaw dropped open slightly behind the helmet as he surveys the bare lines of your body. He didn’t get to enjoy this yesterday, didn’t get to luxuriate in the view, to drink in every detail. To commit it to memory.

His visor catches where your fingers stroke the curve of your hip.

“I can’t—” he starts.

You slip your hand between your legs, run your fingers through the soft hair there.

He was going to get you out. To regroup. That was his intention.

One of your fingers slips lower, dips into the seam of your sex. His cock responds.

He barely knows his own name, let alone any sense of reason when you’re looking at him like that—touching yourself like that. Begging him to touch you. His nervous system jolts from freeze directly into overdrive, and immediately he can feel himself brushing up against some physical limit, teetering on the edge of his control.

He watches you drop your knees open, and a low, pained sound passes through the modulator when you use two fingers to part yourself, putting yourself on display for him. You roll the pad of one finger over your clit, and your head drops back onto the pillow, your eyes closing in pleasure. Need claws at the inside of him. 

“Stop,” he commands, but there’s no bite in it, his mouth watering at the sight of your stroking fingers.

You smile and widen the spread of your thighs, moving your hand lower.

He tries to sound firm, but his words come out like a plea: “Don’t—”

“I wouldn’t have to touch myself if you’d do it for me.”

You keep your eyes on his visor as you press two fingers inside yourself, frictionless as they sink inside the warm clutch of your body. He’s fixated on the flex of your wrist as you fuck yourself gently—his rapt attention suddenly a shivering, living thing throbbing under his skin. When you ease them out, he can see the shine of your arousal coating your skin up to the knuckle, a clear thread strung between your fingers for a brief moment when you slowly separate them.

“Your fingers feel so much better,” you breathe.

His blood pulses loudly in his ears, a too-slow beat. He knows what you feel like, clenched around his thick fingers—how slick, how hot. He knows what you taste like, licked off his own skin. Din would like to say that some greater primal force takes over, hijacks his body, that the monster in him doesn’t give him a choice, but that would be a lie.

He decides to let go.

Without changing forms, Din silences the part of his mind that’s protesting. He lets the animal of his hindbrain take control, a predator submitting to the call of its prey drive. It feels good to give in—a rush of blissful quiet overtakes him. He looks at you, and it’s simple. He wants you.

Time slows, but his hands move quickly—going to his belt buckle. The weapon-heavy leather thuds when it hits the ground at his feet.

You watch him disarm himself, poised like a willing sacrifice on his bed with your hand caught between your open legs, a naked eagerness on your face that pleases the possessive, hungry thing in his chest. His vision is tinged red, the severed thread of his control a distant memory as he thinks of all the things he wants to do with you.

To you.

He condemned himself to this the moment he let himself touch you. There’s no going back. He’s going to taste your nectar from the source. He’s going to fuck you with his tongue and gently suckle your clit between his lips until you sob. He’s going to eat you out until you come on his face, your hands tangled in his hair.

And then he’s going to do it again.

He tries not to think about how much easier that would be with his other tongue, his tongue when he’s transformed—long and dextrous as it is. He could get so deep inside you like that. Taste you from the inside out.

Later. He appeases himself with the promise of later. The promise of tomorrow and more more more.

His gaze settles on your mouth. There’s something else he wants now.

He approaches the bed and stands at its side, waiting patiently. That desperate sense of urgency drops away, and his shoulders relax. He can decide to have all the time in the world with you if he only lets himself. 

When he hunts, when Din really truly hunts these days, he finds that he likes to draw out the indulgence of it. The tease and the chase. The kick of adrenaline before the slaughter. He understands why a predator plays with its prey before it makes the kill. 

Because it can.

Because it feels good.

You’re expecting him to join you on the bed. He can see it in your expectant gaze.

“You want it so bad?” he asks, dipping his helmet down. “Come here.”

A wicked look flashes across your face at the change in his voice, at the invitation. There’s a beat of anticipation as you decide to play along, and then you crawl to the edge of the bed on your hands and knees. He watches, an imperious tilt to his helmet.

You perch on the edge, looking up. Waiting.

“Go ahead,” he nods. “Take it out.”

Your hands move to the button on his pants, but you don’t pop it open right away. You let your hand mold to the hard bulge there, feeling the heft of him.

He tilts his helmet the other direction, impatient, and you go for the zipper. 

Before you’ve even pulled his cock out, before you’ve even touched him, Din thinks the sensation of your hot breath on the expanse of skin exposed by his open fly might be the most erotic thing he’s ever experienced. 

He rips his gloves off and locks a hand around the nape of your neck. 

He thinks for a fleeting moment how obvious it must be—his obsession with your mouth. The edge of mania he’s shoved toward when you let your tongue drag up his hip bone. That he’d slit his wrists at the altar of your perfect lips if you asked.

Your eyes drag upward slowly as you lick across his skin, gaze catching on the armored lines of his body before it meets his visor. You peer up at him as you inch the fabric of his pants down just far enough. And then your eyes flick down to watch a pearly bead of precum slip down the length of his shaft at your closeness.

“You want it?” he rasps. “Open your mouth.”

He grunts in satisfaction when your lips part immediately. Again when your hand curls around the base of him and your tongue darts out to circle his head, a touch so infuriatingly delicate that it makes him want to hold you down and fuck your throat raw.

He doesn’t, of course. He lets you set the pace even though your teasing lick across the underside of his cock and another over his slit feel as much like torture as they do like pleasure. 

Finally, finally, you take him fully into the heat of your mouth. You start up a steady rhythm, and he’s more than satisfied to let you take the reins. 

You’re less satisfied with that though—you settle a hand over his on your neck and press down, your eyes skirting upward as you nod subtly, your other hand urging his hips forward, urging him to fuck your mouth. 

Use me. 

He wishes you could see his face in this moment, what you do to him. Din’s eyelashes flutter shut at the perfection of your request. But immediately, he snaps them open again, needing to see.

He thrusts forward, and you whine in approval, your fingers tightening on his hip—taking him deep again and again, until he watches a line of saliva slide down your chin. Until your lashes grow wet, eyes watering at the effort of taking him over and over. 

It’s too much. It’s too good. 

The tight, hot constriction of your throat as you swallow around the head of him, the hard suck of your cheeks hollowing out around his shaft. His helmet rocks back, and a growl reverberates through his chest. But he’s not about to let himself come without knowing what it feels like to fuck you.

His hand drops away from the back of your neck; he forces his hips to still. “Enough,” he grits.

When you surge forward again, taking him deep, he closes a hand gently around your throat and eases you backward, off him.

“I said stop.” He thinks the words would be menacing if the fractured restraint in his voice weren’t so apparent. If you couldn’t see the steady leak of precum from his cock, the drizzle of opaque liquid on his dark pants. He’s teetering right on the painful edge of orgasm, and you know it. 

“Need to fuck you,” he says, his hand still settled over your throat.

“Then fuck me,” you reply, your voice hoarse as you shift backward on the bed. 

“You want my fingers first?” he asks, his hand drifting down the inside of your thigh. “You want to cum on my hand again?”

“No,” you say, catching his wrist and pulling him onto the bed, over you. 

“No?” he says. “You want it to hurt?”

“Yes.”

His fingers tighten on your thigh. Too hard. “Turn around.”

You flip over and settle on your knees in front of him, and Din can see how much you enjoyed sucking his cock in the glossy spread of your cunt. 

He catches a drop of your arousal with two caressing fingers. “You want to be fucked hard? Is that what you want, you greedy little thing?”

You press your hips back, rubbing yourself into the cup of his hand. And for a moment, his mind buzzes with blankness—with the thought that he could be tasting you instead of just touching you. He satisfies himself for now by lining up his cock with the soft heat of your pussy, by pressing his sensitive head against your arousal-slick flesh. 

But when you whine and start to shift backward into him, he waits. Savors. “You need my cock that bad, huh?”

“Please, I need it. I want it—”

It’s that thing he fantasizes about—the daydream he strokes himself to in the shower after he hunts, when he’s sticky with blood and the leash on his desire has long been snapped. Your whined plea for him, your need so stark and bright that he couldn’t ever possibly deny you. Your need for him so heightened it threatens to match his for you.

“Take it then,” he pants. “Take what you asked for.”

He sinks his cock into the welcoming heat of your body, pressing slowly against the tight resistance of little preparation—hears the soft, drawn-out oh of your pleasure—and he knows there’s no coming back from this.

*** So he doesn’t fight it. He keeps you.

Days turn into a week. Into two. You bring life and sound to this desolate place—the creak of your steps on the hardwood floor, the sound of your humming, the quiet clanks of your movements around the kitchen in the early morning light. The quiet, steady tick of your heartbeat. All those pretty little noises you make when he has you in his bed—the moans and the whimpers and the pleas. His pillow smells like mellow spring flowers, and there are rose colored skirts and silky blue pajamas in his dresser.

He likes it.

He likes the noise and the tightness of the space and the company.

When he heads outside to chop wood for the fireplace, you follow to watch him roll up the duraweave sleeves of his flight suit and swing the ax—again and again until a thick log splits down the middle with a crack—and the attention pleases him. 

The weeks stack up, and there is a bar of soap speckled with lavender flowers in his shower. There are sweet strawberry preserves lined up in his cupboard, a colorful wool throw blanket tossed over the back of the couch that you insist is a necessity. For sitting in front of the fire, of course. You poke fun at his ascetic choices, at the lack of coziness in his house, but you don’t seem mad at all to be the one to provide it. 

He thinks you know instinctively that home isn’t a place or a concept he’s familiar with. He thinks you love being the one to show him what it could mean. 

He can tell you don’t mind that you have to face opposite directions when you eat. He thinks you like the sound of his voice even more when it’s not passed through the modulator. You draw out every meal with questions. He draws them out with his answers.

He tells you about the little green bounty that changed his life, the soup his mother made for him when he was sick, being adopted by the Mandalorians, the fact that he used to love swimming as a child. That sometimes he thinks about how good it would feel to strip off his armor and swim now. You tell him about your dreams, your childhood, your plans, everything.

When he slips his helmet on again and you turn to face him, he can see that the gulf between what he does tell you and the whole truth is obvious, though.

There is a question—are many questions—swimming in your eyes. The intention to get answers too. He’s not sure which exactly questions they are: Why the armor? The helmet? The Creed? Why this place? Where is he going next? When? What happened to him? What is he? Why the isolation and the fear and the hesitation and mile-high walls and why why why?

What the fuck happened to the wall of the shower?

Valid questions, every one. Many are things he asks himself regularly. All are questions he doesn’t know how to answer without shattering this perfect moment, without ruining the lovely domesticity you’re cultivating together. So when he sees that look and your lips part, Din speaks before you can. He’s not ready, yet, to go there. He reaches for your hand or strokes a gloved finger over your cheek and deflects. 

Just a little longer, he thinks, please. And you’re not fooled—he knows that. You understand the request and allow it for now, and he’ll take what he can.

“You want to learn how to shoot?” he asks instead. 

Your eyes light up.

He helps you pick a blaster from his collection—“How many blasters does one man need, Mando?”—that’s well suited to you, that fits your grip. He sets up targets outside, scattered on trees at varying distances, and stands close behind you, a solid wall against your back. He adjusts your stance and the placement of your hands, letting his touch linger on your waist in a way that makes your heart rate readout on his helmet spike. 

“Are you going to let me focus or not?” you quip, peering at him over your shoulder. “I thought you were trying to teach me something here.”

He raises innocent hands and steps back. “I didn’t realize I was distracting you.”

You smile slyly at him. “Sure.”

He lets himself enjoy it, the ease between you, the way you can read him even through the armor. Standing a short distance behind you, he talks you through the process: how to aim and shoot, how to breathe.

Hand-to-hand, next, he thinks to himself as he watches you practice. Then blades. Tracking.

He’ll teach you anything and everything that will protect you.

For when he’s no longer here to do it for you, he doesn’t let himself think. 

He watches you practice each day, watches you focus on the target, your lip caught between your teeth in concentration, until you nail the bullseye. You run to the tree where the target is hanging—a hole singed through the middle—letting out a triumphant cry, and he follows.

“Look,” you grin, so proud it makes his heart trip. You point at the perfectly placed burn mark. 

“Good,” he praises. “Do it again.” 

You roll your eyes, but you do. You return dutifully to the line he’d drawn in the pine needle strewn ground and shoot until you get the hang of it, until a miss is rare. And then he fucks you up against that tree, your dress bunched up around your hips, the blaster abandoned somewhere by your feet. 

You leave for a day, maybe two, here and there to check on things at home, that little fawn you love. As soon as you’re gone, he spends a couple hours getting as far in the opposite direction as he can, changing, hunting whatever he can find in the shortest time, and then after he’s washed every trace of blood away and donned his armor, he waits for you to come back. He tells himself it’s a perfectly workable arrangement.

It’s fine. It’s safe. Safe enough.

With his attention elsewhere, it takes him a few weeks to notice that those prints, the ones he’d been tracking so obsessively, have started to show up closer to his house, to yours. They mark a quiet, slow encroachment into his territory—inching just barely past that boundary he’d been so careful to hold until recently. Their bravery is returning, their local numbers rebounding, because he hasn’t been pushing them back by culling their pack with regularity.

He makes a mental note to keep a closer eye on things, reassured by the fact that there are miles of buffer between their progress and you. And, more importantly, that more often than not, he’s by your side these days—like the times you ask him to come with you when you leave. He’s not going to say no to you.

Every night, he gets to undress you and pull you into his bed. To touch you and fuck you and make you come. He gets to learn what makes you cry, what makes you scream, what makes you beg.

All in the armor, still. In the beskar prison that keeps you safe from him. That line he manages, somehow, to maintain. The monster in him hasn’t wrested it from him yet, and he clings to that last safety net, that final border between risky and reckless. 

He wonders every day when you’ll hit your threshold. When it’ll all become too much—the secrets and the questions and the armor. Every day you don’t ask or push or leave, he breathes a sigh of relief, knowing full well it just means the next day is more likely. That worry is so dwarfed by the pleasure of having you that he barely notices it, though.

It helps, too, that he’s well rested for the first time in a long time.

Din doesn’t dream when you’re in his bed, isn’t haunted by the nightmares. He slips into sleep, and it doesn’t fight him like it usually does. He sleeps soundly with your warm, soft form tucked against his side, your face pressed into his cowl. Your presence, your touch, your scent—they soothe him.

He’s always known—even before he admitted it to himself—that there would be no halfway with this. No measured approach to having you. And he was right, of course. Here you are, living with him… and happy, he thinks. He doesn’t like to think about what would happen if that changed, if you left. What he'd do. What he'd have to stop himself from doing.

Din loves hard, with teeth, and all of his are sunk deep in you. If he really thinks about it, though, the opposite is true. Yours, sunk deep in him. You have a bone-deep hold on him, a fatal bite that severed something vital upon first contact. If you decided to let go, he’d bleed out.

And he feels lighter than he has in months. Maybe years.

It scares him so much he doesn’t want to think about it.

So he doesn’t.

YOU

It’s not intentional. You don’t sit down together and make a decision, but you don’t want to leave and he doesn’t want you to go. So you just…don’t.

Slowly, with time, your most essential things migrate from your place to his. You bring a bag of clothes here and your favorite blanket another time. Your shampoo comes along with other bathroom essentials, and some kitchen supplies find their way into his drawers and cabinets.

Within a few weeks, you all but live with him.

You know instinctively that the opposite arrangement—staying together at your house—isn’t possible. Whether or not it’s actually necessary, Mando takes his self-imposed exile seriously. It’s another of the many things you don’t push him on.

Yet.

You visit home on a regular basis, of course, to keep an eye on things. Town, too, for supplies. You make the long walk alone—or sometimes together when you can convince him to put off whatever mysterious, imperative thing he has to do when you’re gone, and it feels shorter then. He’s not so hard to persuade.

You check on Luna, who is happy and well fed in the warmth of the barn, kept company by the chickens and the handful of braying goats. 

You find that she’s terrified of other people—or at least of Mando. You’ve never brought anyone else around so it’s hard to know if it’s something about him specifically. Maybe it’s the armor or his size. The first time she sees him, she goes rigid, the picture of freeze, and it takes twenty minutes to calm her down after you nudge Mando back out of the barn and close the door behind him. Even after several visits, she remains wary of him, barely willing to tolerate his presence.

A detail, like so many others, you file away for later.

It's one of many that you don't mention—anything that might prompt impossible conversations. Instead of souring the moment, instead of asking the hundreds of questions that are piling up in your head, you tacitly agree to avoid those things, skirting around any topics that elicit unanswerable questions or suggest an expiration date. Again and again. For weeks.

Then months.

It’s easy enough to rationalize. Might as well make the short time you have together pain free. Only good.

And, fuck, is it good.

You wake in his bed each morning and fall back into it each night. You wait for your lust for him to abate, for the initial need to be sated. Two months in, though, it hasn’t so much as begun to subside. If anything, it’s grown. It’s fed, you think, by the fact that you still don’t get all of him—what you do get just makes you want more. 

You get his hands, his cock, the expanse of his lower abdomen and upper thighs when he unbuckles his belt and fucks you. The sound of his unfiltered voice when you eat together. The sight of his thick, veined forearms when he chops wood. Snatches of golden skin dusted in dark hair.

Never his mouth, his eyes, his chest, the rest of him—his face. His face, that you think you might already love without having ever seen.

The why of it all—of the pace, of his nature—doesn’t feel so urgent any more, now that you’ve had the opportunity to soak him in, in more than just brief interactions. You can sense the why on him when you start to appreciate the weight of his past and his creed. There’s a layer of pain and loss calcified under his armor: you can all but feel it when your fingers work past an edge of beskar. He starts to tell you about it, too; he starts to untangle the complicated knot that is Mando. It’s usually during a meal when you’re faced away from each other and you get to hear his real voice that he starts to open up. You untease his past question by question, answer by answer.

When you do almost slip, almost ask a question that is too present, he helps you put it back. Offers a distraction that you gladly accept. An unspoken agreement of not yet.

He just needs time. You just need more time together.

You try not to think about the fact that you might not have time. No, you package that thought up with that list of forbidden questions, the ones that would threaten to crack the ice you’re standing on together, and tuck them all away. 

You take the things that he does offer, accept his baffling limits. You satisfy yourself with the reminder of progress. If you think back to a few months ago and draw a line from those cordial interactions at the Saturday market to the current reality of living with him—to watching him welcome all the ways you insinuate yourself into his space, to witnessing the way he seems to soften for you—you can’t help but feel hopeful about what the next few months will hold.

*** Winter comes early this year, sneaking in on quiet feet. It descends around you slowly—in brisk mornings and frozen dew drops strung along twigs like pearls—and then it comes all at once in a sudden blanket of white. You wake up to a thick layer of snow on the ground, the tree limbs and roof frosted and glittering.

He teaches you how to protect yourself—how to shoot and fight and track. You think there’s a part of him that’s certain if he only teaches you enough, you’ll always be safe. You can feel it in his palpable sense of relief when you master a new skill. As if he has a mental list of things to impart on you before he runs out of time.

When you’re consistently nailing the center of his targets again and again, Mando outfits you with a blaster of your own, tells you to keep it on you at all times—that it’s yours. That day, he drops to one knee in front of you. 

“Lean,” he says, patting his pauldron.

You listen without really thinking about it, bracing a hand on his shoulder.

“Up,” he says, gesturing to your foot and offering his armored thigh.

You comply, and he slips two loops of leather up your leg, the fabric of your skirt catching on his forearm as he inches them up, until the tips of his fingers brush your inner thigh. A holster. A holster he made for you.

He tightens the straps and then slips the small silver blaster into the leather sheath. 

You graduate to hand-to-hand combat next—well, not so much graduate as add it to the schedule. He’s visibly pleased when he discovers that you already have some skills with a knife, when you know how to disarm him of his vibroblade in certain holds, how to make an attacker bleed freely with one well-placed slash. How to sever a tendon or an artery. But he finds plenty of ways to stump you, ways to overpower you, and you practice those until you know how to get out of them too. 

A few weeks in, you’re more than satisfied with your skill level, ready to move on. Mando, on the other hand, is ever insistent on more. He holds you with your back against his chest, caught and pinned, a purring vibroblade at your throat. 

You’re exhausted, sweaty and sore from breaking out of his grasp again and again. You’re supposed to be doing it once more right now. But you’re limp in his hold.

“Go on,” he grunts.

“I’m actually fine with this,” you decide, letting your weight go even more leaden in his arms.

He scoffs low in his throat. “Is that right.”

“That’s right. I surrender. Do with me what you will.” You drop your head back, looking up at his impassive visor.

He considers. “Anything?”

The word slithers up your spine. “Anything,” you repeat, letting your eyes go heavy-lidded.

He closes the blade and tosses it away, releasing his hold on you. When you lurch forward at the unexpected freedom, your knees buckling slightly, he catches your waist to steady you. 

You spin to face him, pointing a finger at the diamond-like center of his chestplate, staying far enough away that he can’t encircle you in his arms again. “Technically that counts as me getting out of that hold.”

He plants a hand on his hip. “Disagree.”

“Emotional manipulation is a weapon. You’re just mad I’m better at it than you are. Maybe I should give you lessons. You know what, yeah, I think it’s only fair that we also start practicing scenarios where I’m the one in control.”

He cocks his head suggestively. “Are we still talking about training?” 

“Yes.”

He stares at you silently, adjusting his weight from one foot to the other. It speaks volumes.

You scoff. “Are you implying that I could never have the upper hand in a fight? That there’s no chance in the galaxy of that ever happening?”

A damning beat of silence and then: “No.”

“You are!”

He gestures at his chest, shrugs. “Beskar.”

You roll your eyes. “I’d just need to catch you at the right moment—sleeping or showering—and take you by surprise. Or have the right weapon. Like poison. I know plenty of plants that would kill you—plenty of plants I could find out here or maybe…yeah…those.” 

You gesture at the row of detonators lined up on the side of his belt as he reattaches it around his middle. He always takes it off before you practice hand-to-hand, along with the vambrace that apparently emits flame.

“Yeah, they’d be effective,” he admits, clipping the buckle together. “The problem is you don’t have any.”

“You don’t like me enough to share your detonators with me?”

“To kill me? No.”

“How about this one?” you ask, reaching toward the mysterious hilt that’s always clipped next to them.

He steps out of reach before you can touch it.

“What is it? Can I see it?”

“I don’t use it,” he says. You know him well enough now to read the lie in his level voice.

“Then why do you always carry it?”

“It’s…a long story.”

“I’ve got time,” you press, curious.

He looks away. “I can’t.”

And you realize it isn’t just stubbornness or stoicism. It’s pain. A bruise he isn’t ready to address, and you’re prodding it.

You wonder how many secrets can simmer between you before they boil over.

“Alright, come on,” you say, grabbing his hand and turning for the house. “I’m starving.”

*** It’s deep winter when Mando starts to take you into the woods, away from his house, to teach you the basics of tracking. Each time, when the forest lightens around you and you can hear the titter of birds overhead, he tells you to pick the tracks of a deer or a fox to follow. It’s easier now that the snow is thick on the ground, a continuous blanket of white.

He instructs you, as he always does, to disregard the larger prints—the clawed ones—that you come upon occasionally. Too often for comfort.

“I’ll take care of those,” he says, unconcerned. 

Each time, you think back to that bloody trail and know he’s more than capable. And then you wonder when he’s away from you long enough to actually do that. 

Never, it turns out.

You’re on the tail of a stag when he holds out an arm unexpectedly, stopping you in your tracks.

“What is it?”

He turns his head slowly, scanning the quiet forest. Listening, waiting. You can’t hear a thing—not a rustle of leaves or whisper of wind. The stag isn’t close.

“They’re coming.”

“The sta—?”

Mando drops his arm and grabs your hand, hauling you back in the direction of home. You follow on instinct when he breaks into a jog with you in tow, heavy boots crunching through the snow. He twitches as he moves; he groans and presses his shoulders back, rolling his neck, his hand too tight around yours.

He’s in pain.

“Mando—” you say, trying to slow him down, to understand.

“Run,” he interrupts, pushing you ahead of him, urging you toward the house. “I can’t stop it."

You halt in front of him, a hand raised to his chest plate. “I can’t— I won’t—”

He growls when you hesitate, the sound not entirely human. His hands are shaking.

“I can help—” you start, not even entirely sure what you’re offering.

“I won’t risk you.”

“But—”

A gloved hand settles over your mouth, the other gripped tightly around your bicep. “We don’t have time for this. I won’t let you—I can’t—just go home and lock the door. And promise me you’ll stay there until I come back.”

He drops his hand and starts stripping off his gloves and vambraces. “What are you—?” The pieces click together belatedly in your head. Those colossal prints, the clawed ones.

They’re coming.

“Promise me,” he says, forcing them into your hands. “Take this too.”

He reaches for his helmet and rips it off his head, pushing it into your arms. Your jaw drops open in surprise. You don’t even have time—or the free hands—to cover your eyes or the sense to shut them tight.

“It’s okay,” he says, responding to the fear in your eyes. “I wanted to—been wanting to.”

You only have a moment to take him in. He’s just as handsome as you imagined—maybe, impossibly, more. His dark hair is wavy and tousled, falling across his forehead. His eyes are brown and wild with fear, his sharp jaw peppered with gray-flecked stubble. His perfect lips are set in a half-smile. He looks a little bashful for a moment, a little boyish as you study him.

He holds your face between his warm hands. “Promise you won’t leave the house until I come back.”

You nod.

“Say it,” he prompts, his dark eyes serious. He knows you didn’t really mean it the first time.

“I won’t leave the house until you come back,” you repeat, a little dazed.

You’re looking into his eyes. Your brain is struggling to process it.

There's fear there that doesn't just belong to the threat to your safety. It's more: the fear of being seen. Wholly.

You’re waiting for more words to come to you—something that will express the feeling that’s blooming in your chest without relying on words it’s too early to say.

“Be careful.” It’s the best you can manage.

He presses his lips to yours in a quick kiss. It’s too fast, not enough. If your arms weren’t full of beskar, you’d grab him to keep him close, to kiss him deeper. Instead, he’s pulling back and turning you on the spot with an iron grip.

“Go.”

He urges you forward with a gentle push, and you break into a jog, glancing over your shoulder as often as possible without running face-first into a tree or slipping in the powdery snow underfoot. He’s stripping off his chest plate, his pauldrons, his thigh guards. Leaving them haphazardly on the forest floor.

The last time you look back, his back is to you, and several pairs of yellow eyes are emerging in the dark spaces between the trees.

One, two, four—too many to count.

You’re tempted to stop. To turn back. To bring him the rest of his beskar. It feels so wrong to leave him out here, alone and unarmored. He’s stripping down from metal to man, and it feels unbearably vulnerable. Maybe you could help—

But just as you’re thinking that, Mando turns his head and bellows, “Go!”

You’re far from him—too far to truly make out the details—but you swear, even across the vast distance, that the whites of his eyes look black.

*** You drop the pile of beskar onto the kitchen table, unholster your blaster, and drag a chair to the window. You study the intricate line work of ice on the frosted pane, tracing cold veins with the pad of your finger. You fidget and shift, but you don’t dare leave your spot.

You stare at the place between the trees where you emerged, straining to hear any sound, knuckles white where they’re wrapped around the edge of your seat.

It’s silent.

Minutes pass like molasses—they stretch and sprawl, leisurely and unhurried, while you wait.

You steal glances at the clock on the wall. You swear it’s been hours since you slid the dead bolt shut behind you, but the clock tells you you’ve been sitting here for eight minutes.

Ten.

Twelve.

Seventeen.

He’s out there, outnumbered and alone.

Fuck it.

You get to your feet.

You wrench open the front door, but before you can break into a run, you catch a subtle movement between the trees. The blaster slips out of your hand. He’s staggering back to you—stripped and injured. His flight suit is unzipped to his waist, the sleeves tied around his hips. One hand is gripping his ribs, the other trapping pieces of his armor against his side. He’s barefoot and limping through the snow.

You run to him.

His hair is sticking to his sweaty forehead, and there’s blood on his face—so much blood—coating his lips, smeared across one flushed cheek. Lines running down his neck. It covers his hands, forearms. It’s splattered across his muscled chest. When his lips part in a pained grimace, you can see the inside of his mouth is bloody too, red lining his white teeth. 

You don’t have time to process it, to think about what it means because he’s hurt.

He must see the terror on your face when you register the state of him because he shakes his head and says, “Not mine. Just this,” jerking his chin down to gesture at his side. 

A row of deep lacerations is seeping blood down his ribs, over his tense fingers and down his stomach, where it’s soaking into the dark fabric bunched at his hips. You shudder at the sight of it—even through his spread fingers, you can see that his flesh is torn open in a way that makes your stomach pitch.

Behind him, there’s a sporadic trail between the trees, red dripped on virgin snow.

You want to hold him, to pull him into your arms, and, most of all, to fix him and put him back together. You start by taking the pile of armor from him and slipping under the arm of his uninjured side, pulling it over your shoulders to support his weight. He accepts the help wordlessly, leaning on you as you stumble forward together.

“They’re gone,” he pants. “Dead. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you scoff. “Are you?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

He grunts.

You limp the rest of the distance to the house together and pull open the front door, kicking it shut behind you as you help him inside. He reaches behind you to lock it, his shoulders dropping in relief when it clicks.

You drop his beskar on the floor as gently as you can while you’re half holding him up. It clatters.

“We need to get these closed up,” you say, gesturing toward a kitchen chair. “You need bacta. Sit down.”

When he doesn’t move to sit, you look up at his face, and he’s staring at you with an intensity—a soft, quiet intensity of creased brows and bright brown eyes—that takes your breath away. 

“I’m fine,” he protests, gently gripping your shoulders and pushing you back in the direction of the bed instead. He fumbles with the hem of your shirt, trembling fingers slipping under the fabric to caress your skin. “I’ll heal. Just let me touch you.”

His hands are hot on your waist.

"You’re not okay,” you protest, trying and failing to redirect him. “You won’t heal if you bleed out.”

“I just need to hold you.” His words are starting to slur, running together. The blood loss is tipping him into delirium.

“After—just let me—”

He ignores you and curls himself around you, crushing you against his body, a heavy hand holding your head to his chest, the other arm locking yours to your sides.

“Mando, please—I really need to stop the bleeding—”

“Din,” he says, nestling his face against your neck sweetly. His forehead is sweaty and feverish. He brushes gentle lips over your fluttering pulse. “My name is Din.”

You’re speechless.

“I want you to call me that,” he says. “Please.” There’s a heartbreaking vulnerability behind his words, like he’s worried you won’t accept the offering of something so precious.

“Of course. Of course, I will.” His grip slackens, and you wrap your arms around his middle reflexively. The heat of his throbbing wound and the hot slip of blood against your forearm make you recoil.

“Shit—sorry—”

But Din doesn’t react to the pain.

“Din—hey—”

You try to pull back, to extricate yourself from his hold and get a better look at him, but the arms draped over your shoulders go leaden, and he sways on his feet, forcing you backward a couple faltering steps. The backs of your calves hit the bed.

“Din—” You try to steady him, but he’s getting heavier by the second, his weight shifting unexpectedly as he tries to keep his balance, half-conscious and fading.

Your knees threaten to buckle when he grunts and goes completely boneless, slumping against you.

“Fuck—”

You’re just barely able to angle your body so that you can gently—and awkwardly—use his momentum to guide him face-first onto the bed. It’s a miracle you both don’t end up in a crumpled pile on the floor. You hoist his legs up too. It takes all your strength to haul his dead weight over to flip him onto his back so you can access the slashes across his ribs.

Your heart jumps into your throat when you see how rapidly a crimson stain is spreading on the comforter underneath him. You run for the med kit, dumping it on the bed beside his prone form and digging out all the necessities.

He doesn’t flinch when you clean, close, and dress the wounds. Not even when you prick him with a bacta shot. You work as quickly and carefully as you can, keeping tabs on his breathing all the while. Any time you have a free hand, you rest it on his chest, soothed by the shallow but steady rise and fall. 

The whole time, you think about all those questions, those details, those secrets. You turn them over again and again in your head in a feverish loop—all those things you’ve been stacking on top of one another all this time, a teetering pile of essential pieces of him, ready to topple with a gentle nudge. Kept at bay by distractions and diversions and half-truths. All the ways you’ve both been keeping your relationship in stasis to postpone…what? Loss? Something that’s inevitable, something no one can ever truly prevent. It feels undeniable when your hands are covered in his blood. When you almost lost him anyway.

It seems obvious now. Obvious that in the end, it will be more painful to have only stayed in this place with him than to have at least tried to give yourself wholly to whatever this is.

Before you secure the final bandage over the wounds, you check your work once, twice—terrified the simple expansion of his ribcage as he breathes will force them open again. You press edges of the bandage down and watch closely, dreading the red seep of blood on clean white. It doesn’t come. You breathe a sigh of relief.

You clean him up with a moist towel, wiping the blood from his skin, his face, his rumpled hair. 

If he hadn’t chosen to take his helmet off before any of this, you’d feel like you were invading his privacy by being able to see so much of him. It still feels that way, just a little, as you admire the taut lines of his biceps, the broad spread of his shoulders, and thick muscles of his pectorals. As you gently swipe over the soft expanse of his middle, feel the hard abdominals underneath. As you study the slope of his nose and the grays threaded through his stubble, his long eyelashes fanned over his cheeks. The soft pink of his lips. 

You rinse that stained-red towel until the water runs clear, until there’s no trace of blood left on him. 

The bloodied sheets and blanket and pillow underneath him will have to wait; it doesn’t even occur to you to be bothered by them when you climb in next to him, when you sweep his damp hair back off his forehead and press your lips to his warm skin and settle against his non-injured side.

You fall asleep like that, your head on his sternum, the subtle rise and fall sweeter than a lullaby.

*** He’s healed by the morning.

He’s healed.

When you wake after a fitful sleep, you scramble out of bed to pull back his bandages and find that the wounds slashed across his ribs look like they’ve had several weeks to mend, the skin knitted back together seamlessly. You run your fingers gingerly over the tender flesh in wonder, in relief.

Another one of his secrets. Something else to ask.

He rouses at your touch, starting as he blinks open bleary eyes. He must be immediately aware of the absence of his helmet because his whole body tenses as he recoils, his eyes panicked as he tries to decide to attack or to flee, jerking away from your hand on his arm. 

“It’s okay,” you say, holding up your hands in placation. “It’s me, Din. It’s just me. You’re safe—you’re home.”

He calms somewhat as he meets your gaze, as he registers your face and his surroundings, settling his head back against the pillow. The tension in his body remains.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, resisting the urge to reach up and brush his tousled hair off his forehead. Touch, you think, is his to initiate in this moment.

“Fine,” he croaks. He’s visibly uncomfortable like this, still not used to being so unguarded around someone else. Holding eye contact for longer than a moment seems almost unbearable for him, his eyes shifting around the room so they don’t have to stay settled on yours. 

You hand him a glass of water, and he sits up against the headboard to drink it. He winces a little as he maneuvers, his jaw ticking. He’s sore.

“You’re the worst patient, you know,” you gripe, trying to lighten the mood, to give him something to focus on. 

He scoffs, lifting an eyebrow over the rim of the glass.

You give him an unimpressed glare. “I couldn’t take care of you until you fainted from blood loss.”

He has the audacity to shrug a little.

You blow out an exasperated breath, distracted, maybe, by the movement of his throat as he swallows. By every detail of his face that you can’t seem to memorize quickly enough—a privilege you’re more than willing to relinquish if it means easing the tension in his shoulders, the wrinkle of concern etched between his brows.

When he sets the glass down on the bedside table, you retrieve his helmet and offer it to him wordlessly, a show of nonjudgmental understanding, a willingness to back-pedal if that’s what he needs right now. His eyes soften when he takes it.

The urge to say something before he disappears behind beskar jumps up your throat.

“I was scared, so scared,” you admit quietly. “Din, I thought—I thought you…”

He sets his helmet beside him on the bed and jerks his chin. “Come here.”

You make to settle next to him, but he pulls you onto his lap instead, guiding you until you’re straddling his thighs. 

You try to wriggle away. “I’m going to hurt you like this—just let me—”

“Shhh,” he breathes, hands locking down on your hips. “I’m fine, okay? I’m not going anywhere.” He hesitates for the briefest moment before he leans forward and presses his mouth to yours.

His lips are soft, tentative. His first, you realize. Of course.

Your mind snags on the way he tends to be in bed—directive, commanding, sure—and holds the two up side by side. This hesitation, the halting press of his lips, has something in your chest going soft. Between your legs going molten.

You cup his jaw and lick into his mouth when his lips part—an it’s okay, I want you to take—and his breath goes ragged against yours. He leans into you, an arm slung low around your back to keep you close as he starts to tip you backward.

“Don’t move,” you say, attempting to ease him back gently.

He ignores the command, responding to your open mouth with the slip of his tongue.

“Or I’ll stop,” you threaten.

He sits back, chastened, a subtle pout to his lower lip. It disappears when you lean back in. 

He makes a low noise of protest when you don’t meet his lips, but it turns into something pleased when you move your attention to his neck. You lick over his thrumming pulse, across the faint saltiness of his flushed skin. Your hands roam the planes of his chest, over his pounding heart, and down the swells of his muscled arms—greedy for so much warm skin, for so much of him you’ve never seen or touched or tasted.

Even with the helmet set beside you, the fear that you’ll have to go back—to concede gained ground—that he’ll revert back to full armor again, rankles at the back of your mind. You dig your nails lightly into his shoulders, and he growls.

You can tell it’s taking all his restraint not to move, to keep totally still aside from his wandering hands. You know he’s hard underneath you, that he’s aching to wrest control from your hands, to put you on your back and fuck you like this, with no layers between you. And he knows you won’t let him when he’s still healing.

You try not to let it escalate, to keep things from getting out of hand. But then his mouth is on yours again, your lip caught gently between his teeth, his hand locked possessively around the nape of your neck, and you can’t help the quiet moan or the subtle grind of your hips in his lap.

Din jerks back, hands braced on your shoulders to keep distance between your bodies, his head tipped back against the headboard and eyes closed as his panted breath gradually slows.

And you know it’s not just the injury. He isn’t humoring you or in too much pain. He’s fighting it—the transformation, the change that keeps him in his beskar. What he wouldn't let you see in the forest.

“It doesn’t bother me,” you say—quiet, serious. 

He pauses, understanding despite the sharp turn. The energy in the room shifts as he waits for you to continue.

“Your…you—?” you stumble over the words, struggling to find the right ones. It comes out badly. “What you…are.”

His eyes are downcast, fixed on the silver shine of his helmet.

He doesn’t ask how. Of course you know—it’s an open secret between you, has been for months.

“I want to see,” you press. An honest plea. “To know. Just let it happen.”

A tight, subtle shake of his head. No.

“Please, Din,” you say, laying a hand on his chest. “Show me.”

He looks away, his eyes full of some unnameable emotion, something soft and fragile, a sharp edge that might be anger. He slips away so easily, even without the helmet.

“Please,” you beg, framing his face with your hands to guide his gaze gently back to yours.

He still won’t meet your eyes.

Suddenly, you know this was a mistake. That this is the thing that’s going to break what’s between you. He’s given you his face, his name—they should be enough. Yet, here you are, pushing him for more. There’s no coming back from it, no swallowing the words, though. You find you don’t want to anymore, even when you can feel him slipping out of your hands.

“It’s not safe,” he says.

“How? It’s you.”

“No,” he says, “it’s not.”

“I don’t understand, Din,” you say, a hint of desperation laced between your words. “And I need to. I need to understand. We can’t avoid it any more—look at what happened. I just—I can’t do this when I know I don’t have all of you. I can’t do this anymore. All these walls, all these secrets between us.”

His head snaps to you, a flicker of panic kindling in his eyes. But he doesn’t deny it, the skirting and avoidance, the game you’ve both been so willing to play. His eyes settle on your joined hands. 

“I want all of you. I need all of you. Can you understand that?”

“Yes,” he says, his voice low, and the panic in his eyes is swallowed by a deep, hollow want—a yawning blackness that expands and disappears so quickly you think you must have imagined it. “I do understand that.”

“Then let me see you.”

His brown eyes flick upward to meet yours, and he nods.

[arkhamjack]

CW for gore and suicidal ideation (TriMax Vol. 7) also Spoiler warning!

EDIT: I am a drama queen and just assume a lot of Trimax readers misinterpreted this scene bc I saw like only two people do it but I’m also using this as an excuse to yap about Vash and Knives’ personalities bc it was super interesting in this volume ok byyeee read on:

Is it just me or is the majority of the fandom under the impression that it was Knives who stabbed Rem?? Because it was actually Vash. Which I think says a lot about their actual personalities vs how the fandom perceives them.

Analysis under the cut!

In classic Nightow fashion, it's hard to figure out wtf is going on and you gotta read over it multiple times, but look:

After the discovery of Tesla, Knives faints and is placed in a little incubator thing or whatever and Vash laments the fact he remained awake to mull over the horrors. From this point on, Knives is not in the picture bc he's busy honk mimimi (which is actually something he employs as a coping mechanism throughout the story... his precious beauty sleep...)

Now, Vash is refusing to eat and lashes out at Rem, expressing his disdain for being stuck on a spaceship with all these nasty humans.

Rem once again tries to get Vash to eat, peeling him a fruit.

Vash lunges for the knife and attempts to stab himself, but Rem stops him.

Vash is locked in a reactive state - he's in shock and acting out. This is where I think ppl miss the mark in interpreting the twins and why Vol. 7 is so important.

Vash can actually be nasty as hell. He ain't all that babygirl. His silly goofy facade is a way of integrating himself into the human world sure - but it's also lying to himself. He's impulsive, stubborn, and dare I say arrogant with his Messianic martyr type shit. (EDIT: I’m being a bit harsh here… I mean yeah he’s the only person on Gunsmoke who’s got a chance against Knives but like getting up in townspeople’s business gets really annoying imo like I understand why he does it but man…that’s why we’ve got Wolfwood bc narrative foil and whatever… anyway)

Knives on the other hand, internalises everything. Though he may appear to be the one who lashes out, and yes of course he's also arrogant, but it's mostly projection. He is in a MAD state of denial. For all his talk of being a superior being, that humans are icky and should all perish, yada yada yada, he actually wishes for love and acceptance - he wants to be safe.

Obviously, his head is too far up his ass to admit it, and he's always too busy tweaking about how annoying Vash is and blaming Rem for everything to actually try and sit down and think of better ways to do things but ANYWAY

(You know who else's head is up their ass? Vash. The twins are actually so alike if you really study them!! Anywayyyy)

That was Knives' whole deal from THE VERY BEGINNING. Knives was the one to cry in relief when Conrad and the crew accepted them, not Vash. Vash was more like "ok cool! life might not be so bad! yipee!" and then Knives had to Big Fall about his internalised plantphobia or whatever etc etc.

I AM GETTING SIDETRACKED !! ok so

The stabbing occurs. Again, hard to tell it's actually occurring bc Nightow, but yeah Vash stabbed Rem. Not Knives! Bro has passed out for a couple days now lol.

More evidence it's Vash - Vash was the one to express feeling suicidal. Knives cannot express anything to save his life bc he's the king of internalisation and deflection and projection lmao. Also yeah he's still eeping.

Oh look! He rises! Completely unaware of the drama that has unfolded! Not that he'd care! He's set on a mission to hurl humanity to the dust bowl of Gunsmoke! Little scamp.

Ok take from all that what you will!

Thanks for reading <3

[tulipsforyourlips]

✧˖°. i found you ✧˖°. (7)

|| the sandman x dead boy detectives ||

SUMMARY: You run the dead boys detective agency along with your two best friends. And somehow two ghosts and a living girl make it work. Until you dream one night, of dream himself.

PAIRING: dream of the endless x fem!reader

WC: 3.6K

WARNINGS: heavy angst, violence, heavy depictions of gore!! proceed only if you have the stomach for it!

PART 7 ✧˖°.

You were wrapping the take out noodles around your fork, for some minutes now. There was no space for food inside you, your guts were packed. With agonizing feelings. And the worst of them- unrequited feelings. You dropped your head on the table. 

"Insult. Preposterous scandalous insult. If I could eat, I would never ever insult noodles like that." Charles entered the living room.

He sat down beside you on the floor with a sigh. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong." You titled your head in his direction, still resting it on the marble surface.

He brought his face needlessly closer. "Yeah?"

"You know mate there is this notion you have never heard of-it's called personal space and you're seriously invading it right now." You pushed his face back.

"Come on, tell me." He poked your leg with his under the table.

"Charles I," you pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes.

"I think I am in love." You brought your hands down and looked into his eyes.

"Haz you're my best friend-" Huh "-and I love you, I do but-"

"Not with you! You buffoon!" You smacked his shoulder.

His mouth formed an 'O'. "Of course I knew that," he said while massaging his shoulder. "That hurt by the way."

"Good." You threw your head on the couch behind you.

"Who is the unlucky man?"

"You don't know him."

"Wait is this the guy you keep ditching us for?"

"No-yes and I don't ditch you for him you overdramatic arse."

"Whatever. Are you sure you are in love?" He asked. "It's not just some infatuation?"

"No Charles it isn't a stupid crush. I feel my trachea physically contract when I am near him. Like someone has just seized it, leaving behind thumbprints-his thumbprints."

"I did not get a word of that."

You rolled your eyes.

"Is he hot?" He smirked.

You went over the memories of his flawless face, each detail on it so intricately stored in your mind.

"He's beautiful."

"Damn, you are fucked mate."

You were fucked.

"What's going on?" Edwin joined you both.

"Hazel is in love."

"Wha-"

"No!" You shrieked. "I think. I don't know."

"The mystery date?" Edwin pulled a chair and spun it so that his torso was against the back of it.

"Yeah."

"Haven't you known him for a month maybe?"

"It feels like an eternity," you said. "Why me?" You wailed.

"Happens to the best of us soldier." Charles patted your back.

"Does he..love you back?" Edwin inquired.

"Guys love is too strong a word! And no."

"Has he told you that?"

You narrowed your eyes at Edwin. "No." Before he could take apart your reply and divulge into its interpretations, you rebuffed, "he can't. It's not possible. It's complicated. Just that he can't. And please, can we stop talking about this. Don't you two have any better things to do than piss me off."

"No. Hazel in love is a whole new facet for me to explore."

"Say love one more time and I will skin you alive," you threatened.

"Loooooove," Charles sang.

"This is precisely why I was planning to just sulk by myself alone and swallow down my feelings. Fuck healthy coping mechanisms." You pushed the table back and began standing up when Charles pulled you down.

"You would have exploded."

"Like I am practicing sainthood right now," you fumed as you thrashed against his arms.

"So how old is he?" Edwin queried.

"You people are insufferable. Are you building a freaking facebook page for him?"

"Hey how did you know?" Charles was sniffing the bowl of noodles.

You hit him on the head. "Can you even smell it?"

"It's the effort that counts mate and stop bloody hitting me!" He yelped.

"Stop being you!"

"Guys guys stop it! Hazel how old is he?"

"Quite old," you sighed.

"Like grandpa old-"

"Ew Charles. Well," He was technically more than that.

Edwin's eyes widened. "I was aware you were into older men but?"

"Come on he can't be older than us," Charles grinned.

Yeah about that...

"What is he? Jesus?" Edwin questioned.

"Yeah mate like she just casually fell in love with a god."

Oh boy they were treading dangerously close.

As they began speculating which greek gods they would fuck, marry or kill, you felt your eyelids droop down and you succumbed to the sweet call of sleep.

You stood over the dreaming waters, a wind blowing your hair awry. You lowered your body and your fingers grazed the surface of the glittering water, causing a tremor of ripple. You felt the energy seething in the water body, intangible but somehow compellingly real. And you let it's force pull you into the unfathomable depths of the sea. The impact was cold against your mortal skin, but not as jarring as it should have been for a human. Perhaps it was practice, perhaps it was your weird abilities. Here you could even breathe underwater without flooding your lungs. A trail of light erupted inside the water, guiding you to your destinations. You slackened your muscles and allowed it to steer your body to the dream awaiting you. Like it had been for the past few days. You fell into the dream. Riveting darkness engulfed you. Something was off. A putrid smell wafted through the air which was devoid of any warmth. You opened your arms wide, trying to gain an estimation of your surroundings. Your hands braced against something. A wall? You tried to feel the coarse rugged wall with your fingers but they came away slicky. Gross.

"Hello?" You called out into the apparent void and heard your voice echo against the sickening enclosure of wherever the fuck you had stumbled onto. 

The rancid odour that hung in its air did not aid in pacifying your nerves. You carefully started walking, trying to locate the dream's inhabitant and reach the end of wherever you were when a  clank sounded from where your feet had accidentally kicked something. Before you could discern it, a torch shone in the far distance. A muddled sense of relief poured into your nerves.

"Is anyone there?" You called into the darkness and began approaching the source of light which was gradually making its way towards you.

As you neared the silhouette, it began taking the form of a person. Then you stopped in your tracks, the momentary relief freezing into blocks of fear. A beast of a man holding a sconce alit with fire stared at you with eyes reflecting its light along with an untamed hunger for bloodlust. And then he smiled, displaying all of his crooked yellowed teeth. You took a step back, then another and ran for your life. But luck adored you and you tripped and fell face first onto the ground. Ouch. Your tongue tasted copper as blood oozed from your lips. The left side of your face that was in direct contact with the grimy ground throbbed and you were sure you had managed to bruise that too. You lifted yourself up on your hands weight which stung with meek cuts. The man's footsteps grew louder. And as they did, the light of the raving fire fell on the object you had first hit your leg against and now tripped on. A corpse, multiple corpses, half of them dwindled down to a revolting cluster of skeletons while the other half were decaying their way towards their comrades littered around your own breathing body which could soon add to the pile. Could you die in dreams? You could definitely get hurt. Oh my god you could definitely die. You wanted to empty your guts. Instead you ran. How were you in a nightmare and whose bloody conscious were you in? Who dreamt of walls slick with blood and cannibals or whichever friendly profession the guy practiced roaming within them?

"Dream," your voice pleaded as you exhausted your lungs' limits. You spared a glance back, he was still pursuing you. "Dream! Help me!"

No answer. 

He couldn't hear you. You knew that. You had tried it the second time you had entered someone else's dream- cursing and taunting him as a healthy way to vent your anger at your failed attempts. You had to escape this place. But how? The only way you knew was the opening of a portal after the dream had bent to your will. And there was no way you could get that despising man to trust you. Your legs ached but the nearing shadow on the ground had you disregard it. A portal appeared out of nowhere in front of you and the inertia of your run had you dive straight into it. Pitch black swallowed you again, this time absent of the smell of rotten corpses as you plummeted, to your death. No, not your death. You landed on stable ground in pure darkness. And a light bulb switched on. A mob of zombies were circled around you. Sharp acute fear sliced through your insides. Then the light fused out. Pitch black. When it switched on again, the bloodthirsty creatures were impossibly near you. Shabby vile hands wrapped around your throat. Another pair around your forearm. And another. The army of zombies was on you, nails digging into your flesh, drawing blood.

"Dream please," you futilely begged.

No answer.

Just as your mind was supplying you with images of the dead boy detectives at your tombstone, a portal opened underneath you and gravity pulled you down yet again. Your feet slammed against a polished floor. You found yourself in a diner. Nobody seemed to take in your pathetic presence as you stood studying the scenes playing in front of you. A waitress named Jenny took a happy couple's order. A young man dressed up for a job interview sat on the counter. A woman was calling up her girlfriend after a nasty fight. In the kitchen someone chopped up tomatoes. An odd man sat in a booth in a corner, observing the people all around with an unsettling glint in his eye. A red glow illuminated his face which seemed to come from an object clutched in his hand. Conversations played out everywhere. The scenes segued into the next seamlessly. Something about this figment felt less a dream and more like a memory. But that did nothing to melt the blocks of fear still floating around in your blood, given the fiery streak of nightmares you were on. It's as if you were witnessing the worst of humanity. Your skin bore bleeding gashes as proof. You watched the now mismatched couples make out with each other. And when you blinked, you were alone. It was as though the people had vaporized into thin air. Apprehension tingled your spine. Three people flickered into existence to your right like the lights flickering overhead. The job interviewee was huddled over the CEO's husband. He pulled away a little and a gasp of horror left your mouth. A gaping slash decorated his neck as blood streamed from it, seeping into his clothes and onto the floor. Bile arose in your throat.

"What did you do?" The wife squeaked.

"I didn't mean to-" The young man started explaining when he dissolved into nothingness like the rest.

You wanted to get out of here. What kind of fucked up memory was this?

Two figures materialized in the back, in the kitchen. The waitress was burning papers into a fire while the chopping guy from before was cutting up more vegetables. You warily approached the window segregating the customer side and you wished you hadn't. It wasn't just papers the woman was burning but her own hands and you fought the urge to scream at the charred skin of the woman which was peeling off her hands, exposing the tissues and bones inside. Her friend wasn't bringing his knife down on tomatoes but with a grimace, you saw on his own fingers. Blood spluttered onto the chopping board, a few droplets etching on his face. You grabbed the counter behind you as you shivered due to the gruesome sight you had just experienced. You grinded your teeth in order to not throw up right there and then. In the next second, they were both gone. You revolved your head around, scanning for any sort of escape from the ceaseless series of nightmares you had locked yourself in. You started towards the door, when Jenny appeared in your way with two screwdrivers in her hand. And to your utter harrowing horror, thrusted their spiky ends into her eyes. Your stomach unfurled into a sickening frenzy that gripped every organ of your being and you shuddered. You closed your eyes. Tears slid down your face, mixing the taste of copper and seawater on your tongue. Everything hurt.

"Dream I want to get out," you croaked to yourself, fingers trembling.

No answer.

When you opened them again, all the individuals from before were leering at you. Drenched in blood- gushing out of necks, dripping down from hammered and sliced hands, accompanied by bloodied slits for eyes.

"Dream please, I need you," you whispered, tears falling down in a torrent. 

Blood splattered everywhere as they made their way to you. The door was just behind you. But you were frozen in your spot, dread weighing your body down. They spread around, closing in from every direction. You took a step back and your back collided with something solid. You closed your eyelids, waiting to be impaled on a knife or a screwdriver when a familiar hand draped around your waist.

"I got you," Dream's sweet voice said in your ears.

And in a heartbeat, the horrendous scene was replaced by his throne room. He released his hold on you and without his hands keeping you upright, your knees buckled and you fell to the floor.

Bottling down any sob that could dare leak through, you asked, blinking away tears, "what happened back there?"

"You accidentally ventured into the worst the Dreaming has to offer," he explained while scrutinizing your injuries.

"I did not venture Dream. I got sucked into it," you bit out.

The Endless lowered himself to where you were crouched on the floor. You must be looking a complete and hapless fiasco, lips and skin torn, blood desecrating your features, incongruous in the Dreaming castle. 

"Hazel I never thought those could even be accessible to you. Some nightmares yes, but none that terrorizing. Something must have-"

"You knew?" You looked up at him. "You knew that I could stumble into a nightmare any of the days you sent me there?"

"It-it never happened before, with Hope-"

"I am not Hope!" you snapped. "I almost died Dream, more than once." Your voice shook involuntarily.

"I wouldn't have let you," he said firmly. "I heard you."

He did? All the names you had called him and the jokes you had made of his 'conceited arse' passed through your mind. But the spur of embarrassment mellowed down as rage took its hold back on you.

His fingers skimmed across the underside of your eye where a scar was engraving into it.

"Don't touch me." You swatted his hand away.

A momentary hurt flashed in his eyes.

"Oh please like I am not doing you a favour. You act as if my touch burns you." You tried to get up but a swell of dizziness swept over you and you would have fallen again if Dream hadn't caught you against him. And as quickly, he let go of his hands.

"You promised,"

Dream flinched at your words.

"You promised it would be fine. Nothing about that was fine."

Dream went still. You turned back, away from the glass panes. The crystal colours reminded you of the apron Jenny was wearing and the image of the waitress jabbing the metal ends into her eyes, surfaced from wherever it had been imprinted in your mind for the remainder of your life.

"I can't do this anymore Dream. I am sorry."

A yank pulled you out of your sleep and your eyes fluttered open in the waking world. Every muscle in your anatomy was sore.

"Come on you tosser up!" Charles barged into your room.

You dragged your sheets over your head, shielding your sorry state from his gaze.

"Get up mate!" He whined. "I come as a bearer of absolutely brills news. We have, drumroll please," he rapped his hands on the bedstand, "another sea monster creating havoc!"

"I am not feeling really well today. I don't think I will be able to accompany you," you said from under your covers and Charles groped them, about to toss them aside.

"Bugger off! It could be a nasty infection, you will catch it."

"Ghost's don't get sick idiot."

"Charles please I am a mess right now, go without me," you pleaded.

"Ugh fine. Rot in bed for all I care." And he went away.

So you proceeded to rot in bed all day, staring at the wall, regretting your existence, you know, the usual. After a while, as the sun became dimmer, you got out of your bed with grueling effort, scrambled on a hoodie to conceal your bruised face and body incase the boys got back and went to the study. You began combing through thick volumes of parasite trivia to distract your mind from replaying the events of last night. Even the knowledge of your confrontation with Dream sparked a pain that hurt more than any physical wounds on your self. You browsed through the shelves and your fingers hovered over a book that peeked your interest. You pulled it out and immediately dropped it onto the floor at the swooshing sound from the mirror.

"Fuck, you scared me," you told a reappeared Edwin.

"I had no intention to," he apologized. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," you lied.

Charles was next through the mirror.

"How was the case?"

"Ugly," he said. "Did you know about the night nurse?" He scrunched his face.

"The what?" Your bafflement was genuine.

"She's this transcendental being working in some afterlife department locating missing boys-missing dead boys and allotting them their fixed places in the afterlife," Edwin spoke up.

"Yeah she's a bitch basically. Tried to separate Edwin and me here." He put up his hands in disbelief. "The gall. She can try." He balled up his fist into a punch. "I won't let her take you back to hell," he told Edwin.

Edwin smiled softly and squeezed his hand. "I know Charles."

"This doesn't make sense. Death isn't even after you," you blurted out and realized your mistake.

"What do you mean?" Both their ears perked up.

"I don't think that she is." You moved away from them and secured the hood around your head. You kept the study barely lit for the aesthetics and you applauded yourself for that whimsy decision.

"Well believe it or not the world doesn't adjust itself to what Hazel thinks and what Hazel feels," Charles blabbered.

Except it did.

"Yeah, I know. I am going to bed, see you later." You picked up the book you had dropped earlier and walked away.

"You sleep more than a corpse these days you know?"

You stopped in the doorway as the skeletons and remains of people from one of the nightmares entered your vision, a fate you were about to join.

"That isn't  funny," you deadpanned as you turned around.

"Dude chill it was a joke. Why so serious? Trouble with your boyfriend?" He snickered.

"Everything is not a bloody joke Charles!" You hurled your book at him and he ducked just in time from having a permanent dent on his head.

"What the fuck mate?"

"Hazel," Edwin chastised.

You pressed your fingers against your temples. "I am sorry."

You rushed out of the study, mad at everyone and yourself. Footsteps followed behind.

"Edwin please don't."

You winced as he grabbed your forearm. He noticed your reaction and pulled your sleeve up. You jerked free from his grip but he had already seen the claw marks carved in your skin.

"What was that?"

You shied away from his inspecting glare. He warily approached you, afraid he might set you off again. But as you retreated back, your hood fell back and light illuminated your battered face.

Edwin sucked in a breath. "What the fuck happened to your face?" His voice was upsettingly calm. You had never heard him curse once in the 4 years you had known him.

He clenched his teeth when you didn't respond. "Hazel, I asked you a question."

"I tripped." That was partially true.

"You tripped?" He asked incredulously. "What is happening to you?"

"Everything is fine Edwin! Absolutely brilliant. There is nothing you need to worry about."

"How can we not?" He cried. "We care for you!" He brought his voice down several octaves.  "We want to help you."

"You can't okay!" You yelled at him.

"Let us try." His eyes were locked on yours. "Please."

Your eyes grew watery. You plopped down on the couch near you. Edwin sat himself next to you.

"What is going on Hazel?" He gently probed.

You pursed your lips to stop yourself from crying. "Nothing." You shook your head.

"Come here."

He put his arm around you and at the touch, the dam of your emotions busted open and you crumbled into his embrace, soiling his shirt with your tears. He stroked your hair as you sobbed into his chest, emptying all of the pent up frustration and hurt and loss until you were numb, incapable of feeling anything. Oh Dream, what are you doing to me?

SERIES MASTERLIST ✧˖°.

[paragonrobits]

so i was thinking about world of darkness' takes on vampires and werewolves from a worldbuilding angle and what the general implicit slant of intended character is for the settings of Vampire the Masquerade and Werewolf the Apocalypse; what the gameplay encourages without outright restricting it, and it occured to me that in many ways Vampire and Werewolf flip the script for what is often expected, nowadays, from a vampire and werewolf story.

Vampire takes the approach of vampires being undeniably romantic, but its a veneer. Vampires SEEM romantic, powerful, a walking power fantasy of sorts. They consume as they wish and are immortal, able to look over the ages as they come; all power and undeniably tough compared to just about most other character types, and they're as close to human from a psychological angle as you get. even a young and weak vampire is likely more powerful than any normal human can ever be, treating blades and bullets alike as minor inconveniences even if they don't specialize in pure defense.

They seem purely cool, something ideal to be. It would be pretty cool to be an immortal predator, wouldn't it?

But its a veneer. Beneath the skin of what looks like a beautiful human (for the most part), there's a monster. They're not human. Not any more; beneath that skin is something hungry, craving and thirsting for death, to consume. A vampire has certain instincts; to forge territory, to fight and hunt, and they put pretty faces on it, they give it nice titles and imagine themselves as divinely ordained predators to bring fear to mortals, but in the end... its all something they tell themselves. There is a Beast inside them, and it feels like the Beast is the real thing, and they're just pretending otherwise to feel better.

Vampire's narrative generally focuses on an assumption encouraged by the gameplay mechanics: that people start out as young vampires trying to manage the hungers of the beast and reveling in their own power while navigating cutthroat vampire society. But a lot of it is about denial; denial of the Beast, denial of their desires to feed, denial that they can still care about things like love, and friendship and ideals when every fiber of their being screams to kill, knee-deep in gore and sucking out the blood of dead people like a wild animal. Its a constant battle between the desperate lingering shreds of Humanity and the demands of the Beast; and sooner or later, a bit at a time, the Beasts. How long can they keep it up?

Vampire is about the masquerade; both the literal conspiracy to conceal their existence from humanity as a whole, and pretending that they're not ravening monsters in denial of what they've become.

So what about werewolves?

Werewolf, unusually for most depictions, does NOT depict them as infected creatures, or afflicted by a curse. Being a werewolf isn't something inflicted on you, or spread; they're not made. A werewolf is born; they simply are what they are, whether born as a human or a wolf, either too fierce to feel entirely comfortable around humans or too smart to feel right around wolves. And then one day, the First Change happens, whether in liberation or in tragic bloodshed, and whatever else happens, its a revelation:

A werewolf is not something created, or a transformation done to you. It's seeing the world of spirits revealed, the compulsions to hunt and fight given a purpose. You're not something that shouldn't exist, but a part of the world, a living function to protect it. Your jaws itch and your fingers itch to rip and to tear, because there are horrible things in the world that must be slain. Corruption and violation incarnate, whether as malicious spirits or powerful humans who don't give a damn about the world dying as long as they have a good time in the here and now.

There are things that need to die, and you were born to hunt the things no one else can.

You're not a human that becomes a wolf, or a wolf that can become a human. You're both. You're neither. You're a spirit creature, walking between both the physical world and the realm of spirits, fueled by the rage of a world rejecting its own inevitable destruction. You're not human, not because something changed you...

But because you were never human. You simply are what you are; this is who and what you always were. And you can't just ignore what you were made for; to rage against the dying of the world, to rage against the inevitable extinction of all things.

Vampires are monsters, clinging to humanity and playing their games of politics and trying to feed their ravenous hunger without losing themselves in the prospect, maintaining a masquerade inside and out. Werewolves might be monsters, depending on your point of view, but they're not losing themselves, they're fighting against an apocalypse.

If Vampire asks "What are you willing to do to feed the Beast, lest you become that beast", Werewolf asks "When will you Rage?"

[reds-skull]

Not Alive, Nor Dead

[PREV PART] [AO3]

Okay I realized a scene I love comes up in the fic on this chapter, so I was like "well, I'm not doing anything right now, why not write it?"

So I wrote it. Enjoy.

(This one has description of some gore and aftermath of torture, very short segments, not worse than was already in the fic)

Ghost woke up slowly, the slick residue of his nightmares fading away as he lifted his head and groaned. Soap had already woken up, and by the chipper way he moved around the room, a while ago.

The Sergeant is getting better at telling when he’s being stared at, and he turns around to raise an eyebrow at Ghost.

“Sleepin’ beauty is finally awake!” he says with a smile.

Ghost drags a hand under his mask, sighing, “time’s it?”

“500 sharp, sir” Soap provides happily.

The fuck’s kinda person is this cheerful at this hour? Ghost exhales loudly and finally gets out of bed. The Sergeant opens his mouth, to probably comment on his old man habits, but Ghost shoots him a stare that would’ve killed a lesser man.

Soap just gives him a shit eating grin in return, “not a morning person?”

Ghost walks towards the bathroom, “I’m a normal person, you’re the fuckin’ anomaly.”

The Scot barks a loud laugh that makes him feel a little less groggy.

At mess, the taskforce finds a table of their own, and the Sergeants busy themselves with an argument about one daft thing or another. 

Price caught his attention and started speaking to him in his mind, “your nightmares are bloody loud sometimes, y’know that?”

Ghost bites on his toast, “don’t fuckin’ listen then.”

The Captain laughs a little before his features turn serious, “you wanna tell me how much of what the Reaper said in your dream actually happened?”

That’s what he dreamt about that last night? Fucking hell. Can’t keep secrets from Price.

“Won’t have to if you just told me, Simon.”

Ghost puts down his meal to stare intently at the Captain, “what did you see? In my dream.”

Price’s moustache twitched in thought, and he replied, “it said something about Soap bringing your demise?”

“It said ‘bringer of demise’, didn’t fuckin’ specify whose.” Ghost spat back.

“What else?”

Before he could stop him, he felt Price pull the memory to the forefront of his mind to watch for himself what unfolded on the plane that day.

“It told you to stay away from Soap if you wanna live?!”

Ghost banged his fist on the table, startling the Sergeants out of their idiotic bickering. He paid no mind to them, focus fully on Price, “I’m not going to stop working with the Sergeant just because my Reaper decided to be a little shit.” he snarls in the Captain’s head.

Price huffs, “I’m not going to let you die Ghost.”

“Did it say I’m going to die?!”

“Simon…”

Gaz cuts their exchange, “what’s going on? Are you two talking in your brains?”

Soap crosses his arms, “well, yer welcome to use your outside voice.”

Ghost gets up, “no need, we’re done.”

Before he can get out of range, Price tells him “keep yourself safe on this mission, Simon. We’ll figure it out later.”

He supposes that’s manageable. 

Ghost and Soap bid their farewells to Gaz and Price, as they go on their own part of the mission, and walk back to the armory to get ready for theirs.

The two of them get dressed up, Ghost armed to the teeth with various throwing knives. He’s not going to use Limbo, not with Soap being right next to him.

And he won’t need to - Ghost is perfectly capable as a fighter with no abilities. There’s a reason the rumors about him as so varied.

Near inhuman in every aspect.

Soap is done before him (less knives, amateur), and now sits to watch Ghost finish up.

A low whistle makes him twist around, “haven’t seen this get-up since the last time we worked together, lookin’ good LT”.

…huh?

“Keep it tactical, Sergeant.” Ghost voices almost mechanically.

“Aye sir, yessir.” Soap gives him an overexaggerated salute.

He rolls his eyes and ignores the warm feeling spreading through his body for the billionth time.

The cartel member’s house appears in the distance after a few minutes of making their way through the wilder parts of Las Almas. Ghost and Soap take out the guards at the front gate and make their way in.

The house is a two storey, drab building, with no real defining features. It’s surrounded by a tall fence, and a smaller shed is stuck by the far left corner of the large yard. 

The suspected location of the kidnapped people is by the far end of the house. They’re tasked with making it inside without alerting any alarms, lest they start killing the people trapped inside.

With the front door clear, the two soldiers open the door and instantly check corners, covering each other’s blind spots.

“Clear.”, Ghost announces.

“Clear.” Soap lowers his silenced pistol a bit, “seems awfully empty, LT. Sure we got the right house?”

“Affirm, stay sharp Sergeant.” Ghost starts forwards, Soap not far behind him.

He feels unnerved. The Sergeant is right, the house is quiet, as though it’s been deserted weeks ago. But a quick look at the amount of dust settled on the floors tells him it couldn’t be more than a few days.

They continue forward, clearing rooms methodically. Ghost has a sense of satisfaction from the act, an enjoyment in working together with Soap besides him for the first time.

They complete each other’s blind spots like puzzle pieces.

Soap declares the first floor clear, barring one last room at the very end of the hallway. Up until then they found several evidences that there were narcos residing here in the past, including a hefty amount of white powder, but they’re not here on a drug bust.

“On me Sergeant”, Ghost orders Soap before pushing the door open.

The scene inside is gruesome. Ghost is intimately familiar with narco torturing techniques, so the bloodied items strewn across the room were an unfriendly sight.

4 bodies lay in the room, and Ghost walks over to check for cartel tattoos on them. One of the bodies has dog tags, and he frowns while pulling it out of the dead man’s shirt.

They read “Thomas Anderson”. Why is that name familiar-

“Sergeant Thomas Anderson, 28. Revenant powers… ‘Breathing underwater?’”

Soap examines the torturing devices with wary eyes, muttering “steamin’ Jesus…” under his breath.

Ghost spots a large tub, filled with reddish water.

Anderson’s body is dry, besides the blood oozing out of his cold body.

The three other men in the room however… Their body is coated with an even amount of thinned blood, from their head down to their chests. They died from drowning.

What is the meaning of this…?

Ghost takes Anderson’s dog tags and stands up, “4 confirmed deaths, no survivors”, he radios in. 

“Copy, exfil inbound in 30, get yourself there.”

They both exit the room, “copy, out here.”

Ghost turns to stand in front of the Sergeant, “one of them was a revenant”, he dangles the tags in front of Soap’s eyes. The date of Reaping is listed right under date of birth, like in their own tags.

Soap frowns, a certain anger washing over him, “what do you think they’re playin’ at?”

“We can chew on that back at base, for now let get to exfil-”

Ghost barely finishes his sentence when he sees Soap’s eyes widen, locked on something behind his shoulder. Half a second later, he’s being spun around, and the piercing sound of bullets fills the air.

Ghost’s heart hammers, and he finally focuses on the view in front of him. Soap’s wide, blue eyes.

And several blotches of red peppered across his torso, spreading quicker than Ghost can process.

“...Soap?” his mind can’t, refuses to make sense of the sight in front of him. Soap isn’t… he can’t be…

The Sergeant’s breaths are erratic, chest rising and falling in big swells. The shock in his eyes transforms, burns away.

Until all that’s left, is rage.

“I’m so sick of this…” Soap murmurs. Shouts in Spanish echo behind them, but Ghost have eyes and ears only for his Sergeant.

Soap lets go of his shoulders, and Ghost scrambles to take him in his arms.

But Soap turns around and walks away, legs shaking and hands burning brighter and brighter by the second. 

One brave narco shoots at his shoulder, making the Scot stagger for a moment.

Ghost lifts an arm, to drag Soap back to him, to cover him from anyone who ever harmed him, to do something, anything.

But Soap unleashes a terrifying snarl and launches forward, grabbing at the narcos.

The explosions blind Ghost, screams and horrible sounds of metal creaking to the breaking point and bones snapping deafening him.

Soap whirls in the middle of this firestorm, exploding guns, heads, walls, anything in his path.

Ghost’s eyes water from the amount of dust and smoke that fills the air.

His Sergeant is radiant.

“Soap…” Ghost tries to stop the unstoppable. He just wants Soap to rest.

“Johnny…..” 

Soap finally stills, carnage creating a halo around him, and all Ghost sees is the red on his clothes, the wheezing of his breath.  

Ghost takes a step forward, and Soap collapses on his knees.

He rushes to grab him by the shoulders before he can fall further, “you’re fine Johnny, you’re going to be fine.” he sputters, pushing his Sergeant up to look at the wounds.

So many wounds.

He knows no one can survive this. Not even revenants. 

“LT…” Soap whispers, voice weak and wobbly.

“You’re going to be alright, you…” air leaves his lungs without a sound. He can’t breathe. How can he?

How can he breathe when Soap lifts a trembling hand, the gentle warmth of flames licking at Ghost’s nape, and looks at him like that?

“LT… I’m not gonna-”

They both jump at the sound of car tires getting closer. The narcos called for backup…

Ghost can’t breathe. He watches Soap shivers in front of him.

He doesn’t have a choice. 

Ghost takes Soap in his arms, hand on his nape mirroring his Sergeant, and presses his head to his own shoulder.

“Close your eyes, Johnny. It will all be over soon.”

He can hear Soap gasp, can feel his chest stuttering.

Ghost closes his eyes the moment footsteps enter the house.

Limbo courses out of him, darkness and emptiness and void filling the house, the residents of it screaming, snarling to take a bite at the intruders.

He holds Soap tight, pressing himself as close as he can. The protective wisps of light barely cover them both, but he will not let Soap be taken by Limbo.

Not Soap. Not Johnny.

In the next blink, Limbo is gone. The victims of the void quiet, as if they also mourn along Ghost.

Johnny pushes lightly at his chest, and Ghost separates them to look him in the eyes.

He seemed to try to form a sentence before a series of coughs wrecked his body, so Ghost laid him down on the blood-covered floor.

“G-Ghost”, he utters through clenched teeth, “d’ye… d’ye know how guns work?”

Ghost’s heart crushes at the sound of his Sergeants voice. He’s… not making sense anymore. Blood delirium isn’t unheard of… especially… especially with how much he-

“Yes”, Ghost softly whispers, more gentle than he ever learned to be.

“T-tell me”, Soap winces when more pain makes its way through his system.

Ghost wants to wither away with him. “The bullet goes into the chamber… and the primer is ignited to cause a small exp-”

His world stops completely.

“T-Teh cause a small ex-explosion.” Soap finishes slowly.

Johnny is…

“I’m not gonna d-die, LT”

Ghost’s eyes slide away from Soap’s, to the rest of his body. He slowly lifts his Sergeant’s shirt, to reveal multiple bullet holes where the tac vest didn’t cover him.

Bullet holes that are already closing.

Ghost wanted to scream out of joy, wail in premature unwarranted grief, shout at Soap for not telling him earlier.

But the radio informs them exfil is 10 minutes out, and they need to get a move on if they want to arrive in time.

Ghost slides his hands under Soap’s body, blood soaking his gloves in a way that takes him back 8 months ago. Back when it was different.

Soap grasps him like he’ll fall if he doesn’t.

Different, yet also the same.

The walk to exfil is quiet, save for Soap’s harsh breathing. Healing or not, he still feels pain.

The driver of their exfil car looks horrified at their shared state, but neither give an explanation and take a sit at the back of the car. It’s only after a few moments of nothing that Ghost mutters, “drive” to the Vaquero.

He feels numb, his arms and legs limp, gaze forward, but nothing truly passes through his brain.

Soap shifts beside him, letting out grunts of pain every once in a while. Making it obvious, despite what his heart tells him, that he’s very much alive.

The blood seeping under his fingernails feels freezing.

The Vaquero was at a loss of what to do with them once the car reaches the base. Ghost shuts the door loudly, and with it the connection to his heart.

Lieutenant first, human last.

“Where is medical?” He asks the man.

Ghost carries Soap all the way to the nurse’s hands, where he was stopped and told he had to clean up if he wanted to stay any longer. He wanted to scream infection doesn’t matter when the wounds will close in the matter of minutes, but the look on the nurse told him she wasn’t impressed.

He left medical to drag himself to the showers, energy left behind him with every step. 

Showers are usually a short ordeal for him, as efficient as they come. But Johnny’s blood going down the drain made him linger.

30 or so minutes later he comes out, and for the first time in what feels like hours there's  something in his brain, besides numbness.

It’s Price. Him and Gaz returned.

The voice in his mind sounds concerned, imploring him to explain why everything looks so dull there.

Ghost ignores it and goes to find his teammates.

“Ghost” Price greets, Gaz perks up from his previous position, head held in his hands. “Where’s the Sergeant?”

Ghost nods back at the hallway, “medical.” is all he provides.

Garrick startles, “Was he injured? What happened?”

“Flanked.” Ghost says, voice matching the emptiness in his head, “got shot.”

“Shot?! Fuck, where-”

“He’s immune.” Ghost cuts him off.

Gaz becomes confused, “immune?”

“To bullets. Primer ignition counts as explosion.” 

The Sergeant sits back down, body slackening, “thank fuck…”

Price catches ghost’s eye contact, “but you didn’t know that.”

Ghost just… shrugs.

“Fucking hell…” the Captain looks away, “it was one of the redacted details in his file…”

Gaz frowns, “why would they redact that?”

“Reapers know.”

The next couple of hours zoom past Ghost. His teammates try to coax him out of his unfeeling self, but Ghost isn’t truly in base.

His mind is stuck in a cartel house, in the Las Almas wilderness. On bloody and soot covered floor, with a dying man in his arms.

On eyes, shining with burning rage.

Pain! Pain! Pain! All I'm making Ghost feel is pain!

[mixotrophics]

forcing ecology to conform to human squeamishness -- a source of continuing harm

image source - SCOTLAND: the big picture

rewilding -- you may have heard of it. Letting native species (or similar enough ones) do their thing. Bringing back locally-extinct species. letting life, Live but part of nature is also death. Decay. Rot. Blood, gore. Fungus. Maggots. Death breaks apart the Body and lets its nutrients, borrowed during life, re-enter the cycles and nourish more life.

I've heard of a term, I think it was re-dead-ing, but cannot find the post... I do see, now, Death Gives Life , referring to the same thing.

we (broadly) are disgusted by the presence of death. 'Dead stock' -- dead animals, dead plants, so on -- are often removed from the scenery in places like the UK(1). This is often done in the name of disease control, with the idea that dead bodies in nature cause disease(1) even though the work of scavengers & decomposers clear up the germs(2) , -- main concern is, if the animal was very sick before it dies, its carcass may carry that disease. But that is not a corpse problem, that is an animal health problem, which lays in problems like artificially high & concentrated populations (e.g. deer, chronic wasting disease). Just keep them away from waterways and livestock, probably(3).

The carcass(of tree and animal alike) is a node of concentrated nutrients. When left in place, those nutrients return from the ecology from which they came. When the carcass is taken away, those nutrients are gone elsewhere(3). And now, detached from the life that has mechanisms to eat-rot(2), we humans have to do something with it. Like with manure, compartmentalizing these "wastes" away from growing life turns them into a problem(4).

Fallen trees & rotting meat are the homes for so many species, sometimes species only raising their young at particular stages or specializing to particular parts -- fur, bones, meat, bark(2). disallowing the dead & rotting from resting where they lay where we can see&smell them, is disallowing these species to find a place to live.

image source - ARK Rewilding Netherlands

& it's not just bugs. Think vultures, Think scavenger-mammals(2) ; Not only these, but predators fill up on already-dead meat, allowing endangered prey like the capercaillie to nest successfully(3).

and "cleaning up" this "ugly thing" that is the dead may deprive animals of their chance to mourn(1). Not all animals do -- many don't care much, many eat their own babies -- but some do and they should be given that chance.

...

greenwashed environmentalism thrives on the beauty of nature, operating in very narrow definitions of beauty and what is correct ... mud, rot, death, disease, bugs, stench, shit, these are all fundamental aspects of the inbuilt reciprocity+interconnectedness of being alive, and things we reject at the peril of so much.

image source - How death gives life

to all dead things: we, the living, love you, and thank you for giving back to the natural community at the end of your time with us. If only such ideas were not so opposed in the current era.

...

1 ) King, S. How death gives life. Rewilding Britain, 2023. 2 ) Beekers, B.; Meertens, H.; Reiniers, K.; Helmer, W.; Colijn, E.; Krawczynski, R.; and Meissner, R.; trans. Righart, A.; and Allen, D. Circle of life: A new way to support Europe's scavengers. Rewilding Europe & ARK Nature, 2017. 3 ) Ferraro, K. M.; and Hirst, C. Missing carcasses, lost nutrients: Quantifying nutrient losses from deer culling practices in Scotland. Ecological Solutions and Evidence 5(3), 2024. 4 ) Moore Lappé, F.; and Collins, J. World Hunger: 10 Myths. 2015.

[cellard0ors]

Listen:

This is very niche and very me and my own personal headcanon for a character, BUT:

Ash Williams.

Hear me out: the events in the original Evil Dead happened. Ashley Williams - a romantic and a dork - totally wimped out (at first) when Scotty talks about chopping up Shelly, because she's their friend and - at his core - Ashley isn't inherently violent.

At this point, he's a sweet boy who just went up to a cabin in the woods to spend time with his friends, his sister, and his girlfriend, Linda.

He even has a sweet gift for Linda, a beautiful necklace, and he loves her, but then things fall apart in the most horrific fashion possible.

His sister becomes a monster, as does Shelly and even Linda. His friend, Scott, someone he thought he knew and could trust, his friend, shows his true colors - making it a point to tell Ashley he doesn't care about anyone or anything but himself.

Then Scott dies too and also becomes a monster just like the others.

And Ashley survives.

But also, he DOESN'T.

Because Ashley Williams died in the cabin and from there Ash Williams is born.

The opening of Evil Dead 2? It's Ash's reimagining of events. His friends weren't there, his sister wasn't there. Right?!? It was just Linda and him, wasn't it?

His mind is fracturing and his form of PTSD takes hold in the form of minimizing the damage of how many people died and how much loss he suffered, but kept the most significant loss in the form of Linda and the necklace - two big moments he can't forget, not ever.

The loss of his hand only pushes this further, as he literally cuts a part of himself off. From here he also begins to take on some of Scotty's final traits - he becomes callous and self-motivated, but only a touch, because while Ashley died, there are traces of him scattered in there, in the debris of who he is now.

Ash turns to sarcasm and humor as defense mechanisms. Drinking, drugs, sex, women - these help too. After all, his mind is already shattered and the only woman he ever truly loved he had to dismember, so, yeah best to use those to cover up any and all of his problems.

My point in writing this here, is that I think both Ashley Williams and Ash Williams, while one and the same, are in essence also two very different characters with very deep traumas and I find that that's often overlooked when we think of Bruce Campbell and Sam Raimi and The Evil Dead films.

Don't get me wrong - I love the camp and the silliness and the excessive blood and gore played almost for laughs just as much as everyone else does.

But I think it's also deeply fascinating and interesting to breakdown this iconic character and think about him in this fashion. At least it is for me and I was curious if anyone else felt the same.

[illarian-rambling]

Character Introduction: Mashal, lucky number six

For a moment, Mashal wondered if a brief spring rain had passed overhead, turning the leaf litter glistening and wet. It wasn’t until the light from his eyes hit the shimmering ground that he realized all the moisture was red.

Strewn about in a fiendish halo were the remains of the two bandits. A hand here, a face there—less than mincemeat, really. He could see a leg crushed in the exact approximation of his jointed grip. Mashal felt as if vomit should have been flooding his mouth, but his only reaction was the faint whir of gears. Guts dripped from the trees…. Iron in his mouth….

“Mashal!”

The robot whirled toward the sound of Astra’s voice, heady and rich even when strained by terror. There was a prickling pressure around his eyes, though he didn’t know why.

“I–” He paused, trying to wipe the dirt from where it clogged his vocal output, but the joints of his hands were caked in a slurry of bone and gristle, trapping them in closed fists. That cold was back now, trapping him in its suffocating embrace. “I’m over here!”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Mashal regretted them. He was dangerous! He could still feel that icy voice slavering away in the back of his mind. Kill her, run, hide, anything, do whatever it takes!

Yet, words could not be unsaid. Faint it might have been, but Astra picked up on his voice and soon the witch pushed her way into the glade-turned-abattoir. Her piebald face was shadowed with fear and speckled with a bloody constellation of its own. It was her eyes though, that made Mashal take a step back, that made his excuse for a heart crumple in like tin foil. Because reflected in them was a shining devil, bathed in gore. Riveted and rusting, like some mechanical horror that had torn its way out of a man’s skin.

The sensation crept back in—the ice, the pain. I shouldn’t be feeling pain. The acid-needle ache in his arms and legs, his everything. It wasn’t a malfunction. Nothing ever is, ever was. Mashal felt sick as he looked down at his trapped hand. Hands that couldn’t be his.

No, no, the sensation was worse, so much worse. It was a memory.

So, I'm going to do this introduction a little backwards. Mashal's backstory contains some pretty big spoilers for the whole of Mystery of the Mortal God. Feel free to keep reading if you don't mind things like that, but you've been warned. The backstory will be at the very end.

I'll start with his personality. Mashal has no memories beyond waking up in Astra's wagon, so many of his quirks and habits are a mystery to him. He's a kindly, honorable man, with a strong sense of what's right and wrong, and a desire to protect people. Yet, he's not brash in the slightest. He's soft-spoken and appreciates even the smallest beauties in life. Probably, this is connected to his stellar artistic abilities. He enjoys listening to stories, hoping to one day be able to tell stories of his own.

Darker things lurk in his mind as well. It frightens him, how paranoid he can sometimes be around magic and its practitioners. It can also be alarming how certain he is in his morality. Mashal makes decisions based on what he knows to be right, sometimes to the detriment of those around him, especially when he doesn't understand the whole situation.

As for what he looks like, Mashal is a human-shaped robot standing at a towering 6'10". His face has some basic mobility (he can move his eyebrows, eyelids, and the corners of his mouth) but nothing special. His plating is bronze with steel underneath, and his eyes glow white. He wears loose-fitting, highly concealing clothes and a bandana over his head. These are usually patched, because he tears clothes easily. He covers as much bronze as he can due to a strange sort of robotic body dysmorphia.

Fun facts now!:

He's great with animals, especially horses, though no horse could support his weight for riding.

Graphite is his preferred medium, and landscapes are his preferred subject for art.

Despite his anxiety around it, Mashal is actually getting pretty good at picking up runes and mechanics.

He speaks Skysheerian Elvish and has no idea why.

He hates the rain because he's scared of rust and frightened of the sea because he knows he'll sink to the bottom with no way to get back up.

He has a bit of a stutter when he's nervous and his voice tends to go a little static-filled.

He's very curious about Unitian-made robots who were raised around other robots.

His hypothetical favorite food is honey. He just likes the way it looks.

He once scratched the paint job on Astra's wagon, painted it back in the night, and never told her. This is the one time he's ever lied to her and he feels terrible about it.

He teaches Mercher's Day (a fat tortoiseshell cat) tricks when Astra is asleep.

Now's where we get into the meat of things. Spoilers will follow.

Sir Mashal Darezsho was born in the Sulu'Okan city of Bouerco as the second son of the noble Darezsho line. With his older brother taking care of the whole heir thing, young Sir Darezsho was allowed to do as he pleased. Most thought he would go the path of the scholar due to his modest sorcerous talent, however, the young man was enraptured by the sword from the moment he was allowed to hold one. When he was sixteen, he enrolled in officer training for the Sulu'Okan army, the fiercest fighting force within the Republic's grander military. When he was twenty, he was knighted by High Lady Zuli N'Jogu herself.

Sir Darezsho served his people by protecting the roads between Sulu'Oku and Skolan with both sword and sorcery. The borderlands is a crime-ridden area, so he had his work cut out for him between bandits and selkie raiders. Thanks to the efforts of him and his company of fellow knights though, the borderlands became a marginally safer place to travel through. He ensured that they all upheld the Sulu'Okan military code of honor to the utmost degree.

Things changed with Sir Darezsho when he accepted a small assignment in the border town of Bekridge. An alchemical distillery had been experiencing a string of thefts and wanted someone to investigate. Thinking the job would involve scaring off a petty thief at most, Sir Darezsho went to stake the place out alone. This mistake would cost him his life.

That night, a door appeared from thin air and a figure stepped out, a half-moon grin glowing from under a shadowed cowl. Sir Darezsho tried to fight, but he was no match for the powerful sorcerer. Vermir spirited him away into her demiplane. And there was where Sir Darezsho died.

Mashal wakes up some time after this. All he knows is his name and that he is lost. And that his metal body feels so terrible cold. He just wishes he knew why....

Hope you all enjoy my sweetheart robot! Lmk if you have any questions. Next up will be blueboy, Ivander Montane!

@amandacanwrite @elsie-writes @riveriafalll @kosmic-kore @kaylinalexanderbooks @bard-coded @carrotsinnovember @patternwelded-quill @somethingclevermahogony @whatwewrotepodcast @goldxdarkness @the-angriest-author @mk-writes-stuff

[ronqueesha]

re: the allergies/holidays/birthday/etc post you just reblogged, can we have a few little known facts about sarit, or iona? (or both if I'm very lucky)

Sure! (And thank you for letting me talk about my beloved characters)

A funny thing about Sarit and her long list of medical issues: she has no known allergies at all! Even the exotic allergies common in the settled systems from various alien flora and fauna that can debilitate many other people. Sarit's ravaged and painful lungs have no problem handling all known forms of alien pollen/dander/allergens you can think of.

She grew out her hair only once, in her teen years when she was still figuring herself out. But other than that, Sarit has kept the same haircut she had since she was that sickly little boy sitting behind a computer terminal while bedridden.

She LOVES chunks pumpkin pie. This is perplexing to others, especially Andreja, since it has the consistency and appearance of gelatinous orange poison.

She can control her mechanical prosthetic right arm wirelessly. It doesn't happen often, but she does have the ability to make her arm crawl to her using its fingers like a horrible metal spider.

Her birthday is September 14.

I mentioned it before, but my favorite comfort headcanon is that Sarit is distantly related to an alternate-universe version of my Fallout 4 OCs Zoe and Nathan Bhatia. In Starfield's universe, Zoe and Nathan were happily married in 2077 and lived happily ever after with their son Shaun. Shaun would go on to have a brilliant career in robotics and computers that would lay the foundation for the technology used in the settled systems. Shaun Bhatia is Sarit's great-great-great-great-great grandfather.

Over the course of the crusade, Iona found various ways (many of them very unethical) to taste the blood of her companions, and learned to identify each of them from taste alone.

Iona's birthday is the Pathfinder equivalent of August 27. (and naturally, that is also Saints Row Iona's birthday)

When Iona is bored during a long war council meeting, she will summon a servant to fetch her a mug of cow's blood she will loudly sip to signal her desire to end the meeting. If things continue against her wishes, she will send for a crazy bendy straw to loudly slurp up the last drops of blood from the mug.

Iona is very tall, one of the perks of being a dhampir. She inherited many of the positive traits of a full vampire, including the unearthly conventional beauty and a tall physique. She is a very slutty supermodel with supernatural powers over blood.

Despite having a mountain of kinks, one of Iona's semi-secret turn offs is receiving pain. She is very much not a masochist in bed, and prefers inflicting pain via her fangs or other sex toys her partner consents to using.

One of her favorite ways of flirting with Arueshalae is following a battle, the two of them will walk through the battlefield, over the corpses of their enemies to retrieve Arue's arrows. Arueshalae will pull each arrow out of the bodies of their foes and salaciously hand them to Iona so she can lewdly lick the blood off the blades of the weapons. This display often makes their fellow companions uncomfortable, if not queasy. The two of them often have to quickly retreat to the privacy of the commander's tent in the aftermath, with Iona's chin dripping with gore and Arue's bright red eyes flaring with desire.

[saints-who-never-existed]

Rereading The Terror

Chapter Forty-Three: Crozier

This chapter covers Fitzjames and Crozier's excursion to the cairn at Victory point and oddly enough, I don't have as much so say about it as I thought I might. Nevertheless, I persist!

Between Crozier literally falling asleep while walking and rambling unintentionally about his Memo Moira and visions of the future, and the two Captains becoming half-lost in the thick fog, there's a definite eeriness to the start of this chapter.

There are also storms approaching and thunder booming above them. Crozier makes a terrible sort of half-joke about it all: "What could be worse than a thunderstorm in late April with the temperature still below zero?" "Cannon fire," said Crozier. "Cannon fire?" "From the rescue ship that came down open leads all the way from Lancaster Strait and through Peel Sound only to find Erebus crushed and Terror abandoned. They're firing their guns for twenty-four hours to get our attention before sailing away." "Please, Francis, stop" said Fitzjames. "If you continue I may vomit. And I've already done my vomiting for today."

They find Gore's note and observe the mistakes thereon before starting to add to it ("Sir John must have been as tired and confused as we are now." "No one has ever been as tired and confused as we are now" said Fitzjames). And as if to prove that point, he falls asleep and snores softly with his head on his knees while Crozier continues to write.

When roused to sign his name, Fitzjames notices that Crozier hasn't written of where they intend to go next. Crozier begins to explain his feelings on this - how he hasn't really decided where they're going and how it's all completely hopeless anyway. But then, they're interrupted by the sound of something circling them in the fog.

Crozier is the only one armed and he raises his pistol to fire at the thing in the fog, calm and collected. He specifically tries to aim high "so as not to strike that face." which strikes me as odd - why would he want to avoid its face?

He fires and only then do we see that it wasn't Tuunbaq circling them at all, merely a curious juvenile polar bear that, startled, immediately runs away back into the fog. As all tension dissipates, Crozier and Fitzjames descend into hysterical fits of laughter together.

As that laughter subsides, we get a beautiful wee exchange to close the chapter out. "You know what I would give my left bollock for right now?" "What?" "A glass of whiskey. Two glasses, I mean. One for me and one for you. The drinks would be on me, James. I'm standing you to a round." "Thank you, Francis. And I'd lift the first toast to you. I've never had the honour of serving under a better commander or a finer man." Which is just so incredibly lovely! It's reframing a previously very negative and self-destructive thing in Crozier's life in a new positive light. It's no longer something he would do alone to drown his sorrows but something he'd share with others in love and good faith. It's no longer a mechanism for him to endlessly mull over the lifelong disrespect he's received but a mechanism through which he can show respect and have it returned to him in kind. The thing that was previously a symbol of doom for him is suddenly a symbol of hope. And it's then and only then that he adds a final addendum to the Victory Point note: "And start tomorrow, 26th, for Back's Fish River."

[xxxdragonfucker69xxx]

The Abyssals crowdfunding campaign closes in about 24 hours.

I did not get to hourinblack all their charms. As penance, I am going to skim just the end of each charmtree, and tell you about the biggest, coolest power of each tree. I am also going to do this for necromancy because i am a necromantic slut.

ARCHERY:

World-Wounding Darkness: Shoot a hole in the world, leaving a black hole that sucks people in. This isn't actually near the end of the tree but it caught my eye and I was like holy fuck.

Heart-Numbing Spike: When you shoot someone, wound their ability to care about things.

Last Days Portent: Shoot out the fucking sun. Kills the lights over the battlefield. If you're being goth about it, kill the lights for miles around.

ATHLETICS

Mountains Become Dust: Physical scale is no longer a limit on feats of scale or destruction.

Light-Killing Stride: Move faster than someone. Didn't ask how fast they moved, you move faster than them.

Temple-Shattering Ruination Curse: Destroy a building to curse the land, making it shadowy and blighted and supernaturally scary. if you were being intense about it, it becomes an abyssal demesne, a permanent upwelling of goth energy

AWARENESS

All-Seeing Overlord's Lair: Extend your senses throughout your stronghold, you can't be surprised inside and your ghostly sentinels (you know, the wraiths you cast to patrol for you) can roam throughout

Morbid Inspiration Witness: Find inspiration in " the morbid, the eerie, or the darkly beautiful: an albatross dropping dead in flight, three  black cats crossing the same street in sequence, lightning striking a distant temple." That inspiration grants you bonuses on various projects, and also makes you care deeply about it. This is enhanced by further charms like Fervent Caprice Fever and Unrelenting Obsession Genius

Piercing Gaze of the Unmaker: Pick a place within, like 20 miles. You see it like it's your lair and you're there. Or maybe you want to cast your gaze on your rival instead? they are going to feel a crawling sensation up their spine from your gaze through <3

BRAWL

Illustrative Overkill Technique: When you kill or incapacitate a guy, it's so fucked up you can use it to threaten anyone else. Or like blow up a building or whatever

Explosive Gore Eulogy (!!): When you do that ^ you can also use their corpse as a weapon. Jesus christ.

Life-Annihilating Castigation: Pyreflame your attack and multiply (!!) damage by your opponent's wound penalty. If you get their ass they explode with pyreflame from within, and if it kills them their ghost burns up on the spot

Void Avatar Embodiment: Now with 0% prana! Envelop yourself in the void, dealing aggravated damage on touch and withering ranged attacks away. Also you're as close to death as you want to be <3

BUREAUCRACY

Hateful Scorn Panopticon: when you use Accursed Overlord Authority to inspire hatred in your followers, you can sense when any of them encounter your enemy, and where.

Rotting Palace Proclamation: Reveal that you embedded a traitor in a rival organization. Or was it someone we knew all along?

Iron Tyrant Reign: When you do that Accursed Overlord thing, if it's a Defining Principle you can carve it into the world as an Old Law: everyone who hears or reads it must follow, words bleed through coverings or hover like fire in the air, the mindless dead automatically obey

Suffer No Betrayal: When you do the Panopticon, you can also count people who've broken your laws as enemies. You can immediately gain Defining Hatred... and possibly carve that as an old law with Iron Tyrant Reign? That isn't in the charm im just reading between the lines

CRAFT

Malicious Mechanism Mastery: Jesus this one is a cartoon supervillain bit. Reveal that an enemy has stumbled into your trap! If it's a corpse-based trap, it's worse!

Fivefold Malice Curse: Lay a curse on something you make, for instance if its bearer breaks an oath or acts against one of your principles. and if they trigger the curse they get blasted by your Bleak Expiations, aka Abyssal Limit Break aka You Cannot Escape The Goth

Soul-Tarnishing Treasure: Instead of an overt curse you can cause it to inspire vice, a sword demanding bloodshed or a chalice inspiring drink. You can't be totally free of this unless you give the object up

Drawn to Death's Beauty: When you use Magnificent Cenotaph Allure to imbue something with emotion, you can also fill it with the mesmerizing lure of death, so that people wander towards it like a will o wisp and cant look away

Betrayal-Spurring Gifts: Annatar their shit socially if you've given them something you've made. &btw cursing that shit is free

DODGE

Hanging Shrike Focus: Dodge up into the air and float back down, or fall on your enemies maybe

Queen of Killers Pirouette (!!): dodge so good you turn it back on them, like fucking zelda's neutral-B in smash

Tenebrous Cloud Dissolution: DRACULA FOG its fucking dracula fog

Breath-Seizing Mist: Hey how would you like it if dracula fog was inside your lungs

Icy Sepulcher Entombment: When you cause someone to despair at hitting you the ice literally grows around your heart and then freezes them over. The freezing stuff is actually pretty early in the tree but this is setup for

In Awful Glory Crowned: When you bring them to despair with Frozen Fears Blossom you can also drain their Willpower, and if you drain it all they become obedient to you. Unless they're unimportant in which case they might just fall over dead, turn into a ghost, and then be obedient to you

INTEGRITY

Freedom In Chains: If forced to act against death's chivalry or your principles, brood about it, then break free

Clarity in Hatred: Shaping defense if you're mad enough

Immortal Malevolence: If you've enshrined an intimacy with Eternal Enmity Approach, you can care so much that you simply do not die. Wake up the next sunset completely healed, but you can't use that intimacy again

INVESTIGATION

Heart-Haunting Condemnation: Scrooge a bitch. Nightmares and omens reinforce your accusations.

Bleak Justice Malediction: If your victim of the above draws on Ties to resist giving in to your accusations, the haunting spreads to those people and things too. If they die they haunt your victim. You can fully Book Of Job somebody here.

Omniscient Spymaster's Web. Know something. Your people told you. You think anyone can keep a secret from you?

[sweetlikehoneystingslikeabee]

Riddlers with a s/o who really likes horror movies, old ones, news one, everything in between long as it's horror? Need to know who's ear I can talk off

"Riddlers and Horror Movies" Riddler party x Reader

Several of these riddlers share direct horror movie quirks with me have fun guessing which. Also listed favorite horror film(s).

TW: horror films, blood and gore descriptions, mentions of emotional self-harm

Gotham

He's the guy who is going to contradict and tell you every medical inaccuracy of the deaths and mechanics in the movies. Yes, of course there's suspension of disbelief but at some point things are just wrong.

Babe, that should be arterial blood but they're portraying venous blood consistency :(

If you don't mind him talking at length about how these things would actually go OR conversely how well the sfx portrayed real injuries, he is your horror movie buddy! None of it bothers him considering how many real life murder, suicide and accident victims he's had to perform autopsies on.

Cuddling with his gangly legs on the couch bundled up in a big blanket with you while the sounds of screams echo from the tv and fill the room. Huge smile. He especially old classics when you're in the mood. Black and white films and transatlantic accents... It sounds like a great night to him.

Favorite Horror Movies: Might be a surprise but he really loves "Freaks" from 1932. He will talk for a long time about how, even though many of the disabled actors were ostracized on set, the fact that they were present at all is significant. The ableist assholes get theirs in the end! He also has a lot of fondness for "Re-animator."

Btas

He's the one interested in the sfx rambles. What, you think he designed a video game and labyrinth for a theme park just because he's intelligent? He likes behind the scenes work. God help everyone if he and Scarecrow decided to get together to make a haunted house.

You ever see those huge animatronics in horror mazes, especially the huge end show pieces? That's where his interest goes.

Depending on how much you watch and express interest in that kind of thing, he genuinely might start making horror animatronics and programs. He has the know-how! His would be the realistic looking ones, especially for animals. Spooky but definitely based in forms you see in real life.

Well, beautiful, you might have helped him find a very profitable side gig. Everyone else might be sore at you for a while, though, given Edward scaring the fuck out of them with holograms and mechanics. Plus more team-ups with Scarecrow.

All this because you wanted to watch horror movies with him. His darling <3

Favorite horror movie: "The Thing" (1982) and while it's not his absolute favorite, he ends up enjoying "Willy's Wonderland" a lot for both the animatronics and video game nods.

60s

The old ones with little to no gore is fine! More modern hack and slashers might be a little too spooky for him :( definitely never show him "Hostel" or anything in that vein.

Truthfully, it's not the violence or the blood, he's seen that. It's the suffering that gets him. It all seems so pointless and needless. At least when he's attempting to cut batman into tiny pieces using a comically giant fan, there's a goal or point. In his mind, anyways.

Before dating you his idea of horror was "Dracula", "Frankenstein"... "The Ghost and Mr. Chicken".... Start with horror that has a more comedic or cheesy element- "Little Shop of Horrors" to "Tucker & Dale vs. Evil." "Creepshow" 1 and 2 from the 80s! If you ease him into it and don't go too extreme, he'll love watching horror movies with you.

Favorite Horror Movie: OKAY THIS IS CHEATING BECAUSE IT'S NOT A MOVIE BUT. He'd be a HUGE fan of the "Tales from the Crypt" show from the early 90s (that is almost impossible to find streaming rip my horror uncle The Cryptkeeper). Horror plus puns. He will always take a funny, morbid pun! Plus... man can appreciate a cackle. He also has several opinions about the original "Suspiria."

Zero Year

It has to have something of a decent story or he's not paying attention. Where is the BACKGROUND? Sidenote: if you get him into something like Bloodborne (I know, not a movie) with lots of lore, expect to not see him for a hot minute as he consumes all the information he can like a sponge.

He tends to favor psychological horror- Although, if it means spending time with you and gaining favor, he would watch most anything. Especially if there's the possibility of close physical affection... ANYWAYS. He's also the one who wants to watch a bunch of foreign language film horror such as "Les yeux sans visage" in original French.

Another thing is that he will watch things over and over and over again with you if you want. Part of it is the undiagnosed neurodivergency. Part of it is because you always catch new details when you watch things again. Him noticing something that you didn't and him getting to tell you and impressing you is a special kind of high. He will talk about movies for hours afterwards. "Jacob's Ladder" has been a several hours long dissection MULTIPLE TIMES.

Favorite Horror Movies: "Angel Heart" is his top all time favorite. If you haven't seen it, he will practically tie you up to watch it together- He also really enjoyed "The Lighthouse" and "Us."

Arkham

Similar to BTAS, he is also interested in the animatronics. His, however, would lean to body horror and sci-fi. Something about biology and machine blending together... it gets him kind of excited.

He will sit and work while watching you play something like Deadspace (sorry, a game again) for HOURS. Then he wants to watch the prequel movie with you. Also if you don't mind subtitles, he has this recommendation for "Tetsuo: The Iron Man" if you haven't seen it already. And if you haven't... You are in for an experience.

In short, this man is about the body horror. He likes other horror too, but that's his bread and butter. Sci-fi horror as well. Bonus when there is overlap. He's seen "Annihilation" at least twenty times and has the books dog-eared and rough from multiple reads somewhere in his belongings. Yes, they are ultimately different, but he's in love with the concept enough that to him he appreciates both.

He is going to scare you with animatronics he makes. Sometimes intentionally. Sometimes not. Have fun with that.

Favorite horror movies: Cronenberg period but he has a special fondness for "Videodrome" and "The Fly" (1986).

Telltale

Despite it being an excellent movie, he despises "Jacob's Ladder." It brings up too many unpleasant thoughts. Movies, especially horror, with medical experimentation are a trigger though he'll never say it out loud. You find this out as you discuss watching certain movies and see the connection between all of them.

That being said, the horror movies he likes have two themes: they have meaning/ a message or they involve transformation. The first is because anything too simple bores him. The second is totally absolutely NOT because of projection of his own trauma.

Show him "Get Out" and "Nope" and he gains a deep reverence for Jordan Peele as a writer and director. Intelligent, entertaining, and the perfect amount of horror mixed in. Kind of a fan, only you know, really.

80s version of "The Fly" makes him emotional and you probably only watch it once with him. He likes it a lot! Just... the slow transformation via a science accident is very relatable. Madness overtaking you.

Favorite horror movies: "An American Werewolf In London" it's a classic. Not to mention in his opinion one of the best transformation scenes in a movie.

2022/nashton

Ha... so here's the thing. He likes "Hostel" and movies like that with lots of violence and gore. He's even seen "Wolf Creek" and got some real excitement out of it. HOWEVER. Movies in that vein are a form of emotional self-harm for him. He likes them in the moment but they also usually trigger massive anxiety and depression episodes for him later on in the day/night.

Others like "Se7en" (I know it's a thriller not true horror), "Saw" and the like are usually okay. There's a distinctive difference that may only exist in his own mind, but the more you watch with him, the more you'll find out which movies are "safe" for him. Which is good! He does like horror movies, but as we know from the prequel comics, he's not always good at taking care of himself due to massive amounts of trauma.

He loves films that are gems that aren't super well known in the US when he can find them. Have you seen the Korean horror film "The Silenced"? No? You're in for a treat.

He likes movies that have a logic or puzzle to them. Complex mechanics and traps. A sick sense of justice dispensed.

Favorite horror movies: The "Saw" series. Also "The Collector." He sees the upside down shot with the reflective contacts and the spider allegories and his eyes dilate like a cat seeing it's favorite toy.

[purpleleafsyt]

Apologies for not maintagging these other posts but for this AU post to make sense you need to read this post and ESPECIALLY this one so go do that.. be aware of the warnings though

So hey hi hello I'm making my own Hanahaki AU since I was the one who sparked up the conversation initially by reminding people that platonic hanahaki can exist :D

In the second post I went over motivations behind Soul, Whole, and an overview of how the headspace works for my HMS.

I mentioned Heart and Mind too, so, I want to go over more with them in this post because they're ALSO interesting

Warnings for everything under the cut: Self harm/destruction/sabotage, Unreliable narration in the form of poor mental ideologies, isolation, suicidal ideation, and gore/body horror. Hanahaki in this AU is a physical representation of issues found in poor mental health so anything that can spawn from that can here!

Unlike Soul, who started having typical symptoms early in the loop, before it developed into something more, Mind jumped almost immediately into the blossoming stage. It couldn't tear through metal, but vines, stems, and flowers certainly found it's way through the exposed parts of her joints. She knew early on that something, fundamentally, was wrong with her

It hurt, more than anything she can remember, to feel it wrap into and tear through her wires. She cursed herself for relishing in the pain, however. It makes her closer to being human, and thus real, if she is feeling pain, does it not?

The divide of being alive and nonliving is something she struggles with a lot, because she finds herself able to logically thing through both. She is a fracture to a whole, who is alive, and yet she is a robot, inorganic, an automaton freak

But that's besides the point. The flowers are confusing, inconvenient, and is halting any progress. How they're even able to grow within her mechanics is beyond her. The flowers make her weaker too, and is sometimes she cannot let her thirds be aware of, lest they take advantage of that said weakness(Because after all, why would any of them inform the others of their condition?)

She, despite everything, wants to understand them. She removes them, because she has to, and repairs herself. She's alone, so while difficult, it's safe. She experiments with the carefully removed flowers, and finds they can continue to grow apart from her so long as she continues to cultivate them. It's a distraction sure, but there has to be an answer somewhere in there. Besides, her garden is her own, hidden, safe, and the flowers are oh so beautiful thanks to her efforts

On the flip side, it took Heart longer to figure it out(Mind found out first, and Heart last. It left Soul, the root cause, in the middle, as usual)

He formed in the new loop, and got progressively sick. It caused agitation, as he kept getting worse, but he pushed through. Eventually, he threw up petals, and was rightfully horrified.

By this point, Mind and Soul had effectively isolated him(themselves, truly, but the real reason didn't matter) so the thoughts were free to creep in, he wasn't needed by them, nor wanted. It doesn't take long, due to the circumstances, for him to enter the blossoming stage.

The removal of the flowers is a violent act, as it always is with him, because like hell is he going to let his thirds see it. They're already treated like a burden to their thirds, why would he let them know it's worse? It's agony, but he does it anyways, all the while hiding himself further

He notices, despite the torn and ripped petals, that the flowers never wilt if he stays by them. They simply do not die in his presence, in his care. From what he can tell, they're vibrant and beautiful too.

He's allured by the flowers. He's not sure of his worth, or his life, but it becons him to take care of it, so he does. Because after all, he needs purpose, and if his thirds clearly do not need him anymore, then he can yield. He devotes himself to his garden, staying alive for the flowers to remain vibrant and beautiful.

The thirds still have to see each other because, after all, if one suddenly dissappears for too long it can cause suspicion to rise, but all of them remain unaware of each other's plights.

(That is, until very specific events happen, which I may go deeper into with another post. This one is dedicated to rounding out motive)