#tw: blood

[fanaroff]

Kind of continuation to this comic.

The first thing he opens his eyes to—

———

“Narinder?”

Too loud. Too bright. Too much. Even through closed eyelids and flattened ears. His head pounded behind his eyes. A rhythmic thumping so loud in his ears. A noise he was so unused to. A mortal sound.

Pain was a blinding experience when one was no longer numb to it. The One Who Waits could only huddle in one spot and cling to his own shoulders with claws he couldn’t not yet control enough to retract. He knew where he sat, but he was not going to allow the recognition to settle.

Hurt lanced across his chest, his wrists. He wanted it to stop. This was not how things were supposed to go. He’d planned for so long. How could this have happened?

Narinder chose wrong. He chose wrong. He chose the wrong vessel. His vessel who built him up, built a Temple in his name, raised devotion! His vessel who then tore him down and reduced him to this quivering mess of a new mortal.

How he wished they’d chosen to kill him instead. To have ended his millennia of suffering, not extend it further.

He chose wrong.

The physical hurt now ran in tandem with the emotional. How could they do this to him? When he saw them choose… he thought that maybe things would go right. He would be free and his vessel tucked safely in their own little heaven… but he saw them return the Red Crown to their own head. That damned Lamb!

The one he gave life to! The one he saved!

Betrayed by one he trusted so—

Now he was here. Now he was mortal. How foolish of him.

“…Narinder?” Faust’s voice was gentle, no doubt a front put on for the followers (they should be HIS) that he could hear hanging about in curiosity. (Insects to be squashed! How dare they look upon his visage and see him in this form!)

Narinder knew that if he were to open his eyes, he’d see nothing but hatred in theirs. After all, he ordered his vessel to sacrifice themself. And after all, this was not something his vessel was willing to do. Would such an ask not generate hatred in one unwilling?

Either way, the refusal… the betrayal… has generated hatred within Narinder and when he returned to strength… he would make them pay.

There was no point in putting things off.

Narinder cracked open an eye, blinking rapidly against the blinding light, prepared to see the Lamb standing before him with a weapon in hand. (They’d be foolish not to, what if he chose to attack?)

Instead, the Lamb kneeled before him (why kneel now and not then?), a bowl of water in hand and fake concern across their face. They were still covered in spots of their blood and Narinder’s ichor from their battle, fleece torn in places and wool sticking up in different directions. Yet, they were the victor and looked it. Narinder had no doubt that he looked worse.

He felt worse.

Light from the setting sun lit against Faust, brightening them in almost a halo. It would be beautiful sight… if not for the knowledge he had.

“Betrayer.” Narinder rasped. It came out wrong. He wanted it to be a hiss. A snarl. But it was a wheeze of air at best. His throat hated it. He hated it.

Faust had the gall to shake their head. They opened their mouth to speak, but Narinder beat them to it.

“Betrayer. I never should have chose you. A lamb that defiled my name. My Temple for their own!” He slowly devolved into a rant. A proper tantrum for the ages. Spitting insults that brought gasps of shock from those around them, a few being hands to weapons (garden tools at best), and yet Faust did not react.

If he had taken a moment, he would have noticed their eyes darken to sadness and a frown overtaking their features. He would have noticed the hurt. The Crown trying to get his attention that he had chosen the wrong subject for his ire. But he was understandably focused on his own.

“I wish not to see you! I wish not to be here! Kill me, Usurper! End the suffering you drag out further!” Narinder’s voice had torn by the end, quieted by the force he attempted to put behind it and sounding as if he’d been exposed to the smoke of fires for hours.

He’d begged at the end. Begged to be killed and put out of his misery. And again the Lamb ignored this.

When Narinder was done, panting harshly and lying against the ground as his body turned tired, Faust stood from their kneel and turned to a she-rabbit. They placed the bowl of water in her hands.

“Take him to a tent. I feel he would be calmer if I were not in his line of sight. Have someone come to me if he attempts to attack anyone. Make sure he drinks. Make sure he eats. Force him to if you have to, but be careful. He has not eaten in a long while.”

The she-rabbit bowed her head as Faust turned without a second look to Narinder and strode towards the Temple. His temple no longer.

Narinder could only squirm and attempt at clawing, glaring at Faust’s back as he was dragged away with the help of two other followers. Kicking and screeching, he vowed to himself that the Lamb would pay for this.

They all would pay.

— —

Quick Oneshot that may not stay canonical, or it may stay as a companion piece. The image will stay canonical as the first thing Narinder sees upon his indoctrination. For now, it’s a prompt for myself.

I plan to do the main fic series from Faust’s POV, but I wanted to play around with some of Narinder’s thoughts. I don’t know if it worked though, I have a hard time thinking how someone might react in hatred so I hope I got it close enough.

Hope you like it!

[filmtvtoday]

AS ABOVE, SO BELOW (2014) dir. John Erick Dowdle

[crowberriesart]

now until the moment you die...

[biiguru]

Sometimes, he gets a bit lazy…

[feroshgirlsims]

The Haunting of Crumbling Isle

The Ghost Gang is back in a Halloween special brought to you by FeroshGirl Studios!

Will the crew survive their investigation of Windenburg's Crumbling Isle? Or will the monsters prove to be too much? And just how many times will they get distracted by kissing each other? Paul Romeo and Sierra Moss star alongside their spouses and newcomer Thorne Bailey in a crossover featuring the crew from The Save File Chronicles.

Track(s): Shadows in the Savoy, Sleepy Head, Skeletons (KINGS + Drew Ryn) | Music provided by https://slip.stream

SFX + VFX from Footagecrate

I had so much fun putting this together, even though I kind of wanted to tear my own hair out. I challenged myself to learn Davinci Resolve instead of sticking with my beloved Final Cut and, um, it was a JOURNEY, babe, let me tell you.

I'm glad I did it, though! I mean, yes, I do love Halloween, but I also wanted to make something special for the indomitable, always fabulous @sirianasims. I love this community, and since joining, I've met so many lovely simblr friends. But I wouldn't even be here with Siri. Not only is she a patient sounding board for all my (admittedly unhinged) ideas. She's super fucking generous with all her talents and never hesitates to help me out. She is a baddie, and I'm lucky to count her as a friend.

No sims were harmed in the filming of the machinima, but they did look good as hell thanks to some incredible cc creators (@sentate, the collab by @ice-creamforbreakfast and @surely-sims, @lady-moriel and billion more things I have in my game, so pls don't hesitate to ask if you see something you like).

Also, I'm obsessed with this lot by @rheya28. I had to destroy a few things to make it spooky, but I swear, if you download it, there is no blood on the walls or cobwebs.

Ok, that's all! Happy Halloween!

[maidoftheday]

Today's Monster Girl of the Day: Bogie from Monster Girl Encyclopedia

[scarredlove]

Been a little while since I shared my original guys... And it's spooky month......

So Imma indulge myself with vampires teehee Lil cameo of @justfangirlstuffs

[zerozeroren]

He can make it work

[shalida]

my full piece for the @/queeroczine ! 💕👄🔪

[ctimenefic]

the living and the dead

A little entry for @motorsport-halloween fest that's the closest I've got to actual horror.

It's too short to summarise without giving the whole game away, but, uh, warning for character deaths? Plural? And ritualised violence, and blood, and dismemberment, I guess.

It hadn’t made any sense, how right Albon seemed. They always come back wrong. 

He misses Logan’s call because of a sponsor event; six hours later, when he’s staring blankly at the blood oozing down from the ragged hole in his kitchen wall, Albon’s call comes through loud and clear.

“Oscar,” he says. His hesitance sounds pathetic. “Don’t do it.”

“Fuck you,” Oscar replies, and hangs up. When he flexes his hand, the serum-shiny clots on his knuckles break open. 

It takes him a while to realise the ringing isn’t in his ears again. 

“Really,” Albon says, more certain now, insistent. “It’s not worth it. Don’t do it.”

“You’re there, aren’t you?” Oscar asks. Even to himself he sounds flat. Finished. “Grove. You fucking watched.” He hears Alex swallow round his tombstone teeth. 

“I- He was okay. He understood. Oscar, seriously, don’t do it. He won’t thank you for it.”

“Fuck you. Don’t bury him deep,” he warns, and ends the call. 

He’d liked Albon, is the thing. When he’d first been in the F1 paddock, as a reserve, he’d expected something a bit more gruesome. Something wrong. But Alex had smiled, and cracked bad jokes, and touched his mechanics and other drivers without making them shudder. Even close up, he looked normal. His t-shirts sat high and tight on his neck, sure, but that was hardly uncanny. He sweated. He breathed. He hadn’t looked like Ocon, red-eyed, waxy and sallow and so obviously desperate to rip out Pierre’s throat that Renault had wired his jaw shut. 

It hadn’t made any sense, how right Albon seemed. They always come back wrong. 

At Monza ‘22, Oscar had assumed the subterfuge had been stretched too thin. He didn’t want to dwell on it, but he’d had a vague idea of something out of The Exorcist, Alex crawling across ceilings, spewing bile. After all, a dead man couldn’t have appendicitis. 

Except, it turned out, he could. 

He’s dwelling on it now. 

Oscar had missed Logan’s call, so he’d found out through notifications. First:

George Russell has removed Logan from the GPDA Drivers Chat

Then

BREAKING: Logan Sargeant CULLED as Vowles rededicates Williams

And

WATCH THE VIDEO: Grove ceremony called a “bloody mess” by F1 legend 

Another one slides onto his screen now, right under another call from Albon he declines.

George Russell: Do you want to know how?

He hits the autoreply that WhatsApp prompts: Yes

There was no doubting that Albon had been culled. Oscar had seen the pictures, nineteen and in awe of what Red Bull would do for victory. (It had only been photos, no video. The rumour was they’d had to drug him, that he’d stumbled to the altar and still fought there, and it’d be a bad look to have their sacrifice calling for his mum.) 

They’d cut his throat to the white of the bone. The blood had flowed down across the bodywork of the cars – both of them, Alex’s and Max’s – before it hit the earth. Oscar had wondered if it made the sponsors happy, the evidence of Christian’s commitment splattered bright red over their names. So much blood, it couldn’t be denied, couldn’t be fake. And anyway, there was the last picture, of Albon pale and split and unmistakably dead, curled over the halo, the candlelit shallow grave just visible in the background. 

And yet. Come 2022, he smiled. He joked. He touched. 

Somehow, George Russell had dragged Albon’s filthy corpse into Grove and brought him back whole. 

So it can be done. 

George is still in Monaco. Oscar rings round, has a private jet refuelling on the tarmac in Nice, a helicopter ready for him in twenty minutes. George had said it wouldn’t take long to teach him. 

They meet on a beach by the helipad. There’s not much moon left – and it makes it worse, that Vowles couldn’t wait a week for the new moon and an auspicious time before sharpening his knife – but what little light there is makes George stark against the pale sand. His shadow stretches back almost to the cliffs. 

“Terrible business,” he says in greeting. “I’d thought they’d go for retirement.”

Oscar swallows round the rock of guilt in his throat. He’d thought it too, since almost the start of the season – that Williams would let Logan go, and Oscar would have to bully him into wielding the knife, carving through his wrists. Not ending up like Latifi, too stubborn to see he’d run out of track, culled by default, an afterthought disposed of somewhere in the winter break.

He’d have cut off Logan’s hands himself to keep him. Pressed kisses to the stumps. Hell, Fernando still drives like a champion with his prosthetics, and yes, maybe he casts two shadows now, but that’s better than culling. 

“I’d’ve thought James could cut more cleanly,” George adds, a disapproving note in his voice. “Ruthlessness needs a steady hand.”

“Can we not?” Oscar interrupts. “Just- what do I need to do to get him- what do I need to do?” 

“Well, you’ll need the body first. Can’t do anything while he’s still inside her. Try to get as much of the dirt off as possible. You’ll want to check his mouth.” George pauses, and Oscar shoves his hands deep into his pockets to avoid picturing mud on Logan’s white teeth, his blue lips, his limp, cold tongue. 

“She’s clingy,” George adds. It makes Oscar feel uneasy, hearing him so dismissive, flippant, about a power so beyond knowing. “We called her Gaia, at Williams.” A little smile plays at the corner of his mouth, like it’s a secret. Like Oscar cares about names right now. 

It’s mostly common knowledge, anyway. Red Bull call her Mother, because they don’t much go in for subtlety. McLaren use Terra, which Oscar thinks fits better. Terror. That’s what she is. 

She’s had many names. Only one state, though. Hungry. 

The earth is hungry. They pump out her blood, rip her flesh, burn her in their cars and she wants recompense. 

“That’s the easy bit. After that, you have to consider the price.”

Oscar squares his shoulders. The lights of Monaco are all behind him, only the black of the ocean ahead. The entire city could wink out of existence, and he wouldn’t know. 

For all he cares, it already has. They filmed Logan’s cull, they put it on the internet, but Oscar’s just as dead without him. 

“What is it?”

George’s smile has too many teeth. “What do you think?”

He thinks of the earth’s anger, how the McLaren might fade away underneath him, like the Mercedes does to George. How it might snatch his home race, his poles, give Lando an advantage he doesn’t deserve. He could live with that. 

He thinks of the way George talks about a WDC sometimes, like it’s a decade or more out of reach. Like twenty years in the sport won’t wear the flesh from his bones, and take his hands at the end of it all the same. He could live with that. 

He thinks of Latifi, face down in the dirt. There hadn’t been a video then either. Toto had been busy, skiing – someone else had stepped in, carved him up. The photos hadn’t captured their face, but the long arm had worn a sponsor’s watch. 

He could live with that.

“Anything. I’ll pay anything.”

George chuckles. It sounds wrong.

“Are you sure?”

He turns to argue, shout, punch it out of George if he has to. George doesn’t move his body at all. But his head turns. His eyes are too large. Too dark.

Before Oscar can speak, a large wave breaks too close, a crack of saltwater against rock and sand. Sea foam races up the beach, drenches Oscar’s thongs.

A perfect ring around George’s feet remains bone dry. But where the sand is wet, things squirm under the surface. Hundreds of lugworms raise wiggling paths away, away, away from the shape of him, the cast of his shadow. 

Alex smiles-

but not at George. 

He cracks jokes- 

but not with George. 

He touches-

but not-

He came back right. But he hadn’t walked out of Grove alone. 

George unhinges his jaw. A thousand voices speak.

Deep in his pocket, Oscar’s phone starts ringing. 

“Are you sure?”

---

Logan Sargeant rots in a shallow grave and a dead man wins a championship. 

---

“Hey. It’s me. Obviously. Uh. So. It’s not gonna be an easy retirement like we thought. They- they think she’s too hungry. After the crash. The factory shook and- well. It’s my job. But, um, if you can get here. Before- I’d like that. I miss you. I will miss you. I’ll keep my cell on, so- yeah.”

[allelitewrestlings]

🥇🏆 JON MOXLEY's world championship wins in aew 🏆🥇

[zynoox]

This may become a little brutal if I'm honest But it's any-anything for you my dear, I promise

[spookymews]

watched Mouthwashing recently, loved it. Here's my summary of the game

[rezwrites]

Vampire!Hematologist!Agatha 10/16

[arcatsk]

Whumptober Day 14 No whumptober is complete without my FC, The Monster, to have a bite! Inspiration: My biting cat

[sawthelight]

the texas chainsaw massacre (2003)