eternalchaoschocolaterain - Tumblr blog

eternalchaoschocolaterain · 12 days ago

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It's so fun to see Ominis in such a different dynamic and this one works well too!

I think the artist did get carried away though 🤭 in the best way

🔞 Painted & Pinned

Ominis couldn’t see the painting, but he felt it— her gaze burning his skin, the silence heavy, the air thick with anticipation. Then, the first stroke of the brush.

@annarielmidori , I had originally planned to publish this in March, but when I found out your birthday was on the 18th of February, I couldn’t resist trying to bring it forward (despite my snail-paced writing 🐌). I hope you had a wonderful day and that you’ll enjoy this OS! Once again, happy birthday! 🎉

OS | 🔞 | Ominis Gaunt x MC (Annariel Midori)

Ominis stifled a sigh as he heard the brush gliding across the canvas, a muffled, almost inaudible sound, but one that vibrated in his nerves like an invisible caress.

He couldn’t see the image taking shape under Annariel’s hand, but he could sense its evolution through the weight of her gaze that pressed against his bare skin. He stood vulnerable under this subdued light, designed to accentuate his shadows, under this pressure that thickened the air around them. Naked, exposed, with nothing but a simple sheet wrapped precariously around his hips.

‘Stop moving, or you’ll end up looking like a mountain troll!’

The threat was teasing. Ominis could hear the provocation behind the light tone. She was testing his limits and always knew what to say to brush them aside.

Of course, he would have liked to retaliate with a sharp word, something that would make her shudder as much as he shuddered at being used as a male nude study model. But the wizard was too aware of his position, of the heat of the sheet against his skin, of the tension in his muscles from standing so still.

So instead of fighting back, he let his voice slip between them, soft, yet dangerously treacherous.

‘Is that a threat... or a promise?’

A low, husky laugh, laden with innuendo, answered him.

‘More like a prediction,’ she said, dipping her brush in a hue he obviously couldn’t name. ‘But if you keep on being provocative, I might just smear you with paint!’

He sensed a smile tug at his lips before he knew it. It was their usual game. They played the balancing act on a glowing wire, ready to give way under pressure. Caught between lightness and tension, between defiance and abandonment.

‘Why did I agree to this again?’ he murmured, falsely pensive.

‘Because you’re irresistibly devoted to me?’ she suggested, applying the colour to the canvas.

He tilted his head slightly in the direction of her voice.

‘I think it was more the threat of refused kisses.’

The silence thickened around them, saturated with possibilities. With all his senses on the alert, Ominis heard a rustle of fabric close to him, then a breath against his bare skin.

He also perceived the stronger smell of paint mingling with something more intimate, more intoxicating. Annariel’s perfume warmed by desire.

She was there. Close by.

‘Ah, so that’s the kind of ransom you’re asking for?’

He had no time to reply. Her lips locked with his. Everything disappeared. The pose, the canvas, the very reason for his immobility. All he registered was the languor of her kiss, the warmth of her sighs against his mouth and the delicious shiver that ran up his spine like a wave.

His free hand — the one not clutching the sheet around his hips — naturally found her waist and pulled her against him.

Annariel pressed herself against him with exquisite slowness, her clothes brushing against his torso, the friction stealing his breath away.

Then a gesture.

Her arm jerked, and the brush skimmed over his side before gliding lower. A cool trail of paint slid down his skin, sending a shiver down his spine as it trickled toward the sheet, seeping into the fabric. Annariel froze for a moment. He sensed the smile that blossomed on her lips. A grin, dark and satisfied.

‘I told you not to move...’

A deep rumble rolled down Ominis’ throat. He was about to reply, but his words were strangled when he felt the brush against his chest.

‘You make a beautiful canvas, you know,’ she murmured, tracing a wet line from his sternum to his lower abdomen with the tip of the brush.

He lost control. His body tensed under the icy caress, every nerve electrified by the contrast between the freshness of the colour and the lava pulsing through his veins. He didn’t know what colour she was applying. He didn’t care.

What mattered now were her fingers.

The ones that had replaced the brush and were touching the wet pigment, spreading it slowly over his skin in lazy circles.

‘If you want to paint me, you’re going to have to convince me to behave,’ he murmured, his tone huskier than he would have liked.

A slight laugh, a breath brushing his lips and a light pressure on his taut crotch.

‘What if I’d rather have you begging me to keep going?’

She knew exactly how to stoke his desire.

She pulled away.

The absence gnawed at his patience. Just long enough for him to rage at no longer having her against him. Then she came back.

This time, he didn’t just feel her fingers.

He felt her bare skin against his, and her warm, wet palms.

The pigment.

Her hands were coated with it.

A sigh escaped Ominis, a murmur of abandonment to this exquisite torture.

She slid against him, every calculated movement heightened by the colours staining their skin, creating a vivid tableau of desire and provocation. She didn’t hurry.

That was worse. Worse than raw haste. Worse than greedy conquest.

She let him feel every second, every heartbeat suspended in anticipation of the next caress.

‘Darling...’

His tone had become a low growl, a threat veiled in impatience.

She pressed her paint-smudged digits on his chest, tracing arabesques he couldn’t see but felt in every fibre of his being.

‘Hush,’ she whispered against his mouth, amusement in her tone. ‘Let the artist do her thing.’

A shudder ran through him as, with a barely perceptible movement, the sheet slipped from his hips, pooling on the floor in hushed whisper. Ominis bent gently under the force of a languorous kiss and found himself lying on the fabric, a rising heat filling him as Annariel sat down on his thigh.

Then her hands left him for a few moments and her fingers, now clean, trailed down, brushing over his lower abdomen before encircling his throbbing erection, her grip both light and unyielding.

Ominis felt her rubbing slowly against his thigh, her arousal smearing onto his skin in a calculated provocation. A guttural groan escaped him, his hands clutching the sheets in a desperate bid for control.

She knew his limits. She knew exactly how far she could push him before he snapped.

At first, she merely teased him with her fingertips, brushing over the sensitive curve of his tip, tracing soft circles before coating her palm with the moisture already beading at his swollen head. Then, torturously slow, she stroked down his length, her firm grip gliding over him like a silk glove. Every movement was precise, measured—neither too fast nor too slow.

Ominis tensed beneath her, his hips instinctively seeking more friction.

But she dictated the pace, amusement lacing her voice as she asked, 'You like that, don’t you?'

Her palm slid over his cock in an unbearable caress, alternating pressure and release—the same exquisite torment she was inflicting upon him with her own body, rolling her hips against him.

A deep, low growl rumbled in his throat, a sound laced with both frustration and pure pleasure. Yes, he liked it. The way she played with him so deliberately, controlled him so effortlessly, treating his pleasure as though he were a masterpiece in the making. And yes, he wanted more.

His cock throbbed in her grasp, the anticipation coiling in his belly like a liquid fire. She picked up the pace slightly, tightening her hold, twisting her wrist as she slid down to the base before gliding back up in a seamless motion, her fingers teasing the sensitive ridge of his crown with every stroke. Then, just as she tightened her fist around him, enough to send molten fire coursing through his veins—

She let go. Abruptly.

Her hand left him, abandoning him on the very edge of his release, offering him nothing but an aching, excruciating denial.

‘Annariel...’ he growled, his voice hoarse with need and frustration.

She merely shifted, pressing herself more firmly against him, rolling her hips with wicked deliberation, letting a throaty sigh escape her lips. Her pleasure was a cruel taunt, a reminder of everything she was granting herself while ruthlessly withholding it from him.

Ominis was a patient man… until he wasn’t.

Annariel knew this far too well. And yet, she still gasped in surprise when, in a swift, forceful movement, he surged upright and flipped her beneath him, pinning her against the paint-streaked sheets.

She barely had time to catch her breath before her wrists were trapped above her head, held firmly in an unrelenting grip. Annariel offered no resistance. Her legs parted of their own accord, a mixture of defiance and submission in the posture.

His mouth crashed down on hers, devouring her in a fierce, claiming kiss—biting, demanding, stripping her of any semblance of control. When he finally pulled back, his voice fell upon her like a sentence—low, dark, woven with dangerous promises.

‘You played with me, kitten. Now it’s my turn.’

But he didn’t move immediately. He savoured the moment.

The moment when her breath quickened beneath him, when her form quivered in anticipation of a caress that did not come.

His fingers grazed her belly, running over the cracked paint marks in a slow, almost meditative gesture. He moved lower, lazing against her hip, and felt a shiver, a tension betraying his impatience. She gasped slightly, arching her back in silent invitation. But he didn’t give in. Not yet. It was his turn to make her languish.

His breath brushed the delicate line of her throat, and Annariel froze, suspended in exquisite anticipation of what he would do next.

A bite, there, just below her jaw. A kiss immediately followed by his teeth sinking lightly into her flesh. Just sufficient to mark her. Just enough to make her moan.

She arched her back under him, trying to rub her body against his, but he refused to let her dictate anything.

‘Look who’s impatient now...’

She wriggled under him, trying to free herself, but he tightened his hold, his chest pressed against hers, their breaths intertwined in the stifling intimacy of the moment.

‘You enjoy this, don’t you? Being pinned beneath me, helpless, at my mercy,’

She parted her lips, a breath of protest forming, but he seized the instant before she could reclaim control. He rolled his hips, a slow, calculated movement, a studied provocation. His shaft slid against the slick heat of her core, teasing her pearl, a caress that never came to fruition.

‘Is this what you want?’

Annariel moaned, tried to rock her hips to force him deeper, but he pulled back, precisely enough to frustrate her further. She grunted, tugged at his still captive wrists. He smiled against her skin.

‘You’ll have to ask nicely, first,’ he breathed, his voice low and amused.

An exasperated sigh.

A strangled groan.

A spasm beneath him.

She was about to give in.

‘Ominis...’ she whispered, her voice hoarse with desire.

‘You want me to fuck you like this?’ he said, mimicking his thrusts against her soaked folds.

A tense silence.

She shuddered beneath him, her jerky breathing interspersed with moans. Her body was already screaming out the answer she hadn’t given yet.

‘Mmh... I think I hear it, but not quite...’ he breathed against her jaw, a smile trailing in his voice.

She swallowed hard. Her body trembled close to him, offered, vulnerable, ready to plead.

‘... Yes.’

‘Yes, what?’

She tried to capture his mouth, but he distanced himself just enough to deny her.

‘Say it properly.’

A tremor.

Her whole body tensed beneath him, wet, offered, unable to resist the command.

‘I want you to take me like this.’

He smiled against her shoulder.

His hand dropped to one wrist to slide down her curves. It grazed her breasts, traced the line of her ribs, paused for a moment on her stomach before moving down between her thighs.

His middle finger traced lazy circles over her bud. She moaned, her frame arching under the contact.

He played with her.

Slow, calculated circles, punctuated by frustrating pauses, just to see her lose patience.

He rubbed against her again, without penetrating her, the hardness of his cock against her damp heat a deliberate provocation. Then he stopped moving.

Annariel panted, disorientated.

‘Why?’

A toothy smile stretched his lips. ‘In fact, I’m dying to hear you beg.’

She swallowed against the burning tension that consumed her whole.

A silence.

A shudder.

Then, in a hoarse voice, ‘Please... fuck me.’

Dark satisfaction blossomed in his chest. At last he released her wrists and closed his hands on her hips, anchoring her beneath him. With a deep thrust, he drove into her, stretching her wide, filling her to the hilt.

A searing jolt.

She threw her head back, a cry escaping her as her body closed in on him, welcoming him in a vice of heat and pleasure. He could feel the suffocating wetness of their skin pressed together, the irregular pounding of her heart against his chest.

He knew she wanted more. That she needed it... And he wanted to see her break under him.

So he moved.

Slowly.

Deeply.

Obviously, she tried to urge him to go faster, to plunge deeper, but he denied her that luxury, imposing his rhythm. He kissed her, his lips capturing hers in a raw demand, while his touch found her clit.

This time, he would give her no respite.

He sped up, plunging into her with a ferocious pace, each thrust sending her further into surrender.She was his.

Her body quivered, clenching around him as she gasped his name, her nails biting into his back in a desperate plea for more. She was helpless, lost in the ruthless rhythm he set.

He felt the tension inside her reach its peak.

He murmured against her mouth, ‘I can feel you unraveling... Let go, Kitten,’

And she gave in.

An uncontrolled spasm swept through her, her back arched violently beneath him as a strangled cry escaped her. Her body closed over him, pulsing around his hard cock in a wave of unbearable lust. He, in turn, lost his footing, her low moan mingling with his, the heat of their embrace sealing the moment in raw intensity. At that moment, nothing existed.

There was only the heat, the dizziness, and her.

They lay there, motionless, their bodies still entwined, the echo of pleasure resonating within their trembling muscles.

The silence deepened, thick with moisture and a languid residue of tension.

Then a breath, a sigh... and a laugh. Gentle. Playful.

‘I just wanted to do an anatomical study, you know.’

Ominis rolled onto his side, his fingers idly tracing the dried paint still marking his torso with the edge of his nails.

‘And you did. A very immersive one, at that.’

She exhaled, amused, shaking her head.

‘So immersive that the session was completely ruined.’

A knowing smirk curled Ominis’ lips. He let his hand slide to his abdomen, his fingers brushing the invisible arabesques she had painted onto his skin.

‘I’d say the artist got carried away by inspiration… and her very cooperative model simply adapted to her demands.’

‘I should have known it would turn out like this.’

A low chuckle escaped him, his voice still rough from their shared pleasure.

‘You say that as if you didn’t love every second of it.’ He caught her chin gently between his fingers, preventing her from looking away. ‘Tell me you regret it.’

Annariel didn’t answer. Instead, she let her hand slide over his chest, lazily tracing a circle around a dried streak of paint.

And she smiled.

As always, please forgive my imperfect grammar (ESL writer).

#hogwarts legacy #ominis gaunt

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eternalchaoschocolaterain · 26 days ago

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I kept thinking 'free house, worth it!' until the last sentence. You had me there. I'll pass 😅

The story collector

Chapter 4 - Would never hurt me

A story inspired by real events, dreams or more.

Warning 🔞⚠️: Dark horror stories with elements of death, decay, sex, drugs, alcohol, suicide, religion and overall spook factor for your reading pleasure.

As much as anyone would enjoy an inheritance in the form of a house fully paid for, one, granted if they are sound of mind, would take in account the circumstances of receiving such an inheritance. Most passed down apartments, houses, establishments, well they tend to have a history. If not the place itself, then the building, if it houses multiple apartments, certainly has one.

And one building more than likely has had at least one death occur inside of it, though the probability of it being just one is statistically speaking very low.

But imagine if such an opportunity lands on your lap just as you were apartment hunting. With a low income to start from a very poorly paid job, not many good options were there to begin with. Rent would be a major setback in the budget so of course you would say yes, even if one, or maybe two died in that apartment. Old people tend to die right? Well, everyone does at some point, but that is beside the point.

The point of this story isn’t to relate how we all are dying from the very moment we arrive in this world.

You would take the offer of a free apartment and you would spend the little hard earned money you had saved up to buy the minimum needed to make it yours and renovate. Scrape the walls, a fresh coat of paint, get rid of the mold and the dark cobwebs behind the heavy antique furniture that has never been moved since the moment it had been installed in that very spot, dents in the floor and dust around it attesting to it. And you discover with delight what a pretty shade the old floorboards had before water and chemicals burned through it, eroding the wax and coating on top.

Days washing, scrapping dubious things, throwing away pots and pans and old clothes, the air finally changing inside the apartment. No more bugs, no more tin cans far older than yourself, no, it is brand new, your very own safe place.

And as years go by your mind tends to forget certain aspects about the house.

How relatives gathered around the body hoisted on the table in a fancy coffin in the very room you now call a bedroom. How the embalming fluid burned through your nostrils when you were but a child and death was never something on your mind until you saw your first relative lying there.

But you were just a child. Since then there were many more times for you to properly get acquainted with the idea. To make it personal and your own.

As you got older you also chose to gloss over the fact that your working space used to be another room, a bedroom actually. The very bed in which one of your relatives closed their eyes and breathed their last breath.

But the new rug and setting give it an entirely different aesthetic. The couch new and the exact shade of grey you wanted.

So you forget, not entirely, but you actively chose not to think of the dead. And you don’t really care that the neighbor on the third floor died and everyone is gathering to pay for some flower arrangement. You don’t really know most of them and your place is your own now. Where no one can disturb you. You don’t bother with saying hello, you don’t bother with opening the door. It’s your sanctuary, away from the very world that is so dark and grey and always hurts.

It feels like home, you are welcomed. A place just for you.

You animals run around and sudden sounds in the night are nothing to be scared of. And you are brave and feel accomplished, like everything turned around, finally for the best. Despite the pain, despite everything, you somehow managed to rise up and land on your feet, like a cat.

So you sleep, cozy and snug and your pets at your feet.

But sometimes at night you wake up suddenly. Perturbed by some perverse nightmare that manages to still wiggle its way like a worm inside your skull. And you shake it off because you have to. And you find comfort seeing the little furry friends who rise alert. Only they don’t look at you, both of their tiny heads are looking at something in the doorway or the hall, you cannot tell which because you cannot see a thing. You cannot hear a thing.

As you take the covers off, the television in the room comes to life, playing static and you feel your breath catching in your lungs. You reach for the remote, you reach for the covers and tuck yourself back in feeding on the darkness behind your eyelids.

They loved you, they would never hurt you, you repeat to yourself like a prayer until you fall asleep.

Only if you had known how to properly pray.

#the story collector

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eternalchaoschocolaterain · 26 days ago

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I wouldn't be surprised if she did have that power.

The story collector

Chapter 3 - Not good enough

A story inspired by real events, dreams or more.

Warning 🔞⚠️: Dark horror stories with elements of death, decay, sex, drugs, alcohol, suicide, religion and overall spook factor for your reading pleasure.

*From this point on the story will be published two chapters a time, one for the story collector and one for the teller.

The collector laughed one foot dangling off the edge of the desk, as if she were a bored child waiting for an adult to finish speaking, before she set both her feet back down and shook her head “That’s pathetic.” There's disappointment lining her tone, all reflecting in that sharp gaze of hers.

The teller bristles automatically offended “Excuse me?”

“You mean to tell me that from everything that’s inside that dark mind of yours, bugs are the best thing you can come up with? I think not.” She gets up, circling the bare desk, fingers grazing the surface, stopping to wipe away the dust on her dark colored pants before she picks at an already short nail with her teeth, spitting the loose skin on the floor before she examines her hand as if she had just gotten a fabulous manicure and wasn’t biting her nails like no tomorrow.

But she was waiting for something, something the current story teller knew it could not be delivered freely at the drop of a hat. She was after all a stubborn creature to no end. Instead as the silence dragged on, eyes focused on the wall in front. It was disgusting. Poorly painted above what looked like water damage, someone clearly not bothering with stripping the walls and properly renovating. And she was certain if she asked about rent, it was a staggering price even for such a bad neighborhood. A rip-off most likely.

“I have other stories.” she finally admitted, finding her throat dry after relating the previous story to the strange woman who was now doing something behind her, going through files and papers at a frantic pace as if having misplaced something important. She blinked realizing she did not notice the file cabinet there, although it made sense since it was an office of sorts.

“You’d better. Or else this has been a waste of time.”

Before starting, she turned to see her turning a page, biting down on her nail again, blood painting the rim of her finger when she finally took it out of her mouth “Can I have some water please?” she asked trying to find a better position on the chair.

Throwing the file back in a cabinet that was already overflowing by how well it was organized – not - she strutted over to the bathroom, coming back with a chipped mug filled with tap water. The teller tried to smile, taking the tinniest of sips, throat as if closing up when looking at the collector, her eyes as if burning a hole through the very fabric of her soul.

Finding her voice once more, the perfect tone of steadiness and confidence, she spoke “I think you’ll like this one better.”

“Don’t presume to know what tickles my story bone. But I am curious about one thing, did you ever go back to that house?”

“This isn’t about me, but the story I have next is about the same house.”

She smirked, slow, as if she knew the truth to everything already “Go on.” she mentioned casually, as if this woman, thing, whatever it was, had the power to put pause and go to a human’s voice box.

#the story collector

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eternalchaoschocolaterain · 29 days ago

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Cuddly and silly 💚

#hogwarts mystery #merula snyde #merula x mc #quinn lee #quirula

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eternalchaoschocolaterain · 29 days ago

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I always liked the name whatwouldvalerydo. I thought it was a play on what would Jesus do, like some satire or irony given the subjects you write about 🤭 very fitting that it came from Lucifer instead.

EternalChaosChocolateRain came after I got out of my Bellamort hyperfixation and I decided my blog needed a new name.

I love My Little Pony, it's my ultimate comfort show. And one of my favourite characters is Pinkie Pie. My name comes from this line she says when they are talking about defeating Discord:

'Hold on a second! Eternal chaos comes with chocolate rain, you guys. CHOCOLATE. RAIN!'

Pinkie has a lot of great lines, but this one always stands out to me and I don't even like chocolate.

@flareshin and @usernoneexistent how about you?

Tag game🎉

Tag your moots and ask them where they got the idea for their tumblr accounts name!

For my name it was a nickname I was giving back in middleschool! One of our teacher had a system where we worked with 'wifi' eachtime we talked in class we lost a bar of the "wifi" (was a weird joke and we never held count on that) All the kids usually joked if they needed 'wifi' , they would borrow mine if they wanted to talk more. (I was incredibly shy in middle school, I only talked to like 3 people at school;^;)

They called me Ms. Wifi because of that. I just thought it would be funny if I put 'miss' instead of 'ms' because of my terrible actual wifi connection I have at home lol.

That's my story! Now moots, only if you guys want to, tell us your story.

Tags-> @slipping-lately @firequeenofficial @noagskryf @twinklstarrrr @halfbakedspuds @polterwasteist @rokushi-san @mygedagtes +anyone that sees this and wants to do this as well

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eternalchaoschocolaterain · 29 days ago

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You left me with so many questions the previous chapter and now I have even more?? You know how to create suspense.

And dark atmosphere, because wow. Same for the other chapter by the way. That had this horror movie feel, where you know the protagonist is going into danger and you tell them not to go, but you want them to go.

This one felt different, more every day horror of getting drained by life and watching someone you love fall apart while taking care of them.

'an old person’s apartment carries a smell like no other' I know what you mean. But why is this a thing? 😆

I already love this series and I hope there are many more chapters to come ❤️

The story collector

Chapter 2 - NOT WELCOMED

A story inspired by real events, dreams or more.

Warning 🔞⚠️: Dark horror stories with elements of death, decay, sex, drugs, alcohol, suicide, religion and overall spook factor for your reading pleasure.

Entering for the first time inside a house that had been abandoned, left behind with the memories and echoes of the former person still intact is a daunting prospect in itself. Knowing the house to a certain degree and feeling like you do not really belong is downright sad. As if it should be your home too, you know the owner, they are family and yet somehow as they grow old and white, everything inside them turns as brittle as their aching bones. And so, the house you once knew, that used to have laughter bouncing off the walls and light radiating from within, is now rotting more than a soulless husk. Rotting and chipping away from neglect. Like old people do…

And they somehow, despite not wishing to, channel all that is decaying into your very own soul until you snap even when you promised yourself not to. But you are tired after work, those damn early, long shifts getting to you, especially after little rest.

Because while days are as they are, the nights are always harder. As if everything settles then, a heavy veil of all that transpired during the hours when light shined upon the world. And with the light stripped from the very sky, you sit there in the dark, counting your breaths as if at any moment your chest would crumble and the breath you took last has to be remembered, has to count for something.

And your mind works, going through the events of that day, another silent promise launched forward in the universe: tomorrow you will do better.

But when sleep finally takes you and you’re startled awake by a voice calling out your name, the cycle repeats once more. You get up, you get mad even if you don’t want to. You beg, you reason, you have work the following day, you try to keep your voice low because it is late, but they can’t hear you properly and damn it, they refuse to wear those expensive hearing aids and you scream and they yell back like a child that doesn’t understand why you are so mad at them when all they wanted was some water and then to change them, but not in the pink gown because that’s itchy, no, it has to be the blue one with purple flowers but that’s in the wash because it was soiled the previous night and you try to explain and they don’t understand. Because they can’t and in that very moment neither can you.

So you snap and lament later.

It was either staying another night, saying another thing you might regret, the angry web inside your mind growing hot with fury until you snap at work and you feel like everything is falling apart. So you take the offer, let another family member handle it and leave to the empty apartment that waits for its owner to return.

And you hate it the minute you step foot inside.

You can tell the state of it by just smell alone. From the unwashed moldy dishes and cups left behind, something rotten most definitely is in the pantry, vegetables festering, eating away at the last shred of patience you have left. So you open the windows to let some air in because an old person’s apartment carries a smell like no other, no matter what. And you bag everything, seal it tight in two trash bags and lurch it outside on the open balcony because you can’t be bothered to walk back down the stairs all the way to the bins outside. Especially not alone so late at night.

It's a horrid hour, you’re tired. No, you’re absolutely wrecked and while you know a night of sleep won’t do it, it’s very much welcomed.

But as you finally get some clean sheets on the bed and try to rest, you can’t. Your mind is heavy and your heart beating frantically as ears pick up on unfamiliar sounds. And it isn’t like you have never spent a night in that place, granted it’s been years. You feel like crying because above all the frustration and tiredness that installed itself in your very marrow, you feel stuck.

Switching positions your eyes catch movement on the pillow next to you and as you slowly move your hand to turn on the bedside lamp, you silently hope it’s just a shadow and nothing more. A trick of a mind swelling with fatigue. But as the light comes on and your eyes squint slightly you see a cockroach scurry away under the covers.

And you let out a scream as your skin itches, feeling cold and disgust wash over you as you get out of bed and try to find it, mind calming down when you folded the sheets in a big ball, throwing that as well outside on the balcony, hoping no more bugs would crawl inside and then…you laugh. A sick sound, bordering on madness so you decide to go make yourself some tea to calm down and then just crash on the couch.

Watching the water on the stove, you take a cup, washing out the dust gathered inside. Finally locating the sugar in one of the many rusty containers you search next for the utensils. Opening a drawer for a spoon, your heart freezes in your chest as countless cockroaches scatter around in an almost comical fashion like in those old cartoons you used to watch.

Turning off the stove you grab your things and lock the apartment down.

A taxi later, trying not to wake anyone, you walk inside your home just as the voice calls out your name.

With a heavy sigh, you enter the room “I’m here. I’m here.”

#the story collector

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eternalchaoschocolaterain · 29 days ago

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I've been intriguid since you shared the name and this first chapter did not disappoint! This whole setup just leaves me wanting more. So I'm going right to chapter two now ❤️

The story collector

Chapter 1 - Welcome

A story inspired by real events, dreams or more.

Warning 🔞⚠️: Dark horror stories with elements of death, decay, sex, drugs, alcohol, suicide, religion and overall spook factor for your reading pleasure.

Looking back now, deciding to go through with the initial idea, yes, it is probably safe to say it was a bad one, very poorly thought out and even worse executed. No, scratch that and politeness, more than likely it was the worst fucking idea she had. Definitely made the top ten of crazy, no doubt. But then again bad ideas were a part of her. Like shadows, always following close by, sticking to her skin when light shinned bright, refusing to retreat, a subtle reminder of the bad and all that happened.

But she made the journey already to get to the address she had written down and that was indeed desperate. And everybody knows desperation usually drives people to do various rash things. But then again, she was all out of mistakes to make.

What else was there to lose? What if this time, something actually worked, even for a fraction, something small to make her feel better, like a breath of fresh air or another romantic thing like that, her mind refusing to properly work to conjure a similar saying.

She had done it all or so she claimed, tried it all and this was the last thing that was so preposterous that it might actually work. Because alcohol, drugs, sex, adrenaline only provided a small reprieve. And in the end, she was also that damn selfish. She would not let the world extinguish her pride and lose to vices, letting them eat away at her exterior. For what lay inside was the ultimate reason she decided to make the journey to…well…not much it would seem.

Staring at the building it was honestly a miracle she hadn't gotten robbed on the way over. Not even the damn taxi driver wanted to go down to the exact address "You’re on your own miss." Some man he was. And to think she wanted to leave a tip.

The place looked vacant, the dilapidated state of the block, no let’s rephrase, the entire state of the whole street made for a very bad set of circumstances just waiting to happen.

Desperate indeed.

Walking inside she was surprised to not see an elevator, though even if there was one in sight, she wouldn't have dared to take it. Death by falling elevator wasn't on her to do list, she loathed the sensation of free falling. Stabbed to death in a mugging on a random street also didn’t reach her fancy list. Checking the inside of the building, she carefully added to the list, death by fallen brick, with a maybe next to it on her mental note.

However, she still approached the elevator shaft as if expecting something to materialize. Looking down, debris and not much of anything really looked back at her. She didn’t know what she really thought she would find. A set of keys, a lost coin shinning in the artificial light, an earing maybe to catch her eye with a small trick of the light? Anything? A body – her mind quickly discarded that.

But lost items would require a working device and residence in the building, not a yawning empty hole. Looking up, the idea of an elevator dropping down at full speed, crushing her head made her jolt back. Better there was none. Death by free falling lift over her – check on her mental list.

A long list of fucked up oddities.

The stairs it was and what a long, dreadful spiraling case that went all the way up to the last apartment, the sensation making her dizzy without even having looked down once. Coming back down the stairs would be an even greater task. Not having a rail didn’t help much either.

Knocking on the door once, she let herself inside, movement catching her eyes in an adjacent room “Hello?” her voice echoed in the empty space, loud and cold.

The office, or so it appeared to be, held a simple desk with not much to show for, not even a computer which was odd considering the times. Everyone had a tablet, a laptop, something. Perhaps they just arrived moments prior and have yet to unpack anything from their bag. Water running was enough of a hint as to where the other person was, moments later a woman emerging from the bathroom, fingers racking through dark luscious locks, a pair of dark eyes appearing even darker with the racoon makeup ensemble.

“Finally. Sit.” She pointed to the chair in front of the desk “I’m the story collector.”

“Pleasure, I’m…”

The story collector scoffed as she rolled her eyes, feet lifting to unceremoniously plop on top of the desk “I don’t care about your name, where you come from and all that. I just need your story and if it’s to my liking I will grant you what you’re looking for, which I already know what that is by the way. So little one, give it to me.”

Circling the office and its bare walls, she sank in the chair as she looked over at the story collector, her not even bothering to spare a second glance.

Desperate people came here, though none could say if it was a woman or a man. They referred to her as an entity, a cut above the mortal stew that came to annoy her from time to time with stories from the very depths of their minds and hearts. It is said that was the way she, it, whatever they referred to the story collector as, remained among them, stories willingly took to weight down further on this earth a being that did not belong yet helped.

A creature with a face like any other, almost familiar, yet unable to be placed anywhere.

“Alright, I got one for you.”

Finally, the story collector looked over, waiting to devour another tale.

#the story collector

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eternalchaoschocolaterain · 1 month ago

Text

That rose fits with wizarding's society morality of seeing harrasment as fun. Since love potions are seen as joke gifts too.

In the context of this fic I like it too. These poor souls 😂 forced to do exactly what they want but still not daring to tell each other.

The artwork is stunning!

I can't wait to see how it will play out in the grand story

Rosa Incarcerem

A bewitched rose, an unbearable closeness… and only one way out.

Credit: Thank you to @raraaf6 for accepting me as a client 🙏& for so kindly agreeing to wait almost a month before publishing this GORGEOUS artwork.😍😍😍😍💖✨️ (I was afraid they would be overwhelmed with work for Valentine's Day, so I planned ahead😅)

OS | M | Ominis Gaunt X OFC | Evinis | 1 780 words

Hogwarts is buzzing with the romantic excitement of Valentine’s Day, but Ominis is hoping for an uneventful day. That is without counting Evelyne, whom he is escorting to the kitchens for her detention, his wand pointed in front of them.

Professor Sharp caught her pointing out the worrying colour change in the potion he was making.

“It’s not cheating, but an active contribution to the principle of fairness,” she mumbled in that strange combination of shyness and honesty that is so characteristic of her.

Of course, Sharp doesn’t appreciate the repartee: in his opinion, Ominis, blind or not, has to fend for himself. And although he values his own autonomy – much more than any teacher – he regrets that his friend, usually so discreet and reserved, is being punished for a few unwelcome words.

Ominis has known for a long time that she has a tendency to show her fangs when she feels cornered. But since last Christmas, she has been showing it all the time. And what’s worse, she refuses to admit it.

As they reach the stairs leading to the kitchens, a female voice behind them calls out, honeyed and overconfident.

“Ominis!”

He turns around. Evelyne, unwilling to be noticed by the newcomer, melts into his shadow. She too recognised this tone, this false lightness that could only belong to Callista Malfoy.

Since last summer, the witch has been showering him with perfumed, honeyed, and calculated invitations. His own parents covet the large dowry she will offer her future husband, and she herself sees him as a good match — honourable, manipulable, and much less dangerous than his brother. Ominis has no doubt she would be prepared to snare him in a scandal to force him to marry her. As a result, he avoids her, like dragon pox.

“I have tried so hard to be pleasant to you, Ominis, and yet... you continue to avoid me.”

He remains silent. She gives a falsely resigned sigh.

“Perhaps this little gift will convince you of my sincerity?”

He instinctively reaches for the flower she presents to him. A shiver runs up his spine. Fleeting. Unusual. An imperceptible magical vibration, like a warning.

“Don’t touch that flower!”

His friend’s cry splits the air at the same time as she strikes the rose with the back of her hand. But it was too late.

The magic explodes. A tendril of thorns and bewitched flowers wraps around them, clinging voraciously to their clothes. For a moment, she gasps for air. In the blink of an eye, he finds himself thrown against the young woman, his body crushed against hers, his arms reflexively closing around her.

A strange silence falls. The time for a breath.

Then —

A click of the tongue.

“Oh.”

One word dropped in a bored, almost jaded breath. Ominis can’t see Malfoy, but the pulsing of his wand traces the outline of her motionless figure. He knows she is fuming. She wanted to trap him... but not with Evelyne, apparently.

The tension in the air twists, becoming heavier. Callista Malfoy inhales slowly.

“What bad luck...”

The intonation is too controlled, almost amused.

“I wonder what Marvolo would think of that.”

She lets the threat hang between them, then turns on her heels, her feigned indifference almost erasing her presence. Ominis hears the rustle of her robe, the measured rhythm of her heels on the stone, then nothing. He exhales a sigh.

“Are you all right?”

She's there, pressed against him. Her body against his, every line printed against him.

And her smell, Merlin...

A shiver goes through him. The warmth of her body, the scandalous yielding of her curves... He feels himself blush.

She raises her head. Her breath brushes his throat, and beneath her palms, his heart beats wildly.

“I'm sorry...” she breathes, her voice trembling with a mixture of guilt and emotion. “I... I wanted to spare you this, but it went too fast...”

He clenches his jaw, consumed by the fire spreading through him.

“It’s a Rosa Incarcerem.”

The evidence slaps him in the face. These bewitched roses are very popular this year. Almost undetectable, they enchant anyone who touches them together, forcing them to kiss to break the enchantment that binds them together.

He lets out a hiss of frustration.

“Well done. Really.”

He would have preferred anyone else. Even Malfoy, despite her shenanigans. At least she wouldn’t have affected him like that, and he would have remained indifferent.

With Evelyne, the trap is far more vicious.

He tries to free himself, by force, then with a counter-spell, but the plant vice strengthens its grip.

“Wait... is that Gaunt?!” exclaims a student nearby.

An excited murmur runs through the corridor, a cruel reminder that they are making a spectacle of themselves in a busy place.

Ominis’s fingers clench his wand, and he whispers an incantation. The magic flows over him like an icy wave, covering him in a veil of invisibility. He barely notices his classmate’s slight start, her breathing suspended for a fraction of a second before she understands his intentions.

The surrounding murmurs intensify, but at least no one can see them any longer. No one’s about to break that spell anytime soon!

Their bodies are trapped, welded together by an implacable force that strangles him to the same degree that it inflames him.

He feels everything. The outrageous softness of her chest crushed against his, the searing heat of her belly against his, and below that... a torment he would give anything to ignore.

His breath catches when Evelyne tries to pull away, pushing his chest away.

A fatal mistake.

Her movement fans a insidious fire deep in his core. Rigid from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes, he endures the wave of pleasure coursing through him.

Ominis is tense.

Shamefully tense.

“By Merlin’s beard, Evelyne... stop moving,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

“I’m not doing it on purpose!” she croaks, in a high-pitched voice that leaves no doubt she grasps his state of arousal.

Let’s hope she doesn’t make a comment that would add to his mortification, like last time!

She is shaking now, tensing up in a desperate effort not to move, not to let that vice of flowers and thorns press her further against him. But it’s no use.

The spell weighs relentlessly down on them. And he... He has never known such humiliation.

His own body betrays him obscenely, and there’s nothing he can do about it. Damn this uncontrollable desire!

This time, he can’t pretend it’s a casual masculine greeting at dawn, a physiological reaction that has no context whatsoever.

Now he has to admit that it’s because of her. Because he is incapable of ignoring the caress of her erratic breathing, the scent of "geranium rosat" enveloping him, the firmness of her breasts pressed against his chest, her fingers clutching his robe, and her damn hips that kiss his so perfectly.

For Merlin’s love, let him be anaesthetised or stunned!

“You, the plant expert... Say you can do something about this.”

“If it were just the intrinsic magic of the rose, I probably could. But here... it’s an artificial curse, woven with too many protections for me to break it.”

Alas, that’s what he thought... Those who created this knew what they were doing.

“Ominis, er, I... I don’t know if you have ever kissed anyone, but if it’s your first kiss, I want you to know that I’m sorry for ruining it.”

He closes his eyes, as if that will ease the tension pulsing inside him. His throat tightens. He feels the weight of the confession before it even passes his lips.

“It’s not my first kiss.”

The silence fills with silent questions.

“Anne...”

His voice is hoarse, almost strangled. He doesn’t enjoy talking about this. His free hand clenches despite himself on Evelyne’s hip, like an unconscious anchor.

“She asked me when... when hope of recovery abandoned her.”

He doesn’t need to say any more. At the time, Sebastian’s sister wanted to find out what she might never know. And he was the only one she could ask.

“Even if it wasn't ideal... at least it made sense,” says Evelyne. “No one should have their first kiss stolen by such an absurd enchantment.”

From Ominis Gaunt’s point of view, no one should have their second one stolen that way either. And yet, he is beginning to seriously consider it. It’s better than this awkward embrace where the slightest movement puts him through the wringer.

Evelyne seems to come to a similar conclusion as she starts a movement.

“So, let’s try not to make a big deal out of it and just do it... Alright?”

Then her fingers slide down his torso to the nape of his neck. A light touch at first, almost innocent, before she fully buries her fingers in his hair at the base of his skull.

She wants to guide him, but doesn’t dare.

A searing heat pulses under this caress and descends directly into his crotch, electrifying every nerve in its path.

He tenses even more under the contact. Evelyne must feel it, because she suspends her movements for a second before abruptly withdrawing her hand, as if she has been burned.

Ominis holds his breath. Every nerve, every inch of his skin, is crying out for that all-too-brief touch. The absence consumes him almost as much as the closeness.

Every second stretches out a silent torment, a space suspended between desire and the forbidden.

At last, Evelyne tiptoes up cautiously, as if dreading the moment as much as she desires it.

Her breath, uneven and shallow, grazes his face, a sigh escaping against his mouth, and he fights the raw impulse to close the unbearable distance before the kiss falls.

First a gentle touch. Then the soft pressure of her hesitant lips.

The blood boils in his veins. His heart races. His fingers instinctively find their bearings on her curves. A need. To hold her despite himself. For a second, Ominis thinks about giving in to the temptation to go deeper. To demand. To claim.

But he doesn't have the right and, in any case, Evelyne is already moving away.

The curse bursts out in a magical blast, freeing them as suddenly as it had chained them.

She stammers out a confused apology, almost stumbles backwards.

“I, er... I’m going to be late for my detention, er, sorry,”

Then she disappears faster than a snake into the tall grass. Ominis opens his mouth. No words come out. Emptiness replaces her warmth.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

He exhales slowly, forcing his body to let go.

His trembling fingers brush his lips, where the echo of the kiss lingers, where Evelyne had pressed herself too deliciously against him, igniting a violent, unrelenting shiver.

A cruel truths hit him: he's doomed.

A/N: This OS takes place after chapter 5 of "Lullaby for Cursed Seeds". Although it can be read as standalone, it will be incorporated into chapter 6 with a few slight modifications. Thank you for reading. 💖

#evinis

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