#They are all mutilated beyond recognition

[mmvoidmold]

drew the mushrooms by memories in the most horrific way possible because I didn't have my references

from left up to right down we have Destroying Angel, LBM, Hairy Mycena, Morel, Ink Cap, Death Cap

[arachnidtub]

i never really understood the angst-ifcation of bruce and tommy’s dynamic when it came to shipping them (or in general) i just don’t get it

[teratomagirl]

My mouth is so lonely. If only there was a pretty girl’s pussy against it… SIGH.

(Edit since I see this is getting attention. This post is for women lol and I do not support any of you male whores out there. I think you all deserve to be mutilated beyond recognition.)

[saltcxrcle]

some blood and a feral grin ── . ✶ s. winchester

summary: you need to clean up after a hunt, sam can help with that

pairings: sam winchester x reader, sam winchester x fem! reader warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, canon level violence, blood, fluff, smut: shower sex, oral fem! receiving, fingering, unprotected p in v sex, aftercare word count: 5.3K a/n: new fic layout!! i was inspired by @rubyvhs for the new layout hehe! also a huge shout out to my irl friend nicole for being the inspiration behind this fic LOL enjoy the fic! please like, comment, and reblog! your feedback fuels me <3 sam winchester masterlist

MOONLIGHT FILTERED in from the stained windows high on the walls as the sounds of grunts and squelches echoed all around you. Your arms were poised above your head before they came down one last time—letting out a guttural scream deep from within you and then, there was nothing. 

Your ears were ringing from the abrupt silence, and your chest heaved heavily from exertion. The long dagger that was hidden in your boot was caked in blood as the body beneath you was mutilated beyond recognition. You slowly stood and picked up the machete that you had dropped earlier. Your body had come to an upright position from hovering over the headless vampire you killed moments ago. 

Your muscles were burning, and you could already feel a deep ache beginning to settle into your bones, but you ignored it. You took a deep breath and stretched, shaking out your arms as you tried not to wince at the pain in your sides. The coppery scent of blood and the musty air of the dilapidated warehouse filled your nose before exhaling with a small sigh. You trudged towards the front of the warehouse, maneuvering through some headless bodies that you had taken care of earlier. You could feel the sting of the cut on your forehead and the bruises forming on your ribs, but you continued your trek through the warehouse. 

It felt like forever, but once you made it through the front door of the building, a familiar black car pulled up in front of it. You couldn’t help the smirk on your face when the headlights turned off as you slowly approached the Impala. 

“I think you’re a little late to the party boys.” You teased as they looked at you with surprise filling their expressions. 

You saw how they looked you up and down, and you could only imagine what they were thinking as the Winchesters took in your appearance. 

Wayward strands of hair fell from your updo and into your face. Drying blood that soaked your clothes and smeared on your face. Your machete was held limply at your side as you waved at them with your bloodied dagger and shot them a crazed grin—the blood lust and adrenaline that had filled your veins had just barely receded as your body began to relax. 

Sam couldn’t help but stare at you in awe. He’d seen you covered in blood; it comes with the job, but the glint in your eyes was something that he had never seen before. He thought you were always beautiful, but seeing your hair askew and practically drenched in blood with the pale moonlight highlighting your features and making the wide smile that you had plastered on your face even brighter than usual—well, he felt something in him stir, something primal in him had awakened. Sam subtly adjusted himself, relieved that his lower half was covered by the open car door. He cleared his throat before averting his eyes to the warehouse you had just come out of. 

“You took care of the nest all by yourself?” Dean asked you, skepticism coloring his tone.

You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh and nod as you slowly approached the two brothers. You finally reached the taller brother as Dean rounded the car and stood next to him. 

Sam crossed his arms and looked down at you, an unfamiliar look in his eye. “You, of all people, should know that was reckless.” He lightly scolded you as his gaze strayed from your eyes to the cut that was near your hairline. Sam had to resist the urge to brush over the injury—wanting to take your chin in between his fingers and scan for any more open wounds you may or may not have. 

“Well, I wasn’t going to sit on my ass like some damsel in distress and wait for you guys to come and save me.” You shrugged. “Besides, it was a few vamps. Nothing that I couldn’t handle myself.” You shot Sam a wink and a slight grin. 

Sam pursed his lips, trying not to smirk when you sent him the smug smile his way.  He shook his head and sighed. “Has anyone told you that you’re difficult?” Sam asked with a cocked head. 

“Plenty of times, by you and your brother.” You said cheekily before taking a step back. “But, as much as I want to continue this lovely conversation, I need a shower and some food. I’ll meet you boys back at the motel.” You told them as you slowly walked backward in the direction of your car. 

Dean gave you a thumbs up and walked to the driver's side of the Impala as Sam just shook his head again, letting the smile that he was holding back emerge on his face as he saw you turn around and continue walking to your car (his eyes definitely didn’t follow the way your hips swayed and trailed downward to see good your ass looked in the jeans you were wearing). 

Sam finally ripped his gaze away from you when he heard a comically loud cough come from Dean. Sam’s head snapped towards the driver's side of the car to see Dean raising an eyebrow at him. 

“You going to stand there and stare all night or can we get back to the motel so you can finally spill your heart out to her?” Dean asked with a knowing smirk on his face as he wagged his eyebrows at his little brother. 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Just get in the car,” Sam grumbled before opening his door. He didn't wait for a response from Dean, so he climbed into the Impala. 

Dean got in and started the car, the Impala erupting in a loud roar. Dean looked at Sam before driving. “You didn’t say no.” Dean had a shit-eating grin on his face and began to drive, pulling out of the gravel driveway of the warehouse and toward the direction of the motel where the three of you were staying. 

Sam glared at Dean but offered no retort—he wasn’t willing to dignify Dean’s taunting with a response (but he knew deep down that his brother was right, he didn’t want to hear the ‘I told you so’ comment from him because Dean would be annoying about it).  

Driving back to the motel was slower than you anticipated but you blamed it on the drying blood on your hands and jeans that restricted your movements (and it definitely wasn’t from the pangs of pain you felt coming from your ribcage). So it wasn’t a surprise to find the Winchester’s Impala parked in the lot of the motel. 

You pulled up next to their car, turned it off, and headed towards their room, which was coincidentally (not) next to the brothers. You quickly entered the room, not surprised by the sight of the Winchester brothers, having given them the spare key to your room two days before, sitting at the table near the kitchenette at the back of the room. 

It was comical how both Sam's and Dean’s heads snapped in the direction of the door, and you couldn’t help but smirk at the action. 

Dean got up from the chair, patting Sam’s shoulder in the process. “Great, she’s back! I’ll grab us some food.” Dean grabbed the jacket he shrugged off earlier and put it back on. 

“It'll be a while, I gotta make a beer run as well.” Dean said as he shot Sam a pointed look before shooting you a smile, brushing past you in the doorway and making his way to his beloved car. 

“But I have-” You were cut off by the slamming of a car door and the roar of the car. You looked back from the near-empty parking lot to look at Sam with a raised eyebrow, having noticed the look Dean shot him. 

“Is your brother okay?” You asked Sam as you moved further into the room, closing the door behind you. 

“I think he’s had one too many concussions to answer that objectively.” Sam kept his eyes trained on you as you moved through the room. 

You let out a laugh at Sam’s words. “Right, that was the wrong question to ask.” You peeled off your blood-soaked flannel, leaving you in a blood-stained tank top. You let down your hair before cracking your neck and letting out a small sigh of relief. 

You paid no mind to Sam, who was still sitting at the table, as you made your way to your duffle bag to grab some clean clothes before you went and showered the glaring red remnants of the hunt off of you. But as you rummaged through your bag for your pajamas, Sam had gotten up from his seat and silently made his way over to you. 

With your pajamas in hand, you turned around and jumped slightly when you saw Sam right behind you, blocking the path to the bathroom. 

“Sorry.” Sam looked a bit sheepish as he apologized. “You should probably clean that before you shower.” He gestured to the cut on your forehead. 

You cocked your head at him. “Wouldn’t that defeat the whole purpose of a shower?” 

“It doesn’t hurt to clean it twice.” 

You huffed a small laugh through your nose. “I suppose.” You hummed out before maneuvering around Sam and making your way toward the bathroom. But before you make another step, you feel a warm hand wrap around your wrist, stopping you momentarily and making you look back at Sam. 

“Let me help.” 

You raised an eyebrow at him. “I can do it myself Sam, I’m a big girl.” You joked. 

“I know.” Sam smiled. “But you took out the nest of vamps when we asked for your help, so this is the least I can do to repay the favor.” 

I know another way that you can repay that favor. 

You purse your lips, trying to shake that thought from being blurted out as you look at Sam. Earnesty shone in his hazel gaze. 

You sighed. “Fine, you can help even if it's a small cut.” 

Sam smiled at you again, and without letting go of your wrist, you led him into the bathroom. It was small, to begin with, but it barely fit you and Sam. It was clear that this room wasn’t designed with someone of Sam’s stature in mind (but then again most things weren’t made to fit 6’4 giant men). The door shut with a soft click as you placed your clothes on the closed toilet lid, and Sam grabbed the first aid kit you had stashed in the medicine cabinet. 

Sam grabbed a washcloth from the towel rack, dampened it with warm water from the sink, and gestured for you to stand in front of him. The two of you maneuvered around the bathroom so your back was facing the mirror and sink while Sam stood in front of you. 

“Can I…” He trailed off, his free hand hovering awkwardly in front of your face. 

You nodded, and he took your chin between his forefinger and thumb. You almost flinched at the feeling of the warm cloth brushing against the skin surrounding the wound. You were gripping the edge of the porcelain sink to resist any urge to touch Sam that may rise. 

You were looking at Sam as his eyes were trained on the cut, making sure he didn’t accidentally hurt you as he wiped away the dried blood, the white hand towel slowly being stained red. Sam was gentle with his movements, and it was soothing—your eyes fell shut on your own accord, leaning into Sam’s touch. 

With your eyes shut, Sam took the opportunity to really look at you. He was used to admiring you from afar, so this was his window to take in your beauty. The towel had strayed, no longer cleaning the blood from your forehead but now the rest of your face. There was blood splattered across your cheeks, nose, and lips. Sam wiped away the blood, and the towel lingered on your lips. 

You couldn’t help how your breath hitched slightly at the feeling of Sam’s touch on your lips. The towel fell from your face, and you opened your eyes to find Sam staring at you with an intensity that you’d never seen before. The air was charged around the two of you, and both of you started to lean towards one another. 

Sam’s gaze flicked from your eyes and lips rapidly, and his grip on your chin changed to span the length of your jaw—his thumb resting on your cheek. You let go of the sink to lightly grab his wrist and rest the other on his chest. The two of you were close enough to feel his breath fan over his lips. 

“Can I kiss you?” Sam whispered in the shared space between you. He felt like he was at the end of his rope when it came to giving in to his desires. 

Instead of responding, you brushed your lips over his, and before he pressed his lips against yours, you pulled back slightly with a teasing smile on your face.

Sam couldn’t help but smile at the sight of yours, but he wasn’t having it with your teasing and dropped the towel he was still holding, gripped your waist, and pulled you into a passionate kiss.  

It felt like liquid-hot desire was injected into your veins when Sam pressed his lips against yours. The kiss was demanding and urgent like the world would end in the next five minutes, and all Sam wanted to do was devour you whole. 

You and Sam have always had this underlying tension since you met, but you have never acted on it because the cards never seemed to align for the two of you—until now. 

The edge of the sink dug into your lower back as Sam leaned into you. Your hands moved to wrap around his neck, pushing up on your toes to match the fervor that Sam was kissing you with. Sam’s hands moved down your body and stopped at your thighs. He lifted you up with ease and placed you on the porcelain surface. You let out a small yelp from the sudden change in position, and you felt Sam chuckle against your lips. 

Sam swiped his tongue at the seam of your lips, and you let him breach your mouth, tongues dancing with one another and letting the taste of him consume you. You felt his hands squeeze your thighs before dragging up your legs to the hem of your tank top, his hands slipping under the fabric and resting on your bare skin. 

You broke the kiss, pulling back as your lungs screamed for air, but Sam didn’t want to stop kissing you, so his lips trailed down your cheek to your jawline and led down toward your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there. You let out a soft moan at the feeling. 

Sam couldn’t help but groan at the sound of your moan and the scent that overtook his senses. You smelt like musk and the coppery scent of blood, but he could smell the perfume that you usually wore. 

You managed to pull him away from your neck by grabbing some of the long hair at the nape of his neck. 

“As much as I want to continue this, I’m covered in blood and dying for a shower.” You said a little out of breath from the kiss/mini makeout session that the two of you shared. 

Sam’s slightly swollen lips formed into a pout, but he nodded in response. He went to move, but you grabbed the loops of his jeans before he could pull away from you completely. 

“But, you’re entirely welcome to join me.” You had a sultry smirk on your face as you looked up at him. 

“Are you sure?” Sam met your gaze, a concerned frown on his lips. 

“One hundred percent.”

Sam leaned in and softly kissed you, a contrast to the initial kiss from earlier. He kept the kiss sweet as his hands pulled up the tank top you were wearing, breaking the kiss as he pulled it over your head and leaving you in a bra and jeans. Sam let his hands trail along your curves as he admired you. 

“You’re so beautiful.” Sam breathed out as his hands rested on your hips. 

You could feel yourself getting shy under his intense stare but fought through the impulse to cover up. 

Sam tapped on your clothed hip and backed up to give you room to slide off so you could take off your jeans. You slid off of the sink counter, unbuttoned your jeans, and shimmied out of them as best as you could, but they were stiff from the blood that they soaked in. You had to use Sam’s shoulders as leverage in order to kick them off, leaving you in your bra and underwear. 

You quickly turned away from Sam to turn on the shower and wait for the shower to get warm. You turned back around to see Sam shedding the flannel and shirt he was wearing, leaving his upper half bare for you to stare at. 

It was like Michelangelo himself sculpted him—your eyes flicked to various areas of his torso and arms. You had always imagined what he hid under all of those layers, but it seemed like your imagination paled in comparison to the actual thing. 

Sam’s chuckle made your eyes snap up to meet his amused smile. “I think the water should be warm now.” 

You could feel your cheeks heat up, but instead of responding to his teasing, you reached behind you and unclipped your bra. You let it slide down your arms and fall to the floor before taking the hem of your underwear and stripping those off as well, leaving you naked in front of Sam. 

You sent him a smirk before pulling back the curtain and getting in the shower, letting the warm water hit your sore and blood-covered body. You let out a sigh of satisfaction, momentarily forgetting that Sam was in the room with you until you heard the familiar sound of a belt unbuckling and rustling of jeans before the curtain was drawn back, and Sam entered the shower. 

If the bathroom could barely fit the two of you, then the shower was way too small for Sam and you to be in. But you paid no mind to it as you stared at Sam, keeping your gaze from straying downward toward his naked legs. 

Sam shot you a soft smile before grabbing the shampoo and pouring some into his hand. He gestured for you to turn around, and he began to wash your hair. You leaned into his touch, letting out a satisfied hum at the feeling of his hands massaging your scalp. You almost let out a moan of protest when you felt his hands withdraw from your head, but he gestured for you to turn around and wash out the soap. 

Then he took the conditioner and combed it through your hair before repeating the same process. By the time he grabbed another washcloth through the curtain, you were almost dead on your feet from the head massages you received. Sam couldn’t help but smile at your almost blissed-out smile. He took some of your body wash, slathered it on the washcloth, and began to gently scrub down your body. 

Sam started with arms and back before moving down your legs, getting down to his knees to wash them. He tapped your hip to signal you to turn around to face him. Sam washed your torso diligently, lingering on your breast for a moment before moving the washcloth down your waist and hips to your thighs. You started to breathe a little heavier in anticipation—seeing Sam on his knees in front of you was making a heat pool in your core, and you could feel yourself getting wet.  

Sam nudged your feet, spreading them apart so he could fit in between them. He dropped the washcloth on the shower floor with a wet thwap, grabbing one of your legs and throwing it over your shoulder. You leaned back onto the cool shower tile as you felt him press gentle kisses on your inner thigh, trailing up toward your heated center. 

“You got such a pretty pussy baby.” Sam murmured into the soft skin of your thigh. “Wonder if it tastes as good as it looks.” 

Your head fell back and a soft moan left your lips as you felt him press a soft kiss to your clit. A hand wove through the damp strands of Sam’s hair as he began to lick and kiss at your cunt. 

Your moans and whines filled the steamed-filled bathroom as Sam ate you out. He sucked and licked at your clit before his tongue made its way inside of you, darting in and out—collecting your sweet essence and spurring Sam on to taste more of you. He let out small grunts and groans as you tugged at his hair, the vibrations providing you more pleasure to your sensitive cunt. 

“Fuck, you taste so good honey.” Sam pulled away for a moment, making you whine slightly, which made Sam nip at your thigh. “Don’t be greedy just yet baby, I’ll make you cum. I just want to admire you.” He said while looking at your cunt hungrily. 

Sam blew cool air on it, making you clench around nothing. He chuckled darkly before diving back into your cunt. 

A keening whine left your lips as he ate you out like a man starved. “F-fuck! Oh Sam!” 

You started to chant his name like a prayer as you felt yourself hurling closer to cumming. 

Being spurred on by your moans, Sam sucked your clit into his mouth and slowly inserted one of his thick fingers into you. Sam quickly added another finger when he felt little resistance when he put the first finger in. 

His fingers worked in tandem with his mouth, and you were quickly shoved over the edge of pleasure when he crooked his fingers just right and hit your g-spot. You clenched hard around his fingers, Sam letting out another groan in your cunt, adding to the pleasure that coursed through your body. Sam only slowed his ministrations, helping through your orgasm until you had calmed down. 

Sam left one last kiss on your sensitive clit before trailing up your body, the soap no longer on your skin, before pressing his lips against yours. You melted into the kiss, resting your hands on his chest before one of them trailed down to brush against his raging erection. 

Sam grunted against your lips when he felt you wrap your hand around the base of his cock. He pulled back from the kiss but rested his forehead against yours as you started to stroke him slowly. 

Then Sam pulled away suddenly and turned off the water in the shower. He quickly lifted you up in his arms, pulling another yelp from your lips. You had no choice but to wrap your legs around his trim waist as he made his way out of the bathroom and into the empty room, toward the nearest bed. 

He practically threw you on it before getting it on the bed himself, slotting himself in between your open legs and pulling you into a fiery kiss. Sam couldn’t get enough of the taste of you, his tongue dominating your mouth as his hand found your center again and began to tease your clit, rubbing soft circles on it. 

You moaned into his mouth before he pulled away and began to attack your neck, biting and sucking marks into it. One of his fingers started to trail up and down your slit and chuckled into your neck. 

“You’re still so wet. S’all for me honey?” Sam pulled back from your neck to hear your response. 

“Y-yeah, all for you, fuck!” You could barely string that response together—not when Sam had inserted his fingers back into you. 

Sam let out a dark chuckle before leaning down and sucking a nipple into his mouth, ripping another moan from you. 

“You’re doing so good for me honey. You feel so good around my fingers, sucking me right in.” Sam crooned, freeing your nipple from his mouth as he kept fingering you. He kept it at a slow pace, wanting to drag it out. 

“Please, go faster Sammy.” You all but whined out.

Sam said nothing but quickened the pace of his thrusts and started to thumb at your swollen clit. He leaned up and drew your lips into a kiss, but you could barely kiss him back, moans leaving your mouth with every thrust of his fingers. 

Sam could feel you clench around his fingers. “You gonna cum for me baby?” 

All he got was a loud moan in response, making him smile at how wrecked you were from just his fingers. 

“Good girl, come around my fingers and you’ll get my cock.” 

The praise from Sam made the coil that was wound up in you snap, and you came around Sam’s thick fingers. Sam whispered praises in your ear as you came down, having withdrawn his fingers and tracing the skin on your hips soothingly.

“There she is.” Sam said with a gentle smile once you calmed down and opened your eyes. 

“You ready?” Sam asked as he lined his tip to the entrance of your soaked cunt. 

You nodded. 

Sam clicked his tongue at you before slapping the tip of his cock on your oversensitive clit, making you jump at the feeling. 

“I need words, baby.” The low gravel of his lust-fuelled voice made your cunt pulse, and you could feel how wet you were. 

“Yes, I’m ready.” Your voice was slightly hoarse from all of the moaning and whining that Sam pulled out of you. 

“Thank you, baby.” Sam leaned down and kissed you. While he was kissing you, he slowly penetrated you. The stretch of his thick cock was teetering the line of pain, but it felt so good as he filled you up. 

Both of you let out moans when he filled you up to the hilt, and you clenched around him involuntarily. 

“Shit, honey, you can’t do that.” Sam told you in a strained voice. 

You noticed how his jaw was clenched and couldn’t help but tease him like he had been doing to you and clenched around him again. 

Sam stared down at you, a serious look on his face as you looked at him with a playful look in your eye. Then Sam pulled out until the tip was left inside of you before plunging back into you roughly, a sharp moan leaving your mouth at the sensation. 

Sam began his pace slow but hard, slamming into you with enough force to shove you up the bed. You had to wrap your legs around his waist and brace yourself against the headboard. Your moans and Sam’s groans filled the room as he fucked you. He shoved his face into your neck and started to suck at the skin, leaving his marks all over your neck and chest. 

You weren’t far from coming again, and Sam noticed, shoving a hand in between your legs and rubbing on your clit. 

Sweat coated your body as the heat in your core grew and grew. You could feel tears escaping your eyes from the amount of pleasure Sam was giving you. He finally pulled away from your neck and noticed your wet face. 

“Awe baby.” Sam cooed as he used his free hand to cup your cheek and wipe away some of the tears. “You gonna cum soon?” He asked with a slightly strained voice, Sam was so wound up, but he could hold off until you were close. 

You sputtered out a ‘yes,’ but you were overwhelmed with pleasure that you could barely speak outside of his name and ‘fuck’. 

“Come for me and I’ll fill you up, okay baby?” 

You clenched hard around him at the thought of him coming inside of you, and Sam noticed. 

“Fuck, you like that don’t you? You like me filling you up with my cum?” Sam rubbed at your clit even harder. 

“Yes!” You sobbed out; you were so close to coming. 

“Come around my cock honey,” Sam commanded, and his voice sent you over the edge. Stars exploded behind your eyes as you came around Sam. His thrusts faltered before shoving himself inside of you one last time, and you felt warmth fill your cunt. Sam all but collapsed on you, and you couldn’t be bothered to shove him off; the weight of him bordered on suffocation, but it was comforting to you. 

You wrapped your arms around Sam’s neck and started to card your hands through his hair. He relaxed further into you as the two of you calmed down. Sam eventually pulled out of you and got up from the bed. You threw an arm over your eyes as you tried to gain executive function in your legs, but they felt numb. 

You could hear Sam running the water from the sink. You jumped slightly as you felt a damp cloth on your tender cunt. You pried your arm away from your eyes and saw that Sam was cleaning you up, and your heart warmed at the action. You smiled softly at how focused he was. 

When he was done, Sam placed it on the nightstand, intending to take care of it later, and gestured for you to sit up. You did, albeit confused, because you didn’t know what he wanted. 

Then he lifted you up into his arms bridal style (again, you yelped) and carried you into the bathroom. 

“What is with you and carrying me?” You asked when he sat you down on the toilet so you could go to the bathroom. 

Sam smirked. “Would you have made it to the bathroom if I didn’t?” 

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Shut up.” You grumbled before shooing him out of the room. 

Sam sauntered out of the bathroom, chuckling—though he left it open, it gave you an ample view of his perky butt. You realized that your clothes were still in there, so you got dressed after you were done peeing. Once you were done with the bathroom, you all but waddled out of it. 

Sam started to laugh at the sight of you; he was dressed in some comfy pants and a plain black shirt. You glared at him, but you couldn’t help but laugh with him. Once you guys calmed down, both of you settled into the other bed, and Sam took the time to check his phone and saw that he had some text messages from Dean. 

You had better make a move when I’m gone, or I’ll make it for you.  Sent an hour ago  FINALLY! I’ll be in our room with the food. ...jeez, you guys are loud Sent 15 minutes ago 

Sam rolled his eyes at his phone before turning to you. “Dean texted, he said he has our food in our room.” 

“Ooh, yes! I’m starving.” You got up from the bed excited and put on your shoes half-hazardly. 

Sam let out a small snicker at your eagerness, got out of bed, and put on his boots. As the two of you left the room, Sam swung an arm around your shoulders and made the short walk to the Winchester’s room, where the two of you were greeted by Dean’s shit-eating grin and dealt with his teasing for the rest of the night until Sam was fed up with him and dragged you back to your room to sleep the night away. 

[join my taglist !; read rules before sending in an ask]

[altocat]

Some people are confused at how Sephiroth managed to miss the glaringly obvious portrait of Hojo and Lucrecia in the Shinra mansion. I think it's possible that he was in no fit emotional or mental state to register his surroundings. But there are other possibilities as well.

If Sephiroth genuinely thinks that Lucrecia=Jenova, I could see him passing by this picture and viewing Jenova as a captive specimen twisted and ruined through years in the lab at Hojo's hands. Hojo's body language here is very creepy and possessive. Since Sephiroth is aware of what Lucrecia looks like due to the locket he could have come to the conclusion that either:

The naked blue alien thing in the tank is Jenova's true form after years of masking as a normal human

The naked blue alien thing in the tank is all fucked up because of the experiments Hojo ran on it, severely mutilating his mother's physical body beyond recognition

The woman in the photo was never his mother and is merely some rando that Hojo used to manipulate his feelings when he was younger, therefore the woman in the photo can be disregarded

Or he's not seeing the naked blue thing in the tank at all but Lucrecia herself. It's possible Sephiroth sees something completely different from what Cloud/Zack saw

...Or Sephiroth is just completely insane at this point and doesn't pay attention to the little details/care about holes in his background. That's possible too. I think the photo is more tailored to speaking to the PLAYER instead of the characters themselves. It's more of a plot device to introduce the player to the presence of Lucrecia.

Or it's Square being silly again lol I mean that's the Occam's Razor answer there.

[dhampling]

both free gn!reader, 2.1k

The first thing Astarion notes is that the blood scent weeping from every pore of your broken body is no longer familiar. It rots. 

A burning stench, charred and sour as it licks the back of his nose. 

A few moments of petrified silence before his feet carry him to you. 

-

you reject bhaal's greatest gift and pay with your life. to this, your horrified love bears witness.

word count: 2,105

a massive THANK YOU to @scarstothepast for sending this request my way - i hope it does your idea justice <3

as always, read the tags and decide your fate!

-

Mutilation. 

Reduced to nothing but a flaccid gasp of your former self; a marionette in your father’s horrid hand.

Mangled beyond recognition. Bhaal’s rotten plaything. His prodigal children, both dead. 

Far past any conceivable beg for reconciliation. 

Naught but a smack as your carcass plummets to stone.

-

The Bhaalist temple is ripe, unsurprisingly. 

The smell of a weeping wound seeps from every porous surface. Infection in the mortar, decay in the miry ridges lining the floor; burning flesh amidst flame torches and wails in the middle distance akin to an abattoir. 

Yet, Astarion finds comfort there solely in your confidence. Your conviction. Your will to want for better, to reject your savage bloodline. The power you command over that innate desire to harm. 

You’ve prepared well for this encounter. You’re aware of the risks, you’ve scoped out the entrance to Orin’s rancid shrine; and you’ve gathered appropriate accomplices from your rooms in the Elfsong to assist you in rescuing the one of you held in her clutches.

He should be a little wary. A little skittish. Observant, always; but there should be a little rattle in his brain telling him to hold back from the rest of you. 

The self-preservation instinct developed over two centuries in captivity simply isn’t there.

He’s free, because of you. 

He wants to rip the windpipe from the changeling’s throat with his bare teeth. 

Stalk her chanting cultists from the shadowy ledges surrounding their sacrificial altar and shoot off innumerable Arrows of Many Targets at their vile heads. He - personally - wants to eviscerate any Bhaalist visage presented to you with brutal slash upon brutal slash until he is positively covered in putrid god-guts and wailing in victory.

A twirl of his dagger. The easy click of his disarm tools. A wink in your direction.

Astarion will save you the way you saved him.

He remembers the way you looked at him with the most hells-bent fury during the Ritual of Profane Ascension, ripped from your side and thrown aloft by Cazador’s wicked pact magic. The resolute wrath with which you slashed your way through the monstrosities between you. Pulling him from Cazador’s circle, his daggers returned; a rage so formidable in your eyes he almost wanted to sink to his knees and propose to you there and then. 

You wanted better for him. Better than perpetuating the vicious cycle of abuse starting all those centuries ago with Eravask the Forebear to his very own master.

Master.

He is better. 

He is capable of so much more than the brief wavering moment in that foulest of Dungeons, in which he wanted the most grossly depraved of powers for himself. Every single moment of agony, terror; torment, hunger - the way with which you so effusively confronted his paralysing fears and talked him from the brink; from becoming that very same monster in his moment of sheer dread.

You hop with a determined gait down the towering stairs to the walkway. Entrance in sight. Astarion stalks ahead and moves to disarm the trapped plates in your path.

The two of you have spoken about this moment many times, sequestered away in a corner in the Elfsong by candlelight. A bottle of Firewine and tears threatening to brim in your eyes.

You once were a master. Your freak of a demon butler cast in role seemingly as your very own Godey. You have no recollection of it, those you killed in your father’s name, nor how you did it; but the weight of those souls indeterminate in number is abject torture. There is no forgiveness for you. No hope, no conclusion. Just a wide and wavering path to redemption you can never be sure you’ll justly earn.

That awful, plagued creature you were. The night you softly awoke with Scleritas above you and that primal urge to kill the one closest to you through your whole adventure so far. Holding back. Warning him.

The way he sat and spoke with you, smoothed your hair as you bit furiously at his wrists and spat his name with such evil spite. Unafraid of you, no matter the threat. 

Two beasts in tandem.

-

Orin is horrifying in appearance. Pale, skin writhing with blue vein-like whips across her white flesh; armour of crimson jerky and eyes empty.

Lips smacking in wily delight. Bloodkin. Bloodkin. 

Astarion watches your confrontation prior to the conflict he knows is to come. He’ll get his moment to brutalise every single one of these sadists, but this is yours.

The ritual sacrifice is spared through your recollection of Bhaal’s terms - you were the one challenged, not your accomplice. 

These terms also mean your fight will be one on one. You versus her. 

Astarion’s face falls.

Fuck.

However, he takes solace in the fact that he’s come to know your expressions well through your adventures together. Your innate ability to stay one step ahead is what has carried you so far in the first place. 

She taunts you, yapping, pointing, aggrandizing; at one point even shifting into you. If the circumstances weren’t so dire he’d probably make a joke about what a fun evening could be had with such a skill. 

You remain stoic, mapping out the environment and taking stock of what you can use as leverage. He simply watches you with a mixture of trepidation and admiration resting uneasy in his gut.

"Come to me, Father. Set my flesh to your unholy purpose."

The most grotesque monstrosity replaces Orin. The Slayer. 

Astarion watches on as the duel begins.

In light of having prior defeated the undead Visage of Myrkul, Orin alone isn’t a formidable enemy. Your battle-strengthened dexterity is unmatched and with each attempt the current favoured of Bhaal makes to injure you, you simply strengthen your position and hit her harder.

It’s almost enjoyable to watch the two of you dance.

While not easy, it certainly isn’t difficult to gain the upper hand with each attack you make. 

The Slayer is almost… clumsy?

Too large to aim her lunges with precision, you dodge her at most turns. Your party watches with baited breath, but small smiles begin to edge onto their weary faces.

The rabid dog and the acrobat. 

Each hit you strike weakens her substantially. While she does get some vantage on you and causes a little damage by the sacrificial altar, her limbs in this form are too spindly and make for stupidly easy targets to focus your attacks. 

Within minutes, the imposing figure is reduced to little but a pile of gore on the floor.

Among the foetid viscera that once was the changeling you immediately drop to search for her Netherstone-jewelled dagger. Bloodthirst. Hands heavy with still-warm organs as you retrieve your winnings, blood soaking every inch of exposed flesh on your arms. You throw your spoils to the side and hold the altar key to your chest.

A pair of arms wraps around you from behind, startling you for the briefest moment.

Astarion.

“Gods. You idiot! You are positively deranged! You knew that would happen, didn’t you? Did you bring us along just to watch?!” He grins.

Your own smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You turn to embrace him fully. 

The rest of your party traipse across the tides of blood toward you.

“I had a feeling it might.”

You rest your head on his shoulder in the newborn silence of the temple, tossing the altar key in the vague direction of your party as your hands bloody his armour in a reverent grasp. 

“I love you. I just - I love you! You insane thing. You did it!” He laughs loudly, ecstatic.

You see your friends behind him, your eyes meeting theirs in a downcast stare. A nod of understanding.

“I love you.’

You sigh into his chest, splaying your fingers as if to hold more of him.

‘It’s not over yet.”

He pulls away and looks at you, lifting your head softly so your eyes meet his. His neck juts a little.

“Hm?”

His brow quirks inquisitively. The wail of victory depletes into a quivering hum.

-

The first thing Astarion notes is that the blood scent weeping from every pore of your broken body is no longer familiar. It rots. 

A burning stench, charred and sour as it licks the back of his nose. 

A few moments of petrified silence before his feet carry him to you. 

The Visage of Bhaal is gone. 

Your flesh operates as little more than a bag of broken bones, skull cracked and limbs fractured almost beyond recognition. Eyes wide open but unmistakably dead.

He hears your two accomplices bicker in the background as the multiple Scrolls of Revivify retrieved from your pack fail to glow near your remains. They don’t make sense. This doesn’t make sense. Their shouts are crisp in the silence of the temple. Brash. Disturbing. 

There should be more noise. There should be shouting, screaming, crying. Crowds of those you’ve saved should be here petitioning whatever God sickens of their stream of bitter tears to bring you back to them.

To him. 

He can’t take his eyes off your own. Empty.

If he’d gone through with the ritual, maybe he could have saved you. Turned you. Revived you as his and kept you safe from a fate like this for the rest of eternity.

You’d have despised him for it, but it’d be ok. You’d be awake. You’d be capable of feeling with which to despise him. 

No, he mutters. Not that. Not ever. 

He is better than that.

He shifts to sit cross legged next to your corpse as your accomplices’ shouting turns to unbridled wailing. Toys with your hair gently so as not to disturb the broken skull below the flesh and whispers to you softly.

“You silly thing. I know you’re still in there, aren’t you? I hope you know how much I love you.’

A quiet, heavy wracked sob.

‘You are so magnificent, little dove. So smart. You did so, so well. I am so very proud of you.”

He doesn’t notice Withers, not until he speaks.

-

You’re fuzzy as you stand.

He’s frozen on the floor, cross legged and round-eyed. Sharp ears pinned back. 

“No.” Astarion chokes.

Your eyes are heavy. They search for him in the blur and you stumble trying to feel for him.

“Astarion?’

Your companions are paralysed. 

The stages of grief begin to unravel. 

“Astar- Astarion, I can’t see. Where are you?” You sob, reaching out blindly in front of you to search for him in the fog. 

“Oh. Oh, my love -’

He looks up at you and blinks away a flood of tears as they threaten to spill. 

‘My love. I’m here. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

His feet carry his fraught body to you once again, mindless in their pursuit of you. You’re here. You’re warm, speaking; sobbing, and here. 

Name stricken from the archives. Pulled gently into his arms the second he stepped within reach and wrapped the tightest within them you ever have been.

Your party swaddles you in the biggest hug you’ve had in your life.

Astarion doesn’t let go when they do. He buries one hand in your hair, keeps one tightly around your waist. Shakes with sobs.

“You scared me.” He mumbles, letting out a small laugh into the crook of your neck.

You neglect to mention the patch of snot and fresh wet tears now adorning his shoulder. 

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He whispers, playing with a lock of your hair. 

“No. I am. I am so, so sorry.”

“Seeing you like that ruined me, you know.’ He smiles shakily. 

You sob once more. 

‘I wondered why the whole of Toril wasn’t screaming for you at the moment of your death.’

He moves his head to look at you. Brings his forehead to yours. Kisses you so gently that you wonder if his lips have always felt this soft and his forlorn eyes glisten. Alive and in the arms of your lover.

‘They gave me nothing. Two hundred years of nothing. Useless wretches.’ He laughs and rolls his teary eyes. Sniffs. You smile at him with the dopiest eyes - you think - that have ever existed across the Sword Coast.

‘But the Gods listened to me this time because they knew.’

Astarion coughs. 

He smells like home - warm, spiced; familiar. Your eyes meet his now, his grasp on you still firm.  

‘You defied your father. You resisted your cruel destiny.’

Another kiss.

‘And now we’re both free.” He whispers.

Time stops for a few precious moments, a silent promise. 

No more. 

[afsaana-e-ishq]

Heavenly Saviour

Prince!Ghost x Female Knight!reader

A reverse Knight Au where the reader is a female knight and Ghost gets to be the pretty prince who gets rescued by her.

Masterlist

Warnings: MDNI, gore, blood, torture, trauma, love at first sight, pining if you squint.

The dungeon was cold, dark and decrepit. The smell of mold and iron was suffocating Simon to no end. But he had no other choice but to breath in the rancid air. Thankfully the darkness shrouded his mangeled body. Hiding it from his own view for the time being. Regardless, the mutilated images persisted in his mind.

Simon heaved in the air that was collapsing in his lungs. They had left him hung and from his ribs, red crimson liquid pooling at his feet. The hook so meanly embedded into his tender flesh, he was no better than a pig hung after slaughter.

His captors weren’t kind enough to put him out of his misery. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was his father who had sold him to these people for some cheap entertainment.

Simon lets out a bloody cough while his mind races with the events that had landed him here. The kingdom was on the brink of collapse, The King, his father. The fucker more appropriately was probably hoarding as much of the nations wealth as he could right now. Nor him or his brother could do anything to curb these horrible serieres of events. They couldn't even protect their own mother.

He vowed if he got out of here alive he’d do anything in his power to save his people and his family from demise.

Low grunts escape from Simons mangled mouth. His muscles screamed from being pulled and stretched unnaturally. His vision blurry from the pain and stray tears. His pale body scarred beyond recognition was growing colder by the second. Red hot slashes decorated his supple flesh. But they did little to retain the heat. His breathing becoming laboured as he whispers his mother’s name thinking the end was nearing.

Head spinning, he looks to the ceiling. Dust dances down in sprinkles from the stomping up above. In his delirium, he hears distant screams followed by shouting. Is hellfire raining down? Heavy footsteps by the dozen clambered down like thunder over his head. Their boasterous movement rung out through the manor, vibrating down to the dungeon.

Had salvation finally come?

If he could he would have screamed and shouted until his vocal chords tore if it meant that someone would save him from this cold dark place. But he was fatigued and barely able to keep his head up. And for some reason the foot steps had died down and the screams felt like a distant echo now.

After a prolonged strech of silence, tears stain the eyes of the poor prince again. Were they gone? Had they left without him? If this truly was a hallucination he wishes to see his mother caressing his cheek before he passes. If he truly wasn’t forsaken, God would grant him this small favour before his dying breath.

Maybe it was all in his head after all. It was hard to tell if anything was real anymore. Maybe he was already dead and this was his purgatory.

His vision was stained crimson. All he could see was the congealed blood at his feet. The same blood that painted his skin an awful shade of red.

He heard heavy footsteps again but this time they were descending the dungeon stairs. A sound he would often dread.

When the crash finally comes, the door comes toppling down with a thud, he metal hinges clacking on the stone floor. Simons head wips up desperately as he forces his eyes to look at the broken entrance to the cellar, trying his best to figure out if it was a friend or foe.

There you stood, in all your glory. The candlelight coming from the lit staircase bounced off your armour, creating a celestial glow around you. The tears in his eyes caused the light to distort, making it look like the heavens had blessed his knight with golden wings.

He watched you walk towards him with confident steps. Your resolve, unwavering. Yet your expression was ghastly. Despite this, you soldier on with a bloody sword clutched in your hand.

Simon couldn’t quite make out your features; he was too delirious at this point from the blood loss. But you look like an angel to him; here to enact divine justice. Everything felt fuzzy and shapeless the closer you got. Like he was floating away. Like he was allowing himself to move from purgatory to heaven. All that was left was for his knight to take him there.

But that changed the second you touched his mutilated skin. You brought him crashing down to reality. Much like Icarus plummeting to his demise, the only difference was that you were here to catch him. Every nerve ending sprung alive to throw Simon back into the cycle of his never-ending pain. Your words are soft and soothing, a jarring contrast to the blood staining your face.

He wished he could make out more of your features properly. Wished he could burn your image into his mind forever. But fresh tears obstructed his view. Mangeled cries spill from his cut lips while you pry away the hook that’s lodged deeply between his ribs.

You lower his body to the ground as you tell him you’ve got him now. That you’ll take care of everything from here. He shows you a smile so kind and sweet you wondered how anyone had the heart to harm him. Though It didn’t matter anymore, they were all dead now. Laying in pools of their own blood where you had sliced them down like the animals they were. Rather, you would have treated animals with more respect that you had shown them. You watch the prince go in and out of consciousness as you tie rags to his most open wounds.

“Captain! King Price has sent word! The castle has been captured!" You glance back briefly before nodding for him to continue.

"All occupants were killed before the arrival of our army. Reports say the previous King went on a murder rampage before fleeing with a small entourage. Prince Simon wasn’t found among the dead bodies!”

"Understood", you refocus your energy on tending to the prince laying in your arms, making sure to use your body to hide his mutilated body. You take the handkerchief off on your arm as you go to tie it around the Simons face, making sure not to obstruct his ragged breathing in any way.

“Go now tell the King all noble houses have been dealt with…Prince Simon wasn’t found among any of the bodies”, the soldier leaves immediately at your words as you lift the Prince’s body in your arms. Ready to carry him to safety. You’ll report the truth to the King later. But there was no way you’d let your poor prince suffer any more humiliation than he had already experienced.

His brother and mother didn’t deserve to die the way they did. You couldn't protect them or the prince in time. But you'll dedicate your life to like trying to atone for your shortcomings.

You look down at your Prince, recalling the gentle smile he gave you before slipping into unconsciousness. His smile never changed, not even after all the torment he faced. Not even after trying to carve it out of him; no bruise or scar could ever take away from his radiance. Nit to your anyway.

This will be a new era for him. One in which you plan to be his sword. To be his shield, to be his…just his. He could use you however he sees fit. You will stand by him regardless; come hell or high water.

Copyright © by @afsaan-e-ishq. 2025. All Rights Reserved. Writing not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation, or to use with AI technologies.

[brights-place]

Hi! I was wondering if you could do a little angsty fic of Leif or maybe Peirce? Something like how they accidently hurt reader or something?

It's okay if you don't do it, I love ur writing btw! 💜

[My inner Demons] Leif x Reader Warnings: Blood, Angst, Snapped body parts, Abandonment issues, mentions if murder and dead bodies A/N: Sorry for this as it is short but I was in a rush and I'm trying to get all requests out! thank you for the request it means alot that you and many others love my writing thank you once more for being patient oh and uhm I’m not sorry about what your reading.

Summary: Leif Hurts you his loving partner and can't help but stare at your expression

Leif was known as a highly trained assassin, a man whose hands were forever stained with the crimson blood of his victims.

Yet he was the same man who cradled your face with those very hands. The same hands that held you warmly against his chest.

He was someone who could kill you in less than a second without hesitation if he so desired. A predator capable of cutting down entire groups effortlessly, a Daemos who stood atop the lifeless bodies of those who had fallen beneath him.

Flesh rotted, blood trickled from open wounds, and mutilated corpses lay beyond recognition all torn apart by the sickles he wielded with terrifying ease.

Yet, somehow, he would never hurt you. Not even a scratch. In solitude, he held you close, his warmth a quiet, unspoken promise.

In the presence of others, his fingers would subtly intertwine with yours, pinkies locking in secret. Even when his voice dripped with venom and threats were thrown at Ava and you, they were never truly meant for you.

That alone made you worry for your friend. But when you and Leif had started dating, he had made a vow one he had never sworn to anyone before.

He promised never to harm you. Never to let you see the kind of fear in your eyes that he had seen in countless others. The same fear that haunted him, reflected in the eyes of humans and Daemos alike, whose lives he had stolen without remorse.

And yet, despite the blood on his hands, he couldn't help but look down at you with something different. Something softer. Love. Fondness. A feeling so unfamiliar to him that it scared him.

Still, he always reminded himself of one thing: he had to leave before the other did. Leif had known abandonment all his life.

His parents had left him as a child. His so-called friends had discarded him when he was a mere teen during a mission, leaving him to die when he was still a young assassin. But he had survived. He had clawed his way back, hardened himself against the world, and learned never to trust.

Yet you made him feel safe.

When he held your hands in his own clawed ones, he felt warmth. When he pulled you close, listening to the steady beat of your heart, hearing your voice he knew you were there. You weren’t going to leave him. You weren’t like the others.

Not like the lonely boy he once was, fists clenched at his sides, standing alone in a barren camp. A child abandoned in a dark forest, left with nothing but silence and the weight of solitude.

You kept him intact.

And then, one day, you were gone.

For an entire week, you had disappeared without a word. Leif’s reaction was immediate and violent.

He lashed out at those around him, defying Asch, his voice echoing through the halls as he shouted and threatened Ava, demanding to know where you had gone.

His rage was uncontrollable, his chest heaving as his glowing green eyes burned with fury. His shark-like teeth ground together, breath coming in quick, ragged gasps as his pupils narrowed into slits.

His room bore the brunt of his anger objects shattered against the walls, furniture overturned, glass crunching beneath his boots.

A rage that rivaled Asch’s. And then the door creaked open the sound causing him to grow alert.

His piercing gaze locked onto your familiar e/c eyes, soft in the dim light. The sight of you rooted him in place, the lamp in his grip slipping from his fingers, shattering upon impact.

You had barely stepped inside before he was gone. In an instant, the white-haired assassin reappeared before you, teleporting with inhuman speed. His hands were on you before you could react, clawed fingers grasping your face, tilting it up as his venom-laced voice poured over you.

"Where were you?"

His eyes burned into yours, sharp and unrelenting. His hold tightened not enough to hurt, but enough to demand an answer. His presence wrapped around you like a coiled snake, suffocating, waiting for you to break.

"I was on a trip—" "You left me."

His words were spat like poison, his grip tightening slightly as you instinctively pulled away.

"Leif, I didn’t—" “What do you mean you didn’t?" His voice was rising, raw with something deeper, something more desperate. "You swore you wouldn’t leave!" Tension crackled in the air, suffocating and heavy.

You tried to explain about your business trip, about how you had to leave but Leif wasn’t listening. His sneers turned to growls, his voice escalating, words clashing against yours in a battle neither of you were winning. His glare was something you had never seen before, sharp enough to cut.

His fingers curled tighter around your arm, his claws digging into your skin. You winced. You tugged against his hold, but he wasn’t letting go. He kept talking, kept yelling about how you should have told him, about how he could have known, about how you should have understood.

Not until you screamed.

The sharp, pained cry that tore from your throat made everything stop. Leif’s grip loosened immediately, his gaze flicking down to your arm.

Your wrist bent in a way it shouldn’t have been. The deep, embedded nail marks in your skin. The crimson liquid dripping onto your s/c flesh, trailing down to the floor below.

His breath hitched. His fingers twitched as he pulled away, his eyes widening for just a moment a moment where something unfamiliar crept into them.

Panic.

For the first time, Leif felt something akin to fear. His mouth parted slightly, his mind trying to process the sight before him.

You.

Your expression twisted in pain, your chest rising and falling with sharp, uneven breaths. One hand clutched your injured wrist, attempting to stem the bleeding, while the other trembled at your side. Every wince, every noise you made, echoed in his ears.

Leif reached a hand out calling at your name. Then, your eyes met his.

They were glossy, brimming with unshed tears. You were shaking.

Like them.

Like the countless lives he had taken. The realization hit him like a blade to the gut. In that instant, he vanished.

Teleporting away without a word, gone from the room in the blink of an eye. Now, he stood alone in the dimly lit hallways of what they called their ‘home.’ His breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, his hands clutching his head. His vision blurred, but he wasn’t sure if it was from exhaustion or something else.

For the first time in a long, long while, Leif felt something new. He leaned against the cold wall, eyes locked on his hands. The familiar crimson liquid dripped onto the floor below a sick feeling gnawing at his chest.

[tojivu]

nightmares ⋆ nanami kento

an. my finals start in june i'm gonna explode yall

cw. sfw. gn!reader. kento has nightmares and he needs you

playing. oh my god by fog lake.

nanami's been getting more sleep ever since he left jujutsu tech and that shitty nine to five he used to slave at every damn day — along with the fact that he's able to spend more time with you. he likes to say that it helps him sleep, having you within arms reach (something that was extremely rare in the past, considering he had no time to rest).

kento thinks you resemble closely to a human sized pillow, and he often treats you as such. his arms are wrapped around your frame, one of his legs laying on top of yours — his chest rises and falls slowly, small snores leaving his lips — and you're thankful, very thankful; nanami was never able to sleep this soundly when you two lived in tokyo.

you try your best to push his heavy weighted figure away: you groan and complain that he's too big to be sharing this bed with you and that he should be sleeping on the floor instead. yet, you welcome him with open arms every night — pressing kisses to his forehead and running your fingers through his blonde hair.

you'd rather clingy and sleepy nanami who uses you as a personal bolster pillow in the night than sleepless nanami who locks himself away in his office, or exhausted nanami who drags his feet through the entrance of your home with bloodied limbs. it broke your heart more times than you could really count, seeing kento that way.

nanami kento saw his life flash before his eyes in shibuya, and all he could really pray for was to make it out alive so he could see you one last time — even if it were just for a few minutes. he clung desperately onto the last bit of energy and will he had in hopes of making it out alive; even if he was mutilated to a point beyond recognition, he needed to be with you. that was the only way he could let himself go — he would crawl back to your home if it meant he could kiss you one last time.

he never told you how long he'd be gone, or if he'd even come back at all: so you waited anxiously, refreshing news pages and watching the television every night for some sort of good. any sort of indication kento was okay.

he doesn't return home. you only see him when you rush down to the hospital they take him to — barely conscious, holding on to hope he didn't know he still had. nanami regains his full consciousness in the weeks following, the first thing he says being that he's done.

yes, nanami didn't want to risk it. never again.

it's 2 in the morning and you're unable to sleep, nanami's groans and sudden flinches are keeping you up.

"ken?"

the expression on his face is horrific — you feel the guilt wash over you like a wave, high and then crashing; so your fingers find his arms and you try your very best to shake the man awake.

your husband wakes up with a whimper; tired eyes almost brimming with tears at the fact that he is awake and you are real. his mouth is sealed, unable to utter a word, but the way his lips tremble tells you everything he cannot say.

"are you—"

soon, calloused fingers are gripping the flesh of your waist and pulling you impossibly closer. a nightmare, you can already tell: his hands feel clammy and his breathing is laboured.

"ken," you whisper. "'s okay. i'm here."

he sucks air through his teeth, trying to catch his breath. his body shudders at your touch as you graze over his skin — tracing circles on his bare back, your lips on his forehead. kento feels like he's about to cry, but he's not sure from what: at the fact that he had the worst dream of his life, or the fact that he's not dead and you're still here.

"'m s-sorry," he mutters. his voice is strained, still that deep and low tone that you're familiar with — but your heart still breaks as he apologises. "i'm sorry for waking you."

"don't be sorry," you comb your fingers through his hair using your free hand. "you know i don't mind it."

he sniffles and you yearn to hold him even tighter, but you think he would suffer broken ribs if you went through with that; so you settle for his head on your chest and your arms wrapped around his back.

"love you," nanami mumbles, voice getting softer and his grip looser — he feels his heart calm and his mind empty when you touch and hold him just like this. "i love you so much."

nanami wanted to be your protector. he hoped he would be for the remainder of his life — he likes to think he's doing a decent job at it now — but sometimes, it feels as though you are his; you fit awfully well to the title.

he supposes that's why he sleeps longer with you in the same bed as him; it's a peaceful thing knowing you're next to him if he has another bad dream, or if he feels cold and needs your warmth — or if he just wants to lay with you.

"i love you more, ken," you lulled, the tips of your fingernails scratching the skin of his trapezius; he recognises the heart shapes you trace on him. "get some rest."

"okay," he hums, his nose poking at your collarbones — his lips slowly leaving trails of kisses along them. "goodnight, darling."

your lips curl into a smile almost instinctively and you think it's embarassing, but it's much too dark for kento to see you blush at the name he calls you. you're thankful.

"goodnight, baby."

he's thankful that it's close to pitch dark, as well — kento thinks you can't see the smile he has on his face — but what he doesn't realise that you can feel him on your skin; feel the way his cheeks puff and his lips form the small smile you are so familiar with.

090124 — happy new years Tartaglieo fandom my gcse's are upcoming.

[tagedeszorns]

'Well, my friend,' said Cawl. 'Mark my words, you will never find me altering myself to such an extent. I am human. I know what I am. There are far more efficient ways of increasing ones lifespan, powers of thought and the other innumerable facilities the Machine God has seen fit to gift us without mutilating the original body beyond recognition.'

Guy Haley, Wolfsbane

Guy Haley loves writing Cawl as an annoying bitch. I can respect this very much. Kudos to a guy who makes his Blorbo insufferable. Most other Black Library authors give impenetrable plot armour and sickening Gary Stu-ness to their OCs and Blorbos (or, the worst of all, thinly veiled self-inserts), but Haley makes Cawl a funny arsehole, one can gladly hate-like.

(I still dislike Genefather, of course. He botched Fabius horribly)

[garbage-floof]

this line fills me with so much rage i cant even begin to PROCESS it much less DESCRIBE IT. what's most infuriating is that this happens in real life too. people of all ages think it's so funny and quirky and make fun of trans people without realising how much pain they cause. and even if they know trans suicide rates they dont fucking care bcuz they are the scum of the earth. i hope with everything fiber of my being mizuki's classmates get absolutely DUNKED on and have their faces mutilated beyond recognition in the next events

[str8rat]

Today we're talking about Change God Cults in my ISAT/Fear and Hunger AU!

WARNING!! The following post contains really fucked topics. If you can't handle topics such as sexual harrassment, all sorts of body horror, murder and gore, please keep scrolling. ( If you're any familiar with Fear And Hunger then you can most likely imagine that it gets B A D here. so proceed with caution )

~ ~ ~

NEW Gods;

God of Change - Among the most revered deities in Vaugarde, the God of Change represents the ever-shifting nature of existence. However, some Vaugardians have taken this belief to dangerous extremes, becoming fanatically obsessed with the idea of constant transformation. Over time, this obsession has spread like wildfire across the country, gaining popularity to such an extent that even Isabeau, known to be someone who 'Capital-C Changed', now distances himself from the belief entirely, even going as far as to claim that the Change belief is something completely different to what it used to be a few years ago.

In their fervor, many parents have forced their children to undergo drastic changes against their will, believing it to be a sacred duty. Others, consumed by the need to change constantly, in some cases even daily, each time adopting a new persona. This relentless pursuit of transformation often leads to insanity, as they become overwhelmed by the chaos of countless personalities battling for control.

One particularly disturbing example can be found in Dormont, where a man known to Mirabelle exemplifies the madness that has taken hold. If Siffrin chooses to speak with him before heading to the Clocktower, they will witness the man’s unsettling behavior: with each sentence, he switches tone, language, and attitude, as if he’s a dozen different people trapped in one body. Yet, beneath the turmoil, it's quite clear that the man is still good-hearted and kind, despite everything.

~ ~ ~

Change God Cults;

The Children of Change; the name surrounding all kinds of Change Cults, which take the concept to an extreme, twisted degree. Examples of the most popular cults known to exist;

The Body Crafters; A cult emerges in the dark corners of Vaugarde, where followers of the God of Change take the concept to an extreme. These individuals use Body Craft to reshape their bodies. They believe that constantly altering their physical forms will bring them closer to divine enlightenment. However, the grotesque results leave them disfigured, with limbs twisted into unnatural shapes, faces mutilated beyond recognition, and bodies often barely functional. Their minds, too, begin to warp, as they lose their sense of identity, becoming trapped in a cycle of endless, horrific transformation.

The Skin Walkers; Some Vaugardians become so obsessed with Change that they seek to embody others completely—by wearing their skins. These fanatics hunt down those they admire or envy, skinning them alive to create a "new self," usually in the circle of other Skin Walkers, brought together to witness the ritual. They believe that by donning the flesh of another, they can absorb their traits, memories, and personality. The ritual often leaves the victim alive and screaming until death finally claims them. The Skin Walkers then parade through the streets, proudly displaying their new "selves," only to discard them once the flesh begins to rot, seeking a fresh "change."

The Memory Eaters; In their desire to experience every possible life, some Vaugardians develop a twisted ritual where they consume the memories of others. Using forbidden rituals and Crafts, they extract the essence of a person's mind, leaving the victim an empty husk. The Memory Eaters then live out the stolen memories, believing that by experiencing as many lives as possible, they can achieve ultimate enlightenment. However, the process slowly erodes their sanity, as the cacophony of voices in their head grows louder, each demanding to be the dominant personality. Eventually, they lose control, their minds shattered by the weight of countless lives they can no longer distinguish, becoming crazed, bloodlusting maniacs in search of people they can stole the memories of. One of such individuals can be encountered on the second floor of the House, somehow having avoided being frozen by the Curse. If a party member ends up being hit by the Memory Eater's 'Mind Steal' Skill, they will become mere husks of their former selves. With no tonics or healing Craft being able to help, the rest of the party will be forced to leave them behind. Shields can reflect this Skill.

The Perfectionists; In some of the more remote regions of Vaugarde, there are rumors of parents who take the concept of Change to a horrifying extreme. Obsessed with creating the "perfect" children, they subject their offspring to dangerous experiments and rituals designed to force rapid, unnatural growth and development. These children are subjected to forceful use of Body Craft and invasive procedures that twist their bodies and minds. Some become hideous monstrosities, unable to comprehend their own existence, while others are molded into mindless puppets, their free will stripped away in the name of Change.

The Cult of Marrige; Deep within the shadowy corners of the world, a cult has arisen, known as the Cult of Marrige. This twisted sect is devoted to the Change Belief but has taken its teachings to horrific extremes. They believe that true Change—the ultimate transformation—can only be achieved through a grotesque ritual they call "Marrige." Despite the name, Marrige is not a bond of love between two beings, but rather a nightmarish fusion, where two souls, bodies, and minds are violently merged into a single, monstrous abomination. This cult sees Marrige as the highest form of devotion to the God of Change, a symbol of love twisted into something far darker. They believe that by merging two beings into one, they are embracing the most profound and eternal Change, transcending the boundaries of individuality. To them, Marrige is a sacred act, a final, irreversible transformation that elevates the participants to a higher state of existence—or so they claim. In reality, the result is a horrific amalgamation of flesh, mind, and soul, where both beings lose their identity and sanity, becoming one, monstrous entity driven by pain, rage, and madness. One of such monsters can be encountered on the third floor of the House, and the battle with Marrige is incredibly difficult and horrific, as the disturbed party truly gets to see what lengths the followers of Change can reach to prove to be worthy of the Change God's blessing.

Due to all those terrible twists to the Change Belief, rumors began to spread, of the Change God becoming ashamed and furious with their followers, that have came to such an extent of insanity, just to follow their belief. And so, they left, leaving the human race to fend on it's own, not wanting to associate with the awful Cults that originated from them.

~ ~ ~

The Marrige Cult Encounter;

Shortly after Siffrin joins the party, consisting of himself, Isabeau, Odile, and Mirabelle, they find themselves seeking shelter at a large encampment while en route to Dormont. The camp houses over a hundred members and, despite appearing welcoming and respectful towards the Saviors of Vaugarde, the group quickly realizes they are in a precarious situation. Odile immediately identifies the inhabitants as members of the Marriage Cult, a fact underscored by the horrifying amalgamations wandering openly throughout the camp. Despite their discomfort and heightened vigilance, the party has little choice but to accept the offered refuge for the night, deeming it the safest option available, as this particular area is simply filled with strong Sadnesses, which they would be safe from while they stay at the camp.

Each member is assigned their own tent, but Siffrin finds himself unable to sleep, opting instead to stay awake and keep watch for any suspicious activity. In the early hours of the morning, he hears faint footsteps outside but initially dismisses them when the sounds quickly fade. An hour later, a piercing scream shatters the silence, sending a jolt of dread through him. Recognizing the voice as Mirabelle's, Siffrin springs into action, racing through the maze of tents toward the source of the distress.

What he discovers chills him to the core: Mirabelle is bound and trapped within a sinister summoning circle alongside an unknown man, surrounded by a gathering of cultists eagerly observing the unfolding ritual. Siffrin wastes no time, lunging forward to slash the man across the chest and force him away from Mirabelle, before he can hurt her. Trembling with sobs and pale, Mirabelle struggles against her restraints, managing to pull her dress back down over her legs, as Siffrin brandishes his dagger, demanding an explanation despite already grasping the horrifying intent.

The wounded man staggers to his feet, enraged by the interruption and shouting that Siffrin has no right to interfere. Moments later, Odile and Isabeau arrive, alerted by the commotion. The cult leader steps forward with a twisted grin, explaining that upon seeing Mirabelle, he perceived only weakness and failure. Believing the party needed more strength to defeat the King, he took it upon himself to initiate a Marriage ritual with her, intending to create a more powerful being through their grotesque fusion. Mirabelle's sobs and visible terror only fuel the party's determination to protect her. Isabeau, seething with uncharacteristic anger, carefully moves to free Mirabelle while Odile and Siffrin position themselves defensively between their Housemaiden and the advancing cultists.

As tensions escalate, the cult leader commands his followers to capture the intruders, sparking chaos throughout the camp. Odile and Isabeau fiercely defend Mirabelle against the onslaught, while Siffrin confronts the leader directly, delivering a fatal stab to his neck and leaving him collapsing to the ground, choking on his own blood. Seizing the opportunity amidst the disorder, the party fights their way through the frenzied cultists and makes a desperate escape into the safety of the surrounding wilderness.

In the days that follow, Mirabelle remains quiet and withdrawn, barely speaking or eating as she grapples with the trauma of the attack. Her companions stay close, offering unwavering support—Isabeau provides comforting embraces, Odile offers gentle words of reassurance, and Siffrin becomes notably protective, seldom leaving her side, especially when they enter a new town two days later. This harrowing experience solidifies the bond between them, with Siffrin realizing just how deeply he cares for his newfound family and affirming his resolve to defend them with every ounce of his being.

~ ~ ~

that's all for now! I still have a few ideas when it comes to this AU, but i've got no clue if i'll be able to publish them, as i am starting my final school year so i'll be very busy. as for the Anon that has shared some more ideas about this AU, if you're reading this, feel free to write more, if you have anything else in mind! I got super giddy reading your suggestions :3 I'll be sure to include it, whenever i'll have the time to post ._. we'll see how things will turn out :D

[whencyclopedia]

Titus Andronicus

Titus Andronicus is the earliest tragedy by William Shakespeare (l. c.1564-1616), probably written sometime between 1589 and 1593, and first performed in 1594. Infamous for its gratuitous violence and two-dimensional characters, Titus Andronicus is quite different from Shakespeare's other works – indeed, although it was initially quite popular with Elizabethan audiences, it has since become regarded as his least esteemed play.

Background

Despite its initial popularity with the crowds of Elizabethan theatre, Titus Andronicus has been held in low regard since the 1700s and is still generally considered the worst of Shakespeare's plays. Dr. Samuel Johnson, writing in the 18th century, maintains that its use of barbaric violence "can scarcely be conceived tolerable to any audience," while T. S. Eliot, writing two centuries later, dismisses it entirely as "one of the stupidest and most uninspired plays ever written" (Bloom 78; McDonald, 1213). Throughout the centuries, literary scholars have been baffled by the idea that the author of Titus Andronicus could have possibly been the same genius who wrote such works as Macbeth and Othello, and, indeed, several have suggested that Shakespeare was not the author at all. However, most modern scholars would agree not only that Shakespeare did write the play but that it was an important step in the development of his career. As literary scholar Harold Bloom puts it: " matters only because Shakespeare, alas, undoubtedly wrote it, and by doing so largely purged Marlowe and Kyd from his imagination" (86).

By referencing Christopher Marlowe and Thomas Kyd, Bloom alludes to the classification of Titus Andronicus as a 'revenge play', a genre that was much in vogue in the early 1590s. Indeed, Marlowe was well-known for such revenge plays as The Jew of Malta (c. 1589) while Kyd's major contribution to the genre, The Spanish Tragedy (c. 1587), was probably the most popular play to grace the English stage until the advent of Hamlet (c. 1600). As a young playwright trying to make a name for himself in London, Shakespeare probably hoped to emulate the success of Marlowe and Kyd by writing his own revenge play, and their influence can clearly be seen in Titus Andronicus. Shakespeare's villainous character Aaron the Moor, for example, seems to have been closely modeled on Barabas, the wicked antihero of Marlowe's The Jew of Malta. Bloom demonstrates the similarities between the two characters by juxtaposing their respective monologues, wherein each character revels in committing evil acts for evil's sake. But while Marlowe's Barabas finds joy in pinning taunting messages to the corpses of men who have hanged themselves, Shakespeare's Aaron takes things a step further and carves his messages directly into the flesh of dead men. Thus, Bloom contends that Shakespeare has created a "Marlovian monster more outrageous than anyone in Marlowe" and has, therefore, surpassed him (82). Titus Andronicus is noteworthy, therefore, not necessarily for its own merits, but because it allowed Shakespeare to master the revenge play, achieve recognition as a playwright, and move beyond the influence of the likes of Marlowe and Kyd.

By going to see a revenge tragedy, Elizabethan playgoers would have expected a certain amount of blood and gore, much as a modern moviegoer would expect going to see the latest slasher film. Certainly, Titus Andronicus would have given them their money's worth – amongst the atrocities committed over the course of the play are 14 murders, several bodily mutilations, a gangrape, a live burial, and an instance of cannibalism. The earliest of these heinous acts are committed by the titular hero himself; we have barely met Titus Andronicus when he callously orders Queen Tamora's eldest son to be ritually sacrificed, shortly before murdering his own son in a fit of rage. From this point on, the violence is committed against Titus and his family – Titus not only loses two more sons and a hand, but his daughter Lavinia is brutally raped and mutilated. His final revenge seems to ring hollow; after cooking Demetrius and Chiron (Lavinia's rapists) into pies and serving them to their mother, Titus murders Lavinia in an honor killing. As Bloom notes, "one feels that the tormented Lavinia should have had some choice in the matter" of her own death (80). Aside from many of the characters feeling two-dimensional, Bloom argues that they moreover have no redeeming qualities, with the sole exception of Aaron the Moor, whose villainy is so over the top as to be quite funny. Indeed, Aaron's dialogue contains much of the wordplay in the show, and he has the honor of delivering this Shakespearean version of a "your mother" joke:

DEMETRIUS

Villain, what hast thou done?

AARON

That which thou canst not undo.

CHIRON

Thou hast undone our mother.

AARON

Villain, I have done thy mother.

(4.2.73-76).

Finally, it is worth noting that Titus Andronicus is the only one of Shakespeare's ancient Roman plays to not be based on a historical or semi-historical source. He seems to have drawn from the plays of Seneca – particularly Thyestes (c. 62 CE) – which had inspired the trend of Elizabethan revenge plays in the first place. The moment where Atreus cooks Thyestes' sons and serves them to their unsuspecting father was particularly instrumental to the climax of Shakespeare's own play. Additionally, Shakespeare drew from Ovid's Metamorphoses, constantly referencing the tragic tale of Philomel, who is raped by Tereus. Scholar Russ McDonald points out that Shakespeare was probably also influenced by the violent political landscape all around him, which was, in the 1590s, "a shadowy realm of religious intrigue, talk of treason, assassination attempts, and dirty tricks performed by the queen's secret police" (1217). One method of punishment for slandering the queen was to have one's hand cut off, something that occurs multiple times in Titus Andronicus; this leads McDonald to suspect that Shakespeare looked to his contemporary England as a model for this Roman drama.

Read More

⇒ Titus Andronicus

[sweetrollbakery292]

Daredevil Born Again (spoilers)

FUCK THIS SHOW. FUCK THIS COMPANY. FUCK THE WRITERS. FUCK EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS ABOMINATION OF A SERIES. This isn’t Daredevil man This isn’t a continuation. This isn’t even THE SAME fucking show. It’s an insult, a spit in the face and a goddamn fucking fuck wax museum animatronic of what once was peak fiction and now it’s reduced to whatever this fucking mutilated corpse of a series is supposed to be Muse was the only fucking thing I was looking forward to, and they actually had the AUDACITY to cast him properly and get the costume right. But instead of actually adapting his character properly, they mutilate him beyond recognition, turn him into an afterthought, a footnote and a COMPLETE disgrace. I have waited YEARS LITERAL. FUCKING. YEARS for this character to finally get his due, and instead, they make him into a fucking joke because apparently, NOBODY in the writer’s room has ever actually READ A FUCKING COMIC. Oh but it doesnt stop there, because the entire show is a fucking trainwreck from start to finish (SO FAR) The tracks aren’t even laid out properly so it just derails at every possible moment The pacing is so fucking atrocious, it feels like an AI tried to stitch together completely different drafts of scripts written by people who don’t even speak the same fucking language. The plotlines are either introduced and immediately abandoned or completely bungled in ways that make no goddamn sense.

They completely butcher Matt as a character. And I don’t mean in the way a tragic hero suffers BECAUSE I mean they write him as if they genuinely don’t even understand who he is. Like they’ve never even SEEN the original show, let alone read the comics. He makes decisions so monumentally stupid, so catastrophically out of character, that I would genuinely believe this is some kind of cruel parody if it wasn’t so clear that Disney actually thought this was a good idea The courtroom scene is one of the worst things I have EVER seen on television. I cannot stress enough how much of a fucking travesty it is. Nothing about it works. It is NOT SUSPENSEFUL OR INTENSE LIKE FRANK'S SCENE IN SEASON 2 It actively makes Matt look like a complete idiot who has no idea what the fuck he’s doing They frame the previous episode as if he accidentally kills a corrupt cop while protecting a witness (AND WE EVEN HEAR HIS NECK CRACK THE MOMENT HE GETS SLAMMED HEADFIRST INTO THE FLOOR), only for that to be completely retconned in the dumbest way possible. So why the fuck was that even included? Did they forget to edit it out? Did they rewrite the first four episodes and forget to remove the scraps of an abandoned plotline? And then, to top it off, Matt in his infinite wisdom outs Hector Ayala in the courtroom and THEN CONVINCES HIM TO GO BACK OUT AS WHITE TIGER, KNOWING DAMN WELL HE JUST FUCKING LEAKED HIS IDENTITY TO EVERYONE. AND THEN HE ICED IN THE STREET, AND MATT BARELY FUCKING CARES

Like, what the actual fuck am I watching? What is this writing? How do you fumble the bag this hard? How do you take one of the most interesting side characters and just fucking kill him off for nothing, without any emotional weight or consequence? Oh right, so his daughter can take up the mantle and immediately get captured in episode 6. Great storytelling. Amazing writing. Peak FICTION AMIRIGHT? js pull the fucking trigger already i cant handle this shit no mo bro Like i get it, Hector doesn't last long in the comics either and Ava is arguably the definitive White Tiger and is the most recognized. Shit she is supposed to take on the mantle. But that doesn’t mean you just throw Hector aside like some disposable character You can't just kill him off in the most meaningless, underwhelming way and then pretend like it's all fine. There was potential for a real arc here, and they just pissed it all away Other than that, RIP Kamar de los Reyes, gone too soon. FUCK don’t even get me started on the way they fucking sidelined Foggy and Karen, the two most important supporting characters in the original series, for absolutely NO FUCKING REASON No no, the reason was so they could focus on a bunch of new characters who add absolutely nothing to the show, because the writers think they can just strip out all the things people actually liked about the original and replace them with literal nothingness call it a day and somehow expect fans to be on board

AND FRANK. THEY ARE GOING TO FUCK UP FRANK SO BAD. I ALREADY KNOW IT. IT IS INEVITABLE. EVEN WITH HOW HIS SCENE WITH MATT IN EPISODE 4 HAS ADMITTEDLY THE BEST DIALOGUE IN THE ENTIRE SHOW SO FAR (LIKE THAT IS EVEN A HIGH BAR)

This isn’t even just bad bcuz this shit is actively insulting It is the television equivalent of a rotting corpse being paraded around in broad daylight while Disney puppeteers its lifeless limbs pretending everything is fine The soul is gone, the spirit is gone. the heart is gone. It is empty and hollow and fucking infuriating to watch The entire season is just a series of failures stacked on top of each other I’m still going to finish it, and yeah alright ill be optimistic maybe season 2 might be half decent, but I fucking doubt they’re going to do the Shadowland run justice (EVEN WITH HOW ABSOLUTELY DIVISIVE THAT RUN IS) fuck elektra isn’t even coming back, and without her, how the hell are they going to handle that storyline? It feels like they’re just throwing out everything that made it work in the comics. But even with two episodes left this season, I have absolutely no hope for any of it. This show is still awful and they’ve made a mockery of what was once great I’m not holding my breath for them to fix it in season 2 This show gets a 3.4/10. Follow me on bluesky btw. @_rmbk9.bsky.social (without the underscore) I am not using twitter.

[piplup335]

Tisha x gn reader angst! (dandy’s world)

*inhale* I'M BACK FROM THE DEAD, FELLASSSSS (for now lol) I managed to squeeze out some time to finish up this story, so enjoy! :D

this is my first DW fic by the way, please go easy on me :D

also, just to try out something, I’ll be tagging everyone with dialogue or more than 1 mention in this fic, not just the main character(s) involved! hope you all don’t mind :,)

oh, and I also tried incorporating a poem into my fic! here it is :>

hope you enjoy!

╔══════ ⋯⇋ ૮(•͈⌔•͈)ა ⇌⋯ ══════╗

╚══════⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ══════╝

Ever since the Gardenview Educational Centre and Museum shut down, your only solace was that you still had your best friend, Tisha. She was almost like a mother to you, ensuring that isolation didn't make you go insane and that you'd still take care of yourself. Although no children were left to see the torn-apart state all the Toons were in, she still ensured you were at least somewhat presentable for the day ahead.

To keep yourselves going, Vee and Brightney created an optimised schedule for Toons to go down the elevator for daily supply runs, bringing back food, ichor and occasionally a trinket or two. This ensured that not only did each Toon have enough food to survive, but the power in the museum could function for a bit longer. Plus, with how supply runs were coordinated, each Toon would have enough time between their scheduled supply runs to rest up and recuperate from any injuries they may have suffered.

After all, everyone knew about what lurked on each floor. Failed prototypes of themselves- Twisteds, most called them, would be there to pick off each unsuspecting Toon one by one. They wandered around aimlessly, ichor dripping off their body. Some had maniacal grins on their faces, their bloodlust having taken over their souls. Others could only amble on with frowns etched on their faces, silently questioning what they did to deserve the treatment they got, but not being able to resist the spread of ichor throughout their body as they hunted down the perfect, finalised Toons that came down through the elevators.

The Twisteds' bodies had been warped beyond recognition, especially when it came to the mains. Although Astro was still relatively normal in his twisted form, the only difference being that he was taller and cried ichor, he was the only one where that applied…notably because all the Twisteds, if they cried, didn't cry regular tears, but cried ichor instead. Plus, all the main Twisteds were taller anyway. Twisted Sprout's left arm had become a giant claw tainted by ichor, and his scarf now acted as a tendril to stab people. Twisted Vee and Shelly were both mutilated, their bodies elongated and torn apart, held together by the sticky ichor that composed their bodies. For Vee, it was simply ichor dripping down from both halves. For Shelly, however, only her legs were gone, now replaced by a sharp dinosaur-like ribcage connected to horse-like hooves and a pointy tail. Twisted Pebble had it the worst, as everyone agreed. Based on Rodger's research, his legs had been torn off him and attached to his head as ears and ichor had forcefully shaped new rocks for him to use as a torso and legs. It attached these new body parts to Pebble in a crude and haphazard manner, everything held together by nothing more than a few thin strands of ichor.

Regardless, you were now waiting for the others to return from their supply run. Tisha was out with the others to retrieve supplies from the lower floors today, so you sat by the tree facing the elevators. It was 6 pm, and the groups usually returned by that time anyway. As the central elevator's door opened with a clang, you scanned the people in the elevator for Tisha.

Boxten, Gigi, Poppy…but no Tisha. Eight Toons went in the elevator, but only seven came back. You ran up to Brightney, who also came back in the elevator. "Brightney! Where's Tisha? Where did she go-" The lamp cut you off with a sigh. "…she didn't make it to the elevator in time, I'm afraid. Tisha handled the Twisteds since Flutter was low on health and Sprout was low on tapes. We forgot to alert her that the elevator was leaving the floor soon…" Upon seeing your dismayed expression, Brightney waved her hands to calm you down. "B-but it's okay…! We didn't lose her too far down, maybe somewhere around…floor 15? We'll send a rescue team to retrieve her ASAP tomorrow morning, and you can come along if you want…!" On the outside, you calmed down, silently nodded, and headed back to your room. Internally, however, you were silently screaming to yourself. You didn't understand how they could be so careless. You didn't understand why, out of all people, the Toon that went missing had to be the one that kept you sane. You wondered if maybe, just maybe, Tisha made it to a higher floor. Nearer to the surface, where she'd be safer…but not in the clear. She wouldn't be safe until she was back in the museum. And without anyone to prevent you from acting on your irrational thoughts, your emotions took over.

11 pm. The lobby was locked by then, with Vee being the sole keeper of the key. However, you learnt some skills from the children visiting the Gardenview Museum. With two of your hairpins, you carefully pried one open, bending the end of the pick to craft it into a makeshift pick and twisting the other end of the hairpin into a handle. You bent the other hairpin to make it into a lever of some sort. You inserted the lever into the keyhole and successfully pushed the pick above it, gently prying each of the pins up. With a few satisfying clicks, the heavy padlock fell onto the carpeted floor with a satisfying thud. You opened the casing of the elevator's buttons and pressed it, allowing the elevator to slowly descend to the Toon Rooms with a low rumble. Before any of the Toons could wake up and find out what you were doing, you deftly stepped into the elevator and pressed the button to go to the lobby. The doors closed with a few clatters and clangs. Not that anyone would know. They were all dead to the world, anyway.

The elevator door creaked open, and you stepped into the lobby. Everything was quiet at that hour, the only sounds being the crackling of some outdated electrical wiring and your uneven breaths. Flashlight in hand, you walked towards the central elevator- located just behind the tree, when viewed from the entrance. That's how you remembered it. You got in and pressed a button. The elevator doors closed and the elevator went down… …down… …down… …down… …until it finally reached its destination. Floor 1. You knew of all the threats that hid there, and you also knew how it could be fatal if you were to go down unsupervised, with no one to serve as your saving grace. But it didn't matter now. After your not-so-meticulous preparation, you couldn't give up. Not now. Besides, you already had some rather detailed background knowledge as to each floor's layout. You stepped out of the elevator, and the doors behind you shut with a dull clang. Your task had begun.

Floor 1. Twisted Boxten and Poppy. Floor 2. Twisted Shrimpo and Cosmo. Floor 3. Twisted Brightney and Looey. Floor 4 was when you had your first major shock. It contained Twisted Tisha and Connie. Upon seeing the failed prototype of your best friend, your desperation overtook you.

"Tisha! It's you! Are you oka-" The sky-blue tissue box turned to you, its eyes not filled with the joy your best friend always exuded. As you always heard the Toon Handlers say, one's eyes are the windows to the soul. This version of Tisha…its eyes were depthless. Soulless. Devoid of any life. This wasn't your friend. As the creature lunged towards you with its ichor-tainted feather duster, you knew you had to run. It was painful for you, seeing what looked like an exact replica of your friend lash out towards you like you were a complete stranger. It hurt to run away. It hurt, knowing the only way you could see your friend was by running away from failed experiments of her.

Floor 13. At last, you were near the danger zone. Footsteps could be heard from the depths of the floor. Soft stomping…accompanied by growling. Twisted Pebble was on the floor.

You racked your brain for an escape plan. That stupid Dandy animatronic that popped out of the hatch in the floor to sell the most useless stuff gave you three bottles of soda, at least. Maybe that would be enough to evade Pebble if he…no, it…saw you.

The doors slid open. It was that stupid gift shop again, the one everyone hated navigating because there were just so many obstacles in the way. With a deep, shaky breath, you stepped out onto the floor. Despite all the beings living on the floor, it still felt so dead. Cold. It was seeping into your bones, and you hated it.

You hesitantly stepped out of the elevator onto the floor, the elevator door slamming shut behind you. Two capsules behind a nearby shelf caught your attention. "Might as well help Rodger collect some more research…" you thought. Something deep inside told you that picking up the capsule would be a horrible idea. But the thought of finding your friend drowned out everything else, and you picked it up. The moment your hand touched the ichor capsule, however, it shattered to dust in your hands. It was only then you realised the capsule did not have any tapes around it. That capsule wasn't a research capsule at all. It was Twisted Rodger's capsule. Ichor drenched your legs, and the added weight coupled with the viscous substance on the floor slowed you down. Twisted Rodger burst out of his capsule, and with a calculated glare, shot a laser straight at you. One heart down, two to go. Not a good start. You quickly ducked behind a shelf, narrowly avoiding Twisted Pebble’s sharp sight. Holding your breath, you scoured your backpack for the remainder of whatever supplies you may have brought down with you. All you had were three bottles of pop from your descent. Nothing else. Nothing to heal, nothing to save yourself. You only had one chance. As Rodger melted back into the floor, another replacement capsule taking his place, you reached out a hand to pick up the second capsule. [+1 Tisha research!] You froze up. Tisha research. Not Twisted Tisha.

The capsule was warm in your hands.

She was somewhere on the floor.

Pebble’s stomping reverberated around the entire floor. You still had that rabid, mutated dog to worry about.

As you carefully navigated the floor, you took caution, not wanting to alert the dog. You knew how he acted around regular Toons.

Pebble was just a normal dog. He wasn't privy to the human rules by which you all lived. He had not a Toon’s gift of speech, nor the ability to express himself as beautifully as he wanted. Pebble was a normal dog. He couldn’t express his pain like other Twisteds. His body had been mutilated and ripped apart beyond repair. He just wanted the normal life of a dog, happily running around his loving owner and getting headpats every day. Pebble was a dog. He was happy to see his creators. He waited all day for them to return to the lab. He didn’t mean to hurt them…to scratch them when he jumped up to greet them. He was just too happy to see them. He waited all day, every day, in that cramped metal cage stuck in the bleak, white-walled prison they called a laboratory. He was such a precious thing…he didn't know he was made of sharp edges and pointed teeth. He didn't know that he was made of something that could stone people to death. He was too cherished to know how to use them. Pebble was a dog. He was faulted, scolded and scorned when he came up to the employees, tail wagging as he knocked everything off the desks. His one and only trespass that led him to this state was the fact that he was a dog and did not know how to be anything other than a dog. His only sin was that he loved them.

So when he heard the elevator doors open, the two jagged slabs he had as ears perked up. He was truly a wild dog. Being abandoned in a facility, doomed to never see the sky…it took a toll on him. He wanted out. But more importantly, he wanted vengeance. The scientists faulted him for being a dog. They hated him for loving them. Once a loving puppy designed for the enjoyment of young children, now a heartless beast that wanted nought more than blood on its paws. It roamed the floor, growling and panting…waiting, watching…for its victim.

Step, step, step… Three entities on the floor. One a dormant being, one a soulless creature, and one…your friend. You saw some ichor trails leading to somewhere deeper within the facility. Where they led was beyond you, but the footsteps…they looked like that of a normal Toon. The only normal ones on the floor were you and Tisha. Your heart rate sped up. Finally. A clue as to where your dear friend had gone. Your pace subconsciously quickened as you followed the trail. Past the shelf, through the maze…she didn't seem to have gone far. Lady Luck wasn't on your side, however. You were so invested in following the trail that you didn't notice Pebble's head snap towards you with an agitated snarl. His bloodshot eyes were locked onto his target. The only thing you heard before getting brutally bitten was a bloodthirsty growl coming from the rabid dog. Two hearts down. One more left. One more chance to save your dearest friend. You quickly took cover behind a shelf as Pebble savoured the taste of ichor in his maw like a starved wolf. One look left and one more right…with that, he was gone, back to his hunt.

Back to your search, you went. You clutched your wounded arm as you trudged off, leaving a faint trail of ichor behind. Various wounds littered your body from all the attacks you endured beforehand, haphazardly patched up by plasters and bandages.

One more turn, and… …the trail you were following had finally come to an end. A familiar tissue box came into view. With a laboured but ecstatic laugh, you stumbled towards her. "Tisha…! Is that you…?" The sight that you were met with was so foreign, but yet so familiar. Tisha was no longer the happy tissue box she once was. Splotches of ichor stained her dress. The tissues from her head were stained with ichor, and the feathers on her duster were almost completely drenched in ichor. But the gaze in her now bloodshot eyes was one you knew all too well. "(Y/n)…it's you! I'm sorry…I ended up like this, like the others…" You wrapped your arms around her in a tight hug. You missed her…but you were so tired. Too tired. You just wanted to return to the surface, rest and recover. You missed your friend dearly…and now that she was back, it didn't matter what she looked like. "No, Tisha…you're not like the others. You're unique. You're you." "But (Y/n)…you know Vee configured the elevator to reject anyone tainted by ichor, right?" You froze in horror. You completely forgot about the adjustments Vee made to the elevator to protect everyone from the Twisteds. Even if they had a soul somewhere inside there, such as Twisted Glisten…a Twisted was a Twisted and should be avoided at all costs. It was for everyone's safety. Heavy stomping could be heard from behind you. Pebble sniffed out the ichor trail left behind by you…and tracked you down. Tisha looked at the homicidal animal behind you and tried to push you off her. "(Y/n), run! Return to the surface now and forget about me! Please!" But you didn't budge. You stayed like that, arms around her in a final embrace. "I'm exhausted…" you managed to force out. "Please! Run! You'll die if you stay like this!" You sluggishly raise a hand to pat her on the back. "…I may die like this, but you're the only one that truly makes me feel alive. Besides…" Pebble was closing in on you, ready to finish off the hunt he started. "…you're the only one I'd want to spend my final moments with."

With a sickening crunch, Twisted Pebble's jaws snapped around your throat.

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and that's all for today! I hope you enjoyed, and I'll see you soon!

[neowonderland]

Jeno, Jaemin, and Renjun as dark fairytales

Pairings: Werewolf Jeno x reader, Prince Renjun x reader, Prince Jaemin x reader Warnings: dark content

Dark Content, Minor please DNI

Disclaimer: this is a work of pure fiction. I do not condone the actions of any characters in this story and the actions do not reflect the idols in any way.

Jeno- Little Red Riding Hood

The villagers always warned against you taking the trail in the woods to your grandmother’s house.

They said it was dangerous for a young one to go alone, to beware of the fairies, the witches, the wolves that might lure you astray. They would try to scare you out of taking the trail by telling you stories, describing in detail people who had gone missing only to turn up mutilated beyond recognition. They told you stories of the people who had gone missing that were never found, never heard of again.

You never listened, ignoring the warnings, always putting your responsibility to take care of your grandmother first. Your grandmother was already isolated enough in the woods, not having many visitors due to the path taken to her home. It didn’t help that she was getting older and older and you never knew when your visit would be the last.

But, in hindsight, you should’ve listened. If you had listened, you wouldn’t have ended up in the scenario you were in now, heart pounding, head dizzy from the adrenaline, sprinting through the woods, a werewolf hot on your trail.

You tried your best to lose the werewolf, Jeno, taking turns you thought you knew down the dark, winding path in the woods. You realized it was a mistake as the surroundings became more and more unfamiliar until you were completely lost, caught cornered in a dead end covered with brambles.

“Little Red, are you done running from me?” Jeno asked, taking confident strides towards you. You cowered, avoiding Jeno’s gaze.

Renjun- Cinderella

“You look so scared. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. I'm just going to make you mine."

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way

It was supposed to be your night out. It was supposed to be your break from the nightmare you called your home-life.

Instead, you were trapped in the center of the ball, trying to free yourself from Prince Renjun’s grip on your wrist. You were surrounded by hundreds of people, gazes burning into you as they all watched your beautiful dress turn back to rags as the clock struck 12.

You can feel your knees grow weak and the tears fall as you heard the gasps of shock and disgust ripple throughout the audience, whispers starting to arise. You tug against Prince Renjun’s grip again, trying to free yourself from his grip again. Everything became too much, the bright chandeliers overstimulating instead of welcoming, the whispers growing louder, the room spinning as you try time and time again to free yourself from Renjun, collapsing onto the floor as your begin to sob.

Renjun watches you as you fall, still gripping your wrist tightly, a soft lovesick smile on his face.

“I’ve found you, my Cinderella. I’ll never let you go.”

Jaemin- The Little Mermaid

You’re trapped, fully dependent on Prince Jaemin

You bang against Jaemin’s chest as Jaemin embraces you.

It’s your wedding day with Jaemin and you want to go home, you want to go back to the ocean and be with your family. Coming to the land and chasing after Prince Jaemin was a mistake. You never should have step foot in the land of the living.

Now you’re stuck on land, unable to communicate with others that you’ve been held captive by Prince Jaemin. You can’t even walk back to the sea, your legs being broken by Jaemin for trying to run away.

You want to shout at Jaemin, scream at him to let you go, tell him that he can’t keep you here and that meeting him was a mistake. You try to scream, you try to yell, but nothing comes out. Jaemin smiles.

“My love, are you throwing another one of your tantrums again? Do you want me to break your arms too like how I’ve broken your legs?”