#cw ritual harm

[hollyhuedsoul]

Baseline for a Cultist Simulator / Soul Eater AU : A Sheet of Short Concept Introductions

Warning to all who enter : content ahead discusses blood, implications of ritualistic self harm, murder, the occult, the like, and, like all of this blog – is not intended for minors.

The characters within are being depicted and are to be interpreted as adults in this au, and there may be light spoilers for Cultist Simulator within. Nothing major or clearly defined, and hopefully nothing to restrict your interests in trying out my most beloved game of all time, should this snippet catch your interest.

Alright, enough of my blabbering :

- Mr. Soleil 'Soul' Evans (Bright Young Thing)

The second-borne son of a man caught in too many affairs of the pocket and the thirst. Blood of a lord, inheriting not his title, but a little more than could be bargained for.

Amongst the high-bred, Soul is a cold mare, but along the still-water streets and the shade of home, he is in true form, a mulish man kicking off the shackles of one's best Sunday dress. A pianist, an artist – the struggling lot plagued by dreams that would leave good men asking him unfortunate questions.

There are many who would seek to lead such an individual to unknown crossroads, especially as his original path of luxurious meandering falls short; his proud, regal father falls to delirium and disease. A man dying, then dead, his coffers cleaned by numbers of unspoken oaths that escaped all but debtors' notice. What remains is mostly for his brother and his mother's comforts. For himself, a small dowry. A heavy sentence of responsibility to replenish. To settle into a skin that doesn't suit him.

One clue, a hint of what knife has butchered Soul's inheritance, however, remains for him to decipher. A letter addressing many names, but all the same, the same, singular woman. Demands pleading for more time. More chances. Speaking of all the funds that had fallen from a dying man's throat into her greased palm. Cursing her in all of her names and writing 'the harpies' upon her.

If Soul should seek answers and restitution, he must first prepare himself to find the proper door, and, the means to knock. But as he shall learn, not all doors are of wood.

Some are wounds.

- Miss Albarn (The Benefactor)

A librarian that burns cigarette scars into midnight lounges when the thirst takes her, and indulges in tongues living people do not speak in when hunger nears. She funds those willing to seek words she has not yet tasted, acts as a translator for those without lantern light to read beside, and is a discreet collector of things the Bureau would prefer be burnt.

She is as various as her possessions and seven times as unknowable, a bearer of many a nom de guerre. Both the wine and the glass. The gleaming microscope and the bloody rot inspected.

No one seems to know where Miss Albarn came from, nor what her father became or where her mother went. This is a rare part of the histories she does not record with much scholarly discipline.

She is as kind as the sun. She is illuminating and bright, and she grows brighter still. One day, she hopes that the sky might open for her, too, if she can gain enough sway in the ports people do not visit, and the house that takes only sleeping guests and waking residents.

Until then, she guides the unfortunate. Making skulls of flesh into glass, flesh into pigment, hair into plumage.

Most regrettably, Miss Albarn can not dream. Unlike her contemporaries, she tries.

- Elizabeth 'Liz' Thompson (The Runner)

A daughter of the streets, descendant of some ancient fueds between colonels and their war machines. A child of struggle. An orphan. Older of two. Parent to herself and one younger.

For many years, she has worked and lived in odd jobs. Anything to get away from the cold, to stay out of the winter seasons and their ailments. Anything to keep her sister, Patty, up and pretty in the Gaiety, dancing as she so longed to. They did not both have to follow the city's edges, after all. Even if it kept Liz sharp, at least Patty could become fond of softer things.

But so it came, that softness, so unlike the cool bricks of alleyways. Pearls, fur coats, good bread, wine, and the letters. The trinkets of the younger Thompson's admirers, bearing those golden strings of expectations and new dangers. Benefactors are of fickle hearts, and even the pampered bear claws one must be mindful of, should such beasts not be entertained.

Liz was intolerable of it. In such circumstances, she could forget her fear of hunger, her hatred of the cold. Between them and her sister, those things didn't exist at all. It was quite simple really, putting a lump of lead between the seeing and thinking halves of a man.

What was in his parlor for the two sisters to abscond with, was not so simple, however.

Now, she has to run. It's all she can do.

- Patricia 'Patty' Thompson (The Dancer)

A flittering, eccentric woman from one whim to the next, she's been reared to tolerate the pain as long as she can make the leap, all with a smile to pair and the heart to match. Affected by an infectious source of optimism otherwise only found in her vivid dreams, Patty talks an awful lot of giraffes, trees, burrowing moles, and cuts her hair in snippets before rest.

She's lived many years at the Gaiety out of passion, her sister's support, and the determination to see Liz in a nice dress, if nothing else. Torn ligaments could never amount to much, compared to the delight of bringing home fresh meats and good cheeses with funny names.

Not ignorant by any means, the younger Thompson fashions herself a person of the moment, not yesterday or tomorrow, but the less-than-lucid joy of the most current daydream. And sometime in some yesterday long passed by now, a man demanded her interest and earned two denials. The first, knocking him onto his own floor and, the second, from the eldest Thompson, leaving him there to seep. She wouldn't commit much of it to memory, if not for the painting in the foyer.

Only then did she begin to learn the Names and put to mind the Hours, as figures peeled themselves away from white paint and gave her whispers, promises, and pleasant phrases. Gave weight and providence to what was before, childish wandering.

Patty now dances at the Ecdysis Club, and she fashions herself as a woman who will never stop dancing. She dreams of droves and ever-beating, pounding feet, of red hands, and a thunder under her skin. When the night is most fluttering and feeling, she does as the painting had, and peels away her layers. Peels until the audience, too, hears the endless storm.

At the end of the night, she collects pigments only she can produce. And by moonlight, she paints herself unceasing.

- 'The Pale Prince'

"... is of great notage, that this piece was crafted in 888, by eight different, unnamed artists who only addressed each other by different variations and means of saying, 'eight'. One, by tally, the second by doodles of seeds, third used military ranks...

The age is indicated by the materials used, and the related records passed between those responsible. Eight-hundreded and eighty-eight letters in all, discovered. Each, recovered miraculously well-preserved in sites from modern Italy to China, Peru to Brazil, several crates buried in Antarctica or Afghanistan, tablets of stone in Greece and Congo...

The style, however, is unlike anything resembling the era's movements, and the content it depicts raises more questions than I fear I will ever be able to answer. The painting depicts a man in a suit, dress pants, leather shoes. Very pale. Of course, I needn't explain to you how unusual this discovery is, but I shall, as it suits me, detail that...

Unfortunately, the Bureau began to dig for the painting's destruction during my last year at the institution. I must confess, I dearly suspect that, my colleague, Mr. Elias Crow, purposefully 'lost' the piece to prevent such an outcome.

I do also, confess, many personal doubts that the Bureau would possess even the correct means to do so properly. In the seven years I spent in its company, I found the thing most delightfully fascinating, and wrathful. And yes, I mean wrathful. Fitfull, even. Petty, like a creature. Something with cold breath.

Our first director, Mr. Eugene Shelly, happened to sneeze upon it, most regrettably amidst an examination. I can still recall each tiny infraction, the tiniest daps of...

They never did find all the pieces of Mr. Shelly. No, he was a bit scattered much like having been 'sneezed' himself. The first seven days passed by fine enough, his flu even improved, but on the eighth he took to the most inspirational mania I had ever been second-hand to, many thanks to his poor wife who confided in my person.

He had been shoving pen tips between his knuckles to wring out vital pigments from the skin, and drinking white paint..."

- 'Black Star' (The Long Forgotten)

Some people forget who they are, before they find out in the first place. But some cling to the gusto of their being, like a stain in the skin. The man who named himself after the tattoo he bears, has ideas, hints, pictures, ambitions... just not the whole frame of his own being.

A patient of Dr. Nakatsukasa, if you inquired with the hospital. Showed up one night, soaked from head to toe in a strange water, unlike the rain or any sort of tide along the harbor. A good friend, if you asked the woman herself. And perhaps unlike most folks, there is less of a bedside manner in her voice when she says as much. But, a right fool and pest, to most. Kinless and without modern manners.

But no matter, Black Star knows he is destined for some manner of greatness. Often to be found raving and looning about surpassing 'god' as both the individual and the idea – the man with no memory or name holds an air of immense strength, hands that could bend iron, and often the voice of a striking, insistent hammer.

He behaves enough of himself to labor and repay the good doctor for housing him, but his words cause much grief with the Bureau at all hours.

As it should, really. He's determined to recall himself, and he's finding the right books, getting her in trouble. Leading her to learn what he has been forced to forget. All the while, those that had once forgotten him, now perceive Black Star, and they have their inklings of his kind. Those who go into the noon and never return, for in London, they have never been in the first place.

- Dr. Tsubaki Nakatsukasa (The Physician)

The hospital is often cold, even with the blankets she brings. Even with the bouquets she prepares for those without guests. Even with the kind words she does her best to utter tenderly, amidst each passing. It was a chill in her bones that brought the good doctor to do the work she did. A hope to let the end fall sweetly, and be warm.

But there are still things people say about the road to hell, and it being paved with good intentions. About how you shouldn't humor raving men with no memories too deeply, or follow a dying patient's last wish to the home of a strange librarian, or treat a nameless woman for stab wounds in the middle of the night.

- Inspector Crona Gordon (The Detective)

When she looks at the sun now, she sees it bleed.

Tsubaki has become quieter than ever before.

They 'would do a great job', they said. They 'needed all the inspectors they could get out there' they said. 'They weren't born to push parking tickets' they said.

But couldn't someone ELSE deal with all these people?! They didn't know how to deal with dancers who tore their own skin off, or women who put jewels under their tongues and threw up snakes, or librarians with glowing eyes! It never got easier!

But, such is the life of a member of the Suppression Bureau. Especially as the child of the hydra's sole, remaining head; as Director Gordon's only child.

There was an obligation in their blood to root out 'complications'. Find evidence, write it into the most damning light according to the rules the other rules allowed, lock the suspect away - the idea in itself was rather simple. If Crona was efficient, they'd never even have to arrest the suspect themselves! It was having to find these secrets, bare their mind to the most heinous acts of mankind, again and again, that was hard. Hard to talk to so many people, hard to keep running into those hard stares and on top of it all, deal with Ragnarok at the same time...

And now, there was this doctor, and the cabaret dancer, and an assassin, and they had the painting, and there was a guy that didn't exist on record, and that creepy woman ‐ there were too many to keep track of! Why couldn't Inspector Liber, or

[4barbatos]

✦ as if i could ever be gentle

kazuha x fem reader

cw. dead dove do not eat. dubcon, emotional manipulation, trauma bonding, self-harm (graphic cutting, blood mentioned), suicidal ideation / threats, psychological abuse, toxic codependency, obsessive behavior, mental illness

an. old fic i wrote about a month ago !! decided to polish it up a bit because i love toxic kazu too much </3 art is from nekorin_chu on twt :3

of course you met him in a library. where else could it have been?

kazuha always looked like he belonged somewhere quiet. soft-spoken. well-read. the kind of boy who carried poems in his pockets and left pressed flowers between the pages of books he returned late. he moved like silence incarnate — careful, deliberate, like he didn’t want to disturb the air around him.

he smelled like old paper and ink and the kind of rain that doesn't soak you, just lingers in the air. and he always spoke like he was writing a poem just for you. like every word he said was chosen, curated, wrapped in silk and handed to you with reverence.

you thought he was gentle. you thought he was kind.

he never raised his voice. never told you no. never looked at you like you were too much.

and the first time you cried in front of him — about a failed exam, or maybe your father, or maybe just the way the world felt too sharp some days — he didn’t flinch. didn’t recoil.

he just looked at you with those faraway eyes and said, “i understand.”

but he didn’t.

he never did.

kazuha didn’t feel things the way other people did. he studied them. mirrored them. learned kindness like a second language, a mask he stitched into his skin. he learned how to smile with his eyes, even when they were empty.

he watched the way you trusted him. the way your hands would find him in sleep — fingertips grazing his chest like you were afraid he might vanish. the way you called him soft. good. safe.

and somewhere, between your whispered i love yous and the way you fell asleep tangled in his shirt, he started to believe he was.

but there were nights — god, there were nights — when you didn’t touch him. when you rolled away in bed without meaning to. when you forgot to kiss him goodbye because your head was heavy with other things.

and those were the nights he bled. quietly. methodically. in the bathroom, with the door locked, like a ritual. like penance. like the only way he could prove to himself that there was something inside him — something real, even if it only knew how to hurt.

you stop checking the windows. stop wondering what time it is. days melt together — slow and quiet and padded in cotton.

you forget how long it’s been since you left the apartment. the curtains stay closed. the clocks are turned around. you start measuring time by the tea he brings you and the books he reads aloud.

he says you’re calmer now. that this is the best version of you.

you don’t know what that means. only that the quieter you get, the more he smiles.

so you let yourself disappear. inch by inch. until even the mirror doesn’t remember you.

your breathing is slow. deep. quiet. his favorite sound in the world.

you sleep like you trust him. you always have. and that’s the worst part.

kazuha sits by the bed, legs folded beneath him, arms tucked close to his chest like he’s trying to disappear. like even now, even here, he thinks he’s taking up too much space. blood stains the cuff of his sleeve — a fresh, clean line along the inside of his wrist. it’s shallow. deliberate. practiced. he’s getting better at that.

the room is still. moonlight drapes across the floor, spills onto the sheets, catches in your hair like silver thread. the fan hums in slow, steady circles. it brushes across your bare shoulders, your back, the soft slope of your waist where the blanket slipped down.

you’d fallen asleep waiting for him. fingers curled into the pillow where he should’ve been. like you missed him even in dreams.

he climbs into the bed carefully. like he’s afraid to wake you. the mattress dips beneath his weight — and still, you don’t stir.

his fingers skim across your skin. barely there. like he’s afraid you’ll vanish under his touch. like this is an apology he can’t say out loud.

you’re so warm. so soft. so real.

"i love you," he whispers. voice thin and shaking — like breath over broken glass.

you don’t hear it. you never hear the first time.

his mouth presses to your shoulder, barely a kiss, more of a need. he just needs something. anything.

and when he pushes in — slow, careful, bare — it’s not lust. not anymore.

it’s need. it’s grief. it’s the hollow place in his chest begging to be filled with something human.

you shift in your sleep. breathe in, slow and deep. your brows twitch — the faintest sign of a dream turning.

and for a second, his heart stutters. he panics. he stops. but you don’t wake.

his hand glides up your spine. his face buries into your neck. he moves just enough to stay present. to feel you. to pretend this is love.

every thrust is quiet. measured. it feels more like prayer than sex. a desperate offering to something that won’t answer him.

"i’m sorry," he breathes. over and over, lips pressed to your skin. "i love you. i’m sorry. i love you."

he doesn’t know which one is the lie anymore.

and then — you stir.

your eyes flutter. not fully open, just a sliver.

and your voice — small, cracked with sleep — "kazu…?"

he goes still. he’s still inside you. your body trembles. just slightly. recognition settles in slow, like drowning.

and when he starts to move again — slow, aching — you don’t stop him. you don’t pull away.

you don’t say anything at all.

your eyes glisten in the dark. but you don’t cry. you don’t scream. you just take it.

and that — that hurts more than anything.

"please don’t hate me," he breathes, voice cracking open like a wound. his fingers grip your hips like a child holding something warm and breakable. "please…" "i’ll cut deeper if you do."

and he means it. god, he means it.

you wake up with your back to him.

your body aches. your thighs stick. your chest is tight in a way you can’t name yet. a hollowness tucked beneath your ribs — like something was taken and nothing put back.

kazuha’s breathing is steady behind you. too steady. his arms are wrapped around your waist like he’s protecting you from a storm he built with his own two hands.

and for a second — just one — you pretend it didn’t happen.

you pretend you asked him to. pretend you wanted it. pretend the silence between you isn’t loud enough to shatter glass.

but your body tells the truth. the soreness says otherwise.

"you’re awake."

his voice is soft. warm. you hate how gentle he sounds. how quiet. how careful. like he’s tucking a lullaby into a bruise.

you don’t say anything. you just stare at the wall.

like if you stay still long enough, maybe you’ll disappear.

there’s a pause. a shift in the air — heavy, like the moment before a downpour. then:

"do you hate me now?"

his voice is smaller this time. barely there. you still don’t answer.

you don’t owe him that.

but he gets up anyway. moves toward the desk with slow, practiced steps. you hear the drawer open. the clink of metal.

your breath catches. your eyes snap toward him just in time to see his sleeve roll up.

and then — slowly, carefully, like he’s slicing through a memory —

he cuts.

clean. deep. deliberate. a single line down the inside of his wrist, and the blood rises fast, bright red blooming against pale skin. he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t look away.

"please don’t hate me," he says again. quieter now. his eyes locked on yours, not the wound. not the blood.

just you.

"i told you i’d cut deeper if you did."

you sit up fast — blanket slipping from your chest, heartbeat a scream caught in your throat.

"kazuha—"

but he doesn’t move. doesn’t panic. he holds the razor in his fingers like it’s nothing. like it’s a pen. like it’s just another way to write himself into you.

"i didn’t mean to hurt you," he says, watching the blood drip down his arm, calm like he’s describing a dream. "i just wanted to feel close to you."

you stare at the wound. you stare at him.

and worst of all — you feel sorry for him.

your stomach turns with it. guilt twisting like a knife you didn’t know you were holding.

and he knows. of course he knows.

that’s the part that cuts the deepest.

not the razor. not the ache in your body. not even the silence.

it’s the part of you that still wants to make him feel better. even now. even after.

you shouldn’t move. your legs still ache from last night. your throat is tight. your chest is heavy with something you haven’t named — not yet. not out loud.

but the blood is dripping down his arm. fast.

you stumble out of bed — half-naked, half-numb — grab tissues, an old sleep shirt from the floor, anything. you press it hard against his wrist, watch red bloom through the fabric like it's punishing you for being slow.

your hands are shaking.

he watches you with glassy eyes. soft. like he’s grateful. like you’re saving him.

"i didn’t think you’d get up," he says, quiet.

you don’t look at him. you can’t.

"what the fuck is wrong with you," you whisper. not angry. not yelling. just cracked.

shattered glass trying to hold shape.

"i love you." his voice is steady. too steady. like he’s been practicing it in the mirror. like he’s already said it to himself a thousand times and finally believes it.

you press harder. the blood keeps soaking through. you should be screaming. should be calling someone. should be running.

but then —

he cups your face. gently. tender. with the same hand that just bled for you.

"i didn’t mean to scare you," he murmurs. "i just… couldn’t stand it. the thought of you waking up and looking at me like i ruined you."

his thumb brushes your cheek. there’s still blood on it. you flinch. but you don’t pull away.

you should.

"you didn’t ruin me," you whisper. a lie. a prayer. maybe if you say it enough, it’ll come true.

he leans forward. rests his forehead against yours. his breath is warm. wet. trembling.

"then stay," he breathes. "please. stay. don’t leave me alone with this."

and when he kisses you — you let him.

not because you forgive him. not because it’s okay.

but because you’re afraid of what he’ll do if you don’t.

his lips taste like salt and copper. his fingers tremble against your skin. you pull away just enough to breathe. just enough to think.

"i need to clean your arm," you say. your voice doesn’t sound like yours anymore.

he nods. obedient. like he didn’t just bleed to keep you here.

you guide him to sit. gather gauze, antiseptic, tape. your hands are steady now. they have to be.

and as you wrap the bandage around his wrist — as he rests his head against your lap like a child — as he whispers soft apologies into the skin of your thigh, over and over, like prayer, like confession, like punishment —

you finally understand.

he’s not afraid of hurting you.

he’s afraid of you leaving.

and that makes him dangerous.

you don’t remember how long you stayed in the bathroom. wrapping gauze around his wrist. wiping blood from the tile, from his skin, from your own hands. he kept holding your fingers. kept whispering “thank you” like you’d done something brave.

but you weren’t brave. you were scared. you still are.

you didn’t leave. not because you forgave him. not because you loved him.

but because his eyes looked like an open wound — raw and begging — and you’d already learned he’d rather bleed out than be alone.

he doesn’t touch you that night. not at first.

he lays behind you, soft and careful. arm over your waist, nose tucked into your hair like he’s trying to memorize your scent. his heartbeat feels steady against your back. too steady. rehearsed.

he plays the part so well. you almost believe it.

you try to sleep. but your body remembers too much. the silence. the weight. how deep he sank into you. how you didn’t stop him. how he cried after.

"you’re shaking," he murmurs. you lie. “i’m cold.”

his hand slips under the blanket. warm palm against your stomach. his lips brush your shoulder.

you go still.

"can i…?" his voice is so fucking gentle. so soft. like asking for your body is something sacred. something earned.

you don’t answer. you just nod.

and that’s all he needs.

he rolls you over. hands shaking slightly — like he's the scared one. like this hurts him.

he kisses you slow. like it’s a love story. like you’re something holy.

acts like you’re his first and only. like this is a poem he doesn’t want to end.

and when he fucks you, it feels like mourning.

like he’s burying the boy he could’ve been if he didn’t have to bleed to feel.

he moans your name like a prayer. presses his forehead to yours. holds you like he’s sorry.

“you’re the only one who makes me feel real.” he whispers it like it’s a gift. like it’s not a curse.

you’re too numb to answer. your body gives in, but your mind floats somewhere else. drifting. detached.

when he comes, he trembles. clutches your hand tight — almost desperate.

and breathes out a quiet, broken “thank you.”

like you just saved him. again.

you cry in the shower the next morning. not loud. not ugly. just quiet tears.

the kind that slip down your cheeks before you even realize they’re there. salt mixing with the steam. with the soap. with the ache between your legs.

you press your forehead to the tile. breathe through it. try to pretend the water is washing everything away.

it isn’t.

he waits outside the door. doesn’t knock. just sits there.

you hear him hum a soft tune — one he knows you like. or maybe one he heard you hum once and decided to keep.

"i made breakfast," he says gently. "do you want tea?"

you say yes. because you don’t know how to say no anymore.

not to him. not when he’s quiet. not when he’s kind.

and maybe that’s the worst part — the way he makes cruelty feel like care. the way you’re too tired to tell the difference.

it’s been a while.

your best friend texts you: are you okay? you’ve been quiet lately.

you stare at the screen for a full minute. kazuha’s asleep beside you, arm heavy over your waist, his breath slow, soft, like he’s dreaming of peace he doesn’t deserve.

you type:

yeah just tired lol <3

you delete it. rewrite:

yeah all good !! just been studying a lot

you send it. put your phone face-down.

then you lean over. kiss his forehead like nothing’s wrong.

at lunch, you skip again. you text the group chat: he’s sick, i’m taking care of him.

they all send 🥺 emojis. “you’re such a good girlfriend.” “he’s lucky to have you.”

you don’t correct them. you can’t.

later, in class, one of them pulls you aside. not forcefully — just gentle. just concerned.

"you okay?" they ask.

you nod. "just tired."

"you’ve been… different."

you laugh. the kind that doesn’t reach your eyes. "it’s nothing. really."

but then you reach for your pen. and your sleeve rides up.

they freeze. "what’s that?"

you yank it down fast. "nothing. i scratched myself. it’s fine."

but it’s not fine. and it’s not a scratch.

it’s the dried stain from when you held his wrist too long, pressed too hard, didn’t clean it right.

you hadn’t noticed it smeared your sleeve. hadn’t noticed how visible it was.

your chest tightens. panic blooming like a bruise behind your ribs.

you text kazuha after class: i think they’re getting suspicious.

he replies instantly: baby. come over. please. i need you. i’ll be good. promise. i’ll show you how much i love you.

so that night, you’re back in his bed. wrapped in his sheets. in his scent. in him.

he holds you close, breath warm against your ear. "did someone say something?" he asks softly.

you nod. once.

his hand tightens — just slightly — around your hip. "do you still love me?"

you hesitate. and for a moment, something breaks in his eyes.

he flinches. pulls back like you hit him.

but then — like always — you say yes.

he exhales like he’s been underwater. presses his face into your neck.

"thank god," he breathes. "i don’t know what i’d do if you stopped."

his hand drifts to your thigh. slow. familiar.

you let him touch you. because it’s easier than saying no. because you don’t want to see what he does when he hears it. because this is love now — and you’re too deep to crawl out.

it starts with your phone. you leave it on his nightstand once, during a shower. just for a few minutes. steam still on your skin, towel wrapped tight, you come back and everything looks the same. nothing out of place. no alarms in your chest.

but later, scrolling through your texts, you see a message you never sent.

yeah! totally fine. he treats me really well. thanks for checking <3

sent to the same friend who asked about your wrist.

you stare at it for a long time. long enough to feel your heartbeat crawl into your throat. long enough to hear the question echo before you even ask it.

"did you touch my phone?" your voice is soft. almost casual. like you’re not afraid of the answer.

but kazuha looks at you like you’ve shattered him. eyes wide. hurt blooming fast and loud across his face. like betrayal.

"do you not trust me?" his voice cracks. just barely. but he doesn’t raise it. he never raises it.

you backpedal instantly. "i didn’t say that." you smile. like that makes it okay. like you’re not swallowing panic behind your teeth.

his smile returns — slow, careful. the kind he wears when he wants you to feel safe. "i was just helping," he says. "you seemed overwhelmed. i didn’t want you to lose anyone else."

and there it is again. the quiet threat hiding under something sweet. the implication: they’ll leave you if you don’t play along.

so you nod. you let it go. you never bring it up again.

but you never leave your phone unattended after that. not once.

and still — you never change the password.

because part of you wants him to look. wants him to see that you’re not lying. that you’re still here. still his.

because maybe if he sees that, he won’t bleed tonight. he won’t cry. he won’t make you say yes when your body says please don’t.

then it’s your schedule. "i can pick you up after class," he says. "i don’t like the way they look at you when you walk alone."

you don’t argue. you nod. smile. let him drive.

he’s waiting outside every lecture before the bell even rings. you see his car parked at the curb, engine running, eyes on the door. your classmates start to notice.

you stop staying after for questions. you don’t study in the library anymore.

when you’re three minutes late to text him back:

where are you. did someone talk to you. i’m worried. why won’t you text back.

your phone buzzes like a pulse in your pocket. he calls twice. by the time you make it outside, he’s gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles are white.

you say sorry. he doesn’t yell. just exhales shakily, then kisses your hand.

"i just want you safe." "you’re safest with me." "they just want to take you away."

you start skipping classes. he holds you tighter for it. acts like it’s a gift. like your absence is proof of devotion.

then it’s your friends.

"they don’t understand us." "they’re jealous." "they’d hate me if they knew. do you want them to hate me?"

he’s crying when he says it. showing you his wrists again. old scars like faded ink. new ones — red, raw, not even scabbed over. you flinch. he sees it.

"i thought about doing it again," he whispers. "when you didn’t answer."

your chest twists. your eyes burn. you cry — like always.

he kisses the tears. kisses down your neck, your collarbone. fucks you slow. tender. like he’s mourning you already.

"this is love," he whispers, again and again. like a prayer. like a curse.

and you believe him.

because if it’s not love — then what the fuck are you still doing here?

you stop replying to everyone. no more texts. no more calls. no more are you okay? no more i miss you.

you shrink your world down to him. and he makes sure you never forget — "i’m all you need."

the control slips in like smoke. you only notice it when you can’t breathe anymore.

it’s in the way you stop unlocking your phone. the way you flinch when it buzzes. the way your body tenses when you hear footsteps, even when you know it’s just him.

your world becomes smaller. his apartment. his touch. his pain. his needs.

you stop checking your old group chats. messages pile up like static.

where are you are you safe? this isn’t like you.

you scroll past them with numb fingers. you want to answer. but what would you even say?

“i can’t leave. not when he needs me this much.” “he’ll hurt himself if i do.” “he says i’m the only thing keeping him alive.”

none of it sounds like freedom. but it sounds like love. and that’s enough to keep you.

and then — one night — it ends.

not with a scream. not with a break. not with blood.

just silence.

you lay in his bed. his arm draped around you, heavy and familiar. his breath steady against the curve of your spine. his warmth pressed into you like a brand.

and something inside you goes still. clicks into place.

this is it. this is your life now. quiet. controlled. contained.

"i love you," he murmurs against your shoulder. you nod. "i know."

and maybe that’s the worst part. not the hurting. not the crying. not the control.

but how normal it all feels now. how soft his voice is when he breaks you. how easy it’s become to let him. how easy it is to stay.

credits to @cafekitsune for the animated border lines !

[digitalsymbiote]

Scars and Memories

CW: Self harm, Scarification

There’s a ritual among certain groups of Mech pilots. Usually ones who are a bit more, esoteric. Pilots who’ve maybe spent too much time in the cockpit, but are too skilled for command to remove them from duty.

It’s a known fact that the more time a pilot spends in the cockpit, the more attached they become to their Mech. Each mech is practically tailor made for its pilot after all, with the hours upon hours of synchronization training that their IMP goes through. Swapping pilots between Mechs is not only unheard of, but almost impossible given how they work.

Pilots that fall into these groups are often so skilled and highly valued, that command assigns a units most skilled mechanics and technicians to their fireteams. This means that nearly every scratch that one of these Mechs receives on a sortie is repaired as quickly as possible, to keep the Mech in top shape for its next deployment.

Initially, the pilots hated this. Pilots have always held onto scars and scratches like badges of honor, marks to prove that they survived a particularly harsh engagement. But the boost to performance and mission success was such that command wouldn’t budge an inch. So the pilots pivoted to a different tactic.

The first time you saw it happen you almost called a paramedic, but then you noticed there was actually one standing by, and no one else in the hangar was paying it any mind.

The returning pilot was kneeling in front of their mech, combat knife dripping blood in their hands, carving the lines of the wounds their mech had taken into their own flesh.

There was a reverence to it. No one impeded on the pilots space, even the paramedic standing by was staying a few paces off. The mechanics were moving slow with the repairs, giving the pilot enough time to memorize the scars on their machine before they were buffed away.

You realized then why so many veteran pilots are covered in brutal and jagged scars, despite the cockpit being the most well protected part of a Mech.

And maybe on your next sortie, you carved a line into your skin where a stray round had nicked your machine.

The metal may heal, but the flesh remembers.

[clockyclockyclockwork]

Care Guide For Slow-Transformation Dolls

~1300 words

CW for: depression, self-harm

The transition from person to doll is difficult. There are paradoxes and unsolvable conflicts when stillness and an independent mind are forced together. In many cases, this tension happens entirely within the confines of a ritual, where the witch is in full control and the doll is not fully conscious. These transformations are fast, typically only taking a few hours, so the pressure of sapience vs. stillness doesn’t have time to build to a breaking point. Unfortunately, not every witch is able to perform a ritual to transform their doll over the course of a weekend. This could be for lack of skill or materials, or an inability to create the safe conditions necessary for such a fast and thorough transformation.

Instead, many dolls must be transformed slowly, over months or even years. Its skin will turn to porcelain or brass in patches that grow over their body. Its key will grow from its spine, unable to turn at first. Joints will shift and morph from internal ball joints to external ones. And, most importantly for this guide, the conflict between your doll’s mind and that of the person it used to be will become a non-trivial issue. Theoretically, a doll could be placed in a coma for the duration of its transformation, and many would be willing to undergo this, but in practice, most dolls and witches that can afford to keep someone dormant for so long could also afford a ritual transformation, leaving the coma unnecessary. So, if your doll will be transforming slowly, it will likely have to contend with the stress of dissonance.

Dissonance, as it is called, is that conflict between stillness that dolls want and the independence that a human mind clings to. Dolls who have not even begun their transformations often exhibit some level of dissonance, giving evidence to the theory that the “people” who become dolls could never have turned out any other way. The important thing, once transformation has begun, is that dissonance will be familiar to your doll, and it will likely already have some ways of coping with it. Make yourself familiar with your doll’s coping and defense mechanisms. Many of them will be unhealthy for your doll, or prove insufficient for dealing with the heightened levels of dissonance that transformation brings. Some, however, will be both healthy and effective, and you must encourage your doll towards these while gently pushing it away from others.

Healthy habits often mean benign distraction combined with permission to rest. If your doll has a favorite hobby, one that does not strain it too much physically, such as drawing, making music, or playing video games, these things will help it ignore dissonance well into its transformation. Many dolls believe that they shouldn’t participate in these hobbies anymore because of their dollhood, but most dolls do require ‘play’ to maintain themselves even after being fully transformed. Anything that brings your doll joy, especially during its transformation, is inherently suited for dolls, because that thing is helping your doll. This will be reinforced by you, and by the next method for soothing dissonance, interaction with other dolls.

One of the best things witches and dolls can do for themselves is to be around other witch and doll pairs. Friendly interactions with other dolls that are fully transformed will do wonders for your own doll, and interactions with dolls who aren’t as far along in their transformation will have a similar effect. Loneliness multiplies dissonance, so regular interaction with any person or doll will help, but other dolls and witches are best. Your own presence will help at first, and will begin to help again towards the end of transformation, but tragically not during the worst parts. To your transforming doll, you are the fixed center of the universe, a thing so constant that your absence is impossible, and therefore your presence is entirely un-noteworthy. Lingering personhood will also grapple with this presence and try to put it in cynical terms, so for a large portion of your doll’s transformation it will be unable to accept the unconditional love that you have for it. Do not hold this against your doll, it loves you back, of its own will, and it will continue to do so. If it didn’t, you wouldn’t be able to transform it.

Both people and dolls struggling with impossible problems will falter. A doll, mid-transformation, will fail to accomplish tasks. It is inevitable, and it should not be ignored, but be lenient. Most dolls, even those which were used to doing a household’s chores before transformation, will not be able to consistently perform daily tasks in the middle of the process. The difficulties of physical changes and the mounting pressure of dissonance will make your doll prone to collapsing, freezing up, or being unable to get out of bed, as well as other, less severe waverings. Though your presence alone will not bolster it, your doll will greatly benefit from the actions you take towards it, if they are supportive and caring. Bring it tea, and food if it still eats. Make sure it’s comfortable, and that it feels safe, and above all make sure it knows that you understand how hard it is trying to be good for you. Make sure it knows that its difficulties are a natural part of transformation, and that they will pass with time.

Sadly, even the best and most comforting witches cannot fully penetrate the miasma of dissonance. No matter how convincing you are, and how much your doll genuinely wants to believe you, its own mind will tell it constantly that there is something wrong with it and that it must be corrected immediately. This ‘correction’ will often mean self-inflicted punishment, either neglecting itself and withholding rewards or inflicting injury on itself. The previous instructions become all the more important for this reason. Other witches, and especially other dolls will notice self-punishing behaviors and work to snap your doll out of them. Even dolls in this destructive stage will do everything they can to prevent it in others, with the happy side effect that time spent focusing on another doll is time spent not focusing on its own perceived faults.

Therefore, starting around the time when physical changes begin, your doll should not be left alone for more than a day, at the very most, and if it goes even that long, the time alone should be followed by a period of very close contact and attention. Similarly, the doll should not be left with unsupervised access to sharp objects, or those it might use to bludgeon itself. The latter sounds like it encompasses most objects in the home, and at first it does. However, the key word is ‘unsupervised.’ Your doll will be around you most of the day, so the times when it is actually alone are rare. But, as previously mentioned, your doll will become numb to the idea that you are ever not around, and therefore may still try to hurt itself in front of you. Seeing this will be extremely difficult, and it is not only normal, but of the utmost importance that you talk about the stress of it with other witches or with a therapist in order to keep yourself well cared for.

Additionally, the number of objects actually capable of harming your doll will decrease drastically over time as its body changes into harder, enchanted materials. The risk of mutual damage to these objects will increase in turn, making your doll less likely to attempt to hurt itself with them out of respect for its witch’s belongings, including itself. The most traumatizing parts of transformation, for both witch and doll, is this semi-early stage. This is typically the height of dissonance, and the temporary hardship is well worth the benefits for your doll, and the benefits it will now be able to provide you in turn. If the two of you can get through it, you and your doll will only become happier throughout the rest of its transformation.

[twstedreamweaver]

Showering HCs with the Twisted Wonderland Boys

What it's like to shower with the guys ~

Characters Featured: Heartslabyul (Riddle, Trey, Deuce), Savanaclaw (Ruggie, Jack), Octavinelle (Floyd, Azul), Scarabia, Pomefiore, Ignihyde, Diasomnia (Sebek, Silver) Missing some of the guys because I just couldn't come up with anything CW: g/n reader, fluff, SFW but some minor suggestive content, some crack, established romantic relationship with reader

The More-or-Less 'Normal' Showerers

Has a strict routine in the shower but likes showering alongside you. They'll be quiet, just enjoying your presence. You'll notice how much they seem to relax, and the water just completely washes their worries and stress away. They insist on washing themselves, unless you really beg, which they will finally relent (they greatly enjoy this, they just prioritize being of service to you). Showering with you is one of their favorite parts of the day. Very susceptible to teasing. Water is on the warmer side.

Riddle, Jamil

Sets the water to your preferred temperature. Your shower routine together is pretty run-of-the-mill, but sweet, nonetheless. He is particularly fond of talking to you in the shower as you both get ready for the day. He cherishes these little intimate conversations you have as you go about your separate routines. Always happy to wash you if you ask or look like you need help. While he does enjoy showering with you, he doesn't mind showering alone.

Silver does occasionally fall asleep mid-shower, so do be prepared to catch him.

Trey, Silver

Greatly enjoys showering with you. He especially loves washing your hair and body. Enjoys it immensely when you wash him. He will get soap in your eyes (unintentionally and to his great dismay) and will have to be taught how to properly wash your hair, etc., but he is a willing learner and very enthusiastic. Prefers his showers on the hot side.

For Kalim, he takes very long showers classic rich kid behavior. I also feel like he has servants do a lot of things for him, so he might not even know how to do skincare/haircare, etc.

For Epel and Deuce, they take shorter showers due to his upbringing.

Kalim, Epel, Deuce

Mostly showers alone but will agree to shower with you if you ask him very nicely. Whenever you shower at anything that's NOT a lukewarm temperature, he will Insist that the water is actively harming your hair and skin and forcefully change the temperature on you. Has a strict routine that you are not to disrupt. Always enthusiastically helps you with your haircare and skincare.

"Did you wish to boil to death in this shower!?"

Vil

Will steal use your hair products. He also shampoos and conditions his ears and tail. If you ask to wash them for him, he will begrudgingly allow you to, but only in exchange for something. This whole "Fine. If it'll getcha to stop botherin' me-" is entirely a show on his end though, he loves having his ears touched. The tsundere in him will admit it with enough teasing. Accustomed to short showers as force of habit but will abuse the hell out of free hot water whenever he gets the chance.

Ruggie

He takes showers very differently when alone versus when showering with you. Normally, his showers are cold and efficient, wasting no time in getting on with his day.

However, with you, he likes to take his time. He places great importance on the acts of washing you and you washing him. He gets really happy when you wash tail and ears and will gruffly admit that he enjoys it while his tail is fervently wagging (to his chagrin). Social grooming between partners is an important ritual for wolves and Jack is no different.

He will subconsciously lick or gently nibble you sometimes, and when he notices, he'll get very embarrassed and apologize. If you reciprocate, he will be ecstatic.

Jack

The Nervous Wrecks

Finds showering with you (at first) mortifying. Eventually, once he understands that you are not judging him, he will enjoy the intimacy immensely.

He is very self-conscious of his body, so you'll need to seriously support and assure him that he's attractive, as he'll feel very vulnerable and will take a while to gain the confidence to shower 'normally'. Also, doesn't really know how to wash another person, so you'll have to show him. Before getting more used to showering with another person, he'll get embarrassed by any physical contact and tries to avoid looking at you entirely (he fails at this every time).

In Azul's case, he'll stay in human form for ease. Uses expensive hair products but knows very little about haircare due to never needing it in the Coral Sea (he's canonically a big cologne enjoyer, so he probably prioritizes scent).

For Idia, his hair is waterproof and doesn't need to be washed in the standard sense (source: just trust me bro). His hair can be brushed, but brushing doesn't do much and it never tangles anyway. Contrary to popular opinion, doesn't bring his phone in the shower (unless he's grinding out daily's and is running out of time); he's too busy trying to NOT focus on you. Also, you will have to remind him to take a shower, as he routinely forgets to take care of himself.

Azul, Idia

Would accidentally set the water too hot, burning you, resulting in him freaking out, apologizing, and punching the showerhead. Tries to rescue you and will carry you out of the shower like you're dying. You will have to repeatedly reassure him that you're fine. After getting that first experience out of the way, will insist on helping you every time you look like you're struggling (which is rarely, he is totally making this up as an excuse to wash your hair).

"Human! Your feeble arms cannot reach your back! I will wash it for you! No, this is NOT because I want to!"

Sebek

Very similar to Epel and Kalim, but more nervous and easily embarrassed. Very enthusiastic to help you in the shower, but also totally clueless. Knows very little about feminine hygiene or products, so keep that in mind if you use those. But he's eager to learn about your haircare or skincare routines and help you! He will look up WikiHow tutorials.

Easily flustered if you tease him or say something positive about his body. Will flex (in)discreetly and try to not sneakily at all get you to compliment him. He's not egocentric, he just likes being appreciated and little comments make his whole day.

Deuce

The Weirdos (affectionate)

Doesn't like showers, but will happily take baths with you, although he'll likely get bored fast. He will want to bathe in his eel form, which can be problematic in a small (or even large) bathtub. Also, he likes really cold, like arctic-level water. If you complain, he will just squeeze you and say that he can warm you up. Definitely the type to get handsy and also will probably try to drag you into the ocean to swim with him when he gets antsy.

He loves when you wash him. He finds it endearing, his Shrimpy acting like a little cleaner shrimp.

Like Azul, doesn't know much about haircare or skincare and doesn't really care either. He uses 5-in-1 a decent shampoo and conditioner actually. What can I say, he's an enigma (it's probably Jade's doing).

Floyd

Adores showering with you, but unlike the others, he doesn't enjoy showering for the conversations or the act of washing you, although he does enjoy the latter - no, he just relishes in the simple act of 'observing' staring at you.

You will get used to it after a while, but at first, it's a bit weird to watch him so intently observing you engaging in mundane activities like rinsing your hair.

If you say something or shoot him a strange look, he'll say something equal parts creepy and romantic.

Also, heavily emphasizes the importance of proper haircare and will make sure you use good products.

"Hmm? You want me to look away, mon cheri? No? You simply wish to know why? Ha ha! Would you scorn a blind man for accepting the gift of sight? No? Then you understand that asking me to avert my gaze from your ethereal beauté is akin to supplice!" who does this guy think he is

Rook

I will finish the hcs with all the guys when my brain decides to work.

[deluxewhump]

Nightfall: Icemelt

CW: threat of recapture, accidental whump, coping mechanisms that I really can’t go so far as to call self harm, apology with some petting, vampires and mortal bloodbag/pet, hurt/comfort

Just after dusk, Carlo took two of the largest ice cubes he could find from the freezer and held them in his hands over the sink. While they melted, he kept his head bowed as if in evening prayer. Water dripped from the sides of his clenched fists and from between his fingers, pooling on his knuckles like snowmelt. Their soft taps as they fell into the sink seemed like the only sound in the house.

He wouldn’t call it a painful ritual, but it was uncomfortable. That discomfort grew until it took up in the empty spaces in his chest and head, and for a while he had some relief from the restlessness that started in his legs and found its way to his idle hands. The memories his body held in each of his silver scars were quieted, for a time. When the ice was gone he opened his palms. They were splotchy, yellow-white. He watched the slow way the blood pooled back in.

The light over the stove flickered, came back to life, and then went out. He dried his damp palms on his pant legs and peered under the stove hood, tapping the bulb. When that didn’t work he twisted it gently tighter. Nothing. He remembered seeing extra lightbulbs, along with cleaning supplies and tools at the top of the stairs that led down to the basement. Maxim wouldn’t care if he ordered a new box of appliance bulbs, but he ought to at least check first.

The cellar door was off the kitchen and looked to have been repainted white many times in the last hundred or so years, and shut only with an old hook and eye latch. He flicked the lock open and the door swung out with no help. The damp stone smell of the cellar drifted up to him from the yawning dark. He scanned the shelves on the landing for bulbs. Regular ones, yes, but nothing that would fit that small appliance socket.

Three taps from behind him jumped him so suddenly that he dropped the box of regular bulbs, breaking one. He spun around, heart pounding. Behind him was a first floor window, but nothing was immediately amiss outside it. There was only the gathering darkness. He looked more carefully, past his own reflection, scanning the sides of the house and the grounds that were visible.

His cellphone vibrated harshly on the kitchen countertop where he’d left it a few hours before. He pushed his fingers against his eyes, annoyed with himself for startling so hard, for breaking a bulb, for being so frayed at this time of day. The time of day they used to wake him from whatever half-consciousness he was living in to feed and play with him like cats with prey.

The number on the top of the screen was a local area code. He answered it with a guarded hello, prepared for a waste of time anyway.

“Carlo?” someone asked. They sounded far away, like the connection was bad or they were on speaker.

“Hello?” he said more earnestly this time. Both the phone and the number were relatively new— gifts from the vampire upstairs. And Carlo was likely as good as dead still to anyone who once knew him. Who could be calling that knew him by name?

“I knew you were alive,” said a voice brimming with pride and relief. “I just had to find you.”

It was Jude. A little muffled by the connection, but unmistakably Jude. He felt as if the air had been knocked from his lungs and for a moment, he couldn’t respond. After what was probably ten seconds but felt like a solid minute, he broke the surface of his disbelief enough to ask, “…how did you find me?”

“With perseverance,” Jude answered, his voice tinged with familiar humor. “Where are you?”

“Where are you?”

“Looking for you. Some fuckass back road northwest of the Valley? Can you meet me?”

Carlo’s thoughts tripped and stumbled over themselves, trying to find an order of importance that made sense. How did Jude even know where to look? Who would know where he was to lead Jude this way, and this close?? Was he talking to vampires? And if so, was he in danger? Had they followed him? Dread was cold in his gut as it spread, freezing over his initial elation at hearing Jude’s voice.

“What was the last sign you saw?” he asked, heading for the front of the house. He hadn’t turned any lights on, and the high foyer ceiling was lost in shadows. He peered out the door’s stained glass window. Jude might be close enough to give directions to. He might even see headlights at the end of the driveway at any moment. He unlocked the deadbolt, then the doorknob, his hand hovering on its brass handle. He scanned the driveway and yard again and saw nothing. Not even the fireflies. Were they already gone for the year? No, that couldn’t be right.

“Come outside,” Jude said.

“It’s a long driveway. I’d see you. Have you passed a lookout on your left yet? You can see the Valley really well from it, you’d have noticed it.”

“Come outside,” Jude said again, and there was a hint of urgency in his voice that had not been there before.

If he went out on the front porch, he could see down the driveway and front yard, through the thin line of trees that separated the property from the road. If any cars were coming, he’d see the headlights.

He turned the knob and stepped into the humid night air. He was going to ask Jude about the lookout again, but didn’t have long enough to draw a breath before he was grabbed sharply by the wrist and wrenched back inside.

The door slammed, drowning out his yelp of pain. His hand felt like it had been torn from his wrist, and his shoulder felt much the same. Pain bloomed hot and bright up and down his arm, a sensation that was nothing like the slow discomfort of the ice cubes. Maxim stood between him and the slammed front door. He cradled his elbow close to his chest and shrunk away, every instinct telling him to run. He pushed back against a row of hanging coats, his mouth still open in pained surprise from when he’d cried out. He looked down at his wrist, half expecting it to be visibly broken.

Maxim hurt him.

Maxim had never hurt him.

“What are you doing?!” Maxim hissed. “Give it here.”

He flinched as the vampire— both taller and broader than he, and immeasurably stronger— took the phone he forgot he’d been clutching out of his uninjured hand. The light from the screen flashed on his humanlike face, across those slightly uncanny pupils. He checked that the call was disconnected. He was dressed like he was going someplace in the city, which meant he’d be gone most of the night and come back looking noticeably more flushed, young, and vital in the hours just before dawn.

Again, he posed the question. “What are you doing?”

Tears blurred Carlo’s vision. Ever since the lightbulb in the kitchen had blown not five minutes before, he’d been more and more confused, his every thought underlined with the warning that something was not right. And now Maxim was being so harsh with him, and had nearly ripped his arm out of socket. He tried to blink them away, but the tears were hot and unrelenting.

“Someone called me,” he whispered. “A friend.”

Maxim secured the deadbolt on his front door. “When was the last time you talked to this friend? Other than tonight.”

“I…” How long had it been? He remembered how painful their separation had been at first, and then later how his life before Erik’s vampires and their den of horrors seemed like a faraway dream. “I don’t know.”

Maxim pulled up the recent calls. “This is the number?”

Carlo didn’t understand why he was asking, but nodded yes. I’m sorry, he wanted to cry. I don’t know what is going on. Please stop. He bit back the words.

Maxim redialed. He set it to speakerphone, and the sound it made when it rang through as disconnected was like a screech. Carlo felt himself flinching again.

Maxim powered off the phone and put it in his own pocket. “That wasn’t your friend.”

Later, remembering those words would give him chills like a pair of sleek brown rabbits running back and forth over his grave, but at the moment he was too shaken to think on what that might mean. He nodded, accepting whatever the vampire said as fact and letting him know it was so. This was a survival tactic he’d learned the hard way with the others. It was only then that Maxim seemed to focus on Carlo enough to recognize it as such.

“Your arm,” the vampire said. And then softer. “Oh, no. I hurt you, didn’t I? Come here.”

Carlo wanted to sob in relief at the familiar tone that had come back into the vampire’s voice, but he felt dizzy and his face was becoming strangely hot. He stayed pressed against the coats, keeping his hurt wrist close to his ribs. Was there a chance this vampire was something like the others after all? Was there even a sliver of a chance these past months had been a cruel game? Surely there were vampires with that kind of patience who enjoyed a bait and switch. What did they have but time?

“Come here,” Maxim coaxed again in the dark foyer. “I didn’t mean to, sweetheart. Please let me see.”

He was sweating now, he could feel it in his hairline. The coats were hot and scratchy against his back. He pushed away from them gingerly, holding his hurt arm out between himself and the creature who’d hurt it. If Maxim hurt him now, he’d know. But part of him knew he wouldn’t. And he wanted so badly to trust what he thought he knew.

Cool hands took his forearm so gently that he closed his eyes and whimpered without meaning to. If only the vampire would touch his face with those hands, he might be able to cool down.

Light prodding. A skimming touch over his wrist and then his shoulder.

“Not broken,” he heard Maxim say, as if through a tunnel. “You need to sit down. Come here.”

—

He woke in an armchair. Maxim must have carried him. If he walked, he didn’t remember it. His wrist was bandaged tight in a way that made his heart flutter with panic at first, until he remembered where he was. It was not a restraint. Just a way to keep his wrist from moving or bumping into things. The braided rug was familiar, and the hearth, and the french doors that separated this room from the next. The surroundings soothed him even before his mind was entirely at his command again.

“Alright?” asked the vampire. Carlo blinked and turned his head. Maxim was coming from what seemed like thin air, but was just a shadowed part of the room with a built in bookshelf that ran from floor to ceiling. Carlo spent many sunny afternoons on this floor, flipping through the dusty pages of books, stumbling upon old notes and letters tucked among volumes or between pages.

Carlo nodded. Yes. He was alright.

“Do you remember what happened?”

He nodded again. “I should have known that wasn’t Jude. It seems really obvious now. Was it… one of them?”

One of Erik’s, he meant and didn’t have to say.

“I’m not sure who else to blame.”

“Are they here?”

“If they were nearby, they’re gone. And if I ever find one within five miles of here, I promise you I’ll hurt them.”

“How did they do that? Mimic his voice like that.”

“It’s more about influencing your perception than actual mimicry. They likely don’t even know who your friend is or what he sounds like.”

“What if they do?” he asked. “What if they have him?”

“They would’ve come out and said so. That’s a better card to play, and they’d have played it. They don’t have your friend. They just have an in with you, so they took it.”

Carlo shuddered. Come outside. And he nearly had. “If that had worked I’d have deserved it for being so stupid.”

The vampire came closer and squatted down in front of the armchair he was curled up in. “Do I need to tell you that I didn’t intend to hurt you?”

Carlo eyed the bandage cocooning his wrist. It hurt, but only distantly. Like the ice. He was lucky nothing was broken, and that his arm hadn’t been pulled from the socket. Maxim was always so deliberate and calculated when touching him. A quick movement could have easily been far worse. He shook his head.

The fingers Maxim placed under his chin surprised him. He let his head be guided back to look at him, waiting before letting his eyes follow and leave his bandaged wrist. Maxim looked a little hungry. It was subtle, but Carlo could recognize it now. He was likely headed out when he’d found his mortal pet sleepwalking into a trap. His color was off. There was a tightness around the mouth, a slight hollowness to the cheeks. But his eyes were soft with concern. “I don’t think I could stand it if you thought I had ever hurt you on purpose.”

Carlo doubted there was any worldly disappointment a centuries old vampire couldn’t stand, but the words filled him with pleasure anyway. It was a tangible warmth, spreading through his veins and making his eyes heavy. He pulled back to nuzzzle the hand that held his chin in place, and was rewarded with the other hand rising up so that one cradled each half of his face.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispered in apology to the vampire that held him.

Thumbs stroked his cheeks. “I know.”

[bitebitekxll]

Kinktober ‘24 || Day 2

NSFW || MDNI

public humiliation | cum inflation | priest kink

Priest!Cyno x AMAB!reader

Notes: I SPENT THE ENTIRE MONTH JUST TRYING TO WRITE THIS. Idk WHY I got stuck on it so badly, but it’s finally here. The next one will not take as long I promise I’ve already gotten half of it written (tho there’s no telling if it’ll still be this year by the time I finish this year’s kinktober)

CW: NONCON/DUBCON. Whether you see this as reader having incubus thrall powers or not (it’s never specified) Cyno is clearly coerced and unable to escape after multiple attempts to pull away. Mind break/corruption I guess??

Masterlist . Kink list

So, AU where it’s still teyvat as we know it, but Cyno is a priest for Kusanali. I can’t imagine Cyno not being a fighter so let’s say he still enacts judgment on criminals as a hobby.

And everything is as it should be UNTIL he stumbles across a group attempting to summon a creature from the abyss. He deals with them, of course, but ends up accidentally spilling his blood on the ritual site, inadvertently binding himself to you.

Countless hours upon days upon weeks of searching for a solution prove fruitless. But when he realises that you can’t harm him or anyone else as long as you’re tied to him, he decides that for the safety of everyone he will bear the burden of your presence. You’re determined to prove this beloved priest isn’t as pure as he pretends to but to no avail. Wealth, power, cruelty, none of these things sway him from his duties.

Sure, bothering Cyno is always fun, but you start to tire of the same song and dance, of being little more than a nuisance. So you try the one thing you haven’t tempted him with yet: pleasure.

You catch him while he’s praying, wanting to take advantage of him on his knees. It’s easy to drape yourself over his back, to trace your palms down his chest while he tries to ignore your touch, whispering taunts in his ear.

He tries to grumble about your behaviour, but his words cut off with a sharp inhale as you slip his earlobe into your mouth. Your arm is a brand around his waist, too strong from him to successfully jerk away.

“I can make you feel so much better than your precious piety,” you purr, hooking a claw in his collar. It tears through the fabric like butter and, while you shove one thigh between both of his, you realise despite all his objections he’s rock hard.

He would glare at you after you slam his back onto the floor, snarl and try to fight while you pin him down. But all his strength is no match for an inhuman being like yourself.

“What are you trying to accomplish?” His ruby gaze looks up at you through snowy eyelashes. It would almost be pretty if not for the scowl that marred it. “The bond won’t allow you to harm me.”

“But it’s not harm if it feels good, is it?”

He looks gorgeous, wrists pinned by one of your hands above his head, hair disheveled and clothes torn open revealing his defined chest. With your free hand, you lightly circle the expanse of his neck, pondering what to do with him at your mercy.

He threatens you, tries to ward you off, but the second you get your fingers in mouth he goes still. You don’t even need to hold open his jaw— the man doesn’t even try to bite down.

For a man so proud, so stoic, he falls so quickly the second he gets a taste of the sin he’s been avoiding his whole life. Even gagging around your fingers, tears beading in the corner of his eyes, he’s limp and unwilling to fight back. Push down on his tongue and watch his eyes roll back into his head, grind down on him and he groans so prettily.

He looks even better once you replace your fingers with something bigger. The mere sight of your cock makes his eyes go glassy, gets him panting like a dog as you fist his hair, pulling him close. He doesn’t know what to do, that much is obvious, but it’s nothing some gentle encouragement can’t fix.

“Let me in baby, just like you did with my fingers,” you murmur, a sweet tone hiding how thoroughly you were planning to wreck him. Cyno tongues clumsily at your tip before letting it slip past his lips, slowly taking your length into his mouth.

Too slow, in fact.

He chokes as you slam into him, making him take you to the hilt. He cries around your cock, words muffled and barely intelligible— “Ngh♡~ ‘oo ‘ig~” —but you don’t let him move away as you start to fuck his throat without remorse.

He whines and his throat constricts around you, struggling to take it all, but he remains hard throughout. Eventually, he goes limp, hands curled into the material of your trousers as he accepts his position. Cyno can choke and cry but he can’t hide the fact he’s hard, his usual cold exterior stripped away and reduced to a wet, desperate mess. Even after you cum down his throat, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he struggles to swallow everything, he still can’t get enough. Pulling away only leads to him whining, following you to close the distance once more. He babbles around your cock, words unintelligible, but his actions make it clear he refuses to be dragged away.

Such a pretty little priest just for you… how could you possibly resist stealing him away for yourself? It’s not like he’d be able to go back to his previous life after all, after such a hard fall into sin and depravity. The scattered thoughts in his head can barely come together and when they do, the only thought in his head is getting to be used by you.

[concretejunglefm]

It seems that even in Arcadia you walk beside me still.

Summary: Hidden deep in the mountains, what is now known as Arcadia began as a crumbling church with a modest congregation and a preacher known only as Sleep—a soft spoken, maternal figure whose voice could soothe even the most fractured soul, but her sermons promised more than salvation, they promised rebirth.

What started as faith became devotion. Devotion became worship, and worship became something else entirely.

Now, Arcadia thrives as a secluded sanctuary ruled by doctrine, ritual, and the unwavering belief in Sleep’s love. Branded by Vialism, her followers have shed their past lives and names to serve her will, but beneath the hymns and veiled smiles, cracks begin to form. As loyalties shift and whispers grow louder, one follower begins to question everything.

Congregation:

Sleep - the preacher and 'motherly' figure. Vessel - the right hand man, the righteous, the doubter. II - the basketcase. III - the wayward, the guard dog. IV - the deceiver, the second hope. Espera - the sinner.

CW: includes religious cult themes, character death, suicidal thoughts, struggles with mental health, drug usage, minor mentions of violence, manipulation tactics, power dynamics, abuse of power, body mutilation, self harm, blood, use of poison, more to be added.

if you are interested in being tagged please let me know 💕

[blissfulip]

—Legion

On AO3

Priest!Viktor x F!demon!reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Priest Kink, Blasphemy, Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Flagellation, Demon Sex, Demon Summoning, Demon/Human Relationships, demon reader, AU - Canon Divergence, Post medieval era, Dubious Science, Church Sex, Roman Catholicism, Catholic Guilt, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals, Shameless Smut, Masturbation, No use of Y/N, third person.

Cw: mentions of sexual abuse, blood, birth and drowning.

Words: 1.4k

[A/N: this should NOT have taken this long lmfao (let me know if you want to be tagged or removed in future fic updates!)]

Tags: @ihopeinevergetsoberr @chemical-killjoy @jinxed-jk @bobobomao @queen-of-elves @thedustybunny @syren201 @thayfass @thehistoriangirl @hypocritic-trash-baby @zaunitearchives

Previous

VI. 

Viktor stirred in the heavy grasp of morning, the taste of iron lingering like a distant whisper. The dawn light filtered through the thin curtains, brushing against his face with a gentleness that feels misplaced. His mind clung to fragments of a voice, her voice, soft as the petals of a white rose. He saw her smile, heard the quiet laugh that lingers at the edges of memory, a bittersweet echo that sharpened the ache in his chest.

He pushed himself up, the weight of sleep clinging stubbornly, and took uneven steps toward the kitchen. The air was cool, tinged with the scent of wax and incense from last night’s vigil. Each step felt like traversing a distance far greater than the few paces between rooms. The walls seemed to shift, the ground wavered beneath him. A sudden, sharp vertigo seized him. The edges of his vision blurred and dark spots blooming and merging into a veil. The world tipped, and the floor rushed up to meet him with a silent greeting.

Sound returned in fragments, whispers, hurried footsteps, the rustle of cloth. Warm hands lifted him, steadied him, and voices murmurred in concerned tones. The altar boys, their youthful faces creased with worry, carried him back to his room, careful and reverent. He felt the cool press of a damp cloth on his forehead and heard the door close softly behind them as they left him in the quiet of his chamber.

Fever took hold quickly, draping him in its suffocating heat. 

---------------------

There was light, bright and dappled, playing tricks with the eyes. A child’s laughter—his own, echoing like a memory misplaced—and he was running. Feet pattered on cobblestones, the sharp edges of buildings slicing into the sky. A rabbit was there, white, impossibly quick, darting and weaving as if made of smoke. He reached, fingers brushing fur, and it unraveled beneath his touch, melting, liquefying into a crimson rivulet that snakes down his arm, warm and sticky. Something dripped. Thick, slow, like tar, or ink, or blood, but none of those, not quite. A single drop at first, then another and another, the rhythm picking up, forming a pulse, a heartbeat, a something nor here no there. It seeped into the cracks, filled them, swelled them, overflowed.

The river. He knew this river. It swayed with a strange familiarity, silvered surface glinting, whispering secrets he once knew. He’s no longer a boy but himself, heavier with years that rest like stones on his chest. The water beckoned, the current hungry. He stepped in, the chill biting up his legs, and submerged. Purification, cleansing, the notion brushed past like a prayer forgotten. But beneath the ripples, something coiled around his ankles, insidious as ivy. A gasp escaped, turning into silence as water filled his lungs. No—not water—wine, dark and rich, suffocating and intoxicating, tasting of regret and lost hymns.

Then a convulsion, a spasm of light and heat, tearing through the dark. No time to think. No time to understand. Just motion, surging forward, pulled by an unseen hand, or maybe many hands, groping, clawing, dragging something into being. A lungless scream echoed across the void. Was it the first sound? Or had sound always been there, waiting, coiled tight, needing only a mouth to release it?

Limbs unfurled from nothing. Fingers twitched before they were fingers, before they were anything at all. Flesh spun itself from strands of darkness, weaving, knitting, stitching itself together. No, being stitched, as if an invisible needle jabbed, jabbed, jabbed, forcing shape upon formlessness. A ribcage hardened, something trapped inside, hammering, hammering, wanting out. A heart? A thought? A scream swallowed before it can be heard?

Viktor was folded and crushed and smoothed and broken all at once, like clay reshaped in hands too rough, too desperate. He could not be undone. A hand once again, black as obsidian and reaching, a contrast to the rushing dark, offering its impossible salvation. His fingers closed around it, and the world shattered, shards of water fracturing into stars. He floated, suspended in a sky that shifts and breathes. Sagittarius, bold and sharp, traced itself across the canvas of night. An archer’s bow, taut and waiting. But the sky trembled, the constellation splintered, and the light seeped away, trickling into oblivion. Silence now. The dark embraced him, all sound swallowed as fever held him still, breathless and drifting in the void.

All was night.

And then the eye opened. Only one. The other had not yet come, or will never come, or was looking elsewhere. But with this one, this single eye, the world was revealed. A seething, writhing mess of beginnings and endings tangled together, threads caught in a loom that never stops, never hesitates. Faces flickered into being and swallowed by the dark before they were fully formed. Mouths opened and closed, mouthing words, syllables without sound, teeth gnashing, tongues writhing.

An impossibly irritating flicker of light. The knowledge that there is no choice but to be, that people were waiting for him. That the drip, the stitching, the pulling, and the breaking were over. That now it was too late for his eyes to close again, that the pulse will never cease, that the mouth will hunger, and speak, and wail.

--------------

"He's awake," one voice gasped, barely above a breath.

Viktor's vision was slow to clear, but he was able to make out two figures hovering at his side, clad in white robes, with young, frightened faces. Altar boys.

"Are you... are you in pain?" one asked. His hands trembled, clutching at the fabric of his robe. 

Viktor tried to speak, but his throat was raw, as if scraped clean from the inside. A cough wracked his body as a stinging pain simultaneously shelled the side of his head that had previously found the floor. He nodded instead.

The other boy—taller, sharper eyes, fear barely masked by duty—grabbed his companion's sleeve. "Get Father Isidore. Now."

“No.” Viktor’s voice was hoarse but firm, just like his sluggish movements as he rose from the bed. 

Echoes of verses he had read a lifetime ago, rattling. 

“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, and hell of heaven. What matter where, if I be still the same? And what I should be, all but less than He…” 

The sheets clung to his damp skin, his breath still shallow from the fever that burned through him like a cleansing fire. He trembled, weak, but his fingers curled into fists as he steadied himself against the wall. The meekness, the hesitation that once softened his gaze, was gone and scorched away, eyes sunken but gleaming with scorn and purpose.

The world swayed before him, but he seized hold of his cane and moved forward.

“...Farewell, happy fields, where joy forever dwells! Hail, Horrors! ...”

He shouldered open the door, stepping into the dim light, and the boys who saw him walk past hesitated to utter a complaint when they met something cold and sharp-edged. His lips, once quick to part in apology or deference, were pressed into a thin, knowing smirk, and the heat that had ravaged his body had left something behind in its wake. Resentment. A hunger for reckoning.

His fingers brushed the wall as he walked, feeling the uneven ridges of the stone beneath his touch. Once, this place had felt sacred, imposing. Now, it felt small. A cage whose bars had rusted, whose walls no longer loomed. Ahead, the door stood waiting. Heavy oak, reinforced with iron bands.

The door swung open, creaking on its hinges, and the flickering candlelight within spilled out to meet the dim corridor. Father Isidore stood there as expected, but with his back turned, robes disheveled, hunched over a figure tangled in silken sheets. A woman—young, barely more than a girl—her dark hair spilling across the pillows. 

The bishop turned sluggishly, as if the weight of sin had dulled his reflexes. His face, usually composed with the practiced grace of a holy man, contorted into something panicked. His lips parted, perhaps to justify, to command, or to explain away the unspeakable.

And in the doorway stood not the meek, obedient disciple he once had under his thumb, but something reborn.

“...Nathless he so endured, till on the beach of that inflamed sea he stood. And called his Legions, angel forms, who lay entranced...”

[creature-wizard]

Found some stories from people who realized their SRA/repressed memory therapists were a bunch of quacks. Lots of CWs for talk of severe abuse and some occasional disturbing activities. If you can stomach it, it's worth a read because it shows just how bad these therapists could get with malpractice and quackery. If you don't want to read the whole thing, here's some key takeaways:

Many therapists just decided their patients had repressed memories. The patients were not allowed to question or disagree with this. The therapists basically flexed their professional authority and told them they were just in denial. Former patient Deborah David described her own experience as being like constantly told that she had once seen a bear climbing a candy cane, told that other people had seen bears on candy canes, and constantly being asked leading questions about her experiences with bears on candy canes, and told that she was in denial if she said she'd never seen one.

Not all patients appear to have been put under hypnosis, but the therapists' insistence that terrible things must have happened to them and their insistence that the only way to heal was to "remember" all of it basically had a number of patients just imagining up all the horrible scenarios they could think of. Former patient Laura Pasley realized after getting out that a number of her "memories" actually came from the book Sybil, the movie Deranged, and from a story she'd written when she was seventeen.

(Worth noting here that a study showed that people who believe they have past lives are more likely to forget where they learned information. It would make a lot of sense if many people who "remembered" SRA under therapists like these have the same issue.)

Many patients were told that their bodies stored memory of this alleged repressed trauma, and any physical sensation they felt was a "body memory" surfacing. So for a hypothetical example, someone who experienced an aching ankle might be told that this is their body "remembering" parental abuse. A patient might imagine a scenario where a parent broke their ankle, and the therapist would treat this as a "recovered" memory.

A number of patients were diagnosed with MPD (as it was called at the time) regardless of whether they initially showed any symptoms. Patients were pushed into "uncovering" these alters that allegedly remembered all the abuse. One patient (Robert Wilson) actually began acting out the alters his therapist told him he had outside of the therapist's office, in some very harmful and destructive ways. (CW for prostitution and animal death if you want to read his story.)

Another patient (Nell Charette) said that while her therapy was ongoing, she had "eight different people telling [her] what to do."

Another patient (Susan) reports:

I mapped an elaborate system, virtually every emotional state or conflicting world view was an alter, plus the male protector and little girl and little boy that went with it. There were sets of 12 for every ego state, complete with names. In the end, I had about 200 "alters." ... Now along with all these alters is the question of how did they get here? Now, we've all heard the story that you can't be this way without severe, repeated, sexual or physical trauma from before you were 5. I'm really pissed about this part, because look how they did this: 1. Your symptoms mean you have MPD, the first step to getting better is to admit this. There is no other thing this could be; if it walks like a duck it's a duck. 2. Since you have MPD, you had to have been sexually/physically/ritually abused. There is no other way you could have this, so you need to admit it to get better. 3. You have to bring these "memories" forward to get better.

This confirms exactly what I've been saying for months: that the mythology of SRA and Project Monarch-type alter programming permits any uncomfortable feeling, any unwanted impulse, and any conflicting beliefs to be attributed to an alter, and therefore to trauma-based mind control, extreme abuse, or whatever you want to call it.

Robert's unfortunate case also confirms that if you go telling a sufficiently unstable person that they have certain alters that do certain things, they will effectively develop them. (This is why convincing a child that they might have a prostitute alter is not only unethical, but also incredibly dangerous!)

If you try and make yourself uncover certain alters, or if someone convinces you that you have them, you will almost certainly "find" them. The simple act of imagining an alter can be enough to make your brain start generating one, or at least something that resembles one close enough to convince people like these therapists.

Many of these former patients describe their mental health deteriorating as their "therapy" progressed. Many who came in without severe issues were completely dysfunctional by the time they left, and if they did have issues when they started, they were exacerbated. This was treated as a part of the healing process, with patients being told that "you have to get worse before you get better" and "the only way out is through."

As retractor Stephanie Krauss put it:

They get hold of this impressive-sounding theory and it goes through some metamorphosis in their minds and is transformed into fact. Then they go treat patients with this new information that only causes more havoc in the lives of persons with normal problems. They have this zeal to treat a disorder that doesn't even exist-at least, not until after treatment starts, and that's when the suffering really begins.

I know brainwashing techniques, and what these people experienced was 100% brainwashing. Each patient had their very sense of self torn apart and each was led to believe that they couldn't trust their own minds. They were led to believe that they had a serious problem that only the therapist - the one with all the power - could fix. They were only "healing" when they complied with the therapist's desires. They were told to cut off anyone who challenged the therapist's narrative.

In other words, the real programmers, the real practitioners of mind control, were the therapists.

[shortbcofkoffee]

Cw: Self-harm, cult rituals involving torture

People aren't supposed to know you're with the Children of Dionysus. It's the first thing they tell you, like fight club rules, don't talk about it. So Bernard doesn't tell his parents the real reason he's decided not to go to college. Attaining enlightenment is his goal now, and the way is pain.

His parents were pissed, obviously. He'd been a great student all throughout grade school with the expectation he'd get a full-ride scholarship somewhere, but now, he's just not going. Bernard didn't really want to go to college anyway; he had no idea what he wanted to major in. And it wasn't as if this was some sort of club for wayward teens or something, Bernard knew some of the people there. There was Jackson, valedictorian from Louis Grieve the year before Bernard graduated. There were a couple of others from Bernard's graduating class too. Bernard was happy here. He finally had direction.

That's why Bernard's thigh was bleeding. He'd been feeling a little... far from enlightenment lately. He'd been stressed. His parents wanted him to get a job since he wasn't going to school, but he didn't want one. It was causing more friction than it'd already had. Stress was not getting him any closer to enlightenment, and a little bit of pain would at least help him clear his mind.

Bernard pressed the razor into his skin and cut deep, long lines. Jackson had taught Bernard and some others good ways and places to hide scars. Thighs were always good, Bernard could hide those even under boxers. Close to the armpits was good too. Since Bernard mainly wore long pants and sleeves, he could cut anywhere. Ms. LaCoste, one of the recruiters, had praised him for it.

Sometimes, when he was whipped with chains after Saturday worship, she'd let him stay longer. She would help him check his injuries, making sure they were healing correctly. Healing was important after all, you needed to heal enough to be hurt again.

There was still a huge welt on Bernard's thigh from last Saturday. He sliced clean through it. Ms. LaCoste would be proud. Bernard sighed shakily as blood flowed freely down his thigh and dripped on the floor. He leaned back onto his bed. Healing naturally was preferred. He just had to wait until the blood clotted, then he could clean. He turned the razor around in his hand. This was his greatest weapon against ignorance.

He'd be getting his tattoo tomorrow. The bold got it in more visible places; Jackson's was on his neck. It was small enough to be hidden by a collar, but any t-shirt would have it proud. Bernard was going to get his on his wrist. He wanted to see his, to be reminded of his goal.

He put his razor down on his nightstand and swung his legs onto the bed. He'd have to wait for the blood to clot to get under his covers. He was happy. He was still years from enlightenment, but this was a huge step in the right direction. Bernard was excited.

[broodwoof]

annoying little author's note but: this is a solythal fic, and i think they're a great couple who are mutually, deeply in love, just in circumstances that could never entirely allow it. okay, carry on cw: character death; self-harm (blood magic)

Orbit

The first time he had called her name, he was weak at the knees, stumbling in his new-found flesh. She had cradled him, soothed him, stroked his hair out of his face. Each touch, each reminder of his physicality, shocked and excited him.

He was Wisdom. He had not wanted to come, no; had not wanted to take from the earth. But he had come for her, as he always would, and he would not deny his own fascination with the trappings of the physical. The sensation of her skin and clothing against his bare flesh was a glut of experience; the grass under his bare feet, the breeze on his skin, the smell of the world…

He had called her name many times, after that first.

He had called it in a sing-song voice, teasing and lilting, playful and irreverent.

Had called it in shock, fear for her.

In her bed, clutching her shoulders as he moved atop and within her, gasping her name against her ear as he spilled within her sweet depths.

In anger, when they argued. Bitter arguments, wounding and wounded.

Quietly, gently, when after a fight he had come to her, or she to him, as they always did. When they nestled in against each other as if the warmth of their bodies would ease the burdens of their differences.

In horror at what they'd done.

In desperation, needing her at his side.

She was his center of gravity. She was to whom all others compared, and to whom all others failed.

And how could they not? She was no goddess, no more than he was a god, despite what the Elvhen had come to see in the Evanuris. But she was his, and he was hers, and Benevolence and Wisdom, Retribution and Pride had been together for so long that their boundaries blurred.

She was, fundamentally, a part of him.

And he, a part of her.

He had screamed her name when he found her.

Had sobbed it as he stumbled to where she lay, as he desperately touched her hands, her face, her neck, shaking fingers seeking evidence that was absent.

He had not recognized his own voice. It was as if her name was haunting him, was made manifest around him, repeated and repeated until it should have been meaningless but could not be, would not be.

Piece by piece.

The preparations were exacting. Time-consuming. But necessary.

His precision was absolute and implacable.

Piece by piece.

The final component, the dagger they had made. Imbued with a part of each of them. And he felt it. He felt her. He called her name as he clutched this implement of destruction, of despair, of horror, of violence.

Piece by piece.

He built her a home.

Rather, he already had. A place where she would be comfortable. He had modeled it after the Fade, although he could not give it the same inherent flexibility. But he had agonized over each minute decision, constantly adjusting it, assessing it with an immensely critical eye before refining it.

It had to be right. Had to be perfect. It was a home he was preparing for her.

For them.

And it was empty. Had been empty. In time, had been sealed off.

Now he brought the dagger here. The thin memory of her.

The preparations continued, but now he was bolstered. Emboldened. Potential lay just before him.

Piece by piece.

It had taken so long. Artifacts of power, the recruitment of spirits willing to lend their aid, letting his power pool into his orb until it was near ready to burst at the pressure. This was risky, but he saw no alternative; not only for him, but for the world. For the Elvhen people.

Mythal was necessary.

Fen'Harel was not.

Felassan remained, he told himself as he approached the ritual site. The rebellion was in full swing, and there would always be someone else to take up the banner. He had no intention of destroying himself, but what he was doing was so unknown, he could guarantee very little. But he refused to live with failure and the knowledge that he could have tried harder.

He lifted the blade. Titan blood, his own, and Mythal's all stained it. Hers from its creation as well as her… destruction.

His would stain it again.

He gouged deep marks into his arms, runes forming under his skin. It was agony, but he had been in agony before. He did not allow himself to falter.

The blood spilled to the ground; a thick, wet chorus in the silence.

Once prepared, he began the casting. It would take time.

It had worked.

And… it had not.

She was here. Whole. Alive. But weak, quiet, soft. Unconscious. He laid her flat, covered her with his cloak, his wolf pelt pillowed under her head. And he waited.

And she did not stir.

He waited.

She did not stir.

Time was difficult here.

But he knew his time was running out. If he stayed here much longer, Felassan would assume the worst. And although he'd been willing to leave the rebellion in his friend's hands, time alone with nothing for companionship aside from his cyclical worries had made him feel like he was necessary.

He was Wisdom, even that he was something else, now. Wisdom knew what to do.

That was what it did. What it was. What he was.

He waited.

He left.

It was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do. But she was alive, and he was convinced that she was recovering, that there was a fraction more color in her cheeks than when she'd first appeared. He had eternity to wait for her, now that she was there to wait for, but he did not have eternity to wait here. He could not ignore his other responsibilities.

He kissed her forehead before he left, and nearly collapsed as he passed through the eluvian away from her.

He did his duty.

Time and again.

And always, he had meant to go back. To check on her. But always, he was terrified.

What if she still slept?

What if she was awake, had awoken abandoned?

How could he make it up to her, when he would just have to leave again? When he knew she could not, given the nature of how he had brought her free of the dagger?

Had he done the right thing?

Could he have done anything else?

But always a new day dawned. New plans. New battles. New distractions.

Piece by piece.

Now the final pieces.

The prison.

He would go to her after, he had decided. After he had sealed away those who had murdered her. After he could meet her eyes without shame. After.

There had been no after.

Instead, he had destroyed the world. And he fell helpless into deepest slumber.

Then there was an after, and it was wrong.

No, there was potential.

Restoration.

Just a little longer. A little more.

Then he could meet her eyes without shame.

Each step, a failure.

Each hope, denied.

Each plan, foiled.

Piece by piece…

He had not expected this. Her name passed his lips as a whisper, soft with disbelief. She smiled a smile he recognized in the deepest parts of himself, and he felt flooded with emotion. He could not possibly contain the mass of it all.

She wanted him to live. To live for himself. Not in her memory, not in pursuit of her glory, her love, her…

He was not sure he knew how to. But he recognized her grace. Her gentle regard.

She had been awake for so long. Far longer than he had dared think. And in more forms than he had realized until very recently.

She had lived rich lives. She had loved, as he loved now. And she was granting him that opportunity… to divest himself of his commitment to her, and to live for himself.

He knew it was right. He felt her sentiment course through him, something that did not need the words which framed it.

Spirits in union once more, flesh be damned.

She would always be a part of him. He, always a part of her. They were eternal, immortal… and now, they were safe, in a world neither of them entirely knew.

He would live his life. He would do all he could to undo the harm he had caused, the harm they had caused. He would love with fresh eyes, let himself experience all that flesh had to offer, let himself fulfill duty without being shackled to it.

And they would circle each other, in endless orbit.

Each the center of the other's gravity.

[sharkyregression]

Little two time (maybe petre) headcanons pls,,,?

Hi!! I am so so so sorry this is so late I got super duper busy with finals and AP tests, then I was just mentally exhausted due to school so I needed a break from basically everything!! So I’m back now!! But I loveeee Two Time, they’re so me!! (Minus the you know, bad stuff) I’m not too confident in my understanding of petre so unfortunately I probably won’t do any requests for it at all but I can definitely do agere!!

CW FOR CULTS AND VIOLENCE AND HINTS OF DEATH AND VERY SLIGHT SELF HARM MENTIONS (it’s just Two Time’s lore stuff)

🩵 Two Time first started regressing in the cult, they had absolutely no clue what it was, neither did Azure. But they both just went with it and Azure would act as their care giver when they regressed.

🤍 Their little age is usually pretty young, as young as a few months to only about 5 at the oldest. But when they are a bit older they’re super energetic and loves to run around and play, especially hide and seek!

🩵 The cult is kind of iffy when it comes to food, so Azure secretly grows a few berry bushes to feed to Two Time when little. Especially blueberries and raspberries, those are their favorite! And bonus points if Azure hand feeds them to them.

🤍 Two Time usually is pretty quiet when regressed, but they will make small sounds, yawns, hums, stuff like that. So the more context they are the quieter they are. When a bit older they do giggle a lot, especially when playing.

🩵 The first time Two Time regressed after the, ritual. They had a huge crying meltdown, no one to take care of them, their little brain couldn’t understand where bubba (what they called Azure) was.

🤍 When they got forsakened, at that point they were already more mentally unstable, and it affected their regression some. They started taking more of an interest in dangerous stuff while regressed, wanting to play with their dagger, or try and touch the fire.

🩵 They sometimes regress during rounds, but that’s rarer as their brain recognizes it’s not safe. But between rounds they can be seen regressing more.

🤍 Since they lost their caretaker they mostly keep to themself when regressed. They sit in a little fort they made and keep to themself. They aren’t interested in replacing Azure, and they don’t even know what they’re doing during those moments, so it’s not that easy to ask someone to take that role anyways.

🩵 The closest thing they have to a caregiver is Guest and n7’s parental instincts being activated by their behavior. But even then most people keep their distance away from Two Time usually due to how unstable they are. Guest will just try and ease the dagger out of their hand, brain recognizing Two Time shouldn’t have something sharp.

🤍 One of the few times they regressed in a round the round’s killer was Azure. And despite how both of their heads were messed up, due to what happened and the Spectre, Azure’s instincts kicked in. And for one round it was peaceful, just Azure taking care of Two Time till the round ended. Unfortunately the Spectre never let that happen again.

Sorry if it’s a little sad!! I tried to make it ‘realistic’ but realistic in this case is sad. I’m really close friends with a DID system who has an Azure and Two Time and I had to remind myself that they act differently then in canon, as I was tempted to write stuff that had to do with their alters not the canon characters!! Including forgetting that Two Time is not canonically kitty Two Time. But hope these were alright!! It’s pretty late and I’m mostly little so they might not be amazing!!

[comesatimecomesashadow]

Could you write a modern AU for a fem!Chubby! Reader × Giyu Tomioka as an college romance story.

Like the reader is depressed because people overlook her, hate her, infact, even ignore her.

All cuz she is chubby.

So she self-harms.

The rest I leave up to you. I am not really good at writing .

when i've broken every door *ೃ༄

pairing *ೃ༄ modern, college au! tomioka giyu / fem chubby reader

fic type *ೃ༄ one-shot, comfort

cw *ೃ༄ mentions of depression, descriptions of non-suicidal self-harm, depression, fat-shaming and bullying, let me know if i missed anything !

summary *ೃ༄ with your academic life and social life being a dumpster-fire, you wonder if it's even worth going on until giyu helps you realize that you aren't alone.

note *ೃ༄ aaaa i love writing chubby reader :cc; hopefully this was what you meant, anon!! I hope you enjoy <3

masterlist *ೃ༄ (tba, i don't have one for kny yet)

Exams, Studying, Reading. 

At this point it was a ritual of yours to go to the fourth floor —the quietest floor— of the library after class ended. Maybe it was the absence of other students, or the deafening silence and stale smell of books that comforted you; Whatever it was, you loved this floor. Mainly because it was kind of like your safe space. No one would interrupt you and your quiet study time since the staff made sure to notify those who were too loud to either take themselves to the lower levels of the library or make themselves quiet. 

Lately, it’d felt as if the hours blended together like oil paints on a primed canvas; Your grades were beginning to suffer because of it. The notes you took during class barely even made sense to you, they were just words on a lined page by the time you actually focused on comprehending them. 

It didn’t help that your mind was more clouded than usual. 

Whether it was the stares you got in the hallway while walking to your classes or the unbearable way your teachers seemed to dismiss you when you had a question- all of these circumstances piled on top of the fact that mirrors had become your enemy and you hated being alone with your thoughts now more than ever. 

So of course, you were a little pissed when a guy— someone you recognized to be in your english class— tapped your shoulder asking if you’d be willing to study with him. He wasn’t as tall as the athletic guys you’d seen around the open grassy areas on campus but he was definitely taller than you; His hair was wrapped into a ponytail with bangs that framed his face perfectly– in any other circumstance he would’ve seemed angelic but right now he was more equivalent to a thorn in your side. 

“Yeah, sure uhm- you’re in my english class right? With Mrs. Shuusei..?” 

“Yeah. You’re _____, correct?” 

Your eyes widened slightly, “Ye.. Yeah.” How did he know? What is he playing at? 

“Tomioka Giyu,” he stated as he set his schoolbag down beside the chair, “But you can just call me Giyu.” You straightened your posture and placed your hands in your lap nervously. You weren’t scared of the guy, he just.. 

“What do you need help with?” you inhaled steadily, deciding to take a sip from your water bottle, “I’m not too much help right now, unfortunately..” A small chuckle made its way from your lips. He couldn’t possibly be here to just study with you; guys like him don’t go out of their way to only ‘speak’ to you, so what was his motive? 

“You didn’t understand the lecture?” 

“Not really- I mean, I wrote notes but..” 

“You weren’t paying attention.” He stated it bluntly, like he’d been in your place before or something. 

“No, not really..” you sheepishly admitted. This was embarrassing. 

“That’s fine, I can help if you’d like..?” It sounded like an invitation and since you really needed it this time around.. His help couldn’t hurt right? 

“.. Yeah, please.” 

You didn’t really pay much attention to your classmates unless there were discussions or group work to be done, so for someone to reach out to you was already taboo in your mind- But a pretty guy like Giyu? Surely, it had to have been on a dare that he asked to study with you. However, even after the first formal meeting between the two of you, nothing was suspicious about him. You noticed him around campus but never made the first move to talk to him. Years of being rejected and ‘othered’ by classmates and teachers alike had taught you to not expect much from others, even if they appeared to have good intentions at first. 

Despite your unwillingness to go and talk to him, he wasn’t as afraid of coming up to you as you were. You learned early on that he, like you, was an introvert. He didn’t enjoy crowded spaces —which is why he preferred studying on the fourth floor of the library— and didn’t really speak in class unless he was asked a question or needed to clarify something. Giyu was quiet but he wasn’t by any means shy.  

Maybe it was why you drew closer to him than you intended to. You thought that the study session with him on that cold Thursday was just a one-time thing, but actually it was the first of many. It didn’t take long for those study sessions to bleed into hangouts in between classes and reunions outside of lectures. 

Unfortunately, his presence around you only put you in between a rock and a hard place. 

You wanted to continue hanging out with him, to continue reading with him in the library and analyzing literature together for English; Still, none of that made the whispers die down. It amplified them tenfold if anything. 

“They’re too different.” 

“She’s way too much for him to handle.” 

“How does that even work?”

“Are they together? ‘Cause he definitely deserves better.” 

It wasn’t long before you started walking with your head down again and began to avoid Giyu like he was the plague incarnate. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Wrong. No matter how small you tried to make yourself, you’d never be small enough to disappear fully. The eyes you constantly felt on you only continued to prove you right. 

And Giyu? Well, he noticed. 

Of course he did. Nothing ever escaped him, hell,  it’s why he was so good at dissecting the interpersonal relationships between characters in gothic literature. He’d be damned if he didn’t notice the way you began to avoid him and flake on pre-planned hangouts. It wasn’t like the two of you were close but he noted more than anyone, how you flinched when you sat down, as if something was paining you; He noticed more than anyone, the light red marks on your shoulders when you scrambled to put your sweater back on, on a hot summer day. 

Giyu wasn’t stupid. 

As someone who dealt with the same depression you did, he knew the effects of it; How dangerous it could be to someone when they were at their lowest. And of course, in usual Giyu fashion, he was unsure how to bring it up when he turned up at your apartment near campus. His feet somehow carried him to your front door while somehow forgetting to bring his brain along with him. 

When you opened the door after the four firm knocks he laid out on it, the last thing he expected to see was your round, tear-stained cheeks looking back up at him. The skin around your eyes was visibly raw and at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to calm the thoughts you were very clearly giving in to. 

Sure, he probably fell way harder for you in the six months that the two of you spent studying and getting to know each other than you did, but he was never really one to beat around the bush. He couldn’t help it if he felt only warmth in his heart when you shared food with him at that secluded spot near the campus garden where the sunlight bathed you enticingly like you were some sort of divine being. You were too generous than you gave yourself credit for which was evident in the way you often downplayed your achievements or tried to make yourself seem small. 

He saw the way others stared at you when you passed by but he couldn’t care less —he couldn’t bring himself to care about the opinions of others when the only person he cared about was right in front of him. 

“Giyu? What are you-” 

“Why have you been avoiding me?” 

So blunt. “I’m not, I just.. I haven’t had the time.” 

“Are you sure that’s it? I didn’t do something to make you uncomfortable did I?” 

“No, no- Never.” you reassured, “I’ve just been busy with my assignments and family stuff, you know how it is.” 

“You know you can always talk to me right? We’re friends aren’t we?” His monotone delivery would’ve pissed anyone else off but you knew better than to misinterpret his words. He meant them and you knew that. 

Friends don’t look at me the way you do. No one does. “.. I don’t know what you want me to say, Giyu.” 

“.. I just..” Giyu released a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding in, “I need to know you’re okay. Are you?” 

It was then that all hell broke loose, most likely due to the fact that you had already been crying prior to Giyu coming to your door. You wanted to shut yourself out like you’d learned to do; Isolate your emotions and deal with them by yourself so no one else would be burdened by them- But one by one, Giyu was breaking all your rules. 

Your plump hands covered your eyes as the tears fell relentlessly and Giyu couldn’t just stand by and watch you break down. He stepped closer with his hands clenched into fists, “.. Can I hug you?” A nod was all he needed to see before engulfing you in his arms. He rubbed your back and held you tight, like you could disappear if he were to loosen his grip. 

“I’m no.. –hiccup– I’m not okay,” you said in a shaky breath. It tore him up to see you like this, but he would be there for you. He’d let you go on like this for longer than he should’ve and it was the least he could do. 

“What’s wrong? You can talk to me, I promise.” he whispered. 

“Everything,” you wailed, resorting to hugging him back, your hands shaking as sobs wracked through you. “I can’t do it anymore; the staring, the whispers in the halls- this body of mine, I just can’t.” 

“You don’t have to deal with it alone,” he stated, as if it was a fact. Because to him, it was. To you? It was a suggestion always out of reach. 

“I have to!” you cried, “It’s not like you can save me from myself, Giyu. I can’t just magically-” 

“I’m not asking you to.” he said, his blue eyed stare as firm as it’s ever been. “I’m only asking you to try leaning on me for a change. I know I can’t make all of your problems go away- But I know all too well that dealing with it on your own only makes it hurt more.” 

“How do you know that?” Your voice was quiet but hoarse now. His coat bunched up into your fists that slowly let go. “Because I’ve been there.” He revealed, “I know what it’s like to feel guilty for something that isn’t your fault; What it’s like to hate yourself. I know what that’s like and I can’t watch you go through it alone.” 

You were speechless to say the least. 

You had an inkling that he might’ve understood you at least a little, but to know that he had been in the same shadow you lived in once before.. It made you see him in a different light. Giyu went from this quiet guy in class that you barely knew, to a close friend you admired in more ways than a friend should. 

You looked down, like you always did. “And if you get tired of me leaning on you? What will I do then?” 

He parted from you a little to get a clear look at your face. His thumb brushed the tears from your eyes shortly after, “.. I’m quite sure I've got enough patience for the both of us.” 

This made you crack a smile, “..are you sure? I can be a handful..” 

“I’m more than sure. Certain, even.” His blue eyes never looked more alive than they did now. 

“You can’t take it back, okay?” 

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

[aplaceinthedark]

chapter 8: SPENT AGES losing SLEEP

Summary: The Appalachian Mountains hide numerous monsters, and it's up to Taylor and the Bad Omens to prevent them from causing any harm. 

Word Count: 2.1k+

CW: supernatural themes, witchcraft

This is RPF, and thus will contain real people, but names and events will be changed. If this bothers you too much, then please leave this temple without causing harm. 

Divider by @saradika-graphics

An hour later, Nick stood in our bedroom, peering at something on the ceiling I couldn't see. “It makes no sense,” he muttered, barely audible except to me. “This house is warded against evil spirits. I made sure of it.” 

He was referring to just after we met, when he secretly under the cover of night spelled my house to keep me safe from anything in the woods. When I became aware of his paranormal world, he put more in place. I hadn't known that it included anti-spirit protection, like it was some kind of home insurance. 

I had finally divulged seeing the shadow in the library parking lot, somehow equating it to today's appearance. We had even lumped in the shadow that had been at the edge of the property a few weeks ago, though something nagging in me said that it felt different. I just chalked it up to fear clouding my judgement. 

Even more frustrating to Nick was the silence coming from the forest. He had tried to call for Noah multiple times, but his attempts were as fruitful as mine. He even tried casting his senses out, but he found nothing. Like Noah wasn't even out in the forest.

“That's not like him,” Nick had mumbled, casting his eyes towards me as if he expected me to not be looking at him. He quickly averted his eyes when he saw that I was indeed looking, but not fast enough for me to be unable to see the darkness in them. 

I should've known that the plan would fail. 

Nick had also told me that the ritual worked. He couldn't feel any rot or decay, and that the woods felt… healthy. I wanted to crack a joke about how forest conservation had been solved with three orgasms, but I could tell Nick was still sore about the subject. 

In the present, I watched Nick place new protection spells and banishment wards. Jerry, now pleased as punch that he had essentially saved his parent from a ghost-lady, purred loudly on my lap. Though he had only just rammed his head into a wall, I still gave him pets and treats.

“Could it be something else?” I asked. 

“Maybe. Some things just don't add up,” he said. He closed his eyes and sighed out loud. “There. All done.” He pretended to dust his hands off.

“I feel safer already,” I said, even though I couldn't feel anything different.

“Oh, hush, you,” he said, waving his hand at me.

“Do you need to suck down on something green?” I asked teasingly. I neatly dodged the sock he threw at me. 

“No, I'm fine,” Nick said as he reached back and pulled his shirt off. He pulled back the covers on the bed and neatly slid in.

“What were you doing earlier, before everything happened?” I asked, finally getting the chance. 

“Well, firstly, I was dividing which pots were gonna be used for my Practice and which ones were gonna be for other stuff. Then I was getting the shed ready to be my workspace.” 

Late last fall, I had stated that a project I had wanted to do for this year was to tear down the old shed on the edge of our backyard. Nick intervened by mentioning that he could turn it into a place where he could make his poultices and oils and other stuff instead. I had agreed with him because all the plants he had brought with him when he moved in nearly gave me a panic attack. They had taken up so much space, and the cats kept kicking the soil out of the pots. After our first fight as a couple, and my subsequent meltdown, Nick had to help me unlearn some of the things my parents had instilled into me. 

“You remember what we promised?” I asked, slipping under the covers.

“That I'm supposed to teach you how to practice?” He said. “Of course I haven't.”

I let out a tiny sigh of relief. “Okay.”

“I’m not going back on that promise,” he reassured me as I slipped in next to him. I felt overdressed with my shorts and threadbare shirt.

As I snuggled next to him, I said “Thank you” into a clear patch of olive skin. 

Between his even breathing and the two cats purring on either side of us, it didn't take long for me to be lulled to sleep. But one thing still bothered me until I slipped into oblivion:

Where was Noah?

NICHOLAS

It had taken a little bit for Taylor to go to sleep, as if they were restless. Nicholas couldn't blame them, seeming as they were confronted by some sort of spectre. 

He had gone over the house three times, poking and prodding at the protection spells he had placed and renewed constantly. And the house wasn't haunted before they moved in; it wasn't haunted when Noah and his mom lived there. He had only just spread the rumor that it was haunted, and what good did that do?

Well, besides bringing Taylor to him. 

When Nicholas was absolutely sure that Taylor was in deep sleep and wouldn't be waking up for anything, he slowly got out of the bed. He got redressed and quietly walked out to the front porch, stealing one of his Granny's crochet blankets to take with him.

It was nearly three in the morning, much to Nicholas’ surprise, but that worked for him. It was almost Offering Time. It was almost like clockwork, where Noah would pick up whatever offering Taylor had placed on the silver plate. Except unsurprisingly, it wasn’t Noah who loped out of the woods.

Nick shifted from the white Grim to his human body. “You’re up late again,” Nick said from the steps.

For some reason, his words aggravated Nicholas. “He couldn't come here himself?” He asked. “He had to send you down here instead?”

Nick held his hands up in defense. “Hey, don't shoot me. I haven’t even seen him in a few days,” he said. 

The fact that Nick was here instead of Noah felt like another piece of the puzzle sliding home to Nicholas. “So where is he, then?” he asked. 

Nick seemed to ignore Nicholas as he stepped onto the porch, his nose lifting at whatever Taylor had left as an offering. “Are those their taco wontons? Oh, fuck me–”

Nicholas stepped into Nick's path. “What's his deal?” He pressed.

He caught the briefest of flashes of anger in Nick's eyes as well as a low warning growl, but it was gone as Nick shrugged. “He went up to Stony Man, dude. I didn't ask why.”

Stony Man. The place was a private, almost sanctuary-like place for Noah. Nicholas had tried to go up there once, but the journey up the mountain almost did him in. He had stayed long enough to get his True Name and was quick to journey back down.

If Noah had retreated up to there, then that meant he really was troubled. And he now had a good feeling he knew why. 

He stepped aside to let Nick pass, who was quick to wolf down half of the offering. A cruel part of him wanted to take away the rest, to starve Noah of the offering. The power of the thought took him by surprise and horrified him. No pettiness was worth the danger that would put Taylor in.

“You alright?” Nick asked, his mouth full.

Nicholas let out his anger in a single huff. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. He then stuck a cigarette in his mouth.

The two Nicks sat in silence on the front porch for a bit as they listened to life happening in the woods. It was only broken up when Nick wrapped the remaining wontons in foil. “Are you taking those to Jolly or Noah first?” Nicholas asked. 

"Well, Jolly, cuz Noah hasn't said anything about them.”

"He hasn't talked to you? At all?" 

“Jolly and I haven't seen him since the ritual happened. I only know he went up to Stony Man because that's where his trait went.” Nick shrugged.

The anger was bubbling in Nicholas' stomach again. “He needs to get over himself," he muttered to himself. 

“Hey man, maybe he needs time to recover from–” 

"From what?" Nicholas snapped. "From getting my partner for a night? When there's shit happening down here?"

He immediately regretted the outburst, as Nicki's hazel eyes widened. He was pretty sure he had also been a little too loud, as he heard a sound from inside the house that was undoubtedly one of the cats being startled. But he didn't apologize. 

“What's happened here?” Nick asked. 

Nicholas sighed, and told Nick about Taylor's shadow. When he got to the part where the shadow had been inside their house, Nick's face paled until it was almost the color of his fur. "You know what I'm talking about? 

“Well... I don't know if it's the same Thing, but there was something my mom told me when I had kissed a girl who wasn't my first girlfriend. About a woman in black who scared men who were cheating on their wives.”

When Nicholas only squinted in response, Nick blundered on. “If the Woman in Black saw you outside, she'd scare you into going back to your girl, or kill you if she caught you cheating again.”

“Besides the similarity in clothing, what does she have to do with this?” Nicholas asked. 

“Because I found two dead guys in the woods, and I know one of them liked to cheat on his wife. They'd go camping every time he did it, and would brag about it. Loudly.”

“But Taylor didn't cheat. I agreed to it. I was a cuck without actually getting to be a cuck.” 

"I don't know man! Maybe she doesn't see the... technicality of it. But I didn't even know she was a Thing.” 

But none of us believed the Watcher of the Woods was a Thing, either, Nicholas finished Nick's sentence in his mind. 

“Do you think those men were killed by a Thing?” he asked. 

"I know they had to be. One guy's head was clean ripped off.” 

This was bad. Had they done the ritual to banish one evil, only to raise another? And as Nicholas had held back the fact that the ritual wasn't a permanent solution - that it had to be performed once a year - he was certain now that it shouldn't be performed again if it might piss off some kind of vengeful ghost that- 

“What're we gonna do?” 

Nicki's voice cut through Nicholas' thoughts. Noah was MIA, which meant that their chain of command, as loose of a term as it was, fell to him. Despite him being the only human of the Circle, the others listened to him. “Keep an eye out for now. I'll feel out the forest for anything,” he said, pressing his cigarette butt into the ashtray. "And drag Noah down the mountain by his antlers if you have to. We have to have a talk."

He could see Nicki's apprehensiveness towards confronting the Watcher of the Woods. If the two came to blows, Noah would obviously win. Nicholas has watched them wrestle with each other before. But Nick silently began stuffing the leftovers into his mouth, walking out into the front yard before transforming into the Grim. With a look back towards Nicholas, he bounded into the woods. 

Nicholas gave him a moment before standing up, stretching his tired limbs. He still felt wide awake, but he would go back to bed in only a moment. He closed his eyes and let out a breath, extending his mind through the roots in the ground. 

He had done this twenty-four hours ago, when he had been woken up suddenly. He hadn't felt anything then, and he wasn't feeling anything now–

He stopped suddenly, and turned towards the door. He quickly opened it, and with a soft yelp, Taylor tumbled forward onto the porch.

"You should be sleeping,” Nicholas scolded softly. "You have work tomorrow." 

“I know,” they said quietly. They pushed themself back onto their knees and looked up at him. If it was any other scenario, he might've thought it was hot. “But I heard you talking, and maybe Nick might've heard something about–”

“Come on, forget about him.” Nicholas held out his hands, and Taylor took them so he could pull them up onto their feet. “Let's go back to bed, yeah?” 

Taylor puffed out their cheeks, which he knew was their way of showing frustration, so he kissed their forehead and each cheek until they sighed and turned around, leading them back to the bedroom.

As Taylor once again settled against Nicholas' chest, he made up his mind. Either Noah had to come down from his mountain, or he’d go up there himself. Either way, they were going to have to have a talk.

And either way, it was going to be about Taylor.

tysm for reading! If you enjoyed this, please reblog to share the word of the Revered Father. Next chapter coming soon.

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[flowerbetweenfangs]

To The Wolves

This was written as an entry for a contest. The theme was "masquerade" I played fast and loose and just focused on the "mask" part. It was a lot of fun. This is a Red Riding Hood retelling.

CW: Attempted non con, (Not by the narrator) Knot, beast form.

Originally On A03

Every year, once harvest was done and winter was about to begin, the village I watched over would perform a ritual. With the crops now reaped, they would sow the seed of their unions, in the hopes that their pack numbers would increase. 

I was an ancient One. Older than the fields I roamed. Larger than the village itself. While such a form would be cumbersome, I took up space elsewhere.

I was a whispered prayer. The howling of wind. A burnt offering. A scratching at the shrine door. A carving on a wall. A shadow moving across the ground. An image in a scroll or book. A sight just out of the corner of an eye. 

They called me “Hunt” and “Harvest”. But the few who had laid eyes on me called me by another Name. I answered to all of them. For what is a God without believers? 

As Winter’s chill settled in, I could see the villagers tirelessly working. They carved wood into masks. Many used the pictures of me in ancient texts as reference, but each one had their own unique form. A symbol of their devotion. Once they wore it, they would be acting on my behalf. While not as powerful as a direct offering, it was a gesture I preferred. 

They had chosen a woman to don the vestments this year. Not a maiden, nor a crone. Young enough to run and be free, but old enough to know what she was getting into. Unclaimed and untethered.

She worked with the matriarch of the shrine, creating cakes that could fit into the palm of her hand. Each one was prepared and placed in a wicker basket. They called the older woman “Grand Mother”, for all her work in keeping up with the myths and offerings. 

Those who weren’t taking part had to be shut inside, threats of me gobbling up any one who disobeyed. Sometimes a bit of fear was necessary. While I had never harmed a human under my protection, no one wanted to be the first. 

As darkness fell, Grand Mother went on ahead. She vanished into the treeline, the light of her lantern bobbing up and down until it faded from view. When she arrived at the shrine, she would wait there until morning.

The Mask Makers followed shortly after her. Some howled, some sang, many simply panted and grunted with the effort of the sprint. Soon, their voices also vanished into the night. 

The woman had been stripped of all her earthly belongings and name. She was given the basket and a crimson cloak. It fell over her shoulders, and hung just above the ground, but did little to preserve her modesty when she walked. 

Bare feet kicked up dirt as she walked to the edge of the village, the basket hanging from the crook of her elbow. She would not even be allowed sandals for her journey, only her faith to protect her from what lay within the woods. 

A howl in the distance signaled that she was to start her journey. 

At the edge of her home, she paused. The light of the moon illuminated her path. While she had grown up near the forest, it was a different thing entirely to see it at night. 

Once she got to the treeline, I could see her resolve waver. While she didn’t slow, her steps became more cautious and calculated. Shoulders slightly raised, jaw clenched, she listened. 

Clutching the basket close, she allowed herself to shiver. The chattering of her teeth filled the empty night. 

Bringing her hands to her lips, she held them close and continued to walk forward. A harsh wind whipped the cloak around, nearly ripping it from her shoulders. The force made her gait more serpentine, but she managed to right herself. 

The first one came from the trees, his eye holes slightly too big. I could hear his panting as he stalked closer to her, taking care to not snap a twig or step too heavily.

She saw him in time, her body going stiff. One hand snaked into the basket. 

When their gazes locked, he stood upright, eyes greedily studying her form. He took a few steps closer to her. 

“Lady Red, Lady Red,” His voice was muffled by the mask, but it was clear enough. “What have you to eat?” 

Slowly, she withdrew her hand from the basket. A small cake was in her palm. 

Holding it out to the man, she cleared her throat. 

“Dear Wolf, Dear Wolf. Here, have something sweet.” Her whole body was shaking. Whether from the cold or fear, it was hard to tell. 

The cake nearly fell from her grasp before the man finally took it. Clutching it tightly, he ran off back toward the village. I could taste its sweetness as he gobbled it down. My power increased slightly, tethering me further to the land. 

She watched him run, before rolling her shoulders and pulling the hood of the cloak up. Back straight, she began to walk again. 

Her steps, no longer cautious, were still slow. Calculated. The gait of someone determined but not reckless. The residue from the cake still clung to her hand, but she didn’t seem to care. Now that it was over, she allowed herself to feel relief. 

But it was short lived. 

I could hear the whispers as the others began to move. Some closer to her, some toward the shrine. Plans being made. I followed their words, and I could tell they knew I was listening. Shivers went up spines, some slapped the back of their necks when they could feel my breath on it. A few jerked their heads in my direction when they caught a glimpse of my shadow. 

One sprung forward, jumping into her path. The ears on his mask were slightly too large, making him look more like a coyote.

She slowed to a stop, eyes wide like a doe. Breath came from her lips in a foggy cloud. Goosebumps traveled across her flesh as she stared. 

“Lady Red, Lady Red,” The voice rumbled from behind the mask. “What have you to eat?” 

This time, she stood firm and didn’t hesitate. Once more, she pulled out a small cake from the basket. While it didn’t shake in her grip, there was a bit of reluctance as she extended her arm out to the man. 

“Dear Wolf, Dear Wolf. Here, have something sweet.” 

The man stared at her a moment longer, then leaned forward, shifting his mask up. She averted her eyes, holding the cake out insistently. 

He took the cake directly into his mouth, lips brushing against her hand. A few strands of drool remained on her palm, which she discreetly wiped on her thigh when he turned away. I could taste it again, and found my own mouth watering further. 

Once he had devoured the morsel, he stared at her once more, before dashing off back to the village. 

She put a hand to her chest and let out a sigh of relief. Her stride picked up again, and she seemed more determined than before. The light of the moon seemed to shine brighter than before, bathing the entire area in a silvery glow. 

I had been watching her so closely, I almost didn’t see the man in the bushes. But I did see the chips in his mask, where the mouth would have been. The jagged edges poked into his lips, a few drops of crimson welling. He followed behind, not announcing himself like the others had. 

Putting a hand over his mouth, he stifled his breath and continued to keep pace with the woman. Every so often, he would reach out, his hand brushing against the cloak’s fabric. I knew a hunter when I saw one. 

We all stopped at the same time. 

Craning her neck, she looked for her pursuer. Her eyes widened. Clutching the cloak tight, she attempted to draw it closed around herself. I could tell she wanted to call out to the man, to get him to come into view. But the words seemed caught in her throat. 

I saw him shift his form, starting to rise, and for a moment I felt relief.  

However, rather than announce himself, he pounced on her. The action was so sudden she didn’t have time to draw in a breath and scream. I don’t think she realized what was happening until he was on top of her. 

Armed with only her faith, she finally cried out the ancient name I’d been known as: 

Warg . 

The basket snapped in two, cakes spilling all over the forest floor. Steam curled off the top, and they blackened. 

I hadn’t taken on a physical shape in years, but I found myself coming out from behind a tree. To not frighten her, I took on the body of a human male in a rather intricately carved wolf mask, furs wrapped around my torso. Amusingly, the pelt’s tail dangled between my legs where one would be in my other form. 

The tree groaned as I rested a hand on the trunk, nails far too long to be human digging into the bark. A growl rumbled in my throat, tearing through human muscle that hadn’t used it before. It became more of a death rattle, and I worried I wouldn’t be able to breathe. Compressing my being down to a form so small had me ready to come apart at the seams. 

But I wasn’t one to ignore an offering. 

Pausing, the man looked up at me. I could see beyond the mask, the thoughts racing through his mind as he attempted to place who I was. Muscles went taut, and I could see flight or fight warring as he weighed the options. 

I strode closer, jaw clenched to prevent another snarl from escaping my lips. Even though I was around the same size as him, he seemed to notice the power rolling off me. 

Slowly, he slipped off the woman and scrambled away apologetically. The words became curses as he scurried away, the Grand Mother’s title on his lips. 

The woman stayed on the ground, eyes still wide. Each action that followed seemed to be a struggle with how much she shook. Finally, she turned on her side to face me. Attempting to stand, she sucked in a breath when her knees gave out. 

I stood back, debating whether or not to offer her my hand.

Shivering, she managed to struggle to her feet. 

Upon seeing the ruined basket, she covered her face. Suppressed sobs shook her, and I felt a pang of sympathy. Through no fault of her own, the ritual had been halted. 

While she had no idea that she had summoned me prematurely, it was obvious something had gone wrong. If the next harvest failed, she would bear the guilt. Although I knew her attacker would be punished, by myself or by the other villagers.  

Picking up the remaining pieces of the basket, I offered it to her. Once she took them, I could feel a shift in the wind. The scent of the approaching men. 

They’d heard the commotion and came running. They went to call her old Name, but stopped themselves. 

Despite my better judgment, I snarled. It ripped through my very being, and I could feel myself starting to become undone. I debated on changing my form right then and there, but I didn’t want to frighten her more than I already had. Instead, I began to walk. 

I could smell the fear. The confusion. The worry. 

Who is this stranger in our woods? What has he done to Lady Red?

In the light of the moon, I could see the shadow of my true form. A fierce wind howled, and I followed it, vanishing from sight. 

I could hear her running steps. No longer afraid, or maybe more so than ever, she sprinted for the shrine. All that needed to be done now was for her to make it inside. Hopefully the broken basket would be explained away and the night could come to a close. 

I could hear her voice call out for the Matriarch. 

“Grand Mother? Are you there?”  

Silence answered. 

I saw more fear take over her face. Confusion. This was clearly not the way things were supposed to go. 

Peering inside the shrine, I saw the cushion, where the elder had been kneeling, was empty. Sniffing, I followed the scent out the back and into the woods. The smell of gold was strong. The scent of the Broken Mask clung to it. 

Sneaking through a window, I slunk through the Holy Room. Masks from previous years lined the shelves, along with baskets, cloaks, and old recipes. The hearth was still warm, the embers from the fire still glowing. 

Growling, I resisted the urge to run out of the shrine and chase down the pair. 

Once more, Lady Red called from outside the gate. 

Behind her, I could see the approaching silhouettes of the masked men. 

I felt my form shift again, taking on a smaller, more delicate shape. I’d only seen the Matriarch a handful of times, but I hoped darkness would conceal me better. Taking one of the vestments, I wrapped it around myself.

Kneeling on the mat, I faced the front room. 

“In here, dear!” 

The door opened and she came inside. Through labored breaths, she attempted to tell the events of what had just transpired. Before she could get to leaving the village, I saw her stiffen at the sight of me. 

The longer she stared at the disguise, the more it seemed to fall apart. I could feel the power rippling off me, filling the room. I fought between compressing myself and holding up the illusion, or giving in and letting my true form come forth, consequences or not. 

“My, what big eyes you have.” She said, voice shaking. Still, she took a step closer and squinted at me in the dark. 

“The better to see you with.” My throat was scraped raw from the words 

“What big ears you have,” She continued, teeth chattering. 

And yet, she came to the side of the mat. Close enough I could smell her breath and fear. Kneeling next to me, she rested at the edge of the cushion. It was just enough to tilt me, ever so slightly, in her direction. 

“The better to hear you with.” Once more, the voice coming from my form was not made for a human throat, and I could feel it becoming raspy. 

“... And what big teeth you have.” 

We stared at one another. I could feel her warmth, despite the shivering. 

A knowing smile tugged at the corner of her lips. I expected fear, anger, worry.

But there was none. Her eyes were wide as realization of what I was dawned on her. Lips parted slightly as she took in a shallow breath to steady herself. 

I allowed the form to unravel. While I still would have been bigger than the shrine in my truest form, I allowed myself to appear as something closer to my nature. Wind whipped through the air, stoking the embers back to life. As the orange glow mingled with silver, I saw my lupine shadow dancing on the wall and carvings. 

My tongue lolled out of my mouth as I inhaled her scent. White fangs flashed in the dark, saliva dribbling onto the floor. 

Despite the warring emotions, I managed to keep my mind. 

“Lady Red, Lady Red, what have you to eat?” My true voice rumbled from deep within. 

Her eyes went down to the ruined basket, then the old offerings lining the shelves. However, she quickly made up her mind. Untying the cloak, she let it fall to the floor. 

“Dear Wolf, Dear Wolf. Here, have something sweet.” 

The hands that had been trembling only a moment before were steady as they cupped my jaw. Fingers buried themselves in my fur, nails far too short to ever be a threat scraping against my skin. 

I wasn’t one to ignore an offering. 

I licked her palms, tasting the residue of cakes and dirt. Making my way up her arm, I stopped at the crook of her elbow, the scent of the town still clinging to her. I moved across her waist, leaving a glistening trail. 

I made my way down to her navel, letting my breath roll over pebbled skin. Condensation formed, a few drops mixing with forming sweat and rolling down. 

Parting her thighs, I lapped at the growing wetness between them. Fingers tangled in the scruff of my neck as her breath caught. She fell back on the mat, legs splayed open for me. Trickling folds invited me to devour them further. 

Massive paws were on either side of her, claws tearing through the fabric of the cushion. I continued to lick, fangs ever so slightly teasing at flesh. Despite my best attempts at being gentle, I still left marks. Nothing a human could ever leave. Soon, she was covered with them.

If she felt pain, there was no sign. In fact, her legs wrapped tighter around my head. I growled a warning, but the noise only seemed to excite her more. Moans and sighs echoed off the wooden walls. 

Such a tribute wasn’t one to be devoured in a couple of bites. I paced myself, drawing out each roll of my tongue, pressing a paw onto her when she attempted to make me speed up once more. 

Once more, she was quaking. As she shivered around my tongue, I could feel a need rising inside both of us. The seeds of harvest needed to be sowed. 

She must have noticed me dripping, because I was finally released. I stared at the dripping wet, panting heavily. My tongue was close enough to tease it, making her back arch and a shuddering groan escape her. 

Without a word, she rolled over onto her stomach, presenting herself to me. Once again, instinct threatened to take over, and I forced myself to remain in control. The literal earth shattering strength I had would make short work of a delicate human body. 

No sacrifice had ever been put through such a trial of faith before. 

Despite all the preparation and her resolve, she was tight around me. Almost too much. Fists gripped the cushion as she gasped in surprise. This was no human male rutting while wearing a mask. And if I had my way, no hands but mine would ever touch her in this way again. 

Once I was inside, my body moved of its own accord. Thrusts were punctuated with grunts and pants, paws covering her hands. I could feel myself being drawn back in when I attempted to pull out, almost like a game. 

The motion seemed to help her regain the ability to speak, and soon she was calling out my name over and over. Her hips rocked back, taking me in deeper than before. Initial resistance turned to eagerness, almost too much. 

As she came back onto me, I met her with a rhythm of my own. My name was called more times in those few short moments than it had been whispered that entire season. 

Such piousness should be rewarded. 

I leaned down and licked her cheek in an attempt to be tender. Salt tinged my tongue. Although I knew she wasn’t weeping from sorrow, I still forced myself to slow. My efforts only made her more wild, and she hilted me. 

My head shot up toward the moon, and I had to resist the urge to call out and stake my claim. I was glad she was facing away from me, because I worried what would happen if she realized that she could make a God see stars.

The thought of her becoming more bold made me shudder. With fear or excitement, I couldn’t say. It was a line that was easy to to blur. 

I ground my hips against her, and felt the release. As it filled her up, I felt a clench that held me fast. I swelled as she did, knotting. Our cries of ecstasy became labored gasps. The sensation sent another shock through me, spurting more into her.  

As she came down from the act, I took her into my arms. Despite being slick with sweat, she was all too eager to huddle up against me while I was still inside her. My hand went down to her stomach, and she shivered at the touch, still tender. 

I knew the villagers would be coming to the shrine in the morning, to see the result of the ritual. 

The seeds had been planted. The sowing had begun. 

I wondered what they would reap come next harvest. 

Something told me that my own pack would be growing soon.