#and also warning for gore and horror on my page

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Hiya! I’m so happy your requests are open omg your writing is impeccable. So I’ve been with this concept in my head for so long since I read this prompt somewhere: what is with your weird fascination with me?

And just immediately my head started creating a story about reader having the nickname ‘Death’ because she has the highest body count known, skilled as no other and, also, imposible to know on a deeper level because she is like a wall, not letting anyone in. Until John Price needs her for a mission and is, as the prompt says, fascinated by her (and feeling other things he doesn’t want to admit), and is able to break her a little when he gets hurt in a mission after months of working together.

Glory to the Reaper

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: He was strange, you admitted to yourself. Always around even when you didn't want him to be. But perhaps the Brit just might surprise you.

WORDCOUNT: 5.8k

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, death, gore, canon typical violence, avoidance tactics, fluff, pining, hurt/comfort, etc.

A/N: I switched around the codename but it's still the same plot! Enjoy, Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Your eyes slip over the file on the table, slowly caressing the parchment with easy and careful consideration of every word and comma—searching. Focusing. You hum under your breath and slide the page away to spy on the one behind it, the room quiet and the air cold. Outside the window the entire compound is asleep, only the light of the street lamps illuminating the land; inside this office, your feet barely shuffle over the tuft of the rug.

Clicking your tongue, you go to the next document in the pile. 

The still-warm body flinches and jerks below you, but you barely notice—he hadn’t put up much of a fight; wasn’t memorable. Sighing and itching over the mask along the bottom of your face, you snatch the last six papers from the desk and fold them four times, stuffing them into your vest pocket. 

Stalking with sure steps, you press into the radio on your gear as you step over the body and head to the door. Bloody bootprints follow behind you like a crimson shadow of surefire death.

“Actual, intel secured. Heading to Evac now.” Laswell was listening intently on the other end, your Op of the highest priority. 

You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t, surely. The small click from the other end greets you as you shove open the office’s door and saunter down the hallway paved with glints of marble and pools of viscera like a Roman horror story. Eyes numbly slide past the scores of bodies; necks slit and stomachs burst from bullets fired through silencers. 

“Good job, Tomb,” Laswell utters, voice fast and serious as always. “What’s the clean-up status?”

Your lips flinch upward, “I suggest fire and a prayer, Actual. But no one knows I’m here. Main house is neutralized.” 

A small pause later and a huff of dull amusement. 

“Copy, Tomb. Your ride is waiting—best not to miss it, we need you back sooner than later.” The structure of your lungs rearranges in a small chuckle that echoes off the ceiling; molten silver from the moon slips over your darkened form. The patch upon your right shoulder is illuminated in steady intervals, the familiar image of a mausoleum and a guarding Sphinx. 

Alone, that patch is, with no other dark affiliations beyond that demonic cause. Many see it right before they meet their end, but the insignia was entirely left to ruin—no one sees it and lives besides other soldiers.

“Copy.” Your voice is easy and bland as the curtains from the single open window shake in the breeze. “Tell the boys I’m on my way.” You pass the window and slap a gloved hand to it, hearing the squeak of the frame as it hits back down before you turn the corner, slinking away to reform into a figure that evokes grim glances and sliced sentences. 

—

You stare into blue eyes with a sheen of disinterest coating your own, hands stuffed into your pockets and gear heavy on your chest. From your shoulder, the strap of your rifle sits as you speak, tilting your head, “Captain Jonathan Price of Task Force 141.” 

The man was tall, you admit, fit and formed to harsh military life. Undoublity he’d been in the service for decades. You’d seen his face before—the brunette beard and the strong jaw; small eyes with wrinkles, it’s how you had ID’d him. Plus the bucket hat. Laswell had told you he’d been inquiring about your file and you’d done your own digging off the books. 

John grunts a greeting before nodding.

“Pleasure. Tomb, was it?” On the tarmac, you glance around with stiff shoulders as the blades of the helicopter slow down behind you. Morning was just on the horizon, and you hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep on the flight back.

Lips thin, before your vision slides back into place. John’s hands are crossed casually, but his blue holds glints of intrigue. You don’t like that. “...The one and only. Excuse me.” 

Walking past, you move like a crane, legs taking long, steady, strides. A hand comes up to scratch at your cheek through your face covering. Laswell was expecting you immediately. 

And those feet at your side were not supposed to be there. Your eyes shimmer lowly at the shadow of John as he follows.

“Should tell you that Laswell’s in building two, then.” Pace halting, the Captain continues off on his own as your sharp gaze burns into his neck. He spares a glance over his expansive shoulder before adjusting his course to the East. “Told me to bring you to her. We need to have a little chat, yeah?”

You stay silent, watching John travel to the larger building where Laswell was apparently now waiting for you. After a still minute where you listen to the birds waking up and the scent of dew is in your hidden nostrils, you sigh deeply and roll your shoulders before beginning to walk behind. 

“Hm,” Garbled grunts are only heard by you as you stay well enough back from the man. Cautious as you stare at his head. 

He holds the door open for you when you finally make it, and you stand blankly from the opening as John’s calloused hand clenches over the door. When you don’t enter, the Captain shakes his head and releases a deep chuckle. 

“Alright, then,” he mutters, shuffling through the door first. You follow the strain of his back until you look away and reach for the barrier, pushing it back from you. Making your way inside, you sigh and wonder what you’re getting into. 

“Laswell said you don’t like strangers,” eyes peek back at you as the buzzing from the overhead lights echoes in your ears. Your throat releases a hum; shoulders showing a picture of wound ease. “Can’t say she’s wrong, now can you?”

Watching another soldier pass the two of you, you tilt your head to make sure the stranger’s footsteps turn the corner before you answer John’s question with a raised brow to mirror his own. 

“Did she also tell you that I don’t plan on joining One-Four-One, Captain?” His bearded smirk catches you slightly off-guard, perplexed by not even the hint of shock in his gaze. He’d done his research.

John grunts as his eyelids narrow, amused. Your muscles tense.

“Affirmative.” The meeting room door is opened and this time he allows you to ease your paranoia by slinking in first. 

In the room sits an occupied Laswell, a long table, a projector, and black-out windows. Confused but used to last-minute changes, you simply enter silently and pick a chair with your back to the wall and a good view of the room. 

“Laswell,” you utter in greeting as the woman hums a hello, shifting through numerous files. In your breast pocket, you pull out the files you’d stolen and toss them onto the wood. John stands near the entrance with crossed arms, hips shifting every so often as his feet re-situate themselves. 

He blinks down at the papers and then back to you with a careful glance at Kate.

Your Station Chief chuckles when she looks at you, tilting her head before she snatches the prize. 

“Good work as always, Tomb.” 

“Why is he here?” You get to the point, one hand going up to brush over your hair as the other sits limply on the seat’s arm. Your gear sits heavy on you, but that brutal tic of curiosity blooms. 

John’s lips twitch before he answers, “An offer. Knew I wouldn’t be able to meet if Laswell wasn’t the mediator, eh? You’re bloody difficult to track down.”

“Offer?” Small talk never mattered to you, hadn’t since you’d signed up, and probably never would. You didn’t understand why people beat around the bush—just say what you need to say and get it over with. There was only so much time in a day. 

It seemed John Price carried part of that opinion as well. 

Blunt, you admit to your opinion of the man, and sure of his strengths.

“I need your skill set.” Kate looks back and forth between you two before she focuses on her work, multitasking. John continues, pointing a hand at you in demonstration from their hold on his chest. “Mission in three days. Turkey…” He watches you closely as if gauging your abilities. “You in or out?” 

You wait in a dim silence for a minute or two before you tilt your body to Laswell, eyes still stuck in stormy blue and pale wrinkles inlaid with dirt. 

“Kate?” 

“Totally off the books,” the woman says confidently, pen sliding over paper. “Two targets in Bursa. There’s a file in your office.” Raising a brow, John hides his cheeky smile behind a bored mask.

“Take your Lieutenant,” you glare, “Ghost, was it?”

Price shakes his head, hat flinching along with it. “On assignment. I’ll need an answer today, Tomb. Time’s ticking.”

Your jaw clenches in annoyance, “Capture or kill?” 

John shrugs nonchalantly, “Either. Is this a yes or a no?”

In this game of cat and mouse, you find yourself slipping. Your obligations as a soldier call to you to take the mission immediately, but for the simple fact that this Captain was unknown to you—and apparently, you weren’t unknown to him. 

John was checking all of the boxes of people you didn’t like to be around.

Your voice grits out, eyes burning in their glare, “...When?” 

His smirk makes you want to storm out.

“Tomorrow. 1300.” The air in the room is thick, tense like a thick layer of molasses was overtop everything. Under the table, your foot taps to the steady beat of your heart, your face tensed, and the layers of your facemask suddenly too formed to your neck and chin. 

Twitching your nose you dig your eyes into John, peeling down his expansive shoulders and chest to take in the layers of packs and other miscellaneous items. His thigh holders and the way they hug his legs. You end with one last dead-on look into his eyes, trying to pinpoint intentions and flay the lines of his brain. 

Most people glance away, but John returns the look with a casual tilt of his head and a raised brow. Not at all off-put. 

Your hand steadily clenches over the chair. 

All you give him is a firm nod—nothing more than a mere jerk of your chin. Kate sighs from where she’d been watching. 

“Perfect. John,” she points her pen at the Captain as you both stare off. John grunts before his eyes flicker to the side, leisurely roving back moments later. You blink and rub your forehead. “You have your answer. Now would the both of you get the fuck out of here?”

“Copy, Kate.” John sighs, and you huff; standing as you plan out the amount of time you have to clean up and sleep before you have to leave. With an easy brush of your shoulders, your form shimmies past the Captain with dull enthusiasm. 

You weren’t happy about this, but fine. You’ve been through worse. 

As you shuffle down the hallway to the armory, your ears quirk when the footsteps ring in the drums of your ears like a hiking beacon. Already you’d memorized the walking pattern. 

The thump-bump, bump-thump, of boots and the clink-clank of metal on metal. Shoving down a growl you hiss out into the air, not turning around. 

“Problem, Price?” A gruff humph bounces. 

“Negative, Tomb.” His shadow comes to conjoin with yours, large body standing side-by-side. Eyes flash to the side of your face, hidden from all by the cloth—like a bored cat, you continue to pave your way to silence; hoping whatever thought this man had in his head would disappear. “Just curious, see.” 

“Curious?” your brow raises, the make of your muscles showing your unease. “Can’t help you with that.” 

“No, probably not, eh?” John grunts and reiterates as strange emotion spikes in the lines of his face as he glances along you. “Tomorrow. 1300. Don’t be late.” With nothing more, he halts and pivots, peeling back to leave your side as his sudden absence leaves you devoid of heat. 

Confusion breeds in your chest, but your steady legs carry you on until your tension leaves. Under your breath you utter a question as you enter the armory, shuffling your rifle off of your chest. “What the hell was that about?”

—

Price and you stand inside the safehouse with fast hearts and narrowed eyes. Blood was dripping down your hands, the black gloves flooded with gore that sure as hell doesn’t belong to you. 

“Fuck,” John growls, guttural reverberations echoing off the walls. With stiff ribs, you go and lightly peel back the fabric of the nearest window to study the street below; looking for any suspicious figures. Frowning, you see nothing and let the curtain fall, eyes wafting to the Captain. 

“We either lost them or they have surveillance on the building. Best for you to not leave either way.” The mission had gone sideways—apparently one of the targets had an ID on John as a member of One-Four-One. One thing led to another and resulted in you sticking a knife into some man’s gut to get away when he’d been spotted. You blink at his agitated expression, the black beanie on his head ruffled as he runs a hand over it.

But you don’t say anything else. Peeling off your gloves, you listen to him as a rain of blood splatters the carpet. 

“This sets us back—since when does bloody fuckin’ Metin Baydar know who I am?” John’s hands are clenched, jaw so tight you wonder if his molars will crack under the pressure. A smirk twitches your lips at the thought. “Tomb,” you slowly tilt your eyes to him. The man sets his lips and crosses his arms, the brown casual wear in his chest bunching. “I’ll need you to be my eyes on this, yeah? If I leave this position I jeopardize your safety.”

“My safety?” you huff a laugh and push your gloves into your loose pants. “Captain, I don’t need you to worry about my safety.” 

He seems to pause for a moment, and with a shake of his head his blue eyes shutter closed. A deep, tight, breath is taken and those tiny lids are forced back as you lock gazes. You send a blank look his way and he nods firmly.

“Keep low.” Is all he grunts, feet standing apart and his stare intense. “Copy?” 

A swirl of amusement dances in your gut—you tap the earpiece in your shell with a stained streak of blood on your fingers. John stares, unreadable.

“I’ll leave when the streets cool. Just keep on the line so I can relay my intel, Price.” After a moment of silence, your eyes tighten with intrigue. “How do you wonder Baydar knew your face?” Standing by the window again, you peek out and keep John in view. His form shuffles, and he scoffs before walking beside you. Over your shoulder, he also views the buildings and businesses below. You still at the sensation of his breath on the back of your head, hand twitching over the curtain. It ruffles your hair for a moment before you snap out of it, eyes blinking rapidly. “Your Task Force isn’t exactly known,” you finish your sentence, voice strained. 

Clearing his throat, as if realizing how close he’d gotten with only the intention of gazing outside, the man’s form jerks back; taking a step or two away to give you distance. Your far-gone eyes blankly continue to look outside but your chest gains some tension to it. You don’t know why.

This Brit is strange. You frown, watching a cat traverse the concrete far below. Not that I really have much to go off of. 

“Haven’t a clue.” John sighs again, one hand going to itch at his chin. “Your guess is as good as mine. One thing I do know is that we have to fix this. Now.” 

“You should tell Laswell,” you mutter, turning around and walking past him to stand around your packs—all of which hold your gear. Your knife was set into a small sheath inside your shirt, leather wrapped around your waist as you stopped near the coffee table. You pull the lip of your clothes up and grasp at it before peeling the metal out with an inquisitive eye. 

If there was any breakage to the tip, you’d be furious. 

John watches from across the room, catching glances at your bare skin riddled with scars and burns; unmarred flesh foreign. He feels his breath hitch before you drop your shirt back down and bring the blade into the light. 

Holding it parallel, you gaze along the edge and tilt your head, eyelids half-closed. 

“Kate?” Price answers you, clearing his throat. “No, it’s better not to create any more shite. She’ll be good off not knowing, yeah?” The brunette’s brow raises in question.

You hum and don’t reply. 

The rest of the mission was spent with the two of you conversing over the open line of your comms as you scoured the streets for any sign of the target, feet carrying you over the city as the chill of the late afternoon set in. Presently, you didn’t know how to feel about your situation. Working with others was a strain on your focus—on the walls you’ve built up; John had obviously noticed that you didn’t exactly play well with others. It was plainly stated in your file, after all. 

“—attitude, or lack thereof, is a detriment to the structure of any team/unit/platoon that she is placed into under all circumstances. Recommended reserved operations to limit drawbacks.” 

Having a pleasant attitude wasn’t your job. 

Stalking around the corner, your ears twitch to John’s voice. “Sitrep, Tomb. What’s it looking like out there?” 

It was strange, then, that the man over the line was so eager to speak to you. Your sigh hits on deaf ears, and you respond as you carefully walk past civilians making their way home.

“Quiet. No sign.” The silence re-settles and you gradually loosen again. Like a cat, your ears twitch to hear the muttering from the commuters; eyes sliding with watery film across faces. 

Baydar owns a restaurant as a front for funding terrorists. Anyone exiting from this direction could be part of it—

“You said you’d never join One-Four-One,” John’s voice makes you shove down a flinch, ripped out of your focus. In your pockets, your hands close into fists, and a deeply annoyed mask fits itself over your expression. “Why’s that, then?” 

“What is this?” Your voice goes cold, “interrogation time?”

“With a record like yours, you’d get pick of any Task Force or SOF in country.” The Captain seems to ignore your hiss and jab as his deep voice continues; accent low. You hear the drag of a cigar and the puff of smoke. Internally, you’re thankful for the casual yet attentive acknowledgment of your skills—how the man doesn’t seem in the slightest worried about you. “Why is it that you’re always alone out ‘ere? Couldn’t wrap my head ‘round it, truthfully.” A tobacco-slick chuckle, “Bloody hell, people would kill to get you on a mission like I did, eh? No doubt.” 

For a long time, you don’t answer, leaning against the wall across from your target’s restaurant doing recon. Frown tight and face stiff. John’s voice fizzles. 

“Ah, fuckin’ forget it Love, just a man’s curiosity speaking for ‘im. I’ll leave you to focus.” Before the line can click, you open your lips—as if the things have a mind of their own.

“People are unpredictable.” The Captain’s breath is gently puffing over the line. He listens and you know he hangs on every word; it was a strange feeling to know that. From under you, your feet shuffle. “They do things that don’t make sense. I don’t like dealing with it.”

A grunt. “Well, can get behind that…” John had a smirk on his lips, you can hear it. “You’d lose your head if you met MacTavish.” 

Your focus waning, you blink, getting sucked into this strange interaction with an even stranger man. 

“Yeah?” You wonder, head tilting to the side. “One of yours?”

“Hm,” he affirms and the chill of the night caresses your skin. John chuckles. “Sergeant. Bloody good shot, but can get into trouble faster than his fucking gun can fire.” 

Your mouth quirks. “Sounds horrible.”

“Makes my job a living hell,” John admits and you shock yourself by listening. “But no one better to keep by my six…You’d ease up to him.” 

“I’m not joining, Price,” Your voice mutters out like how a dragonfly snaps its translucent wings on still air. “This is it.”

In the safehouse, John hums under his breath, staring out the window at the blinking lights of the city as you watch the restaurant with far-off thoughts. A smile twitches his lips. For some reason there was something about you he wanted to figure out—something to unravel. You were like Ghost sometimes, but more… fascinating. Darker.

And you knew how to get the job done better than anyone.

John wanted you on his Task Force, your expertise, and the only way to get that was to take you apart like a puzzle of razor blades. Study you. Learn you as the edges cut up his flesh. The Captain had no idea what picture you’d make when everything was in its proper place, but he’d be willing to try with the very tenacity that had gotten him this far. 

But there was something else there, too. Some kind of tightness in his chest when you looked at him; he'd gotten it when he’d seen you on the tarmac back not so long ago like some schoolboy. Those blank eyes of yours…why did he want them to light up? 

Why did he want to see your laugh? 

John wasn’t immature enough to not know his own feelings or attractions, but this was an entire section of its own. Blinking, the man grunts to himself and smirks. “Well, better make it last, then.” 

You feel your eyelids carefully pull in surprise. 

“I…” Your voice starts but dies off, swallowing saliva down as your mouth clacks shut with a connection of teeth. Closing your eyes, you steady your heart, which had suddenly created a concerning skip in its beats. 

John places the cigar back to his lips and takes a long drag, leaning out of the window to watch the smoke disappear into the twinkling lights. Lips peeling his beard hairs back.

—

As it turned out, the mission in Turkey wasn’t the only time you’d have to deal with John Price, and it certainly wasn’t the last time you’d see his face in front of yours. One mission turned into two—two into three and so on. You hadn’t exactly wanted it, but you found you couldn’t turn him down either. 

At whichever base you were stationed at, all of a sudden he’d just show up; standing on the tarmac with his arms crossed and that casual set to his shoulders. The first time you’d seen him after Turkey, you had half convinced yourself he was a mirage. And then he’d smirk at you and tilt his head and you’d have no control over your words. 

It was pathetic…disgusting…it was…it was…

You shake yourself back to the present when a bullet whizzes past your head, a sharp call from across the utter warzone you’d found yourself in the middle of.

“Tomb, what in the hell’s wrong with you?!” John’s voice is harsh, and you lock onto it. “Get your gun up!” 

You sigh, unperturbed. Peaking past the large crate you use as cover, your eyes glare at the enemy soldiers across the dock, fixing your finger’s position over your M4A1. The small unit you’d been dragged into by John was mostly dead—only four of you remaining from the ten.

It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. 

Jerking back, a splintering of wood explodes in front of you as the next fast piece of metal nearly takes your nose off. With a grit of your teeth, you flick your safety off and swivel your shoulders. 

Popping from the top of the crate, your sharp eyes lock onto the first visible body before you press your finger to the trigger with practiced ease as the word shrieks all around you. Recoil is eaten into the padded kevlar of the junction of your shoulder and arm. 

When you dart back, the body has yet to hit the ground. 

“There she is!” John calls, and you look forward with a steady stare as the brunette laughs from behind his own crate a few feet away. “Keep your head in the game, Tomb.”

You frown, normal facemask back over your chin hiding it. While you loathe to admit it, John had grown on you in these…what was it…? Months? Yes, that seemed about right.

Months of joint missions. You could hardly believe that he’d dragged you out like this.

“Tell the others to flank,” Your voice whisps over the line like smoke, “Left side—there’s a gap in the crates.”

John looks you in the eyes and blinks, eyelids twitching. With his beard covered in gunpowder, the man looks across the open space between the gunbattle to the left. Sure enough, right before he’s forced to snap back down to cover, the Captain spies a very well-hidden gap in the defenses.

He smiles viciously like a dog, and barks a laugh to you, nodding, “Good eye! Boys,” the two don’t pause their assault but call their questioning voices over the line. You don’t listen, occupied with giving off bursts of gunfire and trying to avoid the eyes of your fellow dead soldiers. Your lungs are compressed inside of your ribcage like prisoners. “Flank left. We’ll cover you!” 

“Sir!” Steadying your breath, you avoid John’s confused glances and scoff to yourself, resituating your clammy hands. 

When all’s said and done the four of you are the only ones left. Letting your gun sit on your chest you use the body as an armrest, allowing it to hang off the side from the trigger-guard. Your fingers twitch, and as John speaks to the two men, you stare silently at the gushing bodies of your fellows like phantoms spring from their chests.

John’s voice slows when he sees you apart from them, glancing at the soldiers at your feet before ordering the remaining men to get to the evac point. They try to argue everyone should be going together, and on all accounts, they’re completely right, but John won’t hear it. 

“Go—that’s an order.” Reluctantly, the two glance at each other and speed off. 

You jolt at a call of your name, head turning to face stormy blue as they gaze at you with concern. Stopping a few feet away, John stands still and folds his arms, face going rigid with concern as he glances you over for wounds.

His head slightly leans in, chin down.

“...You alright?” Hand flinching, you clear your throat. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You ask, fixing the position of your feet and forcing away the images of dead bodies and blank eyes. 

You’d seen scores of men dead before—friend and foe—but you had thought you’d never have to see more of your own fall. It had been a long time since you’d felt the distant lull of numb horror in the back of your brain; like some ocean wave that drowns you under every time it comes back. It always comes back. 

John narrows his eyes and frowns deeply, glancing around and hiding the slight way his right arm sags. 

“Tomb?” He says it so lowly that you really have to focus, ears straining. That gravel was back, and you found yourself latching onto it. “Eh, you just focus on me, yeah? I’m right ‘ere.” 

“I know,” you snap, eyes shuttering away only to find more vacant stares. You flinch back and look up into the sky; a sudden burn in your brain that you need to quell.

The man grows even more concerned with you, taking a step forward and clenching his jaw. He studies you, your shaking tension and the clench and loosening of your fists—attention always on you but roving to the dead men all around. Something clicks with a violent inhale.

John moves to you without a word and grasps you around the shoulders quickly. You gasp at that, immediate reaction to shove away, but only gape at the warmth that he brings you instead—the steady presence and chest to lean on. As the Brit drags you, you focus instead on calming your breathing. 

The Captain lightly shimmies down your facemask and you suck down tight air as you go limp into his side. 

“C’mon, Tomb. It’s alright. I’m here. I’m right here.” He’s muttering to you, disguising his pained grunts in favor of taking care of you. 

That strange affection for you had grown in your time together…not that he’d said anything. It was more proper of him to watch out from a distance, not sure of your own feelings or the probability of you gazing back at him with the same amount of concealed longing. Many a night he’d sat on his bed and wondered. Wondered how an animal so extraordinary and remarkable took the form of a woman with a black sphinx patch and sharp eyes. 

John had heard you laugh once through your expeditions together—sniping in Greenland. Once had been enough; if he never heard it again, he could still recall the pitch and frequency to the yawning of his soul. He didn’t need to hear it again. 

It was locked into the fabric that made up your skin and speech, and every time he stared at you he could find it in your eyes. 

The Captain puts you down near a crate around the corner, letting you lean into it as he turns and captures your neck from either side. You shake under him, blurry vision stuck to his dog tags as they wink against his chest. 

“Tomb,” John says again, and with a lick of your chapped lips, you carefully turn your head up. Blue eyes crease worriedly. The thumbs on the sides of your neck caress up and down your rapid pulse steadily; calluses creating stimuli. A small smile meets you. “There we are, atta girl. Focus.”

Tears dribble down your cheeks, and you flatten your lips, whispering out brokenly, “I said I don’t like teams.”

John’s heart breaks. 

“Oh, Sweetheart,” his hand captures the back of your head and you’re brought into a deep and firm embrace—gear pinching and prodding but neither of you care. 

When was the last time you’d been held like this? The feeling makes your mouth quiver, your face stuck into the junction of the Brit’s neck and shoulder.

“John…” You whimper out and his arms around you only tighten—his tense nose shoved into your scalp as his eyes closed tightly. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, heart racing, “I’m so, so, sorry.” 

You don’t know long he holds you there, the air filled with blood and death but just so soundly resting atop his vest and limp to his gentle swaying. The tears dry at some point, they always have to. Sniffling, your burning face takes in the scent of beard oil and gunpowder and you find yourself calmed by it.

Calmed by John. 

The man holding you waits a moment more before he slightly leans back, staring down at you intently; nervously. You lick at the tears drying into the line of your mouth to taste the saltiness on your tongue as fingers grasp at your chin. 

Angled up, your face is on full display. 

John sighs and the drowned keratin of your lashes flutters, embarrassment flooding you. His eyes crease before his hands come up to take away your sorrows with a soft brush of his digits. The man clears his throat tinily, voice deep with emotion.

“Better?” Your eyes dip away from his, knowing you’d been staring. 

“I…” Glancing over his right shoulder absentmindedly, you only get a word off before you see a fountain of red. Blinking away the last of your tears, John’s finger on your cheek stops moving as you freeze—stiff to the touch. 

His panic spikes again. 

“What’s going on—”

“When did you get hit?” Your voice is hard and laced with something you can’t name. Shaving back from John you frantically grab at his arm. In an instant, the Captain is whirled around and shoved back into the crate; he grunts loudly, eyes snapping wide.

“Fuckin’ hell.” He grumbles, but flinches when you peel at the bloodied layers of his compression shirt. John smirks, letting your touch rove him as your nose scrunches. He represses a shiver at the bite of your nails, whispering out, “If you wanted to throw me ‘round, Love…all you had to do was ask.” 

You blink rapidly and turn your fast gaze to his eyes as you stutter, fingers covered in blood and holding apart the fabric of his outfit to show a bullet graze to his pale upper bicep. John’s cheeky smirk grows and against all the pain and the dark corners, you feel a bubbling in your gut. 

A small chuckle snakes out, like twinkling bells. 

“Shut up,” your smile leaves him breathless, smirk falling to a small open-mouthed screen of obvious admiration. A hum marks the back of his throat, eyebrows loosely curving upon his forehead. 

You look over and find him like this—his gaze trapping you like his arms had. Like music, it takes you into its melody. Staring, your smile, gradually too, leaks out. 

“What are you doing?” Your question is breathy. "What is your fascination with me?" John’s eyes stick with you, the shining, shimmering, blue. There are tempests held there and if this man was anything, he was a storm of intentions and promises. 

“Looking,” John answers lowly. "Just looking." 

You take down a breath, “At what, John?”

He chuckles at you, face close and pleasant, “Y’know, I haven’t quite figured that one out yet, Love.” 

Blindly you wonder how the world can still turn while you both stand here—was it, even? How can life go on when such things are uttered to light? When they’re buried deep into your marrow like the dirt on top of a grave? 

How can the Reaper knock at your doorways when love exists in such quantity…in the fractures of his eyes? Only when his lips brush yours do you understand. 

It’s all here, and then it’s gone. Nothing can truly be as it was in the past, and therein lies the small, glorious, deaths. Both a blessing and a curse.

Your lips press deeply into one another and the blood of old wounds dries. 

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

[chains-of-destiny]

Few families can say that they've been blessed by the gods, and even fewer can count ancestors as illustrious and celebrated as Niemon, your great-grandfather. He was the very man who led the rebellion against a tyrannical magocracy and laid the founding stones for a free and fair republic. Your family was destined for greatness and respect, but your grandfather ruined it all… You are the heir to House Serin, and the burden of your family's legacy weighs heavily on you. However, your destiny is much greater than that of your forefathers, maybe even the great Niemon's. So, let the chronicles begin! But remember, the chains of destiny are strong and will not be easily broken. Do you have the power to defy fate?

This is the first book of Chains of Destiny, a planned trilogy where you step into the shoes of the heir to House Serin. Set in the fictional continent of Runsas, your choices will not only shape your life but also impact the lives of those around you and the future of the republic. Uncover the secrets behind your grandfather's betrayal, break free from the chains that bind you, and finally take control of your destiny.

The game is more character/story-focused and places less emphasis on stats.

[Link to the demo]

Total word count: ~190k words (as of 2024/05/01)

ROs | Forum Page  | Update Log

The intention is not to make the story as dark as possible but to establish a living, breathing world that exists within the setting it found itself in. So, you will not be swimming in a sea of blood and body parts, it is not the point of the story. Still, I feel obliged to warn any potential players before playing this game, as certain scenes contain things that may not be for everyone.

Reader Discretion Advised: This content may be disturbing or triggering for some players. Proceed with caution and consider your own emotional well-being before continuing.

[Content warning] - this game currently contains (or will contain in the future):

Strong language

Graphic scenes of violence

Graphic depictions of injuries, wounds, and corpses

Scenes of physical and emotional abuse

Blood and gore

Dark and disturbing themes

Body horror - Transformation (skippable)

Alcohol and drug use

Mentions and references to animal death

Mutilation

Physical and psychological Trauma

War crimes

Manipulation and gaslighting

Themes of authoritarianism and oppression/discrimination of certain groups of people

Themes of war and conflict

- The list may or may not expand as the development progresses.

Also, this story was created purely out of my passion for writing. It does not intend to preach or lecture anyone about any particular topic or belief.

If you feel that any part of this game is preaching or trying to convey a specific message, it is unintentional, and I sincerely apologize. The primary goal is to provide an enjoyable and fun experience for everyone.

PS: I should've already made a post like this in the beginning, but somehow I just forgot to.😄

[grimoireofhayley]

Of Friends and Horror

Stu Macher x Fem!Reader x Billy Loomis

WARNINGS: Graphic content, Smut (MINORS DNI), Language, Talks of SA, Cheating, Obsessiveness, Gore, 18+ Content, Stalking, Possessiveness, Dirty talk, Religion talk, Suppressed Mental Health problems (I.e., reader has some issues that she isn’t aware of)

Word Count: 1.2k

Tag List: @ev3ningrain @nerdytif @fanfic-enjoyer123 @darkenwolfie

A/N: I hope you all are enjoying this series so far, it’s going to be a long one! Let me know in the comments what you think about it thus far, what your favourite chapter is, or even part of a chapter. It makes my day reading your guys’ comments (: and it motivates me more to do more chapters! Also, I’m almost at 100 followers and I couldn’t be any more grateful 🥹 I’m thinking that once I hit the 100 mark, I’ll write a short story for said 100th follower of their choice! Or you guys can request any character for me to write about and a prompt on my page, it’ll make it a lot easier lol. Thank you ☺️ I hope you like this chapter!

All chapter links! 👇🏻👇🏻👇🏻

OF&H Masterlist

Chapter 6

The atmosphere was quickly illuminated by red, white and blue hues as the now-new crime scene unfolded in front and inside of your house.

“Jesus, (Y/n), what happened?” Tatum sprinted to your side, maneuvering under the caution tape and into your living room.

You sighed, rubbing your temples in slow-soothing circles, stress appearing in dark patches under your eyes.

“He was here…” You whispered, traumatized as the image of Steve’s heart flickered in your memories.

“Tatum, you shouldn’t be here. This is official police business, now.” Dewey scolded his younger sister, walking up beside her.

“Ugh, as if…” She rolled her eyes, “She’s staying with Sidney and I tonight. I was coming to pick her up…”

“That was still happening… even after the fight Sidney and I had?” You looked up at Tatum, momentarily forgetting about all the fuss that was going on around you.

“Yep, it’s a good thing too.” Tatum chuckled, sitting next to you. “I don’t care what happened between you and Sid earlier, you were my friend first and I’ll be damned if I let a bitch-fit between the two of you get in the way.” She nudged your shoulder, playfully. You smiled, but it quickly faded, hearing the staticky-voice over Dewey’s walkie-talkie.

“Dewey, you might want to come see this.” Sheriff Burke spoke, concern coaxing his words.

Your stomach twisted in all sorts of directions, squeezing tightly at the acid that was forming in it, causing it to travel up to your esophagus. You were ready to vomit, but you swallowed it, fighting the feeling, not wanting to go anywhere by yourself.

You wondered what Sheriff Burke meant.

“Right away, Sir.” Dewey spoke into his device, walking into the direction of where his boss was.

“So, what exactly happened, ( N/n)?”

“I got a phone call, then it quickly escalated from there…” You placed your hands over your face, futilely attempting to suffocate yourself with the pressure. “I thought nothing of it at first, but I-I was already getting the heebie-jeebies from the call, but he sounded genuine, so I ignored the feeling and kept talking to him…” You brought your hands to your lap, looking at Tatum, “Then the ph-phone went silent and at that exact moment, my doorbell r-rang…” You stumbled your sentence, struggling to find the proper words to continue explaining. “I was hesitant, so I peeped through the eyehole, trying to see if anyone was lurking about, but there was no one.” You sighed, “I decided I’d open the door, and you know, maybe get a better look, again, there was no one.” A tear rolled down your cheek.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, take it easy..” Tatum tried to comfort you and brought you into a hug, you were quick to wrap your arms around her, squeezing her, as you whimpered.

“Th-There was this box, and I didn’t think twice before I brought it into my home… oh, god.” You sobbed, “His heart was in it, Tatum, his fuckin’ heart!” Your voice broke.

“Hold on, whose heart?” She asked, baffled by what she was hearing.

“Steve’s.” You let out a quiet mewl, hugging Tatum tighter.

“How do you know?”

“Because he said it in the note and I-I believe it.” You sobbed yet again, “That’s not e-even the worst part…”

As bad as that may sound, it was true, the heart in the box wasn’t your main concern, but the fact that he was watching you, that he admitted it over the note that he had sloppily written, that he stated it over the phone; he was there, he could have been in your house the entire time, waiting for a moment to strike.

You could have been his next victim, the next book Gale Weathers would’ve written about. However, what’s even more concerning is that you thought it was sweet that he’d given you one of your biggest heartbreaks in a box. Pun intended.

The killer gave you Steve Orth’s heart; the guy that gave you both hell and pure bliss behind closed doors. The guy who seen you at your most vulnerable, the one who continued to defile you even when he was in a relationship.

You had his heart, officially. That’s all you ever wanted, but that was months ago.

This was karma doing what she did best, revenge…

Did the killer know about the affair? The humiliation? Did he kill Steve just for you? No, he couldn’t have, but did he? Was he someone you knew? Probably not, but he could be. You’ll never know and it’s eating you up inside. Why make a grand gesture and not show who he is, or even give you a subtle hint of who it may be.

As much as it scared you, it also humbled you. It was romantic, but completely unnecessary, yet, you wanted to thank him. Thank the stranger; the killer, for doing God’s dirty work, or in this case, Karma’s.

What is wrong with you? For fuck’s sake, he killed two people, and probably will kill again. Why would you want to thank him for that, are you that depraved? Maybe.

“Earth to (Y/n)?” Tatum snapped her fingers in front of your face, startling you from the never ending thoughts that corroded your mind.

“S-Sorry, what?” You stuttered, wiping a single tear from your cheek.

“I thought I lost you there for a moment, Hun. Dewey wants to speak with you…” She smiled, lightly, nodding towards her brother who appeared out of nowhere.

“Okay.. yeah, y-yeah, for sure..” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

You pushed yourself off the couch, making your way to the kitchen with Dewey.

“We’re sending the heart and the box away for DNA testing to see if it actually is Steve’s heart, alright?” Dewey explained, “We also want to take the note…” He stopped, turning around, picking up some other object, “And this to see if the suspect had left any fingerprints.” He showed it to you, and you paled, but the colour soon came back to your face as you felt yourself blush.

You were met with a paper-white face with two hollowed eyes and a gaping mouth, it was a mask, a mask that looked utterly horrifying, yet, disturbingly attractive at the same time.

Was it wrong that you were starting to get wet from the sheer thought of a possible tall and muscular man killing for you, wearing this mask?

Probably, but you didn’t care.

You squeezed your thighs together, putting pressure on your heat, trying to not let it slide that the mask was getting you off.

“We found this outside in the bushes by your house.” Dewey said, “Have you seen it before?”

You shook your head, biting your lip, you’ve never seen that before in your life, you’d be sure to remember it if you did. Though, now that you did see it, it wasn’t going to leave your mind, especially with how it was making you feel.

‘It almost looks like a Ghost Fac—‘ You cut yourself off mid thought.

“G.F…” You mumbled at no one in particular, “That’s what it stands for, Ghost Face, the killer dubbed himself as Ghost Face…”

<- Previous Next ->

[afterartist]

⚠️⚠️WARNING: BLOOD AND GORE/ BODY HORROR!! ⚠️⚠️

Yeah I lied again-

There is angst

BUTTTT- it comes with an AU redesign so you can’t be mad at me >:3

Almond!! Aka: my take on Backrooms Sans

Been playing some backrooms games recently and had the uncontrollable urge to redesign Almond because I genuinely wasn’t happy with the first design :/

There’s been quite a lot of differences, to both lore and character design

For example how Almond ended up in the backrooms (teleporting as the game got uninstalled on the players computer)

The AU also has an actual name now!! Un(der)install

Yes spelled like that with brackets and all

(Also, for ease of clarification, I’ve decided Almond uses It/It’s pronouns, but it didn’t discover that about itself until it got stuck in the backrooms, so any misgendering on the UT cast’s part is unintentional as they genuinely do not know :D ))(if you don’t agree with Neo pronouns you can get off my page btw, go stub your toe asshole)

And finally, I couldn’t resist the urge to draw Almond in the mirror meme

I’m so cringe /pos

Don’t ask me how it found a mirror in the backrooms idfk

Link to original design if you’re curious!!

[calliemity]

Orin Scrivello's Lost Head Prop: A Masterpost

Written and researched by Calliope Avery

Content Warning: Very very mild and low quality special effects gore, implied violence, uncanny valley stuff(?), Orin Scrivello's face.

Little Shop of Horrors (1986) has an unfortunate reputation of leaving a lot of really cool things on the cutting room floor. The most infamous would be the movie's original ending, a beautiful and impressive sequence of puppetry that ended up completely scrapped. However, today we're talking about a prop that never made it into the final movie in any form:

Orin Scrivello's Decapitated Head!!!

Pictured above are the only 2 photos of the prop in its original state that I can find at the moment. The left photo was taken for promotion and advertising purposes, and the right image is actually a Topps trading card! (Which I have a physical copy of, hehe!)

To put it bluntly, I am slightly (very) obsessed with this prop head. There's so much mystery around it, and everything I've managed to dig up both fascinates me and makes me very upset. So much thought and hard creative work was put into the creation of this thing, and it was left completely left out and forgotten! I desperately want more people to be aware of this, so here is my big and (hopefully) well organized masterpost on everything for your learning pleasure. Alright, let's talk about some heads!!!!!!!!!

Forming a Timeline

The earliest mention of the head can be found in an early draft of the movie script, dated February 14th, 1985. There's plenty of concepts in this script that never seemed to get past this draft, but the severed head concept was not one of them. Here, take a look!

source

This section, found on page 66 of the script, not only established the existence of the head, but also establishes the facial expression it will later take on! Clearly, this concept was good enough to be held onto once actual production started, which is good for us! If it wasn't, then this post would be a lot shorter.

Early production of the prop began after the actors were cast, as face molds of Steve Martin were created as bases for the head.

source for the left image - source for the right image

Oooo, check these guys out!!! The left one is made of plaster, and the right one is made of rubber. The website sourcing these images included a quote from Steve Martin about the casting process. Here's the full provided quote:

"These molds were taken of my head for Little Shop of Horrors. It was cast on the lot at Pinewood Studios outside of London, and I got exceedingly claustrophobic during the casting. My entire head was covered with plaster and two straws were placed in my nose for breathing. Argh." - Steve Martin

I unfortunately don't have much information about the crafting process of the prop. I'm currently trying to track down anyone who could've worked on it, but the few people I've managed to contact haven't responded to me yet. So I can't say anything concrete about who worked on it and what went into creating it. The only thing I can assume somewhat confidently is that the creation of the prop happened around the same time as filming for Orin's scenes. It would allow them to make the face molds and also match up Martin's post-mortem Orin face with the facial expression of the prop.

Here's where it starts going downhill. From what I've found, the prop was never filmed with its face toward the camera. In the workprint that I accessed from the Internet Archive, the prop appears for 2 shots, and both of them only show the back of the head. Take a look:

source - timestamp: 1:02:59

[Video description: a low quality, slightly green tinted video depicting a deleted scene from Little Shop of Horrors (1986) where Seymour is feeding the decapitated head of the dentist, Orin Scrivello, to the plant. The video starts with a man in glasses reaching into a garbage can and pulling out a dark-haired decapitated head, holding it upside-down by the fabric on its neck. The head is faced away from the camera, so only the back of its hair is visible. There are vines flailing in the foreground of the shot. The video cuts to a shot of the plant puppet laughing silently. The video cuts again to a shot of the man slowly shuffling forward while dangling the head in front and away from himself. The plant is seen on the left side, still laughing and flailing its vines. Throughout the video, there are brief flashes of light that resemble lightning. The video's audio only consists of thunder noises and an unidentifiable sound that resembles chewing noises. End ID.]

My best guess for this choice is maybe it isn't as convincing when filmed? In the photos it looks really well made and realistic, but perhaps it didn't come across that way during shots. Regardless, the head was still in the film at this point, so that counts for something!

But as you and I both know, those 2 shots were left on the cutting room floor, completely removed from the final product. The prop was left completely unused and unspoken of... except for one instance.

Remember the trading card I mentioned at the beginning? It's a part of a full set of trading cards that were made and distributed by the brand Topps. Back when the movie first came out, you could buy a pack of 5 mystery Little Shop of Horrors themed trading cards, along with a stick of bubblegum. This 44-card set is notable for featuring a lot, and I mean a LOT of images from cut movie scenes. There's photos of the original ending, there's photos from the cut sequence The Meek Shall Inhereit, and of course there's also the card featuring the prop head! However, those 2 sequences would later be rediscovered, cleaned up, and then added into the Director's Cut rerelease of the movie. The prop head wouldn't get this treatment, staying obscured, unknown, and unmentioned.

Fast forward about 30 years. A certain unused movie prop would be offered in an auction, allowing us to not only see high-quality photos of said prop in its current state, but also to allow us to know the exact materials it was made of! Without further ado, I present Orin Scrivello's decapitated head, circa 2018:

source

This absolute freak of a guy was up for auction at the "Profiles in History: Icons and Legends of Hollywood" auction on June 5th, 2018. No one ended up buying it (I would. I need to buy it actually. Please sell it to me.), but the auction gives us some absolutely divine information about the prop, such as what it's made of and its dimensions! Here's a quote from the auction website describing its materials:

"Vintage original hollow cast resin character head painted in realistic flesh tones with brown eyebrows and eyes. The 13 x 8 x 9 in. head has been polyfoam filled for stability. Exhibiting cracks to the crown, which is brittle and with other wear and age. A striking likeness of Steve Martin. In vintage good condition."

How neat! The high-resolution images allow us to see the detailed sculpting of the prop, which is still evident and impressive with its age and missing parts! The creases on the forehead, and around the mouth and eyes, the realistically colored teeth, this was clearly sculpted with a lot of attention to detail. I would've loved to have an image like this back in the prop's prime, back when it still had hair and a fresh coat of paint.

Why was it Scrapped?

This is entirely just me theorizing, but I have a feeling it's for the same reason the original ending got snubbed.

If you take the time to watch the archived workprint, you'll find a lot of cuts and changes were made that changed the tone of the whole finished project. Orin's death and dismemberment scenes got edited down a lot. Shots of him struggling and knocking things down as he falls to the ground got cut, the voiceline where he begs Seymour for help is gone. The shot where Orin's legs jolt when Seymour brings down the axe is gone too.

It's not just Orin-related scenes either! Mushnik no longer cries out for Seymour when being killed and eaten, and that's ignoring how different the scene happens in the stage musical. And obviously, the entire ending got changed so that Audrey and Seymour survive, leading to the cut of the magnificent ending sequence where all the Audrey II's destroy New York. In a way, the film got murdered and gutted of any of its real horror, with attempts to cover up any of the blood they couldn't scrub out.

In the movie's later quest to rebrand as a softer version of itself, it only makes sense that 2 shots of a decapitated head wouldn't make it. The appearance of the dismembered leg made it through, probably because it's less gruesome, but a head is... different. I obviously think it should've been kept it in, along with almost everything they trimmed from the workprint, but alas.

Tldr, they cut the head off of the movie because it wasn't funny enough.

Conclusion

This is where the information I have ends, unfortunately. I do have more research routes I would like to take, but one of them involves desperately contacting random people who I suspect could've been involved (I've tried this, I've gotten no responses from those who I've managed to find an email for), and the other route involves taking a road trip to the actual goddamn Library of Congress, which is not something I can do right now or even in the near future. So this is probably as far as I'm getting!

However! If I find anything new, this post will be updated and/or remade again, depending on how big or little the info is. For now, I think this is good enough to share, and maybe letting people know will encourage others to research this prop as well! It'll probably be easier if it's not just me, y'know.

I'll finish by saying that I think research and preservation of art like this is very important. While it's common for cool artistic things to end up cut from movies, I think preserving that those cool things existed in the first place is something worth doing. Even though this prop head was a very small part of the movie, it's clear a lot went into creating it! I feel bad that I'm not able to credit any person or people for their work, but I hope getting the word out about it will do some justice.

If you've read this whole thing, thank you so much! I appreciate your interest and I thank you for taking the time to read all this. I hope you found it as interesting and fascinating as I do!

Oh, by the way, if this post looks familiar at all, you've probably seen the original version of this post I made awhile ago. I wasn't happy with the formatting of that post, and I ended up making too many discoveries to just continue updating it. I'll keep the original up to preserve it, but reblogs will be off for it, as I want this version to be the one to go around. Thanks!

[prince-steele]

Protest The New Tumblr Changes

ok so since everyone and their dog absolutely hate the new changes outlined in this new post from staff, I've been thinking about what we can do about it. HERE is the contact page on Tumblr's parent company, Automattic's, website. Please write FEEDBACK/WEBSITE FEEDBACK/TUMBLR FEEDBACK in the "What's This About?" section HERE is the Tumblr help centre link, please select the category FEEDBACK when messaging them. My recommendation would be to write something like this, but in your own words to mitigate any spam filters: "Hello, I'm contacting you today because of the proposed changes to Tumblr's UI. This is not what the community wants, and will negatively impact all users of the site. Users enjoy the Tumblr experience because it is unique, and a throwback to the days before all websites were algorithm focused. Employing this sort of algorithm will kill your websites usability, and along with it, drive away your current userbase. People will simply remain using their other social medias, as New Shiny Algorithm is not the reasons why people would flock to your site. Please reconsider these changes, and instead reach out to the wider community about changes that we need to use Tumblr more easily, such as: - A reworked search function on blogs and tags as the current one does not work/is not stable. We also cannot search for untagged posts. - Better toggle options for people with photo sensitivity, your advertisements often strobe and it makes the website unusable. Ads should be tagged as flashing, or with content warnings for users (i.e diet ads, ads for horror movies with gore in them) that actually work (advertisements are filtered out of the tag system).

- Options for 18+ and NSFW creators on your site; Your userbase would quintuple overnight if you were to look into options for NSFW hosting and safe toggle options for adult users. The community labels were a step in the right direction, please pursue this further. This is by no means an exhaustive list of things, but changing the very fabric of what makes Tumblr work is NOT the move that any of us want. Please, again, reconsider these changes and listen to the community. Thank you" AGAIN please add your own points to this to help prevent spamfiltering of your messages, and please spread this to everyone you know. If anyone wants to add more ideas of what to add to this list, please do so in the replies, tags or add a comment to this post!

[barbatusart]

Do you have a recommendation for a specific book of your work for folks who showed up for your Bg3 stuff? (Also if you read the parts out of order would that be an issue?)

welcome aboard!!! thank you so much for checking my bg3 stuff out, it's a pleasure to have you

as i said in my other post over here, im predominantly an extreme horror artist! i 100% decline to call myself an eroguro artist because personally i dont find the kind of gore & horror i do particularly erotic, but im super fascinated with the horrors of the body & the darkness of the general human experience, so thats the kind of stuff i tend to make. it isnt the worst most heinous Ever you'll find out there, but im fully aware that it's A Lot, so everything i make with @meanbossart is thoroughly warned for so nobody goes into our body of work unaware & gets a nasty shock.

bg3 in particular goes some pretty dark routes (some bits in a dark urge run even made me kinda reel back and go "jesus"), so id say for people coming in from bg3 your mileage may heavily vary. if torture & really extreme body horror doesnt bother you, you may be OK with SAD SACK (sus.space/sadsack) and its current wip sequel SORTIE (sus.space/sortie), but i would still recommend reading each book's individual content warnings thoroughly before choosing to spend any money. (everything is paywalled to further deter minors.) if you're on the fence about how much horror content is too much for you, or if you're curious about these titles but find the content warnings to be concerning, my DMs on tumblr+twitter and my IMs are always open if you have any questions about particular CWs or even need specific page numbers so you can either skip that bit of gore or be informed enough to approach the page number(s), take a Deep breath, and proceed when youre ready! for these 2 titles in particular, unfortunately they do have a linear story, so to fully grasp what's going on requires reading the books in order. again if it's something youre curious to the point of wanting to try but on the fence about, i am always welcoming of inquiring DMs to help make the experience thrilling + chilling but Not genuinely upsetting.

if you're OK with a little violence and body horror but not as splatterfest as these titles, im currently chipping away at the preliminaries for my giant project LOVOS4017 (lovos4017.the-comic.org) which is a love letter to TNG scifi and 80s cyberpunk anime. im currently on pause with the roughs since last year due to COVID frontline burnout, but ive by no means abandoned it; this IP is my baby that ive been workshopping the show bible for for over a decade & i want to see it through to the end B)

finally if you would like to read our work but want to avoid gore and extreme violence entirely, we do have some stuff that is violence-free! POOPPIX@YAHOO.COM (suscomics.itch.io/pooppix) is a comic with a really bonkers premise but no violence and no visible onscreen poop i promise about finding genuine human connection over unusual shared interests on the internet. ATTACK DOG (suscomics.itch.io/attackdog) is also a short solo comic i did myself about sex, quasi-submission fetish, & the requirements of true love (theres some mild gooey body weirdness but no gore i promise)

overall i thank you for showing interest in what @meanbossart & i do! we tend towards strange & unusual premises and presentations, but i hope that you find something within our body of work that entertains you. if you every have any questions about anything, please please please feel free to DM me at any time; my goal in life is to entertain & provoke thought!

[sihtricfedaraaahvicius]

A Danish Werewolf in The City

Sihtric's Lore.

Note: additional lore to my werewolf!Sihtric fic. 

Warnings: 18+! horror/gore/murder described.

Pairing: none, just Sihtric.

Wordcount: 1,7k

Masterlist

Sihtric's eyes darted over the cut out pieces of newspapers, after he had taken the old shoebox they were kept in out of his last moving box. The lid had come off during the travel to his current location; his brand new house in a brand new city. He had recently bought the place as he had obtained a new job as a vet, another attempt to start all over again after his turbulent life. Sihtric had moved towns often in his lifetime, in order to keep his werewolf identity hidden, but now that he was a fully grown man and had his werewolf urges under control, he hoped he could finally settle down and stay in one place. It was the first day of his new life, but he would never be able to run away from his past completely, and he couldn't ignore the headlines that stared up at him.

He had kept all the news articles about his gruesome doings over the years, tucked away in the shoebox and always kept hidden far under his bed, wherever he resided at. The cut outs weren't trophies to him, like how some serial killers kept items of their victims as a fond memory of their deeds, in fact, these articles were the complete opposite to him.

Sihtric wasn't proud of his murders, and had kept the printed memories as a reminder that he never wanted to become like the beast from his past again. He never wanted to attack or murder again, with the exception of slaughtering wild animals which he simply needed to feed on in order to survive and still his hunger for blood. But never again would he want another innocent human-like being to be at the receiving end of his werewolf claws. He never wanted to kill again for no reason, nor if the reason was purely being revenge. But most of all, he simply never wanted to turn into his father, who had abandoned him from his pack and tribe.

Sihtric sat down on his bed and looked at the pages he had kept. Vivid memories came back to him as he could never forget awful murders he had committed and the horrendous attempts he had made to break the werewolf curse passed onto him. But nothing ever worked and he remained cursed until this very day. He had to live with the weight of his dark and bloody past on his shoulders for as long as his heart would continue to beat. Yet that weight was barely a punishment in Sihtric's eyes, for if anything, he felt his punishment should be death.

But death would be mercy, a mercy he did not deserve.

Sihtric was barely 18 when his first shift happened during a full Moon. And it had happened in the small room he rented just on the outskirts of town, for the city centre was a place he could not afford to live in. Nor did he want to, as he tried to keep a low profile and did not need much space either. 

The small room, which belonged to a lovely old and retired couple, was located on the second floor of the house. His room held a single bed, an old tv and a clothing cabinet, all of which were used by many strangers before him as they came with the room. He also had a sink with stains on it that wouldn't come off, and a half broken mirror hung above it. There was a tiny improvised kitchen in the corner of his room, underneath the only window he had which couldn't open fully because a cupboard blocked it. The kitchen came with an old microwave too, which he used to warm up quick meals with every day, and the device was clearly a fire hazard.

His room was old and musty, with a worn out wooden floor while black mold decorated parts of the ceiling and walls. Sihtric had covered up the black patches on the wall with some posters, which he had secretly ripped out of a few car magazines in the shop down the street. The bathroom next to his room was shared with the old couple, who lived downstairs, and he occasionally passed them as he went up to his room. The couple liked Sihtric because he was quiet. They could tell he was troubled but, as he never really opened up to them, they let him be and never complained as long as he paid his rent in time. Sihtric was still young and struggled to afford living with the money he had, which he earned by delivering newspapers in the very early morning, before the town would wake.

Several full Moons before his first shift he began to notice a change inside of him. He always knew he had werewolf blood inside of him, as his father, Kjartan, was cursed to be a werewolf. Technically Sihtric belonged to the tribe of his father, but he was abandoned as a young boy, for his mother had been human and died while giving birth to him, and his mother was not married to his father. Kjartan was married to a werewolf lady but had committed adultery, with Sihtric as result and being a permanent reminder. A permanent reminder he wanted to forget, and so Sihtric was neglected and forced to leave the pack he never really seemed to belong to. And looking back, Sihtric was glad he got away from his father, for his father was a brutal killer, a foul beast, and he was nicknamed Kjartan the Cruel for his many cruel deeds to the innocent, both human and other creatures.

After Sihtric's painful first transformation, he felt incredibly powerful. He was in luck, for the old couple was away for the weekend during the full Moon, so they never heard the bone chilling sounds that came from his room as he snapped out of his skin. Sihtric was confused once transformed, but also hungry. So very hungry. And he had jumped out of his window, shattering the glass as he went through it before landing on all fours on the well kept lawn, and he then leaped around the neighbourhood, finding his way to the city centre as the scent of fresh human meat lured him…

Sihtric's first kill was an awkward one, for he had no idea yet of how to control the beast he had turned into. He had sniffed out a meal, a student he found out a week later after the body was discovered, and he had stalked his prey while disguised as a black wolf. He followed the young man as he left the city and went into the quiet streets. It was dark and chilly outside, and Sihtric learned that night that winter time was an awful time for werewolves. 

Before the student could reach his front door, Sihtric had shifted into his gruesome werewolf form and, standing back on his large and hairy hind legs, he snatched the neck of the student's coat and hauled him into the darkened woods nearby. The terrified young man was silenced by his own fear upon seeing the hideous werewolf, while being dragged down to the thick trees and bushes, and what was supposed to be a fast kill ended up being a torturously slow one. The werewolf clawed at his thick coat, and its inner white fluffy filling was pierced by the monster's claws. Sihtric struggled to scratch the man's throat, for a thick scarf was wrapped around the neck and his claws were dull, as the coat's filling had gotten stuck to the sharp edges of his nails. Sihtric then lunged at his victim with his two hands, scratching the poor man's face all over until the body eventually laid lifeless underneath him after a cruel struggle.

Sihtric then tore off the scarf and ripped open the dead man's throat, blood spraying all over his dark fur as he tried to drink it as fast as he could. Sihtric groaned darkly as the blood began to spray less and less, and he used his large tongue to lick the remaining blood off the torn open neck. And then, still hungry, he attempted to tear off the thick winter coat, but it seemed impenetrable for the inexperienced werewolf. Sihtric fought with the zipper in the hopes of simply unzipping the coat, but his claws were too long to get a good hold of it and he lost his patience. He snarled and growled loudly, then delved his teeth in the coat and shook the lifeless body like a ragdoll until all upper clothing was completely torn. And then, on that dark and cold night, under the silver glow of the full Moon, the werewolf helped himself to the insides of his prey. And when his hunger was stilled and his dark fur smudged with blood and guts, he howled loudly at the Moon.

Sihtric had no idea how he had returned home after his feast, nor had any recollection of the fact he had apparently licked himself clean while in wolf form. All he remembered was that the old couple woke him up the next morning as he was asleep in their backyard. They were baffled at the fact Sihtric hadn't died of hypothermia, as they thought he had gone to a bar and returned drunk, having lost his keys and somehow all his clothes too on the way back, before he had fallen asleep on the lawn. Sihtric was embarrassed when he discovered he was without clothes, and he had a raging headache while the old lady was quick to wrap him in a warm blanket made of sheep wool, before preparing him some warm soup.

When the old man asked about the broken window, Sihtric slowly began to remember the night before and simply lied, saying he had no clue and that it must have happened when he wasn't home. His story made no sense at all to the couple, but then all of this could've happened to any young man who got drunk on Saturday night. 

Except they would never know that Sihtric had gotten drunk on human blood instead of alcohol. And they would never know he was the cause for the missing student, who was found dead in the woods a week later, an horrific event that shocked the entire city.

And for Sihtric… this was only the start of a very bloody, confusing and violent future.

taglist: @foxyanon @alexagirlie @sihtricsafin @neonhairspray @gemini-mama

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if you want to be added to/deleted from the taglist, message me 🖤

[thatomewirednugget]

Like I’ve said before I will be continuing the comic. There will be some little changes like the name of the comic, Rogers backstory, but I will continue to use the springtrap and deliah tag for this comic. I going to make this very clear Deliah and Roger are purely a father daughter platonic relationship. I also want to warn some people about chapter 2 and probably future chapters of my comic. I’ll be putting a lot of trigger warnings on some of my comic pages due to violence, gore, language, and a bit of body horror. I’ll be radio silent a lot while trying to finish the pages for chapter 1. But I’ll be trying to squeeze in art to post here and there, I can’t completely guarantee it. Here some silly art ^^

[glassartpeasants]

Here is that Laughing Jack story I promised. Is it late? A little bit but that doesn't matter

Yandere!Laughing Jack x GN!Reader

Warnings: Slight gore, angst, yandere tendencies, also unedited cause i typed this on my phone cause my computer is dead

~~~

He just didn’t understand why you were crying over some useless human. Most humans were nothing but pathetic bags of flesh and bones. But you, you were different. Sure, he’s met ‘kind’ or ‘compassionate’  humans, but they weren’t you. You had willingly talked to him and went up to him on your own accord! Admired him. Told him that whatever style he had going on was amazing and that he looked so unique. The way your eyes looked up at him with such fascination had his ‘heart’ beating faster than it ever has.

Everything about you had his obsession grow bigger and bigger. From your voice to the way you looked as you slept. So calm and oblivious to his presence as he stared at you. The darkness of your room covered him as he watched you sleep for hours. Listening to you breathe, watching with envy as you held onto your plushie with such love. If only he could switch places with it and feel you hold him tight.

He was so sure that you love him as much as he loves you. Why else would you approach him and shower him in compliments? Smiling at him with such sincerity and having such a beautiful laugh. Yet, there was something in your way from running away with him. And that was your insufferable S/O. Always calling you, telling you how much they love you. Giving you gifts without a second thought. They were stealing you away from him, trying to brainwash you into loving them. Each day you were with them, was another day of plotting to get rid of that parasite. But finally, after months of planning, he managed to get rid of them. Some place were not even the devil knows.

Yet, you were still crying.

It had to be from happiness right? You were finally free to run away with him. They were tears of joy! Jack couldn’t think of any other reason as to why. It’s not like you loved them or anything. You loved Jack! And he loved you! You’d see just how much he loved you soon.

~~~

You woke up shivering. Despite feeling around, your blankets were nowhere to be felt. Sitting up, you find yourself in a dark room. The floor cold hardwood and the wallpaper a dark grey. It felt so unwelcoming that teh walls seem to be closing in on you. Your breathing quickened as you jump to your feet to scan the room intensely.

You could barely see a bed behind you that was bigger than you own. The comforter straight without a single wrinkle. There was a lamp in the corner of the room with a desk beside it. Papers seemed to be scattered across the the top of the desk. You tried weighing your options. Turn on the lamp and see what possible horrors were around you, or stay in the dark and be fresh bait to whatever monsters spotted you. 

The urge to turn on the light took over as you barely move your feet to the lamp. It felt like concrete was tied to your feet as you walked to the lamp before turning it on. With the lamp on, it gave you a slightly more comforting feeling but you were still on guard. You turn your attention to the papers scattered across the desk, nice handwriting covered the pages in a letter like format. You grab them with shaking hands as you brought them closer to you.

“Love letters? Who for and who from?” You quietly whisper to yourself. Furrowing your brows you began to read them. The first few were sweet enough to cause cavities. Sentences like. ‘My heart flutters at your laughter’ and ‘I could listen to you forever and never get bored’. You’ve never read something so cute. If all the letters were expressing such innocent and pure love, you’d read all of them. It didn’t say who the letters were from unfortunately. Sure, you may be snooping but no ones around to say anything. Plus, it might give you a clue to where you were.

You begin to read the rest and you soon realize that you were mistaken. The letters that were once sweet and loving turned into something you’d see in a horror movie or a crazed stalker. Simply reading them had your mouth going dry and your body shaking in fear. Violence and such a sick twisted version of ‘love’ was engraved into the paper as you couldn’t stop reading. Not even terrifying phrases led you away. ‘I want to chain you up so you’ll never leave me’ and ‘I’ll kill your family so it’d just be the teo of us forever.’ How could someone right such disturbing things and not see a thign wrong with it? Who was the intended target for these letters? Who was the insane writer? Before you knew it, you came to the last letter. Breathing deep, you being to read,

To my beautiful doll,

Only one more day till were see each other again. Finally, after all this time of being apart, we’ll be together. Not even those disgusting parasites could keep us apart. It was so easy to get rid of them. I had to! They didn’t understand our love, so i simply showed them how serious we are! How strong our love really is.

I’m so excited to feel you in my arms. To feel your skin and how soft it is. To feel your hair and enjoy your scent. Close could never be close enough. I wish i could just cut you open and enjoy your warmth from the inside. We’d be one and never be apart! I could hold your heart in my hands and feel how your heart beats for me. For how much you love me.

I’d rip out my own heart and give it to you just so you could see that you’d be the only one to own it. Anything you want will be yours. I’d give you my eyes just so you could stare at them with love as I’d do the same to you as well. We’re destined to be together until the world burns. I’d never let you be alone again. You’ll always be safe with me.

My sins will be yours and yours will be mine. The blood that covers my hands will soon cover yours as well. But don’t worry. The blood just symbolizes how far we’re willing to go with our love. Soon, more blood will fall and our love will grow ever stronger. All you need to do is wait and I will be there to bring you home. Bring you to the home we’ll share forever. I’ll see you soon my beautiful doll.

Forever yours, Jack

‘Jack?! Jesus fuck what is wrong with this guy?! I pray for the poor soul who you’ve set your sights on.’ The thought of someone being so unhinged running around made you put the letters down and quickly walk away. You look to see the door from afar and walk towards it quickly. Despite your efforts to push and pull, try turning the knob and ripping it off, it still remained shut. 

“Damnit!...Ugh, where the fuck am I and how do I get out of this room?” You walk backwards and sit down on the bed. Your feet still on the floor as you sigh and try to think.

A cold hand gripped your ankle causing you to scream at the top of your lungs. You tried to pulling away but it was no use as the grip was tight to the point of hurting. Your heartbeat faster as you still tried to escape desperately. The sound of dark giggling filled the room and you can see a figure crawling out from under the bed. It should have been impossible for anything to hide under there as not even a baby could hide under there.

“Finally! Your awake!” Your eyes widen at the sight in front of you. A horrifically tall creature stood in front of you. It’s clawed hands still tightly gripping your ankle. 

“I’ve missed you so much! I was so lonely without you! But your here now!” The voice brings you back to the circus you went to last summer. It matched the voice of a circus performer you talked to. But now, the thought of this thing being anything but human was a joke. The way it’s arms moved was inhuman and a humans eyes weren’t as piercing as the ones in front of you.

“What should we do?! There are so many things!” You couldn’t find any words to say as all you could do was stare at the being in front of you. Praying that whatever hell this was, was simply a nightmare. Maybe if you try to sleep, you’d wake up and you’d be home. Away from the monster in front of you.

“I’m…tired…” The words left his mouth after fighting so hard to speak. Your eyes never left his and his wide smile. His sharp teeth threatening you with tearing into your flesh. His smile never faltered as he tugged you harshly towards him. You were pulled close enough to where he could wrap his abnormal long arms around you.

“That’s okay! I’ll still be able to hold you!” The monster flopped onto the bed and pulled you even closer to him.  Acting as if one wrong move would have you disappearing. He was so cold that he snuggled as close into you as he could. You could see his eyes fluttering close and his smile turned softer.

“Finally, we’re together. Just me and you. (Y/N) and Jack.” Your eyes widen at his words. Those letters…he wrote them for you.

“I told my friends that you loved me and you know what they did?! They didn’t believe me! Told me that I was ‘looking to much into it’ or how I was ‘crazy’! They just don’t understand out love. They will though when I show them the extent im willing to go for you!” In some way, he managed to grab your hand and held it tight. You feared what he was talking about but you also wanted to know who exactly you were being held by.

“How far are you willing to go for me?” You voice was quiet and laced with unease. Another dark giggle escaped the creature holding you tight. His giggle was anything other then innocent and the way his eyes looked into yours only furthered his thoughts.

“I’ll kill anyone that keeps you away from me. Like that useless human you spent your time with so regularly. I knew he brainwashed you so I had to save you! They were pathetic. They wouldn’t have been able to protect you like I can. Aren’t you proud and happy? For saving you?” The way he squeezed you let you know that ‘no’ wasn’t an answer.

“So-o proud and happy. Your so sweet Jack.” Despite trying to keep your cool, tears poured down your face. You thought your love simply went missing. That they would show up soon. But the words that left Jack’s mouth let you know the truth.

“I knew you’d be happy! So happy that your crying!” Your tears only intensified as soon it became difficult to breathe.

“We can do so many things tomorrow! I can show you all my favorite places tomorrow! Aren’t you excited?!”

“So excited…”

[ravenatural-art]

Happy 20th Danniversary!! I didn’t prepare anything ahead of time, so instead here’s ( almost ) every DP phanart I’ve done since 2015!! ( You may not my associated watermark name has even changed a few times! )

quick shout to to @lexosaurus for writing Emergency Contact, which the two page comic up there goes to, and @aggressivelyclueless who wrote Slasher, ( warnings for gore and horror ) the accompaniment phic to my ecto implosion piece ( the animation in that last row! )

( I wanted to add all the alt text before posting but I am. Falling sleep and want to get this posted before the day is up, so will continue to add more later )

And finally, the animation I did for @bubblegumbeech Ghost Hunt crossover phic, Hunting and Hiding, during my first invisobang—and also my first time truly interacting with the phandom!

( if you check out any of the fics I linked I would love forever if you talk about what you like about ‘em in the tags :3cc )

I’ve met a lot of good friends because of Danny Phantom, and have been having an all around good time since I started trying to participate more

Thank you for 20 years, and here’s to 20 more!

[covencupid]

I Want You (The Cabin Story) Chapter Three

Next chap already because I kept y'all waiting.

Fair warning, this one's different.

Danny's had his eye on you. He's been finding himself enjoying the times he interacts with you a little too much. He's got to get you out of his system. A little house call. Once that's done it'll be easier for him to go for the kill. Right?

Pairing: Danny Johnson X Fem!Reader. Use of gendered language.

TW/CW: The usual (stalking, manipulation, threats of violence, actual violence) gore, descriptions of torture, corpses, and murder. Psychological horror, child murder (imma need you to hold your judgement on this one, it's not what you think, but it's also not good), hallucinations, descriptions of visual hallucinations.

Tags will be updated as needed, but to be honest I kinda forgot what I put in this.

It's always the fuckin' woods, man.

Shorter chapter, but the one that leans into the warnings the most. Also the one that warrants the psychological/supernatural horror tag. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Though I, personally, don't think I made it too bad, if you are not comfortable with anything that involves violence against children, heed my warning.

Daddy Issues? More like Danny Issues.

Your Place // The Cabin // The Woods

~I Want You~

Chapter Three: The Woods

The first hours of his departure were filled by exploring his bookcase. Mostly horror, some non-fiction, books on social sciences, forensic journals, various textbooks. You plucked a book from the middle shelf. “The Hellbound Heart” by Clive Barker. You decided to sit on the breakfast table, a nice view of the back yard, or really forest. As the hours of the day bled into night you found yourself immersed in the hellish world of the cenobites, and the twisted love affair between the once-human Frank and Julia, his brother’s wife. As you you flipped the page, out of your periphery you thought you saw something move in the woods. Looking up, you are met with trees and a dense thicket, now shrouded in the dark. The moonlight made shapes on the leaves. Oh we’re scaring ourselves now, this book is good. You went back to your place on the page. Reading a few lines, your attention is brought to a fuzzy, vague shape in the fringes of your vision, outside the window. Your eyes shoot up, nothing. Ok, no. You looked down at your book, not reading. Your eyes were on the page but your concentration was on the faint, blurry image, just above the book. You saw the shrubs sway. Your eyes locked on the scene outside. They couldn’t move, stuck staring until you weren’t really seeing what you were looking at. The trees began to swirl, and the ground waved as though blown by the wind. Your vision blurred slightly, triggering you to blink rapidly. The world outside looked normal again. Nothing. It’s branches moving in the wind, and the fact that you’re in the middle of the forest. It’s a recipe for the creeps. Just focus on the real horror, in the book.

Jumping back into the book, you were able to read a few pages until you were certain you saw an arm reaching out from between the trees. Was it an arm? You couldn’t be sure what exactly it was. You doubted the strength of your peripheral vision before, but you knew you saw something this time. You abandoned the book on the table. Eyes locked on window you walked toward the back door. Gripping the doorknob, you slammed the door open, hoping the loud crash would scare anyone out there trying to scare you. Staring into the trees a little deeper in, a bit too far for you to really be sure, a flash of white passed between the trunks. You took a step back, ready to run into the cabin when you heard it. 

“Hello? Please? Help me, please!” a small, scared voice trickled into the clearing. A desperate whisper, “Please I just want my mama,” a little girl. Timpani drums echoed in your throat. You inched closer to the tree line.

“Can you hear me? Where are you? Are you hurt?” You heard the rush of wind shaking the leaves. A beat.

“My legs hurt. I want my mama” you heard the girl wail. She sounded close enough to be clear, yet it seemed like distance filtered her voice through the thicket. Maybe she was hiding. You could only imagine, a little girl lost and alone in the woods. You were about to step in when you remembered Danny’s words, but you weren’t going to run. There’s a child that needs help. You had never heard of the Ghostface killing children. He’d have to understand. Swallowing your heartbeat, you went into the trees.

Walking through the trees felt like pushing through a crowd. The underbrush's spindly limbs unfurled to grope at your ankles. Your legs pulled at the vines. There was no sign of the girl.

"Hey! If you can hear me, try to follow my voice!" No response. You had heard about how disorienting the woods can be. Imagining a small child trying to make their way through the woods made your heart tug towards the deeper parts of the wood. You'd have a better chance of making out the way through, you knew where the cabin was. All you had to do is find the girl and get her inside. Then maybe once Danny comes back he can go and find help for her.

"Hello? Can you hear me?" No response, but maybe you heard crying? It was hard to tell, you'd have to get closer.

"It's gonna be okay! We're gonna find your mom, but I need to find you first. Can you hear me?" The cabin was fading away from view in the background, but you couldn't tell. You were determined to find the girl. The sobbing grew a little stronger, not louder. You heard it carry in the wind. You closed your eyes, turning your head on a swivel, trying to ascertain exactly where the crying came from. To the left? The wind made it feel like your ears were being cupped. The sound of the ocean roaring through. No, the crying sounded like further right. You stepped closer. You heard the girl cry out.

"My head hurts! I want mama!" The girl's words came as long drawn-out wails. You ran to where you heard the voice call out. You heard it getting louder, you had to be close. Your legs tore through the thin vines and prickly weeds.

"I'm going to you, just stay put!" you called out. The girls cries increased in intensity. You heard the girl break out into a blood curdling scream. Shit.

"I'm almost there!" The girls cries filled the forest, her voice surged through the leaves, filling every empty space with her sorrow and fear. It was getting harder to tell exactly where it was coming from. Just when you were feeling turned around you saw a small figure crouched over something. The underbrush making it hard to make out what it way. You heard soft crying. You drew near with all the trepidation of trying to approach a frightened deer.

"Hey, it's okay. I'm gonna get you somewhere safe." The air chilled and the wind picked up like her cries directed the strength of the gale. Nearing the girl all the blood drained from your body. The girl was cowering over the body of a woman, pale and gaunt. Words stuck to your throat. Thick molasses coated your tongue and slowed your speech. 

The girl sobbed over the body, "Mama my head hurts." A strained noise is the only thing that escaped you. The girl stopped crying and the forest was still. Turning her head towards you, liquid fear replaced the blood in your veins. Your eyes first locked on her cheekbone, exposed and bright. Above it a hollowed out place that once held her eye. The side of her skill looked like it had been chipped away. Brain matter mated with moss. Slow-moving worms spilled out from the hole of her eye. As they fell your attention was brought to her jaw. It fell slack as if threatening to tear from her head. She choked and sputtered blood. Drops fell onto the woman on the forest floor. The woman's eyes looked straight into the sky, her jaw hanging low to the side, a perpetual scream. You wanted to open your mouth up wide to match theirs and howl out. Soft crunching sounds brought your attention back on the woman. The little girl was standing now and the woman's body arched, trying to reach her.

"Mama needs help." The little girl's voice came from behind your ear. The little girl took a step forward and her mother let out a gurgling groan as she writhed, lifting herself up. They were going to approach you. The ice that locked your feet to the ground finally released you. You broke into a sprint, wanting to put as much distance from whatever it was that you saw. You tried to orient yourself as you ran. The trees appeared to sway.

You didn't know how far you had run, the ache in your legs was starting to give way to fatigue. It felt like the structure of your legs was beginning to break down. Ahead of you, you saw it again. A wisp of pale white between the trees. No. No. It can't be. They were far behind you, you were sure of it. You took a few quick steps in reverse, disbelief making you feel woozy. The heel of your shoe caught on a root of a tree, knocking you onto your back. Pain shot from the base of your skull radiating down your spine. When your eyes shot open you were met with a tall dark figure looming over you. A trickle of relief washed over you and fled before you were able to hold onto it. You thought it was Danny, it almost looked like him, tall and broad. The figure leaned to hover over you. Your eyes met with the black pits in this man's skull. His face, beyond rotting, looks like it was stuck in stunned silence. The holes in his head looked through you. You felt your muscles being pulled into the ground by some force of gravity, the thicket would swallow you hole. The rotted man stuck out a hand, holding a stone the size of a baseball. As if pulled by an invisible hand, your jaw forced itself open. Your tongue desperately waggled in your mouth. You retched. Screams died in your throat the way they do in dreams. Let this all be a dream. A terrible nightmare. You felt the stone tap against your teeth. The taste of salt met your tongue. Thick, sweet grass rooted into your taste buds. Warm tears spilled at the side of your face. Death above you straightened and lifted his boot, heel pointed to your jaw, to hover over your head. He was going to force the rock down your throat. As if broken from a trance, you tore away from the ground, spitting the rock from your teeth and rolling to the side in time for the man's boot to come down on the ground. Your head whipped back as you began to run away, but the dark figure was already gone. Endless trees surrounded you. You tried to make out the cabin through the trees, but you couldn't be sure on which direction to go. You wanted to be anywhere but here, you wanted to be back inside the warm walls of the cabin. You wanted to learn how to carve the bunny, and read all the books Danny had. You wanted Danny, you wanted to be wrapped in his arms. Feeling a deep pit of despair, you fell to your knees clutching the trunk of a tree. You cried, wishing it was his chest you could lean against.

It took a moment for Danny to realize he was humming to himself. He was feeling really pleased with himself. Tonight would be an unforgettable night for them. Danny had spent the better part of the day scoping out the location for his little date. It was almost too perfect. The local drive-in was going to be playing a special showing of "The Lonelies", a campy slasher movie from the 70's that he saw the girl had on her shelf. He could already see the girls eyes light up. You had to get tickets to park, but the sound came from a local radio frequency. Danny didn't need tickets, he'd be giving her the best view in town. Overlooking the drive in was a a steep cliff, inaccessible to the general public. A couple years back he had stumbled upon the vista after taking some backroads a mile out from the cabin. The road he took up was technically private property, but it didn't matter to Danny knowing he put the owner quietly in the ground two years back. A recluse living off the land, no one ever came looking. 

Pulling up to the drive, Danny almost felt giddy. He hoped she'd have a dress on, something to show off her legs and give him immediate access to her thighs. But when Danny walked into the cabin he felt the cold emptiness of her absence. No. He burst through the bedroom, hoping he'd startle the girl as she readied herself. Empty. "Lying bitch." Rage coursed through him. Fury was burning into the marrow of his bones. He was going to make her pay, make her hurt for every lie she told him. Oh please oh please Mr. Ghostface. I didn't mean it. Only cure for a liar, take the tongue.

Danny noticed the back door cracked open. Stupid bitch, leaving her little breadcrumbs. Danny walked back out into the cool night air. A soft breeze moved the leaves. It was quiet. Danny walked into the trees. As if sensing his presence, the faint breeze stifled into stillness. The forest held it's breath. On the ground, he saw where the forest floor was recently been disturbed. She ran through here. His form cut through the trees as if they parted just for him.

He felt eyes on him. He turned to face nothing. The deeper in the woods he got the more he felt the resentment rise in his chest. Here I am like some sorry fucking clown. Making me believe her. I asked for one thing. Though he was very much infuriated by her escape, the fact that he had let his guard down enough for her to manipulate him made him seethe with wrath. That's what you get for going soft on her. She fucking played you like a drum, idiot. I should've wrung her neck when I had my hands on it. He wouldn't make that mistake again. He wouldn't let her talk her way into his good graces. She walked herself out of the cabin and into a grave. She could've had it easy, could've been taken care of. She ruined it. He'd ruin her. Carve out her still beating heart and show it to her. Squeeze the muscle in his fist and watch the life drain from her scared little rabbit eyes.

A gust of air rolled in, pushing the leaves on the forest floor out as if leading his way. Danny felt compelled to follow. As he walked their path he heard muffled sobbing. He followed the sound. As it grew louder he eyed something crumpled low to the ground by a tree. He saw rounded shoulders shuddering. Caught. He approached slowly, allowing the sound of her sobs to cover his footsteps. Pulling his hunting knife from its sheath, the moonlight glinted on the blade. Maybe he'd grab her by the hair, put the knife to her throat and show her real fear. He was so close. Danny inched forward, a twig snapped as she was catching her breath. alerting her. Her head snapped back, face red from crying. Her face would soon split in terror, she got up to run. He gripped his knife tighter, he was ready for the chase.

The girl crashed her body into his, holding him with a ferocity he had not expected. His arms were held frozen hovering over his sides. She's sobbing into his chest. What is this, regret? It's too late for tha-

"It was awful, Danny. I- I'm so scared. I t-t-thought she was hurt, I just w-wanted to help. I don't know what ha-happ- she looked so- she was with a woman. She was dead, they were both dead, I know they are, but she was crying, and her skull was crushed, Danny I could see inside." Her sobs wracked his chest. He could feel the spot on his shirt that her tears made damp. Danny stood frozen. "She was a baby, Danny. And her mother- sh-she had h-her mouth op-" She was gripping him hard, he felt her fingers tremble from the force. "H-he was gonna d-do the same to me." Danny's veins ran cold. "He p-put the rock- he made he hold it in my mouth, I couldn't move, I couldn't-  I wanted to scream. H-his boot c-c-came over me-" Danny held her tight. The feeling of his embrace making her collapse. He held her steady as her sobs turned to wails. Her whole body shook and Danny felt her fear reach into him. Danny sheathed his knife, using the same hand he had planned to gut her with to smooth her hair. Danny stared straight into the woods. He wanted to see him. He wanted to lock eyes again with him and send him back to hell like he did once before. Even in death, his old man found ways to haunt him. Instead he looked away, down at his little bunny. Frightened beyond measure, clinging to him for comfort, for safety. She hadn't tried to leave him, his father's ghosts drew her out.

"I wanna go back, I don't wanna be out here." She was looking up at him, eyes overflowing with tears. Danny kissed the top of her head, he smelled the wet ground mixed with her scent.

"It's okay. We're going back to the cabin, okay? Can you walk?" Danny led her to take a step. Her legs wobbled. "That's fine. I got you." Danny hoisted her up into his arms and carried her out of the woods.

When they got to the cabin she still would not let go.  He let her legs down gently, but her hands still held tight around his neck.

"Can we go somewhere else, please?" she whimpered. Danny carefully tipped her chin up to look her in the eyes, puffy and irritated. He wiped her remaining tears with his thumb.

"Yeah, I'll take you somewhere nice, huh? Why don't you go get dressed?" She looked at the bedroom door and back to him.

"Come with me." She wasn't asking, but her big pleading eyes begged him to follow her.

"Okay."

Danny stared at the point in the wall where the wood boards met. He was sitting on the edge of the bed while the girl got dressed. On any other night, Danny would’ve savored the opportunity to watch her change into something for him. Danny stared into the wall, beyond it, watching as his mind made the lines of the wood swirl. Danny was in the woods again. He remembers the girl and her mother. He had picked up food for himself, his father would be out. Turning into the drive he saw his father’s car, engine on, with the passenger door wide open. When he got out of his truck he heard the screams. It came from the “hunting ground”, as his old man called it. He wasn’t supposed to be back until the next day. He found someone early, then. Danny went out back to the entrance of the woods. A succession of raw, stilted, cries rang out. He had probably opened their jaw. As he neared the sound he saw his father’s boot come down on the head of a young woman. Her cry cut off by the crunch of her jaw. When her crying stopped, another started. Smaller, shrill, a child’s. She had to be no older than five. His father hadn’t noticed him yet. If he did he’d make the girl run and have Danny go after her. Danny crouched down low, ducking behind a tree. He heard the little girl sob. She was crying for her mother, her wail increasing in pitch. “Your mama’s fine, we’re only playing.” his father mocked. “Now it’s your turn.” He heard the shuffling of leaves. The girl cried as she spoke, “No, I want mama. I don’t wanna play.” He heard his father bark out a laugh. It echoed through the woods. “You play this game, you get to go back home to your mama, sound good?” He spoke low, a conspiratorial whisper. Danny realized he was holding his breath. His instinct, lest his father sense his heart beating. The girl whimpered in response. “It’s a lot like tag, first thing you gotta do is run.” At first he heard nothing, then the skittering of little steps bolting deep into the forest. He heard his father stretch with a groan. He was waiting to give her distance, to give her hope. His father broke into a sprint. She never had a chance. He hears the hope drain from wailing cry. When he’s certain his father has gone far between the trees, Danny rises from his spot. He walks back into the cabin, the girl’s wailing mocking him, taunting him for his cowardice.

“How does this look?” Danny is back in the present, the wall no longer moving. He turned face her. His breath is caught, this time in admiration. She’s wearing a short, black button-down dress. There’s a slight pattern in the fabric, almost visible. It had a mesh fabric on what was maybe silk. the sleeves were short, barely covering her shoulders. The neckline plunging slightly to give him a good look down her dress. “So you like it?” Her head cocked slightly, a coy little smile playing on her lips. It was good to see her smiling again.

“Yes, I do.”

[cvlutos]

"Divine nor Forsaken" Ch.One

| 01.17.23 | 4.9 K | Rated R |

Multi-Character X GN!Reader [TWST: DEMON AU]

GENERAL LIST: | Characters 18+ | Dark Content | Yandere | War | Death | Violence | Blood | Gore | Body Mutilation | Abuse | Threats | Smut | Noncon/Dubcon | Consensual | Horror | Poly | Etc. | Proceed with Caution, Dearest. |

T.Manor.Notes: This is extreme dark content and these warnings don't apply directly to this, but overall. This list may very well grow. Please head warnings.

| Masterlist | Male Version | Female Version |

| Overview | Ch.One | Ch.Two |

Green flames flicker and dance wildly, uncontrolled and free.

Placed upon black metal torches with silver engravings of dragons. Small and so unnoticeable, yet each placed within the great throne room, made of obsidian and dark cobblestone with towering pillars of black marble and tall ceilings. A throne chair that sits above all others, with seven wide steps. He leans back, a bored expression upon his pale face, as a thorn crown sits upon his head. He counts the seconds, waiting for the old grand clock to chime with ancient golden bells. He can hear the turning of gears as the heavy black oak throne doors prepare to be opened. He can hear a pair of hurried footsteps. One which is anxious, while the second also hurried, yet calm, unbothered almost. The doors to the throne room creak as they open slowly on their own, which is far too slow for the impatient one of the duo so he merely pushes the doors open without issue. Just as the clock chimes. It sends a shiver down the King’s spine and seems to shake the entire castle.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Seven chimes for the seventh morning hour. The king lets out a thoughtful sigh, a mental note to have someone repair the old gifted clock. He pulls his attention from his thoughts, turning his gaze upon his two most loyal knights. Both dressed in black clothing with trims of green and buttons of silver. Yet a metallic smell radiates off them.

They just arrived back from the battlefield.

"My King—" the taller of the two knights, yet the younger of the pair, straightens his posture. Giving an impossibly deep bow that the King is sure slightly hurts. Yet trying to persuade the knight to relax within his presence always falls on deaf ears. The knight’s voice is deep and assertive, yet slightly wavers as if ashamed.

"My King." The older one bows, yet not as deep. His loyalty is unwavering, yet doesn’t need to hurt himself to prove his everlasting devotion. His voice is monotone and gives nothing away.

The king deeps his chin in acknowledgment, waving his hand for them to speak. The younger knight steps forward, with light-green hair. He clears his throat, pulling a thick piece of yellowed parchment paper from his coat. It’s most definitely a long list of all that transpired the week while they were away, and the nudge he receives from his elder gives the knight the impression to simply summarize and only tell the important parts.

"It was an ordinary week, with few incidents from the humans—" The King nods as the knight’s serious yellow-greenish eyes dance across the several pages before his brows raise slightly upon finding something. He almost hesitates and shifts in his place, before looking at the King. "We have found traces of the traitor, Dire Crowley, My King. The first and fifth armies last saw him moving to the South. While the sixth and third armies believe to have seen him head in the direction of the Ramshackles."

Dire Crowley. Ruler of the North and said to have fled amongst the first wave. Like a coward. The King hums in thought, thinking of multiple reasons as to why the traitorous crow would flee. It’s not death he fears. Yet who could know that old crow could possibly be thinking? He acts more on whims than he does on plans.

Letting a hot exhale from his nose, the King reveals nothing upon his face as he looks at the older knight with unreadable light-blue eyes that depending on the light could look light-purple. He doesn’t need papers, having oddly enough a good memory for things that are of high importance. "Within the Ramshackle. We have found the pact bearer. Scouts say to have stumbled upon a person. I, myself, have checked. What they say is true. "

This catches the King’s attention.

He sits up slightly straighter. His eyes run over the silver-haired knight for any sign of lies. There is none. "Though Crowley has already had contact with them." Another voice. A man of short stature appears standing before the King with black hair and hot pink highlights. Large magenta eyes that were clearly fascinated and entertained. The King doesn’t need time to think over his options, opening his mouth for the first time this evening, his words firm.

"Force the pact bearer from their home. Send them in the direction of the first army. Tell them nothing of the pact bearer. If what you say is true, then they should easily form a pact—Is there any more to discuss?"

The King’s right hand clears his throat, moving closer to the King, a sudden seriousness upon his face. This has the king wordlessly send away his two knights. Before turning his full attention to the magenta-eyed demon.

"The armies are becoming restless. Some even think you’re unfit. The pact bearer could very well be your undoing."

"Or fix all that is broken." His words are curt, and the man bows before the king. Steeping away as the King rises, stepping from his throne and down the steps. It has been long since a pact bearer existed, the one to uphold the balance between the divine and the forsaken.

A balance that King Draconia wants to restore, this time with the scales in his favor.

══════ ♡ ══════

You awaken to a knock.

One hard and fast, that has you groggily rubbing your eyes and completely dazed as you stumble out of bed. Recklessly putting on your slippers and wrapping a thin blanket around you, using your hands to clutch it close as you lazily bumble through the dark. Your fingers glide against the patchy wallpaper wall, leading you down the creaky wooden steps and toward the front door.

This isn’t an unusual occurrence. Being awoken sometime during the night. Occasionally those from the village make their way to your cottage with urgent news. News that always involves demons. News that you hate receiving, yet you take each message with a mummer of thanks.

Other times, it’s villagers, those you knew and were close to, saying final goodbyes, with everything they have packed into a rickety wooden cart pulled by an old horse. Always speaking on how’ll they’ll travel south. To lay within the safety of angels and the Divine.

Yet more times than not, they’ll return, with less than when they left. Or only their belongings returned, yet no bodies followed.

You shake off the thoughts, exhaling through your nose and undoing the metal locks, before opening the door. You blink in surprise.

A man, tall and dressed in a black cloak with black feathers poking from the fabric. He had messy black hair, and a mask, golden, that reflected in the light of the moon. You step back.

It’s rare to get strangers.

“Hello~ See I was just passing by,” he points to the path behind him, yet he has no bags, no horses, no carriage, and not a single lantern, none that you could see within the dark forest. The wind blows and you shiver.

“—and I am oh so hungry. And oh so thirsty.” He seems unfazed by the cold. Your brows furrow and you have every right to turn away this strange man, yet you know better. Your mother always spoke about spirits that could grant wishes to those who showed them kindness. It’s a silly notion, yet as you step inside, forcing a small smile upon your lips, you can’t help but listen to your mother even while she’s away.

“Oh, thank you! You are so very kind!” As he enters your home, feathers drop every time he walks as he takes a seat at your old dining room chair as you move to the kitchen. “Such a… quaint home~”He seems to struggle to find a word, before landing on ‘quaint’.

“Thank you?” Your home is old, with creaky oak floors and wooden beams that lined the roof, with chipping wallpaper, even if it’s been rebuilt by your father, and the layering wallpaper, yet you love it all the same.

You bring him a wooden cup of water, before moving a heavy bronze pot from the makeshift freezer, struggling for a moment to place it upon the kitchen fire, using flint and steel to start up the flames, using a metal hook to keep it suspended over the fire. Removing the heavy lid, you use a wooden label to stir the mixture of thicken milk, potatoes, chicken, and rice. Before re-covering it and wiping your hands upon a kitchen towel. You turn back to the dining table, finding the seat empty and the cup drained, and you step out of the kitchen.

You hadn’t heard him move. You step into the living room, finding the man tending to the dwindling embers within the fireplace. Before, in a hot flash, as fire shoots from his palm, the fire is alive. Magick.

“Is this your first time seeing magick in person?”

He puts on his glove and tilts his head to smile at you, and you nod. Magick isn’t common within the Ramshackles. Most you’ll see and interact with are the Adventurers who cross through, or bottle magick, which is usable for the average non-magick user. “Well, it is always a pleasure to entertain!” He gives an oddly graceful bow, and you can’t help but stare at this man in curiosity. He’s eccentric like your father—who’s quite odd in his own special way. “Now a question for a question. Tell me, do you live alone? For a house this big, I am sure you have siblings. Parents?”

You have a feeling that if this man wanted to kill you, he would’ve already.

“No siblings... But I do live with my parents. They’re away.” Your eyes drift out the window, it’s dark beyond the glass, “they wanted to help in the North. So, I haven’t seen them in a few years.”

“That’s very brave of them—” He pauses as if in thought, before looking at you expectantly. “Your turn for a question!“

“… Where are you traveling from?”

He almost seems to preen himself as he glides down his feathers, which ultimately does nothing since they merely pop out once he pulls his hands away, yet he doesn’t seem to notice. Far too proud of himself. “The North. The Capital, to be exact. But I escaped. Quite a task, yet, alas, I did.” Your brow furrows.

North. He managed to escape. You take a hesitant step toward the window, then it is completely possible to survive and escape. The sound of whistling snaps you out of your thoughts, catching your attention. The stew was ready.

“That smells absolutely splendid! I had quite the journey, [Name].” He settles himself into the dining room chair, oblivious to your staring. You hadn’t told him your name… Did you?

“… How do you know my name?”

You step around him, suddenly aware of how dark your home was. Even with the fire bright, it felt like it was creeping in, surrounding you, choking you— “It’s written on your door.” The darkness seems to halt and you blink. Everything is as it was. You nod, making your way to the kitchen and preparing a bowl. Shaking your head, and murmuring under your breath for being so paranoid. The warmth of the soup spreads through your palms as you carry it towards the table, placing it in front of the crow-like man, and readjusting your blanket. “You said a question for a question… May I ask another?”

“Of course~” There’s a hint of mischief in his voice.

“What is it like… The north… Has it truly fallen..?”

The man eats slowly, pausing for a moment, before resuming with a slow drawn-out bite. “It has.“ Your heart sinks and you step from the table, moving over to the window. It’s an automatic response, one that you’ve trained yourself to do since the war started. Since your mother and father left.

“With each day, another portion of the North is swallowed by fire, followed by floods. Carried upon the winds are the howls of people, and you can smell nothing but blood and ash. The North has truly fallen…” He says the last line with slight hesitance, if more to confirm the fact to himself than to you. You search the dark woods, searching upon the horizon, beyond the mountain line that you knew existed beyond that shroud of darkness.

Your parents are out there.

You know that they could possibly be—you shake the idea from your head. They would come back, as they always did. As they promised. You listen to the fire crackle, and you let out a sigh.

“Worried that they’ll come here?”

“What?” You turn to the man, whose bowl is completely empty. He tilts his head from you and then out the window. “Worried? You are awfully quiet.“ You exhale.

“…It’s been a long night…” You force a smile, and he waves with a laugh, moving to plop down on the dilapidated couch. Patting the old velvet cushion beside him. “Sit. Sit.” More of a command than a suggestion. And one you listen to. You sit beside him, wrapping the blankets further over your arms. “You never answered my question.“ He almost sings the words, tilting his head towards the flames, yet his eyes are still on you. Observing you. Taking note of who you sit, of how you fidget and clutch the fabric of your covers. Yet he says nothing.

“…I am… The only thing that separates us is a mountain range…” And your parents. Yet you can’t say that.

“Then leave.“ Your brows furrow, deeply offended with the mere thought, lips drew together and you almost sneer at the strange man. It’s nearly impossible to leave. And you have a home, one your father and mother built and restored, you can’t leave it all behind. You can’t. The man seems to notice your conflicted feelings and the slight bitterness that bubbles within your gut and he clears his throat.

“If I may provide comfort… You won’t die.” He states with such certainty that you can’t help but grimace. How would he know…? How could he promise that…? Yet a portion of you believes him. That this odd man has some truth to his words. Since all the most trusting of truths come in all odd ways. “How do you know?”

He seems to light up. Patting himself down, revealing the clothing he wore beneath his cloak. Elegant and sofisticated. Made of silk and lace. Ones that would cost a fortune to own. He has money. Lots of it. Shuffling in his seat, he searches various pockets and mutters under his breath, before producing a thick envelope with an almost gleeful shout, which sounded similar to a bird squawking. He passes you the letter with a proud grin, which is more for himself for carrying the letter than giving it to you.

Your name is on the letter, messily written, yet familiar, with a hurried forest green wax. Unbroken. Dread fills your stomach as your fingers graze against the parchment. “Welp! I’ll be going. Until me meet again~”

“Wai—” You look up from the envelope, only to find the man gone. He was gone. Yet black feathers remained in his spot. You let out an exasperated gasp, brows furrowing as you stand from your seat. You step over the feathers and moved towards the window. Nothing was out there. You tap the letter against the glass before stepping away.

Sleep.

You needed to sleep. You stiffen a yawn, making sure the doors were locked, before tossing the letter onto the dining table. Sparing a glance, before heading back upstairs. You’d read it in the morning.

══════ ♡ ══════

Morning comes faster than you’d like, the events of last night merely a fog in your memories.

Barely dressed for the day, wearing a simple dark cyan button up shirt and black loose fitting pants, standard uniform for your job. Blinking the sleep from your eyes as you attach your white apron around your hips, you lazily make your down the creaky steps. Moving to the kitchen, your body on clear autopilot, as you grab a clay cup and filling it with water, before drinking it carelessly.

You have a throbbing headache. You’re sure that you’ll be late for work, but at the moment you don’t care. Almost slamming the cup down, you let out a loud, tired groan. Your boss, he’ll forgive you. He always does. You let out a tired cough, leaning against your counters, running a hand over your forehead. You’re sure you don’t have any more painkillers, having used the last two pills a week ago since your last headache.

“Mr. Gerken should have some… Or ill walk it off.” You speak aloud, pushing from the counter, moving over to your coat rack, and wrapping the cloak over your shoulders, using the leather strings to secure it. Sliding a thin scarf around your neck. You grab a familiar brass key, tucking it into your apron pocket and your small coin purse, before glancing over the room, seeing if you had forgotten anything.

Suddenly remembering the letter from last night. You multi-task, putting on your leather shoes as you hop over to the table while using the sunlight to look over the envelope. You contemplate for a moment, before sighing. If it’s important, then you don’t want to risk it around desperate people trying to find a way to survive. You place it back on the table, opting to grab your wooden basic before leaving your home.

Fresh mountain hair fills your senses, cold air rushing into your lungs making you shiver. It was sometime early morning. You block the sun from your eyes as you look up at the clear sky. There were hardly any clouds.

Your gaze moves the mountain line far in front of your home, thick black clouds, slight and threatening. It grows bigger every day…

Letting out a puff of air, you’re turning to face your door, yanking the door shut, which rattled the windows. This door always fought against being closed. Making sure the door was secured, you pull out your key and lock both locks on the door. Pulling the cloak hood over your head and the scarf over your nose, you step away from the door. Your mother and father’s name faded yet still there, while your name stood boldly. As if it was just painted with your mother’s curly handwriting. You were sure the paint had faded off years ago. Your fingers touch the old wood, glazing over the letters of your name.

You hope your parents are alright. You tuck the metal key into the pockets of the apron.

You spin around, eyes trailing along the familiar walking along the old stone steps. One a bright grey now dull and worn, your father placed the old steps years ago, before you were born possibly. Yet anytime you stepped out of the house, he let out a dramatic sigh and spoke of an artist who was so great. So grand. To create such marvelous and everlasting stones. Your mother would sometimes indulge him, swooning over the craftsman, speaking about how’d she marry the artist? Other times, she would ignore my father and purposely ignore the steps with an impish grin.

You smile at the memory. While your father could carve the most beautiful things into the weirdest of objects, your mother could weave stories from air. Each step is engraved with a different animal, each with its own story.

A rabbit, who was always late yet a messenger. Who never led those astray, but had quite the temper.

A lion, with a cunning personality and a heart of gold, yet trapped beneath stone.

An octopus, benevolent yet tricked those to fall into its trap, yet was shy.

A snake, a trickster that offered wishes only to screw your words, yet if given the chance, the snake was a loyal companion.

A raven, beautiful and majestic. With onyx wings and poisonous words that could enchant anyone, yet was so lonely.

A hound, with three heads that tore and ripped through flesh and feasted upon poor souls, yet lost a dear family member, so the hound lost its way.

Then, dragon, you step on the last stone. Your mother’s favorite stone. About a lonely, lonely dragon who could never love nor be loved. There was no redeeming qualities for the dragon. Your mother believed that those who would do good would do good, but this dragon, this dragon, would never do good. Therefore, there was no redemption.

There are some things, my little dove, that we cannot change— “Such is the way with people.” You finish your mother’s quote, your voice merely flying away with the wind. She, within every story she told, would weave lessons and morals. Yet you never knew why, why your mother loved these seven distinct animals. Using your shoes to kick off the dirt. Staring at the large coiled dragon, one that took your father days to finish, and several broken stone slabs.

It was dirty. You make a mental note to clean it once you return. Shifting the empty basket in your hold, you continue on. Stepping off the final stone and walking through the forests. Glancing through the trees, you could see the distant town. You remember the walks.

══════ ♡ ══════

“Gotcha!” He let out a satisfied shout, causing you to shriek in laughter, kicking your legs as your father held you in the air. Pretending to bite your stomach, tickling you in the promises. Your cheeks hurt from laughing and smiling, unable to fight against your father.

“Gotcha!” Your father yelps, clutching you to his chest as your mother attacks from behind, nails digging into his sides and ticking, a ferocious grin upon her face. Her basket of goods is placed along the stone steps, as she joins in on the fun. “Escape!” She laughs as you break from your father’s grasp, causing him to shout, unable to get you as you run across the pseudo-front lawn. You catch your breath, watching your father turn the tides on your father before she could run to you. He grabs her yet ends up tripping on their own feet. They land with a thud, the air knocked from their lungs. Yet your father protects your mother’s head as he lies on her. You let out a giggle, running across the lawn, and joining the pile, which makes your father wheeze and your mother laugh.

“Hello my little dove~” She rises a hand to caress your face, gently pinching your cheek, eyes filled with so much happiness and love. As leaves and twigs got into her. Yet your moment is ruined when your father stretches his arm back to secure you as he got up with a chuckle. Your arms wrap around his neck, as he helps your mother with a laugh, kissing her cheek.

══════ ♡ ══════

You blink from the memory, since as long as you can remember, your mother and father truly loved each other. How they met is a mystery to you, cause every time you ask, they’d tell you it was fate. Fate that tied them together. Your father said it was the Divine that the moment he laid eyes upon your mother, he was smitten. While your mother was apprehensive, yet overtime gave in.

When thinking back, you remember the pain when your mother spoke of it. Though she has no regret in loving your father, but you assume it was forbidden. They arrived in the Ramschackles 21 years ago, eight months before your birth. Getting everything together for their bundle of joy. You have no doubt in your mind that they loved you more than anything. The ground crunches beneath your feet as the wind fans your face. You look out as the town grows closers. Your father was a blacksmith. He once spoke of fancy golden balls and festivals fit for the Gods. He worked with every metal known to man, yet threw it all away for your mother. Who, very proudly, exclaimed how would do it all again and again. While your mother, you don’t know much. She was a farm girl, yet had to leave behind her home. You don’t know why.

Letting out a sigh, the sounds of chatter and music growing louder and louder, the smells of food and sweets wafting into your nose. Your stomach grumbles. You pick up your pace, jogging the rest of the way down the mountain. Smiling at the familiar sights before you, carriages pulling along the roads, carts, and livestock. It was busy as conversations mixed. You shimmy through the crowd before spotting a familiar brownstone building. ‘Mr.Gerken’s Finest‘ is a large popular tavern. You slip through the open doors, and two common patrons waving or nodding in hello as you slip over your scarf and cloak.

“Good Mornin’ Robin. Hilton.” Slipping into the back as you hung up your outerwear before glancing around. Mr.Gerken wasn’t here at the moment and it seemed to be just you. You move back to the front, standing behind the bar and checking through needed supplies. The night shift had cleaned properly.

“Any plans for the weekend?” Hilton, an old man, with blonde hair with streaks of grey, he’s been going to this tavern since you could remember. He always orders a simple whiskey that he hardly touches. “Uh, not really…. Tending to the garden, I guess. Or working“ You grab a rag, choosing to wipe down the counter in boredom. The two men laugh. “You plan to get a boyfriend?” Hilton asks with a smirk, “or girlfriend! We don’ judge.” Robin, slightly younger, with messy black hair and stubble, he looks half asleep, yet snickers with Hilton as if they’re school boys. You can only roll your eyes.

“[Name]! There’s my favorite [Name], and only [Name]! Been lookin’ all over! And here you are, workin’.” Mr. Genkin is a short, plump man, who’s significantly balding, yet has a large beard and mustache.

”Sure am!” You don’t plan to correct him, letting him laugh happily. As he moves to the back, you can still hear his laugh. The morning passes slowly, with only Robin and Hilton occasionally heckling you, or playing cards, which Hilton is horribly bad at and lost nearly 50 gold. Soon the afternoon rolls around, and the empty tavern slowly becomes busier as two more workers arrive. Sam, a happy middle-aged woman with brown hair and two ten-year-old twins, and Tom, an older teen who always rants about how much he hates working here, yet is one of the best workers.

“Darlin'~ Ya hear? Some say the town up in the west got attacked.” Sam’s voice is a whisper. The Ramshackles isn’t one big town. There are multiple, spread out all across the dense Ramshackle forests, yet surrounded on all sides by thick mountain ranges. The western village was one who resided near the western mountains. You’re not supposed to speak of the war in the Tavern, one that Mr. Genkin had been insanely serious about. But Sam is a chatty woman who can’t help herself.

“When?” Your voice sounds slightly panicked, and Sam notices. She waves her hands and shakes her head eagerly. As if just remembering she’s not supposed to talk about demons and war while working. “Nope. Nope. Ma lips are sealed!” You let out an exasperated sigh as he darts off, grabbing trays to hand out orders.

You continue to busy yourself. Making drinks, and chatting with familiar faces, until you feel like someone is watching you. Your eyes try and subtly dart across the room, as you listen to the customer rant about his recent divorce with his wife. You let out hums, hardly listening, till your eyes land on lime-green eyes.

You both stare, neither one of you making a move. The air seems to chill, and you feel air leave your lungs, yet they don’t return. You can hear muffled calls of your name, yet your lips can’t move.

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The thing blinks and you gasp for air, nearly stumbling over. The bar helps stabilize you. You’re sure that without it, you would’ve fallen over. Men and women had ran up to the man, yelling at him for being weird and creepy, to stop staring at you, defending you—You need them to stop—Demanding he leaves or else. The air feels tense, as if electricity shot through you. He’s mad.

The man rises from his seat, shrouded in all black, yet his sneer is prominent. He grabs the first man by his shoulders, glancing at you as if to make sure you were looking. You can see the corner of his lips quirked upward. He’s grinning.

‘Look.’

The tavern falls silent, followed by a thud. You can feel it on your skin and your stomach lurches. Pale hands. Clothing. Face. His face. Get it off. Get it off. There’s red. Red. The man before him split in two. Ripped apart. Blood. You can feel it on you. Get it off. A scream, shrill and loud, snaps everyone out of the scene that unfolded before them.

“IT’S A DEMON!”

ⓒ 2023 love-thanatopsis — all rights reserved. Any sort of plagiarizing, copying, modifying, translating, editing of my works are strictly prohibited.

[batesmotelofficial]

Asks open 𓇽

Taking a shower, be back in a bit (hopefully)

PLEASE READ BEFORE INTERACTING!

TW: graphic violence, sadism, drinking, D.I.D., bipolar behavior, sensual behavior, matricide, obsession, drugging, mentions, death, other mental problems, Norman and Norma should be a warning themselves rip

(there's probably more but whatever you get the

idea)

Happy Pride Month to all who celebrate

Lmaooo that break lasted for 20 minutes

Asks accepted:

Ms. Bates: open

Norman: open

Newman, Robert: open

Mod also happily takes asks, and loves being asked about books, current-past cosplays and pretty much anything.

Daily post limit has not been reached 💀🔪😱🚿

This is placed around the 1st psycho movie (2, 3 and 4 don't exist, except for the occasional reference to Nathan (Norms son) Norman died in the psycho 2 book by a car lit on fire, so let's just say he died that way

[EDITOR NOTES]

(Gif by @/the-watcher-in-the-sky)

(Divider by @/ghuleh-recs)

Please don't kill off characters without permission, and please don't get mad when I point it out

Check the ask & answer hashtag before making an ask (if you've seen one more than once, I've seen one more than once)

All blogs are minor friendly, but with implications, so don't be shy

Gorey fighting asks are accepted, because we're all older than 13 here yeah? Anywho go crazy, I love gore.

The flag in my pfp is ARO/ACE and will mainly be here for Pride Month 💖

Crossovers are accepted :)

Blog hastags!!

#rp starter

#Norms art

#rp

#reblog

#ask & answer

#Norms speak

#bates family photos

[More notes]

I will not answer anything I deem inappropriate or intrusive, if you want to start an rp that is completely alright

You can also ask their opinions on stuff, like movies and pop culture and etc. But politics will be ignored, because that is something I try to avoid on this page

MINOR👊

Dms are closed.

Please don't make decisions for my characters, and if I don't know what to say in an rp please don't make fun of me, I try my best :)

Also please don't ship Norman with your character, friends are encouraged, but nothing serious, trust me, if they try Norma will kill them on spot.

I know psycho didn't give an accurate representation of D.I.D., but I'll try my best to make it as realistic as possible.

[Fandoms I'm in]

Psycho

Pretty much any horror movie

Stephen king

Ghost (band)

Midnight mass

Moon knight

Bluey

Lisa frankenstein

Phantom of the opera

Final fantasy

Marvel

[More ask blogs stuff]

This is my main ask blog, and I won't answer asks for other ask blogs people (hannibal, Lisa, Jess, pat)

I apologize if I'm ever deemed 'out of character' when I answer something, but if it's a complicated question I will have trouble getting my point across.

Cussing is a no-no

If you have a specific question PLEASE tell me who it's for.

(Extras)

My yt channel is @/normanandnormabates, I mainly post edits and stuff but I mean 🤷‍♀️

(And mb if I'm dry when talking, I've got ALOT on my mind, and I don't socialize lol)

DO NOT GET MY BLOG CONFUSED WITH THE BATES MOTEL SHOW

ITS GROSS

PSYCHO ONLY

[Top 10 horror movies, constantly changes]

1. Psycho (1960)

2. Donnie Darko

3. Creature from the black lagoon

4. Black christmas (1974)

5. American psycho

6. Silence of the lambs

7. The shining

8. People under the stairs

9. Misery

10. Breakfast at Tiffany's

[just-a-carrot]

What is Our Wonderland? a.k.a. the dumpster fire that is my ace-themed queer horror game or something

Our Wonderland is a visual novel / horror game / horrific dating sim??? / mangled mess of Fucked Up chars reaching their 30s but not? understanding who they are?? and twisted grisly things happen???

It stars five childhood friends with a sEcReT—they opened a Magical Wish-Granting Wonderland in their youth (as one does). Twenty years later, however, they've all turned into barely functioning adults just trying to Get By™, each with their own Traumas exacerbated by their struggles to fit in to a cis- hetero- allonormative world (as well as Pining,,, lots and lots of unrequited Pining). Cue a Return to Wonderland. What could happen now that they're all Verifiable Messes with the power to wish for anything they want??? omg,,, maybe they'll eat each other or something wouldn't that be wild omg,,,

The Woobies

Iggy: Resident Ace Bean that has no idea what he wants and spends most of his time Confused and Overwhelmed and avoiding social situations like the plague; just wants to fit in and for everyone to be Happy™

Genzou: The loud-mouthed snarky Best Friend who loves his favorite pal so much dear god do not touch a hair on his god damn head or he will fucking murder you (definitely Not Gay why would you even think that shm,,,)

Orlam: Nobody likes him he's just kinda there accumulating more and more Debilitating Trauma dear fucking lord is this guy sad and lonely somebody please l-l-love him; forlorn bisexual who longs to be the Life of the Party (may or may not be a cannibal, who can say really,,,)

Gidget: Just your average girl who wants to be Perfect™; did not ever wear boys' clothes or have issues with her body and definitely was never made fun of when trying to use the restroom; likes Iggy perhaps a little bit Too Much

Bucks: Homecoming queen and softball star; has everything she ever wanted in life—a loving husband, a beautiful baby, and a lovely house with a white picket fence; skilled with an Axe

What You Can Expect From This Atrocity:

Around 288k words of Pure Unadulterated Pain (20 to 25 hours or something idk)

A ridiculous 520 CGs because I apparently Can't Stop Drawing

Some pretty sweet cinematic ending sequences I guess

A cool soundtrack??? I did not create it but I've been told it's Good so we'll just go with that

Gore mixed with feels mixed with moments that will make you want to RIP YOUR HEART OUT

A Strange and Deplorable art style that apparently grows on you or so I've been told

Gay people kissing or something

COMPLICATED LOVE SQUARES???

Horrible ace nightmares—BUT ALSO CATHARTIC ACE JOY???

Cannibalism

P.S. in case it wasn't obvious this game is rather Dark and contains many a horrible thing such as Murder, Torture, and the Eating of People (some of the arcs also tread somewhat heavily into Sexual Themes Territory, too, given all the overarching ace stuff), so please please please check the content warnings on the itch page before playing! It's def for mature audiences only.

Where You Can Download This Horrific Abomination From Hell:

Our Wonderland on itch.io (it's free omg!!111!!!!!1)

There's also some free side games ig:

Our Cinderella on itch.io

Our <<Fantastic>> Wonderland on itch.io

Texting the Awkward Ace Guy You've Had a Crush on Since High School on itch.io

Save the Last Dance on itch.io

if you have any questions i guess i can answer them that's how it works maybe.

ok I think that's it bye.

[tac-the-unseen]

Slasher x reader request page!!!

Who I write for:

Michael Myers

Billy Loomis & Stu Macher

Thomas Hewitt

Bubba Sawyer

Bo Sinclair

Vincent Sinclair

Lester Sinclair

Billy Lenz

Brahms Heelshire

Hannibal Lecter

Will Grahm

The Lost Boys

(If you want to see a specific horror character that isn't listed send in an ask and I'll answer.)

What I write:

FLUFF

angst

Occasional sumt

Gore (It's a slasher book What did you expect?)

Sfw Headcannons

Nsfw Headcannons

What do I mean by Reader?:

It's always been a little pet peeve of mine when writers will say 'Reader' but actually mean 'OC'. When I say reader, I mean you babe! The 'Reader' I write for almost always uses general neutral pronouns, No descriptive features, and no background (unless prompted). You control the character, I just write them!

My No's:

I'm not comfortable with anything that involves CNC, SA, Incest, ddlg/lb, animal abuse, child abuse, or anything you know will absolutely need a content warning!

I'm AroAce so writing smut is a bit odd to me but I have and I'm willing to continue. I'm a huge avocator for safe, sane, and consensual.

If you have a question relating to some kind of kink You want me to write for, ask anonymously or DM me privately. Please just be polite!

Also No Freddy Krueger (I've just always hated his character)

Poly coupling:

Billy Loomis & Stu Macher

Hannibal Lecter & Will Graham

David, Dwayne, Paul, and Marko

All with Reader included!

Thanks!