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see-arcane · 6 days

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Our good friend Jonathan Harker is getting ready to leave for his business trip, Mina Murray is picking out a new journal, Lucy Westenra is charming a gaggle of smitten suitors, Abraham van Helsing is wrapping up his lectures, and Castle Dracula is prepping the guest room for a very long stay.

Which must mean that Dracula Season is here again!

‘Dracula Season’ being a catchall term for the voracious reading, memeing, writing, illustrating, analyzing, and general fun-having that’s ensued since Matt Kirkland’s project, Dracula Daily, caught on with us back in 2022. The Substack had already been running before then, but it sparked a conflagration as time went on and readers old and new to Bram Stoker’s Dracula—the actual novel, not Coppola’s fanfiction—devoured it in a way that scratched an itch none of us knew we had. Stoker wrote the book in epistolary fashion, clumping sections together as needed for the pacing without perfect adherence to chronological order. Matt went ahead and put all the events in order and proceeded to set up a lovely chain of emails that delivered entries on those correlating dates.

This style of organization and pacing turned out to not only make the virtual book club that much easier to engage with, but left space in-between to stew on the story and relate with the characters themselves. Every day of waiting in the book feels weightier when you have to pace and sweat and worry in tandem with poor Jonathan trapped in the castle or Lucy wasting away or Mina running out the clock before she loses the fight for her own humanity. And while we sat with the story or the lulls between Dracula Seasons, some of us found ourselves craving more of that ghastly gothic horror goodness to the point that we figured:

“Well. Why don’t I make something?”

And then we did! Tons of creative works have been churned out in the wake of Dracula Daily’s high. I figured that while we’ve still got a bit of time to wait for May 3rd, we should check out all this new stuff in the meantime. (Plus a handful of neat stuff that just clicks with the Dracula itch overall.)

So, in the interest of Dracula Season pregaming, let’s take a look at…

FICTION

Blood of My Blood – A recent addition to the Dracula Bad Ending AU pile, and definitely one of the most harrowing and addictive group-produced narratives I’ve ever come across, Blood of My Blood is the dramatically gothic currently-WIP work of @ibrithir-was-here and @animate-mush’s devious design. Give or take a heap of other fascinated folks (hello!) adding ideas to put more Horror into the Horrors that our cast has to face. The premise:

The Transylvanian climax went fatally sour and the Harkers were forced to shelter with Dracula himself, including their half-vampire son, Quincey. Cut to two decades later, and Quincey finds himself out in modern London, smitten with Lu, adopted daughter of Arthur and Jack, and diving into certain bloodstained old documents that detail the real history of how his parents came to live in the castle. Said revelations coming not a moment too soon, as a storm is coming for him straight from the Carpathians…

Dracula Daily Sketch Collection – An array of illustrations that captures every entry beat by beat, the Dracula Daily Sketch Collection by Georgia Cook, alias @georgiacooked was dished out over the course of the last Dracula Season. Some of the most fun character designs out there.

Fanfiction Spotlight: BlueCatWriter – With a whopping 99 works devoted to the novel Dracula (so far, the number may have gone up since I blinked), @bluecatwriter is one of the most prolific and talented fanfiction scribblers out there. Romances, nightmares, and overlaps between the two seem to crop up the most, give or take a crossover. Seems fitting that those blue paw prints have contributed to BoMB too.

The League of Extraordinary Gentlefolk – An ongoing comic in which all your favorite characters from the Classics section get together and tackle some perils ranging from the mundane to the monstrous. Started by the amazing @mayhemchicken and posted on @lxgentlefolkcomic, this series is a love letter to beloved Victorian era lit, with a spotlight on the two couples leading the League. Namely, the Harkers, ala Dracula, and the Nortons, ala Sherlock Holmes,’ “A Scandal in Bohemia.” Mina and Irene are the driving investigative and steering forces here, and still deeply in love with their likewise-infatuated husbands, just like in their canons! What a concept! Alan.

Without spoiling the full character list, just know there are going to be a ton of familiar faces roaming around before you finish reading the first arc. Said arc having conveniently wrapped up just a few days ago! Give the comic and its bonus silliness a look if you’re in the mood for a new comfort-adventure epic.

Re: Dracula – Probably the most well-known and incredible thing to come out of the initial Dracula Daily wave. This podcast is a full audio drama that follows the same format as the Substack, with episodes coming out in time with the entries themselves. And it has an unfairly cool soundtrack. They have a Tumblr with @re-dracula, a site and a Patreon to check out before the series kicks up again on May 3rd. (Also, keep an eye out for their next work, an audio drama in the same style with Carmilla.)

The Soldier and the Solicitor – Another treat from @ibrithir-was-here, this one involves a bit of time travel trouble. Quincey Harker has stumbled out of World War I and into the same dark forest where his father once fled for his life…then runs into the man himself, on that same night. Jonathan Harker, young and starved and lost, who has no choice but to trust this stranger while the Weird Sisters are at his heels…despite said stranger having no shadow. It’s a tasty emotional trek, already complete on Tumblr, but now it’s turning into a Webtoon. While Ibrithir is juggling a number of other stories, she’ll be redrawing spruced up versions of the comic and adding a few new scenes as things unfold.

Substack Stack – You know what’s better than one emailed-out public domain book club? A mountain of them. Just. So, so many of them. You’ll see that a lot of these are finished, but some are still ticking along. Either way, they’re all great picks if you’re craving some more old school lit to fill the void between undead emails.

Frankenstein Weekly – Frankenstein

Jekyll and Hyde Weekly – The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

Voyage of the Nautilus – Twenty-Thousand Leagues Under the Sea

Letters from Watson – Sherlock Holmes

The Invisible Mail – The Invisible Man

Letters from Bunny – E.W. Hornung’s short stories of the eponymous Bunny and Raffles

Letters Regarding Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse’s Bertie Wooster short stories, including the novel, Right Ho, Jeeves

…

……

………

…The Beetle Weekly – The Beetle (NOTE: Do Not Read This.)

The Vampyres – A novella I finally wrenched through the gears of self-publication as of March this year. Starring a petite but powerful paranormal cast, The Vampyres, centers on an unscrupulous undead fellow who finds that the revenants of the world are being mowed down by an entity known only as ‘Quinn Morse.’ Between trying to save his neck and figure out where the shadowy bastard came from, the Vampyre in question crosses paths with a new paramour and handy human shield in the form of a grieving Good Samaritan. He’s even polite enough to invite the Vampyre into his home while he’s in dire straits! Surely this will end well. All the info is available here and a little author site is over here.

What Manner of Man – This is the one made for everyone who started out hoping there’d be a real love story with our good friend Jonathan Harker and the Count when he was at his most charismatic. Where that sea of wonders dried up into a mire of horror, What Manner of Man by @stjohnstarling keeps things firmly on the romantic tracks. This Substack stars the letter-writing priest Father Victor E. Ardelian as he finds himself meeting with one enigmatic Lord Alistair Vane. It isn’t long before interest turns into intrigue and intrigue into undead intimacies.

The entire novel has been completed—along with multiple epilogues in the author’s Patreon, allowing readers to choose for themselves just how the uncanny romance plays out in the end—and the Substack now has a number of other gothic goodies piling up in the meantime.

NONFICTION

Dracula Daily: A Unique Reading Experience: This one comes courtesy of @realwomenofgaming. It’s a short and sweet piece that amounts to a fun snapshot of the entire Dracula Daily ride. A cozy couple-minute read.

‘Dracula Daily’ is the One Substack You Need a Subscription To: Features my favorite Matt Kirkland interview. @mattkirkland, if you’re still floating around on here, thank you for dispatching our vampire newsletter again this year.

Dracula Daily is Tumblr’s hottest new book club: Alright, the ‘new’ part is worn out by now, but this one is still a delightful article to swing back around to. Two years on, this Polygon piece is a time capsule of those early months when people outside our bookworm bubble realized we were all happily receiving letters from our favorite classic gothic horror blorbos.

“How Mina Murray Became Dracula’s Girlfriend” – Princess Weekes, if you ever read this, thank you, thank you, thank you. I am sending oceans of love and millions of rewatches to your video essay. If you haven’t seen it yet, “How Mina Murray Became Dracula’s Girlfriend” is one of the most refreshing and well-made breakdowns of both the title subject and numerous other issues that have proliferated in the public view of Dracula’s cast and plot as adaptations endlessly warp or outright bastardize the actual novel. An incredibly cathartic watch.

Literary play gone viral: delight, intertextuality, and challenges to normative interpretations through the digital serialization of Dracula: A mouthful of a title for an even more elaborate article about the Dracula Daily phenomenon. This one is a full-on study that analyzes just what happened within the big bloodsucker book club surge and how its ‘wandering reading practices’ enriched the experience for participants.

“The Undying Undead: An analysis of the Dracula Daily community for a theory of online community formation and interaction” – We have a thesis on here! Look at that! @sirangelothebestest’s MA thesis used our vampiric book club as the bones for a massive brick of an academic piece that definitely deserves a look.

…And I think I’ll go ahead and cap things here.

This isn’t everything I got recommended, but if I had squashed all of it in here, I think folks’ eyes would start to fall out of their head. I hope you can find something cool to comb through here. Or, if there’s something great I overlooked, tack it onto the list! We’ve got just two weeks to go until we’re off with Mr. Harker. Let’s enjoy our respite before those castle doors close behind us.

#time for Dracula Season pre-gaming :3 #thank you to everyone who sent in their suggestions!#dracula #dracula daily #re: dracula

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brave-little-pauper · 6 months

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Luigi never had a room to himself, always needing to share with his brother within their small home. This could explain the uneasiness creeping up on him as he tossed and turned in the bed that was lent to him.

He just needs to get used to being in such a high class environment by himself. After all, the mansion residents were kind enough to lead him towards a crackling fire and invite him to the most delicious feast he ever laid his eyes on, let alone eat. He can't bear upsetting these hospitable folks and their lingering smiles.

It'll all be over once the fog clears and he reaches Mario, so he should dismiss his worries as just childish fears.

Perhaps he could at least ask Ms. Gravely if she can get the residents to lower the noise so it doesn't sound like someone's whispering near him.

(The continuation of the horror movie au idea I had, now titled "Luigi's Gothic Mansion")

#super mario #super mario bros #mario bros #luigi #luigi mario #mario au #luigi's mansion #smb #Luigi's Gothic mansion

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bucknastysbabe · 1 year

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Let the Right One In

“To labor and toil as we harvest the coals, we silently pray Lord please harvest our souls.”

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 3,372

Synopsis: Down in the holler the women work with dark entities. The mining company employs them to keep the coal flowing. Therein lies the problem, two souls that want to break the wheel.

Tags: Historical!Au, Mining!Au, Southern Gothic/Folk Horror, v!fingering, pnv!sex, loss of virginity, mention of rituals and dark magic, innocence kink, no one is particularly a saint, Bucky is losing it, southern twang

A/N: This is part 1/2 Can you tell I love supernatural/paranormal stuff? On my country bullshit HONK HONK LETS GO SOUTHERN UNITED STATES SKEE *truck noises* YEE where I totally am NOT from help pls

West Virginia, 1883

The last thing Bucky remembered was shouts, a bright light, and burning hot fire. That’s what the young woman gathered from his clouded mind. She tucked a dark strand of hair behind his ear, eyes roaming over his scruffy face. A voice came from behind.

“Are you just going to stare at him all day or put the salve on?”

The girl frowned, turning back to face her mother. She was a grim woman with a stern face and austere clothing. The elder had taught her daughter everything she knew. The same as every female in the family did, keeping that secret magic alive. Magic that kept the crops blooming and the miners back from the afterlife. Whispers at night were the only talk of the strange women in the holler.

That’s how the young miner missing an arm ended up in their care. His sister Rebecca had appeared in the morn, crying and begging to bring her brother back. They had no source of income besides the dutiful brother, their father dead of blackened lungs. Your mother had warned the girl of the powers that she was begging for, but Becca carried him relentlessly forward on shaking legs. She said the foreman told her to bring ‘Bucky’ to the dark holler.

The ritual to keep his life force on this plane had taxed the small coven. A dark energy swirled around Bucky. His soul was blindingly strong but held together precariously. That always attracted the leeches dwelling deep in the mountains, soaking in those coal seams. Her mother and the others dabbled with those dark creatures, but she tried to stay away, wanted to keep the people they helped away too.

The witch knew those eldritch malevolent things were much more powerful than the average forest spirit.

“Fine. He’ll leave eventually. They always do, y’know.”

The young woman bitterly replied, “I know. S’nice to look. He seems…good.”

“Do you want to keep him?”

She really, really did. But she couldn’t.

“No, his family needs ‘im.”

She dusted off her dress and got up to grab the salve for the mess of Bucky’s left shoulder. It had been blown off in that horrible accident at the Howling Commando coal mine. It had taken 15 lives so far. Another man laid broken in the neighboring witch’s house. Sam was his name.

Slowly the woman worked the poultice into the scarred flesh, watching his unconscious face for any discomfort. He’d need a binding ritual to receive another arm. The company would pay for them sometimes. Workers already proficient aided with a supernaturally strong arm or other appendage were quite popular with them.

They provided the materials, the witches would commune with the powers. It didn’t take much, most of the overseer business lacked a soul anyways. The man grunted in pain under her fingers, she stilled with wide eyes. Backing away cautiously, her gaze kept focused on him.

Blue eyes groggily blinked open. She bit at her lip in anticipation of the wave of emotion. He looked around before registering the pain. Then the lack of an arm. A wounded noise left Bucky. He gasped, “What?” Struggling to sit up he cried again in pain.

“Stop- please stop movin’ it’ll make it worse,” she begged.

“What the hell is going on?,” he half-sobbed. His eyes kept flickering to the ruined stump of what was an arm— like if he looked again it might magically reappear. The daughter spoke, “Your sister Becca brought you here. We’re helpin’ out. M’sorry bout that accident of yours.”

Bucky flopped his head back with a weak groan. Tears fell down his scruffy cheeks. He sobbed softly, right hand holding the ruin of his shoulder. She felt her heart go out to his confusion and pain. The witch padded closer, sitting back down on the chair next to the cot. Bucky rasped half to himself, “What am I goin’ to do? Ain’t worth a damn.”

“The company is helpin’ out. Said you’re an invaluable worker.”

Skeptical eyes met her own softened orbs. He growled, “Company put me out here with you witches? Same shit they did to Steve and the others, I reckon.” Bucky looked at the wooden ceiling, a painful sob tearing from his chest again, mournful prayers leaving his lips.

She remembered Steve. Came in a bag of bones and a stones throw from death, came out full of muscle and strength. He was a sweet soul, somehow uncorrupted by the ritual. She worried about Bucky surrounded by inherent darkness— the same she carried.

“I’m sorry,” she offered again, eyes low.

“When do I get the arm?,” he asked hoarsely.

“Next full moon. Couple’a days.”

Bucky’s sobs had quieted down to tears again, eyes glossy with shock. The witch frowned again, unsure of what to say. She didn’t get to talk to the other sex much. Her mother never mentioned a father, shunning men unless they had a purpose. The zombie-like creatures at their beckoning didn’t count.

The best she could come up with was grabbing his big hand, squeezing it. Icy eyes flickered to the woman, his dark brows furrowed. He managed, “You’re more different than I expected.” She stared on with doe eyes.

Bucky would’ve chased her tail around town, laid it on thick before. He elaborated, “Always was told you witches were these hags up in the hollers.”

“My momma is one of ‘em,” she deadpanned.

Bucky laughed at that, the reaction deliriously bubbling out of him. The witch by his side sure was pretty but mighty strange. Hell, he might as well make the best of the worst. Slaving away in the mines for the company and the devil was his reality. She murmured, “I don’t like those rituals, they take a little piece of ya.”

“A big piece a’me is gone, little witch.”

Her hand grabbed his tighter, a pink tongue nervously darting against soft lips. She urged, “Jus’ do me a favor and don’t let ‘em in. Ever.” Bucky had an inkling of what she meant and nodded along. He didn’t want to think about that, instead wondering how the woman’s hair would feel against his skin. The throbbing pain of his shoulder was easing up a bit, some cool substance covered the area.

“What’s your name?,” Bucky asked.

She shook her head, declining the miner an answer.

“Call me what you wish, but I can’t do that. M’sorry,” she apologized again. Bucky pondered over a name, surveying the witch intensely. She blushed and stared down at her lap. He figured she didn’t speak up much for herself, baring her sweet neck at the slightest provocation. Like a little shy bunny.

“Bunny,” he said.

Her mouth fell open, a blush high on her cheeks. Bucky liked that look. He continued, “You remind me of a sweet lil’ bunny. Cute as one too.” Her grip on him faltered. She muttered, “Don’t let my momma catch you callin’ me that. But I like it.”

A screech echoed from outside, Bucky’s newly christened bunny bolting upright. She pressed an urgent peck to his cheek and hurried out the room, sounds of wood creaking after.

Bucky laid in the cot, pondering his reality and the pretty witch accompanying it. He just wanted his arm back, not the twisted silvery shit he’d get. He saw the hollow looks in their eyes when they returned to the mine. They rarely spoke, worked to the bone, and ambled out as if in a daze. Steve was the only one he’d seen who seemed fine. But he didn’t get a new appendage, instead a new body. Stevie was too pure.

Maybe he’d fuck the little bunny as a last laugh before his soul was sucked out. She seemed interested enough, he could almost see her trembling to get closer. Bucky would make her scream, poor bunny probably never even been touched right. He’d show them.

Bucky hated his inability to barely move, worn out from the slightest movement. His bunny later explained it was from being brought back so close to death. She took care of him, feeding Bucky and tending to his wound. He’d met her mother since, the woman glaring at him and warning him to be good.

The haggard mother kept away for the most part, Bunny had mentioned she led the coven of witches and was often busy. Bucky considered it perfect for when he defiled the innocent thing. He enjoyed the caretaking in the meantime, never receiving anything like that in his cold life. She was very attentive and a good listener.

A day away from the ritual Bucky asked, “Ya got a straight razor around here bunny?” She was mashing ingredients up with a pestle across the room. The mother was gathering energy in the forest from what he’d heard, garnering him to take action. The woman hummed, “I think so, why?” Bucky rasped, “Need a shave, face is itchin’. A bath too if ya got it.”

Her breath hitched. Carefully she put down the mortar. Silently she stepped to a drawer and pulled out a razor. Bunny said, “I’ll have to boil water. Think you can get into a tub?” Bucky joked, “I think I’d jump into one if I could.” Her pretty lips quirked into a smile and she disappeared.

Bucky began to grow restless at her lack of presence. He shifted into an upright position, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. The miner stretched the best he could, the bones in his back grinding and popping. He was exhausted from the haul up, feeling his eyelids slip. Bucky felt himself doze, unable to stop the descent.

When he woke again he felt warm, glancing around for the reason why. Bucky dimly registered he was in a tub now, his remaining arm gripping at the side to tether him. His eyes wildly darted around for another person. He noted that his growing scruff was shaved.

“Shh, s’fine, I’ve got you,” she soothed.

A small hand caressed his mottled shoulder, Bucky feeling better with her presence guarding his weakened side. He cocked his head to look at the witch, a slight smile gracing Bucky’s features. She held some soap in her other hand, a rag hanging on the edge of the tin tub. He had many questions on how he ended up here but decided to ignore it. Probably for the best.

Silent as always his bunny lathered up the rag and rubbed circles on his sore skin. She made sure to get his torso thoroughly, face schooled into single-minded focus. Bucky sighed at the feeling, heat spreading under his skin. As the rag neared his thighs, he couldn’t help but swell at the touch.

Bucky could easily excuse this to corrupt her. He found himself saying anyways, “Ah- bunny, you may need to stop yourself.”

“Why?”

He huffed a laugh at her innocent response. She frowned in confusion— the look marring fine features. Her hand grazed against his length under the water, a little ‘oh’ filling the awkward silence. Bucky murmured, “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.” He held her gaze with a molten look, lips quirking into a smirk.

“Buck,” she blushed and turned her head, “Do y’find me pretty or somethin’?”

The woman chewed at her lip nervously, quite overwhelmed with it all. Bucky drawled, “I think you could feel it for yourself, bun.” She glanced up, an eager look flitting across her face. Bucky laid it on, “Course I find you pretty. Prettiest thing I’ve seen in West Virginia.”

This usually was his hook, line, and sinker for the ladies. Bucky threw on a charming grin to seal the deal. The little witch trembled, faltering over a response. Her hand rested dangerously close to his cock.

“I want you. Please,” she whimpered. Her eyes were watery with need while hands wracked with shakes. Bucky beckoned her closer, the woman dropping to her knees, hand still so close to where he needed it most. His cock throbbed with blood, swelling painfully so.

He puffed against her lips, his blue eyes almost blackened by inky pupils. She whimpered softly, lips grazing Bucky’s own. He closed the minuscule gap sealing their mouths together with a feather-light kiss. His little bunny’s hand gripped at his thigh in an attempt to tether herself from floating into the ether.

Bucky led the way with insistent presses of his lips, his only hand holding her soft cheek. She gasped into his warm mouth, opening up like one of those morning glory flowers curled on the path to the mine. The man tenderly coaxed her lips into an lazy dance, soaking in her sweet scent and taste.

She shyly pressed her forehead against his own, eyes fluttering in pleasure. The brunette deepened the kiss— gently sliding his tongue across her own wet muscle. She cried softly, Bucky swallowing the sound with another greedy lick. His thumb slid across the witch’s skin, sending goosebumps down her arms.

Slick smacks and her beautiful noises swam in his head. Bucky was utterly intoxicated by the innocent eagerness, seeping into his flushing veins. He wanted to consume her wholly, never in a way he’d felt before. A dark thought slid from the sap in his skull— Probably put a spell on you, young blood.

Bucky didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore except defiling this paragon of purity surrounded by vast darkness. Where he’d soon reside after the ritual.

He drawled against her swollen lips, “Get in with me, Bun, c’mon sweetness.”

Her lithe fingers frantically unbuttoned her plaid top, Bucky holding the woman’s mouth hostage. She whined his name— breasts exposed to the chilly air. She undid her skirt and petticoat to his gaze, shivering under the intensity. Bucky wished to something higher up that he had his other hand to feel her.

The little witch murmured against his insistent maw, “Do I please you?”

He drew back to drink in her body, glowing with something he couldn’t name. Bucky thumbed at a pebbled nipple, rumbling out, “More than pleasing me, c’mon now bunny.” Her breath hitched, a flush deepening her skin. She climbed into the tin tub, crying out when her sensitive cunt pressed flush against Bucky’s desire.

Bucky nuzzled her neck and murmured, “Y’feel how much ya please me?” His bunny jerked her head in a semblance of a nod, struck by the onslaught of new sensation. The man rubbed his nose against hers, his hand running down her belly and hips. She keened his name, eyes fluttering helplessly.

“Ya gonna let me touch your pretty pussy, Bunny?,” Bucky groaned filthily in her ear.

“P-please Buck,” the girl in his lap begged.

She steadied herself with hands on his shoulders, cautious of the left side. Bucky didn’t feel as much pain from it— sometimes a burning itch or dull throbs. He grinned as his fingers slipped against her slit, feeling the collected slick even in the water. Bucky’s cock jumped at her thighs trembling in response.

She seized his lips again with a desperate whine, pressing her tits against his own muscled chest. The miner circled his thumb around her clit a couple of times, testing the waters with one finger sliding into her heat. He swore, “Fuck bunny- you’re tight.” Bucky could cum from her virgin cunt sheathed around his one digit.

He eased the single finger in and out, eyes checking her own for pain. She seemed dazed, full lashes sweeping over her cheeks, puffy lips lax and wet. Bucky crooked up into her sweet spot, groaning softly at her warbling yelp. She squirmed in his lap, bumping his rigid cock with another wrecked cry.

Bucky slid another finger in, aiming to stretch her out now. Regardless she’d be a tight fit, he knew that much. He scissored his fingers with practiced ease, enjoying her needy lips mouthing against his neck. She shivered and mewled, “Another, ‘nother one Buck.”

Who would James Buchanan Barnes Jr. be if he declined the beautiful bunny in front of him? He cooed, “Such a nice bun takin’ my fingers like that.”

“Mmh, yes, wanna be good,” she rambled.

Bucky reverently watched her writhe and sniffle at the third finger forced it’s way in. He swore again at the tight fit, pausing to gather himself from shoving his cock in her pussy like a rabid dog. Bucky mumbled, “You’re a real prize, y’know that?” She blinked and hid blushing cheeks. Apparently that was one compliment too far.

He pumped his fingers a few more times and asked softly, “Y’ready for it? Want me to fill ya up?” His bunny nodded and rolled her hips in agreement, whining at the loss of the brunette’s digits. The witch nestled her forehead into the crook of Bucky’s neck. He stopped and chided, “Look at me. I wanna see you.”

She focused on him.

Bucky guided his cock into her virgin cunt, his chest filling with warmth at the press. She bit off a cry, teeth clamping down on her full bottom lip. Bucky groaned, stretching her inch by agonizing inch. She whimpered in pain, a heartbreaking little cry of his name. Bucky shushed her, rubbing comforting circles on her tightened back.

“Easy now, you’re doing okay, it’ll stop pinchin’,” Bucky promised, “Gonna make ya feel s’good bunny.” He slipped his hand back to her pussy, thumbing gentle circles into her clit. Her pained whimpers subsided, a minute roll of plush hips made Bucky see stars. The witch panted, forcing herself up and down.

Bucky tried to slow her roll but she shook her head and kept it up, back arching in blooming pleasure. He rasped, “Y’sure?”

“Mhm, yes!”

Bucky rolled his hips up, canting his cock into her slick heat. He moaned deep in his throat at the impossible squeeze, balls already beginning to draw up in anticipation. Bucky thrusted faster, aiming for her sweet spot. Sharp teeth latched onto his shoulder when he made contact— her yelling into the thick muscle.

The water sloshed and rolled at their racing movements. Bucky couldn’t help but groan, “S’good bunny don’t stop.” She cried, “Never- y’feel so damn good.” He breathed into her ear teasingly, “Yeah? How I feel?” He roughly drug his cock against her walls with a grin.

She shivered and mewled, “So full, so big Buck.”

The witch’s tight heat pulsed around his thick cock in waves, her noises growing higher and higher. She tossed her head back, giving Bucky the ride of his damned life. His bunny babbled, “Oh fuck- oh my, my, you’re perfect.” Her glinting teeth were tinged with his blood, making him even harder.

A voice echoed in his head, “Serve her. Make her your goddess, yes, yes!”

Pleasure surged through Bucky’s veins. He pinched at her clit with a ragged wheeze, feeling himself come unraveled. She fared no better, pretty tears on her cheeks. Bucky begged, “C’mon baby, c’mon and cum on me please sweetheart.” She nodded in agreement, biting down on his bruising skin to hide the wailing.

With a burst of colors behind the brunettes eyes, she seized with a hiccup, milking his dick at the same time. His bunny gasped and writhed around him, whimpering his name. Bucky moaned deeply, pulling out and finishing in the water with milky blooms. He held her close as he could, laving at her salty skin.

“Aw hell,” she whispered, wide eyes and heavy pants.

“Nah bunny, s’perfect,” Bucky slurred.

She traced the familiar symbol into his neck with a shaky finger, hoping something would click. With a sigh she murmured, “C’mon. Need’ta clean you up ‘fore mama gets back.” She felt hollow now, just wanting to rest in his arms. Bucky was the same mindset but kept his mouth shut. Reality of what was to occur was hitting him like a ton of coal.

After resting from the exhausting climb from the tin tub, his eyes flickered open to the moonlit room. No one was in the cabin anymore— only her sweet scent lingering in the air. Bucky’s blues caught on a shiny reflection. On the wooden table sat a silvery arm. One with a horrific red star stamped on the shoulder. He was suddenly very scared.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes smut #marvel fanfic #historical au #Bucky barnes x reader #witch!reader

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videoplanchette · 2 years

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TLDR: This is a marketing tool to sell dolls

So, I finished the live-action Monster High Movie last night.

It was fine. Like everything it has its pros and cons which I will be covering.

And I don't know why this is the camel that's breaking my straws or whatever the hell-- but if I see one more hyperbolic clickbaity thumbnail or post describing why this is somehow the "worst" movie people have ever seen, I think I'm going be arrested. I've binged all of the monster high shorts, and 3D animated movies, and my brain is complete goddamn mush at this point. The live-action movie isn't even the worst thing associated with the monster high brand. Like to the veteran fans who have been here and are saying that this series used to be "better"-- What crack are you smoking, just curious? Like this series has been straight-up nonsense at points because it's meant to sell toys first and foremost. I want to highlight the whole nostalgia goggles we tend to wear and tell you what it actually is. It's bias. just call it what it is, it's bias.

There are a few different reasons why this claim of Gen3 or the live-action movie, in general, being toted as "the worst thing ever" gets under my skin. I'll be trying to engage with this movie as well as most of the marketing choices with this new line of dolls in good faith. Versus assuming every misstep or mistake is somehow an attack. During this long tangent of a post, I want everyone to repeat to themselves "this is a show meant to sell toys to children; I will not send death threats over this."

To immediately get this out of the way, if you're mad because they made Frankie Stein Nonbinary/Trans, or if they made Draculaura chubby? I'm sorry but you are beyond even my help-- get well soon.

I mostly want to address the criticism of the changed art style, personalities, dynamics, and interests of the characters themselves. I guess why this is exhausting for me because as a long-time fan of other franchises which has canon routinely altered to adhere to trends or the whim of new writers, this happens a lot.

Lot

Actually

Don't even get me started on Scooby Doo.

And I've seen this trend of trying to pigeonhole each new reboot of a beloved franchise as either the "best" or "worst" thing ever. And sure enough, when a good thing like Rottmnt is there, it's canceled before anyone actually realized it was worth a second look, even though the animation and voice cast was always on point. Or in Voltron's case, while met with initial praise, it tried to please everybody, while pleasing nobody. Nobody likes change, I get it.

Personally, I wish we had fewer reboots and more of an emphasis on original projects these days, but then how would we buy dolls?

Speaking of the Monster High Dolls. One thing I find hilariously hypocritical about people criticizing the changes made to the characters complaining about "coherency" and the like-- You folks do remember that this series was made specifically to adapt horror icons from the famed Universal Monster library and Gothic Literature characters into teenagers who attend school, make out with each other and wear gaudy clothes? Like again you guys are watching a derivative of a derivative! Like Monster High is a high school AU of HG Wells, Mary Shelley, Robert Louis Stevenson, Bram Stoker, and GREEK MYTH!

I can understand the reservations to like the reboot, but I can guarantee you it's a more faithful adaptation than Winx: Fate or River Dale. It doesn't even scratch the batshit wildness that either of those series tried to pull. It's not entertainingly bad. The movie is genuinely decent. All the actors look like they wanted to be there and they all deliver their performances (especially Frankie's) with energy and charm.

Yes, the effects, costumes, and make-up are cheap, but I'd rather have cheap makeup done by unionized compensated workers with ambition than CGI everything. If anything it reminds me of my favorite made for TV Halloween movies from my childhood, like Scary Godmother or Halloweentown.

I guess what I'm trying to say, for a commercial to sell me a new line of dolls, it could have been a lot worse.

#monster high #monster high the movie #txt☆#captain's log☆

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niennawept · 9 months

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tag game - tag 9 people you want to get to know better

tagged by @metatomatoes <3

Favorite color: deep emerald green, followed by a kind of blueish lavender.

Last song: The Devil Wears a Suit and Tie by Colter Wall; horror folk kick is going strong.

Currently reading: The Fellowship of the Ring by JRRT; Unfinished Tales by JRRT, ed. by Christopher Tolkien; The Bear and the Nightingale by Katherine Arden; Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë; Oathbringer by Brandon Sanderson. ...I think that's it?

Last movie: Last movie I intentionally sat down to watch or last movie that was on in my general vicinity? I guess I'll answer both since I'm not sure. I think the last movie I watched on purpose was Crimson Peak (2015) for research because I'm trying to plot out a gothic romance AU fic. And the last movie that was on in my general vicinity was Chopping Mall (1986) because my partner loves off-beat old horror movies. I've seen House on Haunted Hill (1958) more than I've seen any other movie because of this.

Sweet/spicy/savoury: I have a strong sweet tooth (ADHD craves easy dopamine sources) but I do really like savory things too.

Currently working on: the chapter past the current one of Scars of Silver and Gold; a series of non-continuous but interconnected drabbles about Melkor's time imprisoned by the Valar; a Nienna cosplay for a con next month (concern).

No pressure tags: @glorf1ndel, @elithilanor, and any one to whom this looks like fun.

#tag game #thank you for tagging me!!

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bramble-scramble · 1 year

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Werewolf AU but it's Sweetlopek...

Sweetlycan!

This would be the perfect Classic Horror Movie scenario because:

The entire AU will be set in Paletteville, Palette Prime, which is technically considered a Gothic setting (old town filled with gossipy folk who try to keep up reputations located right next to a mysterious woods and an ancient well built with riddles)

Woodrow would be the "narrator" of sorts, which doubles the Gothic vibes (I often compare him to Edgar Allan Poe, who's life was pretty dreary - mostly - as well as his works)

Sweetlopek is a good guy in general, so having him be cursed with lycanthropy would create some good horror and angst (yes, this AU can be, and technically is, a parody off of The Wolfman film)

As Sweetlycan, there are so. many. possibilities, from having an insatiable hunger to murdering certain residents within the town to having an anguished love story

And speaking of which... You cannot have a Classic Horror Movie without a scene where the Monster carries the Damsel in Distress; be it Sweetlycan bridal-carrying his girlfriend a weakened Dryad or another pretty Rabbid in a pretty nightgown

I'm just saying...

This is an AU of an AU. We’re evolving at a rapid pace, and I am here for it. The best part of it is that if we go back to the in-game comment that started all this off, it’s implied that Palette Prime very much DID have werewolves at one point, and the entire reason it DOESN’T anymore is because Woodrow brought down the moon with one of his poems. So really, didn’t he do everyone a favor?

The reason either of these have to be an AU I suppose, is that it has to be a world where that didn’t happen (yet). Imagine Woodrow trying intentionally to write a poem so cursed it crashes the moon down to cure his BFF of lycanthropy. Just yelling poems at the moon all night. Perhaps he succeeds after many attempts that cause other unfortunate things to happen.

#alter answers #mario + rabbids #woodrow #ts woodrow #mario plus rabbids #sweetlopek

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criticallyacclaimedstranger · 1 year

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Fic: Misty, chapter ix

Read on Ao3

Rating: Explicit (whole thing)

Fandom: Prospect

Pairing: Snowman!Ezra x f!reader (monsterfucker au)

Tags: it’s basically monster fucking but with a snowman which could technically be classified as a monster i guess?, gothic horror kind of, sorrow, dementia, anxiety, dog murder, masturbation, Frankie thirst, pet murder, racism mention, huge age gap, implied possible sexual abuse of minor, spookiness, PiV sex with an actual snowman, possible hallucinations, hypothermia, Frankie yearning, the spookiness continues, More dog murder and implied sexual abuse of a minor, implied illegal abortion, adulterous kissing, lots of crying.

Chapter warnings in addition to the above mentioned: Incest mention, amputee mention, abortion mention, murder, ghost sex. Yes, I said it. ghost sex. Multiple orgasms.

Summary: Escaping your empty apartment after having been dumped by your fiancé, you rent a cottage at Oakgrove House over Christmas to nurse your wounds. But strange things seem to happen at the estate, where an old woman wanders around in search of old friends long gone, and snowmen appear as if by themselves on the lawn…

Chapter word count: 3,335

A/N: One more to go after this one, folks. Thanks for sticking by me!

Tagging: @harriedandharassed @paulalikestuff @pazizz @lovesbiggerthanpride

The attic is a shallow one, insulated but dark, cold, and dusty. You use the flashlight on your phone to look around you as you peek up through the hatch. The pull-down ladder seems rickety, so you scramble up quickly, sneezing from the dust as you land on the plain wood floor.

Not knowing what you had expected, you feel a little discouraged when you see the amount of stuff stored in the small space. Cardboard box after cardboard box are lined up along the walls, old clothes bags hang from the ceiling, and one of the gable walls is hidden behind stacks of old newspapers. Turning around, you give a startled gasp when you see a shadow against the faint light of the other gable wall. For a split second, it looked like the outline of a human form, but your brain quickly registers the coveralls hanging in front of the window. Heart beating furiously, you take a deep breath and tell yourself to get a grip.

You get started with one of the boxes, finding only stale, old clothes inside. Rummaging through them in search of something hidden between the folds of fabric, you grimace a little at the smell and how dusty and unclean your hand feels after having touched the clothes. Already despairing, you look at the row of boxes and realize that this is going to take the whole night. With a deep sigh, you lift down the next box on the floor.

A sharp knock on the window makes you drop the box and your phone. Shaking and groping for the phone, you look up and see something move on the other side of the gable window. There is snow around the frame and against the white of it, you make out a bird. You swallow hard when it leans against the window again, and pecks the glass with its beak.

It's a common blackbird. You recognize it from the book earlier, otherwise you'd just have to guess. It's staring right at you, head tilted one way, then the other. When you do nothing but stare back, it shakes its wings and pecks the glass a third time. On weak legs, you slowly walk up to the window. The blackbird keeps staring at you in a most demanding fashion until you're just by the window and your foot hits something. You look down and spot a hat of some kind. Looking up again, the bird has disappeared. When you shine the flashlight through the unclean window, you can just about make out the tiny typewriter arm traces in the snow on the sill.

"Didn't imagine that," you mumble to yourself before taking a closer look at the hat. It's a safari helmet of that slightly uncomfortable colonialistic kind, at it has a dusty, dirty netting hanging at the back of it.

"Beekeeper's helmet," you muse to yourself as you turn it in your hands. The estate must have kept bees at some point. Did the gardeners tend to the hives, or did they have separate beekeepers?

You look at the coveralls, noting their olive green color. Aren't beekeeping suits always white? You have no idea. Thick gloves hang from one pocket and the zipper is pulled almost all the way down. That strikes you as odd somehow: clothes in storage are usually folded, zippered, buttoned. This one is not, and the right arm is inside the garment, as if it had been shed in a hurry. You start to frisk the coveralls and find something in the pocket that is not stuffed with gloves.

An envelope, thick with content, with nothing written on it. Holding your breath, you open it and take out the single folded paper. A smaller piece of paper falls to the floor and you bend down to pick it up. It's stiff, a lot stiffer than ordinary paper, and the side turned away from you is smooth. Your fingers know it before your mind does: it's a photograph. Slowly, you turn it, and look straight into the dark eyes of Ezra.

Sinking down onto the floor, you stare at the man in the black and white, slightly yellowed photograph. It is Ezra, you just know it. Broad shoulders, sharp nose that gives him a noble kind of ruthlessness. A hint of a smirk grazing the full lips, surrounded by a mustache and a tidy, short beard. Dark, short hair. He's wearing the beekeeping coveralls; the helmet is under his arm. It seems to be summer; the surroundings are verdant despite the monochrome snapshot.

"There you are," you whisper, brushing your thumb over the photograph. You look at it for a long time, noting down every detail, from his big hands to the scar on his left cheek. You wonder how he got that scar.

Setting the photo to the side, you open the letter, finding more photographs. One is of Ezra with garden shears in front of a rose bush, seemingly unaware that he is being photographed. Another is of him on a bench with a book in his hand, the other hand shielding his eyes against the sun as if trying to see who is disturbing his reading time. All three pictures are snapshots of everyday situations, but there is something unsettling about them all. You can't put your finger on it, but there is something about Ezra's whole being that does not sit right with you.

The last photograph makes you gasp. It is Ezra, now in the wintertime, standing in front of a boarding house. He looks like a completely different person: his beard is uneven and unkempt, his hair has a white tuft in it, his eyes have a coldness to them that makes you shiver, and his jaw is set in a hard line that you realize now has been hinted at in the previous photos. But the most shocking, heart-breaking thing is his right arm, or rather the lack of one. He is clearly missing his right arm. The sleeve of his coat is pinned to the side and he's standing with the right side slightly angled towards the camera, as if showing off the fact that he is an amputee.

You remember the snowman and its lack of an arm and it’s like the temperature drops immediately. You shudder and direct your attention to the letter instead. It is not long, and you recognize the handwriting. It is by Olga.

Dearest E,

I will wait. One day we can sit in the garden and read each other poetry or play in the snow and spend long evenings by the warming fire. I can see it when I close my eyes. We will be safe. Please respond. I need to know you are well despite your misfortune. I do not care about the stones in my necklace, I only need to know that you are well. Write to me, your letters can no longer be intercepted.

Your Blackbird.

The heartfelt plead brings tears to your eyes. Did Olga ever send the letter, or was it sent back to her? Did Ezra return, was he able to give her letter back in person? The old paper offers no answers.

Your findings in one hand and phone in the other, you leave the attic, slowly descending the ladder. Almost down, it sways and creaks, and the sudden unsteadiness makes you miss the next step. You plummet clumsily down the last couple of steps, falling hard on your backside when you reach the floor. The impact sends a shockwave of pain through your spine, and you curl up on the floor with a whine and try to breathe through it. The tears flow freely, your hand closes into a fist and you bang it against the floor in frustration and anguish.

When you finally sit up, gingerly and assessing the damage, you are not alone: Across the small landing stands Ezra. The ache dulls your reaction, and you simply meet his dark, unreadable gaze. His contours are oddly floating, and you can see right through his oddly colorless form. You think, That is a ghost right there, but the words mean nothing. It’s Ezra. He’s come home.

He is quietly watching you, his unblinking eyes disquietingly feral in their intensity. His right arm is missing and the scar on his cheek seems to glow white. You find yourself hypnotized by his stillness, and for long moments, you only sit on the floor and let him control you with those eyes of his.

Eventually, you clear your throat and wet your lips.

“Hello, Ezra.”

He does not move nor acknowledge your greeting in any way, but you think you see a flash of recognition in his eyes, so you continue.

“Did you ever return?” You look around you and find the letter and the photographs next to you, where they have fallen from your hand. Reaching for the letter, you groan from the pain. You hold the paper up to him.

“Olga wrote to you. She wanted you back. Did you return?”

Now his chin rises slightly and his nostrils flare, as if scoffing in disdain. But there is pity in his eyes. You instantly know what it means.

“You didn’t. This letter was returned to sender. She says that you could return, that it was safe for both of you. What did she mean?”

Ezra looks almost bored, like he is dismissing you.

“You never intended to return.”

His sharp eyes turn interested again.

“She was too young for you. You were never interested. You only played with her, like a cat with its prey.”

Now he glowers at you, and you sense that if this weren’t some specter or figment of your imagination, you’d feel unease at the barely hidden ferocity of this man. But you find yourself glowering back at him.

“What did you do?”

His lips are tightly pressed shut so you change your tactics.

“I found the cards you sent her. You did that to let her know you were alive and well, right?”

A nod.

“Until… you lost your arm in one of those mines. Didn’t you?”

Another nod, and a pained frown. Now his remaining hand rises, crosses his chest, and grasps the stump that is left at his shoulder. His gaze lowers, as if in a silent prayer for what he has lost.

“And then… you died.”

He looks up at you, surprised and confused, like you just told him something he did not know.

“So you couldn’t return.”

Slowly, he nods again, face falling before he rearranges his features into something more guarded.

“I’m sorry,” you offer. It’s not much, but you wanted to say it. He inclines his head in an acknowledgment of your condolence.

“Why are you here now?” you venture, but Ezra has lost interest in you. He is staring right past you, and you sense a presence.

“He is here to say goodbye.”

Turning around, you see Olga at the stairs. She, however, is not looking at you, but at Ezra.

“You look just like that last time I saw you.”

Ezra regards her with his head slightly tilted, as if trying to find the young girls behind the old lady mask. A little twinkle lights up in his eye before he smiles a crooked smile.

“Your arm was gone, your hair was going white, but you were still my Ezra,” Olga continues in a quiet but firm voice. “I waited for you for a long time.”

You feel like you should leave, give them privacy, but curiosity has gotten the better of you. Pain forgotten, you swallow before speaking.

“Why, Olga? Why did you wait for him? He was twice your age, he used you, he – “

“It was not Ezra!” Olga cuts you off, her voice rising. “Ezra never touched me. True, I was a young, infatuated girl, but Ezra was my ally.”

“You said you needed a procedure,” you whisper, head swimming with every piece of new information. “You drowned your dog on Ezra’s request. So that he knew he could trust you not to tell.”

“He helped me get an abortion,” Olga clarifies, voice softening in affection when she looks at Ezra, who meets her adoring eyes with a tenderness you could only describe as paternal.

“He had to make sure I wouldn’t tell anyone. It was illegal and we had to cross the state line. My parents had me under surveillance but worst of all was my brother.”

Your stomach turns. “It was him.”

“Yes. It was him.” Olga’s confirmation is direct, almost emotionless.

“Your parents…”

“Knew nothing. And died in a traffic accident. My brother became my guardian. I wanted to run away with Ezra, but he wouldn’t take me with him until he had money to support the both of us.”

She shakes her head at Ezra, who lowers his gaze.

“That almost broke me. As if I needed any riches. I only needed freedom.”

“And then he was injured,” you guess. Olga tuts with disdain.

“No. He came back every Christmas to let me know how he was doing. He couldn’t write to me, all mail went through my brother. I had no friends. I could only wait for his sign, the snowman in front of the gardener’s cottage, and hope that I had not missed him.”

The snowman. He will come tonight.

“But he came back eventually?”

“Yes.” Olga raises her chin at you. “He came back. We met in secret in this cottage. The gardener was at mass. And my brother had grown suspicious. He followed me. He found us.”

Ezra’s ghostly form seems to darken, his face a terrifically frightening image as he listens to Olga.

“What happened?” you ask in a trembling voice. Olga’s features are perfectly composed, her eyes like steel.

“The garden path was icy. He slipped and fell.”

Ezra’s amused little smile is lethal.

“You killed him,” you accuse him weakly. The smile grows broader, and Olga shakes her head.

“No. Ezra merely fought him. He fell and hit his head. I told Ezra that he had to run away. I would make sure nobody even knew he had been there.”

She now turns to Ezra again, her eyes despondent. “Sending you away that time was the hardest thing I ever did. But you were not safe. We were not safe. He was still alive.”

“You killed him,” you state, feeling an odd sense of justice in it. Olga nods.

“He was in a coma. I had to wait for a while, make sure all paperwork was in order. Then it was a simple matter of covering his face with a pillow until he breathed no more.”

Ezra smiles at her, almost proudly. The morbid confession and his obvious satisfaction do not faze you. You are beyond that at this point.

Good for her.

“Why didn’t you leave to find him?” you ask. A faint blush stains Olga’s cheeks.

“I had met the man who became my husband.”

The ghost of the man she had once loved inclines his head with a faint smile. Olga smiles back.

“He was good to me, Ezra. I never told him, but I think he knew. He treated me right.”

Slowly, Olga walks up to Ezra, arms opening almost hesitantly. When she reaches him, her arms go right through his form. She smiles sadly.

“It was good to see you, Ezra.”

Your nose itches from lingering attic dust and you can’t keep from sneezing, turning away from the old woman and the apparition to do it as delicately as you can into your elbow.

When you look up again, sniffling, Olga is gone, and Ezra is watching you. A little unsurely, you meet his gaze.

“Why are you still here?”

His eyes narrow and the diamond glint of a canine makes you realize that he is smirking.

“For… me…?” you breathe, not sure that you want to know the answer to that question. Now Ezra walks across the landing to the bedroom. His feet may be moving but he is floating an inch above the floorboards. He stops and turns around to beckon you to follow. Hesitantly, you do, and when he asks you with a gesture to lie down on the bed, you obey. Your tailbone sends aching impulses up your spine, making you groan.

Ezra leans down over you, or floats above you, you cannot tell. His gaze cuts right through you and you want to sink into the mattress. Your hand fumbles next to you and your fingers touch something. You lift in front of your face and see that it is a small piece of bark from the snowman, somehow left behind even after your cleaning.

You look from it to Ezra, see the desire turning his ghostly eyes dark. The bark falls from your hand and you reach instead through smoke, wanting to pass your hand over Ezra’s stubbled cheek, run your fingers through his short-cropped hair.

“Come to me, Ezra,” you allow, and he descends on you, face so close to yours. His lips are cold and wispy, and just as you think that you can feel the plump softness of them, the hint of corporeality disappears, and the foggy chill of Ezra is sucked into you like a reverse exhale of cigarette smoke. You cough, thinking for a moment that you will suffocate, but then he spreads into your limbs, makes you heavy and full.

“Ezra,” you sigh as he settles inside your pelvic area and starts a suction that makes your nerves spark and crack with pleasure. You bare your neck as your knees bend and your feet plant themselves on the mattress, pressing your pelvis down, your buttocks moving against the mattress as you try to find alleviation, or more traction, you don’t know. Your tits feel like they are being fondled, suckles, adored, and when you touch them, it becomes to much and you have to fist your hands into the mattress instead. Your moans sound eerie and unfamiliar to you and the word possessed flashes through your mind before you decide that you don’t give a shit. Your legs press shut against the insane stimulation but unlike when having someone go down on you, it does nothing but heighten the sensation. You can feel Ezra smirk behind your frontal lobe and then you arch your back and shout out as he does something new. It’s like being fucked from the inside out, there is no other way to describe it, your pussy is being ravaged, your clit is pulsating, your nipples are so sensitive you have to wiggle out of your shirt. Another surge of pleasure makes you scream out loud and you roll over onto your stomach, getting up on your elbow and whining loudly as you hump the bed, movement the only way to deal with the ferocity of the pleasure. The heat of a breath long gone runs down your spine and you lose control, your panties turning wet and warm when your pussy gushes in a first orgasm. Ezra praises you but does not slow down, continuing to work your nerves and muscles until he has milked you of another one. You slump down and roll over, kicking half-heartedly against the pulses as they once again increase in intensity and speed. You moan his name again and he answers with a jab that makes you see stars. It’s not just your pussy anymore, it’s your whole body, everything is steeped in pleasure you have never known. Every single hair on your skin is raised stiff and crackling, every vertebra is on fire. When you exhale in loud moans, your breath comes out a hot cloud. When Ezra finally lets you cum a third time, it is a full body orgasm that rips you apart and puts you back together, all at once. You feel Ezra caress you into sleep, and you close your eyes.

#prospect fanfic #ezra prospect #ezra x reader #ezra au

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primalarc · 2 years

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A Murder of Crows and Men, Chapter Five: Shoot The Messenger

Felix navigates friendship through both a hangover and a haunting as something unexpected comes knocking at their door. Meanwhile, Claude causes problems on purpose.

READ IT NOW!

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widowshill · 5 months

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A-Z Fandom Asks: N, P, R? (that wasn't planned, just. happy accident?) please and thank you!

A -> Z FANDOM ASKS.

N - Name three things you wish you saw more of in your main fandom (or a fandom of choice).

my number one is r/v obviously <3 i do actually feel kind of spoiled with the shippy stuff ive found in some old blogs though, i tend to adopt the rarest of rarepairs so i'm not complaining. but more is always better! and i'm steadily converting people to the cause 🏴‍☠️

generally speaking i think the pre barnabas episodes could always use more love. it's quite different tonally to later on and I can understand why folks might skip it for those reasons, but I fervently protest the idea that they're boring ! I'm biased of course because my faves are the 1966'ers, but there's so much delicious character work going on, and I think ... you need the rotted b&w gothic foundation for the technicolor house of horrors built on top of it, if that makes sense. i also think barnabas is kinda :/ it should be pre and post laura collins if we're all being honest with ourselves here.

hmmm. possibly a symptom of like, only being here / a tiny bit on twitter and not on like, actual forums, but i would love to see more long ass ds metas. love to read the insanely smart things b.lack s.ails people (and p.otc!) post on the reg. need that about haunted maine ppl

P - Invent a random AU for any fandom (we always need more ideas).

okay well you can guess where i'm going to go with this west indies piracy au go

The Collinses are descended from merchant wealth in England and currently control a small port city in the Bahamas. the family's connections to the Marquess of Winchester manages to land Roger an appointment as governor, although everyone knows the title is only a formality: his sister runs everything, including Roger. once prosperous, a combination of over-fishing, hurricanes, and an earthquake twenty years past has left the town desolate, and the sand beneath their feet liquefied. rather than abandon what she has built, Elizabeth is determined to hold on, but without any support from England for what they feel has no hope to turn profitable, the family turns to investing in forced trade.

enter Burke Devlin, a privateer employed under a letter of marque signed and sealed by Roger Collins. Devlin is the best, most profitable, and most infamous of their captains, often dining with them at their table and a close friend of the governor. For a while they enjoy mutual prosperity with Spain's wealth, and pirate labor. But the world is growing more respectable around them, and what was once the fringes of civility is gradually becoming its center. The way to survive is no longer with the pirates. When Burke is captured and tried for piracy, his benefactors turn their back on him: he is sacrificed, essentially, as a figurehead for the port and governor's respectability (vaguely à la Kidd). Even his wife sends written testimony against him, and remarries before her husband officially swings, to his former friend and sponsor, Roger.

Burke manages to escape before his hanging, and turns to piracy in the Mediterranean – after ten years, in 1698, he comes back to raid the Collins shipping fleet, with the eventual goal not of razing Collinsport to the ground, but of installing himself as governor there. One of the ships he captures carries a special passenger – the new governess, sent for from England – and he personally delivers her to their doorstep, but not before she can witness how different Captain Devlin is from the terrifying stories about him and his crew.

the governess also brings news from England: William III has passed a new law against the pirates in the West Indies. any person to aid and assist, or maintain, procure, command, counsel, or advise the pirates, are condemned to the same loss of property and life as the pirates themselves.

meet also:

maggie evans, the no-nonsense tavern wench, and her sweetheart, the honest merchant sailor joe haskell that hates pirates and everything they stand for

carolyn stoddard, who has a copy of Exquemelin in both French and English and has memorized every word, and is violently jealous of vicki for dining with a scary pirate captain. she'd like nothing better than to be kidnapped out of the governor's mansion. her cousin david loves the stables and knows everything about horses ... including how best to spook them.

sam evans, former court painter, now art forger

julia hoffman, naturalist (and other sciences as required)

bill malloy, who oversees the merchant fleet and the warehouses, and carries carolyn home from the docks or the tavern by the scruff of her neck, if he has to.

laura collins, sent away to bedlam for hysteria, managed to come back, and is now setting boats on fire as a hobby

the blairs, hailing from massachusetts: james, a well-respected lawyer eventually revealed to be working with devlin, and his cousins, nicholas and cassandra, political and religious exiles who spent some time in maritinique, where they both adopted quimbois practices.

jason macguire, irish smuggler, and willie loomis, former indentured servant working out his sentence in america. they have a run in with cousin barnabas, who's been making his questionable fortune in the east indies rather than the west, and who definitely does not do any cannibalism.

R - Which friendship/platonic relationship is your favorite in fandom?

ROGER AND JULIA. in other places, eleanor and flint >>>> also elizabeth and barbossa. i feel like this is forming a pattern of some kind hang on

#i may be wildly predictable at this point #tortoisesshells #➤ answered. ┊ collinsport 4099.#➤ meme responses. ┊ boo !#➤ ooc. ┊ she’s nauseous，she’s hysterical，and she’s exhausted.

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