#I'll fix the mistakes later

[cheesomancer]

🐍 Cheeseless version's hereeeeee!

[bitterclan]

well. it was bound to happen

[sp1resong]

i (tumblr user sp1resong) will see some bugs and go 'is anyone gonna put those in a maze' and not even wait for an answer

[nixnereid]

Imagine Charlotte and Mia after that conversation

Sharing a taxi, not talking much just enjoying the quiet, hands between them close enough to almost touch, but not yet

Charlotte politely complimenting Mia's house, looking around and finding all the traces of warmth she see in Mia reflected in little splashes of colour and knick knacks left around the room

Mia making her a warm tea

Sharing a blanket on the couch, talking some more, sharing about their lives, their interests, Charlotte just showing picture after picture of her and her daughters and Mia taking it all in

Mia seeing the spark come back in Char

Mia melting at seeing Char in her pjs

Char just shuffling awkwardly before getting into bed

Mia reassuring her for the thousand time that it's fine, they can share the bed, but if it's too much Mia is ready to take the couch, she got a comfortable one

Charlotte falling immediately asleep, for the first time in a while she feels safe and happy

Mia holding Charlotte's hand, she didn't even register reaching for it, who knows since when, for how long she's been holding on

Mia silently promising herself and Charlotte to never let go for as long as Charlotte wanted

[mayashesfly]

Hi!!

I really love your idea with that Au where Vox forgot about Alastor. I hope you don't mind questions because I have a few 😅😅

Why did he erase his memories? Was it because it was too painful to remember, or was it because he couldn’t deal with the obsession anymore and wanted to move on? 

What will Alastor do about this? How do the Vees react to this information? Like they obviously know Alastor unlike Vox.

Thank you for expressing your interest and asking! I'm glad you enjoy the idea ^w^

I have also made another post about Forgotten Radio AU here if you like to read that. Though do take note that some of the things I've said here and there may be subject to change as I flesh out this AU of mine in time.

For the first question, it's a mixture of the two.

Before Alastor left for seven years, Alastor and Vox had a fight that spiralled out of control which caused Valentino to intervene, causing Vox and Valentino's left antenna to be both be damaged because of Alastor's pettiness. After that, Alastor disappeared while Vox and Valentino was recuperating from that fight.

(Velvette didn't intervene despite already being a part of the Vees at this point since she feels like she doesn't have the right to because she doesn't know the full context of Alastor and Vox's previous relationship and what Vox and Valentino had been through. Vox and Alastor was already having their bitter rivalry and fighting by the time Velvette manifested in Hell)

A major part of my personal take on Vox's character is that he has this built-in need to constantly improve himself so he doesn't lose the things he has in his life.

Vox knows that his obsession with Alastor has been negatively impacting his life and those around him. Especially since it was because of a fight between him and Alastor that Valentino lost his antenna.

When he ended up in a depressive episode and constantly trying to look for Alastor everywhere with his cameras, he ended up neglecting his relationship with Valentino and Velvette. Even Voxtek took a hit since the wound was still raw (literally)

He was at a standstill and he needed an intervention.

Stat.

The first initial "memory wipe" was an impulsive harsh decision on his part. It was sloppy and rough since Alastor was so intricately tied into his early memories in Hell.

But it worked.

At least, for a little bit.

One day, Vox left his office, greeting Valentino and Velvette. The two commenting on the other's more cheery attitude.

At first, Vox was disoriented from the memory wipe. But it instantly improved his mood like never before. For once since that someone's disappearance who is that someone? his mind was completely clear.

Some of his early memories with Valentino was also spotty however. But it eventually smoothened out and he was able to clearly recall those moments of Val.

Though that was not all.

For some reason, he can't bring himself to renovate certain buildings under his name. He didn't really know why but when he saw a certain torn up photo inside of one of his drawers near his bed....

Memories of Alastor flooded back inside his mind and the brutal cycle went again.

It was only after cleanly cutting himself away from the picture did his next memory wipe became much more successful.

He kept the photo of Alastor for business and planning reasons only.

But now there was nothing showing on the picture that he had ever been involved with that demon.

He had been able to find the root of the problem which has caused the failed memory wipe. But now that he has that sorted out and have the appropriate safety and preventive measures to ensure that won't happen again...

Alastor would never take from him again.

Not when he can't ever remember him again.

While Vox is a technology demon, his soul is still human. So despite being able to theoretically erase his memories from his physical body, they're still there spiritually inside of him. Not all demons are given a physical brain after all.

I mean one of the Overlords is a skull on fire, there's probably not a brain there somewhere. And Vox can LITERALLY change his head. Not only that but I'm sure some Sinners got their brains fucked one way or another before fully regenerating, but they'll still probably retain their memory. So yeah, I'm going with the soul shenanigans route on this one.

One of Vox's "preventive measures" to ensure his memory wipe business won't unravel ever again is by wiping his short-term memory about any interaction and mention of the Radio Demon. It was inevitable that one of the Vees would question him about Alastor even after he informed them of his decision after all.

That's also the reason why after Val informed Vox about Alastor return and residence in the Hazbin Hotel that he forgot about him again and thought Alastor was a new upcoming Overlord during the meeting.

My apologies for the long winded explaining-turned-writing. That's just how my brain works when explaining these things :P

Now on your second question!

At first, Alastor would do subtle gestures in order to gain Vox's attention hopefully. However each failed attempt would make his frustration slowly grow and grow over time.

When Alastor caught sight of the painfully obvious Vox drones around the hotel, he purposefully posed in front of them a few times, hoping to finally gloat out the tv-headed demon from his hiding. Much to his growing annoyance and confusion though, nothing happened as the drones flew passed him due to the corrupting footage in order to clearly see what else was happening in the hotel. He did this for a few times a day in slowly increasing frequency for the entire week before Sir Pentious attacked the hotel again and proceeded to get fucked over for ruining Alastor's coat. Alastor barely letting the poor demon alive thanks to Charlie's pleas.

Alastor has missed Vox.

After his seven years of absence, the first place he went to was the very first store front he helped Vox to get and buy. The Radio Shack. At first, those picture boxes were the newest thing in town. And he didn't even stain them with the innards of his enemies!

But a certain broadcast brought him back to reality as to why he was able to go back to hell as he stared at the image of the Princess of Hell, Charlie Morningstar.

Vox has already sold some of the old tvs despite being stained and bloodied, unlike in Canon because of his lack of attachment.

Alastor was banking on Vox to notice his absence and do something about it just like old times. However a week of waiting and nothing had happened. Except for the new additions of drones around the hotel he resided in.

He thought by some point surely Vox would do something as he posed in front of the cameras subtly. But nothing happened for a week and Alastor started to feel confused because he didn't know if Vox was actually paying attention to him when those stupid flying things were just ignoring him!

(In my mind, the reason why Alastor looked mildly annoyed at Vox's broadcast in Stayed Gone was because he thought Vox would've confronted him directly instead of dissing him on the screen. It was a special occasion after all! He just came back from a seven year absence! But no. He still happily took the chance though and quickly ran/teleported back into his radio tower to diss him back)

After the confrontation between the two of them in the Overlord Meeting, it takes Alastor a while to puzzle out what Vox did to himself. He doesn't fully know that Vox actually completely wiped his memories of him but he does know that Vox doesn't seem to care about him anymore, even with their bitter rivalry and that hurt.

It was yet another thing that changed when it was somrthing he could always count on despite how fucked up that is.

His frustration starts being inflicted onto other people who were unfortunate enough to cross his path while he's fuming about this change (ei Sir Pentious and possibly Husker later down the line)

And his want to get back Vox's attention eventually escalates to him destroying some of Vox's properties by asking his Shadow. Starting small like a few drones and cameras, to some of the store fronts of his. (But never the Radio Shack. Never that.)

Even with Alastor's feelings about Vox ignoring him, he would never risk his reputation by overtly and directly trying to get Vox's attention by himself.

The only way I can see this plot between Alastor and Vox progress is when enough time has passed and Alastor's inhibitors and self-control snapped that he physically teleports himself into Vox's office to directly confront him. (It hurt to use his shadow to travel there with all the blinding lights but the hidden radio in his office helped to ease the stinging pain a little)

Or Vox directly involves himself with the Hazbin Hotel because he never sent in Sir Pentious himself and he still had to make sure that the Radio Demon, a previously powerful Overlord, wouldn't make a deal with the Princess of Hell of all people. (Unlike Canon Vox, he has enough tact to stay in the same room as Alastor to not need a proxy. On the topic of Sir Pentious, it's currently a toss up if he'll ever enter the Hazbin Hotel or not and fuck up the timeline big time)

Once Alastor realized just how badly Vox fucked up that he erased his memories of him, he would try his best to jog his memory.

But constantly having to reintroduce yourself to Vox because his memories of you keeo getting wiped away is excruciating.

"Are you new around here?"

"Who are you?"

"I'm sorry, I don't think we've met before"

"It's nice to meet the man helping Princess Charlie with her endeavor"

"Oh! So you're the Radio Demon himself?"

"I'm Vox from Voxtek, the Leader of the Vees. Nice to meet you"

So any of his progress, no matter how little or large would get erased the next meeting. Even if he just left his sight for even a moment....

It was going nowhere.

He can never ever reconnect with Vox ever again.

Just like he wanted.

Even as his friendship bloomed with the Princess and the residents, even as his powers and influence continue to grow, it was always back to square one with him.

He was so close, yet he was the farthest he's ever been to him.

"You've never cared about me, Alastor. What changed now?"

Now with the Vees, Valentino was rather furious and hurt the first time it happened. Vox didn't even consult him, didn't even say anything to him about this decision! And it hurt when Vox seemed to have also lost some of his memories of him. Velvette had also been enraged and confused about Vox's actions. It was needless to say they were both unnerved.

It took a while, but they got used to it and Vox getting back his memories of Valentino helped.

Vox was happier this way after all, and it wasn't like they can do anything to revert his decision even if it was done in impulse...

However, it had been difficult for them when Vox had a relapse after regaining his memoried of Alastor. The grief was raw and fresh again which didn't help matters.

This time around though, despite Vox's distressed state, they did talk about his decision and vowed to try to never mention the Radio Demon again. It still takes them some time adjusting though, and even Val falls through on his old habits sometimes.

They know it was Vox's decision and they respect that. Even if it hurts a bit, at least he was happy.

I hope this sufficiently answered your questions even if most ended up as writing instead of concise explanations. Thank you for asking these questions! It makes me happy to see you guys are interested! ^w^ ^w^

[iam-57311]

just two pals just talking about nothing and everything, y'know how it is

[indilaras]

Thankless Vhas? ❌️ Tactless Vhas? ❌️ Bloodless Vhas! ✅️✅️✅️

ID: a collection of drawings of Vhas from Rolling with Difficulty. On the lower left corner is the only one fully colored; it pictures him from the chest up, grinning. The word "VHAS!" is by his shoulder. The other drawings are in simpler colors and include: Vhas asking Kyana "Y'wanna fight?" and Kyana replying "heck yeah!!" She has her fists below her face and her astral arms mimicking her pose. Vhas with a pot on his head, holding a pot full of water, smiling like he's proud of himself. Dani yelling at Vhas: "OI BLOODBAG! You don't got blood, you don't need to worry about being POISONED!!" He replies "oh, right-- Appreciate it, boss!" Vhas grinning and giving a thumbs up. He's wearing the "I Heart 'Gil" shirt, sleeves rolled up above his shoulders. Vhas sitting on VR-LA's lap, with an arrow pointing at him saying *choosing which lever/button/etc. to mess with next*. VR-LA is glaring at him and saying "GET TF OFF ME". End ID.

[monstersandmaw]

Laces for a Lady - 18th century, poly, shifters x human romance - Chapter Seven (sfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me. 

Contents: some passing comments comparing two different female body types in a negative way, and some measurement taking and a dress fitting that leaves Nel a little breathless. Who knew Mr. Nancarrow had it in him to be so smooth. Mr. Darcy hand-flex fans, be warned...

Wordcount: 3931

Catch up here: Part One (sfw), Part Two (sfw), Part Three (sfw), Part Four (sfw), Part Five (sfw), Part Six (sfw)

Edmund flushed at Nel’s boldly obvious compliment, but was saved any further embarrassment by Mr. Fordyce announcing that it was Nel’s turn, and that he would have to take Nel’s measurements since he didn’t have them in his records as he did Winnie’s.

This time it was Nel whose face turned hot, but she met Edmund’s gaze again as he stepped forwards, rested his cane against the nearby table gently enough not to cause the arrangement of dried flowers in the centre even to quiver, and then he carefully passed the ribbon of paper around her waist. He kept his eyes down, but his long, delicate fingers moved with nimble grace as he held the paper and snipped the tailor’s marks in it which would correspond to the various locations of the measurements.

“And now inhale,” he murmured, and she obliged, letting her ribs inflate naturally. She could feel his knuckles pressing ever so slightly against her body through the fabric of the thinner, less structured dress she’d chosen for that day, and she tried not to shiver.

They had begun at her waist, but a moment later she found herself scowling at Mr. Fordyce when he made Edmund kneel down on the hard wooden floorboards to measure the length of her leg.

Edmund got down alright, if stiffly, but he gasped and sucked in a sharp breath as he pushed himself upright with his cane, and he went rigid with another sudden inhale, eyes screwed shut and head bowed forwards as he breathed through a stab of pain. For a lurching moment when he raised his head again she thought he was going to pass out as all the colour drained from his face.

Clearly mortified, he looked like he was going to struggle through it despite the fact that he seemed to have been robbed of his faculties for a moment, but Nel abruptly turned to Mr. Fordyce and made a calculated assumption about the egotistical, self-important little man. "It must be such work for you to keep up with constantly changing fashions when you’re so far from Town here in Polgarrack," Nel said, and Mr. Fordyce immediately puffed up like a show pigeon under scrutiny, and graced her with a condescending smile.

"Oh, indeed, Miss Bywater, it is certainly not without its challenges. But!” he went on, brandishing his forefinger in the air as if lecturing a small and rather resentful child, “A successful tailor must be a true artist, and he must find something new and extraordinary at every turn for his patrons. So, I do make frequent journeys to Town to make my observations. That way, you see, the nobility situated further from Town are still provided with the very latest in taste and elegance without the inconvenience of a journey so long and arduous."

He pursed his wet lips and then went on while Edmund's face was a blank, porcelain mask of pain beside her, his shoulders turned slightly to hide his face from Mr. Fordyce who was currently standing perched on a small footstool near the window for a vantage point to ‘better view the proportions of the lady for whom he would have to work a miracle’. Or so he claimed. Nel just thought he felt short and didn't like pontificating at someone who was taller than him, even if only by an inch or two.

She tried not to let her face show her distaste at the master tailor’s outrageously overblown opinion of himself, but in this case, it was buying Edmund time to recover. “What a sacrifice you make for your art,” she said flatly, and he missed the sarcasm entirely.

"Indeed. A tailor ought to have a quick eye; to steal the very cut of a sleeve in passing at the merest of glances, Miss Bywater,” he intoned in an almost sing-song voice, conspiratorially leaning a little closer from his little footstool. She hoped he toppled off it. “Any common bungler may cut out a shape when he has the pattern on the table before him, but a good workman will take it by his eye in the merest passing of a carriage…" He flourished his hand as if he’d magicked something spectacular into existence at that very moment. All she saw was spittle and hot air.

"Extraordinary indeed," she said blandly, studiously keeping her eyes off Mr. Nancarrow while trying to gauge whether it was necessary to indulge Mr. Fordyce's nauseating pomposity any further. He still looked like he might appreciate a few minutes more, so she pulled out a rather higher card from her metaphorical hand. "You must truly be a master of your craft then, Mr. Fordyce, if the rose-petal gown you made for Lady Penrose's birthday in August is anything to judge. Truly, I had never seen its like before, not even when I attended the Russells’ Christmas Ball with Lord and Lady Mercer and their son last year in London." She wondered if she’d taken her flattery a step too far with that last, but he drank it up like sweet summer wine.

His watery eyes lit up at the mention of Lord and Lady Russell’s exclusive gathering, and, as she had suspected, Nel rose just a fraction in his estimation by mentioning such connections. Not that she gave a single one of Old Flint’s trumpeting farts what this man thought of her and her station in Society, but it was buying Edmund time, and he seemed to be breathing a little easier now.

"Oh," Fordyce said in a different voice, simpering just a little. “The… The Russells’ Christmas Ball? And… Lord and Lady Mercer you say?” His eyes practically glinted. “Their young son is a most eligible bachelor, I believe,” he said, apparently unaware of the impudence of such a comment. “And you were with them in Town?”

She nodded. “They’re close family friends.” Never mind that said eligible bachelor had spent the majority of that particular night scandalously secreted away in an upstairs bedroom with an Admiral’s nephew when he’d promised to dance with Nel instead. The cad, she thought with a fond and barely-disguised smile. She knew William would get a good laugh out of hearing all about the ridiculous Mr. Fordyce, and she made a note to herself to include an account of this exchange in the letter she’d intended to pen to him that afternoon.

"Yes, well, the gown I made for Lady Penrose’s birthday is one of my finer pieces, I’ll admit,” Mr. Fordyce blustered, returning to her original compliment. “Perhaps a little too fine for someone of your particular… stature," he added with a vague gesture at her figure, and she bit back a sudden, wild urge to laugh indecorously. "The young Lady Penrose does have such exceptionally delicate wrists, after all," he said, and consulted his notes rather ostentatiously and unnecessarily in order to add, "And such a minuscule waist. Still, a tailor such as I must be able to cut out not only for the handsome and well shaped, but to bestow a good shape where nature has not designed it quite so to suit the fashions of the day."

If Nel hadn't been keeping half an eye on Edmund, who now looked far more horrified by his master's words than by his own physical discomfort, she might have taken offence, but what a conceited little man like Fordyce thought of the proportions of her waist was of relatively little importance to her in the grander scheme of things. If Will had been in the room, she’d have met his eye and the two would have dissolved into uncontrollable hysterics.

All that mattered now though was that her plan to distract the master tailor for a time had worked. Stoking the already puffed-up man’s ego had kept him occupied long enough that whatever pain had been exacerbated by being forced to bend Edmund’s bad knee to the hard floorboards had dissipated back to something more manageable, and a minute later, he very lightly touched Nel at her elbow as he moved around her on the pretence of taking another measurement.

‘Thank you’, he mouthed, blinking rapidly and barely meeting her gaze. He was still the colour of fresh parchment, but he was no longer clenching his teeth like he thought he might be sick. She hoped she hadn’t embarrassed him by acting so presumptuously.

“Forgive me, Mr. Fordyce,” she smiled sweetly to the older man. “I do believe I interrupted the proceedings with my questions.”

“Oh, yes,” the man chirped, blinking like an owl surprised by the arrival of daylight. He’d clearly not noticed at all. “Yes. Well, if you could hold out your arms while Mr. Nancarrow passes the tape around your chest.”

Her heart skipped a beat at that, and while Edmund was methodical and nothing but proper, he did let his dark eyes flick briefly to her face as he closed the tape snugly around her breasts. Her breath caught. Beneath the fabric of her dress, she felt her nipples tighten and she licked her lower lip just a little, sinking her teeth in before resuming a perfectly blank expression. Never in her life had she been touched like that by a man. Her previous mantua maker in Sussex had been a woman after all, as would have been the case here, had Winnie’s not recently relocated.

If Edmund’s gaze had dropped to her mouth for the briefest of moments, she pretended not to have noticed, nor to wonder what it might mean, if anything.

“Inhale again,” Edmund said in a low, sweet voice, his eyes flicking fleetingly back up to her eyes.

Slowly, she obliged and felt the paper tape stretch taut against her bodice as her breasts lifted with her breath. She felt the tension go out of the line as he let the paper slide between his fingertips to measure the slack. All the while, his hands remained steady as a surgeon’s, and she tried not to stare at the elegance of his long fingers where they held the paper securely against her chest in order to snip more little cuts in the paper to mark the dimensions.

“Exhale,” he whispered, and she did, shakily. “Thank you, Miss Bywater.”

“Nel,” she whispered back, but he only inclined his head in a way that said he could, regrettably, never call her something so familiar in such a charged setting. She didn’t know whether to be flattered or frustrated, and found herself oscillating between the two.

Then the moment ended and she almost swayed.

Edmund stepped back, dropped his eyes, and crossed the room to hand Mr. Fordyce the tape. Its coded marks at various lengths indicated that the full set of measurements had been taken, and that the appointment was drawing to a close.

Mr. Fordyce let his eyes flick along the length of it — no doubt noting all the places where her circumference was less elegant than Winnie’s — and folded it carefully up into an envelope. “My thanks, Miss Bywater. I think we can make something with that. Come, Mr. Nancarrow. We must leave these elegant ladies in peace to begin our work.”

Winnie, who had been sitting quietly in the corner of the room the whole time and pretending to work on her embroidery, rose gracefully and thanked Mr. Fordyce with just a little hint of frost in her usually sweet tone, and said that she looked forward to seeing their creations soon.

“I shall work on your dress personally,” Mr. Fordyce said as he bowed over Winnie’s hand. Nel thought that, given half the chance, he might just slobber all over it for the honour of sampling her ‘delicate wrists’ again, and shuddered. Winnie withdrew her hand almost immediately.

The way he had worded his comment though made Nel wonder if that meant that Edmund was going to make her dress, and her eyes darted questioningly to him.

He was watching her, and one corner of his lips lifted.

That was all, but in that moment, she knew it would be the case. His hands would have touched every inch of the dress she would wear to the ball in Plymouth, and her heart skipped and soared as if she would feel the ghost of his touch when she wore the dress itself. In a way, he would be closer to her that night than any man would even if she danced with them, because the fabric would rest against her very skin. Well, against her chemise and stays, but still, it was closer than any other man would get. Her core heated at the thought and she hoped her face didn’t betray her as the gentlemen bowed and left.

In the silence of their departure, Winnie arched an eyebrow at Nel. “Well, that was an interesting morning,” she said.

“Indeed,” Nel replied carefully.

“Since the ball is only a couple of months away, you must learn to dance properly,” Winnie added as she crossed to the window and watched their small carriage draw away from the front of the house. The shapes were made a dark blur by the rain. “I’ll teach you myself.”

“And what if I have no intention of dancing?”

Her chest still felt tight and her lungs seemed full of sea foam after Edmund had touched her, and imagined she could feel the warmth of his hands lingering through the fabric of her dress. It was most distracting.

“And I do know how to dance,” she added petulantly as she flopped into the other chair by the fire and picked up her own embroidery hoop, scowling at the wonky patterns on it. Had that been a strawberry or a carrot she’d been working on? “It was the local dances at the harvest celebrations that left me stumped. I can dance a passable minuet or quadrille as well as the next country gentleman’s daughter. I just choose not to.”

“You cannot sit the whole ball out and refuse to dance,” Winnie groaned, turning back to face her. “You’ll draw attention to yourself.” And, by extension, she might embarrass the Lady Winnifred Penrose.

“I’ll draw more attention to myself by dancing,” Nel said with a sullen expression as she began to pick rather savagely at her lumpy embroidery with a tiny pair of scissors. Lord, what if Edmund had happened to see it? He’d have thought it was the work of a small child with a knitting needle and ball of garden twine. “It’ll be like watching a bear in a skirt,” she muttered glumly.

Winnie snorted an extremely undignified laugh into her hand, and the two women promptly dissolved into giggles. “I’ll remind you of that when we’re at the ball,” Winnie snickered.

“Oh you’d better not,” Nel groaned. “If I get the giggles in public, it’s uncontrollable, and it’s even worse when it’s a formal setting.”

“You managed fairly well at the Lammas Dance when Old Flint did his best to reduce everyone to hysterics.”

That just brought back memories of meeting Edmund’s dark eyes again, and the feel of Locryn’s huge, rough palms against hers, and clamping around her waist, lifting her high and laughing in his rich, gruff bass as he turned her, and then of her crushing idiocy in almost letting herself kiss the man in public and in front of his lover. No matter that Edmund had said all was forgiven and forgotten; she would never erase that night from her mind.

When the gowns had been made, Mr. Fordyce returned with Edmund for a final fitting in late November, and Nel tried to ignore the odd fluttering in her stomach at the thought of Mr. Nancarrow seeing her in something that was not only a lot finer than her usual redingote dresses, but in something which he himself had made to fit her body.

As Winnie’s maid helped her into it upstairs, while Winnie was downstairs having any final alterations noted, Nel silently scolded herself. ‘Edmund Nancarrow is not going to look at you with even the faintest whiff of interest beyond that of a professional tailor doing his job. Mr. Nancarrow, like Will, is only interested in men’. The memory of the heat in his eyes made her assertions fracture and crumble like fragile cliffs into the insistent sea below. Mr. Nancarrow was probably not only interested in men, but she could tell herself that for the time being all the same.

With her expression set in a rather sour grimace, she thanked Liddy and walked towards the staircase which would lead her down to the drawing room.

The dress was really lovely, and although it wasn’t nearly as complicated and showy as Winnifred's, it had its own elegance and richness that Nel loved more than Winnie’s. The fabric was a warm, green silk damask that shone in the light like a cut and polished emerald, with peonies and curled leaves and fruits shimmering subtly like frost on a windowpane. The sleeves ended just below her elbow in a soft spray of intricate white lace, and there was a small trim of lace around the low, square neckline that was so delicate and fine, it reminded her of the patterns of sparkling sea foam on the sand. The bodice snugged in around the waist, and fastened almost invisibly up the front in a series of minuscule, gold hooks and eyes, while the skirts fell away in a fountain of heavy, forest green fabric to the floor. It would be finished with a delicate, muslin scarf around her shoulders, secured with a silk peony. There were even matching shoes, which were surprisingly easy on the feet, even if the heel was a little higher than those she was used to.

Nel actually felt comfortable in herself as she moved about in it, which she rarely did when dressing up for dances, and she tried to draw on that confidence as she descended the stairs carefully, one hand on the bannister in case she stumbled.

She met Winnie just coming out from her fitting, wearing her own, cream and peach confection which she somehow managed to make look spectacular. Nel was sure that she would have looked like an upturned peach cobbler if she’d put that on.  

Her friend paused in the doorway when she saw her and gasped. “Nel!” she cried out. “Oh you look beautiful. The fit is perfect! And that colour! Why, I declare that the all gentry of Wessex will be prostrating themselves at your feet!”

Nel shook her head with a little blush, a dark curl escaping from the tight arrangement pinned at the back of her head above the collar and out of the way of the tailors’ fingers, and she continued down the stairs.

“Lady Winnifred,” came Mr. Nancarrow’s warm tenor from the other side of the doorway into the drawing room. “Forgive me, but you dropped —”

He stepped across the threshold and into sight, holding a muslin kerchief between the slender fingers of his right hand, but he looked over to his left and caught sight of Nel on the staircase.

The kerchief fluttered forgotten to the floorboards.

His lips parted and she watched him inhale slowly.

No, Mr. Nancarrow was most definitely not only interested in men.

There was no way Nel could still try to believe it after seeing that expression on his face, and she tried to hide a smile.

Winnie turned to glance at him and artfully hid her own little smile before dropping easily to retrieve the abandoned kerchief. She rose and leaned fleetingly in to whisper something in Mr. Nancarrow’s ear before flitting back towards the foot of the stairs just as Nel reached the last step.

Edmund immediately turned red from his collar to his ears, and swallowed visibly. He shot Nel one last glance and ducked back into the drawing room without a word.

Nel raised an eyebrow. “What did you say to him?”

Winnie just squeezed her shoulder. “Prostrating,” she whispered with feeling, and flitted away upstairs like one of the Fair Folk.

When Nel entered the drawing room, Edmund was standing beside Mr. Fordyce with his eyes on the floor and a lingering warmth to his face, but as she crossed to them and Mr. Fordyce declared that the creation was truly a triumph, Mr. Nancarrow raised his dark eyes at last and offered her a very small smile and a single, slow nod.

That one, gentle expression from him was more affirmation than any amount of twittering drivel from Mr. Fordyce as he paced around her and appraised her like an expensive piece of Wedgewood pottery on a plinth.

She watched Edmund take a step away from Mr. Fordyce as the man trotted around behind her and then went back towards the window to leave Edmund to make any adjustments, since he had been the one to make the dress and not Fordyce himself.

Edmund’s dark cane made a now-familiar clunk on the floorboards, and it sounded unusually loud to her while all the other sounds in the room seemed to fade.

“If I may?” he said to her in a soft undertone while the master tailor paced about near the window, utterly absorbed in the sound of his own voice. Nel had no idea what he was saying or if it was even addressed to her.

Edmund’s dark gaze had snagged momentarily at a piece of lace trim around the neck of her gown and he gestured towards it.

She glanced down and saw the problem, and then nodded.

“Of course,” she whispered, tilting her head a little in the opposite direction. It exposed her throat and collarbones, and gave him all the access he would need to free the lace from where it was folded over on itself. Her heart was beating like a trapped bird in her throat and she was sure that Edmund would see it thudding frantically against her skin.

And while Fordyce blathered on to his own reflection in the window about the fact that the cut of the dress and the padding were more important than the underlying body, and how his assistant had clearly understood this when making the patterns for the dress from Nel’s measurements, Edmund slid his fingertips carefully against the exposed skin of her chest.

Goosebumps prickled to life in their trailing wake.

Her breath hitched and she tried not to gasp.

Gently, he withdrew the tiny fold of lace that had been tucked under between the neckline of her bodice and her skin, and smoothed it flat again with his fingertips.

Nel exhaled shakily, angled a little away from him. If she’d had to look at him in that moment, she wasn’t sure she could have weathered the heat in his dark brown eyes. Her whole body thrummed like the rigging of a ship in a gale, and if he kept it up much longer, she would founder on the shore.

Wearing the dress he had made — had touched in every stitch and hem and seam — Nel did feel as though his hands were on her already, around her waist, on her hips, her shoulders, the small of her spine. There wasn’t a part of her that wasn’t prickling.

His knuckles brushed her collarbones as he withdrew his touch. Nel ached all over for him to linger, but he didn’t, and when he was done, he took half a step back and smiled.

“Perfect,” he breathed, meeting her gaze directly.

___

Nel's dress, for those interested. It's a little early for the period, but shhh. It's gorgeous.

:3

I hope you’re still enjoying it, and I hope you’ll consider reblogging as well as leaving a like if you enjoyed it. Take care of yourselves, and I hope you have a lovely day/night wherever you are, and whenever you read this.

| Masterlist | Ko-fi (tip jar)

[fairy-verse]

What would happen If Cross found Dream hurt or in danger? :)

Thump… thump… thump… Thump…

The beating of his soul was all that he could hear, and the glistening red was all that he could see, yet he felt warm hands cradle his cheeks and the pleasant vibration of a soft voice speaking to him. He wasn’t sure where he was, or who he was now. Everything had become a blur, a blend of colours the likes of what he’d see in his peripheral when he’d dive from the tallest mountain and down towards the grassy meadows below.

“… oss…”

His chest, waist, and hips ached as though the bones had been shattered and his ecto crushed to a pulp. Had it been? He wasn’t sure.

“…oss!”

Was someone calling him? He swore he could hear a voice; far, far away it was, but still there. The warm hands on his cheeks gripped a little tighter, or they tried to. He didn’t think they could ever grip him too hard, not even if they wanted to.

“Cross!”

Cross… Yes, yes that was his name, wasn’t it? It certainly sounded familiar. He could recall another voice speaking it, more feminine, but just as soft. His father had given him his name, but his mother had made him love it. She’d always been so gentle to him, coddling him, like a mother should when their faerling is so young.

“Cross, please, look at me.”

He wanted to look, but he couldn’t see. He blinked; hard. The redness didn’t go away. His sockets ached. Had they been forced open for too long? He wasn’t sure but a memory kept him from thinking about it. He could see his mother, smiling down at him, laughing as she let flower petals fall over him. Tiny, little hands were reaching up for them. Was that his hands?

“Cross…”

He could see his hands reaching out further as they grew. They were still small when they tried to reach for his mother as ugly, giant hands seized her. She shrieked for him to fly away. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t stop watching as the troll brought his mother’s frail body toward its mouth; its grinning, wide open mouth; full of sharp teeth and disgusting black spit.

He screamed… and lunged.

The world flashed back to him and suddenly the wind was too loud and the rustling grass beneath him screeched as he winched in pain. And yet he remained stiff as his hands clutched at silks and soft, summoned ecto. He could see the sun; it was beneath him.

Dream was beneath him. His face was tear-stained and red blood trickled from his white bones, but he appeared unharmed. Cross on the other hand felt as though he’d been partly crushed by tumbling rocks and giant trees. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to move.

“You’re okay,” Dream said, voice gentle and careful. There was an edge of fear to it, and at first, Cross thought it was directed at him, but before the horror of it could consume him, he found himself following a trail of red on the grass. Further and further away it went until his eye lights landed upon a collapsed shape.

A troll. It was dead.

“You’re okay. I’m okay,” Dream said, reaching up to cradle his cheeks again.

Cross remembered what had happened then. He’d heard Dream’s startled and frightened scream, and he’d rushed to his aid in hopes of scaring away whatever had jumped the guardian of summer. He knew Dream was strong and could protect himself, but even the firstborn had their weaknesses, and unfortunately… trolls were resistant to fairy magic.

Cross had seen trolls many times before. He’d seen them hunt the Big Folk, seen them eating wildlife and fairies alike. He’d killed many of them, too, but this… No, this situation wasn’t new, but that wasn’t what had been the problem.

No, the problem was that he’d seen all this before, and his repressed memories of the past had come thundering down on him as he found Dream clutched inside the troll’s hand, being brought towards its mouth.

He’d blacked out after that.

“It’s dead, Cross. You killed it. I’m safe. You’re safe.” Dream’s voice was so soft and tender, it made Cross tired. He was so tired. “Please, Cross. Stand down.” It was a command. Dream had said it gently, but he’d commanded him, nonetheless.

“… okay,” he said, voice hoarse and unfamiliar to him. It was his own voice, he knew it, but it sounded far too weak. He was so tired.

The blackness claimed him again, but this time he knew he’d passed out in Dream’s arms and not into some horrid nightmare of the past come alive once more. No, this time he’d been strong enough. He’d been strong enough to protect Dream, though he wondered if that strength had been at the expense of his own health.

It didn’t matter.

Dream… He was still alive, and because of that, Cross gladly accepted the warm embrace of sleep.

●→

[hopehartz]

Small writing idea: Tma time travel; Jon gets transported back to the archives, maybe around the time he's gotten the promotion. It's weirdly alone. He walks around, trying to find His Martin before checking his office. He turns the lights on, and suddenly his three archival assistants jump out to greet him happy birthday.

[cozylittleartblog]

okay the junk follower spam is officially over ( over 7k... what the fuck....) and I'm gonna start clearing it out so

📢 A REMINDER

PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, CHANGE YOUR ICON AND BLOG TITLE/HEADER TO ANYTHING THAT ISN'T THE DEFAULT

EVERYONE WITH A DEFAULT ICON AND HEADER IS BEING BLOCKED AND REPORTED SPAM

i respect your right to lurk silently but tumblr has an ongoing problem with b*t accounts, you can literally change your icon to a meme and your header to "not a bot lol", don't care, it just has to Not Be Default. or a real picture of a woman, actually, don't do that either. if blogs keep blocking you, that's why! if you don't know How to change those... try " google.com "

that is all

[ultrainfinitepit]

Town of Puddle: Werewolves

Last updated 08/15/2023

Werewolves (or more generally, werecreatures) are a subset of shapeshifters who are differentiated from others by four key factors:

Werewolves have a humanoid form that is nearly indistinguishable from human.

Werewolves must always transform into their wereform during the night of the full moon. Wereforms vary, from humanoid or beast-like to dramatically monstrous. Many werewolves maintain control of their faculties during the transformation, making it more of an inconvenience than a threat. Some werewolves can transform at will at any other time.

Werewolves are weak to silver.

Werewolves are often immortal or extremely-long lived.

Werewolves are the most common werecreature, but there are many other types of werecreatures. Because werewolves are the most common of them, all werecreatures are often referred to as werewolves even if their beast form is not a wolf.

Werewolves all have a trait called “lycanthropy.” It is a curse, a magical affliction not a disease. Lycanthropy can most commonly be passed through a bite that draws blood, but there are other ways to pass it and it depends on the werecreature: similar to vampirism. 

There are many debated origins for werewolves, but they actually come from a single source. You may notice many werewolf traits are shared with vampires. This is because werewolves originate from vampires. 

The first werewolf was an ancient vampire Lycan: a child of Rapha and Asherah. After Rapha was killed, Asherah’s hold on reality and her kingdom began to wane. Lycan sought to take her place and make a new kingdom, one that would be entirely holy and free from what Lycan had come to see as Asherah’s evil demonic influence.

Filled with hubris and encouraged by their human followers, Lycan sought to make himself into something no longer vampire: human or greater than human, perhaps divine. The Cure that Lycan devised did indeed make him something else, but not a god: the first werewolf. It is said that Rapha, though dead and scattered into stardust, saw Lycan spurn Asherah his mother; saw Lycan seek to become a god; and cursed Lycan to be what he truly was: a monster with no control, a twisted wolf - unholy not because of his birth, but for turning against his family. While werewolves nowadays tend to maintain self-control in their beast forms, Lycan did not, and in fact was driven into a frenzy by Rapha’s curse. Lycan went after their followers and turned them all into werewolves, together they became the First Pack and scattered across the globe, spreading lycanthropy as they went. 

The members of the First Pack became legendary and were hunted by those seeking glory through the ages. None now remain, even Lycan was hunted down. But it is said Lycan’s immortality was twisted just as his body and mind were; and now his spirit lives on to spread lycanthropy and to turn any werecreature into a frenzied beast.

Perhaps if the Cure was discovered again, if used on any other without Lycan’s hubris it would indeed cure vampirism. But no one has yet rediscovered it, and no trace of that ancient recipe remains. Those who pursue it always seem to meet a grim end, as if Rapha strikes down any who tries.

Below are my Puddle werewolves.

Wash Whitlock is a former British naval officer, who now works for the Order and acts as Ariel’s keeper. In the course of his duties he accidentally became a wereotter. Wash has wisely decided he does not need to share this information with Order higher-ups, though his colleagues are well-aware and tease him incessantly. 

Nuniq is a member of Ariel’s crew. She is the ship’s doctor, and practices both magic and science for healing. She is a Greenland wereshark. For her family, being a wereshark is hereditary on the mother’s side but can skip generations, and only develops around puberty. Nuniq had to track down her great-grandmother for help, when she found out she was one. That journey inspired her to continue traveling and exploring. Nuniq is approaching eighty but doesn’t look that old thanks to her wereshark nature. Greenland sharks can live incredibly long.

Below are @wyrmzier's werewolves.

Ines Luna was a catholic nun who performed all of her duties wonderfully. She was chaste, pure, and kind. She worked as a school teacher at the adjacent all girls school. Despite her faithfulness and piety she harbored deep guilt over her lesbianism, and when she heard rumors of two of her students attempting to elope to be with each other she went out to guide them to the right path. But she did not find any students, just an ancient feral wolf who attacked her. She was saved in time by the angel Dame, but with her life still intact the curse rooted in her veins and she was turned into a werewolf. The curse proved unwieldy. Ines could barely control herself every full moon; she feared her own bloodthirst and a powerful heat edged on by the presence of her savior. Her convent grew fearful and ashamed and kicked her out. The church was all Ines knew, but again Dame saved her and they wed and lived happily ever after.

[thingsaday]

Sketchbook feature since I’m between projects rn! 

[getinthefuckingcarkitten]

It's short wait for her at Harper's office, as always. The doctor is surprisingly accomodating whenever she stops by, and Avery isn't sure if it's the money talking or something else that makes her so cooperative. This makes all interactions with the good doctor so very uncomfortable.

"How have you been?" Harper asks, smiling pleasantly. She has one of those unsettlingly calm faces. It might be comforting for something else, but to Avery it's like a still lake. Probably swarming with bacteria and parasites, that is.

"Fine." Avery is always curt to her, albeit polite. "I just want my prescription. I have work today until later, and i'm all out of my medicine."

"On a sunday?" Harper's eyebrows shoot up. "My, that must be stressful."

"You're also working on a sunday." Avery points out, with a hint of a frown on her face.

"Yes, but i like my job." Harper gives her another one of those unnerving, placid smiles.

Avery doesn't like the implication of her words, but she keeps quiet. She needs to stay on the doctor's good side, at least until she gets another supplier.

"And you're in luck." Harper says, getting up to grab something in a cabinet behind her desk. "I've just gotten samples of your prescription, so you don't even need to go to the pharmacy."

She holds out two little bottles of pills, unlabeled, unlicensed opiates. Likely stronger than the stuff she could buy anywhere else. Avery can't help but get a bit excited to feel that high again, as her tolarance built up over the years.

"That's nice." Avery smiles carefully. "How much?"

"Because it's you... I guess £20000 will do." Harper decides. "A discount for a regular. So?"

"Hey, that's steep." Avery frowns, but Harper seems completely unfazed, as always.

"You can always just grab the usual." Harper shrugs, setting the bottles down on her desk, then getting in front of them as she leans back on her desk. "Ah, i hate to see you looking so sad. I can give you a prescription for the pharmacy for the same price as always, or..."

"Or?" Avery raises an eyebrow at the doctor. She doesn't like her tone, but if it's a good offer...

"You can help me with research, and i'll dock the price." Harper's smile widens a bit as she says it. "Answer some questions for me, and i can do it for around... £15000. What do you say?"

Avery has blinks a little. That big of a discount, just for answering some questions? It had to have a catch, but... The temptation of something that could give her a decent high was too strong.

"Okay, fine, but make it quick. I have work." Avery hurriedly replies, and Harper's claps once like a little kid.

"Okay, great! Let me just..." The doctor turns and grabs a clipboard and pen from her desk, scribbling something on the paper. "Whenever you're ready."

"Let's get this over with already." Impatient, Avery has to hold back from rolling her eyes at the pretense of profissionalism.

"Right, first question. What drugs do you usually take?" Harper asks, and as Avery shoots her a glare, she explains. "Drug is an umbrella term that describes medicines, too, as i'm sure you know. I'm not implying anything here, miss Avery, please don't be offended."

"You know that already, then." Avery huffs, but Harper just chuckles a little.

"For the purposes of research, i can't assume anything about the subjects. Now, if you'd be kind to tell me..." She insists.

"God, fine." Avery reluctantly lists them, by brand rather than name, to emphasize their legal status just in case that file falls in the wrong hands. Harper seems a bit amused by this, but doesn't comment on it.

"You smoke, correct?" Harper asks, and Avery takes a moment before nodding.

"Just occasionally." She adds, making Harper shoot her a look. Whatever, she didn't need to prove anything.

"What about alcohol?" Harper continues.

"...Socially." Avery replies, and Harper sets down the clipboard.

"Miss Avery, i know i said i shouldn't assume anything about the subjects, but i'd like it if you were truthful." Harper almost sounds like she's begging, and Avery hates that it could work if she didn't know better. "Don't worry, nobody else is going to see this, and your name won't be on it. It's... Personal research."

Avery lets out a loud sigh as she looks away from Harper's pleading eyes.

"Fine, yes, i do drink more than socially, but i'm not an alcoholic or something! Put that down exactly like that!" Avery half-growls, her impatience getting the best of her, and she hates even more that Harper seems pleased by that.

As Harper takes her time writing, Avery looks at the watch on her wrist. She'll run late if the good doctor doesn't pick up her pace.

"Are we done?" Avery asks, not bothering to hide her irritation anymore.

"Two more questions." Harper grins at her. "Do you often mix alcohol and your usual drugs?"

"...Sometimes, so what? You said it'd be fine if the dosing was on the low side." Avery grumbles.

"It's usually fine, don't worry." Harper shakes her head. "Last question, how do you usually feel when you do that?"

She stares at Avery intensely, making her feel even more reluctant to answer.

"I feel fine." Avery replies, but Harper doesn't even bother writing it down. She wants details, clearly. "I don't know, i feel relaxed, my head feels lighter for a moment. Is that what you want to know?"

"A little more, if you will." There's a glint of something in Harper's eyes that Avery can't quite discern, maybe just a sick curiosity, or maybe something more dangerous.

"I... I get drunk easier. I guess. I suppose it makes me more willing to get drunk." Avery says, hoping that will satisfy the doctor, but she keeps staring behind her pink-tinted glasses, expecting even more. "Sometimes when i fall sleep like that and wake up i don't remember much, but it feels like a really good night's sleep."

Harper nods and quickly scribbles something, as Avery starts to tap her foot on the floor unconsciously, wanting to get out of there as fast as possible. When Harper looks at her again, there's an intensity in her gaze that wasn't there before.

"I have another offer to make." Harper says, her grin widening as she reached for the bottle behind her. "If you take one of those right now, i'll give you another £5000 discount."

Avery feels a chill run down her spine, something telling her that this would be a bad idea. The alarm on her phone goes off and warns her that lunch break is over, and she can't thank herself enough for setting it up earlier.

"No, i'm already late." She gets up, and Harper's smile fades a little. "I'll just pay for the samples, thank you."

Before she even finishes speaking, the money is already out of her wallet and being shoved in Harper's direction, but the doctor takes an awfully long time before reaching for the bank notes. There's an almost forlorn look on her face as she hands Avery the bottles.

"Next time i might make some ajustments." Harper says, sounding a bit defeated, though Avery knows it means it might get more expensive. Her smile is back shortly after, though. "Please tell me if it's any good."

"Yeah, yeah, i'll be in touch, thank you." Avery can't hide her relief to have ended that crazy negotiation.

The doctor's eyes fixate on her back as she leaves the office and closes the door maybe a bit too forcefully. It occurred to her, maybe a bit too late, that this might entice Harper's curiosity even more. With a shiver, she hoped that those little pills were enough to stop her from having nightmares about prodding, curious little needles and scalpels reaching for her forehead, trying to pick her head open like Harper always tried to do.

[ace-of-clubs-and-diamonds]

Passion is Sometimes a Fucked Up Thing

"Don't worry," Freddy crooned. He swept his fingers against the blood staining his chin and lips and sweater – your blood, that was so much blood – and licked it off with a forked tongue. His eyes glittered with cruel delight. "I don't kiss and tell."

Rating: Mature 🔞 Fandom: A Nightmare on Elm Street Pairing: NN!Freddy Krueger x GN!Reader Word count: 1.1K Content warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. Dubcon, making out, dubiously consensual making out, biting, gore, violence, manhandling, crying, mild torture, this isn’t wound-fucking but it IS mild wound-fingering so make of that what you will, cruelty, sexual undertones, well they’re overtones tbqh, open ending AO3 link: Here

Author's Note: BACK AT IT AGAIN WITH BLOOD FEST BAYBEE!! Week 2, with the keywords “nightmare” and “ravenous” and the prompts “gore” and “monster”. Please mind the tags on this one. I generally write more self-indulgent shit with my x reader fics, but the keywords and prompts for this week resulted in something a bit darker. But hey, this is the horror fandom. Fucked up shit is kind of our thing. As is blending the line between sex and horror lmao. Anyways, I hope you enjoy <3

It didn’t start out as a nightmare. It started as the furthest thing from it, really.

The dream was murky at first, hazy and faint as if you were trying to peek through a fogged-up window. The only thing you recognized was warmth around you. Holding you in place. Embracing you.

But slowly, the dream solidified, and you became more and more aware of the arm wrapped around your waist, the hand stroking your cheek, the firm pressure of lips against yours. Heat bled sweetly into your skin. When you pulled back, the person's face was blurry, their features out of focus. A blank space your sleeping brain hadn't bothered to fill in. Not that it really mattered. Not when this was a fantasy, not when they were holding you like this. Their thumb swept against your cheek, the touch reverent and tender. They leaned in again. So did you.

You could stay like this forever, you thought. In this gentle, loving embrace.

Their lips slotted against yours, teeth brushing your bottom lip. Scraping just slightly. You let out a sigh that might've been a moan. Their chest vibrated against your own, as if responding to you. The sound failed to reach your ears. But then their teeth were closing on your bottom lip, biting gently, sucking, and you didn't really care.

Arousal flooded your system as teeth tenderly worried your bottom lip and warm hands cupped your throat. Then the bite turned firmer, harsher. You nearly ground down on their lap.

Don't stop, you wanted to say. Please don't stop.

They didn't. They kept going, kept biting down until pleasure bled into discomfort. And until discomfort replaced the pleasure entirely and you started to squirm.

And then sharp pain shot through your lip and pulled.

A cry ripped out of you as you jerked back. Hardness slammed into your back. Pain buzzed through your spinning head, pain so intense you weren't sure you were breathing, weren't sure you could. Your lip burned with searing agony. Warm blood stained your mouth, your front, soaking your clothes and slickening your palms as you braced yourself on the floor.

They bit you. The thought rattled around the inside of your head. They actually bit you.

A scarred face leered down at you from beneath the brim of a fedora.

"Don't worry," Freddy crooned. He swept his fingers against the blood staining his chin and lips and sweater – your blood, that was so much blood – and licked it off with a forked tongue. His eyes glittered with cruel delight. "I don't kiss and tell."

You shot to your feet. Your head swam, pounding and buzzing, and the world careened. Then it sharpened into endless halls and squealing pipes and old statues and sigils carved into aging stone. All washed in red, as if the nightmare itself had been stained with blood too.

Freddy clicked his claws together and chuckled. The edge of his mouth curled up into a mocking grin. "I'll give you a head start."

You didn't hesitate. You took off, nearly crashing into a wall and righting yourself at the last moment to barrel down a random hallway. It seemed like only seconds before the hollow thud of boots started echoing behind you. A shock of fear split down your spine. So you ran.

Ran.

Ran.

Ran, breath sawing in and out in a half-sob, pain ricocheting through your gums and into your skull. Tears blurred your vision until your surroundings were just one bloody streak.

Burning metal sliced through your back and you screamed, stumbling and hitting a wall. Freddy was on you in a second. The fingers of one hand dug into your throat, his other pressing bloody metal talons against your chest. Gore stained the front of his red-and-green striped sweater. Through your tears, he looked less like a person and more like a ravenous beast eager to make his first kill of the night. The thought sent panic surging up your throat.

“This isn’t real,” you sobbed. “This isn’t real, you’re not real. This is just a nightmare. You’re just a movie character. This isn’t re–” Freddy plunged his claws into you thigh. A scream tore itself from your body. Tears spilled down your face, making your mangled lip sting.

“Does this feel like a dream to you?” he hissed. You shook your head as you cried. “No? No?” He shook you, teeth bared. “No. I didn’t think so. Here’s the thing, sweetheart. Sometimes–” He leaned in close, brushing his cheek against yours like a lover. Pivoting sharply from the violence of moments ago. You shuddered. “–Sometimes, dreams do come true.” He pulled out his claws. You choked on your own tongue. “But it’s not always the good ones.” His fingers played with the edge of your wound, coating his fingers in your blood. Slickening his movements. “In fact–” He pressed down. Blood welled and you screamed again, head thrown back in agony. “–Most of the time. It’s the bad ones that come true.” Another tender, agonizing caress. A mockery of intimacy. “Sorry to break it to ya,” he whispered, pulling away.

Your head swam from the pain, body flooding hot and cold. Something roared in your ears. Your vision went fuzzy, and for a moment you were entirely numb. Numb enough that you almost could have mistaken the punishing prodding of your thigh for a loving touch.

If you weren’t already asleep, you were certain you’d have passed out.

“Please.” The word fell from you lips unbidden.

“Please what?” Freddy jammed his fingers against your wound again. Reality – reality? – snapped back into place. You writhed in his grasp. Sobbed through grit teeth. Blood soaked your clothes.

A nightmare a nightmare a nightmare, this was all justanightmareithadtobe –

“Aw, don’t lie to me.” His lips brushed your ear as he spoke, leaving stickiness in its wake. “Don’t act like you aren’t fuckin enjoying this.”

You sobbed harder.

Because he wasn’t entirely wrong.

Even through the fear, through the pain, through the terror and agony and fucking impossibility, there was a part of you that was still stuck on how this nightmare had begun. A part of you that had latched onto the sweetness and arousal. A part of you that was all too aware of how his movements, rubbing and caressing your thigh, were so close to being something else. A part of you that knew that fear and pain weren’t the only emotions flooding your system right now.

Maybe it was some fucked up way to keep you from completely losing your mind.

But that didn’t make it any easier to admit, or any easier to stop the tears.

“Don’t worry,” he purred, all cruel sweetness and gentle bitterness. “Freddy’ll take care of you.”

[coquelicoq]

maintenance guy just showed up at my door unannounced to check out something i reported yesterday...on the one hand loving this prompt service. on the other hand, give a broad some warning. i am in my pajamas and the place is a sty. but he might actually fix a thing that's been bugging me for over a decade, so that would be nice. not that that was urgent, obviously. so i would have appreciated a heads-up.