#Dead dove: do not open

[librarytraveller]

Hei hyvää yötä, kirjoitin ja julkaisinkin!! Ja julkaisen lisää.

Ootteko ikinä miettineet, miten ihan hirveen toksista ja epätasapainosta Lammion ja Koskelan suhteesta saisi? Aattelin kirjotella raapaleita aiheesta niin nytpä voitte miettiä!! Ketjussa on vasta ensimmäinen, mut lupaan ainakin toisen tällä viikolla. (Koska näitä on valmiina pino, mut ne vaatii vähän oikolukua.)

[konigsblog]

imagine waking up chained to a metal table, with a doctor who wants to do all sorts of experiments on you... (⁠*⁠´⁠ω⁠｀⁠*⁠)

[verieas]

BIG ASS EXTREME MEGA TOTK SPOILERS

DO NOT LOOK AT THIS SHIT IF YOU DON’T WANT LEAKS

MIND YOU THEY LIVE TOGETHER IN THE HATENO HOUSE WHERE THERE IS ONLY ONE BED

“when i felt something… like a warm loving embrace, i woke up”

ZELINK REALLLLLLL

[iguessigotta]

Eddie gluskin with a pregnant darling maybe

you know what's funny about Eddie Gluskin being one of my faves? i am terrified of pregnancy just headcanons for now - this ended up being more an exploration of the inherent horror of this situation than anything shippy, whoops. also kind of an au where Waylon does not survive his encounter with Eddie 18+ just in case CW: injuries, noncon, hostage, pregnancy, suicide mention cannibalism(?) probably more i missed. (no r*** - it is alluded to tho) i mean it's Eddie. the man is a walking billboard for "dead dove do not eat" ok lmao

being Eddie’s darling wife was a living nightmare

you’d been one of the few employees allowed near Eddie, and he’d developed a….thing…for you. well, not you, really, more the idea of you

and when the Mount Massive asylum fell into chaos, you were one of the unlucky people trapped inside

when Eddie found you he was quick to make his image of you your new reality

whether you wanted it or not

you’d initially fought him at every turn. unfortunately, Eddie had a temper, and was prone to snapping with no warning

you’d learned that lesson the hard way - your forearm was still in a makeshift splint, a dull ache where he’d fractured the bone in a fit of anger. or had he broken it? you weren’t sure. all you knew is it hurt like hell and made it nearly impossible for you to fight back

after that incident, you thought keeping your head down and quietly obeying him was the smart choice. that you’d be safe enough to ride out this mess until someone arrived to help

you had to believe that someone was coming. you told yourself you’d be rescued within the week, that there was no way a facility as large as Mount Massive could go down in flames like this without someone noticing

days turned into weeks, weeks into months (how many had it been? 3? 4?)

every night you sat, ankles bound to your chair at the end of some wobbly, bloodstained table, Eddie at the opposite end, a makeshift dinner spread between the two of you

occasionally there would be some sort of meat among the sawdust-flavored rations - Eddie was always vague when you asked him what kind of meat it was 

you resisted for the first month, but your resolve broke a week into the second, the hunger pains driving you to tears and forcing you to make a choice

so you ate. and you tried not to think about where he got it from

it was like the two of you playing some sick game of house

Eddie kept a close eye on you when he was around, restraining you when he wasn’t

you’d be tied to a chair. strapped down on your back atop some bloodstained hospital mattress. arms bound behind you, tied to a support beam and forced to sit on the cold concrete floor

all of it was miserable

Eddie said it was for your safety, but you knew better. especially after he’d found you with a knife you’d managed to get your hands on. he’d stopped you from trying to slash your own throat, spewing some bullshit about his darling preferring death over a blissful life as the proud mother of his many, many children 

 he wasn’t going to let you leave him in any way

some part of you thought about pleading with Eddie to “think of the baby” and untie you - but that only reminded you that you were, in fact, pregnant

and it was starting to show

whatever mental energy you could spare went to trying (and failing) to block that fact out of your mind

you felt like you were trapped in two horror stories simultaneously - one, enduring whatever Eddie decided to do to you on a daily basis, and two, the unwanted life growing inside you against your will

not to mention the mental anguish of what to do after the…birth. would you even survive that? would you want to? 

should  you try to raise and protect it? or would it be more merciful if you…

it was a horrifying decision to make, one that you flinched away from whenever you found yourself thinking about it

every day you wondered if it would be better to piss him off, have him kill you in a fit of rage. it wouldn't be hard to do, but for some reason the knowledge that you were pregnant stopped you

well, you told yourself, at least you got to skip Eddie’s “operation table”. all the men who came before you weren’t so lucky, if the video on that camera you found was to be believed….

[deadvanmpdove]

Big brother who goes into ur room looking for something he lent to you, but it’s a lil messy and you’ve got some dirty laundry laying out in the open.

And it drives him crazy just seeing your used underwear sitting on the floor, even though he does the exact same thing, because…it’s just weird, right?

You go into each other’s rooms a fair amount, you both know that. Shouldn’t you be more careful about leaving them in plain sight?? What were you thinking, leaving your dirty panties on the floor for him to find???

He’s not the weird one for getting all worked up, or for pressing ur underwear against his face to practically huff it, or for pulling his dick out and furiously rubbing the fabric against it. It’s not weird that he got that hard in the first place! And it definitely isn’t weird that his mind goes blank and he shudders while he watches his cum soak into the crotch of ur panties when he’s done!!

That’s what he thinks to himself as he leaves without even really looking for whatever he wanted in the first place, his jerkoff material balled up in his pocket while he figures out what to do with it now.

[thatsthewrongwallcraig]

May or may not have a bit of Clay Roach brain rot rn, and I'm thinking like.. hurt/comfort thing where reader knew Clay some years ago before the drugs and everything but lost contact, but they run into eachother again and reader is just.. heartbroken at the way he's ended up. So it leads to some old feelings coming up and some possible smut so they both can get away from their problems for a bit

My beloved nonnie, I knew I'd have a field day with this ask, but still, it somehow got rather out of hand 😅🫶🏻🖤

Old Habits Die Hard

Summary: It’s said that your pupils dilate when you look at someone you love, but is it really love or just the drugs this time?

Pairing: sub!Clay Roach x using!fem!Reader

Word Count: -4k (Y’all know I have a lot to say about Clay)

Content Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat!, Drugged-Up Smut 18+!, Biting, Bruising, Choking, Riding, Unprotected P In V, Slapping, Scratching, Degradation, Explicit Consumption of Drugs (Codeine & Paracetamol), Explicit Mentions Of Other Substances, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions Of Withdrawal, Talk About Track Marks, Clay Being A Tripsitter For Reader, Emotional Constipation And Rather Questionable Ways To Deal With That

A/N: Buckle up, friends, this will be….a trip.

Tagging the horny horde:

@crypticsewerslut @quicksilversg1rl @cc-luvr @icarus-star @milaeth @roryculkinsgf @spookyorchid @arch1viste @whoareyoi @angelsanarchy @blueberrypancakesworld @rocketqueen-world @lifelessvessel @doddernix @svgarcaine @amayalul @basementgrl222 @kristennero-wallacewellsver @iiheartsai @fan-goddess @shady-the-simp

No more alone or myself could I be

Lurched like a stray to the arms that were open

No shortage of sordid, no protest from me

With her sweetened breath, and her tongue so mean

She's the angel of small death and the codeine scene

- The Angel Of Small Death & The Codeine Scene By Hozier

With a cotton-dry mouth, your raspy tongue practically sticking to the roof, you cleared your throat, feeling clumps of nicotine-infused mucus rumbling in your lungs. Turning your lazy body from your back to your side, your thoroughly fogged-up mind started scrambling for a memory, a shard of something to hold on to. There was barely anything, but a comfortably perfume-doused pillow against your cheek and a warm blanket around your shoulders, both indicating that you found yourself at home at least.

The crusty residue around your weary eyes let you know that you must’ve slept like a log and upon slowly opening them up to the dimly lit bedroom you very well knew why. It should’ve sent a jostle of shock through your nerve endings but instead, a blubbered laugh trickled out of a sly grin as you studied the scene of the crime.

You knew you hated drugs, really, really despised and detested them…that was up to the point something, some not-so-minor inconvenience, rendered you desperate for something to escape yourself with for a little while. Ever since the first glass of sparkly sweet white wine at the tender age of 15 years or the first secretly smoked joint on a children's playground in the dead of night with your best friend during high school, you knew about the marvelous powers of substances and their quite excellent capability of shutting off your always-firing neurons.

Right now, as your thoughts scrambled around inside your skull, it felt as if thick tar clogged your mental gears from turning properly, and with your eyes counting at least half a dozen cough syrup bottles scattered between a blister pack of good ol’ paracetamol pills it made a whole lot of sense to you.

“Well, don’t mind if I do…” You chuckled to yourself before slipping your body from under the blanket, letting your legs dangle over the edge before searching for a somewhat still halfway-full bottle of cough syrup with one hand while the other was busy pressing two white, circular-shaped paracetamol pills out of their aluminum confines.

The decision to continue this little bender was already made but just to check in, you threw your little, digital alarm clock a brief glance.

“Yes, perfect!” You quipped in amusement upon the information that it was only Saturday afternoon, more than enough time to treat yourself to another buzz or maybe even two before winding down to be back on track and a part of the office desk machinery like every Monday.

After washing the pills down with a carefully curated overload of somewhat oily cough syrup, that stuck to the back of your throat, you moved to lean your back against the headboard to light yourself a cigarette, the sad rest of a halfway-smoked one still dangling on the brim of the stained glass ashtray on your nightstand. Just in the very moment in which you found yourself about to light the cigarette, pulling the lighter to your lips, you noticed something or much more someone out of the corner of your eye.

“What the fuck…” You muttered to yourself, discarding lighter and cigarette right back to where they came from as your eyes widened in a muffled-down sensation of surprise.

It wouldn’t have been the first time that you brought yourself a little something something back home from a bender, but it happened rather rarely still. However, something inside, down at the depths of your chest started whirring as your eyes wandered over a glossy brown mess of disheveled, curly hair. Something distinct about its color and the way the ends coiled up to bouncy curls had you feeling just too much for being intoxicated like this. For a moment, you pondered over simply evacuating your own apartment but that would’ve been nothing but ridiculous. In addition, you didn’t exactly feel like riding out your next high in broad sunlight with people nattering, chatting and buzzing all around you, nope. The surge of mellow euphoria was meant for a cold diet Coke and a Led Zeppelin record running on the player right opposite from you on the dusty TV stand.

“Hey there?”, You nudged the body to your left carefully with your elbow, “Wakey, wakey…”

“Huh?” The someone reciprocated in a slightly startled groan, the tone of his voice causing your brows to furrow because it was somehow terribly familiar to you.

This sort of raspy, sleep-drunk sigh had your mind reeling to remember the person it belonged to and as soon as the man next to you started turning himself onto his back, you nearly choked on your own breath.

“Hi…” You croaked out, your throat rendering dry and if it hadn’t been for the meticulously measured-out amount of paracetamol and codeine in your bloodstream, you would’ve plummeted into a pitch-black puddle of emotional hurt as your eyes just couldn’t get away from a pair of bright blue ones staring right back.

“Hi…” The man you knew since way before he had grown just the first stubble on his chin murmured back, a softly lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his lip to curl up.

For what seemed to be endless minutes, the both of you just stared at each other. Something led you to believe that Clay knew a bit more about how both of you had ended up at your place and you felt yourself being not completely indifferent to asking about it.

“You…huh?” You pointed your head towards him in a soft movement, resting your chin on your pulled-up knees afterward.

With a sigh, the smile on Clay’s face died away.

“I was afraid about you not remembering anything from last night, got you home.” Clay nodded whilst pulling himself up to lean against the headboard of your bed just as well, the blanket gliding down over his front and giving free sight to a severely malnourished body.

“You brought me home?” You arched your brows at him a little further, your thoughts still very busy with piecing just anything together until you eventually came to the conclusion that you’d blacked out at some point.

“Yeah, and I’m glad I did. You were there and at the same time you really really weren’t.” Whilst looking at him, the feeling of being berated by him of all people grew inside of you.

“Hmhm..judgy.” You sneered, feeling the discomfort rising in your chest.

“I’m not judging. I was worried.” Clay brushed vagrant strands of his now much longer hair out of his face.

The last time you had seen him, about two…maybe three years ago, his hair had hardly reached over his earlobes and now the curled-up ends cascaded over his skinny collarbones.

“Oh, I get it, Clay, okay. So you are allowed to be worried but I wasn’t, huh? Wasn’t allowed to maybe point out that a needle in your arm for breakfast is too far off, even for us, no, yeah fuck you!” Rolling your eyes and shaking your head at him, you got your buzzing body off the bed to waddle into the kitchen to grab yourself one of the cans of fizzy diet Coke you craved so much right now.

“I’ve gotten myself out of that if you do so much as care about it.” Clay called after you, trying to not set even more fire to the whole situation.

“ ‘S that all you have to say about that? Fucking hypocrite.” Metallic creaking and the sound of soda bubbling in an aluminum can followed right after, the noises not able to drown out the breaking and cracking inside of you in the slightest.

You hated talking down to him like that but your hurt ego and damaged pride just couldn’t handle it any differently right now, the pain of forcefully having to split ways with Clay was still much too prominent in your memory. You went to detox and he drowned himself out in the endless shadows of whatever shady alleyway or shooting gallery out there. For quite a while before his slip-ups eventually, had you questioning everything enough to get your own ass into rehab, you had watched him getting worse with every passing week. You most certainly weren’t a saint yourself, no, but you still knew how you had begged him to go to rehab with you, to get the help the both of you needed desperately at that point but it hadn’t been to any avail. Stubborn and head-strong Clay Roach had made his choice and that one had broken your heart so hard that you’d promised yourself to never ever entertain his company ever again. Nights had been spent with nothing but ugly crying and sobbing about his stupid ass in rehab, you worried sick with the countless what-ifs fuelled by detrimental withdrawal anxiety until you had gradually killed every little bit of sympathy for him inside of you. It had been tedious and endlessly painful work but you had managed it to a point where you felt like you could breathe again without your body longing for him like your lungs did for oxygen.

“This is not me belittling you, okay?”, Clay looked up at you with pleading eyes the second you stepped back out of the kitchen, the can of soda tightly in your grasp, “This is me being a self-righteous bastard that’s too proud to say sorry.”

“That’s more like it.”, You scoffed, brows knit together as your gaze wandered over his torso, “Somehow I don’t trust you, arm’s up.”

For a second, Clay frowned at your demand but acted upon it equally quickly.

“There, no track marks, happy? Haven’t touched that shit in over a year.” He waited for your approval but you didn’t really feel like trusting him still.

“What else are you on? You don’t just run into somebody on the scene because you got lost on the way…” With an almost irritating smile on his face, Clay shrugged his shoulders.

“Funny how we didn’t bump into one another on the scene but at the damned 7/11 down the road at around 3 A.M. I had a few drinks, yeah, and maybe I was a bit starstruck as you squeezed yourself out of the entrance right next to me without even so much as taking notice of me. And maybe, just maybe, I turned on my heels to run after you before you vanished off into the night again.”, With his eyes, Clay pointed down his front, “And about that…I’m on a Methadone prescription that massively fucks with my appetite, thank you for asking.”

“Methadone?” You asked quietly, trying to play right over the part where you felt like breaking down and crawling into his arms that practically called out to you.

“Yeah, I’m slowly getting off of that, too, but I’m not quite there just yet. Maybe 3 to 6 months longer and that’s also a done deal. How about you?” Clay’s eyes darted toward the mess of small brown bottles and confetti of aluminum foil on your nightstand.

“Rare weekend bender. Had a shitty week, y’know.” You answered before taking a swig from the can.

“Uh-huh.”, Clay nodded, “Guilty pleasure, hm?”

“Yeah, something like that.” The heavily carbonated drink bubbled in your stomach, pressing a tiny, choked-back burp out of you.

“Listen…”, Clay sighed and with that, your ears perked up, “ I know, I hurt you…a lot, to say the least, and not a single day went by where I didn’t regret being such a bastard, okay? I know I fucked it up, spectacularly.”

“I appreciate the apology but…” You mumbled reluctantly.

“But, what?” Clay allowed his arms to slump down onto the bed again, his form slowly relaxing.

“But… I don’t know, Clay. To be perfectly real with you here, I’m losing my train of thought right now.” You shrugged your shoulders, taking another mouthful of diet Coke before placing the can on the nightstand.

“It’s okay…maybe come’ere then?” He carefully invited you to ride your growing buzz out right next to him under the soft blankets.

“Uh-huh, yeah…” A soft yawn snaked out of your mouth as the increasing drowsiness washed through your muscles with every beat of your heart.

Exhaling an even longer yawn right after the first, you just gave in to the pull his presence had on you and snuck yourself under your duvet and into his careful embrace. His heartbeat thumbing in a slow and steady pace against your ear pulled all of your focus towards him and the comfortably warm rush spreading from your stomach throughout the rest of your body. Feeling his skin against your cheek took you right back to those times when something along the lines of this used to be the regular weekend activity but then quickly morphed into something more dangerous than just a weekend trip of numbed-out euphoria. You tried not to think about it but the memories plopped up inside your mind all by themselves, making you physically cringe.

"What's that now?" Clay murmured to you, his voice soft and breathing calm.

"It's…memories." You sighed, trying to relax and to simply let go of them.

"That's okay. Remind yourself that they can't hurt you, those times are over, I promise." You struggled a little with following his words as your brain started to come up with more or less random thoughts.

"Why…why didn't you just let me be last night? What gave you the audacity to sneak yourself back into not only my life but…but also my apartment, huh?" The words slipped from your tongue, halfway muzzled by his chest.

"I dunno.", It sounded like he almost laughed it out gently, "Maybe it was really just audacity and the stubborn hopes of an idiot like me."

"Hmhmm…" You mumbled away, eyes fluttering shut as you felt yourself gradually drifting into sensory oblivion, a far-off place where nothing really bothered you anymore.

With a barely even there grin, you had to admit to yourself that Clay's chest was a much more comfortable thing to fall into than just your pillow as the buzz eventually took over. Your mind and muscle memory went straight back to feeling safe with him, taken care of and protected because even though back then it had been the two of you knocked out of your socks, Clay had never failed to cradle you in his arms and keep you sheltered from everything and anything.

After your eyes had fallen shut and your pulse calmed down to a low beat, you lost track of just how long you had dozed off. It could've been just a few hours or half a day, regardless, it was dark outside and a nice, crisp breeze went through the halfway-open window of your bedroom. Now that the tiring numbness slowly wore off, a pampering flush of warm euphoria followed, the kind of feeling that encouraged you to prolong it by having a couple of drinks or tempted you to get teasingly touchy with either yourself or whoever was with you. An arguably treacherous slippery slope having Clay, whose fingers were busy playing through your hair, right next to you.

“What time is it?” You sighed, shamelessly nuzzling your face further into his shoulder until the tip of your nose stroked against his neck, inhaling his scent and allowing it to fill up your nostrils.

“Hey there, sunshine.”, He yawned in return, the smile on his face audible, “About half past 8. How are you feeling, hm?”

“Surprisingly rested…” You replied, your voice still a little drowsy whilst your lips were eagerly creeping up to brush over his pulse point, the faint taste of salty sweat seeping into your mouth upon contact.

“Oh…I wouldn’t mind you doing that again…” Clay breathed against the crown of your head, picking right up on your nonverbal invitation whilst his hand roamed underneath the blanket, searching for yours.

“You mean that?” You led your lips to plant a kiss on his neck, sucking the sensitive skin between your teeth to leave a small hickey.

“Uh-huh…”, It rolled over his tongue as his lean fingers closed down around your wrist to pull your hand up to his exposed throat, silently proposing to you to press your palm around it, “Wouldn’t mind you being a little mean to me either. I do believe I deserve that, no?”

“Bold of you to assume what you deserve in the first place.” You teasingly sneered back, hand carefully yet firmly closing down around his throat whilst your lips latched onto his earlobe.

Clay had played it smart and that drew a sly smile from you. Line, hook and sinker.

“I thought, I-” The imminent wash of pain emitting from his earlobe as you bit down on it had him gagging on his words.

“Yet another mistake.”, You hummed against the shell of his ear, clicking your tongue tauntingly after letting the warm flesh between your teeth scrape out of your mouth.

“What do you want me to do then?” Clay croaked, his voice gradually cut off by your carefully tightening grasp around his throat.

“Much better.”, You cooed in return whilst the buzzing warmth from your stomach gradually shot down amidst your thighs in increasingly needy jolts, “I want you to take your shorts off and then you shut the fuck up, got that?”

He nodded vigorously, his chin nearly meeting the back of your hand as you felt his Adam’s apple bobbing against your palm. Just like you told him to, Clay shimmied out of his shorts whilst your free hand was busy pulling your own panties down until you were able to smoothly slip out of them.

For a split second, your thoughts halted, the flood of countless, well-familiar memories rushing through overworked synapses leading you to question if this whole endeavor was the right road to take right now before the excitement and your own physical need to feel him took over again. Forcing any doubt into the nothingness at the very back of your mind, you threw your right leg over his hips to straddle his lap, Clay’s already eager hard-on pressing against your soaked cunt.

“Fuck..” He gasped out, his eyes beaming at you through a half-lidded gaze.

As soon as you let your crotch slide down a little, allowing his pulsing cock to push into you at once, you served his cheek a hefty slap.

“I told you to shut the fuck up, didn’t I?” Clay’s head lolled to the side upon impact, a deep grunt rippling through his chest as he nodded again.

“Not a single whine…” You stated, starting to rock your hips against his.

You barely allowed your own body to adjust to his full girth, resulting in a comfortably painful stretch to accommodate his size. For a blissful moment, your pulse throbbed through your walls as the tip of his cock thrusted against that particularly sensitive spot inside of you, sending pleasure buzzing like an electric current through your muscles.

With every sensation amplified by the cocktail of substances flooding your bloodstream, you released Clay’s throat from your grip, a single shred of reason reminding you not to choke him out in an unfortunate accident. Instead, both of your hands clawed down on his chest, nails digging into his pale skin, drilling until you left an array of angry, red streaks that made him twist and twitch under your fingertips as not one singular noise left his trembling lips.

“Look at you, hedonistic traitor, finally understanding the assignment, nuh?” It was undeniable that your words cut deep but in that very instance, you wanted them to, needed Clay to suffer just as much as you did and in the way his eyes got glossed over with a tell-tale watery sheen you know he did.

“Oh, you know you don’t deserve any of that right now, don’t you? Don’t deserve to be balls deep inside of me, no.” You pushed it further, borderline hurting yourself by spewing those vile words right at him, the malevolence oozing right out of every single one.

To somehow, haphazardly counteract the emotional dread, you picked up the pace, pounding his back into the mattress underneath over and over, repeatedly sending shots of physical pleasure through the both of you.

“Good god, fuck…” It left your mouth in a shaky moan, your body most certainly not used to so many bodily sensations since you very much opted right out of any sort of long-term dating after having to split from Clay.

The vast majority of orgasms that had rippled through you since then were your own doings and none of them could just barely reach the state of growing bliss you found yourself in right now. If it hadn’t been for your own needy desperation, you’d dragged it out longer, toyed with him a little more but as of now you just couldn’t be bothered with any of that. Rocking your waist against his lap again and again, you felt the rapidly tightening coil in your lower abdomen growing ready to snap, your walls clenching down around his cock and pulling him in impossibly deep with every further thrust.

The very thing that eventually pushed you right past your threshold was the dire expression on his face. Clay was biting down on his bottom lip so hard to remain silent that his teeth nearly dug deep enough to draw blood.

“Issok…” You huffed out, your own breath nearly getting stuck in your throat as you felt the first contractions rendering you cockdrunk, waves of trashing release washing through you like an uncontrollable tide.

With your permission given, Clay whined out in pleasure himself, his head pushing back into the pillow as he shoved himself into you as deep as possible, spilling his pent-up seed in heavy pumps.

“Fuck!” He cussed out, his hands reaching towards your waist to hold you right in place as his cock throbbed and twitched inside of you, shooting ropes of his release into your oozing cunt.

You felt the warmth of his cum pushing past, trickling out of you to pool between your slightly shaking, sweat-soaked thighs. Minutes appeared to pass in silence until both of you slowly came back from your orgasmic highs, breaths trying to be caught again.

“How do you feel about grabbing a drink?” Out of all things it was that what splattered out of your mouth.

“Sure as fuck wouldn’t say no to that…” Clay laughed back from underneath you.

[nemugyo]

stay

[little-worm-grant]

Marc's pov: Behind Closed Doors

1,402 words / 18+ only, no minors

Masterlist. If you like what you see, leave a like or reblog and follow me ♥ Summary: Some darker scatterbrained memories of abuse and trauma from the mind of Marc Spector and his formative years.

Continued: Steven's pov: Happy Simple Normal Life (comfort)

Warnings: Dead dove?? Heavy child abuse + family death. C-PTSD. Domestic violence. Childhood trauma. Self-hatred. No comfort, only hurt. Notes: To my fellow survivors. You were not a bad person. You were not a burden. You were not difficult. You were not evil. You were a child. You deserve to heal and find what makes you happy. Take care of yourself first, no one can do it better than you can.

Knew from the way the house sounded what mood his mom was in when he got home from school. How each person’s footsteps sounded, and their mood based on how they walked. Not a usual thing to pick up on, but Marc had gotten to know how she was. Knowing when to expect her to be at her worst made it easier to deal with it when she was less cruel.

TV was blasting some soap rerun. Less to watch and more for background noise while she moved around the kitchen. Any noise in the house was a comfort. Meant it was safe. It was when it was silent he knew to hide. Out of sight, out of mind. Most days he would rather stay out of sight.

Heading through to the living room he stopped at the kitchen doorway and watched her. She'd been chopping at the cutting board. Not looking happy, but not looking so sad either. If he stayed quiet for long enough he could pretend this was a good day. When she looked at him he saw that look in her eyes change. Disappointment he was back? Sad to see he was near? She reached for the drinks cabinet and Marc left for his room. Didn’t want to stick around and wait for her to start with the berating.

He rarely saw her smile anymore. He couldn't remember the last time she smiled at him, but he could remember a time. They’d been out grocery shopping and heading back to the car. Marc had seen old lady struggling to push her cart back to the car beside theirs so he helped. The woman complimented his mom over what a kind boy she had. His mom made some noncommittal comment and forced a smile in his direction. He could tell it wasn’t genuine by the way it never made it to her eyes, just out of sheer politeness for the woman. By that point, he'd take anything he could get. Whatever crumbs of kindness she’d give him he’d gladly accept. He wanted to show her he still had the capability of being good even if he'd done terrible things.

She cried on the drive home.

He didn't ask and she didn't point out why, but he already knew what the answer would have been. Should have been her Roro doing all that. Helping old ladies. Offering to do chores to get more pocket money. Helping their dad clean the car. Where Marc was more introverted and liked keeping to himself, his little brother shone as a people person. The true baby of the family. Everyone loved him. Marc was just trying to be more like him to appease his mom. Got him a smile, didn't it?

He remembered after one bad night, she'd come into his room and pulled him out of his sleep to pull him out of bed and beat him. Supposedly for not taking the trash out, but it was the middle of the night and he couldn’t remember her ever asking. She was drunk and not making much sense. Her insults always made the most sense.

This is all your fault.

You disgust me.

You're a horrible child.

Something is wrong with you.

You're evil.

Marc internalized it all. Every single word. Felt like he was going crazy, but maybe he was a bad kid. He got told it enough times he'd started to believe it. He often didn't do the right things. He knew he deserved most of it. But then when he went to the homes of friends and saw how much their parents fawned over their children. It filled him with a fit of bitterness and envy.

There was one family he loved. Treated him like he was their own. Preferred being there after school and on weekends instead of at home. He’d help them pick raspberries from their bushes to make into desserts. He was always allowed to eat his fill in raspberries. He also remembered stealing from them. Just once, but it was one time too many. A small decorative paperweight that reminded him of someone. Couldn’t tell you why he put it in his backpack. Deep down he knew it was wrong. Had a good thing going with this family. They were always kind to him and he'd stolen from them. He was never allowed back after that. His mom got the call and found the paperweight hidden in his room. She used it as part of her arsenal to give herself more reasons why she needed to beat him. He was a bad kid, after all.

There was only one time he’d been taken to the hospital for an injury and not for the constant noise in his head. His mom took it too far when she threw an object at him. He didn’t realize he’d been bleeding until he saw himself covered in it in the mirror. On the drive to the hospital, she went over what he should say. She stayed in the car while his dad took him inside. Couldn’t have a drunk parent and an injured child going into the hospital, no, that would have raised too much suspicion. He got taught early how the naughty kids’ home was worse than anything she’d ever do to him. How he'd be sent far away and lose anything he cared about. So he lied.

I fell.

I hit my head on the corner of the cabinet.

I hurt myself.

When it came time to glue the wound back up he thought they were going to use real glue and refused to let any staff near him. Got transferred to a children’s hospital where he’d be put under and stitched back up. Couldn’t remember if they ever asked him what happened.

More times than he could count, he remembered getting woken with ice water being poured over his face, or by being punched awake. All because he’d overslept and was late for school.

Took him years to bring the nightmares down to only a couple each month. He'd lived longer away from the abuse than he had within it. The only time he'd ever see his mom’s face was in his nightmares. After he’d left home, she never once tried reaching out to him. He felt it was better that way, but a small part of him hoped one day she'd come to her senses and tell him she was sorry. She’d never told him that before and it took him accepting Steven to realize he never needed it.

The most fucked up thing about it all? Marc still loved his mom. If he had to choose, he'd still choose her to be his mom. He just wished she'd believe him when he said it was an accident. He didn't mean to kill Roe. He never meant for his little brother to drown in that cave. He was sorry. He’d always be sorry.

He remembered long before Roe died, she would make him a hot chocolate and they'd sit together and talk for ages in the kitchen. She'd talk about her life. How she grew up in a big Latino family and was raised Jewish. Laughing over his silly nonsensical strung-together phrases in Spanish. She'd respond more seriously, teaching him in her mother’s tongue to make sure it got passed down to her boys. Prompting Marc to find more ways to be sillier with it and to make her laugh. He couldn't remember what her laugh sounded like anymore.

He vaguely remembered the way she'd look at him like she loved him. He remembered more vividly seeing those same eyes hate he ever existed.

Was he really that terrible? Why didn't he deserve to be loved?

Where was his dad in all of this? Right there. Pretending not to hear any of it. Going to Marc’s bedroom long after his mom had left with food or a warm drink to comfort him. Telling him he needed to listen to her. How he should appease her rather than talking back or arguing. How she wouldn't be so bad if he tried harder to be better. That he shouldn’t take any of it to heart. His mom was hurting too, but she still loved him.

Every single adult in his formative years had failed him.

He wasn’t going to be the kind of adult that turned a blind eye.

[gladiatorcunt]

opening commissions, ty for reading! <333

⠀⠀────────────────────

FICS, HEADCANONS, & FIC SERIES (at least 3 fics):

$7 per 1.5k

DRABBLES/SCENARIOS:

$2 per 300 words (max 900)

MATCHUPS:

$13 package including 2 moodboards, sfw headcanons, a small scenario, and a love letter from the character

rules & contact/payment. ⋆ cashapp: $faetreides / ko-fi

[sweetybaty]

Never use a messy recipe The cake will end up crazy🎵

[kaleidoscope1967eyes]

luke as yandrere

Ooooh, this is an interesting concept. While I can't really see it for canon/legends Luke, I can TOTALLY see it for sith!Luke.

When Luke first met you, he knew you were his. Your face stood out among a crowd of Imperial prisoners; being a sith lord and second-in-command to Emperor Vader, he knew it was fully within his right to claim you as his own, and he did not hesitate to do so.

You were surprised to find that he doesn't treat you with anything other than kindness and devotion. You're more than just his pet--you're his partner, the center of his galaxy, his reason for staying alive in a world full of darkness and anger. Whatever you want, he'll give it to you: affection, money, power, you name it. Hell, he'll even give you your own star system. You have the best quarters on the Executor, where he regularly retires from his duties to spend hours wrapped in your arms.

Now, when it comes to other people, it's a whole different story. Imperial officers initially weren't a fan of you or your influence over the young sith lord, but they quickly learned to fear your presence and what it means for them. Luke won't hesitate to force-choke anyone who even dares to look at you the wrong way. If someone were to actually mistreat you, he'd quickly make an example out of them, publicly and brutally. Even Vader himself knows to be cordial with you, lest he throw Luke into a violent frenzy.

You're all he has, and he's never going to lose you. Never.

[bigassbowlingballhead]

Six Sentence Sunday 1/21/24

Tags from: @firenati0n @nocoastposts @getmehighonmagic @anincompletelist @heybuddy-drabbles

I've been working on something all night last night (i say all night, but my old ass passed out by 11:30pm) and all day today that's not everyone's cup o' tea so it's going under a cut with my tags.

rpf foolishness below the cut.

“So, mustaches?” Nick says to Taylor’s well defined back.  The corner of Taylor’s mouth turns up again as he holds in a laugh. He spins around “I figured you could use it, seeing as you can’t grow one on your own.”  Nicks cheeks burn red as his index finger comes up to scold Taylor, “you know what–” “What,” Taylor bites at his lip, “I think they look good,” he laughs. “I was starting to think you hadn’t noticed it took you so long.” Nick’s eyebrow raises “You wanted me to notice?” Nick takes a step toward Taylor. 

tagging: @violetbaudelaire-quagmire @magicandarchery @winderlylandchime @lostcol @eusuntgratie

keeping the tags light, if you don't want to partake in this I understand fully, just let me know and I won't tag you in these. Also if you read this on curiosity and would like to be tagged also let me know!

[mothmorality]

my muses can be found here i post and reblog plots i'd like to write here

open starters are here

ask memes are here!

hello!!! my name is moth (she/her) and i'd love to get some more writing going while i do my replies! i write here on tumblr and also on discord!

i am 21 years old and i will not roleplay with anyone under the age of 18…

i am a huge fan of anything horror related, dead dove, angsty, anything dark really. i enjoy writing smut but do not necessarily need it if you are uncomfortable. 

i much much much prefer to write as the female, but can absolutely still write males. i am a semi lit-adv lit writer, though i mostly just match whatever length my partner sends  i'm not picky.

keep reading for some pairings/plots/fandoms!

NOW… onto the pairings/plots/fandoms!

italics are cravings, bold is who i'd prefer to write as…

dystopia/apocalypse!

professor x student

non-fan x celebrity

vampire x human

vampire x vampire hunter

pirate/sailor x siren

ghost x human

assassin x target

ex x ex

bodyguard x client

older neighbor x new younger neighbor

serial killer x serial killer

serial killer x innocent

accidental murderer x skilled murderer

​​​​​​​fandoms/fav movies and shows

yellowjackets

the hunger games

the last of us

final destination

the walking dead

scream

the 100

the uglies series

the purge

lost

fresh

some very basic plot ideas:

(yellowjackets based) Our muses get stranded in a remote area after a horrific plane crash. they must navigate young adulthood with the rest of the passengers starving, terrified, and hopeless. supernatural forces throughout the forest begin to make themselves known, and our survivors see themselves going down darker and darker paths until they cannot recognize themselves anymore, convinced society has moved on from rescuing them anymore

(serial killers/kill for hires lover) Muse A is a killer, and also a wonderful partner. muse B is their long term partner, blissfully unaware of their lovers real profession until muse B catches muse A in a very compromising position. lots of angst, hurt/comfort, dark themes

(haunted) our muses are urban explorers, they find themselves inside an old abandoned theme park from decades ago, decaying from the inside out. while walking around, they discover that they haven't seen the way out, or any way out, even once. things are moving that shouldn't be, and they are hearing more and more off putting noises. what happens when the spirits finally show themselves? how will our muses appease them, or fight to escape?

(​​​​​​​apocalypse) muse A and muse B are life long enemies, constantly trying to one up the other and always hating being around each other. when they are forced to work together on a work project and the apocalypse hits, they are forced to either let their pettiness win and be alone through all of this horror, or stay together and try to survive as a team. various traumatic events bond them closer and closer until they discover hidden feelings beneath layers of vines. enemies to lovers

thank you so much for reading!! like this post if anything interests you and i'll send you a message! feel free to message me as well <3

[ratatatastic]

oh so youre telling me that the purpose of the emotional support interview towel is to provide emotional support during an interview i dont know what i expected

new york rangers @ florida panthers game 3 | 5.26.24

[1-800-cr33py]

Hi! I recently dive deep into the rabbit hole of your amazing works! I'm impressed by your dedication and work!

Lately, A strong wave of nostalgia washed over my mind and I was wondering if you could write another prompt about HABIT, a darker one. I want to leave further details as a free choice, as that the final result..would be something you never tried before while writing about him.

I don't know how much this is making sense, but...I'm happy you're bearing with me! Thank you so much for your time and understanding! Take care of yourself, your health, eat well, drink well, sleep well! With the best regards and admiration,

-Yours.

a/n: oh my I love getting asks like this ^^! If darker is what you want, then who am I to deny? Something I haven’t written is certainly a broad spectrum but I’ll do my best to deliver! Best wishes to this anon! If this is shorter than wanted I do apologize I’ve been in a mental rut for a while now. a/n #2: this was a harder write for me, seeing as I put my own experiences. If you or anybody you love is experiencing any domestic abuse/suicidal thoughts or actions, please seek immediate help.

TW: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, heavy violence, blood, gore, abuse, If you are not within the right mental frame do consume media like this please do not click read more. I wish you all the best.

His cackle could be the only thing heard despite the distance between the two of you. You’d been running for what seemed like hours, with thick globs of blood burning your eyes, whether it belonged to you wasn’t your main focus. It was some sick game, a game in which you played into like a willful pawn. You thought, that in some way he could love you again if you stayed, if you kept your mouth shut about this. About all of this. The murder, the torture, the sickening shit that lingered within his mind. These type of things were something only a mind as sick as his could concoct, you swear it. It started off slow, it really did. The sudden roughness, the manhandling when it wasn’t called for, then that morphed into the cutting. You can still recall the first time feeling the cold steel of his knife glide across your skin, and it cut so easily, like butter. He, Evan, HABIT- whatever its name was, would tend to them, kissing your tears that spilled from your misty eyes away. He made an effort to praise you then, to congratulate you on making him “so fucking proud”. ‘What a load of bullshit’ you’d think to yourself. Trees and fallen limbs only served to hinder your progress, but the fleeting chance of escaping this monster proved more tempting. This wasn’t your fault, you knew that, no one deserves to go through something like this, but the pit in your stomach told you that you should’ve left when it started, should’ve seen the warning signs. You’re nearing the edges of the forest now, better hurry.

Gasps for air could be heard throughout the house, it echoed down the empty halls that were devoid of anything attached to its previous owner. The only light was pouring from the bathroom, where you and your capture were. His grip upon your hair was tight, leaving your scalp burning. Snot and tears poured down your face as he dunk your head into the water-filled tub, your hands pushing the edge in an attempt to find some kind of leverage against the man above you. Just as your lungs began to burn, you were pulled from the water once more, a sickening cackle permeated from the brunette above. His eyes were dark, lined with malice and hate. Habit muttered something, but in your current state you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You pleaded, begged him to let you go for what seemed like hours now, and all you got in return was a swift plunge into the water once more. Globs of snot rolled from your nose as your lungs begged for oxygen. With your vision hazy, brain reduced to mush as Habit shook your head. You wish you could hear the shouts escaping your once lover’s mouth, but your mind wouldn’t allow it. Dissociation had become your haven during times like this. It was the only way you knew how to survive. Habit threw your head down, scalp burning with the sudden release of his grip. You wanted to thank whatever higher being there was, but you learned long ago that no loving god would allow anyone to experience this. No merciful deity would hear someone so clearly in desperation and despair crying and turn a blind eye to this!

You’d lay awake that night, your bedding cold and a stark reminder of what was once the perfect image of domesticity between the two of you. Habit didn’t sleep much anymore, leaving the bedroom the one place you were truly ever alone. One, two, three, four you’d count the indents within the popcorn ceiling, doing something, anything to keep your mind away from the burn that still lingered within your lungs. Why? Why why why did it have to be you. You did everything right that you could think to do, so why? This existential limbo you’d find yourself trapped in, this cycle of abuse. Why? You knew the answer. You knew it like the back of your hand. You, ever so hopeful you, held onto hope that somewhere between those layers and pools of hate, hope that Evan was still there. Hope that your once doting and happy lover would suddenly form at your feet and kiss the bruises and burns away. Turning to gaze out of the dusty window, pale light spilling into room.

Still.

Everything was so still.

Your hand toyed with the damp hem of your shirt, frayed thread getting caught between your broken nails. You should be crying, running towards said window and finding your own escape; yet you couldn’t. Couldn’t bring your shaky legs to that window. Not when…you didn’t know why actually. The sinking feeling that Evan was never coming back was beginning to cement itself within you. The knowing that this, this cycle was your new reality began to emerge as you turned your head back to the ceiling.

This was it.

There was no light at the end your tunnel, not without the grace of dying to achieve it.

You sighed, and with shaking legs threw your body over the side of the cold bed. There’d been a bottle of pills on your bedside unknown of their usage. He put them there to taunt you, you were sure. He called you weak, stupid for believing he’d ever give a fuck about a useless meat sack like you. You cringed, remembering how demeaning it was to feel his spit land on your face, how degrading. With a trembling hand, you reached for the orange bottle. A smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. All fear, anxiety, and anger melted away as you opened the bottle.

This was you taking back control.

This was your last chance to save yourself before everything you loved and held dear about your person. This was escape.

You made solace as you held down vomit, every instinct telling you to run to that bathroom and throw your stomach up. You fought, like you always did. This was your running to that window.

This was escape.

[tadfools]

The second chapter of The One That Got a Thay: A Semichronological Guide on Breaking Free of Your Dread Father and Removing Illithid Parasites is up if anybody wants to give it a gander here, there's a snippet of it under the cut!

(Also thank you guys for 700 hits on the first chapter when it hasn't even been out for a week yet)

“Did anyone know?” Tavaris looked from the water to him, Astarion had stopped searching for his reflection and instead turned his attention to the stars.

“I-” His brow furrowed, “No... no one knew.” He was searching the sky as if looking for something, perhaps a constellation she couldn’t imagine the name of.

One of the annoying things about having almost no memory until circumstance or a line of thought called for it to resurface was that Tavaris couldn’t choose when it happened. This was one of those moments.

Traditional elven naming conventions, at least that of the high elven variety, meant that a name changed several times throughout one’s life. Someone would keep the name their parents gave them until they were about a hundred. Despite the way he spoke sometimes, Astarion didn’t seem that old. Tavaris couldn’t imagine him being any more than fifty at most and even that was pushing it.

He died a child.

He died a child with a child's name: Astarion. A rough translation into common of it would be ‘little star’. The man beside her was once someone’s starlight. Did his mother mourn him? Was she still alive? Did she exist somewhere on the Sword Coast grieving her son who still walked amongst the living? Had there been moments when he was stalking the streets of Baldur’s Gate where he looked at her from a distance, or had so much pain befallen him that her existence slipped his mind completely? Did Astarion have her eyes once upon a time?

What of Tavaris? Were her parents alive? Did she have family somewhere?

Karlach and Wyll had taken to shortening her name to Tav. Was that a nickname she had before? Her own age wasn’t known to her, she looked around the same as Astarion, around forty. Did that mean she also had a drow child’s name? There was no sweet meaning she could find within the name she was calling her own, the very first thing she remembered when she woke up. Tav meant omen and aris meant ruin - slaughter. But they also had reverse connotations if context was changed. Omen became truth and ruin became best.

She sighed, tossing the train of thought aside as the quiet between the two of them stretched on. “It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?”

“What is?” Astarion looked at her confused from his seat on the pillow.

“The stars.” She clarified with a gesture towards the night sky.