#bloody bloated and beautiful

[missstaypuft]

This is the second TMW commission I had done by @suddenly-frankenstein who once again did an incredible job, especially capturing the wickedness of the marquess! This accompanies the Vampire of Appledore snippet I posted, if you haven't read it, go check it out!

Also another reminder to please go follow this artist and show them lots of love! ❤️

#bloody bloated and beautiful #he's stunning #makes me want to write more of this au #seraphimus fenwick #the marquess' wager #the vampire of appledore #commissioned art #art #painting

[ghoulfuckersincorporated]

something tells me our ghoulie would be fond of period sex (i’ll go to horny jail now)

Bloodletting

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Female Reader

Word Count: 2,839

Warnings: smut (18+), blood play, bloody cunnilingus/bloody kisses, period sex, masturbation (male), rough sex, creampie, biting.

Notes: Can't lie, this was my immediate thought watching him tear into that bloody chunk of meat for the first time. I usually try to include at least a little plot, but this is basically all porn. Very fun submission to write; thank you! Please save a good seat for me on the bench in horny jail, I'll be in promptly.

Fun fact: orgasms can help relieve period cramps for some people.

Today had been a poor choice of start point for this long walk.

Normally, trekking across the bombed out western seaboard was strenuous and uncomfortable enough, the deadly sun baking seemingly the entire planet to a crisp, the cloying dehydration, the constant danger that something or someone was around the corner, ready to eat you. It was a far cry from the safety and monotony of the vault you'd grown up in. Usually, you were able to find lots of beauty on the surface, plenty of things to appreciate. But right now everything was just awful and uncomfortable.

Menstruation was such a nightmare topside. The proper products were apparently incredibly difficult to find anymore, leaving you to make the best of things with old torn pieces of clothing and less-than-ideal medical supplies. But these things didn't provide the absorption you'd long been accustomed to, and you kept having accidents the last few days, the result of a heavier-than-average flow. Normally, these things wouldn't bother you, but it was insanely annoying to constantly feel as if you were bleeding through basically the only clothes you had, doubly so when there was no place to clean them or bathe yourself most of the time. Besides, these pants chaffed terribly when they were damp.

Months back, you'd made the choice to ditch the vault suit. It was surreal and sort of sad feeling, packing away what had truly been a symbol of your identity for so long. However, it attracted far too much attention and caused trouble when people assumed they could take advantage of you, so you'd opted to start dressing like a proper Wastelander, boiled leather armor and denim pants. Right now, however, you desperately wished you'd been wearing the suit. The absorbent liner would have saved you some of this embarrassment.

The old ghoul had been telling you some story or another as you mounted a steep hill, your mind tuning in and out in frustration. You were sweaty, cramping, bloated, and bleeding on yourself, and all you wanted was a chance to clean yourself up and sit down for a minute. Eventually, the two of you came across what looked to be the abandoned skeleton of an old repair garage, just barely maintaining its tall stance against the horizon. As the two of you began to pass it by, you paused.

"I need to stop for a bit." you said, frowning at him as he turned his gaze to the position of the sun in the sky and back to you, confusion plain on his face.

"Whassa' matter?" he asked, "You're not usually this pussy about the sun anymore. Been long enough."

He was right, you were usually able to soldier on better than this. Today wasn't one of those days, though.

"I need like ten minutes alone, okay?" you snapped, short of patience. "I just...need it."

Your companion held up his hands in a silent, play-offended gesture of surrender, stepping aside to let you walk into the ramshackle little garage.

"Ten minutes!" he called teasingly behind you, prompting you to roll your eyes despite him not being able to see it.

Dropping your bag against the wall, you quickly toed your boots off so you could shuck your pants to the ground, groaning quietly at the bloody mess between your thighs. Digging some dirty rags out of your bag, you checked the spare canteen you kept undrinkable water in. Almost empty. You wanted to cry.

You could always ask Coop for some of his, since he was prone to drinking from questionable sources. He might even give you some, close as you'd become lately, thanks to a night of whiskey and Jet by the fire that had led to other forms of entertainment.

But you'd rather not have to explain this to him. As you did your best to scrub away the rusty red covering your skin, you wondered if he even remembered that this was something that happened to women. You had no idea what you were going to do with your pants.

Apparently, time had slipped away from you, as he appeared suddenly in the doorway a moment or two later, already speaking to you like he'd been standing there the entire time.

"It's been fifteen minutes, girlie. I'll have you know--" came his halted snark, quickly cut off as the two of you made eye contact, as he took in your nakedness below the waist. You felt a creeping sense of panic, a desire to flee out the broken window to your side. Neither of you said a word, and after a moment, he stepped forward towards you, softly gripping your wrist in his hand and holding it up to examine it. His honeyed eyes flicked back and forth between the soiled rag in your bloodied hand and where you'd been attempting to clean yourself up, briefly moving over to where your pants lay crumpled up on the floor.

"I'm--" you began, wanting to explain that you were fine, but you were quickly and decisively cut off from speaking when he lifted your bloody fingers to his mouth, sucking them between his lips with an obscene sigh. Your jaw fell slack as you watched him lick them clean, feeling like you were having some sort of erotic fever dream you'd wake up from any moment. Your hormones must've been working in tandem with the sun to drive you crazy.

However, it only continued to escalate as he seized you by the wrist, dragging you a few feet forward towards the rickety, grimy couch that leaned against the back wall, shoving you just enough to make you sit right in the center, a stale plume of desert dust filling the air around you as he rucked your hips up against his chest, your calves hooking over his shoulders. One of your flailing, still-socked feet knocked his hat clear off his head, sending it tumbling down to the floor, but he didn't even seem to notice, too preoccupied with running his hands along your inner thighs, smearing through the patches of drying blood there with fascination.

Your whole face burned white-hot, but you continued to watch him closely as his hands converged at your mound, one thumb tracing lightly over your now-swollen slit, just barely grazing your bud and drawing a hiss from between your teeth. However, instead of touching you there again, as you'd hoped he would, both thumbs traced down the line of your labia, parting them softly and spreading you open for his hungry eyes to see.

This new kind of attention made you squirm a bit at its intensity, the movement making your abdominal muscles clench just right to draw a trickle of warmth from between your legs, your face reaching supernova in embarrassment, but before you could pull away, he dove forward, his mouth sealing itself over your cunt and lapping wildly. The feeling was electric and ticklish and sent you clamoring to grab onto anything for leverage, letting out a screech that was half giggle and half moan.

He had done this before, gone down between your legs and licked and tasted and teased you until you couldn't handle it anymore, and always with great enthusiasm (and more than a little smugness, frankly), but never with a hunger like this. His thick tongue traced back and forth along your folds, seeking out every sanguine drop before dipping back down to your entrance, the wriggling muscle slipping inside with ease, drawing out another cry from you.

You were on fire, being teased more than you could handle; his tongue felt amazing, but largely avoided where you really wanted it to be, leaving you pushing and grinding your hips against his face as best as you could in your strange, folded over position. With one proper swivel, you managed to brush your clit against the bony ridge that sat at the top of where his nose would have been, scraping just right and sending you bucking right back at the same angle. The rough way you pushed against him was met by his hands curling under your ass, attempting to yank you even closer to his face as you felt that knot in your gut begin to tighten.

"Oh god, Coop, I'm gonna cum." you gasped, nails digging into his scalp as your thighs pulsed around his head. The older man, typically quite silent for most of the performance, let out a rather loud groan at that, and the sound was enough to push you right into a tense, crying orgasm, your little mewls ringing off the ancient concrete walls. If he were any other man, you'd worry about smothering him between your damp thighs, your scrambling hands pressing into the back of his head.

Fortunately, Cooper Howard wasn't just any man.

He continued to fuck you with his tongue through your climax, dragging it out for what felt like minutes. However, once you finally came down from that euphoric peak, he didn't stop, his tongue continuing to slather across you in full, wide strokes, his fingers moving up to tease at your oversensitive clit.

This, too, he had done before, this beautiful torture of keeping you constantly on the verge of a new orgasm despite still riding the wave of your current one. You both loved and hated it, feeling like every nerve in your body was alive with electricity, but simultaneously on the verge of pain from all the sensation. Presently, you loved it a lot more than you hated it, feeling the tight, cramping muscles in your belly relax just a little with your release. Glimpsing down at him once more, you could see that he'd tugged his hard cock free from its confines, jerking himself enthusiastically.

The ghoul's lips wrapped back around your clit, long, nimble fingers probing your saliva-slicked entrance. Two of them slid inside to the hilt before you even really registered their presence, causing you to hiss at the slight burn of the rad-rough flesh against your sensitive insides. The suction on your bud soothed the burn, allowing you to relax, and soon a third was added alongside the first two, quickly pushing you into another sudden and intense climax, washing over you like a tidal wave as he stretched you. When he eventually pulled his hand away, it was half-covered in red.

You were still trembling hard as he quickly worked his way back down your thighs, swiping up anything he may have missed. The sensation of his tongue running along your plush flesh made you giggle, earnest and breathless, but the sound was immediately cut off with a whine when he suddenly turned and viciously sunk his teeth into the meat of your inner thigh, not hard enough to break the skin, but damn near.

This, he had never done before.

Of course, you knew the man was intimately familiar with sinking his teeth into human flesh, but feeling them against you didn't frighten you as you expected it might, the sensation exhilarating and primal. The searing, pinching pain made you squeal, and one of his ungloved hands jammed up against your lips to silence you, filling your nose with the smell of iron and gunpowder. Come the morning, you'd be sporting a gnarly bruise there. The knowledge sent another hot tremble down your spine.

Unlatching his jaw from your leg, he pulled himself up to his full kneeling height, right even with you, a wild look in his eyes you weren't sure you'd seen before. So often he had the brim of his hat to obscure them, but now they stared, wide and glassy, into your own.

His fingers fisted into the already wild hair at the back of your head, pulling your forward into a passionate, metallic-tasting kiss. You could feel the way your face attempted to stick to his where he'd smeared your blood around your mouth with his hand. Quickly, he began to lean forward over you, pressing you into the mildew covered cushions as he pulled himself on top of you. The dry-rotted frame of the couch groaned loudly in protest at the additional weight, squeaking and sighing out curses as he repositioned your legs along his hips, falling right into place to rub his throbbing prick against you. Another throaty noise left you, strangled and awkward, but you were past being able to be embarrassed right now.

It distracted you just enough when the old cowboy dropped his head into the crook of your neck, his lips dancing along your pulse point, that you didn't tense when he pushed his way inside you, burying himself nearly to the hilt in one push. Both of you let out soft, satisfied groans as you stretched taut around him, clenching hotly already after all the attention he'd given you, his heavy breathing in your ear making every hair on your body stand on end.

For a short moment, he allowed you to adjust to his girth, warm hands pushing your shirt up to expose your breasts to him. His bare hands felt like they were everywhere, swiping affectionately against your face, tugging and pinching at your nipples, eventually settling into your hair, holding your head steady and forcing you to look at him as he began to fuck you. It didn't take long before he had you built right back up, the rub of his pelvic bone against you too good.

"Go on, gimme one more, baby. I know you can." he huffed, his warm breath tickling you just right. His thumb was suddenly strumming against your puffy, sore clit again, and tears brimmed in your eyes as your muscles seized once again, whimpering almost pitifully as you gave him what he wanted.

"Attagirl." he praised, running the blunted edge of his teeth along your throat as your body tugged at him. Your breathing was hard to control, making you see spots as he shifted your calves back over his shoulders, basically folding you in half once more as he pulled himself up higher and began to rut into you in earnest. The blunt head of his cock slammed into your tender cervix like this, making you jump and whine, but your legs only tightened around his shoulders, pulling him closer as he used your body to get himself off.

Suddenly, there was a loud crack, and the entire couch frame collapsed into a plume of dust, even worse than before, making you screech in shock. Cooper, however, seemed to barely notice, his pace not even slowing as he shifted you a few inches away from a busted 2x4 sticking out in your direction, pressing you harder into the cushions that were now trapped beneath you. Nevertheless, he did seem to be making sure you were okay in his own way, his wild eyes and insistent hands checking over every visible inch as he continued to pump between your thighs. When he dropped his mouth to your breasts, you throbbed around him, cooing as he sucked and nipped at your breasts.

"Fuck." he growled at the sensation, his hips slapping against you even harder, but in less coordinated strokes, his head heavily dropping back into the crook of your neck again, his entire weight resting on you now.

As you felt him begin to throb inside you, signaling his own release, you also felt those strong teeth latch onto the sensitive skin where your neck met your shoulder, digging deep into the smooth muscle as you screamed. You could hear your lover groaning loudly as he gave you a few more rough strokes, his teeth keeping firm at your neck as he pulsed every last drop of himself inside you. Beyond the pinching pain repeating itself, you could feel the burn of him sucking hard on the flesh between his teeth, trying to mark you up as visibly as possible. Remarkably, this was enough to push your oversensitive body into one last muted orgasm, leaving you shuddering against his chest.

Once his teeth released you, his strong arms wrapped around your body, carefully flipping you so that you laid across his chest, the leather of his clothing sticking eagerly to your sweaty skin. No one said anything for a few minutes, his fingers dancing along your spine, tracing the outline of the bite on your shoulder and earning a small whimper, which he chuckled at. Things were strangely blissful.

"Yeah, I think I'm gonna need another fifteen minutes, boss." you sighed eventually, snuggling your face against the smooth leather of his vest and breathing in the smell of violence and sex.

"You can have ten." he responded, drawing a look from you until the hand that had been kneading away at your ass cheek slipped down further, rough fingers teasing at your abused entrance once more, pushing what was leaking out of you back inside.

"Oh? And what happens then?" you asked, trying hard to keep your hips still against his sinful hand and failing.

"Then we're going again."

#men who jerk off when they eat pussy go to heaven #cooper howard #the ghoul #cooper howard smut #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x you #fallout tv show #fallout prime #submission

[drabblesandimagines]

Bliss

Leon Kennedy x afab reader When I am on my period, you get period fluff

You wince as your stomach twists, jab the mascara wand into your eye rather than coat your lashes and swear, gripping the bathroom counter with your other hand.

“Great.” You hiss, closing your eye and grabbing a wet wipe, trying to salvage what you’d applied to your bottom lashes as your eye starts to water. The box of so-called express pain relief pills you’d downed greedily 30 minutes ago taunts you from the counter. They had barely touched the surface of the tormenting cramps that had started this afternoon and you wonder if you can sue the pharmaceutical company for such blatant lies.

You try and steady yourself with measured breaths, opening your eye cautiously to inspect it in the mirror. It looks a little red and you groan. You’re bloated, sore, stupidly emotional – irrationally cried at the fact that a spam email had made its way into your actual inbox at lunch - and the last thing you want to be doing right now is getting dolled up in one your classiest and form-fitting little black dresses, don high heels and socialize for the evening, no matter how much you’d been looking forward to it ahead of your visitor.

And not to mention that it’s at the bloody White House.

Leon had returned from Spain two months ago to silent fanfare - wouldn’t be good for US morale to know the President’s daughter had been kidnapped by a cult and infected with a parasite in the first place. Working as an intelligence agent for the DSO meant you’d read of the horrors from the report, comforted Leon when he awoke from nightmares of blackened veins, tentacles bursting forth from skulls, so you’re grateful that the President insisted Leon was given some time off work, though his first day back was looming on the horizon. Last week, on embossed white card with gold accents, sealed by a wax stamp came the invitation in a cursive hand to one Mr Leon S Kennedy and partner to the Presidential dining room.

There’s a knock on the bathroom door in Leon’s familiar rhythm.

“You nearly ready, sweetheart? I think the car will be here soon.”

“Sorry. Yeah,” you call back, “Final touches.” You turn back to the mirror and grab the mascara wand, cautiously covering your top lashes to even things out before frowning at your complexion. Are you breaking out too? A wave of pain rolls through your stomach once more and you grimace. Maybe you should’ve gone with a heat pad after all, but this dress is snug - it’d look bulky and weird on your stomach and the Secret Service guys will be all over it in the security checks.

You zhuzh up your hair one more time, plaster on a smile and unlock the bathroom door, finding Leon leaning up against the wall opposite. He lets out a low whistle as you emerge, hair falling into his blue eyes, and you duck your head in embarrassment at the attention. Honestly, right now you’d prefer him to look anywhere but at you.

“Hello, beautiful,” he smiles, looking unbelievably handsome in his best suit. He’s forgone the tie as usual – can’t stand them – but still looks appropriately smart. He stands up from the wall, slips a hand around your waist to pull you in for a kiss but you flinch at his touch, causing him to stop and frown. “You okay?”

“Mm, I’m fine.” You try and step out of his grip to head towards the stairs. “We should go keep an eye out for the car.”

His arm remains firmly in place. “You’re a bad liar.”

“I’m a great liar,” you retort. “Comes with the profession.” Your whole job depended on it, really – gathering intelligence was a lot of charming people into feeling comfortable around you, loosening their tongue into sharing secrets or giving you access to places you’re not meant to be.

“Not to me.” He’s got you there. “What’s the matter?”

You sigh, feeling a headache coming on to add to the list of ailments. “Can we leave it, please?”

“I don’t want to leave it – something’s wrong.” Leon is stubborn, doesn’t like to leave things hanging. He knows how precious life is, doesn’t want to leave anything to be dealt with later in case later never comes.

He stares at you - pout on his lips and those blue puppy dog eyes.

“Period.” You mumble, hoping that would suffice.

“Ah.” He nods.

“What does that mean?” You know it’s the hormones talking, even as you say it, but you’re stubborn too. It’s completely irrational, but his tone’s rubbed you the wrong way.

“It’s a sympathetic ah. Anything I can do to help?”

“No,” you grumble back. “I just want this evening over with.”

He looks confused, then. “I thought you were looking forward to it - you were excited yesterday-”

“I was,” you snap back. “But now the last thing I want to be doing is wearing this stupid tight dress and heels and get in a limo, be felt up by Secret Service agents for five minutes to make sure I’m not sneaking in a bomb between my thighs, and then go and dine with the President of the United States and his daughter, trying to remember what seven different types of silverware are meant for what course and then eating tiny bites and drinking bitter expensive wine, all when I could be at home, in my pyjamas, eating pizza and ice-cream and watching absolute trash on TV, cuddling my boyfriend.”

“Okay.” Leon cups your face. “Breathe.”

You take a deep breath, feeling a little winded from your rant.

“Good.” He smiles, dropping his hands and pulling his phone out of his trousers pocket. “Now, go get changed.”

You weren’t expecting that. “Sorry?”

“Get changed – go put your pyjamas on.”

“But dinner-”

“I’ll cancel, and then I’ll order us some pizza.”

You stare at him as if he’s lost his mind. “You can’t cancel on the President.”

“I rescued his daughter, he owes me.” Leon shrugs, as if he was just asking for a raincheck. “Besides, it’s Ashley who wanted this the most. We’ll reschedule.”

“No, I just need to tough it out.”

He raises an eyebrow at your word choice. “You do not.”

“You do it all the time – dragging yourself about the place with bullet and stab wounds.”

“Sweetheart, you have to agree that’s a little different. Us having dinner at the White House is not a life or death situation. I didn’t have a choice but to grit my teeth and get on with it, you very much do.” He grabs your hand, squeezing it tight. “Besides, you put up with enough that’s out of our control by these guys – missed anniversaries, birthdays, dinners - when they send me out on missions. I’m not going to sit and make you go through an uncomfortable evening when you don’t need or want to.”

“Are you sure?” You ask, quietly.

“Positive.” He steps forwards, gives you a chaste kiss on the lips in reassurance. “Go and get comfortable – I’ll handle it.”

--

30 minutes later, you’re laying on the couch, head in Leon’s lap as he runs his fingers through your hair, another rubbing your back – dressed in loose pyjama shorts and one of his old sweatshirts, a hot water bottle that he’d made pressed against your stomach and one of those “so bad it’s good” reality relationship shows playing on the widescreen. One that Leon insists he detests, but remembers everyone’s names and asks what happened on previous episodes if he misses one.

“Was Ashley okay?”

“Fine. She’s already texted me three alternate dates.” He pauses, raising an eyebrow at the screen. “I thought they broke up.”

“Uh-uh. He proposed.”

He scoffs in disbelief. “This cannot be real.”

You sigh, content, and nuzzle into his thigh. “Love you.”

“Love you more.”

The doorbell rings, announcing the pizza’s arrival. You reluctantly sit up, pressing the hot water bottle to your stomach as Leon gets up off the sofa and starts to head towards the door.

“Leon.”

“Mm?” He pauses, turning slightly, removing his wallet from his jacket pocket.

“How come you’re still in your suit?”

“Well,” he resumes walking to the door, “I read how endorphins can help with period pain, and I know how happy a certain someone gets when they get to admire my ass in this particular suit…” The wallet slips from his fingers, bounces on the carpeted floor, and he bends down, slowly. “..so what kinda boyfriend would I be to hide it in sweats when they’re feeling poorly?”

--

Comments, likes and reblogs make my whole day x

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi

#ghostdogwrites #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x female reader #fluff writing

[tojisun]

dunno where this came from bc i honestly just wanted a short ramble and not smthn long but here we are :'D this is an extension from my rambling yesterday about simon x reader but it's a dowry of blood au (brides of dracula retelling). i havent finished the book yet tbh but if ur planning on reading it, i do just wanna give a warning that it's dark and prose-heavy

cw: death/massacre; blood drinking; vampire-turning and stuff; inaccurate references to dracula lore

the village is gone. burnt. fire crackles amidst the broken hymns of the dead—they don't sing, not anymore of course, but their losses are catastrophic. you never realized how the apocalypse could be so loud.

you stand at the centre of the chaos, bloodied. bruised. ruined. the lone survivor.

the only one who was lucky enough to be saved.

brought out from the pyre, you were dragged into the shadowed corners and hidden from the pillagers who slaughtered everyone you loved and everyone you knew. you shook in your grief, screams erupting from the base of your throat, but all were silenced by an ice-cold palm over your mouth.

"shh, little one," he said. the first of his words; the first of his kindness. "you must be quiet."

your fury sputtered into anguish, the loss descending to you like the first drop of snow. tears spring from your strained eyes, staining even his hand; you did not know how to compress the bloating agony that was pressing into your lungs. your only comfort was that he seemed to favour you enough to keep you safe, even if just for a moment. 

rain had fallen by then—it seemed like it knew that tragedy had struck this little place. it extinguished enough of the fire, washing away the smell of ashes and leaving only the pungence of iron. blood.

with it, your adrenaline wore off, and you began to feel the extent of your pain. of course, you were not unscathed, but you didn’t expect your body to be so brittle. 

you fell, tumbling into the muddy ground and right before his feet. you croaked in pain, lungs constricting. it was becoming a lot more difficult to breathe, to speak. you wondered why death came to you slowly.

he knelt down by your side, cold hand brushing away at your dirty hair. he was speaking to you softly, words passing through his lips in soft lilts. you struggled to hear him, your ears ringing, numb, as your mind pulsed in your skull.

you groaned, begging him to stop. to go away. you had nothing to pay him back with, nothing to entertain him, so you told him just as much. you told him to let you die in silence because how else could he save you?

“that is troubling,” was all he said, his words were rumbled from the depths of his chest like he hadn't used his voice in eons. 

you peeled your eyes open, wondering what it must be that he was after, then you finally saw what he was—pale skin gleaming underneath the moonlight with eyes dark like wine. he was not a human. he couldn’t have been one.

your mother told you tales of the wicked. of those cursed and abandoned by the almighty father—she told you of their beauty, of their wealth, of their hunger.

(they do not know how to love, she said as she tucked you underneath your sheets. they only know how to deceive.)

your body locked, heart congested with fear—your body knew then, didn’t it? that this being that held you close was far more terrifying than the invaders. that your body survived the fire, the greed of humanity, only to be devoured by the devil.

“please,” you whimpered, the will to live burning inside you once again. you didn’t care about the pillagers, you didn’t want their mercy, but this being. this creature of the dark, oh how you craved his clemency.

“please, save me.”

“i cannot save you,” he said. 

his hand fell to your throat, grasping it gently, almost reverently. he swiped his thumb along the expanse of your skin to feel the way you swallowed. 

“but i can help.”

you tried to reply, to beg once more, but the words could not be sounded out, your throat having been too ruined for any prayer. you shook with your desperation, turning your eyes to him to express your ragged hope. you prayed that he may see your plea. you prayed that he may bless you with his curse.

he smiled, fangs glinting before your eyes. then, he murmured, “of course.”

(mama? how do you know when your prayers are answered?

well, sometimes it starts off painful.

painful?

yes, little star. but then, it becomes euphoric. freeing. good suffering.)

his teeth tore into your skin, ripping apart the muscles as it hunted for the blood. you screamed, throat scratching at the intensity of your pain; it was unbearable, burning unlike that of fire, scalding as it slithered down your very being. something was happening then. something unholy. 

you were being remade. reshaped. taken apart one bloodied fragment at a time.

you felt like you were at the precipice of death, so close to the edge and into eternal damnation, but he would not let you. chained to his hunger, your body writhed underneath the extent of his power; burning. burning. burning.

he was your new pyre. 

he was hell.

you begged for anything to subdue the pain; for a touch kinder, warmer; for the ceasing of it all. 

and it did.

his lips left the sensitive patch of your neck, pulling away with a hummed smile as though it were ambrosia he was sucking out of you. you stared at his lips, stained with your blood, and, within a fraction of a heartbeat, unrelenting hunger coursed through you.

you yowled, your mind heavy and your body sore. you felt lost; you felt like you were drained and left as nothing but a shell of what you once were.

“good. that’s good,” he crooned, his eyes wrinkled in his joy. “this hunger is proof of your new life.”

he brought his wrist to his lips and bit into his own skin. the first puncture oozed out with blood; you watched it pool, beading, before it trickled down the length of his arm. your throat constricted, tongue heavy all of a sudden in your mouth.

a taste. you craved for a taste.

he smiled as he pressed his wrist to your lips. “go on,” he murmured. “drink.”

you were delirious, or you must be, for you to have listened to him—your weak hands grasped at his wounded arm, pulling it closer to your maw.

you drank. 

that experience of having the first drop on your tongue was indescribable. it was like you have never eaten before; like you have never been fed. never been nourished.

it was like anything that sustained you before had been erased from your memories; you don’t remember the taste of your mother’s cooking anymore, nor the sweets that your grandmother brought home with her for you on occasions when her mistress remembered to reward her, nor the milk from your father’s cows. 

every sweet memory was washed away by the blood pouring down your throat; every gulp a sinister promise of what would be irreversible.

your body sang, skin mending itself, and bones healing underneath torn muscles. numbness filtered in—it had never felt like salvation before.

lost in your new paradise, you didn't notice as your saviour cupped your cheek once more. his touch was gentle. it was kind.

he leant forward and kissed your forehead—a reward for surviving.

“my name’s simon,” he whispered, nuzzling you. “and you will be my bride, won’t you, my dark miracle?”

your mouth left his arm, reluctant but necessary, because even before he said his name, you knew he was your master. you knew that in exchange for this new life he’s cursed you with, you were to be obedient to him no matter what. 

you nodded, breathless and ragged.

“yes, my lord.”

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #cw blood #suns #so uhhh whatchall think

[xob1tchs]

i would really love if you’re able to write a small smut drabble of miguel and the reader being on her period <3

fill the void

miguel o’hara x fem!reader

warnings ; smut, no protection, period sex, dirty talk, pet names

a/n; i knew this was coming 🙏 ya’ll LOVED the ethan one…anyways title inspo! sorry this is so short, hope u still like it :p

Miguel can smell it in the air before it even happens, your body only slightly changing. Tits swelling, sore and earning complaints. Tummy bloated, fatigue take over your every move. It’s his favorite time of the month.

Because he get’s you like this.

An incoherent mess, tears staining your puffy cheeks, lips bitten and red. Pussy lips puffy around the base of his cock, creaming and bleeding on him. You love it too, but that doesn’t stop you from whining in embarrassment. Shying away when he coos out sweet little praises, crying about how filthy this is.

Miguel shakes his head, hands creeping up your waist, pinching and twisting your pert nipples “I can feel that you like baby” he smirks, almost faltering when you clench around him, convulsing and cumming again even as he sits still – basking in the feeling of you split open on his massive cock.

You cream on him so good, making a mess, forcing him to buy new sheets every time. It’s an avoidable problem, he could lay a towel down, but he just can’t help himself. It’s almost like a reward, hearing you complain about the expense, a constant reminder of what goes down.

His hands trail down your body, large fingers pressing into the meat of your thighs, kneading the warm pillowy flesh, before he makes a subtle movement, cock head pressing right against your abused sweet spot.

Your gummy walls contract, a yelp escaping your lips, followed by please and whines. It’s too much, you always say that though. Miguel knows that it’s never enough.

He does it again, hips rolling upwards smoothly, cock pulsating inside of you, swollen and hard as a rock – saving the orgasm till he can’t anymore, ready to fill your stomach with cum – so much so the cashier at the grocery store will yet again, ask how many weeks you are.

That’s what gets him. The image flashing across his mind, quick but vivid.

It’s you. Stomach round, maybe six months, pregnant with his baby. Glowing, beautiful even when creating new life. A wide smile spread across your face as he holds you.

He groans and grunts, leaning forward to rest in the crook of your shoulder, mumbling gentle curses and praises. Making sure to tell you how much he love your pussy, coming in it, how much he loves you. He’s shaking as the last spurts of cum fill you up, stuffed so full it begins to leak out around his cock, mixing with your blood to slip down his balls. A creamy, bloody mess. Absolutely filthy.

And you’ll do it again next month.

#across the spiderverse #miguel smut #miguel x you #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara smut #fanfic smut #spiderman smut #🖤 ; lex talks 2 anons! #my inbox 🫧

[keis-slut]

red|j.the killer

CW: PERIOD SEX, SIZE KINK/MANHANDLE, HAIR PULLING

Third Person POV

he was absolutely deranged, insane in the head for you on your period.

obviously he was already crazy for you, but god

on your period.

he just knew, every single time, when you’d be on your period.

whether it was the out of nowhere snippy attitude he just loved to put you in your place for,

or the random mood swings he would tease you, he knew.

oh, and he could not miss the smell.

how his body would achingly melt when the scent was noticeable,

he couldn’t wait to get you alone, it was his favorite.

his favorite time to feel you, to admire just how beautiful you are, how delicious you smell and taste.

his oddly strong arms wrapped fully around your shoulders, holding you against him as his cock kissed your bloody cervix.

he would sit there inside you, having you get use to his size, only slightly moving as if to coat himself in your shed.

“s’ warm…”

he cooed in your ear, holding you tighter against his body as your legs locked around his waist.

until he finally loosened up, but grabbed a fistful of your hair as you fell onto the pillows.

you cried as he pulled your hair back, cock sliding out from your messy red cunt.

he was absolutely addicted to how your blood would beautifully paint the inside of your thighs, and his too.

the magnificent art you left behind on his bedsheets after being fucked through what felt full cycle.

the way your blood would coat and web around his cock, clots being the perfect finishing touch.

the perfect shade of red, to him.

he quickly brought his hands to your legs, lifting them to his shoulders, getting a perfect view of you spreading for him.

he leaned back slightly, bucking his hips to get a comfortable thrust for you as his hands snaked around your plush thighs.

he thought you looked so fucking cute on your period, all red and swollen, bloated and sore.

the way your tits and your little belly were swelled, you were so soft and yet so sharp in person at the same time.

he gave a rough thrust, fucking almost animalistic as he could see red spilling from your cunt.

“s’ too much…cramps, jeff…”

you cry as your legs squeeze tightly around his head, but he doesn’t stop.

“fucking s’pose to help ‘em, ain’t that right, baby?”

his words only dismiss yours, feeling you clench around his blood coated cock, driving him mad.

he could feel the difference when you were on your period, you felt even warmer, even tighter, even thicker.

he was absolutely losing his mind as you made a mess on his bed,

the perfect shade of red.

#smut writing #writers on tumblr #wattpad #smut writer #writer stuff #fanfic writer #fanfiction writer #ao3 writer #creepypasta #jeff the killer #jtk x reader #creepypasta jtk #jtk smut #jtk

[mettleborn]

Closed starter for @corxner

Hannibal listens as Jack Crawford begins to describe the details surrounding this crime scene; the names of the victims, when they were discovered and how their bodies, or what is left of them, have been specifically arranged. At least that explains why the FBI have the entire forensics team out here today. A golf course is not what Hannibal would consider a particularly inspiring location, but the tableau vivant which is presented to him, at least expresses a macabre sense of humour. At the first hole, the upper half of a torso has been positioned as if sinking into the green. The man, who Hannibal understands is a member of this club, like the two others, is holding a driver aloft, which appears to have been attached to his attached to his arm with steel bolts; the injuries inflicted post mortem. Like the other two bodies, his mouth has been packed with golf balls that have been forced down his throat with such brutality, they have split his lips and broken most of his teeth. Similar figures can be found at hole 3 and hole 7; the locations presumably holding some particular significance. At hole three, the marker flag has been replaced with a woman’s severed leg, the woman in question now stands on the green with a collection of golf clubs as limbs, nothing can be seen of her other leg. Hole 7 is undeniably the most vivid canvas - a bright collection of guts, and disembodied limbs strewn across the green turning it a lurid red. At this hole, another head, eyes rolled back in its skull like two hard boiled eggs; this one looks older than the others, discoloured and bloated, as if it has been kept for this precise purpose; the killer waiting for the big reveal, this is his centrepiece, the cornerstone of his bloody installation – this is his design.  

“He wanted to humiliate them.” When the words leave Hannibal’s mouth, admittedly they feel as if they belong to Will; Hannibal feels assured it’s what he too would sense. It is strange to be attending a crime scene without him admittedly, but Jack insisted Will investigate the murder at the Baltimore State Hospital for the criminally insane, alone. Presumably Dr Chilton is not comfortable with Hannibal speaking directly to his patients.

“He wanted to humiliate them the way they humiliated him. The killer likely knew his victims, worked here perhaps, I would suggest you compile a list of caddies who have worked here over the past few years, Jack.” Walking over to disembodied head, Hannibal crouches down to inspect it, a curious expression settling on his face as he observes the chaotic bruising patterns around the skull. “This was his magnum opus, likely his first kill, this is how you will find him.”

As Jack begins relaying orders to the rest of the team, Hannibal notices Faust in the distance and instantly his expression darkens; as Faust’s therapist, he would have expected to be informed if Jack had cleared Faust for fieldwork of this nature. Is Faust ready to experience the sensory onslaught of this kind of crime scene? It is regretful – Hannibal had intended to create a tableau vastly more complex and arguably more beautiful for Faust’s first venture into his world. Approaching slowly, when Hannibal finally reaches Faust, he observes him for a moment before finally speaking.

“When Jack cleared you for fieldwork, did he explain that this was the kind of place he would sending you Faust?”

#Hannibal Lecter #Hannibal Lecter rp #Hannibal rp #Faust #corxner #((Hope this works for you - let me know if you need me to change anything)) #((This is a pretty graphic response but it is Hannibal ha ha...I don't write many like this mind you)) #((Got a bit long too XD)) #//blood #//murder #//gore #((ask to tag)) #Closed starter

[indigostreaking]

Can you possibly do a head cannon about the boys comforting the reader during her period? 🤍

Absolutely, nonnie! This is so cuuuuute! I’m so sorry this took so long 😭

It’s only fitting that I finish this request while on my period 😂

Josh:

You had woken up this morning to excruciating cramps and much to your utter mortification a bloody spot on Josh’s blindingly white sheets. He, of course, had brushed off all of your apologies, insisting that they weren’t necessary. “It’s natural, mama, part of the beauty of humanity and being a woman and all that,” he waved his hand with a flourish and flashed you a toothy grin. You shook your head before doubling over as another cramp hit. He winced at your pain, not wanting to ever see you hurting. He quickly disappeared and you heard the water in the bathroom turn on as he drew you a bath, filled with your favorite essential oils. He walked back into the bedroom to find you hugging your knees to your chest as you held your breath. “C’mere, let me,” he said quietly as he tugged your oversized shirt over your head and pulled you to your feet. He reached for the waistband of your panties, but you shirked his grasp. “Baby,” he scolded you gently, “I’m just going to put them in the wash for you. I know they’re your favorite comfy clothes…” You loosed a sigh before stepping out of them and crumpling them up so he couldn’t see the evidence. “Thank you,” you murmured with a weak smile as he helped you into the warm water. After a while, he returned with a fresh towel that he wrapped you in as you stepped out. He wrapped his arms around you, enveloping you completely and placing soft, sweet kisses across your bare shoulders. “Feel better?” He asked as he pulled you impossibly close, not caring that your hair was dripping and soaking his shirt. “Mhmm…but Josh, I’m so sorry about-” you began, but he cut you off. “I promise it’s okay, baby…they’re just sheets,” he whispered as he kissed your cheek. “Come meet me in the living room?” He looked mischievous, but he almost always did, especially with that Cheshire Cat grin he wore far too regularly. “Josh and y/n movie night?” You asked excitedly and his smile widened. “We haven’t had one in so long,” you whined. “Take out too?” You asked even more enthusiastically, suddenly realizing how hungry you were. “Yup, already on the way. Our favorite Chinese place downtown, and before you ask, yes I remembered to ask for the chopsticks and extra fortune cookies,” he added dramatically.

Jake:

After a particularly long day at work, you were really looking forward to changing into comfy clothes and cuddling up next to your human heater of a boyfriend to watch his cooking shows before bed. Your cramps and bloating had been killing you all day, and you were exhausted. As soon as you stepped in the front door, a delicious scent welcomed you. “Welcome home, love!” Jake called out as you kicked off your shoes and hung up your coat and keys. You sauntered into the kitchen and found him stirring a big pot of what appeared to be tortellini soup. He was only in a pair of flannel pajama pants with his hair up in a wet bun, fresh from the shower and ready for cuddles. You wrapped your arms around his waist as you hugged him from behind, placing a kiss on his exposed shoulder blade while watching him. “Hey baby, smells good,” you murmured against his warm skin. He giggled at the sensation before replying, “Good. I know you’ve had a hard day, so I thought it might help. There’s also a bath drawn, a fresh towel, and a clean pair of cozy pajamas laid out on our bed…why don’t you go get ready while I finish up in here, okay?” You pinched his butt as you walked away, both of you laughing. After your bath and getting ready for the night, you walked back in to find Jake had already placed two bowls of soup on the coffee table, poured you each a drink, dimmed the lights and lit your favorite candles. Peak relaxation. He was seated on the couch with the remote in hand, scrolling through Netflix, trying to decide what to turn on. “You look cute,” he smirked as you walked into his view. “Jake, you didn’t say they were matching pajamas…I love them so much!” You were nearly in tears over that gesture alone. He patted the seat next to him, beckoning you closer. You obliged, sinking down in the cushion beside him. “I love you so much,” he replied as he leaned in to kiss your temple.

Danny:

From your cozy spot in bed, you could hear the front door open and Danny’s keys jingle before falling into the glass bowl by the door. The soft rustle of the plastic grocery bags as they bounced off his thigh while he walked let you know he was coming to you. “Hey baby,” he said softly as he pushed open the bedroom door. He offered a gentle smile as you turned to face him. “I was hoping I’d make it back before you woke up from your nap…but I got you a few things while I was out,” he said as he sat down on the edge of the bed, placing his hand on your lower tummy, right where you’d been cramping all morning. You puckered your lips expectantly, waiting for him to lean in and kiss you. “Thank you baby,” you replied sleepily as he leaned away. He sat the bags down on the bed, pulling out 3 different brands of variety pack tampons and 4 packs of pads. He blushed as your eyes widened, “I wasn’t sure what brand you wanted and then I realized there were sizes…” His voice trailed off as you giggled and put your hand on his thigh, squeezing lightly in reassurance. “Anyways, I called my sister and she said that you’d probably want midol, chocolate, and salty snacks, so I grabbed everything I could find,” he laughed this time, dumping out an entire bag of different chocolate themed candy bars, chips, trail mix, and the value sized box of Midol. “You’re the sweetest human in the world, Daniel Wagner. I don’t know how I got so lucky,” you beamed up at him.

Sammy:

You and Rose were cuddled on the couch, with the brindle dog resting her head in your lap as you watched tv. A FaceTime notification came through, and your heart fluttered. “Hey Sammy!” You said excitedly as the call connected. “Well hello there beautiful! How are my favorite girls?” He asked with a bright smile as he leaned back on a pile of white pillows, already in bed. “Rosie had such a good day, didn’t you girl?” You sweet talked the pup and angled the camera so Sam could see her wagging her tail. “She got to play with her friend at the park-you remember that chocolate lab that she really likes?” You brought the camera back to yourself and saw Sam just completely enamored with you, listening intently with a easy grin. “Yeah,” he replied with a laugh. “Rose,” he began sternly, “you be careful around those boys..boys are nothing but trouble.” Ever the protective dad. You laughed loudly and Sam echoed it before asking you, “What about you, angel, how was your day?” You sighed and made a face. “I started my period yesterday, so today I’ve been cramping and starving…and now I’m just missing you,” you admitted softly. “I miss you, too,” he sighed. “Oh! Flip open the ottoman really quick,” he beamed at you as he waited. You sat the phone on the coffee table, leaned against the candle in the center so he could see you as you opened the ottoman and pulled out your favorite pullover of Sam’s. You practically squealed as you put on the brown, teddy bear one that still smelled like him. “I thought you took it with you,” you glared at him, remembering him packing it in his suitcase before he left. “I was going to, but I thought you might miss me..or at least I was hoping so,” he laughed as he raked his fingers through his hair. “What else is in here?” You leaned forward only to find a bag of chocolate covered pretzels, which just so happened to be your go-to period snack. You glared at him and his cheeks blushed pink. “Okay, so maybe I knew you’d be on your period and I thought these might help,” he shrugged and you both stifled a laugh. “Samuel Kiszka, are you tracking my cycle again??” You feigned shock, already knowing the answer was yes. “I feel like I should say no…but honesty is important…” he began before pretending to glitch out as if the service was suddenly bad. Despite the “glitch” he managed to say “I love you” before the call “dropped.” “He’s such a shithead,” you thought to yourself as you giggled and opened your bag of pretzels. Rosie leaned forward and retrieved a stuffed duck from the ottoman container and you shook your head. Shithead or not, he always took care of his girls.

#greta van fleet #danny wagner #josh kiszka #jake kiszka #sam kiszka #greta van fleet headcanon #gvf headcanons #headcanon request

[stromuprisahat]

... a putrefying body is simply one in which the soft tissues are turning slowly to liquid. The speed of this process of course depends on temperature. In the UK, bodies will usually start to putrefy around three or four days after death and this will be visible to the naked eye quickly. I showed a picture of a body and, with the pointer, drew the officers’ attention to one small area of green discolouration just on the right side of the lower abdomen. ... Our guts are full of bacteria, which are vital for digestion. Now, in death, those bacteria break out of the bowel and into the abdominal cavity and then the blood vessels. The process starts at this certain point on the abdomen, near the appendix, because the abdominal wall is very close to the intestine here. Putrefaction can begin elsewhere, but only with good reason: for example, if a body is lying across a heating pipe, or part of it is in direct sunlight. Wherever it begins, by the time the green blotch is visible on the skin, then the bacteria are running riot inside the body. The blood vessels provide easy channels for the bacteria to spread, causing the haemoglobin there to decompose. Visible result: the extraordinary and beautiful fern-like pattern of the veins closest to the surface becomes clearly etched on the skin as though tattooed in brown. It is often evident on the arms and thighs. ... But, like every death process, this rather beautiful stage is temporary. Gradually the pattern is lost as the skin blisters into red and brown fluid. As the blisters burst, the skin sloughs off. One waste product of all this bacterial activity is gas, and so now the body begins to swell. First the genitals become bloated, followed by the face, abdomen and breasts. Then eyes and tongue protrude as bloody liquid is forced up from the lungs, leaking from nose and mouth. The face, with its popping eyes and tongue, has a look of amazement. ... Swelling bodies at this stage of decomposition become so dark that anyone finding one can wrongly assume a skinny Caucasian was in life an overweight black man. Flies have a role to play in putrefaction by feasting and laying their eggs, which turn into maggots with voracious appetites. Animals, domestic and wild, may also make an important contribution to bodily breakdown (outside there are rats and foxes and inside … well, yes, a starving dog which finds itself locked in the house after a death will probably eat its owner to survive). Within about a week of death – depending as usual on the weather and micro-environment – body cavities will burst and tissues will start to liquefy. Within about a month, the soft tissues are all liquid and these will drain off into the ground. The usual order of decomposition is first the intestines, stomach, liver, blood and heart. Then the lungs and air passages. Next the brain, then the kidneys and bladder. Finally the muscles. The prostate, the uterus, the tendons and the ligaments are relatively resistant to putrefaction and may not break down for months to leave the skeleton stripped.

Unnatural Causes: The Life and Many Deaths of Britain’s Top Forensic Pathologist Unnatural Causes (Dr. Richard Shepherd)

#Unnatural Causes: The Life and Many Deaths of Britain's Top Forensic Pathologist #Unnatural Causes #UC Chapter 11 #Dr. Richard Shepherd #forensics #pathology #decomposition #putrefaction #writing reference #V #books #quotes

[spheresr4cubes]

You haven't seen the last of me yet

LINK: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14216768/1/Long-Time-Gone

Moomin Valley -- Long Time Gone

Nuuska (Snufkin) finally meets his father and hears the strange tale of what kept him away for sixteen long years. //TW: Dissociation, alcohol, drowning.

CHAPTER FOUR (4/4)

            Circe sat at the gilded table on the veranda and looked to be enjoying xeir wine tremendously as Juksu walked in. Xe stood, silken robe falling around xeir broad, beautiful shoulders, and bent down to plant a kiss on his head. Xeir rubies tinkled against each other.

            “Broken into the cellar early, have we?” he asked chipperly, and xe nodded.

            “After last night, I couldn’t help myself. It’s strange—I’ve never felt so hungry, so thirsty before! And it’s all so delicious!”

            Xe licked her lips and bent down against to kiss his cheeks: “Delicious…”

            Xe kissed his mouth: “Delicious… Here! Have a drink with me!”

            Circe turned clumsily back to the table and poured a crystal goblet over-full with golden, bubbling cider, thrusting it toward him with a toothy grin. He took it and smiled as if nothing were the matter. Circe held up xeir own glass, clinking them together: “To our continued happiness!”

            “And a silent volcano!” Juksu added.

            They drank deeply. Circe made delighted noises of joy at the flavor, smacking xeir lips. There was strange hunger in xeir eyes, a mischief, as Juksu swirled his glass and watched the liquid cling to the walls.

            “It’s very strong,” he mused, and Circe nodded, putting xeir empty glass down on the table.

            “Yes,” xe said, coming closer. “I hope it is.”

            Xe struck quick as a serpent, grasping his skull between xeir palms. But instead of the icy drowsiness of xeir mesmer, there was only the hot excitement of xeir lips against his, the sharpness of xeir teeth, and the alcohol on xeir breath.

            “I’m starved, dear one,” xe sighed against his face. “Let’s feast.”

            Xe gave no time to answer, grabbing him around the middle and forcing him to the floor, his glass falling and cracking. Xe did not tease his hesitation, did not mention his trembling as xe had the night before. Xeir talons dug into his skin with no mercy. Xeir teeth bit into his flesh without a second thought. He struggled to breathe, to think, with xeir full weight on top of him, and Circe took his hands and pressed them firmly to either side of xeir bare chest. Under the rubies. His finger brushed something embedded into the skin and bone.

            He wanted to go home.

            With a heave, he rolled xem on to xeir back, straddling xeir thin hips. He trailed his fingers across xeir chest, and xe giggled drunkenly as he pulled his face away. Silently and in one swift movement, he sank his claws into the flesh around the ridge of the ruby heart and ripped it out.

            Circe screamed, grasping his arm and shirt. The horror in xeir face stretched down against xeir skull, xeir dazzling eyes collapsing into xeir sockets. Xeir body bloated and shrank and withered, the skin drying to leather in an instant, and the whole of the palace shuddered as the ground beneath it stretched awake.

            Juksu clutched the ruby heart tightly in one bloody hand and ran.

            The golden arches were bending under the shaking marble ceiling, their silver fruit bluing with verdigris. The stained glass windows popped and shattered and rained down into the halls. As Juksu slid into the east wing, Fredriksson and Muddler ran headlong into him.

            “Hey!”

            “What are you doing here?!” Fredriksson asked, holding his arms.

            “I came to get you!” The rumbling worsened, and Juksu shoved the ruby heart into his right pocket. “This way! Hurry!”

            The three raced back through the palace, the marble floor cracking beneath them. They climbed over the railing of the veranda and bolted across the growing grass, shoving past new shrubs and sprouting saplings. Juksu looked behind them and past the palace—the volcano was belching smoke and fire, birds fleeing the shuddering, stretching trees. Suddenly, the mouth of the dome cracked, and an explosion of gray cloud raced down the slope and was well into the forest by the time the clap thundered out. They all shut their ears and stumbled as the air snapped around them.

            “That’s not just smoke!” Fredriksson shouted, grabbing on to the Muddler. “We’ll be incinerated!”

            The cloud flowed toward them like a storm, and they ran through the orchard, batting fruit away as it fell, skirting the stones that tumbled down from the palace columns. The edge of the steep cliff was ahead.

            “Oh no,” said Muddler, though he did not stop. “Oh no, oh no, oh—!”

            They leapt.

            The water hit hard, cold and dense, and bubbled up around them as they kicked back to the surface, gasping. The grey cloud rounding the cliff above them lost its footing and tumbled gently down in flurries of hot ash.

            “Are you alright?!” Juksu shouted, glimpsing the other two heads between the waves.

            “We’re fine!” said Muddler with a weak laugh. “We’re okay!”

            “Hell of a ‘good morning’, boy!” joked Fredriksson as they swam closer together. “What on earth did you do?!”

            Juksu hesitated, coughing at the taste of saltwater: “I found it. I got what the old witch wanted.”

            No sooner had he said it did a strange current pass under their feet. The surface of the water shifted nearby. Juksu felt his blood run cold. It was too late to swim, the shore too far away. The Muddler looked to him and saw he’d gone pale, staring down into the dark water. He swallowed hard and looped his arm through his, and they met eyes for only a moment before being yanked under.

            The sea spat them unceremoniously on to the beach. Juksu lied face-down on the pebbles for a moment, breathing deep, gripping Muddler’s paw, and he turned his head just enough to see that he was in fact there. Fredriksson scrambled up from the ground to shake the both of them.

            “Are you alright?! Are you alright?!”

            “I’m fine,” Juksu groaned, pushing himself up. “I’m okay.”

            The Muddler only gave a small whimper and clung to the ground beneath him as desperately as a life-preserver. It was only at the sound of footsteps approaching that any of them looked up and around.

            Petroula came hobbling down, grinning her sharp teeth ear-to-ear: “Well done, boys! Well done! This is the first time anyone’s come back!”

            Fredriksson was on his feet in a flash and stood between her and the others: “Now, you stay back! Did you summon that water creature?!”

            Petroula raised a pale eyebrow: “Obviously. Or did you think you came to me by chance?”

            “Why?!”

            “Why?” Petroula repeated. “Well, because I was hungry, dear! I thought you would have figured that out if you survived, which you have. Oh, don’t look so angry, it’s unbecoming.”

            Juksu wobbled to his feet, staring in disbelief: “You… it was you that sank our ship! You tried to kill us!”

            “Oh no, my dear boy!” Petroula corrected, stepping closer. “Just one of you.”

            Fredriksson kept himself between them, and Petroula pouted: “Honestly! It was only temporary! There’s no good way to get strapping young adventurers to make deals these days. How else am I supposed to eat? Besides, if you’d all failed, you wouldn’t have known the difference, now would you?”

            “You tricked us,” Fredriksson growled at her.

            “Not at all! You two accepted my price, and it was a fair deal, was it not? A life for a life. Now, please… hand over the ruby, and you will no longer be in my debt.”

            The ground shuddered beneath them, and the volcano spat fiery stars into the sky, splashing into the sea with a hiss. Muddler clawed his way to his feet and held tight to Juksu’s arm as one of the comets crashed into the center of the town in front of them. There were no screams.

            “You made a deal,” Petroula said more forcefully, baring her teeth as Circe would. “You agreed to my terms. Give me what I’m owed, or I’ll gladly put things back to how they were when you first landed on my beach.”

            “Low-life!” shouted Fredriksson, stepping forward, but Juksu put out a hand to stop him. He shook his head. After a long moment, Juksu put his hand in his pocket. The red gem glimmered in the choking sunlight, and Petroula’s eyes grew wide with hunger. As she reached out, Juksu took it away.

            “You like to make deals,” he said. “How about one more?”

            Petroula licked her lips, her eyes on the gem: “What’s on your mind?”

            “I give this to you—you let us go home. No traps, no magic, no tricks. We. Go. Home.”

            Petroula grinned a toothy grin: “Alright, boy. You have a deal. You are free.”

            Juksu held back out the gem, and she took it quickly with the tips of her yellowed claws, immediately popping it into her mouth. She swallowed. Her scaly fingers flexed, and she laughed. But the laughter stopped suddenly. She coughed. There was a smell like burning flesh, and she held her throat.

            “What did you do? What did you do?!”

            Juksu’s face was stone, his voice even as he replied, “I promised, didn’t I? You’d get what you were owed.”

            Petroula’s face crinkled in horror and began to flake into ash, a hole burning through her belly and flame catching her wrinkled skin. There was a blood-curdling shriek, a flash of light and heat, and then she was gone. Ash fluttered down to the pebbled beach around the fiery red gem and a blue stone with white lines like waves. Juksu bent down to pick them up, cool to the touch. He placed them into Fredriksson’s hand, closing his fingers around them. They said nothing, could say nothing.

            Muddler held tight to both of them, and the fire rained down on the long-empty town.

            “Let’s go,” he said. “Let’s go.”

            And they did.

*

            “It took a couple weeks to walk back to Dunsinane in the shape we were in,” said Juksu flatly. “I don’t know if it was obvious to you, but it wasn’t to us until we started walking—we’d gotten older. It was sudden. We couldn’t have been on the island more than a week or two, but years had gone by everywhere else. And when I took the ruby—”

            “All that time fell on you,” Nuuska finished for him.

            Juksu nodded slowly: “We didn’t know how much time had actually passed until… well, until Mumintyttö—er, Muminmama—said it.”

            He stared at the grass in front of him, words bubbling in his throat. Finally, he managed: “It was never supposed to be so long. We were never supposed to be gone for so long.”

            He turned to Nuuska with absolute and utter regret: “I was supposed to be here with you. I was supposed to be here, and I wasn’t. I wanted to be here. I promise, I wanted to be with you.”

            Nuuska nodded, scooting toward him and taking one thin, scarred hand between his.

            “I know.”

            “All the things I’ve missed! Losing your baby teeth, learning to fish… your friends, your adventures, your first love—the Lights! We never went to see the Big Lights!”

            “Then we will,” Nuuska said comfortingly. “Papa, we will. We have time.”

            Juksu pressed his forehead to his and took a deep, deep breath. He looked his son in the face and gave a weak chuckle.

            “You got so big,” he said. “You must take after your mother.”

            “Perhaps,” grinned Nuuska, “or Muminmama feeds me too much. Dinner should be soon now… shall we head back?”

            “Yes,” Juksu said, clearing his face, and they stood together. “Yes, I think that’s a splendid idea.”

*

THE END

#moominvalley #moomin #fanfic #fanfiction #nuuskamuikkunen #juksu #snufkin #joxter #muddler #fredriksson #long time gone

[valocity95]

death

i love death. i think its fucking beautiful, as well as insanely fucking scary. its a bi-product of the equally as scary unstoppable, slow, disasterous march of time. as time marches like a band slowing for members to throw flowers into the crowd, death follows slowly throwing bombs suit. death is amazing because not only is it scientific, its philosophical and artistic. to the highly taboo yet essential job of morticians and ebalmers to the daily symbolism to death to the fact that any genre of art (music, literature, physical art such as paintings or sculptures) includes it somewhere guaranteed. death keeps the moving as normal, throwing wilted roses and waiting with bombs.

death is one of the most disgusting yet masterful pieces of art ever created. it ties in perfectly with the quote, "art is supposed to disturb the comforted and comfort the disturbed." death is inherently a disturbing topic because of what happens to the body during the process and after dying and what happens to those who loved the recently deceased. its disturbing to know someone you love can be ripped away from you at any moment, leaving a gash teared open with jagged edges that no stitches can fix. specifically in western culture, death is shunned and called "taboo" as a topic for this reason. death is ran from in art when it should be ran towards. shoving it in peoples faces not only lessens the taboo but it also shows the beauty so that people are less afraid of it. it could also destigmatize certain mental conditions and suicide, because the suicidal do flirt with the grim reaper. using symbolism and colors and personal motifs can make death into a beautiful art piece, or the disturbing parts could be highlighted to show that yes, its bad, but isnt there always good in bad?

imagine a painting, a sculpture, a cast, a photograph, whatever you must, of a figure recently deceased. the figure is pale for their complexion, with milky glossed over eyes seeing things we could never know. is this figure dressed, covered in blood, missing apendages, or simply lying in nothing like they slipped into the wrong canvas. now imagine roses. imagine deep cuts lining this person. their nose, their eyes, a gigantic gash placed perfectly between the left eye and the corner of bottom lip. beautiful red and black roses grow out of these gashes. isnt that just fucking amazing, huh?

now imagine an art form, painting, sculpture, whatever. its a naked, maimed, scarred, bloody, bruised, whipped and beaten and just overall gorey figure. they could be bloated, they could be so disgustingly thin that the skin seeps between their ribs. there are still gashes all over this person, but this time they reek of despair. you look too closely and you can feel yourself being sucked in and you can hear their final cries and pleas with whatever religious figure or lack there of.

those are the 2 main sides of death, the haunting and the beauty. both sides create an equillibrium which ends only in death coming out as one thing: inevitable.

#writing #death #philosophy #art #literature #a little thing i wrote

[m0nopurple]

Petal Promises.

Showtime! Fling yourself through the entrance and let the ribbons behind you glide! Proclaim yourself an art form, the suicide statistics a gallery! Whip yourself into shape, grab a million-dollar ritual knife and start- temples shall party as you colour yourself with mercury paint! I do wonder; is your home a quantum physics box? You only seem live when I look away, peculiarly in between. So dance, prettyboy, and make your statement bloated with half-pence and attention- tango with the best of the unknowables, put on a performance for the rest of us!

I can see a god hiding in my closet, with the eyes of camera lenses and hands cutting shoddy string.

I'm hiding in a bathroom. I'm taking an everyday commodity to my wrists- skinning myself like a fox. Dirty liars want the truth, starving in projects of rapture gleefully- digging down through the skin, unburying it all. So carve open an oval dance into my centrepiece, shove out my innards and find out what makes me wrongfully exist. Machillivian thinking will find out what's at the core of my caffeinated corpse, what neurotypical neurons I lack- spin my sagging sack of philosophies and sing in disgust. Free me.

I walk down the street, a shamble of muscles and quivering anxieties, wondering why I'm alone on this side.

Bloody footprints tracking through snow, hazy eyes and aesthetic purposes; die a beautiful death in quiet want. The best kind of self-fulfilment is personal. Let my coffin be the overhanging pinewood, the frost-covered body love supplied me. Fragile, fine-tuned features find themselves most self-loved; who cares for stability? So let me perish, pretty enough for hypothetical love- let the journalists print search warrants and hysteria. Hypothermia has always been my true love, wrapping around my frail being.

Every time I walk, I do it with my sweetheart. She injects herself into the one-two conversation, supplying promises to her believer.

Take wheezing grey breaths full of parental disappointment, make them last like a sexual high. We take what we get, maybe a little more- disrespect is a form of self-expression, right? Paint your body with bruises, dance the tango and kill yourself with hidden glee (no need for them to see you in serendipitous eventualities). So what if I get married to a concept? It's only natural to live unnatural, tradition burning down like a pile of books- fix the unbroken, make a post-modern tragedy. So kiss and tell, make yourself useful to the anti-paradise paradise.

The man behind the left door is drunk and angry- he threatened to kill me once. Complete a cycle, centre yourself in damnation.

#creative writing #writing #writeblr #actually autistic #author #angst #storytelling #story #short story #authors #unreality

[lunapaper]

Album Review: 'AMERICAN GURL' - Kilo Kish

Attention. Beauty. Success. Excess – all qualities as American as apple pie... 

It’s rather ambitious to try and capture the hollowness of fame and the American Game in a series of sparkling, offbeat pop gems, but Kilo Kish (aka Lakisha Robinson) almost succeeds on her latest album, AMERICAN GURL. 

Envisioning said Game as an arcade game (natch), the album is slinky and mechanical, made up of glossy surfaces and jagged corners. 

The singer/multimedia artist attempts to turn preconceived notions on their head on the title track (’In a locked box/In a locked drawer/Will I find me an/American girl?’), with synthesised horns bursting atop strobing beats. ‘DISTRACTIONS III: SPOILED ROTTEN’ is glitch-riddled and celestial, Robinson begging ‘gimme gimme gimme’ in excitement as she finds herself in ‘the shop of my fantasy,’ a hyper-consumerist sugar rush of sorts. ‘NO APOLOGY’ - a standout – is the existential hangover (‘I'm past a breakthrough/Still trying to find good spirit in the cup/To kill a believer, you killed a believer/Shocked me into everything I know’), brooding and cryptic space pop straight out of the early 00s.  

Any one of these tracks could’ve easily appeared on Robinson’s brilliant 2019 REDUX EP. She also nearly called the album AMERICAN GURL DETOX, which would’ve made for a nice companion piece. 

‘BLOODY FUTURE’ is filled with frantic synths and eerie harpsichord plucks, reckoning with the stranglehold of technology throughout the decades. Robinson’s ‘DEATH FANTASY’ is also rather serene, with Miguel providing a haunting echo as soporific synths melt into tense atmosphere, the singer almost revelling in her ego death. Other tracks like ‘ON THE OUTSIDE (JUSTIN’S SONG)’ and ‘SUPER KO LOVE’ dabble in rock and hip-hop, the latter a woozy, New Wave-esque ode to a toxic romance. 

But like some video games, AMERICAN GURL does have its design flaws. At times, the production feels too chintzy, too bloated and too overproduced, overstimulating the listener. ‘CHOICE COWBOY’ (ft. Jean Dawson) is just too busy and kills the momentum after such a stellar run of tracks beforehand, while ‘ATTENTION POLITICIAN’ is kinda nauseating as Robinson’s vocals are drowned out by warbling synthesisers. Even her vocals sound a little wonky and out of tune. 

Concept albums are tricky, no matter how loosely connected it all is. Kilo Kish aims to cover a wide range of topics – black history, success, technology, personal and creative freedom - yet we hear very little of this commentary throughout the record. 

And even when we do encounter these topics, Kish is rather vague in her exploration. Which is strange since she’s more than okay discussing them in some depth in interviews. Kish is obviously bursting with thoughts and ideas, but not everything she throws at the wall sticks. 

That’s not to say AMERICAN GURL is a bad album. When Kish reins in her worser instincts, she can serve up some incredible pop bangers. It also further proves that she should produce a video game soundtrack; everyone else is doing it!  

Like most of us in this technological, TikTok-and-Twitter-driven age, AMERICAN GURL has kind of a short attention span. Maybe Kish could’ve done with that detox after all… 

- Bianca B. 

#music #kilo kish #american gurl #new #reviews #albums #Bianca B

[badbitchshannon]

One Upon a Time...

...there was Shannon, known for immeasurable beauty and sick burns. She was always grinding and keeping up with her fame, but she was hiding a secret from everyone. Most of the time she was at her job and had a good time with friends - there is a legend that says no one knew to party just like her, she was like a glitter explosion everytime she entered a room -, but sometimes in the quiet night... she turned into a doberman and chased pigeons. That's when she felt the most free, away from her responsabilities and dull people, just focusing on catching birds.

One particular day she was chasing a swan, very focused, running the most she should, when she felt a presence beside her. She kept on running, and after a while dared to look at that being. It was a black furred dog, with eyes as dark as night. He howled at her and was competing to catch the swan, but of course she wouldn't take that! After all, she was a dog but also an intelligent human with thumbs. She increased her speed and with an immense urge, bit the swan's neck. The black dog stopped and watched her as she shook the swan with her teeth. Shannon growled to the animal, as saying "this is mine".

Then the unexpected happened: the dog transformed himself into a handsome, fit, sexy naked man. She immediately dropped the swan, in awe.

"So the beauty caught the swan... I was about to get it for you" he raised an eyebrow, bloating his cockiness. Shannon was not having it, so she growled once more at the man.

"Hey, easy there hottie. I saw you transform, you're just like me." He paused, licking his lips.

"A sexy bastard" The man reached out to pet Shannon, and she was so shocked she let him, and even gave his hand a little lick.

Was she... horny?

She beautifully transformed into her human self, and the man did not take his hand off her, ending up stroking her hair as she took her woman form.

"Name's Shannon" she said, staring at him.

"I'm Sirius" the man finally said. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen"

"I know" she replied, knowing her worth. "You're... the most naked thing I saw today"

Sirius blushed, and then twirled his hair. "I wanted to look presentable when I met you... I've been watching you for a while" he bit his upper lip.

"Creep" Shannon said, getting the bloody swan from the ground and beating Sirius' face with it.

"I deserve it" said Sirius, lowering his head and turning back into a dog, running away.

Shannon was left in awe, she would never be the same again.

[mystiqueghost]

things i've thought about while i was supposed to be praying

being found dead in the bathroom sink. my younger sister sleeping in my passenger seat. white grass in the winter. a snake eating itself. olives. burnt coffee. cherry pits sitting in my starving stomach. do you think about stars wishing on each other, too? bone marrow scooped out with a spoon. overflowing bandaid wrappers. beautiful views. sunken eyeballs. bloody urine. my temple, my ruins. what if i admit that the back of my lover's neck feels more holy than any prayer i've ever said? cliffsides. hoaxes. beached whale muscles. fruits and their rotting. a feral cat eating from somebody's callouses. the songs i'd hum when i'd cut myself. the echo in my grandmother's apartment's stairwell. how i felt after smoking a clove. your pendant i stole for my long drive home. if i cried harder, would she have rolled over in her coffin? would she have thought the fake flowers and the “i will love you until these rot” note was stupid? handfuls of hair i hid in my throat. summers i spent stiff and cold. the sourness of your words that i dry swallowed. hand cramps from writing love letters and confessions. my sleeplessness in my own city. snowbanks i've dreamed of dying in. clay hearts. sapphire embers. kisses you trusted with my discretion. the distinct smells of my mother's, and father's, aggression. summer heat. sucking on basil. hot tears. numbness. faucet water tea with lemon. when i die, will god ask what i'd like to be turned into? when i respond with "a field of grass" will he understand? or will he make me beg—again and again? holes in the moon that match the holes in my face. pieces of glass with lipstick marks. peach skin i dug into with my nails. absolution. bruised knuckles. thoroughfares. antlers and wings and whiskers and sea salt. the pigeon graveyard i found by accident. the last thoughts of a suicidal san franciscan native. the dinner the firefighters ate after fishing out bloated intestines. amen.

#original poem #poets on tumblr

[queenclaudiabrown]

Shadow of The Jaguar by Steven Savile | FOUR

     Connor hurled aside the garishly covered book he was reading in disgust, nearly hitting Stephen.

     “Sorry,” he said sheepishly.

     “What’s wrong? They kill your favourite character?”

     “No. It’s this bloody stupid rule that says all superior officers have to be fat, corrupt, and incompetent. Just once I’d like to read a military novel where the arch prelate wasn’t a back-stabbing son-of-a-bitch with his own agenda instead of God’s, and the Captain of the Guard wasn’t some bloated power-hungry moron who’d gut his own mother for a chance to advance.”

     Connor looked across at the three soldiers spread out in the row behind him. Gesturing, he got their attention.

     “Tell me your Commanding Officer is a fat, bloated, slug of a man, and I’ll scream,” he said, eliciting strange looks from each of the trio.

     “It’s an occupational hazard.” Jack Stark, one of the three men who made up their covert military support, explained, “Bosses get fat and they get stupid, forgetting everything that made them ruthless enough to rise through the ranks in the first place. That’s just the way it goes.”

     Connor shot him a look of disgust. Andy Blaine, the second of the three, grinned at Stark.

     “Remind me to let the Sarge know your thoughts on his waistline when we get home,” he said. Then he nodded at the discarded novel. “You not reading that then, sunshine?”

     “No, not any more.”

     “Mind if I do?”

     “Be my guest.”

     Connor plugged his headphones in, leaned back, and screwed his eyes closed.

     Across the row, Abby turned away from the exchange that had just occurred. She was quietly impressed with the way the soldiers were taking to the mission. It wasn’t every day you were told about rifts in time, and learned that prehistoric beasts walked the earth. In many ways, the hardest part had been explaining that the anomalies reached both backward and forward.

     Yet they didn’t seem phased.

     Her attention was drawn back to the window. There was nothing quite like the bird’s eye view of flight to make one appreciate the sheer immensity and raw beauty of nature. The difference between London - with its precision geometry of streets and roundabouts that intersected like cogs on some vast clockwork mechanism - and the barrenness of Cuzco, which for as far as the eye could see was nothing more than sand-blasted stone and dehydrated trees, was as extreme as the world had to offer.

     Coming out of London City Airport, the view out of the window had quickly degenerated into thick clouds that had thoroughly obscured England’s green and quite unpleasant land as far as the coastline, giving way to the deep blue of the ocean.

     Then for more than a thousand miles she had been able to see the curves and lines of water trailing in the wake of oil tankers and cruise liners and fishing vessels, the ships themselves skating on the meniscus curve of the Atlantic.

     Coming down over the east coast the vista had been replaced by snow-capped mountain peaks, and then bare expanses of farming land with cities dotted in between. The world hadn’t truly become green until their flight path took them over the Amazon basin.

     Here the heat shimmered on the horizon. It was a peculiar phenomenon, considering the chill of the pressurised cabin’s air-conditioner, but it offered a good indication of the weather conditions they were flying into.

     Glancing over, she decided that Connor was probably fantasising bout being Flash Gordon, skimming over the surface of Arboria. She chuckled at the thought, though a moment later she realised the implications of it: her lodger’s geekdom was rubbing off on her. Six months ago the word ‘Arboria’ wouldn’t have meant anything to her, outside of some vague conjugation of plant life. Shuddering at the thought, she turned her attention again to the window.

     The verdant greens of the rainforest had given way to sand and soulless stone. The plane juddered again, the rocking no more severe than a carriage’s jounce on the underground, but vastly exaggerated by the sensation of falling.

     Abby loved flying. But she saw Connor’s knuckles whiten as his fingers dug into the faux-leather armrest of his chair, not sharing her passion.

     Stephen had his head buried in an extreme sports magazine, the glossy pages filled with photos and accounts of wingsuit flying, ice climbing, storm chasing, bungee jumping, and other death-defying activities. He had stared at the same pictures at least a dozen times during the long flight.

     Cutter sat in quiet conversation with Jenny, though Abby noticed that he never seemed to look the woman in the eye.

     There were three other men on the plane with them, and not one of them had the look of a scientist about them. They were uniformly over six feet, with broad shoulders and a lithe musculature which spoke of hours of punishing exercise. But more telling was the coldness about their eyes, and an alertness that shouldn’t have been there. They all shared it. Even now, fifteen hours into a cramped flight, these three men had not relaxed. It wasn’t that they were tense, but more that they were incredibly aware of the world around them.

     Abby found their presence reassuring, given the uncertainness of what awaited them.

     Viewed from above, the single concrete runway of Velazco Astete Airport looked like a gash in the earth. The small plane banked, adjusting its approach as it bumped down through the thermals toward landing.

     The Captain’s voice came over the loudspeaker, instructing them to take their seats for a landing that would take place in ten minutes.

    The plane banked again, the left wing dipping toward the earth, and came around to line up with the concrete strip. Abby watched the terminal building, a low, flat single-storey structure, come into view. She could see red letters on the side of the terminal, and she assumed they said ‘Welcome to Cuzco’ in both Spanish and Quechua, the two official languages of the country.

     Through the metal of the hull, she felt the landing gear engaging, the reverberations shivering up through the bulk of the plane and into her chair. Squeezing her hand over her nose, Abby popped the pressure that had built up inside her ears during the gradual descent.

     She fastened her seatbelt, sank back into the leather, and closed her eyes, waiting for the bump of the wheels on the ground.

     Esteban Estevez heard screams.

     He was out in the rainforest with his fellow rangers Rafe and Joaquim. They had stumbled into another one of those peculiar cones of silence, only this time the silence had not lasted.

     The screams were gut wrenching. He pushed through the trees, fighting back the thick leaves that had grown across the track.

     A few minutes later three women burst out of the smother of branches, shrieked at the sight of the rangers, and fled to one side even as Rafe tried to calm them. He marked the fear in the women’s eyes, and a glance at the other two men told him that they had seen it, too. They weren’t the first people the rangers had encountered.

     There was a settlement less than half a mile from their location, he knew. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. He unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt and radioed in to the reserve office.

     Esteban was at the very limits of the radio’s reception. It took him a few moments to find a place where the crackle of static was reduced sufficiently for him to hear his half-brother on the other end.

     He told Nando what they had found.

     “There are a number of peculiar tracks all over sector echo twenty-seven. They appear to be leading down toward the village of Helevuia. I don’t like it, Nando.” He removed the fedora from his head and wiped away the sheen of sweat that clung to his brow. “There’s something wrong here. We hit one of those silent patches again a little while ago. This time it isn’t the animals that are fleeing; it’s the tribesmen. A dozen women and children have fled past us in the last five minutes. We are less than half a mile from the settlement. I am going to take Rafe  and Joaquim and investigate.

     “I don’t like this, little brother,” he continued. “I saw fear in those women’s eyes. I swear it was as though they had come face to face with El Diablo himself.”

     “Be careful, Este.”

     “When am I not?”

     “I can think of plenty of occasions. Just be careful.”

     “Worst comes to worst, we are armed. We can take care of ourselves.”

     “Keep your eyes open.” He turned the radio off and joined the others.

     “Ready?”

     They were.

     Together the three rangers trekked toward the settlement of Helevuia.

     A short time later, they walked into a slaughterhouse.

     It was beyond eerie; they walked in utter silence. Even the crush of deadfall beneath their feet, which gave way to dirt and gravel as they emerged from the trees, seemed to dampen in deference to the carnage. Esteban walked slowly along the path that led to the houses.

     He understood the screams now.

     There were bodies sprawled in the dirt, bloodied and torn. It wasn’t the dead that drew his eye: it was the huge cat prowling amongst them.

     Suddenly the beast stopped, inclining its head as it scented the intruders on the air, then it turned to look Esteban square in the eye. It growled once, low in the throat. This was the first sound he had heard since the screams. A heartbeat later the growl was answered by a roar that seemed to rumble all around them.

     Esteban fumbled for the radio and dropped it even as he tried to unholster his service revolver. His hand shook so violently that he could barely drag it clear without dropping it.

     Gunshots rang out as the great dark beast charged toward them. Echoing his fellow rangers, Esteban raised the revolver, the muzzle roving wildly with his trembling hand as he squeezed off a round, then another. The shots flew high and wide. He stared horrified, enraptured by the huge blood-soaked fangs bared as the cat roared its death-challenge, and pulled the trigger again and again.

     There was at least one hit; he saw the spray of blood as the metal slug buried itself beneath thick hide.

     It wasn’t enough.

     The huge animal slammed into him, pinning him down and delivering a fatal bite to his throat, even as he fired off another shot.

     Stephen Hart was the last man off the plane.

     The heat hit him like a physical blow as he stepped out onto the shaky metal stair the ground crew had pushed up against the side of the small jet. Every muscle of his body ached from being cooped up on the cramped aircraft. He stretched, knuckling his hands into the base of his spine, then ran a hand through his short but unruly brown hair. By the time he was at the bottom of the stair, sweat had already begun to trickle down the side of his face.

     The flat-baked concrete finished twenty feet beyond the steps and gave way to tarmac. The asphalt like stuff was hot and sticky beneath his feet. The temperature must have been up in the mid-thirties; he felt the raw heat in the air on the back of his throat as he inhaled.

     They had a welcoming committee: a large black SUV with tinted windows was parked fifty feet away on the hardstand. There was a small cavalcade of vehicles lined up behind it. A man in a wrinkled off-white linen suit leaned against the SUV’s bonnet. He was unshaven, tanned to an almost olive complexion, his well-defined physique showed through the thin material. He moved with an economy of movement and grace that betrayed military training.

     He greeted Cutter with a laconic smile and an outstretched hand. This was obviously Sir Charles Bairstow’s ‘man on the ground’.

     They exchanged words Stephen couldn’t quite hear, then the man made a slight bow before Abby. He took her hand and raised it to his lips. Before he could repeat the move with Jenny, she shifted her grip and shook his hand briskly.

     “ARC, I presume,” he said. His voice was that classic nasal Etonian that reeked of old money.

     “Little Gods,” she responded. The exchange made no sense to Stephen. “I prefer Alex Chaplin, and only my mother calls me by my full name.”

     Jenny laughed at that. But as he turned away, Stephen noticed that she gave him a strange look. She doesn’t like him.

     Chaplin inclined his head toward Stephen and Connor.

     “Damned good to have all of you here. Sir Charles has said good things about you.”

     “He’s said almost nothing about you,” Cutter replied.

     “The old man can be a little tight-lipped, I’m afraid. It’s a throwback to a Cold War mentality most of his generation haven’t been able to shuck. All right, then, first things first. You’re booked into the Hotel Del Prado in the main city for the first two nights of your stay.  I’ll take three of you in my car, the rest of you will go with Fabrice in the second one. Your gear will follow in the remaining vehicles. I imagine you’re tired, but I suggest trying to stay awake for a few more hours before you turn in for the night. It will make the jet-lag less intrusive tomorrow.”

     “Thank you,” Cutter said, starting to walk toward the first car. Over his shoulder he said, “Jenny, Stephen, you’re with me. Abby, Connor, you take the second car along with Jack, Sean and Andy.”

     “It’ll be a bit of a squash, I’m afraid,” Chaplin said.

     “That’s fine - just means we have to cosy up,” Connor said. His glance at Abby said he didn’t mind at all.

     “I don’t think so,” Stark said, resting a friendly hand on Connor’s shoulder. His hands were like ham-hocks. Stephen grinned, while Connor writhed.

     “Yeah... erm... no, that’s not what I meant,” he mumbled, much to the amusement of the other two soldiers, Sean Lucas, and Andy Blaine.

     “Oh, I don’t know, Stark, it might be fun,” Blaine chuckled, slapping the bigger man squarely on the back.

     “I’d squash you like a bug, Blaine.”

     “What about customs?” Stephen asked, shifting the focus away from a squirming Connor. “Passport control? Surely we can’t just drive off into the sunset.”

     “Hah! Hardly. The agent will be waiting at the security gate to check your documents. The situation is a bit sticky out here. It all looks very polite on the surface, but scratch a bit deeper and, well, I wouldn’t advise trying to skip the security checkpoint without showing your papers. They’re likely to shoot you in the back. It’s a little different from Heathrow.”

     “No kidding,” Connor said, tugging at his collar. Sweat already stained the material around his throat. “Mind you, they’d probably try and shoot you at Heathrow these days.”

     Behind them, the ground crew opened the seal on the hold door and went to work unloading the equipment. 

     “Looks like you guys plan on settling in for the duration? Chaplin observed, watching the steel coffins slide out of the plane.

     “If this is going to look like it’s being done properly, it might as well be done properly,” Cutter said, opening the SUV’s passenger door.

     “Agreed,” Chaplin nodded, getting in on the driver’s side.

     Stephen climbed into the back seat and closed the door behind him. He had hoped for air conditioning, but inside the SUV was hot and stuffy. Jenny climbed in the other side.

     “Buckle up,” Chaplin said.

     “Don’t tell me, they’ll shoot you for not wearing your seatbelt,” Cutter said as Chaplin gunned the engine to life.

     “No, but I drive like a clumsy Lewis Hamilton. I’d hate to have to explain to Sir Charles how you fell out the passenger door and rolled down the side of a mountain because I turned a corner a tad too sharply.”

     They pulled away from the hardstand and drove slowly towards the terminal building, following yellow lines painted onto the tarmac. The dark tint to the windscreen and side windows leached the colour from the world around them. The sun glinting off the huge plate windows of the terminal building was reduced from a dazzling light to a series of white spots, like stars that had gone supernova.

     As they approached the gate, Stephen took his passport from the breast pocket of his shirt.

     The car was surprisingly loud, a third sound throbbing beneath the caged power of the huge v8 engine and the annoying whir of the air-conditioning fan. It took him a moment to realise that the sucking sound was the rubber of the wheels sticking to the road beneath them.

     “So what do we need to know?” Cutter said, cutting straight to the chase.

     Chaplin turned slightly in his seat. Stephen watched his eyes through the rear-view mirror.

     “The official story is that young Cam staggered out of the jungle five days ago, delirious and near death. He had no identification, and no idea who he actually was or that half of the British government was looking for him. His only coherent words were: ‘They’re all dead.’ Not the most reassuring thing to say to the authorities.

     “He now claims he and his brother Jaime were set upon by some sort of wild animal while they were out playing explorer in the Madre de Dios. His wounds seem to back up the story.” Chaplin sounded dubious.

     “You don’t believe it?” Cutter asked.

     “I don’t get paid to believe, Professor. There are a lot of wild stories floating out there. My personal favourite is that the boys were the victims of El Chupacabra, and that greedy government officials have brought the curse of the beast down upon the region because of their plans to turn the rainforest into a tourist trap. The vengeful Chupacabra, they say, won’t stand for that sort of nonsense.”

     “Are we sure it wasn’t poachers? Perhaps his injuries were caused by dogs.”

     “We aren’t sure about anything,” Chaplin admitted, slowing the SUV to pull up beside the customs gatehouse. A flimsy wooden barrier barred their way. A short, grim-faced guard, clutching the distinctive muzzle of an Uzi 9mm to his chest, stepped up to the side of the car and rapped on the tinted glass.

     “Papers?” he said in pigeon-English as the window hummed down. The nametag pressed up against the glass read ‘Cristóbal’.

     Chaplin collected their passports and handed them across to the guard, who examined them slowly, then leaned in through the window to match each of the photos to the passengers.

     “What is your business in Peru?” he demanded. It was a straightforward enough question, but what exactly were they supposed to say? That they intended to smuggle a British citizen out of the local hospital before the local killers got to him?

     Hardly. 

     “We’re scientists,” Cutter said, leaning toward the open window. “We’re here as part of an expedition within the Madre de Dios.”

     “You have papers for this?” the guard asked, the muzzle of his sub-machine gun rattling against the side of the SUV, as if to remind them all that it was still there.

     “Yes, of course. Jenny?”

     She leaned forward, holding out a sheaf of paperwork. The officious little guard took them, thumbing through them page after page as though they made a lick of sense to him. Stephen would have laid down a decent-sized bet that the man couldn’t read half of it, and was just looking for a stamp and a scribbled signature that would make it someone else’s responsibility.

     A moment later he seemed to have found what he needed to reassure him, and handed the papers back into the car, then returned the passports, each with a ninety-day visa stamped into them.

     “Thank you,” Cutter said, taking them back from the man.

     The guard stepped back and signalled to someone inside the guardhouse. The barrier rose, then he waved them through. A short time later they were on the open road.

     The ‘open road’, however, was hardly fit to bear the name. Every dozen or so yards the concrete was broken, causing the SUV’s suspension to judder alarmingly. Chaplin changed up through the gears, easing through the traffic of flatbed trucks and paint-flaked Fiats, the regular dub-dub-dub of the cracks sounding like an erratic heartbeat.

     The air-conditioning was broken, Chaplin explained apologetically, and it was sucking the hot air of the outside into the compartment and heating it in the process. Whereas the tinted glass had kept out the sun before, now they found it preferable to open all four windows to let the wind blow through. Stephen felt as though his eyeballs themselves were sweating.

     “Now, you were saying, you don’t think it was poachers?” Cutter said, speaking loudly as they merged with the faster moving traffic in the outside lane. Driving on the wrong side of the road was unnerving, especially since flatbeds with rattling tailgates and bald tyres were bouncing along barely in control beside them. Crates of produce were stacked up and tied down, along with people crushed and clinging on for dear life as they sped down the uneven roadways.

     “Not having examined the boy’s wounds too closely myself, I can’t say for certain,” Chaplin responded. “But no, I don’t think it was.”

     He told them a little more of what he knew: Jaime Bairstow’s body had yet to be recovered, but his brother’s description of the slaughter left no room for hope that the boy might still be alive. “I was only able to talk with Cam for a moment, but he described their attacker as a sleek powerful big cat. That doesn’t sound like poachers or dogs.”

     “A puma or jaguar perhaps?” Cutter offered.

     “Anything is possible,” Chaplin agreed. “Between you and me, he is hardly the most reliable witness. Three times he mentioned seeing diamonds in the sky.”

     “Really?” Cutter said, a look passed between him and Stephen as he looked behind him. It was the first conclusive proof they had found that the two stories were linked. He felt a small thrill of triumph. It disappeared quickly when he noticed the lack of surprise on Jenny’s face, and made a mental note to ask her about it later, in private.

     “They’ve got him dosed up on morphine right now, so I wouldn’t take anything he says as the gospel truth, especially the notion that he found some air that was filled with crystals and diamonds that glittered and shone and made all these beautiful colours as they refracted the light. It sounds more like a drug-induced hallucination,” Chaplin concluded. But three of the four people in the car knew better. He was almost certainly talking about the first anomaly to be found off British soil.

     That gave them plenty to think about on the long drive from the airport. And a welcome distraction from the cloying heat.

     “So you think he’s lying? Covering something up?” Jenny shouted, leaning forward between the seats.

     “I wouldn’t bet against it,” Chaplin said.

     “How so?”

     “There could have been a falling out, the boys coming to blows. One thing leads to another, and suddenly we have black cats and hallucinations. It isn’t impossible.

     “And further more, it would be a damned sight more convenient for the Peruvian authorities to declare it the truth. Much better to have a couple of tourists trying to kill each other, rather than have to try and explain away either poachers or wild animal attacks in their precious eco-reserve.”

     “I can see that,” Cutter agreed. “But I don’t see how that would account for the attempt on his life in the hospital?” “

     Well, that was almost certainly down to a terrorist faction like Shining Path or some such guerrilla group, trying to make a point by killing a privileged foreigner. It happened soon after Cam’s story started to spread. It makes him a wonderful target for these supposed ‘freedom fighters’.”

     Cutter nodded. Watching their host, Stephen was unsure whether or not Chaplin actually believed what he was telling them.

     “So,” Cutter said eventually, “is poaching really such a huge problem here?”

     “Put it this way,” Chaplin said, “we’re talking big business. The smuggling of endangered species generates billions of pounds a year. Only slightly less than drugs, and far more than armaments.”

     “Jesus,” Stephen said, the scale of it far beyond anything he had imagined.

     “The worst thing is that it really doesn’t matter if the animals are alive or dead, so that means these bastards catch the animals and keep them in conditions of intolerable cruelty. It’s all about the ivory and the penises, the pelts, skins and meat. Nothing gets wasted. Not the marrow from the bones, nor the fat insulating the skin. They even grind the sexual organs up to make aphrodisiacs for horny businessmen. They promise that the livers will cure cancer and other rubbish. People are willing to pay outrageous amounts - the rarer the creature, the greater the value. Can you imagine the price a dodo breast would command? Millions.”

     “So these people would definitely kill to protect their business.”

     “Oh, hell, yes,” Chaplin said, signalling to leave the main flow of traffic.

     The first thing Stephen noticed about Cuzco itself, as they began to drive down the dip into the town proper, was that it was very much a single-storey community of white stucco houses and clay roofs. More than once he saw steel rebar struts sticking vertically out of the walls, as though the buildings were unfinished. He asked Chaplin about this.

     “Curiously enough, it is meant to be a sign of hope. The builders want to give the illusion of prosperity. It’s all a game, though. They want you to believe that one day they might have the money to add a second storey. They aren’t fooling anyone, of course - not even themselves.”

     “Ah,” Stephen said.

     His shirt clung uncomfortably to his back. He didn’t want to sit back in the leather seat because the sticky wetness made his skin creep. Instead he leaned forward in his seat and watched the countryside roll by.

     The transition from rural to urban was every bit as distinct as anything he would have expected to see in London or any other European city. At first the roadside was dotted with sporadic trees, the colour bled from their leaves by the sun, and the occasional building. The stucco was invariably either cracked and broken or only part-finished, leaving the guts of the stone to hang out, bleeding red dust.

     Sallow-skinned men sat on plastic beer crates outside open doors, watching the cars go by. They smoked thin roll-ups and wore battered cowboy hats pulled down low over their sad eyes. Then, further into the city, the colours returned. Sprinklers kept the trees moist, in turn keeping the leaves green. Here the grass beneath could easily have been lifted from a Wimbledon lawn, and was shockingly green against the painted yellow curbs.

     Battered bicycles with rusted frames leaned against walls, their kick stands propping them up on flat tyres.

     The nature of the traffic changed as well, as bigger, newer gas-guzzlers dominated the wide roads, their lacquers bright and shiny. The pedestrians were a curious mix of locals, dressed to meet tourist expectations, mingled with the tourists themselves. The ruins of Machu Picchu were close by, and the Inca Express could be seen leaving for Lake Titicaca, the Pisac fortress, the Nazca lines, the puma-shaped Sacsayhuamán fortress and the tiers of Moray - all of which were also nearby. Cuzco was the ideal staging point for the holiday-of-a-lifetime adventures sought by the rich and the curious.

     Finally they reached the urban centre. Set in a basin of surrounding hills, the Incan capital was a stunning fusion of old and new, the architecture like something out of medieval Andalusia. It was a city of statues and fountains, its structures built around wide, open plazas, like the Plaza de Armas, which was the beating heart in the body of Cuzco.

     Stephen wasn’t sure what he had expected, but the opulence of the Cathedral, with its glorious cupola and twin bell-towers, wasn’t it. The architecture was spectacular. Their SUV slowed to a crawl as pedestrians wove back and forth across the busy road amid the blaring of horns. Chaplin took them around a huge two-tiered fountain supported by what appeared to be water nymphs, and drew up alongside the curb outside their hotel.

     “This is it,” Chaplin told them. “I’ll pick you up at ten tomorrow to take you to the hospital.”

     “I’d rather go straight away,” Jenny said. “Time really is of the essence, and frankly, if there’s been one attempt on his life already, I’d rather not leave anything to chance. Stark and I can pick him up and bring him back to the hotel, where we can keep an eye on him.”

     Chaplin made a face.

     “Really not the best of ideas. At Sir Charles’ behest, I have two armed guards, both ex-special forces, on watch outside his room. Two more are located on the lobby level of the hospital. He is safer there than anywhere else in the city.”

     Jenny wasn’t convinced. But Chaplin wouldn’t be swayed.

     “I appreciate your concern, Miss Lewis, but honestly, angels would fear to rush in. Your expedition has raised a few eyebrows in certain official circles, and you are no doubt going to come under some rather intense scrutiny. I would therefore strongly suggest that you act like scientists and, of course, tourists. Running to the hospital now would immediately tip our hand. It’s all about appearance.

     “I don’t need to teach you how to do your job, I’m sure, but this place isn’t like London. We have factions, governmental and what are euphemistically called freedom fighters’, like the Shining Path I mentioned before. When a new factor comes into the equation, something that might unsettle the precarious balance, a lot of eyes become very interested.

     “So, tomorrow we can make arrangements to slip you out from under the watchful eye of whoever, after you’ve spent this evening doing exactly what every other visitor to this fair city would do. I suggest you get your bearings, and take a little wander around. There’s plenty to see, and you really want to work up an appetite.”

     Jenny couldn’t really argue with him, though her expression said that she was far from happy at being told what to do, and especially by this man. There was something about Chaplin that didn’t sit right. It wasn’t the brylcreem smile or the Our Man In Havana shtick. Stephen couldn’t put his finger on it.

     “Peruvian cuisine is rather distinctive,” Chaplin went on, convinced the argument was won. “I feel duty bound to point out that you’re unlikely to get cow or pig, so if you see a steak advertised, it’s liable to be alpaca, or lama meat. Guinea pig is quite popular as well.”

     “Abby will be pleased to miss out on those delicacies, I’m sure,” Cutter said, clambering out of the car.

     “You might want to try crema de tarwi or chalona. Traditionally, you’d be served alpaca, but most restaurants serve lamb instead. Wash it down with a nice Inca Cola, that’ll give you the complete Peruvian experience.”

     “Thanks. I think.”

     “No problem. I’ll see your equipment is brought to the hotel later.” Stephen closed the car door behind him, and stood on the side of the road. Again the sheer physical force of the heat hit him. The window across the way advertised Cusqueña in painted letters. He assumed it was beer, though it might equally have been the name of the bar itself.

     Chaplin hadn’t been lying. Even from that vantage point, there was plenty to see, the most noticeable thing by far being the two armed militia members leaning casually against the hotel wall, sub-machine guns dangling at their sides. They fit every preconception Stephen had ever harboured about the military junta stereotype. Neither man acknowledged them as they entered the lobby. The others hadn’t yet arrived, no doubt delayed in the chaos of traffic.

     The hotel itself was curious, and not at all what he would have called ‘luxury’, with clay pots and grotesque statuettes dominating the lobby. The floor was a chequerboard of terracotta tiles, some rubbed smooth by the passing of bags and feet, others still rough with their rustic charm. The colours were bright and mismatched. Woven tapestries hung in place of pictures behind the reception.

     Stephen followed Cutter and Jenny up to the desk, where Cutter collected their keys.

     “We’re short of rooms, so we’re going to have to double up. Jenny can you share with Abby? And Stephen, you can bunk in with me.”

     “No problem.”

     “Let’s go make camp then, shall we?”

     Their rooms were on the fourth floor, the beds hard as boards. Stephen pulled off his shirt and flopped down onto the one closest to the window, closing his eyes. It was all he could do not to fall straight to sleep.

     He heard the key in the lock of the next room, then the slam of another door, and assumed the others had arrived - which meant they needed to go downstairs to collect their gear.

     He opened his eyes. A ceiling fan spun lopsidedly above his bed, the rhythm of its rotation just slightly wrong. Watching it was hypnotic.

     Cutter went through to the bathroom. A moment later Stephen heard the spray of the shower running. He waited for Cutter to finish up, then followed him through to rinse off the grime of the flight and the sweat from his skin with soap that refused to lather. He ducked his head under the shower nozzle, massaging his scalp vigorously as he tried to wake himself up.

     He towelled dry and pulled on his boxers and jeans, then picked up the shirt, and dropped it again. The thin material was as thoroughly soaked as it would have been if he had still been wearing it when ducked under the shower. So he rummaged in his backpack for a clean t-shirt and pulled it on over his head.

     It felt good to be clean again.

     “You notice our friends downstairs?” Cutter asked.

     “A little hard to miss.”

     “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto,” Cutter said. “Come on then, let’s go get the gear. The sooner we start, the sooner we finish.”

     It took the best part of twenty minutes to drag their equipment up to the room, and the effort left them as sweaty and uncomfortable as they had been before their showers.

     When everyone was done, they gathered in the lobby, then went out for a reconnoitre, taking in the vicinity. They were centrally located, close to most of the tourist traps. The gun-toting guards were still at their station, as disinterested as ever. A lama grazed on the grass across the road.

     “You don’t see that every day,” Stephen said to Connor as they left the hotel.

     “Unless you’re Jeff Minter.”

     “Sometimes you’re just weird, Connor.”

     “Killer Trivial Pursuit player though,” Connor said with a grin.

     The hour in their room and lugging the luggage had taken the worst of the heat of the day. The first thing Stephen noticed as he stepped out onto the street was the gentle kiss of the breeze. There was a tall pole in the centre of the main square, the colourful ribbons that dangled from it blowing in the soft wind.

     They crossed the grass, walking slowly and turning in circles, trying to take everything in. Stephen saw the spray of two small fountains on the roof of a neighbouring building, which struck him as just plain peculiar. The others talked and walked and gawked. He looked over his shoulder to see Stark’s eyes narrow. It was a marginal thing, something he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been less than five feet away.

     Stark nodded once and, reading his silent intent, Stephen turned away.

     It didn’t take long for Stark to catch up with Stephen and match his leisurely stride for a dozen paces before saying, “Your shoe lace is undone. You better tie it up, I’ll wait for you.”

     Stephen looked down at his trainers. Neither lace was loose. Without a word, he went down onto one knee and pretended to fasten them properly.

     “We’ve got eyes on us. Three sets I can see. One in the nearest bell-tower, another pretending to read The New York Times beside the fountain in the garden, and the third making a pig’s ear of following us.”

     “What do we do?”

     “They want to see tourists, let’s give them tourists,” Stark said matter-of-factly.

#primeval #shadow of the jaguar #steven savile #nick cutter #stephen hart #jenny lewis #connor temple #abby maitland