The shape/xreader/the pig
It's back to the fire after the match. You aren't excited to face your teammates this round, shoulders launching forward to make yourself smaller and thus impose on the group's attention. No doubt there will be some half bitten off sentences and acidic comments about you.
Unlike Meg, your speed isn't the refined muscle of months of labor but reliant on the candle wick of fear that burns hot and fast when a match begins. You've always been an easy scare. Saying this. You are known to be not so quick to help your teammates. It's pure cowardice that you freely admit you're at fault for. Offering your position up for others to escape is admirable in a moral world. However the entity's realm isn't that.
One of the Legion bagged you this match. However, before that you'd kept quiet while Kate screamed in familiar agony. You had all the chances to help her.
A grudge is there, a physical wall to you making friends. They teeter on feeling pity for your obvious inadequacy and vitriol.
Nea asks you a question. " What do you think about the new guy? Terrifying right?" Nea bless her heart, tries to bring you into the fold.
The man, if you could call him that, is a unit of solid muscle and steel. "He's big." You say. Best to keep it short.
She snorts and lays her chin down.
This is the fullest the circle has ever been. Laurie, poor thing, is spaced off looking tired as usual. She's one of the only people kind to you. That's on part because your selfishness has limits when it comes to the younger group members.
They really are just kids. It burns the back of your throat that they are here, the entity is a merciless God. When it comes to the teens, whatever distraction they need to get away from a killer you provide.
She absently gives you a smile.
You open your arms and she timidly sinks into them taking the comfort you offer silently.
Feeling the eyes of other survivors on you, the woods look more tempting by the second. You haven't dared explore them yet but now's as good a chance as any.
A chorus of acknowledgements and you march off.
Stepping in the branches reach for you. The crackle of the fire grows distant. The woods are overall silent. Eerie but what here isn't so?
Snapp walks these woods and so does Ash. Usually joking and wishing for a beer.
You miss home. Wherever home is. Memories are foggy. Some part if you isn't sure that you had a life outside.
Whenever they talk about the outside world they do so with yearning, recalling putting up feet on the dashboard of a cherry red car, drinking smoothies, studying, sneaking into a movie theater, skateboarding down a hill with the sun on their back and breeze cradling their smiles.
So alone. No one to hold.
People at camp fuck. A common secret that everyone keeps low. They savor the serotonin a quick orgasm gives them and chase the feeling of being in a better place, less blood, more sunshine. A grown woman like you should be taking these escapades too.
You haven't had the chance nor the urge to seek a partner of your own.
A familiar pant of breath grazes your ear. Myers. You turn to the camp and make a mad dash for safety. Crying out for Ash or-
Your throat is seized by an ironclad grip. Knocking your temple hard against a thick trunk of wood. Skin scraped off as easily as butter.
Already you're sobbing and tossing your head about, the pain. You're not ready for the pain.
The sticky blood trickles down to his hand in what you imagine is a common feeling. You pant.
"Please don't…" but he sticks his knife to your side with little fanfare. The answering scream is brutal, belts your throat. No matter how many times it happens the stab comes with all the same shock and pain as the very first one. A hot slide as it glides deep into meat, grazing bone, you can barely muster the strength to beg over the pain.
But it's a chore to him. No burst of interest or pleasure when he thrusts it in deeper.
You cradle the back of his shoulder. Fist grabbing the jumpsuit. Futile.
You go limp, without will or fight. The pain doesn't cease
Your shirt is a caked rag. Your skirt is a hiked belt over your stomach. Covering nothing. You would have noticed except the piercing hurt overcomes all other sensation.
It's an alianting feeling that sticks out like an awful squishy bruise against emotions such as anger, annoyance, disdain
It's calling his name, tugging at his pinky. This way. Come here. The voices are murmuring, hissing in response, grudging recognition.
What is this sudden shift?
A female voice. Cold. Unaffected, branches through. "What are you doing?"
But like fog his form turns insolid. Gone.
You lie there with the pain as a bedfellow, shake it off your still in danger your mind screams. You manage a jolt upwards.
Looking for the voice among the branches proves futile as does cupping waterver blood seeps out the wound. A figure is formed in the fog, shockingly crimson.
"We can't kill you outside the match." The Pig. Her voice barely registers in the aftermath. Coppery stream slides down your throat in a warm spill, the only thing warm in your body.
"Thank you." It's strange to say that to someone that has killed you before. You smooth down your skirt over chilled thighs and thumb the edges.
The pig mask is a gruesome sight but strangely less so than the man you were faced with earlier.
She lunges close. Snarling. "But we can hurt you as much as we want."
You stumble blind into the light of the campfire. A sound, soft chuckling follows.
Exclamations of concern meet you. Ash guides you down onto a mat to look over the damage.
Your mind replays the chuckle and feel of light brown hair when entering sleep. Your dreams, usually blank and too exhausted to come up with a scene, now have a personal mind real with a front row seat.
The two killers you met in the woods are there. Not hinting you, but watching, always watching
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