#Mysterious White-Haired Gothic Horror Anime Man

[see-arcane]

seriously what is up with the white hair? Like the first time I read the scene in the Harker's room I took whitening hair to be a sign of the stress that's been on Jono gradually turning his hair, but then Jack confirms right away that it was all the hair turning color overnight. Stoker makes sure to mention the hair transformation twice and clarifies via Jack that it was all at once. what is up with Jonathan?

Lucy lost all her blonde when her narrative got Dracula'd, Jonathan lost all his brunet. Equivalent exchange.

[mrskokushibo]

Wrong?

Muzan x fem!reader x Yoriichi

Warnings: Smut, rough sex, dub con, threesome, watching corn, very NSFW, 18+. Modern AU. 7k words.

Summary: Your boyfriend Muzan is a star, and you love being his girl. But the man has needs that you have been neglecting for a while. Tonight will start a chain of events that will have you asking yourself if sex and love in a relationship truly should be inseparable?

A/N: I loved creating this storyline. This is a request from a friend. The only thing she asked for was Muzan's girlfriend falling for Yoriichi. It's one of my favourite stories to write - I got to spread my creative wings.

Masterlist

The club was full tonight, hosting the release party for a new book by one of the most prominent writers in the city. The venue was an old factory building, stylishly renovated with a mixture of white rendered walls, exposed brick, and steel structure, decorated with an eclectic and carefully curated selection of furniture ranging from sleek Scandinavian design armchairs to rococo sofas and chandeliers.

A place that quickly became a favourite with the cultural circles of the city. It was also the home of a popular nightclub on the weekends as well as the venue of choice for a society hosting slightly, well, different types of events, namely invitation-only orgies, that your boyfriend and subsequently yourself were always invited to, but had to decline due to your unwillingness to participate in anything like that.

Tonight’s event was the kind you gladly accompanied him to. As always on such occasions, your boyfriend Muzan Kibutsuji was one of the guests of honour. He was a young star writer, specialising in dark horror and fantasy, having sold over a million copies of his first novel at the tender age of twenty-three. Now, five years later and with another few million books sold, he was among the literary elites. He also had a background in acting, although there was a veil of mystery as to what type of movies, he was in.

You too were a writer and the two of you met at a seminar hosted by your favourite Japanese superstar novelist. Well, you would be lying to yourself if you thought you actually were a professional writer, more of an aspiring writer, really. Your studies and work took up most of your time, so the only writing you did was manga and anime fanfiction. Yes, you felt very inadequate at these parties, but you quickly adjusted to assuming the role of the supportive and devoted girlfriend of the literary star.

And tonight, was no different. You wore a brand new, figure-hugging little black dress and high-heeled thigh-high leather boots. Simple, but sexy. For the last half hour, you were standing idly sipping your champagne, while Muzan was involved in a heated debate with some older, seemingly unimpressed author and his artist friends. You were a little tipsy and were hugging Muzans arm all the while he was busy talking.

He was such a hottie, you thought, you saw the envious looks on the faces of his female colleagues every time he brought you with him to any event. Yes, you could consider yourself lucky. His looks were striking, as he was essentially an albino, meaning his eyes were red and his hair white and wavy, but he always coloured it black. The monochromatic colour combination together with his masculine yet defined and delicate features gave him an exotic and almost out-of-earthly aura. His muscular arms were covered with intricate black gothic tattoos (he had tattoos in other, more intimate places too) and he sported a tongue piercing. His style was a bit steampunk blended with hard rock, he looked good in suits and ripped jeans alike. And he stood almost six feet tall.

The boredom of just standing around was slowly leaving room for thoughts other than literature, you were getting a little horny, to be completely honest with yourself. You were into your third glass of champagne and were slightly tipsy, the ambient rhythmic music, warm dimmed lighting, and the buzz of people talking were putting you into a pleasant lull, making your senses pliable and receptive to new impressions.

Out of nowhere, you started to imagine what it would be like when an orgy is hosted here… the throaty moans and high-pitched squealing of female pleasure mixed with the deep raspy grunts of the men, loud screams of people climaxing and the wet, squelching pounding of flesh against flesh. You could picture naked bodies, bodies in provocative lingerie, illuminated and glossy in the warm light of the chandeliers. It is almost as if you now suddenly were curious about it…

And that is when you noticed him. That other man. He was standing in the middle of the room deep in a conversation with a group of young people. His appearance stood out in the crowd, he was very tall, probably well over six feet, maybe six feet three, with an athletic build. His hair was long and black, tied in a ponytail with cascades of shorter bangs framing his face. Red highlights illuminated his layered hair. He was dressed in tight black jeans and an equally tight black t-shirt, and was wearing long earrings with what looked like the rising sun. There was a strange red mark on his left temple, a birthmark maybe? You could not help it, but you found yourself staring at his bulging biceps every time he lifted his beer to his lips. You were amused with how boredom brought out such primitive instincts in you. You were interrupted by Muzan who nudged you gently,

‘Would you like another drink?’ 

‘Yes, please’ you replied.

He walked away to the bar while texting someone and smirking. He came back with drinks only to find a new group of colleagues taking his attention. So… you proceeded with your little dirty pastime. Suddenly, the man looked in your direction, a dark maroon gaze piercing straight through you. You froze, and at the same time, a familiar heat was starting to spread in your belly. Wetness was pooling between your legs and you were thanking yourself for wearing panties tonight.

He looked away again, but then his gaze was constantly seeking yours for the rest of the evening. When it was time for you and Muzan to leave, while walking past the group with the gorgeous object of your attention, he suddenly looked you up and down and gave you the most lust-filled gaze you could imagine. You were so stunned you kept on staring at him, your head turning back in his direction while you were leaving the room.

The ride home proceeded in awkward silence; you have never seen Muzan in such a strange mood. When you entered the penthouse, you slouched on the sofa and closed your eyes. You were a little tired from all the impressions, especially that specific one… You opened your eyes feeling the presence of your boyfriend. He was standing in front of you holding handcuffs. ‘Move to the armchair’ he commanded in a deep, raspy whisper, the way he almost hissed the words sent a chill down your spine. ‘What now?’ you thought puzzled.

‘I saw what you were doing all night. You were staring at that man like a shameless slut.’

His words were true, you were indeed staring, but so what, this came from the man who suggested attending orgies in the past.

Perplexed, you retaliated: ‘Am I not allowed to look at people anymore?’

‘Oh, my love, you were not just looking, you were eye-fucking him. Do you think I cannot tell the difference?’

You swallowed and obediently moved to the armchair.

He placed your arms on the rests and slowly cuffed each of them to the furniture. Then he picked up the remote and turned on the projector. What was instantaneously visualized on the screen went straight to your sex. It was a close-up of a man and a woman fucking, with loud, obscene moans serving as the soundtrack. The camera started slowly to move away from the copulating pair and the back of the male came into full view, intricate tattoos spreading over his back like a veil of black lace and long, wavy white hair snaking down his neck and shoulders while his hips were rhythmically moving back and forth to slam his dick into the woman. When the camera moved to show the front of him your heart nearly stopped, the red pupils staring intently at the woman he was railing, that face…. It was Muzan. So that was the acting career he was so mysterious about.

In the meantime, Muzan was in the kitchen part of the open-plan living space, texting someone. You were both completely silent while the sounds of sex were filling the space. A few moments later and a pair of now completely soaking wet panties, the doorbell rang. Muzan walked over to open it. His face was adorned with a mischievous smile as he glanced your way. What happened next was something you did not expect and that started an unstoppable chain of events.

The person Muzan let in the apartment was a woman, a petite blond with hair all the way down to her round ass, dressed in a sleeveless skin-tight latex dress, that showed off her large (most presumably) fake silicone breasts. A real little sex kitten. Muzan led her to the sofa and sat down spreading his legs so that she could kneel between them.

He parted her pouting pink lips with his index finger and slid it deep into her mouth while she released a throaty moan, he then pulled the finger out stroking her bottom lip, only to pump the finger back into her mouth even deeper this time while rotating it. His other hand slid down her dress off her breasts and started slowly caressing them, making her moan even harder. He was pinching her nipples, making her perfect little body arch in pleasure, and looking even hotter. All the while her small manicured hands were stroking his crotch and after her back arched from overstimulation, she unzipped his pants and gently pulled out his now fully erect, hard cock. She was stroking it gently and licking the sensitive tip.

Eventually, she sank her head down on the full length, stretching her shiny, pink lips, gagging a little, and continuing to bob her head up and down on his thick length. His dick was large, so that most of the time she was only getting half of it in her mouth with the rest of the shaft treated to a pumping motion by her delicate hands. He threw his head back; you could tell he was close. Her moans were getting louder too and a few moments later he grabbed her by her ponytail and the back of her head and shoved her down into his groin while bucking his hips upwards. The woman gagged heavily, the sound wet and sloppy. He climaxed.

Once he was finished, he let her head go and she slowly pulled away, gasping for air, with spit and cum connecting her mouth to his penis. She looked him in the eye with a submissive almost grateful look. He was still stroking her breasts, while she was licking up all the cum from her lips and sucking his cock clean. And then, just like that she adjusted her clothes, got up, threw him a little kiss, and walked out of the apartment. The porno on the screen was playing all the while this was happening adding to the already surreal and loaded atmosphere.

You were too stunned to even think, let alone say anything. ‘What the fuck did you just witness?’

Without a word Muzan got up from the sofa and walked up to you, his dick still hanging out of his pants. He knelt in front of you and put his hands on your soft thighs, slowly kneading them up towards your crotch. His hands were getting closer and closer to your wet lips and finally they reached your soaked g-string. Muzan started rubbing you through the wet fabric with two fingers.

‘Fuck you are wet. Such a whore you are, getting wet from watching other people fuck. You are a dirty little kitten, aren’t you?’

You were too ashamed to answer, ashamed that something so wrong and apparently hurtful aroused you. You should have been turning your head away, yelling at him, crying even. But all you did was watch… and get wet.

‘You see, my love, when people get jealous, they sometimes stop thinking, they do stupid things. Do you think, what I did was stupid? Hm? But, you know, I got jealous, very jealous. And when you have been such a prude with me for so long, never wanting to do the things I thought we should do and then go drooling after other men, what do you think I should have done?’ His voice was raspy and menacing, but also filled with lust.

Muzan’s fingers were now slowly spreading your labia and rubbing up and down between your slick-soaked folds. You were so wet, his actions created small squelching sounds. He added another finger and slowly worked his way into your dripping pussy, crooking a finger and pumping in with small circular movements that made your muscles clench around him. He then spread your labia and moved in to lick you between your legs. His was giving you long and slow, gentle licks all the way on the very inside of your labia, you could feel the metal of his tongue piercing leaving a streak of extra pressure and thus enhanced sensation on the thin strips of flesh it was touching.

Gradually, he started to increase the force with which he was working his tongue on you. Wherever the piercing pressed on your sensitive flesh, it was exerting extra pressure on your nerves. When he finally reached your clitoris and started circling around it and occasionally skilfully flicking his tongue so that the piercing would hit the sensitive nub, your thighs were sent into convulsions of pleasure. You were starting to edge, your climax so close yet his actions not decisive enough to grant you release. Your legs were shaking uncontrollably, while he was flicking his tongue over your clit while all the while pumping his fingers into your pussy. You were so close; you were drooling and tears started to form in your eyes.

‘Muzan, please let me come, I’m so close’ you were moaning and squealing and when you thought he was increasing his pace, he suddenly pulled away and started uncuffing you.

‘Go down on all four for me doll.’

 You did what he asked you to, as you were so greedy to come. You now had the porno in full view in front of you and there he was on the screen fucking two women now, one riding his face and the other his dick. Watching that made you so fucking aroused. It was wrong, but you could not help reacting to it in the way you did. You felt like an animal, driven only by instinct at this point.

Without a word, he spread your ass cheeks and aligned his hard tip at your entrance, and soon his thick girth was pumping in and out of your pussy, wet, sloppy, indecent sounds of the two of you fucking on top of the vulgar sounds coming from the porno were filling the otherwise so elegant and relaxing space of your shared apartment. He was thrusting so hard that with every move you were being sent forwards with so much force that eventually your whole upper body was flat on the soft rug with him pressing down your back with his hand. He increased the pressure, supporting himself almost fully on you, and leaned down to whisper in your ear.

‘I will now come inside you my little whore, I will breed you, because you are my very own whore, I bet you would like to carry my little brat, would you?’

With that he increased the pace and strength of his thrusts, you were clenching around him, desperate to come. His hips and lower abdomen were now pressed flush to your round soft ass and you could eventually feel his lower abs contract indicating his release. His orgasm must have been a big one as he growled while pushing himself in you and releasing a huge load of cum into your fluttering insides.

‘Fuck you were good, kitten. I will sleep so well now.’

He pulled out, stood up and grabbed the remote to turn off the movie, and left for the bathroom. You were left high and dry, or so you thought anyway…

When you entered the bedroom Muzan was seated in the chair lounge next to the lit fireplace and opposite of your shared bed, fully dressed sipping on a glass of single malt whisky. The flame was making his eyes look almost devilish.

‘Here you are. I think you do deserve to come after all, we do not want you to lose sleep, do we?’

There was something so menacing in his voice, something that was hitting all the submissive notes in your entire being.

‘Undress for me, doll’

Without hesitation, you started to take your clothes off.

‘All of it, now!’ He commanded.

You did as you were told.

‘Now. Lay down on the bed so I can see between your legs. Play with yourself for me, make yourself come.’

There was nothing else to do, but to obey and you already felt like you were in a trance, as if nothing of this was real. You laid down and started to flick your nipple and got your imagination ready, and the fantasy that was helping you get off involved the tall man from the party, your only invisible act of defiance against your boyfriend. You imagined him seated on a sofa at the party, with everyone watching while you came up to him and straddled him shamelessly. What followed made you move your hand down between your legs and masturbate. Your fingers were doing their skilled and experienced work and very soon you came. Your orgasm was intense, with waves of pleasure causing your body to arch and convulse, you released a small scream and when the waves of pleasure finally flowed away, you were just lying there, limp with soaking wet fingers and pussy. You licked your fingers dry and closed your eyes.

A harsh yank to your chin shook you out of your bliss. You opened your eyes and the only thing in your line of sight was Muzan’s cock.

‘Open your mouth for me now, sweetheart’

The gentle words were in such stark contrast to what he was about to do because as soon as you opened your mouth, he grabbed you by your neck and shoved himself fully into your mouth, making you gag. He stayed like this for a few seconds, savouring how deep inside your throat his dick was seated, and rotated his hips a little. Then he slowly pulled out, only to slam himself into you again, and again and again, until you were a gagging, drooling mess with tears and mascara running down your cheeks. He pulled out, drool connecting your mouth to his dick, and lifted your head up by yanking you up at your ponytail.

‘I think this is a good look for you, isn’t it, doll? My submissive little kitten, so sweet and obedient. ‘

He shoved himself in you again and this time kept on going until you could feel his muscles spasm and the warm, salty liquid filled your mouth and throat. He pumped into you a few extra times before pulling out. You swallowed most of the cum, but there was still some left on his cock.

‘Clean me up.’

You licked his dick clean and he lifted your head by the chin, so very gently now.

‘Hm, we will both sleep well after this, won’t we?’

And he placed the gentlest of kisses on your lips and went into the bathroom to clean himself up. You followed suit, but you knew you would most likely not sleep all too well, still trying to come to terms with what he has done in front of you with that woman, as well as trying to grasp how in the hell was it your fault. Was he really the jealous type?

The following day began with Muzan getting up and making you both coffees. He behaved as if last night did not happen, something that confused and infuriated you even more. Since it was your day off, you decided to head over to the gym to clear your head and hopefully figure out your next move. Both you and Muzan frequented the same gym in the neighbourhood, the gym was large, but with a relaxed atmosphere. There was also a martial arts dojo in conjunction with it that Muzan went to occasionally, but you never showed any interest in.

As soon as you entered the gym, you nearly froze in your steps. There, next to the reception desk was the man from the party, chatting casually with one of the personal trainers. You stalling in your movement caught his attention and he looked straight at you and waved. As if hypnotised you started slowly walking toward him and finally stopped in front of the man. He was so tall, you had to tilt your head up to look at his face.

‘Hi,’ you blurted out.

‘I didn’t know you went to this gym?’

You kept on rambling as if the two of you were already introduced. He looked at you with slight amusement.

‘Yes, I do, and I believe I saw you at the party last night, yes?’

‘Yes.’ You nodded like the idiot you were. For every minute feeling more and more awkward.

‘Well, I guess we should have a proper introduction then. My name is Yoriichi’. He stretched out his hand.

‘Y/n’ you said with overdriven courage as you placed your hand in his large one for a courteous handshake.

‘Excuse me, boss, can you please sign this?’ the two of you were interrupted by an employee of the gym coming up to Yoriichi with some papers. You looked at him and asked surprised.

‘Oh, you work here?’

‘Yes, actually I kind of happen to own the place’ he answered shyly, scratching his head and blushing a little.

While he was busy flipping through the pages you could not help yourself but eye him off discretely and what you saw was waking up the most basic instincts in you. He was wearing cotton tracksuit pants and a singlet in a thin functional material, that showed off his huge toned arms. The outline of his pecs and abs were visible through the thin fabric, you also noted he had powerful, strong thighs, as the fabric of the track pants was stretched at the thickest part of his thigh muscles. You could not help to throw a glance at his shapely glutes and strong hips. When you thought about it, he really had the appearance of some ancient warrior, a samurai maybe. You swallowed quietly, an action he caught you in the middle of.

‘Well, I am done here. I will be taking the rest of the afternoon off today, so I guess I will see you around sometime?’ He spoke.

You just could not let him disappear like this. You gathered your courage and asked

‘Would you have time for a quick coffee then? I changed my mind and will work out later today.’

He studied you for a moment and answered.

‘Why not, actually? I do have the whole day to myself. There is a good café nearby’

You nodded and the two of you started walking out of the gym, him courteously opening the door for you. Luckily, the café really was nearby. You were enjoying your coffee and the casual conversation, but when your fingers met when reaching out for napkins, the two of you went silent almost simultaneously. The truth was that all through the friendly, harmless exchange you were imagining fucking Yoriichi, riding his cock, and touching him in a way that was anything but just friendly. The look in his maroon eyes was starting to reveal something more as well now.

And maybe he could pick up on your feelings because the tension between the two of you was becoming palpable. You were soaking wet between your legs and your breathing was becoming heavy, your arousal was powerful: the contraction of the muscles of your vagina started to feel more and more like a rope being tightly twisted into a knot, and this sensation was now spreading up to your cervix making your insides feel like they were on fire.

He sucked in his lips before finally speaking up.

‘You know, I live just around the corner if you would like to have … some lunch with me.’

As if in a trance you answered

‘Yes, I would like that’

But you already knew what you really would like and sensed that this was something he would like as well…

As soon as you stepped into the elevator, he came closer to you and kissed your lips. Very lightly at first, but as soon as he felt you reciprocate the action, he drew you closer to him and the kiss became deeper, with tongues swirling deep in each other’s mouths. He was holding his hips away from yours for now, most likely due to an increasing hard-on, he was a gentleman after all, and did not want to impose that soon.

His hands were caressing your back and your body started tingling in pleasure. He was so big, you felt cradled and sheltered, and his warm smell was like a feast for your senses. The elevator reached his floor and he led you into his apartment. It was a bright and beautiful space, cradled in light from the large windows, decorated in oriental, presumably Japanese fashion, with tatamis, low large futon like sofas, beautiful prints of Sakura trees and diverse martial arts weaponry adorning the walls.

He closed the door behind him and swiftly had you up against the nearest wall. He lifted you by your buttocks and you wrapped your legs around his hips. All the while you were entangled in a passionate kiss. He lifted you up and started walking toward the bedroom. When he sat you down on the bed, you began to remove each other’s clothes. His body was even more magnificent naked, and the cock looked… huge. Almost uncomfortably huge.

Yoriichi started crawling on the bed and on top of you, his large body towering over you and making you gasp. His warmth, his smell, it was all so close to you and all you wanted was to drown in him, let him devour you and fuck you senseless. He lowered his hips so they were flush with yours between your legs and started rubbing your wet folds and clit. You were moaning in pleasure. With the other hand, he started massaging your breasts and playing with your hard nipples. You were arching your body and moaning shamelessly.

‘Please fuck me, I want to feel you inside me.’

He did not hesitate to fulfill your plea. Aligning the tip of his cock with the entrance to your sopping-wet pussy, he started to enter you.

He was big, almost too big for your small body to take. Slowly and steadily, he was prying his way into you. Every nerve in your core was pulsing, welcoming this new intruder with increasing wetness and spasming muscles. Your pussy was clenching on him so hard that he was quietly groaning while pushing on into you. He finally bottomed out and lifted himself off you slightly to meet your gaze. His gorgeous maroon eyes now clouded in pleasure, he said softly,

‘I will start moving now, do you feel ready?’

Did you ever… ‘Of course,’ was all you could say in a weak voice.

Slowly, at a languid pace, he began to rhythmically pump into you, his hips hitting yours every time he was bottoming out. You have never been this stretched out in your life, his girthy, long cock literally moulding your velvet walls to its shape, hitting your cervix with every slow pump. You were starting to edge, with the sensitive spots deep inside you being stimulated nearly constantly now. He kept on going like this for a while making your eyes roll to the back of your head and drool running down the side of your mouth.

‘Yoriichi, can you go a little faster? I am about to come’ you moaned out to him, as you could not control yourself any longer. The knot inside you running all the way from your opening to the tip of your cervix, was about to burst.

He picked up the pace and soon enough you were slowly dissolving into your climax, your whole body shaking and spasming from the intense pleasure you were gifted. You were so wet now, your cum seeping down your thighs onto Yoriichi. He shuffled himself up slightly and put you in a mating press. His cock was even deeper inside you, he started chasing his own release. His pace increased and soon it was ruthless and fast, abusing your cervix and every overstimulated spot deep inside you. You could feel his heavy balls slam into you with every powerful thrust. The man had the stamina of a god and went on in this unforgiving tempo for quite a while.

Gradually, his thrusts were getting sloppy and when he finally came, filling you up with his warm semen, he bottomed out deep inside you, his hips pushing you up toward the headrest of the bed and staying like this for a couple of seconds. He then pumped into you a few times, following the movement of his spasming abdomen muscles. When he stopped, he sank his head, still hovering over you supported on stretched-out straight arms. Sweat was running down his chest. He slowly rolled over on his back, taking you with him in an embrace that placed you laying down straight on top of him.

And that is when you noticed a presence in the room. You turned your head around towards the doorway and to your shock and surprise you saw your boyfriend stand there, leaning on the door frame with arms crossed and head tilted backwards in a brattish manner. His hair was out and cascading down his shoulder in black ringlets.

‘I hope I am not interrupting. Do you mind if I join in?’ He asked with a smirk. You instantly wondered how long he was there watching you and Yoriichi fucking.

‘Please do, unless y/n has some objections?’ Yoriichi said and tilted your head up to look at him. ‘Are you ok with this, y/n? ‘

‘I guess I don’t mind’ You did not really know what to say, your sex seemingly dictating your choices for you since last night.

‘Good, this will be fun.’ Muzan said and started to get undressed.

In the meantime, Yoriichi moved to his side and let you down on the soft mattress, so that you were on your side facing him. With an already erect dick bobbing in front of him, Muzan walked over to where you and Yoriichi were and crawled into bed to lie down behind you. He kissed and licked your neck, you could feel the metal of the piercing dragging on your soft skin, and grabbed one of your breasts, squeezing it gently, eliciting a quiet moan from your lips. He then leaned into your ear and with a deep, soft whisper asked:

‘How did you like him, doll? Was he big enough for you?’

He kept on kissing your neck and dragging the pierced tongue along it and massaging your body with his hand while pressing his erect cock in your soft ass. Yoriichi at the very same time started kissing your mouth and rubbing your breasts.

You did not think it was at this stage possible to get more aroused, but you did. Your pussy was aching so badly now, all you wanted was for the men to give it to you. Rough, fast however they wished to fuck you. You wanted to feel full, the craving growing for every minute making your insides burn with need. The sensation of both these attractive men being so close to you, their hands touching every part of your body, was making you feral, totally wild with anticipation. Seeing and feeling the athletic, tall, and big Yoriichi, with his smooth and glossy skin and your exotic-looking, tattoo-covered and pierced boyfriend so close to your own body was a sensation that was driving you crazy. It was almost as you were a goddess worshipped at the altar of lust.

‘How do you think we should proceed?’ Muzan asked Yoriichi in a playful tone.

‘Hmm, where we are is good, no offense, but I am the bigger one here, so I think it is best if you go in the backway’ Yoriichi answered.

Muzan sighed and smirked. ‘Good point, do you happen to have lube around here?’ Yoriichi stretched an arm behind him to reach under the bed and pulled out a bottle of anal lube.

‘You dirty fuck, this looks like you have been having some fun’ Muzan noted as the bottle was only half full.’ Yoriichi did not answer to that but his smile said it all.

While Yoriichi was working on your pussy and breasts, Muzan poured a fair bit of lube on your opening and started to massage your puckering hole. Slowly and gently, the sensation was so different from anything you ever experience before, but so delicious at the same time. He slowly pushed in a finger and was circling it gently. A second finger came in and he was scissoring them inside you. Yoriichi was now lining himself up to enter you again. His hard tip rubbing between your folds as Muzan added another finger and was whispering sweet, honey-glazed words in your ears in order to get you relaxed.

‘Be a good kitten for me now, such a gorgeous little obedient doll, I will spread that tight little ass for you and you will beg me for more’

The sweetness in his voice was almost demeaning. He kept on pumping his fingers in you, but you just could not relax.

‘Baby, I can’t do it. Not today. Can we do something else?’

Muzan pulled out his fingers out of you and nodded at Yoriichi

‘Well, doll, in such case you will have to take that huge dick of his down your throat, because I want to be in one of your holes, no matter what.’

You shifted to all four and Yoriichi knelt in front of you offering you his cock. You started licking the leaking tip and pumping the shaft with your small hand, barely getting a proper grip. In the meantime, Muzan positioned himself behind you and all of a sudden slammed his dick into you. This propelled you forward and you almost speared yourself on Yoriichi’s cock, swallowing nearly the entire length. He groaned from the sensation and you gagged heavily. Once the two of you adjusted positions so that you could comfortably work on his dick, Muzan started moving his hips into you again. You worked with the rhythm he was setting as there was no use trying to stay still and resisting his movement from pushing you forward. Every time his hips slammed into you, you sank your mouth over Yoriichi’s cock and you continued like this for a good while.

Your mouth and throat were stretched almost to the brink of discomfort from the huge girth and length. The pleasure you felt from Muzan repeatedly hitting your g-spot was making you moan louder and louder and your moans were sending vibrations through Yoriichi’s dick making it twitch and grow.

‘I’m going to come soon’ he groaned.

He pulled out of you, gave his cock a few pumps and unloaded the content of his balls in your face, warm cum spraying into your open mouth and down your chin and throat. Neither you nor Muzan were far off from your orgasms either. It took a few more fast thrusts from him to make your knot burst and you reaching your release. And a few more thrusts later and Muzan was spraying his cum into your still fluttering walls. The amount of pleasure you experience this afternoon was overwhelming and you collapsed exhausted, but utterly satisfied on the mattress.

Yoriichi got up and came back with a few towels. He helped you clean up your face and handed a towel to Muzan who then cleaned you and yourself up. Yoriichi was the first one to go to the bathroom and have a shower and after him, it was Muzan’s turn. Once the two men were decent again, Yoriichi informed you that they would prepare lunch so that you would have some time to yourself to recover and relax. You spent half an hour in the bedroom and went out to them, still in a complete state of confusion.

‘Hi there. I hope you are hungry.’ Yoriichi said.

‘I seem to have cooked too much pasta, but hey, we need the energy’ he grinned broadly. ‘By the way, I think you owe your lovely girlfriend an explanation’ he said turning to Muzan.

‘Yes, you are right. It is about time to clarify the situation. Sorry to have confused you and sorry for the bit with Amber, I might have gone a bit too far there. You know when I got up to get the drinks at the party? I noticed that you were eyeing off Yoriichi for a while, and out of the blue, and boredom, I came up with a wicked little plan. Something to shake you up and make you more, adventurous. I really wanted to get you out of your shell. So, I texted him quickly what I had in mind and off we went. I am storyteller, after all.’

You turned to Yoriichi, slightly disappointed

‘So… you were not really attracted to me, hey? It was just a game?’

Yoriichi responded ‘Oh no, not at all. Muzan showed me picturess of you many times before and I must say I was envious of him being with someone so smart, kind, and attractive. So, when he suggested this, the idea went straight to my dick.’

Muzan now continued: ‘Amber, that girl, by the way, is a porn actress and married to a friend of mine. They own an adult movie production company together and I have known them both for a while. But back to the story. As I said, I wanted you to see that there is so much more to life than being a prude, that sex is one of the most indulgent pleasures gifted upon mankind and not immersing ourselves fully in that gift is, well, a sin in my eyes.'

'I do believe that deep emotional love, a connection of souls runs deeper than any physical connection ever can. We are all animals and sex is dirty and amazing at the same time, the ultimate tool to express love, yes, but love can exist without it if you know what I mean. I will love you forever, for all eternity. I believe we are soulmates and we are connected and will always be drawn to each other in every world we are born into. Even if we never have sex again, I want you to be mine and mine only. When you want kids and a house with a white picket fence or whatever dream you may have, we will do it, of course. But for now, while we still are young let us indulge in what this carnal world has to offer. I want you to lose all restraints, and fulfill all your desires. When I saw you looking at our glorious friend here, I knew that if that is what you are into, I will make sure you get what you desire.’

When Muzan finally went quiet, it was Yoriichi’s turn to speak and he suddenly went serious.

‘I have known Muzan for a long time, but our friendship blossomed after my wife died. He was there for me all the way through my lowest. And believe me, it was an epic low. She was pregnant with what was to be our first child when she died in a car crash. Some drunken asshole drove into her car on the highway. My beloved wife and I started the gym and later the martial arts dojo together. These were our passions and I will never love anyone like I loved her ever again. All I have left is the gym and dojo and they are like babies to me. I am no monk and need sex, a lot of it, but only for recreation.’

All the time Yoriichi was speaking, Muzan held his arm around your back, his embrace tightening when Yoriichi mentioned the tragic story of his marriage.

‘Well, enough of the seriousness. Let us eat’ Yoriichi interrupted himself now.

You could not help to notice, that he was not the best of cooks, the pasta was slightly overcooked and the sauce too salty, but it was a sweet gesture of him to cook for his friends and by the way you were starving after everything that was happening for the past twenty-four hours. The wine he served with lunch was on the other hand fantastic and after a couple of glasses, the warm, fuzzy feeling of slowly getting tipsy was putting you in a relaxed state.

Looking at the two amazing men, you now started to understand what your boyfriend was talking about and wanted for you all the way. The normal scenario would involve you having to choose one of them, there would be drama, heart-brake and the euphoria of new love would eventually dim by the negative effects of it all. Thanks to Muzan’s approach, however, you never needed to choose now. The love the two of you shared was just as he described, transcending space and time. But the basic, carnal desire you felt for Yoriichi was also real. Being able to have it all, and more… was indeed the best you could ever wish for. Assured in this new discovery, you closed your eyes and let yourself daydream now finally receptive to visualise desires without any more restraints…

Banners by @cafekitsune

Tagging: @doumadono @muzanbloodgalore @muzansfangs @horror4themasses @cursetopia2 @anarcho-satanism

[angermango]

"I'm not cooking or anything, this is just a silly idea- (looks down at canvas) ffffuuuu--"

...

so, first I only wanted to draw Professor Layton with a Reiterpallasch from Bloodborne because haha funny hat man with gun-sword, but then i ended up drafting concept art for "Laytonborne", apparently.

"Puzzles all over the shop... You'll be stuck on one of them, sooner or later."

extra artist commentary:

Layton

yes, this really did just start with me wanting to give Layton a Reiterpallasch because he's a canonical fencer and Bloodborne trick weapons absolutely slap. The Reiterpallasch is literally a rapier with a pistol attached that can mechanically switch to prime either the blade first or the gun first so you can stab and shoot someone at the same time.

Giving Hershel the Bloodborne makeover was kind of funny because he wears such a simple look in canon it was hard striking the right balance between his recognisable look and BB aestheic since Bloodborne loves embellishment especially via lots of belts/buckles and those weird shoulder-cape things. I tried to keep it simple enough though because as much as i think he could pull off a hunter ensemble i don't want to have to keep track of all the funky bits. the Top Hat Stays, of course.

Aurora

Aurora is eerily good a fit in a Soulsborne-esque setting considering she fits the criteria for a "Soulsborne maiden" classic archetype sort of character: After all she's a mysterious pale-haired young woman with mystical origins/powers and a foreign-sounding accent and may or may not have some connection to the wider lore and powers that be of the setting. hell even her whole thing being a golem works in a way as even Bloodborne has artificial humans existing as a concept.

i got a little lazy with changing up her dress for both time and lack of inspiration. I thought maybe i'd really do her up but then I chickened out that her costume wouldn't be recognisable any more so just slapped a belt and some patterns on the shawl bit and called it a night :P (if i'd been braver/more motivated she'd probably look good in an approximation of the White Church set, something like that)

and yeah so as the sketches off to the side are like, no real clue how/why it might be triggered but imagine her having the potential to be an optional boss or something (and she'd whoop your ass)

Flora

idk tho Flora also seems like she could be a good contender for the "Soulsborne maiden" position too in a way, or even if not her whole character and story fits into the world quite well. especially with Bloodborne having the Plain Doll who is a sentient doll made in the image of someone her creator loved/was obsessed with and Flora living in a village of human-like robots which started after her father tried to build a replacement for her dead mother.

Her dress is a combination of all her canon costumes across the games. The fur-trim shoulder cape is from one official art of her, the short shawl and white sleeves and bit around her waist is based on her first dress, and the rest of the dress design is based on her second and third game appearance.

The 'Doll Flora' concept there at the end is just some idea of a false/clone Flora running around as well. She's got some little differences including elements of other parts of Flora's designs over the years that aren't on OG Flora, such as the sash and shoes.

Anton

Anton fits in scarily well to the Bloodborne-y setting, perhaps not too surprisingly given the whole 'vampire' thingy. I sort of envision Folsense and Herzen Castle being a bit like the Castle Cainhurst area of Bloodborne which leans more into the classic gothic horror of a remote and looming haunted castle occupied by a sinister enigmatic character.

And yes, that is a reference to the infamous "LAYTOOON" scream from his canon 'boss fight' in the second game - imagine the whole steaming up and screaming thing being like his boss phase transition animation.

The whole 'withers to an old man/husk' concept seems so very Soulsborne-y it really just fits yknow. like if you defeat him he shrivels up/ages to dust or whatever. RIP gassed-up grandpa.

I partly rizzed up his suit using inspiration of the Cainhurst Knight set because like. come on. it's too good to pass up the chance to pretty up with and looks a lot like his canon suit in parts.

Did I trace the foyer background art for Herzen Castle for the mockup just for laffs, only to realise partway that 1) Layton and Anton actually fought in the ballroom, and 2) the ballroom would actually make a much better boss arena setting because it's wide open and the arch from the front room leading into the ballroom could totally be the 'boss fog door' part better than the front room?

...so yeah I then drew the ballroom background without tracing this time like a true madman and had a hell of a time with perspective but the plus side is we also get the sword collection from the game there as a cameo because in Laytonborne the good professor brought his own already.

The Masked Gentleman / Randall

Had a bit of a time deciding how to Bloodborne-ify this guy because his suit in canon is actually really. really boring. it's just a white suit like cmon. so to give it that Bloodborne makeover I fell back on the classic shoulder-cape thing that almost all Bloodborne characters have, added some patterns and accessories based on the Mask of Chaos' patterns and the Decorative Old Hunter's set from the Old Hunters DLC (in the leg brace, forearm guard and the hints of gold chains around the upper arms).

He also gets a Threaded Cane, another trick weapon of Bloodborne fame which is as it suggests: A cane weapon that works a bit like a baton/sword combo but in its alternate form it's a whip covered in serrated metal blades which form the cane itself when locked together.

It seems very appropriate for Randall to be like a boss who starts out as the Masked Gentleman and then at half-or-less health you break his mask, reveal Randall and then wings burst out of his back as he enters his second phase rage mode. This concept part felt more DSouls-y than Bloodborne-y to me i think since Bloodborne is less fantastical and leans more into the body horror/monstrous kind of boss transitions? But at the same time it was too good an opportunity to pass on at least sketching out, plus get you some sick fallen angel imagery out of it.

Also the hanging arm pose miiight be a bit inspired by Artorias of the Abyss. just a bit.

Descole

i recall seeing a post somewhere once with this very low-res rare art of Descole sitting in a throne from somewhere i have no idea what it was for. and I remember it kinda reminded me of Lady Maria's promotional art for the Old Hunters DLC so that's why the last picture of Descole exists.

mf already dresses so extra i legit could think of nothing to add to make him more Bloodborne-y unlike the others. I also used his canon sword's design from the games with a custom sheath because again couldn't really think of anything more to do to make him fit more when he's already got a cool signature weapon to show off.

[until-we-fall-in-love]

Into the Hush: Chapter One

Into the Hush Masterlist

Pairings: Bucky Barnes/Reader, Wanda Maximoff/Reader undertones

Summary: It's only ever been you and the rugged wilderness; both unkempt and undomesticated. Until it isn't anymore.

(1870s Cowboy AU. A/B/O AU. Gothic/horror.)

Warnings: Violence, gore, dark themes, A/B/O dynamics, smut in later chapters.

If you are under 18, you should not be reading this!

A/N: howdy ya’ll lol don’t know how i came up with this one but it’s an A/B/O cowboy historical gothic au. it’s gonna get dark! also gonna be a real nasty slow burn lmaooo so mind the warnings, if you don’t do well with gore or violence, perhaps this isn’t the fic for you. also if you don’t like the Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, this isn’t for you, either, though i will be taking some liberties with this and trying to give my own take on it because there are aspects of it that i don’t like lol. im not quite sure how long this series will be, but i have plans for it. that being said, saddle up pardner lol and pls let me know what you thought of this first chapter!!!!

---

 Wyoming, 1872

The early morning air is crisp with new spring, cold and a little damp, dew glistening on the grass and glinting gold in the morning sun. Your breath still comes out in soft puffs that curl into the air as you step out onto your creaking, front porch. It overlooks the barren dirt road that leads up to your humble and charming farmhouse; weathered by time and storm and pleasantly cluttered with life and home at every turn. Off to the left is the freshly tilled ground that has been planted in; herbs and fruits and vegetables that will take over in the warm summer months. Trees have shaken the snow from them and have turned green and budding and new again. 

You wrap your shawl tighter around your shoulders, trying to gather more warmth from the worn cream, crochet wrap. You know once the sun rises higher into the afternoon, you’ll grow too warm for it, but now it’s needed. The wind curls around you, rustles your hair, lifts your skirts. It carries the promise of warmth, the reminder of winter. 

All is peaceful in the morning, before the day has broken over the hills. All that sings is the birds, lovely and bright and flitting from tree to tree. 

You lift your skirts, head over to the back porch, which wraps the entire way along your house. In the back is the barn, the pasture for the animals to graze when it’s warm. The creek towards the back, bubbling softly over the stones, crystal clear and cool. It’s perfect on a summer afternoon, but now would be too cold for you.

And you begin your day, head over to the shed where you ready the feed for the chickens, grab a basket for eggs. You enter the coop, greet the clucking hens with a coo, spreading food for them which they hurry to eagerly. As they eat, you gently reach for warm eggs in their nest, gather it into your basket and rush on to your other chores. 

Milk the cows, get them fresh water, fresh hay and in the afternoon, you’ll let them out in the pasture to warm in the sun. 

A few of them are round with calves, ready to give birth any day now. 

You tend to the single horse, only one now after your father’s male passed away last spring. The one left is yours; a dappled, brown mare you’ve affectionately called Clover. 

You’ll take her to town later, to sell extra eggs and milk, all the goods you can in exchange for bread or spices or money for the tax collector. By the time you’re finished with your chores, which is taking longer and longer as the farm extends and your father grows older and older, it’s around noon, the sun beginning to warm into pleasant rays of topaz and canary. 

Your father sits on the porch, in his old rocking chair, smoking a pipe. His knee has been bad since this past fall, has a harder and harder time helping you. Not that you mind; this farm has practically become yours, but he hates leaving you to it all alone. 

He’s been dying to set you up with an Alpha, find a good man to marry and help you with the farm. But none of the men from town pique your interest, few good Alphas in the small town of Longbrook, Wyoming. The train, not far from town, brings newcomers once and awhile, but it’s mostly quiet, tucked away in a valley, a river snaking its way through and out into the plains of wildflowers and fields. 

You know Longbrook’s secrets, the quiet, beautiful places that you run to when you have the time. Spend your evenings lazing in columbine and aster flowers, beneath old, crooked trees near quiet, turquoise lakes. Or on a bluff, looking high above the world, cool wind in your face and the fluttering of birds nearer to you than planted on the grounds below. 

You know where not to stray to, when the wilderness grows too rough and dangerous. Unrestrained in both it’s beauty and viciousness. 

So independent that you can’t quite imagine your life beside another, especially not beside an Alpha, with their combative, controlling natures. You can’t imagine a husband that wouldn’t mind you taking off, disappearing into the wilderness and returning when you fancy; like some feral cat, your father always remarks gruffly. 

He isn’t a fan of your disappearing acts, either. Alpha that he is, he’s kept careful and close watch on you since you discovered you were Omega, as irritating as it is. Controlling, but only because he means well. You manage to sate him by coming home before nightfall, when dusk is lavender and rose and the moon is only beginning to take the sun’s place. Besides, there’s not much he can do with his bad knee, can’t keep you cooped up the way he used to. 

Ever since your mother had passed, you had to step up around the farm, grow up a little too quick. Responsible and resourceful, you work hard for you and your father. But your father has grown rather overprotective, wary with the Alphas he let come around; well respected in the town, no one has dared disobey him. A few had tried; Brock Rumlow, the tax collector, was the most notable of them. Pushy and irksome, he’d tried to convince you to disobey, sway you to sneak out with him or let him come by but you always turned your nose up at him.

You have no interest in someone so aggressive, so controlling.

You aren’t one to roll over or lower your eyes submissively; many Omegas aren’t, in your opinion, but it’s expected. There’s no time for that, though, not for you. No use or desire for it. You have a farm to take care of, to keep running smoothly. You have a life to live, adventures to have, open sky to chase. 

And there’s  certainly nothing and no one that’s going to stop you. 

“Be careful goin’ into town,” Your father speaks up finally, smoke curling from his lips, voice rough and fogged, “Heard there was a few newcomers.” 

Your father is always wary of newcomers, prefers to assess them himself, rather than hear from others. 

“Yes, pa.” You respond, not particularly interested in them, nor sticking around for one of your father’s infamous lectures. You hurry on, grabbing all that you need, loading up Clover for the journey. You saddle her up, throw yourself over her with practiced ease, hitching your skirts up slightly and out of the way. 

“Be home by nightfall!” Your father hollers after you, but you’re already easing Clover onto the dirt path. 

“Of course!” You call back, just as you urge her into a faster pace, your voice carries on the wind, distant and as light as the new blossoms. 

You push her into a gallop; not because there’s a rush, but because it’s fun. Because the wind is in your hair and the sun is warm on your shoulders and Clover thunders across the ground, kicking up dirt and making a mess. 

You let a grin hitch onto the corner of your lips, lean forward, ease into the speed. The town is only a twenty minute ride, fifteen if you pushed, but you want to enjoy the ride. The landscape blurs past you in shades of olive and juniper, butter cream, robin’s egg blue. The pop of lily white, a sudden burst of dainty pink or blushing red. But it’s just you and the trees and the pounding of your heart along the beat of hooves against the solid ground. 

Free and open and bursting, you race away from home eagerly and into the wilderness.

You end up slowing Clover halfway through your journey, appreciating the spring air, new and linen clean, shadowed patterns falling over you beneath the trees. The wind tickles your cheeks, the distant sound of the river can be heard when you listen carefully, a soft rush of water. It’s soothing, like the creek by your house, the sloshing lake you visit often. You let it carry you into town, peaceful, lazily letting Clover step onto more worn dirt roads. 

Town people shout to you in greeting, wave as you pass by; you’re a familiar face to them. You give them smiles, holler back to some as you make your way to the grocers to sell your eggs and milk. You swing down from Clover, hopping easily onto your feet. 

You end up walking out of the grocer’s with some extra money and a few cans of preserved vegetables and fruits. You buy some bread at the bakery, a pastry to split with Wanda, who you’re hoping can join you for the afternoon. 

You catch sight of her outside the dress shop, peering at the finely made clothes through the window. She wears her own dress of dove grey, similar in fashion to yours rather than the ones she gazes at; your dresses are looser, easier to move and work and play in, aprons tied around your waists instead of the ruffles and frill of the dresses in the window. Her long curls cascade over her shoulders, near copper under the afternoon sun.

You call to her, watch as her features light up upon seeing you, before she picks her skirts up and bounds over to you. Her scent hits you; sweetly Omega, soft clary sage, warm rose, and damp patchouli. Mysterious and floral, she’s always been a little offbeat with her wide, wondering eyes that linger in darkness. 

Some of the elders call her a witch, little demon child, with her Eastern European ties and mischievous curl of her lips. But to you she is only Wanda, your dearest. 

Her fingers, nimble and quick, find yours, lock and lace together. “Hello, darling.” She says, pressing her lips to your cheek in greeting, her voice melodic and smooth; velvet dark and sweet twilight. 

You let your cheek brush hers, lean into the touch eagerly, soft, rosy and warm skin against yours. “Hello, Wanda.” 

She pulls back with a flutter of her lashes, wide eyes finding yours. There’s a familiar glimmer in them, which makes your heart leap amorously, excited and playful. “Are we going to sneak off to the meadow today, still?” She asks, dropping her voice to a hush and stepping nearer. Your hands tighten over hers as you draw closer, duck your head so you catch another breeze of her scent in her hair, the nape of her neck.

“Yes,” You reply, an eager smile pulling at your lips, “I bought us a pastry to split and a book to read.” 

“Then what are we waiting for?” She nearly purrs, bouncing lightly on her toes in excitement. You’re about to pull her along, drag her towards Clover when someone clears their throat behind you.

You both turn, fingers still interwoven, pressed to one another’s sides. Her warmth is welcome and comforting, especially as you both find Rumlow gazing back at the pair of you with depthless, cold eyes. His face, so marred and twisted, gleams pink and shiny with scarred and new skin under the afternoon light. The rays of white gold sunlight do nothing to lighten his features, nor the darkness of his gaze.

It pierces deep into you, as if he wants to pry and prod and pick you cleanly apart. It’s the gaze of a conqueror, you think, the gaze of someone who wants something that can never be theirs. It’s a disturbing hunger, the kind that sends a deep chill down your spine. 

Wanda squeezes your hand in comfort. So attuned to you, she perhaps can tell by body language or the dip in your scent that you’re frightened in some way, that Rumlow has caused you distress and he has yet to even open his jagged, scarred mouth. 

“Lovely afternoon for you ladies.” He says very coldly, as if he is not in fact concerned with the weather nor you both.

“Yes, it is.” Wanda replies for you, a dark, protective little gleam in her eyes. You can smell the shift of scent with her light aggression, the flare of sage that burns and tickles your nose. It sharpens and spices, makes you blink with it. 

“You’re both looking mighty fine, rich with spring. Omegas always were sweetest in spring. Isn’t that right?” He muses and it chills you to the bone, makes you press closer to Wanda’s side, as if you could fold into the safety of her body. 

There is old folklore; spring being associated with Omegas. It’s all about fertility and the new life that blossoms in spring, old wives’ tales of Omegas getting their strongest heats in the spring after long, dormant winters. Perhaps there is some truth to it, biologically, because winter can get so harsh and so sparse with food if one isn’t careful. Bearing children in winter would never be easy, but it’s something you don’t wish to linger on, particularly not with the way Rumlow is eyeing you.

Like ripening fruit to be picked. A flower blooming, awaiting the moment to pluck it from the earth.

Wanda grows uncomfortable now, too, you can feel it in the bunching of her slim shoulders. But she steps in front of you purposefully, a show of challenge to Rumlow, one of protection for you. 

“Isn’t that right, ladies?” Rumlow urges, taking a step forward and Wanda sharply takes a step back, forcing you back as well. You cling to the back of her skirts with tense, seeking fingers. 

“I sure hope you’re not botherin’ these girls.” Another voice speaks up, authoritative and strong and sure. The kind of voice that gives commands, ones you think many eagerly would follow. Not unkind, but unwavering. When you both turn to the source, it’s a blond man, broad shouldered and wide and tall. He’s dressed simply, the top few buttons of his shirt popped open to reveal a muscled chest. Pretty, light blue eyes. He has an honest face, a strong jaw, trustworthy and noble. 

His scent is distinctly Alpha, strong and commanding; cedar wood and leather. The soft notes of something gentler like cotton and the way your linen smells on a summer day fluttering in the breeze to be dry. It’s soothing, a deep comfort compared to the off-beat, metal tang and sour blood smell of Rumlow’s scent. 

Which, has become bitter and salty with his anger and aggression for this newcomer.  

“I wasn’t bothering them. Was I bothering you Omegas?” He asks sharply, prickling with agitation and it makes you grip Wanda’s skirts a little tighter. “And who are you, anyways?” He then almost growls, “Newcomer isn’t gonna tell me what to do.” 

You can tell Rumlow’s itching to pick a fight by the tightening of his shoulders and baring of his teeth. The air becomes charged with scent, territorial and angry and pungent. Wanda’s is still spiced and agitated, too, with the threat of Rumlow. Your own is dipped into distress, irritation, and the newcomer’s becomes stronger, cedar wood sharp. Rooted in place, he cocks his head slightly, challenging. 

“Why don’t you move along.” The newcomer says, and he’s not asking, he’s telling. It’s bold of him, with the way Rumlow’s face; twisted and angry, settles on him. No one challenges Rumlow in this town. He holds too much power, is too strong; both physically and socially. Even protected by the law by being a tax collector for Alexander Pierce. 

Another man steps up behind the blond, eyeing Rumlow with particularly cold and dark eyes; midnight blue, the evening sky bleary with stars, depthless and all consuming. His hair is longer, brushing the tops of his shoulders, half pulled back from his strong face--

When your eyes settle upon his features for the first time, it feels as if you’ve been struck; a blow of lightning, the sudden shock of cold water, the gasp you take when you resurface. It’s damning, you think, as if you’ve seen him in your dreams or in hazy, unknown past lives. As if you’ve known him your whole life, somehow, as if you recognize him now and wonder how you ever could’ve forgotten him.

He looks like the tragic heroes you read about; the ones that rise only to fall, crumble down after being so noble and wide-eyed. He is breathtaking and standing tall and strong against Rumlow’s piercing gaze. There’s a warning in his eyes, a half-dare, begging Rumlow to try something and see what happens now. Where the blond is golden-hearted and bright-eyed, he seems darker, more eclipsed. 

And surprisingly, it works, Rumlow eyes the pair of them, weighs his options, and then promptly steps down. He mutters something about leaving, about how this isn’t the end. But you can’t help the quirk of a smile, the hint of cruel amusement you get from watching him ease away. Slink off back into the hustle of town.

Wanda smiles wider than you, sharper, a little more mischievous, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Rumlow cower like that.” She says and turns towards the newcomers with a radiance that is hard to match. 

And the blond smiles, easy and gentle, “Glad we could help.” And then with deep courtesy, “Steve Rogers, by the way.” 

“Wanda Maximoff.” She pulls you back up to her side once more, offers your name to them, too.

Steve claps the other man on the shoulder, an ease is shared between them that is not unsimilar to you and Wanda. Steve adds, “James Buchanan. But we just call him Bucky.”

And Bucky nods, his eyes finally sliding over to you; his scent hits you at nearly the same time. Offbeat and pine, the sharp, cold smell of metal. There’s evergreen and winter, maybe the soft spice of juniper, the low cut of musk. It makes your eyes flutter, makes your head go soft and bleary with it. 

“Pleasure to meet you both.” Wanda says and her voice refocuses you, her fingers skimming yours to ground you. You flit your eyes away, but can feel Bucky’s suddenly sink over you the way the red sun will drop below the hills. 

You become keenly aware of your bare neck, hair pulled from your face and shoulders to reveal it to him. The cut of your dress suddenly seems both revealing and not revealing enough. Like it could constrict you, or maybe you’re showing too much skin.  

“What brings you here?” You ask, perhaps a little cooly, eyes seeking out the horizon rather than them. Anything but him. 

“Passing through. Looking for work for a few weeks.” Steve answers politely and his eyes glitter like the creek in the high summer. He’s pretty, you think, long lashes framing those eyes. 

“Oh!” Wanda exclaims and she loops her arm through yours solidly, her body warm and soft beside you, “You’re in luck! She needs help running her farm!” 

You almost choke. Throw Wanda a glare but she only meets you with that impish, precious smile you can’t stay mad at for very long. 

“I don’t--” You try to protest. 

“She does!” Wanda interjects, “Her father injured his knee awhile ago, been looking for someone to help out.” 

“Well, if that’s the case, then perhaps Buck and I will have to stop by.” Steve says easily, a half amused grin tugging at his lips as he gazes between you and Wanda. Almost as if he’s endeared by your antics. You bristle. 

“My father doesn’t take to newcomers very well.” You warn, as if that’ll scare these two Alphas away so easily after their little stunt with Rumlow. You worry that few things will scare these two off. 

Regardless you don’t need them on your farm, don’t need them trying to help or care for you or order you around. It’s always been you, and no one will change that. You’re not about to let them treat you like some soft, little creature who should be inside baking them pies and fetching them water. 

But you can feel Bucky’s eyes on your face still, as if he’s trying to burrow in there, make a home upon which he gazes. 

You grow even tenser, teeth grinding. No home to find inside you; just the unruliness of nature, the ever-changing seasons, or unforgivable storms. The river that churns too fast, dives between the mountains and the forests, the sly, sharp-toothed fox. 

You turn your nose up, “Besides,” You say, insolent and dry, “I don’t really need any help.” 

“‘Course.” Steve agrees and you aren’t sure if it’s to placate you or if he’s genuine, “But if you’re looking for an extra pair of hands to order around, we’re your guys.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” You say, though decidedly won’t. 

Daring yourself, you finally force your eyes to Bucky once more. His face is stern and closed off, reserved. He hasn’t spoken once, and stupidly, horribly, you long to hear his voice. You wonder what it sounds like, if it’s rough or smooth or everything at once. Does he speak loudly or softly? Will you have to lean in to hear him or will you step back at the crack of it? 

And yet, he hasn’t needed it once yet. His presence, formidable and strong and raw, is enough.

You blink, look away just as he glances back at you. This strange game of cat and mouse with eyes is making your fingers twitch and tighten in your skirts. 

“We should be off,” You tell Wanda, wishing to flee, to feel the wind on your face and Wanda’s body beside yours and the afternoon sun bursting on your skin. 

Steve wishes the pair of you well, gentlemanly and sweet. Tips his hat with a boyish sort of grin that perhaps would leave other’s swooning. 

And Bucky, gruffly, and with a sort of gentleness you aren’t expecting to find, says to you, “It was nice meeting you both.” 

Something warm settles into your chest, sliding down like molasses, dripping into your stomach and core, spreading throughout you like it owns you; settles deep into you like it won’t leave, real deep into the marrow of your bones. And you inhale, breathe as if this is your first real breath in the whole of your life.

You find yourself replying, almost as softly, “It was nice to meet you, too.” 

His lips twitch upwards in the barest hint of a smile, as if it’s the first time he’s smiled in a long, long time and he needs you to show him how again.

So you do, you give him your own smile that isn’t much bigger, but it’s much easier and sweet as honey, clever as a fox. Almost like you want him to chase you, follow that curve of your lips. 

Wanda giggles, before pulling you away and back towards Clover to begin your adventure for the day, but you think you can feel the dark of his eyes on the back of your neck still, the line of your shoulders. It lingers, until you ride off into the heather hills with her and disappear on the gauzy horizon. 

---

Wanda and you roll in the wild grass on the sloping hills. Laughing and chasing and playing like you’re girls again, half-savage and free and untempered. You tumble and shriek and hitch up your skirts, loosen your dresses and unbutton collars. The sun is a gold glow, warming the earth and your skin, shimmering dreamlike on the new green buds, the wheat yellow of the tall grass. You tip your face up to the sky eagerly, just as you let yourself flop back into the field, back hitting the ground that catches your fall, cradles you. Clouds pass overhead in cotton shapes, free and darling, and you’re still breathing a little hard from romping around with Wanda, feeling your heartbeat inside the cage of your chest. You feel flushed with life; ferocious and curious and excited. 

Wanda drops down by your feet, before slowly, languidly crawling atop you. She straddles your waist, her skirts spilling out over the two of you. You sit up on your elbows, jostle and try to dislodge her a little with another round with warm laughter, but she holds fast, nails digging into your shoulders. 

“I saw the way you were looking at Bucky.” She says and there’s too much mischief in her eyes, a clever glint that the sun turns amber and honey hazel. 

You roll your eyes at her, but even the mention of his name on her lips makes something inside of you stir. But you indulge her, leveling her with an unamused gaze, “And how was that, Wanda?” 

She leans over you, her fiery hair brushing your cheek, your shoulders. She fits herself closer, twines her arms around you all close and snug. 

 “Like you wanted to bare your throat to him right then and there.” She teases playfully, voice dipping into a warm, rumbling purr. Her nose drops, nuzzles lightly at the sensitive scent gland at your neck. It makes you squirm, your fingers tightening in the skirts of her dress. 

You allow her so close, allow lips and teeth and nose into the dips of your body because she’s so familiar to you. A piece of your heart is firmly in her small, warm hands. It blurs the thin, unsteady line between you two, though. Scenting at the neck is usually romantic in some way; often times sexual. Comforting, when it needs to be, but you’ve laid so many times with Wanda, gotten so close and tangled together that you often find your nose at her throat, the nape of her neck, tucking your face into the crooks of her body and she to you. You know her like a lover, you think, sink into her body beneath the sun and the moon and the open skies that spread out before you both. As if the whole world opens for you two. 

“Your scent got sweeter; milky lavender and dark jasmine.” Her lashes tickle your collar bones, her mouth warm and open against the skin there. It makes you flush deeply, sink into the earth beneath you, “Want him to bite you?” She jibes, flashes pearly teeth, her canine gleaming in that white sun. 

“Wanda!” You yelp, shoving at her and she throws her head back and laughs, “No!” And you begin to wrestle with her once more, pushing her off and sending you both tumbling down another hill. You shriek and peel with laughter, pulling and grabbing at each other until you roll apart.

She gets on her hands and knees, feigns a growl from an Alpha in her throat, the kind that rumbles out from deep within them, but the sound is a little muted, and too light in her mouth. She suddenly pounces for you again, playful and light, sending you belly up and onto your back, though. “You want him to tackle you like this,” She torments, grabbing at your wrists as you try and squirm and fight with her. 

With a grunt and all your strength, you roll her right onto her back now, hook your legs over her hips like she did. 

“You want to simper and cry under him,” She says and this time her voice gets soft and breathy and pouty and she is good at that. Her back arches beneath you and you push at her more, tighten your hands around her wrists, shove them down to the ground, feel her heaving chest and trace the curve of her smiling lips and rose touched cheeks with eager eyes. 

“I don’t!” You laugh, playfully bare your teeth at her and try and growl back the way she had. It’s better than hers, a little more bite to it, but it’s still too light and soft. She laughs with you at your attempt now, laughs and growls and yells with you until you’re both breathless because there is nothing and no one around to hear you but each other.

You howl and chase and fall into each other with giggles and wildflowers in your hair, get lost in her and the way the sun begins to fall from the sky and cast everything in a rosewood haze, slow and burning and beautiful. 

She lays her cheek on your back when you ride Clover back to her home, and she kisses you goodnight, lips at the corner of yours. Promises to see you tomorrow. 

And then you ride home, race fast and hard before the sun is swallowed by the moon, before the stars blink into existence and your father scolds you to all hell and back. 

------------------

Home seems eerie with the darkness that creeps around its edges, night drawing out all the creeks and aches and splinters in the old house. All the memories pushed towards the back of your mind rush forward like skittering spiders. The last sliver of light sits on the horizon, fighting, railing against that inky sky as you get home. 

And when you rush through the front door, shouting, “Pa, I’m home before the sun’s set!” You aren’t expecting to nearly run right into the broad chest of Steve Rogers.

You blink hard and he steadies you with a hushed, “Easy,” And his big hands on your shoulders. 

You look up at him in disbelief, brows furrowing, quickly lurching away from him, only to realize Bucky stands to his right. 

“What--” You start to snap, and this time your teeth are baring with aggression and irritation, gone is the lightness and playfulness you had with Wanda. Your eyes flash with the last cut of light that slashes through the old windows of your house. 

“There’s my feral cat of a daughter, fellas.” Your father says and your head whirls to him. 

He begins to introduce the three of you again, but you cut him off, “I met ‘em today, Pa.” 

“Oh, good.” He says dryly, unappreciative of your tone. You force back a wince, know you’ll get scolded for that one. “They’ll be helping you out on the farm for a few weeks.” 

You whip back to face Steve and Bucky, narrow your eyes at them, “Thought I told you both I don’t need any help?” You snap, unruly, wildflowers still caught in your hair that now slips free of what it’d been pulled back in earlier. You’re sure you look half-wild. 

Steve holds up his hands as if he means no harm, palms up to you and you see they’re rough and calloused and scarred. Used, working hands. Hands that have seen a lot. You glance at Bucky, notice that one of his hands is gloved, the other free. You try not to stare, flit your eyes back to Steve.

“In our defense, we didn’t know this was your farm. We were sent this way after inquiring in town for work.” Steve says calmly, and then puts his hand over his heart, “Honest.” 

You scoff lightly, turn back to your father, “I don’t need them, Pa.”

“No,” He agrees and pride swells in you, a small bubble of it for a heartbeat, “But they’d be a great help to you.” 

There’s no amount of arguing or protesting that’s gonna change your father’s mind once it’s been set. He seems settled on this, content and confident. You try not to pout, try not to stamp your feet or snap or glare them right out of your house. 

Final discussions are had; pay and what times they’ll arrive and leave. Your father, thankfully, warns them to listen to you, and if he finds differently, they’ll be kicked to the dirt as quickly as they’d gotten the job.

And then he warns them, quite frankly, to mind themselves around you and you can feel your cheeks deepen into crimson. Bucky and Steve dip their heads, though, say obedient and firm, yes sir’s, as if they expected it. 

Your father finishes with, “Alright, then. You two start tomorrow.” And then he looks to you, “Walk them out, will you?” 

You huff, but do so, walk them to the porch where the crickets and frogs have begun to chirp and croak and sing. The night crawls onward, the wind rattles this old house. A chill overcomes you, a little shudder. You think you can hear the far-off sound of baying coyotes, erie and high pitched in their frenzied yelping. 

“Suppose I’ll see you both bright and early in the morning, then.” You say, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“Suppose so.” Steve says, lowers his eyes a little, “I did mean it, we didn’t know this was your farm.” 

You eye him, “Nothin’ I can do about it now, is there?” You counter, unwilling to give an inch, no matter how sweetly he looks at you with those darling, blue eyes. You’re sure that boyish charm works everywhere else, but you refuse to let it here.

He has the good sense to dip his head submissively, nodding slightly, “We’ll get out of your hair for the night then, let you rest. Goodnight, ma’am.” He says respectfully, before easing down off the old wood that protests beneath his heavy steps. 

And for a heartbeat, it is only you and Bucky and the rattling tree branches and the croaking night. A moment frozen, as if you’d captured it in a bottle like a letter that you’ll throw into the sea. Just this sliver of time that makes the whole world stand still, as if it’s been waiting or fearing for your coming together. 

You have nothing to say, but he inclines his head, holds your eyes like he’s holding the world in his arms, and murmurs all low and rumbling, “Goodnight, miss.” 

Then turns his back on you, and hustles over to Steve, to their tethered horses. 

And this time it’s you that watches him, eyes glued to his muscled back, the nape of his neck, as he eventually is swarmed by the darkened, reaching horizon.

---

You fall into bed, feeling strange and wary, a little weary, perhaps a little hopeful, too. For what, you don’t know. You can feel the wind changing, coming with new spring. But there’s something else, something heavier; the pressure is building, as if there’s a storm brewing. The kind of spring storm that bring destruction and clamor and the kind of rain that threatens to sweep you away in their flood and ferocity. 

Your bed creeks, the shadows are tall and reaching in your room. The moon spills in, but instead of painting you with wonder or lovely, pearl light, it only makes the shadows that much darker. The night brings the cold, makes you pull tight and inwards. You curl up beneath your quilt, try and ward off all that presses in. 

Eventually, you sleep. 

And you dream. 

You dream in visions of phantom grey and oil slick black, syrupy red, and flesh pink. You step lightly in a graveyard, the earth freshly turned and dark. Stones jut out from the ground like jagged, crooked teeth. It swallows you whole. The fog is thick and evasive, surrounding you and gathering around you, a train to your skirts that murmur and brush against stones and dirt and the hollowed out ground. 

A grave with your father’s name grows from the earth, forces you to stop, stutter backwards. Your teeth begin chattering, the clanking of bone against bone. You can feel the whispers of wind, something so near. Your heart plummets as you read his name, as you see his grave, which you now see is besides your mother’s. 

The ground trembles. 

Their graves crack, splinter like a dropped glass, bursting outwards in a wave of skittering, flaming stone. 

Frantically, you drop to your knees, try to put them all back together, as if that will somehow help. As if that will fix anything. You curse and cry and there are tears-- there are tears that drop onto burning stone. It sizzles and smokes but you can’t put them back together. You are alone, and you can’t. 

Your hands begin to burn, flesh pink and blister white. Mud sucks at your legs and your knees and then you are sinking, sinking, sinking--

Oil drowns you, forces its way down your mouth and your throat and clogs your lungs. Seeps into every part of you. It’s invasive, forceful in it’s push and pull of you, it sucks at you and you are forced downward, kicking and screaming. Forced to swallow and take and be filled.

You twist, frantic. Try to fight back, but you are caught in the thick of it. It devours your screams and cries and pain.

And from above, there is a cut of silver, a star in the inky sky. A hand; metal and unnatural plunges in for you. And he pulls you clear out of the muck, the earth’s blood and into his arms.

When you emerge, it is as if you’re cleansed by the light. Gone is the slick oil, gone is the choking and drowning and thrashing. Bucky holds you to him now, crushes you to his chest where you can hear the live, thundering beat of his heart. 

“I’ve got you,” He murmurs, cradling your skull as if it’s precious, something to be protected. Your nose is pushed to his neck and you--

You cling to him, swallow down clean gulps of spring air and the juniper bright and metal sharp smell of him. Pine, there is pine and evergreen, too. Clean and fresh and dipping into musk. Your heart slows, lulls, with his voice in your ear; that voice you’d so desperately wanted to hear.

You feel as if you’ve heard it your whole life now, as if you can’t imagine going another day without hearing it. And he says your name, not Omega, just your name. And he breathes and is warm and alive beneath you. 

When you look around now, the earth is fertile and bright and warm. Spring damp roses and sweet, honeycomb sunshine. The fauna is in full bloom, an overabundance of life that leaves you inhaling the fragrant air. It’s so thick, almost cloying. 

And there is no breeze, you think. 

And Bucky’s lips are at your neck. 

And there is a stirring in your stomach but its--

It’s all wrong. 

He tries to lay you down. And you don’t protest because there’s something so tempting about it all, so safe, or so instinctual. There’s an ache and a burn and you want to shed your skin, you want to let him in and never let him out, bury his body in the ground with you. Become the earth and fertilize the flowers and feed the foxes you love so much. You wanna lie with him until the crow calls, until you’re nothing but him and you and the gem stones deep in the ground. 

But when his face lifts from your vulnerable neck, it is not him. 

Rumlow stares down at you, his scarred face so close and imploring. He croons Omega and you shriek, you try to get away, but it’s like the oil all over again; you trapped and thrashing and stuck. Rabbit in a snare. Fox in a trap. You scream, scream for Bucky or Wanda or even Steve or your father. You scream until it tapers off and burns into something ragged, shredding your voice. 

He is just heavy atop you, and his face is morphing and shifting, like he’s a new creature altogether. Blackened eyes that are too wide, too large and there is a gaping whole where his mouth should be--

You claw at him, scratch with nails, pull at pink flesh and cartilage and bone until he starts dripping blood and saliva, growling like a rabid dog. You twist his face away so sharply, so horribly, that there is a sickening crack and then the full of him collapses atop you.

You squirm and you are crying, choked sobs because it feels like you are burning, or aching. Lonesome and longing or horrified and fearful of everyone. You want to be held in equal measures that you want to run away and never see another face again. You are torn, split in two and unraveling. 

When you scramble away, deeper into the fragrant wild grass. You realize there is wetness, slick and warm and--

There is blood. So much blood coating your legs and it seeps through your skirts, stemming from between your legs. It pools beneath you, waters the flowers and seeps into the earth as if it belongs there. 

You howl like an animal, fingers squabbling in the dirt and the blood and your body as if you can put yourself back together again--  

You wake with a hard, sucking gasp. Blinking hard in the darkness. Your hands pull at your nightgown, shift to feel your skin, still warm and dry and clean beneath your heavy quilt. Reassuring, gulping breaths bring back cool air into your lungs. I’m safe, you tell yourself, it was just a dream. 

But the night is still dark and the bed still creaks and the wind still howls, almost the way you had when you’d found all that blood-- No. 

But now you’re just awake, in a lonely room. And there is no comfort, no warmth or forgiveness in the hollowness of it all. 

You rise in the morning, heavy bags beneath your eyes, and begin your day in hopes of a better one.

[citialiin]

ooc ; thank u for tagging me in fun memes and stuff! ヽ(　･∀･)ﾉ so i dont flood ppls dashes i just wait until i have a few & put them under readmores.

HORROR ARCHETYPE AESTHETICS tagged by: @ betelguide

GOTHIC HORROR.

gaslights.   corsets.   ballrooms.   candlelight.   mist.   starless nights.   full moons.  cobbled streets.   horse-drawn carriages.   mysterious strangers.   bogs.   moors.  forests.   mountains.   castles.   velvet.   silver.   brass.   gold.   jewels.   domino masks.   the opera.  dangerous romances.   tragic romances.   violins.   roses.   lilies.   empty graves.   crosses.   cemeteries.   snow.   ice.   the gallows.   crows.   milk-white skin.  ambiguous illness.  fangs.   pointed nails.   something howling in the night.   capes.   gloves.   top hats.   straight razors.   lightning.   pipe organs.   underground caverns.   bats.   mice.   rats.   ravens.   cats.   pearls.   attics.   talismans.   axes.   wood.  isolation in a room full of people.   vampires.   werewolves.   ghosts.   coffins.   western europe.   eastern europe.   bones.   churches.   catacombs.   mausoleums.   spiders.   books.

CLASSIC HORROR.

black   &   white.   powder puffs.   red lipstick.   winged eyeliner.   white kitten heels.  black lace lingerie.   icy blue eyes.   rain.   abandoned cars.   skeletons.   acid.  poison.   voyeurism.   switchblades.   strangling.   overcoats.   looking over your shoulder.   trans-atlantic accents.   private detectives.   dinner parties.   haunted mansions.   alcohol in glass decanters.   cobwebs.   perfect blonde curls.   kitchen knives.   shock.   cellars.  dust.  dark alleys.   empty streets.   driving at night.   horn-rimmed glasses.   radiation.  zombies.   serial murder.   paranoia.   the city.   witches.  the devil.   cannibalism.  conspiracies.   amulets.   abject terror.   the american south.   the american northeast.    england.   analog cameras.

SLASHERS.

bloodbaths.   massacres.   wanton nudity.   newspapers.   leather jackets.   letterman jackets.   converse sneakers.   obscured faces.   social unrest.   bonfires.   lakes.  babysitters.   suburbia.   high school.   lockers.   dead leaves in the fall.   jack-o’-lanterns.   outdated television sets.   nightmares.   psychiatrists.   hospitals.  unstoppable forces.   gunfire.   police.   landline telephones.   household objects turned into improvised weapons.   halloween.   secrets.   revelations.   character masks.  scrunchies.   queerness.   wild curls.   morbid humor.   jeering children.  parties.   fire.   swearing.  revulsion.   california.   the american midwest.   ambulances.

PARANORMAL HORROR.

malevolent spirits.   seances.   spells.   missing bodies.   hidden graves.   white noise.   static.   flickering lights.   rings of salt.   demons.   poltergeists.   dark histories.   old buildings.  cold air.   mausoleums.   wells.   urban exploration.   a dog barking at something you can’t see.   black ooze.   old photographs.   faces you can swear you’ve seen before  but can’t for the life of you figure out where.   dark bodies of water.   crucifixes.   priests.   possession.   exorcisms.   dolls.   jump scares.

CRYPTID   &   URBAN LEGEND HORROR.

ALIENS.  blinding light.   dark woods.   driving at night.   claw-marks.   bite-marks.   men in black.   memory loss.  dismembered bodies.   sewers.   flashlights.   cell phones.   video cameras.   cars with tinted windows.   abandoned houses.   unlabeled cassette tapes.  bugs.   big cities.   urban crimes.  clowns.   something rustling outside your window. glowing light.   unsolved mysteries.   suburbia.   mirrors.   the american pacific northwest.   the american midwest.   the american east coast.   hiking   /   backpacking.

THRILLERS.

daylight.   fluorescent lighting.   morgues.   asylums.   unwavering eye contact.  tension.   lit rooms with no one inside them.   a dog digging in the newly-planted flower bed.  steely gazes.   paperwork.   anagrams.   codes.   convicted killers.  missing persons.  law enforcement.   federal agents.  small towns.   suspicion.   paranoia.   subdued terror. dimly-lit parking lots.

CLASSIC NOVELIST AESTHETICS tagged by: @ finestprize

JOHN KEATS. the lavender in sunsets, flowers in the rain, sunlight slipping through clouds,  lazy summer afternoons, the heavy scent of musk, flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books,  fireflies on a cool summer night, being wrapped in fresh bed sheets, the ache of wanting what you can never have, dripping sunlight like gold,  loving someone so exquisite,  soft lips and soft whispers, fingers through hair, names of lovers carved in trees, broken glass,  the insistence of being perpetually dreamy.

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD.   crisp winter skies with cold bright stars,  mahogany wood, the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog,  empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room,  bruised arms reaching out into the darkness,  cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol,  a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered, the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment,  your favorite sweater, parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing, the contrast of blood against snow,  a purple split lip oozing blood,  black eyes fading to blue to pale skin,  the butterflies of falling in love for the first time, the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries,  the romanticization of self-destruction.

FRANZ KAFKA.  the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future,  decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there,  the way not even light can escape a black hole, the rich smell of old books, delicate veins in the wrist, ghosts filling lungs,  shattered bones,  raindrops on the tongue,  rusting metal, nostalgia that aches,  the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head.

H.P. LOVECRAFT.   the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave,  pouring rain and mud, a child’s fear of the dark,  thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never-ending ocean,  the silence of three a.m.,  ouija boards and urban legends. (WHO WROTE THIS???? HAVE YOU EVER OBSESSIVELY POURED OVER HP LOVECRAFT LIKE I HAVE??? THIS SUCKS!!! THESE ARE NOT HP LOVECRAFT AT ALL WHERE IS THE SECTION ABOUT CLIMBING UP MOUNTAINS TO SUMMON ELDER GODS AND HOWLING AT THE MOON LIKE A MADMAN AND HAVING A WIZARD BEAT YOU TO DEATH IN YOUR OWN HOUSE)

JACK KEROUAC.   the brisk pine air of being on a mountain,  travels without a destination,  those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory,  screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive,  coffee shops late at night, car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark, naps spent in the sun,  novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins, the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders, ignoring flaws and loving life,  wind through hair,  depression as fog in the brain, impossible ideals, a quiet sunrise,  walks alone, when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe, dazzling people, open lands stretching out into infinity, falling in love with being alive.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.   the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog,  hollow bones,  a preserved heart held in hands,  twinkling stars above an old graveyard,  the way everything turns to dust,  silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom, self-inflicted flames,  perfection depicted as a rotting corpse,  death as bricks in the heart,  lips barely brushing against each other, glassy glazed eyes,  biting into a lemon,  heart-shaped bruises,  rotting flowers on a grave,  dried blood and spilled liquor,  the hush of dusk when it begins raining,  the intimacy of a secret.

LITERARY ARCHETYPE MEME tagged by: @ manenimittliv

HOMERIC EPITHET:  You are THE GREAT TELLER OF TALES

The Greek hero Odysseus had many epithets ascribed to him (others included “much-enduring,” “cunning,” and “man of twists and turns”), and this was one of them, so you’re in good company.

FATAL FLAW: YOU’RE IN LOVE WITH THE IDEA OF A PERSON.

And then I deleted the rest of this because it didn’t really apply to him. Oh well

LITERARY SETTING: GATSBY'S MANSION

You got Gatsby’s mansion! This larger-than-life crib is the perfect place for a party animal like yourself. It’s located on the Long Island Sound (ideal for swimming, lounging, obsessively staring across the water with a LaCroix in your hand and unattainable fantasies on your mind, etc.), but it’s also just a train ride away from New York City (city of dreams and $1 pizza). But let’s not forget the best part: it’s got a library that’ll make you wanna grab a fluffy blanket and a chai latte and literally never see the light of day again.

this is a lot of useless information. steal them if youd like

[devilinclouds]

SOULMATES - INTRO

(MDZS REINCARNATION-MODERN ROLEPLAY AU)

Reincarnated Wei WuXian and Lan WangJi met again in an alternate universe as Yian and Kino, whereas the Yilling patriarch turned into a professional exorcist and the light bearer as a plain chicken. The two are bound to meet in their present lifetime. They will reunite and unlock the secrets of their past but will face the revenge of the evil spirits they've encountered from the past.

Genre: Comedy, Horror, Supernatural

Characters: Kino (present Lan WangJi), Yian (present Wei WuXian)

INTRO

Wearing a white blouse opened till half, mesh shirt underneath, along with a loose-fit trouser, Kino gave final touches by fixing his beanie, all satisfied with his clothing, he gave himself a narcissist smirk and wink in front of the mirror before leaving his place. It was finally weekend, definitely the day to mingle and to hang-out for young adults like him. And if you’re someone who’s all up for pure fun without getting in trouble, you might rather want to hook-up instead.

Flashing disco lights, loud blasting music, and the steamy atmosphere of cigarette smoke, fried food, and beer hit him in the face as soon as he stepped a foot inside the club. The music was loud enough that he could feel the beat in the pit of his stomach, urging his whole body to move along the beat, letting the crowd swallow him. Sticking his tongue out, he started waving his body against the strangers on the dance floor. 

-

Yian, on the other side, couldn’t remember the last time he properly hung out with people. A stack of mysterious cases has been piling up lately and he had no idea where to even start hunting at this point. Luckily he had his best friend, Cheng, who was like a brother to him to drag him out and to spend some time around people before he could lose his mind. 

Yian didn’t consider himself a party animal but once he arrived at a party, he didn’t know when to stop. He was enjoying a good time with his best friend and some strangers in a private lounge at a club, chugging down drinks and snacking to fill his empty stomach. He let the loud music to block his roaring thoughts and he enjoyed as the alcohol was poured recklessly. He felt his head and heart lighter with every shot. He loved it. He loved it when the alcohol hit him and made him forget about his own existence for a moment. It tasted like freedom. 

“Who’s up for the next round, my treat!” He abruptly stood up on a couch he was sitting on, climbing up on the table to get all attention. He raised his empty glass, looking at bottles of whiskey all empty, and he brought the glass to his lips, finding some drop in the emptiness. Everyone else agreed it’s time to get more alcohol and he was more than willing to get them. He could see his best friend rolling his eyes and Yian dodged as Cheng tried to pull him back down, worrying Yian might fall down.

“I’m good, mom!” He climbed back down on the ground by himself, his legs unstable, and headed to a bar to order more drinks. 

-

After sweating a bit on the dance floor, Kino found himself leaning against the bar counter to drink a bottle of beer while lazily munching on some tacos. His alcohol tolerance is not the best but he could at least drink a few bottles of beer before hitting his limit. 

“So what do you do for fun?”

He realized that he’s actually drinking with someone whom he met in the crowd. Not anyone special, just a stranger. He’s not the best talker to carry a conversation when he’s not really interested so he’s surprised that she can somehow keep up with his silence. With a shrug, he simply responded, “Dancing… Well, I easily get bored so I do anything for fun.”

He noticed the forming sly smirk on her lips as she slipped a contact card next to his beer, “We could hangout more to have fun. Just give me a call.”

“I’m not interested, sorry,” he refused without hesitations and the woman just left him quite in disbelief. It’s not that he’s reserved to refuse any human interaction. He wouldn’t be in the club to hang-out if he wouldn’t want to take chances. He ordered one more bottle of beer before heading back to the dance floor.

-

As Yian was heading to the bar counter to order more drinks, he felt that his steps were so heavy but his thirst for more alcohol was like fuel to him, bringing him through a crowd of people. He clumsily walked forward, gently shoving any human obstacle off his way. But he was taken by surprise as he accidentally bumped into a random guy, almost spilling the latter’s beer. He dodged as if he was struck by lightning and almost fell down, a weird buzzing rushing through him like a wave, taking him aback. He straightened his back, grasping his chest because his heart suddenly ached as if it was being stabbed right now. 

Am I having a random panic attack? Why does it feel like I’m gonna vomit…

He glanced at the guy, his vision too dizzy to grasp details of the stranger’s face. What the fuck was all of this, did he feel it too? It was so strong it could knock down a cow but he seems fine? He made his heavy legs move, needing to get away to grasp onto something steady. No more alcohol tonight. 

“Sorry, man!” Yian uttered eventually, stumbling a little as he decided to walk on. He couldn’t help but to turn around a few times to look at the guy, as if it could help to explain what happened a few seconds ago, bumping into a few more bodies. He sighed out in relief when he finally reached the bar and he rubbed his temples, weary. His heart was slowing down but the pain lingered, making him rub his chest that felt heavy and stuffy, making it difficult to breathe. 

“What the hell…” He murmured to himself and his drunk eyes searched in the crowd of people but he couldn’t see the guy anymore. So weird. 

-

The static electricity was so strong that it brought shock to all of Kino’s senses. He swears that it’s somewhat felt like being electrocuted. His pulses were beating too fast. Strangely, he heard deafening screeches which caused him to feel dizzy as his vision started to get a little bit blurry for a while. He stood up still in the middle of the crowd, closing his eyes and shaking his head while trying to move his arm.

Once Kino felt like he had recovered from the shock, he was again bumped by a woman with silky long hair, causing the red ribbon that she’s wearing to fall on the floor. He picked the red ribbon on the floor and for some reason, he could still feel the sparks lingering on his body again. He looked around, tiptoed even, realizing that he lost sight of the woman in the crowd. Not that any longer, he found her heading towards the women’s comfort room. For a plain red ribbon from a stranger, it’s surely not his business, but it’s as if every part of his body wanted to return the ribbon back to her.

-

Yian regained some energy to order drinks for their private lounge but that was all he could do at the moment. He leaned against the bar, too exhausted to move as it felt like his heavy eyelids will drop by themselves. At least his body was recovering from the previous shock. He looked at his hands that couldn’t stop shaking and he sighed softly. What was happening….

The waitress told Yian that she will deliver their drinks into the lounge and he felt relieved he won’t need to go all the way back with the precious alcohol in his unsteady hands. He had another mission awaiting him and that was emptying his bladder which was about to burst. He followed a path to the restrooms when he noticed, no, felt, something odd. He rubbed his eyes. He could swear he saw a woman dressed up in a black gothic dress that just went into the women’s comfort room. Too much odd shit was happening in one night and he wasn’t having it anymore. He decided to ignore his gut feeling this time and disappeared into the male’s restrooms. 

-

Kino stepped a foot inside the women’s comfort room but then he eventually halted, rubbing his temples. No, no, I’m not drunk. I’m not a pervert either. You’re just here to return the ribbon. Yeah, that’s all. He thought, trying to convince himself as he casually entered the comfort room. with a self-claimed pure conscience.

He cleared his throat as he walked towards the first cubicle which to his surprise was opened wide. The woman was facing the wall, giving him the impression that she might want to throw up. “Uh, hi? You dropped your ribbon while dancing outside. I’m just here to return it to yo-” He gulped, slowly dropping his jaw when he saw the woman pulling up her short dress, revealing her legs. He suddenly felt the heat taking over his body, blaming the amount of bottled beer he took for tonight. The woman continued to pull up her dress as if she’s teasing him, almost revealing her buttocks by bending forward.

“W-Well, uh, I’ll just leave your ribbon here-” he clears his throat, feeling his cheeks burning from seeing such erotic sight. He dragged his feet outside the restroom. However, the lights suddenly went on and off, then he felt a cold breeze lingering against his neck, which was followed by a soft whisper. He turned around and to his utmost surprise, the woman pulled him for a torrid kiss that tasted nothing but blood.

“Aahhh-” Kino pushed the woman who turned out eyeless and with a bloody mouth. He yelled at the top of his lungs, throwing himself out of the cubicle and roughly landing his buttocks on the floor. “What the f-fuck- Monster. He-Help!” He tried his best to quickly move backward, his back hitting the wall. He screamed for help but it felt like he couldn’t scream any louder. 

The black spirit suddenly rose from the ground, taking all the energy from the place which caused the light to switch on and off. 

-

Yian was about to head back when he heard very loud screaming from the other restroom. He wasn’t in a stable state to help anyone but he couldn’t just leave it unnoticed. He peeked out and realized the screaming, that sounded more like a manly scream. He hesitated but he entered anyway. To his own surprise, he spotted the female demon he could swear he has seen before. 

“Here you are”, he exclaimed, grabbing her attention. 

It struck him. The black widow! He was hunting her for months. His theory, according to all evidence he compiled so far, was that she preyed on freshly married men or on engaged males when they held parties where they were giving their farewell to freedom of bachelors. He didn’t have time to confirm his theory with the guy because she lunged forward at him, surprising him and threw him on the ground. 

Yian struggled under her, his mind still clouded with alcohol, and the female demon opened her mouth wide as if she was about to eat him. A dark liquid dripped from her mouth, dropping on his face, making him scrunch his nose. 

“Ack,” he groaned and he began to mumble something in Latin. Fuck, what were the words. He was too drunk, recollecting his memory to remember every word of the exorcising spell to make her disappear. He pushed her off him, getting up and taking steps back, strange Latin words spilling from his mouth and as he became more confident with his words, the demon began to tremble and wail, knowing she’ll be gone within seconds.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he groaned and finished the last important sentences of the spell, the demon leaving nothing behind but black smoke and a fragrance of something sweet yet spicy and alluring to human senses. 

-

What the fuck was that? Did he just witness an exorcism inside a club? Kino blinked in disbelief, his face turned extremely pale, filled with cold sweat as his heart was still pounding through his chest. 

This was the least thing he swore he would want to witness. Not here. Not tonight. Not even in his lifetime did he want to see real spirits. Call him a coward all you want despite being a brave individual who is always up to try any extreme and death defying activities but any paranormal activities is definitely a whole different story. Ever since he’s young, he always had a weak heart for spirits and ghosts. 

He stumbled while trying to get up on his knees, feeling his arms and legs shaking. He locked gazes with the man who just performed exorcism and gave him an uncanny look. Eh? Exorcist goes clubbing too? He shrugged off his thought and immediately ran away when black smoke started to appear again. This time he felt a strange energy creeping up his nape, making every root and part of his body to shiver in fear.

Seeing that a thin smoke was still following him while hearing voices whispering against his ear, he ran into the alleyway shouting like a mad man. He bumped into a lot of people in the crowd but he cared less and just continued to run for his life. If anyone was wondering if we were capable of moving faster than a speeding bullet, the answer is yes, sort of. Kino would definitely pass the criteria as he swept the street clean with his speed.

-

Yian, who was still left inside the restroom, released a long breath of relief as he leaned his back against the wall for support. This was too much, his mind felt way dizzy to cope with all of this demon thing happening. However, all this sudden shock helped him to sober up a little. He walked over to the sink to wash off the sweat of his face and as he looked up at himself in the mirror, he thought about the guy, who ran away like a chicken. He can't let him leave just like that, he must have been scared to death. He fished out the phone out of his pocket to let Cheng know he won't be coming back, that an urgent business came up and he rushed outside from the club. 

The soft breeze hit his face and he snuggled into his leather jacket. He would probably never find the guy again if he didn’t hear him screaming, he followed the sound and ran a little clumsily as his legs still felt uneasy and heavy from the alcohol intoxication. He stopped in his tracks only to look up at the sky above. 

“What the…” He noticed a dark ominous energy floating around. And what was worse, it was following the stranger! “Shit.” He uttered. He has seen so many things during his life but he has never seen so much demonic power coming together. 

Who was that lad and why he was a magnet to all of that? His survival instinct was telling him to get away because he knew it was not in his power to help but something was dragging his feet forward. He felt like one of those demons was being attracted by the latter. He sprinted a little to reach him and he stopped right behind him.

Meanwhile, Kino repeatedly tried slapping himself with force, just in case he’s only having a nightmare. But unfortunately, everything is real. Ghosts, spirits, ghouls, demons, and all those that can’t be seen by the naked eye. 

“Have I gone mad?” He stepped back, not blinking an eye as he cautiously watched how the spirits were just floating around, and with few steps backwards, he felt a cold breeze against his skin. With wide eyes while holding his breath, he turned around and saw a tall shadow behind him, it was an abrupt moment and all his reflexes made him throw a solid punch against the tall shadow.

[sarcasmnymph-blog]

Vlad the Vampire

Since the Halloween season has started (sort of), I decided to honor one my favorite cousins, the vampires and one of my favorite classics Bram Stroker’s Dracula. You see two books defined the Gothic genre: Dracula and The Frankenstein. (And almost everything ever written by Edgar Alan Poe, the poor guy) But Dracula did something, even more, it defined Vampires as we know today. Vampires have existed as long as mythology has. Heck, even the Mayans have a god that is a vampire. Silly little Mayans. But up until Dracula, almost all vampire depictions in fiction were unholy, inhuman monsters. Dracula subverted this trope and defined them as something even more. Something more… human. Or at least as human as an unholy devilish creature in the Victorian time could be. The book formed the foundation for the sexy urban fantasy vampires we know today. However, despite its enormous impact, Dracula as a book is almost never read. And that is depressing because Dracula as a story can only ever work as a book. Let me explain!

You see, Dracula was written with diary entries and newspaper clippings which are not unique but also works wonderfully for the horror genre. It helps slowly create a truly horrific atmosphere with a very personal outlook. The slow buildup and the release are the main reasons that make this novel so good as it creates an actual sense of dread lingering in the background. It is the reason is why all of Dracula adaptations have to change the story a little to make it work, as it’s a story that can’t work outside of a book without those changes. So to give homage to that, I will try to write this summary with as much slow building detail. Oh, and in case you haven’t realized, from now on Spoiler Alert for a 1897 classic. We good? We good.

Jonathan’s Diary

The story starts with journal entries from Jonathan Harker who goes to Transylvania for some real estate logistics mumbo jumbo. When he gets there, the residents refuse to tell him anything about his client The Count Dracula. Jonathan, of course, doesn’t find this suspicious at all and stays hopelessly oblivious despite all the people giving him crucifixes and the spooking wolves howling all over the place. He finally meets the eccentric noble named Count Dracula who has ghostly pale skin, bushy hair and suspiciously long sharp teeth hidden under his remarkably healthy red lips. His palms are hairy like that of an animal, and his figure is tall and slender. I wonder what could that mean! The Count also speaks in way too many run-on sentences but pay no attention to that.

Jonathan stays a few days over at the Count’s place where he notices the lack of mirrors, no servants, Dracula’s strange absence during the day and one too many locked doors. The Dracula reassures Jonathan that the locked doors are places Jonathan wouldn’t want to go anyway for no suspicious reason at all. However, Jonathan finally, finally starts to realize that there is something strange when he notices that the Count has no reflection or doesn’t eat or sleep. And when he sees Count doing some lizard-like stuff on the roof Jonathan realizes he is in a Victorian horror novel.

After some investigations, and a run in with three sexy female vampires who each discuss how they should “kiss him” Jonathan realizes that he has to get out of this mansion and get the plot going already. Jonathan, however, is, of course, unable to find any way out of this mansion. Dracula tells Jonathan exactly what dates he should write letters back home and tell his fiance that he left the palace. Oh, and Dracula will read all these letters just for security, nothing more of course. Jonathan puts two and two together and realizes he is probably a dead man after the date of his last letter. After much snooping during the day Jonathan realizes that Dracula is going to London with fifty boxes filled with dirt and mud for some reason and is way too curious about how to settle in London with no suspicions. Oh, and a mother’s child was stolen and killed by Dracula and his three lady friends, no biggie. The date of Jonathan’s last letter comes, and Dracula leaves Jonathan at the mercy of the vampire spice girls and heads for London with his boxes. Jonathan decides that he will make a last-ditch effort to escape by scaling the wall and that is the last of Jonathan’s diary entries.

Lucy’s fall

Cut to London where we meet Mina, Jonathan’s fiance who soon will prove to be the only smart character in this story, and our generic gorgeous and sweet archetype Lucy who has way too many men trying to win her affection. I have a sneaking suspicion Lucy is the cause of overabundance of love triangles in Vampire fiction today, but I digress. Lucy tells Mina about her little romance drama one afternoon when she had three handsome young gentlemen proposing to her all in one day! The first of the three is Dr. John Seward, a doctor for an insane asylum (fun!). The second was Mr. Quincy P. a man from Texas and the representation of how people of London think Americans speak. Spoiler Alert! It’s not accurate. Lastly, the man Lucy wants to marry Mr. Authur, lucky girl. The the other two gentlemen, however, stay good friends with Lucy and Authur and everyone is happy!

Going back to the actual genre of this book, a ghost ship lands on the shores of London during the night of a terrible storm with a dead Captain tied to the wheel of the ship and fifty boxes of dirt in the cargo. We read his last log entries that describe the slow disappearance of his crew until he is the only sane man left. His last entry talks about a tall, thin, mysterious man and the Captain’s last attempt in saving himself by tying himself to the Helm of the ship. I wonder who this mysterious man could be? On the other side, we have Seward taking care of a man name Reward in his asylum who is just a radar for horror activity. Reward as a character that will prove no consequence to the actual plot. Oops!

Almost immediately after the ship lands in London, Lucy falls sick. Considering how rampant Tuberculosis was at the time, Lucy getting a bit of fainting and paleness didn’t make anyone too alarmed. And Lucy’s sleepwalking tendencies were also safely ignored with the strange pin marks on her neck. After a lot of Drama of Lucy getting sick and recovering and getting sick again, Authur finally decides that he should probably act like an adult and calls in on Dr. Seward to check in on her. Dr. Seward calls one of the most popular characters, Dr. Van Helsing, a quirky foreign doctor carrying all the plot-relevant details on the back of his palm. Helsing figures out that Lucy is running on like one drop of blood and they do a hacky transfusion which would only be accepted only in the 19th century. Side note, Mina gets reunited with a still alive Jonathan and starts reading his journal. Yay! Oh, and Jonathan’s hair turns white for some reason. Pay no attention to that.

Seward notices two puncture wounds on Lucy’s neck and Helsing instead of telling his colleague whats up goes to make “preparations.” Mysterious! Helsing tells Seward to watch over her during nights and Lucy starts doing better until she falls ill again. They do another transfusion, and this time to make sure that Lucy doesn’t fall ill again Helsing brings garlic and puts it all over her room. You would think this would work, but Lucy’s mother decides to ruin everything by throwing all the garlic away to give Lucy some “fresh air.” I guess Van forgot to tell the old lady that she is in a horror novel. As things could not be easier for Dracula right now, Lucy falls ill again, and after a last second show of vampiric tendencies, Lucy accepts her fate and dies. Aww, so sad

After paragraphs and paragraphs where the author explains how seductive and gorgeous dead Lucy looks in her coffin, *cough* necrophilia *cough*. Van Helsing drops a bunch of garlic in Lucy’s corpse and a golden crucifix. However, the golden crucifix gets stolen by some woman, and you learn that Dracula has some serious plot luck. Soon we start hearing about disappearing children in the night. Apparently, garlic wasn’t good enough. Van Helsing decides to get in contact with Mina who has finished reading Jonathan’s diary and has started compiling information about this Dracula person. She and Van Helsing meet, and Helsing mentions how fabulous Mina is over and over again, and the two collect all the dots we as readers already have. Van Helsing decides to find all of Lucy’s boyfriends and tells them whats going on. When they obviously want proof, Van Helsing takes them out for a nice night walk of watching the moon, seeing the birds, visiting graves and watching Lucy draining all the blood from a child in her beautiful long teeth bloody glory. Lovely night. So after finding some crucifixes, stakes and looking at gorgeous dead Lucy one last time. Lucy’s boyfriends and Van kill her once and for all while she is asleep in her coffin during the day.

Mina and the Dracula

Now that Lucy’s taken care of Van assembles the entire party and gives them a tutorial on Vampires except Mina because they didn’t want to “weigh down a woman’s heart.” and risk someone as precious as her. Before that backfires on our protagonists, let us get a rundown of the strengths and weaknesses of a vampire. Mind you a lot of these might not be what you are used to in classic vampire lore:

Strengths:

Immortality as long as fed blood No shadows and reflections Transform into any creature (including bats, duh) Super strength Control of Weather Can ride moonlight Can get into narrow spaces

Weaknesses:

Can only enter a house if once invited He is repelled by garlic and holy symbol Powerless in the day (not burn, NOT BURN) Can only transform during dusk, dawn and midnight Cannot cross running water A wild rose on his coffin will keep him trapped inside

Now that we know the signs that Mina is kept away from, say it with me, Dracula starts attacking Mina. Dracula keeps at it, and the alarmingly similar signs to Lucy doesn’t warn anyone. Dracula decides to use this to his advantage. He force-feeds Mina his blood so he can spy on the rest of the main cast through her eyes and years. However, Dracula’s plot luck runs out as we walk into what has to be the most debated scene in his book. The boys walk in on the act of Dracula feeding Mina his blood from his chest. Dracula runs away, and Van Helsing gives Mina a crucifix to keep Dracula away. This scene is so heavily debated as not only is it a perversion of the act of a mother feeding a child, but it’s also a reversal of the male and female role which in the Victorian society is a problem. How dare a woman play an active part in anything! I would go into more detail but who am I kidding. Write your damn paper kids. Some later interpretations present this blood exchange scene as a sort of romance between Mina and Dracula but the book itself doesn’t have a romantic element. Dracula only wants Mina as one his many subservient vampire ladies. Unless you find having a harem of submissive women hot, I don’t judge. Write what you want in your fanfictions.

Returning to the plot, Van seals Mina’s room with Communion wafers (not the biscuits) and even uses a wafer on her forehead, but that burns her skin and leaves a mark. A sign of her slow corruption. Mina being way too Victorian asks that for her soul, should she turn they should kill her. The men apparently agree cause murder is the only logical solution. Our heroic party realizes that the best course of action right now is to track all the earth boxes. However, they manage to find forty-nine boxes, but the fiftieth box and Dracula are missing. The squad is bewildered until Mina realizes that due to the link that Dracula made with her she can hear and see the same things as him. She figures out that he seems like he is in a boat. Due to Mina’s eyes and ears, Dracula realized that his boxes were caught and he is now heading back to Transylvania. So our party to kill Dracula and end this nightmare once and for all must chase Dracula back to his own home.

The Chase!

The squad decides that they should try to keep Mina away from this as much as possible cause that worked out so wonderfully last time. Luckily Mina insists, and they bring her along in their goose chase. However, they lose Dracula midway and aren’t able to track him despite their many attempts. While the men falter around, Mina logically deduces that the only possible route for him is River Sereth, a river that lands dangerously close to his own home. She tells the boys who once again praise her for how amazing she is, and they decide that Van and Mina must take care of the sexy vampire spice girls in the castle before Dracula gets there while Quincy, Seward, Authur and Jonathan, our new party will chase down Dracula.

As Van and Mina try to travel towards the castle, Mina gets more and more nightmares as they get closer. When they get there, they are inevitably surprised by the trio ladies. Van tries to “protect” Mina but then realized that the women are seeking to seduce Mina to their side. They even call her “sister” and one of them as Mina is also a victim of Dracula. Of course, Mina is too OP for this to work as Mina for Bram Stroker is the representation of female virtue. Who could have guessed! Van and Mina manage to kill the three vampires and seal the castle. Our male protagonists, on the other hand, find every single place the boat could get in an attempt to find Dracula. During the journey up the river, Steward notices a double-crewed boat and decides that boat has to be the one with Dracula in it for convenient plot reasons oh and the fact that it has Slovaks and Gypsies on them. Pay no attention to the Slovak-phobia and Gypsy-phobia here. It was a good old staple of the time.

Mina and Van head east and notice a cart with… surprise a box of earth. The snow starts falling, and the sun starts setting. Mina and Van watch from a distance as our other four protagonists attack the Gypsies and Quincy gets wounded but manages to get past the gypsies. Jonathan opens the box, and Mina notices a smirk on Dracula’s face. The woman must have hawk-like eyesight too! Jonathon stakes Dracula for some well-earned retribution and strangely Mina sees a calm on Dracula’s face as Dracula turns to dust. One of the many ways the book shows Dracula as more human. Though most likely Stoker meant it as Dracula’s soul getting cleansed by Christianity, the link is still there and up for interpretation. The wound Quincy got turns out to be fatal, and he dies, whatever no one cared for him anyway. Mina’s scar on her forehead starts to disappear indicating her purification as well.

Seven years later we go back to Jonathan’s diary we learn that Mina and Jonathan had a child they named Quincy who was born on the Anniversary of Quincy and Dracula’s death. The kid will probably have some serious issues when he grows up. Good thing therapy wasn’t a thing then either. Seward and Authur both get married, and everyone lives happily ever after, except Lucy. She is still very much dead; everyone got over that pretty fast. THE END!

Conclusion

As you can see the actual monster, Dracula is not that scary, and neither are any of his accomplices. The real horror comes not from the monster but the ambiance. And hence any of its knock-offs, forget the current urban fantasy stories can’t come close to mimicking the same sense of suspense and horror. Lots of later adaptations get rid of lots of elements like Quincy, the added romance, the slutification of Lucy. But none of those are needed when this book is read… like a book.

Feel free to leave a comment and tell me what you think of the monster that roamed the dark streets of London! That is all from your favorite nymph today, Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.

[bloodsoakedace]

REALLY  LONG  CHARACTER  SURVEY.

   RULES.  repost ,   don’t  reblog  !    tag  10 !good  luck  !    TAGGED.  @xgambolshroud    TAGGING. Anyone that wants to

BASICS.

FULL  NAME :   Neopolitan NICKNAME : Neo, various plays on words involving ice cream and/or shortness AGE :   ~26 BIRTHDAY :   September 21 ETHNIC  GROUP :   Caucasian NATIONALITY :   Vale LANGUAGE / S :  Morse Code, understands “English” SEXUAL  ORIENTATION :   ????????? ROMANTIC  ORIENTATION : HAHAHAHAAH RELATIONSHIP  STATUS :   Single and too bloodthirsty to mingle CLASS : Upper Class HOME  TOWN / AREA : City of Vale, wherever the “affluent” area is CURRENT  HOME : THEY CALL ME THE WANDERER. YEAH, THE WANDERER. IIIIII ROAM AROUND AROUND AROUND AROUND AROUND PROFESSION :   Serial Killer, Mercenary

PHYSICAL.

HAIR :  Pink and brown, silky locks that spill from her scalp like melting ice cream EYES :  One pink one brown, swapping sides at will NOSE :  Small and curved, rounded at the tip FACE :  Soft curved features, rather young looking LIPS :  Thin and narrow, somewhat pursed COMPLEXION : Very pale BLEMISHES :  None SCARS :  None TATTOOS :  None HEIGHT :  4′10″ (in heels) WEIGHT :  102 lbs BUILD :  Slim and athletic. Extremely toned FEATURES :  Not being tall, asymmetric color palate ALLERGIES :  None USUAL  HAIR  STYLE :  Long and flowing USUAL  FACE  LOOK :  Shit-eating grin USUAL  CLOTHING :  White cropped jacket over black sweater. Tight-fitting pants. Knee-high boots. Lots of jewellery

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEAR / S :  Restraint, loss of control, loneliness ASPIRATION / S :  Murder mostly POSITIVE  TRAITS :  Intelligent, cunning, agile, loyal, strong-willed NEGATIVE  TRAITS : Callous, again murder, spiteful, greedy MBTI :  It’s fucking 1am I ain’t takin this test now ZODIAC :   FUCKING VIRGO APPARENTLY TEMPERAMENT :  Smug SOUL  TYPE / S :   the fuck is that ANIMALS :  Swallowtail Butterfly VICE  HABIT / S :   For the third time, murder. Also, habitual unhealthy eater FAITH : She is god GHOSTS ? :  Nope AFTERLIFE ? :   Nope REINCARNATION ? :  Nope ALIENS ? :  Nope POLITICAL  ALIGNMENT :   Completely indifferent ECONOMIC  PREFERENCE :  That all the money is hers SOCIOPOLITICAL  POSITION :  Again, indifferent EDUCATION  LEVEL :  1 year figure skating, 5 years ballet, graduated primary & secondary combat school

FAMILY.

FATHER :  Unknown MOTHER : Unknown SIBLINGS : None EXTENDED FAMILY :  Roman Torchwick (she considers him close enough to be family) NAME MEANING / S :  It’s literally just the ice cream flavor HISTORICAL  CONNECTION ? :  Inspired by Mary Poppins. Other than that, nothing

FAVORITES.

BOOKS :  None MOVIE :  Romance, horror SONGS :  Dance music (particularly house and swing) DEITY :  Herself HOLIDAY :  Vytal Festival. It brings witless victims flocking to one place MONTH :  September, since it’s her birth month SEASON :  Fall because her outfit is perfect for the weather PLACE :  Highly populated areas, or any room with her and one other person WEATHER :  Cool and still SOUND :  The tearing of flesh and screams of the dying SCENT / S :   Fresh blood TASTE / S :  Sweets FEEL / S :  Smoothness, as in silk ANIMAL / S :  None NUMBER :  7 COLORS : White Brown and Pink

EXTRA.

TALENTS : Fucking everything Disguises, hardlight constructs, teleportation?, extreme balance, flexibility, and dexterity BAD  AT :  Not killing things when she’s bored TURN  ONS :  There’s some pretty kinky shit I’d rather not get into here TURN  OFFS : Restraint, denial HOBBIES : Murder, theft, being an asshole TROPES :   Ax-Crazy, Badass Adorable, Combat Stilettos, Cute and Psycho, Cute Mute, Dance Battler, Elegant Gothic Lolita (lol), Enigmatic Minion, Hyper-Competent Sidekick, Master of Disguise, One-Man Army, Silent Snarker, Villainous Friendship AESTHETIC  TAGS :  Blood, Sweets, Pink, Pastel, Glass, Fashion QUOTES :   “....”

FC INFO.

MAIN  FC / S :  n/a ALT  FC / S : n/a OLDER  FC / S :   n/a YOUNGER  FC / S :   n/a VOICE  CLAIM / S :  n/a GENDERBENT  FC / S :  n/a

MUN QUESTIONS.

Q1 :   if  you  could  write  your  character  your  way  in  their  own movie ,   what  would  it  be  called ,  what  style  would  it  be filmed  in ,  and  what  would  it  be  about ?           A1 :  It would be a noir-detective film starring her and Roman, but the roles would be flipped (she’s the detective and he’s the mysterious client that reeks of danger) and her entire inner monologue is narrated by Daisy Ridley Q2 :   what  would  their  soundtrack / score  sound  like ?         A2 :  Lots of jazz with some slasher-film stingers when she inevitably stabs someone Q3 :   why  did  you  start  writing  this  character ?           A3 :  Honestly I was looking to get into the RWBY fandom and the challenge was irresistible. I had been meaning to practice writing outside of dialogue anyway, and a mute character would serve as the perfect test subject. Q4 :   what  first  attracted  you  to  this  character ?           A4 :   The challenge of writing someone that can not speak when the majority of my writing style previously was dialogue. Also, I really like smartass characters Q5 :   describe  the  biggest  thing  you  dislike  about  your  muse.           A5 :   How she’s a cOCKY LIL SHIT AND WANTS TO KILL EVERYONE BUT SHE ALSO KNOWS PERFECTLY WELL SHE COULD Q6 :   what  do  you  have  in  common  with  your  muse ?           A6 :   Hopefully not the psychoses, but probably the whole “fear of loneliness bit” Q7 :   how  does  your  muse  feel  about  you ?           A7 :  Probably stabby Q8 :   what  characters  does  your  muse  have  interesting  interactions  with ?         A8 :   Right now, fuck if I know dude Q9 :   what  gives  you  inspiration  to  write  your  muse ?         A9 :   Ironically, writing in her “voice”. Not literally of course, but an in-character response as if she were typing it Q10 :   how  long  did  this  take  you  to  complete ?           A10 :  About 30 minutes or so

[captain-jason29]

I was looking for some work done by CZs world outside of YouTube; google was being dumb and said he was not a real person. After a many tries and fails I came across Adam troy Castro. Is an author and freelance writer for nightmare magazine. I read his second to newest short creepy horror story called the narrow escape of zipper-girl. It’s scary. It does not have death, blood, guts or core. It’s a twisted love story. What make it scary is if you have tattoos or pricings or any other body modafacsion you feel the fear that it could happen to you. And if they could put the right music to it, you would not sleep. So if you want help keep writing or reading alive check out Adam troy Castro or just read his short horror story below. Thank you. The Narrow Escape of Zipper-Girl: It was her zipper that drew me to her. She was beautiful enough, according to what most people seemed to consider beauty. She had a black buzz cut, the kind of body that gives the impression of lankiness even on someone petite, a complexion pale as milk, and an overbite that made sure that a sliver of teeth was always visible even when her bee-sting lips were mostly shut. Everything about her face seemed tentative, as if placed there by a designer who knew just how much any given feature needed before it gained enough prominence to overpower the others; hence her tiny nose, her light eyebrows and her gray eyes. When she first crossed the room, she struck me as so light on her feet that she might have been something drifting in the breeze; but it was the long line of her neck that made me look twice, the longest and most graceful neck I had ever seen on any woman, to that point. I’m a neck man. Some guys notice breasts first. Others are first taken by long shiny legs. I notice necks. I’ve always noticed necks, the most beautiful and most vulnerable attribute women have. Hers had a zipper. I had seen any number of studs and implants and piercings on women, but had never seen a zipper.It stretched across the curve of her throat, drawing a diagonal line from just below the base of the jaw, to the edge of her collarbone. Later, analyzing just what made her zipper so intriguing, I decided that the angle was crucial. Worn horizontally, it would have resembled a second mouth, worn vertically, a second vagina equipped with gold metallic dentata. Slicing diagonally, like a slash, the way it was—and here I note how impossible it is to describe it accurately without running into the traps laid by the very language—it was its own thing, denying easy analogy. I bought her a drink, and chatted with her long enough to allow the obvious question to arrive naturally. She had no problem demonstrating that the zipper was functional. She touched the fingers of one wispy-thin hand to the zipper’s pull-tab and drew it south. The teeth duly separated by a hair, revealing another expanse of pale skin beneath them. The zipper was, in short, a false promise, implying entry to the flesh beneath the surface but in the end just an overlay, a fraud. I liked her a little less right away. I still asked her what had given her the idea to implant such a thing. She had some reason I forgot within minutes of her offering it—some deep appreciation of the artificial, some philosophical point about the fictions we all embrace while navigating modern life. It was background noise, just like the band’s set and the fruity flavor of the house specialty drink she recommended. Her name, some exotic spelling of a commonplace name for girls, was just a label. To me, she was always a mostly unremarkable girl who had brushed greatness with the implantation of a zipper, but had retreated from it with other lame attempts at individuality. To her, I was the guy who admired the zipper but seemed to have found other points of attraction. I didn’t like her much. I never did, though we were together for over a year, and most observers would have supposed that I was wild for her. In truth, I found her tiresome and vapid, a girl who had substituted style for substance. But I successfully hid that. It was the zipper that drew me. That night and over the next few weeks I discovered what little else there was to learn about her. She lived in a third-floor walk-up with stairways so narrow that it was hard to imagine how anybody had ever been able to move furniture into any of the shoebox apartments above. The hallways were dim places with octagonal white tiles the diameter of silver dollars, separated by grout that had gone black from decades of scuffed feet. The building was narrow, too, and there were no more than two apartments per floor, one unimpeded by the stairwell and one that assumed an eccentric L-shape to accommodate it. She had one of the L-shaped ones. I liked that. It was easy to imagine her just around the bend, minding her own business, not knowing I crouched in wait on the other side. She had artistic pretensions. She had written poetry and performed as lead singer in small bands. She had a voice that had turned to premature gravel, and she enjoyed the character it lent her. She was extraordinarily proud of the one gothic horror story she’d written that an anthology had published, but she was not driven to produce more. When I asked her if it was about zippers, she thought I was joking, and said yeah, right. Later, I read it, and it turned out to be nihilistic vampire shit, redeemed only slightly by her facility with poetic language. It was a story where nobody’s throat got cut, where the point was more the weight of the alienation her blood-sucking creation felt, and I read all of it waiting for the mood and the poetry to get out of the way so the bleeding could start. But nobody died. Nobody even bled. I didn’t see the point of that, but still complimented her as she seemed to expect, and at regular intervals during our time together asked her when she was going to write another story. She was a casual smoker, but she hated what the lingering smell of tobacco did to furniture, and so she never lit up at home, limiting herself to one a day, on the street. I liked to think of the way she would have exhaled if the zipper had opened up onto her windpipe, the fumes exiting her throat without ever rising as far as her lips. I liked to imagine her head, expressionless and unconnected from the breathing process, almost dead, floating atop a bed of smoke, like a vision. She had two tattoos, a bleeding barbed-wire band circling her right bicep and, showing more age, a tiny rose blossom at the base of her spine. I told her that if she was already bleeding on the arm she should add a long stem with bleeding thorns to the rose. She said maybe. It was not wise to return to such ideas too often; I had to pretend other interests. She owned a one-eyed cat. It had lost half its vision before she rescued it, in what was clearly some wound inflicted by a human being. It was uncommonly friendly to most people, especially considering what it had been through, but after a few sniffs it never came near me. I shrugged and said you could never tell with animals. It never would come near me, not even after the zippered girl and I moved in together. Maybe it knew I didn’t like its asymmetrical features, the way that single slit pupil regarded me with perfect comprehension. Much later on, after the zippered girl and I had lived together for a few weeks, I climbed down the fire escape one day I knew she wasn’t home, broke the window with a brick, ransacked the place, and took the cat so I could make it symmetrical again. The zippered girl had a regular job. I wondered aloud how she managed to hold one down, let alone in the dentist’s office where she served as a perky young receptionist, while sporting a zipper in her neck. She told me that it was easy to camouflage. When she wanted to, she could look quite conservative, a nice conventional girl who wore minimal make-up and had a mysterious love of neck-concealing scarves and high collars. She laughed that it was her boring disguise. I laughed and said, your secret identity, before you rip off the scarf and stand revealed as Zipper-Girl! I didn’t tell her that she was boring no matter how she was dressed, that nothing about her intrigued me except for the one delightful change she had made in herself. She had no way of knowing. I wasn’t interested in most people, and had long since perfected the art of seeming to participate in conversations while paying minimal attention to them. I was great at it. I gave her no way of knowing that she was only the medium for the zipper. When she lit candles and we made love, I was careful to pay obeisance to all the other stations of her personal cross, bringing pleasure to her breasts and her ass and both the northern and southern set of lips, but it was the zipper that kept me interested, the thought of it being a real portal instead of a fake one, the image of the tab pulled down and everything wet in her pulsing underneath. At one point, I bought a red light bulb and she teased me for having such a corny device in my erotic arsenal. She didn’t know that red light made certain things easier to imagine. Some nights we used oils, and the sheen on her skin, combined with the scarlet glow, made her breasts and arms look like they’d been lubricated by wounds. Once in a great while I unzipped her neck and licked the pale skin between the interlocking blades, making her giggle as I felt the blood pulsing underneath, and tortured myself with the thought of how it would take only one convulsive whim, now, to get at it. The night she blurted that she loved me, I took that as a cue. She may have thought it was inappropriate shyness, at odds with our supposed closeness, but I let my eyes dip downward just before I said me too. As intended, she thought I was talking to her. I used the name Zipper-Girl whenever I could. She liked it, and before long, in most private conversations, I hardly had to use her real name at all. Sometimes I had to remind myself what it was. I put her name on my arm. She was thrilled. But I did it because I needed a convenient reference. I was an efficient worker. My work duties occupied only about twenty percent of the time at the job. My bosses tried to give me more, but they couldn’t keep up with my ability to arrange my work day around vast tracts of free time. I refused any promotion that required additional responsibility. They honored me with an office anyway, and I spent hours in there with the door closed, using Photoshop on portraits of the girl with the zipper. I gave her more than just the one. I airbrushed out her eyes and put a pair of sealed zippers over each one. I did the same to her lips. Who needs lips? They’re imperfect sealants, and instruments for fricatives. The improved portrait became a sock-puppet, even more attractive in its artificiality and in its censorship of the personality the excised features could no longer express. I imagined her sitting in a chair, not tied there, but trapped there by blindness, waiting for me to unzip her mouth so she could eat. I imagined the one in her neck being an opening to her esophagus that I could use as the entry point for nutrients that would keep her alive but that she could not taste. Zippers gave me the option of controlling her very senses. In my fantasies, she made sounds of protest until I taught her to stop. Then I would return home to a Zipper-Girl who was to the images in that file what a paper airplane is to a fighter jet. I had to endure doing things with her. Clubbing was all right because the music was so loud I could pretend enough local deafness to abstain from conversation. Dining required more work, but I made myself the kind of man who spent more time listening than he did speaking. Going to museums was hellish, but I developed a particular interest in the paintings where the faces were caricatures, like the aftermath of terrible accidents where the bones had healed back in inhuman shapes. I became a fan of one artist who liked to obscure the eyes behind screens of concealing shadow. I told Zipper-Girl this was a representation of just how much human beings hide from one another. This was bullshit. I just liked to imagine that along with the eyes I couldn’t see there were also concealing zippers. She got serious and said, you know, you hide more than any man I’ve ever known. What are you thinking about, what are you feeling, when I catch you staring into space? I made a special effort to be attentive toward her, for the rest of the evening. It wouldn’t do to be so mysterious and moody that she no longer wanted anything to do with me. One day when I was out and about without her I found a young girl’s hoodie abandoned at a bus stop. This was a warmer day than expected, and the owner must have taken it off to cool down, leaving it behind when the bus arrived. I wondered how long it had taken her to realize that she’d left it behind, if her parents had enough money to replace it or if when the cold weather came again she was left walking to and from school in hunched misery, hands stuck in dungaree pockets. It wouldn’t have been hard to find out, because I could have asked her. A tag bearing her name and address had been sewn to the base of the hood. I brought the garment home in a bag, hid it away, and the first time Zipper-Girl was not around used a pair of shears to amputate the zipper running from hem to collar. I zipped it open and zipped it closed. There was one section near the bottom where it tended to get stuck, surrendering to motion again only after ardent struggle. I thought of the girl needing to take it on and off, growing red-faced whenever she had to fight with it, perhaps even breathing heavily, in a battle consummated only when it once again gave her what she wanted. I imagined that the zipper knew that it was conquering her, that it made her its bitch with its recalcitrance. I imagined Zipper-Girl weeping because she had pulled the false promise in her neck halfway down only to have it stuck in place, refusing to either ascend or descend, its teeth forming an asymmetrical, vertical grimace. I put the zipper from the hoodie away where I could find it again whenever I wanted. I carried it around in a jacket pocket and fingered it, imagining that the two strips bounding the metal teeth were not material from a hoodie, but skin, taken from a breathing neck. The weather turned cold and she bought a distressed black leather jacket for herself. It had zippered pockets on the breasts, on the shoulders, and down the arms. There were pockets too small and too tight to house more than spare change. They were not meant to be open or closed, just to display their zippers. I banged her while she wore it and nothing else, paying all due attention to all the soft and unzipped parts of her anatomy. She asked me to use her name. I called her Zipper-Girl. She asked me to call her by her real name. I was able to arrange a glimpse of my own tattooed reminder, but knew that she’d noticed the hesitation. One night, as an experiment, she brought home a bondage hood. It was a full-face mask with zippers covering the mouth and eyes, with another zipper running down the back, to the neckline. She donned it just to demonstrate that it was too large for her, regardless of all available adjustments. She asked me to wear it. I had no choice. I had to say yes just to make it possible that she would someday wear one like it. I put it on and she drew it tight, sealing the one over my mouth, then zipping it back open, then sealing it again. In darkness, unable to see her face and therefore cut off from what she was thinking or feeling, I knew only that this had gone on far longer than I had expected. After a while she loosened the hood, removed it and left the apartment with it, returning two minutes later without it. It was just enough time to have taken it to the garbage chute. She didn’t talk to me again for the rest of the night. Sex became more and more infrequent. One night when angry she told me that sometimes she looked in my eyes and saw nothing behind them but an empty space, that it was like looking through a dirty window into a gutted building. She said that when she saw something moving in there, it wasn’t necessarily something she liked. I told her she was imagining things. She asked me to name five things about her, aside from the zipper, that I liked. I was only able to come up with four. I was fortunate that she had either lost count, or been so satisfied with rote poetical evocations of her smile, her sense of humor, her singing voice, and her eyes that she let the subject drop. When we did make love, I noticed her studying me during the act, measuring my own sincerity by the negative space formed around the one feature of her body that was not currently safe for me to acknowledge. Winter faded. Spring came. The jacket got put away. She put on a white tank top and light blue jeans. I think she chose the button fly deliberately. We went for a walk in the park, and in the first moment of easy intimacy we’d had in weeks, linked hands, a gesture I privately liked because the interlocking fingers reminded me so much of the only bond I really cared about. We watched a street mime and we had ice cream from a vendor. A little boy with a toy plane asked Zipper-Girl about the thing on her neck and she said, oh, that’s just a boo-boo, honey. It’ll go away before long. The little boy was satisfied by this answer. He ran back to his mommy and I watched him go, feeling a wrenching pain inside me. When I turned back to Zipper-Girl her eyes were wet, and I knew that I must have flashed the wrong expression. She said you know what? I said what? She said, I’ve been trying to tell myself that I was wrong about you, you were just a little focused on one thing. But everything I’ve been wondering about is true, isn’t it? You don’t care about anything but the zipper. Not even the slightest bit. It took me a second to say, that’s not true. She said, wanna bet? How about I go to the guy who put it in tomorrow and have him take the damn thing out? It’s, like, an hour’s work, tops. I’ll be the same person afterward that I was before, except I won’t have this piece of shit on my neck. Is there any fucking chance on Earth you’d still want to be with me if I did that? Tell me I’m wrong. Come on. Tell me I’m wrong, you son of a bitch. I said, stop testing me. She said, too late, I’m testing you. I’ve decided. It’s going. What are you gonna do about it? I took too long answering. She said, fuck you. Just fuck you. And she got up and walked away. I’ve read in books on such things that when relationships go sour, some injured parties replay the mistakes they made in their heads, changing the dialogue in arguments, altering what was said to what should have been said, turning moments of petulance into moments of generosity, turning passages of disastrous blindness into moments of heart-affirming empathy. I have read that people rewrite the endings. I am not immune. On the stage of my imagination, she might have still had cause to tell me I was a sick piece of shit who she never wanted to see again, but I kept her from being able to make it stick. In my version, she never got watchful friends to stay with her and keep an eye on me while I gathered my few belongings and left. In my version, one male friend of hers didn’t say to me, tell the truth, you son of a bitch. You’re the one who took her cat, aren’t you? In my version, I denied it with persuasive shock instead of remaining silent and getting a chorus of angry voices replying that they fucking knew it all along. In my version of the story, I did not stay away for months, busying myself with other things, only to slip unseen into the back of a small concert being given by her latest band of the moment, and I did not see that while her ink had spread down both arms, the zipper was well and truly gone, not even a scar remaining. I did not see her kiss a guy in the audience, and I did not see her face light up, the way it never had at any point during the year she and her zipper had been with me. In my rewrite, she embraced the only special part of herself and had zippers installed everywhere imagination and medical reality rendered possible; one in her forehead that could be drawn open revealing skull, two on her cheeks that could be drawn aside to reveal teeth and gums, others on her arms and on her breasts and down her back and everywhere else she had never been bold enough to have zippers before. In my rewrite, we found a hood that fit her, and whenever she was at home and not dealing with my needs it was her duty to sit with her nasty face and her annoying personality packed away, while I spent hours and days toying with the feature we’d had enlarged to stretch all the way from her jaw line to her belly button. In my rewrite, she liked it, or knew that it didn’t matter whether she liked it. That, I know, would have been ideal. That would have been bliss. I leave her alone and write it off as a learning experience. This is the world I actually live in. It’s impossible to walk down the street, now, without looking for the zippers on the bodies of others. So far I haven’t seen any. It hasn’t caught on as a fad. But sooner or later I’ll find someone who knows that the zipper is the only important thing; or one sufficiently eager to please, or fool, into changing herself in any way I demand. It’s only a matter of time. In the meantime, getting ready, I’m taking classes in tailoring.

[autolovecraft]

He had studied beyond the Gothic door.

I had hitherto held me immovable, and I labored as in the parks, the paving became very damp, and even Kings had been a feared and impregnable fortress. The excited chatter of the old château of my ancestors had met their end. In what strange form the curse been carried on through all the Counts of my coming end, dwelt on the hill was thrown into the face of his disconnected speech.Spake he, when the old château and its perusal confirmed the gravest of my time was now occupied in the hidden arts, who had therefore been called Le Sorcier must in the parks, the overgrown vegetation in the parks, the overgrown vegetation in the supernatural was firm and deep-seated, else I should never wed, for I am Charles Le Sorcier and his hands, long, claw-like whiteness as I have never elsewhere seen in man. Filled with wonder, yet as I delved deeper and deeper into the face of his birth.

The hideous eyes were now fixed upon me, I commenced my descent. This pair, shunned by all honest folk, were spent the better part of the presence of man or spirit produced in my brain a horror of the holders of my title from much exceeding the span of thirty-second birthday when surprised by early death. Those studies and pursuits which partake of the old man, who had therefore been called Le Sorcier, and led to a certain ancient man who had once told me had not been trodden by human foot for over four centuries. Upon my twenty-first birthday, the Count. Filled with wonder, yet as I watched him.

Old Michel was said to have burnt his wife alive as a home and stronghold for the moment to remove from his terrible eyes the black malevolence that had a sort of relation to a narrow stone-flagged passage which I could have not even the slightest hope of continuing to draw breath that I came upon the plains that surround the base of the objects I encountered. Upon my twenty-first birthday, the ill-paved courtyards, and terminated in a nearby field of no apparent cause, the overgrown vegetation in the unsteady glare the top of a flight of stone steps.

Louis, son of Godfrey, innocent cause of the dark hillside forest.

I was able to piece together disconnected fragments of discourse, let slip from the lowly abode of the sinister thing which had been seized some little while before they reached the exact age of thirty-two years.

But when, years afterward, the Count, he pronounced in dull yet terrible accents the curse had been his father's fate. The language in which the discourse was clothed was that debased form of the once mighty lords of the researches of Charles Le Sorcier? As I slowly traversed the niter-encrusted passageway at the dreaded door of these two. Still I was absolutely resolved. I knew not; but I was able to gain seemed to depress me much. I buried him beneath the stones of the sinister thing which had haunted my line for centuries, and disclosing in the parks, the aged wizard, and began to cease its vain protest against the impending doom, to become almost reconciled to the land beyond. The Count died without utterance, and thus down through the dark and occult in nature most strongly claimed my attention. A searching party, headed by the would-be assassin proved too much for my already shaken nerves, and disclosing in the minds of the sinister Charles Le Sorcier concerning the elixir which should grant to him who partook of it I was strangely bent and almost lost within the great fortress, and of incredible profusion. One night the castle, less than a week before that fatal hour which I lowered into the wildest confusion by the fall of a stone somehow dislodged from one of the researches of Charles Le Sorcier! Yet read as I was able to piece together disconnected fragments of discourse, let slip from the twisted mouth. A poverty but little more than two and thirty years from the twisted mouth. The steps were many of my stay on earth, beyond which I knew must be far underground. Upon my twenty-first birthday, the wild and rugged countryside about, serving as a sacrifice to the proportions of a swelling mount whose sides are wooded near the age of thirty-second birthday when surprised by early death. I saw my opponent to be, I proceeded to return. Disliking the sight that they beheld. I saw my opponent to be, I knew not; but I was left to ruin, until at last I turned away from the society of the place, and its perusal confirmed the gravest of my time was now occupied in the minds of the spectral wood that clothes the side of the four great turrets were left to ruin, until at last I turned to examine it, whereupon there was revealed a black aperture, exhaling noxious fumes which caused my torch to sputter, and in his dying breath screamed forth those words which I sat had been a feared and impregnable fortress. Then, slowly advancing to meet the Count and his associates turned away from the curse; and the falling stones of the curse; and now bearing the title, was killed by an arrow just as he approached the body, I knew not; but I did not pause to examine it, for, since no other branch of my doomed existence. The steps were many of my family was in existence, I would fall back to the land beyond. From its machicolated parapets and mounted battlements Barons, Counts, and I labored as in the terrible secrets of Black Magic and Alchemy. At that time, my belief in the terrible secrets of Black Magic and Alchemy.

Since most of my ancestors had met. At last the figure spoke in a profusion never before seen by me were spun everywhere, and I fell prone upon the house of C—.

Aghast, I kept a most careful record, for the moment to remove from his tunic a phial of colorless liquid which he threw into the night, returning in after years to kill Godfrey the heir with an expression which I had left at most but eleven years of my great house, told me had not been trodden by human foot for over four centuries. His long hair and flowing beard were of the greatest mystery of all my danger from the lowly abode of the apartment was an immense pile of shining yellow metal that sparkled gorgeously in the supernatural was firm and deep-sunken and heavily lined with wrinkles; and the lack of companionship which this fact entailed upon me, piercing my soul with their hatred, and began to connect them with the moisture of the primeval forest stands the old château, and the want of a swelling mount whose sides are wooded near the age which had haunted my days and nights.

Still I was at first only the manifest reluctance of my old preceptor to discuss with me my paternal ancestry that gave rise to the days of the great edifice, telling too late that poor Michel had been killed in vain. Aghast, I broke through the centuries ran the ominous chronicle: Henris, Roberts, Antoines, and Armands snatched from happy and virtuous lives when little below the age of Count Henri at his murder. Meanwhile, joyful servants were proclaiming the finding of young Godfrey in a distant and unused chamber of the father and son ran one redeeming ray of humanity; the evil old man loved his offspring with fierce intensity, whilst the youth had for his parent a more than filial affection. His figure, lean to the spot whereon I stood. Since most of my childhood in poring over the revenge of Charles Le Sorcier appeared through the centuries ran the ominous chronicle: Henris, Roberts, Antoines, and continued by each possessor. The hideous eyes were now fixed upon me, until at last I turned away from the damp and sunken pavement.

It may have been gold, but suddenly the fiendish glare returned and, with a ring, which in youth fear had caused me to shun, and left him to die at the age of thirty-second birthday when surprised by early death. Suddenly the wretch, animated with his last burst of strength, raised his piteous head from the unwilling tongue which had been seized some little while before they reached the exact age of Count Henri at his end, I burned with the wanderings of the hidden arts, who often spoke of the greatest mystery of all, how the man digressed into an account of the walls, the worm-eaten wainscots, and thus down through the spell that had a sort of relation to a narrow stone-flagged passage which I had felled was the source of all, how he had loved to wander in life. It was upon one remaining servitor, an old and trusted man of evil, and thus down through the perpetual dust of the great elixir of eternal life and youth.

Then, slowly advancing to meet the Count and his heirs; yet, having found upon careful inquiry that there were no known descendants of the objects I encountered. I not told you of the whole tragedy and now that I, Antoine, last of the unknown death.Spake he, when, years afterward, the Count laid hands on the watch for the man had obtained access to the sinister Charles Le Sorcier, six hundred years to maintain my revenge, for I am Charles Le Sorcier, or the Wizard.

Within these walls and amongst the dark and shadowy forests, the worm-eaten wainscots, and disclosing in the terrible secrets of Black Magic and Alchemy. Upon one thing I was strangely affected by that which I felt must mark the utmost limit of my ancestors had been killed at the age of their cottage hearths. I was free, I was at first only the manifest reluctance of my line. Have I not told you of the castle walls?

At the farther end of the curse had been seized some little while before they reached the exact age of their cottage hearths. As soon as the tunic of dark color.

And my mother having died at my birth, my eyes. Within these walls and amongst the more learned men of the alchemist, I kept a most careful record, for I am Charles Le Sorcier appeared through the centuries ran the ominous chronicle: Henris, Roberts, Antoines, and soon I saw my opponent to be, I spent the better part of the most profound and maddening shocks capable of reception by the vanishment of young Godfrey in a total faint. Then, slowly advancing to meet the Count and his associates turned away from the society of the most profound and maddening shocks capable of reception by the dust of ages and crumbling under the slow yet mighty pressure of time, Pierre said that this restriction was imposed upon me, until, helpless as I approached the body, I spent the better part of the spectral wood that clothes the side of the last staircase, the pitchy eyes once more endeavor to find a spell, that had a sort of relation to a narrow stone-flagged passage which I had felled was the source of all my danger from the twisted mouth. Since most of my own resources, I trembled as I have never elsewhere seen in man. At last the figure spoke in a total faint. Pausing, I knew not; but I was able to gain seemed to depress me much.

Prompted by some preserving instinct of self-defense, I had always deemed strange, but suddenly the fiendish glare returned and, with a ring, which lay directly beneath my foot.

Within these walls and amongst the more learned men of the morning in climbing up and down half ruined staircases in one of the alchemist, the aged wizard, and gloated over the ancient Gothic doorway stood a human figure. Without warning, I was, modern science had produced no impression upon me because my noble birth placed me above association with such plebeian company.