heranubis

[heranubis]

> gentle reminder: i'm not active on tumblr anymore. any and all future writing projects will be posted to archive.

> previous pinned post hyperlink

[heranubis]

fuck it. happy holidays

sorcerers stone | chamber of secrets | prisoner of azkaban

goblet of fire | order of the phoenix | half-blood prince

𓆙 | deathly hallows | 𓆙

[heranubis]

psst. have you ever wanted a specific fic from me? weird monster porn or holding your favorite characters hand? now's your chance to grab it.

i'v decided to give ko-fi a more serious try and this will be the current method (very subject to change as needed<3).

please specify where you want me to post - my tumblr, quotev, or archive

reach out to me on @heranubis with your request - be as detailed and explicit as you feel like

donate $5 to kofi (you can find it here)

want to remain anonymous? hell yeah! want to be tagged as much as possible? i can do that too!

you can find my commission carrd and expamples here.

[heranubis]

john mactavish is our winner - be on the look out for his fic soon

[heranubis]

When John comes home to you, the fatigue is visible. Gone are his pants and boots, shirt held (balled up) in his hands. He gives you a glance before he crawls onto the bed, his belly flush with the sheets and face nuzzling into the pillow - an open invitation. What he wants isn't sex - you know your friend enough to recognize that. What he's silently asking for is something arguably more intimate

You crawl onto the bed to sit over him, knees braced on either side of him and your palms pressing down onto the mattress as he shifts with a groan. Once he's settled, you take the time to get comfortable as well. A kiss between his shoulderblades, another at the base of his neck and then another in the middle. He groans and sighs and practically melts into the mattress below him.

"Clothes off, please" he says, though to your ears it sounds more like a beg. It must'v been a particularly bad day, then, if he wants skin-to-skin contact. Pushing yourself up, you remove your shirt and anything else under it, and then move down to shove your pants off your hips and down your legs.

The second you're almost as nude as him, he twists to lay on his back and strong arms wrap around you - pulling you down flush against him. You can feel every inch of his body as it rubs against you - but both of you know nothing will happen tonight. What your John needs is to be grounded - to be reminded that he is human, alive, loved. That he is here in your shared home and bed.

You are not John's lover, but the two of you have been more than friends for nearly a decade. He's your other half, and you are his. You wait for him to come back, and he fights to get there as quickly as he can. There are no labels between you and John - more than platonic, not quite romantic, sometimes but not always sexual. All you know is that he needs you - and thus, you'll always be there.

His chest rises and falls with a deep sigh, one you recognize as content. You know that eventually the last of your clothes will be removed and he'll fall asleep with his head against your chest and dreaming to the sound of your heartbeat. But there will be no lust, no carnal desire - there will only be love, contentment, safety.

There will only be you and John - two people who love each other enough to patch up the wounds that the world inflicts.

non-sexual nudity. SAVE ME. non-sexual intimacy. RESCUE ME. platonic physical touch. HELP ME.

if anyone has fics for these tropes/tags then please please give me them

[heranubis]

It's almost too easy to forget what he is - who he is. Arthur Morgan; the enforcer of the Van Der Linde gang, and also your closest confidant. His eyes are like rivers with how much they shift between shades of blue and green, sometimes favoring one over the other, depending on lighting. You feel safe when he looks at you, like nothing else in the world could ever hurt you.

It's almost too easy to become complacent with his gentleness. Not once has he ever laid a hand to you in malice, nor does he speak ill to you - but that does little to wash away the blood under his nails. It does little to hide how sharp his teeth are. It does little to tamper down the snarl bubbling deep in his chest - a beast trapped beneath ribs begging to be broken, a heart beating like a drum even as he moves silent in the night.

You are reminded of what he is - as you look into those beautiful river eyes. His face is not human - no part of him is. Dirty blonde fur takes place of sun-kissed skin, dog teeth taking the place of a humans in a face distorted and elongated in some bastardization of a wolf. The saliva that drips from between his teeth is pink - but you know blood when you smell it.

His muzzle and throat are stained, coated so thoroughly you have no pretense of the dangerous things he has done before returning to you. You can only remain frozen in place as elongated, distorted limbs push him forward in a gate both clumsy and predatory. His nose brushes against the skin of your neck as his hot breath almost burns with every exhale.

There is no more powerful feeling than looking into a wolf's eyes, and knowing your life is no longer your own. And there is something to be said when he looks at you with love, even through his bloodlust madness. Yet still you flinch when his tongue reachs out to you - to taste, to clean, to stain.

It's almost too easy to forget what he is. But as he towers over you, standing on bended back legs and snarled teeth on display - you are never slow to remember.

[heranubis]

LAST HOUSE IN THE BAYOU: Infernal Alex Keller mini-series ◇ chapter III. FIREWEED ◇ img cred ◇

◇ CONTENT WARNINGS: alex bites out of aggression and wound is vaguely described being treated

- ◇ - ◇ - ◇ - ◇ - ◇ - ◇ - ◇ - ◇ - ◇ - ◇ -

The dreams and long, sleepless nights continue as time slowly crawls by. Weeks into months as you work on bringing life back into the old house. The demon torments anyone who tries to offer help - hiding tools, making screams far off in the bayou, even the shadows move like something evil and ugly. But you are not deterred - and simply take up the jobs yourself.

Many days are spent with you on your knees ripping up old carpets and humming along to your old radio as he stands in the doorway, his hooves clicking as he shifts his weight. You still don't have a name for him, nor does he have yours. He growls and hisses and speaks in a language that hurts whenever you try to call him anything other than 'demon'. You gave up shortly after the first nose bleed.

The next project is perhaps the most tedious and annoying. You decide to repaint the walls before installing new flooring - and every time you decide on a color, the nightmares start up again. Still you as a child, still those sharp claws digging into your shoulders. But the old woman doesn't save you again - you simply stand in the hallway with him behind you until morning arrives and the sun saves you from his touch. When you decide on a soft shade of blue, his grip doesn't seem as tight.

- ◇ -

You decide on carpet - picking a soft gray that pairs well with the blue on the walls; it also masks the sound of his hooves, gives your brain a moment to forget he's there and watching. He's not as hostile as he was in the beginning, and you think perhaps it's time mellowing out his temper - or maybe he finally realized you're not going anywhere.

And then... you have another dream. This one is different from the others, it feels like something you're not meant to see, but your eyes won't open.

It's a battlefield, and there's a gun in your hands - but this body is not your own. "Alex" you hear a voice call, and your head involuntarily turns to greet it. "Cmon, man - we can't save them. We have to go!" You don't know who they are, or who this Alex is, but you know the words hurt him. It feels like knives shoved between the ribs and twisted with an anger no man should possess. It hurts and it burns and you feel like you're dying.

Everything moves fast and slow, a blur and crystal clear. There's pain in your left leg and then suddenly... you don't feel anything. Your eyes open and you're looking directly at the demon as he leans over you on your bed. His clawed hands braced on either side of your head, his knees pressed tightly against your hips and his tail swaying angrily. His lips curl back in a snarl as he glares down at you.

"Stay out of my head. Or else" he growls - and then, in the blink of an eye, he's gone and you're alone in the bed.

- ◇ -

The demon doesn't disturb you for the rest of the month, but you see him in doorways and shadows. He never stays long enough for you to get a good look, but you know he's there. You almost... feel bad for him. Clearly he'd been through something traumatic as a human, and maybe it was that anger that kept him bound to this world. Privately, in the safety of your mind, you call him Alex. And you think the wallpaper matched his eyes almost perfectly.

- ◇ -

Making peace with the demon is far harder than you could even begin to imagine. The whiskey bottle you had hung in the soul tree for him constantly shatters, and yet you always find one to replace it. It's almost a daily ritual, changing out the bottles and silently hoping this one lasts longer than the others - but it never does.

You leave out sweets and desserts for him. Bottles of strawberry jam, a pile of honeysuckle blooms, even a spare bottle of moonshine you'd found tucked away in the cupboard. It seems this type of offering is accepted - as you find a ghost orchid resting on your pillow the next time you lay down for sleep. He doesn't stomp as often, nor does his tail lash so violently. He almost seems... demure, tamed.

- ◇ -

The first time you call him Alex is when things truly reach their peak - he bites you. Right on your shoulder, you feel his sharp teeth break skin and the smell of blood in the air and then he's gone. You're too busy tending to the wound to notice how he slinks into the bathroom behind you and places clawed hands on the sink, trapping you between his arms. "Don't call me that" he says - his voice soft and gruff; he hasn't truly spoken since that one time you'd told him to get out.

"It's your name, isn't it? Alex?" you mumble softly, tenderly wiping the blood from the bitemark, ignoring how his eyes burn into you. "Nobody's called me that for a long time" he whispers, his tail curling tightly around your leg, his head almost hesitantly nestling against the back of your head. "A thing like me doesn't deserve a name"

You pause at that, and make eye contact with him through the mirror. His eyes are the same blue as the walls that surround you - and he looks tired. But this is a tired no sleep can fix, this is the exhaustion of existance.

"I'm not human anymore. Don't call me that" he hisses again, his eyes now hard and pupils sharp - slitted like a crocodiles. "I don't want you here - why won't you just leave?! Like everyone else - just go! Get out!" he practically snarls, his voice inhuman and otherly as his words seem to claw down to your bones.

You look at him through the mirror - and you see the hurt, the fear. Turning around, you look down and finally notice why his hoofbeats sound off. Just below the knee, his left leg is metallic and skeletal - he notices your stare and shifts his body to remove it from your sight. His tail whips and he disappears, the smell of sulfur strong enough to make your eyes water.

- ◇ -

The next time you walk outside, the whiskey bottle in the soul tree is on the ground - perfectly intact, as if someone had cut it free. You kneel down and pick it up, glancing back at the other bottles, and you notice something. All of the other bottles have slips of paper in them - names written down with words of love and warmth scrawled across. Aged by the elements yet remaining - you know what to do now.

Brown glass shines dully in the sun, held up by a thick cord and deep in the belly of the bottle lays a paper with a name carefully inked.

Alex.

[heranubis]

inspired by this beautiful john piece by @wombywoo, which has haunted me since i'v stumbled across it. i'v recently been going through the campaigns again to refresh my memory so i'm more confident in my characterizations - and for some reason, 09 price has taken over my mind.

CONTENT WARNINGS: spoilers for (original) modern warfare 3, canon typical violence, catholicism (priests & confessionals), a little blasphemy - as a treat.

Dirt crunches under his boots as John walks deeper into the old cathedral. The doors are heavy and hard to open as he shoves against them with a soft grunt, the creaking of the hinges loud and long as the pews and pulpit are revealed to his weary eyes.

A deep breath - in, hold it, out. He is not a man to be nervous often, but it's been a very long time since he's set foot in a church. His footsteps are slow and purposeful as he walks forward, his hands itching to lift a cigar to his lips and light it so the thick smoke of nicotine can settle in his lungs with a strong burn. But he doesn't want to be more disrespectful than he already has been by bringing his sins to gods eyes.

The confessional is a small thing - a little box, the wood cracked and splintered and weathered. There are marks from what he can only assume is a blade, words etched in latin that he does not recognize. Crosses scrawled deep into the wood as if it could keep all the evils of the world at bay as long as you remained behind the closed door. Another deep breath - in, hold it, exhale - and then he takes his seat.

The wood groans underneath him in protest - and he hears the same on the other side as the priest settles in. He hears the rustles of clothing and can only guess the Father is crossing his arms, or clasping his hands together in his lap. "Tell me, my son, what brings you to me this night" the Father's voice is as old and weathered as the wood, and for a moment John's mind decides he is the physical embodiment of this holy place.

"I am going to sin, Father" he exhales, voice soft and gruff. His fingers twitch and he clasps them together as his head leans back to rest against the wall behind him. Him - him and his guilt, his hatred and rage, all alone in this little box while he waits to be judged. "I believe the way this usually goes is forgive me for I have sinned, Father" the priest hums, a long and slow and contemplative sound.

"I'm a soldier, Father. I'v sinned plenty already" And then there is a silence. More creaking as the wood shifts under the priest's weight. "Then why are you asking for forgiveness, my son? What have you planned that burdens you so?" John stops to think for a moment, and he considers his words carefully - and then considers them again.

"I'm going to kill a man, Father. And I don't know if I'll make it back alive to ask for forgiveness."

The silence is almost deafening and encompassing as it settles, like a thick and heavy sludge that weighs down his chest and threatens to crush his lungs. "Why" the Father finally speaks. "What has been done to you, my son, that you seek bloodshed and death as your answer?" He stops to think again - his hand reaches blindly into his pocket for a lighter as he grasps it tightly against his palm. The metal is cold and grounding, and on the side he can barely make out the etchings of the initials J.M.

"... My name is John, Father. Named after the shephards who looked after the flock, who worked tirelessly to defend those who looked up to them. I'v led men into war and we smiled in the face of death - and it smiled back, promising it would catch us next time. But there is a wolf in this world, and it won't stop with my sheep - it will hunt until all are dead and it's belly full with nothing but hate to keep it warm. I am doing my duty, as a shephard, to slaughter the wolf."

More silence. The priest shifts again and sighs - a long and burdened sound. "John" he says, "revenge is an easy path, but it is not one the Lord can forgive. Some sins may never be absolved, and this blood will stain your hands forever. Do you understand, my son?" But there is only silence on the other side. By the time the priest has left his side of the confessional, John is gone and only a cigar is left.

- ◇ -

Vladimir Makarov is dead. This, John knows for a fact. He watches with contempt as the body sways to-and-fro, and all he feels is nothing. No rage, no anger, no satisfaction. His boys are still dead, and Makarov's blood will not resurrect them. John doesn't remember when he started walking, or how he found his way to another cathedral - doesn't remember a thing until the cigar is between his lips and lit by the lighter he holds close.

He stands in the light of the glass-stained windows and breathes deep - he feels the smoke as it burns and invades his lungs. He holds it until his eyes water and finally, when his body feels like it's burning, he exhales. John stands in the patches of sunlight, painted in blues and greens and golds and reds - and for a moment he almost feels holy.

Footsteps echo through the empty cathedral as he sits down on a pew right before the pulpit and he looks up at the statue of Christ with a crown of thorns, marbled face forever cemented in silent agony. For a moment, he wonders how Mary must have felt, birthing a son unaware of what fate belayed him. For another moment, John wondered if his mother ever felt the same.

The glow of his cigar feels almost blasphemous in the soft light of the windows - but he leans back and lets his head rest against the top of the pew. He exhales- slow and deep and weary. His eyes blink open and for a moment....

John swears the statue smiles at him.

[heranubis]

can my mlm/masc readers answer a question for me? i want to fill in the gap of content and i was simply curious about what specific tags you look for to find content.

all of my content is gender neutral unless specified but i want to be a little more explicit about gender and just want to tag it in a way for the people who actively want to read that can find it.

[heranubis]

* this absolutely includes transmasc or anyone else who identifies with he/him

[heranubis]

LAST HOUSE IN THE BAYOU: Infernal Alex Keller mini-series ◇ chapter II. PURPLE LOOSESTRIFE ◇ img cred ◇

For the first in a very, very long time - you dream about the house again. You're small again and everything is hazy - your footsteps echo louder than they should when you walk down the hallway that seems to go on forever. You get the feeling you're being watched, but the eyes in the pictures along the walls only stare ahead. You swear one of them blinks - if only for a moment - but then all is still.

And then you hear the hooves. Soft thuds that're loud in their own right as they follow behind you - slow, thunderous, hunting. You are small and scared and whatever is behind you wants to hurt you; or so your mind screams. But louder than the voices screaming in your head is one you haven't heard since you were a child. The old woman. Her voice now is more... firm, angry.

"You shouldn't be here" she says, and you feel clawed hands resting on your shoulder. You are small ans scared and whatever is behind you is holding you. And you feel a long, thin tail as it wraps around your ankle. Demon is the only thing your mind can think - and you do what little you would have done. You cry.

There is nothing soft about these tears, they are loud and ugly and full of emotion. The clawed hand on your shoulder lets go, but leaves behind a warm sting. The old woman stands before you now, and her face is still blurry but you get the distinct impression she's smiling at you. "Welcome home, lil' one" she whispers fondly. And for a moment, just a single breath, the sting goes away.

- ◇ -

You sit up in bed, sweating and gasping and looking around with wild eyes. You know very well what that was. It was a warning. In the years of your family's abscence, something... dark has made it's den between these old wooden walls. Long since have you believed in spirits, especially those who still seem to haunt from childhood, but not once have you ever felt something so... malicious.

And for a moment, just a quick blink-of-the-eye, there's a figure standing in the doorway. The first thing you notice is how tall he is, and the second are his hooves. The tail that whips behind the figure almost angrily, how it curls and lashes and there's a sharp spade at the end. You can't see his eyes but you feel the anger he looks at you with. "You shouldn't be here" he says - your chest hurts, a deep burn that fades into a sting. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

The figure is gone - the doorway is empty and you can breathe again. You're somewhere between tears and terror, because you're nowhere near the old house. How far can this thing follow, how long will it torment to get its way. Just as everything seems to close in, you feel a familiar comfort settle over your shoulders. And a thought comes to you - the old bottle tree, how it seemed to laugh in joy when you first came back to the house.

An idea comes to you - one that soothes you enough to sleep again.

- ◇ -

The next morning, you have a bottle and twine clutched tightly in hand as you walk up the old pathway. It's a whiskey bottle - the only one that called out to you, the one that now feels right in your palm as you look up at the old, large tree. The limbs seem to bend down for you to reach, the breeze kissing your cheeks as you quickly tie half of the twine around the neck of the bottle and the other around the branch.

"I don't know your name" you say, almost hesitant. The bayou is silent as if every creature is lurking and waiting, outside observers to this unknown fate of yours. "I don't know who you are, but I put a bottle on the tree. For you." There's a brief sound, like something trampling down the stairs inside - something running to the door.

But you see nothing, the door doesn't open nor are there any shadows. There is only silence, and a foreboding feeling. You square your shoulders and put on a brave face, fists lightly cleanched as you walk up the stairs. "This is my home, my family's home - and I won't let you chase me out. I don't know what you are, or what you want. But if you want to hurt me, you can get the hell out."

And you'd swear to anyone who'll listen - that something curled around your leg and a voice hisses in your ear. "No" it says. "You shouldn't be here. And now you're mine."

- ◇ -

You continue working on the house as planned - dusting old furniture and deep cleaning the windows to let in more sunlight. You ignore the feeling of being watched, blindly shake your leg when you feel his tail try to curl around it. That's the most he touches, but he watches constantly.

There's been no need of a name for him, nor does he offer one up - perhaps it's better that way. There's power in a name, control over the soul - or what remains of one. So you call him demon, and he calls you 'mine'. His favorite way to bother you is clicking his hooves against the ground, though one sounds distinctly more metallic than the other. You never look at him long enough to figure out why.

He follows you to the motel, some nights. Stands at the end of your bed while you sleep, simply watches you. And other nights, he stands in the old wooden doorway and growls at you to not come back. You never listen - this was your home first, and you'll not be chased from it. His presence draws forward others who have long since tried to rest - and now many ghosts walk the hallways of the house in the bayou.

The demon is like an invasive weed, crawling into roots and trying to strangle out the others. But what he doesn't know is that you're a gardener - and you care deeply for the flowers that bloom in the cracks of the old wood.

[heranubis]

HERANUBIS: CRYPTIDS & MONSTERS

(to be tagged and sorted)

[heranubis]

HERANUBIS: RED DEAD REDEMPTION 1&2

◇ ARTHUR MORGAN

》 summer showers - arthur r/insert

◇ CHARLES SMITH

》 hair braiding - charles r/insert

[heranubis]

HERANUBIS: MASS EFFECT

(to be tagged and sorted)