#ripping and tearing and gnawing and thrashing and

[skmhlml]

Note: got bored and thought about getting railed by this fart

Warnings: slow burn into rough to softeness, breaking, kidnapping, killing, claiming, etc.

𝑾𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒈𝒐 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

it’s a gnawing, parasitic obsession. He is drawn to your warmth, your scent, the pulse of life under your skin. He follows you unseen for days, weeks, studying you like prey before revealing himself.

You don’t meet the Wendigo. he corners you. Maybe it’s in the woods, maybe late at night when you hear knocking on your window. He doesn’t speak in words, only in primal noises…growls, whimpers, snarls.

Other dangers avoid you because they smell him on you. Stray too far, and he might just hunt you back down. The same sharp teeth that rip apart threats also graze your skin when he’s “affectionate.”

He brings you “gifts” — the clawed foot of a fox, the bloodied pelt of a deer, strange antlers left at your doorstep. They’re offerings, tokens of a terrible courtship. corpses of animals or even people.

You are his territory now. Anyone who talks too long to you, anyone who touches you. he remembers. And he’s not forgiving.

You’re small, warm, alive — everything it hates and craves at the same time. It doesn’t understand human love, but it knows it needs you like a junky needs a fix. Violent affection. Destructive adoration.

It watches you sleep, practically drooling. sharp teeth glistening in the dark, huffing your scent like a goddamn feral beast. It likes the way you flinch when you hear it scratching at the walls. It likes the terror. Fear makes you smell sweeter.

Sometimes it just sits there, mouth open, ragged breathing, staring at you with glassy, dead eyes. It whispers in your dreams. Filthy things. Hungry things. Things about your bones snapping, your flesh tearing, but spoken almost like sweet nothings.

The Wendigo doesn’t fuck like a human. It ravages. Teeth always grazing too close to skin — nipping hard enough to bleed. leaving you battered, bruised, marked like a ragdoll it doesn’t want to break too soon.

It’s brutal. He’s huge, and you’re just this pathetic, soft little thing underneath him. He has no concept of “easy” or “gentle”, if he’s not careful, he’ll tear you apart.

He wants to fill you. Over and over. Like stuffing prey full so it rots slower. He doesn’t even care if it’s possible. The idea of you bloated with him, ruined by him, drives him into a frenzy.

Sometimes he gets so rough that he draws blood and licks it off you with a long, disgusting tongue, humming deep in his throat like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

If you call watching you shiver in a pool of his fluids while he licks his claws “aftercare,” sure. You hate him. You fear him. You should be running but your body betrays you. Sometimes you catch yourself whimpering for him, aching for the way he splits you open and makes you feel filthy and alive.

He’s physically incapable of patience. Any clothes you have left? Shredded by claws in seconds. Half the time you’re naked and covered in mud, blood, and god-knows-what-else.

He pins you down so hard you can’t breathe. One clawed hand around your throat, squeezing just enough to see you struggle, feel you thrash.

There’s no innocence left. If there’s any part of you that resists, he snuffs it out ruthlessly. He wants you filthy. Sometimes after he fucks you half to death, he just lays there, dead silent, watching you twitch like a broken thing. You wonder if this is what it feels like to already be a corpse.

He builds a “nest”. a pile of torn clothes, bones, furs, rotting wood — and drags you there at night like you’re something precious he needs to keep safe.He’ll curl his massive, freezing body around you, breathing slow and rattling against your skin.

He used to kill anything near you because he was territorial. Now he kills anything that might upset you. You cry over a broken bone? He destroys the fucking landscape trying to “fix” it.

He rips chunks of meat like usual, but now he presses them to your lips with shocking tenderness, like he’s feeding a wounded animal. If you cry or turn away, he whines a broken awful sound.

He buries his face into your hair, your clothes, your skin. Breathing you in so hard it feels like he’s trying to suck your soul out.

He still wrecks you — but now he tries to slow down. Tries to nudge into you slowly. Tries not to split you apart immediately. He groans deep and feral when you gasp and arch under him — and you swear you catch something like worship in those ruined, dead eyes.

It’s not just rutting anymore. It’s grinding, pressing, kissing your bruised thighs, lapping between your legs like he’s starving for you, not just your body.

When you touch his face, brush your tiny, trembling fingers along the twisted bone structure, the wet snarling mouth — he lets out a keening, desperate sound like he doesn’t know whether to purr or sob.

fluids, he cleans you — grotesquely licking every inch of your destroyed, shivering body. Then he curls around you, massive arms caging you in, growling lowly anytime you move like “stay. safe. stay.”

[mimimarvelingmarvel]

time bound part one

pairing: worst wolverine!logan howlett x f!mutant!reader

Part One - Masterlist

summary: Y/n’s life takes a dramatic turn when the Time Variance Authority intervenes, pulling her from a critical moment in her timeline. The TVA sends her to the void where she eventually meets with Deadpool and a very familiar face. With Deadpool's universe in the balance, alongside his reluctant would-be pal, Wolverine, and the enigmatic time-bending mutant known as the Veil, the trio must complete the mission and save Deadpool’s world from an existential threat.

overall warnings: 18+, Fem!Reader, AFAB Reader, Use of Y/N, Her X-Men name is Veil, She/her pronouns, Swearing, Angst, Heavy Violence, Character Death, Deadpool (he’s his own warning), Hurt, Fluff, Angst, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, TVA

word count: 1.3k

The mansion is a war zone. Screams and gunfire echo through the halls, mingling with the sickening stench of burning flesh and molten metal. Blood splatters the walls, once lined with family photos and cherished memories, now smeared with the desperate last stands of my friends. My heart hammers in my chest, a relentless drumbeat urging me forward as I sprint down the corridors I once knew like the back of my hand. Now, they feel like the intestines of some dying beast, twisting and turning as it thrashes in its final moments.

I skid to a stop outside Logan’s quarters, nearly slipping on a pool of blood. The heavy oak door is reduced to splinters, gunshots carved deep into the wood. Logan isn’t there. Damn it. Where the hell could he be?

Of course, he’s been in one of his foul moods all week, growling at anyone who dared get too close. Typical Logan, retreating to the nearest bar when things get too heavy. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I rake my brain, trying to picture him—his location. There has to be something, some clue that could lead me to him before it’s too late. The X-Men are losing. They’re being slaughtered, and the only chance we have lies in Logan’s bloodied hands.

I force myself to see it, a twisted sort of daydream: Logan tearing through our enemies, me getting to him just in time. My thoughts race faster, my vision blurring with desperation. It’s not enough. He could be anywhere in this town, and my friends—my family—are dying.

“Kurt!” I scream, the name ripping from my throat, a raw, desperate plea. “Kurt, where the hell are you?!”

I stumble into Kurt’s room, eyes wide, hoping for a flash of blue, the familiar scent of brimstone. Nothing. The room is a wreck—furniture overturned, shards of glass glittering like ice in the moonlight, blood smeared across the floor in haphazard patterns. How much of it is Kurt’s? How much of it is anyone’s?

A cold dread grips my insides, gnawing at my heart. I can’t lose them. Not like this. Not now.

“Kurt!” I call out again, the name choking in my throat as I stumble forward, deeper into the room. My eyes scan the wreckage frantically, desperate to catch even a fleeting glimpse of him.

Suddenly, the world around me shifts. Time fractures, and I’m flooded with chaotic visions, flickering images of what could be, what might have been, and what is. It’s my curse—my gift. Chrono-Perception. I see Kurt laughing, his smile wide and genuine. Then, in another vision, he’s gasping for breath, his eyes wide with fear as a blade plunges into his side. The echoes of possible futures assault my senses, each one more horrific than the last.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the noise in my mind to settle, to focus. But when I open them, the reality of the present hits me harder than any of the potential futures. Just beyond the overturned bed, a familiar blue hand sticks out from beneath a collapsed bookshelf.

My breath catches in my throat, and I rush over, time seeming to slow around me, each step dragging as if the universe itself is dreading what I’m about to find. When I reach him, my heart sinks.

Kurt’s body is twisted at an unnatural angle, his once vibrant blue fur now matted with blood. His gentle, kind eyes are wide open, staring into the void. I reach out with trembling hands to close them, my fingers brushing against his cold skin. The sensation of his lifeless body under my touch sends a shiver down my spine. He wasn’t supposed to die like this. Not here. Not now.

A flash of another potential future assaults my mind—Kurt, alive and well, teleporting behind me with that infectious grin, teasing me like he always did. But it’s just an echo, a cruel reminder of what could never be.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice breaking as I gently close his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

I know I don’t have much time. The echoes of the future still buzz in my head, warning me of the impending danger. But it isn’t just my perception of time that sets me apart. My Time-Linked Vitality means my body ages slowly, each year passing like a drop in a vast ocean. It makes me resilient, gives me strength, but it also means I’m cursed to watch as the people I love die around me, one by one.

The pain of losing Kurt, of seeing him like this, is almost too much to bear. But I can’t let it consume me. Not now. Not when there are others still fighting, still clinging to life.

With one last look at Kurt’s lifeless form, I force myself to my feet. I wipe the blood from my hands on my tattered pants, my resolve hardening with every breath. The mansion is still under attack, and my friends—my family—need me.

I turn to bolt to the next room when a strange shift in the air makes me freeze—a ripple, like reality itself hiccupped. This isn’t my doing.

I spin around, but before I can even process what’s happening, a door materializes out of thin air. It hovers there, glowing with a light that feels wrong, like it belongs to a place that doesn’t give a damn about things like hope or mercy. My heart lurches, adrenaline spiking as I instinctively reach for my powers. But they fizzle out, sputtering like a dying flame.

The door swings open, and a figure steps out. Cloaked in shadow, they bear the insignia of the Time Variance Authority on their chest, a symbol of cold, unyielding authority.

“Y/N,” the figure speaks, voice smooth as polished steel. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“What?” The word comes out more as a snarl, anger sparking to life within me. I have no time for this. “What the hell are you talking about? I need to stop them—my friends—”

“—Are meant to die,” the figure interrupts, their tone as final as a tombstone. “This timeline is not yours to change.”

The words hit me like a blow to the gut, driving the breath from my lungs. “What?”

Another figure appears beside the first, blocking my path. “It’s not your decision,” the second figure says, calm and detached. “You’re disrupting the timeline, and for that, you must be removed.”

“Removed?” I echo, my voice quivering with fury now. Cold dread coils around my chest, squeezing tight. “You can’t just—”

The first figure raises a hand, and my world goes dark. My muscles lock, frozen in place as a swirling portal opens beneath my feet. Panic surges, but it’s too late. The world dissolves into a whirlpool of shadows and chaos, the cold hands of the TVA agents the last thing I see before I’m dragged into the abyss.

The Void is worse than death. As I fall, time twists and warps around me, past, present, and future bleeding together in a nauseating blur. Memories crash over me in waves—Logan’s gruff voice, the X-Men’s laughter, the mansion bathed in warm sunlight. It all slips through my fingers, distant echoes swallowed by the darkness.

I hit the ground hard, the impact like a sledgehammer to my spine. Pain explodes in my ribs, but I grit my teeth and force myself up. The world around me is a desolate wasteland, an endless expanse of lost possibilities and forgotten timelines. Cold, lifeless, devoid of anything remotely human.

I stagger to my feet, my body aching, the emptiness of the Void pressing in on me from all sides. It’s suffocating, the silence so loud it’s maddening. I am alone—truly, terrifyingly alone.

My chest aches as I push through the underbrush, my hand pressed firmly against my side where the pain throbs persistently. I can’t see my future here—my control over time-slipping is erratic, even on a good day. The uncertainty only makes the situation worse. Each step through the dense forest feels like I’m wading through thick, invisible mud, the oppressive silence wrapping around me like a heavy shroud. My breath comes in ragged gasps, the crushing weight of despair threatening to overwhelm me.

A flicker of movement catches my eye, a brief flash of light piercing the gloom. My heart skips a beat as a figure materializes from the swirling smoke, gradually solidifying. I squint at the fiery glow surrounding him, a stark contrast to the dark, oppressive forest. Fear grips me, and I instinctively reach for my powers, but nothing happens. I’m powerless, feeling utterly useless.

“Hey there!” The figure calls out, his voice carrying a mix of amusement and curiosity. “You look like you’ve seen better days. Want a hand, or are you planning on moping around all by yourself?”

I blink, trying to process his presence amidst the chaos. “Who are you?”

He grins, flames dancing around his fingers. “Johnny Storm. You know, the Human Torch.” His casual tone does little to soothe my fear, and I take a step back, distrust etched on my face. “You look like you could use some company. So, what’s your story? Lost and hopeless, or just taking a scenic tour of the void?”

I scowl, irritation mingling with confusion. “I’m not in the mood for jokes. I’m having a really bad day—dragged into a cosmic wasteland and all.”

Johnny raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement still lingering in his expression. “Ah, a bad day. I’ve had a few of those myself. So, what’s got you all twisted up?”

I swallow hard, my mind replaying the horrifying scenes from moments before—Kurt’s lifeless body, the screams of my friends and family. “I was trying to save my friends when these… guys in suits showed up and sent me here. Why are you here, anyway? Cosmic firefighter?”

“More like a cosmic firestarter,” Johnny retorts with a wink, his flames flaring playfully. “Anyone the TVA deems as trash ends up here—the lost and abandoned. Now, how about we get you out of this mess? The Borderlands is a decent place to catch a break.”

I narrow my eyes, skepticism etched on my face. “Borderlands? Sounds like a place where people go to get even more lost.”

Johnny smirks, his flames casting flickering shadows on his face. “Well, it’s got its charm. Plus, we’ve got a few folks there who might be able to help you out. But if you’re expecting a five-star resort, you’re gonna be disappointed.”

“I’m not picky,” I reply with a hint of weariness.

Johnny’s grin widens, but there’s a hard edge to it now. “Oh, and just so you know, there’s a delightful lady named Cassandra who’s been making a little shit storm. To put it mildly, she’s a real cunt.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I’ve encountered a few of those in my time.”

Johnny’s expression darkens further. “She’s a real menace. And then there’s Alioth, a cosmic entity that thrives on chaos. Think of it as a hungry monster that devours everything in its path.”

“That sounds… cheerful,” I deadpan. “What do you do here, anyway? Fight monsters and avoid psychopaths?”

Johnny chuckles, the sound a welcome break from the heavy silence. “Pretty much. But don’t worry. I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve, and from what I can see, you can handle yourself just fine.”

I look him over, nodding grimly, quick to expect my fate.

Next Part

A/N: Will maybe consider making a taglist! But lmk what you think!

[haechvn]

So That's It Then, Huh?

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!Reader

Warning: Angst. Yearning!Terry. Just sad really.

Summary: He’s been fighting for your love and you have trying your hardest to break his heart. Your plan is working.

Word Count: 2.0k+

Author’s Note: Got inspiration from this post. Ugh i just love angst so much. Y'all better hate y/n by the time you done reading this. Lowkey features Erik and Fontaine. IFYKYK.

Taglist: @planetblaque @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @prettyinpikk @theinsidefeelingofateen

‘Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.’ This was the self-taught mantra he began to loop in his mind.

Wrinkles danced between his eyebrows in anguish as his wide-set nose flared furiously. It was almost as if he was vibrating, shaking at such an alarming speed with his anger radiating off of him like a soft tidal wave. Agitation ripped through his body, his innately rancorous emotions thrashed around inside him yet there was still a chilling calmness to his rage. Your alluring voice no longer sweetened his spirit but simply urged him to pull his heart from his body. That's what your words were already doing to him anyways so what would be the problem if he actually tried?

He hasn’t been able to take his eyes off of you. His irises are a darker, moodier shade of grey as opposed to the usual vibrant green. His chest is tight and hot as he begins to wonder if something outside of him is slowly gnawing away at his life source — feeling less and less in control of his breathing as his mind swirls in confusion. He’s so overwhelmed with emotions he doesn’t even notice the tears that cascade down his cheeks, eyes piercing yours, searching for any semblance of solace only to be met with venom. Eyes that captivated him upon first glance. Eyes that once brought him peace. Eyes that once threw themselves out into the rapid waters of life and anchored him back to shore. Eyes that belong to the soul he loved with all his heart and knew as his. Eyes he loved with his entire being.

How can you stand there and say these things to him? It’s hard to tell what has gotten into you but you have never made him feel so insignificant and small. He spends every waking moment of his life trying to express his gratitude for your existence and yet you can’t even begin to process the amount of pain he is in. As if you even care. You want to leave him? After pouring every fiber of himself into this relationship you two share? No. Hell no. Fuck n— 

“But how can you say that though? You talkin’ like I don’t take care of you or dedicate myself to you or like I haven’t given you my all… Man what the fuck?” Terry is at a loss for words. His heart can’t handle the insane statements you are making. He is seconds away from passing out.

“I feel like you are being so dramatic right now Terry,” you say, backing up away from him in attempt to create more space between the two of you. Is it your fault that you weren’t feeling the relationship anymore? In your eyes, you and Terry want two different things at this point in time; one person wants a long-term committed partnership and the other wants to continue seeing different people. As if y'all haven't been together for a while now. You didn’t anticipate meeting another man that would give you the same type of butterflies you got when you first met your soon-to-be-ex Terry. If anything, you have been looking for a reason to leave him for a long time. Things just didn’t feel as organic as they used too. His kisses don’t feel the same. Your heart doesn’t skip a beat when he looks at you anymore. There’s a part of you that feels out of touch with him no matter how hard you try to convince yourself that he’s it for you. You have found yourself falling out of love for him and leaning in closer to other men. The late night texts and calls with other lovers wouldn’t technically be considered cheating right? What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him as far as you’re concerned.

The atmosphere in Terry’s home was unsettling. Honestly you are a bit taken aback by his reaction to your words but nonetheless, you aimed to achieve your goal and that was to rid yourself of this "man" standing before you. It’s not like he did anything to you directly but sometimes if you wear the same pair of shoes everyday, you might eventually get bored and wanna throw them away. It’s not the best feeling in the world to see his face stained with sadness and disbelief but somehow a wave of peace washes over your body, the soothing reality that you won’t have to deal with him much longer cemented itself in your shared space.

“I’ve been meaning to bring this up to you for a while Ter,” you continue, causing him to slightly wince as you use a pet name of his as if you aren’t currently trying to break him down to his core. “I can’t say this has been the most fulfilling relationship for me and—,”

“Bullshit! What are you even talking about right now princess? I love you. I know you love me. Why are we even doing this? Where is this all coming from? We was just good yesterday and now you on some other shi—“

“Terry stop fighting me on this! You know you have felt a shift too. It’s not the same anymore. You don’t feel familiar to me,” you say, twisting your diamond bracelet that Erik— or was it Fontaine— gave you a few days prior. Talk about applying pressure. Those men really know how to make a lady feel special and it just made Terry look so different in your eyes. Sure the two of you made lot of memories, special moments together and lots of “love” but okay? You wanted something different. Why are you all of a sudden the bad guy? Even if the two of you have been together for about a year, that doesn’t warrant Terry's overemotional reaction does it? How in love can one person be after a year? That’s like saying you’re deeply in love with someone after two months. Be so for real. Terry is a grown man and he can get over this. Heck, you already are. Wait. Didn’t Erik plan a dinner date for the two of you tonight? Oh shit! You should probably hurry up because you know he doesn’t like waiting and oh how could you forget! He sent the most beautiful dress over to your condo with priceless jewels and these absolutely gorgeous shoes that have these—

“Yo. Are you even listening to me?” Terry’s tear-stained face lowers to meet your gaze, his body closing in on you in a way to make his presence known but not scare you away. This is not how he had planned on his day going. You are what makes it easier for him to wake up every day and push forward no matter what lies ahead yet you don't even seem the slightest bit moved by his outward display of emotions. He can’t decipher whether he is simply dreaming or if his worst nightmare is truly taking form in front of him. He reaches out to you, placing a soft touch under your chin forcing you to look up at him as he towers over you. His thumb rubs against your skin, wishing it were his lips there instead. He so desperately wants to just kiss you with all of his might and throw you over his shoulder but no matter how upset he is, he knows hearing you out is more effective than seducing and pulling you back into him with his actions.

“I’m not letting you go. That is not up for discussion. Whatever it is you need me to do just tell me and you know I gotchu,” he whispers lowly, tucking a braid behind your ear. Though his touch is gentle and warm, that doesn’t negate the fact that you no longer want to be in a relationship with him. You checked out months ago. Somehow, seeing him vulnerable like this actually made your heart thump a lil bit. Crazy right? He was definitely a good man when it came to loving you and treating a woman the way she deserves but that doesn’t mean you have to stay with him because of it. You take a few steps backwards, moving your face away from his grasp, the tension in his living room thickening as you internally plan your exit strategy. Terry is absolutely wrecked and two seconds away from truly experiencing his breaking point. What the hell is going on?

“There’s nothing you can do Terry and that’s the problem. It’s actually not me. It’s you,” you huff tugging at the rose gold ring that rested on your right hand. How can you still be wearing this piece of crap he gave you? He probably lied about the price to be honest. No way he actually paid ninety thousand and you still don’t think it’s that cute. Maybe for someone who doesn’t have any taste. Terry’s eyes remain focused on your face so he doesn’t see you toss the piece of jewelry he had custom-made for you onto his couch, slightly blending in with the beige material.

“We are done and that’s it. I don’t want to talk about this anymore because we don’t have anything else to discuss. Goodbye Terrence. Don't fucking contact me.” With that, you spin on your heels that Fontaine personally delivered to you with a side of dick last night and skipped your way out of his life. You have places to be and people to see and somehow this man thinks he’s more important than that? Yea fucking right. He’s actually lucky you didn’t even tell him about the other men because that would have just sent him into cardiac arrest.

Terrence. Terrence? In all the time that you two spent together, you never once called him by his government. You spat it out as if if was poison or a disease you wanted to rid yourself of.

The door slam was the final nail in the coffin for him. What the actual fuck just happened and why were you so happy — overjoyed even — to leave him? What did he do? What didn’t he do? Too many questions and yet no answers could sooth the aching pain he experienced within his entire body. Harsh sobs escaped from his lips as his knees grew weak as he dropped to the floor. He buried his face in his right hand in attempt to quiet himself but of course that just made him want to cry out more. His broad shoulders shook as his breathing pattern became unsteady and short. It had been a while since Terry experienced a panic attack or maybe he was just so overwhelmed that his body and emotions couldn't continue to sustain itself. He can’t even make himself angry or upset. All he wants is you. For you to be by his side for the rest of his life, grow and share a beautiful family. That’s what the two of you agreed on when you joined this union. Terry tried to wipe the tears from his eyes but they multiplied by the millisecond.

No. No. No. Not today. Why today of all days? That didn't just happen. You two had such a beautiful lunch earlier in the day and he had brought you back to his in hopes of you sharing the same sentiment in spending the rest of your lives together. He planned on proposing. The ring sat tucked in his left pocket. So close to being yours but not so much anymore. The most expensive diamond ring he could find with your shared initials incrusted on the side. Upon remembering this, his heart was beating rapidly as his mind began badger and belittle him. He had just lost Mike and now you? He doesn’t believe that he will be able to recover from this type of heartbreak. Is he supposed to just get over you and find someone else? You are the only one in the world who knows him like the back of your hand, aiding in him becoming the man he is today. Now you have unknowingly created a monster out of the ashes of a man who would once obey your every command.

[sp4ceboo]

CHAPTER 5 ~ VISIONS

beneath a crimson sky masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

pairing: stray kids ot8 x afab!reader

genre: apocalypse au, dystopian, dark, adventure, action, thriller, fighting, eventual smut, romance

a/n: for someone who's terrified of any sort of horror etc i sure get the urge to write it

chapter warnings: gore, lots of vivdly described disturbing stuff, illness, starvation, hallucinations

chapter word count: 2.5k

Hissing in your ears, the shadows bear you up in their arms, whisking you so high that you thrash in their shackles, screaming for them to let you down.

The whites of their eyes show as they laugh at you.

You sob, trying to grab at the inky chains they’ve fixed around your wrists and ankles, but they turn insubstantial the moment your fingers close around them, dissolving away in curls of cold smoke to reform away from your touch. Grinning faces surround you, multitudes of strange faces you cannot explain: an army assembled to mock you.

In a flash, they are gone. Bony fingers crawl over your face. Flailing, you try to bite down, but another hand clamps over your mouth as the fingers creep upwards, digging into your eye sockets and scooping. Cold envelops you, and you spasm, back arching as sight returns to you.

There’s bloody tears dripping down your face.

You weep.

Below you, a vast crowd stretches, wreathed in flames and lined up in endless rows, so far that you cannot see their ends. Dressed in rags that they treat as finery are a man and a woman, standing at the head of the formation, their faces slack and empty. Their bodies are not theirs to control.

The woman’s blonde hair hangs limp and matted around her face. There’s a glint of something metal at her waist. It’s the hilt of a knife, snug between her ribs, and though blood oozes down her clothes and soaks into her rags, she acts as if it isn’t there. Beside her, the man sways, bronzed skin pallid and coated in a sheen of sweat; he looks not entirely healthy, as if he’d just recovered from an illness. 

A figure rides up. Even from so far above, you feel the blaze of his hate. His horse is a steed forged from an inferno, red and fiery, and you catch a glimpse of sharpened iron teeth as its lip curls, tossing its flame weaved mane and pawing at the ground, the air around it undulating with heat. You begin to tremble.

The rider’s face is terrible and beguiling. His flesh drips from his bones, sizzling where it touches the horse's flanks. You are struck through with terror as his eyes find you from where you are suspended in the wine tinted sky; they are deep and endless and full of an ocean of loathing. For a moment, you are drowning in them, and fire tugs at your limbs, ripping your skin off them and gnawing through you until it finds your heart.

A wretched sound leaves you as the rider stretches out his hand and plucks it from your chest. The worst thing is that beneath the fear and the acrid scent of your burning body, there is an unexplainable elation, planted there against your will. It swells in your chest, and you begin to laugh, laugh and laugh and laugh, as the rider brings your heart to his bloody mouth and sinks his teeth in.

Pain explodes through you, and suddenly you are back in the sky. You clutch at the shadows now, pleading for them to keep you away from the rider, pleading for them to make it stop.

Again, they laugh, a chorus of shrieks and cackles, shrill, the sound boring into your head.

Though your limbs are weak with fear, you still find it within you to struggle against them. Wordless, frightened noises leave you, for below, the rider is cradling the face of the woman, close as a lover, and she is transfixed by him. You scream, begging her to pull away, to resist, but a dumb smile crawls over her face and she drops to her knees before the rider. As she falls, he grips the blade in her side and pulls it out. She does not even twitch.

You can only watch in horror as he moves onto the man. He too kneels without a fight.

Pulling the broadsword from where it is slung over his back, the second horseman draws it and rests the flat of it on the woman’s shoulder. For a panic stricken moment, you think he will behead her right there and eviscerate her beside the man, but he doesn’t.

He knights her, then the man next.

The rider gestures at them, and together, they stand, their movements jerky as if pulled on by puppet strings. You cry out when you see their eyes - deep and murky, insidious darkness leaking from their irises into their blood woven sclera.

All semblance of humanity has been erased from them.

They are nothing more than vessels.

Cool hands cup your face.

Moaning, you lean towards them, willing them to stay there and beat back the scorching desert beneath your skin. You can hear voices, but they’re far away. Your breath comes out short and laboured.

It sounds like you’re dying.

The same cool hands ease your jaw open, and water floods your parched tongue. At first, you cough, but you choke it down, so thirsty that you barely pause to breathe. Blearily, you open your eyes, but they don’t make out anything but light and dark blurs.

“She’s drinking, thank god,” the cool hands say.

You frown. It’s Minho’s voice, flat enough that you can’t read the emotions swirling beneath it, but his words sound relieved. You can’t think why Minho would be relieved that you’re alive. The room is slowly swimming into focus, and you spot two smears of black, one a little taller than the other.

A rough palm touches your cheek. “She’s still burning up, though.”

That’s Seungmin. Turning your head, you try to claw your way to lucidity, but it evades you. The cool hands sweep a damp cloth over your forehead as you begin to register his words.

“Burning,” you rasp. “He’ll make them burn everything down.”

Minho pauses, opening his mouth. The shadows sink their teeth into you before you can hear what he says.

This time, they leave you under a reddened night sky devoid of stars. No shackles bind you, but you can sense them slinking in the corners of your vision and where you cannot see, waiting to pounce. Turning in a circle, you scan the darkness, searching for the next horror that awaits you.

The sound of horse hooves rings out. You whirl around, trying to find their source, trying to ignore the tittering of the shadows as they mock you with their derisive faces.

You blink, and then the third horseman is there before you.

She sits astride a horse so black that it had blended into the circle of shadows as it approached. It is glossy and healthy looking, yet it froths at the mouth, snapping its teeth at you. The rider places a soft hand on its flank, and it calms. She smiles at you, saccharine, and it incites so much comfort inside you that you know it’s a lie.

Her extrasolar face is cold and so beautiful it cuts you, her lacy hair like cobwebs where it hangs around her face. It drapes, dripping, over her shoulders - a veil.

There’s blood on your tongue.

You take a step back, and the gentle look on her face turns ugly. Holding up her hand, a pair of scales appears between her fingers, and she places a delicate feather, white as a lamb, in the first dish.

Though there’s nothing in the second dish, the moment she releases the feather, it hurtles downwards - the scales shriek shrilly as they move, and you watch in horror as the feather begins to bleed until it is soaked red. The rider turns to you, and now there is nothing comforting about her sharpened smile. Heart pounding, you back away, but the shadows push you back towards her, and what you believe must certainly be your doom.

She raises her hand and points at you.

Immediately, you collapse, your stomach cramping. You are filled with a sudden craving, a hunger so vast you cannot think; you merely scrabble at the floor, tremors wracking your body as you cry out, needing to fill the yawning cavern inside you. It erodes you from the inside out, so acute it burns like vile acid.

Wailing, you claw your way forward until your vision is filled with the hooves of her horse. You are weak with hunger, so weak that it is a battle to raise your head and look up at her, your mouth hanging open to plead for her to release you from the pain. No sound comes out.

Caressing the horse’s mane, she leans forward and whispers into its velvety ear. You quake as you look up at her, wondering what she said, wondering if she will take mercy on you and knowing she will not.

Whinnying, the horse rears, and you scream as its hooves slam down and punch right through your ribcage.

The combined agony radiating from your crushed torso and the gaping hunger in your stomach paralyses you, locking your muscles so tight it hurts. Your body begins to spasm, and your teeth close around your tongue. Panic spears through you as you begin to choke on your own blood.

Your skin tears, your bones cracking and popping and rearranging within you. You’re aware of protrusions pushing their way out of your back and down your arms, burrowing through your muscles and forcing them to reform around them. When you look up, the rider has dismounted her horse.

Tenderly, she touches your lips.

As if it has its own will, your body bends like a tree in a gale, and she kisses your forehead, her scarlet mouth terrible and searing against your skin, yet upon its touch, the pain in your ribs recedes, reforming you into something new.

The hunger roiling and snapping like a beast within only sharpens its claws.

“Go,” she murmurs. “Slaughter awaits.”

The world shakes with how hard you’re shivering, yet you can’t help but kick off your blankets. Someone secures them more tightly around them and you lash out, but your arms are weak and all it does is flop your hand against their leg. A voice floats down from somewhere in the sky.

“You need to eat.”

“Chan?” You groan, words slurred as strong hands ease you upright. “Changbin?”

“We’re here,” one of them says, although you’re not sure which one.

A spoon is pressed against your lips, and you hold back a cough long enough to swallow - they’ve mashed food so it’s liquid, easier for you to get down and keep down. Your head spins, the faces before you blurring. You realise Jisung is also with them, crouched beside Changbin, his face pale as he watches you.

“What did you mean before, about slaughter?”

Another face swims into view. Jeongin. You stare at him, bewildered both by his question and why he is bobbing up and down in front of you like a rubber duck caught in the crashing waves of the sea.

“I - I don’t remember,” you mumble.

Chan puts his hand on Jeongin���s shoulder. “It’s fine. She’ll tell us when she’s better.”

He says it like it’s final, like he’s sure that you will get through it, like there’s no other option. You want to believe him.

The shadows craft you a leash out of the ephemeral material that clothes them. Laughing, always laughing, they secure it around your neck, so tight that only strained gasps of air make it out of you, and drag you along with them, letting your body get broken and battered by the rocks in their path. Mud chokes your lungs, settling heavy in your chest when you inhale it, and fragments of rubbish and twigs tangle into your hair.

They’re bringing you to someone.

You begin to kick and struggle then, tearing at the leash, but it sinks deeper into your flesh, and your own torn nails leave gashes in your skin. As normal, your screams fall on deaf ears, and you writhe, knowing that who they’re taking you to will be far worse than the previous you’ve seen.

The collar of shadow rings tighter around your neck. Tighter and tighter and tighter until an abyss gapes open below you, and you fall right through, and this time even the shadows forsake you, letting you descend into the blackness as they recede from your vision. Somehow, it brings you no comfort, for they too fear he who has summoned you.

Your bones crunch and snap as you land; it is certain that the fall has ended you, and now your soul is trapped in the cage of your broken ribs, fluttering and trying to shake itself free. You cannot move. You cannot flee.

A pale horse walks towards you, yet its hooves make no noise. Fearful, you raise your eyes to see its rider.

He too is pale, and wreathed in a colourless cloak that casts a shadow over his face, yet you can see his skeletal features, motionless and terribly still within his cowl. The arc of the scythe in his fingers winks at you, even in the dark, and he uses the end of it to hook you and drag you from your body. Your bones clatter as your essence leaves them.

Death holds you in the palm of his hand, and you are captivated by the darkness within his hood. You know that this is the moment that your life rests upon.

“I have come to reap,” he says, with a voice like the slam of nails into a coffin lid. “Yet your time is not up yet.”

Again, you are falling.

There’s someone talking to you. You can see his face, see his lips moving, but you don’t understand a word he’s saying.

You don’t remember his name, nor the name of the one beside him, but you know who they are: there’s the blonde angel, his eyes earnest and worried as they search your slack face, and the dark haired prince, his handsome face etched in fear as he wipes your brow with a damp cloth.

The angel clasps your hands in his small ones, and this time, his words are audible, drifting down to you as if he talks to you from the top of a canyon while you’re tied to the bottom of the gorge, straining to hear his words. You fight to pick them out from the whisperings of the shadows, the freckles on his face swirling like constellations.

“Fight it,” he says, squeezing your fingers. “Fight just a little longer.”

You want to. You want to fight it, but the shadows creep closer, tugging at your limbs, and suddenly you’re just their puppet, them the cruel puppeteers.

You watch in horror as your own hands rear up like snakes and claw at the angel’s face.

taglist: @estella-novella@0bticeo@lixies-favorite-cookie@smashleywow@realrintaro @extremechaoswarning @4l17h4 @hyunjinsjeans @insufferablyunbearable @lovemepie67 @needsumcomfypillowstosleep @loumin908 (let me know if you want to be added)

[ownlittleuniverse]

scenario #3 - the hero begs the villain for help

warning: intense distress, trauma, depictions of severe anxiety and despair, could be uncomfortable for some readers.

“Please…make it go away,” the hero sobbed, curled up into a pitiful heap at the villain’s feet, “Make it all go away.”

The cracks in their voice tore right through the villain’s black heartstrings.

The villain had never seen them so broken, so raw. It was unsettling, even for someone as accustomed to chaos as they were.

“Hero—

“I just want it to stop!” the hero screamed, their voice breaking as tears continued to stream down their cheeks. Their body convulsed with each sob, the weight of their suffering crushing them.

A pang of guilt gnawed at the villain’s conscience. They knew they could help, ease and rid of the horrors that tormented their dear hero. But they also knew the consequences.

Once done, there would be no turning back.

“I can’t— I can’t do it… I can’t live like this anymore…” The hero’s words were barely a mumbled whisper, choked out between their sobs as their tears continued to stream down like pouring rain.

The villain couldn’t bear it anymore.

With a heavy heart, the villain slowly crouched down to the hero’s shaking body. They gently lifted their chin out of their knees with a soft, delicate touch.

The hero gulped, their bloodshot gaze begging the villain as they stared into their eyes.

The villain sighed and said the one thing they would regret for the rest of their life.

“I’ll help you.”

The hero’s eyes immediately filled with relief.

The villain’s embodied the opposite.

The hero gasped out a shaking breath, a small smile taking on their face.

“Thank—“

”Don’t.”

The hero flinched back at the villain’s pained tone in confusion.

The villain could only let out a haunting chuckle.

“Please just…don’t.”

The hero slowly nodded as the villain stared into that familiar gaze they loved so dearly.

They loved them with their entire black heart.

They hoped in the future that they would never forgive themselves for this.

The villain slowly brought their hands to the side of the hero’s head and dug their fingers into their temples.

They watched as the hero began to thrash, terror filling their eyes as the hero’s nails dug deep into the villain’s wrists, trying to pry them off.

The villain’s heart broke more and more with each torturous cry that escaped the hero’s lips.

But they didn’t dare let go of them.

The hero’s breathing grew erratic, their body panicked as they heaved and stared back into the villain’s eyes, pleading for them to stop.

The villain wished they did.

Pain ripped a fresh hole in the villain's chest as they resisted against the hero’s struggles.

The villain's heart sank to their feet as they watched the thoughts behind their eyes begin to die out.

The hero’s grip on the villain’s wrists softened, their gaze bare, their breathing slowly going back to an even pace.

The villain let go.

They watched as the hero slowly looked up, their expression blank, devoid of anything at all.

The hero threw themselves into the villain.

The villain wrapped their arms tightly around the hero’s body as their hero nestled into their neck.

They had taken everything from their hero.

Their past. Their trauma. Their terror and their pain.

Their name. Their identity. The very essence that made them themselves.

The only thing they knew now was the villain.

The villain clutched their hero tighter, a dull permanent ache settling in their chest.

“What’s wrong?”

The villain hadn’t noticed the hero pulling back to brush a stray tear that escaped the villain’s eye.

They already wanted to undo everything.

“Nothing, Darling.”

They already wanted their hero back.

The hero sank into them again as the villain sank deeper and deeper into the dark sea of despair.

But they knew that was a wish that would never be granted.

[miasma-museum]

Not even a day later, Miasma is woken up to a loud commotion coming from down the hall. It was muffled, but he could still make out a few words.

“I’M —- NOT——- I HATE—— LET ME GO!” He definitely recognized that voice. Does that ghoul ever shut the fuck up?!

And then they appeared. Two quintessence ghouls that Miasma didn’t recognize, Copia.

“DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE.” —and Chain. Thrashing around and attempting to bite the ghouls holding him despite the muzzle he was wearing, Chain was screaming in straight up tears restraining from what he’s being forced to to. One of the ghouls opened the big door and they both shoved Chain inside. Chain scrambled to get up and escape but he was quickly met with the bars on the door when he tried to run out. He gripped the bars and swiped at the ghouls and Copia, continuing to scream and shout at them. He banged his head against the bars and tried gnawing at them through the muzzle.

“I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU ONCE YOU LET ME OUT OF THIS SHITHOLE! MARK MY WORDS, YOU BASTARD! I’M GOING TO RIP OUT ALL OF YOUR FUCKING THROATS AND FEED THEM TO THE FUCKING HELLHOUNDS.” Seriously, does this ghoul ever shut up?!

- @chaintheghoul

Miasma was just lying in his makeshift bed when the commotion began, his eyes widening when he spotted the thrashing Chain ghoul. Ah, fuck. He can't sleep here anymore.

He silently backed himself up against the wall, trying to wiggle his way out, unaware of Copia's intentions. He was making a run for it when he was violently grabbed by one of the ghouls by his ponytail, yanking on it and practically throwing him back into the cell. Miasma yelped as he hit the ground with a thud, scrambling to get his feet out of the way before the cell slammed shut. He rubbed his head, scowling at the group and moving the furthest corner away from Chain.

"I- I will not have another episode like earlier," Frater stuttered, his hands shaking as he locked the door, "I will not have my ghouls hurting each other. You will stay in here until you learn to get along."

"What!?" Miasma roared. "That's not fair! Hey!"

Miasma threw himself at the cell bars, watching the group walk away.

"Stop! He's gonna- no-!"

Miasma looked over at Chain, panicking. He felt like a rabbit in a cage with a hound. He looked questionably at the muzzle, wondering if his abilities had been hindered as as well.

[notthefirstfallenangel]

Memories III

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, mention of injury, amnesia, blood, breakdown

Summary: You had your memory wiped after a messed-up mission. All that you remember is your childhood and fragmented glimpses of your teenage and adult years. Poor Simon, your would-be hubby, is left to pick up the pieces when you can't even recall his existence.

Words: 2.1k

A/N: You know what? I'm just not feeling this chapter. Something about it just doesn't sit right with me.  : (

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4

The heart rate monitor’s colours were as bright and flashy as a carnival, flashing crimson and cyan across the sterile walls of the hospital room. Its beeping was a ticking clock that raced with each heartbeat. It echoed in your chest, making it hard to breathe. You could hear it far, far below, but it was there. Something waited behind all thoughts, ideas and emotions; something scratched to emerge from the surface.

You could feel its claws digging as it burrows closer. You could sense its presence and smell its hunger.

You could hear it far, far below, but it was there. The faint scratching came from a deep well inside you. Sometimes, it was soft; sometimes violent in its attempt to burst through the barriers that held it back, driven by an urgency and desire for freedom that you didn’t understand. You heard it while you slept or when attempting to wake up, as if waking up were a nightmare itself. It reminded you of something—a memory—but what? It lingered in the darkness behind your eyes, just beyond your ability to reach out and grab hold of it.

The sound drew closer until it sounded as if it was right next to your ear. Like a headache, the noise pressed against your forehead, making you clench your teeth in frustration.

It only made your mood worse. Guilt gnawed at your heart, a creature with big teeth and nasty breath that wouldn’t stop. Your eyes felt heavy and wet with unshed tears.

You had been so docile and cooperative a week ago, never talking back to the nurses or refusing them anything they asked for. Quietly, you let them take your vitals and listened patiently as they droned on about things that were none of your concern. But that was before the new nurse; she had kind eyes and good intentions. She said, “You’re improving every day; I’m sure you’ll be able to go home soon”. That’s when you snapped. You couldn’t help but feel angry and resentful towards her words. You didn’t want to go home soon; you didn’t want to go home at all. What kind of home could you go back to? A home where you couldn’t even remember the people you loved?

The thought tightened your chest, and you shifted slightly in the hospital bed. Suddenly, the scratching noise turned into a voice. It was faint at first, but it grew louder, more insistent. It sounded like a man’s voice, deep and full of desperation.

You couldn’t make out what he was saying but could feel the emotion behind the words. Fear, anger, and pain all swirled together in a maelstrom of emotions that left you dizzy and disorientated. You wanted to scream for the voice to stop, but it only grew louder and more persistent until it was all you could hear. You could feel rage and fear course through your veins like a tornado. You were thrashing in wild abandon, breaking free of the white linen sheets that bound you to the hospital bed. Your voice echoed throughout the room as you screamed wildly, and their grip felt like iron shackles as they tried to take your vitals against your will.

Your body shook with cold, the thin hospital gown a flimsy barrier against the chill that seemed to seep through your bones. Metal strained against the skin of your left arm, a biting reminder of the needle that had been inserted earlier that day. You could feel a sharp prick as you ripped it out with fury, causing fresh blood to spill down your arm like a crimson river.

As the nurse and her assistants struggled to subdue you, you felt a strange sense of detachment from yourself. It was as if you were watching from a distance, observing the chaos and destruction with cold, dispassionate eyes. You fought on, thrashing and flailing like a wild animal, determined to break free from the restraints that bound you to the bed. The nurse’s soothing words were like poison, fueling the fire of your anger and frustration.

For a moment, you caught a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror and were startled by what you saw. Your hair was a tangled mess, your eyes wild and bloodshot, and your face contorted with rage and fear. You were a stranger to yourself, a lost and broken soul trapped in a body that refused to obey.

The nurses struggled to hold you down, their voices rising in panic as you thrashed and kicked.

Hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway, growing louder and more frantic with each step. Suddenly, without warning, the door burst open and in rushed Simon. His breathing was jagged and ragged, and his eyes flickered around the room in terror as he took in the chaotic scene before him.

You could see the pain etched on his face, and you knew he was struggling with the same demons you were. The stress and exhaustion of the past few days showed in the heavy bags under his eyes.

The nurses were shouting orders to each other, trying to calm you down and administer medication to sedate you.

He watched as the nurses struggled to restrain you, their faces twisted in frustration. He knew that he had to find a way to help you, to break through the wall that you had built around yourself. Simon glared at them with a fierce determination, his voice low and menacing as he spoke. “Let her go. Now.”

The nurses faltered, looking at each other uncertainly. They knew that Simon was not a man to be trifled with, that he was fiercely protective of you. They noticed the strange glint in his eyes every time they entered your hospital room. They could see he was devoted, unwilling to leave your side even after visiting hours had ended. The air shimmered with unspoken tension whenever he was present, and everyone around him felt like they were walking on eggshells. They knew that he was a force to be reckoned with, and they were hesitant to cross him. His gaze seemed to pierce through walls, his presence radiating an eerie energy that no one could quite place. The hospital staff whispered about him behind closed doors, wary of what might happen if they didn’t tread lightly around him.

The head nurse spoke in a quiet voice but with a strength that conveyed confidence and benevolent control. Her eyes were steady and kind; she held tension like others wore perfume. “We’re just trying to calm her down. She’s been getting agitated and refusing treatment.”

“I said let her go!” A grunt of fury punctuated Simon’s words, his eyes blazing with anger.”  She’s been through hell and back. Don’t you think she deserves more than just sedation?”

She hesitated, staring at Simon. She knew he was right, but there were protocols to follow, and she had a job to do.

“We’re doing all we can,” she said, voice softening.

Simon could see the exhaustion etched into every line on her face, and he felt a pang of guilt. He knew she was doing everything in her power to help you.

He took a deep breath, his eyes softening as he regarded you, still struggling and fighting against the constraints of the hospital bed.

“Let me try,” he said, his voice gentler now. “Just give us a moment.”

The head nurse hesitated for a moment, looking between Simon and you, before nodding her head and motioning for the others to back off.

He approached the bed slowly, his movements measured and cautious. He didn’t want to startle you, didn’t want to trigger another outburst. He wanted to help and be there for you in whatever way you needed. He knew that he couldn’t force you to remember, couldn’t push you beyond your limits, but he was determined to be a constant presence, a guiding light in the darkness of your memories.

He reached out tentatively, his fingers brushing against your cheek. You flinched at the touch, your eyes narrowing in anger and confusion.

“Shh,” he whispered, his voice low and soothing. “It’s okay, love. I’m here. You’re safe.”

He leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered soothing words in a low, calming voice.

For a moment, you were frozen, unsure of what to do or say. But then you felt a spark of familiarity. You knew him, even if you couldn’t remember how or why. He was an anchor in the storm, a lifeline in the darkness.

He spoke in a soft, soothing tone, his words a balm for your shattered nerves. The door closed gently as they were alone in the room; he removed his balaclava, revealing a face that was at once familiar and yet unknown. You couldn’t remember who he was, but something about him made you feel safe and protected. You had seen him without his mask the first day you woke up from the coma. It was a sunny day, and he stood by your bed with it in his hands. He looked down at you with his dark eyes, waiting for you to recognise him, but you didn’t —a devastating realisation that filled him with sorrow. His hand moved from your cheek to your hair, stroking it gently as he whispered words of encouragement.

“You’re doing great, love” he murmured. “Just breathe, and try n’ relax. I’m here. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

His eyes were gentle, his expression filled with concern and love.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice hoarse from screaming. “I’m trying, but I still can’t remember you.”

He smiled. A small, sad smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “You will. It’s gonna be okay. I know it’ll take its time, but I’m not going anywhere. I promise”

Your forearm was still bleeding from where you had ripped out the IV, but Simon paid it no mind. He focused solely on calming you down, his presence a soothing balm to your shattered psyche.

Tears streamed down your face as you clung to him, your body shaking with sobs. You forgot about the hospital room, the beeping heart monitor, and the cold lights. You were just two souls, lost and broken, finding solace in each other’s arms.

As the minutes passed, Simon’s soothing voice continued to wash over you, easing the tension and fear that had been plaguing you for weeks. You felt a strange sense of clarity as if the fog that had been clouding your mind was finally starting to clear. You still couldn’t remember, but you knew you were not alone.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “It’s no sin to be scared. To be vulnerable. I’m here for you. No matter what, love.”

Simon’s fingers were warm and comforting as they smoothed your hair back.

His words struck a chord within you, resonating deep within your damaged soul. You knew you had been putting up a front, trying to be strong and brave even as your mind and body rebelled against you. You felt a sense of guilt, knowing that you had been pushing away the one person who had been trying to help you all along.

You clung to him, feeling his warmth and strength as he held you close. You inhaled his scent deeply, trying to commit it to memory, trying to make sense of the inexplicable surge of emotions coursing through your body. It was as if you had known him your whole life as if he was a part of you that had been missing for so long. And yet, you couldn’t remember his name or how you had met him.

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

“ No need for thanks, love. But promise one thing. Just one thing?”

You looked up at him, curious.

“Promise me that you won’t give up,” he said, his eyes serious. “Don’t you dare give up, love. No matter how hard it gets, don’t you dare ever fackin’ quit. Promise me you will keep fighting, no matter what.”

You nodded, feeling a sense of determination you hadn’t felt in weeks. “I promise.”

The heart monitor’s beeping and the hospital equipment’s soft hum was the only sound in the room. Simon’s fingers continued to work their magic, slowly and patiently, coaxing you to relax and breathe. He seemed to know exactly what to say, precisely what to do, and you were grateful for his presence.

After a while, your body slowly calmed down, the fear and anxiety ebbing away like the tide.

Your hand felt small and fragile as it slipped into his. His grip was warm and soothing, as if he were trying to protect and keep you safe.

His breath tickled against your ear as he spoke - it was the warmest thing you had felt in days. He cupped his hand gently against the back of your head and planted a gentle yet firm kiss on your temple.

“Don’t let it go,” he whispered, “even if you don’t know who I am.”

Tags: @8sy-errah8 @yyiikes @spencerreidisbae123 @oranoyaora @sae1kie @originaldeerhottub @cr4shposts @caramlizedtomatoes

[flowers-of-io]

XXXV

Read on Ao3

Xivu's soul is peeled apart violently, in a single, rapid strike. Her other half, the Ascendant one, shrinks and rolls up like paper in flames, and its scream is terrible, ear-splitting and bloodcurdling and enough to make her see stars. That's some damn great power, she thinks. Rage and pain blind her like blood streaming over her eyes. She lands hard, face down, on the surface of Crota's warmoon, and now the blood is in her mouth as well, rushing out through the teeth and chitin-cracks and between broken bones.

She needs a moment to collect herself. Every part of her is howling—her flesh, her worm, her soul ripped in twain, the cacophony rolling over her like a landfall as she lies struggling for breath. Oh, she will kill her for this. She isn't even sure which sister she is thinking of; and that's of little matter, really, she'll kill both of them, for the gall and audacity and sheer foolishness. She already feels the influx of tribute: the power drawn from that act of war upon her, the entire weight of her throne world being ripped away from her, returning twofold and rushing back down her veins like the sweetest nectar. The sheer force of it is enough to keep her pressed to the ground, straining and trembling with newfound strength. She laughs shakily, and spits out five teeth.

Shutting her out of her throne world, really now. She had an unfinished dice game with Haroktha. The flow of tribute shuts her parasite up, but there is still a cacophony of voices yelling in her head; worms her gods and the Deep Itself and her confused adjutants all screaming like thrall set on fire and asking how, HOW, how did she do it and how did you let it happen and how could you not see this coming. The constant noise blinds her almost as much as the pain does. It is harder to tune them out now that she is locked out from her own mind palace.

They do not ask the useless question of Why—it is useless when Savathûn is involved, they've learned, with her lies and tricks and imbaru-schemes serving no other purpose than sustenance and her own amusement. She likes to pretend to have reasons for her foolishness, but it is results moreso than motives that speak volumes about her actions, and her erstwhile gods consider managing the former to be far more efficient than wondering about the latter. The only thing that concerns them now is Xivu's failure to contain her.

But Xivu Arath has never been able to keep from asking the useless question.

So why would her sister do something so stupid?

It is always like that with Savathûn. A victory that is a defeat that is a half-truce that is a means to an end, the paths branching out like chemical blooms and blending into each other, until it is impossible to map them, and the strategist in Xivu screams in fury. Eris Morn is different—clever, yes, but a lot like Oryx, knowing the value of power and impatient to cut down to the core of things. She was single-minded in her goal, sword-sharp: to defeat, or to die trying. No; this plan, this defeat-that-is-a-victory is Savathûn's language, a coded message, and admission of something too delicate or too dangerous to speak aloud.

Her worm gnaws at her impatiently. It too is sword-sharp in its pursuits, demanding either victory or defeat and never an ambivalence, and it cannot stand those two mutually exclusive concepts twining. You lost, it hisses, you gained power, but you lost, you lost, and you must never lose, you must never fail to be the strongest, even if the price is power. It thrashes and shouts furiously. Xivu Arath ignores it, and scrambles to sit up.

Her head flares up with white hot pain, a cascade and then a string of pulses in her temples. Her broken ribs and barked skin pulsate along. Blood crusts at the edges of wounds, coalescing in the cold thin air, and every movement pulls at the scabs and tears them open anew.

And through the ache and the cries of her worm, Xivu Arath smiles.

She smiles, because Savathûn her Sister loves her, and this love is war.

[bulbasaursim]

Imagine a scene in All of us are Dead where as all the students were running away, on their way out of the school and to the mountain on episode 9, that instead of Cheong-San seeing his mother and eventually running away and leaving her zombified self behind, he stays.

An alternate universe where when Cheong-San finds his mother, he runs to her. Where he pushes away and beats away all his classmates to keep from harming her. A universe where he cups her face in his hands and stares at the same features of her face that he’s become accustomed to all his life. He analyzes the way that her eyes are bloodshot and her expression is one that he’s never even fathomed her muscles contorting to, but he grounds himself in the way her eyelashes still flutter when she blinks and how the slope of her nose is still the same, lips identical to the one that would kiss his forehead goodnight and jaw that would move with each syllable as she spoke to tell him how loved he was. He stares and he cries, tears dropping from his eyes just as his heart as he tries to comprehend that she will never be the same again. Nothing will ever be the same as it once was. His classmates are calling at him, yelling to continue their tread to the mountain before more zombies than they can handle get closer. They are already fending off enough zombies, any more could mean an end to any hope of escape. Cheong-San only runs their pleas through deaf ears, feet staying planted by his mother as she claws at his body to get closer to get a taste of his blood. She looks like an animal to his classmates watching, but to him, in the center of destruction, she has never looked so beautiful under the light of familiarity. Dae-su has resorted to trying to yank her off and away from him, but Cheong-San only turns her away from the frantic man and delivers him a cruel kick to his stomach, leaving him groaning on the rough asphalt. He turns back to her when he feels her breath on his neck and wraps his arms around her in a tight embrace, stepping forward until her back hits a car so that she is protected from anyone else who tries to take her away, his body shielding her front. She thrashes against him and hisses wildly. He can still hear the sound of bats against zombie flesh and multiple yells of his name around him as he adjusts his arms to hug under hers instead of over to free them. His sobs have tuned harsh and breath ragged as he holds her impossibly closer to him, as if someone would come and take her away, as if he was clinging onto the the last pieces of her, trying to hold and place them back together. He tucks his head into the crevice where her neck and shoulder meet, a warm feeling of nostalgia passing over him in a buzz. His body still remembers this exact action from when he was little, hiding into his mothers neck and sobbing until his tears ran out. Now he finds himself feeling like that same child again, gasping and bawling and so tremendously overwhelmed. When he feels the first gnaw of teeth sinking into his flesh he doesn’t even flinch. His hands ball into fists, gripping the back of her shirt as sob after sob wracks through him.

He rips off the fabric of his uniform and ties a knot between his mother’s wrist and his own as he feels the first symptoms of his turning. Tight and secure, he makes sure of it with all his remaining resolve.

Their bones crack restlessly as they walk through the zombie infested city, classmates long gone towards liberation and grieving his loss. Zombies transform into brainless creatures when the last of their humanity slips away, friends and lovers alike passing by carelessly like they were nothing more than moving objects to each other, but Cheong-San and his mother stay entwined, wrists bound together by their love, and maybe there is hope that exists within the desperate threads of the fabric.

[wholoveseggs]

Moonlight - Chapter Eight

A woman’s life is turned completely upside-down when she encounters some demons in the woods.

I will be putting specific warnings for each chapter as they come out, there is smut and violence in some but I'll tag those chapters accordingly.

If you rather read this on Ao3- Link is here

600 Words - Warnings: graphic violence.

{Masterlist} - {Chapter list} Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine

Spark

It was only when Elijah returned to the hall that he realized he couldn't leave her behind. A gnawing sense of responsibility and an overwhelming feeling of attachment tugged at him, like an invisible chain pulling him towards her. He made his way towards her home, his heart heavy with anticipation and nervousness. He needed to tell her how much he cared for her, that he would show her all the beautiful things in this world beyond the clutches of Tomas. The thought of leaving her in this dark, twisted place became unbearable, and he knew he couldn't abandon her to that fate.

He hoped to make it there before Tomas arrived home. Standing along the treeline in front of their home, he listened for any sounds of him. He picked up the scent of blood and heard Emma's cries, the sound of her heart pounding in his ears. Without a moment's hesitation, he raced to the door, his powerful hands pushing it open.

She was on the floor, the note he had written her days ago lying next to her. Tomas loomed over her, his hands clenched into fists as he mercilessly kicked her stomach over and over. Then, he seized her by the hair and pulled her down the hallway, away from the door.

"Whore!" Tomas shouted, his voice echoing through the hallway, as Emma endured another brutal blow. She cried out in pain, thrashing around as he viciously pulled at her hair.

Elijah had both of his hands pressed against the door frame, the wood cracking underneath the pressure. "Enough!" He yelled.

Tomas looked up, giving him an evil smile. "You must be the one who corrupted her," he spat, slamming Emma's head into the floor.

Elijah wanted to tear the house apart splinter by splinter. Primal rage was building inside him, and he snarled at Tomas. He could feel the veins around his eyes begin to swell as his eyes turned black.

"Look at that," Tomas said, grabbing Emma's face and forcing her to look up at Elijah. "A demon's true face."

Emma met his gaze, her eyes filled with fear and agony. Blood trickled from her nose, tears leaving streaks on her face. She appeared dazed, having endured repeated blows to her head. Elijah could hear her heart slowing; consumed by desperation, he started ripping the wood from the door frame.

Tomas laughed, dropping Emma's head to the floor. He stepped over her and walked to the threshold, looking Elijah up and down. "It seems that this demon is fond of you," he chuckled darkly. Elijah punched the door frame, and splinters scattered, making Tomas recoil.

Emma rolled on her side, coughing up blood. She tried to pull herself up but she was too weak. She let out a low groan and collapsed back onto the floor. Tomas turned and looked at her, then back at Elijah. "Say your goodbyes."

Elijah's desperate rage snapped into something deeper. He stopped trying to break the door frame as his demeanor changed to pure malice. He stood perfectly still, looking at Tomas with a cold expression. "The moment you step out of this house, I will strip the flesh from your bones."

Tomas paid no heed to Elijah's words. He knelt down, seizing Emma by the hair and yanked her to her feet. Ramming her into the wall, he clutched her throat, squeezing the life out of her. Desperate gasps escaped her lips, her hands clawing at her throat in a futile attempt to free herself.

"You've been nothing but a burden to me, producing no children and no magic. And now, you consort with demons," he sneered, spitting in Emma's face before releasing his grip, letting her collapse to the floor.

She lay there, wheezing and struggling to breathe. Summoning her last ounce of strength, she looked to Elijah and managed to whisper, "Come in."

{Masterlist} - {Chapter list} Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine

[babybat98]

Ooh how about #6 too? That seems like exactly the right level of too-cheesy-for-anyone-but-them. (Also, huzzah for the wip going well!)

Ok see, you say that but I am an angst writer at heart so this did not turn out to be some cheesy lovey-dovey kiss. Heheh oups sorry? (I am not sorry :3)

Anyways, here's my take on #6 … on a falling tear for Gimli/Legolas

Gimli wakes up to an empty bed and an ache in his soul, and goes to try to find his missing husband. He finds him in the middle of an episode of sea-longing.

TW for disassociation, sea-longing related depression, mention of non-sexual nudity(getting changed out of wet clothes into dry ones, just a few sentences). Hurt/comfort with mostly hurt.

Gimli woke up to an empty bed. Now this wasn't usually worrying on its own, since Legolas required so little sleep compared to him and couldn't be expected to listen to his snoring all night, but this was different. Firstly, it was still the middle of the night. Even if the darkness outside could be blamed on the raging thunderstorm, Gimli had a dwarf's good sense of time. It was most definitely night. 

Secondly, the door to the balcony was open. He could both hear the rain outside and feel the draft from the wind, even bundled up as he was in blankets and furs.

And thirdly, most importantly, he could feel a painful tug in his bones, akin to something calling out through the very foundation of his being. Something gnawing on the soul bond between him and his beloved. Legolas needed him. 

And his husband's side of the bed was empty.

Gimli swept the furs aside and got himself off the bed, still a bit bleary from sleep. Winters in Ithilien were nowhere near as cold as in Erebor or Ered Luin, and yet he found himself increasingly grateful for his thick socks as another biting wind swept through the bedroom. He grabbed one of the wool blankets from the bed and set about trying to find his elf. And step one would be to close that bloody balcony door. He was certain it had been closed when they went to sleep, who would have opened it? He moved away from the bed, to where he had a full view of said balcony. For a moment the darkness was so complete even he had trouble making anything out. The fire had burned down to nothing during their rest so that was no help. Then lightning struck, and he could see the trees thrashing in the storm, the curtains threatening to rip from their hangings. And he could see the silhouette of Legolas, standing outside in the rain.

The blanket slipped out of his hands, though he barely took notice. He rushed outside and was drenched within seconds. It was akin to jumping head first into a freezing river, and Gimli gasped as the drops hit his skin near hard enough to bruise. He could probably have jumped in a bath and been dryer for it! Legolas meanwhile seemed to pay no attention to the violent weather. His thin nightshirt was glued to his body like a second skin, his hair whipping about like angry golden snakes. And yet he simply stood, swaying in the wind like his beloved trees. Then Gimli made it to his side. Those warm brown eyes that he loved so much were dull and lifeless, his lips slightly parted, a thousand yard stare at the horizon that Gimli knew all too well. Their balcony faced to the south west. 

Gimli took Legolas’s hand. The elf didn’t react at all, not even when Gimli began gently leading him back inside and closed the door. He walked them both over to the fireplace, and managed to get Legolas to sit down on the rug in front of it. Then he fetched the heavy blanket off the floor and wrapped it around Legolas’s shivering frame. He looked so small there on the floor, and Gimli had to swallow down his unease at how wrong that felt. His Legolas was anything but small! He swallowed again and pulled the blanket tighter. When he was certain his beloved wouldn’t wander off anew he set about relighting the fire. It didn’t take long to get the first few logs started, and he went to fetch them towels and dry clothes while the flames took proper hold. Back with a substantial pile of assorted cloth that he dumped next to Legolas, he went back to add more wood. It wasn't long until he had a good size fire going. He could feel his beard drying in the heat already.

"... Gimli?"

He almost missed it, so faint was the whisper behind him. He probably would have missed it, if their bond didn't cry out for him hard enough to make up for it. He spun around, and oh. 

Sometimes when Legolas came back from his sea-longing episodes, it was quick. He snapped back to himself as if he had merely been lost in thought, and apart from a bit of melancholy was usually himself again within the hour.

But sometimes, coming back was slow. He had tried to explain it to Gimli once. How he felt like an ant stuck in tree sap, desperately trying to crawl back out from the sticky mess his mind turned into, only for all his struggle to be in vain. How he felt akin to a cup with a hole in the bottom, so no matter how much he rested or what he did his energy would not refill, leaving him drained in not only body but mind and soul as well. How his thoughts seemed to no longer be his own, worse even than the occasional whispers of the Ring had been, and all he could hear was the cries of gulls ringing in his ears until he could feel himself go mad! When he came back slowly, it easily took weeks, sometimes months before he was fully himself again.

Gimli could already tell that this would be a slow one. There was a glint of awareness back in Legolas's eyes, but it was accompanied by a good bit of confusion. He was staring at Gimli, at the fire, at his hands, like he wasn't sure how he had gotten there. In all fairness he probably wasn't. 

"Why am I wet?"

Gimli left the fire and kneeled in front of Legolas. He gently took one of the elfs' cold hands in his and ran his thumb over the knuckles. He kept his voice as soft as his touch. "Because you went outside in the rain."

"I did?"

"Mm."

Gimli picked up one of the towels and set about drying off Legolas's hair, catching the droplets falling from long shivering ears with the cloth. Legolas kept looking at him, brows furrowed.

"Why am I wearing a blanket?"

"Because you are shaking, kidhuzurâl."

Legolas looked down at his hands, seeming surprised. Like he hadn't noticed how bad he was shaking until now.

"Oh."

He fell quiet again after that, simply letting Gimli do as he pleased. He didn’t react to Gimli removing the blanket and striping him out of the soaked nightshirt. He only stared into the fire with that same faraway look when Gimli patted him dry and slipped the new shirt over his head. Gimli gently pushed those still damp golden strands back from Legolas’s face and wrapped him in a new, dry blanket before tending to himself with a lot more efficiency than tenderness. Out of the wet clothes, then lay everything out to dry by the fire. Towel himself off as much as possible, then slip into new pants. He was just shoving his head though the neckhole of a dry shirt when Legolas stirred again. A gasping, shaking breath that rattled the elf's whole body. He finally looked up at Gimli, eyes wide and wet with unshed tears, making them glisten obsidian dark in the fire light.

“I don’t want to leave.”

 Gimli just managed to kneel in front of his husband when the first tears fell like liquid starlight down his cheeks, strangely calm compared to the frantic words tumbling from his lips. 

“I do not want to sail, I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to go.”

Gimli cupped Legolas’s face between his hands. He pressed gentle kisses to those mithril tears, first one cheek, and then the other. Then he guided Legolas’s head down so he could press their foreheads together, running his hands soothingly over those golden locks. “Uzfakuh, my greatest treasure, it will be okay. I am here with you, and will be for many years yet. It will-”

“Middle-earth is my home!”

Gimli jumped, startled by the shout. Legolas was breathing hard now, his teeth bared, eyes alight with rage. And still those tears never ceased.

“This is my home, Mirkwood is my home! Not Valinor, not some promised land of the Gods. My family has no ties there. It is not my home!” 

He grabbed onto Gimli's shirt, clinging to it desperately enough that Gimli could feel threads pop under those deceptively spindly fingers. 

“This is my home, you are my home! I do not want to leave! I don’t-!”

The words were cut off by a choking sob, and Legolas’s entire being crumbled. He collapsed forwards, and Gimli did his best to fold those long limbs into his lap. It really shouldn’t have worked, but it did, somehow it always did for them. He wrapped his arms around Legolas, holding as tight as he could while the elf cried into his neck. He held on as Legolas gasped for breath that wouldn’t come between sobs that rattled his entire body. Legolas still tried to speak, still tried to force out words between his weeping, but his body would not obey him. All he could do was cling to Gimli harder as their limited time mercilessly moved on around them.

Outside the thunder storm still raged, barely drowning out the sound of Legolas’s scream.

[scrubbinn]

Do you know how planes fly? I do. They fly off the dreams of the people who make the planes. Adults tell me it's about aerodynamics and air vectors. These are the words of people who couldn't get their own planes to fly. I'm not a dummy, I know how to dream. Dreams are what lets you do anything. I dreamed of making my plane for so long. I watched so many videos about it. I took a class on it. When adults looked at me, they told me I was gonna be so good at making planes someday. What they don't know; I'm already the best in my neighborhood, and then I'm gonna be the best in the world. It'll happen, and I'll tell you why, but you gotta keep it a secret. It's cause I have the biggest dreams.

Finally, I have a workshop of my own. It's got all the knick-knacks, do-dads, gizmos, and gadgets that planes have in them. I'm spending so much time stuffing my dreams into this plane. It's gonna fly so high that you can't even see it. It'll fly all the way to the sun and back. Dream after dream after dream after dream after the longest time. My plane is ready to fly! So why isn't it? Why isn't my plane flying? Fly. Fly right now. You will fly! I will make you fly! You must fly… My dreams turn into nightmares as my nails become icy claws that I use to tear apart my plane. Ripping metal from its bolts until I make sure no one can ever reconstruct it ever again. If my dreams can not fly, then no one must see them. Them… How do they make their planes fly? They must be cheating. I’ll expose them all. It'll happen, and I'll tell you why, but you gotta keep it a secret. It's cause I have the best dreams.

I sit surrounded by people better than me. They don’t know what it’s like to struggle! They’ll all see what real dreams are like, and when I find out how they make their planes fly. I’ll show them all. I'll show them their dreams aren't real. But when I see their planes… I have to leave, I can't be near the bright blinding dreams these people have. Their dreams fill whole rooms, and I can't even see where they begin or end. I hold my own dreams in my hands. They pity and mock me. They tell me how good my dream is. How adequate my dream is. Every time I hear their pity disguised as kindness, my dreams begin to shrink more and more until I am nothing but a husk. It'll happen, and I'll tell you why, but you gotta keep it a secret. I have the worst dreams.

What should I do? I do nothing but stare at the ceiling above my bed. To get out invites awful inspiration, to go to sleep forces tortuous reflection, to dream is to invite pain back into my soul. If being the best is impossible, then what is the point of flying? How will I soar if I can't see how far I've traveled. Betterment is an impossibility that leads nowhere. I took classes, and I listened to the adults who could not dream anymore like me. I did everything right. Why won't my plane fly still? I curse those who fly higher than me, and they look down and smile at me. They tell me words that stab my soul and scar my mind. They tell me “It'll happen, and I'll tell you why, but you gotta keep it a secret. You have the kindest dreams.”

Thrashing, breaking, anger gnaws on the brain with a force that kills me. Answers I don't wish to hear flood from every vibration. Hatred for these dreams leads to more hatred. I will never fly in my life. The words I can and can not accept pound my mind until I can no longer emerge from my cocoon of agony. I ignore the dreams, the dreamers, and the others like me who will never fly again. I will die a thing, unknown, unstudied, a mummy of passion. Then it stops. The one voice calls to me. The only voice. It's clear and sharp as a knife as it cuts through my self hatred. I will always do my best to ignore it, but I never can. Not for long anyway. The voice stares at me. It holds me, it hugs me, and it tells me things will be alright. It says that it'll believe in my dream. No matter what. I hug myself. It will be alright, and I'll tell you why, you don't have to keep it a secret. We only have dreams when we can love them ourselves.

[couldawouldashouldaa]

“Are you okay?” (from Beth)

Send me “Are you okay?” and i’ll generate a number! Your muse will find mine: After a nightmare

Nick had successfully destroyed the dam, and he plunged into the murky water. The current pushed and pulled and spun him around, leaving him to claw and thrash in a desperate attempt to find the surface before his burning lungs ran out of air. All the while, The Dead floated with him, unbothered by the rushing water or lack of oxygen, reaching for him. He could feel debris slicing and stabbing into him, and his blood only made the water cloudier.

And through the swirling crimson reached decaying hands, and the rotting face of his mother. Air bubbled out of his mouth in a muffled cry as he kicked and flailed to get away. Until a grip tightened around his ankle, tugging him deeper into the water, until darkness consumed him. And then he was abruptly blinded by the sun. All that oriented him was a sharp, searing pain in his ankle - the pain of teeth sinking deep into his flesh. As his eyes adjusted, he made out the withered face of his father, gnawing at his calf.

Beth moved quicker than he could register, swinging an axe down just below his knee. As he screamed out in agony, she brought the axe down a second time, through his father's skull.

He jolted up in bed, sweating and panting, and screaming. Tears streaked his paled cheeks. He ripped off his blankets, panicked gaze searching frantically over both of his legs. His father's corpse was nowhere in sight, and Beth wasn't holding an axe.

He let out a sigh of relief, as she came into focus.

"Y-yeah. I'm... I'm okay now," he breathed, letting himself fall backward onto his pillow, absolutely exhausted. "It was just a nightmare."

[bloodredx]

Day 16: Storm

The waves were rough and choppy, they typically were in the oceans of Khre-Salis, as Isiri rode along the flow of one with little effort. She was following Powder, who was reaching high speeds on her sailboard, hands gripping tightly to the curved metal of the sail support. It was at a good clip too, but not so fast to outmatch the mermaid, who had been loosely rolling along in the created pressure wave. It wasn’t much, especially since she was just longer than the length of Powder’s whole board, but enough to keep her from having to maintain any real effort to keep up with her. The bigger issue was keeping away from the board’s bottom fins, she had already knocked Powder over once by flexing her tail too hard.

They had been moving along for some time, simply enjoying the perpetual sunset that Khre-Salis’s permanently locked sky offered, when Powder pulled back on her sail suddenly. The force caused her board to brake; nearly knocking her off balance. She recovered in just the nick of time, sliding her leg down and eventually stooping low into a kneeling position. “Ah shit.”

“What’s wrong?” Isiri stuck her head out above the surface, closing her auxiliary gills tight so that her voice would carry forward and over the din of the sea. Taking a quick look around, nothing seemed awry.

“The clouds.” Powder adjusted her legs as she spoke, shifting sideways to face Isiri. “Looks like a storm’s rolling in.” A slight hint of panic entered her tone as her eyes darted from the horizon to the sky, to the flickering lights of Sequence Charter, only a small dot in the distance. “Fuck, there’s no way we’re gonna make it back in time.”

Following her gaze, Isiri too looked at the clouds. They were grey, rolling as quickly as the waves below them. It would be a nasty one, she could taste it in the water. Most of the already scarce ocean life had already begun to go deeper. These signs had been apparent for a while, and her mind swirled lightly at the notion that Powder hadn’t realized it. “Oh, it’s been on the horizon a long time. Seems like it’ll thrash a whole lot.”

Powder had begun gnawing on her lip as she considered her options. “Winds’ll rip up real bad. It’ll tear a hole clear through my sail, knock me flat into the water. Let’s see if Torroid is free…” Her hand pressed against her hip, slipping into the sole pocket on her wetsuit. Her face dropped. “Aaaand I left my communicator at the lab. Great.”

Smiling gently, Isiri took Powder’s hand in her own. “It’ll be okay.” She squeezed gently. “You have some time yet, let’s just keep going. And should worse come to worse, I’ll protect you.”

Powder sucked in a deep breath and squeezed back. “Right. We’re just wasting time out here.”

Isiri stuck her tongue out, lighting the lure on the tip of it playfully. “Come on! I’ll race you all the way back. Loser has to catch the other a fish.”

In a flash, Isiri dove deep, feeling the direction of the swell and the ocean’s reaction to the storm. Her caudal fin pressed hard, moving along with the current to head back towards Sequence Charter. She could see the shadow of Powder’s board on the surface above. Her speed was increasing, but it wouldn’t be enough. Isiri sucked in a fresh mouthful of water and began to sing softly. It didn’t need to be loud, just strong. She could feel the notes get carried by the sea, traveling swiftly through the medium as they spread in all directions. The world in front of her vanished for a moment, zooming out and up into the sky and into the winds. A current lifted from the deep, rolling and pushing ever so slightly against the warp of the storm cell. It was slight, but it would be enough.

Vision came back to her eyes, and Isiri swam faster, realizing that she had fallen behind she folded her arms tight to recover speed. Power coursed through her, and she breached the surface just behind Powder, blowing a kiss quickly as she returned below. Powder grinned wide, gripping tight against her sailboard. “So that’s how it’s gonna be?”

Isiri burbled with delight. The two kept even pace, trading back and forth against each other as they closed the distance to town. Stopping short as the shore crept up, Isiri lifted her head above water to make sure that Powder made it to shore safely. Flushing out her gills with relief, the first drops of rain began to fall as lightning flashed across the sky. She slumped over slightly, suddenly tired as the currents sank back to their proper places. “You did it, you made it.”

Powder panted slightly, holding her hand over her chest. “Yeah. Did you see how fast we were going?!”

“Mm, that was the fastest I’ve seen you go.” Isiri mused softly as she collected a new bubble of sea water. “We should get you inside. It’s only going to get worse.”

“Right.” Powder shook her head back to focus. “Weird how the wind picked up but the storm slowed down. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Isiri smiled knowingly. “The Abyss moves unpredictably.”

“Heh, maybe.” Taking her girlfriend’s hand, Powder smiled gently. “I guess I owe you a fish, huh?”

The mermaid’s eyes lit up. “Yep! That you do!”

(OC-tober prompts by @oc-tober2023 can be found here. Powder belongs to @gi-ie-ru.)

[vaultofqueenorion]

the worst part about this pain isn't the searing, burning sensation as it burrows into her flesh and skewers her from the inside out. Instead, she sees the wounds slowly fill with golden flesh, a living ripple that closes a canyon it should have never touched and if she hadn't already been screaming from the pain, she certainly would have begun when she saw this.

It gnaws through her bones, latching onto something deeper, something that ripples through her very being and she claws at herself, drawing blood and keeps on going until she tears through skin and flesh and goes for dragging the golden carcass out through with her teeth if she'll have to-

Hands close around her, holding her to the ground and she thrashes, snarls and rips in their grip. She connects her elbow with something soft that yields with a quiet whoosh of air before a string of curses from her other restrainer as she kicks them in the crotch with the bit of wiggle room she's got.

Someone grabs her from behind and kicks her legs out from under her before she can get good purchase on their face for scratching out their eyes and she howls as another tidal wave of golden pain lurches through her until she is finally dragged underneath, gasping for breath all the while

Red marbled endpaper. Tales of wonder. 1801.

Internet Archive

[hierohorror]

Journal Entry 232

I woke to the sound of tearing. The flesh of the world itself seemed to be coming apart, and I could feel it—deep inside me. My own skin quivered, shuddering like it wanted to tear free, to join the cacophony of dismemberment that filled the air. The liquid at my feet had turned thick and viscous, pulling at my legs, dragging me down into the mire. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

They were crawling out of the water. Bodies. Dozens of them. Twisted, broken things—some with arms bent at impossible angles, some with legs fused together into grotesque masses of writhing meat. Their faces, or what was left of them, were stretched wide, skin pulled tight over shattered bones, their eyes hollow pits of endless hunger. They screamed, but no sound came from their gaping mouths. Only the tearing continued—the endless, wet sound of muscle pulling apart from bone.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My legs were frozen, not from the blackness, but from the sheer horror of it all. One of them crawled toward me, dragging its mangled form across the slick surface, leaving behind a trail of blood and something darker. Its arms were split open, raw, dripping tendrils of sinew trailing behind it. As it neared, I could see its face more clearly—or what was left of it. Half of its skull was exposed, the bone gleaming white beneath a slick layer of blood. Its remaining eye twitched, locked onto me with a terrifying focus.

It lunged. Faster than I could react, its broken fingers wrapped around my ankle, nails digging deep into my flesh. I screamed, finally able to find my voice, but the thing didn’t stop. It dragged itself closer, pulling its body up my leg, its bones scraping against my skin, cutting into me with every movement. I could feel its breath—hot, rancid, and thick with the stench of decay.

Then it bit.

Teeth, shattered and jagged, sank into my thigh, tearing through muscle and skin like wet paper. Blood spurted from the wound, thick and dark, mixing with the liquid that surrounded us. The pain was blinding—an all-consuming fire that seared through my nerves, setting every inch of me alight. I thrashed, kicked, but the thing held on, its jaws locked tight, gnawing at my flesh like a starving animal.

I could feel my muscle tearing, could hear the sickening squelch as its teeth ground against bone. It pulled its head back, tearing a chunk of meat from my leg, swallowing it down with a grotesque, gurgling sound. I screamed again, my voice echoing into the endless blackness, but there was no help here. No escape.

More were coming. I could see them, crawling over one another, their hands and faces twisted in grotesque hunger. They wanted me. They wanted everything. I tried to crawl away, dragging my bloody leg behind me, but they were too fast. One after another, they descended upon me, their nails slicing into my arms, my back, their teeth sinking into every part of me they could reach.

They didn’t stop.

I was being eaten alive.

I could feel everything—each bite, each tear of flesh, the cold air hitting my exposed bones as they ripped me apart. My blood soaked the ground, mixing with the black liquid beneath me, turning it into a foul, bubbling mixture of life and death. My skin was gone now, peeled away by their ravenous hands, my muscles exposed and glistening in the moonlight.

I was nothing but a heap of torn meat and shattered bones.

But I wasn’t dead. Not yet. No matter how much I begged for it, no matter how much I screamed. The darkness wouldn’t let me die. It wanted me to suffer. To feel every moment of my destruction. And so I did. As the creatures devoured me, piece by piece, I felt it all.

And I knew—this was only the beginning. The blackness had me now.

I am its feast