#TO THE PEANUT BEHIND THE SLAUGHTER | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tadfools · 8 months

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Hey guys! I wanted to say thank you for 5,000 hits and almost 400 kudoes over on AO3 on The One That Got a Thay: A Guide on Breaking Free of Your Dread Father and Removing Illithid Parasites (woof whata mouthful)

I've decided to post the chapters here as well, but if you want to get up to chapter 7 you can click here!

After the summary and under the cut is all of chapter 1 which is the act one bite scene with Astarion in game!

The story in its entirety is a retelling of bg3 from my Durge's perspective. Where I've taken in-game dialogue and added to it/changed it, kinda of like I've shoved packing peanuts around a fancy, artisan vase. It focuses on an Astarion romance (past Gortash) but with an emphasis on fighting the Dark Urge. There are graphic depictions of violence throughout the story

“Why so much grief for me? No man will hurl me down to Death, against my fate. And fate? No one alive has ever escaped it, neither brave man nor coward, I tell you - it’s born with us the day that we are born.” - Homer, The Iliad

Tavaris could hear the fire crackling behind her. A boar’s fat had dripped within the pit several hours prior, leaving the occasional pop within the logs now. It was a good find and, with Gale’s little freezing trick, would keep the group fed for at least another few days.

She had hesitated to grab the animal’s carcass and take it back to the camp when it was found. The placement of it was too perfect – the kill too clean. As if the beast was meant to be discovered. Beyond that, Astarion had attempted to pull her attention from it in a way that opposed what she decided was his normal behavior. While they had only known each other for a handful of days, his need to draw her focus from the boar struck her as odd. But Wyll and Karlach insisted the meat not go to waste, so to the camp it was carried.

Had Wyll not rolled it over with the heel of his boot after she was convinced, the two thin trails of blood clumping the fur of its neck would have gone unnoticed. And, had Tavaris not been slightly turned to the side, the motion of Astarion’s eyes darting away would have gone the same.

A problem for later she supposed. Everyone in the group was entitled to their own secrets. Astarion was no exception.

Their system for the night’s watch had gone well so far. With two of them being of the elven variety, it meant that watch could be split up between them while the others slept soundly for eight hours. Though, Lae’zel was prone to ‘scanning the perimeter’ before settling down – similar to a disgruntled housecat.

Tavaris was meant to sleep first; with another two hours still to pass before her pale companion would end her meditation - if a forgotten nightmare didn’t usher it to a close. Perhaps she would bring it up the odd behavior when they switched roles.

She had pulled herself away from the group, stating that the sound of the river’s water aided her meditations and that the cold wasn’t too much of a bother. Her back was now to the fire while the others slumbered soundly around its diminishing warmth. It wasn't necessarily a lie; the water’s babbling did help. Though not with any pathetic attempt at rest. It was a distraction.

The gnolls that had ravaged that caravan… the blood of those accompanying it. All of it spilt poorly, with the same care a child would afford to throwing paint during a tantrum. It was disgusting.

Where was the artistry, where was the craft? The suffering of every human slaughtered there was ended far too quickly. The animals lunged for throats first. Were it so that she led the massacre, the suffering would have gone on for hours. The screams would have been savored with an expert’s care. And that dog… with his beautiful white fur bristled up as he protected his dead master. Had she commanded the pack, not a strand of the animal’s fur would have remained white.

Wyll had spoken to him, a skill the group didn’t know he possessed, told the rest that his name was Scratch and he thought his slaughtered master was merely sleeping. The group scent was left, a trail was provided should the orphaned dog decide to follow. Perhaps there was still time to pick up where the gnolls had left off.

She snapped her eyes open at the thought of hurting Scratch, now faced with hands clenched into fist that sat in her lap, the deep purple of Tavaris’ skin was pulled taught around her knuckles as she flexed them. The vile feelings weren’t getting any easier to push away. Her mind never stilled, near relentless in the horrors that would accost it at any given moment. The most mundane of activities, it seemed, were tinged with depravity.

Something as simple as cutting carrots for the stew which accompanied the group’s dinner was twisted within brief flashes of each chop being a finger’s knuckle. The owner of the appendage howling in a pain which she reveled in.

While she peeled the onions, Tavaris could almost imagine the action being the same as prying back the skin of a face. An agonizingly simple motion, a quick pull of the ear and one could achieve a clean removal to the other side.

It was almost enough to drown out the prattling of the group’s wizard, who in the few days since they met, decided he would also be the resident cook. There was a twinge in the back of her mind when she thought that. Not the mutilation of a man meant to be her friend, but in the idea that he could be considered an equal to her in any regard.

The magic that Gale played with wasn’t worth killing. It was meant for show - to impress others that were better suited to die. Where Gale made a presentation of a flick of the wrist and bright colorful displays of sparks, she wielded concentrated death in her hands… it wouldn’t have been that hard to rot the wizard’s flesh. Honestly… she should’ve cut his hand off when she had the chance.

None of that was within a line of thinking Tavaris wanted to be anywhere near. She wanted to listen Gale’s stories of Waterdeep and learn how he casted spells like an art show. She wanted an animal like Scratch to be safely curled by the fire, his fur free from any blood.

It was easier to raise a corpse and have it an answer a string of questions than it was for her to produce a simple flame in the palm of her hand. Even in the fight against the gnolls, she wanted to lunge at them with a dagger instead of sending a bolt of radiant energy towards them from a distance. Why was that? Why was holding the sun within her hand more difficult than a wad of necrosis?

The headache which never fully left her thrummed in time with her heartbeat. A steady rhythm of blood which serenaded her in quiet moments. It was maddening. What had she done before the nautiloid to be cursed with the inability to sit in silence for even a moment?

Tavaris took in a deep breath and closed her eyes once more. If it was that painful to focus within, she would focus out. The fire dying down, Karlach’s snoring, Shadowheart – or perhaps Wyll tossing in their bedroll, the river flowing away from them, frogs croaking and crickets chirping and the sound of… leaves crunching.

Crunching leaves that were all but muffled within the other sounds of the night. Had she not been actively listening; the footfalls would have gone unnoticed.

The events that happen next came in quick succession, as if another being had taken control of her completely. The rustling got ever-so louder; the hairs in the back of her neck stood on end - a signal to a predator that another was attempting to make her prey. Tavaris spun around with her hands clutched into fists with her pinky and pointer fingers extended on both so that a small ball of necrotic energy crackled between the them.

“Shit.” Astarion was less than a foot from her, eyes wide – almost manic.

“That’s all you have to say?” Tavaris clenched her fist, the green energy growing brighter to the point it numbed the sides of her fingers and top of her knuckles. She stood to her full height in one motion, shoulders square as she stalked towards him until Astarion was backed against a pine tree. He was a full head taller than her but, in the moment, seemed so, so small.

“No no – it’s not what it looks like, I- I swear!” He pleaded, waving his hands in the space between them, “I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just needed,” He trailed off, eyes flicked to their sleeping companions - the objectively easier targets. A beat past before he finished the explanation, “…blood.”

Tavaris hesitated then, fingers twitching, the necrosis she held flickered but did not dissipate. The light from her spell cast the space around them in a pale green glow, melding with the orange of the dying fire a hundred feet away. Both glinted off of pointed teeth. Astarion’s eyes reflecting the light in the same way a cat’s would. Just above the ruffle of the collar secured around his throat was a single puncture. It didn’t take much imagination to picture the second underneath the fabric.

How had she been so stupid?

“How the hells did I not see this.” The question came out as a statement as rage bubbled in the pit of her stomach. It rose through her throat, curling her mouth into a snarl. Tavaris kept her voice low, as much out of anger as a need not to wake the others. “How could I be so blind? Look at you.” She hitched her head towards the fire, “You killed that boar, didn’t you?”

“Tav- Tavaris,” He ignored the question, “It’s not what you think! I’m not some monster!”

Her hands tightened, the sickly green intensifying, making it clear that wasn’t the answer she wanted. Astarion thought she was the easiest target… The anger that realization sparked was indescribable.

“A-animals! I feed on animals,” The hand waving grew more frantic, it would’ve been cute in any other circumstance, “Boars, deer, kobolds – whatever I can get.”

She tiled her head to the side slowly, “Do I look like a kobold to you?” Blood pounded in her ears, threatening to drown everything else out. How dare he think of comparing her to an animal. “Do you imagine me something so frail and pathetic as a deer?”

“Of course not my friend!” His breathing grew more frantic and his looked away from her, focusing on the ground between them, “I just- I’m just too slow right now…” Astarion’s hands fell to his sides as he spoke as if he were giving up, or putting on a show of being meek, “If I had a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better. Please.” He lowered his head and, despite being taller than her, looked up at Tavaris from his lashes.

An ache spread through her skull, starting beneath her eye socket and writhing through her brain. It was the tadpole trying to reach out to its brethren amongst her anger. Had Tavaris had a moment longer to collect herself and push down the dark urge to twist Astarion’s beautiful flesh until he rotted beneath her hands – she would’ve swatted it away. She was too consumed with not hurting her friend, despite the fact he had just been attempting to attack her, to stop the tadpole from prying into him on its own initiative.

Immediately Tavaris felt hollow, cold – deathly cold. She- he… they were curled on the floor. The hardness of the marble slabs digging into their knees. How long had they been commanded to knell there? Hours? Days?

In their hands writhed a rat. It shrieked and squealed in its attempt to escape their grasp. The hold was too firm to allow the luxury of escape. Long nails punctured the animal’s flesh where it fought, causing yellow puss to leak from it. They could feel the maggots squirming underneath the scabbed, patchy fur.

A sob escaped them as they bit down. The rancid blood of the rodent flowed through them, sustaining them.

Tavaris pulled away, breaking out of whatever bloodthirst tried to consume her. Without thinking, she shifted the fists of her hands so that they were cuffing the empty space between them in two crescents. The necrotic energy morphed into a lilac sphere before she deftly flicked it towards the campfire.

A bubble formed over the group there, immediately silencing the crackling of the fire and any other sound within. Though she had no memory of casting this spell before, Tavaris knew that it worked both ways, that those entrapped within the sphere of silence could hear nothing outside of it.

She could kill him if she wanted to and no one would know.

The horrid suggestion was pushed away as soon as it came, her anger now focusing on the one who had hurt Astarion before they met. “You were forced too.” Tavaris spoke slowly, any fury now gone, replaced with a need to understand. “That’s why you didn’t say anything before.”

“At best, I thought for sure you’d say no.” He shrugged; eyes glossed over as he tried to push down the trauma she inadvertently forced him to relive. Astarion had his attention on the dome of magic, trying to discern its nature she supposed. His focus returned to her when he spoke next, “More likely, you’d ram a stake through my ribs. I needed you to trust me first Tavaris.” He held her stare, blood red irises not leaving the grey of her own, “You can trust me.”

Tavaris sighed, the tension in her shoulder blades leaving her. Nestled within the memory the tadpole revealed was a deep dread that rivalled the disgust from the experience. He was afraid. She didn’t want to be someone who found joy that kind of fear anymore. “I do trust you Astarion.”

His eyes widened before relief flooded through his expression, “Thank you.” His next words came out slowly – chosen carefully, “Could you… trust me a little further? I only need a taste, I swear."

He had said he needed blood to fight better, but that wasn’t completely true. It was written in the way his posture slumped, how his eye contact was far too forced. He was trying to prove something. To whom she wasn’t sure.

Her whole body felt wrong – corrupted somehow. If Astarion drank it and had no ill effect, maybe the poison within her was solely residing in her mind. There was a chance she could actually fight the dark urges if she knew for certain it was only confined to her thoughts.

“Fine.” Tavaris sighed, rolling up the sleeve of her shirt past her elbow, over old scars she couldn’t remember the causes of, “No more than you need.”

“Really? I – of course.” He composed himself with a smile, “Not one drop more.” Astarion nodded as he spoke like he was trying to convince himself of that statement while still grinning pleasantly. The way the corners of his eyes would crinkle when he genuinely laughed or smiled were notedly absent.

“As long as I can stay focused the others won’t notice.” She gestured to the silence spell, “Do keep that in mind.” Tavaris turned her back from him, returning to the spot she sat in earlier before padding the dirt in front of her, willing the adrenaline that racked her to subside. “We might as well sit down.”

A nod was all he gave her as he did what was asked. The pupils of Astarion’s eyes were narrower than she had seen them before, to an almost unsettling degree.

“If you don’t pull away when I ask you to,” She held her arm out in the space between them, “I’m going to electrocute you. Do you understand that?”

“Oh? Another trick I didn’t know you had,” He smile turned coy as his fingers circled around the small of her wrist and pulled it closer to him, forcing her to lean in somewhat. There was no warmth in the touch, it felt like she had just plunged it into the river beside them, “My dear, you are just full of surprises.”

Tavaris wanted to throw a snarky remark back towards him but the time was not afforded to her. Her wrist was lifted up towards him as he lowered his mouth to meet it. With a shuddering breath, Astarion fluttered his eyes closed. Almost as an afterthought, he placed a single kiss over the veins there before his gripped tightened and he bit down.

A small “Oh.” was all that left her.

The rush was indescribable. Tavaris had bleed before, many times that she could not remember. But this? With her blood actively being taken – syphoned…

Instinctually she clutched her fist which sent more blood gushing out of her and into his mouth. It spilled at the corners of his lips, trailing down his chin and blotting the white of his shirt where it met his skin. Astarion paid the stain no mind as if he was miles away, his expression almost euphoric.

The breaths he would take through his nose bordered on panting. In the beginning the air that left him was cold, but quickly morphed into a warmth that she understood came from her.

The corners of Tavaris’ eyes blurred as a pit in the bottom of her stomach formed, threatening to drag her into the soil below them. Her head was begging her to let it lull to the side. The rushing of her blood that never left her ears subsided and for the briefest of moments she felt the thing which she desired most - quiet.

Beautiful wonderful quiet. The chanting of blood was subsiding as more of it was taken from her. In that quiet, a fear morphed into truth. It was her blood that was the problem. She didn’t know why or how, but the dark urge rested in her very being – not her mind. She sat with that truth as more was taken from her. If Tavaris’ mind was separate from her body… perhaps that would be enough to fight the need for murder.

“Enough,” She breathed, “S-star, that’s enough.”

“Mhm?” He hummed, not quiet hearing her. There was the briefest hesitation before he retracted his fangs from her wrist with a sickly pop. A string of pink saliva trailed from his mouth down to her skin before separating. “Of course,” He held her wrist still, eyes not leaving the two holes formed in her skin and the impressions of the other teeth around them as the wounds clotted. “That ah... that was amazing.” An airy laugh left him as his thumb slowly trailed down and circled the punctures, smearing the blood there, “My mind is finally clear. I feel strong. I feel…”

“Happy?” She supplied.

“Happy.” The smile grew, crinkling his eyes. For the first time she saw a tinge of pink over his cheeks and the tips of his ears - her blood within him. “I’m happy.” He said.

A quiet moment stretched between the two of them, just the water, the distant frogs, and his panting breaking it. The adrenaline began to subside, giving way to a dull ache over her arm as she shuddered in a breath. Tavaris was expecting the thrumming to come back once his lips left her. The voice in the back of her head telling her to lunge towards him and slit his throat was now reduced to a quiet murmur.

“I didn’t do it so you could fight better.”

“What?” He sounded shocked, as if that was the last thing he was expecting her to say.

“You said you needed blood to fight better. That is not why I offered you my hand.” She looked up to him then, staring at the way her blood was already beginning to crust over where it spilled down his jugular, how it bloomed in the fabric of his shirt. There didn’t seem to be any ill side effects from it in him, quite the opposite really. It didn’t burn his skin or rot his clothing. It was just blood once it wasn’t inside her.

“Are you… alright?” Astarion made a motion as if he were going to lift his hand towards her before, stopping almost if he thought better of it.

“I’m fine.” Tavaris swallowed, “I just feel a little woozy.”

“It’ll pass.” He leaned backwards, using the palms of his hands for support as he looked up towards the stars, “Just be glad I’m not a true vampire. A bite from them and you might wake up as a spawn, like my good self. All of a vampire’s hunger, but few of their powers.” Sadness twinged in his voice as he spoke. "I would hate for you to be a spawn of any kind darling."

Tavaris flicked her unbitten wrist, lifting the blood from the fibers of his shirt and skin, evaporating it in the space between them with a simple bit of prestidigitation. Though it did nothing for the blood that stained his teeth and gums. She let the remainder of the red on her stay for a reason she couldn't quite place.

“Is that how you can stay in the sun?” She asked before he could comment on the spell, “Because you’re not a ‘true’ vampire?”

“Ohh no,” Astarion let out a sad laugh, “I should be cinders in the light. I hadn’t seen the sun for two hundred years three mornings ago.”

“And the first thing you did was try to attack me?” She tilted her head to the side, an objectively bad move as what remained of her blood rushed to her forehead.

“No, the first thing I did was try to scurry to a shadow. Then I attempted to…strike up a conversation with you.” His smiled like it was a playful memory, “Someone - or something - wants me alive.”

She pressed her hand to her temple, “The rules have changed for you then?”

“I suppose that goes for you as well.” He gestured to Tavaris, “Though it’s not as severe with drow, your kind isn’t meant for the sun either you know. But, standing in the sun…” Astarion took his eyes from the night sky and looked to The Chionthar, “Wading through a river, wandering into homes without an invitation - they’re all perfectly mundane activities now.”

Tavaris rolled her sleeve back down, the drying blood on her skin flaking as she did so, “Do you think it’s the parasite’s doing?”

He shrugged, “That’s my theory, but who knows?” Physically he was present in the conversation but his eyes, a more vibrant red now, were trailing over every nook and cranny of the forest beyond the river. What she had given wasn’t enough for the hunger inside him.

“If I can help in anyway - within reason, just ask. We’re in this together.” The silence spell was beginning to waver, the energy signaling its dissipation crackling at the base of her skull.

“Oh Tavy, you’re such a sweetheart.” He still wasn’t looking at her.

“We’re literally in this together, my blood is inside of you.” That brought his focus back to her. “How are we going to go about feeding you in the future? I highly doubt Shadowheart will be as understanding with this little revelation. Especially if she, or any of the others, find out the same way I have.”

“They would turn up with torches and pitchforks no doubt.” He sighed, “Come first light, we’ll all have a little chat about it.” Astarion locked eyes with her for a moment before going back to the tree line. “No innocence,” He said quietly after a moment, more to himself than to her, “You have my word Tavaris.”

It was her turn to sigh, “I see no harm in the ones that we’re going to kill anyway, they’ll be just as dead a few minutes later.”

“Exactly! After all, you know what I am now.” He smiled, once again genuine, “I’ll fight with all my weapons – teeth included.”

Astorian seemed the most relaxed since they had first met, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. This could have gone so very differently had she listened to the desire to kill him. She’d be hiding his corpse right now, but instead, he sat beside her, leaning back leisurely and looking up the way the moon reflected over the water in awe. Now that she understood that he was by all accounts dead, the act of giving him her blood made him feel… alive and she had done that. For the first time perhaps ever, her blood had been used to help someone.

“You might as well bring whatever you kill back to camp too." She was partially joking and hoped the mirth in her tone translated that, "It saves a step in the cooking process."

“Ha, of course. Now,” He stood as if a dancer entering a stage with all the grace that she was currently unable to muster, “If you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more… filling.” Astarion took a few steps towards the tree line before looking back to Tavaris over his shoulder, “This is a gift you know.” He said simply, “I won’t forget it.”

#ooo i'm scared putting all of it here eep!#baldur’s gate 3 #bg3 #baldur’s gate iii #bg3 fanfiction #astarion/durge #astarion/tav #baldur's gate fanfiction #bg3 fic #the one that got a thay #astarion

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the-blackholeus · 10 months

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I saw the Bebop X Mutant Reader X Rocksteady and it was AMAZING!! I might have a request for them and this one is a that the reader is a giant sea monster or well mutant and how they met the reader?

( The reader can be a shark that has a tail and fins with hair or a axolotl that has tail and the little antlers around the head with hair or just go for a avatar look like the movie avatar big blue people but instead of black hair it can be blonde or brown, mostly blonde)

Like shredder and his team ( with the boys of course lol ) were going on a mission to make a deal with the reader? Because the reader rules over the ocean in their fantasy land?

This could be a headcanon relationship romantic with bebop x reader x rocksteady

IM SO SORRY THIS IS A LOT ! BTW THIS CAN BE FOR A GENERAL READER OR A FEMALE READER! Love your story’s!!!

Part 1 because this shit doesn't fit in one post.

Shredder heard about you after you sunk an entire ship full of his soldiers and various materials and machines needed for missions in the future.

Understandably, he was beyond pissed at first. But as soon as he heard that there was a mutant behind this, he became intrigued. And once his rage somewhat subsided, he began to do what he could do best. Plan and scheme.

He took an entire team of elite soldiers, Bebop and Rocksteady, left Karai behind to babysit the rest of his clan and set out to find you.

Luckily, it didn't take long. You, being quite territorial of your realm, immediately noticed the intruders in your realm and hindered them by traveling by causing a hurricane, which almost sunk their ship.

The mere fact that they stayed afloat, however, both shocked and angered you, and you decided to deal with them personally, grabbing your trident and swimming towards the massive machine rocking on the ocean's wavy surface.

You emerged soon after, your ginormous form towering over all of them. Your upper body, which was human, glistened with moisture as you straightened your back, your fork-like weapon glistening in your clawed hands as you brought your sharp gaze upon them, your glowing e/c eyes narrowing furiously at their tiny forms.

Shredder was shocked and alarmed, instinctively reaching for his weapons. Bebop and Rocksteady, however, were panicking and screaming. Almost pissing their pants, they immediately tried to run who knows where, their peanut brains thinking that jumping off the boat and into the water would be an excellent escape plan. Of course, it wasn't. With your tentacles, which were attached to the beginning your s/c-scaled shark fin/your hips, easily snatched them and lifted them into the air.

They positively shat themselves at that point.

As your thundering voice asks who dares to enter your domain, both of the mutants panic and point towards Shredder, with Bebop crying out that he is the boss and that it was his idea to come here.

You turned your head towards him and were ready to slaughter them all then and there, but somehow, Shredder managed to talk to you and made you an offer. An offer to provide all protection and material you need if you would work with him. (He made sure that he said with and not for him.)

That actually made you stop in your tracks and consider his words. You had to admit, you did need help. You could not deny the dire state your watery territory was in, and not even you could protect it the way you would like to with all the damage humanity has and was inflicting. As much as you hated to admi it, you could use some hands from above the surface. After only a very short time of thinking, you agreed.

To get on your good side, Shredder immediately organized to build a massive structure in the middle of the ocean which would serve as the headquarters of the mission "Saving the Ocean", where the clan could make direct contact with you.

Bebop and Rocksteady were stationed there immediately and Shredder stayed as well to ensure that they would now screw this entire plan over, keeping a close eye on them as they roamed through the massive fortress.

The two mutants were scared shitless at first. They did not dare to take a step outside their personal quarters or the more isolated rooms when you were above the surface, not wanting to come face to face with you. They were ready to face heavily muscled turtles that were trained in the impressive art of ninjitsu and did not have a problem doing the most vile work, but a massive shark-octopus-human god-like hybrid? FUCK NO. They were drawing a thick line there.

You were amused by this. You came to enjoy to emerge from the sea just when they thought that they were save, watching them scramble towards the door as soon as they notice your massive physic rise from the dark waters. Whenever you heard the piggy squeals and rhino cries, you could not help but chuckle, showing off your razor-sharp teeth as you watched them disappear into a space they deemed safe.

This continued for months, until eventually, Shredder grew pissed with his boys for being such cowards. To punish them and to force them to overcome their fear, he sent them on a mission to retrieve some of the sunken material that you had sent to the bottom of the ocean.

However, knowing they could die down there die since their brain barely seemed to function beyond the necessities, he asked if you if you would volunteer yourself to lead them through your realm. At first, you were going to say no, but on second thought, having these two bumbling idiots around you always improved your mood. It would be quite regrettable if your personal toys were not there anymore, so you promptly agreed.

You could not stop laughing at their ridicules appearance as they were forced into customized diving suits. God, they looked so adorable. Especially Bebop, whose ass stood out due to the fat that is wrapped around his body. (You swore you could see Shredder laugh too)

Once the soldiers literarily threw them into the water, they almost drowned by having a panic attack because oh my god you were swimming right underneath them and your teeth alone were larger than them and they are going to die and blah, blah , blah...

It took a lot of yelling and lecturing from you to calm them the fuck down to at least some extent.

Once you managed to do that (which took forever, you demanded to have them change their oxygen bottles after), you led them towards the shipwreck that you have left behind.

You honestly expected nothing to happen on your way there, believing that these two buffoons were not intelligent or caring enough to notice and admire the ocean's beauty. However, as you passed the coral reef that stood between you and the mess you left behind, they quite literally froze and began to stare.

When you noticed that they were no longer following you, you turned your head and got ready to yell at them for it. But once you saw their big, glowing, curious puppy eyes, you were astonished. You swam back to them and watched as they slowly began to explore the reef, apparently having forgotten about their mission completely.

Eventually, they started to ask questions like "What is that fish called?", "Is this poisonous?" and "That exists?!". And you found yourself to be super happy to answer them, going into details with certain explanations.

After a while, the reason you were down here slipped from your mind as well, and you spend as much time with them under the surface of the ocean as you the oxygen bottles allowed Bebop and Rocksteady to. In the span of a few hours, you taught them as much as you could.

Shredder wasn't too pleased when you all returned empty handed at first, but after seeing that they were now actively speaking to you and not almost killing themselves by trying to get away from you, he decides to let this one slide and is pleased with the outcome of his "exposure therapy". He still gave them a punishment though!

After this, they were starting to dive on their own, regularly visiting you in your home, which was a massive cave in the deeper part of he ocean, to learn more. While it was strange that you had so much..."intelligent" company out of a sudden, you didn't complain. You hadn't realize how much you missed talking to people until you had these two idiots around you.

This went on for a few weeks, and they unironically learned so much from you. Over time, they became something akin to experts on what is going on beyond the watery surface. Whenever you were swimming with them, full-blown conversations evolve from spotting any kind of interesting creature or coral. Of course, they were still massive idiots in any other category.

#tmnt headcanons #tmnt rocksteady #bebop tmnt #bebop x rocksteady #rocksteady x reader #bebop x reader #bebop x reader x rocksteady #part 1 #I didn't even know tumblr had limits #Why #This shit doesn't fit in one post

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circa-specturgia · 2 years

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African Peanut Soup!

Thanks for this ask @forevermagik! ✨

TW // Mention of violence/brutality

A morally gray decision your character has made…

There are… very many. Caspian, for one, is a character who dips into that area, being pushed through circumstance into a position where while his actions have good intent, he takes things too far, acting on impulse and emotion, for what he feels to be the good of this friends and loved ones. If I’m to name one in particular…? (Might lack some context, but here it is…) Letting the team go on, and staying behind to face a group of enemies they’d faced, before giving into the call of his sword, and just… slaughtering them. No mercy, no letting them try and run. They attacked first, they’d hurt those he loved, and for that, he wouldn’t let them see any light but that of his fire. Cas has some issues, especially because once he comes back too he realizes what he’s done and while he wanted to hurt them back… Not like this. He doesn’t speak to the team of it.

Scene inspired by Burn - 2Wei & Edda Hayes, 1:40 in for best effect! Might write the snippet sometime…

Hope that answered your question! ✨

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing #writing community #writing thoughts #writing inspiration #circa specturgia #wip.circa specturgia #wtwcommunity

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justmoreocs-writing · 1 year

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Randall ran his hands through his hair as he paced. His breathing was ragged after coming so close to transforming and forcing himself not to do it; after so many fights. The only thing stopping him from tearing at the walls was the thought of what these people might do to Becca. No one had said anything about her, about where she was or what they were doing to her, but the lingering threat of the unknown was a heavy weight on his shoulders. She wasn’t a Knight, she wasn’t even in The Order. She was just Becca; powerful in her own way but not in the way that mattered at a time like this.

Still, he couldn’t be cooped up in here and do nothing.

‘Hey assholes!’ he yelled, glancing around the ceiling, certain they were watching him somehow, monitoring his progress with their little challenges. ‘I know you can hear me. Let her go. You’ve got me. Let her go, and I’ll do whatever you say.’ The words “I promise” coated his tongue like peanut butter. He would say them if he thought it would work; if he thought they might actually be honoured. But doubt niggled at the back of his mind.

The door creaked open. Someone stumbled in, rounded on the door. But Randall would recognise her anywhere.

‘Becca?’ he asked tentatively, earning her surprised attention.

She stepped towards him, but her eyes went to the floor, went to check where she was stepping in the low light. He saw her eyes widen as she realised what was there. ‘What did they do?’ she asked in barely more than a terrified whisper.

Randall closed the distance between them in an instant. He wrapped his arms protectively around her, held her head close to his chest. He just wanted to protect her from all the horrors, but how could he? Some of those horrors came with everything in his life, in Jack’s and Hamish’s and Lilith’s. ‘We’re going to get out of here,’ he vowed.

Becca forced herself away from him, her hands against his chest to give herself the leverage. It took all his willpower not to pull her close again, for his sake as much as her own. But her eyes met his, never once straying to the bodies that littered the floor. ‘Of course we are,’ she said, conviction strong behind her voice.

He opened his mouth, desperate to find the words to reassure them both, but the door opened. He pulled her behind him as another berserker rushed into the room.

‘Don’t watch,’ he said as he locked into battle with the thing, desperate not to transform. He knew that she’d seen it before, seen what they were capable of because Jack hadn’t been able to hide any of it, but still he didn’t want her to see this. There was no noble reason behind this slaughter; no attempt to prevent dark magic from causing harm. This was self-preservation.

It was over quickly, and in an instant he turned to face her. Becca’s eyes were open, shining with fear. But somehow he knew it wasn’t fear of him, of what he was capable of. It was of the thing now on the floor; of the people who were putting them through this ordeal.

He crossed the floor in a few steps and pulled her in for another hug; gently started stroking her hair.

The door opened again. Every muscle in him tensed as he spotted Ruby coming into the room. She looked terrified, he could smell it on her as well. Becca pulled away, but the blood was thrumming in his ears. Even as Ruby tried to explain, even as she spoke and Randall felt his concern for her shift into something different. Something darker and less easily ignored.

The blood thundered and there was nothing he could do to control it.

She was the reason that they were there. The reason Becca had had to deal with whatever it was she’d been put through – because there was no doubt in his mind that there had been something.

‘Don’t watch. Close your eyes and don’t open them,’ he murmured, not sure if Becca heard him before he changed.

It was over in a matter of seconds. All the anger, the fear, every single negative emotion that he’d felt at the whole situation came out in that moment as Greybeard took over.

‘Ran… Randall?’

The voice was soft. Randall roared with frustration as he turned. Becca stood in front of him. Her chest heaving but she was standing there, her gaze levelled on him. He could smell her fear, smell the adrenaline as well.

The slight floral scent of her perfume.

‘You can stop now,’ she said, voice barely more than a whisper as he padded towards her.

Greybeard’s anger was still close to the surface, seeking some kind of escape. But not against Becca. She had nothing to do with this.

‘I swear to God, Randall, you do this and I’m haunting you for eternity.’

The scoff bubbled up as Randall shifted back. He felt weary to his very core, but Becca was there. The relief behind her eyes made guilt niggle at the back of his mind. He pulled her in for a tight hug, felt her arms wind around him in an instant.

‘It’s going to be OK,’ he said, though it felt like a lie.

‘Another weird way of seeing you naked,’ she joked, but the humour fell far shorter than normal.

He nuzzled his face against the crook of her neck, trying to reassure her that she didn’t have to joke her way out of this. It was OK to allow the moment to crash over her.

He’d barely stopped the motion when she moved; her head nuzzled against his chest. He felt the warmth of her tears as they came, and he fisted his hands in the back of her shirt.

‘Why’d you jump in like that?’ he asked in little more than a whisper, her hair tickling his lips. ‘Why didn’t you move?’

‘Because you’re Randall Carpio,’ she said, voice thick with tears. ‘Not whatever these dicks are trying to get you to be.’

Randall allowed a small chuckle to escape him before he placed a gentle kiss to the top of her head. Whatever happened, he was going to make sure she got out of there in one piece.

Becca tossed and turned. Randall was up in an instant, his heart thundering against his chest. He could smell the fear on her. His hand went to her shoulder and he shook it, his brows knitted with concern.

‘Becca, easy,’ he said as she continued to thrash, even as she straightened. Her eyes were blurry with sleep as she looked desperately around the room. He used his free hand to flick the light on. ‘Calm down, calm down, you were just dreaming.’ He put both hands on her shoulders, an attempt to ground her in the reality of the bedroom rather than the horrors that had trapped her in sleep.

Her attention skimmed the room; her chest heaved and for a moment he worried she was still stuck there. Still lost in a nightmare that he couldn’t protect her from.

But then, her eyes focused on him and her hands went tentatively to his cheeks. ‘Randall?’

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak just yet.

She heaved a deep sigh and moved to cuddle against him, but Randall remained with his hands on her shoulders, keeping her away for the moment. ‘Are you afraid of me?’ The question was one that had niggled away at him since that day. One that he’d always been worried to voice because what if she was? Too scared to tell him she wanted nothing to do with him anymore?

Becca gave a physical start; let out a soft scoff. ‘Why would I be afraid of you?’

Randall raised a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘I’m a werewolf, Becca. You saw –’

Her hand on his cheek, a gentle caress, stopped his words in an instant. It burnt through his concerns. ‘I saw what Greybeard can do, and yeah that’s kind of scary,’ she admitted, her eyes locked on his. ‘But do you know what else I saw? You, in control, knowing when to stop.’

He took a shaky breath and moved to kiss her palm.

A sad smile slipped onto her face. She closed her eyes. ‘That doesn’t mean I don’t still see them. Don’t still remember what that room looked like, the fear of not knowing what they were doing to you.’

When she opened her eyes, Randall could see the tears glistening there, could see that the nightmares weren’t something she was only having at night. She was remembering that day almost as vividly as he was while awake.

Randall pulled her to him, held her close and vowed that nothing like that was going to happen to them again. He’d make sure of it, however he had to.

#Repost #Made By Me #Drabble #The Order OCs #Verstehen #Canon: Randall Carpio #Rebecca Warren #Becca Warren #Becca Warren & Randall Carpio

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renthetater · 4 years

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Also made these random things

#linus #peanuts #jordskott #yohio #meme #the man behind the slaughter

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theteasetwrites · 2 years

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His Only Friend

❧ Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader ❧ Era: Season 9/10 (Whisperers era) ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: mild swearing ❧ Word Count: 3.9k

❧ Requested by @mariannambl (thank you so much for your continued support!)

❧ Summary: Daryl isn’t particularly happy with your friendship with Negan, Alexandria’s lone prisoner. Will his jealousy drive you away, or will he learn to accept your relationship?

❧ A/N: Writing this was interesting because I was trying to find a balance between serious and lighthearted, since realistically it would be pretty awkward if Daryl's girlfriend was friendly with Negan, and yet I think there would be some dark comedy there, as well as some romance, so I tried to fit all that in. That's kind of why it took me a little while to get this one out, but I'm pretty happy with it! I also tried to make Daryl jealous without making him toxic, if that makes sense. Lmk what y'all think.

Today’s meal was simple: peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a glass of milk and some potato chips on the side. That’s what Negan had requested, and that’s what Negan would get.

He had you wrapped tight around his finger, and maybe you knew, but you didn’t mind so much, because you thought of him as a friend. It bewildered everyone, how eager you would be to bring him food any chance you got. You were the only one to volunteer out of the kindness of your heart, and it mostly didn’t bother anyone, since it was a task no one else wanted.

Negan was, for lack of a better word, talkative. He liked talking, hearing himself talk. Strangely, though, he liked hearing you talk, too, and that’s how the friendship started.

So although most of Alexandria was all right with you being the sacrificial lamb to the slaughter, Daryl wasn’t happy about it.

When you met him, back when your group was brought to Alexandria, you were immediately taken with him. You found him to be brave and sweet, and impossibly fun to be around. You wormed your way into his heart, and soon he fell for you, too. It’d only been about four months since things started getting serious between you two, and two months since you moved in with him, but it was nice. It felt good to have someone by your side, someone like Daryl.

It made sense, though, that he wasn’t happy you’d started to spend time with Negan in his cell. Though you had no history with Negan, and had no presence during the time when he committed the crimes that resulted in his imprisonment, you understood. You arrived about six years after the war, in which Negan’s people murdered several Alexandrians in cold blood and demanded to take whatever they had. He was a bad man, you knew that. Still, you couldn’t help if this bad man was exceedingly friendly. Besides, he was behind bars, so he couldn’t hurt you, and somehow, you knew he wouldn’t.

“You get my PB&J, darlin’?” he called out to you when he immediately recognized your steps coming towards him as you descended into the basement where he was being kept. “And some milk, I hope. Nothin’ better than peanut butter and jelly with a tall, cool glass of white.”

You appeared before him with a smile and two outstretched hands holding the tray of food in front of him, as he stood behind bars and licked his lips. “I made the strawberry jam myself,” you said proudly. “Bread is homemade, too. Actually, everything is homemade.” You opened up the tray slot to slide him his food, which he accepted graciously.

“You spoil me,” he said, then pulled up a chair to sit as close to the bars as possible as he began to eat. “So,” he began, chewing on his sandwich, “how’s my favorite Alexandrian today? Any gossip? Any… marriages on the brink of collapse? Or any neighborly rivalries threatening to break out? I sure hope so.”

You rolled your eyes as you took your usual seat. “No,” you said. “Everything’s pretty harmonious at the moment. The Whisperer situation is a little bit more under control for the time being. Only gossip I can think of is that Mrs. Cahill is convinced that someone poisoned her dog.”

Negan raised his eyebrow. “Is the dog okay?”

“He’s fine,” you said. “He had a bout of diarrhea. I don’t know why she thinks it means someone poisoned him.”

Negan shook his head. “You know Mrs. Cahill. Always stirring up drama. And what about that shit with Vince? You said he was trying to organize a parade or some bullshit?”

“He still is,” you said. “He’s taking it to the council tonight. He wants to make floats. I think it’s a tremendous waste of resources, but he says it’ll bring everyone together or something. I don’t know.”

“Sounds like a pipe dream,” he replied, wiping the jelly from his beard. “And what about Mr. Dreamboat?”

You sighed and crossed your arms over your chest. “You mean Daryl?”

His lips formed into a big, open smile. “Dreamboat Daryl,” he said. “He treating my sweet (Y/N) like he should?”

“Of course he is,” you said with a laugh. “He loves me, and I love him. More than anything. He’s a sweetheart, the perfect man.”

Negan bit his lip. “That why I haven’t seen ya in so long?”

You lowered your head. It had been a few weeks since you last brought Negan his food, and indeed it did have something to do with Daryl.

“He doesn’t want me coming down here anymore,” you said sadly. “He thinks you’re… messing with me.”

Negan laughed heartily, then tossed a potato chip into his mouth. “Seriously?” he asked. “Daryl thinks I’m messing with you, huh? How so?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess he thinks you’re trying to get something out of me. That you’re taking advantage of me.”

In truth, you worried about that sometimes, too. You knew Negan was manipulative, and that he could get people to do things they wouldn’t otherwise do, but you also trusted him. Maybe it was his manipulation at work, but he seemed to care about you, genuinely. He always asked about your life, and made you feel like you were important.

“You know what I think?” he asked. “I think your boy’s a little jealous.”

“Jealous?” you asked incredulously. “I don’t think anyone’s jealous of you, Negan, locked up in this stuffy room all day. Daryl’s just… He worries. That’s all. Can you blame him?”

From what you heard, Negan had even hurt Daryl. He locked him up in a room for days, and fed him dog food. That pissed you off, and when you found out about that, you didn’t speak to Negan for a while, but something always drew you back to him. You wanted to forgive him, even if it wasn’t your place to do so.

“No,” responded Negan. “But I think you’re your own person. You can make that decision for yourself, whether or not you want to talk to me.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” you said. “Daryl and I… we’re very serious. I don’t want to hurt him.”

“Well, don’t then. You can still have friends.”

“But I shouldn’t be friends with you.”

His face turned a little sour at that. “Do you really believe that?”

You shook your head. “I don’t know… Maybe I should go now.”

You got up to leave, but Negan stood up, too, nearly knocking over his tray. “No, (Y/N),” he said. “Please stay.”

You looked at him incredulously. “You’re my only friend,” he said, almost pitifully.

Maybe you were too gullible. You always tried to see the good in people, even those who had proven themselves irredeemable. Negan was irredeemable, you knew that, but somehow, he was your friend, too.

It was dark when you left Negan’s cell—you’d been in there for far longer than you meant to.

When you and Negan got to chatting about philosophy and the meaning of life, time seemed to be of no consequence, hardly even a concept that could be adequately measured.

And when you came home, to Daryl’s place, which was now yours, too, you weren’t expecting him to be home.

He went on a long hunt that morning, and that was why you felt like you could see Negan. You didn’t look at it as a secret, more so just something that Daryl didn’t need to know.

But he knew.

“You were talkin’ to Negan again, huh?” he asked, sitting with legs spread apart on the couch.

You sighed, then lowered yourself to sit next to him. “I know you don't want me to see him,” you said. “But no one else wants to bring him his food. I’m the only one who does it willingly.”

“You shouldn’t do it,” he said. “And I know you don’t do it just ‘cause you feel sorry for him.”

Of course he knew you were friendly with Negan. The man was particularly observant, and could read you like a book.

“All right,” you said, averting your gaze from him in shame. “I like talking to Negan. I tried hard to ignore him, but I couldn’t after a while. We talk, and I guess you could say we’re… friends.”

He chewed on his lip as he stared at you, trying to look at you from every possible angle and figure out exactly what was wrong with you. He wasn’t sure if you were just naive, or if there was more going on. He knew you would never hurt him, but he also knew that Negan was charismatic and manipulative as hell, and that he could convince the devil to do his bidding if he wanted to.

“He ain’t your friend, (Y/N),” he said in a low tone. “He ain’t anybody’s friend. He’s usin’ you, or somethin’ else.”

You shook your head. “He’s a bad person, I know that. And I hate talking to him, knowing what he did to you, but he listens to me.”

“I listen to you,” Daryl said, abruptly raising his voice and leaning his chest towards you. You were taken aback by how much louder he was now. “I love you, (Y/N). Negan doesn’t care about you, and I don’t want to see ya gettin’ hurt.”

Your eyes widened and you stood up to begin pacing back and forth, before responding equally as loudly. “Daryl, I don’t care about Negan nearly as much as I care about you. I like talking to him. That’s about the extent of it.”

“(Y/N), I’m tellin’ ya, talkin’ to Negan will only end up bad.” He rose to his feet and stopped you from pacing, grabbing your shoulders and pulling you closer to him. “Please,” he said, his voice much softer now. You could tell he was worried about you, that he really thought you being friendly with Negan would be bad for you. Still, the way you saw it, there was no harm. Negan was locked up. He hardly ever got to leave his cell, and when he did, he was heavily supervised. It wasn’t like he could really hurt you. “Don’t talk to him anymore.”

Shaking yourself out of his grasp, you moved away. “I’m going to bed,” you said simply. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

Daryl looked down at his feet, feeling ashamed for how emotional he had gotten, for how, for lack of a better word, jealous, he was. “Okay,” he said. “I’m gonna do my rounds.”

You nodded awkwardly. “Okay.”

It felt odd, because Daryl always went to bed with you. He often had nightly responsibilities, but he always made sure to hold you until you fell asleep, then left in the dead of night to rise again and make himself useful. He must’ve really been disturbed tonight.

However, he had other plans.

The squeaking basement door was thrown open, hitting the wall beside it and shaking the whole building. Negan hardly flinched, since he was already awake, gazing out the high window of his cell at the stream of cool moonlight crawling through, bathing him in one of the few natural elements of the world that he still had left. Still, he wondered for a moment who in the hell could be knocking down his door at this hour. He didn’t have to wonder for long, though. He knew this day was coming.

Daryl hadn’t come down to see Negan in ages, since before you arrived. He knew, however, that Daryl hated the fact that you had regular conversations with Negan. That very fact was often a topic of conversation, and now Negan had to answer to him. He wasn’t afraid, though he knew he should have been. He’d been responsible for Daryl’s torture at the Sanctuary six years earlier, and the man was always upset that Rick had spared him, locking him up in that cell instead of executing him for his crimes.

“Do my ears deceive me?” he asked into the darkness, paying attention to the heavy footsteps marching down the stairs towards him. “Is that the angel of death? Or is it just… Daryl?”

Daryl finally appeared, shaking with rage and fists clenched tight at his sides. He promised himself he’d never go down here unless he had to, but this was important to him. He needed to know.

“What the hell do you want with (Y/N)?” he asked gruffly.

Negan shook his head with a laugh. “Always straight to the point, huh? That must be why she likes you. You don’t beat around the bush. She likes people like that. It’s… ‘refreshing,’ she says.”

Daryl stepped closer, allowing his face to absorb some of the moonlight. It illuminated his colder, more angular features as they contorted with spite, the shadows framed his face and darkened every crevice to create a threatening tableau. Anyone else would have been shaking in their boots, but Negan didn’t have anything to lose, not anymore. You were his only friend, that was the truth.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time,” he said lowly, and stepped even closer until he could grab the bars of Negan’s cell. He did just that, and had to control his urge to rip through them. “What do you want with her?”

Negan stood up from his cot, and crossed over to Daryl slowly, until he, too, could grab the bars, just below where Daryl’s hands were. “Nothing,” he said seriously.

Daryl narrowed his eyes at the man, the same man who killed two people he knew, and held close to his heart. “Liar,” he said. “I know you ain’t chattin’ with her just ‘cause you like it. You’re tryin’ to get somethin’ out of her, and I wanna know what it is. So’s I can keep her safe.”

Negan beamed widely. “Oh, how romantic,” he said. “She’s really got you in the palm of her little hand, doesn’t she? Well, that just butters my biscuits. I’m happy for you, really. You’re a lucky man.”

“You ain’t answerin’ me,” he replied.

“I did answer you. I don’t want anything from her, except to hear her voice.”

Daryl pushed the bars back angrily, nearly sending Negan backwards with the force he used. He kept his eyes on Negan as he backed away slightly, all the while searching his back pocket for the key to Negan’s cell.

Without a word, he threw back the cell door, and cornered Negan against the brick wall.

“You’re gonna tell me what you want with ‘er,” he said, then pulled out his large hunting knife. “Or I’ll cut your ears off, and you won’t hear a damn word she says.” He raised his knife to Negan’s lower ear, coming dangerously close to following through with his threat.

“You’re willing to do that?” Negan asked calmly. “I’m her friend, Daryl. She cares about me. Maybe not as much as she cares about you, but she likes me. I can’t help it,” he smiled. “I’m just a charismatic guy. Don’t take it out on her by deforming me.”

Daryl breathed heavily, then pushed Negan harder against the wall as he pulled his knife away. “I ought to kill you.”

“Why don’t you?”

“‘Cause it ain’t my place to.”

Negan tilted his head and raised his eyebrow. “Then why are you here?”

“Told ya,” he replied.

“And if I told you why, and you didn’t like the answer?”

Daryl froze momentarily, not sure of what he would have done. “Don’t matter,” he said. “You ain’t gonna tell me the truth.”

“Well,” Negan said, studying Daryl’s face, “let me ask you something. Why do you care about (Y/N) seein’ me?”

Daryl turned around, ignoring the question and beginning to lock up the cell again.

“Why do you care?” Negan repeated.

Daryl shook his head. “‘Cause I can’t stand to see ‘er hurt.”

Negan licked his lips and shook his head. “That ain’t the only reason. You know what I think? I think somebody’s a little bit jealous…”

“Jealous?!” Daryl barked. “Of you?”

Negan shook his head as he draped his wrists over the bars. “Nope, jealous of the time she spends with me. Well, maybe you’re jealous of me, too. I mean, who wouldn’t be? I am a sexy beast. No, but (Y/N)... Man, that girl is just crazy about you. Spends half her time down here talkin’ about you, how good you are to her, how much you make her happy. It’s nauseating, to be honest, but she likes talking about you. What cheesy shit did she say once? Oh, yeah, ‘Daryl completes me… He’s my soulmate.’ I don’t think I’d ever have a shot, to tell you the truth, way she goes on about her Dreamboat Daryl.”

Daryl didn’t know how to react to any of that, and he hated to be speechless in front of the man who had a response to everything, but what could he say? That he didn’t believe Negan? That you hadn’t said those things? He knew you. He knew how much you loved him, and how much you loved talking about him to the other Alexandrians. Maybe the idea of you seeing Negan sometimes made him feel insecure, like he wasn’t enough for you, but now he was reminded again of everything you felt for him, every proclamation of love you’d ever made for him.

If what Negan was saying was true, if you really did profess to him just how much you loved him, it would mean that you really did care for him.

“If you really wanna know what I want from her,” Negan continued, when he realized Daryl had been rendered speechless, “I’ll tell you. I just want her company sometimes. She says that besides you, I’m one of the people she can really talk to, and I feel the same about her. I want her friendship, Daryl. That’s all. I wouldn’t ever hurt her.”

Daryl swallowed hard at that. What was he supposed to do now? He already couldn’t work up the nerve to kill him, or to even injure him, knowing how much your conversations with him meant to you. It wouldn’t be fair to you, to take that away from you, and maybe Negan was telling the truth. Maybe he really did just want your company, and if so, Daryl supposed that was something he could live with.

“You better not,” he finally said. “‘Cause if I ever hear you did somethin’ to her, or said somethin’ to her… I really will kill you, and I won’t care if it ain’t my place. You’ll be a dead man, you understand me?” He approached the cell bars closer again, and growled fiercely, trying to solidify the threat.

Negan smiled. “If I ever hurt (Y/N), you have my permission to kill me.”

Daryl returned home that night a slightly less anxious man. He had his little chat with Negan, one that he’d been dreading, and yet also looking forward to, ever since he found out you talked to him. It was what he needed to feel like he could handle this newfound friendship, even if it worried a part of him. He had recently come to the conclusion that relationships were based on a process of give and take, and that, in this instance, he would have to give.

You had given more than enough for him, so it was the least he could do.

He tiptoed his way to the bedroom where you were sleeping, and gently pushed the door open until he could see the shadowy outline of your sleeping body, only you were just waking up.

“Daryl?” you mumbled. “Is that you?”

He pushed the door open more now, and grunted in acknowledgement before coming closer to the bed and climbing into the other side.

“I gotta tell you somethin’,” he said softly, moving a strand of your messy hair out of your face. “I went to see Negan.”

Your sleepy eyes widened. “What? Why?”

He looked down sheepishly. “‘Cause I needed to know what he wants from you.”

You nodded, a little more calmed now. You were worried for a moment there that he had killed the man, but knowing Daryl, he would have already told you that he had. He could be extraordinarily blunt. “Did you find out?”

“Yeah,” he said. “He just wants a friend.”

You smiled a little, and snuggled into Daryl’s chest, much to his surprise, since he figured you were mad at him. “I know,” you said. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, silly goose. It’s harmless. I feed him, then we talk for a bit. That’s all.”

Daryl scoffed. “Yeah, well, I still hate the guy, but as long as he stays in that cell, and doesn’t hurt ya, then I won’t say nothin’.”

You hummed in appreciation into his chest, and he felt the warmth from your breath hit the skin above his collar. “I hate him, too, you know… For what he did to you, to everyone before I came here with Magna and the others. I heard the stories. He’s even told me himself, but… I don’t know how to explain it.”

Daryl held you closer to him. “You don’t gotta. All’s I know is that I love you, and that I ain’t gonna spend any time complainin’ about it when I could spend that time showin’ ya how much I love you.” He placed a small kiss on your forehead. “Just… don’t go tellin’ him about how sweet I am on ya no more.”

You laughed. “He told you about that, huh?”

“Mhm,” he hummed with a small smile. “Said you go on and on about how great I am.”

You lifted your head to look him in the eye. “Well, you are great. You’re everything to me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do I complete ya?”

Your eyes widened. “Oh, God. I knew I shouldn’t have said that to him. That bastard.”

He lifted his chin and looked down at you in amusement. “Nah, I like that you told him. Lets him know you’re my girl, and not his.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, please. Negan is fun to talk to, but he’s nowhere near as sexy as you.”

“Glad ya think so,” he said, and you couldn’t help but break into sudden giggles at his flattered face. “What?” he asked. “What’s so funny? I ain’t sexy?”

You shook your head with a snort. “No, no, no. You’re super sexy, it’s just… Well, you’re very cute when you’re jealous, that’s all.”

“Ain’t jealous!” he said defensively. “Told ya, just want ya to watch your back around that asshole. ‘Sides, I bet I’m the only one who can make ya do that thing…”

You raised an eyebrow, then absentmindedly began unbuttoning his shirt. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said as he moved his hand to your shoulder and lowered the strap of your nightgown.

“Maybe you should test that theory,” you said, biting your lip when his adorable little chest hairs came into view. “You know, for science.”

He pulled you forward, then flipped himself over so you were on top of him, with the soft mattress below him. “For science.”

Thanks for reading! Likes, reblogs, and comments of any kind are always appreciated!

#daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x you #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead fanfic #the walking dead #twd #twd fanfic #twd fanfiction #norman reedus fanfic #norman reedus #norman reedus fanfiction #norman reedus x reader

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jackexmachina · 2 years

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Sam Winchester Appreciation Week 2022 Day 4 ~ Favorite Sam Dynamics Sam, Jack, and Castiel

@suncaptor & @prelawsam

image description: scenes showing the relationships between Sam, Jack, and Castiel in various combinations.

12x23: Sam looks down at Castiel’s body after the portal closes. He notices lights coming from the house behind him as Jack is being born. Sam looks down at Castiel with determination as he starts to run to the house.

13x01: Jack sits in the dark corner of his bedroom, he looks up at Sam and says, “Father?” Sam stares at him, and Jack stands up to approach him. Sam nervously responds, “No, no, no. No. I’m not your father, Jack.”

13x01: in the jail cell, Jack turns to Sam and says, “My father is Castiel.” Sam looks stunned and asks, “What?” Jack moves to sit across from him as he answers, “My mother– She said Castiel, he would keep me safe.”

9x11: Sam sits on the table next to Castiel and eats peanut butter off his finger while saying, “So, what? Now you can’t taste PB&J?” Castiel watches him and responds, “No, I– I taste every molecule.” Castiel copies his movement and taste the peanut butter from his finger as Sam says, “Not the sum of its parts, huh?” Castiel makes a face and says, “It’s overwhelming. It’s disgusting.” Sam watches him fondly.

13x02: Dean and Jack sit on a couch in a motel room. Dean drinks from his beer, and Jack copies his movements exactly, including wiping his mouth with his hand. Sam looks between them. Dean brushes his hands together, which Jack also copies. Dean notices and rolls his eyes. Sam looks down and smiles to himself.

14x01: in the map room, Sam looks up at Maggie and says, “We get Cas back.” Jack interjects, “I’m coming too. I know I’m not as strong as I used to be but... I can help.” Sam looks at him, hesitant. Jack pauses before saying quieter, “I have to.” Sam takes a deep breath and says, “Okay.”

14x09: Jack sits in the kitchen with the lights out, he is eating a bowl of Krunch Cookie Crunch cereal. The lights turn on, and he looks over at Castiel watching him from the doorway with his head tilted to the side. Jack raises his hand, placating, and says, “Don’t. Tell. Sam.” Castiel looks amused and responds, “Jack, it’s the middle of the night.”

13x06: in the library of the bunker, Jack slowly approaches Castiel to hug him while saying, “I missed you so much.” Castiel hugs him back, closing his eyes. They separate slowly with one of their hands on opposite shoulders.

15x11: in the library of the bunker, Sam slowly walks around Dean, staring at Jack. Jack stares back at him, looking worried. As Sam moves past Dean, his strides speed up and he rushes to hug Jack. Sam lets out a small, surprised laugh and then moves back to hold his shoulders and look at him.

10x17: Sam and Castiel walk down a street at night, Sam hands Castiel a tablet computer. Sam gestures animatedly while explaining, “Now, the Men of Letters were teaching him how to control his powers when they got... you know.” Castiel reads from the computer and finishes, “Brutally slaughtered?” as he hands the tablet back. Sam says, “The point is, he’s one of the good guys. He might be happy to see us.”

15x15: Jack sits cross-legged in the bed of Castiel’s truck, on the tablet computer, and he says, “Like Sam always says, ‘when in doubt, try social media.’” Castiel is preparing to summon a crossroads demon, and responds, “Oh, yeah, I tried that once.” Then, Jack looks up at him to say, “It says I need a parent or guardian’s permission to join.” Castiel says, “You have my permission.” Jack looks pleased, then turns back to the tablet. He holds it up and says aloud, “I have his permission!” Castiel watches him fondly.

15x20: Sam sits back on a park bench. The camera shows his perspective as he watches a family of four walk by, the parents hold hands and the children carry balloons. Then, he tells Dean, “I’m just... I’m thinking about Cas, you know? Jack. If they could be here...”

#sastiel #sam winchester #castiel #jack kline #samweek2022 #*mine #9x11 #10x17 #12x23 #13x01 #13x02 #13x06 #14x01 #14x09 #15x11 #15x15 #15x20

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bamboowrites · 3 years

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A chilled pot of vintage narcissus tea for Xiao and a side of salty peanuts coming up!

SAGAO Work 29, Flangst with Requited Love

(Either platonic or romantic Reader x Xiao, up for interpretation. Low-key fluffy.)

Context: I’m serving this as a pot of complimentary tea, on the house ehe~ This teahouse is for the 400 event btw, for anyone new here. Not a reply to an order specifically since I went off-topic. I’ll continue writing for the other event orders so dw <3

Xiao is literally covered in blood and rage as he defends you from the brainwashed enemies, sacrificing his HP as he attacks them with extreme ferocity as your protector. You barely heal him in time as his health starts depleting by the karmic corrosion. Not wanting Xiao to get hurt again, you finally succeed in teleporting you two back to safety, to the teapot’s healer quarters.

“Xiao, I’m so sorry! Don’t move, I’ll heal you now!” You desperately latch onto healing his wounds as soon as your feet touches the grasslands, running and forcefully carrying the slightly injured yaksha, then gingerly setting him down on his bed, as you draw Lisa and Barbara’s circles of blessings on top of your Anemo Knight.

“I’m okay, your grace! Please don’t waste your time on me, I’ll be fine!” Xiao argues, trying to sit up, yet gets put in place by you as you refocus on fixing him up.

“You’re hurt, so I’m not wasting time! You matter to me, Xiao!” You keep drawing the magical runes as Xiao keeps trying to tell you off from wasting your energy on him.

“I’m but another protector who worships you!”

What he didn’t expect was a confession.

“Damn it, I’m doing this because I love you!” You burst in part frustration, part tears, stunning Xiao in his tracks nevertheless.

“Your grace-” Xiao was about to attempt to leave when he hesitates at the sight of you being worried and caring for him so much.

His God just burst that they love him. Him! A mere yaksha, a sinner who slaughtered millions. The Xiao who didnt even expect thanks from you.

When you’ve finally regained your composure, you notice Xiao’s guilt. You sniffled and gingerly touched the back of his hands. “I’m sorry, Xiao. I… was too worried for you. I went too far. But,” you gulp, “I wasn’t lying when I said I love you. You matter more to me than you expect. And thank you for being there for me. I’ll leave you be. If you’d let me continue to heal you, I’ll be in Qiqi’s room. Please rest well.”

You heaved yourself up and closed the door behind you gently, heading to Qiqi for comfort and cuteness. You vaguely heard Xiao say “I love you too”, but you must’ve been imagining things. You only hope that Xiao gets better with or without you.

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wickedsrest-rp-archive · 2 years

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Name: Everett Tangaroa Species: Hunter (Warden) Occupation: Traveling Blacksmith and Mason Age: 45 Years Old Played by: Elliott Face Claim: Taika Waititi

“Don’t tell me it’s a lost cause. Heard it enough. No patience for that shit.”

TW: parental death, sibling death

Okuti Valley, New Zealand. It was a sleepy little hamlet where not much happened—not according to official records, anyway. There was something about the forested, mountainous peninsula south of Christchurch that made it a hotbed for fae activity, and in response, several families of wardens had moved in a few generations ago and split themselves up across the landmass, dealing with all the troublesome fae in the area and making sure the more benevolent ones knew to mind their manners. The eldest of the six Tangaroa siblings, Everett was born into a home life that was both conventional and everything but. His parents loved him dearly and while they encouraged him to follow in their footsteps, it was never expected. Each sibling thereafter was also provided a chance at a normal life, if they preferred. Their training would not start until they turned ten, at which point they would undergo a symbolic ritual to induct them into the ‘family business’ of killing dangerous fae. Two of his siblings—one of the twin sisters and the youngest son—decided that it wasn’t for them. They still lived with the family but busied themselves with gentler tasks, like upkeep around the farm.

It started out quietly. The morning Karakia was skipped altogether, and the typically boisterous and playful family breakfast before the day’s training began was quiet and calculating. Before he could interrupt the tense silence to propose a theory as to why, his father was rising from his seat at the head of the table with the kind of speed and ferocity Everett only ever saw during combat. The air suddenly ignited with vicious accusations, as if everyone had been clutching a dark secret to their chest all morning and couldn’t stand keeping it to themselves any longer. Each of them leaped for another’s throat, screaming, howling, condemning, all while Everett tried to calm them. His panic outweighed his anger and paranoia, reserving him the illustrious title of ‘observer’, meaning he could do little more than watch in horror as his family tore itself apart. Truthfully, it was his handmade iron charm that spared him the brunt of the frenzy, but in hindsight he wondered if it wouldn’t have been better if he’d forgotten to put it on that morning. When that rage turned itself on him he had to flee, only to return a few days later and find them all dead. In addition to the corpses of his loved ones, he caught sight of the fae that had caused it all: a lutin. Just a little lutin, having a laugh over the humans slaughtering one another, their minds overtaken by a magically-induced delirium. It lingered near their home, likely relishing the havoc it had wrought. Everett tried to catch and kill it, but it was quick. Ripping off a wing and one of its arms was not enough, and the lutin escaped. After burying his dead, the young hunter pursued it, abandoning the homestead and his old life to chase after it and follow its trail overseas.

But it was like chasing a ghost—he was always one step behind, almost entirely unable to catch up. And when he did catch up, when he did finally corner the little devil basking in whatever new chaos it had created, its magic only aided in further unhinging his mind from reality. Keeping tabs on a creature so small and so elusive was maddening, and within just a few short years, every whisper of familial infighting or neighbors slaughtering neighbors was the lutin. His lutin. It was his obsession, the only thing that kept him going. He had to find it. Had to kill it. Only then would he know peace, he told himself, though a small part of him knew that would never be true. Every other fae he dispatched along the way was peanuts compared to the disfigured devil that was his true target.

Twenty six years have passed, and still it evades him. But he has never given up faith in spite of the overwhelming odds and has accepted the truth that he will either find his proverbial white whale… or die trying.

Character Facts:

Personality: Paranoid, intense, unpredictable, obsessive, protective, trustworthy, pugnacious, resilient

He suffers from a dissociative disorder that often forces him to stop and check to make sure that his perceptions are real and that he truly exists. He has several grounding techniques that he uses, but if he is in the presence of another person, he may suddenly ask them to describe something they see or interact with him in a way that would confirm his corporeal presence.

He speaks in short, broken sentences around most people, a habit formed to help prevent accidental fae word binding. In addition to this, his refusal to ever thank someone for even the tiniest thing—including people he’s known for decades—can come across as arrogant. However, if he is secure in the knowledge that you aren’t fae, you may get some wordier sentences out of him once in a while.

As the focus of his obsession is a very small type of fae, over the years he has developed an incredible eye for detail and catching even the slightest movement in his peripheral vision. Where other wardens might fail to immediately notice the tiny creatures, Rhett can dial in on their location within seconds and track them with surprising accuracy despite their elusive nature. That said, his ability to single out human-sized (and larger) species of fae has suffered for this, and he may not automatically realize that he’s within close proximity of a fae as long as it appears to be human.

Rhett is a skilled swordsman and master craftsman, often occupying his free time with short-term contracts at local forges. The pay is good and can usually hold him over until he has to move again, and he enjoys the work. Where there is no blacksmithing to be done, the warden will offer his masonry services to local construction companies.

Since arriving in North America (where he’s been bouncing around for many years), Rhett has purchased and refurbished an old Volkswagen van, and painted a rather psychedelic, purple mushroom landscape on its sides and back. He lovingly refers to it as the ‘Fungi Wagon’.

#taken #hunter #taken hunter #human #taken human #warden #taken warden #all #white whale #taika waititi #parental death tw #sibling death tw

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absolutebl · 3 years

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This Week In BL

April 2021 Part 5

Being a highly subjective assessment of one tiny corner of the interwebs.

Ongoing Series - Thai

Close Friend Ep 2 (JaFirst) - First is a cat. No actually a cat. It was WEIRD. Cute, but creeping towards beastiality. It reminded me of that strange series out of China (@heretherebedork says Youth in the Breeze). The most amusing thing to me was that the cat used Thai formal linguistic register when of course cats would use informal rude guu mueng with EVERYONE. No cat would use pom. Don’t be ridiculous, Thailand.��

Second Chance Ep 5 - still invested, things progressed for all 3 couples, in one direction or another. They cuties. I love them. Carry on.

Y-Destiny Ep 5 - the “virgin scoreboard” is gonna make the seme real hard to redeem with this pairing. If they bother. This might be a life lesson episode. What does it remind me of? Oh yes. Kids. *SHUDDER* Point of interest: did you notice Team uses ha with Mon? What a pushy flirt.

Lovely Writer Ep 10 - honestly I just love it when Poppy shows up in anything, why is he such a delightful screen presence? (Gene’s brother) Sorry, distracted. What happened in this one? Oh, ya know, stuff and things. Family drama. (It is just me or have they been giving us some long ass episodes lately?) Obligatory beach trip activated. (Result = dumb probability mathematics jokes.) Next week it looks like we have Keeping Actor’s Closeted 101. You know the Casting Couch? This is the Casting Closet.

Fish Upon The Sky Ep 4 - early stage confession, how fun. It’s not unprecedented it just usually means we are in 4 act structure, not 3, which means Fish might go more serious than I thought. Honestly? I’m losing interest mostly because I’ve gone from mild annoyance to active dislike of Pi. Happened to me with Tine too. They better redeem this obtuse tsundere uke soon or he’s not tsundere at all he’s just a jackwit.

Brothers Ep 13 fin - a kiss and the family finds out about the not-so-brotherly brothers, drama, graduation, THE END. My side-dish happy heart made thumps over Q + delivery boy, I’m sad they got so little screen time. My babies KhunKaow did get a tiny coming out sequence as such. I’m seriously considering doing myself a bootleg of just the KhunKaow plot, but that means I’d have to rewatch the whole darn series and I can’t STAND the idea. Which should give you insight into how not good this show it. Very NOT good. Must we get a season 2? Please stop now, Line.

Ongoing Series - Not Thai

HIStory 4: Close To You (Taiwan) Ep 7 - Muren is the cutest peanut and anyone who says otherwise can fight me, although they probably have to go through Licheng first. I was NOT invested in these two at the beginning, but as a couple? They own my soul. The other storyline is still the dumpster fire that I can’t decide to roast marshmallows over (knowing they’ll get tinged with eu de trash) or flee from in horror clutching my pearls and my nose. H4 continues to provide the quality psyche torture I’ve come to expect from this franchise. *sarcastic thumbs up* *** A word on seeing Boxiang show up (side dish from H3:MODC). It was an unexpected pleasure, I loved his pairing (May/December is a winner for me *glares at Method*) but I do think it was a bone from the franchise telling us that we are never getting that spin-off or reboot that people yearn for. However, how AWESOME that Licheng has someone to go to and ask about topping properly. Otherwise he’s sure to have screwed it up. (Pun intended.)

Papa & Daddy (Tailwan) Ep 1-2 - this came out of nowhere and is ADORABLE. Applies a ton of BL tropes (cheek kiss, his closet, B&W stripes, drag baby around, boop) but what IS it? More slice of gay domesticity than romance. Like 2019′s Kinou Nani Tabeta? or currently airing Close Friend. I enjoy this style, very wholesome, but I’m not sure what to call it. (Bonus points for cutie lesbians.) A bit weird to have a kid with your partner and STILL not be out to your parents. I hope they aren’t going to throw in a break up for dramatic effect.

My Lascivious Boss (Vietnam) Ep 4 - I’m really enjoying this series. It’s unabashedly queer, although there’s some problematic stuff lurking under the wig. How it ends is gonna dictate if they handled this stylishly. But hot damn the leads ZING on screen together and their crackling prank-flirting is a joy to watch.

Word of Honor (China) Ep 31-33 - moving into the home stretch. Big rescue and the band is back together (presumably for the final slaughter). Then a death! *this is my shocked face* Did I tear up? Of course I did. 4 act structure is designed for maximum pathos during the final 1/4. Did we all faint from the symbolism of the love token hair stick being gently thrust into Ah Xu’s bun? Sure we did. All that and sill I’m flagging. This is a long-arse show. Save me, Korea, with your iItsy bitsy teenie weenie...

Nobleman Ryu’s Wedding (Korea) Ep 5-6 - I am getting such strong 12th Night vibes from this. Tae Hyung is now brigadier of BL’s historical himbo brigade. (To be deployed whenever you are in need of poetry or a cut sleeve.) This show is all ridiculous charm and I LOVE it. Although, five seconds of Lee Sang is not enough Lee Sang. I had to immediately rewatch Wish You.

Gossip

Nitiman gave us an actor intro BTS teaser.

Kang In Soo (AKA Kyang Insoo) posted a cute behind the photo shoot of Nobleman Ryu’s Wedding plus a silly interview with Jang Eui Soo on his YouTube channel (you should subscribe, it’s a fun channel, his fitness regime is both insane and inspiring).

My Engineer 2 dropped a couch interview with the boys but it feels like one that was filmed a while ago (oh and no subs).

STARTING SOON: Nitiman, Love Area, Top Secret Together, Be Loved in House, & I Promised You The Moon

Nitiman (Thai) May 7, One 31. University set, moons, engineering students, enemies to lovers, adapted. - Looks to be a solid 2 Moons knock off, I’m in.

Love Area (Thai) May 8, AIS Play, 10 eps total. Restaurant set, stars Pak Chavitpong (the only good thing about Cupid Coach) and the OST is sung by Jeff Satur (Ingredients). - It’s boys in love revolving around food = my kryptonite, try to stop me from watching this probable trash.

Top Secret Together (Thai) May 14, Line TV. 5 couples, one IRL (Newyear from I Am Your King), story arcs revolve around secrets. - I’m getting fatigued by these multi-couple sampler pack dramas, but I’ll try it for Newyear’s sake.

Be Loved in House: I Do (Taiwan YES!) May 20, Viki. Office set, relationships prohibited at work by a new boss, one of the employees is determined to figure out why. Grumpy/tsundere pairing so loads of drama. - I am so flipping excited for this one. A 4th BL series from Taiwan in less than a year? That’s unprecedented. GO BABY ISLAND GO!

I Promised You the Moon (Thai) May 27, Line TV. Follow up to I Told Sunset About You with the boys now at university. - I won’t be watching this as I have yet to finish season 1.

Possibly Gameboys season 2. - Rumors are all over the place right now on this.

Next Week Looks Like This:

Some shows may be listed later than actual air date for International accessibility reasons.

Upcoming 2021 BL master post here.

Links to watch are provided when possible, ask in a comment if I missed something.

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chelsfic · 4 years

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Leftovers - Part 12/12 - Nandor the Relentless x Female Reader Fanfic

For Previous Parts: WWDITS Masterlist

Summary: The reader shares her last night alive with her new family.

A/N: I realized as I was writing this that this whole fic could really be read as an elongated metaphor for my falling in love with this show and this fandom. I hope you guys like this ending and aren’t disappointed.

Warnings: Angst, Emotions, Crack humor, Turning into a vampire

---

It’s an hour after sunset and you can hear your housemates stirring. You’re still lying in bed. The ceiling overhead is cracked and peeling in places. You suppose this probably won’t be your bedroom for much longer. Nandor will want you to move into his crypt. Will you have your own coffin? Or will he want to keep sharing? How does one even purchase a coffin for...personal use?

You know you’re stalling. Nandor is being uncharacteristically patient, but he won’t wait all night. You’re not afraid. Okay, you’re afraid. But, you’d be stupid not to be. You saw Guillermo during his transition. He looked like hell for about three whole days. But you know Nandor will take care of you. Well, strike that. You know Nandor will try to take care of you and if he fails, Nadja and Guillermo will be there.

The night you met...the night you almost became a meal...was your birthday. So much has happened since then. You’ve been kept prisoner, fed upon, attacked, hurt. You’ve also fallen in love with every vampire in this crazy house, even Colin Robinson, bless his heart. Nandor and his bizarre mix of vicious lust and achingly sweet softness has somehow pulled you into this world, into a place you’ve always belonged without even knowing it. So, yeah, you’re afraid. But the idea of not spending every night for the rest of eternity surrounded by these beautiful, damaged, stupid idiots is even more frightening.

A knock comes at your door and Nadja’s voice trills, “Hello, human? May I come in?”

You roll onto your side and sit up, dangling your bare legs over the edge of the bed. You’re wearing one of your few dresses because...well, because you’re going to die tonight and shouldn’t you dress up a little?

Nadja slips inside looking resplendent and deadly as always. She gives you a sympathetic smile and comes to sit next to you.

“Feeling a little nervous about our unholy transition, are we?” she ducks her head and gives you that mama-vampire-knows-best look of hers.

You lean your shoulder into hers, taking comfort in her presence.

“Maybe a little…” you admit. “I’m not having second thoughts or anything it’s just…”

“A little spooky wooky, yes?” Nadja supplies. She wraps her arm around your back and pulls you closer. “Don’t concern your head off, darling. I don’t know if you realize this but I am considered a bit of an expert. I’ve turned many, many humans in my time. Including my dear Laszlo. I’ll make sure Nandor does not slip up and accidentally make you into a zombie monstrosity like my poor Topher.”

You rear back and stare at Nadja with horror stricken eyes, “That’s a possibility!??”

Nadja chuckles and tweaks your nose, “I am giving you sarcasm! To lighten the mood! It’s working, yes?”

You let out a long-suffering sigh that hiccups into nervous laughter.

“I love you, Nadja,” you say with sudden, overwhelming emotion. You dive forward and wrap your arms around her in a fierce hug.

Nadja is stricken for a moment and she pats your back gingerly, “That’s...very nice. You think you want to come downstairs now? Because Nandor is being a real donkey dick down there waiting for you, but his balls are too shriveled to come up here and get you himself.”

You laugh and pull back from the hug, wiping tears from your eyes, “Yeah, let’s go. I’m ready.”

---

“SURPRISE!”

“HAPPY DEATHDAY!”

“SMASHLEY’S IN DA HOUSE!”

“What’s crack-a-lackin’?”

Nandor looks supremely put out when everyone yells something different as you walk through the door to the fancy room. Does no one listen to him? They had an agreed upon plan! He scowls at at the other vampires, especially fucking Colin Robinson, before sweeping over toward you and taking you from Nadja’s arm.

“Welcome to your Death Day Party! Do you like it?” Nandor looks down at you with those wide, sparkling eyes that make you forget he’s a centuries old blood-sucking fiend who once conquered nations and slaughtered thousands.

You take in your surroundings with a look of wonder. There’s a giant glitter banner hanging above the fireplace that reads “Congratulations on your Dark Awakening.” You recognize it as Nandor’s handiwork at once. Also, Guillermo has obviously been to Party City because everyone is wearing pointed birthday hats with little Dracula emojis all over them and the whole room is absolutely covered in crepe paper.

“It’s...so cute!” you squeal, grabbing him around the middle in an enthusiastic hug. This is...just want you needed. A little goofy, human levity before stepping off the edge of the unknown. Your eyes continue wandering over the room until they fall upon a long table set up against the wall. “Oh...my g--gahhhh--is that mac and cheese?”

The table is covered in dish after dish of all your favorite comfort foods. Macaroni and cheese, pizza, lasagna. Apple pie, blueberry pie, cherry pie! There’s a whole giant bowl of Reese’s peanut butter cups. You pull away from Nandor and dash across the room, launching yourself into Guillermo’s arms.

“You’re the sweetest monster I’ve ever known!” you cry, doing your best to squeeze the unlife out of him.

Guillermo laughs, “Listen, you’re going to be puking for days either way. You might as well have one last chance to enjoy human food.”

You roll your eyes, “Thanks for the reminder, Memo.”

“Alrighty!” Nandor is suddenly picking you up from behind and plucking you out of Guillermo’s arms. “That’s enough of that. Why don’t you have some of this--” he turns his head away from you and gags “--yummy food and then we’ll listen to some human musical arrangements that Nadja and Laszlo have prepared.”

Nandor hovers at your side, watching with a wrinkled nose as you pile food onto your plate. You’ve barely made a dent in the impressive spread and you’re feeling guilty about the waste when Colin Robinson ambles up.

“So, nervous about Nandor draining all your blood and killing you tonight?” he asks breezily.

You ignore the question and instead ask one of your own, “Hey, you think you can bring some of the leftovers into your office tomorrow? I’d hate to waste all this…”

Colin’s face lights with a maniacal grin, “Barbara’s on a diet...Yeah...this will be perfect!”

You settle onto one of the couches, sandwiched between Guillermo and Nandor. Both vampires look vaguely nauseated as you tuck into your food, but they’re holding it together.

Laszlo stands up with Nadja and starts strumming a guitar as he addresses everyone, “When I first met our human I assumed she’d soon be fertilizing my vulva garden--”

Nadja slaps his arm and Nandor hisses indignantly.

“But! But!” Laszlo continues, bowing with a flourish in your direction. “I came to realize that this particular human was something special. I decided to accept her into the fold. Mostly because she kept Nandor off my back and also my wife threatened to maim my testicles if I ate her…

“So, here we are, human. The last night of your life and we’ve got just one thing to say…”

The couple launches into a screeching, cloying rendition of “(I’ve had) The Time of my Life” from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack (blatantly stolen from Laszlo’s catalogue of compositions). Your face is frozen in horrified laughter and you flick your gaze to Guillermo’s to see that he’s covering his mouth to stifle his own laughs. On your other side, Nandor is clapping along and bobbing his head with the music. Yup, this is your tribe.

The party goes on for another couple hours. Laszlo and Nadja perform several more “hits” before finishing up with “The Girl in the Village with the Very Small Foot.” Nadja’s singing voice is still ringing in your ears when Nandor bends down to whisper, “It’s time, my human.”

The levity of the party has done a lot to calm your nerves, but you can’t help the sudden grip of anxiety around your throat at his words. You look up, falling, once again, into the fathomless depths of his lovely, dark eyes and you think, That’s what this is. You’re going to live in that deep, dark beauty from now on. There’s nothing scary about that.

You both stand up to leave and say your goodbyes. Laszlo and Colin wish you luck. Guillermo hugs you and presses several quick kisses to your cheeks as Nandor murmurs warningly, “Watch it!”

When he releases you, you’re suddenly engulfed in the arms of a crying Nadja.

“I do love you, you magnificent, ruthless baby!” she sobs. “Nandor, if you fuck this up I’m going to make a hat out of your asshole.”

You laugh into her shoulder and Nandor complains, “Yeesh! Alright, calm down, Nadja!”

By the time you’ve pried yourself from Nadja’s grip you’ve joined her in crying and your face is soaked. Who knew vampires could be so sentimental?

Nandor grimaces in distaste as he brings his hands up to wipe away the tears.

“Ready!?”

---

Nandor’s crypt looks just as it always does. No crepe paper or glitter in sight. Just the warm glow of candles, the rich red and gold accents of the decor, and the solid familiar bulk of the coffin where you’ve spent so many nights wrapped in his protective embrace. He leads you over to the chaise lounge and you both sit, fidgeting nervously and darting shy glances at one another.

Nandor plucks at the fabric of your dress, “This is nice.”

You smile faintly, “Thanks, I--I thought maybe I should dress up for the occasion. Is that stupid? I guess it’ll just get stained…”

“No,” Nandor cuts in, looking earnest and serious. “No, I’ll be careful.”

You nod and fall silent again. The knowledge of what you’re about to do seems to hang like a thick curtain between you. The easy intimacy that you’ve shared is strained with the gravity of what is to come. Nandor finally huffs out an exasperated sigh and pulls you into his lap. At first you think he’s just going to bite the bullet, so to speak, and dig into your neck at once. But instead he grabs your face and pulls you into a searing, all-consuming kiss.

He tangles his fingers in your hair, pushing his tongue into your mouth with a low groan. You stroke your hands down the long column of his throat, running them across his broad shoulders and down his back. How this man--this perfectly imperfect, wonderfully fragile, fierce warrior man--has come to choose you, you can’t begin to understand. For countless other human souls, catching the eye of Nandor the Relentless has meant grim misfortune. For you, finding yourself the prey of a murderous vampire is the best thing that’s ever happened in your life.

Except maybe being MVP at last year’s championship bout.

Nandor’s lips fall away and he looks up at you, panting heavily with his hair mussed and tangled. His gaze flicks down to your exposed throat and you see him swallow in anticipation. He reaches for something on an end table and shows you the stainless steel travel mug containing his blood. You take it from him noting the strip of masking tape on the lid with Nandor’s elegant scrawl--his name and the date.

You snort, setting the container down on the cushions beside you and looking back up at Nandor.

“Prepare yourself, my mortal,” he growls, fangs elongating and eyes flashing with a predatory gleam.

You turn your head, baring your neck for your vampire boyfriend, and answering lightly, “I have a name, you know.”

---

THE END

A/N: Hey, thank you so so so much to everyone who read and supported this fic from the beginning! Your comments and encouragement mean the world to me!

Tags:

@festering-queen, @kandomeresbitch, @strangestdiary, @glitterportrait, @scuzmunkie, @redwoodshadows, @sarasxe, @rileyomalley

#nandor the relentless #nandor x reader #nandor the relentless x reader #nandor the relentless imagine #wwdits fanfic #wwdits #what we do in the shadows

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lovewillthaw-j · 3 years

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Frozen II/RBTI discussion (1/2)

I’ve been encouraged by the recent likes on my Elsa/Ralph+Vanellope parallels post to finally finish this post which I started more than half a year ago. @super-mam-te-moc contributed ideas and encouragement for this post, thanks dear!

I can’t help but notice the parallels between Frozen 2 and Ralph Breaks The Internet (RBTI, also known as Wreck-it Ralph 2). These are both sequels to fantastic movies where the first installment established an incredibly strong bond between the two main characters (Elsa/Anna; Ralph/Vanellope), but by the end of the sequel, the two main characters are separated.

This first part will discuss the parallels between the movies.

The parallels

1. Fun times at the movie’s introduction

As the movie starts, we see the pair having fun and enjoying each other’s company. Ralph and Vanellope drink root beer at Tapper’s, race in Tron and spend hours talking with each other. Elsa and Anna have fun at the harvest festival and enjoy a game of charades.

2. Ralph/Anna don’t want things to change

From their very first scene, Ralph and Anna express that life is perfect and that they don’t want things to change. (Ralph more strongly so than Anna)

Anna: I dont worry [that nothing is permanent] because... well I have you and Elsa, and Kristoff, and Sven and the gates are open wide and...and I'm not alone anymore... // I’m holding on tight to you...

Ralph: Why would I wonder if there's more to life when the life I got is perfect? ... I wouldn't change a thing.

3. Early signs of Elsa/Vanellope feeling unsettled where they are

Also early on in the movie, Elsa and Vanellope express that they feel unsettled where they are. (Vanellope much more so than Elsa) Vanellope is outright bored, Elsa feels a pull but is unsure and afraid.

Vanellope: doesn't the very nature of our existence make you wonder...if there's more to life than this? ... // A new racing game would've been cool. ... // every bonus level's been unlocked [in Sugar Rush]. I know every shortcut. Man, I'd kill for even just a new track.

Elsa: ♪ I'm not sure I want things to change at all ♪ ...// ♪ Who knows deep down I'm not where I meant to be? ♪♪ Every day's a little harder as I feel my power grow ♪♪ Don't you know there's part of me that longs to go ... ♪

4. Big event happens!!

A big event occurs in each movie; in RBTI, Ralph’s actions lead to the steering wheel being broken and Mr Litwak (the arcade owner) pulling the plug on Sugar Rush. In F2, Elsa awakens the spirits and there are huge disturbances within Arendelle (the wind, the earthquake) driving the people out and preventing them from returning.

In both, there are irreversible consequences - the candy characters and racers of Sugar Rush are displaced, similar to the Arendellians. There are well-animated sequences of the massive exodus. And, since Vanellope is the “princess-ruler” of Sugar Rush, she is responsible for the well-being of all her subjects, just like Elsa is the Queen of Arendelle.

And of course, the big event forces the pair to go on a journey, to a new world.

5. Ralph/Anna start to display insecurity over Vanellope/Elsa

Again, Ralph does this much more than Anna; Ralph’s insecurity is, after all, the subject of the movie’s big climax and the title of the movie (his insecure “clones” break the internet) He starts by asking Tapper incessantly every 30 seconds whether he’s seen Vanellope.

Ralph: she said...being friends with me wasn't enough for her. Not enough? I'm a great friend! Right, Tapper? Right?

Anna: You've been hearing a voice and you didn't think to tell me? ... // You are not going alone. ... // I won't let anything happen to her.

6. The journey starts

Elsa and Vanellope are shown to be enjoying the new world (the forest, for Elsa and Slaughter Race, for Vanellope)

Elsa: This forest is beautiful.

Vanellope (talking about Slaughter Race): I know. It was so exciting!

Whereas, Ralph and Anna are preoccupied with not getting separated, and worrying over Vanellope/Elsa.

Anna: Where’s Elsa? I swore that I wouldn't leave her side.

Ralph: Hey, wait for me! Kid, come back! Wait! Hey! Don't leave without me! ... No, no, no. Me and the kid are like shoes and socks. Or peanut butter and bacon. One cannot exist without the other.

7. The third party (the Voice/Shank)

The third party isn’t introduced at the same time for both movies. In F2, the Voice is heard very early in the movie, when Elsa is standing at the balcony. In RBTI, Shank (Gal Gadot’s badass character) is only introduced in Slaughter Race, about 1/3 into the movie.

The third party is attractive to Elsa and Vanellope. (This is the point where I expect Elsamaren shippers to tell me that the third party is Honeymaren, which I’m totally cool with)

Ralph and Anna are aware of the third party and respond to it, albeit slightly differently. Ralph openly dislikes Shank; Anna can’t understand it, but respects that Elsa is hearing a voice.

Ralph: Oh, come on. I don't trust that Shank one bit.

8. Inevitably, conflict happens between R/V and E/A

As the journey progresses, Elsa and Vanellope are shown to have changing priorities and they don’t seem to mind the dangers of the new world. Ralph and Anna just want to protect their counterparts and appear chagrined that they (E/V) are so attracted to the “wrong” things (by their definition). Ralph openly says that he thinks V has been brainwashed. This clash leads to misunderstanding and conflict.

Here’s Ralph and Vanellope disagreeing over Slaughter Race and Shank:

Ralph: Man, oh, man, that place was scary. Vanellope: I know. It was so exciting!

R: No, exciting is when you smile. Scary is when you clench your butt, and my butt is still clenched.

V: Oh, come on, are you honestly telling me... that Shank lady wasn't the coolest person you ever met? Ralph: Cool? Name one cool thing about her.

V: Um, let's see, she looks cool, she talks cool...she drives cool, her hair is cool, her car is cool... Ralph: Wait a minute, are you saying my hair isn't cool?

In F2: Elsa tames Bruni and for a moment becomes mesmerised by the Voice and starts walking after Bruni (almost as if she’s forgotten that she came here with Anna and the gang), leading to the first heated exchange: “You don't want me to follow you into fire, then don't run into fire. You're not being careful Elsa.” Elsa also encounters the Earth Giant and again is mesmerised and starts following the giant, leading to another heated exchange: “Please tell me, you were not about to follow them!”

9. The big “betrayal”

In RBTI, Ralph realises that Vanellope has gone to Slaughter Race by herself and is talking to Shank behind his back (through the convenient plot device, “Buzzzface”, a video chat app) and he cannot deal with it. He feels betrayed and abandoned and fails to hear the wise words that Shank is dishing out. This leads him to formulate the plan of infecting Slaughter Race with a computer virus.

In F2, Anna gets pushed away by Elsa in the ice boat/sled outside the shipwreck. Anna is angry and feels that Elsa has broken her promise to “do this together”. I must confess, even as an F2 lover, I really didn’t like Elsa’s actions in this scene. Poor, poor, poor, poor Anna!! I have an idea for re-writing this scene to achieve the same final outcome with better treatment of Anna and more “realistic” behavior from the sisters, let’s see if I have the drive to complete it. (your encouragement would be helpful!)

Thanks for reading part 1!

#frozen #frozen 2 #ralph breaks the internet #Disney Frozen #elsa #anna #ralph #wreck it ralph #vanellope von schweetz #disney

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slasherholic · 4 years

Text

Prompt: “Drabble where reader has a head injury/concussion and Mikey takes advantage of their woozy/dazed state?”

Warnings: noncon, abuse, anal sex + vaginal sex, torture, edge play/fear play, animal death, no pronouns used but reader has a coochie

Word count: 10,700

Don’t Fear the Reaper | Michael Myers x Reader | NSFW

You are able to drink in the grisly sight for hardly more than a second before revulsion draws your gaze to your stairwell instead, teary-eyed and sniffling.

It’s the raccoon. It’s your raccoon.

Nailed to your bedroom door like christ on the cross, it’s delicate paws spread wide from it’s plump little body, pink organs hanging low, tongue drooping limply from beneath sharp yellow teeth, black eyes sightless, seeing nothing, and yet somehow staring you dead in the face, is your raccoon; the one you’ve been feeding almost nightly from your backyard porch when the sun sits a dying orange light on the horizon.

You’d been so careful not to let Michael see it. Oh-so-careful.

When the eager little animal would scurry to the bottom step and peer beggingly up at you, its wet nose twitching, you would first crane your head over your shoulder and scan the dimness of your kitchen, searching the hallway, searching all the way down to your front door for hidden, lurking shapes—before hastily dumping the last peanuts and cashews from your bag of trail-mix.

Michael must not see you feeding the raccoon. You knew full-well what would happen if Michael saw you feeding the Raccoon.

He saw it anyway.

From your bedroom window, probably. Perhaps he stood there hidden by the glare of the sun hitting the glass. Perhaps he’d been there every sunset, watching the plump little fellow scamper up to you, watching you offer it your scraps, watching it disappear again into the misty purple evening like a tiny bandit.

Bandit, you had named him, stupidly. Not in an out-loud sort of way like you would call a pet; just in your mind.

And now Bandit the Raccoon is nailed to your bedroom door with his fat little stomach sliced wide open.

He’s still watching you, whispers a cruel voice in your skull. You know it. You know that Michael has slaughtered your raccoon in the name of easy entertainment. You are his wind-up toy; and this was just the latest in an endless sequence of interesting ways to crank your gears and watch you go.

You do your best to ignore the bloody fingerprints on the handle of your rusted old hammer as you take it from the garage, positioning your ladder beneath the body. You do not want to touch Bandit. You do not want to look at him ever again.

But he needs to come down now, before your house starts to stink—and the culprit of this macabre practical joke certainly will not do it. Corpses will only entertain Michael for so long. His work is done; he has had his cheap thrill.

With your free hand you sweep away the angry tears as they spring to your eyes, and begin to climb. Your foot comes down on the third step of the ladder.

You slip.

Ladders should not be so slippery, an alarm screams in your brain, as you tumble backward through the open air, head over heels. And you are right. You’ve made a critical oversight in assuming that Michael’s sadistic practical joke is done and over with.

Racing head-first toward the floor, you know now, it isn’t.

Your head connects with the wood. For a time you know nothing at all.

...

...you blink yourself slowly back to awareness.

Reality reveals itself in faint slivers through your heavy eyelids. You see colors and looming shapes of indescribable form. Someone groans, but it can’t be you, because the sound is so distant and small that it seems almost shouted down a paper-cup telephone.

Then you get to blinking a little harder. One of those brooding figures standing over your body is the ladder,

and the other takes on human shape.

Michael is towering over you.

He leers down at you with the stare of a hawk. The hungry glint in his eyes is more than a statement of his interest—it is a weapon designed to unsettle. He straddles your ankles—if he shifts his boots an inch closer, their rubber soles will kiss your skin. He has probably been there for many minutes. Waiting for you to wake up. To notice him.

The danger registers in your nervous system faster than your conscious mind can process.

In a flurry of panic you are scrambling backwards across the slippery hardwood, hand over foot, putting distance between you and the predator that will seize you up and ravage your body at the slightest whim. Get away from Michael. Get away from Michael. Get away from Michael before he grabs you and catches you and maybe kills you this time.

You turn from him as you clamber to your feet. You stand.

When you do that, you draw back your lips sharply and utter a cry—the furious pounding in your head threatens to bring you right back down to your knees. In your fall, you must have hit your temple dangerously hard.

Your palm slams into the drywall. You practically push yourself toward the stairs. If Michael is coming after you, you can’t hear him; your world is upside-down and sideways. A roller coaster with no end in sight.

You reach the top of the staircase where the floor gives way to a waterfall of steps and clutch the railing as hard as you can. Your momentum threatens to carry you forward, pulling you like a magnet toward the lower floor. The world reels around you in a dizzy haze. You take a step.

And you plummet. Straight down to the bottom.

And now you are on your back again, your feet elevated above your head, your legs slumped at awkward angles on the staircase.

Michael, an unshakable phantom, is standing over you once more.

He is a titan in your blurry vision. Looming at the top of the steps, his powerful body occupies the space that you had less than a moment ago. His eyes are welded to you, his rosy lips parted slightly in a ravenous concentration. The charge in the air is suffocating.

Michael will not remain a statue for much longer; but for now, he is only studying you. You have intrigued him. He knows that something is wrong.

Your eyes well with tears. You feel like a wounded rabbit ringing a dinner bell, a bleeding seal in a deep dark sea teeming with sharks. And one has found you.

You are injured, and now, Michael is coming to inspect.

And if he’s feeling hungry,

probably to do a lot more to you than that.

Michael moves before you do. He shifts his weight gracefully forward and takes the first step as if he has all the time in the world to capture you. He does; you are caged prey. Your flight from him would not dare extend beyond the confines of your house. You are not allowed to run where he cannot follow.

And you must flee anyway.

It is the unspoken rule that he has rigorously instilled in the survival-center of your brain: when Michael chases, you run.

So you run.

But not very well.

Your foot bangs against the door stopper in the midst of your flight into the downstairs laundry room. You pitch forward into the tile and sprawl on the ground and knock your head again.

Michael’s bootsteps pound behind you. You rise to your hands and knees and now the charge in the air is turbulent and unrestrained and teeming with danger. His shadow engulfs you.

So do his powerful arms.

You thrash your head from side to side as his forearm snakes beneath your armpits and seizes you around your chest, his thick bicep constricting your side like a python. His fingers find purchase between the spokes of your ribs and dig in mercilessly. You squeal and pull wildly at the cage of his arm.

His other hot hand comes over your shoulder to clamp expertly around the front of your throat, a pair of deadly jaws; and just like that you’re captured. He’s got you. It’s over. You’re not going anywhere.

You fight Michael like your life depends on it anyway.

He drags you backward like a dog with a chew toy and you thrash your head from side to side and scream at him. He whisks you into the hallway and you scrabble for a grip on the jutting door frame. Your bare feet slap against the floor, heels digging in. You thrash and rage against him.

He tears you away from the door with monstrous ease.

In the hallway his arms lock tight around you, dreadful restraints. And now he has secured your kicking body so tightly against his chest that you can feel his heart pounding away through his pectoral, thump-thump-thumping against the meat of your back.

Sometimes—in the dead of night, when all is calm, when Michael is not hurting you—that unwaveringly steady heart is a bewildering comfort.

But right now it invades your body like a deadly parasite.

The constant thump-thump-thump of Michael’s heart pounds as if in time with the hideous throbbing in your skull and it is maddening. Petrifying. It whips you into a frightful frenzy. You bash the base of your head against his sternum. Your flailing toes do not touch the floor anymore and so you aim your kicks at his shins instead. You keep screaming at him.

In response, the hand around your neck lifts free,

and clamps down brutally over your mouth.

Harsh fingers engulf your face and curl around your jaw, the thumb digging in painfully beneath your cheekbone. You gag—his hand is still wet with raccoon blood.

You keep screaming into the hot, bloody palm anyway; but the only sounds that come out of you now are muffled and broken and quiet. Michael can silence you just as effectively as he can restrain you.

And now he seems content to just hold you, his arm seized around your chest, his hand slammed across your mouth, trapping you, muzzling you, rendering you unable to fight him, unable to struggle in any meaningful way, unable to do anything but hyperventilate and cry and wait.

For what, you don’t know.

Michael’s intentions are never predictable. Killing Bandit and greasing your ladder to make you fall and chasing you down and capturing you and scaring you half to death could be enough for him today—in just a few more seconds, he could decide that he is satisfied and let you go.

He could just as easily be about to murder you on the spot.

Your ribs rise and fall frantically against his dangerous arm and your heart beats like a tortured animal trying to burst free from its cage. Your eyes are huge and teeming with tears. You fight him for a while longer—and when you tire yourself out, you flop over in his arms and go limp.

Miraculously, the moment you stop struggling, Michael begins to lower your defeated body to the ground.

Perhaps that really is it, then. Perhaps he’s satisfied. You know that he enjoyed it; you need no other sign than the significant bulge of his arousal prodding hard against your lower-back.

You sniffle desolately as your feet touch the tile. The pounding in your head radiates out from the back of your skull, consuming your world in a dizzying blur of harsh light and swimming color.

The hand around your mouth comes away. So does the arm around your chest.

Michael’s boots squeak over the tile as he steps away from you, his heat and mass and hideous heartbeat retreating all at once. Relief washes over you like cool water over an infected wound.

And in the very next moment, you yearn for the support of his steady body again.

You sway like a leaf in a storm, your knees wobbling, legs threatening to buckle beneath you. You can’t stand on your own—you are far, far too dizzy.

With a whine you thrust your hands out behind you. You despise the thought of clinging to him now but you need Michael desperately to lean against before you collapse.

You give a hissing little cry when his hand comes down to grip the back of your head. The base of his palm descends right over the painful bump where your skull stopped your fall.

Oh; oh. You will get no help from Michael. He is only interested in letting nature run its course.

In fact, he’s going to help it.

Your eyes go huge and round, but before you can steady yourself,

He shoves you brutally.

Your arms windmill in front of your body. Your world churns nauseatingly. And now you are face-down on the tile, groaning wearily at the sudden loss of altitude and pressure.

You push your hands beneath your body and flip yourself, possibly out of sheer instinct—because that suffocating charge surrounding Michael still permeates the air and makes it hard to draw breath. It is not safe to stay down, scream your instincts; danger still lurks nearby. Get up. Up up up.

From the floor, through a thick veil of tears, you stare up again at Michael’s face.

His rosy lips are sealed sternly shut now. His faint, concentrated scowl lingers, as it always does, rendering his expression not quite empty—never empty—but always brooding with an inkling of his ill-concealed malice. Always, the murder is there. Always, it is brewing just below the thin ice.

Oh—but he could conceal that look, if he wanted to.

You know that Michael could conceal all the intensity in his eyes and render his face blanker than a stone slate, blanker than his mask. You know it.

You know that, if it suited his fancy, he could deceive all but the most trained of eyes and dwell as a wolf among sheep, unnoticed by the flock. You know this because he already lived that life for many years.

Perhaps that is why he is so unwilling to hide his truest nature, now. Perhaps it is what compels him to chase his every impulse and follow his every vicious instinct. Michael isn’t interested in pretending anymore; he has already played that game, and won; and now the prizes are his to reap.

Through the pitching, churning jumble of light and color that is your world, you gaze fearfully up into the devastating path of Michael’s stare, and for the first time today the tears welling in your eyes spill down the sides of your face. For just right now, you are this predator’s only prize.

And if the deadly fascination teeming in his gaze is any warning,

your injured state is only about to make you all the more thrilling to play with.

Everything has taken on a hazy sheen, soft-around-the-edges. The light falling down through the windows lining your garage pulses with an ethereal glow; far too bright. It throbs in time with the headache pounding in your temples.

Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub.

The pulse in your tied arms is just as furious.

A wiry rope snakes around your flesh from elbow to wrist, biting into you cruelly. You’re almost relieved by the fact that you can’t turn your head far enough to see the unhealthy purple hue your skin has taken on, nor feel the damage—your limbs have long since gone numb.

Michael has taken incredible caution to ensure that you will not be going anywhere. Not until he’s had his thrill. Not until he’s used you up and dumped you out the other side, broken and exhausted—and if you’re lucky, still alive—and if you’re even luckier, allowed to collapse into his chest and embrace the frightful, terrible, soothing thump-thump-thumping of his beating heart.

One can only hope to be so privileged.

The medicine ball beneath your feet is cushy and deflated from years of disuse, a woeful perch to balance on. You sway dangerously through your dizziness. Your body pitches side to side, back and forth. All the muscles in your core are contracted in the name of keeping your balance. It has been that way for a long time. They have begun to ache—you don’t care. Your only concern is balance.

The moment you become unbalanced, the slip-knot sitting against the base of your skull will pull tight enough to strangle you.

It is hard to swallow against your noose. When you try it your bobbing thyroid chafes painfully against the thick fiber and rubs the skin there raw. The rope is dangerously taut as-is, barely long enough to reach your neck. It hangs down from the metal pulley which opens your garage door, a solid wooden beam, more than enough to bear your weight, should you fall.

And if you fall, you will hang yourself.

Your calves ache from the strain and your back throbs and your abdomen is quivering jelly. The only remaining sensation in your arms is a volley of needle-like pinpricks, clammy and numb and cold.

But none of these miserable things occupy any degree of your attention.

Michael is circling you.

He slinks around your body with a grace that betrays his looming stature. Every time he passes in front of you, he meets your eyes. He does not look at you head-on; rather glares at you from beneath his dark curls, chin dipped toward his chest, head swiveling steadily to keep you in his sights as he goes.

It is the stare of a predator in the midst of ravenous concentration. It is the sort of stare that you would expect to see on the face of a hunting lion on the nature channel. It is the sort of stare that seems inconceivable on human features.

And yet Michael wears the stare effortlessly.

He wants you to fall; he wants to see you hang yourself. He is going to see you hang one way or another, and if you do not lose your balance eventually, he is going to kick that ball out from under your feet himself. That is the sort of brutality Michael’s eyes reveal.

You wish more than anything that you didn’t have to look at him.

But as soon as you shut your lids, the dizziness grows tenfold—and suddenly you are on that teacup ride from the annual autumn fair, pitching in a nauseating circle round and round and round again—and within seconds you are keeling forward, and the noose is snaking tighter, and you have no choice but to open your eyes again, no choice but to look your monster in the eye again.

Michael stops his pacing when that happens. He looms in front of you and leers at you without blinking.

You almost wish to face the empty black eye-sockets of his mask instead of his own calculated stare. At least with the mask on, you cannot see the hunger written so plainly on his face. At least with it on, you are not forced to watch the glint in his eyes darken as you sway and cower and try not to hang.

When Michael passes behind you, and you lose sight of him, every sound that is not him is gone. No birds chirp outside—no cars rumble down the cul-de-sac.

And every sound that is Michael dominates your skull.

His pacing boots fall quietly through the terrible exposed space behind you, moving purposefully from left to right. His magnified breathing whistles in and out.

Sometimes, in his circling, he will brush cruelly up against you—grazing your shoulder with his bicep just enough to send you spilling forward, your heart ramping up in your chest, a strangled little sound leaving your throat. It is a half-hearted attempt to knock you off your perch; he is still only playing.

But more frightening than all those things is when he stops behind you. Just stops. When his sounds vanish altogether, when you feel him go still, the air no longer moving in his wake. When you feel his dark and dangerous presence looming behind you, unseen.

It is a purposeful act; you know that Michael means to let all your alarm and dread and strangulating fear of him wash over your head. You know that he means to smother you in it.

He is doing it right now.

Michael stops behind you and he does not touch you, does not move, does not do anything at all.

Your sob starts in your abdomen. Your breath hitches and then it comes too fast. And now you are taking in air so quickly that without having even shut your eyes you are on the teacup ride again, spinning round and round and round. You sway dangerously on the medicine ball. Your toes curl and dig deep into the rubber. It’s not enough. You are hyperventilating—you are going to fall.

Behind you, the air around you moves again.

And suddenly Michael’s immense heat is rolling against you in thick waves.

He has stepped so closely that you can feel his breath beating down against the back of your head, fluttering through your hair. You suspect that if you were to lean back only slightly you would be supporting yourself against his chest.

You don’t dare.

The thought of him touching you right now is more frightening than the rope around your neck.

Which is why, as you feel the medicine ball beneath you dip, and Michael brings his boot to rest between your legs, you make a strangled sound somewhere between a choke and a hiccup.

He doesn’t move his boot. He rests it lazily there between your feet as though it is just the next sequence in his cruel game. As though he plans to do nothing with it at all. But the threatening charge in the air is positively crackling now. Your breath comes in and out as a whistle between parted teeth. Your eyes are dinner plates.

And oh, some primitive instinct warns you, Michael most certainly does plan on doing something with that boot.

You think you know what’s coming. You are allowed one more moment free of pain. With a miserable whine, you gulp in all the air your lungs can fit; for the first time today, Michael is about to put your life at risk in the name of his own pleasure.

Michael’s invasive boot begins to steal your perch out from underneath you, rolling the ball backwards, oh-so-slowly.

The noose around your neck slips dangerously tight—the heavy knot bites into your nape and chafes your skin raw. You dip precariously forward and your aching core contracts painfully, abdomen straining to keep you steady and upright at this awkward angle. You gasp and gag at the end of your leash. Tears gush at your eyes.

You are not choking, not yet—but if Michael sees it fit to steal another centimeter of your breathing room, you will be.

His knee now digs into the small of your back. His heat and weight and presence behind you are hideous. The charge surrounding him has spread now to engulf you entirely.

Hurting you this way must be just as gratifying as running a knife through your throat; and in Michael’s mind, it is hardly any different.

You know that what he is doing to you now, not just in this moment, but in every second you are allowed to continue existing, is hunting you. All of the familiar motions are in place; the chase, the capture, the momentary release of his vicious, violent dangerous impulses. You are prey, like all the rest. Eventually, you will go the way of all the rest.

But it does not need to happen yet.

Instead, your capture is allowed to last for as long as he pleases. His sadistic impulses are allowed to flourish; and you get to experience what happens when Michael’s release is free to express itself in other ways.

Ways that are not murder.

Decidedly more sinister ways.

It is hard for a living thing to envy the dead—but as you choke and sputter and wobble on the medicine ball, pitching at the end of your noose, you find yourself wishing that you had not been allowed to keep your life at all. Better to be dead and unfeeling than to suffer such dizzying fear. Better to be a corpse than to exist for the purpose of pleasuring a monster.

And then, your fantasies of being dead are gone in a single furious heartbeat—when Michael rolls the ball back another inch.

You pitch forward.

The slipknot tightens—

—your airway is clamped hopelessly shut.

Michael chokes you.

But only for a second.

Before the strangled syllables of the words Please and Michael and Don’t are leaving your purple lips in an airless rasp, before you can beg him not to kill you, he is already relenting.

His boot finds its home between your legs again as he rolls the ball back into place. The pressure of his knee against your back disappears. You are standing vertically again. You gasp for breath and sob.

But he does not take his boot away. His breath still beats steadily against your hair. The heat of him is suffocating. His body is so close. You sob even harder at the anticipation of it all; you do not know what’s coming next.

You do know that he has only gone so still to watch you cry and tremble and shake.

The possibility occurs to you that Michael had not even been trying to strangle you; at least not yet. Relief would not have come so readily; more likely, he is merely exploring the capabilities of his rig, only testing the limits of how far he is allowed to push his toy before you start to break.

His boot comes suddenly free of the ball.

You stagger at the sudden change of pressure beneath your feet. The air whooshes around your back as his looming body moves again, walking around to the front of you.

You are nearly level with Michael’s face at this height. He stands feet away and studies you. The faint rosy discoloration beneath his eyes is apparent at this distance and has the opposite effect of making him look tired; the contrast only adds to the intensity of his steel-blue stare. You stare back at him, because you are too afraid of what might happen the moment you look away.

And now he is reaching for the rope above your head.

Your face contorts in panic and your mouth snaps open and you sway slightly as he grips it. You are ready to beg him again.

But Michael does not yank it. He does more than not yank it.

He shifts his weight onto his back foot. His boot settles on the ball again and your eyes glisten with dread. His thigh comes slowly up between your legs until the coiled muscle meets your bottom.

He lifts you cleanly off the ball.

And now you are seated atop his knee, straddling his thigh like a log.

You clamp your legs around him in an instant to keep from sliding toward his hips. The rope around your neck has some slack now, and the slipknot does not dig so hard into your flesh; but you are dreadfully aware that this is no act of mercy on Michael’s part—it's just more fun and games.

Should you slide all the way down to Michael’s pelvis, you will meet the end of your noose, and strangle yourself.

His firm muscle contracts as he shifts his weight beneath you, staring you in the eyes, breathing steadily. His boot dips deeper into the medicine ball for traction. You know what he is about to do to you even before he does it.

But that doesn’t stop your terrified whine from leaving your lips as he does.

Michael begins to bounce you playfully on his knee.

The effort is half-hearted at best. You rise and fall easily with his leg as though riding a see-saw. His air about the whole thing is disgustingly innocent; he is still toying with you. When he is done playing, you will know it.

You hold out for nearly a minute, battling with all your strength to remain perched atop his knee despite his playful efforts.

And then you start to slip.

You cry out as you do—squeezing his leg tighter, clinging on to him for dear life—it’s no use. The dizziness consuming your world is loosening your grip on reality as well as your grip on Michael’s thigh. Your face twists with panic. You peer at him across the two feet of space separating you and sob.

Michael—leering at you as if to kill you with his eyes alone, the heat of his breath blowing steadily out through his nostrils, searing your flushed, pulsing cheeks— watches you sob.

His efforts ramp up before you know what hit you. His boot sinks deep into the ball and comes shooting suddenly upward again.

You scream in terror as you leave his leg. For a moment there is nothing but empty space beneath you and you are airborne. Your pulse in your neck spikes feverishly. The throbbing in your head is a hammer.

Then you slam painfully down on his thigh. His knee knocks hard against your pubic mound. The air leaves your lungs.

Before you can gasp and recover your breath he is pitching you into the air again, merciless.

You come down on him the same as before. A dull thudding ache shoots through your pelvis at the impact. He is actually trying to dislodge you now—you can see it in his eyes. You sob harder. You’re so dizzy. Your world is spinning. Your head is throbbing. He bounces you up again. Up and down. Relentlessly. The terror in your eyes is mounting with every second.

And worst of all, you’re sliding.

The slipknot is creeping tighter around your nape.

Tears stream down your face. Michael wants to see you hang.

With a frightful cry you come down hard on his knee again and brace yourself around him for the next jostle.

It never comes.

His thigh goes still beneath your backside. You feel the muscle slacken against your legs and go pliable.

Just like that, Michael has stopped.

Despite the fact that you are not yet choking, your muscles not yet clenching hopelessly around him to squeeze him while you sputter and die, Michael concludes his assault.

You brace for the next impact anyway.

His eyes sweep across your trembling lips and tear-ravaged cheeks and frantically flaring nostrils. You have never felt more vulnerable.

Then, his terrible hands are outstretching toward your middle.

You flinch hard away from him as though fleeing is even an option—but you have nowhere to go, and no way to fight him.

Instead, as Michael grabs you firmly but carefully around your waist—as if you were made of slippery glass, and dropping you would be bothersome—you just cry. Your sides heave beneath his hands as you suck in your terrified breaths, lamenting the weight of him on your body. You can no longer anticipate his actions. You have no clue in the world what he is about to do to you. The breathless anticipation of pain is just as horrible as the thought of hanging.

But no pain arrives.

Michael’s dangerous hands pry your deathgrip on his leg away with tremendous ease. And oh, you realize, he is only depositing you slowly and easily and almost cautiously back on the ball. He holds it in place with his boot, allowing you to stand again.

The slack in your rope is gone in an instant—the horrible tautness around your neck resumes. Your jellied knees quiver and knock together; and now, there is a cruel voice in your head sneering at you that when Michael’s horrible, steady hands come away from your waist, you will not be able to balance without his support.

You give a lamenting little whine as their heat leave your sides.

Michael steps away from you with a fluidity that reads almost feline. Your balancing act resumes right where it left off. Immediately, you start to sway.

From his new position, Michael studies you some more.

It is a horrible thing to meet his face; his rosy lips are pressed faintly together as if in contemplation of his work. His eyes flit across you, ever-roving to some new part of you, eager to devour.

He could be at this for hours before he takes all that he wants from your body. You know that if it tickled his fancy, he could keep you here in this garage and toy with you to his heart’s content all night, and all day tomorrow, and that as long as you show up for class on Monday in more or less one piece, nobody will ever suspect a thing.

Michael knows it, too.

Your face contorts with broken, desperate pleading. You plead at him with the tears shimmering in your eyes and the ones streaking down your pink exhausted cheeks. Stupid, stupid and pointless, says the cruel voice in your head, and you know, but you can’t help yourself. You plead at Michael with your ragged and whistling little breaths. Please, no more. Please, I’m already broken. Please just use me how you want and then take me down.

Michael devours your pleading, too.

And his stare says,

This is how I want to use you.

With a shudder and a sob, you plead at the garage floor instead.

You regret it the moment you take your eyes off of him.

He strikes faster than your mind can process. His fingertips are sandpaper as they clasp around your nape and burrow beneath your noose, hot and abrasive, chafing against your rawed skin.

You cry sharply, startled. You look up at him again; but only at his sternum. Michael is going to choke you. You can’t look him in the face while he does that. You can’t. His eyes will haunt you.

Careless of your abused flesh, the fingers pinch the front of your throat.

Your eyes snap shut like drawn shudders. You swallow automatically at the pressure and it comes out as a gag instead—his fingers are squeezing too hard to allow that. Yet you know in an instant that Michael is not trying to choke you; were that the case, you would already be collapsing over in a dead faint.

His hot thumbpad roves across the plane of your neck, poking your flesh deeply, searching. You clench your teeth and tremble. It is obvious to you what he is doing. It is a frighteningly familiar action:

Michael is seeking your pulse.

He is going to study it like a sculptor examining the results of his work. Your fluttering heart is the evidence he wants beyond your weeping eyes and your painfully-contorted face that he has plunged your entire body into a primal, desperate fear.

His thumb comes to rest across the artery. Your heartbeat thumps against his heavy pressure there, unsteady and racing, as though to prepare you for a struggle, or to flee from him, or to do something, anything, besides sitting here and allowing Michael to grope you. It doesn’t matter that you are hopelessly restrained—your body will not give up, even if your mind has. And so your heart still races.

Michael gazes at you steadily, motionless, listening, concentrating. Urgency grips you dizzyingly as you breathe shallowly against his restraining fingers—you need to calm your heart. A racing pulse will only serve to exhilarate him and solidify his desire to make you squeal, thrash, bleed.

You focus on the steady rise and fall of his broad chest. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe like Michael does.

Your throat is dry by the time his rough fingers loosen their grip on your neck. They graze your flesh with an accidental tenderness as they retreat. The sickening conflict of sensations makes your stomach knot; Michael has made his judgement.

He steps suddenly to the side of you and you stagger atop the ball, knees locking up painfully. You brace yourself to be grabbed, jostled, groped, brutalized.

But Michael does none of those things. He doesn’t even stop behind you. He keeps on walking.

Now, his footsteps are retreating for the door. Now, you hear the creak of the garage doorknob turning, the woosh of air as it opens—

—and Michael has left.

You are not sure whether to feel relief. Or more terror.

You are not left to stew in your dread for long; he is back again within the minute.

The door opens again, and now the dreadful bootsteps are drawing nearer. Your teary eyes flash with alarm. The stagnant air behind your back shifts to accommodate for his presence.

Michael is breathing down your neck again, looming over you, monstrous.

He is not interested in lurking this time, though. He has a purpose; he introduces you to it quickly. Strong fingers find purchase in the hem of your pajama bottoms. Blunt fingernails scrape against the flesh of your lower back.

It occurs to you passively that Michael is going to fuck you, now. The thought comes and casts its shade across the landscape of your mind and is gone again as easily as a passing cloud in the sky. It is hardly important. Hardly relevant. It just is.

Michael could shuck your pants down to your knees and be inside you within a second; but his impatience does not yet precede him.

He is still enjoying the show. He is in no rush to get to the climax.

And so instead of tearing your pants off your legs,

something slight and thin and sharp presses suddenly between your open thighs.

The tip of it rocks against the base of your pubic mound, pressing threateningly into the sensitive flesh, and even through the barrier of your pants its bite is unmistakable.

Michael is pressing his knife between your legs.

Your brows knit further together and bassy whimpers reverberate from the pit of your chest to escape beyond your dried lips. You will your knobbly knees to a painful stand-still as he digs the carving knife into your pajamas—you hear the harsh ripping and tearing of synthetic fabric as he saws the tip in deep, beginning to rock the knife against your cunt. The ease with which he could circumvent this playful escapade and claim your body is of no concern to Michael; he is toying with you exactly how he sees fit.

And right now he sees it fit to threaten you with terrible bodily harm.

Should his steady hand slip, should he accidentally apply an ounce too much of his monstrous, untempered strength, Michael will saw his knife into the flesh between your legs, and butcher you.

Your ribs heave and a cacophony of whimpers leave you as the knife tears mercilessly at your pants. Please be careful, you beg Michael, without words. Please don’t cut me there. Please don’t ruin me.

Michael does not.

The knife cuts a path in your pants from your clitoris to your tailbone, and all the while he holds the fabric away from your body so that its steel never slices you.

You stand now with your most vulnerable parts bared to him, defenseless, exposed.

It would be so incredibly trivial for him to ruin your flesh here. One cruel flick of his knife could cripple you forever—your reproductive capabilities, your necessary functions, your very pleasure. Michael could slice your sex up with all the concern of a butcher hacking into a pig. He could mutilate you, and nobody would ever know it; nobody, but you, and him.

He threatens to, sometimes; when he pulls back your skin with his thumb and presses the cold tip of that knife against your throbbing clitoris, and holds it there, just watching you. Your pleasure is not important to Michael. Such parts of your body are expendable—ready for the chopping block. Ready to be discarded in the name of the momentary sadistic thrill he would glean from seeing you scream and writhe.

But that moment, if it will ever come, has not yet. Michael has still allowed you to keep all of your parts.

You can only assume that a whole toy, who can still shiver and cry and tremble at the prospect of losing those parts, is more entertaining to him than a damaged one with nothing more to fear.

Your fuzzy black pajama pants now hang like a sliced-open torso between your legs, one side drooping lower than the other. You can feel the bitter chill of the morning air now nipping at your sex. You try to ignore it; faced with the prospect of hanging, it really should be an easy thing to ignore.

But Michael’s adamant presence between your legs is making such fanciful thinking impossible.

Behind you, there is the unmistakable drawing of the zipper on his coveralls. You shudder violently at the implication of that sound—it is Pavlovian conditioning. Your brain is trained to recognize and respond and fear the sound of Michael freeing his sex.

Or rather, to fear what comes next.

Perhaps you would not fear it so much if it did not hurt so much; if Michael possessed merely a fraction of the untempered strength that he is capable of, and not the staggering sum of it; if he was not strong enough to lift flailing bodies clean into the air, and jellify skulls beneath his boots, and murder a human as easily as one extinguishes a bug. If your tormentor were not so monstrous, you tell yourself, then you would not fear his primal, instinctive, impersonal need to copulate with your body and pump you full of his seed.

But Michael is that strong. He has strength for all of that and then some; and he does not offer you the luxury of controlling it when he seizes you in his dangerous, murdering hands, and impales your body in a way different from all the rest of his victims.

You suspect that sex, too, is still a hunt to Michael. It is still a ruthless domination of conquered prey—with slightly less bloodshed.

That is why, as you feel the burn of his firm arousal invading the shattered barrier of your pants, poking stiff and hard and hot against your far-less-heated entrance, a fresh set of heavy tears wells beneath your lids. The muscles in your abdomen heave at his sudden foreboding presence. Your sex clenches tighter as if to deny him entrance. Your entire body screams, don’t hurt me. Don’t damage me. Take me slowly, if there is no other option—but please, Michael, please don’t break me this time. Not permanently. Not forever.

The rope you hang from goes suddenly taut as Michael seizes it, hardly six inches above the crown of your head. His carelessness has you swaying on your perch. You utter a lamenting rasp as the heavy slip-knot finds its home at the base of your neck again.

Michael is going to yank on your rope. He is going to choke you.

Your entire body knows it and fears it. All the muscles in your abdomen clench tighter and your face pulls down into a look of staggering devastation. You gasp in huge lungfulls and sob and wait for the moment when you can no longer draw breath, the moment that Michael decides it would better suit his pleasure to deny you that privilege.

You wait.

And wait.

And by some miracle,

the dreadful moment when Michael steals your very breath away never arrives.

You know that he still holds the rope; you can feel it in the tension of the noose around your neck. You know it in the very fact that you do not sway so much anymore atop the medicine ball, supported now by the unshakable, unwavering force that is his body. Yet he is not trying to suffocate you.

The head of his cock prods more insistently against the skin of your folds.

Oh; oh. Now you get it.

He is only securing his prize in position, only lining himself up with his clenching, difficult target. He is steadying your squirming body enough to guarantee his own pleasure.

His throbbing, insistent tip begins to push suddenly upward into you, heedless of the tightness of your entrance. Your cunt blooms around the head of Michael’s violent arousal.

You chomp down hard on your lip at the tremendous stretch and pop of his member sliding into place. Claiming you now will be easy; to split you wide and fill you to the brim with his cock Michael need only slam his hips forward with a brutal thrust.

A staggering whine leaves you when he doesn’t; it is going to be slow, your cruel head-voice whispers, and that is even more terrible fate. Michael is not chasing instinct when he fucks you slowly—he’s just having fun. He’s seeking a reaction, and nothing more, and splitting you apart on his cock is a tried and true way to make you squirm and cry and scream.

Michael takes you at his leisure. His burning arousal fills you languidly, carelessly. He has all the time in the world to use you—you are captured prey. You are not going anywhere.

You make ugly rasping noises at the invasion. Your knees wobble horribly as your walls are split to accommodate his heat and girth, swaying dangerously on the ball. Your cunt spasms and clenches excruciatingly snug around him, out of terror and desperation, and perhaps a simple desire to continue breathing—because your body knows that if your struggle to keep him out does not satisfy, he will tug your noose tighter and tighter until it does.

Michael’s cock stabs at the fleshy roof of your walls, your cervix. And still you know you have not taken all of him.

His searing arousal forces your cervix upward and inward and you can feel him prodding agonizingly at the organs just beyond. If his rough hands reached around your body and pressed against your stomach, you suspect he could inspect his own imprint there, the firm outline of himself sheathed inside of you; that is how unforgivingly Michael fills you up.

You shiver and shake as his covered hips finally collide with the curve of your own fully-clothed ass, wheezing through your teeth. You are agonizingly full of Michael’s cock.

His monstrous body is frightfully still behind you. He does not make a single unchecked movement as you tremble against his pelvis, not a runaway sound. If he is reaping any pleasure from using you this way he givesno sign to betray it—even with his throbbing cock hilted inside of you, his air of detached, calloused, impersonal intrigue remains.

There is no intimacy whatsoever to Michael’s invasion of your body. You are just another exciting toy for this apex predator to use, and abuse, and in due time, discard.

The medicine ball beneath your feet dips down again as he rests his boot atop it, his weight returning. You are spinning now at the zenith of the teacup ride with your eyes snapped adamantly shut, your world pitching around and around.

The stretch and ache of him inside you retreats at a cruel, deliberate pace. He rolls your perch away from him with his heavy boot, using gravity to tilt your hips forward, sliding you lazily off his cock.

Your eyes go huge and round as the slipknot gets tighter and tighter until you are wheezing. Please put me back, you beg wordlessly, to nobody but the cruel voice inside your mind. You would rather be stretched and filled up torturously with dick than choke.

You get your wish

Michael lets you sputter at the end of your rope for a moment—and then he is rolling you back into place to split you on his cock again.

Your knees shake horribly as he sinks into you just as cruelly, just as slow. His pace can hardly even be called fucking—it doesn’t feel like fucking. It just feels like Michael enjoying the sensation of a warm, tight, frightened hole. There exists no rhyme or reason or goal to his actions beyond sadistic pleasure—watching you choke and writhe on his cock and all but beg for the embrace of his terrible hands to alleviate the torture of your noose is the best kind of entertainment a living body can offer him.

There was a time, oh-so long ago now, when you might have been disgusted by the thought of trading your bodily rights to continue existing as Michael’s plaything—back when he was only a foreboding headline on your Sunday paper, and not a tangible, touchable entity, ever-looming over your head, hurting you and then not hurting you, tricking you into needing him; if not needing his cock between your legs, then needing the weight of his touch at night.

When you hover at the precipice of unconsciousness, and so does Michael, the hand around your neck is no longer there to strangle you, or to cause you pain, but only to feel you; to hold you, and know that you are still at his side, that you cannot go anywhere, that you are still his to own.

In those coveted moments, Michael is just as beautiful to you as he is deadly.

He is a magnificent disaster. A violent storm on a calm sea. He is terrible and gorgeous, dreadful and breathtaking. To witness him is the privilege of a lifetime—to experience him will cost you your life. When Michael is not hurting you, it is a wonder to stand in his presence. When Michael is not hurting you, you are almost eager to be his.

You crave to be his.

You need to be his.

But right now, Michael is none of those things.

Right now, Michael is just the monster who is going to murder you some day. He is just the wicked, heartless, terrifying thing that is causing you pain.

He is just the Reaper.

Michael takes your body this way for a long time. You find that it is impossible to relax around his throbbing girth when everything below your waist has seized up in the name of maintaining your precarious balance; but he slides easier in and out of you now than when he first started. The simple fact of the cock filling you up, no matter how agonizing, has made you wet.

You nearly grow used to Michael’s cruel rhythm in and out of you. Nearly.

Then, he shatters the rhythm. This time when he pulls out of you, he does not tilt your ball forward again, does not impale you hopelessly on his heat and girth again. You think that might be it; that he’s had his fun. That it might be over.

Your hopes are shattered like a dropped glass the next second; when the hot palm that is not seizing your noose comes down to grab your ass through your pajama bottoms, squeezing brutally, splitting your cheeks apart.

And now Michael’s dick is prodding at your asshole.

Your eyes go round in horror as you heave out a desperate, pleading whine, long and breathless. Your stomach ties itself into a dreadful knot which has your insides cramping painfully as all your muscles clench in preparation of keeping Michael out. Your body knows that this is wrong—that he is not supposed to be there. He’s too big; he is too big, and far, far too strong for this. If Michael gets in, he is going to rip you apart.

And he is going to get in anyway—and your efforts to defend your innards will only make his invasion all the more torturous.

You whip your head violently back and forth as Michael lines up with his new target, the burning head of his arousal poking dauntingly at your puckered flesh. No, no, he can’t fuck you there; if he fucks you there you won’t be able to keep your balance. You will fall and hang and die. He is going to kill you this way.

He doesn’t sink in for a minute. He stands behind you, a terrible murderous presence, holding himself against your clenching sphincter, letting you squirm. Hot air from his lungs beats against your hair as he draws his measured breaths. He is watching you. Watching you and waiting for some invisible cup to fill up and spill over.

When Michael’s heat pushes adamantly against you, you nearly choke on your own cascading tears.

But he doesn’t manage to penetrate.

His prodding cock only tilts your body forward on the ball—you gasp and wheeze—you’re clenched too tightly. Your face goes white with dread when you realize what that means. He is going to have to hold you for leverage while he does it.

The sensation of burning hands gripping your arms hardly registers, because you are so, so incredibly numb back there. You sob harder.

And now, Michael’s arousal rocks against your asshole again.

The head of his member has beaded with hot precum that you feel oozing against your sphincter. You squirm at the horrible feeling, your chest heaving rapidly. You wiggle your hips and try to evade him. You don’t want him there. God, you don’t want him there. Not when your body is clenched so excruciatingly tight. Not when he is hurting you so horribly. Not when he is enjoying it. You squirm, despite the fact that it won’t work. You squirm, despite the fact that he is unstoppable.

You squirm despite the fact that there is absolutely nothing you can do to stop Michael from fucking your ass.

The awful murderous fingers around your numb arms dig in and grip you tighter. The throbbing head finds its mark.

It presses in slowly, splitting you on him.

You make a shattered sound and stagger at the stabbing pain, seeing stars. The stretch is already agonizing, white-hot. He’s going to tear you apart.

It is instantly apparent that Michael is going to fuck your sphincter as cruelly as he fucked your cunt. His hips rock lazily against you and you are filled repeatedly with just the tip of him. The pain is stabbing; your heart is pounding wildly. When he’s buried the head of his cock within your ass, he pulls himself slowly out again. Abusing your hole at his leisure. Rinse, wash, repeat.

There is a dreadful air of curiosity about Michael’s demeanor now and when you detect it you are nearly sick. It is as if the feeling of your asshole squeezing his arousal has consumed him with simple intrigue; fear has made you incredibly tight, perhaps tighter than he has ever felt. Your body <his toy, the cruel voice chants> has offered him a curious new sensation, which he is exploring readily.

Soon, Michael’s curiosity with your sphincter has peaked.

He starts to sink in deeper. Your tears are uncontrollable. The tap is turned on and it does not stop.

The stretch of Michael’s cock splitting your ass is nothing short of torture. He is a hot, burning rod inside of you, pushing up and up, endless. You gasp, struggling to take air into your lungs. You are convinced your vitals are cooking. You can’t breathe; the pain is too much. Your knees are trembling. You’re staggering dangerously on the ball. Michael’s grip has kept you from swaying too far for this long—but you know he won’t come to your rescue if your legs give out.

He presses on mercilessly, heedless of your tightness, searing in deeper. Every gasp you take is a battle to keep your volume down; you can’t scream. You can’t alert the neighbors. If Michael is interrupted now, he is going to kill you. You’re sure of it. But the pain is devastating; he hurts too bad. With every breath your sounds are getting sharper and shriller.

One of your wheezes builds into a guttural, shattered, piercing cry.

Michael’s hand rockets around your shoulder. His palm clasps down brutally over your mouth to kill the scream on your lips. Muzzling you again.

Now, you feel a distinct pop somewhere inside you.

His arousal is fully seated inside your ass.

You sob endlessly into Michael’s hand. His huge uncompromising body is flush against you, a terrible cage. You feel like your guts have been rearranged just to accommodate him. He might as well be stabbing your belly with his knife—you think it would hurt less. Tears streak freely down your face.

It is not your cruel parasitic head-voice doing the thinking now but your own voice, and in your own voice, you can admit that you are truly nothing but a possession. Michael doesn’t care if he breaks you; he will play with you as rough as he wishes, and if his roughhousing breaks you beyond repair, he will discard you just as readily as he captured you and find another toy to own.

So shocking is the pain of Michael filling your body that everything besides that pain registers only on a background level. Now, the ball beneath you is dipping with his weight again. Now, he is pressing his boot against the back of it. Now, he is lining up his boot like a soccer player preparing to punt his free foul into the net. Now, the suffocating charge in the air is not just threatening; it is murderous.

A sequence of events occurs to you all at once.

Michael is going to kick the ball.

He is going to kick the medicine ball out from beneath you.

He is going to hang you,

and he is going to fuck your ass while you hang.

You shake your head no and heave exhausted sobs which streak uselessly down Michael’s hand and plink against the medicine ball.

Please don’t let me hang, say your sobs. It could kill you. <That’s the point that’s the whole point he’s done with you he’s trying to kill you now.> Please don’t. You could just as easily snap your neck in your thrashing. Please don’t. It is a total throw of the dice. Please don’t. If the noose doesn’t kill you then the shock will. Please don’t. You bawl at him. Please don’t. <It’s not enough to stop him he’s going to do it.> Please don’t. You’re begging him out loud now, shouting muffled, unheard words into his burning hand. Please don’t. The garage is a sloppy blur because the tears are coming so hard. Please don’t. <It’s useless.> You know; but you can’t stop yourself. Please don’t. Please don’t. Please—

The momentum of his kick is brutal and swift. Your feet touch nothing.

You thrash in the air like a fish on a hook. Your face and lips are numb in an instant. The pressure in your head is worse than anything you have ever felt. There is a ghastly shape looming behind you and it is both Michael and the Reaper coming to collect because the two are one in the same.

Can’t breathe. Gaping. Legs kicking uselessly.

Blackness clouding. Pressure still building.

Hands seizing you now,

and a stabbing heat,

drilling into you,

splitting you open,

piercing your stomach,

rocking your body,

nothing but pain,

bursting inside of you,

and another heat,

filling you up,

gushing down your legs...

then blackness, throbbing, swallowing…

...

You wake.

Although immediately you wish you hadn’t.

Everything below your chest pounds, throbs, sore as though exerted near to tearing.

You wince as you sit upright against the wall and a hissing little breath leaves your horribly chapped lips, followed by a bassy groan. Your muscles feel jellified; slow to respond, unwilling to participate.

You cannot remember anything beyond the blackness. How long have you been asleep for? Days, you guess, because that’s what it feels like. The back of your skull is agony. When did you hit your head? You must be concussed.

You believe for a moment that you have been hit by a car because nothing else could possibly cause this sort of tremendous full-body ache. You believe it right up until the point when your blinking eyes come into focus; and you blink some more, until you realize what you are looking at.

There is a dead animal nailed to your bedroom door.

Then the floodgates are opened and it all comes rushing painfully back.

Oh; of course. Nothing could cause this sort of ache, except a car crash—

—or Michael.

You realize where you are now. You are sitting on a table stool against your bathroom door, just across the hall from your bedroom.

And Bandit the Raccoon is still crucified where Michael left him.

You shift uncomfortably on your unforgiving seat. Michael’s mess drips out of you in a clammy soup, pooling on the wood beneath your thighs and ass. It’s a lot. He had been using you for a long time. You blink languidly as you sift through foggy memories, trying to remember when and where and how—you can’t remember the first time.

That’s right. Because you had passed out. Because he did it while you were hanging.

You are grateful to let that memory die.

Lurching forward, you try to rise to your feet.

Except you can’t. Your neck meets more rope.

A rope of the very same thickness and coarseness as your noose had been. It probably is your noose, you realize.

Immediate panic floods your eyes. Oh no, please no. You’ve had enough for today. Please no more. You panic for a second longer. And then you realize that it is not a noose; not anymore.

It is just a collar.

The rope tied around your neck has been nailed into the door, keeping you from straying far—or at all, really. He’s secured your arms and ankles that way, too.

Looking side-to-side at your wrists, you see now what you couldn’t before—the ugly purple scar-like rashes where your arms had been lashed together unforgivingly. You look away quickly.

You give your restraints a half-hearted tug. Sure enough, the nails in your ropes do not so much as budge; you won’t be going anywhere. Michael must not be done with you yet. You must have stopped responding at some point during his torment and now he is just letting your batteries recharge.

And then he’s going to play with you some more.

You steel yourself before you gaze up at Bandit again. You do not want to; God, you don’t want to look at that stupid dead raccoon. You think you hate its dumb dead guts. Look what your generosity earned you. Even so, you cannot help but feel some twisted sense of comradery with Bandit—some inexplicable transcendent connection.

If anybody gets it, Bandit does. Bandit understands what it is like to experience Michael.

You study Bandit’s ruined corpse and dull eyes and masked face.

And then it dawns on you that Michael has restrained you in the exact position as the dead raccoon nailed to your bedroom door.

Both your arms are spread out wide from your bodies, palms out-turned, a pair of bastardized angels. Bandit has already earned his halo. You have lived to see another day without gaining one of your own.

You doubt your mock-crucifixion has any meaning at all beyond petty torment. Michael's sadistic practical joke still persists, even now.

You look at Bandit some more. You must be losing your mind because you’re speaking aloud to dead raccoons now.

“Out of the two of us,” you whisper up at him tearfully, “You’re the one that got off easy.”

Bandit peers down at your battered body with his dead black beady eyes.

Somehow, you think he agrees.

#tw: noncon #tw: abuse #tw: animal death #Michael Myers #michael myers x reader #halloween #slashers #slasher x reader #writing #fanfiction #reader insert #horror

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concussed-to-pieces · 4 years

Text

Whether It Works Out Or Not; Back In The Cage

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2

Pairing: High Honor!Arthur Morgan/Named OFC

Rating: Holy shit T.

AN: Okay I promise I swear this is the last bonus chapter until I finish the game. I swear.

[Spoiler warning for the first four chapters of the game!]

Tag List: @huliabitch @cookiethewriter @pedrosbigdorkenergy @thirstworldproblemss @anonymouscosmos @culturalrebel @karmezii @teaofpeach @crookedmoonsaultpunk @wrestlingfae @zombiexbody @nelba @scribblenotes76 @toxiicpop @mstgsmy @misty-possum @gallowsjoker @midnightbeauty35 @lackofhonor @renegademustelid

Part One: Strangers

Part Two: Friends

Part Three: More

Bonus One: A Brief Diversion

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: For allusions to character death, mentions of previous abuse, historical inaccuracies and my poorly-remembered French. Stay safe!]

She felt a bit silly in her outfit.

Of course, she didn't need to display as such. "Tastefully understated," she had said to herself in the mirror with a firm nod. It was the fawn-brown dress (admittedly, it was the only dress she currently owned), but she had scraped together the funds for some light trimmings and alterations. A flounce of lace around the hem, a small length of lovely cream ribbon at the waist. The corset, while unwanted, would be expected, practically required in polite company, and even secondhand it was by far the most expensive piece of the puzzle. After that, everything else seemed to fall into place.

Irene Carson (née Craft) arrived at the ball astride Bluster, her hair crowned with a plethora of vanilla flowers and one single spider orchid. The buttermilk buckskin had been curried to within an inch of his life, and sported a matching cluster of vanilla flowers in his mane. He behaved remarkably well given all the hubbub, not putting up any fuss when he was taken from her to be stabled for the evening.

Irene had no elaborate hat to wear, no fantastical feathered monstrosity, so she had made do with what she could find. The flowers would be out of fashion, but they would suit her understated attire a bit better. Perhaps she could be fashionably unfashionable, ahead of the curve.

"I will not be on the list, but please tell Mayor Lemieux that it is the Widow Carson." She politely informed the man with the list at the gate, doing her best to seem calm and collected.

This was a bold move in the normally-subtle social maneuvering of Saint Denis. Attempting to integrate herself back into the gentry was a risky strategy, but a recent realization had convinced her of the necessity of such a move.

Arthur had made an excellent point. That house had sat silent for long enough. It was time for her to take what spoils she could, time for her to think of the future. Hardly fair that she should escape her dismal marriage with nothing but the clothes on her back!

Tonight would be the first step, provided she could even get past the door.

As luck would have it, the mayor himself, Henri Lemieux, came out to verify her claim. "Irene? My dear Mrs. Carson, is it really you?" He asked, all a-fluster. "Let me look at you my dear, let me just…" The man took her by the shoulders, examining her face. "It is you! Mon dieu, Irene, we all thought you had perished! Willie assured us-"

"I am certain he went to great lengths to convince you all of the legitimacy of my death." Irene interrupted him coolly. "However, it would appear that he greatly exaggerated."

"He said you...Irene, my dear, he claimed you committed suicide. He had me thoroughly convinced! But he remarried so quickly, I…" The mayor shook his head in a disapproving manner. "I know more individuals than I alone were skeptical! Oh it is so good to see you again, my dear. Please, you are more than welcome." He offered her his arm, which she took without hesitation. "How have you been, my cheré? Your hair is so short, so fashionable! I see you have been taking cues from our sister city of Paris, ne c'est pas?"

"Naturellement, my dear sir." Irene replied, offering him a soft smile. "I know I will look somewhat out of place in your party. Please forgive my impropriety, but when the news of Willie's passing reached me...I so longed to see you all again, I could not stay away."

"Nonsense, you have nothing to apologize for!" The mayor scolded her lightly, patting her arm. "You have returned from the dead, our very own Lazarus wreathed in flowers like a Belgian-crafted nymph! You are most welcome at our little fête, dear girl. I daresay, after whatever it was that you went through, you are quite justified in a night of revelry." His heavily-accented voice dipped to a conspiratorial tone, "and you must tell us all about your trials. I am certain you have a grand story indeed!"

"Thank you for your hospitality, my dear Mayor Lemieux. I pray that the road ahead of me is far kinder than the road I have traveled thus far."

…

And here Arthur had thought that them playing lawmen was as foolish as they could get.

He couldn't even believe some of the stunts Dutch was willing to pull for the sake of networking or contacts. The bunch of them looked like damn circus animals in their tuxedos and white ties, and Bill in particular seemed aggressively uncomfortable. Just getting him to bathe had been a struggle.

Arthur personally had been downright henpecked by Grimshaw and Tilly, the two of them doing their damnedest to tame his thick, unruly mane with a comb and the vestiges of some pomade. All the while Abigail alternated between telling him he would cause every woman at the ball to swoon and bemoaning his stubble. He had shaved yesterday, damn it, and he wasn't going to shave again!

Lord, they were all fools.

Hosea was the only one who seemed to be even remotely at ease, the elderly man already maneuvering his way to the balcony above the courtyard before Dutch had even managed to find Bronte so they could 'pay their respects'. Bill just followed Hosea like a lost puppy.

Arthur didn't have to understand Italian to know that Senor Bronte was insulting them right out the gate. Neither did Dutch, if the tense smile he gave Angelo while they conversed was any indication.

Arthur was slightly entertained by the panic that flitted across the waiter's face when the larger man ended up catching his arm to use the match originally lit for Dutch's cigar. Never mind that Arthur had had to cut his own cigar with his damn teeth, he was used to doing that shit. Used to falling by the wayside in the gregarious presence of Dutch Van Der Linde. But he wasn't about to let this stuffed-shirt little cocktail carrier get away with ignoring him scot-free. An uncut cigar he could excuse, but an unlit one? That was sacrilege.

The courtyard was teeming with people, illuminated by the soft glow from crisscrossing strands of fashionable Edison bulbs. There were so many ornate gowns, elaborate hats and stiff-necked suits, Arthur scarcely knew where to look. "Mingle, Arthur." Dutch ordered in an undertone, giving him a concealed shove from behind. "Steal nothing unless it's information."

Arthur sighed, straightened his white tie with the air of a man set before the gallows, and slowly descended into what reminded him of how educated folks would describe an active volcano. The courtyard was a maelstrom of activity, the dull roar punctuated by the mosquito-esque whine of a string quartet. God, what he would give to be out with Irene in the hills instead, listening to her play the fiddle for the wolves.

He shook his head at himself. Again with this nonsense, thinking about her every time he heard violin music.

He gritted his teeth and approached a group of women, seizing a bottle of champagne off one of the tables as he went. Arthur Morgan was not a smart man, but if there was one thing he knew, it was that folk were more inclined to think charitably towards you if you brought them alcohol.

"Ladies, might I offer you some champagne?" Arthur asked, knowing his speech was stilted at best as he tried to choke his drawl down. The trio of women seemed to buy it though, simpering and preening while calling him a gentleman.

That was a lie, and Lord was it a bold one. Though, looking around at the so-called polite company, Arthur felt less like the villain that he was and more like a sheep that had wandered into a wolf's den.

Maybe a nest of vipers would be more accurate.

Either way, the large man wasn't used to feeling like prey. As he made his rounds slowly across the courtyard, complimenting outlandish hats and offering his input on the most recent theatre performances (which he had absolutely no clue about), Arthur experienced the distinct sensation of the noose tightening around his neck yet again. Saint Denis was far too civilized for the likes of the Van Der Linde gang. It was only a matter of time before they were rooted out, sent scampering into the night like the vermin they were or slaughtered without quarter.

Lord, this place made him long for the open country.

He bumped into Hosea and Dutch shortly after he had rescued a rail-thin man from choking to death on some peanuts, the two elders of the gang looking like they were plotting something.

"Figure anythin' out yet?" Arthur asked softly.

"Maybe, Arthur. You see that group of folks over by the fountain? That fellow with the tall top hat is the mayor himself." Dutch pointed the man out, gesturing with his cigar.

"So?" Arthur muttered.

"So, my dear boy, ingratiating ourselves with the mayor's little band will no doubt do wonders for our credibility."

"Dutch, if the mayor is already cozy in Bronte's pocket like we are, what's even the damn point?" Arthur queried, trying not to sound as sulky as he felt.

Dutch sighed heavily and Hosea quickly interjected, "it's not necessarily the mayor that's our target, Arthur. Rather, the group of people with him. We are attempting to make as many friends as we can, if you recall."

The large man nodded. "Shoah, I guess. You want me to mosey over and...what was the word? Ingrate myself?"

"Ingratiate Arthur, dear Lord." Dutch huffed.

"Right, yeah. Usual fake name?"

"Of course, my dear boy!" Hosea replied brightly, smiling and patting him on the back. "You may have some luck with the woman he has alongside him. From what I can gather, she's stolen the show a bit. The Widow Carson, back from the dead!" He chuckled, oblivious to the way Arthur froze. "Apparently she's returned to attempt to claim her deceased husband's money. Some nasty business, for certain."

"See if you can get into her good graces, Arthur. A wealthy benefactor could do the gang wonders." Dutch instructed absently, already back to scanning the crowds.

"Her good--Dutch what the hell are you sayin'?!" Arthur hissed, his stomach knotting as a nasty sense of comprehension slowly dawned on him.

"Oh go on Arthur, just pour on the charm! I know you can do it." Hosea encouraged, misinterpreting the source of Arthur's discomfort. The older man gave him a gentle nudge and Arthur found himself sent on his way.

A wealthy benefactor. Was it Irene? Was Irene really here? More importantly, was Arthur shameless enough to accomplish what Dutch had requested of him?

A wealthy benefactor. His skin crawled and Arthur suddenly felt disgusting as he realized that, were it not for his suspicion that the Widow Carson was indeed Irene, he would not have any sort of particular qualms about being asked to do something like this.

Is it Irene? All he could see from his current position was Mayor Lemieux's top hat. He loitered beside a garish floral arrangement for a few moments, trying his best to get himself under control. He was Arthur Morgan, the enforcer of the Van Der Linde gang for fuck's sake! He had survived countless trials before this, surely he could manage speaking to a woman at a party!

Arthur growled under his breath, clenched his fists, and slowly approached the group by the fountain.

"-cheré, you must continue with your story! Ferdinand, stop interrupting, I beg of you!" The mayor was chiding one of the other men standing there, his voice luxuriantly heavy with a French accent.

The other man, whose complexion was bright red (whether from drink or passion, Arthur could not yet discern), scoffed at the mayor. "Her tale is rife with inaccuracies, Henri! We knew Willie, he would never-"

"Unless you too visited him in his bedchambers, Ferdinand, I suggest you keep your observations to yourself."

Irene. Oh Lord, Irene, flowers woven into her hair like she was a damn forest spirit out of those old Greek tragedies. It was like time had stopped for Arthur as he took in every detail. God, he was startled all over again by just how much he had missed her. She was in that dress, the one she had worn in Valentine. But wonder of all wonders, she appeared to be fully-laced this evening. Arthur swallowed hard, tearing his eyes away from the shapely curve of her hips. The way her corset held and molded her body into something devastating, a weapon normally concealed from him by men's clothing…

Well, he was a red-blooded American. Unfortunately right now, he had to try his damnedest to temper that particular truth about his nature.

"It ain't complex, Lemieux, and only an idiot like you, buddy, would try to make it so!" Ferdinand continued over what Irene had been saying, sloshing the liquor in his glass dangerously close to that beautiful dress. Irene's brown eyes were fairly crackling with restrained fury, color high in her cheeks as she endured being near this loathsome character. She looked magnificent. Arthur wished he could kiss her, right then and there.

"I will not deny idiocy sir, but perhaps now is not the time." The mayor tried to settle Ferdinand down by placating him, however the outspoken man didn't seem to get the hint.

"Typical pansy!"

"You are drunk, Ferdinand." Lemieux stated disapprovingly.

"I'm not drunk, you fool...but this man! This man loves damsels-"

"Ferdinand, your behavior is becoming unseemly." Irene said through clenched teeth. Arthur had a nasty feeling that he knew exactly what Ferdinand had been about to say before Irene cut him off. "Not to mention utterly irrelevant to the topic at hand. Must you constantly inflict your heinous presence upon polite company?"

"Hey hey, you are pretty drunk." Arthur chose that moment to intervene, draping his arm nonchalantly around the belligerent man's shoulders and pinning Ferdinand's arm behind his back after a momentary adjustment. "What's say you and me cool off?" He 'suggested' cheerily, strong-arming the drunkenly-protesting Ferdinand off to the gazebo at the rear of the courtyard. Giving the man a rough shove, Arthur stated (much more rationally than he felt like being at the moment), "sit down and calm down. Count to a thousand. Then, you can rejoin the party."

...

"Thank you sir!" Henri said sincerely, shaking Arthur's hand upon his triumphant return sans one loudmouth.

"My pleasure." The tawny-haired man replied with a boyish grin. Lord, if she had thought he looked dashing before-! Irene was tempted to feign a swoon. Arthur had clearly been blessed by a trip to the tailor, of that much she was certain. The black suit coat accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow waist in equal measure, leaving him imposingly proportionate in a way that was incredibly tasteful. She was sorely pressed to keep her eyes from wandering, realizing vaguely that Henri was introducing himself.

"Henri Lemieux. I hope you are enjoying my party?"

"The mayor!" Arthur said with an air of surprise, as if he had not known. Irene didn't buy it for a second. Though she was grateful for his timely arrival, she had to wonder why he was here. Did Arthur Morgan have friends in high places?

"Allegedly!" Henri replied with a modest chuckle. "And you are?"

"Tacitus Killgore, at your service." Irene blinked. That was unexpected. What an elaborate fake name, but he said it so confidently! "This is quite a place you've got here." Arthur continued the conversation, his drawl a touch off. Like he was deliberately attempting to soften it.

"It's not mine, and the city is horribly in debt, but we still can put on a good show." Henri gestured after a moment to the man on his right. "Do you know Evelyn Miller, Monsieur Killgore?"

"My Lord. The writer?" Arthur appeared legitimately awed now, shaking Mr. Miller's hand. Irene could understand that awe, Miller was a revered and respected author amongst the folk in the untamed wilderness of the new States. She herself had been simply soaking up the man's educated palaver like a sponge until Henri urged her to begin sharing her trials.

"Ah, and of course! Our unexpected but most welcome guest, Madame the Widow Irene Carson." Henri introduced her with an elaborate flourish of his hand, making her laugh. "She has been regaling us with the exciting tale of her return to life! It is fascinating to hear."

"Enchanté, Mister Killgore." Irene said, smiling and offering Arthur a quick curtsy. Again, out of fashion, and a bit difficult with the added restriction of her corset, but the quaint gesture had always been preferable to a nod as far as she was concerned. If only that bath girl hadn't been so thorough in lacing her!

Arthur bowed, took her hand and touched it to his lips chastely. "The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Carson." Her murmured, blue eyes boring into her own. Irene suddenly felt incredibly warm, despite her no-doubt constricted blood flow. "A return to life, you said? Have you been travelin' abroad then, ma'am?"

"Oh no sir, I'm afraid it's been nothing quite so delightful as that." Irene demurred. "Rather trying, in all honesty."

"Truly, it is a sordid affair. Her own husband, claiming she had perished!" Henri shook his head, looking appropriately distraught. "Ghastly. Then, Willie marrying that other woman so fast, and her turning out to be a murderer...well, it is like something from a cheap novel!"

"How awful that experience must have been for you, my lady." Arthur said softly. "Might I listen to the rest of the story, or are you weary of tellin' such a tale?"

"I'm afraid there is not overmuch left to tell, Mister Killg-"

"Please, ma'am, call me Tacitus." He insisted, his eyes bright with their secret joke.

Irene couldn't help her smile in reply. "Of course, Tacitus. But as I was saying, there is not much to tell. I have spent most of my exile cowering in a cabin out in the mountains, shivering to death or roasting alive." She had tried so very hard to dumb down the tale, doing her best to make it seem like she was still the frail and fragile Mrs. Carson.

"It sounds like you have endured quite a bit of hardship, ma'am." Arthur's lips quirked upwards at the corner, his smile faint but still there. "It's a miracle you managed to survive! A delicate li'l thing like you, all alone out there in that dangerous wilderness." His voice dipped low enough to make her shiver. "Especially with such...reprehensible folk about these days."

Like me, his gaze seemed to say, the heat in that look reminding Irene of when he had kissed her at the stables.

"Exactly what I said, Monsieur Tacitus! Irene, you were so rash! I know that you believed you had no recourse, and I must apologize for my own complacency regarding Willie's abhorrent behavior, but surely there was another way!" The mayor scolded her.

"I am so very sorry, Henri. Next time I am kept prisoner in my own house, I'll be certain to send you a messenger pigeon." Irene retorted wryly, making Henri sputter as Arthur outright laughed. Ah, that laugh! She would have gladly borne her troubles in silence had she known such a delightful sound would someday grace her ears.

Irene was struck anew by the providence of her whole situation while she watched Arthur do his best to play at high society. She had not often been afforded the privilege to observe him, instead of the other way around. His blue eyes caught the amber light quite marvelously, his jaw shaded with stubborn stubble that gave him just the tiniest hint of wildness, of untamed danger. Enough to make him appealing to many of the women present. Irene wasn't sure if she should be flattered or concerned about the amount of time he was spending with the mayor and, by proxy, herself.

She was growing increasingly lightheaded from the squeeze of her corset and was just about to ask Henri if she could impose upon his hospitality for a brief reprieve to adjust herself when abruptly, the butler approached to inform Mayor Lemieux that he had another phone call from the tycoon, Leviticus Cornwall.

Henri waved the man off as fireworks began to erupt overhead. Irene, noting how Arthur watched the butler depart a touch more narrowly than one might in polite company, dared to place a hand on his arm. "Tacitus, my dear, you play your cards too openly." She whispered, her words making Arthur grimace. "May I ask you to escort me upstairs? I fear all this excitement has me feeling a bit short of breath."

…

"Tacitus-" Irene gasped his fake moniker at the top of the stairs, groping the wall for some kind of support. "I realize this is very forward of me, but I must beg for your assistance in loosening these damned--" She paused for air. "Lord, I fear I will swoon. This is so tight-"

"Okay, easy now." Arthur murmured, privately marveling at how large his hands looked on her cinched waist when he steadied her. "I gotcha', Irene. It's alright."

She didn't appear to be exaggerating for his sake. The walk up the stairs had nearly done her in, it would seem. She was incredibly pale, and trembling slightly. He had assumed that she was just playing along for whatever reason, the two of them stalking the butler for fun or profit, but it was evident now that she had no such ulterior motives.

Arthur picked a door at random, immensely thankful that the room behind it was a parlour of sorts. Irene all but collapsed on the chaise, her fingers clumsy with the tiny buttons that ran the length of the front of her dress. Arthur rushed to assist after he made certain to lock the door, feeling a little frantic at the way Irene was wheezing for air.

"You're okay, you're okay, we'll get you loosened up." He tried to calm her (and himself), working on the next button in the line. "Front or back lacing, Irene?"

"Back." Her voice had gone pitchy. "I--she laced me very well."

"I know, shh, gimme' a minute." Arthur soothed, willing himself to relax. This wasn't any sort of terrible scenario, this was mundane compared to how his life usually was! How the hell was it that his hands were shaking more over getting a woman undressed than being shot at by the law?!

The two of them managed to peel the dress down over her shoulders far enough to let Arthur maneuver his hands in between her chemise and corset to loosen her laces. Slowly, carefully, he worked his way down, gradually slacking the binds. He didn't want to just undo the whole damn thing, that would leave her to endure the remainder of the party with her bosom unfettered and as appealing as that was to him, he knew that the gentry would tear her apart for it.

"Any better?" He asked after a moment, relieved when she nodded.

Then, "I didn't think you would actually help me." She admitted softly, holding her dress closed in the front. Arthur was stunned. "I assumed you were going to follow his retainer." Irene turned to look at him after a moment. "Why are you here, Arthur?"

Lord, he felt like a sinner on Judgement Day. Pinned by the weight of an angel's stare, all he could do was try to tell her the truth. "My...associates and I are...well, we need leads, Miss Irene. Senor Bronte, in exchange for our...services, cut us a deal for invitations to this ball. And uh, I suppose that's it." He said awkwardly. "I didn't expect you to be here, I figured you'd have headed for the Grizzlies by now."

Irene shrugged. "I thought long and hard about what you said during our last meeting. Me not taking everything that wasn't nailed down, that is." She squared her shoulders stiffly, trying to straighten her dress out. "I decided it was time to take back what's rightfully mine, propriety be damned."

Arthur put his hands on her shoulders, slipping the dress back down to reveal bare, freckled skin. He breathed her name, ducking his head to drop a kiss on the nape of her neck and feeling her shiver. His next words caught in his throat. How could he do something like that to her?

A wealthy benefactor, Dutch had said, like it was an afterthought. Like she wasn't a person, but a resource. A tool.

Because that was all she would be to Dutch, Arthur realized grimly. A silly woman for them to string along, someone with deep pockets and a trusting heart. She wasn't Irene to Dutch or Hosea, she was the Widow Carson. A naive young widow, beautiful and lonely and (possibly) about to come into some significant money. The perfect target for a good old-fashioned seduction.

Lord, he had almost preferred feeling like prey earlier to this sudden cold understanding of how his companions (and even he himself, to a lesser degree) saw people like Irene.

"You look beautiful tonight, Irene." He murmured instead.

"Don't tease me, Arthur." Irene retorted sharply. "I am an utter mess. I look like a child playing dress up amongst all the immaculate gowns down there." She then sniffled, the noise almost too soft for him to hear. "I very nearly fainted dead away because I haven't worn one of these blasted things in almost a year! What kind of proper lady can't even endure the simplest of corsets?"

"The kind that doesn't need one to turn every damn head in the room." Arthur said gruffly, a hand beneath her chin tilting her head back so he could see her face. Her brown eyes shone with frustrated tears. "You're beautiful, woman. Why the hell don't you believe it?"

"A majority of my marriage was punctuated by people who felt the need to inform me that I was attractive 'for my age', Arthur. I'm old, I'm nearly thirty. No man wants a wife that old. My father was hard-pressed to marry me off when I was twenty-four, can you even imagine what folk might say to a man who would court me in my thirties?" Irene shook her head despondently. "I...I don't know what I'm doing, Arthur." She confessed suddenly. "I am terrified. If I put effort into taking whatever might be left and it turns out to all be for naught, I don't know what I'll do!" Her hands twisted in her skirts. "I'll be back to where I was before."

Arthur wasn't certain he understood what the issue was. She had seemed happy out in the wilderness. Hell, she had insisted upon her happiness. What had brought on this change, this desire for stability and financial security? He was thoroughly confused. "I don't know what to tell you, Irene." He said finally.

"I know, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have even brought it up." Irene apologized. "It's hardly your concern, Mister Tacitus." She tried to tease, daubing at her eyes with her sleeve and then starting to button her dress back up. "Just the worries of a silly woman whose age is catching up with her, I suppose."

Arthur caught her wrist to stop her, pressing a kiss to the inside of it like he had done so many times before. Her pulse tripped and hammered beneath his lips, galloping wildly. "Irene, you are beautiful." He sighed, his fingertips grazing her exposed collarbone when he palmed her shoulders from behind. "Everyone down there knows it. I know it. You could have your pick of fellers downstairs if that's what you're so worried about."

"It's such a fleeting thing, Arthur." She whispered. "When it is gone, if I cannot reclaim any of Willie's estate...I'll have nothing and no one."

Arthur wanted to die. He wanted to grab her shoulders and embrace her and say you'll have me, God damn it! But he knew he couldn't promise her that, as much as he wanted to. Hell, getting truly involved with him would no doubt cut her life short. That fear was what kept him from speaking, no matter how badly he wished to assure her. Even after the tender moments they had spent together in the wilds, now, when it would have made a difference, he was unable to offer any sort of meaningful comfort.

Arthur closed his eyes, cursing himself roundly. "You don't mean that, Irene. The mayor seems-"

"Henri was perfectly willing to overlook my abuse when Willie was funding his campaign. All of them down there were complacent." Irene interjected, her tone one of barely-bridled fury. "Politicians and the elite are of no use to me, Arthur, for I am of no use to them."

Fair enough, Arthur mused. "So what are you gonna' do, then?"

"I'm going to try and bring my case to the attention of the courts. Willie was an only child, which is the sole reason I may still have a chance to receive something for my trouble." Irene's shoulders slumped and Arthur dug his fingers in, silently working out a few of the knots she seemed to have created in her muscles.

"I hope it goes accordin' to plan for you, then." He said finally.

"As do I." Irene took his hand, leading him around to the front of the chaise. "I have missed you, Arthur Morgan." She said simply. Sweet and honest.

He was a fool.

Arthur felt like cheap gold leaf as he greedily buried his hands in her hair, sending one of the vanilla blossoms tumbling to the floor when he did. He felt like a veneer of class spread thin on his thieving bones, he felt like a liar. This vision of a woman, this divine being who trusted him so readily...

This time would be the last. It would have to be. If Dutch found him out, if his pre-established closeness to the Widow Carson was discovered, Arthur knew that Dutch would tell him to bleed her dry.

And Arthur, the kind, loyal man that he was, would do it. Because loyalty was everything.

…

Arthur was troubled. Even through her own worries, Irene could see that. She threaded her fingers through the shaggy locks at the nape of his neck, whispering his name. "What's wrong, Arthur?"

"I...I can't keep doin' this, Irene." He confessed, those blue eyes stormy with emotion. "I can't keep draggin' you down with me. You deserve so much more than a man who you don't really know, a man who's here an' gone again. It ain't right."

"I don't much care what I deserve, Arthur Morgan." Irene said tartly. "If you want me, I am here. You have yet to cause me harm in any of our endeavors, which is more than I can say for my prior partner." She tugged at the back of his neck, bringing their foreheads together. "If you want me, Arthur, I am here."

"Irene," he grated out, cupping her face, "I'm a bad man. I've done a whole heap of turrible things. I ain't the kind of man that you should be lettin' anywhere near you."

"And despite all of that, I'm beneath you on a chaise in the mayor's upstairs drawing room." Irene replied dryly. "Honestly Arthur, I thought you knew by now that my intuition is quite dreadful."

"Irene-"

"You are remarkably poor at displaying any sort of reluctance, Mister Arthur." It felt like icy fingers were creeping their way down her spine. Had he finally decided that whatever they were, it wasn't worth his time? She could hardly blame him, of course! She was a currently-penniless widow. She had offered herself freely in the past; he owed her nothing, just as she owed him nothing.

"Because I ain't reluctant!" Arthur exclaimed. "I'm...Christ, Irene, I want this. I want you, so much that it hurts. But the life I lead ain't got a chance in it for a happy, fairytale endin' where I get to live out my days in peace. I have people I need to take care of, and you have a life of your own to finally start livin'." He stated firmly. "So for both our sakes, we can't...continue."

"At the very least," Irene begged, her thumbs stroking the familiar scar on his chin while she peppered his face with light pecks, "may we still be friends, Arthur?"

"Irene…" Arthur breathed, tilting his face to the side and kissing her until she was dizzy. "You've given me so damn much, woman. Given me hope, and beauty, and music. My friendship ain't worth spit compared to what you've done for me."

Irene shook her head, blinking back her tears. "I'm the one that ought to be saying that, Mister Arthur!" She protested. "I wish there was more I could do to repay the kindness you've shown me."

"Miss Irene, all the payment I ask for is that you go and live your life to the fullest extent. Take tenfold from that son of a bitch what he took from you." Arthur swept back some of the curls on her forehead, the gesture achingly tender. "Do that, and you'll be paid up, alright?" He murmured.

Irene took his hand and kissed his knuckles, feeling the pronounced lines of old abrasions on the skin when she did. "Don't give up, Arthur. There is someone out there who will be worth it to you." She told him, her voice trembling a bit as she struggled to get the words out. "Someone who will see you for how kind and loyal you are and instead of taking advantage of it, they'll cherish it. Guard you close to their heart like a jealous little secret." Her smile was tentative, "that's what I would do, anyway."

Arthur cursed under his breath, shoving his thigh gracelessly between her legs. "Irene." He said her name and it was an oath, a prayer. Whether for himself or for her, she couldn't say.

"Yes, Arthur?" Irene replied softly.

"If you hear about me in the future, if…" he hesitated, clearing his throat as he drew his index finger studiously down the side of her face. "If somethin' happens, don't pay it any mind, alright? Remember me just like this. All gussied up in this frippery, lookin' like the world's most uncomfortable trained bear." He tried to laugh, but it sounded hollow. "Can you do that for me? Please?"

"As long as you remember me like I was in the wilds." Irene was pleased when he smiled. "All filthy, with twigs in my hair."

"The Irene of my dreams has always been the one from the wilderness." Arthur confessed quietly. "This is lovely, don't get me wrong." He continued, giving her skirts a playful tweak. "But you out in the forests, playin' your violin for the wolves an' howlin' at the moon...that's the Irene I think about." The man cleared his throat again after a moment, looking away. "Now, let's get you put to rights. Buttoned up and all that. I figure it'll be best if I go back first. Hopefully folk won't be too suspicious. Shit, I don't even know how long we been gone for." He swore, grumbling a little as he struggled to help her with the tiny buttons on her dress.

Irene giggled, feeling a bit hysterical. "Oh heavens, what they will think of me! My husband hardly cold in the ground and now I'm enjoying an absolutely scandalous rendezvous with a handsome stranger. I'll be the talk of Saint Denis for weeks!"

"Woman, if you don't quit your funnin'..." Arthur huffed, a wry grin pulling at his mouth seemingly in spite of himself.

Irene rubbed her forehead against his own, smiling a bit wistfully. "Shall I ever see you again, Mister Arthur?"

"For your sake, I sure as hell hope not." Arthur replied bluntly. "Bad luck seems to follow the folks I hang around with."

…

He hadn't entirely lied. He did leave ahead of her. However, he didn't return to the party immediately.

Instead, Arthur ducked into the study he had seen that butler enter when he and Irene were making their way up the stairs. A few minutes of pointed rummaging and a jimmied lock on the desk drawer later, Arthur Morgan (or rather, Tacitus Killgore) was the proud owner of various interesting, incriminating documentation. Leviticus Cornwall. Arthur barely resisted the urge to spit on command when he so much as thought the man's name.

Footsteps passed by the door and he froze, pressing himself back against the bookcases until whoever it was had descended down the stairs.

Hopefully, this information would please Dutch to the point where he would forget about Widow Carson. Arthur just wished that he could forget about Widow Carson. Irene.

Maybe...maybe if she was still in the drawing room, he could explain. Maybe there was still time. It would be dangerous, of course, but she deserved the truth. She deserved to know why he couldn't promise her anything aside from a life of fear and misery. Shit, at the very least she deserved to know why he was cutting her loose!

Arthur left the study and retraced his steps to the drawing room, his heart in his throat and her name on the tip of his tongue. Irene--

But she was gone.

The chaise was vacant, lonely in the cluttered room. Through the open French doors to the balcony, the sounds of the party below filtered in like something from another world. He stalled in the doorway for a moment, uncertain of what to do. An object on the floor by the chaise caught his attention and Arthur stepped forward.

It was one of the vanilla flowers from her hair, the blossom sitting forlorn and abandoned next to the leg of the chaise. He scooped it up with all the care someone like him could muster, tenderly examining the fragile, bruised petals. Then, Arthur slipped it into the pocket of his suit coat.

Much, much later that evening (technically the next damn morning), when he was bedding down at Shady Belle, he delicately extracted the worn flower and proceeded to tuck it between two blank pages of his journal.

Irene, he wrote at the very bottom of the page, and then, in another life, if I was a better man, we could have been so happy together. Instead, I have to push you away to keep you -safe-.

What a fool I am.

The following page bore a loose, flowing sketch of her on the chaise, staring up at him while she clutched the front of her gown closed at her chest. The fierce look on her face that he had tried valiantly to capture on paper didn't hold a candle to the real thing. Irene Craft, he wrote, then scribbled out her name and instead put, -Politicians and the elite are of no use to me, Arthur, for I am of no use to them.-

Mayor Onry Lemieux's party.

Winter’s Cold: Part One

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