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valenishere · 1 month

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Sagau Idea

I'm not that good with writing YouPoV's so there may be some odd usage of they's and thems then switching to "you"'s. this'll be stock full of typos so be warned

Mentions of injury, implied murder, blood, and implied cult

It's been a long while since I've gotten into Self-aware genshin aus, reading the fluffiest scenes to straight up gore. And theres this concept I saw about where the creator (basically, you) can make any oc come to life and help them out. (this one read it s really good. They also expanded on it go read it too its a really neat build-up on it. this one)

And as a DnD enjoyer as well... there's this idea thats been brewing in my head whenever i think back to it.

What if in Imposter!au where they're being constantly being hunted... after getting cornered in one of the nations (in the Chasm for example) they get desperate and try out an idea they don't think would work.

While resting after being in the brink of death(again) in a place Teyvat has helped you conceal, your thoughts wander. You think, why is there even a Creator? There isn't supposed to be one. That kinda concept just disrupts everything they know about the game. It's a ridiculous concept. In your delirious state, you think, "I wish that just disappears... Then i wouldn't be..."

Then you remebered the curious ability you've recently unlocked in your "adventures". The ability to create characters, with some limitations. It took you quite a bit to adjust to your newfound ability and its caveats, resulting in a few heartbreaking loss on the way.

But as a DnD player, overcoming the death of your beloved characters quickly is a mental fortitude you've developed. And it's handy that you've already made a few characters for your past sessions before landing in Teyvat. It saved you from being one-shotted right from the start.

Although now... You're down to only one left.

"... I'm so tired..."

The mental stress of being in a constant state of danger, paranoia, hunger, pain, and exhaustion have worn you down to a point where you can't even think up of more characters to make up for the one's that have recently passed. You slipped up so bad because of sleeplessness that your last capable party of characters died and a hole was speared through your gut too.

As you lay bleeding on the cold ground, with only a talking mushroom to keep you company, you wrack your brain to put together a proper character but... you really can't. You can't even think straight. Not with the recent information you've found out.

The so-called Creator is now creating their very own characters, their very own people/army, through alchemy, and is now sending them after you, thus increasing your hunters by double. And on top of the already powerful vision-holders (of course they're powerful, you made them that way), you figured... "Ah... I'm fucked..."

Knowing you might as well be as good as done now, you didn't even bother bringing out the last of your characters to heal you. It's not like healing yourself will make you forget about this lifelong trauma--

... Forget?

...

A fleeting thought.

A dumb fleeting thought. A very dumb one at that.

One that will for sure backfire in your face if you do it wrong. And quite frankly, it could spell the end for this world, even for the one they call Creator.

... But it's not like you have anything else to lose.

And so, within the dim light of the mushroom, you painstakingly start to write. Word for word, cramming everything information you know, as deatiled as you can make it into bringing it into life. A character you've never tried making before. Something that could possibly end your suffering. Or make it worse.

You honestly don't know if you're doing it right. After all, you've never tried something like it before.

"What are you making this time?' the ever so curious mushroom asked.

You grin, a manic look in your eyes. "Either my stupidest... or my brightest idea yet."

It's not long befere you finished. You gaze upon your finished product and you have to say... it's even more fleshed out than your best characters. And that quick sketch you drew... you swear those hollow eyes are following you already. That may be just the blood loss talking.

"That's... one ugly worm you've drawn..." The mushroom hums, like it can just see the monstrosity that you've created.

You chuckle breathlessly, looking almost solemn with what you're about to do. Well... it' not wrong. But...

"This is my kid. Their name is... Falseh. Get along well with them... okay?"

0===|>>>>>.

The very ground trembles as the Lord of Geo strides through the dark tunnels, a dark look in his eyes and a spear in his hand. If his presence wasn't enough, the murderous intent rolling off of him in waves is enough to deter any beasts from crossing his path.

The imposter was last seen slinking around the depths of the Chasm by one of the Tianquan's agents. Although failing to execute the imposter the first chance they got with their incompetence, Morax have to commend the Qixing for being able to find them even in the depths of the earth.

For some reason, the land seems to reject his commands from time to time now. He was baffled as to why his beloved Maker is hindering him in fulfilling his given mission but he's just been informed that the land defiance of him is due to the imposter infecting the land with their vile abilities.

Now, he's even more hellbent on making sure to drive his spear through the imposters heart and presenting it to his Grace. He won't miss a second time.

His eyes sharpens as a he a cavern just up ahead, soft blue light spilling through entrance. Tightening his grip on his spear, the power of Geo gathers in his other, ready to skewer someone five times into death if he so wishes.

He steps through the entrance and immediately lands on a figure, leaning prone under a giant glowing mushroom. He relaxes a bit. He recognizes this place. It's a bit close to the Land of Verdure, Sumeru. He needs to be careful. He can't be caught flaunting his power on another Archons domain after all.

Approaching the figure, he gets a bit surprised as they twitch, looking up to him through their hair. They try to talk, but all they can manage are quiet wheezes.

'Oh. They're still breathing. That's good.' Zhongli kneels down beside them, looking them over. They look like they've been dragged through the Abyss and back. Their midriff is bandaged heavily but it's already bled through, forming a pool of their own blood below them. He frowns lightly. It must be quite a big injury if it's bleeding this much.

Wordlessly, he holds a hand over the injury and channels his power. He's not the most profficient in healing, but he should at least be able to stop the bleeding.

Mere moments later, he have plugged up the injury and the figure is now able to stand up.

"Th-Thank you so much Rex Lapis!" they bow down. Or at least, they bow down the best they can without opening their wound. "Any longer and I would've surely perished..."

Zhongli waves them off nonchalantly as he starts to walk back out the way he came. "It's best you get back to the surface. Your injury needs to be properly tended. And I can see that..."

His eyes drifts to the scattered bloody bandages and practically empty backpack. "You've run out of supplies. It is a virtue to you mortals to know when to give up. Remember that."

"Y-Yes sir Rex Lapis sir! I'll get back right away!" they start to quickly collect their things, haphazardly stuffing the bandages and handbook into the bag, being careful of their injury.

The Lord of Geo just watches for a moment before completely leaving, trusting that they won't make any stupid mistake and go back post haste.

After he has left, you pause in your packing, leaning against the mushroom and slowly sliding down with a shaky breath.

"Y-You... didn't you say he and the entirety of the world was hunting for you?" The mushroom hums in confusion, sharing your tension. "What was that? Heck, he was the one that put a hole through you and he healed you!"

You chuckle breathlessly, the manic look intensifying in your eyes as it dawns on you that it worked. That stupid idea of yours actually worked!

And if you can get to the Creator... you can make this whole concept disappear altogether. Forever.

Out of the corner of your eyes, you see it. A large mass of hairless flesh writhing about, multiple tentacle-like appendages potruding out of it. It's slithering it's limbs about, coiling around the mushroom and and back again, and around you as well.

But when you turn your head to actually look, there's nothing there. All you can hear is what seems to be muffled humming, an eerie tune listlessly flowing through the air (but somehow, the sound is the most comforting thing ever).

"Oh it's nothing. I think... he just heard something that made him forget."

#chaotic blabbing #spreadingchaos #genshin self aware #genshin sagau #genshin impact sagau #sagau #self aware genshin #sagau impostor au #sagau brainrot #sagau x reader #genshin isekai #A Creature That Sings A Song That Makes You Forget #shi its already 2 in the morning #I wrote this half asleep so dont be surprised if it doesnt make sense #Falseh is pretty easy to figure out #hint it starts with a false and it has multiple heads that can sing #its a homebrew guy but i really like 'im y'know

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blindmagdalena · 7 months

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Trick & Treat

18+ 2.1k Dullahan!Homelander x F!Reader. established relationship, body horror, dirty talk, cunnilingus, cream pie. written for monsterlander mania

A world in which all supes are the results of humans experimenting on one another with the blood of Fae from the Seelie Courts. Homelander is one such amalgamation, and as a result of his Gan Ceann blood, he has a particularly neat party trick to show you.

Homelander always kisses you like he means to devour you. You’re certain he could, especially when your teeth touch the sharp juts of his canines. Never do they seem more like fangs than when he’s dragging them along your throat, licking the salt from your skin with a wicked, hungry noise.

“You said you were going to show me a trick,” you remind him with a giggle, carding your fingers through his hair.

“Mmmm, that I did,” he hums, walking into you, forcing you backwards until the back of your legs bump his bed. You laugh as he gives you a gentle push, sending you down onto the plush bedding with a bounce. “Think you can handle it? It’s an awfully spooky trick,” he warns, those fangs of his flashing in a brilliantly white smile.

Sitting up, you scoot forward on the bed so that you can begin working his belt loose. “I’ve handled everything else you’ve thrown at me, haven’t I?”

Dating Homelander has more or less been a gauntlet of how many strange quirks you can endure from a single partner. You’ve grown accustomed to his fussiness when it comes to the rules of hospitality, his severe aversion to any and all iron, his penchant for milk–he likes it best when you leave it out for him unprompted–and most importantly of all, his deep love of jokes and trickery.

“True,” he supposes, cupping either side of your face. He strokes the rise of your cheeks, smiling down at you with the kind of tenderness that makes your stomach flip.

Returning his smile, you tug at the zipper of his pants, but he stops you. “Ah ah ah. I’ll be the one giving you head tonight, missy. But first,” he says, which tells you he most definitely has a scheme in mind. “Undress for me.”

Huffing a playful breath, you withdraw your hands and instead pull off your own shirt. You shimmy out of your pants and underthings next, leveling Homelander with an expectant look once you’re fully undressed. He lets out a low whistle, leaning down to kiss you. “It’s like a self-opening present. Never gets old,” he says, nipping at your bottom lip.

“What’s the trick?” You ask, bouncing lightly on the bed.

He laughs. “So impatient! Fine, fine, alright, Christ,” he says, reaching up to the collar of his suit. He unzips a concealed zipper, and tugs the opening loose. Watching you, he places both hands flat over his temples, and gives you one last lingering look, lips curled in a devious grin. “Y��ready?”

Apprehension crawls into your gut and nestles there, your own smile faltering slightly. “Ready…”

You jump when he snaps his head to the side with a strange sound. It almost sounded like the tear of velcro, and before you can question what the hell it was, the wind is knocked completely from you when he lifts his head clean off his neck. No connective tissue, no blood, no gore. He simply holds his head up like a trophy, the bottom of it an empty, black abyss.

“Surprise!” He says, his disembodied head still grinning as he suddenly holds it out to you.

You scream, scrambling back on the bed, your eyes wide. “What the fuck! Oh my god, what the fuck? What the fuck, Homelander!?”

He starts laughing, kneeling on the bed. “Whaaat? I thought you liked tricks,” he says, placing his head on the bed while he adjusts his collar. “Yeah, we don’t advertise this one too much. Freaks people out,” he says, rolling his eyes. It’s beyond surreal to watch him emote like this, his neck cushioned by the bedding while his body continues to operate behind him.

Mouth agape, you continue to stare at him, a morbid curiosity slipping in amidst the horror. “How… How is this possible?”

“Same bullshit that makes flight and laser vision possible,” he says, watching you. It takes you a moment, but beyond the perverse enjoyment of your shock, you’re sure you see a flicker of apprehension in his expression. He’s waiting, you realize.

Waiting to see how you’ll respond. If you’ll reject him.

These are often the stages of your relationship with Homelander. He parts the curtain of himself bit by bit, daring you to flee with each confession about his existence. This is by far the most alarming reveal so far.

“Does it hurt?” You ask, the tension in your body easing.

He looks surprised, as if no one has ever asked him that before. Behind him, his body shrugs. “Uh, nope. Feels like stretching.”

“This is insane,” you say, crawling towards his head. Of all the things supes are capable of, you’ve never seen anything like this.

His smile slowly returns. “Pick me up.”

Your expression blanches. “What?”

“C’mon! Pick me up. Gimme a kiss,” he says, puckering his lips, coaxing you with kissy sounds.

Oh god.

“I…” You sigh. “...Alright, I’ll… Okay. Let me just…” You slip your hands behind his jaw, cupping the back of his neck, using your thumbs to brace him from tipping forward. “Oh, god, okay, I don’t want to drop–your head is really heavy,” you grunt, surprised by the density of it.

“Thirteen pounds, baby,” he confirms proudly.

“I was sure all the hot air would lessen the load,” you say, hefting him up to your eye level.

“Veeery funny,” he drawls. “Kissy time.”

After one last beat of hesitation, you lean in, bringing him close as you do. Closing your eyes, kissing him feels like it always does. His lips are as hungry for yours as ever, coaxing them into a dance. If not for the weight of all thirteen pounds of his head in your hands, you might forget anything was different at all.

Distracted, you don’t notice the bed dip behind you until you feel Homelander’s gloved hands on you, pulling your back to his chest, startling you. “God,” you gasp as you look back, a shiver running up your spine at the image of his headless torso poised behind you. “That is so fucking scary,” you say, returning your gaze to his head in your hands.

“Relax, babe,” he purrs, licking his lips. “You got your trick. It’s only fair you get a treat now.”

“What do you–oh!” You startle at the press of his fingers between your thighs, grip tightening on his skull. “You seriously want to–to fool around like this?” You ask, unable to do anything but fall back against his chest while his fingertips stroke your clit, his other hand sliding up your side, cupping your breast.

“Do I seriously want to eat your pretty pussy while I fuck you? Uh, yeah. I do,” he says, which admittedly lights a spark right at your core. “C’mon, sweetheart. Like this,” he says, taking his hand from your chest to grab a handful of his own hair, pushing your hold on him down, bringing his head between your legs. He nudges your knees further apart with his own, and brings himself close enough to drag his tongue over your clit, glancing up to watch you shiver, the glint in his eyes downright wicked.

“This is so weird,” you say, but it fades off into a moan as his tongue swirls. He only stops so that he can suck his own fingers into his mouth, thoroughly wetting them before he returns to licking your clit while his spit-slick fingers stroke your cunt, rubbing back and forth a moment before slowly sliding in.

Your head falls back against his shoulder, hips jerking. “Oh, ffffuck…”

It’s almost like being in bed with two different people at once. Homelander is as voracious as ever, licking and sucking every drop that spills from you. You feel his tongue lap at where your pussy is stretched around his fingers before dragging back to your clit, lips closing on it while the pointed tip of his tongue swirls.

“That’s it,” he says between the drags of his tongue. “Taste so fuckin’ good, babe. Ready for me?” He asks, slipping his fingers free. You’re not left hanging for long, the wet head of his cock eagerly nudging your pussy. He moans at that first hot press, giving a playful little growl as he nuzzles against your cunt, sucking hungrily at your clit.

“Yeah, yes, yes, m’ready,” you pant, thighs shaking. His head is getting heavy, but his tongue feels too good to let go of, or even adjust. “Don’t stop, keep–keep doing that.” He eagerly complies, humming against you while the head of his cock splits you open in one slow delicious slide.

You’ve had his head between your legs, and you’ve had the fullness of him inside you, but never could you have imagined both at once. The sheer heat of him is overwhelming, and you shudder bodily against him. His arms move to either side of you, and he nudges your hands out of the way, taking his head from them and relieving you of the weight.

“Touch me,” he groans against you, bracing you firmly in place within the bracket of his arms. You do so readily, slipping one hand into his hair while your other falls to his thigh, gripping it tight. He snaps his hips harder, knocking a moan out of you as he picks up a rhythm, his tongue never once faltering. Your breaths grow pitchier the faster he moves, his arms giving you nowhere to squirm, no reprieve while he fucks and devours you to his hearts content.

All you can do is hold on.

“I-I’m gonna come,” you whine, struggling to get the words out with the way each crack of his hips knocks the breath from you, edging you closer and closer to your climax.

“Me too,” he murmurs, though you feel it more than you hear it. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Do it. Wanna taste it when you come on my cock.”

“Fuck, fuck, Homelander, Homelander!” You cry, your nails biting into the fabric of his suit, yanking hard on his hair as your body locks up. The orgasm that hits is torrential, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over you. Your thighs shake, and if not for Homelander’s arms braced on either side of you, holding you tight to his chest, you’d collapse.

All the while he sucks and licks you through it, fucking greedily into your quivering pussy, gasping hot and wet against your clit as he comes, too, fucking it into you as deep as he can while lapping up whatever spills on his tongue.

You sink back against him, loose-limbed and shuddering. Every pass of his tongue earns a jerky little thrust from you, the wet slide of it creating a burst of little aftershocks of pleasure.

Eventually, overstimulation begins to edge out your enjoyment. “Okay,” you rasp, giving his hair a gentle tug at the same time you pat his thigh. “Okay, good, good boy, that was… Fuck.”

Homelander pulls off of your clit with a pop, humming a pleased little purr. You completely collapse against him as he lifts his arms from you–lifting them over your head like the bars on a rollercoaster–and takes his head with him as he does. You hear a shuffle of fabric, and then an odd kind of crunch not unlike the one you heard when he first popped it off.

“Mmmmm…” He sighs, wrapping his arms around you, nuzzling at your neck. As he tenderly kisses up your neck, it's good to feel his lips where you expect them to be relative to his body again. “God, I’ve been thinkin’ about that for awhile,” he says, nipping playfully at your ear.

“I can confidently say that I had never once considered that,” you say, your words half slurred. You barely feel like your own head is attached after how hard you came.

He laughs, the heat of his breath on your ear giving you goosebumps. “Think you’d do it again?” He asks, voice pitched low and wicked, but you can hear the slight edge to his voice. You’ve been with him long enough to know that he wants to know that you liked it. That you like him.

You turn to look at him over your shoulder, and you can’t help but smile. You kiss him, licking the shared taste of you both from his lips. He squeezes a little moan out of you, hugging you like he’ll never let you go.

“Yeah,” you say softly, toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. Part of you is surprised you don’t feel some kind of seam. “In a heartbeat.”

#homelander x reader #homelander x you #teratophillia #monster romance #monsterlander mania #my writing #smut #ok i had a lot of fun with this one fghjkl #threw in some folklore for shits and giggles #anyways enjoy!!!#not proofread bc my adhd would rather kill me

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myloish · 6 months

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the zombie matt comic feat frank (cw gore cw gore CW GORE) has devoured my evening. i'm so mad i didn't read it before tonight because a halloween fic of the missing scene where frank actually plants the bombs would have been so. would have been soooo...

like, do you think frank hauled him out of the pit? or maybe he lowered himself in, boots snapping humerus and femur bones that groaned beneath his weight.

do you think he had to pin matt down? matt's handlers shuffle him around on a dog pole but matt- what's left of him -had seemed agreeable to frank's plan. maybe matt seems willing. maybe frank secures him down anyway.

i think frank chats while he gets to work. he talks to fill the space, to smother the throaty groans and hisses that split between the dead man's teeth.

he's probably not too neat when he gets down to the work of it. slits him down the middle with his KA-BAR from the throat to the belly, ignores matt's jerking movements and snapping teeth. tells him to hush. bemoans that even now he has to get a word in. smiles as he says it.

no blood rises up beneath the blade as he works, the skin pallid and white and cold to the touch. somehow even now his body is lean and muscled, still well-trained to fight. beneath the skin, rotted muscle and fat and ropes of intestines hold up in a facsimile of themselves, and something in frank's brain shifts. guts and bones and old, black blood- this ain't matt. not anymore.

he's faster after that, sloppy. grabs one explosive and shoves it in after another, ignores the creature's snarls and groans that punctuate his movements until the bag is empty.

it's not the first time he's ever patched up the skin beneath the daredevil suit, but it's certainly the most careless. he shoves the needle in, through skin and fabric alike, looping the thread upwards in fast, jerking movements. he wants to be done with this, wants to be out of here, away from him.

he sews and sews, from the bottom of matt's belly up to the top of his throat. he pulls the stitches tight, leans back to appreciate his handiwork. it's ugly and possibly obvious, the explosives jutting out at odd angles, the stitches messy and uneven. still, can't say he looks any worse than he already did.

frank frees matt from the restraints, then moves to haul his ass out of the pit. he's in the process of doing so when matt- when the zombie-- when frank's wrist gets grabbed. frank jerks away instinctively, hand reaching towards the pistol tucked into the waistband of his pants, but he's the only one moving.

matt's just standing there, unmoving, something like staring. is it a thank you? one final admonishment for the road? hard to tell.

and i don't know if frank chances a kiss on the back of matt's glove before he pulls away and keeps moving. but i'd like to think he does.

#mattfrank #fratt #daredevil #hampy holloween ?#long post /

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slaughterdxx · 1 month

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Sour Switchblade

Song by Elita

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ reader x s. slaughter ˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Summary: reader is travelling alone down I-40, eyeing the barefoot woman hitchhiking down the road just up ahead. she takes it upon herself to stop by the side of road and let the woman enter her car. the further the drive, the more reader begins to suspect that sissy is not the innocent, poor hitch hiking woman she pretends to be.

Contains: dark themes, gore, murder, violence

@zmbiedoll

—-

The blaring heat was enough to make you feel light headed, and your ac only being able to blow out so much cool air was just as frustrating. Wiping the bead of sweat off your forehead, you blow a raspberry and lay your head back on the headrest of your seat. The road down I-40 seemed to go on forever, all the same, nothing new to look at.

“The terror of I-40 strikes again, as more details flood in regarding a truck driver found dead-”

You turn the radio off instantly, not wanting to hear anymore about the murders that this serial killer has committed. This person has been on the run since 71’, and it’s about to be year 73’ soon. It made your stomach turn just thinking about it. When you think of “The Terror Of I-40”, you imagine some creepy, odd, crazed looking man; which is someone you’d never stop to pick up on the side of the road. You wonder how they haven’t caught this psycho yet.

In all honestly, you felt something gut wrenching driving down Interstate-40 since the murders, and liked to avoid it at all costs. However, it was the only way to your parent’s house from California. You were coming home for the holidays and needed a break from the big city. Changing the radio station, you turn up the volume and try to pay attention to the music that plays softly through your cars speakers; “Ain’t No Sunshine”. You adjust your legs to prevent them from feeling tingly, and press a little harder on the gas. You wanted to get to your parents as fast as possible.

About a half hour into your drive, you see something unusual on the side of road. Squinting your eyes to attempt to get a better look, you could faintly make out a woman walking down the side of highway.

“What the…” you mouth quietly the closer you get. From where you are now, you slow down just a tad to get a better look. The woman is barefoot and seemingly talking to herself, or singing? You’re not too sure. She’s wearing a plain light blue dress that cinches at her waist, but it looks a little worn out, and her light coloured hair is pulled back into a neat bun. That ain’t safe…and she has no shoes, that poor girl, you think to yourself. You’re not one for hitchhikers, but this is a woman alone on the highway with little to nothing on her. Not to mention the serial killer that targets people on this highway. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you left someone like her alone like this.

Eventually, you reach her and come to a stop just up ahead from her on the side of the road. You unlock your doors and watch her come up to your vehicle from the rear view mirror. Your eyes follow her cautiously. The sound of your passenger door opening causes you turn your head to her. She’s a pretty girl, you take clear notice of that.

“Hi” you greet as she closes the passenger door and buckles up her seat belt. She immediately turns her head to you with a friendly smile.

“Hello” she greets back, “Thank you for stoppin. I was beginnin to feel a little hopeless out there” she giggles, getting comfortable in her seat. Her southern accent is thick. You force a small laugh out yourself.

“Yeah, it’s pretty hot out today” you comment, “I’m [name]. What’s your name?”

“Nice to meet ya, sugar” she says, “The names sissy”

Sissy, huh? That’s a new one, you think to yourself. “Where you headin?” You ask.

“Home” she casually says before looking out the window in a daze. Sissy’s been gone for a long time, showing others the lords way, spreading the light to those who are need of salvation, leaving carnage and bloodshed everywhere she goes.

“Oh yeah? Im heading home myself actually” you reply, attempting to make small talk and get to know her a little better, “I moved to the city, but I’m on my way to my parents for the holidays. Where’s home for you?”

“Aw, ain’t that just sweet. I bet yer parents are missing ya tons” she says calmly, “For me, home is in Newt, Texas”

“That’s pretty far” you comment, surprised by her answer, “What’re you doing all the way over here?”

“Oh ya know” she waves her hand dismissively, “Was lookin for something more than just what my family had to offer”

“Did ya find what you were looking for?” You ask. You knew many people who left their home and folks to go to school and start their own life, so this wasn’t too much of a surprise to you. However, what sissy found is something you would have ever expected. Sissy can’t help her growing smile at your question.

“Oh, did I…” she trails off, “I found the light”

You furrow your brows at her odd response. Light? What on earth was she taking about?, you wondered. You scrambled to find words to put together, unsure how to respond to that.

“Oh! The light. That’s cool…did, uh” you trail off, “How did you find the…light?”

Your lack of knowledge and response makes sissy wonder if you even know of the lords light. Sissy eyes you carefully, trying to figure you out before she notices the dress you have on; a short, dark green dress with a floral pattern from the collar and down the middle, along with a couple pockets.

“That’s a pretty dress you have on, sunshine” sissy compliments.

“Oh” you mumble before clearing your throat, “Thank you. Your dress is pretty too”

“This old thing?” She laughs, “Oh, please. But thank you for yer kind words, sweetie” she beams. You mutter a small “Your welcome”, and the two of you go silent. You keep your eyes ahead, trying to avoid sissy’s intense stare. You aren’t aware of why she’s staring at you, aside from the fact she’s a bit of an odd one. Sissy on the other hand, finds you need help. You’re in need of saving, she could tell, she always could with the others.

The silence alone was so intense for you, apart from her stare. You weren’t sure if you did something wrong to offend her, or if she was just debating on showing her true intentions now. All these thoughts were roaming in your head, all those warnings from your parents about stranger danger. Sissy seemed so helpless and welcoming, and now she seems like she’s about to do something terrible to you; a wolf in sheep’s clothing. You tried your best to ignore her gaze, focus on the road, pretend nothing’s wrong. Maybe she’ll stop and then you can drop her off at the next gas station. You clear your throat.

“There’s a gas station a few miles up and there’s a turn there I gotta take to get to my folks. So, I’ll let you off there if that’s okay” you shift in your seat as you finally feel her gaze turn away from you. Sissy, now staring out the window, completely ignores what you had just said. More uncomfortable silence.

You can’t help the growing feeling of uncertainty and uneasiness in your stomach. Something was very off with this woman, you knew that now. You didn’t want to upset her, but you also wanted her out of your car and away from you as far as possible. What if she was mentally unstable and tried attacking you? Or robbing you? You press on the gas pedal a little harder, picking up speed. You wanted to get to this gas station as fast as possible. The heat didn’t seem to bother you anymore, the ac seemed non existent, the music playing throughout the speakers sounded so distant, the road seemed never ending.

Your ears twitched at the sudden singing coming from sissy, causing you to grip the steering wheel a little harder. Her voice was calm, angelic, and almost luring in a haunting way. It freaked you the hell out.

“The truth in words you've never heard. What do they fear and see in me? Inside themselves, I know you see…Oh love, my love, look at your love” her soothing tone was almost like a lullaby, but it felt…wrong? Off? Crazy? It sent a chill down your spine. Sissy’s whole demeanour did a whole three sixty in less than a minute.

“Oh love, my love, look at your love”

You were at a loss for words. What could you say? She ignored what you said before and now she’s singing. As awkward and uncomfortable as you felt, you were also scared. What type of person did you allow in your car?

Sissy’s soft singing and humming continues, leaving you still and gripping onto the steering wheel like your life depended on it. All you could really do was drive now and hope the gas station would be in view soon. Your eyes flickered to the side mirror every few seconds, checking for any approaching vehicles. Not that they would be much help, but knowing you weren’t completely and utterly alone with Sissy made you feel somewhat at ease. Or at least you tried to convince yourself that.

You tried to remain as calm as you could, but your body language was noticeably as ever. Your furrowed brows, the bead of sweat on your forehead, your knuckles turning white from the grip you had on the steering wheel, your stiffened posture, and slightly inching away from sissy as much as possible. You weren’t fooling her, and she knew it. You know there’s something wrong with her and she knows you need saving.

She can help with that; sissy was a saviour after all.

The familiar sign indicating that the gas station was close finally bypassed, and you couldn’t contain the instant relief you felt. Sissy would be gone soon and you’d be home safe and sound in just a few hours. You’d tell your parents about the crazy hitchhiker you picked up on the way home and your mother would scold you while your father shook his head at how gullible you could be.

Sissy’s humming came to an end when the gas station was finally in view just up ahead. You quietly blow out a sigh of relief, slowing your speed down a tad now that you feel somewhat comfortable again. You could let your guard down somewhat now. You force a smile, about to tell her that this is where you two part ways. You turn your head to sissy just as she pulled out her switch blade.

Before you can even comprehend what she’s doing, the sharp end of the blade is pressed right against your jugular. Wide, teary eyed and tensed up, you look at her with complete terror.

“Keep drivin and eyes on the road” Sissy’s stern voice cuts through the tense air. Your head seems to move on its own, towards the road in front of you. Sissy moves her blade just enough to allow you to look forward. You blink quickly, fresh, hot tears streaming down your cheeks. The gas station you were supposed to let her off gets further and further away in the rear view mirror. The turn you were supposed to take to your parents was far behind you now. The highway down I-40 continued to stretch on.

“Please, don’t hurt me” you whimpered, the reality of your situation sinking in. Your quivering lip, continuous tears, and mascara stained cheeks left sissy satisfied in a sickening manner. You were going to be saved, sissy wanted that. However, the thrill of your blood on her was a guilty pleasure she couldn’t control. It didn’t feel wrong to her, and the lord understood her surely, therefore it was like a reward.

“Pull over and shut off the car” Sissy continued her stern tone with you, “Try anything and I’ll put an end to you real quick” she warns. You obeyed without any resistance, fearing for your wellbeing and life. With shaky hands and numb legs, you slowed the car as you glided towards the side of the highway, preparing to come to a halt. Sissy took it upon herself to shut the car off herself, keeping your car keys close to her side.

“Good girl” she praised with a smile, “Very good”

“Please, let me go” you sobbed, “Please”

“Oh, sugar. You don’t have to be afraid” Sissy coos, “I’m here to save you. Just trust me”

Sissy looks away for a moment, searching for something in the small packets of her dress. For what, you weren’t too sure but it gave you enough time to open your door and attempt to stumble out. Sissy, however, was quicker and took no time to immediately start slashing at you. You stuck your arms out to protect your face and neck. You screamed and cried as her crazed giggles filled your pounding ears. Each slice stung worse than the previous cut. It felt like small flames were dancing around your forearms with each gash sissy took at you.

A sudden rush of adrenaline was enough for you to find a opening to take a swing at her face, momentarily stunning her. Sissy holds her face, letting out a noise of discomfort as she examines the blood on her pale hand; a mixture of yours and her bleeding nose. You push yourself backwards and fall out of the car, scrambling to your feet and taking off down the highway.

“Help me! Somebody! Please!” You cry out, despite nobody around. The only sight of any of person are the few cars passing along on the other side of the road, who take no notice of your pleads for help. Your arms and hands were stinging, dripping blood droplets down to your fingertips. Sissy grips her switchblade in her hand tightly, opening the passenger door to your car and stepping out.

“No! This ain’t the way, sunshine!” Sissy calls out to you, quickly catching up to you. She grabs a fistful of your hair, dragging you back to the car. You desperately claw at her wrists and arms, digging your nails deep into her pale skin. Despite the hot weather, sissy’s hands were so cold.

“Let me go!” You scream, trying to pry her hands off you. Sissy, now getting irritated, pushes you harshly against the passenger door of your car, away from the sights of anyone who may drive by.

“I wouldn’t try that” she warns, breathing heavily, “Now, quit your squirmin!”

You can’t die, not like this. You weren’t going down without a fight. With another blow to sissy’s face using the back of your head, it causes her stumble back and let go of you. You take no time to quickly spin on your heel and face her, ready to attack. You lunge at her, trying to knock her on the ground and get her weapon away from her. Sissy immediately fights back and you begin to grapple her.

“Don’t fight me! Do not fight me!” Sissy yells at you, enraged by your actions. You were making this harder than it needed to be. Why couldn’t you see she was trying to save you? That she was trying to show you the way? Luckily, Sissy had just the thing to help you see the light.

You had a firm hold on the hand that sissy was using to hold the switch blade, but she had just as tight as a grip on the hand you were trying to use to take it on her. You struggled hard against her, trying to win the close encounter you were having with her.

“Get the hell off me, you psycho!” you demanded in between breathes. If you could knock her down, it would surely give you enough time to get in your car and lock the doors. Sissy brings her hand to her pocket in a quick motion, leaving an opening for you to attack at her face again. However, sissy immediately brings her closed hand to her mouth and blows a strange, green powder into your face. Your eyes burn and water, and your skin immediately feels hot and irritated. You quickly bring your hands to your face to cover yourself from the powder, leaving you defenceless.

Sissy erupts into crazed giggles as she takes large slashes to your chest. Unsure what to do, you stand there taking each slice. Your painful screams are music to her ears. With a deep gash to your upper leg, you buckle to the ground on one knee. Sissy takes a long, deep cut up your torso, your body jolting upward in the process. You’re in pure shock.

Sissy grabs ahold of your face with both hands, cold to the touch. Your vision is blurry and disorienting, the poison and blood loss taking full effect. Her slowed giggles and laughter sounded demonic and deeper than they should. You pathetically grip onto her arms, trying to find some sort of comfort and support. Sissy hums in satisfaction as she examines your face, the sight of your foggy eyes seeing the lords light. You’re seeing it, the light, the warmth of death welcoming you; she saved you. Easily kicking you off her, you fall backwards harshly onto the ground. Your breathes are slow and rattly. Time and mercy are out of your reach.

“This could have been so much easier for you sunshine” Sissy smiles down at you, panting slightly before spreading her arms and tilting her head back. She felt accomplished, proud, and overall in pure ecstasy. The feeling of your blood all over her was the reward she waited for, the guilty pleasure of hers. Nothing could ever compare to the aftermath of freeing a soul.

Taking a step back, she comes down from her high, and looks at your corpse. Your dress is ruined, ripped and bloodstained. However, how could sissy let such a pretty dress go to waste? The one she was currently wearing was worn out and growing out of style. With a couple sewing here and there, and a good wash, your dress would be good as new. You wouldn’t be needing it anymore anyways, and it’s the least you could do since Sissy helped show you the way.

You were supposed to be home hours ago, leaving your mother growing with worry and your father continuously calling the authorities, demanding to search for you. The strange roadkill that many have passed finally gets discovered as human, completely mutilated and left for dead. The authorities are left with no traces aside from your vehicle left abandoned miles from where your body is. The news coverage will say you were just another victim of the terror of I-40, but in reality, you were so much more than that.

You were granted the opportunity of freedom from this forsaken world and given eternal light; you were saved.

—-

The familiar scenery left sissy at peace, from the endless fields of wildflowers to the soft ground under her bare feet. The closer she got to home, the more excited she became to share the light with her family. Approaching the family house front door, sissy knocks and awaits for her relatives to open up. Nubbins, unaware of sissy’s arrival, opens the door without another thought despite Drayton’s yelling not too. Upon seeing Sissy, he immediately announces her return to the entire household.

“Ooo, where’d you get that pretty dress from?” Nubbins asks, over analyzing the pretty floral designs on the dress before gasping, “ya take it from that girl over in California?”, his words jumbled and stuttered. Sissy merely smiled at him.

#sissy slaughter #sissy tcm #texas chainsaw game #tcm x reader #texas chainsaw massacre #sissy sawyer #sissy slaughter x reader

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eesirachs · 10 months

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Why did jesus have to die like that? It’s so brutal to die by cruxifixction.. Imagine being there .. it’s traumatic and the gore is too much. Was it fate? He was going to die like that? A Lament? If they felt this i have to feel it too as their creator?

god wanted to know what dying felt like. he had spent centuries hurtling prophetic bodies towards their own death, sitting vigil for his own clay-creations, and grieving, then grieving some more. but i think there is one event that made his eventual death an inevitable acting-out: the death of saul. saul was his first king, beloved, chosen, new. but then so quickly dis-eased, unwell, undone. saul killed himself: the first person god had ever appointed to kill himself. saul took his own sword to his guts. the next king, david, began the lineage towards jesus. as if god, then and there, made up his mind about something.

in the first century, non-romans were crucified. romans were executed by the sword. god wanted to die, because of course he had to know, he had to be like-us, he had to let his flesh endure, auto-violate, succumb. so god auto-incarnated and walked slowly towards his death. but god refused to die like saul did. god avoided the sword with intention—so much so that he em-bodies as a non-roman, opting to hang instead of have his body severed by steel.

god's death is a probe of curiosity, a pang of guilt, and an aversion to a specific kind of weapon. it is not neat or tidy. you are right: there is lament here. and such gore. but saul endured it, so he would too

#ask #i dont talk about hamartiology so if you notice that missing from this ask dont say anything lol

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shywhumpauthor · 1 year

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"decorate" the "tree"? For your Christmas whump. Maybe tied up with lights? Sometimes I put ornaments in my ears as "earrings" (lol) so maybe you could do something with that?

Oh this is fun. Happy holidays, everyone! Merry Christmas to those who celebrate!

Cw: kinda gore, noncon body mod, improv piercings, torture, restraints, failed escape attempt, blood, captivity

Tears streamed down Whumpee’s cheeks, little salty rivers cutting clean paths through the layers of dirt and blood built against their skin. Their lips moved, apologies and pleads tumbling freely between sobs until the point where they were gasping for breath between muddled words.

“Ple- please Whumper- please I- I’m sorry I didn’t- I didn’t mean to I’m sorry I- I won’t do it again please-”

“Oh, I’m sure you won’t, Whumpee,” Their captor spoke, their voice calm and steady, contrast to the panicked cries that filled the quiet of the living room. “I’ll be honest, I’m glad you did this. It’s been a while since I’ve had a reason to properly punish you.”

Whumpee recoiled as Whumper’s gaze snapped to them, shrinking back into the corner which they had been so carelessly tossed after being dragged back inside. Their entire body ached, throbbed with a thousand new bruises, head pounding with the echoing force of how Whumper’s fist had slammed into their jaw not ten minutes ago. They didn’t focus much on that, all the pain faded to the background, buried under a thick blanket of fear that had cocooned around their body, wrapped so tightly around their chest it restricted their breath and doubled their panic.

“Please, I- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Whumpee’s voice cracked, overtaken by another rough sob that tore from their lips, scraping against their throat as they curled in on themself.

“Oh, you didn’t mean to?” Whumper’s voice raised slightly, but their expression twitched with amusement. “So you mean to tell me that all that was an accident?”

Whumpee shuddered, their hands curling into fists as they tried to stop them from shaking. Their throat seemed to swell closed, lips parted once more but nothing came out. Their gut twisted with nausea, eyes welling with fresh tears as Whumper turned their back to them once more.

Whumpee could likely count the number of times they had been to the living room on one hand. Whumper preferred to keep them elsewhere, in the basement or in one of the upstairs rooms. They didn’t like the thought that Whumpee would “dirty” up their good spaces, that just by touching the couch or the carpet the whole room would be contaminated with their filth or whatever. They never really talked to Whumpee about it, all they knew was they weren’t allowed in there. Not the living room, kitchen, or office without Whumper’s express permission and supervision. They didn’t have much of a problem with that, they hated the living room anyways. It was too neat, like something one would expect to see in a reality tv show, or one of those secret lives of celebrities magazines. Minimalistic style, cool colors, everything seemed to be perfectly in place. The only thing different from the last time Whumpee had been there, god, that must have been weeks ago, was the white tree that was set up decoratively in the corner, hanging with silver tinsel and a few scattered ornaments. It was clear Whumper had been in the process of decorating it, the few boxes placed out on the coffee table giving that away. The coffee table Whumper stood over now, sifting through the decorations with a careful intent.

It wasn’t an accident. Whumpee knew, lying about it would only make things worse. Whumper had been busy, they had left the window unlocked. They had left the window unlocked, and Whumpee had seen their chance, and they had taken it. And now they were screwed.

“I.. I’m sorry,” Whumpee whispered, flexing their wrists against the makeshift restraints they had been bound in. A string of lights, Whumpee was sure they were meant to go on the tree, wrapped tightly around their forearms. Ensnaring their torso, the tiny bulbs and wires digging into their skin. Tight, surprisingly sturdy for their making, Whumpee couldn’t manage to slip their hands free.

“Oh, I’m sure you are.” Whumper’s voice dropped slightly as they turned around, a cruel smirk curling across their lips. Whumpee’s heart seemed to skip a beat as they saw what they held. “At least, I know you will be.”

————————

By the time Whumper was finished, their white carpet was stained with dark droplets of red. Typically, such a mess would have driven them mad, but this they found oddly soothing. Decorative, almost.

Ornaments hung from Whumpee’s trembling frame, the hooks piercing through just about every area Whumper could manage to get them through. Their ears, lips, the space between their fingers, the dripping blood creating a stark contrast against the silvery blue decor. For those Whumper couldn’t manage to fully loop the hooks through, they had settled for using the small wires to simply pierce their skin, twisting the end and jamming it deeper into Whumpee’s muscle to allow the ornaments to hang properly. Their eyes by now were glazed, clouded with the pain and fear all built up to a paralyzing mass.

“I should have done this sooner,” Whumper muttered, talking more to themself than to Whumpee. With the way the lights were tied around their limbs, Whumper wouldn’t have been able to plug them in without having to adjust them, but the thought alone was enough to satisfy them. “I must say, you make a beautiful tree.”

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criminal-sen · 7 months

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Didn't put this on the art (gore tw!!!) itself but I have such strong hcs about Mayuri and like.. how he might perceive gore and innards. Yes yes there's a whole sex thing to this that if you read my fic, you already know, but I mean more in the sense of like. Have you ever hung out with someone in the medical field? My friend is a registered nurse and seeing wounds and gore and stuff is just in a day's work for them. They are desensitized to it and I don't mean that in a bad way, just. Like anything, you get used to being around it. I can only imagine what it's like hanging out with surgeons.. idk.. it's probably really interesting. So my whole point is that Mayuri is obviously super used to digging around in people's guts. Including his own, as we can deduce from all his surgery scars and modifications. And I just wonder.. if you got to know him really well, would he want to show you all the cool work he'd done on himself? Would it be no different to him than maybe showing someone an art you're really proud of?

Tldr: if you're Mayuri’s bestie, he's probably gonna dig out his heart and show it to you at some point and I just think that's really neat<3

#mayuri kurotsuchi

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thetalltaleteller · 11 months

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People be already posting their propaganda for their gremlins and critters so I may as well join in. (Though I don’t have much art of him. Yet.) (also tw blood/gore)

This is for the @small-artist-oc-showdown

Mr.Hound, during the day when normal guests are there, is all cleaned up and neat looking. But he’s actually a fucking mess. His office is full of bottles, empty and half eaten pie tins, fur, paperwork stacked up high in various places, and an old couch with Mystery Stains and claw marks.

Bones, one of his workers, had seen the mess his boss is in half the time and was just like “Bro you live like this?” And then encouraged Red, another trusted employee and leader of all the foxes in the circus, to help Mr.Hound clean up and take care of him.

Bro is practically immortal yet he barely takes care of himself beyond like surface level hygiene.

I say practically because Mr.Hound’s species are kinda like lobsters. They can live for a very long time if they aren’t killed by predators, illness, or being unable to molt. In the case of spirit beasts, they can keep on living if they aren’t killed by illness, another of their own kind, or a gold dagger to the heart.

Speaking of near immortality, Mr.Hound looks as if he’s in his late twenties or early to mid thirties, but guess what! This bastard is 80! He was born in the early 40s! His favorite movie is Chicago.

Also just a random fact, his flesh is blue. Like same shade as his tongue. All his guts are just blue, but he still has red blood. Almost makes his skin look purple under his fur.

He secretly likes ear scratches AND HE WILL PURR. Only Bones and Red know this.

Oh by the way, there’s one more thing. Mr.Hound is a huge masochist.

(I know this drawing is a repeat but shhhhhhh)

#oc #oc au #banehound oc #creepy circus au #Mr Hound #oc showdown

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smiggles · 1 year

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I enjoy your art! (even though im not realy into gore etc) however I am confused a bit about how such enjoyment of blood nad guts in sensual way came to you, as I think I only understand part-way, through my experiences..

Ive loved gore and anatomy (in a natural history/science/biology way) my entire life and despite how sensual the gore art I produce is Im SUPER super asexual haha. I dont feel a thing other than getting really flustered and light headed about gore. I guess as came to (late) sensual maturity It became less fascination and more romanticizing gore /violence =w=a;

the science of it all...im not sure. i just think its neat

#and intimate #smigglesask

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sodorsteam · 1 year

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Doctor's Orders

SOOOOO i wrote a little standalone Rook story U uU

as per usual, it is set in TTTE Sodor, but is mostly my own goofery.

WARNING! there is: Alcohol use, illness and a brief blood draw scene, so please be aware - if that shit freaks you out you might wanna skip this one!!

ANYWAY - i love to write! it's kinda one of my unused 'muscles' so if you like it, please let me know <3 and if you think there's things i can fix, let me know that too! <3

1 No One Knows

The Island of Sodor. No other place on earth is quite like it. Digging its heels against the steady pull of progress, it has stood against the monster of Modernization quixotically, a knight errant wreathed in steam. Predictably, the island has secrets. And one of those secrets was returning to his shed, red faced and wheezing, after a particularly grueling day as one of the Living Locomotives on the NWR.

#141 Rook Drummond may not have been the busiest engine, but nonetheless he bore his labors with glowing pride. As the NWR’s sole M7, Sodor University’s shunter at Pottersfield, and shepherd for The Ferryman (Sodor’s funeral train), Rook was careful, attentive and hard working, like any other engine. And like many of his fleet mates, he was known to drive himself rather ruthlessly as far as his work ethic was concerned. Usually, he had routine maintenance at the steamworks, and his student drivers were instructed in tasks to extend the longevity of his replaceable parts, and maintain the bits that were meant for the long haul.

Of course, none of this applied to that particular situation that made Rook so…Rook.

As he returned home slowly, he could tell that it was going to be an unpleasant evening for him. His boiler ached in that squirmy, uncomfortable way that he couldn’t articulate to anyone. Not that he would have; calling attention to his various complaints was terribly rude - the most grievous of faux pas. But in this case, he knew his affliction was one that could not be solved with a trip to the works, because of course most engines didn’t also have boilers that could be full of organs and blood occasionally.

Rolling into his berth at Pottersfield, he patiently waited for his crew to dump his fire and bed him down for the night, bidding them a pleasant evening as they filtered out casually, their dirty coveralls stuffed into plastic bags. Only when hours had passed and darkness fully settled over the bog did Rook finally shake and gibber, his eyes losing focus and face going slack as his whole engine frame seemed to bulge and distort, billows of flesh and gore exploding outwards to reform into the neat shape of an indeterminate beast, pleasantly plump and fluffy, standing on tiny compact hind paws and thick scaled forelimbs. He staggered for a moment and sat down hard as his boiler…No. My guts! gave an upset gurgle. He winced and rubbed a paw on the curved surface of his belly. “Gracious, this doesn’t seem quite normal.” he muttered.

He had tried his best to ignore it. Of course, a Very Useful Engine did not complain about a few boiler aches. Even if those aches felt like he’d swallowed a bucketful of hot lead slugs. But over the weeks, the slugs had been increasing in size and the bucketfuls had been coming more frequently. It made him feel bloated and nauseated, and sometimes, only sometimes, he’d actually felt querulous enough to neglect using honorifics when addressing his crew. Scandal!

He could not go to the hospital. He knew that. A voice, soft and sibilant, just below the surface of his consciousness, warned him that if he went to a hospital there was a very good chance he would not come back. And he had far too much work to do to be pickled and put into jars, which is what that voice also implied in its slippery, whispery way.

But it seemed that the grace period on ignoring the issue had run out. He would have to break down and seek medical attention, or simply break down. He slowly got to his feet and slumped to a cluttered desk shoved near the wall of his shed, where the students stashed various bric a brac for their weekly work at the archaeological site deep in the bog. He opened the first drawer, which squeaked open reluctantly, it was so jammed with rumpled papers. He removed a thick sheaf of paper and peered down his nose at them, through his little round glasses.

His paws trembled as he rifled through the stack. Pizza delivery, bakery services (Novelty shaped cakes our specialty!) dry cleaners. A drop of sweat rolled down his long nose and dotted...Ah.

‘ANTON KOZLOV, DVM. Services for agrarian and domestic animals.’

Rook tilted his head to the side as he reread the information out loud. He wasn’t sure if this applied to ‘industrial animals’ as well, but he stifled a moan and a greasy belch into his paw, and realized he probably had no choice in the matter.

It was pickle jars or this.

Rook neatly replaced the papers, straightend his back with a litany of pops, and gathered his pocket book and overcoat.

***

2 SCOTCH

Anton Kozlov’s family had come to Sodor by train generations ago. And even if they were not Sudrian forged they had taken to the life there as if they had been, and his whole family had flourished. Kozlov had as well, but he had secrets too.

Perhaps they were not as secret as he thought though, as his clients had been dwindling slowly since Masha had left him. It was true that there were many veterinarians on Sodor, given that the island fully embraced its agrarian lifestyle, but there was more than enough work. But Masha had left him. And he hadn’t thought much of the work was worth doing. Sudrian scotch though, now that had been worth doing. Again and again. As soon as he stepped inside his home and locked the door behind him, he felt the weight of the bottle in his hand before he even set his house keys on the hook. By day he was a respected member of the community; tall, broad chested and strong of limb, dark hair going gray at the temples, with deep set, intelligent eyes. By night he was just the man Masha had left because he liked that aforementioned scotch too much.

Kozlov had returned home at about the same time as Rook, but he was now half a bottle deep and sitting in the dark of his comfortable renovated farmhouse on Trevithick Row, wearing his silk undershirt and scrubs. The television was on, trying to pierce the haze of his intoxication, telling him all about the state of the world. He was looking at his expensive orthopedic shoes, with their gel inserts and arch support, and wondering if the spots on the toe were blood, mud or shit. He frowned. Sometimes he wondered if his life was the same. He’d been voted the best veterinarian on Sodor by the chamber of commerce for 15 years. That was achievement.

He picked up a chip from the white plastic take out tray (don’t worry- the chips had been accompanied by terribly overpriced but terribly delicious beer battered, organic ling cod from a trendy seafood shop in town. Not skint was the good doctor.) and swished it around in the cold curry sauce, eating it by rote.

That was nadir.

He was content to continue this spiral round the drain for the next few hours when he heard what he thought was a knock at the door. He looked up sharply. Certainly, malignancy lived in the shade of every city, but it seemed to have a harder time taking root in Sodor’s soils; and found even less sustenance in Wellsworth. But Kozlov’s closest neighbor was a mile and a half away. His ears strained. The knock came again. He stood. Somehow managing to shake off the double vision of self-medicated drowsiness, he grabbed the M1 Carbine that lived peacefully over his door, hoping that it was more awake than he was and would succeed where he failed at intimidation. He boomed out a loud ‘Who is it’, gripped the doorknob and let the night air and cricket symphony in.

He heard the soft howl of a steam whistle, far away, haunted and haunting.

Kozlov stared out into his neat front lawn, hanging from the doorjamb like a sailor hanging from the mast. He grunted, seeing nothing, and carefully turned himself to skulk back inside, cowed.

“D….Doctor Kozlov? Dee Vee Em?”

Kozlov’s watery eyes rolled downwards to catch sight of a small, phenomenally ugly child in a moth eaten suit. Except that children did not generally dress like 19th century undertakers. Nor did children have railroad spike noses, horsey ears, and a long swinging tail.

Kozlov just continued to stare, then realized that the not-child had asked him a question, and was politely waiting for a response.

“Ye.”

That was all the university educated man could muster. He dropped the bottle of scotch he’d been nursing and cursed eloquently, the resultant high pitched glass bomb of noise startled the man-creature, but it seemed to recombobulate itself just as easily. He (he!?!) nervously cleared his throat and spoke in a soft, deep little voice that Kozlov had to crane forward to hear.

“I apologize for the lateness, doctor. Your leaflet did say you were open after hours…”

The little thing held out a worn, foxed sheet of newspaper. Kozlov took it, eyes still pinned on the visitor. He forced his gaze to the object in his hand, and staring back at him from the yellowed page was an advertisement Kozlov himself had placed in the local Sudrian papers 23 years previously, when the economy had slowed to a crawl and he’d been making his scotch money by assisting difficult deliveries of calves and foals at all hours. He stared incredulously, reading the fine print that stated he was open to late night inquiries. Well, here it was late night, and here was an inquiry. He opened his mouth to complain, but the little man winced. He put a wee hand (paw!?!) to his belly, his strange pinched face crumpling.

The way Kozlov could see it, he had two options. He could go to bed. Which he probably should have done so hours ago. Or he could help.

A lifetime ago, Kozlov had been given his diploma and taken a vow that stated he “will strive to promote animal health and welfare and relieve animal suffering”. And to his credit, he had done so as much as possible when he was called on to do so. Even after Masha had left.

But did that oath apply to figments brought on by scotch fueled benders?

Here was this itty bitty man, elf sized at the highest (but perhaps not elf weight: the guy looked like he did not skip any little fairy meals) decked in clothes from the victorian age, looking like someone had mashed a dead kangaroo with a roadkill house cat and called it a day.

Am I actually going to administer aid to a hallucination?

“I can pay sir.” The little fellow whimpered.

Well. Can’t turn away a suffering hallucination, especially not one with a checkbook.

“C…come in” Almost as if in a dream, Kozlov held the door open wider, to allow the miniature undertaker inside.

Rook inclined his head gratefully, he shuffled into the first home he’d ever been inside. Neat, (thank you to Brigit the maid who came every Thursday) cozy, and well kept. Rook’s little bun feet pattered on the dark wood, his claws like those of an old family dog clicking on the floors, as he furtively looked around at the realm of the House Human; the comforts and conveniences, the accoutrement and ornament. He liked it. It was like a soft echo of the pride his Victorian makers had exhibited when they built the engines that had once powered the world; bright and glossy with brass and pin striping.

Kozlov followed him in, still in a state of lazy shock. He snapped on lights and stumbled into his office - clean, white and scrubbed down. He reminded himself that he was dreaming. Or hallucinating. But the hallucination staunchly refused to disappear. “this way,” he grunted, ushering Rook into the office.

Kozlov grabbed his stethoscope and the digital thermometer from his desk. As his vet techs were not on call in the evenings any longer, he prepared his instruments himself. He asked curt questions while he did so.

“Age?”

“126”

“Sex?”

“…blush male”

“Breed?”

“Drummond M7”

Kozlov wondered if it would be wise to risk his back trying to lift this Sudrian leprechaun onto the table. He split the difference by pulling over another small stool, indicating that Rook should take a seat, which he did.

“What seems to be the problem?” Kozlov asked.

Rook blinked. He’d just been asked more questions about himself than he’d ever answered and was still digesting the experience when the imposing doctor bludgeoned him again. What was the problem? How to articulate it?

As an engine, it was his boiler. As a beast? Deep in his body somewhere, below his heart. In this, the closest he could get to human, he could feel a fierce knot of pain in his chest that radiated angrily outwards, and it was aggressively making itself known currently. He knitted his worried brow.

“I feel ill, as though I might be sick. And I feel quite tired and uncomfortably full, and it hurts here, in my…erm…this.” He settled lamely, patting the upper part of his stomach.

Kozlov nodded, finding it peculiar that this drunken fiction had such a soft, calming voice. Almost like a lullaby. He nodded, stifling a yawn behind his hand.

“Right. shirt off.”

“M…Must I?”

The hallucination is shy? Naturally. Why not?

“‘Fraid so Mr. erm…”

“Rook. Rook Drummond”

“shirt off.”

While the fussy little thing shucked its multiple layers neatly, Kozlov looked at the thermometer…he slid the plastic sheaf over the sensor, but omitted the lube; he hoped he’d be lucky enough to forgo the usual method of employ and just ask.

Rook sat shyly, stripped to the skin from the waist up. He was alway keenly aware he hadn’t perfected his human shape. It seemed far too bulky, far too awkward. Furless, but fuzzy like a peach. And certainly this learned man of Medicine would know just how far off the mark he actually was.

Kozlov kneeled by him, noting the big, badly healed scar on Rook’s left side. The hallucination smelled like something familiar, and something else deep and vital, unpleasant. The smell made him queasy. He put the earpieces of his stethoscope in and placed the resonator on Rook’s chest. It was cold. Rook startled back just a little.

“Sir, do you think I shall be able to return to work so…”

Kozlov shushed him, putting a finger to Rook’s lips. He took the opportunity to put the thermometer in his mouth.

“Under the tongue. Don’t bite”

Kozlov frowned. He listened hard. He heard a heartbeat…but he also heard an uncomfortable liquid sliding and squelching. Like tectonic plates of flesh and mud.

He blinked. He moved the stethoscope down to this alcohol fueled horror’s belly, and here was a rhythmic cacophony. The phrase meat hell came unbidden into his mind.

He just listened, gorge rising, threatening to make a mess of this clean and tidy exam room. The beep of the thermometer brought him out of his terror-stricken musing, and he removed the probe.

Error.

Well, that did make sense. He’d felt the heat coming off this freakish vision even before he’d touched him. But here it was, with a Dante’s inferno in its head and an eldritch chorus in its guts, and still on its feet, reasonably coherent.

“You’re running a fever.”

“I’m a steam engine.”

Kozlov rubbed his tired eyes. He wondered what it would look like from the outside. A 50 year old man, a 50 year old alcoholic, talking to himself and trying to medically diagnose a gargoyle or demon or imp or gnome. Trying to keep his life together through the haze of drink that had lowered the visibility in his mind to nil.

But long ago, Masha had told him (ironically, when she too had been drunk on one of their sadly few anniversaries, the gin blossom on her face was the exact shade of pink he would dream about for the rest of his life) that she loved his compassion. That he always helped. And so he would help.

He looked at his patient, who was trying to be as small as possible, clutching his little rat paws, arms crossed over his chest, shy as a bathing maiden. This thing was a hallucination, but he still owed it a proper diagnosis. He had a very good hunch. Well. Good as any. “I need some blood”.

Rook’s eyes widened. He looked to his left and right comically, as if thinking surely he was not for whom the blood was for. Kozlov retrieved the phlebotomist kit from the closet. He would not have been able to admit that he was enjoying this somewhat, the rituals of medicine that he usually passed on to the techs, but he certainly was. Granted, he’d have never in a billion years attempted venipuncture while balls deep in the drink on a REAL patient, but why stop the farce now? He rubbed the crook of the goblin’s arm with an alcohol towlette, tied the elastic tourniquet, and readied the vacutainer.

He then realized the goblin was shaking. Quite badly. He looked up at Rook.

“Just stay still. Make a fist. You’ll feel a little prick and then pressure. Open your hand. Look at the painting on the wall over there. Do you…work around here?”

“On the NWR sir…as a sh…shunter.”

“Mmh, hard work.”

“Yes sir. Very hard…”

“Like it, do you?”

“Oh yes sir…I do. It’s not easy pulling such heavy loads, but the work at the bog is satisfying.”

Kozlov heard the tone of the hallucination change. Pride. Accomplishment. Satisfaction.

Then the samples were collected, the needle withdrawn, and Kozlov placed a neon pink bandage on the collection site. He stared at Rook long enough that the latter started to sweat.

“Get dressed.”

The doctor strode out, leaving Rook alone, confused and smarting.

The whole ordeal had been rather humiliating, and now it seemed this big doctor man was angry with him. He’d never fathomed that he could be so utterly put together wrong that he was offensive. He gritted his teeth, feeling hot shame prickling his cheeks, the ugly bubble of emotion starting to boil over in him…

Meanwhile, Kozlov checked the results.

H. Pylori. He pumped his fist. Just as he thought.

Kozlov stumbled to the bathroom. In a cabinet, behind bottles of pink bismuth and rolls of unopened antacids was a nearly full bottle of omeprazole and plastic blister packs of antibiotics. He swept the whole lot into a plastic bag.

He returned to the office as Rook was walking out, dressed neatly, unable to look Kozlov in the eye.

“Doctor, I’m terribly, terribly sorry for the inconvenience I have ca…”

Kozlov stopped him.

“Stomach ulcer. Easy to treat.”

He kneeled next to Rook carefully, feeling the alcohol vertigo threaten to dump him on his ass for a moment, and started lifting the strange new treats out of the bag and explaining them carefully.

“Take this every day, once a day. Take these morning and night until they are all gone. Don’t forget. Take a few of these ones every time you…eat? Or whatever you do. No coffee, tea, alcohol or soft drinks. Have a spoonful of this if you feel sick.”

“Give me your hand.”

He opened a roll of antacids and shook three out into Rook’s palm.

“Eat.”

Rook, responding best to unequivocal orders, ate the little fruit flavored tablets with no delay.

Kozlov watched him like a buzzard wheeling over a kill. Rook quailed under the scrutiny…the smell of alcohol on the doctor’s breath very strong, his stained under shirt very white. His intense eyes with their dull dagger glare.

I should have stayed home. I don’t belong anywhere. I don’t want to…oh. I…I feel…

“I feel better sir…”

Rook murmured softly. And indeed, he did. That horrible burning was abating, and with it the nausea and tightness. His shoulders slumped, relieved.

Kozlov stood.

“Keep up the meds. You’ll heal in a few weeks.”

For the first time that evening, the doctor smiled.

Kozlov watched his patient as he pobbled back into the night, going gods knew where.

As he stood on his front stoop, he looked at the shards of glass from the broken bottle of scotch. He’d only managed to drink half of it before he’d imagined up the most realistic troll he’d ever seen. He closed and locked the door and climbed the stairs to bed.

Masha once said she loved my compassion. Compassion I even had for a figment of my drunk mind.

He had a lot to think about. But he didn’t need to think about it tonight.

***

Rook was back at the bog, tucked into his nest. He had returned home, washed, and slipped into his pajamas feeling lighter and more at ease than he had in weeks. He looked at all his new acquisitions, the little plastic bottles of pills - the label said ‘KOZLOV, ANTON - OMEPRAZOLE - DR. BEHER. TAKE ONCE A DAY ’ Which he didn’t quite understand but would absolutely follow to the letter.

Doctor’s orders, after all.

He rolled on his side and closed his eyes. Somewhere out in the dark, he heard the howl of an engine, and felt, at least for now, that he was a part of something very large and powerful, something proud and brave. And that was a secret he enjoyed keeping.

***

#Rook Lore #rook 141 #rook the funeral engine #Doctor's Orders

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inun4ki · 6 months

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死/// Wishlist.!!

✾ It be like what it do

my bread and butter rn: a secret, hidden relationship. i just love the idea of keeping a desperately close-knit relationship tightly under wraps, fumbling the bag, and that information very much being used against Muses A & B. there's nothing like having something you were secure in knowing was safe being exploited, or one or both of the muses going batshit feral to protect each other.

a tag-along for the gory hayride that is kaede's Inunaki Arc. largely for the deepening of an existing relationship, something that bridges that last gap between them. perhaps some tragedies could be avoided 👀

no lie, i really actually want a 'verse' where kaede gets involved with the main storyline. not sure where he'd fit in, but i think it would be neat to explore

dates. silly, cute dates. dates that go horribly wrong. dates that end unsatisfactorily. dates that end Fabulously. dates that end in hot and heavy moments. dates to the aquarium, music hall, amusement park. fancy restuarant dates. getting stuck in the rain and not actually getting to go on the date dates. swooning inside the 7/11 by the crab display dates. stargazing, beach days, showing off like gomez and morticia dates. dates.

any scenario in which we can make our muses suffer unfathomably horrible bs and commiserate in the aftermath. tragedy, angst, and more tragedy & angst. with a dash of blood, guts, and gore. and crying.

kisses on scars. that's it, that's the whole idea.

dark high fantasy au

honestly? zombie apocalypse au. i don't care if it's corny and overused. i have a whole world for this already. it would be fun and angsty, if a little annoying because kaede didn't talk much if at all here and he was kind of super aggressive haha

musician au. band au.

plain jane can't do shit au (no abilities, just some guy)

in verses past, he was a researcher (botany and virology). it'd be pretty cool to have him study cursed objects, anomalies, and other such cursed phenomenon, instead of...yknow. effectively killing himself every day on the battlefield. he can worry about everyone from the sidelines for once !

any thread where he gets to introduce someone to his cat, muushi

a walk with someone through his hydrangea garden

more boba sharing. it's adorable and i think it's a great way to get him to be more comfortable around other people (i didn't expect this, but it's very nice actually, and i have a mighty need). besides he is just so generous, bristly as he is - let him share and spoil !

#死/// Wishlist.#/ none of this is specific enough to warrant a post lmao #/ i'm too easy. this is a wasted effort #/ meesa simple creature #long post /#/ it is now all out of my system

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inkwell-and-dagger · 9 months

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[This House Doesn't Feel Like Home]

A/N: inspired by @paranoia-exe 's "But You Never Really Tried To Stop Me, Did You?". do note that, in this au where our ocs and their lore are linked, Vantè is no longer with Rayan, since the latter is currently fiance's with Vesker Faithern in the lore.

CW: mentioned past torture, kind of toxic romantic relationships??, slight gore and blood, implied torture

—> —> —> —> —> —> —>

Vantè could feel Rayan everywhere he went in the house. His clothes, his furniture, hell, even his smell. That one perfume Sage had given him that he'd sworn to preserve as much as possible, a hand-made painting of a hyacinth that Madison had made when she was hyperfixated on painting. It all reminded him of that bastard.

He loved Rayan; really, he did. But Rayan's forms of affection were.. unorthodox, perhaps? Disturbing, to say the least. Which is why Vantè hated being here, no matter how close he held that Irish prick in his heart.

Even then, as Rayan's head buried in Vantè's shoulder, the deep rise and fall of the former's chest indicating he'd drifted into a — for once — peaceful slumber, Vantè wanted nothing but to get out. The scars still hurt him, if he tried hard enough to imagine it. The scars Rayan had put onto his body. An immortal ripping into another immortal's skin with a knife, without a beat of hesitation. Vantè didn't like how Rayan's show of affection was. He doubted it really was affection in the first place.

————

Word spread about how, much later after Vantè had the guts to get away from Rayan — which ended.. badly, to say the very least — that the Irish bitch himself was dating mafia boss Mason Transvolski. Before that, Vantè had gotten comfortable with a group called The Survivors. A collection of Rayan's surviving victims, all intent on giving the immortal a taste of his own medicine. Foster was the one who recruited him.

He had to admit, all of them were nice. Foster's charisma and clear interest toward a silver-tongued demon such as himself was intriguing. The way Esrana's mood could switch in a blink of an eye, unfortunately so similar to Rayan, yet that never stopped her from caring for her brother. Her brother himself, Zayn. He was only nineteen years old, and enduring the mental strain of keeping a captive in good conditions never stopped him from smiling. Ezra, with his own little shelf to store every alcohol bottle he found aesthetic, and with clear intent to avenge his brother, Rome, whenever Rayan was brought up in idle conversation. And Madir, he.. well, the two of them didn't talk much. Madir seldom talks in the first place. But he's heard that the russet skinned man is nice.

Vantè didn't see Rayan much, even out and about. Sure, the group would capture Rayan every so often, but Vantè still wasn't comfortable with torturing his ex just yet. Foster assured him the time would come eventually, and none of them would push him to do anything he didn't want to. Vantè was grateful for that.

————

Time passed and, what do you know, Rayan was with another man. Apparently, Rayan had done something similar to what he did to Vantè, only to Mason, which is what caused them to split. Vantè mused whether Rayan was like this with Sage, but didn't want to press the matter.

Especially now Rayan was being captured more than ever.

They could all tell Rayan and Vesker were close. Hell, they even decided to kidnap Vesker, too, just because. Though, it was a bad thing that Vesker worked as an assassin in the very same mafia Mason is a part of...

Rayan was a lot more different than his Vantè remembered him. His once soft and neat light brown hair, now much darker and askew, cascading over one of his eyes where a healed scar could barely be seen. His emerald eyes, still as enchanting, but wide with fear every time Rayan saw even one of the survivors. The more Vantè entered the basement, the more wounds Rayan had gotten. At one point, after Madir had exited the basement with a rare grin on his sharp features, Vantè had peeked inside and saw Rayan's hand nearly fully severed by the wrist and his legs broken and bloodied. A hand saw and a hammer lay on the floor, coated in fresh blood. Rayan's blood.

Vantè still didn't really feel at home. But seeing Rayan so weak after all the shit he put Vantè through brought him some solace. Some.

—> —> —> —> —> —> —>

#whump #oc writing #oc whump #writing #whump writing #immortal whumpee #others ocs #rayan hyacinth #vesker faithern #vanté ramirez #mason transvolski

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