#it was horrifyin

[gurorori]

watched graveyard of the fireflies...

[naamahdarling]

Oh shit I completely forgot about Lost Johns cave fuck that shit is horrifying

I think only 2 serial fiction podcasts have ever actually made me breathe a little too fast. The other was Limetown which...the Napoleon episode fucked me up (only episode I ever had to pause for a few seconds), as well as just the concept in general. But Magnus Archives in addition to being overall the best complete podcast I have listened to had a couple of real getters individually. MAG-15 Lost Johns Cave is one.

"It meant me harm."

And then when they played the recording back and I realized what she was saying my entire body just got cold.

Like, the reason I consume horror content isn't actually because it frightens me. It almost never does. So when it does more than unnerve and thrill me, it's doing a very good job. Congrats Jonny Sims for doing it a good two or three times in Magnus Archives.

By the way, the cave is real.

Here's how you go in.

Goodnight!

[bird-likes-to-fandom]

if you make dementia jokes, I genuinely think you should go to hell. btw.

[chemicalbrew]

achievement get (for the billionth time): take one look at an assignment and get severely overwhelmed AND discouraged for the rest of the day and do nothing

[mythicalmyles]

This account and the tags I follow is why literally no one is allowed on my tumblr /pos

>:)

[sbeana]

shes blocking out the haters

[cthonicascendant]

same we are getting some anti endo posts recommended and we dont know where they are coming from! i think something might be broken? we even got a terf blog recommended yesterday!!

oh fuck that if i got a terf blog recommended you vvould hear my 5cream it vvould be the AAAAA heard around the vvorld 5eriou5ly

[rogueddie]

that horrifyin moment when you realize you have a competency kink

[katsukikitten]

Bakugou sits at your feet on the couch you're stretched out on. He's careful to make sure your feet are still tucked safely under the festive blanket as holiday winds down. He scrolls his phone idly with his left hand, his dominant one on your feet, petting lightly over the blanket.

He glances at you, knows you haven't moved a muscle since you opened the book, only your facial expressions change. Which is normal, you're his expressive girl who sometimes gets herself in trouble when she can't "fix her face."

Now you make a disgusted almost horrified look, maybe even disbelief as you turn the page. You look uncomfortable, shifting your weight although you didn't need to type of mental discomfort.

"What's wrong?" He glances down at the book title then your face again, it was one of the books you wanted to read, one you asked for, "Ya don't like yer book?"

"What?" As if it takes you a moment to register what he's said, to come back to Earth from wherever that pretty mind wandered off to. You follow his eyes down to the cover again and then you let out a small oh. Smile forming on your face again.

"No I love it!" Your eyes flint back to the page, stealing a few words off the page before going back to Katsuki.

"Ya look uncomfortable, usually ya make that face when ya hate a book someone picks out for ya." His phone is face down on the arm rest now, full attention on you as his warm hands rub your legs.

"I am. It's horrifying."

"And that's good?" Gruff tone softening at the end, higher as his confusion plasters his brows in a furrow. You were reading a fucking biography and he's seen you devour horror stories at three am with little light with no change in expression.

"Yes. Very good." You're stealing more words again, he chuckles lightly, the book must be good when he can't compete.

Especially when his thumbs squeeze tightly at your inner thighs and your eyes barely glance his way.

"Ain't it about some actress' life or some shit."

"Yea." Barely an acknowledgment.

"And it's horrifyin? How?"

A long stretch of silence before he's squeezing tightly, pouting and snarling all in one because you've ignored him.

"Ah Suki!" You hiss, he reaches up to shut the book on your thumb so he knows he's got your attention. The book is half gone, you just unwrapped it yesterday.

"How's it fuckin scary!"

"Because this is real. Some bat shit woman raising this poor girl. I can't even imagine the turmoil she was going through to appease her unstable mom at all times and idolizing her at the same time." The two of you share a look for a moment. Slowly Katsuki eases up, leans away and settles back into a comfortable position. Hand on your foot squeezing lovingly as you open your book again.

He can't focus on his phone in his hand, can't see the small appreciation posts to significant others or gift hauls or anything.

He just thinks about that book in your hands and what that little girl who turned into a woman who felt so heavily conflicted until the end of her mother's life that she had to write a book mainly based on that for catharsis.

His mom was tough on him, sure anyone could say that but he never once thought he'd feel relieved if she died. In fact the thought made his heart squeeze too tightly in his broad chest.

"You'll tell me all about it when yer done." He grunts, looking towards you, locking your eyes and like you always do you read him as easily as you've read any of your books.

"I wouldn't dream to leave out a single detail."

[space-blue]

Sad Astarion realisation

I'm doing DnD research for fic setting and have come to a pretty horrifyin realisation I wasn't aware of while playing the game.

You'll notice if you play elf or drow, or have Astarion sleeping at camp, that you have a different pose, with a certain finger shape. Larian's way of showing elves meditating, I guess.

So elves/drow don't need to sleep. Instead they enter a sort of meditative trance. The content of this trance is how they actually tell what stage of their life they are in!

Before around 30yo, as a child, they dream of their past as a pure spirit basically frolicking with their god in heaven. Another fun fact, elves are on a perpetual reincarnation roulette and never get to stay in heaven because of past issues. So they all come from a small pool of original elf souls, and hardly get a pit stop in heaven before being sent back. And elven children basically see visions and experiences of their very first era as a unique soul.

Then from 30+ they begin to see memories of their life as well as those early heaven days. This marks adoleascence.

Then from around 100yo, they can ONLY dream/view moments of their lived life. Supposedly explaining why elves can be so focused on some stuff (create good and useful memories that you get to relive in trance!)

Then from 400+ they begin to see memories of their past lives or even other elves lives and become an 'elder', as well as tending to get more concerned with elf business in the grand scheme of things.

Anyway...

Astarion

Babygirl.

He got snatched at 39!!!!! This means it hadn't been many years at all since he began dreaming of his personal memories. And we all know he was a raging asshole. And then he dies...

And we meet him around 200? This means that every night of his life, he enters a trance for about 4h per night, and gets to only revisit memories of LIVING WITH FUCKING CAZADOR.

He gets *maybe* 9 years of him being an asshole magistrate, and 161 years worth of memories of being tortured, abused, controlled, and made to seduce people for Cazador.

No wonder he's haunted as fuck! I mean, besides the horrors. At least we humans get sleepless nights and abstract nightmares. Astarion gets 4h of Cazador digest. Every. Night.

Until he meets us. And then every memory he makes with us is a memory he gets to revisit instead.

[gurorori]

thinkin' abt grave of the fireflies again...

[meowmeowmeowmeow4x]

Dark Blue Moon and the Suffering Sun Chapter 21

MASTAPOST credit to @adonneniel, @brekitten and @bucketorandomness for all their help brianstorming. The scene with bruce has been a long time coming!

Walter Wekapipo puffed his second cigar of the day. Puff. Puff. Smoke filled his lungs, taking the edge off. Just another cold, damp day on a cold whaling boat in the middle of nowhere.

The captain shouted his orders. Walter got to it. He trawled to the back and grabbed some rope. He heaved. He hauled. The whale they got was a small one. Probably a baby. Should leave it alone. Let it grow big, but captain’s orders.

See, Walter saw himself as a morally complex man. You, dear readers, may consider him with disdain, He is a whaler! You may say. They are endangered species, you continue. And these are very valid points, for which this narrative will not only not judge you but appraise you for.

And Walter considered these points too. Sure they were pretty creatures, but they could always make more. People have been huntin’ whales for centuries. Millennia even. How could you blame him for needing to make a livin’?

No, who you should blame, Walter thought, was the rich pricks out on the East Coast. The assholes who run around in Armani and Gucci and drive fancy cars and do big speeches about the environment and then sneak off to Japan to try whale meat and raw horse. Bleugh.

What he could do with that kinda money…

But he didn’t have that kind of money, and you know? Mama always told him he needed to be happy first with what he got. So Walter picked up his harpoon gun, and dragged his feet to the side of the boat. A whale surfaced. There she was. Huge, meaty, tonnes of oil. Crying out like a bitch too. He remembered his mama crying out like a bitch every single day, till they institutionalised her. Poor mama.

Maybe in a better life, he wouldn’t be out here killing whales illegally. Walter didn’t really have the heart to fire the thing. Not really. But captain’s orders. And it was this or the streets.

Walter flicked his cigarette into the water. Time to get over with it. The captain yelled at him again. He knew he wasn’t getting’ fired. Boat was barely staffed as it was. Walter picked up his harpoon and took aim. So sorry, whaley-girl.

Something wet smacked into his cheek. Then it slid down his face, and dropped onto the floor. What in the world-?

Water slowly lowered his head. His half-smoked cigarette lay there innocently, chock fulla water.

Then came the most hideous, horrifyin’ screechin’ Walter had ever heard in his life.

May God have mercy on his tainted, tainted soul.

Damian opened his gills pre-emptively. He jumped out of the water at full speed, roaring the moment he surfaced. The first man, the repugnant one with the harpoon gun. He was to go down first. The poacher was too stunned to even move. Damian sank his teeth deep into the man’s hand, going deeper than his human bites had ever gone.

The man screeched like a distressed school girl. Damian did not relent. His opponent attempted to fling Damian off, but the small siren held firm. The man stumbled back, howling and trying his best to rid himself of the monstrous child.

The two men beside him shouted. They reached for their harpoons. Twin blue beams blasted them back. The ice bound them to the back wall, leaving only enough room to breathe and wiggle their fingers.

Damian moved to finish his opponent. Tired of the incessant screeching, Damian unhooked his teeth from the man’s arm. Raising his head to eye level, Damian matched the poacher’s terrified look with a hiss of his own. One firm head butt later, and he was down for the count.

And Damian was hardly done.

He may be without his grappling hook. He may be without his legs. But he was still Robin, and a Robin who could not adapt was no Robin at all.

Shouting erupted along the boat. Footsteps scrambled and ran in every which direction. Men rushed to where he was lying ‘prone’ on the deck. Let them come!

“You handle the right. I will decimate the left.” Damian shouted. Danny nodded, charging up another beam.

Damian held his sword in one hand, and activated the wrist ray on the other. The men hesitated.

“Come on mates. It’s just a baby! We could get rich selling it!” With that, the trio of sailors yelled and rallied, each of them carrying harpoons. Child’s play.

Damian coiled his tail, and jumped as a wound-up spring would. A harpoon fired. Damian fired back. The wrist ray’s beam hit true, and the harpoon flew off course. The siren boy continued his course, and latched onto the first man.

His movement came as fluid as gentle river. In one motion with one hand, a slash at the stomach. In another with the other hand, he launched himself at the next poacher. His second total victim fell to the floor like a sack of bricks, writhing and crying out. The second of the trio faltered. A fatal mistake. Damian went for the head. His tail wrapped around the disgusting human’s neck and squeezed. The third man lunged for him. Damian burned his feet with the wrist ray. Then he sent him flying back with a shot to the shoulder.

There were more men. Damian did not relent. He would not relent until nobody was standing, until they could no longer continue their dirty deeds.

His platform was beginning to lose consciousness. Damian slammed him behind the head with the hilt of his sword. As the man fell, Damian launched himself to the next person foolish enough to approach. Then the next, and then the next. Damian dodged and deflected harpoons. He leapt from person to person in a bloody game of leap frog, and when he ran out of people to jump to, he instead went for the crane in the centre of the boat. Damian clambered up the crane using nothing but his upper body strength, aided by his lighter weight.

The remainder of the men were cowering under shelter. It was foolish to think they could escape from him for long. A death rattled emerged, a warning for anyone who dared approach. A foolish man peeked from a window. The wrist ray burned off a patch of hair for his troubles.

Damian had no patience for these games. It seemed Danny had the same idea. The flashes of blue light     ceased alongside the screaming. Oh how therapeutic the screaming was.

Before long, chaos emerged from even the cabin rooms. Looks like Danny had breached them. His opportunity granted, Damian dropped.

He landed on a hapless sailor. A slam to the back of the head had him slumping against the doorway. Damian leapt into the fray.

As soon as it had started, the bloodbath ended. Damian and Danny sat there in the bridge, surrounded by fallen poachers, still breathing, a small mercy. The boys panted heavily, their bodies not quite used to exertion over water. However, the deed was done.

“Has anyone told you you’re totally insane?” Danny asked.

Damian nodded breathlessly. “Many times.”

“High-five?”

Damian’s shoulders slumped. “Very well.”

They still had work to do. Danny tipped over a bucket of sea water on them both. “To keep our scales wet.” He said. Together, the sirens worked on freeing Dorothea. Damian cut the ropes, while Danny used his ice to smooth over the deck.

Damian laid his hand on her nose. He trilled his goodbyes. “Farewell, Dorothea. May you travel safely.”

With the ice acting like a smooth ramp, just a couple pushes were enough to slide Dorothea back into the water, safe and sound. Her mother sang to them in thanks. The whale pod departed soon after, leaving the two siren boys to the rest of the dirty work.

Damian emerged from the brig with rope. A lot of it. Danny worked on icing over the wounds inflicted by Damian’s rampage, many of which Damian would attest were well-earned. However, Damian did not intend to become a murderer again. Despite everything, he still wished to live up to his father’s ideals.

With the crew and captain rounded and tied up, that left another question.

“How are we gonna get these guys to the authorities?”

“We could always just sink the ship and allow them to perish.”

Danny crossed his arms, his face going flat. “No thanks.”

“It is simple. We emulate Basil the Second of the Eastern Roman Empire, who blinded 99 captured soldiers out of a hundred, and gouged out only one eye from the remaining one. Then he had the enemy soldiers return, led by the one-eyed men.”

Danny’s own eyes widened to dinner plates. His nictitating membranes flashed back and forth rapidly.

“I mean to say we allow one man to captain the ship home, while still heavily restrained.”

Danny’s body slumped in relief. “Oh thank god. I thought you were gonna actually try and do that.”

Damian bared his teeth at the crooks, who cowered as far as they could, tied up in rope and ice. “I would like to, but I am bound by higher principles these days.”

“Not concerning at all, but ok.”

Danny wisely chose to not press the issue. He chose someone relatively skinny, freed him out of the bunch. The scrawny man did not even try to flee. Damian’s sword made sure of that.

Just because they were allowing them to live did not mean they had to be nice. Land was less than a day away, so they could afford to be a little harsh. Damian tried the man wrists to the steering wheel, and Danny welded his feet to the floor. “Just so you don’t get any ideas, buddy.”

Danny patted the man on the shoulder, a gesture that was normally meant to encourage and provide support. The scrawny sailor trembled.

“Oh, Dami!” Danny perked up.

Damian’s fins rattled at the childish nickname.

“Now that we’re on a boat, we can call home.

That was… that was good news! Yes! He had completely forgot about that, lost in his righteous rage. That was the whole reason they’d ravaged the previous Atlantean town. Only the map had showed the nearest island to be thousands of miles away, and the coastline would have been too risky. Yes, this was good news indeed.

Damian put his sword to Scrawny’s throat.

Danny cleared his voice. “You might wanna give us your phone password, or my friend here is gonna make a sushi restaurant out of you.”

The man rattled off a series of numbers. Danny fished out his mobile phone, an old battered model, but functional.

“Here you go, Damian.”

Damian’s heart lightened. At last he could contact his father. Perhaps set up an extraction of some kind at the other end of Panama, or even earlier. This would be an enormous step towards bringing this adventure to an end, and returning back to Gotham where he was needed (and deep inside his heart, where he needed to be as well).

Damian slid the phone’s screen to unlock it, only for it to not work. Damian swiped the screen again.

“Why is this not working?” He rapidly rubbed the screen with his thumb, but the device did not respond.

“Oh yeah. These things are designed for human skin, which, uh, you know.” Danny showed his open palm, showing fingers coated in scores of tiny scales.

Damian looked to the side. He crawled up to one of the piles of tied-up poachers and came up to one fortunate enough to have been rendered unconscious. Damian yanked his arm forward, not caring for the deafening crack sound that motion created, and used the poacher’s human fingers to input the call for him.

An inelegant solution for an inelegant problem.

But that was no matter. Damian checked and double checked the numbers, making sure it was his father’s and nobody else’s. He took a deep breath, and pressed call.

Bruce Wayne sat on the back deck of the SAV, alone for the moment. The Fentons were just below, manning the controls. Apparently there was some kink in the system that was causing them to lose speed. Unsurprising, considering they had invented this whole new system in less than 48 hours. Or at least that was if Jasmine was to be believed.

The back deck sported an umbrella over a desk and a couple chairs for relaxation. On his tablet, Bruce carefully read the Fenton’s previous papers on sirens, a length catalogue dating back to over twenty years, when they were both in college.

In college with Vlad Masters, until he had disappeared, only to return grievously ill.

His phone rang. Bruce stared at the call. An unknown American number. He’d long ago stamped out the scam callers and telephone advertisers from ever bothering him or his family. The only person who could be calling this number was someone who knew it. Or at least someone who’d manually dialled it and wasn’t a scammer.

Hope began to swell. Surely it couldn’t be. It had to be Damian. Wasn’t it? No, he had to quash his hopes down. He had to stay focused.

Bruce answered the call.

“Hello, Bruce Wayne speaking. How may I help you?” His body tensed, hoping to God that it would be his son’s voice on the line, in the one and a million chance.

But what came through the line wasn’t his son’s voice. Or anyone’s voice. Instead, a series of frantic high-pitched trills, clicks and whistles came through. Almost like the caller put the phone next to an excited dolphin.

“Listen, I do not have time for any pranks. Who is calling me and why?” Bruce clenched his first. Of course he was a fool to get his hopes up.

Another frantic dolphin call. What a waste of time.

“I hope you’re proud of yourself for prank calling me.” The clicking went on in even more rapid succession, but Bruce ignored it. “Goodbye, and do not call this number again.”

Bruce hung up.

He hung his head in his hands, wishing for Damian to be back and safe. Wishing nobody had to be in danger.

[the-arcade-doctor]

the victims of jota's blues - aka "shades of grey" wip

[verse 1] allow me to tell you about a tale that I've heard about all of our friends here and one fucked up bird a hostile monster an infectious disease one that crawls under your skin and refuses to leave [chorus] we all know what happens a mere action or a question we ask the symbols start a-clackin as the devil dons his mask sure, some of us deserved it it's a price that we pay now I'll tell you our horrifyin' tales our stories through shades of grey

[mugs-n-cans]

Scout! Remember that radio that lets you talk to other versions of you?

I connected it to another radio of the same kind that I gave to another one of you.

so now you won't interrupt into a radio!

-💰

Scout: Yeesh, yeah, that was freakin’ horrifyin’! Never wanna do that crap again. My head is gettin’ confused from all these different us’s…

Sniper: Er, yeh…I think I was comfortable thinkin’ we were the only one of us. I mean it just makes ya feel less…special, I reckon.

Scout: Well, no matter how many us’s there are, we are the freakin’ BEST! It makes me feel kinda sad that there’s a different universe out there where we aren’t together…

[guns-and-botany]

Depending on whether you consider that good or bad, at least the AIs may still be around by the time you die! Assuming Zayin doesn't get picked apart until he's a shell of his former self and causes Koshek to go mad in return, ending in him trying to kill people and getting trapped in a respawn loop.

.. Horrifyin'. That's prob'ly what would happen if Zayin got picked apart like that, too... it's nice they'll be around when I'm old and going through brain death, though

[fantasticcolorcloudflap]

I find a way to fit your name in every sentence that i speak

It's 5am and idk what happened i just strated writting. Reddie is CONSUMING me rn. So yeah. Might (probably) do a part two because they are consuming me (did i mention that already?): Anyways, enjoy!

Word count: 1031

I hate Richie fucking Tozier. I hate how stupidly unfunny he is. I hate the way those moronic glasses look on his face. I hate his atrocious singing and the way he slicks his hair back with an extraordinary amount of hair gel when he's trying to look smart for something (he looks like my 50 year old unmarried uncle). I hate the fact that he's fucking taller than me - okay, I'm not that tall, everyone else is easily higher than me, but we've always been the same fucking height. Until last summer, when he grew a few inches just to spite me. Now he towers over me with that stupid grin of his. I hate how awkwardly long he is, all sharp angles and overly large bones. I hate how he calls me Eds, I hate his nonstop jokes about banging my mother, I hate how he pinches my cheek and calls me cute, cute, cute.

Okay, I may not hate that, but still.

He really knows how to get under my goddamn skin.

I know I'm not being fair. Richie has always been like that, stupidly annoying Richie. Nothing has changed in the way he teases me and gets me worked up. I'm the one who has changed. I used to be indifferent to his sexual comments and obscene jokes. I would tell him to fuck off and smack him hard on his arm. But something has changed. I don't know what, but every time he says he's dying to blow me it sends a jolt through my body. Every time he calls me Eds and wraps a too-long arm around my shoulders, my stomach does a fucking somersault. It makes me want to puke. Being around Richie for too long makes me dizzy and overwhelmed. it's too much. And most of the time I just want him to get the fuck away from me. So I tell him. And he just blatantly ignores me.

This isn't really new. The warm fuzzy feeling around Richie has always been there for as long as I can remember. So even though Richie was as insufferable as he usually is, I always liked being around him. Sometimes he makes me laugh so hard it brings tears to my eyes. And he just sits there looking so proud of himself, almost glowing with happiness. And then I laugh a little more than I need to, just to see him glow like that for a couple more seconds.

Anyway. It's always been there. But I've always managed to ignore it. I had a vague idea of what it might mean, but I really wasn't that keen on figuring it out, so I just didn't think about it. But this year it has become impossible to ignore. Like a trumpet blaring in my ears.

“Ah, Eddie Spaghetti, I've been looking all over for you” Richie drops down in the soft grass next to me and offers me a cheeky grin.

There it is. That damn trumpet blaring right into my brain.

“Call me Eddie Spaghetti one more time and I swear to God I'll end you,” I say with a huff of annoyance.

“Hmm, I'd like to see you try.”

I'm spared from answering when the rest of the losers' club finds us sitting on the yellowing patch of grass Derry High School has to offer.

“I was t-thinking of g-g-going to the quarry this afternoon,” Bill said slumping down next to Richie, followed by Bev and the others. “Take advantage of the w-warm weather, it won't lllast long.

Everyone agreed. Today was the first day of school and I'm sure no one has any homework to do (I certainly don't), so we agreed to meet there at five o'clock.

Great. Now I just have to convince my mom.

We grab the bikes and say goodbye. I'm sliding my leg over the bike seat when I hear Richie call my name.

“Wait, Eds!”

“What do you want?”

“I'm coming with you. No one's waiting for me at home, so I've got plenty of time to spare.”

Great. Just fucking great.

It is actually great. Call me a masochist, if you will, but as much as I wish Richie would just stay away from me (maybe that would make me able to sort through these confusing and horrifying feelings) I love having him around, listening to his endless chatter and his horrible jokes. I love the fluttering feeling in my stomach and the way I feel giddy and giggly next to him.

But I also hate it. Because what the fuck.

So that's that.

“So,” Richie says as we pedal down the road that leads to my house, “I was thinking about just the two of us staying in this weekend or something. It's been a while since we've hung out, like, just us two.”

Uhhhhhh yeah. That was completely on purpose - who knows what my brain might do under the prospect of being alone with Richie?

But I guess I can't shut him out forever. I just have to sort through these (new?) strongly uncomfortable feelings and get on with my life. Wich includes weekly get-togethers with Richie to read comics and play video games.

I shrug nonchalantly. “Yeah, whatever. But we're hanging in my house. I don't even want to imagine the germs that live in your room. It's disgusting."

“Well, obviously at your house,” he replied. “How else am I going to fuck your mother while you sleep?”

“Oh my fucking God, will you stop talking about my mother?”

“My dearest Eds, you know she is the love of my life and the subject of all my sexual fantasies, how could I ever stop talking about her?”

I groan as I reach the door and get off the bike. “Fuck you,” I say grabbing the keys we keep under the potted plant on the porch. Richie smiles.

"Aw, you don't mean that Eds. You love me really." And with that, he takes off, yelling a "see you later Spaguetti!" as he rushed up the street we had just came from.

I do love him, really.

Well fuck.

Im in love with Richie Tozier.