#and my poor soul that's already deteriorating

[somuchstrdst]

x

#just said yes to being promoted at work #god have mercy on me #and my poor soul that's already deteriorating #i hate capitalism but let's fucking go #personal x

[yanderes-galore]

Yandere romantic concept for Sans from Dusttale AU?

I can try, sure! Naturally every fic involving DustTale's going to be tragic so prepare yourself.

Yandere! Murder Sans Concept

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Angst, Violence, Murder, Deteriorating mental health (Sans), Mercy killing, Delusional behavior, Forced/Dubious "relationship"

I like to imagine, when it comes to this type of yandere Sans, his obsession is someone he's been close with.

Throughout countless runs he's managed to befriend you.

Y'know... when he was still Sans, or someone close to the original.

Sans wants nothing more than to just live his life with you.

But then the human came along... and the loop of Genocide Runs began.

Sans mental health already starts to go downhill when he is forced remember every run.

Even more so when he has to relive seeing his brother and partner killed.

My HC is with this AU, Sans' obsession is due to the mental decline he experiences due to the resets.

For the first few resets, he does his best to protect you and those he cares about from the human.

He really tries the first few times.

He loves you with all his SOUL... but the human gets to you eventually.

By the time of the 300+ run, Sans realizes he needs a new tactic to break the cycle.

He decides the only way to fight fire... is with fire.

Which leads to his decision to kill monsters in order to grow stronger.

Putting you in the crossfire of two killers.

Sans was most likely not yandere before the Genocide loop.

It's the huge amount of mental strain caused by all of it that makes him snap.

At first, he's just protective every reset.

Which then transitions into possessive behavior...

He tries everything from locking you away to attacking the human first.

He doesn't win... he can't win...

Each failure he deals with makes his mental state decline more and more.

Eventually he'll pull out all the stops.

Which just so happens to be him deciding killing the monsters first will give him the power he needs to face the human.

He views it as "mercy killing" when it comes to you.

If he doesn't kill you... the human will.

If you let him do it, he can at least promise you he'll be quick.

He doesn't want his partner to suffer.

However... are you even his partner, anymore?

You've noticed his change in behavior and distanced yourself.

Only Sans remembers the resets... but you can just sense something's up.

Especially when Sans decides to kill monsters before the human does.

You can run... but Sans is against it.

Don't make things harder... you're preventing the inevitable.

He'll just have to chase you now.

Sans is delusional in this state.

He thinks that you will want to help him stop the cycle in the end.

Even if it means your death.

Sure... he can see you backing away and running... but it's for the good of both of you.

After all this ends... he'll put you both in a better timeline.

You just have to trust him.

Just hold still...

He'll make sure it doesn't hurt too much because he loves you.

What doesn't make things better is when his plan fails.

Now he has to try again... and again... and again.

Poor Sans is stuck in a perpetual loop of watching his friends and partner die.

At some point... the pain won't even matter even more...

He may even get used to chasing you down and plunging a bone deep within you... is it even worth it to say sorry, anymore?

At least he can keep you to himself this way... being the one to mercy kill you over and over until the cycle stops... if it even does.

"Someday we'll love each other again... someday you'll belong to me again... someday... I'll fix things...!"

#yandere undertale au #yandere dusttale #yandere murder sans #yandere dusttale sans #yandere dust sans

[ilongfor-the-arts]

Hello! Please can I request an angst fan fic about Kit Walker from American Horror Story x fem reader, where the reader is a patient in the asylum as well and she is forced to watch Kit taking a harsh caning punishment because he took the blame for her fault, and then after it she also goes comfort him? thank u very much :)

I’ll Live

Pairing: Kit Walker x fem! Reader

Warnings: whipping, blood

Summary: *in req*

Word Count: 1.5k

Disclaimer: I’m sorry! I know you said angst but I couldn’t figure out how to fit that in! Hope this is still up your standards!

“Y/N. Would you come with me please?”

My heart skipped a beat. Being asked to accompany Sister Jude was almost never a good sign. I gulped, my mind scrambling for an explanation.

Shit.

I was starving. I figured a small piece of bread from the kitchen would do no harm.

That's exactly what it was, wasn't it?

I'm going to get whipped for that.

I stood up and wiped my mouth with my napkin. I drew my movements out to avoid giving Sister Jude the impression that I was nervous. On my plate, I shakily arranged all of my silverware into a neat pile.

I flashed Sister Jude a faux smile.

“Of course! Lead the way sister.”

Sister Jude led me through the asylum's bustling halls. I despised this place. I need help! I don’t need to be locked up in a psych ward with people who wouldn't hesitate to eat human feces. Unfortunately, being a young girl suddenly thrown in an asylum meant being subjected to unwanted attention. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to get rid of the piercing stares that made me feel grimy. I knew this place by heart, and with Sister Jude's heavy footfalls to guide me, I could find my way.

Besides, I was aware that we were headed to the main office. The infamous office where disobedient children went to be punished.

My cheap slippers slid across the damp floors. A scream cut through the din. I didn't flinch. Hearing screams in a mental institution was like hearing crying at a funeral. It was to be expected.

“Hey! You know I despise loud noises! Keep that up and it’ll be bare bones for you this evening”

I cast a half-lidded glance at Sister Jude. She was pointing at a man with one long, scraggly finger extended. His skin was covered in blisters that were bright red and leaking pus. His eyes were deep caves of dark brown. As he screamed and slammed into the door, there was nothing behind them. He was a hollow shell. This asylum had ripped out his soul.

Poor thing.

“I’ll send the doctor in for ya’.”

The patient hushed, recoiling back into the void. Sister Jude cast a glance over her shoulder.

“Apologies honey. You know how people can get around these parts.”

I fought the urge to scoff at that statement. The sisters transformed humans into bloodthirsty, soulless monsters. I'd bet a million dollars that those harsh correction methods contributed to that patient's deteriorating condition.

“Yes, I do sister.”

Sister Jude motioned for me to come forward. I followed in her footsteps. We eventually arrived at the dreaded office. My stomach dropped to the floor. I clench my teeth, my mind already dreading whatever they had in store for me.

It was not on my list of possibilities to see Kit Walker bent over the desk, his strong back on full display.

My body stopped.

I didn’t move.

I didn’t breathe.

I didn’t blink.

“Kit?”

Kit cast a glance behind him. He didn't even say hello, which surprised me. He maintained his stoicism. Oh God, what have they done to him?

“Now, Mrs Y/N.”

I averted my gaze from Kit and returned it to Sister Jude. She was taking long, slow strides forward to emphasize her words. She approached the desk, turning on her heels and glaring at me.

Sister Jude pretended to be sympathetic. The sisters all pretended to be nice. But at their core, they were all evil. Even if they did not subject their patients to harsh treatment, they still sit back and observe it.

“We have reason to believe that you stole something from the kitchen a few days ago. Mr. Walker here says that it was him. Frankly, we believe he is taking the blame for you.”

Kit’s back was to me. But I could tell he was rolling his eyes by the subtle movements of his head.

“Oh come on sister! Why would I lie about something as stupid as bread?”

Sister Jude jerked her head to the side. Her glare had shifted to Kit.

“Because you know the punishment for stealing Mr. Walker. Stealing is not virtuous. And we always pride ourselves on the unquestionable virtue of our patients. If someone were to tarnish this reputation or ours, we’d lose our credibility.”

Sister Jude’s words were soft, but her undertone was laced with venom.

“Oh fuck that-”

“Language!”

My knees shook. I did not like where this was going.

“Anyway, Miss. Y/N. If you can look me in the eyes and deny that it was you who stole, then I will take your word for it.”

I gulped, a lump forming in my throat.

“Oh for the last time she didn’t do anything! I’ve told you ten times! Why aren-”

“Quiet! I want to hear from Miss. Y/N.”

I exhaled shakily.

I wanted to confess. But I knew that lying was considered as bad as stealing. The best outcome was for me to lie, as much as I disliked doing so.

“I didn’t steal Sister Jude.”

The lie was not convincing.

“Do you promise?”

I nodded meekly.

“Yes, I promise.”

Kit breathed a sigh of relief. Sister Jude pursed her lips into a straight line.

“Alright then.”

She moved to the other side of the desk, opening a drawer and pulling out a small makeshift whip made of old barbed wire wrapped around leather.

“Frankly, I’m still not convinced you’re telling the truth.”

Sister Jude walked over to where Kit was positioned, his whole body tense with nerves.

“So, you’re going to watch as I deliver fifteen lashes to your sweet Kit. And perhaps that will drive a confession out of you.”

My stomach flipped.

No.

No.

No.

“Come on Sister Jude that’s just cruel-”

“Shut your mouth Mr. Walker.”

My teeth chattered.

No.

No.

No.

This wasn’t really happening.

There was no way in hell.

Sister Jude light stroked the whip, moving behind Kit's body. Her black veil reflected the light streaming in through the large windows, giving her an ethereal appearance. She was taking on the role of a god, inflicting punishment on mere mortals who had done wrong.

The whip pierced the still air. Kit convulsed. His back appeared untouched at first. Then, in the wake of the whip, a deep red gash appeared. Thick droplets of blood were trickling down his back, seeping into his pristine white pants.

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes.

Sister Jude slashed his porcelain skin with whip after whip, leaving a messy trail of red gashes. I couldn't bring myself to close my eyes. Sister Jude will know, and the number of gashes will be increased. Kit barely made a sound, save for a few small whines that slipped through his lips now and then.

I was sick to my stomach at the sight. Especially knowing everything was entirely my fault. I wanted to rush over to him, bandage him, and kiss his wounds until they healed.

Sister Jude's annoyance grew with each slash. She wanted me to get down on my knees and confess to my crimes. But I fought to the best of my abilities. I bit my lower lip and blinked away the tears. I'm not going to give her the satisfaction of knowing she's crawling under my skin.

“Alright, that’s enough for now Mr. Walker.”

She was irritated. She was practically fuming. Sister Jude threw the whip to the ground, turned, and bolted out the door. Her head was bowed low.

She was defeated.

My stoic demeanor was broken the moment the lock clicked into place.

Kit collapsed to the ground, his back and pants drenched in dark crimson blood. I rushed over to him, tears streaming down my cheekbones.

“Kit! Are you alright?”

I was aware of the irony of the statement. He most definitely was not okay. But no words could be uttered that would truly convey the extent of my gratitude.

My soft hands cradled his face. He was drenched in perspiration. A pool of blood was forming beneath him. Nonetheless, his eyes appeared to be alive, and his mouth resembled the shape of a faint smile.

They wouldn’t be able to break him in here. I was sure of it.

“I’m just dandy.”

He said, a hint of sarcasm in his tone. I laughed loudly through my heavy stream of tears.

“I can’t believe you-you just did that for me!”

Kit was starting to fade. The loss of blood was undoubtedly causing him to lose consciousness. But he fought it, refusing to let the comfort of sleep overcome him.

“I’d do anything for you baby. Fifteen lashes is nothing when I know I’m doin’ it for you.”

I placed a tender kiss on Kit's cold lips. When I drew back, I noticed Kit's smile had grown significantly.

“Don’t cry baby. I’ll live.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Obviously I’m gonna cry. I’m watching the man of my dreams being whipped by a mean old nun.”

Kit chuckled, his face growing pale. He found it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open. Shit, he needed a doctor.

“Did you see her face? God, she was so pissed off.”

#fanfic #imagine #imagines #x yn #x fem!reader #x female reader #x y/n #smut imagine #kit walker #kit walker x y/n #kit walker x reader #kit walker smut #kit walker fanfiction #kit walker fluff #ahs asylum

[delinquunt]

For my House

You are the beloved Lich Empress Eternal, head of the venerated court of the Khlonni Empire.

You have served your people dutifully for some time in the range of one thousand years. In your rule, you have spearheaded unprecedented advancement and faced the challenges of the millennium confidently and found compromise in each. You have rightfully earned your endless term.

Owing to your predecessors, the utmost ruling body of the empire is a position held two-fold, and your counterpart and consort has lived for as long as you have, kept soft and lively as you have ever known them by the same magicks that stay the deterioration of your mind and soul.

Unfortunately, you were already aged and frail by the time the process was perfected enough to be trusted to work upon you. As they ever have, your azure bones slump unmoving against the arm rest of your throne, just as you bid them to move some centuries ago before moving out of them. They were mostly a figurehead, now. Something to remind you that you had lived, once, as a human on poor old Earth. Something for your advisors and head researchers and archmages to speak to when they had news.

Now, you simply watched from above. The camera lenses set into the ceilings and walls and the attendants dragging their feet through your capillaries were your eyes, your ears, your every perception. Sensors built to last gave your mind what your body had retired from lifetimes ago.

In every wall there was touch, fields netting membranes and stoic fibers to tell you your love was running their hand along you, feeling the bump of the wainscoting on their slender, carapaced fingertips. You opened your eyes and saw them, looking up into the alcove holding the camera you watched through, smiling softly as they stepped light on four gentle feet. The hall was spanned by windows on your left and by a painting-dense wall opposite. Light streamed in from behind the glass, cast by lamps and magiclights outside the Gilded Palace, illuminating the faces of warriors of eld rendered in oils and carved stone busts. Thin ebon curtains cast wispy shadows over the light, and starry banners rippled gently at the disturbance of the hall's air.

Distantly, you felt an itch, and opened a hangar door for an airship. You felt booted and carapaced feet tap-tap-tapping on your skin and gracefully shut the door.

More immediately, you admired the sapphire tint of your beloved's innards and the yellow glow of their eyes, which made a fine accent for the black of their silken robes, adding a disarming degree of color to the drab uniform of the office of Emperor. Your love, your betrothed, your bond eternal gave a sigh and ground their heel into the carpet a little.

It felt nice, like a squeeze around the hand, and for a moment you were not a thousand-year-old skeleton keeping an enormous palace as a body but a young woman at the peak of health again, giddy just to touch this bug and over the moon at the fact that they were touching you back. You gave a great sigh, too, and watched as the ethereal breeze kicked up the bottoms of their robes.

They came to a stop at the bust of a paladin with long, straight hair and a gentle, generous smile, and touched the placard.

GALLANTUNWAVERING WYNONA

it read in clear and blocky Khlonni script, putting a name to a stark and clean human face in the middle of a line of stalwart, dust-caked insectoid visages. You felt a finger along your collarbone, and focused on the sight of your lover's hands groping at the bust before them. You felt a hand on your cheek and fingers in your hair as they smiled wistfully at the face you once wore, and leaned in to touch their mandible to your forehead adoringly.

You wished you could kiss them back with those lips, again.

They touched a fingertip to your forehead and dragged it down the bridge of your stone-wrought nose, then softly held your marble chin and brushed their thumb over your carved lips. You rejoiced, internally - it felt something like kissing the back of their hand, again.

You wanted more, though. You conjured visions in your mind's eye of them holding your tongue, touching you where nobody else would, feeling your arousal. Of times where you felt so free and determined that you needed them to hogtie you so that you wouldn't fly away before they had the chance to touch you. You groaned internally at the cruelty of having only a few decades to feel the pleasures of the flesh with your love undying before an inevitable eternity of life watching them love your ambulatory memory.

A door at the end of the hall opened, and in strode another four-legged mantis with nothing but milky blue where its innards should be, its exoskeleton intact save for an eye replaced with an old world prosthetic. All metal, no magic. An antique from a time of strife, just like the man.

"Bezgul," he said, and your spouse turned to face him. "Brother," they replied, and gave a soft nod. The two of them were always like this - despite the curt exchange an aura of ease hung in the hall. Bezgul brushed a thumb over your cheek, and their Brother huffed.

"Can you... not do that in front of me? I am your sworn brother, and beside that, I knew her when she was small." Your beloved considered this for a long moment, then gave another soft kiss to the top of your head and a pat to your cheek before pulling their hand away. You dreamt awake that you leaned on their shoulder. "Apologies, Brother. How is your husband?"

He looked relieved. "Apology accepted. I simply don't want a repeat of that time in the Great Hall when--" but he was cut off by an insistent repeat of "How is your husband?!" and he was, miraculously, dissuaded.

"He's no replacement, but his love for the Saint rivals mine, and the Heir Resurrected has so far been a good friend. You know, you're getting to be just like him...," he said, as if Bezgul was still a maturing wiggler and not one of the most elderly of their people. He paused and patted his pockets with all four hands. "Well, I'm not here to talk about Arstus and our mutual love. I have business in the depths. Be well my sworn Sibling, honorable heir to the seat of myself, my love, and my mother, and her father before her, and our ancestors memorial in myriad beyond him." With this, he bowed and started off down the hall, and Bezgul was content with that. They paused, a hand splayed over the top of your polished head, and waited for him to round the corner.

A finger and thumb slid down the side of this coveted facsimile of what you once were and pinched your earthen ear, then separated entirely from you as their owner started down the hall, toward the door their Brother had entered through.

On the other side, your eyes opened again, and they met your watchful gaze with a breathtaking and needful look. Onward they continued, taking careful steps on your dusty, faded green rug and running their hand along the curvature of a cushioned seat by the window as they passed.

You felt every touch, every step, every brush, as if your lover's hand was upon your arm or feeling up your hip. You felt their grasp at your bared thigh as their hand graced a painting of one of the palace's stewards in the court of your predecessors, and you enjoyed their perfect touch at the ridges formed by the oil laying thick on the canvas. That would have given you goosebumps, if you had them.

"O, mine living god, my watchful eye, ghost of my love undying and ego of my dearest unflinching: I ask thee, is there any way I might but pay tribute before your altar?" You would have smiled. You knew it immediately for what it was: A playful way of asking if they could relieve the tensions of your immortal soul. With no verbal means to respond, you opted for a sign: a caress from the wind in Bezgul's robes. They released a shaky sigh, and wasted no time scurrying down the hall.

Corner after corner, hall to hall, past every nook and lounge and reading room and library in the palace, you watched your sweetest love scurry. Even with two more legs, they ran the same as they always had when they were excited, until their excitement brought them to the vaunted Great Hall.

It was a beautiful antechamber. The green rug of the hallway widened and sprouted little golden stars upon the floor of the room, and the tapestries hung beside concave stained glass windows. Together, they depicted two legends: the Swallowing of the first saints, and the ascension of the Lich Emperors. Your twin and fellow emperor strode down the green carpet with purpose, and circled around a large round table in the middle surrounded by cobweb-netted chairs. In the table's center was a sheath for a sword that stood across the room, held forever tip-down by your skeletal hand clutched around its softly glowing hilt.

Your betrothed grasped the sword just above its guard and ran their fingertip down its glowing vorpal edge, tracing the curvature of the regal blue-metal broadsword before you. The touch sent a shiver down your spine. It felt the same-- no, better than their touch used to feel on your cock, when you had one. You didn't particularly care to think about it most of the time, but Bezgul remembered so well how to make it feel good. Their mandible came in for a kiss to the engraved flat of the blade, and you would have moaned if you had the throat for it. The sensation was electric, multiplied tenfold by the separation of soul and body. For reasons you never understood, the distance made it all-encompassing, like a blanket of pleasure.

You were always amazed that Bezgul used the sword like this. It was one thing to do what they were about to do, but it was so much more to perform this ritual with this sword. Reverently, they drew their palm down the edge and sliced it open with a guttural cry of delight. The sapphire light of their essence bled from the wound in their carapace, and you watched with bated breath as it formed a tendril of drippy blue goo.

You felt it too, and the corona put off by your skeleton flared for a long moment and held a gently flickering glow in the dim multicolor light of the hall. Crackling arcs of energy danced on your bones and skipped around in the surrounding air, even reaching out to kiss Bezgul upon their cheek, leaving a smarting blue streak. You would have apologized, but... well, actually, you wouldn't. It felt too good for it to touch them, and they mewled about it besides. A mouth would have given the apology no chance.

Bezgul rose to their feet and approached your azure bones, and the snaking tendril of ooze lapped hungrily at their hand, dancing into the gaps between their fingers. They took some time and careful maneuvering to put their front legs up onto the armrests of your throne and bring their upper half to sit upon your skeletal lap.

From the perspective of your eye sockets then, you watched as Bezgul took your emerald-crusted crown and placed it upon their head in a show of domination. They said, "You, milady, hath verily been conquered. The House of Sky lays claim to the holy throne of Ni-patha. And as my first decree as rightful Empress, I say that thou shall serve me eternally as my toything." They then brought their hand up to the cave of your upper jaw, grasping as if to remake your fallen mandible, and the long blue tongue opened at the sides in wavy fans of sapphire. It extended slowly and coiled around the glowing vertebrae of your neck.

At the slightest touch, you were euphoric. Just feeling their hands upon your bones made you want to squeal, and you were infinitely glad that you were mute. But then their eldritch sex probed up into your cranium to touch your wiggling little brain stem, and the wave of a mind-scattering orgasm crashed against you.

Somewhere past the white haze, you were aware that Bezgul could hear you, and you felt the elation in their connected brain when you mentally squirmed. There would be no coming down from that first orgasm anytime soon, you realized, as the feverish pleasure of another started to rise in the back of your mind. Bezgul's extension coiled around and around your wriggling brain stem, and you moaned the oldest verbal incantation you knew (Fuck!).

The impact of another body-shaking orgasm hit you, and Bezgul felt it too. You watched - insofar as you could focus at all - as they shivered and quaked, clutching one hand to their temple and another two to your skeletal shoulders.

Khlonni did not regularly cum like this, you remembered. Mating is generally a political affair, and often the pleasures of the flesh were referred to by Khlonni as a sort of necessary sin. Bezgul, however, as the leader of their people and a lover of humans, did not give a shit and thought that was honestly stupid as hell. Orgasms rule, actually, and humans are radical and you should Join with them and feel their orgasms too.

This thought was the first sign that the ritual was going well, as it got past your initial internal filter before you realized it wasn't yours and was instead intruding from Bezgul's psyche.

You let it happen, then, as it has happened a thousand thousand times before. Sinking is easier when you share a brain with your dom, temporarily, and as the current of bliss washing over you grew into a constant barrage of twitch-inducing orgasmic pleasure, you embraced them, and Bezgul embraced you, and you both shook within their body as their ego overtook yours and you danced and danced and danced inside until you weren't sure what belonged to who, and resigned together to just figure it out later, and you slumped in a big pile over your own bones and squirmed delightedly.

The lights in the city of Ni-Patha and the bones of the palace beneath the sprawl flare, shining brightly. The entire empire rejoices in the love of the Emperors, blissfully ignorant of the cause of its swell.

You are Bezona, the One True Lich Archemperor, the Lovers Joined, the Living God, the Ruler Eternal, the Hallowed Saint of Saints.

And you cannot stop kissing your own skull.

#my gay little posts #smut #no content warnings for this one tbh #just fun brain sex. #basically this could be TLT fanfiction if you squint #what if you had sex with a building #YOU WOULDNT DOM A HOUSE...

[chibishortdeath]

Alright I’ve thought about it a bit, let’s rant about just how horrifying the curse Simon was afflicted with would be! Consider this like a part one of sorts for Simon’s Quest analysis stuff cause I could talk about this one game for hours on end—

I’m gonna put a cut here because warning ⚠️ descriptions of decay, gorey stuff, disease, and some pretty bad mental effects. Stay safe guys, don’t read further if you can’t handle those topics!

I’ve seen multiple different descriptions of it from different media and manuals, but, just from this little line alone, this is already a pretty awful fate for the guy. High emphasis on the word decay. That in itself can imply a lot of different things, sometimes all at once. And keep in mind too, he’s had this over the course of 7 years. Simon is probably already an absolute wreck from this wayyyyy before the game even starts.

First of all, getting hit on the back is a bad spot for any kind of infection or spreading disease (closest irl counterpart). That’s awfully close to a lot of vital things you don’t want something spreading to including the spine, lungs, heart, etc etc. Especially for deeper cuts because we’re talking Dracula level injury here, not like a paper cut or something. Hell, too deep of a hit on the back might cause some nerve damage, not to the extent of paralysis in his case, but general chronic pain from a wound that won’t heal properly is uhhh… not great. :( I’ve also seen some media say that the curse causes wounds to not heal, bleeding, the American manual even mentions it effecting the soul, awful stuff. I generally like to think “Bloody Tears” is referring to Simon tbh.

Another thing, with afflictions that cause decay generally the smaller appendages start getting hit hard with it first. It’s the same way for a lot of other conditions; fingers, toes, earlobes, anything protruding like that because the body considers them lowest priority in a survival situation like that and it wouldn’t kill you to lose them. Necrosis especially has things start turning ruddy colors, blacken, and start forming holes in the layers of skin (@ @ ;). Obviously this alone is excruciating. Poor dude has to walk for days on end like that…

And slowly deteriorating could also imply some form of wasting. Fats usually go first, then muscle, which is also very not good when you’ve gotta beat the clock to survive. Scary thing is that the brain is like 60% fats and not immune to any of this whoops—

Something I don’t really see anyone consider very often when talking about the curse (not that I’ve seen many people talk about this 💀) is how absolutely mentally fucked up Simon would be from it. Just the terror of knowing you’re slowly rotting to death would be enough to drive most people into some kind of despair or panic, but seeing and feeling all the gruesome details of it is even worse. Being in constant pain and stress isn’t good for anyone, especially someone who is already weakened from illness. But the sheer mental deterioration this guy would be having from the decay itself oh my god (0_o ). Looking up widespread brain shrinkage like that and uh some of the early signs are already stuff like seizures and extreme headaches. Add the fact that he doesn’t really sleep much for upwards of 7 days and it’d be an absolute miracle if this guy wasn’t hallucinating and/or completely hysterical by this point among other things. I mean, no wonder so much of this game is running around lost and confused, not only are people lying to his face, Simon is probably just barely keeping his shit together the whole time.

So just imagine for a second all of these things combined. No wonder people were terrified of him, he probably genuinely looked like a corpse. Eeeee yikes yikes ouch, poor guy :’’’’’(.

Anyway, Konami where is my horror focused Simon’s Quest remake you cowards—

#castlevania #castlevania games #text post #simon belmont #simon’s quest #analysis post #theory posting #incoherent rambling #somebody give this 1600s vampire hunter man a hug #not too hard tho that might hurt oof #:’’’’’’( #sometimes I think about this a little too hard and then gross myself out #the other times I just end up drawing about it #seriously though where is my Simon’s Quest remake god damnit #I’m a little terrified that Konami might do it wrong tho tbh so uh #now I’m thinking about that line again and I just #‘Simon was looking back at his life’ #ashfkdjshsjdjdjshshhdjshahd sad things #I will now imagine sad things before falling asleep tonight lol #I am so normal about this game

[lovesless]

█ ▌┆❤ ( HEADCANON ) A RELATIONSHIP WITH LOVE

          This is a complicated one for many reasons you already know. Saika’s influence on such things has caused her views to twist and contort into something it’s not. Saika feeds off of love, she devours it like a monster, mercilessly but with great passion. The demon blade wishes to love humanity specifically, she wants to show affection but as a blade she cannot do so with hugs and kisses. But instead slashings, wounds made by a blade, through drawing blood. Saika is also the one who was supposed to feed of Anri’s emotions, the emotion of love specifically. However because of Anri’s traumatic childhood and confusion facing what love truly was, Saika was unable to take control. Instead, Anri uses Saika, who loves the most to love for her, a girl who cannot love. To Anri, Saika was a missing piece that she used to fill the hole in her heart. It doesn’t fit exactly of course, like taking a piece from one puzzle and trying to finish a separate puzzle with it. Jamming it in place, it doesn’t line up quite right. It is a bit complex how her relationship with love has developed as time went on, seeing many different types of ‘love’ over the years.

               Anri’s perception of the world remains warped. She is delusional and it’s primarily come from her upbringing and poor coping mechanisms. First of all her mother Sayaka has shown her love all her life, but that love was distorted as well. Her mother protected her, comforted her, and made sure she was as safe as she could be. Sayaka was an incredibly loving mother both to her daughter and towards her abusive husband. This was to a fault, not wanting to break the family apart despite the abuse. This may have been due to Sayaka being the previous owner of Saika. She was also the original ‘slasher’. Sayaka showed her love distortions through her undying loyalty to her husband who was extremely abusive. She would protect Anri from his wrath but never left with her young daughter either. She continued to love him with all her heart and wanted to convince Anri that he loved them still even if his constant abuse continued to escalate. Since Anri loved her mother and trusted her, she would also try and believe that ‘love’ was something that could conquer all. That ‘love’ was what her father felt despite his actions. That all she needed to do was ‘love’ and everything would be ok. This was the beginning of her confusions. That how could papa love me if he does such things? Should I believe what my mama says because I love her don’t I?

              Eventually Sayaka was unable to hold back any longer. She was still a mother, and no matter how intense Saika’s hold on her was, no matter how much she repressed it all came to ahead when that man tried to kill her daughter.  Sayaka murdered Anri’s father before he could take her daughter’s life, and swiftly commit suicide afterwards to prevent herself from attacking Anri too. After her parents brutal death Anri obtained Saika who showed her what love could be, and what should be. This was Saika’s views however, and not technically Anri’s. But from what she knew, from how her mother treated her, so kindly and with gentleness and caring Anri couldn’t comprehend why Saika would want to hurt others. She began to understand soon though. Saika, once again, was but a blade without a body but possessed a soul. Trying desperately to make sense of such a thing played a main component soon after her parent’s death and into her time with Akabayashi (a yakuza officer who held affections for Sayaka and became Anri’s legal guardian). However over time she began to become sympathetic towards the tortured blade whom she had to suppress for a while. Until she began to loosen her grasp.

              Soon into her teenage years her recognition of what love was, any type of love, soon began to deteriorate. Something she could not fully comprehend by herself. She saw that Saika wanted to love, and that it was true love and not infatuation. At least that’s what she saw in the demon. Viewing Saika as somewhat misunderstood she continued to let her grip loosen, to use her instead of suppression. Since she was supposed to be loving for her. She believed herself to be parasite, a monster to an extent for letting her do this, for using her and others.

               Mika was the one to cause Anri’s emotions to stir. As stated in canon Anri could not differentiate love from friendship involving Mika. This confused her of course and made her perceptions warp again. She wasn’t sure what to do, or what to think and then Saika was able to call upon her children in those moments of weakness. Haruna then showed up with her rouge faction and Anri finally came to terms with her abilities, full understanding of Saika and what she wanted to do with her life onward. Haruna showed her love through obsession and jealousy, being violently possessive of her love. Anri watched this girl fall apart over a single person whom she claimed to love.

               Anri views love as something she lacks, something that needs to be made up for. She wants to be ‘human’ once again and she does not believe she can be that if there is a missing piece. She sees love in Saika, she knows that Saika’s love is real love. Love is something she tries to avoid as well, not wanting to disturb any emotions she may have on that part, leaving all up to the demon inside her.

               Love will forever be something close to her heart and yet distant. She cannot move too close to it or else she will start to feel once again. She wishes to be detached from such a thing and she almost fears it and what it can do. But Anri also has a deep bond with Saika, and Saika loves, and Saika is mother, and Saika has children in humanity who all love it, Then is Anri also Saika? Does Anri also love these ‘children’ of hers? The masses who follow her orders and sing her praises? She does gift them with memories and experiences to defend themselves, she does care for each ‘child’s well being. But is that love? Or is that feeling responsible?

               Love is an emotion but so much more. She lacks it in her heart and yet she lives and breathes it every day. She was once frightened by it, then confused by it. She doesn’t want love to become something prominent in her life. Her friends and those she thinks of to be close are in danger if she were to let her emotions go. She distances herself from others, in turn becoming very lonely and thus causes Saika to weep. She claims to be unable to love but that isn’t completely true either. She will fight ruthlessly for her friends, their happiness and her happiness. She can flip the switch from being sweet and nervous to down right cold and terrifying. Her heart is in the right place but the ways she gets things done can be questionable. But with a demon blade living within her she only has so many choices. The world she lives in, the city, her life is unforgiving. She tries her hardest but sometimes her hardest isn’t enough. It’s not just a matter of being incapable of love, but she herself being unable to recognizing it.

#❤ ┆ ❛ HEADCANONS (truth; okaasan they called her) ❜ #abuse tw #suicide tw #ask to tag

[darkartistyt]

welcome back to atticus explaining shit that no one asked about! our subject today: theodore sanchez

i need to infodump about my son okay

cw: mentions of child death and undeath, slight body horror (i think? im not entirely sure what to classify it as tbh)

i wont go into excruciating detail about any of this, but i figured i should give a warning regardless

i dont remember if ive ever posted art of him on tumblr but those whove seen my artfight profile may have seen this boyo before

have you ever wondered, "hey atticus, what the hell is up with the scar? like half his face is missing!" well it all has to do with my boy's duterogonist tragic backstory (tm)

born theodore maddison, theo lived through a happy early childhood. his parents, while not terribly wealthy, still had plenty of money at their disposal and had no issues spoiling the kid. he had no siblings, but he got along well with his classmates and had plenty of friends.

one summer, when he was just about to turn seven, him and his parents got into a car wreck in which none of them survived. however, theo was destined to become a member of the Great Prophecy, so obviously he couldnt stay dead forever, and who better to revive him than the magical embodiment of death itself?

reaper (the magic he was destined to obtain) suddenly becomes aware that its destined user has perished and rushes to see if it can fix things. unfortunately, it realised what had happened and where they were buried way too late, so the souls of his parents had already deteriorated and their spirits moved on. and theo, being a small child and thus having a stronger soul, was close enough to complete death that reaper had to act fast. it worked, but at the cost of his soul being fractured

reaper also teleported his body above ground and held him close to try to keep him warm while he slowly woke up

theo had no idea what the hell just happened. all he knew was that he was weak, freezing, kinda hungry, and in the arms of some kind of magical entity. he was certainly afraid, but he was too exhausted to panic. reaper was still able to sense it and, via telepathy, tried to assure him that everything was going to be okay

...yeah emphasis on tried because things were certainly not okay. for one, while reaper did what it could to heal his physical injuries sustained from the crash, it was unable to completely heal the side of his face that had gotten practically torn off, and the incomplete healing left him with a huge scar and some exposed bone, though it was able to restore his eye. in fact, a lot of the spells reaper tried to cast were unable to be completed because of the soul issue. if it were to push too much, it could accidentally break it further, which would render the revival process null. secondly, as the duo came to learn, a fractured soul does a lot worse than fuck with spells used on the person; theo will occasionally be hit with spells of dizziness, his body will become extremely cold, and he'll lose the ability to breath all at the same time. thankfully, reaper is able to keep the poor kid from re-dying, and they eventually learned that this stuff is often triggered by extreme stress or a magic overpower

over the coming years, the two grew closer, reaper being theo's sole protector. it also tried to fix the soul issue, but to no avail, so instead it made a promise that as soon as hes ready to accept it as his magic, it will do everything in its power to protect him. (it was going to do that anyway tho but it figured it would be more successful acting as an internal force than an external one)

little baby theo lived on the streets for a while, not knowing how to get back home and eventually giving up. reaper acted as his mentor, teaching him what was edible and what wasnt, how to avoid people, how to use shapeshifting to hide the scar, and how to steal food without getting caught. he didnt last long before being spotted and sent to an orphanage, however

a few years later, when he was 12, he was adopted by ash's family. from them, he met new friends like lucas and his soon-to-be boyfriend ray as well as their older sisters, callie and dee-dee. callie was the first to realise he was also a prophecy member, though that didnt happen until he was 15

around that time, dee-dee and callie would get in fights a lot, most often with callie initiating them. theo, trusting dee-dee over callie, sided with her in pretty much any dispute, especially if it was Prophecy-related. during one of their fights, callie tried to hit dee-dee with magic and missed in a fit of rage, accidentally hitting theo right in his eye instead. she ended up completely burning it, to the point that reaper was unable to salvage it at the time

so now theo's half-blind, though he managed to work out an arrangement with reaper to grant it the ability to see out of its replacement for the eye so long as theo keeps control over its movements and reaper sends him information about what it sees when needed

another neat little thing is that the symbol in the eye changes based on his emotions. the default is an "x" because theo said so (pirate special interest go brrrrrrr)

#he is my baby boy i gave him so much trauma #oh yeah and him having ptsd doesnt help at all with the stress thing :] #heheh im evil #my dumbass ramblings #destiny-alduran #theodore sanchez

[sagaofstardustmkg]

cognizance || bo || 6.8 || re: perennial, timekeeper

It’s never easy, watching someone else’s realization play out in their emotions. Watching surprise twist into horror, joy sink into sadness, anger solidify into disgust—the shift across the larger emotional spectrums is never entirely smooth. Because that’s all that a realization is, really. A shift. It’s often slow and subtle, but uncomfortable in the same way that nails dragging slowly on a chalkboard don’t make the sensation any more bearable. 

As the atmosphere around them ripples, Bo has a sinking feeling that this one in particular may be more than he can handle. He turns to look at Ben, squinting as best he can in the light that fills the room. It should hurt his head. It does, a little, though the familiar warmth that follows is somehow soothing. Somehow, it makes perfect sense that it had belonged to Ben all this time.

"I don't know how anyone could forgive them for this. Regardless of their motivations, they've...hurt so many of us. Killed so many of us. I-I just...how could someone...?"

Of course Ben had been the one trying to soften the blows. Of course he would have been the first to offer comfort. Of course he would take care of them, even when that caring had already cost him everything. He’d always been one to try and keep them safe. Keep them sane. Keep them whole. Just as much as Caleb had. They both had.

"I don't know that I can forgive them for the choices they may or may not have made. I don't know that it'd even be my place to do so. But I can at least try to understand them. I think that may be the best I can hope for, really."

"How can you even begin to understand the irrational? This...This whole thing is irrational. Some things are just...they're not meant to be understood. Because there's no point to understanding them. I...don't know if I could. Not when...."

"Trying to understand the irrational is what I do."

In the end, it wasn’t all that irrational at all. He looks from Ben, hugged and held and so loved that it’s near blinding, back over to Caleb, who had worked and studied and suffered just to see that Ben could continue to be all of those things once again.

Love, more than most emotions, is often considered irrational—it’s blamed for hasty judgements and poor decisions, attributed to one’s heart, rather than one’s head. Having watched the love between Caleb and Ben on a near daily basis, Bo knows that isn’t always the case. There’s nothing more rational than trying to keep those you love safe.

He wipes his hand beneath his nose and is unsurprised to see the small smear of red. It was bound to happen eventually, given these circumstances. He rubs away the rest of it with his sleeve before turning back to Caleb properly. 

“What exactly does it having ‘worked’ mean? Were we all damaged enough that it warranted using the reconstructive method you came up with, or was that solely for Ben, given that his essence was dispersed more than our own? And the parameters you were watching, ego, mind, and spirit—how do you define those? Components of a soul? Measurements of it? Or—”

Bo pauses, realizing that now may not be the best time to ask about the finer details of how souls work. Even if it is what he’s been trying to study for years. He looks sheepish for a moment, and then tries to ask again.

“You said that souls don’t leave this place now, but described that we were all… fading as time went on? I’m not sure I understand how both are possible. Unless it’s simply that the fragments would drift too far apart to be… brought back together into a cohesive soul. I-if they’d just deteriorate back into being ambient magic… or something...”

He trails off, quietly frowning to himself. And wiping his nose again.

#endgame #trial #bo

[noragoldengaze]

Returning

It’s been months of traveling, hunting, and exploration and no results. Sometimes I thought I was close only to be met with crushing disappointment. When I dragged my feet homewards, I was greeted by the warm faces of Kedha and Cain. Pershap the only balm to my soul this year has been their presence. Their benefactor has put me to work and I am grateful for the distraction. As always, those that need treatment are always shy to crawl into my ward, but blood poisoning is a personal issue for them to decide the importance of.

My injury, courtesy of Heinrich inability to aim, has deteriorated. I still tell myself this is better than it was last year when they told me I would never walk again. To think I went from being fully able to this. Although I am not a follower of gods, some part of me wants to blame my misfortune on them and claim it is their doing that I am crippled these days. There is a psychology to the injury as well, I know. The mind always the sharpest knives we cut ourselves with.

The sweet seamstress, Khu, from the beach is still in business. Since I have little to spend my gil on, I have gone to her to seek new alterations and garments. Since I no longer need to hide in the shadows, I will enjoy a few colors and patterns. Something with a lot of pockets. There is a young man trying to woo here but I haven’t seen such poor attempts at courting since I was a teenager. I would help, but my days in assisting in those things are very long gone. Although I did gift Khu with my understanding of the selfishness of love. However they figure things out, I hope they do it soon. Otherwise it is like watching a festering wound. Speaking of festering wounds, I found myself with a willing apprentice which I already put to work. C’zaya is the earnest type looking to expand her medical understanding. She’s quick and has a kinder heart than I do. In the first lesson I gave, it involved her lover–I think they are lovers–and having her stitch up a wound acquired through an event I am not sure about. The information gathering part of me feels I should inquiry more about how these mysterious injuries happen. But the other part of me that enjoys minding my own business likes to stitch and release. C’zaya, although nervous at the start, did very well. Astra shouldn’t have too gastly a scar. C’zaya will be a very sound student, I suspect.

I encountered a warrior with Kedha the other day in one of the little watering holes in Ul’dah. Charging Mountain seems a brute but his word choice at times betrays a quick wit. Such encounters are rare for me so I made a point of hunting him down later and he humored my demands for further conversation. Where the encounter will go, I am not sure, but I value the memory all the same.

#final fantasy 14 #final fantasy vii #nora goldengaze #roleplay #fictional characters #character journal

[utilitycaster]

Wizard Breakdown Tracker, episode 139

I know not what the future holds, other than more warnings about how if you Wizard NPC too hard you will become a mentally fractured hive mind taken over by a purple bastard Emotions Beholder.

But enough about the eventual fate of Essek Thelyss. Let’s continue tracking the deteriorating mental state that proximity to the Mighty Nein induces in all wizards they meet, much as a changing electrical current induces magnetic fields.

Caleb Widogast, as a PC and member of the Mighty Nein, is not included on this list, even though he definitely is inducing all kinds of problems in himself and others.

Currently sidelined: the Zadash contingent of Pumat Sol and Oremid Hass.

Could an archmage do this? *gets one-shot murdered in a hotel room by the man whose soul she deliberately shattered*

Ludinus Da’leth: could an archmage do this? *probably causes the destruction of Molaesmyr, inserts himself into Empire wizard politics at the ground floor, gladly benefits from the Volstrucker program while paying lip service to the idea that it’s “bad” to Caleb at parties, fails to notice a familiar is spying on his espionage meeting*

Conclusion: still 0/10 because this man’s ability to give a shit about the consequences of his actions died with the city of Molaesmyr

Trent Ikithon: could an archmage do this? *gets left on read by the greatest threat to his power, who leaves for the arctic to save the world, steal paper, eat heroes’ feast, be bisexual, and fly*

Conclusion: still holding at 7/10. I have to wonder what he thinks Caleb is doing though. Like, he still can technically send messages with a decent chance of arrival so

Essek Thelyss: if we have been denied Dark Star because his “potential love interest” cast “dispel magic” to “prevent him from murdering the party while he was mind controlled” MY breakdown tracker is going to shoot up to like, 8 or something, but between the (ironically, extremely dry) soup jokes and the fact that he did not murder the party while mind controlled I think he’s probably in what the productivity articles I sometimes read at work in order to procrastinate refer to as a flow state.

Conclusion: honestly despite seeing horrors beyond comprehension? downgrading to a 7/10. His friends are by his side, they’ve used up a bunch of spells but they’re doing well on HP (and really, Fjord’s been doing decently well with cantrips although that is kind of the whole point of the warlock), and he had his “tis a far, far better thing I do” moment.

Blumentrio-1? Blumenduo? Blumenonion.: honestly I got nothing. Like I love them, but this is your regular reminder that Caleb’s dance with Astrid was less than a week ago in-game. Maybe Trent has stepped things up and is torturing her more than usual. Maybe he’s done nothing and the anxiety is torturing her more than usual. I think all we can say is that Astrid continues to probably have a very bad time, and Eadwulf continues to be a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in some really great forearms.

Conclusion: ???/10. I mean I suspect they probably together average out to around a 6 but it’s anyone’s game.

Allura Vyesoren: could an archmage do this? *is in a healthy, loving relationship and remains a force for good within the world*

Conclusion: 2/10. Lady Kima, none of us deserve you.

Yussa Errenis: could an archmage do this? *gets sucked into an ancient evil city because he decided to send his consciousness into the ancient evil city*

Conclusion: he’s probably had time for a hot bath and a meal, so like, 3/10. We’ve established he does not learn from his mistakes so he’s just like “well that sucked.”

Known Gem Wizard Hotsauce Lutefisk: could an archmage do this? *gets trapped in a gem in a donjon in an astral dreadnought in a room in a demiplane of his own making for a millennium*

Conclusion: as previously established I’m pretty sure he’s already insane. Also I hope that this gem either eventually ends up somewhere even less likely to be found, or that some poor sap decides to grind it up for spell components or tattoo materials and suddenly a crazy old wizard pops out.

#critical role #critical role spoilers #wizard breakdown tracker #essek thelyss #yussa errenis #allura vyesoren #ludinus da'leth #trent ikithon #astrid #eadwulf #known gem wizard hotsauce lutefisk #Shadowgast

[troquantary]

Edward Cullen: That Boy Ain’t Right

So I was doing a reread of @therealvinelle 's collection of Twilight metas, as one does, and in "Edward, Denial, and a Human Girlfriend" she mentions that she doesn't believe Edward is sane. I thought, "ha, yeah, he's definitely not," and also, "but wait, what does that mean exactly, please say more about that." But since she's already inundated with asks, I've decided to use my own head-muscle and explore this idea. (TL;DR: I start out more or less organized, synthesize some points Vinelle has made across several posts (and have hopefully linked to them all where relevant but please tell me if not), touch a little on narcissism, then take a hard left into the negative effects of being a telepath.)

Just a couple things to note at the outset, though. Theses have been written already (probably) about Edward as an abuser. Edward being insane doesn't negate that at all; he's definitely an asshole and just...a disaster of a human being. (I find it more funny than anything, but YMMV.) I'm also going to try to avoid talking specifically about mental illness and how it relates (or doesn't relate) to abusive behavior -- that's territory I'm not really equipped to discuss, like at all. My starting point is "Edward has a deeply warped perception of reality," not "Edward has X disorder."

So: deeply warped perception of reality. The evidence? Goes behind a cut, because my one character trait is Verbose.

Vinelle provides a great example of it in the post linked above, which I'll just quote because she does words good: "[Edward] keeps acting like his romance with Bella is a romantic tragedy, and all the cast of Twilight are actors on a stage making it as sublime as possible." Edward's the one to pursue Bella, but he does so with the full belief, from the very beginning, that it will never last; Bella will "outgrow" him, go on her human way, and he can spend the rest of eternity brooding magnificently over his too-short romantic bliss. [Insert premature ejaculation joke.] Turning her is never an option, even though Alice, Noted Psychic, says that romancing Bella will either end with her dead (exsanguinated) or dead (vampire).

This framing, where he's a dark anti-hero in love with -- but never tainting! -- the pure maiden and eventually leaving her in a grand, tragic sacrifice to preserve her soul? It's fucking bonkers. Bella isn't a person to him in this scenario. As Vinelle points out, Bella's never really a person to him at all; he falls in love with his own mental construct, cherry-picking from what he observes of her behavior and her responses to his 20 (thousand) Questions to convince himself that she is the ideal woman.

Bella's not the only one who gets the projection/cardboard-cutout treatment. Edward sees everything and everyone through a highly particular, personalized lens. He filters his entire reality, which we all do to an extent, but the thing with Edward is that he starts with his conclusions and then only pays attention to the evidence that supports those conclusions. Often that evidence consists of what he admits in New Moon are only "surface" thoughts -- but recognizing that limitation doesn't keep him from taking those thoughts as representative of what people are. Edward then becomes absolutely convinced by his own "reasoning" and won't be swayed from what he has decided is Objectively True. It's obvious with Bella; it's also painfully obvious with Rosalie. (Vinelle explains this and brings up Edward's raging Madonna/Whore complex in the same post, so refer to that again -- she's right.)

He also catastrophizes. Everything. Bella's just vibing in her room, rereading Wuthering Heights for the 87th time? She's gonna be hit by a meteor, better sneak into her room while she sleeps. Bella's going to the beach with the filthy mundanes their human classmates? She's gonna fall in the ocean. Jasper's cannibal pals are stopping by for a visit, but know not to hunt in the area? DISASTER, DEFCON 1, ALSO FUCK YOU JASPER FOR EVEN EXISTING IN MY AND BELLA'S SPHERE YOU UNSPEAKABLE BURDEN. Edward must believe that Bella is vulnerable and in near-constant peril, to support the reality he has created in which he is the villain turned protector and maybe?? hero??? (!!!) for his beloved. So when the actual, James-shaped danger arrives, he goes berserk, snarling and flipping his shit and generally not helping the situation. His fantasy demands that Bella remain human, so instead of doing the very thing Alice, Noted Psychic, assures him will neutralize the threat (and not just a threat to Bella, either, but to Bella's family and any other human James might decide to include in the "game"), he vetoes it immediately, no discussion. Bella Must Not Turn, and he sticks to those guns despite James nearly reducing her to ground beef, despite leaving Bella catatonic with depression (but human! success!) in New Moon, despite Aro's order and his family's vote and, let's not forget, Bella's clearly and repeatedly stated desire to be a vampire. It's going to happen. But he doesn't accept it until Renesmee busts out of Bella like the Kool-Aid man and the poor girl's heart finally, unequivocally stops.

Sane people don't behave this way. I don't want to slap labels on Edward, but I can't help but note that he comes across as highly narcissistic. He's the only real person in his universe, the lone player among us NPCs. That probably has a lot to do with him being frozen in the mindset and maturity of a seventeen-year-old boy, but I think it's also just...him, on some fundamental level. His failure to connect with others and recognize them as full, independent beings with their own wants and priorities isn't like Bella's failure -- she's badly depressed. Edward is...something else, and I get the sense that his sanity has been steadily deteriorating over time. And a cursory google of narcissistic traits turns up some familiar-looking stuff. He's self-loathing, yes, but also grandiose; he hates himself for the monster he is (and hates most vampires besides Esme and Carlisle for their monstrosity, too) but still feels superior to humans, to the extent that he felt entitled to human blood and resented Carlisle for depriving him of his "proper" diet. He eventually returns to Carlisle, but he's far from content -- the beginning of Midnight Sun finds him in a state of ennui, bored and dismissive of (if not outright disgusted by) everyone around him, that has apparently persisted for years and years. He doesn't play the piano, he doesn't compose, he doesn't enjoy anything...at least until Bella comes along and then he becomes obsessed to a disturbing degree with her and his new, romantic tragedy spin on reality.

[Next-day edit: I’m not sure where else to fit this in, but the way Edward casually contemplates violence against people who have, at best, mildly annoyed him is...chilling. I have a hard time writing off his strategizing how to murder the entire Biology class as a result of bloodlust -- it’s so calculated, nothing like the blackout state of thirst Emmett describes when he encountered his own “singer,” and that is probably the default for when a vampire is extremely thirsty. But even ignoring the Biology class incident, Edward still does things like consider, with disturbing frequency, how he might grievously injure or kill Mike Newton, all because...Edward considers him his romantic rival (despite Bella barely giving the kid the time of day). He thinks about slapping Mike through a wall, which might be an amusing slapstick image, except as a vampire Edward’s actually capable of turning this boy’s skeleton to a fine powder. So it’s, y’know, kind of sick when you think about it.

But even worse than that, when Bella tells Edward about how she flirted with Jacob to get at that sweet, sweet vampire lore, Edward chuckles and then, after dropping Bella home, flippantly observes that now that the treaty’s broken, why not genocide? I’m not even kidding, it’s right there in Midnight Sun; he seriously thinks about the fact that he’d be technically justified now in wiping out the entire tribe because a teenager tried to impress a girl with a spooky story. That is fucked. Remember, Edward was there with Carlisle when the treaty was first established. He knows how remarkable it is that they even came to a truce in the first place, that it was only ever possible because Carlisle is...well, Carlisle, and that it marks a pretty significant moment in supernatural history. He doesn’t care; he doesn’t respect it, or he’d never think something like “Ha ha, if I went and killed them all, I wouldn’t even be wrong. I mean, I won’t do it, but I’m just saying, I wouldn’t be wrong.”

Again: not the thought process or behavior of a sane person. (Or a person that respects life in general -- sorry Carlisle, big L.)]

Finally, whether he's a narcissist or not, I think the fact that Edward has constant, unavoidable access to everyone's thoughts is a powerful contributing factor to his instability. He can tune out the mental noise to an extent, but he can't stop it -- so he comes to rely on it like another sense. This causes issues with disconnect and lack of empathy, of course, but there's another facet to this shit diamond: he's basically experiencing a ceaseless flow of intrusive thoughts. His narration in Midnight Sun suggests that he "hears" the words people think, can "see" what they visualize in their mind's eye, and can sense the emotional "tone" and intensity of their thoughts. Therefore, perceiving Jasper's thirst through his thoughts makes Edward more aware of his own, "doubling" the discomfort. This would be a lot to deal with even from just his immediate coven members, but Edward gets all of this pouring into his head like a firehose on a day-to-day basis because the Cullens live right alongside humans. I know Meyerpires have galaxy brains or whatever, but that's a ton to process.

Besides the compounding effect on his own thirst when he "feels" the thirst of others, Meyer never suggests that Edward has difficulty separating his own thoughts from other people's; even when he was newly turned, he recognized Carlisle's "voice" in his head as Carlisle's. That would create a whole different host of issues around identity, but it looks like Edward's escaped that particular torment. However, I can easily imagine that what he does experience is just shy of unbearable nonetheless, with an eroding effect on his sanity over decades. He can't sleep to escape it; he's on a dishwater diet and probably (like the rest of his family) experiencing a perpetual, low-grade physical discomfort due to his thirst never being fully satisfied; and he's around far more people than is the norm for vampires -- even discounting all the humans, his own coven is unusually large -- meaning more noise.

Honestly, it would be weirder if he were all there, considering.

And even though I feel like I lost a sense of structure around where I started ranting about telepathy, I've written like 1.5k words about Edward fucking Cullen and I think that's enough for one post.

#twilight #twilight renaissance #twilight meta #edward cullen #i stared too long and the twilight abyss gazed back #long post #major credit due to therealvinelle for having basically all the ideas already #theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin too since they agree and build off each other's metas a lot #idk how people who write meta can just crank these posts out i've been here for two hours #edited to add stuff i forgot to mention about edward's disproportionately violent fantasies

[zannolin]

oh ho ho ho. oh HO HO HO. zanna what did i do?-i write fix-its zannolin, it has been a little while, hasn’t it? i bet you’d thought we were finished, here. that the festering hatred within my heart had ceased, and then deteriorated with time. that, maybe - just maybe - i’d had a change of heart, and turned heel from the narrow and inevitably doomed path of resentment. that i’d healed, and am here to extend a hand in solidarity. in newfound friendship.

you were wrong.

i hope you are doing well. (which is a lie, of course, because i actually hope you soon experience a multitude of minor inconveniences that do not actually affect your life or wellbeing negatively. i hope your most well-used pen runs out of ink, and i am manifesting you to receive one less condiment packet than you need in your next fast food order. i hope the cord of your phone charger breaks in an odd way, so you have to pinch the wire at an extremely specific angle to get it to work.)

i digress. first and foremost, i would like to say that i am parasocially livid with you.

the zcu (zannolin cinematic universe) is truly a downright treacherous place. i dared to believe i had grown; that i had, somehow, significantly built up my mental fortitude. see, while you were frolicking in your field of c!crimeboys copium, i was in my training arc. i was growing stronger. i read bittersweet endings. i read major character death. i read your abba au.

and……. and i really, genuinely believed i was powerful, after having withstood the emotional devastation of it all. (and - listen. i know you’re about to defend yourself, like, “i am simply but a poor soul; an innocent writer. i write fix-its, primarily, and the abba au isn’t even 1% of my power.” well, you must come to realize that - no matter how minor the angst within any given media is - i will be completely and utterly distraught over it. i am incredibly sensitive, and regularly tear up whenever i even glance in the direction of the movie up. i actually saw a clip from the new show about doug and mr. fredricksen, the dog and lovely old man from the movie, and started crying almost instantaneously. i am gripping you by the shoulders and shaking you as i say this, because i must stress my fragility.)

[fist clench] and then…….. and then i saw your animatic.

quite frankly, i don’t even want to talk about it.

do you realize, z*nnol*n, how sensitive i am about crimeboys? i managed survive this past november, miraculously. a seemingly impossible feat. and then my progress was unspooled, much like penelope’s woven shroud, when i finally got around to watching the animatic last night.

…….the heart on the l’manberg flag? the unbearably beautiful frame of techno with his back towards the camera? the disparity between schlatt and wilbur’s shadows; one smiling, and one frowning? tommy’s name scribbled on the wall in pogtopia?

some people relate to the joker. i, however? i relate to skinner from ratatouille. and, as a direct result, i am kin-assigning you remy. we are a lot like them, you and i, you see. you remember that scene where remy concocts a downright lovely soup and skinner tastes it, only to immediately be mach-speed launched into a blind rage? the soup is your art.

i am going to catch you with a cup, one day, and slide a piece of paper underneath the cup. i will shake the cup real hard and give you a good rattle, but will ultimately deposit you safely outside afterwards.

i have been merciful thus far, zannolin, but know this: i am recovering, and this……. this has only made me stronger.

one day, i will put a permanent end to your reign of terror.

PASSERINE ANON THE BELOVED so happy to see you're still kicking omg. thrilled, really. also you'll be happy to know my phone charger is actually already finicky and has been a bitch for like a year <3 and my laptop cord has been broken for months lol there's a yard of electrical tape, three prayers, and several blood sacrifices keeping it together at this point.

oh god the abba au i gotta work on that (it gets worse btw) and i will not deny the angst in that one i was doing it on purpose. that one's supposed to hurt.

anyways does this mean i shouldn't make the viva la vida animatic i was thinking about or.....

#answered asks #passerine anon

[widowsofchaos]

Poor Little Rich Boy

summary: you find out your boyfriend isn’t all that innocent as he seems.

warnings: yandere behavior, violence, and gore. dub-non con. Ya know the filthy vibes.

Pairing: dark college!Tony Stark x black!reader

a/n: this is my first time writing Tony so be gentle with me <3

do not respost my works!

“I, Howard Anthony Walter Stark, being of sound, mind, and body do hereby declare that this document is my last will and testament. I bestow my legacy in the hands of my only heir, my son, Anthony Edward Stark. All my assets, finances, and chair as CEO of Stark Industries are now in his hands.”

Buzz.

A dull silent vibration shook in the confinement of Tony’s jean pocket, pulling him out of his sullen trance. Instinctively ignoring the notification, as he listened onto the blurred words of the lawyer reading his late father’s will.

Biting his lip to contain his swirling emotions -- aggravation to just collect his inherited earnings, and head home to you.

Buzz.

With a hazy eye-roll, Tony casually sneaked his palm into his pocket, retrieving the phone. As the family lawyer droned on reading, aged eyes glued onto the paper; Tony peaked at the screen, with the quick analysis of face ID -- his pupils dilated like saucers.

His nostrils flared, inhaling deeply, his chest heaving -- he gotta get home immediately. An iron grip onto the phone, he roughly dug it back into his pocket, his foot tapping against the carpeted flooring. Antsy.

God, please make time go faster.

Buzz.

His fingers itched to snatch the cellular device, internally screaming for another peak at the salacious cheeky messages.

Messages from you -- photos of yourself seated on his bedroom floor, in only a high-waisted thong, and his custom tailored blazer.

The creamy beige against your buttery smooth bronze skin was divine, Tony swears anything you wear is pulled off with elegance. Your brown areolas are slipping out just a tad bit from the flaps, a hint of what’s awaiting for him.

His cock hardened against the denim fabric, Tony salivates whenever you wear his clothing, his scent imprinting onto your flesh - of you in compromising positions, your neatly manicured fingers inside your panties, rubbing your swollen nub. Biting your plump bottom lip.

Buzz.

Another picture with a text, you were sipping from a glass, his best Scotch, with the typed words, “I miss you. I know my favorite boy is blue, come back home so I can take care of you.” Signed with a kissy face emoji, and a red heart.

You were leaning on your elbows, your bouncy ass in the air, legs bent upward with your ankles playfully interlocked in the air.

The glass of ale leaning downward against your teasing lips, and sultry eyes through the reflective mirror -- Tony’s cock twitched, oh he’s gonna eat you up when he gets home.

- It was midnight, the full moon shining bright in the inky indigo sky -- beaming upon the Stark manor. The white fluorescent solar satellite glistening upon the grand bedroom where two lovers lay satiated in bed.

Rubbing random circles by the pads of your fingertips on Tony’s sweaty broad chest, taming the beast into a purring feline.

“I love you.” Tony’s mild slurred speech infiltrated the serene silence, your nose scrunched up in glee. “I love you too.” you murmured in his neck, a lazy grin stretched on your face.

For hours, Tony, and yourself haven’t left the bedroom, stringing release after release -- letting Tony pinch, pull your hair, bruise, slap, and choke your soft flesh-- that’s what he loves about you, trusting him wholeheartedly with your body, and soul.

A lot of tears of euphoria, and fear of abandonment. Reassuring Tony that you would never leave him, breathy hymns of I love yous in his ear.

It’s been a couple of difficult few weeks, Howard Stark has passed at the age of 74. A fatal car crash taking his life, leaving behind his only son. It was only freshly five months ago that Tony lost his mother, Maria. Uterine cancer - multiple tumors.

Maria Stark, the matriarch of the family, was the light of Tony’s life. Maria was a saint, even at death’s door, she had a positive perspective. You can still recall her calling her tumors fruit bowls of pain - her tumors were the size of miniature melons; grew from the size of strawberries.

And when she died -- the already fractured relationship of father and son deteriorated to ash. Howard started becoming colder, more stricter on his son -- his disappointment fueling by the second.

Clayed into a modernized Narcissus -- guising his trauma with bloviating chatter to impress the little people. Boasting his youthful genius with no shame.

Tony may have been born from the finest cloth, a silver-spoon wedged in his mouth -- but he oozes the work ethic of a blue-collar joe.

Under the molden gait of a promising demigod is a fragile boy -- yearning for affection. A neglected child desperate for attention.

Sending nudes to your boyfriend while he’s attending his dead father’s will hearing -- many would deem that as distasteful -- tacky, even. But, you knew Tony’s coping mechanisms.

Frat parties, drinking excessively to the brink of oblivion, and copious amounts of sex.

Tony was raised in a household, where any emotional turmoil expressed to his father was shot down, except with his mother -- he needs a womanly touch.

He never saw his conquests as ladies, only whores to get his rocks off, but once he laid eyes on you -- sweet, and bubbly -- that little rich boy was a goner.

Succumbing to a dazed half-slumber, Tony’s cell phone rings at the bedside table -- you groaned at the intrusion. Flashing on the screen was Happy’s goofy grin, one of Tony’s closest friends. You mumbled a ‘of fucking course’, Tony cheekily chuckled at your frustration.

“Don’t worry, sweetcheeks. This won’t take long.” With the wisp of a lingering kiss on your hairline, Tony begrudgingly detached himself from you--proudly strutting his naked bare firm ass, picking up his boxers from the floor shamelessly displaying his hung cock, and balls.

“Nice ass.” you teased. Tony snorted, “Nice? Toots, it’s the finest ass. And you love it.” He winked at you over his shoulder, you giggled. Tony’s footfalls faded down the hall, his conversation blurring into the distance. You laid back down, sighing as you stared up at the ceiling, quickly getting bored.

Without Tony to entertain you, you had nothing to do. Maybe I could get a head start on my thesis? Your eyes languidly rolled to the corner of your lids, staring at your opened crumbled book-bag mocking you at the corner of the room, Fuck that. You grumbled.

Mindlessly deciding to get dressed, and search for substance. Hours of unadulterated love-making can take out a lot of energy.

Nimble quiet feet tip-toe down the stairs, covered in only Tony’s wrinkled white button-down, brown statuesque legs gracefully head to the kitchen -- but you halt in your tracks. A dim light seeps from the crack out of an office -- Howard’s former office.

Curiosity overwhelms you, biting down your tongue, you check your surroundings, making sure Tony is nowhere in sight. Earlier in the day, the office was locked -- why is it now open?

Open-palm press against the door, a tiny creak of the mahogany makes you cringe internally. Stealthy you walk into the office, nothing seems to be out of place. Maybe Tony was in here? Fidgety fingers skim against the polished wooden desk, at the corner of your eye, a mess of papers sit idly by.

You pick the papers up, fastly flicking through it. Statements declaring Tony as the new CEO of Stark Industries, royalties, and -- mechanic blueprints?

Your chest began heaving, breaths still choppy fuming out of your nose, your left eye twitched from the stressing bile rising. Here in your hands are the blueprints of a familiar vehicle -- Howard Stark’s car. Descriptive details on the full functionality of the car, why are these here?

Warm palms clutch your shoulders, soothingly rubbing, you flinch by the surprise, “You weren’t meant to see those.” A hot breath fan against your ear, you whimper, his voice sounded husky, menacingly.

Not daring to look him in the eye, frozen in your spot as if the soles of your feet grew roots in the flooring, Tony’s grasp on your arms tighten. “The old man was going to take me off the will. I know he was.”

A chaste kiss on your temple, “As if I didn’t take his shit over the years just for nothing. Blaming me for my mother’s death.” He grumbled against your skin, your blood running cold. There was no remorse in his voice, a hint of satisfaction.

This isn’t the Tony you knew.

A beast of his father’s making.

“Tony - I - I won’t tell anyone, I promise--” Tony shushed your stuttering, his rough hands snaking its travel to your waist, slithering his forearms around your torso, ensnaring you.

“I know, baby. I know you wouldn’t. You’re my good girl.” He spoke in your hair, small lingering kisses on your scalp. Tony was rocking your body back and forth, cradling you -- he can sense your fear.

With trepidation, you held his arms, a little shaky. “Tony, let’s just go back to bed.” Your voice was cracking, this isn’t the man you fell in love with, and you wanted to just run away as far as you can.

“You’re scared of me?” Although it was an intended question, its tone came off as a fact. Indeed you were terrified of him.

“No.” You spat too quickly for your liking. Tony gripped your chin, and twisted your head to face him, “I would never hurt you. I love you. Everything I do is for you.” Your breath hitched, his face was morphed into a sad feral puppy.

“I know. I know you do.” You feigned a weak smile, “I just didn’t think --” you stopped yourself before you vomited any other words. “Do what? Kill?” Tony cocked a brow, with a shit-eating grin. “I did it before. For you.” Tears were forming at the brim of his eyes, your doe-eyes widened, you began squirming in his arms. “Tony, what did you do?!” you shrieked, limbs failing.

Tony’s iron-grip didn’t let up, refusing to let you go, “He wasn’t right for you!” Tony bellowed on the top of his lungs, impulsive rage seeping through, fumbling feet colliding.

Both of your bodies falling to the carpeted floor as Tony tried to restrain your wrists, fumbling feet slipping. A miscalculated misstep sent you, and Tony colliding downward.

Tony’s weight pinning you down. Confusion making your head go dizzy, “What do you mean?” You whispered. Tony smashed his lips against yours, his hands cupping your cheeks, “You know what I mean.” His brows furrowed, gently his forehead on yours, his eyes staring into your soul.

Realization hits you like a freight train, flashes of your ex, the cops alerting you of his disappearance, Tony’s lingering shadow always appearing to provide comfort -- “Brock?” a lone tear trickle down your eye, down your temple, and hitting the carpet below. Tony nodded frantically.

Tony’s lips peppered against your face, your cheeks, your forehead, your eye-lids, your nose, your chin; mumbling affection against your tear-stained face.

It’s been three years since Brock vanished, rumors flew around campus from students believing he killed himself in some remote location, you lost him in the first years of university.

You were grief-stricken, but Tony, being the ever-present close friend lend a shoulder -- then soon, it blossomed into much more.

“Now, it's just us. We can start a new dollface.” Tony sniffled, hot tears drip upon your flesh, “We can start our own family” he rasps, “I can be a dad. A better father.” Your eyes widened at his suggestion.

A family? You both were just shy of twenty-one, and already Tony is mapping out your entire futures. You tried to wiggle out of his grasp, but it was futile.

Tony murmured nonono to your bodily request of escape, chasing clumsy blubbering kisses against your chavile. Your body began to be wrecked with sobs, your chest heaving.

“Don’t cry, baby. It’s better this way.” Tony’s brows were furrowed sorrowfully, his tremor low with ache. “You killed Brock, how could you?! I loved him!” Tony gripped your jaw, painfully his fingers kneading,

“Loved him?! He wasn’t right for you! You need me! I need you! No one is going to love you like I do. I loved you the first day I met you.” Harsh fingers rip off the fabric, exposing your breasts to the elements.

“You’re mine! No one can have you! I will kill anyone who tries to take you away!” Tony’s mouth plunged, fangs nibbling on your nipples, his entire mouth suckling your left breasts.

Tony’s left hand pinching your right nipple, twisting and slapping it roughly. You yelped, shutting your eyes closed. Your skin crawled, Tony’s brown eyes peered at you, dissatisfied that you refuse to look at him.

A sloppy pop echoed, “Look at me!” he slapped you, the crack of it pounding in your ears, the heat of the sting scorched throughout your cheek. Your eyes popped open, watery from the hit, Tony has never once laid a hand on you -- until now.

Nose to nose, “We’re gonna be a family--” one of his hands traveled down to tug down his boxers, his hard swollen cock is man-handled in his palm, you struggled to get away, but Tony clutched your wrists in one hand, and pinned it on the carpet.

Tony spit on your cunt, rubbing it within your velvety folds by the base of his veiny cock, earning a hiss out of you. “You’re going to look so hot swollen with our baby.” Your thighs twitched, Tony roughly forced your thigh to wrap around his torso, positioning himself.

“Please - Tony, please don’t”, you cried, Tony shushed you. Lining himself to your hole, with no hesitation, plunged his cock inside your pussy. You screamed, your back arching, “Feels lovely, right? Feels so fucking delicious - you were made for me.” Tony snarled, biting your chin, his tongue trailing your jawline, pistoning his cock inside you.

Dripping slick smears against your thighs, clenching onto his cock, a broken groan slips from Tony’s lips, “Fuck - yes, do that again.” You were blubbering tears down your cheeks, the inevitable pleasure Tony strings out of you is undeniable.

“You’re so tight, and warm.” He growled in your ear, “I can’t wait to have a baby with you. You all swollen, waddling around with bare-feet. You’ll be a great mother - just like mine.” He whispered, biting on your lobe.

You murmured muffled whines in the crock of his neck, bruising is slowly forming on your hips, fucking you like it’s the last time. Shivers run down Tony’s spine, time slows down.

Sweaty skin slapping against skin spurred him on, taking all of you. Your nails scratch at his palm, still bounding you down.

“I love you.” He whimpered, you bite your lip, refusing to sink into the instinct of saying it back. Tony perked his head up from your neck, growling, “Say it back!” he thrusted his pelvis against you, a cattle wail hit you, “Say -” thrust “it-” another thrust “-back!” his smile falters slow, a bruising touch.

He can see you slowly yielding, small pants of electric euphoria, “No!” you bite back.

Wet lips slant against yours. Your entire body jolting from his unforgiving pace, your back burning slightly from the rug beneath you.

Releasing your wrists, his rough hand find it’s way to your back, hiking you up, squeezing your ass in his fingers, bucking your hips; fucking you onto him, your nails dig into his sculpted back -- scratching for him to stop, but it felt too good.

You’ve become dizzy. Your teeth sink into his shoulder, hoping the pain makes him halt his actions, but it makes him harden inside of you.

There’s no space between you, melting into one, the friction, the heat; the tethers of reality blur into nothing.

“Please - say you love me.” Tony pleaded, his weary eyes sinking into yours. A robbery -- a heart-wrenching robbery of your soul, in an instant, you didn’t see a cold-blooded killer, but the mire of a lost boy.

He slowed down his thrusts, leisure movements, his brown orbs are glossy, “Say it, please.” Tony gently kisses you, not feverish, but you can taste the sweet commitment. Like he doesn’t own you, but he worships you.

“I love you.” you mumbled against his swollen lips, his eyes dilated, rubbing his nose against yours, “I love you” maneuvering your hips, squelching can be heard - sticky as honey, as the pace picked up.

Your fingers grip his soft fluffy hair, his balls slapping against your ass, “I love you, Tony.” You sucked on his bottom lip. He whimpered. His cock was coated in your juices, you can feel the swelling of his balls, and his uneven jerking movements -- he was close.

“Cum for me, baby.” Tony’s eyes were shut, he mewled, “Cum inside me, give me a baby, Tony.” The dam breaks. The window bursts open from a gust of wind, the full moon gleamed upon your sweaty sheen bodies, a howl erupts from Tony -- as the wolf within has been unhinged -- primal, feral fueled lust.

Toothy grin, all fangs lunged for your pulse point, devouring you. Squirted juices spray from you, splashing against his toned stomach, not once stopping, riding through the orgasm. Tony’s tongue peaked out, droplets of your cum sprinkling his mouth.

Your vision turns white, an inhuman scream leaves you, Tony collapses onto you.

He’s trembling, frightened, you massage his dome, “My sweet boy.” Tony sobs into your chest, ensnaring himself around your torso. You hugged him, cradling like a baby, as he cried water-falls.

“It’s okay.” You kiss his head, a lingering one, “It’s going to be alright.”

You’re all he has.

#buckybarnesplumwhore wrote this #tony stark x reader smut #tony stark x reader angst #yandere tony stark #yandere tony stark x reader #dark tony stark #dark tony stark x reader #dark marvel

[sweetygirl90]

If you don’t like chasriel then DON’T READ THIS. Okay? Okay.

I apologize in advance if there are any grammatical errors or typing errors that make the text poorly understood. English is not my first language and although I am learning it I still have a long way to go. I would appreciate if anyone would notify me of any errors that you find.

So... Chara here are a female-born non-binary gender (They/Them pronouns)

____________________________________________________________

Ever since he was conscious of life, Asriel could tell how much his father loved his garden.

Asriel watched him work on it all day when he wasn’t busy with his family or attending to royal duties, always smiling peacefully as he did his work watering flowers or cutting brush. It was something simple, but the adult took the time in the world to do it with impeccable care and neatness. Asriel could even tell that Asgore was more into it than his paperwork.

Rarely could he observe the affliction in his father eyes when he occasionally discovered some plague damaging his precious flowers, or how some of them turned out to be withered.

Fresh in his memory was the scene of the king sighing heavily when it was time to cut the blackened flowers before they ended up affecting the rest. According to him, although it was for the good of the rest of the garden, he didn’t like to get rid of them. It must have been a disappointment to see those flowers that he worked so hard on diying.

Asriel thought that if the garden were a person, perhaps it would be one of the most loved by the monarch of the underground, perhaps becoming just as loved as he and his mother.

It was a bit difficult for him to understand it at first, perhaps because he hadn’t found something similar to consider his garden, but he assumed by common sense that when you spend so much time on something you end up loving even a little, or not? For a long time he wondered what it would be like to come to love something or someone so much.

Was the answer worth knowing after all?

Asriel lifted his gaze from the sheets to return to the human who lay on the bed, sick and tired as usual. Or at least that's how it was a few days ago.

Their breath slowly raised their chest, their pale face that was barely rosy on their cheeks reflected full calm as if they were in a long, peaceful sleep that wanted to engulf them in the dark forever. A damp towel rested on their forehead to reduce the fever, and some brown hair clung to it while others lay on their shoulders and the pillow.

Even bedridden by illness it was amazing how they could look so pretty, and they wasn't even trying.

“Chara…”

Asriel called their name in a broken whisper. They moved their hand close to his, to show him that they was awake and that they could hear him perfectly.

"I don't like this plan anymore, Chara." He said, and he leaned over the bed, resting his face close to his friend's arm.

Warm tears began to emerge from the young prince's eyes, releasing that overwhelming feeling that consumed him from within and that he hadn't had a chance to release until now. Doing so didn't feel better if they asked, because that didn't solve anything that was happening.

Chara was dying, he knew it.

No matter how much the adults wanted to convince him otherwise or how much they insisted that his best friend would recover, he knew with certainty what the end was that awaited the human in how much their body could not tolerate it anymore. He was aware of how Chara was withering day after day, and how medicines and care were not able to save them.

He could feel it. He felt their life slip through his fingers like sand.

Worst of all is that in the midst of his naivety he was responsible for this. How could he be so stupid to allow it? How come he didn't stop them? He thought that refusing to find out what it implied would be enough, but he was wrong to underestimate Chara and he knew it as soon as he saw them lying on the ground with the rest of the golden flowers that they could not swallow surrounding them.

This he no longer liked. This is not how things should be. Chara was not born to be bedridden in pain and slowly deteriorate. No! Chara had must to re-bloom like they did every day.

His friend was not this frail sick child. They was a mischievous laugh that echoed through the castle when they both committed a mischief, they was the energy that lifted him from his bed every morning to start the day, they was that genuine smile that amazed him, they was those hands that could be gentle to pet him or be aggressive for when they both played pillow wars. Chara was that lively, ruby-crimson gaze that glowed, the one he longed for with all his soul, the one they had lost and turned opaque.

Chara was everything and more, and Asriel wasn't ready to give it all up.

“Azzy.”

Their raspy, weak voice lifted him with the same gentleness with which they began to pet his head. Asriel opened his eyes to find Chara smiling at him, they had a look of indulgence devoid of pity.

“Don’t go.” He implored. His friend's hand felt warm cradling his cheek and he couldn't help but want to hold it right there using his. He needed to feel that the warmth that overflowed from Chara's soul had not yet left them, that they had not yet left.

Chara allowed him to do so and kept petting him with their thumb on that trail of tears, thinking that Asriel looked like a helpless puppy taking shelter from the rain and cold. In a way they made sense of it when they looked at his fluffy ears and couldn't help but imagine a dog saddened by its owner's usual departure to work.

Chara wanted to try to see him the same way to deny the truth.

"I'm not going anywhere. Everything will be fine.”  They promised, but the monster could see clearly that it was more to convince themself than him. "Everything will go as we planned."

"Chara, please." He begged them again, holding his face closer as soon as he stopped feeling their caresses and was aware of the typical tremor that he noticed in them when they began to feel weak. “I don't care going to the surface anymore, I don't care breaking the barrier. I'm already happy here with you, I don't need more than that.”

He didn't want to let his garden die, didn't want to see his flower wither.

Chara still spoke as if they were unchanging, but long ago their smile and their gaze became unstable. Asriel didn't need to see them to know it, he just felt their pulse. "Seven…  Just seven human souls and you will free everyone, Asriel."

They repeated the plan that they both already knew, and with it they hoped to scare away that fear that still overwhelmed them with death on the horizon. They hoped it would comfort their poor friend, but instead they only made his suffering worse.

“We will free them all from this prison to which the selfish humans unjustly condemned you all. I want you to be free, I want you to see the sun as I promised you.”

Chara never had an attachment to their own kind and Asriel knew it from the start, for they didn't bother to hide it. Asriel many times came to wonder if the love that Chara claimed to profess to him, their friends and family was as big as they swore it to be. He was distressed that they was lying when they said that the love they  was given in one day was a thousand times greater than that given to them by humans on the surface. Right now he regretted having doubted, that the human strictly demonstrated how much they loved them by giving their own life in exchange for the freedom of the monsters.

It was a pure and real love, one that no one underground would want to lose. Asriel more than anyone.

"I can't... I-I can't, I can't. No like this. We will find another way, but not this one.”

“I will not leave. Once I die you will have my soul forever. I will continue to be with you but… Differently.”

“I don't want it to be different, I want everything to continue as it is. Please.”

“Azzy… I won't let you stay here forever.”

Chara cradled the face of their sobbing friend, who, drowning in his own tears, threw himself into hugging them as if clinging to a wooden plank in the middle of the ocean. He hugged them gently for fear of hurting them, but with the strength necessary for them to feel his despair and the tears wetting their shoulder.

"And I won't let you die. I don't want to. I can't imagine a world without you. I don’t want let you go!”

He heard Charas laugh softly before hugging him back. At first they had surprised him how calm they was, until he too felt his shoulder getting wet with tears.

They both knew that this was a destiny from which they could not escape. No matter how much this hurt them, no matter what happened next, no matter how many times Asriel implored… Chara was already determined to sacrifice themself for monsters.

The most beautiful flower in the garden gave their vitality to the others. The flower that he loved the most died and he could do nothing to prevent it.

His flower...

Chara...

They was already withered.

#undertale #chasriel #chara x asriel #asriel x chara #oneshot #this is platonic maybe? #I'm not sure at all #sweetgirl90 #my drawings #chara dreemurr #chara #chara undertale #asriel #asriel dreemurr

[aciid-eater]

“You poor thing” Zuko x Water tribe sibling! Reader

Summary: y/n convinces the Gaang to let a certain prince in.

Warnings: none

__________________________________________

Y/n could feel a low rumble under her bare feet. It wasn’t an earthquake, she knew that. Toph’s bending? It didn’t feel like that either, it was too constant. Yelling. That’s what she felt.

Finding the doors to her crumbling room, she descended the hard stairs of the slowly deteriorating air temple to find the kids she found herself traveling with in conflict.

“Woah woah woah, what’s with all the screaming?” She asked, calmly fluffing her hair. But as she rounded the corner, her blood ran cold for a moment. The fire nation prince stared back, eyes filled with distress. Y/n would have been ready to attack him, but he seemed different somehow.

“Hey.” She mumbled. He didn’t respond.

“Hey?? That’s all you have to say to him??” Sokka scoffed.

“Why’s he here?” Y/n asked, ignoring her brother and pointing her gaze to Aang.

“He wants to be my fire bending teacher.” The young boy stated.

“Oh cool.” Y/n mumbled, beginning to walk back upstairs.

“Y/n you can’t be serious.” Katara added. Y/n turned back around to peer at her sister, noticing the obviously irritated look on her face.

“Ohhh I see what’s happening here.” Y/n chuckled. Leaving back against the wall she pointed her gaze to Zuko.

“You gave my siblings a hard time somewhere along the line and they won’t let it go huh? You poor thing.” She asked with a smirk. Zuko blushed, looking away in shame.

“Way more than a hard time.” He mumbled.

“WAY more than a hard time.” Katara growled.

“I say let him stay.” Y/n voiced, catching Aang’s eye. The prince’s face perked up at the proposal.

“What?? Y/n you weren’t here to see everything he’s done to us!” Sokka yelled. Y/n only smiled, approaching the boy with the scar and placing her hand on the scared side of his face. Zuko was tensed as she seemingly peered into his soul, but his body relaxed as she began softly stroking the skin under his eye.

“If you’ve ever trusted me before, trust me now. I can see the pain in his eyes, the regret, the sorrow...” y/n never broke eye contact with the boy as she spoke. He could feel the heat creep up his cheeks as she smiled softly.

“He’s finding his way, just like I was. Can’t we be a stepping stone for just a bit as he does so? After all, when all of this is over, the fire nation is going to need a new fire lord.” Y/n directed her gaze down to the boy’s arms, they were littered with cuts a bruises.

“Can I help?” She asked, gesturing to his arm.

“Y/n this is not the time to act all motherly! He tried to kidnap Aang SEVERAL TIMES!” Sokka yelled to his older sister.

“He’s not bad, just misguided. There a difference. If it makes you feel better, I’ll watch over him. One wrong move and he’s gone, okay?” Y/n mumbled.

Y/n ignored the protest, reaching out at the boy’s arm and letting warm water heal his injuries.

“It’s your call Aang, we can do whatever you decide.” She hummed, not looking up from her work. Has her finger tips ghosted up his biceps, a warm calming feeling persisted on his skin. As she did so, Zuko kept his eyes trained on her face. She really was beautiful, kind eyes and smile.

“..... I want you to train me Zuko.” Aang stated. The prince’s head perked up in excitement.

“But only if it’s okay with my friends.” The avatar looked to Toph, studying her face for a moment.

“Toph?”

“You know I was already on board, it gives me an opportunity to get back at him for my feet” the blind girl smiled.

“Sokka?” The water tribe boy huffed before glaring to his older sister.

“He can stay, but get off of him!”

Y/n snickered, throwing her arms around the Fire Nation prince’s shoulders just to spite her little brother. Zuko stumbled a bit, startled and not sure what to do. His hands hovered over her hips, not sure if it was appropriate for him to touch her.

“Katara?”Katara just glared at the boy, glancing between his worried face and his hands, making Zuko immediately drop them to his side.

“I’ll be on my best behavior, I promise.” Zuko mumbled just as y/n pulled herself off of him.

“As if your word means anything. You’re very lucky my sister likes you.” Katara growled.

“Y/n?” Aang finally asked.

“You already know where I stand. Besides we could use someone in the group who’s closer to my age.” She stated.

“Zuko and I are the same age!” Sokka scoffed.

“Yeah well I’m 17 and Zuko is closer to 17 then you are.” Y/n teased. Then suddenly aang spoke up, ignoring the two’s banter.

“I guess that means you get to stay Zuko.”

“Thank you. I promise you won’t regret it.” The prince stated firmly.

“We better not.”

#atla x reader #atla #zuko x reader #Zuko #atla fanfic

[omiramotakiart]

Come in, come all, why fear? I don't look like the monster from fairy tales, do I? Well, dearest guests, at my age you stop caring about certain things, though I like to think of myself as a bit of aged wine but that is beyond the point, you came here for stories, didn't you? Well I have all day and even longer, after all, why should I limit myself to obey the laws of time? But… you may have a thigher schedule, granted, none of my stories can be told in five minutes or less, but you already know that, sit down, sit down, make yourself at home, enter freely by your own will and place your trust on my old hands. 

It was about many moons ago when I came across the Moore manor on a small part of Scotland forgotten by God, years, decades ago, an old white house covered by moss and decorated by cracks, dried ivy covering each corner, some spines, some roses of dark crimson color, the windows tinted by dust and fog and the grounds replete of dead leaves that made as much noise as the creaking floors, and on that autumn that I began working for the Moores, lonely people, were they,  all that remained was the son and eldest daughter, see, the mother, Lady Alexandria had drowned when the four kids where but small infants, first, one of the sisters, Henrietta, had the tragic fate of mistaking belladonna for her favorite berries and the youngest, Isabella, was simply stricken by an illness no doctor was able to diagnose in time, may they all rest in peace.

Their father, Barnard, was already on his deathbed and I had no interaction with him, I hope his soul has found peace wherever he is, but his son, Eleazar, he had become my dearest friend during the time I worked as his secretary, akin to a brother, although eccentric and of secretive nature, my friend was a brilliant man and an avid reader that would narrate all his favorite tales with the grace of a shakespearean actor, his sister, Asenath, was of more introverted nature, quite the active lady who more often than not would be seeing riding her favorite horse all over the land and would refuse to talk to anyone but her maid, both siblings shared the same pale green eyes, the eyebags that indicated days of sleep deprivation, black hair and languid demeanor, soon I grew worried that my friend or his only remaining relative were to suffer a fate similar to that of their father however all physicians seemed to disagree.

Lady Asenath locked herself in her room each night, even from afar I could see the thick black curtains of her chambers, and oh, how did she watch over the key that hanged from her neck, so much that staring at it for a couple of seconds would send her into a rage which is one of the few occasions she would break her silence. I asked my Eleazer multiple times and he blamed it on madness, an explanation that was never enough to me, not to this day. She was methodic, performing specific rituals on how she would turn off every candle near her room, how she would lock the door with silver locks, how we would hear her muttering words in Latin near the garden and would read strange books out loud at night.

My friend despised those behaviours, I found myself surprised at the times I had to calm him down and stop him from screaming and trying to break the door. Goodness, the violent impulses must have run through their veins as I saw the same hellfire on the siblings' eyes and how their teeth were more akin to fangs than anything human.

God knows I soon learned to keep my mouth shut as their banther escalated to a real conflict where more often than not they would soon try to harm each other, locking their hands on the other's neck and biting and kicking and screaming as the others servants and I witnesses the cacophony of almost animalistic sounds and pleas, and as the winter came, their fights became more frequent until Eleazer began deteriorating.

I was right. I knew I was right.

My friend soon became as ill as his father, by the time winter had taken over the land poor Eleazer Moore was bedridden and shivering, coughing up blood and losing weight each day, in one night he had aged five years, in two he had ages ten, his hair had begin to turn white and his sunken features soon began to turn his face into a skull, even in the worst days my friend would asks me to bring him his books and once he was no longer able to talk I would read for him and hope I held up to his standards.

I will not justify myself, take this as you will.

As Eleazer grew ill Asenath began to bloom, she became cheerful, full of energy and joy and she would sing and talk and being guests to the manor, throwing away the locks of her door and even smiled at my presence, I had to grudge with her, though I tried to not bring her up near Eleazar, he couldn't even stand to hear her name being spoken.

My poor heart stopped the day a mud track led to his bed, dirt had gotten all over his naked feet and a dried brown substance had covered his hands and sleepwear, with cuts on his arms and face and neck next to what indicated an attempt of strangulation.

Asenath's room presented similar signs, however she had not been found and in her bed.

I never thought I would see my friend cry as soon as he hears the news, he fell onto the grown and for the first time in months, cried out her name, the doctors and investigators had come up with theories from sleep walking to attempts of murder until they found the body of Asenath Moore among the plants she so lovingly cared for, a knife was in her throath with a note whose contents dare not to speak out loud.

Perhaps Eleazer had just tried to stop her with his remaining strength and blocked all memories, that's what we chose to believe. Among the grief, I was overjoyed to see the improvements on my friend's health. I was overjoyed to see him go back to his dramaturgic nature and endeavour in teathrics once more, to see him practice languages from places I could only dream of visiting and receive all sorts of visits.

Eleazer was my friend, he was.

It was on a Christmas Eve, I believe, he never was the festive one from what I've been told and I was happy to spend the holidays with my only friend at the time, we locked each other in his office and drank all the wine we could gather as he enthusiastically read the works of Shakespeare, and oh, how much he enjoyed those books, embodying all the characters and reciting each soliloquy with his heart and soul until he let himself collapse on his prefered armchair.

My friend was still frail, recovering, but frail, and on that night, on that moment, as soon as I heard him caught I knew I saw droplets of crimson liquid on the white of his sleeves.

As I brought that up he grew nervous, calling it nonsense and that perhaps it was just paint, though I do not recall him being a painter. He even blamed the coughs on sequels of his condition.

As time went by I started to notice dots on his neck and cheeks, rashes, red, darkening with time and a strange twitch that increased in intensity by the minute, his hands stopped being steady and his bloodshot eyes only started to water.

He tried holding any sort of conversation yet couldn't focus on one single topic and struggled to produce any sentence.

Soon enough, Eleazer had fainted.

Perhaps it was the alcohol, perhaps he had a  bad reaction or I was drunk to the point of hallucination, that is what I thought that night.

Dearest Eleazer was out for mere seconds, before I could run to his aid he jumped from his seat gasping for air as he was drenched in sweat, he grabbed me by the arms with a strength that couldn't belong to a man in his conditions and kept insisting with a grin on his face to continue our small party, I could see the red from his gums starting to lose color and his teeth seemed rotten, no longer pearly white but a shade similar to that of olives.

He dared not to call my name and once I offered help he pushed and held me against the wall as he threatened to cut my throat with the letter opener he had taken from his desks, God, I could smell the rott around him, the stench of a dead animal, I was shaking, I truly was, I could almost feel how my heart tried breaking out of my chest, I could only pray for protection that day, to whoever was listening, I pleaded for salvation.

Eleazer had finally let me go free from his grip and I saw his limping figure of disheveled gray hair scramble upon the multiple bookshelves until he tossed one to me and asked me to read it with that voice of his that simply couldn't have been human. 

And as he said I did. The book was an old tale whose name I had forgotten, of desperate men and desperate actions, reckless actions, reckless decisions, men who came to a different land to craft themselves an empire for family, a man who was their genesis and another who became their downfall, as I spoke the man I called friend would stand up and pose like the heroes of legends, he would speak as if he was any of them and pretend to fight their battles. The book spoke of a powerful family and a reluctant father, a desperate father who made the wrong choice and paid the consequences, of a father that much like his predecessors, had gotten rid of all but his eldest son before he died. He had also failed to get rid of his daughter.

Eleazer let out a cry as I read that part, covering his ears as if it was causing him pain. And yet he told me to continue.

I responded with a story where each firstborn would exchange the souls of their siblings and progenitors to keep receiving luck and fortune after securing more than one heir, in which a daughter broke an ancient cycle to protect herself, a sister who knew too much and fell victim to the only time she fail to conduct the rituals that would keep her brother away and whose death had been passed as an unrelated tragedy.

Eleazer turned around as he yelled the name of Asenath, his slender fingers and yellow fingernails pointed at the door as the room grew colder and the contents of the bookshelves.

He yelled the name of Asenath as the furniture was thrown around and his eyes became white, as he retreated towards the window.

Asenath, he yelled as his skin began to sink and take a greyish tone, his hair started to fall and all light from the candles went out.

It was the loudest shriek I've ever heard followed by the sound of bones and broken glass falling to the ground.

Once I managed to light one candle and the rest of the servants came to see the commotion, all that remained was a maggot-riddled smull and dust among clothes and shards from the broken window.

I had picked up the book I was reading from Eleazer, the story written on it's bloodied pages was one of revenge, the word downfall written next to Eleazer's name.

My Dear friend do not judge me too harshly, I said he was my friend though I now side with the poor Asenath who I didn't have the pleasure to know as well as her brother.

It has been fifty years and many who have tried living this very house we are in always leave after their first Christmas Eve. I have remained loyal to the manor regardless of the owner, some say the spirit of Asenath still roams around and others say it is the damned soul of Eleazer Moore, others call it the trapped ghosts of generations that served as sacrifice to God knows who.

Now, dearest friend, can you tell me what are you pointing at?

#writing #my writing #original writing #spooky stories #scary stories