#I rot and decay when left alone but also people are Too Much

[dont-offend-the-bees]

Not to continue my recent trend of oversharing on tumblr dot com, but I am very much struggling not to feel like I'm doing everything in my entire life wrong at present

[blood-grove]

tws; blood, death, body horror , injuries, gore + bones, canniblism, unhealthy coping mechanisms??, no use of y/n, soap focused, this is like so much more horror ish that the first i think pls be safe

a/n: another thing for shapeshifter reader but child :3 had this scenario in my head this is completely different sort of scenario than from the first shapeshifter

Shapeshifter!Reader but everything that went down that first night went even worse two corpses lay on the floor you didn't mean for it to happen it was the Monster to young to comprehend what you'd fully just done wiping the blood off you as you clawed at your mouth trying to get rid the disgusting taste of iron in your mouth.

But it's been a year since then, A year since you've taste the flesh of another person, A year since you sunk your yellowed teeth into someone's face ripping apart any semblance of identity, And a year since you've been in containment you were found quiet easily after the Police were called to your home that faithful night you were sent a rehabilitation facility then to another one and another.

Switched from place to place because they could tell something was wrong with you but finding out what was hard since every test came back human you had no pointed ears, fangs, or tail.

Another year past and the facility had long shut down a month or two now but you still lived stuck in this room Shapeshifters can be killed of course at a age of what 10? 11? You didn't have many forms and you were still so confused to how your powers exactly worked you never shifted at all despite the itch that had been boiling over.

You had roommates of course in the room to keep yourself social.

They were also stuck when the facility went into lockdown mode abandoning its lower value patients.

You were the only one left in the room now.

The room smelt horrible.

You were horrible.

You didn't want to be.

Licking the flesh from there bones kept off starvation.

The illusion of there still breathing body as you ate at them chewing and crunching till there flesh was no more alone but apart of you.

They had kept you alive when there heart was still beating you couldn't remember what they were.

You forced yourself to forget the taste of your flesh fearing you'd dig in for more.

But you did.

Your a parasite.

"Someone's going to get us.."

"I'm sure."

You shifted as you caressed there skull gently idly picking at the last few remaining strands of hair.

You woke to noises the next day everything still all the same the opening of doors and footsteps a new sense of hope running threw you.

A tail unknowingly sprouted out wagging quickly as you clutched the skull tightly as you got us on shaky legs stepping over rotted pieces of the body you couldn't eat and over to the door stepping up on the tip of your toes to try and see out of the window in the door.

Flinching back one a large shadow over casted the door blocking your view.

Your tail wagging in excitement as you walked back from the door to the spot in the middle of the room you'd become accustom too silently wondering if you should move there bones into there spot next to you but the doors code was unlocked before you could.

A man now stared down at you seemingly shocked at either your appearance, the fact your alive, and or the skull in your hands.

Or all of the above.

Fucking hell.

Fucking hell.

This retcon mission was not at all what he expected.

Sure he expected the usually gathering intel, looking for not trashed files or papers, And or looking for new leads.

It always gave Soap the creeps when they went on missions like these in only a couple of months this facility looked like a shit hole.

Cracked tile, Bugs, old rusting equipment.

The mere thought of people being kept here before the places decay still disgusted him.

So it caught him off guard when he picked up scent unfamiliar but he chose to trust his nose radioing in he'd be moving to the east side.

He reached the holding cells even with the locked doors along the hallway he could smell the decay nearly overwhelming his senses.

With one of the keycards he opened a few of the doors at the rare chance of life.

He was foolish to think this of course, How could anything still be alive after been trapped for months.

Yet here he is staring down a very scraggly, dirty, bloodied kid.

Holding a skull.

A Skull?

He quickly pulled himself out of his thoughts as he shifting in place sliding his weapon back into his holster crouching down.

"Hey there—"

He fully expected you to be timid, nervous, and or scared about the random man unlocking your room that was eventually going to be your grave.

He didn't expected for you to barrel into him skull still in hand hugging his arm.

Now he was downright confused.

"It's uh..It's okay- Hey.."

"I-I know they didn't forget us!-"

You started on rambling about something Soap couldn't comprehend fast enough.

"Hey hey-"

You looked up at him with tired eyes still full of life.

"..I'm gonna get you outta here alright..? Me and my friends didn't expect to find anyone..Are you hurt?"

He gave you a look over lucky he had decent enough vision in the dark no serious wounds maybe just a few cuts that had luckily scabbed over already.

"Are you taking me home..?"

"..I don't know yet..But we'll get you warm and nice and clean how about that..?"

"I don't like baths.."

"Well ya' need one- Its gonna help you feel better.."

You huffed stomping your foot which amused him but you really did need a bath he could barely make out your skin color under all the grime, blood , and dirt.

"Mm..Can ye' walk?"

You nodded as you went back into the room for a moment starting to picking up bones off a corpse he failed to noticed was there.

"Wait wait- Don't touch those."

"Why?"

"Because you'll get sick touching..stuff like that."

"But how else are they supposed to come!"

He grimaced for a bit shifting on his feet as his tail flicked.

"I..Look that was your friend yeah?"

"Mhm!"

"How about..You leave them there..And I'll send some more of my friends to come get them.."

You mulled over the choice for a while looking down to the skull in your hands tracing over a crack before deciding to leave rest of the body tucking it in like a doll before heading back over to the man still holding onto the skull how else re they supposed to see the outside?.

"Whats your name?"

"John..But my friends call me Soap."

"That's a silly name!"

"Hmph..Alright what's your name?"

"[Name]"

"Now that's a silly name-"

"Nuh uh!"

He chuckled as you huffed.

But he quickly regained his composure, He radioed in his little discovery afterwards gently ask you if he could pick you up which you allowed you were scarily light for your age.

He sighed his tail slowly swaying quietly listening as you rambled on about something.

You eventually went still after a few telling yawns, He guessed you must be horrible sleep deprived being next to a corpse couldn't have gave you good rest.

So he just kept quiet as he could still saying vigilant as he updated his position every so often as you slept.

a/n; honestly im feeling so bad at so sorry it started to downgrade at the end i couldn't think clear it starts to fall off so bad cuz head empty </3 might post some old thoughts abt how my ver of shapeshifters work....

[cebwrites]

bless the broken crossroads (X Drake)

oc, mostly gen but things can be read into, spoilers for Wano word count: 1k

Through small cracks and openings in torn window fixtures, light makes its way in, illuminating the man splayed out in the middle of a former battlefield. Fresh enough for blood to still run, but mingling with the dust and debris, the ancient smell of rot lurked just beneath.

He could see his compatriot just barely breathing against the pillar across him, though with how much blood he'd lost Drake wasn't sure how much longer he still had left.

Another figure emerged from the shadows, heavy boots clicking against what bits of wood were still safe to walk on. It seemed like the castle itself was beginning to decay without it's master, dragged down by the weight of it's once untouchable inhabitants' innumerable sins, basking in their shows of power and gross excess.

It also held prisoner to a boy who's only dream was to be as free as the man whose journal he cherished with as much reverence his tiny body could hold.

"You," Drake rasped, unable to keep his eyes focused but recognizing the familiar scent what little wind carried in thanks to his Zoan abilities, "why do you insist on helping me?"

"Not helping, jus' passin' by."

The figure finally revealed himself at Drake's side—though it could just be the delirium of being so close to death's door, he could've sworn the glare behind that man's head was a halo—Kirin folded up the coat he walked in here with into a makeshift pillow and Drake was too tired to argue when it was slid under his head.

His wounds were cleaned and dressed, mirroring the bandages on his younger counterpart - Drake could only imagine the beating he'd gotten from facing Kaido head-on, even if not for the entire battle, and there was just about enough water left in the bottle Kirin brought in to wipe the dried, crusted blood from his face. It wasn't much, but it was refreshing, being tended to in a way so gentle he almost forgot what that felt like.

As he was sat up to have his upper torso bandaged, Drake's curiosity got the better of him, "You still haven't answered my question, Denkui. Why do you help me even now?"

Kirin laughed, of all things - it was a quiet, mournful noise echoing through the hallowed halls of Onigashima's formerly impenetrable fortress. It almost sounded sad, in a way, but he just chalked it up to the lack of oxygen being carried to his brain.

"I haven't been called that since the early days of my crew, Rear-Admiral Diez."

It was Drake's turn to frown, "I could say the same, that's my father's name," there was a moment of silence between them, of understood experiences without words - the marine broke it with another nudge, "your answer?"

"Touché," Kirin sighed.

"I dunno, Drake, I don't have one," he stood to pat the dust from his pants, leaving what little medical supplies he brought with the other man as Drake shifted to rest his back on the wall beside them, "I didn't see a lick of ya' in the city and it made me itch to think about you dying alone in a musty dungeon.

We go back quite a bit, you know. As enemies yeah but isn't the familiarity reason enough?"

Drake was choosing to ignore the implications and what it meant that a supposed enemy was thinking about his well-being long after the battle had been won, the meaning of 'I don't want you to die' between people like them, that was something for him to lock away for a long, long time once they'd left Wano behind.

What did bring a small smile to his face, however, was Kirin's inability to be forthcoming about his feelings. Out of all the things he'd heard about the man over the years through the grapevine, this one thing seemed to be consistent.

"Small blessings, huh." Drake allowed himself to slump as the tension in his shoulders deflated. His vision drifted to the crumpled form parallel to them both, lifting his arm with what remaining strength he had to tug at Kirin's pants.

"Can you grant him the same grace? I'll be fine but, I don't want him to die in a place like this."

The dismay on Kirin's face was evident, having faced off against Hawkins with every intent to kill just a handful of days prior, but he couldn't ignore the waver in Drake's voice.

"You don't have treat him, just let him pass in peace. Please."

Kirin didn't know the nature of the relationship between these two, whether if it was something deeper, reminiscent of the unbridled fury he'd felt once he heard of Law's and the Hearts' capture and torture at Basil's hands, or if it really just on a whim that Drake wanted to spare his fellow pirate captain a kinder resting place.

That wasn't his place to say.

Throwing the arm Hawkins still had over his shoulder with probably less care than he should have, Kirin walked the supernova out into back entrance of the castle. White fabric previously maintained to an immaculate degree was soiled in reds and browns like the snow beneath them as he walked, practically having to drag the other man's feet.

His breathing was far too shallow, Hawkins' complexion looked even more deathly than usual, but Kirin could still feel presence from this body, so he wasn't fully in the reaper's grasp yet, he supposed.

Kirin was a little more mindful setting him down, though he didn't hide the displeased expression he was undoubtedly making while this man died. Instinctively patting himself down for a cigarette and lighter that wasn't there, that hadn't been on his person in years.

A ghost of a person moved through him, someone he hadn't seen in the mirror for a long time.

Turning on his heel, Kirin left. For the boat that would take him back to his nakama on the mainland. For Basil's corpse to be covered by gentle snowfall or for him to miraculously claw life back into himself. In either case,

You did what you had to survive, right?

[nagdabbit]

we collide with shoulder and steel: chapter 2/25

rating: m, to be safe. intentionally dehumanizing language

words: 2k

also on ao3

i couldnt wait to share, have it early cuz im stuck in a zoom call

It was strange how big things looked from below. An unclimbable tree looked monstrous and intimidating, until it found itself felled by lightning. A father towered above his child, until aged felled him, too. Standing in the valley below, ankle deep in ash, a stone manor on a once-verdant ledge looked like some great castle sitting atop a mountain's peak. 

It had looked far grander before he'd grown enough to make the climb and see it all for what it was.

The mountain was so much smaller than he'd once imagined—even it, past the ruins and the rubble, it continued on higher into the sky than he'd ever been able to see from his vantage point. When he’d been a kid, the ruins far above had looked daunting and unreachable, stretching so far into the sky that he thought he might’ve been able to touch the stars if he stood atop them. It had been a tower of dark, crumbling rock, holding aloft the ruins of a once-grand castle and the cursed king within who would one day heal what magic had broken.

But his world had been small, then. He hadn’t peeked around the mountain to spy the rest of the range looming to the north, stretching on into the distance, let alone thought much of the size of the world beyond the village. But as his surroundings began to dwindle, as homes emptied and fields grew barren, the great bulk of the world began to creep in. Cities and towns and people in the far distance, with wheat in their fields and fruit in their stores, who had no fear of the creeping death that poisoned the land. They didn't have the ash and illness, they had food and water. Miles and miles beyond where he had the strength to walk, the grass was sweet and the rivers ran cool and clear. There were people and crowded streets and busy roads, farmers and traders and everyone in between.

He'd been raised in the dregs of a village, nothing much more than a smear of houses left in the middle of a desolate waste. One last generation to slowly die, with ash in their lungs.

The mountain wasn’t as tall as he’d once feared.

Up close, what had been a castle looked to be nothing much more than a once-grand house, slowly crumbling away. The home of a viscount or baron, not a king. Grand enough for barracks and a chapel, but no true curtain wall beyond a few scattered stones and the rough mountain climb. Grand, but not grand enough for the power so many husband hunters had gone looking for. 

The ruins were so much less frightening than he’d always imagined them to be. Cold and lonely, rather than ominous and foreboding. The high stone gatehouse was slowly collapsing, the thick, decaying stones flecked with moss and lichen that had dried out and died long, long ago.

It looked like a corpse, forgotten and rotted into bone. There was nothing much left to even be afraid of.

Nothing moved as he stepped carefully through the stone arch, not like in the stories. The path didn’t close up behind him, no thorns or vines slithered around at his back. There was no inky darkness, no oppressive shroud of fog, no shadows tracking his every step. Just a scrubby glade and disintegrating house, beneath a clear, evening sky. It was, if anything, peaceful.

In front of him, some forty meters up the uneven stone path, the ruins loomed tall. He could see fresh patchwork on places, wooden slats patched over holes in the roof, some attempts at clearing away rubble and debris. The great, wooden door, still flecked with ancient slivers of dark, red paint, bore deep scratches and cuts. From far away, it looked like claw marks. He could see a flicker of light through one of the cracked windows, like a candle dying in the distance.

He took a few steps across the courtyard. And when no great, hulking monster jumped out to accost him, he took a few more. 

Coming up the steep, crumbling road, he’d been able to pick out the steward’s house and barracks where they sat upon the mountain ledge. They had once connected to the gatehouse, a makeshift wall to keep intruders at bay, but he could only see a pile of stones and rotted, silvery wood left. If time didn’t erase what was left of them, the ledge beneath them would fall away one day soon. Past the gate, he found the remnants of a smithy, not much more than a pile of rust and coal. Stables that had nearly collapsed, a chapel that had been repaired in recent years, a well that had likely run dry. The courtyard was wide, littered with the detritus of a past life. He could almost imagine the bustle of people, the sounds of animals, the scent of baked bread wafting from the kitchens. 

Age-old grass, brittle and dry, crackled away beneath his feet.

He had made it most of the way to the door, eyes scanning the wide, quiet glade, when something most unexpected caught his eye. Something he hadn’t seen in those parts in almost his entire life. Green. 

Everything atop the mountain had been drained of life, yet the garden flourished. 

He stumbled forward, letting his pack drop to the ground, too drawn by the sight to bother remembering his reasons for even making the climb. He spied more than greenery, more than just the soft grasses and sweet clover. Bursts of color in a verdant sea. 

The deep, liquid burgundy of roses, bushes overgrown and unkempt. The bright, jammy gold of apricots, weighing down the thin branches of a young tree, barely taller than himself. He caught the creamy scent of honeysuckle, spied the red of wild raspberries, the brilliant blue cornflowers, dainty purple musk mallow, great bushes covered with wide puffs of elderflowers. 

Beds that once held lilies and tulips, were overgrown with fragrant herbs and hearty greens. Purslane and dock, spinach, rocket and nodding onion. He spied sumac and gooseberries, even a trove of morels that made his mouth water.

The garden wasn't simply overgrown, it was bursting forth with treasures he had always thought long-dead, things he and the other children had hunted in the dying woods like precious gemstones. Before him stretched a bounty, a feast of greenery he had only read about in books and tall tales. 

What a cruel thing to find so close within reach, when he'd been born half-starved. 

He wasn't given much time to gawk at the display. A snap of a twig behind him, the heat of breath on his neck, the scrape of talons between his shoulder blades. Between one second and the next, he found himself thrown backward, skidding across the dry grass.

Dust coated his lungs as he sucked in a breath, trying to right himself. He heard a strange voice, demanding something from him in a low growl. A voice thick and slow, like speaking through a mouthful of too many teeth, and rough from disuse. 

He wheezed another coughing breath, and finally set his gaze upon the monster.

The eyes caught him first. A human shade of blue, the cold slate of a clouded sky, beset with strange, goat-like pupils. They were set into an almost human face—if not for the long, caprine nose and too-wide mouth. Ram's horns, four of them curling and pointing into different directions, emerged from its bulking, furred head. Almost human arms and shoulders, save for the breadth of them, save for the fur. 

Long, bear-like claws sprouted from the ends of its fingers, like daggers. He could feel blood welling from the thin cuts on his back.

It was a ramshackle beast, thrown together by a haphazard hand.

It stepped forward on cloven hooves, looming and dangerous, legs clad in the tattered remains of breeches, like it was trying to cling to the last shreds of humanity. Its lip lifted in a snarl, revealing a row of sharp, wolven teeth. "Who are you?" it demanded again, heat and smoke and fire beginning to curl from its nostrils.

He snarled back and scrambled to his feet. Don't back down, you don't need to run, that's what some of the survivors said. The few who hadn't gone with swords or fire or machinations of grandeur. It wouldn't matter even if you did. "Who are you?"

A grimace of a smirk squirmed across a wade, feline mouth. "This place is mine," it ground out, bending low to press its face close. "You're trespassing. I'll ask you one more time before I throw you back down the mountain. Who are you?"

He glared up into the thing's face, refusing to shrink back or shiver beneath the strange gaze. "My name is Daniel."

"And what are you doing here, little Daniel?" The goat-like face leaned in even closer, breath hot and sour. Tense and ready to pounce, ready to pin Danny down in the bed of cool clover, rip him open and bleed him dry. Goats shouldn't have claws, shouldn't have wolf-sharp teeth, shouldn't breathe smoke and flame. "Come monster hunting? Need a pelt for your bounty?"

He fought down the bile threatening to rise up his throat, the roiling fear and disgust in his belly. He shoved closer, like it was some common street fight. Like he had Jericho and his men at his back, like he had the firepower to back up his bravado. "I'm not here for you."

"No? You don't want to be king? You don't want wealth and power?" 

"No king ever lived here," he scoffed, casting his gaze away from the monster and across the ruins. "A baron at best, and clearly not one with enough connections to make the effort worth much at all."

He expected a snarl of offense, or a nasty laugh. Anything more than a head tilt and the narrowing of those uncanny blue eyes. "Not some hopeful curse breaker?"

"I don't give two entire shits about you or this fuckin' curse," he snapped, brushing himself off, trying to brush the revulsion and discomfort off along with the dust and dirt. What good was a part if he couldn't even play it? "I'm looking for answers."

That uncanny face looked more curious than deadly, and Danny didn't know whether that was a comfort or not. "What's the question?"

"What happened to them?" he lied, hoping his indignation might cover any of his tells. He pointed back down the mountainside, toward the ghost of where he'd grown up. "Why did they have to die, when you were the one cursed? Why did I come back to a barren ghost town, while you get to feast on true riches?"

The thing's expression shuttered, as much as it was able. Those strange eyes turned away, sharp teeth grinding. "You should leave while there's still some place for you to go," he ground out through a snarl.

Some stories said the thing was vicious and dangerous. No empathy, no conscience, nothing but a bloodthirsty beast, hellbent on killing anything that stumbled upon its burrow. Others called it cold and uncaring, as unmoved as the statues slowly crumbling to pieces in the graveyard of a garden. Others still called it evil and conniving. A beast in the worst sense of the word, playing games with those stupid enough to step foot up the mountain, menacing and hungry.

But it had demanded Daniel's name, discouraged him from staying, and left him only with a few scratches and bruises. Maybe it was nothing like the stories, maybe it was a bit of all of them. 

"Just because I can go, doesn't mean there's somewhere for me." 

"Well, there's certainly nothing for you here." The thing turned away, stomping back through the overgrowth, briars and thorns catching in its fur. Bear like claws, cloven hooves, the rough, silvery fur of a badger down its back. A horrible, monstrous thing to behold, as it stepped delicately through the clover.

He wanted to run, the task ahead almost too heavy to bear, but he followed along instead. "I'm not leaving, not until I know what happened."

"They died," it called out, not bothering to look back. "Leave, before you do the same."

[blackestnight]

waking dreams

what if we… were in a never-ending nightmare sustained by eldritch gods as punishment for unspeakable sins… and i cut your head off .. aha ha, just kidding.. unless..?

nini and aoife reminded me of a thing i wrote for bloodborne au months ago but never actually got around to posting, which will make complete sense to one person, partial sense to about six other people, and no sense to anyone else, but you know what? it’s fine. you don’t need any context aside from my refrain of “DECAPITATION (ROMANTIC)” (this is also a content warning for decapitation (romantic))

The old workshop reeked, when Aymeric closed his eyes—of dust, rotting wood, candle wax, metal and oil and rust, both from the blades on the walls and the ever-present blood, in bottles and vials and ground into his clothes. The stillness in the building itself had always reminded him a bit of a church, with the workbench serving as an altar to the old gods of slaughter.

He felt shivers prickling up the skin of his neck, and took a deep breath. There was no danger here. None that he wasn’t willing to turn his back on, anyway.

When he opened his eyes again, the moonlight through the warped glass of the window caught on the swords left abandoned by their makers: cleavers, trick canes, a scythe flashing like a grim smile in the darkness, twin to the one Hanami was using now in the misty fields. She really was so skilled with it. What a mercy.

He shuddered again at the crunch of loose stone, and the creak of the floorboard behind him—when he turned, there she was, resplendent in her dark coat, her scythe held loosely in one hand. He supposed there was blood on her somewhere—it was unavoidable, in their line of work—but it wasn’t on the blade, which shone clean and bright.

“Come on,” she said, her voice as gentle as Aymeric had ever heard it, quiet as a grave.

He shook his head even as he took a step toward her. “I could—”

“No,” she told him, much firmer—oh, there was the flint in her eyes, ready to spark against steel. “I told you. Keep your hands clean. This is my work.”

“I know,” he insisted. Maybe this was what prayer felt like, for those more devout than he: a desperate plea to be heard, if just for a moment, by a power greater than he really understood. “But I…I do not wish to leave you alone. After.”

Hanami shifted her weight; her arm moved, too, a gentle tilt of her wrist to prop her scythe against her shoulder. “Let me worry about after,” she said. “I will make do. Are you ready?”

He took another deep breath (metal and dust and copper, from rust and from blood). The release left him feeling…deflated, somehow. It was pointless to fight her. She’d proved it, soundly, repeatedly, and—perhaps selfishly—he didn’t want to part on bad terms. Didn’t want to fight. It had been such a long, long night already.

“If you are,” he said, “then yes. I am.”

The garden surrounding the workshop reminded him of home, clearly having been lovely in its past life before being left to rot and decay in the darkness. The flowers had largely been replaced by headstones, which they wove between as Hanami led him around the hillside. Fog swirled around their ankles, making the whole landscape seem boundless; in the distance, beyond what he imagined were cliffs, there were abandoned ships’ masts canted at tired angles, a sort of forest of rigging and timber. He’d never heard any water here, but then this place was always unnaturally still. What flowers there were bent back to standing under their feet, so he couldn’t even mark the paths that she had walked before—couldn’t begin to guess where…

No matter.

Hanami led him along a meandering route through the greenery and the graves until they passed through the fence marking the boundaries of the workshop yard and into the open field. The scent of metal and rust faded into crushed grass and oncoming rain. The slope became gentler, smoother, a steady roll down into the fog and the drop, framed at its high point by the skeletal fingers of trees, and a pair of dirt mounds below it.

Fresh graves. Aymeric knew, with a certainty deeper than his marrow, that the long haft marking one would be Estinien’s rifle spear, and surely the glint at the head of the other would be from Ninira’s Tonitrus.

“On your knees,” Hanami said.

His sword would make a decent gravestone, he thought as he sank to his knees in the soft meadow grass. Better with the shield to lean against it and catch the light.

Aymeric considered closing his eyes, the better to breathe in the midnight dew and chlorophyll, and the faintest scent of sword oil and sweat, but he decided against it. The ground around him was clean, not a single blood-spatter to be found, and with the moon before him and the very edges of the trees guarding his view of the gentle slope down into the fog, he could think of few things he would rather watch as he died.

“Thank you,” he said, unable to force his voice above a whisper. It was such a stunning view. He wondered whether Hanami had taken such care to scout out places to lead Ninira and Estinien—marveled at her care in her execution.

The air was still, so he could hear her every step as she rustled the flowers underfoot. He bowed his head. “No,” she said, “keep your head straight.” It was her glove, not her sword, which brushed his jawline, lifting his chin.

He did as she asked, rolling his shoulders back—perfect posture. The silver light washed over him like icewater.

“Count back from ten,” she said.

He smiled. “Ten,” he said. Her boot crunched in the grass behind him. Aymeric thought, if the moon always looked this lovely, he could understand why some men felt compelled to worship it. “Nine.”

Hanami was a swift and merciful hunter. He never even made it to eight.

[h0edreyhepburn]

Today is a shitty day but iv'e finally learned not to burden people with my feelings.

I feel like I'm drowning but, I also smile when I'm suffering, so is it an indicator of real non-arousing pain ?

Waking up everyday is a game of charade, when you never know if it is in fact, the last straw or If next week will make you want to kill yourself more.

I've lost people because of my complex altruism. They thought I was a narcissistic Sadist that wanted to make them swirl in the rainy storm of my most tender torture.

Perception is a fragment of reality, and we don't share the same piece of it so who am I to say they are wrong ?

If i could get the hell away from me, I would, because I have a habit of sucking people's emotions dry in an attempt to lower their sufferances, like Carmilla, but in a twisted sensual morbidity.

It's a fucked up way to solace their anguish. But I thought it worked. They needed me, for a while at least. Then they left. They all did.

Everyone I ever loved too much, too hard or too long has left, as soon as I was visibly suffering too much. When I stopped playing along their manic pixie dream girl fantasy.

And then again, I can't blame them ! Who wants to babysit a sorrowful melancholic modern day Ophelia ? It's not fun when she is watching the walls decay with empty googly-eyes and smoking till her brain rots. And she won't stop. She's no fun anymore. Why would she stop ?

Then again I think I only find true comfort in agony, hugging my teenage self that deserved nothing that I made her go through, and is a shell inside my adult-self.

I need to make her happy in order to feel happiness, but I ruined her so bad with drugs, parties and violence.

I ruined her because she thinks she's unlovable. And the truth is she isn't, she's too fucked, to much of a liability, to much of a crybaby to ever attract sympathy. She is used to dedain and insults anyway.

And then again, I have this thing that I call "her". She's the version of me that girls like, that got rizz, is funny, is socially accurate and acceptable, loves to have fun and is the life of the party.

If only I could be "her" 24/7 i'll know my worth, and I wouldn't be stuck with a girl like mine, that doesn't even want to be mine for more than a few appolinaire's alcools hours.

I'm going back to the bar like every night this week, spending money i don't have in order to feel something other than hurt and grieve.

And it'll cost too much, I will go to the liquor store. Then the store will close. The lights are out. And I am alone with my demons again on a parking lot a few blocks from my home,  drunk and nauseous.

[paleodictyoptera]

Plight of the Windigo

An apparition stood ahead among the trees, staring silently, the snow laden wind losing its voice in their presence but blowing no lesser for it. Unnaturally tall and lanky, with arms and legs too long for their girth; that along with a skin filled with pinkish-purple sores and greyish-blue bruises all over, one painting the right third of its chest a sickly half-black, it looked half-dead from malnutrition.

The part that made it fully dead was how it was encrusted with ice and decay. Freezing rain caked their scalp like a helmet, running down over their right ear; that is, if they did have a right ear. The other was clearly frostbitten to shreds. Shards of icicles jutted from the hips, some looking like they grew from the skin; the others looked like they'd been stabbed in.

While much of the right side of the body showed ice front and center, little peeks of rot could be seen here and there. Frost crystals and mold blended together like fur on its skin, with a blemish in the cheek making it look hollow, like some of the bone was missing. The left side of the body was much more dedicated to rot and decay. The left foot was gangrenous and falling apart, two toes already missing and another not far off from falling away too. Further up, the abdomen was painted black with necrotic flesh, partly scabby as it forced its way over the ribs.

It was clearly a windigo, spirit of ice and greed; and most notably, cannibalism. Jared knew better than to trust anything undead, let alone be near it. Just treat it like any other predator, back up slowly-

"Wait." The mouth opened, but did not move with the speech. It slowly raised its arm, creaking uncomfortably loud in the near silence, like a large tree in a strong wind.

Just keep backing up, the cabin's only 500 feet away or so.

"Please, just hear what I have to say." It held out its hand, three fingers caked and bleeding, frozen mud in the creases. It looked ready to chase him. 

Jared stopped moving. He barely dared to breathe, the cold becoming ever more harsh, stinging his nose bitterly.

Its hand fell slowly, creaking again. "You must tell people that you have seen a windigo. Warn them in the proper way, yes. But also tell them what I looked like." Their teeth were too large, stark white against impossibly blood red gums. "Too many of my kin are succumbing to the white man, to their corruption of our ilk." Its head turned with a rustling noise, eyes both milky and bloodshot staring at the green of the conifers surrounding them. "You will not understand, white man, but you will spread my warning."

The head snapped back with lightning precision, pupils appearing suddenly out of the depths and filling them with mad, burning predatory rage.

"Or else."

Jared stopped caring about how to avoid predators and ran.

~~~

It watched as the swaddled youth ran away, too scared to scream. It felt ever so hungry and wrathful watching prey escape like that, but the greedy pig not only deserved a lesson, but it itself had a favor to ask. Hard to get a favor when you eat the person you're seeking one from.

The boy was selfish and physically crude, yes, but paired with the talent to lie, it knew they had a great ability to tell stories. And the windigo had much need of a story teller among the europeans.

The creatures of spirit have their ancient sources, but the seed is nourished and shaped by where it grows. And the windigo? Too many stories from the colonizers had started to warp them. It itself was strong and had mostly stayed true to the ancestors, but so many other cannibal kin were beginning to change: their mystery, change to simple horror; their greed, change to only bloodlust. Some were even starting to grow antlers, their skulls stretching into animal shapes as the West beat them out like tanning a hide to sell.

It hated all living flesh. It hated in general. But it hated these new, these 'modern' men the most. The power they wielded was undeserved. It was supposed to have been a curse, to be filled with insatiable greed and desire to destroy the environment, so that they destroyed themselves. But they had proven too resourceful, too familiar with being cut off from nature for it to cut them all down quickly enough, and soon they not only became immune, but used the power of the Windigo to run their society.

Even now it could feel the pull; the burning fire of combustion engines and the disrespect for land by paving it with tar and stone, not too far from this spot. Spreading across the countryside like a thread of mold, searching for new life to feed on. And further away, the dumping of poison into river and wind in equal measure. The cries of the poor against the not so much the rich, but the greedy, their weakness drowned by cruel strength and the feeling of hunger and greed, of ever wanting, more, more, more-

It pulled itself back. It understood why the others were so easily shaped by the newcomers. Their culture, everpresent, embodied the windigo, all the way down to its frozen heart and soul. Feeding on its victims with blind hunger, cannibalizing them to stave off inevitably eating itself.

It ultimately did not care whether men put off the curse or devoured themselves as a result of their act of theft, and neither did it care whether it disappeared with them. But to steal their power, then turn around and warp their image… no. That must not go uncorrected.

And so it watched the child of the white men escape into their log house, feeling the cold and the rot and the hunger and the psychotic glee within itself with perfect clarity. It watched, and it whispered, to no one, and thus to the world:

Run child. Run, and with your lies, tell the story of the truth.

[seekfirst-community]

The following reflection is courtesy of Don Schwager © 2022. Don's website is located at Dailyscripture.net

Meditation: What does leaven have to do with hypocrisy? To the Jews leaven was a sign of evil. It was a piece of dough from left-over bread which fermented. Fermentation was associated with decay and rotting - the state of foul-smelling decomposition. Why did Jesus warn his disciples to avoid the ways of the Pharisees? The Pharisees wanted everyone to recognize that they were pious and good Jews because they meticulously and scrupulously performed their religious duties. Jesus turned the table on them by declaring that outward appearance doesn't always match the inward intentions of the heart. Anyone can display outward signs of goodness while inwardly harboring evil thoughts and intentions.

God's light exposes darkness and transforms our minds and hearts

The word hypocrite means actor - someone who pretends to be what he or she is not. But who can truly be good, but God alone? Hypocrisy thrives on making a good appearance and masking what they don't want others to see. The good news is that God's light exposes the darkness of evil and sin in our hearts, even the sin which is unknown to us. And God's light transforms our hearts and minds and enables us to overcome hatred with love, pride with humility, and pretense with integrity and truthfulness. God gives grace to the humble and contrite of heart to enable us to overcome the leaven of insincerity and hypocrisy in our lives.

Godly fear draws us to God's love and truth

What does fear have to do with the kingdom of God? Fear is a powerful force. It can lead us to panic and flight or it can spur us to faith and action. The fear of God is the antidote to the fear of losing one's life.

"I sought the Lord, and he answered me, and delivered me from all my fears... O fear the Lord, you his saints, for those who fear him have no want! ..Come, O sons, listen to me, I will teach you the fear of the Lord." (Psalm 34:4,9,11)

What is godly fear? It is reverence for the One who made us in love and who sustains us in mercy and kindness. The greatest injury or loss which we can experience is not physical but spiritual - the loss of one's soul and life to the power of hell. A healthy fear of God leads to spiritual maturity, wisdom, and right judgment and it frees us from the tyranny of sinful pride, deceit, and cowardice - especially in the face of evil, falsehood, and deception. Do you trust in God's grace and mercy and do you submit to his life-giving word of truth and righteousness (moral goodness)?

"Lord Jesus, may the light of your word free my heart from the deception of sin and consume me with a burning love for your truth and righteousness."

The following reflection is from One Bread, One Body courtesy of Presentation Ministries © 2022.

the down payment

“You too were chosen; when you heard the glad tidings of salvation, the word of truth, and believed in it, you were sealed with the Holy Spirit Who had been promised. He is the Pledge of our inheritance, the first Payment against the full redemption of a people God has made His own, to praise His glory.” —Ephesians 1:13-14

St. Paul had a strange title for the Holy Spirit. He called the Spirit “the Down Payment.” The Lord has promised us new life, freedom, joy, peace, love, power, authority, healing, victory, communion with Him, forgiveness of sins, resurrection from death, and eternal life. He has promised us even much more, but these are just a few highlights.

How do we know these promises are true? Primarily we know this because Jesus said so, and His Word is true. He also lets us personally experience some of what He’s promised. He does this through the power of the Holy Spirit. The Spirit is our Down Payment (see Eph 1:14). For example, because the Spirit healed me or healed through me, I’m sure that nothing can separate me from the love of Christ (Rm 8:35). Because the Spirit has given me the gift to praise the Lord in another language, I know the Bible is true. Because the Spirit gave me peace in the midst of the storm, “I have confident assurance I’m going to heaven” (see Heb 11:1).

The Spirit is a Down Payment that confirms us. Even in a confused, doubting, secular society, we’re confirmed that the Lord will fulfill all His promises because the work of the Holy Spirit is “the first Payment” (Eph 1:14).

Prayer:  Father, renew my Confirmation (see 2 Tm 1:6-7).

Promise:  “Fear nothing, then. You are worth more than a flock of sparrows.” —Lk 12:7

Praise:  Pope St. Callistus served his predecessor, Pope Zephyrinus, as a deacon. He was elected the next Pope and faithfully fulfilled his papal duties until he was martyred.

Reference:  

Rescript:  "In accord with the Code of Canon Law, I hereby grant the Nihil Obstat for the publication One Bread, One Body covering the time period from October 1, 2022 through November 30, 2022. Reverend Steve J. Angi, Chancellor, Vicar General, Archdiocese of Cincinnati, Cincinnati, Ohio January 3, 2022"

The Nihil Obstat ("Permission to Publish") is a declaration that a book or pamphlet is considered to be free of doctrinal or moral error. It is not implied that those who have granted the Nihil Obstat agree with the contents, opinions, or statements

[dycefic]

In The Interim

I must have read at least a dozen variations on the 'ancient and forgotten order of something or other is revived by the Chosen One and some ancient mentor or something' story, in which ancient relics or fortresses or holy places usually play a significant part. I've often wondered what happens to them in the interim, while their orders are scattered and their existence forgotten. I'm always fascinated by the generally elided parts of a story - what happens after the evil empire collapses, or while the dystopia is setting in, or the time between the fall and rise of the order of something or other.

Also, you know, I play Dragon Age. Skyhold is... inspiring.

---

There is an ancient fortress that waits in the mountains for the day when its people will return. Dust covers the floors, and many of the ancient statues have fallen.

I do not know what the fortress waits for. Was it an order of scholars? There was a library, with shelves full of scrolls and books. They are ancient and fragile now, so I never enter the room except to light a fire to dry the air, now and then.

It could have been an order of warriors. There are rooms full of ancient weapons. I know what a sword is, though I have never seen swords shaped like this. There are blades on long poles, like some strange mating of an axe and a spear, and other things I cannot name. What is not too rusted, I oil and tend.

Perhaps it was a religious order. There are many statues, and one motif that repeats often, a woman holding a lamp in one hand and a flower or leafy plant in the other. There are statues of her, and paintings on the walls, and even a mosaic of stones in one of the courtyards. I dust the statues and the paintings, and sweep the mosaic. In the room that seems to be a shrine, I keep a light burning on the altar, as the signs tell me others have done before me.

I don’t know what most of what I find signifies. There are chests full of faded and rotted fabric that was clothing once, but I do not know what the sigils mean. There are devices on shelves whose use I cannot begin to guess. There are letters or symbols carved into the stone in several places, but they are not in the language I know.

But there is a garden. Even after years of neglect, the soil is rich. I do not know the language the people here spoke, or why they lived here, but I know the herbs they used. I know the vegetables they ate. I recognised the bones of chickens and goats, when I dug in their midden for fertiliser.  I found the bird cotes, and replaced rotted perches and lured the pigeons which had gone wild back with seeds and insects from the garden.

Some of the perches were large, too large for any pigeon. I don’t know what birds roosted there. But sometimes I see a large bird circling high up, a crow or a raven, and I wonder if it’s a descendant of those birds.

The kitchen has been used more recently than the other rooms. In a small room off the kitchen I found an old straw bed, and clothing that is not too unlike my own. And on the wall of that room, scratched on the stone, I found a series of crude drawings.

A figure in long skirts walking up a slope between trees. A crude representation of the fortress. The same figure, standing in the garden, with crude plants around her feet and what are probably meant to be birds in the air over her head.

These I read easily. “I climbed the mountains and found this place. I lived here.”

The next row was different.  The same figure, repeated several times. Then a crude outline of a skull. Then a door with a symbol on it. It took me a while to figure that out.

Then I found the door with that symbol, deep below the fortress. When I opened it – cautiously, remembering the skull – I smelled the faint memory of decay.

When I went down, I found an ancient crypt. There were niches in the walls, like narrow beds one above the other, and ancient bones within them. Some had the rusted remains of armour, some the dusty shreds of what might have been robes.

And I found other bones. They were not in niches, but laid on the floor at one end of the room. Twelve complete skeletons were there, and I could see, looking at them, that they were not all the same age. One, at the far right, looked almost as ancient as the bones in the niches. The one on the left still had shreds of flesh here and there, and hair spread around its head. When I examined that one, I found that one of the legs was broken, and had not healed.

They are all women, I think. The newest is still wearing skirts, and I can see the decayed remains on some of the others. What hair remains is long, though it is not certain that either man or woman living in this isolation would cut their hair, and some bones are still encircled by bracelets or necklaces.

They were called here, I think, as I was.

There is a long history of hermitage, among my people. It is more common among men than women, but now and then one will be moved to retreat from the world into solitude and contemplation. Usually they are moved by a god, or go to tend some sacred relic or shrine.

I was alone in the world, when I felt the calling. I packed up my belongings, bade farewell to those few who might miss me, and set out to walk into the mountains. I did not know where I was going, but I knew I was going somewhere. And then…

Then I found this place, and I knew. It is empty, but it is not abandoned. It is only waiting. Waiting until its people come back, until some great need calls them, or destiny, or the turning of the wheel. And while it waits, it is… lonely, perhaps. So it calls out, to those who are right, who will be content in this quiet solitude, who will feed the pigeons and tend the garden and light fires in the library and oil the weapons.

The woman before me broke her leg. Perhaps it bled too much, or wound-rot set in. She must have known she was dying and dragged herself down to lie beside the others. When I know my time is coming, I will go too. If I do not have warning, if death comes quickly, I conjure you who come after me to carry my bones down to that crypt, to lie beside my sisters in peace, until the fortress lives once more.

I leave this record in hope that it will help the next hermit who comes, when I am only bones. And if you who read are no hermit, but coming in some dire need or peril, if you come to awaken again what sleeps here, to give the lady with her flower and her lamp a name, or perhaps to earn your own, then welcome, for we have kept this fortress against your coming.

It has been waiting for you.

(This short account, written on parchment, is preserved by the Order as one of its most precious relics. During the Interim, the period of almost eight hundred years in which the Order was largely forgotten and the fortress was left empty, sixteen women are believed to have been ‘called’ to preserve and tend it. Aside from the bodily remains in the crypt, and a few images scratched into a wall, this is the only evidence they chose to leave of their existence. None have ever been identified, and the parchment is unsigned. Nevertheless, the sixteen Guardians are venerated by the Order for their faithful, solitary service to powers whose name they never knew, and their bones are entombed together, side by side in death as was their wish. Without their care, we believe, there would have been little left for the revived Order to return to.)

[tomurasprincess]

Kinktober Day 22: Zombie (Voracious)

Day 22: Zombie Title: Voracious Word Count: 2.6k Warnings: Noncon, necrophilia (cause zombie), predator/prey, biting, marking, blood play, yandere Note: Thank you so much to @thewheezingwyvern who is always down to help me without batting an eye when I go “so, zombie plague...what are some good symptoms? And yes, the zombie is going to fuck you.” Also, for the love of everything that is unholy, please mind the warnings. Do not read the fic and come to me to tell me how disgusting it was. Trust me, I know. :)

Kinktober Masterlist

The country of Japan is dead. Or at least close enough that the distinction doesn’t matter.

Several months ago, an aggressive virus leaked from a quirk research facility and spread through the population like wildfire. Nobody was informed about what was going on, and nobody was warned when the virus first began to hit the cities. Officials kept it as quiet as possible, hoping to contain the spread before it got out of control. And before anyone knew how big of a mistake they had made.

But it was far too late for any sort of containment. The virus already spread fast in a lab environment, and it was even faster as it tore through an unprepared population.

The first sign of contracting the virus is tiredness and body aches.  The infected simply thought they caught a minor illness, and they continued their business as usual, expecting it to go away on its own. But as the virus continues to spread through their body, the tissues start to die and they develop intense fevers and headaches. By the time the infection makes its way to the brain, confusion and outright delirium has begun to occur.

The infected are wild by this point, feral to the point of attacking, biting, and eating the uninfected.  The ones who were bitten and survived had the site of their wound swell and turn agonizing to the touch, and they would suffer the same progression as the other infected.

The final stage is always the same though. Once the black rot of plague starts appearing on your skin and spreading like the branches of a tree, it’s too late.

The worst part is that the infected still have use of their quirks, and the devastation has been immense. Super powered heroes and villains with their minds rotting and decaying from infection, losing the ability to distinguish friend from foe. In some areas, the casualties were even worse from fighting than they were from the virus itself.

Somehow, you have managed to keep yourself alive and stay away from the worst in-fighting and the areas with the highest concentration of infected. Still though, it is a surprise to you. You’re simply a quirkless nobody with no way to defend yourself.

You have seen so many better, stronger people die right in front of you, leaving you forced to continue on alone.

You sigh as you scavenge through an old building that was once a store, looking for more supplies. Yours are dangerously low, and your dry mouth and grumbling stomach tells you that you need to find something quickly, before you become too weak to continue on.

You practically jump out of your skin when you hear the banging of items hitting the ground from deeper within the store. It might be survivors, or it might be the infected. The thought briefly occurs to you that you need to check to make sure, but you quickly shake it away.

Survivors or not, you didn’t come this far by being careless. But as you inch quietly towards the exit, you see a flash of red eyes from within the darkness as something emerges.

No, not something. Someone.

One of the infected.

It’s clear that he’s in the late stages of infection, the black rot spreading out through his body, but most notably his left leg which he drags limply. He’s wearing what are essentially black rags that flow out from behind him, leaving his chest bare so that you can see more of the black spiderwebs of rot twining outwards.

His eyes zoom in on you, narrowing slightly as you stand there frozen in fear. Neither of you moves for what feels like hours, but is really mere seconds. You break out of your trance first, turning on your heel and running for the door. The infected pursues you instantly, jumping over a table rather than running around it to save time. The move is a sign of intelligence that instantly fills you with dread. By this stage, the infected are usually too confused and delirious to remember such things.

You make it to the door with him hot on your heels. You’ve always considered yourself a fast runner, especially lately, but this is an entirely different story. He’s fast, too fast. The infected are not supposed to be like this, especially not with a bad leg. But yet he is quickly catching up to you as you dart through streets you know so well.

You realize that your only chance is to lose him somehow, as you’re never going to be able to outrun him. Your breath is coming in harsh pants already, a stitch burning in your side as you make a sharp, desperate right turn into an alleyway.

An alleyway with a dead end.

This area was clear just a week ago, but now it looks like an infected hero or villain used their quirk to collapse both buildings in the area, causing massive chunks of cement and debris to block the road out. There is no way to climb over the rubble and no handholds or stairs to use to climb up the buildings. You’re completely trapped.

You whirl around quickly, hoping to get out before the infected catches up with you. But you’re too late. He’s already standing at the entrance of the alley,  staring you down with heated red eyes. A sharp burst of awareness fills you as you realize exactly who this is. The leader of the League of Villains, Shigaraki Tomura, whose whereabouts have been speculated on for weeks along with the rest of his villain group.

No wonder he’s so fast and so dangerous. The infected retain some level of awareness and ability from the time before, and Shigaraki was one of the most deadly villains in the country.

And if the way he’s acting towards you is any indication, he still is.

You take a step back. He takes a step forward. Another step back. Another step forward. You scan through your chances of getting out of this alive and uninfected, but your mind comes up with nothing.

Your back hits a wall abruptly, and in your split second distraction, the infected is on you. You’re pulled roughly to the ground, hands barely breaking your fall as you land on your front. This is it, you think to yourself, I’m about to be eaten. All this time of running away, of watching people you care about die, all for nothing.

You can’t stop yourself from trembling as you try to brace for the pain of being devoured. But instead, he leans down and buries his face into your neck, sniffing the skin deeply as he pushes your body further onto the ground. His hips are bucking against the curve of your ass, and with dawning horror, you realize exactly what the hard bulge in his pants is.

He grabs your pants and you watch as decay overtakes them and dissolves them into ash. He decays your shirt and bra next, leaving you bare from the waist up and shivering from the cold of his body pressed against you. You’re too scared to move, too scared to do anything.

But when he reaches for your panties, that’s when your paralysis finally breaks and fear takes over. You try to lift yourself up from the ground to run, only to hear a snarl as teeth sink into the flesh of your neck.

You go limp with a choked sob, losing any and all desire to try and get away. It’s all over now. That one single moment has doomed you to infection and madness. The pain of the bite is nothing compared to the despair you feel.

He lets out a pleased hum at your sudden obedience, pulling your panties aside as you feel something cold and hard prodding at your entrance. You barely have time to comprehend what’s happening before your pussy is filled with one sharp thrust of the creature’s hips. The infected aren’t supposed to do this, aren’t supposed to have these urges, you think wildly to yourself. This can’t be happening, it’s not possible.. But it is happening. You’re being taken by this creature like a wild animal in a back alley.

And then he is moving, hips slapping against your ass as his throbbing length pounds into you. There is no gentleness, no precision, just deep, feral thrusts that have you unwillingly clenching. He’s thicker than you’re used to, and the pain of your muscles stretching around him causes you to whine from the back of your throat.

This shouldn’t feel good. You should be horrified, disgusted. You should be fighting tooth and nail to get away, even though it’s hopeless since you’re already infected. But the cold of his cock pressing against your warm walls has your head spinning from the contrast.

He hits a soft, spongy spot inside of you, and you let out a squeal as your stomach tightens. The teeth are removed from your neck, only to bite down in another spot on the other side. He ruthlessly breaks skin, causing blood to run down your front and drip onto the pavement below.

Your body feels like it’s on fire, everything so overly sensitive as his cock forces your walls to stretch open even further as he gets rougher. The hands gripping your hips feel warmer than they were before, fingers digging hard enough into your skin to create bruises. The grunts and groans leaving his throat are positively lewd, and he takes his mouth away only to bite down in between your shoulder blades.

Your scream echoes through the alley as the teeth penetrate flesh, his tongue lapping at the bite and taking deep swallows of your blood. You try to imagine yourself somewhere else, anywhere else so that you don’t think of the pressure building up inside of you and the pain from the throbbing bites now decorating you.

Your nails dig hard into the cement below you as you try to ground yourself and ignore what’s happening, but Shigaraki doesn’t seem to appreciate that at all. He smacks his hand hard against your ass, keeping his pinky raised delicately off your skin in a way that has you worried about his level of awareness.

Now that your attention is firmly back on him, he bites the back of your neck, and you can’t stop the howl that leaves your throat when you feel your skin break, or the orgasm that wracks your body as you feel blood trail down the column of your neck and down in between your breasts.

Tears run down your face as humiliation burns through you, the shame of cumming around this infected villain’s cock almost too much to bear. Almost worse than the fact that you’ll soon be just like him.

“M-m-m - “

Your eyes widen as you glance behind you, seeing the infected concentrating hard as he tries to get words out. He’s stopped thrusting, as if he’s trying to focus entirely on whatever he wants to say. As he opens his mouth, you see his teeth stained with your blood and the sight shoots straight to your core.

“M-m-mine,” he finally manages to stutter out, “mine.” He forces your head down onto the pavement as he begins to ruthlessly pound into you.  The infected don’t speak, they’re not supposed to speak -

“Mine,” he snarls, almost as if he heard your thoughts and is trying to prove you wrong.

You’re oversensitive and wet from your previous orgasm, allowing him to fuck you deeply, hitting your cervix with every thrust. You can feel your pussy dripping your juices all over his cock, and the wet squelching noises that fill the alleyway has you shaking with embarrassment.

“Mine, mine mine,” he chants as he bites again and again, each time pausing long enough to take gulps of your blood. Your head is spinning, lightheadedness from blood loss overtaking you. The ground below you has puddles of your own blood where it drips down, and you briefly think that maybe you really will be eaten right here and now instead of being infected and left to wander.

His hand comes in between your bodies to stroke tight circles against your swollen clit as he chuckles deeply into your ear. “Mine,” he whispers darkly. “Why else would I stumble across the cure for the plague if you weren’t meant to be mine?”

Cure for the plague? That’s not possible, there’s no cure for the plague, and you’re completely quirkless -

He bites down one last time, sinking his teeth into the back of your neck and holding you there like a dog refusing to let go of a bone. You realize why immediately when he groans into your heated skin, warmth spreading through your core as he shoots hot ropes of cum directly against your cervix. The pain of his teeth buried into your flesh has you thrown over the edge as well, legs trembling and eyes rolling into the back of your head.

He removes his teeth from your neck once he’s emptied himself inside of you, letting you go as you collapse onto the ground. You roll over enough to meet his eyes, seeing sharp intelligence and contemplation. The black rot is quickly disappearing, color returning to his skin. Within no time at all, you can no longer tell he was ever infected.

“How - I don’t - I’m quirkless - “

“No, you’re not.” He states it matter of factly, as if it was already known. “You have a quirk, it just didn’t have a purpose until the plague. Your blood carries the cure.”

You consider everything that happened, realizing that the more blood he drank, the more human he seemed. The faster the infection was being cured. He snorts at the look of disbelief and then understanding on your face. “With you on my side, I can remake society exactly the way that I want.”

“I am not on your fucking side! You’re a villain who just - “ You can’t even bring yourself to finish the sentence, but Shigaraki has no issues doing it for you.

“A villain who just fucked you and got you off?  Such a dirty girl, getting off around infected cock.”

Your face heats up and you instantly glance away, drawing another chuckle from his throat. “I won’t help you,” you say stubbornly, ignoring his previous words.

“Who said I was giving you a choice?” His fingers dig into your arm as he pulls you off the ground. “You belong to me now, and I’m going to do whatever the fuck I want with you. Just think about the power I have now. I control who stays infected and who gets cured. No more hero society.” His voice has taken on an excited, almost manic tone as he considers the possibilities.

“Are you - are you going to let them do what you just did?” You whisper quietly, a single tear running down your face at being used the same way by other people.

He instantly scowls at you. “Of course not.”

You perk up just a bit, until you hear his next words.

“I’ll let you be a blood bag, but for everything else - you’re mine. And I don’t like to share.” He begins to drag you back the way that you came, walking with purpose.

“Now come along. We have so much work to do.”

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

Kinktober: @ichor-and-symbiosis, @thewheezingwyvern​, @vixen-scribbles, @katsukisprincess, @hisoknen, @trafalgar-temptress, @leeswritingworld, @burnedbyshoto, @bakugotrashpanda, @dee-madwriter, @kittycatkrissa, @reinawritesbnha, @yanderart, @dabilove27, @fae-father, @anxietyplusultra, @flutterfalla, @angmarwitch, @nereida19, @babayaga67, @fromsunnywithlove, @dabis-kitten, @bakugos-cumsock, @yumeneji, @the-grimm-writer, @iwaizumi-chan, @slashersheart, @bunnyywritings, @bakarinnie, @angie-1306, @emplosion22, @lalalemon101, @videogameboiwhowins, @f4nficbaby, @tenkoshimmy, @baroque-baby, @bbyspiiice, @thirstyforthem2dmen, @blissfulignorance2000, @bluecookies02-main

[therealjammy]

The Lady of Half-Death

Hi, hello, posting this here for the Tumblr crowd, in case you don’t feel like venturing to Ao3. 

This work’s alternate title: “Lucky One” 

Content Warnings: Very NSFW, a brief but graphic depiction of violence. (This work is meant for 18+ only!) 

It’s also told in first person POV, the Forbidden Perspective, so sorry if that’s not your jam.... Thank you for reading xx

--

I.

November, 1937

On a bitter November day, early in the morning, I was roused by the tinkling of the bell hanging beside my bed. Being Mother Miranda’s most competent servant, I was long used to a summons during the small hours of the dark. She was night’s creature, bent over her studies and her subjects until a bitter sun lit the sky, almost unaware of time’s passage, while her servants kept in perfect time with every striking hour. I splashed sleep from my features with bitterly cold water from the basin on my dresser and wrapped myself in my warmest robe. I lit a candelabra, savoring its small warmth as I donned my silver mask. It had frightened me at first, how the servants wore these metal things elongated into an elegantly startling bird’s beak, but when serving the Lady of Ravens, one had to know to whom they pledged their loyalty, both inside and outside the house’s grounds. Though the metal was light, it still made one’s head ache after only a few minutes of wear, and was a constant irritation after many hours. But like a pain that was more a nuisance than anything, it was easily set aside.

           I walked quickly through dark hallways and creaking staircases, passing through rooms whose furniture was covered in sheets and rooms whose contents were not. Each was quiet as the long-dead.

           The doors to the laboratory opened on soundless hinges. Inside, there was only a spotlight on the latest occupied table and the stoic figure of Mother Miranda leaning over it, her hands coated in deep crimson, her subject unmoving. Her face was drawn into a deep, displeasured frown.

           “What may I bring you, ma’am?” I asked carefully.

           “Tea, Trudy,” replied Mother Miranda. By the ancient tiredness in her voice, I knew the kind I ought to fetch.

           Staying true to her grief, Mother Miranda had a fondness for black tea, steeped for five minutes to be strong, made stronger with a dollop of Sanguis Virginis, a sweet but robust red wine made by Lady Dimitrescu. She kept the largest bottle for herself, but sent a smaller one to Mother Miranda every winter. The bottle was red and adorned with golden flowers crawling up its sides.

           By the time I brought the fresh tea to her, Mother Miranda’s hands were washed of blood, and the subject on the table was covered with a white sheet, slowly turning scarlet. I set the teacup and candelabra beside her and gave a professional distance.

           “The nature of science,” Mother Miranda said, picking up the teacup, “is to fail again and again.” She held it delicately. There was rage underneath that delicacy. “Every vessel thus far has been unfit, even if it’s accepted the Cadou, and with each unfit one I feel as if I am losing her more.”

           “You might feel like Tantalus, ma’am,” I said after a pause, “with your goals evading your grasp, but I rather think you must be like Orpheus.”

           “Attempt until death,” she murmured. “Yes, child, I believe you’re right.” A long sip of tea. Underneath her golden mask, her pink lips turned a deep red. She set the cup gently in its saucer and rose from her chair, black robes shuffling quietly. “Come. Let us begin anew.”

           I lifted the mutilated subject from the table, wrapping the sheet about her carefully, and carried her fresh limpness to the courtyard with the others. Her cooling blood seeped from the sheet and onto my robes, and it dripped onto the bricks and my feet, leaving a sticky trail. It was cloying, but it was a sweet perfume compared to the rich decay that wafted from the courtyard’s cold soil. In the dark, I saw there was already a space made for her. I lay her carefully in it. A good sacrifice deserved gentleness once the deed was done, after all. In that sense, I was more merciful than Mother Miranda. Once a body was no longer of use, she would carry it out herself and toss them hastily aside, for only one body mattered above the rest.

           “In life and in death,” I said over the grave, “we give glory to Mother Miranda.”

           I sprinkled a handful of dirt over the covered girl and left her to the bitter, near-winter air.

           Inside again, I scrubbed the table twice with soapy water and dried it thoroughly. I lit more candles, placing them around the table’s edges, away from the notes that Mother Miranda spread across the surface. While she organized them, I brewed another pot of tea, bringing it and the gifted bottle of Sanguis Virginis with me. When I had poured my own cup, Mother Miranda gestured to the wine. Pour that in, too. I obeyed without question. Grey eyes watched me drink, unchanging even when I made no face at the taste of wine and blood mixing with strong black tea. I’d learned long ago that reactions caused reactions. I remained impassive, though my stomach still curdled and rebelled at the taste of the sinful wine. To the others—Mother Miranda and Lady Dimitrescu— the wine was a sweet and prized possession. If ever it was sold, it would be incredibly expensive.

           I brought a chair and perched myself next to Mother Miranda. It was always a thrill to be at her side, to study her volumes of notes and drawings and glimpse the way her mind worked. But more than that, I cherished the nights like this, when it was only the two of us. I enjoyed her company. I desired more of it, because I desired her. At times I believed she knew this, but then she would dismiss me so easily, brush by without a care, and I’d question if she knew at all.

           Attraction, I reminded myself, was a science, too, and like an experiment gone horribly wrong, it was best if one didn’t share the results.

           I cleared my throat and straightened in my chair. “We should begin where this one failed,” I said. “Pinpoint a reason, compare it to the rest.”

           We pored over notes for hours, comparing observations, Mother Miranda writing furiously in her looping scrawl underneath a page titled Quinn. The candles burned low, and the sky lightened outside the laboratory’s several windows, revealing a cold, white-filled dawn.

           “The conclusion is painfully obvious,” Mother Miranda sighed at last, pushing her nearly empty teacup aside. It’d turned cold hours ago. “I must find a truly unique vessel. The village is rotting with diluted blood and therefore cannot be used again. Three of the Lords—those children!—were ones I found outside. Diluted in other ways, perhaps, but strong enough.”

           “Yet you declared them all unfit,” I remarked.

           “Because they were too much,” Mother Miranda said stiffly, “and the rest have been too little. They served their miserable purpose and now I must find yet another clean slate! And to think I’d chosen so carefully…” A hand curled into a fist, clenched improperly due to taloned fingertips.

           “Send me to the field, Mother Miranda,” I said. “I will search for you.” But it was the wrong thing to say, for her other hand darted quickly out and knocked her teacup and saucer from the table. They shattered on the floor, black-red tea pooling around their remains.

           “Do not be dim, child; it cannot be done by you. It must be me.” She paused for a long moment, coming back to herself with a single, sharp shake of her head. “Please,” Mother Miranda said around a breath, “forgive my outburst.” She moved smoothly to the shattered teacup just as I did. We knelt out of time but reached for the same piece, her gold-plated fingers brushing my bare ones, sending a brief, hot shock through my being that ended in my chest.

           “You need never ask my forgiveness, Mother Miranda,” I said, slowly withdrawing my hand and reaching for a different piece. “A woman in grief doesn’t know her own actions.” And it was her grief, I thought then, that made my heart ache for her. That made everyone’s hearts ache for her. Mother lost a child, they’d say. No greater tragedy exists. We must be kind.

           “Grief is some people’s undoing,” Mother Miranda said. She had stopped picking up shards of teacup, a few pieces cradled in a hand. Her gaze was on the puddle of bloody, wine-soaked tea. “It festers like a splinter left in too long, or a piece of metal unable to be dislodged, and it consumes, until its host perishes with it. I’ve known it for many stretches, but rather than give myself to despair, I have chosen determination; for the parasite cannot fully live while its host fights it. So fight I must.”

           Her face was a pale reflection on the tea’s surface.

 II.

The next morning, a snowy one, Mother Miranda went for a walk. In her absence, her rule passed to me, and then to the Head Housemaid Vera, a stout older woman who kept the other servants in strict line. I was, however, only consulted for advice or for orders. Other than that, I was blessedly alone, a spectre haunting the laboratory while I organized Mother Miranda’s notes and gave into my own musings, letting my mind take up the cluttered space. Many things ran through it: thoughts of my former life, of the people I’d once seen and never would again, and if I followed that line, I knew exactly how I’d come to be here. Sitting alone in a tepid laboratory, surrounded by paper, rotting with attraction.

           It’d been there from the beginning, for there was always attraction to a leader, and many reasons behind it. People were attracted to safety and to comfort, to promises and protection, but highest of all, a deity that preached all the above. People backed off their words more often than they gave in to them, but a deity never would; their word was given and kept. It was learned, it was ingrained, and so like everyone else, I held that same attraction. I gazed upon the same likenesses of Mother Miranda and prayed for protection, for strength. I prayed to one day work for her—the highest blessing of all!—and that prayer was answered. She came to my door in all her godly glory and the paintings held no candle to her real beauty.

           The attraction molted once I’d begun to work for her properly. She was aloof and cruel and methodical, but there was talent and beauty, too, and soon enough I began to realize there was a person underneath the deity. And it was the person whom I thought of, now, wondering where her walk was taking her, who she was talking to, what she was thinking. I imagined her underneath a cold white sky, ashy flakes of snow sticking to her black robes and veil, the harsh, mountainous landscape reflecting her own desolation back at her.

           I thought, as I filed the last of the notes away, that I would make her return easier. Oftentimes her walks changed her mood; one never knew the sort she’d bear when she walked through the doors. It could be the silent sort of rage, during which she’d seal the doors of her laboratory shut and refuse to emerge for days, or the one where she’d return with a deadly ice in her eyes and drag the nearest servant by the wrist to her chambers. Sometimes they’d be alive and shuffle from the room with their clothes barely on; other times there was an unfortunate mess to clear away.

           During my luncheon, I called Vera to me and ordered the most frequented rooms be given a thorough cleaning, excluding the laboratory and Mother Miranda’s bathroom.

           “And her dinner?” asked Vera, once she’d given the orders to four maids. “Something comforting, I assume, as the latest loss is still ripe in the courtyard.”

           “Yes,” I agreed. “A shepherd’s pie with marmite in the gravy, and the bottle of Sanguis Virginis.”  

           “Very good, Miss Bevan.” Vera bowed her head and left.

           I went over the bathroom myself, being careful to put every object in its proper place. I drew a bath, the water unbearably hot, but by the time Mother Miranda returned, it would be perfect.

           I loitered for a long while in the bathroom’s silence, sat on the chessboard floor, gazing out the window to the snow-covered hills, the occasional drip, drip of the tub’s taps serenading me into a trance, filled with visions of blonde hair and grey-blue eyes and impeccable hands.

           I wasn’t the first to think of her in this light. Far from it. Worship came in many forms, after all, and many people fell to this one. Except mine was to the woman I knew, not to the idol emblazoned on a shrine dangling from a peeling wall.

           Unable to think of nothing but the bathroom’s suddenly stifling heat and the absent Mother Miranda, I left, unaware of where I was going until I collapsed on the chair I’d occupied earlier, everything about me aching for someone who saw me only as a servant in high regard—but a servant nonetheless. The fact, I thought, unbuttoning my uniform enough to feel cool air caress my chest, made me desire her all the more.

           I propped a shoed foot on the seat’s corner to give myself better access and began my pleasure gently, my head falling against the back of the chair once the rhythm was established, my free hand indecisive on where it wanted to stay—a breast, the chair’s edge, the table; at least until my mind offered me a vision of Mother Miranda ordering me, from between my thighs, to keep it planted firmly on the chair’s edge. There it stayed while my other moved, and behind my closed eyes I saw a skilled tongue working me up, teasing, licking slowly as if to claim ownership to even that part of me; I saw intense eyes meeting my own, telling me to give myself over; in my mind I whispered my glory to her. I twitched erratically, my movements almost clumsy; a few moments more and I’d be tumbling into the blissful void—or would have, had I not heard the door open and the familiar, near-silent movement of the woman living in my head.

           The silence that beat between us lasted only a moment and yet it felt like centuries. Mother Miranda’s eyes narrowed to deadly slits, and before I could manage to stumble out an explanation, she strode to me in five heavy steps.

           “You dare defile this space with your musings?” Mother Miranda hissed, her grip on my wrist vicelike. “Do you not know how ill I find this gesture? How ill it makes me to think you care naught for the meaning of this room?” Claws slashed at my cheek, the first sting of it only surprise at first; it burned when I realized she’d cut flesh. I felt blood welling, but I could not bring a hand up to staunch its flow. Nor could I staunch the fresh wave of heat that pooled in my core at Mother Miranda’s fury. Cold eyes darted from my still-wet hand to my face. Mother Miranda scoffed, roughly releasing my wrist. “Attraction is a damned wicked creature,” she said. “It morphs perspective and thought. It makes one act rashly, makes one believe they’re subtle. You think I’ve not seen your lingering gazes, child? How you bask in my company the way you would underneath the sun? How you are afraid of my rage but it arouses you all the same?” She chuckled lightly, dragging gold-tipped fingers over my cheek, the metal blessedly cool against my heated skin. Having spent so much time in close quarters with this woman, I was no longer terrified by the talons. Their scraping made the coil in my belly curl tighter, and if she were to slip bare fingers against me, she would find me all too ready for her. I met her eyes with a steely look of my own, hoping she wouldn’t see shame, but Mother Miranda was wise in ways I couldn’t fathom. She saw through people as if they were cheesecloth.

           She hummed, fingers roving lower, tracing my pulse hammering in my throat. “Is there any shame about you, Trudy? I should think so, as you are not my equal.” Moving lower still, to the buttons I hadn’t undone, hovering like she wished to tear them—and perhaps she did, for her hand gave a small twitch. “I am higher than you will ever be, yet you stand here, gazing at me so defiantly, trembling with your want of me… Do you think it will make you rise to my level?”

           Her words were fog clouding the forests of my brain. I could think of nothing but how I wanted to serve her, to fall to my knees and pledge fealty, even if it was sworn with her hand guiding my mouth between her thighs. I said, “No, Mother Miranda.”

           “No, indeed. But,” a taloned thumb slid over my lower lip, “it’ll bring me pleasure to see you try.”

           When she kissed me, it was with a slowness that one could believe was care, but I sensed the possession. I opened my mouth to it, leaned into it, every nerve alight at the thrill of kissing someone I had once dreamed of serving under. Her hands drew me close to her, splaying across my back, bunching up my uniform, and her kisses became rougher, filled with need. I met every one with a need of my own, my shaking fingers undoing the rest of the buttons down my front. The movement caught Mother Miranda’s eye; she pulled back, her gaze intense, the color high in her cheeks, watching intently as the top half of my uniform parted and revealed bare skin. She reached out, two fingers gliding smoothly over my collarbones, my sternum, tracing the swell of a breast; gooseflesh rose in the touches’ wake, and my breathing trembled.

           “You are practically untouched,” Mother Miranda said quietly. There was, to her, no greater sin than a specimen that remained unstudied and uncatalogued.

           “Only practically, Mother Miranda,” I returned.

           She leaned down, burying her face against my bloodied neck. Lips pressed softly, tongue lapping slowly— tasting me. “Have you not known love?” she said. “Or devotion?”

           “Fleetingly.” There was the blacksmith, Cristian, in whose strong arms I felt safe. There was Tatiana, who made me feel at peace even after our desperate acts. But with this life, they were fleeting. To serve one of the Lords or Mother Miranda herself, it was until death. “The only devotion I know,” I continued, my voice growing thinner the lower her mouth travelled, “is to you.”

           Mother Miranda hummed against my chest. “You worshipped well, then, Trudy,” she said, rising, taking my chin between two fingers and tilting my face up to hers, “but what of now? How shall you prove your worth to me?”

           I grasped her unoccupied hand and pressed it against my breast, holding it there. I wanted her to feel it, to feel my heart underneath it, to know she could reach in and take it because I offered it to her. “Take what you will,” I said.

           What was left of her resolve crumbled. Mother Miranda swept me into her arms with a low growl, lifting me as easily as she would a child and setting me hastily onto the table we’d cleaned the night before. Impatient fingers worked the rest of my clothes away. She tossed them aside and pressed me into the cold wood, impossibly dark eyes drinking me in, lingering on my neck, my breasts, my thighs. Places I hoped she would kiss. Places she did, in that order, her mouth untamed, leaving harsh love-marks behind. Throughout that act, she didn’t once touch me; I was strung so tightly that even one finger tracing me would’ve been my undoing. It was a sort of torturous study, I realized, clamping my tongue between my teeth when it nearly made me beg for release; she was seeing me as a case, testing my own resolve. How long could she make me wait before I begged forgiveness? Time ceased to exist. I could not tell how long she made me hang.

           When she finally did touch me, I was relieved. Instead of a sigh, a long whimper escaped my mouth. Mother Miranda groaned in response, her fingers twitching and pausing against me, surprised at the slick want they found. Her second touch was heavier, more confident. My hands couldn’t help but cling to the back of her neck, which was covered by a thick cotton veil. I realized I’d touched her without her consent, but when I made to pull away, her free hand came to rest over both of mine, and together we slid the veil from her head.

           Blonde hair, a darker gold in the dim light of the laboratory, fanned around her face, gracing my bare forearms, soft as silk. Without the veil, it was tantamount to seeing her naked.

           “Cling to me,” Mother Miranda breathed.

           It was as much permission as I was going to receive.

           I buried my hands in her hair and leaned up to kiss her. I accepted her tongue when it slipped between my teeth. I opened for her when, at last, she slid fingers inside me.

           And when she truly took me, she devoured me, sprinkling evidence of her use across any expanse of skin she could reach, uncaring if teeth dug in too much, if my back was rubbed raw from the wooden table, if her golden talons left angry scratches. I clung harshly to her during my crisis, my cries only winding her further, for when I was barely limp, she withdrew entirely and carried me to her own chamber. Deposited on her bed, I watched through bliss-filled eyes as she undressed.

           Black robes pooled at her feet. In the blue-white moonlight, she was harshly ethereal. Everything about her seemed to glow, including her eyes. And sprouting from her back were five pairs of midnight wings. I wanted to catalogue it as a dream, a delusion caused by a mind still recovering from an intense crisis, but the wings, like Mother Miranda’s arms and legs, were very much a part of her.

           “Look while you can,” she said. “Commit it to memory, for true revelations are rarely given so freely.”

           She stood for study, allowing me to take in every inch. My eyes lingered where hers had lingered on me.

           “Do you reject me, Trudy?” she questioned softly.

           “No, Mother Miranda,” I replied. I offered her my hand. “I’d fall to my knees in prayer if I were not otherwise occupied.”

           She accepted my hand and leaned over me on her bed, naked and otherworldly, and in my long, exquisite worship of her, I met death eye to eye and thought there would never be another equal.

[bunnys-beetlejuice-blog]

But What If, Instead

Decided to give a go to posting my horribly named but hopefully very fun Beetlejuice fic to tumblr as well. This is an au where BJ is adopted by the Deetz family at a young age.

He’s twelve when he’s left on his own in the upperworld.

He doesn’t know he’s twelve, because he’s never celebrated a birthday, but that timeline seems to fit, later, when he thinks back on it. So he’s twelve. His mother has promised him a special treat that day, and though he’s skeptical to trust her, he follows her quietly through the door she’s drawn, the bone white stick of chalk a blaring contrast to the dark hallways of the netherworld reception office. She’d knocked, and the drawing was more than a drawing, suddenly, with white light and noise spilling through into his little corner of hell as it opened, and when he steps through, Betelgeuse sees blue skies and green grass for the first time in his unlife. He’d turned back to look at Juno, confused, curious, his big orange snake eyes watching her, waiting for the catch, for her to yank him back and punish him for being naive, and trusting her, but all the demoness had done was billow smoke from her slit throat, and nod encouragingly to him. He takes another step, and another and another, and suddenly he’s running and laughing and jumping and the air up here is different, but good, and he takes breaths he doesn't need because it feels nice, and he turns to her again to try and entice her to play with him- And the door is gone. He stands there, staring at the nothingness where she and it had been, and realization hits him hard, because he’s twelve, and he’s been left on his own.

He doesn't cry, both because he can’t, and because he knows it won’t change anything. It doesn’t take him long to find them. Pre ghosts. Breathers. Humans. The place is lousy with them, and the smell of them irritates his sensitive nose. He’s a dumb kid, sure, but he’s got some survival instincts, so he hides from them as they go about their lives, strolling around this place, completely oblivious to the little demon now crashing their dimension. Breathers look so weird, all flushed with blood and bright eyed and hearts beating, no signs of death or rot or decay on them. It’s a lot to ask a kid to get used to. The ghosts back home, the ones workin in Ma’s office, tell him stories about the world up here, sometimes, usually in exchange for him going away, and leaving them the hell alone. (Their words) If there was one thing he learned from them, it was that humans, living or dead, didn’t like things that were strange or unusual. He wanders the wilds of wherever he is for an hour before he finds a body of water, and stooping to peer into it, takes a look at himself.

His skin is pale, but not pink. The undercolor is purple, maybe, which he would have thought would be close enough, but compared to the living, breathing people walking around this place, he knows is too different. There’s not much he can do about that. His hair is a bushy mess, sticking up all over the place, but at least the color is currently green. It’s the eyes, teeth, and ears that really stand out. Yellow snake-like slits stare back at him, long pointed ears flick in the direction of distant sounds, and when he tries to smile down at his reflection, those too many too sharp teeth are all he can see. He’s not the best at magic, yet, mostly using it to play pranks around the office (and hey, maybe that’s why Ma left him here in the first place?) but he does what he can. He throws a glamour over himself, and it’s far from perfect, but the three big problems are taken care of. He looks more human than he did a minute ago, at least, and that’s something.

He’s less afraid to take the main paths, after that, and with that worry out of the way, he finds himself enjoying the afternoon again. So, ma left him here. So what? She’s done him a favor, probably the first she’s ever done anybody, because now he doesn't have to be around her just as much as she doesn’t have to be around him. It’s a win-win, Betelgeuse thinks stubbornly, trotting along the winding pathways lined with benches and garbage cans and other silly human things. He’s starting to get a bit tired of all the green when he reaches, quite unexpectedly, the end of it. There’s a big arched sign, and he can’t understand the language written over head, even though he’s squinting and tilting his head. Someone at some point had sat him down and tried to teach him letters, and he’d gotten far enough to read through the first page of the Handbook, but then that person had been reassigned, and was gone, and no one had cared to keep teaching him.

He’s holding his hands up at his sides, rubbing his red tipped claws against the palms of his hands, top teeth biting over his bottom lip, head tilted to one side in an extreme, when he hears a snort and then a soft giggle.

There’s a woman standing in front of him. Her hair is a sunny yellow color, but her clothing is dark and dramatic, and there are roosting bats dangling from her ears. She’s laughing at him. They stare at each other for a long moment, her hand raised in front of her mouth, her eyes crinkled pleasantly at the corners, and he finally breaks the silence by pointing at the sign, and speaking. “Wazzat say?” She blinks in surprise at his grating little voice, and then glances back at the sign. “Krap Lartnec,” she tells him. “Which is flipped around and backwards for “Central Park.” He’s been staring at the sign the wrong way. Of course. He feels his cheeks heat up with embarrassment. “Oh. Got it. Park. Right, yeah.” She lets out another laugh, and it’s so different from the sounds his mother makes when she’s guffawing at him, shaming him, that it almost doesn’t register as a laugh at first. There’s no cruelty to it, just amusement, and maybe curiosity. “Are you here alone?” she asks him, and he shrugs easily. “I guess.” She moves closer to him, cautiously, like he’s going to bite her, or bolt, but he doesn’t really feel the need to be worried over one breather. He knows he could rip out her throat if he needs to. The glamour only hides his demonic features, not takes them away. He’s still plenty capable of taking care of himself. “Where are your parents?” She's crouched down next to him now, one knee on the pavement, big brown eyes all sweet and worried, and he shrugs again. “Don’t have a dad. Mom’s downstairs.” She squints at that, and he gestures down with a pointed red claw tip. “Ya know. Downstairs.” The way he emphasizes it is meaningful, and when her eyes show understanding, he assumes she gets it. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” “Don’t be. I’m havin’ a good time.”

That doesn’t seem to be what she expects, but she just nods thoughtfully. “Are you staying someplace?” He can’t, for the undeath of him, figure out why she’s asking, and why she cares. He shrugs again, because things feel better in threes, and says vaguely, “I guess I’m stayin’ here.” That also doesn’t seem to be a good answer. “You can’t stay in the park overnight. There’s creeps around here.” He bites back the urge to explain that he’s the creepiest thing here, because suddenly she’s taking his hand, and she feels cool to the touch. “Good god, kiddo, you’re burning up!” she puts her other hand on his forehead, all the play gone from her voice, clearly concerned. “You might have a fever. Listen…” she worries her bottom lip with her teeth, smudging the dark color there, before she makes a decision. “Why don’t you come home with me? I’ll give you something to eat, make sure you’re alright, and we’ll figure out what to do from there, okay?” He isn’t sick, and he’s pretty sure he can’t get sick. It’s the hellfire in his veins that makes him hot, because he’s not like her, not even close, but the idea of following her seems like a fine one to him, so he just nods. “Kay. You got bugs where you live?” She snorts again, and stands, brushing off her dark, rose patterned tights. “Sure, what New York apartment doesn’t have a few roaches lurking around. You like bugs?” “Yeah, I like em. They’re crunchy an’ they skitter around an’ stuff.” “Yeah,” she agrees, nodding thoughtfully. “Bugs kick ass.” It’s his turn to snort, and then laugh, because she’d sounded so serious that it strikes him as funny. His hand is still in her’s, and she gives it a squeeze. “What’s your name, little buddy?” “Betelguese.” He expects a pause, or a comment, because no newly dead has ever heard his name without wrinkling their nose and looking vaguely sick, but her smile just grows wider. “Far out. I’m Emily.” And hand in hand, they leave the park.

```````````````````````````````````````````````````````

Beetlejuice decides quickly Emily might be the nicest breather who ever breathed. It’s a decision he makes only moments after they’ve left the park. Normally he’d be talking, and talking a lot, and his ma might throw something at him, a curse or a bottle, to try and shut him up. So he’s giving silence a try, here, even though it feels like it hangs like a weight around his neck. But Emily is the one instead filling the silence with sound, and he’s never had such unfiltered attention from an adult before. She’s talking about the park, then his hair, then his name, and everything she says is just… sunshine. She likes his hair. She likes his name. She even likes the loose fitting and filthy black and white striped shirt he’s got on, she says it’s deadlyvoo, whatever the hell that means, but it must be good, because Emily said it.

They’re walking down the street, his little hand still in her’s, when a smell hits his sensitive nose. It’s unlike anything he’s ever smelled before and if he wasn't tethered to her, he would have floated after it. As it is, he does feel his feet lift off the ground briefly, and he has to remind his body to obey gravity, before someone notices. Luckily, Emily only sees part of his reaction, namely the way he’s sniffing the air like a dog and drooling. “Hotdogs!” she grins, and she leads him over towards the smell before he can even ask what that word means.

There’s a little cart set up, and a short, fat woman is fussing over a fire. He quickly finds the source of the smell, those little weird shapes of meat she’s turning over, and he goes to reach for one, only stopped by Emily’s other hand over his. “Not so fast, little bug. To unlock lunch, you need the power of capitalism.” She nods gravely. He nods back, clueless, but after a moment he has the source of the smell in his hands, and he wastes no time in scarfing it down. It’s good. He wants more, instantly, and tugs at her sleeve. Emily has hardly put her wallet away before it’s back out again, and she’s bought two more hotdogs. He eats them just as quickly, but before he can ask for more he realizes she’s led him away from the woman and her meats and her fire. Clever breather.

The walk to her home isn’t so bad, and it gives him time to take in his surroundings. The park had been jarring enough- what little plants grow in the netherworld are perpetually gray and withered, sad little scraggly weeds that struggle and choke each other out for the privilege of what miniscule sunshine permeates through the perpetual overcast. But there’s enough sunlight and water and everything to go around here, and it all grows green and vibrant. The city feels the same way, sort of. Like there’s plenty of space to stretch out and grow, and so they did. In the netherworld, everything is short and cramped, but bigger on the inside, with long, winding hallways meant to confuse and trap the dead. The buildings here are so tall looking up at them makes him dizzy, but he hardly has time to admire them before Emily is guiding him this way and that, and finally, to another door. She presses a button and they’re let inside, and he experiences another first as they ride the elevator up a few floors.

They ride the first few floors up in relative silence, until - “Get ready to jump!” Emily says suddenly, crouching, and he follows her lead, and jumps when she does. There’s a brief moment of weightlessness before gravity catches up with them, and their feet hit the elevator floor again, in time for the doors to open. “Good job, Beetlejuice!” she praises, pushing that long sun colored hair out of her face, and he beams up at her. “Feels like flyin, kinda!” “Right?” she enthuses loudly, and he’s about to ask her how a breather knows what flying feels like, but a door down the hall opens, and the biggest man Betelguese has ever seen steps out. “Thought I heard you rattling the elevator,” he’s chiding Emily, who only gives her snort and smile in return. “Lydia isn’t even with you, do you really play that game when you’re-” his eyes fall on Betelgeuse. “Alone?”

“Charles, I made a new friend!” Emily tells him simply, leading the little demon into their apartment. The interior is dim, but he can see fine. He knows his amber eyes are glowing a little in the gloom, and he closes them, just for a moment, as Emily leads him down the hall and into a sunny, well lit kitchen. The big man, Charles, is tailing behind, looking mystified. “Where on earth did you find him?” a hint of nerves creeps into the breather’s voice. “You didn’t… steal him.. Right?” “Charles!” Emily laughs, like it’s an absurd question. Betelgeuse can’t tell if it is or not. Emily doesn’t seem like a child snatching witch, but he doesn’t know enough about such things to be sure. “I didn’t steal him,” she clarifies, busying herself with getting the boy a cup of ice water, and stopping by for a moment to touch the back of her hand to his forehead again. “I found him wandering around Central Park. He said he doesn’t have any folks, and he was all alone, and he feels feverish. I’m being responsible! I’m a responsible adult!” “A responsible adult who still plays the elevator game, despite being told by maintenance you might throw the whole elevator out of whack?” Charles askes, but he doesn’t look angry, more amused.

“I was teaching Beetlejuice how to play.” The pause he was expecting with Emily finds its home with Charles. Charles glances at the boy. Betelguese stares back with big amber eyes, sipping quietly at his ice water. Charles looks to Emily, who seems to be waiting expectantly. The silence stretches for another beat before Charles asks, baffled, “Is that… his name?”

Emily throws her hands up like he’s asked if the sky is really blue. “Of course it’s his name! Or at least, that’s the name he gave me. I’m respecting it. Respectful and responsible, that’s me.” She turns and winks at Betelgeuse. He returns the strange breather gesture because he likes Emily more than he’s ever liked anyone before.

The water cup is empty, and he simply lets it go, no longer interested in holding it. It bounces and rolls across the floor, and Charles wrinkles his brow at the boy. “Wh-” Before he can say much more, Betelgeuse is sniffing at the air, and he crouches on all fours, nose to the ground, like a dog in a cartoon. He’s caught the scent of some kind of upperworld bug, and despite all the hotted dogs, he’s still hungry. He’s on the prowl around the kitchen, weaving under the little dining table and three chairs, and then back down the hall, into the living room. Charles and Emily poke their heads out of the kitchen to watch him.

“I think you brought a feral child into the house, Em.”

She makes a psshaw sound and rolls her eyes, smacking gently at his lapels. “He’s a kid. Kids are weird. I was doing weird kid stuff when I was his age, too.” “And you never stopped,” comes the dry response. “Charles, I know you worry, but he’s a little kid, lost in New York. I mean, my god, it’s like a movie! I couldn’t just leave him, and I wasn’t just going to give him to some cop, he’s probably an undocumented runaway or something-” and the rest of her rambling is drown out by Charles gasping and grabbing her, and her own muffled gasps of shock, because Betelgeuse has caught the bug. And also, he’s on the ceiling. He may have been trying to blend in, but the second he caught the scent of that delicious crunchy upperworld bug meat, everything else was out of mind. He’d spotted it on the ceiling, and had followed it up there, ignoring gravity to get what he wanted, and right as he pounced on it, nearly catlike, Charles and Emily had gasped. Their breather noises distract him long enough for the bug to skitter away, and he loses his concentration, and drops to the living room floor with a sickening crunch. Emily shrieks, and Charles panics, sprinting for the boy, certain he’ll find a dead child with a broken neck. Instead Betelguise sits up, his glamour disturbed from the fall, and the breathers get an eyeful of what he really looks like. There’s a beat. They’re all staring at each other for a long moment. “I… I might have brought a feral child into the house,” Emily admits sheepishly. You can read the entire thing, right now, over here

[nincompoopydoo]

PAIRING, BAGELS, REPEAT

— HYMN OF THE LOVESICK ; PART 5 / ?

( gif from this beautiful gifset by @knightwayne )

PAIRING: Bruce Wayne x reader

WORD COUNT: 2k

SUMMARY: Alfred definitely knows something about Bruce that you’re not willing to think about and Bruce has an epiphany that changes the way he sees you.

A/N: Guess who forgot which day pbr is usually posted? This idiot here. God, I’m sorry and this chapter can be boring. Next chapter will have a lot more going on, I promise. Also, this might end in the next chapter or two. Enjoy, folks.

WARNINGS: Kinda dramatic because I’m dramatic.

MASTERLIST ; MASTERPOST

Driving through the Wayne estate gives you a sense of much-needed peace. The never-ending tunnel with walls of identical colossal pine trees as you faintly hum to Aretha Franklin over the low whirring of the running engine. It’s a quarter to noon, and the sun doesn’t seem to shine in the city of Gotham—clouds of grey constantly shield its optimum shine, only to ever allow rays to seep through the gaps in the moving Autumn wind. You don’t mind it and you never did, growing up in the city left clouds unnoticed to you unless it signified the arrival of a thunderstorm. Weather and nature are the least of your concerns but you would appreciate it now and then.

The tunnel of trees comes to an end as a clearing of extensive fields emerges into view. What is left of the Wayne Manor still stands with ostentation, despite its skeleton along with its dignity rotting away to be eventually consumed by mother nature herself. There’s a sense of eeriness to it; you find it odd how a building could seem so alive at times, like it's watching you, despite its apparent decay.

You turn your head away and focus on the road.

A glance at your hand on the wheel, you’re reminded of last night, when his hands held yours—it burns at the mere thought of his gentle touch. And the drive home, silent with the occasional glances and small smiles. You recall how the passing streetlights cascade hues of orange on his wearied expression and how his eyes were bright when they flit to your figure in the passenger seat for just a moment. Something must have changed between the two of you, but you can’t quite tell what. Maybe it’s your undying love for Bruce. Maybe he feels the same way. You snort to yourself, alone in your car, one can only dream but it doesn’t mean they all come true. Bruce may love but he doesn’t commit. You can’t commit too. Now, you’re starting to believe you’ve been lying to yourself.

The glasshouse comes into view as you steer around the bending road and into the driveway. It contradicts everything the manor was but only shared its sense of glory. You like the glasshouse, less deafening and structured with the purpose of bareness and vulnerability but its dark furnishings keep it grounded and secure. Its sense of balance tricks your mind into thinking you’re stable. His car is still around, parked by the porch but you don’t see him, ambling around the household.

Switching off the ignition, you snatch the paper bag from the passenger seat and clamber out of the car. Darker clouds begin rolling from afar, your hair flying in the strong wind. A storm is coming, you’re sure of it. One of the rare times it rains during the season. You dread the thought of having to drive back into the city and across Westward Bridge. Driving over bridges built over the water in the rain scares the heck out of you.

As you swing the car door to a close, you hear the shuffling of feet amongst leaves behind you. Alfred, with a barrel of chopped wood—stocking up for the winter. There’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes albeit startled by your sudden presence. He mentions your name with endearment; you greet him with a small smile. You always liked Alfred. You enjoyed his company.

“What a pleasant surprise seeing you here,” he says, pushing the barrel aside as he nears you. “I’m afraid you just missed Bruce. He left for Metropolis an hour ago—duty calls.”

You nod, ignoring the clench in your heart. He hadn’t told you anything but frankly, you weren’t expecting him to anyway.

“Well, I just came by to drop off this,” You lift the paper bag, swaying it a little within your grasp. “As a thank you gift, you know.” Alfred smiles at this, gestures towards the house in a beckoning manner. “Come on in, I’ll make you some tea.” Before you could even protest, he’s gently guiding you to the door by the shoulder. It’s hard to say no to Alfred, especially when he offers tea.

-

Your mind wonders as you watch the drizzle of rain form ripples in the lake. You sit on a chair with a contemporary structure to it; it digs into your lower back, due to your bad posture. Uncomfortable but nice-looking and great armrests. Contradicts everything a chair should be. Alfred emerges from the kitchen with a black ceramic mug in hand, steam from the brewed tea lingering above it. He holds an identical mug, for himself. With two hands, you clasp onto the mug with acceptance, a radiant appreciative smile upon your lips. “Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth.” Alfred shoots you a look of disdain, “I’ve told you many times, Alfred is fine.” Taking a sip, you shake your head, a smile still lingering. “No way. I have too much respect for you to call you by your first name.” Alfred mirrors you, settling for the chair to your right, swiftly sliding the scatter of papers to the corner of the table. You find it easy to fall into a natural conversation with the older man—the two of you are mutuals after all of a certain billionaire. Yet, Alfred is more of a father figure, having practically raised Bruce and you, well, it’s complicated. It always is. You don’t know where you stand in his life, and you're not sure if you want to know.

“Anyway, where have you been? I haven’t seen you in weeks.” It’s true. The usual sight of the butler sauntering around the glasshouse or somewhere in the Wayne Estate was absent during the last two weeks. Alfred is always around, his disappearance was glaring, impossible to go unnoticed.

He shifts in his seat, placing his mug on the table, teaspoon moving with a soft clang. “I was visiting family back in England. I appreciate that you have noticed my absence,” An eyebrow raises, your laugh comes out more like a huff. “Always, Mr. Pennyworth.”

Family. Mother. Dinner—you remember the dinner with your mother on Sunday night, and you’re the host. The host hasn't decided on the menu for tomorrow’s meal. Oh God, it’s tomorrow. Procrastination is your friend but your family’s expectations for you aren't. If you pop enough wine bottles, maybe she'll be too drunk to be disappointed by the end of the night.

And the wedding. The mere thought makes you sick. You don’t want to bring a date, but you don’t want to be alone. Weddings, love, couples—it makes you tick. It’s a glaring reminder of how your love life is an absolute disaster and your inability to maintain relationships. It’s hopeless, you’ll die a spinster and everyone lives happily ever after.

“Are you alright?”

It’s funny how those three words have been the most frequent words you would hear from those around you. You appreciate the concern, really, but you can’t help but feel there’s a stronger and deeper meaning to those words. It’s a question of assurance, a reality check, and a realization that you might be broken. Everyone is broken—in their own ways.

Although you seem reserved to some people, your tendency to open up about your issues to those close to you contradicts that though you instantly regret it. Especially when people tell you to change. You hate change. It’s terrifying.

You pause, suddenly feeling...fidgety. Yet, in the words of Bruce: In Alfred, you trust.

Remember, keep it light. You don’t want to haul all this luggage of yours onto an aging man. He’s already got Bruce’s luggage.

“My cousin’s getting married in two weeks and,” you sigh, he listens intently. “And as pathetic as this sounds, I really don’t want to go to it alone.”

Your words are direct, straightforward and you sound like a whiny teenager or the main character in a Wattpad story but truth be told, there’s an underlying meaning to it and you know, Alfred knows it. You just don’t want to admit it.

He takes a beat, assessing your sentence like he’s a therapist, wanting to select his words carefully. “Well, I don’t think you’re pathetic. It’s...understandable,” he flashes you a pointed look and you find yourself straightening your back. “Why don’t you ask Bruce?”

Your brain must have short-circuited at that moment.

Oh, hell no. Not in a million years.

You’re shaking your head, laughing nervously. “No, no. No. Never. I couldn’t possibly ask him to do that. He’s already done so much for me—”

“You’ve done a lot for him too.”

A pause, words stuck in your throat. You just look at Alfred through confused eyes. You’re not sure what that means. He’s staring at you with a knowing look. You sigh, shaking your head in denial once more. “No, that’s...that’s not true.”

It’s almost infuriating how stubborn you can be sometimes that it’s even irritating yourself. You’re staring at your fingers, playing with the tag attached to the teabag by a thread. As far as you’re concerned, Bruce is...the greatest friend you’ve ever had. Through thick and thin, he’s been there for you. He’s always there. It’s partly the reason why you have fallen for him in the first place. Hard. He’s easy to love when he wears his heart on his sleeve. It’s rare but it’s beautiful. You almost feel ashamed to be allowed to see him in that light.

“Bruce will do just about anything for you,” Alfred says calmly as he watches you avoid eye contact. “And I know, you’ll do the same for him.” You throw your eyes at the older man as he cops you a look. Your heart is beating so fast, so thunderous, you hear it in your ears. He’s right and you know it. That accidental kiss to your forehead on the night you asked him to come for the play comes back to mind in a flash. It feels like a mark on your forehead, it feels like it’s burning.

“Would you like a scone with that?” He’s pointing to your tea and with that, he’s off to the kitchen once more, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

-

It’s late—a quarter to four in the morning. He spends most of his nights in the Batcave, hidden away from all the sounds and tumult of the world, shrouded in the darkness as the light of the computer screen cascades on his tired eyes. He ambles through the glasshouse, weary feet against hardwood floors, body begging to lay on grey sheets though he dreads a vacant bed.

He strains his eyes peering into the gloom when he perceives a paper bag, sitting idly on the table by the window. Nearing it, there’s a yellow post-it note stuck onto the bag and under the gentle light from the moon that reflects against the lake, he can make out words written on it.

It’s from you.

Thanks for coming to the play. I would have bought you something else, but I’m really broke. Sorry. I owe you one.

A drawn heart follows it. It’s tiny. His chest feels warm.

He should have recognized the paper bag because inside, there are four bagels. Four Asiago bagels. He laughs, it comes out more like a puff of hot air, feeling the warmth that resides in his chest spreading throughout his body.

Then, it hits him like a bullet to the heart. The impact is strong, powerful. Your impact on him is strong, powerful. There’s no mystery to his feelings for you but at this moment, he’s completely certain. For the first time in life.

He loves you.

Bruce staggers into the chair, hand carding back the strands of his hair. He can’t keep doing this to you. Whatever the hell is going on. Your friendship, the...stupid agreement. He wants none of it because it feels like he’s constantly going around in circles.

But what do you really want, Bruce?

TAGLIST

@raineeace

[barnesandco]

Blame it on the Heartache

A broken woman finds a lost man, and they try to put each other back together.

This is an entry for @star-spangled-bingo​​ 2020. Word count: approximately 2219. Square filled: “Morning Sex”

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of violence, warzones, and one brief mention of persecution of LGBT people in Chechnya. Oh and also smut. Lots of smut (18+ only). It was supposed to be just smut, but then angst happened, and here we are. 

A/N: There’s some talk about blame in this fic, and honestly, I blame (and thank) @heli0s-writes​, this post, and this one. Also, there will be a part 2 some time next week.

You find him by accident. Kiev bar just after dawn, with wooden bar tops and table tops all rotting with the steady decay of time and too little money, disguises his head of dark hair and grimy outline in a corner booth perfectly but your eyes lock onto the side profile, the slope of his nose and the bow of his lips arching against the light of the snow outside. The Winter Soldier, or the shell he has left behind, sits with a shot glass clutched loosely in a gloved hand, the other one’s fingers decorated with rings.

They’re intriguing things, that you watch closely from the bar, pounding head distracted by the scent of hot chocolate and the jewellery that is both the manifestation of wishes for a prettier life, and the mark of a roughened man at the same time. The light catches on a round ruby set on a silver band on his forefinger. It reminds you of the red star painted on gleaming gray you first saw smuggling political refugees from one warzone into another. The time you were a spy, before you were an activist, before you gave up all hope of NGO pretenses and took things into your own hands, helping people with only the wind to guide you.

Not that you succeeded much. Now, days after desperate depression and harrowing hopelessness thanks to only having managed to rescue half as many queer Chechen teens from their torture cells as intended, you are aching with the weight of your uselessness. The air around you, the tonnes of the morning sky are pressing down on your shoulders, and the whiskey in your hot chocolate is doing little to relieve the tension.

The sorrow is what you will blame, later. Or perhaps, the alcohol, although there is barely a syringe’s worth of it in your system with less than half your mug still empty and going cold quick. You’ll fault the loneliness of decades helping a world that does not want to become better for how you rise from your stool and sit down across from the man who thinks he is a stranger to you.

You’ve read the stories. Seen the videos of the helicarrier falling apart above the Potomac, the camera footage captured by a daring chopper, and the Smithsonian’s exhibit on Bucky Barnes. The eyes staring back at you, calculating, clever, above cutting cheekbones, are the same as the ones on the wall in the museum. He’s had a century of pain and you only tenths of one, but the hurt rings out and resonates clearly, a sonic bell of a distress signal, captured by wandering eyes and inexplicable want.

You wonder what he will blame for his response to you unbuttoning the top of your shirt, and your hand over his. Possibly, the fact that he’s been on the run for a year. A year out of the cryostasis detailed by the files the Black Widow leaked in D.C. A year of running, of being alone and sometimes worse -- only the haunting nightmares for company. Your sympathy, the same one that pushes you to keep at your job when it is forever hopeless, is what pulls your heartstrings closer to him.

His fingers tighten around yours, and you blame desolation. You blame the flaming burn of want that shines from his eyes when he sees a face that is not just friendly, but maybe familiar, too. Something tells you you ought to be scared, as he rises and drops a hryvnia bill on the table, and leaves, still holding your hand, but the strength of his grip deters you. The hold is gentle, calloused, the rings grazing your palm as he adjusts to intertwine your hands, so each metal band comes to rest against the sensitive skin between your fingers. Tight enough to feel coarse skin and trembling desire, but loose enough that you can easily leave. Run. You are not being forced anywhere.

The streets of Kiev become a shimmering, white backdrop to his face that looks even more stunning in the light. How much of your last encounter does he recall, if any? New Mexico, 2001, protection detail for war scarred children who needed to evacuate, one of which was an heir to a throne. A brawl in a market, sweat-sticky sundress flaring furiously, the heat of the American sun no match for that of his arms around you. A dance, a twirling battle, and the gasping from breath in the aftermath was one hell of a challenge. Something that restored your faith in your job.

But you’re far from Albuquerque, now, and are reminded of that fact as he leads you to the polar opposite of a southern tavern. It’s an inn. A quaint, small place, more wood, this one gleaming brown on the walls and the hardwood floors and the mahogany counter, all well kept. He strides past the burning fireplace in the lobby and climbs the stairs two at a time, as you struggle to keep up. Part of your lust-addled brain thinks to joke about how he has you panting before he’s even gotten you in bed.

All thought of laughter evaporates when he shuts the door and presses you against it with his human forearm pressing on your neck. Tight enough to threaten but loose enough to let you breath. Your heart beats faster, the pulse of your veins thrumming a little closer to the surface. 

Who are you? he growls in Ukrainian, eyes shifting between threatening and offering little hints of fear. When you do not answer, he asks, who sent you? 

The material of his jacket is rough where it pushes into you. You have to fight to speak. “Nobody.” The English makes his eyes widen, and you barely have time to question whether this move killed you or saved you, when he takes his arm off your neck and replaces it with his mouth.

Heavenly heat, hellish white light, blinding ecstasy erupts like a volcano where he begins to devour you like he hasn’t for centuries, for millennia of loneliness, and there, in the innocent hotel room, your head fills with images of everything but. Hands find his hair, knock the woollen hat off his head while his teeth trace a pleasure-trail down your neck and to your collarbone, his fingers clenching on your hips. 

You push back, off the door and into the room, standing now, supporting your own weight on weak knees and shaking breath. He steals the last of it you have left when he leaves your collarbone -- a bruise blooming ripely in the color of a plum -- to find your lips, and this, this is what salvation tastes like. Vodka and whiskey and chocolate, on lips chapped but lush and soft beyond the rough exterior. A gasping sound of want released in a hurried exhale between kisses makes him growl from somewhere in his chest. 

The vibrations reach your heart, heavy and loud and beating a march of deathly desire on your rib cage. You hold onto him with tight fists, like he will float away, because this is the only way to let go. There is a reassurance, in his hands clutching your jeans tighter, that he isn’t leaving. His fingers slip under your sweater, and then under your shirt, and you break away with a gasp as cold metal -- full hand on one side, and slim rings on the other -- meets your skin.

Then you press his hands to you tighter, let him tear your upper layers away, tug his jacket and sweater off his shoulders as he becomes well acquainted with the tops of your breasts, the parts visible above your bra. Head bowed in sacred confession, he finds rescue in your body, skin shining in the light of the beginning day behind you. A new start.

A new hiding place, he goes down on both knees, laving at your belly button, leaving you spit-shiny and cooling in the chilly air. He takes your jeans off slowly, a contrast to every other step made so far, and mouths at your mound, soaking your underwear further with slow, maddening movements of his tongue. You’ve had enough. This buzzing heat has turned to forest fire in your pulse, and you take your bra off and pull him up and towards you. 

His chest is warm against you when you fall back against the bed, his weight recognizable. The Soldier -- James, you think, for now -- buries himself in your neck with a renewed vigor. Begins to move down your body to the apex of your thighs, where you are wet. Dripping, soaking wet, just for him. The first touch of his tongue to your honey-sweet slick is an electric spark, and he lights you up like the fourth of July with every touch after. Fireworks in your irises mirror the flames licking up your spine, and his eyes meet yours when he opens them in moments of reprieve from enjoying the taste of you.

Purgatory, this limbo between right and wrong, is the closest you have been to joy in as long as you can remember. It aches in your limbs as you inch closer to the cliff’s edge of delectable joy. 

“Enough,” you say, when you ache for more, when you are empty and wanting only him inside of you, all of him, and he moves away. Trepidation in his eyes at the thought of being pushed away evaporates when you pull him back, the flow of your pushes and pulls echoing with the power of the moon, and how it brings the waves to lap at the land a reflection of how James’ chest meets yours when you have opened the buttons of his shirt.

It hangs open, a curtain around you, and you dexterously strip him of his jeans as well, toes pushing at the waistband and belt falling off the bed with a clink that sounds like the final nail in the coffin. You’ll gladly die a little death here, if he’s the executioner. 

His cock is leaking with arousal, hard against the lines of his abdomen begin to smear a shiny trail against you as well, and you take him in hand and he groans. Throbbing hot in your hand, velvet heat over solid steel hardness, and you spit in your hand before slicking him up a little more, his moans louder and unreserved in your clavicle, teeth grazing the spots he has made tender. 

Desperate man. Lonely, sweet, sad man. Your heart aches for him, and you want to give him more than his cruel lifetimes have so far. You want to give him warmth, starting with the warmth of your silk body, as he slips inside of you, slumping, his forehead pressing into your shoulders and murmuring what you think is a prayer into you. 

His hands are moving with feverish intensity over you, metal warmer now, as he throbs and pulses and then adjusts to your heat. All that while, you hold him. Hands first over his shoulder blades, then moving your right hand to his left, slipping under his hold on the sheets to entwine his fingers with yours the way he did in the street that feels miles below wherever you’re flying.

He’s so big, and you are so full, nerves prickling with electrostatic lust, that you have to focus on the swell of him above you, the hand holding yours and the shape of the rings on his fingers not to lose it right there. Then he starts moving.

And you’ll swear you’ve never felt true bliss before this moment, because James moving inside you, with slow thrusts, stretching your walls in delightful pain, is a luxury you’ve never lived before. Stealing your breath, his pace picks up, and you feel every ridge along his length on the inside of your body. Fire pools in your belly, and his hand is drawn to it. He supports himself on his metal arm, and trails the other down your torso. Obsidian shimmers on his ring finger and there is the unmistakable wink of vibranium on his little finger, as his hand dips lower to your clit, and you watch the spot where he moves in and out.

Lascivious eyes watch you watch his fingers circle your nub, tracing the path to your gratification, and they shine when you mewl, arching up, circling your hips. Climbing higher and higher, he moves faster, hits a spot in you that burns brighter than the Sun rising in the sky, and everything explodes in a supernova of heat, color behind your eyelids and warmth flooding your insides as he spills deep, growls against your throat, hand clutching your wrist when he falls forward. 

You are marked up in his artistry, a painting of pleasure in the mouth-made bruises on your neck and the fingerprints on your hips, and the circular indentations from his rings on your neck. He softens inside you, as you overflow with your combined pleasures, and you hum against the crown of his head, as you run your fingers through his scalp. Sated man, grateful man, miracle pleasure, purring in your arms, too dangerous to keep, but too comfortable a weight to let go of so soon.

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

Tate Langdon - American Horror Story

Wrote this a long time ago. My original plan back then was so make this into a multiple chapter story, but then I ultimately lost interest like all my other failed projects. 🙃

I also didn’t know how to fucking end this story, sorryyy ughhhh

❗Trigger warning❗

~~~~~~~~~~

Welp, I am dead.

Like, super dead.

One minute I’m slitting my wrists wide open in my bathroom and now I’m standing over my body watching myself decay.

I never thought I’d become a ghost or whatever I am. I didn’t even believe in the afterlife. I thought I’d just die and that would be it. I wouldn’t feel anything, it’d be peaceful. I was definitely wrong.

I moved into this big mansion in California with my parents. I didn’t want to die, I just thought it was my only way out. Now, I’m stuck here. Great. I really screwed the pooch this time.

After my parents found me rotting away, they decided to move away to have a fresh new start. Not that I blame them. But I was kinda pissed they just left me here, unable to step one foot off this property except for Halloween.

If I’m being completely honest, it’s not that terrible. I’m not alone. Turns out, many people have died here. Violently, which is fun.

There’s a woman that lives here who is kinda crazy, but she’s nice. She treats me better than my own mother did. She wishes I was a baby though, cause her baby is all kinds of fucked up.

There’s an elderly woman here too, who I found out was actually dead and lived here. When I was alive, she was our maid and constantly tried to seduce my father, which I reluctantly forgave her for that.

That weird neighbour, Constance, always visits here, since she has multiple children who have died here as well. I’ve yet to meet her eldest, Tate. To be honest, I don’t think I want to meet him. I’ve seen him wander around the halls but I’ve never shown myself around him. Mrs. Montgomery says he’s just misunderstood, but shooting up a school is a little too much for me.

I hang out with his brother sometimes, and by hanging out I mean basically rolling a ball back and forth. It makes him somewhat happy though, I guess. I know one of these days I’m going to run into him, I just hope it’s later rather than sooner.

~~~

Today, that real estate agent bitch is trying to sell this house, yet again. Only for the owners to be killed and get stuck here for all eternity. Anyone in their right mind would not buy this house, especially knowing what took place here.

I watch the family interested in buying the house from my old bedroom. They look like a relatively normal family. A mom, dad, and their angsty teenage daughter and a cute pet dog.

Yeah, they definitely wouldn’t survive living here.

“Spying on the new folks, I see?”

“Jesus! You scared me!” I turn to see Tate. Oh boy, this should be fun.

“Y/N L/N. How lovely to finally meet you. I never got the chance to introduce myself when you first moved here cause you see, you killed yourself before I even got the chance. Which was kind of rude on your part.” He smirked. “Your death was very entertaining, I must say. All that blood gushing everywhere, man, it was quite the spectacle.”

“Glad you found my death so entertaining, Tate. I’m sure yours was too.” I smile sweetly, making his smug grin quickly turn into a glare.

“Anyway,” he coughed, “better introduce myself to the new folks soon.”

“But...you’re dead.”

“Well, they don’t need to know that.” He walked over to the window where I saw. “That girl’s kinda hot, wouldn’t you say?” He smirked. “Don’t worry though, I find you even prettier.”

I scoffed and kept looking out the window. The teenage girl looked over towards the window. I quickly hid myself from her sight but Tate didn’t until she did a double take.

I gave him confused look. “What? It’s fun to play with people’s minds from time to time. You should try it sometime. Stop being a stick in the mud.” He said and walked away.

I can already tell he’s going to be so annoying.

I decided to take a closer look at the new comers. Tate was right though, that girl is pretty. I listened in on their conversation and I learned their names. Ben, Vivian, and Violet. All nice names, nice innocent names. They seem like nice people, sucks that they’ll die when they move in.

A few hours, Adelaide sneaks into the house. She always finds a way in here. She waves and smiles at me when she walks past, I still don’t know how she’s able to see me when I’m not visible to anyone, not that I mind cause I love her like a sister. She walks up behind Vivian, “You’re going to die in here.”

She’s never been one to know how to start a conversation.

~~~

I learned that Ben was a psychiatrist and Tate had an appointment with him today. He seems to be really determined to get to know these people, especially Violet. I thought about listening in, but that seemed too much. I just wandered the halls until I reached the bathroom. Violet hurts herself?

I hear footsteps and quickly sped off down the hall and hid behind a corridor, it was Tate. “You’re doing it wrong. If you wanna kill yourself, you should cut vertically. The doctors can’t stitch that up.” I hear him say.

What the hell? Why would he say that?

He closed the door and walked off. I shook my head and went up to the attic, my usual hang out spot.

I sat in the corner, I looked up and saw that the creepy rubber costume wasn’t there anymore. Thank god, that thing creeped me out to no end.

A red ball rolls to me, and I sigh. “I’m not in the mood, Beau.” I roll it back and it stays.

The attic door opens and Tate pops his head in, he sees me and smiles. “So, this is where you hang out? Good to know.” He says.

“Why? So you can annoy me better?” I say.

“Aw, don’t be like that. We should be friends.”

I laugh. “Yeah, right.”

Tate simple smirked and sat down beside me. “Come on. We’d make awesome...friends.”

I quickly scowled at him. “Why would you say that to Violet by the way? She could actually be convinced to do that, you know.”

“Oh, I was just trying to get another girl so we could have an afterlife threesome. Doesn’t that sound great?”

“Get outta here.”

Tate rolled his eyes, blowing me a kiss as he opened up attic door and descended the ladder. 

I scoff. This kid really is crazy, maybe it’s a good thing that he’s seeing Dr. Harmon. Tate climbed down the ladder and the attic door closed with a loud slam.

The red ball rolls to me.

~~~

Tate is hanging out with Violet on her room. I’m not stalking him! I just wanna make sure he doesn’t kill her. “Tate. What are you doing here? You need to leave now.” Ben says. Violet tries to calm her dad, but he insisted on him leaving.

“Just trying to be friends with your friendless daughter, Ben” Tate says. I roll my eyes and leave the hallway, accidently bumping into the kid. “Woah there. Aw, is someone spying on me?” He smirked.

I scoff. “As if.” Tate had a playful twinkle in his eyes, making me feel more nervous in his presence. “Just making sure you don’t murder that girl.”

“Me? Murdering someone? Nah.” He joked, but when he saw that I wasn’t joking, he dropped his smile. “Look, my murdering days are behind me, okay? I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore. I promise.”

“I’ll make sure to hold you to that, pretty boy.”

“Aw, you think I’m pretty?”

“Don’t push me.” I scowled, Tate fake saluting me before I started to walk off. I gasped when I suddenly felt Tate turn me around so he could plant a kiss on my cheek. “What the hell?” I stuttered.

Tate simply shrugged and smiled. “You just look very kissable.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Ugh, this flopped but whatever

[bruhhhlookiturhead]

Oh my god dude ok ok so I’m ok uh ok so the games name is Resident Evil Revelations 2 it was a sequel to resident evil revelations which is a spin-off to the mainline games to sorta bring back horror into the franchise since during the time RE5 was released and by that point resident evil had turned towards action then survival-horror. As much as revelatjons was enjoyable I think what really brought back horror was Revelations 2!! And without it the series probably wouldn’t have made a drastic turn in tone during RE7’s development. I’ve played it seven times (/srs) on my stepdads playstation and I’m replaying it on my computer!!! It’s rlly fun and I enjoy reliving the entire story again, it’s the first resident evil game I’ve played and it rlly helped rope me into the series!!! It’s gotten me through some Moments and I wished it got more recognition then it has :<

ANYWAYS IMMA TALK ABOUT SOMETHING I RLLY WANTED TO ELABORATE ON !! A couple of months ago I made a silly funny heehee hoohoo post about the style of horror revelations 2 had going on. It’s WAY different then the other games. Besides RE4-6 since those are more focused on shooting and killing, the rest of the series had a sort of… change in its way of scaring the audience. Resident Evil 1 was such a quiet horror, very much suspenseful and isolated. It focuses on the fear of being lonely, but never alone. Resident Evil 2 is more similar but being in a zombie infested police station brought some chaos into the order so you’re more thinking about what the fuck is even HAPPENING then the vast emptiness Spencer’s mansion can bring you. Resident Evil 3 focuses on the survival part of survival-horror since it’s Jill trying to escape the city and not get mauled by zombies, hunters, and Nemesis. Resident Evil 7 of course is the fear of being chased, the thrill of prey v predator. It also adds a subtle nyctophobia feel with it with all its dark areas where the only thing illuminated is your flashlight.

Meanwhile, Revelations 2 style of horror is just… so tragic. It’s a sad, sad game that explains the life after the end. What we left behind and how it festers into something so horrific that perhaps death was the best option. The empty village and deserted city of Sejm Island terrifies me in the same way Chernobyl terrifies everyone else. It’s a fear of abandonment. Homes destroyed and wrecked a part. Death still lingers in the air as rot and decay settle in as it’s new inhabitants. And deep in the rust of the old metal fences lays a new breed of BOW’s that are just fucked up man. This game’s atmosphere makes me so fucking sad and afraid. The islands inhabitants have all been turned into the well-named Afflicted, and soon after six months of decay they become the Rotten. This isn’t in the middle of an outbreak, this is it. There’s nothing else left to salvage. This is way after the virus has been exposed. It’s like the walking dead but without survivors. Just miles upon miles of corpses standing around with no purpose. Some just lay on the ground cause what else is there to do? What more is there to this existence when there’s nothing left of you to become? And as you travel deeper into the city of Sejm you see warehouses and bars and apartments and fuck man people LIVED here. There’s letters scattered everywhere and people have suffered for so so long and nobody heard their cries for help. Their family members were taken in the dead of night to be mangled and torn apart and then put back together again. The Revenants are the prime example of what the citizens of the island had to go through. They’re disgusting. They’re not human. Not anymore. And still once the Afflicted slowly start to wither away these creatures of night begin to ingest the island- or is it more like moving back in? No matter what they look like now, this was still their home. This was still where they lived, where they cherished life, where they loved and danced and ate and cried and died in. I’ve said this before so so many times but oh my god people LIVED here and I will NEVER forget it. THIS is what scares me. These people have died so long ago and there’s no way To save them. The only person who survived long enough died on the island not because of the T-Phobos virus but because he was just too old to even leave. He was doomed to die in this hell from the start. Dying in the remnants of what used to be his home, while somewhere up above whatever is left of his daughter is trudging through the island trying to find its way to a home it forgot about. This island is abandoned. This island is dead. And there’s nothing you can do about it.

god DAYUM bestito :(

that's depresseringering.... dayummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...