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deathbecomesthem · 4 months

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Estate Sale 1 of 2

Eddie Munson x Medium!Reader | 3.8K

Summary: Home is not home anymore. The road is your friend. You find yourself in a strange place where you encounter a spirit unlike anything you've known before after a trip to a strange estate sale. There will be second and final part upcoming.

A/N: The first bit of this was written as a request for @jo-harrington on a different blog. I've decided to revive it. This is a story that asks you to suspend your disbelief. Take a journey into the weird, and don't come to me for answers.

Warnings: Blood, body horror, mental distress, and a reader that has a vague history of institutionalization.

The world you live in is on fire, and he is cold. He’s been cold for as long as he can remember. The bites festered for so long. They opened wide, blackened and bleeding, making him hunger for things he could never find. The ache in his gut never satiated, even when his sharp teeth broke the skin of the petal-faced creatures that populated the world that had become his home. He kept to the places he knew from the other side, his school, the Hideout, his trailer - he sat on the stained mattress with his Sweetheart laid across his lap when he heard the primal screams of that spider-like beast. Both the man and the smoke. The time after his new home splintered and bled, his own body changed again. It healed. He laid in his bed, wrapped in the blanket his mother knitted together when he was a baby, and he healed. The wounds closed and began to scar. The sharp fangs that broke the soft skin of his lips dropped from his mouth. And he slept.

–

The combination of heat, humidity, and orange smoke from the raging wildfires - a discontenting trifecta. Is the whole world designed to make you miserable? Yes. It must be. The wind that whips through your beater of a car moves like the air of a convection oven, perfect and even baking without the need to rotate the cookie tray of your faux leather driver’s seat. You wonder if it’s a mirage when you see it, a desolate highway on the central eastern part of Indiana - “Estate Sale”. Mercy. You pray to the gods that wherever the sale is located, there will be air conditioning.

You thought after making your way through Nebraska you’d seen all the corn the world had to offer, but Indiana proves you wrong. It’s not until you pass a sign that says “Entering Hawkins” that you finally see roads lined with trees rather than corn stalks that are looking ready for harvest. You notice the scars on the earth as soon as you enter the city limits. The goosebumps on your forearm are what make you realize how cold the air in your car has gotten, like the air conditioning suddenly kicked on at its max setting. But no, your windows are open, and the sky is darker. Another sign, black spray painted letters on brown cardboard, “Estate Sale”. An arrow pointing to the left at the stop sign a quarter of a mile in front of you.

So you push down the indicator and turn.

–

Eddie only stirred a little in those decades of healing when Wayne took his last breaths. His own steady breaths began to quicken along with his father’s. He gasped in air and felt the vice grip on his lungs. A burning, empty feeling when he tried to expand bronchial tubes and let the oxygen in. The gasping was brief before turning into hollow breaths. Slower. Slower. Slower. And then the darkness pulled him back into that quiet and restful place of waiting.

–

When you reach the center of town, the unease you’ve been feeling turns into disbelief. The town hall is barely visible through your foggy windshield, a building marred with large scars that look like the smaller ones you’ve been seeing along the roadside since you entered the town. You think about cranking your steering wheel and going back the way you came when you see another cardboard sign pointing to the right. It’s not some sort of mystical force driving you through this apparent ghost town, it’s your curiosity. You tell yourself, curiosity killed the cat, and then remind yourself, but satisfaction brought it back.

Another turn of the steering wheel, and a short jog down an old road when you see the final sign. You avoid potholes that threaten to swallow up your Ford Fiesta and take a final turn down a gravel road greeted by a much larger sign reading “Forest Hills Trailer Park”. You are not surprised to see rows of mobile homes alongside the small road your car is bouncing along. You’ve almost forgotten your purpose when you see so many cars that haven’t been roadworthy since your mom was a teenager. You’ve entered a time warp, it’s the only explanation your brain can come up with. Finally, at the end of the gravel road, you see a trailer with a scar down its center. It’s cold enough now that you’re extending your right arm to the backseat of your car to find a hoodie you haven’t needed to wear in over a month. Outside of the trailer are boxes. An estate sale with no one to collect your money, just boxes sitting on the ground with a spray painted “Free” sign propped against one.

Free is something you can afford.

–

Gravel crunches under your boots as you approach the line of boxes. It occurs to you that the trailer itself might be worth entering, but think better of it. Let the ghosts keep their secrets and take what they’ve so generously offered you today. A shiver creeps down your spine when you consider how many spirits might be watching you from the tree tops in the woods that encircle the trailer park. You can feel how real they are in the silence that echoes inside your ears.

*crunch, crunch*

You keep moving until the tip of your boot is against the box closest to your car. It doesn’t have any markings, not like some of the other ones further down the line. You’ve decided to roll the dice and peek inside, only to find dozens of mugs. No one wrapped them in newspaper to protect them from chipping. You gasp when you see it - a Garfield mug almost exactly like the one your Nana had in her kitchen. Nana kept that mug for you, and always served you her special hot chocolate in it. You know it’s not Nana’s mug, because that special cup is chipped on Garfield’s cheek. This one is pristine. You consider, only for a moment, that you could take the whole box with you. Put it in the back of your car and line your kitchen shelves with the mugs. You can hardly believe your eyes, these vintage pieces are in such good condition. You shake your head, pick up Garfield, and move to peek into the next box.

Inside you find mostly clothing, tattered flannel shirts and threadbare jeans. There’s also a stack of hats on one side. Most look barely worn. Evidence of a working man’s wardrobe. You let your fingers brush against the soft denim of a pair of blue jeans at the top and imagine the man that wore them. They’re old school Wranglers, probably worth something even in their current worn condition.

This is when you catch a glimpse of a treasure hidden behind the boxes. Through the misty fog of that strange atmosphere, a shock of something red catches your vision. The way the boxes are laid you, side-by-side, you only catch a sliver of the instrument placed onto its back in the gravel. It’s a B.C. Rick Warlock. You’re not a guitarist, but your Uncle Keith was. You’ve seen pictures of him with a guitar that looks just like the one in front of you, only your uncle’s was black. Your hand moves like a magnet, reaching behind the boxes to pull out your prize. This sweetheart of a guitar found its new home with you. She flashed you her smile, and now you’re hers.

You pulled out of the ghost town of Hawkins, Indiana 3 hours and 15 minutes after pulling into it with - a guitar you don’t know how to play, a guitar pick necklace, a Garfield mug, and a silver mood ring. Each item gave you a sense of joy, each for different reasons. Nostalgia of a more innocent time in your life, memories of family now lost. And you wonder about the previous owners. Most of their belongings, with the possible exception of the pretty guitar you have riding shotgun in your car, would be found at the local dump. The Estate Sale signs bother you, because you know that means they must be gone. So you promise yourself to remember them, even if it’s only when you drink your first cup of coffee in the morning, or when you fiddle with the new necklace around your neck.

You stayed later than you meant to, and the sun was fully set when you lost the sight of Hawkins in your rearview mirror. You’re getting a hotel room tonight. It doesn’t matter that it’s out of the unrealistic budget you never really meant to keep in the first place. You need a fucking shower certainly, but that’s not your top motivation. You want a room with an electrical outlet to plug in your new guitar and see how she sounds. The idea sounds stupid inside your own head as you think it, you don’t know how to play. Not even a single chord.

But it feels right in your hand, the weight of it. You brushed your fingers against the metal strings and felt the vibrations move through you, building and creating a need. Your fingers twitched and you felt a song in them, a tune ringing through them that you only vaguely know. You find yourself humming it through your closed lips when you see the roadside motel with the red “VACANCY” sign lit up.

Even with the sun down, it’s hot as hell outside. You’re happy to see that each room has an air conditioning unit set high up in the outside wall. You can almost smell the freon in the air, and it sends a little shiver of excitement down your spine. You’re desperate after leaving the much cooler air of Hawkins. There’s only one other car in the parking lot,that you assume must belong to the person sitting behind the counter of the front desk.

A bell chimes above the front door as you push it open, drawing the attention of a middle aged man sitting with his feet propped up on the counter in front of you. His balance is lost and you see him attempt to catch himself before he slides off the vinyl office chair.

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry.” You offer a quick apology as he awkwardly plants his feet down on the linoleum below his feet, that Midwestern habit that won’t quit. Apologies all around.

“Oh, sorry. I’m good. Just didn’t expect anyone tonight.” He’s giving you a friendly enough smile when he asks, “you need directions? Or, do you want a room?”

“A room please. At the far end, if possible.” You’re thinking about the song inside of you. You need to let your fingers strum without pissing this guy off by making too much noise.

He’s turning to grab a key from the hooks behind his chair, real metal keys with big red tags hanging from each, when he asks another question, “You’re lucky you came through when you did. This place is coming down next month. No one takes these back road highways anymore. It’s too bad. We did alright for a while when the Hawkins ghost hunters used to make a regular appearance, but that’s been waning for years.”

Your interest is piqued at the idea of a local haunting, but even more so at the name “Hawkins”. A part of you had started to wonder if it was only a delusion your mind created, the otherworldly town with the estate sale. The sale that offered you that beautiful instrument and a pick necklace to match the red of the guitar.

“Oh, ya know I just passed through there. What a creepy place.” You wrinkle your nose, remembering the way cracks in the earth spread out like a giant spider web through the town center. “What happened there? Some kind of earthquake?”

The motel manager - you look and see the name “Keith” on his nametag - is looking at you with open shock. Like he’s looking at an alien, something his brain has never seen before. He swallows, shaking his head at the same time and says, “Ain’t no way to pass through Hawkins. The government has blocked off completely at the city limits since the huge ground shaker two years ago. The city hall, along with the entire city block where it sat, were swallowed up into the earth. Real apocalyptic stuff.”

You open your mouth to rebut his statement, and close it again. It really was just a hallucination - a strange oasis hidden inside the surrounding fields of corn. That earth scarred land only lived in your mind, despite the tangible evidence of its existence sitting in the trunk of your car. It doesn’t matter, because you’d rather believe that you lived in a delusion than the alternative. That you entered another world, something that is simply not possible.

But then why do your fingers ache more and more with every passing moment, crying to stroke the neck of the guitar - Sweetheart, Sweetheart, Sweetheart - and coax a song from her. The desire, need really, overwhelms you. So you nod in agreement, say something along the lines of, “of course, I must be mistaken, I’m sure I would have noticed a giant crater in the ground”, and head out the glass door of the motel office.

—

Eddie’s breathing is picking up, something that hasn’t happened in years. It’s been decades of a dreamless sleep, but his mind is sending out small sparks of ideas. His fingers twitch. His heart, that’s been beating at 30 bpms for more than 30 years, is firing at a steadily increasing rate. The chrysalis is beginning to crack, and his mind is humming a tune. One that you’d certainly recognize.

—

The room is exactly how you expected it to look, only a little cleaner. You’re pleasantly surprised to find a light smell of citrus hanging in the air. The sheets are probably as old as you are, but they smell fresh, and the comforter is soft. Any other night, you’d crawl in and fall asleep without a moment’s hesitation. But you’re anxious to spend time with your new treasures. You’re absentmindedly twisting the mood ring on your finger. You expected when you had placed it on your finger earlier to see it change against the warmth of your body heat, but the plastic gem remains onyx.

You try not to think about the reason for your impromptu road trip while you plug in the amp to the wall socket at the head of the bed. You push back on the memories. Strange things speaking to you in the dark, the hospital, the dead things reaching out to you from their restless afterlives. Prescriptions to fight against psychosis and the hallucinations that never fully left, only grew more quiet in your mind. You’ve learned how to survive this world, to disconnect from those otherworldly voices, and to never speak of them out loud in this world where seeing is believing.

Now, though - something is moving you, an impossible to fight force. And that’s fine, because your curiosity, your desire to connect with the thing that’s led you here, is not a malevolent force. You know that in the same way you know that the sky is blue, the grass is green, and that the living and dead are separated by a thin veil that only some folks can see through.

There’s no one here with you to look at your behavior and show you caring concern. No one here suggests the idea that maybe you ought to drive to the nearest inpatient facility and sign your rights away until the “ghosts” leave you alone. So, you let the gentle hand of the spirit speak through your hands.

They’re not your hands anymore. For the length of the song, you’ve been pushed down somewhere deep inside of you. You can feel the weight of the guitar in your hands, feel the strings under your fingers, hear the sounds filling the small room. A presence, stronger than any spirit you’ve encountered before now, is using your body. It’s a peaceful feeling, letting them take the reins, bobbing your neck along with the fierce and frenzied movements of your fingers.

5 miles plus one dimension away, Eddie’s eyes open. You see through them. You feel the cold air, smell mold and dirt. You hear the faint beat of wings, and a scream of pain. Your body never falters while it plays the song that you now recognize as an old Metallica tune. You feel a string pulled tight - that other body sits up in its bed and shakes its head. You call to him without a voice, eerily similar to the way you’ve been called in the past. You feel him exhale as the echo of the final notes your body plays on the BC Rich echo through the room.

—

Eddie doesn’t know anything outside of the need to follow the path in front of him. He remembers dying. He remembers his true self leaving the flesh, drifting through the air of that hell dimension, never breaking through the gates. Eventually, settling back in the still form tucked neatly into the mirror image of the bed where he spent so many hours of his life in the real world.

He knows nothing and everything. His heart beats in his chest, and air moves through his lungs - this is a living body that should have molded along with the blanket that covered it. Instead, he’s listening to a familiar song and following its sound through the empty wasteland where he’s been hidden away for decades.

And you. He knows you, a stranger that heard his soul cry out and answered without fear. He trusts the path, he trusts his guide. He knows the music will show him how to finally leave hell and walk in the sunlight once again.

—

You sit with the neck of Sweetheart, you know this is her name, in your hand. With that knowledge comes recognition. This guitar has an aura. It has a soul. No, that’s not quite right - a piece of someone has been left inside of her. It’s what called you to her. The chain on your neck that held the guitar pick that is currently pinched between your fingers, feels heavy.

“You bitch,” you say to the guitar without bite. You’re feeling duped by that world you’ve tried so hard to pretend does not exist despite all of the evidence you’ve been shown so many times in your life. You whisper out, “what have I stumbled into here?”

You stand and place Sweetheart in the corner and unclasp the necklace from your neck. You leave the chain and the pick on the long dresser in front of the bed in your motel room, and walk out into the humid Indiana summer night. You haven’t had a cigarette in 2 years, not since the last time the call from behind the veil was too hard to ignore, and yet you still clocked the machine that stands just outside of the front office door. You fumble in your back pocket for your wallet and push a 10 dollar bill into the ancient machine. You’ve never seen one of these in the flesh, and wonder if the smokes that come out will be from 2024 or 1986.

You shake your head at the strange, intrusive thought, and absentmindedly pull the knob. It’s not until you’re holding the box in your hand that you realize you didn’t choose your old favorites, Marlboro Reds. You examine the desert scene behind the plastic film with fascination. If you had looked closer at your own hand, you would have seen that the onyx on the mood ring you picked up along with Sweetheart and the guitar pick necklace has turned an opalescent blue-green. But you didn’t do that. Instead, you went back into the now empty motel office to grab a box of matches from the fishbowl next to the guest book on the counter. Again you’re struck by the idea that you have entered a sort of time warp, this place seems stuck somewhere between the past and the present. 1986 with Wi-fi.

1986. The year means nothing to your conscious mind, but for some reason it is conjured once again. You think that Sweetheart will be safe enough in the trunk of your car tonight. Keep the ghost, or whatever is calling to you through the foggy veil between life and death, out of your dreams tonight. The necklace, too. You need to clear your mind or risk being swallowed whole by whatever this is.

—

Eddie is following two things - the string from his mind that is connected to your own, and a faint glow somewhere in the distance. He is trying to think, but his mind is labyrinthine, and he’s somewhere in the middle unable to see the twists and turns that lead him there. Instead, his body moves on its own accord, and he focuses on the light.

There are things following him, he can hear the solid foot falls land with every step of his own. The things, whatever they are, do not register as a threat to him. He feels no need to turn and fix his gaze on them. They won’t bother him. They share the memories of the hive mind, and remember the way his teeth felt biting into their flesh. They remember when his wings beat, and the ground trembled. They remember the things that Eddie forgets.

That light, blue-green and glowing through the darkness of Eddie’s world, takes his feet beyond the places he has traveled. The following footsteps fall away as he continues his journey, the unnatural light frightening the beasts. For Eddie, it’s a beacon of sorts. With each step, his skin grows warmer.

In the void where the light shines for him, a building slowly comes into his view. He would be confused if his mind knew how to perceive the things that he has been experiencing. Instead, a feeling of relief sweeps over his body when he sees that it’s a motel. His legs are tired, and his head feels too heavy on his neck. His feet carry him to the room on the end where the light glows brightly. The bed in the center of the room is where the source of the beacon is found, and he is more than glad to climb into and sleep in its warm glow. It smells like home here, something he hasn’t known for so long. Tears streak down his cheeks while he slumbers, a different kind of rest than he knew in the coldness of his bed that was not his bed in that monster realm.

—

#eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fic

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nightmarevore · 11 days

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Michael blinks, watching his surroundings. Green hues look around in an attempt to take in the surrounding area before landing on the silhouette of someone sitting down in the distance. It looked like… a little boy?

This is so vastly different from the previous place he’d just been in…. He recalls a fire, and falling, but not much else.

This new location was far too unfamiliar to him, and the closest person Michael could see was the person in the distance. With a huff, he makes haste to approach whoever was ahead. As he got closer and closer, he could make out more of the boy, and he was correct in his assessment of him being young.

Weirdly enough, he appeared to be sitting in front of some sort of old, covered up well on the ground. The boy had been staring down inside of it with his legs curled up to his chest. How long had he been sitting here?

“Hey… Excuse me, where are we?” Michael spits out, completely disoriented.

The boy nearly jumps at the sudden voice. Someone else was here? He turns his head to look at the newcomer. He looked like a teenager, at most. Someone older than him.

“Oh, um… my neighborhood?” He replies.

“Well, sure, but where? As in, what city? I think I’m lost.” Michael’s voice is cautious. The little boy’s eyes were a solid, bright green. He hadn’t seen eyes like that since…

“Oh, um… London, I think is what Father says, we’re in London.” His voice is quiet. Nearly a whisper.

London couldn’t be correct. How did Michael get from St. George, Utah, all the way to London, England? If that was the case, we was super lost. How did he get here again?

There was fire. There was a robot. There was…

“Hrrk—!” A sudden pain shoots through Mike’s head at the thought. Alright, try not to think about that.

“Are you okay, Mister?” The kid’s turned fully towards the older man, tilting his head. “You went pale.”

“Oh, I’m… fine, sorry, I think I have a bit of a headache.” Michael chuckles awkwardly. “Thank you for telling me where we are, do you mind telling me your name?”

The boy hesitates. He thinks that he’s not supposed to talk to strangers. Especially ones that are older than him. All they do is bully him. But this man didn’t seem to have the intent to hurt him. Maybe he was okay?

“Will. William.” He answers in a flat tone, soon looking back down to the deep crevice in the earth.

“Will, huh?” The name sent unease down Michael’s spine. The boy’s eyes had a sort of emptiness to them that seemed so uncharacteristic for someone of his age. “Why do you keep looking down there, Will?”

“My bunny is down there.” Green, focused eyes remain locked onto the entrance. “They didn’t get him when they got me out.”

Oh.

Michael looks down, trying to look to the bottom. He couldn’t see it, the sky’s overcast made it too dark to see down inside the pit. William fell down there.

“….. I’m hungry.” William suddenly says, mindlessly. He’s seemingly unphased by his words, but Michael spots the boy’s hand balling his shirt in his fist just over his stomach. “It hurts.”

Michael bites his lip. It hurts? That sounds awfully familiar. The pang of hunger is all too familiar to him.

“You can go home and eat, right?” The older boy feels like he already knows the answer.

William shakes his head, confirming Michael’s suspicions.

“Nothing helps.” He turns to look at the older boy, and as he speaks, Michael can see vaguely sharper teeth in his mouth. They stick out as he talks. Michael finally understands.

He doesn’t know how or why, but he’s standing in front of his father as a child. The thought sickens him and makes him dizzy—How is this even possible?

William Afton, the man who killed all those children, sat before him as a child himself. The monster. The man who ruined everything for all of Hurricane. He’s…. just a starving kid. Michael wants to scream. He wants to cry. He wants to throw himself down the well and hope that nobody cares to save him. Maybe bring William down with him.

But he… can’t. He can’t do that. William, like this, doesn’t deserve it. He hasn’t done anything wrong.

“Nothing helps.” William repeats to himself. “I’m hungry all the time. I don’t… Like being hungry. It hurts. I don’t know how to not be hungry.”

This pulls Michael out of his own head. There’s desperation in his voice that Michael hasn’t heard before. Definitely not from the flat tone of his voice from before. It’s a familiar desperation. Michael knows all too well what it means to be hungry. Ravenous. Starving.

Father always used his hunger as a source of control. He’s who made Michael terrified of the fact he’d a pred, after all. Father would hurt and play with his food. His prey. Cocky and confident. Always hungry and always demanding more. Nothing could satisfy father. Nothing did satisfy him. He would always want more. He was terrifying.

Nothing quite like the kid in front of him.

Michael felt awful. Both in who his father is, and the fact he felt the need to help the boy before him.

“You have sharp teeth?” Michael finally speaks.

“Huh? Oh…. yeah. I don’t know why. They’re very sharp.” William’s gaze breaks from the well, finally shifting to the older boy. He shifts uncomfortably. “They call me a freak. A monster. I think I agree with them.”

This takes Michael by surprise. He’s just a kid, why would he even be a monster? It’s true that he becomes one, but…. He’s so innocent right now.

Right now, Michael reminds himself. He knows he’s a monster. He deserves to fall into that well.

He’s just a kid!

“Well, if it means anything, I think it’s unique. Look.” Michael begins, pushing his thoughts aside. He’s going to ignore the fact that his heart is racing in his chest. Taking a breath, Michael lifts his hand to lift up the corner of his lip, showing off one of his sharper canines.

William’s face lights up. He finally stands, his attention fully on the stranger.

“You have them, too? You’re a monster, too?!” Excitement riddles his voice. He’s full of so much child-like joy.

See? He’s just a child.

Michael pulls his hand out of his mouth, chuckling. He shakes his head.

How pathetically ironic this is. Michael hates the fact he’s a predator. Yes, he’s a monster. Of course he is. He needs to eat people in order to function. How is that not freakish?

This kid, William, isn’t a monster. He’s not a freak. He’s just a kid who doesn’t know who he is. Not yet. He’s just… scared. Scared like him.

God, Mike hates himself. He bites his lip and takes a breath.

“Like I said, unique. It makes you special. You’re not like the other kids. You’re cool, cooler than they’ll ever be.”

William’s eyes stare at the older boy, intently watching with an innocence in his eyes that Michael’s never seen out of his father.

“Special…? Really?” William repeats the words, wondering just how this can make him special. “I’m special. We’re special.”

It’s almost like he’s trying to convince himself of the truth. The words are just beyond his reach, but he’s desperately trying to reach out to them.

“Oh, um… Mister, you never told me your name.” William’s smile is heard through his voice. You wouldn’t need to see him in order to know how happy he is to be told something positive about himself.

“Oh? It’s… Mike, William. Call me Mike.”

“You’re special, Mike.”

The older boy gently gasps with surprise.

#vore pizza adventures #forage writes #vore mention #size on the side #sots #just a little drabble #with my au with medli / wonderful-bellies!

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autumnwoodsdreamer · 2 months

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Write a Different Chapter for Us

Chapter Six: Out of Commission

Summary: The next day, Tony has to go to a meeting. Fury comes to share some intel with Natasha

Words: 3060

Rating: Teen

Characters: Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov, Avengers Team, Nick Fury

Relationships: Tony Stark/Natasha Romanov

Tags: established relationship, family, team as family, pregnancy, conversations

Sleep didn’t usually sneak up on Natasha; but, then again, she’d been trained to not let herself acknowledge basic needs like hunger and exhaustion until she was safe—and she never felt truly safe until it was just her and Tony.

The evening had only just begun fading in when they curled up on the couch. Well, “curled up” wasn’t quite an accurate term; it was more of a coordinated sprawl. Regardless, she was finally comfortable—pressed up against him, stealing his warmth, letting the synchronized thrum of his arc reactor, his heartbeat, and his deep, even breathing draw the dregs of unease and worry from her being. For now, everything was alright.

She was already slipping asleep when he offered a movie. She heard herself hum an agreement, her body too heavy, too disconnected to try forming coherent, audible words.

The movie started. Her eyes refused to open even the slightest and all sound grew muffled and distant. Vaguely, she wished she had a blanket.

Tony shifted, carefully, thoughtfully, but it was still enough to pull her back to the edge of consciousness. He moved away, taking his warmth and heartbeat with him.

She made a noise—it was so pathetic, if she’d been even the slightest bit more aware, she would’ve hated herself. Now, she didn’t care; she wanted to stay here, wanted to sleep.

Why was he moving so much? Couldn’t he just...?

Arms slid underneath her and lifted her up.

A flash of instinctual panic rose at the touch, at someone holding her in a position she couldn’t control. She stirred, tried to drag herself awake and defend herself.

“Shh. It’s okay, Tasha; it’s just me—just Tony.”

The hushed, familiar voice reached her and she let herself relax. She trusted these arms—armoured or not, they always caught her.

Next thing she knew, she was in their bed, under the covers. Habit forced her onto her side, coiling her body up tight and secure. When a warm weight settled behind her, she drew closer to it, to him, and finally gave in to sleep.

. . . . .

For the first time in weeks, she slept right through the night and well into the morning, nausea and nightmares graciously bowing out and allowing her a rare dose of rest.

The other side of the bed was, unsurprisingly, empty. Somehow she just knew he’d stayed longer this time.

She got up. Routine tugged at her, insisting she dress and commence her workout and training. It didn’t take much effort to decline; she may have managed a whole night’s worth of sleep, but it wasn’t nearly as replenishing as it should have been. (That, and she wasn’t entirely sure what she could and couldn’t do regarding exercise—Bruce was still working on that part of the care plan).

She shuffled from the bedroom to the kitchen—actually shuffled, her body still too tired to pick her feet up between each step.

It seemed Tony had achieved the benefits of a full night’s sleep. He had already showered and dressed; Natasha took note of his business attire—smart slacks, pressed shirt, untied tie hanging around his neck. A mental memo sprang up, reminding her of something important he had coming up but she hadn’t paid enough attention to their schedule over the past few weeks to recall details.

He stood in front of the microwave, waiting, his arms folded and his back to her. She purposely didn’t silence her drowsy steps but he still visibly tensed in the split second between sensing another’s presence and registering their identity.

Twisting around, he saw her and broke out a smile, his arms unfolding and inviting her. “Ah, the dead arise.”

“Ha ha.” Natasha accepted the invitation and they locked together; no hesitation, no force—they just fell into place with one another like magnets. Still, she was careful not to hold on too tightly; he may have been standing straighter and not taking as many shallow breaths, but he wasn’t completely healed yet.

Her sense of smell had been so heightened and sensitive ever since the immuno-suppressants let her enjoy a more authentic morning sickness experience; everything stank, everything churned her stomach, even innocuous things she thought didn’t have any notable scent like tap water. But things weren’t so bad this morning; Tony’s coffee and cologne registered as normal, even comforting again.

Whatever he was making for breakfast, however, was another story.

The microwave dinged. Tony didn’t hurry to pull away; she didn’t really want it to end, but she let him go and then strategically moved to take a seat on a barstool on the other side of the kitchen island—as far as she could go to get away from the smell of food but still be in his company.

He pulled a bowl out of the microwave. Natasha had to wait for the cloud of steam to dissipate before glimpsing... soggy bread filled with vibrantly coloured curry.

Just as a precaution, she covered her nose. “What is that?”

“Bunny chow. Apparently.” Tony retrieved a fork from a drawer and poked at his breakfast while withdrawing to a further corner of the kitchen. “Daisy dropped it off for us last night, when you were asleep. It’s Thor’s new favourite food.” He took a bite, frowned thoughtfully, and went in for another. “She said it was really hot but—” a short, terse cough interrupted him. “Oh. Okay. There it is.”

Natasha snickered. “Milk’s in the fridge, dear.”

Tony shook his head and took another bite. “Nuh-uh. I can take it.”

“Suit yourself.” She shrugged and headed to the refrigerator anyway—it was probably a good idea to eat while she wasn’t feeling so sick—but she stopped short.

She hadn’t expected to see the sonogram on the door of the fridge, fixed perfectly at eye-level, nestled amongst their lists and planners and appointment cards and all the magnets they took to collecting for some dumb reason.

Subconsciously, she traced the black and white shapes on the smooth paper and the cartoonish strawberry holding it in place with a featherlight touch.

Grasping the reality of this situation still eluded her. In the wildly hopeful moments, she saw her and Tony and their child; in the moments fear threatened, she protected herself by just shutting down and not thinking about it. It had been easier to believe when they were with the Barton family, so close to Clint and Laura’s joy, enticed to imagine their own; now they were back to normal, back in the world they belonged, and it was a lot harder to deny who and what they were in the midst of it.

But just seeing these blurry pictures, just hearing that heartbeat... it pushed the vacillating mass of hope and fear aside, told perception and imagination to take a hike, and said: “No. Doesn’t matter what you think; doesn’t matter what you tell yourself. Right now, this is real.”

It was just a bit difficult to keep believing it...

“So, I should be back by lunch,” Tony said, his voice careful but trying for casual.

“Hmm? Sorry?” Natasha shook herself and resumed her task of searching the fridge, even though she was quickly losing interest in breakfast.

He shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve got that board meeting today. Can’t shift it again; Pepper already rescheduled it because of that scrap I got into with Whiplash and then, you know.” Flippantly, he drew a circle in the air with his fork. “Our vacation and all... that.”

Natasha frowned and straightened up, altogether abandoning her act. “If you don’t feel well, Pepper will understand.”

“I’m fine, honey, don’t worry,” he assured, fondly exasperated. A beat later, his expression faltered and he dipped his head, suddenly very interested in that curry. “It’s just... I... I don’t want to... well, you know...”

Realization broke her frown. “You don’t want to leave me on my own.”

He met her gaze, took a breath to speak, made half a sound, then shut his mouth and glanced away.

It was hard to explain, and even harder to understand; she gave him credit for trying and an uninterrupted minute to try again.

“It’s not that I think you can’t take care of yourself; I know you can.” He took a quick breath. “And I know I can’t really... do anything to help. But I don’t... I mean, I just...” The words stalled again, leaving him looking lost.

“I will be okay,” she said.

He nodded, the action stilted and hard. “I know.”

“And I won’t be alone. Jarvis is always here. And Bruce is just in his lab; anything happens, I’ll call him.”

Another nod, another “I know.”

“And Tony?” She waited until he picked up on the cue, waited for him to concede and raise his gaze to meet hers again. When he did, she gave him a smile infused with as much assurance as she could muster this soon after waking up. “You do help.”

It took a minute, but when Tony tried to smooth the worry from his expression and mirror her smile, she actually managed to believe it.

She slipped hers into a smirk—it felt like it fit this time. “Frankly, I’m more worried about the board.”

The shift in topic and tone tugged an eyebrow down, then he caught on to her mischievous hint. “Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

She pointed to his breakfast. “They have to sit in a closed room with you all morning.”

He laughed; his real laugh, the one with a snort. “This is a very strategic move, mind you. It’s called mutually assured destruction.”

“Whatever you call it, I’m just glad it’s them and not me.”

. . . . .

Not ten minutes after Tony left, a discreet, electronic chime alleviated the just settling silence.

“Agent Romanov, Director Fury has just arrived in the apartment complex,” Jarvis announced.

“Is he coming here?”

In the space above the kitchen island, a holographic screen appeared and relayed crisp security footage of Fury, striding down the corridor, his back straight, his pace precise and purposeful but not unduly hurried. “Well, he appears to be carrying a rather hefty paper file,” Jarvis pointed out. “In my experience, he only ever brings those here.”

Natasha looked down at the bowl of muesli she’d just made; this day clearly did not want her to get through breakfast and, really, she didn’t feel like fighting that. She left it by the sink and headed to the bedroom.

Ordinarily, she would’ve been dressed for the day by now. She could probably squeeze in a shower in the time it would take Fury to reach the apartment, but she didn’t feel like moving that fast. Instead, she put her hair up and grabbed a gown (again, Tony’s; of course she had her own, but his things were always comfier, and stealing them in a comically obvious fashion was pure tradition at this point).

Fury knocked and waited. He only barged or snuck in during emergencies—emergencies were just so commonplace in his line of work that people had a tendency to misinterpret that as his nature, much like they did hers.

Natasha made her way to the entrance corridor but gave a quick flick of her fingers for Jarvis to open the door before she reached it.

“Next time that husband of yours decides to relocate the Avengers, I expect him to take into account the location of the SHIELD head office,” Fury griped the second he stepped over the threshold, deep voice filling the space. “Do you have any idea how long I sat in traffic?”

“Good morning, Nick.”

“For you, maybe. You didn’t have an idiot in a mini sitting on your butt the whole drive over.”

“You know Tony will just suggest you parachute from the Helicarrier next time, right?”

Fury rolled his eye. “Of course he would...” He cast a quick glance over her; whatever conclusions he drew from her admittedly disheveled state, he decided they didn’t need verbalizing. Still, his expression shifted, softening around the edges. “How is he?”

“Still stiff and sore, but better.”

“He got lucky.”

“Yeah. He did.” She glanced pointedly at the file Fury held at his side. “Business?”

His mouth pressed into a grim line. “Some leads turned up regarding the Whiplash incident.”

Natasha frowned. “Leads? I thought it was pretty straightforward.”

“Initially, it seemed so. But, as you know, you tug on a thread and things start unravelling. Long story short, it doesn’t look like the Maggia hired Scarlotti.”

Something stung in her chest and her stomach clenched. She moved towards the living room, towards the couch, putting forth effort to make it look casual. “And short story long?”

Fury followed her, took a seat on the opposite couch to her, set the file down on the coffee table between them and opened it. “It comes down to two threads. First of all: Scarlotti got away, of course, but he left behind one of his whips.” He flipped through the papers until he reached a photograph of the whip laying limp on dirty asphalt, its serrated segments still covered in deep red blood—Tony’s blood. “SHIELD managed to salvage it and our technicians have been analyzing it. Now, the Maggia are largely traditionalist when it comes to their weapons, but they have developed a mutually beneficial affiliation with AIM in recent years. AIM supplied Scarlotti’s original gear, which was an amalgamation of Vanko’s designs and bits and pieces of Stark weapons—both bootleg and authentic. The Maggia paid for all that. This,” he tapped the photograph, “still has traces of Stark’s tech, but everything else about it is new and unlike anything we’ve come across before.”

“So they got a new supplier?”

Fury shook his head. “The Maggia went on an arms shopping spree this past month. Coulson’s team has been interrupting as many of these deals and shipments as possible, the most recent being just last week.” He flipped through the file again, stopped at a section with a cluster of photographs and specs of various guns, all smooth and fancy and brutal. “These are all AIM. Scarlotti got his tech somewhere else.”

Natasha skimmed through a random page of the specs and the technicians’ notes—while she wasn’t on Tony’s level, she understood a fair bit of the jargon. “Which... isn’t unusual. Despite his history with the Maggia, he’s always operated more as a mercenary.”

“And I would’ve been satisfied to leave it there.”

“But?”

“The second thread.” Without turning the papers again, he pulled out another photograph, this time of a young woman: dark hair, dark eyes, makeup and dress and jewellery aiming for elegant and glamorous but completely missing tasteful along the way. “Recently, the Maggia have been caught up in something of a domestic dispute. Count Nefaria’s daughter, Giulietta, has been trying to take over the family business. By force. The family is split down the middle. They don’t have time to focus on taking down Iron Man, especially when he hasn’t even crossed their path for months.”

Natasha sifted through the file until she found the first picture of the whip. Something about its design rang a faint bell but no connections presented themselves. “So Whiplash got his gear somewhere else, and the Maggia are too preoccupied to put out such a high profile hit.”

“In a nutshell, yes.”

“But you don’t know who made the gear or who hired him.”

Fury sat a little straighter. “That is where you and Stark come in.”

She saw that coming. It was like this mission had been handcrafted specially for them, calling as much for her finesse as it did his expertise.

As Fury continued, outlining other instances of enemy tech with components similar to the new Whiplash gear and the few, hazy leads to the shadowy figure at the centre of it all, a plan of action wrote itself in her mind, quick as an electric shock. Where to begin, who to contact, the paths to take, the favours to cash in—the spy in her was awake and alive and raring to go.

Tony would enjoy dissecting Whiplash’s tech as much as she would enjoy tracking down whoever had the audacity to put a hit out on her husband.

This was her nature, her element. Following clues and traces, bringing all the scattered puzzle pieces together, unravelling the mystery, never knowing just what the big picture will look like in the end, or where the—

She stopped herself.

It wouldn’t all be simple desk work.

“We may not be able to take this on,” she said. When no reply came, she glanced to Fury to ensure she had spoken aloud and not just in her head.

Some of the solemnity gave way to sympathy and he leaned forward. “I realize Tony may not be up to dealing with this so soon—”

“No, it’s not that. It’s me, actually. I’m...” she trailed off, uncertainty derailing her explanation.

Only Bruce knew, and that was out of pure necessity. They had decided not to tell Clint and Laura—as much as they trusted them, it didn’t feel right, not when it was their time to be happy. And they hadn’t sat down and discussed telling any others yet.

But they couldn’t keep it a secret indefinitely...

“While Tony was in the hospital, I... found out I’m pregnant.” She kept her gaze fixed on the papers covering the coffee table; she could sense the consolation in his expression, she knew she wouldn’t take seeing it (she blamed the hormones). “It looks like it may work out this time.”

A warm, calloused hand reached out and covered hers—it was a small gesture, but considering its source, it spoke volumes. “I understand,” he said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze and then drawing back. He kept the silence in place for a moment, offering no further sentiments or sympathies—she didn’t need or want them, and he knew that; it wasn’t them, it wasn’t how they cared. “Would you mind if I left this with you anyway?” he asked. “You’re still my best agent and Stark’s gonna want a part of this.”

She considered it for a minute before nodding. “I just can’t do any of the heavy lifting.”

Fury stood up. “Leave that to me. Just do what you can.”

. . . . .

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#tony stark #iron man #natasha romanov #black widow #avengers #nick fury #ironwidow #tonynat #ironwidow fanfiction #avengers fanfiction #my writing #write a different chapter for us

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pretend-pretend-vampire · 8 months

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just had session 0.5 of ilaria's game, in which the storyteller and I established a bit of the background surrounding ilaria's Embrace. here's a small timeline! it's very fucked up (cults, suicide, vampiric age differences, charm and blood bonding, infidelity, head trauma, etc.)! they're hecata though, what do you expect.

ilaria married their husband durante when they were 30 and he was. well. we didn't establish his age exactly. they'd been dating for 2 years at that point. we did not cover this in detail

what we DID cover in detail was how cool his adoptive mother evelyn is. cool enough of a mother-in-law that she invited ilaria to a bahari church and with a little bit of... persuasion... got them to commit some very sadistic infidelity with her + one of the bahari believers and then blood bonded ilaria afterwards. awful stuff, but again. hecata.

hubby was annoyed that ilaria was out longer than usual without telling him but he's pathetic and annoying so that was unimportant

despite not being religious, the bahari church and the lilins within were pretty cool. there was a nosferatu, claire, who answered a lot of questions. also injuries are fun to look at. lots of worrying vague cultish talk that didn't bother ilaria that much because that's just how religions are and it was amusing. plus evelyn is just so damn charming they can't help but stick around

and then, 6 months after the blood bond, the walk. they took a turn down a dark alley and WHAM evelyn got hit in the back of the head with a metal baseball bat. ilaria went protecc mode and despite getting hit in the shoulder for 1 point of damage they managed to rip the guy's bat out of his hands and scare him off.

they checked on evelyn, who hadn't moved since being knocked to the ground with a caved-in skull. except... her skull started knitting itself back together. she got up of her own accord and was very suddenly on top of ilaria.

the bite came next. the single most agonising thing ilaria had ever felt, far beyond any 10 most mortals would ever experience. even a big tough dom like ilaria was reduced to a crying, writhing mess who couldn't escape no matter how hard they tried. they were completely drained of life.

after that, an after you'd never expect to happen... they awoke with a wrist at their lips. evelyn's wrist, bleeding into their mouth less than you'd expect for how deep the cut was. evelyn retreated when they stirred and loosely bandaged the wound. ilaria felt this... need. they weren't sure what for. it was like a hunger, like a thirst, something fundamental they couldn't quite place.

evelyn offered them something. bags of red, bags of blood. almost mindlessly, barely even aware of themself and entirely incapable of stopping themself, they slaked their all-consuming thirst with the liquid.

when they calmed down, evelyn gave them some basics on the situation and expectations. ilaria couldn't help but listen, having had 2 sips from her already. she was so sweet, so kind, even if she had just inflicted something so incomprehensibly horrible on them. the aura of unease that had followed her while ilaria was human had vanished.

a few days of experimentation and growing, growling thirst later, ilaria approached evelyn about feeding. evelyn explained some more about how if they want the pangs to leave, they'll have to drain someone to death. they talked about blood resonances for a bit (ilaria rolled their eyes at the 4 humours) too

the first kill was decided. ilaria went to a bridge on the river and, luckily, found a lone man there ready to jump. ilaria went to Get Him and it was. pretty bad. he accepted their offer to end it for him, but hecata bites make it not so easy, and, despite himself, he struggled. they didn't let go. they drank up every last drop of life from him, enjoying it as both a sadist and a vampire. those weren't the only sensations in the mix though, and they! were! traumatised! yay!!!

evelyn was sympathetic for how bad that was and ilaria' felt incredibly conflicted about how it went. evelyn handled corpse disposal not by chucking the man in the river but by turning him to dust.

the two had A Talk in the car, and it turns out that was maybe kind of slightly unnecessary. ilaria didn't have it in them to HATE evelyn, but there was definitely anger bubbling over. hooray for composure as a dump stat!

durante was waiting at home, and when he saw ilaria's bloodstained chin and clothes, he got angry. he confronted them about the Embrace, saying he'd been waiting for his turn for 70 goddamn years. apparently he'd been ghoulified when he was younger by his now-deceased biological parents and he'd waited for his parents and then his adoptive mother to sire him.

unfortunately for durante, he had never been vampire material! spineless, weak, subservient, pathetic. exactly what had made him a good partner for the commanding ilaria, though things had become more and more strained over the years.

strained enough that after a talk about how incompetent he was and how maybe he should try harder, lol, he threatened his wife. he told them if they stayed the day they wouldn't see the next night.

ilaria got the last laugh and left, managing to duck out of the way of a statuette he tried to throw at them. they returned to evelyn and explained the whole "your son and I are getting a divorce" thing and they laughed together about it because god he's a loser

more information on the kindred world was passed along to ilaria. the masquerade, the factions, the clans. also, turns out evelyn is close to 200 years old!

a few months later, ilaria and evelyn attended a hecata family gathering. a charismatic samedi, jackson, recognised evelyn and greeted her there. he (and evelyn) explained a bit about the different families present, as well as The Family Reunion. ilaria listened, but was fascinated by the rotting state of the man and got a little too excited! yay messy criticals! their Beast spoke to and as them about how he'd look so pretty all cut up, which intimidated him into leaving.

more soon!

#text #vtm #cw cults #cw sui #cw mind control #(kinda???)#cw head trauma #cw age difference #cw infidelity #bahari #hecata #zin plays #chronicle: ey i'm vampin' 'ere!!!#character: ilaria vann #incredibly problematic behaviour on display here #by many measures #but! entertaining as a story #awful stuff. awful awful stuff. I'm having a ball

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ruckis--rookie · 1 year

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Uuaahh dreamshare from a nap that I had under a read more for cw such as: Animal abandonment, vaguely horror/nightmare like dream, rot and famine, and similar. I entitled the dream "Litch Pig" so that should give you a good idea.

I had a dream where I was with a bunch of people at my grandpa's who I didn't know. I got bored and went outside to look around only to find a very weird horse in the field. It looked diseased and had short legs. It was on its side and looked like it was struggling to get up. It had created a crater around itself from its constant struggling to get up. I went to appraloach, using a gentle voice to ask if it was okay.

It stops in its tracks entirely and I stand from a distance warily. It's then that it gets up and starts making a mad dash for me. It started rotting, looking akin to a zombie as it screamed something about pestilence. Horrified but still within reach of the back door I hurry for the house and just barely manage to outrun the thing.

I could feel myself struggle to close the door as it headbutt it. Keep in mind this door is glass and should have shattered. It didn't. But I managed. It's then that I heard loud pig like squealing from outside and some of the other people moving towards the door, as if hypnotized. I heard screaming that he would make us like him.

I took action and for some reason there was a talking dog there too that helped me out, keeping the hypnotized people away from the door. I found my Bluetooth speaker and had them snap out of it by drawing their attention with loud music. It worked and I had to explain to everyone what was going on. Everyone understood, albeit horrified. The horse looked less like a horse and more like a swine now. In this case and the last it was just *staring* in this eerie fashion. It made me uneased... it was also heavily implied its horse disguise was quite literally rotting off of it. It had made itself look like am injured horse to lure in a victim... then some other chick who missed the news decided to let the gd pig in because it looked sad and lonely out there. I recall I had called her a dumb bitch in the fashion I usually do when I truly think that someone has no braincells. Yes, there is a difference. It's more accentuated.

The pig is let in and immediately everyone goes to stop it and pin it down. It's then that someone next to me manages to manifest food in their hands and I motion for them to feed it. The pig stops and complies, eating the food. I kneel down and have them create more so I can hand feed it and talk to it. The following conversation ensues.

"That's it... now I'll keep giving you food. And in return... I want to talk. I just want to talk. Okay?"

Pig:[compliance]

"Okay... [can't remember the following conversation but it ends up at] Do you have a name?"

Pig:"Hunger."

"Hunger? That's a strange name... very strange indeed. how did you get that name?"

Pig:"That's what my old owners called me because I would eat all the time. I was always hungry. It never seemed to end. One day they up and left me. I couldn't take care of myself and that's when..."

"...when you became this..this... what I'm assuming is a litch of some sort."

Pig:"...you're only talking to me because you think you can gain my trust. Well guess what-"

"No. I'm talking to you to try and make a point."

It's then that I move my hand towards its chest from where I had it, aka the underneath of its chin, and flip it onto its back. I put a boot on its chest to keep it down and summon up a magic wood staff made from a twisted woodland tree. My eyes glow ice blue as my hair crackles with electricity. Really embodying my OC Guffaw for some reason. I also press the business end of the staff to its throat.

"You may be able to fight, but I can fight just as hard. You don't fight with us, we don't fight with you."

I then send a small shock of some kind of radiant energy through it, most likely healing and life aligned magics based on its reaction. And what I said afterwards.

"and I'm your kryptonite."

That's the most I can remember. It didn't fight back, it quickly backed off. I also don't remember much about what led up to this point, just some weird sequence with me in a stupidly big badlands desert type area with one of my friends trying to spot a very particular anthro lion individual that looked kind of like lion King styled female lions. In a group of lions that damn near all looked the same. I was very much complaining and whining the whole time having to stand out in a hot desert.

If I had to take a guess, witch meeting at my great grandpas.

#ruckis borks #incoherent rambling #I blame the fact that we're severely out of food atm and I have -Don't Tell Me How To Feed My Pigs- stuck in the back of my mind #go look it up you'll see what I mean #guess I'm still recoiling from plague of madness a little bit too

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madonnamadeofasphalt · 1 year

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Home

She's stirring something in her cauldron. The wrinkled skin of her hands looks like the bark of a linden tree. The shadows almost seem to conciously arrange themselves in such a way that you can't get a clear look at her face. The air smells like garlic, ginger and smoked fish, and something else, an earthy smell that feels weirdly familiar, even though you don't remember ever encountering it before. You sit there in silence, save for the quiet bubbling of her mixture and the purring of her cat - just a bit too large to be a normal housecat, dejectedly napping near the fireplace, as black as the sky over your distant hometown, where the cold and unfeeling stars were extinguished by the comforting brightness of the streetlamps. You know she's carefully considering your request, but in this moment, she almost seems like she's forgotten you're here.

Worry not, this will make you feel better.

She has a little giggle at your obvious unease, draws from the cauldron and hands you a bowl. It is a simple, wooden thing, nothing like the fancy appliances of glass and ceramics you're used to. She must have carved it herself, perhaps with one of the unsettling number of knives that are hanging from the ceiling like a grotesque Christmas ornament, each one in a different shape; each one, undoubtedly, serving a different purpose. You take a cautious sniff. Wherever the hut's ambient smell is coming from, the cauldron can't be its source. The mixture smells of root spices and herbs, of fresh milk and wild honey, of peace and quiet. It smells like home. Not specifically like your home, a one-bedroom appartment you're renting back in the city, though you could swear you can recognize a vague hint of your favourite brand of coffee, a suggestion of your grandpa's pipe tobacco, just a memory of your mom's cinnamon biscuits - the ones she only bakes once a year. The mixture smells like home in a broad, general sense, like every place anyone has ever called home, like every place anyone has ever felt safe in. You hesitate for just a second before drinking it whole. The blessed warmth that fills your body finally makes your heartbeat slow down. The polished rat skulls on the windowsill are no longer a grim reminder of your own mortality. They look at you with approval, like you've just passed a difficult exam. The drink makes you calm, but not at all drowsy or dazed. On the contrary, all of your senses feel sharper, your focus stronger than ever. Only then, she starts talking. Her voice sounds young, though you know she's anything but.

I have seen a wide array of fools traveling through my woods. Some of them arrogant and self-assured, believing they can conquer and exploit what is not theirs, with maps and plans in their hands, with untold riches on their minds. Some of them terrified and humbled, gradually realizing they are not welcome here, with all the ignorance of their ancestors but none of their skills, with nothing to shield them from my kin, except some plastic tents. And then there are some who come here to worship, those who claim the old faiths they do not comprehend, who call this place a holy land, a sacred grove blessed by the Wild Herself. They call me Her servant, a mighty goddess of the woods, and they beg me to answer their call, to come to the maypole and the fire, to reveal my face to them. They are my favourites. Sometimes, when the hunger strikes, I do as they ask.

She cackles so loudly she wakes the cat, who lets out a deeply annoyed grunt. You get the feeling they live in some kind of a love-hate relationship, she and him. You briefly allow yourself to wonder which one of them is the owner and which one is the pet. But you know there is no point in such deliberations, and anyway, you have a sneaking suspicion that there is no proper word for their bond in any of the languages you know. The cat goes back to sleep, and your host, still audibly amused, continues.

People these days are forgetting who the Wild is, you know. She is beautiful at a distance, so majestic and full of life. And this is not a deception, She is indeed incredible, almost too bright to look at! It is when they see Her as a kind and loving Mother, when they fall in love with Her name, when they yearn to come back to Her bosom, that is when they get lost. And the other ones, those who go in the other direction, those who completely forget that She is a living thing - well, these fools were lost from the start.

Some wolves, or maybe feral dogs, howl outside, as if cheerfully agreeing with the harshness of her little speech.

She is indeed a Mother, you know, though a heartless and violent one. You have moved out, and so you glamorize your naive youth, blinded by nostalgia. But I stayed by Her side, I have tended to Her wounds, I have been living in Her kingdom all this time. We have been apart so long you have almost forgotten me, and my children, and my kin, and even Her. Almost, but not completely, since now you have come to me, speaking the words that had been unspoken since I was young.

You know she's lying, of course. The words were unspoken for a long time, but not nearly long enough for her to had been anywhere close to "young". And she's lying about staying with the Wild, too. She's been closer to Her than you and yours, obviously, but there's a reason she only voluntarily leaves her own home once a year. There's a reason she sneaks around, gathering her herbs and her charms like a thief, with her broom always by her side, with her spells shielding her from harm. Even her house has legs, and it is always ready to run.

And of course, you know better than to call her out on her lies. After all, whatever else she might be, she is also a lonely, old woman. She acts annoyed you've tricked your way into her demesne, but she doesn't often get to speak to one who knows her true name. Her payment is to be listened to, and the privilege it buys is the right to listen. You feign a smile and you nod politely, waiting for her to go on. She pours herself a drink from the cauldron and she downs it like an old alcoholic downs a glass of vodka.

I do feel spiteful sometimes that you have hidden yourselves away in your cities, preferring the demons of History to be your neighbors over me, and mine, and Her. But you know this is an illusion, do you not? Your wise ones still tremble before her vengeance as she threatens you with the fate of Atlantis. Your leaders speak of the Living God, and of a liberation from the Eternal Cycle, and of the power of Science, but their actions betray them. You are still beasts and monsters, living by Her laws, just like me and mine. The fit survive and the weak are doomed to perish. The dragon sits on his hoard, and he shall breathe fire on any who take a single coin. The Golden Duck is hiding in the depths of your iron holds, and she feasts on your misery. The Regulus commands a legion grander than he ever did in the days of old. You have asked for my wisdom? This is it, be thankful.

She's provoking you, or perhaps testing you. It was wise to remain silent so far, but now you're being forced to speak. You think about what answer might be honest, and then about what answer is desired. You remember the songs of your teachers, and the night you first understood the name of the Wild. You remember that forest devil you've met, the one with a Germanic accent, and his friend, the angry Slavic one. They were the ones who taught you the rules of her riddles, though the way they did it was a riddle itself. Their kin loves riddles, they love deep-sounding nonsense and banal-sounding truths, they strive in confusion, they flourish in the dark. It has been your job to make sense of it all for decades now, and sometimes you despise it more than anything. Quite frankly, they're worse than the fairies - those at least don't pretend to be forthright. You sigh bitterly and you start talking, carefully choosing the words that you think she wants to hear.

You are right, Granny, that we're not truly separated from the might of your Mother. How could we be? We came from Her, and she follows us like a shadow, or like a reflection. Our laws exist as a direct act of rebellion against Her laws, for better or for worse, and through that they reflect them in turn. We run away from Her, but She keeps following us, and unlike us, She never grows tired. But you know as well as I do, Granny, that we were shaped by Her to defy Her. The Sacred Law, which is the very reason you haven't eaten me an hour ago, is the greatest illustration of that fact. It's the foundation of everything we've ever accomplished, the reason we've survived even though we're weak. It comes from Her, and it goes against everything She stands for. You are Her most faithful daughter, Granny, and even you and your kin would never consider violating it. And so I ask you once again, as your guest, as your disciple, and to be perfectly honest, as your biggest fan. Give me your wisdom so I can act according to my will.

She smiles with her whole neck, and her many, many teeth glimmer in the dim light with a metallic sheen.

So be it.

And she reveals her face.

#fantasy #original fiction #krysia writes #short story #baba yaga #I dunno I had a sudden whim to write this so I did #low-key mage the ascension-adjacent bc my hyperfixation with it hasn't fully died so I guess I'll tag it as such also #mage the ascension #I'm shit at coming up with plots so sometimes I just write some shit without a real plot lmao

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lunarxdaydream · 2 years

Note

‘👀’ Soon-hee

( send me ‘👀’ for something my muse has said about yours to someone else / when they’re not around )

The fragrance is invading his senses. Copper and roses – touch of cinnamon and clove mingled – an aroma so unique to her. He could hardly focus on the beating of her heart. Could not hear the rush of blood pumping through her veins. There is only the haunting melody still echoing in his mind. Silken. Alluring. Melodic as the sirens from the sea as they drew their victims deeper into the depths. He can barely make out his own thoughts as fingers ran through his hair. His spine left to rest and marble, yet the chill cannot break him from the sweet trance.

“What triggered it?”

“Soon-hee.”

It is as if a phantom reached deep into his chest and pulled the words free. His muscles obeying the call as instinct fell into slumber. “… I crashed with her … and next thing I knew, I saw them.” Or the silhouette of a woman. Hourglass figure draped in the finest of silk. Her hair free and cascading in a pool of raven. Plump lips curling into a smile, speaking to him and … and he didn’t know the rest. He could faintly hear her … recall the sweet smell clinging to her skin and the taste … --

“Their tenacity is the same …”

Soon-hee took what she desired. Spoke her mind. A woman who is undeterred by those around her … and so was … -- Hiss fell from his lips as nails buried into his scalp. “She would have fit right in.” It felt as if those cold phantom hands dug deep into his core. Every barrier broken along the way; shards left and scattered.

“Is it wise to play with the same serpent?”

Harkan could hear the darkness in those gentle vocals. Such mirth and yet, even he had to find himself intrigued. He could vaguely recall the bitter taste of acid burning his throat. The stench of decay in his nose as smoke burned his vision. The screams. The heavy stomps of footsteps running. The weight of a cooling body as nails buried deep into his flesh … --

“What better way to build immunity than be bitten by a viper?”

He could barely make out the smile on the silhouette’s face. Nor the sound of her voice. Ah, was she holding something? One by one, it felt as though the pieces of a puzzle are coming undone. Each plucked and thrown into a box with an endless depth. “To enjoy a demon,” He grinned as eyes opened for a moment. Turmoil once dancing within golden orbs fading as a hunger took hold. Muscles flexing, claws growing as fang flashed beneath the chandelier. “One must rise from hell himself.”

Chaotic thoughts are nowhere to be found. He could feel nothing but the thrill of a kill. Long gone is the weight of unease. Images of creatures lost and locked beneath the shroud of darkness; chains piling one over the other by the icy hands invading his soul. Nothing but the burning desire for destruction itched beneath.

He could spot the stain of crimson on fingers as they withdrew from his head. Blood – his blood – coating her nails as rubies swirled with gold. Black marking withdrawing from her skin yet his only warmed to an almost unbearable heat. “Besides,” Calloused hand closes around her wrist where lips near enough to lick index. Ah … only natural of her to avoid harming herself …

-- A shame but he supposed it was only appropriate to take back his own blood.

“… I don’t think she’s struck me just yet …”

“Masochist.”

“Maybe but so long as heads roll, you don’t care what I do.”

Now it as her turn to smirk. Not a single ounce of effort bothered to be made to hide her feelings and frankly, Harkan wasn’t surprised. Far as he was concerned, anyone who could be with Anki and Kreios was a monster in herself.

“Try not to underestimate, Harkan.”

A deep rumble rose from his chest; a chuckle free to echo against the vast room as he sat up with fingers running through blood-stained hair. A wild look gleamed in his eyes; fanged smile all too eager for what the future had to hold. “What’s the worst that can happen?” It is a deadly door to knock. One that, anyone with half a mind and reason knew better than to pry open …

-- But those days of logic are long gone.

“I’ve got nothing left to lose!”

|| @arcxnumvitae ||

#( Harkan || answered )#arcxnumvitae #( q: with the pups )

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xamassed · 2 years

Text

good food. ( inspired by @demonsofdevildom )

She had almost forgotten about it. After many hours spent slogging through mathematics, seductive speechcraft, illusions, potions and the handful of other classes she barely paid attention to, it was understandable that a small memory from early in the morning would fade into obscurity somewhere in the back of her already clouded mind.

Sadly, once lunchtime rolled in, the famished demon couldn’t ignore the small, plastic container sitting at the bottom of her bag. Spotting it wedged between her books, her dread swelled to uncomfortable proportions.

❝I forgot you were in there. . .❞

She pulled the container out and lifted it high, eyes peering through the clear portion. There, stuck to the bottom and sweating, was a large piece of charred meat. Deer, she recalled. The hunt from that weekend had been a fruitful one, and she had been glad for it. No jobs and no menial chores to breeze through meant no grimm, and no grimm meant no cafeteria lunches — at least for a little while. She didn’t mind. If she wanted to keep her senses keen and sharp, she needed to wander the wilds of the Devildom and hunt the way she had when she was nothing more than a simple bear. Only difference now was that her beastly form as faster, stronger and ten times more fun to be in.

No amount of hunting and the thrill of remembering could make what she had cooked up that morning taste any better, unfortunately.

❝Why am I so bad at cooking? It’s not that hard.❞ Anita peeled the lid off the container and was immediately hit with the tongue-drying scent of ash. Her nose wrinkled at the stench, but she knew that it was all she had to eat between classes. Either she gnashed and tore her way through the leathery piece of meat to satisfy her hunger, or she went without and risked becoming grumpy for the rest of the day.

The former option was best, she knew this.

As she was about to yank a portion off with her teeth, however, she realized with a start that she wasn’t alone. Sitting across from her, perched on a similar-looking stone bench, was a vaguely familiar figure. Hair the shade of sand after the waves rolled past, eyes bright and blue despite sitting in a stony expression, and clothes so elegant and white they made her feel soiled just by glimpsing them. His name eluded her, but she recalled two important facts: he was new, and he was an angel.

Sitting with someone in the courtyard wasn’t an issue, and neither was it the first time. She could have gone on to eat her sad excuse for a lunch and ignored him, except he seemed strangely intent on watching her. It was unnerving, having a glare as steely as his trained on her.

❝You good, dude?❞

He didn’t answer, but his gaze remained firm. It made her uneasy, but that unease began to creep into irritation. Any longer, and it was sure to morph into unreasonable rage. ❝Seriously, what’s your deal?❞

❝What is that?❞ He finally spoke, tone flat as he pointed towards the container in her lap.

❝Oh.❞ She sucked in a calming breath, willed herself not to fly into a rage over something as silly as staring, and lifted the hunk of meat with her fork. ❝Venison. No, wait. It used to be venison.❞

❝Deer meat?❞

❝Mhmm. Dunno what I’d call it now ‘cause I messed up cooking it this morning.❞ She shrugged, as if that fact didn’t disappoint her. Somewhere, deep down, it did.

❝It looks fine to me.❞

Anita gaped, earthen eyes flicking between the angel and the meat that looked more like the sole of a shoe. ❝You’re kidding me.❞

❝I don’t kid.❞ He gathered up his own mess and made a solid beeline for her. With a spot open on the bench, he welcomed himself into her space. Old habits and preconceptions made her shudder at the proximity. He was a pure and enlightened being, and the thought of being near one always made her chest fill with small, disgusting bubbles — not because she disliked angels, but because she didn’t want to sully them.

❝What did you come over here for?❞ There was no room to inch away, so she settled for leaning in the opposite direction.

❝Can I try it?❞ He made the request so clearly and concisely that it prompted a bark of laughter from the onikuma.

❝No! Look at it, it’ll take your puny little jaw ten years to chew through this!❞

❝I doubt that.❞ He paused, observed the hunk of meat in silence, then tried again. ❝Please.❞

❝You’re serious?❞ Anita knew she was already on thin ice with her awful grades, fluctuating attendance and spotty behavioral record. The last thing she needed was a murder of an angel on her hands. ❝You might get sick.❞

❝Do you assume all angels have weak constitutions?❞ He arched one, thick brow and held his hand out. Anita felt her own stomach pinch, partially out of guilt and mostly out of apprehension. This felt like a horribly moronic idea, but he seemed certain that her awful cooking wouldn’t mean his demise.

❝Fine. Here.❞ She held the fork out, and he took it without hesitation. The next second, his blunt teeth sank into the tough meat with little resistance. He yanked, the portion tearing away effortlessly. Flecks of blackened skin and muscle fell away, staining his lower lip as he chewed, chewed, chewed.

He didn’t gag, he didn’t spit the bite out. He swallowed it, let out a considerate hum, then tore another chunk away.

Anita watched with her jaw slack, her horror slowly shifting to confusion, to concern.

❝How are you eating that?❞

❝It’s good. I like it.❞ An easily given answer for an easy question. ❝I don’t know why you were hesitating to eat it.❞

❝I burned it,❞ breathed the demon in awe, ❝and I’m pretty sure I added too many spices. Are you already sick? Did you get dropped on your head a lot, or what?❞

The angel blinked and slowly shook his head. ❝No, not that I remember.❞

Anita snorted and passed her now empty container over, giving him something to catch the loose pieces of meat in as he feasted. ❝Alright, whatever. I’m out a lunch, but I guess if someone liked it, that’s fine.❞

❝Was this all you had?❞ A flicker of guilt melted away the stoicism in his eyes.

❝Don’t worry about it. I have more at home.❞ She waved away the sudden wash of concern, but her reassurance did nothing to ease his guilt.

❝If I’d known——❞

❝Seriously, you’re fine. I know for a fact that it’s bad, but you said something nice about it, so it’s worth it. Relax.❞

The angel frowned deeply for a moment, thoughts taking him elsewhere before he let out a grunt and chowed down again. Around a smaller mouthful, he grumbled. ❝Come to Purgatory Hall after school. You can have dinner with us, as thanks for letting me eat this.❞

❝I don’t think I’m allowed there.❞ She wasn’t a stickler for the rules, obviously, but those bone-deep thoughts that made her assume she was dirty kept her from going anywhere near the dormitory where she knew the angels lived.

❝I’ll ask Simeon and Solomon. I’m sure they’ll agree that it’s only right I offer you something in return.❞ Another flicker of vibrant glee touched at the crystal blue of his eyes. ❝You can try Solomon’s cooking!❞

❝Yeah? Is he good?❞

❝He’s amazing. Simeon and Luke are good too, but there’s something about Solomon’s cooking that I can’t quite get enough of.❞ His excitement was contagious, even if it only lasted for a singular, fleeting moment. ❝You’ll come?❞

❝I feel like I’m gonna look like a total ass if I don’t, so — yeah. Sure.❞ Free food was free food, and she wasn’t all that inclined to reject the offer now that he insisted. ❝After school?❞

❝I might be a little late getting there myself, but I’ll let them know you’re coming. If they don’t get my messages, tell them Raphael sent you.❞ He licked his lips clean, closed the fork inside the container, then popped the lid back on. It was returned to Anita’s hand, her stomach growling at the reminder that she had now skipped lunch. ❝Thank you.❞

❝Raphael? Anita. Uh, yeah. No problem. Still think you’re a little weird, but at least it didn’t go to waste.❞ She wouldn’t mention then, or even years from now, that he had brightened her mood. Hunger pains would have driven her to grouchiness, but the shamelessness with which he ate her horrid cooking and his sincerity had made up for it.

Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t a bad idea to spend a little more time around angels.

#「 ( drabble ) 」#「 v. from the mountains comes the onikuma ( anita ; obey me ) 」#( kou indulged me mentioning anita for two seconds on discord and an idea popped )#( she's bad but she's not AS bad as solomon )#( but she has the advantage of KNOWING and accepting she's bad )#( all she needs is someone willing to teach her and she'll learn )#( but she also :') doesn't know how bad solomon's cooking is rip )#( she gonna die )

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taughtdefense · 1 month

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you're trying your damndest to act like a bolt of heady joy doesn’t zip through your bloodstream at dizzying speeds, all because of @taughtpain pulling you right up against his side. your body automatically shifts to press right up against him, both your human & eldritch minds buzzing with satisfaction in tandem. your eyes slip shut for a moment & you get lost in the feeling of robby taking the lead; every single atom in your body burns pleasantly, always so in tune to robby’s frequency ( he feels like home ), the point of origin being where robby's arm is around your waist. you become like puddy underneath his touch, shoulders relaxing & a soft, warm look passing across your face. it settles in your eyes. pliant & mailable, trusting him completely. you’re quietly watching wade—who is in the kitchen—chat with johnny. wade’s eyes flash towards you, & then not-so-subtly smirks at the way you’re folded up against robby, the look of happiness on your face, easily sliding back into the conversation before johnny can figure out that his son & son-in-law are being clingy with one another just feet away from them. thank god johnny’s back is to you both. you appreciate your dad covering for you, so you smile softly at him in thanks. he nods back. he & vanessa are similarly clingy with each other. you definitely picked that up from them.

you’re almost desperately trying to ignore the vague feeling of unease that’s been ruminating in your gut since you woke up this morning; the feeling has only grown more. your eldritch self had sensed, too. you don’t know what could possibly go wrong. you’re here with your fiancés, with your family. no one is here to hurt you, or hurt robby. it’s a little laughable to you that your own unease is freaking you the hell out.

goddamned feedback loop.

miguel is standing next to his mother at the kitchen island, their backs to you. they’re both watching his grandmother & your mother add on to the steadily increasing batch of tamales together ( apparently, it’s vanessa’s grandmother’s—your great grandmother’s—recipe ). miguel is rubbing his hand lightly, smiling a little bit guiltily. his yaya smacked him with a wooden spoon because he’d tried sneaking in some food for you; you had a bad start to your day earlier. all miguel got was whacked & then reprimanded in spanish for it. you appreciate the effort—more like the sacrifice—from your fiancé.

you’ve been glued to robby’s side since you walked in the door. miguel’s a little concerned about you—he has been for a while now. you haven’t eaten anything of substance all day, & just wanted to help get your strength back. once he’d said that first part, his grandmother whirled around to face you—the look in her eye somehow both aghast & annoyed that her grandson-in-law hasn’t had anything to eat all day—while silently asking with her gaze if you’d like something to hold you over… & also like she was trying to figure out what food would satiate your hunger the quickest. to make matters a little more uncomfortable, vanessa, johnny, carmen & wade had all looked at you in concern, the same way miguel & his yaya had. you felt split open, exposed, like a toursit attraction for them to look at & be judged by.

you know that’s not fair to them, though. you know you’re incredibly lucky to have so many people who care about you. you felt a little put on the spot, like a big stage light just started shining on you, but you still politely declined food. even if you started to tense like you’d heard a timer start counting down, becoming a little mentally closed off. ever since silver’s attack ( & maybe even before that ), you go through these sudden bouts of emotional slumps, where you go quiet, a little numb. you’re just heavily traumatized in general, & none of the experiences you’ve had have helped soothe that over. for fuck’s sake, you did clinically die twice. you’re not hungry at the moment, you’re just… well, overthinking. you’ll have some food in a bit.

it feels like now more than ever, you need to be at robby’s side, or you’ll explode.

you’ve been mentally keeping a read on everyone’s emotions over the course of the night. it’s something you’ve gotten into the habit of doing recently, even as mentally & emotionally taxing as it is, but you’re looking for any signs of something going wrong. also, you’re a little overwhelmed because there’s music playing over the speaker: spotify on carmen’s phone is the dj for tonight. it’s not anything like heavy metal or screamo, thank void, but a random playlist she’d randomly picked out, the original maker of the playlist clearly having an eclectic music taste. that same damn playlist consists of spanish songs, jazz songs, pop songs, r&b songs. it’s why you’ve been trying to tune it out for the past few minutes. the unpredictability of it is grating on your nerves. you suppose if you want to leave here, you, miguel & robby could go to that huge teen party at some rich kid’s house in encino. apparently, there’s a huge pool. ( moon had offered to host it at her house, but that fell through for some reason. you’re a little bit glad it did, because of past experiences at that fucking house. ) that’s where tory, hawk, icarus, chase, rosalie, elena & your other friends are right now. johnny, carmen, wade & vanessa would understand if the three of you left, you think. you’re not totally sure about miguel’s grandmother, though.

you promised yourself you’d try to stay the entire family get-together, sans mr. & mrs. larusso, who got called into work two hours before they were set to arrive. but as the minutes tick by, you’re clearly being drained of energy, but your anxiety has only increased. you’ve had an unsettled, anxious feeling in your gut since you walked into the apartment; it has grown from a small, mostly ignorable pit to something much more severe & unavoidable.

still, though… you don’t want anyone to worry about you. well, worry more. least of all robby.

you wait a few moments before you place your hand on top of robby’s around your waist, & the warmth that’s settled in your bones turns one degree warmer. you gently press a kiss to robby’s clothed shoulder, pulling back to meet his eyes. ❝ i’m sorry i wasn’t really in a t-talkative mood with you this morning. ❞ you apologize quietly—instinctually—thanks to a certain ex-boyfriend who shall not be named. the or with anyone else ( namely your other partners ) goes unsaid.

❝ you didn’t do a-anything wrong. ❞ you continue, like you’re worried he’ll assume that he did. ❝ none of you did. i was stuck in my own head… ❞ you pause for a moment as you consider your own words, then murmur: ❝ i-i think i still am. but having everyone here makes me feel a little better. having you here with me, especially. ❞ you manage to smile at him, & this time, it reaches your eyes. you’re clearly still on the fence about attending the other party, the one with your friends, sibling-figures, & fiancée’s. maybe you’ll come to a more concrete decision after you have dinner with your partners, your parents & in-laws. but as long as robby doesn’t let go of you for now, you’re okay.

#taughtpain #in character. / season 6.#main verse.: miyagi fang. — ❝ i ached for warmth & peace. the universe laughed at me. ❞#// long post

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vinceviralfreak · 8 months

Text

In the realm between Heaven and Hell, where lost souls wander aimlessly, there existed a peculiar group of men and women. These souls were different from the others, for they were unaware of their own demise. Trapped in a perpetual state of confusion, they roamed the desolate landscape, their minds clouded with uncertainty.

Among them was Emily, a young woman with a haunting beauty. She had no recollection of her past life, only a vague sense of unease that clung to her like a shroud. As she wandered through the barren wasteland, she noticed others like her, lost souls searching for answers they could not find.

One day, as Emily aimlessly wandered, she stumbled upon a dilapidated mansion that stood ominously amidst the desolation. The sight of it sent shivers down her spine, but an inexplicable force drew her closer. With each step, the air grew colder, and the atmosphere thickened with an eerie presence.

Inside the mansion, Emily discovered a group of men and women huddled together, their faces etched with fear. They too were unaware of their own demise, trapped in this purgatory of confusion. As Emily approached, they turned to her, their eyes filled with desperation.

"We don't know what's happening," one of them whispered, his voice trembling. "We can't remember who we are or how we got here."

Emily's heart sank, for she realized she was not alone in her plight. Together, they formed an unlikely alliance, determined to uncover the truth behind their existence in this twisted realm.

As they delved deeper into the mansion's dark corridors, they encountered malevolent spirits that lurked in the shadows. These tormented souls, consumed by their own anguish, sought to drag the lost souls into eternal damnation. The group fought valiantly, their fear fueling their determination to survive.

With each encounter, fragments of their past lives began to resurface. Memories of love, betrayal, and unspeakable horrors flooded their minds, threatening to consume them. Yet, they pressed on, driven by an insatiable hunger for answers.

Finally, they reached the heart of the mansion, a room bathed in an otherworldly glow. In the center stood a figure, cloaked in darkness, its presence suffocating. The figure revealed itself to be a malevolent entity, a collector of lost souls, feeding off their confusion and despair.

"You are mine," the entity hissed, its voice echoing through the room. "Forever trapped in this purgatory, never to find peace."

But the lost souls refused to surrender. With newfound strength, they fought against the entity, their combined willpower overpowering its malevolence. As the entity dissipated into nothingness, the lost souls felt a surge of energy, a glimmer of hope.

In that moment, the veil of confusion lifted, and the lost souls finally understood their fate. They were no longer bound to this purgatory; they had earned their redemption. With a sense of purpose, they bid farewell to the mansion, leaving behind the horrors that had plagued them.

As they ascended towards the light, Emily and the others felt a profound sense of peace. They had faced their fears, conquered their demons, and emerged stronger than ever. In the realm between Heaven and Hell, they had found their salvation.

And so, the lost souls, once trapped in a perpetual state of confusion, found solace in the embrace of Heaven. Their journey through the horrors of purgatory had transformed them, and they would forever be remembered as the brave souls who defied their fate.

#stranger things #scfi #horror #scifi

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whatifyoulivelikethat · 3 years

Text

bite | knj

a drabble series where each bts member feeds their vampire.

pairing(s): namjoon x reader

notes: vampire!reader; fluff; Namjoon's POV warnings: a vampire bite + blood

He knocked on the door and popped his head in. A book was resting on her face as she stirred, sitting up and causing the book to fall into her lap. She yelped and rubbed her eyes. He could see how pale her face was and he could guess how cold her hands were. She wore a big black sweater and black jeans, no rips. Her lips were almost purple-blue.

His heart sank. Despite his unease, he smiled and waved. “Hey.”

She yawned, hand over her mouth. “Namjoon?”

He hurried to her side and placed his hand on her forehead. She tried to twist away but his fingertips brushed against her forehead. It was ice-cold. He pursed his lips.

“You haven’t been eating.”

She looked annoyed and ashamed at the same time. “I’m fine. I can last a long time.”

He tugged at the black sweater. “You’re wearing such a thick sweater in the summer. You’re not fine.”

She grunted and picked up her book, looking upset that she had lost her page. She put it down and sighed, rubbing her lips. He leaned forward, close to her face. He tapped the base of his neck.

“Here.”

She shook her head. “No, I already told you. I’m not going to do that to you.”

He frowned and scooted closer to her. “Don’t be stubborn. It’s only natural.”

She gave him a look and placed her hand over her mouth. “It’s not and you know it.”

“It’s natural for you, so who am I to judge?”

He could see the hesitation in her eyes. He lowered the collar of the t-shirt a bit. Her eyes followed his hand before snapping back up. He could see the feral hunger behind her collected demeanor.

“Come on. I can’t let you starve.”

She finally lowered her hand. He could see the pointed canines through her open mouth.

“Are you sure?”

She was breathing hard, looking into his eyes. She was so beautiful. She was trying hard to resist and, if he said no, she would move away and leave him alone. There was no way she was a monster. He smiled at her.

“Of course. Come here.”

She leaned forward and her eyes left his. He felt the pointed tips of her teeth touch his skin. She was shaking. Once again, she asked for permission.

“I can’t stop once I start.”

He reached up and petted her hair. “I know.”

The initial pierce is what hurt the most. It felt like large-gauge needles. Her mouth covered the bite and his eyes rolled back into his head, feeling her tongue on his neck. He felt the vague sensation of liquid in her mouth, but it was clouded by the euphoria that swept through his body like wildfire. He was becoming weak, sluggish, but something inclined him to lean closer, give more. Her arms came up and held him close, her fingers splayed across his shoulder blades. She was murmuring his name, stroking his back. She could have gone on forever and he wouldn’t have noticed. He couldn’t tell when she finished, but, at some point, she placed kisses on his neck, soothing the irritated skin. Her tongue felt warm.

“You’re too good to me,” she murmured softly.

He slid down, into her lap. He looked up, seeing her flushed cheeks and her tongue running over her now pink lips, cleaning away the evidence. Namjoon smiled up at her and she stroked his hair.

He tugged at her sweater. “You don’t need this anymore, do you?”

She chuckled. “No, not anymore.”

He sighed in satisfaction as she tugged the sweater over her head.

bite. knj — ksj — myg — jhs — pjm — kth — jjk

drabbles masterpost | masterpost

#namjoon x reader #namjoon x you #bts drabble #namjoon drabble #kim namjoon x reader #kim namjoon x you

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smallhorizons · 2 years

Note

Osiris has anyone asked you about the TMA Self Indulgent Time Travel AU yet???

Hehe, they have not!! Thank you for sending an ask :D

TMA Self Indulgent Time Travel AU

So, the self-indulgent time travel AU actually started while S4 was ongoing and we still thought the Extinction was a viable threat. I was like "hey what if Elias is going to do a last-minute Watcher's Crown ritual to try to beat out the Extinction, except the ritual triggers the Extinction's emergence? And Jon is at the center of everything so he's able to rewind time in some way? Except since he just "drowned" in the ritual (a la his quote about if he opens the door in his head, he'll drown), he doesn't go back in time with all his memories: Just a vague notion of what is going to happen, the bare bones and a few specific details which are more sense memories than actual awareness."

Here's an excerpt, from when Jon has just successfully crash-landed back in his body the day that he received the webbed lighter, and is utterly out of it:

“ -- me? Oh, my God, please wake up.”

-- and now there is Martin Blackwood, face looming, very close. He is flushed red, looks to be on the verge of tears. Something deep in the Archive itches. It doesn’t like that this person is upset. It doesn’t like that it doesn’t know why it doesn’t like Martin Blackwood being upset.

“Oh, thank Christ,” Martin gasps. He begins to babble, words tumbling over one another on their way out. “Jon, I am so, so sorry, I didn’t realize you were there--God, I’m an idiot--Are, are you okay? Tim went to get help and, and Sasha is calling an ambulance, she had to go upstairs, there’s no signal down here--well, you know that--I--” and then he takes several deep, quick breaths, and holds the last one, squeezing his eyes tight. The Archive takes the opportunity to count the freckles on Martin’s eyelids, even though it already Knows there are three on the left and four on the right. It is pleasantly surprised, if it can feel such a thing as surprise, pleasantly or otherwise, that this is unfolding so slowly, moments trickling into one another rather occurring all at once, and then never, and then again. It likes looking at Martin Blackwood.

When Martin opens his eyes again, he looks calmer, but also increasingly worried. “Jon?” he says tentatively. “You - You haven’t said anything.”

The Archive doesn’t say anything, because it is not a thing that acts, only is acted upon, and when it continues to not say anything, and when it feels the seconds continue to unspool at the same steady pace as before, and when it realizes that it doesn’t remember this, the Archive draws in a sharp and ragged breath. He has to take a moment to think, but his mind is static. His thoughts, so used to a sideways, upside-down, fractal world, dissipate. He shifts, very slightly. He curls his fingers. He has a body again. He blinks up at the ceiling - up at the ceiling? He is starting to realize he is flat on his back on the floor of the Place-Archives, the Outside-Itself Archives. The cold of the stone floor is starting to seep through his shirt. Martin is kneeling next to him, hands on his shoulders. He is bone-white beneath his freckles. The fear rolling off of him makes the Archivist shiver in something like unease, or like hunger.

The Archivist knows how human bodies work, and why they work, so it is frustrating that it takes him so long to remember how to speak. “Why.” He stops. His throat aches like he’s been screaming. “Why am I on the floor?”

Send me one of my WIP titles and I'll tell you about it!

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #osiris writes

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uniquevocashark · 2 years

Text

unorganised venty ficlets

content warnings for the following: blood, graphic depictions of gore, branding, vague sexual tension, mentions of general destruction, flogging mention, threats of violence, implied torture

“It’s alright.”

You blinked and looked around. You were in a warmly lit room, made of dark wood, with servants that hid their faces but for their eyes and the crest burned into their foreheads. You went to put your hand to your chest to quell the unease brewing there but Alcina caught it and rubbed your knuckles.

“Be still.” She chided and you realised that she wasn’t wearing her armour. She was smiling, too, softly, and it pulled one of her scars into an unnatural shape. You touched it and her smile changed into a smirk. The same one she had when she so proudly paraded you around the city, your dead husbands head in your lap. You could still feel the stickiness.

Alcina pressed a metal charm of that crest against your neck, a flower with two crossed swords. You didn’t fidget, though you wanted to, and instead studied her. She was still taller than you, even though you stood on a stool, and her hand was rubbing your hip, moving you slightly as she examined your outfit. It was a wedding dress; she had told you. You were being remarried, for the legitimate claim you had to your husband’s land. Helped along by the mass murder of every man even slightly related to him. It would help the transition, or so they said.

You were sure something else was at work.

Alcina was more intimidating without her armour because it was clear she never needed it in the first place. She walked with a certain gait; confident, arrogant and sure footed. You could tell her strength just by the way she stood; it was made worse that you enjoyed that.

She cupped your chin and kissed you.

You fell to the ground with a thud, blood staining your hand covering your mouth.

She smiled, calmly.

Alcina grabbed your chin and you held onto her wrist as she yanked you up. She shook her head, her disappointment eclipsed by the amusement plain on her face. “Don’t get lost in your head, you naughty girl.”

You went red.

The night tastes of ash and burnt things.

You don’t have the words to describe the sky now; red and blazing, bright as a morning during the dead of night, cold as a grave yet hot as a scorching desert. You don’t have the words.

Why does everything feel so familiar?

There is the tailor shop, now infested with the invading soldiers in their devil mask helmets with their strange swords. You hug your stomach wound, where your sure a bit of that metal has stuck to your insides and twisted them into rotten viscera. Why does it remind you of hunger?

Where are the carts that usually move through the streets? Where are the vendors and the midwives and the shoppers moving across the stones? Why isn’t it water gushing down the drain?

You pass a tavern and its gone. Not even the fire that burned it down remains and there are soldiers here too. They wear white armour, with roses of black metal on their shields and scabbards and they look at you but don’t see you. The grip their weapons and you stumble into the black puddle that should be mud like it always is but you know. You shake your head and move.

The metal in your stomach is colder with every step, and it won’t come out but as you wander those alien streets of everything you’ve ever known, you don’t ever want it to leave. Not as you pass dogs tearing through intestines. Not as you pass by where the recruit wannabe always stood by the lamp post and find his head split like a watermelon, his brains pecked with holes by the greedy little crows that watch you with glee. And just like that, you already miss his goofy hole filled smile.

You cover your mouth and its not helping, it never does, and now you can taste iron with the ash and the burnt flesh taste that’s there and won’t leave and—

You vomit, take a breath that tastes of iron and rot, and you keep on going.

When someone grabs you, you don’t even have the strength to fight back. You freeze, and their hands are so large; black gauntlets with spikes for fingers, digging into your cheeks and pulling you hard against white armour.

She decided she likes you.

You don’t know who she is but she is as tall and broad as a bear. She gets you treated, she feeds you, cleans you, comforts you. And when you struggle, she laughs at you. You back up in a corner away from her, with a steak knife that she looks at it with the same disdain a farmer has for a wilted crop, and the amusement practically radiates from her as she steps closer.

She sits at the table, pours herself a glass of the reddest wine you’ve ever laid eyes on, and takes her helmet off.

Your stomach twists and she laughs again, a smirk pulling her face into a twisted sneer. “Try, dear, see where it gets you.”

You don’t move and she drinks two glasses before she has food brought in. There is so much, and you watch as she pops two fresh grapes into her mouth before offering you a third. “Hungry?”

“No.” You hiss but your stomach grumbles in protest.

“The theatrics are tiresome,” She ate a cut of meat, “Come eat or I’ll have you flogged.”

Her armour is shiny, and she wears a long, fur trimmed cape with three roses pinned to the breast. The emblem embroidered is one of a winged infant and on her hand is a crest of a flower with two crossed swords. You hesitate and she sighs.

You take your meals with her chained to the chair after that.

She’s polite, she could be charming, but she’s so clearly having fun causing you pain.

“I’m Alcina,” She says one time, pouring lemon juice on your chafed hands and watching you struggle against the pain. “And you are?”

#lady dimitrescu #evil knight alcina au #or the beginnings of one #this is really underdeveloped #i just wanted to write a mean evil alcina #there will probably be more #eventually

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bb-kawa · 3 years

Text

Pairing: Oikawa x female!reader, Oikawa x y/n

Summary: Oikawa helps you through that time of the month.

Warnings: Blood. Depictions of blood. Fingering. Periods. Period sex. Smut below the cut. Seriously don’t read if something like this is going to gross you out. Oikawa has a kink for blood.

I’ve read too many terrible vampire smut fics. Oikawa is not a vampire in this though.

All characters are aged up

18+, Minors DNI. I will block if I happen to see an age below 18 interacting.

Also constructive criticism is fine. Especially in my inbox on anon.Just don’t make me cry. I really only write for fun and don’t necessarily care for notes but I would like to improve.

Do not re-post my stuff. Also don’t rec my stuff on any other sites (tiktok) (not that my writing is good enough for that but still needs to be said nowadays. Dont rec people’s stuff without their permission. Especially on tiktok.)

Clicking read more means you consent to reading and are 18+.

Oikawa gently closes the door behind him, taking a few steps into the entryway of your shared apartment. He could vaguely hear the busy street life occurring outside on the streets of Argentina as he slips his shoes off and hangs up his coat.

He feels a slight sense of unease at the darkness of the apartment, usually you were home by now, running up to him with a hug and a hello. He walks down the hall checking the various rooms for your presence.His worries are resolved though as soon as he takes a small peek into the bedroom and sees your figure huddled underneath the bedding. The glow from the muted TV being the only source of light as he slowly enters the room striding around to your side of the bed.

“Hello love, are you feeling okay? Or are you just napping?” Oikawa prods, placing a hand onto your side, adjusting the blanket and pulling it down to see more of your face. He bends down pressing a soft kiss to your lips, noting the pained look in your eyes.

“My cramps are really bad today, Tooru.” you answer him as he watches you shift your hips on the bed curling up even more. He can see the clenching of your jaw and tensing of your shoulders. The apparent discomfort gracing your features. He feels a bit of pity at knowing what you have to go through each month. The feeling is marred though by the slight glee he feels at what he's about to offer you.

“Oh my poor baby. Would you like some help with that?” Oikawa coos, slipping his hand beneath the covers and bringing it right to the hem of your shorts slowly massaging into the skin of your hips. How could he not offer to help his poor girlfriend in her time of need. It was the least he could do. He just hopes you don’t think the hunger in his eyes is only due to his more nefarious desires than his want to help.

You know exactly what Tooru is asking though and regardless of how pure his intentions are he’s never had an issue with blood. It almost seemed like the opposite. As if he enjoyed seeing the crimson streams leave its mark on his skin. As if he enjoyed the mess it left between the two of you.

The small nod of consent you gave him was all he needed to hop back to his feet with a near feral grin gracing his features.

“I’ll be right back love, you just wait right there.”

And before you knew it, he was back completely bare and laying down a blanket of thick towels, removing the bedding covering you and manhandling you to lay perfectly in the center of the towels. His eyes roam your body, reaching his hands out to grab at your thighs, spreading them open and placing himself in between.

“No time to waste dear, I know you must be suffering.” He groans out, coming down to lift up your shirt and mouth at your stomach. The slightly sadistic look in his eyes does little to help prove that he’s looking out for your suffering, but each press of his lips and slight squeeze of his hands says otherwise.

The heat pooling in your stomach already brings slight relief to the pain you’ve felt all day. Oikawa leans up to quickly remove your loose fitting top, coming back down to suck and lick at your nipples. A whine leaves your mouth at the added sensitivity feeling his fingers and tongue slide against the buds.

His hand dips below the hem of your shorts, showing little care for the pad taped to your underwear. His lithe fingers circle your clit, moving exactly the way you like it. Grazing slowly, back and forth, gathering up the thick red fluid to help slicken you up.

“Please Tooru, more!” You beg, gripping his forearm and trying to force his hands further down, further inside of you. His smile grows sharper at your pleas as he contemplates making you beg some more. He gives in though, deciding that now isn't the time to make you suffer and pulls off your bottoms and underwear, tossing them onto the floor.

He dips two fingers into you curling them up directly into your sensitive walls. The added squelching resounding throughout the room. He watches, fascinated by the red staining of his hands, the bright red droplets painting the towels. Your back arches up as his scissoring quickens and his thumb comes up to prod and push at your clit.

“You’re so beautiful baby, so red.” he admires. He withdraws his fingers, listening to you huff out as he trails his hand up to your stomach, pressing down leaving a splatter of bloody fingerprints.

“Are you ready for more?” he asks, slightly massaging your muscles, his thumb pressing in trying to work out your discomfort.

“Yes please. Please Tooru.” You nearly cry. You’re already so close. Sweet relief is nearly there, with each touch you can feel the knots in your core about to snap.

Oikawa lines himself up, slowly sinking into you, his thick cock stretching out your walls. You nearly choke as he gives a hard thrust, bottoming out inside you, moving back and forth, slowly watching things become more and more red. He nearly cums right there, feeling your walls spasm around him. He can’t though, after all he’s supposed to be focusing on helping his darling. Relieving your pain.

He picks up the pace, rocking back and forth and pressing up into you. He brings his bloodied hand back down to your clit, rubbing back and forth at the nub.

The mixture of pain and pleasure nearly have you in tears. You can feel your stomach muscles tensing up as you grip the towels beneath you. Sitting up slightly, you stare into the cunning eyes of Oikawa as he slams harder and harder into you.

Your eyes move down to where the two of you are connected. The bloody mess becomes increasingly worse with each grind of his hips into you. He feels so thick and you feel so full, nearly delirious with pleasure. His wrist moving round and round on your clit.

"Nnnhg, oh god. I'm going to cum. Fuck Tooru! " You moan out, head falling back onto the bed. Your muscles clench and unclench as your orgasms courses through you. Your clit throbs with pleasure as you grind yourself down onto Oikawa's cock.

"That's it baby. Ugh so good for me." He praises. You feel so hot and slick and tight. He pulls his hand away from your clit as one last clench of your walls causes him to spill into you. Nearly collapsing on top of you, feeling his own pleasure pour into you.

He pulls back up, slowing down and admiring your cunt. He watches his white cum slowly ooze out of you, mixing with blood coating your folds.

"Such a pretty color."

He lays himself on top of you, placing soft kisses on your lips. "Are you feeling better, love?"

"Yes Tooru. Thank you." You respond, wrapping your arms around him. Kissing him back, sighing deeply into his lips. Your cramps were nearly gone and just the leftover sensations of pleasure remained.

"Let's move on over to the shower, yeah? I'll help you wash up." Oikawa offers. His playful eyes gazing into yours. "And maybe there's time for a round two in the tub."

You laugh at his cheekiness as he pulls you up, making your way to the bathroom. Regardless of if you agreed to a round two or not you were at least in for an even more enjoyable evening.

End.

#oikawa smut #haikyuu smut #frecks.writes #tw blood #tw periods #tw smut #tw period

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