#Prophetic agony
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brittle-doughie · 8 months ago
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BRITTLE-DOUGH MAKE A BEAST ANCIENTS AU AND MY LIFE IS YOURS!!!!!
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The Ancient Beast Order (Ancient Beast AU)
Ok, Kratos. I’m going to be tossing out ideas here, so you’re all more then welcome to give your own two cents.
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Pure Vanilla Cookie - The Prophet of Salvation (Virtue of Perfection)
Pure Vanilla Cookie thought that he could save everyone, that no cookie would have harm befall them if he was there to protect them. This thought plagued his mind as he resorted to..less then ethical Dark Moon magic to help heal all around him, refusing to believe that his use of this magic leads to fatal results, going as far as to raise the dead, just so he doesn’t have him or others experience the agony that death brings. Cookies around him voice their concerns, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. It was for their own good…no matter the result
White Lily Cookie - The Lady of the Lilies (Virtue of Order)
Shoutout to @t-t-tau-me for their ask being an inspiration for Beast Lily
Dark Enchantress Cookie and now the Beasts, everything seemed to crumble away around White Lily Cookie. She pondered, was this really what freedom does? Help cookies find who they are, but also allow monsters to roam about the land, destroying cookies in their path? No, she felt like the way for cookies to obtain peace was to establish order, so that tragedies like Dark Enchantress never happening again and she now had the Faerie Kingdom to back her up.
Dark Cacao Cookie - The Relusive Tower (Virtue of Nolition)
Dark Cacao Cookie never left his kingdom much, his warriors doing little to assists others and many cookies having to pay the price for this by having the villages to fend for themselves. It’s said that when the time comes where he would finally stand from his throne, that dark times for his targets would follow.
Hollyberry Cookie - The Lover of Passion (Virtue of Mania)
Hollyberry Cookie’s passion knew no bounds, whether it be for her subjects or her own personal interests. It can border on obsession when she finds something that drives her to do everything in her power to get. The fires of her passion can never extinguish, leaving The Lover as a relentless beast that never gives up what catches her eye.
Golden Cheese Cookie - The Gleaming Goddess (Virtue of Greed)
She had everything, her people, her riches, her kingdom. Yet, there was this nagging feeling in the back of her head that had her craving for more. The Gleaming Goddess wanted the surrounding villages, then the villages around those ones, her greed will never satiating until Earthbread becomes an empire in her image and she’ll crush anyone that stands in her path.
The Cookie Kingdom is the last safe haven in the land, taking in cookies who want to escape the grasp of the The Ancient Beast Order. This spelled bad news when the Beast Cookies themselves have awoken as well.
You wanted to be the beacon of light in a world plunging into darkness, but when 10 Beasts have their eyes set on your kingdom and on YOU in mind, you worry if your forces will be enough to fight back…
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midnightsslut · 11 months ago
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religion is one of the most prominent recurring themes on the album, and it has been present in some capacity for quite a few records now. taylor previously compared love to religion: her saving grace, her belief system, and a fated divine intervention (false god, cornelia street, and cruel summer are the best examples of this). ‘sacred new beginnings that became my religion’ and ‘we’d still worship this love even if it’s a false god’ are two of the defining statements about her philosophy on the lover album.
taylor doesn’t want to leave all of that behind on ttpd, at least not at the beginning. the first supernatural force she mentions is the spaceship on down bad, which she compares to a skylight of freedom in the epilogue. *something* has finally come to save her from her life of suffering. she doesn’t care if it’s a force of good at first; if anything, she’s just fine being taken away by aliens. she views this man as her destiny. it isn’t until guilty as sin? that taylor starts to ponder the moral implications of what she’s doing. is she guilty as sin for wanting to leave her previous religion and relationship behind? she comes to the conclusion that, even if she rolls the stone away and gets resurrected/redeemed, she cannot avoid the fallout. she is okay with the thought of having to wait, as long as both lovers vow to be together forever, just as she once did with someone else in false god. ‘I choose you and me religiously’ finishes the bridge of the song in a direct callback to cornelia street.
the next mention of religion has murkier imagery. she claims that she does not need the Lord’s help to save this man. she sees the halo that he has, and she can fix him herself. now that she feels free of her prior cage, she isn’t looking for divine intervention anymore. she wants control. she is their route to salvation.
when the relationship falls apart, she retreats back into the position of a believer rather than a divine figure. she compares him to a Holy Ghost who promised to save her and take her to heaven. instead, she is in hell in every sense of the word: she’s down bad and feels guilty for digging up the grave. he was a jehovah’s witness who promised that she could break free of the cage imposed by love without changing her religion altogether; she would’ve just had to switch denominations. she could still have a marriage and kids! she could still have a blue tortured poet! the man was different, but not the dreams they had together. the story of the first part of the album ends here. her faith has been broken, and she has only found any semblance of sanity by refusing to mention these belief systems altogether.
side b/the anthology blends the christian imagery of side a with goddesses, sorcerers, and prophecies. she bargains with these powers to let her have the future she wants (the prophecy). she doesn’t sound like someone believing in salvation. if anything, she feels cursed. she decides that the concept of divinely ordained timing will never work in certain relationships (‘the goddess of timing once found us beguiling / she said she was trying / peter, was she lying?’). this disdain extends onto her perception of other people’s faith (‘bet they never spared a prayer for my soul’). she does position herself as a prophet in cassandra, but even then, she admits that the role has hurt her. perhaps the pain in thank you aimee was meant to be, or perhaps she was just strong enough to build a legacy in spite of it, boulder by boulder. is she a martyr? does she want to be? or did she save herself?
the only real love song on this half of the album makes no mention of fate or any divine forces. it wasn’t meant to be. it’s not a supernatural invisible string or lightning in a bottle. she is just in love.
the album ends with the manuscript, which revisits an old story of a defining, formative heartbreak. as she sings ‘at last, she knew what the agony had been for’ while describing the legacy of her writing, she seems to revert to thinking about the purpose of trauma. the only exception is that, in this case, she is the one who found meaning in her pain by turning it into a manuscript. writing is her belief system now, and she proselytizes by telling her stories and thus giving up the manuscript.
ultimately, her belief in destiny has chewed her up and spat her out. she so desperately clung to her existing belief systems that she was fooled by a conman, which left her feeling cursed. religion is supposed to be with someone even in their darkest moments, but the album explains that taylor often felt abandoned. the only constant in her life was, well, herself. she’ll be okay, but her pen will be her saving grace.
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merakiui · 5 months ago
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pearl of scarlet, shed of innocence.
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yandere!rollo flamme x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, brief nsfw, non-con touching, periods, blood, delusion, descriptions of violence and body horror, mentions of medieval torture, kidnapping/captivity, implied cult, implied stockholm syndrome/brainwashing, subtle gaslighting, descriptions of religious symbolisms/imagery note - manufactured angel, baptized in holy light. self-proclaimed prophet, corrupted in benign blight.
There are no angels in this world, or so it is told.
So to find a scapegoat for sanctuary, the people search far and wide for a lamb to sacrifice.
There are no angels in this world, or so it was told.
You’re brought to the altar beneath a crooked cross, screaming and kicking like rebellious livestock resisting slaughter. Your back is cut open and your bones are bent at awkward, avian angles. As blood drips from the stone, puddling beneath robed soles, feathers are glued on with meticulous, methodical precision. Cold hands hold your arms in place. You try to pry yourself free, but they force you down with disapproving hisses.
From the shadows, the Prophet emerges. He is a man who can foretell tragedy before it strikes, or so everyone has heard. The sun filters in through slanted windows, illuminating half of his figure. You watch dust motes bob in the light like jellyfish. They warp into strange, shapeless blobs when fresh tears overflow and spill.
He stops in front of you, swipes a skeletal finger through the blood on the altar, and holds it up to the light. It is beautifully red, a marvel to behold. An angel who can bleed is a feat unheard of. Almost human, everyone’s eyes seem to say as they exchange looks. You grit your teeth, saliva dribbling from your cracked lips, and suppress wild, animalistic screams. There’s no adjective in any dictionary that can truly describe the world of hurt you’re in. It is almost like stripping your soul away from your body or unzipping your flesh bit by bit so that your skeleton can step out. The air stings, the feathers itch, and the flowing blood is hot and plentiful.
When you look at the Prophet, you wonder if his image is blurry simply because of the tears fogging your vision or the foreboding dark of unconsciousness clawing at the back of your head.
He watches the people dress you up, fawning over a monstrosity made marvelous. A wet cloth dabs at the blood running in rivulets down your back, between the arch of your wings, staining the valley between your ruined scapula.
“Why?” you cry out thickly, choking on the word. “Why me?”
He looks through you rather than at you, green eyes filling with an unusual light. “You’re perfect.”
His gaze seems to signify that this will not be the last time you bleed on this altar, beneath a silent cross. You listen to his footsteps as they click out a steady rhythm. He stops at your side, and you twist your neck to look at him. The hands holding you down lessen their pressure, but you don’t pull away. You blink owlishly at the Prophet, whose stare is cold and clinical, and attempt to understand his perverted psyche.
Your analysis falls apart when he sticks two fingers into the open wound, where your broken bones protrude from your back. Pain flashes through your body and you tense rigidly from the shock. A howl filled with the purest agony rips through your throat, shredding your vocal chords. 
“Stop! Hurts—that hurts! Fuck!” You ball your hands into fists, pointed nails pricking your palms, and you wail like a newborn. He tuts at your sailor mouth.
When he finally slides his fingers out, they’re coated in blood. Seeming satisfied, he steps around to the front and, brushing your hair back, marks your forehead with a blood-stained blessing. A cross. It burns like hot iron on flesh, and your face contorts with a nasty grimace.
“An angel who can feel pain knows of the suffering we endure at the vile hands of mages,” he says, spinning a fantastical yarn. “She is the product of cursed magic, but here she will be our salvation. She will be a symbol of safety, exalted by our hands.” He tilts his head at you, peering into your beady, bloodshot eyes. “And your name shall be—”
You don’t hear it. The shock has left you paralyzed. Before you can succumb to the horror, you’re sewn up tight, stripped, and put in robes of all white. Everything is tailored to your exact measurements. There are holes cut in the back for your wings. They are limp and feathered and mangled, but they are yours.
When the Prophet—Rollo Flamme—lifts your chin and turns your head, you ask him once more: “Why?”
He smiles and folds his hands in front of his chest, his eyes fluttering shut. “Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, lesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae.” After repeating it twice more, he finally peels his green eyes open. “Amen.”
You can’t understand a word, just as you fail to comprehend the world you’ve found yourself in. A tiny sliver of shelter hidden deep within the trees.
You walk on wobbling legs, taking just a few steps forward before falling over into someone’s arms. Before your body surrenders to exhaustion and trauma, you hear the Prophet’s pleased hums.
There is one angel in this world, or so it is told.
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They sit you on a throne so that you may, at the approval of the Prophet, offer consolation and consultation to those in need.
A man comes stumbling to your sacred seat. He bows so low to the ground that his forehead touches the soil. You catch pieces of his wild ramble. Most of it registers as static in your brain, the syllables stretched so far they snap.
“...raped—she didn’t—couldn’t…died by my hands—I am—no good… A sinner who—surely you understand—must repent…” He lifts his head then, and you can see the panic scrawled on his face. “Angel, won’t you forgive me?”
The Prophet places his hand on your shoulder and squeezes. He is the only one permitted to touch you because he knows you best. Because he understands tragedy before it can cut you down. His bony fingers are a reminder that you have just as much power as he’s willing to grant you—that it is precisely because of him that you are not lying chopped with the pigs as a failed approximation of an angel.
“Your verdict?” he asks, smoothing out the tension in your shoulders.
You eye the man with frigid abhorrence. I should kill you with my bare hands and when you beg for it to stop I should look you in the eyes and ask, “Did you stop for her when she uttered those same pleas?” And then I will snip the sorry thread of life you cling so desperately to, condemning you to the fiery pits of hell.
“Rat torture.”
The man shrieks. It is a ghastly racket. He blubbers like it’s a particularly scary punishment.
“Angel, have mercy! Please, I beg of you, have mercy on my soul!”
“There are a dozen ways to punish cruelty, but none can ever compare to the type of heinous hurt and torture you have so brutally inflicted upon an innocent woman. That you would come to me in person and expect me to absolve you of such a despicable sin… I am disgusted.”
The Prophet hides his scowl behind a celestial handkerchief. It was the only thing on your person when you were taken and thrown into this woodland prison. He’s kept it for himself; it smells of you, pure and perfumed.
He leans down to whisper in your ear. “Might I suggest the Judas Cradle or, perhaps, The Rack? A rat is far too lenient, Angel of Innocence, and I suspect not even a rodent would enjoy such a rotten creature. Why punish the innocent rat?”
You glance at his face, searching for the motive behind such suggestions. Though he may veil it well, you can sense the distaste and the hatred. It mirrors yours. “Then the Cradle he shall have. But only until he bleeds, after which he shall be stretched and torn apart in a manner befitting his crime.”
“As always, your judgment is sound.” The Prophet turns to look at the man. Two members in white grab his arms and haul him to his feet. “You’ve heard the Angel’s verdict. Follow through with it just as she decreed.”
As he’s dragged away, screaming and sobbing, you rise to your feet.
“I will have no more visitors,” you’re saying, taking the steps two at a time.
The Prophet exits the platform after you, perplexed. Saliva is warm and thick in your mouth, climbing through your esophagus like a winding python. Before you can duck into a nearby tent, you collapse in the grass. Bent on your hands and knees, you vomit.
The Prophet stands over you, watching silently.
Beneath a bright sun, your feathered bones shivering with every great heave, you feel your mind splitting apart. A single stitch comes undone, and with it the rest of your weakened sanity unfurls. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, taste it on your tongue. The soil squirms under your fingertips, searching for the salvation only you can provide. Everything is alive. Everything has a heartbeat. Everything is a lie. (Or is it?)
Everything is also nothing. You cough and choke down a violent wheeze.
The Prophet’s hand brushes your cheek. The tangle in your stomach somersaults, curling in on itself, and then it’s gone.
You look up at him, wiping bile from your lips. Tears gather on your lash line. Perhaps your pathetic appearance instills some sort of sympathy in the usually unfeeling Prophet, for he bends down to your height and cleans your face with his handkerchief.
“It is truly sickening,” he says, “to see the depravity of humankind on display like this. We are grateful for your presence here. Everyone depends on you. Thus, it is important to show them an unfaltering face even when the world around you shakes.”
Trembling, you reach for his wrist. Your fingers curl tightly. “Don’t let another monster like that look at me.”
“I shall personally take his eyes just before his punishment.”
“Please,” you beg, grasping for his robes. “Never again. Please…”
“You’ve done well today. Let us retire for now. I’ll wake you for prayer and dinner.”
“You must promise, Rollo.”
Only you are given permission to address him so informally. Everyone else calls him the Prophet, the Father, the Righteous One. He is more of a god than a human when the rays frame a dainty, sunlit halo just above his head. 
In a way that is almost intimately tender, he closes his hands around yours. “‘If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away.’ I will pluck those iniquitous irises from their sockets and situate them so that he will look upon his flesh as it is twisted and violated without mercy.”
Despite causing such irreversible anguish, his cold, bloodless hands are soft.
You believe him just as everyone else does. Who else can you look to? Who else should you look to?
In times of uncertainty, is it not the job of a deity to come down and dispel negativity?
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Every month, there is a gathering at the altar. It falls in line with your biological schedule. The Prophet appreciates your timeliness; he says so as he lifts your robes, revealing skin unblemished. This occasion is markedly different from the usual rigmarole of worship. This is proof of your goodness. Of human-like flesh and blood rendered angelic.
Your innocence is put on display for all, stretched open around pearl-white digits. His hands were bathed in holy water prior to this, and now he stands behind you at the altar to bury his fingers in the snug softness of a place previously untouched. A flower, everyone calls it, always in bloom in pretty shades of red. Angels cannot conceive, but your body yearns for it every other day outside of your cycle. Angels should not bleed, but you are a special case. The only angel in the world—in a world narrowed down to this clearing in the forest. Angels should not ache or age, but you are unique in your bodily functions. So many rules are bent and broken just to keep you here, a flightless bird pinned by macabre piety.
He strokes your wings with his free hand. The skin from which they protrude is numb and hard, healing into a gruesome scar. It is a point of your pride as an angel, manufactured though you may be. Sometimes you think you can feel his touch through your wings, gentle and appreciative, always so careful.
You inhale sharply and throw your head back against his chest when his fingers curl up inside you. Blood drips from the slick petals of your flower, pooling at the pristinely polished surface of the altar. An audience of zealots watches, rapt, as you flinch and gasp.
You do not feel pain when the Prophet touches you. He sees your tragedy through his green eyes, assesses it on your face and in your behaviors, and he soothes it with his fingertips. Perhaps it’s a placebo. Perhaps nothing is real and you are simply stuck in a bad dream.
You want to believe there is a reason for everything, but it’s impossible to find one amidst so much madness.
“Like we are every month, without fail, we are blessed by the red rain of our Angel of Innocence. Behold her flowering purity.” He withdraws his blood-soaked fingers, and you bite your hand to stifle a thoughtless, instinctive moan. Liquid crimson strings from his digits. He presents them to the crowd. They cheer for you, ecstatic to be free of worldly curses. No more foul temptations. No more magic. No more evil. All of the world’s filth is cleansed just beneath your pure shadow.
Or so the fable is foretold. All of it lies in wait at the back of the Prophet’s throat.
You used to struggle and squirm, hide within the ruffles of your robes, and jerk away from the Prophet’s spidery hands. Now you bloom beneath his fingertips, grateful for his attention and touch. He loves you the most, after all.
There is one angel in this world. There is one Prophet in this world. The two, forever intertwined, are hallowed dreams spun from the cotton of quiet thieves.
Or so it is told.
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gunsandspaceships · 4 months ago
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Tony Stark - Prometheus
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This is the final part of the series, which unites all the separate, thematic parts (links are highlighted in blue) with evidence of the conclusion that you will find at the end of this post.
Introduction
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Prophet
God of Forethought: the name Prometheus means "forethinker", "foreseer", "prophet".
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Creator of intelligent life
In Greek myths, Prometheus is the creator of an artificial form of life - the humankind. "He created them looking up to the sky like gods."
"Here I will sit, forming men after my own image. It will be a race like me, to suffer, to weep, to enjoy and to rejoice" (Goethe)
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Earth's Best Defender
Prometheus takes on the protection of mortals from tyrant gods who want to enslave or destroy them.
"Cover your heavens, Zeus, with gauzy clouds, and practice, like a boy who beheads thistles, on the oaks and peaks of mountains; but you must allow my world to stand, and my hut, which you did not build, and my hearth, whose glow you envy me." (Goethe)
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"Beautiful is the tradition Of that flight through heavenly portals" (Longfellow)
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God of Fire
He stole the fire from gods to give it to humans to protect them, keep them warm and give them light in the form of science and technology.
"All the soul in rapt suspension, All the quivering, palpitating Chords of life in utmost tension, With the fervor of invention, With the rapture of creating" (Longfellow)
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The Mountains
For that, Zeus ordered Prometheus to be chained to a rock in a cave and sentenced him to eternal suffering.
"First the deed of noble daring, Born of heavenward aspiration, Then the fire with mortals sharing, Then the vulture,--the despairing Cry of pain on crags Caucasian." (Longfellow)
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Heart
Every day an eagle flew to Prometheus and pecked at the center of his life.
"Who helped me against the pride of the titans? Who rescued me from death - from slavery? Did you not accomplish it all yourself, my sacred, glowing heart?" (Goethe)
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The Torture
For the sake of humans, Prometheus voluntarily accepted eternal pain and chose to suffer in silence.
"A silent suffering, and intense; The rock, the vulture, and the chain, All that the proud can feel of pain, The agony they do not show, The suffocating sense of woe, Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Should have a listener, nor will sigh Until its voice is echoless." (Lord Byron)
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Chiron
Ancient Greeks had another myth - about the father of surgery, centaur Chiron, who once saved a hero betrayed and ambushed in the mountains.
Chiron was also the one who took on Prometheus' suffering and died in his place. He was shot by an arrow and to end his own pain exchanged his life for life and freedom of Prometheus.
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The Sun
For humankind, Prometheus became the image of a noble fighter against oppression, and a symbol of human progress and creative freedom.
"When I was a child I did not know in from out; I turned my confused eyes to the sun, as if above it there were an ear to hear my laments - a heart like mine that would pity the oppressed." (Goethe)
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Conclusion:
Taking all of this into account, I believe that Tony was not only inspired by the myth, but he himself is Marvel's Prometheus, at least in the MCU.
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Excerpts from poems used: - "Prometheus, or the Poet's Forethought" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow; - "Prometheus" by Lord Byron; - "Prometheus" by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.
Bonus:
From axiomatiq-blog
Kaos
"Prometheus brings Fire to the Cavemen"
Familiar names
Marvel and their love for Greek mythology
Prometheus, Goethe, Schubert, and RDJ
Thanatos
Life and Death
Comics
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circus-clangen · 3 months ago
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so, based on the solution to the new puzzle, i have come up with a new theory as to why goldmask ended up in the dark forest.
goldmask was a prophet, or at least, she claimed to be one. she captivated many of circusclan with her foresight, including the young deputy of the clan at the time, ringtail. she foretold he would become a great leader to circusclan, and he did. by this time, they were mates, and had had their first kit together. ringstar was adamant about not wanting another litter, but goldmask desired legacy.
goldmask had not expected to see a stranger enter her tent. he called himself david, and captivated goldmask with his visions of grandeur, his ambition so different from ringtail’s own lack of it. he told tales of golden stars captured in mortal paws. immortality anchored down from the heavens. she and david had a fling, mostly due to goldmask hoping she could keep the fellow prophet close. goldmask received a vision of destruction reigning down on circusclan soon after she found out she was expecting kits.
but, no one would believe her, not even ringstar, who had once listened, enraptured by her golden dreams. she would make them listen, but how could she accomplish this? it did not matter when she went through agony giving birth to her kits. david visited quickly, able to take one of the kits with him before ringstar rushed to be by goldmask’s side, not noticing a figure slinking away. goldmask felt the life leave her as she gazed at her daughter tigerkit, knowing she would never be truly dead. not while she was alive.
Alright everyone, pack it up, Circusclan is over, Anon figured out all of the lore (silliness) BUT FOR REAL Anon how does it feel to be so close to the truth that I considered not sharing this ask at all Gold star for you
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cryptotheism · 2 years ago
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When Saint Pierro of the Holy Defoliant was burned at the stake, he did so with a hymn on his lips. When the soldiers of the holy purgation came to Ipsod-3, they were rough in their handiwork. Such was their zeal for the destruction of inglorious text, that pitiful Pierro was caught among a throng of heretics, and condemned to the flame.
But Pierro was devout, and the violence of his love for the holy gun was nigh pure. A child of the primer quarries, stricken with the yellow lung for as long as he could speak, he had little but his faith, and the violence of his faith was greater for it.
When the flames caught his hair, it awoke in him a great rage, but also a great love. He pleaded with the footmen of the holy purgation to allow him the dignity of the bullet, but they refused, for they believed him inglorious.
As his flesh boiled, he sang hymnals, desperate for the indignity afforded to the final prophet. It is said that his voice was beautiful.
The Wills took notice of his extraordinary faith, and blessed his dolorous agony. For as St. Pierro of the Holy Defoliant burned, his voice remained pure. The fat of his body became holy napalm, which fell to the kindling and bolstered the flames, prolonging his martyrdom.
But his voice did not stop. As St. Pierro of the Holy Defoliant burned, his lungs remained untarnished, turning red, then silver, then purest gold as they sang their endless hymn.
In celebration of the birth of a new High Reliquary, the planet was purged, and a Mother Cathedral to the new High Order was constructed at the site of his martyrdom. At it's center, encased in a jeweled reliquary of purest brass and clear sapphire, above a great brazier of perfect obsidian, sits the still-breathing lungs of the Fifth Gun Saint.
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barrenclan · 7 months ago
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I'm losing it, there's apart of me still bracing myself for Pinepaw's death, but on the other hand the language used in his prophetic dreams is a little worrying. Yes, antlers peirce through him, but instead of physical pain, it's the most raw, gutwrenching agony and misery he's ever felt. Deepdark, what are you planning? How are you going to break his heart?
I'm sorry for holding your ask until after Issue 39 came out (this ask was submitted in June), but I was worried anything I might say would give away what a beautiful analysis of Pinepaw's dreams this was. The most gutwrenching agony he's ever faced - not physical but psychological. How will you break his heart, indeed.
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The title was definitely always metaphorical - BarrenClan as a concept, as a belief system, dying. But Pinepaw speared on the horns - both a metaphor like above, but also perhaps has some truth to it?... what could that mean?... ooh I love teasing.
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hirukochan · 1 year ago
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Ambushed
A Severus SnapexFem!Reader Oneshot
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
Pairing: Severus Snape x former student reader
Summary: After your former Professor murdered Albus Dumbledore a few weeks after your one-nightstand you never expected to see him again.
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Warnings: Smut, catcalling, blood, injury
Wordcount: 5000
Read on Ao3 or below the cut
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Life has become significantly darker since the death of Albus Dumbledore. You hear rumours of the Ministry falling, about Death Eaters taking over and You-Know-Who rising. From the perspective of the public all that hasn’t happened. Everybody can feel the change and taste the misery hanging in the air between abandoned and destroyed shops in Diagon Alley.
The rich fuck you work for is paying you extra because you decided to stay. You aren’t going to let yourself be scared into running away! 
You started evening courses at a small university in Aberdeen a few months ago. Enchanted Art. For what? Hell if you know, but art sounded good. You however aren’t…good. Not at all, but it’s fun. You enrolled a few days after what you now call ‘the worst mistake of your life’. 
Severus Snape.
Death Eater.
Murderer.
Newly appointed headmaster of Hogwarts.
And you fucked him. Just three weeks before he killed Albus Dumbledore, a man who trusted him. 
The Daily Prophet and the Ministry are framing Harry Potter for it. There is a large manhunt going on with a bounty on Potter’s head. The boy has disappeared from the face of the earth. 
You saw him at the funeral in Hogwarts. Many former students came to say their goodbyes to Dumbledore. You went out of shame and guilt. It doesn’t make any sense for you to feel like that. Neither did you know what Snape was planning nor did you support him in any way. And yet, just knowing you had that man in your bed is eating at you.
You sway and stumble but can catch yourself on the side of an abandoned building. Death Eaters have been attacking Diagon Alley for months, even before You-Know-Who came to power, but never your shop. You guess it’s because a second-hand bookshop is absolutely useless. You don’t even have many customers! The shop is not profitable whatsoever.
You rub your eyes and push yourself off the wall to continue your less than straight way back to your flat. You’ve been drinking with the Weasley twins who run the joke shop a few streets away from yours. They are one of the few shops still open like you. They were three years under you and always good for a laugh though you were never friends with them. Now out of school and in the same boat you get along well.
And drinking alone is pathetic.
You are pathetic, but not that pathetic. 
Not yet.
You squeeze through an alley. Just another corner and you’d be there. You’re too drunk to apparate and apparition can suck it anyway.
“What’s a pretty thing like you doing out all alone?” A male voice calls out to you. You ignore it. You are really not in the mood to be accosted now and your wand might just slip.
You grip it tighter in your pocket. One could not be careful enough these days. Perhaps you should have taken Georges’ offer of walking you home.
“I’m talking to you!” He sounds angry now. Just fuck off. Just turn around and fuck off or better come here and give me something to let my aggressions out on. “Stuck up cunt!” You are whirled around by your shoulder and thrown against a wall. The air is pressed out of your lungs and your back aches. 
The blurry face of a sleazy looking man comes into view but in the next second he’s gone. You blink. Your alcohol drenched brain needs some time to catch up. Then a scream rips through the night and you recoil. Everything in you screams to run. To turn around and take off, to save yourself, but your eyes are glued to the man on the ground, writhing and screaming, his body shaken by endless, never-ending agony. 
Steps echo through the night and your head snaps up. A tall, dark figure moves towards you. Black robes, dark hair- for a second you think it’s Snape and you don’t know how to feel at that and even less how to deal with the sting of treacherous disappointment when you notice he’s too slim and too short to be Snape. 
Moonlight reflects off a silver mask. You grip your wand tighter, terrified of what’s going to happen next. 
A Death Eater.
A real fucking Death Eater right in front of you! And you’re still not running. Why the fuck are you not running?
“Tsk tsk tsk.” He clicks his tongue and shakes his hand. The man’s screams have stopped, replaced by a strangled, gurgling sound that somehow sounds so much worse. Your blood freezes in your veins and you start shivering. This is it. This is how you die. Drunk and on your way home. Just a street away! Away from safety, though you suspect that it’s a false feeling. A lie.
There is no safety left in Britain.
“Has your mummy never taught you, you mustn’t touch what isn’t yours?” He shakes his head and clicks his tongue again. A green light illuminates the alley. It paints grotesque shadows onto the silver mask and the wall behind him.
You scream. Shock and pain are ripping the sound out of the wall of your throat and haul it into the night. You cover your mouth with your hands. Tears sting in your eyes. You don’t want to die here.
Your heart pounds in your chest, strong and fast, declaring it has many good years still left, refusing to back down but also trapped by a rich net, woven from terror and dread.
“You shouldn’t be out so late.” The Death Eater says. His voice is slightly muffled by the mask, but he sounds young. So terribly young. Perhaps around the twins’ age? Did he go to school with you? You don’t recognise his voice, but you are in shock. Right? Yes, shock. He just killed someone! Like it’s nothing! To think you might have sat next to him in the Great Hall or the library…
“It’s not safe. Best run along now.”
You blink. Confused. He is letting you go? Why would he let you go? He rips his sleeve up, revealing a jet-black tattoo on his underarm, one that you’ve never seen before but recognise regardless.
“That’s a fucking order!” You flinch. And then you’re running. Running down the street and not stopping until you’ve reached the door to your flat. Your fingers tremble so much you struggle to get the key into the keyhole. You use every single protection charm you know on the door after you’ve closed behind yourself. You’ve gotten good at casting them. You had to.
“What the fuck.” You whisper to yourself, back leaned against the wall and wand clutched to your chest. “What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck!” A Death Eater just fucking let you go! He tortured someone for attempting to assault you and then killed him. 
He fucking killed him.
You watched someone die. 
What the fuck.
Oh Merlin and Grímhildr and god and Jesus fucking Christ!
‘Mustn’t touch what isn’t yours’ What does that mean? You’re not some object to be owned!
“Maybe he has a crush on me?” You think out loud. Yeah…maybe that guy really did use to go to school with you? Maybe he- you have no idea but what other reason would there be? Would a Death Eater disapprove of assaulting women? Somehow you find that hard to believe.
The incident does not leave your mind. You become paranoid. Always checking your steps and looking around for that glimmer of light catching on a silver mask. Often you’d look out of your windows, watching the empty street but you don’t see the young Death Eater again. You expect him to come back any day to finish you off
One day you arrive at the Leaky Cauldron after your evening classes tired and hungry. It’s a little after ten and you decide to eat in the pub instead of cooking. An hour later you step outside and apparate onto the steps in front of the door to your flat. You secure the door with your usual spells and kick off your shoes before hurrying up the stairs. You want nothing more than to collapse into your bed-
Something isn’t right. It’s the faintest difference. A smell that is not quite right. A whisper of magic in the air that does not belong to you. The small hairs on your nape stand and your stomach clenches. You grip your wand tighter.
There is something on your floor. A large black something.
“What the fuck?” You mutter and drop your hand to your side. “What the fuck? No no no- get the fuck up, Snape!” He doesn’t move. He is lying face down in a puddle of blood in the middle of your flat. Where did he come from? How did he get in? Why is he here?
You kick him. 
It sounds like a logical choice in your head.
He doesn’t move.
“I have a Death Eater in my flat, on my floor. I have a dying Death Eater on my floor!” You panic. You are panicking. You kick him again. Nothing changes. “Shit shit shit!” You could just…kick him down the stairs and lock the door? How did he get in here?!
“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-” What do you do? What can you do? Why is he here? 
For lack of a better plan, you kick him again, but despite how gratifying it feels to let your aggression out on him you have to come up with a better idea. You can’t just keep kicking him!
Wary of the Death Eater on your floor you kneel down and press two fingers to the pulse point on his neck, ready to jump backwards at any point. His skin is burning up. What happened? 
You can’t just kick him down the stairs. It’s tempting. He’d deserve it- but that isn’t you. Besides it would take the Death Eaters not even two seconds to figure out who left him there to die and they might come back to hurt you.
You heave him into your bed and peel the blood-soaked clothes from his chest. There is a deep gash across his side. Blood steadily runs down his pale skin. What happened to him?
“He’s a Death Eater that’s what fucking happened to him.” You scold yourself. “And you are fucking helping him- fuck! Why did you choose my flat to die in, Snape?!” You flick your wand at him, and his own wand comes flying through the air, landing in your hand. You shove it into your pocket.
Snape looks like shit. He’s thinner than a few months ago, his skin paler and dark, deep shadows have seemingly permanently attached themselves to the skin under his eyes.
The glorious Death Eater that defeated Albus Dumbledore. 
You scoff.
“Good- that is that…disarming the Death Eater that is twice your size and can probably do wandless magic…or simply snatch them back from you because let’s be honest here - we aren’t a fighter!” You have no idea who you are talking to, but you feel hysteric and talking to oneself is what hysteric people do. Right? Right?
“Please don’t die here and start haunting me!”
“I’m not dying.” Snape grunts and you scream. 
“Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck- you scared the living shit out of me! What the fuck are you doing here?” Without bothering to answer you, he examines the wound on his side. He grimaces. 
“I advise you against attempting that.” The deep, velvety rumble of voice makes you shudder in all the wrong ways. You keep your wand trained on him anyway.
“Get the fuck out of my flat!” You hiss, raising your wand higher, keeping it aimed at him.
“So hostile.” He tuts. “Did I leave you unsatisfied last time?” 
“You’re a murderer!” Your voice is shaking, tears pool in your eyes and you have no fucking idea why you feel betrayed. You hadn’t spoken to Snape in five years before your one-night stand. But had you known…had you known he is a Death Eater you would have never let him into your bed.
“Yes.” Snape says and he somehow sounds bitter. What right has he to be bitter? “I heard you ran into some…trouble.” You shove your wand in his face and perhaps he sees in your eyes how serious you are, a faint promise of hexing him or something else, but he raises his bloodied hands slightly as if to tell you he isn’t a danger.
“Do you have a first-aid-kit? So I can get out of your hair.” You look at him, considering. You could make him leave. “I’m not a danger to you.” To you. To others, yes, but not you. You have no idea how to feel about that thinly veiled confession. You flick your wand towards your bathroom. Snape rummages through your first-aid-kit.
“Who the fuck doesn’t stock dittany?” He asks, glaring up at you while aggressively opening the fuckton of buttons on his robes. Who needs so many buttons?
“Why would I have fucking dittany? Sorry I did not expect you would choose my home to almost fucking die in!”
“I wouldn’t have died!” He sneers.
“Tell that to the puddle of blood on my floor. Why are you here?” He hesitates. His shoulders droop and he stops messing with his clothes. Something profoundly vulnerable flashes through his eyes.
“Where else would I go?” And that is that apparently. He peels back layers of blood-soaked clothes, and you try not to ogle him. He hadn’t taken off much of his clothes when he fucked you… 
The moonlight hides the currently sickish undertones of his pale skin, making him look like one of those marble statues you’ve seen in a muggle museum once. His skin is littered with scars, a visual reminder that this man is a Death Eater - a fact your body is more than willing to ignore judging by the uncomfortable, damp spot in your knickers. 
You watch him patch himself up from a safe distance, your wand pointed at him at all times. His fingers tremble, his skin is chalky pale and beads of sweat cling to his forehead, but his movements are precise and purposeful.
And yet-
You have never seen him like this.
Small somehow.
Vulnerable.
“I was told you were assaulted.” His voice is quiet, he usually speaks soft and quiet - a man like he never has any trouble getting a classroom full of hormonal teenagers to shut it. But today it’s different. There is something…inherently broken about the way he says the words and it gives you pause.
“So what? You decided to break in? Who do you think you are that you get to check up on me?” You spit the words at him because if you don’t, you might do other things and you really can’t afford that.
“That wasn’t-” He inhales sharply and impossibly enough pales even more. You summon a glass of water. “Thank you.” He whispers and downs the whole thing in one go.
“Wouldn’t want your cult friends to show up here because I let you die.”
“You should be careful what you say.” He doesn’t say it as a threat. He says it softly, with dread mixing into his worry.
“I thought you weren't a danger to me.”
“Plenty of people are.”
“Right…then. You know where the door is.” You nod towards it. Snape rises to his feet - far more graceful and steady than he has any right to with how shit he looks. He comes closer and you bite the inside of your cheek to resist the urge of stepping back. He comes closer still, his much larger frame hovering above you and any sliver of thinking Snape is small evaporates into thin air.
His silky hair falls into his face and hides it in the shadows of your flat, with only the moon illuminating the small space.
You take a shaky breath and attempt to ignore the heat between your bodies or the way your heart beats all wrong. His eyes have an intensity to them that makes you shudder and involuntarily recall how his hands felt on you…his breath dancing across your skin…the way he tastes-
“You still have my wand.” He says, his voice impossibly deeper and smokey and his eyes- these damn stunning stupid eyes that burn into yours, whispering promises of things you can’t even begin to wrap your mind around. 
You automatically close your fingers tighter around your own wand. He is so close now the tip of it digs into his chest. He doesn’t even flinch. Like the threat of a curse does not even affect him, like he doesn’t give a shit that you could simply kill him right now or perhaps it’s arrogance. He believes you incapable of it - which is the truth but still! Is it asking too much to want him to be at least a little afraid? 
Snape reaches out and his hand brushes over your side and you inhale sharply.
There must have been a lapse in the fabric of time - in the universe itself because suddenly you are kissing. You don’t know why or how but the wands clatter to the ground and Snape’s hands are on you and your body scream fuck the universe because this feels right.
Snape’s arms wrap around your smaller form and press you to his chest and you let him, weaving your hands into his hair while he claims your mouth with a feral hunger. You moan into the kiss and lean into his touch and try to smother the whisper in your head repeating the last two words you’d want to hear right now over and over.
Death Eater
You slide your tongue over his. There is a faint taste of iron in the kiss but it doesn’t matter. Snape’s fingers dig into your flesh like he is trying to devise a way to never have to let you go again.
He clings to you like a dying man to life.
Death Eater
He stumbles backwards and takes you with him, plopping down on the bed and pulling you into his lap. It feels natural. Your bodies fit together like two puzzle pieces and something somewhere in the universe just clicks.
You run your hands down his neck and over his shoulder, noting how much thinner he feels now compared to last time. You shove his frock and dress shirt down his shoulders. The feeling of his naked skin against your hands feels electrifying. A buzzing prickle seeping into your body through the pad of your fingers and spreading throughout your very being like blazing wildfire, pooling deep in your belly.
Death Eater
You moan into the kiss and grind against Snape, feeling his hard cock against your core through your knickers.
Death Eater
Two pairs of hands drop to his fly at one, frantically fumbling with buttons and stumbling over each other. Snape retreats and returns to thoroughly groping your arse under your skirt. You manage to free his cock and Snape helps lift your hips. You push your soaked knickers away and align his cock with your entrance.
“Fuck I forgot how big you are-” You hiss at the stretch. Snape kisses your neck and nibbles on your collarbone.
“Have you been with someone since-?” He leaves the question open. Further specifications aren’t needed. You are still slowly lowering yourself on his prick, until the delicious kind of stretch turns to a stinging stretch where you pause to give yourself time to adjust.
“-no.” You pant. Snape groans against your sternum and wraps his arms around you again, pulling you close. He kisses down your chest and over your breasts. Nuzzling you through the fabric of your blouse.
“Fucking hell-” You mutter once he is finally sheathed inside you. You’re out of breath and sweaty and so so full. His cock is throbbing against your inner walls, hot and thick and you need a moment to collect yourself.
“So good.” Snape groans and continues peppering kisses over your chest. You whimper in response. “You take my cock so fucking good-” He rips your blouse open and shoves your bra up, locking his lips around your nipple instantly. You moan and cling to his shoulders. Snape licks broad strokes over your nipple, alternates between sucking and kissing and grazing you with his teeth. 
His lust-drenched sounds make you squirm in his arms and arousal leak over his cock, soiling his trousers. 
It takes a little moment for you to get a hang of how to move on top of him, but once you’ve figured it out, you earn approving groans from Snape.
“Fucking missed you.” He murmurs against your skin.
“Did you now?” You raise a brow.
“I’m talking to your tits, dear.”
“You have issues.” You moan and sink back down on his cock.
“I thought we had already established that.”
“Yeah, when you decided my floor was the proper place to die!”
“Wouldn’t have died.” He groans and locks his lips around your nipple again. You cradle his head with your arms and rest your cheek against the crow of his head while bobbing up and down his length in an unsteady, unrefined rhythm.
Snape doesn’t seem to care.
And neither do you really.
The voice in your head shut up a while ago and you bid farewell to it, telling it to never come back.
Snape inhales sharply and you stop instantly.
“Did I hurt you?” You ask, unable to keep the worry out of your voice. Snape’s face is contorted in pain. He reaches for the footboard of your bed and his knuckles turn white under the force with which he holds onto it.
“Lie down.” You murmur and push against his shoulders gently. Snape looks at you both irritated and untrusting, but he eventually (less than gracefully) lowers his back onto the mattress.
You reposition yourself above him and lean back to brace your hands against his thighs right above his knees. Slowly you begin moving again. It feels awkward for a while but then you find the right angle and Snape presses his fingers against your clit, stroking tender circles over the throbbing bundle of nerves and pleasure overshadows any feeling of awkwardness.
“You’ve always been a fast learner.” Snape groans. “Such a studious girl.”
“When the subject interests me.” You chuckle and the corner of his mouth twitches.
“Am I an interesting subject?”
“Hmm…Certainly one I can’t seem to escape.” You raise your hips and sink back down, moaning in tune with the delicious stretch of his girth.
“Do you plan on almost dying on my floor in the future?”
Snape laughs, an uneasy sound accompanied by a concerning rattling sound coming from his lungs. “Are you planning on stocking Dittany in the future?”
“Nah, but I was thinking about getting a runner and- ow!” He slaps your thigh, not hard, but a pleasant sting runs through your flesh and the sudden slapping sound startled you. “Bastard.” You hiss and push yourself up, planting your hands on either side of his head, careful to avoid the dark strands of hair spread out around his head.
“Is that the thanks I get?”
“Thanks?” He hums. An expression of raw pleasure flickers over his face and it pulls you in, captures you like a fly in a sticky trap - and like a fly in a sticky trap you realise the danger you are in just by associating with Snape, not to mention by fucking him.
You never thought yourself to be a morally depraved woman but here you are, with the enemy quite literally in your bed.
An injured, weakened enemy. 
As if you’d have a chance against Severus Snape no matter how weak he is! No, leave the heroism to other people, people that value their lives less or think the world will be grateful for their heroism. 
You close your eyes and lean down to meet Snape’s lips, to get lost in the feeling of a warm body against yours, the mechanical workings of what a romance would feel like, to draw some comfort from a man that is willingly giving it to you when all other male specimens on this earth seem to not give a shit about you.
“Started University.” You murmur against his lips. Snape has put his hands on your arse and is helping your movement, pulling you and down on his cock, guiding your cunt or using it for his own pleasure or revelling in having a former student of his so messed up she lets him fuck her. 
“I heard. I’m glad.” He mutters back and takes your bottom lip between his teeth.
“Keeping taps on me?”
“Only a little.” And it’s back to kissing. Wet, heated, burning kisses. And passion or maybe erratic obsession but if obsession feels this good what does it matter?
The heat of his tongue against yours, his hands squeezing your arse, his breath dancing over your face, his cock spearing open your cunt repeatedly, it collects inside you, runs through your limbs and veins and fills your whole body. You can feel it rushing alongside your blood, feel your body respond to it by picking up the pace of your heartbeat, sweet clinging to your skin, especially on your thighs that straddle Snape’s. It floats through your body and eventually pools in your lower belly and deep inside your cunt, welcoming Snape’s prick on each thrust by splitting into two and regenerating like cell division-
Heat grows and morphs and hardens into a brooding mass that threatens to rip free of you. It scratches against your insides, searching desperately for a way out, a way to release this pressure and then Snape presses his thumb down on your clit and it rips free of you. Snape thrust up into you in one hard stroke and he groans, his grip on your arse tightening and you collapse above him and he pulls you down by putting his arms around your torso - his wound long forgotten by both of you.
His cock throbs as he spills inside you, splatters of warm, sticky cum painting your inner walls and with a content hum you rock against his softening cock to relish the last flickers of your orgasm.
Snape grunts - a pained one this time - and you push your trembling body up and lift your hips to sit down on the bed next to him. His now limp cock slips out of you and you hate that you miss the feeling of it, hate the emptiness left behind. You pull your knees to your chest and lean against the headboard of your bed, staring at the window just to not look at Snape.
“I-” Snape begins but stops himself. With another pained grunt he sits up and does the many buttons of his clothes back up. He sighs and rubs his hands over his face, raking through his hair. “I will try to not almost die on your floor again.”
“Good.” You want to sound stern, but it comes out sounding exhausted and confused.
“Good.” He murmurs. A knock on your door rips you from your thoughts. Who would knock so late? Perhaps it’s your elderly neighbour…
You pick your wand up from the floor and fix your skirt and blouse and walk towards the door.
Still caught in a whirlwind of confusing and contradicting feelings and perhaps Snape’s presence has led you to let down your guard a little, whatever it is you forget to cast your detection charms before opening the door-
Silver glimmers in the moonlight. You recognise the mask. It’s the young Death Eater that killed the man who wanted to assault you. He is flanked by two taller Death Eaters. Whatever you had wanted to say gets stuck in your throat as it swells shut. Just out of their sight you grip your wand tighter.
“Miss.” The young one says. “Apologies for the interruption.” Why the fuck is a Death Eater addressing you so polite? Movement behind you catches your attention but you don’t dare move.
“Was I not clear enough when I said this shop is not to be disturbed.” Snape drawls and all hints of pain or injury have left his voice. He looms behind you, tall and menacing and you can actually see the taller Death Eaters shrink back.
“My mistake. Again, apologies, Miss. Your presence is requested, Sir.” The younger one says to Snape.
“Do not repeat it in the future.” Snape scoffs. He ignores them and closes the door.
You can’t seem to find your voice again.
“This all will be over soon.”
“How do you know?” You whisper, uncertain what Snape means. What will be over? The resistance? You-Know-Who? His presence in your life?
“I hope you won’t have to see me again.” His lips brush your forehead ever so slightly, his fingertips dancing over your arms.
He turns to leave.
“Snape-” You don’t know what to say. His eyes linger on you for a moment, you think to see something flash in them, a hint of some deeply buried emotion but then he turns, opens the door again and he is gone.
You lean your forehead against the smooth wood. You can still feel his touch lingering-
A sob tears through the silence and you press your hand to your mouth as you sink to the floor and you don’t even know why. You kneel on the floor in front of your door and sob and cry.
When you eventually regain your composure and return to your flat you are met with the sight of drying blood…
The next day you go to the apothecary down the street and buy a bottle of Dittany.
| Part 3 |
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satirn · 4 days ago
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holy shit is just finished randy cunningham like the full show and like jesus fuck dude that went hard as shit JESUS CHRIST. new twink in town for my insanity ramblings????? and its not a nicktoon???????????? hell musta froze over or smth this is like . shit they prophetized about in the bible
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hes so attractive i want him dead and mangled beyond recognition 😋😋 he should be snapped in half like a twig and get run over by a 4 wheeler. i need him writhing in agony on my desk by 5 o clock. ben schwartz 💖 GOD i fucking love voice actors
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theboywhoswallowedthesun · 13 days ago
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I’m the most hypocritical person ever when it comes to this fandom.
James potter? The absolute love of my life. My kin. My character archetype. I have written essays on this man. Introspective, concise paragraphs about him and his personality and his behaviors. I have tore my own organs out in absolute agony over words I myself created about this man for the purpose of understanding him. Of knowing him. Acknowledging that he spent himself for every person with every breath he ever took. That he knew himself a shell of a man made to cater toward the needs of any other who had the sheer audacity to live within reach of his heart. That he saw his value in his ability to benefit others, not ever vice versa. That he would have cut his own tongue from his throat had anyone else ever not had the courage to speak. That his eyes would have been ripped from his body, if someone needed to see the bigger picture. That James potter as a man ran himself into the ground to let other people stand on his shoulders. That he looked at himself as if a prophet, and those around him the needy. Like he was born as some body for the people, his blood their own. He spent his entire life trying to chase the dwindling notion that maybe, if he loved harder, maybe if he cared more, then he would deserve to rest the body that gave him life. That maybe, his existence in just simply being alive and here, would be allowed. That the large man person woman or thing in the sky would not strike him down for resting his head, if he could prove that he had earned it. If he spent every minute on someone else, that was thirty seconds he may some day get for himself. As if he didn’t having a nagging voice, hot like a breath on the back of his neck telling him to more than he had been. If more was even possible. James potter would cut open his stomach if you were hungry. He would give you his brain if you needed peace of mind. Every second he stood on this earth was spent at the expense of another. He wouldn’t dare receive a quarter of that in return, for then he would only be selfish. He was alive, but that was hardly living. As a character and as a concept he remains to be an incredibly painful example of someone who never left well enough alone, constantly striving to try harder, to be better, if only for the comfort of those around him. And it ultimately killed him.
Remus Lupin? I could care less.
Prongsfoot? It’s hard for me to see in a literal sense but as a concept it couldn’t be more heartbreaking. It’s literary beauty, to think about the idea that they might love each other more than they do anyone in the world- even themselves, that they might spend years trying to suppress the love they feel for each other because it’s almost smothering. They care so loudly, so much, but are afraid of the feelings they hold for each other. That one spent years trying to swallow his love because he knew the man who meant the world to him didn’t feel the same, or that the other tried his hardest to shake off this confusing adoration because he couldn’t possibly like a boy, much less that boy being his best friend. That they cared more for each other, and showed more love toward each other than either one would ever come to know within their grueling lifetime, but still never managed to figure out the mess that was their feelings for each other. That they were never seen one without the other. A packaged deal. One side of the same coin. Soulmates, be it platonic or not. That James was the love Sirius never felt he had to earn and that Sirius was the thing James never, ever felt he had to work for. That they understood each other at a glance. A moments notice filled the silence where words didn’t have to. That it was never a question with the two of them, because the answer was always “yes”. That they were friends- such good friends- that they never got to love one another in the way a boy was meant to love another boy. Friends, even when they wanted to crawl inside each others hearts and claim it a home. Friends, even when their lips mingled head achingly close to one another on those nights where they lost themselves and their sense of right, wrong, bad, and shameful. Friends, even when their eyes met and James potter swore he’d never felt so much before. Friends, when James potter felt like he was meeting his maker every time that man pinned him down, like, you know, mates did. Friends, when the last thought that came through James’ mind when he really did meet his maker was the boy with long dark curls, and how his hand would now never fill the space in Sirius’ ever again. How he would die with his side empty, no one to press against it. Friends, when Sirius let himself rot in a prison longer than any man who had outsmarted the greatest of wizards ever would have, just because he knew no life without James potter.
Moonwater? Not a fan sorry.
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dying-brb · 7 months ago
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desolation / an ellie x f!oc fanfiction / tlou universe
!slowburn !angst !subreader !domellie !fluff
tw: this is a heavy fic. mentions of sa, violence, gore, etc.
(oc starts off 14 but only for backstory)
chapter 1: 1090 words
ᨒ↟ 𖠰 1  -  serene release ᨒ↟ 𖠰
december 2033 - colorado
⋆⭒˚.⋆ Natalie -  14 yrs old  ⋆⭒˚.⋆
As I laid there, dying, I tried desperately to find the will to escape, blinking my heavy eyes in repetition.
Stay awake, Natalie.
But my eyes faltered. They rolled back and sank back into my skull begging for the relief of sleep. No, this wasn't sleep. It was a false prophet - an early demise clawing its way inside of my being, desperately pulling and tearing my soul from the weak husk I clung to.
My eyelids weighed heavier, the urge gnawing at me to let them fall shut, let the agony end; For just a moment, I considered it.
No.
Stay Awake.
I wasn't ready to die. Not really.
Ironically so, I prepared myself for this moment - begged for it, time and time again. When loved ones had died, when previous groups abandoned me, death had seemed like a serene release.
Growing up in this sick excuse for a world, I always wondered how it would happen. Would I be torn apart by Infected? Become the Infected? Succumb to the cruelty of a harsh winter? Starve?
No.
At this moment, it seemed more likely that I was going to die to a group of savage cannibals, and I would be butchered at the hands of a man that had a fascination for little girls.
My heart sank at the mere thought, and I felt bile rise in my throat, scorching my dry esophagus. I coughed lightly, choking down the vomit, I gasped for a quick breath of air and my lungs screamed in pain at the sudden inhalation. I gritted my teeth.
This was hell, but the pain was keeping me alert, keeping me alive.
Keep your fucking eyes open.
I remembered before, the moments when I had begged for the end to come, I had wondered if it would hurt—Death. Which now, in this moment, seemed like an idiotic thing to question.
Yeah, of course it fucking hurts. It hurts like hell.
The searing agony that gripped my muscles snapped me back to reality. I yanked my mind out of the past, only to be forcefully thrust into the harshness of the present moment. My heart was thumping quicker now, my breaths, once slow and wheezing were now rapid and full, croaking and stuttering, but full. I wondered if this was my bodies last-ditch attempt to save itself.
Alarm bells clanged inside my head, their echoes reverberating through my skull, vibrating as they reached my ears. My eyes widened, my once heavy lids were lighter now. Adrenaline surged through my veins, making my legs twitch with the urge to flee. I desperately wanted to leave this place and never look back, but I remained frozen on the cold tile where I lay, my body writhing with excruciating pain.
Still frozen in torment, I harnessed this newfound mental energy to survey my surroundings and formulate a plan. My eyes darted from corner to corner of the room, the hellish nature of the scene before me causing my heart to slam in my chest, and pound against my eardrums.
Breathe. Make a plan.
I refocused, absorbing every detail my fading mind could manage. I took deep breaths, exhaling slowly, my hands trembling as I noted the positions of windows, doors, and any potential exits for a swift escape. I scanned for anything that could serve as a weapon, should I break free from this confinement.
The caged room I lay in reeked of rotting meat and iron. I honed in on the pungent smell, the harsh fluorescent lighting casting unwelcome shadows, and the distant murmur of voices echoing through the halls.
Digging my nails into my side, I embraced the pain, using it to sharpen my senses and maintain consciousness. I resolved to absorb every detail, knowing that once I escaped and recovered, I would meticulously recount my steps, retrace him. Kill him. That fucking bastard.
David.
Suppressing tears of rage, I scoffed as I recalled how I found myself in this wretched corner of the world; Merely stumbled upon it in a midnight daze.
Just yesterday, I was scavenging through the snow-laden forests of Colorado. As for my exact location in Colorado, I couldn't tell you—it had become a blur amidst the relentless hunger that left my head light and my heart faintly beating. Lost in a delirium, as if I was one of them, the infected.
Perhaps this was what the early stages of mutation felt like, just before losing oneself—their personality, dreams, aspirations, and will to live all slipping away. Maybe all that remained was a relentless hunger and confusion, grasping at the flickering remnants of life while clinging desperately to the feeble fragments of humanity.
Then again, maybe not.
I simply felt adrift, with no hope left to cling to, my grasp slipping away from what little remained. It plunged me into a primal struggle for survival, fueled by animalistic paranoia. With my mind spinning, driven by the desperate quest for food, I had long abandoned the map and strayed from the path she had set me on. The path that led to the Fireflies. The path that would give meaning to my immunity. 
This thought sparked a glimmer of hope within me, reigniting my determination. Clutching my grumbling stomach, I leaned against a nearby tree trunk for support, resting my head against its rough bark, my breath ragged.
That's when realization sunk in—I couldn't feel my fingers or toes. Hypothermia.
Was this the end?
As I contemplated giving up and surrendering to the cold embrace of eternal slumber, a light pierced through the darkness of the forest, forcing my hand to shield my sensitive eyes. A voice, tinged with feigned concern, broke the silence.
"Excuse me. Are you alright?" The voice trembled slightly as a flashlight nervously scanned my body. "You look like hell."
I groaned in response, my lips barely moving, cautious of this stranger in these desperate times. Yet, with no other options left, I felt a flicker of hope that perhaps this solitary figure could be my salvation. Someone, anyone, was here, offering a chance at survival.
"Here, come with me," the awkward, lanky man said, taking my hand and guiding me, his shoulder bearing my weight. I couldn't protest even if I wanted to, the exhaustion held me in a tight grip, suppressing even my primal will to survive.
And so I went, practically dragged alongside the man, into this wretched corner of the world that I lay in now.
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eastwindmlk · 9 months ago
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A @jilymicrofics for the prompt Retire, Jan 14th
Word count: 838
It was strange, after more than half a century, to be cleaning up her office for the final time. To carefully wrap her trusty tea set in yesterday’s Prophet, sift through the boxes of paperwork in search of what to archive, what to keep and what to finally bin. 
As she sorted through an assortment of old assignments and Christmas cards from a bygone age, Minerva finds herself reminiscing. Once familiar faces and voices curled from the depths of her mind, a fond smile on her face. 
The corners of her lips trembled like her aged hands when her fingers brushed along a script that gave her pause. Because even after all these years, all these hundreds of students, she could still tell whose penmanship this was. 
The large letters crammed onto the parchment, like he knew he was going to run out of space for his sweeping t’s and large loops. The words slanting upwards as if wanting to escape from the paper. 
She did not doubt that, at the time, that was precisely what he’d had on his mind, while stuck doing a detention assignment for her. It was supposed to be an essay, but in true James Potter fashion, he’d ignored the explicit instruction and instead composed a letter. 
Dearest Minerva, 
As we sit across from each other in your office, a pot of lapsang souchong between us, I am aware you are pretending to be cross with me. For the sake of posterity, I will pretend with you. Though we both know that they deserved every miserable second. 
In the future, however, I will strive for a more creative solution. Even if I think turning their belts into snakes was quite a nifty piece of transfiguration. I will let you be the judge of that. Being the expert and all that. 
Speaking of the future, I am supposed to write an essay about where I see myself next year. Which I could have answered effortlessly a fortnight ago. But things changed. Every paper is full of it now. And I refuse to sit idle just because I happened to have been born into a family that fits into their narrow view of our world. 
One year from now, I will be as restless as ever. Using the privilege that comes with my name to help those who cannot help themselves. However, unlike before, I will not humour myself with the delusion that this can be achieved by mere words. 
I will gladly put my wand with my conviction and face whatever is in store beyond the safety of these walls. Together with my friends, we will make a difference. 
My friends and I are talking about getting a place together, somewhere nice and lively. We were hoping to travel, see some of the world. Those plans are on hold, at least for now. Though none of us will say it aloud, we hope that the four of us will be around for it.
So, we spend evenings talking about this trip, imagining places to go and things to do in the hopes that the four of us will get to go.
Hopefully, I will be dating Lily Evans. (Please don’t tell her I said that.) I think she is finally coming round to me. She no longer glares in my direction, though I can still feel her eyes on me sometimes.
Maybe I am crazy, but I can tell it is her just from the way it feels. Her watching me is special somehow. Often I itch to turn to her, to catch her looking. To catch a glimpse of her smile or her fluster. Just the fraction of a moment where I can believe she might actually feel the same way. 
Or maybe not the same way. I would not wish this complete and utter agony on her. If she does come to fall for me, I hope she falls softer. I hope that I am not too blind to see and catch her before the rough landing. 
That is only if I will ever be lucky enough to be enough for her. To have grown into a person, she can depend on rather than the childish prick (I am so sorry, did not mean to curse.) I used to be. 
I am afraid I am running out of space. I could fill several more rolls of parchment (Which is not me asking for more) with hopes and wishes for the year ahead. Some more achievable (Pass my N.E.W.T. s) and some more hopeful (Snog Lily Evans. Again, please don’t tell her I wrote any of this.)
Your favourite student, 
James Potter 
Her fingers crumpled the paper where she gripped it tight, a lump rising in her throat. Her eyes scanned the content of the letter once more before pressing it briefly to her heart before placing it atop her pile of keepsakes. 
Minerva pushed herself to her feet, in dire need of a break and craving a cup of lapsang souchong. 
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skyllion-uwu · 3 months ago
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I've had this idea in my head for MONTHS and I've finally done a redraw I like! Twin Fantasy but it's Sifloop! One version where I left it uncolored, and another where I colored Loop's body in
I do a lot of rants about Twin Fantasy (both versions) literally Being Them but it mostly comes out as me screaming in agony and wanting to throw my phone because I have no other outlet. The most I've been able to put together is "Famous Prophets (Minds)" is Loop and "Famous Prophets (Stars)" is Siffrin, and the meta fact that Minds is the older version of the song works on a character level too
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nousrose · 5 months ago
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From snobs to scavengers, all expend their criminal generosity, all hand out formulas for happiness, all try to give directions: life in common thereby becomes intolerable, and life with oneself still more so; if you fail to meddle in other people’s business you are so uneasy about your own that you convert your self into a religion, or, apostle in reverse, you deny it altogether; we are victims of the universal game. The abundance of solutions to the aspects of existence is equaled only by their futility. History: a factory of ideals, lunatic mythology, frenzy of hordes and of solitaries. Refusal to look reality in the face, mortal thirst for fictions. The source of our actions resides in an unconscious propensity to regard ourselves as the center, the cause, and the conclusion of time. Our reflexes and our pride transform into a planet the parcel of flesh and consciousness we are. If we had the right sense of our position in the world, if to compare were inseparable from to live, the revelation of our infinitesimal presence would crush us. But to live is to blind ourselves to our own dimensions. And if all our actions—from breathing to the founding of empires or metaphysical systems—derive from an illusion as to our importance, the same is true a fortiori of the prophetic instinct. Who, with the exact vision of his nullity, would try to be effective and to turn himself into a savior? Nostalgia for a world without ideals, for an agony without doctrine, for an eternity without life. Paradise. But we could not exist one second without deceiving ourselves: the prophet in each of us is just the seed of madness which makes us flourish in our void. The ideally lucid, hence ideally normal, man should have no recourse beyond the nothing that is in him. I can imagine him saying: “Torn from the goal, from all goals, I retain, of my desires and my displeasures, only their formulas. Having resisted the temptation to conclude, I have overcome the mind, as I have overcome life itself by the horror of looking for an answer to it. The spectacle of man—what an emetic! Love—a duel of salivas. All the feelings milk their absolute from the misery of the glands. Nobility is only in the negation of existence, in a smile that surveys annihilated landscapes. Once I had a self; now I am no more than an object. I gorge myself on all the drugs of solitude; those of the world were too weak to make me forget it. Having killed the prophet in me, how could I still have a place among men?”
A Short History of Decay
E. M. Cioran
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calebwittebane · 4 months ago
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i had a dream id gotten conned into becoming a god and proceeded to try and design a world without suffering or pain. i really really struggled with this one. no matter what i did, it seemed like bouncing between endless suffering and highly sheltered sensory deprivation state with all functions for every person reduced to a minimum. eventually the author--it turned out i was in a fictional work, and the author was a sneering cynical asshole who enjoyed seeing me suffer--started mocking me, saying that a real demiurge really in control of things through unlimited possibilities wouldve figured that out, but i'm just a loser who spent a long time being human and therefore my mind has very human limitations. i started arguing with the author, saying that theyd written me this way and have no right to mock me, that despite this attitude they have this clearly is some form of venting theyre doing through art, and they need to take something seriously for once. my limitations are simply a reflection of theirs, and their mockery is their pained wailing in disguise. they were like well i dont like your attitude so because youve decided to be a little bitch about it i will now punish you by making you experience every death that ever happened to anyone and WILL have happened to anyone. so i did. it was awful. the prophetic visions of what sort of carnage famine disease and freak accidents the future has in store for humanity, they were almost as bad as the historical part. reminder: i feel pain in my dreams. anyway once that was done, and it did in fact feel to me like actual centuries were passing, actual centuries of nothing but agony, i told the author they were a vindictive bitch, incapable of comprehending the suffering theyre inflicting. if they ever felt even a fraction of what they dish out without much thought, they would curl up and cry and never do anything again. they told me i just objected to the way i'd sculpted my own consciousness. that to be a human, advanced and philosophy oriented as we are with our proportionally large complex brains, is to reject all inevitability as barbaric. i said that was stupid--humans are still, despite our unique traits, simply part of the animal kingdom, and more broadly made of the same matter as the rest of the universe, a continuous lattice of reactions among many other, a sustained chain that hasn't stopped since the very first instance of reproduction occurred between two organisms. the author just favors the human perspective because theyre biased and write what they know.
then the author felt like doing something petty once more so they decided to put me in a situation where im trying to buy art supplies but my dad is also there undermining everything i say. i said: this wont get to me--author, it seems you dont know me all that well, for buying art supplies was indeed one of the only type of occasion where my dad Would just let me do what i needed to do and would more or less trust i knew what i was doing. the author laughed and said, and yet you were able to summon a version of events where he does act poorly in this context. how cruel and unfair of you, to imagine something so uncharitable. how can you be sure of anything you remember? and i was going to give a reply but things around me started glitching out. people got spaghettified and turned into like. ok imagine a coral reef but its people.
i think i mustve argued with the author about some technical accuracy in their depictions of trains? i got to experience some train crashes as punishment
so yeah im awake now and i dont feel like ive gotten a lot of rest considering i just escaped time prison
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tracle0 · 4 months ago
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Snippet Sunday VIII
I think it's the eighth Sunday...? Maybe maybe! Here's some prophet story I wrote freshly for you (yes, you!)
A hand raised to his chest, trying to find the mutilation that had forced his ribs to poke out like ageing farmhouse fencing. His skin was sealed, unblemished under his fingers; sticky from his blood, but otherwise untouched. An identical inspection around his throat found the same. No hole for pathetic, fleshy pleas to wheeze through. All fixed. All perfect.
“You saved me,” he finally whispered, eyes wide and awed. “You – you didn’t have to, but you…?”
The Blight – previously quiet, considerate, letting him get to terms with the gift of his life – curled in his head, content. You’ve done me well, it said simply. I don’t want to lose you yet.
He probed carefully at his skull, hair sliding between his fingers. He could see where shards of his skull had been ejected, pick them up and inspect them, but he found no hollows in his head, no blemishes. “Thank you,” he said softly. “I… thank you.”
Your brother is almost here.
Cain blinked, the brief memory of something – a squirrel? – flashing through his mind, before he shook it away, focused. “We should go, then,” he said, starting to stand. The ground glimmered. His surroundings groaned and sobbed, the forgotten guards whimpering and wheezing, the fury surrendering them to shock and agony. “To Body?”
It hesitated. As he started to walk past a pair of guards, one pinned down by the other, bloodied and bruised, it drew his attention down to the ground, to a discarded knife next to the freed, fighting pair. See if you can slow him down, it suggested idly.
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