#3rd person horror

[askbrahmsheelshire]

hi!! i wanted to ask for a Brahms x gender neutral reader writing drabble! can you please write brahms with an s/o who has been drawing him a lot and accidentally finds their sketchbook on their desk? thank you!

ᴼᶠ ᶜᵒᵘʳˢᵉᵎᵎᵎ ᴵ ᵉⁿᵈᵉᵈ ᵘᵖ ᵐᵃᵏᶦⁿᵍ ᶦᵗ ˡᵒⁿᵍᵉʳ ᵗʰᵃⁿ ᶦⁿᵗᵉⁿᵗᵉᵈ ˡᵒˡ ᵉⁿʲᵒʸ

Brahms x GN! Reader Warnings: Posessiveness, Consensual but Not Safe or Sane, Minor Sexual Content POV: 3rd Person Limited, Brahms Perspective

His fingertips glide across the cheek of his porcelain mask, riding the ridges of the lips that are cracked from years of wear. His eyes glance down to a discarded book, pages haphazardly flipped open. It feels odd, this flipped dynamic.

Being watched, that is.

His eyes are used to watching them through the cracks in the walls; from behind this mask he’s worn since the fire tore through his flesh. Being a predator hungry for its’ prey, hiding and concealing himself in the shadows.

He’s felt their eyes on his hulking frame every day this week, marking and etching into the paper of the moleskin they carry. Sitting in the parlor, behind the kitchen counters… In bed, as he stares down at them through this ceramic facade. Their eyes, locked onto his mask, trying to see through it. Scanning and memorizing, marking and recording.

More than a dozen different sketches of his own face and body lined and shaded are littered throughout the pages. These sketches show everything— the angry burns that crawl down from beneath his mask and onto his shoulder, his relentless body hair, the brown ringlets of his hair that frizz out and go straight in mismatched places.

He didn’t realize he’s been this thoroughly…examined. While he was busy recording their curves into his memory, their every movement throughout his home repeated like a mantra in his head, they were busy doing the same. His chest… His eyes behind his mask…The folds and draping of his clothes against his body. The unmistaken straining of his pants.

He can’t help but groan, wetting his lips to the physical desire of his lover leaking off the page. His thoughts becoming more and more muddied the more he sees his lust reflected back on the rough textured paper.

A creak of the staircase, barely audible, hits his ears. He knows every weakpoint in the old floorboards of this home to recognize when his lover is making their way up the stairs. Like a sixth sense.

His body catches them before even a squeak can escape their throat. Moving like a shadow across the floorboards of the bedroom to the opening door, just a gust of wind hits their face before they see him there. A hand reaches out, stopping the door’s swinging movement and pinning their bodies together against its’ frame. He looms over them, faces mere inches away. It’s only then do they find the air returning to their lungs, eyes wide in shock, finally seeing him there before them.

That look— that desperation! In the short time he’s had them here as his new plaything, he can still get this kind of reaction from them! That sort of desperation and fear when startled and backed into a corner, primal and animalistic. It’s intoxicating, it’s all his! Mine, mine, mine, he thinks.

“Gh— Brahms…! God, you scared me—” The blush errupts across their face, beautiful, hot blood, taking over the color on their cheeks. Their eyes whip from his mask straight to the scene of the crime, the mistakenly discarded notebook that lay open on the dresser. Whines and whispers of an animal pinned down by the teeth of a predator croak from their lips, followed by an embarrassed and nervous smile. “I didn’t mean to leave that out.”

Cute.

Cute, cute cute. Cute!

Their breath is uneven, shoulders shaking at every inhale, heart thrumming like a small little hummingbird. He moves in closer, God, he can’t control it, moving his face into the crook of their neck and his breath pounding on the inside of the ceramic. It’s like he can taste the blood on his lips through the thin skin of their neck. That racing pulse, drumming, drumming, drumming under their jaw is enough to make him faint.

“Did you see everything?” They ask, smugness and pride playing on their lips, despite their nervousness and embarrassment. Had they left it out on purpose? Was it meant to entice him, a game they've devised for his amusement? He loves these kinds of games.

He doesn’t answer, just breathes in their hot breath and scent, porcelain cold against the sensitive lobes of their ears. Shaking like a poor deer caught in the scope of a hunter’s rifle. It’s more fun this way, forcing information out of them, making them think they’re giving it up on purpose. Entice, sit, wait.

“You’re just beautiful, Brahms. I can’t help but draw you.” They smile, still shivering and swaying like long, wild grass. A spark of indignation flickers when he doesn't deny looking at their drawings, "It's only fair. You stare at me all the time."

His voice, high and wrong for a man his age, “You don’t like when I stare?” A hint of a smirk on his real lips.

“I didn’t say that!"

A quick retort, almost too loud for how close they are to one another.

That look—! The desperation for his approval, their fear and exhilaration. Their eyes cast down quickly, embarrassed by how quickly they needed to clarify.

He needs it. To the core of his being, he craves it.

The saliva pooling under his tongue is overwhelming as his eyes dart across their features. He swallows hard.

A whimper rushes past their lips. “I’m sorry, Brahms,” they apologize, voice light and unsteady. “I didn’t mean for you to find it, I—” A startled squeak as his hands find the sides of their face, thumbs nestled on the skin of their temples, stroking and smoothing the skin there. His grip forces their eyes to meet.

“Why?” He finds his voice, too delicate, too unstable. They didn’t want him to see? Why not? Hasn’t he been good? He knows he’s been good, he’s been nothing but obedient. He’s good, he’s good, so then why? Why, why, why?!

Their eyes shine with something he can’t place— something he can’t understand. He’s good, he’s been so fucking good.

“I didn’t mean it that way.” Their hand rests on his chest, rubbing smooth, small circles. God, that feels good. Good. Good. He’s so good. “I didn’t mean for you to just… stumble upon it.”

His fingers tighten their hold, scratching the line of hair on their neck, sending a shiver straight down their spine. “And how would you have wanted me to find it?”

Their breath hitches, eyes wide as they look into the empty eyes of his mask. “I… I wanted to show you. I wanted to show you how I see you.”

“Show me,” he whispers, his hands releasing their grasp moving down, down, down to grip their waist.

“Show me how you see me.”

[radicalrobotz]

i like hungry lamu but he is going to be the next freddy fazbear in the kitchen for me

[silusvesuius]

n*loth is literally a demon i mean iHold on YAAASSSSS!

i mean it 😒😒😒

[spagettysylph]

World of Darkness was my very first foray into TTRPGs and I kinda fell off it a few years ago but I decided on a whim to finally get around to reading the new edition for Vampire: the Masquerade and ooooooh,,,, oooooooooooh I can feel the brainworms crawling back in. It's like they never left.

[c0tards--s0luti0n]

the magic 8 kinda paul matthews ... tbh ......

[solpng]

just got done watching scream 4 with my niece and she thought emma roberts as ghostface was lame lol

[thecoolertails]

the only thing i don't really like about signalis is the really basic anime art style for characters but most of the in-game assets look nice enough that it doesn't matter

[coopessential]

Blight: Survival - 3rd Person 4 player Coop Horror

https://store.steampowered.com/app/1774880/Blight_Survival/

[bravecrab]

As much as I respect the classics, when it comes to horror video games, First Person horror is just a more intense (and in my opinion, better) experience. Why follow behind someone being spooked, when you can be the person being spooked?

[buffaloretro]

Resident Evil 2

Bigger and badder, Resident Evil 2 established itself as the series’ most important tiptoe to date. More Resident Evil: Resident Evil Resident Evil: Dead Aim Resident Evil: Code Veronica X Resident Evil: Survivor I have long used this comparison explaining the differences between the original Resident Evil and it’s sequels for the PlayStation. Capcom evolved their own zombie franchise to…

[m2004ew]

Adrift in the Sea of Darkness

By Matthew Alexander

authors note; this story was written at the request of someone on Wattpad. This is the first and only request for a story I have ever recieved.

The light was hard to bear, piercing into Braydon's eyes, causing the throbbing in his head to worsen. "Waking up from hypersleep is probably the worst part of this job," he thought to himself, "well, either that or the constant risk of depressurization." Braydon braced himself as the door to his hypersleep pod began to slide open, aware that the light in the passageway would hurt worse than the light illuminating the inside of his pod. As his eyes adjusted to the sight before him, he noticed that the passage was unusually dark with a mysterious fog hanging in the air. Stumbling out into the dim space, he fell to his knees, unable to muster the strength to completely hold himself upright at that moment.

Looking around as he waited for his strength to fully return, he noticed that the source of the hallway's dim illumination was the emergency lights, and that all the hypersleep pods lining the walls, with only a few exceptions, were open. Pulling himself off the ground, Braydon slowly made his way down the cold, metal passageway toward a large door. It slid open with a low growl, and he stepped into the equally dim, cold, and fog filled locker room, where he located the locker labelled "Omega.Co Employee #2976148, Braydon Corsky, Senior Astrogeologist." He opened it, putting on the old, tattered jumpsuit inside as he continued to regain strength. Fully dressed, he first attempted to contact his supervisor using his uniforms built in coms system, but was met only by static; from there, he went over to the nearby dining hall, deciding to quell the painful hunger within him before attempting to contact any of his other coworkers.

The mess deck was an eerie sight, with unfinished food and drinks on the tables and a few knocked-over chairs littering the ground; the situation was not helped by the fog, which obscured objects, almost making them look like alien creatures. Cautiously moving through the large space to avoid tripping, Braydon eventually reached one of the six food and drink dispensers on the wall opposite the locker room door, which were thankfully still functioning. After pressing a few buttons on the device, a tray with a small cup of water and a bowl of brown, steak flavored soup popped out, which he promptly grabbed and carried over to a nearby table, where he sat and began to eat, alone in the darkness. After several minutes of eating, Braydon was almost finished with his shabby meal when a loud bang echoed out from a nearby room, causing him to turn towards the source of the sound, frozen in place, listening.

After several moments passed, Braydon turned back to his food and finished it off, then got up and went to investigate the source of the sound. Navigating his way through several dim, cold metal rooms and corridors until he entered a large, darkened storage area with several metal walkways suspended in the air above the floor, going up for three levels. In a corner of the room was a massive, rectangular container filled with liquid mercury which had somehow been knocked onto its side. "What the hell could've done this?" He thought, "this thing should be too heavy to fall on its own without getting hit by immense force, so how'd it fall?"

As he stood there, taking in the sight, he noticed a dripping sound, faintly echoing from somewhere nearby. Looking for the source of the sound, he searched around various shelves and metal crates before coming across a flashlight which appeared to be sitting in a puddle of something; picking it up and wiping off the strange, sticky substance onto his stained uniform, Braydon turned it on and pointed it towards the puddle, which was a crimson red color. Realizing what it was, Braydon pointed the flashlight upwards to where it was dripping down from, slowly running the beam of light across a metal walkway until he located a blood-covered arm hanging down from the side. "What the fuck?" he muttered under his breath. He had seen enough people die doing this job that it didn't bother him anymore, but to find somebody dead this deep inside the ship was bizarre.

"This is Senior Astrogeologist Braydon Corsky, I've just awoken from hypersleep and found a dead man in a nearby storage room. Would someone please like to fill me in on what's going on here?" he said, speaking into his suit's built-in coms system; he was met by silence. Deciding to head to the bridge to get more answers, he walked over to and out a large door on the opposite side of the room, not noticing the broken gas containers to his left in the corner of the storage room. After walking through several rooms and empty hallways, Braydon hit a major roadblock in the form of the ship's internal tram system, which had been deactivated after the ship switched to emergency power. Standing on the platform of a tram station, it didn't take him very long to figure out that the gravity bridge to his left, which normally allowed people to bypass the tram rails, was badly damaged by bullets, preventing it from functioning.

He paced in a small circle, thinking about what he should do, then decided to, as risky as it may be, descend a few levels in the ship, pass through the reactor compartment to the other side, then come up several levels and make his way to the bridge. Turning to go back the way he came, Braydon froze in shock as he noticed something he hadn't seen before; crumpled in the rightmost corner of the tram station platform lay the bloodied corpse of a man with a pipe wrench lodged in his mangled head. After standing still for a while, trying to get over the shock of the sight before him, he steadied his breathing and pressed on. He walked back through the door and down the dark hall, then turned left into a dark stairwell.

As he made his way down the stairs, he couldn't help but be unnerved by the eerie, unusual silence that seemingly engulfed the entire ship. It didn't help that he felt like he was being watched. After what seemed like an eternity, he made it down five flights of stairs and walked through a door, pausing at the entrance to a long, dark corridor with mysterious shapes obscured by the fog, which was even thicker than before. Taking deep breaths, he began walking down the corridor while trying to ignore the foggy shapes, pausing suddenly halfway through when he heard an audible splash right at his feet. Slowly looking down, he pointed his flashlight at his feet and saw a small puddle of dark liquid under his right foot. Slowly tracing the source with his eyes, he pointed his flashlight at a shape in the fog and was greeted by another mangled corpse. Just as he did a strange, almost unnatural breeze rush through from behind, nearly making him jump out of his skin. On the verge of a nervous breakdown, Braydon rushed to the other end of the hallway and entered the control section of the reactor room, only to be met by an even larger number of dead bodies. Unable to hold it in any longer, he hunched over and vomited.

After he had finished regurgitating his breakfast, Braydon calmed his nerves as much as he could and looked around. "What in the hell is going on? Why the fuck is everybody dead?!... wait, these people... were they... fighting?" Looking at the surrounding carnage, he noticed that many of the dead people had been holding tools and guns, some even still tightly grasping them in death. All showed signs of having been shot, strangled, or beaten to death. Gulping hard, Braydon pushed onward, exiting the control section and entering the section of the room which housed the reactor itself, though only its outline was visible; the fog was so thick in this area that Braydon could hardly see what was ahead of him. He began walking along the rickety elevated walkway which surrounded the reactor, moving around to the other side so that he could reach the door that awaited him. "Damn Omega.Co," he muttered to himself, "every ship they build seems to have a deathtrap on it somewhere, and this one's deathtrap is this walkway. It feels like it could collapse any moment now!"

Walking near the edge of the walkway, Braydon glanced at the slightly visible reactor, then stopped and turned to look at it. Though details were hard to make out through the fog, it looked almost as if something had partially corroded the outside of the reactor.

"Hey!" A voice yelled in a hushed tone. Braydon stopped and looked around, unable to pinpoint the source of the voice. Clang The metallic sound reverberated around the room. Clang It echoed out from the fog for a second time, coming from the same direction as the first, followed by the light sound of something stumbling across the walkway towards him. Braydon watched in horror and saw what appeared to be the ghost of one of his long dead co-workers, his head still split in two from the boulder that fell on his head during a mining accident many years ago.

The ghost stood up to its full height as it looked at Braydon. "Why didn't you help me?" It growled, slowly moving toward Braydon with anger burning in its pale, lifeless eyes. "You left me there to die. Why didn't you help me?! Look at me, Braydon! Look at what's happened to me! Why didn't you help?!" Braydon stumbled backwards, away from the ghostly figure, bumping up against the metal railing that lined the right side of the walkway.

"There was nothing I could do! It was a cave in, you know there's nothing that could be done!" he stammered, barely able to form a coherent sentence.

"Lies!" The ghost barked, you left me to die! I'm going to kill you Braydon, and I'm going to make it hurt! Soon you'll know. You'll know the pain I feel, the pain which constantly pierces through my skull! All because of your cowardice!"

Braydon pushed against the flimsy, poorly made railing even more than he had before, the weight of his body causing the cheap metal to start bending. Mustering what little courage he had, Braydon turned and began sprinting through the thick fog, towards the vague outline of the door he sought. The ghost screeched in rage as it pursued him, nearly managing to grab Braydon by the neck before he vanished through the doorway.

He ran for a long time, not wishing to stop for fear of capture, but exhaustion forced Braydon to slow down and stop. Panting heavily with his hands on his knees, Braydon looked around at the empty, lifeless area around him. This corridor he was in was just as cold, dark, and desolate as all the others he'd wandered through earlier, yet it seemed so much more sinister now that he was aware of just how much danger he was in. Walking at a brisk yet tense pace, he could not help but jump at every little sound he heard and every movement he saw from the corner of his eye.

He came across a four-way intersection, and as he was trying to determine which hallway to go down, he spotted a man who noticed him at about the same time. Ecstatic to see another living person, Braydon smiled and waved as he began walking towards the man, but quickly came to a stop. The man, whose face was now twisted into a look of absolute terror, screamed and, leaving Braydon barely any time to react, pulled out a gun and wildly fired a salvo of bullets towards him. Ducking into a nearby room, Braydon flattened himself against a wall and waited, listening as the man's footsteps quickly disappeared further down the corridor they had been in.

"What the Hell was that about?" Braydon whispered to himself, unable to understand what had just transpired. "Why'd that jackass try to shoot me? Was there... something behind me?" Trying to control his breathing and stop his body from shaking, he waited until he was certain nobody else was around, then slowly crept back into the intersection. Looking around nervously, he eventually noticed a sign showing which corridors led where. Heading down a hallway to his right, Braydon eventually reached a staircase which he began to climb with unsteady legs.

Heading up five flights of stairs, he reached a doorway which he cautiously peered through, hoping to avoid another shooting, before walking through into yet another cold, dead corridor, this one darker than any before it. He was getting close to the bridge of the ship, where he hoped to find some answers, and perhaps even safety. He had to make it to the end of the passage. For the first time in several hours, Braydon began to feel some semblance of hope, though deep inside he was still conflicted, knowing full well that the bridge could be as much of a mess as the rest of the ship.

Thud Braydon suddenly slammed onto the cold, metal floor below him, having stumbled over something big and squishy on the floor. Something wet and sticky was now covering much of his body, and there was an audible squelch as he peeled himself off the floor. Standing back up, he looked down at himself and saw that he was now coated in blood, and looking back at what he had tripped over, saw what appeared to be the badly mangled remains of the ships' chief of security. The gory sight caused Braydon to jump back, releasing a little yelp as he did, before he began dry heaving.

After a few moments Braydon steadied himself and, using a nearby wall to help keep himself up, continued walking towards the bridge of the ship. After a few moments he regained enough strength to stop bracing himself against the wall, and just as he did, he suddenly heard footsteps echoing down the corridor from behind him, which was quickly followed by an audible squelch. Not wanting to know who or what was now coming towards him, Braydon quickened his pace until he reached the door to the bridge, which he flung open, then closed behind himself as he threw himself through the doorway. Activating the door's lock, he put his back to the door and sat on the floor, trying to calm himself and gather his thoughts. Looking around, the bridge appeared to be in good condition, though deserted.

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP The sound caught Braydon's attention quickly, causing him to get up and begin searching for the source. Walking throughout the bridge, he eventually came across a control panel, on which a large screen read "DANGER! FOREIGN CONTAMINANTS PRESENT IN AIRWAYS. REACTOR CORROSION LEVEL AT 56%. SECURITY LOCKDOWN LEVEL 8 NOW IN EFFECT."

"Security level 8?! I didn't even know the levels went that high! Just what the Hell is going on here?" Noticing some movement out of the corner of his eye, Braydon looked away from the control panel and peered out of the massive glass porthole that separated the bridge from the cold void of space, and saw a decently sized ship flying nearby, seemingly circling the mining ship. "That's it! That ship may be my one chance of rescue! I must contact them, let them know that something terrible has happened." Moving away from the control panel, he began frantically searching for where he could send a distress signal, eventually finding it by the captain's seat.

Activating a holographic screen and keyboard, he quickly typed up a message giving a brief overview of the chaos that had transpired and was about to hit "broadcast" when the door to the bridge suddenly opened. Looking towards the door, Braydon watched as a group of four heavily armed people donning gas masks walked into the room, turning their attention towards him. The leader of the group looked at Braydon, then at the message he was about to send, then back to Braydon, and said "sorry mate, can't let you do that." They raised their rifle, aimed it squarely at Braydon's head and said, "nothing personal, just corporate orders," and everything went black for Braydon.

------

The containment team made their way down the dark, slightly damp corridors of the derelict mining vessel. At approximately 1300 Earth time, Omega.Co HQ had received an automated report from the deep space mining vessel Judith Marcos regarding severe air contamination and the gradual deterioration of the reactor. Not wanting to risk a repeat of an earlier scandal, Omega.Co ordered the captain to switch the ship to emergency power, evacuate all-important personnel, lock down the bridge, and eliminate anyone who got in their way. After receiving confirmation of order reception from the captain, Corporate dispatched a carrier ship, the CSS Point Breaker, to deliver a containment team to the Judith Marcos.

The containment team had been given explicit orders to secure the bridge of the ship, gather and evacuate important materials, eliminate any non-essential personnel, then scuttle the Judith Marcos. They boarded the mining ship at 0100 Earth time, and from there split into several teams. Fireteam 1, was tasked with securing the bridge, Fireteams 2 and 3 would begin the process of locating and evacuating important materials, and Fireteams 4, 5, and 6 would begin planting explosive charges in important sections of the ship to be detonated later after all Fireteams had returned to the Point Breaker. Fireteam 1 moved through the ship relatively unabated, only being slowed by the occasional armed crewmember.

It did not take them long to reach the ship's bridge. Walking past a large, mysterious pool of blood, the fireteam walked up to the door to the bridge. The door was locked, something which the fireteam found unsurprising considering the orders that had been issued to the captain of the Judith Marcos hours earlier, but what was surprising was what was on the other side of the door. Walking into the bridge, Fireteam 1 was greeted by the sight of a crewmember standing by the captain's seat. Fireteam 1's leader took one look at the man, saw what they were about to do, and took an appropriate response; he raised his rifle, said "sorry mate, can't let you do that. Nothing personal, just corporate orders," and fired a single bullet through the crewmember's skull, his body falling to the floor like a sack of potatoes.  

With the man now dead on the ground, Fireteam 1 set about deleting the man's draft SOS message and securing the bridge. Once that was done, the leader of the group radioed the other Fireteams using his uniforms' built-in coms system, saying "this is Fireteam 1. We have secured the bridge. How about the rest of you? Over." He waited for several moments with no response, before trying again, repeating what he'd said before, only to be greeted by silence again. Next, he tried contacting the Point Breaker, saying "CSS Point Breaker, this is Containment Fireteam 1, I am unable to contact the other members of the containment team. You having the same issue? Over." Once more, there was no response.

Thinking his coms system may be malfunctioning, he ordered another member of his Fireteam to try contacting the other Fireteams, only for them to also be met by silence; an attempt by that same person to contact the Point Breaker also failed. At about that time, the lights in the bridge flickered off for a few moments, before flickering back on. Looking around confused, the members of Fireteam 1 eventually noticed a mysterious fog beginning to fill the room, seeping in through the vents and the open doorway.  

[squidd-ink]

A Child Covered in Blood [a short story]

Summary: A vampire's recollection of his childhood and how he (didn't) cope with having a thirst for blood.

Word count: about 1.6k

TW/CW: depersonalization!!!!!!, memory loss as a coping mechanism, excessive blood, child neglect, self harm(he bites his arm hard enough to draw blood but that's about it I think), hallucinations <- if there's anything I missed let me know

My OC's vampirism originates from a rare genetic mutation/defect he was born with, rather than from being turned. He eventually becomes a mass murderer, so don't feel too sorry for him, or do, I'm not in charge of you. I like how complex he is and writing about his suffering. This is written in the 3rd person and is very much like a stream of consciousness... I don't normally format my writing like this but I like the way it reads/flows (more so on mobile I suppose). This is still an incomplete story, but I ran out of motivation to write it a while back and it's at a good stopping point... So I thought that I mind as well post it instead of letting it rot in my notes app any longer than it has been. Maybe I'll continue it at some point.... but for now, enjoy what I have. :^]

[Story starts under the cut]

--

There was something unnatural about him. 

He knows this. 

There has not been, and would never be, anything “normal” about him. 

He knows this too. 

There’s not a day he isn’t reminded about it. 

His peculiarities. His untoward inclinations. 

He spent most his childhood years locked away in a room. Gnawing hunger.

He would be given food when his parents remembered. 

When they remembered that he was still their son. When they could momentarily forget the wild beast living inside of him.

It was like a parasite. 

The food they gave was nothing he could stomach. Not that he didn’t try.

The parasite was picky.

…

His parents had found him with a cat one day. He had claimed they were best friends.

The red was an impossible stain. 

That night he had dreams of tearing and warmth. Looking at raw steak made him feel ill and… something else. 

He felt full for the first time in his life.

His parents forbade him from asking where the cat went. He could never figure out why it left. 

His strange dreams wouldn’t go away. 

Sometimes he could see his best friend in them. 

Other times it was his mother or his father. A friend from school. The neighbor's dog.

He never knew what happened to the shirt he wore that day. Or why his parents can’t look him in the eye.

They cried when he asked what was wrong.

…

Almost a week after the disappearance of the cat his dreams started becoming more vivid.

More impossible stains. 

He couldn’t hear the neighbors dog barking anymore. He knew better than to ask.

He felt full again. The parasite was happy.

His parents were not happy. They were either very mad or sad. He didn’t know why.

He was locked away in the room not too long after. 

He lived miserably. The gnawing hunger was back.

He couldn’t tell if it was him or the parasite that was so hungry.

Which of them were aching for that feeling of fullness. 

…

He could see his school friends only when he slept. If he could.

Tearing. Ripping. Warm. 

Full.

His mother never asks how he is anymore. Conversations turn to whispers by the other side of the door.

He hasn’t talked with anyone in days. Weeks. Months.

He doesn’t know when days begin and end.

…

Eventually he has the most vivid dream yet. 

He wakes up calmer than he ever has.

Stains impossibly everywhere. Coating every kitchen tile. 

His breaths even. His mouth dry.

He feels ill. The memory of the raw steak pleasant in comparison.

His stomach hurts. 

He…

His stomach feels like it's devouring itself. 

He…

The parasite is still here. Gnawing hunger.

He…

Warmth. 

It fills his mouth. But it doesn’t taste right.

He spits it out. He lets go.

His arm throbs almost painfully. 

He is mesmerized by the way it drips. 

Staining the floor. His pants. His shirt. His face.

He hears his mother scream.

Drip.

He stares at her.

Drip.

His mother has never come into the room before.

Drip.

He wakes up with stained bandages on his arm.

His stomach still hurts.

…

He often sits in the room and imagines. 

If his best friend never left.

If the neighbor's dog still barked.

If his stomach didn’t hurt.

If the parasite would leave.

…

He found it harder and harder to discern between reality and dream as time went on.

He could feel the onset of delusion. Everything was stained. Impossibly so.

There was a man in his dreams that would talk to him. He could barely do more than look at him.

He was so lethargic. So hungry. His mouth so dry.

The man looked strange. Even with his warped sense of reality he could tell. 

There was something unnatural about him. The man.

The man brought him things. He couldn’t figure out how.

His stomach hurt. 

He didn’t know what the man wanted him to do with them.

A bird. A mouse. A fruit. A pencil. A notebook.

Sometimes the things would disappear. 

A fruit. A pencil. A notebook.

He always felt full again when they left. 

He finally had energy to do something other than lay on the ground. 

He picked up the pencil and the notebook. 

He drew the fruit. The man. The door. 

His dreams. 

His best friend. 

The neighbor's dog.

The bird.

The mouse. 

He would have drawn his parents too but he couldn’t remember what they looked like. The harder he tried the more of their faces he lost.

The floor was no longer stained. Covered now in ruled lines and graphite markings. 

…

Just when things were getting better the man disappeared too. 

He didn’t feel any more full though. Which distressed him.

His hunger came back. 

The parasite’s hunger. 

His artworks all over the floor only made the reappearance of the stains that much more stark.

He cried. He cried. He cried.

He mourned his best friend. Lost forever to him.

The only thing left was the now stained paper he had drawn on. 

The stains coloring the white page. Matting fur. 

Tearing. 

Warm.

The door opened.

He couldn’t let them step on the pages. The stains.

They were in the doorway. Staring at him.

He cried. 

They stared. Their faces blurred and rearranged.

Drip.

Pages were being soaked. Pages stained.

Drip.

His mother said something. An apology. 

Drip

The door closed.

He missed his best friend.

…

He woke one day to the door slightly ajar. 

His mind fuzzy.

The light beckoning.

He crawled to the opening. Squinting at the burning brightness. 

It was quiet. 

Unnaturally so.

The sounds he’d hear from behind the door missing. 

His throat too sore from screaming. Too tired from disuse. 

Only a strangled sort of sound could fall past his open lips. 

He doesn’t remember the last time he slept. He doesn’t remember the last time he talked with someone real. 

Not that he could tell the difference.

He came to a counter in the kitchen. It had a note. 

Scribbled. Quickly done loops. 

A smiley face drawn at the bottom.

“Be back soon!”

The rest too illegible to read. 

The rest too blurred.

The rest too impossibly stained.

His eyes struggling to make out the words. 

Impossibly red.

Words written in a handwriting he no longer recognizes. 

Inescapable red. Inevitable red.

He doesn’t know when it was written. 

Marking the counter. Indenting the pristine surface.

How long they have been gone for.

Marking where they weren’t. Were never.

They couldn’t have left too. 

He was floating in it all. Helpless.

He was too hungry for that. 

Pushed around by the current. Weak.

His stomach demanding far too much for that.

Dragged through the streams of impossibility.

None of it could be true. 

Of inescapability. Of Inevitability.  

He felt…

Like he wasn’t supposed to be here. 

The parasite beckoning. Prodding.

He felt… 

Something was wrong. 

Nausea building up. 

The parasite thrashing. Pounding. 

He felt… 

The earth heaving. 

He felt…

The ground giving out from underneath him.

He felt himself flying. Dropping down hundreds of feet in the air. 

He felt dizzy.

He was Deformed. Doomed since his birth.

His mind felt dizzy. 

He was unholy. Unwanted. 

Everything was spinning.

He was being spun around and around and around. 

He knows everything. 

He was spinning himself. The earth spinning. The room spinning.

He knows nothing. 

Everything was falling. He was falling.

He knew he was hungry. 

Everything consumed. Eaten up.

Knew it was in the way it too was ever hungry.

The world purifying itself.

The parasite sustains itself in one way or another.

…

He wakes on the ground. Cold seeping into him from the tile floor.

A ceiling he had let fade from his memory trickled its way back in. 

The warm colors. The faded yellow. 

The bright indecipherable color that lined the flower pots. She cared deeply for them.

He could only notice that they were empty. That they had wilted away. 

He couldn’t remember why he was here. 

Why he was on the cold tile floor. 

…

Soon enough the strange man makes another appearance.

He is aimless. Wandering. 

Unable to leave. 

Corrupting it all. Smearing dirt on its walls.

The man asked him something. 

Does he want to leave.

Does he?

Can he?

He doesn’t know. Couldn’t possibly know.

An impossible question. 

Impossibly red.

He asks when they’ll be back.

The man laughs. 

It was cackled. Cracked. 

A stuttered hiss of a faulty kettle. 

Unnerving only in the way something unnaturally familiar was. 

Familiar in the way everything was now to him. Just outside of reach.

He was inhabiting a place. A house filled with memories. 

Memories he knew were his own. Theirs. 

He could not remember. 

He did not know. Doesn’t. Couldn’t. 

The man looms over him. Amusement gleaming in his inhuman eyes.

He is uncomfortable. Inexplicably so.

Inexplicably red.

The man's sharp teeth glinting. 

The man's skin unnaturally grey. Somehow it is filled with more life than his own.

He never noticed before. How utterly strange this man was the first time they met.

The man tells him something. 

“They will be back. Tonight most likely.

“Go back to the room. Or don’t.

“Close the door. I can lock it.

“They won’t be back for long. 

“Not if you don’t follow my instructions.

“Do you understand me boy?”

He did. 

He was…

Angry.

Sad.

Hopeful.

Compliant.

He closed himself back in the room. Heard the lock turn.

The man appeared next to him. Sharp teeth barred in some kind of smile.

He sat down. 

He sat down and waited for sound to return to the other side of the door. 

[born4playde]

RESIDENT EVIL: REVELATIONS 2 | Headbanner & Spielprofil

Biohazard oder Resident Evil? Beide Titel verheissen nix Gutes, sie sind aber der Inbegriff für Horrorspiele. Revelations 2 ist hier besonders eklig und keine Ausnahme in Puncto “Blutiger geht immer!” Continue reading RESIDENT EVIL: REVELATIONS 2 | Headbanner & Spielprofil

[dragon-zena]

Thinking about akechi again

[zincbot]

i think that max payne 3 has the Building Blocks to be a story that tackles the problems with american interventionism, a story about sobriety, a story About action hero stories and the racism and misogyny that runs rampant within them, a story about the intersections of classism, racism, and colorism and the way that violence can and has been excused against certain people both in genre fiction and the real world.

and you can read so many moments and scenes within the game to be commentary on all of these, but it's too clumsy. it's too wrapped up in being a "fun game" where you shoot and kill enemies. the script is inexorably tied to the white american perspective. its blend of brutality and humour will at times make all its intended points so much weaker.

TLDR: Max Payne 3 is an interesting game to discuss, but it's abundantly clear to me that many of the themes it brings are either unintended or poorly handled enough that they can't be considered as legitimate critique of the genre

[hafwen]

I’m only reading three books right now and it’s making me feel itchy. I need to read at lest 5 books at a time but I don’t know what to start next. I just finished Legendborn by Tracy Deoon and omg I’m totally suffering a book hangover. It was so good!