#am I maybe getting bone rosaries?

[obsidiancreates]

One Undead To Another (Chapter 16)

(Trigger warnings for graphic depictions of injury/dying, blood, nightmares)

Gus tips the delivery person and walks back into the main room of the office with two still-steaming burritos in a bag. Shawn feels the memory of salivating at that same smell– god, not even a week ago. Somehow it feels like it’s been years since he woke up cold and starving, but at the same time it’s been seconds. Is that a vampire thing, an ADHD thing, or a trauma thing? Is it worth figuring out? Not right now.

His mouth is bone-dry as he accepts the burrito. It smells good, great, and the way the warmth of it seeps through the tinfoil into his hands is heavenly. He feels no excitement to bite into it. 

“Alright.” Gus sits down at his desk. “Test number one– garlic.”

“I dunno about this, man. I told you I get hungry after I get hurt.”

“Shawn, we need to figure out your supernatural weaknesses before going back to taking cases.”

“I think we can consider garlic a lock!”

“Sunlight isn’t.”

“... Fair. … Fine. But only if you make some posters to hang around so we get some more private cases.”

“Why? Are you hungry again already?”

“...”

“Do I need to pull out the pencil rosary again?”

“Maybe? It’s not… bad. It’s just kind of… there. Can we just– I’m taking a bite, if I burst into flames or turn into a pile of ash just know my text about my Tears for Fears vinyls still applies.”

“Shawn.”

“Just making sure.” Shawn unwraps the burrito. It’s weird, to know something smells so delicious and know it should be making your mouth water and know you should be excited to eat it, but none of that matters. It’s like the whole experience is hitting a glass wall, clearly there, just barely out of reach to him. 

He takes a bite. Shredded pork, salsa, guac, there’s even roasted corn in this one. It’s loaded, incredible, and he can’t really enjoy it because even though it all tastes exactly like it did when he was human it doesn’t mean anything. Nothing is satisfied by it. In fact, the pang of hunger sharpens as the taste of the pork specifically floods his mouth.

It’s meat, and it’s wrong. Close, so close to what he needs, but not right.

“So?”

Shawn swallows. “Didn’t even burn.”

“Alright, garlic is a no.” Gus crosses it off his list. “We’ve gotta find some garlic flowers next and see if those do anything.”

“Garlic flowers? Don’t be silly, Gus.”

“Garlic flowers are another classic vampire ward, Shawn! They’re used in the original Dracula novel!”

“It’s a novel?” 

“We had to read it in the seventh grade, remember?!”

“Not really. I do remember watching one of those old uh, black-and-white movies with Count Dookie.”

“Count Dooku, Shawn.”

“Gus, he was one of the bad guys, let’s not sweat over his name.”

“You’re trying to distract me.”

“Am not.”

“You are! You’re deflecting again!”

“Deflecting? Please.”

“We agreed, last night, that if you got uncomfortable with focusing on the vampire stuff or the psychic stuff you’d say it outright and we’d switch gears.”

“... Alright. Alright, yes, I’m… wanting to change the subject for a while.”

“Fine. Psychic stuff still fine, or no supernatural stuff at all?”

“None at all, man, I just… let’s watch a movie or something. Least that won’t be different.”

“Alright. Hey, I think American Duos is on.”

“Really? … Wow. Their ratings must be terrible, it’s the middle of the afternoon on a weekday.”

“The guy they replaced Zappato with is kind of lacking, and they had to replace Emilina last season and she’s not great either. I think it’s only still on because the producers are afraid of telling Nigel St Nigel he’s off the air.”

“Really? It sounds awful. Let’s watch the entire season.”

“You know that’s right.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Nice of you to join us today, detectives.”

They both freeze in their tracks. Lassiter turns around first, adjusting his tie nervously. “Ready to get back to work, Chief. It was just a 24 hour thing, and I’m firing on cylinders today.”

“We both are,” Jules jumps in.

“Good, because your homicide case wrapped up the other night and we need a few closing details from you both. You’ll find the paperwork on your desks–”

“Chief!” Buzz jogs over. “We just got a report on the wire, body pulled out of a lake. Looks like drowning.”

Jules makes eye contact with Lassiter. Shawn’s abilities really have evolved. 

“Oh, detectives!” Buzz grins at them both. “I’m glad you guys are feeling better today! Oh, um, Detective Lassiter, I put any remains of journals or anything we found from the mansion in a box and left it by your desk.”

The Chief turns to Lassiter with a disbelieving, you-better-explain threatening smile. “Uh, detective, when did you ask Officer McNab to do this?”

Crap. “Uh, over the phone yesterday, Chief.”

“And you heard about the mansion burning down… how?”

“... Well, uh… Spencer! Yes, Spencer called me in the middle of the night, said he had a vision. Normally I would’ve told him to screw off but I… humored, him, when he asked me to tell McNab… that.”

“You… humored… Mr. Spencer?”

“I blame the fever, Chief.”

“Well, then… I’ll blame it as well. If Mr. Spencer thinks something additionally important is in those journals, I’ll let you hold onto them for the moment, but it’s looking like this case is pretty much completely shut, at this point in time. Right now I want this drowning case to be your top priority.”

“You got it, Chief,” Jules says, giving a too-wide smile and overly enthusiastic thumbs-up. The Chief eyes her oddly for a moment, and then walks back to her office.

“Keep it together, O’Hara, you’re the one who convinced me to play along with this crap,” Lassiter whispers as they quickly walk to his desk.

“I’m trying! The bigger the secret, the harder time I have keeping it!”

“Then why in god’s name are we doing this?!”

“Because Shawn doesn’t deserve to go to jail or a mental facility for something he had no control over!”

“You do realize–”

“As soon as I said it. But Shawn’s not one of the the bad guys, Carlton. It’s different. He’s one of us.”

“... Yeah, alright.” Lassiter tries to sound unconvinced as he agrees. They reach his desk and he takes the lid off the box, frowning as he looks inside. “This is what McNab considers salvageable? He’s more off than I was before the divorce.”

“Oh, Carlton.”

“... My therapist says turning the situation into humor could help me move past it.”

“Alright… well, if you think it’s helping.”

Lassiter looks back into the box, slightly flushed with embarrassment now, and carefully looks through. “I don’t know that we’ll get anything helpful from this.”

“Well, maybe they’ll trigger some kind of… psychic revelation for Shawn.”

“We’re bringing him evidence now?”

“He’ll probably steal it out of evidence if we don’t.”

“You finally caught him doing that?”

“No, but, we both know he does.”

“... Fine. At least this way we can ask for it back. … Let’s focus on this drowning thing instead. You were lying when you said you’d call him, right?”

“No, I was not.”

“O’hara, you saw him this morning. He’s not even close to ready to work on a serious case.”

“... Fine. I’ll wait until we have evidence of foul play. If nothing suggests that, I’ll just tell him it was an accidental drowning case tomorrow.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Henry closes the door to the security room and gives himself a moment to chuckle, tossing his badge up once and tucking it back into his suit pocket. He forgot how much he enjoyed flashing the badge to get into places.

He pulls up the security feed from outside the store on the night in question. He scrubs through, trying to pick out any suspicious details.

There. 

Just before 3 AM, a motorcycle is caught speeding by. It’s too blurry an image to tell if it’s Shawn’s bike, but Henry’s always considered ‘confirmation bias’ to be something that applies to other people. His investigations have never suffered from such a thing.

He scrubs through some more. Cars, cars, it’s too dark and blurry on the camera to tell them apart by make or model, much less license plates. The motorcycle is all he’s getting from this. 

He stands up, straightens his suit, and leaves. Maybe he’ll get something better from a more expensive store’s security feed. 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Shawn scoots a little further away as Gus lets out a snore and mumbles something flirtatious in his sleep. He thinks he’s getting an okay handle on the hunger thing– his throat is shot to hell again already, the temptation of Gus’s blood a little bit like that time his dad put a marshmallow on a plate and told him if he didn’t touch it for fifteen minutes he could have two. Comparisons keep drifting through his head, all the different things he can taste from having Gus so close, even when he does his best to stop breathing it in. 

Again, the movie snacks aren’t helping whatsoever. He keeps eating them anyway.

His mouth aches again. Pulses with pain in time with Gus’s heartbeat. He should really stop setting up situations where he’s alone with one or more of them.

He leans his head back on the couch and closes his eyes. The sound of the movie is sharp against his ears, just adding to the headache, getting less and less comprehensible as he slowly drifts off to sleep.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Juliet doesn’t have Thornburg.

Juliet doesn’t have Thornburg.

So why is she dying?

Shawn is holding her hand, trying to confess, but the words are stuck in his throat. Jules is wheezing, her eyes bleeding, looking into his with a fear dulled by a thick glaze of illness. Jules is dying. Jules is dying.

Lassie doesn’t get shot in the graveyard.

Lassie doesn’t get shot in the graveyard.

So why is he dying?

Shawn is holding Lassie as he bleeds out– no, he’s holding Mary Light, no, he’s holding Lassie, no, he’s–

Lassie’s blood is spilling out of his chest. He’s looking at Shawn with a level of terror that Shawn never ever wants to see from the detective, never should see from him.

He’s holding Mary again. “Wake up, Shawn.”

Lassie is dying in Shawn’s arms.

Lassie is dying in Shawn’s arms.

Gus doesn’t fall off a cliff when he grabs onto the extreme sports murderer.

Gus doesn’t fall off a cliff when he grabs onto the extreme sports murderer. 

So why is he dying?

Shawn holds Gus at the bottom of the cliff. Gus’s blood coats the rock beneath them. His eyes are completely sightless, his mouth trying to form words that will never come, not with a head injury like this. Gus’s hand grips Shawn’s so tight it hurts, a silent plea to save him.

Gus is dying and Shawn can’t save him.

Gus is dying and Shawn can’t save him.

Henry is not the victim of a plane crash.

Henry is not the victim of a plane crash.

So why is he dying?

Shawn struggles to keep his father’s head straight with one hand as he tries to get the radio working with the other. Henry is barely awake, wheezing, mumbling incoherently. Shawn can’t make the radio work. He can’t call for help.

He looks at his dad and sees regret shining in his bloodshot eyes. Henry reaches out with one bloodied arm and grabs Shawn’s bicep. There’s a tree branch impaled through his abdomen. He looks Shawn in the eye and opens his mouth–

“Wake up!”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Shawn sits up with a gasp! His grandmother’s voice screaming through his father’s mouth echoes in his head as he pushes off the couch and runs to the bathroom, splashing cold–

No, no, he’s colder than it is, he switches the tap and splashes warm water on his face. It’s unnatural, it’s wrong, it’s not something his skin should be anymore– the warmth shocks him into full wakefulness.

“Shawn?!” Gus’s footsteps are like hammers against his skull, his quickened heartbeat like a jackhammer. Shawn presses his hands over his ears.

“Shawn!” Gus’s hands are so warm, so warm, warm warm warm blood spilling into Shawn’s jeans from Gus’s skull at the bottom of a cliff–

“WHAT THE–!”

Shawn finds himself presses against the bathroom wall, Gus standing in the doorway with the makeshift rosary held up, wet handprints on his shirt. Gus is shaking. Shawn realizes he feels fangs poking his lip.

He gulps in a breath, pressing his hands to his torso, then his face, holding them out– he repeats until he feels like he’s in his own body again. Gus watches, poised to run.

Shawn shakes his head, trying to knock the last echoes of the nightmare out. They won’t ever go away. They won’t ever go away.

Something clicks. He looks up. “Oh, god. I didn’t–”

“You lunged right for my neck.”

“I- Gus, I’m so– I didn’t–”

“I could tell.” Gus relaxes a little. His heart is still pounding. Shawn realizes belatedly that his voice has gone raspy again. Gus keeps the rosary held up. “What was that?”

“I-I… don’t…” Shawn swallows. They agreed he’d be honest. They agree he had to be honest, at least between the two of them. “I had a nightmare.”

“... About?”

“I don’t… want to talk about it.” If he talks about it he’ll relive it, he’ll have the images take over the real world again and if that happens he’s not sure he won’t try to–

“... Okay. Okay, but– Shawn, that was terrifying.”

“Yeah.”

“And your voice is all messed up again.”

“Noticed that too.”

“... You know, when I went out with Willow–”

“You guys actually went out?”

“Yes! A couple times! Anyway, she told me about this vampire bar place for people who pretend to be vampires.”

“So?”

“So… do you think you could handle just having a little from someone, uh… consenting for their own reasons?”

Flash of white, film grain, stalking up behind the burglar, covering his mouth, sinking his aching fangs into warm soft flesh and drinking–

Shawn shudders– he wishes it was because he disliked the feeling of the memory– vision? … Memory. God, he wishes he disliked it.

“Not doing that, Gus. First of all that’s not my kind of kinky business–”

“Eugh! I was trying not to say it outright, Shawn!”

“I know you were, that’s why I did. Anyway, second, that’s… too, vampire. Way too vampire.”

“... I could see if someone there is willing to donate blood.”

“Gus. You’ll pass out just trying to get the bag here.”

“I can handle it.”

“You don’t want to.”

“It’s that or you drinking me!”

“I won’t drink you!” Shawn doesn’t mean for it to come out panicked– but the way Gus tenses and raises the cross a bit more shows it did, in a bad way. Shawn shakes his head again, looking down and trying to regain some composure. “You– you just shouldn’t have to do that, buddy.”

“You shouldn’t have to be undead. It’s not a fair situation to any of us, Shawn.”

Jules, Lassie, Gus, Henry, bleeding bleeding bleeding dying dying dying Dying And Leaving Shawn Along FOREVER–

“I’m going.” Shawn is snapped out of it by Gus digging his car keys out of his pocket. “You just zoned out again and started shaking. If you don’t get blood, one of us is going to be in big trouble, and either way it goes it’ll be bad.”

“Gus–”

“I’ll just close my eyes or something! I’m putting this in front of the door on my way out, I’ll be back as soon as I can. And I’m letting Lassie and Jules know what I’m doing.”

“... Could you uh, leave out the–”

“Don’t even have to ask. Just… try to relax a little while I’m gone, okay?”

Shawn doesn’t agree or disagree. Gus leaves, and Shawn splashes his face a few more times before going back to the couch. He sits in the spot Gus had fallen asleep in. Maybe he’s imagining it because he’s so cold, but the spot still feels a little warm.

His cell rings a moment later. Crap. He lets it go to voicemail.

“Shawn, call me back, would you? What’s the point of these damn things if you just ignore it all the time? Look, I got a letter about your bike insurance and they’re raising the monthly payments. You put the damn bike on my card so I think I’m entitled to know how well you’re taking care of the thing if I’m going to keep paying for it.”

Shawn groans. He tosses his phone to the other side of the couch. He’ll reply later– or maybe never. 

Henry wheezing, staring with dull bloodshot eyes, reaching out–

…

He’ll reply later.

[quecksilvereyes]

Forgive me, brother, for I cannot follow. The nave of this cathedral has long been robbed of its candles and the doors of the confessional have rotted off their hinges an age ago. The lattice has broken from the window, the curtain hangs no longer.

If I leant forwards on this weeping wooden bench, I could fit my palm to the slope of your jaw. I could lay my forehead against yours, I could taste the salt on your cheeks. The window is wide enough, brother.

Forgive me, brother, for I have drowned myself in spirits. My hems are wet and the world is spinning. My tongue tastes as though some sick, bloating thing has made itself at home within my mouth. I've stuck my own head below the surface, brother, and I screamed until my lungs burned and my nails broke where they clutched for purchase.

A question, brother. A thought. How long must I claw at divinity to drag it down to earth? Someone has fallen. Another must surely follow. Do you not think it lonely, in that box? The stone is crumbling, and the earth is shifting. How long does a god sit atop waning faith?

Your knuckles are raw. There is blood on your lips, and your back is hunched. A self-important prick. A blown-up brat. Too busy trying to get himself shot to watch where he's going. It is the four and twentieth day of the month and this is the twenty-fourth phone call mother has made, her mouth drawn tight.

This is a confessional, brother. Did his teeth crack under your fist? Did his blood run warm? Did he apologise for the way he looked at you, or the way he stood where you walked? Did you reach for a sword no-one can carry here? I know the way you dig your teeth into a duel, brother, but this was no duel.

This was just a boy.

Forgive me, brother, for I doubt you. Your hands are shaking, and in the dim sunlight that reaches through the dirty windows of this cathedral, your eyes are a sky dipped into a brilliant twilight. In the darkness of your mouth, your teeth shine like stars.

These are no earthly constellations. The vowels on your lips are not of a language we share with our parents. How many rosaries must I pray, brother, for these sins? Must I shed dress and negligee and girdle and skin, and bare to the yawning mouth of this cathedral my flayed flesh?

Will you dig your claws into me, will you rip muscle from me in ribbons until you find, nestled between my lungs and crushed by my spine, the pearl of my faith? Will you pry me open with golden, bruised hands, and take from me the only thing of worth I can still produce? So you may hold it up when you return, upon a pillow of silk - an offering. There is just a delay. Worry not, the faith is still there.

Forgive me, brother, for I will not board the train. I will not clutch the little ones to my breast, and I will not bury my face in your chest.

I watched you slay a beast-god when we were children. Its blood soaked you to the bone, ten-and-three and weeping sorrow, red from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes. To the tip of your sword and the tip of your tongue, until the field was flooded and the skies groaned.

I took your face in my hands and kissed your slick cheek. At our feet, the last breaths of the one hundred year winter rattled from the witch's lungs, and the beast's claws wore themselves to dust. Our little brother lay dead in the sludge. Our little sister wailed until her voice gave out.

Eight. And ten.

Forgive me brother, but I am reaching through the window. My nails are broken, I know, and my hands are calloused. I am digging into your flesh, I know, but maybe, if you folded yourself right, you could fit through it. Maybe, if you bandaged your knuckles and closed your eyes, you could submerge yourself, full-bodied, and draw the blood from your every pore.

There is no holy water in the basin anymore, but the river by the mill might do. Perhaps we will find a hammer with which to smash the pillars of your shoulders. My brother, where will the skies rest then? Won't they slide from you, and aren't they already shattered?

You do not move. The twilight shines with salt. Your hands shake and your hair is golden. Come with me, you say. You go through a wardrobe and I follow, you drape yourself in hide and I follow, you are crowned and I follow. You walk from a train station and I follow, you duel the man who has sat himself upon your throne and I follow. My skies and horizons, my brother.

You will board the train. I will dip my face below the waterline. Forgive me.

The cathedral is ransacked, and I do not know how to make it fit for worship.

- High Queen Susan the Gentle gives her last confession to her brother, High King Peter the Magnificent, successor of the lion by right of blood.

[cheerfullycatholic]

Could you share some small joys that make you happy and grateful in your daily life? ☺️☺️☺️

Dude yes, thank you for asking!!!

I live on a farm with lots of animals (mainly chickens) and I love taking care of them all so much! Everyone has their little quirks and personalities and they're all a lot of fun, like this morning!! My goat, Baaa-tholomew, is kind of bored because there's a lot of snow and nothing really to do, so while I was feeding him he was trying to get me to fight him! He was hopping around, making his little goat noises, trying to buck me (especially when I turned around, he likes sneak attacks). He's only maybe three feet tall and not at all threatening but I love and appreciate the effort he puts into it. Here's a picture of him eating a drawing of a ghost (taken before it snowed)

Another thing that brings me joy is praying the Rosary with one of my cats, Julian. Every night before I go to bed, I pick out a rosary and sit down on my bed, and she hears the beads, sits on my lap, and gently tries to grab them the entire time (which you'd think would be distracting but I actually think it helps a bit). The only one she isn't gentle with is a rosary my brother made me with wooden hail and decade beads and bone for the cross and centerpiece. She went crazy for that one, I think she likes the smell of something. Anyway, she's just so cute and I love how she looks at them with her big blue eyes 😍

Although this isn't a daily thing (sadly. It's more an every other day thing) any time I get to spend with my almost nine month old nephew is just 😭 idk he's just so squishy and huggable and cute and I'm so so obsessed with his big blue eyes and cheeky smile and giggles 😭🖤🖤🖤🖤 every time he's at my house we share snackies and I've been trying to show him different animals and teaching him how to pet my animals gently (he LOVES the cats and dogs but is very grabby right now). I love and am so grateful for the rest of my family too, of course, but he's just oh my goodness I can't even explain it properly

I just ugh there's so many big and little things that make me happy throughout the day and I could ramble for way longer than I need to. Thank you again for asking!!!

[reidwitchsblog]

Shrine

[A Brian Thomas or Timothy Wright or Tobias Erin Rogers’ love story]

TW: Mention of dead animals, religious themes, mention of people’s death, religious trauma, mentions of abuse, maybe the proxies are ooc, very brief mention of underware, wrong use of punctuation marks

Word count: 1.3 k

Minors DNI

Chapter 1: Limbo

“In the right manner they adored not God; And among such as these am I myself for such defects, and not for other guilt, Lost are we and are only so far punished, That without hope we live on in desire.” Dante Alighieri: Inferno, Canto IV.

Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo, santificado sea tu nombre, venga nosotros tu reino…

Élide was born and raised in Guadalajara, México, the most religious state in her country. From a very young age she was thought to kneel in front of a cross and beg for forgiveness, a habit that seems unable to break, even now, in her early twenties.

hágase tu voluntad en la tierra como en el cielo, danos hoy nuestro pan de cada día…

She remembers the very first time she attempted to flee from Jesus’ claws, she was 7, and a very caring kid. One day, after leaving school, she found a small bird dying in the grass after being attacked by a stray cat, she cradled him in her small hands, and with teary eyes she made everything in her power to try to save the animal, but she was unsuccessful. She arrived later that day with her mother, and with clenched fists she pleaded for an answer as to why the Lord was so cruel with animals and allowed them to be take away in such a horrid manner. Her mother screamed at her and made her repent of insulting God like that, kneeling and begging for forgiveness until her knees bled. She never asked that kind of questions to her mother again.

perdona nuestras ofensas, como también nosotros perdonamos a los que nos ofenden…

The second, and last time, was when her mother died in a car accident on her 18th birthday. That day she was left alone with a mortgage to pay and a white rosary, the same rosary that her mother pray with every single night. She always wondered what her mother asked for, maybe it was answers, or enlightenment, perhaps it was only money…

no nos dejes caer el la tentación, y libranos del mal...

Élide thinks is funny how life turned out for her. A simple literature teacher in the university of Tuscaloosa, a quiet life for a quiet girl. She keeps her past buried beneath books and graded papers. Her mother’s rosary safely tucked under her floral dresses. Her bruised knees being a permanent reminder of religious devotion.

Amén.

Her house is silent when she returns from the market. Sore bones cracking beneath the weight of the shopping bags she is carrying, she sets them on the table and quietly makes her way towards her bathroom.

The water is boiling hot when she enters the tub, her muscles tensing at the uncomfortable sensation, yet she enters until her chest is under the water. Slowly, her body begins to relax, and her mind drifts somewhere else, a far away place where soft linen bed sheets welcome her in a warm embrace. She stays there until her fingers are wrinkly and the water turns cold.

She gets out of the shower and grabs her white towel, softly patting her body with it until there are just a few water drops remaining. The wooden floor cracks beneath her feet on her way towards her room, the sound still being able to unnerve her, even after 3 years of living in the same place.

The sweet smell of honey and gardenias greeted her upon entering her bedroom, she takes a quick sniff and smiles, she likes when things smell nice. Her gaze wanders around her room, stopping when they reach the green, worn, doors of her wardrobe, she strolls towards it and pries it open. Scanning her many clothes, she settles for her square neckline, white dress; and her pair of white lace underwear. She gets dress unhurriedly, taking her time and enjoying herself. She puts her favorite apricot lotion on, some deodorant and a few wisps of chamomile perfume.

Pleased with herself, she makes her way towards her vanity, her reflection stares back at her when she arrives to the medium-sized mirror that’s haphazardly hanging from her wall. She sits in front of it, and grabbing her silver comb, she begins brushing her hair, a familiar melody coming out of her lips in broken whispers. She keeps combing her locks until her wrist begins to throb, she settles her brush gently on the furniture, and with a last glance at the mirror, she walks to the door, briefly stopping to put on her slippers.

She decides to stroll to her kitchen in order to make herself a cup of hot chocolate, when a loud rumble disturbs the silent, Élide jumps faintly at the harsh sound. She takes a moment to compose herself and resumes her walking without a second thought. The sporadic pit-pat of the rain creates a macabre symphony inside her house, chilling her ever so slightly.

A quick reminder interrupts her thoughts, she suddenly remembers that she left her clothes hanging outside to air dry. She swiftly march towards the door, grabbing a red cardigan on her way.

The wind is blowing strongly when she finally leaves her house, water droplets stain her cheeks and nose, making her slightly uncomfortable. With quick, short steps, she walks towards the clothesline, the once white and baby pink laundry is now stained. She groans to herself, knowing that she will have to wash them once again. As she was about to enter her house, a faint noise makes her stop death in her tracks. For a moment, she tries to convince herself that it’s just a wounded animal, but deep down, she knows it’s not. She is hesitant to keep walking, but it’s in her nature to help people, so without even realizing it, her feet begin to carry her to the origin of the sound.

The sound of the dry leaves crunching beneath her covered feet is muffled by the storm. She squints her eyes when a blurry figure appears in her field of vision.

“Hello?,” she yells. “Do you need any help?”

The mysterious figure seems to freeze in his spot, frantically trying to stand up. Élide keeps walking, trying to reach the person before they hurt themselves any further. The thunder roaring high in the sky, making her believe that God was angry about something.

“It’s alright, i don’t want to hurt you”, she tries to calm down the person, now being able to distinguish the figure better. It’s a man, with short, brown hair and a mustard yellow hoodie. “What happened?”, she asks, not really looking for an answer, but rather trying to see if the man was conscious enough to form a coherent sentence. He doesn’t say anything, but he tries to stand up, failing miserably when a sharp pain in his abdomen makes him sit back down. “Can I take a look?”, she looks at him with pleading eyes. He studies her, nodding after a moment. She quickly kneels beside him, her shaky hands find the hem of his blood soaked hoodie, and with a soft movement, she raises it enough to take a look at his wound. “It’s not that deep, but it’s large, and you are losing a lot of blood,”, she peers at his face thought her wet eyelashes. "I have bandages and alcohol in my house maybe I can help you.” her voice is barely audible at the end on the sentence.

The unknown man settles his eyes on her, his gaze is intense, making her feel small. “Alright…” his voice is strong and hoarse. She quickly pulls herself up, her knees buckling after being kneeled for quite some time. She silently offers him her hand, and he takes a long breath before accepting her offer.

They walk together to the wooden cottage while the sky keeps warning her about the imminent danger lying besides the man that she so eagerly wants to help, but she ignores it. She ignores the fact that by letting the man enter her house, she is also letting in endless more terrors, not only to her home, but to her life. She ignores the fact that the blood that stains his hands is mainly from other people. And she also ignores the fact that those stains will slowly reach her too.

⋆｡°✩ — ©️ reidwitchsblog, 2023 - don’t repost, translate, copy, or claim.

[foxgloveinspace]

saw your tags on my post and i hope you find that ‘spark’ to really go feral over sleep token again! they’re so much fun to be batshit crazy over, there’s just so much going on and they all seem like such genuine dudes i can’t get enough

that post was sparked by seeing a video of vessel sobbing through the end of ascensionism and like i was so done for after that. like physically shaking so i figured i needed a break for a bit 😂

also i think that altar sounds like an awesome idea! as soon as i move my dresser into my new place i’m setting up an altar on it

1). i am trying so hard to get it back, for real for real. I lit the candle I associate with them this morning, and thinking about the *altar thing has helped a bit.

2). share a link👀?? if you still know the video?? even if you don't know the video still, maybe send some others?? I would like to be a menace over them lol.

3). * I am now going to info dump to you about my sleep token altar a bit. Cause I am thinking too much about it lmao.

(readmore cause this got long and something... 'tragic' happened.)

(a little.. background, I am currently irl in the closet for everything including witchy stuff lmao) So far my idea for stuff on it includes: a small back prism, a small whale statue, a small apple pendant (each to represent the three albums). A bottle of oils (the little one I made, but also maybe something like the prayer oil we talked about). The candle I associate with them. I'm kicking around getting the incense holder if it comes back in stock on their website. bones/teeth (wolf, I'm thinking wolf). I'm thinking it'll be a little place on my main/working/creative altar. I might also try to find a tarot deck that i associate with them, I think that would be fun. something else I have been thinking about, but it would be so freaking expensive to do, is making a rosary with the 'offical' -

shit.... fuck shit fuck. I think I just spoiled myself on accident cause of google. I didn't see much but i think an old pic of vessel came up, but fuck google man. I went to google the official scythe pendant and google change sycthe (yes misspelled like that) to members for some reason, I am so confused and actually mad. Ok. I think I have forced my brain to forget. worst google fuck up ever.

ok, so ... trying to move on... I want to make a rosary with the official scythe pendant, some tahitain pearls and some black amber beads. I think that would be so pretty, and nice to hold and maybe wear. ( i know traditionally you don't wear them, but like.... I am making one to a band/fictional god lmao, it's not traditional at all.) but that would be very pricy for a piece of jewelry and I would probably never wear it cause of that haha. it would be like 400$ to be able to get the supplies.

[kissingfloor]

Rabid thots

Why don't you like me? I'm trying.. very hard... To be just like you, to be everything you like..

I keep imagining my future husband. How do I have to mold myself to be like him?

Why do I spend all this time writhing and hating myself for relaxing and indulging when my ancestors died and died and died again for it? Don't we deserve a little rest now? Didn't they die for it?

There is a rosary hanging from the mittened handlebars of a delivery ebike.

No, they didn't die for anything at all. They died scared, trying to live.

I feel in my bones and the twitches of my fingers that they died scared.

At least I'll probably have a marked grave.

I hope.

Who am I? How do I begin to know myself? I am getting the sneaking suspicion that this might be the way out.

What do I like? When am I actually comfortable, rested? When is my body fed and nourished? How can I learn to recognize this, to follow it? To take care of it?

This man walking across the street is wearing the same bomber jacket Christina used to wear. I haven't seen them in years. It's ok, it's just that circumstances were the only reasons to be friends. And now circumstances are the reason to not be friends anymore. I always assume I'll run into them again, but actually, maybe I won't?

I should take a writing workshop. I think that would make me happy. I think it would make me feel like I'm getting better at something, going somewhere.

But really I've been stuck in a rut. This summer I was hoping to run away, to be swept by something. And I think I like who I've become. In rebuilding my home, becoming so domestic these past few years, I've rebuilt it in myself. I'm at home on the road, in tents, in hotels, on couches. I don't think I'm no longer Eva anymore. Somewhere along the way that got healed, somehow, when I wasn't looking. It's so strange, when something I thought would be the defining tragedy of my life gets quietly.. sewn.. shut.

The worst part is, I don't feel better. I don't feel exuberant and childlike like I used to, like I dreamed I would. If I knew I was Eva again. No, Eva is complicated and real. Not just a kid with dreams anymore. Dreams are nice and sometimes achieving them feels like tarnishing them if only because real life is gross.

Who was Eva anyway? Was it really like the Drama of the Gifted Child? Was I just a devoted attendant to my mom's desires? A stopgap to fill the void left by HER mother? Her mother who was not her mother because of the war because of the war and then because of God? The war that killed her parents? The war that sent her tumbling, rolling down the hills as the village burned, as Japanese soldiers got closer, faster?

Am I just a sad product of war? War and misplaced love? War and missing love.

When Lola dies no one will remember the war anymore. But it's the only reason I'm here. It's in my DNA. It's in my muscles. It's definitely in my brain. Especially when my brain tells me nothing is real. Nothing is real and it's time to life the veil. Peek at the other side.

I wilt when there's not a struggle. I fight like hell in stormy waters but drown myself when it's clear. When it's clear there's nothing but me and my reflection and I think, oh, if I jumped off the building I wouldn't feel a thing. The world would just restart. Nothing is real at all...

[sp00kworm]

Honey Wine

Pairing: Candyman x OC/Reader

Warnings: Physical and Emotional Abuse, Gore and Horror.

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The apartment block was quiet for once that evening. The normal racket from the apartment to their left was silent. The woman’s mister had probably gone out again. If there was anything he liked better than a good argument, it was his beer. There was a tense stillness over the place and with a small sigh, she unlocked the door to her apartment after giving Mrs Herse an awkward friendly smile. The old woman simply bustled past her with a tight-lipped smile. It was about as polite as she had always been, clutching at the rosary in her apron pocket as she went past anyone. Sussie told her not to take it personally, she was an old catholic, or so she was told, but there had been a time when Mrs Herse had more than one man in her home. She didn’t dwell on it as she closed her door behind her and placed her brown bags of groceries on the countertop in the small kitchen. A hot sigh pushed her fringe from her face. She’d promised to cook for him tonight, as much as she wished she hadn’t. Things were tense between them both, with her working long days in the coffee shop and him working nights. They barely saw each other, but he had the day off, and after her shift she’d rung him on the house phone before heading to the greengrocers for the things she needed.

 She always managed to win him over with steaks. The best cut steaks were a treat to them both.

“Where you been, Lucy?” He asked as she turned to open the refrigerator.

It made her jump, and she span around with a small gasp to look at him in the corner of the kitchen, leaning on the door frame with the usual half smirk. Once, when they were much younger, she had thought it was sexy. When they were still teenage sweethearts it had been what made her forgive him, time and time again.

“Ben! I told you I was going to the greengrocer after work! What did you think the boogey man got me?” She laughed as he swooped in to grab her by the hips and kiss her. It felt wrong, like the slither of a slug against her lips. He tasted bitter as she licked her lips after the brief kiss. If he felt the same, he said nothing.

“You’re the one always on about the boogey man this and the candyman that! I figured one of them might snatch you up one day.” Ben teased with a bored look.

Lucy looked to the fridge again and continued to unpack a few things before she tapped the buttons at the top of her dress, “Undo these for me, sweetheart. I’m going to get changed and then I’ll make that food I promised.”

“You’re a doll.” Ben hummed as he flicked open the buttons and watched her leave for their bedroom. Temptation burned at him to follow her, but he relented, instead pulling on the bags to get at the receipt in the bottom.

 Lucy closed the bedroom door and sighed with a great heave. There was a fogginess to her head as she rubbed her eyes gently and sat at her little dressing table. She looked in the mirror and poked at the eyebags under her eyes before she reached for the hair comb and pulled the pins and bobbles from her hair. She teased it through the lengths carefully, easing out the tangles in a slow rhythmic movement as she calmed her nerves. If Ben was in a mood again, she was in for a rough night. She touched the bruise on her arm from last time and smoothed it over the fingerprints embedded on her skin. Last time was hell, but that smile. It had always been her and Ben. Always. She pulled her hair back again and smoothed out her skin with a soft brush of makeup. There was an ache in her heart as she pulled off her dress and stepped into something clean. The skirt and blouse would do just fine, and she tied a bandana around her hair, fixing her fringe before she plastered the same, customer facing, sickly sweet smile on her face and opened their bedroom door.

 This time it was the meat. Ben was stood in the kitchen, the receipt in one hand and the two thick steaks in the other, looking at her with fury in his eyes as she stepped across the threshold. She wished she hadn’t as the walls closed in and his voice, laced with venom, stung at her ears.

“So, who was it this time?!” He roared, anger already boiling over at the edges, “Was it Pete, or Sam or maybe it was Old man Perkins? He’s got the eyes for you as well hadn’t he you eye lash fluttering slut?!”

The words burned less now than they did initially, but still, Lucy recoiled in on herself, appearing smaller and smaller as he stood over her. She licked her lips and tried not to let the tears in her eyes fall, “It was from the diner. Marv let me take ‘em home.”

“Oh, so it’s Marv is it now?!” Ben raved as he slammed the steak back against the plate on the counter, “It’s anyone that will look at you now, isn’t it? You just love fluttering those eyelashes and getting your way with the lot of them, don’t you?”

“Ben it’s nothing…”

“Nothing like that? You say that an awful lot, you know that?” Ben countered as he looked down on her, crowding her space as his hand grabbed for her arm, his fingers pressing painfully into the bruises already marring her skin.

 “You’re hurting me.” She whispered, hiding behind her hair as she tugged at her arm.

“You’re hurting me too, but I don’t hear an apology!” Ben countered, pushing his fingers into her arm viciously before a slap stung against her cheek. Lucy’s eyes went wide as the tears in her eyes fell, marring her makeup she had lovingly applied minutes before. Ben looked at the tears but didn’t apologise. He watched her whimper and cry like a hound with a cornered rabbit. He smiled again, that sickly sweet smile she had fallen in love with, and reched to touch where he had just smashed her around the face. His fingers were hot and sticky and she recoiled from his touch like a burned cat, moving towards the door. He followed with a frown before she dashed away, rushing for the bathroom. He followed, giving chase like a cat as she cried, sobbing into her hand as she struggled to close the bathroom door behind her. Lucy cried out as he rammed the door into her ribs, sending her sprawling to the floor as he shouldered his way into their bathroom, fists clenched, and teeth bared. The second blow came to her ribs with one vicious swing of his leg. She thought she was going to vomit, but she blubbered against the bathroom floor as he hurled abuse.

 Another kick made her scream, a rib broken in her chest. Lucy clutched at herself, curling tight to protect her chest as she peered at herself in their floor length mirror. Pathetic. She cried at her own reflection as Ben’s words floated over her head like little flies. She ignored them in favour of retching and saying one word.

“Candyman.” She cried into the tiles as Ben stood over her, laughing at her urban legend.

“Some myth isn’t going to save you, you stupid bitch.” He taunted.

Lucy looked at her bruised eyes in the mirror and cried again, “Candyman.” Another kick to her gut made her be sick, vomit coming from her mouth before she spat and said his name again, “Candyman.” There was the vicious buzzing of the electric lights over her head, like a swarm of angry bees in her head. She clutched at her ears and sobbed, “Candyman.” She turned her head to the mirror and peered at the reflection, looking at the bee crawling on the inside of the glass, “Candyman…”

 Another kick came to her gut before there was the sound of a ripping shower curtain. Ben was torn backwards by an invisible force, and he flew backwards into the wall with a thunderous crash, knocking the toothpaste and soaps from the shelf before he fell through the glass and groaned against the floor. Lucy gasped and retched as she investigated the mirror and watched the hook tear through the last of their shower curtain. The hook was embedded in a ragged stump where a hand used to be. The room swam and the bees in her ears grew louder, an angry swarm burning behind her eyes as she gazed into the mirror and saw two tailored shoes step out of the bathtub. The figure was swathed in a luxurious fur coat, which buzzed inside, and occasionally small honeybees wiggled free of the coat and fluttered into the room, crawling over the mirror and thumping at the glass. Lucy sobbed again, clutching her stomach as she laid pathetically over the cold tiles. Ben groaned from where he had smashed through the glass, rolling against the tiles as his legs smacked against the porcelain sink in his agony.

 The angry swarm buzzed over the fur coat, and the man smiled from above the both of them, his hook dripping with blood. Lucy looked at the hook and suddenly there was honey coating the end. He looked from her to Ben and let out a small chuckle.

“I am the writing on the walls. I am the myth and the legend. I am here because of belief.” He droned above Ben, turning in his shined shoes to look at him on the floor. The Candyman. There was no mistaking who the creature was above them. The hive leader. Bees swarmed over the mirror, obscuring Lucy’s reflection from herself as the Candyman hummed, stepping over her to grab at her fiancé.

“What…the fuck?” Ben gasped as the hook waved in front of his face, his eyes going wide as he looked up at the Candyman. His chest pounded with gasping breaths before the hook was swung with a great slick noise, and the Candyman held him up by the collarbone. The hook had pierced something in Ben’s chest, and blood poured from the gored wound, where the hook was hooked under his collarbone, suspending him in the air in front of the creature.

“Sinner blood is made to be spilled, and yours would look better on the floor.” Candyman told him as he twisted the metal hook. With a snap, Ben’s collarbone popped out of his skin, spraying blood over the man’s face before he was caught by the Candyman’s other hand. It wrapped tight around his neck, holding him aloft again as Candyman regarded his hook.

 Lucy looked at the jagged stump, pinned in place with nails with the end of his sawn-off bone peeking out of the red flesh. The man regarded the blood dripping down his hook before he hummed again, humming a soft tune as he slammed it into Ben’s guts and grunted, drawing it upwards with some effort. Blood sprayed over the room as he tore open visceral tissue and let the man’s gut spill out of his body. The hot organs slapped against the floor, spilling acid, blood and bile over the floor. Lucy retched again, vomiting into the mess, her chest and stomach in agony with the agonizing clench of her muscles. There was silence after Ben’s agonised cries died down, but the bees continued to buzz in her head, behind her eyes and in her ears. It was then that she realised they were crawling over her, fluttering their wings against her skin and dusting her with pollen. The Candyman threw Ben over the side of the bath, letting his corpse bleed down the plug hole in favour of spreading his arms and opening the bathroom door wide, letting the blood soak into the pink carpet outside. Lucy crawled towards the door as the Candyman hummed above her, wiping his hook on one of her pressed white towels as he stooped to crouch beside her prone form.

 She cried as the creature’s hook wiped at her cheek, chasing away the tears as he sang a gentle song to himself and reached into his pocket. Inside his pocket there was the rattling of wrappers, and he pulled out a handful of chocolates and toffees before he offered her one, placing one of the pink wrapped candies into her hand.

A rumbling voice, like thunder over the ocean surrounded her, accompanied by the cadence of buzzing bees, “Sweets for the sweet and innocent, little Lucy.” he sang as he placed another sweet into her hand, a blue gem coloured one this time, accompanied by a small buzzing bee, “Innocent blood does not need to be shed this night. I thank you for remembering my tale, and for telling my story. Legend is what keeps me alive.” He sighed, as though satisfied as she curled her hand around the sweets, pulling them to her face.

“Would you be my victim, Lucy, if I asked it of you?” The Candyman asked, his words dripping like honey from his lips. She peered up at his face, the high cheek bones and the crawling bees before she noticed that there was honey dripping from his mouth. His tongue darted out of his lips to lap it away along with one of the bees. The swarm seemed to slowly disappear inside his coat, crawling ad flying around her bathroom, back to their master. One remained, crawling over her hand as it buzzed softly, kissing her skin with its wings.

 She peered at his face, and noticed the halo then, surrounding his head. The bathroom bulb swang over them both, shadowing one side of his face and then the other but creating a great glow around the top of his head.

“Are you…” She started before stopping, noting how stupid she sounded as she groaned against the floor, her throat burned with stomach acid.

“Real? I’m always real. I look on in the mirrors, in the shadows and in the halls at everything. I wait for the calls. Those who call me, those are the ones that don’t believe. They call, and I give them what they want. A reason to believe. But not you.” His hand stroked her face, deathly cold, tucking away the locks of her hair before stroking over her nose, “Not you.” He whispered, “You believed when you looked at the drawings, when you walked down the alley and saw the hives of bees. You knew all this time.” He cooed softly over her, his hook cupping the back of her neck as her eyes fluttered, rolling to the song of the bees in his coat. She reached blindly and pushed her hand behind the furs to meet the burned and torn flesh underneath, pressing into his form and the beehives inside. Her hand came away covered in honey and blood. She passed out as the Candyman eased her from the floor, humming as he cradled her in his arms and took her away from the gore lining the bathroom walls.

  “Miss, you have to explain to us what really happened. You’ve been in here for three years now, and still we haven’t got a straight answer out of you.” The detective sighed as he stubbed his cigarette out in the overflowing ash tray. Lucy looked at the cigarette and curled her nose. The bees didn’t like the smoke. She could hear them, buzzing behind her ears, and when she looked at the glass observation window, she could see him, standing over the table, his fur coat pressed and his hook glinting. His face was obscured by the swarm, swimming with honey, pollen and bees, but she knew he was listening, waiting for her to tell him again about the myth.

“The Candyman did it. I called for him, five times, in the mirror, and he came and took the sinner away.” She recited with a smile, playing with the ends of her hair, “The Candyman did it.”

“I’ve had enough of this bull shit.” The lead decided as he snapped his notebook closed and left the table, leaving his young partner behind. The other man coughed awkwardly before continuing.

“I know the stress of what happened that night was hard Miss, but please…” He scowled at the lights as the bulb flickered. It was only for a moment, and quickly it was normal again, but there was a single bee, buzzing around it, tapping the glass before it flew over to the window and crawled over the surface, “How the hell did a bee get in here?”

 Lucy leaned against the table, looking at the reflection of the glass with a lazy smile, “Do you believe in legends?” She asked as she tugged at the handcuffs around her wrist, “I believe in legends, Detective.”

“We know what you believe in, but it doesn’t explain how you were found, tucked in bed, covered in blood with your fiancé dead in the bathroom.” He stated as she rolled her head back to face him.

“You should believe in legends and stories. They might just save your life, you know.” She continued, “The Candyman did it. He saved me that night. Ben was hitting me, you know? I broke two ribs and bruised my organs, but he saved me. The Candyman took him.” Lucy raved as she pressed her head to the table, closing her eyes to ignore the honey dripping from the walls.

“Tell him, Lucy.” The Candyman demanded, his hook stroking through her hair and tracing a cold line down her neck.

“Say his name five times in the mirror and see what comes out of it.” She whispered as the Candyman’s laugh mixed with the buzzing of invisible bees. He leaned over and kissed her lips in the reflection, tasting of honey and chocolate. She closed her eyes as the Detective tugged at his hair and left, leaving the single bee tap, tap, tapping at the window.

[potentialproblem01]

Daddy Sunday

Come gets y’alls juice Padre Domingo smut. Special thanks to our favorite @creme-bruhlee​ and the Daniel server

Contained in here is 2.8k Padre Domingo x fem reader explicit smut. Featuring getting railed in a confession booth, a poor grasp of (Spanish) Catholicism, some light breath play, unprotected sex, and some slutty schoolgirl behavior. It’s really not that dicey all things considered, especially for me. It even includes an outfit board. Also on my ao3. Stands alone.

Holler if you see any glaring mistakes and remember to have fun and be safe.

He could see your white boots under the curtain, he could pretend to hear your fingers trailing along the dark stained wood, the quiet squeak of the door hinges as you let yourself into the booth, the whisper of them grasping the edge of his curtain to softly pass into his side of the confessional. 

You could hear the other parishioner, confessing to one dull sin or another. This lady has a gambling addiction but you’re into risk of a different kind. 

The booth is small, your knees bumping into his, too close; confined. It’s homely in a not-so-Godly way. He eyes you, head tilted up to where you tower over him and it’s no longer a look of surprise or exasperation or the hint of fear you’d inspired the first time you propositioned him. No, this is a look of expectation. 

You’d been at mass yesterday afternoon, in the very last pew rolling a lollipop across your lip. He’d been watching, he always did. Your attendance had been a warning of sorts, to know to expect you in for confession at some point. 

You’d come straight from your last lecture of the day. 

The notice pinned to the front doors stated confession would start at noon and last until 2. It was now 15 past. You had popped in a mint and took out your rosary from the pouch before shedding your hoodie. You left your school bag underneath the stained glass window depicting Mary, keeping light feet across the old stone floors. 

Now you make eye contact, his amber eyes flashing in the shadows. With one hand he moves to absolve the gambler and with the other he pulls you in by the hip, slotting your knees together, trailing a hand up across your midriff. He assigns penance, though you can tell he made the severity up, he’s too distracted by you tugging at the bow of your shirt lacing. 

He goes to recite the prayer of Absolution for the penitent but it feels like a personal worship as you slowly work the lace out of your shirt, letting the two halves fall apart. His hands come up to push the halves away, revealing your breasts- he stumbles in his prayer. “Through the death and resurrection…”

He lets out a soft exhalation before hurrying through the remains of the prayer, cupping your breasts and sliding a thumb across your nipples. He goes to make the sign of the cross, “I absolve you…”

The parishioner leaves. 

You kneel over his lap, hands on his shoulders, skirt rucking up across your thighs, faces a breath apart. Hushed, “Will you bless me Padre Domingo, for I am about to sin.”

“And how long has it been since your last confession?”

“Too long.” You slot in for a kiss, something chaste but designed to tempt. But this priest had been tempted the moment he moved to your town. Daniel César Martin Brühl González Domingo hadn’t stood a chance against you.

He pulls away from the kiss, “What sins are you confessing to today?” 

You run your hands down his chest, tugging at his rosary, and back up around his neck, pushing closer to him, feeling the lines and buttons of his shirt and the stone beads against the soft skin of your chest. “Why Father, lust of course. A good helping of greed too.” 

He tugs on your shirt, exposing more skin, a defined collarbone. He kisses it softly, lovingly. His stubble catches across your skin enough to set your nerves alight. 

There’s a shuffle outside. The next sinner is ready to confess. He breathes against your skin and moves to articulate the invitation so it isn’t muffled by you. 

There’s a wicked glint in his eye as he moves his hands, pushing you off his thighs. He pulls himself as far onto his seat as he can before grabbing you by the hips and turning you sideways, shifting you to the corner and then perpendicular to him. You start to understand where this is going and get with the program. You extend your arms down across his thighs, your own rosary sliding down over him, the clink of it’s black crystal beads against your daddy choker the only hint to your presence. The other parishioner begins the ritual cleansing. 

Padre Domingo begins by asking how long it’s been since they’ve last been in confession as you fold yourself in half over his lap. It’s tight. Your ankles strain in the heel of your boots and you have to hook your elbows under his knees to create space for your head in the bottom of the booth. Your crucifix thumps to the floor and you tuck it between your teeth to keep it from making any other noise. You have to keep very still not to hit your head on the shared wall. It’s a passing idle that yoga classes have been paying off if it means Padre Domingo can bend you in half over his lap with minimal effort. 

They begin to confess to their sins. Lust. How fitting. 

He flips the back of your purple skirt up over your ass, ruining the pleats and exposing the silky swell of your cheeks. With one hand he runs a hand under your shirt, pinning you to his legs in positions. With the other, he grabs a handful of your ass, testing the pliability and you have to keep your sound of pleasure to yourself, teeth singing against silver. 

He runs his hand over the lace band of your panties, over the side of your hipbones before tracking to the center of your back, teasing the short, sensitive hairs there. His hand travels again across the band before hooking into the thread of lace dipping between your cheeks, pulling it up until he gets to the string of pearls strung across your opening and clit. There’s an amused flutter of his fingers that are under your shirt. You’ll be hearing about your undergarments later.

The parishioner drones on about how they wish to sleep with the town's baker and a large part of you wants to encourage them to fuck and get over themselves but you keep quiet. Padre Domingo has been rubbing the pearls, pushing them into your heat and against your clit. You have to keep quiet, the taste of burnished metal in your mouth starts to hurt.

He keeps rubbing the pearls and they grow tacky as you get wet. You feel your abs flex and strain under your efforts to keep still and avoid bumping your head into the booth wall as he keeps teasing the pearls, never truly touching you. 

You're close to pinching at his leg in bratty frustration when he pulls his hand away, lightly snapping the pearls against you causing you to shiver lightly. He coaxes the parishioner to continue to confess as he gets both hands in the lace of the waistband and pulls them down over your hips and over your ass, pulling the pearls away from where they stick and situating the black lace mass at midthigh above your stockings. 

He runs both hands back up your thighs, playing at the crease where it swells, pushing up with his thumb and forefinger, rhythmically moving your cheeks together and apart. He assigns this confessor penance as he dips his thumbs in deeper between your thighs, manicured nails skating through the slick that’s been collecting, running lightly over your folds. 

The parishioner is now confessing to some light thievery. How boring. The blood collecting in your head is getting heavy, need flaring out through your bloodstream and doubling down on the heat in your head. Keeping your rosary in your mouth is getting difficult and it’s impossible to keep your spit from pooling and finally spilling out, webs of it trawling down the wire before falling to the wood below you. 

Light tremors begin to wrack your body and he takes pity, or maybe it’s personal impatience, and moves a comforting hand back up your spine, rubbing the knobs of your spine between your shoulder blades. He sneaks his other arm under your hips and cants them a few degrees more acutely, pressing down with his other hand to keep you there. It doesn’t quite feel like imagination when there's a soft whisper of fabric and good girl is being whispered into your hair.

He withdraws the hand supporting your hips and runs it once across the sharp relief of the bones in your pelvis before quickly moving back between your thighs, palm hovering over the last vertebrae, middle finger smoothly curling over your sex, a finger tip plunging in every other pass; the regularity of the movement is further frustration. 

You start to wiggle your hips, straining to push them up at an even sharper angle but he pushes down with the hand between your shoulders and slides his other hand up your backside, waiting for you to be done with your tantrum. 

He says something to the parishioner but you can’t concentrate on what. The parishioner responds and you still your movements, clamping down hard on your cross to ground yourself; you know you won’t find any satisfaction without his cooperation. 

The parishioner keeps talking about something but Padre Domingo finally resumes touching you, moving his hand across the back of your thighs before teasing a finger against your asshole before moving lower and resuming tracing your slit, gathering some of your slick before pushing a finger into you. It sinks in effortlessly, you’ve been ready for this since you left class and his teasing didn’t help. 

There’s no resistance, no friction, only a smooth glide as he shallowly moves his finger in and out of you, rubbing at your walls, failing to provide any sort of relief. He keeps his rhythm steady, intent on continuing to tease, the opposite of your last coupling which had been a hurried affair in an alcove after the late Sunday Mass. 

It starts to get a little hard to breath, the air in the booth becoming humid and cloying with your sweat and drool and wetness evaporating against his citrusy cologne. It’s difficult to remain silent as the parishioner finishes, asking how they can be absolved. Padre thinks for a moment, never ceasing the movement of his finger. As he goes to assign penance, he adds in a second finger. Both go in deeper, finally a sensation not overwhelmed by how wet you already are. 

The parishioner accepts their penance and Padre begins the Prayer. He pushes down on your high back, keeping you where he wants you as he absolves the parishioner of their lust and thievery, “...May God give you pardon and peace…” and he adds a third finger. You struggle to quiet your breathing, you’re getting closer to what you need: to be filled by him. His pace is still measured, his speech unaffected and the only reassurance you can feel is his hard cock straining against his slacks; the patience of a Saint. 

He finishes the Prayer with one hand in you and one hand making the sign of the cross. 

The parishioner leaves but he keeps thrusting his three fingers in and out, such a practised undulation. He returns his free hand to your back, caressing the sweating flesh. He moves higher, snaking a finger through your choker, pulling a little, making it even harder to breathe.

You remain like that for a while, seconds and minutes ticking by before he shifts under you, withdrawing a hand to peek out from the booth to find no one else waiting to be cleansed. 

He shifts back then, landing a single smack across your ass before leaning down and harshly whispering, “Up.” 

Your ankles protest greatly and your head is woozy, stuffed with the accumulated blood that hasn’t been hijacked by your core. You have to fight the wood paneling of the wall to right yourself and shove your panties all the way off. Quicker than you can catch, there’s hands on your waist pulling you in. 

Your knees hit the edge of the seat and you fall forward into his chest, the sharp edges of your rosary a trace of pain against your overheated flesh. You settle your knees on either side of him as he removes his hands to undo his slacks and pull his cock out. 

Your head, suddenly drained of blood, and light as God’s grace is sent spinning again as he manhandles your waist and positions you over his cock before he pulls you down onto him. 

It’s the only bliss you know how to achieve, the only time you’re interested in what God’s put on this earth, when Padre Domingo fills you completely, stretching you and making you take it.

His head makes a hollow noise as it falls back against the booth and you follow him back, braced against his chest, knees sliding further open, white boots obscene against the dark wood and his black ensemble. 

He flips your skirt back up and anchors his hands in the fat of your ass, guiding you in a punishing pace, up and down. You cooperate as best you can but your muscles won’t support it anymore, starved of blood and oxygen. You dig your hands into his shirt and try to keep up. 

Your head lolls against his shoulder and he turns to whisper filthy nothings into your hair as he lifts you up again and again. Calling you his gorgeous little princess as the wet sounds of your fucking echo around the booth. 

HIs breath hitches in a way that you know means he won’t last much longer. You convince one of your hands to unwind itself and snake downwards to pay attention to your clit. It won’t take much, you’ve been close for a small eternity. It takes only a few small circles before you’re coming. 

Whatever command you had of your body is gone as your orgasm vacillates through you, collapsing all your weight against him. You can feel yourself flutter around him as he thrusts up once, twice more before he inters himself in you, whole body tensing, leaving bruises where his finger tips are embedded in your flesh, as he comes, lingering in you. 

Aftershocks torment your body as he relaxes under you, hands soothing over what he’s damaged. He rains muffled praise into your neck as you recover against him. 

You’re not sure how long you stay together like that, long enough for you to notice him softening inside you and for you to take the hint and pull off. You’ll have to get the come out soon but for now you prop back on your knees to plant your feet back on the floor. 

You stretch out as much as you can, rolling your ankles and feeling your vertebrae pop back into place. You watch as he tucks himself back into his slacks. He notices you watching and he blushes, he’s always sweet in the afterglow. 

He pulls you back in, beginning to thread your lace back through the eyelets of your shirt. He goes slowly, making sure the lace lays smooth and that the luster faces out. He steals one last feel of your breasts before he laces it the rest of the way and tightens a bow. He fixes your skirt as best as he can, the pleats are rather ruined. 

You lean in for one last kiss, long and lingering; affectionate. 

He pulls away to breathe and you straighten up before turning around to make sure no one will catch you leaving the booth. He trails a finger up each of your thighs, sending another set of shivers through you before he lands one last swat on your ass. You let out a small squeak not expecting it but when you open the curtain, there’s no one outside to have heard. 

You open the door fully and step out, boots back on stone flooring. You hold the door open for him to step out. As he goes to close the booth he spots your panties still inside and bends to pick them up. He goes to give them back but you tuck them into his shirt pocket. You’ll get them back later. With a wink you start back toward doors to grab your bag and hoodie. He’s watching you go so you bend all the way over to pretend to look for something in your bag, giving him a full view of what will await him Sunday afternoon. 

You straighten back up, feeling the slick mess of come start to leak out. You really needed to get home. With a final sweep to pick up and sling your bag over your shoulder, you push open the door and head out into the afternoon sun, inner thighs slick with his come. 

Part Two (stands alone)

Part Three (stands alone)

End note: I’ve got some other ideas including Sunday afternoon somnophilia, the og seduction, the mentioned in story quickie, shower bj, and further improper use of a rosary

[arcgeminga]

Nightmare for Defteros: The Sanctuary has fallen and PhantomPros has won and was now sitting on the Pope's throne looking down on his brother. Around him were the dead bodies of the Pope, Asmita, Sisyphus, Regulus and many other saints. It looks like you have failed to stop him, Defteros.

"It wasn't that hard, now was it, my Shadow?"

The words had been the only sound cutting through the thick silence. But Defteros' eyes remained glued on his trembling, bloodied hands -- stained with fresh blood. Defteros blinked hard - uncaring of the tears that rolled from his eyes. It was hard to breathe. He could only muster shallow breaths, but it wasn't enough air through the metal of his mask.

The phantom's lips curled, sitting upon the pristine throne as if he had a natural-born right to it.

"I told you to trust me," Aspros' pale lips moved, but the voice that came from it wasn't his brother's voice... no, that was someone else... someone else entirely. "Your trust in me is the only thing that keeps me going."

"N-no..." Defteros shook his head. That wasn't his brother. That wasn't his brother, no matter how faithful that death mask is...

"No... No, you're not my brother... He would never..."

"You doubt me? Oh, my Replica, can't you get over yourself? You're being so dramatic over nothing," the ink-haired man laughed, frost coating his words. The man stood from his seat, half of his body draped in the Papal robes and rosaries, and he donned a midnight mockery of the Gemini Cloth.

Defteros refused to believe it.

"Am I not the same brother that promised you a better future?" Aspros asked as he came forward in careful, elegant strides. The gentle clicks of metal against stone sounded like a death knoll in Defteros' ears.

"Am I not the brother you adore? The same brother who you aided from the shadows? The same man you so desperately wished to support as he made his way to the zenith? And you doubt me?"

Defteros curled in on himself, his soiled hands gripping his sides as he pressed his forehead against the pool of blood from the bodies around him. He tried to push out the other's cold words.

That was not his brother.

A hand roughly caught golden locks. Aspros ignored Defteros' yelp of pain as he pulled violently - drawing Defteros to his knees and forcing him to look up. Defteros' blue eyes met with his twin's red eyes... Unfamiliar, hateful, crimson eyes...

"Or maybe," Aspros' graceful smile had disappeared, replaced by a vindictive snarl. "You remember the brother you wanted to destroy. The weakling you had intended to dismember, the spineless brat you wished to steal glory from."

Every accusation sent a sting of agony through Defteros' chest, but he was unable to refute them.

"That boy and I are the same, Defteros. Are you too blinded by your self-imprisonment that you fail to see that?"

Defteros' voice was small when he answered the Phantom...

...

"Defteros! Defteros, breathe!"

The sudden sound of someone else's voice woke Defteros from his sleep. But the man wakened in distress. The body was on fire, chills ran down his back, and pain pierced the depths of his breast repeatedly. He struggled against the weight of his eyelids and the darkness of his vision; his throat burned.

"Breathe! Deep breaths!"

At the command, Defteros' lips finally drew in air -- the ache in his chest easing and the dim spots of his sight cleared.

"Good... Holy cow," the person next to him shook with nervous laughter. Their forehead pressed against his shoulders for a short time. "You really scared me... I was just about to run off to get Dégel."

Defteros winced as he shifted his aching limbs. He felt the similar burn of overexerting himself when he trained, but the pain seared straight into his bones. He forced himself to sit up. Dazed, he stared at the boy that had come to his aid.

"For... fuck's sake," the man groaned, but the usual bite of the words was replaced with vulnerability. "It was... just a nightmare..."

"I know," Regulus sighed as he took a seat on the stone floor next to the shelf Defteros had made into his resting spot. Regulus was there since the nightmares began, and he knew better when it came to Defteros and his troubles. The teenager offered a flask to his friend. "I looked for you in the volcano but didn't see you there. Figured I'd find you by the beach..."

Defteros didn't say anything, but he accepted the offer and drank the contents greedily. He didn't realize how thirsty he was.

Regulus giggled next to him. "Man... What ever would we do if the medic is out."

"Get him the fuck back up," Defteros replied sarcastically after he finished taking his drink. He handed the bottle back to the Leo Saint. "It's way too fun terrorizing weaklings."

"Yes, yes. We all know that you're really living your best life here on Kanon Island, oh great and powerful demon."

The boy's joking comment earned him a rough hair ruffle.

The two sat in comfortable silence for a time. Then Defteros scooted himself off of the cave shelf.

"Regulus, I think it's almost time," he said somberly. The boy's earlier delight immediately dimmed.

"...oh," Regulus turned his face away to the entrance as if he suddenly found the sea more interesting than his friend. But Defteros didn't mind. He, too, focused his attention on the rolling waves.

They were quiet for a moment before the child braved quietly, "I don't want to be there when it happens. I don't want to lose anyone else."

"It's war," Defteros was quick to be the realist. "Casualties are unavoidable. You know that."

"But you..." The boy stopped himself short, huffed, hugged his knees to his chest, and hid his face. "You're doing exactly what he did. You don't even need to go to war! You could have a quiet life in a village, settle down, raise a family... but you are because... Because you feel that Aspros would come back. Not because of Athena, or peace, or... or anything else...!! You're willing to give your life away for some silly concept like honor, just like how...."

Defteros was silent as the boy continued to rant until he dissolved into tears. Regulus was always inconsolable whenever he had outbursts like this, so Defteros just allowed him to cry -- mourning before he loses the chance to do so.

"Why do you people always go into this with the intention to die?! Why can't you go into this with the intention to live?! To come out of this alive?!"

Defteros swallowed hard but said nothing.

Aspros was going to return, fierce and unrelenting thanks to the power of the Demon Emperor Fist, and Defteros was responsible for looking out for his brother. That's all there was to it.

[lady-writes]

author interview!

I CURSE YOUR NAME, THOUGH I LOVE YOUR FACE @nevermindirah

1. how many works do you have on AO3?

9

2. what's your total AO3 word count?

59,530, also thanks to this i now know that ao3 has a stats page!

3. what are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Gamefreaks-96

Rhymes with Shook Her-59

Summon the Pearl Rosary and Relax-55

And Don’t Underestimate the Importance of Body Language-39

2117, Revisited-36

4. do you respond to comments? why or why not?

Yeah I try to!  but uhhhh iim forgetful AF and the ADHD troll plays hell on my sense of object ermanencee. I do LOVE MY COMMENTS THOUGH. And I find it hilarious that tthe story that rounds out my top 3 for p much everything has one (1) comment…. I love reading what ppl think of the works, especially the ones I consider OTT and that’s DEFINITLY one I’d love feedback on, but yanno I get it 🤣😅

5. what's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

i…. do not write angst????? So uh…… Probably Body Language what with the whole Nile leaving her family/pod behind for a life on land but like….. its still not remotely angsty…. I simply dont write things that make me feel bad…So yeah  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

6. what's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

uhhh I guess 2117? cuz its literally a drabble about a wedding where everyone is REALLY PLEASED ITS HAPPENING. Or maybe Gamefreaks with its RAMPANT found family vibes

7. do you write crossovers? if so what is the craziest one you've written?

Not anymore I dont… though it might happen again in a WAY LESS “cringey” way than i did it back in Ye Olde FF.net days. Pretty Sure at some point I wrote HP/Glee Karaoke crackfic😬

8. have you ever received hate on a fic?

nope!

9. do you write smut? if so what kind?

yup! the excessive, unrealistic and ridiculously kinky kind. Seeing as how thats the only kind of sex i have any personal investment in😜

10. have you ever had a fic stolen?

not to my knowledege

11. have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope

12. have you ever co-written a fic before?

Not really, but I’d be down

13. what's your all-time favorite ship?

no. too big of a question i dont think i can answer…..

(either arthur/Eames or some UNHOLY permutation of MCU/Avengers multi shipping)

14. what's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

ughhhhhhhhhhhh, cut me to the bone why dont you. I have more WIPs than complete works by 3times and then some and I truly want to finish them all but I have 0 ability to make my brain focus on any given story at a time. Based on what I’ve been able to be productive on in the last 9 months things that will never properly see the light of day are as follows:

- Andy gets preggo after losing her immortality

- Not exactly a pride and prejudice au (the story that made me accept i was writing fic again and I'm peeved that my brain has abandoned it because its the basis of SO MUCH of my Nile HC's somehow)

- Historial BoN in canon fic, wherein Nile is Booker's wife in the 1800's and they're an immortal pair like NicoJoe

-Harpy Nile/Dragon Booker

-Magical Realism Quest fic Ft BoN and Lykon

- the addams family crossover TOG college fic ft. Swamp Witch Nile 😭😫😭

And god help me its looking bleak for these 3 BUT I REALLY WANNAAAAA

- Booker gets pegged by Drag King Nile

-the 2 part pre BoN Booker and Nile character study 5+1 fics tentatively titled 5 times Sebastien LeLivre let his loved ones down (...) and 5 Time Nile Freeman had to Accept Healing over Vengance(...)

- BoN as 60's suburbia Newlyweds hitting a roughpatch at the same time that A/N/J/Q move into the duplex across the Street in a pair of Beard relationships hinged on the idea that Nicky and Andy are siblings

15. what are your writing strengths?

??? I thiink the best comment i’ve gotten re: my writing was that I am good at telling a story that feels quickpaced without actually rushing the pace of my writing…. that was nice🥰🥰🥰

16. what are your writing weaknesses?

Maintaning focus/motivation long enough to finish a work…. ADHD is a nightmare and a bitch and she hates my desire to write apparently🙃

17. what are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

if it feels right to me…. I grew up in a multi-lingual home even though Im only fluent in english so I have a feeling for communicating outside of my lingual comfort zone…. That tends to inform how I try to handle such things

18. what was the first fandom you wrote for?

Harry Potter so many fucking moons ago. 

19. what's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

poly guard and andromaquynh

20. what's your favorite fic you've written?

is it cheating to pick unfinished things?

the ruined regency Nile kink meme fill of doom and the Nile’s first 100 immortal yrs fic

for the finished things…. Dont//Speak or Rhymes with Shook Her: the latter cuz i wrote decent smut for the first time ever and the former because I feel like that one went out into the world in a properly representative form of what materialized in my head. Also i spat that bitch out in under 24 hours 🎊🎊🎊WHICH IS A GD TRIUMPH🎊🎊🎊

Tagging in case any of y'all feel like doing this! @winterequinoxx @stele3 @sphinx81 @saxifraga-x-urbium @eeyore9990

[theleftoversworld]

The Lord is My Shepard

There can’t be more than two hundred people in this dirt pile that they call a town. Why am I here? Why do I do this? Is it not God’s will that they die for their sins? The rapture has come. They were not taken by the Lord’s hand, so their punishment must be here, on earth. But you have called me here Lord... you must have your reasons. Casandra thinks as she rides her motorbike up to the lone business that looks like it’s operational. The same in all of these filthy towns. The church is derelict, and the tavern is thriving. Filthy Godless people. She’s been in these towns enough to know that in boondocks like this there is always a board with jobs listed on it. That’s why she’s here. The church sent her on a pilgrimage around rural Illinois to help the people and find out what God’s plan is for her. The other reason she’s here is that taverns like this always have passable whiskey, which is required before attempting to deal with these people. She runs a hand through her long knotted brown hair to try to get the bugs and leaves out of it. After a moment’s pause she pulls her rosary from inside her leather jacket. This should have some sway to help her get information and stop the drooling men from trying to make a pass. She takes one last breath of clean fresh air before heading inside. It smells like every other tavern in this cursed land. Urine, body odor, and desperation. There’s half a dozen men at the bar already. They look like they spent their day out in the sun digging dirt. They have nothing here. No crops can grow here after the rapture, the earth doesn’t want to support them anymore. Why don’t they leave these barren lands and find someplace where they can actually survive instead of scraping by? A sunburnt man in overalls who stands behind the bar gives her a once over. “Ya?” He says in an accusing tone as though she’s forcing him to be there. “Whiskey.” She grunts, trying to match his tone. She’s learned that gruff works better than nice, and she’s never been good at being cordial. In one motion she sits down and puts enough money on the table for three shots. “Two shots and the extra is to leave me alone.” The man behind the bar seems to appreciate this. He pours two shots and then turns his back on her. She downs the first shot and winces. No chaser, the pain gives her focus, lets her see things she normally wouldn’t. The man at the other end of the bar has a dirt covered lipstick mark on his neck. Probably having an affair with another dirt person. The child at that round table keeps shifting in her seat. She has to pee and her parents haven’t noticed. The family in the back of the bar nearest the rear door, a mother and two kids. The mother has blood on her pants near her ankle. She’s resting it on her other foot so it doesn’t accidentally get any weight put on it. Something bit her. From the mess on her clothes she’s been working with animals. Where’s her husband? Dead? Or did he just leave? Cassandra takes a long breath. Nothing in here is immediately threatening. She can take a bit of time to think. She rests back on her barstool. I was a devout child. I went to catholic school, attended church twice a week. Every extra curricular thing I could do with the church I did. So why was I left behind in the Rapture? Why did God not take me to live with him? Why am I still here on this diseased planet? She frowns. This line of thought never gets her anywhere but into a fight. As if on cue a young man sits down next to her. Really he’s more of a boy than a man. If I ignore him, maybe he won’t say anything. I need work, the last thing I need is to break this kid’s teeth. She thinks and reaches for her second shot. “Hey, you’re pretty good looking for a church girl.” The man says and reaches out to stop her from grabbing the shot. “If you touch me I will circumcise you with my sword.” She growls. “I can’t promise it will be clean.” He quickly retracts his hand. “Meant no harm. We just never get visitors. Especially ones that look as good as you.” She throws the shot back. “Ever think you’re the

reason?” She slams the glass down and gets up to leave. She can feel everyone’s eyes on her now but she doesn’t care. They don’t deserve to be saved. I bet they don’t even go to church on Sunday. She thinks as she makes for the exit. Once she’s outside she spies the jobs board. It looks like someone’s been through here already. “Damn the hunters.” She grumbles as she walks to it. “They took almost everything... Let’s see what they left for me. The storekeeper’s wife is missing. I would bet money she’s above that bar working. I could smell the sin from outside. Aaaand sheep have been attacked at night on the edge of town.” She sighs. “One sucks far less than the other.” She rips the sheep job off the board and heads to the south end of town.

The town is so small she could have walked to the farm but she needs what’s on her bike. At the edge of town she finds a house with around twenty sheep in a hastily constructed small pen. A gate on one end of the pen tells her that they used to free range outside of town, but not anymore. Poor buggers. The animals have it the worst. They don’t understand that they are being punished along with the sinners.

After speaking to the owner of the house she goes back to her bike to set up. It’s the woman from the bar. She informs Cassandra that the attacks come at night so she might as well set up a camp and wait. When pressed for what happened to her ankle she says she stepped into a trap meant for the zombies. Cassandra nods, she seems a bit clumsy and careless. After a few more questions she heads back to her bike.

The church sent her out with rations, MRE’s that they got from what was left of the US military. This one is potato chowder and she hates to admit it, but it wasn’t half bad. Probably better than whatever she would have gotten at that tavern. Damn, the tavern. Another few shots would sure help the time pass. She hears a familiar voice calling from the house. It’s one of the boys. He must have dropped his dinner. She thinks and tries to ignore him. But then something he says catches her ear. “Please! She’s frothing like a rabid dog!” He shouts. She’s on her feet in an instant and running. She pulls out her sword as she runs as well as a small silver dagger she keeps in a belt pouch. “Sounds like a werewolf transformation! Where is she?” She asks as she makes it to the door. “On the kitchen floor! This way!” The boy shouts and leads her to the room. As soon as she enters the room though she knows that it’s not werewolves. The boy’s mother is there on the floor, foaming from the mouth like he said. But her eyes are almost bugging out of her head and the most telling part is her leg. The wound, which is now exposed, is septic and the skin around it has turned green. “Damnit! She needs to die now!” Casandra shouts and pulls her sword back but the boy steps in her way.

“No! She’s my mom! Help her! Doesn’t the church help people?” “There is no helping her! She’s been infected with the zombie virus! Now step aside or I will cleave you to get to her!” Cassandra yells angrily. He doesn’t move. “Lord, have mercy on their souls!” She growls but as she starts to bring the sword down. The boy lets out a bone shaking scream that causes her to wince and stop her blade. The boy falls and it becomes quickly obvious. The boy’s mother is chewing on his leg, tearing flesh with her teeth. The boy is looking at her in horror and screaming, both in terror and in pain. Cassandra shakes her head violently to clear it and then chops the boy’s head off in one swift motion. “Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them.” She entones as she then goes to cut off the mothers head. “May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.” Once she’s done she looks at them in some disgust and takes stock of everything. “I guess I know what attacked the sheep then. I need some holy water to perform the ritual to make sure you two stay dead. And to find the other child, maybe they can be saved. Though I doubt it.” She turns to go to her bike but she stops in her tracks. One of the problems with zombies is that they don’t moan like they did in the movies. They are surprisingly quiet and can sneak up on you if you aren’t paying attention. There are fifteen of them in the house, between her and the front door. She glances at the window and sees more of them outside watching her. “No way out.” One of the zombies says. “If you give up, we will make it quick.” “Give up? Give up!?!” She says, getting angry. She raises her sword and changes into the zombies in the hallway. I believe in God! The Father Almighty! Creator of Heaven and earth!

and in Jesus Christ! His only Son Our Lord!” She shouts as she cleaves through the first two zombies. “Who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate! Was crucified, died, and was buried!” Two more zombies fall at her feet, their evil purged from this world by her divine blade.

Although she is covered in their putrid blood, she doesn’t falter. This is her life, she was put on earth to slay evil. “He descended into Hell; the third day He rose again from the dead!” Five try to rush her at once but she steps back and makes a wide swing. She cuts off four arms and then raises her sword hand, clenched fist facing the zombies. “He ascended into Heaven, and sitteth at the right hand of God, the Father almighty; from thence He shall come to judge the living and the dead!” A stream of fire comes from her hand like a hose. She sweeps it over the zombies that remain between her and the door. “I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and life everlasting!” She finishes the prayer and then barrels through the now burning zombies. They don’t feel pain, so fire is a double edged sword. They don’t recoil from it, so it makes them a danger if they touch you. But they are also fragile to begin with, so fire makes them like glass. She plows through them and runs out the front door. By the light of the burning house she fights zombies, slicing through them with ease. Once they are all dead she tosses their bodies into the house to make sure they burn.

By this time townspeople have turned out to see what is going on. They could see the fire and came running but they do not approach her. She ignores them while she’s working. If they wanted to help they could have joined in but they didn’t, telling her what they thought of her work. Once she’s done tossing bodies into the house she walks up to the bartender. “Let it burn. You want to make sure that none of them stand back up.” Then she boards her bike. No pay for this job, the person who put the job on the board was the second person she beheaded. She takes off, heading for the next town. It is not worth staying in a town where you burned down a house. That’s a lesson she learned already. Especially in small towns. They seem to take that personally.

Once the glow of the fire fades behind her she allows herself to relax a little. “Almighty and Loving God, I praise you from my heart, that of your boundless goodness you have preserved me this night past, and have, with the impenetrable shield of your providence, protected me from the power and malice of the devil.” She mutters as she rides off into the darkness. “Do not withdraw Lord, I kindly ask, your protection from me, but mercifully on this day watch over me with the eyes of your mercy. Lead my soul and body according to the rule of your will, and fill my heart with your Holy Spirit, that I may pass this day, and all the rest of my days, to your glory. Amen.”

Taglist: : @hellishhin @thelaughingstag

[babybat-shitposting]

Goth Does 25 things About Me Tag

Tagged by @ebonyezra

My blog says "babybat" but I've been in the subculture for 4 years, 2 years of that active in the irl community

Before I got into goth, renaissance faires were my main scene

I was a horse girl when I was a child & did classical ballet & was a straight A student & a trophy child, basically

Then early onset schizophrenia in my preteen years made me the glorious disaster I am today

My favorite time period is the 1920s and I'm obsessed with 20s (and also rococo!) fashion. Like 'over a thousand fashion plates from the era are saved on my computer' obsessed

I sew my own clothes and would like to get into historical costuming

I'm planning to study fashion design or failing that, mortuary science (how cliché)

I'm very religious and can't quite label my beliefs but the closest I can get is Omnism, unfortunately this often clashes with my schizophrenia

Dark wave and dark cabaret are always competing as my favorite musical genre

My favorite musicians are Amanda Palmer, Rozz Williams and Will Wood

I also like industrial, classical music, country and a random assortment of inde & pop artists. I'm very ashamed of my love for Lana Del Rey that has been going on for a dreadful six years

I collect a lot of stuff: bones, butterflies, porcelain dolls, 19th century books, string instruments, plush bats, tarot decks, rosaries, religious memorabilia in general, and any trinket that's shiny

Because of the previous point, my room looks like Howl's from the Ghibli movie

My favorite movies are Repo! The Genetic Opera and American Mary

My favorite comics are Sandman, Pretty Deadly and Empty Zone

My favorite animals are bats and rays

I'm a redhead but I've had pink / purple / blonde hair throughout the years

I identify as nonbinary but can't be bothered to care about pronouns because my native language only has genderless ones so refer to me however you like.

I dated a semi-well-known experimental singer for a year and I was kind of a bitch to him, to be honest, so I'm constantly paranoid he'll write mean songs about me

I have a British accent for some unknowable reason so people generally think I'm from the UK if I don't tell them otherwise.

I was a notoriously awful drunk around 14-16. I quit alcohol entirely after I woke up naked in my own vomit in a friend's kitchen, not remembering anything.

I do my own stick 'n poke tattoos and they kinda look like rubbish but they're very significant to me and I wouldn't let anyone else tattoo me (maybe my partner or some very dear friends)

I usually go to the circus every year on New Year's Eve since I was 7, but due to the pandemic, this was the first New Year's I spent alone at home with my partner

My signature perfume is Mouse Circus by BPAL. It smells like popcorn and cotton candy.

I LOVE turkish delight and would 100% betray my family for an unlimited supply

Tagging @monsieur-venus @become-a-gear @reverserevolverocelot and anyone who fancies oversharing

[rogerblackwolf]

The Hudson Incident

8 Miles North of Hudson, New York

-1938-

The skies were clear as the full moon shined down on the dense woodlands flanking the road. The sound of two sedans being the only disturbance as they drove towards their destination. Aside from the music on the radio, the four occupants were silent, none saying a word since they left Brooklyn. One, a priest, was reading a passage from his Bible and holding his rosary which was wrapped around his left hand. The man next to him, a skinny built fellow with neatly kept hair and peach fuzz named Michael, was staring out the window as if in thought, he'd sometimes look at an envelope that contained a file and read it likely out of boredom. The man in the front seat, who was of average build with short dark hair named Vin, fiddled with the dial of the radio but settled with what they were listening to before. Finally the driver, a heavier set man with a slight Italian accent named Luca, spoke.

"Alright, it's been a few hours and no one's said a word."

"Maybe there's nothing to say." Vin responded.

"Really Vin? You've had a wisecrack or smartass thing to say about anything and everything and Now is the time you got nothing?" Luca replied

"Like I said." Vin repeated

"Calm down Luca, The Organization got us all on edge." Michael said.

"If you call going into a cultist compound full of trigger happy saps, all to destroy some artifact, on edge. I mean we don't even know what this artifact is anyway." Luca adds

"We don't need to know, just that these people plan to use it for something not good." Vin says

"Oh come on for God's sakes-" Luca starts only to be cut off by the priest.

"Do not take His name in vain." He scolds

"Alright, Alright...sorry Father Bruni, just nervous is all." Vin replied apologizing.

"You are forgiven. But be sure to go to confession as soon as you can." Father Bruni said.

The ride was silent for another few minutes before Luca turned off the main road followed by the second car. Michael looked at the file for the fifth or sixth time during the ride. The cult they were going after was set up in the old Bryant Sanitorium, closed during the peak of the Depression for lack of funds and unethical practices. The cult was called Pathway to Heaven, led by a man who was known only as The Speaker, a self-proclaimed prophet who claimed to know a way to Heaven. The Sanitorium had been under surveillance for a week, during which it was determined that there were thirty members, that they were armed, and strange lights emitted from the building's basement windows. Luca pulled off to the side of the road, the other car following suit. The gate was no more than fifty yards ahead, the main building just beyond it across a sizable front drive and of course the gate is chained, complete with a padlock.

"Ok...let's get the guns. And the bolt cutters." Luca said as everyone gathered at their car trunks. Michael pulled a strap in the floor to reveal multiple M1921 Thompson submachine guns, a pair of Browning Automatic Rifles; or BARs, a separate box had several Colt 1911s, and plenty of ammo for each firearm. The second car had a similar setup only instead of BARs they had a pair of Winchester Model 12 shotguns as well as a crate of dynamite and grenades. As everyone grabbed their weapons and some grenades, Michael took a 1911 and offered it to Father Bruni.

"Father I know you aren't allowed to carry guns but I doubt these cultists will be kind to you." He said

To his surprise, he took it and loaded a single magazine.

"There is no verse in scripture that says I am not allowed to defend myself. I am a man of peace, but I also understand that when peace is not an option then force is required." He explains.

As the rest of the group gathered, Father Bruni asked everyone to bow their heads. He then prayed for their success, their safety, for guidance in their mission, and protection from evil as he felt the sinister forces at work even from this distance. Upon him saying "Amen" Father Bruni asked Michael to take the lead with Luca and Vin while the others, led by a man named Thomas, watched their backs.

Vin cut the padlock and gently opened the creaky gate, the old sign on it read "Jeremy Bryant Sanitorium for the Mentally Ill", the group of eight men briskly made their way across the drive to the front double doors, only to find them locked.

"Now what?" Luca asks

"There's a reason I brought dynamite." Thomas suggests

"They will get a rude awakening." Vin commented as everyone gave Thomas some space. He rigged a three stick bundle on the door handles, set the timer and ran to hunker down with everyone behind a low wall off to the side. The following explosion practically splintered the tall double wooden doors, windows on the first and second floors were shattered sending glass everywhere. With the dust beginning to settle the men rushed in, firing their Thompsons and BARs at the cultists who came to investigate. Between dodging bullets and taking cover Bruni could see these cultists were not human, something was terribly wrong. Aside from the gunfire, Bruni could also hear faint chanting in no language he knew. 

As the group of men proceeded through the halls, they saw many strange symbols written in blood. The further they went into the bowels of the Sanitorium, the more the men felt presences all around them, shadows danced and formed inhuman images. The cultists also seemed off, Bruni noticed strange and gruesome ailments had befallen the individual cultists.

Many were covered with injuries that looked self inflicted, bloodshot eyes, and blackened veins around the face.

"These men...they are under some kind of spell. Their actions are not their own." Bruni warned

"I don't think they'd listen to us anyway, Father." Luca said as he checked a corner.

Down the hall, just beyond a closed set of double doors, the group heard the chanting clearly as well as seeing a red glow on the other side. The group slowly walked towards the doors, feeling a powerful pulse of energy pass over them every few seconds. When they get close to the doors, the pulse is so strong it forces them all back a step. Bruni steps to the door and goes to grab the handle only for all of them to hear the sounds of multiple people screaming. 

"Thomas, blow the door." Bruni ordered.

The group took cover in an alcove taking the time to reload their weapons, once Thomas joined them they braced for the explosion. Once the initial shockwave had passed the group eased their way towards the room, the doors were obliterated by the explosion, blackened burns on the stone floor marking the direction of the fireball into the room.

Inside the room the group saw a more gruesome scene. Gathered in a circle of candles and cryptic symbols were the bodies of five cultists, their throats slit, the blood flowed through channels along the floor to a dais covered in the same runes the group had seen throughout the building. Just past the dais stood a male figure dressed in a white robe, his brown hair was pulled into a ponytail and his face was clean shaven. He looked human but the air around him felt anything but, especially as an unsettling smile curled across his face.

"You are too late. It is done. The Path is open." He said in a distorted voice. 

He then revealed an amulet from around his neck, both it and the symbols began glowing bright crimson he then resumed the chant. The room darkened as inhuman voices joined in, the candles flickered as the blood in the dais started gathering in a floating orb of pulsating liquid. The amulet siphoned the blood from the orb seemingly empowering the Speaker.

"Put him down!" Michael shouted followed by the hail of gunfire, when one of the men ran out of ammo in his BAR he dropped it and pulled two 1911s to continue the fire. The Speaker was hit so many times his robe changed from white to red, the orb splattered onto the dais as the runes ceased glowing along with the amulet. Everyone sighed with relief before investigating the room, Bruni walked towards The Speaker stepping over the blood as best he could. When he closed the distance the presence of evil was easily felt on the medallion, which he now realized was made of carved bones, dark forces were at work darker than any man could conjure. Bruni retrieved his bible and a flask of holy water, beginning to read whilst splashing the holy water on the dais and body. Bruni, as well as the others, were caught off guard when the body began to twitch; a little at first but more violently once touched by the holy water. The twitching was replaced with bones breaking and violent convulsing, The Speaker got to his feet revealing his full transformation. A pair of horns sprouted from his head, a tail whipped out from under his robe, and claws adorned his hands.

"You cannot stop me!" He roared.

Bruni did not stop his incantation while splashing the last of the holy water into the Speaker's face. Unholy screams of agony and pain were heard as the holy water burned the creature like acid. The creature lunged at Bruni only for its fangs to scratch the metal of Bruni's 1911 as the barrel was shoved into the creature's mouth. The first shot sent it to the ground, the next three to the head ensured it wouldn't get back up. The men came to check on the father only for him to finish his incantation.

"In nomine patri, et filii, Spiritus Sancti, Amen." He said while making the symbol of the cross with his free hand. 

Bruni reached down to the amulet, upon touching it he was bombarded with multiple visions. Visions of a dark world filled with mountains of skulls, oceans of fire and blood, cries of agony while dark figures chanted and cackled at their nefarious deeds of slaughter. He watched vast armies rising and clashing, beasts made of iron and steel trampling the land, and cities turned to ash in an instant. He then saw a creature that looked akin to a dragon cloaked in shadow and flame, speaking a tongue he didn't know but it filled him with primal fear especially when it lunged to devour him. Bruni was then thrust back to reality with Luca and Vin restraining him while Michael calmed him down. Bruni calmed after a moment before Michael asked him;

"What should we do now Father?"

"This place is filled with evil. That amulet is an instrument of chaos itself, I fear the influence it would have if it ever left this place. Thomas, use what dynamite you have left to destroy this room and that infernal thing. We need to return to the Organization, tell them that this place must be buried along with its secrets." Father Bruni explained as beads of sweat drizzled from his brow.

Thomas went to work as everyone else began leaving the building Thomas caught up just as they exited the front door. By the time they reached the gate the fireball engulfed the entire right side of the building, the floors fell through into the basement. The group watched the fire for a time before finally getting into their cars, leaving the Sanatorium and it's dark secrets. Even still Father Bruni felt that what he saw, were they simple visions made to strike fear into him? Or were they premonitions of a future that has yet to come? Either way, they had succeeded in putting a fear in him he could not easily shake...nor escape.

[thefrogtheme]

The Mysterious White Wire!™ —A James Woods Conspiracy

Or as others might call it... 

A Shirt Crease!™ —A Frogman Reality

I have sooo many questions. As in, I have like... four questions. 

What is it connected to? What would that device even do? Why not use wireless tech? Why isn’t it under the shirt?

Sadly, this blurry video of another video was enough to start a trending hashtag and myriad other cheating conspiracies. 

Let us take a journey together. A trek into the #JoeWired hashtag where you will see firsthand the smoothbrain’d conspiracy-mongers in action. 

Shall we?

The Case of the Magic Eyeballs!™ —A LindaF Ocular Machination

Unnatural eye movements? Reading the air? Smart lenses? Neat! How very sci-fi we are getting already. But do smart lenses even exist?

Yes, this is a real technology being developed, but there are no working prototypes and the R&D phase is expected to last for several more years. The picture above is a prop and the concept lenses are bulky and very noticeable.

So smart lenses are out. Though that would have been really cool.

Moving on to the next conspiracy...

Intravenous Adrenaline!™ —A SoulFliesFree Reminder

Ah yes, I almost forgot about his performance enhancing drugs. Taking a pill before the event wasn’t good enough. He needs Adderall STRAIGHT INTO HIS VEINS. Without it, he will drift into a coma. His Odinsleep could last for hundreds of years. Don’t fall asleep, Sleepy Joe!

Wait, I’m sensing alternate theories from the BonkoSphere...

The Redundant Microphone!™ —A GMom Nonsensical Notion

So, it’s not an IV.  It’s... a microphone? 

Because it’s not like his voice is being amplified and broadcast to everyone already. He needs a secret special secondary microphone... for reasons.

Next up we have Corey Lynn... an “Investigative Journalist.” 

First some background on our intrepid reporter extraordinaire.

She thinks AIDS was engineered in a lab and people were purposely infected so that Bill Gates, Bill Clinton, and George Soros could make billions of dollars.  

Corey is a fact finder and truth seeker through and through—as evidenced by her merchandise. Something all good journalists have.

I don’t know how she crammed so much wisdom onto a $20 iPhone case (free shipping available). 

As you can see, Corey is highly attuned to detect anything suspicious. And she may have broken this Biden debate cheating thing wide open.

Look at that investigative effort. She went all the way to the C-SPAN YouTube channel to get a good peep at this mysterious thing poking out of Biden’s sleeve. She took high definition screen caps and zoomed in—just like a crime scene investigator might do.

Corey thinks the IV drugs and secret microphone theories are silly. Obviously. 

Clearly it is... 

ELECTRODES MAYBE!™ —A Corey Lynn Paradigm Shift (Women’s Flowy Tank Top, Only $26.99)

Yes, electrodes are much less silly. Because electric shocks are a proven way to keep “Sleepy Joe” from his permanent slumber. Makes perfect sense! 

Case closed.

Wait, she has another theory. It’s some kind of... hypnosis triggering device? 

Corey, your paradigm is shifting a bit much. 

She can’t say which for sure because she’s “no expert.” And I am always comforted when investigative journalists say “if that is in fact true.” 

Still, brilliant investigative work!

Sayyyy... I wonder what would happen if instead of staring at pixels and wildly speculating, Corey did like... 8 seconds of research. (Or, as some might call it, “investigating.”) Just to see “if that is in fact true” before jumping the gun and blasting misinformation out to over 100,000 followers. 

The Super Sad Sentimental Souvenir!™ —A Bojo Fact That Can Be Verified Via Multiple Sources

Pssh, likely story! 

Have you considered his dead son’s rosary is a perfect place to hide a combination IV/microphone/electrodes maybe/hypnosis device? 

Eh? EHHHH??

Next up, we have...

The Mystery of the Missing Ear Canal!™ —An Anonymous (Yet Patriotic) Observation

Wait a sec... where is his ear canal? 

HIS EAR CANAL IS MISSING! OMG!!!!

Though I think American Patriot Anon70768033 has trouble telling right from left. That would be his right ear, friend. But don’t fret, Elaine from NorCal has the left ear covered. She even circled it! Just in case you forgot what ears are or where they are located. 

She compared both ears! She’s 99.5% sure!  Large red circles don’t lie!

The problem is, all of these pictures are taken at different focal lengths from different angles under different lighting. Meaning each photo has different lens compression, distortion, and angle of view. This can cause features to appear wildly different.

Not to mention shadows can change appearance quite a bit too.  

Does she have nostrils or not? If you can’t see the nostril holes, do they even exist?

But Elaine from NorCal is 99.5% sure and I trust her forensic analysis.

New questions... Does the shirt crease wire attach to the secret earpiece?  Does it go into his body up through a neck vein and plug into the earpiece from the inside?  Do all of the pieces connect together? Is this all a single connected conspiracy!!??

The wire, the rosary, the drugs, the smart lenses, the earpiece... they must be part of an elaborate technological system designed to help Joe Biden cheat. Without this system he wouldn’t have been able to deliver epic verbal blows such as... 

“C’mon man!” “Will you shut up?” “It’s hard to get any word in with this clown.”

That doesn't sound like him at all. He didn’t say malarkey once. They probably had Patton Oswalt parked in a van outside on zinger duty. 

This is getting complicated. I think I’m going to need a diagram or something. 

Oh, good... Eugene has me covered!

The MS Paint Diagram of Doom!™ —A Eugene Exhibition Extravaganza

Welp, this looks very official and the science certainly checks out. I’m 99.5% sure. 

Also, in EXHIBIT C & D, Eugene is positive there is an earpiece in the RIGHT ear. I’m glad we cleared that up as well.

Uh oh... I may have done another 8 seconds of research. 

I found this photo from the debate looking straight down his ear hole. 

Hmm, that looks pretty ear canal-y to me. 

I’m gonna need a closer look to be sure. TO PHOTOSHOP! 

The Great Ear Hole Enhancement!™ —A Frogman Earvestigation

WAIT! DON'T LOOK AT THAT! ERASE THAT IMAGE FROM YOUR BRAIN!

Sorry... I didn’t mean to alarm you. 

I’m such an idiot! I forgot to circle the area in question. I mean, without a circle you probably didn’t even know what the heck you were looking at. Is that a Martian crater? Is it a Sarlacc Pit? 

OKAY, YOU CAN LOOK NOW!

HIS EAR CANAL IS BACK! WHAT. IS. HAPPENING?  IS ANYTHING REAL?

I... I just don’t know what to believe anymore. 

Eugene! I think I need another diagram!

I realize I have conclusively proven Joe Biden has ear holes and all of these theories have come crumbling down. But I still think there is something to this earpiece business. I refuse to believe the president of these United States would make something like that up. I refuse to believe this is all a bunch of... malarkey. 

Which is why I thought I would join in on the spurious speculations.

SKULL SOUND!™ —An Original Sir Frogsworth Conspiracy (And Cool Idea for a Band Name)

If it were me, I would have gone with bone conduction tech. You can transmit and receive audio directly through vibrations in the skull. Basically your own skull becomes a speaker and microphone. It’s a proven technology that really exists and was even used in the short-lived Google Glass augmented reality spectacles. 

Theoretically, you could place the speaker under a false flap of skin on the temple and hide the bulkier electronics under a hairpiece. Something any competent special effects makeup artist could do. 

Now, I’m not a professional diargram-ologist like Eugene, but I imagine it could work something like this.

In real life, it might look something like this random photo I found of no one in particular. 

Technology like this is quite advanced and very expensive to develop. 

If I were to estimate, it would probably cost something like... $70,000. 

[morbid-n-macabre]

Fayetteville, Georgia-

40 year old Chris Benoit was a famous WWE wrestler and family annihilator. The "Canadian Crippler", as he was known in the wrestling world, murdered his wife, Nancy, their 7 year old son, Daniel, then committed suicide during the 3 day weekend of June 22nd through the 25th of 2007.

On Friday Nancy lost her life. She was killed in a second story room; her limbs had been bound, a cord wrapped around her throat, and she was strangled. There were bruises on her stomach and back where Chris had presumably pressed his knee into her, and at some point she suffered a blow to the head. When she was deceased, Nancy was covered with a towel and a Bible was place near her body. Toxicology later proved that Vicodin and Xanax were in her system, but sources claim that these were her everyday medications.

It's believed that someone during Saturday night little Daniel was murdered in his bed. It's thought that Chris drugged his son with Xanax ahead of time, then suffocated him; many believe that Chris used his famous signature wrestling move, the Crippler Crossface, to end his child's life. As with his mother, a Bible was discovered in very close proximity to Daniel's corpse.

Throughout this weekend Chris had been in contact with his close friend and fellow wrestler, Chavo Guerrero. Chris had missed a show, which was very much out of character for him; Chris explained that both Nancy and Daniel both had a nasty case of food poisoning and he may need to take them to the hospital.

On Sunday, Chavo and a a few other wrestlers received text messages from Chris's phone. These messages named the Benoit family's full street address, stated that the garage door was open, and the dogs were chained up in the back yard.

Since I try to be as factually correct as humanly possible, I'm not real sure as to who initially discovered the bodies. Most sources state that the police were called to conduct a wellness check, but others say that the Benoit's neighbor, Holly Schrepfer, was sent to the home to check on the dogs thereby stumbling upon the crime scene. Chris had passed away from apparent suicide just after he sent those texts to his buddies. He'd gone into his workout room, stacked on 240 pounds, and rigged the weight machine to hang himself; the wrestler's neck had been broken. The home computer's search history showed that someone had recently researched "the quickest and easiest way to break a neck".

As for Chris's motive, some think that Chris murdered Daniel because he suffered from "Fragile X Syndrome", but doctors say that the boy did not have this condition. It's said that Daniel had needle track marks on his arms at the time of his death, that Chris had deemed Daniel small for his age so he was treating the 7 year old with growth hormone injections. It's also said that Daniel had been having a hard time in school, and was being held back a grade; it must be mentioned that the boy's teachers say this is absolutely not true. As for Nancy, it's rumored that there had been some recent problems in the Benoit marriage. The relationship had been a passionate one; at one time the couple had separated and Nancy had filed for divorce, but according to friends those troubled times had seemed to be behind them. Furthermore, the shape of Chris's brain definitely needs mentioning. The man had been a superb wrestler, willing to perform stunts in which few others would dare attempt. Due to this, Chris's brain had been severely damaged; he'd suffered multiple untreated concussions, a broken neck in '01, and the steroid abuse certainly hadn't helped his condition. During autopsy the athlete had ten times the level of testosterone in his system, and his brain was comparable to that of an 85 year old Alzheimer's patient. Matter of fact, had this tragedy not occurred, doctors say that Chris would've had maybe 10 months left to live.

Those close to the wrestler say that Chris had been acting increasingly strange before that tragic weekend. He'd been quoting scripture and seen with a rosary around his neck. The wrestler had not been a religious man, yet Bibles were found next to all 3 corpse; a note which read, "I'm preparing to leave this Earth" was discovered inside one Bible. He'd been having strange nightmares, and kept a diary in which he wrote to his recently deceased best friend, Eddie Guerrero. Chris had become paranoid, thought people were following him, he wouldn't even take his trash out to the curb for fear that someone would rifle through it. Chris wouldn't allow his son to play in the yard, he had began taking detours on his way home, and was adamant that Nancy not stay out late after dark. The man had been terrified that someone was watching him, planning something sinister against him.

For many, these are little signs that all was not well in Chris's mind; for others, it's proof that he truly had been in trouble. Maybe someone really had been following him, meant to do him harm. Some believe that Chris and his family were murdered, and yes it does sound preposterous, but there is some evidence which points towards it.

The most popular theory is that fellow wrestler Kevin Sullivan murdered the family, and he did have some pretty serious motive! Back in the day Kevin and Chris were very close friends who played adversaries in the ring; during this time, Kevin and Nancy had been married. You know how the wrestlers have their storylines? Well, the Chris/Kevin story eventually lead to Nancy, who played a character known simply as "Woman" in the wrestling industry, had been having an affair with Chris. Kevin, Nancy's then husband, was not only cool with this fantasy, but he helped to write the story! In order to make it more realistic, Nancy and Chris were seen hanging out alone, they were often purposely discovered out in public on romantic dates, etc. Well, eventually this pretend affair turned into the real deal; the pair fell in love. Nancy divorced Kevin and married Chris, understandably creating a rift between the three. Kevin always blamed his former friend for the disillusion of his marriage. So, knowing this, there are some things which do not sit right.

First, and this is chalked up to coincidence, but at 12:01 am on Sunday morning, before anyone was aware of the murders, Nancy's death was announced on a wiki page. This has been explained away as a silly fan prank, but it's still odd. More worrisome are the statements from Chavo, which have made many people question the whole thing. We've already discussed that he had been in contact with Chris throughout the weekend. He's stated that during an early weekend call with Chris, someone came to the door; Chavo listened to what he would later describe as a scuffle, then the call disconnected. A few hours later Chris contacted his good buddy to say that all was well, and he ended the conversation with "I love you Chavo". This unnerved Chavo; he said that Chris sounded tired, and he was concerned for his friend. Again, Chavo and Chris had been very close, they hung out all the time. One of Chris's final texts to Chavo read, "My physical address is 130 Green Meadow Lane, Fayetteville Georgia. 30215". Why would Chris send his best buddy his address when Chavo knew exactly where he lived? Though I can not confirm this, it is reported that some of these texts were sent after Chris was already dead. Another bothersome fact, there were empty beer cans found near Chris's corpse, but autopsy concluded that the wrestler had not been drinking. So, who drank all of that beer? And do you remember the neighbor lady, Holly Schrepfer? She claims to have seen another wrestler near the Benoit home during this weekend, a wrestler who had absolutely no reason to be there. If all of this weren't enough, these murders took place on the 10th anniversary of Kevin and Nancy's divorce!

Now I'm not giving my opinion on this case, just telling you what I found during my research. That said, one thing is for sure: it doesn't appear that police conducted a thorough investigation of the case. It was automatically deemed a family annihilator situation, and that was that; Nancy's family claims that the police had left behind suitcases of steroids; these definitely should've been seized during the a search of the home. If they missed illegal substances, what else didn't they pick up on?

http://www.ign.com/boards/threads/24-reasons-that-will-prove-that-chris-benoit-is-innocent.453787849/

Out of this entire case, one fact chilled me to the bone when researching this case. You'll find very little mention of it, but young Daniel had a large kitchen knife tucked under his pillow at the time of his death. Why would a 7 year old boy be sleeping with a knife? Was he afraid, and if he was, of who? What did that child know, what had he witnessed during this weekend of hell? Had he been aware of his mama's murder, was he aware that he was next?

*There's much, much more to this, I could be here writing for a few more days but I wanna go ahead and post this. If you'd like to jump down this vast rabbit hole with me, here's a link to get you started. You gotta check the facts with links like these, but this one will get you started. Let me know what you think!