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cvlutos · 2 years

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“Divine nor Forsaken” Ch.Two

| 02.10.23 | 4.7K | Rated R |

Multi-Character X Fem!Reader [TWST: DEMON AU]

T.Manor.Notes: Please heed warnings. Okay, but chapter two. Finally finished it.

| Masterlist | Male Version | Gender-Neutral Version |

“There are some things, my little dove, that we cannot change. Such is the way with people.”

Your mother’s voice is gentle—calming, as she tucks you in, making sure you’re all tight and warm. Most nights she’ll sing a little bedtime song, stuffing you in your thick blankets, to where you couldn’t move, and forcing you to wiggle like a little worm. Yet tonight, she settles on reading you a story. A story about a girl who befriended all that met her, but none could save her from fate. One who told in a daze-like state, faltering in some parts and stronger in others.

She holds a somber look upon her face, with still a smile placed across her lips as if even in her own sorrow, she can’t help but smile when she sees you. However, her gaze falters for a moment, brows crinkling as her posture changes. She shifts her eyes from you. As if almost regretful. The room is still cold, and you can’t help but shiver and slide deeper into your densely woven covers.

“My little Songbird,” she muses, her hands gripping the red dress fabric across her knees. She keeps her head bowed, “… Promise me… That you’ll find the good within everything and put trust in strangers.” She has a mournful smile, one that doesn’t reach her eyes, as if these were words that she never wanted to be spoken. Never uttered past her tight-lined lips. She lives with regret.

“MOVE!”

A large body hurries past you, frantic hands shoving you to the ground. Your mind takes a moment to register what happens, as a sharp pain shoots through your skull. Your head slams into the dirt floor, a pained cry slipping past your dried, cracked lips. The bubble in your ears seems to pop, another shot of pain, as your hands blindly press against your aching ears, trying to dull the pain.

Screams.

Yells.

Voices on top of voices.

The sounds of rushing feet, pained screams as people trampled over people. A huge crowd formed as all ran towards the woods or into random buildings to hide, pushing those they deemed too slow to the ground or into others. Some shout in rage, to move, to run, to survive. Yet your ears pick up the crying of children, separated from parents, and sobbing mothers clinging desperately to their little ones. And oh, so desperate fathers, swinging useless weapons, doing what a father should. Protecting his family. Even if he fails.

The air smells of fire. The smells of burning wood and burning flesh. Those unfortunate get trapped within a collapsed house, screaming for help, only for a demon to ravage through the destroyed building. Screams for help turn to gurgles and cries of pain.

And the wind does nothing but fan the flames. That forces the voices to travel further and makes the scared crowd worse. Like frightened sheep. The fires grow at fast speeds and ravage the town.

You were shoved; your hands slid from your ears and push against the ground. You lift your head up, then your upper body. Your lip bleeds, and your eyes water as dust gets in. You rub your eyes, gritting your teeth. Your legs scraped along the dirt, blood slowly seeping into the dirt road, your dress torn and filthy. Everything seems to move around you in a fast blur, as if taken picture by picture and put together, yet you still, as if you were the one behind the camera, taking multiple photos at once in hopes of a single good shot. You struggle to move as if your own body was carved out of the heaviest stone and the ground was paper, mere fabric, ready to give way at any moment.

You would fall.

You drop your dirtied hands from your eyes. Letting out a choked breath before trying to move again. Eyes darting around the burning town. To think that only a few hours you walked through, ready for work. Yet now.

It’s ruined. Demons ruined it.

Demons. Looming figures, hunched beasts. With snarling jaws and lanky arms and bodies, with no rhyme nor reason to how they moved. Some staggered as if half-dead, others crawled, and some walked. Or those that few above with torn wings and unhinged jaws, picking up people—prey larger than themselves.

They growl and yell, spitting black saliva as they speak--taunting, eating, and absorbing humans. Sucking them into their gooey flesh.

People you knew.

You struggle to keep yourself together, your breath comes out in short wheezes, and your heart rises to your throat which makes it impossible to breathe. You could die. You watch familiar faces become lifeless, and you can’t breathe. Your hands seize the fabric of your shirt, it’s too tight. The ground seems to give way beneath you. You can’t move—you can’t move. Your legs feel like heavy weights, filled to the brim with sand and became your legs, and as if the pain of feeling like your legs weren’t your own wasn’t enough. You tried to move, to pull yourself forward by your hands, yet it felt as if metal poles plunged into your flesh, forcing you in place. You feel sweat gathered on your skin.

It’s hot.

You feel surrounded. Covered in a layer of your own sweat and dirt, like a heavy blanket, whose threads were coming undone to wrap around your throat and chest. You struggle to stand. Nails clawing into the side of the building, using it to stabilize yourself. You cry out in pain, feeling your legs and head throb.

You should be running, screaming, sobbing. You should be. Yet you feel tired—you are tired. As if all your energy was sucked from your very being. You cough, squinting as smoke stings your eyes. Home. You need to go home. You feel dizzy as you stagger forward, staring through the smoke, through the ever-thinning crowd. Your eyes land on green. The quickest flash, as if almost lightning. A shiver runs down your spine, and your eyes widen.

The demon from before.

He holds a weighty axe, one that isn’t his. Far too small for his large hands, yet coated in red. You feel your stomach lurch, and the smell of blood oozes off of him. He holds the axe as if merely a stick as he swings it lazily, sending only a mere glance to those he struck, his eyes landing on you. Your hands shake, and he makes his way towards you, striking those in his way, whether demon or human. Most know well to remain out of his way. Your body screams at you to move. Move. Move. Move.

“Move.”

As if some foreign voice enters your head, warm and oddly bored, as if it rather be doing anything else. Nonetheless, you blindly listen. You shove off the wall with a panicked sound, stumbling and nearly tripping, ignoring the pins and needles as you force yourself to a gallop sorta like a run, hissing in pain. You push yourself to go as fast as you could, ignoring the burning in your throat as bile rose. The burning of your lungs. It all seems a blur as your falter and slip, yet you don’t stop running. If you do. You’ll die.

You run instinctively home, darting in-between bodies and demons far too focused on their meals. The sky slowly becomes darker, as the fire doesn’t spread towards the trees. You run still, even in the dark, with no moon to guide you and no torch to light your way. You know this path.

You know it well. Your father always made sure you knew the way home.

Your feet barely graze the stone steps in front of your home, nearly slipping, and your body rams into your door. Fumbling with the doorknob, before turning it and hurling yourself inside. You slam the door behind you, scrabbling with the locks, gasping for breath.

Your home is draft. Cold. Unchanged. You step away from the door, eyeing it carefully, letting your body slowly rest. Forcing your tense muscles to relax. You allow yourself to breathe, slightly proud of making it out of the town and fighting off whatever spell was forced upon you. Ridding you of your ability to move. It all seems calm.

BANG

Your body jolts, hands flying over your lips to muffle a scared shriek.

BANG

A series of bangs, thuds, and forcefully panicked hits and kicks, and your door flinches at each one. Yet it doesn’t break.

“[NAME]! PLEASE!”

“PLEASE—”

“I DONT WANNA DIE—”

“HELP! OPEN THE DOOR—”

Your name is screamed like a broken symphony. Equal to a band of shrill untuned instruments that are rusted and worn. As voices—voices that are oh so familiar to you—cry for you. Scream. Beg. Plead for you to only open the door. To let them in. To save them. Voices you know far too well.

Save them.

The old grandma down the street who shares her pies with you—while telling you stories of magic from when she lived in the city. The hardworking miner and his newly pregnant wife, who spent years unable to conceive until early this year, who prayed to the very gods for a healthy baby that they wished to have. The two daughters to the schoolteacher, who always gives you seeds for a garden every time you saw them. The door shakes against its hinges and you step forward, tears close to spilling as your lips quiver. Yet a cold shiver runs down your spine. You weren’t alone.

Your door was unlocked.

The tip of a blade grazes along the center of your back, a silent warning, as a hand ushers you forward. Grip tight and bruising on your shoulder as you pressed up against the door. Which shakes and jolts. You can hear the wood groan and creak, yet still, it remains standing. And the voices. They won’t stop begging.

But it grows. From desperate—frantic—animalistic. On par with the growls and screams of demons. You can feel their desperation change into resentment. Each plea changes into a curse. Each condemning you to hell, to rot with the very demons that will kill them and soon you. Your hands shake violently and you want to help them. To let them inside.

You need to—

“Don't.”

The voice is weighty and cold as if a blizzard took form and made itself comfortable within his throat. You feel a chilly breeze fan across your skin and you shiver, violently. He’s a demon and there’s a portion of you that tense—afraid—yet you feel no intent to harm you.

He’s calming.

It’s a mild threat that freezes your motions. He makes no motion to stop you, expecting you to simply obey. While reminding you of the situation you’re in. And you listen. You press your palms against the jolting door, feeling your heartbeat in your throat, feeling the door shake against your sticky forehead. The one behind you doesn’t make any effort to move nor speak. Letting you—forcing you to wallow in their suffering.

“To think you could run.”

The voice is distant. Beyond your home and outside your door, annoyed and angry. Your heart drops and you squeeze your eyes closed, feeling your throat constrict.

The demon from the tavern.

Your muscles lock and you feel weak. Shaking your head from the oncoming headache. It’s like you could hear him. Feel him. His every breath. Every threatening step he took. The raging hatred from humans. It burns. As if you were tossed into a fire pit and left to painfully thrash around. It burns.

Those that try to run. Try to flee deeper into the forest, are met with howls and distorted laughter as demons that hid within darkened woods take them. Rip them apart and leave them nothing.

You hear final prays.

Final whispers of ‘I love you’.

As the man embraces his wife, hugging her so tightly as if he alone could defy fate. Demons tear them apart. Laughing. Taunting. Faking pity. Yanking them from each other. You hear him shrieking for his wife. His love. Only for his voice to cut off with a roar and the sounds of bones snapping. While the demons laugh. The mother with an unborn child, who prayed for years to become a loving mother. She screams and curses you, curses you for the loss of her husband and her child. She too is met with the same fate.

There’s no pounding on the door, yet the soft whimpers of the daughters, holding each other, while the old grandma is dragged away. Hands clasped and praying still. “[Name]…” The softest calling of your name. A final plea. You don’t hear the two girls scream.

Your knees feel weak, gravity pulling you down as your body trembles. You choke on your breath. The demon lets you fall, removing the blade from your back and taking a large step back. Watching you hold yourself as you cry against the door, shoving your face in your hands.

“Even if you let them inside. They would have still died. It is better they died outside than inside.” It feels like his own twisted way of comforting, yet it doesn’t help. They died hating you.

“Though, I apologize. I wish that it did not have to happen this way.”

His voice is monotone, yet sincere. You try and calm your crying, resting your head against the door. The sound of his shoes echoes as he moves from you. He casually explores your house. You can’t speak to him.

“... Your home is nice and quaint... familiar.” You don’t move. Yet you can tell that it is out of his own nature to speak, but he does. He falls silent and continues searching, using his sword to glance at paintings, pick up pieces of clothing, and open and skim the pages of books, using the blade to flip the pages.

You hear his sword tap the glass of a photo, and his voice breaks the silence. “You remind me of her.” You glance at him, his sword grazing along the glass of a photo of you, your mother, and your father. Your force yourself to look back at the wood of the door. “A splitting image, almost. You look the same as she did when she was young—She acted the same when we had done away with her family—” The air grows cold as if a growing snow storm and dread fills your stomach and grows.

“I hope that you do not end up like your mother.”

That gets a reaction. Your head immediately snapped over to him, brows furrowed and lips down, turning. He isn’t looking at you, but out the window, surveying the land. He seems unbothered by it all. With shoulder-length, silver hair pulled into a ponytail, and eyes of light blue that held a sliver of pity.

“What—”

Your voice cracks, unbearably dry and scratchy. He turns his head to you after a moment, looking over you. He seems to almost frown when gazing. “Yet you look like your father as well.” he takes a step forward and his gaze seems to freeze you. You look down.

With your body still facing the door, the tip of his sword stings against your skin as he raises your head gently, forcing you to look up at him. He tilts his head to the side before crouching down quickly, yet oddly, gracefully.

“... You must head North...”

His words are simple and transparent and he steps away, glancing towards your dining room table. He strides slowly to the table, the heels of his shoes clicking. He picks up the letter and looks over it. You want to tell him to put it down. Yet his brows scrunch up and for a moment you think he’s going to take it.

Yet he doesn’t.

“The course has been set for you. You must merely find the signs.”

He drops the letter, and with a frosty breeze, you’re alone. At the disappearance of the demon, your body drops, a sudden wave of exhaustion makes it hard to move. You let out a shaky breath, and after a moment, you pull yourself to your feet and wobble away from the door.

It’s silent. Far too silent. You need to leave.

You stagger up the old stairs, feeling one almost give way, breaking beneath your feet. Yet you’re quick to dart over the broken step, stumbling to your room and shoving open the door. You pack blindly, throwing only the most travel-fit clothes and shoes. Anything you could need, throwing spare money, tools, anything, and everything as you take your bag and stumble down the steps, preparing loads of food to take with you. The ramshackle isn’t safe.

You stand in front of the wooden door. There would be no returning. No do-overs. Nothing. You would never come back home. You drop your bag and slowly look over your home. A home you’ve lived in for years. Your parents’ home. You ignore the anxiety that fills you, as your turn back to the door.

Slowly, you undo every lock and hold the knob, counting the seconds before pulling the door open. The foul stench of copper paints your tongue and feels your senses completely, as blood paints the ground, soaking into the dirt and staining the trees. Bodies upon bodies lay ripped, torn, destroyed. Each resting at the oddest angles, heads turned in ways they shouldn’t. You take a hesitant step back, only to bump into something solid. You freeze, your hands and body shaking as cruel arms wrap around you. “You caused this.” His voice is husky in your ears and he tightens his hold, your knees nearly buckling as he slowly rests his weight on you. The demon from before, with the green hair. He continues squeezing, and it hurts.

He’s hurting you.

“Bugs. Should be with bugs.” There’s a sentiment of hatred, and you groan in pain, unable to move an inch. You can feel your bones crack. “They lived together. It’s only right you die together.” He sneers viciously, tightening his hold, and you wheeze and wiggle like a fish forcibly removed from the water. Fighting a fight you can’t win, and from the corner of your eyes, lime green eyes seem to glow, with a vicious grin spread across his slips, revealing red-stained canines. “Humans truly are pathetic.” As you feel every bone was shattered, your ribcage collapses into each other.

Your life flashes before your eyes. Your mother. Your father. You scream in pain, thrashing around more on reflex than consciousness. The letter. Blood slips past your lips, as bones break through your skin.

You haven’t read the letter from your father.

══════ ♡ ══════

“It is rare to hear from you.”

Bored grey human eyes stare into the richly colored crimson liquid. The coppery smell filled his nose and swarmed around his brain in the most delightful way. The thick liquid rests idly in his porcelain teacup, which he holds delicately. He occasionally sips, taking his time to slowly drink the warm, fresh blood. Bringing the glass up to his lips and slowly partook in the thick fluid, a pleasant sigh vibrating in his throat. For a moment, he forgets that he isn’t alone and has an unexpected guest.

One from the Kingdom and the seventh army.

“Though it is not an unpleasant surprise, General.” The grey-eyed demon gives a small smile, and the demon general gives a pleasant greeting in turn, large eyes in taking the nicely decorated tent that smelled of blood and roses. The commander’s favorite smells, though the demon of pride would never speak of it. Magenta eyes move from the decor to the commander himself. It has been quite some time since he last saw the young demon. He hasn’t changed. Same small stature, with often cold grey eyes, and flushed peachy skin, with two black obsidian ram horns, with rose red tips, framed perfectly on the side of upper foreheads with straight red hair. A human form that the demon commander took great pride in. Spending days to fashion the perfect look, based on an old human monarch.

The commander shifts in his seat, offering a small smile, his white-gloved hand silently motioning to the empty chair across from him.

The General chuckles. The commander has always been so respectful and tries best to make the best out of surprised visits. Especially from demons of higher rank, and the General from the seventh is exactly that. Even as he takes the form of an innocent short man, yet speaks like an old wise bat.

“And a pleasure. As always to see you, Riddle.” The general bows as he floats above his chair, a small gust of wind blowing from the release of his magic as he plops into his seat, gently rocking the table.

“I hate to go so long without visiting. I have quite missed our tea times, Sanguinum.”

The commander of the first army, Sanguinum. Or Riddle Rosehearts.

Riddle lets out a low hum, once again picking up his cup and sipping from it, closing his eyes for a brief moment. His eyes flutter open, “As have I. 38 years since the last time, I believe.” The demon of Pride places his red and white porcelain teacup back on its saucer and stands. Waving his hand, letting magic pour the guest “tea”, before with another wave returning the pot black to its place.

“Has it been that long?” the general’s eyes widen in disbelief before laughing, “oh my! How time flies.” The General with pink and black hair sighs in delight the moment he takes a sip of the blood. He can taste the sweetest, probably from a woman of middle age. Riddle always did prefer sweeter-tasting humans.

“Indeed. It goes quite fast.”

The commander waits a moment, his mood going from relaxed to uptight, his posture slowly straightening. “Then you must be here for good reason.” The general tilts his head to the side in faux confusion, taking another long gulp.

“And can it not be here to merely see a friend?” He batters his lashes, and Riddle’s face falls, giving a knowing look. The general only laughs, placing his cup on the table, propping his elbows up, and interlacing his fingers to rest his chin upon.

“Tell me what troubles you.”

Riddle hesitates for a moment, before sighing. “If I’m not needed to fight, then I should be sent back.” The room drops a couple degrees, and Riddle’s face dips for a moment, and he forces his gaze to his cup, gently swirling the glass. The general wears an apprehensive expression. “Riddle...”

The general’s voice falters, eyes once again scanning around the pseudo-room. It’s filled with different trophies and winnings from the last 15 years since the war started. Such as prized tea sets, clothing, tools, jewelry, and anything and everything he and his army took from the villages and towns they raided.

15 years. But to be sent back. Back to beneath to the realm of Demons.

A part of the general agrees, the first army has been out on the front lines for a few years, 20. Five years merely searching for the pact bearer and another 15 for when the war began. Yet it is only the North conquered. With still the west, east, and south that have yet to be within the King’s control. And well…

“I am honored to have fought for the king.” Riddle’s voice breaks his through the process, hand subconsciously rubbing over the back of his hand, where his pact once was. A once calming action now... torturous. To lose the one who knew your mind and body, it must hurt—it does hurt. The general’s hand itches to move, yet he stops himself.

“I—I cannot guarantee anything, but I will talk to him.” The commander seems to brighten up, a relieved look crossing his features, before settling into a more relaxed posture. The two talk for an hour, telling stories and telling, catching up on the last 38 years. There’s a feeling of familiarity.

“Before you go, General.” The general stops mid-stretch, listening to the sound of the teacup gently clinking against the matching saucer. He glances over his shoulder, face changing from a grin to one of full perturbation. Riddle has a dark expression as if just remembering something gravely important.

“We must speak about Callidus.”

══════ ♡ ══════

You awake with a gasp, your body automatically jumping as if leaping from death’s hands. Pain shoots up from your right leg and you screech, unprepared and confused. You try and gather your thoughts, feeling sweat accumulate on your skin, your stomach churning, and head pulsing achingly. You feel nauseous.

You try to move, hands clutching the wood that held you, your head turning to look down. Half of your leg, up to your mid-thigh, was bleeding and disappeared beneath the broken wooden step. It had broken beneath you when you tried going upstairs, and you slammed your head and fell unconscious. You were alone and before… what happened before was a dream.

Only a dream.

Even if it was a dream, you still have to leave. But with your leg, you grimace, you’d have to wait. And you’re also exhausted and sure that sleep wouldn’t greet you. You groan in pain, hands clawing at the wood and slowly pulling yourself up. You wince, careful to not move your bleeding leg.

It doesn’t feel broken.

Your face scrunches as your use the wooden banister to pull yourself. It feels like hours until you’re free, using your bruised good leg, to carefully climb the rest of the stairs, using the wall and railing to support you. You hop to your room, groaning at every moment. Your body ached, painfully so. Pushing the half-lidded door to your dark bedroom, hobbling over to your vanity, and rummaging inside the top drawer. You keep your head down, using the very limited light to search for any cloth to wrap your leg and medicine would be in the bathroom.

“It has been—what—18 years since I last saw you. Barely two years old.”

You freeze, hands clutching random pieces of cloth, the voice came from behind you, from the furthest corner of your room. You can’t will yourself to look. Yet you do, looking through the mirror, across your room, a man shrouded in darkness, yet with striking green eyes. Boredom radiates off of him in waves, yet a sense of blatant honesty. Not because he values honesty, but moreso, lying to him would be pointless. It feels like he knows you, every move you’ll make, every thought you’ll ever have. He can read it off as if it was merely a book, a book that he wouldn’t be bothered to read.

“I’m not here to kill you.”

Yet his plain words don’t reassure you. He moves from his corner, and you blindly step away, momentarily forgetting about your leg and yelping out before landing on your side. As if he knew that would happen, he snorts under his breath, staying in the darkest parts of your room, deliberately closing the space between you. Like predator circling prey, but as well as if he wasn’t an intruder. But someone who lived here and had every right to be here.

“Then—Then, why are you here?” Your voice falters and he shrugs almost, tilting his head to look at a carved wooden box you were gifted, before placing it down after deeming it uninteresting. It does this with several different objects, looking at them, before finding them boring and placing them down where it was.

You watch at him, and you can tell he has long hair that goes down to his shoulders, and warm brown skin, with a tail and ears, but horns that were broken off, jagged edges gleaming. He was a demon. You can see him roll his eyes at your sudden conclusion as if it wasn’t completely and utterly obvious.

He drags out a long sigh, falling into an old rocking chair your father made, rolling his neck as to remove the aching. Very human action and your shoulders drop. You should be scared, yet he reminds you a little bit of your mother. The tiniest familiarity, like when you hang around someone long enough, you pick up their habits.

“… I’m here to,” he thinks for a moment, looking over you before letting out a low annoyed sigh, as if what he was about to say would kill him, “to make a pact.”

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star--nymph · 1 month

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having casual conversations on discord with @elfroot-and-laurels like:

like maybe it IS fun for Eurydice to eviscerate Corypheus with her teeth (but she only ate his heart okay cannibalism OKAY)

(look under the cut for full art; warning for gore and cannibalism)

by the way the context for this conversation was that I said Eurydice would put Cullen's head in a jar

WHICH I DOn'T SEE A PROBLEM WITH

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the-ind1gen0us-jude4n · 1 month

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TW: Blood, Gore, Bodies and Violence

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A post shared by Nehoray Levy | נהוראי לוי (@nehoray_official)

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Right now, there is a genocidal rampage happening in Bangladesh, where Hindus are being targeted, kidnapped, incarcerated, abused, raped, murdered, and even lynched.

What we are seeing is the true face of radical Islamism and how radical Islamism has no care for life, but only death, and how intolerant it is.

It is absolutely disgusting and appalling how the international community is silent on this very real genocide happening against Bangladeshi Hindus.

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A post shared by Hamas Raped the #MeTooMovement (@hamasrapedmetoomvm)

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A post shared by Hananya Naftali 🇮🇱 (@hnaftali)

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All Eyes On Bangladesh

#TW: Blood #tw: gore #tw: death #tw: murder #tw: violence #hundu jewish solidarity #all eyes on bangladesh #bangladesh #save bangladeshi hindus #hinduphobia #Instagram

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dead-air-radio · 6 months

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Men who are cut up <33

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ask-olive-huchers · 4 months

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~“Blood, sweat, and fear.”~

(( a Ramshackle OC story!))

Warning: this story covers some dark and possibly triggering topics

note: this takes place after Bailey gifts upon a Pocket knife for Olive.

Olive thanks Bailey for the Pocket knife, embarrassingly messing up and almost calling him big brother. They were sure he wouldn’t have minded it, anyway. But they were scared to admit it. They wander off, imagining the possibilities with this small but powerful weapon. They flick open the blade, once again looking at their reflection. They smile sinisterly, Letting a small chuckle slip out.

Olive retracts the blade to its original form, tucking it back into their pockets. They found themself strolling around the hidden parts of Ramshackle. Ok, hidden is a bit of an overstatement. It was more of the under-appreciated areas.

_________________________________________

After a while, they walk down a dim Street. A single Street light that flickered constantly. Olive shivers a bit from the unresponsive buildings. They had forgotten how creepy it was at night around here.

Within a sudden turn of events, Olive stops and looks up. They stare the some-what nice mansion. A bit too flashy, if you ask them. I mean- what’s the point of having a giant row of stairs just to enter the front door? Pathetic, really.

They turn to the side of the house, quickly and quietly dashing to the gate on the side.

They climb on the gate, struggling not to tumble backwards. Olive grabs the nearest window, slowly opening it. They made as little noise as they could, trying not to awaken the bastards inside.

After clumsily stumbling onto the hard wood floor, they found themselves in the hallway.

their hallway.

’where the hell is that bitch’s room?’

They start quietly opening the doors. There had to be at least 9 doors on the upper floor of their this house. After opening like, 7 of them- they finally find the room.

A women lied asleep, nested comfortably in the soft mattress. But that was the only thing nested on the bed. 3 empty bottles of what seems to be different varieties of liquor. As they approached closer, they saw the black streaks of shitty mascara making it way down her cheeks. But dried too quickly to finish the race, they assumed.

Olive gently grabbed the women’s face, rotating it to face them.

the woman begins to wake up, her eyes fluttering. She looked at this mysterious figure upon her, squinting a bit.

“Calvin..?” She whispered, sitting up within a couple minutes. Clearly, she was extremely drunk and very hung-over. The woman hugs the figure she claimed to be “Calvin”

she hugged the somewhat disordered figure, crying a bit more. She had thought..she’d thought he was dead.

She shook, but. Something felt..off. She wasn’t sure what it was, until they spoke.

“I’d say that im sorry, but..that wouldn’t be entirely true.”

The women was stunned to hear a voice that wasn’t her beloved. It wasn’t..was it?

“Oliv-“

Splat.

…

There was a thud. A loud one, too. The hardwood was being flooded in pools of red liquid. It spread everywhere. Her Pearl white nightgown was now an ugly red. Then, another splat is heard. Followed by another, and another, and another. Blood was practically gushing from her entire body.

Olive did a final stomp on their mothers head, causing it to bleed a bit more. They wipe the blood off their face, Once again putting their weapon away. I guess it was a murder weapon now, huh? Oh how the tables have turned..

Oh how the tables have turned..indeed.

the door to the bedroom creaks, letting a small bit of light to squeeze in. There’s a tiny bit of breathing to go with it. Olive was facing the opposite direction, but they knew damn well who it was.

Which is the whole reason they did this whole mess.

“Mama? Are you awake, too?”

A small voice called out, making its way inside the room. Adi walked over to what remained of her mother, kneeling down to look at her. Olive moved, wanting to watch this flame burn. Like a fire in the forest, it escalated quickly.

“Mom? Are you awake?” She repeated, staring at her mothers lifeless eyes. Something felt warm. And a bit..wet? She removed one of her hands, to see that-..

..it was drenched in blood.

Her whole body tensed up, as she shook uncontrollably. She somehow managed to dropper her mothers head, despite being frozen in terror. Her eyes swelled with tears, and with every blink started a new race of Which would fall first. She didn’t know what to do. She was only 9 years old, after all. This would cause a LOT of emotional trauma in the future..

Olive stood over and watched with a sinister grin. Gathering up some uncalled for and twisted things to say.

“Must hurt, hm?”

They say, leaning on a near-by wall.

“Seeing The people you look up to, just..bail. After all you’ve done to prove your worth something.”

They slowly walk back over to their little sister, lowering down to her level.

They watch in satisfaction as her tears continuously gushed from her eyes. They could see the complete and utter horror darting around on her face.

“but, hey. You haven’t lost everything.”

They close in, moving a strand of her hair so they could get the message across clearly.

“there’s always the orphanage~”

With a devilish smile, Olive stood up. They yoinked the knife out of their pocket and slid it towards the door. They slip out the window, as a final scream of terror is heard.

As much as that knife worked, it wasn’t really what they were looking for. No, no, no. They wanted something more..

destructive.

((ANDDDD HERES SOME TAGS TO TRAUMATIZE YOU GUYS AS WELL<333))

@ask-sora-aguilar @baileythebean @thesmokerblogs @rebootgrimm @thesilliestofallqueers

@vv4loe @ask-jasper-cameron @sunshineoframshackle

YAAAAYYY…

#Tw: death #tw: Blood #Tw: knives #TW: gore #tw: violence #tw: body horror #Btw all canon in this fic :3 #Olive is out for blood #And ready to hunt.#Ramshackle oc #ramshackle au #Small world au #This was too much fun to write #<33 #WOOHOO MURDER‼️‼️

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lighthouseas · 11 months

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stealing past the windows of the blissfully dead

Sure, Mike’s agnostic even though his parents want him to be a Catholic—but he does think, sometimes, that if Heaven really exists—Will might be a manifestation of it. Or a glimpse into it. The point is, he knows Will by heart at this point. Inside and out. It’s a privilege only Mike gets to have. And so, the voice echoes in his head, louder this time: He should’ve noticed the signs earlier on.

fall. 1988. vecna has been defeated, and all should be well. except that it's not.

(in which mike wheeler takes the matters of will byers into his own hands.)

written for @bylerween2023

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slugxmilk · 5 days

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screamingcrows · 5 months

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mob boss!Pantalone x hitman!reader in fast bullet points

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOCKS BACK AWAY - you will be blocked

Note: This has been rattling around in my brain and I needed to flush it out. This is a very watered down version compared to how dark it is in my mind. Mostly because a lot of the heavy stuff would take too much setup compared to my energy level.

Warnings: dark content, guns, murder, violence, manipulation, coercion, gore, brief allusion to noncon, female reader, 'little girl' used once as petname, vague torture mention,

See any tags you don't enjoy? Don't read beyond this. Simple as that

Pantalone is a mob boss and you're his most priced hitman. Came from bad circumstances, got into worse company and ended up owing the wrong people a lot of money.

Luckily, you met Pantalone. And who would he be to turn down a young woman desperate for protection and help?

Turns out you have quite the flair for subtlety and one hell of an aim. His favorite mix of young, talented, and obedient.

He always assures you that taking someone out is a last resort. Reserved for the truly vile and irredeemable. And you trust him, you've yet to catch him lying after all. It's just…

There are a lot of bad people? A lot of dirty work to do. And suddenly you've killed more than you want to count.

What about that guy last night? With a little kid who came in and saw your target their father in a pool of their own blood?

Pantalone tries to shield you that much is evident. But you start noticing the cracks in his smile. How the little gifts and words of affirmation only come when you've been a little too distant.

You steal some cash from Pantalone that night, the moon your only witness as you bolt towards a promise of freedom in a new city.

Freedom lasts about four days before his men have tracked you down and dragged you back. They ripped out your fingernails in the car on the way, something about "making sure a feisty kitten is declawed"

"I'm disappointed in you. And you of all people should know what happens when someone disappoints me," he glances down at the pistol in his hand, letting out a tired sigh.

He offers you a deal to pay back what you'd taken. But just paying it back with cash wouldn't be enough. No, he had no real use for that.

His eyes hold no small amount of disgust as they look down at the shiny metal reflecting your bruised body. Your lip was bleeding, as was your left temple, that eye too swollen to properly open. Skin on your wrists raw and bloody from the rope. One of your shins broken. His gloved hand grabs your chin and yanks your head up to look at him, his expression cold and detached. Before you can plead for mercy he's already shoved the barrel past your lips, his nose crinkling when you try to scream around it.

"Usually this would be it. But I'm in a good mood. And it pains me so see my little girl like this"

You'd work it off of course. His smile too wide paired with those cold eyes when he assures you that it "won't be like that"

Pantalone just wants you back where you were. With the exception that you don't get to leave unaccompanied anymore. And you only take orders directly from him. Which means you have to stay at his mansion of course, he doesn't have the time to seek you out, you'll be ready at his disposal when he needs.

Promises you'll negotiate your freedom once the debt is repaid, and when has he ever lied to you?

The deal he has you sign doesn't specify the nature of his orders. But you'll find out soon enough exactly what he had in mind.

And so what if he deliberately provided the chance for you to run once he'd begun suspecting you were having doubts?

You were his now, and the ends always justify the means

#this is an entire au in my head #tw guns #tw violence #tw dark content #tw murder #tw torture #tw blood #tw gore #mob boss pantalone #pantalone #pantalone x reader #fatui harbingers #crow with a pen #x female reader

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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 7 months

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When a Tomb Becomes a Womb (Part 1: Rings)

Well, it’s finally happened: I wrote a story for a movie rather than YouTube Egos. (Not that this is gonna become a regular thing, mind you. Lisa Frankenstein just so happened to check all the right boxes for my hyperfixation and brainrot.)

(Disclaimer: While I agree that Creature doesn’t really need an actual name to be a great character, I still decided to give him a headcanon name—which is Callum, since I think it would fit him— just because this entire story is from his perspective. Mentioning his "true," pre-death name just seems logical. Neither of the characters in this story belongs to me. Lisa Swallows and The Creature are the property of Zelda Williams and Diablo Cody.)

(Trigger Warnings: implied murder/death, implied violence, gore/blood, mentions of electrocution and fire, scars, body horror, dismemberment. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

The soil was loose and soft. It yielded to the shovel’s rusty spade quite easily.

Though many emotions were thrumming through Callum’s skull at the moment, surprise wasn’t one of them.

While dark clouds had clogged up the night sky, hiding the stars and moon and bloating with rain that would fall sooner or later, the current season was warm, and so the ground wasn’t too firm.

This plot had only been filled hours ago. This grave was fresh; infinitely fresher than his had been.

By now, Callum estimated that it’d taken at least half a day for him to crawl up through the ground and breach the surface like one of the several worms slithering around inside him.

He hadn’t exactly been in the right headspace to consider it at first; back then, all he’d been able to know was light and electricity and shuddering and pain and. . .Lisa’s words.

Lisa’s words.

The same thing that fueled Callum to escape his tomb was now guiding him to free Lisa from hers, all with the same amount of violent tremors and desperation.

It was poetic, honestly.

Perhaps it would’ve been a bit more poetic if he didn’t have to get so filthy in the process.

Oh, well. He could take care of that later. (Besides, the stains on his clothes were nothing compared to the layers of grime and mold and fungus that had been caked all over him on that first, fateful night.)

Right now, unearthing his beloved without getting caught seemed like a much more important thing to focus on.

His grip was vicelike around the wooden handle as he threw one shovelful after another to the side.

Almost there, Callum thought. (If he could speak, he’d be repeating that mantra in a whisper like his life depended on it. Which. . .well, it logically didn’t, but it technically did. The same went for Lisa.) Almost there.

He’d wanted to take her away sooner. He would’ve been perfectly fine with forcing her family to waste money on a casket. Really, what good was a casket if you buried it empty?

But the distinct lack of a corpse would have just caused more problems. As dense as her family seemed to be, they’d still know that the shiny, glowing box (Lisa had called it a. . .tanning bed? If memory served?) wouldn’t have been capable of reducing a person to ashes no matter how dangerous it was.

He knew she wasn’t dead. Not completely; not truly. Yes, the combination of electrical currents and fire may have worked its horrific magic on her body. . .but that magic just hadn’t followed through altogether as it probably should have.

The way the bed had convinced foreign limbs to function as intended mere minutes after Lisa sewed them onto him. . .the way it had rejuvenated his centuries-dead flesh bit by bit. . .

It had some kind of similar effect on Lisa. The vast majority of her had died, but there was still a strong, stubborn ember of something in her that was very much determined to live.

Callum knew that very well. He’d seen proof of it before being forced to flee from the fire.

But Lisa’s family didn’t. As far as they knew, she was gone and never coming back. So, if she just disappeared before they could bury her, then they’d have an excuse to try and track her down. And if that happened, neither she nor her husband would get another chance. . .

Callum ground his jaw, putting even more force behind the shovel.

The hole grew deeper.

The pile of disturbed earth beside it grew bigger.

The dull, scraping tempo of grave-robbery began to sound like hitching gasps and sobs.

Just as the clouds started ominously humming about their plans for the night, the shovel reverberated after finally, finally, finally striking something much more solid than dirt.

Callum tossed the tool aside in favor of getting down on his knees, now using his hands to clear away a blanket of finer, thinner soil.

He hoped Lisa could hear him digging. (Though if that was the case, then the state of her brain could potentially make her think that the sounds were echoing from somewhere farther beneath her. Which would be. . .less than ideal, as Callum didn’t enjoy the idea of scaring her again. )

Even in his anxiety, he subconsciously shook his head. Lisa had taken him in and repaired him even after being initially terrified. Lisa trusted him, loved him; if she didn’t, then he never would have woken up in the first place.

More time passed, and a soft, cold gleam suddenly manifested in the darkness.

Glossy wood.

The coffin’s upper door.

Callum groped at the edge of it, tugging with all his strength.

An odd, warm feeling skittered up his spine and shook through his ribcage.

A low creeeeaaak rattled through the air as the lid was pried open.

. . .And there she was.

___

Callum had always been a fast learner, and yet he still had no idea what to make of his pulse.

It’d been extremely jarring when he’d first awoken. The days that followed, it was irregular. Sometimes he could feel it, sometimes he couldn’t. It was always soft—following more of a murmur than a steady beat—always irregular, barely there at all.

Right now, however, it both sounded and felt very far away. More present than it had been when he’d performed a highly unorthodox beheading on that stain of a man who’d upset Lisa.

Hell, it almost seemed louder and stronger than it had been on the most recent evening he’d spent with Lisa; the one that saw the two of them embracing and reeling and dreaming together. . .

Everything else was a blur as he brought her to her new bed, carrying her like the bride she was. He had to move slowly, carefully, feeling more anxious and unwieldy than ever.

Well, at least until he laid her down, making sure the pillow offered enough support for her neck.

After that, he was much, much more erratic.

He sprinted about the house, tearing almost every other room apart as he searched. It felt like several hours had passed by the time he finally found what he—what his beloved—needed: a white, sterile-looking container. He opened it, just to be certain, then tucked it under one arm and hurried back over to the bedroom.

Every square inch of Lisa’s body was blistered to hell and back, adorned by a network of puffy, angry-looking veins that, had her heart still been beating, would have more or less threatened to burst at any given moment. Red and raw, several sections on her arms, legs, and chest having peeled off to reveal glistening tissue.

Her mane of thick, curly auburn hair had been reduced to a few small, fried patches that clung to the charred flesh of her scalp with a strength similar to bubblegum and well-intentioned vibes. There was a possibility that she’d died with her eyes open, but the awful swelling of the skin around their sockets had sealed them shut.

None of that mattered, of course.

Lisa was still just as beautiful as when Callum had first met her. She always, always would be.

. . .Even so, those injuries had to be dealt with. Despite what Lisa had said before about accepting a person’s flaws, Callum’s instincts told him she wouldn’t appreciate being left to resemble a puppet made of half-raw-half-cooked steaks.

Callum set the medical kit down on the nightstand, ferreting out generous rolls of gauze as he loomed over the side of the bed.

The world finally seemed to slow back down as he got to work.

It didn’t take long for him to find a gentle, precise cadence as he wrapped bandage after bandage after bandage around his beloved’s form. Something in the back of his mind wondered if this was what spiders felt like when they spun strands of silk together to make their webs.

Although Lisa’s skin hadn’t been rendered translucent, the burns in some places went deep enough for Callum to catch a glimpse of her organs. Both of her lungs were blackened, seared, sunken. Her heart was equally misshapen, now boasting a similar appearance to a blob of melted wax, looking like it was seconds away from collapsing in on itself.

But even as all the carnage was swallowed up by more strips of gauze, Callum could still see the heart twitch. The movement only lasted for half a second or so, but there was no doubting that it’d happened. . .

Lisa still had a chance. She would never be truly alive again, but she could still come back.

She couldn’t wake up by herself. . .but she wouldn’t have to.

He’d find a way to help, just as she’d done for him.

Callum blinked for the first time all night, and his hands were suddenly free; he was suddenly sitting at the foot of the new bed.

Lisa was cloaked quite literally from head to toe in clean, snow-white bandages. It was like he'd made the perfect combination of shroud and wedding dress for her to wear.

The thought made a small smile tug at his lips.

Then he shook his head.

He couldn’t relax just yet. There were other things to be taken care of right now. Two other things, to be specific.

Callum got to his feet and crossed the new bedroom to quietly close the door. He ventured down a narrow hallway, peering at an assortment of unfamiliar pictures hanging on the walls around him. Disposing of them would probably be another chore for him later.

His footsteps sounded hollow and heavy as he descended the staircase. (Unlike Lisa’s former home, the floors of this house were all hardwood rather than carpet. True, they wouldn’t muffle noise very well, but it was still quite a lucky coincidence.)

He’d found this house completely by accident, when he’d still been trying to follow Lisa’s path.

Even with the remnants of that lightning bolt sparking in his stagnant blood, even with Lisa’s voice echoing through his resurrected mind, it’d still taken so much time for him to truly wake up. He grimaced at the thought of how long he’d had to crawl around the cemetery before he could stand upright.

(And that wasn’t even mentioning the state his vision had been in. The layers of rancid slime and dirt clinging to his face had made everything around him blurry and distorted. The fact that his eyes were also full of maggots at the time certainly hadn’t helped.)

He’d had to wander the surrounding woods for hours and hours before he could finally walk. The rot in his bones had kept his movement slow and uneven, but a bad limp was still better than collapsing every other moment.

Callum wasn’t sure how the house’s previous owners hadn’t seen or heard him that night. They certainly had a few hours ago, but that wasn’t a factor anymore.

He crept into the living room, where he paced a few slow circles around the fresh corpse lying in the center of all the controlled chaos. The crimson splatters now adorning the floor, the walls, the sofa’s floral print almost seemed to glitter.

Another carcass could be found just a few feet away, sprawled across the wide threshold that led into the dining room. The face was obscured, as blood was still leaking out to add to a large puddle that continued to slowly spread, inch-by-inch.

Callum folded his arms across his chest, drumming the nails of his replacement hand against his cheek. He remembered what Lisa had said when he’d silently begged her to help him find new parts; a contemplative murmur about there being bad people in the world. . .

Her relief and gratitude when he’d bludgeoned that horrible excuse for a mother to death.

Her cathartic happiness when he’d dismembered the scum who’d tried to put his filthy hands on her.

Her tearful joy when she eventually realized why he’d risked so much to take a particularly crucial piece from the ignoramus who’d dared to play with her emotions. . .

It had all been so wonderful to see.

Those victims had all hurt Lisa, and they likely would've hurt others as well. Their deaths wouldn’t be an actual loss to the community.

But this. . .

Lisa definitely wouldn’t have approved of this. Yes, she’d understand why Callum had done what he’d done; after everything they’d been through, of course the two of them needed a quiet place to stay, if only for a while until they found somewhere better. A place that was a fair distance from both the town and the cemetery. A place just like this.

But. . .

A raspy sigh escaped Callum’s lips.

He'd work with more tact in the future.

Once Lisa was awake, things would be better. He’d listen to her input. They would make important decisions together.

Callum’s eyes wandered about, eventually settling on the axe—the same one Lisa had taken from her father’s garage—he’d left propped up against the adjacent wall. It was slathered in gore, to the point that its wooden handle was just as red as the paint on its blade.

He approached to pick it up, letting the weapon’s belly rest on his shoulder. Then he stooped down, using his free hand to take hold of the first corpse’s wrists. More of the floor was painted red as he dragged it into the kitchen. He retraced his steps to collect the second body, coming dangerously close to slipping on the blood as he hefted his victim onto the countertop.

The next hour or so was filled with dull thuds, with splintery pops and cra-A-a-cks, with the drip-drip-drip of thick fluid oozing down the lower cabinets and plopping onto the floor.

The axe was too heavy to be the most precise tool, but it was still efficient. It only took a few good swings to sever limbs from torsos and heads from necks.

Callum couldn’t bury either of these bodies. Not right away, at least. Fortunately, he soon discovered that there were more than enough black trash bags under the sink to work with.

Lisa’s body obviously needed repair, but he wasn’t sure which repairs should come first. (He knew she’d require a new pair of eyes, but he didn’t want to risk forcing her current ones open just yet.) Would it be better to take off her old limbs and put new ones in their place, or to simply slice off layers of skin and attach a new barrier to her burnt flesh?

Wait and see, a voice in his head suggested. Callum nodded to himself; when Lisa was able to communicate again, he’d organize these plans with her. It was only right, after all.

Callum set the axe down by the sink, now focusing on wrapping up the detached pieces of human in tight, layered cocoons that crinkled with every second. Packing all the bundles into the freezer and refrigerator in a way that kept them from sliding right back out was far more aggravating than he would’ve cared to admit, but he managed.

He gave pause, however, when it came to the two remaining pieces.

A pair of forearms, to be specific, with their hands still attached.

One from each corpse.

Something small and metallic glinted around the fourth finger on each of them.

The first ring had a very simple design: just a smooth, golden band.

The second ring, meanwhile, was silver, mounted with a shiny stone.

It wasn’t a diamond by any means. Callum couldn’t tell what kind of gem it was, honestly. But it was gorgeous—it’d been carved into a smooth, perfect orb. It reminded him of an ember at the heart of a firepit, boasting a graceful mix of orange and red with a few soft hints of yellow.

The colors reminded him of that one night.

Callum shoved the forearms into hiding with all the other parts, the two rings now nestled in his palm. With that, he exited the kitchen, an unfamiliar spring in his step as he ventured back up the staircase. Yes, he still had an enormous bloody mess to clean up, but this took priority.

His odd, partial heartbeat echoed in his ears as he re-entered the new bedroom and knelt down beside the bed.

Slowly, delicately, Callum took one of Lisa’s hands in his. He pressed a small kiss to her bandaged knuckles before sliding the new ring onto her finger.

It fit perfectly. Just like the gold ring did for him.

As for the odd-yet-sweet candy loop he’d made do with for the original proposal. . .well, he decided to leave it on the nightstand.

Just in case Lisa wanted to keep it when she woke up.

@mblume125 @upstartgeek @paper-cuts-and-fresh-bruises @queenofcandys @magpierose753 @therulerofallpotatos @blue-spider-official @chofisaquino @strangewerewolf @alienbactria @aphroditeinarms @weallpartyatybcpatricksfuneral @scootis-the-scoot. @cherryycocaine @sammispook @creepycrow31 @radisyn @allthesecottoncandyskies @that-random-assassin @shelf-life-of-the-party @big-sad-world @lisascreatures @we-were-d3stined-t0-expl0de @artnormal @cr-0-wsworld @bllops-world @night-writer-writer @bunnygirlgracesworld @occasional-trash @a-live-wire @babi-gir @secretly-larry-daley @fawns-things @confused-hufflepuff-screaming

#my writing #my stories #lisa frankenstein #lisa frankenstein spoilers #the creature #lisa frankenstein creature #lisa swallows #lisa x creature #(my headcanon name for creature is callum)#(I just think it would fit him well)#tw implied murder/death #tw implied violence #tw gore/blood #tw mentions of electrocution and fire #tw scars #tw body horror #tw dismemberment

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