#cw: religious sacrifice

[aplaceinthedark]

CONSUMED by the DARK

(a TOWERING MAN story)

Word Count: 2.9k+

CW: supernatural themes, religious sacrifice, body horror, animal cruelty, being buried alive

Pain. Fear. That’s all Noah could feel right now.

He clutched at his side, trying to staunch the blood flowing from the stab wound. Whatever cultists that stabbed him had thankfully not stabbed him deep enough. They had been aiming for the heart, but he twisted just in time.

“Noooo-ahhh!”

He whimpered at the sound of his name being called. He couldn't tell what direction it had come from. Whatever freaks they had out here were searching for him, and they were using his loved ones' voices. Some of them he hadn’t heard in years. Those he could care less about, but when he heard his best friends’ voice, crying out in pain for him, he wanted to curl up and wait until they found him, finishing him off for good.

That's when Noah stumbled face first into another tree, adding more blood to his body. He had entered the woods with a flashlight, but it was gone now. He was stumbling blindly, with no moon to guide him. Why did the gods decide to coincide the summer solstice with the new moon? Whose great idea was that?

Where was the end? How far into the woods was he?

“Noooo-AAAHH!”

God, they had to be close. He could barely run anymore. His fingers were ice cold despite the warm blood slipping between them. His foot caught a loose root, and he fell face down in the dirt. His cry of pain surely would alert them to his location.

Indeed, a low glow lit up the back of his eyelids as he lifted his head. Through bleary eyes, he could make out the dull red glow. Except it wasn’t a cultist standing before him.

Its pelt was black; blacker than the darkness surrounding the two. Noah was certain he would’ve been able to track it in complete darkness. The dull red glow, though, lit up the hollow, and he could see that it came from its antlers. He couldn’t count how many points the stag had, mainly because they seemed to twist and turn in on themselves. Like oak branches, he thought. 

Noah could only imagine what he looked like: covered in blood and dirt, leaves and sticks caught in his shoulder- length hair as well as his clothes. Despite the circumstances, he felt like he wasn’t worthy to be caught in the thing's presence. The stag dug at the ground with one of its massive hooves. Noah was tall, but this beast had to be more than twice his size.

Before Noah could contemplate any further, it spoke, not aloud, but in his mind:

CHILD OF THE VALLEY, WHY HAVE YOU COME TO MY COURT?

Noah flinched at the harsh tone. It was guttural, like a scream that came from the gut rather than the throat. He sputtered, unsure of how he even managed to get to that spot. He told the stag so, through chattering teeth as the coldness of the hollow finally caught up to him. 

The stag tilted its head, the glow of its antlers moving as if filled with liquid. Like blood. The movement almost seemed… human-like. It unsettled Noah even more.

I THINK YOU KNOW WHERE YOU TRULY ARE, NOAH SEBASTIAN DAVIS. YOUR KIND HAVE TOLD THE TALES OF THE WATCHER OF THE WOODS FOR A LONG, LONG TIME.

Noah flinched again at those words that sounded like a parent coldly scolding their child. To be honest, until recently, he never had believed in those tales of darkness roaming the Shenandoah Valley. Then, when what happened with the Folio kid happened, he started to believe it more and more.

“Please… please help me. I-I’ll do anything,” he pleaded, feeling a fresh spurt of blood despite his numb fingers. It wouldn’t be long now.

THERE WILL BE A PRICE.

“I… I don’t care. I- I’ll do any… thing.” He didn’t want to die here, alone in the woods. 

GIVE YOURSELF TO ME. BECOME THE INSTRUMENT OF MY WILL, AND I WILL FREE YOU FROM THE PAIN OF YOUR HUMANITY.

Noah could barely speak at that point, so he merely nodded. The Watcher made a sound, and the world went black. With one last steady breath, Noah spoke his final words:

“I think I've had enough… enough now.”

And that was how the young human, Noah Davis, died and became the Towering Man. 

The search parties were few. That didn’t surprise him. Ever since he and Nicholas were made to be the boys who cried wolf, the people in town were quick to make excuses for his disappearance. 

"He was a troubled boy.”

“He probably just ran away."

“Kids these days. He’s probably lying face down in a drain in the city right now.”

If he could feel anger, it would be at the woman who had claimed to love him. The woman who had turned out to be just like the rest of them. She was the reason for the state that he was in. She was the reason why he had died and sold his soul. After that, she only fueled the rumors that he had run away. Even with Nicholas trying his best to combat the rumors, it was only him against a town of five thousand.

Nicholas tried his best to keep the search parties going, but when you live in a town that values old superstitions over the life of a 21-year-old, it’s hard to do anything. Noah wanted to tell his friend that it was okay, to ease Nicholas’ pain and anxiety, but he was forced to watch as Nicholas continued to put up missing flyers and stay up late at night to wait for Noah to come home.

But after a few months, even Nicholas seemed to give up. His family convinced him to move to Richmond, and for a while Noah would only see Nicholas every once and while, when he would visit Granny. And Noah was forced to do nothing but watch from the treeline.

During the day, he would root himself near Granny Ruffilo’s home. He tried to resist the Watcher’s pull, even at night when he was demanded to collect the offerings left by the cult: mostly blood and wine. Except on the nights when the moon was darkest, then he couldn’t resist the voice inside his head.

Noah wanted to scream out whenever he would see Nicholas through one of the windows; scream at him that he was right there, outside of that window, just past the treeline. Except Nicholas wouldn’t be able to hear him, even if he could use his voice.

And Noah’s heart - or whatever counted as his heart now - turned black.

He watched Nicholas move on. Seasons passed, and so did Noah’s feelings. By the time June came back around, he had pretty much given himself over to the Watcher’s will. He accepted the fact that his best friend would no longer be saving him. 

The night before the summer solstice, Noah was summoned to the Watcher’s Grove. Some would joke that it could be a courtroom, except the Black Stag was too proud of itself to share its power. All it needed was its minions, which it was surrounded with now. 

THE TIME HAS COME, CHILD OF THE VALLEY. YOUR GOD DEMANDS ONE LAST THING OF YOU.

Noah thought he was being rewarded, being given his human body back. Like some kind of horrific Cinderella, he just needed to explain to Nicholas everything that had happened; that he had made a deal with the devil that he couldn’t take back. The Watcher knew that the first thing Noah would do was run to Nicholas, and he planned accordingly.

Noah should’ve realized his mistake. When he called for Nicholas, he should’ve realized it when he felt his bones shift in response. He should’ve realized it when he felt his body stretch and grown when Nicholas came out into the woods. It wasn’t until Nicholas’ face twisted in fear did Noah realize the Watcher’s plan.

Nicholas was to be the Watcher’s next Vessel, and Noah was to bring him to the Watcher.

Except the Watcher had underestimated Nicholas. See, it turned out Nicholas was a part of an old bloodline of Practitioners. Usually, it passed down onto the women, skipping a generation if need be. For some reason, instead of picking his sister, the practice chose him. It did so not long before this incident, so Nicholas was still learning the extent of what he could and could not do.

So when Noah reached out for him with a thorny hand, Nicholas accidentally blew him apart. But Noah had died in the Shenandoah Valley, where dead things don’t stay dead.

Nicholas crafted a body made of sticks, leaves and mud, and bound Noah to it. It nearly killed both of them. It wasn’t the best; Nicholas had just learned how to manage his practice, after all. Noah had a body again, and this one wasn’t under the control of the Watcher’s will.

And he would use it to his advantage.

“I’m gonna fuck up that deer god.”

Their plan wasn’t perfect at all. Nicholas was going to pretend to be captured, the perfect Vessel to be sacrificed. That way, hopefully they would have the element of surprise.

Which of course, wasn’t how it happened. Leave it to him to underestimate how good the Watcher was at reading minds.

YOU THINK YOU CAN STAND AGAINST A GOD?

the Watcher of the Woods asked. The cultists stood around them in a circle, not getting too close, but ready to jump in at a moment’s notice.

YOU, A SCARED LITTLE BOY AND HIS LITTLE WITCH, AGAINST SOMETHING OLDER THAN THE DIRT YOU STAND UPON? OLDER THAN THE STICKS IN YOUR BODIES THAT YOU CALL BONES?

Was Noah scared? Absolutely, even though he couldn’t really feel it. But for once, he didn’t let his fear show, like he did when he faced the Watcher the first time,  a year and a day ago in this same grove.

This time he was ready.

With Nicholas helping him, his concentration divided between bolding off the Cultists with a warding barrier and aiding Noah, Noah found he was evenly matched with the Black Stag. He had learned the deity's tricks over the past year, and could counteract them easily. Noah acted as an almost perfect counterbalance to the darkness: whenever the Watcher would throw decayed dirt edged with frost that was colder than the universe, Noah would ruin it with life and nature and warmth.

The Watcher of the Woods even tried to take Nicholas out of the equation with a malediction, but Noah wouldn't let it. With a roar that could shake mountains, Noah charged forward and grabbed onto the Stag's twisted antlers. Under his grip, they were bitterly cold, almost turning his fingers instantly blue. The stag tried to rear back to shake off Noah, but he only tightened his grip until his knuckles cracked.

“After all that you've put me through? After all the hell you created for these hollow souls? After all the lives you've torn apart for your sick enjoyment? You think for one second, I'll let you destroy one more? You think that this makes you a god?”

Noah's eyes flared green, lighting up the darkness in his eyes, as with a loud growl, he spoke: 

IF THERE'S A GOD, IT'S FUCKING ME!

And with a twist, Noah tore off the crown of bloody bones with a mighty crack. At first, he thought the sound had come from his body, but when the red in his vision faded, he saw the head of the Black Stay on the ground, separated from its body.

There were numerous cries of disbelief around him. Some might have tried to attack him, but with one look, they stopped. Noah held up the antlers that were still in his hands.

DON'T EVER COME BACK, YOU HEAR ME? IF I FIND OUT YOU EVEN TRY TO START THIS SHIT AGAIN, I WILL COME AFTER ALL OF YOU! YOUR FAMILIES TOO, IF I HAVE TO!

And they scattered like roaches.

Noah and Nicholas stood in the grove, alone and quiet. The corpse of the Black Stag had decayed fast; even the bones and antlers had rotted away. Noah shook his hands until the decay was gone. All that was left was the skin of his palms had been burned black. 

“Now what?" Nicholas said, breaking the silence.

“I don't know. I don't feel any–”

There was a sudden shifting beneath Noah. He looked down in surprise to see that the ground had swallowed his feet. He was sinking.

And with one last raspy chuckle, he heard the Black Stag mutter in his mind:

THERE MUST ALWAYS BE SOMETHING TO WATCH OVER THE WOODS.

Nicholas tried to pull him free, but when Noah was up to his waist in the ground, he pushed Nicholas away. “But I just found you!” Nicholas cried.

“Don't worry, I'll be back. Just listen for your name.”

And the earth swallowed Noah up, and darkness claimed him once again. 

He felt the suffocating weight of the ground pressing on him from all sides, the darkness so absolute he didn't know which way was up or down. A weird feeling spread through him, like a panic attack but… absent. Like he should be having one, but it wouldn't come. 

That's when he realized his eyes were closed, but when he opened them, he was faced with something much worse. 

Something fell into his eyes, and when he opened his mouth to scream, it fell in there too. The taste gave him his answer to where he was.

Dirt. He was buried underground.

Still, he didn't feel panic. He struggled against the dirt, trying to claw his way free, but his limbs were numb and weak from disuse. There was no way he was going to get out of this without some help.

Naturally, he called for the person who would help him without question.

NICHOLAS.

He felt ridiculous. How was Nicholas gonna hear him? How did he even get buried in the first place? 

There was no time for questions or memories. He had to dig himself out somehow.

He willed his arms to move, his legs to kick. Either he was so weak, or buried so deep, he couldn't move a muscle. He tried to remember what he was taught about being buried alive. Don't use a lighter; breathe short little gasps to prolong the air. That was if he was buried in a box, though, and he didn't need to worry about breathing. He hadn't needed to for a long time. 

He didn’t know how long he was there, buried deep beneath, barely moving despite his mind shouting at his limbs to just move already! He had almost given up when he felt the earth shift somewhere near his head. Were those voices?

It sounded like great amounts of dirt were being thrown around, like when a dog digs for a bone. It stopped for a moment, a new voice joining whoever was above. Then the digging continued, but with the rhythm of what might be a shovel.

When the weight got lighter, Noah used the last of his strength to move his arm. Without the weight of the dirt pressing down on him, his hand burst up from the ground. There was a shout, and suddenly two pairs of hands grabbed onto his arm and pulled him free.

“I came as soon as I heard your call. In my head,” Nicholas said.

The other two, Joakim and Nick, had heard it too. If there were others like them, they didn’t show. But Noah didn’t care. These were his friends now.

This was the Circle of Omens and Thorns.

And that’s how Noah Sebastian became the new Watcher of the Woods, the King of the Shenandoah Valley.

Something was wrong with the woods, and it was driving Noah crazy.

As he peers over the top of the mountains from his perch on Stony Man Mountain, he feels the Appalachian Spring air sweep through the trees, barely ruffling his long hair. He mindlessly twirls a braid around his finger, thumb rolling a bead around as an anxious tic. A chill runs down his spine, and he knows it’s not because of the wind. The Spring season up here is a lot like a joke; he’s seen wildflowers poking through big heaps of snow before. That wasn’t stopping him from shedding his shirt, like now.

He likes to come up here, despite it being a popular stop on a hiking trail. At night, no one will bother him; not even Folio. He knows that when Noah goes up Stony Man, he doesn’t want to be disturbed.

Except he’s still disturbed, just in a different way.

He lays back on the ground and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath as he curls his fingers through the dirt and grass. He grounds himself to expand his consciousness through the Valley.

He can feel the way the trees seem to curl in on themselves, like an old man wrapping his coat tighter around him as he trudged on through the bustling air. His skin crawls as he feels roots wind their way through the soil, touching something so foul it fills his throat with black mud and he gags, but can’t move. The black mud chokes him, whispering in a familiar voice that promises nothing but venom and sweet lies. 

He wrenches from his reverie, coughing and spitting despite nothing is in his mouth other than cold air and saliva. 

Something has returned to the Valley. Something dark, and something… black.

[cookiesupplier]

chapter eleven: JUST wouldn't STAY DOWN, part two

Summary: Down in the Shenandoah Valley, there lay a court consisting of the Grim, the Drowned, the Witch and the Watcher.

PLEASE READ THIS NEXT SECTION

These next three updates will deal with very dark themes. I would HIGHLY suggest that you be in the right mindset to read these, otherwise I'd recommend you take a good step back and wait until you are. Please, take care of yourselves, cryptids 😘

CW: major character injuries, mentions of religious sacrifice, mentions of mockery of religious themes, ptsd, supernatural themes, large canine, whatever you want to call what Noah is, body horror, graphic violence, angst, blood, torture, graphic depictions of vehicular crash scenes

Every chapter will have a different cw section. This is Bad Omens rpf, so obviously I don't know all the little nuances of the members or their family members, and technically Bad Omens doesn't exist in this universe.

A/N: So the next two chapters are super long, so I'm splitting them up to be bearable, and because I'm a sadist that likes to watch you all suffer. I’m writing this as I go, so I'd rather you all have semi-frequent updates.

Some things are color-coded. If any of you are colorblind to blues, reds or greens, lemme know.

FEATURED CREATURES:

If you want to be on the tagged list, lemme know.

@ladyveronikawrites @lilhobgobbler @signs-of-ill-portent @roley-poley-foley @badhedonist @screamsinsilver @kingdomof-omens

@deathblacksmoke @cookiesupplier

“So when did you learn how to practice?” Noah asked.

“I didn't. It just… I don't know,” I said, sighing.

This trek through the woods was a lot faster, even though I kept tripping and falling, due to not having Nick keeping me upright. At one point Noah suggested Folio carry me on his back, even going so far as to call it a “furry piggyback ride” after we refused the first time. Needless to say, we refused again.

Unfortunately, Folio ran on ahead to scout the area in front of us, with Noah acting as the middle man if we had to change directions because of the terrain. Which left me with the man who just this morning had me pinned to the wall by my neck.

“So how long?” I asked. Noah made an inquisitive grunting noise. “How long did you have feelings for him?”

Noah was silent for a while, almost making me think he wasn't going to dignify me with a response, until he finally spoke, “Not too long before shit went down, actually. We… bonded a little after we watched Folio get killed.”

“Bonded? Is that a euphemism for–”

“No, get your mind out of the gutter,” Noah snapped. “We kissed once, okay? After i lost my mom, I stayed over a lot. Nick wasn't into it, and I respected that. We stayed friends, and I got a girlfriend soon after.”

“Elin?”

“God, don't fucking remind me. That bitch deserved her fate,” Noah growled. The thought of what that fate probably was had me pushing through another several moments of tense silence.

“You didn't get over him, did you?” I asked quietly.

“I did, in fact. When I was in service to the original Watcher as the Towering Man,” Noah said with a bitter laugh. “Being over six feet tall was a curse in school, and the Watcher just loved to rub my face in it.

“I would wait for Nick to realize that I wasn't dead; that I was right outside in the woods behind his house. Nick used to search the woods after the search parties gave up, turns out. I thought he had just given up. So I left, and didn't see him until the next Summer Solstice.

“I guess seeing him with you… brought back old wounds. And I acted on them.”

I couldn't feel angry at him. Just… pity, I guess. “You got serious anger issues then. Probably should see a therapist about that,” I stated.

Noah was about to respond when he suddenly crouched down, pushing me down with him. “You see that fire?” He hissed.

We crept up on the scene before us. It was… horrifying. That was the only way I could describe it, but even then, it felt inadequate. It looked exactly how I’d imagine a cult would look like: dark clearing, candles, an altar.

I could only count ten members. They all wore black cloaks, and black masks that mimicked a deer’s skull and antlers. They all stood in pairs, except one who stood before a tall effigy made of thick branches, twigs, vines and leaves. And tied that effigy, in some kind of terrifying mockery of the crucifixion, was Nick.

I had to clamp my hand over my mouth to middle the sound of my choked sob. From this distance, I couldn’t see if he was alive or not; just that he was covered in blood.

“What do we do now?” I asked.

“Wait for Jolly to lure them to the river. He's not far,” Noah said.

My stomach churned when I looked back at Nick. A part of me wanted to rush the cultists and get him down, but I knew with my disabled hip I wouldn't be able to take on ten people who may or may not have something to stab me with. At least one person had to if they were going to try to sacrifice Nick.

Just then, one of the cultists brought out a small drum, starting to tap out a rhythm that was simple but loud. I could compare it to what my heartbeat felt like.

The one that was closest to Nick, who stood out amongst the others because their mask’s antlers were blood-red instead of black like the others, held up a hand. “We will now drink from the Cup of Fate,” the leader called out.

“Come on, Jolly. Any second now,” Noah hissed from behind me.

“Our words uttered into the formless void.”

“Our words uttered…” the cultists parroted back.

“Reverberate through the space between space, between space.”

The rhythmic beating of the drum and the smell of smoke was almost hypnotizing. More so than the one time I heard Jolly’s guitar playing…

“We are heard by THAT WHICH WATCHES OVER US, so it may lift one heavy, eager eye in our direction.”

“You don’t think they have the drink to dispel Jolly’s näcken song, do you?” I whispered to Noah.

“We are heard by those who shall always be nameless—“

“Fuckin’… shit!” Noah cursed.

“—whose incorporeal arms reach for us—“

“Alright, Folio, get in there.”

“—uniting us in unbodied observance, until we are heard no—“

The chant was cut off by the sound of a long howl. The drum stopped, and when the howl faded, I could hear the sound of a guitar and a clear voice singing:

“If God came down from His kingdom; He came down from His home, and we asked Him if He would take us back, He would surely tell us no.”

Noah had warned me of Jolly's songs, which was why I brought some small ear plugs that blocked out certain frequencies. It just so happened to block out any siren-esque frequencies as well.

What they didn't block out was the absolute chaos that came next.

They didn't block out the sounds of creaking wood and snapping branches behind me as Noah shifted into his other form. They didn't block out the sounds of Folio’s paws thundering through the forest, nor his snarls. They didn’t block out the screams as some people were ripped apart by Folio’s jaws. I had to block it all out myself.

I looked up as Noah’s deformed shadow fell over me. He looked down at me through a deer’s skull, which from this angle, I could see was melded to his face. His large, glowing white eyes pierced the darkness.

GET TO NICK.

I didn't need to be told twice.

As Noah loped towards the remaining cultists, I bolted towards Nick as fast as I was able to. I almost slammed face-first into the effigy when I skidded to a stop, but I caught myself by digging my fingers into the cracks between the sticks. The carnage behind me was still unfolding, even as I heard Noah unleash an unearthly shriek. Using a small pocket knife to cut Nick’s legs free, I soon had to climb the effigy to free his wrists.

That's when I heard a small noise come from him. I pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat and his chest rise and fall. I almost collapsed in relief. “Nick? Nick, hold on. We're gonna get you out of here,” I sputtered, moving my hand to cup the side of his face. His eyes fluttered open at the touch. They looked drained of color in the dim light.

“Hey, you’re gonna be alright, okay? I’m gonna get you out of here,” I repeated, trying to keep him conscious. “I'm gonna cut this one rope, and I'll try to catch you, but we might take a fall–”

I had cut through the rope, finally freeing him, and Nick started to slide down. I managed to catch him, but I couldn't compensate for the near-dead weight in time. As my footing slipped, I tried to catch us by grabbing onto the effigy. The wood tore my hands up. I hissed in pain, but held on for dear life; more for his and less for mine.

My feet touched the ground, followed by Nick's. Luckily he was only half a foot taller than me, because otherwise this would've gotten awkward as I wrapped his arm around my shoulders.

I searched wildly for Noah. Thankfully, he was easy to spot. I got him!! I screamed out into the ether in his direction.

GO! RUN!

Just then, a dark force barreled into me, launching me and tearing Nick from my arms. As I landed on my bad hip, a visceral scream of pain tore up my throat. In my dazed state, I barely saw the same force kick me with what seemed to be supernatural strength, as I heard bones crack as I flew several feet away and landed on my back.

“You who are empty, I shall guide your step. Lo, though you envy, envy not. Lo, though you covet, covet not.”

Despite the agonizing pain in my side, I managed to turn myself over onto my stomach. Vision spinning, I was able to find Nick, who had managed to push himself up onto his elbows. I started to pull myself toward him.

“You who are empty, I shall see through your eyes. Lo, though you toil, toil only for me. Lo, though you suffer, suffer only for me.”

A strong hand grabbed the back of my skull, tearing some of my hair out from its bun and my scalp. The pain was dulled, thanks to the adrenaline. The voice that hissed in my ear was the same voice as the leader.

“You who are empty, I shall be with you and within you. You who are empty, you shall want no longer.”

He suddenly let me go, a wave of dizziness and fog overcoming me as I collapsed back to the ground, face smashing into the hard ground. I groaned into the pavement as the adrenaline faded, and my entire left side felt like it had been scorched. I couldn’t feel my legs.

I sucked in a deep breath, though it hurt my chest to do so, and shifted my head to where my cheek was pressed against the hot asphalt. Someone’s headlights illuminated the entire crash scene, but my eyes immediately fell upon a masculine body that was several feet away, blue-gray eyes fixed on me. Eyes that pleaded for me.

I forced my body to move, even if it was just my arms. I clawed at the blacktop, my weak strength barely getting me off the street, and I barely felt the twinge as my fingernails split and broke.

YOU CAN'T SAVE HIM.

Yes, yes I could. If my stupid body would just cooperate–

YOU ARE WEAK.

Why wasn't I moving?

YOU ARE EMPTY.

No. Not this again.

My brother was dying. Again.

And I was being forced to watch. Again.

Tysm for reading! Chapter twelve, part one coming soon!

[azrail-has-a-vendetta]

Not to be over protective or anything but I would kill for my siblings

close ups + translation for my terrible handwriting ig?

If you can’t read my handwriting, understandable, here you go:

“I am the black sheep of my family.

My sister a perfect lamb.

I am loud and unapologetic, I don’t fit it.

My sister is quiet and kind, she is wanted.

I am more likely to be left behind abandoned.

She is more likely to be sacrificed.

We are both tragedies.

Just waiting to be written.”

I’ve got that trauma y’know?

[crimsonknightly]

Dear Michael

Answer my prayer you fucking bastard.

I’m out in the open and you’ve got every reason to take me again. Just return Constantine and take me instead, okay? I went right back to the Lux even after everything. I’ve been in contact with Lucifer. So just take me. Give back Constantine and take me.

Please. I’ll do anything. Please just don’t hurt him.

@michael-the-warrior

[anarchist-bean]

List of Posts About Lilly (Aaron) Bushnell

Last Updated: 10/24/2024

This list will be updated regularly with links from new posts. If there’s something you’d like me to cover please send me an ask.

These posts are from my main @anarchist-bean & my side blog dedicated to Bushnell @lilly-anarkitty .

Additional posts from other users that I find I will also link below. These links will be given a blue highlight, and the OP will be cited and tagged (if possible).

Topics discussed so far: gender identity & sexuality; upbringing & religion; personal interests; and self-immolation

Feel free to give me a follow to stay updated!

👇 POST LINKS BELOW 👇

Gender Identity & Sexuality

@anarchist-bean | Thoughts on Lilly Bushnell, LillyAnarKitty

@lilly-anarkitty | Lilly expressed desire to transition.

@anarchist-bean repost from Twitter/X | Lilly did explore her gender identity & sexuality.

@Kat_The_Vat on YT | Aaron Bushnell - Transgender Woman ??? repost by @anarchist-bean

@epistemophagy | Redemptio memoriae

Upbringing & Religion

@lilly-anarkitty | Bushnell Grew Up in a Religious Compound/Cult - “The Community of Jesus” (COJ)

@anarchist-bean | Community or Cult?

Personal Interests

@lilly-anarkitty | Bushnell thought Dune was based

Self-Immolation

@anarchist-bean | Sacrifice or Suicide?

[ariadondo-trackingfossils]

Altar

Implied execution and emotional incest, read the tags for more information and then come back.

Or not if you wish so, the topic is heavy after all.

Hugo's reocurring dreams start as he faints, induced by his nameless curse when it harms him too much. The place is a pure white castle, decorated with long red carpets and a clear blue sky beyond the giant narrow windows. He wakes up in front of a dressing table, shorter and slimmer just as when he was a small child. He takes notice of a black silky suit and bowtie resting on the table and despite his hesitance he tries them on, a perfect fit. This is the checkpoint for each dream.

The door to the central room is closed shut. In the meantime he ventures further into the castle, finding new rooms and preparing himself for a final event of which he knows nothing. Sometimes flowers in their vases, weapons hanging from their shields and mannequins speak of his return, back to the destiny he escaped. When Hugo finally opens the central room he can se a gigantic altar with all kinds of sculpted saints with their pale tunics on the side, red flowers growing from the walls towards the stained glass and offering baskets hanging from red benches, filled with candies. There's a short figure at the end of the room. After following the red carpet he arrives in front of the mahogany table with bread, wine, a dagger with bright colored gems on its handle and the figure that was the kneeling eternal fiancee dressed in white lace. Everyone have been waiting for the wandering son.

The fiancee turns to look at him with hidden eyes still, takes his small chubby hands and tugs them to the edge of the veil, leaving purple marks. It would be very rude to abandon this person now before the clamor of the windows' metal frames and trembling decoration, so he lifts the cloth. The crown's white gems shine above her head. Wheat locks open way and allow Hugo to see his mother's pale face greeting him with a warm, forgiving smile. He returns the gesture and can't resist the tears in his eyes when he's invited once more to her destined arms, just like that person of weak neck and droopy eyes was a long time ago. And just like that man Hugo would offer himself as a lamb to the altar if she so wished.

Then the blade falls where the mind and body meet.

[underfiends]

He

Who are we to question Him? We, mere insects upon His eye. To question He who loves, who creates, who bleeds. His visage wreathed in light so cold it burns, a thousand glimpses too quick for a mere mortal such as we to process; for we would surely perish before the glory that is Him and His. Oh how can we ever repay Him for all He has done? For the food, water, and wealth.

 Perhaps we can bleed as well; spread our essence upon the land that He created so that it may retain the parts of us that He gave. So willfully we cease our breath, praying only to be held in His hands for the first time, once again. Willfully we pass on. Willfully we pass on others. With instruments that He placed upon the land we now walk and claim as our own, we will spill more and more blood.

A soul here, a soul there, all in the name of one who we have never seen for we never can. Weeping and crying not for the lives lost but for the eternity of Him; on our knees, crimson soaking through the fabrics sewn of gore and guts, bowing our heads to whisper our wishes to Him, only Him. He who watches on in horror. We see only forgiveness.

He will weep, cry out in agony, as His creations are torn asunder by one of His own. Oh how could the curious minds of such a gentle creature become so very corrupt? Could it be Him, perhaps. Him, the voiceless whisper that no one hears, could He have done this? It must be, for there is no one else. Not this slithering snake depicted in their ashen pages of grievous deeds. Only Him.

“We seek it,” we will whisper to ourselves upon beds of corpses. “We seek redemption. Oh good Father, take yet another life as a sacrifice for my sins.”

He who now suffers for the lives that we have taken.

We who stare in wonder at the love we have mistaken.

[fairyysoup]

the devil i know

chapter one: god you've got the blackest eyes

(repost)

fic tag | fic playlist | fic masterlist

pairing(s): crossroads demon!eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: To summon a demon at a crossroads, simply cast a circle, make an offering, and recite an incantation. What happens from that point on is subject to your desire… and the demon’s.

cw: explicit, smut, dubcon elements, making a deal with a demon, inspired by american and european folklore, sacrilegious themes, horror, witch!reader, reader is 21+ in modern day, eddie is immortal, coercion (a bit), sex pact, marking, possessive behavior, animal death, trauma, reader is ostracized by her very religious hometown, dark comedy, tfw your accidental boyfriend is a demon who is obsessed with you bc he doesn’t know how to be normal about anything ever, dead dove: do not eat

please check masterlist and individual parts for content warnings before reading. this fic contains dark themes. your media consumption is your own responsibility.

a/n: Hi folks, for the month of October this year I'm going to be reuploading all the chapters of this fic onto tumblr, this time hopefully for good. I apologize for the time that it's been taken down. Genuinely, this fic has garnered so much kindness and support and I think of it as one of my biggest accomplishments. I hope you all enjoy it just as much the second time around as the first.

ALL OF MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

Through me you pass into the city of woe, Through me you pass into eternal pain, Through me you pass among forsaken people. Justice moved my exalted creator; I was wrought by divine power, Supreme wisdom, and primal love. Before me all things created were eternal, And eternal I endure. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. -Dante Alighieri, The Inferno, Canto III

The book you’ve used for ages now, since late in your junior year of high school, has only one page in it that you haven’t utilized. You don’t know how much faith to put in it– you’re a little short on faith, these days– but, the spellbook lays it out simply, so you follow its directions to the letter. 

To summon a demon at a crossroads, go to a place where two paths meet on the dark moon. You find peace and quiet in the woods, deep where you know no one walks at night but two paths cross in a small clearing banked with trees. It’s your favorite place to go when you want to do a spell– ritual– and you don’t want to be bothered. The whole thing can’t be more than twenty feet across. Above the overhang of trees, there’s no moon in the sky, only stars.

Cast a circle of protection. That took more research than just the book in your hands, but years of collecting information have given you learned knowledge– there are a million ways to cast a circle, and different circles for different purposes. You do your best to create one for protection. You draw a literal circle in the dirt with a stick, fill it with salt, and walk around the circle three times clockwise to cast it. You light candles to give yourself some light, and to free up your hands of the flashlight you carried to see your way through the woods. 

Make an offering of copper. Your hand pauses on the copper dog tag in your hand. You’d thought of just offering a penny, but you remembered reading somewhere that pennies barely contain copper anymore, and you didn’t have anything else that was entirely made of the one metal. 

You run your finger over the embossed name on it. Lacey. Your pet’s old collar feels heavy in your hand as you remove the tag from the leather strap and bury it in the earth, you guess, to reach the… Underworld? Hell? You can’t honestly say, considering the text you’re referencing only calls it the Otherworld.

It’s a big sacrifice. It’s personal. But, you guess, that gives it more meaning. Making a deal is personal business, and you have your reasons.

Recite the summoning incantation. A stanza of words you don’t understand. You don’t think it’s in Latin, but you try your best, all the same. You read them from the book before you, and feel your blood rushing in your veins as you do.

State your desire out loud in a clear voice. Well, that’s a little more difficult. What is it that you want?

You take a breath, go to speak, and then stop. You don’t know how to start. You don’t know exactly how to describe your pain. You don’t know how to voice your anger well enough, you just know you need to… you need to get it out, somehow. This is a very crucial step in the ritual, you have to do it.

“I came here to make a deal,” you speak frankly, clearly. “I’m prepared to do anything. I’ve run out of options. I’ve been hurt too many times, by too many people who didn’t care what they did to me. I’ve lost everything I genuinely loved. I’m… I’m angry, and desperate, and I’m frightened. And I feel so alone. It’s eating me alive, and I just… I just want the ability to make things go my way, for once.” Good enough, you hope.

Wait for an answer.

You do. You listen intently, to the song of the leaves in the trees rustling in the slight breeze, to the crickets chirping in the grass. You wait long enough that you start to rethink your approach. 

It could be that things will turn around if you just wait another month, or another month after that. Maybe you’ll get the car back. Maybe you’ll get the promotion that was given to the newbie that you trained. Maybe your ex will stop coming around your work to intimidate you. Maybe you’ll get a new dog to take the place of the one that he killed. Maybe the evangelical town you live in will stop shunning you and calling you a witch, like something out of the middle ages.

Unlikely, that last one.

Just when you swear it’s a failure, that you should just pack up and leave, that’s when a strong gust of wind rips through the clearing out of nowhere. The candles blow out– and then, oddly enough, relight themselves. There’s a slight scent of smoke on the breeze, and you look around to make sure none of the candles fell over in the wind.

They’re all perfectly fine. There’s nothing amiss, it seems, until you hear a cough and movement across the clearing. You look forward, and see a pair of black combat boots in the stream of light from your flashlight. You follow the boots up to a pair of legs, clad in dark jeans, and then further up, to a torso, and a head, and a pair of sparkling eyes.

“Hi.”

You stare at him, probably looking like a fish out of water with the way your mouth opens and closes. You’d fully expected the traditional scary depiction of a demon– maybe horns, goat hooves, et cetera. But the man that answered your call is… just a man. A pretty one. He has long, curly hair, which falls over his broad shoulders and stirs in the wind. His plush lips curve up in a relaxed, cocky smile, as he takes in the sight of you in return. 

He quirks an eyebrow at you. “Are you just gonna stare at me all night?” 

“Sorry, hi. Hello.” You shake your head. “Can you believe I honestly thought I’ve been doing it wrong this whole time?” 

“I can believe a lot of things. You know, there’s a reason why the demon summoning ritual is first in that book.” His voice is soft and resonant. You get a mental image of heat waves radiating from tar-black and glowing magma, rolling slowly over lava beds. The image disappears just as soon as it flashes into your mind.

“Well, to be completely honest, I wasn’t sure how I felt about making a deal with a demon first thing,” you explain, looking away shyly. “But I’ve tried all the spells in this book and not a single one of them worked. Just seems like everything is getting worse all the time.”

He doesn’t look away– rather, he keeps staring at you, unblinkingly. Like you’re the most fascinating creature he’s ever seen. He leans up against the tree that he appeared beside, his leather jacket falling open to reveal a shirt with a demon’s head on it. Fitting. He takes a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. 

“So, now you wanna make a deal with little ol’ me, huh?” He grins, a gorgeous smile that flashes bright, sharp teeth at you. He lifts a cigarette to his mouth and bites it gently between his teeth. He doesn’t pull out a lighter. Instead, you watch him light up with a small flame that erupts from the tip of his thumb. 

“Depends on who you are,” you retort, eyes following the movement of his hands. They’re weighed down by large, silver rings that reflect the light of the flame before it snuffs out. “What’s your name?”

He makes a short noise in his throat, shaking his head abruptly. He doesn’t look nearly as intimidating as you feel he should– more like he’s trying to warn you against something you don’t want. He peers at you from beneath his wavy bangs as he pulls the cigarette from his mouth and uses it to point at you. “Names are really powerful things where I come from, babydoll. Best not to bite off more than you can chew yet. Once we cut a deal– that’s when you get my name.”

You make a face as you mull that over. “So what do I call you, in the meantime? Demon daddy?” 

“You could,” he chuckles. The demon rocks to the side, crossing his legs at the ankles. “If you really wanted to. I wouldn’t mind, it’s flattering.” 

You grunt. “I think I’ll pass on that, actually.” He tilts his head with a sicker, watching you with an amused smile while you shift in place. “So, do I– I mean, you need to know what I want, right? Is that how this starts?”

“No, I know what you want.” He exhales a stream of smoke from his nostrils. “You want power. To get a fair shake, find your place, change your life. Defend yourself against the assholes making that life, well. A living hell.” As he spits out the words, his voice rings sharp through the trees, like the strike of a hammer on glowing metal, shooting sparks off into the air. 

“I want to take all this pain and just… return to sender. Give it back to them, y’know? I never wanted any of it,” you justify. Your voice is too small in comparison with his. “Maybe then I’ll be able to fucking breathe.”

For how little space you allow yourself to take up, he seems to consume the rest of it. He nods slowly. “That’s a fair request, sweetheart.”

“It’s selfish, I know.”

“Making a deal for power is inherently a selfish thing,” he shrugs. “Own it. I’m certainly not judging.”

You let out a shaky breath. You’re still so nervous, being so near him– ten feet away and growing closer every second, it seems, even though neither of you have moved. You feel like, no matter how far you pull back, the flow of fiery lava he seems to embody will keep creeping towards you until you’re burned alive.

His dark eyes glow like coals in the night as he looks you up and down, and then he quickly pushes himself away from the tree. You startle at the abrupt movement, and watch as he swings around it like Gene Kelly on a lamp post. 

When he rounds the tree, he uses the momentum to throw himself toward your circle. You flinch, and he frowns, but continues moving toward you at a slower pace, holding his hands out innocently. “Wanna know a secret? About how all this,” he twirls a finger in the air, indicating the ritual you’re in the middle of, “works?”

You nod, gazing up at him shyly. If you felt at all powerful while casting the circle and starting the ritual, he’s managed to take the wind out of your sails. You can feel the power radiating off of him in waves.

He smirks at you. “You make your petition– when you say the words in that little book,” he points at the volume at your feet, “and that petition is answered by whichever demon caters most to that desire.” He points at himself emphatically, his eyebrows raised. “Me? Infernal majesty of freaks and misfits. I’m your demon daddy.”

You finally giggle, and it makes him smile fondly, like that’s what he’d been gunning for all along. He backs up a step and puffs his cigarette. 

“I’m here to help you, sweetheart.” He regards you for a second, like he’s thinking things over. “That is, as long as you agree to my terms.”

“Terms?” You echo, but you were sort of expecting that. Nothing for nothing, right? “What are the terms?”

“Ah, they’re simple. Very traditional,” he waves his hand like it’s frivolous. He holds his hand out in midair, and just like how he’d conjured the flames, he produces a weathered book. It looks like a composition book that has scribbles and doodles all over the front of it– the same demon head that adorns his shirt. “You sign your name with your blood in my little black book, you hop on one foot with your hand on your head and pledge your undying fealty to the dark lord Kthulu, and then you meet me on the sabbath to kill a child and make them into soup.” 

He smiles, fluttering his eyelashes at you innocently. 

“Are you fucking serious?” You blurt. 

“Of course I’m not fucking serious– what is this, the dark ages?” He snorts as he lowers the composition book. “Nah, we don’t do human sacrifice on the sabbath anymore, it was getting too difficult to evade the witch hunters.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He flashes you a disarming grin. You can feel yourself halfway smirking as well, incredulous but somehow enjoying his humor. Then he shakes his head and says, seriously, “No, you do have to sign my book, though. And then meet me back here on the full moon to fuck.”

You blink at him, reeling from the whiplash of that. “You… I’m sorry?”

“I find it best not to sugarcoat it, y’know.” He shrugs, “Think of this as a marriage, of sorts. I give you the power to smite thine enemies, live deliciously, blah blah blah, and then you meet me at the crossroads every full moon to be my whore and we fuck like bunnies all night. Simple as that.”

“That’s far from simple.”

“It doesn’t have to be monogamous, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he continues frankly, “except on the full moon. I won’t compromise about that– you’ll be all mine, and I’m all yours. No takesies backsies.”

“No– that’s not–” You exhale, holding your hands over your eyes. “I’m just… not promiscuous like that…”

“Sweetheart.” He waits until you’ve lowered your hands to look at him, and he hums, with a saccharine smile that reminds you of the power you’d felt sweep through the clearing when he arrived. “You won’t be the first good girl I’ve broken, and you won’t be the last. If you’re worried about promiscuity, well… I answered your petition. I know what goes on in that pretty head, and it barely scratches the surface of what I’ve seen and done.” 

The toe of his boot barely nudges the edge of your circle, and a spark crackles in the dark from the impact. The light dances in his eyes longer than it remains in the air, like they caught the spark and ignited. 

“Trust me,” he says, drawing you in with the low register of his voice. “I can give you more than power. I can give you protection. I can give you real happiness. Karma’s a fucking bitch, so I can be, too. This is just such a little thing in return. And who knows… you may even like it.”

You shiver at that, even though his presence feels hot, like his stream of lava is surrounding you, crowding you in, boiling you where you stand. He’s right– you absolutely might like it. 

Because there’s just something magnetic between you, isn’t there? You can sense it, more than any heat and any sort of primal fear you might have instinctively at his presence. There’s a certain pull you feel toward him, emanating even through the salt barrier on the ground. 

You want to wrap yourself in him. Boil you alive, burn you to a crisp, destroy you– you don’t care.

“Or… is it that you don’t like this body?” He wonders aloud, striding backward two steps. He turns, his hand lifting his seemingly ever-burning cigarette to his lips. “Figures– y’know, I can be anything you want me to be, babydoll.”

Confused, you watch as he transforms in front of you. In the length of two steps while he paces across the clearing, his face and body stretches and contorts, until you’re not staring at the same visage anymore. He stops, and he turns to you with his palms up, like he’s waiting for your approval. 

You’re looking at Tom fucking Cruise. 

“Oh, no, absolutely not,” you shake your head vehemently, scowling. You wave your hands demandingly, “Put it back. You were so hot before– please, please go back to the way you were.”

The demon grins and turns his head, throwing the cigarette away. His hair grows back to its previous length, his face morphing as if made of clay until you meet the same pretty smile you’ve come to enjoy looking at. 

He chuckles, grabbing a lock of his hair and drawing it across his lips. “You think I’m hot?”

“Of course,” you murmur, but you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he can hear it. His eyes are embers, blazing at you from beneath his bangs. “Is that what you normally look like? Is that your true form?”

He makes an iffy sound. “It’s what I looked like when I was human. My true form has more horns and unhinged jaws and claws and all that. You wouldn’t like it.”

“I thought you said you could read my mind. Do you know how much monster porn I’ve consumed? That’s hot as shit to me,” you argue, and he snaps his head towards you in surprise. You point at yourself. “Freak and misfit.”

He laughs, and it sounds like the roaring of an out of control fire, burning up everything in its path. He kicks his heel on the ground and steps up to your circle again. “I like you, baby. I really do. What do you say?”

“How do I know that I can trust you?” you ask, an annoying lump forming in your throat with the question. You’ve been burned before by people far less powerful than this demon, yet who still hold so much power over you. However much they have.

“You can’t,” he answers, more honestly than most would. He tilts his head with a crooked smile. “Not to get all preachy on you, but even if I wasn’t a demon… trust is built, not a given. ‘The devil you know,’ right? Better than the one that you don’t.”

“Yeah,” you agree, your voice coming out breathy and winded the longer you gaze up into his eyes.

“Trust me to be… intense, I guess,” he shrugs. “And probably impulsive. But I’ll always deliver on our deal. Be my witch, my wife, my whore– whatever you want to call it, but be mine. I think we’ll have so much fun together.”

“Yeah, I think– I think I will.” You’re nodding, and his smile grows with yours. “I want to.”

“Let me in, sweetheart.”

Your toe scuffs the boundary on the ground, breaking the circle. Immediately, your senses are assaulted by smoke, not just the tobacco he’s been smoking but the scent of a wildfire, of cities burned to ashes, of desolation and destruction and pyroclastic flow and roaring, exploding volcanoes. 

Your demon crosses the line you’d drawn on the ground with ease, producing the worn composition book in his hand again. The cover reads Hellfire Club in chicken scratch handwriting. 

“Are there others?” You ask, prompted by the word Club on the front as he flips open the book to a middle page. An agreement is already written out in red ink. “Do you have more than one, um…”

“Consort?” He whispers in your ear. Goosebumps rise on your skin, and your stomach flutters. “Not for a long time. I’m very picky about my partners. They have to be just as much of a freak as I am.”

Your heart thumps loudly in your chest, although the admission makes you feel… better, in a way. You squint in the dark, but with the exception of the candles around your circle, there’s nothing to allow you to properly read what’s written on the page. 

He sighs, shifting on his feet beside you. “Are you one of those people who’ll read the whole contract?”

“Absolutely I am,” you hum. The book feels heavier in your hands than it should. “Can you give me a light?”

“Jesus Christ.” He produces a flame from his forefinger just as you turn to give him a confused look. 

“Shouldn’t you, like… evaporate after saying that?”

In the yellow glow of the flame, he just blinks at you, looking amused. “Things aren’t as black and white as you think they are, believe me.”

You snatch his wrist and yank his arm closer to the page. His body collides with yours, and he grunts in your ear as he wraps his other arm around you, embracing you from behind. You’re engulfed in the scent of smoke and the heat of his flames, impossibly hot and comforting all the same. 

His hair brushes your shoulder as you read his contract. It’s just a few lines, but the weight they hold will seal your fate. 

The agreement made this night of the dark moon shall henceforth be enacted from the signing of this document, that hereby renders the human party’s soul bound to the infernal party. Witness that the first party must appear before the second party each full moon to lay in matrimonial fashion, and that in return the first party shall be protected and given the powers of the second from here until the human’s mortal passing. 

“Aww, that’s sweet,” you coo, tracing the red ink with your fingers. 

The demon over your shoulder rolls his eyes. “It’s a fucking pre-nup.”

“Doesn’t seem like a fair trade, though, does it?” You murmur. “I mean, I get the power to change my circumstances and you get– what– sex once a month?”

His hand tightens on your waist, and you pause. You turn your head to look at him, and his eyes flicker dangerously, so close to yours. They aren’t just glowing coals- this close, you can see the small details. You can see the swirling, the churning of lava within them.

“It’s not just sex, is it?”

“What do you think making a deal with a demon entails, sweetheart? Read the fine print.”

You look back at the page. There are no other words on it, save for the ones you’ve already read. “I don’t…?”

“It’s your soul, honey,” he mutters, pointing at the word. His mouth is muffled against your shoulder as he peers over it. “I won’t ask anything of you other than the sex, as long as you live. But right now, you’re offering up your soul. And once your life is up, you get to be just like me. Understand?”

“I… yeah. I understand.” You let go of his wrist, but pause over the pages of the book. “I don’t have anything to sign with.”

Wordlessly, the demon takes your hand. You let him caress your wrist, feeling your pulse with his thumb. Then, before you realize what’s happening, a sharp sting makes you yelp as he cuts your skin with his pointed thumbnail. 

He shushes you, letting the blood well up on your skin. “I did say you needed to sign with blood.”

Your voice shakes when you hold your dripping wrist over the page. “I thought you said you were joking.”

“Not about the book. Rules of the trade, I can’t change it.” Your blood splatters the notebook, dripping into the crease of the page. Once he’s satisfied, he lifts your wrist to his mouth and closes his lips around the small wound. It heals in a heartbeat. 

“Is that it, then?” You ask, mesmerized by the sight and feeling of his mouth on your skin. “Don’t you have to sign?”

Your demon kisses your wrist gently, his lips soft, inviting. “This is going to hurt,” he warns, and you nod. The heat of his breath makes your skin tingle, all your nerves on high alert. 

But then that tingling turns into a burn, that turns into a searing pain. You feel like your skin is on fire, an invisible hot brand held against your wrist. You cry out as he holds you close, letting you bury your face into his neck, holding you up as your knees threaten to buckle. 

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs to you as you whimper. He holds your arm as the pain fades into a throbbing ache, cradles your hand against his cheek as he coos into your hair. “You’re so strong. Not many people can handle my mark, you know. Fate works in funny ways.”

Your demon holds you until you can stand on your own, until your breathing evens out and you can compose yourself. He shushes you quietly, rocking you from side-to-side with a soothing hand stroking your head. Then he holds your face, and kisses your tear stained cheeks. The touch of his lips stokes at flames beneath your skin.

“I’ll look forward to our time together, little witch,” he whispers. And with a quick, chaste kiss to your lips, he disappears entirely. 

You stay in the circle for a while, clutching your throbbing wrist and crying frustrated tears. You wonder if you made the right decision, and yet, you don’t understand why you just want him to come back. You miss the comfort of his presence, even if you don’t know enough about him to justify it. All he did was hurt your arm and take your blood and kiss away your tears and make you a witch. 

It’s too late to go back on your decision now. There’s an all-encompassing fire you can feel burning in your veins, emitting from the pulsating wound on your wrist. His power. His fire. 

You pull your hand away from your wrist to finally inspect the mark that he branded you with, declaring you his in the same chicken scratch that had been on the cover of his book. It’s small enough that a well placed bracelet would cover it, but you don’t know that you’ll want to.

Eddie.

Your demon’s name is Eddie.

[merakiui]

pearl of scarlet, shed of innocence.

yandere!rollo flamme x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, brief nsfw, non-con touching, periods, blood, delusion, descriptions of violence and body horror, mentions of medieval torture, kidnapping/captivity, implied cult, implied stockholm syndrome/brainwashing, subtle gaslighting, descriptions of religious symbolisms/imagery note - manufactured angel, baptized in holy light. self-proclaimed prophet, corrupted in benign blight.

There are no angels in this world, or so it is told.

So to find a scapegoat for sanctuary, the people search far and wide for a lamb to sacrifice.

There are no angels in this world, or so it was told.

You’re brought to the altar beneath a crooked cross, screaming and kicking like rebellious livestock resisting slaughter. Your back is cut open and your bones are bent at awkward, avian angles. As blood drips from the stone, puddling beneath robed soles, feathers are glued on with meticulous, methodical precision. Cold hands hold your arms in place. You try to pry yourself free, but they force you down with disapproving hisses.

From the shadows, the Prophet emerges. He is a man who can foretell tragedy before it strikes, or so everyone has heard. The sun filters in through slanted windows, illuminating half of his figure. You watch dust motes bob in the light like jellyfish. They warp into strange, shapeless blobs when fresh tears overflow and spill.

He stops in front of you, swipes a skeletal finger through the blood on the altar, and holds it up to the light. It is beautifully red, a marvel to behold. An angel who can bleed is a feat unheard of. Almost human, everyone’s eyes seem to say as they exchange looks. You grit your teeth, saliva dribbling from your cracked lips, and suppress wild, animalistic screams. There’s no adjective in any dictionary that can truly describe the world of hurt you’re in. It is almost like stripping your soul away from your body or unzipping your flesh bit by bit so that your skeleton can step out. The air stings, the feathers itch, and the flowing blood is hot and plentiful.

When you look at the Prophet, you wonder if his image is blurry simply because of the tears fogging your vision or the foreboding dark of unconsciousness clawing at the back of your head.

He watches the people dress you up, fawning over a monstrosity made marvelous. A wet cloth dabs at the blood running in rivulets down your back, between the arch of your wings, staining the valley between your ruined scapula.

“Why?” you cry out thickly, choking on the word. “Why me?”

He looks through you rather than at you, green eyes filling with an unusual light. “You’re perfect.”

His gaze seems to signify that this will not be the last time you bleed on this altar, beneath a silent cross. You listen to his footsteps as they click out a steady rhythm. He stops at your side, and you twist your neck to look at him. The hands holding you down lessen their pressure, but you don’t pull away. You blink owlishly at the Prophet, whose stare is cold and clinical, and attempt to understand his perverted psyche.

Your analysis falls apart when he sticks two fingers into the open wound, where your broken bones protrude from your back. Pain flashes through your body and you tense rigidly from the shock. A howl filled with the purest agony rips through your throat, shredding your vocal chords. 

“Stop! Hurts—that hurts! Fuck!” You ball your hands into fists, pointed nails pricking your palms, and you wail like a newborn. He tuts at your sailor mouth.

When he finally slides his fingers out, they’re coated in blood. Seeming satisfied, he steps around to the front and, brushing your hair back, marks your forehead with a blood-stained blessing. A cross. It burns like hot iron on flesh, and your face contorts with a nasty grimace.

“An angel who can feel pain knows of the suffering we endure at the vile hands of mages,” he says, spinning a fantastical yarn. “She is the product of cursed magic, but here she will be our salvation. She will be a symbol of safety, exalted by our hands.” He tilts his head at you, peering into your beady, bloodshot eyes. “And your name shall be—”

You don’t hear it. The shock has left you paralyzed. Before you can succumb to the horror, you’re sewn up tight, stripped, and put in robes of all white. Everything is tailored to your exact measurements. There are holes cut in the back for your wings. They are limp and feathered and mangled, but they are yours.

When the Prophet—Rollo Flamme—lifts your chin and turns your head, you ask him once more: “Why?”

He smiles and folds his hands in front of his chest, his eyes fluttering shut. “Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, lesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae.” After repeating it twice more, he finally peels his green eyes open. “Amen.”

You can’t understand a word, just as you fail to comprehend the world you’ve found yourself in. A tiny sliver of shelter hidden deep within the trees.

You walk on wobbling legs, taking just a few steps forward before falling over into someone’s arms. Before your body surrenders to exhaustion and trauma, you hear the Prophet’s pleased hums.

There is one angel in this world, or so it is told.

They sit you on a throne so that you may, at the approval of the Prophet, offer consolation and consultation to those in need.

A man comes stumbling to your sacred seat. He bows so low to the ground that his forehead touches the soil. You catch pieces of his wild ramble. Most of it registers as static in your brain, the syllables stretched so far they snap.

“...raped—she didn’t—couldn’t…died by my hands—I am—no good… A sinner who—surely you understand—must repent…” He lifts his head then, and you can see the panic scrawled on his face. “Angel, won’t you forgive me?”

The Prophet places his hand on your shoulder and squeezes. He is the only one permitted to touch you because he knows you best. Because he understands tragedy before it can cut you down. His bony fingers are a reminder that you have just as much power as he’s willing to grant you—that it is precisely because of him that you are not lying chopped with the pigs as a failed approximation of an angel.

“Your verdict?” he asks, smoothing out the tension in your shoulders.

You eye the man with frigid abhorrence. I should kill you with my bare hands and when you beg for it to stop I should look you in the eyes and ask, “Did you stop for her when she uttered those same pleas?” And then I will snip the sorry thread of life you cling so desperately to, condemning you to the fiery pits of hell.

“Rat torture.”

The man shrieks. It is a ghastly racket. He blubbers like it’s a particularly scary punishment.

“Angel, have mercy! Please, I beg of you, have mercy on my soul!”

“There are a dozen ways to punish cruelty, but none can ever compare to the type of heinous hurt and torture you have so brutally inflicted upon an innocent woman. That you would come to me in person and expect me to absolve you of such a despicable sin… I am disgusted.”

The Prophet hides his scowl behind a celestial handkerchief. It was the only thing on your person when you were taken and thrown into this woodland prison. He’s kept it for himself; it smells of you, pure and perfumed.

He leans down to whisper in your ear. “Might I suggest the Judas Cradle or, perhaps, The Rack? A rat is far too lenient, Angel of Innocence, and I suspect not even a rodent would enjoy such a rotten creature. Why punish the innocent rat?”

You glance at his face, searching for the motive behind such suggestions. Though he may veil it well, you can sense the distaste and the hatred. It mirrors yours. “Then the Cradle he shall have. But only until he bleeds, after which he shall be stretched and torn apart in a manner befitting his crime.”

“As always, your judgment is sound.” The Prophet turns to look at the man. Two members in white grab his arms and haul him to his feet. “You’ve heard the Angel’s verdict. Follow through with it just as she decreed.”

As he’s dragged away, screaming and sobbing, you rise to your feet.

“I will have no more visitors,” you’re saying, taking the steps two at a time.

The Prophet exits the platform after you, perplexed. Saliva is warm and thick in your mouth, climbing through your esophagus like a winding python. Before you can duck into a nearby tent, you collapse in the grass. Bent on your hands and knees, you vomit.

The Prophet stands over you, watching silently.

Beneath a bright sun, your feathered bones shivering with every great heave, you feel your mind splitting apart. A single stitch comes undone, and with it the rest of your weakened sanity unfurls. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, taste it on your tongue. The soil squirms under your fingertips, searching for the salvation only you can provide. Everything is alive. Everything has a heartbeat. Everything is a lie. (Or is it?)

Everything is also nothing. You cough and choke down a violent wheeze.

The Prophet’s hand brushes your cheek. The tangle in your stomach somersaults, curling in on itself, and then it’s gone.

You look up at him, wiping bile from your lips. Tears gather on your lash line. Perhaps your pathetic appearance instills some sort of sympathy in the usually unfeeling Prophet, for he bends down to your height and cleans your face with his handkerchief.

“It is truly sickening,” he says, “to see the depravity of humankind on display like this. We are grateful for your presence here. Everyone depends on you. Thus, it is important to show them an unfaltering face even when the world around you shakes.”

Trembling, you reach for his wrist. Your fingers curl tightly. “Don’t let another monster like that look at me.”

“I shall personally take his eyes just before his punishment.”

“Please,” you beg, grasping for his robes. “Never again. Please…”

“You’ve done well today. Let us retire for now. I’ll wake you for prayer and dinner.”

“You must promise, Rollo.”

Only you are given permission to address him so informally. Everyone else calls him the Prophet, the Father, the Righteous One. He is more of a god than a human when the rays frame a dainty, sunlit halo just above his head. 

In a way that is almost intimately tender, he closes his hands around yours. “‘If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away.’ I will pluck those iniquitous irises from their sockets and situate them so that he will look upon his flesh as it is twisted and violated without mercy.”

Despite causing such irreversible anguish, his cold, bloodless hands are soft.

You believe him just as everyone else does. Who else can you look to? Who else should you look to?

In times of uncertainty, is it not the job of a deity to come down and dispel negativity?

Every month, there is a gathering at the altar. It falls in line with your biological schedule. The Prophet appreciates your timeliness; he says so as he lifts your robes, revealing skin unblemished. This occasion is markedly different from the usual rigmarole of worship. This is proof of your goodness. Of human-like flesh and blood rendered angelic.

Your innocence is put on display for all, stretched open around pearl-white digits. His hands were bathed in holy water prior to this, and now he stands behind you at the altar to bury his fingers in the snug softness of a place previously untouched. A flower, everyone calls it, always in bloom in pretty shades of red. Angels cannot conceive, but your body yearns for it every other day outside of your cycle. Angels should not bleed, but you are a special case. The only angel in the world—in a world narrowed down to this clearing in the forest. Angels should not ache or age, but you are unique in your bodily functions. So many rules are bent and broken just to keep you here, a flightless bird pinned by macabre piety.

He strokes your wings with his free hand. The skin from which they protrude is numb and hard, healing into a gruesome scar. It is a point of your pride as an angel, manufactured though you may be. Sometimes you think you can feel his touch through your wings, gentle and appreciative, always so careful.

You inhale sharply and throw your head back against his chest when his fingers curl up inside you. Blood drips from the slick petals of your flower, pooling at the pristinely polished surface of the altar. An audience of zealots watches, rapt, as you flinch and gasp.

You do not feel pain when the Prophet touches you. He sees your tragedy through his green eyes, assesses it on your face and in your behaviors, and he soothes it with his fingertips. Perhaps it’s a placebo. Perhaps nothing is real and you are simply stuck in a bad dream.

You want to believe there is a reason for everything, but it’s impossible to find one amidst so much madness.

“Like we are every month, without fail, we are blessed by the red rain of our Angel of Innocence. Behold her flowering purity.” He withdraws his blood-soaked fingers, and you bite your hand to stifle a thoughtless, instinctive moan. Liquid crimson strings from his digits. He presents them to the crowd. They cheer for you, ecstatic to be free of worldly curses. No more foul temptations. No more magic. No more evil. All of the world’s filth is cleansed just beneath your pure shadow.

Or so the fable is foretold. All of it lies in wait at the back of the Prophet’s throat.

You used to struggle and squirm, hide within the ruffles of your robes, and jerk away from the Prophet’s spidery hands. Now you bloom beneath his fingertips, grateful for his attention and touch. He loves you the most, after all.

There is one angel in this world. There is one Prophet in this world. The two, forever intertwined, are hallowed dreams spun from the cotton of quiet thieves.

Or so it is told.

[myeagleexpert]

𝕸𝖞 𝕳𝖔𝖑𝖞 𝕷𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙

Yandere ex bad boy x reader When a former bad boy gets out of prison and finds you, the light of his life, he decides he would never let you go again.

cw: delusional yandere, creppy, clingy, no use of yn, reader is stressed and doesn't love yandere but is with him just because he's a stress reliever, the straight-laced girl gets involved with an ex badboy, use of pet names “princess , love”, stalking, insecurity, thoughts of getting married, beginning of a relationship, religious themes at the beginning (youth meeting), very soft at the beginning because the longer you stay together the more he develops an obsession.

"I will marry you". You would be grateful to hear this from a long-term relationship….but hearing this on the first day of your first official relationship?? Who would have the audacity to ask you that??

Marc, your new boyfriend. He is of average height, with shaved hair and thin. You met him by inviting him to a youth meeting at your church, and since he wanted to embrace his new good guy phase, he clearly went. And it wouldn't take long for you to regret that decision.

Marc is strangely strange, like a criminal in interrogation, already anticipating the argument he would have with the lawyer. He has an anxious look on his face every time you meet, and the pressure he has placed on his shoulders to be the “perfect boyfriend” requires him to be honest with you. Everyone knows and feels that pleasant and cozy atmosphere when a couple gets to know each other more and more, opening up little by little, leaving themselves vulnerable to the person their heart burns so much but…. I don't want to ruin this phase, but… he opened up about his past and it totally changed your image of him. How messing with delinquent people influenced him, how he left his family and ran away from home, how his other two serious relationships were toxic and abusive and hurt him psychologically, how he spent time in jail when they caught him with drugs , how he abandoned the will to live….

Until he met you and everything changed.

“You are the light of my life” “I only see my future by your side”

Of all the years he appeared in your life, he appeared just when you were killing yourself studying for a place at the college of your dreams! How much sacrifice! So much pressure! So much stress! The year you followed an intense study routine and practically isolated yourself from the world to study was the year he appeared…as a distraction.

You were so stressed that you needed a distraction on your side. After all, you need to live your youth too, don’t you? It won't be anything serious, you don't have time for that princess, it will just be a momentary relief, just a little flig.

Not if it's up to him.

In fact, you "met" in high school, from different classes, he uses and insists on this argument every time you say that you haven't known each other long enough. "But we never spoke….". "But we talked through our eyes!" You swear you can count on the fingers of your left hand how many times you've actually seen him.

Upon leaving the cold and degrading prison and feeling completely lost, he prayed to the heavens about what direction to ask for in life and coincidentally your profile appeared on his Instagram!

"As soon as I saw your profile, I knew you were different and would change my life" he tells the story of how he met his precious girlfriend for the millionth time, with the same dreamy sigh as always.

He spent 8 months just observing you, what you like and what you don't like, following you, your friends and family on all social networks, he discovered your favorite books and read each one of them trying to be the one you admire most, he discovered where you buy your favorite perfumes and bought the ones you liked the most, to know how you felt and all that… thrown out the window. Because every time Marc looks at you, he forgets everything, the world goes blank and his focus is absolutely you.

He forgets the beautiful words he thought when he was going home, he forgets the way the heartthrob in his book convinced the girl to give him an innocent kiss on the cheek, or how he rehearsed in the mirror how to hold her hand and kiss her without looking so awkward, Marc forget that he has to breathe to continue living but frankly he prefers to be in your air, breathe your oxygen. He also forgets that he had other relationships and shouldn't be so nervous around you.

“Then I said-…hey, I can feel your gaze from here.” “Am I staring at you a lot?? Aah sorry, you’re so beautiful that I couldn’t resist.” he says while kissing your cheek and interrupting anything that would come out of your mouth.

Marc desires to be a devoted follower of his goddess, you. But most of the time it fails miserably. He is in such a trance that he forgets everything and even though the eyes of a passionate puppy that he looks at you with seem cute, you are not guilty of feeling offended. He forgets your favorite place to go out, he forgets your favorite snack, he forgets that sweets make you feel calmer in tpm, he forgets that you canceled a date and gets sulky afterwards blaming you, he forgets that you have bigger goals clear and more important than him and most importantly, he forgets that you have a life before him and whenever you mention an ex-boyfriend he's like "What do you mean you had a boyfriend before me? Who is he? Why did they break up?" So that I don't make the same mistakes he did so that I find him and threaten him to never even look at him again.

and for you so I can make you feel guilty for still having his contact so it's just me and you in the world

Marc is strangely strange, have you ever seen a bear hiding behind a lamp post? So is his jealousy. His blood boils every time you mention a name that isn't his, his body screams mine mine mine, to possessively squeeze your waist and his mouth kisses you until the princess's stressed little head forgets that useless name what you just said after all, I'm the one next to you and I bet he can't make you feel good like I do but…. he hides it well, sometimes, when he forces it. But it's so fking hard to disguise it!

"I met a friend of mine today" "Friend, what friend? A man?" "Then he said- "But wait, love - sorry to interrupt you - since when and where have you known him?" Wasn't this friend of yours on his list where he came from? "I met him in my first year of high school, love, he moved away after that, and I met him again now" " And you hugged him? "Of course, like I do with everyone-" "whyyyyyy?" “Marc he’s my friend and-” “And do you remember his name?”- He asked something simple but that had a strong and heavy meaning behind it.

the name. the name is something so simple but so important, isn’t it?

In a random dawn, he realized that the little princess didn't remember people's names very well and when asked, you replied “They're not important to me, just some extras interacting with me” and while you sleepy laughed at theory made on the spot, his heart squeezed as he remembered that you often forgot his name too.

I'm not so important that you remember my name?

In a random dawn, you told him that you had had other relationships before him, but you never felt anything for them, so you ended it and left and forgot about them. Others, which were hidden and you did crazy things in love for them, regretted them and never saw them again. And that he was your first official boyfriend, the first you took home, the first you took to meet your parents and family, the first you took to your hiding place in the house. He. But as quickly as pride filled his heart, his mind fed the uncertainties and insecurities that keep him awake at night.

Would you live love adventures with him too? Would you regret loving him? Do you have feelings for him or is it a one-sided relationship? Would you forget about him? Would you trade it for one night? Would you… leave?

Marc is so strangely strange that he sometimes blurts out strange and chilling phrases every time you try to subtly open his eyes about the relationship, and in his head they are sweet and romantic, passionate and sincere declarations always sealing the promise with kisses and hugs that are increasingly hard and possessive, but they are red signs in your eyes that something is wrong.

“I don’t know if I could handle that either.” You said as you casually gossiped about a breakup between a couple you saw on the internet, without realizing it Marc's eyes darkened when he heard the word breakup "Listen, if we broke up I…"

"Baby, you know that if it's up to me, we'll never breakup, right?" With a determined look, Marc pulled you onto his lap

"Of course, dear, but if what you did…"

"I would come to your house, take you and lock you away from the world. Because if that's the case, you would never leave me."

"Whoa boy, a little bird wasn't meant to be trapped." When you felt the sincerity of Marc's words, you tried to leave your dear boyfriend's lap, demonstrating that you were serious about the matter, this fact did not go unnoticed by him as he smiled at you and with hearts in his eyes, he kissed you madly until you was breathless and again and again and again….he put you in a bridal carry position, pressing you against his chest with such force that it left you sore

"So i cut the bird's wings and we stay together, love, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. We will never break up, remember what I told you? Let's get married, my beautiful darling."

[aplaceinthedark]

SUNK my TEETH in

a GRIM tale

(Nick Folio)

Word count: 2.1k+

Warnings: supernatural themes, blood, religious trauma, mentions of reform camp torture, religious sacrifice, major character death, wolves, rapid mental decline, serial murder

They had to tie Nick to a tree, he'd resisted them so much.

He'd been tied up since the moment the Counselors dragged him out of his bed. He'd thrashed against them so bad, and he even bit someone's hand deep enough to taste blood. He'd heard one of them shout for a sedative, but apparently the only ones available were the swallowable kind, and no one was brave enough to go near his mouth again. So restraints were the only way to go.

Nick hadn't always been this way. Normally, he was a pretty chill kid. His favorite pastime was to fish in the rivers near his Maryland home. He hadn't been the easiest to anger, but when he did…

There was a reason why his friends called him an Animal.

In high school, he had gotten in one too many fights at school, got caught one too many times smoking weed, when his parents decided that enough was enough. “An intervention from God is what you need,” his dad said. When summer vacation started, suddenly he was being shipped off to the middle of nowhere in Virginia to some reform church camp or something like that.

There was no way these people worshiped the God he knew.

When Nick first got there, he acted out a lot. No amount of chores the counselors gave him or punishments like solitary confinement would get him to stop revolting against “God”, and his parents for sending him here. Sometimes the counselors would even force him to stand for several hours without food or water until he passed out from exhaustion.

These “treatments” did nothing to help his nonexistent problem. If anything, it made him worse. So one summer day, when everyone was nice to him, he got suspicious. And he was right to feel that way.

They dragged Nick through the forest. He was practically hog-tied to keep him from flailing or moving too much. They were also being quiet, so he couldn't tell where they were taking him, or what their plan for him was this time. All he knew was that he wouldn't like it.

And boy, was he right.

They tied him up to this big oak tree. When they undid his bindings, he tried to make a break for it, but three people were there to pin him back down and then to the tree. Then the camp director, who he'd only seen once in the few weeks that Nick had been there, started chanting in front of all the counselors and a bonfire, and then he pulled out a large, wicked knife.

And that was the moment when Nick Folio knew he was going to die.

He definitely didn't do it quietly. He thrashed against his bonds, screaming and cursing up a storm so loud he was sure someone from the nearby town would hear. But it was no use, as the camp “director” came closer and closer, talking about something with “Many Names” and a “Watcher”, and then he plunged the knife into Nick's stomach.

The people in movies made getting stabbed look like it was painful. It wasn't. Sure, for the first few seconds of entry it hurt, but after that, the only thing he could feel was his blood pouring out of the wound when the “director” pulled the knife out. After a few minutes, he couldn't feel his body to make it fight anymore.

Nick barely had the energy to look up and out into the crowd, who was too distracted with their weird ritual to notice movement behind them. But he saw it, despite the darkness creeping in on his vision.

He caught a small glance of a few horrified faces staring at him from above some bushes, before they disappeared. Hopefully off to report whatever the hell was happening right now. Even though he knew he wouldn't be alive by the time they got here.

He couldn't breathe, and as his vision continuously got darker and darker, he swore he saw a low red light pulsing in the grove around him. But he wasn't conscious long enough after that to tell what it was.

And that was how the young human, Nick Folio, died.

Nick didn't remember much of the In-between; the moment he came back to life, and then the moment his bonds to the Watcher of the Woods was completely cut free. There was a whirlwind of black and white as it felt like something pulled him along on puppet strings. Then, one night, it felt like all but one string was cut, and the next thing Nick knew was four paws hitting the ground.

He certainly didn't feel free. That one string was still pretty strong, feeding him horrible thoughts. He pretty quickly forgot that he was once human. The only thing in his head that he knew was the beast's instincts.

That, and the low voice saying only one word.

CONSUME.

It was always that one voice, that one word, over and over again. He let that voice dictate whatever he did until he didn't know anything but that one word: CONSUME.

It wasn't until one night five years later that Nick felt again, until everything came back in startling clarity. He fell forward, bare hands scraping across the ground as he tumbled. And just like that, the last string was cut.

And Nick was free to consider the consequences of what he had done.

He wasn't adjusting to being in human form again. He was filthy; old, dried blood coated his arms up to his elbows. He could feel that it covered his face. No matter how many times he dove under the river and wiped at his skin, he couldn't wash the feeling away. He had killed. He had killed a lot.

But just before the inevitability crashed over his head and he thought about throwing himself down the river, another voice cut through the panic. This one was different, though; not inside his head.

“Careful, the waters around here can be deadly, vännen.”

Nick looked up from the water at the form of another man. He was naked as well, the only thing on him being an acoustic guitar. He was absolutely drenched, like he’d been living in the rapid waters they stood in.

“W-why are you naked in the middle of a river?” Nick asked. For some reason that was the only question that came to mind.

“Why are you naked in the middle of a river?” the man asked, arching an eyebrow.

For some reason, what the man said was the funniest thing Nick had ever heard, and the next thing he knew was that he was doubled over, face nearly submerged, and he was howling with laughter. If the other guy thought he was insane, he didn't care. It was the absurdity of the situation that brought him out of his rapid mental decline.

He learned that the man's name was Joakim, but that was hard for him to remember and pronounce, so he just called him Jolly. Jolly, too, barely had any recollection of the past, just that one minute he was being held underwater by some people he thought were fellow worshipers, and then he was sitting in the middle of this river.

Their friendship wasn't completely instantaneous. Nick got the sense that he could be annoying sometimes. There was one time when he was floating on his back in the river, Jolly playing guitar as he always did, and he suddenly got the urge to howl along with the music and singing. When he had looked up, Jolly was glaring at him with glowing yellow eyes, and suddenly he was being rushed down stream. He didn't see Jolly for a week after that.

Nick really didn't have a feel for the time passing. To him, it was just temperatures changing. When it got stifling hot again, meaning it had been a year since he was free of whatever’s control, and he was trying to cool down in Jolly’s river, he heard a voice in his head again.

He froze, feeling fear again. Except this voice was immensely different from the evil one. It was softer, more frantic; almost human. It also only said one word:

HELP.

One look at Jolly, and Nick knew that he could hear it too. The two took off in the direction the voice pulled them to, unaware that their lives would change again.

It hadn't been a reform camp. Nick had known that really, but to hear it being said lifted a burden off his shoulders that he never realized he had. It had been a cult the whole time. A cult that killed innocent people and disposed of them when they were no longer of use, leaving them to suffer the curse of this forest and to rise up as haints. A cult that should've disbanded a year ago, when their god was killed by The Voice. But tonight, they were attempting to resummon their god. And Nick couldn't let that happen.

The New Voice, calling himself Noah Sebastian, had summoned him and Jolly to the grove where they had originally been killed. With some help from a third guy, a human named Nicholas, they formed a group that vowed then and there that nothing else would become of this cult ever again.

He was there when it had begun, and he would be there to watch it end.

A year ago, Nick might've felt bad about killing more people. But now, as he tore through the people who had tortured him for weeks, he didn't care. He felt the thrill of the hunt as he chased down those who had brought him to this state in the first place.

It wasn't as easy as it probably was back when he was under the control of the Black Stag; when he didn't have a conscience. Just eat eat eat non-stop. That's how he was justifying the killing now. He was hungry, and these were bad people.

He was hoping to find the cult leader, the one who had stabbed him. He must've ran off, never to return again, because he wasn't there in the woods that night when they slaughtered the dregs of the cult. He had hoped that he could have sunk his teeth into the leader, somewhere that would’ve led to a slow death so he could take his time with him.

Nick was almost like a machine, despite the fur and sinew that shielded him. He almost felt like he was having an out-of-body experience. Slash, bite, rip. Slash, bite, rip.

Slash.

Bite.

Rip.

Until every single monster that hurt him and everyone else around him was dead.

He wasn't the real monster.

But he could become one if they wanted him to.

And from then on, Nick Folio became known as the Grim, the Animal of the Shenandoah Valley.

Something felt wrong with the Woods.

Nick Folio sniffs at the air for what felt like the tenth time since the sun set, still not sensing what exactly was off. He sighs, his breath faintly visible in the Grove's chill. Even in the dog days of summer, this place was always dark and chilly.

Not even Noah knew exactly why this area was so different from the rest of the Valley's Woods. Maybe it was the trees growing so close together? The four of them; him, Jolly, Nicholas and Noah, had all agreed that it was something darker tainting this place. They just hadn’t bothered to seek out the reason why.

And honestly, why would he care? He was free. He could run as fast as a motorcycle if he pushed himself hard enough. Over the past few years, the pain of transforming back and forth had dulled to that of background noise. The slight twinges as his muscles stretched and his bones elongated. The prickle of fur sprouting all over his body. It all went away when his blood got pumping; the adrenaline kicking in.

And this feeling? This itch he just couldn't scratch? This was something new. Which meant something exciting. Something he could sink his teeth into. And that was fine for now. Fine until the next new itch overtook him.

Nick sheds his clothes, memorizing the spot where he throws them. He looks up at the sky, noting the placement of the waning crescent (a term that he hadn't wanted to know about, but did now thanks to Nicholas), and lets the shift take over. He kicks off, sending foliage and dirt everywhere. He lets the mysterious sense take over, pulling him to where he needs to go.

This was how he wanted to live forever: wild and free.

It was time to hunt.

[kingdomof-omens]

chapter twelve: PATH that I FOLLOW, part one

Summary: Down in the Shenandoah Valley, there lay a court consisting of the Grim, the Drowned, the Witch and the Watcher.

PLEASE READ THIS NEXT SECTION. I MEAN IT!!

These next two updates will deal with very dark themes. I would HIGHLY suggest that you be in the right mindset to read these, otherwise I'd recommend you take a good step back and wait until you are. Please, take care of yourselves, cryptids 😘

CW: graphic descriptions of vehicular accident, mentions of religious sacrifice, ptsd, large canines, bodily injury, body horror, graphic violence, religious trauma, angst, blood, physical assault, major character injury and death

Every chapter will have a different cw section. This is Bad Omens rpf, so obviously I don't know all the little nuances of the members or their family members, and technically Bad Omens doesn't exist in this universe.

A/N: this next chapter is super long, so I'm splitting them up to be bearable, and because I'm a sadist that likes to watch you all suffer. I’m writing this as I go, so I'd rather you all have semi-frequent updates.

Some things are color-coded. If any of you are colorblind to blues, reds or greens, lemme know.

FEATURED CREATURES:

If you want to be on the tagged list, lemme know.

@ladyveronikawrites @lilhobgobbler @signs-of-ill-portent @roley-poley-foley @badhedonist @screamsinsilver @kingdomof-omens

@deathblacksmoke @cookiesupplier

NICHOLAS

Fuck, everything hurt.

Everything was hazy as well, like the whole day was spent underwater. Nicholas tried to think of the last thing he remembered clearly. Having sex with Taylor? That was practically so ingrained into his brain, he’d never forget about that in a million years. Noah being angry and yelling at him about Taylor having sex with Taylor? Yeah, that was pretty much ingrained into him as well. Driving to his grandmother's house, going through the front door, and then… That's where his memories took a nosedive.

He practically existed in a halfway state, up until now. Small flashes of consciousness here and there was all he had. He had tried to reach out to the Woods to try and gain some energy back, but he couldn’t, so whoever had him must've drugged him or bound his inner power. He felt like a battery whose insides were slowly leaking.

Except he could sense a little spark he couldn't quite reach.

It was like it only existed in the corner of Nicholas’ vision; whenever he would look directly at it, it would disappear. When he looked away, it would appear again. It felt familiar, the little golden light, like it was a friend—

Oh, that's what it was. The fact that they were still holding onto it was surprising to him. Maybe they did share the same feelings after all.

He had coaxed the little spark closer and closer, weaving his practice into suggestions that would lead them to him, until he could almost touch it. Except when was right in front of him, he couldn't. Why couldn't he take it? It was his, after all.

“--? Nick, hold on.”

With the sound of a familiar voice, Nicholas roused to a state of semi-consciousness, but that meant the spark vanished, leaving him in the dark once again. Except now he could feel. And everything hurt.

He felt his body let out a small noise of pain. “Hey, you're gonna be alright.” A warm hand touched his face, and he was so shocked at the feeling of something not painful that his eyes slowly opened. His vision took awhile to clear up while a slightly feminine voice kept speaking. Large brown eyes swam into view. Noah?

No, Taylor. “I'm gonna cut this one rope, and I'll try to catch you, but we might take a fall–”

He couldn't hear the rest because he was too focused on the feeling of gravity pulling him down. It quickly stopped, but not before someone let out a noise of pain. He then felt his feet touch solid ground, and Taylor took all of his weight onto themselves.

Except then he was flying again - no, falling. Everything hurt more when Nicholas felt his body connect with a hard surface, almost knocking him out again, but that darkness went away when an ear piercing shriek roused him more to consciousness.

Taylor. Taylor was hurt.

Nicholas pushed himself up and looked through the curtain of his tangled and bloody hair. He managed to see Taylor, saw their eyes connect with his, until a shadow descended over them. All he saw of their attacker was blood-red antlers, and his heart dropped.

He screamed in pain and terror and anger as he launched to his feet. He managed to land a swing despite being drunk on pain and blood loss. The figure, this new leader of the cult, stumbled backwards, and then a long, branch-like arm snagged him and threw him further away.

Nicholas fell to his knees next to Taylor. “Tay?” he shouted, rolling them over. “Taylor!” Their brown eyes were wide, unseeing, but he could feel their pulse beating frantically under his fingers. They would jerk and moan occasionally, like they were experiencing a nightmare. They were under some malediction.

“Maledictions are just what we call dark practice,” Granny had told Nicholas several years ago, when he was just starting to learn the practice. “These are mostly spells that are used to hurt people, like a curse or what ordinary people might call a hex.”

Nicholas looked up at the sound of a roar that used to haunt his nightmares.

Despite facing two paranormal entities, the cult leader was somehow still standing. It was almost like watching the fight between Noah and the Black Stag all those years ago. But that meant there was only one way to defeat the Stag, if he really was possessing the cult leader. Just like last time.

And to save Taylor from the Hollowing, he’d have to kill the Vessel the only way he could.

“That sounds intense,” Nicholas had replied that night with Granny. “Have you ever done a dark spell like this?”

“No,” Granny had replied, “they can steal something from the practitioner. You might not even feel it, but the malediction can take something from you. The darker the malediction, the bigger the sacrifice.”

Using what little of his inner power he had left, Nicholas scooped a handful of dirt and rubbed it between his palms. “Come denizens of the dark earth, banish the evil and let it be no more,” he muttered into his hands. He then ran and jumped onto the Vessel’s back, earning a surprised, unearthly shriek. He wrapped his hands around the man’s throat, digging his now-black fingers into the soft flesh.

YOU CANNOT KILL US.

“No, but we can stop you. And we’ll keep stopping you from coming back, again and again, until you finally give up,” Nicholas hissed into the Vessel’s ear.

WE WILL NEVER GIVE UP, FOR WE ARE THE VERY BEST AT WAITING.

“Then you can wait in Hell, motherfucker.”

Nicholas squeezed his fingers tighter around the Vessel's throat, speaking the spell he had learned those several years ago, despite being warned of the consequences. “May the righteous triumph over he who walks the untrue path. With this sacrifice, I bind your suffering. May you eternally wither.”

And under Nicholas’ fingers, the cult leader began to rot away, until nothing was left except the wet slap of skin and bone hitting the ground.

Nicholas looked up at Noah, who was shifting into his humanoid form. He could hear Folio limping towards them, and could hear Jolly’s song fading, meaning that they were all okay. All his family was safe.

He turned to look at Taylor, who was stirring to life. Nicholas let go of the cloak, breathing out a sigh of relief as the last scraps of his essence slipped away.

And everything went black.

TAYLOR

YOU CAN'T SAVE HIM.

YOU ARE WEAK.

YOU ARE EMPTY.

I tried to scream as Michael’s eyes pleaded. For me? For God? For mercy? I could never tell. How did Jolly’s song go?

We asked Him if He would take us back, He would surely tell us no.

“Mikey, please, hold on,” I pleaded. It felt like I had been saying those words for hours as I tried to scrape my way forward, but either my fingers couldn’t find purchase, or with every inch I gained, another inch of pavement was created.

My head dipped, forehead pressed against the searing hot street. Tears streamed down my face. Was this my own personal Hell? Some kind of divine retribution from a god I stopped believing in when this scene actually happened? Could I not be happy for just once?

I tried summoning some strength using that momentary burst of anger, pushing myself up and shoving myself further. But when I looked up, I could see that I barely moved again. Michael’s eyes seemed to laugh at me, rather than beg for me.

I let out a sob. “Please…”

YOU CAN'T SAVE HIM.

YOU ARE WEAK.

YOU ARE EMPTY.

“Oh, shut up.”

My head shot up at the sound of the familiar, out of place voice. “Nick?” I asked, almost a whimper.

“Something like that. It’s kind of complicated, but if it makes it easier, then we’ll just say that’s what I am,” he said, sitting next to me. His clothes were intact, hair thrown up into a messy bun. He looked just like he did when he had explained this whole mess to me.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“The leader of the cult cast a malediction on you, attempting to Hollow you out. I’m guessing he was trying to put the Black Stag in someone since his first attempt didn’t work out,” he said.

“Am I… Am I dying?”

“No, no you aren’t dying. But if you give in to despair, It wins, and we’ll lose you.” He looked up at Michael. “Do you really live with this guilt all the time?”

“N-Nick—“

Nick waved his hand, and the horrific scene around us froze. No city sounds. That’s when I realized I couldn’t feel the pain in my side, and felt energized. I pushed myself up to where I could sit.

“Can I wake up now?” I asked.

“No, you’re not dreaming… not really. I’m working on that, but it’s gonna… it’s gonna take a lot. The Black Stag has to take a Vessel, so It’s using the cult leader instead.”

“What do you mean—“

“It wasn’t your fault, y’know?” he said. Nick looked from Michael to behind me, and then to me, his green eyes piercing me. “You feel guilty for not being there for your brother, or for your parents, but there was nothing you could do. I know how that feels, not being there for your best friend. Believe me, it nearly killed me.

“But unlike me back then, you have friends now that can help you, if you let them.”

“Your friend tried to choke me to death,” I stated flatly.

Nick’s mouth quirked to the side. “Did he now? We’ll have to kick his ass for that later.” He sighed. “Not long now.”

I tilted my head. “Not long for what?” I asked.

Nick stood up. “Promise me you’ll forgive yourself? Stress is a killer.”

“What do you mean? Where are you—?”

He held out his hand, and pulled me up when I took it. His hand moved up my arm and curled around the back of my neck, pulling me in for a breath-taking kiss. He parted, resting his forehead against mine. “I know we haven’t known each other for very long, but I want you to know that you have a little piece of me in you, and that I love you.”

Before I could ask him what was going on, I felt him evaporate from my grasp. Still dazed from his kiss, I slowly opened my eyes, and found that I was no longer on that street near Virginia Beach. I was back in the cold hollow, lying in the dirt.

I started pushing myself up, pain settling back into my bones as I remembered that yeah, I definitely have several broken bones. That’s when I heard something fall to the ground in front of me.

“Nick?”

Noah’s voice was like a bucket of ice water being thrown into my face. I managed to get up, stumbling my way over to where he and Nick were—

Why was Nick on the ground?

“Nick?” I asked, falling to my knees next to him. “Nick?!” I shakily pressed fingers to his neck, placed a hand on his chest. Nothing.

“Nick!”

Nick was dead.

Tysm for reading! chapter twelve, part two (THE FINAL PART) coming soon!

I'm so sorry, please don't hurt me.

[mikichko]

invisible red line pairing: john price x transmasc!reader cw: not a totally neutral reader as it's modeled after someone, pure fluff :) a/n: xavi (@buttdumplin) was one of the first people I met when I first joined this fandom and he's easily become one of my close friends. it's a little crazy to think that posting about some men would introduce me to one of my favorite people here. this piece is a gift to xavi as a way to thank him for the incredible friendship and kinship we share. xavito, yo se que nada que yo hago o escribo podrá encapsular todo el cariño y agradecimiento que yo tengo hacia ti. pero espero que con esta escritura sientas un poquito del cariño y amor que tu amistad me trae a mi 💕

Nothing else makes the world feel the way it does when John has his hands on you. Hand in hand, on the small of your back, on your hip pulling you to him, or on your chin tilting you up to meet his lips. He can’t name it, can’t quite place his fingers on the why, only knows there’s a comfort it provides. The noise of the world dampens with you in his arms, the flat of his palms on you. There are no threats to prepare for, no problems that need solving. It’s all tranquil here with you.

It’s what has him questioning his beliefs, pondering the idea of fate. John’s not a religious man. Not one to let others reap the glory of his hard work. It’s why he despises fate, it undermines him. He sneers at the mere idea of a predetermined life, one with a path set for him to follow. Like a mindless drone tethered to a track, no choice in which way it bends and curves into.

No, John Price has made every decision with intent. Has meticulously picked every single block used to build up his life. Molded the ones that had been damaged by incompetence and betrayals into solid rock for his foundation. He’s taken every step intentionally, navigated the turbulent waters to land himself right where he’s wanted. The stars had done nothing for him, he’d clawed his way there himself. 

And yet, here’s an anomaly he hadn’t accounted for. A soft sweet boy to temper out his rough edges. To run his hands over John’s brows and try to smooth out the wrinkles brought on by years of worry. Who pressed kisses to his cheek like they were something precious to him. Like John is worth something. 

When he’s at the receiving end of such care John has to wonder who sent him such a sweet thing. 

He knows he hasn’t earned it. Knows his hands have dripped blood, some of which had been wrongly spilled. Liquid sin staining the ivory of his hands before returning to the dirt. Hands like his should not be near his sweet boy. Should not be sullying his skin.

But years of restraint, bound to militaristic standards, years of depriving himself have made him hungry. He can’t help but chase selfishly for your touch, to bury his nose into you and breathe deeply, have his senses overwhelmed by you. Let himself be pressed so close to you it makes you squeal. He bats away your hands when you protest that you’ll hurt him, just pulls you closer onto him.

It’s pressed closely to you, your head laying on his chest, your warmth seeping into him and the cushions of the couch, that he thinks about fate again. He entertains the idea of the stars for once. Wondered for a split second if it was fate that he’d meet you or if he somehow clawed that to him as well.

- ooooo fancy flashback -

He thinks the universe is fucking with him when he spots you. Bitterness rising in the back of his throat as he watches from down the aisle. The laughter of the boys still rings in the back of his head, trading joyous stories of families with each other. It’s the one thing he’d neglected in this life. Any semblance of a family forgotten, problems needed solving and John made the sacrifice. For the greater good, he tells himself, it had to be done.

It’s what he mutters to himself whenever he remembers the chill of his flat back home. What he repeats when he wakes up to the chill of the air creeping up underneath his sheets, the bed empty next to him. 

It’s cruel for the universe to tempt him here. With a boy he just knows is a match for him, hidden away in a city in some landlocked piece of America. Kept secret from him by oceans, borders, and the vastness of America. Yet, here you are within reach. He tightens his hand on the handle of the six pack, the least offensive one he could find, and just watches. 

You're oblivious to the turmoil he’s in. Unaware of the silent battle that rages within him as his body fights to step towards you but his mind keeps him locked in place. All while you compare shaving cream brands for god’s sake. It’d be ridiculous if John hadn’t been starving for someone like you. If his mouth hadn’t dried, if his brain was still working the way it should. 

His feet only move when you float into the next aisle, mind, and body intent on keeping his eyes on you. He still keeps his distance, fiddling with the containers on his end of the aisle. The unfamiliarity of the products throws him for a moment, what the hell is sofrito? You thrive in it, grabbing what he assumes are your essentials seeing how you pick them while barely glancing at them. 

The casualness of your shopping is what gives him his opening. Your fingers grasp the long neck of a glass bottle, pulling it to you with ease. But, for whatever reason, it slips through your fingers and hurtles through the floor. John’s body moves on autopilot, the same it did when Soap had hurtled a knife towards an insubordinate officer. Soap had thrown it as a fear tactic, path angled to avoid harm. But he knows the bottle will absolutely shatter, shards cutting through the fabric of your pants, piercing skin, and staining the fabric with your own crimson life. He can’t have that.

He catches it before it makes contact with the ground, hand hovering a few centimeters above the ground before he straightens himself. 

“Careful with glass sweetheart. Can’t have pretty things like you damaged.” 

Your widened eyes blink before your face transforms in front of him. Your beautifully surprised expression morphs into a scowl, hand adjusting the grip on the basket. 

“I’m not a girl.”

John can only raise an eyebrow at you, eyes running over you without permission. He’s well aware. 

“Didn’t take you for one lad.” 

He lets it sit out in the open for a moment to gauge your response. You merely blink, the scowl easing a bit, the creases between your eyebrows dropping from three to one. Not what you were expecting. Well, you weren’t either, soft face hiding a rather fiery attitude from the looks of it. Someone had definitely put you here for him.

He offers you the bottle, “Trying to tell me that lads can’t be sweet too? Can’t be pretty?” 

It’s been years but he’s been around his boys enough. Kept his wit about him, clearly something that’ll help him win your favor. Likes the way his questions make your lips press inward, like you’re fighting a smile. He lets his eyes roam over you again. 

You lick your lips before responding, “Sorry. Just force of habit.”

John hums, “Nothing to be sorry for love. Like the boys who stand their ground.”

He sees you sway a little, shuffle backward just a little as you try to work out the meaning of his words. Your little inhale tells him you’re enjoying the attention. But you’re still fiddling with the basket, curling and uncurling your fingers on the handles. He doesn’t prod for a response, lets his eyes drift to the contents of your basket. It’s not the what that catches his attention, emboldens him a little more, but just how much of each item there is. He’s no expert but the mere fact you’ve got a basket tells John you’re not shopping for two. The lack of a band on your finger and objections to his comments fill in the rest of the gaps for him.

He can’t help himself, “Feel like I owe you something as an apology, for making you feel there was any need for clarification.”

He watches the silent battle you have, gnawing on your lip as you mull over his proposition. Your eyes flick down to the pack in his hand, “If that’s what you’re offering to share I think I’ll pass.” 

He grins back at you, hip cocking a bit while he looks down at you, “Can always take you somewhere acceptable for your more refined palette.”

You huff out a laugh, your basket finally landing in the ownership of your left hand. “Sorry sir, I’m not one for too many outings. More of a homebody.” You smile politely before your turn and start moving away from him. 

He tries not to dwell too much on the energy that shoots up his spine at your use of sir. Doesn’t even think twice before he follows behind you.

“Bit of a homebody myself love. Just a bit further from mine at the moment.”

“That why you have that pack of piss in your hands?”

He shrugs at your back, “Not too familiar with these plains, makes it difficult to find good liquor.”

You snort at that, “Guess you need a local to show you where to find the good stuff.” 

He comes to a stop right behind you, grinning at you as you turn to face him again, “That a yes to my offer then?”

Your shrug, attempt nonchalance, “We’ll see how movie night goes.”

Somehow he doesn’t fuck it up. He sees you once, investigated thoroughly by the black void that greets him at the door. He sees you again, a third time, and more. He beds you, marks you, and finally claims you as his own. You had him claimed since the beginning.

- ooooo back to the present -

He tightens his grip on you just a little, pressing a kiss to your forehead. The prickly sensation causes you to stir, eyes blinking slowly as you gain awareness of where you are. He hooks his fingers into the fabric to secure you to him. 

“Everything okay?” You mumble out sleepily.

He gives you another kiss, you hum happily against his chest. 

“Got you in my arms sweetheart, everything's perfect.”

[hana-no-seiiki]

ARDENT EXALTATION, ETERNAL DAMNATION

⟣┄─ ˑ 𝐈. ✧ yandere worshipper! x secret god! reader (ft. yan! god oc)

inspired by my bootiful @sagesskies n baldur’s gate shar/shadowheart

synopsis: if there was one main rule under your creed, it was for your name and titles thereof to never be spoken. but for this worshipper, it’s all that leaves his lips.

tw/cw: yandere & religious themes. yun sadist hours writing. reader calls oc their child but it’s not incest yall ples. character deaths.

TO WORSHIP YOU WAS THE GREATEST HONOR ONE COULD RECEIVE. An honor never to be shared nor declared. Selfishness and secrecy were the traits you valued in your followers. You simply felt that flaunting your presence to be superfluous, if not arrogant — thoughtless. A flaw you often saw in other gods that you wished not to have in yourself.

But of course, you were not perfect. No matter how much you may wished to be, even gods had their failures and oversights.

Once such oversight was Ynaël. The Prodigy, Priest of the Night, and your favorite.

He was immaculate. A perfect example of what it meant to worship you. He dedicated his voice, body, and soul only to you. No one knew his name but yourself. No one else knew he even existed. Those that did were sundered from existence, or lived in the afterlife.

You had only the highest of expectations for your child. He had an outstanding beginning. Unprecedented in your long, well hidden line of followers. You called for his name often. Assisted him in the ways you could as a deity in his adventures. Even allowing him to lay with you underneath the stars as mortals and your more carnal siblings did with their creations.

But as mortal beings and gods alike were, when faced with such high praise, it was inevitable for hubris to fester and slowly creep up on him.

He overstepped.

Sharing his devout adoration to his companions. Showering you with praise as he fought. Spreading your transcendent name throughout the very soil he stepped upon, and the crevices of bodies he’d desecrate.

What more was that he was proud of his accomplishments. You deserved to be known. To be remembered and immortalized. To share the spotlight your fellow celestial beings had. Was it not only right that you praise him even more?

But then, he could feel your presence slowly dimming in its luminance.

You never had a temple built to your name, so he could only ponder at night when everyone else had gone off to sleep or have fun underneath the sheets to wonder why you’ve seemingly left him. Was he too harsh? You were known for valuing mercy and forgiveness, the ability to show compassion even to the most tainted beings. Besides, you would never just leave him behind.

Frustrated with your lack of response to his calls, he sets upon a goal to build you a place for worship. One that was overdue in its establishment, in his opinion.

It took many, many agonizing years without a single word from you, but it was finally complete.

He takes a moment to gaze at the statue of your magnificent form he place behind the altar, soon to be covered with sacrifices and blessings. Anything you’d ask for, just as long as you bless him once more with yourself.

But instead, he is greeted by another presence.

A presence very similar to yours. Yet much, much more powerful.

Their voice almost tore Ynaël’s ears wide open in its magnitude.

“You killed them, you — a worthless scum of a mortal.”

Killed whom? Throughout his years working on your temple he had taken no life. He wanted everything to be completed as soon as possible. He had no time for any sorts of conquests.

“Meet your maker.”

©️ hana.no.seiiki - yun | 2024

— to be continued

[konigsblog]

tw/cw: rape, dead dove: do not eat. 🔞⛪

demon!141 using religious!reader as a sacrifice, taking advantage of your limp body for their own sickening, selfish benefit.

[yanderecxre]

Yandere!Cult Leader/Priest × gn!reader

Summary: Mason Blackwair always knew you'd be his. His sweet little dove, kept peacefully by his side, it's such a shame you've gotten so disillusioned with the teachings, but that's fine. It just gives him the opportunity to keep you with him forever now, willing or not.

CW: gaslighting, stabbing, cults, abuse of power, pet names, religious themes/wording, breeding, disassociating (reader), non-con, dycraphilia, dubious consent, loss of virginity, threats & as always if you think I missed anything just pm or say anything!

Note: peeks in and waves hi! Hope you guys like this one if you want a part 2 let me know!! ~ bunny

You are a member of your family's cult. Recently, you've begun to doubt your faith and the cult members found you guilty; as punishment, you were chosen to sacrifice yourself in the name of God.

At night you came to your priest, Mason Blackwair cell to ask him to mitigate your punishment. Mason sits quietly and calmly, his face illuminated by the light of a candle, his thin long fingers running over the pages of the Bible. Finally, Mason notices you standing in the aisle and smiles brightly. Despite the certain joy in his face, it is obvious that his smile is fake and here just for the sake of politeness.

“Hello, my dear dove. What brings you here?”

Mason doesn't let you answer and interrupts you with a little laugh.

“Ah, wait! I think I got it, little dove. Did you come here to talk about your punishment? I am sorry to tell you this, but I cannot influence the sacrifice in any way. Soon I will become the leader of our beautiful commune and that is why I need to maintain the reputation of a strict and fair manager…”

For a second, something like annoyance and sadness flashes in Mason's eyes and he quickly turns away.

“My advice is… To open your heart for salvation, little dove. Perhaps our Lord will hear your request.”

"The same Lord who wants them to tie me to the altar and cut me until I'm cleansed?”

You demanded softly, teary eyed as you looked into his eyes, the eyes that once belonged to your childhood friend. The sweet boy who used to pick flowers with you and run around the commune, now turned into nothing but a stranger.

Mason pauses for a moment, his eyes scanning your face as if he is trying to find something in your expression. Finally, he stands up from his seat and walks towards you, stopping just inches away from you.

"My dear dove… Do you know what this sacrifice means? It doesn't mean that they want to kill you. They want God to purify your soul by shedding your blood.”

Mason puts a hand on your shoulder, smiling gently at you.

"Look at me, little dove. You know how much I care about you and the commune's faith. But it doesn't mean that I am blind to the human side of things. I will talk with your father and see what we can do for you."

At this point, there is a sincere and caring note in Mason's voice.

"But remember, our Lord has a plan for all of us, even when it seems like He is leading us through dark paths."

You just shook, rage and fear in your veins. You quickly turned away and left him behind, crying now. It broke his heart to see you so upset, he reached out for you but only touched empty air as you exited with the final parting words.

"I'm retiring to my prison.”

Mason watches you retreat silently, his expression unreadable. Once you are out of sight, he sighs deeply and picks up the Bible again. He flips through its pages, frowning at whatever it is that he sees.

After a few minutes of brooding in silence, Mason closes the book and walks towards the door of his cell. Before leaving, he turns back to look at the empty room with a sad smile on his lips.

"I hope you'll forgive me someday for what I'm about to do."

He murmurs softly before blowing out the candles and leaving it behind, retiring to his bedroom.

You spent the entire night crying your eyes out, lamenting that all you'd see tomorrow was the crazed looks of the people you once thought of as family, your weak pathetic cries echoing around your cell.

You stood still as your parents led you to the altar, your father offering soft whispers of apologies as he and your mother tied you down, a knife lay beside the altar. You looked up at the ceiling, teary-eyed.

As you lay tied to the altar, your family gathers around with solemn expressions. The room is dimly lit and there's a faint smell of incense in the air.

Mason steps forward, his robes rustling as he walks towards the altar. He stops at the edge, looking down at his dove with an unreadable expression.

"Dear little dove…" Mason says softly, reaching for one of your hands. "You are about to become a vessel for our Lord's power. Do not be afraid.”

Mason picks up the knife from beside the altar and holds it gently in his hand.

"I will be performing this sacrifice myself," he adds. "May God have mercy on your soul."

With that said, Mason places a gentle kiss on your forehead before raising the knife above his head with both hands.

"Do not resist," he whispers to your ear. "Receive His love."

You closed your eyes and sobbed, refusing to let that sick yet soft look in his eyes be the last thing you saw.

Mason hesitates for a brief moment, his grip on the knife faltering slightly as he hears you crying. A flicker of emotions crosses his face before he quickly regains his composure.

"Dear dove," Mason says softly, almost pleadingly. "Do not be afraid. The pain is temporary but the glory you will experience afterward is eternal."

With that said, Mason slowly lowers the knife towards your chest.

"May our Lord have mercy on your soul," he whispers as he plunges the blade into your flesh.

The sacrifice lasts only a few seconds - it's short, but terrifying- and everything becomes blurry to you, as if you'd been transported out of your body and that someone else was experiencing this torment instead of you.

When it's over you feel weak and faint.

When you awoke, you were back in your bedroom, your mother sitting on a chair beside you. She reached out to touch you and you flinched terrified, letting out a loud sob.

As you awaken in your bedroom, you see your mother sitting beside your bed on a chair. She reaches out to touch you, but flinches when she sees that you are terrified of her and immediately backs away.

"Shh… it's alright," Your mother says softly, trying to comfort you. "You're safe now, my dear.” you want to scream ‘LIAR’ at her as she speaks, saying you were safe. You felt horrible and terror filled your body.

Mason enters the room and stands at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed over his chest, watching silently as your mother tries to calm you down.

"You did well today," he says coolly. "Thanks for receiving His love."

Although his words are praised-like, they do nothing to produce any emotion or feeling from him. He watches you, shaking and looking like a terrified animal, like a lamb who barely escaped the slaughter. He wants to say more but knows nothing he says will help you.

It was like seeing a ghost, his little dove no longer did as they usually did. There were no more sweet smiles or hymns sung as chores were completed, no more treats baked with trays especially reserved for Mason. Instead his dove was shut away, in their room, only going out for meals and sermons or whenever their parents coaxed them out.

Mason notices the change in your behavior and it bothers him deeply. He cannot help but wonder if he's partly responsible for what happened to you.

One day, he decides to visit you in your room. When he enters, you are sitting alone by the window staring out at the sky. You look up when you hear him come in.

"Little dove," Mason says softly as he approaches you. "I'm here to talk with you.”

There's a slight tremble in his voice - an unusual vulnerability that shows that even someone like him has feelings.

"I know that things have been difficult for you lately," he continues, taking a seat beside you on the bed. "But I want you to understand that everything we do is for the greater good of our commune and our faith."

He places a hand on yours and looks into your eyes with deep concern.

"You can always talk with me if there's something troubling you."

You stared blankly back. "I am fine. I've been cleansed by the knife.” You whispered softly and finally looked at him with vacant and distant eyes.

Mason nods slowly, sensing that there's something you're not telling him.

"I see," he says quietly. "But I can see that you're still hurting inside. And I want to help you."

He takes a deep breath and continues, "Little dove, I know that the sacrifice was traumatic for you. But it was necessary for our faith. You were chosen because we believe that your spirit is strong enough to endure it."

He pauses for a moment, his eyes searching her face.

"But if you're still feeling lost or confused… You can talk to me about it. Remember: Our faith is in everything."

"I used to play the piano. Right? Or did I sing? My memory is confusing.” You looked up at him, sadly. Shaking slightly as you stared at nothing. “I don't know who I am anymore, Mason. I'm scared.”

Mason furrows his brow slightly, unsure of what you are trying to say. He doesn't remember you ever playing any instrument.

"I'm not sure what you mean, little dove," he says with a frown. "What are you talking about?”

"I don't remember who I was before the sacrifice. Who was i? Who am I now? I'm scared Mason, so scared. Who was I before you drove the knife into me?”

Mason freezes at your words, his mind processing what you just said. He stands up from the bed and takes a few steps away from you, his face contorted with shock. He thought you'd forgotten he'd been the one to do it.

"What are you talking about?" he asks harshly. "I never drove the knife into you, little dove."

His voice is cold and hard, and there's a hint of anger in it.

"Who told you such lies? You are mistaken. Your mind is playing tricks on you dove." Mason mutters as he knelt between your thighs, grasping your hands in his and squeezing them. “Fret not little dove, your mind will get better.”

"May our Lord have mercy on your soul." It's spoken in a mockery of Mason's voice. You looked at him slightly confused, "That's what you spoke, right? Unless um, I misheard… but it sounded like you-”

Mason's eyes widen in realization as you speak. He takes a step closer to you, his expression softening.

"Oh, little dove…" he says softly, placing a hand on your shoulder. "I'm sorry you had to go through this."

He pauses for a moment before continuing.

"You are right… It was me who drove the knife into your heart. I did it because our Lord told me so in a vision - it was His will that you be sacrificed.”

Mason cups your face gently and looks into your eyes with compassion.

"But please believe me when I say that everything we do is for the greater good of our faith. Your family has devoted their lives to serving Him."

“Y-you did? But- w-why? It hurt- a lot-” You were working yourself up into a panic before he gently pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Hush, little dove, you're recovering, do not strain yourself, you know why. In order to cleanse you, now enough of this. Rest and cease thinking about such things further.”

Mason looks away from you for a moment, his eyes full of sadness.

"I know you're not thinking clearly right now," he says quietly. "But I still feel responsible for what happened to you. I know that you must hate me now… But please understand that it was never my intention to hurt you."

He takes a deep breath and continues, "All I wanted is to protect our faith and people from the evil in this world. Sacrifices are painful, but they purify our souls and make us stronger - so we can better serve Him.” Mason murmured and hugged you tightly to his chest.

"I f-feel upset. You're supposed to protect me, yet you drove a knife into me and now that- that everyone in the commune saw it- i- I'll be alone forever and my parents won't find me a spouse.” Your lip wobbled and you sniffled slightly, clinging to him. You were unable to see his cruel and satisfied smile as he held you, petting your hair softly.

Mason listens to your words with a sinking heart. He knows that it is true - he did drive the knife into you, and that decision has caused you so much pain.

"I… I had no choice," he says quietly, almost to himself. "It was His will."

Fake tears glisten in his eyes as Mason looks at you, finally realizing the weight of his actions.

"You're right," he says softly. "I should have protected you, not hurt you. I cannot change what happened now… But I promise you this: I will do everything in my power to help you recover from this. Starting right now.”

Mason gently kisses you, his lips pressing against yours as he speaks. “I'll remedy this immediately, you and I shall marry. That way you won't be alone.” He doesn't give you a moment to speak, already pressing you against the bed, kissing you deeply now.

You let out a muffled noise of confusion and panic, squirming underneath him and pushing at his chest. His lips finally move away only to seek your neck and leave bites and bruises upon it as you gasped and whimpered. “A-ah! M-mason- wait- p-please hold on- i-”

His head lifts up, looking at you with his eyes blown wide as he grunts an acknowledgement to your words, “Yes my dove? Sh, it's alright, who better to take responsibility than the one responsible for your misfortunes? Relax, or would you rather this happen at the altar later? Where everyone, will see and hear you?”

You trembled slightly the idea of that happening terrifying you to your core yet feeling slightly exhilarating. Mason grinned, feeling you relax and continued making his way to your waist.

Mason kissed down until he reached your entrance, humming softly as he placed his hands firmly on your squirming thighs, grunting loudly as he forced them open. “Enough of that, do not do that again or I will have to tie you down. Understood little dove?”

You nodded, or tried to as you gasped softly and whimpered out a moan at the feeling of his tongue licking and sucking at your entrance, no one had ever touched you there. “Mhmph! M-mason! Hng- t-too much!”

Mason puts a comforting hand on your thighs. He pulls away from between your thighs, face covered in his own saliva and your fluids that ran down your inner thighs.

"I understand that it can be scary, little dove. But I promise you, nothing will harm you here with me."

He gives you a reassuring smile. Breathing heavily as he speaks, his fingers finding their way to your still quivering entrance which he circled a finger around.

"Besides, my love for you is as pure as the intentions of our God. All we have to do is make love and everything will be alright.”

Mason's finger breached your entrance, slick with something that made it easier to handle, slowly thrusting his finger in and out. He gave you plenty of reassurance and pressed kisses to your thighs and stomach.

“Dove, you must relax, you're still clenching up and tensing up. You'll hurt yourself more than me if you don't relax.” With those words he sunk another finger inside, his free hand pinning your hips down to the bed when he felt you buck upwards.

Mason grunted as he felt your tight heat around his fingers, if you were this tight around his fingers you'd never be able to fully take all of his cock. He didn't want to hurt you more than necessary, not yet at least.

“Sh, sh dove, easy there we go, good little pet.” He murmured as you whimpered and moaned, feeling his fingers hit something inside of you that had you unable to breath. You heaved slightly and looked down at him through tearful eyes.

“M-mason- please- ngh! That feels….. mhm! Good-” You moaned out and let your head drop against the pillows, falling into a dream-like state as you allowed him to continue. “M-more…. Please give me more-”

Mason grinned at your words, a sinister gleam in his eyes before he cooed and slid his fingers out, shushing your confused whines with a simple kiss before he undressed himself and tore your remaining clothes off.

"As our Lord wishes," he whispers between kisses, his voice reverent yet filled with desire.

Mason aligned his cock with your entrance, sliding it through your messy thighs first to coat it before he spread your legs and slowly sunk in.

“P-please, please be mhmph! Gentle, please Mason?” You whimpered softly, eyes locked on him as he looked down at you, mouth drying when he saw your flushed and tear stained cheeks.

Mason looks down at you with tender eyes, his hand running up and down your side soothingly.

"I will take care of you, little dove," he says softly. "I promise."

With a gentle but firm motion, Mason fully enters you, slowly thrusting in and out of your body. His movements are gentle at first, but soon become more passionate as the intensity increases.

As he fucks you, Mason whispers religious phrases to you: "pray to me", "I am your God", "repent for your sins". He continues kissing and caressing every inch of your body, making sure that you are comfortable throughout the entire ordeal. Even as he feels you twitching around his cock, your own fluids covering both his cock and your thighs and stomach. How many orgasms had he wrung from your body? Five? Ten? You lost count.

He's filled you up more times than you can count, you thought he was trying to breed you and knock you up the way he came and came. You couldn't move as you moaned and whimpered, unable to speak much less move and do something about him fucking your sensitive body.

When he's finished, Mason pulls himself out and lays down beside you, holding you close to him. The room is silent except for the sound of breathing as you both catch your breath after Mason seemed to fill you up so much a slight bulge could be seen, you shifted trying to get comfortable yet only felt his cum leaking out your spent hole.

"Sleep now, little dove," he whispers softly into your ear. "We have obeyed our Lord's wishes. Soon enough tomorrow, we will marry and you'll live with me, my perfect little dove who won't have to do anything but obey and listen.”

You fell asleep, cuddled into his side as he looked down at you, a possessive look in his eyes. He'd deal with the consequences of your parents finding you two together in the morning for now, he'd happily hold his little dove and admire the marks he gifted them.

Mason stays awake, holding you close to him throughout the night. As the sun begins to rise and light filters through the window of your private quarters, he kisses your forehead again before getting up.

"I must leave now, little dove," he says quietly. "But know that I am always here for you."

As he dresses in his priestly vestments, Mason turns back to look at you, a hint of sadness in his eyes.

"Now go back to sleep and rest as much as possible. And remember what we did was pure love. Our wedding will be soon.”

He leans down and places a soft kiss on your lips before making his way out of your room and back into the world outside.