#rainbow strips gore

[xxmaxwellxx]

Hello! Me again! I’ve finished writing another story. Again, any constructive criticism and feedback is appreciated! I’m also thinking of making another part to both the stalker story and this one. If anyone is interested in something like that please comment, dm me or send a request! As always sorry for any errors, I’m slightly dyslexic and if I missed anything in the warnings please tell me so I can fix it! (Also if anyone has any requests please don’t hesitate to send one in! I’m trying to grow my account and be better at writing so requests are very helpful!)

Tw: merman, general Yandere behavior (body horror? No gore just a very unique merman)

Gn reader (referred to with they/them pronouns!)

The seagulls screeching above are oddly comforting. Over my time as a researcher, I've learned that if the seagulls aren’t flying overhead, a storm is near. And luckily for me, the seagulls are in the sky and very vocal. I grab a shrimp from my dads cooler and throw it up towards the birds, watching one swoop down and grab it before joining the others. I always admired how intelligent they were, following boats in the hopes of getting food. I reach back into the cooler for another shrimp before my dad yells at me, “Hey!” I whip around at his voice, “Don't waste all our bait on some gulls! If you keep feeding them, they're going to swoop down and eat all our shrimp!” I giggle at his words. He's always lectured me about feeding the birds. The boat slows to a stop and my dad leaves the wheelhouse and lowers the anchor as I take my sweater off and put my flippers on. I wore my favorite sweater over my wetsuit, the wind out at sea surprisingly cold.

My dad sets up his fishing rod at the edge of the boat and I go to the other side to avoid his fishing line. He always fishes when I go diving, not to eat but to keep himself entertained while I'm gone. He never keeps the fish, just writing down the type of fish, how big and how old he thinks it is before throwing it back. He has multiple notebooks he keeps on his boat from years back when mom would go diving. She was always my role model, she was the reason I got my degree in marine biology and my scuba permit. She was the reason behind gaining a passion for fish, the reason my room was filled to the brim with marine animal stuffed animals. She had to stop diving, when I was young she got sick, and it was too dangerous for her, but that's why I'm here. I'm going to continue her studies for her, so she can still see the ocean she loved so much from her bed.

Putting my goggles and mouthpiece on, I excitedly roll off the deck and into the water. Right below me is a magnificent coral reef filled to the brim with color. Hustling and bustling with fish of all colors of the rainbow. Clown fish in the anemones, iridescent parrot fish, yellow butterfly fish, stripped Angelfish, a few yellow finned Damselfish, Surgeonfish and small Goby all swimming in and out, over and under the coral. I take out my camera and snap a few photos, not just for mom, but also for the other researchers back at the lab. They sent me out with a few videography robots to study the effects global warming has had on the reefs, but I don't think they'd mind if I snuck a few to my mom. I drift further and further away from my dads boat, distracted by taking photos.

A few photos of the vibrant parrot fish, a few of clown fish seeking residence in sea anemones, a few of the small goby fish and a lot of the vibrant coral. I keep wandering further, always keeping the boat in view when something catches my eye. A hole. A large hole. No, not a hole, a sea cave. I peer inside and see dots of color. I wouldn't hurt to venture in, would it? For science, I tell myself, for research and the betterment of knowledge, I tell myself, but I know I'm just too curious for my own good. Upon my entrance I see various seaweed, algae and sea sponge species. The further I go, the less light. The less light, the more things produce their own. I see a few small fish and algae glow but something big catches my eye, something really big, too big, and oh so colorful. Swirls of orange and blue and too humanoid to be a fish, but too fish to be human. It has what looks like hair, long and glowing blue on one side and orange on the other, with many streaks of the opposite color mixed in. a long tail with swirls of the same colors, and it goes up it's body onto what looks like a torso and arms. It has arms? Why would a fish have arms? Cave dweller or not, fish are not supposed to have arms.

I quickly pull out my camera, I have to document this. What I didn't account for was the automated flash, it has a light sensor and if it's too dark, the flash turns on. Suddenly the cave is lit up with light from my camera. I panic and fiddle with my camera, trying desperately to turn off the automated flash, but my efforts are in vain. A clawed hand grabs the lens, and I turn my attention to the creature in front of me. A wave of fear washes over me as I look up to a humanoid face, my heart rate picks up as I notice the scowl he wears. I start to hyperventilate as he leans in closer and reaches a hand out towards my face. A clawed hand coming towards my face. He's going to hurt me, isn't he? My fight or flight kicks in and in my panic I choose fight.

I quickly raise my legs and kick him in the stomach, making him curl into himself and let go of my camera and propelling me away from him. While he's distracted, I grab my falling camera and rush out of the cave and towards the boat. I didn't notice how late it's gotten, the sun setting over the horizon as I pull my self out of the water and onto the ledge. I quickly dislodge my mouthpiece and throw my goggles further onto the boat, trying to regulate my breathing once again. What was that? Human? Fish? Some kind of sick hybrid? Should I tell dad? Tell the team? Did I even get a clear picture of that thing? If news gets out, what will the press say? What will the scientists do? If it has the conscience of a human, it will be cruel to report on it. What if someone hurts them? Kills them? What do I even do?

My thoughts are broken by my dads voice, “Everything alright?” he always asks that after I come up, but he sounds worried this time. “Yeah… Yeah, I'm fine.” I'm lying through my teeth, I know it, and I'm pretty sure he knows with the look he gives me “Well, if you're sure. I made dinner while you were gone. It's on the table whenever you're ready.” he tips his hat and walks away, presumably to go eat the aforementioned dinner. I sigh and take off my oxygen tank, hanging it with the others before going below deck to take a shower.

My dad snores in his bed as I eat the dinner he made. Vegetable dumplings with a side of soy sauce and ramen. Simple, easy to make and oh so good. He always made the best food. I'm scrolling through my camera roll as I eat, checking if my team can use any of the photos I took when it pops up. I almost drop my dumpling when I see it. The creature on my camera roll, slightly blurry but still visible with glowing eyes. I want to throw up. He's objectively beautiful, but he's earth shaking. Merfolk aren't real, they're evolutionary impossible, and yet here he is. I suddenly don't have an appetite anymore, it's too much to handle. I put my food in the fridge and lay in my bed. What am I going to tell my team? What am I going to tell dad? That despite every odd on the planet, merfolk are real, and I had an encounter with one? They're going to think I'm crazy, right? What about the picture? Would that really be enough proof for them? Would they accuse me of editing the picture? What possible excuse could I come up with to explain it? If they do believe me, I don't want them to hurt him. Would it just be best to delete it? Export the photo off the camera and keep it for myself? These thoughts keep me up well past my bedtime.

Something is off. I feel like I'm being watched. I turn my gaze from the ceiling to the glass floor. It's him. The thing from the cave. It smiles, reveling razor sharp teeth. What have I gotten myself into?

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

They're mine. It was set in stone when we met.

When I heard of the cave shells, I knew I had to check it out. Supposedly there were shells that glow in the dark and I just had to get my hands on one. Avoiding the moray and brushing aside small lantern fish, I make my way deep into the cave. I've been there for a solid hour, going from tunnel searching the sand. I was getting frustrated. Where are those shells?! A flash catches my attention. Whipping around, I see a human. They look exactly like the rumors. Humans are real? And what's that box in their hand? What was that light? Was it a mating signal? Do they like me? I swim over to investigate the box, laying my hand on it, the thought crosses my mind. This was probably a mating gift! Immediately after I realize what it is, they kick me and swim off with the box. Humans must be a species that want to be chased before they mate!

I quickly swim after them when they go up above the water onto a strange piece of metal. That must be their home! My suspicions are proven correct when I see them sitting in a strange object and eating. Merfolk only eat in their homes, so it must be the same for humans. They crawl onto something squishy and cover themselves with something.

I dare to get closer to them, my face bonks against something clear, this must be the glass the other merfolk were talking about. I place my hands upon the glass, watching my mate. Eventually they look down at me, my friend Erin told me humans like when you smile, that smiling was a show of friendliness to humans.

Rest assured, little human, the next time you're in water you will be mine. Our mandarin babies will be so cute!~

(Merman is based off a mandarin fish, look them up! Very unique fish!)

#fanfic #monster x reader #monster x human #merman #merman x reader #yandere merman #yandere x y/n #yandere x gn reader #yandere x reader #yandere x gender neutral reader #yandere x you #yandere x darling #yandere oc #yandere #yandere fanfiction

[frostgears]

self insert

"…and i find dubious," the detective doll said, tapping ash from its cigar, "that a witch of Her paranoia would allow Herself to be slain by any weapon She empowered. besides, none of Her combat dolls wield weapons that would leave such a wound."

their Witch was slumped across Her desk. Her torso, shadowed by shadows cast by nothing in the Real even in death, bore a stigma the size of a coin on its front. Her back was burned ruin, splattered half across the wall. the room reeked of witch-gore: chlorine, ozone, tar.

"then it was enemy action!" the chatelaine doll exclaimed. "only divine which enemy, and this one will rally the combat dolls. they may be in mourning, but they will fight the fiercer to keep the last shred of honor in revenge."

"spoken like a true one of Hers, suspecting enemies around every corner. but here at the center of Her power? no. if an enemy had made it this far, they would have cut you down too."

"then what or who, Investigator? we are all on borrowed time. when Her business is finished, so are we all." the chatelaine wrung its hands. "this one would rather spend its last days in comfort, or failing that, in honest familiar fear. this uncertainty…"

"imagine being animated by a stored contingency scrap of Her will, only to read written instructions to find Her killer, never to hear Her voice," the detective doll said sharply. "uncertainty is all i know. it is what i woke to. but i hate it even more than you."

"tell me," it continued. "we have accounted for all the combat dolls. all the service dolls. all the pleasure dolls. what about those that have less defined purpose?"

"surely not the comfort dolls? the little scraps of rag and stories she sometimes took to bed? they are as they were when She was alive, all around the place. maybe half of them grasp that She is not simply sleeping. this one never understood what She kept them for."

"for comfort, i assume. but one cannot tell stories," the detective doll said, "without a little imagination."

it focused one eye through the entry wound, then turned its head to look at the open door, figuring the angles.

"round them up for me, chatelaine, if you please."

the half-dozen of them were brought before it. it found them frustrating little things, with little grasp of times or reasons, and a preoccupation with their toys.

"this one's called Buttercup," the fifth one said. it was two feet tall and made mostly of yellow felt. the detective suspected a rather prosaic scheme in their naming.

"and what were you doing the day Miss… went away," it asked the comfort doll. it was not planning to explain death again. they would all learn soon enough anyway.

"this one was looking for ammo!" Buttercup said cheerfully.

"ammo?"

"yes! the maid says that it's tired of cleaning up after our battles, and that we must always put our dart guns away with full magazines! no more darts under the sofa, or the guns will be taken away!"

"i see. did you find ammo?"

Buttercup's button eyes shot to the chatelaine.

"tell the Investigator," it said wearily. "whatever it is. there is nothing much left to punish you for, anyway."

"not all of it," Buttercup admitted. "we're still missing one dart. we're taking turns looking for it! then we can put everything away and play a new game!"

"do you like having battles?"

"yes, sometimes! we do all kinds. this time it was Knights vs. Witches! we got the idea from one of the combat dolls."

"oh? Knights vs. Witches? how do you choose who gets to be a Knight, or a Witch?"

"by half of the rainbow, of course! this one got to be a Witch!"

the detective visited the barracks again, after that. the combat dolls were all dressed in identical black uniforms, blank of any insignia, and veiled. most of them simply sat or stood, doing nothing else.

a single combat doll sat at a workbench, in the process of stripping its eight-foot bow; the detective judged that the bow did not need any cleaning, and probably hadn't the previous ten times, but it didn't begrudge the distraction.

"another question," the detective said.

"yes, Investigator."

"i learned that the little comfort dolls like to play at battles. did they learn that here?"

"oh, yes," it said, with surprising enthusiasm. "they were always in and out of here when it wasn't busy. especially the blue one. endless appetite for battle data, that Bluebell. an appreciative audience. Miss sometimes had to come in here for it Herself, at bedtime."

it had talked to Bluebell before, who had not mentioned the battles. the detective told the chatelaine to find it again.

"where," its weary impromptu deputy asked, "are you going with this?"

"a hunch. a feeling about a feeling that might be an echo of one of Hers. find Bluebell," it said, smoke from its cigar trailing it down the hall.

the rag doll was found and brought before the detective. it perched atop a stool in one of the house's many parlors.

"Bluebell," it asked, "did Miss ask you to tell her a lot of stories?"

"Miss loves this one's stories," it said.

"did she take you to bed more than the other comfort dolls?"

"…maybe? this one isn't sure."

"did Miss ever scare you?"

"Miss is scary! She scares everybody!"

"yes. but did She scare you?"

"She scares Bluebell sometimes." its button eyes were impossible to read.

"one more question," the detective doll said, "and then you can run along and play, Bluebell. if you were telling a story about a scary Witch and a brave Knight, and they fought, what would the Knight use to protect itself?"

"a deconfined-quark rifle," Bluebell whispered, "that shoots fireballs from the dawn of time, way before Witches. but they're not real."

it hopped down from its stool and scurried away.

"there you have it," the detective doll told the chatelaine. "not self-destruction. not rebellion. not enemy action. the little rag-dolls will never find the missing dart; we know the hole it made and the toy weapon that fired it, but dollish imagination is what killed Her."

it took a long drag from its cigar.

"i can't tell you what to do with the time She left to you, but i can tell you this: She should have known better than to force Herself into a story."

"Investigator?"

it did not move after that.

eventually, the cigar burned itself out. □

#empty spaces #dollposting #microfiction

[reesespeanutbutterfuck]

imperfectionist (vinny hong x jo!reader)

jay jo's imperfectionist sister meets the flawful vinny hong.

part 3

part 2 | part 4

pairing: vinny hong x jo!fem!reader

part warnings: fem!reader, cursing, mentions of blood, descriptions of graphic violence, jo!reader, intelligent!reader, implications of academic pressure, second person's pov (you, you're, your), SPOILERS

___

It was Friday afternoon, you were free from your academic responsibilities—at least temporarily. 

Jay was sitting on the dinner table while reading his textbooks again, and Kay was in front of the TV smothering Jack, the injured black cat he and Minu found astray, and decided to take in. He's watching a show about weird cat animations with a comical, eye-sorely bright art style again. You left Kay's bungeoppang at the countertop and dropped your keys on the table.

“Kay, stop watching that crap and come eat. It's dinner time.” 

“It's not crap! It's art!” Your younger brother, Kay, peered at you from behind the sofa backrest.

You put your closed fist against the side your waist and frowned. “I'm surprised you haven't puked cats and rainbows yet. You always watch that show, why don't you watch horror films instead? Give me that remote, let's watch 'Saw'.”

“No! Weird-noona!" Kay withheld the remote behind him when you pretended to reach for it. 

You displayed a sinister grin. “What? Gore films are educational.” 

“Unbelievable! Jay's obsessed with bikes while you're obsessed with… everything!”

“And you're obsessed with watching weird shows!”

“Says the one who's not weird!”

Jay ignored your sibling banter and resumed studying, his eyes blaring at the words on the textbook under his glasses. You're sure he's not going to rest anytime soon. You sighed in hopelessness. You admit how you're quite a studyholic yourself, but you try to give yourself a short break every now and then—discreetly. That's part of the reason you chose to stay in an apartment rather than your family home. 

You get flashbacks of those nights. After a long, draining day in school, you just want to do anything that doesn't involve having to bombard your head with information and reviewers. But then your mother enters your dim-lit room and catches you resting. That's when the constant “Why aren't you studying?”, “I don't want you slacking off”, “Make us proud, [Y/N].” ring in your ear.

At home, it felt as if taking a break was a crime. You hated how it felt to be watched. It was exhausting how you only matter when you're a high-achiever. It didn't feel like home. It felt like hell. Sometimes you only come home to make sure your brothers are still alive.

“It's the weekend. Shouldn't you at least take a break?” You lightly put your hand against the table and leaned down at Jay.

“I'm good. Thanks for worrying, but you're the one who should rest. You're left with Student Council work. And you tend to overwork yourself too.” Right. Jay got stripped off of his position of being the Student Council President. You shrugged it off.

Jay shot you a glance, until he remembered a question he's been wanting to ask you an hour ago. “So, why did you suggest Vinny?” He opened up the topic. “You've met him?”

You were a slightly taken aback by his question. Yes, but also no. “No. I don't even know him personally.”

Jay looked at you for a few seconds. He knows you're not telling him something, but he doesn't intend to be intrusive, you can tell him some other time. “...Okay. But why him?” 

”I just can't think of another escape so my mouth moved by itself. And judging from Dom's protests, surely you won't really recruit him, right?”

Besides, from the way Vinny Hong was ready to meet his death and unremorsefully uttered the words "I'd rather die than pay a hospital bill" that was still fresh in your memory as the picture in your head of the pool of blood from the concrete he sat on that night, months ago, he needs help. But you weren't a savior—you wouldn't just cross the line and pretend you know everything about what he's going through in his life.

You checked your phone's inbox. You clicked the most recent unread message from a group chat made by Dom. Was it Dom? Or was it Minu? You backread the recent few messages. It's from Minu.

(Sent to Group Chat: Dom Kang, Yuna, Mia, Shelly…+others)

Minu Yoon: Guys, someone came to our school. He's Vinny's friend and he's asking for our help. I'll fill you in with the details later. brb walking with him rn

A friend of Vinny's? Speaking of the devil.

You were going to disregard the messages until Minu's name once again flashed on your most recent inboxes. This time it was a private message.

Minu Yoon: Hello, [Y/N]! Are you currently at your family home? If you are, please tell Jay I'll be out just for a moment. As we both know, your brother doesn't have a message app on his jurassic phone lol

[Y/N] Jo: i am at home right now, sure.

[Y/N] Jo: why are you with vinny's friend by the way?

Minu Yoon: We're trying to call him from outside of his house. I think no one's home. Sung's trying to contact him right now but his number's out of reach. We're here to talk to him to convince him to join the crew.

Then he sent a selfie of him with Vinny's bespectacled friend. He looked like a student about the same age as you, which was confirmed when you looked down on his chest pocket and saw Gunn High's logo. They're in front of a gate.

You purse your lips together, not knowing what to reply. 

[Y/N] Jo: you considered it?

[Y/N] Jo: vinny joining your crew, i mean.

Minu Yoon: Yeah, no. Not really. Me and Vinny aren't exactly on good terms so as I've reacted earlier when you mentioned him, I wouldn't really have given it a thought. But as it turns out, Vinny needs us, too. His friend came all the way here just to ask us to help him. He needs to join the tournament along with a group. It's only a coincidence how you mentioned him earlier.

You asked him more about Vinny Hong, and apparently, the bespectacled guy, who you found out was called Sung, told him about Vinny's situation. Minu filled you in with the details. So Vinny needs the prize money… to aid his mother's immediate need of a liver surgery?

When you were done with your questions, you reminded him once again to come home.

[Y/N] Jo: come home immediately after.

Minu Yoon: Yes, ma'am :D

[Y/N] Jo: jay wouldn't lock the door. my parents are coming home tonight–

Your fingers halted from typing. Your parents are coming home tonight? Tonight… Aren't they on duty? You checked their schedule on the cork board.

Shit.

You didn't have the time to even send the message before you briskly ran inside your long untouched bedroom to bring Suki—your apartment roommate, your notes from the hospital training, and a change of clothes from your closet to pack inside of your bag. You didn't even bother changing from your school uniform anymore. You'll just change when you get back to the apartment. All that matters to you right now is to get out of there immediately.

“What's going on?” Jay curiously queried as he heard the sounds of your shuffling and rushed footsteps.

“It's getting dark outside. I gotta go back to the apartment. Suki's coming back from her hometown vacation tonight, too.” 

You gathered your things and got your keys from the table.

Kay turned his head to you and aired a quick "goodbye" while also lightly waving Jack's paw to you.

"I’ll see you again, Jack. Make sure to be fully healed by then.” you petted the black cat's head before walking past the sofa.

Jay's eyes followed you as you marched your way to exit the front door. "You're not going to stay for the night?"

“No. Mom and Dad are coming home tonight.” You put your hand against the door-frame while looking down at your feet to put on your slip-on shoes. Jay immediately got what you meant.

“So what, if we're coming home tonight?” you halted your movements when you heard that arrogant, authoritative female voice.

It's as if the universe was testing you that the very person you're avoiding came to you. It's almost as if you were an animal for the wilderness that triggered their fight-or-flight instincts. You don't want to lie to people, but why is escaping them getting difficult?

"Mom." you cautiously stepped towards her and went in for a cheek-to-cheek kiss. “You're here.”

“My shift finished earlier than expected. Your dad's on his way home too. Where are you off to?” She held one of your arms and leaned back a little to look at you from head down.

You exhaled shakily. “Suki's coming home from Japan, but I have the key to the apartment so she can't enter unless I unlock the door.”

Suki actually has a spare key for your apartment door, you only lied—again, to your mom about it to run off as fast as you can. Suki can handle herself and come straight home after her plane lands. Besides, you already texted her earlier.

Her lip twitched, looking very unconvinced—hell were you not good with keeping up a lie, but instead of trying to pry, she blinked and averted her eyes inside the house, passively accepting your lie as a response.

“Very well. Send my regards to her.” Came her curt reply when she walked past you to come inside, clutching her chanel purse.

“Kids, where's Minu?” She looked ahead to Jay and Kay while taking her shoes off. Minu's living with your family after he ran away from his own home.

"He's left at school with the others.” Jay replied, before he glanced past Dr. Jo and simply waved goodbye to you.

You turned your back from the door to make your way out. The only thing that mattered to you is escaping, but it looks like your mother had something more to say.

“[Y/N].” You stopped your tracks without facing her, and side-eyed her from the front while your body was still facing ahead on the gate, “Mind your grades. I don't want you and your brothers falling behind anyone in all of your semesters this school year.” 

You didn't reply, but you can feel her sharp stare drilling the back of your head. Your brothers inside the house can't hear what she's saying, because she only intended for only you to hear. She quieted down for a while, possibly waiting for your reply but getting nothing in return. Just when you thought she's done talking and you were about to continue walking, her last remark made your blood turmoil.

“One of these days, I'll introduce you to one of my work partners' also medicine practitioner sons. You'll marry to continue our family's line of Doctors of Medicine. You'll honor and represent our family. Set up a good impression on them from now on. Make me proud." 

You gritted your teeth and clenched your fist as your eyes darkened in anger. With all of your might, you faced her and returned her sharp glare.

“I will never agree to what you want for my life, mother. You'll have to kill me before that happens. I'll even go against you, if I have to.” 

With that, you ran off and loudly slammed the gate shut purposefully without giving her a chance to retort. You know you pissed her off and she'll be yelling at you anytime soon, so you left as soon as possible, not bothering to give her time to respond. Your blood boiled as you harshly adjusted your bag on your shoulder. Marriage? "Continue our family's line of Doctors of Medicine"? That's just bullshit, she didn't even ask my opinion!

You don't know where your feet are taking you anymore. You just wanted to go as far as you can from your house. The sky was already dark and the bustling atmosphere was still present, but now toned-down. Your eyes blurred in anger as you harshly stomped and accelerated the pace of your walking. Marriage… Marriage… I will never be ready for something like that.  During your walk to god-knows-where, you find yourself in a deserted alley. And because of your preoccupation, you didn't even notice how a man found his way and crept behind you. His presence made you shudder.

“Hey, pretty girl. Are you from near here somewhere?” The male whispered to your left ear. “Drop your belongings and I won't hurt ya.” he wrapped his arm around your shoulder. 

You immediately checked if he's armed. No weapons? That's suspicious.

“On second thought, you're kinda hot," he scanned you from head down. "...and your legs are long. How about… I let you go if you compensate with your body?”

Something inside you snapped, and the anger you felt earlier doubled. Fucking men and the way their fucking brain works. 

You glared and looked down on him. “Get the fuck out of my way, you hideous motherfucker.”

The man's sinister smile quickly vanishes as he takes offense at your words. “You… You sharp-tongued bitch!” 

He raised his hand to smack you, but you expected his offense so you went in first and swung him a jaw-breaking punch.

“How dare you fucking touch me. I just came from a fucking stress room. You're raising my blood pressure and stress levels even more.” 

You kicked his face continuously with the edge of your heel. You made sure the sharp edge hit his face hard. At that moment, your mind was out of the gutter, and you didn't intend to stop anytime.

“Agh! You whore! Crazy bitch!” he let out another muffled groan when you stepped on his face and put your weight on your feet. When he attempted to get up, you hit his face with your knee.

But little did you know that you missed the hooded man meticulously emerging from the dark, carrying a knife whose blade shone under the moonlight sneaking up behind you.

“Hurts like a bitch, doesn't it?” You sadistically smirked down at the helpless man once again under your heel.

You looked around and saw a broken glass shard near his head. You bent down and scanned it, before you aimed at his neck. As you pull your hand back, recoiling slightly to charge before stabbing, you felt something sharp pierce your lower back. You didn't see what it was, but you felt how it drilled in your flesh and you didn't have time to react.

Fuck.

Now that, that hurts like a bitch.

***

#vinny hong #jay jo x reader #vinny hong x reader #jay jo #windbreaker

[pinkiepiebones]

Here's... something?

-

Cleaning the apartment- his! His apartment- was nothing short of therapeutic. 

It was a different sort of cleaning than what he had grown so accustomed to. This time he wasn't stooped over a rusted basin with an improvised washboard, hands and shoulders aching, trying to get blood out of silk or cashmere or whatever the fuck his boss had worn to dinner. Today he was scrubbing down dusty countertops with something lemon-scented. He was wiping grime off windows and cupboard doors. He purchased something called a Swiffer, which was really just a sort of mechanical mop, but it made quick work of the linoleum in his kitchenette and the slightly off-center tiles in the little washroom. He wiped down the walls and faucets and scoured the tub. He installed a new lightbulb in the little ceiling fixture and it shined brightly on the newly cleaned room. It was damn near sparkling in there, and it smelled like a spring meadow.

Robert was tired by the time he finished hanging the brand-new shower curtain. It was pale blue and dotted with a rainbow assortment of flower drawings. It still bore the fold creases from being confined in a plastic sleeve for so long. He stood back in the doorway to admire his work. It was the first time in a long time that anything he did brought a smile to his face. 

He shuffled back to his bed and grabbed a shopping bag a little overstuffed with towels and toiletries. He hadn't been sure what sort of soaps or shampoos to buy for his skin and hair types- there were too fucking many options to choose from- but a very nice lady saw his near-panic in the Health and Beauty section of the local store and helped him make some choices.

Robert gave the tub knobs some twists and the pipes rattled and cold water shot out of the spout. He smiled a little, thankful he hadn't gone with his first idea of stripping and stepping in before checking the water. He held his hand under the stream, flexing his long aching fingers, feeling the warmth start to flow in. He fiddled with the knobs until he found the one that switched the water to the showerhead. Why were there extra knobs, anyway?

Robert stripped and stepped under the spray. Oh, this was nice. So much better than collecting rainwater from a crack in a ceiling or melting snow over a dying fire or jumping fully clothed in a pool- mostly to get the blood and candle wax and glitter off his suit- while his boss went on a blood-sucking bender in the adjacent cult mansion. That cult had a wonderful pool. He remembered hearing music under the water.

Now, there was no music except his laughter. It wasn't a humoured laugh, it was a broken, sobbing sort of laugh, one of pain long pushed aside finally spilling away to relief and peace and disbelief. He gasped and chuckled and felt silly for wanting to wipe away his tears but he fumbled with the curtain and reached for the shopping bag on the floor. Water snaked down his arm and his fingers left little pools on the floor. Oh, well. Robert grabbed a washcloth and rubbed at his face, then realised the full futility of the situation and found the soap and shampoo at the bottom of the bag. A sizable puddle was forming on the tile and he made a mental note to invest in bathroom rugs next.

He scrubbed at his pale skin until it was pink. He briefly thought of all the blood that he'd washed off over the decades and, quietly, he declared aloud, "nope, this is a happy place. I'm not going down that thought path now."

He had become somewhat accustomed to the feel and the smell of his former occupation; it was an odd sensation to suddenly be mindful of how his skin and hair felt. Robert pictured himself as having been in some sort of gore-knitted cocoon for a century. Now, he was breaking out and finding his wings. Or something like that.

Following the directions on the shampoo bottle, Robert lathered, rinsed, and repeated. There was no edict declaring further repetition but he was tempted to because damn it felt good to have his own blunt nails gently scraping his scalp and not pointed claws digging in... 

He rinsed and let his hair fall down over his face and he snickered at how long it was, once the tangles had been worked out. Maybe I need to invest in some hair ties, or scissors. 

Robert shut off the water and squeezed the excess water out of his hair and pulled at the shower curtain- christ, these things like to stick to skin- and stepped, less than gracefully, out of the tub and groped for the shopping bag. He unfurled a brand-new towel, salmon pink, and dried his body, ruffled his hair, and tied the towel about his slender waist. Forgot to buy a robe. Oh, well. God knows I'll be buying more in the coming days...

He wanders out into his apartment, avoiding the lone mirror that came with the place, and collapsed on his bed that was still needing a matching sheet and pillowcase set. He stared at the ceiling. He breathed and listened to the sounds beyond his walls- street noise. Crickets. Murmurs from the floor above. That was it. No voice in his head.

Robert smiled.

Eventually he stood and returned to the bathroom, mopped up the water puddles, hung up his towel, and fetched brand-new bedclothes from the shopping bag.

When was the last time I slept in something besides my suit...

The bedclothes were soft and maybe too warm for the early summer, and the mint green looked nearly bluish next to his pale skin, but he was happy.

Happy.

So that's what that bubbly feeling was.

Robert slept and dreamed.

#renfield #robbie's journal

[rotworld]

3: Eye For An Eye

(previous)

the law of prismville is reciprocity.

->sexually explicit. contains gore, body horror, decapitation, size difference.

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.

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She sits on the metal guardrail with a cigarette dangling between her fingers, watching the fog dance. Her hair is auburn and halfway down her back. “Chilly out here,” she murmurs. She nudges an acorn around with the toe of her shoe. Sometimes she leans over your shoulder, watching your pencil move. You mark New Ridgeway with an X inside a circle. Don’t come back here, it means. “Man. You do this all the time, huh? Drive around out here like it’s nothing. What do you do if you get lost? Or stuck in a shift?”

You shrug. “I figure it out.” 

She exhales, stretches her arms above her head. Rolls her shoulders until they pop. “Couriers are just built different, huh? Fair enough. I’m not cut out for this shit.” She purses her lips around the filter and closes her eyes. Eventually, the tremors in her hands die down and she holds one out to shake. “Meryl Underhill. Associate Professor, Department of Verisimilibiology. Mimic studies, basically.” 

“The University sent you out here?” you ask.

“Cleanup assignment. We do pest control, you know. Not really anybody else qualified.” 

“Pest control? With a sledgehammer?” 

“I know. Should’ve brought a shotgun. We got a letter last shift from New Ridgeway about some glass mimics nesting in a sawmill, could somebody give it a look, clean ‘em out, et cetera. I think the fucking mimics wrote that letter.”

Elisile said he knew somebody in the Stillwoods. You wonder if that was true. You wonder if any of it was true. “What do you think happened back there?” 

Meryl shrugs, blowing out a line of smoke. “Mass exodus. That’s the only thing that makes sense with mirror hoarding like that.” 

“They up and left?” you say, incredulous. “The whole town? Why?”

“No clue. I just got into town last night and it was already empty. Must’ve happened during the shift.” She looks at your map again, sparse as it is. Henley Creek in the center; New Ridgeway, no man’s land; the little starburst of Prismville, all in a line. Highway squiggles snake out of Verlinda in five directions and go nowhere, vanishing into the vast unknown. The whole thing might be obsolete in a day or two, or a week. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Meryl says. “What kind of apocalypse works that way. It’s gotta take years and god knows how much money to import all those mirrors, sneak ‘em past border inspection. What kinda thing goes so slow you can wait that long to run from it, but when you leave, you gotta go to a whole other fucking dimension?” 

You sit in silence, watching the road for a while. The sun’s setting, somewhere beyond the fog and the clouds, a shadowy gloom settling over the Drift. A harsh wind rattles the trees. Something yips and screeches far away. Meryl shivers. “We should get moving,” you say gently.

“Yeah,” she says, clearing her throat. “Yeah, yeah. Definitely. Damn, I shoulda brought better shit to trade. Honestly I’d give my kidney for a bed right about now.” 

“They barter in Prismville?” you ask.

She chuckles as she limps back to her car. “You’ll see.”

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: LUNA (MOON OF CLAIMING) BY CEMETERIES]

Night strips the roads of detail. Everything beyond the gaze of your headlights is shadow play, mere shape and silhouette. The path slithers, jagged sidewinder, down corridors of evergreen. The underbrush goes thin and patchy beyond the guardrail, tufts of hardy wildflowers swaying in your wake. You crest a hill and below, nestled in a crater-shaped valley, city lights glitter like grounded stars.

The Prismville welcome sign is suspended on a highway overpass, blocky lettering affixed to a metal scaffold. It’s not neon but it glows like it in your headlights, sanded gemstones scattering slivers of rainbow. Ahead is the busiest, most bustling city you’ve ever seen. There’s traffic—real traffic like you’ve only heard of it, bumper to bumper, crawling snail’s pace through intersections. The roads are glassy and glittering, geode avenues shimmering with bands of indigo, cyan and pale shades of rose. Highrises of gigantic quartz cut a jagged, angular skyline and the streetlights are capped with prismatic crystalline shades like painted glass.

It’s dark, you realize. Bright enough to see, but dimmer than you expect a city this size. They keep the lights low where they have them, strangled and split through thick gemstone panes. It’s a full moon tonight but the clouds seem thicker here, slow-moving. They form wispy, dangling funnels and hide the stars.

The first hotel you spot has a holographic courier sticker on the automatic doors. Meryl parks beside you, off to grab a luggage cart before you can stop her. “It’s the least I can do,” she says. You don’t have much to deliver but the crate’s unwieldy and you don’t want to risk dropping anything. The lobby is opulent, black marble veined with gold. What you mistake for potted plants by the door is carved stone, thin stalks of obsidian topped with emerald leaves and pale chalcedony blossoms. An artificial waterfall trickles softly behind the front desk. Someone, somewhere, is playing the piano.

“Thanks for the escort. And, y’know. Saving my ass,” Meryl says, the closest you’ve seen her to sheepish. “I owe you one. If I ever make it back to the University and you’re ever in the neighborhood, ask around for me.” She drags herself to the front desk as soon as one of the receptionists are free and you find a quiet place to sit, settling on a leather sofa. Shrugging off your backpack, you check your map again, widening the boundaries of Prismville. You stretch your legs and watch people come and go.

You’re far from the only late night traveler. Guests, new arrivals, and the hopelessly lost trickle in and out. Two women in cocktail dresses link arms on their way to the elevators. A man in a suit keeps checking his watch, watching the circle drive outside the front doors. A child sits unattended on the couch across from you. She might be nine or ten. Long, unruly hair hangs in her face but you feel her staring intently. Strangest of all is the table of miners still in mud-covered boots and uniforms, playing cards around a table. One of them is covered head to toe, features obscured by a hard hat and respirator mask with the long tube hooked to a canister at their hip. They hiss something that makes the others laugh uproariously. 

“You’ll have to tell the front desk.” 

You flinch, startled. Someone walked right up behind you, a hand resting on the couch beside your shoulder. He’s wearing gloves. The leather crinkles when he shifts slightly, noticing your discomfort. 

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” he says. He’s average height, tall but not too tall. His hair is neither particularly long nor short. He wears a white button up and black slacks. Unremarkable, except for the gloves. There’s some kind of glittering dust on the palms. “This is a big city. They’ve got more than one courier spot. If you tell the front desk, they’ll call the other locations, get everything organized. Very efficient.”

“Thanks,” you say. 

He smiles, waves. Walks away. The man checking his watch looks up and the two of them leave together. You’ve already forgotten what he looked like.

But he was right. The front desk handles everything. A few phone calls later and grateful strangers arrive. The specimen jars go to a petite woman in a University sweatshirt. “They didn’t make any noise, did they?” she asks. 

“I don’t think so,” you say. She looks relieved and hands you a hefty hardbound tome. There is no text on either cover. The edges of the pages are gilded. “Where do you want me to take this?” 

“Oh! No, it’s for you,” she says kindly, shaking her head when you offer it back. She leaves before you can stop her. That’s strange, you think. Maybe it’s a local custom to pay couriers. 

The letter is for an older man in a wool coat. He rips open the seal and reads it in front of you, sighing deeply. He shoves a bottle of wine at you and turns to leave without a word.

“Atticus Gosse, where do you think you’re going?” 

The man freezes. The lobby is utterly still and silent. The miner in a mask stands from the table, and only now, as the dangling, teardrop diamonds of the crystal chandelier scrape their helmet, do you realize just how enormous they are. They saunter closer, their footsteps sounding like grinding stone. Their voice is a brittle rasp, wheezing and muffled through the filter of their mask. They speak slowly with small, slight hand gestures. Their gloves, like the rest of their clothes, settle strangely on their body, saggy and shapeless in places, clinging tightly to hard lumps and ridges in others.

Atticus frowns tightly. “Do I know you?” he says tersely.

“Gosse,” the miner sighs. “You’re making me look bad. What’s the law in Prismville, hm?”

“I paid them.” 

“A bottle of wine, for news like that?” The miner takes another crunching step forward, beside you now. The rough material of their glove settles on your shoulder. It feels more like reassurance than a threat, but you’re still intimidated by their shadow falling over you. You have to crane your neck to peer into the darkened portholes of their mask. Something glints inside. “You got the cheap stuff, too. Not that it matters what it cost, but you wouldn’t even drink this swill yourself. That,” they point to the letter crumpling in his fist, “is near priceless to you. Isn’t it? Are you seeing the problem here? You’re a tourist but you know better, I know you do. What’s the law?”

Atticus tries to speak but all that comes out is a sharp, wispy sound; chalk squealing softly on a blackboard. He touches his throat with a shaky hand, eyes wide, disbelieving. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. You don’t know what’s happening but you feel like it’s your fault. “He really did pay me,” you insist. “And he didn’t have to. Nobody usually—” 

The miner squeezes your shoulder, hard. A warning. “The law of Prismville is reciprocity,” they say. Atticus sinks to his knees convulsing, nails raking desperately over his own neck. He scratches and claws at himself until his fingers are wet and red, until he’s torn through his skin and sunk his fingers into the glistening meat underneath. There’s something there, protruding between muscle and tendon. Thorny starbursts. Hard mineral growths. Gemstones, you realize, veiny and bloodsoaked. He tries to pull them out but his fingers are slick and trembling. He makes a strangled sound and something rattles in his chest. The blood he vomits on the floor is gritty like sand.

“What’s that even mean to you, Gosse? You spit in the waiter’s face when they bring the check?” The miner lets you go and lumbers forward. Atticus is bleeding from the eyes and ears now, thick and sludgy like lava down a volcanic slope. He coughs up a chunk of tourmaline with grimy bits of esophagus clinging to its jagged edges. One massive gloved hand seizes his head just as he starts to droop. The miner lifts him off the ground without even a grunt of exertion and carnelians scatter from the yawning wound in his throat. Their other hand grasps his shoulder. You watch in horror as they start to pull. 

Atticus comes apart like a ragdoll with its seams snipped. Skin stretches taut, splits, unravels, and finally snaps apart with another gush of slow-moving blood. It oozes onto the floor in a long, igneous clot. Small, colorful stones skitter across the marble floor. His head leaves behind a gaping, ruby neck wound studded with turquoise and zircon, harder and sharper than bone. The body slumps and the miner, soaked in quickly drying, hardening garnet blood, looks at you. 

“Take what you’re owed, courier,” they say. You don’t move. You see yourself reflected in the black portholes of the mask, shrinking back. “But it’s all yours. As much as you want.” They hold out the head by the hair as though you might find it enticing. You shake your head. 

“No. No thanks,” you say quickly. 

“The law of Prismville is reciprocity. You did a service. Now you get paid.” 

“I don’t want…that.” You’re acutely aware of the silence now that it’s crept back in the absence of someone struggling and trying to scream. “If you really want to pay me, then—if you have any eggs…” 

“Eggs?” the miner repeats. You can’t tell if they’re angry or just incredulous.

“Please,” you add. 

They chuckle, dropping the head atop the body. “You poor thing. Of course. Let’s get you some eggs.”

Just like that, gentle ambience washes over the lobby again. Chatter, laughter, the tinkling notes of the piano, back like they were never gone. Someone in a staff uniform begins collecting the gruesome gemstones. Someone else wheels in a cart of cleaning supplies. You flinch when the miner approaches you. They bend slightly, plucking your last delivery from the luggage cart; the crate. It should take a crowbar to pry off the lid but they snap it open with barely a flick of their fingers, peering at the contents. “Perfect, thank you. Now I owe you, too.” 

“Just eggs,” you insist fearfully.

“You’ve never been here before, have you? I’m sorry, I really must’ve scared you with all this.” They nod towards the elevators. “Come upstairs. Rest a while. You don’t have anywhere to be, do you?” You stammer an excuse as they reach up, lifting off their helmet and setting it in your lap. They have no hair but strange, swirling stone in the shape of it. The straps of their mask are pulled taut over twisting rock formations, white and gold-speckled granite forming frozen waves and nautilus curls. When they unlatch the clasps and pull off their masks, your breath catches in your throat. 

She’s pale like limestone but prettier, a colorful sheen across her skin like the inside of an abalone. The striated stone of her hair forms delicate, framing curls around her face. Her lashes are glossy onyx and and her eyes banded agate. Full, nacre lips curl into a smile and the sound of her facial movement is the scrape of stone. “Do I still scare you?” she asks, her voice the same breathless rasp even without the mask muffling it. You’re too stunned to answer. She chuckles and nods towards the elevator again. “Come on, courier. Let me do something for you.” 

She takes up most of the elevator, ducking slightly to fit inside. You squeeze against the wall but it’s impossible not to brush against her. The texture of her body is distinct even through a bulky layer of clothing. You feel curves; dips and grooves; some sharp, prodding things. “Call me Iridesce,” she says. “Welcome to Prismville. I’m a supervisor at the chameleite mines.” She studies you, smile widening at your confused expression. “You’ve seen chameleite before. They call it other things, depending on its tinge. It’s used for construction in some places. Computer parts. Proofing mirrors. Jewelry, of course. It’s extremely malleable. I could show you how we treat it sometime, if you’d like it.” 

The numbers tick higher as the elevator rises. You’re headed to the sixteenth floor, the very top. PENTHOUSE, the label reads beside the button. “What are the laws here, exactly?” you ask. “You said reciprocity. I just want to make sure I don’t, uh…”

“Earlier? Ah.” She tucks the crate one of her arms. Her other hand settles on your back, gently rubbing. Her fingers are unusually long; you can feel them through the glove. She digs them into your muscles, easing tension you didn’t realize was there. “It’s simple. Reciprocity. If you receive, then you give something back. The value must be equal. Not monetarily, of course. Sentiment. Meaning. Intention matters most.” 

“I’m not sure I understand. Who decides what something is worth?” 

She just smiles. The elevator stops, doors sliding open. Iridesce leads you through a winding labyrinth, black walls inset with swirling crystal panels. The penthouse is at the very end of a hallway and just as luxurious as the rest of the hotel. Iridesce sets the crate aside and sheds clothing across the floor as she walks deeper inside. A thorny patch of amethyst and rose quartz grows from one of her moonstone shoulders. Her stone skin is open in places. Honeycomb indentations litter her chest and torso, little mouths of geode full of glittering crystal, but she is smooth between her legs.

She perches on the edge of a canopied bed, parting the velvet curtain with one large, long-fingered hand. A ridge of aquamarine glitters in her wrist.

“Courier,” she says, beckoning you with one curling finger and half-lidded eyes. “Come here, precious. The road’s eaten into you. Let me soothe those aches.” 

“You don’t need to,” you say, but you go to her. Her fingers aren’t as cold as you expect, the warmth faint, buried somehow. They’re perfectly smooth as they trace your jaw and lure you closer. She’s close enough to kiss and then she dances away. Your palms sink into the mattress as you crawl forward, beneath the shadow of the canopy. The bed is enormous, easily able to accommodate both of you, but she pulls you into her lap. Her thighs are thick and veined with swirls of sapphire like porcelain. 

“But it’s my pleasure,” she murmurs, massaging your shoulders. “Repayment doesn’t have to be a chore. And you’re so lovely.”  Her lips are softer than you expect. The kisses are chaste at first, fleeting. She eases off your jacket and slips her hands under your shirt, teasing you, flicking her thumbs over your nipples. “Do you want what I’m offering, courier?” You nod and she chuckles, cupping your chin. “Don’t be shy, my sweet. Have as much as you like.” 

The next kiss is hungrier. She coaxes your mouth open and her tongue is warm and wet, licking into you. One hand stays on your chest but the other slides down, clutching your waist. You’re reminded of just how much larger she is; the spread of her palm alone wraps around your body, her spidery fingers clutching nearly halfway around you. She guides you into a languid grind. The grooves and bumps on her thigh create pleasant friction. She hisses when you move your core against them. 

“Does that hurt?” you ask. She makes a pleased sound, a hum of laughter, her breath fanning across your lips.

“Mm. Just the opposite,” she says. She reaches down and lightly scratches the end of her finger against one of the rounded gems embedded in her skin. Her eyes fall shut and her hips jump beneath you. “Why don’t you keep rubbing yourself on them, hm?” 

You lose your shirt next. Iridesce strokes the newly-exposed skin, sliding her hands up and down your sides. Your hands settle on her chest, cupping the heavy spill of her breasts. They’re firm, the first part of her that looks as stiff as it feels. But when you drag the pad of your thumb over the rose quartz embedded along her collarbones, she grips you tightly. You keep stroking them as she draws you in for another kiss, gaping softly into your mouth.

It stops too soon, too suddenly. Iridesce pulls away and stops you from following, pressing her finger to your lips. “Everything off, my dear,” she whispers. The concentric mineral rings in her eyes have widened like a dilated pupil. “Let’s see if I can fit inside you.” 

You watch her as you strip off your pants. She knows where you look and lets her legs fall apart. There’s nothing there. Smooth stone, not even adorned with little gemstones like her hips. You wonder if she’ll use her hands—they’re smooth and long, surely satisfying, large enough that just a finger or two could fill you—but then she twists to reach into the bedside drawer. You hear the click of plastic. She drizzles cool, clear lube into one of her hands. 

“Come back to me, lovely. In my lap like before, but facing away.” The textures of her body rub into your skin. It’s not unpleasant, nothing too hard or sharp unless you dip your fingers into the jagged geode openings. You settle atop one of her thigh crystals and it’s warm, startlingly so. She spreads your legs wider. One hand holds your hip and the other reaches down, feeling for your entrance. She traces her finger all around the opening, teasing. Her breath warms your ear as she eases just the tip inside. You lean your head back against her shoulder. “That’s it,” she whispers. “Relax. Oh, you’re so tight. Are the roads lonely?” 

“Ahh—sometimes,” you stammer. 

“You won’t be lonely tonight.” She stretches you slowly, murmuring praise against your ear. She’s up to two fingers before long, slow, deep strokes that reach just the right spot inside you to make your breath hitch. “Should we stop here?” she asks. Her tone is airy and teasing. She doesn’t mean it, but you still whine when her hand stops moving. “You’re such a small thing next to me, and you’re already squeezing so tight. It doesn’t seem like you can take much more.” 

“Please.” You’re begging before you’ve really thought about it. You stroke her thigh, thumbing those raised spots that make her moan. She presses her lips to the nape of your neck and curls her fingers inside you, pressing against that same spot until you whine. You’re not happy when she withdraws her fingers but then she reaches over again, grabbing something from the drawer again. 

Impossibly long and as thick as your arm, it’s the same shimmery color as her body. The head is a tapered mushroom shape and there are bulging veins carved along the shaft. The underside bulges slightly, studded with small bumps the same size as her thigh crystals. Iridesce grips it by the base, laying the entire length between your legs so you can feel its strange, pulsating heat against your skin. You give it a light, testing squeeze, cupping the throbbing bulge along the bottom, and Iridesce inhales sharply. She rocks her hips against your back. 

“Here, courier. Take what you’re owed,” she murmurs. She urges your legs apart again, spreading you over her lap. The toy—if that’s what it is—slides in easily until you reach the thick flare at the base of the head. Iridesce gives you short, shallow thrusts but you can feel it’s not enough. Her movements are shaky, the hand on your hip squeezing hard enough to leave bruises. There’s a pause, a shared grunt when she pulls it out. Then she’s pushing you down on the bed and rolling you over onto your back.

You’re struck again by her size, how completely she takes up your vision looming over you. “Legs up, darling,” she says, her voice ragged. You struggle to hold them yourself so your knees go over her shoulders. The spongy tip of the dildo pushes back inside you, and then it goes deeper. The first small, bumpy ridge drags just the right away against your inner walls. You think you’re full by the second but there’s still so much more. Iridesce starts a rhythm she can’t maintain, slow, steady thrusts becoming faster and harder.

“You’re—oh, you’re perfect!” she moans. You didn’t realize how gentle she was being before, but now she’s pounding you with the full length and you can barely breathe. You’re full now, you’re sure of it. You’re stretched as far as you can go and twisting your hands in the sheets, the bed shaking and your thighs trembling over her shoulders. Beneath her, seeing her lashes flutter against her cheek and her lips part in a soft moan, hips moving, you can’t tell whether the thick cock inside you is in her hand or between her legs. “Cum for me, precious,” Iridesce whispers, thrusting harder, fucking you into the mattress. “I want to feel you fall apart.” 

She kisses you, trails her lips from your cheek to your neck and sinks her teeth into your skin. The length inside you drills fast and deep and throbs, the bulge rippling, every little bump massaging your inner walls, and it’s all you can take. You cum with a cry and arch into those last frantic thrusts. Iridesce swallows your moans and buries the tip of the dildo as deep as she can. It twitches, little sharp movements like a dry orgasm, before it gradually softens inside you. 

Awareness becomes foggy and distant. Your thighs ache. There’s something hissing—water running. You’re lifted, carried into another room. Hot water engulfs you and you sigh, leaning into the pleasant pressure of Iridesce’s hands on your scalp. “I should order us some room service,” she muses, kissing your shoulder. “Maybe after we luxuriate for a bit, hm?” 

You nod in agreement, relaxing against her chest. She rests a hand on your thigh and you feel the striations of the stone like muscle fibers. It occurs to you suddenly that she is what the man downstairs was becoming. “Have you…?” You hesitate, unsure of what to ask or if you even should. She hums encouragingly. “Have you ever…not repaid someone the way you should’ve?”

“A long time ago,” she tells you. “A long, long time ago. Prismville was hardly a town then. I stole little things here and there, just to make him mad. Well…not just for that.” 

“Who?” 

Iridesce laughs and strokes your hair. She never answers you.

(next)

#rotpeach writes #goretober #the drift #normally i try to arrange things so my octobers are quiet and orderly lol but i was unlucky this year and havent had as much time as id lik #so please bear with me i will try and get to asks soonish!

[monsterkisserlove]

Fuzzy Moonlight: Chapter 3

You met a bear in the forest, but could he be so much more? Could he be your escape from the oppressive village you find yourself trapped in?

TW/CW: Mild gore and blood mention, death mention. They both really really horny for each other but still SFW so far

Pairing: M werebear/F reader

a/n: Still SFW but getting some spicier vibes! Future NSFW chapters will be marked! Again, under 18s DNI! This blog and these fics ain’t for you.

Chapter 2

Barley's POV

The full moon was never fun no matter how much he prepared for it, he could take all the elixirs and potions that the world had to offer him but it still would do absolutely nothing for the pain that would ultimately come. That and they would usually leave him feeling foggy and out of control and that was something nobody wanted, especially him.  

When he’d moved to this forest many years ago there had been a few occasions where he’d taken a pain drought but it had left him so confused where he’d forgotten to take off his clothes before the moon reached its peak. Not only did that ruin so many perfectly fine articles of clothing, something that was rather annoying when he couldn’t just swagger into town as a stranger looking like a wild man who might not have a coin to his name, but it also frightened the skittish villages. That, and he hadn’t been to the village for at least three years and he wasn’t going to break that record just yet.

~ Ten years ago ~

It had been an awful shift this moon, Barley thought as he lay naked on his bed of soft pelts, having just bandaged his latest cuts and gouges. Plus, another set of clothing lost, this last elixir he’d tried to brew at home left him so fatigued, Barley was just glad that he’d managed to get out of his hand-built cabin before he shifted rather than worrying if he got out of his tight trousers.  

The sun filtered through the thin curtain onto his unshaven face, and he glared at the offending light.  

Oh yeah, a massive thunderstorm last night but today all sunbeams and rainbows.  

Unfair.

A light knock at the door to his cabin startled him beyond belief. No one knew he lived here.  

No one at all.  

Barley struggled to pull on his trousers over his thick, muscular thighs covered in bandages, and he groaned as he roughly pulled a shirt over his chest, feeling a sharp twinge as he reopened a wound on his expansive back.  

Limping to the door, Barley wrenched it open to see a willowy woman standing before him. Her head cocked up, lips pulled up in a soft smile and sun dancing on her rich copper skin. But the thing that caught his breath in his throat was his shirt from last night dangling from her fingertip, shredded and darkened with blood. Fuck.

“I think this might be yours,” the woman grinned, “my name’s Helena and I think you might need my help.”

Helena had gone on to explain that she lived in the small village on the far side of the thick forest and that when torn, butchered shirts were found within the treelines, people started to panic.  

The herbalist was kind.  

Something Barley hadn’t experienced in his lifetime.

Helena reassured Barley that she had worked with were-creatures before, that she hated the persecution they’d suffered for simply being. With her immense help, she taught him how to brew medications properly, how to bandage and stitch safely and generally how to stay out of trouble.  

When she'd left the village to take an apprentice he felt hollow. To be alone again after all this time, but he understood. Barley couldn’t be a permanent fixture in anyone’s life.

At least, that’s what he thought.  

~ Present ~  

Barley slowly stripped away his clothes, carefully removed the talisman he wore around his neck as the cord would only snap as he grew larger and he took down his hair, fingers running through the silken shoulder length brown hair. Why he did this, he didn’t know as he would only awaken with it in knots and tangles, routine he supposed.  

Stepping cautiously outside his cabin, he shut the door solidly behind him, while no one would be at this end of the forest he still couldn’t trust that he wouldn’t return home to trash his home while in his bear form looking for food.  

It was odd, having to bear proof your own belongings from yourself.  

While he was shifted he was still largely himself, he’d never intentionally hurt anyone just that the... The instincts heightened. The instincts to find food, to protect his territory.  

The sun had now gently sunk below the horizon, beautiful oranges and pinks turning to deep purples in the quickly changing night sky. Barleys joints had been aching for days with no relief, but it was all coming to a head now. Darkness came rapidly, the moon full and beautiful. Well, Barley struggled to appreciate the beauty unlike most people as the painful shift began.  

Bones cracking and skin tearing, blood splattering the moss covered forest floor. It all happened so quickly but so slowly all at once, Barley huffing and growling as muscles and joints moved, thick fur growing over his new body.

The werebear collapsed to the floor, panting loudly as the shift completed.  

It took him a long time to recover before gingerly standing with all four paws on the ground, stretching out his back in what could be described as a downward facing dog pose if anyone was to see him right now.  

Twitching one of his fluffy, circular ears he listened closely.  

Leaves fluttering in the night breeze, the stream trickling quietly and a pitter patter... A pattern of hooves running in the forest. A stray deer, he thought, reckless to be here on a night when the moon was so high. They really should have been bunkered down, but ah well.

He was hungry.

Taking off into the deep woods at an incredible speed, he duck and wove between the trunks and thickets, hunting his prey. Barley refused to feel guilty for hunting, at least he did it out of hunger rather than sport and his jaws were far quicker at dispatching game than a slender arrow and the humans that seemed to enjoy how long it took for the animal to bleed out.

But then he smelt something and came to a screeching halt...

Violets.

Violets and beeswax and soft, human skin.

Helena!? No, it couldn’t be... He’d received her message three years ago, telling him her goodbyes and how sorry she was not to see him before she passed. It was a two month journey to the city and he couldn’t travel that far, he couldn’t be caught out shifting in a place he didn’t know was safe.  

Helena was dead, so why could he smell her perfume?

Having given up the chase of his dinner, he lowered his face to the earth, snuffling and sniffing for that comforting smell he’d come to love.  

Barley was unsure how long he’d travelled, but the intoxicating scene was getting stronger and stronger as he crossed the stream and passed the ancient willow, being sure to scratch his behind on the peeling bark as he passed. Bear perks, what could he say?

A branch crunched under his paw and a figure turned in front of him. It was her, the perfume was coming from her he was sure of it.  

Cocking his head to the side he observed her in all of her nervousness and he sat stock still, really looking at her. The woman in front of him was beautiful, utterly stunning, soft and gentle but with a hardness to her face suggesting hard work and struggles. Barley suddenly found himself wanting to make sure she never struggled again, he wanted to hold her, feel her cushioned thighs and curvaceous breasts against his naked skin. So lost in his thoughts that he barely heard her anxious ramblings.  

“Hey-, hey there... Easy now, I don’t want to hurt you and I really don’t want you to hurt me so I’m going to walk away and you’re going to stay just there...” She mumbled to him, starting to skirt away.  

Did she not know he was werebear? Was she that frightened by the thought of seeing a bear that she couldn’t see that he was not only bigger, but somehow more human shaped? Still, he stayed on all fours rather than standing to his full height to keep her from running, screaming into the night.  

As the woman started turn to leave he got another flutter of violet and bees wax and he started slowly forward, he had to check if it was the same, it was far too familiar not to be.

Well here goes nothing.

Barley pushed his snout into her palm, inhaling her perfume.

It was, it was exactly the same. What did this mean!?

Wait, was she the apprentice? Had she come to the village?

Thinking he’d frightened her enough for one night, he pulled his nose away and walked back into the forest. But he didn’t miss the way she brushed her delicate fingertips through his fur.

Barley spent the rest of the night meandering the woods thinking of a plan, he was focused on what to do next, the instinct to hunt or patrol the most quiet it had ever been. A new instinct forming, something he’d never felt before but he knew he had to meet her. To speak to her, hold her...  

To protect her.  

Readers POV

“My name’s Barley,” he offered his large, calloused hand out to shake yours, “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”  

Cautiously you outstretched your own hand to his, feeling him engulf yours by the size of it, the roughness sending a shiver down your spine.  

“Um sure,” you started, “What can I help you with, sir?” You missed the way his eyes darkened at that, seeing as you were too busy trying to keep your eyes from scanning his chest and imagining what it would be like to stroke your fingers through it and to run your fingertips over the silvery scars that crept down from his neck.  

“I was hoping you might have some river fluxroot?” Barley asked you in a gentle tone, as though if he raised his voice you’d shatter into pieces. But river fluxroot? There was only one use for that, that you knew of, and that was to provide a salve to stop large wounds bleeding. Nasty stuff when ill prepared but there was nothing like it for sealing the skin, just like cauterising a wound with less risk.  

You’d been so taken back by his looks that you’d failed to notice he looked pale, swaying on the spot as he smiled lazily down at you.

“Well, I do, but the only thing that I know that uses that particular botanical is a skin stitcher salve which I have plenty of here if you’d rather purchase that instead? After all, it does take hours to make and you look a little pale...” You really had to learn to stop speaking so quickly, and maybe learn to just stop talking completely.

“I’d love to buy some salve, but its so much more expensive than just the root and I only have a few coins.” He answered, still smiling but when he shrugged that quickly disappeared in a flash of pain.

Gods, if he turns out to be a murderer you’re going to be so damn angry.  

“Don’t worry about that,” you stood back, gesturing for Barley to come in, “if you were a friend of Helena’s then you’re a friend of mine. Plus, you look like you might drop any second now and I can’t have any more villagers thinking I’m some kind of bad omen.” You chuckled to yourself as the tall man had to stoop to come through the doorway.  

Barley went right on through to the kitchen, obviously having been here before when this was Helena's home.  

“Please sit,” you gestured to one of the old chairs around the kitchen table, “would you like any tea? I’ve just brewed a fresh pot.”  

Barley nodded gratefully, gingerly sitting himself down in the chair that he managed to make look comically small. You noticed him putting more pressure on his side, brow furrowed.  

Sighing, you pulled your hair back from your face making sure that none of your unruly curls obscured your vision. “I’m going to fetch the salve, and some other bits to make sure that wound you must have on your chest doesn’t get infected. You’ll need to take off your shirt, please.” You tried your hardest to not let your voice crack as you asked him to undress in your kitchen before bustling out to go to your workspace and gather what you needed.  

Chapter Four

#fuzzy moonlight #monsterkisserlove #monster boyfriend #monster fucker #monster writing #werebear #werebear fic #my writing #monster x reader #monster x human

[saints-who-never-existed]

For the six characters:

Collins, Fitzjames, Gore, Sophia, Little and Blanky

:)

Good lord, these really are getting harder! I want to marry and smooch and be nice to all of them!

Marry - Collins! He's kind-hearted and selfless! He's intelligent, loyal, and capable! He's - and I cannot stress this enough - very, very large and hairy! What more could a gal ask for? Again I sayeth - Hubba hubba! 👀

Kiss - Gore! Because he's a good lad and he deserves it. I think he'd be very gentlemanly about it and surprisingly chaste too - let me make that lovely man blush, please! :)

Be Room-Mates With - Blanky! Need I explain? I feel like there'd always be something new with him in the best possible way - just mad Dad/Uncle shit left, right, and centre. One minute he's stripping down an engine in the living room, the next he's building an incredible bit of furniture from scratch, the next still he's brewing beer in a cupboard or raising a school of rainbow trout in the bathtub. I feel like he'd just be good at everything - infinite madness, infinite fun. :D

Wrap a Blanket Around - Sophia! Get your slippers back on and come in out of that cold, snowy courtyard, babygirl, I've got you! <3

Push Off a Cliff - Fitzjames! I've really been trying to shake things up between each ask just for fun but my answer on this one must remain the same this time. Fitzjamie is built for base-jumping, ultra-marathons, cave-diving and other such adrenaline-based nonsense. Push him off a cliff with a rudimentary parachute, 100%.

Set on Fire - Little! I do feel bad about it since he is of course my all-time blorbo. Can we just pretend that this means I mildly singed him while lighting candles for a romantic bubble bath? Or that he burned his tongue on some delicious non-Dundy soup I prepared for him? Please?!

#I feel like I'm rapidly veering away from the proper spirit of things here #It's becoming less about what I would actually do and more about how whimsically I can justify it for my own amusement #More a mechanism through which to share very silly headcanons #Nevertheless I persist #This is such a delight to me #(I finished the job application by the way) #Asks #Ask Game #Friendos! #Sillyposting #So silly

[candy-sweets-101]

Sweet rainbow strips 💐🌈

#candy gore #digital illustration #anime art #character art #digital drawing #artists on tumblr #digitaldesign #digital art #original character #art #halloween candy #cute gore #gore halloween #goretober #art gore #cute girl #digitalart #holiday gore #rainbow strips gore #old art

[painsandconfusion]

Hypothermia

Febuwhump Sixth

(tw: mild gore, heavily implied future character death, unhinged whumper (this dude has almost completely lost touch with reality), hypothermia, severe frostbite, flesh and skin ripping off - vague gore in that way, restraints, manhandling, whumpee won't survive this)

Same whumper as in this scene.

[Febuwhump Masterlist]

.

It shouldn’t be warm.

Whumpee knew that. Vaguely. The fact was a half forgotten blur lost to the static of their mind, hiding somewhere deep in the corner, refusing to come out even at the softest ‘pss pss pss’. Evasive little thing.

Still, that didn’t mean Whumpee couldn’t enjoy it.

For a while, they fought it. They tried to force themself awake. Kick their legs out and keep the blood flowing.

But they were tired.

So fucking tired.

So the knowledge and the panic slipped away like melting drifts of snow. Making room for daisies to pop up from the warm earth overnight.

The warmth came.

And they let it.

They were only vaguely aware of the wind howling around them. They really should feel cold - they should….something…

But the snow was so soft. So bright. So easy to tuck their face into.

The shards of ice felt like warm down feathers - the pillow popped open, inviting them to snuggle in between the bits of fabric.

And snuggle they did. They tucked themself into a little ball, letting their mind wander to thoughts of warmth. Soft blankets to match the pillow. A crackling fire.

It was like they were there. The wind whistling above them became the sweet hum of a mother’s lullaby. The ropes stretching their arms behind their back became a tight, warm quilt. The puddle of blood that had frozen their skin to the ground was just the soft cotton sheets under them.

They drifted and they dreamt.

Warm.

So warm.

So warm and soft and good.

They could forget. Dream. Rest.

Rays of light danced around them as they slipped into the vision-

Only to be pulled back out.

Something knocked their head to the side, dizzying them.

Whumpee squinted, blinking harshly up at the intrusion.

Whumper patted their cheek again - hard enough it rattled their vision. They didn’t feel it.

“Oh good, there. You’re awake.” Whumper shifted on their knees, gripping Whumpee by the shoulder. They didn’t feel that either.

“Sorry I got a little distracted. Kinda forgot you were out here!”

Whumper grunted as they yanked Whumpee up by the ropes.

Whumpee’s head lulled. They tried to hold it up, but the request their brain sent was not nearly demanding enough for their muscles to comply. Their eyes folded shut again.

“Let’s get you insiddddeeeee….” Whumper slid an arm under their knees and behind their bound arms. They lifted.

A strange sound muffled itself against their side.

Whumpee’s head fell back again. They stared at the ground swaying under them. The image was upside-down, but they didn’t really care.

Their eyes landed on the streaks of frozen blood.

Much of it was embossed with strips of skin and flesh.

They hadn’t felt that either.

They were too tired to care.

Whumpee let their eyes fall closed again, letting the rhythmic sway of Whumper’s steps coax them back to sleep.

.

[Febuwhump Masterlist]

Thanks @febuwhump for putting together this event!!!

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @mabledonut @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing @tropes-for-my-md-daydreams @batfacedliar-yetagain @suspicious-whumping-egg @wormwriting @jadeocean46910 @villainsvictim @thecitythatdoesntsleep @heathenwhump @cryptidhongo @rainbows-and-whumperflies @bookish-anon @whumpy-catfish)

#febuwump #febuwhump2022 #febuwhumpday6

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

never let you go (1)

Summary: After losing the woman they love, Bucky and Steve make a desperate decision with unimaginable consequences. 

Characters: Stucky x Reader Warnings: Heavy angst. Brief character death (with a return). Violence, blood, demons, and gore. SMUT (m/f/m, brief m/m, masturbation). An appearance by everyone’s favorite Hunters (SPN crossover).

Prompt: “Heartache is one thing, but this…this is worse.”

A/N: This is my submission for the fantastic @sherrybaby14​ for Sherry’s Fall Into You challenge, thanks babe for hosting. This is a dark story fam, different than my usual writing. Bucky and Steve really do make some bad decisions, so please heed the warnings. This is a short series, only 2-3 parts.

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

*****

Looking back, it happened so fast.

Night was stealing over the horizon when the mission was officially called. Bad guys in handcuffs, team members safe, the world still turning. On the roof of a nearby office building, you stood between Bucky and Steve, smiling in relief.

Smiling, smiling, smiling.

You were smiling right before the bomb went off.

Later, Bucky remembers the shock on your face, the shape of Steve’s mouth screaming. He remembers that swoop in his belly, the weightless feel of wild loops on a rollercoaster. He remembers your piercing cry as the floor gave way beneath three pairs of boots, bodies knocking together in a choking sea of crumbling concrete and screeching steel.

And when the smoke cleared, when your broken fingers found his and Bucky saw your lips stained with sticky red, he knew instantly. He knew and he knew you knew. You’d seen enough injuries to recognize death when it beckons. Steve was shouting, clambering over a broken wall, fighting through piles of debris to where you lay pinned beneath the unforgiving stone. He collapsed beside you, trembling soot-smudged fingers cupping your face.

No more than a minute passed. Sixty short seconds of breaking and bleeding and screaming, now stretching into an unending lifetime of regret. One minute more, before your small sips of breath slow into nothing. They stay with you until the end, each with their hands on you, comforting and pleading to stay, please stay, we love you, please don’t leave.

But Death cares little for love.

When they emerged from the ruins, Steve carried your broken body, Bucky staggering numbly behind. The world shifts.

Three days later, comes the funeral. Black suits, black dresses, black casket. A rainbow of flowers for a life overflowing with love and laughter. The formalities of grief are observed, those unfailingly dependable motions polite society demands.

Steve, ever the stalwart public figure, does most of the work. Shaking hands and speaking quietly and nodding gravely at words of condolence. On the fringes of the crowd, away from the crush of sympathy Bucky stands pale and hidden. Despite concern and questions, not a single word has passed his lips since that day.

Finally it ends, the last well-wisher is whisked into the night, and they’re left alone. Two men shattered by tragedy, hearts burning with a soul consuming love for a woman they couldn’t save.

Before a crackling fire, Steve sits slumped in your favorite chair. Cocooned in silent misery, red-rimmed eyes wide and unseeing, he holds a heavy crystal tumbler loose in his hand.

When he sucks in a sharp, strangled breath, Bucky looks over.

The tumbler slips from Steve’s hand, bouncing soundlessly on the plush grey rug and he stands quickly, stumbling toward the fireplace. The flames are strangely welcoming, translucent beams of fractured light breaking through the room.

“Get it off,” he suddenly chokes out. Panic bleeds off him in waves, and he yanks at his tie. The knot tightens and Steve begins to sweat, voice rising higher. “Get it off, now, get it off, get it all off! Please! Please Bucky, please!”

Startled, Bucky leaps up. He pulls the jacket down Steve’s flailing arms and watches in confusion as Steve strips off the rest.

Tie, shirt, belt.

Trousers, boxers, socks.

Ripping the jacket dangling from Bucky’s fingers, Steve rolls everything into a ball and shoves it into the fireplace. Flames lick along his hands, instantly scalding his fingertips with angry red blisters, but he pays no attention. The fire is quick to take, wrapping everything in ringlets of blue and orange, greedily devouring the gift.

As he stands naked in the living room, Steve begins to shiver.

“I don’t know if I can - can do this. Heartache is one thing, but this…this is worse.” he gasps. He crouches on the floor, puts his head between his knees. “This is worse, this is - this is fu-fucking worse.”

Shadows dance through the room while the fire consumes the remnants of the funeral suit. Good riddance of course. There’s no way on earth he’d wear those clothes again.

The wet, broken rasp of Steve’s sobs are the only sound in the room. Bucky wants to help, but there’s nothing left inside him. No reassurances, no words of relief. The solace of love that filled their home has evaporated, leaving nothing more than a wisp of memory.

*****

Their world ends, but as always - the days go by.

*****

One morning Bucky wakes up, head still full of foggy dreams. Lost happiness. He comes awake slowly, bleary eyed and so painfully hard he’s ashamed of that fact.

He sets the shower to a burning rain and stands under the deluge. Closes his eyes and lets the heat sear his skin to a sheet of bright red, trying desperately to wash away those heartbreaking dreams of you, safe and perfect in his arms. He palms himself roughly at the thought, trying to ease the ache. There’s a feeling of disgust that accompanies the touch, humiliated frustration at such a base instinct.

He tells himself he can finish it quick, make it go away. Take the edge off.

With one wet hand on slippery tile, he wraps the other around himself and jerks. He hates himself for picturing you. Beautiful lips, beautiful skin, beautiful eyes. The sound of your voice hitching, sweet sighs of pleasure when he touches your body.

He tells himself the water sluicing down his face is the shower. He tells himself he’s fine. This is stress relief. Something to relax. But when he comes all over his hand, his knees buckle and Bucky collapses, crumpling to a ball on the floor of the cavernous shower. Staring up at the ceiling, the water pelts his face until the burning heat turns icy cold.

The dampness on his face, is the shower. They are not tears. He is fine.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

*****

One evening, Steve takes a drive.

Out of Manhattan, past the safe lights of suburbia, further north until he hits the solitude of wilderness. He drives until he finds the path he knows, bumping over gnarled roots, wheels grinding pathetically in the silent night. When it ends, he gets out and continues on foot. Pushing through a dense copse of trees, swiping away the sharp branches reaching for him. He walks and walks, until he reaches what he needs.

Moonlight bathes the small clearing in a white glow, and he walks forward until he’s in the middle of the tranquil space. Cold dew soaks into his jeans when he kneels in the stubby grass, but he doesn’t notice. Tipping his head back, he looks up at the stars.

He screams. On and on and on, the sounds echoing back at him, reverberating off the wall of trees, sending sleeping birds into screeching flight. He screams and he screams, rage and grief and the raw devastation of heartbreak so potent he nearly faints. He screams when he remembers the tears in your eyes silently begging for help, and he screams at the impotence of knowing he could do nothing but watch your life bleed away. He screams for himself, for Bucky, for you. Steve screams until his voice is gone, until the soft tissue inside his throat is swollen and shredded and he spits up blood.

And then he staggers to his feet, pushing back through the trees, until he reaches his car. He climbs inside and turns for home.

He comes back the next night. And the one after that.

Again, and again, and again. Step and repeat.

*****

…and the lonely days melt into weeks…

*****

Neither man is deemed fit for combat, both stripped of duties and relegated to wait. Recover, the therapists say. Rest and recover. Work will always be there. Wait it out, until you feel normal.

Bucky punches a hole through their front door at the condescending support. As if he could wait it out. As if that’s a real thing. As if this grief will ever do anything but grind his heart to mush.

Instead of avenging, they pass the time with mundane things. Searching for purpose, finding none.

In the middle of a stormy night, with the world asleep in their beds, they find themselves in an empty gym. Sweat slick fists and knees jabbing, punching, kicking, sparing with vicious intensity. The pace is blindingly fast, sharply efficient. Back and forth they move, a deadly dance that temporarily takes their minds away from the present, from that gaping loss that will never heal.

On and on they move, until Bucky sweeps his leg and Steve misses the jump. He tumbles to the ground, and Bucky pins him neatly against the mat. Breathing hard, Steve stares up, anguish turning him inside out. He opens his mouth and Bucky already knows what’s coming.

“Steve,” he warns.

“I miss her,” Steve whispers. Misery coats the words, sticky with despair.

“Stop,” Bucky snaps. He scrambles to his feet, turns toward the door. “Don’t you fucking do this, I told you we ain’t talking about it.”

Steve climbs sluggishly to his feet. He rubs his eyes, feels the burn of pooling tears. It’s so natural these days, that prickling heat. Looking up, he sees the tense muscles in Bucky’s hunched shoulders, and he can’t stop from asking.

“Do you - do you remember when it was just the two of us? When we were enough?” he asks hoarsely, and Bucky whips around. Rushing Steve, he catches him around the waist and slams him against the padded blue wall. There’s a faint whir of shifting plates and a metal fist pounds the mat, an inch from Steve’s tear-streaked cheek. He doesn’t even flinch, staring bleakly at the rage in Bucky’s face.

Without missing a beat, Bucky grabs a handful of sweaty shirt and hauls him forward, a furious snarl preceding a bruising kiss. Steve goes easily, their lips moving in a violent rhythm against each other.

When Bucky breaks away, he spins Steve around, shoves him face first against the wall. Without a word, he yanks down Steve’s shorts and kicks his feet apart. This is the first time they’ve touched each other since that day, and the intimacy that blooms is brutal.

Rough thrusts. Quiet grunts. Sex is a race to the finish, both betting on themselves and doing everything in their power to win. Bucky fucks into him, hips snapping recklessly, and Steve wraps a hand around himself, jerking quickly. No more than a minute later and it’s over, tempers cooling like the shimmering film of sweat on their skin.

Panting harshly against Steve’s neck, Bucky answers the question, his voice hollow.

“Yeah I remember. Doesn’t matter. We won’t be again.”

*****

…on and on it goes, until weeks blur into months.

*****

Time passes, but there is no movement for them. Every step forward comes with five steps back, regressing into a despair with no end in sight. How can you hope to move on, when the best part of yourself is lost, gone, rotting away in a white marble mausoleum in a Brooklyn cemetery?

How the fuck can you survive, when the light you’ve been living for goes out?

Lying in bed one cold October night, these are the thoughts traipsing through Steve’s head. Beside him, Bucky is wrapped in an old blanket, unwashed hair fanning in dark tangles across his pillow, and for a long time, Steve watches him. He knows when the nightmares arrive. Bucky begins to shake, soft sounds slipping through clenched teeth, whimpers of a cornered dog with no way out. Steve reaches for him.

At the pressure on his arm, Bucky wakes with a strangled moan. Kicking away the blanket, he sits up, twisting to look at Steve. Sweat pours down his face, until Steve looks closer and understands.

Tears.

Chest heaving, Bucky glares at him.

“No, god dammit, fucking - fuck you,” he spits out, choked by tears. “I told you not to wake me up, never wake me up. She was there, I almost had her, she was - she was there, I could’ve - “

Shaking furiously, he scrambles out of bed, dragging the blanket behind him. Moments later, Steve flinches when the bathroom door slams so hard, the walls of their apartment shake.

The thought comes again. When every shred of hope is abandoned, when the devils of despair are hungering for your sanity, what can you possibly do? How can you go on?

There in that room, rising from the depths of hell, an idea comes.

Shadowy images fill his head, blurry mission reports and hazy pictures. A thick binder with a peculiar collection of information, full of monsters and demons and evil that goes bump in the night. Scary stories he and Bucky read as kids, huddled together under his bedspread.

Steve thinks of SHIELD letterhead and a list of names with an unfamiliar title.

Hunters, he thinks. The word ‘Hunters’ was typed at the top of that list.

He gets an idea. Steve gets a terrible, horrible, beautiful idea.

*****

North of Chicago, in a greasy diner rank with the sour scent of body odor, four men are squeezed into a red booth. The cracked vinyl is peeling away in places, sharp edges revealing yellowed stuffing and frayed threads, and when Bucky lays his arm across the back, it pinches his skin. Beside him, Steve sits stiffly, hands folded next to a chipped ceramic mug of lukewarm coffee.

Hunched across from them, shoveling syrup-soaked pancakes in his mouth, Dean Winchester thumbs over his shoulder at the chalkboard sign above the counter.

“Pig ’N a Poke. Always good.”

No one responds. An awkward silence blankets the uncomfortably full booth, until Bucky clears his throat.

“So you two -“ he motions between the two men, “you’re, what? Together?”

Swearing under his breath, Dean rolls his eyes and keeps eating. “Why the hell does everyone ask that? No. We’re brothers. God damn.”

Crammed beside Dean, Sam Winchester observes the two super soldiers. Toying with the edge of his coffee cup, he fixes them with a thoughtful stare.

“Sorry we dodged your calls, we uh, we try to stay away from SHIELD,” he says wryly. “Not much good ever comes from it.”

“Yeah, last time we got involved, you dicks got my car impounded,” Dean pipes up, spraying bits of pancake across the table. Fixing him with a dark glare, Bucky slowly wipes it off his cheek. Dean grins.

Ignoring the exchange, Steve leans forward, gripping the coffee cup to steady his nervous hands. He takes a deep breath.

“We won’t say anything. SHIELD can’t know we’re here. I read a report about - about something that happened. About something you did. It said - “ He pauses, debating his next words. They tumble out in a rush of breath. “It said you know how to make deals. With certain kinds of - people. The kind of deals that need to stay off the radar.”

Everyone in the cramped booth freezes. The pancake laden fork briefly hovers in midair, before clattering to the table.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Steve gathers himself and tips his chin up.

“Not even a little.”

Dean leans back. Eyes flitting between the two men, perhaps gauging their sanity. It takes a full minute before he speaks.

“Man, you fucking superheroes are something else, you know that? I don’t know what you read in that report you found Captain, but you think there’s something you need that’s worth an eternity literally burning in hell? Is that what I’m hearing?”

Neither answers immediately. Bucky looks aside, out the dust smeared window, to the black Impala parked in front. He wonders briefly where the Winchesters found it. He always wanted one.

“We lost someone.”

At Steve’s quiet admission, Bucky turns back with a ferociously defiant expression and Sam’s eyes soften.

“Yeah. We heard about that. I’m sorry.”

Steve acknowledges the condolence with a stiff nod, while Bucky schools his face into a blank mask. Looking between the two men, Dean takes a deep breath.

“Listen, I’m sorry about what happened, I really am. But I’m not gonna sugar coat this for you. My suggestion? Get some god damn therapy and figure out how to move on. Me and Sammy, we’ve both been down there and this isn’t some bullshit scare tactic, or some ghost story you heard in Sunday school. This is fucking real. And it doesn’t end. Ever. This is forever. Hell is forever. Do you get that?”

“I know a thing or two about hell,” Bucky says drily, taking a sip of coffee. He feels a funny lurch in his belly when Dean levels him with a pitying stare.

“No. You don’t.”

Arms crossed on the flaking linoleum table, Bucky sits forward. “Listen kid, I’m under no illusions about my future. All the shit I’ve done, every crime, every murder, you think I don’t know where I’m ending up? No amount of heavenly forgiveness is gonna take that away. This ends bloody for me no matter what path I choose. So, enlighten me here. Why the hell shouldn’t I make it count?”

Silence hangs over the table. Beside him, Bucky feels Steve’s hand on his thigh, a comforting squeeze. He understands. For all Steve’s comments about the past not being Bucky’s fault, of course he considered this outcome.

Across the table, Sam quietly clears his throat, murmuring low.

“Dean -”

“No, this is horseshit and you know it. You can’t - “ he stops when he seems the firm resolve on both faces. And honestly? Dean Winchester has been a lost cause often enough to recognize a case when he sees one. “Fine. If you boys do this, that’s it. There’s no going back. You understand that? You are on your own. We can’t save you.”

“Yes,” Steve grits out. “We understand.”

“No, I don’t think you do. You make a deal like this and that’s it. There’s no get out of jail. Hell comes calling and that bitch’ll rip you limb from limb, before she drags you to rot down below.”

The words have no effect. Steve peers sideways at Bucky and finds him perfectly relaxed.

“We appreciate the concern. But we’re good.”

Mumbling all manner of obscenities under his breath, Dean digs inside his jacket until he finds a small yellow notepad and a dull pencil. Slapping it on the table, he writes. List, instructions, locations. He rips the paper out and flings it at Steve.

“This is on your heads.”

Nodding his thanks, Steve folds the paper and tucks it carefully in his pocket. The broken leather of the booth creaks and squeaks as he exits, Bucky sliding out behind him.

Side by side, they look down at the Winchester brothers. All four men have been perpetually hounded by some form of death their entire lives; it seems inevitable they would meet before the end.

Offering a faint smile, Bucky shrugs.

“Haven’t you ever loved someone so much, you’d move heaven and earth to bring them back?”

*****

Under the full moon, Steve cracks the small tin box for one final look.

A polaroid of him and Bucky. A clear glass vial of graveyard dirt from a small plot in Brooklyn. The leg bone from a black cat, a stray they saw skulking in an alley; Steve had caught it and did the dirty work there. Bucky always was a bleeding heart when it came to animals.

Crouched in the dead center of the crossroad, Bucky carves out a small hole with smooth metal fingers. When Steve hands him the box, he places it carefully, angling it just right.

Piling the dirt back over, Bucky pats it down and stands, legs suddenly shaky, heart hammering in fear. Dusting off his hands, he edges closer to Steve.

“Now what?”

Steve says nothing. He stares at the stalks of yellow flowers lining the road, waving gently in the night air, and the innocuous sight sends a shiver rippling down his spine.

“Well, well, well. Two super soldiers? This is one hell of a surprise.”

The voice is soft, gentle. Musical in a way, like windchimes on a sunny day or the faint hum of birds warbling in the morning.

It turns their blood to ice.

Both men whirl simultaneously, discovering a woman standing behind them. Dressed in a wispy white dress, dark hair falls in thick waves down her back, bottle green eyes framed by long lashes. When she smiles, a dimple appears.

Beautiful. Ethereal. The kind of woman who could lure a man into anything.

She blinks. Shining in the moonlight, the green disappears and another color slides in place. Sickeningly bright, hot as fire.

Red.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve hisses, stumbling back a step back and she laughs.

“No, I’m afraid not.”

Beside him, Bucky feels Steve trembling, and he reaches for his hand, tangling their fingers together. The gesture fills them both with a renewed courage, and Steve clears his throat.

“We want to - we need - we need to make a deal. There’s someone. We need to bring someone back. To life.”

She whistles, long and low. “Hmm. That’s a tall order boys. I’ll need something good to make this worth my while.”

“The deal is 10 years, right?” Steve motions between him and Bucky. “We each get 10 years, and then - then -“ he trips over the words, unable to finish the grisly statement. Amused, she lets him flounder. “Then we’re - then we’ll go.”

“Normally yes. Those are the standard terms, but for you two? I don’t know. Feels like I could get myself in trouble for taking from such - virile specimens.”

“But we want to deal,” Steve argues.

The white dress flows like water as she strolls forward. Stopping before them, she trails a finger down Bucky’s silver arm, and he shudders.

“Maybe we could come to a different arrangement. If you’re interested.”

“Like what?”

“Well boys, I think you might be worth far more above ground than below. So how about this.” Green eyes gleaming, Bucky has the gruesome sense of a spider moving silently along her web, stalking two struggling flies. “I know who you want, and I’ll bring her back, safe and sound. Deliver her right to your door, and both of you stay up here. Souls intact. For one tiny price.”

Too good to be true. Far too good. Bucky waits for the pin to drop.

“What tiny price?” he breathes.

She smiles. 

And then she answers.

Still clasping hands, Bucky feels cold sweat slicking Steve’s palm. Is this right? Can they really do this? The offer is tantalizing, another level of evil they have yet to fully comprehend. But Bucky knows his mind, what he’s willing to give, and he knows Steve feels the same.

There is no question.

“Deal.”

“Takes a kiss to seal it,” she whispers. Moving close, she curls a hand behind Steve’s neck and pulls his face down. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth drawn in a tight line, he waits it out, a full body shiver rattling his tall frame. Her fingers run through his sweaty blond hair, and he feels sick to his stomach at the way her fingernails scratch so invitingly along his scalp. When she’s had enough, she breaks away in a huff of feigned disappointment.

“Less than inspiring Captain.” Turning to Bucky, she offers a sly smile. “How about you, Soldier? Got anything better?”

Bucky steels himself, as she rises on her toes and presses her mouth to his. He keeps his eyes open, staring forward, and lets her have the kiss, feels her run her tongue along the seam of his lips, a brazen request for more. Parting his lips, he tastes the cloyingly sweet scent of her breath, feels her rub against him, the cool damp of her tongue licking along his teeth.

Forcing himself to disconnect from the moment, he wonders how a kiss can feel so utterly wrong. He wants to turn heel and run, but he’s suddenly and overwhelmingly terrified she might rescind the deal. That she might snatch this burgeoning hope from their begging hands and return to her corner of hell.

So, he lets her have the kiss. Right now, the hideous truth is that he’d give her anything she asked, if it meant he gets you back.

Finally she pulls away, running her fingers down his chest.

“Much better. Now - kiss each other.” Confused, they look at each other and back to her. The seriousness of the request fades and she laughs. “Kidding. Two pretty boys like you, how can I help myself?”

Stepping back, her eerily musical laughter still dancing on the wind, she vanishes.

The night is silent.

Bucky staggers to the yellow flowers and vomits all over them.

*****

Driving along the lonely stretch of highway, they sit in silence. Each wrestling with newfound demons, now more than metaphorical.

“Do you think it worked?” Steve asks, voice hushed and rough.

Bucky stares straight ahead, watching the night zip by, illuminated asphalt between twin beams of light. He says nothing.

*****

Their front door still has a patch on the outside, where Bucky slammed his fist through the wood. It swings quietly when Steve pushes it open, clicking on the hall light. They drop their bags in the entry, walking through the dark apartment.

“But when would we know, that’s what I don’t -“

Steve stops so abruptly, Bucky trips into him from behind.

“Dammit Steve, what - “

In the armchair by the window, sits a familiar silhouette. Barefoot, wearing a long-sleeved blue t-shirt and jeans, someone turns to face them.

Shocked silence billows out, thick and bottomless. There’s a strangled gasp and Steve flings out an arm, blocking Bucky from running at you.

“Wait,” he hisses, “Buck, just - just wait.”

Bewildered, you watch their cautious movements, small shuffles inching closer. When they’re two feet away, Steve stops them again.

“Hold out your hand,” he whispers raggedly, and you stare in confusion. He shakes his head, still holding Bucky back with one arm and motions for your hand. Extending it slowly, you offer it palm up. Steve fishes out a small bottle from his pocket, trembling fingers flipping the lid, and with a deep breath, he splashes holy water all over your hand.

He cringes, waiting.

Nothing.

Staring curiously at the innocent water droplets, you look up.

“Steve, what is this? What’s happening?”

At the sound of your exhausted voice, a broken howl rips from Bucky’s throat and he barrels past Steve. Falling at your feet, he wraps his arms tight around your waist and buries his face against your belly, his shoulders shaking with the hurricane force of his wrenching sobs. Gentle fingers comb through his tangled hair, while you calm him with meaningless words, the soothing syllables priceless simply because they’re yours.

Over the sound of Bucky’s tears, Steve comes closer. He traces the curves of your face, over your forehead, down your nose, brushing your lips. It worked, he thinks, and fierce relief sweeps through him. Wrapping an arm around your shoulders, he presses his mouth to your temple, inhaling the clean scent of your skin.

“Welcome home, sweetheart.”

*****

For the next three days, you do nothing but sleep. Small breaks between sleep and awake to eat the chicken noodle soup Bucky brings, the pastrami sandwich Steve cuts into small squares, a chocolate chip cookie fresh from the oven.

At first, they worry. Did they fuck up the deal? Was something else wrong? Were you sick? Eventually, they understand coming back to life is not as simple as waking up and picking up where you left off.

So, they let you sleep, drawing the bedroom curtains into darkness, fluffing up the pillows whenever you stumble to the bathroom, keeping the glass on the nightstand filled with cool water. They linger outside the bedroom door, propped against the wall and watching each other, impatiently patient.

In the middle of the night on the fourth day, Bucky jolts awake. Sleepy and befuddled, his heart sinks. Was it another dream? His mind playing tricks? Listening, he waits and waits and waits, and suddenly, he hears it again.

No, this is not a dream. This is real.

He hears you calling.

“Bucky? Steve?”

Scrambling to his feet, he kicks Steve awake and drags him up. Together, they crack open the bedroom door, a dim sliver of hall light illuminating the sight. There you are, curled in a ball along the edge of the bed.

“Hey,” you whisper hoarsely, pulling the blanket tighter. They creep closer, kneeling together beside the bed to look in your eyes.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Bucky says softly. “Did you need something?”

The question comes with such tenderness, your heart swells. What you needed, was to ask them what happened. What did they do? How did it happen? What did it cost? You know the grim reality of whatever magic they used to bring you back will have consequences. Selfish magic always does.

These are the things you should ask, the things you need to know. But in this moment, with these two extraordinary men watching you with such breathless reverence, the intensity of a different emotion strikes like lightning. It surges through your veins, a liquid fire craving to feel them, inside and out.

Nothing else matters. The truth can wait.

“Can you do something for me?” you whisper instead.

“Anything,” he breathes instantly, Steve nodding helpfully.

“Can you kiss me?” you whisper and Bucky blinks, surprised. Glancing at Steve, he hesitates briefly, before leaning forward and placing a chaste kiss on your lips. He tastes soft, a faint hint of minty toothpaste on his breath.

When he breaks away, you slip a hand behind his neck. He swallows hard at feel of your fingers digging into his skin and leans helplessly into the touch.

“Honey - “ he starts, but you cut him off.

“Kiss me again. Mean it this time.”

At your demand, dark lust fills his face. Eyes flicking back and forth, he appears to gauge the request, making absolutely sure you’re sure, and then -

He devours you.

Shoving you back into the mess of pillows, he climbs onto the bed, mouth slanting hungrily over yours. Teeth bumping, tongue sliding along yours, he holds your face between his palms, damp skin and cool metal. He kisses so long and deep, so thorough and full of passion, it leaves you gasping for air.

“Better?” he murmurs, and for the first time since the day you died, since that moment your soul flew beyond his reach, the faint flicker of a smile tugs his lips.

The kiss does nothing to calm the tide. It makes your skin sizzle, lust sweeping through your body.

“I need you. Both of you. Please,” you breathe, tugging frantically at your shirt, a feverish desperation for the blazing heat of their skin against yours.

“Are you sure?” Steve asks hoarsely, blunt tipped fingers gripping your hip so tight you feel a bruise already forming. There is no pain though, only the comforting pressure of intimate familiarity. “We don’t have to do anything, not yet, not - not ever.”

“Please,” you plead again. “Please. It’s been so long, I missed you, don’t - don’t let me leave you, please Steve, please don’t let me go again.”

At your tearful words, Steve genuinely believes he feels his heart break. All he knows, all he will ever know again, is a burning need to fix this. To keep you and Bucky safe from everything, no matter the cost.

“Never. Never again,” he vows, and beside him, Bucky echoes the promise.

“Never, sweetheart. We’ll never let you go.”

The simplicity of a remembered intimacy comes naturally. Steve settles against the headboard and pulls you between his legs, tossing away your shirt and peppering kisses across your back, over your shoulders, up your neck. Wide hands stroke up along your ribcage, cupping your breasts. It makes you twitch when he gently pinches your nipples, teeth nipping at your ear.

Bucky slides your panties off and settles between your legs, easing them open. Warm breath brushes over your clit and then he licks a firm strip between your folds. At your low moan, he slowly pushes two fingers inside you, twisting and rubbing until sparks crackle along your skin.

“Keep going, oh god, keep going.”

Bracketed between Steve’s thighs, one hand tangled in Bucky’s dark hair, your hips push up to meet every stroke of his tongue, writhing as he holds you down. Steve’s hands are ceaseless, rubbing your breasts, circling your nipples, tugging lightly as he leaves small bites along your neck.

“There you go baby, that’s it,” he whispers. “Keep watching him, don’t look away.”

Eyes on the ceiling, you force yourself to look down, at the man nestled snug between your legs. His dark hair falls over his forehead, blue eyes burning you to ash.

“Bucky,” you rasp, powerless against the onslaught of pleasure, “Steve. Please.”

The sound of his name falling from your lips, something he never expected to hear again, sends Bucky into a frenzy. Tongue flicking faster, he pumps his fingers harder, the vibration from his moan pulsing against your clit and everything shatters.

Arching up, the orgasm crests and breaks, white noise blanking your mind. Incoherent cries fill your ears, over and over, until you recognize the sound of your own voice, a repetitious prayer crafted from the only three words that will ever matter.

Bucky.

Steve.

Please.

They answer, of course. In perfect fashion, with perfect rhythm.

Steve pulls your boneless, shuddering body higher, and Bucky opens your legs wider, letting Steve ease into your pussy from behind. He groans at the feel, the silky wet heat gripping him, and clutches your back tight to his chest. Rocking his hips up, he moves your body easily, thrusting deep. The delicious sound of his soft grunts fill your ear and it reignites the throbbing ache between your legs.

Bucky crawls up until he straddles you both, his tongue curling around your nipple, licking, sucking, tugging delicately with his teeth. He frees your hand, the one digging into Steve’s thigh, and wordlessly coaxes it between his legs. Wrapping sweaty fingers tight around his cock, you stroke him, following the rhythm Steve sets.

It feels so easy, the three of you moving in tandem, both men thrusting faster, harder, rougher, until you come once more, and just like always, they follow to a stuttering end right behind.

Bucky.

Steve.

Please.

Yes, these three words are the only ones you think you’ll ever need.

****

Sated, the three of you lay together. Bucky in his favorite place, forehead tucked against your breasts, his arm curved around your waist. Steve warm and solid, molded head to toe along your back, his arm slung around you both, fingers lazily twirling Bucky’s hair.

Beyond the curtains, darkness remains. Now, with your body exhausted and comforted by their presence, if becomes easier to whisper the question.

“How did you do it?”

“Hmm?” Steve murmurs, drifting toward the balm of sleep. Bucky says nothing, simply snuggles closer, his steady breaths puffing warm on your skin.

“I remember what happened.” Softly the confession falls. “Please don’t lie to me. Tell me how you did it. How you brought me back.”

Both men stiffen. Bucky stops breathing. Steve stops stroking his hair. Dread fills you, cold as ice. You know then, whatever price they’ve paid? It will tear the world apart.

Breath tickling the back of your neck, Steve murmurs so quietly, you strain to hear.

“We made a deal.”

*****

Part 2

*****

#stucky x reader #bucky x reader x steve #sherrysfallintoyouchallenge #bucky barnes #steve rogers #stucky #stucky fic #bucky x reader #steve x reader #spn #supernatural #crossover fic

[a-cat-in-a-funky-hat]

The Creature Of The Night

I finished writing the shortstory! If you didn’t know, I made this short post yesterday night but it was just a quick thing my sleep deprived brain came up with and I wrote it into a proper short story.

I would recommend you listen to this short little playlist I made to accompany it, I feel like it adds to the mood :)

Content warnings: blood, gore

I’m gonna quickly tag @vamp-void because they already liked the first draft of this and I promised a brutal story haha, sorry this isn’t the brutal AND gay one just yet, I’ll get working on that one day ;D

There are many cryptids that are said to live across northern America, some you might have heard of. However, the cryptid in this story is more of a local phenomenon. Stories of her have been circulating for centuries, dating back as far as the first settlers that came to America. Quiet whispers. Stories told around campfires. Words of warnings to anyone that passed by.

Up high in the mountains of a town near the Canadian border there is said to be a woman. A creature of the night. Deep in the forest she stays, the most beautiful woman you have ever seen, playing a haunting melody on a violin which will lure in her prey. She has dark hair, some say, others persist that it’s light, but one thing they all can agree on is that her skin is as white as snow and her lips as red as the blood of the victims she devours. A creature of the night, dancing around barefoot to the melody, even in the dead of winter with snow covering the forest floor.

There have been sightings of her but most people in their right mind would immediately abandon the area and get to safety, that is if she allowed it. That is where the stories come from anyway.

Others, unlucky people who could not resist to run away from her or didn’t manage in time, have never been seen again, some of them have been found, drained entirely of their blood or with their throats ripped out or limbs missing, organs ripped out of their torsos or guts hanging out halfway. All of their faces contorted in pain, a lasting impression of their final screams that had been swallowed by the night.

Now you may ask yourself why no one has ever tried to chase her away. My dear, how do you chase away a deadly monster that has been alive for centuries, who will brutally murder anyone in her reach in such a gruesome way?

Few stories exist, most from around the beginning of the 19th century, of good men with the intention to rid the town of this cruel monster. Into the woods they went at night, high up into the mountains. With pitchforks and burning torches. Not a single one returned alive.

All stories end like that. The people have learned not to go into the mountains at night anymore.

However.

The stupidity of the youth is endless, just as their inquisitiveness. So it happened that on a cold November morning with the temperatures just above freezing, a group of five high school students decided to go into the woods and investigate the stories they heard being whispered in the dead of the night. Surely that was just a story made up by the people decades and centuries ago. Creatures like that didn’t exist now, did they?

The sun was by far not up yet, the day dawned when they arrived up in the mountains. That day it was particularly foggy, you could only see a couple hundred of feet ahead. That, dear readers, was the first mistake they made. Had they gone on a less foggy day maybe they had been able to see her earlier and get away safely.

When they had started hiking through the woods it had still been pitch black with only a strip of light in the far east, but now the light spread across the sky. They could see the fog dance through the woods, around the trees that had mostly shed their leaves for the winter ahead. The floor was half frozen in the woods, the fallen leaves were covered with frost just like the moss and the little twigs and sticks that littered the floor. Little puffs of breath formed in front of their faces when they exhaled, it was cold and they shivered even though they had bundled up to combat the cold.

The first thing they noticed that it was eerily quiet all of a sudden. As though not a single living thing except for the forest itself was left around them. No birds around who sang their morning song, no mice scuttling in the undergrowth, no deer stalking around the trees, not even a single insect was found buzzing around them.

Then there was a sound in the distance. As they got closer it turned into a haunting melody. A melody that enchanted them. None of them were able to resist. Maybe a little voice inside of their heads told them this might be a bad idea. But on the other hand, the music had to come from somewhere, didn’t it? This couldn’t actually be a creature of the night, could it? These things didn’t exist, they were tales from darker times of humanity, from people who had no logical explanation for what they were seeing, nothing more than that.

Meanwhile, about a mile ahead, the woman smiled to herself as she kept on playing. She had sensed the teenagers miles ago. Around her, the animals of the wild were crowding. Birds sat one by one on the branches of the trees, the mice scuttled around her as she danced, barefoot, over the moss, seemingly flying over the ground, never stepping on a single creature. Deer grazed over the floor in search of something to eat, others watched her beautiful play, just as enamored as any human. Insects buzzed through the air.

The fog was relentless and didn’t give a single bit as the teenagers crept closer to the music. There was no woman to be seen anywhere, yet the music continued to play. It echoed all around them, as though they were already circled. The first deer came into view. A few mice scurried around the teenagers feet, the girls let out yelps.

The woman danced around them in a circle, always ducking out of their view and behind trees or larger animals, careful not to be seen yet, the fog assisted her. She didn’t stop playing for a moment, for the songs were already muscle memory, she had been playing them for decades and centuries, her own creations.

The teenagers could notice how their heartbeat picked up as the music crescendoed and rose. First they saw the hem of a long dress here, then long billowing brown hair there. A glimpse of the violin over here and then the bare feet of the woman over there.

The first girl screamed as the music suddenly stopped and there was a dead silence, there was a presence behind her, someone breathing down her neck. Slowly she turned around and there she stood. The most beautiful woman she had ever seen. The stories had been true. Dark hair, faint skin and blood red lips. But something about her was incredibly off. Her skin shimmered even in the faint light and through the fog. It looked as though her skin was made out of tiny little opals that shimmered in the colors of the rainbow, unnerving to any human being. How would it look if the sun broke through the clouds and shone down directly onto her?

The girl didn’t have time to think about it, as the woman’s lips curled into a cruel smile.

“Hello my love. Goodbye,” she purred with a voice as cold as the air around them.

The woman sank her teeth into the blond girl’s neck with such force that you could hear a snap echo through the woods loud and clear. It was in that moment that the teenagers all broke out screaming. When they had to watch the creature rip out their friends’ throat and the blood of her splatter all over the creature’s dress and skin and pour out onto the forest floor they couldn’t help but gag at the horrible sight. The other girl passed out on the spot. Easy prey.

The boys started to run, there was no way they could save the two girls, if they were quick enough maybe they could get themselves to safety. They couldn’t know with what speed the woman could move. Another neck was snapped quickly, then the next boy already screamed a high pitched, ear shattering scream when the woman dug her fingers straight through his torso and ripped out his organs. The last boy lost his legs quite quickly, the woman ripped them out as easily as you would do with a spider or a fly. His screams were soon suffocated when the woman sank her teeth into his neck.

The last girl, the unconscious one, soon regained consciousness. A last high pitched scream of terror was heard and then her neck was also ripped out.

Satisfied with her work the woman spun around, her face, her hands and the front of her dress dripping wet with blood. Hungrily she licked her lips clean but allowed herself another bite from one of the boys, the one whose neck she had only snapped. He shouldn’t miss out on the fun of bleeding out now, should he?

When her stomach was full and her bloodlust more or less satisfied she lifted the violin back up to her chin and gently placed the bow on the strings, starting yet another haunting song. The animals had run away in terror of the murder but soon returned like they always did. No one could resist that wonderful act she put on.

At least another hour she had left, she thought to herself as the bow flew over the strings and her fingers danced over the strings on the fingerboard. The sun wouldn’t hurt her, that rumor about vampires she had always hated most. It made her skin glitter and shine beautifully. But the day brought too many mortals, killing them all would exhaust her too much. Sure it was fun, but overdoing anything takes the fun out of it. As much as she loved the sun, she kept to the night and to killing those who were stupid enough to follow her here.

In town parents woke up to find the beds of their children forever empty.

#midnight rambles #midnight writes #cryptid #vampire #tw blood #tw gore #blood #gore

[null-whump]

Hi! Could I ask you to write about a whumpee that is caught doing something that they love and the whumper finds out that the whumpee always does it when he's not around, I imagined Dancing or Singing (I thought the singing one would be cool if the whumpee has something related to birds, maybe if he had wings?) , please? And what would happen? The whumper would forbid them to do it, or they will actually obligate the whumpee to dance or sing, making it not a enjoyable activity anymore?

Thanks so much for the ask anon, this was fun to write! I didn’t get a notification for your ask for some reason, so if you’re wondering why my response is a bit late then that’s why – sorry about that. Anyway, I hope you like this, and it meets your expectations!

Warnings: burns, mouth gore (not graphic)

–––––––––––––––––

“Somewhere…over the rainbow…skies…are blue…”

Whumpee’s voice was hoarse, and it cracked over every other word, but they didn’t care. They didn’t care that their voice was less than a shadow of its former beauty, that it had been stripped away by their tormentor.

“And the dreams…that you dare to dream…really do…come true…”

The song was a comfort to them, however small. In the darkness of their cell, blocked off from the sunlight, when they closed their eyes they could almost imagine soaring through the sky, on wings that were unbroken and beautiful, far from the reality they sat in.

“If happy little bluebirds fly…beyond–”

The sudden clanking and harsh sound of the door being swung open interrupted their tune, and they caught their breath, shrinking further against the wall, feebly attempting to wrap their wings around their bare shoulders.

“What were you doing down here, little bird?” Whumper stepped into the room, his eyes narrowing at the trembling figure on the floor.

“N-nothing,” they stammered, flinching back further against the wall.

“Really?” Whumper stepped further into the room, his eyes boring into theirs. “It sounded to me like you were singing.”

Whumpee was silent.

Whumper took another step forward and crouched in front of Whumpee. “Nothing to say?” He reached his hand toward Whumpee, cradling the side of their face. “There’s no point in lying now, is there?”

Whumpee shuddered at Whumper’s touch, fighting the urge to pull away.

“Do you enjoy your songs, little bird?”

Whumpee forced a nod, not wanting to admit it to their tormentor, but afraid of the consequences of lying.

“Does singing down here, where you think I won’t hear, perhaps, make you happy?” Whumper’s voice was pure venom, though his eyes remained emotionless and cold.

Whumpee’s mouth was dry, and they hesitated, cold sweat sliding down their back. Finally, they gave a barely perceptible nod.

A flash of anger appeared in Whumper’s eyes, but Whumpee was barely able to register it – they hardly caught a glimpse of a knife as it flashed in the dim light, then they were on their back their wings bent painfully underneath them, the cold edge of the blade pressing against their throat.

“I’d like to cut out that pretty voice of yours,” Whumper growled, pressing the knife further into Whumpee’s throat. “But your screams and begs are my music.” the blade pressed further still, causing a thin trickle of blood to slip down Whumpee’s neck.

A whimper caught in their throat, the fear of cutting themselves further on the blade keeping them from any movement. Then the knife was gone, and they gasped with the sudden transition.

“I have a better solution,” Whumper said softly, reaching a hand into his pocket. “I trust it will keep you from your silly songs in the future.”

His hand emerged, holding a lighter, and Whumpee found themselves flinching backward, memories of singed feathers jumping into their mind. Whumper flicked the lighter, igniting the small flame, and held it up to the blade in his other hand. There was silence, the only sounds Whumpee could hear was their own harsh, panicked breathing, until Whumper finally removed the flame from the glowing-hot blade.

Whumper leaned over Whumpee, his right hand pinning on Whumpee’s shoulder, pinning them to the ground, while his left held the knife. “Now,” Whumper ordered, “open your mouth.”

Whumpee’s eyes widened with fright. “W-wait, please! I won’t do it again –”

“Shut up,” Whumper hissed. “Before I change my mind and cut out your tongue entirely.”

Whumpee trembled, their mouth going dry as they forced it to open. Their eyes squeezed shut in anticipation, but they could still feel the heat of the metal as it entered their mouth, and then it pressed down on their tongue.

Screaming with a knife in your mouth was not so hard, Whumpee found; it was staying still that was difficult. The searing pain consumed their entire mouth, and even after Whumper had pulled out the blade, it still burned, like a fire had been set on their tongue. The clamped their hands over their mouth as soon as Whumper released them, crying behind the illusion of a shield. Through the blur of tears, they could see Whumper standing in front of them, calmly cleaning his blade with a scrap of cloth.

“You should be grateful,” he stated, sheathing the knife. “This was only a warning.” He smirked. “I would tell you to say thank you, but you won’t be saying anything for the next few days.”

Whumpee blinked their vision into focus, their hands still fixed over their mouth. Whumper had moved to crouch in front of them again, looking them in the eyes.

“If you ever open your mouth to sing again,” Whumper said, “not only will I cut out your tongue, but I’ll make you scream so loudly that you won’t have a voice left to sing with. Understand?”

Whumpee nodded frantically, their heart still pounding a rhythm of fear in their ears.

Whumper smiled coldly. “Good.” He stood and walked to the door. “Don’t think you can get away with it again,” he said over his shoulder. “Your screams are the only music you need, little bird.”

#whump #nonhuman whumpee #thank you for the ask!

[yourdeepestfathoms]

Glass Coughs

(Apart of the possible mini series where Anna moves in with the ladies in waiting)

TW: Themes of depression, implied self harm

———————

Some days, Anna knows, Bessie can’t get up.

Bessie, who’s usually so headstrong, strong, spitfire, can’t get up some days.

She will lie in bed and just…lay on her side, not looking at anything but the sheets around her and the pillow next to her, curled up in a small ball and wide awake but unable to lift her head. She just stares and stares and stares and sometimes it looks like she’s dead and Anna wonders if that’s what she’s going for.

A corpse. That’s what Bessie looks like.

Anna recognizes it easily enough, now, when it comes, at least when it’s this bad, and knows what to expect. She stays in bed a little longer herself, about half an hour or so, under the covers, making sure to keep close but not quite enough to be touching. Bessie doesn’t like to be crowded, not even by her, on days like this. She’ll flinch away and snap and scratch, and that jars her out of her trance, but it leaves her bristled and in shock for hours. Sometimes she breaks mirrors. Sometimes she pulls her hair out. Sometimes she scratches Maria across the face and leaves a bright red scar across her left eye that lingers for a month because the drummer stepped a little too close to her.

When something like that happens, the mental image of “corpse” is quickly replaced with “bear”. Or maybe her favorite animal, a Tasmanian devil.

(It’s funny that a Tasmanian devil was her favorite animal. Given that the females were trapped in dens by males during mating season and weren’t allowed to leave until pregnancy was ensured.)

Anna makes sure to hum a little, even if it’s a bit off-key sometimes. It helps, Bessie told her once- helps her not get trapped in her thoughts too deeply.

Anna knows that after an hour and a bit, she won’t be helping anymore and she has to get out of bed or Bessie will feel guilty about it later, even if she won’t say anything. She knows not to rip off the sheets and probe her into getting up like He used to. She knows that, even though Bessie might not respond, she still appreciates the light kiss on her cheek and Anna talking to her idly as she gets dressed as if she is. Sometimes, if Anna is lucky, Bessie will manage a small, short smile in response.

By the time Anna is in the kitchen, it will probably be around 10:30. She’s making her breakfast in the hopes that the smell of fried eggs and bacon will manage to get Bessie out of bed. It’s worked twice before, so you never know, and she always makes extra.

She knows not to try bringing a plate to Bessie, though, because that makes Bessie feel guilty too, and she might leave it and let it grow cold before she can get up which also doesn’t help. And she knows not to force Bessie out of bed like that either.

Sometimes, she knows, she just has to rest.

But she also knows that sometimes just leaving her be is worse, makes the heaviness and emptiness grow, that Bessie, sometimes, needs a hand, even when she doesn’t say so (especially then.) Usually, around 2 or 2:30 is when Anna starts to get really worried.

She eats what she can of breakfast before leaving it to the other ladies in waiting to finish, which they will, of course. Then she goes out shopping to try and clear her head- thank god there was no show today. She didn’t want Bessie to force herself to perform, especially when a few of the songs make her uneasy and how she hates hearing about Him and how They get chances to be seen and loved but she couldn’t.

(Those thoughts scratched and scratched and scratched at Bessie’s mind and that just fed the guilt that held her by the throat. Sometimes Anna worries about it becoming to much and it completely hounds her until she’s nothing but pale strips of mangled flesh and red blood and pink shredded muscle and crimson gore.)

By the time she’s back, she has a small carrier bag of goods and it’s around 1:30. Anna drops off most of the stuff in the dining room, hearing Maggie and Maria going to snoop as they do, and hurries off to check on her girlfriend, knocking three times before entering the bedroom.

“Hey,” She says, taking off her jacket. “I was just out shopping.”

Bessie is still in bed, cocooned in the covers, but she does look up blearily from lying face-down, so Anna counts it as a little win.

“I bought a bunch of stuff,” She continues, coming to sit at the foot of the bed. “Pastries, obviously. I feel like Maggie keeps finishing them for some reason. More toilet roll. Oranges. Milk. Hot chocolate powder.”

It’s a pretty ordinary list, nothing exciting to be honest, but, eventually, Bessie’s head emerges fully and she blinks before her dull, but beautiful blue eyes finally focus on Anna.

“There’s my pretty princess,” Anna coos, smiling lovingly. She so badly wanted to kiss Bessie soft, pale lips or caress her flushed cheeks or at least stroke her unruly hair, but she knew better than to touch during moments like this. “How are you feeling?”

Bessie’s eyes move from Anna’s gaze to the crumpled blankets she’s been laying under all day. Her hands clench in the fabric and Anna knows she’s getting worked up with guilt.

“Hey, hey,” Anna scoots closer and dares to brush Bessie’s knuckles. “It’s alright. You’re okay.”

Bessie’s eyes squint slightly, eyebrows lowering and knitting together like dark thunder clouds. She stays rooted in that position for a long time and Anna finally stands up and began to go through her drawers.

“Think you can switch shirts for me?” Anna asks. “You’ve been wearing that one for three days now.”

Bessie looked down at her shirt, which was soaked with her own sadness. It was just a plain grey piece of fabric, yet it hid so much.

“Come on, baby,” Anna murmurs, walking back over. She has a shirt slung over her arm- Bessie can’t really read what it says, she just knows it’s purple. “Then you can go back to sleeping.”

Bessie didn’t move for a moment, then nodded ever so slightly and clambered out of the bed. She went for the door for some reason and Anna understood what she was doing.

Bessie is still quiet when she gets up, finally, trailing behind Anna a little like a ghost, though Anna doesn’t mind, certainly not when Bessie silently tugs at her sleeve and they hold hands on the short trek to the bathroom.

As the bathtub fills with nice, hot water, Anna shows Bessie an assortment of bath bombs she had indulgently bought while out on the shops. She mused about some that Kitty had liked and recommended back when she was living with the queens, but quickly shut her mouth. Bessie didn’t like when she brought up her past residence when she was like this- it was another thing among many that made her feel terribly guilty.

However, when she turned to see if Bessie has finally succumbed to that overbearing sensation thanks to her stupid comment, she just found her girlfriend sitting on the toilet seat, studying a galaxy themed bath bomb. It black on the outside but all rainbows and glitter on the inside.

Just like Bessie, Anna thinks privately.

“Good pick,” Anna smiles.

Bessie just barely managed a crack of her own smile.

The bath is hot, and both of them watch as the bath bomb is dropped in and begins to fizz, tiny bubbles of color rising up and gathering into a frothy foam and staining the water pink and purple and midnight blue, sparkles of gold suspended throughout the multicolored mess.

Anna helps Bessie get undressed and in the tub before going to fetch her a cup of tea and some toast, too, because she hasn’t eaten all day, even though she knows Bessie probably still doesn’t feel hungry.

When she returns, Bessie is just staring dejectedly at the whorls of color water encompassing the bottom half of her body. Silent tears are dripping down her cheeks but she doesn’t make a sound- no sniffles, no gulps of air, no whimpers. Not even her shoulders were shaking.

Even with the dark colors dyeing the water, there’s definitely a red tint that wasn’t there before. Anna sees it, but doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Hey, princess,” Anna purrs. She sat down beside the bathtub, making sure to keep her gaze up. Bessie was finally starting to let her keep her eyes open when she was naked and she really didn’t want to lose that privilege. “I made some tea. It’s your favorite. The raspberry kind.”

Bessie nodded. She lifted one hand and wiped her cheeks.

“Also some toast.”

God, she wanted Bessie to eat so badly. The way her ribs were poking out of her flesh was absolutely worrying. No fault of the bassist’s- it was the lasting effects of dying from the white plague.

(She still remembered watching as Bessie grew thinner and thinner the days she worked as her lady in waiting. She remembered how very pale and delirious she was. How she coughed blood all over her sewing station.)

(They say when she died she wasn’t even ninety pounds.)

Bessie nodded again. Her eyes are still cast down. She takes a sip of the tea and then just holds it in her hands, staring down into the saucer of dark liquid.

“I’m going to wash your hair, alright?” Anna says. “Is that okay?”

Bessie placed the mug back on the toilet seat and nodded.

“Take a deep breath, my darling. I’m going to dunk you under really quick.”

Bessie obeyed. Anna caught a glimpse of a fresh cut on her sunken in, already-scathed stomach when she gently presses her back into the water.

Now she know what the lump against her knee under the fuzzy shower mat was.

Bessie inhales sharply, almost gasping when she’s brought back up. Her eyes are wide for a moment before dulling back down. Anna assures her she’s alright.

Anna began to massage coconut-smelling shampoo into her girlfriend’s messy, greasy hair. She gently raked her nails against her scalp, something Bessie usually enjoyed when they would bathe together. It seemed to help some, as Bessie was definitely pressing her head into her hands. She smiled softly.

“Soap isn’t getting in your pretty eyes, right?”

Bessie nodded.

“Good.” Anna pressed a quick kiss to the back of her girlfriend’s neck, causing Bessie to shudder slightly. “I’m going to put you back under now, alright?”

Another silent nod.

Fifteen more minutes are spent in the bathroom. Anna talks softly to Bessie, grounding her. She washes her hair and towels down her body with a rag and some soap, then helps her out of the bathtub and into fresh clothes. The cut has stopped bleeding when she glanced at it, luckily.

“Anna,”

The word is so soft, so weak, so strangled.

“Yes, darling?” Anna gently cups Bessie’s cheeks. “I’m right here.”

Bessie’s hands are shaking when she grips Anna’s sleeves. Tears are rolling down her face again.

“I love you,” She croaks. She’s blushing because that phrase will never fail to make her flustered. “I love you so much...”

“Oh, baby...” Anna wrapped Bessie up securely in her arms and began to sway her gently. “I love you, too, princess. I love you so so so much. And I will never stop loving you. Ever.”

Bessie hiccuped weakly. Despite being in bed all day, it was clear she was exhausted. Probably from holding everything in for so long.

“P-promise?” She chokes out.

Anna didn’t even hesitate.

“I promise.”

Some days, Anna knows, Bessie can’t get up, and that’s okay.

#six the musical fanfiction #six the musical fanfic #six the musical #bessie on the bass #anna of cleves #banna #bessie x cleves #anna moves in #ill call it that #tw: depression #tw: self harm

[agentnatesewell]

5, 14 and 22 for this or that asks!

Thank you for the ask, my wonderful friend!

5. Let N serenade you on the violin or convince M to play you a song on the saxophone?

So, Nat playing a harp lives in my mind rent free. But you what else, Nate playing the violin. The concentration, the smooth stringed sounds, Nate. Perfect.

But uh ... the ways to convince M to play the saxophone? And the implications that may come with it? 😳 Tempting!

14. UB movie night or UB game night?

Oh, definitely a UB game night. A game of strip happy days game, perhaps? Or a game of Monopoly that starts out innocent enough and turns into this:

(From left to right: F, Detective, M, N tending to A)

22. Who’s got the better internet browser history: F or M?

Both! F when you want to laugh and feel better (they have the double rainbow crier and the video of the french cat running into a tree and the woodland creature eating pizza in front of two dogs)

M ... has the good stuff. The stuff N admonishes but would totally watch if they believed in Al Gore’s internet.

#twc #ask game #thank you!

[mmilkplague]

@laing-caster​ just wanted you to know that you didn’t do it alone - lol XD

________________________

1. coffee mugs, teacups, wine glasses, water bottles, or soda cans?

Soda Cans

2. chocolate bars or lollipops?

Chocolate Bars - it’s a no brainer

3. bubblegum or cotton candy?

cotton candyyyyyyy

4. how did your elementary school teachers describe you?

I didn’t have one. My mom was my teacher, lol

5. do you prefer to drink soda from soda cans, soda bottles, plastic cups or glass cups?

Ooooh, i love drinking out of the bottles because then i get to keep it and the cap!

6. pastel, boho, tomboy, preppy, goth, grunge, formal or sportswear?

Pastels w/ a hint of goth e v e r y d a y

7. earbuds or headphones?

earbuds block out ALL the noise

8. movies or tv shows?

*demonic screaming begins* idk, i love them both???

9. favorite smell in the summer?

Pool chlorine and pizza rolls

10. game you were best at in p.e.?

sadly - i did not have p.e. at home.

11. what you have for breakfast on an average day?

n o t h i n g (but if I did, it would be baked stuffed french toast)

12. name of your favorite playlist?

Dead Unicornz by me

13. lanyard or key ring?

Lanyard

14. favorite non-chocolate candy?

Gummy Worms my dude

15. favorite book you read as a school assignment?

yikes - never had a book assignment before

16. most comfortable position to sit in?

I’m not even joking - like this

17. most frequently worn pair of shoes?

walmart loafers

18. ideal weather?

heavy lightening/thunder storm 

19. sleeping position?

fetal position usually facing the left

20. preferred place to write (i.e., in a note book, on your laptop, sketchpad, post-it notes, etc.)?

computer/journal/notes/etc.

21. obsession from childhood?

👀i’ve always had a thing for scary/creepy sh*t and drawing people with blood & bruises on them. gotta admit - i had a perturbed childhood.

22. role model?

my mother, david bowie, wes anderson, tim burton

23. strange habits?

inadvertently acting out complex scenarios when i’m alone. it’s like physically daydreaming. (but if i’m not alone - i’ll use the latter and just slip into a daydream)

24. favorite crystal?

rose quartz are pretty

25. first song you remember hearing?

The Sun Will Come Out - Annie

26. favorite activity to do in warm weather?

Sit outside and plan books i’ll never even write OR crash a pool party

27. favorite activity to do in cold weather?

sleeeeeeeeep or watch movies

28. five songs to describe you?

Life On Mars - David Bowie

Choke - IDKHBTFM

So Am I - Ava Max

Sunshine, Lollipops, & Rainbows  - Lesley Gore

Gils Just Wanna Have Fun - Cyndi Lauper

29. best way to bond with you?

Make me laugh/smile, listen to me when I rant about the things i’m passionate about, and show that you acknowledge my personal interests and likes.

30. places that you find sacred?

the kitchen - lol, jk - my desk and the shower

31. what outfit do you wear to kick ass and take names?

Something INTENSELY inspired by the 80s, but it’s enriched with gothy-ness just to make me 2x more badass

32. top five favorite vines?

Fuck ya chickem strips

Can I PLEASE get a waffle

I’m the sand guardian - guardian of the sand; POSEIDON QUIVERS BEFORE HIM

Sure - you may be verified on twitter - but are you verified in the eyes of God???

It’s is Wednesday my dudes - aaaaaaAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH

33. most used phrase in your phone?

Ouchies

34. advertisements you have stuck in your head?

Like a good neighbor - state farm is there

35. average time you fall asleep?

between 2 - 4 am

36. what is the first meme you remember ever seeing?

37. suitcase or duffel bag?

Suitcase because bodies don’t fit in a duffel. I’ve tried.

38. lemonade or tea?

okay - but how about lemonade tea????

39. lemon cake or lemon meringue pie?

Lemon cake is a bit kinder on the taste buds

40. weirdest thing to ever happen at your school?

again - i was homeschooled - oof

41. last person you texted?

My Dad

42. jacket pockets or pants pockets?

JACKET POCKETS FOR THE PHROGS

43. hoodie, leather jacket, cardigan, jean jacket or bomber jacket?

Bomber jackets make me feel bigger then i am.

44. favorite scent for soap?

ooooooh - i have to say grapefruit smells pretty NICE

45. which genre: sci-fi, fantasy or superhero?

Sci-Fi any day h o n e y. I’m all about star-crossed lovers romance.

46. most comfortable outfit to sleep in?

I - uh - ngl - usually just my undergarments and socks.

47. favorite type of cheese?

pEpPeR JaCk iS SpIcY

48. if you were a fruit, what kind would you be?

A cantaloupe because no one likes me - lol  (Okay, but for real - a strawberry because i’m smol but sweet)

49. what saying or quote do you live by?

Never let someone else’s expectations control the way you live. You only get one life to make things right, so make the most of it and live without fear of judgment. 

50. what made you laugh the hardest you ever have?

i can’t remember the joke - but my sister said something funny and I was laughing for a solid 7 minutes.

51. current stresses?

C O L L E G E M Y B O I

52. favorite font?

Between Chiller & Arial 

53. what is the current state of your hands?

Unpainted - left nails have been bitten crookedly - bruises on my left index and ring finger - have a cut on my right hand.

54. what did you learn from your first job?

Don’t let the adults scare you.

55. favorite fairy tale?

👁👄👁 that’s hard to say because i’ve read all the original versions and they were all pretty dark - but like - I think Snow White was the most harmless.

56. favorite tradition?

Around Christmas Time - we always drive around the neighborhood in the trunk with it open, in our pajamas, with hot chocolate, and judge everyone’s house decorations. 

57. the three biggest struggles you’ve overcome?

Depression / Psychosis / Natural Violent Behavior

58. four talents you’re proud of having?

Writing will ALWAYS be my No. 1

I can Sing and play an array of instruments

I have a massive mental catalog of geek-related information

Self taught actor 

59. if you were a video game character, what would your catchphrase be?

Stay fresh sugar baby~❤

60. if you were a character in an anime, what kind of anime would you want it to be?

My anime would be HELLA inspired by several 80s - 90s anime series and would be SUPER aesthetic like Sailor Moon. It would have a very wholesome vibe and would lean more towards “a slice of life’ kind of anime. The genre would probably be sci-fi/romance and the main character is probably in love with an alien - and you bet ur ass they know it.

61. favorite line you heard from a book/movie/tv show/etc.?

"I do what I do, because it's right! Because it's decent! And above all, it's kind. It's just that. Just kind." - Doctor Who / 12th Doctor / Peter Capaldi

62. seven characters you relate to?

Lydia Deetz

Coraline

Peter Parker

Number 5

Dustin Henderson

11th Doctor

Mrs. Frizzle

63. five songs that would play in your club?

I Like It - Cardi B

Die Young - Ke$ha

Hey Ya! - OutKast

Juice - Lizza

Bohemian Rhapsody - Queen

64. favorite website from your childhood?

Poptropica and Webkinz

65. any permanent scars?

One on my ankle after I tripped and gashed it on my sister’s exposed cello pin.

Another one under my chin when I sliced it open on the edge of my tub as a toddler.

66. favorite flower(s)?

Jacob’s Ladders, Poppys, and Carnations. 

67. good luck charms?

I don’t really have one - but I used to wear this Legend of Zelda HP heart necklace when I played video games because I thought it would bring me luck to winning the game, lol

68. worst flavor of any food or drink you’ve ever tried?

BBQ Lays definitely. I have nightmares still about that year-old bag of BBQ chips I still insisted on eating that one fateful night.

69. a fun fact that you don’t know how you learned?

idk - I can spit up to 10 feet. (I’d be a real hot shot if I lived in the Wild West.)

70. left or right handed?

Right handed!

71. least favorite pattern?

milk before cereal. you guys are absolute psychopaths and I love it.

72. worst subject?

H I S T O R Y. that damn H I S T O R Y

73. favorite weird flavor combo?

meatballs and grape jelly. fight me you coward.

74. at what pain level out of ten (1 through 10) do you have to be at before you take an advil or ibuprofen?

hmmmmmmm.....i’d say 11

75. when did you lose your first tooth?

OH MY GOODNESS. not for a LONG time. I have this problem that my teeth have a hard time falling out naturally so they usually have to be pulled - but anyways - I think my first tooth fell when I was 8 or so

76. what’s your favorite potato food (i.e. tater tots, baked potatoes, fries, chips, etc.)?

Mash em, Boil em, put em’ in a stew. (I like fries and mashes potatoes)

77. best plant to grow on a windowsill?

Succulent & Cacti

78. coffee from a gas station or sushi from a grocery store?

Coffee from Wawa is to die for, bro. Coffee from a gas station ANY day.

79. which looks better, your school id photo or your driver’s license photo?

My school ID doesn’t have a photo - but if it DID - I’d still pick my license. I look fricken’ suave. 

80. earth tones or jewel tones?

i have no idea what these are, ngl

81. fireflies or lightning bugs?

lightning bugs sounds cuter, but fireflies makes me think of the song.

82. pc or console?

PC

83. writing or drawing?

W R I T I N G W R I T I N G W R I T I N G W R I T I N G

84. podcasts or talk radio?

Podcasts are lovely! I like to listen to “Welcome to Nightvale” and “Unsolved Murders”

84. barbie or polly pocket?

b*tch - i’ve still got a whole bin by my bed FULL of barbies.

85. fairy tales or mythology?

Mythology definitely. Fairy tales - tho cool - all usually ended with everyone dying.

86. cookies or cupcakes?

87. your greatest fear?

choking - especially in public because i’d rather die then cause a scene.

88. your greatest wish?

To become a famous writer who turns their book into a Netflix Original and then becomes a nominee for a golden globe Emmy award. I wouldn’t even care if’d win.

89. who would you put before everyone else?

My sister. I love her with all my f*cking heart - hope she knooooooows.

90. luckiest mistake?

broke my computer and secretly told my sister that I did over facebook. my mom found the message tho and fixed my computer for me. 

91. boxes or bags?

b a g s like the ones I have under my eyes 👁 👁

92. lamps, overhead lights, sunlight or fairy lights?

fairy lights is my religion (jk - Jesus Christ my Lord and Savoir amen is my religion)

93. nicknames?

Jellybean - and God help you if you call me that because I will track you down and steal ur fookin’ knee caps.

94. favorite season?

f all t ime is g ood t ime

95. favorite app on your phone?

i’m pretty sure i’m on pinterest 96% of the time.

96. desktop background?

97. how many phone numbers do you have memorized?

4 - my mom’s, the house phone, my number, and 911

98. favorite historical era?

Victorian Era is like the biggest M O O D that ever was. Giant dresses. Steam Trains and Boats. Men in tux’s/ waistcoats / and suspenders galore. it was like fricken’ christmas. _________________________________

TAG SOMEONE YOU THINK SHOULD DO THIS!!!

#THIS WAS FUN #this has been the most exciting thing i've done since eating blocks of sprite #about me #about myself #about the blogger #about the blog owner #trivia #about the author #questions

[prince--kiriona]

Ohmygod I wanna know about Radio 👀👀

more about the radio!! asks from this (also, gore/body horror tw under the cut - do NOT read if you’re squeamish/not a horror fan)

ok, so i’ve already talked about what it transmits, but as for the how, well...

it’s weird

it’s pretty hard to find the centre of the broadcasts - people who go looking tend to get lost in fractal alleyways that they’re sure aren’t meant to twist like that

but if you do make it there, then you won’t find anything so normal as a radio tower

instead, you’ll see something more like a stripped-down tree trunk, still dripping sap where the bark’s been cut away - and with a person hung there, eyes wide and staring

they’re pinned to the pole by a rusted piece of metal shoved through their chest, still dripping blood from the ancient wound

a second, smaller piece stabs its way through their hands, fingers twitching as they try to move from their place 

wires push out from their mouth, jaw stretched too wide and teeth cracked from the strain of the cables

their eyes are the only thing left untouched, a hundred of them staring, watching, a myriad rainbow of colours that hunger to see anything and everything

their speech is garbled, unrecognisable through the wires, but it broadcasts nevertheless

they cannot move from their place, cannot even shift their mind away from the endless searing pain their wounds bring

all they can do is watch, and record, and transmit, and hope

hope that this time, the wires will recede, that their broadcast will finally cease

that, one day, they will be free