#With red blood painted on it's pale plastic skin

[crmsnmth]

Mannequins

This room is filled with mannequins Some dressed up as people from my past There's the girl with the ocean blue eyes Who I still love even after all this time Dressed in sunshine and forgotten dance steps

There's the violent codependent abusive With red blood painted on it's pale plastic skin I stare at it, daring it to make a move because this time I won't let them in

There's the gay man who sold me drugs sometimes for money, sometimes for love Where I learned I have no limits for depravity and that I never really knew my own sexuality

Here's the girl from California who I think of daily my best friend when I had no friends the one who listened to me cry on late and lonely nights And I'm reminded of how much I miss her

Leaning haphazardly against the wall is kid a tragic romance if there ever was one five years of each other's life we wasted before we realized we just didn't work

With missing limbs is my junkie angel And her last words to me play like a scratched vinyl "You need to get clean or your going to die" And a month later she swallowed her tongue and i skipped out on the funeral

I walk through this room of memories The most important people in my stories And I am overwhelmed with nostalgia and sadness I miss you all so much, so so much.

I see my best friend growing up we stopped talking ten years ago because he said he didn't want to watch me burn And I can't say I'd ever blame him

I love you all. I'm sorry.

[icallhimjoey]

writing idea: group hang at a rage room/smash room that ends up in a meet cute.

eeeeeee thanks for this request! it's a quick lil thing, hope you enjoy! tw: mention of blood and a cut in your face Wordcount: 1.7K

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Not His Thing

Joe hasn't stopped feeling the uncomfortable flush of guilt in his face for the past half an hour. He feels awful.

Smash rooms, as so it turns out, aren't really his thing.

"Stop saying you're sorry."

"Yea, sorry. I'll stop. Sorry. Sorry." Joe jokingly takes all blame immediately, because he is obviously an idiot who can't do anything right at the moment.

You smile through watery eyes, your nose tinged red and half your face numb from the cold. You've been pressing a towel-wrapped ice pack to your cheekbone for over twenty minutes now, and it's done wonders for the bleeding and for the pain. Not so much for the panic and the lightheadedness that followed though, but all things considered, you feel fine.

Your fun day out with friends has been cut short, though.

"Does it hurt still?" someone asks you, and you expertly control your voice, give them a steady, "No, it's just cold, now." but your eyes are still watery.

When you remove the ice pack for a member of staff to have a look at you, they tut worriedly and tell you to just hold it in place a moment longer.

Joe did this. This is Joe's fault.

Joe tries his best not to wince at the swelling he can see. At the size of the cut he left in your face. God, your face. You are likely going to need stitches. He remembers getting a cut in his own face, right in the middle of his forehead, and how that bled for hours. The worst part though, is that it'd left him with a scar.

Joe can't believed he scarred someone.

"But I am sor–" Joe tries, not overly loud, he doesn't want to make you jump.

"Stop it. It was an accident. Accidents happen, don't worry." You reassure him once more, and you really mean it, but it does nothing for Joe's culpability.

He did this.

Joe had swung a bat at porcelain, and you'd been in the wrong spot at the wrong time. A shard of vase had gotten stuck in your cheekbone, just below the protective glasses you'd been wearing.

You imagined it'd just been a scrape, had only let a small, "Ow," pass your lips upon the impact, but then you'd gone to touch it, and felt something solid there still.

Stuck.

Skin wet.

The liquid warm.

Something solid.

Something sharp.

Your fingers painted red, and the sight of it had nearly made you faint. Joe had never seen colour drain from someone's face quite so fast.

Joe already knew that his fight or flight response was freeze, but being confronted with this cowardly personality trait like this was terrible.

Joe hadn't ever seen a girl panic the way you had from something he was responsible for.

He'd just stood next to you in his protective gear, big shocked eyes behind his plastic safety glasses, entirely unsure of what to do.

And then you'd wobbled on your legs, and he had just shot an arm out.

For the lack of strength you'd held in your legs, Joe was surprised by the death grip you had on the sleeve of his overalls.

Your blood covered hand went back to touch at your cheek again, but Joe was able to grab hold of that wrist just in time. And then, with weird tensed upper bodies that held onto each other, Joe'd lowered you down onto the ground because everyone around you kept repeating for you to sit down, to get onto the floor.

You sat down, and then only seconds later, lied down before you could lose consciousness all together. Your friend lifted your legs up and even though your eyes looked scared, the two of you were giggling. Laughing at the silly situation.

And Joe had just stood there.

Useless.

Your skin looked extra pale next to the bright red of the blood that dripped down your cheek right into your hair and it was... sort of beautiful. Awful thing to focus on when he should've actually been doing something helpful, but Joe just... looked at you, and thought you looked lovely.

Looking at you now, still teary, but smiling, he's still scared it'll flare up again. Your panic. It's unlikely, you're sat on the floor, leaning against the wall near the exit, but your cheek doesn't look good. He feels bad going back in to launch a hammer at a printer, or whatever, so he's hovering. Some of his friends are too, just like the staff is, making sure you're drinking your water, telling you to stay seated until your breathing has returned to normal.

Your friend has gone to get the car, and she said she'd be quick, but the second she was out the door, you'd cracked a joke. Said you'd see her in an hour if you were lucky.

You shudder through another inhale, and it makes Joe's eyebrows twitch up a little. You see it happen and release your breath in a laugh.

"If I were to go with just how you're looking at me, I'd believe I was actively dying," you joke, and everyone around you politely smiles through worried grimaces.

"I feel fine. I'm fine, honestly. It's just a minor cut. It feels," and like an idiot, you remove the ice pack and shove a dirty finger right into the cut on your face.

You feel how wide the cut is, and how deep into your cheek your finger sinks.

"Fi–..."

The wave of nausea is a surprise to you, and the way Joe shoots into action when you sag to the side because your head is suddenly too heavy is a real surprise to him.

"Hey, hey, okay, careful, careful..." Joe holds you by the side of your face that hasn't got a huge gash in and curls his fingers around as he carefully tries to hold you up.

"Maybe you shouldn't..." he starts, and finds the ice pack you've dropped with his other hand. "...play with that."

You kind of want to go to sleep.

Close your eyes and have a nap.

You lean into the hand that holds you and the instant comfort after shooting pain is nice.

But then the ice pack gets softly pressed against where your skin's broken and your eyes laser back into focus.

"Hi," Joe says when you make eye-contact. He smiles, though it's wobbly.

Maybe you aren't as fine as you thought you were.

"I'm fine?" you ask, feeling panicked like a real loser.

"You're fine." Joe assures you, voice soft but level enough for you to believe it. That's what's important, he thinks. If you believe it, you'll calm down enough until your friend gets back and she can take you to hospital.

"You're okay, focus on breathing, all right?" Joe redeems himself. This is what he should've done half an hour ago, when all hell broke loose. "That's all you've got to do. You're fine."

"I'm fine." you repeat after him, and force yourself to take a deep breath. "I'm fine." you're reassuring yourself now, and with one hand cupping your clammy face and another cooling where you're hurt, you press your own hands to your chest and ground yourself with your eyes closed.

It's awkward because there's other people there, but Joe's glad he gets to hold you for a bit. It's admittedly an unconventional way of being close to someone he's just met, and he still feels mortified, but... you're pretty. Even with dried blood covering half your face.

If this is how he meets the love of his life, it can be an embarrassing story he will gladly listen to at every single birthday party until he dies.

"That hurt." you say after a moment, and smile, eyes still closed.

"You're fine." Joe says again, but whispers it now.

"I'm sorry," you say like this is your fault. "I should've known not to agree to come to this," you confess, eyes blinking open now, and if you're startled by how close Joe is to you, you don't show it. "I'm not really angry enough for this. I don't think smash rooms are my thing..."

Same, Joe thinks, and he smiles, gets some of his confidence back when he sees the flush returning to your face. "Maybe there's some anger now?" he asks, because you should be angry. At him. Look at what he's done to you.

You don't understand what he means, this handsome stranger, and you frown in confusion. Before you can ask, and before Joe can explain, the door opens and your friend barges in, completely out of breath.

"Quick! I've stopped right in front and I'm holding up traffic!"

And just like that, Joe and staff help you move back up onto your feet.

You're fine.

You're helped out to the car, but halfway down the pavement, you're walking by yourself and are getting into the car without any help.

It is just a cut on your cheek.

"Can I, em," Joe starts, staring through the glass of the door at where you cup a loose hand over your cheek to protect it when you put your seatbelt on with the other. "Can I get her details?" he turns to a member of staff.

"Huh?"

"I'd love to send a card," he explains, and from behind him, he can hear one of his friends softly chuckle.

Joe'd forgotten he was even there with anyone.

"A card, or a bunch of flowers?" one of them starts.

"He's going to write her a love letter," one groans, already annoyed by the idea of it.

"Gifts her ten grand, just because he feels bad," another jumps in, and they're laughing, slapping shoulders. They're making fun, pretending to be Joe, mimicking the face he made, how he'd helplessly stood there, joking about how the one time Joe joins them for something, this happens. It's all shit they'd held in whilst you were there still, and it's all spewing out now, no holding them back. Joe doesn't even try.

"Come on, we've spent long enough not smashing TVs in."

And bats, hammers and axes get picked back up.

"You coming?"

And Joe smiles, though it's not very convincing.

"Nah," he says, and walks over to that staff member. He needs to get your details.

"I'm good."

There was no way he was going back in there, because smash rooms, as it turns out, aren't really his thing.

the end

---

The Taglisted

@ali-in-w0nderland, @alwayslindie, @babybluebex, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson,

@choke-me-eddie, @demonsanddemogorgons, @did-it-work, @dirtyeddietini, @djoseph-quinn,

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@figmentofquinn, @ghost-proofbaby, @ghostinthebackofyourhead, @hanahkatexo, @harringtonfan4,

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taglist currently full, sorry

[bullet-prooflove]

Taken!Series Part Four: Meth Mountain - Angel Reyes x Reader

Tagging: @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @withakindheartx @wakeama @witches-unruly-heart @keyweegirlie @trhett21 @annetje @infinity-mars @emily2003alzaga @danzer8705 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @thatonesexycancerian @expir3dl0v3  @appreciatelove @the-wandering-lunatic @weiwei0210 @anime-weeb-4-life @multifandomloversworld @harperdoodle @cheyrenee @fanfic-n-tabulous @stressed-chas @@daydreaming-belle @est1887 @prettyinpunk85 @adaydreamaway08 @thanossexual @briefpersonenemy @creativitybeware @crimeshowjunkie @librarian1002 @mortal--soul @buddinglinguist @spookyboogyuniverse @spaghettificationandpretzels @nu1freakshow @thebaileybugle @legally-a-bastard @bonsaijoons @sclitvdes @justreblogginfics

Taken!Series:

Part One: Mother - Tragedy strikes when Angel leaves you and Valeria alone for the evening.

Part Two: Bleeding Out - Angel returns home to discover what happened at the house.

Part Three: Touch & Go - Angel discovers where Valeria was taken.

It’s a clusterfuck.

Almost the worst-case scenario that Angel can think of because Meth Mountain, it’s a law unto itself. It’s a self-sustainable settlement, hosted and frequented by addicts and people on the fringes of society. It’s wild and unpredictable.

Bishop has managed to reach an accord with the local authorities. The police won't go up there but the M.C can, they won’t interfere with that so long as the M.C don’t bring trouble down the mountain. Nobody wants an infant on Meth Mountain, they all know it won’t end well.

The thought of Valeria being raised with a bunch of meth heads destroys Angel; he can’t imagine what Skye was thinking but then that’s the point isn’t it? Everything she has done up to this point has been impulsive, Skye doesn’t think ahead.

They split into two men teams, it’s easier to cover more ground that way, especially amongst the ramshackle dwellings. This early in the morning most of the addicts are out of it, too high to question why armed men in hoodies are slipping in and out of their dwellings.

Angel and EZ have just cleared their first assigned section when Angel hears the cries of his daughter. He would know that sound anywhere, it’s different this time though, rawer, more agonising. He knows every single one of the noises his child makes and this, this sounds anguished. It tears at him deep inside, clawing through his heart so the blood leaks out into his chest.

He looks to EZ, who tilts his head towards the next structure along. It’s barely more than a piece of corrugated iron with flowers painted on it and tarpaulin. EZ goes first, his gun peeking through the plastic sheeting that acts as a door, Angel follows up the rear, the sound of Valeria’s cries intensifying as he steps inside.

His gaze comes to rest upon the baby, his tiny daughter wrapped up in several bath towels, squared away in blue and white cardboard box that used to contain oranges. The diaper bag that Hank’s mom made has been left untouched alongside of it.

Angel lowers his weapon, tucking it into the waistband of his trousers before he steps into the mess, his boots crunching over the fast food wrappers. He reaches for Valeria, her face screwed up and red, tears leaking down her cheeks. Her nappy is heavy, and her tiny stomach rumbles loudly, he remembers you feeding Valeria before he left, he guesses she hasn’t eaten since then, almost six hours ago.

“Hey, hey.” He whispers as he clasps his daughter close, his lips brushing over her featherlight hair. “I got you, Daddy’s got you.”

He slings the diaper bag over his shoulder, before turning to face EZ. His brother indicates towards the bundle of clothes on the sofa. It takes him a second to realise it’s a person, slumped across the couch.

Skye…

She’s pale, her skin white with a blueish tinge, there’s a needle sticking out of her arm, a tourniquet tied just above it.

“She’s in rigour. She’s been dead for hours, looks like an OD. She probably put the needle in as soon as she got here.” EZ tells him, shaking his head before meeting Angel’s gaze. “What do you wanna do with her?”

Valeria’s already starting to settle, her sobs turning to whimpers as Angel sways gently, shushing her.

“Nothing.” He says, his palm smoothing over the baby’s back. “Let the natives have her.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[world-of-horrors-au]

Horrors au X TMA - Mere Misunderstandings

'Somewhere else' turns out to be a lot different than Martin could've hoped. Awakening in a strange forest, with Jon nowhere to be found, it's not long to discover he's not as alone as he first thought. Then his kindness gets the better of him. But maybe that's not so bad. Maybe this is a good thing.

Is this the beginning of a happy ending, or the start of a whole new nightmare?

AU shared between me and @whatadandydemise

She breathed, and again, was grateful for it.

Overhead the bleak gray of the sky stretched thin between the dark tree branches, a suggestion of rain, not a promise. Couldn’t take anything at its word in this life. Even the environment could, and would, betray the unwary. Knowing that, and all other evils in their fallen world, Briar smiled at being alive.

As the youngest, the weakest, of the group, none of the guys wanted her to leave their little sanctuary alone. She did it anyway. She’d been pretty damn good at surviving, when she was human - she could handle checking traps, or gathering wild fruit, on her own. And this close to their headquarters, there was only one person that might show up uninvited.

Briar left her bat by the bed and took the old plastic basket instead.

Today, she thought, looking up at the sky, would be a boring day to die.

Good thing she wasn’t going to.

-

Martin gripped the woman’s arm tight and did not look back. The trees muffled their footsteps as they ran, and if they were followed he couldn’t hear it over the crunch of leaves and branches, the pounding of his own, bloody bleeding heart.

“What’s going on?” The woman cried out, but didn’t try to stop. “Where are we going?”

This poor woman. She didn’t understand what he did. What he’d saved her from.

He’d woken up under the trees, the knife still clutched within his fingers, sticky and red with Jon’s blood. Jon wasn’t there with him. Jon should have been with him, in this… what was this place? Was it a Fear Domain, like he’d first thought? But this woman shouldn’t be here. She wasn’t an Avatar. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that.

“Jon?” He called out again. “Jon!”

“Hello?”

That wasn’t Jon.

The woman stepped out from between the trees. Shorter than Jon, somehow, with black hair like Jon’s from before this nightmare started. The resemblance ended there. Her skin was too pale, and her eyes were unguarded. In fact, as she looked between his face, and the knife in his hand, she actually relaxed, and a smile spread over her freckled cheeks.

“That’s a nice knife,” she said.

Martin blinked and looked at the item in question.

“... Thank you?”

She took a step closer.

“I’m Briar,” she said.

“I…” He looked around, hoping Jon would step out into view, or call his name, but the trees around them were still so quiet. “I’m Martin.”

Her smile grew wider. His stomach sunk. No, no, no, he was not sticking around. This woman was not an Avatar, she must have been marked by - by something. Some awful fate waited for her, and he was not going to stick around and find out what it was, and he was not going to get involved.

“I need to go,” he said, “I need to find someone.”

The Lonely wrapped around him and he left, and he did not look back. Even when he returned to reality, he did not. He would not become involved with some stranger when he needed to figure out what happened and find-

She - Briar - cried out in fear. Martin turned on his heels and ran back towards her, cursing himself with every step.

He’d been right. She’d been marked by the Stranger. Martin found her locked in the arms of a stuffed nightmare, a masculine creature with a painted porcelain mask and cloth hands that gripped her tight. He could have just left then. Maybe he should have just… left her there, to be dragged off to the monster’s master.

Instead, he held on to her and ran for both their lives.

… He should have stabbed the thing instead of slamming his head into it. He could still taste the cotton in his mouth where he’d bitten it. What was he thinking?

(He didn’t want to die before he found Jon.)

(He didn’t want to die.)

His lungs gave out before the rest of him. Martin dragged in a desperate breath and released Briar, leaning against a tree for support. Briar didn’t move, her panting softer and controlled.

“Are you alright?” She hurried for her basket, still grasped in her sweat-slicked hands. “Here, I have water-”

Martin laughed. The sound rushed out of him between his gasping breaths, his closed eyes watering.

“Am I… Am I-- He wheezed, he held his chest. “You don’t know.” His shoulders shook, the smile stretched without humor over his face. “You really don’t know.”

“Know?” Briar echoed. Martin straightened, pushed away from the tree and stared at her with his wet eyes. He must look so unnatural, so inhuman, and yet, she looked at him without fear. She still didn’t know she should be afraid.

“You…” Martin struggled to breathe, to speak. “You don’t know what that thing was. You don’t know what it was going to do to you! But I… I do. And I won’t let that happen to you. I won’t let it!”

Briar stared at him, and he must sound completely mad, he knew he must sound mad. Martin dragged in another breath.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “It’s just - I thought I would be dead right now. I’m still trying to understand - I mean, I don’t understand what’s going on but I will. And I promise, I’ll explain everything. Maybe not now, but when we’re safe -”

From the corner of his eye, movement. Martin jolted towards it. The doll-like creature threw itself forward, the porcelain face unmoving as it lunged.

The blade in its hand glinted in the dim sunlight.

He couldn’t do anything, it moved too fast. But Briar, behind him, would be safe.

Briar, behind him.

Briar, moving away from him.

Briar, in front of him.

The long black hair, like Jon’s black hair, in front of him. Like Jon in front of him, like he’d done so many times-

Metal met flesh, sliding into meat and scraping against bone.

Briar did not scream but the wet sound that choked from her mouth locked Martin in place.

The doll creature released the blade.

She still breathed. She reached for the handle of the weapon, feeling up from where the cold metal buried into her shoulder.

“Briar!” Martin shouted.

“Briar.”

The hair on the back of Martin’s neck stood up. The doll-creature spoke.

“Briar,” it repeated, a man’s voice. Not the echo of another person’s voice, not a shallow replica of a beloved friend or family member - a living voice, full of living horror.

Her breath, so wet, as she gripped the handle of the blade.

“I think,” she said, “There’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Don’t,” the doll-creature said.

Briar twisted in her spot, facing a tree. Martin understood a moment too late.

“Wait!”

She ripped the blade from her flesh. Blood splattered the dark bark. The young woman stumbled, the handle dropping from her wet fingers into the grass.

The doll-creature caught her before she could fall. Martin stood, hand over his mouth, and couldn’t tear his gaze away. The doll-creature held her so gentle, so tender, the clothed fingers brushing through her hair. It’s eyes looked towards him. Now that the being was closer, Martin could see, it actually did have eyes, still so human, still so alive-

“You’re not one of those creatures!” Martin blurted. “You’re still alive!”

Both turned towards him. Briar’s face, twisted with pain, still managed to smile at him. The doll… the man, actually, held her closer to his body.

“Figured it was something like that,” Briar said, her voice weak. “It’s alright. Masky’s fine. He’s not gonna hurt anyone.”

“He tried to stab me!” Martin said. “He did stab you!”

“I’ve been through worse,” Briar said.

“You attacked me first,” the man said, voice somewhat muffled by the mask.

“I did,” Martin said. “But I thought…”

“It’s fine,” the man grumbled. “Proxies don’t have a great reputation. Guess I should just be glad you didn’t use your knife on me.”

Knife. Martin looked at his own. Looked at the blade on the grass.

“Your shoulder!” He cried, looking at Briar. “We have to stop the bleeding!”

Briar recoiled from the man’s arms.

“Oh shit!” She said. “I got my blood all over you again!”

Masky laughed, his shoulders shaking, eyes closed with amusement.

Martin gaped. She was going to bleed out, why was he laughing? He looked at Briar, still holding her shoulder like she’d bruised it. She looked back. Shifting her fingers, she smiled as she revealed the wound.

The bleeding already stopped.

“I'm not that young a Horror,” she said with a grin. “My healing isn't as fast as my mates’ but it's still pretty good, I'd say.”

Martin stared at the wound. So she was an Avatar? Of what? Did they call themselves Horrors here? She didn't look or act like any he'd ever met before. She just looked like… a sweet, completely normal woman.

None of this added up. He'd gotten too used to how things worked in London.

This wasn't London. This was… someplace else. And if Jon had been taken here too, then… had they somehow been given a second chance?

Briar limped towards a tree, and Martin followed a few steps behind. So did the masked man. It would be hard to ignore the glance the man (Masky? What kind of a name was that?) shot him.

His legs were grateful to sit down beside Briar. Martin leaned against the tree and sighed.

“Sorry about all that,” he said.

“You're fine,” Masky said, sitting down on Briar’s other side with a grunt. “I shouldn't have lost my temper. But when I saw you grab Briar like that…”

Briar patted Masky on the leg. The man's gloved hand found hers and intertwined their fingers together.

Oh, Martin thought. They were… oh. Now he really felt bad.

“Don't feel bad,” Martin said. “I would've been just as upset if I saw someone grabbing my Jon, even though I know he can take care of himself.”

The dark eyes behind the mask looked over Briar's head.

“Jon?”

“Is that who you were looking for?” Briar said.

“Yes,” Martin said. “My boyfriend. Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.”

He said the words and held his breath.

Briar frowned. “I don't think I've heard of anyone named that before…”

Masky shook his head.

“But I bet the others know about him,” Briar said, perking up again. “And if they don't, that's okay too. We've been looking for other Horrors for months now - you're the first new Horror I've seen since I became one myself. We can help you find him!”

Martin paused.

“You… you would help me?”

“Yeah!” She said.

“But - but you just met me,” Martin said. “You don't know what I've done or-”

“It's okay,” Briar said. Her eyes shone with a warmth Martin wasn't used to. “We Horrors have to stick together. My mates won’t care about what you did or didn't do. We'll find your Jon.”

Masky shifted, wrapping an arm around Briar. He sighed as she looked at him.

“I'll… see what I can do about the other proxies,” he grumbled. “I can't promise anything, but if they've heard about your mate, I'll let you know.”

“I…”

This was what they’d wanted, wasn't it? Unconditional support. People who understood. People who got it. They wanted a world without the Fears, without the threat of the end of the world but…

Was this some kind of heaven? They certainly didn't deserve a reward after all they'd done. But looking at these two, these strangers, offering their help.

It's too good to be true, Martin thought.

But what if it is? Martin thought.

I'll do whatever it takes to find Jon, he thought.

“Thank you,” he said.

Briar closed her eyes and rested her head on Masky’s shoulder. Her body heaved with a heavy exhale. Masky sighed as well.

“You're lucky,” he said in a quiet voice.

“What for?” Martin said.

“That it was Briar who found you first.” The eyes behind the mask moved to look at him. “The rest of her pack might not have been as kind as she is.”

Martin swallowed, a chill running through his body.

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“I mean you're about to meet some very, very dangerous people,” Masky said. “And because of her, they aren't going to hurt you.”

She'd fallen asleep. Somehow though, she still smiled. Briar shifted against her partner. A rumble came from within her body.

The eyes behind the mask narrowed. Martin couldn't tear his eyes away from Briar, listening to the noise she made.

Purring.

… Avatars didn't purr.

“They won't be able to tell you're not one of them,” Masky said. “But I can. And they'll kill you if they find out.”

Martin didn't say a word.

Masky looked away.

“I wouldn't worry, though.” Masky said. “You're not going to last long as a human.”

His fingers ran through Briar’s hair.

“Everyone is a monster here. You're just gonna need a little more time to prove it.”

This was my first time writing Martin, I apparently did well enough according to my friends. I hope you enjoyed this! Please reblog or share if you did! Or just leave a reply, that's excellent too. I'd love some honest feedback!

[dayjobjotter]

Unnamed (A Short Story)

One of her favourite memories as a child was hung upon her bedroom wall in a chipped golden frame. It was an unnamed oil painting of the seaside town that they used to live in. During their first month there, a wicked storm had battered it and her father was determined to memorialise it with thick oil paint. Each stroke, splatter and spot perfectly placed. Everything he did had to be just so.

 On the right was a line of shops facing the sea, all a dim pastel rainbow against the dismal sky. She had a lot of fond memories of that street: the chippie where they’d eaten on their first night in town when they realised they had no food at home; an ice cream parlour she begged him to take her to on her birthday (since they had the strangest flavours) and one of those pound shops that sold cheap plastic tat for tourists to play with on the beach, but had some real artistic gems hidden in the back. Seagulls circled above the empty town as simple grey ‘v’s in the sky and she swore she could hear their squawking again whenever she looked at it. There was no beach to speak of as the sea had engulfed the sand, crashing against the towering cobblestone wall that protected the tiny town. He’d layered the deep blue swirls settled at the bottom of the canvas. The edges of the waves were blotted white and jutted out; the pale froth a ghostly breath floating to the top. The sea must have been out for blood that day. It sadly meant that there were no boats for him to paint, but her child self had imagined some clunky ones to be stuck on top, their little stickman sailors peeling away at the edges.

It felt sacreligious looking at it now. Her father had spent so long refining the painting, making it the perfect recreation of that night and her grubby little hands had ruined it. None of the boats or sailors were the same size or shape because of the curse of her infant hands. But he had loved them.

She was there the night he finished it. Perched next to him on the dock, scribbling away in her first sketchbook. The storm raged outside their tent and it wasn’t much shelter from the weather, but that wasn’t what bothered her father. What did was that it was nothing like the scene on the canvas - less violent and more miserable - but he still continued to paint. Easily recalling an image of yesterday, so long ago to her childish memory. Never would she understand how he made it look real. Real enough that if the pressed your finger into the paint, you may fall thro-

“No touching, Pumpkin.” He smiled down at her, gently pulling her wrist away from where she was about to smudge it and returning it to her own work. It was nothing in comparison to his.

But the two of them weren’t alike in the slightest. People questioned it whenever they went somewhere since she took more after her mother. She had straight black hair and a slight tan from the summer sunshine they had enjoyed but a few days before; whereas he was dirty blonde and concerningly pale. His hands were slim and crooked, notches carved into his flesh where he held his paintbrush and light wrinkles as he began to age. Underneath his eyes, the skin had darkened and started to sag downwards but it didn’t impede on the rosiness of his full cheeks. It was where his life resided: in his eyes and in his smiles. Even when his eyes were red-rimmed and his smiles bittersweet. 

“Why?” She asked.

“Because it’s not done yet.”His voice was still rough and gravelly. “It needs time to harden so that it won’t get disturbed and ruin the picture.”

She nodded in agreement. “Like one of mum’s cakes.”

He froze mid-stroke and lowered his head. Opening his mouth without sound, he looked like a distressed fish out of water. 

Finally, he settled on “I suppose.”

In silence, she returned to colouring in her picture, holding the large crayon in her fist and clumsily rubbing it against the page. The majority of it went beyond the lines she’d established. Her father breathed heavily next to her and his hands shook violently when he raised them, flicking small globs of paint onto his work.

With his voice quivering, he asked her something that she’d stay loyal to for the rest of her life. “Your mother.. I- Pumpkin… I don’t think she’ll come back. So I think that we should add that to our silence game. And not mention her again.”

“But, when she comes back…”

“If she comes back, then the game is off.” He reached out to pet her on the head, running his fingers through her hair. “But just in case. It’ll be easy, okay?”

She lowered her head back to her drawings and he followed her gaze. When he saw what she’d drawn, he grinned. “Are those boats? Shall we add them to my sea?”

It was gloomy outside their little bubble of warmth. The same as many days before and many days afterwards. She was beyond glad when they moved a few months later. For years it was just her and her father, travelling the country, visiting the art museums and painting whatever sparked their interest. Trying to upkeep their crumbling bubble of warmth. Until they couldn’t.

Her favourite memory had found a new home. It’s chipped golden frame laying against the hospital wall. They said it would help - to have something to remind him of home - that it would do his brain good during his extended stay. But his brain wasn’t the only part suffering. 

His face was near skeletal now from years of neglecting to care for himself. What was once a pink, round and full of life had become pallid and sickly. Bandages wrapped around his wrists from when he… she didn’t even want to think about it. The signs had been obvious for so long, since they had lost her mother but he had refused help. He had opted to quietly ‘deal’ by himself. The previous day she got the call from the hospital explaining what his newest strategy of ‘dealing’ was.

He couldn’t even look her in the face. His eyes were blank and his smile non-existent.

“Addilyn, I’m sorry…” he whispered.

“I think we should talk about her.”

Word count: 1,089

Author's note:

Thanks for reading, this is the first short story I've put out online and would appreciate any feedback to help improve my work or general comments. I will do my best to respond to all. This was a lot of fun to do and I have ideas for more little stories that I am excited to share :)

Also I am so new to this website, what am I supposed to do with tags???

[farcillesbian]

[id: several art pieces painted by OP. they are all very photorealistic as evidenced by people in this thread thinking they're literal photographs.

first painting: a bar of pink soap that is wet and sudsy

second painting: a squiggle of clear lube coming out of a blue cap

third painting: a small white mug of black coffee set on the ground next to a plate of a sunny side up egg and ham. they appear to have been placed in front of a mouse-size doorway with stairs.

fourth painting: Princess Nokia lighting a cigarette. they have medium brown skin with freckles and curly black hair. they are wearing a cream coloured ruffly silk blouse, teal eyeshadow on their lids, and multiple purple, blue, green, and yellow hair clips along their hairline.

fifth painting: a close up of a person's eye. they have light beige skin and blue eyes, and the lighting is quite dark.

sixth painting: a brightly lit breakfast setup on a white placemat upon a light wooden table. there's a plate of three pancakes, each with a pat of butter on top. there is also a glass container of syrup, and a cup and saucer with black coffee.

seventh painting: a retro plastic toy rotary phone - the white one with a smiling face, a red receiver, and blue wheels - on a pale green and orange tiled floor next to a bloody tissue and a few drops of blood. the lighting of the scene makes it look eerie and cold - the phone and tissue are lit up by bright fluorescent lighting but the background is dark.

/end id]

soappppp

[7r0773r]

Figure Studies by Claudia Emerson

Housemother

This life began as mere employment, something that would pass; she had private joys then,

reasons to close her door. This is how she breathes now, moving sharklike through the halls' courses,

sensing the constant blood of wakefulness, girls' hands swimming—pale fish—into and out of tense

bodies held still as water dense with early blooming.

***

Funny Valentine

She had been a late and only child to parents already old and set; none of us had ever

wanted to go inside that hushed house and play with her, her room too neat, doll-crowded.

We did encourage her later, though, to enter the high school talent contest—after we'd heard

her singing My Funny Valentine in a stall in the girls' bathroom, reckoning the boys

would laugh, perhaps find us even prettier in comparison. Still, we would not have predicted

those wisteria-scaled walls, the one room we could see from the street with its windows

open year round so that greening vines entered and birds flew in and out—bad luck, we thought,

bad luck. By then we were members of the ladies' garden club, the condition of her house

and what had been its garden a monthly refreshment of disappointment, the most

delectable complaint her parents' last Coupe de Ville sinking in tangled orchard grass

and filled to the roof—plush front seat and rear— with paperbacks, fat, redundant romances

she had not quite thrown away—laughable, we laughed, unphotographable—with wild restraint.

***

Anorexic, Farmers' Market

All around her, we sounded melons, practiced at hearing what we couldn't see, pretending not

to notice when she stopped at the stall where the Amish displayed their loaves of zucchini and pumpkin bread,

hand-thick oatmeal cookies, pecan pies, all wrapped in plastic, airless, preserving.

Touching the invisible film, she looked as though she were trying to choose—or touch

some part of herself, her own skin paling, illusory, her hair falling water-thin

and colorless behind her. We had seen her denial before, backward hoarding,

the house emptied except the dark cellar where she'd put up the sterile breath of resolve

in jars, wax-sealed, ordered, a reversal that deliberate, and that much work.

We were relieved when she chose at last red bell peppers to weigh in the scale's basket

hung beneath its palsied needle, then counted exact change from her zippered purse. We watched

her leaving, disappearing behind a line of brightly painted gourds swinging, opened

and hollowed for birds to nest inside, perfect round mouths vine-chased, filled with wind.

***

Piano Fire

How she must have dreaded us and our sweaty coins, more than we hated practice, the lessons,

scales, the winter-hot parlor, arthritic hands, the metronome's tick. She lectured

to us about the history of the piano: baby and concert grand, spinet and player

had come across oceans in the holds of ships, across continents in mule-drawn wagons,

heavier than all the dead left behind. On her face we could see the worry: the struggle had come to this,

the black upright she had once loved haunting the room it could never leave. And her piano

was now one of a mute, discordant population doomed to oldfolks homes, bars, church basements,

poolhalls, funeral parlors—or more mercifully abandoned on back porches where at least

chickens could nest, or the cat have kittens. So when she could no longer play well enough

even to teach us, she hired some of the men to haul out and burn the piano in the field behind

the house. We watched the keys catch, furious, and all at once, heard in the fire a musiclike relief

when the several tons of tension let go, heat becoming wind on our faces. We learned that

when true ivory burns the flame is playful, quick, and green. And in the ash, last lessons:

the clawed brass feet we had never before noticed, the harp's confusion of wire, and the pedals we'd worn

thin, shaped like quenched-hard tongues—loud, soft, sustain. We waited with her until they were cool enough to touch.

***

Triptych, part 3: The Garden

She made her husband's dinner in the afternoon, then sealed it for him to warm up later while she gardened

well past dark. Used to it, he no longer complained. Every morning she let in the neighbor's gray cat;

she didn't know his name, had never fed him, but every day he returned, faithful, to spend

hours moving with the sun through her house in a drowsy migration. Sometimes he followed her into the garden,

would rub against her legs as though comforting her, as though he alone understood that every bulb she sank into this earth

was another stone sewn into the hem of her skirt.

[onedaughterofman]

It said yell so HEAR ME OUT OK CAUSE I BE FEELING ANGSTY. TERZO RETURNING TO HIS LOVER IMMEDIATELY ONCE HES RESURRECTED CAUSE IVE BEEN LOOKING AT ALL THOSE THEORIES THAT HES ALIVE AND THEYVE ALL GOT GOOD POINTS. TO MAKE IT ALL WORSE HIS LOVER WAS THERE WHEN HE WAS KILLED CAUSE PAIN

OH I'M LISTENING MY FRIEND. I'M LISTENING.

This is kinda short, but I hope you like it!

Dying tonight (Resurrected! Terzo x g/n reader)

He’s standing next to the bed when you wake up. Cold sweat dripping down your back, a chilling shriek dies inside your chest.

He’s there.

Terzo.

As much as you want to call his name, the words refuse to come out of your mouth. Lips tight in a line, your fingers blindly search for the switch of the bedside lamp. The plastic is cold, so rigid, and it serves as a lifeline to keep you grounded.

Under the yellowish light, Terzo is there. Lifeless eyes open wide, his pale iris shines like a lantern in the darkness of the room. He’s standing immobile, arms by his side, hair disheveled and face frozen in a stoic, emotionless expression. The white dress shirt he’s wearing is covered in coagulated blood. The color is dark, almost black.

As your pupils scan him, you realize the blood is coming from his neck. There's a scar, jarred and red, across his skin.

The sharp edges of your crucifix dig in your palm as you squeeze it in a silent prayer. This can’t be happening. You saw him dying.

No matter how much you tried to bury those memories in some remote corner of your mind, they remain alive. Sitting next to him, in that poorly lighted room, you were there when everything went black. The attack, his death, his funeral… You were there, all the time. You clung to his corpse, blaming yourself for being unable to even attempt to protect him.

“Lucifer, my lord. Please, have mercy on my soul,” you can't say. The words are hidden deep in your body, somewhere between your burning lungs and shivering guts.

It doesn’t matter how much you pray to the Lord and whoever might listen to you, Terzo doesn't disappear. On shaky legs, you get on your feet. The floor is freezing, just like his skin when you place your palms on his cheeks, cradling his face.

For a long moment, Terzo’s eyes remain unfocused, lost somewhere far away. Then, his pupils find you. “I’m cold,” he says, voice merely a whisper. “So cold, amore mio.”

Leaving his side for mere seconds, you rush to snatch a blanket and set it over his shoulders. Clinging again to his body, holding him so close it hurts, you can perceive the faint beating of his heart.

It doesn't make sense. This can be either a miracle or a nightmare, a gift from your deities or a terrible omen. You don't care. If this is nothing but a bad dream, then you don't want to wake up.

In disbelief, you force his eyes to meet yours. “You’re back,” you say.

Still lost inside his mind, Terzo furrows his brows as he nods. “How long have I been gone?," he asks in a rumbling growl.

“Years.”

The only answer he provides is another nod. His trembling hands reach for yours and, despite his weak legs, you manage to guide him to bed. Letting him rest his back against your chest, your fingers brush over his messy hair as he gradually regains some heat in his limbs.

For a long moment, there's only silence in the room. Terzo is reflective, mentally far away from you no matter how hard you cradle him.

After an eternity, he moves. “Amore, I remember it now,” Terzo says, inhaling sharply before continuing. “I remember what happened. I know who did it.”

When the bells chime in the distance, his eyes look up to meet yours. There’s nothing inside them, except undying anger that cannot be tamed. Tears run down his face, leaving behind trails of diluted black paint.

With his voice set in a grave monotone, he speaks up for the last time.

“Someone is dying tonight.”

PS: If Terzo ever comes back, you'll hear me screaming. No matter where you are.

[bluejayblueskies]

oh if you did a little something for jonmartin and "hiding their face in the other’s neck" i would be so 🥺💕

touches prompt list

a little post-circus kidnapping hurt/comfort! cw for wounds/injury, mild blood, mentions of non-consensual touching, and mentions of kidnapping

.

There is a stranger’s elbow digging into Jon’s side.

He shifts from one foot to the other, trying to relieve some of the pressure on his side while surreptitiously giving the stranger a glare that he hopes adequately conveys his dislike of the current situation. The tube is packed, as it always is at this time of day, and there are… so many strange hands. An elbow, at least, is better than the hand that had pressed to his back as the individual it belonged to had instinctively tried to maintain their balance.

After all, Nikola didn’t touch him with her elbows.

Jon doesn’t want to think about that. He doesn’t want to think about any of it. He wants to lie down in a soft bed and get his first good night’s sleep in a month and finally have the space to process. Alone.

Instead, Martin stands next to him on the train. His hand rests just beneath Jon’s where it grips one of the metal poles, and Martin takes care not to brush against him despite how crowded the car is. Jon considered telling Martin, when they first got on the tube, that it was okay—that his touch would be… well, it wouldn’t be bad. But he’d stayed silent, allowing Martin to cultivate a careful space between them. They’ve been silent for the past twenty minutes as they’ve passed by station after station on their way to Martin’s flat in Brixton.

“I have a flat,” Jon had said uncomprehendingly when Martin had suggested (or rather, gently begged) that Jon come back to his flat with him. “It’s, um. It’s nice. Spacious. S-sturdy locks.”

“You… you don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” Martin had said, sounding and looking very much like he wished Jon would anyway.

“I’m fine.” Jon was not fine. But he could be fine until he got back to his flat. It was always good to have a short-term goal.

Martin gave him a look that clearly said that he thought Jon was full of shit. Jon was, but it was still unnecessary. He was just trying to keep it together. What did Martin want—him sobbing and crumpling to the floor right here in the Archives? No, that wouldn’t do at all.

“You were kidnapped. Twice now. I really don’t want it to happen a third time. Besides, I…” Martin trailed off and fluttered his hands at his sides. “I—I should take a look at your hand. And your, um. Wrists.”

Jon looked down at his arms. They were, indeed, quite red and raw and scabbed over and likely to scar. Nikola had been irritated when she’d seen that he’d been tied up so tightly, but she’d decided there was nothing to be done about it. She would just ‘make do with what she had.’ And, well. She had never stopped Breekon and Hope when they’d cinched the ropes just a little bit tighter each time.

“I have first aid supplies in my flat,” Jon lied. He was fairly certain that he had a backpack of What the Ghost merchandise and a single mattress to his name at the moment. “I can take care of it.”

“So can I.” Martin took a deep breath. “I just… I don’t want to see you hurt, Jon.” His cheeks were flushed a rosy pink, and he looked over Jon’s shoulder at the wall behind him. “J-just for tonight, at least? I want…” Martin swallowed. “I want to make sure you’re safe.”

And then Martin had turned those lovely blue eyes to his, and, well. Here they are.

Jon adds 24 hours onto his mental countdown of the time he has left until he’s allowed to break down and tells himself that he can manage. It’s… important to have long-term goals as well. He splits this one into steps.

Step one: get to Martin’s flat without crying. He achieves this easily enough. He finally escapes the cloying presence of strangers as Martin’s door shuts behind them, and then it’s blissfully quiet. Martin flips on a light, illuminating the space in pale yellow. It’s a little bit messy but otherwise spartan. The walls are painted a dull eggshell white, the floor made of cheap lino. Martin sits Jon down on the couch and disappears into the bathroom. Jon stares at the wall and focuses on breathing evenly and thinking about anything other than how smooth his skin feels when he slowly rubs his fingers together.

Step two: let Martin bandage his wounds without crying. This is… more challenging, if only because it hurts. Martin apologizes profusely as he wets a cotton ball with isopropyl alcohol and gently cleans the inflamed areas. Jon sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down, focusing on anything other than the stinging, burning sensation in his wrists and hands. Funny—he’d thought that at this point, he would be used to the pain, but he’s not. All he knows now is what to expect.

Martin carefully wraps his hand and wrists in bandages. For a moment after he’s done, he delicately holds Jon’s hands in his like they’re porcelain. His hands are warm and soft, and Jon imagines how lovely they would feel against his cheeks. He thinks briefly that Martin is going to raise his unbandaged hand to his lips and lay a kiss across the back of it, but Martin doesn’t. Instead, he sets Jon’s hands back in his lap and stands, mumbling that he’s going to go make some tea.

Jon scrubs his uninjured hand across his eyes, just once.

Step three: sit on the couch with Martin and drink tea without crying. Martin presses a mug of steaming chamomile into his good hand and lays a plate of biscuits between them. “Th-they’re your favorite,” Martin says with a small, nervous laugh, like Jon’s not already staring at the plate with something choked sitting in the back of his throat. “I—I figured you probably haven’t really eaten today, and… I don’t really know what you’ve eaten lately. So, um. Yeah.”

Jon thinks of the things that Nikola had called food, then chooses not to think of them at all. He tucks the memory into a box next to cold hands and exposed skin and burning ropes and slams the lid before it can all come spilling back out again. “Thank you,” he says earnestly. He gingerly takes a biscuit in his stiff, aching hand that hasn’t had the time to heal properly and probably won’t get the chance to do so in the future and pops it into his mouth whole so he doesn’t get crumbs on Martin’s couch.

Step four: eat a biscuit that tastes like the best biscuit you’ve ever had and is the first palatable food you’ve had in weeks without crying.

“Jon?”

Jon blinks and comes back to himself. He’s staring blankly at Martin’s face, at eyebrows folded in concern and mouth curled into a small frown. Martin’s freckles are smudged into smears of tan, and the lines of his jaw waver like a mirage in front of Jon’s eyes. That’s odd, Jon thinks. Then, he feels something wet hit the top of his cheek.

Oh, no.

Quickly, Jon reaches up and scrubs the tears away from his eyes. As soon as he lowers his hand, more spring up in their place. He curses and sets his mug of tea down heavily on the table, taking one more look at Martin—whose eyes are now wide with worry—before turning away and attempting to pull himself together.

Step five: stop crying. Stop crying. Stop crying.

(Stop crying, his grandmother says as he stands in the living room, hands and knees dirty and hair a mess. He’s managing to say words between his sobs, words like book and stole and spider. She’s frowning at him, but her voice is still patient and calm when she says, You’re not making any sense, Jonathan. Stop crying, please, and speak clearly. You had a nightmare?)

“Jon, what’s—” Martin catches himself, which Jon is thankful for. He thinks that if Martin had finished that question—asked him what’s wrong—Jon wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from saying, what isn’t? “What can I do to help?” he says instead, a hand hovering carefully in the air between them like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch Jon or not.

“Don’t look,” Jon manages to say. He immediately feels ridiculous and follows with a quick: “S-sorry, it’s—I don’t k-know how to—I’m not—I’m n-not good at—”

“I’m not looking,” Martin says softly.

Jon cuts off, takes a breath, and turns his head back toward Martin. True to his word, Martin has his eyes closed, though his hand remains in the air between them. Jon presses his good hand to his mouth for a moment to hide how the sight rips a new, more ragged sob out of him. Then, tentatively, he reaches forward and takes Martin’s hand.

Martin inhales sharply. Jon almost lets go, but Martin curls his fingers around Jon’s hand and squeezes. He holds Jon’s hand tightly yet so achingly softly, and Jon could weep. (Or rather, is weeping.)

“Can I hug you?” Martin says abruptly, like he’d been fighting an internal battle about whether or not to say it and had just lost. His cheeks darken, but he doesn’t say anything else or take it back. His jaw shifts as he pinches his lips together and worries them back and forth.

Jon is… not the kind of person who initiates or seeks out hugs. He always makes them too stiff, or he holds on just a bit too long and makes them awkward, or he doesn’t know what to do with his hands and ends up just dangling them uselessly in the air. He’s also never really seen the point of them if he’s being honest. As a form of greeting, surely handshakes or waves or head nods get the point across just fine. Right now, though, there is truly nothing in the world that Jon thinks would make him feel safer than having Martin’s arms around him.

Jon nods, then remembers that Martin can’t see him and whispers, in as composed a voice as he can muster: “Please.”

Step six: hug Martin Blackwood without falling apart completely.

Martin’s arms are soft and warm around him. His chest is flush with Jon’s, and he’s holding him so close that Jon is practically on Martin’s lap. All Jon can think is that it’s been so long since he’s been held by something not made of sawdust or plastic. He grips the back of Martin’s jumper with lotion-soft hands and cries tears that have been collecting for a month into the fabric as he buries his face in Martin’s neck. Martin’s hands rub large circles across Jon’s back, and he’s whispering gentle words into Jon’s ear. Things about safe and okay and time and here.

By the time Jon feels thoroughly wrung dry, his cheeks are sticky and his head is throbbing and he’s desperately in need of a glass of water. He takes a few deep breaths, then carefully extracts himself from Martin’s arms. Martin lets him go easily, though his hands remain resting lightly on Jon’s elbows as if he can’t bear to let him go completely.

Jon thinks he knows the feeling.

Martin’s eyes are still closed, and Jon is hit with such a swell of affection he can hardly breathe around it. “Y-you can open your eyes,” he says, a bit sheepishly. Martin does, and if he’s affected by the state of Jon’s face, he doesn’t show any indication of it. “Sorry,” Jon mumbles, twisting his ring—now on his left middle finger instead of his right—around and around mindlessly. “I just…”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Jon.” Martin squeezes Jon’s elbows gently. “I understand. Any time you need me to look away, I will. Okay? I just…” He takes a breath. “I’ll always be here. F-for you when you need me.”

If Jon weren’t thoroughly out of tears, that would make his eyes water. Instead, he nods and offers a small, weak smile. “I know. Thank you, Martin. It… just. Thank you.”

Step seven: fall asleep safe against Martin’s side in the bed that he insists is big enough for two, face pressed into Martin’s neck once again and hands curled loosely in Martin’s sleep shirt.

He’s so drained by the time they’re there, so wrung-out and empty and relaxed, that he manages to do so almost immediately. He thinks he hears Martin murmur, “Sleep well, love,” as he drifts off. But it disappears into the fuzzy border between sleep and wakefulness, slipping from Jon’s mind entirely as he fades to black.

[midnightscxre]

Impetuous, overly self-confident and inattentive boy that grew into a vicious young man, never cared for the cautionary tales masked as a spooky bed time stories. Ghouls, zombies, werewolves or vampires, all considered tiring make beliefs produced by those who failed to keep their imagination at bay when matured, or better yet -- were too feeble and delicate to bring those dark, twisted fantasies to life -- produce real stories, tangible experiences, create true legends by spilling scarlet drops, wear the skin bestowed upon them and not crave the impossible beastly forms , use the tools forged for carnage and become the monsters they dream of. Even when the bones lengthened, muscles grew, mind darkened and the kid became a man, found his pack of same minded, deluded individuals sharing the same taste for chaos, vandalism and massacre, the utter disgust for such fairy tales didn't vanish.

All the nights around the poorly made fire that swallowed more empty cans, struggled around the glass of beer bottles to bite on some chips bags and empty, robbed wallets of their latest victims instead of thick logs, were spent in anger and long, loud huffs and puff mirroring boredom and disapproval when Susie or Julie would read some fan fiction about bloodsucking beasts or men with no facial features in an expensive suit, of course two meters tall and easily disappearing behind twigs and dried up sad willows. It was not even funny, it was pathetic. If the male with chestnut colored hair gave enough of a damn, he would forbid the people he replaced his family with to read such rubbish in his presence.

However, instead of taking his disdain and frustration on them, Frank reached for the pale face made of cheap plastic, decorated with red and black marker, along with a couple of strokes made with victim's blood samples used as battle paint, and dive into the moonless evening, pumping the life into his own horror tale. Creating a name for them, a name he himself ironically stole from the only tale he could swallow and keep down, a bible verse, when the demons exposed their nature.  ' And he asked him, What is thy name? And he answered, saying, My name is Legion: for we are many. ' The Legion. The rush of adrenaline and thirst for a killing spree gnawed at Frank's core at the name. And so they were, his little deadly pack of lunatics and he as an alpha leader, The Legion.

Little did Frank know, that years later another tale will turn his life around and leave a indelible mark on his already tainted soul. A muse, one that inspired him in many ways, brought the best and the worst out of the male. Made him completely insane and unpredictable, obsessed and more selfish than ever. Persistence was one thing, impatience was another. The hiss of yet another refusal made his skin crawl, made the fists to ball and jaw to tighten to the point he nearly broke a tooth. The insatiable need for Charlotte to be his with body and soul probably as heavy as her own need for red substance. Frank knew very little about the temptress, yet had an odd belief that he was meant to be by her side. It was not cheesy, it was some sort of subconscious existential crisis, where the lack of the woman's presence pushes him down into the abyss of inferno. And the realization of it made him mad.

" Yet you keep playing with me. " gruff voice accused, body stiffening as she broke the invisible chain holding them together when she stepped forward. Observing the creature, he thought about what might be bothering her. Glimpse of the dead body soon became the answer to his question. " You bitching because of this thing? " lack of remorse or even recognition that that ' thing' was a person, and still is, tip of his mud covered boot sank into the ribs of the corpse. A small crack echoed through the empty alley, making the corners of the man's lips to curl in satisfaction. " It bothers you because he is dead? " Frank didn't have to read horror comics or books to know that there were consequences for this kind of actions. People disappearing often resulted in police hunts, papers filled with details that were never complete and articles that were almost insulting, and the alarmed public. It didn't take long for him to realize that probably, her kind have their own type of ' cops '.

" Damn doll, all you had to do is ask. " throaty chuckle followed, before the hand swift as a cobra pulled his jagged knife from its leather resting place, and sank deep in the flesh of the victim. The mutilation was even more sickening to watch when one realizes how the man that was stabbing and cutting the lifeless body was bathing in pleasure and elation. It was morbid, it was wrong -- to Frank, it was divine. The man made sure that the neck was unrecognizable, completely ruined, to destroy every evidence of two perfectly shaped fangs ever feasting on it, before he shoved the bloody mess with his boot, turning him around. Knife bit the fabric of the shirt, tearing it up and exposing the chest. A few swift moves, and the body was marked with the name all well known to this town. The legion.

" There. All done, doll. " Wiping the bloody hands on his green hoodie under the jacket, Frank took a few steps closer to her. " Now no one will know it was your pretty mouth sucking the life out of this prick. Speaking of..." leaning, the man bit the lower lip covered with bloody drops. " Are you still hungry? " gravelly voice tempted, while the thumb covered with scarlet appeared in front of her mouth and grazed her lower lip. " You can change your mind on that bite right now and see I don't taste so bad. . . or. . . " tip of his favorite knife scraped along her jeans, teasingly cruising around the thigh. " . . . you can cut the shit for once and let me take you hunting. "

Self control had been carefully honed, demanded by survival instinct. Too many kills, too much mess, to little control and it meant attention. Attention meant the possibility of hunters. Those few that were highly aware of the supernatural world and sought to destroy every ounce of it. Hunters meant running and leaving behind everything. Too much had gone into what she had established her for her to leave it behind because she acted like a freshly turned vampire. That phase had come and passed for her. At least, that was what the immortal told herself on a nightly basis when the temptation to take more than what was needed reared it's head. Charlotte had been depraved, lacking all remorse when she had been turned. All because that was what her sire had wanted. Someone as vicious that would fall under his control. All before he had abandoned her for someone he deemed prettier, more malleable, better suited for his needs. Bloodlust had driven every action, sate the need and the thirst, until she had managed to gain a medocrium of control.

Since then, she had done her best not to drain, not to kill with her feedings, staving off the thirst as long as it was safely possible and only taking what she needed. Never in the same spot and never from the same individual. But with the body laying at her feet now, the accidental death sent a thrill down her spine. The coppery taste, underlying hints of sweetness mingled with the sharp tang of alcohol that had been consumed, still filled her mouth, along with a piece of flesh or two from when her fangs had torn open the man's neck. A test of that crafted self control. One that Frank was hardly helping with as the scene only seemed to excite him more. The steady thrum of his pulse had quickened, pumping the blood faster through his veins and calling put like a sirens song. Sated but not satisfied. A dangerous line to play with when it came to keeping the instincts tamed.

"It is not a game," she snarled, tone nearly bordering on an inhuman hiss. Fangs extended again, though hardly something that he could witness from his position behind. Yet, Charlotte continued to allow the exploration, the seeking touch that came. Eyes slipped closed, whether from a conscious effort to reign herself in or as a response to the gentle but demanding presence behind her. Rentless. Persistent. Perhaps with a death wish of his own. Charlotte had never turned anyone, never planned on doing so. The smaller frame shifted forward, just a step in an attempt to create a little space. As if the space would allow her to separate from what she had just done and the demand that was shouting in her head. Instincts that had long been beaten into a false submission. Laying in wait for the moment. And Frank? The catalyst for it all. His presence had caused her to startle. Had caused the ground beneath her feet to become wholly unstable, threatening to give out with the barest of movements. The quickly congeling mess at their feet made a small wet sound with the step, further reinforcing its presence in her mind and the rolling desire for more that crept up her throat. "And it isn't denial. I have lived long enough to know what is best."

Head hung, a sudden motion forward with a harsh, unnecessary breath out. She wanted more. More blood. More warmth. More touch from the man who would lead her down a dark path that there would be no returning from. She hadn't needed to know Frank on a deeper level to know such things. Feet on the edge, ready to fall over the cliff with the lightest of breezes needed. The resolve was shattered and ready to break. Was what's best truly best?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Mark of the Beast

Please be kind. I haven’t written werewolves before and this is an unedited drabble I did to distract myself. Hope you enjoy werewolf!Thor and needless to say it’s dark.

Reblog and comment if you like, please and thank you.

Warnings: noncon and rape, exophilia, blood, biting.

You sat along the edge of the yard, just at one of those picnic tables set with chips, salsa, and other finger foods; most of it crumbs and smears as the night wore on. The fire licked up into the sky as the strangers chatter drunkenly, laugh loudly, and sing and dance wildly to the music floating from the bassy bluetooth speaker.

Parties were never your scene and you don’t know why you agreed to come. You didn’t even know why you were asked. You never were the fun friend, hell you were often the forgotten one. The one who found out they weren’t invited or when you were privileged enough to be asked along, it was because someone else fell through.

Well you couldn’t take another night in your boxy apartment, sitting there alone as you watched the same shows over and over again. Restless as nothing ever seemed to change and yet time continued to pass you by.

You noticed how as the sky darkened, the guests began to couple up and trickle away from the flames of the tiki torches and the empty keg. You thought this kind of thing was better left to college kids. 

The early summer night was cool and dull blue as clouds streaked the sky. You hadn’t seen the sun directly since noon and it cast an odd haze over the party. Even so, there had been much screaming and shrieking on the oversized slip and slide. Again, these people, you included, were too old to be throwing their drunken bodies around.

Valerie giggled as she hung off the slender man with the black hair. He wore a green button up and black jeans. His clothes were pressed and pristine. He looked out of place amid the group. He looked like you felt.

She grabbed his collar and led him away from the few stragglers still grinding around to the retro tones of TLC. You stood as she headed for the trees. She was your ride and you didn’t feel like staying all night so she could get laid by some stranger. You didn’t even know how she got invited to this.

The sky shifted and dimmed a little more. You collided with a large body as you made to catch up with Valerie. You recognized the blonde man. He’d been lurking throughout the night, socializing over the top of red plastic cup, at one point chatting with the black-haired man Valerie was flirting with and helping tap the keg when it was overturned in some dumb stunt.

“Oh, excuse me,” you said as his large hand settled on your arm, “um, I’m just…”

“You don’t like the party?” he asked in his booming voice.

“What? No, I--”

“You’ve been hiding over here all night,” he said, “and you haven’t looked very happy about it.”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” you countered.

“Well, this is my party,” he said lightly, “Thor.”

He removed his hand from your arm and offered it to you. You looked at it reluctantly then glanced around him.

“I’m here with my friend. We should probably go--”

“The one who just disappeared with my brother?” he chuckled, “I don’t think you want to walk in on that.”

“Then maybe I’ll just call a cab,” you shrugged, “but I should get--”

“Why did you come? To glower in the corner and feel sorry for yourself?”

“No, I… you don’t know me.”

“No, I do not but that is not my doing. You sit here and isolate yourself to the point that anyone who approaches you, cannot break that barrier you’ve put up. The one you blame on those around you but you’re the only one enforcing it,” his blue eyes were pale, almost silver as the clouds darkened, and you realised in that moment how big he was.

“I didn’t ask for your--”

“You wouldn’t know what to ask for if you found the nerve,” he gave a crooked smile, “you don’t know what you want, what you need.”

He leaned in as his voice turned to a growl, something animalistic as he leaned in and his shadow shut out the sky.

“I know I want to leave,” you said as you stepped back, only to hit the low bench behind you.

“Did you not notice?” he asked.

“Notice what?” you sidled along the wood and he stopped you, this time his fingers gripped your arm tightly.

“That everyone else is gone. They’ve found their mate…” he lowered his voice to a gristle, “the moon is close and they must consummate their pairing.”

“What are you--” you gasped as you saw the way his canines pointed dangerously and grazed along his lip.

“All in my pack made their claim,” he whispered as he leaned in and the silver moon flickered behind the wisping clouds, “I’m making mine.”

“Get off--”

Suddenly you were spun around and flung so you landed in the grass, your knees and the heels of your hands scraping against the twigs and pebbles. Before you could try to stand or turn, he was behind you. His large hands braced your throat and he pulled you onto your knees so that your back was to his torso as he lowered himself behind you.

His nose tickled your ear as he inhaled your scent and a growl crackled in his throat. His fingers tightened and you felt sharp claws prodding at your flesh. His breath picked up as you felt his body tremble. The clouds parted at last and the full moon painted the grass silver.

“You have no purpose, I see it,” his voice grinded roughly, “you are lost but I have found you…”

“Let me--” you rasped and wheezed as he choked you harder.

“You don’t know. How can you realise that I have chosen you for a greater need?” he slid one hand to the back of your neck and pushed you down sharply so that you were face down in the grass, “I can smell it on you… ripe for a pup.”

He flipped your over harshly and his hand pressed to your jaw as he squeezed it painfully. You grasped his wrist in terror as the moon limned the fine fur that had risen across his skin, his long blonde hair blending into his thick main as his eyes glowed eerily.

“I… I...what are you?”

“What are you?” he repeated back, “can you tell me that?”

“Please, don’t--”

“You’re mine,” he snarled as he dragged a long nail over your shirt and sliced through the fabric easily, his other hand still framed your jaw, “if you survive, you will carry my pup, if you don’t… an honourable death.”

You slapped at his hand as his fingers hooked in the front of your jeans and he janked them down in a single motion. Your panties caught in the denim as he brought his foot up to push them down to your ankles. He pushed his knee between your thighs and dug a nail into your hip. Hot blood rose around his claw.

“I can smell it all. The loneliness, the desperation, the fear… it’s delicious.”

His claw flicked over your clit lightly as he pushed your folds apart. He played with you as you squirmed helplessly and gripped his arm, one hand on his wrist and the other on his bicep.

“No, no--” you murmured as your body went into shock, the pleasure of his teasing like a muffled shout in your core.

When his hand moved from your cunt, you felt its absence more intensely. He brought his other knee between your legs and pushed them further apart until your jeans slipped from one ankle. He lifted your left leg and hooked his arm under it and leaned on you as he lined himself up.

You pushed on his chest as the moonlight limned his silhouette above you and clenched as he prodded against your entrance. He cradled your face and dropped his head down beside yours as he pinned you under his weight, your leg bent uncomfortably as your other splayed against his hip.

He poked at your resistance and when he finally pushed through, you cried out into the night. He was thick, so thick, and when you thought you could handle no more, he pushed further in. You strained around his cock as he snapped his hips up and when he filled you entirely, you whimpered as you felt him in your stomach.

You tangled your fingers in his hair as his hot breath tickled along the crook of your neck. He pulled back and you let go of the breath in your chest only to suck it back in as he thrust sharply. You whined as he jolted your entire body and sank his teeth into your flesh. The shock of pain mingled in your core and filled your veins with an irresistible heat. He removed his fangs from you and dragged his bloodied lips down your neck.

“If you fight it, you will suffer,” he purred, “give in… you feel it, don’t you?”

He rutted faster as his breath kept time with his hips. Your body was alight against the cool grass as your eyes rolled back. Your moans added to your horror as they rose without thought, roused by the friction of his pelvis against yours and the slapping of flesh on flesh.

He fucked you faster and harder with each tilt and held your head between two hands as he looked down at you. His thumbs rubbed your cheekbones as he kissed you hungrily and the taste of your own blood stained your lips.

You felt hollow and light. The weight of him faded and you were on high and your lashes fluttered as the silver nights and his dark shadowed coloured your vision. You curled your fingers over your chest as you came and arched beneath him like a wild animal. The orgasm sent heat through you from head to toe and you whined and whimpered desperately.

Thor hammered into you even harder and his growls filled your head. He snaked his arm under you and slammed his hips down so viciously that every bone in your body ached.

“Oh, little one,” he snarled, “you take me so well…” his thumb brushed over the bite on your neck, “you wear my mark like a true bitch.”

He buried himself completely and panted rampantly as he spasmed. His cum flooded you and seeped and squelched around him as he gave a final thrust. He held himself as deep as he could and nuzzled your cheek as the smell of his sweat filled your lungs.

“Mine,” his teeth brushed against you and you shivered as a sudden fatigue weighted your eyelids, “that’s it…” his voice grew further and further away, “let it take you, little one.”

[kythed]

what love tastes like

terushima yuuji x reader

synopsis: in which you learn that falling in love tastes like monster

--

“Taste,” he says. He holds the cold rim of a freshly opened can to your lips, and first it’s metallic, salty, but then it’s sweet. 

You take a sip. 

“So you’re telling me you’ve never tried Monster before?” he asks, taking a drink himself. The two of you are sitting on a park bench across the street from a gas station. He licks his lips-- the silver ball embedded in his tongue winks at you, a shallow token of youthful rebellion that somehow seems more significant on him. 

“Never. I’m more of a Dr. Pepper girl.” You reach for the can again, letting the saccharine liquid sloshing inside coat your tongue. It’s really too much for me, you think. But of course, you won’t tell him that. 

“Not anymore,” he says, and he slips a firm hand around the back of your neck, pulling you towards him and daring you to look away with a wicked grin-- it’s attractive, to say the least. “Now you’re my girl.” 

You’ve barely parted your lips to respond before his mouth is on yours, tongue halfway down your throat, and you’re whimpering into the kiss as he snakes a hand down your back and presses your body to his. The whole ordeal tastes like Monster and feels far more energizing than the packaging promises. 

Within your first day of meeting him, Terushima Yuuji has already claimed you as his own. 

And you’re okay with it.

--

He’s about as healthy for you as the Monster is-- which is to say, not at all. 

In your next couple months of dating him, this becomes apparent. He takes you to the edge of the woods at twilight and lights your first cigarette, laughing as you take a draw and end up coughing. Plucking it from your fingers, he holds the cig high as smoke curls into the hazy sky and eventually melds with the faintly orange cumuli. “Guess it’ll take a little practice before you can smoke with the big dogs, huh?”

You flush and snatch it back, determined to prove your aptitude for defiance. By the end of the night, you can blow smoke rings-- he applauds, and for some odd reason your heart swells at his lazy grin. 

(The next kiss tastes like tobacco and novelty.)

He shows you each of his tattoos, some of which peek out from underneath his clothes, some of which aren’t exactly visible to the onlooker’s eye. There’s a tendril of ivy climbing down his forearm, a flock of wild cranes taking flight from his left shoulder. A dark silhouette is on his chest, kneeling low to who knows what. You trace the image of an unlit candle on the back of his neck, asking what it means-- for a millisecond, his mouth tightens into an expressionless line, but then he laughs. “Why, you want one too? Let’s go to the parlor then.” 

When you decline, he takes a permanent marker from his bedside table and prints a small label on your inner wrist. ‘Mine’ it says, accompanied by an oddly appropriate smiley face. “Then this will have to do.”

(This kiss tastes like ink and enigma.) 

He brings you to a decrepit manor on the outskirts of town-- legend has it a young, newly wealthy couple purchased it twenty years ago, unaware its foundations rested on a centuries old cemetery. The spiteful spirits drove them to the brink of madness. The sort of madness that could only be alleviated by the resounding finality of death. 

“They were found hanging from their bedsheets in the west wing,” Yuuji whispers to you, his breath tickling your ear. An unwanted tremor runs from your head to your high-tops. You don’t believe in ghosts, so it must be because you’re cold. (At least, that’s what you tell yourself.) “I want that kind of love.” 

You turn, surprised to see his expression remains entirely serious. “The kind where you die for one another?”

“The kind where you die with one another,” he corrects, wistfully gazing into the dingy bay windows protruding from the manor’s anterior. 

You remain silent. 

“Life is just an accumulation of bad decisions, and love is just an accumulation of bad decisions you make with another person,” he muses, still peering at the grandeur of the lonely estate. He turns to you, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Wanna make a bad decision with me?” 

The next hour is spent in the modest company of Yuuji, a couple of baseball bats, and the empty halls of a long dead house. There’s no one to witness the two of you shattering each dusty antique vase save for the portraits on the wall. Soon, their frames, too, receive a violent visit from a vindictive bat, usually accompanied by Yuuji’s unadulterated glee and a resounding whoop. 

You’re not a fan of destruction. Especially not the destruction of rare, precious items reminiscent of a life bygone. Yet, it’s exhilarating to indulge in it, to swing your bat with a meaningless vengeance and watch as whatever priceless heirloom that evoked your baseless wrath fractures into pieces. You demolish a set of fine china found in the dining room cabinet and Yuuji gathers you into his arms, kissing you fiercely (it tastes like some sort of perverse, seductive joy, rosewater mixed with ashes). He chuckles into your mouth when you push your tongue into his, retribution for your first kiss many weeks ago. It’s deliciously gratifying. 

If Yuuji is right, and love is just a mosaic of bad decisions and desire-- maybe you’re okay with that. Maybe this is all I really need, you think, watching Yuuji from the corner of your eye on the drive home. Yellow street lights cast irregular shadows on his angular features, lending him an otherworldly sort of beauty. 

“What is it?” he asks, without taking his eyes off the road. One of his hands inches up your inner thigh, giving it a quick squeeze before retreating to the responsibility of the steering wheel. 

You hesitate, just for a second. An unseen force constricts around your throat; you banish it with a hard swallow. “I love you.” 

One second passes. Then two. 

He says nothing the rest of the ride home, and you sit in mortified silence, watching traffic blur by with glassy eyes. You must’ve misread this whole thing. You’re just a fling Yuuji plans on discarding whenever he grows tired… your mouth goes dry with regret. 

When you pull up in front of your house, he walks you to your front door. You can hardly stand to look him in the eye. 

“Well, thanks for today,” you say, examining your shoelaces with false interest. “I had a lot of--”

“I love you, too.” 

Startled, you look up. “I- what?” 

“I said,” he says, stepping close, putting a hand beneath your chin to tilt it upwards. Your body is eclipsed by his larger one, and you’re overwhelmed with the sudden urge to hide from his penetrating gaze. “I love you, too.” 

A beat of silence.

“Oh,” you breathe, and, suddenly, his lips are on yours, kissing you fervently— but this time, it’s chaste, it’s… loving (and it tastes like honeyed laughter). Only for a second though.

Then his hands are on your waist, fingers gripping hard enough to leave bruises; he’s aflame with a hotblooded passion-- your body is his Holy Grail and your mouth is its rim. He leads you into the hallway, fumbling to close the door behind him. You gasp when he pushes you up against the wall and harshly sucks at the sensitive skin beneath your jaw, your nails digging into his back through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. 

“I love you,” he mumbles, painting your neck with a line of ardent kisses, trailing from right below your ear to right above your collarbone. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” 

--

There’s something a little too tender in the way he caresses your face the next morning to wake you after he’s slipped his clothes back on, in the way he smiles softly at your bleary eyed confusion, in the way he holds you in his embrace a fraction of a second longer than you hold him in yours before saying goodbye. 

Terushima Yuuji may play the part of a reckless delinquent, but he’s not your average troublemaker. There’s something inscrutable behind his gaze, even as he sprays obscene graffiti on stop signs and shoplifts alcohol from the neighborhood drugstore, a walking cliche of hoodlum culture. 

There’s something a little too careful about the boy who claims to be careless. 

Yuuji is still fun, of course. He takes immense pride in being fun. He invites you to one of his friends’ gigs, some sort of grunge-esque affair with a heavily pulsating bass line and a preponderance of cheap liquor in red plastic cups. The drummer winks at you during one of the songs-- later Yuuji slugs him in the jaw, taking a few hits in the process, and makes a show of kissing you sloppily while the poor drummer nurses his rapidly forming bruise with a pack of frozen peas. (The kiss, of course, tastes like blood and pride.) 

He teaches you how to use a switchblade-- “Just in case,” he says, wrapping his hand around yours in an effort to show you the proper grip. In exactly what situation you’d be forced to use a switchblade remains unclear, but when you ask he just laughs and shrugs, spinning the knife in between his slender fingers. “You never know.”

(He tells you a story of a fist fight years ago and lifts his shirt to point out a pale, faded scar-- the other guy brought a knife concealed in his sleeve. You then agree it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.)

The two of you trespass on the regular, scaling fences and picking locks to dip your feet in private pools, to run barefoot on the soft grass of a golf course late at night, to explore taped off tunnels and underpasses. 

All of it is fun, all of it depicts your relationship as something accidental, something reckless, the convergence of two beings as coincidental as the convergence of the two cells that provoked the Big Bang. 

But your intimate moments, the faintest imprints in between the lines, tell a different story. One onlookers don’t see. 

They don’t see how Yuuji places a hand on the small of your back to guide you over a crosswalk, or how he pours a coffee and carefully blows on it before bringing it to you. They don’t see how he laughs when you laugh and smiles when you smile. 

They don’t hear what he whispers to you under the sheets-- sweet nothings that would make Cupid himself blush-- as he touches you slowly, purposefully, following your curves deliberately as a sculptor molding clay. 

They don’t feel his kisses, delicately placed on your lips, your neck, your stomach and thighs. They don’t feel his eyelashes fluttering on your cheek as he allows himself to rest with you in his most vulnerable state. 

It’s during these moments that deep secrets are so shyly exchanged in the sleepy haze of late nights and early mornings. He bares his soul to you in all its imperfection (you suspect you are the only one to have ever seen it in this state). He shatters himself bit by bit like the vases you splintered so long ago, offering you the fragments so you can gradually piece together the entire portrait. 

“You know how I told you my dad taught me how to fight?” he asks one of these times. Your head is in his lap as he strokes your hair ever-so-lightly. You nod, looking up into those sweet brown eyes-- they look sad today. “That’s only half true. He didn’t teach me, but I had to learn because of him.” 

You take his hand and brush your lips over his knuckles, humming softly, and he takes this small act of comfort and stores it away like he always does. 

I’m sorry. 

“I’m scared of trying to be someone different than I am now, but I want to be. I wish I could be.”

You can. 

“I’m sorry for getting you into so much trouble these days.”

Don’t be.

“I think we should run away, just you and me. We could make it, you know.”

I know. 

Of course, all good things come to an end. You know that. 

You just aren’t anticipating something so good to end so soon-- as suddenly as Terushima Yuuji becomes yours, he disappears. 

One morning, he’s sleeping in the bed next to you, and the next he’s gone without a trace. Literally. He leaves behind no extra t-shirts, no stray sock or phone charger, no note. You pad down the hall, ducking your head into each room.

“Yuuji?” you call. “Is this some sort of joke?”

It’s not. 

You call his phone and reach his voicemail. Hey, this is Terushima. Not available right now, probably busy doing somethin’ stupid or taking a piss. Leave a message if you want. 

The sound of his voice grows more and more painful to hear over the next six months. At first, you call every day, then every week, then every month. At month six, you’ve stopped calling at all. If he wanted to answer, he would. You don’t even know why you’ve kept it up so long when he obviously left for a reason. 

So, you pick up the pieces of your broken heart and cobble them together again. It’s not a graceful recovery, but it’s a recovery, and that’s what matters. The gaping hole he left is gradually filled by your family, your friends-- you don’t go on a single date, but that’s okay. (You’re just not ready. You tell yourself that you will be, someday.)  

Soon, you’re whole again. As you discover, there are ways to find yourself other than falling dangerously in love with a dangerous boy. 

You run into him one day, eight or so months after his disappearance. You’re filling your car at a gas station, and at the park across the street, he’s sitting next to a girl you don’t recognize. She laughs at all his jokes and sips a can of Monster he offers her. As if he can feel your stare, Yuuji glances over and catches your eye. He jogs across the street, dodging traffic, and you two exchange tentative pleasantries before the conversation comes to an uneasy rest on the taboo-- why he left.

It wasn’t because of you, it turns out. At least, not really. You were just the catalyst.

“I was the problem,” Yuuji says, laughing, though the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You remember how I once told you I thought love was making your bad decisions with someone by your side?”

You nod, and the wound has scabbed over enough for you to remember it lightly, with a slight curve of the lips.

“You showed me that wasn’t true.” He tugs on the collar of his t-shirt absentmindedly, not quite meeting your gaze. “I started wanting to make good decisions instead. And that just wasn’t me. Love isn’t for me.”

“It could’ve been,” you say simply. He stares at you, momentarily unable to form a response. Then he laughs it off, a sound you used to adore that now sounds harsh and grating. 

“Maybe someday,” he says, but his expression tells you otherwise. It tells you how scared he is of ever being that person.

The thing about love is that it gives you something to lose. It gives you a reason to make good decisions. It gives you something to fear for. 

As he turns to leave, Yuuji freezes in his tracks. He throws a look over his shoulder. “Just for the record-- it hurt. Leaving. I did love you.” 

You smile. It’s a genuine smile, but it’s sad, too. “I know.” 

And the thing about fear is that some people can’t bear it well enough to let themselves love someone. 

You watch his retreating back for a brief moment before climbing into your car. It’s not until you’re halfway home that you realize you’re crying. Tears roll down your cheeks into your lap, staining your jeans. 

You hope he comes to love that new girl, the one he’s sharing a Monster with. You hope she loves him back with all her heart. You hope she spends hours and hours picking through his pieces and reassembling him from the bottom up. You hope she comes to find that his kisses taste like tobacco and novelty, like ink and enigma, like rosewater and ashes and joy. You hope that, to her, those kisses never taste like regret. 

You hope that this time, he’s scared. But not so scared he can’t let himself stay.

[graymatters]

Triptych

M | 1.8K | On AO3 | Veela!Draco, body horror, blood, unhealthy relationship dynamics, mild sexual content 

Many thanks to @corvuscrowned for the beta work 💚 and to @floydig for all the horror chats 😂

i.

The spine of a single feather, sleek and wet with blood, erupts from the thin skin draped over my collarbone. It mocks me in the bathroom mirror, unsightly and pale quills stained pink. My shoulders droop, and my spine rounds, a weary folding beneath the weight of an unsurprising development, as a crimson droplet runs smooth down my ribs.

“Babe, are you ready to go?” Harry calls from the bedroom. He’s taken to calling me babe lately. The word knocks about in my skull, overstaying its welcome.

“What’s it called when little birds shed their feathers?” I ask my reflection, arching forward until my breath fogs the glass. My nose wrinkles at the stench, prompting a swift snatch of my toothbrush from the plastic cup on the sink.

“Er…” Harry ponders as he waltzes into the bathroom, running an aimless hand through his hair. In the reflection, I watch him smooth over my naked back and bum with heavy-lidded eyes, lips tugged upward in an appreciative grin and glasses crooked on the sunburnt bridge of his nose. I think he might be perfect, and it terrifies me.

“Mulching?”

Almost, my dear, but not quite.

“Molting, I think,” I murmur around my toothbrush, scraping the frayed bristles violently against my gums.

“That’s what I said.”

“No.” I spit, frowning at the bright blood tinting the frothy toothpaste. “Molting. Not mulching.”

“Oh,” he says, eyes widening as he looks at my chest in the mirror. And I mean looks, not the passing glance that you toss at the empty glass that’s sat on your end table for three days, not the glassy gaze of a Seeker fading into auto-pilot above the pitch. No, I’m talking about the undivided attention afforded to a tragic train derailment with dozens of fatalities, the careful pondering over a loaf of bread that may have gone off, the terrifying and wondrous stare of finding your enemy naked in your bed.

“Draco, are you bleeding?” He moves to grip my shoulders but stops when he gets a closer look, hands held mid-air as though his puppeteer got bored, hung his strings on the hook, and took a smoke break. “Is that a—”

“I never could tell if Mother was serious about the Veela blood.” I frown as Harry still stands, unmoving but for the tremble in his fingers. “Harry, why are you shaking?”

Harry doesn’t answer as I lean across the sink, poking at the delicate spine with my fingertip. He just stares dumbly at my reflection, mouth agape and eyes wide as saucers. I huff a laugh through my nose, feeling the universe’s sick sense of humor settle heavily over my bloodied chest.

“I wonder if I’ll molt.”

Read ii. & iii. below the cut.

ii.

Harry’s left the cap off the toothpaste again, leaving it to ooze onto the bathroom countertop. I could easily dismiss the caked-on paste from the porcelain. All it would take is a snap of my fingers, a muttered jumble of pseudo-Latin under my breath to make it disappear. However, a crescendo of unfortunate events through the week culminated in a Ministry-issued number that replaced my name, a reminder of the creature that replaces my identity. The thought numbs my limbs, rattles my nerves, and prickles at the remnants of my fleeting patience.

“Harry!”

“Did you say something, Draco?” he shouts from down the hall. I wait, listening for footsteps that don’t come.

“Harry! Will you come here for a minute?” A rustle of irritation blooms beneath my skin, scaly skin and ivory feathers shifting restlessly, eager to surface. With a forced sigh, I snap my eyelids shut, concentrating on pulling the musty bathroom air in and out of my lungs.

“What is it, babe? Is everything all right?”

I open my eyes, meeting my own steely gaze in the mirror. The skin over my neck, my collarbone, my temple, crawls with the anxious magic that pulses underneath, like a spider’s trapped beneath the surface. I can almost see the iridescent shimmer of that scaly skin that lurks somewhere between the delicate dermal layers that cover my neck. Harry catches my stare, his gaze soft and a sleepy smile plastered on his face. He looks at me like there isn’t ruinous blood in my veins, like the war in my body doesn’t seep out of my pores, infecting the air between us like the stench of a rotting corpse.

“Draco, what’s wrong?”

I don’t deserve him. I don’t deserve him, but he’s looking at me like he doesn’t know or doesn’t care. And this week has been so very long.

“Nothing, love.” My eyes fall to the open tube of toothpaste as I reach an unsteady hand out behind me, softening once I feel the slide of Harry’s fingers between mine.

He moves to stand behind me, wrapping his hands over my ribs and dotting honeyed kisses along my neck and shoulders like he can’t see the rustle of feathered plumes tucked deep in the sinewy fibers. Though guilt twists in my gut, strangling my lungs and wringing my heart, I ignore it, instead melting beneath Harry’s touch.

“You’re so gorgeous, Draco,” he murmurs behind my ear. “Look at you,” he whispers, softly gripping my neck beneath my jaw, forcing me to stare myself down in the mirror as his other hand dips beneath my waistband, palming my cock. “So fucking gorgeous.”

Thoughts blurred, I gasp as he ruts against my arse, as I thicken in his hand and a heady rush soothes the irritable magic that bristles beneath my skin. I groan against the pressure of his palm over my throat, feeling the vibration in my chest.

He catches my eye in the mirror, raising a brow in silent question. I nod in answer, preening at the satisfied smirk that overcomes Harry’s face as he slips a spit-slicked finger inside me, a delicious mix of pain and pleasure.

“So fucking beautiful, and you’re all mine.”

And then I hum, a pleased and pathetic whimper of a song, because I know he’s right.

iii.

The heat of the shower burns my skin, painting my limbs and the tops of my feet in a pink, watercolor flush. I let the water strip away the remnants of the evening, the cigarette smoke that clings to my hair and the grease and salt lodged beneath my fingernails. It doesn’t wash away the memories of the Weasel’s grimace, or the distasteful curl of Granger’s lip. Instead, they linger, trapped in the clouds of steam like a bird’s wings, wet with oil.

“Draco? Are you here? Awfully nice of you to run out on me like that. Ron and Hermione are sure to love you, now.”

A single, vehement beep pierces the thick air of the bathroom, cascading into a series of agonizing tones as the fire alarm protests the steam of the shower.

I look up from my spot on the tile floor, entranced by the flashing red light on the screeching machine.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Harry bursts through the door and yells over the blare of the alarm. “How long have you been in here?” He clambers onto the countertop to reach the horrid device, fumbling with the buttons before finally ripping it from its base on the ceiling. It falls to the floor; a smattering of dusty plastic shards decorates the floor on impact.

“Draco, are you even listening?”

I nod, feeling the itch of magic over my palms, the roll of frustration between my shoulder blades.

“Draco?” He opens the shower door, eyes following the stream of water that falls from the tip of my nose. “What’s wrong?”

My vision blurs, the yellow bathroom light, shining stellate over the grungy shower tile.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, eyes wide and incredulous as an unhinged laugh crawls out my lips. “Are you seriously asking me that question?”

A curl falls in his eyes, damp from the humid air. His gaze is soft, aching, like he wants to wipe away the malicious glances, the tainted blood in the rotten chambers of my heart, the ink on my arm.

Loving him is too much.

Anxious anger burns a trail starting at the tips of my fingers, drawing claws to break through the skin beneath my nails and a black, tarry flush to creep towards my elbows like my arms have been dipped in soot. I roll my neck at the feeling of hundreds of feathery needles piercing through the skin of my collarbone, my neck, my shoulders. A flash of pain, lightning hot, grips my spine as a set of wings punctures the surface between my shoulder blades, hanging low in the tight space of the shower.

The water runs red, my back hot from the wash of blood.

With a guttural roar, I whip towards Harry, wanting to squeeze his ribs between my disfigured hands and feel the stutter of his breath.

But he doesn’t move, he doesn’t turn to walk away. In fact, rather than a look of fear or disgust, Harry watches me the same way Mother watched me when my pet Kneazle died, devoured by the Nepenthes. Like I’m still a child who doesn’t know what to do with his hurt.

“Draco, I’m sorry—”

“You’re in love with a fucking monster, Harry. Why are you even here?” A heat burns beneath my palms as I grip the frame of the shower.

Harry sighs, taking a slow and careful step forward to shut off the water, leaving a slow trickle to caress the smooth surface of my wings.

“Come here, Draco,” he whispers, gesturing for me to step out of the shower. “Come on, babe; I’ve got you.”

Loving him is too much. Too much to weather. Too much to resist.

I tumble into his arms, catching a blood-stained, ivory wing on the shower door and jostling Harry’s glasses. As the fog of the mirror clears, I watch as my face appears, nose elongated and eyes pitch-black, the skin of my neck and arms cracked where the feathers have broken through the layers like an iceberg piercing the sea. With a stuttered sob, I grip Harry’s shoulders and tuck my face into his neck, unable to contain myself anymore.

I’m not sure how long we huddle on the bathroom floor, cramped between the toilet and the shower. Long enough for the feathers to recede beneath my skin, for my wings to fold in on themselves and lie soft against my back. The sun has long set, shrouding the bathroom in darkness, as Harry still runs his hands through my hair, untangling the knots as he whispers lovely reassurances into my ear and presses kisses over my jaw.

“Draco, I love you, you know that?”

“Of course, I do.”

“What do you need, Draco?”

“I don’t know.”

“Need me, then. It’s that easy. Draco, just—need me.”

I nod, a trembling and stuttered admission, because I know he’s right.

Also on AO3.

[angelfishofthelord]

(and heal)

hurt/comfort fic, set in 11x02 if Ephraim followed through on his threat of "what should we cut off first?"

It’s been a few days. A few days since they killed Death and unleashed the Darkness and fought off hoards of zombie-like infected people. A few days since the Darkness became a baby and then disappeared from her own nursery. A few days Sam found a cure for the infected after having the poison coursing through his own veins.

It’s also been a few days since they’ve heard from Castiel.

They can’t track his phone, no matter how many times Dean has told Sam to check again.

(What I have, you can’t help me.)

They followed up on a sightings of seeing a man like him but they still haven’t turned up anything that will lead them to where he is now. From the eyewitness reports it sounds like he’s been hexed with Rowena’s attack dog curse.

(Sam, Dean. Goodbye.)

They’ve also been looking for Rowena and Crowley, hoping one would lead to him Neither of them have been found yet.

(It may be some time before we see one another again.)

A few days stretches like a chasm before them, black and boundless. They keep circling and searching the same area where the last sighting was reporting, more to make them feel like they’re doing something than because it’s actually effective. They  don’t talk much; not about Dean finally being free of the Mark, or about the Darkness, or if Castiel is going to be found dead or alive. The scratchy throat of the radio is the only running conversation as they move from town to town, the long shadow of the Impala crawling like a funeral procession of one.

Then they hear something: a rumor in a diner. Nothing more than the chatty whispers of teenagers at the next table slurping giant gulps of soda between munching on sliders. One of the girls is talking about an abandoned sawmill on the edge of the next town that sometimes screams at starry nights; about dusty black windows illuminated with sparks that another boy dismisses as a trick of the moonlight.

Stars don't scream; Sam and Dean know better than to think the natural is responsible for the unnatural.

If they can’t find Castiel, Sam and Dean figure, they may as well get rid of whatever spirit might be haunting the sawmill before some kid believes the stories enough to check it out for themselves. As soon as they pull up to the skeletal building, however, Sam reaches over and switches the radio off. Dean’s fingers move to turn off the engine, but it takes him a few seconds to connect with the key because his eyes are fixed  on the sight in front of them.

There’s no mistaking the familiar style of the mark etched in blood on the outside of the building. It’s warding sigils. Angels. Angels are here, or have been here, which means Castiel must be here, or close by at least.

The two brothers arm themselves, silently, thoroughly. Blades two each. Sigiled cuffs. Holy fire in one pocket, lighter in the other. Flashlights with beams wide as the mouth of a cave. The door squeaks when they push it open, a long, protracted hiss of rusty hinges. There’s enough cobwebs hanging from the ceiling to reach their nostrils so they breathe shallowly, trying not to inhale too sharply as they move forward. More sigils are painted on the walls inside, blood mingled with the unwiped sawdust. Whoever was--is--here didn’t want to be found by anyone, man or inhuman.

Towards the back of the main room Dean finds the first body. A man in his late twenties, perhaps, wearing a dark suit, striped tie christened with a gaping, bloodless hole in the center. Angel. Dean steps over him, aiming the flashlight left and right until the beam falls across a second body lying face down. Then he turns the flashlight to the other side of the room and it illuminates the wide-open mouth of a third dead angel. His mouth hangs open as he sits propped up against the corner, one hand clasped over a deep wound at his side that has long stopped sputtering grace.

“So angels got him,” Sam whispers, unnecessarily, more because the thought had never crossed their mind. In the past few days of searching for their friend the two had entertained the thought of spells or demons or perhaps the Darkness taking Castiel hostage, but not his own family.

“Bastards,” Dean mutters, kicking the foot of the one face down beside them. “Looks like they got what was coming to them.”

Sam frowns slightly, squinting in the pale light as they walk forward. The sitting angel with the side wound looks familiar, like the vessel Hannah took when they talked to her at Heaven’s gate. He’s about to say something when Dean lowers the light down to a spot on the ground. “Sam,” he vocalizes hoarsely.

He follows his brother’s gaze to the glint of metal near his feet. The breath of the flashlight washes over the scattered tools on the floor--a wrench, a rusty circular saw leaning against the wall like a dark moon, and then-- Sam recognizes what it is. It’s been several years but it’s hard to forget the curve of the metal contraption that was fitted on the screaming angel in Crowley’s lair.

“What’s this doing here?” Dean breathes, bending towards it. The torture device is speckled with blood--fresh  blood that leaves a smear on his finger when he touches it. Half of the long pins in the side are missing. One of them is glimmering a few inches away under the toppled over table, the sharp end slick and red.

“Let’s just get Cas and get out of here.” Sam steadies his own voice with determination and nods towards the doorway ahead. The plastic flaps of the entrance shimmer as they push them aside and walk in to find themselves standing in a windowless dark room. While Dean fumbles with his sputtering flashlight and then goes towards the side to feel for a light switch, Sam moves forward cautiously, only to crash into a round, hard corner of what must  be another table.

“Shit,” he mutters as he stumbles to his knees, hard, just as Dean flips the switch.

Light drowns the room.

Sam’s eyes widen. He stays on his knees, body electric with shock. Besides him his brother makes a horrible choking noise that sounds very similar to “Cas.”

“No,” Sam whispers. His tongue feels heavy and swollen.

Dean’s legs are pitching him from side to side and he means to make them walk forward but they don’t. They can’t. His eyes flicker from side to side, up and down over the sight before him, like tracing a dot-to-dot pattern again and again.

Castiel--pinned against the wall, arms eagle spread. Metal pins driven into either side of his head, giving him long bloody side burns. His feet --shoeless, sockless-- are dangling limply from his ankles where two more pins are driven in. The palms of his hands are stretched open, fingers curled limply around the spikes embedded into the center.

Castiel’s eyelids are shut. Somewhere in the back of the mounting scream in Dean’s mind he realizes that he’s looking at a corpse and every muscle in his body dissolves.

Before he too, hits the ground beside his immobile younger brother, the corpse blinks.

They both leap to their feet and sprint forward immediately. “Get him down,” they gasp to each other at the same time. Sam goes to pull out the pins in his ankles while Dean hooks his arms under Castiel’s to hold him up so he won’t tear his palms when the weight sags.

“Hey, hey,” he repeats, brushing the matted hair out of Castiel’s eyes. “We’re here, Cas. We’re here.”

Castiel blinks, opening his left eye half way. “D’n.” The white of his eyes are webbed in red streaks. His lips are split and yellow-crusted.

“It’s okay.” Dean sucks in a breath and puts two finger on the pin in the right side of Castiel’s head. “It’s okay.” He pulls quickly, hurling the pin behind him before reaching for the next one. Castiel doesn’t even so much as flinch, which worries Dean even more.

When the pin on the left is removed the angel suddenly sags forward, sending Dean lurching back slightly before he bends on one knee to balance the weight. “I’ve got you,” he gasps, circling a hand around his back only to sink into the dampness of open flesh. Castiel’s entire back is lacerated to the point where Dean can’t tell where the skin ends and the exposed muscle and tissue begin. The marble white of his spine shows through the blood, black lines on the ridges showing where his back had been scraped raw against the concrete wall. Dean tries not to look at the spot on the wall where Castiel had been impaled, but he sees it anyways, the red spread of blood filling the corner of his eyes.

Castiel slumps bonelessly into his shoulder. “It’s okay,” Dean murmurs thickly. “S’okay.”

“They cut off his hands.” The announcement comes from above, in a strangled voice that must be Sam’s. Dean jolts his head up and then nearly falls backwards. He’d assumed that Castiel had fallen forward because Sam had removed the pins in his palms.

But his brother is standing there, immobile, next to a hand impaled into the wall. Dean drops his eyes to Castiel’s arms, the ones hanging loosely beside his. The ones that end in a smooth circle sliced clean from the wrist.

“They cut off his hands,” Sam repeats, unaware that he’s repeating himself. He tugs the pin loose and the amputated appendage falls into his outstretched hand. It feels heavier than he thought, fits smaller into his own palm. His knees are starting to fold again and he braces himself against the wall with one hand to keep from collapsing. Somewhere at the side he’s dimly aware of the sob-like sound coming from his brother as he clutches the angel in his arms tighter.

read more on aO3

[gothdaddyissues]

The Devil Came To A Small Town

Story Summary: In a bougie small town, a local witch strikes up a business relationship with the newly-arrived Satanic Church, setting in motion a series of events that lead to two misfits falling in love

Chapter Four available on Ao3

or under the cut (~5000 words)

PS - you can jump into this chapter without reading the others if you're just looking for a good time... 😉

THE DREAM - Izzy has a dream evoking her wild past and the skull painted man... and things get smutty.

⛧ Playlist for this chapter ⛧

ADULT CONTENT - 18+ ONLY - MINORS DNI

Tags: OC female, Cardinal Copia/Papa IV, smut smut smut, Dom Papa IV, dubious consent (it's dream sex), rough sex, oral sex, rough oral sex, choking, dirty talk, dom/sub dynamics, unprotected sex, No Beta (we die like Terzo), Google Translate Italiano

Catch up here: | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 |

Saturday night at The Sanctuary was always the busiest. It wasn’t just the townies, but all the ultra-fashionable goths from the city would show up too. And it was Darkwave Dance Party night, so she knew it would be full of the fun, freaky types.

She was bored. Restless and horny. She wanted to drink until she was nice and loose, wanted to get lost in the seductive beat of the music. To dance, and hopefully get a little action if she could find the right guy to grind up against.

She made her way up the steps of the old Abbey, clad in a skin-tight, sapphire blue velvet slipdress and high-heeled, black leather thigh-high boots. This was an outfit that always got attention, and attention was what was craving. Her long, dark hair was flat ironed stick straight, her black winged eyeliner sharp enough to stab, her lips painted blood red. She was on the prowl tonight, a huntress in search of her prey.

She could feel the beat of the music from outside, recognizing it immediately as Love Like Blood by Killing Joke. A great start. The bouncers let her right in, knew her on sight as a regular. Her friends were probably already inside, but that didn’t matter to her. Tonight wasn’t about hanging out with her usual crew. She wanted something new and different to keep her occupied.

The main hallway was a sea of pale faces, studded leather, and black lace. She sliced through the crowd to the Vampire Lounge - the bartenders there poured a little heavier. The walls were hung with red velvet curtains and ornate brass sconces. Richly upholstered Victorian furniture was scattered between carved wooden tables and coffin-shaped bookcases. Tall candelabras stood every few feet, black candles dripping with melted wax. Long-haired Lestat wannabes lounged about, sucking on Hookah pipes and sipping Guinness Snakebites. Boring boring boring. Not why she was here.

The next song started - She’s In Parties by Bauhaus. Another favorite of hers. She took a seat at the bar, hailed a bartender, and got herself a Dirty Shirley with extra maraschino cherries. She took a deep swig, then sucked two cherries off of the plastic pick into her mouth - sticky, sweet, and juicy. It gave her a moment to survey the crowd, looking for potential suitors for the night. Lots of familiar faces and a few she didn’t recognize. Alas, no one stood out.

Until she caught a glimpse of him. Brief. Too brief. But enough of a look to build intrigue. It was the painted face that captured her attention at first. Sure, almost every face in this building was painted in some form. Not like this though. Stark-white skin with deep black circles around his eyes and a sharp, perfectly defined black contour that ran across his cheekbones and mouth. Skull paint. Dramatic much? Unique though. His salt-and-pepper hair was brushed back from his face, definitely an elder goth-type. In the few seconds she watched him she could feel the heat building low inside her. Yep, this was the one. He seemed a bit dangerous, and she liked that…. And also a little familiar? A spark of recognition, even though she was quite sure she’d never seen him here before. But as quickly as she had seen him, he turned away and disappeared into the crowd.

She downed the rest of her drink and ordered another, scanning the room to find him again. Was that him? The back of a jacket, distressed edges, elaborately laced from collar to hem, straight down the spine. He was heading for the Chapel, where the dance floor was. She followed, fresh drink in hand. She was feeling warm and fuzzy. Was it the alcohol or was it arousal? It didn’t matter - she was reveling in it either way.

The Chapel was across the main hallway from the Lounge, and the hallway was suddenly extremely crowded. So many people. They were an annoyance to her. She was searching for him. She’d catch sight of him, and then he was gone again. There and gone. There and gone. For a moment, she panicked, feeling like she might drown in this sea of bodies. But she worked her way through as the crowd ebbed and flowed, sluggishly pushing her forward towards the Chapel entrance like lazy waves rolling towards the shore.

She crossed the threshold into the Chapel, the ancient stone flooring throbbing with the beat of the music. This was once a place of worship, but now instead of an altar, there was a DJ booth. Instead of a crucifix dangling above, there was a wall of speakers. Pulsating lights hung from the soaring, arched ceiling, illuminating the writhing mass of people on the dancefloor in red, blue, gold, and green. Couples, groups, grinding, kissing, fondling each other under the stained glass windows. A hot and sweaty den of debauchery, profane and blasphemous. Sanctuary, but only for the wicked.

The DJ segued into the next song. Lucretia My Reflection by Sisters of Mercy. Oooh shit, she loved this one so much. She took one more deep drink from her glass and abandoned it on a nearby table before stepping onto the dance floor to sway and sashay to the music. She raised her arms over her head and twirled, letting go of inhibition…

There he was, her skull-painted prey, making his way through the crowd along the side of the dance floor. The mass of people parted to make room for him as if they were commanded to. Perhaps they could sense the power in him, the same sheer magnetism that was drawing her to him and making her ache inside. She continued to sway, watching him move, watching him work the crowd, seeing how they gazed at him in awe. Suddenly, he stopped, turning towards the dance floor and staring directly at her.

She could finally get a good look at him now. The artfully distressed jacket and matching skin–tight jeans. The black vest and silk shirt with a high collar and ruffled cuffs that almost completely covered his gloved hands. The royal blue cravat tied around his neck. The perfect goth daddy. Only then did she notice his eyes - one green, one white. That pang of recognition hit her again. He seemed so familiar to her.

She continued to writhe to the music as he stared down his nose at her, not relinquishing eye contact, looking every bit like a dom ready to tame his brat. Like he knew that was exactly what she wanted. Heat was pooling in her core. She had never needed a man so badly in her life.

The tables had turned. Now she was the prey, and he had her perfectly in his sights.

She closed her eyes and ran her hands over her body, from her ass to her waist, sliding up over her breasts and across her neck into her hair, all while dancing seductively. If he was going to stare, she might as well give him a show, right? When she opened her eyes again, he was gone.

She faltered, stumbling a bit as she stopped still on the dance floor, her eyes desperately searching for him in the crowd. Before she could turn to look around, she felt him. He was right behind her, his gloved hands coming to her waist, slipping down to her hips and gripping them tight, tight enough to bruise. He pulled her body against his, her back pressed to his front. She could feel how hard he was against the swell of her ass.

Oh yes, this is what she wanted. Needed. Craved.

The song faded into the next: Night Shift by Siouxie and the Banshees. A slow, sexy beat, dark and dreamy, just like the man holding her. It was hypnotic.

She slid her hands down and placed them over top of his, encouraging his tight grip as she rocked her hips to the beat of the music. Her ass wriggled back and forth, back and forth, teasing him further. He moved with her, rolling his hips into her in a luscious grind. She closed her eyes and dropped her head back against his shoulder, lolling to the side, lost in the sensation of his body on hers. His head dipped down, his lips barely ghosting over her exposed neck as he breathed her in, nuzzling her with his nose until his mouth was at her ear.

“Well, aren’t you a sexy little thing?” It was a whispered growl. “Did you come here to play tonight, gattina?”

His voice, his accent, sent a shiver right through to her core; his breath in her ear gave her goosebumps. She mewled in response, unable to form a coherent thought.

He turned her then, his gloved hands at her waist to move her so they were face to face. He pulled her flush against him once more. His left hand took a firm hold of her ass, his fingers digging into the pliant flesh while his right hand slid up to the back of her neck, bringing her face so so close to his and trapping her there. He lowered his forehead to hers, their noses brushing against each other’s, lips a hair’s breadth from touching. They stayed like this for a few moments, swaying together in time with the music. She felt his leg nudge hers apart, slipping in between them, his thigh pressing firmly against her. The hand on her ass nudged her forward and then pulled her back, over and over, slowly and deliberately, until she was riding this thigh, gripping onto the lapels of his jacket to keep herself upright. She was gasping, lost in the stimulation, completely in his thrall.

“Will you let Papa have his way with you, dolcezza?” he asked, his voice dripping with honey.

She nodded, enraptured, staring up at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

“Ah-ah… Words. Use them. I need to hear you say it. Or I stop, si?”

“Yes! Yes, please. Please Papa,” she whimpered. “Anything you want.”

“Anything?” His lips were at her ear again: “Be careful what you wish for, gattina.”

He backed off of her, taking hold of her hand and making his way off the dance floor and out of the Chapel entirely. She clutched at his hand with both of hers, staggering behind him in a daze. He sliced his way through the crowd expertly, as if he were intimately familiar with the layout of the building, leading her down the main hallway and through one of the back doors that led outside. The chill of the night air hit her overheated skin and set her shivering, but nothing but this man would tame the heat inside of her.

He led her to the old greenhouse that stood a few feet away. It was dilapidated and overgrown, with weeds and vines making their way inside through the broken windows. But there was privacy here, light streaking in from the main building providing enough illumination to see, yet still enough shadow to conceal them from view.

Once the door was open, he led her inside first. She stood breathless as he shut the door and turned to her. His face was half shadow, half light, the stark contrast only accentuated by the skull paint he wore. His one white eye practically glowed as he approached her, slowly, like a predator. It was equal parts terrifying and arousing. She instinctively backed away with each step he took toward her, even though she wanted to be ravaged by him. The thrill of the chase…

“You said you’d do anything,” he reminded her, taunting her as continued to approach and she kept stepping backward.

“Yes Papa,” she whispered, “And I will.”

They were quickly approaching the far wall of the greenhouse that was shared with the Abbey proper, made of stone bricks instead of glass. He picked up his pace, reaching out to her as her back hit the wall. Instead of touching her, he clamped his hands onto the brick, one on either side of her head, trapping her there while he stared down at her with a burning gaze, his pupils blown black with lust.

"So beautiful," he whispered, “Un giocattolo così grazioso per me.”

She was entranced by his eyes, only looking away to glance down at his full, parted lips, anticipating the kiss that had yet to come. It was a tease now, his lips so close to hers, his body pressing her hard against the wall so she could feel the large bulge of his cock against her thigh. Wholly intoxicated by the weight of him, the scent of leather and smoky spice, she couldn’t bear the wait any longer. She grabbed hold of the cravat hanging from his neck and wrapped it twice around her right hand, using the leverage to pull his lips to hers. It was a bruising kiss, hard and rough, wanton and sloppy and desperate. Her other hand went to the back of his head to hold him there against her lips. They were both groaning into each other’s mouths, knowing that this was only a prelude to more pleasure.

Finally, his hands were on her body, dragging the thin straps of her dress off her shoulders before tugging the bodice down to expose her breasts to him. The punishing kisses continued as he explored her flesh, his gloved hands covering her breasts, squeezing them, teasing each already-hardened nipple between a thumb and forefinger. He pried his lips away from hers, sucking and biting his way down her neck to the hollow of her throat before licking a stripe down over the swell of her breasts and taking each nipple into his mouth in turn, swirling around them with his tongue. She was whimpering, shuddering under his ministrations.

“Such sweet sounds you make for me,” he murmured against her skin, nibbling kisses back up across her chest to her face, eye to eye with her again. “But do you think I can make you scream, hmmm? Will you cry out my name when you cum for me?” He kissed her hard, sucking at her lower lip and nipping it with his teeth.

“Yes, Papa,” she said, her breath shaking.

He smiled wickedly, “Good girl.” He reached for her dress again, taking hold of the material bunched up under her breasts and sliding it further past her waist and over her hips until it slipped down her legs and landed in a pool at her feet. His eyes tracked the fabric as it fell but quickly darted back to hers once he saw that she was completely bare underneath it. “Well, well, you did come to play tonight.” The gloved hands were running all over her naked skin now, buttery smooth and hot. He kissed her once more and leaned in to whisper in her ear: “No more teasing. Spread your legs.”

She obeyed without hesitation and he wasted no time, expertly sliding the fingers of his right hand between her legs and into the soft folds that were already soaked in anticipation. The feel of the leather there was delicious, unlike anything she had experienced before. It had her moaning immediately. His left hand gripped her under the chin, his thumb and fingers on either side of her neck applying light pressure… with the promise of more. He tilted her chin up, forcing her to maintain eye contact with him.

“So wet for me already,” he purred, his fingers making contact with her clit, stroking and teasing. “So, so needy. You came here to get fucked tonight, didn’t you?” She gasped as he easily slid one finger inside of her, then a second a moment later. “Is this what you wanted, tesoro?” His thumb was on her clit now, applying sweet pressure there while his fingers pumped in and out of her at a languid pace.

She arched her back off of the wall, pressing herself into him, her eyes fluttering shut in blissful pleasure. His grip around her throat suddenly tightened.

“Eyes open,” he ordered. She complied. “You didn’t answer me. I asked you a question.”

“Y-yes Papa,” she stammered, “I… I wanted this.”

“Is this all you want?” He rubbed her clit harder.

She was getting close, the tension building heavy in her core. “Oooh….” she whined, “N-n-no”

He brought his face right up to hers again, their eyes locked. “Tell me. Tell me what you want, and perhaps I will give it to you.”

“I want…” she gasped, “I want you to fuck me. I want your cock.”

His eye contact was unwavering. “Good girls say ‘please.’”

“Please… P-p-please, Papa,” she begged.

“Mmmmm,” he cooed, finally satisfied with her reply, “I like the sound of you begging, dolcezza. I like it very much.” His fingers continued to work her as he slowly lowered himself to his knees, trailing light kisses down her body as he moved. “You will have this cock.” He lapped at her breast. “I will fuck you and make you mine.” His tongue swept from her sternum to her belly button. “But first, I want to taste you.”

He knelt between her legs, his fingers still buried deep inside of her. His free hand gripped her thigh and lifted her leg up and over his shoulder to ease access to her dripping wet heat. His thumb left her clit to be replaced with his tongue, at first lapping softly down through her folds to her entrance then back up to swirl around the center of her pleasure. He moaned at the taste of her, the vibration sending shockwaves through her.

“Papa!” she cried out, beyond caring if anyone heard.

That was the response he wanted. He moaned again, leaning his shoulder further into her, lifting her leg higher to press her harder into the wall, his hand firmly on her ass. She was completely at his mercy. His fingers went deeper, twisting, looking for that sweet spot inside of her to make her come undone. When she gasped and shuddered, he knew he had found it. He continued to tease it and sucked her clit into his mouth.

She couldn’t take much more. She had been on the verge of her orgasm before he even put his mouth on her, and now it was the point of no return. It was just too good - his fingers and his tongue worked her in ways she had never experienced, but somehow exactly as she needed. She slid her hands into his hair, grabbing fistfuls of it and holding on while she rocked her hips back and forth in time with his tongue, moaning shamelessly. He encouraged her, the hand on her ass supporting her as she chased her climax.

“Papa, Papa.. please don’t stop. Don’t stop!” Her legs shook as the tension within her finally snapped. “Papa… fuck! Jesus fucking Christ…” she swore and wave after wave of pleasure rolled through her, her hips undulating in time with his tongue as he worked her through it, unrelenting. He did not stop until he had wrung every last whimper and gasp out of her and she was a panting, trembling mess.

He removed his fingers from her gently, and slid them into his mouth, sucking away the wetness as he stood, humming with satisfaction. He took her into his embrace, one arm around her waist and one on the back of her neck, holding her through each shattered breath as she came down from the ecstatic high. “Mmmm, deliziosa. Così buono. Una ragazza così brava per me,” he whispered praise in her ear. His lips found hers, capturing her in a feverish kiss.

She could taste herself on his lips, and it thrilled her. She wanted more. She wanted all of him. She wanted to make him squirm and shudder as he had done to her. She broke off the kiss, using her tongue to swipe his slick-coated chin clean, then slid her tongue back into his mouth. He groaned, rolling his hips into her, pushing her back upon the wall, his cock painfully hard and straining against the seams of his skin-tight pants.

Before he could ask, or command, she was on her knees before him. Her hands gripped the front of his thighs and she leaned forward to place a sweet, gentle kiss on the bulge in his pants. She felt him tense up, a strangled “Fuck,” escaping his lips. She slid her hands down to his knees, up the back of his thighs, then splayed out her fingers to grab his ass and give it a good squeeze. Her hands lingered there as she nuzzled into his crotch, earning another groan from him. She looked up at him and saw his head tilted back, his eyes shut, enjoying the way she was fondling him.

The fastening of his pants was laced up like a corset and tied in a bow. She took the end of the string between her teeth and pulled to untie it, before walking her fingers up and across his waistband to work at loosening the lacing. He sighed as it came undone, no doubt relishing the pressure release. He looked down at her then, and his hand came to the top of her head, his fingers weaving into her hair as she peeled the fabric away to free him from his confines. He was bare underneath and his cock sprang free as she pulled the waistband down to his thighs. She expected him to be big after feeling him grinding on her, but she was not prepared for the size revealed… thick, hard, and ready for her.

“Suck me, principessa,” he hissed, those hypnotic, mismatched eyes locking with hers again. It wasn’t an ask, it was an order.

With her eyes still on his, she opened her mouth and skimmed her tongue around the tip, lapping up the pre-cum that was already leaking. Her tongue swirled and licked before her lips parted around him, taking him in with a hint of suction. She flattened her tongue and bobbed up and down the shaft, slowly easing the length of him into her mouth while bracing her hands on his thighs. He inhaled sharply, his fingers gripping her hair tighter now. She moaned around him, savoring the heavy feel of him on her tongue, the taste of him, and the tension of her hair wrapped in his fist.

He was moaning too, his eyes transfixed on her mouth. He was nodding, encouraging, and vocal - “mmm-hmm” and “yes” and “good girl” slipping from his lips repeatedly - but he still let her control the pace. She worked him deeper, deeper, until she felt him hit the back of her throat. Then she did it again. And again. She held him there for as long as she could, before coming up for air and stroking his length with her tongue once more, over and over.

Now he was groaning with each thrust, feral and animalistic, knowing that she was capable of taking the full length of him. He grabbed her hands off his thighs, taking tight hold of her wrists and bringing her arms up over her head. He bucked his hips, pushing her back flat against the wall again and pinning her arms against it. She couldn’t move. She was trapped and at his mercy as he face-fucked her, rutting his cock as deep as he could down her throat, while she sputtered and gagged on him. She didn’t know how much more she could take.

Without warning, he withdrew from her mouth and pulled her up to her feet by her arms. He turned her to face the wall, his hands positioning hers flat against it before sliding down her body to her back, forcing her to bend at the waist and step her legs backward to assume the position. She knew what was coming next.

His left hand gripped her hip hard, the leather of his glove burning hot on her skin. With his other hand, he set his cock against her entrance, teasing the tip of it up and down her slit. She was already moaning in anticipation.

“This is what you wanted, yes?” he growled. “You want this cock inside you?”

“Yes, Papa. Please…”

“Then take it,” he snarled, pushing all the way into her with one quick thrust. It knocked the breath out of her.

But he didn’t move. He was still, buried to the hilt, giving her a moment to adjust to him. There was an initial hint of pain as she stretched to accommodate his size, but having him so deep inside was exquisite. She clenched around him, her walls throbbing. He leaned over her, his hand coming up to cover hers on the wall, his fingers curling around hers. He peppered quick kisses along her shoulders and the back of her neck. It was unexpectedly tender considering how he was using her just moments earlier…

Until he stood straight again, his hands at her waist, pulling his hips back slowly and then forward into her. His pace was slow and deliberate at first, each thrust dragging along the delicate bundle of nerves deep inside her that he had found with his fingers earlier. She matched his rhythm with her own, pushing back against his thrusts to hit that spot harder, just so.

He snapped his hips harder, his pace intensifying, a jumble of words and groans tumbling from his lips. “Yes dolcezza… yes… f-fuck! So good… brava…. Bellissima…” He wasn’t going to last long at this rate, and neither would she.

His hands left her waist, and in a moment returned. He was holding something soft and silky in his hand. A scarf - the blue cravat he had worn around his neck. Now it was sliding around hers. He laid it taut around her throat and pulled… not too hard, but hard enough to cut off her air. Her right hand went to her neck, trying to grab a hold of it, to loosen it to no avail. He had it wrapped around his fist, twisting it tighter with each thrust of his hips. Her head tilted back towards him, her back arched, and she was seeing stars, gasping for breath. And he was groaning like an animal, his pace frenzied. His free hand fell between her legs, his fingers finding her clit and stroking her hard.

“Cum,” he demanded, “Cum for me now.”

The lack of oxygen dizzied her, enhancing the pleasure in the most brutal and unexpected of ways. One last swipe at her clit and the orgasm slammed her, her hips jerking and her knees buckling in ecstasy.

“P-p-papa…” she choked out.

The scarf loosened and fell away. He leaned forward again, his chest on her back, nipping at her shoulder before biting down hard, sending more ripples of twisted euphoria through her. Both of his hands came to the wall, covering hers with his own as she tried to hold herself up. His hips stuttered, his thrusts erratic. “Mine,” he snarled through gritted teeth, “Mine.” One final, powerful thrust and he spilled inside of her, moaning in pleasure and release.

They lingered there for some time, he still leaning over her back, his hands still on hers, their fingers entwined. Breathless, panting, blissful. Soothing kisses across her back and shoulders, his tongue laving over the tender spot where he bit her.

Carefully, he straightened up, slipping out of her as gently as he could. She whimpered at the loss. He helped her stand, peeling her hands off the wall and massaging her palms and her arms to ease the strain. He turned her to face him and took her in his embrace, planting more kisses to her hands, her fingers, her throat, her mouth - everywhere that had endured his domination. She rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes as his hands caressed her body and he comforted her with whispered words of praise. “Such a good girl for me, principessa. Mia dolce ragazza. Amore. Mia Bella…”

He kissed her then, soft and sweet. Her hand went to his cheek as she deepened the kiss, his mustache tickling her upper lip before she pulled away, pressing her forehead to his.

“Copia…” she murmured.

She opened her eyes to look at him. It was no longer the skull-painted man. It was the Cardinal. Her Copia.

“Ti amo, Bella,” he whispered.

Izzy bolted upright in bed, gasping. She was covered in a sheen of sweat, her body tingling from the aftershocks of the orgasm she’d just had. She clutched at her throat as if the silk scarf was still choking her.

It took her several moments to come back to reality. The bedroom was dark. Poe was staring at her, annoyed at the interruption of his sleep. She was panting, her hands covering her face, rocking back and forth to soothe herself.

“Holy shit,” she whispered to herself. “HOLY SHIT.”

She flopped back down on her bed, taking a pillow from beside her and wrapping her arms around it as she curled up in the fetal position and tried to calm herself.

“It was just a dream. It was just a dream. It was just a dream,” she repeated out loud. As if that was going to change anything.

She knew it in her gut, but this all but confirmed it: the skull-painted man she had dreamt about was Copia.

[bloody-oath]

Which slashers would use chapstick?

Here lies deep pan crust. Going through the list...

Which slashers would use and need chapstick?

Jason Voorhees: Super crusty. Each kiss comes with free nibblies, i.e., skin flakes with a side of rot. Anti-chapstick. Anti-healthy. Jesus cannot save.

Michael Myers: Not bad. Dehydrated, but not dry. His skin is tough as nails. Additionally, the mask protects his smackers from weather damage. No chapstick, no need. Good on you, Mike.

Freddy Krueger: Bruh. First, give him some skin to moisturise. If the chapstick is tinted red, it will look like tomato sauce on a pair of burnt sausages. Do not even bother. 

Bubba Sawyer: He does not need chapstick. The chapstick needs him. His lips are extra plush, all bounce. Mattresses be damned. Rest your weight on these babies instead. 10/10 would ride again.

Nubbins Sawyer: Adequate. That is the passive-aggressive word we are going to use. Better than what you may think. Not that great though, settle down. Oblivious to skincare.

Chop Top: Well, he *is* the ambassador for Colgate, hello. Does not use the hydrating balm, but would not be against using one. Half a point.

Drayton Sawyer: Oh. Oh, yeah. Stacks of them. Goes through a whole stick per day. Has a huge stash of them in his bedside drawer... No. What do you think? No.

Brahms Heelshire: Send help. If there is no soap usage, there is certainly no chapstick applications. Just give him what he wants and spit on his lips. Voila. Good enough.

Chucky: Lucky bastard never needs to worry. Plastic is fantastic. The softness is debatable, but they are crack-free. Weird though, because despite that, a lot of shit spills out of them.

Hannibal Lecter: Maybe. Actually, yeah. At home? Yes. Did he have one in his cell? Doubt it. Han is a man of self-care. The chapstick he uses is nothing fancy. Clear colour, no fragrance, does the job.

Norman Bates: Perhaps when dressed as his mother. It is a beauty product, after all, and she is a woman. Gender roles in the sixties and whatnot. If dryness were to occur, he may contemplate a soothing solution. Progressive.

Pennywise: Smearing paint on his face is routine, so why not add in a chapstick for the nourishing benefits? Too bad he does not have one. Blood will have to do. Specifically, kiddie blood. Fun to wear, tasty to lick.

Pinhead: Can you imagine? He cannot. Therefore, he does not. Oddly, lubricating his dermis is not a top priority for the Hell Priest. No matter. He struggles to find a lip balm that matches his pale skin anyway.

Billy Loomis: Yes, I am convinced. It is a secret though. If anyone were to find out, in the bin it goes. He only applies the ointment occasionally, but he uses one, nonetheless. If only he utilised the same amount of effort towards his hair.

Stu Macher: Yeah, he uses chapstick... the one Billy owns. Whoops. Vanity is not a necessity for the boy. It is more for shits and giggles than anything else. Like using crutches when you are not crippled, because why not?

John Kramer: Sure, if needed. Why suffer parched lips? Why would a person torture themselves? Why not find a humane, simple, easy to execute solution? Hmm.

Hilliker Brothers: Uh, supposedly? Depends on what you mean by use though. Saw Tooth manipulates it to treat wounds. One Eye fucking eats it. Three Finger wields it as a marking tool to assist with placing his traps. Practical ways.

Jack Torrance: This is the guy who would buy those bizarre flavoured balms, such as bacon and pickle. The novelty amuses him to no end. Boomer like.

Candyman: Beeswax. You guessed it. I said it. Everyone agrees. There we go. 

Leprechaun: If he does use a chapstick, it is not working. Time to switch brands and consult a dermatologist about those blisters. Decayed-looking-ass lips.

Yautja: He learns something new everyday. Chapstick, you say? Do not eat it, but I will try to anyway, you warn? It shall be digested. Likes the sweet aroma.

Ash Williams: Most definitely. Pondered sawing one of his fingers off to replace it with an essential tool that is his lip salve. Not really. He is big on modest pampering though.

The Creeper: Might consider devouring it. That will be as far as it goes. Collects any chapsticks as loot from the bodies of his dead victims. Still trash, but also treasure.

Art the Clown: Totally. Why stop at chapstick when you can slap on tar? A sticky, black, questionable substance. Do not forget to coat the teeth as well. Spread that shit. In truth, it is charcoal - and he just wants a whitened smile.

Mick Taylor: God, no. Do not even dare to offer him a chapstick. You will get it thrown at your face, along with a bullet inserted where it hits your forehead. Blokes do not use feminine products. Bloody oath!

Total: 9.5 / 25