#rot infected beast

[kakyogay]

I've been doodling things for something I've been writing and AUGH I want to post the doodles but I also want to post them as like the chapters come out but also they are barely usual chapter length and there's a lot I still need to write and Argh I haven't even written a proper opening.

Anyways expect a scug iterator swap thing some time in the future hopefully 👍

[beeapocalypse]

another dnd cassius idea he hunts pretty much exclusively thru the use of traps (largely nonlethal ones like beartraps bc it is what he has on hand) and he sets them up at the start of the week and does not check them until the end of the week to ensure whatever gets caught will be dead when he does so bc he cannot stomach watching things in pain. hes aware its fucked up but still prioritizes his own feelings over changing it

[defiantly-ageis]

.

[soft-warm-hoodies]

ive blocked more porn bots than should be asked of me, perhaps i will just admit defeat and watch as we are inevitably overrun by a calvary of digital-std ridden beaus

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Blood-Stained Wool Spun At Midnight (III)

AU MASTERLIST || FINAL CHAPTER

PAIRING: Werewolf!Ghost x F!Tailor!Reader (Set in Van Helsing Era/Aesthetic)

WORDCOUNT: 12.0k

WARNINGS: Blood, intense gore, body horror, horror, angst, mutilation, violence, wounds, blades, death, many religious imagery/references, nudity, protective!Simon, NSFW, soft/loving smut, fingering, mating press, implied virgin!reader due to time-period standards, pretty vanilla, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Simon’s skin is bare to the moon, and he can taste your blood on his tongue. 

Eyes wide, the man’s lips are loose; jaw slackened at the horror that lays below him as crimson drips down the swell of his Adam’s apple and between the dip of his chest. He can’t move, even as the chill sets into his spine, the hair over his arms and on the back of his neck standing on end. 

All he can see is your body. 

You don’t move, you don’t smile or send him that stern look of stubbornness—the snow falls to your head, it collects on the side of your face and limp corpse. Your torn clothes show the weeping wounds and jagged remains of flesh. 

But none more so than one on your neck. The gaping tear made from his fangs. 

Not me, Simon’s fingers twitch at his sides, your body in a pool of red. Not me. 

It was him, though, wasn’t it? 

He doesn’t remember what happened, cannot recall the memories in his brain—a demon, the Lord of this forest, and a prisoner all in one. You hadn’t killed it, no, there was no way to do that. Silver could only do so much.

But it had done something to you, to make your scent twist and rot. Your soul didn’t smell right.

“I…” Simon’s voice fails him. 

His body is broken and bent, his entire side burning with pain, but none of that matters. Brown eyes quiver, and the man goes to lick his lips only to gag at the taste of copper, snapping his eyes away to pant quick breaths into the tree line. 

Simon’s hand raises to hover above his stomach, shaking. 

“I didn’t bloody do that,” he mutters, the evidence on his chest and stuck in his pores. The forest is silent. “I didn���t do that.” The man says it louder. 

You stare forward numbly with a broken neck and a torn-out throat.

Foot twisting him around, he levels his back to you, hands coming up to his head as his jaw clenched so tight his molars scream at him. What had happened? What had gone on? Simon closes his eyes and hunches his shoulders forward. 

“No,” he growls. “No, I didn’t fucking do that to you.” 

The night continues to keep him in its black hold, the snow absorbs the blood and black liquid. He can smell the rot—the infection under your skin as it brands your corpse. 

This forest was like a beacon to every monster in its vicinity. It called them here and made them lose themselves. Under the light of the moon and sun, whenever its branches told him to run and hunt as a beast, Simon Riley had no option but to obey. He would come here on a moment's notice when he felt the change coming over him, to his hut and his glade. 

There were few times he could predict it, and no matter how much he wanted to stay with you, that just wasn’t how it worked. 

Every monster that was called here was bait for that demon, and no monster had the ability to wield anything that could kill it. No silver. No holy water. 

But a mortal could. 

Every hunter entering these dark bounds had been hunting the wrong colossus and never had the chance to know it. 

Simon bends slightly forward to hold his head tighter, grunting out whimpers as if trying to keep his brain from falling out. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. Then louder than a scream and longer than the first, “Fuck!” The trees shiver. 

Simon harshly pulls at his hair, feeling the strands snap before he slides his hands up and down his face; trying to push off the crimson yet he only succeeds in spreading it. He can’t hear your heart beating anymore, can’t hear the swell of your lungs. Nothing. 

Hand lashing out, his knuckles connect with the hard bark of one of the tree’s trunks and he sends it back and forward three more times until his fingers crack and bend. When he’s done, the man doesn’t even notice the tears freezing on his cheeks as his breath puffs out in clouds. 

Simon silently stifles a ragged inhale and sags forward, unable to turn back and look at you—he can’t bear it after everything he’s been through. Forehead tapping the rough bark, his pain-filled body flaring, the blond clenches his fists like an angry child.

He should have told you in the glade—in the safety of consecrated ground where holy men and women had been buried for time immemorial. He should have explained why it was only you that made him whole.

But Simon was a silent creature; a creature of silent glances and hidden softness that borders on a fear of abandonment. He would never tell you until you happened to figure it out yourself or if it became undeniable.

Oh, you should have stayed away. 

His knees threaten to give out, so he lets them go until he can move his body to the side and lean against his tree. Barely breathing, he cares not about the cold. As he did when he was a child, all those years ago yet still shrouded in pain and hate, he loses any and all expression from his face—brown eyes dark as they stare at nothing. 

There had been a moment that he’d come back to himself as the Ghost. A brief moment. 

Simon wants to hang for the memory he now holds. 

Your eyes, blood-burst, looking into his own as his fangs rend your flesh in two. The feeling of your neck snapping under his jaws. Tongue lolling in blood and licking its muzzle; whiskers dripping.

This time Simon gags, but he also hurls up his guts, too. 

Bending his aching spine, his forearm keeps him up, bare thighs tensing and nerves quivering as his abdomen bunches. Simon pants staring blankly at the bile in the snow, saliva pooling in his mouth. He still can’t look at you. 

With little left for him, the man curls up in the snow and resigns himself to freezing to death, arms loose around his waist and injuries screaming at him. 

He’d killed you—is death not the only option left for him as well? 

Simon lays there until his eyelids grow heavy, only thinking of you and how you had been. Your kindness, your wit. He enjoyed your loudness, and there was no one to perfectly challenge him but you. 

From the first time he’d seen your form, it had only ever been you. He was yours, utterly; wholly. He should have told you to stay away.

“M’sorry, Love” he whispers into the ground, shivering violently, lips blue. His head is turned away as the trees hold their breath. “All my bastard fault—should’ve been me. It…fuckin’ hell,” Simon breathes, clenching his jaw. “Should’ve been me.”

He mutters his self-hatred until he falls silent and his chest rattles. Until the forest listens. 

Until it answers.

Simon’s eyes snap open to the sound of a world cracking in two and finds your body gone. 

—

This place isn’t real. 

You sit in a mirror vision of your shop, but nothing is correct. Looking into the corners, shadows slip away with quiet laughter, and the door rings but no one walks through. It’s…repetitive. It never stops, but you can’t seem to leave. 

You think it’s been days, weeks, even. Always it feels like there’s something watching you, and the window of your shop shows nothing but black night outside and flickering lamps. 

It doesn’t feel right to speak. 

If you speak, whatever is standing out in the street will know you’re here. 

You shake as you watch it now, silent and swallowing down saliva. Its eyes have been ripped out, and the chains along its wrists drag so loudly you can hear them even through stone and wood; they make you flinch and shiver. For whatever reason, the phantom of the man cannot find you, though he has been looking. 

He even knocks on the door.

It was a clanging, dead, thing. With a slam of a gnarled wrist and a raspy cry of your name on his slit tongue. You don’t want to ask how it knows your title, so you only hold your hands to your mouth to stifle your sobs. But for all of this, you still contained self-awareness.

You’re in Hell, or some strange, twisted version of the middle point. Purgatory. 

But why? Why here of all places—your soul had been branded, you heard that curse and felt the blackened nectar in your flesh. Had known what Simon had…

You blink quickly, looking away from the twisted man and taking down a shaky inhale. 

Whatever this place was, you and this shade were the only ones here. The only once-human ones, anyways. You didn’t exactly want to go out and meet him. 

“Please!” It bangs on the door again and your head snaps up in panic, hand whipping to your mouth to hide the sharp gasp. If you ever got out of here, you never wanted to see your home again. This version ruined it. “Please, let me in. I can’t see—it took out my eyes! Please, please I need my eyes.” 

Your eyelids close tightly, your heart clenched and beating fast. 

All of this terror lets you think about Simon. And so you do, and try to not blame him for what he did even if you know in your heart it’s not his fault. 

You remember the first time you met him, and you think that’s perhaps one of the best memories you hold. 

“If you expect me to fix this, you’ll need to hand over half of your soul and a blessing from God himself,” you frown at the remains of a pair of tweed pants, blinking with your mouth agape. “I’d ask what happened, but I think that would put me on a list of some kind, Sir.” 

Simon stares.

“How much?” You sigh and shake your head. 

“Really, there’s very little I can do here short of just offering you a new pair.” Placing the scraps on the table and lightly pushing them forward, the man moves his large hand out to take them from you. 

Your fingers touch, and you blink as a slight spark makes you flinch. Simon as well, you remember, had snapped his hand back to him, his eyes slightly widening and his throat holding down a breath. 

“Woah,” you mutter, touching your head as you suddenly go lightheaded. “S-sorry about that, I don’t know what—”

“Both.” Simon slides the fabric back to you. 

Your senses come back in a slow sweep and you clear your throat. “...Both?” 

“Fix the pants and sell me another, yeah?” A quirked brow, but something else swims in that dark gaze, something that fights with itself. “I’ll pay. Money’s no problem.” 

“Oh,” you blink, taken aback. The both of you stare at each other. 

You’re struck by the thought that this man’s eyes are far more deep than anything you’ve looked into before. 

“Of course, if that’s what you want.” He grunts, tipping his head and looking to the side for a moment. He wears that strange covering, too. The one that sits on his nose. 

“Good.” Simon backs up a step before pausing. “You have a name, then, Tailor?” 

You tilt your head and cross your arms, eyes narrowing carefully. “Just as you do.”

That silk fabric twitches, gaze sparking. 

“Simon Riley.” Your smile slowly pulls at your muscles, and for the first time throughout the day, you truly mean it. 

You don’t know how time works here, but you also can’t really understand that you’re dead. Of course, the thought of an afterlife crossed your mind in your living hours, but you’d never thought you’d go to one so soon. 

But every time you blink, you don’t think you’re meant to be here.

So, again, why? The question was mulled over incessantly after every memory of Simon, and you start to believe he’s the catalyst. 

What were you missing? 

The man himself had hinted at it, talking about how your scent to him was opium—like a drug. It kept him…him even when a monster. 

“Please!” You’ve discovered that all of the windows are bolted and the front door is locked, but it never becomes daytime here. A perpetual night and a pleading soul guarding you. In the long hours where you sneak from one empty room to another, so similar to real life that it makes you sick, you wonder if this place is an exact replica of the city you called home.

If some of the other houses are not so vacant after all; the inhabitants hiding like you are. Purgatory sounds about right.

Chains drag and there are garbling sobs and you stare at the door without the key to open it. 

The thing was blind—if you could sneak past it…your eyes looked out the window to Simon’s home across the street. There was a pull to all things that included him. A sanctity. Despite how your life had ended, how you’ll surely still think about it and sob out of pain, you can’t blame him for it. 

He didn’t have control.

You begin to think of a plan to break out without making any noise as you close your eyes tightly, hands clenching at your sides. 

“Back again, Mr. Riley?” Your bell rings and you glance at the intimidating figure walking through. He takes a deep breath when he enters, nodding in greeting before lumbering to the counter. 

“Any trouble?” He had a habit of asking this when he’d been gone on a longer trip of his, always back disheveled and with bags under his bloodshot eyes. As if he gets back and the first thing he wants to do is come see you.

The thought didn’t bother you. 

You laugh, “I’m happy to report the only thing that happened was that a pigeon ran into the window.” 

Brown eyes glance over his shoulder to blink at the impression of feathers on the front glass.

“Poor Bastard,” he huffs, amusement in his accented tone as he slips his hands into his pockets. “Get any feathers out of it? New pillow if you’re lucky.” He tilts his chin. “If you know how to pluck a bloody corpse, that is.”

“You’re incredibly strange, Mr. Riley,” you laugh, nodding your head at him. “I’ve never heard a man state such things.”

“I wrong?” Simon grunts, but you hear his slight smile in his tone. 

You only roll your eyes. “I highly doubt a pigeon would give you enough feathers for a pillow.”

“Well, you’re just not fuckin’ trying hard enough then, yeah?” 

“Are you here for a reason, Sir?” You can’t stop smiling, holding back your loud laugh as happiness is plainly stated on your face. “Or are you just here to speak to me about the feather-quantity of the local birds?” 

Simon’s eyes are crinkled slightly, and you try very hard to imagine him beaming just as you do, though you know it’s slim. 

You want to make him smile; you want to be the reason he does. And you don’t even know why. 

Your very soul leaps when you see him from across the street, it tightens and calls out like a reaching hand desperate to grasp into another counterpart. You’d never felt like this about a man before, much less one you barely knew anything about on a personal level. 

You liked Simon Riley.

“I was thinking ‘bout a new undershirt. Black.” A hand moves up and a pile of money is placed on your counter. “Anything’ll be good, just need a new one.” 

“Of course,” you easily slip into business, not bothering to look at the sum. “Special occasion?” You pause before fake laughing. “A lady to impress, perhaps?”

Your heart sinks more than it should; nearly hurting. Did Mr. Riley have a courtship? 

He blinks at you carefully, long lashes caressing his scarred cheeks. You swore his lips under the silk twitched. 

“No,” is all he says, blunt and casual, thighs shifting. 

You stare, hands touching themselves on the counter as heat burns your cheeks. 

“Okay,” you mutter, embarrassed, though you don’t know why. “That should be no trouble at all. I’ll just need your measurements.” 

Simon nods once, staring at your hands before he takes off his jacket and places it on the wood. You grabbed your long measuring tape and slipped to the front, asking lightly for him to hold out his arms. 

Heart hammering, he does so; great torso flexing and face blank. 

You begin with the chest, sliding your hands along his clothed body to flatten out the tape until you can see the mark it rested at. It would be false to say you didn’t lose your breath slightly, being so close and able to freely feel the swell of his muscle. Under your fingers, his pulse was like a hammer, and he was so large you actually had to give him a hug to connect the other side around him.

“S-sorry,” but Simon’s eyes are entirely blown, body tense and slightly shivering as your hands feel him. 

“Don’t be,” he breathes, and you feel the push of his lungs to his ribcage; molten heat. 

Your lips tingle, and heat seeps into your stomach as you shift your thighs to quell it. 

Simon grunts, and his head turns down incredibly fast. 

You blink. “Mr. Riley?” 

“Nothin’,” his lips flinch, and his brown eyes, more like black now, dart to your lips. “M’fine. Keep going.” 

You do so, oblivious to the coil in the man’s gut that mirrors yours, flaring with every gentle poke and prod.

It was when you’d almost given up that there seemed to be something else on your side in this god-forsaken place. You found your knife. 

It was in the same drawer where your tape measure should be, just sitting there where all else was absent. You stare and slowly reach for it, sliding your fingers over the hilt and the glint of the blade before picking it up. 

But you’d checked this drawer a million times over, what had—

There’s the sound of a fluttering of wings outside of your shop, and you’re unimpressed with yourself at how your mind immediately goes to a helpful pigeon spirit. You hold a hand to your lips to stop yourself from laughing, despite it all.

A spark alights in your heart. 

“Thank you,” you whisper to nothing, turning the blade over in your hands and smiling. 

Walking slowly, you avoid every creak in the wood—unlooping your belt for the small prong that would come in handy. Placing the blade into the slit of the lock, you insert the prong above it, twisting and waiting to hear a series of clicks; putting your ear next to the wood. 

The dragging of chains is far off, the loud wailing distant. 

Now or never. 

You hold your breath and listen to the sounds of the lock, sweating and grimacing. It’s so very silent outside—you’re so used to the clanging of metal and the clop of hooves that it scares you more than the monster. Like you’re standing out in a field but there’s no wind, no air even. Unnatural nothingness. 

So hard at focusing, when the click of the door lets you know it’s open, you don’t notice the heavy breathing on the other side. Standing and taking out your knife, you silently celebrate plucking your belt away just as the handle jiggles. 

Only you’re not touching the handle. 

Blood leaving your face, you can only skitter to the side as the hinges squeal like a dying animal, the barrier slowly opening as your back flattens against the wall. At first, nothing happened. 

The door is open and you stare wide-eyed as no sound enters your ears. Lamp-light seeps in, creating a long glow along the floors. 

A ragged breath makes you want to shrivel up, and then the wailing starts. 

“Please, please, where are my eyes?” Too close. 

You flinch wildly as chains are dragged into the room, the scent of dead wood sticking to your nostrils. Up close, the man’s skin is dripping water—seaweed over his shoulders and hanging off his restraints. 

He walks inside and the gaping wounds of his eyes make you nearly gag. “Where did you take them? I want them back, please, let me borrow yours until I find mine again.”

He drags his heavy silver chains far into the shop, stumbling and groaning through sobs. Those things seem to have no end to them, and he bumps and walks into the back room right as you slip outside. 

Immediately, you rush out into the street, crossing the cobble and hopping the long metal ahead of you as you re-loop your belt with one hand and grip your knife tightly. Getting to Simon’s house, you grasp the handle of the door and pull.

It jerks with a bang of metal.

Locked. 

“Shi…” you trail your curse and bite your lip. Silently, you take a step back to quickly think as the warden still calls hopelessly from your shadowed shop. Where else would you go? The inner city? The town?

Your eyelids blink. 

The forest. That had to be it—there had to be answers there, right? 

You were beginning to grow more fearful that you would be stuck here forever, in between life and death. A branded soul and yet, you weren’t in Hell. Or, at least, you imagined Hell far more hot than this. 

Turning, you slip down the steps and speed walk down the road, not running for fear that your shoes would make too much noise. That was also strange—all of your clothes were mended here, stitched back together as if never cut; wounds healed and nonexistent. You weren’t one to complain.

“Where are you going?” The Warden is on the steps, and he falls down them in a shattering of bone and a slurp of wet skin. “Please, give me my eyes! I can hear you running away—I can smell your souls! Let me have what little is still free! Let me see!” 

Souls?

You start sprinting as the great wail of chains lets you know you’re being pursued. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Your lips expel, skirts swish, and muscles tense all at once. Like a race, the man’s panting breath is almost felt on your neck, bare feet far faster than he should be. “I don’t have your eyes—I’m sorry, but you’ve really got the wrong person! T-try down the block?!”

You call loudly behind you in hopes that it will get him to give up on you, legs pumping harder as he screams with rage and you curse yourself with every breath. He’s gaining on you, somehow, this blind beast is gaining on you.

There was no way you were making it to the forest.

In a split-second decision, your shoes skid over the street, and, steeling yourself with what little sanity you have left, you turn with your knife at the ready. 

Hell, you’d already died once. 

But you’d never forget the image of this beast running towards you with a wailing mouth and dragging chains, the things so heavy they wrench back his arms. You falter for a moment, but shake your head and raise the knife in one hand, gritting your teeth despite your unimaginable fear. 

Bravery was far too hard at this moment, but there was no more running. You take down a shaky breath and will your arm to stop vibrating with its sweaty palm.

“My eyes!” It screams. “Give me your eyes!”

Seven feet, five, four, three—

A familiar rageful roar takes over, and a black shadow covers the street lamp light from above as if a storm of vengeance. You watch as the gargantuan body flies over you and wastes little time for pleasantries.

The Ghost slams its body into the Warden, and they go down in a flurry of feral snarls and wails. You watch, frozen still with shock, as black claws can be heard tearing through flesh and rending meat, a slick slapping of pig slop as black blood spills to the streets. 

In the utter absence of all else, you listen with a quivering body, the fear extending down to your spine. Not of the other thing on its back, wailing and sobbing about its eyes even as its gut is invaded by a large muzzle and ivory fangs, but of that muzzle-owner itself.

You didn’t realize how much of a shock it would be to see Simon again. Like this. 

Your eyes stare blankly at how an arm is ripped from its socket, shredded from a shoulder, and tossed to the sidewalk with a rabid jerk; the body of the Warden lifted as the Ghost rises to his back paws and grips tightly. Hands on the lower half, mouth on the top, your jailer is torn in two with nothing more than a tear and a sound of vertebrae popping. 

Black splatters over your cheeks, but you make no move to swipe it away. 

Simon drops the body to the ground, and it twitches—it speaks as it bounces. Brown eyes dig into its mangled face, ears erect. 

“My eyes…M-my…eye—” A large paw pad is pressed into its head, and pressure is leveled. Brought down like an anvil. 

The Ghost crushes a skull under his foot and the resounding pop is enough to make you snap out of your frozen terror. He turns to you seconds later, mouth stopping its snarling and going silent all at once. 

The beast blinks slowly, ear twitching once.

Averting your gaze, you completely give up in light of this new arrival and clench your eyes shut. Your neck hurts—burns—like it’s being ripped open over and over again, snapping, and the light getting sucked away. 

Great feet take lumbering steps forward; you take one back. 

“I…I don’t,” you shudder and shake, hand holding your knife. Your mind can’t comprehend him being here—in this void with you, leaping in a great bound to tackle the monster to the ground. No, no, this was another phantom. He was going to kill you again. 

Wasn’t his fault. Wasn’t his fault.

You back up some more until there’s a soft huff. It’s tiny, small as if coming from a lap dog that Mrs. Ida would own. Your eyes are firmly shut, yet he tries again. 

A wet nose is leveled to your forehead, pressing in and tapping you lightly. A chuffing noise echoed in the back of his throat, gruff and low as he breathed you in. You hide a whimper as that nose dips to your neck, imagining the ways he’s going to sink his teeth in and how your bones will—

The Ghost sags into you, and with a flick of his ears, the large head begins to rub into your flesh as he grunts. Your eyes snap open as his gargantuan hands circle your waist, anchoring you to his chest as he leans back on his haunches; small noises bouncing from his breast as he curls his head behind yours. You’re lifted gently as you squeak, hands snapping to dig through fur and, like logs, your feet dangle from under you. 

You don’t speak as Simon begins running out of the city, down the black outskirts. Into the midnight shadows the two of you disappear in the direction of the mirrored forest, your body in his grip and the side of his head never failing to lean into yours. You can feel his eyes roving, darting down and around, before always coming back to you regardless of the things he smells here. 

Like a candle in the dark, he had already scoured the bounds of this purgatory for you—waiting for that small flicker of something to grasp onto that would let him find your light. And it hadn’t been your scent or the way you’d yelled. It had been the very call of your soul, or, at least, souls. 

Because that was what it was. 

The reason you were here instead of Hell was because that corruption had only marked your soul. Not realizing that half of it didn’t belong to you. 

Simon knew little about how it worked, but sometimes people are only born with a fraction of their soul as theirs—the other pieces snapping into place when a match is met but still not held as theirs. Your other half, the reason you stayed here, was because Simon’s soul had held you up like a rope to an anchor.  

That spark in the tailor’s shop; the longing and the insatiable pull to be near you—marked as two pieces of a puzzle sitting right next to each other, the image leaking from one to the other. 

A Fated Pair.

The Ghost breaks through the treeline and you curl into him as he covers you with his arms, eyes watching the black trees and the void of space above him. There were no stars here—no moon. You can’t see anything, but he can. 

Simon rushes your intertwined souls back to the place he had dragged himself through; a great fissure in the earth that had opened and swallowed your body who knows how long ago. Weeks, months—years, even. It didn’t matter, none of it mattered. 

His instincts brought him through, and his guilt had kept him going; this all-consuming and deathly guilt. He’d never forgive himself, but he can’t leave you here. 

Simon finds the fissure as great screams begin to wail out from the city, echoing off the trees and over the air. A scream and a plea. Hundreds, thousands. 

He doesn’t bother to stay, because you’re in his arms and his nose breathes in your scent. You grip onto him tightly, shaking with a fear-bathed quiver to your lips, and those large arms hold you ever closer; a large grunt and a rub of his chin. 

Simon stands on the very edge of a void, and he jumps. 

—

You wake to the large dog curled around you, softly breathing and using his body to shield you from the gentle snowfall. So warm does his blood run, that you don’t even feel the cold on you, only the brush of silk and the hard press of his hands. 

Simon’s breath ruffles your hair, his spine shaped in such a way that not a sliver of you is visible to the world beyond your head in his neck, resting on the swell of his softness like a pillow. As if he was a swan, keeping you in a bed of feathers.

Your eyes flutter open, and you take air down to bathe in the scent of earth. 

The Ghost shifts, grunting and not letting up on his grip. 

You’re in the very same place you died, yet there’s no evidence of that—the blood is gone, the broken trees are surrounded by young ones, and the snow is deeper than it had been before. But your clothes are…

You shift, and the beast lets you go easily, though his eyes don’t leave your face. He stays on the ground as you sit up, looking down at yourself. 

While the forest may have moved on, you, it seems, have not. 

Your clothes are back to the state they’d been in before—torn and ripped open, long gouging marks and stains that would never come out. You tense at the sight, swallowing saliva down as if wine with a grimace. Like a magnetic link, your eyes slowly turn up to meet Simon’s. 

He waits. He watches. That muzzle of his closed and his breath slow. If you told him to get away, there would be no doubt that he would—he would disappear and never come back to you, a memory that fades into a dream and then farther on. 

Your fingers twitch as his large claw lifts, a finger pointed and slowly coming up to your face. You try not to balk away as it draws near to your nose, where a tiny snowflake rests. The blackened sickle pauses, Simon’s chest expands, and then he slightly brushes it away with little more than a twitch of his finger. 

The knife is only a foot away, sitting bright and glinting in the morning light. You look to the sky to distract from your burning cheeks; your internal war. 

Light. Real and glowing above you from a globe set into the heavens. 

Gazing at it with wide eyes, your sockets fill with stinging tears, blinking until they slip down your cheeks and you put a hand over your mouth as a small sob wafts out. You bend your spine forward and cry, gasping. 

Simon keeps himself away, unknowing if he should reach out or if he would only make it worse. His great body is tight with agony, souls raging with pain. Everything in this form was more instinctual, more in tune, he wanted to comfort you—to make it alright again, but even as a human, when had he ever been good at that? 

The Ghost watched, body wound up but still deathly still; ears pointing straight. His hands twitch. 

You sob until your lungs hurt and your head feels light, not knowing how to process this in the slightest. When you’re done you numbly stare at the ground below you, trying to rid your mind of death, demons, and wool. 

A human hand on the top of your head makes you startle. 

Snapping your red eyes up, you meet tight orbs of brown, a face twisted with remorse and a deep inner hatred. 

“I…” Simon’s lips utter out, his voice low and pale skin in the snow. “M’sorry, Sweet Girl. I can never fuckin’ give you an apology that matters, eh? But I need to say it—I need you to know.” You stare and feel his fingers caress your scalp. He looks away, breath small. “It’s all my bloody fault, yeah? So don’t you dare think for a second that anythin’ comes back to you.” 

The hand threatens to leave you, to slip back down and return to his side, but with a small noise of alarm—one that had Simon’s eyes widened in concern—your body darts forward. 

Connecting with him, you make him grunt as his biceps press into your side, shocked as his first reaction is to make sure you don’t fall. 

“Get me out of here,” you plead. “Please, Simon, get me out of here.” 

There’s no hesitation as he lifts you upward, a bridal hold like the same he had used to lift you above the thorns and mutters into your hair as he quickly walks into the trees. 

“C’mere, I’ve got you. Don’t cry, c’mon now, you’re back. You’re back.” The knife is left far in the past, and there it will stay—far away from the two of you. “Breathe, then.” 

You bury your head into his neck, breathing hard and shaking not from the cold but from memories; things you shouldn’t know. 

“M’sorry,” Simon says again, voice cracking. “Christ, I’ll never say it enough.” 

If you hated him he understood—would welcome that Hell in its own right. Of all the things he’d done, this was the worst sin he could have ever committed. He’d spend the rest of his life thanking whatever power was out there that had broken the earth for him; had led him to you. His tailor.

You sob through a panicked chuckle. “Y-you already have, you brute.”

Simon rubs his face into your hair, holding your quivering souls together and opening his mouth in a shaking exhale as his eyes flutter. 

“Breathe,” is all he says, repeating everything like a record and an order as you hone on the stiff tone—getting you to focus. 

You follow the pulse in his neck, lips pressing into his flesh as your head tilts. 

You’re both back at Simon’s hut as you still try to calm yourself, the man’s face turned into yours and his forehead pressing into your scalp. There’s so little for you to grasp onto besides him—how he feels, the dig of his fingers, and the sound of his breath. 

He sets you on the bed and he pauses, kneeling down slowly as his hands come to gently clutch your cheeks. 

“Can you look at me, Love?” Simon asks you, voice gruff in its low tone. You shiver, sniffling, before your eyes stutter over his features and land on those burial mound browns. He releases a tiny puff of breath—a flicker of his lip.

“Atta girl, jus’ like that, then.” The man blinks slowly, tilting. Simon looks you over with a heavy expression, one that shows the pain and the weight he carries. “Need to get these off, okay?”

A finger lightly travels to your neck, tapping the remnants of your shirtwaist as a few more tears slip out when you blink, shakily nodding. Simon’s lips tighten. 

“Want to do it yourself,” he breathes, “or is it alright if I touch you, Sweetheart?” Your hands are too unstable to do it yourself, he knows that just as well as you do. 

So, in a small broken whisper, you simply utter out, “Please.” 

Simon nods once and the topic is settled; he knows.

The man’s fingers deftly undo the buttons, one after the other as the light from outside seeps into the small square of a home. He doesn’t comment—doesn’t make a sound—just does what he can to help you and get you sorted out; Simon could hear the rapid set of your heart, feel your pulse like a rampaging storm. 

When you’re down to nothing but your flesh, the man grabs the covers from behind you and wraps you in them, his eyes not once flickering downward until you’re entirely swamped by fabric. A hand on your waist squeezes. 

By now the brush of his skin atop yours had sucked you in as if lighting had struck with every pass or small press. The glide of his scars and calluses grounded you here. 

There were very few beings that would hunt for you through life and death and fewer that stayed that course. Thumbs once more brush away the water on the swell of your face. 

“Sleep,” he utters, even if there’s light outside. 

You gaze at him, at his stubble and his pale complexion; the wind rustles outside. What would he do? Guard the door most likely, perhaps even think of how to get into town and grab new clothes for the both of you, food, and necessities. Simon’s mind was fighting itself, just as it always had but now there was the largest stain on his consciousness that he could ever remember having. 

He was worried if he handled you, you might break under him. You…you already had. Avoidance, even if it killed him inside, was the best course of action.

Your mouth is filled with wool, tongue heavy, but in your heart and whatever feeling you have burning in your chest, you know you can’t let him move away from you. Simon being this close made it…easier. Even if a piece of you was still hesitant about black fur and sharp teeth. He had said it himself, hadn’t he? 

Simon wasn’t the Ghost, but at the same time how could they ever be apart from one another? 

Yet, your lips are already moving just as he’s about to stand up. 

“Stay?” Simon’s lungs take in a silent breath, a moment of long silence as he tries to understand why you would want to be around him at all. His hands twitch, your eyes catching the way his Adam’s apple bobs with a slow swallow. “Please, Simon,” you breathe. “I don’t…I can’t be alone again.”

He grunts and is already lifting you. 

Simon shifts your body back and lays you nearest to the wall, shuffling his body until he can lie with his spine facing you; his face to the door as he stays unblinking. 

“Nothing's going to happen to you,” he says, and you turn so you can lightly rest your head into the span of his shoulder blades. Simon’s jaw clenches. “It’s safe here. We’ll figure it out when you’ve got your energy back.” 

You want him to explain, but perhaps right now sleep was the best option. For all intents and purposes—you can’t even remember when you last had true sleep. So you stay there, skin to skin, and breath to breath as the sun still shines outside; the wind travels slowly. 

As you slip off, Simon has to restrain himself from turning around and pressing you into him—leveling his head above yours and breathing you in like how he wishes he could. But no. Too much. 

He’d explain it all when you were better. 

So he settles on the fact that all he can do is watch the door with a far-off expression, his body sagging back into you as your heat meets his.

—

You slept for three days, and in that time, Simon had only left once. On day two he went into town where he’d snuck like a thief—and there truly was no better analogy. Wearing only a blanket once more, the man breaks into your closed Tailor’s shop; boards on the windows and a sign out front to set it for sale. Inside, everything was as it had been left. Dust and layers of stale air, but there was never a better place to be for Simon.

It was where he met you, after all. 

He takes everything he’s able to carry. A large trunk of clothes, personal belongings, and anything that looks of great importance; clothing himself in a simple undershirt and pants along the way. With that, he goes to his own home and grabs all manner of money. Come morning, people would believe it was a robbery, and that was perfectly fine with him. 

Mostly everything belonged to you, anyway. They could have his sparsely furnished home and its cracking foundations. It mattered not. But he knew you needed your work—your passion. 

As he grunts and lifts the trunk, a knicker echoes out behind him. Blinking, dark eyes look behind to find a meeting pair—a long horse’s neck leaning out of a stall. They stare at each other before Simon huffs a chuckle and turns to the shadows.

When you finally did open your eyes again, deep in the third night, everything was different. 

You blink at the bright roar of the fireplace, the flickering of the candles that push back any darkness—curtains on the windows to hide the blackness of midnight. There are your belongings on the cleaned table; the foot of the bed and, there, on the desk. Measuring tape, fabric scissors, and yards of materials are stacked in the spotless corners. 

There’s no doubt that the broken window is fixed for the moment as well. 

New sheets sit on the end of the bed, waiting for you to get up before he can fit them. Jaw loose, you glance all around as the fabric pools at your waist, bare body glistening in the light as your head moves like a bird back and forth slowly. Dare you say it, the place felt…homely. Warm. Small, yes, but the definition of comfort rarely mattered when speaking on size. 

There’s a shuffling sound outside the door and you realize you’re alone. 

Face stuck at the door, your sudden tension is somewhat lessened by the small grunts and puffs of a large nose and heavy, clawed, feet. Somewhat. 

An open maw bites down on your throat with a tearing of flesh before your neck fully snaps.

Your hand lightly comes up to your throat, pressing very loosely as the sounds continue, spiking your cautious curiosity. You know you shouldn’t be holding this against him, but, you had…died. You had felt your neck snap and your blood coat his fangs. 

Somehow, Simon had brought you back from that, but he had been the one to do it in the first place. 

No, you think, feet very carefully sitting on the floor. No, not Simon. The Ghost.

Yet again—aren't those the same? It was a constant question.

Your lips are thin as the dagger in your heart digs ever deeper, but it is your dagger, and it is also your heart, too. Yours. Standing, you cover yourself with the thin sheet, hearing it drag behind you as your body takes you to the door with quiet and even steps. 

So much the two of you have gone through—it seemed hard to comprehend it in this world of black fire and battling beasts; hell and purgatory. He’d tracked you down…how? As your hand meets the handle, slowly walking feet coming closer from beyond it, you tighten your hold on the fabric near your neck and breathe slowly. 

You first see crimson, and then the beady brown eyes of a large dog and a stained muzzle. Breath tight, you stare at the dead bodies of two sheep in the Ghost’s maw, limp bodies hanging from the legs out of puffed cheeks. The both of you halt your courses. 

Simon’s eyes slash down your nearly-naked form, and he drops the animals to the ground before his head darts to the side; snow splattered with blood and the imprint of large woolen bodies. He snorts and takes a single step back, seemingly hunching down lower as he sniffs the air in distraction. 

His feet pivot, one clawed foot moving away.

“Simon,” you say, breath puffing over the cold air. He waits, head only slightly tilting your way; eyes pointing down. You don’t know why you speak, why you call to him like this. 

The silence settles as you struggle to articulate, mouth opening and closing like it was a choice between speech or the metaphorical blade to your throat. You close your mouth and look to the side, the lids of your eyes tightly shut. 

Without another word, you’re setting your feet in the drowned snow and walking up to him, fingers shaking before your hand extends from the elbow. It rests above the side of his muzzle, hovering with a tiny quiver as you fight with your own fear. 

You can feel Simon’s eyes on you now, watching. Always watching. Forever watching. Eyes like hard earth; like the dirt under your nails. 

Simon’s throat grumbles, and before you can make a decision, he helps make one for you. 

He softly moves his great lumbering head down and to the side—slotting it under your hand as you gasp, feeling the strands of fur under your grip. Immediately, your eyes snap to meet his, seeing long lashes holding snowflakes. The Ghost’s so large that he has to bend low in order to give you a comfortable resting point for your hand; sitting in between his sharp ears. 

You swallow down your nervousness as the seconds draw on, your heart rate slowing until you can properly move closer and feel the waves of fur beneath your fingertips. Playing with them, you card your digits in gentle strokes, hearing the low purr that rattles your bones as a great weight is leveled into your torso. 

A tiny giggle emanates from your chest, and the beast responds by only pushing himself deeper into your stomach. 

“Easy,” you mutter, eyes light as a smile forms on your lips. 

The chill seeps in gradually as you both stand there, a werewolf and a barely-clothed tailor. Before long you’re shivering even as you feel content next to Simon and to steal some of his furnace-like heat. 

You pull back and the wolf momentarily tilts to find you, only to open his eyes when he can’t feel your sturdy body. He blinks, before slowly standing back up to his full height. 

The light from the hut seeps out to cover you, and you take comfort in that—if the door shuts on its own, you’d be left in a darkness you know you’ll fear for many, many years. With its illumination, you speak freely.

“I don’t know how you did it, Simon,” his right ear twitches. “But…but I want you to know that I don’t blame you for what happened. I should, I know I should, but for the life of me, whenever you’re near I can’t think straight. Please, when you’re back to,” you huff a tiny laugh, “whenever you’re back to walking in a man’s skin, explain it to me. Explain why I can’t think of anyone else but you.” 

Avoiding the sheep, you step back into the hut and close the door as those dead eyes follow loyally, the wolf not breathing beyond a thin line of condensation wafting into the air. 

You only make it five steps back to bed before the wooden barrier is opened loudly, hitting off the back wall and shutting closed on its own. Turning back quickly, startled, you’re met with a fast panting chest and a human hand that swipes blood away from his lips. Bare skin is close to yours, and your eyes widen at the instantaneous blown feeling of your pupils. 

Simon’s face is above yours.

“Because you own half of my fuckin’ soul,” he breathes into your scalp, accent rich and heavy with implication. “Just as I own half of yours.” 

Literal or a metaphor, you care not. 

You both stay there, hearts pumping and skin tingling as the air increases in temperature—the sheet around you held in a tight fist suddenly seems almost suffocating. Your arms itch to drop it. Drop it now and let him see you; let him feel you like no other has. Where did these thoughts come from? Or…had they always been there?

The man hasn’t moved, and you know he won’t do anything unless you ask it of him, but you can smell the sweat on his skin, the scent of blood and musk. Quick death and dragging claw. 

If he was fire, it would be a blessing to be burned. 

“Simon,” you say, voice tight. He grunts like a damn dog, hands at his sides twitching as his bare chest shines. So many scars. You want to trace them, to feel them writhe. “You’re no good for me.”

“I know,” he growls. 

You press your lips to his and breathe him down as the sheet falls from your shoulders, all-encompassing hands finding the swell of your hips and sliding behind them; gripping tightly. Your own dig at his waist, finding the bulk of his abs and the deep tapper of his v-line before you gasp at his hand kneading the flesh of your arse. 

At the motion, Simon takes the opportunity to smirk before letting his tongue slip into your mouth. You release a small noise from the back of your throat, and he groans—one hand coming up to grip the base of your skull and maneuvering your head farther upward. He pulls back and presses into you, your face growing hot as he finds your neck and starts leaving deep open-mouthed kisses as his chest vibrates. 

Lips swollen and sensitive, you whimper as he bites down at every other interval; arms around his waist and nails running up and down his spine. Simon shivers, hips lightly bucking as you press on the small of his back. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Love,” he nuzzles under your ear, pupils wide and blackened, feral-like. “The things you do to me, yeah? Drivin’ me up a damn wall whenever I caught a whiff of what I did to you.”

Your stomach is rolling in tight knots of desire, lungs heaving as his hands squeeze and travel. At your core, you can already feel the slippery effect on your folds—a stain of sin that leaks out with nothing to hold it hostage inside of you. Face tightening as Simon groans long, he leaves hickey after hickey, as if unable to not mark your neck and under-ear. 

The feeling of teeth there doesn’t even startle you, no, not now. 

You ache with need, legs threatening to close in on themselves before Simon loops a hand in your inner thigh and keeps them open. The world around you blurs as your body tingles with a yearning that almost hurts.

“C’mon now, Sweetheart,” his lips come back to yours and you let him ravish you with long, deep kisses as his hand moves up. You balk forward and shiver as you feel the deep press of his growing lust for you against your stomach. “Don’t wanna know how long I’ve been dreamin’ about this.” 

Your eyes flutter, and you gasp out through the joining of your hungry mouths, “Show me, Simon. Show it to me.” 

His teeth bite slowly into your bottom lip, easing you into this game of wolf and sheep as his half-closed eyes open and dig into you. Simon’s fingers flex but don’t move, the other still at the base of your neck; your own have been leaving crescent-shaped marks on his back for a while, absentmindedly pulsing along with the heated blood in your veins. 

There are still the remnants of sheep’s blood on his cheek—slashed up the side of his face and over his deep-set eyebrow, but you find you don’t care at all. 

With how his fingers tap so close yet so far to that sensitive bundle and the dripping mess of your insides, nothing matters. 

“My Girl wants that?” Simon hums, and as easily as if he were picking up a shirt from your shop, he lets his thick fingers push you open as you suck in a quick breath and sag into him. Into his neck you sigh, hitched airways making it seem tight. Instinctually you open your legs wider, whining at the press of calluses and scars in your clutch and sliding up your sensitive walls. 

Simon stops and waits mid-way past his first knuckle with two fingers, groaning as you tighten and flex around him at the foreign sensation. His thumb at the back of your head moves up and down, his own thighs hard with eagerness and a stain in his abdomen from the lack of attention—but he cares little about his own leaking head, content only when able to give you pleasure in the purest form. 

Your stomach as well as his are wet from his weeping tip, the chill of it making you both shiver and try to mash your bodies ever closer as the sheet below you two is tangled at your feet. The fireplace crackles. 

“Simon,” you keen, and he answers with a bite of your shoulder before rubbing his head into your neck. Like opium, he’d said. If only he could tell you your scent now was convincing enough to make him lay on a bed of burning coals if only he could smell it for three more seconds. 

Arousal. Lust. Animalistic desperation that Simon’s eager to bring you to the brink of—face sick with pleasure and eyes blown with numb satisfaction. Open and bare to him.

“Attagirl, that’s it,” he slides his digits deeper as your hips buck, making him grit his teeth to hold back a grunt as his dick is jostled. “So wet for me, fuckin’ perfect. Let me help, yeah?” 

“Fuck, Simon,” he buries his fingers at the base, wasting no time in crooking them back toward him and pulling his wrist down. You moan loudly, stretching and being played like an instrument. Simon’s fingers repeat the motion until you’re a mess of rutting thighs and shaky legs. 

The man takes down every moan and whimper—every sigh and jerk with a growing sense of pride. His dick is begging for friction, and the little bit he gets is from your stomach rubbing against it with every slippery sound of his fingers entering and exiting your core. 

Simon’s mouth is open with a tight pant for breath, mirroring yours before the pad of his palm rubs against your bundle. You arch into him, whining and pleading instantly with a burning face, half convinced something had overtaken your body to make you act in such a way. 

The man moves his fingers faster, making sure to maneuver his limb in such a way as to get your clit harder and harder with every pass, leaving you limp in his arms. Simon anchors you to him with a hand on the back of your shoulder blades, grip hard and knuckles white. 

As your face screws up and a fire burns in your core, nails leave long scratches down the back of his torso as if he was a wooden trunk to tie a horse to—a rock in a storm. 

“Simon,” you sigh out, head stuck under his chin. “S-so good, keep going.” 

He opens his mouth as he rubs his chin on the top of your scalp, mixing your scents together potently. 

“Look at me,” Simon utters, in his desperation to bring you to the edge, his accent is as deep as you’d ever heard it. “Look at me, Love. Wanna see your eyes watchin’ me as you fall apart. I’ll make it good, promise.” 

“K…” You gasp as everything keeps building up and up, teeth clenching together and legs fighting to close around his hand—Simon bullies you open through the overstimulation; the flood of your senses. “Know you will!” 

“So good to me, Sweetheart,” he grumbles, taking you by the side of your cheek and leaning back slightly so he can still let you rest on him but also watch. 

Your eyes flutter with every rapid intrusion from Simon’s digits, tight and textured walls giving in to him as he pushes and prods, searching for something as his brows crease and his abdomen bunches. The man’s biceps flex and strain, feet wide open and lips parted as he locks onto your gaze. 

“Fuck, what a bloody sight to see. Yeah, you enjoying that, then?” He mutters, and only when he pushes those teasing words out does he find a point inside of you that leaves your mouth opening and your toes curling; that he truly loses his breath. 

Holding your head forward, Simon’s jaw slackens as your face contorted with pain-like expressions of confused pleasure, sweat glistening your forehead and your lips swollen—neck nothing more than raised skin from all of the man’s biting. 

You strangle down such an instinctive and leg-shaking moan that Simon nearly forgets that he’s not even truly inside of you yet; balls tightening with building excitement and his length begging to be squeezed, used for nothing but that same expression on your face.

“Christ,” he breathes, teeth grinding and feeling you fight to keep his fingers in. Slick drips down his wrist, tapping the floor in a clear stain that could bring him to his knees. 

You can’t even speak, spine curling with such raw electric sparks. If Simon isn’t careful, your legs will entirely fail you. 

“Sim-” Your voice is high, mixed with panic as you let him hit that same point again and again like a hunter. “Simon!” You chant, fighting to meet his eyes as your vision blurs. 

Everything was too hot, the scrape of his calluses on your flesh like a knife raking through your insides with pleasurable stabs. 

“Jus’ like that, Love,” he breathes, not blinking. “C’mon know you feel it. Squeezin’ my fingers just right. Look at that pretty little face.” 

You’re building and building, standing on the precipice of a large chasm. There���s nothing to stop you from going over the edge—and you don’t want anything too. 

Your body tenses gradually, knees wobbling and your abdomen pulling into itself. A sharp claw seems to play with the string of your impending release, fiddling with it and taking it into its fingertip; rubbing it back and forth in a slow game.

Your breath comes out in short gasps, moans getting higher and more cut, Simon’s eyes are transfixed, panting like a dog, and, in an instant right before you break, moves his fingers at a break-neck pace. 

Your sharp cry is caught on his lips, sucking it down as your orgasm floods his hand, leaving it a sticky mess that he continues finger-fuck you through with firm strokes. He’s whispering praises on your lips, keeping you up as his hand snaps to your waist when your legs buckle. Your walls move like a noose, letting the man fantasize how it would feel to have you speared open in his lap as you writhe and take him down in the low light. 

All of these thoughts, this sight, make him harder by the second. 

Simon keeps moving his fingers, drawing your explosive release out until you plead quietly for him to stop from overstimulation. The sensation makes your abused clit cause your spine to arch with every touch of his wet palm. He obliged, the sound of slick slapping halting, but his fingers didn’t leave your spasming cunt as your limp head fell to his shoulder. 

Your chest heaves, aftershocks leaving your mind blank to all else but the press of skin and sweat. The air reeks of sex and hot breath. 

Simon’s head clacks yours, fingers flexing as you whimper and dig your hands into his sides. He chuckles and slowly pulls out, taking long strings of cum with him as they string his fingers together and dribble to the floor from your slit. He holds you up, uncomfortably shifting his feet when your body jostles his raging erection—making him hold back a tight gasp. 

“Good?” The man asks, gruff and casually. Your open mouth lays a firm kiss on his burning flesh as he side-eyes you waiting for a response. 

“Yeah,” your voice is far off. Simon chuckles lowly. 

In an easy sweep of his arms, you’re picked up and carried to the bed; set down to the plushness that’s down one sheet. You lay on your back, gazing up at the man as he stares down at you in turn. 

Neither of you speaks until Simon has to rip his eyes away, clearing his throat. Your eyes travel down before widening at the violent red of the man’s length—the thing twitching and dripping pre-cum down to the base in an obvious plea for stimulation. Yet Simon makes no move to do anything. 

“You should get some more rest—”

“Let me help,” you whisper, eyes widely innocent as they meet the browns that snap your way, those orbs slightly widening. “I own half your soul…right?”

Simon watches you, jaw loose. 

“It looks painful,” you ease out, pointedly moving your gaze downward with unabashed boldness. 

“Is,” he utters. If he was being honest, he was worried that he had been coming on too strong—that this part of the night might be going a bit far. You were a lady, after all, and he respected you as such. He needed confirmation. 

“Then let me help, Simon.” Your eyes blink at him, hand coming up to trace the bulk of his thigh muscles. His breath goes shallow, self-control fraying fast. Just a little more. You lick your lips. “I want to feel you take me like no one else has. I want you to stay in this bed with me until the fire goes out and the light outside peels through the curtains. Can you do that for me?”

Your wet core pulses again, wanting—waiting for something more. Something only Simon could give you. 

The man’s chest rattles. “Yes,” he relays, words low. 

After a moment of eye contact, the man places his knee on the bed, shifting so that he has himself in between your legs; hands coming up beside your head. Your lungs are heavy, fingers coming up to rub over his blood-stained cheek as his nose brushes yours. Simon’s stubble itches you, but you still sigh constantly as he kisses you once more. 

This was slower than the previous—less desperate though you don’t know how as you could feel the strain of his length prodding like a hot iron in your inner thigh. It made you slightly nervous, the size and the action itself, but you didn’t doubt who you wanted to be the one above you. 

Simon kisses the side of your lips, nipping at the skin as he grunts out, “You sure?” 

Brown eyes never waver as they stare you down. Any ounce of hesitation would be found immediately and the action would be over; Simon paraded around as a cold and heartless beast, but never had there been a man more considerate of your own safety. He didn’t want to hurt you. 

You drag your fingers through his hair and he shudders, one grip sliding to your legs as the drag of barely-there claws makes your breath hitch. Your lips mutter, quietly, “Yes.” 

“Gotta make me believe it, Sweetheart,” Simon kisses over all of the marks he left, slowly dragging the warm press of his mouth and side-eyeing you. 

You glare down at him and feel his smirk on your skin, how he hooks his hand under your knee and lightly lifts the limb. Your muscles flex at the sudden spread of your legs, your hand in his hair grasping tighter. Simon sighs low as your body shifts, shivering at the slick heat he restrains himself from rutting against. 

Face burning at your bare excitement, the man’s eyes glaze over. 

“I’m sure, Simon.” 

“Don’t wanna make you feel like you have to—”

“Simon,” you interrupt his comment, and the blond huffs, the air sliding over your heated skin.

“Tell me if it hurts and I’ll stop.” You smile softly and drag his face back to yours, kissing him deeply. “Let me try…” Simon mutters on your lips, and soon both of his hands are pushing up your knees as you widely blink at the openness of your core before your legs are folded up. 

You whine at the stretch, the embarrassment of having your dripping folds on full display. This was foreign to you.

Simon hums, looking down and groaning. He taps his forehead to yours as you breathe deeply, letting him take control. 

“Okay?” He asks, and your heart skips a beat. 

“Are you going to keep stalling,” you breathe, looking into his gaze teasingly. “Or are you going to show me how you can’t function without me beside you?” 

There’s a stretch as he lines himself up, hips moving back and abdomen sliding over yours—your lungs stutter as his eyes glint at you; lips flicking in a smirk.

“You going to keep me here?” You breathe, voice breathy as Simon’s length begins to steadily press forward, your face twists as you take him down, lines forming on your forehead. “Make me,” his hands keep your legs up beside you, open as they tighten. His lids narrow in concentration at the tight vice of your walls, having to slowly bully his way into you inch by inch. “Make me tailor your clothes a-and spin your wool?”

The sounds from your joining bodies are vulgar. A slide and a coating of flesh with natural assistance as Simon’s jaw clenches, not able to help the jump of his pelvis as you moan and arch your back as he moves even farther into your clutch. 

You both writhe as he bottoms out, bodies shaking at the intensity of the moment and the sparks under your flesh. 

“Ah,” Simon strangles a whine, eyes tight shut as yours follow. Quick kisses are placed on your lips. “Don’t tempt me, yeah?” 

The great stretch of your insides leaves you sighing, tiny waves of pain pushed back by pleasurable pulsing and the scrape of veins. His head lays in the hold of your womb, slick leaking out from the ring of your core. 

“We,” your hips jerk, and Simon’s hands on your knees tighten until you know there’ll be bruises come morning. “We’re beyond temptation.”

Simon chuckles—his eyes dark and glimmering in the firelight. “Smart girl.”

He lets you adjust there for a moment, even if his dick is pleading with him to move and drive your back into the mattress; to see your face crease in rapture. But that wasn’t what his head wanted, no, he wanted this done right. 

When you look at him and your thighs stop shaking, he carefully grinds himself into you, letting your bundle of nerves meet the wirehair of his happy trail and give himself the slightest feeling of relief. You bite your lip, one hand on Simon’s cheek and the other still in his hair. 

The angle of your legs makes you feel him that much deeper, even as he simply grinds himself inside of you and doesn’t move much beyond that. 

“Feels good, y’know that?” Simon mutters as your mouth takes down a slow breath, eyes stuck on each other as the man fully begins to remove himself and softly flinch his length back into you; exiting just enough before letting him re-enter. “Tight; warm.” He shudders, gritting his teeth. “C-can smell you like this—how much you want it. Always have.” 

You whine at the words, tightening around him as he begins gently fucking you in earnest, the slap of skin and tight walls joining the crackle of wood. The scents on the air are a perfect mix of addictive pheromones—so potent even you can smell it as you try to meet every dig of his hips.

Simon’s face goes to your neck, nuzzling into it as his eyes go tight. 

“Fucking hell,” he breathes out a groan into your ear, mouth open. 

 The heat returns easily to you, the burning in your gut. Simon’s pelvis hits you, stimulating your clit every time in the perfect way, as if he’d glanced at your body once and immediately memorized what made you tick. His sweat drips and pools with your own, slick leaking out to the mattress and making you feel dirty in the best way as your cut-off sighs hit the ceiling. It's hot in here; nearly too hot to focus on the slide of skin and dig of your nails into his hair. It’s telling how fast you seem to hit that peak again, at the constant scrape of his veins and the push of your walls as if trying to force him in. 

Your back arches into him, and Simon cants his hips faster, biting on your chin and pulling at your lips as his eyes watch with eagerness. His abdomen bunches at the sheer pleasure he feels making you feel like this, chest heaving and large build all but swallowing you below him. 

“Simon,” you breathe, kissing him on his lips eagerly, growing desperate. 

“Let me take care of you,” the man grunts hard, getting harder to focus, “trust me?”

“Yes,” you say immediately, clenching your jaw as he brushes a spot so deep inside of you that your eyes go blurry for a moment. Your lips move without your brain understanding the slurred words. “Yes, I trust you. I…I…oh, fuck.” 

He sighs and bites a whimper down as your walls flex, gripping him tighter and tighter. 

“Knew I’d find you,” Simon pushes your legs harder into the mattress, form slightly shaking. You moan high into his mouth, eyes fluttering and knot growing tighter. “Knew I’d make it right, eh? Death can’t keep you away from me, not now. I’ll find you.”

You gasp, itching cord snapping and release spilling out around the plug of his dick as he continues on as you jerk and rut out of order; eyebrows pulled in. It isn’t long after that Simon follows you, shoving his lips on yours as his mouth parts with a tight cry. Inside of you the spill of his seed fills your womb and he fucks through it, hands releasing your legs to rub up and down your sides. 

Your core floods as he stays there, resting and stationary above you, his weight heavy but not crushing. The both of you stare at one another and breathe down the heated air; all of the scents and the desire there—the unspoken bond that extends life and death. 

Simon grunts and forces out, breathless, staring through blown pupils.

“I’ll always find you.”

In the morning there’s a pile of wool sitting in a cloth sack against the wall, and the sound of chopping wood outside. The curtains are drawn to the bright rays of the morning sun as they meet your softly smiling face, visage half-covered by the newly fitted sheets.

[psychedelic-ink]

ㅤㅤㅤ✦ 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 ⸻ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓

ㅤㅤjoel miller x f!reader

⌜HOW MR. MILLER STOLE CHRISTMAS MASTERLIST⌟

genre: christmas, enemies to lovers, romance, fake dating, minors dni

word count: 0.6k

chapter summary: the fireflies are dying one by one and you're desperately seeking a way out.

warnings: age gap, canon typical violence, spoilers for the season one finale

**dividers by @saradika

You smell blood. Feel it almost. The heat, the stickiness of it. Despite the clean walls and the sterile smell you know something is wrong. Something is very wrong—the fireflies are dying. One by one. Their light snuffed out, left to rot. 

You knew this would happen. After all of what you’ve done, what Marlene has done. It was wrong, and karma always hungers after those who wronged her—Killing a little girl to save the world. . . hiding it from her. . . It was the trolley problem come to life. You never could answer that question, never could decide what was deemed right and wrong in that situation. Now, it seemed like all of you had chosen wrong. And you were being punished for it. The Angel of Death sought to claim you all.

At least it’s better than getting infected. At least the bullet would be shot right between your eyebrows and you’ll be dead before you can blink. 

Your finger presses stubbornly against the trigger as you move. You still have the boldness of youth. Maybe you can escape. Maybe you can be free. You wanted out a long time ago, just scared to be out there all on your own. 

Your lips press tightly together upon seeing a body, you don’t know his name, don’t dwell on it as you jump over his corpse and head for the exit. You hear gunshots. Screams. Shouts. You smell blood—such a persistent smell—You smell fear. Death is coming for you. Your footsteps gain momentum, you feel his breath on the back of your neck and the nuzzle cold against your forehead.

Then you see him. Just as you’re turning the corner, heart beating in your throat and sweat beading out of every pore, you see him—the angel of death. 

And fuck—you know you shouldn’t think it, but the mass killer is beautiful. 

Without even thinking you drop your gun and raise your hands. The best way to survive is to expose your neck to the beast. Showing you mean no harm. You don’t kick a raging lion. 

He doesn’t seem to see it though. His eyes stare right past you. He barely blinks, blood of the fireflies coating his already dirty shirt. He cocks the gun and you know he’s ready to shoot, your eyes go wide. You don’t want to die. Not yet. Not without finding any semblance of peace or belonging. 

“Please don’t,” you blurt out. His eyes seem to focus then, dark soulless gaze flitting across your face, noticing your raised hands. “I just want to leave. She’s on the top floor, at the end of the hall—Please don’t shoot.” 

He observes you a beat longer. From the way his muscles tense you think he’s about to shoot, why wouldn’t he? What made you different from all the rest? 

You close your eyes, chest rising painfully. There’s a loud hum in your ear. Maybe it’s the rush of blood? You think about your life, of all the death surrounding you. All you remember is the outbreak. Every memory tainted with curling cordyceps ever since you were six. You remember your mother holding you by the hand and yanking your arm so hard you thought it would be ripped off the socket. Your father trying to protect you both, leading the way—You remembered the day Marlene found you, time spent with the fireflies, the excitement when the immune girl was found. . . 

The train of thought would end with a measly bullet. 

A bullet that never came. A gun that never fired. 

When you open your eyes he was gone. 

You have no idea what it was—maybe it was the fact that you were significantly younger than the other soldiers, maybe it was because you were already out through the door when he pointed a gun at you— no matter what it was you were miraculously spared from the bloodshed.

The angel of death has spared you. 

[mrsshabana]

Mkay, so hear me out. I wanted to ask if you could write about gyutaro and the reader being in a fantasy universe that's similar to final fantasy or the legend of zelda, but Gyutaro is part dragon and maybe even the guardian of like a temple or something along those lines. Be creative with it, I know whatever you come up with will be great :> You can make it NSFW or more fluffy, all up to you!

Either way, I hope you have a great day ^^

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧'𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐭

꒦꒷‧₊ Summary You are a Princess of a crumbling kingdom. Desperate for help, you set out to free an ancient dragon in hopes that he will be able to restore order to the land. But you were naive to think he would be so gracious. Things take a turn for the worse and you have no choice but to rely on each other.

꒦꒷‧₊ Content Dragon!Gyutaro x Female!Reader, violence, gore, death

꒦꒷‧₊ Note 3k words. A lot of the lore for this story is based off of Elden Ring. I know you asked for other games but I'm not familiar with them so I hope this is ok. I absolutely adore Elden Ring so this was very fun to write. I'm sorry that I ended up making this way more complex than it needed to be but I couldn't help it! I was having too much fun coming up with lore for this universe. I have so many ideas for this so if you'd like me to continue this story then please let me know!

Finally after days of searching through the Swamp of Aeonia, narrowly avoiding the toxic scarlet rot that infects these lands, you found the ruins only spoken of in ancient legends.

It is said that deep within the heart of Caelid there is a place where Gyutaro, the son of the Lichdragon Fortissax, has been imprisoned for the last 100 years.

Legend says that he was forsaken for being the most hideous creature in all the land. While his twin sister was worshiped for her beauty. He was born corrupted by the scarlet rot, consuming him from the inside out. And Gyutaro was known for his jealousy. He would destroy and devour things that were beautiful or more fortunate than himself. He brought great suffering to The Lands Between, so a knight was sent to imprison him.

You don't know for certain if the legends are true, but you sure hope they are. Growing up you've always been incredibly fascinated by dragons and the tales your mother would tell you. But since you are a princess you were never allowed around such ferocious beasts. But now you have no choice.

Your kingdom is crumbling and your mother has fallen ill. As the war across The Lands Between rages on, your soldiers dwindle. You feel helpless as more and more of your soldiers die. More innocent lives.

But you remembered the tales your mother would tell you and it gave you a glimmer of hope. It is told that the Lichdragon Fortissax was defeated in battle by Godwyn the Golden. But instead of death, Godwyn offered his friendship to the Lichdragon. Fortissax was loyal to Godwyn ever since, protecting him even after they both succumbed to corruption.

You thought that perhaps the rumored son of Fortissax would be just as loyal as his father. If you were to free him from his imprisonment then perhaps he would return the favor by protecting your kingdom.

It's a long shot but it may be the only shot you have.

You cautiously descend into the ruins of what appears to be a dungeon, slowly decayed by the scarlet rot. You're careful not to touch anything as you make your way down a long staircase.

At the bottom of the staircase lies a corridor. A deep rumble can be heard as you walk through, your footsteps echoing through the passageway. As you get closer to the end of the hall the rumbling gets louder and louder.

Finally, you make it to the end, welcomed by a giant chamber. And there he is.

Gyutaro, the son of the Lichdragon.

As soon as you lay your eyes upon him you are stricken with a combination of fear and amazement. His beauty takes your breath away.

His large form lays sleeping in the middle of the room. But as soon as you step foot into the chamber he begins to stir. His eyes shoot open, slit pupils surrounded by glowing yellow stare wildly at you. With a deep growl, he rises to his feet, towering at least 20 feet over you.

His body is covered with black scales, accented with green. Though his beautiful scales are interrupted by dark splotches scattered across his face and body, these scales don't shimmer like the others do. They appear dull and corrupt in some way. Razor sharp claws adorn his paws and two large horns sit atop his head.

Though his body looks different than you had imagined. He is very muscular but his stomach is hollowed out and you can clearly see his ribs and spine. You imagine he doesn't get much to eat here, so perhaps that would explain his emaciated stature.

He spreads his massive wings, blocking the light from the torches behind him. And his long tail sways behind him as he glares down at you. And that's when you hear it. A deep rumble coming from within his chest as he begins to open his jaws, revealing a bright red light glowing from within him. He's about to envelop you in flames.

"G-Gyutaro!" You immediately get on your knees and bow before him, "Son of Fortissax! I have come to free you!"

The rumbling stops, and you feel the ground shake as he begins to circle you. Too afraid to look up, you stay staring at the cobblestone. Hoping that he spares you and gives you a chance to explain yourself.

He leans closer to you, inhaling your scent. "Human... you are of royal blood," he rasps. The sound of his voice sending shivers down your spine.

"Y-yes," you stammer, "I am Princess Y/N."

"Princess?" he smirks, "What is a princess doing in the Swamp of Aeonia?"

"I came searching for you," you finally muster the courage to look up. Staring into his golden eyes. "The Lands Between suffer greatly these days. W-we need the ancient dragon to return balance to the land," your voice shakes as you muster a half-truth. It is true that the world hasn't been graced by an ancient dragon in many years and their presence could help restore the world to order. But you also seek his aid in restoring your kingdom.

"You are quite bold for a human," he scoffs, "Attempt if you must. But these are no ordinary binds."

He lifts his legs, jingling the chain that wraps tightly around his ankle. You were too enamored by his magnificence to notice them before.

You shakily get up onto your feet to examine the chains. A glowing blue tint shines off of the thick metal. These chains must be enchanted somehow. For if they were ordinary he would easily be able to break free. But you came prepared.

Gyutaro doesn't know how to break the spell that binds him to this place, but you do. As a princess, you have access to all of the records and literature you could ever want. You know what will free him.

A kiss from a beautiful maiden of royalty.

The knight that imprisoned him, an ancestor of Lord Tengen, was smart when he enchanted these chains. He thought of something that could never possibly happen, something that Gyutaro would surely never allow even if someone had tried. Especially since when Gyutaro was free he set out to destroy all beauty.

You clear your throat, "I know what will set you free. But you need to trust me."

Gyutaro narrows his eyes at you. What could possibly be your angle here? Are things really that bad that you came to free him? You do know his history, do you not? He is no peaceful creature, always leaving violence and death in his wake.

He doesn't understand what your motives are, but he isn't afraid of a mere human. He figures that if you try anything funny then he can just devour you. But, he's been imprisoned here for so long that he's willing to hear you out.

You slowly reach up towards his face. He doesn't know why he feels so drawn to you, but he lowers his head and you gently place your hands on his cheeks.

"You will be free," you whisper as you look into his eyes.

You lean forward and kiss him. Pressing your soft lips to his scaly ones. He feels something warm blossom within him as he closes his eyes.

The chains slowly disintegrate into dust, effectively ending his 100-year imprisonment.

His eyes widen in surprise, "I-I'm free..."

Your heart beat quickens as you slowly step away from him. Fear overtakes you as you stand before this mighty dragon, now completely free. Will he return the favor to you? Or will he devour you now that he's gotten what he needed from you?

His lips curl into a smirk as he puffs out his chest and lets out a mighty roar. So loud that it shakes the entire dungeon, echoing throughout the infected lands of Caelid and possibly beyond.

The walls of the dungeon begin to crumble as debris falls from the ceiling. This place is on the verge of collapsing.

Quickly, Gyutaro scoops you up in his arms. Holding you against his chest as he lunges upwards, bursting through the ceiling of the ruins.

He flies into the sky, marveling at the rot-ridden swamp below him. The sun hitting his scales for the first time in 100 years, he's filled with vigor.

You hold on for dear life, though he has a firm grip on you. Gyutaro flies above Caelid, triumphantly roaring to alert everyone that he is back. You aren't sure if his return will cause hope or fear amongst the people of The Lands Between.

He flies east, a safe distance away from the scarlet rot, and into a nearby forest. Carefully landing, he gently sets you down on the ground.

"Princess..." he lowers his head, "You freed me from that accursed prison. Thank you..."

You feel a surge of relief and power course through you as this all-powerful creature bows before you. Reaching out to him, you gently lay your hand on his snout. "You're welcome. I'm glad to have helped."

He quickly recoils from your touch, feeling an unfamiliar emotion stir within him. His brows furrow in discomfort. This feeling doesn't sit right in his stomach, and he doesn't enjoy it.

With a sour taste in his mouth, he launches back into the sky. Leaving you behind.

"W-wait!" you shout, trying to run after him but there's no point. He's already long gone.

Gyutaro couldn't take it any longer. The attraction towards you that blossomed within him was too foreign to him. Though after being imprisoned for the last 100 years it was nice to have some company. Especially that of a beautiful princess. But he pushes those thoughts aside and focuses on more important things. Like reuniting with his sister.

You have no choice but to go back to your kingdom alone and empty-handed.

｡o°✥✤✣ 　　 ✣✤✥°o｡

Weeks pass and things only get worse. The war wages on and your mother's health worsens. You don't see or hear from Gyutaro. You only hear about the occasional sighting of a massive dragon or about a beast wreaking havoc on small villages.

That is until one day you hear a commotion outside your castle.

Gyutaro lands on the bridge before your castle, digging his massive talons into the cobblestone. Then a loud rumble stirs within him, he opens his jaws to spew crimson red flames across the other side of the bridge. Blocking the path of anyone that intends to visit the castle. Engulfing it in flames that spread the scarlet rot that harbors within him.

The castle guards rush out towards him, readying their crossbows and shooting arrows at his back. They bounce off of his tough scales, but one of them pierces his wing.

"Pathetic humans," he growls. Turning around and letting out a powerful roar that shakes the bridge beneath him. Gyutaro bares his fangs and lunges forward, catching one of the soldiers in his mouth. He closes his jaws, impaling the soldier with his many teeth before swallowing him whole.

Gyutaro lets out another roar, a clear warning to anyone who dares to attack him again.

"Cease fire!" You shout, running out of the castle and towards Gyutaro. The guards try to warn you that it's dangerous and you should stay inside, but you don't listen.

"Princess!" his eyes widen when he sees you, wasting no time and coming towards you.

Your guards point their crossbows at him as he approaches but you hold your hand out to signal that it's ok.

"Gyutaro, what are you doing here?" you say in shock.

"Your castle will come under attack shortly," he looks behind him briefly before turning back to face you, "My flames should hold them off for a while but it's not safe here."

"Wait what? What do you mean?" you begin to panic.

"There's no time to explain!" he growls, "I'm getting you out of here."

"No! I can't leave my mother behind! And what about everyone else?" your eyes begin to well up with tears.

"Fine," he huffs, "I'll carry you and your mother to safety. I couldn't care less about everyone else..."

"I refuse," you say sternly, "We will not leave our kingdom behind."

"Insolent human!" he roars, "I'm not giving you a choice!!"

Gyutaro opens his maw and swoops forward, catching your coat in his mouth before you can run away.

"Let me go! Let me go!" you kick and scream.

He doesn't know why he even bothered coming to help you. The old Gyutaro would never do something like that. But ever since you saved him he's been longing for your touch again. Longing to be in the presence of someone who didn't see him as a hideous beast. And perhaps he craved more of your affection.

Whatever the case, he needs to get you and your mother out of here as soon as possible. Even though he honestly doesn't care about your mother's well-being, he charges through the entrance of the castle anyway. Guards shoot at him as he passes, but the arrows aren't strong enough to penetrate his scales.

The large castle doors are just big enough to fit him if he collapses his wings to his back. While still holding you in his mouth, he bursts through the castle doors and into the foyer.

It's ginormous and filled with elaborate decorations and luxury furnishings. Your mother sits frail and weak on the throne.

"What is the meaning of this?" she calls out in a strong voice despite her sickly appearance.

Gyutaro's eyes go wide and he stops dead in his tracks, gently setting you down on the lavish rug beneath his feet.

You huff and straighten your coat as he releases you from his grasp. Giving him a stern look before moving your attention to the queen.

"Mother, the kingdom is-"

"I know," she cuts you off and stands from her seat, walking towards you and Gyutaro.

"I've known they would come for our kingdom," she passes you and walks straight towards Gyutaro.

He feels his blood run cold, and a strange sense of tranquility wash over him as she approaches. He lowers his head to show respect and that he isn't a threat.

Your mother stands in front of him, looking into his eyes.

"Gyutaro, son of the Lichdragon Fortissax," her voice is soft yet commanding as she places a hand on Gyutaro's head, "You will be my daughter's guardian. Protect her at all costs."

His eyes widen as he feels something change within him. He doesn't understand what's going on, but he suddenly feels as light as air. A strange golden mist forms around him, enveloping him.

You stare wide eyed and in complete shock. Your mother wouldn't hurt him would she? What in the hells did she do to him?

His body seems to shrink and become completely concealed within the mist.

It seems like forever but it's only after a few seconds that the mist begins to disappear. Revealing... a man?

He's hunched over on his hands and knees, breathing deeply as he feels his human lungs inflate for the first time. A familiar tail sways behind him, and a set of horns sits atop his head.

"G-Gyutaro...?" you whisper, slowly coming closer to him.

His body trembles as he tries to stand. You reach out to him hesitantly but are interrupted by a loud rumbling sound as the ground beneath you quakes.

"You must leave at once!" Your mother yells to you.

"I'm not leaving! I won't leave you behind!" you cry, tears flowing down your cheeks.

The front walls of the castle begin to crumble.

"I'm sorry my dear," your mother says in a somber tone, "I love you."

She raises her hand, then slowly lowers it. You can feel your eyes closing with the motion of her hand as she casts a spell on you.

All you can do is whimper, "I love you too," as you drift off to sleep.

｡o°✥✤✣ 　　 ✣✤✥°o｡

You wake up to the sound of heavy footsteps and someone cursing.

"Fuck this! Aaaaaahhhgg!!"

Slowly opening your eyes you see Gyutaro in what appears to be a humanoid form, thrashing about in a fit of rage.

"How dare I be reduced to the form of a mere human!!" he roars up into the sky. Birds flying out of the trees that surround you. "I am an ancient dragon!! I will not attune to this form!!"

He stomps around angrily before your soft whimpers catch his attention. His scowling visage faces you. And all of the anger of this ancient beast fades away when he sees your huddled form. Crying in agony.

"Princess?" his features soften as he approaches you. He kneels beside you and puts a hand on your shoulder.

"She's gone," you sob, "I'll never see her again."

Gyutaro feels yet another foreign emotion swell up within him. Could it be sympathy? He remembers when his father died and how hard it was for him. His heart aches as he recalls similar emotions to what you're feeling now.

He's not good with words, let alone emotions. So he just leans forward and wraps his arms around you. Wrapping you in his warm embrace.

You cling to him and sob into his chest.

"I know Princess... I know," he consoles, "Your mother entrusted me to protect you. And I'm going to do just that."

Knowing that you'll have him by your side gives you a glimmer of hope for the future. Though you both don't know what to do or where to go.

Gyutaro is determined to find his sister who he hasn't seen in 100 years. But first, he needs to find a way to transform back into a mighty dragon. He can't stand this pathetic form he's currently in. And you need to find a way to stop the war that rages across The Lands Between. And possibly recover whatever is left of your kingdom.

Neither of you knows what's to come. But at least you have each other.

[sapphicrow]

The choices for the side enemies in each section of resident evil was very deliberate, and shows off both what Mother Miranda thought the lords deserved and what suits their characters. This may have been for difficulty purposes for each area, but still. I think it is a nice tidbit of flavor to our characters even if it’s indirect. Also I have brain rot.

Moreau doesn’t have any mobs. His reservoir is uniquely isolated. It’s evident from the way the other lords treat him that this is how they feel towards him as well. He isn’t a popular fella. As such, Mother Miranda granted him no special protection or privileges. Besides, I’m sure his bile would repel any creature, even a zombie or moroaica.

Lady Dimitrescu has many creatures within her castle because she interacts with more people on the regular. It’s canon that she had a whole service of female servants who were regularly harvested and experimented on. These subjects are later turned into one of two things: moroaica (the on ground creepy crawlies), or samca (the harpy looking things on the roof). Though we know Alcina isn’t Miranda’s favorite, she’s still pretty high up there. She had to make these critters herself still. Plus, her castle is huge and it only makes sense to have scattered security. I’d say Alcina’s daughters count as a high honor and another reflection of the characterization of Castle Dimitrescu.

As for Lady Beneviento, her situation is an interesting one. Angie doesn’t quite count as a mob, since she is technically an extension of Donna’s consciousness. This is obviously part of her as a person. Disregarding Angie, Donna has no major creatures. I say this because I don’t believe her dolls count as beasts bestowed upon her by Miranda. They’re handmade. She had to harness the skills of cadou experimentation, combined with the craftsmanship of doll making. This reflects Donna because she is isolated, but skillful enough to combat it unlike Moreau. She’s delusional, but evidently not to the same degree as Sal. She copes in her own fucked up, crafty way.

Last but not least, Heisenberg. Now, Heisenberg is Mother Miranda’s established favorite. The golden child. The sun of her sons. It’s also established that Mother’s fondness is by no means requited. Heisenberg loathes her. But nonetheless, even with his absolutely meh loyalty, he has a fair deal of power bestowed upon him. Disregarding his cadou abilities, he has the entirety of the lycan pack. That is no small force. Miranda practically trusts the most dangerous lord with an army. I’d like to believe she isn’t stupid enough not to realize his faulty loyalty, but I feel as if she treats him like a second true child. He’s the son that could’ve been Eva’s big brother should everything have worked out. Love is blind, and Miranda’s too busy to question cutie Karl. Karl also has the Soldats that he’s made himself. This is an intriguing view of him in my opinion. Karl lets Ethan slaughter Miranda’s creation because the entire time he’s been using the powers she gave him to oppose her. Silly guy moment.

Mother Miranda herself has no side mob which is very purposeful as well. She works alone. Her sidekick is the cadou, which we see in the form of all those root looking appendages bursting forth from the ground later in the game. Unlike Moreau who’s isolated due to his insufferable and odorous nature, Miranda is alone by choice. By grief, more accurately. Why bother with companions when Eva isn’t back yet? For her shattered mindset, I’m sure the thought of her daughter is companionship enough. Even with the mold making an appearance, Ethan only has to engage in combat with her herself. This is because even with the mold present, she’s still the vessel. It’s illogical and unnecessary for the megamycete to risk itself when Miranda is right there and so willing to take the blunt of the force.

The megamycete’s side mob is every single thing infected with the mold.

Thank you for reading :) hope it was coherent

[homunculus-argument]

To prove his bravery, a great hunter goes to a witch to ask for the exact way he shall die. The witch tries to explain that this is not how divination works, but tries anyway. She does the ritual, and three distinct marks emerge in the signs she interprets - "vengeance", "the influence of dead among the living", and "horns". All slanted in a way that indicates a lack of hesitation before an act, and a lack of remorse after the deed is done. She tells him the signs, and is just about to tell him she has no clue how to make sense of them, when he interrupts her to ask her:

"So I will be killed by a beast with horns, or some undead monster? I will gladly die in a quest to avenge my son or my brother, but I would rather not have them die at all." The witch has no answer to that.

The hunter leaves, his mind clouded with worry for the remorseless beast that shall maul someone he knows and loves. But he no longer has fear for himself - if his is a noble death, then he does not hesitate to take it, and if the undead beast is what shall kill him, then he is safe from all other perils. He goes on to hunt with his brother, and eventually his son once he has grown, but though they don't hesitate to go after boars, wolves or bears, they never pursue anything with horns. Just to be safe.

Fifteen years pass before another visitor comes to the witch's hut - it is the old huntsman's son. He tells the witch that she was wrong, that his father spent his whole life dreading this strange prophesy and ultimately it never came to pass. It wasn't a remorseless beast or undead vengeance that killed him, the man died of a fever. A perfectly common, ordinary fever.

"What caused the fever?" The witch asks.

"An infected tooth. Something got stuck in his teeth and the rot spread", the son answers, in confusion.

"What was it that got stuck in his teeth?" The witch asks.

"A strip of goat meat."

[romeavethinker]

when i think about my headcanons for shadow knights, in my mind it's a lot of fun to emphasize the undead part of them, as well as how torturous the maturation process of a newly birthed shadow knight to a fully-realized one could be. the call is an idea i like to ruminate on as well.

laurance talks early on about how being a shadow knight effects his thinking. he hesitates less, and is more inclined to selfish, spiteful thought patterns. i like to think of this being the ebbing tide of the call carefully drawing in and out of the consciousness in increasingly powerful waves. it grows from tiny whispers in the back of a shadow knight's mind into a violent cacophany that boils beneath the skin with terrifying urgency to be let free the longer the knight rejects it.

as for the physical state of being a shadow knight, this is where the emphasis on the necrotic aspects i was talking about comes in. i take a lot of inspiration for my shadow knight headcanons from the novel "hell followed with us" by andrew joseph white. in that book the main character, benji, has been forcibly infected with a disease (referred to as "seraph", the book covers a lot of christian religious themes) that is slowly, over the course of weeks, turning him into a monster. it's essentially like his body is rotting into becoming something new, and the visceral, monstrous imagery and the way his slow evolution from boy to beast is described is very similar to how i picture becoming a shadow knight feels/looks.

here's some relevant excerpts from my copy of the novel for those who haven't read it. the highlighted lines are the parts most accurate to my headcanons of shadow knights (content warning for descriptions of gore):

i kind of like the idea of shadow knights (like laurance) that didn't complete their transformation ritual and/or reject the call and stay in the overworld being punished by their own body with a slower, more agonizing transformation than if they simply accepted their new undeath and killed who they're supposed to in order to reach their full potential.

however it happens though, it's never pretty. a shadow knight's "true" form (when they activate their powers) reeks of sulfur and death, when they grow in size it sounds just as sickening as it looks, spasming limbs and ripping flesh with the deafening noise of crunching bone and tearing ligaments. smoke and something like ichor both pour from their nose and mouth. if irene is light, life, clear water, and cool, solid quartz and marble and gemstones then a servant of shad would, of course, embody the opposite. i suppose by that description you could also draw a comparison between shad/shadow knights and the desolation/the lightless flame from the magnus archives, if anybody is familiar with that show as well.

anyways im rambling, i just needed to word vomit all these ideas since i wanna talk more about my headcanons on here rather than just character analysis posts lmao

[siren-serenity]

sweetest of dreams

"and herbivore?" "mhmm?" "let's meet in our dreams tonight"

characters: leona kingscholar, gn!reader warnings: none a/n: - i have been infected with leona kingscholar brain rot!! i'm simping for him so hard rn- - feedback is appreciated!

His head is heavy, filled with thoughts. They float aimlessly in his mind without any true meaning behind them: simple 'what ifs' and daydreams that he dreams of in his leisure time. The sun is bright, shining overhead and suffocating Leona in it's warmth as he lays in the Botanical Garden without a damn about the world. The sweet scents of the flowers, the earthy smell of the ground, they all wafted in and out of his sense of smell. The breeze caressed him like a child, a delicate force of nature gently cooling the sweating beast.

"Leona?"

The sweet smell of his herbivore. How could he ever resist such temptation? His one true love, his ray of light in the darkness he called his light - his reason to continue living. Not just surviving, but actually living. The familiar scent came dancing around, standing out even amongst the myriad of scents and fauna.

"Leona, where are you?"

Leona stood up, carefully silencing his footsteps. His emerald green eyes immediately spotted you, donned in the customary Night Raven College uniform that stood out like a grey cloud in a field of vibrant flora. He immediately prepared himself and at the right moment, growled playfully.

"Right here, herbivore."

"Hmm? Ack-"

Leona pounced, a thump against your back as you went falling, unable to keep up with his heavy body mass. He quickly rolled you guys over in mid-air, so you'd land perfectly on his chest while he took the impact. You spluttered, carefully checking the back of his head for injuries, but the rumble of his chest and the laughs that escaped him made you huff playfully.

"You got me worried! I thought you got hurt!" You huffed, looking away. Leona simply let out a last laugh, his grin wide and careless as if he didn't care about who was watching. "As if. I'm the king, to be bested by the floors would be quite a feat."

You pinched his chest, smirking as he let out a yelp. His eyes lidded over, looking at you like a predator on the hunt.

"Mhmm, yes, my king," You playfully tilted your head back and a hand came to rest on your forehead. You nodded, fanning your mock-flushed face as Leona chuckled. "Mhmm, whatever you say, my king."

"Oh hush," Leona stood up, tugging you up and into his chest again. He made his way over to the bench, lying down with an arm behind his head while the other beckoned you to join him. It looked so inviting, but you were here for another reason. "Sleep with me."

You sighed, rolling your eyes. "I'm here to drag you to Professor Trein, not to join you-"

A quick squeal tore from your lips as Leona huffed before pulling you down and into his warm embrace again. The rich, musky scent that was so specifically Leona made you smile subconsciously, nuzzling him so you could have his warmth too. A tiny chuckle made his chest rumble, it tickled him.

"Sleep, herbivore. A few seconds won't hurt you," He kissed the crown of your head. You could feel his smile against your skin. "And herbivore?"

"Mhmm?" You were close to falling asleep; Leona's voice acted like a comforting lullaby.

"Let's meet in our dreams tonight."

[sheep-and-lykos]

omg i love leon so much i am so happy you're writing for resident evil!!! please, i need werewolf leon angst, please please please

"Whys it in a cage?

Because it growled at me."

How long had you both been separated? Peering up at the rolling dark clouds and the lack of a sun, you'd have to judge at least a few hours. You didn't like the vile pool that bubbled in the deepest pits of your gut, it made something bitter simmer at the back of your throat that had you almost on the verge of vomiting. The rancid smells of the rotting village around you didn't help either.

You kept your gun in front of you, cocked and ready with a full magazine just waiting to be emptied into the next thing that moves in this damn hellsite. You inched your way through, eyes spying the mangled bodies of rotting cadavers split open for some sick offering as well as fresh ones still somewhat warm that looked to have been torn up by a wild animal. You knew wolves lurked around, you swore you even saw one earlier. One if it's legs looked as though it had gotten caught in a trap. It all didn't stop you from keeping your weapon ready in front of you as your exhausted eyes raced across every room and opening you came across.

You needed to find Leon.

Ashley would be with Leon. Find her and you find him.

It was simple. Right?

The biting cold blew past you, ruffling up the fallen leaves and kicking up the putrid smells of rotting earth and bodies that almost had you crumbling over to hurl up whatever was left in your gut. It all made you feel horribly dizzy. Comms were static in your ear, filling your mind with even more cotton fuzz that had you just yanking the damn ear piece out in frustration.

You started deeper into madness, following the trail of dropped bodies riddled with bullet holes and deep lacerations until you came upon a glint against the muddy ground. A metallic glint that upon inspection had your blood freezing: Leon's SG-09R laid splattered in mud, barely visible. You were only able to see in from the faint light of the full moon overhead. You couldn't help but pick it up, the weight foreign yet familiar. It was empty, bullets absent. What was even more of a shock was that it almost looked like it had been crushed, especially at the wooden embedded handle. The metal was all bent out of shape and the wood was splintered. Whatever got ahold of it has to have been something big and nasty. It sent a shiver down your spine as you looked around, eyes trained on the dying foliage for any eyes that may have been watching you, but nothing seemed to move.

You pocketed the handgun and started deeper into the madness.

The bodies had started to grow in numbers until you came to a halt. You could hear something awful just ahead. What the fuck could it have been? It had to have been an animal from the horrid snarls it gave off 

You poked your head out only to nearly back away just at the sight.

It was some sort of fucking monster; big and horrible and covered in blood-soaked hair. It looked like a wolf trying to play human with skin stretched tight over lanky limbs. Hell, it even had scraps of clothes wrapped around its odd body-

You felt your heart stop. You peered out again.

It had its back to you, ashen hairy hands were busy fighting off another infected villager. You didn't want to believe it.

The villager dropped dead, falling like a boulder against the cold earth as the beast towered over it. It's snout carved through the chilled air, dog-like nose sniffing the air while it's bloody claws flexed.

Your eyes suddenly met, haunting sapphire meeting your own terrified hues, you knew you were fucked.

You raised your gun with shaking hands, finger trembling over the trigger. Was this real? Was this a real thing happening to you right now? Staring down a fucking werewolf in the middle of an infected village that was wearing the clothes of your fucking partner and boyfriend?

He started towards you and you pulled the trigger.

It felt like someone had cracked him across the head with a lead pipe. His entire skull throbbed- scratch that, his entire everything felt like it had been lit ablaze and left to stew in agony. He felt a chill roll over his sweat-sheened body, wincing at how every twitch felt like his bones were breaking all over again. But the call of the wild wasn't ringing in his head like stark wedding bells; he was safe from the beast that laid just beneath his skin…

For now.

It was the stench of clotting blood that had his eyes unscrewing faster than he can shoot. It wasn't his blood, but someone he knew all too well. It felt like he had been stabbed in the chest, he hated the way his body wretched and writhed. His eyes burned when he opened them, fluttering and blinking away the pain.

He didn't dare sit up, especially when his body had started to wake with his mind. He could feel the deep pains emitting from his side, his muscles flaring as they tried to heal. He could feel how his body was trying to stitch itself back together, how his muscles had forced out whatever it was that pierced him and now it had only started to heal.

It had to have been a bullet. He swore he could taste the gunpowder, smell the freshly fired round despite it being probably just hours ago that he had been shot.

While he was like that.

His stomach twisted horribly. He shouldn't have let it get to him, he shouldn't have let the beast win earlier, but something inside of him just snapped. It wasn't anything Ashley was doing, although she really didn't make things easier.

Fear had nearly punched his lights out as he was forced to sit up. You.

How did he just now smell it? How did he just now start to smell the stench of your blood that coated dryly at his fingertips? That lingered at the back of his tongue and coated his teeth? Oh God, did he actually attack you?

He groaned as the pain in his naked side started to scream, clutching it as he finally realized where he was.

It had to have been some sort of cellar, surrounded by barrels of old aged wine and dust and cobwebs. It was freezing, there were no windows, just a single lit oil lamp that sat at the base of the stairs that lead out of here. He had been chained at the ankle like some kind of dog (he couldn't really argue against it), the skin underneath had been rubbed raw. He still had tatters of his pants that did their best to keep him covered, the rest of his clothing hadn't been so lucky.

He grabbed onto the cuff and tried to pry it off, completely ignoring the presence that was suddenly behind him until he heard a gun cocking. He hesitated to turn around until he swore the eyes staring at him were about to burn a hole through his skull. He didn't need to see you to know that it was you.

"(Y/n)-"

"What the fuck was that, Leon?" You cut him off.

He really dug himself into a deep grave, didn't he?

[revelisms]

The doctor has a touch like death: chempowder grit beneath the nails, corpse-cool and smooth as stone, prodding his throat like a butcher peeling through layers of rotted meat.

And perhaps that's what he feels like, laid flat on his table: his clothes soaked with sweat, his vision swimming in pink-black-blue. A buck waiting to be skinned. A fish half-gutted.

The fingerpads are too thin, too feeble. They reek not of tobacco, but parchment and must.

"Breathe, boy."

Silco's no boy—but hardly is he human, either, after the black depths he crawled himself out of: a wet womb of industrial filth, his City one with his veins, its slow decay as promised as his slow-shanked slow-bleeding black-shredded heart.

The damned organ beat stubbornly on: boat thrashing to the waves. It kept only a shell still-moving.

A thumb skirts down his pulse-point, and presses. The bruising twinges, simmers, aches. "Narrowly avoided a fracture," gruffs the vulture over him.

It takes two attempts to swallow. "Shall I count myself lucky?"

The words no longer belong to him. His voice lays repackaged beneath a cannibalistic fervor: the kind lent only to night-creatures that peel the flesh from the living and pick their teeth with the dead.

"Luck is that you can speak, at all." The touch eases. "Avoid it, for now."

Sensationless, half-blind, prickling, the doctor leaves him. In the stillness, his own hand stumbles across his clavicle: itches spindly fingers across the frayed collar of his linens, slops heavy-clammy-cold to the slope of his neck.

A pulse drums beneath his palm. His own body. Yes, Kindreds, his own wretched body.

Still alive.

His nails sink in.

Still alive.

Ease.

Still alive.

(And so is he. So is he. So is he.)

"Breathe, boy."

Air shudders from his throat. Shivers against the weight of his palm; his blood beating, beating, beating.

"How long?" he gristles out.

A rattle of metal at the wheeled tray. The doctor's stare skims over him, like a lick of heat from a pyre. "Yours is...a unique case. Some have lasted years. Most succumb, within months." But. But. "At the rate the infection is spreading—"

Beating, beating, beating.

"How long?"

As long as Vander is still living. As long as his knife still sits squeezed between his blood-tipped nails, scratched leather and steel, bone-handled ache. As long as there are still bones to pick his teeth with, hunger to fill, a vision he does not need two damned eyes to see: a glory, a rain of hellfire, a retribution, a need—

Their city's starvation in his veins. Their city's future, blazing in bilge-fire.

"Twice a day," the doctor mutters, a glass vial tacked to the table's edge. "Log your symptoms, every morning. Stay off the smoke."

Silco's thumb stutters beneath his jaw.

He's used to a life without answers. In the noxious wastes of the Sump, he made his peace with it.

This wraith doubts it.

"I won't die, doctor." A beast sears to life beneath his hand, dragon-fang, daggers in the words: grits off the walls, like a spirit's clawscratch. "I can't." Three octaves grappling for purchase: silk and stone and fire at his cheek.

But he will, one day. By Janna's blessing alone, he will.

(And so will he. So will he. So will he.)

silco and singed / low doses

[evolutionsvoid]

The Arimakki threat remains a challenge to contain, as their infectious members continue to find ways to breach any barriers put in their way. They burrow through the earth, scurry across the land and flutter through the air, always foiling the cleansers who seek to keep their horrid presence sealed away. Their numbers are many, their determination indomitable. The Arimakki are committed to spreading their kind and infesting the land. Yet, their behavior seems odd in some places, and one big question was raised when the coastal communities noted their homes being Arimakki free. While the rise of colonies can seem random, it was soon noticed that no hives were springing up along the coast. As investigations went deeper, it was even found that the colonies appeared to avoid major water bodies. Pools of humors and bodily fluids were certainly enjoyed by the Arimakki, yet places of pure water failed to grab their attention. The places alongside the ocean seemed free of the infestation, as none of these parasites ever really ventured in that direction. This soon resulted in the belief that the presence of water warded off Arimakki, and that this would be the element that could keep them at bay. Folks whose lands were consumed by the fever fled to places of water, hoping to be free of the boiling terrors. There was certainly excitement going around at the time, as it seemed like there was now a weapon that could truly contain the infection. That was until stories from the whaling ships started to make landfall, and a new horror was brought to this world. 

Those who hunted leviathans at sea started to report sightings of a strange new creature found in the waters. Something pale and wormy, yet adorned in fleshy plumes like a revolting bird. The tales speak of the sea boiling and hissing as this great beast swam, its vile body exuding a sickening heat. Only after a specimen was killed and hauled to shore, did the world accept this grim truth. The specimen was dubbed "Arimakki Umi," though the sea folk kept to calling it a "Reviliathan." It is a large parasite that worms its way through the ocean, boiling the waters around it with its Feverish Sweat. When it rises to the surface, the sea boils and bubbles. Five hose-like tendrils whip wildly from its head, releasing clouds of this burning sweat that can consume entire ships. When in battle, it writhes and flaps its horrible wings to churn the waters, making it chaos for those floating upon it. Boats that try to bring it down must kill it quickly, as when in trouble, they will breach the surface and flop their immense bodies atop the vessel. Their wings and boiling fluids smother the ship and crew, dooming all aboard to a deadly searing embrace. Some whaling crews have succeeded in slaying these leviathans and have attempted to harvest some kind of reward from its flesh. Oils, blubber and Feverish Sweat is collected in abundance, but nothing is edible. It was found that the oils and fat could be turned into fuel, but tales speak of terrifying nights plagued by nightmares and wild hallucinations whenever someone slept beneath the glow of a Arimakki fueled lantern. The flame that burns is "unnatural" and those who try to see by its light claim to see pale writhing things in the corners of their eyes, and grotesque faces leering from the edge of darkness. In most cases, the Umi are simply killed and left to rot, with the hopes of slaying these beasts before they can spread. 

When news of an ocean dwelling Arimakki became widely known, many feared that it was all over. It wouldn't be long before these leviathans swam to every corner of the globe, spreading their eggs to every continent and land mass. The Vile Red Tree would soon consume this world, and there was nothing that could be done to stop it. Yet, when folks began to take a closer look at these encounters, a strange pattern emerged. 

All reports of an Arimakki Umi sighting always occurred in shallow coastal waters. So far, not a single ship recorded an encounter with them in the open ocean. And these same sightings kept the Umi to very specific waters, with their range seeming oddly small for such a vast area. Information from the Academy and local sea folk points to these very regions as places where the ocean water is the warmest. It seemed like the Umi cared not for the cold ocean water, which seemed to bizarre for an aquatic species. With this new discovery in mind, whaling crews did their own experiments during a hunt and found that Umi weren't just uncomfortable in cold water, but they actually feared it. A ship tried to drive a Reviliathan away from the coast and into the open ocean, and the beast grew frantic and panicked whenever its body felt the bite of a cold current. They thrash and spit, seemingly losing their minds when coming in contact with the cold depths of the sea. The whalers say that the Umi don't live in the coastal waters, they cling to them. The cold dark bowels of the ocean are to avoided, to be feared. They dare not cross the open ocean, lest they wander too far from the comforting warmth of the tropics. So it seems that while these Arimakki can attack and destroy coastal ships, they are not the massive threat as they were once thought to be. They cannot spread their kind, they cannot make more colonies in other lands, because it appears they despise the very water they live in. While it does give hope and relief, it does also raise questions about the Arimakki as a whole. As an "invading force," it seems like an incredible flaw to their design. How are they supposed to spread if they cannot overcome this obvious hurdle? Why does a simple thing like water perplex them so? What is it in the cold darkness that they fear, that drives them deeper into their warm, rotten burrows?

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

"Arimakki Umi"

Wasn't planning on chucking one of these things into the ocean, but then came across a rather bizarre map monster that I was surprised I hadn't seen before. Like we see plenty of sea boars, odd whales and weird owl faced seal eaters, but this funky fellow? Almost nothin! A crime! It screamed "Arimakki" to me, so thus here we are!

[enderplane]

VOID ROT

This affliction has plagued the earth since the dimensional fusion of 2052. It is incurable and nearly always fatal.

VR-C is by far the most feared and widely known due to its disturbing progression, turning those afflicted into mindless beasts

A particularly formidable feature of VR-C is the fact the afflicted creatures can spontaneously & quickly grow new voidmatter appendages in order to aid them in any situation they may find themselves in. This is always to aid the creature in the final goal of spreading the affliction as far as possible before it eventually is too malformed to continue functioning.

A rare outcome of VR-C is voiden amagimation; this occurs when an afflicted individual is nearing death, and in close proximity to gravely injured and/or freshly dead organisms. This is more likely to ocurr if the second organism is also infected with a variant of void rot. Once another organism is amalgamated, it becomes far easier for another to be. This can progress into a creature known as a kyris, rotbeast, reaper, or void atronoch colloquially.

[rosedarkness24]

Cult of Souls: Lamb's true Devotion.

Tw: Cuss words and slight gore.

~~~~~~~~~

Whispers. Whispers. All they could hear was his whispering, cutting off a sense greatly needed in battle. They knew he was calling for them to die. To come to him and heal, but it'd ruin all their progress.

Swinging their axe, they cut open the last heretic. Watching as a red blob of organs spew out. Looking over to the middle of the clearing they wait.

But, when the loot chest doesn't fall and the barriers to the room haven't fallen, panic hits them. Looking around the clearing, trying to find what they have missed. Yet, it was too late. Before they could spot the bat, it charged and landed a killing blow.

It was so sudden they couldn't register it, the change from the dark blue night shrouded in shadows, to a blinding white with warm relaxing clouds of mists. It hurt their eyes, making them close them tightly. Only to slowly open them for them to adjust to the sudden change. The sound of chains were the first thing they heard in the past hours. A sound that's now starting to annoy them.

Turning to the unsavory beast, they call a God. The smell of Rot was uncomfortably choking them, crawling at their insides begging for a reaction. But they give none. They aren't stupid, you don't tell a God they fucking reak. That just being near them makes you sick. No, instead, their mask fall into place as natural as one who sees a loved one.

Kneeling before the God of Death, "May I request you quit whispering in my ear?"

There was silence, something unusual for their unusual visits. The God was so talkative, now is unnaturally silent. Looking up from where they were, they let their eyes meet the felines dead on. Not caring if it's not something you shouldn't do. As they have learned from most the felines in their cult.

There's confusion in those red orbs. While they couldn't see where the iris or pupils were, they knew well enough that he was looking at them. They could feel it.

Unease sinks into them as they watch him lean forward, coming closer to them, "Mmmm..... Vessel, I don't give a shit. Neither should you."

Their eye twitched. 'This Mother Fucker.' Of course their God wouldn't give a shit. He has done this since day one. And more than once has it lead to their death, "You just want to see me die." Their voice flat and cold. "Yet you forget yourself my lord. For I am of no use to you if you yourself make me fucking useless."

"Suck it up." He didn't even give them time to react to such a rude comment before continuing. "You're useful dead and alive. The entertainment I get watching you suffer has made my time here. And more~"

That it, that's another reason for them to take his power. Sadistic Cat. Stupid sadist cat. "....Then you shall wait another thousand years before your release, I can be just as bullshity as you my lord."

Chains being smacked by bone could be heard, definitely the God's tail flicking in annoyance. "If I were so inclined to believe, you don't worship me vessel."

"How the fuck do I worship someone, who by all means annoys me, treats me like a fucking shitshow, and gets their kicks watching me suffer?"

"Hypocrisy you spill. You do the same."

"I DO NOT!"

"Lil' Man?"

"THAT MOTHER FUCKER CALLED ME STUPID! HE DESERVED WORSE THAN WHAT FA-" They froze not continuing that sentence. Something new just dawned on them. But the God brushed past it. Wanting their attention only on him.

"Vessel. You torment others and carry venom for all who step too far on you. You stalk your following, watching their lives like a damn show. Then you relish in their suffering as they die by your hand. You are a hypocrite."

"...... I get it from you."

A dorky grin grows on the God's face. Something that pulled at the Lamb's heart softly. Though it's not enough for them to care. They never cared. They have no respect or devotion for any rotten Gods. For Rot is the sign that a God is dieing and infected. Why worship a dieing God.

"Entertain me Vessel and sit by my side." They look to the feline, then to the two by his side. They haven't given reaction to the bickering for the whole time they've been here. Honestly, they could understand a bit why the God was bored. Letting out a sigh, they get up and move over to the large being.

"Only if it pleases you my lord." They go to sit next to him, only to have him slip his hand under them and pull them up. They didn't mind, just let their legs hang off his large boney ichor covered hand.

"Your existence pleases me vessel." Words that to the Lamb felt untrue. No matter how much convincing the God would do, they will never believe someone would care. Nor will they ever believe it. No one will hurt them, for they will always expect it. Letting the feline God feel their wool and inspect them for injuries, though they both know wounds never transfer over.

"Every inch of you is perfect...." There was sorrow and pain in those words. Something that was the truth for the God. As to why they didn't know nor did they care to know. He wasn't worth knowing.