#the deep shadows from his nose and his eye sockets

[bbreaddog]

Jeremy Shada in Dancing With Strangers music video (2021)

#Jeremy Shada #julie and the phantoms #jatp #reggie peters #jatp art #art #mine #i draw things #god actually like staring at this now #the bloody. what’s it called #chiaroscuro #the reflective light against his jaw on the right #the deep shadows from his nose and his eye sockets #even the light across the fan of his lashes holy shit #the soft shading under his Adam’s apple #the FRECKLES #THE LITTLE LIGHTS ACROSS THE TIP OF HIS NOSE #THE REFLECTIVE LIGHT ON HIS LEFT NOSTRIL #THE SMEAR OF POWDER ACROSS HIS JACKET????? #DUDE #THE DETAILS

[whaleofatjme1920]

Kinktober Day 4: Stalking/Obsession

Stalking/Obsession - Eyeless Jack X F!Reader

Warnings: DUB CON, breeding kink, biting, marking

AN: I don't speak Polish so forgive me </3. ALSO this is a take on my dear @creepynoodleheadcannons's prompt featuring EJ on Day 19 from their 2022 Kinktober. Will tag the fic HERE.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST

Reblogs are appreciated!

In the darkness of your room, you sat curled in your sheets with the feeling of dread coursing through your veins. Sweat ran down your brow, down the back of your neck and soaked your bed as you stared at your window. You saw his shadow looming just outside, a monstrous being that had been tormenting you for the first half of the year. Your heart thumped wildly in your chest like a little rabbit about to be caught in the jaws of a wolf as his claws scratched against it. 

He’d never been so bold before. 

When he first started, he was silent. His sharp claws played with the seams of your mind, delicately lifting the fragile threads before popping them up and breaking them, reveling in the sound of the strings snapping. It was small. A coffee cup you’d thrown away with your lipstick marks had gone missing but you assumed you’d managed to throw it out somewhere else. The hairs from your brush had been cleaned out but weren’t in the trash. Some of your clothing had gone missing. You assumed that you were becoming increasingly forgetful, but your underwear going missing? Your still full shampoo and conditioner bottles disappearing? 

And then he revealed himself. You thought you’d accidentally summoned a demon when he first appeared in the corner of your eye. He was always there, watching, waiting, and so fucking persistent. The way he spoke about you was deranged, like you were the only thing he craved in the entirety of his life. He spoke of how sweet you’d be - his final meal, the feast to end all others. 

“Go… Go away,” you shakily cried out while you dug your face into the pillow in an attempt to fend him off. But you knew it was a useless attempt. Tonight was the night he’d finally make you his and devour you whole. Your body shook with fear as you watched the shadow of his hands move sluggishly, like he wawa toying with you on how slow he could be. Toying with you, building up his own anticipation with glee. You heard Polish spill from his lips, or maybe an archaic form of it, and like magic, the window flew open. It invited the colder of October air into your room, red and orange leaves spilled across your floor as his large form blocked out the light of the moon herself. 

“You don’t really mean that,” he purred. His voice was deep and laced with a Slavic accent that sung with the cadence of ancient gods and their demons. His face was hidden by a mask, a dark pool of inky blue while the eye sockets wept with tar. If you looked close enough, you could see the knife marks of where it had been carved a very, very long time ago. He slipped through your window despite his size. Your nose filled with his scent. Musk. The earth. Iron. Smoke from campfires not long doused. Ammonia. 

Your stomach wanted to wretch at the very smell of him. Fear stoked every part of your body as you pried your eyes away from your pillow and peeked up at him. He was large, much too large. The moonlight framed him as dark and imposing. He was strong, you knew that, and his skin was the color of ash. And for a creature that seemed to take joy in pursuing a much more human form, he still reeked of otherworldly. His legs were cloven, like that of a black goat, and his teeth were sharp, slightly yellowed and large like that of an apex predator. Roots and the earth seemed to crawl up his legs like the earth itself wanted to reclaim him, and his joints didn’t seem to fit him right. His elbows, his knees, shoulders, everything was popped into place haphazardly, a vessel to contain something much larger than what he was born as. 

He took advantage of your fear as you looked up at him. His grin only widened behind his mask. He crawled up your bed, caging you in with his body. His clawed hands traced your warm body as you balled up in a weak attempt to shut him out from you. 

“Please, don’t,” you murmur as you watch his clawed hands crawl up your body. “I already told you no-”

He gave you a look from behind his mask before reaching his hand upwards to remove it. His arm moved over to rest it on your nightstand, as if he were making himself comfortable. His mouth was curled upwards into a grin, large and knowing. 

“Come now, kochanie moje. Don’t be so frigid towards me. Open up. Let me in.” His sharp talons moved to cut your clothes from your body, not caring about your cries of protest. “You cannot resist me forever,” he whispered in your ear as your body trembled. “Try and fight as you may, your body calls for me, and I must answer. You were meant for this,” he breathed in your ear as you meekly held your hand up to his large chest in another attempt to push him off. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you whispered. 

“Tak kochanie,” he whispered back, “you do. I need you. Don’t you see what you’re doing to me? I need your body, your heart, your mind, your very soul,” he groaned as his hand traced your soft, supple skin. “I want to breed you to make you mine forever.” 

His words sent chills down your spine as you shook like a leaf. You shook your head. “You can’t-”

“Don’t worry,” he purred once more, voice hungry and lusty, “I’ll make it feel good. I always do.” 

You were almost snapped out of your fear from the second half of his sentence but found it quickly returned when his teeth sunk into your neck. “Oh fuck!” You yelped, feeling the warm blood from your neck bead downwards to drape your collarbone and your nape. “What the hell was that for?” 

Jack didn’t immediately answer, only grinned and opened his mouth. A long, purple tongue slithered out and lapped at the teeth marks he’d left, a soft apology for drawing blood. “Mating mark,” he answered. “One of the many physical kinds I can give to you.” 

You kept your mouth shut as you felt his hands barely leave you to the belt of his pants. He undid it, and then slowly pumped his cock. Large, knotted, that was all you could see in the darkness only illuminated by the moonlight. So distracted by how girthy and large he was and the fact you KNEW he wouldn’t fit inside of you, a cry ripped free from your throat as his other hand effortlessly pried your legs apart. 

Jack’s clawed fingers easily moved down to your pussy, already wet from the budding anticipation. He cooed condescendingly. “Awh, and here I thought I would need to convince you even more.” His index and middle finger opened your lips up, and through the darkness, his sockets keyed in on your glistening pussy. “You were made for this, to please me, to be bred by me.” Slowly, he slid his index finger inside of you and watched through the darkness of your room as you bloomed for him. Heat painted your entire body, most notably your cheeks - Jack’s always had the ability to sort of ‘toggle’ thermal vision - and that’s where the heat was most notably concentrated. Well, that and definitely between your legs. Your pussy was burning for him. Needed to be filled, didn’t it? 

His index finger was soon joined by his middle, and he stretched you out as best as he could. “You feel so warm, kochanie,” he grinned. “So soft and sweet, and you smell just as good too. Maybe I should get a taste before I take you,” he thought aloud. 

Fearing retaliation, you hesitantly nodded. “Okay,” you squeaked like a deer caught in headlights. It didn’t help that your body seemed to call for him. Despite how much you knew this wasn’t good, your body squeezed around him. When his thumb circled your clit, you moaned softly, embarrassed that you showed him even a smidge of pleasure. He thumbed your clit some more and felt your hips buck up. 

And he laughed. Jack laughed. 

“See? I knew you couldn’t resist me.” After he fingered you a little bit more, enjoying the sounds of your soft moans and how you desperately tried to deny your true feelings towards him, he pulled his fingers out. “Do not pout,” he chuckled as he lifted his fingers to his lips. One of his tongues slithered out of his mouth once more before curling around his slick covered fingers. An obscene moan left his lips, and if he had eyes, you were sure that they would be rolling up. “Gods, you taste so good,” he praised. “So sugary and meaty,” he moaned again. “Perfectly made for me.” 

Jack mounted you this time, the head of his cock pressed against your tight lips as he watched you squirm underneath him. It was magical to see you buck your hips up like you could hardly resist him. “Open up, kochanie,” he cooed as he started to push his thick cock into you. He grinned when your nails dug into his uncovered forearms while your eyes widened. “Wrap your legs around me and breathe. Take me. Take me,” he whispered again and again, his hips pushing closer and closer to your body as his cock split you open. 

You did just that, legs wrapped tightly around his waist before moving your hands up to his back. Your nails dug into his hoodie while you pulled him tightly against you. Your heart rate skyrocketed as he pulled his hips back and then thrusted sharply forwards, the head of his cock hitting your cervix while not even fully hilted inside of you. His knot was thickly pressed against you, far too big for you to take, balls rested against your ass and heavy with cum. “Oh, oh my gods-” you wept as your body struggled to adjust to his size. He felt so big, every part of him. 

“Bloom for me,” he urged as he started to thrust his hips. His lips danced across your neck as he cock filled you with every thrust. “My sweet, sweet girl,” he praised, “look at you. How beautiful you are.” 

Your thighs were tense as he began to pick up the pace as you softly moaned for him, unable to deny any longer just how good Jack was making you feel. The tears that had welled in your eyes slipped down your cheeks but you unashamedly kept calling out for him. Your pussy felt so stretched open and still small as your slick gushed around him. You were soaking the bed from how good he stroked you. You arched your back slightly into his chest and tipped your head back to allow his lips to travel back up to your throat. You felt his teeth playfully move around where he’d already bitten you before softly biting you on the opposite side to mirror it. 

“You’re mine now, kochanie. Mine now forever.” The sounds of your moans were like music to his ears as he listened to your moans and how your body grew closer and closer to being knotted. He’d breed you, and then you’d have no choice but to be his for all eternity. 

#minors dni #eyeless jack x reader #eyeless jack x you #eyeless jack x y/n #creepypasta x reader #creepypasta x female reader #creepypasta x you #creepypasta x y/n

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Know What You Are

Pairing: Ettore (High Life) x f!reader Warnings: Allusions to trauma, oral sex (m receiving), smut Word count: ~1k

Summary: Ettore explores the boundaries of consensual touch, and finds he isn't ready to relinquish control just yet.

Author's note: A little addition to The Hand that Feeds but can also be read as a standalone. Day three of the Smuffmas prompts - "in nature and deep throating". No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

She loves the garden. It’s the only place aboard the ship that doesn’t feel sterile and bathed in artificial light. Digging her fingers into the softness of the soil, allowing the rich, earthy scent to fill her nostrils, she can forget that she’s a prisoner. Every brush of soft green leaves against her skin is like a fleeting taste of freedom.

Her place on board is not undeserved. To some, taking revenge on the man who has raped you would be seen as wholly justified. To a jury, however, the violence of such an act was considered despicable. But it had felt good to watch the way his eyes had gouged from their sockets, to feel the way the knife had sliced through his flesh like butter, all the way to the bone. If she closes her eyes she can still smell the coppery tang of arterial blood. It makes her mouth water. She had enjoyed it, and to derive such pleasure from such depravity is well worth where she finds herself now. She’d do it a thousand times over.

Getting acquainted with fellow inmate, Ettore, has made her time here infinitely more interesting. She had noticed him straight away. Without confirming what he was here for, she’d been able to hazard a guess, it was obvious in how he carried himself. And more than apparent that she’d caught his eye too, he was always watching her.

She ought to be disgusted by him, knowing what he is, what he’s probably done, but there is something lurking beneath the surface that draws her to him, an invisible string that tugs them both together. It has only grown stronger since their first tryst in the Box; him spilling himself onto her stomach with his face pressed between her tits.

He doesn’t allow her to touch him, but despite this she knows she’s the one in control. His desperation for her makes him vulnerable, and she enjoys toying with that, seeing how far she can push him. It’s been days since his hips had rutted against hers, taking her roughly from behind in a storage cupboard, so she knows he’ll be back soon. The Box can’t satisfy him like she can.

She senses him before she sees him, as if the mere occurrence of him entering her thoughts has summoned him to her. His approach is always silent, she never hears him coming, but she can feel his presence. He looms over her, casting a shadow over her prone form as she kneels in the soil, plucking away the browning leaves of a fern.

“Did you want something, or you just lurking?” She asks, not looking up from what she’s doing.

“Tchemy in here with you?” Ettore asks, his tone nonchalant.

“You know he’s not, or you wouldn’t be in here,” she says, ridding herself of her gardening gloves and turning to look up at him.

She begins to rise, preparing to stand, when he holds out a hand to halt her.

“Don’t,” he says abruptly. “Just…don’t. Let me just look at you for a bit.”

She drops back to her knees, staring up at him, watching the way his eyes darken as he looks down at her. It makes her core throb with want.

His throat bobs as he reaches out a hand, fingertips dragging with light pressure over her jaw, before falling to her throat, squeezing experimentally. She allows it for a moment, before pulling back.

“Stop that,” she scolds softly, narrowing her eyes in angry warning. “You don’t need to do that with me. Use your words. Tell me what you want.”

He blinks, huffing through his nose, before bringing his hand back to her face, pulling down her bottom lip with his thumb, before letting it go. “This,” he utters, “want your mouth.”

“Good boy,” she purrs, “go on then.”

“Hands behind your back,” he orders, pulling down his scrubs and freeing his already half hard cock.

She does as she’s told, parting her lips to allow him to slide into the warmth of her mouth. He is tangy against her tongue, the head of him pressing heavily against the wet muscle as he gives a few shallow, tentative thrusts, rousing himself fully.

Breathing through her nose, she inhales the heady scent of him, faint sweat mixed with the ship’s standard issue soap. It’s utterly debasing in a way, yet it has arousal wetting her underwear just the same.

Drool gathers at the corners of her mouth as he picks up the pace, and she suppresses the urge to gag as he repeatedly knocks the back of her throat.

His brows are knitted together, eyes glassy and jaw slack as he gathers a fistful of her hair at the back of her head, using it as leverage to propel himself faster and harder. She relaxes, allowing him to push down further and moans around him, causing him to groan and throw his head back.

Pushing himself all the way into the hilt, Ettore’s grasp on her hair is so tight it tugs at her roots, and he holds himself there, pubic bone grazing the tip of her nose. She looks up at him with glassy eyes, stray tears trickling down her cheeks as she watches his predatory expression, but he is unmoving.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Finally he pulls back, all the way out, a string of her saliva connecting his hardened length to her lips, and she gasps and splutters for air momentarily, before he’s pushing back in.

His thrusts are shallower, salty precome and the pulsating of him in her mouth letting her know he’s nearing his end. When he finally climaxes it’s accompanied by a strangled cry and she quickly swallows, barely registering the viscous taste of him as it slides down her throat.

Releasing her, he tucks himself away and is breathless as he drops to his knees beside her. She wipes her mouth with the back one hand and swipes at her teary eyes with the other.

“I really…really want to hurt you,” he whispers, not looking at her. “But I can’t bring myself to do it.”

“I get that,” she says gently, “really, I do.”

“You’ve seen me,” he says, looking into her eyes. The emotion she sees reflected back at her makes her heart lurch.

“Yeah,” she replies, “and you’ve seen me.”

#ettore x reader #ettore #ettore x you #ettore x y/n #ettore smut #ettore imagine #high life #ettore high life #high life ettore #ewan mitchell #ettore fan fiction #ettore fanfiction #ettore fanfic #ettore fan fic #high life fan fiction #high life fanfiction #high life fan fic #high life fanfic

[slashhinginghasher]

No Such Thing As A Free Ride

I am going to rewrite The Hitcher with Soap and Ghost and you cannot stop me.

~

It's pissing it down out there.

Johnny can barely hear the radio over the sound of the rain, which has practically turned his windshield into a solid sheet of water. He's turned up the wipers on the rental car as fast as they can go, is half-afraid they'll go flying off, and they still can't keep up with the downpour. Isn't Texas supposed to be a desert? It sure had looked like it before the clouds rolled in, bringing night early and opening up with an unexpected fury. If he'd wanted to deal with this crap weather, he'd have stayed home in Scotland.

Well, no he wouldn't.

Life at home had been stifling as of late. Job was shite, flatmates were shite. Family on his arse to make something of himself. His girlfriend dumped him, claiming he "lacked direction", whatever the hell that meant. He turned in his nametag, cashed his last paycheck, and hopped on a plane across the pond, and fuck you all very much.

He's the only one on the road right now, at least as far as he can see. Which, granted, is hardly anything. He's tempted to pull over, wait the storm out on the side of the road, but he knows about flash floods. Drowning in the middle of the desert would just be embarrassing. Plus, he'd like to get his deposit back on the rental. He drives on at half the speed limit, white-knuckling the wheel and hoping he doesn't get mowed over by one of those fuck-off big trucks he's seen at every gas station.

He would've missed the figure entirely had he been going full speed: a sodden silhouette of a human being plodding along the side of the road. As it is, it takes a full second for the sight to process and for Johnny to slam on the brakes, nearly losing control of the car as it starts to hydroplane. Once he's come to a shaky stop, he checks the rearview mirror - that is definitely a person. Poor bastard must've run their car off the road when the storm hit.

Johnny puts the car in reverse and backs up, slowly so the stranger doesn't think he's trying to run them down. As soon as he pulls abreast of them, he throws open the passenger door so the interior light comes on.

"You need a lift, mate?" he calls, shouting nearly full volume to be heard over the rain.

The stranger is a man, fucking big bastard too, and Johnny feels a slight prickle of misgiving that he quickly shakes off. He's no stranger to the gym, and pretty scrappy in a fight if it comes down to it, so he figures he can defend himself if the guy turns out to be Ted Bundy.

He's starting to think it'll be a nonissue since the man hasn't said anything or even acknowledged Johnny, but then he ducks into the passenger seat and pulls the door shut behind him in one startlingly swift, silent movement.

The overhead light goes off with the door shut, and Johnny only has the faint glow of the dashboard to study the man he just invited into his space. He's got a dark jacket with the hood pulled up, and some kind of mask covering his face from the nose down. It must be uncomfortable, soaked through as he is, but he makes no move to take it off, even when Johnny reaches over to turn up the heat.

He seems even bigger in the confines of the car, swallowing up the space in a way that makes it harder for Johnny to breathe. He has to swallow a few times before he speaks.

"Which way you headed?" he asks.

The stranger stays silent, just staring out at the rain. Johnny's about to repeat himself when, in the space of a blink, the man turns to face him. He jumps at the sudden movement, heart in his throat for no good reason. The stranger is pale, a shock of blond hair plastered to his forehead over even blonder eyebrows. But what gets Johnny is his eyes. They're dark, so endlessly deep and dark against that light hair and the surrounding shadow of the hood, and Johnny feels like he's staring into the empty sockets of a skull.

"I'm getting your seats all wet," the stranger says.

His voice is deep, rough. A stone door grating shut over the mouth of the tomb.

And, even more surprisingly, British. Northern, from the sound of it, maybe around Manchester. Johnny tells himself the lurch in his stomach is from the excitement of meeting an unexpected neighbor this deep in the States.

"Um," he says. Clears his throat. "'S alright. It'll dry."

Brilliant conversation, John. Fantastic stuff.

"I'm Johnny, by the way." He feels immature and stupid the moment the nickname exits his mouth. "John. Mactavish."

A few beads of water drip off the stranger's hood, and Johnny's starting to shiver even though he's not the one that's soaked to the bone. He puts the car in drive and pulls back out onto the road, even though he still doesn't know what direction his passenger is heading. Anything is better than being swallowed up by the unfathomable depths of that gaze.

The radio's gone to static, so Johnny shuts it off. Just the road and the rain and his pulse in his ears and the black hole presence in the seat next to him.

The man fiddles about in the center console a bit, coming up with a cigarette lighter adapter Johnny had forgotten was there. He plugs it in and produces a damp carton of cigarettes from some inside coat pocket. Instead of pulling the mask down, he rolls it up from the bottom, revealing a strong chin and a wide mouth with a scar running through it. Johnny's own mouth feels dry as he watches from the corner of his eyes while the stranger taps a smoke free from the pack and places it between his lips.

"Best not do that in here," he blurts. "It's not my car."

The man acts as though he didn't hear him.

Johnny jumps when the cigarette lighter pops out. The stranger plucks it free, studies the glowing orange circle like it's the most interesting thing in the car. Then he cuts his gaze over to Johnny and presses it to the tip of his cigarette.

There's a faint sizzle as the damp paper lights up, and Johnny feels like he's burning up with it. His ma always said he had an overactive imagination, but he could swear the man next to him is thinking about pressing that ring of fire into flesh instead of paper.

The man takes a deep drag, then cracks the passenger window and blows the smoke in its general direction.

"Name's Ghost."

Johnny exhales, long and slow through his nose. Okay. The bloke's clearly had a shit day, just needed a hit of nicotine before he could be civil. That's okay. He nods like the man hasn't given him one of the most fucked up names he could have in this situation.

"So, what brings you all the way out here to the good old U.S. of A.?" Maybe if he can keep a conversation going, he'll stop feeling like he's made a terrible mistake.

Ghost just shrugs. Christ, he's a big fucker. His shoulders must be almost twice as broad as Johnny's, and Johnny's no scrawny little shrimp. Why is he thinking about his shoulders?

The rain is starting to ease up, but they're well past sundown and it's still dark as hell out there. The headlights catch a glint of something reflective. After a bit of squinting, Johnny can make out the shape of a car nose-first in a roadside ditch.

"That yours?"

They're quite a ways down the road from where he picked up Ghost. No wonder he was in a mood.

"Nah."

Johnny sits up a bit, surprised. What are the odds of him coming across two travelers stranded in the rain along the same stretch of road? The car definitely looks to be in rough shape, though. He doesn't really have room for another person in here, what with his bags and all, but he could give them some dry clothes, a bit of first aid, offer to send help back from the next town. He starts to slow down.

Ghost's hand clamps down on Johnny's thigh and presses his foot to the accelerator. Johnny tries to lift his foot, but it's like fighting against a mountain.

"What the hell?" he shouts. "Let go of me, you big bastard!"

The numbers on the speedometer are climbing alarmingly fast. Ghost's hand is burning hot even through the fabric of his gloves and Johnny's jeans and steamin' jesus no one's hands have a right to be that big. They shoot past the other car, moving far too quickly to see if there's anyone inside, and Ghost's grip on Johnny's leg is getting tighter.

They're going almost 100 mph now, and Johnny's getting ready to throw the emergency brake in desperation when Ghost suddenly lets go. Johnny eases off the gas, hits the brake as soon as they've slowed enough that it won't send the car into a tailspin. His thigh is cold, tingling. He whips around to glare at Ghost in righteous anger and not a little fear.

"What the fuck was that about, you arsehole? We could have crashed!" He's shaking now as the adrenaline starts to drop, and rakes a frantic hand through his hair. "Someone back there could've needed help!"

Ghost stares at him, implacable.

"Keep driving, Johnny."

He'll never be able to explain - to the cops or god or anyone else - why he listens.

"We need to get to town," he rambles aloud to himself as his brings them up to a safe and reasonable speed. "Tell them there's been a wreck and they need to send help."

Ghost tosses his cigarette butt out the window.

"Don't bother. It's too late for him."

Johnny's going to give himself whiplash with the number of times he's twisted his head to stare at the other man.

"What d'you mean, 'too late'? Did you see him earlier? Why didn't you say anything?"

Ghost doesn't answer. Johnny's starting to feel really uneasy.

"What the fuck does 'too late' mean, Ghost?!"

That gets his attention. There's a heat in Ghost's eyes that wasn't there before, like the heat of his hand on Johnny's thigh, or the heat of a cherry red ember.

"Too late means dead, Johnny." There's a soft huff from behind the mask that could maybe be mistaken for a laugh. "Bled out from a hole in the head."

It's probably not safe to have his eyes off the road for this long, but Johnny can't look away. It's instinct, the prey needing to know where the predator is at all times.

"How do you know?" he croaks.

Ghost's eyes are sparkling.

"'Cause I'm the one that gave it to him."

#simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ghost x soap #ghoap #cod #my writing #hitcher au

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Cat Demon of Doom - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Vi goes toe to toe with One Bad Bitch.

@frostybearpaws

lmk if anything needs to be changed<3

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO on AO3

Snippet:

"What—?"

Vi is back in the ring, face-to-face with her second opponent. Or—face-to-midriff is a better descriptor.

The woman is full-blooded Vastayan—broad as a barge. Her proportions are uncannily Sphynx-like. A sphynx dunked in a vat of pink dye that gnawed at her fur, leaving behind a washed-pink pelt, tufted at the joints and mottled with old burns. The Vastayan's ears are large, feline, the tips raggedy from torn-off piercings. Between a scraggly mane, her eyes glint a piercing hazel. A scar crosses the bridge of her nose, and her mouth is a rictus of barbed teeth.

She looks like a cat-demon, ready to feast on Vi's entrails.

Vi gives her an appraising stare. No bad angles; no weak lines. This is a pro. Again, that coldwater chill resurfaces. A shapeless trickle of fear.

Blowing a fringe of hair off her face, Vi shoulders up to meet her opponent.

In the center of the ring, they touch gloves. The Vastayan's smile suggests this will be no different from stomping out a cockroach. Vi offers no reaction to the contrary. An overconfident opponent is easier to take down.

Again, the promoter lays down the stakes. Again, a collective roar goes through the crowd.

Vi and the Vastayan collide head-on. Her style is predictably bloodthirsty. Her fist shears through the air. Vi ducks, feeling the Vastayan's arm gust over her head in a powerful sweep, like a wrecking-ball's trajectory. If the blow connected, her skull would've been pulverized.

Swiveling on her heel, powering from her hips, Vi lets rip with her own right hook to the Vastayan's gut. Her flesh contracts in a rippling wave. She grunts, staggering before righting herself.

Vi backs away, bobbing on her tiptoes, and throws stiff jabs, elbows snapping out at the end. Typically, a pitty-patter approach isn't her style. But Vander had taught her that a smart strategy for a bigger opponent is to keep them at a distance. Always counterpunching, always flowing. 

If he's got thin skin or brittle bones, he’d say, the right jab at the right spot'll knock his lights out.

The Vastayan crowds in. One of Vi's blows catches her near the orbital ridge. There is a crunch. Pink fur flies. Blood flows, trickling into her eye socket. She blinks, and a pellucid film sweeps over her eyeballs. A membrane, Vi realizes. A second lid to protect fluid from blinding her.

Fuck.

Sensing Vi's dismay, the Vastayan smiles.

Then she swings.

Vi sees the fist crashing down as if from a great height: a God-Hand of doom. She swerves, but the blow glances off her shoulder, rocking her sideways with a bone-deep judder. Pain blitzes through her arm. Teeth gritted, Vi pivots and counterpunches. Her fist collides with the same spot as before, a snapping gut-punch. The Vastayan wobbles—Oof—then bares teeth limned in gray before bullrushing Vi.

The crowd stir in a gleeful susurration as the opponents circle each other, a rough figure eight across the sawdust, the Vastayan pursuing, Vi in retreat. She knows her opponent's game. Overrun Vi through sheer size, wearing her down in a game of attrition, before closing in for the kill.

Vi needs a better strategy.

Again, Vander's words reverberate: The right jab at the right spot'll knock his lights out.

They are overlapped by Sevika's parting shot: Go for the instep.

Fuck.

The instep.

Vi's eyes flick down, then up. The Vastayan is barefoot. A pair of vein-mapped appendages, grimed in dirt and tufted with fur, but entirely unguarded.

A cigarette flies through the gap in the barbwire cage, hitting the Vastayan's furred arm with a hiss. She snarls, head whipping toward the culprit. Through the blur of bodies, Vi swears that she glimpses Ran coalescing like a phantom back into the shadows.

Then it hits her.

Now's the chance to put the brawl to bed.

The cigarette falls near Vi's feet. She stomps it out as she blitzes forward. The Vastayan notices, firing off a dynamite left to keep Vi clear. Vi weaves nimbly around the blow, adrenaline zipping in her veins, that ecstatic clarity that turns every moment into a burst of slo-mo choreography. Dancing under the Vastayan's cinch, she stomps, hard, on her instep, twisting her torso at the same moment to launch her fist square into the Vastayan's face with all the force her body can summon.

There is the clash of two hard objects coming together. The more brittle of the two gives way. The Vastayan's snout caves in with a crack of cartilage. Blood splatters. Her fists fly up to her face. The moment it happens, Vi snags her ankle and twists sideways.

Like a tree felled by lightning, the Vastayan topples. The crash reverberates all the way to the rafters of the basement.

The crowd lets off a collective whoosh of breath—Aaaaaaaaah.

The Vastayan snarls, red spittle flying from her busted nose. Vi closes in, shutting down that part of her mind that knows mercy. She deals her opponent a final shot that impacts like a tranquilizer dart to her forehead. One brutal roundhouse to make lights flash-pop behind the Vastayan's eyes before—bam—it's fucking bedtime.

The Vastayan falls slack. Her liquid gurgles fill the suddenly stagnant air. The crowd is stunned to silence.

Then the chant begins: Five…four…three...two...

The Vastayan still hasn't moved. Her eyes blink blearily. Blood bubbles from her broken nose. When the gates swing open, three of her buddies arrive to haul her upright and help her stagger away. One of them tosses their drink at Vi. A cup bounces off her bruised shoulder, iced liquor splattering the sawdust.

Vi gives them the finger.

#arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane silco #silco #forward (never forget)/xoxo #forward but never forget/xoxo #arcane jinx #jinx #arcane vi #violet #vi #arcane sevika #sevika #arcane vander #vander

[bonefall]

Does Tiny Branch still die from his wounds/sickness because Clear Sky's won't ask for help?

Tiny Branch's existence is currently up in the air because of how significantly overhauled BB!DOTC is compared to canon

BB!Star Flower isn't his cute little mate who provides him with a bunch of reward-kittens. She's a Priestess of One Eye, a demigod in her own right, and she uses him as a supernatural blood sacrifice by bleeding Skystar out 8 times.

Moth Flight's Vision is now Moth Flight's Vow, and Skystar's role is utterly changed in it. There's 0 need to create another baby to violently kill to serve Skystar's arc in BB; I'm honestly sickened that these fucking writers even considered the idea

ANYWAY take this concept art of BB!One Eye my partner and I made a couple weeks ago. May this tide you over until after the WindClan tree is done

CW blood and BODY HORROR. My partner is a HORROR ARTIST. There's HORROR and it's BODIED.

[ID: Some sketches of One Eye. One is a sketch of a cave lion licking its lips, the other is a bloody-faced cat-lion creature with its tongue hanging out]

We were trying to figure out a good balance between cat and lion, plus how we were going to approach his missing eye. This is from the "scene" where One Eye eats Tom

[ID: A cave lion creature with an X-shaped eye scar, cracking open to reveal something firey deep within it]

We really liked this scar shape for his missing eye until we realized it looked kinda like an Xbox... but, anyway, we started really leaning into the body horror angle of this THING breaking apart the body, rearranging it into the shape of a cave lion, like One Eye is ripping its vessel to shreds and rearranging it to fit his needs

So we started playing with the idea that when it's doing something like this, assuming a "higher form," its "real" eye pushes through the empty socket. Partner pitched the idea of the eye looking like that of an eagle, we played with a couple bird designs

[ID: A bedraggled looking cat-owl creature. The second sketch replaces the nose and chin with a sharp beak]

We toyed with some bird-heavy designs for a bit. I actually really like the weird bird/feline hybrid thing I made on the right there, I'm thinking about turning it into another type of mythical creature, or saving it for some other project

The first one's not super clear, but I pitched the idea of the lip "peeling" back like a gelada to reveal skull. We ended up moving away from it

[ID: The BB version of One Eye. He's a big, ragged cat who looks like he's falling apart at the seams]

We wanted to make it obvious, just by looking at this dude, that there's something... taxidermic about him. Like he shouldn't be alive, and something deeply unnatural is at play here. The demon for whom death is a dinnerbell.

[ID: Another sketch, but this time with sunken eyes, and a missing eye that looks like more of a long stitch.]

This was the last one we passed between us before we ended up writing some COOL stuff for Sun Shadow, and chased the joy of discovery down that path. We really like the 'sunken' look in this one's sockets-- and I really like the idea of the scar on that side connecting his facial stripes like a stitch.

And yeah that's enough for now, still working on him.

#tw blood #blood #cw blood #body horror #cw body horror #sketches #bone babble

[saintsofwarding]

BURIAL

Epilogue

"Hello, Karl."

"Hey, Donna. A corpse! Is that a present for me?"

"No. She is not a corpse." A pause. "Is that a piece of my front gate embedded in your skull?"

"...Or am I just happy to-"

"Don't be disgusting."

"Heh." He yanked it loose with a wet crackle and tossed the bloody chunk of wrought iron into the snow. "So why are you hauling her around, then, huh? Can't be for the sentiment."

"You're much better at matters of the flesh than I am."

"Oh, I see. So you want me to put her back together, not saw her apart?" He snorted. "Waste of a good body is all I'm saying."

"Can you help me or not?"

"Guess it was you, then?"

"Me?" Donna asked, all innocence.

"Mommy Dearest went up the mountain but she never came down." A long pause. His glasses shone in the first of the dawn light. "Did you do it?"

"Yes."

Heisenberg smiled. There was none of his former gleeful malice in it, no bared teeth or mania edging madness.

"Huh," he said.

He seemed, for a heartbeat, to waver, as if unmoored, as if overcome. Perhaps to compensate, to do something, anything, with his hands, he reached up and hooked his finger over the arm of his spectacles, tugging them down from his face.

Donna lifted her brow. His face. Strange; she'd never taken him in, not really. He was covered in scars, a cross-hatch of them over cheekbones and forehead, glistening white through his beard-scruff, one nearly slicing his face in half. Had she ever seen his eyes before? She didn't remember. They were deeply shadowed, bruised, sockets nicked with scar tissue. And they were pale blue-gray, nearly colorless, clear as water when the light hit them.

"So many goddamn years," he muttered. "Feels strange. Too quiet."

"Yes. I know."

He wouldn't thank her. She didn't know if he was capable of such things. But he looked down at Elena lying still and cold on the rug Donna had used to drag her body from the house. The candlelight from Claudia's grave flickered over her face, her parted lips, her closed eyes. Her hand was curled around the remnants of the yellow flower that had saved them both.

"It's not worth it, you know," Heisenberg told Donna.

"What?"

"Giving yourself over. Surrendering yourself to what you can't control. It'll make you weak. And that'll be what destroys you, in the end."

Donna gave him a look. "Bold words for a man who let himself be thrown off a cliff."

He jabbed a finger at her, dangerously close to her nose. "Mention that ever again and I'll crush your fuckin' skull."

"Are you going to help me or not? She's dying."

"Yeah, yeah..."

"Karl."

"What?"

She set her hand, lightly, on his arm. "Thank you."

He didn't pull away. "...Whatever."

***

Breeze, dawn sky.

The rustle of leaves.

The distant sound of birdsong.

She thought for a moment her eyes were closed, and she was seeing the veins in her eyelids. As her vision focused, she realized they were not veins, but branches.

She lay on the ground, on a nest of blankets and rugs and throw pillows from the house, dusty green velvet incongruous amidst the snowdrifts and fallen branches. And graves. She was in the garden, deep amidst the hedges, and gravestones rose from the snow, candlelight playing over the rime of frost that covered them.

Her mouth tasted of bitter herbs and medicines. Her whole body ached, but it was a good pain, a healing ache, and when she lifted her hands to the light she saw even her palm had been bandaged. She moved her fingers through the light. It felt real.

This felt real.

"You're awake."

Elena looked up. Donna knelt at a nearby grave, a candle cupped in her palms. She'd draped her mother's green velvet dressing-gown over her shoulders, and the earth at her knees was fresh-dug, loamy and dark as the night.

A recent burial. For whom? Elena licked her lips. "Well. I couldn't leave you like that."

"I'm grateful. Do you feel all right?"

"...Compared to what?"

Donna laughed softly. The sound was hoarse, lovely. Elena pushed herself to her knees. The wind stirred her loose hair. Someone had combed it out, had cleaned it, had sponged the blood from her face and hands. It all felt so clean. The air, the wind in her lungs, her mind. Like a great weight had been lifted from it.

"I do," she said. "I feel...lighter."

"He helped," Donna said, nodding toward the treeline. Elena followed her gaze. Heisenberg's familiar broad silhouette stood there, smoke twining from his cigar.

Elena paused. She lifted a hand. A careful, neutral wave.

He didn't approach. He just reached up to touch the brim of his hat, then turned on one heel and sauntered away, soon lost in the mist.

"He made sure your head was all right," Donna went on. "I do hope he didn't dig around too much while he was back there."

"I'll live." She rose, carefully. Her body creaked and protested; she felt ninety years old, full of aches and shooting pains, but she managed the few steps to Donna and settled by her side. "Who are you burying?"

"Violeta, and Angie. They deserve a grave."

Elena swallowed, remembering Angie's scream of anguish. "What you did...I don't know what to say, how to thank you, but-"

"No." Donna put her hand on Elena's knee. "No mourning. It was time. Now it's my turn to be alive."

She set the candle by the gravestone, and together they watched it flicker and dance in the breeze.

"Donna," Elena began. "I...um."

"Yes?"

"I should have said why I was there, back at the beginning. When you first saved my life. I should have told you everything. Maybe then, I could...I don't know, have saved my father. He was the reason for all this. Miranda offered this assignment in exchange for sparing his life."

"Your father?"

Elena nodded. She swiped tears from her eyes. "Now he's gone, and it's all on me. Saints- I'm sorry, I don't mean to..."

"Go ahead and cry. It's all right."

"No. No, it's not."

"What happened to him?"

"She took his memories. Did something to him...inside, I don't know. I don't know."

Donna seemed to consider this for a while.

"Well," she said, "perhaps I could help."

"...What?"

"I am good with matters of the mind. And with Miranda...missing, perhaps her influence might wane. Who knows."

She paused.

"We can all begin to dream again," she said.

Elena tipped her head back. Light had begun to spill into the sky, and it was clear as glass, all watercolor blooms and opalescence, clouds clearing from what would surely be a perfect winter morning.

"What will happen to all of them, down in the village?" she said. "Without her? We've been Miranda's for so long, I'm not sure any of us know how to survive without her."

"I do not know. I suppose...we'll all have to find our own way."

Elena nodded.

"Well," she said, "I know where mine begins."

"...Oh?"

She brushed a strand of Donna's hair, tenderly, behind her ear. "Don't play smart, Beneviento. With you."

"Hush," Donna murmured, smiling as she lifted her hands and pulled Elena's face to her own. "Quiet, now."

"My lady," Elena whispered, and captured her smile with her lips.

***

(Are you happy, out there?)

(Never mind. Don't answer. Let me tell you a story)

(You told me so many of your stories)

Once upon a time, as never before- because if there wasn't, we wouldn't have to say it- there was a mountain valley hidden from the world. The rivers and the wind spoke of crystal cities, and sleeping gods, and saints with wolves' heads, and conquesting heroes from a glittering past. Blood queens, and fish kings, and great sorcerers who sing to metal, and who can heal the dying, too, despite all evidence to the contrary...

(You held me like a sleeping child. My white limbs reassembled, broken and mangled. My gift all crystal in my skull. You gathered my pieces from the deep belly of the house and you took me through the forest, a procession like you once had performed for little lost Claudia. A funeral for a doll. And you buried me in the dark earth and at last there was silence)

...And of warding-saints, carved in stone, guardians of the valley borders for so many centuries, watching all who entered and left these lands. So many had not left for so long. But they were patient, and were content to wait, deep in the Black God's dreams.

A long time this valley had slept. A long time, trapped in amber. A long cold wait for the saints, a long time spent in only the company of their god. But they smelled the bonfires, at last, the smoke rising from the village at the valley's heart to fill the morning sky with the scent of ending.

Of beginning?

Perhaps they're one and the same. A moon sets, and a sun rises. Should you know the rest? Perhaps, perhaps. Though I think you already know the whole story.

(I hope you are happy)

(I miss you)

(But I see now it always had to be this way)

(Nothing lasts forever. Not even us)

(And in the end, you found a way to live, and I can't help but be glad of that. That was all I wanted, really, when it comes down to the meat of the matter.

Besides. I can't be angry. You're a part of me, little mouse, like I was a part of you.

So go on.

Live.

For the two of us)

#resident evil village #re8 #re8 fanfiction #re8 fic #donna beneviento #mother miranda #elena lupu #claudia beneviento #angie beneviento #karl heisenberg #saints of warding #donna beneviento x elena lupu #donna beneviento x oc #re8 oc #resident evil #gothic romance #gothic horror #chapter 15

[tieflingtareon]

My love, are you the devil? (Oh, call me a devil)

Chapter 34 | Words: 5.6k

Summary: Astarion found himself often surprised by his heroic companion. He had one goal. To become the favoured companion of the group, to earn the Tieflings loyalty, to make Tar'eons strength his own. Yet Tar'eon isn't like the usual target of his manipulations. Despite his naivety, he does not seem gullible. There is something very wrong with their 'leader' to begin with. Astarion isn't sure if he wants to control it or eradicate the threat it posed. But can he really do either when Tar'eon himself seems so...unwaveringly kind?

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50668558/chapters/127995079

They should have expected an ambush. After a short rest to collect themselves and for Jaheria to heal them back into tip top shape, they managed to find the elevator that would take them below to the 'defiled chapel' the other spawn had spoken of. Astarion looked around the chapel in wonder. How had he never known? All of this, tucked away under their feet for centuries...

"This is all so...grand. To think it was just sitting here, lurking under the floor."

"Do you think he built this purely for the ritual?" Tar'eon frowned.

"I don't know. It feels older than that. Who knows how old..." Perhaps even older than he was. Older than Cazador. "But Cazador will want a grand space for his...Ascension. A venue like this feels perfect." He wasn't against it for his own ascension. After all, the shadows had been his home for centuries. A chapel, defiled or not, felt suitable when one was to become almost like a God. Amongst vampires at least. "Now we just need to see what lies at the heart of this place."

"I guess so..." Tar'eon looked at Astarion, stomach uneasy at the glint in his eye. He hoped that it was for Cazador's death, and not the ritual itself, but he doubted it. He meant it when he told Astarion he'd still love him, even if he went through with it. Those six souls would haunt him, knowing he allowed it, but that would not cancel out the love he had for Astarion. He wanted him to be happy, even if he knew power was not the answer, perhaps Astarion only saw happiness as power.

He didn't want to lose the Astarion he knew, but his heart was too attached to give him up even if he did change. Even if he ascended. He simply wanted him to be safe, to be happy, to be...to be happy with him. With himself. There was a sense of foreboding in the air, but he breathed it in deep anyway and continued forward. By the dawn, Cazador would be dead. Ritual be damned or ritual succeeded.

Tar'eon paused outside a room with a skull and shelves, something like a bedroom. He walked inside and looked around, picking up a book and flipping through it. His stomach churned. It was filled to the brim with Astarion's name, and a few of the other spawns, but it was obvious Astarion was the scapegoat of this 'family' with how often he was punished for even the smallest things like laughing or tripping over his own feet, or Gods forbid, not bringing in as many poor souls as his siblings. Laziness, Cazador wrote as a reason for his punishment. Astarion took the book from him and glanced over the passages, sneering as he threw it aside.

"I swear, the man needs a fucking hobby." Astarion walked over to the skull with a scroll in it's mouth and tilted his head. "Huh. Interesting decor."

"I'd say. This place is creepy." Karlach shuddered.

"Most lairs are supposed to be. It keeps out wanderers." Jaheria chuckled, picking a scroll off a shelf and threw it aside. She obviously wasn't a fan of vampires either, even if she was willing to see the good in a select few. Tar'eons fanged friend would prove himself today, and she would watch very closely. She couldn't allow one vampire lord to be replaced by another under her nose. Not as a Harper.

Tar'eon looked down at the skull and noticed there was a gleam about it in those empty eye sockets. He tilted his head and felt a tug, like he was being inviting inside the mind of another, but different to the tadpoles connection. The skull wanted him to see. Urgently. He closed his eyes and focused, grimacing. This was the only part of Vellioth left, Cazador's old master. He was the one who created him. Created the monster that tormented Astarion for centuries. He was the one who taught Cazador the vampiric rules of existence. Tar'eon probed deeper, wanting to know more about these rules.

The first rule was to dominate. There was no equals when you were a true vampire. Only servants in spawns, and meals in humans. He was assaulted by the memory of a young man, with blond hair and frightened brown eyes, adorned in silver armour, his life slipping away beneath vicious fangs as a spawn with glowing eyes watched, chained to the floor. Cazador had not followed that rule in the beginning. But he learned better. Tar'eon focused on the memories being offered to him, reaching out to know what other lessons there were. Vellioth's mind opened to him once more, speaking of power and solitude. Sharing was a weakness, and to be weak was to fail. To die. Tar'eon knew better, knew strength was in numbers, but Vellioth had held firm in his belief.

Once more, he saw flashes of the past, of a dark hair spawn hidden in shadows of a graveyard, digging up dirt. Digging up flesh, attempting to press undead blood to pale lips. He was a black slump of grief in the night, attempting to bring back the friend he damned. A spawn could not pass on the gift of eternity though. In the memory, the spawn looked at him, at Vellioth, and attacked savagely, enough to make even Tar'eon flinch and stumble for a moment. Tar'eon felt nauseous when images of the punishment for his rebellion came to him, eleven long years of impalement enjoyed by Vellioth. He almost didn't want to know anymore of his rules, sickened by what he'd already seen. He took a deep breath though and continued. Perhaps Vellioth would know a weakness they could exploit.

The third lesson had been not to act in haste. Cazador hadn't. He had waited hundreds of years until Vellioth didn't think him a threat. Until he was trusted enough to earn the right of his lowered defences. Then, he slaughtered him, perfectly by rite, making himself a true vampire in the process. Vellioth had even laughed with pride in his work. He had turned Cazador into the perfect image of himself, his greatest joy after centuries of being a failure. All he had do to was break down his weaknesses first, all beginning with that friend of his.

Cazador had even put his Schooling Skull in his skull to shut him up forever, mocking him. The skulls jaw sagged open, handing the scroll over to Tar'eon, the presence vanishing from his mind. Vellioth was no more. He took the scroll, taking a moment to centre himself. It all just went in circles, didn't it? Vellioth to Cazador, Cazador to Astarion, the other spawns...

He thought killing Cazador would be the end of it, but if Astarion ascended...if he became a true vampire, above a true vampire...would he be able to resist becoming like the man who tore him down for centuries? Tar'eon could barely resist his own Father some days. What would happen to the man he knew and loved? Would he still be that sweet man he adore, mending his shirts and reassuring him that all would be okay when he was on the verge of losing himself?

"Let me see that." Astarion took the scroll from him and opened it up, reading with curiosity. Tar'eon looked at him, his hungry eyes, the frantic energy about him. Would he be able to resist the corruption that came with great power? Would Tar'eon be enough to save him from the darkest parts of himself? The cruel parts that Cazador had made within him, the same as the ones Bhaal had left inside his own soul?

"Seven...Oh Gods." Astarion whispered and Tar'eon furrowed his brows, reaching for the scroll. Astarion almost managed to whip it away from his grasp, but Tar'eon was too quick. He read the scroll, devouring the words on the page before his heart shuddered to a stop for a solid three beats.

"Seven- seven thousand souls? Where would he - how would he even get that many?" Tar'eon couldn't fathom it. This was so much worse than he ever imagined. It wasn't just damning seven souls, it was thousands of them.

"I- I don't know." Astarion looked a little ill for a moment before he righted himself. "It doesn't matter right now, we have to keep going." He insisted, quickly making his way out of the room. Tar'eon rolled the scroll back up and went after him.

"It doesn't matter? This matters more than anything, Cazador is planning to sacrifice seven thousand people to ascend!"

"And it doesn't change our plans about killing him and-" Astarion paused and slowed his steps, looking around as Tar'eon did.

"No..." Tar'eon whispered, his feet bringing him to the cage of children, glowing eyes showing they were spawns as well.

"Hey - hey you, come closer..." One girl said softly, voice weak and afraid.

"Oh Gods, it can't be..." Astarion could handle Cazador draining the children dry, but to turn them? Knowing they were raised by Gur who would sooner slaughter than accept them...Cazador had always been cruel, but even this felt like a new low somehow.

"It is you. I knew it. I'll kill you. Once I get out of here, I'll kill you!"

"You're the children from the Gur camp, aren't you?" Tar'eon knelt before her cage, eyes full of sorrow.

"Camp...the Gur camp? Oh gods - my parents camp!" Astarion clenched his teeth, swallowing back the guilt. The poor child was losing her mind. "Chessa, focus. Resist the beast inside you. Augh, you promised!" Tar'eon wished he could help her in anyway he could, but he doubted offering blood to poor girl would go well for any of them. He hated watching children suffer.

"It's your fault. You did this to us." Chessa glared at Astarion. "Didn't he tell you? He's the one who kidnapped us. He's the reason we're spawns. Argh, I'll kill you!"

Astarion laughed nervously, not sure how to respond. Usually, he never had to see his victims again. It was easier that way. Never seeing the destruction he caused. Sure, he always felt a little bad when he brought home someone who wasn't some low life, but...it's not like he could really disobey anyway! If it hadn't been him, it would have been another spawn tasked with the job, and he would have been flayed for every child he didn't kidnap himself. They weren't his usual target, but it had been a direct request from Cazador. He was a slave to his command just like his siblings back then. He didn't have a choice. After a while, you focus more on saving your own skin than others.

"Yes, now that you um, mention it, I may have done...that." Astarion admitted and Tar'eon looked at him from over his shoulder, more peeved at his lack of apology than his deed. "Don't look at me like that - Cazador's orders. Quite the deviation from my usual routine, of course. Capture, not lure. I didn't bring them in with sweetrolls or anything." Astarion looked at the ground, feeling...disgusted with himself. He really hadn't thought twice about them before the Gur camp told him to bring them back.

"I really forgot about them, felt nothing the moment I handed them over to him." When had he stopped caring? Stopped feeling so guilty? He supposed that year in a coffin was enough to erode away any remorse he felt for not letting someone get away from him.

"If we eliminate Cazador, will they be free?" Tar'eon asked and Astarion frowned, thinking.

"I suppose there's a good chance they will. What use is it, though?" Astarion looked at the children, hollowed out and mad with hunger. What could they do? Go back to their parents? They'd be killed. Set loose on Baldur's Gate? They'd kill others. Turning a child was a big no to most vampires because they would never age physically, and sometimes not even mentally. They'd always be impulsive and out of control, clingy and needy - they were more trouble alive than dead. He'd rather they die for the ritual and hate him forever than have their last sight be their own parents staking them through the heart. Or worse, watching their peers get older as they stay the same, forever a child without a guardian.

"They're lost, ravenous, feral. They'd eat any mortal on sight. They're long past ruin, because of me..." In their position, he'd rather death.

"We promised we'd take them home to their parents, Astar."

"We can't just leave them here." Karlach agreed.

"Parents? You've seen my parents?" Chessa sounded almost afraid yet hopeful.

"Yes. They're looking for you. All of you. They miss you, terribly so." Tar'eon assured.

"I don't think I'll ever be able to go home. Not like this." The young girl sounded much more mature than she looked, her voice wobbling. She obviously wanted to go home, but didn't see a place for herself anymore. "You should go. Leave us here...We shouldn't be out there. We'd hurt our families."

"Don't give up hope, Chessa. Once Cazador's gone, he won't be able to control you anymore. I know it's scary; the hunger, the urges...but don't give up yet. Your parents love you very much from what I've heard." He hesitated before reaching inside the cage and squeezing her hand. She was still as stone, obviously fighting the urge to sink her fangs into him. The fact that she refrained was enough proof for him. "It's okay to be scared. As long as you still have fear, you haven't gone mad. Trust me, we'll find a way."

Chessa's chin wobbled as he pulled away.

"You- you really mean it." She grunted softly with pain, closing her eyes. "Cazador's got a staff - it controls the doors. If you get it, you can set everyone free. If you get it...somehow..."

"I promise, we'll get that staff, and you'll be free." Tar'eon swore, crossing over his heart for the little girl.

"Good luck. If you fail, well - I suppose we'll be seeing you again in here." Tar'eon smiled tightly and nodded curtly.

"We won't fail." They couldn't afford to. It was quite literally do or die. Tar'eon stepped away from the cage and looked across at the other, tilting his head. There was no children in this one, only men and women, smelling of decay and neglect. He felt bad for the urge to cover his nose, but he didn't, if only to be polite. These poor people didn't have a say in what happened to them, or their hygiene.

"Astar...Do you know these people too?"

"I didn't even know this prison existed. He hid all of this from me, and the others. If I had to guess, I'd say they're part of his ritual. But where in the Hells did they come from?" Had he brought them back too? Like the children? He had been certain Cazador was feeding off his finds, not just turning them all. Did he only turn some of them? Just the amount he needed for his ascension, no doubt.

"You...I know you." One man spoke up, face covered in grime and his fashion outdated by at least a century or two from what Astarion would guess. "You're the one from the tavern. You smiled and joked and...got me drunk."

Astarion frowned, squinting at the man before it came to him. A vague memory of the man, clean of grime and cheeks flushed.

"You- no...You're dead." It had been so long ago...All this time, was he down here? Down in this cage while he was upstairs, bringing Cazador more and more victims like himself. Gods. He had to be one of the firsts locked in these cages. He was one of his firsts.

"You called me so many sweet things....My name sounded like a lyric on your tongue." Astarion tried to remember his name, it was so long ago after all, but after a moment, it came to him. How could he forget one of the few he actually enjoyed the company of? One of the few he felt guilty over, become he was simply naive rather than a drunkard fool. Gods, he didn't even bed him. He'd simply wanted to kiss.

"Sebastian."

"You remember me?" It was a fair question, all things considered. But how could he not? He'd laid with thousands of strangers in his life time, few that he could remember the faces of, but there were only a couple that he merely kissed and drank with.

"You were handsome. Shy. You'd never been kissed."

"You taught me how." Was there anything else to think about in his cell, except what got him there? "And then you destroyed me." Sebastian lurched at the bars, hands reaching out to grab the man who damned him to endless years of isolation, of pain and hunger. He was too far out of reach though. He fell to his knees with a silent sob, clinging to the bars of his cage in despair. He was never leaving this place...

"It can't be..." Astarion didn't know what to say. What could he? It had been far too long for any apology to make things better.

"His scars match the runes on your back, Astar. Every one of them is marked for this ritual."

"Then they're bound to the Black Mass too. Bound through the scars. And through me." Astarion looked over the faces of countless victims he'd brought to Cazador's door. "I know these faces - every one that shares my scar. They're my conquests. I pursued them...seduce them...then brought them to Cazador. He told us he was feeding on them. But he turned them to spawn. He turned every last one so he'd have souls for his cursed ritual!"

Would he have fought harder if he had known? Or would he have still cowered like a frightened child? Too scared to fight back against the man who pretended to be anything like a father to them.

"How long?" Sebastian spoke, and Astarion's anger melted away into surprise.

"What?" Sebastian was slow to get to his feet, obviously haggard with exhaustion.

"How long have I been down here?" Astarion took a moment, almost wishing Tar'eon would cut in and end this wretched conversation.

"...One hundred and seventy years." He looked down with shame. "You were one of my first."

"My family - my friends - they're gone..." Sebastian looked devasted, but too tired to cry. "You took them from me...You took everything from me."

"He's going to make this right." Tar'eon insisted, a hand out to placate Sebastian, gaining his attention. "We're going to free you. All of you. I know it doesn't make up for the hurt, but you can start a new life. I promise you, you'll never see a cell again."

"Free? We'll never be free while that monster lives."

"That's why we're here - to destroy Cazador." Astarion swore.

"You can't. It's not possible..."

"We'll find a way." Tar'eon assured.

"And then? What happens to us?" Sebastian looked at Tar'eon, eyes full of doubt. Like he knew there was no life for him after this, even freed.

"That depends on you." At the end of the day, it would be their choice what happened to them once they were free. He only prayed they made the right choices. "Can you control your hunger?"

"I- I don't know. It's all I've ever felt..."

"Trust me when I say I know the feeling. But you can resist the urge." Astarion insisted.

"Whatever you do, just do it quickly. I can't go on waiting..." After a hundred and seventy years without blood, he felt like he might actually be at deaths doorstep, if only the curse would let him go.

"We'll be back. You have my word." Tar'eons lips thinned as they stepped away from the cages, the group silent as they made their way towards the stairs, hesitating on the steps. Karlach and Jaheria looked at Tar'eon and the tiefling nodded at them to go ahead, if only for the illusion of privacy.

"Astar..."

"Gods above - he kept Sebastian." Astarion looked a million worlds away. "I should have known what Cazador was capable of. Ugh! He's played us for such fools. Not just seven spawns to placate the devil. Seven spawn, and seven thousand souls, bound to them in blood." His anger echoed through the chapel. "Everyone who ever trusted me enough to let down their guard - innocents, idiots, and the unlucky..." He shook his head.

"It doesn't matter. I will need to sacrifice them all if I want to perform the ritual."

"You-" Tar'eon stared at him in shock. "Astar, you can save them."

"What's the point? They're as good as dead. I thought they were dead."

"But they aren't. They're alive, Astar." What on Toril was going through his mind right now? How could he give up on them so easily? After being the one who dragged them to Cazador's doorstep? Tar'eon would give anything to have the chance to save the people he hurt in the past; to save his foster parents, his brother, Alfira - and Astarion was going to damn them? For what? For power he didn't need?

"If they're unleashed, they will cause incredible carnage. They will be ravenous. They must die. Better they serve a purpose." Even Tar'eon could hear that he was trying convince himself the same. That this was better for everyone. He was blinded by the power within reach, and Tar'eon didn't know what he could say to make him see reason.

"In another life, perhaps if I had met you earlier, you would have led me to this crypt...and not that beautiful clearing in the forest." Tar'eon swallowed hard, sucking on his canines and looking down. It felt like a low blow, but perhaps that's the only thing that would make Astarion stop and think.

"Gods, I can't say you're wrong. I can only say I'm so glad we didn't meet back then. I don't even want to think about what would have happened to you..."

"Don't act like you don't know. Face it. You would have killed me." Astarion's expression hardened, brows furrowed. He didn't look happy about it, but he relented.

"I would have killed you." He said honestly.

"And I probably would have let you." Tar'eon smiled weakly, heart heavy as he looked back at the cells. At the children, the men and women who were destined to die if he couldn't convince Astarion otherwise. He couldn't let them down. He couldn't let Astarion destroy all the process he'd made in himself. He told the Gur he'd bring the children home. He gave Sebastian his word. Whether he meant it not, he owed it to them.

“You can’t do this. Astarion, it’s not just seven people you’d be sacrificing anymore, it would be seven thousand.” He begged softly, taking his hand in his, and Astarion looked away.

"We don't know how things will go anyway, once we meet Cazador. If it's even possible for me to take the power for myself. I know you claim this to be your burden, but it's not. This is my choice."

"It doesn't have to be. Astar, you don't need this power. You're strong enough on your own. You're not alone anymore."

"But one day, I will be." Astarion snapped, lips quivered as he spoke. "One day, you'll be gone. You'll all be gone. Karlach, Shadowheart, Wyll, Gods, even Gale and Lae'zel. I'll never say it to their faces, but I...I quite like them. One day, they'll die, and I'll move on, sure, but you...Gods, what happens to me if you die? I'm not a good person, Tar'eon. I never claimed to be. You're the only thing that makes me better than I am. You see something in me nobody else ever has." He swallowed hard.

"You're the only person I...I truly care about. The first person I've ever cared about outside myself. Who I've been willing to put before myself, so Heavens sake. Isn't seven thousands that are already begging for death worth it if it means I can keep us both safe, until we're eventually dragged to the grave?"

"I am not worth seven thousand lives, Astarion. I'm not. I don't want to be." Tar'eon begged him to see that that simply wasn't the way it worked. His life was worth nothing in the grand scheme of things. Astarion - he could be good all on his own. He didn't need him.

"But you are to me."

"Astar, you are my heart. My...my myirz. My heart. That's what that means. That's what you are to me. I want to spend my life with you. My life. It might seem short to you, compared your forever-ness. A blink and you’ll miss it, but I— I want to spend my life with you. Doesn’t that mean something? Isn't that enough time for us?" He would spend every day in the shadows with Astarion if that was their fate, and he would hold no regrets when he passed. If anything, all he would wish for is a few more hours to tell him how happy he was to spend his time on Toril with him.

Astarion stared at Tar'eon with wide eyes. All this time...was that what he'd been calling him. His heart? To compared an undead spawn to the beating instrument keeping him alive...Tar'eon was expecting him to ever let him go? To let this go? To move on? Where would he ever find someone like him again? Sure, perhaps he would move on and think back to his lover wistfully, but it's not what he wanted. He wanted to explore the world, feel the sun on his skin and enjoy the rivers stream until the very end. Having Tar'eon by his side would make all of that so much sweeter.

“…If I do this, we could be together forever. Both of us. What’s a few thousand wretches in comparison to an eternal life, doing what we please. Giving into our hearts desires, never having to fear anyone again. Not Cazador, not Bhaal...Never having to go back to the shadows. I can live with you in the sun, Tar’eon. I could harness and gift it to you, if I damn well pleased.” He was begged him to understand, to agree.

“A few thousand wretches? Is that all they are to you? You put them here, whether you knew it or not, and you have a responsibility to set them free. I wish I had the chance you do right now, to make things right. The strong must protect the weak. They need you, even if you see them as nothing but pawns for this ritual."

“And when they ravage the city in their hunger? What then? How about I put it into words you'll understand, oh great hero. A few thousand spawn who's time on Toril are long overdue, to save a few thousand lives. It’s an easy trade. Who cares if I happen to benefit from it?"

“You only say that because you want the power.”

“I want to keep the life I now have! I want to live. I don’t want to go back to the shadows! I will never have to be scared again.”

Astarion was terrified of losing the life he was finally making for him. For the first time since he met Cazador, he had something that was his. He wasn't giving it up.

“…Then have your life." They were going in circles. He couldn't do this anymore. "But I refuse to be in it if you do this.” Tar'eon stepped back from him and Astarion had never felt colder in his life.

“You- you’ll leave? But you promised...You never break a promise." Astarion pursed his lips, trying to not to show how much it hurt, the threat of abandonment. His lips moved without sound before he found his voice again. "Is that how little this means to you? Us?” He was deflecting, using anger as a shield to hide his pain, but Tar'eon could see through it with ease.

"What we have means the world to me. You are my world. But you are planning to burn it all down. To steal all the things I love about it away. All the things I love about you. Cazador became just like his master...and I fear you'll become the same as him if you do this ritual." Astarion glared, gritting his teeth. How dare he even consider the notion? He would never be anything like Cazador. "So yes. I’ll leave, once the brain is defeated. And you’ll never see me again.”

“You don’t mean that. You don’t. I'm your heart, after all.” He wasn't above manipulation, tugging on his heartstrings, if it meant he'd stay. It was the only way he knew how to be, couldn't Tar'eon see that?

“But you are not my mind. And it’s made up. I won’t do it. I won’t watch you take the man I love away from me. We’ll defeat Cazador together. But if you want to ascend…you will descend alone, with no one to catch you.” Tar'eon closed his eyes, steeling his resolve even if he wanted to curl into himself and sob. The pain felt like a hand was attempting to rip his heart from his chest, but the anvil in it was making it heavy, making it hurt more in the struggle.

"Darling...please. Look at me." Gods, how many times had he told him the opposite? To look away? Cold hands caressed his cheek, his neck, trying to entangle him back into his web like he'd done to so many before. Trying to lure him back into his arms. Tar'eon wanted nothing more than to fall into him and crush him to his body, to let the world fall away.

It took everything in Tar'eon to pull away, his lips trembling before he took a deep breath in and let it shudder out of him. He opened his eyes, but he didn't look at him. He knew if he did, he'd take it all back. He couldn't do it. He had enough blood on his hands. He would not allow Astarion to stain his even further. If he wanted to do this - he would face the consequences alone.

And he would deal with Bhaal...alone. No. Not alone. Jaheria would be at his side. Isobel, Aylin, all his friends...They would stand by him. That had to be enough for him.

"Maybe this is for the best. I don't know if I'll ever be rid of my urges. It might drive me mad one day, I might- I might lose myself completely...I don't know if I'll ever be able to give you everything you deserve. But I can give you this. I can give you Cazador's death. I don't break my promises after all."

Astarion stared at him, speechless. He had thought he knew pain, but this was - something else entirely. Like his chest had been hollowed out. He was out of tricks, out of sweet words, half-assed promises. Nothing was going to make Tar'eon say yes to the future they could have...because he didn't want the mask of power and allure. He loved all the weak, fragile parts he'd offered him.

"I will still love you for...probably the whole of my blink and miss it life. You will always have a part of my heart. It's yours to keep. I can't let anyone else have my mind though. Too many people have taken more than they deserve from that part of me. I won't let my heart...I won't let you make my decisions for me. Not on this. And I can't make your decisions for you either." Tar'eon unsheathed his sword and descended down the steps, talking a deep breath and centring himself as not to let the grief overtake him. Putting all the hurt into the back of his mind and focusing on the battle ahead. It was easier than it should have been, to numb his emotions and focus on the bloodshed ahead. He had done this before. Done it his whole life, perhaps.

He looked down at his blade, at his reflection, and clenched his jaw. The scarring on his face stuck out like a sore thumb to him.

'Forgive me, Father. I will cut away his touch.'

His boots fell heavy upon the steps and Karlach looked up at him from her crouched position.

"Are you...okay?"

"Never better. Let's save the prisoners." He smiled at her, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Jaheria, shed some light on the bastard, but avoid the spawn." Jaheria nodded and conjured up a ball of light before embedding it into her blades. They glowed bright and Tar'eon flipped his blade in his hand.

"Stick close to Cazador and keep any of his minions at bay with long distant attacks. Karlach, focus your strength on larger opponents until the numbers dwindle. Protect Jaheria's back so she can keep up her concentration."

"You've got Astarion?"

"You know I'll always have his back in a fight." Tar'eon smiled weakly and looked back at the vampire who stared at him from the top step. "He'll be focused on Cazador, so I'll keep him safe and make sure Cazador doesn't get the chance to strike him first."

"He won't lay a hand on him." Karlach promised with a grin, her great axe in hand. Tar'eon was grateful for her cheeriness. They needed it. He looked back to Astarion and beckoned him.

"Come on. This is it. Now and never." Astarion's expression shifted, making his down as he clenched his jaw and nodded sharply, eyes narrowing.

"Let's end this. Let's kill the bastard." Astarion didn't look back at Tar'eon as he made his way towards the ritual.

He would have his long over due revenge.

Everything else could wait.

#astarion x dark urge #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x tav #bg3 astarion #astarion x male tav #bg3 tav #astarion x mc #astarion bg3 #baldurs gate tav #astarion

[coffeedrawingandwriting]

Air Bubbles

Crash landing on a foreign planet filled with dangerous creatures could bring anyone to their knees.

Thankfully you have a large friend to keep you company, even if your first meeting was rather… unconventional.

Part 2 to Shallow Breathes

———

The sea was calm today, the soft creaking and groaning of metal resisting water pressure familiar noise as you awoke, stretching from the comfort of your bed.

In the dimness of the corridors, lit only by soft sub lighting and the ocean filtered sunlight through the windows, it was a bit difficult to completely awake, stumbling to the main common area to drink a glass of water and drink a protein pill. The air was slightly too warm for your taste, even if you were only clad in shorts and a T-shirt.

Within moments, wonderful energy broke through the fog, and your eyes focused on the water lock separating your “garage” dock from your living quarters.

You keyed it open, making a quick cup of hot sea tea, gazing grimly at the few remaining packets.

With a heavy sigh, you sat at the edge of the circle cut in the middle of your living room floor. Legs dipped down to enjoy the cool temperature.

For a few moments, you could enjoy relative piece and quiet, sipping your tea.

Your eyes closed, as you lay back against the metal floor.

Something brushed your leg-

And before you could react, something wet and rough wrapped your leg and pulled you out of your home with a smack into the water of the deep, a shriek escaping you as cold water hit you like a punch to your gut.

Your eyes briefly closed, opened in dismay and frustration as you quickly kicked back to the surface, sputtering and coughing, snorting water out of your nose.

“What the HELL Sans!”

You yelled out into the water, then felt the water vibrate with the sound of a deep chuckle.

A shadow came over the windows above your head, as you looked up to see the leviathan curve around your base, tentacles dragging with a screeching noise as his eye lights appeared below your feet as you treaded water.

You took a deep breath and dove back under, swimming down to fully take in the leviathan.

Sans was at least 20 feet long, his thick torso twice your size, as was about everything else. His bones were an oldish white, brown and black shadows highlighting scarred bone. He had a black streak over his eyes like a mask with soft blue speckles echoing those piercing eyes.

Beside his skull and ribs, his body went into a gradient of browns and blacks the further down your eyes traveled. Shoulder plates added armor along with back plating, a crest of blue membrane stretched along his forearms.

Long sweeping tentacles, a soft grey black with darker splotches, and an hypnotizing blend of blues, greens and purples under every single one.

His skull brushed along your back as he delicately nuzzled his way to press his chin into your neck, a soft purr coming from the giant creature.

You kicked back to the surface for air, Sans following as you climbed out to sit down, sopping wet. He lifted himself to rest his skull on your lap, arms circling your hips as he crooned an unknown melody.

“I missed you too,” you said softly, caressing the giant skull. You could never stay too upset with the surprisingly cuddly leviathan.

A pleased hum came from him, as he shifted to press you down upon the metal floor, head resting on your chest, his arms circling you in a protective shell of rough warmth.

“Sans, you can’t breathe up here,” you reminded him softly. It had been an odd thing to learn his name.

It was not long after your first true encounter with the leviathan, when an image, blurry and faint, yet an unmistakable face with two dark sockets, burning eye lights.

Among chirps and keens, and the sudden ringing in your ears, you heard distinct human words:

Want… keep…. safe…

The image blurred slightly. Chirps and clicks, a distorted word that ended in only a monosyllabic phrase.

Sans..

The vision has faded, but that was far from his first attempt to communicate. His vocabulary hadn’t much improved, besides a soft rumble of some sort of impression of your name.

He did so now, grumpily retreating to the water as his eyes regarding you with something you feared to call affection.

His claws reached forward, but you darted out of the way.

“No, you don’t get anymore cuddles. I’m all wet thanks to you.”

His answer caused the floor to vibrate, a displeased hum as he began to rise from the water again.

You gave him a fierce look, standing your ground.

The leviathan blinked, then huffed, retreating back to the water to wait.

A soft smile came over your lips as you hurried back to your room, the swoosh of water telling you the leviathan was following your progress. He hated he didn’t have a way to see into your quarters, but you really didn’t want to wake up in the middle of the night to see him staring as you slept.

You changed into a wetsuit, pulling on the taut material as you grabbed your flippers and mask.

An excited chirrup greeted you as you hurried back to the living room, putting on your flippers as a pleased melody echoed from below.

You had barely dipped a toe in before he was upon you, twisting and nuzzling around you, whistling and chirruping.

Y/N… pretty… keep… safe..

A soft laugh curled from your throat as you strike out, swimming wit slow kicks further out from your base, not using your portable engine yet.

Sans easily kept pace, humming as he moved beneath you, his claws tracing the curves of your body outlined by the wetsuit.

He whistled, astonishingly similar to a wolf whistle as he admired you.

You pushed his hands away with mock anger, treading water as you scanned a list for the materials you needed.

Once you had determined your needs, your hands easily found Sans’ as you swam along. Air bubbles left a trail behind as he helped tug you along, assisting you in your quest to find materials.

Even if he didn’t know what those were for.

You’d tell him one day…

…

You now enjoyed your watery trips rather than fearing them.

Time and opportunity was given to admire the twisting spirals of kelp and rock structure, nearby leviathans darting away the moment they saw Sans.

Your hand tightened on Sans’ claw as he pulled you down, showing the beauty of his homeworld.

A shame you wouldn’t be here for much longer.

———

Why couldn’t the sea emperor leviathan live!?!

Have some fluff for Mermay, and have a wonderful day!

#mermay 2023 #undertale #sans #cecaelia #cecaelia sans #subnatica below zero #subnautica sans #sans x Reader #leviathan sans #x reader #fluff #wee bit of angst #cuddles

[finnitesimal]

BOOM 💥💥💥💥💥 💥💥👀👀📸📸

SURPRISE SECOND LINK WITH THE ORIGINAL GIFT FIC THAT I REALIZED WAS A LITTLE TOO SEXY FOR THE EVENT 😳😳😳😳

-

"You're so fucking hot," Phil near hisses it into his lips, eyes in narrowed blue slits as Missa cracks a smile, the gall of him, "Fuckin- what the hell are you doing with all that hot? Who authorized this?" Taloned thumbs pushed and prodded at his face, stroking low, dragged down the curve of his lower lip. A snarl bubbled in Phil's throat. "Completely unnecessary."

Missa snickered, let him thumb his mouth open, biting gently over the trespassing fingers as the flush over Phil's shoulders darkened, felt the thighs in his lap tense.

"It's not funny," Phil huffed, hands moving to his hair, tangling in the teal underdye.

"It kind of is," Missa countered, hands settling in the curve of his husband's spine as Phil leant back against the headboard, tugging him down to close the distance. Fingers curled into the hairs at the base of his head, the crease of a brow only more apparent as his mouth slanted over parted lips, slow and burning.

Phil broke the kiss first, albeit incredibly reluctantly, watched the shine of his saliva against Missa's lip and swore.

"That's not fucking fair," Missa felt those hands pull him back in, eyes closing to the barrage of angry, hungry kisses inflicted upon his mouth, "That's- mmph- insane. How am I- meant to get- anything done."

Missa was giggling now, all squinty-eyed and prominent cheekbones, usually contagious if Phil wasn't physically struggling.

"Stop laughing. Put a bag over your head. Leave the country. How am I not kissing you right now."

"What's stopping you?" Missa said it innocently, deliberately, resting his chin in his chest. Phil squinted at him.

"Your bastard mouth."

"You had no problem with that a second ago, querido."

Phil had no argument. Missa was very not-discreetly nudging into his cleavage.

"I hear what they say about you, you know," Missa cooed it at him, like he's not halfway buried in the canyon dip.

"Mira, que lindo, maravilloso, que hermoso, Philza, how wonderful, how beautiful."

Missa came nose to nose with him, unbelievably smug. "I just think it'd be funny if they find out all this time their angel's aching to jump his own husband."

"Says the one on a deep dive into my tits."

"I'm not allowed?"

Phil nearly jumps, feeling skeletal hands cup around them, kneading gently. Big baby browns blink back at him from just-empty sockets, only the tiniest bit cocky.

"You don't like how I look here?"

Phil scoffs. "Look at this. I call him hot once and he thinks I'll do whatever he wants."

"Wont you?"

The smile dropped from Missa's face, looking up at him, wide-eyed and pleading. Phil's trying to say no. He really is.

Missa snuggled into a tit. "Won't you, cariño?"

"Right. You need to chill the fuck out."

Missa laughed as Phil let his head fall back, a soft thump against the headboard as he shut his eyes determinedly. He could feel the shadow looming over him, felt the weight ease off his chest and the curtain of soft hair brush against his winged ears.

"Nope. Not opening them."

"Don't want to see the view?"

"Mm-mm. Not getting these open, no sir."

"Ohh, you haven't called me 'sir' in a while."

Phil choked on his surprise. "My god-"

"That too," and Phil was laughing now, eyes still shut as the warmth crept up his neck, only barely turning away from the press of a mouth against his jaw, over the feathers along his cheek, the shaking corners of his mouth and he did open his eyes just as Missa leant back up, elbows on either side of his head as he grinned down triumphant, lashes low and dark, the lantern light reflecting off of them. Phil squinted at him.

"You'll kill me. You're going to actually kill me."

The corners of Missa's eyes crack into pleased lines, fingers knot into the short hair at the top of his head, making his chin tilt up as brown eyes flick back into full, yellow moons, reminiscent enough of sand and sea and glowing white to make his breath hitch.

A thumb pushes his lip down, traces over the stubbled skin of his jaw and he's back in his bed, his husband's weight on him, taking the brunt of watching Missa swallow at the sight of him. The hands smooth his hair back from his forehead, making his brows raise unevenly, and those (sexy, sexy) shoulders shake as he giggles.

"Don't worry. I'll bring you right back."

The curtains of dark hair lowered, and Phil shut his eyes to the chill against his mouth, sparking sensation up to the feathers of his ear, his own hands warm against the scarring skin of a bare waist. Legs, rustling under the blankets, tensing as his thighs squeeze around thin hips.

Well. The kids can wait a couple more hours.

[baambastic]

Who wants a giant list of various sentences and phrases I’ve collected or otherwise thought of? That could also be used as prompts.

You’re getting it regardless.

“…but I take your meaning.”

“Dashed/shattered against the rocks.”

“His gaze softened.”

“<Name> didn’t know what to say.”

“You will leave by sunset, or you will not see the morning.”

“Leave before the setting sun, or you will not see it rise again.”

“Are you calling me a coward?” “No, I am calling you defeated, <name>.”

“And they will do so again, and again, and again. And there shall be no end, for they will never run out of that which they deem evil.”

“Your god’s love is not unconditional. He does not love us, and he does not. Love. You.”

“You could sooner divert a river from its path than deny us ours.”

“His blade sang, each strike(/flash of steel) a resonant note (in the song of combat).”

“I’m not much for ____.”

“A look of faint ____ (apprehension, shock, surprise, etc.) (flitted across his face).”

“Swallowed up by…”

“You’re hip-deep in it now, and the only way out is forward.”

“Draw up plans to…”

“With a bit of luck…”

“A sensible choice.”

“, to be sure.”

“Mirth in his voice.”

“…as the crow flies.”

“…as the wolf runs.”

“Present company excluded, of course.”

“If you don’t have your own story, you become part of someone else’s.”

“My gift, given freely.”

“Anything worth doing is hard.”

“Nervous/angry people make mistakes.”

“Buzz(ing) of fluorescent lights.”

“I’ve devised a plan.”

“As he made his way to…”

“, what with…”

“We’re cut from the same cloth. You[third person]… were stitched together from a white flag.”

“Daylight’s a’wasting.”

“That’s a good reason, except it’s not.”

“You taught me to bury the dead!” (condemnation)

“We can avoid talking about this another time.”

“It was fun… until it wasn’t.”

“…been erased, yet the shadow remains.”

“He lingered by the door. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it, continuing to drum his fingers against the door’s wooden frame.”

“Instead, I let myself believe that you actually cared.”

“…under the deluge (of water/rain/etc.).”

“It buckled under his/the (ferocious) onslaught.”

“His breath caught.”

“He put a hand to his head, blinking the spots out of his eyes.”

“When have I ever __?” He remarked. “Don’t answer that.”

“…wrinkled his nose.”

“…got too grisly.”

“…in and of itself.”

“It was child’s play.”

“…(I’ll be back) before you know it.”

“She and my mom ran in some of the same circles.”

“…spent the night poring over ____.”

“I would know.”

“…but beggars couldn’t be choosers.”

“…barely fazed her.”

“…hissed in pain.”

“…went back to lazily kicking his feet in the air.”

“…with ___ in tow.”

“…slathered it with honey.”

“…riddled with bullet holes.”

“…nearly wrenched out of its socket.”

“His stomach was tying itself in knots.”

“His stomach churned.”

“His muscles/arm(s)/leg(s) screamed in protest.”

“He said, biting out each word like it had personally offended him.”

“His head pounded with every belabored step.”

“He chose not to/refused to/didn’t dignify that with a response.”

“I’ve kinda fell out of it, honestly.”

“He balked at the price.”

“It sort of fell by the wayside.”

“He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.”

“Strangers lived where his childhood ghost once walked.”

“…lifted/raised his chin defiantly.”

“The one saving grace is that…”

“That’s not how ____ work.” “Could be.” “…”

“A bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck.”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” -“I think so?”

“…But I’m feeling generous today.”

“…to stop himself from saying something he’d regret.”

“…laughing too hard to dodge properly.”

“…he blurted out.”

“As the afternoon drew on towards evening…”

“…’cause you haven’t unclenched since age ___.”

“…drawing a glowing path atop the waves.”

“Today had been nice.”

“It was pretty great.”

“…is still a languid puddle of a man.”

“…sprawled out on his back.”

“…flipped him off with a cheery smile.”

“One good thing about the ocean is that it is made of water, which is wet.”

“She flowed to her feet.”

“He blinked at her.”

“This is such an insult. I’m insulted.”

“…for a minute, he forgot…”

“…but…that didn’t seem so bad.”

“…balanced precariously on his chair.”

“He moved like water, effortless and bold.”

“Wait a damn minute.”

“Your brain works in weird ways.”

“In his defense…”

“His cheeks darkened.”

“Whoop-de-freaking/fucking/dang/damn-doo.”

“…way too cute for its own good.”

“Well, now,…”

“‘I’ve got this.’” -New Chapter / Line Break- “He definitely did not have this.”

“…wrought-iron fence.”

“…as fragile as spun glass.”

“Score one for _____!”

“They’re playing fast and loose with…”

“…grinning like an idiot.”

“He raised a single, devastating eyebrow.”

As an opening line: “_____ was smaller than he remembered.”

“Oh my god, you did.”

“…agreed/nodded fervently.”

“…from the light of the muzzle flashes.”

“…said under his breath.”

“…stage-whispered.”

“Don’t make me regret this.”

“I’m ready to go, but I’m not ready to, you know, be gone.”

“…pinched the bridge of his nose.”

“…squawked in protest.”

“…in half as many ____.”

“…slumped in his chair.”

“Naturally.”

“There are matters I must attend to.”

“It seemed prudent to stay in their good graces.”

“The color drained from his face.”

“He ducked his head.”

“…incandescent rage.”

“…ruddy cheeks.”

“Without knowing what he was doing, ____ agreed/listened/tugged.”

“Oh, for—you think…”

“…the tide lapping at his feet.”

“All at once, he felt his anger melt away.”

“His anger melted away all at once.”

“All the anger—that rage, that fire—rushed out of him. In its place, all that remained was a hollow pit.”

“…but I’d bet the farm that…”

“He watched in silent terror.

-She swung / pulled the trigger / pressed the button.

-And terror turned to horror.”

“…with a cheshire grin.”

“I understand. Really, I do. But…”

“Like a drop of oil on the surface of a lake.”

“Hello, old friend.”

“There you are, old friend.”

“There you are.”

“In all likelihood…”

“I burned the wool that covered my eyes.”

“A story may become truth, but it never begins as truth.”

“A great many changes come about from belief in a lie.”

“To become better, one must first believe the lie that one can be better.”

“We all lie to ourselves, you more than most.”

“You are not the kind to walk into a minefield with naught but prayers on your lips. But left deaf and blind, what else can you do?”

“All I want(ed) is/was to…”

“A teller of tall tales laid low.”

“Seize him/her/them!”

“Curse you infernal wretches!”

“Must I do everything myself?”

“Unhand me!”

“‘You know nothing of pain.’ He smiled. ‘But you will.’”

“What is it?

-Nothing I can’t handle.”

“You sanctimonious asshole!”

“Not enough to feel like it matters, but enough that how I feel doesn’t.”

“You’ve got ice in your veins. I like that.”

“There’s a certain freedom in knowing when something’s out of your hands.”

“I would not welcome death. But I do not know if I would have the strength to fight it.”

“A world and a word of difference stand only a letter’s breadth apart.”

“I’d rather keep to my own misbegotten patch of city.”

“If that be/is the price I must pay, then I have coin to spare.”

“Give ____ my regards.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I doubt that.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“…he said ruefully.”

“You’re much too young to be telling people things you think they need to hear.”

“You’re trying to _____.

-Is it working?”

“I need some fresh air.”

“…he spat ____’s name like a curse.”

“I refuse to believe otherwise.”

“I don’t make the rules, I simply set the stage.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“When I find out, I’ll let you know.”

“You leapt at the chance…”

“We’ll talk about this later.”

“Their blood is on your/my hands.”

“This guy walks in off the street and thinks he can…?”

“I have problems, same as anyone else.”

“You’re right about that, at least.”

“…and vice versa.”

“He wordlessly moved out of the way.”

“Stand. Aside.”

“…he said carefully.”

“And what of/about you?”

“Where will you go?”

“He turned to her with pleading eyes.”

“…sent a jet of flame roaring past…”

“He gasped for air.”

“For what it’s worth…”

“You seem to have me at a disadvantage.”

“…put his fist through the door.”

“…pumped his fist in the air.”

“Be the bigger person.”

“…as befits someone of your station/status.”

“Welcome back to the land of the living, __.”

“Seize him/her/them!”

“Unhand me!”

“Godspeed.”

“A word of advice…”

“…if you catch my meaning.”

“Luckily for you…”

“You’re going to catch cold if you stay out here.”

“I’m/You’re/He’s every bit the ___ you are.”

“He tried his damnedest to…”

“I cannot tolerate loose ends.”

“If push comes to shove…”

“Life waits for no man.”

“Ugh… What happened?”

“Let’s see you wriggle (your way) out of this/that (one).”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Don’t be naïve.”

“…so let’s not and say we did.”

“Where ____ failed, ____ may yet prevail.”

“…or close to it.”

“Please accept this token of my appreciation.”

“Out of the mouth of babes.”

“The crowd was stunned into silence.”

“He loved her in a way that no one should ever call ‘love’.”

“I suppose I can’t argue with that.”

“He flew like an arrow shot from a bow.”

“Tell that to (my)…”

“Be that as it may…”

“You’re better off not knowing.”

“You’re in no position to make demands.”

“You sound just like him.”

“Do I/you/we have a choice?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“I have accepted what will come. But there is no peace in that, nor will there be.”

“I’d rather make a mistake with you than play it safe with anyone else.”

“He feigned surprise.”

“At last we agree on something.”

“You’re coming with me.”

“Much has changed in your absence / while you were away.”

“[cutting off other character’s rambling self-blame] Stop.”

“Please, you have to believe me!”

“…that familiar thrum of energy beneath his skin.”

“You have space in your heart for everyone in the world… and none left for yourself.”

“It’s so easy to suffer alone.”

“The distinction, fine as it may be, carries quite a bit of weight.”

“You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

“You cling so tight to that old version of me, I’ll leave you behind.”

“Mercy makes you good, but it does not make you right.”

“The words fall through my fingers like sand through an hourglass.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

#some of these are pulled from shows and games and such. most aren’t. #long post #sentences #words #phrases #quotes #writing #writblr #writeblr #lists #list #phrase list #writing prompts #writing prompt #castlevania #castlevania netflix #iron man #🐍

[unovan-gardener]

Musharna Mail!

Nightmare, tw gore, death, injury, peril

——————————

You are sitting in the plush leather centre couch of the three in Lucretia Minsk's old office, the retractable table is already flush with the floor.

Lucretia sits at her desk chair with legs crossed, although her desk itself isn't present here. There's a bright light shining through the window behind her, giving the whole room a stark black and white contrast and completely obscuring her face and front in deep black shadow.

On the couche to your left, you see the rotting corpse of Joltik-Guy seated only slightly slumped, the warped and mangled branches of a Nuytsia floribunda growing up through their skin, bursting through their eye sockets, ears, nose, and mouth and leaking blood, like sap.

On the couch to your right, seated with back straight and tall, a statue of your father, shining and perfect. Unattainable, everything you will never be, with head held high and not looking in your direction at all. The only thing to mar his perfect image is the chains draped around his form, digging in like strangling vines wrapped around his neck and limbs.

You cannot move but to look with your eyes. You try to speak, to scream, but your mouth and tongue and lower jaw are as if you had never received treatment. They are gone, a gaping painful maw in your face.

Lucretia uncrosses her legs and stands, slowly, as you realise the light behind the windows is fire, burning bright and fuelled by a city full of people screaming at you for all your mistakes.

When she took your mouth from you, she went from seated to holding your face before you could even blink. This time, she walks slowly and calmly toward you, time stretches on into the abyss as each step fills you with a mounting dread.

You don't remember standing, but you are on your feet before her, and all the furniture in the room is gone. She raises both hands slowly to your face, her own face still engulfed in shadow. As her palms make contact and cradle your head tenderly, the shadow clears and you see, not Lucretia, but the mother in all your father's old photographs.

She looks at you with love that feels like hate, and, as easily as if she was picking a flower for your shared grave, she pulls your head off your neck and you gasp awake.

[CD wakes up with a jolt, clasping their hands over their neck as if to make sure that it is still attached.

They gag on sap that isn't in their mouth, breaths wheezing out of his chest. He's trying his best to be quiet, not wanting to disturb Juniper sleeping next to him.

He can't help the tears rolling down his cheeks, however.]

#tw gore #tw body horror #tw death #tw injury #tw violence #pokeblogging #rotomblr #pkmn irl #pokemon irl #irl pokemon #irl pkmn #pokeblr #anon ask #musharna mail

[curious-kittens-ocs]

Don't Hide

Avira & The Huntsman

(A little bit of TW Physical Abuse Aftermath)

He had kept to himself for the whole day, watching everyone and everything. He didn't expect to hear the soft steps of a woman's heel moving down the hall.

"Show yourself," He stated as he unsheathed his blade. He knew better than to trust the walls of this castle. His heart being held in them was proof of it.

"My name is Lady Avira..." The hushed almost silent voice echoed throughout the empty halls. "Please... stow your weapon." The woman pleaded with him. Hearing the volatile vocals he acknowledged her request. "I apologize for startling you." The small figure came from the shadows. Her dark hair covering the left side of her face.

A deep protective feeling started to form within his gut. "My Lady? Are you alright?"

"I am alright..."

"You need not hide with me, my Lady. I am here for your protection."

(TW UNDER CUT - including image)

The ripple of magic trickled across his skin and around him. He returned his gaze from the floor to her eyes. Her hair now tucked behind her no longer magically pointed ears, showing the damage. Her chest bruised, following her neck was the same almost a hand print clearly printed on her. Her beautiful eyes were hallow, her left eye showed a dark red bruise. It was purple closer to her socket and nose.

"Please... forgive my appearance. It's a long -"

"You need not ask for forgiveness when you do not need it my Lady... If I can be of service- including protection. You need only call."

The young woman looked to her feet that were hidden by her gown then to her hands that were hidden by gloves. Lastly she made her glance up to him. "Thank you... Sir-?"

"Just call me the Huntsman."

"Sir Huntsman." She smiled for the first time in a long time.

Forever tag:  

@arrthurpendragon , @superspookyjanelle , @bravelittleflower , @eddysocs , @twofacedharveydent

(If you want to be added, or taken off of a tag. Just shoot me an ask, specifying. Thanks!)

#ocappreciation #fyeahonceuponatimeocs #toalltheocsivelovedbefore #oc: aspen foster || avira #fic: When the story ends #fd: once upon a time #fd: ouat #TW: Physical Abuse mentioned/image shown

[just-horrible-things]

Blood By Moonlight

Moonlight falls liquid over the towering junkheaps, pooling in the pale shine of white metal, shying from the touch of shadowed crevices like water flowing in rivulets around an obstruction. Blood is black in the pallid light and it too flows downwards towards the trodden dirt, a thick and pitchy counterpart to the delicate touch of the light.

Karroth turns his face skyward and for a second just appreciates the beauty of the pale, swollen moon and the glittering blanket of stars behind it. The light glimmers from the sweat on his cheekbones and the sides of his nose, and for a moment he is one with the moonlight, feeling it pool in his eye sockets and stream down his face.

Then the wretch beneath him chokes out a moan, and he bends down to rip out its throat and put an end to its mewling.

Morrima’s creatures never give him any peace at night these days. They’re always harrying him, testing the edges of his domain. They’ll grab anything from his Heap – not even things that are worth anything, broken ceramics, wheels too bent to ever be repurposed – and run with them. Just to taunt Karroth. Just to goad him into chasing.

Well, he’s faster than any of them ever was yet.

He scans the junkyard. The moonlight is his ally. They’ll be hard pressed to get within a sprint of his territory tonight. Any and every movement stands out clear, pulling his gaze like a magnet.

But it seems like the wretch beneath him was the last of them, for now. 

Karroth stands, and kicks the body off the girder they fought on. It doesn’t fall far before lolling to a halt, but it doesn’t matter. The stench is building day on day, and it ought to be a warning to the others, but it doesn’t seem to stop them.

What does Morrima offer them, that they’ll sell their lives so cheap? What does she threaten them with?

He shakes his head, as if he could dislodge the thoughts like water. She steals too many of his waking hours already, he’ll not give her more with idle wonderings. 

Karroth clambers sure-footed up the side of the Heap, every clawhold familiar and slightly greasy with the residue of his former passings. He stops at the cool-hole to haul out a snack, at the snares to see if they’ve caught any more intruders, and finally at Anetta’s shrine.

The doors are made from gilded picture frames, snapped into narrow ornamented rods and glued one to the other to form broad panels. The inside is lined with bone. In the centre, a velvet pillow, once a deep purple now faded to a delicate violet – a fitting resting place for a great woman now faded to a distant memory.

Atop the pillow ought to rest her skull.

It is missing.

Karroth stares, rage building like liquid metal in his veins. 

He slams the gilded door so hard he hears splinters.

He looks around, out down the side of the heap, as if the culprit could still be close enough to catch. But of course, they must have been and gone while he was distracted fighting. His claws itch. He grinds his teeth and his fangs dig salty divots into the insides of his lips.

Finally, he tips his head back. “MORRIIMMMAAAAA!!!!” he bellows.

She has to know he’s coming for her. Maybe she can even hear his voice from her coward’s nest below.

He hopes she can hear his voice.

—

It takes three days of hunting to find her.

Three days of creeping on all fours like an animal through the tight crawlspaces of the bastards’ warrens. 

Three days of haunting their lair like a demon, ripping apart any and all he encounters.

Three days of stealing their food and water like a rat in the dark, just to keep his strength up to confront her.

Karroth loses count of how many he kills. They will never recover from this blow.

He hopes she knows it is her fault.

After three days of chasing stale scent trails around and around in maddening circles, he finally catches a whiff of her that’s fresh as blood from a wound.

He lays eyes on her not an hour later. She is all black fabric and clattering amulets and she whirls like a dancer and runs like prey before him.

Karroth is well suited to narrow tunnels, he has found. His claws give good purchase and he can barrel through them at almost a running pace even though he be down on all fours.

She seems to sense this, and she bolts out an exit and into the pale moonlight.

It’s not as bright out as it was three nights ago, but no clouds have rolled in, and there is still plenty of light by which to see.

Karroth has travelled far beneath the surface. The heavy metal hatch opens onto the flats – that wide, treacherous span where soft and dusty earth conceals sharp and ragged metal beneath. Many a hidden hole waits to catch the ankle of the careless runner and tear it open to the bone.

And yet across the dust, Morrima runs.

She is lighter than Karroth, and she has the advantage.

He is too blind with fury to tread careful. Instead he trusts his luck, which has after all never yet failed him, and runs flat out after his quarry.

She realises, in a chase of barely a minute, that she will not escape this way. She whirls, chains rattling, rags fanning out about her, to face her pursuer.

“Stop!” she cries. “You cannot –!”

Karroth barrels into her full tilt. His shoulder strikes her ribcage and his claws seek purchase in her flesh, but he catches only cloth. No matter.

Morrima is lighter than he, and he has the advantage.

“You cretin,” she snarls as they roll in the dust. “I have – your precious – skull –!” Finally he catches first one wrist, then the other. He pins them above her head, one knee on her chest, the other on a thigh. “You do,” he growls. Spittle drips from his jaws onto her face. “And you’re going to give her back.” “You can’t – do anything to me,” she pants. “If you harm me, you’ll never get her back! I want – to negotiate.” “Negotiate,” Karroth snarls. “The only offer is this : you give her back now, and you live.” “You can’t harm me,” she repeats. Fury is an inferno beneath Karroth’s skin. “If you harm me, you’ll never –” “She would understand,” Karroth spits.

His fangs meet in the centre of her throat. Her blood is sweet as silver moonlight. He rips his head back, and black blood sprays across the dust.

#my writing #this episode brought to you by #a dream I had #also #the moon #I like the moon

[patches-bitsandbobs]

13/4/2022 - The Nade doesn’t really get what none-blessed bugs and animals are called. Giovanni, being alive for 100 or so years, does. so, Nade’s natural conclusion is “I’ll keep this weird eight legged thing inside my stomach and show it to Gio later”. 

they're in the kitchen, happily chatting to one another; Giovanni's attention is on the stove, while The Nade sits on a stool behind him. there's a small lull in their conversation, as Gio flips dough discs with expert flicks, and Nade idlily swings his legs. the air is light and calm - happy and peaceful. then, The Nade’s face lights up, one hand scratching the side of his stomach with recollection.

'oh yeah!!! you know about animals, right?'

'I got’s an idea of 'em.'

'cool!!! do you know what kind of animal this is? they follow me around a lot, but I dunno what they are.'

'huh?' Gio turns around, and see's a spider the size of Nade's hand peeking out of his opened stomach. he grins big and wide, then dies. he dies, for real, then and there, on the spot. 

his skin drained from a healthy glow to a deathly pale, eyes rolling straight to the back of his head. he first fell against the stove, miraculously missing the top’s flame, before sliding down into a boneless, floppy heap on the floor. a cartoony ghost shot out of his corpse, complete with the chef hat, nose, and moustache, his spectral eyes bulging from their sockets to stare down at the just as shocked spider.

it takes Nade a few seconds to realise that Gio's mortality is shimmering right before him. once he does, his hat and ears jump straight up into the air in pure panic, his grinning mouth drooping into a deep, terrified frown. he zips up his stomach so the spider is out of view, and springs toward Giovanni's spirit without hesitation. he grabs hold of the bottom of Gio, throws his arm into the air as high as he can, and slamdunk’s the ghost back into Gio's lifeless body with every last bit of his strength.

Giovanni gasps as the electroplasm sinks under his skin, his human body popping back into a solid shape, life returning to his form. he scrambles to his feet, a heavy sheen of sweat glistening on his still pale skin. a shaking hand clutches his chest as he backs as far away as he can from The Nade, the other hand pointing at him in seething question. his pants are quick and laboured, teeth bared, every limb shivering with fear.

'HOW LONG HAS THAT BEEN IN THERE.' he shouts from clear across the kitchen, his muscles rippling as he clutches the counter for dear life.

'uh. a week-'

'A FUCKING WEEK???'

'... yeah? why, are they bad?' The Nade peeks his stomach open again, where the spider still sits, content but mostly confused as to what is happening. it almost makes Gio escape from his mortal shell again. The Nade has his body tilted over so he can look down at the spider, his mouth still down turned, oblivious to Gio’s continued torment. 'she looks fine to me-'

'YOU CAN'T HAVE SPIDERS INSIDE’A YOURSELF NADE, WHAT THE FUCK?! YOU'VE BEEN IN THE BEDROOM WITH THAT INSIDE YOU THIS ENTIRE TIME?!??!?!' The Nade looks up at Giovanni, and see's the exact moment the complete, utter horror shadows his face in realisation. 'I've been sleepin', with you, in the bedroom - in our BED - while you've had a THAT, INSIDE YOUR STOMACH, ALL THIS TIME.'

'... what animal did you say she was again? I can put her and her sisters outside if you want.' Giovanni loses his spirit again, but not quite as badly as the first time, his spectral energy floating out of his agape mouth rather than disconnecting completely. his ghostly eyes glare at him with heavy scrutiny.

The Nade decides to put the spider and her sisters back outside anyway, because watching Giovanni lose his shell was more disturbing to him than it ought to be. he skips into someone else's backyard and opens his stomach all the way, stuffing his limb inside. the big spider and all her little sisters climb onto and up his arm before he lays it out on the grass, where they hop off one by one. he double checks that no more are hiding by turning himself inside out, before doing a wave to the group, where the big one waves back.

he returns to the Pizza Plex spider-free, and finds Gio in the same spot he'd left him, thankfully in one piece. as he sits down on the stool, Gio shivers the kind of long, heavy sigh a person should do only once in their entire life. 

'Nade. Nado. N. Tornadeous, my treasured, beloved Nade. please. please, please, please never ever do that, ever again.'

'are they dangerous?'

'n-no, not all of 'em, I-I just can't stand 'em. t-they- those things freak me out. why would you let that-' he stops himself and shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. 'you don't just le-let things in to yourself, Nade. that's-that's weird.'

'I still don't know what she was.'

'a spider. an-anything with eight legs is a spider.'

'ooooh.' Nade whips out his green book and a pen from the back of his none existent pocket, flipping to a page to scribble. 's-p-i-d-e-r.' Gio ever so slowly steps toward Nade. 'do they all look like her?'

'some'er different, but generally, yeah.'

'cool!!!' more scribbles.

'are y-you documenting it?'

'yeah!!!' The Nade turns the book over for Giovanni to see with a bright grin, where childish drawings of other creepy crawlies are scrawled along the yellowed pages. only the seconds old spider drawing is marked with disjointed, blocky hand-writing next to it, the rest left blank of text. 'I don't know what any of these other things are, so I've been trying to find out!!! I wanted to come and show you so you could tell me-'

'please don't do that.'

'KEHEHA!!!!!! don't worry, I won't now!!!!'

'you don't got any more surprises in there right.'

'uuuuuuuuuuuuuh.' he cracks open his stomach, lolling his tongue all the way out. no bugs or arachnids spring out. it makes Giovanni take a startled step back anyway, just in case. 'nope!!! I'm all clear!!!'

'l-listen, I ain't one to tell ya how to live your life, but co-could you uh, t-take a bath, please, since you've had fucking spiders inside you for a week. spiders!!! in your stomach!!!!! for a WEEK!!!!!!! WHY did you think that was a good idea!!!'

'they seemed cozy!!!' Gio shivers at the thoughts and the words and the fresh image of a spider poking out of Nade's stomach and the fact that there had been many more hidden within.

'here, I-I'll cut ya a deal; you go eat bath bombs, and I'll jot down the names of everythin' you've drawn, if I knows what it is.' Nade's eyes turn into stars.

'REALLY?!!! OKAY HERE YOU GO.' the book is shoved at him, and The Nade races off, thumping up the stairs. the water is already running before the smoke has cleared from Nade's sprint.

Gio sighs to himself, finally deflating down the side of the cabinets for a second time, hugging the book close to his chest. everything feels like jelly. the still alight stove is forgotten as he allows himself to breathe. 

Nade had been a spider invested bomb for a whole week, and he hadn't known nor noticed.

the ghost in him is almost spilled out for a third time.

--

Gio knocking back four vodkas right after this at Roxy’s bar like

#10t #10oc #2022 #the nade and giovannis town trip #body horror #spiders #temporary character death

[d-railtheafro-gamer]

What’s Done In The Dark (excerpt)

Rainier Beach was located on the southeastern side of Seattle. Full of houses, noise, garbage, and poor people. It was nice enough during the day, a place you could walk down the street, enjoy some street art and you likely wouldn’t be caught up in drama. Every so often, a robbery, or a flasher shakes up the neighborhood, but most often it was business as usual. During the day, it was young people coming and going from school to Rainier Beach Library, or a friend’s apartment, or a bakery, or a liquor story, or a video store, or Safeway, or the indoor pool at the community center. It was boring but relatively safe during the day.

The night, however...had become very strange in April of 2006. Rumors flew from the mouths of everyone about strange phantom screams or whispers that claimed the streets. Stranger still were the weird, disembodied limbs that seemed to follow old ladies and wayward teens that found themselves alone after the sun had set. It was especially persistent at apartments and eateries, but they could be found anywhere, and only after businesses closed or when most people had left their establishments. It had gotten that most people were jumping at their own shadows with no real proof. There was one person who actually had that proof. And that person was a young man in an eerie looking mask. A fleshy, onyx face, with eyes that sit both high and deep in their sockets, a pair of shimmering yellow marbles. Possessing a broad sloping nose that took up most of the face, only stopping as a puffy growl of a muzzle rose to meet it, there was no mistaking the mask’s imitation: a lion’s face.

He stooped low against a tree growing near the apartment known as “Barton Place.” His eyes scanned slowly before he allowed himself to draw back to full height of 5 feet and 10 inches. Whatever he was searching for, he was definitely not finding.

Aww, gee kid, it looks like you lost it. How did you lose it!? It’s 8 feet tall and looks like the ghetto equivalent of “Monster Blood?” A voice that couldn’t be, that shouldn’t be, berated the one behind the mask.

“Shhhh,” was the only response. Distant screaming came from the west. The maskbearer charged into the trees, following the shouts. He leapt out of the trees, past the Thunderbird Treatment Center and through backyards. Traveling a half mile in a couple of minutes, he arrived at his destination, the old Bruan house. He watched two girls and a guy bolting away from the condemned home. Running away from a gigantic mass of shadow. The maskbearer smirked.

Looks like you found him, kid. Now whatcha gonna do?

*****

The house was a corpse, a dwelling life has long since abandoned. Salmon paint almost completely peeled from the rotted wood underneath. The flakes in huddled agreement, have gathered on the ground. The floorboards creaked with need. Sighing and bowing under the weight of age. The wood, demanding a reprieve from father time, had moldered and darkened with rot, threatening to drop the mold covered living room couches and the moth eaten, Persian rug into the long forgotten basement. For years, this house had been silent.

BANG! The thin weak wood that made up the northern wall of the room split and splintered into the living room. Wooden boards, plaster and mortar exploded inward as a projectile was propelled through the room like a rocket, pure moonlight followed behind, bathing it like the most holy of missiles. Clipping the top of a couch and smashing directly into the far wall of the room, the offending object stopped, lodged into the wall.

A cloud of dust and smoke obscured anything in the room, the moonlight struggled to permeate the dust cloud. A cough escaped as the ballistic projectile struggled to free itself. The projectile in question, was the young man in the mask. The voice that came from behind the mask, however, was much less intimidating than the mask itself. “Welp...I’m pretty hurt now.”

Aw, c’mon, don’t be such a wimp. He didn’t even hit you that hard. 

“Uh-huh, is that why the Bruan’s old house currently has a brand new door in the middle of the living room!?” He countered, gesturing to the new opening created with his own body. Moonlight finally illuminated the room as the cloud slowly dissipated.

That was barely a love tap, Jimmy-boy. Now quit your whining and get out of this hole before that thing comes in here and finishes the job.

A deep breath before a powerful grunt of effort. The wall wrenched forward and then the maskbearer was free. He dropped to the floor and stretched his back out until he heard a series of rapid and satisfying POPs. “When are you gonna call me by my name?”

I think I just did.

“You know what I-”

GRA-OOOOOOOOHHHH!!!

An unearthly howl interrupts the squabbling, and the moonlight is obscured once more, this time by an amorphous inky blob. The mass rolled back and forth as it struggled to squeeze itself into the opening much smaller than could accommodate. Finally, the blob forced its way into the room. All the while, it growled and sputtered, speaking snatches of words, incomplete speech.

“Hey, blobbinator you can’t take up space in here, we got zoning codes here in Seattle-”

The blob suddenly rushes “Jimmy,” forcing him to dive to his right and roll past the monster. He turns to see the creature, stuffed into the same hole he had been.

You picked now to try and talk to it!? Why? Just do the punchy and kicky thing and wrap this up so we can go home!

Jimmy swung a heavy fist into the monster and got a wet, unsteady SMACK for his troubles. His hand sank into the inky blob and he struggled to free himself. “Aw damn, that’s not right-WHOA!”

The mass lurched and Jimmy found his arm tugged hard. He was being pulled in.

“NoNoNoNo!” He shouted with every tug. “Lemme go!” Closer and closer the two came, but a final strain made the blob give a bit and the arm was nearly freed. “HA!”

Before freedom, however, came a thunderous kickback of inky residue as Jimmy suddenly found himself thrown into the air. He smacked into the ceiling and then crashed into the Persian rug.

On the ground again? I don’t think I should have to remind of this Jimmy-boy, but if you die, WE DIE!

He sat up, rising to his feet. “I hear you, stop yell-”

CRACK!

“Oh shi-” The floor gave way and a couch, the rug, and Jimmy all tumbled into the darkness below.

*****

A new, dim light poured into the lowest room of the house, where it was damp and dark and quiet. Persistent water droplets dripping in a random corner, pooling in a puddle on the concrete. The couch was upended, only one of the four wooden legs left on the couch. Pieces of wood decorated the walls, strewn about the place in an exploded halo of shrapnel. Jimmy climbed to his feet and looked up. He rolled away just in time to avoid the full weight of the monster crashing to the ground. He nearly collided with one of the basement walls and slapped his palms against it to stop his momentum.

You are losing this fight.

“I liked you better as a mute.”

And I liked you better when you didn’t suck.

The blob creature expanded around Jimmy. Covering every possible escape, bubbling and quivering on it’s edges, the creature attempted to engulf its enemy and found itself knocked backward. A fierce roundhouse, and another, arcing through the creature, forcing it to the center of the basement.  Another frantic rush forward found the creature narrowly missing it’s target and colliding with the wall.

SMACK!

Sheesh, this guy’s a bigger idiot’n you are.

“Shut up.” Jimmy stared at the mass, eyes straining to make out the details in the dim moonlight. The edges of the beast’s mass reached out like vestigial tentacles struggling against the wood, insulation and drywall. The limbs were quite formless, but as they struggled, they began to take the hints of shape, a leg here, an arm there, elongated hands and stump feet. Jimmy could not tear his eyes from the creature. Had it always looked like this?

You still worried about the horror, Jimmy-boy? Well, I got bad news for you, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet! All the creepy crawlies that go bump in the night, Kill one, and there’s a hundred more to deal with!

Jimmy was still rooted to the spot. “I know, it’s just that I’ve never seen something like-”

In an instant, an elongated hand brushed onto the bridge of Jimmy’s mask. At that moment, there was no more sound, no smell, he could not see, and there were no thoughts of his own. It was just he and the monster lost in a void. Even the mask’s voice was gone. Then, like a cold hand gliding up his spine, he heard the distant, almost inaudible voices at the back of his skull. It was quiet, but the only thing that filled his mind. He tried to ignore them, but they were persistent, insistent, and growing. “Do you think he saw me? Why is she standing like that? I’m gonna go to the old train tunnel. We can try and contact Chief Sealth-” He struggled to keep up with the barrage of words. But it was too many different voices. Too much information, he tried to focus on his own sense of self so he didn’t get lost in the words. What was merely a gale of voices he was lost in, now had become an ocean. “Ifhefindsuswe’redeadIfoundthemthatwayoutifwekeeponthispathwrongwaywearelostlikethekidisnottheshooterIdon’tevenhaveagunDON’TDOIT’SNOTTHEFIRSTTIMEYOUDIDTHISISIT-”

JAMES! GODDAMN IT!

Jimmy suddenly heard the mask again and his senses had returned. He grabbed the hand crawling up his mask and threw it to the ground where it twitched and convulsed. Before he could ask about what happened, the mask spoke first.

Okay, what I said about being worried, you should be. This thing is some kind of collective, and if it gets a hold of me again, it’s gonna rip me off and eat you like a candy bar.

“What happened to, ‘I die, we die!?’” Jimmy backed away from the creature, who was still trying to recover.

Rules change, kid. It knows you’re alive. Me, it can’t make heads or tails of me, and what it can’t understand, it don’t care about. It recognizes you as food, so it’s my suggestion that we GET THE HELL OUTTA HERE!

Jimmy glanced to the far side of the basement, located the stairs and dashed toward them. He vaulted up the stairs, narrowly avoiding the creature hurtling at him, barreling into the stairs, collapsing them. He had to nearly crab walk up the rest of the sad planks that managed to hold in place, but Jimmy leapt to the basement door and smashed through it with a grunt of force, wood pieces and old dust dancing through the air. He kept running until he was out on the front lawn, bathed in moonlight, staring back into the house.

Why are you stopping!? Get a move on, this isn’t a game of tag!

“What was-what is that?”

I already told you-

“Don’t mess with me, man! I will rip you off right-!”

NO!

Jimmy froze, the genuine fear he could feel in the mask scared him.

Jimmy...James, I promise, I will tell you what that thing is, but we can’t talk about it here.

Jimmy turned back to the house, and heard...silence.

“Do you think it’s gone?”

Hell no. Way too many voices. I think we just hurt it when we broke the link…

“I don’t know what that means-”

First, walk.

Jimmy grumbled and wandered into the neighborhood behind the house. He was careful to keep to the shadows even as the sun broke the horizon.

*****

Jimmy, now maskless, stared at the glassy surface of an office building window across from Space Needle Park. His dark brown eyes were encircled with deep bags. His fade, nappy and unkempt. His umber face, caked with grime and sweat. He couldn’t deal with how he looked, but he was too exhausted to get home and grab a shower. Tearing his eyes away from the monster he had become, he stared up at the Space Needle against the dim orange clouds from the cool blue street. Would ya look at that. We survived to see another sunrise.

Jimmy sucked at the fresh air for a few gulps and then groaned, “I can’t believe we were dealing with that thing for nine hours!”

I can. You really suck at dealing with Onyinyo. Jimmy nearly reached into his backpack and tossed the mask onto the street. 

Hey, don’t get mad at the truth.

The teen sighed and walked along Broad Street past the Space Needle loop, thanking every power that there were no cars parked there so early on this Saturday morning. Nobody to see him look like a crazy person talking to himself.

Why do you talk out loud anyway? We’re mentally linked, I know your every thought.

He shrugged as he walked. “It’s a force of habit.”

Sounds like you just love the sound of your own voice. Jimmy rolled his eyes at this.

“Look who’s talking?” Jimmy’s brow furrowed in consternation.

Yeah, the mask responded with a sardonic chuckle. I love the sound of my own voice. It’s just an added bonus that it also pisses you off!

No-win situation with a dude literally in your head.

That’s right Jimmy-boy, so don’t bother, I’ve been arguing since before your great-grandparents were even thought about.

“Okay, you love to hear yourself, now explain what that was?”

Sheesh, so pushy.

“Hey! You ever want me to put you back on again?”

Alright, alright, you know about most of the Onyinyo we deal with?

Jimmy didn’t notice that he had nodded.

This thing is like a...not exactly a greatest hits. It’s just made of people, no animals, no demons. All dead, all don’t wanna be.

Jimmy eventually found a bench and sank onto it. “Okay, so how’s that any different from anything else we’ve seen?”

I told you, this thing eats people. Specifically, it eats life, the most vital lives it can find. It kills ‘em dead. Leaves nothing but husks behind.

Jimmy felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air.

Where we come in, is the fact that when it eats something, it gets bigger.

“It gets BIGGER!? How!? Why!? Wha-!?”

Yes, it gets bigger, now don’t interrupt! The mask snapped. As it gets bigger, it needs more to eat.

Jimmy raised an eyebrow. “So...the more it eats…”

Yup, the hungrier it gets. It drew the short straw in the genetic lottery department. But, unfortunately for us, the mask became much more smug. And by us I, really mean you-

Jimmy threw his arms up, “C’mon!”

Anyway, you let it touch us...and now it knows that we are a buffet.

Jimmy couldn’t help himself, he grabbed his backpack and tore it open to look at the ovoid plank of a mask. “What do you mean by that!?”

You recall me telling you that you aren’t the first person to wear me.

It dawned on him, “grandpa.”

Aw, now you got the hamsters turnin’ upstairs. Yeah, he wore me, but he wasn’t the first, he wasn’t even in the first hundred.

Jimmy’s mind filled with a million half-formed questions. First hundred-? How does that even-? What’s the purpose of-? Have girls worn-? Is there a manual-? Will he even tell-?

Kid!

Jimmy jerked back to reality, sitting on the bench, clutching the mask between trembling hands.

You’re doing that thing. Where you have more thoughts than I can keep up with.

“Sorry, I just...I don’t…” He struggled to form complete sentences.

Aw great, I broke him.

“...Spark Notes.”

What?

“I need a set of Spark Notes.”

Is this a video game thing?

“Answers. A cheat sheet.”

What? Nooooo, we’ve been over this-

“No, we only went over what you want me to know. Old mask of power, put on this earth to quell the wild dead, and some kind of...collection of souls. And I need to know what-”

See, this is why your grades are so average. You don’t listen, I’m an aspect of powers beyond your understanding. I’ve been worn by countless people. For power, for protection, for glory, for vengeance. And, y’know, whatever you call yourself doing.

“Superhero-ing.” Jimmy spit defiantly.

Childish and I’m pretty sure that’s not English. And what do you call what we’ve been doing?

“Suicidal?”

Good point. But, your grandpa had to believe you were worthy of donning me.

“Why do you need me for help?”

Your grandpa’s just another link in a looooooong chain, kid.

“You’re dodging the question.”

It’s an answer you’re not ready for.

Jimmy leans back and closes his eyes. The living ink is waiting there, behind his eyes, quivering, spasming, waiting for Jimmy to edge too close. For just one. More. Taste. His eyes popped open as he jerked again.

Would you quit doing that!?

He took a couple of shaky breaths. “I saw-”

I know what you saw.

“Then why won’t you tell me anything!?”

Jimmy slammed the mask down on his lap.

Kid, I’ll be honest with you. There’s rules to this shit. And I know it’s frustrating, but I will say you ain’t askin’ properly.

Jimmy felt the last four words in his core, like those words were the only real tangibles the mask have ever given him.

He stood up, crammed the mask back into his tattered, faded green backpack and continued down Broad Street to Denny Way and the number 8 bus stop. He moved past a mother, father and two small children to sit on the far end of the busport.

Fine, Jimmy had to struggle not to talk out loud. Could you PLEASE tell me what is going on with that thing?

A beat of silence. Sorry kid, that’s not how-

“Aw, c’mon!” Jimmy realized he shouted out loud and tensed up as he tried not to look at the family that was certainly staring at him.

Hahahaha, you really want to make the world think you’re crazy.

It’s not funny, Jimmy struggled to keep his thoughts in.

It’s so funny! But, seriously kid, that’s still wrong.

Jimmy’s eyes widened. “But-”

No time for your dumb teen questions. But, I’ll tell ya this, you have an objective. We have to get back to that house tonight and find a way to banish that thing, or send it to the other side, or trick it into a hellmouth or something.

“The hell!? Why?” Jimmy glared at the mask like he wanted to fight it.

Because if you don’t go to it, by nightfall, it’s comin’ to us...

*****

#D-Rail Writing #writing #short story #justataste