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sprout-fics · 7 months

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Engravings (Chapter Three) (Finale)

(Makarov x F! Reader)

Engravings Masterlist

Word Count: 6.5k Rating: Mature Tags: Brainwashing, Emotional Manipulation, Kidnapping, False Romance, Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Injury/Blood, Whump, Stockholm Syndrome, Winter Soldier AU, Psychological Abuse, Happy Ending, Some Fluff, Hurt/Comfort Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Physical Abuse, Domestic Violence, Attempted Homicide, Physical descriptions of gore, Mind the tags (Read on Ao3) A/N: The final chapter of Marionette's escape

How do you kill the person you love?

You’ve bathed in the blood of dozens, possibly hundreds. The violence Makarov has wound into your veins is inherent to your soul. Poisoned, your heart is dyed in ink, pulsing in glinting obsidian. If there was anything pure in you before he turned you into what you are now, it’s been swallowed by the years spent under his control, in his arms, drinking in his breath as if it were your own. The lives you’ve taken for him are a mere chill compared to his searing warmth. It burns against your skin in the light of the truth, but the pain is a bittersweet addiction you can’t release.

You know a hundred ways to kill an enemy, but you know none to kill Makarov.

It’s getting hard to maintain this farce of yours, your tender, relieved smiles at his presence, your soft sighs into his shoulder. Every time he echoes the name he’s bestowed upon you “Marionette.” a vile, sour thing twists inside you with a scream of something wrong.

He knows.

He knows, he sees through your farce, but he pretends like nothing is wrong. He presses gentle kisses to your forehead and you don’t let him see the pinch of your expression with how it hurts- the way something inside you longs for him even now. There’s a distant temptation to sink to your knees before him, confess and plead for mercy. You’re his, you’ve always been his. He loves you. He’ll forgive you, even if it means you’ll never see your friends again. If he forgives you, at least you’ll still have him, and there’s a part of you that still thinks he’s all you ever needed.

Has he engraved that into you too?

You dance around each other in this vain, feckless game of yours. You whisper his name like it’s a prayer, and his velvet eyes soften in return. Accepting your docility, as if he doesn’t see your feral nature lurking just below the surface. He embraces you, holds you tight to his chest, and you feign willingness, knowing the fatalistic gaze of him as he gazes past you. He’s playing you just as you play him, both of you waiting for the other to crack and end this macabre waltz you revolve in just like the ever-changing axis of stars above.

You’re running out of time.

You try to imbue yourself in the memories of your allies that have surfaced inside you despite his control over your mind. You think of the curling smoke of Price’s cigar, the sly sparkle of Gaz’s eyes, the bark of Soap’s laughter, the curve of Simon’s smile in the rare moments without his mask. You think about the clink of glasses in a dimly lit pub, the boxes of takeout that litter the coffee table in the rec room. You think about the despair in their eyes when they saw the thing you are now, and the scrawl of Johnny’s handwriting in the letter you wish you still had to give you strength.

We’re coming. We’ll bring you home. We won’t stop until you’re away from him.

Be patient, stay alive.

Come back to us.

Please, hen.

You think you may be dead by the time they rescue you. You think they might die trying to free you.

and you think about how cold Makarov’s blood will feel on your hands.

Maybe you can catch him while you lay in his arms in the blue light of his bedroom. Maybe you can pilfer a weapon and conceal it. Maybe you can breathe in his final, shuddering gasp when you drive the blade between his ribs, whisper a useless apology for the sin of loving him.

Maybe he’ll kill you with a kiss before you can try.

“They’ll never take you from me.” He’d told you. You know he’ll never let you leave alive.

You need to go home, and once more something secret inside you whispers that you are home.

He wakes you on a cold March morning a week after your breakdown, and as you blink slowly up at him he smiles, that gentle, heart tugging gesture that used to be the light of your entire life. Now, it makes you want to burst into tears.

“Good morning, beautiful.” He coos ever so gently, and you manage to not shy away from his touch as he smooths a hand across your bare shoulder. “Get dressed, I have somewhere to send you.”

No.

You’re not ready. You don’t know what it is, but something inside you twists in sickening apprehension at his words. Even so, you offer him a complacent smile, murmur something about coming back to bed for just a few more minutes.

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

Within the hour you are dressed in a dusk-colored coat and bundled into the back of a black van with two other men, both of them armed. Anxiety takes a foothold in your chest, and it takes effort to appear calm and composed even as the car pulls away and Makarov fades behind you.

They take you to a warehouse in a town just outside the city. It looks abandoned, but you know it’s merely a concealed location for something nefarious. Smuggling, storage, planning of logistics, a black site that doesn’t even exist on the map. You wonder if these are your executioners, if they’re taking you to a quiet, hidden spot to dispose of you. They won’t even dig you a grave, not with the ground frosted over by winter. The men at your back escort you inside, through empty corridors, down a set of stairs into a dark cellar. Every muscle inside you coils tight, ready to fight, claw your way to freedom through a path of blood.

Yet when the door to the cellar opens, all you see is a friend.

Alex.

He’s tied to a chair. Bruised, bloodied. There’s a welt above his left eye that you want to smooth over with a delicate touch, fall to your knees at his feet to undo the ropes that bind him. His head hangs on his chest, but when he looks up at you he startles, eyes wide before his expression falls into abrupt sadness. He calls your name and it takes all your strength to stand tall, to stay composed. Blank eyed, obedient. The puppet he wants you to be.

“What did he do to you?” He rasps, brow pinched in distress. He flexes his arms at the ropes, and they don’t budge. He calls your name again and it’s desperate. A sound of despair.

Movement beside you. A knife pressed into your palm.

“Do it.” Your handler murmurs in Russian. “Kill him.”

You tremble now, trying to keep your expression passive despite the looming panic rising up your chest and threatening to choke your air.

It’s a test. One you’re designed to fail.

You can kill him, watch the light from Alex’s eyes fade and his blood drain down your wrist. You could buy yourself just a little bit more time before Makarov decides to test you again, and again, until one day your usefulness to him expires and he tosses you aside.

You step closer, feel the phantom whisper of him in your ear, hands pressing your back into his front in a sinister embrace. His palms cover your eyes, blinding you.

“You don’t even have to look, darling.”

The knife shakes in your grip.

Alex turns his face to you, and the grief there makes something inside you splinter, crack and unspool in tormenting agony.

He’s your friend.

“It’s me.” He whispers sadly at your thousand-yard stare. “You know me. It’s Alex.”

“Do it.” The other handler snaps impatiently. “Prove yourself to our cause.”

“They’ll never take you from me.”

You won’t do this. Not anymore.

“No.” You whisper as something inside you finally changes along with the light of hope unfurling in Alex’s eyes. “I won’t.”

The two men behind you are silent for a moment, looking at each other, before one of them sighs.

You know the movement is coming before he lunges towards you, and easily you sidestep him, seize his arm and twist in a brutal grip. Something snaps. He screams.

The blade in your hand turns red with his blood.

As he gurgles a death moan on the ground, the other tries to raise his weapon at you. You force his hands up to the ceiling as he fires, and the bullet lodges itself in the damp wood. Two quick movements. A slash to the chest, under his bulletproof vest, and as he chokes a gasp you stab forward into the side of his neck, rip from one end to the other. Warm wetness coats your hands, and as the man slumps it drips from your fingers onto his stricken, frozen face.

You turn to Alex, and see in his eyes that he looks afraid. Afraid of your brutality, of your violence. Afraid of the weapon you’ve become. Afraid of the thing Makarov has made you.

The knife cuts away his bindings, and you drop it in favor of trying to touch him, reach and help him. You jolt when you realize how your skin has turned scarlet in the act of taking more lives. Yet Alex’s hands close over them, holding with a tight grip as if to anchor you from yourself.

“They, Price and the others, they sent me to find you.” He tells you hoarsely, rushing through his words. “They needed to know you were alive. That-”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.

“Where are they?” You ask, gaze still bent to your hands. Soft, almost demure. Numb to the act of taking lives.

“A two-hour drive. We can make it before reinforcements come.” He declares, and suddenly you’re being pulled up the cellar stairs, past the empty corridors and into the overcast morning.

You gently pull your hand away from him. Alex looks at you, eyes stricken.

“No.” You whisper quietly, eyes full of hurt for what you are about to do. “I can’t.”

Alex blinks, and then he turns to grab at your shoulders, gripping you. “What are you talking about? This is your chance. You can escape!” He pauses, fingers clenching into your wool coat before he softly adds: “You can come home to us.” Your face pinches, you shake your head in a quick gesture that silences a growing sob.

“They’ll find us before we make it out of the city.” You tell him softly. “Makarov won’t let me go that easily.”

You feel that new, fragile thing inside you clench with the hurt of your words, how desperately you want to follow him. “I can’t get you killed for this. You- you go. I’ll distract them, make sure you get to safety.”

Alex’s grip softens, but his voice remains hard. “I’m not leaving you.” He declares with unwavering conviction. “We’ll find a way. I can’t just-”

“Go.” You gasp, cutting him off. “I need- I need to go back. I need to end this.”

You look at him then, eyes brimming with tears. The truth of what you need to do aches in your bones, a sorrow that grows tenfold at the devastation in your friend’s eyes.

“I need to kill him.”

Alex blinks, swallows.

“He’ll try to kill you.” He whispers.

You nod, and at last resignation settles into your soul with a sigh. “I know.”

Yet then you manage to smile past your tears, head tilting and eyes fond.

“I’ll follow you soon.” You tell him softly. “Don’t wait up.”

Alex holds you to his chest, red hands pressing your face to his shoulder. You can feel his rigid frame as he tries to contain his protests.

“Be safe, sister.” He tells you in Arabic. “Come back to us.”

“I will.” You promise, eyes closing and swallowing down a sob. “I will.”

---

As Alex makes his escape, you find yourself once more throwing yourself into the jaws of the lynx.

The drive back to Makarov’s safehouse is quiet, almost peaceful. The scant brightness of the winter sun glints off your dull-eyed gaze. The blood on your hands and clothes dries by the time you pull into the garage, hit the button to the beautiful, pristine apartment that overlooks St. Petersburg. You close your eyes, swallow down the howling voice inside you that screams in anguish at the sin you are about to commit against the man you once loved, and somehow have been taught to love still.

There’s no guards at Makarov’s door, and it makes you falter unexpectedly. Even so, you cautiously tread inside, the knife in your grip concealed in the sleeve of your blood splattered coat. The smell of food wafts from the kitchen, and as you step inside you see him at the stove, tending to something mouthwatering. It’s only then that you catch sight of the set table, the flowers in a vase, the fine silverware and white napkins set just so.

“Welcome back.” He tells you without looking at you, and you notice how nicely dressed he is, pressed shirt sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows. “Go change. There is a dress for you in the bedroom.”

You don’t move, caught entirely off guard by this...this display of romanticism he never once has offered in the time you’ve known him. It’s sinisterly amorous, deceptively charming in a way designed to unsettle you. It finds its mark, because something inside you squirms with abject, growing discomfort, knowing something is wrong.

It’s then that you see the pistol laying beside him on the counter.

Soviet era, semi-automatic. Nine-millimeter.

“Dinner will be ready soon.” He tells you blankly, still not looking at you, as if he doesn’t even consider you a threat.

The water runs pink in the bathroom. You try to find a way to conceal your knife on your person, but the dress he’s set for you offers little excuse to hide your weapon. Red, the color he adores you in, and your hands fumble as they try to drag the zipper up your spine. When the bedroom door opens you can’t contain a flinch. Yet Makarov is silent as he crosses the room, bare hands sliding the zipper up your spine in a slow, suggestive gesture. When he’s finished, his arms snake around to hold your hips, nose descending to the exposed flesh of your shoulder and tracing along the skin. He breathes in your scent, and you can’t help but ease somewhat at the sinister seduction he offers to you.

“Come eat.” He whispers breathily. “You’ve had a long day.”

His grip on your shoulder is unrelenting as he escorts you to the immaculately set table, popping his chin on his hands as he sits across from you with slow blinking eyes.

You look down at the steak on the fine china. Your stomach clenches in disgust. Poisoned, your mind whispers.

“I’m not hungry.” You whisper, your voice sounding more fearful than you’d hoped.

Makarov huffs a little sound that sounds almost amused.

“Do you think I’d stoop so low as to poison you, Marionette?”

You freeze.

As you look up from the steak to Makarov, as horror dawns across your expression, you realize he knows.

Makarov tilts his head and observes you with a slow, cruel smile.

“My greatest prize.” He purrs. “Come to kill me? How ironic.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. The apartment around you seems to spin dangerously. Heartbeat hammering, you look quickly to the steak knife beside the plate. Yet Makarov follows your gaze, and before you can grab for it he reaches forward with a disappointed little sigh and takes it from your grasp.

“Please, Marionette.” He tells you with false sincerity. “We’re trying to have dinner.”

“Is that what this is?” You ask hoarsely, throat dry. “I could have sworn this is you taking your time to gloat before you kill me.”

“Kill you?” He laughs, eyes sparkling with cruel glee. “Why Marionette, you haven’t even heard my offer yet.”

That makes you pause. You look at him, shoulders rigid, and Makarov’s eyes glimmer like the stars above.

“I’ve known about this farce of yours for a while, beloved.” He tells you, and the low timbre of his voice makes your chest tighten with an aleatory mix of emotion. “I was willing to overlook it as long as you did your job correctly, performed as you were meant to. After all, I’m so very fond of you.”

You spit a curse at him in Russian, and Makarov doesn’t even flinch.

“Of course, now that your friends are getting close to finding us, it is time to look at different options.”

You stiffen impossibly further in your chair, sitting elegantly in your lovely red dress, blood still under your fingernails, staring at the man holding you prisoner with noxious dread.

The smile Makarov gives you is ominously affectionate.

“I’ll give you one last chance, Marionette.” He offers silkily. “I’ll let you live. I can promise no harm will come to you. I won’t make use of your skills, and I won’t force you to kill your allies. You can stay, and you will be safe.”

“Under what conditions?” You ask quietly.

Makarov observes you, unblinking like the lynx painting that hangs above your dreams.

“You will never leave my side again.”

Your heart cracks against your ribs.

Stay with him. Protected, not forced to murder anyone, beside him always.

It’s what you’ve always wanted.

To be at his side, to walk beside him, not two steps back like the weapon he’s made you as. To fall under the wing of his protection and be his, only ever his. To be not his puppet or his tool but as his. Perhaps...even to be loved by him in the way you’ve wanted since the moment he found you.

It doesn’t make any sense. Why spare you? Why keep you beside him when he knows you want to take his life? Why take the risk?

You blink, and suddenly his words make sense. Why else? To keep you only as a shield, as insurance against your allies hunting him down, trying to kill him. Not as his weapon, no, but as leverage. The second Price and the others step too close he’ll hoist a gun to your head, force them to lay down their arms for the cost of sparing you.

In your dream, Price and the others look upon you with despair beyond the sights of the pistol in your grip.

“Stay with me, Marionette.” He purrs, head tilted at you with fixated intent. “Give in, and I’ll keep you safe.”

You swallow, feeling sandpaper scrape at your throat. “As your hostage?” You ask, voice trembling.

Makarov smiles. It looks almost kind.

“As my beloved doll.” He returns sweetly. “Perfect and beautiful just the way you are meant to be.”

You can imagine it. Just as he says, you’d be nothing more than a prize sitting amongst his trophies of war. Clad in beautiful clothes, pristine, at his side as a display of his power over you. Nothing more than a puppet, a captive, his marionette. You’d sit like a lachrymose dove in his golden gilded cage, staring up at the stars and wanting desperately to fly. Wings clipped, you’ll slowly rot until you once more become an empty shell whose only purpose is to love him.

An empty, soulless existence. Worse than the one you’re living in.

Makarov is silent as he waits for your answer, and you look upon him, this man you had once existed for. You remember his passionate embraces, his claiming kisses and soft strokes along your bare body. You remember a time when all you had ever wanted was for him to confess his adoration for you, tell you how beloved you are to him.

You look upon him now, and you see the man who offers a beautiful cage.

“I’m leaving.” You tell him, voice trembling with the strength it takes to speak. “I’m going to leave you, Makarov, and when I do, I’m going to learn to live without you.”

The light of false kindness in his eyes slowly fades to a blank, detached apathy.

“Darling.” He whispers, words low with threat. “You’ll never leave me.”

He reaches for the pistol.

You react entirely on instinct, shove the entire table towards him so it hits him in the stomach. Makarov catches it, but not in time, and he grunts as his features morph into a scowl. You stand so the chair topples behind you, lunge for him just as his hand closes around the gun. You manage to hoist it high and away from you, eyes wild as every instinct inside you roars to life. The skills he’s carved into you, the lessons of the weapon he’s made you, now turn against him in a desperate bid for survival.

Makarov curses at you, and as you follow his motion he drags you across the table, knocks a leg so it falls. You find your footing anyways, use his imbalance to shove him against the too-large windows that overlook St. Petersburg. Makarov rams his head against yours, and it sends you reeling for a moment, grip loosening on his wrist. He shakes it loose, but before he can fire you yell, plant a strike to his arm to buckle it. A shot rings out, and it goes wild, shattering the vase of roses on the kitchen counter.

Makarov grapples for you, his hand closing around the lower half of your face as you pin his arm to the curtains. You bite down so blood fills your mouth, raise a leg between you so you can kick out one of his legs. Makarov falters, and as he does you twist, reaching for the gun once more. Yet Makarov anticipates your movement, and as he rapidly adjusts you manage to only knock the weapon from his hands. It slides across the tiled floor, well out of reach.

In your surprise he catches you off guard, and the world spins around you as he snarls, hoists you and throws you through the glass table.

The impact makes something crunch inside you, broken glass slicing your skin as you fall on your side, pain blossoming brightly in your ribs. It stuns you, the hurt fracturing outwards and robbing the breath from your lungs. The impact rattles you from head to toe, and even as you are winded you try to roll and push yourself up, to face him once more.

Makarov’s hands find you before you get the chance.

He forces you violently onto your back, chest heaving as he leans over you, hands snaking up to grip your neck in a strangulating hold. It takes a moment for your head to clear, but when it does you struggle, choking in pain at the suck of air that doesn’t reach your lungs. Makarov’s thumbs press into your airway as he straddles you, ignoring your flailing hands as they try to scratch at his face. He grabs at them with one hand, struggling for a moment before he hauls both far above your head. It gives you only a moment to breathe before the choking hold returns, starving you of air.

You trash, flail, but with every movement Makarov’s hands seem to press down harder. His eyes stare down above you, mouth a grim set line as he watches the horror and desperation transform your expression.

Black dots threaten your vision, and you feel your strength beginning to fade. The only thing left is the constellations in his eyes, glimmering darkness that you once had looked upon with adoration.

“Vlad...imir-” You wheeze, tears falling.

He blinks, expression faltering.

At your fingertips, a piece of glass.

You stab it into the meat of his palm, loosen his hold as he cries out in pain. He relaxes his grip on you, and without thinking you surge upwards so the killing edge finds its place in his throat.

Blood coats your hands.

Makarov reels backwards, grips at the wound where blood rushes forth. He falls off you, and as he does you suck in a desperate gasp of air, filling your lungs with oxygen and coughing at the crack of your ribs as they seize. Glass digs rips at your dress, embeds itself into your flesh, and even as you rise you cut yourself further still, whimpering until at last you brace beside Makarov’s form.

There’s a wet gush of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, the shard of glass dyed red as it does nothing to stem the flow of blood that stains his collar, puddles on the floor. His hands weakly try to stop it, but he too seems to realize it’s too late. It’s over.

His eyes find yours. Confused, for a moment, but then blinking in a distant realization you don’t understand. He’s weak as he reaches for you, and you expect him to try and grab at you in a last-ditch effort, to take your life so you both tumble down to the fires of hell together.

Instead, his hand strokes a gentle, scarlet path onto your cheek.

You blink down at him, horrified, and Makarov’s eyes blink at you once, twice...

A slow exhale. His hand drops to the floor.

and slowly, the constellations fade.

The divine stars turn dark.

-----

It’s dark when the truck pulls up to the cabin.

Gentle hands shake you awake, coaxing you out of dreams. Your head lolls in your fatigue, but it lifts at the careful encouragement spoken in soft Russian. You yield to it, allow yourself to gently be helped from the passenger seat and onto your feet. There’s a thick blanket tucked around your form, and as you steady yourself you hug it tighter to keep the frigid cold at bay. Your too-large clothes hang loose from your form, and as you take a step forward you sway unsteadily.

Nikolai’s hands land on your shoulders, and you sag into his safety with relief, eyes fluttering with exhaustion.

He keeps you pressed into his side as you’re escorted forward, murmuring in Russian.

“Careful, Солнышко. Easy, I’ve got you.”

You don’t say much, glassy eyes focused more on your socked feet than where you’re being led. You can feel the way Nikolai’s fingers grip you, know from his touch alone how much it pains him to see you as a mere shell of your former self. It hurts somewhere deep inside you, a distant pain hidden by the numbness of the thing you’ve done.

A few more steps, and a door bursts open. You lift your gaze to take in the brightness that spills from the cabin, but it’s overshadowed by the rapid motion of figures quickly moving towards you. There’s a shout, a cry of your name, and the next thing you know you’re being passed from one set of arms to another, pressed into a smothering embrace.

“Soap.” You hoarse.

“Thank God.” He rasps, voice muffled by the blanket surrounding you. “Steamin’ Jesus, hen. We thought, we thought-”

He tenses in alarm as you abruptly sag into him, the strength in your legs giving out. Yet then there’s a second set of arms, and you lift your face towards the scent of cloves and gunpowder.

“Gaz.”

Gaz bends so he can look at your half-lidded eyes. You think you see tears.

“That’s right doll, it’s me.” He tells you, and a hand strokes your face. “We’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Snow crunches under footsteps. A smoke-laden voice. “Get her inside.” Your captain murmurs softly, voice muted. Resigned.

“Price.” You try, twisting to look for him. You see him just off to your side, and his eyes are caught between bitterness and heartbreak, an anger and sadness that you wish you could comfort. You reach for him, but all you manage to do is put yourself off balance, the pain in your hip flaring as you stumble. Gaz yelps as you sink downwards.

A larger set of arms, skeletal gloves. Ghost’s hands scoop under your legs and haul you upwards. You whimper at the pain from the movement, and you feel him gentle at the sound.

“You’re alright, pet.” He offers softly, and you somehow find it in yourself to nod, relax into his hold.

There’s murmurs as you’re carried into the warmth of the cabin, and you hear Price ask something to Nikolai in a low, grave voice, to which Nik merely shakes his head in disbelief.

You’re set near the fire, and the flickering glow warms you though. Someone tucks another blanket around your shoulders, pushes a steaming mug of tea into your hands. You look down at it hazy-eyed, shell shocked and numb, trying once more to tell yourself you’re safe. You’re home.

At last, you look up at them.

“He’s dead.” You announce hoarsely. “I killed him.”

The group is silent. There’s no cheering or cries of triumph. It’s a victory, but it has come at a great cost. Instead, their eyes are sad, bitter, staring at you like looking at an empty, lost soul.

Soap crosses the room first, sits beside you and hauls you gently against his side. It’s a wordless gesture, and you know it’s because there’s nothing he can say. Instead, you lean into him, feel your throat clog with the emotion of finally being held by someone you trust.

“Is Alex safe?” You ask in a wavering voice.

Price nods. You swallow down a sob.

“He came back.” Gaz tells you softly, reaches forward to take the mug from your bandaged, shaking hands and sets it atop the woodstove. “He told us what you did, that you went back by yourself. We...we thought...” He trails off, and you see the pain in his eyes, the way they’re glassy with tears.

“I’m sorry.” Soap offers then, voice cracking, his hand on your shoulder bunching the blanket in his grip. “We should have tried harder, we should have never stopped looking for you, we-”

“It’s not your fault, Johnny.” You tell him gently, with a weariness that sits heavy on your soul. Johnny grows silent, but after a moment he sucks in a breath, rubs at his face vigorously to erase the tears there.

“Johnny’s right.” Ghost offers sorrowfully, and when you look up you see the full extent of his emotions play out across his bare face. “I should have grabbed you in Minsk. I shouldn’t have let them take you.”

The conviction in his voice makes you pause, and you want to tell him it’s not his fault either, that he was just trying to figure out a way where you both made it out unscathed.

“It doesn’t matter.” Price murmurs grimly, bent forward in his chair, staring down at his clasped hands. He looks defeated, head drooping towards the floor. There’s no declaration of triumph in his voice at killing the man they’ve been hunting for years. Not when you’ve come back to them like you are now. He stands, gently pads over to kneel at your feet. You feel something dull stifle your chest as he turns his heartbroken gaze to you. “What matters now is that you survived. You made it out, and you came home to us.”

Home.

Your real home.

It breaks the dam inside you, and you feel your face scrunch before you suck in a gasp, begin to cry with fat, hot tears rolling down your face. Price hushes you, drags you into his arms, and you fold into him with a gasping wail of relief, of grief, of emotions you’ve yet to name. Johnny tucks into you from behind, followed by Kyle, and soon you feel the added weight of Simon wrap around you as well. They hold you, your brothers, listen to you shudder and weep in their arms. You feel them cry with you, grateful and grieving for all that was lost, and the price it cost to return you to them.

You don’t know how long you cry. It feels as if you cry for every single day you were caged, weeping for the time you lost with them, and the things you were forced to do in the time you forgot them. You weep for the lives you took, for the bruises you earned, for the words you believed, and you weep for the thing inside you that will forever remain changed because of it all.

Exhaustion takes hold as you empty yourself of cries, and you’re gently carried to a bed further inside the cabin, where a body, then another, lay down beside you and let you curl into their warmth. You drift to sleep, safe in the arms of those who love you.

As you rest, Nik relays to the others the story you told him- of how you escaped.

You’d taken the pistol Makarov gave you, shot the guards that had come to his rescue, and had driven far out to the other end of the city. Injured, bloodied, in nothing but the dress Makarov had given you, you had run for the better part of a day before finding a way to contact Nikolai. He was the one who had found you collapsed in the dark bushes of a park, hidden amongst the branches like a nestling fawn. There, you’d collapsed into the snow, gripped the spent pistol Makarov had tried to use on you, allowed frostbite to take its hold, and prepared to die.

Instead Nik collected you into his arms and brought you to a safehouse. It was there that he tended to your wounds, to your broken ribs and injured hip from being thrown through the glass table. Bruises litter your right side, a circling of dark coloring around your neck, a welt across your forehead, all things you earned in your bid for freedom. He’d removed the shards still sticking from your skin, had cleaned and dressed your cuts and taken your dress to burn it in his stove. You’d stayed awake throughout, told Nik of the thing you had done. You cried into his arms as you confessed your sins, begged for a forgiveness he could not offer.

He’d held you, kept you safe, and he brought you home to them.

You don’t dream as you sleep in the arms of your brothers.

The rest of the story comes slowly over the next few days as you rest and recover. You’re never left alone, scarcely without someone to lean into, to be held by, and for this you are grateful. Grateful you are too, of the gentleness your friends give you as they care for you. Warm food, hot tea, a place by the fire, clean clothes, and tender hands that redress your wounds. They listen to you as you tell them the story from the beginning, from the day you woke up without a name to the day you earned it back. You tell them of the one named Marionette, the beautiful puppet held by his strings. You tell them of a life that was not yours to control, and of how you escaped.

Johnny sleeps by your side, soothes your restless slumber. Gaz pushes food into your hands and reminds you to eat, to earn your strength back. Ghost gently re-wraps your ribs, murmurs soft praises as you bite down on complaints. Price tucks you into him as you sit on the couch, listening to him read novels you don’t care to know the names of, until you fall asleep once more. You’re cared for, tended to, and the beloved touch of them slowly eases the wounds on your soul.

They cry for you, your friends. Soap weeps into your lap and sobs apologies for being unable to rescue you. Gaz holds you in his arms and cries for the things Makarov did to you, of the ways you were changed by his machinations. Simon looks upon you with tears when you forgive him, forgive all of them for not coming sooner.

When you cry into Price’s arms, finally confess to him that you once loved the man you killed, you feel his silent tears stain your shoulder. He’s quiet, angry, and you know it hurts because it wasn’t him that killed the man who took you from them.

In the days that follow you slowly regain your strength, and you know it will take many months to come before time gently washes away the things you can allow yourself to forget. Your family will stand beside you, protect you and shelter you as you find yourself again. They’ll hold you when the nightmares try to drown you, when you hear his voice in your thoughts and grasp desperately for them. They’ll stay with you as the pain slowly fades, as you learn how to smile again. They listen to the sound of your laughter and scarcely conceal their tears of joy.

It takes days to secure a safe path out of Russia with Nik’s help. In that time you hear how Makarov’s death has changed the world. Without their Copernicus, Russia’s ultra-nationalists flounder. Nik holds you with a soft smile when the others aren’t looking, and thanks you for doing the thing nobody else did. You think maybe you’ve earned an ounce of forgiveness with Makarov’s death.

You dream of him.

In the blue light of his bedroom, with the lynx painting, of soft words in Russian, of how his smile never reached his eyes. You dream of his final act- gently stroking your face, and of the hesitation in his gaze when you called his name in a breathless cry.

It’s a gentle dawn the day you leave Russia. You stand outside swaddled in the borrowed clothes of your friends, looking at the soft blue dawn that draws over the horizon. You think of that morning in St. Petersburg when you asked him how he would die.

“With glory. For Russia.”

You wonder if he loved you, at the very end.

There’s something inside you that remains a fragile, brittle thing. It’s changed by the time you spent with him, by the way he hollowed you out inside. Someday it will heal, will be filled once more by the beloved laughter of those you love, and the tender embraces of those who care for you.

You know that some things will forever remain the same, with the memories that you keep of him.

To the stars, you pray for the day to come soon when his engravings will finally fade.

Taglist:

@writeforfandoms @alicesfracturedmirror @soapskneebrace @badame0224 @mayhem-baby @emrzennn @papaver-decervicatus @warenai @ggeveryone99 @justmare @merkitty49 @darkstars-14 @lostagoodcigar @gazs-blue-hat @siilvan @bucca2 @franticallyfanning @danjo-ao3 @scatter-mind001 @lonesome-doves @thriving-n-jiving @bucketbunny @secretliteradite @anatweyen @imagineswritersblog @bucca2 @sae1kie @preciouslittlecreature @allbark-littlebite @theallpowerfulrosami

---

Thank you for reading Engravings.

#makarov x reader #makarov x you #makarov x f! reader #Makarov x y/n #cod x reader #darkfic tw #darkfic #dead dove do not eat #fic: engravings #mwIII #call of duty mwiii #cod mwiii #call of duty modern warfare 3 #x reader #reader insert #dddne #dead dove fic #dead dove

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littlefreya · 1 year

Text

Danse Macabre

Summary: She cannot tell who she is anymore, nor where she is. All that she knows is that Sherlock is not the man he pretends to be and that every night he comes to her bedroom to feast on the delights of her body...

Pairing: Vampire!Sherlock Holmes x Virgin OFC (no mentions of body type or ethnicity)

Word count: 2.2K

Warnings: 18+, Dark, horror, dubious consent, sex, supernatural themes, I guess we can say monster sex? Mentions of blood, hinted Stockholm Syndrome, loss of virginity, metaphors, obsession, hinted hypnosis, bites, vampire sex, mind manipulation.

A/N: I don't own Sherlock Holmes or Enola Holmes. Many thanks to my angels: @agniavateira for beta'ing my work and supporting me, and to @notabronte for giving me feedback and encouraging me to post. Please reblog and leave a comment if you enjoyed it. 🖤

Danse Macabre 🕯️

How long has it been; a month? A year? An eternity?

Time swayed differently in Mister Holmes’ mansion — if it moved at all.

The nights seemed endless, and the days… she couldn’t remember the last time she was awake during daytime. Perhaps this was a nightmare, or maybe it was the cold tentacles of death that pulled her into an abyss; but then, if the dead couldn’t feel pain then why did his kisses hurt?

It was in the bawls of midnight when Sherlock stalked into her bedroom— his jaw stern, cheekbones sharp and strikingly distinguished by the flame of a single candle held in his hand. Hunger filled his careless face, and his eyes flickered brightly like glowing orbs of ice.

Unable to scream or move, she watched him behind the ghostly veils of her bed. Hot wax dribbled down his fingers—little white tears of sorrow that she wished she herself could cry, but Sherlock had not only drained her of such force but by some enchantment, coaxed her to submit to his sacrilegious desire

“Undress,” he demanded from the doorway where he stood, shrouded by the crimson haze of the poorly lit corridor. Whatever was behind him, she could never see, the width of his bulky figure blocked the path like a monster from a children’s tale.

‘Monsters are real, Momma. They look like men in tailored vests and shiny leather shoes.’

Her fingers trembled, hands stiff and heavy. Yet she did what she was told without question, allowing the straps of her nightdress to fall down her shoulders the way a dying leaf falls from a branch.

Eyes a shade colder than ice, his glare fell to her breasts, and his chest puffed with a rumbling growl. Slowly he stalked forward, treading like a spider on its web. The tips of his fingers turned black as if dipped in poison whilst his nails grew long and sharp at every step.

“The duvet. Set it aside.”

His voice was the rumble of an inching thunder, an echo inside her head that made her bones rattle. Whenever he spoke, it felt as if invisible strings wrapped around her wrists and persuaded her limbs to do as he commanded. Even when her soul begged her to give a sliver of resistance, her hands still lifted to obey this dark ventriloquist and pushed the blanket away.

The stem of Sherlock’s throat clenched at the delicious splendour: bare, youthful skin, so tight and so supple. A thing that should have never been touched, should have never been spoiled and yet he yearned for nothing but to leave his marks at the depth of her soul.

The scent that emanated from the flesh between her thighs elicited a guttural groan from his chapped lips. In his throat pulled the ghastly hunger. Setting the candle on the wardrobe, he stalked toward the bed, his shadow metastasizing and devouring every shred of light that dared enter the chamber.

Both the mattress and her heart sank once he placed a knee on the bed and began to crawl between her parted legs, slowly and predatorily, dragging himself closer to her heat. Black, sharpened nails graze their way up her inner thighs, admiring the pureness of the forever-young flesh.

Encased in a glass coffin, his young ward would forever be protected from famine, disease, and time; and what was Sherlock if not a warden fulfilling his duty?

‘A monster! God, please! There is a monster in my bed!’

If only she could scream, if only God hadn’t abandoned her. Instead, all she could do was shiver, her heart giving no sound as Sherlock forced himself between her thighs. One razor-sharp fingernail traced the plumpness of her breast, tenderly circling and caressing the nipple.

“Mine,” he growled and slipped his nail down the valley of her torso, casually tugging the remains of her gown to expose her pure mound. Red glinted on those piercing shards that replaced his eyes—red like a flicker of fire from a match. “Look at me,” he demanded, though there was no need for him to ask.

That same gaze that possessed her had sliced through the tendrils of her mind.

Nodding, she lifted her gaze to meet his, her lips parting in a quiet plea as the ghastly, pointed talon made careful strokes amidst the swollen petals to collect the honeyed dew that gathered at the seams of her untouched cunt.

“My poor little dove, it’s so lonely in there…” he keened, attempting to slide his long monstrous finger inside of her. But her maidenhood, still obstinate to protect her from the vile urges of men, forbade him access.

Foolish.

What strength did her flesh have against such a sinister entity if even iron locks and carved religious figures couldn’t keep him away? Huffing with scorn, he drew an icy fingertip around the outlines of her slit, further spreading the sinful wetness across the seams of her cunt.

She mewled, despite herself, her waist moving in a smooth tidal sway.

Sherlock could never tire of this, not of the terror in her eyes whenever she saw him at her bedroom door nor the moans she emitted as he traced her engorged flesh with a finger or his tongue. But what he favoured above all was the sensation of his cock as it tore through her seal and those heavenly pained cries that eventually turned into the moans of a whore.

What a great fortune it was that they had an eternity of this dance.

Hovering above his prey, he propped his knees between her legs, the fabric of his trousers brushing against her inner thighs as he lowered his weight upon her. If there was any air in her lungs, she would have let out a shuddering breath; but what came instead was a silent gasp, and only her lips quivered as she prepared herself for the familiar twinge of his invasion.

Reaching for his groin, he freed his hardened cock and stroked a hand across its length before nudging the heart-shaped crown at the gates of her purity. Not yet pushing in, he teased himself up and down her narrow slit, treating her the way a lover treats his delicate mistress— the way a cat toys with a mouse.

Lips swollen and tingling, she whimpered, her yet-empty hole twitching as if heeding a primal call. How could she fear and need him at the same time? Did she loathe herself so much that she wanted him to defile her? Tears began to rim her eyes, and from quivering lips, she whispered, “please…”

Letting out a low rumbling chuckle, he lowered his head and pressed a kiss to her forehead before whispering in her ear, “You, my ward, are such a mystery…”

Her mouth opened to speak but a scream followed instead. One unceremonious thrust and he sunk into her lush depth, his girthy cock devouring the sweetness of virginal flesh. Indifferent to her pain, he pushed further and deeper past her folds until every inch of him was buried within.

Cries and squeals sputtered from her mouth—the monster had tore her innocence, the pain had seared, and in pathetic pleas for mercy, she slapped against his bare chest and tried to shove him away. But Sherlock knew no mercy, for truly he was a beast, not just by the breadth of his shoulders and untypically muscular figure, but by his blunt absence of elegance and heartless mien. Giving her no moment to adjust, he had already began to pump himself inside of her now-defiled cunt.

Such a mask of virtue did her warden wear; to the world, a perfect, eloquent gentleman. But behind closed doors, lurked a sick, sinister man who only wished to desecrate this tender maiden in this dark sacrament.

Over and over, he pulled away only to plunge into her again, each thrust harder than the last, each thrust ending with the slap of his sack against her cunt. And the moans that came from him - had the most debauched resonance, as if she was a long anticipated feast to a voracious man.

Unable to meet his vigour, her walls whined a protest and squeezed around him in a futile battle to drive him out; yet for Sherlock, this tightness was nothing less than an aphrodisiac. If any, her insubordination did nothing but provoke the ungodly creature within him. Reaching a clawed hand to her chin, his fingers pressed into the hollow of her cheeks, forcing her to stare directly into his bright-red eyes as he began to fuck her in a punishing pace.

“I am already inside you, little dove. There is nothing that can be done,” he rasped while his hips continuously snapped into hers, every second rut bringing her closer to surrender as friction drew that which she so religiously wanted to resist.

“Give in to me, and I will give you pleasure like no other.”

His words were but a spell. Briefly, unbidden, a spark inside her womb ignited, giving life to ecstatic flames that cascaded through her canal. While a part of her wanted to stay pure and deny this vicious man, an unbearable ache for his return struck her every time he pulled out from her slit. In mindless despair to hold him close, she had finally caved in and wrapped her legs around his waist to hold him near.

Triumphant grunts rumbled in his throat. Appeased by her surrender to his whims, he lifted his upper torso, his taut abs flexing as he rose to hover above her. With his hand still around her jaw, he pressed her deeper into the mattress while pummeling her cunt.

“Make us whole…” he begged, his voice a husky—almost pitiful—groan.

“Make us whole again.”

Depraved as an animal, he ravaged her with the selfish degenerate intent of a man yearning to impregnate his mate. Though this union could result in nothing of that sort, still she thrashed against him in an archaic frenzy, her screams unfurling into the night as her body became enslaved to the same foolish wanton. Soon her trenches began to tighten around him in demand of his seed, and the whispering embers that smouldered in her womb had suddenly imploded into a wave of molten fire that scorched through her completely.

It was in that moment when her cunt devoured him completely, when he felt her heat gush and hug around his shaft so longingly that his eyes glowed bright red, and his fangs flashed sharply before her dazed eyes. Even though she had seen this play out numerous, endless times, she couldn’t help but gasp as he lowered his mouth to her neck and drank her pleasure-tainted blood.

Eyes staring into the ceiling with shock, she trembled like a thing that was about to be shattered. The waves of her ecstasy ebbed away as Sherlock stole from whatever maw of force she had left. Black mists began to waft around her, blurring her sight and pulling her down below. And suddenly, she was limp and heavy at the same time while a cold, strange tingle jittered through her veins.

‘Death…’ she smiled with her eyes half-shut, ‘Oh, finally… Release me!’

Just then, a secondary implosion spasmed through her core and caused her entire body to jitter with delight as the sensation elicited from his bite was an unlikely aphrodisiac. Mouth agape in a silent cry, she threw her head back and stared through the open window while the monster inside her continued to feast on her throat.

The moon—it was covered in blood, painting the room in a crimson shade.

Lost in this trance, Sherlock hummed; the blood of a newly deflowered virgin was sweeter than ambrosia; after decades and aeons of searching, he could sense the wind on his skin, feel the thrum in his veins and abruptly… in a moment passing, he felt a rumble in his chest as his heart pumped once again.

‘Make us whole.’

‘Make me whole.’

‘Make me feel alive again.’

Losing his control entirely, he thrusted into her with a few last powerful strokes and then finally lifted his head with a savage-like shout while his thick elixir overflowed her womb. Cum seeped around his cock at the same manner of the blood that trickled down his square chin.

He licked the corner of his lip, eyes red and sated, peering down at his prey.

“Oh, my sweet little flower,” he murmured and carefully lowered his head to kiss her. She returned the kiss, uncertain if by choice, little did she care now. Her body still tingled and the taste of her own blood had an odd sweetness to it that had made her thirsty. Once he broke from her lips, she suckled them dry.

Like petals plucked from a rose, she laid raw beneath him. Not dead. Not yet. Not ever. She no longer remembered her life before him, no longer remembered who she was. All she knew was that when she would wake the next day, it would be night again.

And he would return to claim her, again.

His fellow companions warned him of such abomination; it was dangerous to drink from his own kind, or so they claimed. It poisoned the mind and the body according to the myths, but whether it was true or not, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to care.

No matter the fashion, he came every night, drank from her veins, deflowered her and left.

And every night, she woke up a virgin again, clueless as to who and what she was.

But Sherlock knew the one and only true answer.

She was his.

For all eternity.

#henry cavill #enola holmes #enola holmes 2 #sherlock holmes fanfiction #sherlock holmes x reader #henry cavill x reader #sherlock holmes x ofc #henry cavill fanfiction

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here-but-forgotten · 8 days

Text

authors note: i don't fucking know man. i listened to "becoming the lastnames" and this happened.

content notes: rudy x reader. young, before he joins the military. talks of marriage. valeria and alejandro mention. mainly fluff. mentions of death.

becoming the lastnames

pre-military! rodolfo parra x reader

“Do you ever think we’ll make it?” He whispers, breaking through the shrouded dark, the cool air seeping through your skin.

“I don’t know,” You whisper.

He shifts beside you, the blanket wrinkling under his shifting weight. The night is cool; the stars are out; the city is far enough away to be forgotten but not to far away to become imaginary.

“Why do you say that?” Rodolfo asks, softly, no bite of argument on the back of his tongue.

“I mean, what if I end up just like my parents?”

“I’ll love you.”

That stupid, sweet, sticky, suffocating warmth seeps into your bones to your ribs, filling your throat with a burn.

“We could try to be like my parents,” he jokes, “we could work until we’re 40 then go insane.”

You laugh, breaking the warmth off your ribs, letting yourself melt into the blanket again. Your fingers tingle, cold.

“But what if you die?”

“Baby,” Rudy murmurs, half a scold and half a pity.

“I’m serious,” You whisper, barely making noise, the heat that chokes you catching cold air in your throat, “what then?”

“Then you can come talk to my headstone, I’ll listen.”

“Rudy.”

He laughs. You sound like his mother. His pinky wraps around yours, pulling your hand closer to him; he is warm.

“I don’t plan on dying.”

“But what if you do?”

“I just won’t.”

You sigh, defeated, that stupid boyish reasoning and manly cool. Infuriating.

“I’ll crawl back to you if anything happens.”

“If you die, I’ll kill Alej to keep you company.”

Macabre. He laughs.

“I’ll have to haunt you if you do that,” He smiles into his sigh, “If I don’t die, we’ll grow old together.”

“I’ll get all wrinkly.”

“Yeah, and so will I.”

“Marriage has always scared me,” You admit, his pinky tightening, keeping you close, “But I want to have a last love.”

“We can be just like my parents, then.”

You tighten your grip on him, his fingering wiggling out just to grab your whole hand, paw covering your hand.

“What about forever?” You ask.

“I don’t know anything about forever, but I know I wouldn’t mind spending it with you.”

“How can you be so confident?”

“I want to push Alejandro off a bridge sometimes, but I know I want to be his best friend till I die,” he starts, his voice soft, “and I feel like that with you.”

“You want to push me off a bridge?”

“I feel like the second part of the sentence.”

“I mean, I get it if you do, I can be annoying—”

“I don’t want to push you off a bridge—”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did—”

He pushes his hand and yours against your mouth, gently, hushing you.

“I am not going to push you off a bridge.”

“That sounds like a Dateline intro,” You joke.

“I am not going to kill you.”

“Sounds like something a killer would say.”

Rodolfo dramatically sighs, pulling the hands back to him.

“I don’t think we have to wait on becoming insane like my parents, I think we’re already there.”

You chuckle, scooting closer to him, your shoulder touching his.

“Love can last a pretty good long while, you sure you want to give that to me?”

“I already did.”

You hum.

“Love doesn’t go away. It either sticks around or it was never there. It changes shape though, and it’s just about keeping shapes that go together.”

“You sure you want to go get shot, you could be a poet.”

“I don’t want to get shot, it’s just a part of the job description.”

“I don’t know, you seem to be a bit of a masochist.”

He squeezes your hand, a light little non-existent warning.

“Being a poet doesn’t pay too well, I don’t think. Unless we have World War III soon, then I can be sad and traumatized and publish 15 books.”

“If you make it.”

“I will,” Rodolfo lowers his voice, pulling you against him, head resting on his shoulder, “I will make it, and I’ll come home to you, and we can go crazy together until Alejandro tries to get us admitted.”

“If we pull him down with us, he can’t admit us.”

“That’s the plan.”

He rests his nose against the crown of your head, kissing your head softly, his arm around your shoulders warm as his fingers rub your skin, your body melting against his.

“Do you think Valeria and him will make it?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Confident.”

“They are oil and water. The flame is whatever they’re feeling. And it’s just whoever gets to the fire first and does something with it.”

“Are you comparing their relationship to a grease fire?”

“Yes.”

You pause, letting the words hang in the air for a moment.

“Have you been in a room with them for longer than 30 minutes?”

“I mean, yeah.”

His thumb rubs you.

“He just wants what he never got to have. And he doesn’t get that what he wants doesn’t have to be painful.”

“Do you think that’ll kill him?”

“It won’t kill either of them. It’ll just tattoo them.”

“Do you think they’ll kill each other?”

“They might try but that’ll just end in them being bickering skeletons.”

“Are they both that hot headed to where death won’t make them stop?”

“Probably. I don’t want to find out though.”

“I don’t either.”

There’s a bug, or something, making noise. The moon is high. The stars have shifted.

“We’ll be just like my parents, and we’ll grow old together, and when all of that is over, we’ll have forever. Does that sound alright?” Rudy asks, his warmth seeping into your skin.

“Yeah, I think that sounds alright.”

#cod #rodolfo rudy parra #call of duty #rodolfo rudy parra x reader #rudy x reader #rudy parra x reader #rodolfo parra x reader #fluff #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw2 #rudy #rudy cod #rudy parra #rodolfo #rodolfo parra #rodolfo x reader #rodolfo cod

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doodle-pops · 5 months

Text

Tears of the Sun

Maedhros x reader

A/N: Since this came in 2nd on the poll, you all can have the treat you've been voting for. You all have no idea how long I've been dying to release this :) 🙈

Warnings: 3rd Kinslaying, death, blood, heavy angst, hurt and not an ounce of comfort (the bucket is dry), major character death

Words: 1.6k

Synopsis: We always regret the things we do when the worst happens, and Maedhros finally seems to have enough.

His body moved with less grace and more aggression, leaving behind a trail of victims struck down by his ruthless blade. The horror and grief in the eyes of each lifeless body meant nothing to him; they were just obstacles on his path to his ambition. Their deaths only fuelled his determination, pushing him further up the hill and past the point of no return. His once–pristine armour was now stained with splatters of crimson, matching the colour of his hair and sword. His usually well–kept hair was matted and frizzed from the chaos of the battle, and his helmet lay discarded in the heat of the mindless fight. None of his opponents were formidable enough to engage him in a true battle of skill; they were merely obstacles to be obliterated.

He found himself growing bored with the resistance he encountered. He had come for his treasured heirloom, and the stubborn defence he faced only made him scoff. He swung his sword recklessly, striking down anyone who dared to challenge him. If kindness couldn’t win him what he desired, he would take it by force. The last shreds of sanity that had held his emotionally compromised heart together had shattered, leaving him with no option but to resort to raiding and plundering. Blood was his familiar companion—it was what he had come to know intimately, the colour of his hair and the blade he wielded. The hand he had been dealt in the losing game of life resembled his sword’s hue: crimson.

Existence was his only reality, a reality driven by the notion that death wasn’t yet ready to claim him. He existed because he couldn’t die, and death toyed with his life as though it were a mere game of chess. One moment he was a pawn, the next a bishop, then a king, and back to a pawn. It was a cruel dance of fate, and he had long accepted his role as its unwilling participant. In this twisted game, he found a perverse pleasure in taking what he believed was his by-right, regardless of the consequences.

But you changed everything. You brought light into his world, giving meaning to the bleak and dreary existence he had grown accustomed to. A smile, a look from you, and his heart would soar, mending itself and allowing him to experience the simple joys he had been denied. With you, the cage he had felt trapped in was shattered, and he no longer felt like an animal awaiting its inevitable demise. You gave him purpose, a reason to believe in something greater than the cycle of violence and death he had become ensnared in.

A scoff escaped him as he remembered your influence on him. He wiped away the blood that had trickled down his brow, the metallic scent of iron filling his nostrils. The smell was familiar, a reminder of countless battles and massacres he had orchestrated. Despite the carnage around him, this was a relatively minor raid, akin to dealing with a few dozen orcs. Most of his men had switched sides to prevent further destruction, but those who had stood against him now lay lifeless, their bodies strewn across the ground. The balance between valuing his soldiers’ lives and discarding their lifeless forms after insubordination was a precarious one, and in his current state of mind, the line was blurred beyond recognition.

He continued his macabre dance, his temper a raging fire that consumed everything in its path. Lifeless bodies, once vibrant with vitality, now littered the streets. The urge to be repulsed by the sight was a fleeting burden; he was too consumed by his frustration at his failure to reclaim the Silmaril.

“Háno!” A pained voice, his brother Maglor’s, reached his ears, and his heart clenched with dread. After coming this far, losing another of his kin—his last kin—would be the final blow, shattering what little remained of his fractured soul.

He rushed forward, his steps heedless of the broken bodies that lay in his path. He cut through the streets of Sirion with a single–minded determination, following the urgency in his brother’s voice. What he found was a scene of sombre desolation. Maglor stood there, his sword hanging limply in his hand, his shoulders slumped, his legs wobbling, and his head bowed in defeat. A pit formed in the depths of his heart as he approached his brother’s broken form, his own anger momentarily forgotten.

And then he saw you, lifeless. Your body leaned against the wall of a nearby home, your form covered in your own blood. Your expression held a haunting mixture of pain and resignation.

He didn’t want to accept what he was seeing. It felt impossible, like a cruel illusion playing tricks on his senses. You were supposed to be safe, wrapped in comfort and far from the clutches of death and destruction. This had to be the work of darkness, a sinister fabrication that twisted reality into something nightmarish. This couldn’t be you lying lifeless before his eyes; it had to be some twisted trick, a distorted reflection of his fears.

Convincing oneself of falsehood, even in the face of an unfathomable and horrifying sight, was a coping mechanism that allowed one to shut their eyes and turn away. He chanted to himself repeatedly that what he saw couldn’t be true—it couldn’t be you lying there lifeless at the cost of his hands. His footsteps, once soundless, turned into thunderous beats as he rushed toward where you were slumped against the wall. The scene before him was surreal, and he desperately needed some kind of proof that what he was seeing wasn’t real. His trembling fingers inched closer to touch your form, seeking that moment of realization that would tell him the world had deceived him.

His eyes were narrowed in disbelief, his brows furrowed, lips pursed, and fingers trembling as he gingerly reached out. His boots made contact with your foot, and he half–expected to hear your familiar ‘Ouch’ in response, a playful reaction you often had to his touch. But there was no response, no movement from you. Your eyes were cast downwards, avoiding his gaze, avoiding him. He knew that after your last bitter exchange, you wouldn’t want to look at him. He understood that. Yet, the sight of blood staining your clothes and your lack of breath sent a spike of panic through him.

He blinked back tears that threatened to spill, his teeth gritted, nostrils flaring. Slowly, cautiously, he extended his hand to touch your head. He crouched over your lifeless form, keeping a respectful distance as if he feared that even in death, he was intruding on your personal space. His hand made contact with your head, and when you remained unresponsive, he slid his hand lower to cup your face, lifting it to meet his gaze. But your head lolled limply in his hold, and the puppet–like motion of your head sent waves of terror through him. A cold heat engulfed his body, sending shivers down his spine.

The motion of your head was unnaturally limp, like that of a puppet with its strings cut. His hand quivered as it cradled your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Y/N?” he called, his voice cracking with anxiety. The silence that followed was deafening, and suffocating, and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

“Háno, they’re dead—” Maglor’s words were met with a feral growl that erupted from the depths of Maedhros’s chest. He snapped his head in Maglor’s direction, his eyes blazing with a mixture of rage and desperation. A mere glare and a low, menacing command silenced his brother’s words.

Sinking to his knees, he carefully gathered your lifeless form into his lap, cradling you close. He adjusted your position, holding you as you liked to be held, your head resting against his chest so you could hear his heartbeat. His mutilated hand cradled you, his fingers gently caressing your skin. He rocked you back and forth, murmuring soothing words in a broken symphony of promises that he knew he might never be able to fulfil.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” he whispered, his voice a fragile melody of reassurance. He pressed rough kisses to the top of your head, his lips brushing against your hair. “I’ve got you now, I’m here. I’m going to keep you safe when you wake up.”

The juxtaposition between the past and the present hit him like a wave of sorrow. He remembered the times he had pushed you away, the harsh words he had spoken, and the pain he had caused. And now, here he was, holding you tightly, his heart breaking with the weight of his regrets.

“This will be over soon,” he promised, his voice laden with emotion. “You’ll be safe and happy. I promised you that, didn’t I? I’ll keep my word, my love.” He continued to sway with your lifeless body, refusing to acknowledge his brother’s pleas for him to accept the reality.

He whispered to you over and over, his tears mingling with the blood and sweat on his face. The saltiness of his tears against his wounds was a numbing sensation, a reminder that he was still capable of feeling something amidst the darkness. He was hollow, consumed by the curse of his actions, bound to live with the consequences of his choices—he took your life with words. A simple command and you fell innocent to his sword.

The cycle of violence and suffering that he had perpetuated had led him to this point, where he held the lifeless body of the person he loved more than anything. He had pushed away his chance at happiness, his heartless actions sealing his fate.

In his arms, he clung to you, the only source of light in his life, hoping against hope that this was just a nightmare, that you would awaken, and that the blood on your skin was nothing more than an illusion. But deep down, he knew that he was living the nightmare he had created, unable to escape the prison of his own making.

Masterlist

Taglist: @lilmelily @mysticmoomin @rain-on-my-umbrella @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @sakurayaxd @ladyenchanted @stormchaser819 @aconstructofamind

If you would like to be tagged, click the taglist link.

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villainsandvictimsalliance · 2 months

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I suggest the horrifying yet intriguing concept of Twice cloning himself at 4 years old when he got his quirk, so he grew up with a "twin sibling" that lived in angst because he could die with a minor injury.

Even worse if within the first week he creates several siblings because he feels lonely and they keep dying (aka disappearing), so he really really hates to clone himself. His parents try to explain to him that they are clones, not real people, but then comes the horror of trying to tell that to the many kids. Twice losing his mind over what makes him different from a clone, because they all have the same memories, the same bodies, they are all him so if they are not real, is he?

Twice slowly gets more selfish and uses his quirk less and less. He's lonely, but he doesn't want to share his parents. He's lonely, but after he had that fight with a clone that claimed he owned his life and Twice was the fake one...

When his parents died, Twice knew he could clone them. He could push the loneliness away by just making them appear before him, hug him, tell him everything would be okay. He never did because he knew they would be horrified of being cloned like that. He never did because he missed them, he loved them, he didn't want to see them die not once, but twice.

That's the tragedy of it, right?

You multiply everything when you multiply a person. Their hope, their determination, their love, their pain, their suffering, their longing, even the loneliness and the passion. He needed to come to terms with that fact if he wanted to use his quirk.

Can he even clone a dead person? Or was it only something Toga could do using her quirk along with Twice's quirk? Could he clone Magne, for example? Did he ever think about it? Wondered?

What about people he couldn't have the exact measurements of, like Kurogiri? How tall are you if you're made mostly of mist? If no one can see the body underneath? If Twice tried to clone a nomu, he would probably replicate it in the state he took the measurements of and yet... I wonder if all the quirks would transfer.

A more macabre thought: could he clone a dead body so he can frame people with endless death? Would Twice quirk allow him to torture someone with the final moments of someone they loved?

Or in another universe, did he ever offered to use his quirk to be with all his friends at the same time because he didn't want to leave one of them alone for long? One Twice taking care of someone sick, one Twice going to buy the medicine, one Twice cooking in the kitchen, one Twice hanging out with another friend, maybe studying, maybe even watching a movie in the theater?

What if he wasn't even sure if he cloned his twin brother or if he was real? He knows he can't trust his memory, so he panics. Is that me enjoying my own life or just a clone? Is he real? Does it matter?

#bnha #mha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #league of villains #lov #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #twice #jin bubaigawara #shan's bnha headcanons #shan's mhs headcanons

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ratofthemedievalsewers · 6 months

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Danse Macabre

Astarion x M!Tav / Astarion x M!Dark Urge

TEASER - Can be read as a stand-alone

A03 Link: Danse Macabre

Warning: Vague explicit content

Dain gave a frustrated huff as he threw the strip of leather he was attempting to use as a hair tie into the dirt beside him. This had been his third and decidedly final attempt at tying his hair up; wanting to keep the mix-matched strands of snow and onyx out of his eyes while he fought. He ran bony, calloused fingers through his hair, freeing the now mostly tangled waves from each other.

“What a mess.” Dain spun round at the sudden sound of another’s voice, dagger unsheathed from the hilt that always sat snugly on his lower back. He lowered it when he recognised Astarion’s bright white curls, the colour reflecting the moonlight like a dulled mirror. “What is it you’re even trying to do?”

Dain felt a frown twitch on his face in the slight embarrassment at being caught, ‘noble hero of the grove’ defeated by his own head of hair. “... I wanted to tie my hair up… it keeps getting in my eyes when I fight.” He always felt himself struggling to speak when it came to Astarion, with every word the vampire spoke his mental self was on his knees taking in each drop the other provided like he was a beast dying of thirst.

He thought himself vile. Some sick, twisted part of him knew, without a doubt, that he would be dead in the other man’s hands if they had met in Baldur’s Gate during Astarion’s slavery to Cazador. Found wanding in the night-blanketed streets, it would only take a few honeyed words and Dain would follow him like a lost puppy, drunk on false love to the very clutches of the Vampire Master. He was a simple, easy-to-manipulate fool, his soul lost and his memories along with it.

Maybe he should be glad someone else had found him first.

“Why not cut it shorter then? Save the faffing about and getting all in a huff.” Dain looked at Astarion as if he had just punched him directly in the stomach, his face contorted in a look of obvious disapproval at the suggestion. “Alright, alright. No need to get your knickers in a twist.” Astarion gave a dramatic sigh and sat himself behind Dain, the other’s shins pressing firmly against his back, trying to get as close as he could to the other.

Dain did not stiffen as he did with the others’ contact, Astarion’s touch never burned in the way others’ did - instead it felt like silk, the contact tingling but never in a way that was unpleasant. It was a sensation he had never felt before and he craved it and hated it in equal amounts. Dain’s mind, for reasons he himself did not know, found himself refusing the smallest touches of another, but with Astarion it was the exact opposite. He would never ask though, for that would show his weakness to a predator that was seeking the cracks in his “hero” facade.

“Brush,” It took a moment for his mind to come back to reality. He passed the wooden comb he had begrudgingly borrowed from Shadowheart a few hours prior. Astarion took it, cold, undead fingers brushing against his gloved ones. Granted, the gloves were quite possibly the reason he was struggling so much, but he had become accustomed to always wearing them that taking them off made him feel as if he were naked.

Astarion began with the ends of his hair that rested just past the middle of his back, where his waves became closer to loose curls, slowly working his way up. Dain allowed himself to get lost in the little tingles another brushing his hair caused at the base of his skull, a suppressed shiver travelled up his spine and he felt his shoulders begin to lower as he relaxed. Then there were gentle fingers at the back of his neck, pretending they needed to manipulate his hair in order to properly run the comb through. Then the comb was running slowly, languidly over his scalp and then all the way to the very ends before repeating the motion. Over and over.

Dain felt himself start to lean back to the presence behind him - he stopped himself before he was fully laid in Astarion’s lap. It scared him a little; that he fell so easily into the roll of prey when it came to the vampire. Maybe it was his scent, a trick of his smile, something magical in his aura that anyone could fall victim to? No, the others weren’t falling so easily into his arms, the root of the problem began within Dain.

Was it a problem?

He gave it a little consideration, yet the only conclusion he came to was that he did not truly care. Dain would willingly, even happily let Astarion drain him utterly and completely whether he held him like a lover or like a boar he found sleeping in the alcoves of the forest they had set up camp in. It was shameful and exhilarating all at once.

Dain found himself tilting his head to the side as an offering, words of ‘Are you hungry?’ no longer needing to be spoken between them. Astarion let the comb fall through Dain’s hair one last time, the tangles being loosened many minutes ago. Both of them had been lost in their own minds it seems.

“You sure?” Astarion spoke just above a whisper, as if his words would disturb the surface of the lake that sat in front of them, its surface having acted as a mirror for Dain before Astarion had supposedly come to his rescue. Those same gentle fingers brushed away the few strands that had stubbornly laid themselves across the junctor of Dain’s neck.

“Only if you are.”

Dain heard Astarion shift behind him as he uncrossed his legs to rest on either side of Dain’s. With another’s arms wrapped around his middle, he pushed himself backwards into Astarion’s body; he felt the other’s chest against his back, cold seeping through both their camp shirts, unsure who it belonged to.

“You are always so cold, yet your blood runs warm.” Astarion spoke against his ear now and Dain had to suppress the shiver that threatened to pass over him, the other felt the way he tensed and a small, wolfish smile played on his lips. A hand moved from his waist and fingertips caressed up his throat in faux consideration before his whole hand wrapped around his neck and softly guided his head to the side. “I could only describe your taste as nectar, crafted by the gods themselves. Cruel gods no doubt… for to give in to my desires and have all of you would kill you… and I would forever be left without the very things that caused my addiction.”

Astarion placed a gentle kiss on Dain’s neck, a small apology for the pain that came next.

This time Dain could not hold back his reaction. He heard the moan leave his lips before he even realised it was his, and felt his back arch from Astarion’s chest before he could hold himself still. Astarion let out a gentle hum as the taste of his blood wet his tongue, the hand that sat comfortably on Dain’s hip moved to rest low on his inner thigh, applying the smallest of pressures to where he knew Dain desired but would not ask nor seek it. Astarion wanted him to give in to this little dance they played, wanted him to fall complete victim in his arms.

It took every peice of Dain’s will to hold his own hips in place. His breathing became airy as his mouth fell slightly open and the vampire’s venom began branching out like roots within the earth. He could feel its tendrils curling and twisting through his veins; up his neck, down his chest, gently burning as it moved. If his blood was not being slowly drained from him he would blush; the tips of his ears, cheeks and across his nose turning a soft lilac against greyish skin. A tender heat settled between his legs as the sensations begin to overwhelm him.

Astarion brushed his thumb over Dain’s heat, the pressure barely noticeable through the albeit thin leather of his trousers, but Dain keened, a long exhale parting from his lips. He took what was offered to him and savoured it. He would not ask for more.

Dain felt his body begin to go limp as he became bloodless; he barely had the energy to move his hand that had been gripping the dirt below them. He tapped Astarion’s lower thigh twice, a signal they had silently agreed on to mean ‘no more’. Another moment and the vampire pulled away, licking the twin little dots of blood that began to pool at the opening of Dain’s wound.

Astarion was a little dazed with his stomach now full. He propped himself up with one arm behind his back, the other now removed from Dain’s thigh to hold him around his chest, hand over where his heart should beat, keeping him upright as the other leaned against him. Through his foggy mind, Dain felt another tender kiss placed on his neck, just above the bite the vampire spawn had given him.

“Full?” Dain asked, somewhat breathless himself.

“Sated,” Astarion whispered in response, slowly guiding Dain to sit upright, holding his shoulders in case he fell back again.

“Now… back to your hair.” Dain gave a small chuckle, brain barely functioning with what little blood was left in him trying to keep his cogs turning. The gentle caresses against his scalp returned, but only briefly as Astarion began the plait his hair, gathering more hair as he went so it would follow the curve of his skull before running down his back, preventing it from possibly swinging and hitting Dain in the face if he were to quickly turn. Although, the idea was somewhat amusing. “I’ve never seen someone with hair like yours.”

“You’ve said better lines.”

“I’m not trying to flirt, darling.” He could feel Astarion’s eye roll as he spoke. Dain reached for the leather tie he had thrown to the floor earlier as Astarion reached the end of the braid, but when offered Astarion ignored him and pulled his own leather band from his wrist and wrapped it around the end of Dain’s hair. “I swear it's darker, especially after our little clash at the goblin camp.” Dain gave a simple shrug, mind still too drowsy to think clearly. After a long pause where he assumed Astarion was thinking, he finally spoke again, breaking the awkward quiet that had begun to settle. “My dear, you are a mystery to the fashion world.”

“Thank you… I think.” Dain stood as Asatrion did, swaying slightly on his feat like a common drunkard. “We should get back to the others before their minds start cooking up something nefarious.”

“No doubt they already have, everyone here has such simple minds.” Dain gave him a deadpan stare, crossing his arms to further his lack of amusement. “Apart from you, of course.” Astarion tucked one of the stubborn, pale strands that refused to be tied up behind Dain’s ear, a crooked grin plastered on his face. It was Dain’s turn to roll his eyes.

*****

Teaser 1

#baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 astarion #baldurs gate astarion #astarion #astarion x male reader #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x male tav #astarion x dark urge #astarion x male dark urge

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dyingmindmacabre-chaos · 6 months

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Minus Misery from Dying Mind Macabre stimboard !!

☠︎︎ ♠ ☠︎︎ ♠ ☠︎︎ ♠ ☠︎︎ ♠ ☠︎︎

(btw Dying Mind Macabre belongs to @nerdywordyloser go support them :3)

#dying mind macabre fandom #dying mind macabre #stimboard #stim gifs #visual stim #stim #tw blood #tw eyes #tw weapons #skull stim #book stim #spiral stim #card stim #ink stim #black stim #white stim #black and white stim #horror stim #horror stimboard

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chemzee · 4 months

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Soooo... Morgan... Oh Morgan.

This guy was hell to design at first: I had so many attempts to capture the vibe I wanted to go with him and for a long time, I wasn't satisfied with the way he looked. But now I can say I'm definitely very satisfied with it (maybe not with the clothes but it´s easy to fix).

ofc I still gotta think about like his patronus n wand and whatnot

Just how I created Melly for sake of Cassandra's character development, so did I create Morgan for Daniel's development.

What crossed my mind was "Now that Daniel has high chances of joining NOTME now (if he didn't join it already) , given everything, he might get more and more isolated from his friends. So how about I give him a friend there, around his age? A genuine,healthy friendship with no ulterior motives?... Except I'll give that friend a tragic fate."

I wanted Morgan to be an oddball among NOTME members of sort, like despite believing in their cause he feels out of place/different to most members, but I went a lil too hard and an oddball part. :"D

Other than that, I always wanted to have a character who's sorta very unceremonious about more macabre topics and is rather calm about concept of death or the idea of dying in general, as a defense mechanism at least. Rest of my characters with death motifs (almost an entirety of DSAA cast + other ocs) were outwardly very sensitive about death/the fact they are going to die, so I wanted to go in opposite direction, explore a different grief coping mechanism.

#its the dying victorian boi hehe #always invisioned the said “oddball friend” as ravenclaw btw #also fun fact: when I first made him I intended him to be year younger than main cast #now he's same age/year older (born 1996)#it made more sense like that #morgan grimmes #hpma oc #magic awakened #my art

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fr3akshowdusty · 3 months

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i woke up two hours ago, feeling great. changed my background again

#dyingmindcomic #dyingmindmacabre #dying mind comic #dying mind macabre #spice dying mind

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gffa · 1 year

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What is The Locked Tomb about? I keep seeing it posted all over this site and it seems interesting

The Locked Tomb is basically gothic necromancy in space, politics, swordplay, a whole boatload of sapphics, and everyone being an utter failure of a wet noodle as a person, despite that they are also extremely badass. And memes. So many, many memes. Basically, 10,000 years in the future, necromancy/magic is how anyone gets anything done and the main story is centered around two women from the smallest of the Empire's colonies who desperately want to escape their dying world by becoming lyctors for the Emperor, but the problem is they also hate each other viciously and can barely even work together, but also they have wildly good chemistry and really do terribly want to bone each other, even if they're both too stupid to understand what feelings are. From there, it expands out to understanding just how this galaxy came to be, how the dynamics of the Empire came to be, with some really great worldbuilding, but also a series that asks you the very important question: What if God of the galaxy, the Emperor Undying, Necrolord Prime, was just some fucking guy with more power than anyone could wrap their mind around, even he himself? What if everyone in this series was just an absolute wet cat of a person while they all tried to stab each other in the back because none of them knew how to be a decent person? What if you fell in love with all of them because they desperately wanted love, even if none of them know how to do it? What if you could relate to every single one of them because they were achingly lonely underneath all of it? And what if this series made it all really, really funny in a macabre sort of way? The Locked Tomb is hard to describe without spoilers (like I'm not sure I could even tell you what the locked tomb is without at least some spoilers? or at least not and have it be meaningful), but basically it's a space Empire full of absolute disasters that are only in charge because they have extreme amounts of power, not because they're good at this, and the unfolding backstory of how they all got to where they are, and boy is it BATSHIT in the best way. All decorated up with lots and lots of necromancy. And people being stupid. And memes.

#lumi.txt #the locked tomb

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glittertomb · 8 months

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Nobody asked but these are some of my favorite podcasts!

I’ve gotten really into podcasts the past couple of years because of social isolation, my knitting addiction, and because they really help me get through tedious chores like folding laundry and washing dishes (this is honestly my favorite adhd hack, besides turning on instrumental fantasy music so I can focus when reading). So I’ve definitely cultivated a little mind garden of spooky, magical, and informative podcasts that I wanted to share with you. Some are more mainstream, some are a little more obscure, but all of them are dear to me and have comforted and nourished me during dark days.

National park after dark~ my current favorite podcast is hosted by two new englanders with backgrounds in conservation, animal care, and park exploration who share stories about dark happenings, mysterious sightings, perilous treks, and deadly experiences at national parks across the globe

Your magic~ an inclusive and open-minded modern magic podcast hosted by popular author, tarot fanatic, and lifelong witch Michelle Tea that features an amazing lineup of diverse guests including scientists, musicians, actors, social justice advocates, fledgling magic practitioners, and people who were practicing magic without even realizing it

Pleasing Terrors~ hosted by a former tour guide of haunted locations, this podcast explores morbid histories, creepy folktales, and unexplained circumstances from the perspective of a person who has devoted their life to researching and sharing ghost stories for over 20 years

Out There~ this queer host with a voice like melted butta tells dramatic tales about the encounters with, descriptions of, and theories about the cryptids that haunt our imaginations (the podcast used to include a weird club segment at the end where they would invite their hilarious friends to discuss the believability of the featured cryptid, but it’s been missing for a few months and I hope it comes back 🥺)

Lore~ most people are probably aware of this delightfully spooky podcast about frightening folklore, but I had to include it because this is one of my go-to podcasts for when I’m taking a nighttime bath by candlelight and need a good spooky story to soak to, because I’m a little weirdo like that

The Strange and unusual podcast~ intoxicating and beautifully-told macabre stories that range from dark fairytales, mysterious murders, tainted histories, and hand-woven tales crafted by the host herself (it’s accompanied by melancholic music and the occasional low budget sound effects of people grunting/dying lol)

Morbid~ my emotional support murder podcast 😭😹. I was never really one to follow true crime, but I discovered this popular podcast when researching the haunted past of lake Lanier and I fell in love with these girls and their wonderful storytelling, hilarious banter, and thoughtful perspectives. Plus, getting extra insight from Alaina’s autopsy background is fascinating to me. And who doesn’t love the delightful nonsense and off-the-cuff witticisms that spout from Ash.

Cults~ this is the podcast that got me into daily listening! I was a big fan of welcome to night vale since the beginning, but Cults is the podcast that truly got me hooked on podcast listening and I even fall asleep to it (I guess listening to horrifying stories about mass manipulation is… soothing? Am I okay?). The podcast has unfortunately been on a year long hiatus but it has an ton of archived episodes that will thrill and chill you. Now I guess I need to start a new cult so they can have more content 🤔🤫

Coffee & Cauldrons~ this podcast is hosted by two professional tarot readers with mentoring personalities who want to make the world of magic accessible to everyone. Their show includes book recommendations for beginners, insights on how to practice during different lunar phases, tips on creating your own altar, and stories about their personal practice.

Spooked~ the latest podcast I’ve added to my very long list is hosted by a black creator who shares ghost stories from the first-person perspective. I really like this podcast because it’s produced by a team of people who are very diverse in race, age, gender, location, and background, and the guests they feature on the podcast to tell their own stories are just as varied.

If you made it to the end, thank ya and love ya! Happy spooking! 💜🌸👻

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plasmasimagination · 5 months

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Hi! Congrats on getting 300+ followers!! If it's cool, may I get a matchup for Honkai Star Rail? (Sorry if it's long,,,, I'm just super excited and happy for youu windidbid) (please no sampo)

I'm an INFJ who's pronouns are she/they. My sun in Gemini, my moon is in Ares and my rising is cancer.

I'd describe myself as curious, easily excitable, pretty witty, a bit shy, bubbly, and low-key feral. I'm observant and calculating by nature, but I tend to keep that hidden. At times, I do tend to be depressive and super anxious (due to past bullying). In addition, I have a habit of being really hard on myself and pushing myself to my limits. I'm in a better place now, but sometimes it haunts me.Gaining my trust is pretty hard, but if you do, I'm riding or dying for life.

I like to try new things(, foods, activities, ext.) The issue is I have a weak stomach and get sick easily if I don't get enough sleep 😅 (strong mind, weak body hdudbdj)

I love cozy things!!(soft pastels, blankets, oversized sweaters, big scarves, stuffed animals, fairy lights) But I also have a love for the macabre My favourite outfit on cooler days consist of oversized sweaters, leggings, runners and a giant blanket scarf on top!

My hobbies include reading, writing, singing (in private) drawing, napping, learning new things, and playing video games. In the winter I love to figureskate!!! I know a bunch of tricks on the ice.

People have described me the following:

super self-aware

Constantly nervous (kinda true),

" riddle wrapped in an enigma, locked in a box, then shoved in a beehive" - my sibling

the grandma friend (Specifically the one wanting for their husband to come home from the war idk why tho)

Unhinged at times

Goofy insights

I tend to joke around with my older sister about them buying me something (like a snack or something) but the moment they say "alright bet" and then proceed to buy me the said thing I get flustered and be like "noooooo :(( I was just kidding >_< pls i take it backkkkkk)) because I'm not used to being on the receiving end of this kind of stuff.

I actually like to sing. It's just that I'm shy about it and only sing when I'm either by myself or comforting someone. When people catch me singing, they’re shocked af. I've had an where people from my church group with the priest (like around 30) caught me singing, and we had a staring contest for about 15 seconds before they bombarded me in compliments.

I've eaten a burrito with North Carolina Reaper sauce out of curiosity and ended up getting sick as a result (I even had to sign a waiver when I ordered it ahebej)

Thank youuu!

HELLOO HI HI HI HI CUTIEPIEEEEE, absolutely thankful for the amazingly written request *mwah mwah mwah* was very easy for me to write because you let me know everything I needed

And I match you up with

JING YUAN

No words. You two are a match made in heaven

Your calculating nature + his observant nature = absolute power duo

He would absolutely not allow you to push yourself to your limits. He will nicely distract you from something he thinks you're overdoing/ hurting yourself by doing it, he will tell you there's no need for it, and reassure you

YOU LIKE COZY THINGS?? WELL GREAT!! Jing yuan himself is just super cozy to be around, he's like a huge cotton ball, super soft and cuddly!!!

You say you're constantly nervous? Take a Jing yuan, he might not make it dissapear, he's not god obviously, but he will try his best to calm you down, telling you to breath, speaking softly to you, just generally trying his best to make you be comfortable

Enigma....hm not a problem for Jing yuan, as we know he can reach deep into people's hearts and feelings, i assume he would also be like that with you, taking his sweet time over the course of you guys being together to understand you, every small thing about you, even some things you didn't even know yourself about yourself

He always can't help to chuckle at how sweet and cute you are at times, he's the type of man to get you anything you ever dreamed off, and will spoil you in every category, and he finds it even more satisfying seeing your reactions to his small surprises

All in all, I think you two are perfect for each other and when u marry I expect to be invited to the wedding 🥰🗡️

Don't forget to eat and drink babe, take rest, and stay cute

#jing yuan x y/n #honkai jing yuan #jing yuan x you #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan #hsr icons #hsr spoilers #hsr imagines #hsr x reader #hsr #honkai star rail fanart #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x gender neutral reader #honkai star rail x you

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teeth-farie · 1 year

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☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Notes: gn reader, gore, mummification (of the sexy variety), dumbification, objectification (also kinda), handjobs, enthusiastic consent, 3.7k words

☞. . . A gift for my best friend @fishyreject !!! He came up with the mummy satan idea a couple months ago and we ran with it. Thank you for being my friend fishy!!

Satan liked the macabre. He liked studying up on civilizations passed and their methods of pain and dying, he thinks that’s part of what makes him a demon. He could name any torture method off the top of his head if you asked: blood eagle, the brazen bull, heretics fork, and of course the seemingly most symbolic of them all, crucifixion. But his most favorite thing wasn’t actually torture at all, but a send-off to the great beyond. The ancient Egyptian practice of mummification.

The process of carefully extracting every organ, placing the desired flesh into ornate jars, the scrambling of brains, the salting, the drying, and of course, the wrapping. It all intrigued Satan in a way nothing else had. It wasn’t the violence and the maiming that had caught his attention, but the careful treatment of the dead. And deep down maybe he thinks that it's a tragic irony of the way he wishes to be treated.

It’s when you gift him a book detailed with the subject that he finds the courage to talk to you about it. When his fingers had run over the sage wrapping paper, crinkling under his hands as he peeled it away to reveal a freshly pressed book titled ‘The Ancient Art of Mummification’. That’s when he truly felt comfortable to indulge in his sadistic intrigue with you.

Any and every detail he could remember he told you with excitement, flipping through the heavy book to point out references and diagrams. And you had listened so intently, asking questions on what confused you or what you wanted to know more of. None of his brothers could have ever understood his interests as you have.

It’s two weeks later when Satan realizes his interest in the subject delves deeper than macabre curiosity. He blames it on your smell, how the particles of you etched into the fibers of the book; the cover, the pages. It was irresistible. He pressed his nose against the spine of the book, the faint smell of your hands still lingering in with the classic aroma of book paper. It was second nature for his hands to dip below his pants as well—many a night had he gotten off to a lingering smell or thought of you.

But tonight was different. Maybe it was the subject of the book he was holding, but his gentle fantasies began to warp into something truly sinister. Satan thought about what it’d be like to be laid before you like a bug pinned to a board, what it’d be like if you carved him open and carefully removed each organ like the book so described. His hand moved quicker between his legs, fingers squeezing the tip of his cock painfully when he thought about the long metal hook sliding up his nose.

It hadn’t taken him long at all; his brain ran through every step, all conducted by your meticulous human hands, how you’d wrap him up so delicately and scrub his disemboweled body with fragrant flowers and salts. He thought about what you’d say, and the thought of simple praise slipping from your lips was enough to send him over the edge, spilling in his underwear and clenching the book by his chest. And since then, Satan hasn’t been able to rid that thought from his mind.

Even when he finally builds the courage to tell you how he truly feels, and you return his feelings, and you seal the new relationship with a kiss (and a night of hot breaths and sweaty bodies), he can’t get it from his head. When you caress across his chest and stomach the thought of you mapping his organs comes to mind, when you had bound his wrists together with your tie he thought about you wrapping him up even more. Oh, how devious he was.

And he hadn’t expected you to accept his fantasy when you told him, let alone show interest in it. But you did, and oh how you made him shiver when you asked if he’d like it if you did just that for him.

And so he began preparing. When it came to the Devildom, the tools of torture were always available, and whilst what you were going to be doing wasn’t torture per se (though it would be as exquisite) he found all the material he needed in those departments regardless; right down to the historically accurate knives and jars. Of course, you needed the preparation too, and aside from studying up with the same books you had gifted Satan–the demon knew how to make anatomy lessons fun.

You both planned for a night when the House of Lamentation would be empty, Lucifer working late, Mammon and Asmo out at the fall, Levi visiting a Ruri-Hana ☆ Demonloid concert, and Beel and Belphie taking a trip to the planetarium for…well, Satan never understood their twin habits, but ever since the attic it seems almost like therapy. Now all that was left was him and you. You and him. And it couldn’t have been a more perfect night.

Full moons are far more frequent in the Devildom than the human realm, so it was nothing to truly mark up as anything other than coincidental that it graced this night, but Satan had always been one for little details. You had even surprised him with a romantic dinner while he was preparing his new altar, calling him up from the dungeons to a kitchen lit by candlelight. He hadn’t found himself eating much, far too excited for what lay waiting floors below. Fortunately, the food would still be there when everything was said and done—so long as no one came home early.

He’s buzzing with excitement when you both finally make it down to the dungeons, the air becoming cooler and your steps louder against the hard cobblestone ground.

You help to undress him, taking the liberty to set his clothes aside gently rather than toss them like you had done so many times before.

The stone altar makes him shiver when his bare skin is laid over the top of it, but he would rather eat a bag of marbles than sacrifice the aesthetic of this moment.

You both went over safe words and colors over dinner prior, but you ask again anyway, pleased when Satan nods his head and repeats them back to you.

The tools he’s laid out for you are nothing less than amazing, and you suspect that he either bought an extremely accurate replica, or he got his hands on the real thing himself. The star of the show, and what he had babbled about during his confessions, was the long hooked rod. And it would very soon make its appearance up his nasal cavity.

“Are you ready, my little mummy?” You ask with a playful grin, gently rubbing your hands across his stomach and chest. “More than ready,” Satan responds eagerly. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

“I have some idea.” You reach up and pinch his cheek between your fingers, leaning down to kiss him sweetly before you begin. Satan makes a low sound when you pull away, clearly wanting more but knowing that something better awaits him.

You recall the steps and pick up the rod.

It’s a foreign movement to line the metal up to his nostril and start pushing in. But you manage, and you can feel the head of the hook bump against the top of his nasal cavity. Satan’s breathing heavily through his mouth, head leaning back bit by bit to give you a better angle.

“Do it,” he gasps, clutching at the edges of the stone slab table. “Please…scramble my brains.”

You shiver, your heart doing a little jump in your chest. “With pleasure.” You say after gathering yourself again, giving a little more force to your guiding hand.

The metal hook crunches through the top of his nasal cavity, entering his cranium. Satan makes an unusual sound, one like a gurgle and moan at the same time. You pause, waiting for an extra few beats, the question silent but clear.

“Green,” the demon croaks, and you turn the hook clockwise.

You watch the look in his eyes change, those ever-clever emeralds dumbing down and turning dazed with each turn and swirl of the hook. Globs of gray matter follow when you remove your tool, chunky bits of his demonic brain curled around the rod of the hook, almost like it’s grabbing, sentient.

“Of course, I’m not going to take all of your brain like those books said.” You say to him, though with his new sense of coherency it’s more so walking yourself through the steps.

Satan blinks once, twice, and sneezes, another clump of brain tissue flying from his nose. “Why not..?” He whines, sniffling when you wipe the mess away. “If I do, I wouldn’t be able to hear you tell me all those big thoughts of yours, and hear how pretty you sound when I touch…” you let your hand fall over his half-hard cock for punctuation, rubbing slowly under the head.

The demon openly mewls, his thighs spreading for you. The touch ends almost as soon as it started, and Satan makes a pitiful sound. You guide his legs to lay back down, soothingly patting the tops of his thighs. “There will be more of that, don’t worry. Do you want to keep going, my little mummy?”

He nods, a little loosely in poor coordination. “Green…I’m green…hehehe..”

You grab a different tool, an ornate blade meant just for opening him up. “Are you ready for the next part? I gotta cut you open to make you a real mummy.”

“G’nna…gonna cut me up,” he slurs, moaning when he sees the glint of the blade. “Wanna be open,”

“That’s right,” you whisper, resting the tip of the blade under his clavicle. “I’m gonna cut you open, Satan, and take out those pretty organs of yours.”

Satan makes a needy sound, squirming on the stone slab table. “Want that,” he gasps, arching into the point of the blade. He sniffles again, eyes red from his tears. “Please.”

And really, how can you deny him?

You push the knife down firmly, holding it at an angle as you drag it down his sternum and over the dip of his belly button. Satan mewls, limp yet squirming. Blood follows the path of your blade, slickening his skin and dirtying the knife. You have to cut again. The first pass wasn’t nearly enough to carve through his thick, demon skin.

So you do, and you do again after that until the layers of skin and fat and muscle are sliced through like hot butter and you can see the almost translucent abdominal covering. You handle that layer with care, the flesh reminding you almost of stained glass with the way his deep red-black blood glistens over top. In the back of your mind, it makes you think of tall churches and the light that shines through the holy depictions on the windows. You suppose that even in a demon there’s something as delicate and precious as melded glass.

The beating of his heart is quick yet steady, pumping and oozing, convulsing under his ribcage. It’s framed by two, large, healthy lungs; pink and swelled with each intake of his breath. You wonder that if you stroke them it might make him wheeze. You look lower, follow the maze of small and large intestines, his stomach, and his twin kidneys, all down to his bladder nestled at the bottom. You carefully lay your hand over his strong ribcage, the bone and thin spiderweb muscle warm under your palm.

“You know what comes next, right?” You question, tracing your fingers along his exposed sternum.

“Uh…nuh-uh..” Satan stares at you almost blankly, truly not a thought behind his eyes.

“Next is taking out the right organs, remember-?”

“Want that,” he quickly cuts you off, urgent and desperate, like he just remembered at that moment the steps he would have otherwise had memorized.

“You will, Satan, my mindless little mummy.” You say it like a term of endearment. “I already read which ones to take, and what jars they go in, so I could make you the real deal. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“Uh huh, uh huh,” he nods quickly, the most coordinated he’s been since you scooped his brain out from his nose. You smile a gentle smile that contradicts exactly what you’re doing.

The canopic jars are already laid ahead, and Satan drilled the knowledge into your brain the moment you agreed to do this to him. He wanted it a specific way, and you know you wouldn’t hear the end of it if the wrong organ went into the wrong jar.

With the same knife, you prepare yourself for the first task. The lungs. Carefully, you slide your hand under his ribcage and take hold of one squishy lung, feeling for the root of it connecting to his trachea. Satan wheezes when you do, his heart beating quickly before you. You slide the knife in next to your hand and cut the lung free.

The demon pulls an odd face, as if he were being strangled by invisible hands. You tug his right lung from his chest cavity and expose a gaping hole in its place. You see exactly what you expect: a secondary lung.

In Satan’s lectures, you were well informed of what you’d see when carving into him, including a secondary set of lungs. It was evolutionary in reasoning, he told you, to adapt to Hell’s harsh atmosphere. But with Diavolo’s fruitful changes to the air quality and temperature in preparation for the transfer program, that second set became unneeded. Until now.

He wheezes and chokes, sputtering around his moans when you cut the second lung from his body. Then, like a balloon, the second set of lungs inflate and start pumping. Satan takes a deep, desperate breath in. The feeling of air rushing back is nearly orgasmic, his hips thrusting up into nothing, his cock still aching and swollen between his legs. You ignore his futile searching in favor of placing his set of lungs in the first canopic jar, a baboon-headed ceramic. He croons when he notices you depositing his organ in the corresponding jar, a sickly kind of sweet recognition sparking in his brainless skull.

You keep going, next carving out his pink, fleshy stomach and gently depositing it in a jackal-headed jar. Then you move onto his intestine, taking your time to detach the plush frills connecting it to his abdominal wall. Satan makes a rhythmic song of whimpers with every careful slice, breathing a sigh of relief when you free the long, scrunchy tubing and wind it up into the next falcon-headed jar. And finally, finally, the last piece to carve out is his liver. Freeing his intestines and stomach make it clear as day to find, taking hold of the solid, jelly-like organ. There’s a sense of satisfaction when you deposit his liver in the last jar, one adorned with a human head. You’ve done it, and you’ve done it right.

Satan’s cry brings your attention back on him. “Sss…so pretty,” he gasps when he sees the jars lined up neatly, now filled with the corresponding organs. He weakly reaches his hand out to them, and you take him in yours instead. “You did so good,” you pull his hand up and kiss his knuckles sweetly. He makes a small, mewling sound. “Look at that…all your pretty organs are nice and snug in the jars…doesn’t it feel so nice?”

He nods, licking his bitten lips. “Uh huh, uh huh.”

“There’s one more thing, Satan, a very important thing.”

He stares at you like there’s not a single thought going on behind his eyes, blank yet awe-stricken all the same. “I have to wrap you up.” You say, and Satan makes a sound of pleased recognition.

“And then,” you let go of his hand and trace down the edge of his cored abdomen, right down to the swelling between his legs. “I’ll give you lots of love right here.” You emphasize with a light stroke of your pointer finger against the underside of his cock. There’s a saccharine little moan in reply, his squirming only reminding you of a little worm. If the worm was gutted and nearly dripping into his own wounds.

“Please,” he begs, trembling hands trying to grab your wrist and make you touch more.

You pull away and he sobs. “Not yet, my mummy, you’ll get to cum once you’re nice and snug in those pretty wraps.”

“Promise?” He asks like the very idea of you taking back your word would kill him.

You grab the roll of linen wraps, soft and smooth against your fingers. “I promise.”

You start at his feet, pressing them together and wrapping the streams of linen around his pale skin. He tries to wiggle his toes, giggling when you give them a light, chastising smack. You work your way up his calves, over his knees, and up to his mid-thighs. “Lift up,” you instruct, patting his hip.

Satan obeys, albeit weak and sluggish. It takes a bit of work, but you manage to wind him up completely, going through three rolls of linen strips to ensure he’s nice and snug.

You take careful liberty with wrapping up his head, leaving his mouth and nose exposed. You wanted to hear him when you finished him, after all.

“M’so warm,” he slurs, a loopy smile on his face as you admire your handiwork.

“You’re the real deal now, Satan. You’re a little mummy now.” He croons in satisfaction, despite the throbbing ache between his legs. He’s done so well, he deserves his release, doesn’t he?

You press your palms against his thighs, watching him shiver and shake with each unexpected touch. His cock barely makes an outline in the bondage and you have to part the strips of cloth to fish him out, but the sound he makes is worth the extra work.

“Your cock is so swollen and purple, baby…does it hurt?” You slide your thumb over the head. Satan chokes on his own spit, coughing and wheezing. “Yes,” he manages to strangle out.

“I bet so…you were so good waiting for it, so I’ll let you cum whenever you want, ok?” You grab your bottle of oil, the fancy little decanter meeting your grip. You uncork it with your teeth and Satan gasps at the sound. Thick, floral oil pours into your palm, filling the copper-saturated air until the heady scent penetrates both of your senses.

The sound he makes when you grab his cock with your oiled hand is simply to die for, a sound you drink in and milk him for more of. It’s a sound unlike anything he’s made tonight, and the thought that what overwhelms him most is not the gutting, but a simple handjob does things to your head.

He truly is purple, the tip of him flushed almost violet with desperation, blood swollen in the organ. With a slick hand, you pump him slowly, dragging out every keen and cry. His hips try to flex, his thighs spread and open for you but he’s met with resistance, the thick binding keeping him wholey secured and trapped. And would he really want it any different?

“S’wet,” Satan pants raggedly. “Your hand…is wet…and, hhuuh-uhn, i-it’s wuh-warm and,” he swallows, and his increasing vocabulary clues you in that his scrambled brain has finally started to piece back together. “I like you,” is all he can say, mouth gaping.

You smile, something so sweetly ironic. “I like you too, Satan, I like you a lot. Are you close fr’me, my mummy?”

He tries to nod, at least the best he can with the restriction. “Yes!” He yelps when you stroke faster, high pitched and almost screeching. Faster, your hand moves, squeezing his tip in between your fingers with every slide up. You can feel the pulsing vein, the sticky pre bubbling at his slit.

You wiggle your other hand into the overlapping wraps, digging your fingers under his balls and between his clenched legs, finding his taint and pressing. It was another thing you learned in those studies, that the prostate can be stimulated from the outside, and what better time to try it than now?

A sound crossed between a scream, a cry, and something a little demonic tears it's way through his throat as he cums, thick spurts of it splattering onto his bound tummy.

With how pent up he was, you decide to rub a little harder against his perineum, milking the rest out the best you can, massaging your thumb under the head of his cock.

Satan goes boneless against the altar, the dangerous and lust-filled air slowly dissipating. You could wring out another orgasm, and the thought to see him overstimulated pleases your mind greatly, but you cap it at one. With how extensive this night has been, he’s given you all he can. You settle on gently rubbing his partially exposed pubic bone as he comes down from his orgasmic high, whispering your praise to him.

You check the time on your phone. 30 minutes left until the brothers should start coming home. You look back at Satan and his fucked out, loopy smile, a muffled purring coming from beneath the cloth.

“Let’s get you unwrapped, ok?”

…

It’s been a week since that night, and it still lives on in Satan’s head. He still snickers about the close call—from when Mammon caught you scurrying back to your room with a freshly washed and only mildly dopey Satan and complained to Lucifer how his younger brother got the whole night with you.

“Then don’t go to The Fall next time.” Is all Lucifer had said, annoyance in his brow.

As insufferable as the eldest was, Satan was pleased with that answer.

He dusts his hands off, carefully repositioning and angling the canopic jars onto his shelf until he deemed them perfect. He would never forget it, especially now that he’s kept the momentos just across from his bed (something he could get off to the memory of when you had to leave him alone).

Satan grins a contented, pleased little grin as he backs up to view the shelves at a better angle. Thinking back on it, the avatar of wrath doesn’t know why he was so fearful to confess his desires. Regardless, he checks his phone and finds a new notification from you. It’s a picture, one of a steel, double-sided fork and thick leather cuffs.

His heart flutters. He loves how thrifty you are.

#spicy #satan #gore tw #hard kink #sub obey me #sub satan #dom reader

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