#or something of the sort

[yeyinde]

WIP WEDNESDAY.

a portrait of madness | oil on canvas (in the clumsy strokes of a child's fingerpainting)

JOHNNY MACTAVISH X READER

18+ | IMPLIED KIDNAPPING. NON-GRAPHIC SMUT. TRAUMA.

He burns incense on Sunday.

Catholic, he says with a slight roll of his shoulder, tone dipped in a thick coat of nonchalance that drips like hot wax over his words. Habit. 

It's piled together with other things, too—his life story eliding into a thickened paste, slurring over the edges until they're blurred and distorted. Nonsensical. Something he seems to realise by the pinch in your brow, and clicks his tongue in irritation, murmuring a jagged apology under his breath that makes you want to weep.

You won't, though. Crying just makes him frantic. Makes him gather you into his arms, holding you tight as he whispers it'll be okay and you fight the urge to tell him it's all your fault. 

Swallowing it down is easier than letting him pretend he's a hero, so you watch him instead. Voyeuristic. Riveted as he brings his hand to the mangled mess of his temple, fingers folding into a fist. Driving, digging, into the scarred tissue that frames his temple. Angry. Muttering under his breath as he grinds his knuckle into bone—

It's episodic. These little spells of torment last several minutes where he digs and you fight both the urge to be sick all over the sheets and to cry, beg him to stop. Don't hurt yourself. 

A farce. 

It shouldn't matter that he's chiselling into tissue, raking claws through grey matter; playing Dies Irae over coiling gyri. Orchestral condemnation that makes you feel like you should be relishing in his torment. Conducting madness with barbed words and caustic accusations. But—

You derive no pleasure from his suffering, and spend the day choking on the heady plume of incense as it fills the small room he keeps you locked inside, begging him to stop.

(Please, god, stop—)

He won't, though. Not until he's satiated some indivisible need to hurt himself—righting a phantom wrong with the push of his fingers into torn tissue; trephination costumed as self-flagellation. And it's only when this urge is quelled will he climb into the lumpy mattress with you, eyes glazed over and blood dripping from the scratchmarks on his temple, and gather you into his arms. Shackling you to his heaving, sweat-slicked chest as he mutters insanity into your ear, and runs his sticky, blood-damp hands over your body. 

"Mine," he'll bite out, and it'll be the only thing he says that'll make sense for the rest of the night. Everything else is the scrape of iron over lodestone; grunts and whimpers and ragged breath. 

He'll take you apart with teeth and tongue, nipping at your skin as he laughs into the hollow of your throat, dazed and dizzy with the split of your thighs bracketed around his waist. A perfect feckin' fit, pretty doe. 

In these moments, you'll forget yourself. Clean slate. Blank canvas. You'll pull him closer and whine when he pushes himself inside of you—a perfect fit, just like he said. A missing piece, just like he is. 

You've never realised how empty you felt until he rolls his hips, sinking deep inside of you. Filling the space that aches like a bruise when he pulls out. Yearning. 

And it's such an ugly thing, isn't it? To find that missing part of yourself in the thick split of his cock as he gasps about stolen ribs and figs and how he remembers you from a past life. 

It'll make you sick in the morning when you feel him—sticky and thick between your thighs; cum dribbling out of your bruised, tender cunt (already aching)—but you'll beg for it as he buries his teeth into slope of your breast, grunting into the wound like you've gutted him. 

And maybe you have. In a past life. A different time. Took a blade to his firm, trim belly and sliced through the tangle of thick, black hair until a line of red grinned up at you; a vicious twist of its lips, mocking and cruel. Flensed maw gaping wide enough to swallow you whole—

The worn bible on his desk, kept next to the dogtags and locket they sent him home with, speak of murder as a mortal sin. He laments this in mutable sermons sometimes, spinning reviled lies of death and destruction. Penance in pounds of flesh. 

He talks about that a lot. 

Penance. 

Whispered out between feverish mutterings of nonsensical things too ground up in his thick patois for you to discern. To make sense of. Everything is blurred under heavy brogue, except—

"Are ye finally gonna confess today, doe? 

He asks this with his legs spread wide, knees far apart. Bible resting on the top of his thick, muscular thigh. Rosary clenched tight in his fist. The cross on his chest swings like pendulum when he leads forward, eyes wide. Wild. Peering into the heart of you as he asks the question again. Softer this time. Slower. A caress. Sweet in your ear. 

Enticing. 

You like him better when he's drenching his fingers in grey matter and screaming at the ghosts to stop hiding things inside his closet. 

So, you evade. You look away. Pretend he isn't real. Doesn't exist. That he's a ghost. A phantom. A bad dream—

"look'it me, doe—"

A shadow in a hallway. A noise in the dark. 

"Look'it me—!"

Whispers at midnight. The ocean in a seashell. Creaking floorboards in an empty house. Something in the corner of your eye. 

"don't do this tae me, doe! Ye cannae—"

Immaterial. Something you made up inside your head—

"why'd ye dae this tae me, doe? Why'd ye do this tae us?" 

Not real. Not real. Not real—

Until his hands are around your throat. Teeth bared, lips cocked in a snarl. 

"oh, ahm real, doe. Ahm very real—" madness drips in the back of his eyes like condensation down a glass. He tugs you closer until his blood-stained teeth pinch at the soft skin of your cheek. "An' don't ye forget that, doe. Ahm just as real as ye are. Ahm just as—"

Sometimes you think it's a little strange how you can still breathe even when his hands are tight like a noose around your neck. Even stranger, maybe, that you like it. The way it feels. The sight of him breaking apart, unravelling. Coming undone. Unmoored as you turn your head away from him, drawing those fevered eyes to the slope of your throat—

He bites down until skin breaks, tears. Buries his canines into you first, gasping at the puddle of blood that wells beneath his teeth. Slurping. Sucking. Groaning into your neck as your warm blood soaks his tongue, almost choking himself on the flood of it. His front teeth follow, slicing through tissue. Punishing. 

Feeding. 

Vampiric. You knot your fists into his shorn, messy hair, pulling him closer, nearer to your vein. The ridge of your jugular. Just get on with it. 

End me, you demand. Make it worth it. 

He closes his palm around your fingers when you go to push him away when he refuses your plea, wrenching your hand down to his side, his ribs, and moaning low in his throat—the sound wet, gurgling; sticky—when your nails catch his skin. Tearing. More blood between you than air in your lungs. 

He presses them hard into his muscle until it yields against bone. 

"feel th'?" He slurs, iron drenching his words. Sodden chin jutting into the hollow of your throat as he heaves with an airy, pluming laugh. "S'missin', ain't it, doe?" 

The hand gripping your fingers tightens until they go numb. Your dizzy gasp swallowed up into the ragged spill of his breath as he slides the tips of your fingers down to bottom of his ribcage with a grunt. 

He asks again—feel th', doe?—and you offer a feeble nod in response. 

"what'd ye do wi' it, doe?" 

You don't have an answer. You don't know. 

His growls, this low, dangerous thing, and pushes your knuckles harder into his skin until it sinks against tissue—

"S’not there, is it?" He laughs with his tongue against your neck, lapping at the blood. The scorching puff of humid air against the wounds hurts like a sunburn. You bear your neck a little more. "Where'd ye put it?" 

Your head hurts. Swaying like a loose pendulum on your neck—a teetotum—and you wonder if he bit too deep this time. All the way through until it clings to your body by a thin piece of tissue—

You drop forward, slumping against him. Forehead pressing into his cheekbone, lips dragging against stubble. 

"You're crazy," you slur into skin, and he laughs, a muffled rumble buried in the makeshift cage of your throat. 

"ahm no' crazy," he grunts, pushing you down until your back is flat against the mattress, his body boxing you in. Heavy on yours. Smothering. His head is still buried in your neck. Tongue lapping at the last drops of blood that weep from the wounds you can't feel anymore. 

Not crazy. You think about this room. These four walls. Concrete. Stone slabs. Gothic revival. A bed that smells of sweat, sex, and incense. Old paper. Dusty books. 

Blood.

The hollowness of his ribcage. The missing door—

He mutters things as you lull between lucidity. Talking about a man named John. Someone named Simon. How they warned him this would happen. 

"aye," he concludes as you sink deeper into sleep, clinging by a loose, fraying thread as he buries himself inside of you once again. "Sift me as wheat—"

On the dredges of sleep, he'll murmur, soft and sorrowful: why'd ye dae it, doe? Why'd ye—

You don't know. 

But in the back of your head, a memory dredges up from the bowels of your subconscious, spat up like vomit. Regurgitated madness. It festers, writhing like a parasite. A worm in your brain you can't control. 

Ribs between your fingers. bury the bone in the backyard. But no—

Hung on a spit, blackening in the flames. Charred marrow crushed between your teeth like stale, hard bread. Chew, swallow—

You think you might have killed him. Devoured him whole. 

Metaphorically speaking, that is—

(in dreams. in the empty vacuum of your mind. a different time, a different place;)

—because the thing in your memory isn't you. 

[katvyre]

I wish I was something cute like a doll... Id be so pretty and perfect (ﾉ´∀｀*)

[dearmyloveleys]

I love how in the canon divergence fics I’ve read where wwx manages to avoid death and sets up base in burial mounds the story always goes something like this:

Dear trash, Wei Sect Leader,

I hope this email finds you well. We have an issue about demonic cultivation that we only think it’s demonic cultivation because we literally think anything unorthodox is in your expertise. Pls send help plox. Come to jinlintai for a lunch. We promise we won’t kill u we luv u

Xoxo,

Cultivation world

And wwx is just like:

Hello,

I hope this email never finds me again lol suck a dick

Fuck off,

Wwx.

[snoozaga]

No little Twitter artist don't flood your media tab with reaction images you're so sexy ahaa

[pikoeatsglue32]

Alter ego

[blortch]

Yea I have to agree about Mike's editing. It really can be very frustrating and not funny. Mike purposely edited out Rich's analysis in the acolyte video, and tonight I just watched the strange darling video, and Mike did it again, but this time to Jay. At one point as Jay is talking early in the video, pre the spoiler section, Mike puts a black bar over his mouth and silly music so we cant hear Jay, and keeps it going for what feels like a full minute or more. (did he think thats funny?) then Mike says that Jay was giving spoilers and that hes editing it out of the video. Jay protests and says its not a spoiler and that what he just said was his biggest take away from the movie. I would like to hear what Jays biggest takeaway from the movie was, but do you think Mike added it back into the video in the spoiler section? NOPE. I knew he wouldnt because Mike is such a petulant shit. But we sure had to sit thru Mike talking about the car his mom drove in the 80s and all the cars that look like it. Meaningless ramblings from Mike. Im getting very tired of his passive aggressive bullshit. Sorry blorch, dont mean to dump on you, but I really like these guys, and its disheartening to see this weirdness creep in. Maybe its always been there, but Im just seeing it now.

[fate-defiant]

These four wormed their way into my head last night and would not leave me until I spat something out so here's some assorted headcanons, a comic that I'm not sure I understand the punchline of myself and the youngest inn-bling(ba dum tss) in ten to fifteen years.

[o--cei]

second one.

[ssahotchnerr]

do y'all have any angsty but ends fluffy requests?? <33

[fleuredelys]

Me, staring at these wings standing on the background: what if in a future where miss Cartethyia grows stronger, she gets an alternate form that includes these wings? It would be fitting due to Imperator and likewise, it doesn't have to be 1:1 either as Resonators have their own Forte too, outside of what they're connected with in terms of resonance. As another tidbit, during Cartethyia's transformation this same scene in blue appears right at her back:

[tagamantra]

hung around and got instructions on avalokiteshvara/chenrezig deity absorption meditation from a local karma kagyu (my current lineage) vajrayana buddhist temple somewhere in sta. mesa. they had crazy walls lined with padmasambhava and chenrezig idols

(feat. khenpo karma tsering the resident khenpo)

[pixlmonkeys]

Heh……welcome back to another episode of AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUGHHHH

[matteoberrettini]

i'm trying to get better at accepting compliments or at least like not refute them even if i don't believe them bc it isn't very helpful to be like no that's not true, i suck. so today when my coworker said i'm very kind and helpful i said 'thank you, let me know if sometimes it bothers you when i do x' instead of going 'oh that's not true' or 'i try i don't know if i am tho' and when my other coworker said something really sweet to me i also said thank you and tried to accept it... work in progress but yeah

[fosliie]

Just go with the flow! ✨✨✨

Stella is very enamored by human culture and fashion (tho she doesn’t understand it entirely) so she always ends up with a whole new wardrobe each week. I would say her biggest inspiration is 60’s/70’s fashion as well as just old fashion magazines

[theconceptofkidney]

tbh we like joking about White No-face's Warmain-coding but let's be honest. that man does NOT have the Warmain grindset. like: oh, the boy you had high hopes for failed your test so you just... moped about it and disappeared off the face of earth for 800 years? Cringe.

also, what's up with his Test? like, what are we doing here old man? are you searching for one to Tamper, to assimilate, to Become, so that you may refine your selfhood into something Better? or are you just looking for comfimation of your worldview? 'cuz it sure as hell doesn't look like the first one to me

smh this is terrible warmain rep

now Mount Tonglu on the other hand—

[highendphsrs]

why couldn't they give mikey a normal nickname like mj or something. girl what the fuck is mikeypartyrevenge