#DISGUSTING IT FEELS TO HAVE THESE MASSES OF FLESH JUST HANGING OFF YOU

[zebracakesarecopingmechanisms]

oughghhhggfds

[heliads]

kill your darlings - britcedes

Lewis is a world-class writer. George is the son of Lewis' publisher. Neither of them will get what they want from this, but that won't stop it from happening.

masterlist

Lewis is a famous author. World-class. The best of the best. Any work of his is guaranteed to go straight to the top of the charts, the reviews, the lists. Everything. He is universally adored, except by his rivals, and even they can admit, in quiet, backroom editor’s chambers, that Hamilton has the game locked down.

George is the son of the owner of Lewis’ publishing company. He likes to turn up to headquarters and sit in on some of the important meetings. This makes him feel like he’s really shaping up to take over the business, even though he knows his father is probably going to hand off the title to his vice president or something. Or maybe he would give it to George anyway. It would be the proper thing to do, and proper is what the Russells do best. He is not known by many, except his schoolmates and his blood, and their knowledge, embarrassingly, only feels skin-deep.

Lewis lives in the same apartment building as George. The complex itself is owned by George’s father; the elder Russell is a renaissance man like that, savvy in snapping up good deals the second they cross his path. George hopes he inherits the company, but most of all, he hopes he inherits that hunter’s instinct, the eye for blood and limping prey combined with the premonition of when to bite down hard on flesh and bone. Lewis was given the penthouse rooms of the Russell building at an inhumanely reduced price as an encouragement to stick with the company. George has the suite one floor below, and tries not to feel any particular way about it.

Lewis has a habit, when writing, of not just killing his darlings but brutally murdering them. When he finds a sentence he loves but cannot include, he writes it out on a piece of paper and flings it out of his apartment window. George, while walking his father’s dog in a great display of loyalty and maturity, kept finding the scraps of penmanship and saving them in his pocket. It took him about six months before he figured out that the abandoned words were Lewis’. He’s got them stuck up on a great big pinboard in his room, the literary fragments all shoved together like he’s some kind of serial killer. All he’s missing is the red thread connecting names and places, and maybe the bodies too.

The scrapped words look down on him now, always. When he sleeps. When he wakes. When he comes back from work, needlessly tired from doing relatively nothing, and sits perfectly rigid in his antique armchair, the one that isn’t particularly comfortable but is something that a man like him should have. It shows class, you know. It shows distinction. He’ll earn it someday, too. When George does something base, like clean mud off his trainers or think about Lewis before a cold shower, he turns his back on the crucified sentences. So Lewis can’t see. So Lewis won’t know.

Lewis looks down on George. Not intentionally. It’s rather easy to do with George. He simply has a way about him that makes it impossible for anyone like Lewis to be his equal. George believes it’s only due to his earnest quality, the fact that George won’t ever condescend to anyone. If he will not look down on someone, then they must look down on him, or else stare him straight in the face, which of course is not proper. He does look down on quite a lot of people, actually, or tries to, it just doesn’t work.

When Lewis caves and lets George bring him back to his place after leaving the publishing company’s end of year party early, he has George take him to bed only to find the glaring mass of his discarded darlings hanging over the queen size mattress. He cannot decide if he is disgusted or comforted by it. In the end, he tries not to look, and tells George to get on his knees so he has something to say. He comforts himself by believing that this was a one-night stand, and doesn’t everyone have horror stories about those?

It happens again, after that. Obviously. A story is only good if it bears repeating. Lewis does everything to not think about the twisted web of his abandoned words hanging above him as he does nameless things to George on that bed. He closes his eyes. He turns his back to it. One time, he tries having George blindfold him, but it occurs to Lewis about halfway through the affair that he does not entirely trust George to behave with him like that, not just naked but unwitting too, unaware of what George might do to him, maybe pin him up on that board along with the lines he didn’t need, so he immediately pulls it off and pretends as if nothing had happened. The words burn like tattoos against his exposed skin. It is heaven and hell but mostly nothing worth mentioning. 

Lewis leaves eventually, breaks up with George even though there wasn’t really anything to break up at all. Can you divorce a situationship? In a fit of rage, George pulls some strings and has his father restore Lewis’ rent back to full plus some extra. Lewis leaves the company and the apartment building. George tears down his wall of darlings and shoves them in the dumpster outside where they can rot along with the feelings that neither of them had about this. He finds one last scrap of paper with Lewis’ final word some months after he left. It’s a small piece, only big enough for one word:  George. George tries to think about what could have been written around it, if Lewis was bashing him or hating him or just letting go, and then throws up in the kitchen sink after turning it over too long in his head.

Some time later, years maybe or just months, Lewis and George cross paths again. They go back to George’s place. Lewis braces himself to walk into George’s bedroom but finds that the board of cut sentences is gone completely. He’s harder than he ever has been.

f1 tag list: @j-brielmalfoy, @juphey, @faerieroyal

all tags list: @wordsarelife

[ciarashoggoth]

A Report! From Inside The Walls of Mallmart

"It smells like dark matter!" A voice exclaims from the next aisle over. A young voice, that brings me back to when I was that young. "Nuh uh! Dark matter can't have a smell, stupid!" 

"Can too!" The two kids trail behind their mother, deeply engaged in this conversation. I turn back to the tooth brushes I have been stocking on shelves for the last 10 minutes. Because this is a story about a Mallmart Associate.

I'd like to say I hold the same fire that I had before, whenever things started going wrong at Mallmart. Clearly this isn't a normal retail experience, right? It became the new normal though. The flickering lights, the viscous goo that appeared in aisles, the emergency alarms always going off felt normal now, and I had lost my fighting spirit. Luckily for me, Taylor had enough for the both of us. "I got the contact information of the man the overseer was talking to last Saturday," she explained to me, seeming in high spirits for someone who had only weeks ago been distraught over their understanding of reality being broken. It's something I don't understand, and yet still admire.

"I know it's a bit of a stretch, but it's the only lead I got and something about their conversation seemed…off." She does not go on to explain why it felt off. She's looking at me expectantly. "Oh! Hey there was a trail of translucent goo in hba, I got a photo of it for you!" Taylor gazes into my dim phone screen, and nods. "At least it wasn't the- black ink stuff? Whatever that was."

There's an awkward silence between us, and it occurs to me that we don't talk about much outside of Hellmart, as Taylor has wittily called it.

"You know, I've been thinking lately. Does death even exist? Like, maybe it's just a movement of consciousness,"

"Oh, so like quantum immortality?" I know I peaked her interest, when she looks at me like that.

"Yes, exactly that. Like what I'm saying is, what if our consciousness exists outside of the boundaries of things like time and space? What if we don't end with these bodies we wield?" She seems to ponder this for a second, and says, "Well, that's unsettlingly cryptic, as usual. I was hoping we'd get to talk about parallel universes, but I might have to sit back and think on how I want to answer that for a moment…"

"Actually, speaking of that I wonder if there's a version of us that exists out there that doesn't work at this…wonderful store," I finish, lamely. Taylor cuts into me with her eyes. "I hope whatever version of us that is, that we still feel how we do about each other." It's vulnerable, and honest, and it burns to hear. I don't ask what she means because I'm too afraid to push things. "I hope so too, Taylor."

Mallmart still had tricks up its sleeves, however. The home department encompassed so many products that if you didn't know where an item went, it was safe to say that it probably belonged in our home department. One such product was our mirrors, the full length type that is cheaply made in mass. The type that you hang on doors to get a full body view of yourself.

 I cut into the box, running the blade along its taped seams and opening it with haste. The smell-

God the smell. It was like infected flesh mixed with…decay? I don't know what was happening in those warehouses, but everyday mirrors should not smell so ungodly. Was it the box? Had something spilled on it? And how many boxes in the back rooms had this disgusting quality to it? And yet, there seemed to be no stains indicating such. The box sat in pristine condition. I pulled those mirrors out of the box and struggled with them, trying to keep them stable in my grasp.

Because not only were they disgusting smelling, but they were bendable. They sagged in my grip, leaving me completely dumbfounded by how weightless and malleable they were. So when I was fighting to put the remaining ones in topstock, I was taken by surprise when I saw an odd, stilted movement out of the corner of my eye. There at the back of an aisle was myself, walking backwards down the aisle in an odd jilted way that left the hair standing on the back of my neck. Her skin was pale, her mouth wide and face so recognizably me. 'My phone, I have to get a picture of this for my blog!' I fumbled with my pockets, knowing Taylor would want me to get a photo of this. That my friends would want a photo of this. Hell, I wanted a photo of it just to appease the part of me saying none of this could be real. In my haste a mirror fell from topstock and reached out in reflex, going to take a step down from the cart. Gravity shifted as I fell from the ladder of my cart, landing straight down onto my ankle in a gut churning crunch.

Workers Compensation, with Madame Macabre!

Here at Mallmart, we take our employees' health very seriously. If an employee is injured on the job, they have 12 hours to complete a form and send it in to management to be reviewed. Failure to complete the form in the allotted time means relinquishing your worker compensation benefits. Mallmart also encourages you to spend 5 minutes doing Mallmart approved stretches in front of the surveillance cameras, before you start your shift. This also comes in handy for management when checking the surveillance. Remember, if you have not completed your stretches before shift, this means relinquishing worker compensation benefits! 

I let out a guttural shout of pain, immediately dropping to a crouch in order to grab my ankle as it throbbed and pulsed against my grasp. Is it broken? My breath staggered as I felt around it. No, no… it was not broken, just terribly sore. Through my tears I saw a figure standing over me, and I took off my glasses to wipe away the moisture to see,

"Ma'am, do you have the keys to the case with the press on nails?"  The lady was stout and blonde, and what I had witnessed just moments ago was long gone, leaving only the mundane horrors of retail in its wake. "I don't have all day!"

"Oh … okay, one moment…"

When I limped back to the break room, Aiden and Taylor were talking. "No really, I can make smoke! Watch!" With that, he breathes in, cheeks puffed out. His tongue clicks in his mouth, and his jaw clicks. Taylor leans in intently, and then… He blows smoke out of his lips. "Oh! I wonder if this is related to air pressure," Taylor muses, head deep in wonder as I take a seat next to them. "Yeah, it must be a great trick to show at parties," I mumble, a bit dismissively. "Dude, I really should. I mean, I can also play the guitar. Only Wonderwall though." 

"Only Wonderwall…" I repeat back, whatever I was going to say was interrupted however. Aiden's phone chimes, and he reaches into his pocket, and checks his phone. "Oh, I guess we don't have to worry about Kyle spitting in our food at Whataburger… because the dude is missing, and the police are looking for him," Aiden mutters, stuffing the phone in his pocket. I'm a bit surprised by his nonchalant attitude. 

"Wait, what? Who's Kyle?"

"Oh, he's a friend of mine, dude was awesome, he wasn't afraid of anything. He'd throw a strawberry milkshake on the grill before he made your burger if he was mad at you-" Aiden laughed.

I shuddered, and before thinking I said, "That's exactly what I fear whenever I order food,"

"Well you won't have to worry about that anymore," the conversation fell dead silent. "Do you think he may have left on his own? Hopefully he's okay…" 

"Nah, that ain't Kyle. He would've told someone. He would've told me..." He was troubled by this, and it became clear that he was more convincing himself of something. Something that he never finished the thought of, rather than convincing us. I couldn't say anything, how could you? So in that moment, I silently watched Aiden, wishing I could convey that I wished him well. 

"Dear, can you tell me where the Pantene shampoo is?" I look over at the lady who is speaking to me. She sits in a mobility scooter, her hair tied back into a neat bun, and her eyes alight behind her vintage cateye glasses. "That would be aisle 27 of our cosmetics section." I smiled, giving my best customer service voice. "And do you carry Ivory bar soap? I've been looking everywhere but I can't find any bar soap!"

"Oh, that would be on aisle 16, on the bottom shelf-"

"Can you show me? Please? Like walk me over to exactly where it is." She looks at me, pleadingly. This is the part where I should give you the 411 on Mallmart etiquette, and politely refuse the old woman.  I wasn't supposed to walk people to items or help them as they shopped. You would think this would count as the job description, but the rules were specific on what counted  as job description, and what counted as wasting company time  Mallmart strives for efficiency. Helping a customer to that extent was considered inefficient. "Okay, right down here." And then I was breaking the rules, walking down aisle 27 to show her where the shampoo was. "Oh, here it is! But where is the recovery shampoo? I'm certain it's called recovery. They must not have it." I glance over at her puzzled frown, and begin raking over the shelves with my eyes, looking for anything that said 'recovery'. "Could this be it, mrs?" She squints to read the label while I anxiously glance around, worried I will get caught by management. The amount of people I've seen get pulled away to be spoken to over exactly this was unnerving. "Why yes, it is! Now the ivory soap, please!" I knew she wanted me to walk her over to it, and yet… Well, no one seemed to be around to stop me. "Right this way, Mrs." 

The lights overhead buzzed as I stepped into aisle 16, looking at the bottom shelves. "Our bar soap is on the bottom shelf here, however…I believe the space where the ivory soap, is empty,"

"Oh no!" She sounded heartbroken at this, as she stared at me. "Can you check the back? Please? It's for my mother, she only gets ivory soap." Stock workers are not supposed to take from the back, because they are not a picked item for shelves. "Let me check if it's in stock, first." I say, getting out my work phone. The truth is, I knew it was in stock, but I needed time to think of a way to let her down easy. Unfortunately for me, no such idea came to my mind. "It looks like it's in stock, so if you wait here one moment, I will attempt to find it. I am very sorry for the wait." And stiltedly I walked. I walked out of the health and beauty department, through the home department, and then into the backrooms. Eyes were always watching. So, nervously, I went to the back aisle in the hba back rooms looking over the products. I was going to pick an item and mark it as picked despite it not being ready, which of course, went against Mallmart's core values.

You're probably wondering why I'm going to all this trouble for a stranger. You're probably thinking, of all times for me to go against company rules, this was strange. She reminded me of someone, back from before I ever moved to Okaloosa County. Someone that, if she was still alive, I'd want the same respect granted to her.

I emerged from back rooms victorious, limping and bruised, and having survived the treacherous back rooms with their moving shelves and sweating floors. And by the time I had gotten back to hba, I was not only out of breath, but it was nearly time to clock out. "I am sorry for the wait, is this the product?" I'm trying not to show how badly my ankle still hurts, as I fidget slightly in place. "That's it! Yes! Yes!" She's clapping. "Oh you have been an absolute godsend, darling! You have been perfect!" She sets the product in the basket, her grin wide. I feel taken aback, but before I have time to regain composure, she surprises me again. Shakily, she moves to stand, bracing herself on the machine as she steps out. She outstretches her arms, and closes the space between us. "Mrs, what-"

You aren't supposed to hug with customers. It's…against the company rules. I'm not supposed to allow this. "Thank you so much," she whispers into my ear, before she lets me go, wobbling back over to her seat, and then leaving me alone in the aisle, sniffling. No one has ever called me perfect before. I've never been a help to anyone. She was so happy though. I had gone and did the one thing I was sure would get me the ire of management, and now I was uncertain why I ever let myself get consumed by them so thoroughly. I'd forgotten what matters most; people.

I cried for the second time that day.

[erimeows]

How do you think Megatron would react when he finally admits to himself he has feelings for an organic?

Man, I love writing Megatron in love. Headcanons/scenario below the cut, thanks for the request; enjoy!

I feel like Megatron would try to ignore it at first, just like he would with feelings for another Cybertronian, but much, much worse.

Organic aside, relationships aren’t really something he believes are meant for him. He’s a Decepticon leader, he can’t show weakness, and if he dares to get close to someone, there’s a good chance that they could be used against him. So generally speaking, he keeps his distance.

But then you come along.

You have a bad interaction with the Autobots; one of them accidentally wrecks your house in a battle and offers you no compensation or even another place to say, only apologizing before running off, so you do some research on Cybertronians, find out about the Decepticons, and somehow do enough digging to find their base.

Megatron is shocked when you show up one day and pledge your allegiance to him and to the Decepticon cause, but when you explain your reasoning, he can tell that you’re genuine; Autobots are martyr-complex-having, inconsiderate fools who do what they can to look good and act like they’re doing ‘right’, their council is a bunch of stuck up pricks who don’t allow anyone to be an individual or have freedom, and they all act like they’re a working part of a system instead of their own mech/femme with an actual personality. Megatron is kinda like... yeah, okay, whatever. He almost tries to blow you off, but Shockwave and Soundwave argue that you could reveal some weaknesses that the humans have and that you’re an unthreatening enough figure that you could be used as a productive spy. So, he keeps you around and gives you a place to stay on base.

At first, he acts indifferent towards you; you’re a gross, human fleshbag that he wants nothing to do with outside of work, but he sees that you and Soundwave get along since you share a lot of the same ideals about humans needing to do their own work instead of relying on robots to do it for them, and you and Shockwave are actually quite friendly. Hell, you and Lugnut and Blitzwing even make a great trio. So, indirectly, without even realizing it at first, Megatron becomes fond of you through observing your conversations with the others. You’re respectable, brave, bold, honest, and you’re fully self-aware. He finds that, unlike the other humans, he doesn’t mind you; you don’t see him or his cause as evil and actually treat him with respect, and you don’t run or cower or act shy around him either- that shit gets on his nerves.

He knows it’s a bad idea, but he starts talking to you personally. In his berth room, you two exchange intel you’ve collected, and afterwards, you always hang around for an hour or so for in-depth discussions, about your lives and dreams and hopes and philosophies. He frequently finds himself sharing ancient data tablets containing Decepticon works of literature on them with you, and eventually, the two of you have/develop a lot in common.

Not all humans are gross like he thought they were initially, he realizes... In fact, though he’d never say so out loud, you smell nice and the few fleeting touches he’s had with you are always pleasant because of how warm and soft you are.

The first time he thinks about the rapid pace of the relationship the two of you have cultivated and about his feelings for you is after you’re injured. Your cover as a spy gets blown and surprisingly enough, you mention to escape Optimus Prime and the other four members of his team, but you come back sustaining some rough cuts/gashes from when Prowl chucked his shuriken at your clothes to try to pin you to the wall with them; they’re all along your arms, legs, and a few even managed to graze your sides.

You return to the base bloodied and beaten from their attempts to detain you, and though Soundwave and Shockwave (who are easily your best friends at that point) insist that they’re fully capable of handling your medical care, Megatron realizes that he wants to do it himself- doesn’t know why he wants to do it, just knows that he does and that no one is going to stop him. So, he takes you to the med bay and uses the small amount of human medical equipment they obtained for you to disinfect your wounds as you walk him through the process verbally, stitches the ones that need stitching, and wraps/bandages them. It involves you being half-clothed, and though he certainly isn’t going to ogle you like a pervert, he can’t help how his intake hitches at being so close to you when you’re so exposed and vulnerable. It just feels very intimate, and it’s something he’s not used to; no one has dared touch him in thousands of years outside of battle, nor has he touched another outside of such context.

You have to stay in the med bay overnight so that your vitals can be monitored and you can have your dressings changed and antibiotics given to you to prevent your wounds from getting infected. Megatron is also sure to give you painkillers if you need them and keep you well-fed/hydrated so you can heal properly.

He stays by your side while you sleep even though he doesn’t need to, watching you. He can’t help but think about how fascinating it is that your body is so fragile, so prone to bloody injuries when even slightly harmed, but you’re so strong and determined and courageous; completely dedicating yourself to his work, his cause, him when you didn’t have to. Part of that was out of your spite and dislike for the Autobots, but he admired that, too. You uprooted your entire life to come help him and the Decepticons, and even though he didn’t dare say something so kind out loud, he couldn’t help but appreciate you. Him taking care of you was just paying it forward.

You sleep peacefully, chest rising and falling with every breath you take and (s/c) cheeks dusted red. Occasionally, you’ll toss and turn, but at one point, you reach out for his servo in your sleep, so he takes your hand and holds it tight. If anyone ever saw him so tender and weak, he’d be done for, but you were asleep, so he figured it was fine- no one needed to know how much he loved you, not even you.

Oh.

Oh no. He loved you. As fate would have it, it all crashed down on him at once as he sat there, holding your hand. He had gone from assuming you were some disgusting human bag of flesh he wanted nothing to do with, to begrudgingly accepting you to help his cause, to respecting you, to befriending you, to... Falling in love with you. What terrible luck... Maybe it was his punishment for terrorizing organics for so many years, that he just so happened to fall in love with one.

The second he realizes it, he can’t deny it. You recover from your injuries well with Megatron by your side assisting you, but the more time he spends around you, the worse his feelings get, and he’s old enough that he’s not the kind of fool who pushes his feelings away. Instead, he wallows in them, bathes in them, drowns in them, and he drowns in you. It’s really horrible that he, a being so large and powerful and responsible for mass destruction, is so enamored with you, a being so small and delicate and honest. You’re an unfortunate soul, and if you love him back, it’s even worse.

It comes out naturally one of the nights that you’re locked up in his room together discussing some Decepticon poetry you read recently. It was one of his favorite works, and you seemed like you’d enjoyed it, too. Silence falls between you for a moment before he says, “I love you, (y/n). I never thought I’d stoop as low as to fall for an organic, but you’re the only one worth falling for, and Primus, have I fallen.”. The atmosphere doesn’t go tense or awkward, and you only smile up at him, putting the data tablet with the poem on it down on his night table before turning to him.

“And I thought I’d never fall for the leader of an alien robot rebellion, but here I am, and you’re worth falling for, too.”

It’s peaceful, nothing heated or tense but tender and relaxing as he pulls you into his arms and holds you close to him... Maybe being in love with an organic wasn’t so bad, after all.

[rocorambles]

Lifetime of Love

Pairing: Suga x Reader

Genre/Warnings: NSFW, Overstimulation, Mythology AU, Demi-God!Suga

Prompt: Mythology

Summary: As the son of Aphrodite, Suga knows more than most when it comes to beauty and love. But knowledge and experience are two very different things. OR Suga finds true love.

A/N: This is my contribution for the HQHQ NSFW collaboration. There are so many talented writers on the server and I highly encourage you to check out the collaboration masterlist here to see how everyone decided to run with this prompt. As always, thanks for beta-ing @sawamooora

Being the son of Aphrodite has its perks. Even as just a demi-god, Suga is borderline ethereal, naturally drawing men and women to him with his dazzling silver hair, enthralling hazel-brown eyes, and coquettish charm. It’s effortless, the way he wakes up looking just as radiant as ever, the way his hair is naturally shaped and styled even after tossing and turning in bed. Clothing is just a technicality, just fabric he wears to not risk indecent exposure. Why waste time and effort thinking of putting an outfit together when he could wear a burlap sack and still have admirers flock to him?

It’s not a bad life and he knows others stare at him with envy, wondering what it’s like to be so beautiful, so loved, so wanted, so desired. Never an off day. Never a hair out of place. And truth be told, maybe more of his mother runs in him than he likes to admit, if the swell of pride and satisfaction he gets from having everything in life handed to him on a silver platter is anything to go by.

Life is easier for beautiful people. It’s a hard pill to swallow for the masses, but a reality that Suga has no qualms taking advantage of. After all, he might as well get some benefit from being a goddess's son, even if his mother and him don’t always see eye to eye.

Suga can appreciate beauty and love. Aphrodite has taught him to have an eye for the finer things in life. He’s not stubborn enough to deny that he enjoys waking up entangled in silk and satin sheets, surrounded by a beautifully decorated apartment, to reject the ecstasy he feels when he has one or more playmates in his bed.

But love of the flesh is different than love of the heart, and he wonders, despite how blasphemous it is to question a deity, if his mother truly understands what love is.

Aphrodite’s love is a seemingly fleeting and fickle thing, a fire that blazes bright and strong, only to burn out just as quickly as it had risen. And he judgmentally watches as she bounces from man to God to man to God again and again, grimacing whenever he meets his “family”, knowing how she’s slept with most of the other gods in Olympus.

He has no doubt that in her own way, she truly has loved each entity she’s slept with. But he wants something different, something less promiscuous, something less shallow. He wants true love, a love rooted in something much deeper than superficial appearances, a love rooted in a connection of souls, a love rooted in the bond of two people truly seeing and knowing each other’s flaws and strengths, yet still determinedly pursuing each other.

So he steadfastly continues on, searching for the one.

There’s no end to the line of people who practically throw themselves at his feet, desperate for a chance to catch his attention. He goes on endless dates, entering and leaving countless relationships. Some attempts are longer than others. Some partners have hope churning inside of him, have hazel-brown eyes sparkling in interest. But in the end, they’re all the same and the flutters of his heart become anchors of disgust inside of him when he sees their leering eyes, the lust driving their actions, the way they never see past his handsome face and attractive body.

No one sees Sugawara Koushi. They only see the body of a man literally blessed by the gods.

Maybe it was naive of him to believe that he knew more about love than the goddess of love herself. Maybe sleeping around with other attractive bodies is all his life will amount to, can amount to. And as he watches the people around him break-up, divorce, chase after some happy ending that seems more and more unattainable, he gives up his rose-colored dream of a fairytale romance.

But life has a funny way of dropping something in your lap just when you’ve given up all hope.

Aphrodite had not been amused when Suga had told her he was going to be a teacher at a local elementary school in the countryside. Children and parental instincts have never been her forte, and he remembers the long winding back and forths they had as she implored for him to rethink his decisions, flaunting modeling and acting opportunities in his face, anything to have his handsome face plastered on televisions and magazines.

But he had remained steadfast in his decision and she had finally relented, shaking her head and letting him know that she’d be ready to help him when he’s done wasting his gifts and time.

“You’re only part-god, Koushi. Your beauty will only last so long.”

He knows there’s no malice behind the words. It’s just a cold hard fact, a reminder. And he simply nods in response, secretly wondering if that would be so bad, letting age take its toll and put him on the same playing field as the rest of the world.

But he has years before he crosses that bridge and he dedicates himself to finding fulfillment in life by caring for and teaching the children in his class. A megawatt smile spreads across his face as he watch them play and excitedly call his name, politely ignoring his fellow teachers who parade themselves in front of him for an ounce of his attention, never entertaining the married mothers of his students who try to lavish him with unnecessarily exuberant gifts and woo him with fluttering lashes.

It’s a tiring never-ending dance, so when he hears about the arrival of a new female colleague, he internally sighs, no doubt in his mind that you’ll be just like the rest. So imagine his surprise when you just casually smile at him when you’re introduced, no interest in your eyes, no lingering gaze, before turning your attention away from him without a second glance back.

He wonders if it’s a fluke, hopes and prays that it isn’t. It’s almost comical, complete insanity, how his heart races, his eyes blow wide, just from your sheer nonchalance. And for the first time, it’s Suga who’s left wistfully staring as his eyes trail after your figure even long after you’ve turned the corner of the hallway.

He’s seen his mother’s work, seen the way humans pursue their love interests with almost fanatical effort. But he had never understood, not until now.

It’s an intoxicating feeling, addictive, the thrill of the chase energizing him in a way he’s never felt before. It’s hard, meticulous work finding reasons to visit your classroom, finding ways to weave himself in conversations you’re a part of. But it’s always worth it when he sees the genuine fondness in your eyes, the way you look and really see him, the way you care about the man underneath the shiny facade, in a way no one ever has before.

And when the two of you go out for a friendly lunch one day, when you order his favorite dish that he’s only briefly mentioned to you once in passing, without even missing a beat, his heart stops. It’s something no other partner has bothered even taking note of, too busy trying to impress him with high-end meals and fine dining. And just like that, he blurts out his confession, heart hammering, fingers nervously twitching as he awaits your response.

For many years to come, the two of you will debate whether or not that lunch counts as your official first date as a couple.

Dating you is everything he’s dreamed of and more. And for once, Suga feels like just another regular man, a normal human being as he holds your hand in his, giggling and sharing stories, feeding each other bites of food, lazing around on his sofa watching TV.

But as a romance movie runs in the background and the main couple kisses after the male lead raves about how stunning his lover is, he turns his attention to you, curiosity nagging at him, a tiny tendril of lingering fear squirming inside of him.

“What do you like about me?”

There’s silence as you owlishly blink and look up at him, surprise and confusion flitting across your face as you try and process where this question is coming from. But when you see the worry, doubt, and insecurity muddling your boyfriend’s eyes, you interlace your fingers with his and cuddle into his side, resting your head on his shoulder as you continue gazing at him.

“I like the way you always insist on getting the highest spice level at every Chinese restaurant we go to that serves mapo tofu, even though you complain about your mouth burning all night long afterwards.”

Suga chuckles, unable to deny the truth of those words.

“I like the way you act like a clueless angel even when you’re wreaking havoc and chaos, you big trouble maker.”

This time Suga does try to plead innocence, although all he can do is sheepishly grin when you start listing off event after event of mischief he had instigated and encouraged, much to Daichi’s and Asahi’s dismay.

“I like how patient and gentle you are with your students and your old underclassmen. I like the way you nurture them, mentor them, encourage them to keep on going, keep on trying even when the going gets tough. And I like how you instill that belief in your own life. If we have children of our own one day, I know you’ll be the father I’ve always wanted for my future kids.”

The weight of your last sentence hangs heavy in the air, the meaning, the hope of a lifetime promise has Suga’s jaw dropping. But when you shyly look away, nervously biting your lip as he just dumbly stares at you, he jolts back to reality and you yelp as lips suddenly crash against yours.

Sex with Suga is always sweet, with a hint of spice when your lover is feeling particularly mischievous. But it’s never been like this, full of desperation, untamed desire, a want so deep that it leaves both your minds in a hazy disarray. You gasp as you’re firmly pushed down, until your back hits the couch and you’re moaning into the mouth pressed against yours, your tongues tangling with each other in an attempt to taste every crevice.

The wet sounds of your lips connecting and disconnecting over and over again, the frantic sounds of fabric being rustled and tossed off, they all mix in a passionate symphony punctuated by breathy declarations of love, by whimpered names.

You throw your head back as a hot wet mouth sensually carves a path down the column of your neck, to the delicate swoop of your collarbone, sighing in bliss as they end in the valley of your breasts, two hands gently tweaking and rolling your nipples. And then fingers are replaced with a tongue, with lips, and your back arches, body writhing, seeking more, more, more as you wildly grind against your lover’s body.

Usually Suga likes to take his time with you, unwrap you piece by piece, unravel the strings that tie you together, coax the prettiest sounds out of you. But today something more carnal, more desperate, more raw spurs him on, and he feels more beast than man as he devours you, plunders you, marks you as his for all eternity.

“Koushi!”

You wail as he wastes no time in quickly snapping his hips, filling your slick walls with his cock. There’s an urgency behind his pace you’ve never felt before and you dig your nails into his shoulders, eyes rolling back in your head, lewd moans echoing in the room as you wrap one leg around his back, the other dangling off the couch.

You’re not sure exactly what the trigger had been for this, but you’re not complaining, pussy walls only clamping down even more when you see the feral hunger in his eyes, the drag of his cock against your insides even more pronounced.

He can feel your end approaching, sees it in the way your head tosses side to side, the way your eyes glaze over, and he brings a hand between your bodies, toying with your clit, circling it, rubbing it, never losing his rhythm as you begin to convulse, body thrashing, nails scratching his skin, a debauched version of his given name rolling of your tongue. Only when you begin to whimper, shaking hands trying to grasp his fingers still playing with your oversensitive nub does he relent, smiling down at you as you entwine your fingers with his as he continues to thrust in and out of you.

Suga’s been told he looks like an angel time and time again, but as he stares down at your completely ravaged and exhausted form, the way your chest heaves up and down, the sheen of sweat on your skin, the after tremors of your body, the duality of how you cling onto his hand despite your wanton state, he thinks you’re the true angel here. Maybe a fallen angel, but an angel nonetheless and he can feel his balls tighten, the last shreds of his endurance ripping apart at the seams as he takes in your breathtaking appearance.

But he needs more than that, needs you, needs you here and with him, and he meets your lips in a bruising kiss, a silent demand for your attention, adjusting his hands until your fingers are interlocked on either side of your head.

“Look at me.”

He patiently waits, peppering your face with butterfly kisses, slowing down the rocking of his hips. You’re so tired, heavy eyelids wanting nothing more than to close, but you’re still in a rocky ocean of pleasure, body still registering and reacting to every touch, every move. And when his soft voice makes its way through the fog, you know you need to listen, you want to listen. So you turn your eyes until they lock with hazel-brown, a weak smile plastered across your face when you see the love and affection pouring down onto you.

“I love you.”

Both of you grin as the three words unanimously exit your mouths, but the smile is wiped off your face as he resumes his pace, tempo beginning to stutter, his own head being thrown back in ecstasy as he approaches his end. Your overstimulated body is barely hanging on by a thread, pathetic mewls dripping from your lips, and you keen when sticky spurts fill you, Suga’s cock buried balls deep inside of you as he breeds you, coating your quivering walls with his essence.

Suga gently lowers his body on yours, capturing your mouth in another kiss, one much gentler as both of you catch your breaths, bodies feeling soft and pliant as post-coital bliss wraps around you like a fluffy blanket.

Beauty is a fleeting thing. His mother’s not wrong about that.

But love? Love isn’t nearly as fickle as beauty, he thinks, as he holds you in his arms. And he smiles, letting himself be lulled to sleep by your rhythmic breathing, dreaming of the long and full life still ahead for both of you.

[cinnamonest]

I’m pushing out another one of my long-since-drafted things to the queue bc I’m trying to start keeping the queue active 24/7 and fill more asks but have this in the meantime

//dark shit, like the blood gore violence kind of yandere not the hot kind, brief animal death, gruesome slow npc death, gore, violence, blood, decaying/putrefaction mention

I'm really bad at judging what's mild versus severe when it comes to gore/blood bc I tend to underestimate, I think this is kinda severe? Let me know which it is actually pls so I have a better idea for the future ---------------------------------------- I mentioned a while back in the corpse disposal post and murder methods post that Razor can be... Brutal to say the least, but to expand more on the concept I feel like there's a big potential for a sort of gap moe with him, a duality that seems to contradict itself. Because in many ways he's a sweetheart, always trying to find things to make you happy, often smiling with those wide, excited eyes, physically affectionate with nuzzles and the like. But the other side of that, he's not actually aware of how... desensitized he is. You notice it early on and it catches you off guard a bit the first time it happens. Some poor little animal you two see struggling, like a bird stuck in a tree, and you urge him to go get it and he nods and says ok. Grabs it, and just as you're about to thank him and let it go you hear its little bones snap under the crush of his grip with a final pained chirp. There, he got it, see? Now you two can eat it together. That was why you wanted him to grab it right? To kill it? Why else? He looks down and realizes oh, it's still twitching, so he reached a hand up and twists its neck. There, now it's dead, he says with a beaming smile. But it falls and he tilts his head when he sees the shocked look on your face. What's wrong? Why are you so upset? You soon learn a lot of the animals don't... die immediately. The little things the wolves drag back are still kicking and struggling, still making noises as they tear into them to devour. It makes you sick to your stomach when you witness it, tears come to your eyes. He knows you don't like it and warns you, but... he doesn't understand why? Why does it upset you like that? He doesn't get it. It's a gnawing awareness in the back of your mind. You start to pick up on his... lack of reactions to certain things. You were once in the church getting healing for a minor wound of his when another group of adventurers came rushing through the doors, desperately begging for help for their friend they were carrying... some guy seriously injured, gored by a boar. The sight is burned in your mind forever, the organs spilling out of his split gut, the shivering and wide, bloodshot eyes, the blood bubbling out of his mouth with choked horrific groans and the way his body convulsed involuntarily. The most horrid thing you'd ever seen. And you were pretty certain it was that way for everyone. Everyone in the church was gasping, some people were retching and trying to hold back sickness, people ran out of the room as they were unable to handle the scene, tears were in everyone's eyes, and as the man wailed in agony from them setting his dislocated bones, you watched the bystanders cringe and wince. Every person in the vicinity was visibly horrified.... except for one. Razor's face was neutral. Curious. He leaned in closer to get a better look, eyebrows raised. He doesn't flinch at the sight of organs spilling onto the ground and the man starting to convulse and foam at the mouth as his eyes roll back into his head. And then, after a moment, he asks if you're ready to leave, says he feels better now and that man is really loud, he doesn't like it. His voice doesn't even have the slightest hint of a wavering or discomfort. When you come across a man in the woods caught in a bear trap, you can barely stand to look at it. Just hearing the cries for help had you shivering, and the sight of the pooling blood and utter agony on the man's face had you gasping, hand over your mouth as you tried to look away. ...Razor didn't seem to mind, though. He just undoes the trap and, without giving the man any warning, yanks it apart, pulling the spikes from his legs. As he does, blood shoots out and splatters on his face. He doesn't flinch, nor when the man screams. He does finally seem to react to the pained groans the man makes. But... It's not like your reactions. He's not flinching and grimacing, drawing in sharp breaths and tensing up, eyes watering in pity and shock like you. Instead, his eyes narrow and he puts his hands over his ears as you stoop down to help the poor man. His eyebrows furrow. He almost looks... Annoyed. He draws his foot back as if he's about to kick him, but freezes with realization when he looks at you, as if he forgot you were standing there, and puts his foot back down. You're certain he wasn't actually going to do that, of course. You're not sure why he did that, but... He wouldn't do something like that, even in a moment of dissociation from his human awareness. He does volunteer to be the one to go get help, though, getting away fast, but for some reason you sense it was more out of irritation at the noise rather than horror at the whole thing. Perhaps the worst was the decomposing body, that day you took a walk in the woods together. He smelled it first, nose wrinkling up in disgust at the putrid smell. But it was strong enough that you smelled it soon after. He says having dead animals this close to the residence of the pack is not good, they all hate the smell, so he can try to move the carcass of whatever animal it is... but it's not an animal, it turns out, once you finally find the source, collapsed at the bottom of a cliff from where they most likely fell to their death. Well, it's kind of a stretch to say it still resembles a human either, but you can tell from the general shape. It's more just like a glob, putrefied and rotting flesh falling off the bones. It shocks you so much you fall backwards, but he just moves closer. Ugh, too far rotted to move, he can't do anything about it, he realizes as he gives the decaying mass a kick and watches the blackened flesh slide off the bones. Oh well. ...In your shock, it takes you a moment to realize how... unbothered he seems. Mildly annoyed by the smell, but his expression is neutral as he looks at one of the most horrifying sights you've ever seen, he just yawns as he walks away from it and says you two should get away from the smell, it makes his head hurt.

The events all linger in the back of your head. A growing sense of wrongness, a dark, cold dread that settles in your stomach as the occurrences slowly grow in number, one after the other, each time you notice the complete lack of any sign of disturbance on his face, in his voice or body language. You ask him once, one time when you get the courage to ask such a... potentially offensive question. Don't you... feel anything when you see things dying? When they're in pain? He nods. He gets what you mean. The feeling when you watch something die. Hungry, right? Oh, no? Maybe you mean the irritation, a kind of angry feeling, what's the word... impatient...? Because the thing is taking too long to die and he wants it to go ahead and die already. Or maybe you mean like when that man was injured? When something is dying but it's not something you wanna eat? Yeah, he has a feeling then too. Um... kind of like anger... you taught him the word once... annoyed? They make so much noise, and he doesn't like loud things. When that man came into the church... he didn't like how loud it was. Why didn't they just kill him, since he was making so much noise...? He doesn't get it. When things annoy him, he kills them, like loud birds and biting bugs. He kinda had an urge to just... reach out and make the man stop screaming, just twist his neck like he does small animals when they make too much noise. But he's smart, he says, he knows the other people might get mad. Yes, he uses the word "might," not "would," as if it was a mere possibility. So it doesn't really come as a surprise when the same attitude applies to the people at his own mercy, the people that get too close to you and end up dragged out to the woods. It's that same knowing dread in your gut, and while it horrifies you as much as it always has, you wouldn't have expected anything else. Maybe some people would feel bad about what they're doing, they would want to go ahead and get it over with, they couldn't take the begging and agony the other party is in... but not only is he totally unbothered, but if he kills him now, he says, the blood will go all over the ground, and that's bad, his lupical like eating the blood in things. So he just snaps the man's bones, that way he won't run away. It's hard to describe the excruciated noises that come out of the other's throat when he does. It's unlike any noise you've ever heard a human make, that kind of pain. The sweat that pours from the other's skin from the agony, the way his mouth hangs open even when he can't scream anymore, the trembling and muffled begging as he moves to the next limb. You tremble and cry. You shiver uncontrollably, you whimper for him to stop. Your eyes widen when he grabs each limb and you close your eyes and sob and grimace and cringe with the snapping sound. Razor, on the other hand, stays just as neutral as before. Face blank and empty, as if performing any other mundane task. He doesn't flinch at the snapping. His expression is unchanging at the sound of screams and the groans as he drags the still-living figure behind him by his shattered ankle all the way back home. When he finally goes to look back at you, he tilts his head at the look on your face. Why do you still look upset? There's no blood yet... isn't it blood that makes you upset? Maybe not? Maybe it's the sound that bothers you? Yeah, you flinch whenever the man groans in pain, so it must be the sounds of the dying things that you don't like, it annoys him too really. Ok, that can be fixed... sound comes from the throat right? Well, he left his claymore a ways away so, it'll just take a second, the guy is thrashing a bit but eventually he holds him still enough to get his teeth latched around his throat and just... bites down. The sound is a squelching, crunching sound, one that you'll never forget, it makes every hair on your body stand on end and your skin crawl. He pulls back with the mass of bleeding flesh and tracheal tissue in his jaws and spits it out on the ground. There, see...? You can see the blood on his teeth reflecting the light as he smiles. He's not making noises anymore, so... why do you still have that look on your face? Is it because the body on the ground is all... spasming and convulsing like that? Well, uh... that'll stop soon, probably. At least it's nice and quiet now. He gets it, really, he doesn't like loud noises either.

[littlefreya]

The Way to Hell - Part 13

Summary: Post Mi6, Alternate Canon. August escaped Ethan Hunt with his face intact and just won himself the title of being the most dangerous man on earth. Brooding as he is, August is unwilling to back down on his murderous agenda he plots to continue where he was stopped.

Series Completed: Previous Chapter | | Chapters Masterlist | Next Chapter

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild) 🖤

Word count: 5k

Warnings: Mentions of sexual encounters, child neglect, betrayal, hinted physical abuse,  foul language and lots of angst.   

A/N: I thought chapter 13 will be the last one, but I didn’t want to rush the ending or have a chapter too long. So for those of you still waiting, hang in tight! Many thanks to @agniavateira​ who’s my muse and my editor, to @raspberrydreamclouds​ for this amazing cover and to those who’s been asking me about the chapter, means a lot to me. I am going into my usual Way to Hell posting panic attack. So bye for now.

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of the source material and claiming it as your own*

Please comment, review and reblog.  💖

Title: Paradise lost

There cannot be peace before first a great suffering.  There cannot be love without first a great tragedy.

~*~

Opaline droplets of sweat form on his forehead. In his ears, a constant buzzing rings wretchedly as if an angry hornet is caged inside his skull. What was long buried abruptly awakens, stabbing at the back of his head. Red flashes sear through his eyes while images of Ingvild dissolving to ashes play in his mind, her bloodsoaked feathers crumbling to the ground.

“Why did you go?” August mutters under his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He crumples the little yellow note with sheer frustration before throwing it on the bed. 

‘I told her not to go, I commanded her!’

The air in the room grows thick like the pit of a stygian forest. Tentacle-like branches appear behind his eyes creeping closer, clutching his limbs. Even though lost and abandoned in the thicket of his mind, her angelic scent still lingers on his skin, impossible to wash off. Sniffing at his biceps, he inhales the mixture of their union on his flesh;  what begins as euphoric mirth quickly meets the sharp edge of rage and hatred.

She’s gone and it gnaws at the dark matter of his brain. 

He hates it. 

Hates her for being absent.

Frowning deeply, August reaches a rigid hand for his clothes, forcing himself to get dressed. The very first memory of her hinges on his mind: An icy woman with silver-moon eyes who refused his pursuit. 

‘Did you think the two of you are going to ride toward the sunset together? That’s not you.’

Letting out heavy gasps, he shakes his head. “She’ll be fine,” he whispers dismissively, pulling on his trousers and hastily buckling his belt. 

The new world order awaits, so close he can feel the fresh sun sitting on his open palm. It is his vision, his legacy: bigger than whatever it is Ingvild and him have together. 

There was no her in his plan, to begin with. 

The Devil never had a queen. 

‘You know what they’ll do to her…’

Another ray of daytime terror cuts through his thoughts: her wings plucked from her back, threads of flesh tearing from her naked body. Her screams die in silence.  

“She chose to leave, I asked her not to!” August yells into the empty room, frowning at no one but himself as he grabs the used shirt which hangs from the tall mirror. Turning to his reflection, he tenses at the sight of his body. Crimson valleys lead down his back, courtesy of her claws branding deep into soft tissue and toned muscles.

‘Do you know what is the probability of finding someone like her? A woman who wants to see the world burn with you? Who believes in your cause of building a new one?’

August swallows hard and combs his fingers through his hair with haste, attempting to act normal through the intensifying drumming in his ears. Being completely methodical, he pulls his long trench coat over his shoulders and collects his belongings into his black duffle bag on the bed. With a heavy painful breath, he forces his thoughts away, zipping the bag with urgency and reciting in his mind everything necessary for his trip. Time is scarce, the end and the new beginning are nigh; the smart thing to do is to forget her, erase her existence from the chambers of his heart. 

He doesn’t have one anyway. 

His hand secures the gun in its holster and harsh fingers lace around the black straps of his bag as he stretches himself straight, ready to leave this bedroom. That’s when his eyes fall again to the crumpled yellow note. 

‘You’ll never see her in Kashmir, you’ll never see her again.’ 

~*~

‘Amazing,’ the silver-haired wolf muses while scratching his bristly jaw. For 13 years the evil spawn’s eyes remained exactly as they were the day he picked her from the orphanage. Grey crystal orbs so naive, clueless, and oh so hungry for validation. A child desperate to prove herself worthy to someone, anyone. 

It was her single flaw and his greatest advantage.

Even now in the bloom of adulthood, the pale, scrawny thing standing before him is nothing but a lost little girl who wants someone to hold her bony hand. 

‘How can someone be so smart yet at the same time so blind?’

The cheap motel room smells like mildew and rotten wood. Speckles of dust float between the handler and his prodigy, cascading over his glance that seems rather alien and naked as glass. It pierces through her muscles - this sudden sense of peculiarity and estrangement.     

She chews the inside of her cheeks and sways slightly on her spot, arms hanging loose at her side. Ingvild lifts her chin to look at Liam, her eyes round with what can only be guilt. It makes her look like a child who broke an antique vase. 

“Thank you for answering my call,” she begins, wrapping her fist around a disposable phone before throwing it on the tidy bed.

Liam scoffs and shakes his head, ridicule spreading on his face. “You’ve gotten yourself into trouble over a boy, child?” He stares up and down the young woman, noticing the obvious change in her posture.

‘So, she truly is a woman now; how did I not see this one coming with her constant chatter about how handsome he is when I handed her the dossier?’

“Please don’t tell me you need money to get an abortion.” 

Ingvild frowns with disgust and shakes her head right away. “Never. No, it’s not what I’m here for.”

Displeased as always, Liam emits his usual grunt. He slowly shakes his head at his asset while running his fingers through his lanky grey hair. This is not how he imagined this mission to end. Her lack of emotions was a key element; Ingvild could have had a few good years running several missions for him, but what tipped the scale was for her to run into the wrong psychopath.

“Then tell me Ingvild, why should I listen to a failed assassin such as yourself? You’ve been weird about this mission since day one. Acting discreet, irresponsible, and reckless,” the old man’s Adam's apple bobs up and down in his throat as he speaks. Taking a small stride, he moves closer to get a better look of her diamond irises. So sharp and so strange, they’ve always irked him. As a child she downright looked like something out of a horror movie. 

“You’ve had 445 successful missions, not even 30 years old. Yet here you are a failure, and for what? For a boy?”

Shame traps her tongue and her glance drops to the floor. Failure stings like a rod of hot iron piercing her beating heart. Yet her mind races to the night at the pit where August finally claimed her, the memory of his lips sets glowing embers through her veins. On her skin remains the evidence of his embrace. Microscopic cells, tinted by his DNA. 

She doesn’t want this feeling to go away. 

Liam clears his throat, tearing her away from memories that turn from tar to honey the longer she dwells on them.

“You know why your mother gave you away, Ingi?” Liam asks, giving her a ghastly sardonic smile while cocking one eyebrow.

‘Liam never smiles.’ 

A small frown sets creases above her freckled nose. “I asked you many times before and you always said you don’t know.”

The Dane scoffs at her, his smile widening, exposing cigarette-and-coffee-stained teeth. The rot around his gums makes her curl her nose slightly and flinch as he leans closer. 

“You were a rape baby.”

The words send a pang through her muscles, like stepping on glass. She shakes her head with protest and steps back, yet Liam nods knowingly, standing in front of her.

“You’re lying.”

His small hazel eyes burn holes through her skull, his smile sinister and impish. “Your father was a savage, a rapist. He left your poor mother half-dead and impregnated in the forest you love so much. Who knows, maybe that’s why you kept going there as a child, reconnecting with your true nature.” 

Refusing to listen, she shies from his piercing glare. Liam reaches a coarse hand to cup her jaw, forcing her face back to his. “Your mother hated you. Your very existence reminds her of the most terrible thing that ever happened to her.”

For a child with such a limited emotional range, Liam finds that the muscles of her face are capable of stretching thoughtfully with spite. Pent up hatred creases her brow, her silver eyes turning to hot, molten gold. She bites on her tongue, keeping a vow of silence but he can read her face just the way an assassin would. 

“Nothing but a mistake, disowned by your own mother. So why would this man, this... mass murdering psychopath love you?” Liam shifts her head from side to side, inspecting the healing cuts and bruises that decorates her pale skin. “He saw an opportunity and seized it, used you…”

He pauses, moving away from a stare colder than icy lake water, “just like they will.”

Ingvild parts her lips with wonder, glaring at the person she knew all her life with disbelief. In the glossy reflection of Liam’s honey-brown eyes, she sees several black, long rifles pointed at her head.

Liam curls his thin lips with an utter lack of remorse and shrugs indifferently.

“She’s yours.”

*~*~

If colours had sound then the pale blinding white would be a continuous high-frequency hum. The tunes and shades of death. Like angry flies feasting on a corpse. 

‘Is this Valhalla?’

A small groan escapes her mouth, her eyes hurting from the sickly radiance of the narrow fluorescent lamps hanging from the ceiling. Her wrists feel numb as they’re pulled behind her back in restraints. 

“No,” she opens her mouth to speak, her throat burning, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Definitely not Valhalla...” 

‘You need to be a hero to enter Valhalla, stupid girl.’

Stupid didn’t even begin to describe it. August would never let her hear the end of it.

Loud, angry steps tap on the white marble floor, growing louder as the person approaching enters the room. Ingvild blinks, peering at the silhouette when a smile of comfort paints her drowsy face. Like a god, her lover strides toward her with his usual confidence. His ocean-blue eyes beam at her sight, his palm spread open to embrace his tiny Valkyrie. She chuckles at the mischievous, charming grin on his face as it reminds her the day they first met. 

Oh, she wishes to nibble his stupid chin right now and brush her fingers along his thick moustache.

But as she blinks again, large brown almond-shaped eyes replace the ocean-blue. A panther of a woman stands before her: confident, strong, and impossibly beautiful. Her dark, succulent lips are pressed together and concern shines through as she observes the small woman who has her arms cuffed behind her back and her feet shackled to the metal legs of the chair. 

With her head still heavy, the assassin turns her face from side to side. She quickly observes the armed guards at the entrance, the tall, greying agent standing nonchalantly against the wall awaiting orders, and lastly the sickly-looking, lean man who is positioned at the fore of a metal desk with his fingers laced together. Anticipation is written all over his line-riddled face. 

“Erica Sloane,” Ingvild calls knowingly, the ghost of a wicked smile dancing on her chapped lips as she turns her head to face the CIA director. Dressed in a black power suit and crimson pumps, the director is drenched with big dick energy.

“August told me so much about you, but he didn’t mention how fuckable you are.” Ingvild drawls, fluttering her lashes as she scans her from head to toe. 

Tilting her head, Erica grabs a white plastic chair and places it in front of Ingvild. She then takes a seat, crossing her long smooth legs together. Kindness and motherly concern pours from her dark eyes, expressions Ingvild never received from anyone in her life.

“Poor child, I imagine August Walker filled your head with many stories.”

“No…” Ingvild swallows, trying to dampen her sore throat. Noticing her struggle, Erica snaps her fingers and the greying agent rushes to bring her a plastic cup of water like a loyal dog. Focusing on the translucent beads around the cup, Ingvild flicks her tongue over her lips. “August was too busy filling other parts of me.”

The intrepid woman begins to laugh at her own joke, her voice dragging groggily while Erica rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

“I imagine so.” She answers and then carefully tilts the cup to Ingvild’s lips, offering the drink to the girl who sips with desperation as if she walked the desert. “August was my best agent,” she explains, watching the stream of water that rolls down Ingvild’s chin as she gulps with an incredible thirst, “a really proficient assassin, ranked high in every mission I sent him to. My golden boy. Even though that shit-eating attitude of him was something else...”

Withdrawing the cup, she looks into Ingvild’s cold silvery stare. “Those snarky, arrogant remarks and him going through the whole department like a fox in a hen coop I could overlook. But that fucker had us all fooled, Ingvild, as he fooled you.”

Ingvild flutters her dark lashes and tips her chin up. Her defined cheekbones sharpen even more as a snake-like arrogance poisons her face. “August told me what you did,” she utters sincerely, while Erica commands the agent to refill the plastic cup. Loathing melts her beautiful sullen glaciers as she focuses on Erica. 

The CIA director narrows her eyes at her in return, and curls her lips downward as disdain fills her mouth. “I am not the one who made Walker murder Agent Hartmann, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“You deceived him,” Ingvild retorts calmly and sucks in her bottom lip, collecting the remaining droplets of water onto her tongue. “That’s what you and your little agencies do to people like us. Set up traps for predators and pretend to act surprised as they eat the bait.”

Holding the cup, Erica stares at the young woman thoughtfully, the burning hatred in her eyes reminding her so much of Agent Walker: An entitled spoiled brat, thinking he can wind the world to the direction only he sought to be right. 

“You can’t blame a predator for following its nature, and you can’t expect him to behave otherwise.” 

“Is that how you see yourself?” Erica asks, moving the cup away, though she can see the thirst on Ingvild’s gaping bottom lip. “August poisoned your mind but I assure you, you are not the monster he is. You never had the choice that he did.”

Erica’s voice suddenly becomes soft, and her big brown eyes become round with care that only a parent can express. But the only form of parent Ingvild ever had was Liam, and he was never much of a father, was he? It took less than a few hours for him to give her away. 

She wonders how long it took for her real mother.

Her gaze drops, peering at Erica’s shiny crimson shoes as they counter the lifelessness of the floor like blood in the snow. Memories whisk her away again, a man in pursuit of a woman deep in an icy forest. She should have died that night and yet here she is, shackled to a chair. The voice of the man who saved her echoes through her head with a fair warning: ‘Liam never gave a flying fuck about you.’

Sharp as a needle, it pricks her heart.

“I know what Icarus did. Moulding you into the perfect assassin, depriving you of the childhood and the life you deserved.” Erica’s voice cuts into her trail of thoughts, making her raise her gaze back to the beautiful woman. “Now, I don’t know what twisted fantasies August may have offered but I can assure you, they are empty just like him. You read his file, you know what he’s capable of. Looking at your scars and bruises I assume he hurts you for his own sick pleasure, taking advantage of a woman who only wants to be loved.”

‘She doesn’t know him like I do, the way he drank my lips and called me his angel, the way his fingertips beat the warm blood in my arteries.’ Ingvild shuts her eyes, soaking in the remnants of his touch as it still ghosts across her body.

Erica’s kind, tepid hand wraps around the young woman’s jaw, lifting her pale face with the cautiousness of a human tending a wild creature. Grey and dark-brown collide at the seams as they share a silent stare.    

“If you’ll give us his location, we can arrange for your freedom and protection.”  

Ingvild breaks away from Erica’s grip, pushing herself back in the chair as much as she can. The screech of metal against marble makes the guards cringe. Slow and cold, a sardonic chuckle begins to burst from Ingvild’s lungs. The laughter echoes off the walls while she shakes her head with disbelief. 

“Do I look like a dumb bitch to you? Even if this was true, do you think I’m willing to be a slave to another government? Kept ignorant and tabbed? I’d rather rot in this cell while my beautiful monster dismantles your old world order.”

Drops of water splash at her face as Erica squashes the plastic cup in front of her, sulking with fury. Her eyebrows knit together and she purses her lips as if this young woman is something sour on her tongue. 

Evidently, Liam was right; the girl is far too gone, living in the little fantasy world August built for her. 

“If you think he ever cared about you for a split second, then you are a dumb bitch. No matter how this plays out, you and August are never going to end up happily ever after.” Erica spits, holding her finger at Ingvild’s childlike frown. “He’s never going to come for you. You were nothing but a toy, a plaything for him to pass the time.”

Ingvild scoffs and rolls her eyes, refusing to let these words cut into the beating muscle in her chest. 

`Stick and stones may break my bones...’

Solid, slender fingers wrap around her jaw, squeezing around her cheeks like a big spider. She is met with Erica’s long lashes, while those deep brown eyes slice into her soul. 

“You might think you know him, but I’ve worked with August long enough to know that he never loved anything other than his precious ego. So I would consider this as your final chance little girl, because if you don’t talk right now - this nice fellow here...” Erica pauses and gestures her head to the scrawny man who begins to hum a blissful tune while cracking his knuckles. Twisted excitement shines through his beady eyes as he glances at the set of sharp surgical tools lying on the desk.

“He’s going to make you sing like the precious bird you are.”

Fear shies from Ingvild’s stoic, icy face. The well-lubricated gears in the labyrinth of her head begin to work, observing the possible escape options and scanning every cavity, crease, and man in Erica’s lovely torture chamber.  

The door suddenly bursts open. A man in his mid thirties with bright red hair and a freckle-covered face rushes in, huffing heavily. His pink skin glistens with sweat, the strands of his fiery hair sticking on his large forehead while his hand holds onto his chest with distress. 

“Sloane, there is something you need to see…” he opens his mouth breathlessly.

“Not now!” Sloane snaps at him, looking at Ingvild with contempt. There is nothing she wishes more than to avoid torturing a young woman, especially someone as misguided as this poor porcelain doll. All she needs is to make her see the truth, that August never cared for her, that she was just another pawn in his grand scheme. 

“Director, I am sorry, but you really need to come and see this.” 

Agitated, Erica snaps in her chair to look at him. “What is it, Agent Louis?”

“It’s John Lark’s manifesto, ma’am…” he sighs, shoulders slumping, “it’s… it’s everywhere.”

A shivering hiss escapes her mouth. The shiver that graces the rail of her spine is like a shower of icy water, making her slowly rise from her chair. August’s harmful “poetry” is released into the air like toxic gas, contaminating every fragile little mind in an already unstable world.  

“Do you like my little surprise?” Ingvild asks, making the baffled woman turn to gaze at her. There’s a malicious little smile dancing across her eyes, her brows lifting with an arrogance that strongly resembles Agent Walker. 

Swallowing hard, the CIA woman takes a step back, tugging her jacket straight and looking at the torturer who lifts a small hammer between his pliable fingers. 

“Break her, until she talks.” 

The harsh tapping of her heels dies down and her silhouette becomes smaller until it disappears behind the shutting door. 

“Pretty girl...” The man’s voice is brittle and thin as he is, every word ending with a slight snake-like hiss. He moves to scrutinise her from head to toe, flicking his tongue over his bottom lip with a prying nature. 

“You know August used to mock me…”

“I can see why,” she spits out, looking back at him with both fearlessness and utter disrespect. She killed men bigger than him, hell, August’s kneaded her to submission and his torture was nothing but sweet. 

She can take him on, she can take all of them on.

The lean man beams at her, holding up the small shiny hammer and running his finger over the rim pervertedly. The dead skin around his nails rouses disgust in her gut, yet she rolls her eyes and fakes a yawn.

He chuckles at her theatrics and kneels in front of her with one unstable hand pressing onto her thigh. His revolting fingers scratch gently at her denim, making her shiver. If August knew another man was laying his finger on her… 

But August is not here.

“Well… shall we begin, little bird?”

***

‘When this world ends and the new one begins, what will be of your little Valkyrie? Merely bones and rotting flesh laid in an unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere and mourned by no one. Won’t you be jealous of the insects feasting on her narcotic tissue?’

Cold air seeps through his nose as sharp bullets of hail hit the ground with the fury of angry gods, shattering onto the ruins of an old bridge with a loud, clattering noise. Sheltered from the rage of the heavens, August stands beneath the wreckage, facing the men who came to make the final exchange. 

Blue and green ferns have grown over the decaying surroundings, climbing over rusted metal. Nature reclaiming its place over man’s occupied space. Justice and beauty in decadence and rot. 

‘Memento mori.’

“The plutonium,”  August demands, his thick brows shadowing his eyes in a battle to remain composed. Those same parasitic visions of sheer terror burden him like a daytime nightmare: pale as porcelain, she sinks to the bottom of a lake thick with blood. His hand reaches out for her, fingers trying to grasp whatever he can but she slips away. 

‘How far do you think Erica will go this time?’ 

A rogue droplet of sweat glides languidly down his temple, crossing over a bulging tendon. Unfortunately quite apparent to the three men who scrutinise him with wonder: two well-paid bodyguards and a slimy-looking slug, wearing a dark business suit that does nothing but emphasize his fragile masculinity. 

“The money first!” The businessman whines, attempting to make a tough face.

‘A cock and two balls.’ August jests and does his best to remain indifferent while anxiety threatens to claw its ugly talons in his throat. The seller’s receding hairline is thick with dandruff, his dull green eyes attempt to mimic confidence, as a beta male would do when facing a pure alpha, trying to compensate for lost dignity.  

‘I don’t have time for this,’ August huffs, his chest puffing and the immense shoulders stretching even wider, exhuming his natural overpowering dominance. His patience runs brittle as a dry twig. A restless throb thunders between his ears like a scab, latched inside his brain. 

The slug pries his mouth open to speak, yet his voice becomes dull as if the world just went underwater.

‘Do you think she’ll go as far as to let her men touch her? You know, not just the usual torture they put interrogated suspects through, but the type of touch only you are allowed to.’

‘She doesn’t have the balls, she won’t do that to another woman.’ 

‘Won’t she? It’s personal this time. Erica knows what you are capable of. And your Ingvild, she’s an apostle too now, an enemy of the world…’

Fever burns at his sweaty forehead and his lungs gradually collapse. Visions he can’t even bring himself to imagine attempt force their way into his mind. The yapping of the man who stands in front of him goes on and on; while August can feel himself speak in response, the words spouting from his lips are on autopilot. 

All he can think of is her, stripped naked, torn to shreds by dark shadows.   

‘She holds back a lot, but when she slips, aren’t her screams so beautiful? Her pleasant little voice, stretching so melodically, like skin over bone, thin and light.’

“Shut up!”

All eyes lift to August in silent bewilderment. His fists tighten, nails digging into his coarse palms as the will to rip someone to shreds beats through his blood. These men will be no more than a casualty. 

“Do you know who I am?” He asks in a deep, menacing tone, his hand but a second from reaching his holster. By measured calculation, he already anticipates how quickly he would shoot them one by one without so much of a scratch on his cheek.

“I’m John, fucking, Lark. My apostles are awaiting orders this very instance,” he reaches for his phone, ignoring the flinch in their posture as he draws it from his pocket and shakes it in his hand on display, “and you want to stand here in this shit weather and measure dicks? Spoiler alert,” he takes a stride in front of the little man, careless of his bodyguards who reach for their weapons, “mine is far bigger.”   

The seller peers at him silently, noticing the icy crust of rage in August’s glare. His pale eyes cut like diamonds while the shadow of his brooding figure falls upon the small man’s face. 

“You will get your money once I get to see the plutonium and confirm it’s authenticity,” August calls out assertively, each word distinguished, each syllable emphasised and sharp as a blade. Death is no longer an enemy to August Walker but an old friend, and those trolls under the bridge are a mere joke to the inferno he’s been basking at his entire life.

‘Limb by limb, feather by feather, while you waste your time...’

‘She wanted me here, she wanted me to secure the plutonium. If I don’t do this, it will all be for nothing.’

‘So now you are doing this for her?’

Not saying another word, the seller nods and snaps his fingers. Agitation is evident on his face yet the violence emanating from August forces him to bite down his pride. One of his henchmen approaches with a suitcase and opens it up to show August the orbs.

Thunder rips through the sky and the hail turns into a symphony of wrath. Icicles break across the construction site above, splashing water everywhere around them. Staring at the platinum spheres, August sees his own reflection dulled by the dirty silver curve. 

A dormant thing. But when set into motion, ever so deadly. 

He presses the beryllium rod to test the authenticity of the material and a sigh of relief pipes itself through his nose at the sound of the radioactive note on his testing device. Celebration blooms in his weary heart but the festivity is deemed achingly empty and dies out right away. 

‘Stop thinking about her, she’s gone. Focus on the cause, you’re almost there, just keep pushing through the doors.’ 

~*~

The blizzard melted into shy rain. The soft little drops dampen his hair, perming his large curls with the assistance of the cool winter breeze. Standing with the suitcase on the side of the rural road, August awaits his ride taking him to the helipad to proceed to Kashmir. It has been so long since he last met his true colleagues, since his departure from Lane in Norway. Avoiding any risks, contact was kept only necessary for the last stages of their tasks.

Doom’s day.

Securing the plutonium should have brought him relief, yet his chest continues to sink into his spine as if it’s being filled with coals. August Walker threaded through life alone, yet this sudden solitude is suddenly harrowing, making him feel like a gutted fish. Looking to his empty side he the ghost of her appears, giving him a bratty smirk. 

“Go away,” he chides, refusing to think of her. Of that stupid mouth talking back, tormenting him with sweet saccharine and cinnamon-like kisses. In his reminiscences, the softness of her lips still hinges. Tenderness meeting the bristle of his neck as she lay gentle wet markings up his coarse jaw. 

His fingers press to his mouth trying to harness the memory. 

A large car drives into the side of the road, speeding up and braking right next to his legs, missing August’s foot by an inch. Frowning at the careless driver, he grunts and brushes his hair before opening the passenger door.

“Took you awhile,” he grunts as he slips into the seat and peers at the driver. A bulky man in his early 40s with dark short cropped curls and thin lips. He shoots August a glance and turns back to the steering wheel.  

“Not my bad, you made a fucking mess, Lark.” The man answers and begins driving right away, careless of the fact that August didn’t put his seatbelt on and that he is holding radioactive material. 

Throwing the seatbelt over himself and fastening it, August growls and carefully secures the case on the side of the driver seat, his index finger remaining on the brim. He gently caresses the hard black leather. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

The driver peers at him oddly before looking down the road, driving fast and passing a large log truck. “Releasing the manifesto. MI6 and the CIA are all over the place,” he says and turns the radio on, letting August hear the news on his own. “I get why you did it now, it’s brilliant to cause another distraction but you’ve made shit a bit harder with those cunts running around. They tracked it back from London and have been surveying the entire area.”

“I didn’t release the... “ 

August stills, his muscles shriveling up as realisation quickly hits him. 

‘Oh angel, what have you done?’

Drawing out his mobile phone, August immediately begins to search the newsite, his eyes an ocean of panic, fluttering back and forth. It’s everywhere, news about an anarchist manifesto, spreading like a virus through every social media outlet, leaked by codename “Jane Lark”. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, reading his own written word as he goes through an article posted on the BBC’s newsite. But she changed the last verse, added a little piece of her own:  

“Valkyries mounted onto beasts,  We will ride eternal to the sun. The blazes will sear us but we will not back down,  United by our cause of just war, Unflinching we will scour the earth, Until humanity comes together in tranquil and harmony.”

‘She loves you, you see? The way she lets you bleed her, use her, spill all your pain inside her. The way she held onto you just a night ago, your name falling from her lips, her body pressing into yours to take all of you. She’s the only one. The only woman who did and ever will. 

And you left her to die.’

________________________________

Disclaimer: I don’t own Mission Impossible and August Walker

[horrorslashergirl]

Andrei and Amaria Kulokova 🐺🔪

(This shall be interesting 👀👀 and funny! Lol)

Richard Firewood

For Andrei: Richard might see Andrei as an alternative for business, when there aren't enough clients to his hotel, he might call Andrei to hide him to capture 10 or 20 people. It will be strictly business.

Richard: Cash is King. Enough said.

For Amaria: He might be on neutral territory with her as long as she respects his territory and hotel.

Richard: She better not cover the carpets of the lobby in mud.

Jackson Jasper

For Andrei: He may view Andrei as a cool guy with whom to hang around for drinks and flirt with women.

Jackson: Any drinking buddy is good company.

For Amaria: Jackson loves a pretty lady especially one who isn't afraid to get down and dirty. He likes her.

Jackson: You don't see women like her often. *smirks*

The Hacker

For Andrei: Both are fucked up into the head. Both are bloody disgusting. Both love to stick their cocks into bloody pussies. They might be on good terms... Plus if Andrei needs a certain weapon, The Hacker can provide it wirh ease.... For a good priece.

The Hacker: *looks up from his computer screen* Oh? Him? Yeah... Fucked up in the head but not as much as me. *smirks*

For Amaria: Now that's a dollface that the Hacker might like. She fucks the corpses of her victims from time to time? The Hacker does that on an almost daily basis... Almost.

The Hacker: *whistle* Pretty wild baby doll. Me like~

Dave Anthony

For Andrei: If Andrei thought he was brutal then he sure doesn't know Dave. This poltergeist was casted from both heaven and hell. Try to match that Andrei. If Andrei tries to stab or shot Dave, this evil entity will just laugh in his face and grin.

Dave: *evil smirk* Trying to kill me? *manical laugh* You cannot kill what's already dead, cocksucker... I am gonna enjoy possessing your body.

For Amaria: Now, that's something you don't usually see everyday and Dave would be intrigued by Amaria and her so called Gods. Interesting little human girl.

Dave: Oh? You believe in Gods.... Well.... I am the biggest motherfucking God ever, baby girl.

Samuel Grayson

For Andrei: The moment Samuel senses his aura he wants to puke his guts, because Andrei screams of sins all over and just his presence into the same room will annoy Samuel. Let alone Andrei trying anything with this poltergeist. Andrei will turn into a chew toy for Samuels hellhounds.

Samuel: He stinks of sin and he is a disgusting piece of walking meat on earth. *snarls*

For Amaria: Her aura is so so much more different than her brothers and to say so... Samuel is a little intrigued by her aura, sensing all the sadness from her past and there is just something about her beliefs that he finds.... Adorable?

Samuel: She is... Interesting.... But no... I am no God. These are too high words for me, little one.

Azol

For Andrei: Did I say Dave is absolutly brutal? Well Andrei... Meet Azol. This evil entity will view Andrei as the most amusing plaything ever. Ironic, huh? Much like the other supranatural ones, Azol feasts on humans desires and he will absolutly use Andrei's desires against him. He will haunt his dreams and drive him insane.

Azol: Ohhhh... You think you are brutal, piece of sloppy fucking used cunt. *chuckles evily* I am gonna have so much fun with your soul... I am sure after you die... We all are gonna fuck you into hell like the cocksucker I know you are. *laugh*

For Amaria: Azol will be amused by her beliefs into her Gods, teasing and haunting her, making her kill as many people as possible. Azol found himself new entertainment.

Azol: Oh... Never seen a human kill that much and with such a passion. *grins evilly* See that man, little one... He needs to die.... Listen to your new God and you will live on forever.

Bahini Talibah

For Andrei: Andrei is everything that Bahini hates into a man; he is despicable, horrible, disgusting, annoying, sleazy and someone she would absolutly not stand. He better not get near her or else he will suffer a slow, horrible and painfull death that will make Andei crawl on the floor in his own blood. Having your flesh and muscels be slowly melted by Bahinis piercing gaze isn't something to look forward to.

Bahini: His aura is simply making me anxious. He better stay away from me. He pisses me off!

For Amaria: Bahini might find her believe in Gods fascinating since she herself believes in the Egyptian Gods. They might have conversations about their Gods and such. Plus Amarias quiet and misterious aura is very calm and gives Bahini tranquility.

Bahini: She is a fascinating young woman... Also Anubis told me she has a beautiful and lightfull soul.

Azment

For Andrei: This demoness lust will destroy Andrei's for sure... And I advise him to not get close to her because at the end of the night he will be dead by the time he climaxes.... I mean... If he wants a horse dick up his ass that's his problem. Azment will over power him with ease.

Azment: Ohhh He sure is handsome and I can taste his lust... Such delicious carnal and mouthwatering lust.

For Amaria: Azment sees this small but deadly woman as very beautiful and she can appreciate such brutal display for passion of certain things... Like Amarias passion for Gods.

Azment: Beautiful and powerfull young human woman... Such beauty... It gives tingles down my spine. *sways her tail from side to side*

The Shadow

For Andrei: His personality and the vibe Andrei gives off is simply annoying to Shadow. Isn't it enough he has to deal with that idiot of a HACKER maniac? Now he has the stand this Russian Incompetent. He cannot work with these idiots around.

The Shadow: *looks up from cleaning his scalpels* I cannot stand this morron. He better not stick his nose into my business unless he wants to end up on my disection table.

For Amaria: She seems quiet and she keeps to herself so that is good on Shadows books. Her past might make Shadow sad because he has went through abuse too... Different but still abuse. He might be interested into her topics of Gods... Since he is one to feast on information and likes to learn about all type of topics.

The Shadow: She is... Fascinating to say so... But at last she is quiet.

Mitch Carson

For Andrei: This feral man will view Andrei as straight up enemy and he won't hesitate to turn the Russian into a raw steak, considering all that mass muscels and blood. If Andrei knows what's good for him, he better keep off Mitchs territory or else he will be the new target for crossbow practice.

Mitch: *growls, all body muscels ready for him to strike*

For Amaria: Considering her small body stature, he might be intrigued by her but still cautious, like a feral animal of the deep dark woods. If she brings him human flesh or bones for him to chew on... She Might.... Just might turn Mitch into a feral lap dog that will maim anyone who dares to touch Amaria.

Mitch: *growls then purrs at her, tilting his head to the side curiously*

Gerome Montana and Axel Friedrich

For Andrei: Army friends? Maybe? They might share some drinks some army stories. Three mercenaries sharing bloody ideas of killing. I guess. They might be on neutral relations with Andrei, but since they are in Miami and Andrei hates the heat... I doubt it. Down for a one night stand after drinks? Perhaps.

Gerome: Haha Cool Russian Crazy Dude!

Axel Friedrich: His personality is a bit too much. *groans*

For Amaria: You don't see such deadly women that often and they might find her very intirguing, but that's about it. Plus.... I don't know if she would like Miami with the heat and all that.

Gerome: Beautiful badass woman! Sexy!

Axel: *facepalms at Gerome* I suppose I can appreciate a woman who can handle such big weapons like a machete.

Damiano Liberato

For Andrei: He finds him very disgusting with no taste at all and Andrei simply makes Damiano have a horrible taste into his mouth. He cannot stand camo!

Damiano: Isn't it enough I have to stand my creator and her camo army clothing!? Now this man! I cannot believe Richard can be close to this disgusting brute. Ugh.

For Amaria: Very beautiful woman but a shame that she has no style into dressing up. Damiano finds the Kulokova siblings too.... Dirty.

Damiano: A lady shouldn't dress like that. Pants? Seriously... Just no.

Bambi Miller

For Andrei: She thinks he is a pretty cool dude with whom to share drinks and maybe have some knife throwing game. Plus, she thinks she thinks Andrei is pretty badass with his faux hawk. They might have some fun nights with drinking vodka and throwing knife at people.

Bambi: Pretty badass Russian stud. *giggles* only my knife is bigger than his. *winks*

For Amaria: Bambi thinks Amaria is very pretty and she appreciates women who can stand up for themselvs and beat the guys around. Plus her machete is so cool.

Bambi: She is very beautiful... Its true what they say that Russian women are very gorgeous.

Xaviera Lah-Mo

For Andrei: He is her ultimate and only love, so of course she simply adores Andrei. It comes natural. He is her precious and wild Wolf.... And to think that the first day they meet, Xavi wanted to throw his ass into the blizzard outside. Andrei is her soulmate and the only man she has feelings for... And the only man she won't shot with her sniper rifle into his balls.

Xaviera: He is the light of my life, the man that make me be strong with each passing day.... My wild and handsome Wolf..... My beautiful soulmate. My everything.

For Amaria: Being Andrei's sister, Xaviera cares for her and tries to calm Andrei down to think clearly when she is around. Xaviera tries to be the refere between these two without getting between their fights. Both Xavi and Amaria use a sniper rifle and Xavi would love for her sister-in-law and her to have a shooting practice together. Just enjoying some quiet time.

Xaviera: She is a hard person to understand if you don't see through her soul, you need to take your time to understand her because she means well... She is not as bad as one might think. She is just misunderstood like we all were at some point in life.

Akshay Lah-Mo

For Andrei: Andrei is Akshay's best friend and soul brother to say so; they fight, they bicker, they drink, but at the end of the day they are best friends and always there to watch eachothers backs. Akshay might seem that he hates Andrei, but if he really hated him, Andrei wouldn’t be alive.

Akshay: The mutt? Yeah... He is a good man... When he isn't his usual idiot self. *grunts*

For Amaria: Akshay knows she is Andrei's sister and that their sibling relation isn't that good. Akshay hasn't really interacted that much with Amaria but if he has to say his opinion he would say that he is beautiful and misunderstood... And very deadly for such a small woman.

Akshay: It really shows she is the mutts sister... She can maim you and your corpse would just misteriously disappear.

Decebal Avram Chirilă

For Andrei: Decebal has lots of fun with Andrei and they are two knuckleheads and daredevils. Andrei had done so much for Decebal that none has ever done and the Romanian is very gratefull for it, hench his loyality towards the Russian. Decebal didn't expected to get along with Andrei that good but he absolutly adores him... And the moments they fuck.

Decebal: Ohhhh! Vodknockers!? He is like a fun and crazy little brother... He sure has a temper which is funny. Haha *smirks* His libido matches mine and he has a great cock *laughs*

For Amaria: Decebal knows that she is the way she is because of her past and he isn't one to judge or make fun of her believs and such. Everyone can believe in whatever they want. What's the problem with that? Plus, he thinks she is very gorgeous.

Decebal: Oh? That wild woman? She is very beautiful, like hella beautiful that she could put an army of women to shame. *laughs* But seriously now... Just like Xavi said... She is only misunderstood. *soft smile*

Alexander Chirilă

For Andrei: Alexander simply feels very uncomfortable in the same room as Andrei and it doesn't help that the Russian was Alexanders first. Alexander finds it so so frustrating that Andrei has no sense of other peoples personal space, especially his.

Alexander: Oh God.... Not him again. He has no respect, he is an absolut degeranted wanker who doesn't understand the concept of personal space and he frustrates me so so much it makes me so angry. *blushing red face and huffs* But.... I suppose... Like my big brother said... He can be nice... Only I never saw that!

For Amaria: Alexander enjoys that she is quite and she seems to have some concept of other peoples personal space. Plus he is glad she isn't like her big brother... Who acts like a sexual offender. Amaria kind of reminds Alexander of one of the tallest mountains, surrounded by mist... Especially that certain quietness.

Alexander: I suppose she is alright... She seems like a very strong one with a certain specific will... And she is pretty..... B-But not like that! *blushes*

Nadia Nikolina Chirilă

For Andrei: She thinks she is a good man, on certain topics but on other hands.... She views him as a stupid kid with disgusting behaviors and most important.... A coward. If he thinks he is so mighty, why not take someone his own size or bigger, not some small and innocent woman. Andrei is only lucky because of Decebal..... Or else he would have been castrated the moment he meet Nadia. Period.

Nadia: *looks up from her painting* He is a stupid child.... But means well... On certain moments.

For Amaria: Nadia thinks that Amaria is a very intirguing and gorgeous woman, small but with a fierce spirit that will cit through you just like her machete... Nadia appreciates greatly a woman who won't take anyones shit, especially a mans. Amaria reminds Nadia of a pit of big sharp deadly ice icicle, that she saw the first month she moved into Greenland. The pit looked so so beautiful but if you stepped to close you would fall into said pit and a painfull horrible death will follow.

Nadia: Beautiful and Deadly... Such a majestic combination. *paints a womans shadow with mountains into the background*

[e-m-christina]

Heathens Pt2 (Ivar X Warrior Reader)

The ship journey had lasted over three days. The afternoon sun burned your skin as it beat down upon the sea, causing the water to glimmer like a million little mirrors catching the sunlight. But you did not notice the scenery, you were determined not to give into hopelessness. Nor did your brother. 

   “Lord, unto thee do I lift up my soul. Let me not be ashamed, let not mine enemies triumph over me.” You prayed aloud, staring down at the shackles that bound your bloodied wrists. 

   “So, is this an interruption of your life’s journey...Or is it a part of it?” You looked up at Ivar. He was leaning against a thick rope, his eyes preying on you like a hawk. You stayed silent. You would not entertain these devils with argument. To your dismay, Ivar simply smirked, before looking off into the distance. Over the course of the journey, many viking men taunted you about your God, the true God, but it did not sway you. In fact it made you angry, and when you got angry, you would become even more determined not to give into hopelessness. 

   “Heahmund, are you alright?” You asked, noticing the state of your brother. He dark hair was matted, and dried blood covered his usually pale face. 

   “I do not think either one of us are alright, my dear sister.” Heahmund said, coughing up drops of blood. 

   “We are here!” You looked up to see a heathen pointing toward a mass of land only a few miles away. 

   Two men gripped your shoulders, digging their fingers harshly into your flesh as they dragged you and your brother through a set of iron doors. You were dragged into a great wooden hall. The hall was large, lit only by a two windows that ran across the top of the walls, and hanging in the centre of the ceiling was a humongous whale skeleton. 

   “On their knees.” You heard Ivar command to his men. You were thrown to the ground as the air got knocked out of your already battered lungs. You groaned as you pulled yourself up into a kneeling position. Above you, a Norseman sat upon a throne. On his braided hair sat a crown that sent shadows over his heavily tattooed face. By his side sat a beautiful woman wearing a crimson dress.

   “What is the point of them?” The man on the throne leaned forward, inspecting you and your brother. You growled and spat in his face, making him recoil and wipe his cheek. “Why did you not just kill them?” The man said, glaring at you.

   “Because they are both great warriors, Harald.” Ivar said, gesturing to you and your brother. “I have seen how they with my own eyes. I admire great warriors.” Ivar continued, limping around the side of Heahmund, before stopping behind you, but your gaze was still fixed on the man before you, the man that was now named Harald. You listened closely to their conversation, trying to gain information, afterall, they did not expect you to be able to speak or understand Norse.

   “Even the girl? I did not know Christian women fought in battles.” Harald said with a frown. You could hear Ivar chuckle behind you. 

   “Nor me Harald, nor me. But I hope that they will both fight for us.” Ivar said, patting you on the shoulder. You lurched forward to get away from his touch. 

   “The women do not fight. I am the exception.” You said at last, surprising them with your Norse language. 

   “She speaks our language. Did you know this Ivar?” Harald asked, and for the first time, your eyes left his face, and flicked to Ivar. 

   “No, I did not.” Ivar said, raising his eyebrows. 

   “How did you come by learning our language, Y/N? Does Heahmund speak it as well?” Ivar asked, shoving you with his crutch. You shot a glare at him before looking to your brother. Heahmund was staring at Ivar, after hearing his name mentioned. 

   “King Ecbert taught me, before you Heathens slaughtered him like a beast. And No, my brother does not know your language.” You said, venom dripping from every word.

   “The lord rules me. I shall want nothing.” You turned to look at Heahmund. He had begun to pray, glaring Harald in the eyes. You hissed as Ivar yanked your brothers hair sharply. 

   “No, no, no. Let him speak.” Harald asked, waving at Ivar to stop pulling Heahmunds hair. A smirk begun to form on your lips as a look of dismay flashed across Ivars face.

   “I fear no evil, for you are with me Lord, your rod and your staff have comforted me.” You joined in on the prayer with your brother, looking directly into the eyes of Harald. 

   “What are they saying?” He asked looking to Ivar. 

   “They are praying to their God.” Ivar said. A flash of anger flickered across Haralds face as he stood up. 

   “A fat load of good that will do them!” Harald chuckled, regaining himself as Ivar simply smirked, hitting Heahmund across the head. You glanced at your brother, a small smile dancing on your lips. These Heathens were very easily to aggravate. That would come in handy. 

   “You prepare a table before me, in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” You say over and over, as the two men that brought you in, dragged you by your arms toward the door.

    In the distance the faint sound of water dripping from an old dingy drain pipe splashed into a puddle on the floor. In the gloom all you could make out was the four stone walls that locked you in. In the water dripping silence you sat, back against the cold stone walls. You and Heahmund at been separated, thrown into separate rooms a few hours ago. You rubbed your painful wrists with your now freed hands, before turning to face Ivar, who was sat on a stool opposite you. 

   “There is going to be a war. A war that will make me king of Kattegat, my father’s kingdom. A war against the usurper, Lagertha, who killed my mother in order to be queen. And of course, a war between brother.” You listened to Ivar, peering at him in the darkness. You rolled your eyes. What did you care of his wars and family troubles? 

   “What of it?” You said, flicking some dirt off your trouser leg. You watched him carefully as he leaned forward, clasping his hands together.    

   “Y/n, you have a choice. Fight alongside me, or I kill you.” He said. You snorted, sitting upright. Though you pretended to be disgusted, your curiosity was peaked by his offer.

   “What are your wars to me?” You asked, looking him in the eye.

   “Your way of staying alive.” Ivar quipped, leaning back in his seat with a smirk on his face.

   “I am not afraid to die for my faith.” You pulled yourself off the muddy ground and stood by the small window, peeking through the bars that secured it. 

   “I am not asking you to do that. I am not asking you to renounce your faith, or to fight against Christians.” You turned away from the window, fully facing him now. “All I am asking is for you to kill more of those who you call ‘Heathens’.” Ivar said, watching you as you took a few steps toward him.  You crouched down on the ground below his stool with a raised eyebrow. 

   “Why do you offer me this choice?” You asked, slightly softer. You had begun to realize that Ivar could have killed you at any point, but he did not. He obviously needed you for something. You had thought God must have planned for this to happen. 

   “Because I am jealous of you.” He said at last. You frowned, turning your head to the side and beckoned for him to continue. “I would like to be like you, strong, whole...” Ivar began to trail off, looking at his lap. You felt a small pang of sympathy in your heart when his voice broke at the end. If you were entirely honest, you had forgotten that his legs did not work. You were going to say something, when he continued to speak. 

    “To be a great warrior like you. That is why I saved you, brought you with me. That is why I want you to fight alongside me.”

   Your feet stumbled as your were dragged forward with a chain around your neck. The iron rubbed your throat, causing the skin to tear and bleed. A crowd of mucky Pagans crowded you, following your every step as Hvitserk clutched  your now re-chained arms as rain pelted you, turning the ground into sludgy mud. 

   “Kill her!” The crowd roared as you were thrown to the ground. You groaned in pain, feeling a trickle of blood drip down your cheek. 

   “I told you to take her her to me, not batter her.” You looked up to see Ivar standing up, out of his chair, glaring at Hvitserk. 

   “Kill her!” The crowd cheered again as Hvitserk bent down, unlocking the chains from your wrists and neck. Ivar raised a hand, shushing the crowd instantly. You staggered up, spitting a mouthful of blood at the crowd, causing a small smirk to flitter across Ivars face. 

   “Possibly. We may kill her, if she does not agree, I will kill her.” Ivar said, as the crowd went mad again. You clenched your jaw, watching as Ivar stepped towards you. You hissed in pain as he ran his thumb across you cut cheek, wiping the blood away before continuing his speech.

   “She will live if she and her brother both agree to fight  alongside me. Which I hope she will do.” Ivar said the last part in a lower voice, making eye contact with you. 

   “Well, will she?” A man in the crowd yelled, causing you turn around and glare at him. You turned back to Ivar, who was staring at you intensely.

   “Well Y/N? Will you fight with me?”

--

Thanks for reading! Part 3 coming soon! 

REQUESTS OPEN!

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[crystalirises]

In Moonlight We Meet (The Walls of Illusion Part 1)

I crawl from the depths of college to give this fic, and I shall disappear into the void once more.

Anyway, hope you guys like this :D.

Ao3 Link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30512157/chapters/75248370

Fundy gazed out into the vast darkness of the land, his hands grasping at the cracked blackstone that comprised his nation’s walls. Starlight twinkled in his eyes as his ears twitched with every noise that came from the forest beyond. He pulled his hat closer to his head, afraid that the wind would sweep him back into the cage that was his home. He took a deep breath, relishing in the night breeze that tickled and caressed his cheek like a mother would to her baby. He took one final glance back, crouched as low as he was, he could only catch traces of figures and shadows moving about within the country. Fundy looked towards home. Warm yellow light seeped out from the camarvan’s windows as a lone silhouette stood by the window - calm and unmoving.

He held onto the edge of the stone, taking a deep breath before beginning his descent. He paused every so often, the stray sound of footsteps or rustling bushes frightened and coaxed him to return to the safety of his room. He braved on, reaching for every edge or hole he could grasp as he made his way down the side of the wall, grateful that his father hadn’t realized his absence. If he was caught outside, Fundy would never hear the end of the lecture. He winced at the thought.

Fundy has broken rules in the past, but this one - this one - is one Wilbur would never forgive.

He stifled his yip of joy as he felt the soft grass, the blades of grass tickling the soles of his feet. Fundy’s tail wagged from side to side as he hesitatingly moved away from the wall, exhilaration coursing through his veins as he realized that he was outside. He was actually outside the walls!

Fundy pulled his black jacket closer to himself, the freezing cold of the night pierced through his skin as he turned to look out into the dark forest. The fox hybrid knew he shouldn’t let his guard down, tales of the monsters that lurked beyond L’Manburg’s walls rushed to the front of his mind. His father would tell him the stories of zombies, skeletons, and creatures that exploded if one were to get near. He didn’t doubt his father’s words, but he had to see the world for himself.

The hilt of his sword pressed against his side as he walked further into the shrubbery, the moonlight filtering through the trees his only source of light. But for a fox hybrid, the night was but a companion, the world brighter in his eyes despite the darkness that shrouded him.

Despite his bravado, he chose to stay away from the noises, not eager to come across a monster.

As he got further away from L’Manburg, a giddiness overtook the apprehension in his heart as his pace began to quicken. Fundy felt a smile stretch across his face as he started to run, feet thumping against soft grass and fallen branches as he ached to chase the feeling of freedom that had so long forsaken him. He could feel the rush of euphoria as the moonlight graced him with its presence, the forest welcoming as he explored every inch that he could. Fundy had no map of the forest, had no bearing of where he was going, but he had - no, he needed - to run. His nose picked up every new scent, his eyes picked up every new sight, and his hands picked up every new texture that he could get his hands on. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t help but wish to run until the scorching sun came up over the horizon and cursed the land with its pale yellow hue.

As that thought circled through his mind, his pace quickened, anger fueling him now as he knew he couldn’t outrun the inevitable forever. Fundy could feel the hot tears gathering in his eyes, scowling as he wiped them away with the sleeve of his jacket. A part of him dared to not go back, to flee to somewhere far away and leave the suffocating walls of his father’s nation behind.

Still, where would he go? The world was vast and unexplored, where would he run to? With the war that encompassed the entire land of the Essempy, how could he flee without being caught by L’Manbergian soldiers or by the enemy? Fundy shuddered at the thought, his father’s warnings of the enemy coming to the forefront of his mind. Death would be more merciful than them.

Then there was Wilbur, his dad. Fundy felt his ears press against the top of his head, his pace slowing until he was merely jogging. He couldn’t leave his dad alone, couldn’t leave without a proper goodbye. His dad was doing everything he could to keep Fundy safe and he couldn’t leave knowing that he would be leaving his heartbroken father to forever wonder if his son was still alive somewhere in the world. He let out a sigh, running a hand through his windswept hair. He can’t break his dad’s heart. He just can’t. Fundy shook his head, resuming his run through the forest. He wasn’t going to leave his dad. Never. Fundy would never break his dad’s heart.

He paused, the sharp crack of a branch snapping nearby sending him to a panicked frenzy as he jumped to lean back against the rough bark of a tree. The bushes in front of him were rustling, yet he couldn’t see any of the monsters that his father had warned him about. He felt his heart leap in his chest as the noise got closer and closer, his hands scrambling towards his sword, fingers fumbling between his fingers as he desperately tried to grab at the hilt. He could feel sweat trickle down the side of his neck, the cool night air sending goosebumps down his skin as it whispered of his demise. Oh gods, oh gods, he was going to fucking die here. Fundy huffed out a breath. His dad was right. He shouldn’t have left the walls. He shouldn’t have left the walls! He got his sword out, but it was too late. He screamed as a small shadowy mass leapt towards him.

His eyes shuttered close, the blade slipping past his hands as he waited for the shocking pain to hit. A few seconds ticked past, yet death did not come to claim his soul that night. He took a shaky breath, trying to quell his erratically beating heart. With tremors running up and down his fingers, he slowly lowered his hands from his face, gaze flicking down towards… the fox?

Fundy lowered to a kneel, hands reaching down towards the small fox that had bounded out of the bushes. Its dark brown eyes regarded him with a friendliness that made Fundy’s heart warm, its little paws petting against his lap as it tried to climb onto his shoulder. Fundy gently pushed the fox down, terrified of running and accidentally dropping the fox. It tilted its head to the side, sadness - at least that’s what Fundy assumes - dancing in the fox’s eyes as it let out a whimper, turning around in a circle before jumping onto Fundy’s lap. He barely had time to properly react before the fox’s dirt-stained paws were against his chest, its snout reaching up past his face as it snapped its teeth at something above Fundy’s head. Fundy watched in a stupor as the fox jumped back down, his black hat hanging from its mouth. The fox gave him one last look, a crystal clear look of mischief in its eyes, before turning on its heel and running further into the shrubbery.

“Wha一 HEY!” He bounded after the fox, his feet thumping against the forest earth as he darted between low-hanging branches and the night monsters that lurked. “COME BACK HERE!”

He swore the fox just snickered at him. Fundy growled underneath his breath. He could not go home without that hat! It would draw too many questions, and then he’d have to tell his dad where the hat even went. Oh, absolutely not. No, just no. “Come back, please... Come on, man!”

As he ran deeper into the woods, the moonlight began to disappear underneath the leaves, the world plunged into the darkness with only his eyes giving him the ability to see. He chased after the fox, calling for it to come back as fatigue began to seep into his bones. In his haste to get his hat back, he began to bump into all sorts of things. Fundy began to bump into trees, their harsh bark grazing him on the cheeks as he stumbled and tripped over his own two feet. Mobs got closer to him, rotting hands reaching for his flesh as arrows breezed overhead. Fundy gritted his teeth, pushing himself away from the mobs as he continued to follow the fox who was kind enough to wait for him each time he slowed down or lost sight of the fox. It would glance back at him every so often, wag its tail, before running off again. Fundy was beginning to think that this was the gods’ punishment towards him for disobeying his dad’s rule. “I NEED THAT, YOU一”

He let out a small ‘oomph’, diving face first onto… something. Fundy gripped whatever it was in front of him, the texture soft yet fuzzy against the palm of his hand as he tried to blink away the dizziness and surprise that had taken over his mind. He looked at what he had bumped into, eyes adjusting back to the darkness as he tried to wrack his mind about what he was holding. It wasn’t a tree, his mind helpfully supplied. The surface of whatever-it-was was colored in disgusting lime green, the color a stark contrast to the shadows of the forest. His ears flicked up, his body tensing in fear. There was a strange noise in the air like… a kettle hissing… hissing… HISSING!

Fundy screamed, pushing against what he could only assume was a creeper, knocking it to the ground as he hurried to get away. He tried to ignore the little shriek that it made, surprised to find that it sounded nearly human. GODS, why did they make those monsters sound human?! Fundy shook his head, running until he was a safe distance away from the impending explosion site.

Though… he could have sworn he hadn’t heard an explosion at all.

Fundy managed to collapse into an open clearing, his limbs failing him as he laid there on the ground in pure exhaustion, adrenaline gone from his veins. He felt paws scrabble at the top of his head, teeth gripping his jacket collar as the fox dragged him further into the clearing. He groaned, trying to bite the little pest away but it persevered enough to force him back into a sit. He blinked away the sleep from his eyes, knowing that he couldn’t go to sleep in the middle of nowhere. The fox had curled up in his arms, nuzzling itself into his jacket as though to keep itself warm. He reached up a hand, his hat already on his head. Huh… well, at least his hat was back. An exasperated sigh escaped his lips, a smile forming on his face. Then he looked up, and froze.

The moonlight glistened against the clear surface of the lake, bathing it an ethereal silver glow. Dark shadows darted from its depths as tiny fishes waltzed with one another in their own little dance, undisturbed by his ungraceful presence. With the fox cradled in his arms, he made his way to the shore, his eyes bright as the golden flecks in his dark brown eyes shimmered underneath the glow of the moon. He felt his breath leave his throat, the sereneness of the clearing - dotted as it was by the prettiest of flowers that bloomed underneath the care of the moon - sending a wave of calm through his tense and tired body. He felt safe. He felt at peace.

“You’re a little shit, but… thank you. For this.” Fundy held up the fox so that he could look into its eyes. The fox yipped, licking the tip of its nose as it began to struggle in his hold. He placed it on the ground, the fox whimpering as it tried to climb back up his arms. “Sorry… I can’t一”

His dad would question where he got a fox so late at night. Fundy moved away from it, even as it began to clung to the edge of his pants, its little claws digging into the cloth. He felt his heart ache, wishing that he could just scoop the little guy up and take it home. He tried to take a deep breath, reminding himself of the reason why he couldn’t just take the fox home with him. There was no place for a pet in war. Fundy crouched down, the fox immediately trying to jump into his arms, but he kept it from doing so. He placed his hand against the fox’s head, rubbing behind its ears as it slowly began to lie down, tail wagging excitedly as Fundy continued to pet it. The fox let out a purr, nuzzling further into his hand. “I’m sorry. I’d really take you with me if I could.”

It was the snap of a twig that made him pause. The fox looked up, its ears raised as it looked out into the treeline behind the lake. Fundy strained his eyes to see against the shadows, but he couldn’t see anything. The fox yipped, moving away from him as it headed towards the noise. Fundy took it as his cue to leave. He wanted to stay and bask in the beauty of the clearing, but now all he could feel was fear and trepidation, as if a being was staring at him from the trees. He felt a shiver run down his spine. He was being observed. He could tell. With one last look at the lake and the fox, Fundy turned and began to run back towards where he felt home was. He heard the fox squeak after him, could hear its paws thump against the grass it tried to catch up to him, but Fundy wasn’t as kind to wait for it as it had been for him. He ran until the fox’s cries were but a distant noise, he ran and ran until the familiar look of blackstone appeared within his view.

Within seconds, he was climbing up the wall, reaching for the spots he had used to climb down. There was a hollow feeling in his chest as he reached the top, almost as if he had left a piece of him within the forest that night. Fundy looked into the forest once more, before heading back in.

“Did you believe I wouldn’t notice your absence?” Fundy froze, nearly slipping and falling off the wall as he quickly turned around, jumping down to the ground as a silhouette appeared from behind the tree that stood nearby the entrance to L’Manburg. “Fundy, what was my one rule?”

He gripped the bottom edge of his shirt, scratching as bits of string hung loosely from the cloth. He turned around to face Wilbur. The man looked utterly exhausted, dark circles beneath his eyes as a cool breeze ruffled his uncombed, curly brown hair. Wilbur stood at attention, one hand gripping the hilt of his sword as Fundy felt his father grasp his arm. Fundy couldn’t bring himself to speak as Wilbur dragged him deeper into the confines of L’Manburg, soft chuckling from somewhere in the darkness (no doubt Tubbo and Tommy watching Fundy be dragged off into another lecture). Fundy bit the inside of his cheek, the hto dog van coming into view as Wilbur practically shoved him inside. Shadows clung to the furniture, the soft hiss of potions brewing the only source of noise within the small space that Fundy nearly wished that Wilbur would just leave him there to sulk for the night as his punishment. Luck was not on the fox hybrid’s side.

“Have you any idea how terrified I was to find out that you were missing? I was this close to sending out search parties, Fundy. I was this fucking close!” Fundy hung his head, his father’s yelling accompanied by the sickening slam of the door closing. He pressed his lips together as Wilbur grabbed him by the arms, his hold nearly bruising as Wilbur glared into his eyes. Fundy felt a trickle of fear, “I can’t have you doing this again. Do you know how reckless and stupid―”

“I just wanted to take a walk, dad…”

“A walk? A WALK?! What if you got caught? What if you ran into fucking Dream? Have you no self-preservation. FUCK!” Fundy flinched as Wilbur let go of him, only to slam his hands against the table. Wilbur was breathing hard, his chest heaving up and down as if he was calming himself down. “I can’t lose you, Fundy. Dream’s a tyrant, he would do anything to win this war.”

“Why? Are you scared they’re going to use me against you? They probably don’t even know I exist since I’m not even allowed to leave this place! How could they even know you have a son to use as blackmail when you don’t let me wander outside the walls?!” Fundy hadn’t meant to raise his voice, stuttering into a fearful pause as he realized the seeping anger in his tone. Wilbur glanced up at him, shock dancing in those dark brown eyes. Fundy leaned against the wall, the cool metal sending goosebumps down his skin… or perhaps that was the rising frustration. L’Manburg was Fundy’s entire world, he barely knew anything outside those depressingly large walls that seemed to reach up into the heavens above. Wilbur had made it clear to everyone that Fundy was to never leave. “Dad, I can’t live my whole life here. There’s a whole other world out there just waiting to be explored. I… I just wanted to see it. You can’t keep me inside forever.”

“It’s not forever, Fundy. It’s just until the war is over.” He felt a gentle hand caress his cheek. Fundy didn’t even realize that Wilbur had moved closer, “Then you’ll be free to… wander.”

Fundy chuckled at that. His dad was a terrible liar, he couldn’t even conceal the hesitation in his voice. Fundy focused his attention on his muddy feet instead, remembering how the wind felt against his hair as he raced through the forest, the fox that had taken his hat and made Fundy follow after it until Fundy reached the silver lake. His eyes had been his only guide. Of course, he did run into a few trees while chasing the fox, even running into a creeper that he swore made a fucking kettle sound (was that how creepers hissed?) when he bumped into it. He had eventually come to a stop by the clear lake at the center of the empty clearing, watching the dark shadows zip around the bottom of the water. Fundy had petted the fox, enjoying the serenity and peace of the night. Then he fled, the creeping sense of being watched having sent goosebumps down his skin.

“Give it time. We’ll have our freedom and perhaps I’ll let you leave L’Manburg every now and then.” There was a hand on the top of his head, soothing his ears down as a smile formed on his dad’s face. Fundy couldn’t bring himself to return it. “I promise. Just stay inside for now, hm?”

“You promise?” He moved closer, clutching the front of his dad’s coat. Wilbur placed a hand at Fundy’s back, hesitant as if Wilbur wasn’t quite sure if Fundy was asking for a hug. Fundy gritted his teeth at the idea of even hugging Wilbur at such a time. He let out a sigh, willing his voice not to shake or for tears to spring into his eyes as he glanced up to meet his father’s eyes. He hated how he barely reached his father’s chin despite being older than Tommy or Tubbo. “You talk of freedom and independence as if they were inevitable. Don’t you see how hopeless this is dad? You’re fighting a losing battle. You think you can beat a god? A fucking god? We’re all going to die. I-I’m going to die. I’m going to die without ever having lived, dad―”

The rest of his words were swallowed away as Wilbur pulled him into an embrace, a hand pressing his head against his dad’s chest. Fundy could almost hear the erratic beat of Wilbur’s heart, felt the way that his dad held him clser as though his words had actually frightened Wilbur. Guilt trickled into his heart but Fundy tried not to hold onto it. “Don’t say that. You won’t… you can’t die. I’ll make sure of it. We’ll be fine, my son. You won’t die on the battlefield.”

“You can’t promise me that. You can’t promise me a chance against death.” Fundy wasn’t sure if Wilbur could hear him - not sure if Wilbur would dare to hear him - but he had to try. Wilbur began to hum, a discordant tune that sounded more like droning as if he was trying to block out Fundy’s voice. Fundy curled his hands into fists, nails digging into the skin of his palm. His dad was doing it again, ignoring the negative as if it didn’t exist. “Dad… you have to let me live a little. We don’t know how much time we have left before… Let me feel freedom for once.”

Silence ticked by as Wilbur moved away, a pained look in his eyes as he looked down at Fundy. There was the shimmer of tears but Wilbur didn’t cry. No. Never in front of Fundy. Wilbur wrapped his arms around himself and Fundy realized that Wilbur was reassuring himself more than he was protecting Fundy. This wasn’t about Fundy at all… this was about Wilbur’s fear.

“I love you very much, my little champion. I love you enough to say no to what you’re asking of me. I… I can’t have you running about in the forest at night doing gods know what. Not when Dream is out there… waiting.” Fundy rolled his eyes at that. For all this talk of Dream, he’s never even seen the illusive man at all. Fundy was beginning to think that Wilbur had made the man up, like he did once when Fundy was a kid and Wilbur had jokingly said there was a monster underneath the bed. Wilbur regretted it as Fundy refused to sleep alone for an entire month. “Do you know why I built those walls? The walls you are so adamant to hate? I built them for you. I built them to keep you safe, Fundy. I need to protect my sweet little son. Can’t you see that?”

“Can’t you see? I’m not that kid anymore. You need to stop seeing me as a a helpless baby.” Fundy felt his last inkling of hope disappear. Wilbur would never understand, never will for as long as he thought the world would take his son away. Fundy turned to leave, ignoring his dad’s call for him to come back. He stood at the door, hand hovering above the handle.

“Fundy Soot, you get back here this instant. The conversation isn’t over.” He let out a low growl. It was over, Fundy was ending it. He pushed the door open, the cool, night wind blowing through his hair and into the cramped and heated van. “Don’t you growl at me, young man. FUNDY―”

He looked back, snarling loudly that Wilbur immediately backed off, a surprised look on his face. Good. Fundy didn’t want to stay there any longer. Fuck Wilbur and Fuck L’Manburg too.

“You know what, Wilbur? I never asked you to fucking protect me. You made that choice. Now I’m making mine.”

And with that, Fundy was gone.

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

Hope you guys like this! :D

*soul gets claimed by mid-terms* ;-;

[blossom-hwa]

Sometimes - SEUNGMIN

Angst. Angst galore. I beg you please, please, PLEASE check the triggers before you read this - it is part of my zombie apocalypse universe for Golden Child and as such, there is a LOT of blood, gore, and death. 

Another brief note - I mention other members here, but that is no guarantee as to whether or not they’re dead or alive by the end of the series :) so don’t make any assumptions except on one obvious character skjnkgh

ps what the fuck is up with the lack of usable gifs of one bae seungmin on this site I'm disgusted

Pairing: Bae Seungmin x gender neutral!reader

Genre: angst, zombie apocalypse!au

Triggers: semi-graphic depictions of death, blood, gore in general, allusions to suicide, suicidal thoughts

Word Count: 1.8k

Sometimes, Seungmin needs a reminder that he is still alive.

Golden Child Masterlist

Sometimes Seungmin wakes up and he’s on the ground because at some point during the night, sleeping on even a thin mattress felt so alien on his back that he had to roll off onto the floor. Sometimes he wakes up and looks around and suddenly he’s back home (is it still home, if it’s been years since he left?) but in an unfamiliar house, scanning the windows for any semblance of white skin veined with black, hungry eyes peering in through the glass.

Sometimes Seungmin wakes up and he isn’t a singer, isn’t an artist who plays for the masses on his old guitar, but a survivor instead, unable to eat more than half a granola bar for breakfast because that’s all he ever had to eat for months. Sometimes he wakes up and forgets to brush his teeth even though the bathroom is right there because he didn’t have a toothbrush or toothpaste, much less the water to flush out his mouth when he was on the run.

Sometimes Seungmin wakes up and all he can see are two bodies full of blackened, bloody bites, dried crimson pooled next to bullet holes in the sides of two heads with guns lying nearby because they chose to die rather than condemn themselves to an existence manned by a flesh-seeking daze. Sometimes he wakes up and can’t register your sleeping body next to him, warm, alive, because all he can smell is decomposing flesh and all he can see is death and all he can feel are cold, clawing hands dragging him down, down, down into flames that char his skin until you shake him out of his haze (assuming you aren’t having a nightmare of your own) and remind him that there is still life buried beneath the ashes.

Sometimes Seungmin wakes up and nothing is okay.

Those days, his fingers tremble on his worn guitar. The strings feel strange beneath his skin – it doesn’t matter that he’s been playing this same instrument for years and counting. Those days, his head is empty and full all at once, the smell of decomposing bodies everywhere no matter where he locks himself away. Those days, his eyes grow wild and haunted at the slightest touch – a hand too warm reminds him of Donghyun’s fever, a bead of blood brings back Jibeom’s old wound. He hangs onto life by a thread thinner than his guitar strings, which is ironic and depressing all at once because sometimes, the feeling of those same guitar strings digging grooves into his skin is the only thing that reminds him that he’s alive.

He finds a comment on his song calling him sensationalist. He finds another on an interview article that decries him a murderer of innocents (of course it doesn’t matter that these innocents were trying to kill him first). People walk around him on eggshells, not daring to touch, speaking in quiet tones so as not to set him off but all Seungmin wants is for people to shout, to yell, to tell him or show him they’re alive by the sound of their voice or the subtle warmth of their skin because on days like these, everyone looks like a walking corpse and Seungmin thinks he’s dead.

Maybe he should be dead. Some people certainly seem to think so. He’s killed, murdered, admitted to it, even. He’s written songs and spoken in interviews about holding the gun, pulling the trigger, watching bullets split heads of wild hair and shrunken eyes, shooting people who asked, pleaded, begged for it because they didn’t want to die of the bite on their skin, they just wanted to finally be at peace –

But a murderer is a murderer, no matter how noble his intentions.

Seungmin folds himself in, those days, clutches his guitar even if his fingers can’t strum the strings, holding onto a piece of existence that feels real, that feels real, that he knows has to be real because he bought it when he was alive, fully, wholly alive. He knows he was alive. He knows he was alive. He knows he was alive because you were there and you were alive, standing next to him at the counter as he paid his hard-earned money for the beat-up guitar, holding his hand on the walk back home.

Home. That’s a tricky word right there. One syllable, four letters, easy enough to say but harder to define. Where is home? Is it in the house he left behind, always believing he would see it again before the virus outbreak? Is it in the apartment for which he never paid his last month’s rent, money rendered unnecessary after death crashed over the city in waves? Is it in the university hospital where he spent half a year, working alongside surviving friends to save as many injured as he could despite the fact that his hands were those of an artist and not a doctor, just to give them a better chance at life when they inevitably went on west?

Maybe those were homes, temporary homes where he felt, even if only for brief moments in time, accepted. Cared for. Loved. People helped him heal there, washed deep wounds with clutched hands and warm hugs, occasional kisses on the forehead from those he loved the most.

But the people were the permanent homes, the homes that stayed with him even after the buildings went, even after they themselves went. Some have stayed while others have gone, but they all reside in his heart, and on days when everything is wrong and nothing is okay and Seungmin can’t remember what it feels like to be alive, he reaches into the recesses of his memory and counts them, one by one.

Mom. Dad. Seungho. Yerim. All lost in the first outbreak, barely weeks after the initial explosion. He cried so much after that initial phone call that by the end of the day, even ice couldn’t bring down the swelling around his eyes. Before Seungmin left the hospital for good, he went back to his old apartment and shoved a photo into his pocket, a photo of all five of them when everyone was still alive. He still has it – worn, crinkled, fading at the edges. It lives in his wallet, a reminder of times past, but also a reminder that they’re always with him.

Jangjun. Jangjun’s partner. Joochan. Youngtaek. He remembers his best friends and roommates from before the outbreak, people who loved him and whom he loved back. Their laughs cut through the groans and screams of death that play and replay in his ears, their smiles spilling pale light and warmth that wraps around his shoulders like a blanket or a shawl. Remnants of laughter settle in his skin and Seungmin is reminded of the first rays of dawn, the first rays of hope, cutting through a gray sky of death.

Donghyun. Jibeom. Sungyoon. Jaehyun. Without those Seungmin met during the outbreak, when he made his escape, he doesn’t know what he would do. They have held each other together, propped each other up on days when they have to clutch the backs of chairs so onslaughts of memories don’t pull them down, days when they forget that they’re safe, that they’re sound, that they can’t be hurt any longer by the gaping jaws of white faces marred with blackened veins. These four names have embedded themselves within his heart, burned their mark with so much warmth and love that there is no way he could forget them even if he ever wanted to (and there is no reason he ever would).

There are more names, so many more. Seungmin remembers them all, sifting them through them one after another, replaying his memories for every one. But always, always he puts one person last, a person with a name he clutches even tighter than he hangs to the thread of life, because without this name, this person, there is no life.

Y/N. Survivor. Healer. Partner, significant other, but so much more. Seungmin is a songwriter and has been for years at this point, but even now, he still can’t find the words to summarize your existence. You are more than life itself, an angel from the heavens to help him find his way through a world buried knee-deep in ashes and death.

You aren’t the end all do all, of course. There are days when even your voice can’t cut through the agonized screams playing on loop in Seungmin’s head. There are days when he can’t stand your touch, can’t process it without feeling the cold fingers of a dead man walking, reaching out with shriveled skin to clamp his shoulder and bite through skin. There are days when you sink into your own mind, eyes shut tight against memories painting the backs of your eyelids, screams building in your own throat and tears sliding down your face when you remember what you’ve had to do, what you’ve had to live through, what choices you made and regretted or didn’t regret but feel like you should –

But Seungmin never wanted a perfect solution, never even expected one. You are all he needs – flawed, imperfect, riddled with rips and holes in the fabric of your existence but still somehow whole. Living. Breathing. And even on his worst days, opening his eyes after reliving a haze of fire and ash to see your face, to feel your touch, to hear his name fall from your lips…

Seungmin feels a little more alive.

Sometimes Seungmin wakes up and the world feels like it’s splintering at the edges. He wakes up and everything is tinted red and black with blood he’s spilt and ash he’s burnt, and suddenly he’s back in the barren landscape of broken glass and abandoned buildings, paranoia throbbing in his lungs. Sometimes he wakes up with death painting his vision and memories caught in his throat, aching to release themselves in raw, choked scream, and the thread binding him to life begins to wither again, fraying at the ends from the fire of his memories.

And then your hand closes over his, reaching up to brush back his hair as the sound of his name from your voice pulls him out of the daze. Your touch coaxes his body out of the memories, fingers wrapping gently around the thread that anchors him to life and strengthening it with your love, with your warmth, lending Seungmin the knowledge that you are there. That you understand. That you will love him, always, mending his broken pieces and tying his threads together the same way he does yours.

It’s not perfect. It never will be. Seungmin is certain he will have flashbacks and breakdowns far into the future, and you’re of the same mind. The experiences you’ve had can’t be unseen or undone, ever. Neither of you even wants them to. But when Seungmin can’t handle remembering, can’t handle the flashes of gore and death that he had to see, even had to contribute to, the warmth of your touch helps him forget until he’s ready to remember again.

“I love you,” he whispers into your shoulder, arms wrapped around your waist.

You lean back, kiss his forehead. Smile. “I love you too.”

Sometimes, Seungmin wakes up and nothing is okay.

You remind him that things will be, someday.

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 prayer for things to be okay once more </3)

[modecaisnow]

The Best Gift for the Big Guy

**This story contains themes suitable for those 18 years or older. This story contains themes of: Extreme Weight Gain, Farting, Sweating, and Size Difference. No relations in this one. HAPPY NEW YEARS AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL MY WATCHERS! (and to those who lurk ☺ )**

Malcolm, a freshman in college, comes home for the holidays hoping for some new workout gear for Christmas. Turns out the bulking powder his parents got him might not work the way it is expected to. Instead, it seems to almost double his weight with each shake! At first, Malcolm is disgusted by the weight gain, and the farting. However, with a supportive family of fitness lovers, and his two older brother's Chris (a heavy weight bodybuilder) and Dan (a fitness instructor), Malcolm might end up falling in love with his size.

Malcolm was the youngest out of three brothers. His older brothers – Chris and Dan, were both out of college and pursuing careers in Health and Fitness. Chris was a heavyweight bodybuilder, and Dan was a fitness instructor – their entire family took fitness very seriously. Malcolm always looked up to his brothers; he especially wanted to become a bodybuilder like his oldest brother, Chris. Malcolm had just finished his first semester at college, and wanted to start exercising so by the time he reached Chris’ age, he could be big like him. For Christmas, Malcolm wanted all new fitness gear: new workout clothes, protein powder, BCAAs, Pre-workout, and bulking powder to help speed up the process. On Christmas morning that was what he got. However, instead of the bulking powder, he asked for, his parents bought him a strange brand from a different country. “It was cheaper, and a worker at the GNC in town suggested it,” Malcolm’s dad said. “That’s okay! I’m sure it’ll work fine!” Malcolm said. Malcolm was never a muscular guy like his brothers. He grew up as the scrawny, geeky kinda kid. He was picked on throughout high school, and when he graduated college he found that people didn’t really seem to notice him when he went out with his friends. This, as well as his admiration for his brothers, is what really pushed him to try and beef up a bit. Right before bed, Malcolm decided to take a scoop of the bulking powder and make himself a shake. After drinking it, he quickly passed out on his full-sized mattress and dozed off into a deep slumber. He woke up the next day feeling heavy all over. His muscles felt strong, but his body was incredibly warm and wobbly. After rubbing his eyes, Malcolm finally woke up and saw that his hands had gotten fatter. Not just that, but so were his arms. Sagging, doughy ones replaced his once boney arms. He quickly threw off the blanket and got a better look at his body. His flat torso was now a landscape of rolls and blubber. His belly button was now a deep cave with a large fold of blubber sagging above it. Malcolm’s chest flopped down over the crest of his belly. He ran his fat fingers over his nipples – they were plump and sensitive. As he hoisted himself out of bed, the frame groaned and the floor creaked slightly. His thick thighs rubbed against each other as he rushed into the bathroom and hopped on the scale. Malcolm leaned forwards and looked over his belly as the scale hesitated and eventually showed the number “423” on the screen. “Holy shit, Malcolm?” Chris yelled as he walked in the bathroom wearing nothing but boxers. His blocky abs flexed as he looked at his now overweight brother. He walked around him and laughed, “Damn! How is this possible? You’re so fuckin’ fat, bro!” “I know!” Malcolm blurted. His now fat-sounding voice took him by surprise. “I’m disgusting!” “Shit…you’re ass puts mine to shame, Malcolm!” Chris put his back against Malcolm’s. Malcolm felt the individual striations of his brother’s gorilla-like back flexing against his wings of back fat. His brother bounced his bubble butt against Malcolm’s fat ass cheeks, making them ripple. Both of Malcolm’s ass cheeks were each double the size of Chris’ muscular, rump.  Malcolm felt an air bubble build in his gut and it slid out his backside. A wet sounding fart spewed out and stunk up the bathroom. Chris gagged, “Shit, bro! That was a nasty one. Anyways, you go put on some clothes, I’ll go get mom.” Malcolm tried to put on some clothes, but nothing fit. Chris broke the news to his family, and they all went to Malcolm to see. They were all shocked at Malcolm’s size. Never in his family history has someone been overweight like that. At 423 pounds, Malcolm was a large boy, he wasn’t the largest in the world, but he was rather big. Luckily, his caring mother decided to take his measurements to try and get him some clothes. In the meantime, they told Malcolm to not use the bulking powder anymore. However, that was all he could think about all day. Malcolm’s mouth watered as he thought about making another shake. Chris was able to find a comically sized speedo that his friends bought him as a joke back when he was bulking. It was meant for someone really large, so he lent it to Malcolm in the meantime. The speedo was bright orange and covered up his fat ass nicely. Some mounds of gelatinous lard sagged down from the bottom of it, and part of his ass crack was exposed out the top, but it worked. Malcolm did his best to cover up his front with the speedo. It was hard to see over his large belly, so he had to just feel around to make sure his junk was concealed. From what he felt, it wasn’t like his junk was really exposed anyway given his fat thighs and sizeable belly, but he tried to hide as much of his fatpad as possible inside the speedo. The front of the speedo dug into his blubbery fatpad right down the middle instead of holding it. He sat on the couch all day with his brothers and played video games. Periodically he would shift over to let out a fart, and his brothers would tease him for the stench. Malcolm would laugh as he would rip a fart on Dan, and Dan would cough and fan the air, making him an easy target in the game. Dan kept saying that Malcolm was cheating by farting, but Malcolm would just elbow him with his flabby arm, knocking Dan over off the couch. That night, Malcolm broke out in a cold sweat. All he could think about was the bulking powder. The taste was euphoric the last time he had some, and he really wanted more. He figured it wouldn’t hurt, so Malcolm hoisted himself out of bed, and waddled off to get another shake. He passed out the minute his chubby face hit the pillow. Malcolm woke up the next day feeling twice as heavy as before. Low and behold, he was. Malcolm lifted up his arms, even more, saggy flesh hung down from them. Even with his arms lifted over his head, he still felt doughy beef flopping against his armpits. He tossed off the sheet and got a better look at himself. Well, from lying on his back, all he saw were his saggy tits that were almost suffocating him, and his massive belly several feet in the air. He rolled onto his side, and his belly sloshed off the side of the bed. His ass fat inched over the opposite end of the full-sized bed. Malcolm huffed and puffed as he rose out of it. The bed frame groaned and sagged painfully. His massive body now flattened the mattress itself. Malcolm panted as he widened his stance and he shifted all of his mass. His belly flopped far over his lap, all the way to his knees. His fat thighs forced his legs to spread apart, and even as far apart as they could go, the folds on the insides of his thighs still swallowed his crotch in deep mounds and warm blubber. Eventually, with a few huffs and puffs, Malcolm made it onto his fat feet. The wooden floor beneath his feet sank downwards and groaned painfully as he waddled out of his room, squeezing out of his door, and into the bathroom. He stepped on the scaled and looked down. No matter how much he tried to suck in his flabby gut or look past it – Malcolm could not see what the number said. He just relaxed his blubbery belly, and let it all hang down. His belly was incredibly heavy, pulling down on him in the front. It sagged down towards his knees, flopping over most of his thighs. When he waddled, his thighs would not only need to swing around each other, but they needed to push against the heavy, flesh skirt that was his belly. Malcolm sighed, as he couldn’t see what the scale said. As he shifted his mass the scale let out a loud series of beeping sounds before snapping in half from his weight. Malcolm’s body ripped and wobbled as his fat feet slammed onto the floor. Malcolm felt a huge pain arise in the pit of his belly. He quickly applied pressure on it, by pushing down with his fat palms. Malcolm then moaned as a long, fog-horn fart belted out from behind him. The bathroom felt slightly warmer as a massive blast of gas polluted the bathroom air. His ass cheeks rippled like pond water as the humid scent spewed out. “Jesus Christ! What’s that smell?” Chris grunted as he waltzed into the bathroom. Chris was wearing nothing but a tight, blue poser. His bubble butt was stretching the back of it. He rubbed his eyes then got a good look of Malcolm, “Holy fuckin’ shit, bro! It happened again?” “Yeah!” Malcolm’s voice felt heavy and thick. It took a lot of energy to continue talking, “I don’t know why!” “It must be that bulking powder. Did you have any more last night?” Malcolm thought to himself. He was starting to like being massively heavy. He was now much larger than both his brothers combined. Malcolm figured he would have to lie, or else his family would throw away the bulking powder if they knew he was still making shakes with it. Malcolm panted, “No…no I didn’t drink any, Chris…” “Hmmm…Well, let’s go tell mom so we can get you some more clothes, okay?” Malcolm agreed. Chris helped guide him out of the bathroom and down the stairs. By the time Malcolm made it downstairs, his face was beat red and was sweating profusely. He panted and flopped down onto the tiny couch. Malcolm easily took up half of the 4-person seater. The cushions were squashed downward and the frame sank. His mom walked in and gasped at the sight of Malcolm’s doughy, naked rolls of blubber. He leaned to the side and ripped a massive fart. His entire body rippled as the blast of air spewed out from behind him. For the entire day, his mother figured out what size clothes he would need by measuring Malcolm. They also contacted a doctor to come to check up on him tomorrow morning. Throughout the rest of the day Malcolm consumed more foods than they could cook, his brother Dan made trips to Malcolm’s favorite fast food joints, and Chris played video games with him all day. Malcolm continued to pull the same tricks he did yesterday by farting on his brother to take his attention away from the screen. Chris would just slap Malcolm’s flabby ass shelf and push back playfully. Being a heavyweight bodybuilder, Chris was quite strong. However, Malcolm, being so substantial and viscous, wasn’t even moved by his brother’s retaliation. His body just rippled and wobbled. The feeling of Chris’ hands sinking deep into his lard felt kinda nice to Malcolm. He loved being so large. Taking up most of the space on the couch felt really euphoric. He wondered how it would be if he got even bigger. That night, Malcolm made himself another shake, but this time he added two scoops of the bulking powder. Right as his flabby body hit the sunken mattress, he passed out. The next morning, it was very hard for Malcolm to lift his hands up to reach his eyes. In fact, his entire face felt heavier. As his eyes opened his chubby facial cheeks blocked the bottom part of his view. He looked down at his flabby hands, which now looked almost unrecognizable. Malcolm’s arms were incredibly heavy. His forearms were now the same size that his massive, flabby upper arms were yesterday. Malcolm’s chest rose and fell with each laborious breath. The floor groaned as he shifted his gigantic mass around. Massive, undulating waves rocked through his body with each subtle movement. Eventually, with some maneuvering, he made it into a sitting position. Malcolm gasped at the sight of his gigantic rolls and folds of doughy flesh. His entire body looked like a gelatinous, tan mountain. He could feel the crushed mattress and bed frame somewhere deep under his gigantic ass cheeks, which spilled out behind and around him by several feet. His belly was now a series of folds piled upon one another with two, sagging tits flopping down the sides. Malcolm could no longer see his fat thighs; he could feel them deep under his massive belly, which spilled around and over them, spilling onto the floor. However, he could feel that his thighs were now covered in gelatinous rolls much like the rest of him. With a massive heave and all his strength, Malcolm rose up onto his fat feet. The ground beneath him groaned painfully and the floorboards popped and cracked. He stomped his way towards his door; his wide body knocked pictures off his walls and pushed his desk and dresser away. The entire room trembled with each movement. As he stood in front of the door, Malcolm noticed it was not just impossibly narrow, but also somewhat shorter than him. He had to sink his already flabby head down into his shoulder blubber. Malcolm then reached his arms through and went through at an angle. His belly quickly spilled out of the doorway, but then mounds of fleshy dough were caught on the sides of the entryway in his bedroom. Malcolm pushed harder and harder. More of his belly oozed out into the hallway along the floor. His ass cheeks rose up higher and higher as he slowly eased his way through the doorframe. The gelatinous consistency of the blubber made it simpler to squeeze through the doorway, but it was still too much flab to get through. The frame cracked and chunks of the wall on both sides collapsed as he shoved in harder. Malcolm ripped a massive fart before sliding out of the hole in the wall. FFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHRRRRRRTTTTT His ass cheeks clapped together as a massive blast of hot air spewed out. Malcolm moaned as his entire body jiggled and rippled from the force of the blast. The walls around him all shook violently from the deafening fart. Out of his room came Chris, covering his ears. “Earthquake!” Chris yelled as he stood in the doorway. He quickly gagged and realized what was actually happening. “Oh… my… god!” The family all gathered around as Malcolm’s last farts bubbled out of his blubbery ass crack. Chris and Dan teased him a bit and compared their toned rumps to his massive one. Chris even brushed his tight butt against Malcolm’s and it sank deep into the blubbery flesh. They helped Malcolm down the stairs, which was difficult given his massive belly was sliding along the ground, and his ass cheeks were flopping against the stairs behind him. Eventually, they guided him into the living room, where he parked his gigantic ass down on the couch. Malcolm immediately farted again as his ass cheeks spilled out over the armrests on both sides of the couch. FFFFFFUUUUUURRRRRRHHHHHHTTTTTTT “Nice one, big guy!” Chris said as he elbowed one of Malcolm’s many rolls. The other members of his family all gagged and coughed. “Thanks…I’m getting hungry!” Malcolm grunted. His family quickly went to work on feeding the gelatinous mound of flesh taking up a considerable amount of space in their living room. He continued to fart and rub his doughy flesh, or what parts of it he could reach, as they all continued to gather food for him. Dan tried to get Malcolm to play video games with him, but Malcolm couldn’t quite get his hands close enough together for the controller. Not that the controller even lasted long in his massive, blubbery fingers – it was crushed to pieces almost immediately. Malcolm just laughed it off. His brothers eventually played video games together and Malcolm would just watch. They sat on the ground leaning against the base of his belly. Malcolm would shift to his right or left, making his flab slosh heavily against one side of the couch, so he could fart and let the air escape from deep under his flab. Some of the rancid odors bubbled out from under his belly after being trapped in some of his underbelly lumps. Dan and Chris gagged as the potent fumes polluted the air around them. Soon, the entire house was stained with Malcolm’s rank farts. By the time the doctor came, Malcolm’s body was covered in sweat. The doctor examined every aspect of Malcolm possible and took skin, blood, and sweat samples to run some tests. The doctor also took a sample of the bulking powder. He told Malcolm that the results could take some time, and suggested staying away from any more bulking powder until they find out what caused the sudden weight gain. The doctor floated the idea of scanning Malcolm’s brain to see if there was a pituitary tumor. However, the thought of not only getting the giant blob of doughy flesh out of the house but also squeezing him into a machine made it impossible. The doctor left leaving everyone in the family optimistic. Malcolm, on the other hand, was optimistic about the lifestyle he was going to start leading. Malcolm continued to eat all day long, requesting more and more food. His rolls and folds undulated in powerful waves with every subtle movement. Sometimes the ripples would collide and slap together loudly. He leaned back on the couch and the frame of it gave out one last pop before snapping into pieces. The massive blob of lard flopped to the ground. The entire house shook viciously. Malcolm’s rolls spilled out farther around him, flopping against the back wall and knocking over his brothers who were leaning against his belly. “Mmmpph… my bad” was all Malcolm said. ---EPILOGUE--- Malcolm now lives in the family’s garage. There, he had a huge entrance and exit for when they back up the truck to take him places. It was also well ventilated so he did not need to hold back farts, not that he ever did. The entrance to the house from the garage was also expanded so that Malcolm could still waddle in and spend dinner with the family. Not that he could sit at the table, but he could sit near enough so his belly sloshed against it. Usually, he sat in the living room and for dinner, he would wobble his gelatinous rolls to face the dining room. Malcolm ended up getting clothes that could fit him. He wore a massive, jockstrap, the straps of which squeezed his ass cheeks so much that they could not be seen from all the lard. On top of that, he wore large sweatpants and a massive t-shirt. Both of which were stained with sweat and food grease. Sweat stains had completely soaked the deep ass crack on his sweatpants. Every fold of blubber produced so much heat and sweat that they too stained his clothing. Malcolm spends his days now eating from his trough and farting non-stop. The gas had become so bad, that his brothers had to place a tube in his ass crack to displace some of the farts outside. From the outside, it looked like a smokestack for a factory, but instead of producing smoke it produced a rancid, dark green haze. His brothers also kept him fed the entire day. When his brothers stopped hearing him grunting and snorting from inside the garage, they would come in and dump wheelbarrows full of fattening slop for their brother to eat. Malcolm would then return to shoving his face deep into the trough, letting his folds and rolls spill out all over the cracking, cold cement floor of the garage. His body rocked back and forth as he grunted and oinked loudly while he ate. The force of his blubber’s powerful undulations caused the entire garage to tremble. The life Malcolm started to live was not what he expected. He thought that he would be able to get people’s attention by becoming a large, muscular bodybuilder. Someone that people looked up to, and did not dare mess with. However, he found that gaining mounds of lard had the same results, but it was much easier – no pain, but plenty of gain. Malcolm loved his massive size and was excited for his friends in college to see what he looks like.

[noah-moth-cursed-chaos]

Museums and Abstract Art (A Quinnby Fic) chapter three

Trilby was wondering what in his handler’s right mind made her think him and Chris would do well on a job together. Yes he’d come to consider the other somewhat of a friend but, they had entirely different methods. Trilby went in undetected, did what he had to, and left, with as little destruction as possible and doing all he could to avoid any deaths. Chris took a more... guns blazing approach to things. Trilby wasn’t eager to have his good impression of this man ruined when he saw him live up to his blood thirsty reputation. Still, he waited outside of the ministry building for the other. Chris walked out with a smile on his face, seeming almost *excited* for this. They were being sent to close a rift of some sort, some idiot’s attempt to bring something that belonged in another realm here. Whatever they were trying to summon didn’t come through, but some smaller creatures and a few demons had. “Hey partner! Ready to go kick some demon ^ss?”

“.. I’m ready to do what we have to to get this job done.” Trilby said, “Come on, we’re taking my car.”

“Well someone isn’t very chipper while he works.” Chris said, following the other to said car, “You don’t like field work or something?”

Trilby glanced at him, “I’m fine with it, I just prefer to take it seriously.” He got into the car, turning the engine on.

“Oh.” Chris climbed in the passenger side, “Yeah I’m not good at that.”

Chris was used to Trilby seeming uptight and serious, he’d only seen the guy smile maybe *once* and it was so quick he wasn’t sure it happened. But outside of work at least he’d respond to Chris’ crappy jokes and pestering. However, after their short conversation Trilby had gone stubbornly silent, probably going over details of the case in his head. Deciding to break the silence, Chris turned on the radio, classical music played quietly. “Ew boring.” He scoffed, turning it to the rock channel and cranking the volume. Now that got a response out of the ex thief sitting next to him.

“Did you just insult *my* music and then turn on that sh^t?” Trilby reached over, switching the channel back.

“Dude nobody under 80 listens to f^cking classical!” Chris argued, “How do you not fall asleep listening to it?”

“It’s nice, calm, I like calm things.” The thief scoffed, “Don’t touch my radio.”

“Fine, fine, but calm stuff is overrated and calm music sucks.” Chris leaned back the chair, putting his arms under his head.

“Maybe if you didn’t hate calm stuff so much you wouldn’t be so insufferable.”

“Hey nobody said you *had* to hang out with me!”

“Today I do have to, for work.”

“Yeah, yeah, so, what’s the plan when we get there?”

Once the two arrived at the scene, Trilby was noticeably tense. This place felt... off, the same way the hotel did almost. He didn’t like it. It didn’t help that this was his first field mission since the hotel too. It was an old warehouse, it looked like it’d been a while since it’d been used. A good, isolated location to do something stupid. He took a deep breath and got out of the car, this wasn’t the hotel. It wouldn’t be as bad, it’d probably be easy. Chris would be more concerned if there was something too wrong here.

Chris got out too, reaching into his trench coat, “We should stay close to each other in here.”

“Yeah, that’s what we talked about.” Trilby responded.

“Yeah well, it’s important, long as we’re together there shouldn’t be an issue but I heard you’re more the pacifist type, you wouldn’t last against a demon alone. And we don’t know what else is here.” Trilby didn’t know if he should be offended. He was sure he could hold his own against a demon. How bad could they be? When they first walked in it was quiet, nearly too quiet. Chris seemed calm enough however, so Trilby wasn’t worried.

“So.. is a demon actually like the red horned things?” Trilby asked.

“Sometimes, they come in tons of forms, most of them are more disturbing than that though.” Chris said, “They look worse than they are if ya know what you’re doing.” Great. Good. Fine. This was fine. As they traveled further into the warehouse the off feeling got stronger, and stronger, suddenly a creature with one bug like leg, it’s head a bulbous mass of pulsating flesh, it let out a low gurgle of a growl that made Trilby’s skin crawl, before coming right for him, it took him a second to respond, before lifting his grolly.

He tased it at the same time Chris put about five bullets in it. The blood looked more like pus, and it smelled like nothing he’d ever smelled before. He had to put in genuine effort not to throw up at the stench. “Ooookay, more than just demons here, yep, don’t know what that is.” Chris said, gripping a pistol tightly, “God it reeks doesn’t it?”

“Let’s get moving.” Trilby wondered if his words betrayed how freaked out he was, he was trying to keep his composure.

“They must’ve been trying to get to the realm of magic if they got something like that coming after them.” Of course Chris had to confirm Trilby’s fears. “But they failed, so that’s good.” Yeah like that makes it better.

They encountered a few similar creatures, bloated and disgusting and just... not anything that belonged on earth, before coming across something that at first glance looked human. Like an injured human. Trilby was sure any demon would look at least as bad at the other things they’d been fighting, and rushed over, “Hey, are you hur-“

“Get away from that!” Trilby was shocked as Chris ran over and practically threw him back, before the thing stood up, revealing a twisted and disfigured face, sharp claws, and other things that made it clear it wasn’t some helpless wanderer, it lunged for Chris, quicker than either had expected, and tackled him to the ground. Chris’ gun was knocked out of his hand, the two wrestled for mere moments before Trilby grabbed the gun and fired into the thing’s head, it screeched, before turning to the ex thief, eyes burning coals in its head. Chris quickly retrieved a book from his trenchcoat, reciting something that sounded Latin, and in the demon’s place was now... an energy drink?

Chris got up, picking up the drink, opening it, and... chugging it.

Trilby was so confused on what he’d seen, and why Chris was drinking the demon drink.

“Book of transformations.” Chris said, “Useful when you’re fighting something stronger than you, given you’re lucky.” He grinned cheekily, “And I’ve got amazing luck.” The claw marks and rapidly forming bruises showed otherwise but Chris seemed significantly less concerned than Trilby was. “Let’s get moving again, I wanna get this done with before you try to help some other demonic stranger.”

“I thought they were human.” Trilby countered, pausing as he walked after the other, “Are you okay?”

“I’ve had worse.”

Chris was shocked a rift that had let that much through wasn’t more trouble to close, and that the two didn’t get more hurt than a few scratches on himself and Trilby getting slammed into a wall by something that looked a bit too much like it used to be human for either’s tastes. Trilby however was clearly more concerned with the situation, Chris was vaguely aware the other mainly went on retrieval missions and stuff of that sort, stuff that was usually much less volatile. When they got to the car Chris pulled some bandages out, “Are you bleeding anywhere?” He asked the other agent, who looked at him as if he had two heads.

“You should be more concerned about yourself.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. That was easy compared to my normal jobs.” Chris said, starting to wrap up his own injuries, he could get better care at the infirmary but for right now making sure he didn’t get an infection was always a good move.

“What are your *normal* jobs?” Trilby seemed bewildered.

“Infestations, cults gone wrong, usually stuff that’s been going for a good while, definitely more organized than what we just faced.”

“And you do those jobs alone?” Trilby started the car and began to drive, but didn’t hide the shock in his words.

“I get it done fine. I haven’t failed yet.”

“But it doesn’t seem safe.”

Chris was confused, “Trilby, do you really think ‘safe’ matters all that much? Alive is good, our job is a death sentence. They send you at stuff they *think* you’re good at until one day you’re not good *enough* and then you’re gone.”

“They seemed concerned about my safety after the hotel..” Trilby frowned at the other.

“Yeah well, you’re connected to a god, I’m just some wack job who knows a few incantations, you’re more valuable to them than me.”

@i-go-unwillingly

[fandom-gt]

Harry Potter and the Cursed Object

Chapter 1 of a multi-chapter commission.

Additional Details

Harry and Sirius are living together when harry touched a cursed object shrinking him. Sirius is furious and makes Harry his personal relief toy.

Sirius warned him not to touch it the first day they moved in. Out of everything in the house, this particular artifact was the most dangerous for him specifically. It’s a spinning orb held in place on a base sort of like a globe, but rather than the world there are just intricate runes etched along its gold surface. A family heirloom, he’d said, that used to belong to his father. He seemed grim and a little disgusted by it, and refused to tell Harry exactly what it was. Just that it was cursed, and that under no circumstances should he lay a hand on it.

It took about six weeks for Harry to break that rule.

He’d had a nightmare, felt a splitting headache radiating from his scar, and got up to wander quietly through the house until it passed. His feet carried him to the old and dusty library, and the sight of glowing caught his attention. The orb was spinning soothingly, some bright moving light snaking through the runes like sunlight around and around. Compelling him. Calling to him.

Couldn’t be that bad, could it? Curiosity ran through him, and before he realized what he was doing he reached out to touch the thing. That’s all he remembered before things went black.

When he woke up again, bright sunlight was streaming through the windows, and an earthquake rattled the floor beneath him.

Except that it wasn’t.

Except that the great, terrifying booms stopped in front of him in the form of a pair of boots so bloody massive he barely came up to the tread. The rubber soles reach just under the top of his head if he were standing, several feet above that they curve around toes and block out his vision of anything until he lays flat on his back to stare up. Even then, it’s towering fabric and hanging robes, two massive knees and a set of thighs, a crotch, and that’s all he can see from where he lay.

He doesn’t even recognize who it is at first. Not even after an unsettlingly loud voice starts to speak, not for a few seconds, because it sounds a pitch deeper than he’s used to.

“What did I tell you, Harry?” It’s barked out with audible heat, loud as thunder, resonant enough to make him wince a little. “What did I say about touching that?”

“I’m sorry,” Harry calls up, voice just a little too hesitant to be a yell. Brave though he may be, he’s still rendered speechless and terrified by the absolutely unimaginably large man above him -- Harry still can’t see his face. “I didn’t mean t-”

“I told you not to touch it, that was the only rule I gave you,” he continues on as though he didn’t hear a word Harry was saying -- and it occurs to him maybe he didn’t it.

Mass roars toward him at a speed that feels terrifying considering the size -- it’s like a mountain descending from the sky, and he can’t help but flinch even though he knows Sirius isn’t going to crush him. Knees jut out and disappear a the edges of his vision, crotch comes down to hover almost above him to replace every other inch of what he can see.

“Two weeks,” it’s closer now, but Sirius’s voice lowered in volume to a dangerous, firm tone. “It’ll wear off in two weeks, so that’s how long your punishment is going to last.”

Swooping in front of the fabric-covered bulge is a hand so enormous he doesn’t even recognize what it is at first. Most of the fingers are larger than he is, the middle one nearly a full head taller. It descends claustrophobically, appendages touching down on all sides around him with an audible thud. He watches callouses drag across the floorboard picking up dust Sirius probably can’t even see, closing in on him like a cage. A massive thumb presses against his right side, an index finger at his shoulder, middle finger at his hip. They pry him off the ground squeezing not tight enough to hurt, but at least as hard as a firm hug. 

And then the ascent begins. He rushes through air so fast it makes his Firebolt look like an antique. The ground disappears so quickly it sends his stomach swooping, another spike of instinctive fear curling in his gut.

Sirius doesn’t lift him all the way up to his face -- nor his chest, nor even his naval. He can’t tell at first because palm takes up so much of his vision, only movement at his far right peripheral catches his attention and he realizes where he is.

Craning his neck over and down, he can just make out the waistband of Sirius’s trousers. Another massive hand wraps around the edge of the fabric and tugs, pulling a button twice as large as a hubcap through a button hole. They then deftly split the fabric over his zipper and curl around the metal bit. He’s confused beyond comprehension watching and hearing it drag down, watching his waistband separate to reveal the white boxer briefs underneath.

He watches a thumb hook into the waistband of his pants and pull, tugging it a few inches from his pelvis, and he doesn’t put two and two together until the hand holding him starts soaring again toward the gap.

“Wait, wait, wait, what are you doing, what- Sirius, don’t put me in there- don’t put me in there-” Yelled out in alarm, still without any indication he’s been heard. The descent begins; the waistband passes by him as he’s lowered, rising up far above his head and blocking out his view of nearly everything but Sirius’s hand and the distant light of the ceiling.

And then Sirius’s fingers open up without warning, and he suddenly plummets. 

His back hits a cotton canopy, bouncing him gently and sending him sliding down a steep grade until things level out and he comes to rest at the bottom. Rather, at the supportive groin area of the boxer briefs.

He stares up at what’s in front of him, mind gone blank, confused and horrified and affronted all at once.

It’s a cock. Obviously that’s what would be in here, but it’s hard to understand that even while looking at it. It’s an enormous cock, flacid, hanging heavy over a set of testicles that are laying lazily on the taut fabric floor. The slit of it is barely a foot above his head, it almost feels like it’s staring him in the face. His balls are sagging heavily, and Harry’s feet are scarce inches from touching the seam between them. Either one of them is larger than he is tall in diameter. Wiry hair is sparse there, but gets thicker above the base of his cock and farther up his pelvis.

Sirius holds his underwear open for long seconds, bent forward slightly so that Harry can finally see his face through the wide gap in his ceiling. His grey eyes stare dispassionately down at him from a mile up, though his cock blocks off Harry’s view of his chin. 

Harry notices flecks of gold in his irises that weren’t there before, the same color as the object that caused this mess. Dread hits him again -- there’s no way Sirius is in his right mind. This has to be part of the curse. Except what the hell is he to do about it at three inches tall?

“Given the amount of stress you’ll be causing me, it’s only fitting that your punishment be to relieve that stress,” Sirius informs him without any sympathy or apology in his tone. “I’ll be using you to get off until you’re back to normal, and I suspect that’ll cement the lesson. You’ll be spending the duration in there unless I pull you out. I expect you to behave, or I’ll be adding on another week.”

And then the ceiling begins to close, with Sirius still looking down at him until the waistband finally hits pelvis. The compression of the elastic drags Harry forward that last bit of space he’d had, forcing him unstoppably into Sirius’s privates. He’s flush with Sirius’s sack all the way up to the neck, where the head of his cock shoves heavily against his face, pushing him into the fabric with a bit too much pressure. He squirms, pushes at it, finally ducks down so that it springs up over his head -- but it means he’s trapped in a tight pocket underneath Sirius’s cock head and gently buried into the loose skin of his balls. 

That’s how Harry spends the rest of his evening -- trapped against testicles, struggling to keep himself from slipping under them when Sirius walks around. Desperately fighting not to let them roll on top of him when Sirius sits. Stuck staring up in disgust and awe when he reaches down to wrap those massive digits around his soft cock to whip it out and take a piss.

After several hours of this, Sirius sits again. A few seconds later Harry can hear the television -- volume far too loud for his comfort, clear as a bell through all the clothing.

He hears the popping of a button. The rumble of a zipper. The flesh around him moves, balls pulling in a little, cock twitching, and then dim blue evening telly light illuminates Harry’s room just before Sirius’s hand invades. It peels his soft cock away from the top of Harry’s head, lifting it up and out of the way. His fingertips dip underneath it, absently seeking out Harry by feeling along his balls and along Harry’s back.

When they find him, they don’t pull him out like he’d have hoped. 

No, instead they push him in. They press against his back, shoving him deep in between Sirius’s balls, which fold all around him and swallow his body. The fingertips retreat, and Harry’s fully encompassed. It’s not idle. Flesh moves around him like the tide, rolling against his body, tugging him in, flexing around him as Sirius massages his sack around Harry.

He does this for nearly five minutes, and it’s a struggle to keep skin from pushing into his mouth and smothering him.

He’s sweating by the time Sirius peels them open and manipulates his tiny body out, tugging it from beneath them and dragging him five or six feet up. His cock’s half hard now, he must’ve turned himself on doing that to Harry. It curves up toward his belly. Sirius smashes him face-first into the malleable skin just beneath the head of his dick, and then the flat of his fingers line up against Harry’s entire body.

They push and pull him into the flesh, rubbing him in circles against soft skin covering the rock deep beneath it -- it doesn’t stay deep for long. The more Harry circles a bundle of nerves around the vein, the harder the column of flesh he’s pressed against gets. Soon enough it’s rock solid, and it’s less of a circling push as it is a filthy grind. 

He can hear the telly in the background. Sirius still has his underwear on. He’s lazy and slow and absent, fondling himself with his hand stuffed down his pants, unthinkingly rubbing his godson into his sweet spot for the next twenty or thirty minutes while his program’s on.

He’ll worry about actually focusing on it once it hits commercial. He’ll want to get off on Harry quickly before it starts again.

[art-now-south-korea]

image-face, GyoBeom An

I was born in 1973, and my parents were farmers. In 1999, I got enrolled into an art college with a dream of becoming an artist. I am currently a father, a husband, and a painter. The duality and struggle between a domestic life of being a parent and spouse with a working life became a subject matter to my work. My work expresses conflicts and emotions aroused from distinct social roles through figurative subjects that ranges from models and cartoon characters, to gods. For each piece, I start with a simple drawing on a canvas of a chosen figure/ image. Then, I go into a constant exploration of constructing and deconstructing the image with obsessive amount of acrylics or oils to ease out my emotions. I adapt myself and live out the society through such actions. Painting, and Painting Over: Closing In On the alternation of repetition and reversion in An Gyo Beom’s portrait paintings Yi Hyun(Art Criticism) Francis Bacon asked himself how he differed from dead animal meat at a butcher shop. He used to say that more cruel is the scene of a live meat that drools with saliva over the sight of another meat hanging at a butcher shop. No matter how grotesque the scene of meat as portrayed in his paintings, Francis Bacon claimed that they are not nearly as brutal as human life in reality and the horror we experience in them. In the likewise manner, An Gyo Beom’s portrait paintings evoke in its viewers the strong feeling of confusion and the sense of ferocity that borders insanity. The material aspect of An’s paintings — fiercely pasted lumps of paint over the surface of canvas that easily exceeds the height of an average male — amplifies the impact of the content. Stylistic detail is where An’s painting differentiates itself from the great Francis Bacon: whereas Bacon’s meat can be compared to the meat of prime quality that was chopped and handled by a skilled butcher, An’s meat resembles scraps of meat left over from the butchering process. Leftover is often synonymous with low-grade. But the things we throw away can often tell us clues that can provide us with insights on what we as a community are eager to deny or forget, knowingly or unknowingly. An employs various media for his work. They often come in two kinds: Pen and pencil are dedicated to contouring and detailed portrayal; Oil and acrylic paints are used to express chaotic and abstract qualities. If the former emulates and builds human figures, the latter dissects and deconstructs such figures. If we were to compare the former to a bone structure, the latter can be likened to flesh and bowels. That is, of course, metaphorically speaking and not in an anatomical sense. Let’s dig in further into the artist’s day-to-day method. An constructs human figures with the most delicate of his media: pen or pencil; subsequently, he paints over completely the so-formed figures; or sometimes instead of complete cover-up, he deliberately leaves hints of the original figure by unveiling traces of human form in a subtle manner, say, a hint of an eye here and a nuance of lips there. As a consequence, a viewer can recognize not much else than the pure materiality elicited by the crumbled mass of wildly mixed paints. It is not to say, however, that An’s methods, apparently tilted towards abstract style, merely aims at totally concealing the figurative sketches with paints. The same goal could have been easily achieved by just starting out with paints in the first place. The artist appears to be purposefully attacking the preliminary sketches: he pokes, scratches, and glides over his figurative sketches, as if out of temperamental outbursts, with palpable intent. Hence, it may be reasonable to assume that although the pencil sketches are destined to be hidden eventually beneath the paint layer, they do seem to have a distinct purpose of existence. It seems safe to presume that An intends the traces of his procedure to be visible. This whole process resembles an act of a person in a constant and desperate struggle to forget something. Again, the artist would have just skipped the sketch part, if his purpose was the total elimination of it. If this is the case, what is the artist so desperately trying to put behind him, beyond the horizon of oblivion, perse? The subjects of An’s paintings range from models and manga characters to painting classics, and even God. They tend to vary but have one thing in common: they’re all socially accepted generic images. One thing to note in specific is that An portrayed professional models and rarely, if ever, painted off of his friends or family. What is the socially accepted role of the models? A person who is a model is scarcely regarded past his or her occupational description. Models serve the role of promoting or enhancing the value of the main products and thus consumed as human “samples”. Manga characters and iconic images of God are not much different from models. They are quite the universal and unidiosyncratic signs that effectively appeal to the masses across many cultures and regions. An collects images on the internet and recreates them rather honestly on his canvas, as though he consents to their given meanings and roles. In the course of his painting, however, he inadvertently shifts attitude. As if suddenly grown disgusted at his own conformist images, he adds to them the abnormal shapes such as horns, dogs, or even dragons. He obsessively paints over the initial image until he completely turns it around. In the Baconian sense, by the act of altering the reality An forbids his work to end up yet another one of those portrait paintings and imprints a violent subjective mark in his work. He appears to be doing so for the purpose of creating a false that is truer than the truth. The role asked of individuals by a State or a society resembles that of a model. Individuals are called upon as a mere component, regardless of their individual context, then consumed. All member are required to act accordingly to the cause of their community. The pressure to act as an ethical, compliant member of the society is almost inescapable. To be specific, the standardized social role that is cast upon a middle-aged man in the Korean society does not allow an artist any latitude necessary for his artistic practice. If you comply and carry out the role of a model as expected, you end up a model. If you don’t, you are labeled a questionable character, and the social retribution follows. In this circumstance, An chooses to consciously deny the dilemma. He does so by way of repetitively painting (about repression), and painting (about his impulse). In the face of the unavoidable situation, the artist oscillates: he chooses to comply one moment, then retracts his compliance in another. By doing so, he can defer his impulse to flee. The notion of oblivion logically requires the preceding act of memorizing. An is on a crusade to his personal calling, ceaselessly balancing himself between where he stands and where he’d like to be.

https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-image-face/781688/4344516/view

[mushykat]

i am failing 4 classes

I’m sick and I don’t like it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, and I don’t like how it hurts to wake up. I don’t like how the feeling of hearing damage is the only thing grounding me to a plain of nothing but heartache and tragedy. I hate how much I’ve let myself spiral. I’m tumbling down a black spire that I’ve built for myself. What lays at the bottom will hopefully kill me when I connect with the waters below. 

Sometimes I want to draw. The picture I want to use to express the swirling mass of razors and burnt scraps of thoughts that plague my consciousness never turns out how I want them to. I don’t want to sit down and put time into something that I cannot love. It’s why I refuse to try and dig myself from the pit laden with the shreds of memories I hold on to in order to justify the horrible things I see. 

I don’t want to write as a career. A career path means choosing a secondary school, and it means going and applying myself to something. I can’t put the effort into keeping myself afloat in the sea of that of which troubles me, and yet I’m expected to weigh myself down with books full of repeated sentences that will suffocate me with a bad credit score and the inability to apply for a loan. 

I don’t want money to be spent on me for college. I’m going to do bad and eventually give up, like I always do. I never apply myself to anything like I should. I know better. As I sit and write, and let the crisp feeling of the screen sear the exhaustion ridden pupils I’ve tormented as such the night prior, I have assignments I haven’t turned in. If I can’t bother to not fail an 11th grade math class over my own impotence, then how am I supposed to swallow down the poison that is higher education. 

What’s the point of using flowery language to cover the corpse of what I write? What will the sprouts of tulips and daisies do against the rot of myself. Why must I try and work every word into an intricate tapestry to illustrate the images my hands refuse to draw. Why do I try to form the pictures my mind refuses to accept of what I see of myself. Why am I fucking sick? 

I can feel the rise and fall of my chest, and yet my lungs always feel empty. I can feel the beat of a heart cradled behind the intertwined digits of marrow that tuck it away in a forest of fleshy fat, and yet I wonder if I am truly living. Is this all life is to be? Am I expected to carry on in the future. Carry on and carrion are easy to mix up, I presume. But what a simple mistake for such a bloated carcass such as myself.

I feel like if I try to chase after the fleeting ideological wisps of smoke that arise from the coals I smother, and do in fact explore writing as a career, I fear I will run out. I think the only mirrors I can truly accept are the ones others have pointed towards me. The only thing I can see anymore is warped and distorted by the heat of a long burnt-out inferno that ate away at the only thing I could hold dear to myself. 

These little mirrors sit behind my eyes, and reflex off of each other. They shine beams of light to one another, as some sick paradox that I am too shaded to partake in. I want to see the light, but I fear what I may see if I allow illumination into the crevices of where I hide. The dark is cold and safe, and lets me shelter away from that which wishes to harm me. 

The world isn’t out to get you, after all. The only mantra I can remember clearer than the burning gazes of reflected disdain directed towards me. Are the shattered mirrors that try to piece my reality together warped from the heat of myself or others? I think I know who ignited me, but I would rather let the coals die away as I wish for myself. I envy the carbon lumps sitting in the sludge pooled at my feet. 

I am one of the ants that get burned alive under a child’s magnifying glass. I can still feel the heat enveloping me, and can taste the smoke as it hangs around my throat in a familiar noose. I welcome it, even. Why else would letting the smog from burning leaves powder kisses of slime and tar across my lungs? I relish the taste I’m left with. It is impure.

Impurity is the only state I know. Disgrace and dissidence is the only way for me to view myself through the shattered lenses that have been scratched and dulled with age. I wish I could pry them out of my skull with the screwdriver that sits in the drawer on my desk. Maybe if I slipped them out of my head and gave them a good rinse, I could have a clean look at the world around me. Maybe I could be happy. 

What’s to say they aren’t responsible? Holding tender orbs with a sheen of slime from the crevice they reside, smeared with the crimson shame that comes with self mutilation. I wonder if I could view myself with such an event. Could I get a good look? Could I watch myself desecrate the corpse that I walk in? 

Maybe my eyes aren’t the problem. The ants nibbling behind my eyes made my sight throb, as if what I’m viewing of the world is wrong. It’s never right, though. Maybe the ants are just more noticeable when I decide to grace them with acknowledgement. But they’re not real, of course. The idea of something being out of place would require something to be wrong, which there isn’t. I know because you told me. :)

I hate writing. It’s horrible and I’m disgusted with anything I read from myself. I do not approve of the venom that drips from my lips, and yet I refuse to pull my fangs. Maybe I could shatter the rest of my teeth while I’m at it. I could run my tongue over the raw indents where the abused shards of enamel I refused to care for would be. But since when do I care about taking care of myself? I’m scared of what I write. Every word is a little sliver of the mirrors that have cracked behind my eyes. The tears that fall hold shards of the reflective glass, and lands upon the scarred hands with which I type. I’m scared that the mirrors will be gone, and I’ll be forced to see the reality of what is before me in its entirety. And yet, I’m more scared of running out of escaping sorrow.

Why would I pursue a career in writing when I don’t know of what I write? Why would I try to make money off of a skill I do not have? What’s the point of humoring the idea that I can write? The illness that lets the steady drip of sickly ichor flow through me is the only reason I can type as I do. It’s the one who puppeteers this horrid poppet of flesh bound sinew and bone. If I am not sick, then how will I write? 

I cannot write. There is nothing to write about. Any of the scorch marks sitting heavy in my chest, and any of the burns lingering against my face from the reflected magnitude of the heat of the abhorrence of the mirrors others hold are from fault of my own. I am the reason I am sick, and I am the reason I refuse to get better. The feeling of the keys popping under my fingers is proof enough that I am not dead, and yet I let myself make allusions as to why I can only experience a dullness in place of stimulations. 

Every time I try to sit down and write like this, I try to crack a piece off of the mirrors. They’re melted into a grotesque putty, and it’s not delicate work to try and pry shards of it apart. I can swing and shatter the mass of heathenry, but then I would have to stare into the space between the shards. The spaces where I can see. 

How long can I chisel at a deformity before it is gone? Doesn’t the idea of writing to clear my mind imply that there's an end goal. That perhaps I can someday empty myself of the acid that eats away at the tissue behind my eyes. Doesn’t that mean that I’m the reason I’m ‘sick’? I don’t have the right to be upset. I know this. It’s my fault. 

The way others see me is the same, even if they claimed to have shifted their realities. Is it so easy? Why haven’t I done it for myself? I know why. I am lazy and prefer the glorification of necrophagous fantasies over the reality that the only rot in me is my own. The only poison that reaches me comes from inside. The bed of soil I rest in is free from mites and grubs, and yet I wrote. The only desecration is my own. 

As I write and try to put these pathetic ideas against a sickly backdrop of a fake shade of white, I can’t help but yawn., It seems to be tiring to do the most basic of tasks. Sometimes I wish that I could lay amongst the blankets marred with the imbecility of myself and not be roused. I want to slumber for the rest of time, and let the roots overtake me. Maybe as my flesh is eaten away and my bones are dissolved by a hundred rains, I could finally rest. 

I wish that I could bash my head against the wall and shatter everything going on inside of me. If it was in pieces, maybe it would be easier to weep under the rug. I want to hide it from myself. I don’t have anything wrong with me, I am just a hypochondriac that has done too much research. I know seven people who could agree with me. I live with three of them. Even if stories change, the words that linger are the ones that left bruises. Lying can’t fix the purple and yellow that litters my mind. 

Sometimes I wish I wasn’t like this. Sometimes I wished I was loved. But why would it change anything? I would be loved and broken. I would be shattered and adored. I would be coddled and ruined. What difference would circumstances make when I’m the one who sets the table against me? I’m the reason the betting is so low. I picked the numbers, and I knew what I was doing. I’m aware of the horrible things I do, and yet I do them. I know I’m failing classes, and yet I write with blurry vision to try and alleviate a fake weight keeping me from breathing. 

I don’t like school. I wish I didn’t have to go. But what else would I do with my day? I’m stupid. I’m tired of being told I’m not. I don't know the things people think I do. I only know things I can remember, and things that I care about. Neither of those apply to much. My mind’s empty enough that the few thoughts I can hold are the only thing keeping me from falling back into the static burning the edges of my subconscious. 

My neck hurts.