#so sweet like a rotting carcass

[pinksartdump]

[a-case-of-attachment]

Astarion didn’t get jealous.

Scared and lonely? Well yes, of course he did. He even felt angry and vengeful as well but when one considers the life he had been forced to live up until his involuntary relocation to the nautiloid you could hardly blame him for feeling those things.

He couldn’t really remember being jealous of anyone or anything in the short years he had lived before being turned. Then again, he couldn’t really remember much from then at all. Not how he looked, his mother’s name or even if there had been someone for him to love and cherish. Everything important was gone, like it had been swallowed up by a dense fog and no matter how much he search all he ever found was more nothingness. Hardly a good reference point when trying to remember if you had experienced something before or were just familiar with the concept from books.

It was possible he had once been jealous of Cazador’s chosen few. The favourites that had gotten to rest in actual beds and spared the crueller torments that often befell the spawn. Not forced to lay on the cold and unforgiving floor, surrounded by rotting rat carcasses and the smell of fresh and old spawn blood so thick in the air that it felt like he was choking on the stuff.

Maybe that had been jealousy, but Astarion thought it had been more spiteful envy. More angry and covetous of the reprieve then jealous of the attention the favoured few got. He didn’t want to be one of those pathetic, snivelling devotees that scurried around behind Cazador like roaches, blinded by their idiotic belief that all the pain and suffering meant something. That there would be a worthwhile reward at the end of it all. No, all Astarion had wanted was to be treated with just a shred of common decency. Something that he had been denied until he had been fortunate enough to find you after the crash.

So yes, Astarion was sure that he had never been jealous before yet here he was, most certain that as he stared across the fire of their ever-growing camp that was exactly what he was feeling.

You and Gale were huddled close together just outside his tent, heads leaning towards the other and whispering as you both poured over the pages of whatever spell book the wizard had pilfered from the bandit camp, they had raided just that morn. You were smiling, laughing as the idiotic man waved his free hand about, clearly regaling you with a tale that he was heavily embellishing if not outright lying about. You seemed to be enjoying it though, encouraging him with your sweet laughter and wide smiles even as you shook your head in disbelief.

Normally Astarion wouldn’t care if you were feeling gracious and decided to bestow one of your ever hopeful companions with your attention. Astarion was always the one you went too first when arriving back at camp. He was always the one whose flirtations you returned and the only one in their camp of weirdos and misfits who could say they had seen you naked and on more than one occasion at that. He was the one who’s attention you sought. The one you always made time for. Him. Not anyone else…normally but tonight wasn’t like normal because tonight when Astarion had approached you, all charming smiles and quick wit you had done the unthinkable and he had been left staring after you in shock and disbelief like a complete idiot because tonight, you had said no.

Now, don’t misunderstand, you were allowed to say no. He wasn’t a monster. He wouldn’t force you into anything you didn’t want like he had been. Sure, there had been a playful back and forth a time or two. You like to tease him as much as he did you, playing hard to get and making him work for every stollen moment and mouthful of liquid gold that ran through your veins, but it had been playful, done with a teasing smirk and eyes full of promise. Astarion had known that with the right word, the perfect brush of fingers and a well-timed appreciative once over that you would be putty in his hands, willing and open to his advances and what that would lead to. You had never outright said no to him before and for Gale for god’s sake.

Had you maybe hit your head on their last little adventure, and no one had noticed. Perhaps you might even be under some sort of spell or enchantment. Whatever it was there had to be some sort of explanation for this, this madness because there was no logical reason as why you would suddenly up and abandon him for Gale of bloody Waterdeep.

You laughed again, louder this time. Your smile wide and eyes practically glowing with it. Astarion’s mood darkened even more, his eyebrows furrowing as his scowl deepened. Honestly, what in the hells could be so funny about the dull drivel Gale passed off as story’s of his adventures? If you wanted a story, then Astarion could spin you a tale so grand and fanciful that whatever rubbish Gale was regaling you with would look like a child’s bedtime story.

Huffing he turned away, his grip on the book he had been pretending to read for the better part of an hour tightening as yours and Gale's laughter mingled in the air like wine and vinegar. He was not jealous. He wasn’t. He just didn’t like Gale’s barking bellow he called a laugh mixing with your melodic and light one. Really, he would be doing everyone a favour if he went over there and stole you away. It wouldn’t mean anything. Wouldn’t mean that Astarion was hurt and angry that you would want to spend time with Gale instead of him. You were free to do whatever you wanted. He wasn’t your keeper, and you were more than capable of making decisions for yourself even if those choices were clearly wrong.

Astarion’s eyes narrowed as he watched Gale subtly move closer to you, using the small spell book he had suddenly pulled from his pocket as a rather poor excuse to draw you in. The two of you were so close now that a leaf would barely fit between you. He couldn’t see what Gale was showing you anymore but what he could see was how Gale was looking at you. His head was turned towards you, his eyes soft and full of longing as his voice dropped into something gentle, smoother. You seemed oblivious to the shift in tone, your eyes and attention fixed on the book between you, but Astarion could see it all. Gale was a man in love and longing, looking at you like you were the most breathtaking piece of art and the first drop of rain after a drought. It was uncomfortable to watch what Gale probably intend to be a private moment and it made something squirm and tighten in Astarion’s stomach.

Everyone knew that Gale had romantic feelings for you, well, everyone except you but you didn’t seem to notice that almost everyone in their weird little group wanted you in one way or another. Astarion was sure that at least three of the others were halfway in love with you and those that weren’t coveted your body. Gale though, he was the one who had fallen hardest, his feelings as clear as if he had spelt them out with fireworks in the midnight sky.

Astarion had been so smug at first when you had started to favour his company over everyone else’s. He had been able to see the wizard’s heartache and longing, but he had scoffed at the foolish man’s feelings, making a grand show of whisking you off to his tent or other less crowded parts of the camp so he could have you all to himself. It had been a heady rush to have all your attention on him, to become the sole focus of someone who wasn’t expecting him to take his clothes off and seemed to genuinely enjoy his quick wit and rather scathing comments.

He had taken a rather perverse joy in calling you darling and seeing Gale scowl as you smiled ever so sweetly at Astarion. He had been so free with his touch, everything from a simple brush down after a fight to cupping your jaw or brushing his fingers gently across your cheek. He was the only one you allowed to touch you so openly, practically inviting him to lay a hand on you whether that be the small of your back, the inside of your thigh or even your hand, your fingers laced together. Gale had seen it all and Astarion had thought the wizard had understood that you were off limits to the likes of him, but the fool had apparently not given up hope and thought to worm his way into your good graces with made up stories of grandeur and whispered spells.

You turned your head towards him, a question on your lips that quickly vanished as your eyes widened, finally realising how close Gale had gotten whilst your attention was elsewhere. Time seemed to slow then, the world around him falling silent as everything else fell away apart for the two people in front of him.

Gale’s eyes fell from your eyes down to your slightly parted lips. His tongue slowly wetting his lips and giving them a slight shine. His eyes went back to yours, a flicker of uncertainty dancing through them before determination set in. He shifted, the dull thump of the forgotten book hitting the floor not enough to break the intense staring the two of you were doing. Your breath hitched, eyes widening impossibly more as you and Astarion both seemed to realise what was about to happen at the same time.

Astarion had never moved so quickly in his life before.

One second, he had been sat across the other side of the camp, book open but forgotten in his lap as he watched you light up for Gale and the next, he was up and across the space before the book even had time to fall closed. His fingers curled around your arm, and he yanked you rather violently onto your feet and away from the wizards’ searching lips. “Ahh!” Your surprised cry was loud, most likely drawing the others attention but Astarion barely even heard it, his eyes fixed on Gale who had jerked back at your sudden disappearance.

“There you are my darling.” Astarion smiled brightly, his voice loud and cheerful as he spoke over your stuttering indignation at having been so roughly handled. Gale was glaring back at him now, hands curled into fists on his thighs and practically vibrating with anger. Though he supposed it could always be the magic he was always consuming to keep from blowing himself and more importantly them up. It could be quite hard to tell sometimes and Astarion didn’t care enough about the other man to actually bother to work it out. All he knew was that he had to get you away from him before Gale got another one of his disastrously good ideas and tried to make yet another attempt on your lips. “So sorry to break up this little,” Astarion slowly dragged his eyes over Gale, hardly able to keep the sneer out of his voice, “dalliance but there is something I need your assistance with love.” He didn’t wait for an answer from either of them, spinning on his heels and dragging you along behind him. “Astarion!” you hissed in a mix of annoyance and disbelief, but you didn’t stop him, didn’t even try and break free of his hold, just letting him quickly lead you across the small camp and towards the tree line.

Now with a part two!!

[dev1lm4n]

polaroid

pairings: joel miller x f!reader

summary: joel made sure the eight shots he took from his polaroid 600 were the best.

word count: 4.4k (istg this is not as long as you'd expect)

warnings: explicit (18+), p in v, no protection, kinda manipulative, joel's old age is emphasized hehe ;)

notes: this is super foul i had to take a break writing it lol. anyways, send me a req or chat me up pls i swear i'm friendly.

10:30 PM

Every ticking noise that damned clock made managed to hammer itself into your subconscious mind. It’s taunting you endlessly, reminding you of the fact that Joel Miller once again broke his promise. You’re aware that it’s a cycle, but you couldn’t help relent the last time around. He was begging on his knees, telling you how much you meant to him, and that it was an honest mistake. He then made another promise. One that you had faith in. Turns out he’s still too mouthy for his own good.

His lies were not good for you. It was dreadful.

Every sense of yours was heightened. You felt the significant need to move without end; if your limbs were moving then perhaps you could continue to burrow that crawling sensation in your stomach, or at least you could ignore it a while. First, it was chewing on the plush skin around your finger tips. It helped satiate your crowded head for a second or two. But then the questions came around without warning.

Had he been in an accident? Was he hurt somewhere, unable to call for help? 

The thought of him lying somewhere injured and alone made you feel sick to the stomach. Pictures of terror flooded your head; all the carcasses and tangy blood. All the rot and rats. You were spiraling in a downward motion. It was only in moments like these that you knew it was still there, the fear, coursing through your veins as if it hitched a ride on your hemoglobin. You needed an immediate distraction. A way to rid yourself of the tumultuous mess in your head, which might just be the small nook of Joel’s things.

You took a leap out of bed, flinching as you’re instantly greeted by the bitterly cold floor boards. It took all of your emotional strength to reach that particular corner and all of your physical strength to pick up the one item that reminded you of Joel; his polaroid 600. The black object gave a light sheen as you cradled it between your gentle fingers.

“I’m home.”

His gruff voice put you at ease. The sigh that escaped your dry lips was slow, as if your brain needed that time to process what had happened, to recollect the marbles you’ve dropped all over the floor. You needed to reset your emotions or else it’ll come faltering down like a broken dam. It’s pathetic how you’re already on the brink of weeping; tears pricked the edge of your vision, that sweet part of your lips tucked under your blunt canines. 

You were soft when it came to him. He was your sole purpose - the only reason you’re still breathing in new air.

Joel’s footsteps sounded familiar. You remembered the rhythm and the weight to it, the click-clack against the wooden floor. But tonight it sounded a little hesitant - a slight drag to the way he moved - which was probably caused by your failure to respond. Here in Jackson people strived to return to a certain degree of normalcy, but everyone knew deep inside that the fear lingers. Neither you nor Joel could ever get rid of the constant fear of carnage, of arriving home to nothing but a corpse.

A defined thud resonated around the room. You looked over your shoulder in response, meeting Joel’s large build crowding the bedroom’s entrance. He looked just as you expected. Revolver in hand, crow’s feet emphasized in worry, tired eyes trained on you; you’d have considered the gesture a little grand if you didn’t know Joel and what he’s been through. But you knew him. Through and through. So you settled on a tight-lipped smile.

“Sweetheart.. you didn’t answer.”

Joel let out a hoarse sigh as he lowered his weapon in haste. You weren’t afraid of his little machinery, but he always hated having it in his hands when you’re around. He told you it made him remember all the blood he’s spoiled and he wouldn’t want that kind of thought being associated with his pretty angel. Joel was corny, that’s for sure.

His shoulders sagged dramatically. He muttered something to himself, perhaps thanking whatever entity out there for keeping you safe while he’s away.

“You’re late. Again.”

Joel was a liar every now and then, but he wasn’t a bastard. He wasn’t planning on making up a fucked-up rationale on why it’s permissible for him to break promises with you, nor was he planning to make you feel like you’re over-reacting and hysterical. He was wrong and that’s that. You weren’t looking his way, but he knew for a fact that you were upset. It’s almost a little too obvious from the way your shoulders heave up and down, as if trying to contain your heavy heart.

“Yeah. I shouldn’t have-”

“You’re doing this way too often, Joel. I don’t think I can-”

His boots drummed boisterously as he approached you with much caution. Your ominous tone was making him nervous.

“No.. don’t do this to me, sweetheart. Please. Just hear me out.”

He knew you’d hear him out everytime, even when half of his truths were undeniably stupid at times. 

“I brought you the films. For the polaroid. Remember?”

“You did?”

You turned on your heel at the bribe he’s thrown. Lo and behold, he’s holding what appears to be a thick case of something. You threw out any trace of manners your parents had taught you and reached instantly for the packaging, practically ripping it off his fingers. Joel didn’t complain one bit. It’s as if he’s planned this all out to happen; your anticipation and ultimately, his forgiveness.

It was the size of your palm. A faded sky blue rocked the front covers, while a streak of rainbow decorated the sides. It looked nothing like you’ve seen before and you’re simply elated to hold such a gem between your hands. You ran your fingers down the softened cardboard front, reading along what was written in thick black letters. POLAROID. A perfect match to the tool you’ve been cradling ever since Joel managed to once again miss his curfew. Your lips inevitably curved into a sweet smile. The fatty part of your cheeks lifted in excitement, causing your eyes to turn into pretty crescents Joel adored a whole lot. You’re so easily satiated - it’s embarrassing at times.

“How do you use it. Joel?”

“Oh, sweetheart, let me show you.”

He shuffled towards your left side. His expression straightened back to how it usually is - a little mean and grouchy - as he received the ancient camera back from you. It must’ve been a fresh stock from back in the day considering how untouched the plastic shell seemed to be. Joel remembered that his polaroid back in the day was anything but pretty. Scratched on all sides, a glittery rainbow sticker stuck to the very front (a little reminder of his sweet daughter Sarah), with a flash button that barely worked. He smiled faintly at the memory.

You watched with great concentration as he tore open the cardboard ruthlessly. He’s not one for patience, that’s a fact you learned just now. His thick thumb made its way past the silver packet, then a small grunt slipped past his lips as a sign of victory. Joel popped the film inside the crevice. A whizzing noise surprised you off your feet, which was rewarded by a light chuckle from your side. 

This contraption of his - the polaroid as he called it - threw up a square-shaped plastic along with its almost alien-like whirring noise.

“What’s that?”

“That’s just the protective casing, no need to worry.”

You hummed in response. Curiosity punctured your bubble of worries.

“I’ll show you how to take a picture, yeah?”

As Joel motioned for you to take a step back, he had this.. look on his face. You would’ve guessed that he was actually gazing at you lovingly if it weren’t for the tinge of fear laced across his features. It was the most obvious in his eyes. Deep inside those brown irises was the brutality he’s endured. Down there was where his black dog resided, pushed into a corner but always looming at every given moment. His eyes never sparkled. Not even with you.

You were deep in thought, perched over the edge of his bed. Joel didn’t warn you when he clicked over the shutters. Either he’s too worn out from his ventures out in the wilderness or he’s just too entranced by the sight you’ve proposed to him. It didn’t matter though. What mattered was the fact that you’ve unfortunately closed your eyes at the bright, flaming flash. What mattered was that you just wasted a very valuable film.

“Shit. I think I closed my eyes there.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“But-”

“You look pretty even with your eyes closed, girl.”

Joel picked up the picture and flicked it over to you. You caught it just in time. But you were utterly puzzled by the fact that there wasn’t anything on the square-shaped paper.

“There’s nothing there, Joel.”

Your eyebrows furrowed unsurely. A million thoughts reeling in as you took the picture between your fingers, looking over it under the moonlight filtering through.

“You need ta wait and be patient, pretty.”

You muttered out a foul word, looking all petulant and bratty at his request. Was he fooling you with all his mystical objects? You stared at the picture expectantly. Cautiously as well, as if it’d turn into something otherworldly. It was then that you saw it. How the colors and shapes slowly emerged from the white paper. And there you were, frozen in time, captured forever in that single moment.

An exaggerated gasp escaped your lips.

“See. It works.”

“Yeah, but my eyes are closed. You need to count to three, y’know. That’s the gentlemanly way.”

Joel grumbled, but agreed begrudgingly. He stretched his back like the old man that he was before he settled beside you. The bed creaked an embarrassing noise beneath his weight - you wondered how the two of you hadn’t received a single noise complaint from your neighbors. You could see him clearly now, where the moonlight shone brighter, even when a part of his face was covered by the blunt-edges of the polaroid.

“One.”

His accent was such a playful tune, as if he were the star of his own movie. You could have sat there all day just to listen.

“Two.”

The map of wrinkles on his face told of the most incredible journey. His crow’s feet told of laughter, of warm smiles and affection. His forehead told of worries past and worries present. But mostly they were so deeply ingrained they told of a man who’s been through hell and back. To reduce his glory to a sign of age and incompetence would be disrespectful.

“Three.”

A flash of white blinded you for a second, but this time you made sure to smile with such poise.

Joel flicked the picture in his hand. He looked.. star-struck. As if he’d caught a glimpse of what Aphrodite looked like herself, of what all the good in this world could manifest into, of how unworthy he was to have you sitting here in his bedroom. You were heavenly - the kind that was unheard of after shit hits the fan - and it was good to be reminded once again. He fell into silence.

“Was it not good?”

He shook his head as he placed the polaroid down by his side.

“Why are you-”

His power was overwhelming when he purposefully pushed you back onto the stiff mattress; it seemed that all his rough jobs chopping up woods and tackling infected had done him a huge favor. Even when he’s grazing the silver birthday mark, he’s still as ravenous as ever. You landed along a gentle thud, his large hand managed to cup over the back of your head to keep you safe. Joel always treats you like a frail porcelain piece, even when you’re begging for him to treat you like a rag doll.

Joel’s large arms caged you in on either side. You feel small underneath him and it felt good. It felt like you didn't have to worry about a single thing in his presence. Your nimble fingers grazed over his worn-out flannel that perfectly fits around his large fore-arms. A squeeze here and there to reassure him that you’re okay with this, with him taking charge. You knew just how defenseless he felt these days and you’d like to ease his burden just for a little.

For a moment, all you could hear was his ragged breathing and all you could see was his darkened gaze.

“You’re so perfect.”

He purred lovingly as he leaned in close. His pointed nose brushed against the lobe of your ears, while his stubble tickled that sensitive spot below your jaw. You’ve always loved the beard-burn from his scarce stubble; it always felt personal, the one thing nobody else could do except for Joel. One touch and it was over. It was always that way with you and him.

His open-mouthed kisses drew a sloppy wet trail down the left side of your neck. He took his time to worship you, granting you those claim marks you’ve always fussed about. A bloom of discoloration here and there. You’ve always told him that it was rather childish, but he didn’t care. You were his art work and this was his creativity taking reins.

There’s something about him that lit you up from the inside and there’s something about you that crushed him. Touching you was like being handed the holy grail, like committing a sacrilegious sin from how faultless you were.

“Stay still.”

He ordered you and you were to comply. 

Joel pulled away ever so slightly to reach for the polaroid that’s abandoned by your side. He gave you a cheeky smile, one that you didn’t think was possible to be sported so confidently by a fifty-something years old. He then lifted the camera to his eye and adjusted the settings, making sure that the exposure and focus were just right. He wanted this picture to be perfect, to capture the essence of those marks he’s crafted like a true artisan.

A flash disrupted your trance once more. Another one of those whirring noises occurred.

You looked at him in disbelief as he put away the polaroid and its creation, giving you his undivided attention once more. Was Joel about to document this entire night like a ballsy teenage boy? You couldn’t help but giggle at the thought. Joel always managed to make things feel juvenile every single time, as if this was your first night tangled up and not the nth time.

“Are you trying to create a sex tape or something?”

“Nah.”

He answered shortly, too busy pawing your tank top off to even give you a proper answer. Joel tugged the thin fabric upwards, giving you a slight tilt of his head to urge you to lift your head and let the tank top slide off. He’s tried the ‘ripping-off’ technique to maintain efficiency before, but he knew he’d be greeted with an earful after you’ve come down from the inebriated daze he’s initiated. Clothes were expensive, that’s what you always say.

If he were to name one part of your body he’s obsessed with, he knew exactly what to say, no matter how shallow it must’ve sounded. They’re just way too pretty. Joel leaned back down, attaching his wet lips to your plush mounds. Throughout the years he’s spent with you, he’s learned your favorites. He’s learned how you’d mewl whenever he’d run your sensitive buds under his calloused fingers. Twisting it cruelly or flicking at it teasingly, he’d marvel at its hardened form every time. Then he’d reattach his lips right on target, suckling on it while listening to your verbal cues. He’d receive a desperate ngh if he wasn’t going the way you wanted him to and a pleased moan of his name if he’s doing fantastic.

“Joel!”

Your squeaked exclamation had him working overtime. His soaked tongue doing laps around your nipples, getting each one all worked-up before he moved on to the sweeter part of this deal. He looked starved doing this and it made your hole twitch.

Once again, Joel leaned back to reach for the damn polaroid, pulling you away from your whimpering frenzy.

“Push your tits together and smile, sweetheart.”

He ordered and you did just that. This time your eyes looked hazy, like you’ve been high on something, but your breasts looked as amazing as always. Nipples perked upwards as a result of his persistent endeavors. Joel looked pleased at the developed picture, scrutinizing every detail as if he’s some acclaimed photographer. He sat back down evenly on the bed. You were left there, smiling loopily and awaiting his next order,

“You want me to take a good shot of you, hm?”

You nodded.

“Sit down, sweetheart, and take off your shorts.”

You pulled yourself up eagerly. Your movements were a little clumsy as you pulled your shorts off, kicking them off once they reached your knee.

“Show me where you need me.”

A taste of doubt pooled in your stomach. He lowered the polaroid slightly, knowing that his encouraging look would ignite back the confidence in your chest. It worked wonders on you everytime and you’re back on track again. You slowly pushed your thighs apart, one at a time to rile him up just the right amount. Your floral patterned panties were still in place as Joel hadn’t quite ordered you to remove them just yet and in this space, you work by his orders. Still, the wet patch was embarrassingly obvious, running down your slit and growing particularly wide atop of your entrance.

He cocked his head to the side. A motion you could only deduct as a heartening push for you to go a step further. You pulled the soft cotton to the side, growing breathless under his cruel stare. The cold night air grazed your clit in a manner that made you writhe; you were sensitive all over and all you wanted to do was beg for him to fill you up already. To have his large hands pin you down and strike your airway, leaving you breathless and asking for forgiveness. But that’s not what good girls do and you know that only good girls deserve to be rewarded.

Apparently exposing yourself to this extent wasn’t enough for Joel as he hasn’t snapped a picture yet. Desperate to please him, you placed your fingers on either side of your outer labia. Lips tucked deep beneath your teeth as you pulled them apart. Only to reveal your throbbing clit and your sweet cunt that’s been twitching at every look he gave you. It’s all sticky too. A webbed substance coating every part vulgarly. Joel chuckled at the sight, making fun of your submission towards him.

The whirring sound occurred again and you were relieved. 

“You want to touch yourself?”

“I want you, Joel, please.”

“That’s not in the question.”

You shivered at his authoritative tone.

“Yes, please.”

Joel nodded permissively. You nodded, doing your best to keep calm under pressure. Pretending he wasn’t there staring you down would be an awfully hard task, but you’re forced to prevail. Your little hole spasmed as you pressed your soft fingers onto your needy clit. You settled on a circular motion, bringing it around your clit then down to gather some natural lubrication from your profusely leaking hole. This motion alone had you chanting his name like a kind of magical mantra.

Your eyes scrunched close, lost in deep pleasure while drowning in embarrassment. It wasn’t enough - that’s for certain - but it was good enough to satisfy the aching pain.

“Put a finger in.”

He recommended and you abide without a saying. Your fingers felt dramatically different than his, they’re a lot stubbier so they wouldn’t be able to reach the good parts, but they’ve become your trusty friend after years of being a lady. Your left hand stayed focused on your clit, while your other hand ventured closer towards your leaking hole. A sharp inhale was what you took before you pushed one finger pass. It went in too easily and just the feeling of being halfway full made you feel euphoric, a hoard of pathetic moans teasing your tongue.

“What a good girl.”

His compliment was accompanied by the now familiar snap of the polaroid, whirring in as per usual to form an image of your vulgar body. Once again, Joel abandoned his treasured property to the side to admire you. Admire his good girl that’s gone by the rules because you know how amazing he’ll treat you when you’re being sweet. Joel was erratic as he unbuckled his belt, doing it with such haste he’s fumbling to pop the buttons open. It made him let out a frustrated grunt that’s easily met with your joyful set of laughter.

“You ain’t gonna get a good fuckin’ if you kept that on.”

His Texas twang shut you up easily. You grinned at him brattily, still stuffing your pussy nice and good as if you can’t stand another minute without something inside of you. He shook his head at the sight. Joel joined in on your playful games when he finally managed to relieve his cock of the fabric prison it’s been kept in. His cock had always been pretty - a pinkish tip with a peachy shaft, always leaking with pearly stickiness up top - yet it seems you’ve forgotten what it looked like up close. After all, it’s been awhile since he took good care of you.

Joel fisted his cock with a tempo you’ve grown familiar with. You’ve witnessed this sight multiple times, yet you’re still bewitched by it everytime. Once he’s satisfied with how sleek he’s turned out to be, he shuffled closer to you. Eyes boring deep within yours with every kind of emotion available to mankind. All mixed up and served as an intoxicating cocktail. He’s trying to tell you something, you knew that, but you’ve never actually figured out what he’s been dying to say. Those thoughts soon turned warp as he fitted himself on your entrance. He ran his shaft up and down over your slit, teasing a reaction out of you.

“Fill me. Put it in- Joel- Joel, please.”

You thrusted your hip upwards with need and that was enough to give him the reassurance he needed. He eased in carefully, knowing that fitting his fat tip was a hard task you never got used to, while his pointer finger rubbed perfect circles on your sensitive nub. A subtle burn caught your throat when he finally bottomed out entirely. He was so girthy it’s hard to situate yourself around him. It even managed to prick a tear out the corner of your eyes.

“Beggin’ me to fuck you good. Teasin’ me like a brat. You’re really somethin’, ain’t ya?”

He rasped in your ear as he inched even closer. His hips snapped just at the right moment and with the perfect altitude to get you trembling. You reached out to hold onto the collar of his flannel. It became your only lifeline as he implored even further, pulling out then immediately filling you up like you’re some sort of pastry. An avalanche tumbling down within your lower abdomen. The pleasure was from another kind of heaven. The kind that could only be brought out by a man who’s dangling in weighty sins.

“Gonna be the end of me.”

To be filled to the very brim made you lose your head. Everything was starting to melt off, your common sense and your previous anger of his audacious lies. It all disappeared at every thrust, every time his lengthy cock disappeared inside your pretty cunt, everything seemed to feel alright. Everything was bright and pristine. He was a good man and so was you. Your eyes flickered, rotating between the sheen appearing on his wrinkled forehead and where his shaft was swallowed by you.

“I’m sorry for being an asshole.”

You knew this was coming. He’s always asking for forgiveness whenever he’s seven inches buried within you. Perhaps that’s exactly what made him an asshole.

“Joel- Just-”

All the words you’ve assigned were scrambled once more when it reached the tip of your tongue.

“I’m sorry for lyin’.”

He whispered out faintly. Was that his version of ‘I love you’? Your hazed mind couldn’t know for certain, but all you knew was that it was sincere from the depth of his heart. You could always tell when he’s being vulnerable and when he’s patching up those brick walls again. He was here right now, in the moment, and entirely euphoric at the way your cunt pulsed around him.

“More, Joel. More!”

“More what?”

“More of your c- cock.”

Joel filled you up so good. It was torture the way he always kept you at bay, but right now all you could think of was how no one could fill you up this way. Even when he’s cruel and distant, even when he occasionally declines your request to remove his clothes and let you see him whole, even when he lies, you are always going to be there. No one could ever fuck you the way he would.

“Where do ya want me, darling?”

He prompted as if you still have the right mind to answer. You were pulsing without end, rocking through the orgasm that’s just edging to come by. 

“Inside. Inside, please, please, please.”

You chanted without end. All throughout your eventful high, thighs jittering and rocking into his every movement as a particularly loud moan echoed around the room. He granted your wishes kindly; injecting you with what he’s been withholding all week, white painting your insides like it was some sort of high-end abstract art. You heaved at the feeling, extremely pleased.

“Fuck, sweetheart.”

He greeted your freshly drugged out mind sweetly. It was then that you hear the last two whirring noises consecutively. One of a close-up shot of your fucked up hole oozing his own dose of cum, and another a pretty shot of your dazed expression. Joel quietly thought that it’d be the perfect accessory for his damn wallet.

[whereporygon]

The other day I was talking to @vaultureculture about Kuras' having a bit of owl in his design and that made me look for his 'biblically' accurate form because my memory was fuzzy, but my brain had been cooking for a while already and I needed answers.

After looking at his real form, I have to wonder: are angels in this world really this grotesque, or is it just Kuras?

screenshot by @sweet-milky-tea705

If so, is this disfigurement a punishment given before he, willfully, decided to ostricize himself, or is it the effect of him being away from his 'exalted origins' for so long?

His real body seems to stand between rotting corpse and an alien figure - a carcass well-past rigor mortis of an otherwordly creature, yet somehow this thing feels oddly... alive, almost if it were an empty exoskeleton clinging to life out of sheer will or even spite. Or perhaps it is meant to mirror the very essence of this world of decay in it's full, blunt, raw glory.

Maybe it's the effect of his immeasurable guilt, corroding his very essence. Just what did this angel do, or perhaps did not do, to deserve eternal purgatory? What is necessary for a divine being to decide for themselves that they deserve such fate?

Was it even his idea? What if it's somebody else's will that Kuras is carrying out as his own, ever true and loyal to his role as a messenger to the very end? How much of all of this is something he actually wants and thinks by himself he ought to do in order to purge whatever wrongdoing of his?

A MC with The Unnamed background seems to know Kuras (or at least seems to be in tune with a being like him), and a familiarity between the two is hinted at in the demo. Is Kuras always this open with everybody, or is it just with MC? Why was he so familiar with us, to the point he even laughs and MC reacts to his touch like they remember it? Does he just feel that much at ease around us or do we actually know each other, somehow?

What is going on with Kuras?

Is his body decaying due to heavy shame and guilt, or is it just like that, a horrifyingly indecipherable view to anything mundane?

Or is it standing in between worlds, in the limbo between holy and corrupt, never forgetting the past but also never looking forward to the future, that is pulling him apart?

[vivwritescrappythings]

It'll Heal

vampire!eddie munson x fem!afab!reader

Part two is to Just Love Me and Eat.

Your boyfriend Eddie is back from the Upside Down—but he’s different, smut ensues.

This is a rewrite of something I already posted, so if it seems familiar--that's why. I wanted this to be from Eddie's perspective, I still don't think it’s my best work but i've decided to post it!

tw: reader is afab and identifies as a girl, p in v sex, unprotected sex, nipple play, fingering, biting, blood drinking, crying, bad writing, vampirism as a metaphor for love.

word count: 6.1k

MDNI!

masterlist

—

He could hear the wood splinter under his fingers, hardly feeling it as he held himself back. It was like you punched Eddie in the chest, the request leaving him empty and reeling. Before he knew it, you’d tangled a hand in the soft curls at the nape of his neck and pushed him into your throat until his teeth pressed against your skin.

He could hardly remember how he got to the point where he was bent over you, nosing and licking at your throat like a starving man. You kept squirming and whimpering his name, tears running across your temples and into your hairline. He put a hand on your sternum to keep you down, forcing you to be still beneath him. It was like a wolf holding a rabbit to the ground, just waiting to bite. He could tell you were scared and confused, your eyes searching his face for some familiarity.

Eddie’s mouth was watering, the smell of your blood and the sound of your heartbeat overwhelming him with hunger. He didn’t know why his stomach was clenching as he felt the veins in your neck under his lips. He couldn’t stop scraping his teeth on the sensitive skin, so tempted to just sink them into you. The part of his brain that wasn’t running on instinct was alarmed by the idea of it—he’d never even imagined hurting you before.

You figured it out before Eddie did–you always were too damn smart for your own good. When you said you loved him it made his heart ache, his breath faltering for a moment. If only you knew the way he imagined tearing into your neck and sucking up the blood inside of you. 

Then, you begged him to eat. 

“Just love me and eat.” It rang in his mind as Eddie finally sank his teeth into your neck.

The burst of blood in his mouth made him groan, almost drowning out the sound of your pain as he bit into your flesh. His hand left your chest to cradle your cheek, the curve of your face had always fit nicely into the hollow of his hand. Your blood tasted so sweet, warming him from the inside out as he drank from you. He let his mind wander as he sucked at your throat like some overgrown mosquito.

Eddie didn’t know what he would find when he scaled his way up the side of the building to your window that night. Part of him had concocted some scenario where you’d been so broken up by his death that you found some loser to comfort you through it, it made him move even faster. He was shocked by the way he could grip onto the smallest of ledges between the uneven brick siding of your apartment building, under typical circumstances he would’ve had to come through the door like a normal person.

But that’s the thing.

He’s not normal. Not anymore. 

Eddie had no clue how long had passed when he woke up in the dirt in the Upside Down. His body ached, he could feel every bite and scratch and scar from the demobats as he sat up and looked around. The bat carcasses were around him in a wide circle, the sweet and putrid smell of rotting flesh filling his nose as he slowly made his way to his feet. The sky was an eerie red, but the rest of his surroundings were still. 

That was the first time he felt the burning pain of his newly discovered hunger. He thought he knew what it was like to starve, but this was next level. It made Eddie stumble, the force of it hitting him feeling like a freight train as he clutched at his stomach and throat. 

Crawling out of the Upside Down was climbing out of his own grave. His hands were caked with mud as he opened the way through the gate in the road, it was the first one he could find. Hawkins looked like it had been torn to shreds, huge cracks in the ground and buildings in the town center partially crumbled. It was the middle of the night, he didn’t even see another person out on the sidewalk... it was probably better that way.

Eddie’s only thought was finding you. The image of you sobbing over him in the Upside Down was burned into his eyelids. The thought that you might have left Hawkins occurred to him when he was tapping on your window with a gaudy costume ring. But the curtain was the same, the purple one you made him hang up because you didn’t like the blinds.

When you snapped the curtain aside he didn’t know what to expect. It certainly wasn’t the broken version of who you once were, dark circles and tangled hair and sallow skin. You were wearing his extra Hellfire shirt, the one he hadn’t cut the sleeves off of—Wayne must have given it to you.

The thud of your hand hitting the floor woke him from his stupor, making him reluctantly pull away from your throat. Your fingers were relaxed, splayed open like there was no energy left inside you. Eddie couldn’t help licking long stripes across the wound, his tongue warm and wet as he lapped at the remaining blood. 

He sat back on his heels, taking in the way you were practically boneless against the wood floor. Your eyes were almost crossed as you looked up at him. Prey looking at the predator. You were devoid of color in your skin, slowly blinking and so weak you could hardly lift your hand. Did he really do this to you?

“C’mon, baby,” he whispered, picking you up off the floor to bring to your bed. He was careful to be gentle with you, his gaze focused on the wound on your neck as your head lolled to one side like there were no bones in your body. Worry struck him like lightning, the only thing keeping him calm was that he could actually hear your pulse. 

Eddie situated you on the bed, tucking you in and taking off his shoes and dirt-covered clothes as he slid in behind you. He sighed as he sunk into your mattress, pulling your back to his chest. He choked back a sob, pressing his face into your hair and inhaling the faint lemon scent of your shampoo. 

Your panic was obvious to him, the way you fought falling asleep as though a nightmare was waiting for you on the other side. It made him placate you with whispered promises and quiet words until you fell asleep in his arms. Just like you used to before. 

His hand left your waist to touch his own chin, your blood smeared on his fingertips. The idea of wasting any of your blood made panic unfurl in his chest, his fingers wiping as much of the drying blood into his mouth before he messily slicked his own tongue across his cheeks and chin like a toddler with remnants of chocolate ice cream. 

In the darkness of your bedroom, Eddie found himself wide awake next to you. Normally at this time of night he wouldn’t be able to see a thing, but now everything was so clear to him it practically could be noon. Your heartbeat was so loud to him, he could hear your blood pushing through your veins with every thump.

He got out of bed, his head practically vibrating as he tried to forget about the taste of your blood. Eddie left your room, leaving the door cracked behind him as he stepped into the small living room and kitchen of your one bedroom apartment. It felt like his throat was closing up, the room tilting dangerously as he leaned against the wall.

The only other time he had a panic attack was when his dad left, and it was nothing like this. He pressed his dirty hands to his eyes, shaking as he tried to catch his breath. Ever since he woke up in the Upside Down he knew something was wrong, but he’d never guessed it could be this bad. 

“You need to pull yourself together, Munson,” he muttered. His shaking hands moved to fist in his curly hair, the strands still caked with drying mud from his crawl. “You’ve played too much fucking Dungeons and Dragons.”

The word vampire kept coming up in his thoughts. His fingers moved to feel the fangs in his mouth, pinching the elongated teeth and trying to wiggle them loose. Maybe it was all a bad dream, and if he could just pull the fangs off he would wake up in a world where he couldn’t describe the sensation of your warm, sweet blood sliding down his throat. 

The fact that there is a world where he knows the taste of your blood is a cruel joke.

–

He could hear the moment you woke up, your breathing changing from the slow cadence to something sporadic. The bed creaked as you rolled over on it, he knew you were feeling his side to see if you had dreamed it all. 

The door to the bedroom was still cracked open as he walked in—his steps were silent now. He’d decided to shower, cleaning the blood and mud off of his body under the warm spray of water. Your lemon scented shampoo and conditioner were the only things available, leaving his hair smelling like what he imagined a Herbal Essence commercial would.

You were about to cry, he could tell by the way the muscles in your abdomen were bunched up and the shaking hand pressed to your forehead. The way your eyes squinted made his heart break, sending him to your side. His hands found your shoulders as he sat down on the bed behind you, working his thumbs into your tense muscles.

“Baby, it’s okay.” His voice was soft, his fingertips pressing against the soft fabric of the Hellfire shirt you wore. You were trembling, a dismayed sob escaping you. He maneuvered so you were sitting between his legs, one of his arms curling around your waist. “I’m here.” 

The sigh you let out was thick and wet, making his heart lurch in his chest. You twisted so you could look at him, watery gaze taking in the way his hair hung in wet curls around his face. “I thought I imagined it,” you whispered, leaning back against his chest. He’d changed into some of the pajamas you kept in your dresser for nights he slept over, finally getting rid of the acrid smell of the Upside Down.

Eddie shook his head, pressing his nose against your hair and taking a deep breath. You smelled like your shampoo and your detergent and the remnants of the nice perfume you’d probably worn at his funeral–you only put it on for special occasions. Under all of that he could smell your blood and sweat and something so human that it made him salivate. 

The last time you sat like this was on his bed in Wayne’s trailer… did Wayne even live there anymore? He realized with a start that he had no clue. “It’s real, I’m here,” he muttered, one hand skimming down your arm as he tried to ground himself to this moment. Your hand was cradled in the curve of his palm, his calloused fingers skimmed the backs of your knuckles before slotting between yours.

“Eddie, you’re freezing,” you whispered. He hadn’t noticed, thinking that you had a fever or something. You twisted in his arms to press a hand against his neck, your palm feeling like a glove warmer against his skin.

Your eyes searched his, brows bunched up with concern. “You don’t feel cold?” you asked, smoothing some of his wet curls behind his ear. They were starting to dry, a familiar frizz emerging on his bangs. He found himself leaning into your touch. 

Eddie shook his head, not sure how to answer. How could he tell you that you felt all too warm to him? You twisted further, placing the backs of your thighs on top of his quads so you could face him. He wore a black sweater you bought him last November, the thick knit feeling inviting after having to literally claw his way out of his own grave. The edge of a scar peaked out of the collar, jagged and so white it was almost shiny. He’d considered trying to steal some of your makeup to cover it. 

You leaned over precariously to rifle through your nightstand drawer, throwing your center of gravity off. He held the outsides of your thighs to keep you steady, the last thing he wanted was you tumbling away from him. There was a thermometer stashed in there when you and Eddie caught the flu last October. He could hear the glass instrument rolling around with the other things you’d accumulated before you even found it. 

The triumphant smile you had when you found the thermometer made his own lips quirk up in kind. Eddie let you put it under his tongue, going cross eyed as he watched the red stripe of mercury creep up the tick marks. 

Your hands fussed over him as you waited, twisting unruly curls around your fingers and picking at loose strings at the hem of the sweater. He was pliant under your touch. His body ached for your affection, the last time you took care of him feeling like an all too distant memory. 

After a few moments the mercury finally stopped moving, Eddie pulling it out of his mouth for you to read out. You held it close to your eyes and squinted to read the tick marks. “Eighty-seven,” you muttered, sounding flabbergasted. You pressed a warm hand to his forehead, as if you were trying to prove the thermometer wrong. “You should be like, in hypothermic shock or something.”

“I’m okay,” Eddie insisted, mumbling as he spoke. His full lips were tugged into a gentle pout, his typically ever-present smile gone. “You don’t gotta worry about me.” 

He spoke without opening his mouth too much, an attempt to hide his teeth from your view. The sight had horrified him when he looked in the mirror earlier—even though he halfway expected to not be able to see himself at all. Nevertheless, he had shiny, white fangs where his canines and incisors used to be. They gleamed dangerously in the fluorescent light of your bathroom.

You caught on to his mumbling quickly. There was a moment of hesitation before you gently pulled back his top lip with your thumb. Eddie couldn’t help but wince as you revealed his teeth. You paused, your eyes wide as you took it in. The soft pad of your fingertip pressed against the incisor on his right side, a gasp rising from you as it sliced through the flesh. 

Eddie cleared his throat, his eyes sliding closed for a moment as your finger bled. It smelled delicious, the tang of iron filling his nose as he tried not to breathe in too deep. The urge to sink his teeth into you filled him, saliva coating the inside of his mouth as he swallowed thickly. You were saying something, but he could hardly hear it over the sound of blood pumping in your veins. The steady thump of your heart was all he could focus on.

Succumbing to the weakness, he grabbed your wrist with one hand and sucked your pointer finger into his mouth. His eyes practically rolled back in his head as his tongue laved over your fingertip, not wasting a drop of blood. It took everything in his body to not bite you. 

When Eddie’s eyes fluttered open, he noticed you were frozen in place. Your plump lips were parted, your eyes as wide as dinner plates. Shame curled in his gut, making him let your wrist go. He was a monster, through and through, something from all the manuals he had on a shelf in his room.

You pulled your hand back quickly, your finger shining with his saliva. “What are you, Eddie?” you finally asked, your voice a whisper. 

His gut wrenched at the question, brows furrowing and expression dropping. There was hesitation in his movements as his hands skated over your sides, the touches feather-light. Fear rattled in him as he felt you. The memory of last night still haunted him, the sound of your shallow breaths and the way you went limp on the floor were things he couldn’t scrub from his mind. 

You asked something. “Dunno, baby,” Eddie choked out, defeated. 

Still, the word he prayed didn’t apply rattled around in his head: vampire, vampire, vampire.

He looked back up at you, his fangs just barely poking out onto his bottom lip as he did. The salty taste of your blood still lingered on his tongue, reminding him that he wasn’t human anymore. Then his gaze followed the curve of your jaw and slope of your neck to the hellish wound he’d left behind last night. He grimaced, crestfallen that he was able to hurt you so much.

The attention made you reach for it, your fingertips skirting along the edges of the scabbed-over wound. It was in the shape of a perfect bite mark.

“I almost killed you last night,” Eddie said, his grip momentarily tightening on your hips. He was staring at the bite, thinking about how much of a monster he was to be able to do that to you. You were his sweet girlfriend, someone willing to do anything for him, and he was able to hurt you like that.

“I’m okay,” you assured him, reaching forward to smooth your thumb along his cheekbone. The gentle touch startled him, making him flinch away from it. His head smacked into the headboard behind him, but he hardly even registered it.

Things like that were supposed to hurt, but now they were nothing.

He took in a sharp breath, his eyes flickering over your gaze and back to your neck. “Baby, look at your neck and then tell me you’re okay,” Eddie said, on the edge of tears. 

Ever stubborn, you huffed and clumsily stood up with his hand as stabilizers on your hips. You twisted to look at yourself in the floor-length mirror mounted on your wall, Eddie’s brown eyes looking over your shoulder. The wound on your neck was gnarly, the bite mark looking more like that of an animal than a man. You gently traced it with your fingertips, wincing as you pressed a few tender spots on your neck. 

He felt liked all the air had been sucked out of the room, waiting for you to scream and run from him. Or to make him leave. Anything. Every second of silence was stealing his breath and his peace.

“It’ll heal,” you said flippantly, staring at him in the reflection of the mirror. There was a stubborn set to your jaw, your gaze hard. You didn’t leave room for him to argue. 

You turned to face him again, crawling back onto your bed on your hands and knees and slotting yourself against his side. It was hard to not lock up as you pressed yourself close, acting as though he wasn’t a monster. 

He put an arm around you slowly, his jaw tight as his thumb stroked up and down the curve of your waist. He swallowed thickly, trying to blink away the tears as he took deep breaths. 

There was a pit in his stomach. “I think I’m dangerous now,” Eddie muttered, staring straight ahead at himself in the mirror before his eyes twisted up to look at the popcorn ceiling. Before everything, he would’ve bet his entire life on the fact that he would never hurt you, but now he already had.

“Eds, you’re not dangerous,” you whispered, your fingers hooking over the side of his jaw and attempting to turn him to look down at you. He was stronger than he used to be, he didn’t budge an inch. 

“Eddie,” you said, your voice more insistent. You were stubborn at the worst of times. He tilted his head down to look at you, trying to tamp down the distress that was starting to make him hyperventilate.  

You sat up slightly, pressing yourself as close to him as he would allow. “I can’t lose you again.”

I won’t make it. The words were left unspoken between you two.

Eddie sighed, his long fingers twisting into your hair at the nape of your neck. There was a feeling of defeat sinking in his chest, a realization that despite the fact that he wanted to run so you’d be safe from him: he felt the same way. “I know, baby,” he finally murmured, his voice soft and low as he stooped to nudge his temple against your forehead. 

The embrace turned tearful, your shoulders starting to shake as you crumbled into sobs. How many times have you cried over him? Eddie didn’t want another second of your life to be spent crying–especially not on his behalf. He shushed you gently, combing his fingers through your hair in a misguided attempt to console you. 

Comfort didn’t seem to be what you were looking for.

Before he could process what you were doing, you’d leaned forward to press your lips against his. Your mouth was so hot it almost felt like a brand against his skin, your soft lips moulding to his. The memory of your last kiss surfaced, just a quick stamp of his mouth on yours before he went off with Dustin. He was sure that you’d been thinking about it every day, about how insignificant you treated something so monumental as a last kiss.

This was a do-over.

He stiffened before finally reciprocating, a soft whimper squeezing from his throat as his hand curled around the back of your neck. He could taste the salt of your tears against his tongue, your lips parted against his. 

You were taking more control than you usually liked to, hitching a leg over his lap and settling your weight on him. Eddie groaned, his fingers digging into the fat of your thighs as you straddled him again. He always loved how soft you were, the smooth skin of your thighs feeling like silk. 

You didn’t stop crying, just letting the tears roll down your face as your hands twisted into the sweater he was wearing. Despite wanting to pull you closer, his hands remained motionless on the outsides of your thighs. There was a part of him that was so scared that he would leave hand-shaped bruises on you if he made a single move. 

Then you ground your hips against his, pulling a ragged groan from his throat.

His head spun for a moment, buffering as he tried to make sense of things. Acting on instinct, his hips bucked up to meet yours, chasing the sensation of you against his already half-hard cock. The hand on your neck moved, his calloused fingertips brushing against the bite mark. He almost recoiled.

“Baby… I’ll hurt you…” Eddie insisted between kisses, but he couldn’t pull away. He was at war with himself, too scared to hurt you but too scared to let you go. 

It would be the right thing to do, letting you go. Leaving and letting you focus on finding someone who was good for you. Someone who wasn’t branded the town freak and a suspected murderer. Someone human, who didn’t want to suck every drop of blood from your veins.

But Eddie had always been selfish. 

He gently pulled you closer to him, giving in. “You won’t,” you mumbled, looking up at him through your eyelashes. They were clumped together by your tears, framing your eyes with glittering droplets in the diffused morning light. 

Fuck. You were so pretty.

He didn’t answer, there weren’t words that could do his thoughts justice so he settled on pulling you in for another soft kiss. Your fingers brought him closer by the threads of his sweater and your knees squeezed the sides of his narrow waist. Your bed creaked slightly as you moved further into his lap, shimmying your hips. 

Eddie let out a soft sigh, trying to stay level-headed as you ground against the bulge in his pajama pants. The Hellfire shirt you were wearing was soft as his hand slid beneath it, the scent of his Marlboros and weed still barely clung to the fabric.

The gnawing craving for a smoke was gone. But, like any addiction, he exchanged one craving for another. 

There was hesitation blooming in his chest as his blunt nails slowly traveled up the soft swell of your belly, eventually ghosting on the underside of your breast. You still felt so damn soft. Part of him worried that if he pressed too hard you would break under his fingers.

“Please, Eddie,” you whispered, your voice sounding wrecked. He could hear the desperation in your tone, your wide eyes pleading as you tearfully begged him. The thin cotton of your panties and his pajama pants barely served as a barrier as you canted your hips against his, making the two of you moan softly.

He nodded, acquiescing to you like he always did. The hand under your shirt palmed at your left tit, thumb teasing the bud of your nipple into hardness as he looked at you with wide, brown eyes. A quiet moan pulled itself from your throat as you pressed your forehead against the curve of the bridge of his nose, the sound of your pleasure making his other hand follow suit.

Eddie huffed softly, kissing the tip of your nose as he kneaded your breasts in his hands. Your brows furrowed, your mouth dropping open as your eyes squeezed shut. He wished he had a picture of you like this, desperate and needy in all his favorite ways. 

It was easier to swallow his hunger, basking in the glow of your pleasure as though it was his own. His hands stayed where they were, teasing your sensitive nipples as he peppered kisses on your face. It was enough to make your cotton panties soaked and sticky, he could actually smell your arousal before he could feel the wet spot on his pants.

“Eddie.” The way you panted his name against his lips was sinful, desperation dripping from your voice. It nearly broke him to hear you so desperate. Eddie could feel himself pushing his concern aside for a moment, rising to the occasion to meet whatever challenge you presented him. He just wanted you in every sense of the word.

“I hear ya,” he muttered, a hand moving down to cup your sex through the thin cotton. You mewled, canting your hips forward to grind down on his fingers. His eyes nearly rolled back in his head from the way you were soaking his hand through the fabric.

You fumbled with the waistband of Eddie’s pajama pants in a frantic effort to rid him of them. Eddie let you struggle for a moment, wondering how stubborn you would be. You didn’t give up, fruitlessly yanking at the elastic waistband of the red and black checkered pants and snapping it against his stomach. Taking pity on you, he lifted his hips enough for you to yank them down around his thighs. 

He tensed, his brown eyes swirling up to look at the ceiling. Eddie didn’t want to see the way you looked at him, looked at the scars the demobats had left behind. Scars covered the milky skin of his thighs and lower belly, leaving some patches shiny and devoid of the dark, curly hairs that covered the rest of his legs. 

But, he looked up to see you gaping, open-mouthed at the sight of his cock. 

You always told him it was a pretty dick, something Eddie vehemently denied. But then he watched your stare; the way you licked your lips as your eyes dragged up and down the length of it. He could feel himself blushing, his cheeks flushing a faint pink. 

Your hand was so warm when it wrapped around the base of him, your other hand cupping his balls gently. Eddie moaned all the same, his eyes scrunching closed and his forehead landing in the curve of your neck. He didn’t remember being that sensitive, every touch feeling like lightning up his spine. 

You smiled, you’d always been proud of your ability to make him crumble. His hand twitched against your sex, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit through your underwear in a clumsy attempt to reciprocate. Everything was cloudy, his mind struggling to find something to focus on.

Then you spit in your hand, returning it to slowly stroke up and down his shaft. The slick squelch of your saliva and his precome against your palm filled the quiet room, his instincts suddenly snapping into place. 

It was a jumble of limbs and haphazardly pulled aside clothing, moans and grunts and sighs filling your room. The seams of your panties stretched, some of the threads snapping as Eddie hastily pulled them to one side to run his fingers up and down the wet seam of your cunt. He let out a sound like he’d been punched in the stomach, wetness completely soaking his digits. 

He still had the good sense to go slow, pressing one finger into your tight, hot heat. You squeezed the digit without mercy, almost feeling like you were going to take it clean off his hand.

“Eddie, need your cock,” you breathed, looking at him with wide, pleading eyes and a soft pout. You knew that look would get you anything you wanted.

He cracked a smile, his fangs poking out and brushing against his lower lip. “Yeah baby? I’ll give it to ya,” Eddie whispered, a familiar smirk settling on his features as he let himself focus on something he was good at: making you feel good. He couldn’t deny you anything, not when you asked so sweetly.

He placed his hands on your soft hips, lifting you up with ease. It was almost like you weighed nothing, your body jolting forward as he lifted you too fast. Your hands braced on his shoulders to steady yourself, a soft snort escaping you. Eddie had always been strong, but never strong enough to handle you like you were nothing more than a doll. 

You reached down and guided his cock to your entrance, your brows pinched together and your eyes cast down to Eddie’s lap. The two of you moaned in unison as you slowly lowered onto him. Fuck, you were tight. He grit his teeth in an attempt to keep his composure, the feeling of you around his cock making his head spin. The head of his cock was pressed against your cervix as your pussy fluttered around him, the two of you panting as you settled. 

His breaths were shallow, he pressed kisses against you wherever he could as you breathed each other’s air. 

It didn’t take long for you to adjust, your hips rocking against his as you placed your hands on his shoulders for leverage. He loved watching you take what you wanted, looking up at you through his thick lashes as you rode him. Eddie started to roll his hips up to meet you, each thrust of his coaxing soft ohs out of the recesses of your throat. 

He helped you move, his hands anchored against your waist beneath the shirt you still wore. You both were so desperate that you hadn’t even bothered to undress, the gusset of your panties digging into one of the cheeks of your ass and his pants caught around his thighs. Eddie’s lips were parted, his breaths harsh. Your bed squeaked with each movement, the sound combining nicely with the smacking of your ass against Eddie’s thighs and your moans. 

“Missed you so much,” you gasped, pulling his attention from the way your breasts bounced under the Hellfire shirt. Your hands fisted in the sweater he wore, your forehead knocking against his as you leaned in close. 

“Me too,” he answered, one hand finding its way up your shirt to toy with your nipples again. The shirt had to stretch over the backs of his knuckles, exposing perfect outlines of the shape of his hands through the white fabric. He sucked his lower lip into his mouth, his fangs pressing harshly against it. 

It was getting hard to think right. His wires were crossed, the pound of your heart sounding so loud. Eddie’s throat burned, making him swallow thickly as lust and hunger crossed. He wanted to consume every part of you, crack your ribs open and drink you whole. You’d be stuck with him that way, a part of him always.

If you noticed anything, you didn’t mention it to him. Your legs quivered, reminding him to grab your hips and assist you with his arms. Your hand fisted in the back of his hair, pulling his mouth toward one of the thick arteries running across your neck on the opposite side of last night. 

The smell was heavenly, rust mixing with your arousal and sweat. He pressed his nose on the vein beneath your skin, inhaling deeply as his eyes squeezed shut.

It was taking everything for him to not sink his teeth into you. Each thrust made him feel more feral, the muscles in his abdomen knitting together as he got closer and closer finishing. He could feel that you were close, too, your gummy cunt squeezing around him and sucking him in deeper every time your skin slapped together. 

“Eat, Eddie,” you said between moans, rousing him from his thoughts to realize he had been placing open-mouthed kisses on top of the vein. It was so tantalizing, listening to the way your heart was beating in your ribcage. He couldn’t believe how long he went without hearing that sound.

Your thighs were quivering with exertion, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you continued to lift yourself up and down. He took over for your failing legs, moving you on top of him so he could better press against the spongy spot on the front wall of your cunt. Your eyes rolled a bit, your breath almost stopping in your throat at the new sensation.

Then you lurched toward him, whining and gasping his name as you came around him. Your cunt squeezed so tight, pulsing hotly around his cock in a way that made him see stars. You crushed Eddie’s mouth to your neck, your muscles locking up and leaving you to his mercy. 

He kept you moving, thrusting up into you and groaning as he worked himself to his finish. His jaw was clenched so tight he was worried his molars would crack under the pressure, anything to keep him from accidentally squeezing you too hard with his hands.

The world faded away, just the sound of your heartbeat and your whimpers and the wet squelching of his cock plunging into you overwhelming his senses. His cock kicked inside of you, a clumsy mumble of your name and he felt like he was dying all over again. 

But in the good way this time.

Eddie grunted as the first rope of come painted the inside of you, canting forward to press your spine into the mattress as he ground his hips against you. His teeth broke the delicate skin on your neck, making a matching bite to the one on your left side. The taste of iron on his tongue made him groan against you, his cock still buried to the hilt inside you as come dripped around the seal of your pussy. 

He’d never experienced euphoria like this, ascending to heaven momentarily before coming crashing back to earth as he drank his fill. Nothing had ever tasted as good as your blood did, satisfying a hunger he could never begin to describe to you.

Eddie paid more attention this time, feeling it when your limbs started to go slack around him. He pulled away far before you passed out. His tongue laved greedily at the bite mark, desperate to consume every drop of blood without wasting it. 

He could feel the flush of blood in his cheeks as he pulled back, the lack of control that nearly took over pushed away by your blood pumping through his veins finally sating him.

Or at least he assumed that’s how it all worked. 

Blood was smeared on his lips and down his chin, just as messy as the first time. To his surprise, you dragged your thumb through the crimson stains, pressing the digit into his mouth. Eddie moaned, his eyes sliding shut as he sucked it clean, careful not to catch you with his fangs. You repeated the motion, lovingly scooping as much of your blood into his mouth that you could. 

“I love you,” you whispered, wiggling into a comfortable position beneath him. Your thighs squeezed at his sides, most of you occupied with still bringing the remainder of your blood to his waiting mouth. Your voice was breathy, the softness of your tone made his heart ache. Last night, he thought you would never forgive him. 

“I love you too,” he said, yawning. Exhaustion was finally catching up to him despite the sunlight on the other side of your curtain. He hadn’t found peace last night, guilt consuming his every thought as you dozed.

It was his turn to pass out, part of his weight collapsing on his forearm as a grogginess overtook him with a force he could hardly resist. He barely managed to pull out with a soft moan, collapsing partially onto your body and pressing you to the mattress beneath him.

You didn’t scold him, just clicking your tongue softly against your teeth as you adjusted the gusset of your panties to cover the mess he made of your pussy and carefully pulling up his pants. “Go to sleep, Eddie,” you whispered, running your fingers through his hair.

His vision was getting blurry, the slow blinks of his eyes getting longer each time. The last thing he heard was the steady thump of your heart, the beat of it lulling him to sleep.

[mochinomnoms]

Iv been having cater brain rot for the last couple days so

Cater can and has used his um to send a clone to class for him (and sometimes even to meet up with friends) if he doesn’t have the energy to put on his happy “cay cay” face for however long

Cater listening to sad music while he works

-🐝

Noooooo Cater 😭😭😭 He's an introvert at heart. He does have a decent-sized social battery, made more out of necessity rather than want, and he can keep up his happy, preppy demeanor for quite a while.

But some days…he's exhausted. He doesn't know why. It's not like he didn't go to bed at a decent time, but he can't find it in himself to pull out of bed today…

He doesn't have an excuse: he slept well the night before, he had a good dinner, his alarm went off. Physically, he's fine, but Cater just can't muster up the will to move. His body sinks into the bed, like an animal carcass being absorbed into the ground. He's rotting away, piece by piece.

But "Cay-Cay" doesn't rot away in bed all day. Cay-Cay has a healthy morning routine and comes into class on time. Cay-Cay is in the cafeteria, taking pictures of his breakfast for Magicam, too sweet for him to actually eat, so it's left to mold in the trash. Cay-Cay chats it up with his desk neighbors, not noticing the annoyance and discontent they have with him. Cay-Cay likes to use all the latest lingo and slang, because he's trendy and in the know.

Cater has a hard time getting out of bed in the morning, dreading the energy he has to muster to interact with others. Cater would prefer something more savory to eat, instead of the pretty pink strawberry yogurt parfait that looks good in pictures. Cater would rather be left alone in the back of the classroom, taking his notes and content with keeping to himself. Cater is tired of speaking like his sisters, and not being taken seriously cause of it. But no one really notices because they know Cay-Cay and not Cater.

No one will know if he used his um to send a clone in his place. As long as it puts on a happy face and chipper mood, he won't be bothered. Maybe he'll have to worry about Riddle finding out, but today he only has classes with other third-years. And they mind their own business.

No one will notice if he's not really there, they never do.

[normal-person-i-promise]

I'd just like to clarify that i do NOT know how old nightmare was when he ate the apple, i simply assumed he was older. like not a minor if he indeed is a child then please tell me i will take this down

god i am so sorry >.<

Blood tw!!

Bad Apple

dreamtale belongs to jokublog

cross-posted to ao3! -> https://archiveofourown.org/works/51085057

As Nightmare finished off the last apple, his painful shriek split the air as four great tentacles burst from his back: thrashing, physical manifestations of negativity, his body too full of hate, anger, envy, and...

Love.

He loved you, he realized. Loved you a lot more than he thought he did. And when he realized he finally had enough power to scare the townspeople and have you all to himself, he was ecstatic.

* * *

He was just a boy. He just wanted friends, he just wanted people who cared about him.

They shunned him. Called him a monster, called him the devil.

Then you came along. You talked to him, you played with him, you sat with him, you smiled at him — and all these things combined would have made his SOUL flutter if he had one. He treasured you, savouring the moments when your eyes met his, the short seconds when his rough bone met your soft skin, those special times when the sun would hit your eyes just right and make them sparkle in the sunlight.

You were delicate.

Fragile.

Day after day he would talk to you — talk to you until the sky grew dark, until the only sound was your voices — until sleep took over and you dozed off in each other's arms. He would talk to you about the stars' grace in their eternal dances across the night sky, their steps never halting; about the moon's beauty, her soft glow guiding travellers in the night, protecting them from harm; about the sun's light, ever shining, bringing warmth to your world — about how nice it was, just the two of you.

Sometimes, he would take a black apple from the tree, place it gently in your hands, and let you marvel at it. The apples had such intricate swirls, designs so winding that you could get lost in them — like a maze — if you stared too long.

He'd let you sit by the tree with him, the both of you tracing the ancient bark's ornate patterns with your fingertips under the moonlight, admiring its beauty.

He'd tell you stories of his mother, the original guardian; he'd tell you of how he remembered her face, her eyes full of kindness, a smile gracing her lips. Her hands were always warm and welcoming, almost beckoning, and her touches were ever so gentle.

The memory was vague and distant.

And as the leaves fell from the tree and the sky grew dark, Nightmare looked at you. He looked at you with sockets open wide, regret and guilt swirling within them; he stared at you, right through you, gripping the once-golden apple in a hand clenched too tight, held by a form too tense.

The townsfolk were angry. After all, why wouldn't Nightmare do something like this? Why wouldn't he doom them all? They were practically waiting for this to happen, practically waiting for an excuse to kill him.

So as a last-ditch attempt to stay alive from the violent townspeople, Nightmare listened to that voice. He sank his teeth into the black apple in his hand, the perfect blend of sweet and sour flooding his senses — he became addicted to them, like a drug, eating them one after another.

But as he bit into apple after apple, the townsfolk started to back away as things started to happen to him.

Black muck as thick as tar began to pool and flood from any openings they could, blocking his right eye, coating all the surfaces it touched. The substance itself had a putrid smell, like a rotting carcass or spoilt fruit.

His emotions started to distort, hate and anger being prevalent among them, souring his mood. He could feel himself getting bolder with each bite he took, his confidence soaring, his mind unhinging.

But even though he had such hatred to the townsfolk, he never once had a negative thought about you. You were someone who cared about him, someone who kept him company when his brother went off to help the townfolk, someone who talked to him, someone who would love him. You alone had done more to help him than all of the town combined, and he wasn't willing to let that go unrewarded.

As Nightmare finished off the last apple, his painful shriek split the air as four great tentacles burst from his back: thrashing, physical manifestations of negativity, his body too full of hate, anger, envy, and...

Love.

He loved you, he realized. Loved you a lot more than he thought he did. And when he realized he finally had enough power to scare the townspeople and have you all to himself, he was ecstatic.

Vaguely, Nightmare could see their scared faces, eyes wide and fearful, or hear their screams, full of terror — but it all seemed far away to him.

He was thinking about you. How you were too soft, too easily broken; how your skin seemed to glow in the gentle light of the moon, the way you would smile contentedly, — and how he would protect you from this moment onwards.

What could they do that he wouldn't?

They never talked to you, they never helped with you, they never even looked at you, too disgusted by the fact that you talked to Nightmare, the living embodiment of bad emotions.

Not like it mattered.

He could love you, alone, and you wouldn't need anyone. You wouldn't have to work, you wouldn't have to cook, you wouldn't have to do anything.

He would do it all for you if you loved him.

He ran to you, tentacles eager to feel your skin, hands reaching for a warm embrace — but the closer he came to you, the more scared you got, tears starting to pool at your eyes as your whole body tensed.

When Nightmare realized you weren't running to him, he stopped, his wide grin dropping, outstretched arms and tentacles falling. His change of emotion was near instant; he bared his teeth, almost growling, his shoulders raising while his single socket narrowed, crumpling into a look of utter rage.

"WHY WON'T YOU COME TO ME!?" He roared, voice echoing and hackles raising, hands balling into fists. Fear and anxiety were climbing up your throat, threatening to spill — your body was shaking as you struggled to keep your knees from quaking, your eyes too wet with tears blurring your vision.

This wasn't him. You both knew that.

Still a little far from you, he reached out a jet-black hand — and almost immediately his tentacles surged towards you, black sludge falling off them like rain from clouds. They wrapped around you, tightening, suffocating you while pulling you towards Nightmare faster than you could react — stopping just in front of him, inches away from his outstretched hand.

It was when he lowered his hand that you saw that his glowing teal pupil was a SOUL, looking straight through you.

Upon seeing you up close, his grin widened, showing one too many teeth and splitting his face in half. He was quiet for the longest time, just staring at you, greedily drinking in your fear as the tentacles wound about your skin uncomfortably, though softly — as if you were made of porcelain — leaving trails of black sludge.

The villagers, curious about the silence, came from where they hid. They found the perfect excuse in front of their eyes: a horrible monster, primed and ready to kill an innocent civilian.

"Monster!"

"Beast!"

"Devil!"

You whirled around (what little you could, at least) to face the villagers who said those horrid things, begging them to stop. He didn't hurt you! He's fine, really! Don't make it worse!

They paid you no heed.

When you turned back to what was once Nightmare, sweet Nightmare, he was livid. His eye socket was brimming with anger, his teeth were bared, and his hands were balled into tight fists.

The tentacles first released you, gently — stilling for a moment — then shooting out in all directions, elongating, killing any villager in sight in all the ways you could name. Tears pooled at your eyes as your hands covered your mouth in shock.

"What's wrong, darling?" A voice sounded, smooth and collected. Calm. It was him who spoke.

When you looked back at him, you saw that thing staring at you through, SOUL-shaped eye light almost appearing to beat, his grin thin and sly.

You couldn't speak.

"Is it not beautiful?" Holding your hand, he gestured with his free one, surveying the village: the strong smell of copper in the air, the blood staining the green grass red, the countless severed body parts littering the floor. You could hear cries of pain and shouts for help, begging for the pain to stop, begging for their families back, begging for forgiveness.

"Did they not get what they deserved?"

You looked into that socket, brimming with madness, hatred, anger — but also love, adoration, infatuation — as if he expected you to be proud of him for punishing those who had wronged him. He looked at you expectantly, awaiting your answer.

"Th-this isn't r-right." You stumbled through your words as your soft voice wavered, your cheeks wet with tears.

"Oh? And why is that so, my love?" He leaned into you, pulling you closer to him, tentacles caressing your skin. You were soft — so soft — and no matter how many times Nightmare touched you, he could never not be awed by your delicate skin. You grow uncomfortable, and try to put some space between the two of you to no avail.

"Th-they didn't h-have to die." You tried, in vain, to keep your voice steady and to stop hiccuping.

He glared at you, single socket narrowing.

"What did they do that I didn't to garner this much attention from you?" You could tell that he was becoming aggravated by the way he tightened his grip on you, his teeth grinding, a voice that wasn't Nightmare's struggling to get out from behind them.

"A-ah! Um..." You stutter, tears falling to the ground as you squirmed uncomfortably in his grip. You pointedly avoid his gaze, opting to look at everything else, making you cry even more.

"ANSWER ME!" Tightening his grip on you, you could feel the black sludge staining your clothes, weighing you down.

"I-I don't like them m-more!" You weren't lying; you didn't like them more than you did Nightmare (what with all the things they've done to him, done to you), but whatever he was now... It was a different story.

Still, he seemed to believe it, judging by how he visibly sagged, loosening his grip.

He pulled you into him, trapping you against his body in a web of arms and tentacles, promptly sitting down on the grass and pulling you with him. Bringing you into his lap and caging you against him, he kissed your head more times than you could count, muttering and mumbling sweet nothings into your hair. He basked in the scent of you, a sweet, alluring fragrance, and relished the fact that now, if only for a moment, you would smell like him.

You could feel a rumbling from within his ribcage getting louder and louder the more he kissed your head to the point where it was all that you could hear.

Chuckling.

Then, a strangled,

"You drive me mad—" Then he was squeezing you, his arms wrapped firmly around you, pinning yours to your sides. Preventing you from leaving. He continued to kiss your head softly, murmuring, when a shout came from behind:

"Leave her alone!" It was quite clear that it was Dream that spoke, judging from the voice and by Nightmare tightening his grip on you as he halted his affections.

When Dream spoke again, asking to let you go, Nightmare growled. The sound echoed through his hollow ribcage, reverberating through yours from where you were pressed up against him, sending shivers down your spine as footsteps approached.

"This isn't you." That was clear, alright; the voice was close enough that you knew for certain it was Dream, and you could tell by the tone that he wasn't all too pleased.

Nightmare got up, tangling you in his tentacles, impeding your escape.

"Your brother is gone." The way that Nightmare uttered those words sent shivers down your spine, your skin tingling as goosebumps rose from beneath your skin.

Dream summoned something — it was hard to tell, black sludge coated your vision — but then you were gently put down on one of the taller cottage's roofs, allowing you to both not be hurt and to be able to observe what was unfolding before you.

They were fighting.

Truly, if it was to be attempted, their battle could not be captured by words, no matter how hard one could try.

Although it won't be easy, there will be an attempt to describe what cannot be described.

Nightmare was the graceful one — he was almost like a dancer, feet barely touching the bloodstained grass, his form never still: every one of his movements smooth and calculated. Dream, on the other hand, appeared inexperienced — his motions were hesitant, too fast here, too slow there — and though he could dodge the sharp black tentacles that came for him, slicing through the empty air, the way he moved didn't look nearly as effortless as his opponent's motions.

The fighting went on for quite a while, from what you could tell, but you weren't really paying attention. You were mostly praying that Dream would be the winner, since he would likely have some way to fix this, and who knew what Nightmare wanted with you.

You were sitting down on the roof comfortably, your crying having subsided, when the fighting noises abruptly stopped. You tried to see who won, craning your neck, before a glowing teal eye light looked right through you.

There were no signs of Dream.

Nightmare smiled at you, his thin grin splitting his face in half.

"There's no one left."

His low baritone rang out through the quiet village, the only sound for a thousand miles; confirming your suspicions as you choked back sobs, Nightmare making his way towards you, his grin victorious, his stride prideful.

He scaled the cottage wall, tentacles grabbing at each and every little imperfection, using them as grips to get closer and closer to you.

He lowered himself onto the roof, gently making contact.

His grin impossibly widened before he slowly walked towards you, each step making the wood creak as your anxiety heightened.

You looked behind you — the drop wasn't far enough to kill you, but it definitely was enough to leave you with a broken leg or two. Seeing as you had no other choice, you turned on your heel and bolted.

"Oh, I do love a chase."

You couldn't see what Nightmare was doing, but you didn't hear any footsteps as you leapt from where you stood.

The fall was quite quick.

There was a wet crack when you collided with the ground, but before you could register what it was, you heard something behind you. Adrenaline can be powerful, you realize as you get to your feet, barely feeling any pain as you made a break for it.

Where you were going was secondary, the strong urge to get away overpowering your senses and clouding your judgement.

Occasionally, you'd hear his laughter, full of mirth, and would glance at him for only a second. A grin split his face every time he caught sight of your's, his tentacles' movements growing erratic, almost excited.

You'd face the front again quickly.

You ran for at least an hour before you couldn't anymore, intending to stop for a short break to get your energy back.

Looking behind you and seeing that Nightmare was gone, you made your way into one of the abandoned houses, sitting down on the floor. Your legs were burning, feeling like they could give out at any moment, and you were so thirsty that you couldn't think straight.

I'm just going to lie down for a while...

...

Nightmare looked through the broken glass and peered at your form, sound asleep.

Now was the perfect time to go in there and take you. But...

He had heard something when you collided unceremoniously with the ground.

...

Ah. You had broken a bone, most likely your tibia on your right leg, judging by the way you slept on the cold, hard floor.

That was no good.

He turned, calmly, and made his way to the clinic to collect bandages, water, and a long piece of wood.

He walked through the empty town, surveying the area with a lidded eye socket for anyone who was still alive.

He regarded the felled tree with little emotion as he cut it up even further, carving a piece into the exact length of your leg to act as a crutch to make sure your it healed right.

Once he got the supplies he needed, he walked back to the cottage you were sleeping in and slowly opened the door, careful not to make too much noise, lest he rouse you from your slumber. Kneeling beside you, he gently took your injured leg and put the piece of wood next to it, securing it tightly with the rolled-up bandages.

He leaned back to inspect his work, humming in approval.

His eyes drifted to your sleeping face, wanting nothing more than to feel it under his phalanges — to caress your delicate skin. You were so pretty, just like a doll, soft skin almost glowing as your chest rose and fell.

He took in a breath through his teeth.

His tentacles itched to feel your skin, soft and smooth; his hands twitching to hold yours, small and breakable.

He stared at you again, watching, as you adjusted your position and felt the wood on your leg. Your face scrunched a little, brows furrowing and mouth pressing into a thin line as you tried to move your broken leg before failing and grimacing.

Your eyes shifted beneath your lids before they slowly fluttered open, hazy eyes looking everywhere before settling on him. You just languidly blink your sleepy eyes before looking down at your leg, noticing the wood, and waking up a little bit more.

Your hands slowly came to the plank tied to your leg, before you quickly retracted them, whipping your head up to look at Nightmare.

You were more awake now, evidenced by your wide and fearful eyes looking up at him while he drank it all in, single socket open wide, staring into you.

Stars above you were cute.

Your face went through several emotions in a few seconds before you ultimately decided that your best course of action was to try and get away from him again. Before you could make any moves, though, Nightmare's black, bony hands gripped at your upper arms tightly, grin widening and waning as his one eye socket narrowed in delight.

"Where are you going, love?" Your eyes widened, form stiffening as his intense teal eye light bore into you, the SOUL shape it had taken appearing it beat, like a cheerless imitation of a heart.

You swallowed.

"You are aware that resistance is futile?"

He said those words with such glee, such elation that it made your stomach drop.

His eye light flickered down to your injured leg.

"You are in no condition to walk — let alone run — my dear." He brought his hand up, gently brushing a sludge-covered finger across your cheek before promptly shoving the ink-black hand beneath your knees, the other snaking behind your back.

He lifted you with ease, black, slimy hands gripping your soft body as he began walking, ignorant of your struggles. He was very gentle — gentler than you thought he would be. The way he handled you reminded you of how one would treat a porcelain doll: with tremendous care, like you would break if he so much as breathed on you wrong.

He walked through the village with little difficulty, occasionally checking on you, peering into fearful eyes with a fondness too great to describe.

He made his way to somewhere near the tree, although it had already been cut to pieces smaller than a hair. He stopped, and his tentacles came forward and picked a large stone from the ground, and upon closer inspection... It was Dream, petrified, a look of terror forever etched on his grey face.

You held back tears as Nightmare nonchalantly picked up the statue without any of the care he had given you, and you watched in horror as the pain became too much and things started getting fuzzy, eventually making you lose consciousness.

[yourlocaltreesimp]

Too Sweet

This too, is short n’ sweet. Based on @trippygalaxy/@acrossthegalaxyau’s Beast.

He’s a little self loathing.

and this is totally self indulgent.

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

He was an abomination. He was sure of it. He was no good thing, not anymore. His temper had soured. His fangs had sharpened — his senses too. He was more beast than man. It was what defined him now. It was his namesake. It was his purpose. To rip and marr and massacre.

Staring down at his chest he saw only proof of it. A shard, the catalyst to his pain, embedded between his ribs. He was other. Neither Twili nor Hylian. His form struggled to reject the magic as it latched to his heart. What was once soft and warm was now cold and still. Spider-like scars wrap around his torso in an unnatural teal, glowing and pulsating with the beat of his changed anatomy. His skin blackened near the wound.

Like rot.

You should not insist upon resting your head nor giving your heart to something so beaten, he thinks dully, as you do just that. You shouldn’t accept this so readily. You should scream and thrash and cry, like prey caught in his arms. But you do not. You refuse. You kiss the shard lovingly before repeating the motion above his heart. He does not understand why you trace the thin lines with your fingertips, muttering sweet compliments into the worst part of him. You are faced with what taints him, and you love him despite it.

He does not deserve such love.

His teeth are made to rip and tear soft flesh, not graze against it teasingly. You should know. You’ve seen the deer carcasses. You’ve heard the rumours. But you kiss his lips as if there’s never been blood on them. His hands are meant to break and crack bone, not cradle yours softly. You’ve seen him work, you know what he can do, the strength he yields. But you thank him all the same, wrapping your arms around his waist and murmuring your approval. His demeanour is supposed to drive everyone away, so why are you still here?

And why doesn’t he want you to go?

Why does he embrace this soft life with you, letting you pepper kisses across his tattooed cheeks? And you shouldn’t see the worth in spending meaningless days watching him work his small field. You don’t need to follow him around on his late night walks as he avoids himself. You especially don’t need to comfort him. He’s been primed to kill, and yet you soothe him like he's a frightened stray. He shouldn’t let you waste your precious time cooking him meals and tending to his many wounds.

He shouldn’t let you.

But he does.

He craves your soft touches and the jump of his heart. He breathes now to be good by your standards, if he can’t be good wholly. He longs to be held by you again. He waits on your call eagerly— loyal as ever. He aches to be loved by you. To be special to you in some way. He doesn’t care how much he has to give, so long as you love him it’s worth it.

He knows it’s bad— to keep you from better people and a better life. But that doesn’t change that he wants you at his side. And it certainly doesn’t change that no matter how often he tried to tell himself otherwise, he loved you. He was yours, heart, mind and soul.

And he felt like maybe you were his too.

He saw no other reason you’d be so upset at others checking him out as he worked. And certainly nothing to warrant the smirk as you kissed him breathless to stake your claim.

He was no better than Heavens. He was a lovesick fool for you.

Maybe just this once he could be selfish. Maybe just for you he could let himself fall in love. And Maybe things will stay this way, with you both curled up in each other’s arms on a sunny evening.

[birboon]

Conceived in the Eye of a Secret

title from Ozzy Osbourne's "Mr Crowley"

A Steddie AU fic - Detective! Steve Harrington [oneshot, potentially multi-chapter) — 6k words

Steve Harrington was seventeen when he saw his first dead body. He wasn’t even out of high school – not even a senior – when he stumbled across Barbara Holland floating face down in his pool. He’d just gone outside for a piss, not wanting to wake his then-girlfriend, brain still fuzzy and whirling from the warm beers Tommy H had stolen from his dad the night before, and there she was; skin tight around her bloated form. Steve had taken one look at her short hair and the leaves knotted there, matted with blood and chunks of soft grey tissue that he’d prayed, God, please wasn’t part of her fucking brain, and vomited. The smell, more than anything, was what sent him over the edge: Rank and pungent, an edge of sickening sweetness. He’d been able to smell her cheap perfume, too.

She’d been dumped there during the night. Steve thought she’d gone home - she was supposed to have gone home, but there police found her car still parked down the street, untouched. ‘A crime of passion’, they’d called it, and even now – almost twenty years later – Steve didn’t understand why. Barbara Holland’s face had been beaten to an unrecognizable, pulpy mess of flesh and blood. Shards of her skull had ruptured through her skin, her left eye had been burst from the blunt force that the sick fuck had hit her with; it had dribbled like veiny egg-yolk into Steve’s pool, mixing with the water like oil.

Steve liked to think himself a passionate guy. But he didn’t go around murdering people.

 Instead, he caught the murderers – preferably before they’d had the chance to do the murdering but like everything in life, it was easier said than done. Hell, he could count on two hands the number of cases that had passed through the rigorous filtering of Hawkins PD before landing at his desk in the tiny, cramped office that the Homicide Department called home. The Homicide Department being him, sole and singular, bent over anaemic manila folders with little more to information than a polaroid snapshot and the name of the deceased.

So, yeah. Steve was seventeen when he saw his first dead body, and for some reason he’d made it his life’s goal to see as many as possible. If only to prevent them from becoming cold cases, forgotten and locked away in some filing cabinet to gather dust – to prevent them from becoming like Barb. Since the Holland case, there hadn’t been another unsolved murder in Hawkins. A fresh-faced, fresh-out-of-college Steve Harrington had made sure of that. And for thirteen years, Detective Harrington had kept it that way.

Still, he never quite got used to seeing a corpse – the smell never did become easier to handle. With the more violent deaths, and Steve grimaced as he stared towards the twisted, strewn remains of the human before him, it became especially hard to bear. Hopper had taught him to chew gum to settle his stomach at particularly bad scenes, and Joyce – ever the astute pathologist – had given him a small jar of Vick’s VapoRub the second time he’d ever come down into the morgue (he’d had to excuse himself halfway through the autopsy the first time, and she’d smiled understandably as he trembled his way to the bathroom, legs shaking and face pallid). But even a hefty smudge of the strong-smelling ointment wasn’t enough to cover the stench of a rotting carcass entirely, and Steve’s stomach turned as decay permeated the room.

It was October, but it was hot, which only served to make matters worse because the heat only exacerbated the whole ordeal. And whilst the rest of Hawkins, and Indiana in general, Steve supposed, were out enjoying the autumn sunshine, he was stuck in a sweat-box apartment with three other men and a day-old cadaver. The room was stagnant, ripe with death.

“What a shit day to die,” he muttered, and though he hadn’t meant to say it out loud his words got a murmur of agreement from the others. It was a Monday.

The woman – Steve glanced down at the clipboard in his hands – Maureen Gildman had been brutally slain. She lay in a pool of her own viscous blood, face carved-up hideously like the jack-o-lanterns that were beginning to emerge in the windows of his neighbours, and the young detective made a mental note to take Dustin to the pumpkin patch before the Holiday was over. Halloween was the kid’s favourite time of year. Unfortunately, it seemed to be a favourite of all the psychos too. Steve checked his watch.

Four Fifty-Seven PM. A Monday.

A simple glance around the room showed varying picture frames lovingly arranged on the walls and sat on bookshelves stocked with cheesy romcoms, void of any actual books. Most were in good condition, if a bit dusty, but Steve wasn’t about to lecture a dead woman on cleanliness. Not when a picture of her young daughter stared over at him, flecked with tiny beads of maroon, thick and congealed atop the pink dress she’d worn to the last middle school dance. Dt. Harrington hoped the girl wasn’t still waiting to be picked up at the school gates, considering the last class would have let out almost three hours ago. Steve checked his clipboard again. Divorced, he thought solemnly, and for a moment let himself empathise with the dead.

He'd seen forensics scrape the burnt remains of brownies into sterile baggies as he’d arrived on the scene, and it said more than he’d wished to know. The girl had been with her father over the weekend, and it was him who had dropped her off that morning. No doubt Maureen had been busily preparing to have her child back with her, cooking up something sweet and special as a prize for surviving another Monday.

“You got a preference?” The words cut through Steve’s thoughts as he turned to the photographer in question. Johnathon gave him a grim, lazy smile, his lips pressed tightly together. “Y’know, for a day to die?”

A layer of dust was collected on the camera in his hands. Particles bounced around in the sunlight pouring through the shuttered blinds. There was something sour in the man’s gaze as he watched Steve, but he didn’t think that the contempt was aimed towards himself – at life, maybe. Johnathon was probably reflecting on the choices he’d made during his career that had led him to that moment.

Steve shoved his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, fiddling with the strings of the lining. “A Thursday might be nice, maybe.”

Johanthon watched him through dark eyes. He lifted the camera to his face, squinting as he levelled it towards the detective’s shoes, and Steve stepped out of the frame as the shutter clicked and the flash illuminated the puddle of crusted fluids that were soaked into the shaggy carpet. A yellow tent marked with a bold, black 12 was posted beside it.

“Maybe,” the other man agreed. The camera dropped back down to his chest, and he shrugged. Steve chewed at his tongue, looking away as Johnathon dropped into a crouch, lens angled towards the body. Maureen looked grossly ethereal in the white light; the flayed skin on her naked chest was red, glowing.

Steve looked down again. Ms. Gildman was the third in a recent string of murders that the Hawkins P.D wanted to clump together beneath the moniker of a serial killer. Ever since the term had been coined by the FBI in the seventies, it seemed every small town was desperate to have one to their name. Obviously, Steve didn’t quite agree. There were casual differences in the demeanour and traits of the killings that had him pegs them ostentiously as all separate, sad crimes. Crimes of passion, he thought grimly. Right. Passion.

Maureen was missing both breasts. They’d been sawn off with a serrated object, upon quick examination – Steve’s money was on a bread knife, stolen from her own kitchen, but the murder weapon wouldn’t be identified properly until Joyce got the chance to take a closer look. The… breasts were found hidden within a tall, exotic-looking potted plant. An empty box of matches had been found there, too, opened and spilt onto the blood-stained carpet. Steve imagined that whoever had murdered the woman got cold feet, meaning to burn the balls of flesh but abandoning the plight at the last moment. Or maybe they had refused to light, and after four frazzled, burned-out attempts they had been forced to leave before the police arrived on scene.

Either way, Steve found nothing passionate about it. Disgusting, maybe. Driven by desire? Absolutely. But there was no passion, just the empty and unfeeling actions of a disturbed individual.

He stepped away, ducking back beneath the police tape. He’d seen enough.

Nodding to the paramedics waiting patiently in the hallway, equipped with a stretcher and a body bag, Steve crept away. Several neighbours had been escorted from the building in hysterics – in particular, the old woman who had found the woman after smelling the burning confectionary that had been baking as she’d died – but those that hadn’t were standing in their doorways, arms crossed, faces framed with dismay. Steve couldn’t quite figure out if they really were upset, or just desperate to know what was happening.

Chief Hopper appraised him with dark, judging eyes as he approached the stairwell, holding out an arm to stop Steve’s descent into fresh air. A burned-out cigarette hung limply from the older man’s lips, smoke drifting from the glowing embers fleetingly. Steve inhaled sharply, desperate to purge his nostrils. He wiped his nose.

“Careful when you go down there, kid,” Hopper grumbled. Steve raised an eyebrow. “I got two words for ya: Press and chaos.”

“That’s actually three words, chief, but who’s counting?” Jim barked out a rough laugh, and the young detective continued: “Not you, evidently.”

“Don’t push your luck, Harrington,” the older man snapped, but he was smiling and, well, Steve was just glad someone still had that ability, no matter how joyless and thin it was. The chief clapped him on the back as he pressed forward, calling after him. “And don’t say I didn’t warn ya!”

Hopper was right, of course; it was chaos. Always was, but Steve supposed that his wishing for a moment of peace was just that: Wishful. A duo of officers were posted at the main entrance to the building, chatting lightly with each other. Through the screen doors Steve caught a glimpse at the gathered crowd of reporters – a heaving, squirming mess of free-for-all filled with flashing cameras and eager journalists, all desperate to catch a glimpse of the deceased or ambush someone who had.

Upon spotting them, the sea surged, and Steve was half-worried that they’d bring down the doors, but the men in charge of crowd control didn’t seem at all bothered. They shot him a lame look of distaste – one that said ‘oh look, there’s the great detective’ and Steve grimaced.

“Detective Harrington! Detective, could you give us a – “

“Harrington! What did the deceased look like?”

“Detective is this a serial killer?”

Detective! Detective! Detective!

He ducked behind a supportive dry-wall in the centre of the apartment building’s ‘reception’ area, eyeing the stapled pamphlets and posters hanging there miserably. Only one caught his eye – it stood out from the rest simply because it had tried: Nestled atop the dull pastels and black print was a seemingly hand-made poster advertising a band, all dark reds and metal greys, collaged with newspaper cut-outs. Corroded Coffin (what happened to naming bands nice things, like The Doors or Wham! ?), were playing at a club Steve hadn’t visited in years, The Upsidedown . He hadn’t been there since Dustin had been unceremoniously dropped into his lap, not since he’d made Senior detective, what, six years ago?

 Dt. Harrington mused, almost-sadly, that he hadn’t even been out for drinks in at least three months – and that was only because he’d been dragged by Robin on one of the Forensic-team outings. He’d gotten shit-faced off of cheap cocktail pitchers and shots of rose tequila, and had to explain to his son why he was going to have to get the bus to school the next morning because ‘daddy’s sick, buddy. Real sick’.

Without thinking, the detective snatched the sheet of paper from the wall, leaving a strip of paper behind, still tacked to the wall, and folded it carelessly into his pocket. And then Steve finally made the point of searching for a fire exit.

It wasn’t hard – cheaply printed white sheets of A4 with a bold red arrow and text reading ‘IN CASE OF FIRE’ were hung carelessly close to the ceiling, one pointing to the next in the most boring treasure hunt ever created. Honestly, though, Steve did think there would be treasure once he found the big X (or, in his case, the back exit to the building). It would come in the form of peace and quiet, and no out-of-context quote headlining the papers, and he was anxious to uncover it.

But when he made it to the outside world, swinging on the fire-retardant handle, Steve was met not only with a crisp October breeze and brilliant sunshine, but with a cheap tape recorder being shoved under his nose. He recognized the neat script inked onto the label that was stretched over the plastic and frowned, pushing it gently away.

“I told you, you can’t just turn up at these things,” he said, herding her backwards as he stepped out into the light. His tone was cold enough for the woman in question to drop the arm holding the device out towards him. She cocked her head, reeling after him like an annoying blowfly on a body. “And before you ask, Nancy, my answer is no comment.”

“You’re not looking so hot right now, Steve,” she said softly. Steve scoffed.

“You know exactly what a man wants to hear, don’t you?”

“Are you okay?” Nancy probed gently, and finally caught up with the man, she settled into stride beside him. He looked down at her and her frilly shirt and smiled gingerly.

“I’m doing just fine, Wheeler.”

Nancy’s mouth twisted bitterly at the disconnect in his voice and Steve sighed. They’d dated for three years – four, if you counted the sweet high-school romance they’d fooled themselves into believing – before an inevitable, explosive end. Life got in the way, he told himself. Steve Harrington and Nancy Wheeler were as different as two people could be; fire and ice. Steve had hoped he’d be able to thaw the woman, get her to settle down, but she’d wanted different things. He’d wanted a family, and she wanted to soar.

Steve had gotten his family, in the end, in the form of a robust, confused four-year-old. And Nancy, well. She was doing what she’d always dreamed.

The woman rewound her tape, bringing it to her mouth: “See: Detective Harrington at the end of his rope. Is this the first case the prodigy can’t solve?”

Steve rolled his eyes, tucking his chin to his chest as they crossed the parking lot opposite the swarm of spectators round the front of the building. The ranks of journalists had settled their unprofessional nature by pressing their faces and cameras against the misty glass, like toddlers at a zoo trying to see into the lion’s enclosure.

“You’re not going to scare me into talking about my feelings, Nancy,” Steve said, casting a glance towards her. She shrugged, spinning the recorder in her fingers.

“Worth a shot,” came the reply, accompanied by a shrug, and Nancy escorted him back to his car, shrouding him in companionable silence. Her low heels clicked on the gravel, and she spun to him when they reached his BMW. A hand wrapped itself around his wrist, and it was Steve’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “You know you can talk to me, right? You were joking, I know, but… Sometimes I worry about you, Steve.”

Dt. Harrington’s smile waned. “I should be the least of your worries,” he shot back. He’d aimed for a light teasing, but the words came out with a heavier weight than he’d expected. Even he reeled back from them, and Nancy squeezed his wrist reassuringly. His pulse raced under her touch. Just friends, he reminded himself (was that all It took? Just a touch from someone that wasn’t his boss or his son? God, he needed to get laid – yet another thing that he hadn’t had the luxury of indulging in lately).

“I care about you. I always worry about the people I care about.”

Steve shook her off gently, opening the driver’s side door: “Be good for Hopper when he finally drags himself out of there, Nance. Tell Mike I say hi.”

 He slid behind the wheel before she could reply and unravel the fragile life he’d built for himself.

…

Three hours later, and Steve was drowning in paperwork.

It was cruel, really, how much time he spent in an office that wasn’t even his. Officially, it belonged to the department but most of the time Dt. Harrington saw it as a glorified janitor’s closet. Because whilst it looked good written down on paper, the chipped name plate with Steve’s name on it – one that he was one-hundred-percent sure had been engraved by the resident fear-mongering asshole Officer Hargrove - dared him to question why the opaque glass door didn’t say the same. He’d worked for the Hawkins PD for over a decade: You’d think they would have the audacity and respect to give him a permanent work residence.

But alas, not everyone could be so lucky as the violent crimes unit – especially not homicide. And so Steve settled for less than he deserved and he waited it out patiently, because, in the end, that was how he’d wound up where he was today:

‘Never chase an opportunity,’ his father had told him – and this was when Steve had become co-captain instead of sole captain of the swim team, faced not only with his own disappointment but with his old mans’ too. ‘If you deserve them, they’ll come’.

Steve never had made captain of the swim team outside the constant, companionable badgering of James Rowe, and he’d never outgrown the tiny, un-flourishing seeds of wisdom that Harrington Senior had dredged up during his childhood. Somethings were worth waiting for, he’d deigned. But most of the time they weren’t.

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it from his forehead with a rough sigh. His shoulders were stiff and sore from being hunched over a desk that took up so much room in the cluttered office that he could hardly breathe, and his wrist ached from underlining and circling the clauses and misspells in Deputy Callahan’s write-up. A myriad of red-penned scribbles tracked over the pages strewn across the table and not for the first time Steve felt like some kind of kindred spirit to the kids Tommy H had made do his homework back in high school. Why even write it in the first place if you knew it was going to be obsolete?

Because they liked to waste his time, that’s why.

God, Steve hated Mondays.

He gathered the loose-leaf documents into a pile, tapping it against the desk to straighten the pages into semi-reasonable conditions, and pushed them to one side. He balanced a heavy-duty hole-punch on top, just in case the weather decided to act it’s month and send a blast of crisp wind through the tiny window held open by the string of the blinds covering it. It had happened once before, years ago, and Steve had spent the rest of his night on overtime just picking up pieces of paper and filing them back to their original places. He didn’t feel like going through that again; his back wasn’t what it used to be, and Steve wasn’t sure his knees would be up to the challenge of crawling along a hard wood floor.

Picking his pen up and dropping it with a quiet clink into the mug resting by his computer, he pushed away from the table, letting the wheels of his chair take him the distance to the door. Steve opened it gingerly, poking his head out and hoping that it wasn’t true that a woman’s work was never done: If Florence made him take another casserole home, he was pretty certain Dustin would begin to refuse meals, and if there was one thing Dt. Harrington didn’t need added to his list of difficulties, it was a fussy ten-year-old.

Thankfully there was no secretary in sight – in fact, it looked like half the police force had abandoned ship. The entire precinct was a waste land. Officer Powell sat in one corner, feet kicked up on his desk, throwing paper balls at a whirring fan, and Maxine Mayfield – a regular to the station, but not for unsavoury reason – watched with an unimpressed gaze as she waited for her brother’s shift to be done. But, really, that was it. That was the grand entertainment that Steve’s nightlife offered.

His keys rattled jovially as he locked up the office, and he ruffled the red-head’s hair in a drive-by mussing on his way to grab his coat from the rack. Robin’s was gone already – no surprise there – so all he really had to worry about as he was leaving was double-checking he had everything, and avoiding the vengeful, fisted hands of Max as she leapt from her chair with furious, delighted eyes:

“Harrington,” she hissed, and Steve smirked at the warmth he detected in her tone. She obviously hadn’t meant for it to leak through, because her eyes widened, and the girl scowled.

“Happy to see me, Max?”

“No!”

“You are,” Dt Harrington teased, and he crouched down in front of her with a stupid grin on his supposedly stupid face. “You so are!”

“Am not!”

Steve waggled a finger in her face, winking to Powell over her shoulder as Max grabbed for it, bringing it to her mouth with the threat of biting it clean off like a carrot stick. “Face it, kid. You love me. You find me funny!”

“You’re stupid,” the ten-year-old snapped back, releasing his hand, and grabbing the lapels of his coat with tiny fists instead. She pulled him forward like she was being the bad cop in a duo of interrogating officers. Steve let himself get tugged along for the ride, grinning.

“Says who?”

“Says Billy,” Steve rolled his eyes, prying her limpet-like fingers from his suit. He straightened up, leaving her adorable, angry face glaring up at him. Her cheeks had gone as red as her hair. There was no heat in her voice though, not really, and she looked away from his soft gaze, blushing. “But I still think you’re cool. He’s stupid too.”

“Yeah, Max. He is,” the man agreed, hands on his hips. “You know who else is stupid? Chief Ho –“

“Harrington!” Steve paled, letting out a nervous bubble of laughter as he turned to the voice. Jim levelled him with a disappointed stare that sent waves of childhood nostalgia through the detective’s gut as the station doors swung shut behind him. He was wrangling a cuffed man by the elbows, tiredness seeping through his eyes, through his voice. “This isn’t a day care. Come and help me.”

Steve furrowed his brows, confused, but approached, nonetheless. He stepped with caution, unsure. “Uh, isn’t exactly my forte, Hop.”

“Cut the crap, detective. You went through basic training just like the rest of us,” the Chief sanctioned, and the lack of patience in his voice caused Steve to walk that little bit faster. At his approach, the guy in custody’s attention rocketed straight towards him.

Now, Steve was never one to judge a book by it’s cover. Really. But with a quick and critical appraisal of the man currently being arrested by his superior, it was kind of hard for Steve to avoid.  Because when the man turned, his hair turned with him – all of it – and it flicked over his shoulders, framed by the cheap halogen lighting above, like something out of a Whitesnake music video. Because the tight black jeans, the worn leather jacket, the Savatage t-shirt, the glint of cool silver adorning his knuckles and fingers, did nothing to quell the uncomfortable heat creeping its way up his throat, and Steve cursed himself for never fully getting over his childhood crush on Nikki Sixx.

“Yeah, detective, cut the crap,” parroted the man, and Steve revelled in that voice being aimed towards him. He swallowed, dragging his eyes up from the chains looped around his waist like a belt (and were those handcuffs in place of a buckle? Christ). A smirk was plastered over top of the rocker’s face, his brown eyes fully aware, it seemed, of the thousands of thoughts flooding through Steve’s mind. “Help the old man, why dontcha?”

Hopper gave the guy a rough shove and he stumbled, letting out a breathy laugh, and, stupidly, Steve reached forward to steady him. He regretted it the minute he touched the man because the flutter of eyelashes and sarcastic ‘my hero’ had Dt. Harrington stumbling instead.

“Fingerprint him,” the Chief said gruffly, physically manoeuvring Steve’s hands from the convict’s­ - remember the type of people who get themselves arrested, Steve – shoulder down to the cuffed hands pinned behind his back. Jim held him there for a moment, giving the other man a knowing look. His grip on Steve’s wrist tightened: “He’s in for drunk and disorderly. You remember how to put that into the system, right?”

“Yeah, but – “

“Don’t get distracted if you ever want to make it home tonight,” Hopper relented, backing away. Steve frowned.

“Where are you going?”

The chief grinned, throwing his hat onto his desk and shrugging on his coat. “Hot date, you know how it is.”

Steve resisted the urge to scoff, clearing his throat instead, and he gently urged the man in his charge forward as he watched, more miserable than ever, as his boss practically skipped from the building.

He pushed the cuffed man into a chair opposite an empty desk and turned the computer on begrudgingly. Chin in hand, he stared towards the blank windows-start-up screen as the PC’s fans whirred angrily into action. Steve felt eyes burning into him, and pushed hair from his forehead as he turned to the unwelcome attention:

“What?” he sighed. He was met with an exaggerated smile.

“Judging by your reaction, I guess you don’t.”

“What?”

“Know how it is,” the man continued, and Steve could feel himself begin to grow impatient, frustrated, annoyed. Spotting his flustered state, the smile on their face crept even further up their cheeks. “Having a hot date?”

He was leaning over the desk now, cheek pressed against a balled fist in some childish mirroring of Steve, and the detective felt the area beneath his eyes grow hot. He blinked, sitting back in his chair: “I know,” he said, aiming to keep his voice steady and calm – professional, because that’s what he was. A professional. Steve hated the way a dark eyebrow cocked at his response. “I know,” he repeated sternly, trying to force some conviction into his words.

“I don’t see a ring.”

Steve frowned, flexing his right hand awkwardly as he turned back to the computer screen, suddenly incredibly aware of it. “I’m not married.”

“Ah.” Steve’s eyes flickered to him, then down to the chipped nail polish on his fingers, and back to the screen. He swallowed, opening a folder to begin the digital booking procedure. He double clicked on a tick-box by accident as the man decided to speak once more: “So, you’re a player, then?”

Steve cursed breathlessly, exiting the file and reopening it. There, a blank slate. Dt. Harrington wished he could do the same thing in real life and restart this whole ordeal – he wouldn’t be letting Hopper sneak off the next time around.

“Name?”

“Eddie – Edward Munson… Is this an eye for an eye situation? Do I get to know just who my charming captor is?”

“It’s not required for me to tell you,” He stated, stealing a glance over towards Munson. The guy was still staring at him, eyes squinting, half-closed, as though Steve was a mystery he was trying to decipher. The click of keys as Steve added the man’s credentials to the document filled the brief silence. “Any middle names?”

“No.” A simple statement. Normal procedure. Then: “So, about your ‘hot dates’, detective… You go on lots?”

Dt. Harrington wanted to slam his head against the keyboard. He inhaled slowly (hold for four, just like Robin had taught him) and let the air out in a whining, exaggerated sigh. Half of him wanted to throttle Munson with the cuffs chained around his wrists, and the other half wanted to entertain him, purely out of personal, incredibly non-professional interest in the other man’s interest.

“Not anymore,” Steve admitted. He clicked into an empty box asking to describe the crime committed: “My colleague said you were being admitted for drunk and disorderly. Is that right?”

Eddie Munson snorted. “Your colleague?”

“Yeah.”

The other man rolled his eyes and began scratching at an ink stain on the wooden desk. “If you mean the big guy, then yeah. I don’t know about any disorder, though. Thought I was just being thrown into the clink with the rest of the bums.”

“You’re homeless, then?”

Eddie’s eyebrows shot up beneath his shaggy fringe, hiding there, and he had the audacity to look offended as he sank down into his chair. “Fuck no. Why, do I have trash in my hair?” He brought a hand up to thread through his wild locks, snickering at Steve’s unamused face.

“It’s not funny to make fun of the less fortunate, Munson. What’s your address?”

Eddie stiffened. “Uh, okay. Funny thing, actually – “

“You are homeless?” Steve guessed, and he figured he was actually close to the truth by the way the other man’s face seemed to humble and calm down from it’s crazy that he’d had posted there since they’d met.

“No, dude, I live in a van!”

“Like, in an RV?”

“Er,” Eddie hesitated. “Yeah, sure. Like in an RV.”

“What’s the license?”

Eddie answered disdainfully and watched as Steve typed the information into the designated box, frowning, but he made no attempt to interrupt the detective as he continued filling in the rest of the information. Steve treasured the quiet, broken only by the hushed conversation across the room where in Max continued to verbally abuse Powell’s attempts to shoot a crumpled post-it into the waste basket.

Steve turned to Eddie, then, examining him with a crude eye; Munson puffed his chest beneath his gaze like the preening bird of paradise he’d seen on that nature documentary Dustin had forced him to sit through (David Attenborough had lulled him into a false sense of security -  those birds were vicious).  Dt. Harrington wondered if the man realised he was doing it, but one glance to his smirking face and smudged eye-liner was enough to stop that thought in it’s tracks.

“Do you have a criminal record?”

“Not that I know of,” Eddie replied coolly. He narrowed his eyes as Steve turned to type something into a search engine, leaning forward and craning his neck to try and get a closer look. “What are you doing?”

“Fact-checking,” Steve murmured in reply, and felt his chest deflate, rest easy, when he saw that the man was telling the truth. He was clean as a whistle. Related family members - his father – were a different story all together, and Steve didn’t let himself linger on the crooked, malicious black and white mugshot that leered at him through the screen. Put away for second-degree manslaughter, he thought grimly, and looked back to the Munson sat before him. “It checks out.”

“Well, good,” Eddie said roughly. There was a gravel to his voice that had the hairs on the back of Steve’s neck standing to attention. “I’m a man of many qualities, detective. But I’m not a liar.”

There was an undercurrent of upset, embarrassment, at what Steve had possibly been assuming -  or even hinting towards – and he cleared his throat awkwardly. “It’s just- uh, you know. We have to do it for everyone who comes through,” he stammered, and cleared his throat again, avoiding eye contact with the other man. “Don’t think you’re special or anything.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Munson shot back, and there it was, the classic grin that Steve found somewhat endearing now that he’d seen that face void of it. Eddie sent him a wink, and he supressed the shiver in exchange for a well-timed eyeroll, scrolling up and down the document to check for anything he’d missed. He checked ‘no’ for anything stating that the incarcerated was exhibiting foul or unsavoury behaviour. ‘No’ was also checked for the box that asked whether a superior officer had been overseeing the whole thing, because Steve was so going to throw it back in Hopper’s face if anyone questioned why a Homicide detective was detaining people.

Steve sent the file to the printer in his office. Mainly because he wanted to escape the digging eyes of Eddie Munson, but also because he didn’t know how to use the one set up only a couple feet away. When he pushed himself out from beneath the desk, standing up, Eddie frowned, copying the motion, and Steve shook his head, pushing him back down into the seat:

“Stay here.”

“Where are you going?” If anything, Steve would say that the man sounded concerned. How cute.

“I’ll be back,” he reassured, and Munson’s eyes widened a fraction.

“Okay?” The other man said, like he didn’t know what else to say. Steve sent him a stiff smile before he began that awkward, half-run half-speed walk to his office. His heartbeat thudded in his ears and if he didn't know any better he'd say he could hear the tumbling of blood as it rushed through his veins as Eddie Munson's eyes followed his every move.

What was wrong with him? Just a few hours ago he was investigating the brutal slaughter of a poor woman. Someone's mother, someone's daughter, was dead, and for the first time in years Dt. Harrington was struggling to keep the case at the forefront of his mind. He braced himself against door, closing it softly behind him. He wasn't in high school anymore, Steve had to remind himself. He couldn't just drop it all for the first cute girl he saw.

But and Steve tried to stop the train of thought before it began, failing miserably. But, Edward Munson wasn't a girl. That made it different, surely?

No. It didn't. Steve had been with guys before - he'd learnt more in college than how to assess the arcs of blood splattered against the wall. He was just tired, and lonely, and he'd had a rough day. Steve snatched the papers from the printer harshly, wrinkling them slightly. He just needed to get it out of his system, that's all.

Preferably not with a drunk dude admitted to a police station.

The term 'beggars can't be choosers' breached the sturdy wall he'd suddenly built up in his mind, and Steve banished it instantly. He wasn't a beggar. He was Steve Harrington. King Steve. The best homicide investigator Hawkins had seen in half a century. If anything, everyone else was begging.

When he came back out of his office, his tiny, insecure pep-talk to himself had boosted his spirits some, and he strode jauntily back to the desk with the same cockiness he'd had when he was younger, before his work had both taken over his life and drained him of it at once. He eyed Maxine Mayfield uncertainly where she was perched on the end of an adjoining desk, listening with the same intense, serious look she always kept on her face as the hand-cuffed man talked aimlessly at her about whatever the fuck a guy like him had to talk about. Music, probably.

Steve sent a sharp glance towards Officer Powell, but the man had fallen asleep with his feet kicked up and his neck flopped awkwardly over the back of his chair. He would feel that position when he woke, and Steve felt a little bit gratified. Served him right for leaving a ten-year-old unsupervised with a criminal.

Not that Dt. Harrington really thought that Munson was a bad guy. Usually when drunks got brought into the clink it was because they’d been partying too loud and disturbed a neighbour, and, honestly, Eddie seemed sober. But that was beside the point.

Steve stood with his hands on his hips, watching the two of them, and felt a begrudging smile tilt the corners of his mouth: “Am I interrupting something?”

“Yes,” Max cried, kicking out at him with her swinging legs. She missed him by about three feet, but he got the picture quite clearly. Eddie rolled his eyes, shaking his chains at Steve.

“Nothing important, Steve,” the man purred. Steve’s heart hammered in his chest, and he wet his lips, looking away from the eyes plastered onto him. Eddie tracked the move like a predator, and something about the way he gave his full attention to Steve had the detective shuddering beneath his gaze.

“Max, you’re not supposed to speak to strangers.”

“You were talking to him,” the girl said indignantly, and Eddie’s dazzling smile caused Steve to falter in his reply, like the man knew just how to hotwire his brain. He blinked.

“Yeah, well. That’s my job,” he shrugged, pushing past her sit back down. The red-head scowled, kicking out again, and this time her shoes brushed against his slacks. He shoot her a dirty look: “You shouldn’t have told him my name, either. Where’s your brother? Go bother him.”

Max’s brow furrowed and she pulled her legs up, crossing them on top of the desk. Her eyes flickered between the two men, and she pressed her lips together in indecision. “Can I stay if I’m quiet?”

“Sure. But I want silence. Anything more and you’re out. That’s an order,” Steve enforced, lacing his tone with authority. He knew it would work – it always did with kids. Remind them that you’re in control, give them an ounce of duty, and they felt instantly important. Max nodded furiously, making a show of zipping her lips, and Steve threw the document in his hand down onto the desk, turning his attention to Munson.

The man was looking at him – no surprise there, but Steve still felt oddly uncomfortable – with wide, excited eyes, his lips parted slightly. Steve could see the pink of his tongue trapped between his teeth, and cocked his head slightly: “You good, Munson?” He pushed the paper across the desk. “I need you to sign this for me, then we can get to fingerprinting.”

Eddie swallowed and shook his head. “No, uh – yeah I’m good. I’m super good,” he informed. He paused, scrutinizing the detective as he stole a pen right out of Steve’s hands before he had the chance to offer it. He scribbled a rushed, messy signature that slopped over the dotted line that it was aimed for, and stood quickly, slamming his palms flat on the table in a way that generated a thunderous sound. Steve raised a brow as Max jumped, lips twisting in her attempts to maintain her vigil of absolute quiet. Munson levelled him with a… what was in that stare? Steve couldn’t quite make it out, struggling to compartmentalise the muddle of emotions burning there.

“So you’re ready to go, then?” the detective proffered, rising to join the detainee.

“I’m all yours, Stevie.”

“Please, call me detective. It’s protocol.”

“I’m all yours, detective Steve.”

Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair. The tangy scent of copper drifted from his tie and he swallowed as he rounded the desk. This was going to be a long night.

He hated Mondays.

[direwombat]

happy wip wednesday and first day of nanowrimo y'all

tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton (tysm~ <3)

tagging @trench-rot, @cassietrn, @strangefable, @voidika, @madparadoxum, @aceghosts, @adelaidedrubman, @josephslittledeputy, @inafieldofdaisies, @g0dspeeed, @simplegenius042, @miyabilicious, @strafethesesinners, @confidentandgood, @jillvalentinesday, @poetikat, and anyone else with something to share! (also to be added/removed to the taglist, please like/unlike this post here)

here's the intro to the scene directly after this halloween treat i posted of syb getting bit and her transformation. she's havin' a normal one. tw for emetophobia

Sybille comes to consciousness to the light of dawn filtering through the canopy of leaves overhead. 

Her head is pounding, a throbbing pain trapped inside her skull, and she winces as she hesitantly cracks her eyes open. She lets out a groan. The world is overwhelmingly bright. Most of the trees in the county are still changing colors, but here in the mountains, a good number have started to shed their leaves. What little shade they can provide, it isn’t enough to spare the burning to her eyes. 

She lies on the ground, naked as the day she was born, and covered in dirt and blood. She sits up and presses her palm to her forehead, and the second she does, her body is set alight with pain. Every muscle screams at her with an ache so deep that it goes down to the marrow of her bones. Shallow cuts and scratches are littered across her body, from the soles of her bare feet to the blood trickling down her cheek. Yet, while the pain flashes white-hot through her, she’s also fucking freezing. The hair on her arms and back of neck stand on end and through chattering teeth, her breath comes out in visible puffs in front of her. A violent shudder rolls through her, her body desperately trying to ward off the chill.

“Jesus Christ,” she moans, and she runs her hand through her hair, knocking loose leaves, twigs, and pine needles. The sweet, coppery tang of blood sits heavy on the back of her tongue and in her throat, and as she runs her tongue over her teeth — normal teeth — she finds sinewy bits of meat stuck between them.

Her stomach clenches and heaves at the realization and she rolls over onto her hands and knees to expel the rising bile. Only it isn’t just her own stomach acid that splatters onto the forest floor below her. An inordinate amount of blood and chunky pieces of partially digested meat and viscera splash below her. Her throat burns and her eyes sting, prickling with tears, as more and more blood erupts from her mouth. Jesus Christ, this all can’t be hers, can it?

It ain’t. Just deer’s blood.

She gasps her way through the dry-heaves once she’s expelled the last of it from her stomach, grimacing at what appears to be flecks of bone floating in the pool beneath her. Her belly aches, empty and cramping, and she spits a thick, foamy pink wad onto the ground.  Wiping the blood and spittle dripping off her chin, she takes a moment to catch her breath. Ragged pants eventually even out into deeper, rasping inhalations that actually fill her lungs. 

“Okay,” she wheezes. “We’re okay…we’re okay…”

She lifts her head — to take in her surroundings and get her bearings — but as she does, she’s met with the bloody carcass of an elk right in front of her. Its belly is ripped wide open, with its entrails spilling out onto the ground. Dead, milky white eyes stare back at her, and a fly crawls right over one of them, pausing directly on the eyeball to clean itself of the blood on its little insect legs. 

The kill is fresh. No more than an hour or two old. The blood and body are still warm, and the distinctive stench of rot has yet to set in, although she can definitely tell that it’s beginning to sour.

It’s almost a shame to let so much meat go to waste. 

And then she catches the chunky bits of meat sitting in her vomit-blood and the color drains from her face. All signs point to the poor elk being killed by an animal — wolves — but why would they abandon their prey instead of bringing pieces back to their pack? And why would they have let her get so close to such a fresh kill? Why the fuck did she, in what she can only assume was a fugue state, feel compelled to partake in feeding off this kill?

And why does she have the urge to press her fingers into the gaping wound and lick the thick, clotting blood off her fingers?

She shakes her head to free the thought. The dizziness is enough of a distraction to drown out the intrusive thought, but not to quiet it entirely. She’s so thirsty. She’s so hungry. 

She was hungry last night, too, wasn’t she?

Her head throbs again, and she crawls over to a nearby tree to lean against as she shakily rises to her feet. Pressing her hand to her forehead again, she screws her eyes shut, trying to recall the events of last night. The fuck happened?

She remembers dicking around at the office with Joey. 

She remembers Nancy patching a call through to her desk phone. 

She remembers Jacob’s voice on the other end. “One of my workers didn’t show up for the final check-in…no one’s been able to get a hold of him…we rounded up a search party…he’s stew meat now.”

She remembers driving up to the Veterans Center, only to find the place empty. And then…

And then…

Christ, what happened after that? Her jaw clenches, trying to focus on her memories, but all she gets is a blur of emotions. Fear, pain, rage, and then, eventually, hunger. 

Hunger…

God, she’s so hungry her gums ache. 

But her stomach can wait. She needs to find her way back to the Veterans Center and get back to her cruiser. She needs to let the Sheriff’s Department know what’s going on. Let them know about last night. 

She needs to let Eli know she’s alright. 

Shit, where are her clothes?

[70svampyr]

Watch Yourself

Pt.1 because I've been postponing this for so long that my reins of patience have finally snapped. Not much action in this part, except Billy's usual erratic behavior through the phone. Also mentioned a bit of Phyl in this because my girl deserves some love and I barely see her brought up.

WARNINGS! brief sexual language, creepy behavior, pills (I don't know if this should be a warning but I've seen people put it as such before so just in case), alcohol usage, gn! reader (rather they are just visiting the girls at the sorority or living there with them is up to interpretation.) 3k+ words.

edit: rereading this, I just realized I accidentally referred to the reader as "she" once. SO SORRY about that, I fixed the mistake to a proper pronoun! hopefully, that's all...don't be afraid to comment if you see another mistake and I'll gladly fix it.

Dread eased its way into the Pi Kappa Sigma sorority, a withered mask of weariness placed on top of the resident's exterior solid. A thick layer of frost encased the foundation of the estate and left a bitter imprint on the once nicely-looking establishment, marking its new territory. The harsh winters of Canada had made their appearance and took the drudgery to add another list of trepidations for the poor tenants that shook with the blistering winds. Batters of snow stacked on top of rooftops and devoured the driveways with its sharp canines, regaling the trees and encompassing the streets. The entire calamity resembled a rotting carcass, shaken to the bone and having premature icicles wilting from the milky muscles. The sorority girls of Pi Kappa Sigma, including you, felt like just on the edge of the cliff between falling to your demise and dulling the blades of the rock as it dug itself into your skin, illustrating your now lifeless body a pretty crimson-red; Flesh and bones becoming frozen on the shore from the vicious winter. Unless someone else does it first, saving you from this misery. Doubtfully so.

"Maybe he won't even call. The pervert's likely too busy with this harsh snowstorm as much as we are. He'll probably be shoveling up the snow off of his driveway so much to even consider calling us."

Phyl had been trying her best to lighten up the mood that had been drizzled with despondency and wariness. Not even an hour prior Barb had brought up the heinousness of it all and the talk of their little "prank caller" they'd been receiving for the past two months had slinked into the conversation. This had brought the girl's temper down at a frightening rate, now just recalling back to the ghastly phone calls this same man would initiate. They were sickening and perverted. It was the same damn thing every ring; him conversing about his carnal desire to plow his tongue in their nether regions and begging for his dick to be sucked─in summary. Profane rackets would be added to the mixture, not to mention pig sound reenactments and simply downright awful moans that none of the girls enjoyed. The vulgar phone calls had quickly become frequent, so the girls (more like Barb) had materialized up with the name "The Moaner" as an alias for their... unique guest.

The epithet fit, regarding how much he loves to moan into the receiver like he was deprived of it for all his life. So "The Moaner" stuck like honey. Except it wasn't sweet like honey, nor like chocolate or surgery sprite; something that you'd constantly want overlaying the base of your tongue and sizzling. It was more like the taste of copper, a taste seeping in between your teeth after biting down on your lip too harshly and letting the crimson liquid stain the skin of your chin and continue to rise back to the surface as you licked up the blood. It's not terrible the first time, sinking your teeth into the flesh of your lip, but overdo it and the metallic of it all begins to fester inside you, and all of a sudden it doesn't taste so tolerable.

Jess had circled the kitchen countertop to stand beside you while giving Phyl a kind, but dubious smile. "I don't know, Phyl. What if he doesn't even live in Toronto? Or Canada as a whole? He might live somewhere else, like Texas. It never snows up there." The proclamation coasted over the bungalow in a pristine bleak ambiance, eyes all equally passing back and forth towards each other, similar thoughts in each girl's mind, like a radio detector. You noticed the apparitions that now spelled the room, looming with a dark force, Jess's face lengthening into a hangdog right beside you. You began to feel guilty for not stepping up to Phyl's endeavor in a fresh atmosphere, but before you could even get a word out to arouse some kind of fresh air, the loud wail of the phone castigated your opportunity and brought an even gloomier vicinity.

"How fortunate." Barb sarcastically remarked as she carried another sip of her brandy. The acerbic beverage was just as broiling plummeting down her throat as the phone's ringing, everyone in the room knowing well who it could be. Not a soul dared to move across the space, too afraid and frankly too tired to handle what was on the other side. Regardless the ringing just kept going, until the noise finally got too pricking for you. Biting your tongue, you swerved the kitchen countertop and roughly picked up the plastic cable from its handset. "Hello?" Your voice was firm, yet just by reading between the lines, the habitue could easily tell how tentative you stood. You swiped the sweat off your brow as you anxiously waited for an answer, bouncing off of one leg and scratching the back of it with the other. Silence hovered above the outlying sound of static, your heavy breathing rolling as the singular proof of vitality. No one said a word, as if a ghost picked up the phone. "Uh- Hello?─"

"Just hang up, [Name]. It's probably him just fucking with you." Barb's resonant and hoarse voice scratched at you with its sharp claws from across where you stood; swaying back and forth for it was a habit of yours when the vines of impatience came creeping up higher and higher. Uneasiness too. You mulled over the brunette's words while still supporting the phone hooked to your ear, regarding the possibility that whoever was on the other line would finally gain the courage to speak. But as some more seconds passed and the sound of droning pervaded your ear, you let out a low sigh and lowered the phone. "Maybe it was the wrong number─?" Yet, whenever Clare's soft voice peeked up, the shrill of the phone echoed throughout the room once again. Not a ghost; If it was, it was a very teasing one. "That quick? Wow, he must be excited. Well go on, let's give this guy what he wants." Barb sat up from her place─, sprawled out onto the couch, holding a cup of brandy in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other, ─and stumbled toward the phone with a tremble in her step. However before she could reach out for the crying device, you gently placed a hand on top of her chest and slightly pushed her away, shaking your head in a rejecting manner. You could see the look in her eyes, the underlying drunkness too clear not to notice. She was obviously intoxicated; It was best to leave Satan lingering at the door rather than have your inebriated friend piss him off and set the house ablaze. "No, Barb, you're too drunk to deal with him. Let's just all head to bed and call it a day. We don't need to end it on a much more terrible note than it already has."

Barb only scoffed at your proclamation, swatting your hand away from her dress shirt as if the touch scorned her, taking another gulp of her beverage like her very life depended on it. "I'm not that drunk! I can handle the son of the bitch! Plus, he's only gonna keep calling us until one of us picks up the phone. We might as well get over it." She eyed you like a piranha ready to forage, spitting out the words with fire. Nevertheless, you simply stood taller and kept your feet planted on the ground. "You're only gonna spur him on and add fuel to the crossfire. Trust me, the last thing we need is to piss him off, we don't know what kind of person he is. Now, go to bed. I mean it." Your words hung over the two of you in an icy blaze, and if it weren't for Jess coming up to rest a solacing hand on Barb's shoulder and tell her "they're right, we should go to bed", you would've been having to deal with Barb's violent episodes, certainly gaining a few bruises and a busted lip. With a coerced sigh, the brunette began walking up the stairs, before halting abruptly and twisting her body to face yours, a grim expression plastered on her complexion. "When he calls again, and again, and again until it drives the whole house crazy, you're gonna be the one picking it up." And with that, she went to bed.

Exhausted sighs washed over the tenancy room in sync the instant Barb's door slammed shut behind her. You silently thanked the divinities above for the tight-lipped exchange of agreement that was masked over with a dreary exhale. A low yawn from Clare broke the brief stillness and placed a cheeky smile on her pale face, slightly flushed from the cold. "I think I'm gonna head to bed as well. This day has drained me of dignity." Her candied-laced voice brought a few nods in understanding, a hushed giggle from Phyl, and numerous eyes tracing her figure spiraling up the staircase and to her coffin. Clare's retreat seemed to construct a rolling dice match; once she entered her bedroom, Jess had bid her good nights as well, then Phyl followed suit, until only you stood in the kitchen space, wide awake with the underlying fatigue. But you knew you wouldn't be able to fall asleep just yet, so you stayed put. You watched Phyl track up the carpeted stairs before she suddenly turned around to face you. "Thanks for that─ you know, with Barb and all. I'm sorry she can be such a priss, but you know she would feel extremely guilty for hurting you. Anyways, good night- Oh! And try not to stay up too late. Remember to take your pills once─"

"I know, I know! I've got the drill memorized Phyl, you don't have to remind me." You waved your hands in exaggeration as you earnestly attempted to shoo the curly-haired girl away. "Plus, I know Barb would never consciously hurt me, but hey, she can throw a few good punches." you couldn't stop a laugh from slipping out, Phyl chuckling along with you. "Now go get some sleep. You need it more than me." All she gave you in retort to that was a vacillating smile, before trotting upstairs and entering her room, gaining her once solitariness. You monitored her with a similar grin on your complexion. You cherished Phyl and all of the other sorority sisters as if they were your own blood, even Barb who was an alcoholic, but you didn't need them plaguing you like pigeons swarming a clutter of scattered peanut kernels. It wore you, as much as you didn't like to admit it; you needed your space as much as they needed theirs. And that came with being able to memorize when to take your zaleplon.

The resonate of stillness leaped off the walls with an eerie calmness to it, the distant racket of something ricocheting up in the attic remaining as the only noise to materialize. You brushed it off for the rats scurrying inside the house; it's become a recent convulsion that you quickly learned to overlook. Your eyes trace towards the stack of dirty dishes that sat In the equally dirty sink, its essence taunting you in a way that screamed for help. A wave of grimace washed over you at the tainted scenery, complying with the demands it spoke without a lip to invoke it. You made sharp work of rolling up the sleeves of your top and wrenching on the faucet, letting the water get poaching hot underneath your fingertips, and seizing a bottle of dish soap out from underneath the sink. An odd notion crept in the back of your head, recalling back to the sicko that had a guilty pleasure in harassing the sorority's phone line.

'I wonder if he "enjoys" washing the dishes as much as I do.'

─

The cognate clock on the paint-peeled wall ticked within your work time, a grating reminder and alarm of how vastly time passed as you set out your responsibilities. The snow had not lessened throughout clattering dishes and rinsing dish soap, preferably amassing up more and concocting an upheaval for the impending sunrise. You hummed to a jolly Christmas tune ─although couldn't fathom remembering what exact song, ─ with a newfound sense of clarity that shimmered in front of you like a dazzling star as you scrubbed at your last plate. Once you had turned off the sink and positioned the now soaking-wet ceramic on the laid-out kitchen towel, the sound of the phone going off brought a startled yelp out of you, the shrieking noise slicing through the air with its sharp, tantalizing knife, narrowly missing the flesh of your skin. 'Jesus fuck.' you grasped onto the cotton above your beating heart like a sheathing barrier, withholding a glare aimed at the maneuvering device that jerked in its handset with deduction. It looked as if the caller was desperate for you to pick up, screeching how badly they wanted to hear your voice throughout the receiver, hear it bark at them with such resentment that rippled a burning crackle of fire downwards. And maybe they did. Perhaps that was what lied behind the harmless gadget. However, that was unbeknownst to you.

Throwing the paper towel you were utilizing to dry your hands off on top of the marble counter, you trudged toward the screaming telephone and harshly picked it up, silencing the ring and lifting it to the front of your ear. "Hello?" You had said for the second time that night, uneasiness already seeping its way through the crevices of your bones and aligning your insides, Its long, twig-like arms enveloping themselves around your heart and squeezing it like a vice. At first, nothing. Just the sound of static and what you could make out as a subtle shuffle, but no words. "Hello? Who is this?" attempting at your voice again, you immediately were greeted with (dare you say, very realistic) reenactments of pig snorts. "He─"

"Pretty piggy! Pretty, pretty piggy!"

Your speech was interrupted by a voice that resembled a mix of nails on a chalkboard, and a busted windshield with cracks spiraling across the glass. "Oh. It's you again." was all you were able to muster up, clear annoyance laced with your words, before the male switched to making slurping noises like a light switch. "Let me liii ick it! Lick your pretty, pink─" Vulgurties already began to spew their way out of his mouth, the carnality and the pictorial of it all reaching towards you with its repulsive tongue, driving you to impulsively back away from the phone. It didn't take long for the caller to bring in his roundabouts of elaborating on his horniness and bragging about his dick, the slurping noises only obtaining louder and more explicit that you could virtually feel his spittle through the receiver. 'Gross fuck.' was all that you ruled to think during the esprit of the phone call. You could only handle so much until the wires snapped and you finally had your fill. "Listen, I hate to break it to 'ya, but these phone calls of yours are getting old. If you want to keep calling, be my guest, but at least change up the act. We're all sick and tired of your crap, and we could give less than two shits about how big your dick is. So either stop calling or makeup something new." you couldn't help yourself from snapping; the act was growing old, and the troubling frigid weather that you already had to deal with had given you a bit of a push. You didn't hesitate to hang up the phone.

Yet, of course, that didn't seem to be enough to scare off the male, as the ringing merely came for the umpteenth time, not even letting a second pass after you had abandoned the prior call. "Jesus Christ...What?!" you practically screeched into the receiver, fed up and exhausted for the night, your cup overflowing with crises. A resonate of giggles greeted you not-so-warmly, a vein beginning to appear on your forehead as you rubbed at your nasal. "M-Mommy's mad...real mad..." the male murmured between giggles, his luny cheerfulness bubbling up back to the surface, the rest of his insanity tied together in a swirl of madness. "G-Gonna...H-Have to punish...Discipline! You have to learn to discipline, Billy! Or else the baby will never learn! Learn from your mistakes! Mistakes, mistakes, MISTAKES!" The voices used seemed to alternate between a thunder of an angry older male and a younger one, paralleling a conversation between father and son.

"Punish pretty piggy...yes...punish, punish, punish, punish─"

You rolled your eyes to cover up the growing uncomfortableness, sensing the male's delirium within his odd speech. Responding with a familiar bite, you pressed the phone closer toward the flesh of your ear. "So you still live with your mother? I can't say I'm surprised. And I think I'm gonna have to pass on being 'punished'." All he did in response was laugh. Laugh after laugh after laugh, until he finally cracked and never stopped, even for a minute.

Amid his ongoing fit, you suddenly recalled that you still needed to take your pills. Placing the phone on top of the table it was residing at, face-up, you strolled towards the kitchen and opened up one of the cupboards, taking out two tablets from their dwelling and setting them aside on the marble counter, all while the faint sound of deranged laughter sufficed the room. 'What the hell is this maniac laughing about?' you pondered while you fetched your mug of water and swallowed down the tablets smoothly. Even once you crawled back to the telephone, what sounded like shattering windshields did not subside.

"What? You got a joke to tell me? You better make it quick then, I doubt your mom will appreciate you staying up this late, harassing a sorority house for that matter." the words slipped from your lips before you could even lasso them back in, and immediately, the male halted his antics. An uncanny silence poised over you for the third time that night as you gulped down nothingness, omitting your growing anxiousness. The pang of regret was already beginning to web around you, its spidery legs creeping all over your body as you waited patiently. 'Did I piss him off? Did I royally fuck up?'

You almost jumped as a normal voice spoke close to the receiver.

"I'm going to kill you." prevailed as the final thing you heard before the line went dead in your clutch, a sudden waft of chilliness sawing through you.

'What the fuck.'

Tentatively, you placed the phone back down in its respective compartment─hopefully for the last time that night─and paced two steps back from its plateau. His words dispersed inside your brain as you tried to collect your bearings, the frost-bite tone he held swelling louder and louder, drumming against your skull. A shaky sigh managed to escape your lips as you gathered yourself, mentally face-palming. "Stupid, he just said that to scare you. No need to be so worked up." you softly muttered as you glared daggers toward the plastic cable. With a final scoff, you stomped towards the light switch connected to the kitchen and flicked it off, allowing yourself to be bathed in darkness and take on whatever is obscuring among it. A yawn almost instantly evaded you afterward, feeling your exhaustion take its final bows. Not even bothering to take one last finalized glance at the house, you ambled up the carpeted staircase and made your way across your enclosure, not distinguishing the hazel-green eyes boring into the back of your head, pissed off and blood lust surfacing.

tearing my hair out, this took so fucking long and it's only pt.1. I know this might've been a little boring, but I swear the next part will actually have some mind-fucking because I believe billy would enjoy that type of torture. take this as a sample of me trying to get better at my writing. -cora

[astheswarmitcalls]

PART 2: THE SWARM TOUR

This is the second part of my 4-part analysis of MCR5, the Masterpost for which can be found here. Link to previous/next parts found at the bottom of the post. If there's something I missed, or you'd like to add your own spin/elaborate on something I brushed over, by all means I'd love to hear it!!

So in this section we’re going to talk about the recurring motifs on the merchandise and the set design. I’d love to talk about some of the things my sweet little girlfriend Gerard Way said on tour, but there were over 70 shows and there is no way I’d be able to get everything. The other variables are a lot easier to follow.

MERCH:

There’s merch that takes inspiration from previous albums, and merch that is inherently tied to The Foundations of Decay and this new age of My Chemical Romance. I’ll be talking exclusively about the latter.

We have recurring words of ‘swarm’ and ‘decay’, the fly motif, and that almost-military-earthy-olive green.

Decay is obvious reference to The Foundations of Decay. It’s likely this could refer to the health of MCR dissolving in the days leading up to their break up in a meta sense, but seeing as we’re under the assumption this track will also feature in MCR5, it would have narrative ties too. Decay can be synonymous with ‘deteriorate’ ‘collapse’ or ‘corrode’; the set of the tour itself is a collapsed, decimated cityscape. The use of decay is, however, in reference to organic matter that is decomposing, the chemical elements of it breaking down and being fed back into the earth. Decay also brings forth imagery of zombies, of vampires, of resurrection. Rebirth is already established to be a key theme of MCR5.

Swarm or allusions to swarms are littered throughout The Foundations of Decay, but more outright usage of the motif is within the tour marketing/merchandise. As I’ve just been horrified to learn, the cover/video for The Foundations of Decay features this awful, black, writhing swarm of flies. Fucking disgusting. Anyways, the tour itself has been referred to as the ‘Swarm’ Tour, and the word appears frequently alongside the fly iconography. What has MCR done? Decayed and rotted. What are we doing? Crowding and consuming that decay like a swarm of flies. WE are the Swarm!!! Gerard has talked about how rockstars ‘get eaten alive,’ but everything up until this point has been talking about the swarm allusion in a meta sense. I absolutely adore the whole aesthetic of this tour; the rot and decay surrounded by swarms of flies and vermin and post-nuclear landscapes.

Earlier I brought up themes of sensationalism of tragedy, femininity and the intersection of the two. Tragedies like 9/11 are replayed in the public eye repeatedly. And more than 20 years after, people will use 9/11 to justify religious and ethnic discrimination. I promise I’m not losing the plot here. This discussion is relevant to the aforementioned themes. Topics/events such as 9/11, Chernobyl and serial killers again and again are revived in the public eye. Not always to learn from these events but because humans are fascinated by tragedy and misfortune.

What’s even more fascinating than tragedy to the public sphere are tragic women. The dichotomy of femininity and darkness that exists with individuals such as Princess Diana, Jackie Kennedy or Gypsie Rose make their stories appealing to a wide audience. The way society treats these women teeters on the edge of learned acknowledgment to ravenous obsession. Their images and lives are resurrected again and again for our consumption. These attitudes towards tragedy and tragic women marry beautifully into the swarm imagery; hoarding, gross consumers that cling to tragedy like flies on a carcass.

This isn’t the only argument I have for this theme that may seem left-of-field, but as we’re going to get into with Part 3, there is A Lot to talk about.

The concept albums Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge and The Black Parade had largely monochromatic colour schemes. The explosion of colour that came with Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys marked a tonal shift and fit within the ethos of the concept album to be loud, to live unapologetically, not just the aesthetics of The Zones. Featured on the marketing, merchandise and wardrobe, green appears to be the defining colour for the Swarm tour.

The specific shade of green is a warmer, yet desaturated shade that invokes militaristic imagery. That dull, earthy green is commonly used for military uniform and vehicles. Once again, MCR is feeding us allusions to military and war.

Green as a colour is heavily associated with health and nature. The desaturated green present with the ‘Swarm’ iconography speaks to a decay of health and nature. Instead of affirming interpretations of life flourishing, we’re reminded of rotting and wilting vegetation. Zombies, who embody reanimation and decay, are often depicted with green skin. The Egyptian God Osiris, who lords over the dead, is depicted with green skin having been deceased and reanimated within the ancient Egyptian mythology. I’m not necessarily stating Egyptian mythology was an inspiration for MCR, simply pointing out green as a recurring colour in stories of reanimation.

Likewise, vampires were used as metaphor and point of reference for aesthetic in My Chem’s past. Red, black, white and greys appear frequently within depictions of vampires, with red and black featuring prominently in the wardrobes/art/merchandise of both TCFSR and TBP. MCR’s albums, mainly IBYMBYBMYL and TBP, allude to vampires. Even the draculoids within the Killjoys universe, share that same colour scheme of red, white, and black, despite not being actual vampires. Vampire iconography in the swarm tour was present, along with other ghoulish representations i.e. skeletons, bats, Gerard’s makeup, the setlists.

Is MCR moving away from vampires and onto zombies? Probably not. I don’t think Mr. Way wants to let go of his gothic bloodsuckers, but the ethos of zombies is much more aligned with the themes of The Foundations of Decay and MCR5. In ‘Vampires Will Never Hurt You’ the vampiric metaphor stood for addiction. The song was about the early stages of Gerard’s alcoholism, written in perspective of this character questioning if the listener would be able to do what is necessary, to stake their heart. ‘The Sharpest Lives’ likewise features many allusions to both drugs and vampires. If within MCR’s discography, vampires are used as a metaphor for addiction, would it be farfetched to say more zombie iconography would stand as a metaphor for rebirth? Being brought back not the same you once were, but as a new creature. One that rips itself from the ground and pilots its decrepit husk in grotesque, staggered movements, fuelled by instinct. Zombies as a recurring motif for MCR5 may present as a stretch but the symbols of ‘swarm’, ‘decay’ and flies marries well into the metaphor.

SET DESIGN:

MCR is no stranger to theatrics. At every show, they begin with The Foundations of Decay, the sheet drops, and the backdrop is revealed; a destitute city scape, buildings collapsed, and the streets trashed with debris. The billboard features a dead rat playing into these motifs of decay, swarm/vermin. The text in neon above it is an area code for New Jersey.

On a larger scale, this level of destruction to an urban area is reminiscent of a war zone. It’s not the same sort of warzone that’s present in Danger Days, barren and destitute. This looks post-nuclear. Anti-war sentiment appears as a backdrop to The Foundations of Decay, as well as the actual Swarm tour. As stated before, decay can appear synonymous with ‘collapse’ ‘rubble’ or ‘dissolution.’ What does this destruction, this decay breed? Vermin. Swarms of insects and rats that flourish in the presence of death. There’s also something to be said about MCR staging their return, their rebirth, on a set of rubble. It reads loudly and clearly ‘we are not the old MCR. We are reanimating from the debris. We are reborn from the foundations of decay.’ Also it just looks cool as fuck.

(Sidenote, how is it possible I write 3 full paragraphs about the colour green and barely two for the set design?)

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[darkdevasofdestruction]

Chapter 3 ~ The Final Task

Once more, Kratos liberated the ship of the undead minions, yet before him lay people - Slaughtered like animals, the victims lay before him... A reminder of his own past. A past, from which he could never escape. His only solace was the sea, endlessly sailing from one harbour, to the next, in service to the Gods of Olympus. All his hopes rested within. For ten years, he was their martyr, their puppet, but the nightmares plaguing the Spartan were growing far more painful with each day, and he was swiftly losing patience.

"Athena!" the warrior cried out into the sky, exiting his cabin in the ship, to speak to the statue of Athena. "For ten years -- I have faithfully served the Gods for ten years! When will you relieve me of these nightmares?" he asked accusatory, angry that no matter his hard work, his reward was never given to him.  "We request one final task of you, Kratos. Your greatest challenge awaits, in Athens, where even now, my brother, Ares, lays siege as we speak. Athens is on the verge of destruction - It is the will of Ares, my great city fall. Zeus has forbidden the Gods from waging war on each other - That is why it must be you, Kratos - Only a mortal trained by a God has a chance at defeating Ares." the statue of Athena spoke, laying down the task for her champion. "And if I am able to do this - To kill a God - Then, the visions... They will end?" his voice softened, having, for the first time in ages, a thread of hope dangling before his very eyes.  "Complete this final task, and the past that consumes you will be forgiven. Have faith, Kratos. The Gods do not forget those who come to their aid." thus, leaving the rotting carcass of the Hydra behind, Kratos set sail once more. His greatest challenge, and freedom from his growing madness, lay before him, in the ancient city of Athens, battling many a foe on his way.

In great haste, Kratos ran up the stairs, on the Way to Athens, and as he reached the top, he noticed a familiar silhouette of a woman with red hair, so long that it almost reached the ground, with various coloured flowers braided into it, and her dress was of the most expensive linen, embroidered with gold and dyed a deep green, just like the forest. Though it was not sheer like Aphrodite's, the lineout of her attractive silhouette could be seen. Still, as the champion stepped next to her, he couldn't help but wonder - What was the Goddess of Nature doing in a place like this? If Ares was the God of War, Katrina might as well be the Goddess of Peace and all things nice. The battlefield was no place for the kind.

"I see you have arrived faster than I expected, Kratos. I pray your journey was not a tiresome one." her voice was sweet like honey, Kratos always thought so, yet now, more than ever, her sadness was obvious. While some revelled in war, she could not stand even the idea of it. "It was fine. What are you doing here? I did not call for you." for some, such a statement would sound hostile and aggressive - But not for her. Instead, she turned to face him, and met him with a small smile. "Must I be summoned, to see you, Kratos? If that would be the case, I would only be seeing you during tragedies, and we both know I am not quite fond of them." though she tried to jest, she was met with a grunt and nothing more. "I... Knew would be here. Because of Athena. I wanted to be here, to ask you, first of all, what had she promised you... And secondly... To give you my aid throughout your journey to defeat this mad man... Though I may not be a warmonger, I still have mine own skills that may be of help." her eyes held kindness and genuine care for him, he noticed, and as soon as she reached out to cup his face, her soft and delicate hands reminded him of a foreign feeling that somehow, could battle how good he felt even with Lysandra. "Athena promised that, should I succeed in defeating Ares, I will have my past forgiven." thought his vision was set and voice harsh, he couldn't help but lean into her warm touch as he spoke. "And do you believe her?" this question, however, put him on alert.  "Athena said that Gods do not forget those who aided them during their times of need." he answered, yet he only saw her smile widen, but definitely not in a good way. "I ask again, Kratos - Do you believe her word?" his brows furrowed, as he gently put his hands over hers to remove them, and he stepped away, pondering over the question. Why would she ask something like this? Why would he question the validity of the words that the Goddess of Wisdom uttered? "I suppose it does not matter, whether you truly believe them, or you just have them as your last bit of hope. I must warn you, however, that Gods always have a way with words... Hence why I asked you such a question. She said your past will be forgiven, not that your visions will be erased. Bear that in mind... If it matters for you." Katrina pointed out, playfully stepping in the opposite direction, her golden sandals making soft noises in contact with the marble ground. "What are you implying?" realising what she meant, the Spartan immediately snapped his focus to her. "I am implying the same thing I have always warned you about - Never trust a God's word, for they are selfish and good for naught." she explained, stealing a look at him past her shoulder, only to hop again, and face him. "Even so, I shall be aiding you during your journey, though bare in mind - What you are trying to accomplish is no easy feat. You must seek the aid of the Oracle, should you wish to succeed." getting a better look at him, she couldn't help but smile. "I see that Poseidon has given you quite the handsome gift. Not to mention, the aid of my dear friend Aphrodite... Though ironic, considering Ares is her lover. They will aid you well." thus, the Goddess turned around and began to casually walk towards the east, where the Oracle's Temple lay. With lingering eyes, Kratos watched the red haired beauty disappear into the horizon, before getting one last good look at the gigantic Ares, who was destroying the city and massacring thousands of people, just because he could. A monster, he was. "God of War... I haven't forgotten you, for what you did that night. This city will be your grave." watching down for one last time the great army that was marching towards the city, the Spartan exited that place and went on his path, towards the Oracle. Though he lost sight of the Goddess, Kratos made his way towards the Town Square of the city, destroying everything that stood in his way, be that friend or foe, monster or human.  For unknown reasons, a woman started screaming at him, telling him to stay away, all that while running from him, as if he cared enough about her existence as to end it on a whim. He was not merciless, and he did not kill the innocent - That was something he learnt, whilst he was the General of his Army - Though he couldn't deny, he did know very well how intimidating he could appear. "I know who you are! I know what you've done, monster!" though he tried to stop her from running away or jumping to weird conclusions, she was deaf to his words. "Stay back! Get away from me!" as he made his way up the stairs, he sighted the woman edging on the balcony rail, looking distraught. "Stay way, don't come near me! Keep away---" what a mindless woman, falling to her death - A meaningless death. She had all chances to survive this siege. Fool. Looking down over the railing, he noticed the red head crouching besides the woman and shaking her head.  "Some people truly have the most ridiculous of deaths." he could hear her speaking, as she grabbed something from the corpse - It was a key, and using a liana to bring it up to the balcony. "It is the key used to unlock a trapdoor. I believe it will allow you access to the rooftops." she continued casually as he grabbed the key, and she began walking away, until she called out for him. "Before I forget - There are a lot of wraiths up there. They may prove to be a nuisance for you, so be very careful." and she disappeared, just as she appeared - Like a mysterious phantasm, yet even so, Kratos was grateful for the advice and little bits of aid she provided.

During his journey, he encountered a cowardly soldier who was desperately hanging on to the lever of a bridge that should have allowed him to pass - He was far too afraid of letting go, in fear of the monsters getting to him... Clearly, he was no Spartan. Spartans fight with no fear of death, even against awful enemies such as the cyclops and minotaur he faced. "Coward." Kratos spat as he turned around to look for another way of crossing the gap left by the retracted bridge. Through many temples and intricate mechanisms deducted, Kratos ended up before a vision of Zeus, who aided him by gifting him the ability of wielding lightning bolts. It was the perfect ranged weapon that would allow him to destroy that man who dared call himself soldier. A single charged bolt was enough to throw that man into the door, destroy it, and cremate him body altogether, allowing the bridge to stay back in place. Finally, no more irritation, nor detours, for the Spartan. 

Now that he was finally above the Town Square, he could see the Oracle before him, only to be swept away by harpies - There must always be some problem that goes in the way of his goals, he grunted to himself, as he went on ahead. Once he reached the Temple's gardens, he saw a Grave Digger, all the way down into a hole that he was digging for... Someone. "Good, my boy, good. Athena has chosen wisely, I knew it was so." as Kratos asked the man of his identity, he was completely ignored. "So you have the blades, the skin as pale as the moon. You are the one indeed, perhaps Athens will survive at that - Hahahaha! But, be careful~! Don't want you dying before I'm done with this grave~!" "A grave?" Kratos asked, stepping towards the old lunatic man. "In the middle of a battle? Who will occupy it, old man?" though there was no sign of malice in his voice, the Spartan was truly curious by this madness.  "You will, my son. Ohh, I've got a lot of digging to do, indeed. All will be revealed in good time, and when all appears to be lost Kratos, I will be there to help. Don't disturb me now, son! I've got my work to do, and you have yours! And precious little time left to do either!" the old man cackled, making the warrior walk away, his mind swimming with questions that may never be answered.

Running all the way to the top of the Temple of the Oracle, killing harpies and legionnaires, Kratos found his way in a large garden filled with intricate machinery, and up there, the woman was being held up in the sky by two flying monsters that let go of her, hoping she would plunge down to the ground, to her demise.  But that was not her fate, for, as she promised, the Goddess of Kindness was there to aid Kratos in this task, and sitting on a beam, Katrina unleashed her vines to catch the Oracle, and summoning a spiraling slide, she landed safely, on the ground, followed by the red head who helped her stand.

"Katrina." Kratos acknowledged the Goddess's presence, as she simply offered a smile that knew much more than it let on. "Carry on with your prophecy, Kratos. Let us see if it shall be of any help" thus, the woman made way for the Oracle, who was able to catch her breath after such an exhilarating experience. "Kratos... As Athena herself has foretold... But you are late, perhaps too late to save Athens - Or is it Athens you have come to save?" the Oracle put his hands on his face, and instead of having his wish granted - His memory of his wrenching past erased - He was forced to recall everything that happened. When she looked into his soul, she saw a beast, as well as a man. Once a captain in the Spartan army, Kratos had begun his command with only fifty soldiers, but soon, his numbers grew to the thousands. His tactics were brutal, but effective. Drunk with power, he was feared by all, except one - His wife was the only one to brave his fury, who could see his limitless ambition, not for Sparta, but for himself. His desire for conquest knew no bounds, but that which he desired would ultimately consume him.  "That is enough." Katrina grabbed the Oracle's hands and pried the woman away from the Spartan. "By the Gods! Why would Athena send one such as you?!" out of anger, the man pushed the Oracle away from him. "Choose your enemies wisely, Kratos. Your brute strength alone will not be enough to destroy Ares. Only one item in the world will allow you to defeat a God... Pandora's Box, which lies far beyond the walls of Athens, hidden by the Gods across the desert to the east. But be warned, Kratos, many have gone in search of Pandora's Box... None have returned." thus, the Oracle opened a door for the man. "Go through the Gates to the Desert, Kratos. There begins the path to Pandora's Box. It is the only way you will defeat Ares." the woman told him. Kartos then looked at the red head, as if to ask if she were to follow him, but by the looks of it, she was nervous. What did Gods have to fear, he wondered, yet his question was left forgotten into his own mind. "I will find you again when you will be in need of my aid, Kratos. Until then, may you have a safe journey. Hold onto this. Should you find yourself in any imminent danger, it will heal all of your wounds, no matter how grievous - But be warned, it is a one-time use item. Use it wisely... Though, I pray you will not find need of it." the woman created a beautiful red flower - An azalea, matching the shade of her crimson hair. "Very well." with a grunt, Kratos took the plant and stored it well, watching the Goddess leave the court. Before he left, however, he heard the Oracle speak once more. "One aids you out of guilt, not out of free will, Ghost of Sparta." she spoke clearly. "What does a Goddess have to be guilty of, when it comes to the life of a mortal?" Kratos asked, the lack of answers gnawing at his mental. "Rather than thinking of your interactions, find the answers from before you were born. All the answers you are seeking lie there, in your past - You must only seek them, and ask the right people, the right questions. Otherwise, you shall be eternally veiled by the unknown." with the Oracle gone, Kratos was left alone, to wander through the edge of the desert, only his plaguing questions being his companion. What grave mistake could the Goddess of Kindness have committed, that in made her feel guilty enough to aid him against the God of War himself? He remembers, back then, when he saved him from Ares, when he was nothing but a child... But what else could have happened?

No matter, he though. Such a question must be asked directly, and until now, many inquires have gathered, all addressed to the mysterious Goddess that warns him about the treachery of her kin, whilst she, herself, is being accused of a crime very much similar. Heeding Athena's warning about the desert, and her advice about Pandora's box, far across the Desert of Lost Souls. He must follow the song of the sirens and be guided to Kronos - Much to his dismay, Kratos was forced to learn that a titan lives - Commanded by Zeus himself to wander the desert endlessly, the temple of Pandora chained to his back, until the swirling sands rip the very flesh from his bones. 

Guided by their melody, Kratos was able to destroy the desert sirens, and thus, the temple gate was opened - Once entered, he found a horn, in which he blew, and the sands split, creating a path for him to step on. On the other side, on a marble platform, awaited another horn - Once blown into, Kronos emerged from the Desert sands - On his back, Pandora's Temple awaited, massive and patient, ready to challenge all who went in search of it's guarded treasure. Once the titan reached him, Kratos jumped and latched onto one of the chains, and jumped on the temple - For three whole days, Kratos climbed the shear walls of the mountain. He knew he would either recover Pandora's Box, or perish inside the cursed temple, never to return to the world of man. 

Once he reached the platform, Kratos crossed the wooden bridge, and aided by the Body Burner, who was once the first mortal to attempt to get Pandora's Box, the Spartan was able to step inside the glorious Temple. Inside, he found a book on a pedestal, on which it was written with blood.

“This Temple was erected in Honour of and at the command of the Mighty Lord Zeus. Only the bravest hero shall solve its puzzles and survive its dangers. One man will receive ultimate power. All others shall meet their doom. ... Pathos Verdes III, Chief Architect and Loyal Subject of the Gods."

Reading this did not scare Kratos, and he simply went on ahead, inside the Rings of Pandora. With great skill and wit, Kratos was able to brave the numerous traps hidden throughout the temple, earning even the power of Artemis, her own Blade, which she used to slay a Titan, and with its help, he won the challenge of Atlas, retrieving the two Shields, of Zeus and of Hades, needed to unlock the door towards the next challenge - Braving saws and spikes, enemies plenty and mechanisms of imminent death, only to reach a trap room that was guarded by sirens, so that no mortal could retrieve the Handle of Atlas, needed for guiding the Statue of Atlas to raise the globe he was holding up, so that Kratos could pull on the lever and make it throw the great stone globe, destroying the doors blocking his way to the outside grave of the Architect's Son.

"My Youngest Son will laugh no more. Death in the service of his father. Death in the service of the Gods. The building of this temple has claimed his life. May you be lucky enough that it not claim yours.  ... Pathos Verdes III, Chief Architect and Loyal Subject of the Gods."

Though his soul ached at the idea of yet another father having to bury his own child, his heart was hardened and closed to the pain of others, and thus, he went to the coffin, pulling away the golden lid, and ripping away the skull of the young son. Once done, the coffin moved aside, revealing a tunnel and a ladder, down which the Spartan went, only to find himself amongst the wrecked bodies of those who had gone in search of Pandora's Box. At once, Kratos knew who was responsible, for this was not the first time he'd seen the ruin Ares and his minions had left in their wake. Kratos had experienced it first hand, years before...

The youngest and boldest Captain in the Spartan army, Kratos had inspired fierce loyalty in his men. It had always been enough to carry them through any battle, until this day. The Barbarians to the East numbered in the thousands, and descended on the Spartans, without mercy. The battle lasted mere hours. The discipline and training of the Spartans did little to step the tide of the merciless Barbarians. The soldiers faced a massacre, while their young captain faced the end of his brilliant career, and his life - But to Kratos, victory was worth any price... Even his soul. "Ares! Destroy my enemies, and my life is yours!" that desperate call for aid will come to haunt Kratos for all his days... 

"By the Gods... What have I become...?" he asked himself, his voice trembling with emotions, same as his heart. Though the man was a seasoned warrior, and had face many a painful memories, he couldn't help but feel immense guilt.  He had done enough awful deeds for a thousand life times... And at once, he thought to himself - Who was he to blame the Goddess for ever wronging him, if, at all, provided he brought the destruction and suffering of so many, while he was only one man?

Sighing, he closed his eyes, and his heart, to the sight before him, and walked past the dead bodies, and back inside one of the primary rooms, from which he found the skull ornament in which he needed to insert the Architect's Son's skull, serving as a key for the activation of a rolling, spikey trap on which Kratos had to walk, to reach a ladder, that will bring him to the Challenge of Poseidon. Once outside, amids the sands swirling in the air, he found a small, yet peculiar dog. Kratos looked at it with great confusion, yet a bit of compassion also - He remembered how much Calliope loved the fox that the Goddess gifted her at her birth - In that instant, however, the puppy started mutating and it was engulfed in exploding flames, transforming into a vicious three-headed monsters. Many other such pups followed, but Kratos slaughtered them before they had the chance to grow, or maim him. 

Inside the temple, he was forced to brave more spike-mechanism and climb more of the temple's wall, finding himself in yet another challenging abode - At the end of it, two cremation doors, sporting low fire, on each side of an inscripted table.

"What the Gods ask, I can not do, even for Pandora's Box. They are Monsters now, but they were once men.  I know I am weak, but I can not be part of this... I have failed Athens..." was written on a piece of paper, stuck on a wall with the help of an arrow, next to a fallen body.

At first, Kratos wasn't entirely sure what he had to do to pass this challenge, nor did he quite get the mournful warning from the paper - Yet once returned at the back of the long room, and rotating a lever, a cage with a living man was put on the ground next to him - And at once, it dawned on him, that for him to carry on to the next challenge, he had to make a sacrifice. A human sacrifice. "Well, what are you waiting for?! Let me out, we can find our way back to Athens!" the man desperately tried to plead to the Spartan before him. "The Gods demand a sacrifice. From all of us." was the only response Kratos gave the man, before he went to his cage, kicking him off the ledge, and onto the floor. The man continued trying to break the cage, begging the Spartan to let him go - But the warrior was too busy killing the minions hindering his journey, to pay this man any mind.

Dragging the cage all the way up the slope, into the sacrifice chamber, Kratos placed the cage in the assigned square, pulling the lever for the door to approach, and amplify the fire's power - Once the deed was done, he could pass further, into a temple filled with water - There, the Trident of Poseidon awaited him, thus, giving him the ability of easily swimming and breathing underwater, where his challenge was to truly begin. Once more, Kratos had to endure countless battles against worthy opponents and intricate machinery, timed to kill, were you not swift and witty enough to avoid them. Smarting his way through the labyrinthine underwater temple, avoiding getting squashed like a meaningless bug, and even getting to swim around a naiad, Kratos was successful,

Almost out of the temple, Kratos reached a gorgeous, tall statue that depicted Amphitrite, Poseidon's faithful wife, which will forever watch over this cursed room - It is said that she alone knows the secret way out - But such a silly thing, as a secret way out, was nothing compared to Kratos's instinct, and he easily found the exit, which lead him, once again, by the Rings of Pandora, and thus, inside the new area, began the Challenge of Hades - Hopefully, last the, for his patience was running thin very quickly.

During this challenge, he couldn't help but think about the Goddess who claimed would be there to aid him, and without realising, he found himself stroking the red flower that she gifted him. Perhaps this journey was far too dangerous, even for a God, let alone one that is focused on peace. Or, like Athena said, there were certain boundaries to how much a God can help him, as to not cross the rule that Zeus himself implanted. No matter. He didn't need help making a blood sacrifice, from the many centaurs offered, nor the blood meter from inside the temple, or even creating light inside the darkest corridor inside the great statue of Hades's own mouth.

"Eight dead ends. One way out. Will you find it before the Flames of Hades consume you? ... Pathos Verdes III, Chief Architect and Loyal Subject of the Gods"

The corridor with falling boulders was, by far, one of the greatest nuisances that the Spartan ever had to endure, but he emerged victorious, as was expected - Still, he'd rather not have to go through any of that again, nor any of the high, beams on which he had to balance himself, only to have numerous other beams, adorned with saws on it - The danger of falling or being cut in half were great, but Kratos prevailed, and found himself back in the first room, where a huge, armoured minotaur broke the door and challenged the Spartan. Though strong, he ended up just like all the other foes that Kratos fought - Dead, impaled on the door from which it emerged, and its hoof created a gap in the wood, that served as entrance for the Spartan.  Walking up the great spiralled stairs, he found himself in a chamber that hosted the tomb of the Architect's second son.  "My second son, my last, has followed his brother to the Elysian Fields. In my heart, I know I must continue the work of the Gods, but they take so much and at last, my soul begins to doubt.  ... Pathos Verdes III"

Not only did Kratos realise that the Architect stopped claiming his loyalty and devotion to the Gods, after his second child died, but the mention of Elysium served as a grim reminder that he will never be reunited with Calliope ever again, after being forced to abandon her, because of that dreadful Persephone. For a second time, Kratos ripped the skull of the second son and descended down the spiral stairs, returning to the minotaur room, only to receive the Souls of Hades, a power gifted to him but the Lord of the Underworld himself. Returning to the Rings of Pandora, down in the underground pool of the statue, Kratos inserted the skull that served as a key, which drained the water - And with his great strength, rotating the rings at his wheel, he was able to connect the two beaming lights, thus, making the statue emerge. In his head, he heard Athena congratulate, but also warn him, that once he ascends to the upper levels of the temple, he would not be able to return without the box.

As Kratos rose through the massive temple, constructed to guard Pandora's Box, he realised it was a monument, not only to the Gods of Olympus, but to the Madness of the Warned who designed it. He conquered the lower floors of the temple, but what lay in wait above would test even Kratos. Once the elevator stopped, he stepped on the Statue's hands, which led him to another bridge, where he encountered a satyr - Agile, swift and deadly, yet not a challenge for the Spartan. Killing the enemy offered free pass of the bridge towards the cave, until he encountered a harpy, ripping apart a man's dead body and eating from it. Kratos had been in service to the Gods long enough to know the harpy had been sent as a warning - A reminder from his former master of the decision that had cost Kratos everything. Had it been THAT long since he almost met his end at the hands of the Barbarians? That long, since he traded everything to save himself?  He still remembers his own cry of Ares's name, and how the sky split apart, as the God of War stepped through. Descending from Olympus, he saw the makings of a God, in a mere mortal. Ares would save Kratos. He would turn him into the perfect warrior, his servant on Earth. Only a simple pledge of loyalty was required. "My life is yours, Ares. From this day, I shall carry forth your will." his vow haunts him still, to this day, and all those dreaded words which sealed his fate. As promised, Ares rescued his new disciple, bringing forth the power of a God, destroying those who would slaughter Kratos and his men....  As for Kratos, no mere sword and shield would befit the newest servant of the God of War. The Blades of Chaos, forged in the Foulest depths of Hades - Once attached, the chains remained so - Chained and seared to the flesh, a part of the barous bargain, a permanent reminder of Kratos's pledge... In return - Ultimate power. The rage of Ares exploded from within, but soon, he would learn the true cost of such power - A cost too high, even for Kratos to pay.

"Wretched beast! I know who it is you serve! Return to your master! Tell the God of War I am his no longer! Tell him he is not safe while I walk the Earth! I WILL find Pandora's Box! And I WILL use it to see him tremble and fall before me!" Kratos threatened the harpy, which hissed and flew away in a scurry.

Thus, the Spartan was able to approach the cliffs which he had to traverse, with another warning from the architect himself. "The Cliffs of Madness lie before you. In my grieving, I fear I may have designated a maze with no true way out. If I am right, may the cruel, uncaring Gods show you the way. ... Pathos Verdes III, ... Once loyal subject of the Gods."

So the Architect truly lost all his faith in the Gods, it seemed, and once more, his mind flew towards Katrina, and her warning - Never trust a God's words, for they are selfish. They never truly care for mortals, but for their own benefit only. It seems that the Architect found that out the hard way. Though the man claimed his grieving made him create an unsolvable maze, his craft spoke for itself - As Kratos founds the necklaces of Hera and Aphrodite, starting the mechanism of the two parallel moving bridges, he was glad he needn't figure out too many further challenges.

The path before Kratos was clear, but still, the memories came rushing back, as familiar and permanent as the blades chained to his wrists. Memories of what he'd done in the name of Ares. Memories of how he'd become a servant under the God of War. A beast, his humanity robbed and replaced only with the will to murder... 

No one was safe - Entire armies fell before Kratos and his soldiers that followed him on his path for never ending conquest, all in the name of his master... Those who offered resistance of any kind were dealt with quickly. "They built this temple to offer prayers to Athena! This entire village stands as an affront to Lord Ares! Burn this village - Burn it to the ground!" he remembers himself ordering his people, as he threw a torch in the dry grass, which lit on fire that spread throughout the place. Emboldened by the God of War, Kratos's army was ruthless, feared throughout the world for their brutality. All that mattered was conquest in the name of Kratos, their great Leader, who had become near invincible. He feared nothing... But there was something about THIS temple.... Something... Forbidden. All his instincts told him that he should never cross its threshold, never step inside. 

"Beware, Kratos, the dangers in the temple are greater than you know." the old woman that served as the oracle of the village warned the Spartan general. But the village oracle's warnings fell on deaf ears. His ambition would not be denied. All who opposed him would die. He remembers, however, a foreign memory, that seemed to have been lost in the midst of all the chaos that his mind was wrapped into. A sweet voice, calling out his name. An embrace from behind, the feeling of rope coiled around his wrists and ankles, trying to drag him away from the temple. Someone begging him to stop. All of them were forgotten, for none was able to hinder the disciple of Ares. Now, he recalls - The Goddess was there, and she tried to stop him from entering the temple. She tried to warn him, and with that little strength of hers, she tried to forcefully keep him away, but it was all in vain, for the man was stronger than her and her Godly powers.

She had not been there, just because he called out her name, once he escaped his trance - She had been there, trying to stop him from murdering his own family, yet she failed miserable... Just like everything else in his life was unable to stop his rage after being blinded by Ares. Katrina's powers could heal the living... But she could not revive the dead. In that instant, as his own blades became soaked in the blood of his wife and child, the glory he had reveled in, turned into horror - The image of his two final victims would stay with him for all his days. Falling to his knees and mourning, Kratos knew he could no longer serve his master - He had but one calling now, the death of Ares. He would murder the God of War. "You may have your revenge, Kratos... But nothing will bring them back in your arms." the Goddess held him tightly to her chest, mimicking the way she held him as a child, when Deimos was taken from him. He must have forced himself to forget some of the details from back then, the memories to painful to be fully remembered, and comfort only brought him even greater distress.

"Ares... You WILL die for what you did that night." Kratos found himself speaking out loud, a threat that will serve as motivation in the journey left to the Architect's Chambers, where he found a table and a dead man laying in a pool of his own blood on top of it, and the skeletal remains sitting in a chair opposite of it. As the Spartan read the not pinned with a dagger, he realised, this was the Architect himself.

"...Tried to stop me... She said the Gods were fools... That I was a fool... She may be right... But they came to ME... They believed in me... She had to be stopped... But now, they are gone... My entire family... I can not go on." the note was left unsigned. The Spartan searched for the sketches pinned on the walls, that displayed the many traps that filled Pandora's Temple. At the bottom of the papers, the name of Pathos Verdes III was inked. For the last skull key, Kratos ripped the head of the Architect's wife, which opened the last door towards a new area, and hopefully, the last one.

As so it was, and Kratos reached the room where Pandora's Box was laying, surrounded by three statues - One of Hades, one of Zeus, and one of Poseidon, as if they were guarding the globe that was protecting the mystical Box. As he touched the box, he felt pain and energy surging through his body, as Athena's spirit started speaking to him. "Kratos, your quest is at an end. You are the first mortal to ever reach Pandora's Box. There is still time to save Athens. You must bring the box back to my city and use it to kill Ares. Return to Athens, Kratos. Return and save my city!" and thus, she stopped speaking, but another began speaking into his head - A voice much sweeter, yet more concerned. "Kratos, you must be careful on your way back! Ares knows of your whereabouts and of your success! He intends to kill you before you open the box!" Katrina warned him in great haste, but once Kratos tried calling out her name, she did not answer. He dearly hoped she did not get in any trouble with Ares for aiding him. Still, with the elevator bringing him back to the main entrance of the temple, Kratos began dragging the heavy, mysterious box towards the outside.

After a thousand years, Pandora's Box was, at last, freed of its confines. Kratos had found the means to destroy the God of War. Far away in Athens, just as the Goddess of Kindness foretold, Ares knew Kratos had succeeded in his Quest. "So, little Spartan, you've recovered Zeus's precious box. But you will not live long enough to see it opened. I will see to that." Ares growled menacingly, picking up a sharp, broken pillar and throwing in the trajectory of Kratos's body. "Goodbye, Spartan. You will rot in the depths of Hates for all eternity." the sharp pillar impaled and tore apart the Spartan's whole torso, and was rendered incapacitated and pinned, on the wall behind. As life began to leave Kratos, his thoughts returned to that faithful night. Even in death, the memories... The visions... Would not end... For how could he forget, spilling the blood of his own family? A cruel trick orchestrated by the God of War. Once again, he remembered the feeling of having his whole body drenched in their warm blood, and the light body of his wife, as he held her in his arms. He remembers the tears that he felt, soaking his cheeks and falling onto her face - Image mirrored by the Goddess who was holding and mourning his own child... His dear Calliope...

And worse, he remembers the words of smug victory that Ares addressed him at that time - Getting rid of his family was the goal all along - With nothing to hold him back, he was supposed to become the perfect mindless puppet... But no more. Kratos was to be used by no one anymore. He was done doing the bidding of the Gods, for it brought him only misfortune. As the flames consumed the temple, and his own family's ashes were bound to his skin, he realised that his true enemy was the very God of War that saved his life - The same one that had taken everything away from him.

With that curse, all would know him for the beast he had become - His skin white with the ash of Lysandra and Calliope - The Ghost of Sparta had been born... In the end... In death... He had failed.  As the minions of Ares claimed Pandora's Box, Kratos's life faded, and his cursed soul was cast into the viles of Hades... Or so he thought. As his mind was slipping away into unconsciousness, he instinctively reached out for the red azalea flower gifted to him, and held it tightly into his fist. He couldn't understand how it worked, but he began slowly feeling his strength returning to him, and though his vision was blurry, he was able to throw away the pillar impaling him, so that he could regenerate wholly. In his proximity, he saw something akin to a portal, and without any idea where it would lead, he trusted that it could be some of Katrina's, or any of her allies's aid, and thus, he stepped inside. On the other side, his vision grew clear - Looking around, he was on a small pedestal of what looked like the top of a bone, and much underneath him, a blood river was drowning the shrieking, falling people. He must be in the underworld, he thought - But he did not despair, for something was in front of him, and giving him hope.

The familiar liana, filled with colourful flowers, was dangling before his very eyes - And thus, he was blind and deaf to everything around him, but the thought that he had to climb out of there. He could feel the vine trembling in his hands as it tried to drag him upwards - He could only chuckle at the image that played in his hand, of the Goddess struggling to pull on the liana and get him out, how very comical. 

After a long climb, he finally reached the human realm - And he was back at in Athens, when he once met the grave digger. Panting, on the ground, was the red haired Goddess who looked absolutely exhausted. That could serve as a Greek Comedy with great success. "Ah, Kratos, and not a moment too soon. I only finished digging just a moment ago." the old man spoke smugly. "Who are you?" the Spartan asked, in complete bewilderment. "Ahhh, now that is an interesting question... But for now, you must hurry. Athens needs you." the old man instructed the warrior. "But how did you know I--" he easily got cut off, as the old man nodded his head towards the riding Goddess fixing her hair.  "Athena isn't the only God keeping watch on you, Spartan. Complete your task, Kratos, and the Gods will forgive your sins!" though the old man vanished miraculously before his very eyes, Katrina, did not. "I went to Hestia and she was able to create that portal. Hestia is on great terms with everyone, so she was able to trick Hades into allowing the other end of the portal to bring you to the end of the underworld, where the grave digger made it possible to let out the liana to bring you up." the Goddess explained briefly, nodding for the man to follow her towards the Oracle's temple. "Your ways are mysterious and difficult to comprehend." Kratos spoke, following the woman. "Why would Hestia aid me?" "I did not say she aided YOU. I said she aided ME. That, in itself, is a huge difference, first and foremost. You truly must learn to understand the intricate ways in which Gods speak, otherwise, you may easily find yourself tricked by their faux promises. Again." the woman's warning only proved to be more confusing for the Spartan. "Who are you implying is trying to cheat me?" the man asked, stopping the woman in her tracks. "Everyone - And I mean it. Do not trust anyone that is a God, or close to that. Do not trust anyone. Your instinct is honed well - If you feel someone is truthful, so be it - But otherwise, do not trust anyone... They all have their own interest at heart, not yours. They are all selfish and want to profit off of you." her face was dead set and grave. "And do you count yourself in or out of that category?" the man asked, almost as a test of faith. "In, of course. The Gods want you to do their dirty work, Athena is using you to save her city, but she didn't promise you to erase your past, but only that it will be forgiven - That, in itself, will never make any difference for you. Ares robbed you of your free will and manipulated you with that orchestrated cheap trick. They are all the same. Me as well." she admitted, looking away, her face mellow. "I do not think my sin that grave, though others persecute me for it as if I am some kind of unforgivable criminal, when all I wanted was to spend some time with you. In my selfishness to achieve mine own happiness, I have destroyed another's - Not intentionally, of course - But the consequences are still the same, and I have greatly harmed the person I wanted to protect more than my own life." she admitted for the first time in her life, and for that, Kratos stepped back, his eyes wide from surprise. "The Oracle said you aid me out of guilt, not out of will." his hands found their way on her shoulders, bring her attention back to him. "The Oracle is both right and wrong. Do not take everything people say at heart's value - It is not the journey, but the end, that matters. I must live with the consequences of mine own actions, and those led to you having a life full of misfortune, and for that, I feel guilty. But do not think for one second that I am doing this for anyone else but you. It is because of my kin that so many have to suffer, and that angers me greatly - And it is because of my selfishness, that you have to suffer. It is bittersweet, staying around you, but it is my decision, from guilt AND from pleasure. Now, I advise you stop thinking so much about meaningless things, when a whole city is being destroyed by the man you seek revenge on." the red haired lady took away the hands from her shoulders and went on ahead, waiting for him to follow. "And when are you going to disclose what exactly did you do, that you feel so guilty of?" the question went on deaf ears for the whole way to the temple, until they found the Oracle, dead, on the bloody ground. "Live through this battle, and I will confess to you secrets and prophecies that you are not aware of. The cruelty of Gods knows no bounds, yet there are other, higher, primordial beings that toy around even with the revered and almighty ones. You have lived through so much - Do not get discouraged. This is your chance to get revenge on the man that wronged you so. Go ahead and show him who is the real God of War. Get the box and use and try to take the Blade of the Gods to defeat him." with one last warning that served as an encouragement also, Katrina offered him another healing flower, before sending him off to fight Ares.

Kratos had traversed the Desert of Lost Souls, bested the deadly traps of Pandora's Temple and escaped Hades himself - There was but one task left. "Zeus! Do you see now what your son can do?! You cast your favour on Athena, but her city lies in ruins before me! And now, even Pandora's Box is mine! Would you have me use it against Olympus itself?!" in that instant, Katrina called out Ares's name, which made him turn around to look down at her small form, next to the Spartan. "Ahh, Kratos? Returned even from the underworld. Lucky you had my lovesick sister to aid you." Ares turned away after the patronising comment, so that he could berate his father more. "Is this the best you can do, Father? You send a broken mortal and a flower girl to defeat ME?! THE God of War?!" in his infamy, Ares did not realise the spear that Katrina created from a blade of grass was sent towards the chains from which he was holding the Box - And once broken, the box fell on the ground, ready for Kratos to open.

After thousands of years, Pandora's Box was finally opened - The power of the Gods unleashed. Kratos grew in size, to much the God, and was ready to face him in a trial by combat. "You are STILL just a mortal. Every bit as weak as the day you begged me to save your life. That stupid sister of mine will not be able to protect you again, as when you were a child." Ares taunted the Spartan. "I am not the same man you found that day! The monster you've created has returned - To kill you." Kratos took out the Blades of Chaos, ready to fight the man with the mane of flames. "You have NO idea what a true monster is, Kratos!" Ares growled, as he grew some weird appendix from his back, making him look like a spider. "Your final lesson is at hand! Prepare to join your family, Spartan!" thus, the clash between the two greatest forces began. It was a valiant battle between two worthy opponents, but no matter how much the God of War wanted to claim to be the strongest, he was no match for the strength, tactics, wit and discipline that Kratos, the former Leader of the most feared Spartan Army, wielded against him.

Once he realised that he was losing, Ares retorted to a cheap trick - Opening a portal and sending Kratos away, to another place only he knew of. Katrina could only watch with confusion and terror - What could she do? How could she help the Spartan? She could not even feel the vitality of the flower she gifted him. "Do you see, sister? No matter how much you try to protect the ones you love, they will ALWAYS perish before your very eyes!" Ares mocked the Goddess with his laughed, as she could only lay down, in defeat. "I do not know what you have done to him, brother - But I assure you, Kratos WILL return, and he WILL end your pathetic life!" the woman cried out to him, allowing herself to grow in form to match him, and readying her weapon.  "Father has forbidden the Gods from fighting one another - Do you dare go against his orders, little fox?" Ares was positively amused by the sight of the Goddess of Kindness, holding her weapon. "I do not fight for Athena, nor am I going to defeat you - Of that, I am sure - But if I can keep you from destroying the city and killing more mortals until Kratos returns, then I have fulfilled my duty as the patron Goddess that watched over the people we govern over." she spoke getting in a defensive stance, awaiting her brother's attack.

Kratos, on the other hand, could still hear Ares speaking inside of his head - He was going to destroy his spirit - Destroy HIM. He was thus sent in front of the cursed Temple, where he would try to make amends and undo the horrors he had done. The nightmares that have haunted Kratos for the past 10 years have now taken full amend substance. His past stood before him. Though his heart was aching, he got the strength to kick open the door, and before his very eyes, he could see his wife trying to protect his child, and the fox was before them, snarling, ready to attack.  - They were terrified, yet upon seeing him, he could see a speck of relief. 

"Kratos, what's happening?! Where are we?!" Lysandra asked her husband.  "By the Gods... Can this be real?!" he was almost speechless, but as he uttered those words, small, dark portals opened, and from them, copies of his own body were unleashed, and they were all attempting to attack his family. Once he heard his dear Calliope call out to him 'Daddy!' in such a fearful voice, he took out his weapons and was ready to defend his family, as he should have, from the very beginning. "Ares! There is NOTHING you can put in my way to stop me! I WILL save my family!" he cried out, as he began to kill countless fake iterations of himself, only to occasionally embrace his family, hoping it would sooth their fears - He WILL protect them! The feeling of having his wife and child in his arms once again was a bliss, though it was short lasting.

Kratos had done the impossible - He had saved his family. "Kratos! Please, take us home!" Lysandra reached out her arm towards her husband, pleading to him.  "Do you see, God of War?! You took them once, but you'll NEVER have them again!" Kratos shouted towards the skies, taunting Ares.  "You cannot save them, Kratos. You gave them up in your quest for ultimate power. There is a price to pay for everything you gain." he could hear his arch nemesis speak to him. "Not that price. I did not want them to die." with great pain, Kratos closed his eyes and hung his head. He was in agony. "NO PRICE IS TOO HIGH FOR WHAT I OFFERED YOU!" Ares growled at the Spartan weakened by his emotions. "And you rejected me - A GOD!" the Blades began working on their own, suspending him painfully, digging into his flesh, drawing blood - “Now, you will have NO power, NO magic! ALL that is left for you, is DEATH!" Aries sneered, as the Blades left Kratos's flesh, and they slew his family once again, before his very eyes.

As Ares rose his fiery longsword up, Kratos appeared once again in the mortal world, kneeling on the ground and weaponless. It looked as though Ares was going to decapitate him, so just as he was ready to swing his sword of injustice, Katrina leapt between him and the mortal, and used her weapon to parry the attack. "FOOL! Who do you think you are, silly woman?! Fighting for a broken man, still lingering over his dead family! He will never have a place in his heart for you! You are fighting a losing battle!" he kept taunting the woman, but she did not budge. "It matters little to me whether Kratos loves me, as long as he is alive. I only wish for his well-being, and if I have to die to save him, then at least I know I pissed on the prophecy of those stupid Sisters of Fate!" she sneered back at him, getting dangerously close to his face. "What a stupid flower girl... No wonder Aphrodite is so fond of you - You would both forsake anything you have, for the sake of the one you love. Pathetic! You will never achieve any fame, nor greatness this way!" Ares could see he was easily overpowering his sister, and he continued to press on. "Conquest matters little to me. Don't blame me for having different ideals!" in that instant, Kratos opened his eyes - He could feel something going up his hand and emanating a warm, pulsating aura - Looking down, he noticed he was holding the red azalea, once again. Katrina managed to wake him up from his trance - And by the looks of it, she was struggling greatly to hold Ares from killing him. "By the... Gods..." the Spartan muttered, rolling away towards the great Blade of the Gods, just as she had instructed him previously. The battle was not over. Now, he could defeat the God of War. "I still have allies in Olympus, Ares - And now, you will see how strong I am." putting his hand on the woman's shoulder and gently pulling her behind him, Kratos was ready for the end battle, once and for all.

Ares's defeat came after a short time as Kratos bested him as his greatest skill - War fighting. "Remember, Kratos - It was I who saved you, in your time of greatest need!" he tried to bargain, to have his life saved. "I haven't forgotten, Ares. I remember how you saved me!" Kratos was seething with anger, as he approached the fallen God. "That night... I was trying to make you a great warrior...!" Ares pleaded, but it was for naught. "You succeeded." was the Spartan's only answer, as he drove the sword in the God's chest - And he fell pathetically in the water, and died, looking akin to a ragdoll.

Kratos had truly done the impossible - A mortal, defeating a God - Ares was no more, and with his death, a great explosion befell the ocean. The city had been saved and would thrive again. The same could not be said for Kratos, for as he sought to rebuild his soul with the help of the Gods - The truth was revealed to him. "Athena - Rid me of the memories that haunt me still." he pleaded - Begged, even, the statue of the Goddess, with pitiful hopelessness. "You have done well, Kratos. Though we mourn the death of our brother, the Gods are in debt to you. We promised your sins would be forgiven, and so they are - But we never promised to take away your nightmares. No man, no God, could ever forget the terrible deeds you have done." came Athena's cruel answer.

In the end, the truth was just as Katrina had warned him - His sins are forgiven, yes, but that helps him with naught. No Gods promised his nightmares would disappear, so he cannot accuse them of betrayal.  Knowing the visions of his past would never leave him, Kratos made his way to the bluffs, overlooking the Aegean Sea. "The Gods of Olympus have abandoned me. Now... There is no hope..." and Kratos cast himself from the highest mountain in all of Greece. After ten years of suffering - Ten years of endless nightmares - It would finally come to an end.

Death would be his escape from madness...

The fate of Kratos was not as it seemed. The Gods had other plans. Broughten off like a feather, Kratos found himself risen from the sea and placed on solid earth, back from which he leapt. The vines that were tightly coiled around him were bringing him no discomfort, except for the notion that he was not yet dead, and the madness will never end. Back on the cliff, he was embraced tightly by the red haired Goddess who was trembling in his arms, while another spoke to him - That lying statue of Athena was haunting him even now, not allowing him his bittersweet end.

"You will not die this day, Kratos. The Gods cannot allow one who has performed such service to perish by his own hand. Ares's tactics were brutal. His path of destruction had to be stopped - But now, there is an empty throne in Olympus, and a new God of War is needed. Take these stairs, Kratos. They lead to your ultimate reward." Athena spoke to him once more. Sighing, realising there was no way to end this life, he put his hands on the Goddess's shoulders, and gently pushed her back, before raising her chin to look at him - And he realised, she had been crying.  "What is it that ails you so?" he asked, noticing the quivering lip. "I simply cannot imagine a life without you. Ask no further. Let us proceed to your throne... Though it is not the reward you wished for..." taking his hand, the woman guided him up the stairs that lead to the peak of Mount Olympus, and inside, there awaited his Godly Throne - His rightful place upon it. Katrina smiled, looking at the frowning man sitting on the throne. "It suits you better than it did him, Kratos. Though it is not your desired end... I hope you will not go out of your way to seek your own demise again. I meant what I said earlier. I may hate seeing you suffer - But I am a God, and Gods are selfish, and before anything, I wish for you to live, and for me, to see you that way." she confessed to him in that honeyed voice of hers, and Kratos realised that even if he doesn't yet have all of his answers, with his new status and powers as a God, he can much easier seek them. "Fear no further, for I will not die any time soon, Katrina." reassuring her, he extended his arm towards her and grabbed ahold of her hand, and with a tug, he pulled her onto his lap. Caressing her flawless face with one hand, while the other found itself putting the azalea into her hair, he couldn't help but admire the gentle beauty before him. "You have aided me plenty all this time, Katrina. Now, aid your people and help them restore their life. I know it is what you want. Once you are done, come back to me, and you can tell me all there is about those prophecies from long ago." Kratos suggested, earning the most enchanting, lovely smile that he had ever seen from a woman. "Very well, Kratos. Wait for me - And for as long as you will have me, I will be by your side, guiding you, and lighting up the road for you." she comforted the man, who brought her into an embrace, and stole a sweet kiss from her. "I will be waiting for as long as you need." for the first time in so long, the new God of War found himself with a genuine smile on his face - Though he had other plans in his mind, and a lot of goals to achieve - For now, he was content, having the beautiful Goddess that could caress and sooth his soul so easily.

And from that point forward, throughout the rest of time, whenever men road forth to battle - For good cause, or evil - They did so under the watchful eye of the man who had defeated a God.

They were driven forward by Kratos, the mortal who had become the new God of War.

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[kmenkea]

Bloodlust - Part 8

Summary: "That drow. That damned drow. She was surely plotting something, trying to ruin him in some way, through her pleasantries. It was just in her nature." Doubt creeps in Astarion's mind about his travelling companion. And yet he cannot stop caring. Why does it hurt so much to be betrayed from her? And what if, maybe, he should trust her after all? Why else would she defend him when so close to victory?

A/N: This chapter and the next (probably next 2) are going to be from Astarion's POV. I wanted to experiment with his side of the story and show what he might be feeling (or at least how I HC what he feels)

But, I want to say that I will take a longer break from publishing this fanfic. I want to highlight that it is not over and will keep posting, but I just need a bit of time. I broke up with my long time partner and the thought of romance just makes me feel bad. He was also my beta reader, so that's a problem I'll have to sort somehow lol. anyway, hope you're liking it so far. Let me know what you think.

Read on AO3

(I like the idea of him having golden eyes when alive)

Astarion’s eyes darted through the bushes, following the patch of brown fur hiding among the foliage. His steps were light on the soft ground, so that he was able to get close to the animal. It raised its nose, smelling his presence in the wind, but it was already too late. With a jump, the vampire grabbed both ears of the rabbit. The little beast screeched and kicked upwards to escape, flailing until… a twist. Its body limp and the neck dislocated. Without wasting a second, the vampire bit the rabbit; its little heart pumped its precious blood into his mouth. 

The taste was horrible, wild and muddy, like stale bread. His heart and gut were ignited by agony. The red liquid poured into his mouth and down his throat and he waited for the fire to subsize, for each laceration of his viscera to close, but the respite that came was so miniscule, a balm that only slowed, not stopped the erosion of his insides.

The elf threw the carcass to the ground, swiping his chin with the back of his hand. This was the third animal he ate that evening. By all accounts he should have been full. Gods, he used to drink dead rats and insects, these rabbits would have been a glorious feast just a few weeks ago. But now he wanted more. He was eager for sweetness, to share a soul and feel it slip under his fangs, not to pluck fur from in between his teeth while walking back to camp. 

That drow had absolutely ruined him. 

Everytime a drop of her blood was spilled, his senses couldn’t help but flare up, his stomach churn and growl and his fingers twitch in anticipation. He wanted her neck so badly, to bite into that soft warm flesh and take all for himself, everything he had missed in two hundred years of undeath. It smelled of gracious elven blood, but with deep, dark notes of moss. Cool like an underground lake, yet fiery and violent like lava. Abyssal and chaotic, losing his mind in a spiral that forced him down towards her.

He let out a sigh as his knees almost went limp, reminiscing of that glorious taste. 

He reached the safety of their camp, back in the wilderness and his eyes couldn’t help but fall on Leeith: she was laying down near the fire with Karlach, Shadowheart hovering over them: both of their feet had been badly mangled by traps hidden below the mud of the swamp. It looked like such a peaceful lakeside forest, until the illusion vanished and all that was left was rotting wood and, well, traps that neither of them noticed. They were forced to cut the day short and return to camp. Lae’zel and Wyll were in charge of finding food and preparing their camp. 

He caught a whiff of that delicious honey, and the flame in his heart rose again, opening his wounds. He was hungry again. 

But everything was lost.

It took all his might to ignore them and hide in the safety of his little tent. 

All and all, it was a cosy little space: it was cramped and dark, littered with old dirty jars. The smell of old blood filled his nostrils and, even if it was almost putrid, it was welcome: at least the disgust pushed away the longing for better food. What a beautiful ambience!

In the dark, he took off his cumbersome gambeson and heavy boots, changing them for soft leather shoes and his clean shirt. Astarion's hands smoothed out the fabric over his chest, picking a leaf or two out of the threads and checking his trousers for any stain. Surely he looked perfect as always, didn't even need a mirror to know he was astonishingly handsome and his hair was set up perfectly. His face with his… lips? What shape were they again? He traced a finger over them, feeling the little incave in the middle and how strong the curvature was. He imprinted it into his mind, or at least tried to see it. It didn't matter, he knew his lips were hardly his best feature, surely his eyes were much more important, with perfect eyebrows and long eyelashes, surely. He passed a finger over them, but it was no use. 

He couldn't see it. He couldn't remember his face at all. He reached for a little mirror, thrown carelessly under his bedroll: there he was. Or should have been. Understandable, his tent was extremely dark, he just needed to step foot outside, feel the torchlight shine in his eyes, raise the mirror again and… still nothing. He stared into the mirror more, to catch even a glimpse of his forsaken and forgotten eyes. All was truly lost. Even the tadpole couldn't give back himself.

Like clockwork, there she was, walking towards him, less spring in her step, but still gracious and inviting. It was time for their evening conversation, apparently; everyday, a little bit of time they would carve for one another. It was almost pleasurable.

The vampire's heart twisted and burnt again, his hunger yet again demanded to be satisfied. It could have been so easy to ask for blood from the drow, but could he pay the price? If one single thing was true about her, is that nothing of hers was free. Surely he could have asked for blood or help with the necromancer's tome or a number of other things, but what was the cost going to be? Sex he could give, but to be bound to her forever, like she asked the night prior? Switch a master for another? Unthinkable. 

She stopped dead in her tracks, staring at him with those deep red eyes. They probably were the same colour as his, if he had to guess.

“Looking at something?” He met her gaze in the reflection of the mirror. The drow's expression was just plain.

“Just looking. What are you doing?” She raised an eyebrow, motioning at the empty mirror.

“I'm looking too, but not seeing very much. Another quirk of my… affliction.” Leeith gave an understanding nod, still standing behind him. She knew of his little reflection problem already, so his answer wasn't surprising.

“Do you miss it? Looking at your face” Such a sweet and understanding voice, it almost made him believe she did care about his sorry carcass. Astarion turned around to face her, wearing a little snobbish grin.

“Preening in the looking glass? Petty vanity? Of course I miss it. I've never even seen this face, not since it grew fangs and my eyes turned red.” The drow nodded, mentioning something about how right he was. The vampire had a quip ready, but…

“What colour were they before?” The question surprised him. He stopped, focusing on his own image as the smile died from his lips. How could this stupid dark elf always make him drop his act and reach under his skin.

“I- I don't know. I can't remember. My face is just some dark shape in the past.” Bile and anger rose in him. How could he forget his own appearance? What use was freedom, when he still couldn't have back the most basic part of himself. “Another thing I've lost.” He smashed the hand mirror on the ground: useless trinket.

Leeith jolted back a bit, out of the way of the sharp shards. Her hand twitched upwards, maybe wanting to reassure him, while the vampire just stared at her. She stopped, running her eyes all around his face and body.

“What?” Said Astarion, confused by her sudden inquisitiveness.

“I'll be your mirror. What do you want to know?” She was warm, so unbecoming of a creature of the underdark. 

“And what do you see exactly?” His lips said against his will. How could this stupid dark elf always make him feel welcome and worthy of companionship.

She squinted. “Strong piercing eyes.” Mh, yes, of course: his eyes were always quite spectacular.

“Oh, go on” The vampire smiled, basking in compliments.

“That dangerous smile.” Apparently Leeith was a connoisseur of quality. His heart swelled with pride.

“Very good. Now tell me I'm beautiful and we can call it a day.” The vampire raised his chin and closed his eyes, posing like a great statue.

“Is that all you want? Shallow praise?” She mocked whilst chuckling, making Astarion raise an eyebrow.

“Hardly. There's also gold, sex, revenge. Quite the list, really. But failing any of those, I'll always settle for shallow praise.” She smiled and took a deep breath. 

“You are beautiful, Astarion. The Deva of the higher planes and the Incubi of the hells, may only dream of achieving your perfection. The dawn shining on morningdew cannot compare to your radiant self. My heart can only ache when blessed to witness your glorious figure.” She had her hands on her heart, reciting the verses. There it was, her allure shining through her words, the force of personality to bend people's will to her own whims with a glare and a few honeyed words. Astarion felt… weirdly comforted. Even if she jested, maybe there was truth to it. He hoped.  

“Mirror's aren't much use. But being reflected in someone else's eyes? Well, I could do worse.” 

“If you need more reassurance of your beauty, just ask away. I might have Wyll teach me a few sonnets if that will be of help.” 

He laughed it off and they parted ways soon after. The drow needed to recover and Astarion too would have an early trance, to wake up and admire the dawn on the morrow. 

A certain amount of peace was comfortably sitting in his chest that morning: the day was so bright and warm it almost felt like summer and the forest air was rejuvenating on his naked skin. The grass below his back was soft and still wet with dew, smelling musty and herbal. What he was mostly happy for was the sun shining brightly upon him.  

He still didn't know what he looked like, but it was reassuring that whatever he was, he could count on the beauty of his appearance still. At least, according to what Leeith said the night before. Many in his life had complimented it, but it was most often drunkards who unlucky wanted to bed him. None of their words were true. 

And for as much as he wished otherwise, the drow was one of them. She had to be plotting something. It was just in her nature. Why else would she be so friendly with him specifically? He had been such a fool to think that she maybe saw him as a true friend, that saw his interior world. 

He remembered that day in the blighted village, after killing the ogres, when she showed off her golden tongue. And later, after the wizard left: that morning she talked so much about being a just leader and only trying to protect the grove from the threat of an explosion. Lies, all of them probably. She held everyone - the tieflings and the druids alike - in contempt. She didn't care about their lives, so something else must have been the cause. It was no secret that the drow despised Gale because of an old insult. Could she have killed him? Was that the end of everyone who displeased her? If she was lying about everything that morning, he would have, should have, picked up on something: a word out of a place, a tinge of anxiety in her eyes or an intimidating remark. Instead she laid herself almost bare, relaxed, sorry even.

Threats and deceit were the only thing she knew and she was a master at both. In two hundred years he had done nothing but lie. But Leeith's charisma was a talent that surpassed his own. 

Doubt of her had settled and with every passing day, it grew. When was the drow going to show the cards up her sleeve? What was going to happen to him? Was she just Cazador’s mole? Why did the thought of these days all being a lie hurt him so much? She was just like anyone else, a helpful tool towards his freedom, no matter how much he enjoyed the time spent together. No matter how different it felt to lay with her under the trees. 

He had thought much about that night; it kept coming back to him, both when awake and in his dreams. As time buried the disgust he felt, something more came to light: more than the realisation of his freedom, of the warmth they shared, of her blood spilling in his mouth. Nothing so platonic. 

He had just enjoyed the night. Carnally. Past the act he put up, he just couldn’t resist reliving her moans, his pleasure, her pleasure, the tightness of her body around his member. The feeling of his fingers running across that pale grey skin and the moment she pushed him to the ground, grinning, wanting him. And the end, when he couldn’t help but fall down on her, feeling like he had died for just a little bit of time. He wanted it again. Astarion was almost compelled to ask to share his bed a second time. 

But he couldn't with a backstabbing drow such as her. No matter how sweet and genuine Leeith’s smile was for him - and him alone.  

Gods! Whatever! He was going to keep his friendly act up until it was useful and, if need be, he knew he could always count on his dagger and the shroud of darkness. A golden tongue wouldn't save her from his golden, bloody hands. 

“Astarion!” And there she was, screaming his name from somewhere in the forest. He didn’t respond, annoyed by the fact his sunbathing time was disturbed. His name was called a few more times, along with angry words in Undercommon. 

“Over here, dear.” He sighed at last, without moving an inch. The sound of steps got closer until finally the drow was squatting by his side. 

“Good morning, handsome.” She said in a lusty, deep tone. “Sorry for interrupting your ‘Lizard time’.” 

“Ugh, why would you compare me to such a foul critter?” He winced, still with his eyes closed.

“Because I don’t know other overworld creatures that sunbathe - and the animals in the underdark don’t know what the sun is.” She was so good at faking joy in her voice, it almost sounded like she was genuinely happy to see him. Disgusting. 

“If you’ve come here just to insult me, please, spare your words. I’ve had enough of this.” His tone came out a bit more rude than he had anticipated. Astarion finally sat up. Leeith seemed a bit taken aback by the sudden outburst. Surprise quickly turned into resentment and he could see her eyes narrow.

“I just came here to tell you we’re leaving and if you want to come or not.” She got up. “If you don’t, it’s fine, I’ll just have Wyll along.” The vampire weighed his options for a second.

“For as much as I would love to do nothing but lounge while you risk your life for me and the thought of spending my entire day being glared at by Lae’zel delights me, I think I’ll come along, darling.” He picked up his shirt and shoes from the ground, quickly putting them back on. 

“Are you sure? You seem a bit off. I’d rather not have you freak out at the worst of times.” The drow crossed her arms, clearly studying him. She was still irritated, but also maybe… concerned? Was she scared that her little act had been discovered? 

“Oh, don’t you worry. I'm still as sharp as ever. I just don't like to be disturbed while I work on my tan.” She raised an eyebrow right before shrugging.

“Maybe looking tanned like a common farm hand will bring your ego down to mortal levels.” They both began walking to camp. The vampire noticed how she avoided direct sunlight and winced when a ray hit her eyes.

“That's quite impossible. I would still be a world-endingly beautiful elf. A hidden diamond.” 

“Under the mud and cow dung, sure, you would be a very splendid gem.” 

“Of course I would. You demonstrate that beauty can be born even from the worst of people, dark elf.” Astarion leaned down a bit, placing a hand over her shoulder. He hadn't met many drows in his life, but she did look beautiful. Even her red tinted hair had a certain wild charm. 

“Drow. Not “dark elf”. Don't put me together with you Darthiir.” Fortunately her drow supremacist rant came to rescue him from thinking more about her positive traits. She was the enemy. Astarion had to categorically stop thinking good things about her. 

How unfortunate, then, that on that very day, they would meet an old face. 

As they explored deeper into the swamp, baaing at redcaps who still thought they were polymorphed into sheep - which annoyingly got a chuckle out of the vampire no matter how hard he told himself to stop finding the drow interesting - the party ran into a man. The smell around him was so rancid, leagues above the putrid waters that surrounded them. Astarion recognised his old acquaintance in a heartbeat: a Gur. Of course, no other people could smell so foul but his kind. They infested the city with their presence, and, after what they did to him, his hate was more than justified. The vampire was ready to bar his fangs, but as always, Leeith spoke up first.

“Oh stranger, forgive the aroma. Powdered iron-wine. An old hunter’s trick: most monsters will think twice before making a meal out of me.” The Gur glossed over everyone. He didn’t pay any mind to Astarion, acting friendly. This gave him enough confidence to walk up to him. Rage was bubbling up his chest and it took all of his effort not to point a dagger at the fool's throat already. 

“You’re a monster hunter? I’m surprised: I thought all Gur were vagrant cut-throats.”  The man shook his head, sighing at him, but still at ease.

“What's a Gur? He looks plain like any other surface dweller.” The drow gestured at him. Was she… feigning ignorance now? How could Gurs not fester in the Underdark too?

The hunter responded, diverging Leeith's attention from the elf. 

“We’re a mystical and dangerous people; we travel the land, never settling in one place. We steal your chickens, curse your crops, seduce your daughters. Your friend here has heard it all, I'm sure. I wish we had half the powers settled folks think we possess. Alas I'm a simple wanderer - a simple wanderer and monster hunter. But I'm no witchdoctor or cut-throat.” Monster hunters. Tks, more like thugs and barbarians who shouldn't be allowed to be near civilised societies. 

“If I were a cut-throat I wouldn't admit it either.” Said Leeith. Of course the traitorous bastard wouldn’t admit to it. How many more things was she still hiding? Why were they still talking to the Gur in front of them, he was just a nuisance. Even his voice was enough to make the hair on his nape stand up in disgust. 

“True. And I have no proof to offer but my word. If you wish, our path need not cross again. I'm haunting a vampire spawn and it is a little too bright for you to be my prey. His name's Aatarion and I'm afraid he's gone to ground-” The world fell into silence. If his heart still beat, it would have given up just now. 

Gods of course: there was no other reason for her to still be talking to this Gur. How could he be so blind. So blinded by… what? Companionship? For two hundred years he had uses Cazador’s teachings to make people fall for him. How could he not recognise the same tactics, the flirtiness and fake concern that the drow sported in every word, just enough to make him trust her, the same routine he was forced to learn. 

Were the devil and the half-blood in on it? They probably wouldn’t have turned their backs on the drow for a useless spawn such as himself. He couldn’t win against four people, he would run away at the first opportunity. He wasn’t going to let a fucking drow sell him off. 

He lowered his eyes at her and the insufferable smirk that was surely painting her lips. She was already signing her victory no doubt about it. 

They glanced at each other: what was up with her face? Her lips were thin and a brow raised, while her eyelids shot open with surprise. That wasn’t the expression of a winner. 

“And when you'll find this ‘Astarion’ you'll kill him?” She returned nonchalant in a split second, hand carefully slipping by the handle of her rapier. 

“Not this time. My orders are to capture him” Her stance changed, one foot stepping behind the other, the rest of her body facing the hunter: it was very subtle, merely shifting her weight around, but enough to let the vampire know that she was ready to attack a common enemy. 

“Oh, and bring him where exactly?” Said Astarion, testing the waters. He was still ready to jump backwards and run, maybe throw a vial of acid behind him to slow down his captors. 

“Baldur's gate. My people wait for me there.” Leeith glanced back at the vampire with a tense gaze: they both knew who was waiting in the city. She still hadn’t made a move against him either. Maybe he had been too quick to judge. Surely if she had to apprehend him, she would have attacked already, not keep drawing information from the Gur. And he looked more and more confused, but also still relaxed, unaware of the elf’s identity. 

“Only a spawn? Pity, it's not like he is a real vampire.” Said Leeith, with a mocking tone. Astarion glared at her: how could she joke at a moment like this. Frankly, he should have cut her just for the insult. 

“I don't know. I'm sure a vampire spawn could still rip out your throat if he felt like it.” He limited himself to words, but he was going to complain about it later. Maybe sink his fangs a little deeper next time he fed.

“He is right, unfortunately. They are only weak when compared to their masters. During the day we have the advantage. But at night, when they hunt? You will not find a more deadly quarry.” Gods, this “monster hunter” was still so clueless. He felt insulted that Cazador would choose someone as dense as him. 

The drow and the elf eyed each other: they didn't need words nor the connection of the tadpoles to understand what the other thought.

“Interesting. So, Astarion what do you think?” She smirked, leaving the stage open for him. 

“That's Astarion? No, impossible!” The look on the Gur’s face was priceless. 

“These days I'm making the impossible look easy.” Then the vampire turned to his faithful friend. “May I?” 

The Gur scrambled back, unprepared to deal with him just now.

“After you.” She bowed theatrically, her arm lighting up with magic. 

“Thank you dear.” With an elegant nod, Astarion loaded a bolt in his crossbow. 

The hunter had stepped backwards in the meantime, taking aim right for the vampire. He felt vines grow right from below his feet which snatched him on the spot, making him unable to dodge the subsequent crossbow shot. He hissed in pain, but still raised his arm and shot back. Maybe spending that much time joking with Leeith wasn't the best of choices, but no matter: he had her backing him and even Karlach and Shadowheart were joining in the fight, running at their assailant. 

Leeith remained close to him, summoning eldritch blasts from her fingertips, recoiling back everytime they burst. Her eyebrows were furrowed and focused, noticed the vampire even in the midst of battle. 

The hunter shot again, hell bent on at least killing him even if it cost his life. A mistake, because his aim was pathetic now that the two massive women were in front of him, swinging at him with sword and spells. He was able to dodge a few, but, at every opportunity, a blast or a crossbow bolt would come right at him from far away. Rancid blood and sweat poured out of him and his breathing got heavier. 

Astarion was being defended by everyone. He was not alone. This newfound confidence improved his skills and none of his shots missed their targets. 

And it was him who dealt the final blow, right at the man's knee, shattering it no doubt. The hunter fell down, still conscious, whimpering in pain from all the cuts and burns on his body. 

Leeith helped the elf out of the grappling vines, checking if he was ok with a glance. He waved her away and reached in his pocket for one of her exquisitely brewed potions. 

The drow walked in front of the Gur and knelt by his side, grabbing a fistful of his long hair to stare in his terrorised eyes. He begged between short breaths.

“What is your name?” Her tone was stern.

“Gan-Gandrel. Please. Please- I- mercy. Please please.” His voice got weaker with every word. 

“Now, Grandrel, I would love nothing more than to let you live. My old friends used to say I am the most merciful drow of the underdark.” The vampire looked at her with an inquisitive gaze. Was she not going to kill him? Was she stupid? Death was too good for that man. He thought of sprinting into action, but Leeith pointed a dagger at the Gur's throat not an instant later.

“I would love nothing more than to let you go back to Cazador and make you tell him that a Lolth’s servant is coming after him, ready to fuck his uptight ass with sand and broken glass. Maybe get a gnoll to do it.” A shiver ran down Astarion's spine. Fear yes, but also the pleasure of vengeance. Leeith's words were enticing and full of desire, making love to his vampiric ears. He had no doubt that she was being truthful, too. 

“But unfortunately, you're a liability for us. What if you told the bastard of our position, uh?” The Gur tried to plead more, but she stopped him by placing the dagger on his lips. “Let me finish, Gandrel. Not only you're a liability to us, but also to yourself. Cazador - the guy who employed you - is a true vampire. If the stories a true, he is quite apt at torture and suffering. What do you think would happen to you if you came back without Astarion, uh? As I said, I am the most merciful drow.” She turned around to stare at Astarion, extending her dagger by the handle. “Care to finish him off, darling?” 

Astarion smiled, kneeling in front of her. Their red eyes met, becoming one. How could he have ever doubted her? There was no one in the world more alike to him than that drow. No one who better understood him nor was ever as willing to murder for him. She was above and beyond his rosiest expectations. 

Crimson sprayed over both their faces and they smiled at each other.

Maybe praying even to Lolth all those many years ago had not been a mistake, if this was the custodian angel she sent. 

“You really are a sick fuck for slitting a man's throat like that.” Said Karlach, interrupting their moment. 

“You had as strong a hand in killing him than any of us did. You just didn’t land the killing blow.” Leeith was patting his corpse, pocketing anything she found useful. Not that there was much except for a heavy crossbow he couldn’t use.

“But he was pleading for his life. We could have spared him or just- not tell him that he was Astarion. We could have turned back and forgotten about this.” The tiefling was trying to be reasonable, but the drow shrugged and rolled her eyes.

“The man wanted to kidnap our friend. I value Astarion’s life much higher than that of a cut-throat. What would have happened once he was healed back? Or what if a much worse monster came to us? This guy was ready to sign a deal with a hag to find him, that would have fared badly for all of us. I look after my people. I almost risked my life to get rid of your own kidnappers, remember?” She stood up, and the two argued for a little more, until the cleric stopped them, fed up with both. They both stood on their convictions, so it was better to cut it here before spirits turned sour. 

They still had parts of the swamp to explore. Karlach went in front to avoid Leeith and was followed by Shadowheart. The vampire and the drow remained a few metres back, gossiping. 

“So, there’s a monster hunter after you?” Said Leeith. He knew the conversation was coming.

“Not anymore, which is all that matters really.” He tried deflecting, but she wasn’t having it. 

“What if there are others? He might not have been alone.” 

“We'll deal with them, like we did with this one.” A certain worry was weighing down his heart, ripping the smile off of his lips. 

“Are you sure Cazador is behind this?” A useless question and she knew it, judging by how heavy her voice was, so that no one could hear them. 

“It was him. I'm sure. Only he would know to send a Gur after me.” He struggled to contain the volume down. “It was a group of Gur that attacked me that night in Baldur's Gate. I would have died had Cazador not appeared and saved me.” 

“What a good heart he had: saved you by making you a slave.” She scoffed

“Well, he didn't mention the slave clause at the time. And now he sends a Gur monster hunter to look for me. It's a message.” He slowed his pace down to a halt, absorbing in the view. “He's reminding me of his power. Even in the middle of nowhere he can reach me and he wants me back.” 

“But why would he? Why not just kill you?” She stopped beside him, signalling to Karlach and Shadowheart to push farther on their own. Astarion appreciated it, not having his secrets made public domain. This still couldn't hide the sadness in his voice.

“Maybe he wants to make an example out of me. To show what happens to runaways. Or maybe he thinks death would have been too good for me.” 

“I would love to say you're safe here, but… He won't let go easy, will he? How concerned should I be?” She held her chin with one hand, in thought. Was she dumb enough to think she could pick a fight with a vampire now? Or did she not know anything about them.

“Concerned? Do you know the powers a vampire lord possesses?” His temper rose up, remembering all the terrible things he had witnessed his master do. “He can change shape, turn into mist, call wolves to do his bidding, shrug off blows like they're nothing. He could walk into our camp tonight and kill you with his bare hands. And you'll be lucky if death is the worst thing that happens to you.” He pointed a finger in her face, which she stared at and moved away gently.

“All right. You know him best. What do you suggest?” 

“First we have to… uh.” Started the vampire, trying to come up with something. The more plans he had, the more he had to turn down in his head. Most of those plans didn't go further than storm the palace in the morning and kill him. ”I don't know! If we keep killing his lackeys he'll just send more. We just have to be vigilant; keep our wits about us. And kill any monster hunter on sight.” The drow raised her brow and couldn't hide a smirk. 

Astarion felt insulted. Who did she believe herself to be? He was the one that had to suffer. He had made a grave mistake forgiving her. And why were her hands reaching for his throat now? She couldn't strangle him since he didn't breath- she put her hands on his shoulders at the base of the neck. He tried to pull away from the unwanted touch, but she squeezed him lightly, reassuringly. A bit of her body heat spread down even with the thick gambeson he was wearing. It took all of his composure and will power not to lean in her gentle touch.

“Hey.” She looked serious, but calming. “I know it seems hard right now, ok? And I know vampires are strong. I probably couldn't kill one right now. But don't let your fear make you wander far. There's miles between here and the city and he can't travel easily overground. He won't come. And by the time we reach Baldur's Gate, we will have grown stronger. And I promise you, he will suffer. You can carve a poem into his back too, do even more revisions, uh? Besides, he can't control you with the tadpole still inside your mind and you are a proficient rogue, you'll escape again.” He shook his head and straightened his back. 

“Oh you are a sweetheart, but I'm not going to delude myself.” He wriggled free of her hold, not without a part of him suddenly missing the comforting warmth. She lowered her arms and shrugged, then turned to walk away. 

“I know fear. I have dealt with mine and freed myself of it. You will too, I'm sure of that Astarion. Until then, follow your advice, keep your wits and a clear head.”

[acorpseinthewood]

Angel Killer.

You killed an angel, and its blood is burning your fingers. Its entrails tail your skittered steps as you escape its piercing, dead gaze, and there’s nothing you can do to be rid of the stink of the holy that coats you and clogs your nose with sweet raspberries and sweeter, golden, blood. 

You don’t know how you did it- your hands are not special, they’re flesh and they’re human. And there’s a dead angel that you killed and now, now you don’t know what to do. So you leave the body, it’s rotting carcass already blooming with light and new life, spilling acid onto the hard pavement and eating away the concrete underneath. 

And you run. 

What were you even thinking? The holy cannot be killed- you’re no priest but immortal blood's been spilled, they’re gonna find you, topped up with your guts rearranged and your life in tatters, god ain’t gonna matter. 

But you line your steps with gold ichor that won’t leave, its taint there forever. You leave the scene. Walk blocks in the dead of nothing, not even the sky opened up for a guide. You hop on a train, huddled on a cold seat, trailed with cold, dead eyes. 

You try to wipe your feet before entering home, but the gold will stay with you forever. It will never leave you alone. 

You cry before you sleep. The gold has sunk underneath your fingernails like an insect found its home and each time you touch something of anything it burns sharp and bright. Your tears burn too, but it’s not with holy despair but with the regrets and confusion of every fractalizing thought your mind comes up with and every song the wind outside shrieks against your walls. 

Your pillow becomes a comfort as you weep, and soon enough the stars grant you sleep as you sink heavily under the ground into the immovable realm of unconsciousness. 

Your dreams aren’t plagued- you wake up confused and tired. You sit up in bed, rub at your grief-stained cheeks and get on with the morning, your routine built into you with every trailing sweep your life leaves behind. 

Your feet touch the ground and you throw up. It’s nothing but the stinging acid of your insides, but it echoes the memory of the golden gore and you gag once more. You run to your bathroom, the tiled floor attacking the soles of your feet in such hate you know it knows what you did, and your hands latch on to the side of your sink and you throw up some more. 

On the train, everyone stares. Their eyes never touch you but it happens. They’re staring and they’re judging and they’re going to suffocate you under their invisible gazes, cruel and contained. They know what you did. They’ll come for you soon. 

Your heart twists and pulls, a motor pinching your veins into submission, run fast, run faster, you can’t die, you can't go. You stand far away from the corner, the puddle of gold underneath the seat identical to the one you tracked onto the train, its sight making you sick in the stomach. 

But work can’t wait. 

The train stops, starts, jutters and sieves its way through the city, a worm on an invisible string, dead inside yet full of the life it eats and then regurgitates again and again and again. People keep entering its maw like the too-trusting bird that cleans the alligator's teeth, and they leave when and only when the beast decides it’s done and clean. 

You stumble at your stop- the harsh, metal teeth nearly close around your neck, but you manage to escape both the creature and the eyes inside. Around you the outside world screams its features, people and buildings and grey and torture.  

You walk into your work, eyes bruised and bleeding tired, the walkways of the city a maze conquered only by desperation and mastery behind you.  

Work drags on as an impending doom on the horizon, each moment slower than the next, each second sharp and painful. They all stare at you, at the golden path you dragged from the front door to your desk. They cut you open and examine your insides, comparing the dripping red to the stark gold, pressuring your heart and your lungs into hating you too, they grip you with their disgust. The whole day goes without anyone talking to you. Years on end, it screws with your mind until you're shattering, glass smashed against the surge. 

Five o'clock never comes around until it does. And then your dead feet drag your dead body out the door and into the beyond.  

The train smiles when you return, its maw dripping gold after you enter. The corner seat laughs as you pass it, desperate to escape its sight into the next carriage.  

You escape at your stop, dropping down onto the streets, going home, going home, a pigeon in the dark bleeding despair and desperate for comfort. 

Your door clicks open and you stare down at the gold-stained welcome mat. Your fingers lose grip of your bag and it drops into the depths of a cavern, never to be found, never seen, because you can't look away from the mat and the gold and behind you, you know there's a winding, damning trail of it too, all linking back to you.  

You numbly go inside, avoiding the mat and shucking off your shoes. You grab a wipe and sit down at the table, soap in hand. You scrub and scrub and scrub at the soles of your feet, the gold stains spreading to the wipe and then the scourer and then anything else you can get your hands on.  

The gold follows you no matter what you do. 

Drops of red fleck your hands and join the puddle of gold on the ground, and yet your hands and your feet and your soul still shine that sickening colour you'll never let go. 

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: Prologue

Please welcome our new POV, Varamyr Sixskins. He's a warg, and a piece of shit.

Also, this chapter should share a theme with the epilogue or Daenerys X, so keep that in mind.

The warg stopped beneath a tree and sniffed, his grey-brown fur dappled by shadow. A sigh of piney wind brought the man-scent to him, over fainter smells that spoke of fox and hare, seal and stag, even wolf. Those were man-smells too, the warg knew; the stink of old skins, dead and sour, near drowned beneath the stronger scents of smoke and blood and rot. Only man stripped the skins from other beasts and wore their hides and hair.

I'm only now putting together that Arya wearing the faces of the dead is like warging into people.

Bad, bad Arya! You're bad!

+.+.+

Wargs have no fear of man, as wolves do. Hate and hunger coiled in his belly, and he gave a low growl, calling to his one-eyed brother, to his small sly sister. 

Bran has those too!

+.+.+

The trees had grown icy teeth, snarling down from the bare brown branches. 

Do the trees have mouths?

+.+.+

His one-eyed brother knocked the tooth-thrower back into a snowdrift and tore his throat out as he struggled. His sister slipped behind the other male and took him from the rear. That left the female and her pup for him.

She had a tooth too, a little one made of bone, but she dropped it when the warg's jaws closed around her leg. As she fell, she wrapped both arms around her noisy pup. Underneath her furs the female was just skin and bones, but her dugs were full of milk. The sweetest meat was on the pup. The wolf saved the choicest parts for his brother. All around the carcasses, the frozen snow turned pink and red as the pack filled its bellies.

Well, that's unfortunate.

The wolf lapped at it with his tongue, licked the ragged eyeless ruin of his nose and cheeks, then buried his muzzle in his neck and tore it open, gulping down a gobbet of sweet meat. No flesh had ever tasted half as good. - Bran I, ADWD

And,

"That's just a story," Arya blurted out before she could stop herself. "Wolves don't eat babies." - Arya II, ACOK

Yes they do.

+.+.+

Leagues away, in a one-room hut of mud and straw with a thatched roof and a smoke hole and a floor of hard-packed earth, Varamyr shivered and coughed and licked his lips. His eyes were red, his lips cracked, his throat dry and parched, but the taste of blood and fat filled his mouth, even as his swollen belly cried for nourishment. A child's flesh, he thought, remembering Bump. Human meat. Had he sunk so low as to hunger after human meat? He could almost hear Haggon growling at him. "Men may eat the flesh of beasts and beasts the flesh of men, but the man who eats the flesh of man is an abomination."

Abomination. That had always been Haggon's favorite word. Abomination, abomination, abomination. To eat of human meat was abomination, to mate as wolf with wolf was abomination, and to seize the body of another man was the worst abomination of all.

Basically Bran's on a slippery slope right now.

Bad, bad Bran! You're bad!

+.+.+

I was Varamyr Sixskins, who broke bread with Mance Rayder. He had named himself Varamyr when he was ten. A name fit for a lord, a name for songs, a mighty name, and fearsome. 

I'm not sure if anything is being suggested here, but I feel the need to point out that Bran's currently ten.

+.+.+

One day, as they fled, a rider came galloping through the woods on a gaunt white horse, shouting that they all should make for the Milkwater, that the Weeper was gathering warriors to cross the Bridge of Skulls and take the Shadow Tower. Many followed him; more did not. Later, a dour warrior in fur and amber went from cookfire to cookfire, urging all the survivors to head north and take refuge in the valley of the Thenns. Why he thought they would be safe there when the Thenns themselves had fled the place Varamyr never learned, but hundreds followed him. Hundreds more went off with the woods witch who'd had a vision of a fleet of ships coming to carry the free folk south. "We must seek the sea," cried Mother Mole, and her followers turned east.

Trying to stay on top of where the wildlings have spread.

I know about Hardhome, but I forget what's happened to the other two groups.

+.+.+

It was snowing, and Varamyr had lost his own cloaks at the Wall. His sleeping pelts and woolen smallclothes, his sheepskin boots and fur-lined gloves, his store of mead and hoarded food, the hanks of hair he took from the women he bedded, even the golden arm rings Mance had given him, all lost and left behind. 

That's kind of weird to include.

Craster had a gold ring.

Craster's sheepskin jerkin and cloak of sewn skins made a shabby contrast, but around one thick wrist was a heavy ring that had the glint of gold. He looked to be a powerful man, though well into the winter of his days now, his mane of hair grey going to white. - Jon III, ACOK

And you might remember Tormund has gold armbands that he'll give to Jon.

"Your first payment. Had those from my father and him from his. Now they're yours, you thieving black bastard."

The armbands were old gold, solid and heavy, engraved with the ancient runes of the First Men. Tormund Giantsbane had worn them as long as Jon had known him; they had seemed as much a part of him as his beard. - Jon XI, ADWD

I don't know. Don't ask me.

+.+.+

Death was not so easily outrun, however. So when Varamyr came upon the dead woman in the wood, he knelt to strip the cloak from her, and never saw the boy until he burst from hiding to drive the long bone knife into his side and rip the cloak out of his clutching fingers. "His mother," Thistle told him later, after the boy had run off. "It were his mother's cloak, and when he saw you robbing her …"

"She was dead," Varamyr said, wincing as her bone needle pierced his flesh.

See, but George doesn't like it when you steal from the dead. Coins, helms, cloaks, faces . . . he doesn't approve.

+.+.+

He could taste his true death in the smoke that hung acrid in the air, feel it in the heat beneath his fingers when he slipped a hand under his clothes to touch his wound. The chill was in him too, though, deep down in his bones. This time it would be cold that killed him.

His last death had been by fire. I burned. 

It's Varamyr's song of ice and fire.

+.+.+

Varamyr had died nine times before. He had died once from a spear thrust, once with a bear's teeth in his throat, and once in a wash of blood as he brought forth a stillborn cub.

Pardon?

+.+.+

Haggon taught me much and more. He taught me how to hunt and fish, how to butcher a carcass and bone a fish, how to find my way through the woods. And he taught me the way of the warg and the secrets of the skinchanger, though my gift was stronger than his own.

Bran and Bloodraven.

+.+.+

Before Mance, Varamyr Sixskins had been a lord of sorts. He lived alone in a hall of moss and mud and hewn logs that had once been Haggon's, attended by his beasts. A dozen villages did him homage in bread and salt and cider, offering him fruit from their orchards and vegetables from their gardens. His meat he got himself. Whenever he desired a woman he sent his shadowcat to stalk her, and whatever girl he'd cast his eye upon would follow meekly to his bed. Some came weeping, aye, but still they came. Varamyr gave them his seed, took a hank of their hair to remember them by, and sent them back. From time to time, some village hero would come with spear in hand to slay the beastling and save a sister or a lover or a daughter. Those he killed, but he never harmed the women. Some he even blessed with children. Runts. Small, puny things, like Lump, and not one with the gift.

Lump was Varamyr's given name.

This is a heinous person, and this is the worst prologue by far. Please get me out of here.

+.+.+

When Varamyr pushed at it, the snow crumbled and gave way, still soft and wet. Outside, the night was white as death; pale thin clouds danced attendance on a silver moon, while a thousand stars watched coldly. He could see the humped shapes of other huts buried beneath drifts of snow, and beyond them the pale shadow of a weirwood armored in ice.

Gosh, there's a lot happening here. I don't know what to say.

Snow, danced, silver moon, a thousand stars watched, shadow, a weirwood armored in ice. . . sure.

+.+.+

Far away, a wolf gave howl.

A shiver went through Varamyr. He knew that howl as well as Lump had once known his mother's voice. One Eye. He was the oldest of his three, the biggest, the fiercest. Stalker was leaner, quicker, younger, Sly more cunning, but both went in fear of One Eye. The old wolf was fearless, relentless, savage.

A wolf named One Eye? Incheresting. :)

+.+.+

Varamyr had lost control of his other beasts in the agony of the eagle's death. His shadowcat had raced into the woods, whilst his snow bear turned her claws on those around her, ripping apart four men before falling to a spear. She would have slain Varamyr had he come within her reach. The bear hated him, had raged each time he wore her skin or climbed upon her back.

Warging bad.

+.+.+

Dogs were the easiest beasts to bond with; they lived so close to men that they were almost human. Slipping into a dog's skin was like putting on an old boot, its leather softened by wear. As a boot was shaped to accept a foot, a dog was shaped to accept a collar, even a collar no human eye could see. Wolves were harder. A man might befriend a wolf, even break a wolf, but no man could truly tame a wolf. "Wolves and women wed for life," Haggon often said. "You take one, that's a marriage. The wolf is part of you from that day on, and you're part of him. Both of you will change."

And not for the better.

It's odd he included women in that marrying for life business.

+.+.+

Other beasts were best left alone, the hunter had declared. Cats were vain and cruel, always ready to turn on you. Elk and deer were prey; wear their skins too long, and even the bravest man became a coward. Bears, boars, badgers, weasels … Haggon did not hold with such. "Some skins you never want to wear, boy. You won't like what you'd become." Birds were the worst, to hear him tell it. "Men were not meant to leave the earth. Spend too much time in the clouds and you never want to come back down again. I know skinchangers who've tried hawks, owls, ravens. Even in their own skins, they sit moony, staring up at the bloody blue."

Basically Bran's on a slippery slope right now.

And Daenerys is already too far gone.

+.+.+

None of them had been as strong as Varamyr Sixskins, though, not even Haggon, tall and grim with his hands as hard as stone. The hunter died weeping after Varamyr took Greyskin from him, driving him out to claim the beast for his own. No second life for you, old man.

I doubt the name Greyskin is a coincidence. Rip Robb Stark x 2.

Varamyr killed the man who raised him, and then stole the man's second life by claiming his wolf.

While that's awful, I think a good takeaway here is that a student killed their mentor.

+.+.+

Varamyr Threeskins, he'd called himself back then. Greyskin made four, though the old wolf was frail and almost toothless and soon followed Haggon into death.

Amazed he didn't make a foreskin joke.

+.+.+

Varamyr could take any beast he wanted, bend them to his will, make their flesh his own. Dog or wolf, bear or badger …

Or dragon?

+.+.+

His wolves were close now. He could feel them. He would leave this feeble flesh behind, become one with them, hunting the night and howling at the moon. The warg would become a true wolf. Which, though?

Not Sly. Haggon would have called it abomination, but Varamyr had often slipped inside her skin as she was being mounted by One Eye. He did not want to spend his new life as a bitch, though, not unless he had no other choice. Stalker might suit him better, the younger male … though One Eye was larger and fiercer, and it was One Eye who took Sly whenever she went into heat.

One Eye the wolf mounts his sister when she's in heat.

You do whatever you want with that.

+.+.+

"They say you forget," Haggon had told him, a few weeks before his own death. "When the man's flesh dies, his spirit lives on inside the beast, but every day his memory fades, and the beast becomes a little less a warg, a little more a wolf, until nothing of the man is left and only the beast remains."

Varamyr knew the truth of that. 

In other words, Jon's not working with a lot of time.

+.+.+

He had known what Snow was the moment he saw that great white direwolf stalking silent at his side. One skinchanger can always sense another. Mance should have let me take the direwolf. There would be a second life worthy of a king.

King Jon foreshadowing, and a big hint he's entered into his "second life."

This is not like Beric and Lady Stoneheart.

+.+.+

The gift was strong in Snow, but the youth was untaught, still fighting his nature when he should have gloried in it.

Varamyr is saying this, so that's how we know warging is bad.

+.+.+

Varamyr could see the weirwood's red eyes staring down at him from the white trunk. The gods are weighing me. A shiver went through him.

Someone's watching.

+.+.+

He had done bad things, terrible things. He had stolen, killed, raped. He had gorged on human flesh and lapped the blood of dying men as it gushed red and hot from their torn throats. He had stalked foes through the woods, fallen on them as they slept, clawed their entrails from their bellies and scattered them across the muddy earth. How sweet their meat had tasted. "That was the beast, not me," he said in a hoarse whisper.

I'm really hating that word right now.

"Your blood makes you a greenseer," said Lord Brynden. "This will help awaken your gifts and wed you to the trees."

[...]

He ate.

It had a bitter taste, though not so bitter as acorn paste. The first spoonful was the hardest to get down. He almost retched it right back up. The second tasted better. The third was almost sweet. The rest he spooned up eagerly. Why had he thought that it was bitter? - Bran III, ADWD

+.+.+

He dreamt an old dream of a hovel by the sea, three dogs whimpering, a woman's tears.

He dreamt an old dream, of three knights in white cloaks, and a tower long fallen, and Lyanna in her bed of blood. - Eddard X, AGOT

x

She dreamt an old dream, of three girls in brown cloaks, a wattled crone, and a tent that smelled of death. - Cersei VIII, AFFC

+.+.+

When his father found the dogs sniffing round Bump's body, he had no way of knowing which had done it, so he took his axe to all three. 

I'll save you the story. Lump warged into one of the family dogs, and killed his two-year-old brother, Bump.

So, to summarize:

Varamyr killed his brother.

Varamyr killed his mentor, then stole his second life.

Varamyr wargs into shadowcats to rape women.

Varamyr enjoys slipping into female wolves while they're mating.

Varamyr slipped into a female wolf while she was giving birth.

Varamyr enjoys eating humans.

When Varamyr dies, he plans to takeover the body and mind of his only companion, Thistle the spearwife.

Is psychopath a strong enough word here?

+.+.+

Thistle had returned to him. She had him by the shoulders and was shaking him, shouting in his face. Varamyr could smell her breath and feel the warmth of it upon cheeks gone numb with cold. Now, he thought, do it now, or die.

He summoned all the strength still in him, leapt out of his own skin, and forced himself inside her.

Thistle arched her back and screamed.

Abomination. Was that her, or him, or Haggon? He never knew. His old flesh fell back into the snowdrift as her fingers loosened. The spearwife twisted violently, shrieking. His shadowcat used to fight him wildly, and the snow bear had gone half-mad for a time, snapping at trees and rocks and empty air, but this was worse. "Get out, get out!" he heard her own mouth shouting. Her body staggered, fell, and rose again, her hands flailed, her legs jerked this way and that in some grotesque dance as his spirit and her own fought for the flesh. She sucked down a mouthful of the frigid air, and Varamyr had half a heartbeat to glory in the taste of it and the strength of this young body before her teeth snapped together and filled his mouth with blood. She raised her hands to his face. He tried to push them down again, but the hands would not obey, and she was clawing at his eyes. Abomination, he remembered, drowning in blood and pain and madness. When he tried to scream, she spat their tongue out.

People have theorized that Robb warged into Catelyn, because she did something similar.

Finally someone took the knife away from her. The tears burned like vinegar as they ran down her cheeks. Ten fierce ravens were raking her face with sharp talons and tearing off strips of flesh, leaving deep furrows that ran red with blood. She could taste it on her lips. - Catelyn VII, ASOS

Those people are wrong, and weird.

He warged into Greywind, and then died again. That's tragic enough I think.

+.+.+

Abomination. Was that her, or him, or Haggon? He never knew. 

x

When he claimed the eagle that had been Orell's, he could feel the other skinchanger raging at his presence. Orell had been slain by the turncloak crow Jon Snow, and his hate for his killer had been so strong that Varamyr found himself hating the beastling boy as well. 

The text seems to be implying that after Varamyr took Haggon's wolf and Orell's eagle, both men imprinted on him?

Probably should remember that when it comes to Hodor and Bran.

+.+.+

The white world turned and fell away. For a moment it was as if he were inside the weirwood, gazing out through carved red eyes as a dying man twitched feebly on the ground and a madwoman danced blind and bloody underneath the moon, weeping red tears and ripping at her clothes. Then both were gone and he was rising, melting, his spirit borne on some cold wind. He was in the snow and in the clouds, he was a sparrow, a squirrel, an oak. A horned owl flew silently between his trees, hunting a hare; Varamyr was inside the owl, inside the hare, inside the trees. Deep below the frozen ground, earthworms burrowed blindly in the dark, and he was them as well. I am the wood, and everything that's in it, he thought, exulting. 

What the hell? Is he logging into weirwood.net?

+.+.+

A hundred ravens took to the air, cawing as they felt him pass. A great elk trumpeted, unsettling the children clinging to his back. A sleeping direwolf raised his head to snarl at empty air. 

Hey Bran.

+.+.+

That was his last thought as a man.

True death came suddenly; he felt a shock of cold, as if he had been plunged into the icy waters of a frozen lake. 

"Ghost," he whispered. Pain washed over him. Stick them with the pointy end. When the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold … - Jon XIII, ADWD

+.+.+

Then he found himself rushing over moonlit snows with his packmates close behind him. Half the world was dark. One Eye, he knew. He bayed, and Sly and Stalker gave echo.

Varamyr dies, and is reborn as One Eye. How fun!

+.+.+

When they reached the crest the wolves paused.

[...]

The things below moved, but did not live. One by one, they raised their heads toward the three wolves on the hill. The last to look was the thing that had been Thistle. She wore wool and fur and leather, and over that she wore a coat of hoarfrost that crackled when she moved and glistened in the moonlight. Pale pink icicles hung from her fingertips, ten long knives of frozen blood. And in the pits where her eyes had been, a pale blue light was flickering, lending her coarse features an eerie beauty they had never known in life.

She sees me.

The wights. . . they die, and they know things.

Final thoughts:

It took me three days to read this chapter. I'm not exaggerating.

I'm a little concerned.

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