#detailed depiction of death tw

[blueberryarchive]

𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒘𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒚 & 𝒍𝒊𝒒𝒖𝒐𝒓

♰pairing; preacher!jk x reader x cowboy!jm

♰word count; 4.6k

♰genre; smut, horror, angst

♰tw; dead dove do not eat, drowning, heavy non-con, dacryphilia, oral, penetration, mentions of blood, depiction of religion, gruesome details of death, physical and verbal violence (jk has a serious rage problem), alcohol consumption, smoking, mentions of jk wanting to have sex as a teen.

prev//next

"Love. Sweetheart, stay with me a lil' longer, please. Fuck, Jeon, she's dying on me." Jimin bellowed, a halo of violet light outlining his silhouette as dry cornfields passed by the sides of the truck, your body bouncing with the truck's turmoil from side to side.

You looked down and saw your numb leg, the dark hole of burnt skin that Park soaked with a misty liquor. His awake and worried eyes, the dried blood of your lusts on his lips, the new blood that the wound vomited out, covering his hands, becoming thicker and purer.

Your shoulders slumped, your head resting on the back window of the truck. The two men were fighting, but that was just as the murmur of crickets and moths.

The sky was infinite, domed with stars, all subtly arranged in the perfect position. You saw among the sequins of God, all your dresses and the damn heels in which you had to squeeze your growing body. How Miss Texas' adorable smile became a pathetic white plate without emotion.

And oh, you knew that the fall of a star was inevitable, but not even the flame began to die when you were already sunken between the rocks and the soft grass caressing the last spark, your first tears of acceptance. And in the grass, you dozed, feeling sorry for your own useless body, the plastic crowns, the gold, and the memories of the applause.

"No! Stay." A slap brought you back to the hard floor of a barn. The unknown man grabbed your cheeks and choked you with a long, bitter drink of homemade liquor.

The little light came in from a window in the wooden ceiling, the heat emanating from the hay and wool piled in the corner, leaving a strong smell, you groaned before vomiting to the side.

"Fuck, Jungkook. She's not a fucking animal, you're going to make her faint." Jimin pushed his partner. Jungkook swallowed hard. His pale, neat face was dirty with crimson droplets.

"What the fuck were you thinking, Park?" Jungkook pushed him back, and neither of them could believe it, neither the action nor the power in the voice.

"What are you talkin' about?"

"Letting in a bunch of rapist shit-smoking hippies without a fucking cent to pay for their stay."

And then you thought about the rifle the father was carrying, about Sage and the others. A gasp from deep in your chest, the sob reminding you of your pain.

The rifle was pointed at you with anger pooling in his neck that didn't let him breathe. You screamed as you tried to stand up but it was useless, your wounded leg was your cross. Jimin moved as quickly as possible to cover your mouth, squeezing until it hurt.

"What did you do with the others?" Park's voice trembled, and his partner's eyes showed an open, bloody wound that would not close until a couple of demons ran away.

"I shot the boy in the shoulder, the two girls took the car and drove to California. I made them promise not to come back."

"You're a fucking psychopath." Your scream is muffled by the cowboy's fingers.

The rifle flew away in the hay, and the impatient sheep threw themselves to one side when they knew that it was not food they brought but danger.

"Jeon, stop!"

Jungkook was taller and heavier than his partner, so it wasn't difficult to lunge at you, grab your hair, and compress your chin until he felt every tooth. He was sweating with the smell of incense and wine, his thin lips spit in your face.

"It's because of people like you that I want to leave the church and buy a damn truck, pick up every son of a bitch on Route 66 who raises his dirty thumb on the side of the road, and bathe them in acid until they dissolve alive."

You didn't say anything, because you were pure meat in front of him, a mere animal for slaughter if you moved too close…

Two hot tears fell to Jungkook's fingers, and it was as if a flower had opened in his hand. A strange tickling in his throat left him passive, mute. He removed his hat with the respect the pained lady deserved.

"You're the Bell Ranch kid."

"Please tell me you didn't start shooting people in my house." Jimin interrupted, pacing back and forth impatiently.

"Jimin, she's the Bell Ranch kid-"

"I know, it doesn't matter now. You shot her and she's bleeding herself to death, Christ."

"I told you it was just a shot, they'll probably think it was to scare a coyote."

The cowboy crouched down and tucked his head between his legs, the alcohol rising into his veins.

"You're such an idiot, you know?" The father continued, filling the silence.

"What did you just say?"

"You really believe that these people come to enjoy rural life, to feed your chickens and fuck in the mountains."

"I needed the money," Jimin muttered stressed.

"The fuck you needed that money for?"

"To get the hell out of this place." He roared, standing again in front of Jungkook. "I'm sick and tired of Rivermouth and its moribund, corrupt town. It makes me want to throw up just thinking about having to see the fucking faces of the same people at Bee's diner again."

Jungkook furrowed his eyebrows at him, seeing him as if he were a child throwing a tantrum.

"But everyone loves you, you're like a star here."

Jimin laughed, glassy eyes threatening to ooze saline waters.

"Do you know who else was a star in this town? Your dad, little church boy."

"Jimin." He warned you saw how his fists showed through his knuckles.

"And the star decided to have a summer camp for all the children, ended up in a human grill, and everyone thought that your dad fucked children."

It was so fast that you couldn't see Jimin's body fall to the ground, the dust hiding the blows that reverberated from Jimin's skull. The cowboy didn't lift his arms, instead, he let his friend vent until he saw Jimin's silver fang painted red.

Jungkook gasped like a barbarian, his arms trembled before he delivered the next punch and fell next to Jimin, overwhelming moans coming from his chest, stale tears, and babbling that only Jimin understood, but he didn't move.

Jimin closed his eyes, thinking about teenage Jungkook who was trying to get close to the burned body of his father, which Jimin never let him talk about or touch, for the funeral he locked him in his room even after protests and threats. He didn't know if he wanted to protect him, if because he was older than him, he thought about taking the role that that monument of a man had left behind.

He was as attractive as his son, charismatic, and an all-around good man. But his statue began to crack when some young people arrived at the church, a couple who convinced him that he did not need the God for whom he so praised and knelt down. But he was the deity, who with his wings would go far.

He had this idea of encouraging the little ones next to him, elevating them. He closed the doors of the old church, while singing with the children and bathed the edges of the windows in kerosene.

The screams were hellish, no one heard them. No one cried more than the little boy who saw his sister burning on the ground, no one screamed more than the girl whose dress melted into her skin, and no one trusted her father more than the youngest son of Father John I.

Jungkook's younger brother hung from his father's clothes, watching his friends burn with a sense of purpose, that this had to happen for his own good.

And like Icarus, the sun kissed his father's body without Jungkook realizing the changes until very late: the sarcastic laughter in the middle of reading, his constant absence, the misplaced and ambitious gaze.

His mother fell into the abyss. Died sitting in a rocking chair when her body seemed to disintegrate more and more every day. A rosary in hand, a tiresome prayer that licked away her sorrows.

"Come on, we have to think about what we're going to do with her," Jimin murmured, wiping away the trickle that ran down his nose. Jungkook gave him his hand and stood up. Both men hugged each other until the minor stopped sobbing.

The father looked in your direction, determined. You could feel the black socket of his eyes fire just once and not miss.

"We have to chain her before she runs away."

Jimin nodded. There was no time to lose.

A latent pain spread through Jungkook's head until a crown of pure anguish decorated his hair. Two fingers pinched the bridge of his nose as the phone rang incessantly on the other line.

One of the things that bothered him about Billie, was the way time seemed to run smoothly and leisurely through her fingers. It took her forever to analyze things, to choose what she was going to eat, even if it would always be chicken pot pie; and in this case, answer the phone.

The telephone booth where he was was dirty, it smelled of urine, and the windows were clouded with dust. He was still wearing his black shirt and pants, his collar pristine white, his old man's ring on his right hand being moved anxiously.

He couldn't believe what he would do in his free time instead of being with the girl he had decided to marry. But a letter arrived at his office at the church that afternoon, one of the children playing in the park had been sent with it. The letter was a simple piece of paper wrapped and tied with an improvised wildflower as a cord.

I'll be busy tonight. The sheep must be tamed and sheared. J.

When he read the words, he almost dropped the paper on the floor and sent the boy out with a dollar in his hand so that he would promise not to tell anyone.

He spent the entire mass having trouble speaking, gave averted glances, and cleared his throat like a sick man. The drops of sweat clinging to his chest, it was hell.

"Hello?"

"Billie, it's John, sweetheart."

"Why are you not here?" His chest sank as he heard the sweet voice of his girl. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips together.

"I must..." his voice trailed off. The last time he lied was so long ago.

It's not that religion made him feel guilty for telling a lie, sometimes a father must lie to people's faces with such solemnity that the devotee can only let themselves fall into the invisible hands of God and lie down on hope for a miracle.

"I have to take care of one Park's ewe. Poor little one it's havin' some trouble, and he doesn't want her to be alone until his show ends." Terrible, one of the worst lies he's ever made.

Silence.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Billie purred, almost in a plea. He sighed, he could see her pink varnished nail tangled in the phone cord eagerly. Trying not to wake her dad's ears with such questions.

Jungkook had her on the edge because he hadn't even kissed her. He knew he was cruel for that. It's not that he has officially offered either, but sometimes a man doesn't lie through words, but by taking her home, by looking into her eyes for a longer time when he gives her the host, by helping her learn to touch herself inside the confessional.

"It's better not to, pet. I'm sure it'll be an allnighter, the thing'll be crying for hours and I know how sensitive you are with animals."

"It's true, you know me so well, Jungkook."

He smiled. "I know, darling." He clears his throat before continuing. "But tomorrow you can come to the parish, and we will feed the pigeons in the morning. How 'bout that?"

One more lie, this time it was not the hands of God but the calloused and bloody hands of the young father. But she just giggled.

"Goodnight, Billie. Say hi to your mother for me."

"'Night, Johnnie. I love you."

A lump in his throat, and he thanked God because after saying that, she closed the call. His tongue turned to lead to say those three words back. He knew he did, he wanted to protect Billie more than anything and make her happy, but there was no need to say it, right?

Jungkook's shirt was unbuttoned, the shaking in his breathing causing an unusual tremor in the sound of the farm. It was a windy night, there wasn't much moonlight, so Jungkook lit several kerosene lamps on the banks.

The wooden tub was arranged in the center, the horses and chickens raising their heads every time Jungkook grunted, bringing more hot water. The sweat falling down his temples and over his broad chest, the steam had him suffocated in that silence, and you showed no signs of waking up at any time.

He approached the hay in the corner where the sheep surrounded your body curled up like a fetus, you slept with bloody clothes and matted hair. Your breathing is as soft as the wool around you, both hands and feet tied with rope.

You looked like a lost princess. A princess who devoured every man in her land, and now she rests peacefully to reduce her satiety. Your dry mouth and the remains of Jimin's blood fell to your neckline, making Jungkook's face boil, because he couldn't believe that his friend had fallen for such banalities. It made him want to take the same lamp in his fingers and drop it on top of your delicate body.

His boot touched your low heels, but nothing. He crouched down until he had his hand close to your shoulder, your skin tender under the shaking flames, curved and soft under the dress you were wearing.

You were disgusting, angelic, so terribly at peace in your state.

Of course, upon his arrival at Jimin's house, the first thing he did was open your suitcase and touch all your belongings. Because, in the end, a woman is her belongings: she is the compact blush that she has worn since she was 19, she is the old leather necklace with the worn-out heart pendant and the empty perfume bottle.

Women feel this need to keep things that don't work or lose their value over time. Something that may have to do with how Jungkook sees them, how it's the opposite for him. How his father and his uncles also saw the women in his life. The brighter, the better.

Women, instead, have their daughters' teeth in their jewelry like yellowish nacre and love the same man from their fifteenth until the memories fade with their bodies.

Jungkook knew you would like something to remind you of home, where you truly belong. Not California, not New York, not even Austin; but Rivermouth, with its disproportionate mountains, the storm clouds filling the sky at all hours, and the same faces transferring from parents to children to grandchildren.

A place where nothing changed and that was the good thing. Even though things might end up bad.

He was sure your body was not leaving that barn, he had come to that decision the same day he saw you.

To recompensate, he decided to find you the most beautiful dress among your belongings, a delicate bow with which he would decorate your neck and a vermilion lipstick.

His hand squeezed your shoulder until you stood up screaming, his hand went straight to your mouth.

"Don't fucking do that, please." The way you looked around made Jungkook understand that you didn't remember anything, it was sad to see the weight lift your pupils towards his and still try to find an explanation. "You need to shower, your stench is making me sick."

He grabbed your bound wrists and dragged you to the edge of the hot water, a round, yellowish sponge and sulfur soap placed on a stool.

"Don't make a noise, you'll wake up Sweet Pea," Jungkook murmured behind you, the heat of his breath on your back.

Sweet Pea was a sheep separated from the others, sleeping between a bed made of hay and old coats. Her bloated stomach writhed with each ragged breath. She suffered with her mouth open and her woolly paws shivering with every squirm of the babies in her belly, she slept painfully.

"Raise your arms." The man behind you whispered, a sharp Swiss army knife cutting through the fabric of your dress like butter. The cold of his hands removing your dress let a gasp leave your lips. "Easy, there."

His tall, sweaty body leaned into your hands, his eyes evading yours, swallowing hard. Your breasts fell light and exquisite, your exposed stomach curved until it reached the plain of your pussy and Jungkook felt like the edge of his knife would slip from his hands as he finished tearing your clothes.

"Let's see the wound." He cleared his throat, sitting on the bench where he had a clean pair of gauze. "Does it hurt?"

"What do you think?" You interrupted, raising your foot to the top of his knee.

"Have some respect. I'm not one of your little friends."

You rolled your eyes as the slender fingers removed the knot from the dirty yellowed gauze. You hissed, leaning your body forward. As a result, you placed your hands on top of Jungkook's jet-black hair, tightening the strands under your fingers in the last turn of the gauze. Jungkook took a deep breath, his fingers trembling gently as he examined the bruised hole.

"At least the blood stopped."

"Do you plan to heal my wound until I starve to death here?"

Jungkook was already getting tired of your words, of that shrill accent, and your lips always a little parted as if waiting for them to fill your mouth with-

"I plan to heal your wounds until I find a grave big enough to put you and all your things in." Your alert eyes made him laugh. He loved seeing the terror in them. Made you look more adorable.

He grabbed the clear liquor from among the hay and wet a piece of cotton. Your left leg was shaking from the effort, and you were weak, surely Jimin was stupid enough to not leave you something to eat before going to enjoy his fame.

"You're crying." Jungkook saw the tears falling to your breasts, you were quick to remove the ones that were flowing with your tied hands. Inhaling and sobbing like a little girl trying to be brave. You were terrified.

God and men knew why the statues of virgins were always portrayed as suffering. He wanted to run his fingers over your face, lick every salty tear, and say more chilling things to you to make you cry even more.

His hand rested on his lap and patted a couple of times.

"I know it hurts, stop being so stubborn."

You left your buttocks on his lap and placed both arms on your chest, covering your breasts. You were a mess, and you hated that you were crying, rivulets falling to the sockets of your collarbones. Jungkook focused on it, feeling thirsty as he cleaned the wound.

A hand rested on your bare waist to keep you from falling, calloused fingers unconsciously caressing the soft skin. Your back rose and fell with each whimper.

"I was kiddin', kid. For God's sake." He frowned, yet you continued. He grabbed the bottle again and grabbed your chin with his thumbs, long gulps of sheer force passing down your throat. "There ya' go. Stop the whining, now."

You coughed as you felt the alcohol melt your stomach with its heat.

"I hate you both. I wish I was dead."

"Me too, pumpkin."

The next step was to get into the bathtub. You closed your eyes as the heat engulfed your body, the steam cleaning your pits after crying your fill. You moaned softly as you snuggled into the soggy sheet.

On the other side was the father, sitting with both legs open while he slowly scrubbed the sponge with the soap. His hungry eyes were behind the whitish walls of hot steam.

"You're a virgin. Right, Father John?" Your light, sharp tongue asked, moving you closer to the edge of the tub.

His gaze went to yours, bold, fed up. He dropped the soap and poured water on your face and hair with an empty can of chickpeas. The slippery hair was easy to clench in his fist, the sponge in his hand rubbing circles on your back.

You pursed your lips as you felt the pressure you caused on him. Well, it looks like it was true.

"Don't you have a little girlfriend? It must be so lonely in this fucking town."

"I'll make you cry harder if you keep talking bullshit."

The foam was sliding down to your breasts, Jungkook tried to be as stoic as possible cleaning the area.

There was something quite submissive about him that brought out your worst thoughts. The worst part was that the alcohol made you dangerously flirtatious and you couldn't keep yourself in check. Not even when your life hung on it.

Between his long, slender fingers, over his broad back, and his soft, deadly voice.

You couldn't take it any longer as you moved closer to his body, the exact curve between his ear and his neck, and inhaled deeply. His hand under the water cleaning between your legs. You could feel his breathing become sharper.

"She gave it to you, right?" You sniffed closer. "You wear it to go see her, but now you have to bathe some shitty hippie you humiliated once in your teens."

"Shut up."

"Unlike your cowboy friend, you are a gentleman. You don't fuck 'em, then leave with your dick wet."

Jungkook chuckled. Silence.

He put the sponge on the bench and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows.

"I think we're done." He smiled.

Your eyebrows furrowed as he kicked off his shoes and stepped into the tub next to you. A heavy hand rested on your face and you could only feel the water entering your lungs, the beat of your screams turning into bubbles among the grayish water.

Out. A gasp, your heart beating a mile an hour searching for air between the hardness of Jungkook's palm.

In. Your body arched, bound hands clawing at Jungkook's arm. The impenetrable darkness consumed you, the sound pressure of the water, the metallic taste in your throat.

Out.

Your purple face, swollen eyes, crimson lips.

"Breathe, breathe." His voice was soft, and his fingers went to your hair to support your weak body. You heard a metallic clinking sound, your eyes burning from the soap in the water. "Open your mouth."

His fingers separated your teeth to make way for his cock, the pulse of his veins massaging your lips. Jungkook hissed loudly, throwing his head back.

"Atta, girl. Open more, I know bitches like you can dislocate their fuckin' jaws."

Your eyelashes fluttered, looking for a way to look into his eyes and ask for mercy. But your eyes burned terribly and the saliva fell in streams from your mouth every time his cock came out and came back in with more force. You could only squeeze his wet pants and clumsily try to shake his thigh to make him realize you were choking.

"Mm."

"Don't trytta "mm" me. This is what you wanted."

For the first time, his cock came completely out of your mouth, drool falling into the water.

His arm supported your body and lifted your top out of the water, revealing how shiny and smooth your ass looked presented to him. The bottle of liquor was right next to you. You heard Jungkook take a gulp and how his forearm chained your neck so you could drink with him. For a few seconds, you resisted until you could do nothing but open your mouth or choke on alcohol.

"Shh, don't cry again." His fingers massaged your wet hair, his face pressed to yours as he slid his cock between your ass cheeks. "Such a crybaby. You're the one popping my cherry tonight, little buckle bunny. Ain't ya' happy?"

"I'm scared, please let me go." Your voice tore through your throat with torture, phlegm building up in your nose.

"No, can't." His cock found your entrance, the sting of the soap lubricating you, and the growl that came from Jungkook's chest made your body tense. "You need me, remember? If it was because of Park, you would have been dead a long time ago."

"I'm scared, please-"

"Shhh."

The lamps were going out little by little, leaving the shadows of Jungkook's body to engulf yours.

When your pussy began to make way and pulse around his cock, he felt sorry for not having done it sooner, for not having taken the first five dollars he stole from his father when he was fifteen and find a whore to fuck, for not having let Mandy, the daughter of his math teacher, suck him last year of school; of not having taken all the divine women in his church and instead of giving them the host, putting his cock in their mouth.

He thought about each and every one of them. He thought about Billie and the confessional, and fuck! How delicious it felt to have all your blood go to one place, leaving you dizzy and stupid like a farm animal in heat.

"Why don't we-" he moaned with tight lips, wetting his face to concentrate. "Why don't we pray, it'll make you feel better, make you less tight."

The lamps went out, leaving only one in the corner outlining Jungkook's profile. From his long oval nose, and swollen lips, from the dying steam.

So what if you said yes? If you intertwined your fingers while that monster attacked you. So what if you closed your eyes and tilted your head to Jungkook's lips to hear his spasmodic voice tell you to repeat after him.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee," he whispered, and you repeated, drowning in tears.

"Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus." You continued.

"Keep going."

The water began to splash out of the tub with each crash against your ass, his arm hugged your waist and your chest. Soft, wet kisses from your ear to your back.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners…” You squealed as Jungkook trembled, his moans creating an ethereal song in the barn.

Between his babbling, he mentioned God, you, and all the curses he could think of. It was the birth of a Mephistopheles among the hay and the horses.

"Now and at the hour of our death. Amen." You sighed as you felt your body fall into the water on top of Jungkook's. Your head on his heaving chest, the pulsing pain inside you withering.

Jungkook's heart sounded like the pastures where your memories lie. The warmth of his hand holding you closer to him.

You were angry with yourself because your chest began to hurt and oh, how stupid you were, how stupid your mother had been for having raised you among pretty things and so many compliments.

"I brought you strawberry jam and milk for the night. Tomorrow I'll bring better things." He muttered, hot and his voice raspy.

And oh, how dumb you were for wanting him to wear the same perfume again when he came back.

#—📃: an ewe and the captive bolt #bts imagines #bts #bts smut #bts fanfic #jungkook smut #jungkook imagine #jungkook fanfic #bts jungkook #jungkook x oc #jungkook #jungkook x reader #bts x you #jungkook dark content #jimin bts #jimin fanfic #jimin imagine #jimin smut #jimin x reader

[vmpyria]

ok respectfully you’re writing is absolutely ethereal😭. Anyways I have a prompt that may get you to write something for the SF fandom (I’m very fixated on it and I can’t find decent content lol)

~ok so yk how Sal is on that killing spree to free everyone from the red eyed demon thing? What if the reader had been living there and now he has to kill them? Idk I just feel very angsty today

(have a lovely day 💜)

SAL FISHER X READER: the end.

i am putting a gun to my head, this was agony. i did some small research on how it feels like to be stabbed so my description is a bit detailed. i tried to expand on the feelings sal felt as he did this :( i hope i did the scene justice and i hope you enjoy! reblogs & replies help me be motivated!

TW — murder, blood, depictions of stabbing and death. angst.

sal’s chest felt heavy.

this felt like a scene straight from his nightmares, but no — it was real.

his eyes were clouded with tears, his lip quivering. his tears stained his skin and the inside of his prosthetic. he stood over the corpse of soda and faced chug’s bloodied corpse.

“i—i’m sorry.” sal stuttered.

in his hand he held the knife.

he wanted to die, he wanted to stab himself just like how he stabbed the others.

first, he lost larry. larry, his best friend. his brother. the demon was beginning to take over him leading him to do the did the only thing he could — drank himself to death to avoid having his soul taken away from him.

then, terrance.

the little boy broke the heartbreaking reality to him.

to save them all, he had to kill them.

sal didn’t want to, he didn’t want to hurt them. his friends, his family.. but, it was either save them by killing them or lose them to the demon’s power.

the world wouldn’t understand, but at least he did. at least he knew that this was the easy way out.

sniffling, he stumbled to the door of chug’s apartment and then walked out.

his grip on the knife was tight, the the sudden realization of what was next almost made his collapse.

you.

you were next on his list, you.

his girlfriend, his everything, his confidant. you. he had to kill you next.

his stomach twisted, the anxiety, the fear, the grief, the pain. it was all too much, he felt nauseous, he wanted to throw up, he wanted to wake up from this nightmare.

he wanted to be with his mom.

he wanted to be cradled by her, to have his face pressed against his mother’s chest as he wept away the fear of this nightmare. he wanted her to gently pet his hair and reassure him — ‘it was just a nightmare, dear. it’s okay, mommy’s here and she’s not going to let anything bad happen to you.’

but no, his mom wasn’t there. she wasn’t going to hold him, she wasn’t going to tell him he would be okay. she wasn’t there.

and now, you weren’t going to be there either.

you had been the one he cried to when he felt the grief of his mother’s passing, you had been there. you had always been there. you listened to him, you held him, you cried with him.

and now he was going to lose you.

who was he going to cry to after this? his dad is dead, larry is dead, you’ll be dead soon. who was going to hold him and reassure him he did the right thing?

you weren’t gone yet, but he was already mourning.

the walk to your apartment felt like he was walking to his doom, which honestly felt like he was.

he had sobbed as he went up to the floor you lived in, he moved his prosthetic to wipe his tears and now he was in front of your apartment door.

it was time.

opening the door with the spare key you had gifted him during your first year anniversary, sal stepped inside.

the apartment smelled like you, he could smell the sweet candles you had set up around the house, they were vanilla scented.

he always loved the smell of your apartment.

“hello?” you called from your bedroom.

sal froze at the sound of your voice, soft and his favorite. he loved your voice, he could fall asleep to you just rambling.

you entered the front area and saw sal, a bright smile spread on your lips almost immediately. “sal!” you said happily.

you could tell he didn’t seem lively, the knife was in his back pocket, hidden from your view.

looking at his hands, you saw the blood that stained them, then you noticed a bit of blood on his mask. “sal?!” you said in alarm, walking closer. “are you hurt? are you okay? what happened?” you asked, concerned for him.

he’s going to miss you, so, so much.

he was going to miss the way you smiled, the way your eyes crikled, the way you pursed you lips when you focused on something, your laugh, the way you lit up the room, your hair, you skin, your style, your art, your music taste, your everything.

he was going to miss how you always shared snacks with him, how you always called him at night while he was in the suburbs, how you would arrange study dates. how you would hold his hand tightly and point out every single thing you liked, how you cared about him.

he was going to miss how you—

“sal?” you asked, standing in front of him , your eyebrows furrowed up in worry for his wellbeing.

he wasn’t going to miss this, what he was going to do to you.

“i love you.” sal said, his hand reaching to his back pocket.

you laughed, “i love you too! what’s happening?” you smiled, an eyebrow raised in confusion. sal’s hand gripped the base of his knife.

“please forgive me.” he whispered, you could feel his heavy gaze behind his mask, the way his voice cracked, was he crying?

you looked down at his hand, watching as it reached for the back of his pocket, you then saw the blade that peaked from behind him, stained and bloodied.

you stepped back, “sal? sal— what..what is going on?” you asked, letting out a nervous laugh as you stepped away from him.

you heard a muffled sob come from him, “please, y/n. please forgive me, this is the only—way.” he said, you could hear the pain behind his voice, he was now gripping the knife by his side.

“the only way for what? sal, s—sal, please put the knife down, what’s going on?” you asked frantically as you tried to step away from him.

sal’s vision was cloudy from the tears, his already broken heart shattering as he watched the fear in your eyes. “the d—demon, it..i need to save you, please..” he sobbed, stepping closer.

you pressed against the wall and watched desperately as sal stalked closer to you.

“i love you, y/n.” sal whispered.

he stood in front of you, his shoulders shook as you stared at him. you were at a loss for words, your eyes were wide in fear, tears quietly streamed down your cheeks.

sal’s grip on the knife got tighter, his knuckles turning white. “say it back—“ he sobbed, “p—please, say you love me.” he cried.

he was begging, pleading for you to say your words to him.

“s—sal—“ you stuttered fearfully, “i love y—you, i always have.” you sobbed, your gaze moving down to his knife.

“please don’t—“ you pleaded, sal gulped and shook his head. “i know it might not look like it..b-but i’m saving you, i promise.” he stumbled.

he didn’t want to do this, he didn’t have the strength to lift the knife and puncture your stomach.

you stared at him fearfully, you never understood much of the paranormal activity, you only knew a surface level of information, but you trusted him.

how silly.

he’s about to kill you, but you trusted his word. he had always been the person you most relied on.

a sudden punch was felt against your abdomen.

one, and another, and another.

you didn’t register the fact he had stabbed you yet, the adrenaline rush hiding the agonizing pain that would soon take over.

looking down, you watched as sal removed his knife from your stomach. your blood was oozing out, staining your clothes and then you felt it—

it felt like a searing pain in your skin, your organs had ruptured at the impact and now you were left in agony.

a choked cry left your lips as you tried to cradle your wounds, your knees feeling weak, and then your screamed. a gurgly guttural scream, one that displayed the agony you felt as your wounds seared.

you collapsed on the floor with a heavy thud.

sal stood over you, he was taking off his prosthetic.

dropping it down to the floor, he sank down to his knees and he was quick to hold you. he could feel your warm blood staining his shirt as he held you.

your hearing was muffled, you couldn’t make out what he was saying, you could hear your blood streaming through your body and your pulse.

it hurt so much you couldn’t even speak.

your breathing got fast, you felt yourself gasping for air. your chest hurt, you couldn’t breathe— your mouth began to fill with a metallic liquid.

blood began to spill from your mouth, your coughs were gurgled.

your body was moving with every sob that came from sal. his grip on your was deadly. he didn’t want to let go, he wanted to savor the warmth of your body one last time.

now he was weeping, his sobs were loud and guttural, he wanted you back. he wanted you to hold him, to tell him you were fine.

he had envisioned himself growing old with you.

he even thought about marrying you when he finished his studies, he wanted to have a family with you. it all sounded so stupid now, but he was envisioning the life he could’ve had with you.

he babbled various ‘i love you’s’ as he held you.

his voice was muffled for you.

you were so tired.

your eyes got heavy, your strength was depleted. you didn’t want to move, you didn’t want to speak.

you couldn’t.

it hurt, everything hurt so much.

your airways filled with mucus, your breathing got nasally and scratchy.

you weakly held sal’s hand for one last time and then your eyes slipped shut.

two more breaths passed and suddenly it all stopped.

sal sore that time stopped.

your grip stopped and your body went limp.

looking down at you, sal let out a sob, his face was tear-filled and red. his heart was broken.

first his mom, then larry, then his dad and lisa, everyone — and finally you.

the people he most deeply cared about were gone, and it was all because of him. he did this, the guilt that overcame his body was immense. he thought about stabbing the knife deep into his abdomen and twisting it, to feel the same pain you felt.

but he was scared.

deep down, he was just a small child, one that grew up alone, the only people that accepted him were gone.

now, he was left alone.

just how it started.

#sally face x y/n #sally face x you #sal fisher x you #sal fisher x reader #sally face x reader #sal fisher #sally face #tw.dark content #tw.death #x reader #angst #no happy ending

[peachdues]

*taps mic* ahem

GENERAL ANNOUNCEMENTS / CONTENT WARNINGS FOR PART III OF IN THE NETHERWOOD

As a preliminary matter, I want to stress I have not decided whether to split part 3 into two parts. I will be sharing the full draft with Sam and a couple of mutuals to get their thoughts, but I will let you all know before it’s posted what my decision is.

First and foremost, I want to explain a few of the content warnings.

The primary theme of Part III is dead dove, do not eat.

Violence. Part III contains explicit violence/blood/gore. I don’t think it’s overly detailed, and in some instances, there are a few cut to black scenes, but know that as a whole, there is quite a bit of violence ahead. There is a scene describing a dismembered body, but again, not in too much detail.

Non-con. There are several references to non-con in Part III against other characters but there are no actual depictions of it. The non-con is accompanied by some rather disturbing revelations of additional violence, so just be aware. Again, nothing is depicted.

Self-mutilation/injury. This is a cut to black scene, and the injury inflicted is done for survival purposes. It is not explicit.

Douma. He’s his own content warning.

Explicit sexual content. When I say part III is smutty I mean it is smutty in the most explicit way imaginable. Reader gets fucked literally by her Wolf, if that’s not telling enough, idk what is.

Finally, I want to stress that there is a Part IV — so please, whatever you think you have to fear in reading Part III, give it a chance. I promise you, I will never leave a story unresolved.

With that, happy reading! I will post the full CW/TW list below. See you soon 🤍

TW: dead dove do not eat • explicit violence/gore • references to non-con against several characters (not depicted) • mutilation • self-mutilation/injury (broken bones) • references to torture (not depicted) • brief description of dismembered body • Douma is a sadist • references/mentions of characters being eaten alive • death • angst

CW: explicit sexual content • MDNI • monster-fucking • werewolf fucking • Giant wolf cock • mates/mating marks • heat cycles • breeding • cum so much fucking cum • belly bulging • dick imprint • cum swelling • oral sex (F! And M! Receiving) • scent kink • breeding kink • creative use of the mating bond • vaginal fisting (?) (idk Sanemi has his whole hand in her at one point) • vaginal fingering • possessive/protective mates • discussions of pregnancy

Lastly, we are doing a trial run posting with Part 3. This installment is massive, and I’ve had issues in the past with tumblr not letting me post or not letting people reblog. If this happens again, I will delete the original posting and reupload it as two separate parts — Part 3 and Part 4. In that event, the final installment of In the Netherwood will be Part 5.

I ask that if I have to split Part 3 up, that you please, please reblog and comment — not only so it gets visibility but also because I hate the idea of losing any interactions that I might get on the original post.

Part 3 will be posted before the New Year.

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #sanemi shinazugawa #kny #kny x reader #kny fanfic #kny sanemi #sanemi x reader #in the netherwood

[gauloiseblue]

sea, swallow me

[König × reader]

TW: drowning, trauma, mention of death, obsessive thought

When you're drowning, you could only hold your breath for 30 to 90 seconds underwater, before you couldn't help but inhale the water. Survivors—like himself—would describe the burning sensation in their chest, a violent rejection from the lungs as the water filled in instead of air. Then, quiet. Quiet and calm, as they slip out of consciousness.

But the tranquility is only brief, before your own body jerks up, awake, and coughing out the water.

By the time you realize you're still alive, you know that the worst is yet to come.

Surviving the torture was easy, but what was left of it would be enough to turn a person into a deadman. Because the mind is unforgiving, the mind remembers it all.

At night, when it's supposed to be a quiet one, your mind would conjure up the memory of it. One by one in hazy details.

And for him, the cost of surviving was heavier than death.

Still, it doesn't mean he hated the water. It did nothing wrong. Nothing wrong except for the fact that it ended up in the wrong place inside his body.

(It's a wonder how a misplaced thing could cost you your own life

Just like how a stray cell destroyed his mother's brain)

He tried to ignore them—the creeping darkness from the corner of the room—but it's no avail. It always finds a way to disturb him.

Sometimes he saw it in the form of analogy; an unsuited soldier would always ruin the whole team, or a mistyped word would cause the documents to be invalid. But recently, the depiction of it became clearer as he returned home.

His village is nothing like an ordinary one. It was supposed to be a beautiful one, but the civilization moved too fast, and it forced them to keep up. Now what was left of it is a ghastly mishap between modernity and staleness.

Yet, in the middle of the bleakness, there was Blume.

She was the aberration of the gloom, the deviation from the somber faces that surrounds her.

For him, she's a flower that grew in the middle of the battlefield. She shouldn't have existed, yet here she was. A misplaced thing.

Wherever she went, the sun would follow behind. Lighting the path that she took.

He didn't like her, and he'd leave whenever she's present, just like the darkness that's chased away from the light.

That was, until the fateful day, when she arrived at the front of his door, holding a jar of yellow marmalade.

"Do you remember me? Your mother was a good friend of my ma."

She said it as she handed him the container,

"She told me to give you this. It's an apricot jam."

At that moment, his breathing came to a halt.

(God is the cruelest creature

Tempting Its mortals with purity

As if it's within their reach)

He couldn't do anything but stare, and she took it as the exit point.

"Let us know if you need anything."

With that, she left the doorstep. Leaving him in the darkness once again.

It took him a few seconds before he could catch his breath.

For the first time in his life, he felt a greater fear clutching his heart in a tight grip—something that's more primal, more ancient than the fear of death.

Yet the fear didn't come alone. It bought fascination and curiosity into his mind. Poisoning him with an obsession for the mystery.

(A mystery that took after her face)

She was an enigma, something that he couldn't solve. He could tell a soldier's weakness over a glance, but with her, he wouldn't even know the meaning behind her smile.

Whenever she smiled—whether it's aimed at him, or somebody else—he'd tense up, as if his head had been submerged underwater.

At night, he'd lay there, thinking and overanalyzing the small talk they made at the market, ruminating over and over again, to the point of madness.

It'd follow him to his dream, where he'd see her among the sea of people. And he'd follow her, despite the muddy ground on his feet. Sometimes the people around him would drift away like the usual crowd, but sometimes they stared at him, with their milky-white eyes.

Dreams were a good teller for what transpired in his life. The odd looks from the people around him, and the unashamed attitude of the voyeur—watching him as he walked with her.

There's time where he wished he could grab her arms and shout,

You're not supposed to be here

You're not supposed to be near me

But the image of the crowd, with their white eyes, would haunt him. So he swallowed back the knife, and let it hurt him instead.

(He'd even cut his own hands to keep her pure

Untouched by the ugliness that's him)

She was oblivious to it, blissfully unaware of her surroundings.

He didn't understand it, until he realized the attention they gave was pointed at him.

He was the water in the lungs—the strange bird in a flock.

(Should he walk into the fire

So he'd be cleansed from the impurities

That were latched on his body?)

Still, she'd look at him, as if he's something of a human. Something that didn't resemble a grotesque, misshapen creature.

And he'd cry if she ever touched him, with the same tenderness that she showed to a mere beetle.

(She gently placed her hand on a leaf, letting the bug crawl out of her finger until it reached the familiar place.

Gods, if no other beings could rival your mercy,

Then she must've been one of you)

He'd crawl into her hand if she let him—basking in the warmth of the sun during the long winter—until he withered away.

Alas, the summer had to pass.

At the dinner table, he told her goodbye. One day earlier than he was supposed to.

And she chuckled, rubbing her neck as she looked at the window.

"That's too bad, I'm just beginning to like you."

He stopped at his track, not believing what he just heard. He'd pretend he didn't listen, if their eyes didn't meet.

"Liar." He said.

"It's not a lie." She told him, "I do like you."

"Kiss me then," He replied to her, "If you're honest."

And she did. She kissed him earnestly.

(For a moment, he thought he'd die

With his heart hammered against his chest

—Pleading to be freed, to be spared from the horror

Of loving and leaving her

Before it turned silent)

The tenderness of her lips left him too soon, that he almost fell on his knees, begging for another blessing he didn't deserve.

(It was too much, too much

He didn't deserve it, didn't he?

But what should he do

When he himself was ravenous?)

#i don't know why i wrote this #it was supposed to be your typical angst #but then religious visions possessed me #anyway #cod #call of duty #konig cod #konig x reader #half poetry half fiction #idk how to tag this

[daydream-cement]

Heavenly Aether Ch. 1

Miranda Hilmarson x Reader

Cults, death, and corruption are in store as Constable Hilmarson, with the help of a nosy reporter and her trusty partner, Robin Griffin, attempts to take down a powerful organization before more people die.

I hope you are all ready for another twisty-turning installment of falling in love with Miranda Hilmarson. Thank you to @booitsrue for helping me get started :)

TW: cults, suicide, death, corruption, brief descriptions of violence

January 15th, 1996

Sergeant Don Marshall had enough of your bickering, finally standing from his desk and pointing towards the front doors of the police station. With the most hateful scowl and through gritted teeth, he gave you his final warning, “For the last time. Get out of my office before I charge you with misleading an investigation.”

He hadn’t listened to a word you had told him. Three days ago was the third time a group of five had ended up dead in honor of their religious organization: The Church of Mithras. The first time five died in connection to the church was April 1, 1995, the second time June 9, 1995, and now… five more.

The specific details of the gods, religious context, and true beliefs of The Church of Mithras were a true mystery to you. There was no documented evidence of the church's activities or beliefs. Everything occurring within the organization was kept a complete mystery to those who were not binded to the religion. All of the information you had gathered was based on your own assumptions combining the name of the church with the dates of the mass deaths.

Your research assumed this cult was a reinvention of the Cult of Mithras, a Roman mystery religion centered on the god Mithras with connections to astrology. The messy, weblike collage at home on your wall best depicted the complex symbolism and Gods the religion utilized to justify the harm that befell their followers. While it was challenging to gather information on this ancient cult, they recognized a torch-bearing icon named Cautes who you found to be in connection with the Roman god Caelus and the Greek god Uranus.

All of this was information you had tried sharing moments before, but it was obvious the detective wasn’t listening. Slamming your hands down on Don’s desk, you hope if you showed enough urgency, he would understand the seriousness of the situation, “Detective Marshall! You aren’t listening to me! Each of the dates matches up with Uranus entering different zodiacs! The Church of Mithras is copying the Cult of Mithras! There are connections to-

You wouldn’t have bothered Detective Sergeant Marshall about any of this if you doubted any bit of your evidence. Just as he had done in June of ‘95, he ordered you to be escorted from the station, “That’s it! Butler! Lee! Escort this woman out of my office!

At eighteen, you knew you were more overzealous than the other reporters for The Sydney Monitor, but it was your gumption and bite that gave you the job in the first place. You become more desperate, needing Marshall to listen to you, only for a moment. It was a matter of life and death, “More people will die in 2003! Don, you can’t-”

When a hand came down on your shoulder and another grasped your forearm, you twisted about to make eye contact with two constables. Attempting to pull your arms away from them, you growled as they followed after you, grasping you even tighter as they dragged you from Sergeant Marshall's office, “Let go of me! Let go!”

The two officers pulled you to the front of the station, the rounder of the two following you as you were pushed from the building, “You need to go. No one is interested in arresting you, but if you keep coming back here, we will.”

You glanced at his name badge, which read ‘Butler,’ and by the look of the markings on his sleeve, he was a senior constable. Looking back to his face, you narrow your eyes at him, ignoring the kindness in his voice. He was still one of the people who stood in the way of getting justice for the 15 who were dead and the many more who would follow if things continued without intervention, “There is blood on all of your hands.”

He sighed and shook his head, turning away from you to head back inside the station.

You shook this failure of obtaining police intervention from your mind, knowing if you wanted the case solved, you would have to do it all on your own. You needed more information on the cult and the only way you were going to get this was through insiders. The next step was getting people to talk.

-----

February 6th, 2023

“Robin… This case is currently open. Why would the files for it be kept back here where no one can find them?” When Miranda asked the question, she was well aware the files were in this backroom far before Robin’s arrival to the department, but as her mentor and partner, Miranda wanted the brunette’s advice before she assumed the worst. The box was labeled: ‘The Church of Mithras’ with the opening date of the case being April 1, 1995.

Last week, Miranda and Robin solved yet another large case, breaking nearly a dozen rules and laws in the process, relegating them to various clean-up tasks around the station as punishment. Today’s assignment was organizing the back storage room, leading to the discovery of the open case box with an absurd amount of entries with such little evidence to go along with it.

The mass suicides of The Church of Mithras were something Miranda was well aware of, the first of them happening when she was 14 years old. It was absurd to her that there had been 11 occasions where members of the church had died in groupings of five, and now that she was looking at the files, it was obvious no one had ever looked into the case.

“I’ve heard about this church. They are responsible for the deaths of 55 people.” Robin glanced up to Miranda before reaching into the box, thumbing through the few pages that existed within the files. “I can’t understand why there is no evidence. After nearly 30 years, you would expect something more than the general documentation of the event…”

Miranda pulled out a few of the pages, skimming them for any inconsistencies or patterns. One thing she recognized from all of them was a name. Your name. She offered the page up to Robin, pointing out your name to her, “This name keeps coming up in each of the files. Maybe we could talk to them on our lunch break?”

“Are you asking me to shirk our duties here at the station so we can go research a case that has been deliberately ignored for decades?” Robin smirked as she asked her question, obviously pleased to participate in another round of rule breaking with her partner.

“Maybe.” The constable gave a coy shrug, rolling her eyes and glancing up to the clock. Their typical lunch break was in a half hour, just enough time to look up the name and find a possible place of employment or home address.

Griffin turned her head back down to look through the files. She needed to familiarize herself with the case if they were going out to interview anyone, “Are we taking your car or mine?”

-----

Over the past three decades, your journalist work kept you attached to the world of true crime, but with no true momentum with The Church of Mithras case, you had to diversify your interests. Working for The Sydney Monitor had been a fruitful career, and you were well aware you were able to write and research in a way that left you fulfilled. There was always a gaping hole left in you from the case that always went unsolved.

You still kept the dates of the mass deaths and their correlated astrological events written in the inside of your notebook.

April 1, 1995 - Uranus enters Aquarius June 9, 1995 - Uranus (Retrograde) enters Capricorn January 12, 1996 - Uranus enters Aquarius March 10, 2003 - Uranus enters Pisces September 15, 2003 - Uranus (Retrograde) enters Aquarius December 30, 2003 - Uranus enters Pisces May 28, 2010 - Uranus enters Aries August 14, 2010 - Uranus (Retrograde) enters Pisces March 12, 2011- Uranus enters Aries May 15, 2018 - Uranus enters Taurus November 6, 2018 - Uranus (Retrograde) enters Aries

The death toll was far higher than you ever anticipated. After each event, you gathered more information, and set off to the police station where you had been escorted out each and every time.

At some point, you would have assumed someone would have taken you seriously. Don Marshall, who kicked you out as a sergeant, was now the deputy commissioner, and Adrian Butler, who had escorted you out as a constable, was now a superintendent. Both of the men had continued to climb the ladder of success, regardless of the number of lives that had been lost due to their negligence.

You knew the next event was in four weeks.

Four weeks and the death count would be up to 60.

Or… at least, you thought the death count would rise to 60, but that was until Constable Hilmarson and Detective Griffin appeared in your office doorway.

For once in your career, the police wanted to hear what you had on The Church of Mithras.

#miranda hilmarson #miranda hilmarson x reader #top of the lake #gwendoline christie #fanfic #gwen christie #heavenly aether

[best-underrated-anime]

Best Underrated Anime Group A Round 4: To Your Eternity vs Shadows House

#A7: To Your Eternity (Fumetsu no Anata e)

Immortal being learns what it’s like to be human

#A5: Shadows House

Two girls unravel mysteries surrounding an isolated manor

Details and poll under the cut!

#A7: To Your Eternity (Fumetsu no Anata e)

Summary:

An Orb, known only as It, is cast to Earth to be observed from afar. Capable of changing forms from beings whose reflections It captures, It first becomes a rock and then, due to the rising temperature, moss.

It does not move until one snowy day, a wolf at death’s door barely crosses by. When It takes the animal’s form, It attains awareness of its consciousness and starts to wander with an unclear destination in mind. Soon, It comes across the wolf’s master—a young boy waiting for his tribe to return from a paradise abundant with fish and fruit in the south. Although the boy is lonely, he still hopes those whom he holds dear in his memories have not forgotten him and that he will reunite with them one day.

The boy wants to explore new surroundings and decides to abandon his home with It to find the paradise using the traces his tribe left behind. However, with a heavily injured body and no sight of his elder comrades, what will become of the boy?

Propaganda:

I don’t think I’ve ever watched an anime that has meant so much. It’s/Fushi’s journey from being born as nothing and without emotions, to becoming a genuine, real person who loves and cries is so special to me. The constant war he’s in between being too human and being not human at all is written so well—for him to love so much it hurts, leading him to isolate himself for years on end, for him to want to make friends, to love, but too afraid of them leaving and eventually dying to meet anyone new. For him to get so detached from life and death and the cycle it perpetuates that he loses understanding of why human life is so special—why should he save people, if they will die anyway? Why should he save them, if he can just bring them back to life, if he can just become them? The constant cycle of him learning to love again, and learning to treasure life again, only to lose it once he’s experienced death in a new and agonizing way. It’s about love, and it’s about humanity. Always.

Trigger Warnings: Animal Cruelty/Death, Child Abuse, Graphic Depictions of Cruelty/Violence/Gore, Racism, Rape/Non-Con, Self-Harm, Suicide

All TW’s apply to the protagonists, except child abuse and the racism. The world itself has hints of racism/discrimination throughout the anime, and not directly towards the protagonist. As for the rape, an antagonist attempts to rape the protagonist. There is a ton of self harm (protagonist and side characters) and blood as there is a lot of wars also happening in the anime

#A5: Shadows House

Summary:

The Shadows, characterized by their pitch-black appearance and tendency to emit soot when agitated, are a family of nobles who reside in a colossal manor deep within the mountains far from other humans. When a Shadow child is nearly of-age, they are assigned a Living Doll who acts not only as their attendant but also as their second half—the faces they could have had if not for their complexion.

Emilico is a cheerful, newly created Doll who serves a rather soft-spoken master named Kate. Despite their difference in personalities, Emilico does what she can to carry out the needs of her master. As she learns more about her role and duty, Emilico begins to meet her fellow Dolls and their respective masters and comes to know more about the purpose of her existence.

"Do not fret over trivial matters," says one of the rules by which all Dolls must abide. But how could the ever-curious Emilico do so in the face of the deep secrets that the Shadows House holds?

Propaganda:

The atmosphere of the manor is probably the most effective aspects of the story, creating a feeling of isolation and worry as Kate and Emilico try to survive in the mansion. The show starts off pretty subtle, but as it progresses it becomes more and more strange and off-putting. This series is an incredibly interesting, layered mystery, and the horror elements are excellently done.

Trigger Warnings: Child Abuse, Emotional Abuse

When reblogging and adding your own propaganda, please tag me @best-underrated-anime so that I’ll be sure to see it.

If you want to criticize one of the shows above to give the one you’re rooting for an advantage, then do so constructively. I do not tolerate groundless hate or slander on this blog. If I catch you doing such a thing in the notes, be it in the tags or reblogs, I will block you.

Know one of the shows above and not satisfied with how it’s presented in this tournament? Just fill up this form with your revisions, and I’ll consider adapting those changes.

New: Starting round 5, screenshots will be included in the poll post. You can submit screenshots through the form linked above, or through here, via ask or dm.

Guidelines in submitting screenshots:

No NSFW or spoilery images.

Pick some good images please. Don’t send any blurry or pixelated ones.

You may send up to 9 screenshots, but not all may be used.

#anime #best underrated anime #polls #poll tournament #tournament #anime tournament #animation #group stage #group stage round 4 #tournament polls #group a #to your eternity #fumetsu no anata e #shadows house

[siennasfix]

Pareidolia

Summary: This story is set sometime in the future. Hyunjin is a claimed son of Aphrodite. Y/n and her sister are the only unclaimed children who know the identity of their godly parent. They’re college students in Camp Jupiter. A new streak of murders takes off and all the tracks point to Luna, Y/n’s nine-year-old sister, which leads to Y/n making it her mission to prove the little girl’s innocence. One mishap leads to another and Hyunjin and Y/n find themselves working together to find out what they can do to solve the mystery.

Notes:

 This fic is inspired by the world of Percy Jackson and will contain many elements of the Hunger Games franchise. I’ve been a fan of both for years and I thought I’d try my hand at weaving both of these universes so that they flow seamlessly. Regarding mature themes and violence, it will definitely lean more on the Hunger Games side of the spectrum.  This fic is going to be long af so buckle up. There will be 3 books, the final chapters of which will be marked in the endnotes. I have an idea of how many chapters the entire fic is going to be, but of course, it might be longer than I have planned because I want to describe everything in such explicit detail that it WILL drive many of you nuts, and there's also the thing with me wanting to give the characters their chance to shine and develop properly. The girls that get it, get it. The point is; this fic might take not months but years to finish and the finalization will keep me from ending it all so I’ll try my best not to die before then.  This fic will contain mature themes. There will be many lighthearted moments but it’s more of a reprieve from all the heavy shit going on than anything. So do not read this if you’re expecting a cheerful romance or a happily ever after for every character. In addition to this, there will be depictions of death, torture, assault, sex, and so on, things that not everyone can stomach, which is more than fine but just be sure that this is your cup of tea before starting to read it. I will try to tag it as well as I can for each chapter and include the TWs in the beginning notes so don't skip them. • An array of power dynamics will be depicted as the story progresses. • The romance ranges from sweet to radioactive so keep that in mind. • Romance tropes: 1. Hyunjin x Reader- enemies to lovers, annoyances to lovers, mutual pining, dark romance, obsessive lovers, don’t blame me love made me crazy coded 2. Jisung x Minho- mutual clowning, friends to sort of strangers to fwb to lovers, they got that 80s rock aesthetic vibe going on 3. Seungmin x Jeongin- initially unrequited, strategy meets theatre, friends to lovers  I’ll try to update regularly, maybe once every two or three weeks. This is more for me to be honest as I’m a major procrastinator and this might help me sit my ass down and WRITE.  Make sure to always read the opening notes as many warnings pertaining to the events of the chapter, ones I have been unable to include in the tags above, will be revealed there.

Book I: Part I, Part II, Part III

Book II: Part I, Part II, Part III

Book III: Part I, Part II, Part III

#stray kids #skz #hwang hyunjin #hwang hyunjin skz #hwang hyunjin angst #hwang hyunjin enemies to lovers #hwang hyunjin x reader #skz godly parent au #skz godly parent #stray kids godly parent au #stray kids godly parent #skz pjo #stray kids pjo #minsung #lee know #han jisung #kim seungmin #yang jeongin

[heavenfell-au]

✦ Memory Lane contest results ✦

First off, I want to thank the people that partook in the contest ! I can hardly imagine having to pick only one scene from my own story, so kudos to each one of you for managing to do it !

Now, without further ado, here's the first submission that was submitted on Discord, realized by Arplenoon !

« TW: Blood, injury, disturbing imagery

I got into Undertale and read Heavenfell back around 2020 and early 2021. There were a lot of things that happened to me in that time that deeply hurt me, separate from the anxiety of the pandemic, but probably had been brought on by it's pressures. Needless to say, I was having it rough. Abandoned, stalked and harassed by my former friends, I let my mind escape into Undertale AUs. Undertale AUs let me forget about myself. Going to work was hard. I'd sit in the breakroom, curled up, trying not to let my thoughts consume me- and often failing. It was during that time, huddled in one of the bigger chairs at work, I read Heavenfell every day for a week.

It was cathartic for me, and helped me process a lot of what I was going through. Even though I wasn't anywhere close to the same situation Frisk found themself in, the scenes where they spiraled in thoughts about their life on the surface resonated with me- Because that was me, tormented by the same demons. Someone knew what I was going through, and I wasn't alone.

I can confidently say that because of that I'm still here today.

Thank you. »

I can already tell you that this hits hard. You've selected a scene from Their Wings that hits very close to home, and I absolutely adore the way you've depicted Frisk's torments, which each bone digging into them carved with words that the ghosts of their past said, cutting them through and through. I love the fact that those bones, along with the vivid red of their clothes, blood and their soul tearing apart pop out against the darkness that surrounds them, all that that giant skeletal hands are craddling them in their palms, giving the sensation that they're at the mercy of death itself as they scream in absolute despair, or in that case, Sans if not both of the skeleton brothers. I really appreciate that we can also see the remnants of Flowey, illustrated here, reminding us the impact of his loss in the story, that he was Frisk's guardian but also their best friend, leaving them stranded in their time of need. There are so many little details here and there that tell about that specific part of Frisk's story, making such an impactful delivery of the message, alongside with the silhouettes that haunt them in their turmoil, ever so faded and yet, very present.

For the technique, it's an amazing artpiece made with watercolors. It's such a difficult media for me to handle, and it's always so mesmerizing to see you realize one of them, and this time, having to handle with so many shades of black. I wish I had an ounce of patience and technique that you have when handling that medium, making me all the more admirative of your craft. The execution is great, for the colors are vibrant against the deep shades of black, and I'm always admirative of people that are able to use that paint type without their paper curling, which requires some type of preparation and knowledge ! The result of this gorgeous illustration, with that particular attention to the red and white colors clashing with the deep black makes it absolutely chilling and nerve-wracking, even more so with how well you illustrated Frisk's agony. You could almost hear their screams. Gorgeous, I'm devouring this work of art. It is delicious.

Next submission is from Cao-the-Dreamer on Tumblr !

« « More like “Adorable Dog” for me ! » you said.

My entry for #HeavenfellContest2024 by @heavenfell-au ! I choose the scene in chapter 15 (Sweet Brothers), where Frisk meets A.D. :3 Whenever I think of Their Wings, it is the first scene that comes to my mind. Is it because I love animals? Because it was a moment of fluff and peace amidst Frisk's painful journey? I think it's both. And yes, the dog is adorable <3

I've been working with shadow puppets for a while now, and I decided to try my hand with Eowyn's characters. I really liked the result! (I've been inspired by Michel Ocelot's works) :3

Here is le théâtre d'ombre in broad daylight: »

You know what ? Seeing your submission made me smile so much ! A.D is such a good pupper and I'm so glad it got to get the spotlight ! (badumtss)

It is such a lovely take on their proper encounter, and the way you portrayed it is so simple, yet so effective and I absolutely love it, for it provides that vision of their bonding experience, as A.D remembered what Frisk did to save its life, and was willing to give them a chance in return. And the way they're staring deep into each other's gaze is so precious and tender, you know what the energy it gives me ? How to train your Dragon vibes, with Hiccup and Toothless having that very unique and special bond. That's what it makes me think of, and the fact that you picked that very tiny scene, for the reasons you mentioned, I'm fucking tearing up at this. I just adore your portrayal of their friendship, and how you selected a simple moment of peace and love in that dark and painful story of Their Wings.

You know what else amazed me ? The medium you used for your submission ! I love how you took the risk to use another type of media, to experience with shadow puppets. Looking back at Michel Ocelot's work, I can definitely see the inspiration, and it's such a nice way to make a tribute to another amazing artist ! I have never experimented with shadow puppets myself, to be honest, I've never thought of it being an option, and that submission was a very pleasant surprise ! I'm very happy you got to choose that medium, despite your drawing talents, I absolutely love people trying out things and taking the risk in a contest itself even  ! As I stated above, it is even moreso unique, and the execution is fantastic. The simplicity makes it all the more enjoyable, for such a simple scene, putting all the energy into the characters and the formation of their friendship, all put together thanks to the light source that gives into that intimate atmosphere. Plus, I can tell that while it is a simple looking result, it must have taken a lot of time having to carve and assemble all the pieces together, without counting the measuring, the placements and the light play. Un grand bravo for this artwork, it definitely lingered on my mind for the rest of the day when I've laid my eyes on it.

Last submission by victenSam !

« The illustration in Chapter 5 – Sweet Trap was one the first scenes that stuck with me, I enjoy the happy vibes. I brought it to life with minor dramatic liberties taken to spice up this short cutscene while still maintaining the overall feel. A paragraph done old-school video-game style, all recorded within a game engine. A happy moment that preludes the turning point of the story.

Reading through Heavenfell felt really inspiring to me. They really put it all in not just the writing, but in all the illustrations, character designs and singing. Not to mention how they’re rocking it in 3D modelling outside Heavenfell as well! This sincere multimedia externalization brought into the fan-work amazed me and helped me give myself a bit of a push to keep pursuing and learning things to hone my own craft. Unfortunately, due to the nature of both game development and making, it became quite a solitary effort on my part. And so, as both a way to honor their work and apply what I’ve been learning, I decided to make a game related entry within the schedule and theme of this contest. I honestly didn’t think I could pull something like this off; I’m glad I tried and I’m happy with the results.

There’s modelling, texturing, sound design, music, coding and directing all creatively put together only by myself just for this piece of animation. I leaned a lot of new things and tested whole new methods and theories in the making of the cutscene. I could go into a lot of details on how every element came together, but I’ll leave that open for any questions that come my way to avoid huge tangents. I hope you all enjoy this little piece of memory. »

Wow.

Just... Wow.

For sure, that one got me gobsmacked. And if the previous submission hadn't gotten me smiling like an idiot, I found myself in absolute awe and I hardly repressed the giggle at the end ! I was breathtaken by the pressing atmosphere until the very moment that those two friends finally let go of the fear and laughed it out, finding myself to do the same, letting go of a breath that I hadn't realized I had stuck in my throat. The fact that you've taken so much time to not just illustrate, but make an entire animation had me floored !! It definitely reminded me of that one illustration that I made myself about that specific scene where Flowey and Frisk were laughing in relief, laying in the snow. That was such a nice little reference, and that made me smile even more! That was a very interesting scene that you picked, all the more heartbreaking knowing what comes afterwards, and that makes me cherish that moment all the more. There was so much nostalgy that I felt there, even felt myself mourning all over again, that was a very strange experience, but I welcome it. Thank you so much for showing Flowey the love he deserved <3

Oh god, there's so much to tell. It is truly a work of art. There's so many mediums put into play there, as you said, there was modeling, there was texturing, sound design and music, and even coding. I also can imagine the storyboard to create the scenes, and all of those details that we happen to forget at times, just so you can render a cutscene of my written story. Truly, I was not only floored by the story telling through your eyes, but by the amount of work you put into this ! It was an amazing surprise to see that kind of work appear for this contest, you're a very talented content creator and this animation is proof of it, knowing that it was made in a game mechanic mind. I lack the words to say how good the technique is for it exceeds anything that I ever imagined. Watching it over and over again, I keep hoping that someday, you get to make an entire game, or even to be hired because there's an incredible potential in you ! It's inspiring seeing how much of your blood and sweat were put into this in record time, I could never hope to do anything like that myself, making me all the more admirative. My best kudos to you, Sam, and thank you for honouring my work this way. <3

That's all for the submissions for Memory Lane. I'm extremely glad that you three had participated, though it feels unfair now to judge your creations when there were only so many participants, which made it harder for me to make decisions, as curious as it is. I've been wondering whether I just let go of the Prize system to give you all the same one, but it kind of goes against a contest, doesn't it ? So I'll still announce the results. Know that each one of your creations made me feel a certain type of way, and I cherished every single one of them. For different reasons, you all deserved the first place, but rules being the rules, I had to be realistic, which is why the importance of technique was there.

So comes to third place, Arplenoon, with his heart-wrenching painting !

To the second place comes Cao the Dreamer, with a very moving shadow puppet !

And the first place goes to victenSAM with his breathtaking cutscene !!

Since I wanted to thank you personally for giving my contest a chance, you all will have an extra in your prizes, as a way to find a middle ground with my prior tug of war <3 Thank you so much for the amount of love you gave to this project. I'll come in contact with you so we can discuss the prize shipping and all the like !

I'll also be reblogging the artpieces posted on tumblr for everyone to enjoy !

#HeavenfellContest2024 #Memory Lane #heavenfell #heavenfell au #gift #arplenoon #cao-the-dreamer #victenSAM #contest results #their wings

[simpforbutchwomen]

May I ask for a one shot of Junker Queen’s fem! S/O comforting her after another one of her nightmares? Like the one she had in her cinematic, about her past during the wastelands! I adore how you write Junkerqueen <3

'Nightmares' Junker Queen x Fem!Reader

hope this is okay <3 !

tw: Death, Depictions of death

' "Take 'em out, the kids don't need to see me like this." Her fathers voice echoed in the chambers of her mind. Everything hurt.

All she could see was her father, looking dreadfully.. ill...

Recurring memories of being exiled waved in and out. The pain, sorrow, and confusion were ever so present in her mind.

Echo's of her parent's pleading rang loudly in her ears before she had come to the realization of what was happening before her eyes.

Her father was dying. She didn't quite know how, or why, but she could tell. Could it have been the lack of food... or perhaps the ever present radiation. Heat exhaustion perhaps.

Odessa hadn't noticed that her other siblings had been swiftly shooed out of the room by her mother.

She felt a hand rest upon her shoulder, turning her head upwards to see her mother. Everything became blurry...everything except the stream of tears pouring down her mothers face.

Odessa snapped her head towards her father, skin puffy and yellow. Eyes bloodshot and lips pale.

Rapidly he began to decline becoming more pale, veins more prominent. His eyes sunken in and grey, drooping down.

Terrified she turned back only to be met with screams.

"I just hope that the youngin's are old enough to remember me." That echoed in her ears as visions of death and decay flashed before her eyes. It was all moving so fast.

The void surrounded her and all that was in her vision was her fathers corpse. Every little detail enhanced. No matter where she turned or look it's all she could see. Odessa fell to the ground covering her ears with her tiny hands, eyes sealed shut trying to shut the visions out. '

You woke up to the sound of Odessa gasping for breath. Her face looking distraught, eyes sealed shut and eyebrows furred together. Her chest heaving up and down, struggling to breath.

You sat up, brushing the hair out of your eyes before shaking her. "Dez?" you whispered. "Dez, love, wake up." you continued to shake her. You could hear grunts coming from her as she tossed her head to the side.

You persisted on, attempting to wake her up. "Odessa." you spoke louder. "It was all my fault!' She shot straight up, her hands covering her head.

You scooted your frame closer to her, wrapping your arms around her shoulder. "Dez, sweetheart, it was just a nightmare. It's okay." She was drenched in sweat, yet shivering at the same time.

This was unfortunately a reoccurring thing for her. Some nights were better than others. Most of the time she would just jolt up out of bed and head out for a smoke to clear her head before coming back to bed. Other nights, much like this one, was a completely different story.

You leaned in, giving her a kiss on the cheek. You could feel hot streams of tears coming down, gliding across your skin. It was rare to see her cry. Extremely rare.

Her breathing calmed down slowly. She brought her hands up to her eyes to wipe away her tears before letting out a sigh. "It's alright love...I'm fine. You should go back to sleep."

She pulled away from your hold, scooting towards the edge of the bed before standing up. You looked up towards her, worry filling your mind. You couldn't stand when she pulled the ' I'm fine ' stunt. She clearly wasn't.

Dez stretched her shoulders a bit before reaching into her nightstand drawer, grabbing a cigarette and her lighter. She swiftly headed out of the room, gently pulling the door shut behind her. You got up out of bed, rubbing your eyes. You checked the clock sitting on the bedside table, ' 4 : 00 AM '. You let out a sigh before heading out of the room to hunt her down.

It didn't take long to find her. You walked up behind her, about to sit down before she spoke "I thought I told you I'm fine."

"Your not." you kneeled down behind her, wrapping your arms around her torso. You heard the flick of her lighter, feeling her chest rise with the inhale of smoke. You buried your face into her back, feeling the warmth radiating against your cold face. "It's not your fault Dez....none of it was."

"Sure as hell feels like it was." she said before taking another puff. You crawled over to her side, resting your head against her shoulder. "I thought you couldn't stand the smell of these things?" she questioned before flicking the buds to the ground. "I can't. I hate that you smoke but I'm not here to lecture you."

"Well that's a first from you Y/N." she chuckled softly before putting the rest of her cigarette out into the pavement. "Your parents would be proud of you....you know?" . You felt her tense up after you spoke. "I love you Y/N." She said, leaning he head on yours. "I love you too Dez." You two sat outside for a while in silence. Looking up at the stars. She grabbed your hand, rubbing your soft skin with her thumb.

"Do you think you will be able to get back to sleep?" you asked, hoping the answer would be yes. She needed sleep, it was a miracle she had gotten as much as she did. "I'll at least try, if not do you reckon you'd stay up with me?" You smiled, leaning up to give her a soft kiss. "I'll stay up for days if you need me too, Dez."

#junker queen x reader #junker queen #overwatch imagine #odessa stone #i'm sleep deprived so if there's any errors please excuse me #@-@

[chuunai]

Romantic Killer - Chapter One; Time Flies By (1/2)

Modern Sniper AU! Nakahara chuuya x Sniper Best Friend! gn! reader

Synopsis: You and Chuuya Nakahara are a sniper duo from the Port Mafia, having taken care of each other from as far back as your memory goes. No parents, no family, just each other. Living in an apartment as friends by day, blowing brains out of targets at night. Sure, the money isn’t that good. But it’s not like you can go back, right?

TW: Throughout this fanfic series, there WILL be descriptions of gore/blood, death, brief mention and depiction of starvation (not an ED though), angst, prostitution and stupid people who don’t know romantic love from platonic love. It’s not that bad in the beginning, but I will ramp it up as the series progresses.

A.N: Criticism and feedback is welcome and appreciated because this is my first fanfic series and I’m running on low energy.

—

10:30 P.M

It’s dark. Silent, too. Clouds drift over Yokohama, blocking out the moon’s light. The heavy rain poured over all, drenching the ground. It’s all so wet, a heavy humid night. A utility pole happens to be nearby, sticking up in the ground. The wires stick out in all directions, thin and sturdy. Two birds rest on a wire, one a color that resembles blood. The other? Oh, it’s pure white. A stark difference from its companion nearby. Two different creatures, yet in this moment they’re here.

Together.

Together, like Chuuya Nakahara and you. Here he is, laying down on his stomach, sniper rifle perched on the edge of the building, finger on the trigger. The wind occasionally ruffles his hair, the ginger strands resting on his shoulder. A quiet night, that’s what it is. Save for the rain. It soaks him to the bone, clothes clinging to his frame. Every few seconds, he has to wipe his eyes of the water.

Fuck. He should’ve brought an umbrella like you.

You’re behind him, clutching your own gun under the comfort of the umbrella. Waiting for that inevitable shot he would take.

Information from the Port Mafia had detailed an enemy gang who had their own sniper out tonight as well. A good one, allegedly. Too good to be alive. It’s why you two are both out on February 14th. A rainy day where love floods through the city as lovers celebrate each other. No couple here, though. Just a duo. Your duo.

Nothing’s new. Not when it’s been this way for years. Just him and you.

Chuuya’s always had your back, and you’ve always had his. On the streets. On the rooftop. On days where things weren’t so terrible, and on days where it was terrible.

Before as orphans, sleeping in abandoned warehouses where Chuuya would stay up all night, keeping watch. A jacket - his - would cover you for warmth, even if he’d be cold. How when he got food, he gave more to you. You looked so thin, and he was scared shitless you’d die of starvation.

So he went hungry so you could eat more. Hungry until the Mafia found them. Inducted them into their organization and roles.

Now as fucking Mafia members, sharing an apartment even though you two could easily afford your own now. But it’s home. Where memories were made - eating shitty takeout, gossiping about co-workers and having a sleepover party every night.

Blacking out those memories of the past. And looking forward to the future.

And in the future, he’d still be there. As a friend, confident or hell - maybe even more. It didn’t matter. As long as you were happy and safe, Chuuya was okay with his life.

Okay with the work they did now.

His ears catches the sound of your gentle hums, a small smile pricking at the corner of his lips. It’s been a while since Chuuya last heard them. A good contrast to the dead silence you two were stuck in. A bit of chatting never hurt anyone. Shifting a bit, Chuuya’s voice stuck out against the pouring rain, hoping you’d speak back and not be a rule abiding bitch.

“I hate this rain. It’s so fuckin’ wet.”

And he did hate it. Especially without an umbrella and when they were in the middle of an area containing nothing about abandoned house projects and crumbling buildings. A few puddles had formed on the roof, much to his disdain.

“That’s what she said.”

Did you have to? Did you REALLY have to? Chuuya groaned, mentally facepalming himself for walking into that one. You both were the same age - twenty two - and here you were making jokes that a middle schooler would.

“Did you have to?”

“Have to what?”

Fuck you. You totally did know what, but he gives up on it. You’re a cheeky one who never likes to be straightforward with him.

“I- nothing. Hey, do me a favor and get your ass over here, okay? The umbrella too. You can at least cover me too.”

Your footsteps make sounds on the puddles nearby as you stroll over to him, sitting down nearby and begrudgingly covering him with it. A few raindrops roll off the edge of the umbrella, finding their way onto the back of your neck. Chuuya stifles a comment at that, not wanting to lose his umbrella privileges.

“Thanks.”

A small mutter comes from his lips as his shoulder touches yours, not even flinching when your free hand reaches up to play with his hair. He’s too used to it all. The random times where you jump onto his back. Braiding his hair while he naps on the couch at home. Painting his fingernails pink while he’s blackout drunk. This is one of your tamer moments.

“Geez, Chuu. Your hair’s so friggin’ soft. I’m gonna use your hair products when we get home.”

A side-eye from Chuuya.

“I bought them. They’re mine. Not yours, you thief.”

He’d almost always give up his things to you. Clothes, hairties, snacks, etc. You always won, sadly.

“You owe me. Don’tcha remember when you borrowed my rings and lost them?”

He did. Chuuya remembers that very well.

“Fine.”

Another ‘fuck you’ passes through his mind. Minutes go by in relative silence coupled with the occasional bickering. You went back to your corner of the roof, leaving him once again soaked to the bone from the rain. Chuuya regrets not letting you do the assassination for tonight. Now you were dry in your little bubble, being the back-up in case someone tried to rush up the stairs at them.

Boring. This was all so boring. When was the action?

It didn’t take much longer.

The building opposite of them containing the supposed sniper for the night had a shadow suddenly pop up, Chuuya’s body automatically lining up the shot as a gunshot bursts out of his gun. He’s expecting to see blood spurt out of the body, the thud on the concrete.

Nothing.

Instead, as he recovers from the recoil of the shot, your cry of warning rings out too late as another crack shoots out from nowhere.

First, a bloom of hot pain in his collarbone. His ears are ringing a bit, mind dazed and shocked and unable to register how your fingers tug him to safety behind a parapet. Damn it, he thinks. Must’ve been a decoy puppet of sorts. God, how could he have been so stupid as to not think of that?

He’s Chuuya fuckin’ Nakahara. Best sniper in the whole of the Mafia’s men.

Second, the pain intensifies as he slowly comes to his senses, eyes focusing on the sight of your crying self. His heart began to beat faster - not only due to blood loss - but because it hurt so damn much to see you cry.

“Hey- don’t cry. I’m okay.”

Fingers shakily rise to rest on your arm, feeling the warm flesh under the fabric of his gloves. Chuuya’s not dying. Not now, not ever. He’s not done protecting you.

“I’m not dying, you hear me? I’m not fuckin’ dead yet.”

A load of shit, coming from him. The man with blood flowing from his collarbone as he clutches onto you like a child. It’s pathetic looking, and a wave of self-consciousness greets his body. You don’t give a crap though. He’s dying, no time to focus on how child-like and dependent Chuuya is right now.

“I’m not crying, dipshit.”

Your fingers tightened on his shirt as you choke out a reply. That comforts him. He couldn’t be dying if your banter happens even now.

“Sure you’re not. Fuck- this hurts.”

Another quick retort from you, filled with sarcasm and a desperate attempt at normalcy. That it was just another day in your shared apartment rather than him bleeding out in your arms.

Normal normal normal. It’s normal.

“I wonder why. Couldn’t be the fucking gunshot.”

Heh.

It’s true. It hurts so bad. Sharp shudders of pain explode all over his body. His heart, his chest, his head.

Thirdly, Chuuya Nakahara is dying. He’ll confess to that now. The world slowly swirls above him, your voice and sniffles tuning out as you desperately request for medics from the Mafia.

The stars are a mix of bright dots in the night sky.

The rain pours. The umbrella lies forgotten. Water drips down your bodies as he stays in your lap, bleeding out on what others consider a happy day. So much water. Damn, if he was going to go out, it could’ve been in better weather. Not this mess of wind and rain. His shirt is now a color of red, dulled by the water sinking further down on you two.

Chuuya tries to manage a smile. For you. For his best friend.

His everything.

“It’s okay.”

It’s really not. Especially to you.

“The fuck, Chuuya? It’s not okay, okay? Stop talking like you’re dying.”

He is. Chuuya can feel life slowly ebb out of him, his limbs feeling like jelly now. Your arms tighten around him, clutching onto the wet fabric of his shirt. His eyes focus on yours, that smile not leaving his face just yet.

“Chuuya. Chuuya, no. Keep your fucking eyes open.”

Chuuya’s eyelids are woozy. So, so tiring. He needs a nap. Even if it was cold and raining, your arms were cozy and warm.

A short nap.

So he takes a nap, eyes slowly shutting as life flooded his memories. His life, which Chuuya considered having started at twelve years old.

When he met you.

——————

A.N: Hi! So, if you made it this far (thank you if you did <3), this is just like part one of chapter one. I’m planning for the second half to be really long, so I’m going to take a while on that.

Please leave feedback and criticism so I can improve on my writing! Have a good night/day boys, girls and squirrels!

#bsd chuuya #bungou stray dogs #bungou gay dogs #chuuya #chuuya x reader #chuuya supremacy #chuuya nakahara #chuya x reader #bsd chuya #chuya nakahara #bungo stray dogs chuuya #bsd x gender neutral reader #bsd x reader #bsd angst #angst #childhood friends #first fanfic #aspiring writer #gender neutral reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #fanfic #kinda depressing #Romantic Killer

[clangenrising]

Trigger Warning Tag List

Some content on this blog may be triggering. For the most part, RisingClan content will contain Warrior Cats typical violence and subject matter. Most pieces are PG or PG-13 for violence and language. However, this is a story written for a more mature audience and some pieces may discuss or contain more upsetting topics. Posts that contain more sensitive content than usual will be tagged accordingly. Below are a list of tags I use so you can block them if needed.

Swear Warning - When a piece includes real world swear words. Will only apply to official art pieces, not to asks and answers. TW Character Death - When a character of any importance dies. TW Major Character Death - When a member of RisingClan dies. TW Graphic Injury - When a severe wound or an affliction such as frostbite or burns is described in detail. TW Human Injury - will cover pieces where cats are injured by a human such as a car accident or any instances of animal abuse. TW Permanent Injury - will cover any pieces where a character receives a permanent condition such as blindness, a missing limb, etc. This will not be used for cats who are born with a permanent condition. TW Vomit - When a character pukes or characters discuss puking in detail. TW SA Mention - When topics relating to Sexual Assault and Dubious Consent are discussed. Note: This blog will never depict sexual assault on screen but some characters are SA Survivors and their struggles may be explored.

This list will be a living document and will be updated as needed. If new tags are added to the list, an announcement will be posted. This announcement will always precede any content containing the relevant trigger unless the tag was requested after the fact.

If there is a tag that you would like to see added to the list, please send an ask requesting it. I will try to accomodate these requests although I may not add another tag if I think a tag on the list already covers the same topic.

Heavy Content Alert

Some readers have expressed interest in receiving advanced notice when a post is going to contain emotionally taxing content, like a character death. In order to avoid spoilers for those who do not want to see this kind of warning, posts of this nature will be tagged with Heavy Content Alert and will have vague spoilers at the top and more detailed spoilers below a read more.

#Tag List #not art #Trigger Warnings #Heavy Content Alert

[naranjapetrificada]

Good morning, crew mates.

Last night when I should have been asleep, I read about the rumored behind the scenes bullshit that tried to take our pirates away from us. This morning, I'm thinking about Batgirl and that Scooby-Doo film that both got canceled despite being almost complete. I'm thinking about Coyote vs. Acme. I'm thinking about Turner Classic Movies.

But also, because of my current WIP set in a similar (but OFMDified) world, I'm thinking about another IP owned by Warner Brothers now. One that even before Zaslav the Destroyer arrived, was canceled earlier than it was meant to be. One that was also groundbreaking in its own ways. One that's offering me a type of consolation in these trying times.

I'm thinking about HBO's Rome.

It was absolutely not perfect, especially around certain things to do with in-world consent and sexual assault. I'm not making this post to litigate that, though I will say that it was made in 2005, when we as a society certainly weren't having mature conversations about consent.

[Also that it was set in a society so patriarchal that daughters didn't receive their own given names, just names that said who their fathers were and designations that told you where they fell in the birth order (i.e. the daughters of Lucius Vorenus are named Vorena the Elder and Vorena the Younger).]

But it did pave the way for the sort of gritty, trope-inverting, epic series we saw different networks take a stab at in its wake. Many people say, correctly, that Rome walked so Game of Thrones could run. And yeah, GoT eventually ran right off a cliff, but the fact remains that networks, including HBO again, became willing to make large initial investments in shows with lavishly and lovingly detailed sets and costumes, top-notch casts, and beautiful but expensive effects in part because of the prestige and lasting praise for Rome.

So what does this have to do with OFMD? Besides being canceled after two seasons when there were plans for more, the way it redefined a setting and genre that previously felt stale, and the way people will probably talk about its unanticipated influence for years? I'm thinking about scenes that I'll never forget, and how both shows have those indelible moments, and how emotionally cathartic certain moments from Rome feel in the context of the cancelation of Our Flag Means Death.

I'm thinking about the rivalry between two characters in particular, Atia of the Julii and Servilia of the Junii, and the way the show depicted their conflict during their bitterest, most desperate, and most devastating moments. Obvious spoiler warnings for the second season below, including the death of a character, but also TW for a brief mention of rape, and for canon-typical (but not especially graphic?) attitudes toward and depiction of suicide. Because Rome was ugly, and if the show had one guiding principle it was to remind viewers that Rome was ugly.

But also: a character reading another for absolute and utter filth, and two truly terrifying curses, in case there are any studio executives you're feeling angry towards.

Firstly, there's the moment when Servilia curses Atia, inspired by IRL lead curse tablets found in Roman Egypt iirc.

"Gods of the inferno, I offer to you his limbs, his head, his mouth, his breath, his speech, his hands, his liver, his heart, his stomach..." indeed.

The second, which I won't embed because it is quite dark, features some things that I'd guess lots of folks have increasingly wished on Zaslav, especially "let [him] taste nothing but ashes and iron" for me.

And last but not least, some hope. Even if our efforts for a reversal of the decision or a move to another network don't come to pass, we will still be here. Artists will keep creating and figuring out new ways to share their work with the world.

Zaslav is not the first executive to destroy an industry but the fundamental human impulse of art is eternal. Remembering that makes it feel much more possible to look at this whole fucked up situation and these fucked up capitalist ghouls who aren't unique at all and point to their predecessors and say "go and look for them now."

#ofmd #our flag means death #ofmd cancellation #renew as a crew #HBO's Rome #atia of the julii #servilia of the junii #curse david zaslav #like to charge reblog to cast #manifesting 🕯️🕯️🕯️ #ancient rome au #fic writing #polly walker #lindsay duncan #Youtube

[whoreadsnowadays]

Okokok I know I know but hear me out. A n g s t

Tw: character death

So like 2012 turtles w/ little brother reader but reader dies bc of shredder or smthn bc evil

What would the reaction of the turtles be? Bonus if we get splinters reaction.

If this ask makes u uncomfortable that's understandable ^^ feel free to ignore

I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU OPENING UP REQUESTS AGAIN AFTER THIS ONE AND LITERALLY BEGGING U GUYS FOR MORE 2012 ONES I LOVE THEM..

I really took this prompt and wrote a whole novel and I'm so happy with myself atm I love this prompt and I love these guys and I <3<3<3 EEE I may be a rise!Leo kinnie now but I was a 2012!Leo kinnie first. He's so scrunkl.

Almost forgot, do notice that I didn't explicitly say reader died at the end 👁👁🤨👀...

-

Warnings; implied character death, stabbing and injuries are depicted multiple times in a good amount of detail, I went ham on this one folks, oh I also cuss in this one gang I rly enjoyed this

( Familial ) 2012 ! Turtles and Splinter & Little Brother Reader (he/him used)

Part 1 - You're Here

Part 2 - Shatter the Mind

Part 3 - Shatter the Heart

Part 4 - Shatter the Innocence

-

Shatter

Everything was a blur, blasters shooting past you, the sound of metal against metal ringing through your skull, everything was happening all at once and you could barely focus on anything five feet in front of you.

You glanced around, seeing each one of your brother's in their own fight, and you quickly tried to focus back on your own.

Fishface stood in front of you, his mechanical legs whirring with his large imposing steps. He looked confident, like he knew you were having trouble with the chaos of the battle around you. It made your stomach twist in fury.

You growled at the fellow mutant, raising your weapons and charging at him quickly, he simply grinned in response, moving out of the way at the last moment, bringing you face to face with none other than Shredder himself.

You panicked, trying to backtrack but it was too late. The sound his blades made when they hit your plastron, at full force mind you, was loud and sickening.

You blinked, looking down at Shredder's fist right up against your stomach, no blades to be seen. But that could only mean-

He pulled his arm back, and you felt every inch of his blades leave your body. There a was a scream, your scream maybe? You weren't sure, everything was hazy all of a sudden.

Shredder put his hand on your head, looking you in the eyes before pushing you backwards, making you land heavily on your shell.

You needed to get up, get help, get your brothers, Donnie, Leo, Raph, Mikey. You needed to at least call for someone, anyone.

But when you opened your mouth only blood came flowing up. Internal bleeding, you recognized through the pain induced haze.

How fun.

Raph and Mikey were busy with Rocksteady when it happened. Double teaming on the large rhino with ease. Really these guys were pathetic.

Raph kicked Rocksteady off balance, glancing over to Mikey to say something, but he froze when he saw the haunted expression on his little bro's face. He furrowed his eyebrows, turning quick to where Mikey was facing, and almost had a heart attack.

There you were, Shredder's claws deep in your stomach, piercing through your practically shattered plastron. He watched in stunned silence as Shredder pulled his claws from your body, blood gushing out of the wound. That was what brought him back to reality.

He turned to Shredder, seeing nothing but red. He couldn't come up with any insults, nor quips, he was too focused on his sudden need to rip Shredder limb from limb.

He just screamed, screamed in fury and anguish as he rushed forward, sais out as he lunged at Shredder, and collided with Fishface.

Fine? This bastard wanted a fight? Now he had one.

Mikey jumped into action as soon as Raph did, seemingly kickstarted by his brother's scream.

He rushed over to you, dropping to his knees as he called for your older brothers. They'd know what to do, they always did, they were always so smart and Mikey- Mikey couldn't think past the idea of you, his little brother, his best friend, dying in front of him.

He couldn't fathom a world without you in it, he'd be missing a peice of himself without you there, he couldn't lose you yet!

"LEO! DONNIE! HELP! HELP HELP- HE NEEDS HELP-!"

Leo was hyperfocused on his fight, trying to keep Tigerclaw out of the way from the others. He was so preoccupied he didn't even realize Shredder had shown up. God he was so stupid.

He only realized something was wrong when Mikey yelled, sounding the most terrified he'd ever been in his life.

Instantly Leo was on high alert, spinning around as quick as he could and rushing to where he had heard Mikey shout from, "Mikey! What-"

Holy shit.

Holy shit.

Leo froze in place, staring down at your shuddering form, watching as your breathing slowed, as blood dripped from your mouth and the gaping hole in your shattered plastron.

He heard Mikey shout at him, begging and pleading with him to do something, anything, but he couldn't take his eyes away from your broken and shattered form.

You were dying. You were dying and he was frozen in place, unable to do anything but stare.

His whole body trembled as Mikey continued to yell and sob, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't think, his entire body shut down in an instant, and he could only stare.

"Leo! Leo cmon please! Say something, anything dude please!" Donnie heard Mikey beg as he rushed forward.

He heard their screams, and mentally prepared himself for the worst. But once he saw you, he too froze for a moment, glancing at you, Mikey, and finally Leo, recognizing that there was no one here level headed enough to bark orders.

He hesitated, before realizing if you had any chance of survival, it was him.

"..M..Mikey- Mikey! I need you to pick him up, gently so you don't jostle his plastron. We need to get him home, we can't help him here!" Donnie exclaimed, voice shaking as he took charge in place of his brother.

Mikey looked up at Donnie, nodding once and reaching down to pick you up, as gentle as he could possibly be with you.

Donnie grabbed Leo's arm and dragged him away with Mikey, yelling behind him for Raph.

"Raph! Retreat! Lair!" He shrieked, hoping that his brother heard him, before the three of them made their way down to the sewers, some more carefully than others.

Hours later, all five brothers were home. Donnie and Mikey were with you in the lab, frantically trying help you in any way they could, while Leo and Raph had been deemed too emotionally unstable to even be near the room.

Raph was at his punching bag, throwing swing after swing, trying not think about the way your plastron cracked underneath Shredder's blades, or the vacant look in your eyes as you fell backwards.

He shook his head and punched the bag harder. Too much. All too much. He needed to do something, anything.

He glanced over at Leo, slumped down on the sofa, staring at the turned off TV in front of him.

It would be so easy to grill Leo right now. Truly there was so much he could say. Why did you freeze? Why didn't you say anything? Why are you forcing Donnie to pick up your slack?

But every time the words rose to his throat, he saw the haunted look in his older brother's eyes, the pure fear and horror painted clear as day on his face, and he held himself back, punching the words out silently into his punching bag.

Leo was still reeling, stuck on the empty vacant stare you had as you lay shattered on the ground. But now there was the guilt. Why hadn't he moved? Why didn't he come up with a plan? Why did it take Donnie literally dragging him down the streets of New York for him to even somewhat come to his senses. God, he was a horrible leader, a horrible brother- why did he let this happen to you-

A familiar voice cleared their throat behind him, and Leo felt every molecule in his body tense up in fear. He turned slowly, seeing Master Splinter stood tall behind him, with Raph cowering just a bit away.

"Leonardo. Raphael." He addressed both brothers, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "What happened on patrol this evening."

Leo shared a look with Raph, who only offered a nervous frown.

He took a deep breath and stood on shaking legs, facing his sensei and bowing his head. "..m..Master Splinter.. we.. there was.. an ambush. We were ambushed. There were too many villains.. and.. we got separated.." Leo tried to focus on his breathing, and not the looming presence of his sensei in front of him.

"..he.. Shredder.. he was there and.. and.." he couldn't say it, he couldn't say it, if he said it he'd relive it all over again he couldn't say it-

"Donnie and Mikey are in the lab with him. He's.. badly injured sensei." Raph mumbled from a little bit away, and Leo let out a sigh, grateful for the interruption.

Splinter glanced between his two sons, slowly working out what they were implying. Once he realized what had happened, he felt a cold stab of fear straight through his heart. Of course. Of course it would be you. His youngest. Of course he would go after you first.

Without another word Splinter rushed to Donatello's lab, gasping lightly at your state. Oh. Oh no.

He wasted no time in joining his two sons in attending to you, luckily they were too preoccupied with you that they didn't even question the extra help.

No one was sure if this was time spent in vain, but no one cared. They were going to do everything they could to save you, to bring you back, their youngest. They needed you here, with them. You can't die yet. You can't.

#FOAMING AT THE MOUTH FOAMIMG AT THE MOUTH #PLS PLS MORE 2012 RQS PLS #tmnt x reader #tmnt donatello x reader #tmnt leonardo x reader #tmnt michelangelo x reader #tmnt raphael x reader #tmnt 2012 #tmnt 2012 leonardo #tmnt 2012 donatello #tmnt 2012 raphael #tmnt 2012 michelangelo #tmnt 2012 splinter #tmnt 2012 x reader #Romeo Writes

[dreaming-of-the-end]

in which god sweeps across a canvas the same way a heartbeat becomes a song

A/N: Happy Kam Week everyone! they are so bestie but do you know what's better? comments and reblogs! Kam Week 2023 Day 6: Artist/Musician

Find it on ao3

Summary: As someone whose parents have kept more of the appearance of liking God rather than truly caring about it, art has become a religion to Keefe. / Tam places his steps in the footprints of music he's listened to a hundred times. The notes are not a religion, but they are a heartbeat.

TW: religious metaphor, flashback to starvation/malnourishment (no eds)

Tags: @steppingonshatteredglass @sunset-telepath @stardustanddaffodils @song-tam @turquoise-skyyyy @skylilac @wu-marcy @saintashes @rune-and-rising @lavender-and-rainy-days @confusedamphibian @hellomyfriends @callas-starkflower-stew @a-harmless-poison @professionalwhalewatcher @theogony @gay-otlc @confuzzled-fox @almostfullnerd @athenswrites @synonymroll648 @squishmallow36 @xanadaus @honey-the-dinosaur-ate-our-kid @kamweek2023

As someone whose parents have kept more of the appearance of liking God rather than truly caring about it, art has become a religion to Keefe.

He's heard that there are those who live to serve, who dedicate each breath and heartbeat to a deity, pouring their soul into the cupped hands of a higher being and fervently studying the delicate precision with which it pools into human-like wrinkles.

It is not as though art is a physical being, or a way to make decisions, but rather when Keefe paints, it is his soul that coats the canvas, his blood tracing hard lines and tears feathering light details. His senses, his sight and hearing and touch, are the highlights, contouring out a hard jawline with joy and flicking freckles across lips with fury and sacrifice pouring bloodred from torn skin.

Blessings come when he looks outside and sees the colors and thinks of which paints to mix to achieve that shade of perfection, studying how light becomes shapes becomes darkness becomes beauty. The lazy confidence of a gray-lavender shadow as it stretches itself to meet the sun, the elegant curl of a emerald-green leaf, the pink-orange of the sky resting its weary eyes as night rises.

Keefe prays to his deity to find inspiration. He shoves his hands into the grass and grips the blades tightly enough that they snap, his nails digging into his palms deeply enough to sting, soft soil making its way into the lines of his palm like a worshipper's soul flooding their God's weary eyes.

In essence: art is religion because he gives everything he has to worship it. Art is religion because it is where he finds himself. Who he is has never been an easy question for him to answer, but he discovers it in the way his fingers grip the charcoal or paintbrush or pencil or oils.

Keefe's dreams splatter across his canvas and he covers them over with white paint to start again. They peek through in oily streaks when he scratches at the canvas. Color flakes away. The paper shreds. The pencil snaps in his fingers. A dark streak smears the cheek of his mother's depiction as a Hera-like statue in an empty temple. He thought it was symbolic. Now it feels like a very slight overbite— uncomfortable, right and wrong, something that fits perfectly but not quite right at the same time.

Who he is becomes clear when it's all out there on paper.

Who is he?

...

Tam believes in the strength of a body. Of flesh and blood. Of muscles and bones and teeth and the way blinking sometimes scrapes a layer of disguise from your eyes so you have to cry no matter how much you don't want to.

His flesh was the shield between Linh and the cold on the worst of those nights, the ones where they couldn't see their faces in the darkness, the black so thick Tam thought he was swimming in it, drowning in it, a soft sort of death that smothered him in velvet. They shook with cold, with tears, with pain, with hunger, with the knowledge that they weren't alone even though often Tam wished he was so that Linh didn't have to go through this with him.

His blood pumped fear through his body, the fear that honed his hungry body and let him steal when it had been two days since fresh food and Linh reached a dangerously weak hand to his cheek. He would bite his cheek and taste it, taste the adrenaline in the blood that flooded his mouth, and know that they could not go on this way.

He could not go on this way.

It was only a few more months from that day until they met Sophie. One more month where the darkness lasted too long, so long that the shadows he loves so much it hurts began to leach strength from his cold, aching body.

Now, he sits in a warm home and lets music be his shield. Not instead of flesh, but a part of it, the way the dark would melt into his skin if he sat still enough, like a wild beast that was only looking for a little warmth. Melody sinks into his body and becomes him, becomes Tam, putting pink back into his blue fingers and depth back into his eyes.

Tam places his steps in the footprints of music he's listened to a hundred times. The notes are not a religion, but they are a heartbeat. They are a lifeblood. They are a dream of safety and a recognition of luck, fingers pressed into guitar strings too quickly, too often, summoning red irritation to the surface as a reminder that he doesn't have to be numb anymore.

He's allowed to let out a breath that is not for the purpose of letting Linh inhale. They breathe separately now. Sometimes she sits in the room while he plays and lets the music trickle down her arms like she's fresh back from swim practice,  damp silver tips of her hair sticking to her neck. She's a painting, flesh and blood. 

He gives her form with his guitar, with the grand piano in the living room, with the lyrics he doesn't show her but still scribbles down into whatever notebook Tiergan buys him.

The music lets Tam become himself. It tells him that he is a heartbeat, a held breath. It does not need to be concrete. It's all right there. Who he is.

Who is he?

...

Keefe paints him over and over again.

But it doesn't start that way. It starts as sketches, simple renderings. He rehearses what he'd say if anyone realized who he was looking at: he's a good model. Unique, clear-cut, (and the unmentionable "hot as shit" description that waits at the tip of his tongue) interesting. Silver bangs cut dangerously across the gentle slope of his forehead. Keefe presses the shape of his nose into the paper so hard the tip of his pencil breaks.

It's just sketches, until he breaks out the watercolors at home, and sort of curses his photographic memory for remembering him so well but also knows it was the result of staring at him for too long. He gives the boy a pink flush in his cheeks even though it wasn't there before.

But that was only the first painting. The first day.

The next day, Keefe learns his name.

Tam and Linh Song are new students, the teacher tells them. Treat them with as much respect as you would any other classmate. Sophie twists to glare at him as if to say, That means you, Keefe, don't tease the new kids before they know you're just joking around all the time, and he smirks at her as if to say, What, you want me to change? What happened to loving me for who I am?

And, really, he wasn't planning on teasing them— not even him. He's content with the creepy sneaking-peaks-across-the-classroom-all-period he's got going on, and he isn't a bully.

But Tam is in his next hour, and Sophie isn't there to chide him for anything, so he slides into the desk next to him and says, "Yo, new kid, I hope you know that I'm basically in charge of this school, and there's a penalty for doing anything better than me."

Tam turns to meet his eyes, and Keefe suddenly finds a detail he didn't catch in yesterday's prayer (painting). His eyes are a dangerous sort of gray, nearly black when his eyes narrow and a blue-silver when the light catches them, and he has teeth straight enough to draw a line. "No need to worry about that," he says, his voice rough and unpolished. "I'm sure I couldn't possibly beat your... what? C+ average?"

Keefe's mouth drops open for a moment, and Sophie's words echo in his head as he's forced, for the first time in his class clown history, to wonder whether or not this kid is joking. Then his lips spread into a wide smile as he finds it doesn't matter. "No one in this hellhole of a school ever managed better grades than a C- before I came along, so that's a nice try. But I'm a record-setter here."

Tam regards him in a way that sends his eyebrows twitching up. Keefe wonders what he sees. "Luckily, I'm not a competitive person. Because if I were, I'd point out that there's no way someone hasn't done at least their hair better than you."

Keefe's nostrils flare. He ruffles his hair and says, snippily, "Lucky you aren't competitive, then, because I'd have to point out that bangs haven't been in since my grandmother was born."

His lips press together into a tight line, eyes narrowing. Tam turns back to face the front of the classroom, his back ramrod straight despite the way Keefe's arm is draped over the back of his chair, foot propped up on the desk. "I must have a four-leaf fucking clover, then."

Keefe is kind of obsessed with him. He hopes it doesn't show.

...

Tam was aware that being the new kid would invite a few questions, but he expected more of "Where did you go before?" or "Is it true you're adopted?" instead of an instant pissing contest with a boy who has ink splattered messily on his hands and scribbled all over the thighs of his jeans.

Not that he thinks Keefe is uninteresting. Definitely, certainly full of himself, and absolutely hiding something under that mop of bleached blond hair, but perhaps someone Tam would have liked to know, if only to see what motivated him to strike up a conversation.

Neither of them have spoken in the last few minutes, but Keefe's still moving, still shifting his weight back and forth, running his fingertips across the desk, scuffing his expensive shoes along the ground, and worst of all, messing with his pen. click. click. click.

Tam doesn't bother twisting to look at him as he says, "Could you... stop that? Please?"

He hears a snort. The clicking stops, and then Keefe's breath is on his cheeks as he leans over so far his chair tips to the side. He has the grin of an understimulated panther, and he lounges across Tam's desk like he's method acting as one for the school play.

"What are you trying to pay so much attention to, anyway? Can't be the lesson. No one listens to those."

If Tam were a liar, he'd say that Keefe has an annoying fucking voice. Unfortunately, he is not, and his voice is smooth and soft and has a practiced sort of velvet that makes him think this is a boy who is consistently excused for his mistakes. Maybe he can sing. He seems like he'd either be terrible or completely perfect at it.

"I'm listening to it. It's better than the alternative." Tam cuts his gaze to catch Keefe's reaction, finding the other's mouth falling open. All four chair legs land back on the ground as he retreats to a socially acceptable distance.

"I have never before been called worse than school."

"Must be both of our lucky days, then," Tam snipes. The notes spill out in his head, and he finds himself tapping a beat out onto the desk. "You don't seem all that interesting to me." Maybe he is a liar. New schools are meant for reinventing yourself, right?

"Oh, I've been called a lot of things," Keefe begins.

"Full of yourself? Dangerously overconfident? Terribly irritating?" Tam supplies.

Keefe glares at him. "I've been called a lot of things. But believe me..." He leans closer, a mischievous spark leaping from his icy eyes. His voice lowers like he's sharing a secret, even though speaking at normal volume hasn't prompted any reaction from the teacher so far. "Uninteresting has never been one of them."

...

Weeks pass, then months.

Keefe learns that Tam and Linh are adopted, that they were homeless for over a year before Tiergan took them in. In return, they learn that his parents don't particularly like him, that he acts out for attention, and the full depth of his hatred for his father. He views it as equal exchange, a secret for a secret.

As they spend more time with the group, they learn about what Fitz and Biana's brother did to their family. They learn about Sophie's adoption, about Dex's years of being bullied, about Marella's mom and Jensi's school struggles and the various other aches and pains that come from being alive. Secrets for secrets, piled up in snowdrifts until it's not an exchange anymore.

He shows all of them the smaller paintings, the landscapes, group portraits. He captures Linh's rosy cheeks after the snowball fight they had at the Dizznee's that winter, pressing a pink tint over her nose. He masters Dex's freckles, then the contrast of Fitz's hand in his, then Biana's grin that wrinkles her nose and squints her eyes and makes her jawline disappear. He draws the curls at the end of Sophie's hair and then adds gold highlights and gives it to her for her birthday.

And he draws him. Over and over again.

Pressing his likeness between the pages of his sketchbook, the faint dimples that form whenever he smiles (more and more often, he's been able to squeeze some amusement out of him), the way the silver in his hair catches light, the thick knuckles working delicately with fingertips to pluck the strings of his guitar. 

It's with reverence that he paints him, sculpting the softness of his jaw like some ancient artists designed their gods. It's not enough.

He wants him to see them, but also, he would rather die.

Keefe asks Tam to model with a nonchalance that could almost be called a lie if you cared about that sort of thing, which Keefe decidedly does not. He says, "I've been looking for a muse." He says, "It must be your dream to have me staring at you for a few hours." He says, "Please?"

Tam looks at him like he's considering an art piece himself. Then he looks at him like he's rolling an insult, a refusal, a mockery around on his tongue. Then he looks away like he started imagining how Keefe's lips would taste on his (or possibly that was just wishful thinking). Then, slowly, carefully, he says: "Okay."

...

Tam stretches out on the couch and thinks, draw me like one of your french girls but doesn't say it because it's far too easy and his humor is supposed to be elevated, the kind of jokes that he can watch Keefe flail and jump at from far below.

Instead he says, "You want me to pose?"

"Only if it's a cute one." Keefe is distracted, setting up his paints, adjusting the curtains so the light falls correctly, twisting the canvas stand back and forth as he tries to get a good angle. Also, he's dropping things more than he usually does.

He snorts and turns onto his stomach, resting the side of his face on his clasped hands as he waits for Keefe to finish. The couch is a worn forest green, parts of it peeling, and he wonders if it will be included in the portrait. He closes his eyes and lets the sound of the room swallow him and thinks about a song made from only Keefe's curses as he drops another paintbrush.

"That's good, actually," Keefe says suddenly, and Tam's eyes pop open to find his face barely a foot away, studying his face. Instinctively, he starts to rise on his hands, but a hand presses onto his head and forces him back down with an oomph— hey! "Sorry. I want you to stay there, though."

"What, like I'm sleeping?"

"Yeah." Keefe has freckles so light that it's impossible to catch unless he's this close. While Tam is noticing this, he also notices that he has the longest eyelashes he's ever seen, and also that pink is blooming across his cheeks as if he's noticing very similar things about him. Keefe lurches back onto his heels, then stands, the pink fading as if it was only in his imagination.

Tam smirks. Then he sets his cheek back down on his laced fingers and lets out a deep breath.

"Perfect," Keefe says. He hovers above him like there's something more to say, even though there really isn't, before saying it anyway: "I mean, for the shot. For the painting. The angle, I mean." Then his face closes into what Tam would call "determined embarrassment" and he retreats to the safety of his canvas and paints.

The process takes hours. 

Tam barely blinks, content to watch the way Keefe lives in his element. In school, there's always a sort of uncomfortable tension in the way he moves, like a caged animal. Here, his eyes go squinty as he checks details, paint splattering on his already stained jeans, scratching his cheek with a paintbrush and smudging his skin with pinks as he tries to rub it off.

It's endearing. Tam is so surprised that it's endearing. He hates it a little bit (he isn't often surprised, but he supposes that rule has never applied to Keefe anyway).

A song weaves around the back of his mind. He hums a few lines, the melody sinking into the ratty couch cushions until they become the forest floor, a peaceful night where it was just the wind and the sky and the two of them, his eyes fluttering between the waking and dreaming world.

It's an in-between. A fresh start, one that's less fear and hunger and more... peace. Breakfast in the mornings and pictures pinned up to the walls until no one can tell where he came from or who he was.

Who he is.

...

Keefe knows that many of the ancient artists were trying to preserve what they perceived as divine in their work.

A call and answer, maybe. When religion and creation are the same thing, he supposes inspiration can be a shout from whatever form of god they worshipped, hoarse and torn with the desire to be immortalized.

Painters would paint their lovers, parents, children, friends, and call it divinity. They'd paint a field of sunflowers, a bowl of fruit, messy bedsheets, castles with countless towers, and summon a piece of their god to live on the canvas. Keefe supposes that's as close to the definition as anyone could ever find.

He finds it here: studying the way light dapples Tam's side, the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders, the creases of his shirt as it rides up his side.

He finds it here: the way shadows deepen his cheekbones into something sharp and dangerous and alluring, the way his eyes cut over quickly like they're sharing some private joke, the way his lips quirk up when he smiles like he needs to get it over with and return to his usual scowl.

God, he finds his divinity. He finds his religion.

#summer's writing #kam week 2023 #kotlc #keeper of the lost cities #keefe sencen #tam song #songcen #shadowheart #human au #artist/musician #pining

[lilacevans]

are you death or paradise?

ahhhh, first fic! just a liccle ficlet for you. dark, but not too dark. please lemme know what you think!! (i know i said in my tags that it would be mafia!ari but uh, i changed my mind and this came out instead. but that one's sat in my drafts for another time!) anyway, thank you for 160+ followers!!

dark!steve rogers x avenger!reader. tw; minor depictions of injury, kidnapping. if you're under the age of 18, my work isn't for you, go away

ok im gonna go hide now ahhhhh. also it’s my work so, don’t pinch it/recreate it or i’ll show up at ur house and steal your spoons

You could sense something was wrong the moment you opened your eyes.

The room around you was dimly lit by a single light hanging low in the center of the ceiling. The walls were bare, paint peeling that showed the solid concrete underneath. The floor was filthy, covered in dirt and dust, and a metal rusted door seemed to be the only way out. There were no windows, and it was basically vacant— nothing in the room except for the dingy mattress you were laying on, a toilet, and a sink.

All you knew at that moment was that you needed to get out of here; wherever here was.

You groaned as you pulled yourself up, wincing as every bone and muscle screamed under your skin, your entire body begging for you to lay back down. You dusted off your hands as you coughed, instantly regretting it as pain spiked through your lungs causing you to clutch at your chest. Your throat was dry and scratchy, your head pounded.

You then reached a hand up to find the source of the pain and as your fingers touched the back of your head you winced as you touched the painful spot and pulled your fingers back and discovered blood on your fingers, rubbing your fingers together as more confusion settled in and you questioned how you ended up here.

Before you had a chance to even question your situation further or to scream out, a loud clunk rang out in the room, followed by the turning of a lock and the scraping of the metal door being swung open. Your hands shot up in front of your eyes as a harsh light shined on you, making you unable to see whoever was standing in the doorway. It wasn’t until the person made it to the center of the room that you gasped and rushed to your feet before the chains on your ankles pulled you back down onto the mattress.

“Steve?” You asked in disbelief, eyes darting from the thick, heavy metal cuff around your ankle and the man before you. 

Steve didn’t look right. He had a sick smirk on his lips and his uniform was dark with red detailing and the signature Hydra logo splayed across his chest.

“Bingo,” Steve affirmed enthusiastically, clicking his fingers before pointing them and lips breaking into a wide smile, full of teeth and a glimmer of something dark in his eyes. “But, not the one you're probably hoping for.”

You gawked up at him, unable to say a word. The man you’d spend the last year getting to know had been a total lie, or there were two. God, you were so confused. Think! 

As you continued to stare up in horror, the memory of the two of you hanging out in the gym came back. He had pulled you along, promising a sparring session to blow off some steam after a mission went wrong, and then hit you over the head with a dumbbell as you leaned down to stretch.

“You’re confused,” Steve said, sassy and rushed as he sat down in front of you, holding up his hands. “Allow me to explain-“

“You lied,” You stressed, heartbroken, voice wavering and breath shaky. “You lied to us all.”

“I never lied, silly, Steve replied, condescension dripping from his lips as he reached out a hand towards you. You quickly smacked it away, earning a displeased sigh from the man you once considered a friend. “I just simply didn’t tell anyone. That’s the whole undercover part— You know, you’ve done it. If people wanna believe that I’m some good-hearted hero then let them! They don’t need to know I’m also the one causing the chaos and inciting more violence and war behind the scenes.”

Steve reached out for you again but this time you quickly backed yourself against the wall, putting as much distance between yourself and Steve. Your whole body shook, the reality making you feel nauseous and vile. Tears threatened to spill over your eyes as you remembered all the times Steve had held you after bad days, rough missions, horrible arguments, and soul-crushing nightmares.

“Don’t be like that, baby. It’s still me,” Steve insisted, hand on his heart. “We can still have fun together. Who knows? They might let me keep you once we’re all done.”

“Who’s they?” You spat. If Steve thought there was any hope of keeping you, he was wrong. 

“I don’t run the show, sweetheart. Merely following orders. All you need to know is that if you’re a good girl and behave—“ Steve lunged forward quickly to gather you in his arms. You let out a shout and shoved against him pathetically, your body too weak fight against him as he manoeuvred you into his lap and cradled you like a child. Steve laughed tauntingly as he held you close to his chest and spoke into your ear. “And everything will be fine. Can you do that for me, baby?''

#dark!steve rogers #dark!steve x reader #steve rogers x reader #dark!steve x female reader #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers fic #dark steve rogers #lila writes

[mlmxreader]

The End of War | Kim Horangi Hong-jin x m!reader

Anonymous asked: "I'm in pain" "Please just leave me" "Just for one more day" "Hold me" "Come back here"

If you're in the mood for angst, this would be very ouchie with Horangi

summary: it all goes so terribly, terribly wrong and not even Horangi can pull you back.

tws: depictions of war and death, injury detail, trauma caused by war, survivor's guilt

support your fanfic writers by reblogging what you read & enjoy

November eleventh, a score to settle and a mission to finish; half of the dead had been alone when they perished, and when you stood on the scarred and barren battlefield, you could still hear the gunfire ringing in your ears. The ground still shook with the mortars and grenades despite the fact that nobody was left. The taste of sand clung to your tongue, your mouth felt coarse and dry. Dust was still blowing in the winds with the ashes of buildings that had been torn and broken during the fight.

Morning broke just a few hours ago, but you still felt as if you had been in the shadows, as if the moon was still above you and keeping a close eye on the fight; nobody came for you, even when evac had been requested before the fight had broken out. You were all alone, and as you looked at the remaining men from your battalion, all you could feel was guilt; your chest right and your breath shallow.

They were broken and bloody. Gunshot wounds, stab wounds, cracked bones. The ashes and dust and sand had gotten in so many gashes that it wouldn't shock you if gangrene were to break out; you tried to swallow, but sand still clung to your tongue, and even licking your lips felt like rubbing sandpaper against them. You dropped to your knees with your helmet in your hands, and hung your head in shame; you couldn't look at them. Look upon the wounds you had given them. It was all your fault.

You were the one to walk right into the ambush. You lead those men to their death, and now you would have to explain to their families and friends that it was you who had killed them; you had brought them to the slaughter, you might as well have shot them yourself. You dropped your helmet, didn't even care about how it kicked up a cloud of pale yellow dust as it rolled on the ground for a moment.

Your vision became blurry, wet spots between your legs that splashed against the sand and made it turn dark and thicker; choked sounds leaving the back of your coarse throat that made your chest itch and ache. Something was against your shoulder, but you couldn't bring yourself to look up.

"Naekkeo."

You couldn't bring yourself to look. An eerie silence across the battlefield, still able to hear the whispers of the dying crying out for their mothers and fathers. Begging to die quickly. A shadow came to your side, and a gloved hand fell upon your thigh.

You were going to have to bury your friends, and for what?

They had been your brothers, your friends, yet your war would end when you went home; theirs would never. They would never know the gentle kiss of peace, would never hear pigeons coo in the morning or foxes scream at night; would never again hold their babies or give their dogs a scratch behind the ears. They would never see sunset or sunrise, never gaze upon the mountains or get lost in the woods.

Their blood would rest on the battlefield, yet they would never know peace.

"Talk to me," the shadow grumbled. "Please."

What could you say?

They were soldiers, they were young, and now their blood would make poppies grow; you couldn't bring them back, even if you tried. They had died alongside their brothers, but had been alone in their final moments; they would be buried in shallow graves, forgotten to the world the moment that they returned home. They would never know peace.

What could you possibly say?

"C'mon," he begged. "It's me. Hong-jin."

He sounded like his voice was breaking, and although you never drew your gaze up, you did not miss that he had removed his helmet and set it down beside yours; it kicked up a little more dust that soon settled.

"Please," he gently nudged you. "Speak to me."

"Please just leave me," your voice came out more hoarse than you were expecting, raw from screaming orders and begging for your men to take cover, to run away.

"I can't do that," he murmured. "I said I'd always be there for you. I'm not going anywhere without you."

You shook your head, a few more splashes landed between your legs but one managed to catch the very dip of his finger, making the dark black glove shine.

"Are you hurt?" He asked softly.

"I'm in pain," you choked out. "But not hurt."

He nodded, getting up for a moment and leaving you; you could hear his conversation, but couldn't focus too much. Not when you knew that you had the blood of your own men on your hands.

"Horangi," König kept his voice relatively quiet, "is he okay?"

"No," Horangi replied, "just... give us a while? I'll bring him back when he's ready."

"Ja," König agreed. "Natürlich... take your time."

The dirt and sand crunched and shuffled, but you still didn't look up; even when Horangi came to your side again, playing his hand on your thigh, you said nothing and didn't think about moving. You should have been the one killed, not them.

It should have been you.

There was some shuffling about, dust made your blurred vision turn slightly yellow, and you could feel yourself being pulled; your forehead made contact with a vest, and your hands were squashed against something hard. Legs spread and something, someone, between them.

Horangi held you on his lap, straddling him as he kept one hand at the small of your back, the other between your shoulder blades; he was rocking back and forth ever so slowly.

"I've got you," he murmured. "I've got you, naekkeo. I've got you."

Slowly, you grabbed the front of his vest, pressing your forehead just below his throat as you soaked the black material; it should have been you. You should have been the one to perish, not them. No one should have died like that.

"Hold me," your voice was so broken, it sounded so hoarse and as if you had had sandpaper stuffed down your throat. "Don't go."

"I'm not going anywhere," Horangi told you, swallowing thickly. "It's all over now. I've got you... I'm not going anywhere."

"Make it go away," you whimpered so pitifully. "Just for one more day, make it all go away, please."

He clenched his jaw. "I wish I could... but come back here, please, come back to me. Please."

You shook your head. "I don't want to leave them..."

Horangi took a look around for a moment, then swallowed thickly as he nodded. "I'll wait with you."

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