#words from a bloated corpse

[putrexistence]

charlie originally casting mac as the dayman to fight off the nightman ohhh ohhhh it hurts it hurts so much

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Sea Monster x Reader

In the spirit of Mermay, I come to you with a slightly different approach: an octopus hybrid, dwelling in the dark depths of ancient waters. :) Hopefully close enough to the sea monster you imagined, @wally0117

Content: gender neutral reader, male yandere, monster romance, reader likes sharks (a lot); inspired by The Shape of Water and My Octopus Teacher; photo from Whalebone Magazine

He’s always been aware of humans, naturally. Observed them from the beginnings of time, from the very first rudimentary attempt of a boat that crossed his waters. Though he can only guess how these creatures exist, how they breathe, how they move. What arrives in his depths is always a corpse of some sort. Bloated, decaying carcasses, rarely intact, whether chipped by fish or by time. Everything else is left to his imagination.

Until today. The fish are restless, the currents are stronger. Something must be happening above, stringing him along curiously. His many legs sway in tandem, opening and closing, as he investigates the source of interest. His pale white eyes narrow to a mere squint, unused to the light of the surface levels. At last, he finds it: a human.

Yet this one is unusual. Intact - save for the bleeding wound - and unlike the washed-out, cadaveric blue tint he’s normally accustomed to. He notices a twitch of the limb and it dawns on him: this one is still alive.

You wake up with a violent cough, thrusting out the leftover liquid that had invaded your lungs earlier. You clearly remember drowning, so how did you end up on shore again? The answer reveals itself rather quickly: a monstrous creature, albeit humanoid for the most part. The upper half resembles a man, but the torso ends in thick, enormous tentacles, now flopped onto the sand, surrounding your body. You search for the creature’s face, framed by translucent tendrils that seem to replace what you’d expect as hair.

“Thank you”. He scans your features and remains silent. Does he even understand human speech? After a moment of consideration, he looks ahead, surveying the water, then returns to you, giving you a nudge. He most likely wants to know how you ended up in that situation to begin with. “That’s, well…”

Conveniently enough, the monster has brought you back to your little camp, so you reach for your backpack and pull out a book. Of course, no words can ever replace the image itself. With renewed enthusiasm, you open your encyclopedia and turn it towards the man, showing him a photo of a sand tiger shark, tapping on it excitedly. “I was looking for sharks!”

Ever since the bizarre, life-saving encounter, you’ve been returning to the same spot most days. And without exception, the monster will be waiting for you in one of the neighboring caves. Judging by the pellucid, pale skin and his reluctance to be in the light, you guessed early on that he might be a creature of the depths.

One that has been around for a long time, it seems. Once he understood your interest in sharks and other aquatic animals, he developed a liking to play guide for you, silently touring you through forests of kelp, hidden caves, labyrinths of reefs and hills. He knows where the animals linger, and they don't scurry away when you approach. You've never dreamed of being so close to them, staring into their eyes and tracing their fins as they swim past you, unbothered and relaxed. The monster will gaze at you from a distance, amused by your passion.

On ground, you’ve begun your own little experiment: can the octopus creature learn sign language? You didn’t need long to discover how intelligent he is, mimicking your gestures with flawless ease, instantly memorizing the meanings, the connections, the implications. He seems to be terribly delighted by this newfound tool of communication, often asking you questions with earnest curiosity.

Ah, yes, the questions. It makes sense that he’d want to know more about humans, though his interrogations are rather…particular. Specific. It’s less about humans as a whole, and more about you. How long have you been swimming here? How deep can you actually swim, with or without aid? Might you have a family waiting for you back home? A mate, perchance? No? Interesting.

"My vacation will end soon", you sign with pursed lips. He tilts his head. "Leaving?" his webbed hands gesture, somewhat uneasy. You nod. You can discern a glint of melancholy in his eyes. Eventually, he resumes: "Would you like to see my home?" Your eyebrows raise in surprise. His home? Down there? Was such a thing even achievable for a human like you?

The plump suckers attach themselves to your skin, one resting over your mouth. "Do you trust me?" You cast one final glance over the underwater abyss, a black hole trapping all light and matter. You shake your head in approval. Without hesitation, he plunges over the cliff, pulling you after him and into the yawning void of darkness. His form glows eerily, and his movement is swift and elegant. You can tell this is his land, his territory. You would've been dead a long time ago.

He releases you on the wet stone, inside the air pocket of a cave. You need a few moments to overcome the wave of claustrophobia pressing against your lungs. As you catch your breath, you recall your long path from the surface. It would be impossible to make it back out again without your friend. A cold shiver runs across your spine. "Have a break, and I'll show you everything else afterwards", he gestures with a smile. "How long will it take? I don't want to walk back at night", you explain.

Silence. You stare into his empty orbs, awaiting a reaction. There's not a sound, not a gust of wind, not a shred of light. "You're not going back", he finally answers.

You see, he's done a fair amount of research himself. He doesn't need an encyclopedia to figure you out: how you breathe, how you move, how you exist. In fact, he is rather confident in his ways of helping you adapt to a life spent together. He would've never brought you down here if he wasn't certain of your survival. His grin widens in anticipation, a strange warmth enveloping his innards at the mere thought of it: a future with you in it, right here. However, one question remains, a cheeky, perverted detail that has been on his mind from the moment he met you, yet he could never investigate it properly.

How do humans mate?

[agentmarvel]

center image by @/ave661

PART I

hitman!ghost x fat!reader (afab, fem) w/ arranged marriage

mdni - 18+; minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

rating: explicit

word count: 2,992

read on ao3

summary: in which contract killer simon "ghost" riley has to marry by a deadline, and of all the women to pick from, he chose you - without your knowledge, against your own stubborn will, and without much hesitation. your entire life, what you thought you knew, is flipped on its head while you try to navigate your new worldview and the complications therein.

cw: toxic parenting

♡

Simon stares at the photos before him, eyes flittering across the array wordlessly as he contemplates the question at hand. As migrant as his gaze has been, he keeps circling back to the same photo in his grid. Something about it draws him in, calling to him like a siren song. There’s no inclination that this path could lead him to his death, leave his bloated corpse floating just below the surface like seaweed, equally as limp and lifeless, nor can he be bothered to mind the possibility of rocky shores ahead, nearly certain to run his ship aground if he’s not exercising the utmost caution. His sails have never flown higher, and this? This feels like the right rigging for his needs.

It’s not that Simon wants a wife. Truthfully, he wants for nothing - he fucks when he feels like it, does as he pleases, and has hired hands to handle his household; anything he desires is placed at his feet with the snap of his fingers. He’s earned the life he has now, paid for it in blood, sweat, and tears - the likes of which belonging both to him and the piles of bodies he prefers to think of as stepping stones rather than people. But Simon Riley is nothing if not a man of his word, and the bill has come due.

Twenty years, he promised. Twenty years, and not a day more. It seems like an eternity to an eager, naïve teenager.

John Price, the master of hired guns, trained Simon. He put years of his life into molding Simon into the perfect weapon while instilling a moral compass impossible to sway. It did not come without cost, though. When he agreed to teach a driven, persistent, gifted fifteen year old Simon the ins and outs of the business, they made a deal. In exchange for John’s knowledge, Simon would be given time to build his empire before being required to take a wife.

“A mountain can’t rest upon a single pebble,” Price had told him. “Strength is in numbers, my boy. Earn loyalty where you can and buy it where you can’t.”

He’s been on his own for just over a decade, John becoming his equal, and he still takes those words to heart; hence the spread of pictures. Word travels fast, and when it gets out that the Simon Riley is seeking a bride, every magnate - respectable or otherwise - with a daughter to spare is throwing their hat into the ring. Conceited, perhaps, but having connections with Simon gives a man the kind of power they’d be foolish to reject.

His right-hand, Johnny, has already weeded out those with seedier dealings - those who cater to terrorism or are even suspected of having connections to human trafficking. While Simon is merciless in his kills, he does not kill without compunction. He’s swift and silent and doesn’t believe in leaving them to suffer. Death itself is punishment enough. There’s no purpose in his life for those who inflict undue dolor for their own gain, and he will not be associated with the uncouth.

The process limits his options, though not by nearly enough. Still, nigh on two dozen remained. He culled the field down to a mere nine by adding stricter constraints: age, employment history, education, and the like. He has no interest in the barely legal, the spoiled socialites, the vapid, shallow, or vain. As hollow as this state of matrimony may ring under the circumstances, he’d prefer not to be one of those men who feels disdain for his partner.

That’s the thought that keeps him circling back to one specific photo - a grayscale surveillance-style photo. The subject is undoubtedly stunning, appears to be precisely his preference in every physical aspect, but the devil is in the details. A delicate necklace that appears to be well-worn but treasured enough to stay polished, a purse that bears no distinguishable designer but shows no sign of detrition, neat, complimentary nails, but he can see a thin sliver of dried glue at the cuticle of the thumb; all signs of frugality without sacrificing sophistication...

Even the tiniest observations sing a haunting, operatic tune that keeps Simon hypnotized with little regard for what could lie within the treacherous depths below. Instinct drives interest, and if there’s anything Simon’s learned in his line of work, it’s to trust his instincts.

Not another beat passes before his fingertips finally close around the edge of the picture. He hands it to Johnny.

“Dig up everything you can on this one, yeah?”

♡

Fascination seems to be the weakest word to describe the rabbit hole Simon finds himself in when Johnny slides a file across his desk. He thumbs the manila tab that peeks out beneath the slew of staggered papers, taking caution to remember the name printed neatly across it - your name. It tastes sweet when he says it out loud. Pretty name for a pretty girl, he muses with a nearly imperceptible smirk.

The surname strikes him with a notch of recognition. Your father, if memory serves correct, is one of the largest arms dealers in the world. A pleasant man by reputation, though Simon has never met him directly. Sans the obvious, he keeps his nose clean. Nothing iniquitous or unscrupulous. There aren’t many American families that Simon has ties to, and forging a bond of this sort with a weapons tycoon would certainly be beneficial.

He digs into the contents of the folder, the pages feeling almost like silk between his heavily calloused fingers. A vague eagerness settles into his bones. Simon feigns disinterest outwardly, expression masked in stoicism, but he can’t lie to himself - he’s undoubtedly curious.

Each barely-cooled sheet turned only draws him further into a spiral. Your basic documents - driver’s license, birth certificate, passport - fill in a few blanks. The additional knowledge of your height, weight, and eye color offer insights not clear from the photo. He knows your middle name, birth date, that you’re an organ donor. You’re not living off your father’s money, as evidenced by the consistent bi-weekly paycheck deposits in your bank records. Educated, obviously, as your student loan payments are automatically drafted monthly.

On paper, it’s almost as if you were made for him, and what a thought that is. Optimism isn't in his nature; a heavy dose of skepticism hangs like a dark cloud, brewing a storm of adversarial rationale. But the pinch of hope that hovers like the sun in the back of his mind tells him to digest before coming back for seconds, and he concedes.

In the days that follow, Simon notices himself spending every spare moment revisiting your file. He placates Johnny’s lingering nosiness with the assurance that he’s merely trying to make a prudent choice under the circumstances, but that’s not quite honest. Truth be told, you’ve become a bit of an obsession of his over the last week. He often notes that his mind is wandering to the things he didn’t learn from the dossier - how you take your tea, what perfume you use, where you’ve always wanted to go but have never been. It’s a dangerous admission, one best kept to himself.

He toys with the notion of conducting the same research on a couple of the other candidates, just to be sure, but his decision is made final when Kyle sends over the links to your social media accounts. None of them are private - an issue Simon will have to address quite thoroughly at a later date - so he has no trouble combing through the last several years of your life.

Admittedly, it leaves an adequate mark. You’re witty and smart while remaining a bit sardonic. Thoughtful and warm, but not without your sharp edges. You’re ambitious and driven, a bit of a firecracker. Color him impressed; he quite likes that.

Demeanor aside, he also finds that you really, genuinely are an absolute beauty. The few photos from your file don’t hold a candle to the selfies you’ve posted. Something about seeing you when you feel most confident, when you’re exuding that effervescent glow of aplomb, it sparks a sensation in Simon’s stomach that he can’t quite describe.

That all but seals the deal.

He snaps up his phone and sends a text to Johnny before placing it face-down and turning back to his laptop.

>>> Set up the meeting

♡

As his jet touches down in Bogotá, Simon is reminded of what a nasty beast jetlag can be. It’s an animal he’s not had to contend with since his younger years, a fact for which he’s grateful. Call it a perk of his constant travel over the years and the more… unconventional hours he entertains on jobs. They’re approaching hour fourteen of their flight, though, so he supposes he can’t fault his men for falling asleep.

(He did, however, take a picture of them sleeping on each other before the turbulence awoke them; you know, for the sake of posterity and potential future blackmail.)

Simon’s mind had been far too occupied to allow him the opulence of rest. Upon his lap sits a dossier on his next target, a relatively high profile subversive at that, and all he can think about is the pretty little thing that’s been haunting his subconscious for the last two weeks.

By all accounts, it’s baffling. He understands that this sudden onset of infatuation is irrational, illogical, and quite frankly, irresponsible. It distracts him from things he ought not be distracted from, and that irritates him to no end.

The whirring of the engines slows to a dull hum, and Simon, with a grunt of discontentment, stuffs the file into his briefcase. He’ll accomplish nothing as long as he’s preoccupied. Hopefully, focus will be far less elusive on the flight back.

A loud thunk from the cockpit draws him from his spiral of ire, and Nikolai emerges. He greets Simon only with a curt nod before disengaging the door and deploying the stairs. Once they’ve kissed the asphalt, he ventures back a step, creating room for the men to disembark.

“Welcome to Colombia, gentlemen,” he announces. “We leave in six hours; gives me time to refuel the bird and grab some fuel myself. Enjoy your time, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, okay?” He tacks on a wink for good measure, which draws a bark of laughter from Kyle. Nik’s been with them long enough for them to know that’s a very short list, a fact Johnny is very quick to point out.

Simon claps a hand on Nikolai’s shoulder and hands him an envelope before stepping out - a hefty cash sum for his time and efforts. He may have also snuck in a sizable bonus as an anniversary present, but that will stay between the two of them.

“Get some rest, too, yeah? You’ve earned it.”

The air outside is crisp and pleasant. Underneath the standard airfield smells, Simon detects a pinch of coffee and cocoa. He wouldn’t be surprised; there’s a manufacturing plant not too terribly far from here, and if the wind blows just so, it may carry on the current. It’s refreshing, especially after being trapped for hours in an aluminum tube with three men who, today in particular, seem to be having a war over who can wear the strongest cologne.

Kyle and Johnny flank him on either side as they stroll off the tarmac. They’re both covertly armed to the teeth as a general precaution, but he trusts there will be no sinister intent behind a simple lunch. Surely, his appointment won’t mind. He likely won’t be attending alone either.

At the far end of the strip, a hired car is waiting. It’s relatively inconspicuous for the part of the city housing the restaurant, according to Simon’s research - a sleek, black SUV with windows tinted dark enough to hide any passengers, but passable enough to not draw attention.

Once in the city, it’s inherently obvious that there’s plenty of time to kill before the agreed upon hour. Place and time re-confirmed, the boys are turned loose to occupy themselves however they see fit, and Simon delves into the rows of local shops.

He finds things here and there; a pair of stunning leather boots, a box of cigars for Price, trinkets and treats he can share with his staff or gifts he can bring to gatherings so that he never greets his gracious hosts empty-handed. Even a little something for you, should all go according to plan. He smiles inwardly as he tucks the velvet box into the pocket of his slacks. It won’t replace the necklace you clearly adore, but he hopes you’ll wear it regardless.

After a quick trip back to their driver to leave their finds, the trio makes their way to the restaurant. Johnny and Kyle lag behind, keeping a respectable distance from Simon, whose eyes are immediately combing the patio for your father.

He spots him closer to the corner, sitting with his back to the wall. Two tables over, a pair of rather conspicuous men sit, cliché aviators perched in place while positioned to have a clear view of the upcoming interactions. Simon makes a mental note to wait until closer to the wedding to offer suggestions for higher quality detail. Assassinations are easier when you can gauge your obstacles so easily; trust him, he’d know.

In his periphery, he sees his companions select an empty table four over from the rent-a-cops. Kyle sits with his back to the table, glasses off. Johnny sits across from him, keeping his on to supply a reflective overview. Simon can’t help but crack the tiniest grin. He’s taught them well. They move as a singular unit when needed and rely on instinct over protocol. It’s the perfect display of how safe you’ll be with him. If he seems a little arrogant about it, that’s because he is.

Your father looks up from his phone and meets Simon’s eyes with an unspoken question. Simon tips his chin just once before the man stands, greeting him with a gracious smile.

“Ah, Mr. Riley… Pleasure to finally meet you.” He’s sincere in tone and offers his hand. Simon takes it without hesitation, giving it a firm shake while he shares the sentiment.

“You as well, sir.”

His smile widens a bit at that, and he gestures to the open chair, saying, “Please, sit.”

Simon takes the invitation, settling into the seat and the subsequent relatively meaningless small talk. They cycle through the basics before ordering their food and get a pinch more personal while they wait, discussing their respective hometowns and places their work has taken them. It isn’t until they’re digging into their plates that your father finally broaches the subject they’re both most anxious to discuss.

“As much as I’m enjoying getting to know you,” he begins, gaze not rising from his fork as it prods a pile of coconut rice. “I’m sure you didn’t fly halfway across the world just for that.”

“No, sir,” Simon responds. “I’m here to talk about your daughter.”

That draws the man’s attention, eyes finally meeting Simon’s with a subtle grin. It’s almost somewhat unsettling, like a cat finally catching that damn canary, though he’s unsure whether it’s him or you that owns the role of prey.

“But you already knew that, didn't you?”

“That I did,” he confirms, dabbing the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “Tell me, Simon, what exactly is it about my daughter that calls to the infamous Ghost?”

Simon pauses a moment, unsure of quite how to approach the response. He'd rather not tip his hand until he determines what sinisterity lies behind that predatory gaze. The mask your father is wearing at the moment is approaching uncanny, and a faint alarm bell sounds in the back of Simon’s mind.

“I only ask because, well, I never would’ve expected that a man of your stature would choose someone so… plain, shall we say? Don’t get me wrong, she’s a good girl, but she’s certainly not without her flaws. Stubborn, opinionated, talks too much, certainly far from the ideal housewife. And don’t get me started on how she takes care of herself. Really makes me wonder, Mr. Riley, what ulterior motives might you be hiding?”

“None, sir. Nothin’ I need from you that I can’t get myself.” Simon’s voice is flat as he tamps down the anger crawling beneath his skin. How does a real man speak ill of his own daughter so flagrantly? Does he really have no regard for you? He has half a mind to remove your father’s tongue after the wedding, if only for your sake.

“Pray tell, then.”

Simon scrubs a hand over his jaw before he answers, “Pretty girl. Smart from the sound of it. Doesn’t rely on attention from the public or ‘er daddy’s money. Ain’t lookin’ for a sweet little housewife; I like it when they bite back.”

“And you understand that she’s… How do I put this delicately?” He pauses. “She’s a bit bigger than what you'd consider a trophy wife."

Simon scoffs, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Of course, he's aware of that. That's part of what drew him to you.

“Quite like a fuller figure. Don’t want a woman who’ll fuss over calories when I cook for ‘er.”

Your father mulls it over, chewing thoughtfully as he considers the words before him. Simon watches as the muscles in his jaw flex and reflex, and he swears he can hear the scales tipping back and forth as they try to find some balance.

Finally, he wipes his face with his napkin. His expression cracks into something adjacent to genuine, and that alarm gets just a little bit louder.

“I suppose this little meeting has reached its end.” He snaps his fingers twice as the waiter, gesturing for the check. Rude, in Simon’s opinion, but he bites his tongue.

“Sir?”

“I’ve got business to attend to back in the States, and by the sounds of it, a wedding to start planning.”

♡

part ii

[eyelambspider]

𝟎𝟑. 𝐀𝐩𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐬𝐞 & 𝐀𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐦 || 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐞

Day three of Kink/Creeptober! Here is the list of my prompts & event terms!

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : john price x gn!reader 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : Its the zombie apocalypse, and as a former military man, John Price leads your group to a rooftop in order to get saved. Shortly after, he comes up to you with an offer that surprises you: He wants to fuck you like its the end of the world. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 1.6 k 𝐚/𝐧 : although I think this works for both a fem & male reader (I don't describe reader's body in great detail) please lmk if it doesn't and I will change this to fit pronouns! also, the 'saved' scene is very L4D coded 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 : smut, nsfw, mentions of death/gore/guns (the zombies), no use of y/n, creampie, dirty talk, praise, kissing, aftercare, fluff, swearing (the least of our problems huh?)

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐊 𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋. Swarms of the undead had sprung up, laying waste to the streets. It had only been a week or so since it had started and news of the virus had gone—quite literally—airborne.

Captain John Price had led the handful of survivors to the abandoned hotel. The bravest of the group took up guns and fired at the undead that lurked in the foyer. While a few women and children held back, knives and makeshift weapons in their hands.

"Come on! Everyone get in!" Price and a few men stood at the bottom of the stairwell, holding the door for everyone to flood in and make their way to the roof. Anxious to reach rescue.

Seven flights up, you pushed the door to the roof open with a bang. Immediately your eyes shot up towards the horizon, searching the skies frantically.

Had you all missed it?

The entire group slowly appeared behind you, Price coming up last. Everyone turning their tired faces towards the military man, searching his face for any sign of hope for their salvation. The only thing that had kept them going for days.

"They'll come," he assured. Although he couldn't really believe the words himself, it seemed everyone else did.

The small group of survivors began to collect themselves, willing to wait as long as it took for rescue. Everyone found something to do. Families began to make spots for the children to sit on with blankets and clothing, water and a bit of food beginning to go around. Some of the men even disappeared down to the seventh floor, clearing it properly of debris and barricading it... unable to stand idle even now.

The sky was filled with a haze of smoke, distant fires and sirens long died out wafting into the air. Polluting the city with the smell of death and ash. It was horrible, even from up here.

Some people couldn't bear to think about it, or begin to believe that the world had ended... You though, you were quite literally staring the apocalypse in the face.

Distant skyscrapers had collapsed, lit aflame like birthday candles. The yellow sun was hidden behind a dreamy haze of smoke. And below, where your eyes traced, the streets were crawling with zombies. Bits of flesh ripped from their faces. Some already bloated and decrepit, while others were still bleeding. Chunks of faces and limbs scattered about like urban trash. It was a mass of flesh, clawing their way towards the loudest noises, groaning and wailing like souls of the damned for just one more meal.

"You'll give yourself nightmares," a voice spoke. The accent had become so familiar during the past few days that you didn't even need to glance over your shoulder to know that Price was walking up to you.

He watched the way the eerie wind lapped at your hair, the way you peered over the edge... his dark eyes unable to read that distant expression on your grimy face.

He really wished he had a smoke right now. A long and deep sigh slipped from his lips as he watched the corpses below the building linger aimlessly like termites. Bumping into each other mindlessly with groans and slobbery hisses. Just looking for their next victim.

Price glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. You weren't really paying attention, but his eyes lingered on the soft curve of your back as you leaned over to look down. He licked his lips, inhaling softly as if to say something before the sounds of choppers began to fill the air.

Zombies and survivors alike turned towards the thunderous sound. Black helicopters flew overhead in the dozens, blotting out the sun with whirring rotors. Although some of the survivor's cheered and waved for help... Price's stomach dropped.

Something wasn't right.

Everyone watched in confusion and despair as the government helicopters flew overhead and passed them by, stirring up smoke as they headed deeper into the city. Oblivious to the people who wailed and cried out in panic for them to come back.

You watched with wide eyes as the rescue slipped right through your fingers like sand in an hourglass.

That night, it all seemed hopeless.

But, as humans always do, they held out miraculously.

Some survivors made a make-shift 'Save Us' sign to hang over the roof using spare bedsheets and gore from the street. Others continued to barricade the floor off, everyone collectively agreeing to start preparing for the long haul.

They had given you a room to stay in, everyone shared a hall, but most families and people that knew each other kept their doors open to chat. Yours was closed, leaving you to stare aimless up at the ceiling. Listening to the sounds of your breath against the clamor of people in the hall trying to comfort each other to the world ending just outside those large windows. Zombies, once people you might've known, growled and screamed for their next face to tear open with their teeth-

Before you could stumble further into despair, the door to your hotel room clicked closed. You sat up and glanced over, that questioning look on your face making Price sigh again, his hands coming to rest on his dusted jeans.

"I have an... offer you might want to here me out on," he tossed his hands up, as if he wasn't exactly sure how to fucking say it-

God, he really wanted to fuck you, and the apocalypse seemed like no better excuse to do just that.

"Fuckk," Price panted against your pulse, his face buried into the crook of your neck, breathing in your very essence each time his hips snapped forwards. "You feel so fucking good," he groaned, sucking a deep red mark into your heated skin.

The two of you were tangled in white sheets. Price had you laying beneath his burly body, your soft legs wrapped around his hips, squeezing and pulling him in deeper. The sensation of Price's cock burying itself to your hilt made the two of you moan into each other with equal fervor. His tip slamming softly into that sweet spot inside of you that both made your eyes roll.

This was everything he fucking needed for the past few days. His mind not focused on rationing or food or all that other shit- God he just wanted your sweet body beneath him like this. Watching your body bounce below him softly from the force of his thrusts. His cock buried so tantalizingly deep into your tight heat. The sound of your skin against his- "Fuckk," he groaned again, nearly tipping over the edge just thinking about it.

You moaned beneath him, holding onto his broad shoulders, fingers skimming over his war-torn skin for purchase, holding on for dear life as the soldier unintentionally gave your body all his pent up energy. When he felt you raise your hips to meet his insistent thrusts, he could've sworn he was in love.

"Price!" You begged. For more, for anything. Everything about him was addicting. The way sweat glistened off his dark brows, the way his soft eyes held yours as he pounded into you, watching every reaction, every breath you took with his pupils blown wide open with pure lust.

He could see how much you loved it, could feel how hard your walls clamped around him.

He shook his head, dipping down again to capture your lips in a heated kiss. "Fuck, I'm not going to last long with you looking like that baby," he whispered.

He kept you under him, enrapturing you with his warm skin and musky scent. Price hiked your left leg up and over his strong forearm, spreading you open for him. Allowing him to sink in deeper with a deep growl of satisfaction.

Price could feel his orgasm beginning to build at the base of his spine, his measured thrusts becoming a sloppier the more he chased it. He knew you were close too, he could feel your body writhing beneath his, begging for more friction, trying to hold him impossibly close.

Even with a horde of the undead standing a few floors below, trapping you all into this hotel. Even with the sounds of distant helicopters and fires raging in the background, or the incessant creak of the bed every time your bodies met... All you could hear was each other. Blocking out the world just to listen to those sweet cries and those low growls of satisfaction.

With one powerful thrust, Price came inside of you with a guttural moan, smothering the sounds of his orgasm into your neck. He kept thrusting, riding out the heavenly high he got from your body... even when he felt you squeeze down on him with one final cry.

The strong man above you suddenly went a little limp in your arms, his lips brushing against the burning shell of your ear as he panted, "That was fucking perfect." He found himself chuckling, the two of you spent from the exertion.

Price felt you whimper below him, feeling your legs tremble around him with a sly grin. You were going to feel that in the morning... Inner thighs already feeling sore.

"I got ya," Price grunted, untangling himself from your limbs. His muscular arm never leaving your waist even as he settled behind you under the sheets, making the two of you comfortable by pulling the blanket back up. He cradled you close to him, your back pressed against the hard planes of his chest. "Get some sleep," he murmured, planting a soft, almost weary, kiss to your temple. As if the act was suddenly too intimate and out of place in a burning world.

[dokjafang]

whats your opinon on yan vampires?

♡ Book. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Word Count. 576

♡ Banner / Mentioned Story. 🔞Will you scream? Or will you beg?

When it comes to Yandere! Vampires, I don’t go for the usual romanticized, angsty, or gothic portrayals. Instead, I base my interpretation on the real origins of vampire myths—historical cases, early folklore, and actual criminal events that shaped the concept of vampires.

♡ Historical Basis of Vampires.

The vampire archetype wasn’t born out of fantasy but fear—specifically, fear of the unknown, disease, and serial killers before the term even existed. Some of the earliest “vampires” were actually:

Folkloric Figures: In Eastern Europe, corpses were sometimes exhumed and found with bloated bodies and blood at the mouth, leading to beliefs in revenants.

Plague Victims: During outbreaks, bodies were found in states of decomposition that looked unnatural (e.g., receding gums exposing more teeth, bloated stomachs). People assumed they were rising from the grave to spread disease.

Real Killers: Figures like Elizabeth Báthory (1560–1614), accused of bathing in the blood of virgins, or Peter Kürten (the "Vampire of Düsseldorf," 1883–1931), who drank victims' blood, reinforced the monstrous image.

♡ Yandere! Vampires: No Clichés, Just Psychological Horror.

If I were to write a Yandere! Vampire, it wouldn’t be some brooding immortal with tragic eyes whispering about eternity. Instead, it would reflect the true horror behind the myth:

Bloodlust as a Ritual: Killing and consuming someone isn’t just an act of hunger; it’s deeply intimate. This aligns with how historical cases of vampirism often involved obsession and ritualistic behavior.

Possession, Not Just Love: Yandere behavior stems from extreme obsession and control. A true vampire yandere wouldn’t just stalk or protect their darling; they would see them as something to be consumed, owned, and preserved—perhaps in a literal sense.

Eroticism and Death: Historically, vampirism has always been tied to both seduction and violence. Rather than softening it into a fantasy, I’d lean into the disturbing, almost religious reverence of taking a life in the name of love.

Kinks: Blood Drinking / Blood Play, Vore, Sanguinarianism, Biting / Marking, Feeding Control, Total Ownership / Objectification, Hypnosis / Mind Control, Sacrificial Play, Necrophilic Undertones, Fear Play

♡ Comparison to Yandere! Sukuna.

I view Yandere! Sukuna in the same way. A "soft" Sukuna is a contradiction. If he were to cherish someone, it would be through the ultimate act of consumption—literally savoring his darling as a meal. This isn't mindless brutality but an act of twisted intimacy. Similarly, a true Yandere! Vampire wouldn’t just protect or admire their darling; they would worship them in the most visceral, horrifying way possible.

♡ Final Thoughts.

I respect different takes on yandere vampires, but for my own writing, I refuse to dilute them into fantasy tropes. A vampire’s love is terrifying because it’s not love—it’s hunger disguised as devotion.

────────────

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Ink & Insight”:

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology ♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. ♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World. ♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. ♡ Book 5 [you are here]. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

[kakashisacademia]

pairing: satoru x you | warnings: none

summary; after leaving the jujutsu high three years ago you’re finally back and Satoru struggles with the feelings he develops for you

a/n: the whole fanfiction is written from Satoru’s POV

ೃ⁀➷ Ch. 3: I Can’t Stay Away From You

The knock at the door was the death of Satoru.

He pulled away from her like he was drowning, gasping for air he couldn’t find, stumbling back to the floor as she sat up, blinking in the dim light.

Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved for a full, broken heartbeat.

The voice from the hallway called again, sharp and impatient, and Satoru forced his body to move. Snatched his jacket from the floor. Rubbed a hand hard over his face like it could erase the way her skin had almost touched his.

She stood too, slow and stiff. Her hands trembling slightly as she tied her hair back.

They didn’t look at each other as they left the room.

If they did, Satoru was afraid they’d never make it to the meeting at all.

The hallway was empty. The stairs groaned under their weight.

Every step felt heavier than the last, like gravity had doubled just for them.

Downstairs, a group of local jujutsu agents waited, flustered and arguing, pointing at maps and charts. Something about an unexpected curse bloom nearby.

They needed backup. Immediate.

Satoru tried to listen. He really did.

But she stood too close beside him, the heat of her body bleeding into his. And every nerve in his body was screaming.

At some point, the lead agent shoved a paper into his hands with instructions and coordinates.

Satoru barely registered them.

“Understood,” he said, his voice hoarse and unfamiliar. “Let’s move.”

She followed without a word.

Outside, the rain had stopped, but the world was still soaked, dripping, heavy with the aftermath.

They moved through the darkened streets, side by side but miles apart. Every time their arms brushed, accidental and unavoidable, it sent a jolt straight through Satoru.

He kept his head down. Kept his eyes forward. He couldn’t afford to look at her.

Not now.

Not when his skin still remembered the shape of her. Not when his lips still ached with the ghost of what almost happened.

They reached the edge of the town - an old park, broken swings swaying in the wet wind. The curse energy was thicker here, buzzing and wrong.

Good. A fight would be a distraction. A fight would drown out the sound of her heartbeat in his ears.

They found the curse quickly. A twisted, bloated thing, feeding off the rot of the abandoned playground. It lunged without warning, straight at her.

Time snapped.

Satoru moved without thinking. Intercepting, shielding, striking. When the dust settled, he stood over the broken corpse of the curse, fists clenched, chest heaving.

And she was there, whole, safe, and most important, alive.

She touched Satoru’s arm, light, grateful, trusting. And he flinched like she’d stabbed me.

Her hand fell away. A breath of silence stretched between them.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t keep doing this.

“Let’s go,” he said roughly, turning away before she could see the way his face twisted.

They made it back to the inn in a silence so thick it felt like drowning. The others stayed downstairs, arguing tactics and planning for tomorrow.

Satoru couldn’t stay. He couldn’t breathe down there with all of them and her and the weight of everything unsaid pressing against his ribs.

He mumbled some excuse and escaped up the stairs back to the cursed little room that had already ruined him once tonight.

He didn’t expect her to follow. He didn’t expect the door to creak open five minutes later. Her slipping inside, rain clinging to her hair, her eyes wide and wild.

“You’re avoiding me,” she said. No accusation, just a quiet, heartbreaking truth.

Satoru opened his mouth and closed it again.

What could he say?

That every time he looked at her, it felt like dying and living at the same time? That he wanted her so badly it hollowed him out?

“I’m trying to be good,” he rasped instead.

She took a step closer. And he took one back.

She took another. And he hit the wall, literally and metaphorically.

“You don’t have to,” she whispered.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Felt the wall at his back, solid and merciless.

“I do,” Satoru said, voice cracking on the words. “I do. You don’t understand, you deserve someone better. Someone whole. Someone not…me.”

She shook her head fierce and desperate. And before he could stop her. Before he could protect her from the damage he would bring,she reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket.

“I don’t want better,” she said, voice firm. “I want you.”

And then Satoru was kissing her. Or maybe she was kissing him. Or maybe they were just collapsing into each other, because there was nowhere else left to go.

Mouths crashing together, fingers fisting in clothes, hearts beating so loud it drowned out the rest of the world.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was raw and desperate and wrecked. Like they were trying to carve a home into each other.

Satoru felt her gasp against his mouth, felt her nails dig into his shoulders and it shattered him. He kissed her harder, bruising, helpless and unforgiving. Hands framing her face, memorizing every line, every breath.

When they finally pulled apart, foreheads pressed together and breathing ragged - there was no going back.

No pretending. No safety. No distance.

Just the terrible, beautiful truth that he loved her. And he was already too far gone to save either of them.

[animentality]

not to be a fucking BOOMER or anything, but...

as a writer, whenever i see that kids these days rely entirely on chatgpt bc they don't know how to write anything at all without assistance...

i don't know.

i feel like... you're really cucking yourself.

like you're a human being...with thoughts. and feelings.

why do you not want to organize these?

like generate the things you see. the things you experience. the things you feel.

put them down somewhere, and then organize them from there.

not just because oh you have to for some assignment, but because you understand yourself better when you know what you mean...and what you don't mean.

writing isn't just something you do because you have to, it's something you do because you are a person, and people have the gift of language.

it's one of the most important inventions of the human race...

and writing...editing...re-writing... all that shit is problem solving.

it's not just an exercise in copy and paste.

it's not something you can regurgitate and still benefit from.

i get some of you aren't writers naturally, and it's not something you're necessarily interested in, but...

at a basic level... yes.

you should be able to express yourself in your own words?

you're going to be dead one day, you know. you only have so much time to leave behind evidence that someone as unique as you once existed...

maybe you want to leave something of yourself behind...

or maybe you don't.

because chatgpt is just gonna farm whatever you say and regurgitate it for the next person using chatgpt to use for some bullshit essay anyway, so what does it matter really, if you were the regurgitator or the regurgitated...?

but you know.

whatever, i guess.

who cares

generative ai is pecking at corpses. we are the living dead, and there will be nothing left of us soon.

at least ai will be spitting up the mangled bits and pieces of our bloated rot long after our flesh has become chemical.

[balrogballs]

Oh i would love your take on Thranduil’s grief in losing his wife! If your Celrond angst can shatter me and never piece me back together, I can only imagine how you’re going to annihilate readers with Thranduil angst 🙏🏼

Here you go go go, and I made this one a little cute/hopeful because feral baby Legolas is something I can never resist…

A year ago when Legolas was just three, Thranduil had brought him in to council with him because Irimë had stayed up with the teething toddler all night and it was only fair. Legolas had crawled up and around and onto laps, toddled barefoot across the table, and overall made a complete nuisance of himself but Thranduil, clearly struck down by what he normally refers to as Insufferably Elrondesque Behaviour, had indulged him.

Legolas was a curious child. He’d gotten into the habit of pointing at various people, from wardens to cooks to stableboys – asking, me? It was more an interrogation of his own future than actually wanting to know. Questioning what might one day come to be, what he would one day be. Me? he would ask, and always Thranduil would say yes, baby. Yes, if you wish it.

Me? he asked, pointing at Elrond’s twin sons, tall enough to be any little elfling’s ideal. Yes, baby, Thranduil would sigh somewhat reluctantly. Yes, if you wish it.

Indulging in Elrondesque Behaviour on that morning, unfortunately, had meant he also suffered the side effect of Elrondesque Luck. And that was why when he’d taken his eye off the boy for a second, Legolas had toddled into the garden just as his wardens brought in a bloated corpse, spider venom threading across his skin, a missing soldier. Legolas had watched wide eyed and when Thranduil rushed down, grabbed the child into his arms, Legolas pointed at the body. Me? all wide eyed in wonder.

No! Thranduil had exclaimed, wrenching his son away, pointing a finger at the body. No! Not you, baby. Never, never you.

It is a different kind of squalid, rotting emptiness now, as Irimë lay pale in state, the two-day wake. He remembers going to Imladris after Celebrían sailed, remembers how corpse-like Elrond had looked, as if performing an awful mummery of death, shrouded in paper-white skin. It is like that. He is the corpse now, holding a squirming child who keeps peering over at where his mother lay. Blue, befitting something killed on the road — the sole road the Elvenking had not appointed patrols to. Not something Thranduil can extricate himself from, like pestilence and spiders and fever, no, there’s a clear finger to point and it’s directed right at him. He cannot take his eyes off her. For two whole days, he cannot take his eyes off her, her own staring straight back at him.

And then there are starfish-hands on his face as he peers over at the body one final time before they take her away. Something pink-cheeked stroking his own, patting it. Legolas, in whose world nobody dies, only disappears, four by account of shyly held up fingers, who woke up without a mother in a suddenly-quiet world and took it in his stride. Guilt curls in his stomach, bloats him from head to toe.

No, baby, Legolas says, patting Thranduil’s face so hard it stings, pointing at the body. Not you.

Thranduil must be going insane. For there is no other explanation for how he clings to his son there, right in public, like he’s a lifeline, asks the child truly? Do you truly think so?

Not you, baby, Legolas parrots his own words from a year ago. Not a mummery of death but of love. He keeps saying it, unknowing, until his father believes it despite himself.

There’s no such thing as a blameless death in Mirkwood. This is no Imladris. Everything here, from shell-shocked rabbits to dead queens has a cause and every cause leads to death. In the swampy, wet cold under the Shadow, it is easy to decay, to rot, to turn into things that feed trees. It would have been so easy for Thranduil to have sunk into the freezing earth and let himself be taken. But on his knee sits Legolas, patting his face methodically, like a healer pressing breath into a dying thing. The beating heart of the Greenwood: warmer than every pyre, and so contagiously alive.

[dilatorywriting]

Hello! May I request 94. With Rook?

I certainly wouldn't mind the smoot if you think it fits into what you write-

Gender Neutral Reader x Rook Hunt Word Count: 1.2k

Prompt 94: "Don’t act innocent, you had me pinned underneath you 5 minutes ago."

🌶️ Warning for Mild Spice

[EVENT MASTERLIST]

“Just a bit of chase!” he says.

“The thrill of the hunt can be so fun!” he says.

Except now you’re covered in sweat and doubled over panting like you’re going to go into cardiac arrest. Because Rook’s idea of ‘oh, just a little run around, je promets!’ involved nothing less than a full fucking sprint through the wooded areas of the campus—over hill, and under hill, and godyou were so out of shape.

You gasped into your knees, bent over in anticipation of just, I don’t know. Death? Vomit? All of the above?

“Ah, don’t tell me you’ve given up already, mon cher!” the aforementioned demon cooed from somewhere in the trees. In the trees! Like a literal, freaking hunter of old, and not your coddling boyfriend smiling all pretty when he says ‘just a bit.’ Absolute bullshit. You wanted a refund. “We’ve only just begun!”

“It’s been—” you gasped, swiping a furious hand over your dripping brow, “—an hour! You fucking masochist!”

“A true predator knows best that a subtle, steady approach is always the most satisfying, mon petit lapin,” he hummed, voice echoing discordantly over your head. “And how could I not take my time, when the reward is bound to be so sweet, hmm?”

“What reward?” you snapped. “Me doing this at all is the reward!”

The blonde’s trilling laughter curled through the air like the tinkle of a windchime. Light, and airy, and pleasant. Which was deceptive. And entirely unfair.

“Ah, but mon favori. I doubt you could ever say no to a little death, hmm?” he cooed. And the continued, with an air of faux consideration. “A bit for you, and then perhaps a bit for me. And then a bit more for you—”

Fuck his poetry. It was going to be a big death. A literal death. With rigor mortis, and decay, and a bloating corpse if you didn’t have a chance to collapse into a puddle in the next five minutes. Normally Rook’s sweet sonnets and romantic ramblings were something you found quite endearing. But surely anyone would be pushed past their Cutesy Bullshit Tolerance after being chased like a bat out of hell for the past literal hour. You felt woozy, and wrong footed, and like maybe that muffin you’d snagged for breakfast might be in the process of making up its mind to come back up to say hello.

“You have to run, petit lapin,” that chittering voice called again. “That’s the whole point.”

“No!” you snapped, stomping your foot like a toddler. “I give up! I’m a dumb rabbit! A lame rabbit! A rabbit with no legs! Just—get me already!” you shouted into the leafy canopy.

Silence.

You glared up into the kaleidoscope of greens, eyes narrowed as you searched the shadows. Surely he was somewhere. Somewhere close. You just had to—

And then you were crashing forward with an inelegant screech—a familiar, gloved hand pressing into the skin at the back of your neck and the other twisting into your uniform jacket to push you down into the dirt. And then Rook was sitting astride your hips, looking down at you with a sharp, brilliant gleam in his emerald eyes.

“Ah, mon pauvre lapin perdu,” he sighed, all faux sympathy, and shifted to lean forward so that he could grin into your flushed face. “Whatever shall I do with you, hmm? Rolling over to show your belly so readily. Certainly that’s far from safe.”

There was a tight, warm, whoosh in your gut. A twisting thing that you knew far too well at this point. And it spelled nothing but bad things.

You raised your chin as best as you could, meeting that toothy smirk of his head on, and then—

Ah. Nope. That had been the muffin after all.

Your face went green and you rolled onto your side to barf chunks of banana-nut-nonsense all over the grass.

.

.

“Mon cher, how can you ever forgive me?” Rook wailed, dabbing a soft, silk cloth against your heated forehead, nearly in tears. “I have failed you so horribly! So completely! I deserve to be cast from your good graces! Cursed to errer seul! Mutilé par des chiens! Jeté en enfer! Forcé de se repentir pour toujours!—”

“Enough, please,” you whined, pinching at the bridge of your nose. “I’d rather you just, I don’t know, got me a glass of water.”

“Right away!” he chirped, shooting to his feet and darting out the door and down the hall. He was back hardly a moment later, depositing a clean cup into your hands and plunking a curling, purple straw into the center of it.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, leaning forward to take a sip.

“Anything at all for you, mon cher!”

This was almost worse somehow.

“Would you cut it out,” you sighed. “It’s fine. Really. Shit happens.”

He stared up at you from where he was kneeled on the floor at your side with the largest, most doleful eyes you’d ever seen. Like a kicked puppy dog had a sad, sad child with, like, an even more pathetic, more kicked, kitten. You jabbed at him with your foot.

“And stop that!”

“Stop what?” he asked, blinking those stupid, stupid green eyes at you.

“Acting all innocent!” you complained. “You literally had me pinned underneath you, like, five minutes ago!”

“I did, didn’t I?” he hummed, sounding almost pensive. He reached up to tap at his chin, like he was chewing over a thought. “And I wasn’t even able to keep my promise, was I?” he lamented, deflating.

“What promise?” you frowned.

“For a bit of mutual demise,” he sighed. “Une petite mort.”

You felt heat crawl up your cheekbones and all the way to the tips of your ears. Because this had been some whole, elaborate setup, hadn’t it? Something that you’d only agreed to because he’d seemed so, ah, enthusiastic. And then you’d gone and barfed up banana chunks and ruined the whole thing.

“Sorry,” you mumbled.

Rook’s head shot up and he reached out to snare your hands in his.

“Non, non, mon cher!” he gasped. “This was hardly your fault to speak of! It is I and my poor planning that ought to make recompence,” he said.

And then, a terribly acute sort of brilliance came over his face. Like a lightbulb went off in his brain. Those green eyes went sharp with focus. He seemed to roll the his words around on his tongue, as if deciding exactly how they ought to taste when he let them fall back out again.

“And recompense I shall make!” he chirped, determined and shifted so his chin was resting in your lap. He sent you a coy little grin that had shivers racing down your spine.

“I literally just threw up,” you complained.

“This will certainly help you feel better,” he offered.

“That’s not the point!” you squawked. “Shouldn’t I—I don’t know—at least brush my teeth or something first?”

“Forgive me, mon petit lapin,” he laughed against your thigh. “But last I checked, I don’t think your mouth has anything do with this. And besides,” he crooned, reaching up to press a firm hand against your shoulder and help ease you down to the mattress below. “That was from overexertion, I’m afraid. Not illness. And I can promise, mon cher, that this time, you won’t have to bother putting any work in at all~”

.

.

[putrexistence]

that part of dee’s fantasy in ‘the gang saves the day’ where the robber reveals themself to be a girl

i know what you are deandra

[peakygirl1919]

Part 1: The Bloody Beginning

Summary: The Emperor is dying, but Geta takes matters into his own hands.

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: no spoilers for the movie// angst// violence// death// implied past abuse// period typical warnings

It was silent in the Palatine; save for the rustle of silk and the moans of a dying man. Septimus Severus was dying. It was treason to say so: any, whether they be slave, servant or senator who mentioned it would be executed-  but it was true. 

Geta stared at the man he had looked up to all his life lying weak and emaciated on the bed. Death seemed to have shrunk him, his hair greasy and matted on his forehead and his beard coming away in patches. He had fallen ill while on a campaign in Britannica, an mild wound putrifying until it was grave enough to endanger the life of the emperor. 

He was currently lurking behind a plinth in the Emperor’s bedchamber, his brother Caracalla crouched behind him, mild whimpers escaping from his mouth, his hand clenching Geta’s leg. 

His father wasn’t lucid right now, and for that he was thankful. When the Praetorians carried him in, he was roaring with rage, spittle flying from his mouth. Geta could not believe his usually cool father could make such noises. His mother, Julia Domna had tried to placate the Emperor, but had received a strike to head in thanks. It was at that point Geta had retreated to the shadows of the chamber, thinking it would be best not to get in the way and somehow bring the familiar wrath upon his head. 

More moans left his father’s dry and cracked lips, and a sheen of sweat lay over body. His mother had now taken up guard by his bedside, a delicate handkerchief pressed to cut on her cheek, despite the strong stench of death flowing from the man. Her eyes were empty as the cloth was stained red. 

The oil lamps flickered and grew dim as the hours passed by. It was a clear night, and Geta could see the moon’s reflection over the city that stretched out before them. The news of the Emperor’s imminent departure to the next life had the citizens concerned; they knew the transfer of power was no sure thing. The vibrant stores that lined the Via Sacra were boarded up; no noises came from the pleasure houses and street food vendors absent. Silence fell over the great city- a collective breath holding. 

The only place that showed evidence that people still remained in the city was the light that burst from the temples. Geta wished he could join the worshippers, and beg for favour from the Gods.

A whisper made its way across the room, and Geta instantly stiffened, the blood draining from his face and the hairs on his neck standing on edge. This was it. 

‘Geta…, come, my son…’. His father was calling him over.

Caracalla’s whimpers turned into cries, and Geta reached down to smooth his hair trying to pretend they were still boys, playing hide and seek in many rooms in the palace.

His gold-trimmed sandals made no sound crossing the marble floor; he felt like he was floating.

The whisper of his name became more insistent, even in death his Father had no patience for him. He moved forward towards the imperial bed, and knelt down next to the edge. His Father already appeared corpse-like; his bloated skin taking already hanging from his bones. 

He glanced pointedly at his mother, but she either did not notice or take heed from it. If she had, then perhaps her fate would have been different. Geta noted her disrespect and stored it in the back of his mind, he would deal with everyone once he had power.

Prior to the Emperor’s departure for his most recent and evidently final military campaign, he had been named co-augusti to rule in his stead alongside Caracalla. It would not do thinking what would occur if Caracalla had been left to rule on his own. 

‘Geta, you are to listen to me carefully. My time is short, I know that, despite the sycophantic crowing from all that I will live. I am not a fool. You will reign, this I know,’

Geta sharply inhaled. 

His father’s bloodshot eyes locked onto him with fervour, and Geta felt like the Gods themselves had plucked his thoughts from his head and planted them into his fathers. 

‘You will reign alongside your brother,’ 

Geta began to protest, the madness that had been evident from his brother’s birth grew worse by the year, his lucid moments becoming further apart.

His father began to cough, blood and sputum flowing from his mouth like the Tiber. The Gods would claim his soon, Geta thought, not without a spark of anticipation. With clear effort, his father continued on.

‘You are as strong as your weakness, protect him, do not quarrel with him, it will be set against the other that you both shall fall’ The Emperor took a deep breath, his pale chest struggling to rise. He seemed panicked now, no longer so brave in the face of death. He spoke rapidly and breathlessly ‘Pay the soldiers, never allow a united senate and scorn all others.’

This last point was but an echo of a whisper, Geta felt the words imprint on his mind. Scorn alright. He would obliterate the others. 

He felt his mother’s quiet gaze return to the floor, no doubt weighing in her calculating mind what her next advantageous play would be. 

But the bubble of quiet reverence had been broken. Caracalla began to wail and scream, throwing himself to the floor in his fractured state. Geta looked at him and felt no pity, only acceptance. He had always been this way, still a child in many ways. Sometimes Geta envied him for his ignorance, but sometimes Geta hated him with a red fiery passion. How could it be fair that he was the younger brother taking on the mantle of the older. How could it be fair that he had to shoulder the responsibility for both of them? But whenever these thoughts struck him he reasoned the Gods must have placed him in this position for a reason. That reason was clear to Geta now. 

It was the will of the Gods that Geta took his place on the throne. With Caracalla, technically by his side. But that was a minor detail. One that could be solved, if he so wished, but he did not. At least he knew where his brother’s loyalties lay. 

He felt heat pool in his belly as he thought of the future. But he couldn’t ahead of himself. Not yet. His father was still in the realm of the living, his mother plotted against him, and the loyalty of the army and senate had not yet been secured. There was work to do. 

Caracalla had moved on from simply harming himself and now began to tear the decorative hangings and tapestries off the wall; knocking over busts of Emperors past and topple furniture. Must he do everything in this family, Geta thought to himself. 

He spoke with new-found authority to his mother, Julia Domna, ‘why don’t you see to my brother, ensure he does himself no harm. It is not good for my father the emperor to see him so distressed at this time,’. He tried to hide the excitement he felt at taking that tone with her, and still his racing heart. 

He felt himself, be weighed, measured and found wanting by his mother. She made no reply as she stood up and went over to Caracalla. He clung to her robes and cried loudly into her stomach. Julia Domna stood with her arms at her side and held herself rigid, hands slack. She guided Caracalla away, back to his own chambers no doubt, where he could be comforted by whoever was warming his bed tonight. Geta turned back to face his father. He had no wish to see his mother’s empty platitudes. 

Geta was finally alone with his father. The only noise was the death rattle of his chest as his body continued to fight the inevitable. Geta walked closer and closer to the bed, uncaringly stepping over the broken glass and wooden splinters littered over the floor. 

The flecks of gold in Geta’s dark eyes flashed in the dim light as his face pressed close to his father’s face. He saw clearly that the Gods had renounced their favour and protection from the Emperor, with every passing breath his father seemed more man than immortal Emperor chosen by the gods.

He slipped a dagger from his belt. It was a small thing, for ceremonial use only. But he reasoned this was a ritual of sorts, and it felt fitting. The light weight of it felt heavy in his hands; the weight of consequence. 

It had a golden hilt, with a careful depiction of the twin founders of Rome with the she-wolf standing protectively over them. Her eyes were set with winking rubies, and Geta felt their divine stare upon him. 

His father did not see the metallic shine of steel in the moonlight; did not hear the grunt of effort as the blade was thrust into his chest; did not feel Geta’s fist bracing itself against his shoulder; did not taste the coppery salt of his blood dripping from his lips; did not smell Geta’s spice and incense scent as he leaned over to remove the knife. 

No, his father would not notice anything anymore. Geta watched the red blood bloom against the pale of the sheets, as his father gurgled and turned translucent. The dagger was slick in his fingers, coated with blood.

He let it drop from his hands, the clatter it made on cool marble flooring obscene. Its purpose was served. He had prevailed. His father was dead. The emperor was dead. 

He felt laughter bubble up inside him, but he knew the gods would not approve of humour at this most sacred of moments- when he had been made their vessel, through which their divine judgement had been rendered.

A high-pitch giggle broke the silence and Geta tensed, almost checking it was not him that made that noise. But it was his twin; his other-half. Caracalla must had wandered back into the room and had been standing there for Gods knows how long. 

Geta didn’t know how to break the silence- and was about to speak when Caracalla said, ‘He’s dead,’ in a soft, airy voice. Geta nodded. 

‘You did this for us? For both of us?,’. Geta nodded again, not trusting himself to remain emotionless if he answered using his voice. 

‘Well, this will make things more interesting…’ Caracalla trailed off, as if not sure exactly how things would become more interesting, but certain in the knowledge that they would. 

The brothers could have stayed there in that moment, forever. On the cusp between childhood and adulthood; the uncertain intake of breath before moving on from one stage of life to next. Caracalla was often happy to remain in this shapeless place, not concerning himself with reality, with the practicalities. 

But Geta knew had to act to control the narrative, to seize control of the guards, to summon the senate, and to proclaim his divine authority- and to protect his brother. 

Caracalla stalked over to the body of his father and gave his rapidly cooling body a poke in the stomach. His finger came away stained red. Geta turned away and reached over to a bell to summon a servant, letting the collected mask of his face fall, allowing his anxiety and nerves to rule him for a moment. 

The slave drifted into the room silently, eyes cast downwards, not wishing to bring Geta’s rage upon his head. 

Geta looked up and snapped his face back into one of cool arrogance and hard eyes. ‘Summon the senate, the first proclamation from their emperors is to be heard.’ 

The slaves hastily bowed and darted away. 

During the exchange Caracalla had slipped beside him and grasped his hand, their father’s blood sealing their palms. 

‘What do we do now?’, Caracalla asks hesitantly, glancing at Geta from lidded eyes. 

Geta paused, before answering with a smirk on his face, ‘Whatever we want.’

A/N: well…. that was dramatic. Apologies to those looking for historical accuracy- I played around with the death of Septimus Severus (he didn’t make it back to Rome and died on a military campaign); and anything else wrong is my fault, sorry!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are encouraged and greatly appreciated. 

Let me know if you would like this series to continue, and if so, what other snippets of Geta’s life you would like to see…

TAGS:

@fallout-girl219

@justnobodynothingmore

@quuinyoung

@barcelonaloverf1life

@helsa3942

@aisling1985

[weirdmarioenemies]

Name: Pyroclasmic Slooch (Sulucina vulcanis)

Debut: Pikmin 3

I think Pyroclasmic Slooch has one of the best names of any Pikmin creature! This is the one I break out if I ever need to explain what a Pikmin name feels like. A large scientific jargon-y sounding word, followed by a single silly little syllable it's perfect! And it IS meaningful, because Pyroclasmic is only one letter away from Pyroclastic, as in pyroclastic flow, a hot volcanic gas/rock current. And Slooch is just, look at this thing! It's what "slooch" looks like! Both as a noun AND a verb!

Fire in video game and monster design is usually pretty boring to me, just for how common it is. I get it, since it is pretty much the most "yeowch! don't touch" thing everyone is familiar with, but I have had enough of Charizardlikes bloating my media! Thank goodness, then, for Pikmin, which implements "conventional" elemental properties into fun, pseudoscientific speculative creatures! It may often be a big load of nonsense, but they explain the nonsense so confidently. Yeah alright. Whatever you say! Maybe a slug could be on fire.

Hello Slooch! What a nice smile you have, framed by your oral tentacles! I wonder if Pyroclasmic Slooch's eyes are useful at all. A regular slug's eyes are mostly just for sensing light and dark, but that doesn't seem practical for a creature that makes its own light that would constantly be in view! Just to be safe, you should give this Slooch a thumbs up, in case it can indeed see you! (computer screen is a real portal to another world where pretend creatures live)

So yeah, Pyroclasmic Slooch is a slug on fire, or maybe a snail whose shell IS fire. It doesn't really matter, either way, the DESIGN is fire! The vibrant orangish stripes on its black body evoke flowing and cooling lava! Lava joke: I bet it was a real "aa moment" when they came up with that design quirk!

As much as I love Pyroclasmic Slooch, it is a wild animal! And it will try to eat the min that you picked, with its funny blue tongue! Louie, everyone's favorite menace Louie, recommends cooking this tongue and no other part of the creature. Would You Eat? I wouldn't, but I wouldn't judge you for doing it. If you have plenty of Red Pikmin, though, their fire immunity makes Slooches very easy to deal with.

You know, real slugs like mold! Do you think Pyroclasmic Slooch likes mold? Maybe it could be friends, with mold. Let's introduce them!

Name: Moldy Slooch (Parasitus pseudofungi elasticis hostus)

Debut: Pikmin 4

Hooray! Now they're inseparable! You may notice that Moldy Slooch's scientific name differs greatly from that of Pyroclasmic Slooch, and that is because the Slooch is no longer in control. It is being puppeted by a fungus! Its nervous system and slime organs have been entirely taken over. Isn't that nice? Now the Slooch doesn't have to do any work, because the fungus does all of that for it! This slug can just relax for the rest of its life, because it is not dead! A dried-up corpse wouldn't be useful a very good friend, would it? In fact, if the Moldy Slooch does die, it can be instantly revived by a phallic, yet kindly Toxstool! The gift of eternal life!

Moldy Slooch's description by Dalmo (the animal enthusiast who could have been writing for this blog the whole time and you would be none the wiser includes the incredible line "Slugga slugga choo choo! Here comes the fungal spore train." So fun! Whee! I want to ride the train!

Moldy Slooch is really the best friend someone could ask for. After I met it in person, and it introduced me to Toxstool, I've never felt better! So what are you waiting for, fellow living animals? Come visit our damp cave sometime! You are always welcome :)

[yuesya]

Far beneath the royal capital of Leyndell and its myriad splendors, there lies a sprawling maze of darkened waterways and shadowed tunnels; antithesis to all that is good and gold upon the surface. All creatures who are shunned dwell down here, to while away their days within the dark.

Morgott and his twin brother, Mohg, had been cast down here upon birth. Demigod children of Queen Marika the Eternal and Elden Lord Godfrey they may be, even such godly, royal blood did not prevent exile. For they both were born Omen –wretched creatures who were not blessed with the grace of the Erdtree. The blood that ran through their veins was cursed, a quality that manifested upon their physical bodies as monstrous deformities. Hulking figures, and bestial horns.

It is a mercy that they still draw breath. That they are only chained and bound beneath the cavernous depths of the royal city. Other Omen are not so lucky; their horns are forcibly excised at birth, an act that more often than not results in death.

And death is something that Morgott is familiar with, too. There are corpses floating in the sewers, those of Omen and vermin alike. Bloated, deformed, crawling with maggots. It is a common sight, this scenery that is ever-present and ever-constant in the dreary darkness of this world.

(The only world that Morgott knows.)

“Brother!”

The distinct clink of chains is preceded by his twin brother’s booming voice. Loud, and echoing. Rats are sent scattering at his approach, fleeing in a messy wave that rattles Morgott’s own chains. The shackles upon his limbs hang heavy, as does the collar affixed around his neck, but this does not stop Morgott from lifting his head to heed his brother’s call–

–what is that?

… Wading through the foul sewer waters, Mohg’s towering, horned figure does not strike an unusual sight. What is unusual, however, would be the child sitting docilely in the crook of his arm, gathered haphazardly to his chest. No visible signs of any distress, or even any alarm at all.

It is a girl. Pale white hair, standing out starkly against the gloom of her surroundings. Blue eyes, abyssal and ringed with a distinct glow. Her appearance is one that is free of any blemishes and other such deformities –she does not appear to be cursed, so it is utterly baffling that such a child is here.

What madness is this?

“You –what have you done?” Morgott demands.

Mohg smiles. “Nay, ‘tis not I who is to blame for any of this! A little stray seems to have managed to wander down here on her own.”

“‘Fell,’” the girl corrects, tugging at the hem of his brother’s tattered sleeve with no compunctions. “I didn’t wander. I fell.”

“Ah, my apologies,” Mohg promptly acquiesces, readjusting his hold on her for better balance. “She seems to have slipped and fallen through the cracks –is that right?”

The girl nods agreeably.

… Except one does not just fall down into the bowels of glorious Leyndell like that. What is this child? And, more importantly–

Morgott clicks his tongue, “How are we to return her to the surface?”

Benign visitors from above are quite vanishingly rare, and for the most part the denizens of the depths below are simply cast aside and left to their fates. Morgott does not know when, or if their Lord-Father would choose to visit them again, and should this child expire during that time–

“Why?” Mohg asks. “We should just keep her.”

Morgott scowls. “Do not say such things in jest. You cannot just keep a child –surely she has family on the surface who are searching for her!”

Mohg peers down at the girl in his arms, “Do you?”

The white-haired girl shakes her head in clear dismissal of the notion. “Queen-Mother would only search for Godwyn.”

Morgott stares at the girl. So does Mohg, for that matter.

Queen-Mother. Godwyn.

The implications of her words–!

“… Your parents,” Morgott finds himself saying slowly, “You are a daughter of Queen Marika?”

“Yes.”

This strange child –one whom Morgott cannot sense any trace of divinity or his mother’s power from– is their younger sister? Half-sister?

This is… certainly unexpected.

[nedlittle]

hey i don't mean to be mean or anything i'm just wondering about that marauders fans post.

how would a marauders fan art benefit jkr? how would a fanfic about gay and trans characters benefit her? i feel like it does her more harm that people think of her characters as queer. and i think most marauders fans already know not to buy her books or go to the wizarding world or watch the new show or whatever.

like when it comes to spending money everyone's careful to not support her except terfs and people support her ideology and whatnot.

i'm trying to think of how someone posting headcanons about these characters on tumblr can somehow benefit jkr

again, i don't want to come across as hateful or anything i'm genuinely trying to understand your point

thank you for asking this in good faith. i've been having trouble wording stuff lately, so apologies if this isn't as coherent as i'd like.

participating in the marauders fandom continues to benefit jkr simply because you cannot divorce the marauders from their larger context. the fandom may have turned the marauders into something more than glorified side characters, but they cannot exist without the framework of the harry potter universe which has bigotry baked into its very core. imagine we're all playing in a sandbox. marauders fans may be making beautiful sand castles and art with their own two hands, but they're using the sand toys that jkr left for them and the sandbox that they're playing in is in her backyard and in order to play you have to get your hand stamped by joanne personally.

it would be so easy for people to just....make their own ocs or switch to a different fandom. the marauders are hardly characters to begin with, but the inability to let go of a text which gives them basically nothing as characters ensures that the bloated corpse of the harry potter fandom continues shambling around long after it should have died.

and for the most part, the marauders are not relevant to normies. i think even if someone was a big fan of the books in middle school, but has moved on, they aren't going to think of the marauders beyond the characters we actually see on page. the prevailing cultural view of those characters in the context of how they were written is not "look at this cool and diverse friend group coming of age in the 70s and sticking it to the man" or w/e it's "those guys who were mostly in the background." most people do not think of these characters as queer because they aren't doing the mental labour of filling in jkr's world for her.

but because this fandom is so popular--it trends every other week, pinterest is filled with it, youtubers are making video essays on marauders fandom as a queer utopian reclamation of hp--jkr sees the continued relevance of people talking about her characters. she does not see the caveat that you are taking this character who is just a name on a page in some supplementary material and making her into a black lesbian (which is a whole other thing where ppl treat diverse headcanons as a "punishment" for bigoted authors in the same way that twitter libs will qtwt homophobes like "i hope your kids turn out to be gay" which is....not activism but anyway). she doesn't see desi james potter and gay trans boy remus lupin, she just sees the interaction between creator and consumer. she sees this as "people still care about the art i have made and must agree with my views". it makes her believe she still has an audience, which she definitely does unfortunately, which is why we're getting the series reboot and theme parks and merchandise for a piece of ip that peaked what? 15 years ago? i'm not looking that up

tl,dr in jkr's brain support of her work = support of her views

[losersimonriley]

the worms crawl in, the worms crawl out

Simon and Johnny die. And then they wake up.

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/John "Soap" MacTavish

tags: major character death, but they're both ghosts, afterlife, these two are so in love in every version of themselves, actually quite sweet despite how it sounds

word count: 1252

warnings for descriptions of decomposing human bodies

There is nothing left but the two of them.

No missions, no worldly travelling, no deadlines and commitments. No war and no enemy. No bureaucratic nonsense, no rules. Only endless time.

There is no plot to follow anymore.

He's dead. They're both dead.

He's just waiting for Johnny to wake up.

Time is different here—expansive and condensed, depending on which way he looks at it.

Johnny just needs to wake up. Simon has been lying by his side for so long now—or not so long at all. The wildflowers have turned brown and droopy, the willow tree has gone bright orange. It sways in the crisp wind, and grey clouds swirl.

They died in an embrace. Simon's arm is pillowed beneath Johnny's head, Johnny's rotted hand is falling into Simon's rotted cheek. Their faces are turned toward each other, so close, as if they'd been about to kiss right before the reaper took them.

Their bodies have gone past rigor mortis and bloating and purging. The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out. He can look on and chuckle as a maggot falls from his body's open mouth onto the dead grass beneath them. There is a particularly territorial fly situated over Johnny's chest. Anytime another creature comes too close to its treasure, it buzzes them right off. At least he's got free entertainment until Johnny comes to.

He feels so light after all this time.

In another year, green grass and blooming flowers will cover the spot where they lay. The ecosystem will work them into its space in whatever way it sees fit. Simon and Johnny will be long gone away from here.

They'll go find Price and Gaz probably, just as soon as Johnny settles into his new incorporeal form. It was…a lot to process by himself, being the first to wake. He hadn't understood it at first: looking on at his own dead body as if from a third person perspective. Being able to sit up, get up and walk around their perfectly picturesque autumn hillside. No graves, no cremation or burial, no marker.

He doesn't quite remember how they got here. He's hoping Fly Food here next to him has some idea on that part. If not, they'll figure it out from Price and Gaz. He hopes they're back at base, because that's where they'll look first. It'd be just like the two fuckers to send them on a wild good chase around the world, just trying to find them to figure out what happened.

Leaves fall around them.

He hums a tune stuck in his head—one he thinks he's heard Soap sing before.

Leaves pile up, and the temperature drops. Funny how he can still feel the chill in the air. He thinks he might be the chill in the air.

Another blink, another rustle of leaves, and Johnny is sitting up from his body. It's not like how he came up from his own—Simon's awakening was violent, like shooting up from a nightmare, breathless and heart hammering. Johnny blinks awake slow and sweet, stretching his arms like he's just had the best nap of his life. Bastard.

It's a holy experience to see him like this again. Lively. Not decomposed.

Johnny grins at him. "Mornin', beautiful."

"Fuckin' finally."

Like magnets, like it's the most natural thing in the whole of the universe, like they've done it all their lives—their lips meet in warmth.

Johnny holds both hands on his cheeks, preventing Simon from moving, even if he wanted to. Simon holds the back of Johnny's head, short hair of his mohawk threaded between his fingers.

"Been waitin' to do that for forever," Johnny says against his mouth, foreheads resting together.

"Why didn't you, then?"

Soap makes a point to look at the corpses beside them, forever trapped in a lover's embrace. "Uh—reckon, I might have tried."

Simon kisses him again.

If he had to liken it to one thing, it would be falling into the sun. He's dead, but he's burning alive.

Johnny doesn't remember anything. Not actually a big surprise there. Just…he'd been hoping they could just relax and enjoy their afterlife, instead of going on a journey to solve a whole-arse mystery.

The fun thing about being dead is none of the living can see them.

The annoying thing about being dead is all the other dead people can see them.

And there are a lot of fucking dead people on this Earth.

He thought the train was crowded before? He had no idea what crowded truly meant until now; they're squished tighter than sardines in this thing. He's sitting inside another person—at not in the sexy way.

It a Living, and he's fairly sure he's giving her cold chills.

Soap is far too amused by it all, talking to other dead people. Ghosts, Soap has deemed them all. Much to his own unamusement. He's got a feeling this afterlife is going to be as long-suffering as his living-life was. Just in a different, more absolutely perfect way.

What Johnny's gleaned from his conversations so far seems to be that nobody remembers how or why they die. That's something every person has to figure out by themselves. If they want to. No rules, and all.

He'd foolishly thought death might mean a break from lessons learned and deep thoughts. Apparently not.

Some dead fuck accidentally elbows his ribs. Why are there so many ghosts on the line to fucking Hereford? Is there really that much of a hankering for the mediocre fish bar, or are they all simply travelled everywhere else in the world and a Herefordshire autumn is the last place on all of their lists?

Can they even eat? He'll have to have Johnny ask someone before they make arses of themselves in public.

A quick glance around spots his target, his other half, sitting inside a sleeping old man while talking to another old man ghost. The geezer looks all too happy to explain whatever Johnny is animatedly asking about.

Despite the crowd of lifeless fuckers, he's really never felt more alive.

He rather wishes he could've told his living self it would all be okay in the end. Because there is no end. There's Simon and Johnny, and a train, and questions to answer, and an endless amount of time to figure everything out.

Johnny catches his eye from across the aisle, and there's that mad, signature grin. He says something to the man while nodding in Simon's direction before getting up and making his way back over beside him. Then the old man grins at him. A blush creeps its way up his neck onto his cheeks. So that can still happen.

Soap sits inside the other lady next to his own.

"That's Reginold. Reggie," Soap informs.

He quirks an eyebrow. Alright?

"He died in eighteen-forty-three."

"Condolences," he says dryly.

Johnny leans in close. "An' he thinks you're just a braw gentleman."

The blush rises to his ears, and he risks a side-glace at Reggie.

"But I told him ye were taken."

Johnny kisses him there, slowly and deeply, in the middle of the train. With everyone watching.

And it's okay. It doesn't matter who sees. They're already fucking dead. All of them.

He'd like to go back to visit their bodies someday. Maybe they can bring flowers, fix up a marker, so the living world knows they were there.

Johnny and Simon, dead and gone, still here, forevermore.

[heartfullofleeches]

You mentioned in a headcanon post about how Tobi would knock reader out with their voice when they did something they didnt like, could you make an example scenario 4 us ? :0

"No."

There are many things Tobi can protect you from. Ghosts and demons, spiteful commentors and people who wouldn't take no for an answer were forces they could easily handle as simply as flicking off a light switch. Ancient, decrepit houses - as hard as they may try, weren't always included in that list.

As per usual - Tobi left to explore the house you'd picked out for your next stream couple days prior to the stream to rid the place of any hostile spirits or other elements that may bring you harm. It was pretty much habitual for them scout every location, and helped relived some of their stress towards leaving you to your own devices in what was essential the unknown.

The house was far worse off inside that the pictures you had showed them conveyed. A riverside lodge annihilated by a enraged storm and the overflooding waters from the river bank. The young couple who owned the home tragically drowned after leaving the sun roof open the night prior and failing to wake up before it was too late. The walls sagged with age and decades of water weight, and the warped, rotting floors could barely handle Tobi's lanky stature and size.

Normally, they'd just install some temporary support planks and forbid you from venturing to the top floor or basement, but exploring deeper they came to the conclusion this site was far too dangerous for you to step a single foot inside.

Heading towards the stairway to the top floor, there was a large gap right between where the first step and the bottom floor met. It was narrow enough to where they could just step over - but Tobi noticed something right as they peered casually into the hole. A piece of fabric stuck to the spliters of the wood. It was in too good a condition to be something from the incident, but that's not what made Tobi pause.

The scrap of cloth matched perfectly to a jacket you had just released - the same jacket you were throwing on now.

"Aw, come on, Tobi - this could be our big break!"

Their fingers fly to fast across their phone screen for your eyes to keep up.

"Too dangerous."

Laughing, you zip up your jacket as you reach for your keys. "You always say that. If you're scared, you can wait in the car and I'll cut the stream short. I did okay on my own before you came around."

Grabbing the tail end of your jacket, Tobi's mind rushes back to the second sight they saw in that hole. The bloated corpses of one of your followers - staring straight up at him. They couldn't even remember what their face looked like. All they saw was yours. It was always yours.

Tobi grabs your wrist, squeezing the ball of your hand until you're forced to lose your grip on your keys. Stay. Don't go. Your adventurous spirit was one of the endless things they loved about you and they'd never take that away - but if you left their sight for a single second then-

"No......"

Pressure builds behind your eyes. You pres a hand to your temple, shaking off the brief wave of nausea "Ugh.. Tobi... I'll be okay, I promise. I got a little headache now, so I didn't won't be out long. "

No.... Flashes of your face in that horrible state cloud their already fogged mind- eyes glossy, skin pale and so, so cold. A far cry from the life and warmth you gave off now. It would only take one second. One second for you to get hurt. One second for them to lose you. They can't go back to life without you. They can't be that empty shell rotting away in an equally decaying home. They can't - they won't. You can't leave them.

"YOU'RE NOT GOING TO LEAVE ME!"

It all happens so fast. Your brain throbs. Without utter a single word, you place your fingers your lips - red being all you see. Shaking, you look up at your cameraman as your jaw goes slack.

"To-"

Your eyes glaze over, trembling legs unable to support the remaining weight of your body as you fall. Tobi dives to the floor, catching you in their arms before your unceremoniously landing. Your head almost hits the floor before their arms shoot out to catch you. He supports it and your neck on his shoulder, unzipping your jacket with the same tremors you had before your fall. Tobi removes their hat and places their ear to your chest.

One beat. Two-

You're still alive. Deep down they knew, but for the sake of their aching heart they had to make sure. Tobi carefully zips your jacket back up and once they do - they begin to cry. If your comatose state was good for one thing it was leaving you in the dark, unharmed by their wails and pleads.

"sorry... I'm so sorry... I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I love you. I love you. Please - please don't leave me..Don't leave me."

Tobi slowly regains their composure. They wipe the blood from your nose, and their thick tears from your face as they stand. Tobi carries you to your bedroom and places you in bed. They clear your search history of anything related to the cabin and burn the notes along it. They reserve a table at your favorite restaurant for tomorrow, praying you'll wake up before the time comes. As you rest they rehearse their lines for when you wake - thankful you'll never hear the break in their voice when they lie.