#you know all the imagery of like consuming birds

[simplyscarlet]

Sometimes I make art did this watercolor when last season came out

[teyamsatan]

say you'll remember me

➳ young!coriolanus snow x f!reader

➳ warnings: angst, mentions of lucy gray, some violent imagery, no happy ending, allusions to smut, snow should be a warning by himself honestly

➳ wc: >1000 words

➳ a/n: i'm back from the dead after ?? months ?? because much to my dismay, i have fallen prey to movie coriolanus snow's charms (tom blyth the man that you are). i need that man biblically. no i have not read the books, please don't come for me, i don't care how unhinged he is, in the movies he's pookie and i love him and i could change him i KNOW it. anyway please enjoy x

He's so tall and handsome as hell He's so bad, but he does it so well I can see the end as it begins My one condition is

Coriolanus Snow was a hard man. Barely a man, when you really stopped to think about it, but it didn’t look like it right now, as he was sitting in the empty auditorium of the university he just left behind, with the stature and poise of a titan… or a god. His time in district 12 changed him. It brought out a side to him very few people knew him capable of, least of all his beautiful, gentle cousin, Tigris. The boy you once knew, golden curly locks of hair inundating the space on his face his azure irises usually lit up, wit and ambition so clearly displayed in them, the boy who, despite it all, despite all that stood against him, still had the remnants of a gentle heart in an environment that thrived on beating such a needless thing out of you… that boy seemed gone, killed by the person who stood tall in front of you, who desperately fought to let bygones be bygones. 

Coriolanus Snow was a hard man. He had to be, to get to where he wanted, to become who he knew he was always destined to be. He had to be, to forget - the war, the famine, the hurt and pain, the loss of love, the loss of hope, the loss of innocence. His blood-red coat was still and unmoving, the fabric as rigid as the persona he skilfully embodied, even as the wind blew past him and circled the room you were carefully eyeing, noticing every detail of it, of him, as you tried your hardest to gauge a mood, or hear a thought, through the unwieldy silence that met you like a careful, long-lost friend.

“So curious, aren’t we, little bird?” 

It shouldn’t have, not when he was the one whose back was turned to you, whose head lost in rumination, but his words, soft and whimsical, took you by surprise. As it always happened, your heart jumped in your chest in quiet anticipation, yearning to catch a glimpse of the one only you were fortunate enough to see. 

“Is it less intimidating… now that you’re done?” 

He turned then, his bright eyes finding yours immediately, drawn like a moth to a flame, and he smirked knowingly, the facade slipping away little by little, chipping like the paint on old walls. It’s funny. Out of the pair of you, you’ve always thought that was you. The moth. Forever risking your life and wings, for the beauty of it all, for the fire that you knew would either consume you or breathe new life in you. It was always a gamble, being in his presence, a game of Russian roulette you were addicted to, because how could you not be? How could you not… when he approaches you, slowly and methodically, his eyes never leaving yours, hungry and needy, speaking all the words he refused to say out loud, allowing you to see it - the glimpses of the boy. The boy you loved, the boy who survived somewhere inside of him, begging to be let out in the presence of someone who wouldn’t hurt the frail, withering existence that still clung to life the best way it knew how. 

“Who says it was ever intimidating, huh?” 

Your smile was enough to thaw the ice, enough for his hand, cold and calloused, warm and calming, to find your face, his thumb caressing the supple skin of your jaw, tracing the soft lips he dreamt about in whispered nights and wildest dreams. He tasted like roses and desire, and he kissed you like you were the breath he’s been denied his whole life. It was easy to forget in those moments, who he was, who you were, all that stood against you, the ghost of the girl he was trying so hard to banish from his mind. 

“Let’s go for a walk, just you and me.” 

Long walks in the city that was still reeling after the war you could barely remember felt intimate and almost like for your eyes and ears only, for only your bodies to feel and touch, for only your minds to wonder about and wander through. Through them, you knew Coriolanus - his many strengths and few weaknesses, his outright dreams and closeted desires, the depths of his soul he felt reluctantly comfortable to bare to you… and in turn, he knew you, more and more each day, as he found breath in the drowning sea that was once Lucy Grey and was levitated to better and never-seen before heights, away from the pain that haunted him every moment of his life.

“I think I loved her.” He tells you one night, his fingers massaging your back, tracing patterns onto it only he could understand, patterns you could spend the rest of your life trying to decipher. 

“I think you loved her, too.” You sigh, happy that his walls, tall and reinforced in layers of heavy, indestructible brick, were slowly chipping at the seams for you, but sad at the ghost that tormented his every breathing moment, and, as a result, yours, too. 

“I think I love you.” His voice was dark, serious, plagued with a twinge of uncertainty and fear, for the feelings he wanted to bury but couldn’t, that he wanted to hide from you and from himself, but decided against. It was short and simple, the confession, barely a few words whispered in the dead of night, while his glistening body was trembling softly under your touch and under the weight of the confession. It was short and simple, but it was enough to knock the breath of your lungs and any semblance of thought from your mind. 

“You wouldn’t… leave, right? You won’t leave.” 

You smile in his chest, and it almost hurts, the need to feel him, closer still, to touch your lips to his and pour it all into a kiss and watch him do the same. 

“Never.”

In these moments, he wasn’t Coriolanus Snow, future president of Panem, the heir to the Plinth fortune. In these moments, he was your Corio, and you were his little bird. When you are done, the disjointed song of the city coming to life falls upon deaf ears as you hold each other, reluctant to let go and face the harsh realities of the world that surrounded you and seeped into every aspect of your being, no matter how unwelcome. You hoped you could stay like this forever, safe in his arms, in the arms that welcomed you, in the arms that held onto you and thus, onto the inherent goodness born into him that he was forever struggling to subjugate, that you hoped he never would. 

But… Coriolanus Snow was a hard man. And when he inevitably left you one fateful night, you tried to forget the tears that stained his pillow, the last remnants of the boy who gave his dying breath in his soul, that cried and screamed for the life he could have had, a life that was taken from him, a life that the world and the man whose presence still inundated the now lonely, deserted room, conspired to end. And as you lay on the empty bed, your own tears mixing with his own as they drenched the fabric you knew you’ll never see again, you couldn’t help but wonder if the man he would become would remember you, and all you shared, or if to him, much like the boy you loved, you were already dead. 

Say you'll remember me Standing in a nice dress, staring at the sunset, babe Red lips and rosy cheeks Say you'll see me again, even if it's just in your wildest dreams

[moeitsu]

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Ch 12 - Though Mine Beat Faster Far Than Thine (Part 1)

Summary: Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God in a world that is ugly with violence and hate.

Ao3  Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters  Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

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Content Advisory 18+: This chapter contains graphic depictions of bodily torture, unsettling imagery, themes of death and child loss, grief, mourning, blood, gore, bodily fluids, and implied sexual assault. If you are sensitive to these adult themes, please approach with caution.

This is your warning: The content within this chapter is intense and may not be suitable for all readers.

A/N: Part 2 of this chapter will probably come out next week. I was originally going to do it in one part but this chapter alone is 13.5k words. I apologize in advance for what's about to unfold. Pls don't hate me.

Tag List: @photo1030 @ariacherie @thatweirdcatlady @ultraporcelainpig

**please let me know if you would like to be tagged in future chapters!

Story Tags: Widowed, Original Character(s), High-Honor!Arthur Morgan, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby!Arthur Morgan, Canon Divergence, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Sex, Eventual Romance, Emotional Sex, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort,Touch-Starved, Sexual Tension, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Infant Death, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Torture, Blood and Violence, Survivor Guilt, Aftermath of Torture, Caretaking, Injury Recovery, Period-Typical Racism, Anxiety, Self-Hatred, Night Terrors, Emotional Constipation, Self-Doubt, Men Crying, Bathing/Washing, Sweet/Hot, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff

Under the blazing Lemoyne sun, finding relief from the heat was like chasing a mirage. But in the heart of Clemens Point, life thrived despite the drought. The grass was a vivid green, speckled with bursts of colorful flowers that seemed to defy the arid conditions. Birds filled the air with their lively chatter, while bees and butterflies danced among the blossoms, competing for the sweet treasures hidden within.

Meanwhile, Arthur, Dutch's trusted right-hand man, was as busy as ever. Always on the lookout for opportunities to line the gang's pockets, his latest adventure had involved a risky venture to rob the Valentine bank. Alongside Bill and Karen, they'd pulled off the heist with typical outlaw flair, though not without facing down some trigger-happy lawmen on their way out. Despite the thrilling danger of the heist, Arthur couldn’t help but shake his head, wondering when this will finally be enough. 

Arthur had grown accustomed to Dutch's evasive responses whenever he attempted to discuss the gang's plans. Each time, Dutch would offer vague reassurances that everything was under control, leaving Arthur feeling more frustrated and in the dark than ever. The mention of Tahiti had become little more than a running joke among the gang, a distant dream that seemed increasingly out of reach with each passing day.

And then there was Micah, always worming his way into Dutch's good graces with flattery and false admiration. Arthur watched with a mixture of disdain and apprehension as Micah spun his tales of Dutch's unparalleled brilliance and leadership. Despite Dutch's apparent blindness to Micah's ulterior motives, Arthur saw through the facade, recognizing the dangerous influence the sycophantic outlaw wielded over their leader.

Arthur leaned against the post at the back of the gang leader's tent, as Dutch and Micah strategized inside, his gaze drifted to the shoreline. There, he watched Kate teaching Jack to skip stones, her laughter carrying faintly on the breeze. Each moment with her seemed to deepen his feelings, from the gentle touch of her hands to the genuine concern he felt for her safety. He found himself constantly drawn to her, seeking her out in quiet moments when he wasn't consumed by work. Yet, despite the intensity of his emotions, he couldn't find the words to express them.

As the afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the scene, Arthur wrestled with his growing affection for Kate. Her presence had become a beacon of warmth and solace in his turbulent life. He longed to confide in her, to bare his soul and share the depths of his feelings. But fear held him back, fear of rejection, fear of vulnerability. And so, he remained silent, his emotions simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to emerge. Her words a constant echo in his mind; don’t keep hidden what matters, even from yourself. 

“Are you even listening to us, Morgan?” Micah’s voice sliced through Arthur's reverie. With an exasperated roll of his eyes, he pushed himself off the post, turning to face the tent. Inside, Dutch lounged on his cot, a cigar dangling from his fingers, while a map sprawled across his nightstand. Micah, on the other hand, stood opposite him, arms crossed with a casual arrogance that made Arthur's skin crawl.

As he glanced around, he noticed Molly sitting just outside the tent, her presence a silent witness to their conversation. The ongoing disputes between her and Dutch had become a constant source of tension within the gang, their arguments echoing through the camp at night. Despite the turmoil, Molly still remained by Dutch's side, despite how miserable she appeared. Always resisting the efforts of the other women to draw her into their daily routines and conversations. Arthur felt sympathy for the young woman.

With a weary sigh and a shake of his head, Arthur responded, “Yeah, I heard you. And it sounds like a load of horse shit.” The weight of frustration hung heavy in his words as he braced himself for the inevitable clash of wills.

Earlier that day, Pearson had approached Micah with intriguing news. According to him, he had encountered some of Colm O'Driscoll's men in town. They professed a desire for peace, claiming that Colm wished to negotiate a parley with the rival gang. Arthur immediately smelled a trap. He couldn't fathom a man like Colm harboring anything but pure hatred in his heart. The feud between Colm and Dutch ran deep, stretching back to a time long before Arthur had joined the gang as a child.

Micah, however, seemed unfazed by the potential danger, dismissing Arthur's concerns with a nonchalant wave of his hand. "Well, since you've been running around digging us into even deeper shit, I reckon this might just lighten the load a little," Micah retorted, his tone dripping with arrogance.

Arthur's jaw clenched as he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Placing his hands on his gun belt, he took a step closer to Micah, his voice laced with irritation. "You mean your shit, Micah. Pearson ain’t got half the brains to con this mess. This has your dumbass written all over it," he shot back, the jingle of his spurs punctuating each step on the wooden floor of the makeshift room.

Micah's words hung in the air, thick with false hope and calculated manipulation. “You’re always tellin’ us Dutch, do what has to be done…but don’t fight wars that ain’t worth fightin’. Maybe Colm finally wants peace.” He explained.

Arthur's gaze hardened as he watched the scene unfold, his brows furrowing in frustration. The way Micah twisted Dutch's principles to suit his own agenda made Arthur's stomach churn with anger.

Hosea's timely interruption added a layer of gravity to the situation. His voice, filled with wisdom born of experience, cut through the tension like a knife. "Colm wants a parley?" he questioned, his tone laced with skepticism. "It's a trap," he asserted, his words carrying the weight of undeniable truth.

Micah's sigh of resignation seemed almost rehearsed, his arms extending in a theatrical display of defeat. "Well, of course, it's probably a trap," he conceded, his tone dripping with sarcasm. But then, with a pleading look directed at Dutch, he continued, "but what have we got to lose finding out?"

Arthur gritted his teeth at the sight, his frustration boiling beneath the surface. The way Micah spoke to Dutch, manipulating him with false hope and veiled threats, made Arthur sick to his stomach. He couldn't understand how Dutch could tolerate it, let alone seem to enjoy it. 

"We could get shot," Arthur interjected bluntly, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. 

Dutch's silent nod of agreement spoke volumes. "Colm ain't one to do things so… gentleman-like," he mused, his expression clouded with uncertainty.

Micah's dismissive shake of the head implied that the concerns were unfounded, mere misunderstandings in his eyes. "We ain't gettin' shot, because you'll be protecting us," he stated confidently, his hand resting heavily on Arthur's left shoulder. It was clear from his tone that he had already made up his mind; he would appoint himself as the right-hand man during the parley, regardless of Arthur's objections.

Arthur shot a disapproving glance at Dutch, silently pleading for his support. But Dutch's expression betrayed no hint of intervention; he seemed to be already envisioning how the situation would unfold.

"If it's a trap, you shoot the lot of them. If it's not…" Micah's voice trailed off, leaving the implication hanging in the air.

With a frustrated huff, Dutch walked past them, his irritation palpable. "I'm not really seeing the point in any of this," he muttered, making his way over to the table where Hosea sat, reading the paper.

Micah followed behind like a persistent nuisance, his voice bordering on whining. "It's a chance we gotta take!" he insisted.

Dutch sighed heavily, leaning his arms on the table as he shared a somber revelation. "I killed Colm's brother... a long time ago. Then he killed a woman I loved dearly." The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, casting a solemn pall over the group.

A moment of silence passed amongst them, punctuated only by Micah's sympathetic hum. But he quickly interjected once again, his tone brimming with impatience. "As you say. It was a long time ago, Dutch."

Dutch gazed out at the water, his mind undoubtedly consumed by the weight of their shared history. With a final puff of his cigar, he threw it into the dirt, his decision made. "Alright. Let's go then. You and me, with Arthur protecting us," he declared, his voice firm with resolve.

Arthur's frustration was evident as he shook his head, a deep furrow forming between his brows. With a muttered curse under his breath, he threw a hand up in the air in exasperation, a gesture of his growing annoyance. Resigned to the unfolding events, he fell into step behind Dutch, his footsteps heavy with irritation as he made his way to his trusty mare, waiting patiently nearby.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate hadn't intended to eavesdrop, but the weight of Arthur's frustration and concern in his voice drew her curiosity like a moth to flame. Along the grassy shoreline, she quickened her pace until she caught up to Arthur just as he was about to mount Belle.

Drawing his attention by placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, she couldn't help but inquire, "What's this I hear about a parley?"

Turning to greet her Arthur let out a heavy sigh, his irritation palpable. "Micah seems to think Colm O'Driscol wants peace, apparently," he muttered, his tone laden with disbelief.

"Peace? From the same man who's been chasing you lot since Blackwater?" Kate's incredulity rang clear in her voice.

"Yep, that's the one," Arthur replied, his spirits low.

Kate exhaled sharply, frustration evident in her features. "That's clearly a trap," she remarked, stating the obvious.

"I know," Arthur admitted, his voice tinged with resignation.

"Then why are you going along with it?" Kate pressed with unmistakable concern.

Leaning against the side of his saddle, Arthur gave her a sympathetic look. "Someone's gotta make sure Dutch doesn't get his head blown off."

"If he's foolish enough, I say let him. Maybe they'll shoot Micah as well," Kate quipped with a roll of her eyes.

A brief chuckle escaped Arthur's lips, her irreverence momentarily lifting his sour mood. "Wouldn't that be somethin’,” he mused. “But I can’t let it happen. I'll be up in the hills with a rifle, trained right on Colm. Just in case he tries anything."

Kate let out a deep sigh through her nose, her brows pinching with unease. "I still don’t think it’s a good idea. If you’re protecting them, who's protecting you?" Her tone carried a weight of seriousness, the gravity of the situation settling heavily upon her shoulders.

With a soft chuckle, Arthur reached out and gently squeezed her hand. "I don’t need protecting darlin’. I'll be just fine," he reassured her, though the lines of concern etched into his features betrayed his words.

"What if I come with you?" Kate suggested, brushing aside his reassurance with determined persistence.

Arthur shook his head slightly, his expression turning somber. "I don’t want you gettin’ roped into all that. Colm’s a nasty man, and I don’t need him comin’ for you too." His eyes bore into hers with genuine concern. He wished he didn't have to involve himself in Dutch's risky schemes, but loyalty demanded otherwise. If there was one thing he could protect Kate from, it was getting entangled in Dutch’s dangerous endeavors.

With a defeated sigh, Kate lowered her gaze. "Just promise me you’ll be cautious? And you’ll shoot him if he tries anything," she implored, her words more of a command than a request.

"I promise, Kate," Arthur vowed solemnly, his tone tinged with determination. With a final nod, he mounted Belle and tipped his hat in farewell before riding off into the camp to catch up with the others, leaving Kate behind with a heart heavy with worry.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting shadows across the camp, Kate found herself amidst the nightly routine of caring for her beloved mare, Lorena. Yet, unlike other evenings, Lorena seemed unusually restless, her ears flicking nervously, her hooves stomping the ground, and her pacing creating a small cloud of dust around her. Kate furrowed her brow in concern, attempting to soothe her companion's nerves with a gentle song, though she couldn't discern the cause of her distress.

Observing Lorena's behavior, Kate couldn't help but notice the absence of her mare's newfound companion, Belle. The two horses had formed a deep bond, she often watched them grooming each other, playing together, and even sleeping side by side. It was a testament to the camaraderie that extended beyond the human members of the camp. Kate suspected that Lorena's unease stemmed from Belle's absence, as any disruption to their nightly routine tended to unsettle her.

With Belle on her mind, Kate couldn't shake the thoughts of Arthur and the conversation they had shared before he departed. Though Dutch and Micah had returned to camp hours ago, Arthur was conspicuously absent. Kate brushed aside her worries for the time being, reminding herself that Arthur often sought solace away from camp. However, he never failed to return by dinner, and Kate found herself eagerly anticipating his return, awaiting to hear about the outcome of the supposed parley.

As the night wore on and Arthur's absence stretched into the hours after dinner, the seeds of doubt began to sprout in the back of Kate's mind. She couldn't shake the feeling of unease, her worry growing with each passing minute. Arthur was never one to linger without reason, especially not when the job was risky.

With a worried brow, Kate contemplated seeking out Dutch for answers. Perhaps Arthur had mentioned something about his whereabouts before he left. It wouldn't be the first time he had set out on one task only to find himself entangled in another. Determination spurred her forward as she made her way over to Dutch's tent, the crackling of the fire and the gentle lapping of water providing a somber soundtrack to her troubled thoughts.

To her surprise, Dutch was nowhere to be found, replaced instead by Molly, sitting quietly under the warm glow of an oil lamp, her pen scratching across paper. Kate hesitated, unsure of how to interrupt her at such a late hour. Molly's dark orange curls framed her face as she looked up, a hint of surprise in her eyes at Kate's unexpected presence.

"Hi Molly," Kate greeted awkwardly, fidgeting with her hands. "I um, I was just wondering if Dutch mentioned anything about Arthur?” Molly looked puzzled at her question. “You know, from the parley with Colm earlier. I haven't seen him return yet."

Her expression softened with sympathy as she processed Kate's inquiry. "No, I'm sorry," she replied gently. "Dutch didn't say anything to me."

With a heavy sigh, Kate nodded, her heart sinking with disappointment. "Oh, I see. Sorry for bothering you."

But before she could turn to leave, Molly offered a small reassurance, sensing Kate's distress. "Arthur's always disappearing," she said softly. "I'm sure he's alright."

Kate forced a small smile, though her worry remained palpable. "So I've learned," she murmured, her thoughts clouded with concern as she retreated into the night.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Arthur awoke to a relentless pounding pain that felt as though his skull might split in two. Each throb sent waves of agony crashing through his head, leaving him disoriented and gasping for breath. Slowly, he forced his heavy eyelids open, only to be greeted by a swirling mass of black stars dancing before him. The night air was frigid and thick, seeping into his bones as he lay sprawled on the unforgiving ground. Wrists and ankles bound. 

As his vision began to clear, he realized he was not nestled safely by the campfire at Clemens Point. No, the harsh reality of his surroundings sent a shiver down his spine. He was alone in the darkness, surrounded by eerie shadows that danced menacingly in the flickering light of a distant campfire. Panic surged within him as he struggled to piece together the events that had led him to this desolate place. The last thing he remembered was a hazy blur of faces and voices, fading into the abyss of his memory.

Fear gnawed at his insides as he fought to push through the fog of confusion that clouded his mind. Had he been ambushed? Kidnapped?

The memory of the parlay with Colm played like a haunting melody in Arthur's mind. He could feel the weight of his rifle against his chest as he lay hidden in the tall grass, his breath shallow with anticipation. The tension in the air was palpable as Dutch and Colm exchanged terse words, the promise of peace slipping through their fingers like sand. Arthur's jaw clenched as he watched the failed negotiation unfold before him, his finger poised on the trigger, ready to act if things took a turn for the worse.

But nothing could have prepared him for what happened next. As Colm turned to leave, his gaze seemed to linger on Arthur with a chilling intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. Before he could react, the world spun violently as a blinding pain erupted in his head, the sickening crunch of bone meeting metal echoing in his ears. Darkness swallowed him whole as he succumbed to the ground, the last thing he saw were the menacing silhouettes of his assailants looming over him like specters of death.

Arthur's mind swam in a turbulent sea of pain and confusion, each wave crashing against the shores of his consciousness with merciless force. The memories of being hoisted onto the back of a horse, his body dangling limply over the beast's flank, stirred a sickening cocktail of nausea and disorientation within him. The rhythmic bounce of the horse's gait only served to intensify his queasiness, threatening to unleash the contents of his roiling stomach onto the unforgiving ground below.

In the midst of his torment, a grim irony dawned on him like a blink in the night. The sensation of being transported as prey, his captors seemingly relishing in his helplessness, echoed the plight of those he had pursued relentlessly in his own chase as a bounty hunter. It was a bitter realization, one that clawed at the fringes of his consciousness as he struggled to maintain his tenuous grip on reality. That must be it, Arthur thought to himself. He chalked it up to be a group of bounty hunters, looking to turn in his head for the $5000.

As consciousness ebbed and flowed like the tide, Arthur's senses gradually sharpened, revealing the harsh reality of his captivity. With painstaking effort, he managed to pry his leaden eyelids open, his vision obscured by a haze of pain and exhaustion. Through the murky veil that shrouded his perception, he discerned the silhouettes of his captors seated by a crackling fire, their voices a distant murmur in the vast expanse of his disoriented mind. With a grunt of exertion, he attempted to shift his weight, the world tilting dangerously on its axis with each agonizing movement.

Arthur's heart hammered in his chest as he dragged his body across the unforgiving earth, the coarse ground tearing at his skin with each agonizing inch. His bound hands clawed desperately at the soil, fingers digging into the earth as if grasping for a lifeline in the depths of despair. Every movement sent waves of searing pain coursing through his battered frame, a relentless reminder of the brutality he had endured. If he could just reach the horses, he could escape. 

In the dim glow of the campfire, the shadows danced like demons, casting sinister shapes upon the ground as Arthur's tormentors remained oblivious to his silent struggle. With every labored breath, he willed himself forward, his mind consumed by a singular purpose: escape. The rhythmic cadence of his groans mingled with the hushed whispers of the night, a haunting symphony of suffering that echoed through the darkness.

But as Arthur's faltering movements drew the attention of his captors, the weight of their scrutiny bore down upon him like a suffocating shroud. The sudden cessation of their conversation sent a chill down his spine, the air thick with anticipation as their gazes fixed upon his trembling form.

In the eerie silence that followed, the voice of a young Irishman pierced the night like a dagger, his words laced with contempt and malice. “Well ye just gonna sit there and let the bastard git away?” 

"Calm down, Nolan, he ain’t goin’ nowhere," came a voice, tinged with a cold indifference that sent shivers down Arthur's spine. He heard the heavy thud of boots against the earth as one of his captors rose to his feet and approached.

"Well evening, sugar," the man sneered, his voice dripping with disdain as he loomed over Arthur's broken form. "You ain’t dead yet, is you?" With a cruel shove of his boot, Arthur was forced onto his back, the impact sending shockwaves of pain radiating through his broken body.

The man chuckled darkly, relishing in the sight of Arthur's mangled visage. The bruises on his face had blossomed into grotesque shades of purple, his features marred by cuts and dried blood. "F-fuck you," Arthur managed to spit out, his voice hoarse amidst the agony that consumed him.

The man merely tsked in response, his amusement palpable as he delivered another vicious blow, his boot connecting with Arthur's ribs with brutal force. As Arthur curled in on himself like a child, gasping for air through the haze of pain, he realized with a sinking heart that his torment was far from over.

In the darkness, Arthur's fingers scrabbled desperately in the earth, seeking refuge in the jagged contours of the rocky terrain. If he could just grab something, anything. Even a small rock could be deadly in his hands. But his efforts were swiftly thwarted by the cruel descent of a heavy foot, grinding mercilessly into his hand. The bone-chilling crunch of his fingers being crushed beneath the merciless weight elicited a primal cry of agony from deep within his chest, muffled by the suffocating grip of pain.

Nolan's voice returned, dripping with sadistic anticipation, cut through the night like a blade. "Once Colm gets his hands on him, we're gonna be free as birds," he gloated, as if reveling in Arthur's torment was the key to their liberation.

The mention of Colm sent a wave of fear down Arthur's back, his thoughts a murky whirlpool of anguish and bewilderment. Through gritted teeth, he fought to rise again, a glimmer of defiance flickering in his eyes as he attempted to leverage himself against the unforgiving ground. 

Above him, the voices of his captors continued their sinister discourse, the weight of their words heavy with ominous implications. "Are we really turning them into the law? If it were up to me I’d say he ain’t worth the risk," the one closest to him questioned, his skepticism palpable in the darkness. 

But Nolan's response offered little solace. "Quit bein' stupid, Connor. That's his plan, remember?"

"Do you really think he gives two shits about this washed-up cowboy?" Connor's voice dripped with disdain, his words laced with a venomous edge.

The irritation in his tone was palpable as he continued, "Colm says he knows how to play Van der Linde. Once he realizes we have him, his whole posse will fall right into his trap."

Arthur knelt in the dirt, his body trembling with a mixture of pain and fear. With a herculean effort, he pushed himself to his feet, each movement an agonizing battle against the relentless grip of gravity. Stumbling forward, he fought to maintain his balance, his vision swimming with dizziness. Desperation fueled his every step as he clumsily veered away, a fleeting moment of hope igniting within him as he drew nearer to the horses. If he could just reach one...

But his hope was shattered in an instant as a bullet tore through his ankle, sending searing waves of pain coursing through his shattered limb. With a gut-wrenching cry, he crumpled to the ground, his world engulfed in a haze of excruciating agony. Blood pooled beneath him as his legs quivered with adrenaline, a futile attempt to numb the relentless torment that consumed him. Gasping for air, he rolled onto his side, his breaths ragged with panic as he struggled to suppress the rising tide of agony threatening to overwhelm him. Tears threatened to spill down his blood stain cheeks. 

As he lifted his gaze, he was met with the sight of the two men looming over him, their faces twisted with sadistic amusement. The one who had fired the shot let out a cruel laugh, his eyes alight with malice. "Did I kill ya yet?" he taunted, the callousness of his words echoing through the darkness like a death knell.

Arthur's attempts to speak were drowned out by a guttural moan, a haunting sound that echoed through the desolate night air, mirroring the agony that gripped his shattered body. Fear and desperation clawed at the edges of his consciousness, threatening to engulf him in its heavy embrace.

“Let’s see if you survive this,” Connor’s voice taunted, each word full of tormented amusement, a cruel promise of further suffering.

A chill swept over Arthur as he felt the icy touch of metal against his left shoulder, the unmistakable sensation of the barrel of a rifle pressed against his flesh. With a sharp intake of breath, he braced himself for the inevitable onslaught, his heart hammering in his chest like a thunderous drumbeat.

Searing pain ripped through him as a bullet tore through his shoulder, sending shockwaves of anguish coursing through his already beaten form. The world around him blurred into a hazy fog of suffering, his consciousness slipping away into the abyss as darkness swallowed him whole.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The passage of time seemed as fleeting as the shifting clouds above, their transient dance across the sky mirroring Kate's restless thoughts. With each passing moment, her imagination wove a tapestry of dread, painting vivid scenes of tragedy. For every dire scenario she conjured, she grasped desperately for the slender threads of reason, clinging to the hope that Arthur's absence was merely a benign twist of fate. Dutch would have surely said something had the parley gone awry. 

But like a persistent tick embedded deep within her psyche, the gnawing sense of unease persisted, burrowing beneath her skin and refusing to be ignored. Despite her best efforts to quell the rising tide of fear, it lingered in the recesses of her mind, a haunting whisper of uncertainty.

Engulfed in a flurry of chores, Kate sought refuge in the mundane tasks of camp life, each action a feeble attempt to distract herself from the relentless thunder of worry. Yet, amidst the hustle and bustle, the absence of Arthur's reassuring presence weighed heavily upon her, a silent void that echoed with unanswered questions.

Yearning for solace, Kate longed to confide in someone who understood. With Sadie and Charles occupied elsewhere, she found herself adrift in a sea of unease, her anxious pacing along the shoreline of the camp a silent testament to her inner turmoil.

Beside her, Lorena mirrored her distress, her restless movements a silent plea for communication. Kate had to hitch her to a tree just shy of her tent, or else she feared Lorena would take off. Chasing, or running from something; Kate did not know. 

As the night stretched on, their shared distress only deepened, casting a shadow over their sleepless vigil. In the quiet darkness, they stood as silent sentinels, bound together by the unspoken fear that lurked just beyond the edge of sight.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

In the embrace of unconsciousness, Arthur drifted through the realm of dreams. The reality of his situation melted away like morning mist beneath the sun's gentle caress. In his coma, he found himself in a fantasy of domestic bliss, woven from the threads of his deepest longings and desires.

He stood within the sturdy confines of a wooden cabin, its walls shielding him from the world outside. With each breath, the scent of crackling firewood mingled with the sweet melody of Kate's voice, a symphony that filled the air with her warmth and comfort.

Looking around he saw tables and chairs worn by the effects of time, a home filled with comfort.

Summoned by the will of his imagination, Kate stood before him with her back turned. A vision of radiant beauty bathed in the golden hour of the sun. Her silhouette cast against the rustic walls, each line and curve a testament to her grace, her beauty. It framed her like a shining halo. In that moment, she was not just a woman, but an angel sent to soothe his weary soul. 

His own corner of personal heaven. Perhaps whatever God watched over him truly was a forgiving one.

With each step forward, Arthur felt the weight of the world fall away, replaced by a sense of peace and contentment that he had waited his whole life for. With arms outstretched, he enveloped her in a tender embrace, the warmth of her body a balm against the chill of his uncertainty.

With whispered words of love and adoration, he pressed his lips to her cheek, each kiss a vow of eternal affection. Her giggle felt like warm honey against his skin. In that fleeting moment, everything else ceased to exist, leaving only the two of them, bound together in his dreams.

Amidst his tender kisses, a symphony of innocence pierced the air—a soft patter of footsteps. Arthur turned, his heart aching, to find a shadow of a child standing in the doorway, a small horse plush nestled in his tiny grasp. Wordlessly, the child reached out, beckoning to be cradled in the safety of Arthur's embrace.

As he lifted the boy into his arms, a sudden chill seeped into his soul. His gaze drifted over the features of the boy's face, and realized it was son Isaac.

No, no this can't be –  He recoiled slightly at the icy feeling that lingered on his skin like a ghostly touch. 

Sorrow and confusion washed over him. He looked back to Kate for some explanation, and he froze. In her place stood another woman, a face from a past life. A life he fought to keep buried. Her apparition draped in the hues of bygone days. 

The sunlight waned, its golden tendrils fading into shadows that enveloped the cabin in an embrace as cold as death itself. And there, amidst the encroaching darkness, Arthur's worst fears took shape—a vision of Eliza.

Arthur felt like a fool to think he could ever be given a chance at redemption. Heaven would always be beyond his reach. 

Eliza's porcelain skin bore the scars of untold suffering, her once-vibrant eyes now veiled in a haunting white mist. A silent scream echoed in the depths of Arthur's soul as he beheld the gaping wound that marred her chest—a stark reminder of the violence that had torn her from this earth. In her last act as a mother to shield her child from the blow; his child.

With a heavy heart and trembling hands, Arthur attempted to retreat from the weight of his sin before him. The grief bearing down upon him like a heavy wet blanket. Cold, damp, and suffocating. 

As he cradled the lifeless form of the child in his arms, he could only utter a prayer—a whispered plea for forgiveness in the face of a tragedy too cruel to bear.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Eliza. I should have been there. I'm sorry. 

Eliza stood before him, undead. Her lips parted in a voiceless plea, a mournful wisp of breath that stirred the stagnant air. With hesitant steps, she approached Arthur, her gaze a haunting orchestra of longing, despair and pain. 

Arthur recoiled from her embrace, his heart aflutter with a tempest of emotions. Panic gnawed at his senses, the oppressive burden of the cabin's walls bearing down upon him like the burden of his guilt. 

Each of her steps echoed through the old cabin; her cabin. Once a warm bustling home, that he only visited in fleeting moments. Avoiding his duty as a father at almost any cost. 

Beneath his trembling feet, the floor lay slick with the crimson tide of regret, a macabre testament to the lives lost in the wake of his relentless pursuit of hatred and vengeance. Amongst the faceless of the fallen, he glimpsed the lifeless forms of Eliza and Isaac, their silent reproach a damning indictment of his failures. And yet, amidst the sea of carnage, Eliza stood undaunted, a haunting reminder of the family he had forsaken and the wounds that could never truly heal.

I was a fool Eliza, a goddamn fool. I know I shoulda been there for you and the boy. And I suffer for it everyday. 

With Eliza drawing near, Arthur found himself cornered, his back pressed against the hard wall. Yet, even in the throes of despair, he clung to Isaac's lifeless form, as if his embrace could breathe warmth back into the cold hands of death.

As Eliza's lips parted, a chilling sound pierced the silence—a twisted echo of Arthur's own voice, a haunting refrain of his darkest truths laid bare. Each word echoed through the chamber of his soul, a relentless cascade of self-condemnation that tore at the fabric of his being.

"I was born sick, unloved, and unwanted. But I am the master of my own torment," his voice whispered, a lamentation of a soul consumed by the flames of its own creation. "A prisoner of my own choosing, condemned to walk the path of the damned. I am just a vessel of violence, a predator in the shadows, thirsting for the blood of innocence."

In that moment, Arthur faced the reflection of his own sins, mirrored in the eyes of the woman he had failed, and the child he had forsaken. And as the weight of his remorse threatened to engulf him, he knew that redemption lay beyond the grasp of a soul consumed by the darkness within.

Arthur shut his eyes tight. Grief flooded him in waves that threatened to escape his eyes in hot tears. This must be a nightmare. He prayed it was only a nightmare. Unsure how he would deal with himself if this was his eternal damnation. Facing his past was a worse fate than death. 

Eliza continued, as he steeled himself, her sound began to grow louder in his ears. 

“I am not worthy of a woman such as Kate. I am a shadow in her light. I am like a cancer that thrives on her warmth. With every touch, I know I will take a piece of her body, mind, and soul with me as I am dragged into the darkest pits of hell. As heaven is not fit to house a man like me, and my love will never be enough.

But I fear I will do it all again anyways.” 

—

Arthur awakens with a groan, the sound distant and detached, ripped from a place within him he cannot recognize. At first, there is no pain, just a dreamlike fog enveloping his senses. Slowly, he peels open his heavy eyelids, feeling the weight of them threatening to fall from his skull. As the darkness begins to clear, he discerns the faint glimmer of light and the outlines of two figures. Blinking against the sliver of sun filtering through the cellar door above the stairs, he realizes where he is.

The voices of men reach his ears, and suddenly, pain floods through him like a relentless tide. A weeping moan escapes his lips as consciousness slowly returns. His vision is blurred, everything tinted red with blood. Each beat of his heart sends a throbbing ache through his head. His toes barely graze the ground beneath him as his wrists are bound above his head, a tight knot cutting off circulation to his arms. Suspended from the ceiling, his left arm remains numb, unable to twitch even his fingertips. Waves of burning sensation radiate from the rifle wound in his shoulder, coursing through his body like white flames.

Arthur strains to look down at himself, his neck protesting against the movement. Panic shrieks through his mind as he takes in the sight. Clad only in his red union suit, the buttons ripped down to his underwear, his stomach laid bare like a gruesome canvas. Yellow and purple bruises mar his skin, mingled with shallow cuts and the cruel imprints of cigarette burns.

Turning his head to the left, he gazes at what remains of his shoulder. His undershirt peeled back, sticky with blood and soot, the fabric singed at the edges. His eyes fall upon a black crater, a mutilating wound that sends waves of pain unlike anything he’s ever known coursing through his body. His side is soaked in his own blood, thick and cold, a chilling testament to the violence inflicted upon him.

Time becomes a blur as he hangs there, suspended in agony. He doesn’t know if it has been hours or days since he was captured. Fear gnaws at him, the weight of his own body threatening to tear his arm from its socket. Agony drowns out any coherent thoughts, burning hot and filling every pore of his body. Arthur mewls pathetically as he tries to move, his feeble attempts to escape futile against the overwhelming pain.

“Fuck, I think the ugly bastards finally awake.” Arthur was yanked from his haze by the voice of the young Irish O’Driscoll. He fixed his eyes on where they sat at a dusty and broken wooden table.

"Shit, and I was just gettin’ to the good part!" Connor's voice dripped with sarcasm as he tossed a leather book onto the table.

Sickened, Arthur felt the urge to curl into a hole and rot. He recognized that old binding anywhere—they were reading his journal. His most personal inner thoughts laid bare for these boys who hunted him, mercilessly beat him, to know the depths of his very soul. Every guilt, shame, love, and loss spilled across those pages. His darkest, most tormented thoughts exposed to the cruel light of day.

Arthur's spirit felt raped in a way it never had before.

Connor rose to his feet, sauntering over. Arthur could only stare at his legs, unable to lift his head to meet his eyes. Suddenly, the man pulled out a knife, and Arthur braced for the sting. But instead, he felt the rope above his wrists being cut. In the next instant, his head collided with the ground as his heavy body collapsed hard. Arthur coughed as the air was knocked from his lungs, his whines sounding wet and pained.

Nolan's voice cut through the air, dripping with snark, "Ya think that Kate girl will show up with the rest of 'em?"

"I'm counting on it. Colm might even let us keep her," came the dark chuckle of his companion. "As a reward."

A guttural noise clawed its way from Arthur's throat, a desperate denial. “Nghh-no.”

A flirtatious whistle pierced the tension as Nolan flipped through pages upon pages of drawings of Kate. "Christ, this fella's obsessed with her. You think he's some kind of pervert?" He tore one of the sketches from the journal, holding it up to the light. "She's a pretty thing. I bet she screams real nice too," he added wickedly before pocketing the paper.

Arthur's heart hammered in his chest. Would Kate arrive with Dutch and the gang? Was she walking into danger? He writhed on the ground, grappling with the dirt beneath him, consumed by the need to warn or stop them.

The conversation between his captors resurfaced in his mind. "When the law shows up, they'll fall right into his trap," they had said. Colm had orchestrated it all.

Images of Kate flashed through his mind, her face contorted in pain. He envisioned the horrors they might inflict upon her, and the realization struck him like a hammer blow. It would be all his fault, his negligence costing yet another innocent woman her life.

With a desperate cry, he attempted to rise from the ground, his belly scraping against the dirt. But before he could make any progress, a thick-heeled boot pinned him down, forcing the air from his lungs in a desperate squeal.

"You have something to say, piggy?" Connor spat, pressing down on Arthur's back.

"I-I'll kill,” he huffed, “y-ou," Arthur managed, his breaths coming in wheezes.

Connor chuckled, dismissing Arthur's threat with a wave of his hand as if he were a child. "What do you wanna do with 'em, Nolan?" he asked, ignoring Arthur's gasping for air.

Nolan rose from his seat, looming over Arthur's broken body. "Colm won't be here till tomorrow. I say we have some fun with 'em. Long as he don't die."

The pressure on Arthur's chest eased, allowing him to suck in a dusty breath that sent him into a fit of coughs. Before he could fully recover, he was yanked up by fistfuls of his hair, eliciting a wince of pain. He tried to grab the man's arm in vain.

From behind, the other man reached around, grabbing Arthur's bound wrists. A scream tore through him as his shattered shoulder was wrenched backwards. His ripped union suit slid off his shoulders, exposing his vulnerable chest. Kneeling before his captors, he felt utterly helpless.

"Mmf-st..stop.." he pleaded, his voice raw and dry.

"Aww, I think piggy's a little thirsty," Nolan taunted, his voice dripping with malice.

His lips were suddenly greeted by the cold, unyielding touch of a bottle. The overpowering scent of whiskey flooded his senses, drowning out any rational thought. Before he could even think to hold his breath, the fiery liquid surged down his throat, choking him.

Gagging and coughing, Arthur attempted to move his head, to resist the forceful flow of alcohol, but it was futile. One hand gripped his hair, holding his head in place, while the other shoved the bottle deeper into his mouth.

With no other choice, Arthur was forced to swallow. He sputtered and struggled to keep up with the relentless stream, the liquor dribbling down the sides of his mouth and soaking his chest. His feeble attempts to resist earned him a punishing blow to the gut.

"Quit wastin' it, I'm bein' generous!" the man boasted callously, releasing his hold on Arthur's head, leaving him to collapse under the weight of the pain. Arthur coughed violently, his nose burning with each harsh exhale, the sound of his hacking mingling with the haunting laughter that filled the room.

"Guess the fella can't handle his booze," the Irishman taunted, bending down to Arthur's level.

Arthur groaned, his body wracked with agony as he struggled to alleviate the pressure on his throbbing shoulder. The pain, coupled with the fiery sensation in his belly, left his chest heaving with each labored breath. Nausea churned in his gut like a relentless storm, threatening to overwhelm him. With a desperate effort, he managed to rise slightly from the ground, the weight on his knees straining his body. As he lurched forward, a warm sensation crept up his throat, signaling the imminent release of his body's revolt.

"Hurl on me and I’ll kill you right now, big fella," the man warned before delivering a punishing blow to Arthur's stomach with his boot.

A strangled groan tore from Arthur's throat, raw and primal, like the cry of a wounded beast. He couldn't control it—his stomach convulsed, expelling its contents onto the filthy floor and down his chest. Acid scorched his throat and nose as he desperately turned his head to avoid drowning in his own vomit.

Violent tremors wracked his body as he fought to stay upright, struggling to draw in breaths amidst the agony. Hot tears and saliva mingled on his chin, his chest heaving with the effort to gulp down air. He wanted to plead for mercy, but he felt utterly powerless already.

The O'Driscolls reacted with disgust, their chorus of revulsion echoing in the dimly lit cellar. One of them approached Arthur, leaning in close to his ear with contempt dripping from his voice. "Filthy pig," he spat, his saliva landing on Arthur's face. "You're going back to sleep."

A heavy hand seized Arthur's neck, forcefully pressing his head into the solid ground, into his own sickening mess. His vision blurred, the world spinning as darkness enveloped him once more.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

As the sun dipped on the horizon of the third day, Kate's resolve solidified. She could no longer abide by the passive whispers of concern that lingered unspoken in the shadows. Arthur's absence loomed like a gaping wound, and she refused to tiptoe around it any longer.

Seated alone by the fire, she felt the weight of uncertainty pressing down upon her. The flames flickered, casting dancing light upon her face as her mind whirled with plans. No longer content to wait for answers that may never come, she made a silent vow to look for Arthur herself.

With each passing moment, her determination grew stronger. Nobody in camp seemed to question Arthur’s absence, and it drove Kate mad. Had no one else thought the parley was suspicious? No one questioned Dutch on what happened? There were missing pieces to all of this, and Arthur left the biggest hole in her puzzle. 

With a resolute nod, Kate rose to her feet. She knew she couldn't rely on anyone else for this task. Charles and Sadie were miles away on their own assignments, leaving her to face this alone. Setting her sights on Rhodes, she vowed to start her search at the sheriff station

As Kate turned, she collided with Molly O’Shea, the unexpected impact nearly causing her to stumble backward. "Oh! Sorry, Molly, I didn’t hear you walk over," she apologized quickly, her movements indicating her intention to go around her.

Molly's eyes held an air of unease that mirrored Kate's own for a fleeting moment. Sensing the gravity of the situation, Kate paused, her concern evident in her voice as she spoke. "Is everything okay?"

“I heard Dutch say last night that Arthur was supposed to meet them after the parley,” Molly blurted hastily, her thick Irish accent hushed with urgency. “But he didn’t.”

Kate felt the heat drain from her body as her mind raced to process Molly’s words. She realized with a sinking feeling that it wasn't Dutch who was in danger—it was Arthur.

Struggling to find the right words to convey her gratitude, Kate's mouth went dry as she attempted to speak. Before she could utter a single word, Molly gently grasped Kate's wrist, her touch imbued with a sense of urgency. “I snuck a look at Dutch’s map. The meeting was held between the twin stacks path. Arthur was supposed to be on the slope facing Emerald Ranch,” Molly whispered, her words echoing in Kate's mind as she repeated the location to herself.

"I-I don’t know how to thank you, Molly–" Kate stuttered, her voice trembling with emotion.

“Good luck, Kate,” Molly whispered in response, before walking away as if their encounter had been nothing out of the ordinary.

Without another word, Kate hastened toward her horse, Lorena, whose restless movements reflected her own unease. As she mounted her steed, Lorena reared up, pulling at the reins with a sense of urgency. Before Kate could fully settle into the saddle, her mare was already in motion, galloping like a bolt of lightning out of Clemens Point and down the winding path that led to the fateful meeting spot where she and Arthur had first crossed paths.

Molly returned to her seat in the solitude of the empty tent she shared with Dutch. Cooling herself with a paper fan. She had been a silent witness to Kate’s nightly ritual of pacing the shoreline, her silhouette framed by the moonlight reflected off the water. Each night Arthur had not returned Molly felt a pang of empathy. She knew all too well the ache of devotion, mixed with fear. When the one you love vanishes without a trace.

It resonated within her own heart, the longing echoed in her soul. Her thoughts drifted to Dutch, the man she loved dear. Though he had not disappeared from her physically. Each day she felt him slipping away, morphing into a man she did not recognize. A ghost of the person she once knew. She prayed her information had spared Kate from that kind of torment. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Nothing I do is ever good. Nothing I do is ever good enough. 

Time becomes a blur for Arthur, lost in the dark confines of the cellar-turned-prison. Pain surges through him in relentless waves, crashing against the shores of his consciousness like a violent storm.

When he awakens, it's with a sharp intake of breath, his vision swimming in a haze of stars and swirling shades of red and brown. He realizes he's been moved, his captors stringing him up by his ankles while he was lost in silent, dark unconsciousness. His head hangs just a few feet from the ground, blood trickling down his legs once more, the shackles around his ankles digging deep into his flesh under the impossible weight of his own body.

Gazing up at his toes, now swollen and blackened, Arthur feels a sickening dread grip his heart. The blood pounding in his head threatens to burst his eyes from their sockets, forcing him to tightly shut them against the unbearable pressure.

Every inch of his body screams with agony, a symphony of torment orchestrated by his captors' relentless brutality. He feels broken, bruised, numb; yet aflame with searing pain.

Amidst the haze of suffering, distant voices drift in and out of his awareness. Arthur longs to retreat into the comforting embrace of unconsciousness, or perhaps even embrace the release of death, anything to escape the unending torment.

But he is not granted reprieve. Unseen hands assault him, tearing at his clothing and underwear until he is completely exposed to the biting chill of the cellar air. Violated, helpless, he endures their cruel touch, their probing fingers exacerbating his wounds, their blows landing like thunder against his battered form.

Silenced by the agony of his soul, Arthur can only shudder and gasp, his protests drowned out by the symphony of his own suffering.

The cruel banter of his captors cuts through the stale air of the cellar, their words dripping with venomous amusement. "Look at the size of this fella," the Irishman sneers, his tone thick with bitterness. "No wonder that Kate lass is stickin' around. Probably only usin' 'em for his cock."

Their laughter echoes like the cawing of carrion birds, feasting on the remains of a fallen prey. "Well, he's got three holes now," another voice chimes in, laced with malicious glee. "I reckon that mouth of his is soft and warm like her cunt."

Arthur's stomach churns with revulsion and fear as he listens to their degrading remarks, feeling utterly defenseless in the face of their cruelty. The sound of shuffling fabric signals Nolan's approach, his presence looming over Arthur like a shadow in the darkness. His hips suddenly inches from Arthur’s face.

In a moment of desperate reprieve, Arthur's consciousness fades into blackness, a merciful respite from the fear, shame, and agony that threaten to consume him. When he awakens, it's with a choking cough, his own sickness coating his face.

With a trembling hand, he wipes away the vile residue, his body racked with pain and exhaustion. The cellar's frigid air hangs heavy with the stench of vomit and decay, suffocating him further as he struggles to draw breath.

Each inhale is a laborious effort, his lungs rattling with the strain as they gasp for oxygen. With every passing moment, the weight of his battered body grows heavier, his limbs hanging limp and lifeless in the oppressive darkness.

As the cellar door groans open, Arthur stirs from his fitful slumber, the sound of three distinct sets of footsteps descending the stairs sends a chill down his spine.

"Arthur Morgan," a familiar cloying voice, slices through the darkness like a dagger. Arthur winces as the figure steps into the flickering candlelight, casting ominous shadows against the damp stone walls. Unmistakably Colm O'Driscoll.

A wave of dread washes over Arthur, and he recoils instinctively as Colm draws near. "How's that wound treating you?" His words drip with false concern, a mockery of compassion.

Coughing weakly, blood staining his parched lips, Arthur manages to murmur, "c-can’t…fe-feel it any…more," his voice trembling with pain and despair.

Colm leans in, his expression twisted with disdain as he inspects Arthur's festering wound. The skin was turning black and yellow. The putrid odor assaults his senses, and Colm's lip curls in disgust. "You ain't allowed to die yet," he sneers. "I wanna see the look in your eyes when Van der Linde and that so-called family of his gets a bullet to the skull."

Arthur croaks, “D-dutch…is-is he…” His mind whirls with thoughts of Dutch, Hosea, and Kate, their faces blurred by anguish and uncertainty. He struggles to recall why he's here, and if his friends are even still alive. Perhaps they've already fallen into his trap, and he's the lone survivor, kept alive for Colm's sadistic pleasure.

Colm grips Arthur's hair tightly, yanking him closer with a cruel smirk etched upon his ugly scarred face. "Could've saved yourself a lot of pain if you'd worked for me," he taunts. "We could've been partners in crime, making real money together."

Rage surged through Arthur like a wildfire, fueled by a defiance that refused to be extinguished. It was never about the money to him. "I-I'll fu-fucking…k-ill y-you," he spat, the words punctuated by a wad of blood and mucus aimed at Colm's face.

Colm's features contorted with fury as he jerked Arthur's head back, sending him swinging on his shackles. Dazed and nauseous, Arthur felt the impact of a heavy fist against his stomach. A sickening warmth spread down his body, mingling with the stench of blood and vomit. He realized with horror, the fullness of his bladder now emptying uncontrollably, adding another layer of humiliation to his degradation.

Drenched in his own bodily fluids, Arthur trembled with fear. "P-please," he choked out, his voice a desperate plea for mercy. "Just…l-le…let me go—" His words dissolved into sobs, his pride shattered by the harsh reality of his helplessness. He knew he sounded pitiful, weak, but in this moment, all he could do was beg for the slightest glimmer of hope, completely at the mercy of Colm's tenacious grip.

"The way I see it," Colm continued, his voice flowing with disdain, "the law gets Van der Linde, and they forget all about little ole me." He taunted, his filthy fingernails tracing over Arthur's bruised abdomen, descending to the tangled hair below his navel.

Arthur only whimpered in response, his body squirming and contorting under Colm's touch, indifferent to the pain shooting through his ankles. He kicked his feet desperately, not caring if he ripped the flesh. A futile attempt to escape, accompanied by the distant snickers of the other O'Driscolls.

"We grab all of ya, let the law have their fun…then we disappear. Leaving you here to rot in your own shit," Colm continued, his grin sinister as he yanked a fistful of hair, as if trying to tear it from the follicle. Arthur's breath hitched sharply, coughing up more blood onto his lips.

"Ngh..s-stop…please," he pleaded, his voice strained with anguish.

As the fog in his mind began to clear, Arthur realized the gravity of Colm's words. He had been kidnapped not for ransom, but as bait for Dutch and the gang. They would come charging to his rescue, only to fall into a trap orchestrated by Colm, sealing their own fates.

"You're his right hand man, Arthur, oh he would be so mad if he knew what I'm gonna do to you." Colm's laughter echoed through the cellar, cruel and triumphant, as he used his grip on Arthur's hair to spin him wildly. He thrashed in agony, his cries drowned out by the darkness.

Abruptly, Colm halted the motion, leaving Arthur's head spinning with dizziness. In the haze of his vision, he caught sight of Colm retrieving a small knife from his pocket.

“Get m’f-fuck…away fr’m-me!” He mustered, his voice broken like a beaten dog. 

Before he could even brace himself for the inevitable blow, Colm thrust the knife into his belly.

The scream that tore from Arthur's lips was primal, guttural, a symphony of agony that reverberated through the cellar. Like the sound of an animal being burned alive. Breathing heavily through his teeth, the pain engulfed him. Splintering inwards. A relentless torrent that seared his insides with a fiery intensity. Blood and bile rose in his throat, threatening to choke him with their suffocating heat.

Colm stepped back, wiping his hands on his jeans with casual indifference, as if he had just completed the mundane task of skinning an animal. "We'll come wake ya when the party arrives," he spat, his voice laced with contempt. "Make sure ya get a front row seat for the show."

With heavy footsteps, Colm and his companions departed, leaving behind an oppressive silence that enveloped Arthur like a shroud. Alone in the darkness, his sobs mingled with the echo of his labored breathing, his fragile existence sustained only by the stubborn beat of his heart.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

In the waning light, between the towering monoliths of the twin stacks, Kate stood alone, her gaze fixed westward toward Emerald Ranch. The memories of their first meeting still vivid in her mind. Every step forward felt heavy with dread, each breath drawn laden with uncertainty. She braced herself for the task ahead, steeling her resolve to confront the unknown. 

Amidst the barren expanse, an object caught her eye—a solitary figure in the dust. Arthur's hat, a weathered relic of countless battles, lay abandoned upon the ground. Its frayed edges whispered tales of long sunny days on the prairie, and cold rainy evenings as it shielded his face from the oncoming storm. A silent testament to his indomitable spirit.

As she reached out to retrieve the hat, a surge of anguish washed over her. Arthur's absence echoed through the empty landscape, like a gaping void in her heart. Yet the hat remained, a tangible reminder of his presence.

Kate brought the hat to her face, inhaling deeply the familiar scent of pine and musk mingled with campfire smoke. Arthur’s smell. A familiar scent she had begun to associate with home. Tears threatened to blur her vision as she clung to the cherished memento, her heart heavy with worry and longing. It was one piece of himself Arthur would never leave behind, not if he could help it. His gamblers hat was an extension of himself. 

Amidst the intruding darkness, she traced the crimson stains upon the rocky earth, following their trail with a sinking heart. Three sets of tracks emerged from the shadows, leading northward past the stacks—a grim indication of Arthur's fate.

Kate knew at that moment the law didn’t have him. The closest sheriff station was back east. Had he been arrested, news of his capture would be in the paper by now. The gang would have already planned to break him out. Before he would be hanged for his transgressions, his death a spectacle for the crowd. Like his life was nothing more than a circus act. 

Kate was no stranger to the harsh realities of the world, she had once wielded the blade herself, inflicting torment upon any who dared challenge her. If Colm's men had taken Arthur, she knew they would subject him to unspeakable horrors. Time was slipping away, and with each passing moment, his fate was slipping through her fingers.

Climbing back in the saddle she took off, following the tracks as the sun set to the west of her, casting a deep shadow onto the land. Like a bird in graceful flight, its silhouette gliding over the sun, the darkness mirrored its ghostly journey on the earth below.

"I'm coming, Arthur," she whispered, her voice carried away with the evening breeze. "Please, don't give up on me."

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Hours later, Arthur stirred from the depths of sleep, his body an orchestra of aches and throbs. Yet amidst the pain, the surge of adrenaline lent clarity to his thoughts. For the first time in an eternity, his mind emerged from the murky depths of fear and uncertainty, guided by an unseen force, a flicker of determination that refused to be extinguished. An arm of support that gently held his heart, and willed it to keep beating.

In the recesses of his consciousness, Kate's presence loomed large, her tender care a distant memory amidst his current turmoil. He recalled the night she had tended to his wounds, her gentle touch and warm words a soothing balm to his battered soul. Oh, how he yearned to hold her, to envelop her in an embrace and bask in the warmth of her presence.

Her words that night, soft as a whispered prayer, stirred a tempest within him. Regret washed over Arthur like a relentless tide, for not seizing the moment to bare his soul, to taste the sweetness of her lips in that fleeting moment. A vulnerability, veiled by fear, held him captive, yet now he feared the chance might never come again.

"I'm always here if you need a hand," her offer, a mere echo in the vast expanse of their shared moments, resonated deep within his being. Beyond the surface, he understood its true meaning, Kate had shown him time and time again that she was patient and resilient. She had already pledged unwavering loyalty, a vow to stand steadfast by his side. 

With certainty, he envisioned Kate riding alongside Dutch, her fate entwined with theirs, destined for a violent end. He could not bear the thought. It was like barbed wire around his throat. Arthur couldn’t allow that. He was the protector, he was the strong arm. He would shield her from every blow if it ever came to it. 

He would crawl home on his hands and knees if he had to, back to the gang, back to the closest thing he had to family. Back to her. 

In the dim candlelit room, Arthur's senses swam in a haze of crimson. His eyes, heavy as lead, strained against the oppressive darkness. Alone in the cellar, he listened to the distant crackle of a fire and the muffled voices beyond the stone walls. He quickly realized he was alone.

With a groan, he lifted his gaze to his body, bathed in the flickering light. His torn union suit exposed to the chill of the dank air, while the glint of steel protruded from his belly. The knife, a silent tormentor, surrounded by angry, swollen flesh, oozing rivulets of blood like winding red streams.

It was his only chance, a gamble with his own mortality. With a determined resolve, Arthur braced himself and grasped the hilt of the silver dagger. A muffled cry escaped his lips as he wrenched it from his abdomen. A rush of warmth flooded his side, pooling around him in a macabre embrace. As the wine red tide gushed, the world spun around him, threatening to engulf him in an abyss of darkness from which he might never return.

Summoning every ounce of strength, Arthur clenched his teeth and pulled up. With the knife gripped tightly in his good hand, he strained against the weight of his own body, reaching desperately for the lock that bound the shackles to his ankles. Each labored breath expelled blood onto his chest, a stark reminder of his life threatening state.

Years of Dutch’s patient tutelage in lock picking flashed through his mind, a skill honed in moments of leisure now turned to desperate necessity. With a primal cry, Arthur thrust the blade into the lock, his hands trembling with fatigue and adrenaline. Time seemed to stretch into eternity as he wrestled with the unforgiving metal, his fingers numb and unresponsive.

Then, with a sudden, almost miraculous click, the lock yielded to his persistence. The shackles fell away, and Arthur collapsed onto the cold, unforgiving floor, his body trembling with exhaustion. Every fiber of his being screamed for rest, for the sweet embrace of surrender. Yet, even as despair threatened to engulf him, a flicker of determination ignited within his soul. He refused to yield, refused to succumb to the weight of his own despair.

Despite the agony coursing through his body, Arthur mustered the strength to turn himself over, his groan echoing in the dimly lit cellar. The slick floor beneath him bore witness to the blood trail he left in his wake as he reached for his journal and satchel, discarded amidst his own filth.

With determination etched into every line of his beaten weary face, he stretched out his good arm, using the wall for support as he dragged his battered form inch by painstaking inch toward the door. Each movement sent waves of pain rippling through him, threatening to engulf him in darkness. Fueled by an unyielding resolve, he pressed on, driven by an instinctual tug toward freedom. Dragging his knees up each step of the cellar.

He refused to succumb to the pain, pushing himself forward with sheer force of will. Each labored breath threatened to be his last, but he refused to entertain the notion of surrender. This would not be his final chapter, and he would not allow Kate to suffer the same cruel fate. He held out hope that he would see her again, even if it was his final moments he would spare no time in warning her of the threat that loomed just out of reach. Waiting like a snake in the tall grass, ready to strike its unsuspecting victim. 

The fools had left the door unlocked, a small oversight that granted Arthur an opportunity. With a grunt, he pushed against the door, surprised by its lightness. In an instant, he was bathed in the cool embrace of the night air, a welcome respite from the stale confines of the cellar. The night air is fresh and crisp, but like a soothing balm against his weakened lungs. 

The darkness enveloped him in his embrace as he emerged, the stars above his only witness. In the distance, a flickering campfire cast dancing shadows, accompanied by the murmur of many voices. More of Colm's men lingered nearby, their presence a reminder of the danger that lurked. 

Arthur wasted no time, he needed to be quick before they realized he had escaped, frightened by the idea of what they would do to him if they caught him. With caution born of desperation, he lowered himself onto the dew-kissed grass, the sensation offering a fleeting comfort to his battered frame. Every movement was accompanied by a sting of pain as twigs and rocks scraped against his skin, but he persevered, inching his way toward the side of the house.

A sudden scuffle in the dark sent Arthur's heart into a frantic rhythm. He braced himself for danger, muscles tensed for a confrontation that never came. Instead, a soft whinny broke the silence, a familiar sound that stirred a glimmer of hope within him.

Arthur looked up, his vision swirled, but he would recognize that pearl white coat anywhere. Belle. His mare was hitched to a tree just shy of where he had been kept prisoner. With renewed determination, he quickened his pace toward her, each step a struggle against his battered body.

Reaching out to grasp her reins, Arthur was met with unexpected resistance as Belle recoiled, fear evident in her wild eyes. He coaxed her gently, murmuring soothing words as he leaned heavily against the sturdy trunk of the tree. In the dim moonlight, he noticed the dark crimson stains marring her once perfect white fur, a grim reminder of the violence that had unfolded in his absence.

"Oh, my sweet girl… What did they do to you?" Arthur's voice was a tender murmur as he reached out to her, his fingers brushing against her shaken form.  Belle trembled before him, her hind legs quivering like fragile branches in a fierce storm. "Shhh, shh. You're alright now…"

Belle's ears twitched nervously in response, but Arthur knew he couldn't linger. The pain pulsating in his side intensified with each passing moment, and the trail of blood he left behind painted a grim picture of his dwindling durability. Summoning the last shreds of his strength, he untied her reins and hoisted himself into the saddle, his movements slow and labored.

Every motion was agony, every breath a struggle against the darkness threatening to consume him. With great effort, he swung his leg over Belle's back, his body hunched over her pristine mane. Arthur held on tightly, the warmth of her presence offering a faint glimmer of comfort amidst the chaos.

As Belle began to move, Arthur rocked gently in the saddle, his body protesting with each jarring step. But there was no time to dwell on pain or weakness. With a surge of determination fueled by fear and longing for freedom, Belle broke into a gallop, carrying Arthur away from the shadows that had haunted them both.

The rush of wind against his face felt like a bittersweet embrace, a fleeting taste of liberty amidst the suffocating grip of captivity. And as the darkness closed in once more, Arthur surrendered to its embrace, his consciousness slipping away like a fading whisper in the night.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate felt like she was staring down death between its eyes. 

She had spent hours following the trail, a winding path that seemed to vanish and reappear at will. With the setting sun, darkness enveloped the landscape, making it increasingly difficult to discern the tracks from the myriad of others imprinted upon the earth. The prints of three riders merged seamlessly with those of the countless travelers who had passed this way before, creating a labyrinth of confusion.

Despite the growing sense of desperation gnawing at her heart, Kate refused to succumb to despair. With each passing moment, her pulse quickened with the weight of impending dread, the relentless march of time driving her forward. Each minute stretched into an eternity, a torturous reminder of the urgency of her quest.

Undeterred by the encroaching darkness, Kate retraced her steps, her eyes scanning the ground for any trace that might lead her to Arthur's captors. Determination burned within her, a fierce flame that illuminated the path ahead even as shadows threatened to consume her. She knew that she would search until the first light of dawn if necessary, unwilling to abandon her friend to the mercy of his tormentors.

As if guided by a twisted hand of fate, she stumbled upon a vantage point overlooking a serene waterfall. Bathed in the ethereal glow of the moonlight, a sudden glimmer of white caught her eye amidst the darkness, resembling a fleeting star in the night sky. Squinting against the veil of shadows, she discerned a figure sprawled on the ground below.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as she approached on horseback, the air thick with anticipation. Realization dawned, and with a desperate urgency, Kate flung herself from the saddle and rushed to Arthur's side. His body lay crumpled in the dirt, a haunting sight that sent shivers down her spine.

A surge of panic gripped her, rendering her mind blank as she absorbed the gravity of the situation. It was as if she was staring into the abyss of death itself, uncertainty clouding her thoughts like a turbulent storm. With trembling lungs, she dared to wonder: am I too late?

In a sudden moment of awakening, Arthur emitted a low groan, stirring Kate from her daze. With tender hands, she reached down and cradled his battered face, the chill of his skin a stark contrast to her warmth. Once handsome features now bore the brutal marks of violence—black and blue bruises adorned his visage, while deep cuts marred his brows and lips.

“Oh, Arthur,” she murmured softly, her voice a delicate whisper as if afraid to disturb a baby from its fragile slumber. A tremor coursed through her lip, tears welling in her eyes and blurring her sight.

“Arthur,” Repeating his name like a sacred invocation, she sank to her knees in the dirt, wrapping one arm around his torso. Her breath hitched at the sight of the gaping wound carved into his left shoulder, a dark abyss that seemed to swallow the very essence of hope. Gently easing him onto his back, her throat constricted with a wave of anguish as she beheld the extent of his injuries.

His torn undersuit left him exposed to the unforgiving elements, his stomach and chest stained with a mixture of blood and dirt. Bruises, a tapestry of purples and yellows, painted almost every inch of his battered skin. But it was the festering wound in his stomach that seized her attention, a steady bubbling stream of blood served as a grim reminder that she was still running out of time. 

She couldn't fathom how he managed to escape, but in that moment, it didn't matter. Arthur was back in her embrace, and time was their only remaining lifeline.

As Kate attempted to lift him, he winced in agony, his eyes fluttering open. Once a beautiful deep blue, they were now swollen and obscured by blood.

Arthur had shed copious amounts of blood since extracting the small steel knife from his side, his mind teetering on the edge of delirium. Hovering between the realms of existence and oblivion, he questioned the reality before him. When the familiar warmth of Kate's hands caressed his cold, weary face, he entertained the notion that perhaps she had been his guide all along, a psychopomp leading his fractured soul into the unknown.

She spoke to him, but her words were drowned out by a deafening ringing in his ears. In that moment, he felt it might be his final breath, but he found solace in the thought of resting beside her, his last act of devotion to warn her of the impending danger.

"Kate," he managed to rasp, his voice strained, "it’s…it’s a t-trap." With trembling fingers, he reached out to grasp her arm.

Her voice, a soothing melody in the chaos, reached him, "I know, honey, I know," she reassured him, her thumb tracing gentle circles on his cheek.

Arthur's urgency escalated, "Th-they'll k-ill… you," he struggled to rise, his efforts met with a wince of pain, "Dutch, I… I-I have to… warn him." He fought against the agony, his body writhing on the ground in an attempt to compose himself.

"Shh, easy, honey, I'm right here," Kate comforted, her words a balm to his panicked soul, "I'm going to take you home." She knew Dutch wouldn't come for him. She was his only hope.

Tears, warm as summer rain, streamed down her cheeks as Kate beheld him in agonizing pain. She longed to erase the brutal images of his torture etched in her mind, willing to claw her own eyes out to rid herself of the haunting sight. Regret gnawed at her, wishing she had searched for him sooner, trusting her instincts and her faithful mare who sensed the danger from the start. If only she could shield him from suffering, but all she could do was cradle him in her arms and summon the strength to lead him home.

His breaths quickened, lips trembling, cheeks shimmering in the moonlight as tears mingled with blood and grime. Kate pressed her forehead against his, placing a tender kiss on the bridge of his nose. "I'm so sorry, Arthur," she murmured amid her own silent tears. "I promise to bring you home. You're safe now. You're safe," she repeated, a whispered mantra of hope and solace.

The moonlit night felt strangely empty, punctuated only by the distant murmur of the nearby waterfall. With a sharp whistle, Kate commanded Lorena to kneel, bringing her closer to the ground.

Bracing herself, Kate wrapped her arm around Arthur's waist, feeling the weight of his pain with each whimper that escaped his lips. "I've got you, Arthur," she murmured, determination lacing her words. "I won't let go. Just hold on tight to me, alright?"

His labored breaths filled the night air as she maneuvered him into the saddle, settling herself in front of him. The task seemed insurmountable; she needed one hand for Belle's reins, the faithful mare bearing the burden of her own torment. With her free hand, Kate clung to Arthur, his cold, wet form pressing against her skin. He seemed to embody death itself, his scent a sickening mixture of the metallic tang of blood and bodily fluids.

Kate's heart pulsed with the weight of his condition, each beat echoing like a stone sinking into a tranquil pond. His body, cold and broken, found solace in the warmth of Kate's embrace. She was his guiding light, a beacon amidst the darkness that enveloped them. In her arms, he felt a sense of security, akin to a child cradled in the arms of a loving mother.

With his trembling hand clutching her tightly, he whispered her name, “Kate…” his voice a desperate plea for solace, for reassurance, for escape from the torment that surrounded them. Kate could offer nothing but her unwavering presence, her words a gentle murmur of comfort as they embarked on the long journey home.

As Lorena maintained her steady stride, the passage of time stretched before them like an endless expanse. With her hands occupied, Kate placed her trust in her faithful mare, each hoofbeat a testament to their shared urgency.

Alone with her thoughts, engulfed by the fear that Arthur might slip away from her grasp, Kate turned to the only refuge she knew: prayer.

She prayed to her mother for strength, her father for wisdom. With a heavy heart, she sought solace from her siblings, urging them to extend their gentle hands of comfort to both her and Arthur. In the depths of her anguish, Kate's prayers reached out to her husband and daughter, silently imploring for their support and guidance. She longed for their presence to envelop them both, for she needed their reassurance now more than ever.

The ache of losing yet another loved one gnawed at her soul, a pain all too familiar. Kate feared she would not withstand the agony if Arthur were to slip away. The thought of starting anew, of becoming someone else after this loss, felt unbearable. It was as if God had marked her hands since childhood, decreeing that every soul she held dear would be untimely ripped from her embrace.

A poignant memory of River flooded Kate's mind, the day he mourned the loss of his wife and child. Amidst his anguish, he had railed against his God, offering his own soul in exchange for theirs. He had once confided in her that their God watched over them, listening to their pleas. Sometimes it intervened and sometimes it did not. 

In a moment of desperation, Kate cried out into the chilly night air, invoking the ancient tongue River had taught her—a language born of the elements: water, fire, air, and earth. “I will make a deal with you,” she cried. To whom she addressed her plea, she could not say. "If this is our fate," she implored, her voice trembling, "so be it. But spare him and take me instead. I offer myself for his salvation," her words echoed through the silent darkness. "I was given a chance at redemption long ago, but please, give him a chance to seek his own. His heart is pure, I know it."

But of course, nothing replied to her in the night. Save for the whisper of an owl and the rustle of leaves in the wind. "Take my soul for his," she whispered, her voice barely a murmur against the darkness.

Arthur stirred in his slumber beside her, his lips yearning for the kiss he once denied. In his dreams, they met, releasing the longing he dared not express.

The world seemed to unfold anew, reborn in her presence. Her voice, like the gentle morning, whispered into his soul, slowly emerging like the dawn. His heart swelled in her presence, lifting him to new heights, unwilling to look down.

--

AN: This chapter was so hard to write. I had to take frequent breaks just for my own mental health it was breaking my heart. Since Arthur doesn't have TB in this fic, this event will kind of be the turning point for him. His injuries are going to render him disabled and he'll be forced to confront the idea that his days as a gunslinging outlaw are finally at an end. You'll start to see more of that in the upcoming chapters. I wish I could say that the next chapter will be happier, but alas, it's now Kates turn to suffer. But she will do everything she can to save Arthur from his torment. As always thank you so much for reading/commenting/reblogging, this story has become so important to me and I appreciate every single one of you that's supporting me on this journey!

[jadeandroses]

Crafting a mythological death figure for the Mushroom Kingdom, aka “things I do when I’m staving off a panic attack”

TW for death, but as a general concept, not in relation to any specific person or character.

Also. It’s long. Very, very long. (I was having a pretty bad night.)

A couple months ago, I had the thought, what if the Mushroom Kingdom used bird imagery prominently, not just in nursery rhymes surrounding the birth of a child, but also in death rituals as well?

The extent to which the stork is used in everyone’s personal Mario Bros. canons differs greatly. The literal, actual stork will play a very prominent role in my personal AU. By contrast, in AUs like those of beloved mutuals @peaches2217 and @akiiame-blog, it would probably just be a fairy tale.

That being said, it is still in the canon of the games. To the Mushroom Kingdom, the stork has always meant new life, whether that be as a literal bringer if life or as a mythological figure.

So I thought, what if the opposite was true, as well? What if their death figure is a bird as well?

It is here that, in my quest of forgetting my troubles, I dove off the shores of canon into purely hypothetical territory.

A large part of me was leaning toward creating a raven as their death figure, because that’s a bird that has always been associated with death anyway. Other options I explored included hornbills, owls, crows, and vultures.

Upon further research, however, I think I like the crow best. This is because—through a surface googling—while it’s recommended that you don’t feed birds mushrooms, wild crows have been known to eat a variety of them and will know which ones are safe and not safe. Which, I think when creating a death figure for the Mushroom World, is fairly relevant.

But speaking about things that are relevant when crafting a death figure for the Mushroom Kingdom…

The 1-up mushroom.

Crossover nonsense aside, in my personal AU, they are literal mushrooms to be consumed that can reverse even the most severe of wounds, even if taken within a short timeframe after brain-death. In this, it seems we all agree, and hence, I see no use in treating it as anything other than a magical item. Rare, perhaps. Unseen to the point of being myth-like? Perhaps.

But it’s still worth talking about given the subject matter. We’re talking about a world that can reverse death, after all, in the right circumstances. And after all, the most mundane of our real world’s magic has been used in mythology as power against evil. (Bread magic, for instance.) So why not Mushroom magic, in the face of the Mushroom Kingdom’s hypothetical death figure?

In thinking about this hypothetical death figure and their relationship with the 1-up mushroom, I’m thinking that it could go something like this:

The crow consumes souls at death. However, if a 1-up mushroom is used, then it can be said that the crows will instead eat that mushroom, instead of a being’s soul. This way, all are satisfied.

(Condensed version; I’m feeling a little better rn)

Hence, here’s what I have so far:

Death figure opposite to life figure (life figure being a stork)

Crow (because crows eat mushrooms)

1-up mushroom being used in MK mythology as a tool to offset said crow

How would this affect death rituals?

To be honest, all of the above was a very longwinded, tedious, and frankly unnecessary ramble to explain one specific headcanon of mine:

And that is that I think the people of the Mushroom Kingdom would leave bird feathers for their dead. (Specifically crow and/or stork feathers.)

[artwithoutblood]

all of us have a disease. it is awakened. mine came with the betrayal of ephah in ██. i watched how it infected him. perhaps i willed it when he rotted under my watch. he deserved it.

how it arises in other people is something i do not entirely understand. i want to say prolonged exposure, but people i've known for weeks will develop it and not those i have known for years, in some cases. but sometimes it is sporadic. it's spread either by random, granted by some unknown force as an unholy gift, or it is passed through wounds.

I'm wondering if it happens because Aeron consciously or unconsciously wants it to. They did say perhaps they willed it.

It sounds like Ephah pissed them off? But they called it a betrayal...

I don't think Aeron hated Ephah. Aeron was saying they deserved it, so they were angry and bitter, but there is a rose imagery to what happened to Ephah at the end. Aeron talked about the eyes looking just like their own, about how Ephah was smiling.

Maybe it's a possessive thing, to mark and consume the other person and put them in that blissfully delusional/easily controlled state. Wasn't there a delusion ending where Aeron looked like a human and seemed to be the players partner 'looking after' them? It means they submit to Aeron, love them, and nobody else can have them.

Aeron does like to see people suffer and/or play nurse as a weird form of affection. Apparently they love through pity? Wiping tears away? Dependence and vulnerability. They love a broken bird.

They break people so they can care for them, create the dream of being together in a normal world, and then the person dies. Aeron thinks this is the only way romance can happen for them and just repeats it. They collect Lost Lenores.

I think maybe Aeron and Ephah were lovers of some kind, or Aeron wanted them to be. And drama ensued. (Perhaps Ephah wanted to be independent, favoured someone else, or tried to leave. And that was seen as a betrayal.)

The parasight does seem to happen to the people Aeron wants to pick up for dates.

Speaking of... when Iris went mad from feeling the unseen stares... I wonder if it was Aeron's omnipresent gaze she became aware of. Their attention was intense enough to make itself felt. Perhaps it was just one of those rare moments where they focused on one thing and it was too much.

Perhaps they unconsciously willed it.

That's some Evil Eye ish right there.

(Also the stares seemed to come from the paintings. Can Aeron look out of paintings? Did they do something to them when they 'repair' them or do they have domain over things that can count as eyes or eye motifs? And the lady was called Iris. A flower but also the coloured part of an eye. Another theory I have is that layers of different realities overlapped, and perhaps without knowing you/Iris and maybe the other patrons wandered from the normal art gallery into Aeron's.)

i can tell you one thing for sure: for each person, it is different. based on their insecurities, i believe. a belief is better than something unfounded, unsure.

Demons seem to manifest their beliefs about themselves, their perception of the world.

Aeron is strongly related to sight and perception, being an artist and also needing to believe that they see everything, everything they see is complete and true... They see themselves as all knowing and in control. To think that something exists that they can't see, or that something they see isn't real... that's their fear, to not have control of their own power of delusion. (I don’t think they do. They seem to mislead themselves as well as others.)

I wonder if it's Ephah's ghost they can't see. I wonder if Ephah is the old lover they somehow 'keep'? I don't know exactly what keeping the old lover entails. Perhaps as a preserved exhibit or their blood being used in paintings. (I don't actually know how Aeron uses the blood.) Perhaps being haunted by them, figuratively or literally.

Perhaps by occupying their body and repairing it piecemeal rather than ever abandon it. Aeron did take the form of an ancient Middle Eastern human, the first human they met and the one that set the tone for their interactions with humanity. It was implied that Aeron took on only their appearance, but later it was mentioned Aeron took over the body of a lover, only once, and never did it again. And apparently demons can still use bodies affected by the parasight. It fits.  

The name Ephah is mentioned in the bible. So at the very least we know Ephah is a known name of a Middle Eastern location and an ancient time period. And there are a few of them but one is mentioned as transporting gold and frankincense in Sheba so perhaps travelling. The area of Sheba isn’t well defined but could be in Africa - or Southern Arabia, within the same large region as Jordan where Aeron first roamed. 

I wonder if that short censored bit is a date, or a location. Sheba? Is there an ancient name for Jordan? Jor and Dan were the two northern tributaries that fed the river. This became Urdan/Urdon. Arabs then named it Al-Urdon. It could be any one of those.

Eri had something similar with the hallucinations before finding his own way with his power of words. (I wonder if that was a temporary touch of the parasight that healed but that was before meeting Delusion - or was it? - so it was possibly just head trauma. Or something else supernatural. And it's been confirmed that the erupting and healing scales on his skin are not eyes, but snake scales from the snake eyes. Cruelly the eyes seem to be doing it, not him. Another loss of agency.)

I wonder though... Eri's powers definitely come from his need to control/be in control and are an offshoot of Delusion's. But they are explicitly verbal.

Did his power of words and the ability to shape reality come through the snake eyes as well? I mean, when someone is very persuasive about something that isn't true or real you can metaphorically say that they have a forked tongue. The snake was the original bad influence. Eri can literally manipulate people like puppets and manifest entire fictional realities. I bet he could be really dangerous if he chose to gaslight.

I think that's something he and Aeron share. A real thing about having control. Maybe that's another reason for tension. Aeron wants a power imbalance dynamic Eri can't bear.

Genesis possibly has something related to hearing, music or emotion. It seems he can sway people's emotions and cause them to do really irrational things, or destroy them outright with sound waves. I wonder if his own uncontrolled emotions and impulses come out unconsciously, and they confirm a secret feeling of him not having it together, being out of control. That's why he was so embarrassed about the player finding the corpse, and why he impulsively lashed out.

The powers/curses are definitely the demon's own emotional issues projected outward.

the side effect is has on other demons i only learned after the demon of dreams used it in his suicide attempt. i have chosen to keep quiet about this knowledge. the other do not need to know. this is silas's failed mission. i am just upset he tried this....without asking me. even if we did not know each other.

So Silas did get the parasight from Delusion to use it for himself... previous conspiracy theory confirmed?

at its lightest, it changes the eye color of the demon's bodies permanently. his eyes weren't always like that. that's not to say all demons have regular eyes. erebus's nor dorian's were caused by me.

I'm wondering then if it was the previous aspect of Delusion who pranked Eri with the snake eyes and demonhood and not Aeron... hence the fear of but not outright hating Aeron themselves?

(I've speculated about that before. However it's not 100% as I do have some plausible ideas of why Aeron themselves might have wanted to do it. A fascination/aesthetic attraction towards Erebus at one point has been implied.)

I wonder if there's any carryover or memories of their past 'selves', even fleeting feelings of deja vu? Or if all that dies with the old vessel.

One thing I will say though. Even if Aeron wasn't personally responsible for giving the parasight to Silas or playing the cruel prank on Erebus, mischief and unintended drama seems to be inherently bound up with every incarnation of theirs. Delusion is chaotic, a trickster god.

perhaps your death to the parasight will result you in being the angel that people have described in two books. i cannot know that. i do not know that. or maybe i do, and i just should not tell you that.

I do wonder about this. There was something about the Afflicted being special, a novelty because nobody really survived that long before. (?) I wonder about the route where Erebus tries to cure it, and what happens if the Afflicted actually 'survives' it.

Whether they gain an immunity or could potentially ascend to demonhood themselves. And begin to have their own inner nature supernaturally manifest.

I'm wondering if it happens because Aeron consciously or unconsciously wants it to. They did say perhaps they willed it. It sounds like Ephah pissed them off? But they called it a betrayal... I don't think Aeron hated Ephah. Aeron was saying they deserved it, so they were angry and bitter, but there is a rose imagery to what happened to Ephah at the end. Aeron talked about the eyes looking just like their own, about how Ephah was smiling.

he loved me once. at least, i believe he did. he was one of the first people i ever met. when i crawled from the sand, hair over my eyes, blood crusted inside my nose, he took me in. he cleaned me. he gave me a name. it is not the one i use now. i stole that from another corpse.

he tried hurting me is all. tried pulling my limbs apart with the power of a village, tried cutting me up and gnawing at my flesh to take as his own. despite an exchange of spit, he wanted only a theft of meat.

and, in a way, he got what he wanted.

i never learned what it was. my conclusion is that he realized my power. one of the only ways to tell a story is "a stranger comes to town." it's not to say i'm powerful or anything. i'm just me, i'm just what is necessary, but if something like me stumbles into a small village, there may be chaos. rumors. thoughts. perhaps this is a feasting of the divine, and by imbibing the flesh, he would have been granted power. that has never worked, not for me, not for most people i have known. some like it that way. maybe he did it to silence something evil.

maybe he did it out of love. i was young, naïve. it still hurt. i did not care. i barely care now.

Maybe it's a possessive thing, to mark and consume the other person and put them in that blissfully delusional/easily controlled state. Wasn't there a delusion ending where Aeron looked like a human and seemed to be the players partner 'looking after' them? It means they submit to Aeron, love them, and nobody else can have them.

it could be possession. i am unaware. but i have had to take care of people. i pluck an eyeball from my own vessel and place it inside the forehead of whoever needs it. i send them to sleep, and they play out a delusion, usually involving my person, until their body dies. genesis called it a strange word once. he called it mercy.

Aeron does like to see people suffer and/or play nurse as a weird form of affection. Apparently they love through pity? Wiping tears away? Dependence and vulnerability. They love a broken bird. They break people so they can care for them, create the dream of being together in a normal world, and then the person dies. Aeron thinks this is the only way romance can happen for them and just repeats it. They collect Lost Lenores.

it is in the act of love that makes it love. all of you are so fragile. it is amusing. it is tragic. i want every bit of it. is that wrong? is it wrong to do these things and have these thoughts when i, by some unwritten law, tear apart everyone i love? perhaps. i have no plans to change it. to change what is established.

The parasight does seem to happen to the people Aeron wants to pick up for dates. Speaking of... when Iris went mad from feeling the unseen stares... I wonder if it was Aeron's omnipresent gaze she became aware of. Their attention was intense enough to make itself felt. Perhaps it was just one of those rare moments where they focused on one thing and it was too much. Perhaps they unconsciously willed it. That's some Evil Eye ish right there.

this is basically what happened. it's randomized, it's rare, but that's it. that is why the faces all turn blank but the eyes look the same of those around whoever enters "the spiral", as dubbed by aeron and genesis in the demo.

(Also the stares seemed to come from the paintings. Can Aeron look out of paintings? Did they do something to them when they 'repair' them or do they have domain over things that can count as eyes or eye motifs? And the lady was called Iris. A flower but also the coloured part of an eye. Another theory I have is that layers of different realities overlapped, and perhaps without knowing you/Iris and maybe the other patrons wandered from the normal art gallery into Aeron's.)

not so much just paintings and more anything that has eyes represented. sculpture, print, illustration, whatever. i repair paintings that are affected in the spirals because i feel it is my duty. no one is going to do it as well as i will! i've seen the trends....foolish, if you ask me.

Demons seem to manifest their beliefs about themselves, their perception of the world. Aeron is strongly related to sight and perception, being an artist and also needing to believe that they see everything, everything they see is complete and true... They see themselves as all knowing and in control. To think that something exists that they can't see, or that something they see isn't real... that's their fear, to not have control of their own power of delusion. (I don’t think they do. They seem to mislead themselves as well as others.)

basically correct. they don't like this idea of mass delusions. only controlled, specialized ones. those are more fun to them. there is a part in their route where you see figures that you shouldn't. you shouldn't know the names and faces of their past lovers, but you do, and that scares them.

it's the only thing that does.

ephah was a young man. not the one described in religious texts. i let his new flower rot. i took from him whatever locks of hair shed from his skin and placed it in a jar. he is not the one whose body i possessed.

the one i possessed was named ████.

i'm so sorry.

i'm doing what i can.

aeron otherwise "preserves" dead lovers by taking pieces from them and keeping them in a collection. sometimes it is their artifacts. the swirling drink from the beginning of the game is from a man named crow who died in the 90s in a shootout. sometimes it is pieces of their body. it depends. they have never used parts of their lovers in their art.

the use of blood in the art is typically a joke. it is used rarely, but it's often just auctioned to some thirsty ass vampires.

Eri had something similar with the hallucinations before finding his own way with his power of words. (I wonder if that was a temporary touch of the parasight that healed but that was before meeting Delusion - or was it? - so it was possibly just head trauma. Or something else supernatural. And it's been confirmed that the erupting and healing scales on his skin are not eyes, but snake scales from the snake eyes. Cruelly the eyes seem to be doing it, not him. Another loss of agency.)

do you remember...oh, fuck. i forgot myself. hold on....oh, yes! how i said it randomly occurs to random people? yes. erebus was a case. a very, very mild case touched by the manifestation. i was alerted of it and came to visit him. instead of killing him, i took it as an opportunity. i keep telling him to just die. to not suffer anymore. but he's so....stubborn? why? i still don't get it!! he's not going to have the eyes if he just dies. he's not human anymore! i don't get it.

you never will.

I wonder though... Eri's powers definitely come from his need to control/be in control and are an offshoot of Delusion's. But they are explicitly verbal. Did his power of words and the ability to shape reality come through the snake eyes as well? I mean, when someone is very persuasive about something that isn't true or real you can metaphorically say that they have a forked tongue. The snake was the original bad influence. Eri can literally manipulate people like puppets and manifest entire fictional realities. I bet he could be really dangerous if he chose to gaslight. I think that's something he and Aeron share. A real thing about having control. Maybe that's another reason for tension. Aeron wants a power imbalance dynamic Eri can't bear.

that's why they're toxic old demon yaoi. /joke

erebus can manipulate people, and he can make people really, really confused on their reality. but he isn't there yet. once he gains control over his life and his being will these abilities be realized.

but that's the whole thing with erebus. the point of his character is that he is capable but he is too anxious, scared, or some other negative emotion to take that leap. just like i am. just like a lot of us are. sort of this fear of not being in control, the paranoia of not being in control. but he is. he can make those decisions. there comes anxiety with the consequences and the act of making the decisions as well.

aeron very explicitly states that he is willing to relinquish control from erebus. he already has. erebus has chosen to stay. their relationship is built on misunderstandings on both sides. there is a happy ending for them.

Genesis possibly has something related to hearing, music or emotion. It seems he can sway people's emotions and cause them to do really irrational things, or destroy them outright with sound waves. I wonder if his own uncontrolled emotions and impulses come out unconsciously, and they confirm a secret feeling of him not having it together, being out of control. That's why he was so embarrassed about the player finding the corpse, and why he impulsively lashed out.

oh, 100%. 100000%. he's accidentally made people feel ways about him that reflect how he feels about them. once he saw a really hot guy, played a song, and the guy was like, feeling hot under the collar if you know what i mean. it's awkward. music makes us feel weird things.

So Silas did get the parasight from Delusion to use it for himself... previous conspiracy theory confirmed?

you know what makes me so mad about this? he found a victim of a randomly-gifted parasite and ripped everything out of their body, leaving them hollow, before i got there to tale care it.

i suppose it's good to know someone else is willing to do your dirty work.

i'm sorry, lucia. i wouldn't have brutalized you like that.

I'm wondering then if it was the previous aspect of Delusion who pranked Eri with the snake eyes and demonhood and not Aeron... hence the fear of but not outright hating Aeron themselves? (I've speculated about that before. However it's not 100% as I do have some plausible ideas of why Aeron themselves might have wanted to do it. A fascination/aesthetic attraction towards Erebus at one point has been implied.)

i can confirm it was an aspect. they run around. billions of eyes in the cosmos. don't know how they get there. don't care. everyone's got them. genesis does too. stray tunes stuck in your head that you can't seem to get out. don't know where they come from. that's how lullabies are made.

One thing I will say though. Even if Aeron wasn't personally responsible for giving the parasight to Silas or playing the cruel prank on Erebus, mischief and unintended drama seems to be inherently bound up with every incarnation of theirs. Delusion is chaotic, a trickster god.

not my fault me and delusion itself like a little drama. we might be the same thing on different levels, but delusion gets frisky sometimes.

I do wonder about this. There was something about the Afflicted being special, a novelty because nobody really survived that long before. (?) I wonder about the route where Erebus tries to cure it, and what happens if the Afflicted actually 'survives' it. Whether they gain an immunity or could potentially ascend to demonhood themselves. And begin to have their own inner nature supernaturally manifest.

erebus will try to cure it based on silas's notes. that does not go well. or...no. it doesn't go how you expect.

the afflicted, oh that beautiful thing....they're a novelty because no one has survived a spiral that long. again, a spiral is when someone suddenly realizes the constant perception from forces unknown, they go crazy and lash out at anything around them.

if i wasn't there to interfere, the afflicted would have died, and this wouldn't be an issue.

the longest anyone has survived with the parasite has been 5 days. at least, before it changes them. i wouldn't say you exactly die with it every time. sometimes you just become something different.

you know what i think the only solution is?

are you ready to experience your first death of hundreds, of thousands, my love?

[lactoseintolerentswag]

As someone who only draw single pieces, your ability to write is fascinating to me…I’m curious, how do you start building the storyline for longer fics?

Do you just think of a scenario (e.g., A punched B in the face) first and expand around it (What happened that leads to A punching B, what happens after, do they resolve their conflict)? Or do you start with the potential story arc of your central character (how A goes from a cocky person to a responsible one), or through some other ways entirely?

(TLDR: How do you plan out the storyline of your fics?)

Oh my gosh anon you just got awarded question of the night I love talking about writing (even if im answering these bc im currently blocked from writing ASDFGHJK).

And really my answer is both in a way!! Sometimes I'll think of a scenario first and expand around it, or the potential of character arcs. Long fics can spin from any idea big or small.

The fic I'm working on now? The Four Knights actually came from a joke with a friend. We were speculating about our own separated aus for fun and I really got stuck on Megamind-stylized villain!leo that was just a silly goofy guy because yeah. Canon!leo is dramatic af. And then I started asking myself questions.

Here's the important part in figuring out a long fic, or even just writing in general, is to keep asking yourself questions.

Okay so Leo is a villain, why is he like that what led him down that path? That's a broad question that will lead down to a lot of little questions, which is where the plot starts rolling.

Okay so he's a villain because his motivation is to take over the Hidden City, but how is going to attempt to do that? Okay now he has his own version of a Hidden City gang just like the Masters of Barbarianism or Makers of Brutality, but how will this make him interact with important figures like Draxum and Big Mama?

Knowing your characters is also important. Characters are your anchor, your guideline. All this question-asking relies on knowing your character well enough to have an answer to what they would do in that situation.

The things I focus on in character writing, especially when thinking with planning a plot in mind, is their strengths and their flaws.

Now as for the Planning planning part, different writers have different techniques. Sometimes someone just needs to sit down and write what they have in their head. As for me? I'm a very dedicated out-liner.

I'll write down all the main ideas or sick imagery I had in mind. Like why does villain!leo have a bird mask, we totally gotta flesh that out. And then I begin with a rough outline of the story breaking it into different parts or acts.

I tend to do this when I'm more focused on character arcs, with a character's traits and motivations progressing throughout a story.

For me this is super brief, just a line of bullet points to keep the ideas running. And then I'll get into chapter by chapter outline.

I make chapter by chapter outlines with a broad sense of what I want to happen in one chapter and then move onto the next. Once I'm done with that I return back to the start to refine the details into bullet points.

And this is a lot (if I'm passionate abt one thing it's writing) so,

tldr: Start with a broad idea or goal, and keep breaking it down into chunks. First by questioning why the main goal would happen, and then fleshing out the details little by little.

I wish you the best of luck with writing and art!!!! The act of creation is a time-consuming, but is ultimately wonderful and full of passion. Hope my word vomit was helpful haha.

[basementcreation]

1 2 and 21 for your personal fav oc

OURURFHGHHH THANK YOU…. (STARTS FLAILING AROUND LIKE A REALLY EXCITED WORM)

my personal favourite oc is a (previously lobotomy corp oc but now in my own universe) character named Rostya ( ´ ▽ ` )b (this got kind of long, so most of it is under the cut)

does your oc have any motifs?

(cw for imagery of death/rot) yeah!! sorry, this section will be a little long, i have a lot of thoughts about themes and stuff. possibly a little generic but it's fine hehe.

most commonly, i relate him to crows/dead birds. i like the imagery of a dead bird swarming with maggots for him - it relates to his feelings of emptiness. his main struggles are depression and lack of control of his life; basically, things keep getting worse for him and he's almost given up. like, y'know, a dead animal being consumed by rot. also, crows are typically associated with death - something his character arc is related to (i mean. he does die at the end of it. so). could also relate to independence (he pushes away other people) and freedom (is struggling to free himself from his mental health struggles and the pressure/manipulation of his mother, even if he isn't in contact with her anymore).

the second thing i've related to him (although, this one is a bit new, so it's not too well thought out just yet) are apples! they're commonly used to represent temptation and sin (eg death note, the bible (yes i thought of death note first, what of it)) but i like it as a metaphor for life. this sort of stems from a scene i thought up with him and his (future partner, but at the time) enemy, who threatens rostya by crushing an apple in his hand. apples are hard on the outside but are pretty easy to cut up with a knife - the fact he crushes it with his bare hand shows the power he has over rostya's life. i'd love to go on more about this, but i think i need to mull this theme over some more first.

ALSO okok i can't believe i nearly forgot about this but. black ink. goop. nothing much to say about this one he's just a goopy guy. actually, no, disregard that, i have thoughts. so there's two versions of the universe he's from, and he has a (spoilers) madoka magica witch transformation moment in both of them. both of these times his other form is made up of black ink. it's basically just a metaphor for his despair. like, depression can feel like it's totally consuming you and dragging you down, right? that's his whole thing.

okay i promise pinky style that this is the last one but. masks. he's constantly masking his real thoughts and feelings. maybe a little heavy-handed, but it fits (he even has a dark shadow, like a mask, cast across his face when i draw him. look at the art below to see). he also wears a mask in both of his transformations - it's sort of similar to a theatre one, look at it below.

fuck i feel like gambling is also a motif for him. my brain is sort of short circuiting now because of all the writing (i know it's not that much. i am tired) but just. trust me. there's stuff there. and sorry for breaking my pinky promise. i'll repent.

2. describe your character's voice. do they have a voice claim?

this one's a little trickier - i generally don't have voice claims for my ocs, and just come up with them in my head, so i'll also talk a bit about the way he speaks. he has a fairly deep voice, probably about average for a guy. he's russian, but moved to england at a young age, so i don't think his accent is very prominent. he doesn't really speak unless spoken to, and tends to use shorter sentences. he can also be very snappy, mostly when people are trying to be nice to him (⍪_⍪) for context - he's a quiet person, but will put up a front of hostility when people try and get too close, which is. kind of anything past small talk for him (vulnerability scares him because of his past). although, after a while, he does calm down a bit with his antagonism.

21. hobbies your OC enjoys?

he really loves music! before he pawned them off, he would collect records. he enjoys singing a lot (in an au he's an opera singer) and secretly wishes he could make a career out of it - which, he totally could. he's a great singer. in the past he played the violin, and he still has some love for it, but as an adult he has too many bad feelings associated with it.

he also LOVES trains. he would love to save up enough money to collect miniature model trains, but can't manage it. at some point he and his coworkers have to go on a luxury train to investigate something and the whole time he is freaking out about it.

thanks so much for the ask!!! rostya is so fun to talk about. as a bonus, here's some art of him!!

the hair strand across the face is essential!

rostya ponytown... think i might remake this soon.

mock cover for the chapter where he dies! <3 this isn't what his transformation looks like, but the mask is the one he has.

one of my first drawings of him... his design has changed a little. and my art has changed a lot

this isn't rostya. i forgot why i drew this

[blood-orange-juice]

Thoughts on Arlechinno's design and splash art?

SCREAMING CRYING CHEWING WALLS

I want her carnally.

Moon symbolism, the theme of defying fate and black hilichurl hands also hint at Khaenri'ah (especially together with the Perinheri book), so I also want her for lore reasons. But mostly carnally.

Actual thoughts on leaks and design under the cut.

She's like a combination of all European gothic/demonic tropes. Extremely sinister lady.

Werewolf themes? Check (all the moon mentions and Scaramouche's "wolf in sheep's clothing" line).

Vampire references? Check (her entire kit).

Grim reaper vibes? This woman has them.

The wing shape, the chair/throne, the black and red colour scheme, The Lying? It's straight out Christian devil aesthetic. Not some random demon, the big guy.

Her flickering idle animation points to her being someone who knows the fabric of the universe is fake (could still be just Fatui technology of course). It's also an Abyss thing.

Her six wings remind me of Seraphim imagery, and so do eyes on her clothes ("they were full of eyes within").

I think she also has proper feathery wings in some attacks in the 2nd phase? I didn't look too closely to not spoil myself too much.

Everyone and their mother have already mentioned that, but I'll just reiterate that saraph is a Hebrew word for "burning". Whatever fire symbolism you can come up with, it's very likely there had been a medieval theologist or a poet who tried to connect it to seraphs.

(I also really dig one of my friends' favorite shitpost theory that angels' natural state is being in a flock or other kind of group. they are like some species of birds and wither without company. in other words, family is important)

The one-winged form in her ult. Fallen angel, Luciferian motif (again). Obligatory FFVII Sephiroth reference too. Sephiroth reference is important because he's something alien to the world (his kind corrupts reality just by being in the wrong place).

She has a moon/eclipsed sun in her ult animation.

Reminds me of the red moon in Raiden's Plane of Euthymia.

Something something the Crimson Moon Dynasty and the Eclipse Dynasty of Khaenri'ah.

Let's not forget the Statue of Omnipresent God in Inazuma. It's not a seraph but it still has a biblical angel vibe.

Her colour scheme.

Reminds me of Sustainer's cubes a bit (although they are darker).

Then in the Perilous Trail event (thanks to @letpaimonbitepeople for reminding me) there are these strange red-and-black ghosts. They are theorised to be shadows of people consumed by the Abyss. When Xiao describes them Yelan also mentions things flickering in and out of existence, "objects that shouldn't be here".

*points at Arle's idle flickering animation and Sephiroth reference*

Hoyo love to colour-code and red and black means something other than just fire (like Abyss is pastel and night sky coloured, dreams and memories are pink and light blue and honkai is magenta). My guess is destruction and unnatural things/things being in a wrong place.

I've seen people compare her design to Signora (fire magic that doesn't stem from using a Vision) and theorising about Primordial fire and Arle being a vessel for a shard of the Shade of Death.

Astro draws paralles between Albedo's and Arle's flower motifs, and it's possible she might be a creation of Rhine's. Or someone else who used Khemia.

Her earrings also fit.

(this was also the basis for theories connecting her to Narcissenkreuz. flowers, crosses, memory transfer, theme of rebirth... you name it. the black hands. but now I think it's just Narcissenkreuzers referencing Khemia)

I say we shouldn't pin everything on Rhine and she could have been another Surtalogi's creation (it would explain why they had to namedrop him). Someone from Khaenri'ah anyway and someone tapping into a very old power.

Could be someone from Remuria too, a continuation of Khaenri'ahn arts then. ''The Fall of the Faded Castle'' books mention someone terribly similar.

A stone slate at the entrance to her boss fight domain mentions the name Crucabena, and, as I wrote in another post, this points to her being connected to one of the dead Moon Sisters. Especially with what we know from Perinheri.

Also Perinheri mentions Khaenri'ahns betraying their god rather than simply abandoning them/being a godless nation, this is another Luciferian motif. Maybe she inherits the art of whoever came up with the idea. Maybe their god was an heir to the Shade of Death (like Focalors was the successor to the Shade of Life) and they killed them and took their power.

(maybe all of the above)

I have no idea about where her story will go (what could she possibly want from Fontaine or why would she possibly want to join us) and I'm excited.

Judging by how they handled Focalors (a better Jesus reference than most Christians manage) and how they handle references in general, it will be a marvel.

A special thanks goes to @a-yarn-of-purple-prose, @rayetherna and @letpaimonbitepeople with whom we were collectively shouting over Arlecchino's design and the ghost of Astro whom I know through Ray's quotes. Some of these ideas are theirs.

[tillzzy]

08.05.23

WWF - Visual Analysis

WWF have a wide range of campaigns, as well as a product range. The proceeds all go to the funding of the charity and causes they support. WWF also collaborate a lot with other organisations and artists which is good as this is what my project is about. Knowing they have a history and are open to collaborating supports the concept of my brief and works out really well. I want to explore the kind of illustrations WWF tends to use and also the language of their products.

Anti Poaching Campaign

Striking imagery and photography

the size labels links to the fashion industry as leopards are hunted for their fur to be used as clothing

creates an emotional response from viewers as it exposes the reality of the fashion industry

"fashion claims more victims than you think" is powerful and gets viewers to think about their choices as consumers

Wild Isles Product Range

collaboration with WWF, RSPB and artist Cherith Harrison

UK native Oak tree and Starling bird celebrated through this design

captivating and beautiful repeating illustration

vibrant colours link to the environment and natural world - harmonious colour palette from WWF branding

WWF x Jane Foster Product Range

illustrator and textile designer from Devon

bold, happy designs appealing more towards a younger audience

cute illustrations with bold colour palettes on products such as pillows, mugs and bags

I really like this simple illustration style and it is very suited to WWF's branding - something to think about when creating my own designs

solid colour and patterns - no texture

Tiger E-Card

cute repeating pattern of a tiger's face

simple shapes used to create the structure of the illustration which works really well

theme of using animal's colours as the colour palette and also for repeating designs

targeted more towards a younger audience but could also appeal to adults

Take aways

WWF uses a range of illustration styles which is amazing as I will be able to add my own personal touches to the outcome whilst ensuring their colour palette is used

Lush x WWF seems to be an idea that would work well as they tend to collaborate with other organisations already

repeating patterns and more simplistic shapes work well

all products link to a specific animal - perhaps I could create a product range with different each product being associated with a specific animal or combined with a few.

[atherix0]

Feral Mumbo consumer, here to brain rot in your asks because HNNNGH yes. Yes. My boy. I cannot W A I T for that barrier to go down and for mumbo to just lose it because I can feel it clawing and rippling in the writing itself and it's just SO GOOD ahhhhhhh ALSO love the imagery of Grian just perching around their home, watching Mumbo work, trying to stay out of the way because he thinks he just makes things worse but so fidgety he keeps moving around anyway??????? He makes a good combo with Mumbo's restraint and the way Scar casts magic in your world. I love the Magic of Movement btw, there's so much to be said there frankly. Also the fact that there's gonna be liquid glood blood in little droplets around everywhere - like there's gonna be blood on Mumbo's floor. On the porch. In little nooks they forget about in the city. Little reminds everywhere for the world's best territorial vampire MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

Feral Mumbo anon welcome back~! <3 brainrot away I love to see it <3 I can't wait to give you exactly what you want >:3 it's gonna be so good hehehe also that moment Scar realizes Mumbo's this mad over HIM getting hurt like-

Grian is like a helpless bird, he knows how to fight but feels like he can't help </3 so he flitters and fidgets and Mumbo doesn't ask him to leave, instead asking him to help to try and alleviate that helpless feeling <3 they're so good for each other, building each other up <3

The way Scar casts magic is so fun for me, especially since one of the things Mumbo found frustrating about him before Grian came in and turned their lives upside down in the best way possible was his "dramatics"- which isn't dramatics at all, it's literally how he has to cast spells <3 also I get to imagine Scar going feral in a fight with his hair and cloak billowing around him in a warm gold-tinged magic wind and then actually write about it- Elves (and Fae in general) are so connected with the natural world and magic that they just sort of move with it, it's how they keep up with the flow of the world and bend it to their wills and it's so fun to play with~

👀 you, I like the way you think. Just tiny little stains they find months later, and just immediately remembering what happened and mmm the righteous anger, the instinctive knee-jerk reaction to fight and protect it's just- hhhhhh Mumbo's a nice guy but he's still a Vampire and Boatem is still his town and these are his friend(s)/lover(s) and he'll do whatever it takes to protect themmmhh <3

[camelotsheart]

It’s time for me to go to back to spiraling apparently, because my brain refuses to let me stop thinking about the symbolism behind ygraine’s sigil until i actually jot it down. so, here we go.

I guess the first and obvious question that needs to be addressed is what kind of bird is on the sigil because - let’s not kid ourselves - many of us had the faint hope that it would be a Merlin, which unfortunately after a few google image searches, doesn’t quite fit the bill. I’ve come to the conclusion that it is most likely a phoenix because 1) the bird on the du bois crest looks like a phoenix, 2) the phoenix is a symbol of immortality through death and resurrection, which happens to three members of the du bois family - tristan, ygraine (at least in spirit form) and arthur, and 3) the phoenix is commonly used to symbolise the sun, and this fits with the symbolism of the sigil.

The sigil is in the form of a sun cross, which is an ancient european symbol (ancient as in originating in 7000 BC) for, you guessed it, the sun. If you look closely to the sigil, you could infer the golden carvings on the four rods as light rays, and the petal-like patterns on the border of the circle as the sun’s corona. Here are various sun cross symbols:

The four rods symbolise the equinoxes, and therefore the sun cross as a whole represents the changing of the seasons as well as the sun. The relation to seasons then reminded me of the concept of the wheel of fortune as well as the silver wheel. (Word of warning: if the above meta was already far-fetched, the meta below is going to be really really far-fetched). 

The wheel of fortune or Rota Fortuna is an ancient greek concept on the nature of fate, and it’s fickle and volatile nature. When upright in tarot, it’s used to symbolise change, cycles, destiny, luck and unexpected events. While researching this, I realised that a metaphysical wheel is, in fact, mentioned in Merlin. This is in regards to Gwen being consumed by the Mandrake Root and being “bound to the silver wheel for all eternity”. The silver wheel in mythology is actually a feature of the goddess Arianrhod, whose name literally means “silver wheel” and is mentioned in the same episode as the owner of the Cauldron of Arianrhod. The following is a description of her:

Arianrhod was also called the Silver Wheel because the dead were carried on her Oar Wheel to Emania (the Moon-land or land of death), which belonged to her as a deity of reincarnation and karma. It is said that Arianrhod hosts the dead between incarnations, giving them rest and peace before rebirth. Each initiate’s soul is said to withdraw between incarnations to her constellation in the Aurora Borealis called Caer Arianrhod. (x)

(This is absolutely unrelated but I’m screaming at the fact that the Boötes constelation which has the star Arcturus which a few scholars say was the source of King Arthur’s name is right next to Aurora Borealis)

There are many interesting (merthur) metaphors (if you guys thought this wouldn’t turn into merthur do you even know me) I can draw from all of this including the correlation between the story of Icarus (the imagery of a winged figure flying towards the sun) to that of Merlin and Arthur. How the sun cross being used to symbolise earth in modern times almost seem like a union between camelot/albion (symbolised by the earth) and magic (the sun, a symbol of life and light) - there is magic at the heart of Camelot. How the phoenix which could technically symbolise both Merlin and Arthur is trapped in the centre of the wheel that symbolises fate (especially considering how in 5x10 Kilgharrah refers to death as a 'cycle of life'). And How it’s so fitting that the gift is from Ygraine - someone who’s life was taken because of magic, while Arthur is then protected in the arms of magic itself; an interesting parallel to both the destructive and life-giving properties of the sun.

[theminecraftbee]

Hi, stuffed bird animatic anon here! I've decided that I'm going to make an attempt at this thing >:D I'm learning how to animate in a program that isn't the one I prefer, but I think I can transfer some skills!

And also I got a sudden burst of motivation of the "fuck it" variety this evening, which is absolutely contributing to this decision.

Anyways - I'm, uh, thinking Rät by Penelope Scott for the song? I got a really vivid image for a frame featuring the church with the weird bird amalgamation. Vibes?

One more question, sorry :O would you mind if I maybe popped into your ask box occasionally to talk about this? If not, that's alright :D

Hope you're having a good day! -Animatic Anon

please insert me making a sound like a teakettle here i just. i can't believe you're actually going to TRY DOING THIS. i have no idea what i did to deserve someone even making the attempt at doing something this time-consuming and cool for me but it's just. really cool. i don't know if i can express just how flattered i am that this is happening. i will probably continue saying that for a while. this is insane and know that regardless of whether you ultimately end up finishing it, the fact you're like, trying to start? WILD TO ME.

anyway. just. needed to get that out of the way.

so, uh, genuinely, up to you to pick whatever you have your vision for! rät is definitely a song that can work here. (actually, given that the song is effectively "breakup song with big tech", it fits a little better here than it probably should.) any attempts to do... literally any scene from the fic... is exciting to me, honestly, but i do still love the angel of mercy methodist church and the entire scene of "two small town churches, basically across the street from each other, both filled with dead bodies".

so much of stuffed bird was just an excuse for me to write imagery i thought was cool

anyway YEAH don't mind at all if you want to hop into my ask box! feel free to send me asks for anything ever. as always, i give you the same warning i should probably have pinned somewhere on my blog, which is "i am notoriously good at just Forgetting to answer asks, i think my inbox is currently at 372 at the moment, mostly made of asks i got and just. never responded to". that being said this is a ridiculous thing you're doing and i'll probably make an effort to respond to asks about this because like GENUINELY THE FACT YOU'RE EVEN TALKING ABOUT DOING THIS IS JUST. WILD TO ME. I'M JUST.

the teakettle noise again i don't know how to express this one. bonkers wonkers.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Today in Tolkien - March 25th

And here we are, at the last day of the Quest. (And the last consistent day of this blog-series. I may or may not make more posts later on, but I won’t be making a point of consistently covering each day, as many have no specific events.) It’s hard to know what to say here, because we all know the events so well that any summary can only seem bland, and there is little to add that has not already been said.

So I will note a few things I hadn’t noticed before. First, the change to a wind from the north is noted in three different places.

For the army of Gondor and Rohan: As morning came the wind began to stir again, but now it came from the North, and soon it freshened to a rising breeze.

For Frodo and Sam: The wind had fallen the day before as it shifted from the West, and now it came from the North and began to rise; and slowly the light of the unseen Sun filtered down into the shadows where the hobbits law.

And for Faramir and Eowyn in Minas Tirith: A wind that had sprung up in the night was now blowing keenly from the North, and it was rising.

These winds help to carry the Eagles of the Misty Mountains south fast enough for them to come to the Battle at the Black Gate, and then to rescue Frodo and Sam.

Second, the comparative briefness of the battle at the Black Gate - and the number of men of Rohan and Gondor who survive it, along with Pippin and Gimli and Legolas - is due to Sauron indulging in spite. He could easily have loosed his assault against them at dawn, or even during the night when they were camped near the Black Gate. But Sauron had a mind first to play these mice cruelly gefore he struck to kill; he uses up a substantial portion of the morning by sending the Mouth of Sauron to taunt them (with gratuitous use of contemptuous-thou) about Frodo’s supposed capture. Given the disparity in forces, if he hadn’t done so the army would likely have been destroyed before the Ring was, and even victory would have left both Gondor and Rohan kingless and heirless. As Gandalf says at Isengard, Often does hatred hurt itself!

Third, related to the above, everything is over fairly quickly - the Ring is destroyed before noon. Again returning to the battle at the Black Gate, there is just time fir the first assault from Mordor (including hill-trolls) to hit the front lines, for Pippin to kill a troll and save Beregond, and then he hears the cry of “The Eagles are coming!” And at that same moment Frodo puts on the Ring in Sammath Naur, and the Nazgul turn and fly for the mountain; and moments later the Ring is destroyed.

Finally, the fall of Sauron, from four perspectives. First, Sauron’s:

And far away, as Frodo put on the Ring and claimed it for his own, even in Sammath Naur the very heart of his realm, the Power in Barad-dûr was shaken, and the Tower trembled from its foundations to its proud and bitter crown. The Dark Lord was suddenly aware of him, and his Eye piercing all shadows looked across the plain to the door that he had made; and the magnitude of his own folly was revealed to him in a blinding flash, and all the devices of enemies were at last laid bare. Then his wrath blazed in a consuming flame, but his fear rose like a vast black smoke to choke him. For he knew his deadly peril and the thread upon which his doom now hung. From all his policies and webs of fear and treachery, from all his stratagems his mind shook free.

Second, Frodo and Sam:

A brief vision [Sam] had of swirling cloud, and in the midst of it towers and battlements, tall as hills, founded upon a mighty mountain-throne above immeasurable pits; great courts and dungeons, eyeless prisons sheer as cliffs, and gaping gates of steel and adamant: and then all passed. Towers fell and mountains slid; walls crumbled and melted, crashing down; vast spires of smoke and spouting steams went billowing up, up, until they toppled like an overwhelming wave, and its wild crest curled and came foaming down upon the land. [The imagery of the final destruction of Sauron recalling the diwnfall of Númenor feels very fitting to me.]

Third, the army of Gondor and Rohan. Gandalf calls them back from the tide of battle that has turned in their favour, and bids them stand and wait.

But Gandalf lifted up his arms and called once more with a clear voice.

“Stand, Men of the West! Stand and wait! This is the hour of doom.”

And even as he spoke the earth rocked beneath their feet. Then rising swiftly up, far above the Towers of the Black Gate, high above the mountains, a vast soaring darkness spring into the sky, flickering with fire. The earth groaned and quaked. The Towers of the Teeth swayed, tottered, and fell down; the mighty rampart crumbled; the Black Gate was hurled in ruin; and from far away, now dim, now growing, now mounting to the clouds, there came a drumming rumble, a roar, and long echoing roll of ruinous noise.

“The realm of Sauron is ended!” said Gandalf. “The Ring-bearer has fulfilled his Quest.”

And as the Captains gazed south to the Land of Mordor, it seemed to them that, black against the pall of cloud, there rose a huge shape of shadow, impenetrable, lightning-crowned, filling all the sky. Enormous it reared above the world, and stretched out towards them a vast threatening hand, terrible but impotent: for even as it leaned over them, a great wind took it, and it was all blown away, and passed; and then a hush fell.

And fourth, Faramir and Eowyn in Minas Tirith:

And it seemed to them as they stood upon the wall that the wind died, and the light failed, and the Sun was bleared, and all sounds in the City or in the lands about were hushed: neuther wind, nor voice, nor bird-call, nor rustle of leaf, nor their own breath could be heard; the very beating of their hearts was stilled. Time halted.

And as they stood so, their hands met and clasped, though they did not know it. And still they waited for they knew not what. Then presently it seemed to them that abive the rudges of the distant mountains another vast mountain of datkness rose, towering up like a wave that should engulf the world, and about it lightnings flickered; and then a tremor ran through the earth and they felt the walls of the City quiver. A sound like a sigh went up from all the lands about them; and their hearts beat suddenly again.

“It reminds me of Númenor,” said Faramir, and wondered to hear himself speak.

“Of Númenor?” said Eowyn.

“Yes,” said Faramir, “of the land of Westernesse that foundered, and of the great dark wave climbing over the green lands and above the hills, and coming on, darkness unescapable. I often dream of it.”

“Then you think that the Darkness is coming?” said Eowyn. “Darkness Unescapable?” And suddenly she drew close to him.

“No,” said Faramir, looking into her face. “It was but a picture in the mind. I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days. But my heart says nay; and all my limbs are light, and a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny. Eowyn, Eowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in this hour I do not believe that any darkness will endure!” And he stooped and kissed her brow.

And so they stood on the walls of the City of Gondor, and a great wind rose and blew, and their hair, raven and golden, streamed out mingling in the air. And the Shadow departed, and the Sun was unveiled, and light leaped forth; and the waters of Anduin shone like silver, and in all the houses of the City men sang for the joy that welled up in their hearts from what source they could not tell.

[demon-fries]

Hello everyone! I've finally decided to open commissions!

A quick disclaimer,

Please do not expect the art to be done quickly, I have a somewhat tight work schedule so please be patient with me!

TOS

I have the right to decline your commission, if such thing happens you will not be expected to pay and if I had accepted it previously, you are more then welcome to ask for a sketch as compensation!

Please note that I will always turn down a commission if the character does not have an active reference or image I can access easily.

If the art is used in a public space, I will require some form of written credit.

More info under the cut!

Will Draw:

Oc

Gore

Animals (Realism Included)

Fan Art

Ship Art

Oc x Canon

Diverse Body Types (Non Fetish)

Furry

Anthro

Humans/Humanoids

Androids

Reptiles

Birds

Fish-like Creatures (i.e. Sirens, Mermaids, Selkies)

Mythological Creatures

Skeletons/Zombies/Undead

Domestic Romance (Kissing, Hugging, Cuddling)

Won't Draw:

NSFW (18+)

Kink

Offensive Imagery/Text/Symbols

Fetish

Minor x Adult

Incest

Robots (FNaF Characters are okay, robotic prosthetics are fine too, just nothing like Transformers or Wall-E)

Discuss in DMs:

Suggestive Outfits (Bunny Suits, Lingerie)

Art of Real People (Not Ship)

I’m in/know about a large number of fandoms so it’s very likely I'll know what character you’re talking about (Regarding Oc x Canon or Fanart)

Prices!

Note, all shading is an additional $5 USD as I find this part very time consuming

Discord Emojis:

Single Full Color - $0.50 USD

Five Full Color - $1.50 USD

Full Body Chibi:

Black and White - $1 USD

Full Color - $2 USD

Reaction Image/Meme Redraw:

Black and White - $3 USD

Full Color - $3.50 USD

Profile Image:

Sketch - $3 USD

Black and White - $6 USD

Full Color - $9 USD

Simple Color Background - +$0.50 USD

More Detailed Background - +$2 USD

Headshot:

Sketch - $5 USD

Black and White - $10 USD

Full Color - $15 USD

Simple Color Background - +$0.50 USD

Bust:

Sketch - $10 USD

Black and White - $15 USD

Full Color - $20 USD

Simple Color Background - +$0.50 USD

Half Body:

Sketch - $15 USD

Black and White - $20 USD

Full Color - $25 USD

Simple Color Background - +$0.50 USD

Full Body:

Sketch - $25 USD

Black and White - $30 USD

Full Color - $35 USD

Simple Color Background - +$1 USD

Scene (More Then One Character Interacting):

Sketch - $30 USD

Black and White - $35 USD

Full Color - $40 USD

Full Background - +$5 USD

Regarding Additional Characters:

Every character you add the price will be plus the original. Up to three characters can be added

Examples of my work can be found here on Tumblr and on Instagram

Feel free to DM me and ask for more, as I don’t post everything online

Where to Contact Me:

@demon-fries​ on Tumblr

Thank you for reading and have a good day/night!

@father_the_chedder on Instagram

GAY GAY HOMOSEXUAL#4525 on Discord

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

you+me+the Devil, m | myg, jjk | summon

pairing(s): yoongi x reader x jungkook

summary: The Devil and his right-hand demon are forcibly yanked from Hell to encounter a power they've never seen before, a power that everyone thought was only a rumor. In chains and unable to break free, they are asked to give up part of their souls. And they do. For science. But, mostly, to fuck.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language - if you're religious, maybe skip this one; world building; short graphic descriptions of sexual acts; supernatural and horror (and it gets way creepier during the smut, you have been warned); non-idol!AU - Hell!AU; Devil!Yoongi x chaos!reader x Devil's right-hand demon!Jungkook and switches between their POVs; they don't have your best interests at heart and neither do you.

--

you and me and the Devil makes 3 prologue | the summoning | the collection | 666

-

there’s not a word for what i wanna do to you

One second, the Devil, also known as Min Yoongi, was frowning as he gazed up at his right-hand demon Jeon Jungkook, pondering the whereabouts of the missing soul-shards. The next second, the volcanic ground below him exploded, multiple giant red-black rings adorned with symbols and images creating a circle, expanding a larger and larger surface area, crackles of red lighting and tendrils of black smoke shooting everywhere. It consumed everything, bleeding into every nook and cranny of the throne room, saturating the air with summoning intent. It was happening far too quickly for the Devil to stop, the ground splitting and black chains shooting out, surrounded by a deadly ice-silver signature of the kind of magic you don’t bring home to your mother.

“Fuck–!”

That was Jungkook.

“Ah.”

That was the Devil.

The black chains snapped around their bodies and bound them in an instant. Jungkook snarled and fought with all of his power, black wings flaring out that were instantly crushed and shredded by the enchantment, his curved black horns protruding from his head and being forced back by the power. In contrast, the Devil merely sat there. Yoongi knew he couldn’t stop it, not this kind of magic, if it could even be called that, so he didn’t try. He let the chains wrap around him and shackle him. Instead, he furrowed his brow and tried to trace the source, tried to find the purpose. In order to defeat an enemy, you must be informed. Yoongi lived by this philosophy, which was why he was the Devil.

He could not trace it.

That was very disheartening.

But he didn’t need to worry earlier, because the red-black summoning circle was closing in, and he would find out very, very soon who it was. He had nothing to worry about.

Yoongi was the Devil, after all.

-

You inspected your nails.

Matte black, pointed. You had just done them. You liked to look nice for your guests.

“Hm, the Devil works hard, but I work harder,” you chuckled.

-

This was not what the Devil expected.

Yoongi expected a dark cave, a crowd of hooded figures, lots of candles. Maybe a Bible or a Koran. Devil worshippers, Satanists, cultists, or whatever they liked to call themselves. He fully expected to fight, to kill, to maim, and to fucking enjoy it, because he was the Devil and he served no one.

That was the whole fucking point of leaving Heaven in the first place.

He did not expect this.

You.

“Oh? A new development.”

Yoongi had seen many things in his time. He thought he could no longer be surprised.

He was wrong.

You stood over the two figures chained to the ground, peering curiously at them. A plain black dress with a flared skirt and a lace high collar. Long-sleeved with small ruffled cuffs at the end. No socks or shoes, just long, beautifully sinful legs and pretty feet. Pointed, matte black fingernails at the ends of lovely hands. A single nail was on one of your full dark lips, small amused smile dancing on that pouty mouth.

Your nail pressed into your flesh.

Yoongi wanted to shove his dick into that mocking smirk.

Sharp, distinctive eyes. Unforgettable. Yoongi would not forget the eyes of the fool who summoned him anyway, but your eyes… They were different. They held no malice. No innocence either. No, your eyes were the greatest mystery of all.

They were an enigma, revealing nothing to the one who could tell everything.

Yoongi did not like this. He did not like how him, an all-powerful being, one who could poison the minds of all other beings, was being confronted with a human who seemed very not human.

You were holding something on the crook of your arm. He narrowed his eyes. A black plush goat-man with horns and an upside-down red pentagram stitched on his head. It had little leather hooves for feet and hands. Black leathery wings as well. Another common misconception of the Devil. As if he wanted to be an ugly goat for all eternity. Hmph. But there was something about the way you held it that made Yoongi think it wasn’t an homage to him.

No, you held it close to your breast, next to your heart, squeezing the plush goat-man’s little arm lovingly.

It made him ache with longing.

They were in a bedroom, on the floor next to the bed. Black sheets, fluffy blankets with white stars all over them. Black walls with posters all over them, cute animated characters, haunting imagery, various musical artists, sinful and innocent, a vast plethora that told him nothing of true intent. Modern, sleek furniture. A high-end desktop with multiple monitors. A nice flat-screen television. Many soft plushies of adorable and strange characters, stacked on shelves and in corners, both popular and niche.

Who was this person?

With every passing second, Yoongi was liking this situation less and less.

Jungkook was beside him, disheveled and disoriented, chained down with black. The demon sat up, growling in his chest, trying to exert his power.

“Who do you think–”

“Ah, little Satan, they shouldn’t talk until I allow them, isn’t that right?”

The Devil was not a fool. You were not talking to him. You were talking to the little goat-man in your arms. Yoongi heard a choking sound and he turned his head to see a very large black ball gag ramming itself in between Jungkook’s teeth, snapping closed with a black chain strap behind his pretty head. Jungkook looked livid, trying to bite through it, but Yoongi doubted he could break it.

You smiled at him.

Yes, indeed, Yoongi was liking this situation less and less.

In some ways.

Seeing Jungkook in a ball gag was a pleasant image.

“I didn’t expect it to turn out this way. I was aiming for him first,” you said to Yoongi, lowering the little goat-man and holding him by a hoof. Yoongi wasn’t sure if he wanted to rip apart the plush or be it. He decided that wasn’t important right now.

“Ah, well, this might be better,” you mused nonchalantly. Jungkook was still fighting his restraints, but neither you nor Yoongi acknowledged it. You crouched down, a delicate flash of inner thigh and black velvet panty in his view. Yoongi narrowed his eyes. You cocked a brow, smirk widening. ��Two birds with one stone, no?”

You set the little goat-man in front of him.

Sat down, spreading your legs to squeeze the little goat-man with your inner thighs.

There was no question now.

Yoongi wanted to both be the plush goat-man and rip him to shreds.

“I’ll let you speak to me, Devil. You seem polite.” Conversational, calm. Not condescending, which somehow made it worse. At least if you spoke to him with hostility, he would know how to turn it against you.

“You have magic that doesn’t belong to you, human,” he said softly, a raspy renounce in his voice. He festered it with sweetness and warning at the same time, accenting it with a discerning stare.

You grinned.

Even he, the Devil, was unsettled.

“Nothing belongs to anybody. You only borrow it for a short while and then the powers far beyond even you take it back.”

Yoongi felt his heart drop and race at the same time. As he suspected. This was not the work of his father or some a wayward demon. Magic, power, illusionism, these were all words to describe things that could not be described. Entropy holds no bounds and there is no meaning behind it. It exists only to cause anarchy. For some reason, perhaps simply chaos alone, you, a human, was in possession of something even he could not control or understand.

Shit.

He stared into your eyes and they reflected his expression back to him. He tried to search for it, the desires within the heart, the small tendrils of pain that asked to be soothed, the soul begging to be freed. An ordinary demon could be fended off by a strong-willed human for a while, but Min Yoongi was no ordinary demon.

He was the Devil, even if he was bound by your chains.

You tilted your head at him, hair curling around your cheeks and lashes.

Yoongi could take even the weakest flame of desire and stroke it into a blazing fire. Even the holiest of saints could not fight him. Everyone wanted something, even if it was, disgustingly, in the name of his father. And humans, well, they were the masters of wanting things they couldn't have. Easily manipulated, even by each other. The Devil hardly needed to do anything at all. It was only a matter of whether or not Yoongi cared to do it and, most of the time, he didn't give a single shit.

You tilted your head the other way, smiling.

Yoongi did not find a maze or a barrier preventing him from the soul. He found the soul within seconds. It was there, all right.

The Devil just didn't know what the fuck he was looking at.

Why was your soul just you sitting there in the abyss, looking up at him with the same smile you were giving him right now?

And why did he feel nothing emitting from it?

He pulled back, looking into your eyes again. He did not like this.

You leaned forward and touched his horns.

His eyes widened as your fingertips brushed against the large curved black-red horns against the sides of his head. He hasn't even realized they had protruded. How? His horns were a sign of his power, a symbol he used for fear, for appearance, and for the moments of when he was exercising a great deal of his influence. Your fingertips brushed against the second set, the ones that bloomed upwards into wicked black-red spikes. Both sets? His soul-search had him reflexively procure both?

Shit.

He started into your eyes, seeing himself reflected back. Min Yoongi was the Devil. Emotion was no stranger to him. He harnessed it all, consumed himself in the passions and wonders of emotion. There were ones he felt less, simply because of who he was. For instance, there was not much that made him afraid.

You smiled.

Fear. He could feel it rise within him.

Yoongi grinned back.

Was this what he thought it was? He had heard of such things, rumors and whispers, even amongst the angels themselves. The hidden truth that Heaven and Hell belonged in a specific dimension or realm, Order. That there was another realm, the mirror, the reflection trapped, the unknown.

Disorder.

His kind, the high-above, and those between angels and insects, the humans, none of these belonged in the realm of Disorder. There were rumors that Order was merely a concoction of Disorder and that their realm could collapse any moment, erasing all of existence without a trace. Entropy was waiting for them all.

Yoongi understood now.

This was chaos.

The Devil was a master of desire. And a master of deliberately doing exactly what he shouldn't. He should not be tempted by a glimpse of chaos. His father would warn him to stay away from it.

His father could fuck right off.

Yoongi leaned forward, still bound, his horns disappearing. The chains clanged around him, his power rattling underneath. He wasn't doing it to fight them. He wanted to feel it. To understand what could not be understood, to touch the untouchable, because it was there, there right in front of him and he wanted it, he wanted it, and the Devil feeds off desire, even his own.

He wanted those lips.

You backed up.

The denial only made his desire stronger.

You left the plush goat-man sitting there right in front of him.

-

Jungkook was pissed.

Absolutely furious, jaw and head aching from this ridiculously large ball gag, fuming that he had no idea what was going on and that a single human was doing this bullshit. There was no way you were working alone. There had to be other beings behind this. He couldn't figure it out right now, but he would and he would tear them apart, right after he fucked your pathetic human body and tore you apart.

You must be a fool, thinking you could shackle him, Jeon Jungkook, the right hand of the Devil himself, the epitome of pure sin and free will.

He continued fighting the magic, trying to exert his strength, rattling the black chains, ice-silver lashes beating him back down. He tried to release his wings, but they were ensnared, pain shooting up his back. Jungkook cared not for pain. He had felt pain for millions of years. A few seconds was nothing. He tried to release his horns, but he could not, as if the very air neutralized him.

He was enraged.

Maybe would simply kill you so he could spend an eternity torturing you for your insolence.

Then the Devil's horns appeared.

How did he–?

Then you touched the Devil.

Jungkook wanted to scream.

He did, deep in his chest, muffled rage, jealousy, hate, all at once, and both of you ignored him, your fingers grazing Yoongi's horns, fucking smiling, looking unflinchingly into the Devil's eyes, and Jungkook wanted to erase you from existence, destroy every single shred of your soul for not groveling at the feet of Min Yoongi.

The horns disappeared and your hands hovered around Yoongi's head, fingers splayed out around the black hair like a shining halo.

Ironic.

The Devil leaned forward.

Don't you fucking kiss her, hyung!

But you moved away, backing up, gaze lingering on Yoongi before closing your eyes and reopening them slowly, a gradual shift to Jungkook's face.

He snarled at you through the gag.

He had you now. Eye contact and Jungkook could exert at least part of his power, the soul-search to find your deepest desires, your hidden gems, the calamity within that would call to him. He would find it and manipulate it, bend you to his will, turn you into his puppet. Play with you until you begged to die, only to find yourself in his arms once more, his plaything for all eternity.

All he had to do was find it.

You slid to your hands and knees, crawling to him. He felt it inside his chest, his own desire, watching the curve of your back to ass, his cock twitching at the sight, his mind conjuring images of your pretty body on a leash. Jungkook didn't have preferences when it came to bodies. A body was a body. In his hands, all bodies became prettier. You already had the base and he already had the wrath to want it. You stopped in front of him, the black skirt of your dress flaring out. He could see parts of your bare body.

Legs, knuckles, knees.

A small, amused smile on your lips.

Eyes that Jungkook searched valiantly, looking for malice, for innocence, for desire, for the darkest shadows and the lightest light.

Why couldn't he see anything?

This must be part of your magic. No matter. Jungkook had other ways. He was creative and cunning. You would break under his hand. He wouldn't stop until it was done. He was a demon that saw things through, even to his detriment.

His jaw was suddenly released from its prison, ball gag disappearing, fading into ice-silver smoke. He coughed, snapping his teeth, glaring at you.

"You dumb bitch," he hissed, violent resonance in his voice, oppressive and intense. "Do you think you humans are above us with your tricks and schemes? Kneel before those who invented such things."

You tilted your head.

Yoongi chuckled beside him.

Jungkook's brows furrowed. What–?

Your body trickled down like liquid, laying against the dark wood floor, looking up at him. Jungkook froze, maddening desire rising, infuriated at your face looking up at him, plush dark lips parted, hands on your chest, fingers spread out and molded to your flesh under the plain black dress. Sinking in, making him clench his jaw.

Your smile like a Cheshire Cat, eyes reflecting his rage.

Jungkook wanted to straddle your face and shove his cock into that smirking mouth, bulge your throat and cheeks with his girth.

"Is he always like this?" you asked, still not looking away.

"He pretends to be nice when he wants something out of you," the Devil answered calmly.

"Isn't that you?"

You still didn't look away from Jungkook. Why couldn't he find what he needed from your eyes?

"I'm always nice."

"That means you always want something out of someone."

Yoongi laughed, raspy and deep, the sound echoing in the bedroom, filling it up with his sound. Why couldn't Jungkook find it? His rage began to become infested with something else. Your eyes reflected only him.

Like a mirror.

No matter. The demons had other ways.

"Come here," Jungkook purred.

"I wouldn't do that."

That wasn't you. That was the Devil.

Your body lifted as if it was on a string from the center of your chest, fingers and black fingernails trailing against the dark hardwood, head tipped back, the line of your neck hidden by the high collar of lace, shielded from his hungry gaze. Legs curling up, skirt pooling around your thighs, his rage molding with carnal need, festering with something else.

Fear.

You rose to your knees, in prayer position in front of him, almost as if you were about to reach out and touch faith. Jungkook furrowed his brow, watching your presence near, wanting it, ready to coax or rip your desires from your lips themselves. It didn't matter if he was bound, it didn't matter if his black suit was torn up and ugly, it didn't matter if he was bleeding from his efforts to escape this magic.

You were still a human.

He was a demon and he would taint you.

Closer, your lids lowering, entranced by his spell. Jungkook smirked. Too easy. Humans were so, so easy. He craned his neck, lips parting, the palpable lust of his breath exhaling. So close to those pretty, dark, fuckable lips.

"You're really falling for it, hm?"

Jungkook paused. His eyes shifted to Yoongi. The Devil had turned his body to watch, clad in a tailored black suit. In contrast, Yoongi's was unmaimed, as he hadn't fought his restraints. The Devil had black hair like him, parted slightly, with shadowy dark brown, cat-like eyes that glinted with something sinister. Pale skin, almost luminescent. Exposed neck, elegantly laid black silk tie, unlike Jungkook, who preferred not to wear one. Lips that demanded you to plead for your life.

A body that made Jungkook want to sin for him.

That was the power of the Devil.

His eyes shifted from Yoongi to you, who had stilled in front of him. Hands beneath you and knuckles pressed to the floor like an obedient pet. What was Yoongi talking about? He had you right where he wanted you. And yet, he hesitated.

Then you spoke.

Delicate and calm, with no resonance. Human.

"I thought demons had free will?" you whispered. "That not even the Devil could control a demon."

Or was it?

Jungkook watched your lips form the words.

"If he is powerful enough, that is."

-

Yoongi didn't bother warning Jungkook anymore.

The Chaos knew what it was doing.

Clever girl.

-

Jungkook growled, leaning back a little, letting the passion of emotion course through him, wrath, lust, pride. Fear. All of it. Drawing from it, his power pulsing, singing through his muscles.

"Come here, human."

You had to crawl into his lap, his thighs against your thighs, hardness against softness, bringing your lips to his, sudden and sweet with your legs, knuckles, knees. Jungkook smirked, white teeth and canines flashing, urging you to him.

"What a good little girl,” he breathed softly. “I can be anything you desire. All you need to do is tell me."

Your eyes locked with his.

"A kiss, please."

He groaned at the small plea, finally getting it out of you, finally, and he would make you regret doing this, sow every seed of desire within you and reap it all, turn you into his pet on a leash. All he had to do was kiss you.

Jungkook kissed you.

He pressed his lips to yours, ravenous to consume what you had, eager to claim his offering.

You smiled against his lips, a small, amused smile.

It was instant, his hunger to your plushness, the rush euphoric and wild, immediate lust and power dominating him and now he could taste your tongue and fling open the doors, clawing for the soul within, the moment so close he could taste it, taste your moan sliding into his throat, his favorite treat, intoxicating in the way you sucked in his breath to fill your longs.

Jungkook arrived at the last gate, tearing through the door. Looked down into the abyss, triumphant.

You looked back up at him from below.

A small, amused smile.

A nothingness like he had never felt before.

Jungkook's eyes snapped open and widened, staring into the reflective glass of yours, his chest constricted. He had never felt this. Your lips still on his, tongue flicking, taking his breath, and then he felt a strange kind of compression, like everything was being pressurized, tighter, tighter, suffocating, and he gasped in your mouth, recoiling.

The kiss broke, your eyes still on his, lips shiny with his saliva. Your hand was outstretched, hovering in the air, fingers coated with black tendrils mixed with ice-silver, right above his chest.

Your eyes, void of anything but himself.

“What…” Jungkook breathed, hard cock straining against his slacks. “Are you?”

He didn’t understand. You were only a human. Only a human who had done a very stupid thing, summoning the Devil and his right-hand demon to your bedroom. Just a stupid, foolish human. You tilted your head. Lowered your hand and placed both hands on Jungkook’s thighs. He tensed. You pressed your fingers into his slacks, kneading the firm flesh underneath.

Where was your fear? Your malice? Your innocence?

Where was your desire?

He could only feel his own, rising, rearing its beautiful head, teeth bared and ready to strike as your fingers drummed against the fabric of his pants. You had tried to take something from him in midst of the kiss.

Part of his soul.

Jungkook narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?” he hissed, forceful and direct.

You stopped moving your fingers. He wanted to scream in dismay.

“Only a small thing.” Your lips curved into a gentle smile. “A token to remember our fateful meeting.”

Now, only now, did Jungkook not like this.

You removed one hand from his leg and Jungkook clenched his jaw, watching it rise, nearing his heaving chest, the black chains spreading apart, links snapping with ice-silver sparks, but he was still bound, still chained, and he did now know why and not knowing infuriated him. You stopped, right above his heart, the heart he forgot was there sometimes.

The true irony of this world was that angels gave up their hearts to serve the one above and demons kept them to serve themselves.

Jungkook felt it again, the compression of his insides, making his breath hitch and his teeth grind, the sensation unbearable. Your expression remained the same, the small, airless smile. Eyes reflecting his terror.

“I could take it just like this.”

Not a threat, only a statement. Only a testament to the power within you, a power that Jungkook was beginning to think wasn’t something he knew or understood. The Devil could take souls. He could reap them, he could tear them, he could wring them dry. But not like this.

“I will give you a choice,” you murmured, hand retreating, releasing him from the uncomfortable pressure. “Because everyone deserves a choice, don’t they?”

The chains were lessening, slowly slipping off Jungkook’s body.

“I’ll let you give it to me willingly.”

Your hand on his pants caressed the fabric.

“If you have the power to take it,” Jungkook snarled. “Why not take it?”

Your other hand found his other thigh, squeezing lightly, sparks of heat flying through his veins. The chains slid off him, clashing into the hardwood floor and turning to ice-silver liquid that faded to nothing.

“I do not want to take.”

You stopped your touches and Jungkook wanted to scream.

“It will feel better for you if you give.”

He raised on eyebrow. “Considerate of you.”

You smiled wider. He stared into your eyes and only saw himself.

“What do you think, Jeon Jungkook, the Devil’s right-hand man?”

He felt the tendons on his neck tense, expression twisting into anger. You shouldn’t know his name. You were a human. You would only know if he told you directly. Someone else was behind this. Someone who wanted to kill him and the Devil, thereby putting Hell itself in imbalance.

“How do you know my name?” he seethed.

“You told me.”

What?

“When you looked into her eyes, you told her your name,” confirmed a deep, cavernous voice.

Jungkook started, whipping his head to the Devil beside him. No longer chained, simply sitting lazily on the ground, one knee raised to rest an elbow on it. Yoongi raised an eyebrow.

“Getting soft, Jungkookie?” the Devil taunted.

How…? Was he so absorbed in his own lust and deceiving you that he did not realize? He looked back at you. Your eyes lowered to his slacks and then back up to his eyes.

“Pants can always come off.”

Jungkook raised a hand, running it through his black hair, jaw set. “You are too greedy, human. Do you even know what you’re doing?” he sneered.

Your hands jerked down a few centimeters closer to his crotch, making Jungkook hiss. Your tongue slid out, feathering against the plush dark mauve of your lips. His cock throbbed with need, demanding to abuse the mouth presented. You leaned forward, putting more of your weight on him, welcome weight that Jungkook wanted all over him. He was a demon, after all. He was no stranger to carnal desire.

“I do,” you murmured softly. “You and me and the Devil makes three.”

Jungkook sharpened his gaze. “You couldn’t handle that, human.”

You said nothing.

You simply removed your heat and turned to the Devil, where Yoongi held the little goat-man plush by a single hoof, dangling it next to his lap, making your crawl into it to reach the doll. It was almost an innocent gesture, the way you took it and tucked it into your lap before looking up at Yoongi’s face, lips parted slightly, nearly curious, childlike awe decorating your features.

Jungkook growled like a hurt animal.

Your eyes shifted to him, looking at him under lowered lashes. Dismissive, vacant gaze.

“Yes or no, Jeon Jungkook?”

“Yes.”

The thin black string between you and him darkened, searing with ice-silver, a contract made. He didn’t even know the terms. He didn’t care. No human could outsmart him. And you, you must have been human once.

The problem was, Jungkook didn’t know if you were human anymore.

-

Yoongi watched your eyes return to him. The little black goat-man plush was tucked between your legs, pressed against your core. Slowly but surely, he was understanding. The original vessel was human, now tainted by someone, something, or simply bad luck. It made you something else entirely. You were a creature from the realm of Order polluted by the realm of Disorder. How long could this last? Would you die eventually from it? When you died, what would be left? Was the soul still there? Would he be able to collect it? Contain it? Study it?

Yoongi didn’t know the answers to these questions.

He wanted to know.

“Your turn,” you whispered to his chin, warm breath against his skin. “What is your answer, my Devil?”

Yoongi chuckled. “A shard of soul is all you ask for?” he purred. “What for?”

You tilted your head. “I want to complete my collection.”

The Devil doubted that. He doubted you wanted anything. Something was driving the entropy in a direction, a purpose given to the original human you long ago, and now you did it because it was the only thing left in the shell, a memory of a purpose, the human determination so strong that it could not be killed or erased, even though this body was now only a container for the power within.

The Devil had spent a lot of his time lately doing nothing. Nothing fun, nothing exciting, nothing worthy of his attention. Yoongi already knew everything there was to know about humans. He cared not for those above. But this.

This was new.

This was different.

This was something he wasn’t supposed to know.

He raised his hand, fingers tracing your jaw, staring into the eyes of Chaos. The Entropy. The Vessel.

You.

“I’ll be part of your collection, little one,” Yoongi purred.

And you will be mine, he vowed as the black string between you and the Devil glowed, ice-silver magic contaminating it with the power of Disorder.

-

part ii the collection. if you get in bed, someone will fall in love

--

masterpost

[writerwithfluffysocks]

BB Fic Rec List

Remember to kudos, like, favorite and review! Authors love that love and support for their work!

Most of these fics are rated T or M so if you're underage or that's not your thing then these probably won't be for you. Fics are broken down into categories to make it easier and each states number of chapters, rating and word count. Enjoy!

/

CANON FICS

A Dream Within a Dream by BlindAssassinUK (M, 25 chapters, 125k words)

Booth struggles to recover from his brain surgery and with Sweets' assessment that his feelings for Bones aren't real. As if this wasn't enough to keep our favourite FBI agent busy, a serial killer comes to town. Mostly written in tandem with Season 5.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5392047/1/A-Dream-Within-a-Dream

A Lotta Heart by nelliesbones (M, 10 chapters, 18k words)

"Bones, she believes in the system." Except that she didn't. Not completely. Not anymore... This is a story about a woman protecting her family. A story about the man who loves her. Spoilerfree, warm-hearted and M for a reason.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8186135/1/A-Lotta-Heart

An Aggregation of Maladjusted Companions by Jazzyproz (M, 43 chapters, 250k words)

Suffering from a declining solve rate following their returns to DC, Booth and Brennan are forced to attend a team-building convention. Neither of them think they need the workshops or exercises, but it's apparent to everyone around them that if they don't do something, the whole team will soon be falling apart. Can they fix their broken partnership?

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11132403/1/An-Aggregation-of-Maladjusted-Companions

An Unexpected Outcome by BB-loverr (M, 5 chapters, 8k)

Before she could do anything Booth had her pinned. He made sure most of his weight was on his elbows so he wasn't crushing her. Someone is after Bones & Booth is protecting her. Set in early season 5

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5590619/1/An-Unexpected-Outcome

Becoming One by nelliesbones (M, 21 chapters, 83k) 

He is handsome, she is beautiful, and somewhere in between… they have made a baby. Warm-hearted and M for a reason. Slightly spoiler-y AN's, the story itself is spoilerfree.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7012130/1/Becoming-One

By Any Means Necessary by Heather Wyatt (M, 45 chapters, 433k, DARKER FIC)

When an overseas trip for Brennan leaves her in terrible danger, Booth does what is necessary to save her - even if what he is forced to do has the potential to drive her away from him forever. Set in season 5, pre-100th; Inspired by the movie "Taken".

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11549096/1/By-Any-Means-Necessary

Can You Save Her, Agent Booth? by Jazzyproz (M, 62 chapters, 464k)

Booth receives a disturbing text in the middle of the night aboout Bones - will he be able to find her in time? Or will he lose her forever? Will this guy really kill her, or is it just a bluff?

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7723263/1/Can-You-Save-Her-Agent-Booth

Coitus by willgirl (M, 5 chapters, 4k)

After a date, Brennan finds herself unexpectedly at Booth's door. B&B, Rated M for Smut!

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/4126515/1/Coitus

First a Dream by Firstadream (M, 17 chapters, 53k)

"I don't want you to move on..." Post 5x16 story. What should've happened between Booth and Brennan.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5900783/1/First-A-Dream

For You, I’d Bleed Myself Dry by coffeehelps (M, 1 chapter, 11k)

The night that Booth took a bullet for Brennan in front of that karaoke stage was forever ingrained in Brennan's mind. Every year, on the anniversary of that night, Brennan experiences those volatile feelings all over again… and they help her realize just how much Booth means to her.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13382298/1/for-you-i-d-bleed-myself-dry

Learning to Fly by Shelly (T, 3 chapters, 8k)

It was never his intention to hurt her. And, yet, she was sitting on the edge of the tub, his bathrobe consuming her small frame, tears cascading down her cheeks. He didn't know how to fix this. Post "The End in the Beginning."

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5231358/1/Learning-to-Fly

Recklessness and Repercussions by Nothing But Bones (M, 7 chapters, 29k)

Booth overhears one of his colleagues crudely reliving an intimate rendezvous with Brennan, and his ill-conceived reaction threatens to end their partnership on a permanent basis, leaving their emotions running dangerously high.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/4605409/1/Recklessness-Repercussions

This Secret Dance by ALottaHeart (M, 14 chapters, 43k)

But this secret dance, it goes on. This. This is for them, between them, and they're not ready to share that with the world. Not yet. They've waited too long. Booth/Brennan. Spoilers for 100th episode.

CASE FICS

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6062651/1/This-Secret-Dance

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Bone of Contention by Mochi-girl (M, 15 chapters, 33k)

During a murder investigation, a man from Brennan's past returns, and spins her relationship with Booth in a new direction.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5558981/1/Bone-of-Contention

Case File 2010c by lexeb (M, 1 chapter, 40k)

Booth and Bones face their worst case to date. Will our duo catch their man? Dark themes and imagery. Note rating. Written as an episode. Most characters appear.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5789374/1/Case-File-2010C

Crimson Catastrophe by Dangereux (M, 5 chapters, 24k)

Booth and Brennan work a case that pushes them both to their limits, and into each other's arms.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5929308/1/Crimson-Catastrophe

Fear and Faith by Some1tookmyname (M, 35 chapters, 59k)

When a suspicious note is discovered in an unexpected place, Booth and Brennan fight against an unknown enemy to protect the life they've built together.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7981371/1/Fear-and-Faith

Getting Clean by blc (M, 1 chapter, 11k)

Brennan feels soiled after catching a serial killer. Booth helps her get clean again. Long Angst/Romance

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/4621793/1/Getting-Clean

Hearts in Overdrive by Christi Whitson (M, 22 chapters, 136k)

After stumbling upon the suspicious deaths of two men from Brennan's past, she is determined to learn the truth about how they died. Booth and Brennan deal with the emotional fallout of their discoveries as the events of S3 unfold.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12190876/1/Hearts-in-Overdrive

The Effects of the Fan by gatewatcher (T, 1 chapter, 9k)

Someone is stalking Brennan. Will Booth be able to keep her safe? What will the effects be from his attempt?

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12568373/1/The-Effects-of-the-Fan

The Gentleman in the Club by TheModernLeper (M, 11 chapters, 10k)

The team tracks a serial killer to a popular night club. With Brennan as bait, can Booth and the team keep her from becoming his next victim?

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/4764864/1/The-Gentleman-in-the-Club

The Remains in the Rain by forensicsfan (T, 45 chapters, 70k)

What starts out as a trip to Seattle to promote Brennan's latest book turns into much more as secrets surface in flood waters and Booth and Brennan find that a few of their own secrets surface in the process.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/3934573/1/The-Remains-in-the-Rain

The Two in One in the Park by ShaViva (T, 17 chapters, 80k)

Brennan and Booth are called in to investigate the remains of two victims arranged to portray a killer's twisted vision of a romantic forever. As they close in on the culprit they find themselves closing in on each other as well. AU early season 6. B&B

AU FICS

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6054481/1/The-Two-in-One-in-the-Park

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All My Yesterdays by cardiogod (M, 36 chapters, 134k)

Booth has been taught since early childhood that a wise man builds his house on rock, not sand, but it isn't until the ground starts shifting under him that he realizes he never learned how to tell them apart.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7801702/1/All-My-Yesterdays

Burdens Which Allow Us To Fly by Mis Chi Evous (T, 1 chapter, 9k)

An alternate universe, where Brennan's parents are both killed, and Russ is in the Army with Booth. A study in how some things are meant to be.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6290511/1/Burdens-Which-Allow-Us-To-Fly

Desert Storm by Alonzo Anonymouse (M, 12 chapters, 13k)

Operation Desert Storm: Sergeant Seeley Booth was captured and tortured. His first assignment back is to stand guard over an Anthropology professor and his grad students, sent to identify bodies. One of those students is Temperance Brennan.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6032735/1/Desert-Storm

Hostile Takeover by F.H. Blake (M, 22 chapters, 70k)

Booth is a billionaire businessman hell-bent on buying Bones' club, The Lab. Bones is hell-bent on keeping Booth as far away from her club as possible. The two worlds collide one night over too many shots, and Booth and Bones soon realise that enemies don't constantly want to rip each other's clothes off.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12538952/1/Hostile-Takeover

Killing Two Birds by dmnky (M, 34 chapters, 171k)

After six months in Maluku, Brennan is summoned to Afghanistan to identify remains from a military helicopter crash and assist Sgt. Maj. Booth in investigating the cause of it.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7710873/1/Killing-Two-Birds

The Couple in the Alternate Universe by perscribo (M, 12 chapters, 22k)

Booth and Brennan are not who we know them to be. One is on the right side of the law and the other isn't. Their love story under conflicting circumstances.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12583235/1/The-Couple-in-the-Alternate-Universe

His by Athena Alexandria (T, 40 chapters, 99k)

AU. Post The Critic in the Cabernet. Booth struggles with his decision to let Brennan raise their child alone after she uses his sperm to get pregnant.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6660822/1/His

The Opportunity by BtrixMcG (M, 8 chapters, 49k)

AU: Seeley Booth is the CEO of a prominent communications company and one of the most powerful men in the industry. Temperance Brennan is a brilliant young analyst who comes into his employ and gets far more than she bargained for.

COLLEGE/HIGH SCHOOL AU FICS

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6582371/1/The-Opportunity

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Follow You Down by ButterflyWhisperer (T, 26 chapters, 85k)

The year is 1989 and our favorite group of crime fighters meet 16 years prior to 2005. Temperance Brennan is a lonely foster kid that just moved to D.C while Seeley Booth is battling demons from his past. What happens when this unlikely pair of teenagers & their friends end up trying to solve a murder their favorite teacher was framed for? And will love blossom?

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10640406/1/Follow-You-Down

Healing Two Souls by cmol8806 (M, 43 chapters, 146k)

Temperance Brennan is almost eighteen and entering her last foster home after barely surviving her last one. Seeley Booth is just returned from war, with new nightmares. What happens when they meet?

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6867582/1/Healing-Two-Souls

Purak: A Less Cheesy Way of Saying You Complete Me by boothaddict77 (T, 35 chapters, 163k)

14-year-old Tempe Brennan, recently abandoned by her parents, moves into a new home with her brother and his friend. Of course, the young man they will be sharing a roof with is none other than Seeley Booth.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7764189/1/Purak-A-Less-Cheesy-Way-of-Saying-You-Complete-Me

White Knight by LordLanceahlot (M, 17 chapters, 52k)

Temperance 'I-don't-know-what-that-means' Brennan. At a fraternity party. Drinking heavily and being mauled by some punk frat boys. Booth scowled at the thought. His freaking forensics tutor. Time to go play white knight.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5785872/1/White-Knight

Beginning of Forever by JulesSC (M, 37 chapters, 301k)

Chicago, 1988. Tempe, 14 year old foster child. Seeley, 16 year old jaded junior. Can these two help each other and change each other's lives?

SMUT HEAVY FICS

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6346762/1/Beginning-of-Forever

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Any Way She Wants It by sleeplessinatlanta (M, 7 chapters, 33k)

When Booth's prodding makes Brennan snap and reveal the extent of her frustrations, he offers to help her out. He thinks, he can handle it, but nothing is ever that simple.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6343873/1/Any-Way-She-Wants-It

Bad Excuses by Pereybere (M, 4 chapters, 7k)

Brennan and Booth are using work stress as an excuse to get naughty.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/4134057/1/Bad-Excuses

Breaking All The Rules Tonight by sleeplessinatlanta (M, 25 chapters, 57k)

Brennan tells Booth she has a sex date and he doesn't take it very well. He's determined to show her why she should be his.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5303079/1/Breaking-all-the-Rules-Tonight

Silent Surrender by sleeplessinatlanta (M, 25 chapters, 27k)

Brennan shows up at Booth's house needing only one thing: him. One silent night could never be enough but it's months later and they still find themselves going crazy at night and pretending during the day. How much longer can they keep silent?

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5398682/1/Silent-Surrender

Exercise in Self Restraint by sleeplessinatlanta (M, 8 chapters, 30k)

B&B are in an established relationship and Brennan has a naughty proposal for Booth which involves tons of frustration.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5617523/1/Exercise-in-Self-Restraint

Fighting Words by sleeplessinatlanta (M, 26 chapters, 71k)

Collection of one-shots. Some heated words, an argument, and tons of B/B hotness.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5448139/1/Fighting-Words

Hours by Dispatch22705 (M, 25 chapters, 47k)

A look at 24 different sexy times between Booth and Brennan. One post for every hour.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7506156/1/Hours

Colors by Dispatch22705 (M, 12 chapters, 50k)

12 separate one shots: each one based on a color idea.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5845810/1/Colors

Rooftops and Invitations by Space77 (M, 5 chapters, 17k)

You can’t stop thinking about him, you can’t stop looking at him. So do something about it.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/4516879/1/Rooftops-and-Invitations

Talk to Me by SSJL (M, 31 chapters, 118k)

All he wanted was a moment of honesty from her. All she wanted was to be able to give him this.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/3458085/1/Talk-to-Me

Morning, Nooner and Night by Dispatch22705 (M, 1 chapter, 9k)

A 'one shot' so to speak, of a few firsts between Booth and Brennan. He made love to her in the morning, had sex with her at noon and broke a few laws with her at night.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7239541/1/Morning-Nooner-and-Night

Only Between Us by sleeplessinatlanta (M, 100 chapters, 142k)

Collection of one-shots, some really short, others longer. Some funny, some angsty, some sweet. But ALL should be steamy/sexy/sweet. ALL revolving around B/B and their smoking hot dynamic.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5329849/1/Only-Between-Us

Alphabet by OrigamiFlower (M, 15 chapters, 22k)

A whole load of one shots of Booth and Brennan dedicated to the Alphabet.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6088489/1/Alphabet

Alphabet Recurrences by Dr Madness (M, 25 chapters, 51k)

The Alphabet means a lot to Booth and Brennan. It captures every single romantic, hot, steamy and dirty moment between them.

ONE-SHOT FICS

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5666368/1/Alphabet-recurrences

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A Family Business by nelliesbones (M, 14 chapters, 20k)

A story of one-shots and scenes around the beautiful and highly anticipated season seven of Bones.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7449862/1/A-Family-Business

An Epic Before Bed by eitoph (T, 1 chapter, 3k)

She's written this life and she's lived this life, and now she knows which one she prefers. 4.26/6.22/6.23 and how they all fit together.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7037787/1/An-Epic-Before-Bed

Anything by CupcakeBean (M, 1 chapter, 3k)

“I’ve flown across the country, pulled strings, broken the law, risked my career, risked my life, *lost* my life - all for her." Booth and Brennan realize how much they mean to each other and give in to their attraction.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/4961754/1/Anything

Don’t Mess With Booth by Aisho9 (T, 1 chapter, 2k)

Caught in the middle of someone else's battle, Brennan is hurt. The perp is in hot water enough, but now he's got a pissed off Booth to deal with, too.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5869658/1/Don-t-Mess-With-The-Booth

Ferocious Love by rhyme time (M, 1 chapter, 1k)

Booth is feeling possessive of his wife.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9789714/1/Ferocious-Love

Lies and Life by Tadpole24 (T, 1 chapter, 1k)

“I’m not this person who can’t tell if it’s reality or fantasy and I’m not this person who shows up on someone’s door step, crying at 3 am. This is something Bren would do, not something Bones would.”

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5693685/1/Lies-and-Life

Pray for George who offends Booth and Brennan by Hannah Taylor1 (M, 1 chapter, 6k)

A cautionary tale for those who would cross Booth and his lady love.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5890044/1/Pray-for-George-who-offends-Booth-and-Brennan

The Finally in the Holding by carol204 (M, 1 chapter, 5k)

Booth appears in Brennan's house on a rainy night with unresolved issues. She's pushed him too far and now they've reached their breaking point.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6630976/1/The-Finally-to-the-Holding

The Standard by RositaLG (M, 1 chapter, 1k)

"Tell me again." He said, his voice strained with anger and his jaw ticking in restraint. "Tell me that you don't need me."

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7421321/1/The-Standard

We Belong Together by Dispatch22705 (M, 1 chapter, 5k)

While Booth is away, Brennan goes to a crime scene. Booth is furious when he finds out. When he calls her on it, it's in a place he wouldn't have expected, but is all so familiar to both of them. Angsty, angry sex but with a resolved B&B ending in bed

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5846725/1/We-Belong-Together

You With Me by mia101 (M, 1 chapter, 3k)

Takes place after Booth's fight in Vegas. Brennan is tending his injuries and recalling how it felt to watch him fight, wondering what it would be like if she were the kind of woman she's been pretending to be.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/4224265/1/You-With-Me