#macabre-mangled

[smolla-than-a-bug]

Your Crispin and Basilio fics are so good bro ahhhh!!

thank u so much! 🤍 tho looking back honestly feels like a fever dream i was so down bad when trese first came out BAHAHA

[grinningcadaver]

~ Head of a Dead Man ~ - - - - - - #illustration #ink # black&white #eerie #creepy #unsettling #macabre #artwork #mangled https://www.instagram.com/p/Ckwk2ZXPt5u/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[dewdropdinosaur]

Fixer Upper

ALASTOR x (F)READER Summary: Someone dared to break Alastor's precious radio and his wrath is inconsolable. But turns out you may have some small tricks up your sleeve. Warnings: NONE For the dearest @anon-of-the-void. My darling, it is a pleasure as always to write these for you.

In the bustling chaos of the Hazbin Hotel, where demons sought redemption amidst the fiery chaos of Hell, an unlikely friendship blossomed. Alastor, the infamous Radio Demon, found solace in the presence of Y/N, an inventive soul from the Victorian Era who had found herself amidst the peculiar denizens of the underworld.

Y/N was a tinkerer, always tinkering away in her workshop, concocting gadgets and gizmos that would make even the most adept engineers marvel. Alastor, with his vintage charm and macabre wit, found her creations fascinating, and the two formed an unusual bond over their shared love for innovation.

One fateful day, disaster struck when Alastor's beloved old-time radio, his prized possession from his living days, broke down. The demon was devastated, his usual jovial demeanor clouded by a rare display of anger. The residents of the hotel trembled in fear, knowing the havoc that could be unleashed if the Radio Demon's rage remained unchecked.

Alastor's crimson eyes blazed with fury as he prowled the halls of the Hazbin Hotel, his usual jovial smile replaced by a menacing snarl. The residents cowered in fear, whispering among themselves as they caught glimpses of the Radio Demon's wrathful form.

"You there!" Alastor's voice boomed, sending shivers down the spines of those unfortunate enough to cross his path. "Do you have any idea of the inconvenience of my beloved radio breaking? The nerve, the audacity!"

Niffty, the hyperactive cleaner demon, spoke with a frantic passion as she viewed the mangled radio."Alastor! I'll do it! Let me clean it please!"

Alastor's laughter rang out like a chilling melody, sending a chill through the air. "Oh, my dear Nifty, no thank you. This requires some…interrogation but feel free to clean up the aftermath."

Angel Dust, lounging lazily on a nearby couch, scoffed, "Oh, lighten up, Al, it's just a stupid radio. Besides, it's not like anyone listens to your old-timey tunes anyway."

The room fell silent as Alastor's gaze bore into Angel Dust, his smile twisting into a sinister grin. "Is that so, my dear Angel? Perhaps I should demonstrate the consequences of underestimating the power of music."

With a snap of his fingers, Alastor summoned a spectral microphone, its ethereal glow casting eerie shadows across the room. "Now, let's see who's laughing when I unleash the full force of my wrath upon this wretched offender!"

The residents of the Hazbin Hotel trembled as Alastor's menacing laughter echoed through the halls, knowing all too well that when the Radio Demon was in a foul mood, no one was safe from his terrifying fury.

As fear spread throughout the hotel, Y/N knew she had to act swiftly to quell the storm brewing within Alastor's heart. Ignoring the warnings of her peers, she clandestinely snatched the broken radio and retreated to her workshop, determined to restore it to its former glory.Under the cover of night, she stealthily crept into Alastor's room, her pockets filled with tools and determination. With deft hands, she dismantled the broken radio, each cog and wire familiar to her skilled touch.

Hour after hour, Y/N toiled away, her nimble fingers dancing across the delicate machinery. With each adjustment and tweak, the radio gradually came back to life, its familiar crackle filling the air once more. But as the night wore on,  fatigue gnawed at Y/N's bones, her eyelids growing heavy with exhaustion. But she pressed on, fueled by determination and a desire to see her friend smile once more.

Finally, with a soft click, the radio sprang to life, emitting a crackling sound before filling the room with the familiar strains of vintage jazz. Y/N let out a sigh of relief, a triumphant smile gracing her lips as she admired her handiwork.

But as she stood there basking in her success, fatigue finally caught up with her. With a yawn, she sank into a nearby chair, her eyes fluttering closed as sleep claimed her.

Unbeknownst to her, Alastor had been silently watching from the shadows, his expression unreadable as he observed Y/N's tireless efforts to fix his broken radio. When he saw her succumb to exhaustion, a pang of concern tugged at his heart, softening the edges of his usually stoic demeanor.

Quietly, he approached her slumbering form, his footsteps barely audible against the creaking floorboards. Gently, he brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, his touch light as a feather.

"My dear Y/N," he whispered, his voice barely above a murmur. "Such devotion, such selflessness. You truly are a marvel."

A warmth blossomed in Alastor's chest as he watched her sleep, a feeling he couldn't quite put into words. For the first time in centuries, he felt something akin to tenderness stirring within him—a feeling he realized with a start was nothing short of admiration.

With a soft sigh, Alastor leaned in closer, pressing a gentle kiss to Y/N's forehead before picking up her form and striding over to his bed; tucking her in with the utmost care. As he stood there in the dimly lit room, surrounded by the quiet hum of the fixed radio and the soft breathing of his friend, he knew at that moment that he was irrevocably touched by her kindness.

And as the first light of dawn painted the sky, Alastor silently vowed to cherish and protect Y/N, for she had not only fixed his broken radio but had also managed to mend something far more precious—his wounded heart.

The next morning dawned upon the Hazbin Hotel, the air tinged with a sense of relief as the residents basked in the knowledge that Alastor's beloved radio had been fixed. Alastor strode into the lobby with a confident swagger, his usual grin plastered on his face. With a flick of his wrist, he turned on the radio, the familiar crackle of static filling the air before giving way to the melodic strains of love songs from a bygone era.

The residents exchanged puzzled glances, their confusion evident as they listened to the unexpected playlist. Angel Dust raised an eyebrow, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips. "Well, well, looks like someone's feeling a bit sentimental today."

Alastor's grin widened, though there was a hint of something softer lurking beneath the surface. "Ah, my dear Angel, music has a way of stirring the soul, don't you think?"

As the love songs continued to play, the other residents couldn't help but feel a sense of warmth wash over them. Even the gruffest demons found themselves tapping their claws to the beat, caught up in the unexpected romance of it all.

But as Alastor's gaze lingered on Y/N, who stood among the crowd with a shy smile, a wave of realization washed over him. It wasn't just any love songs he was playing—it was a silent declaration of his growing affection for the inventive soul who had captured his heart.

And as the music filled the room with its sweet melody, Alastor couldn't help but feel a surge of hope coursing through him. Perhaps, in the midst of Hell's chaos, there was still room for love to blossom—a love that transcended time and defied all odds.

With a soft chuckle, Alastor stole a glance at Y/N, his heart swelling with newfound courage. For in that moment, amidst the gentle strains of love songs and the soft glow of morning light, he knew that he was falling—falling head over heels for the one who had fixed not only his broken radio but also the shattered pieces of his soul.

[yandere-toons]

Toga Himiko | ブラッド・クィーン

Warning: strong and bloody violence.

Word Count: 2.127

Artwork: Akiyama Yoco's first illustration for Toga.

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Death's ghost rained down in fine red embers, bringing with it the smell of a hundred knives rusting deep within fly-torn flesh.

A mist of blood, nearly steaming on cheeks aflame with heat, clothed the muscles so taut in her neck. The fill of her stomach took a leap and a bound, aflutter and twitching, like a bird fraught with excitement.

Thump after thump drew blood flush over her skin, matched the pounding of drums in her heart, slipped along her mouth at every breath, danced bittersweet on the end of her tongue.

The music of dreams carried on the blood-wind, singing of what it was to languish beneath the stars in decades past.

For a while, you sat and listened, fingers dug in round the edge of the armrest, knuckles sharp against skin.

The gramophone beside an open window stuttered for a moment, as if struggling to perform its duty in the face of the room’s two living occupants. The eerie echo of the distant singer, of a time long since passed, seemed almost to sedate you. In contrast to her, so animated and audible, the music seemed so rhythmic, blending into other sounds of the night, cancelling out all else.

All else, that is, except her. She glided over and around the mangled forms scattered throughout the room. Some almost seemed alive, displaying occasional twitches of stress from their agonizing last moments, whereas others seemed little more than lumps of twisted meat, stinking and splattered. A giggle, authentic and dripping with joy, reached your ears.

She didn’t mind the macabre display, and neither did you. There was intimacy in the scene, even if hidden and shamefully unappreciated. Not long ago, the desiccated husks were full of life, bemoaning their fates, casting aspersions against yourself, one another, and her as you’d made your way around the room, making selections together. None of them could properly resist, of course, and so the two of you could, and did, take your time.

The gramophone stuttered again, and you cast a quick glance at the machine, less out of curiosity and more out of annoyance. That made for a second stutter within the same song. You took a mental note to adjust the machine afterwards, and your eyes returned to her. The moonlight cast a small shadow of her upon the wall, and you wondered for a moment if she had noticed its diminutive size or if she remained lost in her bliss.

She squealed as her boots stomped a gore pulp beneath them, the squelching reminiscent of a watermelon splatting against the ground. Dollops of blood flew, and within another motion, both her boots and legs had received a fresh coat of crimson. Her eyes shined like freshly minted coins as she revealed a toothy grin, and she ran her tongue over sharpened teeth that resembled fangs. Yes, clearly, she was enjoying herself amid the gruesome redecoration of the room.

She twirled once more, and her eyes fixated upon you as you rose from the chair. You approached her softly, but intently, and she wouldn’t look away. Tucking her hands behind her back, as if suddenly bashful, her eyes travelled the length of you. Her movement slowed, but her smile remained. Tenderly, you extended a hand towards her, your eyes never missing an opportunity to make contact with hers.

Her body stiffened; breath caught in her throat. You cocked your head, less out of confusion, and more to survey her from a different angle. The edges of your lips curled up ever-so-slightly, and with your head leaning in towards hers, she was frozen. No voices, no gurgling from the butchered wretches below, and no stuttering from the gramophone.

Her lip quivered momentarily, and you took another step forward. She could feel your hot, yet restrained, breath on her face, and you could see the rapidly developing makings of a red tinge on her cheeks. The splotches of red on her chin, the stains of bodily fluids in her formerly pristine hair, and the reeking stenches all around meant nothing. It was only the two of you, sharing a moment that only two such wayward souls could appreciate.

She shivered as your hand reached her midsection, teasing her hips lightly until it reached its intended target. Tracing blood-stained fingers and feeling out the point of a sharpened blade, you tenderly clasped hold of several of her fingers around the blade and, with eyes never leaving hers, guided her hand from behind her back to your sternum.

With mere inches of distance separating you, you placed the gore-drenched hand with the blade over your heart and, in a voice barely more audible than a whisper, blew forth a single word: Dance.

Her hand shook, and with eyes beholden to your own, she grinned from ear to ear. Nodding, she pressed herself against your chest, the knife locked between two grasps as though it were a child in need of protection. Her other hand surreptitiously made its way to your side, and yet the motion garnered no reaction from you.

She sighed, and you laid your other arm about her back, drawing her closer. The gramophone performed its duties, and the rest of the world fell away as the two of you traversed the room, deliberately yet fluidly. The sporadic squelches, the scratching of boots against solid floors, and the blow of the wind served only to bring serenity to the both of you.

It was an intimacy and affection few could imagine and even fewer could experience; it was one Toga Himiko shared deep in the nights of you.

----

After what seemed like only a moment, the two of you had made your way across the room more than once. The moonlight, shining through a precious few windows, continued to illuminate the scene, even as the night grew darker and a fresh chill entered the air. The corpses had taken on much larger shadows, and though none twitched as they had previously, the light seemed to pass about them, throwing intriguing shapes upon the floors and walls behind.

Toga hummed, buried in your chest, face no longer visible under that bloody mess of hair. She didn’t seem to mind that, in the motion, your hand had won against hers for the primary grip on her vaunted knife. It was your fingers that kissed the slick steel, even as hers remained tightly, but not painfully, clenched along the grip. While she couldn’t bring herself to fully let go of the object, she was content to share it with you, and you were content to share it with her.

Your formerly coordinated motions slowed to a halt. The two of you seemed to be sharing an extended hug more than anything else, and as she raised her head, a creak uttered from somewhere else in the room.

In an instant, you were separated, and Toga shot her head sideways, scanning the area for any threats. You mirrored her approach, intent to ferret out and eradicate whatever had interrupted your bliss, but on further observation, nothing revealed itself.

Motionlessly, silently, you both waited, eyes and ears attuned to the most minute disturbances, and still, nothing. Toga, peering upon the carnage with seemingly fresh eyes, noticed a more full-bodied corpse toward the center of the room. The quarry had not been easy to pacify from the hunting ground, and his size made the drag to the room more difficult than expected.

She pounced on the offending mass of flesh, back turned to you, but just as passionate and animated as ever. She straddled the corpse, skirt partially hiked, legs planted on either side: there stirred in Toga a warmth throughout her body. She spared the corpse below a glance, as though he might revive to cheer this opportunity, and buried the knife in his chest cavity one final time. The fool’s glazed-over eyes offered nothing save for the lingering imprint of his final terror.

As she plunged the blade from its target, dead sinew tore, and blood spewed from the former captive, splattering across her chest and face, washing what had already been soaked in past excursions. The moonlight worked to augment her crimson coat, making Toga’s body shine, and as she grinned, her face seemed to absorb every photon of light in the room. The knife was again doused, its temporary reprieve resting against your chest forgotten.

You approached, transfixed on her exquisite form, heaving with exertion and bolstered by excitement. Your boots crunched the severed fingers of another offering, even as your eyes remained centred on her within your approach. Witnessing such fervour was a treat, but enabling it, and being so proximate to it, that was a delicacy to be savoured.

Breath shook out of her, then rose anew, before she flung herself close, again tucking her head underneath your chin, with hair loosely tied and frayed about your vision; both hands came upon a shoulder, where, one by one, the nail of each finger drove deeper, encouraged by the sweet longings of a crooner, frightened by the lightest sway of your body.

Without yielding an inch, you gently removed the tensed, clasping fingers from your punctured tissue. You continued to pry one finger at a time from its familiar destination, and with your touch, Toga shivered, eyes not daring to meet your piercing gaze. She pressed herself deeper into your chest, hot breath palpable through the ripped fabric guarding your newly bleeding form. You offered a slight push, less for easier access to your fresh wound than to attain renewed sight of Toga’s expressive face.

A flash of fire erupted in your shoulder. Cold lips of steel once again pierced cloth and flesh, a kiss upon bone, turned warm under a stream of red.

A blood-strip flew to the lower portion of your eyelid; and for a moment of complete instinct, you squinted, barely a twitch and nothing more.

Toga, with her face at last visible, watched as though she might cry, bright eyes fogging over to something like molten bronze. “Take my blood,” she breathed, giving out a piece of herself in ways long held inside, “We can share the pain!”

She detached from you and, gasping, took the knife to her palm; or, rather, the blade of the knife swung low at a centre vein when you caught it, fingers wrapping the serrated edge. Blood colder than steel leaked forth to the ground. Each plop, each scattering of a blood-ball transfixed Toga a little more, the spell broken only at the wisp of a word from your mouth.

No, and the thrumming of her pulse stilled. Toga set the golden light of her eye upon you, seeming a curious child than anything wicked.

Crimson fluid oozing from between your sliced fingers, you stepped forward, towering over the paralyzed Toga. Once again, your eyes did not break from hers, and she could not stop her knees from shaking, bending inward as if they suddenly couldn’t bear her slight frame any longer. With liquid dripping between the two of you, you stretched an arm across her waist and behind her back.

All she could do was utter a squeak before she once again was pulled into your leering form. Neither one of you said a word as she settled, her immediate tension from the surprise contact melting when she realized its intention. She purred, low and sultry, yet aside from a turn of her head to allow her ears closer to your chest, she remained stationary.

The whole of one ear pressed to your heart, a low beating of something far away, enough to stay living and no more. Against the still of your body, Toga's heart pounded forth as if to join the two.

There the two of you stayed, once more locked in one another’s embrace. The sacrificial flesh scattered, defiled, and eviscerated across the floor, the walls, and even traces on the ceiling were nothing. The droplets of blood flowing from your shoulder were nothing, simply a weakness of the body. The stenches filling your nose, the memories of screams and mutilation that played in the back of your mind, the urge to snuff out the warmth of life so close to you—all had been replaced with serenity.

The terror of the departed flesh served its purpose. The experience you both shared with them was distinctive, but the intimacy shared with Toga was singular. So few could understand that you had found each other. None of the flesh could appreciate that their screams, their cries, their entreaties, all of it served a purpose they couldn’t imagine. Toga could, though, and you would share it with her for the rest of your days together.

Another, she whispered.

[cryptidghostgirl]

A/N I have some requests in the chain above this one but wanted to post something that was a stand alone and not a part to another fic I wrote earlier because of how long I have been away. I promise the two requests lined up before this (pt 3 of till death do us part and pt 4 to cover up) will be out soon! Also, this request reminds me of Cinder by Marissa Meyer so there is some mild inspo from that in here (and loose quoting. sorry. I got carried away.).

What it Means to be a Person (Alastor x Cyborg!Reader)

Pairing: Alastor x Reader

Description: Y/n gave an arm and a leg to the fight against the exterminators and feels she has lost her humanity by the bionic replacements Lucifer and Charlie gifted her in return. Alastor reminds her that not all is lost, she can still dance, after all.

Warnings: Hurt//comfort. This might've ended up a little more angsty than intended and I kinda ran away with the prompt. Sorry about that.

Word Count: 2,246

Master Lists:

Master Lists 

Hazbin Hotel Master List 

Alastor Master List 

Click here and leave a comment if you want to be added to any taglists or send me an ask about it.

“Imagine there was a cure, but it would cost you everything. What would you do?”

Y/n's question hung in the air of the dimly lit kitchen, echoing off the uncertainties late hours like this one always seemed to carry. Alastor froze where he stood by the stove, his hang halfway to the kettle whistling away upon it. He turned to face her where she sat at the far end of the rough hewn kitchen table, her head in her hands and her hair acting as a curtain, as a shield, hiding her face from view.

The meeting had been an accident. Alastor had found himself craving a cup of tea to accompany his late night preparations for tomorrows broadcast and when he had entered the kitchen, he had found her sitting there. Since the day Y/n had shown up at the hotel in all her bright and wild exuberance, Alastor had felt a connection with the girl. She was bubbly, a showman at heart with a soft spot for the macabre, how could he not automatically find a certain level of camaraderie with her? Everything had changed after the battle with Heaven a few weeks before.

Y/n had fought valiantly, using all her brains and brawn to protect the place she had come to call her home and the people she had discovered to be her family. The battle did not take her life, but she did give an arm and a leg to its hungry fervor. With Lucifer's help, Charlie had managed to get her an appointment with a well known doctor in Pentagram City. The man had given Y/n back her ability to stand, to reach for things, but had taken the mangled remains of her human form in the process. She had been brought back to square one, learning how to walk, to hold a pencil. She had been filled to the brim with wires that allowed her to control her new appendages.

The conversation had been an accident as well. Alastor hadn't meant to open the can of worms he was now sifting through. He had just spotted her sitting there, had casually asked how she was doing. Y/n was always so human, so much more human than he was capable of being. It was the only thing that had ever held him back from taking what he wanted, that wild and irrevocable humanity of hers.

"I would take the cure." Alastor replied after a moment, turning back to the stove and at last lifting the kettle, pouring the hot water into his favorite mug, "It would be better than the alternative."

With a decided intent in his step, he made his way over to her. The legs of the chair scraped dangerously across the floor as he pulled it out and took a seat beside her. Y/n looked up.

Alastor was shocked at what he saw. Y/n had been hiding since the battle, claiming that she was recuperating. No one had any reason to doubt her given the injuries she had sustained but now, Alastor was not so sure. Her eyes were sunken, dark circles dulling the pink of her cheeks. She was silver in the moonlight as it streamed through the window but she did not shine as she normally seemed to.

"I'm not human anymore."

Y/n's voice was cracked and raw, it only made him love her more. Out of all the creatures in Hell, she was the only one who would worry about such a thing, he was sure of it. Alastor had to stop himself from laughing, focusing on the heat of the cup held between his hands.

"You never were. You haven't been in a long time." he mused in response and Y/n sighed.

"I don't feel like a person anymore."

Again, another contradiction. Y/n was a demon, through and through. Not quite an overlord but powerful, well on her way to becoming one. There was nothing human about that in Alastor's eyes. The way he saw it, the moment a soul died they stopped being a person, no matter where in the afterlife they ended up. It was clear she would not agree. They had never talked of such matters before, it was an unexpected revelation. Alastor took a deep breath.

"Why?"

Y/n was silent, her eyes returning to the table as she traced the grains of the wood. It was unlike him, the concern, the curiosity for such an emotional matter. Alastor had long since given up on trying to make sense of the things she provoked in him. He tried again.

"How do you define being human? Is it what you look like? What you're made up of? Or is it who you are."

It was a clumsy attempt. There had been no need to provide comfort for a long time, not since Alastor had been alive. He was out of practice but, he supposed, caring for another was rather like riding a bike. Once you learned how it was done, you never really forgot.

"Who you are but..." Y/n's eyes met his once again, the conflict occuring behind them apparent.

She was unsheltered, the facade was gone. Alastor would consider himself close with the demon, closer perhaps than anyone else at the hotel but still, he had never seen her like this. His heart hurt.

"At the same time," she continued solemnly, "there is more to it than that."

"How do you define humanity?"

Y/n thought for a moment.

"Dancing. Spending time with friends, having people who care about you. Making meals together, reading books and poetry. Making art. Feeling one with the world around you, being a part of the earth we all come from."

Alastor held another laugh at bay. It wasn't out of the blue but, at the same time, there was something strange about hearing the words as they left her lips. He took a sip of his drink, the hot liquid worming its way down his throat and into his stomach.

"Doesn't the fact that you now find yourself to be inhuman at all show at least some of those?"

Y/n cocked her head to the side in confusion, her brow furrowing. Alastor sighed, leaning back in his chair.

"What I mean is that the reason you have those bionic limbs of yours at all is because you have people who care about you enough to get them for you and you cared enough about other people to give up what you originally had. If that isn't having people who care about you, spending time with friends, being one with the world around you, I don't know what is."

"But I am not of the earth any longer." Y/n ruefully replied.

"You are."

"How? I am naught but metal now. I traded steel for skin."

In the weakness of the night breeze, she seemed to slip into the skin she once wore. Flowery language, a posh, nearly transatlantic accent, shoulders straight and strong, all reminders of her upper class upbringing from so long ago. He could almost see her now as she must've been. It was a trick of the light.

"You were buried, right?"

Y/n nodded.

"I believe so. Beside my mother."

"Then you are forever of the earth."

"To the earth we must return," Y/n nodded after a moment in solemn agreement, "but I will never dance again."

Alastor had never even known it was something she had enjoyed. The time for questions was later, he got to his feet, his cup left abandoned on the table.

Alastor summoned his staff with a wave of his hand, leaning it against the sideboard as a soft song began playing from its speaker. Turning to Y/n once again, he offered her his hand. Y/n eyed it tentatively before reaching out her own to grab it.

With a shake of Alastor's head, she halted mid movement. He didn't need words to get his point across, Y/n just didn't like it. Lowering her hand, she raised the other. It was heavier, made from something other than flesh. There was an ungainly sense to the way she moved it. It didn't flow graceful through the air, it was too heavy for that. The metal of her fingers was cold and harsh against his palm as he helped her ineptly to her feet.

"Ella Fitzgerald." she mused softly, her eyes on his microphone.

"I didn't know you liked jazz."

Y/n's eyes met his once again and she gave him a half hearted smile.

"Growing up in the 1930s and being someone who held distaste towards jazz would have been an impossibility, wouldn't you agree?"

He had known she was alive sometime around the turn of the century but, that had been it. Alastor grinned from ear to ear at this subtle revelation.

"I knew there was a reason I liked you."

Letting go of her hand, Alastor took a step back. He bowed. Y/n couldn't help it, she laughed a little.

"What on earth are you doing?"

Alastor looked up at her, still bowing as their eyes met. Slowly, he straightened himself up, holding a hand out to her once again.

"Y/n, would you do me the absolute honor of sharing this dance?"

He had hoped his showmanship would make her smile, make her laugh even, the way it normally did. Instead, she withdrew her arms to her chest, taking a halting step backwards as she shook her head. Alastor's gaze softened. He had never seen her afraid before.

"Please."

"I..."

Y/n's eyes flitted wildly around the room, searching for any excuse, any fodder for her escape. At last, she relented, hesitantly placing her hand back into his own.

"Okay."

Her voice was soft, almost breathless. Alastor pulled her into him, snaking an arm around her waist as she placed her other on his shoulder.

"See?" he asked as they began to dance, "All is not lost to you."

There was nothing elegant about her movements. Y/n grimaced.

"But it is not the same either. Once I was something grand."

"Change is inevitable. You are still someone grand."

"Not change like this."

Alastor spun her out, catching Y/n in his arms as she almost tripped over the weight of her foot.

"Why do you hate it so much? Is it vanity?"

“Vanity is a factor," Y/n admitted, "but it is more a question of control. It is easier to trick others into perceiving you as beautiful if you can convince yourself you are beautiful. But mirrors have an uncanny way of telling the truth and I am not made up of the same materials I once was."

"Change is inevitable." Alastor said again and was overjoyed when Y/n rolled her eyes, smiling slightly as his response, "You're still beautiful, almost more so now."

This took her aback. The tingle of a question at the back of her mind was outweighed by shock. She stilled, still pressed close to Alastor as the music filtered softly into their ears.

"What?"

"Before you shined, but just on the inside." Alastor admitted, refusing to look away from her wide eyes even as he felt the heat rush to his cheeks, "Now you do on the outside as well, see?"

He held the hand he clasped tightly in his own up to the light streaming in through the window. The moon glinted off the silver surface of the metal, sending playful patterns scattering across the walls of the kitchen. Y/n's breath caught in her throat.

"And you can still dance. Why don't you help me with dinner tomorrow?"

It was something they had done on occasion before the extermination, cook for the inhabitants of the Hazbin Hotel together.

"Why are you doing this?"

The smile slipped from Alastor's face.

"I don't understand." Y/n shook her head, pushing herself away from Alastor and wrapping her arms around her torso, "Why are you doing all this for me?"

The answer was simple. Sometimes, the truest things in life are.

"Because I love you." he admitted, "And it pains me to see you like this."

"I..."

He had known it was too good to be true. The music stopped, his staff vanishing into thin air as quickly as it had appeared.

"I'll go. Just... make sure you get some sleep tonight, I know you havent been."

He was halfway to the door, mostly past her, when he felt the cool grip of her hand on the exposed skin of his wrist. Alastor stopped, he turned. There was a minute bravery in the act. Not that she had stopped him, that she had grabbed his arm. If anything, that was the most normal thing that had occurred all evening. No, it was the arm she had chosen to use, the one she held such conflict over and saw as something to be embarrassed about, ashamed of.

She stood tense in the moonlight, her free hand raised to her chest.

"I..."

Y/n's mind was spinning, her thoughts firing off at a thousand miles a minute. She wanted to say it, knew it was true, but something stopped her. She wasn't ready.

"Thank you, Alastor."

Alastor smiled softly, almost sadly over at her. Gently, he removed her hand from his wrist, holding it in his own and patting it gently.

"Always."

------

QUOTES REFERENCED (BECAUSE I REFUSE TO STEAL OTHERS WORK EVEN FOR A FANFICTION)

“Imagine there was a cure, but it would cost you everything. What would you do?” -> taken from “Imagine there was a cure, but finding it would cost you everything. It would completely ruin your life. What would you do?” in Cinder by Marissa Meyer

“Vanity is a factor," Y/n admitted, "but it is more a question of control. It is easier to trick others into perceiving you as beautiful if you can convince yourself you are beautiful. But mirrors have an uncanny way of telling the truth and I am not made up of the same materials I once was." -> taken from “Vanity is a factor, but it is more a question of control. It is easier to trick others into perceiving you as beautiful if you can convince yourself you are beautiful. But mirrors have an uncanny way of telling the truth.” in Cinder by Marissa Meyer

TAGS:

@willowshadenox @i-love-jafar @elfyeet @reader3 @lazygirlfanfic0-0@kahlan170@wendyphan01203-blog @fairyv-ice @clarakainda @lunaramune @mcueveryday @luxky-aish @peterpankat @corvid007

[howlingday]

Can we get Nora just being a Creature

"Nora, please! Enough is enough!"

Jaune fell on his back as the hundred and fifty plus young woman knocked him over. In his stupor, a hand tightly gripped his ankle and dragged him down the halls. He screamed as his back lit aflame from the friction of his hoodie dragging across the carpet, interrupted only when his body slammed into the walls and their corners as Nora turned in her sprint.

The ride finally came to an end when Jaune was sent airborne and through the window. The last thing Jaune saw were aqua eyes piercing through the darkness.

--------------------------------------------------

"I know you're in here, Nora..."

Pyrrha slowly pushed the door open with her elbow, sliding her shield along the sturdy material as she entered the kitchen. She made her presence known doing this, keeping her back to the walls and counters as she stalked for her feral teammate. The bubbly bomber of Team JNPR had become eerily silent since finding their leader in his mangled state outside.

Tracking her friend to her usual hiding place served as further proof that Valkyrie had slipped free from her bonds of human morality to become something different. Something unhinged and dangerous. Something more than a huntress.

A clattering of pans falling made Pyrrha flinch, and she quickly hopped on the counter to get a better view of the area. Suddenly, the cupboard door swung open behind her, knocking the huntress to the ground. Pans flew to defend the champion, but she swiftly found there was another magnet at play, one that repelled her semblance's effect. Nora gave a devilish grin as peered past it.

"Clever girl."

--------------------------------------------------

"Nora... Please..."

Ren wasn't sure where everything went wrong. He'd found his leader battered in a tree in the courtyard. Pyrrha was found tied up in the dining room, trussed up like a pig and covered in bruises. Nora had gone too far for this to be a normal prank. And now it was all on him.

Unfortunately, he had no way to defend himself. Nora had sabotaged all the teams lockers after Pyrrha had already left with hers. He'd hope to resolve things peacefully, but Nora... Nora was beyond peace, and Ren was beyond hope.

Was there a reason for Nora acting this way? Was there a reason for any of this happening? Ren fell to his knees and he felt arms wrap around his body. He closed his eyes and accepted his fate. There was no fighting something like this.

"It's over..." He whispered.

"Not yet..." She growled.

--------------------------------------------------

"What the heck happened here?!"

Ruby, Weiss, and Blake rushed to Yang's side inside the cafeteria. All of Team JNPR were hung against the wall, their arms and legs spread like some kind of macabre imitation of butterflies on a corkboard. In the distance, they heard a sinister cackling.

"Stay close." Ruby softly said, the team unsheathing their weapons together.

Suddenly, Jaune fell from the wall, hitting the floor with a thud. Ruby and Weiss moved together, Blake and Yang bringing up the rear as they moved together. Like a team of huntresses.

Howling laughter filled the cafeteria as grenades fired at the group from above, Nora swinging on a chandelier. She then placed her attention on the drapes hanging over the windows, smothering the light of the halls dedicated to feasting in a blanket of shadows.

When the firing stopped, Team RWBY noticed they had scattered to the different corners of the room. Blake was standing in the light of the only unobstructed window. Before they could regroup on her, Nora jumped down, giggling madly as she fired on a dark corner. There was a loud shout of pain.

"YANG!" Blake called. There was no answer, and when the rest of the team moved in to help, both Nora and Yang were gone, Ember Celica only staying behind.

"Did you guys see that?" Ruby asked. "Nora was so weird!"

"Weirder, you mean." Weiss corrected. "And it's not just her personality."

"Something's different with her." Blake put her hand to her chin. "For starters, the last time I checked, Nora didn't have horns and a tail."

[subtle-edge-of-rot]

This is a rewrite/reimagining of my story, Heat. I've grown as a writer and decided to take on the task of "fixing" all of my stories I have posted.

My links are all broken I think, but I'll be reposting and making a separate masterlist post.

Please enjoy!

michael myers x afab reader

NSFW, MINORS DNI

a beast in repose

In winter, Michael gets restless. With all the snow and ice, it isn’t easy to go out on hunts without leaving tracks in his wake and alerting the community of a prowler on the loose. Getting caught and returned to Smith’s Grove isn’t on his list of things to do, so he’s essentially trapped in the house and boiling hot with unsatiated bloodlust, and because he can’t kill, he seeks release through your body – the only way to keep him calm enough to tide him over until the winter thaws and gives way to spring. Needless to say, it’s a long couple of months, and by the end, you’re exhausted, emotionally and physically. 

But you’ll do anything for him, even to the point of pain. 

It’s been a particularly rough week. You’re sore everywhere, and your body has been pushed almost beyond your absolute limit and you’re exhausted. You were forced to take a leave of absence from work, unable to perform your duties due to how raw and broken you felt. Bruises are scattered over your body in various stages of healing – a macabre rainbow dancing over your skin. Bite marks litter your body as well, purpling over and bleeding. Your cunt is raw, throbbing with pain alongside the aftershocks of your last, painful orgasm. 

Michael lays asleep beside you, napping after taking you for the third or fourth time today – you’ve lost track. You struggle to sit up silently, your teeth grit so hard so as not to make a sound and wake him. You need a break, just a little bit of time alone to relax and recuperate, and a bath sounds like the most amazing thing in the world right now. You manage to sit up, and swing your legs over the side of the bed. 

You rise on shaking legs, and shuffle your way to the bathroom, shivering at the feeling of Michael’s spend smearing between your mangled thighs with every step. After what feels like an eternity, you finally reach the bathroom, slowly closing the door behind you with a quiet click. You let out an exhausted sigh, and sit down on the toilet to relieve yourself with a small, pained whimper, and clean yourself gingerly after, so as not to further harm the tender flesh of your most vulnerable areas.

Once you’re cleaned up, you stand up and flush the toilet, placing the lid back down before washing your hands and shaking them off as you shuffle over to the bath. You twist the faucets and let the water heat up to your liking, plugging the tub and waiting for it to fill up. You go back over to the sink, and get your lavender scented epsom salts, and dump a generous amount into the rapidly filling tub. 

When the tub is full, you turn off the water and sink slowly into the hot water with a relieved groan. The hot water is heaven on your battered flesh, the heat sinking under your skin and easing your muscles. You ease back, stretching your legs out and leaning against the slant of the tub. Your eyelids grow heavy, and you slip into a quick and easy slumber, cocooned in comforting warmth.  

You are startled awake by the sound of the door slamming against the wall with so much force that the entire room shakes. You scream, instinctually covering your nakedness with your hands and cowering as you look towards the door with wide eyes. Your gut fills with a combination of dread and overwhelming desire when you notice that it's Michael, and he’s hard and wanting, his cock an angry shade of red bobbing with every beat of his heart. His gaze is heavy, and he’s looking at you like he’d very much like to eat you alive. He ducks down to pass through the doorway and beckons you to him with a come-hither motion. You know exactly what he’s saying. 

Come here. 

You wordlessly respond, helpless but to obey his every whim. It comes second nature to you – obeying him is as easy and as necessary as breathing. You stand up on shaking legs and carefully step over the edge of the tub, careful not to slip on the slick tile floor.

You shiver, both from the cold air on your wet skin and from being in his presence. He hums approvingly, a low sound from the back of his throat, his good eye scanning over your body as you approach him. 

When you’re close enough, you expect him to reach out and grab you roughly by the hips, but instead, he rests his hands on your hips in his version of ‘gentle’, and drops to his knees onto the hard tile without a single flinch. He presses his face against your abdomen, brushing his full lips over his initials carved into your skin. He inhales deeply as he pulls you closer, humming low in his throat again. 

Michael’s hands ease up on your hips, sliding down your thighs and back up again as he looks up at you from under his heavy eyelashes. His good eye has a flicker of affection in them as he gazes up at you, only to be gone as quickly as it came, and replaced with a look so predatorial that you freeze, genuine fear filling your chest. 

Before you could even make a sound, he has your hips in a vice grip, and he's pulling you down to the ground. The collision of your body on the tile is painful, but Michael catches your head before it could smash onto the floor as he shoves his way between your thighs. He’s hard and heavy against your thigh, and your abused cunt clenches around nothing, eager to be one with him again. 

He uses his hold on your head to pull you up, your body as limp as a rag doll, and attacks your mouth with his. It’s too feral to be called a kiss. It’s hot, wet, and demanding – all teeth and tongue as he bites down on your swollen lips and laps up the blood that beads up from inside your mouth, his body shivering when the taste of your blood floods over his tongue.

He lets your lip go, and brushes his lips from the corner of your mouth, down over your jaw, down the column of your neck as you gasp for breath. When he reaches your throbbing pulse point, he bites, sinking his teeth into the delicate skin until you’re screaming. Even with the intense, sharp pain, you are absolutely desperate for him, your body longing for his, the intrinsic link between the two of you so strong that you’re always ready for him. 

Michael’s teeth sink through your sensitive flesh, and he growls, unhinging his jaw and drinking down the blood that trickles from the wound as he ruts his cock against your thigh – hot and hard and demanding. By the time he’s done consuming you, you’re a writhing, soaked mess, your body begging for the relief that only he can provide. He gives one last lick to the wound, and pulls away, his eyes following the trickle of blood from where he bit you, and onto the floor, his eye dilated wide enough that it eclipses the blue of his iris. 

He puts your limp form back down onto the tile, and his attention shifts to your breasts, swollen and bruised and heaving under the force of your desire for him. He greedily grips at them with his giant hands, rolling the soft mounds under his calloused and scarred palms, squeezing down on your bruised flesh as you cry out in both pain and need. He leans down, and sucks a dusky nipple into his mouth, sucking and gnawing at it until you’re actually crying, tears rolling down your cheeks at the pain with an edge of pleasure. 

Michael mercifully releases your nipple with a pop, and hikes your legs up over his thighs, to where you’re completely exposed to him. A pleased rumble leaves his throat as he examines his handiwork on your thighs and your raw cunt, still wet and dripping for him. He reaches down and grips himself by the base of his heavy cock, lining it up with your slick entrance. You whine in pain as he pushes into you again, but the pain is quickly replaced with the sheer relief of your body being reunited with his. He rumbles, deep and pleased, in his chest as your walls flutter around him in welcome. 

He doesn’t give you any more time to adjust, he immediately sets a rough pace, chasing the relief that he craves. His cock is rock-hard, his crown slamming into your cervix with every thrust of his hips. It hurts in the most glorious way, and you cry out, reaching your hands up to grip at his skin, your nails digging in around your initials carved into his skin over his heart, and he shudders, gripping your hips roughly with one hand, and using the other to toy with your swollen, abused clit, making you sob – you don’t think that it’s possible for you to orgasm again, even though what he’s doing to you feels amazing. You’re overstimulated, too raw -- it’s nearly too much. 

“Michael, I can’t, ‘s too much,” you plead, your voice thick and slurred as you half-heartedly try to push him away. He grips you harder, pulling you down into each thrust so that he’s so deep, you can practically feel him in your throat. 

“You will,” he commands, his voice raspy and deep, so full of authority, and so beautiful that it has you shaking. His fingers move over your clit faster, and you can feel your orgasm building. His touch, his cock jackhammering into all of your sweet spots at once, your inability to say no to him, and his rare voice seal your fate – you fall over the edge, and into white-hot oblivion. 

Your legs raise up, and your spine arches, and your inner walls spasm, your liquid release splashing out around his cock. Your whole body shakes as a delayed scream is ripped from your throat. Michael snarls, grabbing your hips savagely and fucking you through your orgasm, his teeth clenching together in exertion as he chases his own end. His hips still, and he comes with a low groan, his release blooming warmth within your core. 

He rides it out, giving one last thrust to shove his spend as deep inside of you as he can get before pulling out, making you whine and shiver – you hate it when he pulls out. His chest swells with pride as he looks you over – under him, covered in his markings, and his come trickling from your poor, raw opening.

He scoops it from your flesh and presses it back inside of you, making you flinch and whine. You’re simply too far gone to go any further, and Michael takes notice, removing his fingers and stroking them across your thigh soothingly as you drift off. 

You’re in and out of consciousness as he drains and refills the tub, adding more bath salts and making sure the water is just how you like it. You moan weakly as he gathers you into his arms, and settles the both of you into the tub, holding you snug against his chest as you doze off, lulled to slumber by his heartbeat, rhythmic breathing, and the warmth of the water. 

Michael watches you sleep, tracing invisible patterns onto your skin as he enjoys the quiet in his mind until the water grows cold, and you start to shiver. He jumps to action immediately at your discomfort. He scoops you up and steps out of the tub, holding you effortlessly with one arm while he grabs towels with the other.

He dries you both off and carries you back to bed, laying you down and climbing in next to you. He gathers you to his chest and pulls the duvet over you both. His mouth twitches into an almost-smile when you let out a pleased sigh in your sleep and nuzzle into his chest with a sleepy hum. 

Michael’s mind is blissfully quiet, no more demands for blood and violence and death. He focuses instead on the feeling of your skin against his, the sound of your breathing, and the sound of the winter wind blowing against the house.

The beast inside of him is sated for a little while longer, sustained by the body and blood of its faithful mate. It will be back, but for now, it goes back into hibernation, content.

[charlesoberonn]

Sentient moving mushrooms using skeletons of dead humans to mold a body from. Some even can mimic the color of skin, hair, and eyes but sometimes their mimicry just looks too pastel, and young colonies not knowing human anatomy properly using forms from mangled skeletons to take the form of what proper humans would say looks macabre.

I like this take on mushroom zombies.

[b1xi]

𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙖 𝙡𝙤𝙩, 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧

Glenn rhee x reader

Word count:3752

Warninig: fluff, dead, blood

Pt2

You ran as fast as your legs would allow, stumbling up the stairs while trying not to fall. Behind you, the growls and gasps of the creatures—those who were once your neighbors—roared loudly, almost deafeningly. The upper floors offered no solace; the walls were splattered with blood, silent witnesses to a recent massacre. The air was thick, heavy with death and despair, and each step brought you closer to the unknown, to a possible trap or, perhaps, an unlikely salvation.

By the time you reached the fifth floor, the situation had become even more macabre. Two of those monsters, turned into insatiable predators, were devouring the mangled body of someone you had likely known in life. Horror gripped you; a scream formed in your throat, but you stifled it by covering your mouth with a trembling hand. You knew that the slightest noise could condemn you. There was no time for mourning or compassion. There was only one mission: survival.

Desperately, you looked around for an escape. The growls were getting closer. With no other options, you slipped into an apartment with an ajar door. Once inside, you moved cautiously, your hands gripping the small knife you carried, a pitiful defense but at least something to make you feel somewhat protected.

The living room showed no obvious signs of violence, except for some bloodstains that extended into the bathroom. You took a deep breath and headed for the kitchen, your heart pounding in your chest, searching for anything that might be useful. After a few minutes, you had gathered a small stash: cans of food, soda crackers, snacks, and water. It wasn't much, but it could make the difference between life and death. As you rummaged through the drawers for something more useful, a particular sound startled you.

The sharp cry of a baby broke the silence, coming from one of the rooms at the back. You stood still for a moment, trying to convince yourself that you had imagined it, but the crying persisted. You knew ignoring it wasn't an option. With hesitant steps, you moved towards the source of the sound, stopping in front of a door decorated with a small heart-shaped sign bearing the name "Alice." You pushed the door gently, revealing a pink-painted nursery, filled with drawings and toys scattered on the floor.

In the center of the room stood a white crib, and there, wrapped in blankets, a baby cried inconsolably. Her little face was reddened from the effort of crying, seeking attention, company... protection.

"Damn it," you whispered, this time with more resignation than fear. You looked around, hoping that at any moment someone—perhaps the baby's mother—would come running through the door. But no one came. Anxiety gripped your chest. You knew leaving little Alice there was a certain death sentence. The baby's cries already resonated as an open call to the monsters prowling the building.

With no other options, you took the baby in your arms. Her crying was desperate and incessant, and each passing second made you imagine that the things outside were drawing closer, attracted by the noise. As you rocked her gently back and forth, her sobs began to calm. Her tiny hands clung tightly to your shirt, and gradually, the crying turned into soft whimpers until, finally, it ceased. You sighed with relief, but the tension didn't fully dissipate. Every second was crucial.

You left the room with stealthy steps, Alice wrapped in your arms. The silence of the apartment was oppressive, and the feeling of being watched never left you. Keeping your gaze upwards, you walked down the hallway, vainly searching for any sign of life in the other rooms. But there was nothing. The place seemed deserted.

The bathroom, however, caught your attention. The door was locked, but through the gap beneath it, a faint beam of light filtered in. Something or someone was on the other side. You approached cautiously and pressed your ear against the wood, and horror overwhelmed you. A low, menacing growl resonated from inside, followed by a rasping sound: claws scratching the door.

You instinctively recoiled, fear freezing your blood. Whatever was trapped inside was not human. There was no doubt. Those creatures had reached this place, and surely whoever was locked in there would find a way out soon.

You quickly considered your options, aware that you couldn’t stay. The building was no longer safe, and probably neither was the city. Chaos was spreading like an uncontrollable fire. There was no alternative but to flee before nightfall made the streets even more dangerous. The creatures became more active at dusk, and the cover of darkness would only increase their numbers.

With trembling hands, you found a larger bag and filled it with essentials: supplies, some clean clothes, and everything you might need to care for your new companion, Alice. You fashioned an improvised sling and secured her gently against your chest. Her calm breathing contrasted with your own racing heart.

Leaving the building was easier than you had imagined. The creatures were scattered, hunting on other floors or in the streets. Moving with stealth and determination, you made your way to your car, parked not far from the main entrance. With Alice secured to your chest, you quickly got in and started the engine.

Three weeks had passed since you left the city. Those days felt like an endless nightmare. The first two weeks had been particularly exhausting: the roads were blocked with abandoned cars and wandering corpses, and you had no choice but to continue on foot. You walked through forests, taking shortcuts when you could, though it only heightened your paranoia. The constant crunching of leaves under your feet, the distant sounds of the infected, and the ever-present danger of being surprised kept you on high alert.

Dealing with Alice was another challenge. The baby cried incessantly, her relentless hunger forcing you to stop more often than you would have liked. Sometimes, you could only pray to find a safe place to rest. Sleeping was not an easy option; every nighttime noise, every shadow moving in the dark, was a potential threat.

As you pressed on, the physical and mental exhaustion began to take its toll. You wondered how much longer you could keep going. Alice needed more than you could offer alone. However, as if some higher power had heard your silent pleas, things changed the day you encountered the group.

It happened while you were exploring an abandoned house, desperate for food or diapers for Alice. Hunger and exhaustion were becoming unbearable, and each step felt like a burden. Entering a dusty room, the air thick with humidity and mildew, you were struck by the emptiness. The weight of reality hit you hard: there was nothing. You leaned against the wall for a moment, struggling against despair.

That’s when you saw him: a rugged man with a face hardened by life, holding a crossbow with an unsettling firmness. You had no idea how long he had been there, watching you. Instinctively, you stepped back, raising your hands in a gesture of surrender. The cold steel of his gaze pierced through you, and fear took hold. You were cornered, unsure if this encounter would mean the end.

The man did not lower his weapon but took a step closer, studying your every move. “Are you from the city?” he asked in a deep, authoritative voice. His tone made it clear that he was used to taking control of situations. His eyes quickly scanned the space behind you, as if expecting someone else to emerge from behind you. But he saw nothing.

The lump in your throat made it hard to speak, and for a moment, you thought your legs might give way. You could only nod, hoping it would be enough to placate him. The man kept his gaze fixed on you, evaluating, measuring every detail.

“Are you alone, or is there someone else with you?” he asked again, not softening his tone. Before you could answer, a second man appeared in the room. He was younger, with Asian features, and seemed to be with the first, as the latter showed no surprise upon seeing him. The younger man carried another weapon, though his posture

“There’s no one with me,” you managed to say, your voice trembling as you tried to stay calm. But at that moment, you felt Alice shift in the carrier, as if she was about to wake up. The faint movement of the baby immediately caught both men’s attention.

The younger Asian man slowly lowered his weapon, his expression softening as he assessed the situation. There was something in his gaze, perhaps empathy, or maybe just exhaustion. The crossbow man, however, did not immediately change his expression. His eyes dropped to the small bundle against your chest, and for a moment, the tension in the room became unbearable.

“Is that… a baby?” the young man murmured, incredulous. It seemed he hadn’t seen something so small and delicate in a long time.

You nodded once more, unconsciously tightening your hold on Alice, trying to protect her as best as you could. “Yes… it’s just her and me,” you replied with more confidence than you actually felt.

“What’s your name?” asked the young Asian man, his voice softer than the armed man’s.

“My name is Y/N, and she is Alice,” you answered, feeling a slight calm beginning to settle inside you. You gently stroked Alice’s back, trying to keep her calm. Still, you couldn’t ignore the discomfort caused by the young man’s continuous gaze.

“I’m Glenn, and this is Daryl,” Glenn introduced himself, taking a step toward you and extending a friendly hand. Although you appreciated the gesture, you opted to keep your distance, your survival instinct still on high alert. Glenn noticed your hesitation and lowered his hand, not offended but maintaining his friendly tone.

Daryl, however, had not entirely lowered his guard. His crossbow was still ready, though now aimed at the ground. The tension in his jaw and the coldness in his eyes kept you on edge. The air felt dense, heavy, as if something could go wrong at any moment.

Glenn placed a firm but calm hand on Daryl’s shoulder, trying to ease the situation. “Calm down, she’s not a threat. Look at her, she’s alone with a baby. Let her breathe.” His conciliatory tone managed to soften Daryl’s stance a bit.

Daryl exhaled slowly and finally lowered the crossbow completely, though not without issuing one last warning. “Alright. But I recommend you get out of here before nightfall. It’s not safe to be out in the woods at this hour, especially with a child.” His tone made it clear that he was giving advice rather than making a threat.

You nodded quickly, aware that you didn’t have many options left. The sun was beginning to set, and although you had survived until now, you knew you couldn’t keep going alone for much longer. The city had been hell, and now the forest was proving to be just as dangerous.

“Listen, Y/N,” Glenn interrupted, his voice much softer, almost a whisper. “We have a camp not too far from here. It’s not much, but it’s well-protected, and we have supplies.” His eyes, which had been cautious before, now reflected something more. Empathy, perhaps. “You don’t have to keep wandering alone. You could stay with us. Alice would be safer there.”

His words resonated in your mind. The offer seemed too good to be true, but desperation was beginning to take over. You glanced at Alice, feeling her small, warm, and vulnerable body against yours, and realized you could no longer afford to keep testing your luck. The walkers outside would show no mercy, and you knew you’d soon run out of strength.

“I don’t want to cause any trouble,” you said, unsure. Although Glenn’s offer seemed sincere, something inside you still doubted. You had seen the worst of people in recent days, and distrust had become second nature.

“You won’t be a problem,” Glenn replied with a kind smile. “There are more people at the camp, and we’re all in this together. We can’t promise you an easy life, but we can offer you safety and some peace. At least, for a while.”

You looked at Daryl, searching for any sign that the proposal was genuine, but his expression remained impassive, as hard as a rock. However, by not objecting to Glenn’s offer, he seemed to be giving his tacit consent.

Finally, you nodded, letting a little relief seep into your thoughts. “Alright. I’ll go with you.”

After what felt like hours of walking, you finally descended a hill and before you was a scene that, in another time, would have been a mundane sight: an improvised camp with cars and a trailer. However, now, amidst the chaos, it represented a refuge, a possibility of rest, and perhaps, safety.

Glenn turned to you, noticing your exhaustion. “We’re almost there. It’s better than being out there, believe me.” He smiled, a mix of relief and concern in his gaze. Daryl, for his part, kept his distance, still vigilant with his crossbow ready, though he had stopped aiming it directly at you. He seemed to trust Glenn more than the situation.

As you emerged from the dense forest, the camp Glenn had mentioned became visible through the trees. With each step, your legs felt heavier, and the sweltering heat made sweat trickle down your forehead and body. Glenn briefly stopped to check that you were still following, offering a supportive smile, while Daryl, in his own way, stayed alert, his crossbow always at the ready.

Finally, you reached a small clearing in the forest and turned left. That’s when you saw it: the camp. Just as Glenn had said, there was a trailer blocking a slope, and next to it, a smoldering campfire. Near the campfire, a picnic table and several chairs formed an improvised circle. A bit farther away, several tents were grouped around a small path cutting through the vegetation. The place looked humble but safe.

You had taken only a few steps when a burly man with an expression of both alertness and distrust approached quickly. “What’s going on, Glenn?” he asked in a deep, firm voice. He was Shane, who seemed to be leading the group at that moment.

Glenn raised a hand to calm him. “Everything’s fine, Shane. She’s from the city. She’s alone… and has a baby.”

Shane cast a quick glance at Alice, his expression softening slightly before turning back to you. “Alone, you say?”

“Yes, we checked,” Daryl interjected, finally lowering the crossbow but not taking his analytical gaze off you.

“Well, it’s better to talk to the rest,” Shane said in a less aggressive but still firm tone. “Lori and Carol are with the kids; maybe they can help with the baby.”

You observed several people engaged in various activities. Two blonde women, one clearly older than the other, were sitting and cleaning what you assumed were freshly caught fish. Further along, a dark-skinned woman was resting next to a burly man with a serious expression, who was relaxing in one of the chairs near the campfire. On top of the trailer, an older man with a fishing hat kept a calm watch from his position, holding a rifle firmly, as if he might need it at any moment. To your right, you noticed a Latino man and another taller man wearing a cap, checking a couple of cars.

Glenn, who stayed by your side, gave you a reassuring glance before speaking. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the group.” He took a few steps forward, guiding you toward a pair of women sitting at an old picnic table.

“Hi, girls,” Glenn greeted with his usual friendly tone. “I want to introduce you to Y/N.” He made a hand gesture indicating for you to come closer.

The tall woman with brown hair, holding her son on her lap, looked up with a warm smile. “Hello,” she said as she stood up kindly. “I’m Lori, and this is my son, Carl.” She extended a friendly hand towards you, her smile genuine, as if trying to offer you some of the peace you were missing at that moment. You shook her hand in return.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

Glenn then turned to the woman next to her, who had a more reserved appearance but a calm presence. “And these are Carol and her daughter, Sophia,” Glenn continued, pointing to the little blonde girl playing with a rag doll.

Carol looked up with a discreet but warm smile. “Nice to meet you, Y/N,” she said softly, while Sophia looked at you with shyness, hugging her doll a bit tighter.

Lori noticed the small sleeping bundle in your arms, and her face softened even more. “Is that… your baby?” she asked delicately, as if trying not to invade your personal space.

The question gave you a pang in your chest, and you felt a brief wave of sadness. You shook your head slowly, looking at Alice with tenderness. “No… I’m not her mother.” The words came out in a whisper laden with sorrow, reminding you of how much Alice had lost in such a short time. “Her parents… are gone.”

Lori didn’t press further or ask more questions, understanding the pain implicit in your answer. She simply nodded with a slight smile that aimed to be comforting. “She’s very cute,” she commented gently. “You’re lucky to have her with you.”

After a brief silence, Glenn took charge of the situation again, now that everyone had been introduced. “Well, let’s see if we can find a place for you.” He gestured for you to follow him, leading you to the area where the tents were set up.

Walking together along the path between the tents, Glenn gave you a smile. “You know, we don’t usually get many visitors. I think Daryl thought you were here to steal our fish,” he joked, raising an eyebrow with a small laugh.

You returned the smile, grateful for the attempt to ease the tension. “Well, if I ever get to that point, you’ll know I’m desperate.”

Glenn chuckled and nodded. “You’re right, I wouldn’t mind if it’s for survival. Although, in that case, I’d offer you one myself. I work hard to keep us stocked,” he said with a wink.

As you arrived at a small cleared area, Glenn stopped in front of his tent. “We don’t have a tent for you yet, but you can use mine until we sort something out. Don’t worry, I can sleep in the trailer, there’s enough space,” he offered without hesitation.

You gave him an incredulous look, grateful but also a bit embarrassed. “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose.”

Glenn made a casual gesture with his hand. “Don’t worry, I’ve slept in worse places than the backseat of a car. Besides, how often in life can you say you were a gentleman and offered your tent to a lady?”

You smiled, feeling a bit more relaxed with his sense of humor. “Well, I guess I’m lucky to have met a gentleman in these times.”

Glenn returned the smile, apparently pleased that his joke helped you feel more comfortable. “You know, if you need anything else, don’t hesitate to ask. We’re a small community, but we take care of each other. And now that you and Alice are here, that includes you two as well.”

You felt deeply grateful for his kindness, something that already felt rare in such a shattered world. “Thank you, Glenn. It really means a lot.”

You entered the tent, grateful for the brief moment of tranquility. You knelt on the ground, observing what was in the small space: a sleeping bag, a backpack, and a couple of neatly folded clothes on one side. It was simple but cozy, and at that moment, you realized how exhausted you were. You sighed as you unfastened the harness holding Alice and gently placed her on the floor so she could move and stretch.

The baby, always restless, took advantage of her freedom and began to crawl around the small space. Despite the circumstances, seeing her curiosity about the world brought a small smile to your face. “You really need a good bath,” you commented softly, as if the little girl could understand your words. Alice, of course, simply looked at you with those lively eyes, emitting a babble as she smiled, completely oblivious to the harshness of the outside world.

With a clumsy but determined movement, Alice crawled back to you, raising her little arms as if wanting to be picked up. “Again?” you murmured, lifting the little one and holding her against your chest. “I’ve spoiled you too much, haven’t I?” you said with a slight laugh, as Alice rested her head on your shoulder, her small body immediately relaxing in your arms.

You gently stroked her back, feeling her breathing calm and steady. The need to protect her enveloped you strongly, like a silent promise you had made without even realizing it. This new place, this camp full of strangers, represented a risk, yes, but also an opportunity. An opportunity to find a respite, at least for a while, so that both of you could regain your strength.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. Despite the initial distrust and the evident dangers of the outside world, these people seemed, at least, more human than what you had encountered before. Glenn had been kind, and the others had shown no signs of rejection. There was a certain sense of community in the camp, a spark of hope that seemed hard to find in these times.

[hereforreadandwrite]

Fanfiction Masterlist :

Assassin's Creed Valhalla:

Ivarr The Boneless x Female Reader:

Blood.

There was blood everywhere.

The floor, the walls, the ceiling, the furniture, everything was covered in your parents' blood. You could only watch helplessly as the macabre scene unfolded before your eyes. You weren't strong enough to be able to protect your parents. You had to live with their death on your conscience, but your brothers Sigurd and Eivor managed to ease the burden. Everything seemed to be going well until Sigurd decided to leave Norway to go to England.

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Ect...

Mangle

King Rhodri decides to take revenge on Ivarr Ragnarsson by attacking the only thing he had the least bit of affection for: you.

Warning: mutilation, torture, nudity

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Ect.

charlie and the chocolate factory:

Willy Wonka x Female Reader:

Unlike your cousin Charlie Bucket, you hadn't had a chance in life. Your parents abandon you, leaving you in the hands of Mr. and Mrs. Bucket. As long as you can remember, you had to work hard to help them make ends meet. Like your cousin, you admired the famous Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, although you know that it was impossible for you to enter it. At least, that's what you thought.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Finish~

God Of War:

Kratos x Female Reader:

Abandoned

Ragnarok is over. You agreed to follow Kratos and Freya across the nine Realms, but instead of helping them in restorative quests, you will have a completely different revelation.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Finish~

Tyr x Female Reader:

You had a happy life. A loving family and a devoted husband. But every idyllic setting had a dark spot. And you were going to learn it the worst way.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Vikings:

Ragnar Lodbrok and Daughter reader:

Being the eldest daughter of Ragnar Lodbrok and Lagertha is not an easy existence. Everyone expects a lot from you. But it's even less so when you can't stand your own father and his ways.

Chapter One

kuroshitsuji:

Undertaker x Female reader:

Madness part 1

[circinuus]

L'APPEL DU VIDE

beast! dazai x reader. 1.3k words

"When they found him, he was dead, his body twisted with the rigor mortis."

[first-person pov; unreliable narrator; mentions about suicide and corpses; reader is whipped for our local crime org boss but not in a good way]

When I was young, when youth had surged in my veins and hot blood had rushed along my cheeks, I met a peculiar man.

He was of every sense but ordinary. A ringleader of a colossal underground organization, equipped with an age not far from my green, half-ripe own. I am sure you'd known about him, perhaps more than I do.

Dazai Osamu was an enigma, and this is my last entry; a story about how I had been completely, perfectly consumed by his whole being.

"Have you heard about the rumors?"

Lowly insects, parasites, and cronies like me fear the unknown. That was the repugnant truth. At a point, we started to forget that he too, was of blood and flesh, not unlike ourselves. But it was too late by then. Our fear had dehumanized him, reduced him into a macabre myth. Not many eyes have bear witness to his figure, yet words about his uncanny competence and the horrors he commands ring like folklore passed down to generations.

"What rumors?"

"That guy who jabbered about the previous boss' death, they found his corpse just now."

Oh, that's right. The sad corpse.

Terribly mangled and dysmorphic, with broken limbs and torso. When I arrived, it no longer depicted a human. From the crevices of those grotesque bends were crimson liquid and bodily waste, seeping out like a fish being gutted. The putrid scent remained even on my bed and dining table.

"Shit. You better watch your mouth. That corpse could've been us at any time."

How terrible. The macabre ghost our fear created was.

And how curious, I thought, for such a living nightmare managed to haunt our mind and life; killing us with his silent bites and coerced us into committing suicide with self-destructive paranoia.

Truly, how terrible, how curious, yet how strikingly beautiful.

Dazai Osamu was an enigma, and I had been completely, utterly consumed by his whole being.

It was a week after that accident—if my memory served. It had betrayed me a lot in the past, and a doctor I knew mentioned how memories are all stack the deck; all tailored to our favor—when I was called for the boss's office.

"For what?" I tried to ask, but received only a scoff from my supervisor. “-If I may know, sir," I added. I knew he was not a horrible man, but my supervisor was not an individual of patience. He offered me nothing but a silent nudge to the boss' door. Like guiding a lamb to the slaughter, a virgin sacrifice to the altar.

I bled that day, I bled myself. Through my chapped lips that I've bitten hard, and through my fingers which dry skin ruptured raw by my unsolicited fidgets.

Out of uncertainty or cowardice, my memory fails to serve me. But I recall with great vividness how everything melted away to oblivion after that sturdy door opened before my eyes. What lay beyond was someone—something so incongruously beautiful, misplacedly sublime.

In that instance, I have realized that I am truly an abominable individual. On that day, I finally understood Basil's infatuation with his muse. Dazai Osamu was a beautiful man, and suddenly I bled for utter fascination rather than unfiltered fear.

My sentiment for this extraordinary man has nothing but become more defined, ever since.

His pale, almost translucent skin consumed my waking days, the flutter of his eyelashes when his eyes blink haunted my dreams, and the curl of his dark hair against the evening lights strayed me away from reality.

Like a sailor to a siren, like a lulling river that drowned the fool; Dazai Osamu was an enigma, and I was wholly enraptured.

I had been bewitched by the moments he kept me by my side, ever since. Fascinated by the moments where he slips up soft vulnerability. Spellbound by the moments he confide in my warmth and touch to soothe the horrors of earth's hell he faced and the pain he endured for a man who doesn't even know his name. Entranced by the moments he morphs to the horror he always has been, with chilling gazes and commanding words enough to shadow the times that reminds everyone that he is of flesh and blood. Beguiled by the moments he disregards me not soon after, as if he forgot I exist.

He was very cruel. But I did not despise him.

Dazai Osamu was cruel. But he was terribly, enchantingly melancholic. Like a dead man forced to be alive for a deed he hasn't finished. Like he was longing, waiting for the sweet mercy of his quietus. I was unable to despise him.

'Even so, what if I attempt to kill him?' under Yokohama's sky—which is too blue, too free. It never sits well with me—I received a call from the void.

'What then?' it continued beckoning. Will his delicate lips curl up into a beautiful, grateful smile? or will it wail and twist into ugly sobs of pain, anger, and fear? Will his empty, soulless mortal vessel stay as beautiful as the tragic beauty he is? or will it turn into another unimportant, unsightly corpse?

"Just now, you're thinking about killing me, weren't you?"

His words chased away the void, like a cold splash on a freezing morning. I was stunned into a fear-coated silence.

"Oh (Name), sweet (Name)," he laughed. It flows like silken honey and suddenly, I was once again drowned in his existence.

"Do you hate me?"

"No, sir," I said the truth.

"Really?"

"Yes, sir," I said the truth.

"Strange," he put a hand on his lower lip—a gesture that I find oddly fitting. "And you still want to see me dead, it seems.”

I stayed silent.

A sick, twisted feeling had emerged. If he had dropped dead at that moment, right there on the edge of the skyscraper, that would be all right. Fine, in fact.

(A sick, twisted feeling had emerged. if I had dropped dead at that moment, right there on the edge of the skyscraper, that would be all right. Fine, in fact.)

"How curious. You never fail to intrigue me."

(The thought scared me.)

I didn’t remember a lot after that day. The next few weeks were a shapeless blur of bullets, guns, and deaths.

Although on a cloudy Friday, I remember seeing hot blood pooling down like melted ruby.

It was unyielding. Seeping and seeping and seeping and it didn’t stop.

I was soaked and damp. His skin was warm as it was stone cold.

No, he wasn’t dead, he wasn’t dead. So I kneeled, gather what was left of him in my arms, and brought his chest to mine.

Viscous, fresh blood continued to gather on my lap, on my tie, on my fingers. The corpse engulfed me with his being, in every way possible. The corpse wasn’t dead, not yet, not yet. So I looked at his face, and pressed my cold beretta against his heart.

By then I realize, in the face of death I saw a soft smile instead of the ugly cries of fear and pain. Ah! So beautiful even surrounded by the crimson bloom of blood, pooling like a downpour along the concrete; limbs mangled and dysmorphic.

Would I be as beautiful, I wonder?

Two sounds of sharp firearms cut the air. It didn't take long for unfortunate witnesses to come and see the tragedy. It didn’t take long for two young men to look down with morbid from the skyscraper above. And it didn’t take long for my hatted supervisor to wake from oblivion. But it was too late by then.

When they found us, we were already dead, our bodies twisted with the rigor mortis.

(Oh, how we looked at so peace like this. How can it possibly scare me?)

fun fact! this was inspired by junji ito's tomie and stephen king's memory, more or less. and i just wanted to say: i'm sorry dazai you'll be forever famous. i'll write a fluff for you someday

♡ @ashthemadwriter

[uwabbittuwabbit]

can we be casual now? pecco/luca this goes out to all my girlies with stress acne in these trying times </3 anyways i wrote this instead of studying for finals <3 pls enjoy!

Luca pulls his helmet off, scrubbing at the film of sweat on his face with the palm of his gloved hand, and tries not to let the fatigue settle back in too deeply to his bones. It had all blown off of him on track; the speed tearing it all away from him until nothing was there but for the weight of the bike underneath him, how it moved, he couldn't even feel the weight of the helmet on his head, how that and his gloves and boots boxed him in. Luca never had a problem with it before. He was used to working within limits, that had been his whole life--that the limits were the issue half of the time, and as for the rest it could be solved in terms of those declinations. Now though, everything was wrong. nothing could truly describe the sheer, staggering scope of malfeasance inherent to the Honda bike; Luca had seen Marquez and Joan wrangle the machine around track like it was a wild animal, yes, and lose, horrifyingly, but to ride it was an altogether different thing. Being slow in the straights was the least of its problems. What was really fucking Luca over was the fact that it never reacted in the same way as he shifted his weight to lean into a corner, the metronome of his person falling into an irregular tempo; arrhythmia. now when he went racing whatever overwhelmed him felt too big for his leathers and helmet to contain, it was as if he would explode outwards from the sheer feeling of it all. Everything about him hurt now. His whole body ached as it never had before on the Ducati, from trying to squeeze himself onto a bike that was too small for him. There was also the sharper pain from being thrown off the bike, and the blunter one that came from the refusal. Why can't you be nice to yourself, Luca wants to tell the bike once he's back in the garage, eyes still stinging with the suddenness of being thrown, the wheeling strobe of the sun. Watching as the mangled body of his machine is pushed back and propped up yet again, a macabre taxidermy, Frankenstein's monster from being patched up and revived so many times. It's--everything's a little bit too much right now. He does want to understand, which is why he went to Honda in the first place, but now here he is on the dirt track of the ranch, trying to figure out how to stop the situation from sliding out under him so quickly.

Luca sighs. He's breaking out into pimples again, something he thought should've stopped when he stepped into adulthood. Growing pains. There's nothing to be done about anymore so he strikes the kickstand back, is about to maneuver the bike in the direction of the garages when someone wheels up next to him. Luca turns and is surprised to see Pecco, the banner-red of his bike a figurehead. "I heard you were on track all day", he says, flipping up his goggles, and Luca does the same in greeting. "Yeah", Luca replies, "I was just about to go back". He shrugs a shoulder in the direction of the main complex. Nobody else is there. It's just him and Pecco, marauded in this river of dirt with the sun spilling the last of its brilliance across the valley. Everything is stained champagne bright, the light catching in Pecco's eyelashes the same way as it had, what seemed like eons ago. The memory hits like a migraine. Suddenly, appallingly, Pecco had become another one of Luca's bruises, one that was always tender because he poked at it constantly. It wasn't possible, to have what he wanted. They were both on their separate ways as factory riders: Pecco with defending his title, and Luca maybe hoping to be good enough for one point in the championship. There was no going back to what it was before, those days where Pecco and he could be casual; they had both been Ducati riders, they were all of friends. But it was different now. He had missed his chance, right here at the ranch where they had self seriously swapped critiques on each other's riding form; a slap of the shoulder, when one of them fell too deep into their own thought, laughter as a form of catch and receive. Pecco could no longer understand him like that anymore because Luca didn't understand himself now, and it was so strange and confusing, to have no one else as your guide. "How about a few more rounds?" Pecco asks. He's still there, one foot planted on the ground, the red of his bike still raw, gleaming. "Of course," he backtracks, "if you're up for it". Even after two world championships he's still, absurdly, bad at asking for things, and Luca feels this crazy exuberance well up inside his body. It's almost silly, really, how he would do anything for him. "Well", he says, turning the bike back towards the track: "if you say so champ". At that Pecco laughs, embarrassed. "You of all people should know not to call me that, cheap bastard", he replies. "Now you'll have to beat me, to keep my ego in check". "Try me", Luca returns, wiggling a bit closer to Pecco to shoulder check him. "I've been here all day, I have all the tricks". "You'll have to catch me first", Pecco says, then, he takes off in a cloud of dust, a blaze of red into the sunset. Luca curses; he hadn't even noticed Pecco flipping his goggles down. Pushing off he feels the bike wobble underneath him as he enters the track in pursuit, the wheels righting once he's exited the corner. This then, is familiar. So fine. If Pecco couldn't tell him how to ride anymore Luca could still be that for him, even as he lost more and more of himself to his goddamned dream. He'll stay, even when he had left all else behind. He'll stay.

[asnowfern]

A little Elucien drabble on this fine Wednesday?

Elain rushed out of the River House, the scream trapped in her throat.

The visions of potential futures plagued her sleep and cycled through her head. Everyone was dead while she stood by their mangled corpses, powerless to do anything else.

Feyre. Nesta. Azriel. Cassian. Rhysand. Lu-

A lump formed in her throat as her brain finished the thought. Elain fell to her knees and doubled over, emptying the contents of her stomach into the grass.

She felt his presence moments before the warm hand landed on her back, rubbing comforting circles. It was not the first time he had checked on her in the aftermath of a vicious nightmare. His golden presence would hover soothingly from a distance, never outrightly interacting with her but letting her know that he was there, if she needed him. Today appeared to be the day that he knew she did.

She choked back a sob as she dry heaved, her brain still fixated on the macabre images.

"Tell me what you need," he requested with such gentleness that her heart tightened.

"Air," she rasped out, "I-I can't breathe."

The circular motions on her back paused, the heat from his hand still radiating, grounding her.

"Do you trust me?"

Her mind whirled. It felt like their relationship was at a fork, just waiting for a step to be taken in the right direction. If they wanted it, if she wanted it. She nodded before she could convince herself otherwise and let him winnow the both of them away.

A salty breeze kissed her skin and blew her hair back, tall wild grass beneath her feet tickled her legs. Elain shivered as she opened her eyes to the sight of the vast sea before her, the teeniest sliver of pink light flirting with the horizon. Her eyes widened as her breath caught in her throat at the mind numbing beauty.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, glancing around, "Where are we?"

"Dawn" he answered, a small smile playing on his lips.

Elain looked down at the waves lapping lazily against the cliff in the distance and mused, "What happens if I jump?"

His hand wrapped around hers, "Let's find out, together"

She observed his expression carefully, "You're serious?"

"Arms tucked by the side, head and body locked in perpendicular to the water." he instructed in response, humour lurking in his eyes.

Elain pulled the both of them right to the edge, daring him. The male cocked an eyebrow as if to say - do it then.

So Elain did.

With the smallest step, Elain flung the both of them into the air. An exhilarated laugh bubbled in her chest as they descended in free fall. Her face split into a wide grin.

When they resurfaced in the water, Elain was still sporting the wide grin. Her chest felt lighter than it had ever been. She threw her arms around Lucien, wrapping her petite body around his large frame.

"Thank you" she said in the barest of whispers.

As Lucien's arms circled around her, snugly enveloping her waist, Elain's brain was blissfully filled with nothing but him.

[dantesunbreaker]

Wading in the Ocean

Papa Emeritus IV/Reader

TW: Self harm and overall depressing subject matter. No, really, do not read this if sensitive to these subjects. (Note will be at the bottom)

Consumed with self hatred and the need to feel, you take matters into your own hands the only way you know how.

GIF by arcusxx

It starts as a dull ache at the back of your mind, a tickling itch at the base of your neck that travels the length of your limbs. A mantra plays on repeat. Cut. Slice. Bleed. You can take it all away with the strike of a blade. Split the flesh and let the worries flow away. Cut. Slice. Bleed.

There are no tears, no soft broken sobs of long suffering anguish. From the outside looking in, you appear as normal as any other day. But there is an aching emptiness deep within that continually pulls you by the chains away from reality. Your mind whispering sweet nothings in a desperate plea for reprieve. A gentle swipe of steel to silence the demons crying for help they never seem to find.

“I could run this razor along my skin, and it would be so nice and easy.” Your voice echoes off the bathroom tiles, but there is no one to hear. Alone you sit, razors scattered in a halo around your spot on the floor, a single blade perfectly balanced precariously between two fingers.

Shirt sleeves roll up as high as they can, exposing dozens of old faded stripes of various lengths, sizes, and shades. Perhaps your only reason to be thankful for summer’s end. Approaching sweater season makes it easy to hide in plain sight. With a flourish of moving fingers, your grip shifts to hold the blade between the thumb and forefinger of your dominant hand.

One shaking breath in. Cut. Metal dips into the meat of your shoulder, digging in and carving out a home for itself. Slice. A slow smooth drag cleanly dividing skin. Bleed. Bubbles form at the corners, gathering until it forms thick beads that spill over and run down your arm. One deep breath out. A feeling of calm serenity seems just outside your reach. You feel something. That single point of pain is far better than the vast void of nothing. But one...isn’t enough.

In quick succession you stack three more lines at the ball of your shoulder, warm blood swiftly cooling as it travels down your bicep. Even then you can’t seem to bring yourself to stop. Four lines soon become six, and then eight, and then twelve. You lose count as the upper part of your arm becomes a mangled mess of weeping lines.

A tremble in your hands seems to have crept up on you as you pull your hand back to examine your macabre masterpiece. While the warm sting certainly keeps you in the moment, your eyes can’t help but wander to the clean expanse of your forearm. Normally, you wouldn’t dare. On one hand you could count every scar below the elbows. Small spaced out scratches that were easy to pass off as simple accidents. You don’t like the risk of having someone question the new lines on your body. Your fingers twitch with an unspoken need for more. 

With a shaking hand, you lower the blade to the delicate flesh of your inner forearm, pausing for a brief moment in hopes that you will change your mind. But before too much thought, you quickly slide the razor across your skin. You don’t bother to count as you slice line after line. Stopping only when the blade becomes too slick with blood and slips from your grasp, clattering to the floor where it bounces once and sends a splatter of your blood across the front of the sink.

Numbness creeps in as you watch the red paint your skin, rivers cascading over the sides and dripping onto the tile below. Pained, yet satiated. Time passes as you remain unmoving on the floor, the blood slowly coagulating into a sticky mess along your body. Content to stay in that spot, you pay no mind to the passage of time until a soft knock at the bathroom door rips you back to reality. Shit!

“Amore? I was waiting for you to come out, but you’ve been in there a long time.” Copia. You lost track of the date, unaware that tonight was marked for his return from the world tour. He must have seen the light filtering through the crack under the bottom of the door. “Is everything alright? ”

Scrambling, your hands hit the tile to push yourself up, but slip in the wet puddles you have left around, sliding into the blades still on the floor. A few strike your fingers, adding to the mess, but you push through and grab the bowl of the sink to finish pulling yourself the rest of the way up. Red fingerprints starkly contrasting against the white surface. You can’t keep your hands from shaking as you quickly turn on the faucet. 

“I’m -” your voice cracks, mentally kicking yourself before clearing your throat. “I’m fine, Copia! I’ll be out in a moment!”

Furiously you scrub at your forearm while under the stream of cold water, pink staining the white porcelain. In your right mind, you would understand that in doing so you are only agitating the wounds, opening them up to bleed freely once more. But the only thoughts in your head are to wash away the evidence. Cover it up. Don’t let him see.

“Amore?” There is a soft rattling as Copia jiggles the knob. “Are you sure? Can you let me in?”

Panic rises up in your chest, threatening to spill out your throat like vomit. Tears finally spring to your eyes, silent sobs racking your chest as you rub your skin near raw. Unaware you are doing more harm than good at this point.

“I’m sure! Please don’t come in,” you rack your brain for an excuse that wouldn’t come across as a blatant lie. “It’s uh..well it’s embarrassing really. I had an accident. Let me just clean it up and I’ll be right out, I promise!”

That doesn’t seem to do the trick. Instead the jiggling starts up again, this time sounding far more determined. Cursing, you abandon the faucet once you shut off the water, seeing it for the lost cause it is. Eyes scan your surroundings for an alternative.

“No need to be embarrassed, let me help you clean,” the jiggling continues, Copia’s voice soft and full of gentle concern. “We’ve been apart for months, I would like to see you. Let me in.”

Spotting the towels hanging from the rack beside the shower, you pick your next target. Cover and conceal. If you can’t make the wounds go away, at least you could use the extra fabric to hide from view. You don’t even realize you are leaving Copia without a response, only causing your poor partner’s concern to skyrocket. Nor do you take note of the sudden silence.

“Sorry, but I am coming in,” is what you hear just as you take a step away from the sink, the subtle click of the lock turning. 

Hope is lost. You watch in numb silence as the door pushes open, Copia standing just within the doorway the moment there is space. He looks tired. Exhausted beyond measure. Self loathing seeps in at the thought of how you have only created another burden for him to deal with before being able to rest. You turn away before you think he has a chance to see, before he can see you for the failure you are.

Letting out a howl of pure anguish, you drop yourself into the far corner of the room, tugging the sleeves of your shirt down to cover what damage you can while trying to create as much space between you and Copia as possible. But he stops dead in his tracks at the sound and the moment he takes in the sight before him. Red painted floor, steel blades littering the tiles, pink water still draining from the sink. Lips part in a silent gasp, and you can see the unshed tears held behind his eyes.

“Amore, what have you done?” There is a soft tremble to his voice that is so beautifully laced with concern. Concern that you certainly do not deserve.

When he takes a step in your direction your hands go up in warning, both trying to shield yourself from the scrutiny of his gaze yet also deter him from coming closer. Stepping forward, Copia uses the edge of one shoe to kick all the blades into a single pile at the corner of the sink before he squats down to be eye level with you. Tears flow heavy down your cheeks, a soft whimper constantly rumbling in your chest as you will Copia to turn back and leave the room. But instead his eyes trace over your every detail, assessing the damage you have dealt to yourself. A hand stretches out towards you, ready to bridge the gap between you.

“Amore, please?” He waits for it to be your choice, though you know inaction will eventually force his hand. But you can’t bring yourself to move. Can’t even bring yourself to form words.

All you can manage is to pull your arms back in, closing in further on yourself. Copia lets out a sigh, and you can’t help the overwhelming guilt as you think of how you are just further delaying him from being able to relax. Having just returned from a world tour, you are sure that Copia would love nothing more to finally sink into his own bed. But no, instead he has to deal with the shit show that is you.

Too caught up in your self loathing thoughts, you fail to notice as Copia takes advantage in the lapse of your awareness, shifting closer. A hand at your knee brings you back. Flinching, you let out a noise of pain as you try to slink further back.

“Let me see?” He reaches further, attempting to grab your still bleeding arm. But flight or fight instinct kicks in.

Making a feral noise, you manage to shake off Copia’s hand while pressing yourself flat against the floor, shuffling under his arm and dragging yourself across the floor in an attempt to get away. You don’t get more than a couple inches before arms encircle your waist and pull you against a warm chest.

“No!” You wail, nails clawing at the arms holding you tight, struggling as sobs shake your entire body.

But Copia holds tight, cradling you with your back pressed flushed to his chest, forehead resting against your hair as he lets your sobbing run its course. Soft praises and reassurances are whispered as he allows you to cry until you can do little more than sag against his arms. When your energy runs out, Copia adjusts his hold and moves to speak against your ear.

“You are okay, I’ve got you. I want to help,” his breath is soft, tickling your ear. “I am not here to judge or hurt you, amore mio. Will you let me see, please?”

You manage a feeble nod, uttering not a sound as you allow yourself to be rotated within Copia’s arms until you face him. Unfocused eyes remained trained on the lines between each tile, unable to look up at the man before you. Even as gentle gloved hands lift your arm, softly caressing it with feather light touches. Copia traces over each bleeding line with a soft swipe of his thumb.

“I will be right back,” Copia releases you, rising to his feet so he can rummage through the cabinets for the materials he needs. Then he returns, settling back onto the floor before pulling you back into his lap with supplies resting at his side.

One gentle hand holds your arm by the wrist, firm but not crushing, while the other holds a cloth soaked with saline which he uses to wipe your forearm. You stare at his hands as you watch him work, tears still trickling from the corners of your eyes. How can he be so gentle with you? Why does he treat you with such kindness when all you ever do is bring more problems? Even as gauze pads are placed, held snugly in place as Copia wraps your arm from wrist to elbow, you can’t help but think of how you have done nothing to deserve him.

Noticing the trails peeking out from the hem of your shirt sleeve, Copia carefully rolls the material up to reveal the remainder of the damage. Nothing is said. No harsh words of criticism, no exasperated sighs. Copia uses just as much care as he has with the rest of your wounds, soft slow touches as he cleans away the blood. When you are fully bandaged, Copia lets out a quiet sigh, taking your hands in his own as he pulls them to his lips. A soft kiss is placed to both knuckles before resting his forehead against your hands.

“Were..?” Copia starts, but pauses, lifting his eyes just as you finally bring yourself to meet face to face. The pain in his voice is unmistakable, and hurts you just as much as the cuts in your arm. “Were you making an attempt on your life? Or..?”

“No” it’s all that it takes to find your voice. It comes out thick and heavy, like your tongue still doesn’t quite know how to form words properly. “I just...wanted to feel something.”

He nods, dropping your hands and opening up his arms in offering. Somehow you find the strength to shuffle forward, nestling yourself into his arms with your head resting against his collarbone. It feels right. Safe. Like being in his loving embrace were some miracle cure.

“You could have called,” Copia hums after a long silence, though the words have no harshness, no bite. Just a stated fact. “I know I have been away for some time, but I would have dropped everything for you.”

You seem to struggle with words again, throat tight, mouth dry. “I can’t ask that of you,” is what you can finally manage, staring down at the white bandages around your arm. “You work so hard for the ministry, so much weighing down on your shoulders. I don’t want to be another chore added to your list. Even now, you should be resting after your tour. Instead you’re here on the floor dealing with my unstable episode.”

A finger at your chin tilts and turns your head until Copia can brush his lips against your own, soft, chaste, and full of love that could never be properly put into words. 

“Never think of yourself as a chore,” while the words are firm, leaving no room for argument, you know they come with only good intentions. “Everyday I say a prayer to Satan, thanking him for bringing you into my life. You are everything I could ever want and more.” There is a subtle shift in his eyes, full of hope but a deep yearning. “Just don’t give up.”

“Sometimes I think I already have,” your voice is soft and weak, the energy to fight having long since left. “Feels like I’m constantly on borrowed time. Sometimes I am simply too tired to keep trying, and I don’t think I can do it alone.”

Suddenly both of his leather clad hands cup your cheeks, keeping your gaze locked on Copia’s endearing face. For the first time during the night, you watch a tear escape from his white eye. Both beautifully serene and heartbreakingly devastating.

“And you don’t have to,” Copia gives a squeeze, pulling you back to him when you try to turn your head away in an unnecessary flush of shame. “You may be in the ocean, but I have no intention to let you drown. I don’t want to be pulling you up just enough to catch your breath before plunging back into the cold depths.” There is a pause as he leans in to gift you another chaste kiss. “Let me teach you to wade the waters, keep your head afloat. Though you may never escape the water, we can keep you from going under.”

Tears flow heavy, running down your face in wide rivers as you clutch at the front of Copia’s shirt, pulling him closer until your face is buried in his shoulder. Arms are heavy and slow as you slide them to wrap around Copia’s torso. Sometimes you wish your connection could go deeper, that you could simply feel each other’s thoughts and emotions. Because there are no words that come to your mind as you cling to the man as if your life depended on it. You don’t understand how you have come to earn such a love as Copia’s, how you could ever deserve it. To feel so loved and accepted, even when you are at the point of wanting to tear yourself apart.

“Thank you, for everything,” a wobbling bottom lip makes your words sound muddled, lifting your head up enough to gaze into soft mismatched eyes.

“No need to thank me, amore,” Copia smiles softly, pulling a hand free to softly cup your cheek. Then he is shifting you both, legs unfolding as he moves to stand, picking you up with him. “Come, let’s get ready for bed.”

At your nod of consent, Copia gently shuffles you both out of the room, turning the light off and closing the door of the bathroom once you are past the threshold. Out of sight, out of mind. He would deal with the mess later. Now, he leads you to the bed, motioning for you to sit and the end as he retrieves a fresh set of clothes for you. There is a pleasant silence as Copia assists in removing your blood stained clothes, trying  to conceal the way he rushes to toss them into the hamper. He also takes the time to carefully help dress you before guiding you to your side of the bed, laying you back against the pillows.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble weakly as Copia tucks the blankets around you.

“No more apologies, amore mio,” a chaste kiss is pressed to your temple before Copia pulls away, shuffling over to his side of the bed before slipping under the covers alongside you. The moment his back sinks into the mattress, you roll over to press into his side, resting your head on his chest to listen to the steady beat of his heart. “I am here. We will get through this together.”

After a brush with some very dark thoughts due to current aspects of life, I felt the need to write this so I could feel I had someone there for me. I know it gets hard sometimes, but anyone else out there struggling with similar problems, please know that you matter. You don't have to suffer alone. Sometimes it can feel like the depression is all consuming, but there is always hope. You are never alone. People are out there that want nothing but to help you. So please, if you are feeling this way, let people know. Get the help you need and DESERVE.

[opheliajupiter99]

Enodi: The Faceless Clown (Might get sad and Lovecrafty)

Enodi.

It wasn't the poor little bard's real name, of course. He'd forgotten a long, long time ago - instead, he made up a new one. He picked Enodi, not for any real good reason, simply because he thought it sounded funny.

It felt like 'funny' was what he was supposed to be. He could recall oh so very little, he had only the barest little traces of memory, floating about in the blank void that was his mind, and the little bits and pieces that the townsfolk recalled about him.

He sat upon the edge of the fountain in the center of town, just thinking, as he stared up at the sky. It was a routine thing for him, and on his foggy morning in particular, he was recalling what the townsfolk had told him, about the faithful day he first recalled...well, anything.

Apparently, he was a travelling bard, ever so long ago, entertaining crowds with jokes, and smiles, and songs, with a lute in one hand and a flute in the other. Then one day, when he stopped to perform in this very town, he joined a group of adventurers to take part in a quest on the outskirts of town.

The people of the town that witnessed him and the others said that they wondered why he did this, as he seemed woefully unprepared for combat. Some guessed that perhaps it was because the quest was -supposed- to be very simple, so perhaps he thought he wouldn't have to do anything too taxing.

Others still, however, think it had something to do with the young Wood Elf that was a part of the band of the adventurers. They seemed to know each other, and the woman looked remarkably like the young bard, the occupants of the tavern they visited thinking it likely they were siblings. Perhaps his dear sister had convinced him to accompany them on this quest?

Whatever the reason, they left later that day, and were found early the next morning on the outskirts. Or rather...what was left of the party was found.

The entire adventuring party, beyond Enodi, had been slaughtered, butchered beyond recognition like they were nothing more than sheep ravaged by a passing wolf. Those that stumbled upon the sight could never get the image of poor little Enodi, laughing madly as he sat in a sea of carnage and gore out of their nightmares.

Enodi was alive, but the healers of the little town were quite baffled. Not just because the rest of the party was dead, but because of the state the Wood Elf was in. Necrotic scarring and festering was all over a good chunk of his body, though oddly, it didn't seem to be spreading, staying in specific areas, as if those parts of his body were hit by some kind of spell.

The worst area of this was by far his face - or rather, where his face used to be. His face was not just mangled - it was gone. No nose, no eyelids, no lips, no cheeks, just rotten, festering flesh, teeth fully exposed into a macabre smile, and eyes wide and manic, a horrid yellow color rather than a natural white to his eyes.

No matter how hard the healers tried, they could not get the necrotic portions of his flesh to regrow. He was even sent off to a large healer facility in a neighboring town once, in the hopes they could do something, or at least ease it somewhat, but alas, that failed as well. He still had his ears, or at least most of them, and he had his hair, it was merely the front portion of his face that was gone. The only boon, if it could be called that, is that the man felt no pain, likely due to the nerves dying in those areas.

He also, of course, lost any and all memory of not just what happened that night, but his entire life. He couldn't recall his name, where he was born, what he'd done for a living, he couldn't even recall his dear sister, though perhaps given the circumstances that last part was for the best.

To this day, no one has a single idea what could've possibly happened that night. The quest was merely to investigate a man by the riverside, who had been acting very oddly lately. It was figured that at most they would have to drag him back to town kicking and screaming, if he had gotten dramatically worse, or at the least he would've been completely reasonable and gone back to town on his own.

There are hints as to what could've happened though. The horrid affliction placed upon Enodi could've only been done by a true master of dark arts, and the dramatic damage to Enodi's memory and sanity on top of that - as well as the quite worrying whispers the bard reported hearing on a near constant basis - have made the townsfolk worry deeply that it could've been an Illithid, or better known to the average person as a Mindflayer.

But of course, that merely raised more questions. If it -was- a Mindflayer, why in all nine hells was the man still alive? He'd been examined for a Mindflayer larvae behind his eye, just in case, and nothing was found, and beyond the necrosis and clear mental instability, he showed no signs of developing mutations.

The healers of the town's best guess is that a horrific curse was placed upon the party, and he had simply managed to survive the torturous affliction by some wild miracle of chance.

Enodi cared little for all that though. He quite loved his life, even if most people he interacted with were either terrified by him or disgusted by him, or some combination of both, or simply pitied him. As long as he could entertain people in some regard, he was fine. And besides, he had mask; a comedy/tragedy mask that was among the various things he was found with that night, as well as his lute and flute, which by some miracle he still remembered how to play.

The music was one of the only things he could remember, as well as his love for entertaining. So now, he performed, mostly in the town but sometimes would travel, doing clown acts, singing, and attempting to play his instruments. They sounded...unique, to put it politely, especially his flute, as playing a flute without lips didn't exactly produce the best sound, and the rot upon his hands made playing the lute rather awkward, but he loved playing them so very, very much.

As far as he was concerned, his life was perfect. Yes, he was rotten, yes, his friends and family were either dead or long since forgotten, yes, there was a constant flow of maddening whispers echoing through his head that made it quite difficult to sleep, but he was oh so very happy.

Was he overjoyed because he was insane? Oh, most certainly; but he was overjoyed, and that was much better than some could boast.

[fnaf-enthusiast]

FNaF 4 general headcanons

Nightmare

Not only is he introverted, he's also anti-social as fuck

Will leave in the middle of a conversation just to confuse the other

If he doesn't like someone he will only act sarcastic around them

He and Fredbear are bros and he mostly ineracts with him

The type of person to ask for a coffee that's black like their soul

Has tried on multiple occasions to teach BB swear words and give Foxy and Jack-o-Bonnie the fault

Fredbear

He's not introverted but also won't try to seek a conversation every 5 minutes

Loves to tease others but doesn't do that very often

Tends to sneeze so loud he can almost be heard on the street

Is secretly a fan of tea but drinks coffee openly because he thinks he wouldn't be scary anymore

Nightmare Freddy

He's a dad, literally, but a chaotic and tired one

Sometimes he can be a great dad, like plays with the freddles, and other times he just acts like he's dead and let's the freddles ruin the place

Drinks a lot of black coffee but actually favors something more sweet

Likes talking and joking with the other nightmares but sometimes can't find the energy to (same dude)

He takes bets on which freddle wins the daily fist fight with Bonnie and Jack-o-Bonnie/Chica

Nightmare Bonnie

Bro can be your bestie or he's annoying af, no in between

Can't be silent for 10 seconds, be it making a funny/stupid comment, random chuckling or playing with his claws

Hates vacuum cleaners and noone knows why exactly

Is a big fan of TV shows and hogs the TV remote

Nightmare Chica

Extroverted but also tends to be creepy

Like she sometimes just stands there and stres or stops in the middle of a sentence

Is very sassy and doesn't care who stands infront of her

Is always in the kitchen or the living room

She and Foxy hang out in the closet or in a attic and gossip a little

Nightmare Foxy

The angrier he get's the thicker his accent gets until noone can understand what the fuck he's saying

Cusses a lot but watches it when plushtrap is around

Can't understand how a stove works somehow and ends up eating a frozen pizza

Sarcasm is his second language and he sometimes doesn't know when to stop

Plushtrap

Has way too much energy

He's got that wierd neighbors kid energy

He and the freddles cause a lot of havoc

Lears a lot of swear words but doesn't really know when to use them

Is a big fan of chocolate and bites anyone in the ankle when they have some

Is often left on high spaces like the fridge or counter but he just jumps down and doesn't care

Nightmare Ballon Boy

He randomly giggles in his sleep wich creeps even the nightmares out

Is bratty but can be sweet if he wants to

Loves cake and muffins, give him a cake pop and he will loose his shit

He can be given cola, unlike plushtrap, and nothing will happen

Is deeply scared of the nap time spray

Jack-o-Bonnie

Has a very macabre sense of humor

Has a very raspy and deep laugh which wierd everyone out except Jack-o-Chica

He and Jack-o-Chica are chaotic siblings that yell at each other but don't take shit from others

Steals BB's chocolate and blames Plushtrap when asked

Jack-o-Chica

Momma didn't raise no bitch, and yes it was Jack-o-Bonnie

She loves to laugh and tease, sometimes she makes a flirty remark but that's rare

She's a little aggressive but also caring in her own wierd way

She steals hair clips and pillows for no fucking reason

Made it her goal to scare everyone but made it even harder by setting the rule that no one is allowed to see her prank others

Nightmare Mangle

They sleep at least 12 hours a day but they aren't sleepy, she's just tired of everything

Still hangs around Puppet a lot

Loves lollipops and asks Plushtrap if he can get them some in exchange for helping in setting up a prank

Watches how the nightmares argue and fight, thinks it's amusing

Nightmare Puppet

They are almost always in bed or in some kind of attic

Reads a lot and draws sometimes

Leaves gifts for the nightmares no matter if they where rude that day or not

Seems like they are always laid back and kind but there's always that wierd vibe they have that puts some at unease