#disturbing graves tw

[frostfloweragainlol-alias-juno]

Jesse’s now a new character, decided to use him instead of dr Gerald !

He doesn’t work at the foundation anymore and he kinda hates it, he works as a tattoo artist

[void-wolfie]

Hi, how are you? Are you taking requests?

Could you write a drabble with Wednesday and fem reader

They are bickering about something and Enid jokes saying they look like a married couple or something and Wednesday tell reader "if you were my wife I would put poison on her coffee" and reader tells back "and if you were my wife I would drink it!!"

Poison

summary: you and Wednesday get into a debate on body disposal.

pairing: Wednesday Addams x fem!Reader

words: 262

tw: death? maybe?

a/n: this one has been sitting in my inox forever, so sorry to whoever requested this lol. I struggle to write for Wednesday so sorry I couldn't make this one longer.

"Obviously the best way to dispose of a body is to hide one in a pre-dug grave. You put the body under the coffin, the dirt is already disturbed, no one would even know."

Wednesday didn't even blink, then again, she never showed much emotion. "Maybe if you're in a hurry. It would be much more efficient to feed the body to pigs. They can chew through bones easily and there would be no traces of evidence left behind."

“How would that even be more efficient? That must take daysss.���

“One pig alone can approximately go through two pounds of uncooked flesh a minute. If you had sixteen pigs, you could dispose of a two-hundred-pound body in eight minutes.”

"Okay, but where would you even find that many pigs."

"A farm." She stared at you blankly, even more so than usual, as if you were dumb for not thinking of something so obvious.

"Yeah, but-"

You were cut off by Enid, who grew bored of your little debate almost an hour ago, "You two argue like an old married couple."

You could see Enid's little smirk, she knew your little secret, the tiny little crush you had on the Addams girl. The look she gave made you want to smack her upside the head.

"If she were my wife, I would put poison in her coffee." There was a distaste in her voice that nearly hurt, you did your best to ignore it though. That's just the way Wednesday was, cruel and uninterested.

"And if you were mine, I'd drink it."

a/n: link to body disposal debate - for fun

[lookingformoondrop]

OMG FINALLY SOMEONE WHO WRITES ABT THE COFFIN OF ANDY AND LEYLEY AAA

Honestly I'd take any writing about Andy LMFAO whatever you want to write, I'd just love to read something, be it headcanons or some short story <3

Absolutely! I was shocked when I tried finding content for TCOAAL, and there was none💀. For the sake of fluff Andy, the reader is the closest thing Andy has to a sister!

*Leyley doesn't exist*

P.S. Hopefully, this isn't OOC. This is also not proofread, so

I hope these meet your expectations <3

Andrew Graves x female best friend! Reader

TW: Everyone has a filthy mouth (swearing)... N/M = Nickname ♡

♡925 WORDS♡

Ever since Andrew was a kid, he was treated more as his parent's friend than their kid.

This often meant that Andrew was forced to miss out on childish routines like throwing a tantrum, making a mess, having fun the loud way, and making mistakes, simply because "he was so easy."

If he were to add to his parents' load of problems, he wouldn't be able to live with himself, let alone sleep.

But that was all before he met you.

Every Friday, Mrs. Graves would give Andrew money to go on a snack run for the weekend.

But no matter what he did, no matter when or how he entered the grocery store, this little girl (no less than five) would terrorize Andrew.

"She's so annoying, mom! She always snatches the snacks I go for and then bolts for the next aisle. Then she just giggles and runs away with MY TOMATO SOUP."

Mrs. Graves sighed and turned around to face her son, "Andrew, just because a little five year old girl is taking some of the same snacks as you DOES NOT MEAN I am letting you shop at a different store! 'Shop Shop Shop and Shop, with more Shop' is the best for low-deals and prices. Please don't be difficult."

With no other choices, Andrew was forced to continue shopping.

Every week, she did the same thing. She'd sneak up behind him when he wasn't paying attention. She'd snatch the poor snack out of Andrew's hand and would bolt out of the aisle.

And everytime she did this, Andrew would grow angrier and angrier.

Finally, when the little girl stole the hundredth can of soup from his hand, Andrew turned around and grabbed the little girl's hair.

"AHH! Get off of me asshole!"

"You little shit! Give me that can back!"

They'd fight over the can of soup in the middle of the aisle for the next 10 minutes before the store owner kicked them out for "public disturbances."

Now, without his can of soup, sitting at the curb outside the store, with new bite marks along his arm, Andrew was more pissed than ever.

"What the hell is your problem? Do you just find malicious torment funny, you borderline psycho?"

Andrew turned towards the girl. She turned her smile towards Andrew, "Nah, just you."

Annoyed and exhausted, he put his face in his hands.

She thought for a moment , "No one plays with me, so I figured I should play with someone who looked as miserable as me."

Andrew looked at her through his fingers, "What about me screamed misery?"

She put a finger on her bottom lip, deep in thought, "You just have this face,"

Andrew scoffed at the girl, burying his face in his knees. She giggled.

"You just naturally look like an asshole"

"Watch your language, you fucking shit!"

Andrew went to grab the girls hair, "You dont even know my name, and yet you're calling me an asshole!? No wonder you dont have any friends."

She slapped Andrew's hand before it could reach her, "Well, what's your name?"

Andrew hesitated, "It's...Andrew Graves. What's yours?"

The little girl smiled, "Y/N L/N, your new best friend, Aaaaandy."

Andrew sat lazily with Y/N, laying on his lap. He cringed when he thought about their first meeting.

Of all the things they could've fought about, it was a can of soup... God, they're fucking stupid.

Since that day, Y/N would beg Andrew for attention and fun. She'd stalk him when he was out and about and would drag him away from any errands he was requested to run on.

"Leave me alone, N/M"

"Make me~"

"Please?"

"Lame. Now I have to come with you! With that bitch ass attitude you'll get beat up."

"Great."

And when Andrew accidentally reveal his address? Andrew was permanently stuck with Y/N.

Every Friday, she'd follow Andrew home, and even when Mr. and Mrs. Graves questioned the foul-mouth girl Andrew would never offer an explanation better than, "Some stray I picked up that won't let go. I have to keep her."

"Aaaaandyyy, can you change the channel? I don't want to lift my eyelids."

Andrew sighed, "The remote is right by your leg, dumbass"

"So?" She scoffed, "reach it for me."

"It's closer to you than it is to me!"

"Andy change the goddamn channel!"

"i'm not getting up just because your ass wants to be lazy!"

"ANDREW"

"Y/N"

Even if that meant pissing each other off with meanless schemes.

Despite their bickering that has made local pedestrians' ears bleed, they still were there for each other in everything.

"Whatever, you dumb bastard," Y/N mumbled to herself.

Andrew played with Y/N's hair as he stared at the mindless TV.

"Veronica Steveson asked me out to the date."

"Aw, poor hussy"

"Ouch, you think so lowly of me?"

"No, I just assumed you said no," Y/N continued to watch the TV.

"Why would I...?" Before Andrew could finish his sentence, Y/N sat up and stared at him with intense eyes.

"Do you like her?"

"W- Well no, but it's not like any other girls are crawling to date me"

Y/N scoffed at Andrew, flicking his forehead, "That's because you're stupid to notice."

She laid back down on his lap, and Andrew secretly smiled to himself. "So...who aren't I noticing?"

"Your mom."

"Y/N GROSS!"

And even if no one admitted it out loud, and even if you blushed one too many times around each other, you belonged with each other.

"But seriously, Andy, pass me the remote"

"Eat shit, N/M"

Thank you for the ask <3

[sanctum-of-ramshackle]

🔪🪓 GIVE IT UP FOR I.N.K.!🩸🎤

[TWST AU]: This MC/Yuu/[Reader] may have more than just fairytale magic.

[Synopsis]: In this timeline, MC/Yuu/[Reader] returns back from the “dead” and is ready to unleash their horror-based magic. Also to understand that they were resting for about 30 years.

[Gender Neutral!MC/Yuu/[Reader]]

[TW]: Mentions of murder, blood and horror movie depictions of violence.

[(A/N)]: Hi everyone. It’s been a while since I last posted any content here. Things got busy IRL and also put up some content on my main blog. I’m sorry I didn’t warn anyone about my sudden break. Anywho, I wrote another MC/Yuu variant twisted from Ice Nine Kills (the vibe of the band).

To begin this journey, there is a hidden grave deep in the forest behind Night Raven College. Nobody has visited that very spot as their families have either passed or moved far away.

The etchings of the tombstone reads…

“Here Lies [Y/N]/MC/Yuu [L/N]”

“You Left Too Soon”

“Therefore If A Miracle Happens, Doom Will Be In Tune”

Then one night as the Dorm Sorting Ceremony, a storm occurs with lightning striking down.

Then, a strike hits the unbothered grave, electrocuting the fencing that protected the grave from trespasser and the ground shakes as a resurrection happens.

[The ground cracks open as a coffin unveils its lid and reveals a well-preserved corpse.]

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu/[Reader]: *Yawns from their supposed eternal slumber* That was a long nap…Why am I in a coffin?

[The living corpse leaves their disturbed burial and walks aimlessly out of the forest, unintentionally leading themselves to the NRC building.]

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu/[Reader]: I don’t remember much, but this place…

[Then a voice boomed across the hall to grab MC/Yuu’s attention.]

Crowley: *From afar* You! Why are not at the ceremony?

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu/[Reader]: I beg your pardon.

Crowley: *Closing the distance between him and MC/Yuu* I asked what…are…you… *Stops dead at his tracks* You…How?

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: Old man, I don’t know what kind of ceremony is happening but I remember now. I’m already an NRC student.

[And so, after the ceremony ended, Crowley gathered the Staff members and explained they have a student returned from the dead. They weren’t pleased by this sudden information. In the meantime, MC/Yuu will have to start NRC again as a first year student and they were transferred to the infamous Ramshackle Dormitory.]

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[At the Heartslabyul]

[MC/Yuu was invited by Cater as they joined back the Music Club and the MagiCam influencer thought they were cool.]

Cater: You got a new phone? Need help with anything?

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu/[Reader]: I still need help with the apps. How do you find movies on this thing?

Cater: I can teach you.

[Few Minutes Later]

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: Whoa! You guys released new horror films? It’s been years since I watched one. The last one I seen was some hockey-masked killer.

Cater: *Little concerned* MC/Yuu, when did you stop attending NRC?

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: Oh. Well…I guess around 30 years ago? Why asking, suddenly?

Cater: That explains why you asked what MagiCam is.

🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼

[During a Dorm Leader meeting]

Riddle: You’re explaining you used to attend Night Raven College 30 years ago?

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: Yeah, I used to be the president of the Music Club and still well versed in the darker side of magic.

Azul: What kind of magic you possess?

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: The kind if you can stomach the macabre world. The goriest parts of that field.

Vil: Necromancy, I presumed?

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: Sort of. It’s hard to explain about my magic, but all I know is it gets stronger when I perform music.

Kalim: Like it’s your Unique Magic.

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: Yeah, like that. Crazy how today’s people are using that term.

Leona: Still odd how you came back to life. You remember your old life?

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: I remember my family used to live on this island and the accident that happened in this school…

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[Chapter 5: During the VDC event and Vil’s Overblot]

[Ice Nine Kills - Welcome To Horrorwood]

Epel: We need to distract Vil-Senpai.

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: Allow me. I know the perfect song.

[Then the stage is set for MC/Yuu’s performance. They magically summoned a dark dome to cover the entire stadium for the light effects and manifest some pseudo band mates to play the appropriate instruments. Finally, they summoned their cursed electric guitar to fend off the latest Blot battle.]

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: *Starts singing*

Ink fills the page

A classic killer completes the cast

If evil's all the rage

Cut to the close up, then fade to black

Sit back for the sequel of your dreams

All psychos crave more shocking scenes

Who cares if it bleeds beyond the screen?

Are you misunderstood?

Are you more bad than good?

Welcome to Horrorwood

Where anyone would kill for a call back!

[They casted some powerful spells to weaken Overblot!Vil. The rest of the gang starts throwing their spells at the corrupted Head of Pomefiore.]

'Cause everyone is just so fucking…

Desperate for fame

Can't blame the savages this town attracts

I guess we're all insane (Insane!)

So silence the critics, 'cause this is not an act

(But here's the soundtrack!)

Sit back for the sequel of your dreams

All psychos crave more shocking scenes

Who cares if it bleeds beyond the screen?

Are you misunderstood? (YEAH!)

Are you more bad than good?

Welcome to Horrorwood

Where anyone would kill for a call back

The tabloids say

"There goes the neighborhood"

But long live Horrorwood

The only place it pays to be a hack!

(But will you make the cut if you know?)

Stardom's just an afterthought

For all those stabbed in the backlot

Piled up and left to rot

“So how's this for an establishing shot?”

[MC/Yuu shoots another fire spell at Overblot!Vil.]

Are you misunderstood? (YEAH!)

Are you more bad than good?

Welcome to Horrorwood

Where anyone would kill for a call back

The tabloids say

"There goes the neighborhood"

But long live Horrorwood

The only place where everyone should

Fear the premiere

There's always a target out on the red carpet

Between 'Silver Screams' something's awakened

And you'll never make it

But enjoy the show!

[They perform an impressive solo-guitar play as they summoned restraints to trap the weakened Overblot!Vil in one place.]

Are you misunderstood? (YEAH!)

Are you more bad than good?

Welcome to Horrorwood

Where anyone would kill for a call back

The tabloids say

"There goes the neighborhood"

But long live Horrorwood

The only place it pays to be a hack

Be a hack!

Welcome back!

[After the song finishes, MC/Yuu holds up their guitar and brutally swings it at Overblot!Vil to dislodge the Blot stone.]

Vil: *Turns back to normal and groans* What happened?

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: You kind of went berserk and we had stop you from almost killing everyone.

Vil: I see. My head is aching, however.

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: Uhhh…You probably hit your head during VDC.

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[Back in Crowley’s Office]

Crowley: *Shaken up by day one* I couldn’t believe they’re back…

“Dire, you wanna hang out today?”

“Dire, you forgot the assignment? Fine, just copy mine but change it up a bit.”

“Dire…You’ll regret the day I resurrect from my slumber. Heed my warning!”

???: CROWLEY!

Crowley: *Spooked by the outburst* IT’S NOT MY FAULT!!!

Crewel: Great Seven, you seemed out of your mind lately.

Crowley: Oh, I’m extremely busy, especially since their return.

Crewel: Oh yeah. They seem to be doing well with academics despite having to teach them newer materials. Their magic is what I fear about them.

Crowley: Yes, yes. Their magic hasn’t changed much.

Crewel: Dire, I heard that.

Crowley: It’s nothing. I’m just worried about the students.

Crewel: Uh huh. I’ll leave my reports here. *Leaves the office*

Crowley: *Suddenly scared* What if they remember that day?

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[Cafeteria]

Ace: You murdered someone?!

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: I didn’t murder anyone.

Sebek: Then what is this?! *Points at the crimson stain on their shirt*

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: *Wipes it off and taste the content* Oh, ground beef. I was helping Jade and Floyd with some hamburger orders.

Jack: And you just licked it? Won’t you get sick?

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: I’m undead. Nothing’s gonna harm me, again. *Bites into their extremely rare steak as some myoglobin leaks down from their lips*

[The First Year group felt fear of their new friend.]

✨[Reblogs helps creators and creates for more content]💫

[hxney-lemcn]

For the 2k followers event, if you're accepting request for Skully j graves, I would like to request him with 🥀 and the prompt 💘

a/n: so I haven't done the Halloween event and all my knowledge is from @solxamber so I hope I got his character right! I hope you like some heart-wrenching angst 💀

tw: unrequited feelings

wc: 0.3k

2k follower event | master list

It wasn’t fair. Why did you see everybody but him? It was like his world stopped the moment he met you, your shy smile and awkward demeanor as he greeted you with a kiss to the back of your hand. A greeting he did to everyone…yet with you it felt special. 

But your world kept going. Skully was just another eccentric guy you added to your friends list. His greeting made you feel a bit awkward (maybe a bit seen), but he was still a stranger nonetheless. You were kind to him like you’d be to anyone else, he was funny (if not a bit unhinged) and you weren’t sure if you’d see him again after you went back to NRC (an unfortunate reality).

Skully wished for you to be the Sally to his Jack. That you’ll fall into his arms and he could hold you tightly in his Halloween paradise. Just the two of you surrounded by inky blackness, no songs to disturb you or children in their garish costumes. His dream quickly cracked apart as you were set to leave, to go back to NRC.

And as you stood there, waving to Jack, Sally, and Skully, ready to depart, he found himself falling onto his knees in front of you. Grabbing your hand he placed it over his erratically beating heart, orange eyes wide with a hint of desperation.

“Do you feel my heart?” Skully asked, hope dangerously blossoming as you flustered. “It beats only for you.”

Yet you managed to shatter his heart completely.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, not wanting to embarrass him further. “But I don’t feel the same.”

As your friends cruelly snickered in the background, Skully lowered his head in defeat. He couldn’t stomach watching you go. Not when you’d be taking his heart with you.

[vivgst]

She had a lot of enemies and they found you eventually.

TW: PAIN <3

Let's pretend I didn't cry writing this:)

“I finally did what you told me, chula. I left, that's why I hadn't come to see you.” Valeria spoke, she felt uncomfortable coming back after so long, as if she had betrayed you. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat and looked up at the sky, the breeze was cold and on cold days like these she hated going out, but she wasn't going to leave you waiting.

"You were right, it turns out that I felt like I had to prove something to someone and that's why I clung to the cartel, I thought the cartel was going to die with me, I didn't expect you to be the reason I dismantled it." She sat on the floor and gently caressed the cement of your grave, just as she did when she caressed your cheek and she felt her eyes water but she swallowed her tears. She had worked hard on herself but not enough to feel free to cry.

“I should have listened to you but I know that if I blame myself you will be angry and I don't want to disturb your rest.” Her gaze was clouded by tears but she still managed to let out a giggle, she could imagine you scolding her because you always repeated that the past was not fixed, it was overcome.

“Forgive me, I cannot help it, mi reina. Guilt doesn't let me live, I try to listen to you and move on but I don't feel like I deserve to live everything you wanted without you." Her hand pressed against your grave and she grunted angrily when she scratched her hand, but she couldn't fight the frustration of talking to you and not being able to look into your eyes and she had wanted to convince herself that in some way or another she was already “better” now that a couple of years had passed since your departure, but she still felt the same bitter taste when she woke up in the mornings to an empty bed.

She swore silently every time she visited you that she wouldn't fall in love again, she couldn't, it was too painful to let go, however she would do her best not to sink into misery because you would have hated that and her heart sank as she imagined you angry.

And she didn't believe in heaven but knew that if it didn't exist, it started to do so once you died, because only you were worthy of paradise and it was the place where you deserved to rest.

She stood up, swallowing the lump in her throat once again and gave you a slight smile before leaving the flowers neatly arranged on your grave and leaving, tears overcoming her as the cold breeze turned warm to wrap her in a hug which was heartbreakingly similar to the ones you used to give her.

[purplekissinger]

hmm…hey, dear! I saw that your requests are open and I would like to know, can I get a fluffy (if that's possible) Voldemort, but as Voldy and not Tom (I mean with his snake form and not human) and wife fem reader (ambiguous appearance) in which he introduces her to his followers(with the right of him calling her his lady or queen or something like that) and despite the regrets and what everyone thinks, he is really devoted to her (even a little yan ) and the reaction of the diners seeing the way the dark lord treats his lovely wife (who is a magnificent witch, by the way) please? keep this wonderful fanart (https://www.tumblr.com/snake-queen7/730095728446291968?source=share) credits to the original author

Death and the Maiden

“why, I am growing quite sentimental... But look, Harry! My true family returns...”

Hiii anon!! Thanks for such a cool idea :3 Look, there is fluff here, Voldemort being nice with reader and all that, BUT!! I accidentally added some pretty dark themes. Like, really dark. Y/N uhhhhhh revives the Dark Lord, no less than that. There are not many details here, but the description of the ritual is sort of the same as in the fourth book. TW: blood, mention of cuts, morally grey reader, Voldemort and Y/N being a disaster couple.

Oddly enough, the most difficult part was finding the grave of Merope Riddle.

She died as Tom Riddle Sr's lawful wife, you now knew this for sure, because you rummaged through a thousand decayed documents in search of the name of the cemetery in the ground of which her poor bones lay. The archives of the hospital, the morgue, three Confunduses and one Imperio led you to Tottenham Park, to the old cemetery, where the poor were buried at that time, where on a tiny piece of land the unfortunate woman finally found peace. The peace that you were now about to disturb.

“Bone of the mother, taken with respect, you will renew your son!” you said in a whisper. And, looking at the ground that had parted under your feet, you thought that it’s good that they didn’t think of cremating Merope.

***

He has many names and so does Y/N.

“Y/N” — he’s the one who calls you that when no one can hear. This name is for him only, like a password, like a key on a chain hidden under a shirt, like a secret door in a solid wall. “Y/N.” "Tom".

“Mistress of the Riddle Manor” is a little cheesy, but you like it. It was you who persuaded him not to huddle at Malfoy’s, but to take the house that rightfully belonged to him, it was you who remade and altered everything here to your taste, it was you who turned an abandoned mansion into a cozy fortress on the border of the forest, it was you who caught a smile on his lips when he saw a tapestry with the Slytherin coat of arms on the wall. “My lady, you have impeccable taste,” he said then, and you bowed playfully.

“She Who Remained Faithful” is not something anyone among the Death Eaters actually calls you, but Voldemort likes to mention this epithet at meetings to emphasize what they should all strive for. When Bellatrix hears this, there are angry tears in her eyes. You are the eternal employee of the month. If there was an honor roll at Riddle Manor, it would have a full-length photo of you on it.

Newspapers are not so kind. In the headlines of the ‘Daily Prophet’ first pages, you are always “She Who Should Not Be Remembered.” The soft “should not be remembered” looks touching in comparison with the stern “must not be named.”

“You should call my wife “Mistress” or “My lady,” Voldemort says softly, looking around the room. “No other way. Although I do not recommend kissing her hand because it could cost your life”.

The Death Eaters gathered around the table nod uncertainly. You smile slightly, touching his palm under the table. His long boney fingers are cold, but only you know that they are also very, very gentle.

“Perhaps,” he adds thoughtfully, looking sideways at you, “such a kiss should be worth your whole life.”

At the wave of a pale hand, they rise from their seats, take turns approaching you and bowing at a respectful distance, and swear allegiance.

“Thank you for your invaluable help...” Snape says rotely. He is the only one who fully understands the incredible level of witchcraft you achieved by performing the ritual. He is the only one who understands how dangerous the mistress of Riddle Manor is, who has not a single murder to her name, but only one revival of the Dark Lord.

“... and I swear eternal fidelity...” Peter whispers. His small eyes sparkle and he tries not to look at you, but he can’t. Not even the fear of getting Crucio'd stops him.

“...my lady,” Bellatrix spits. In her eyes there is resentment, envy, longing... admiration?..

***

Tom Riddle had no friends. Voldemort neither. But, since you convinced him to do the most risky experiment in the world ever, to change the ritual of “Flesh, Bone and Blood”, then you had to go all the way.

You needed to sneak into Hogsmeade under the cover of darkness, which in itself is not an easy task, slip into the castle, find the Chamber of Secrets and allow Tom to possess you so that with your lips he could say the cherished “Open.” You had to jump into the cold darkness, you had to walk through the damp tunnels, you had to close your eyes when, rustling its scales, a huge creature approached you and, sniffing the air with its terrible nostrils, emited a bubbling hiss, in which any Parseltmouth would recognize the delight of a long-awaited meeting. “Why, you recognise me, after all,” Tom said tenderly, without leaving your body, and your arms wrapped around the thick snake neck. “Well, hello, Susie. Long time no see". A quiet, gentle hiss was the answer. "Thank you. Listen, there's something I really need you to do now...”

In one motion, you knocked over the fogged diamond vial over the cauldron. The blood of Susie the basilisk, the only creature in the world that Tom Riddle had ever considered a friend, turned the potion golden.

“Blood of the friend,” you said, breathing in, “given willingly, you will ressurect your ally!”

You understood Susie perfectly. Knowing Tom meant being willing to do anything for him.

***

“Do you want to celebrate our wedding at the Ministry or at Westminster Abbey?” Voldemort asks casually.

These quiet mornings are just for the two of you. When the fog over Little Hangleton had not yet cleared, and a cool freshness reigned in the garden, you, slowly, hand in hand, walked through the garden, and you proudly showed him the new flower beds, and he listened very carefully and admired both the flowers and you .

“We’re already married, Tom,” you reminded him and with a graceful gesture you raised your left hand, as if to show him a thin ring with an emerald. He quickly grabbed your hand and brought it to his lips.

“No,” he answered seriously. “It was a formality. I want a celebration for all of London, all of England. I want everyone to see you and know whose wife you are”.

Means a lot coming from someone who can throw the Cruciatus curse at any insolent person who dares to even look at you.

“Oh, aren’t you ambitious, my lord,” you laugh, running your finger along his pale cheek. “Is there anything else you might want?”.

“Of course there is,” Voldemort says with no hesitation, but for a brief moment you think that he’s trying to joke. “I want you to wear the crown of England.”

You hide your smile, turning away.

“Then we’d better get married in the London Tower.”

***

The potion hummed impatiently in the cauldron as you hurriedly unbuttoned your shirt with numb fingers. The third ingredient was too easy, a simple task. It has always been with you, from the day you and Tom looked into each other's eyes.

‘Flesh of the beloved!’ you gasped, breaking into a scream, when the dagger made the first cut on your left shoulder, ‘Given lovingly!.. You... will revive!..’ a little bit more, just a little! ‘Your loved one!"

Will is what is important. Intention is what is important. You don’t need to throw your entire arm from shoulder to hand into the cauldron, just a small piece of flesh is enough, which is worth more than thousands of Galleons, more than unicorn blood and basilisk venom. The will and intention of Her-Who-Remained-Faithful.

***

“You are the most precious thing I have,” Voldemort says quietly when the meeting is over and the two of you are sitting by the fireplace, hand in hand, your head on his shoulder. “I never expected to find such a treasure. And now it is not only with me, but also inside of me… Oh, how are you so loyal to me, my lady?”.

“I would throw my heart into the cauldron if necessary,” you say honestly.

“Don’t you ever say that,” he hisses angrily. “for it's mine”.

[nocturnesmoon]

Chapter 2: Arachnophobia

(Series Masterlist: Divine Violence) (Read on Ao3) (Inspired Playlist)

Series: The Divine Violence - Chapter 2: Arachnophobia

Wordcount: 6.2k

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x John "Soap" MacTavish x Gn!Reader

TW: (View masterlist for series tw and tags) - DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT Religious trauma, PTSD, Flashbacks, Angsty, Fluff, Paranoia, Anxiety, Disturbing Themes, let me know if i missed anything

Description: It's been so long since Simon last saw you. He already has a million things to worry about, and the reappearance of an old childhood friend being one of them, was not something he expected.

A/N: Finished editing sooner than expected, so thought I might aswell release it now. Also first time doing taglist, so let me know if it's not working. I think I did it right, but I don't know.

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The crows are especially loud this time of day. Always placing themselves in the dead trees that lean in over the graves. They screech and scrawl at anyone who dares come into the cemetery. They act like unofficial guardians of the dead, as if any presence that moves in would disturb their eternal sleep.

Simon has never really minded them, but his tolerance only goes so far when they don't seem to quiet down. It's the same routine every night in the late banks of summer. The warm glow of the sun would put the entire cemetery in a different mood. This place doesn't look so dark and miserable when you take a look at it from a different angle.

The fence door creeks in tune with the crows. A few of them look towards Simon as he pushes himself inside from the little opening he made. He knows exactly where to look to catch a glance of you. It never fails to surprise him how you manage to come earlier than him, but there you are. Climbed high above to the roof of the little shed, and bathed in the light of the descending sun.

Your figure is set in a defensive stance as you screech right back at the crows. He can't help the smile that crawls unto his lips, subtle and small. It was something you always ended up doing when the crows got too loud. Not even Simon's relentless teasing could stop you.

Sometimes the crows would fly away, too annoyed from the disturbance you gave right back. Other times, they would stare back at you, and Simon would start to worry they would fly down and peck their beaks and claws at you.

Luckily, they never seem to go that far.

"One of these days you're going to fall and break your neck." As soon as his voice reaches your ears, you whip around with the brightest smile. You always had a way of smiling from ear to ear like an idiot.

"Si!" You yell out, dropping down to your knees and crawling to the edge to greet him. He would have chewed you out about it, but he knew your knees were already bruised as scarred from getting up there.

"I brought food," he lifts up the plastic bag to be in your line of view. It twists around, making the handle choke against his skin and the water in the flask slosh around. You let out an excited squeal, and by the sounds of your loud rumbling stomach, he made the right choice to bring extra.

Getting up on the roof proved harder than he expected. The ladder you usually used had been locked inside the shed. Some snitch must have seen the both of you up there, and told the graveyard keeper.

You had found some creative way to stack some boxes on top of each other. However, there was still a small way you'd have to pull up, and while he was working on getting stronger, he didn't succeed in masking the few grunts and groans on the way.

"I swear you're going to be an old man by the time you turn 18 with the way your knees are popping," you teased when he swung his legs up over and rolled in. You had gracefully taken the bag from him when he was halfway. You were quick to take out it's contents and lining it up.

"Says the one who's been acting 18 since they were 10," he retorted out of breath.

You merely scoffed in response, but he caught the small smile. "Whatever, old man" your hands smoothed over the sealed bowl. You looked like you were waiting for his permission. It never failed to amuse him. He had brought the food for only you and you alone. You never actually accepted it before you were sure that you were allowed to.

"Go on, I could hear your growling stomach from the gate" he motions for you to just get to it. You rip the lid off like an animal starved. He can practically see the way your mouth glistens, at the sight of the freshly cooked meal.

"Ugh, you're a lifesaver Si, thank you."

He watches as you fold your hands, drop your head low and close your eyes in silent prayer. You do it every time before a meal. Simon can't even pretend to begin to understand why, or what the point of it is, but he knows it's important to you.

He respects it and doesn't interrupt you with stupid questions, but there will always be the little itch in the back of his brain that reminds him, that the religion forced upon you is a big factor of your pain.

You always try to convince him that it's fine, that you want it to be like this. He knows you're lying. Despite how much your parents will glorify it for you, he won't forget that it's them who starves you, just for accidentally taking the lord's name in vain.

"Say thanks to your mom from me," you mumble out through a mouthful of food. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips at the sight. You looked so content with your favourite food right at your fingertips.

"I made it."

Your eyes shoot up to meet him, surprised. "Really? Damn, you're a much better cook than I am." There's a swell of pride in his chest, he wasn't going to admit to you how many times he had failed to make that dish good. He had waited for the right moment to show you, and it paid off in the end.

"Flowers are in full bloom," he mentions offhandedly. He looks down at the small corners of red, covering the grave areas. The graveyard keeper had planted them awhile ago, hoping to let them bloom and give the grey space a pop of colour. An added bonus that it would deter people from messing with the graves.

The old man didn't like the two of you very much, chasing you out whenever he caught you here, and trying to find out who you were so he could tell your parents. It quickly made Simon internalize the man’s schedule so you could keep the space to yourself. Not like anyone ever came and visited these old graves. Not in this part of the yard.

"Mhm I know," you speak with your mouth full of food, "I plucked a few from behind the shed." He raises a brow, his curious look almost making you chuckle before swallowing. He always wondered how you lost all your manners as soon as you left the house, though he had decided to let you be on the subject long ago.

"Did you hurt yourself?"

You scoff, gulping down almost half the water bottle he brought before answering. "No, I didn't, you have so little trust me. I was careful," you assure him. You nudge to the little plastic bag of six red spider lilies. Their strings crumbled in some places, from where you had been a little less careful.

He gently picks them up. The plastic bag rustles when he moves them around, putting them into the shape of a bouquet. "You know, they kind of remind me of you" he brings them closer to his face. He looks down into the bundle of red strings, and green stalks. The sweet floral fragrance is surprisingly overwhelming. He scrunches up his nose, before moving the flowers away.

"Really?"

"Of course, my little spider" he gives you a cheeky grin. He can't help the small surge of giddiness, that rises in his chest when he sees your annoyed face. He had given you the nickname with no explanation two years ago. You didn't like it one bit, but he never relented. Over time, it just became part of your friendship.

"Are you serious? Is that why you chose it?" You didn't sound impressed. Your annoyance definitely wasn't relieved, by the potentiality of the pretty flowers being the reason for your odd nickname.

He snorts, shaking his head quickly. "Nah, could be partly" he offers you the spider lilies ceremoniously, like one would offer their partner romantic red roses. "More likely, you remind me of spiders" you accept the flowers unsure, "cute, always there, hiding in the shadows."

You swat his arm, "Hey! I do not hide in the shadows like a creep!"

His laugh echoes out louder than he meant it to. The both of you looking around suspiciously, eyeing the place to see if the graveyard keeper should suddenly pop out of the shadows and chase you away with a pitchfork.

"Of course, not love, you have absolutely never done that once in your life."

He finds himself unable to look away from your eyes, when you chuckle along with him. The little creases of genuine joy in the corners, the way they light up with life. It's a look on you that he realizes he's missed. Much more than he thought.

Simon's room is drenched in darkness when he wakes up. It's only after he forcefully blinks that he's even sure he actually did open his eyes. His breathing turns quiet and strained, the images of his dream replaying on his mind like a sick mantra. It hadn't even been the usual night terrors that he got; this one was something old yet new.

His lungs felt too big for his ribcage. The warm hand resting atop his chest felt all the more restrictive. It wasn't his own. A quiet panic sets into his blood, one that's relieved just as quick when the man next to him stirs in his sleep.

Johnny had always been a restless sleeper. Even when he was deep asleep, he had a tendency to twitch around. The first few times they had fallen asleep together, Simon hadn't gotten much, but he still found it to be worth it. Being able to hold Johnny close in his arms, and make sure that the man got as much sleep as possible, did things to the protective voice in Simon's head.

He gently moves Johnny's hand off his chest. He had fallen asleep caressing his scars. A much more frequent occurrence now that Simon had finally gotten the courage to tell Johnny of the origins. They weren't new by any means, but it felt nice regardless.

He hadn't felt cared for like this since…. well, since you.

He sits up, trying to not disturb him. His hand wipes a bead of sweat from his brow, and grimaces at the feeling. He needs a shower. Why had he even dreamt of you now, after all this time? It didn't make sense to him. Sure, he occasionally had a thought about you, but you hadn't had any prevalence in his life for a long time.

The memory was distinct to him, but it bled together with countless others you had shared on the roof of that shed. This was the first time he could see the vibrancy of the blood-red fill his vision. Those damn flowers you loved so much. The ones he nicknamed you after, when you expressed how much you hated your own name.

He could feel the touch of your fingers, running down his arm, over the tattoo he had gotten in secret. A quiet rebellion towards his own family. The softness of your skin was stuck in his mind, gripping him like a vice and choking him through his uprising emotions.

It was so clear to him. Terrifying, really, he had felt so deeply about you. Now you were but dust in the wind for him.

"Simon…"

A much rougher hand than yours had been, gently rubs his arm, bringing his attention to its owner. Johnny stares up at him with drowsy eyes, the deep blues looking to him for an explanation.

"Nightmare?" he asks, his voice still laced with sleep.

Simon shakes his head. It wasn't a nightmare, was it? His emotions are disturbed, for sure, but his nightmares are violent. They leave him rattled and shaken, barely allowing oxygen into his lungs. They have him fighting back against any physical force, and remind him of his worst memories. Typically, it didn't include scenic graveyards, beloved childhood friends and red spider lilies in full bloom.

"Then why are ye cryin'?"

Simon's eyes widen. His hand come up to touch the tears, wiping them away in a quick motion. Yeah, why the hell was he even crying. It wasn't something to cry over, it was simply the past. It wasn't even something he regretted. It was a pleasant memory; one he wishes he could go back to.

Johnny's hand traces up his muscle, until he is fully sat up himself. His lips come into contact with Simon's cheek, giving him a soft kiss.

"Ye wanna talk about it?" Johnny looks like he's ready to pass out any second. He always had that interesting ability to become sleepy anytime he's around Simon alone. Managing to become relaxed enough to let down his defences.

"No…" Simon let's out a deep grumbled sigh. He moves his head to the side, meeting Johnny's concerned gaze. He dips down to place a kiss to his lips, just as soft. "Go back to sleep…you can still catch a few hours," he says in a whisper.

They both had another day of hard work ahead of them. It wouldn't be any use if Simon was the reason the both of them were lacking energy. Their current case was a difficult one. The entire taskforce was more used to short clear-cut missions, one after the other they cleared them with minimal struggle. All they've done the last few weeks has been intel gathering, and a few fruitless ops to various places in the world.

It was, in short, frustrating. The group of people they were looking for were incredibly good at keeping themselves in the shadows. Trying to catch them has been like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands.

They've been down two men as well. Ever since, Price and Gaz left to retrieve extra help, so to speak. He doesn't see how any more help will do anything for them, the people they've already consulted were dead ends. Talented absolutely, he even learnt a new thing from one of them, but not what they needed.

The stress of the job itself was taking its toll on his brain, but he couldn't ever imagine himself doing anything else. Not when he's got this far already. People like himself aren't suited for a quieter life, somewhere else doing something that's a lot more mundane. At least he can't complain about having a boring day to day.

"Yer thoughts are loud."

Simon let's out a heavy sigh. It's too late for this, or early rather. He shuffles under the sheets, brings Johnny with him as he morphs his own body to his. Johnny instinctively wraps his arms around him, squishing themselves close as they can get. The heat of the room ignored.

"Sleep…" he mumbles and closes his eyes, "We can talk later."

A sharp knock pulls Simon away from his report. His eyes narrowing at the door as it opens, taking notice of the creek. The hinges have needed changing for a few years now. No one ever got around to it.

"Got yer lunch," Johnny steps into the low lighted office. Always with that tone of optimism that Simon can never really grasp.

"Jesus, ah don't understand how ye can see anythin' in 'ere." Johnny pushes the door closed, and makes his way over to Simon's desk. He puts down a plate of whatever he could find (that Simon would like) from what they're serving today. A task that could prove challenging.

Johnny squints in the low light, even the lamp Simon keeps on his desk doesn't do much for the total lighting in the room.

He prefers it this way though, it goes easy on his eyes, and he doesn't have to listen to the incessant buzzing from the lights that apparently only he can hear.

The first time Johnny questioned him on his choice, Johnny had called him a vampire in response. In retaliation, he had woken the man up in the middle of the night, and scared the shit out of him.

He was not questioned again.

"Got yer favourite," the Scot scoots an extra chair over to his desk. He tried to sound as upbeat as he could. The last while had taken a visible toll on everyone in the taskforce, and between the two of them, Johnny wanted to remain positive for them both. Simon sure as hell wasn't going to.

Simon let's out a grumbling noise in response. "Oh, quit that," Johnny waves his hand between the report and his face, "ah know for a fact, that ye barely ate anythin' this mornin'. What's the matter with ye."

The quiet stretches between them. He ignores the offended sputters, when he removes Johnny's hand from his view. He was right though, unfortunately, Simon hadn't had much of an appetite ever since he failed to go back to sleep. There was something about the dream he had, it wouldn't leave his mind.

No matter how much he tried to convince himself it was nothing, the reminder of the past felt like a storm in his body. It swirled old emotions back to the top, things he never got over and had instead repressed the hell out of.

He tried to not make a habit of dwelling on things he couldn't change. Yet now he finds himself wondering what could have been different if he chose other actions, than what he did all those years ago.

What if he hadn't given up on reaching out. What if he had tried to find you. What if he still knew you.

What if, what if, what if.

He bit back on a groan. Normally it was the annoying (Loveable) Scotsman occupying his thoughts, not childhood crushes.

For a time, he had tried finding you again, years later when it would already be too late. What he found was abnormally little, and nothing worthy of note. All he could boil it down to was that you had your own life now, somewhere else, far away from him.

"Simon," Johnny snapped his fingers, "Ye don't get to ignore me, talk to me." Still, he remains quiet, only gracing the man with his supposed undivided attention at his request. Whatever Johnny wanted from him would be better than fantasizing about a past he couldn't return to. It wasn't like him.

"Jus' stressed."

"Aye…sure…just the stress," Johnny mocks him light-heartedly, his mouth tugging in the corners. "C'mon Si, ah know what ye're like when ye're stressed…this is different…is it the supposed non nightmare ye had?" He's adamant on not letting the morning go.

Simon had been more quiet than normal, hastily going on with his day in an attempt at finding something to distract him. He had failed miserably in his pursuit, instead letting himself drown in the unanswerable question. What exactly was the goal of The Divine Principle.

"It wasn't a nightmare," he stresses.

"Didn't say it was."

Simon puts down the pen he had been writing with. The small joints in his fingers aching at the release. The pen was the only thing that had been at his disposal for several hours, which allowed him to fidget. Anything else left him restless, only the bouncing of his own leg did it justice, but even that got tiresome after a long time of it.

"I dreamt up memories." He looks away from his partner's unwavering attention. He had told several things from his past already. Old ghost stories that's better left dead and buried under the rubble of his past self.

He allowed Johnny in years ago, opened up his stone turned heart, and let him hold it. He gave him the ability to squeeze the life out of it, drain it of whatever feeling it still had left.

Instead, Johnny let it prosper in his care. Showing the scars of his own, and gaining mutual love and understanding.

There were still things he didn't know. Wounds that never really turned into scars were still left in the darkness. Scabs being picked at every few years or so, reminding him of the hurt he never quite tended to.

"Yer family?"

"An old friend."

"Childhood friend? Not somethin' ye've ever mentioned before," Johnny says in an intrigued tone. He pushes the plate of food In front of Simon's vision to remind him.  It doesn't forward his eating. He barely even looks at it, instead remaining his fixed gaze on John.

"And I don't intend to," he doesn't react to the disproving look he gets, "at least not yet."

"Aye…Ah not gonna force ye to Si…but it's clearly botherin' ye." Johnny let's out a pleased sound when Simon finally rolls up the bottom of his mask above his nose, and pick up the fork to stab at his food.

He takes a big bite before he continues. It gives him enough time to gather his own thoughts. They still spiral within his skull, feelings of want and longing buzzing in his bones. "I jus' didn't expect it," he whispers, "been years since I’ve had a dream from the past that wasn't riddled with…unease."

It's not a generous term. It doesn't quite grasp the full complexity of it, but he'd rather suffer beneath a blade once again before he admits it out in the open that they terrify him.

Nightmares are frequent, things from the operations he goes through here. Night terrors have become a much smaller occurrence for him, his therapy sessions helping more than he thought they would, and extra support from Johnny had done wonders.

He didn't know what to make of it, but Price's words from years ago of how far you could go with a solid support system, were apparently true. He wasn't planning on admitting that to the man anytime soon, however.

Johnny stares in silence, waiting for him to continue, but the matter is dropped when he shakes his head no. Johnny let's out a deep sigh, and with a soft shake of his head, he begins eating his own brought lunch. "Fine, have it yer way" he mumbles while he chews, "Captain and Gaz should be coming in a few hours."

"I would've thought you'd show more excitement over new people," Simon speaks after swallowing his mouthful of food. He didn't want to go back to the subject of his dream, instead letting it simmer in the back of his head.

"Ah would, but I'm too busy worrying about yer ass." Johnny grins, and though he means it, Simon can see the glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. He had always been one for the newcomers, the few people that had helped them on the cult case so far had been on the questionably delightful receiving end of Johnny's flirtatious manner.

"You worry too much."

"Funny, ah should be the one saying that," that earns Johnny a look of annoyance. One he can only chuckle at. No matter how much Johnny would humour it, he was right, even if Simon didn't want him to be.

He always found himself something to worry about, or so he's told from everyone around him. One thing was for Price to say it, the hypocritical bastard. Another was for Johnny to mention it, it got him thinking, but it was a complete third thing when even Kyle would give his two cents of concern.

He was labelled a worrier, through and through. Not something he took on with particular pride, but it kept them safe. It made him aware of the dangers, all of them, and with the right precautions he could fight them before they took something precious of his.

It's the unknown that's the hardest to compete with. He knew nothing about the upcoming arrival, he couldn't prepare his proper defences, or what he needed. His brain still had to constantly remind him that the person coming wasn't a threat to his peace. They were coming to help. That was all.

One thing Simon can be thankful for, is that the base doesn't feel it when it's at it's busiest. The quiet can still reap the noise in the halls, and outside the wind is reduced to a slow breeze.

There's a chill in the air, the leaves of autumn already starting to fall from the dedicated few trees left on base. The colour on them had kept something pretty to look at around, soon they would bare and boring again. Sometimes the snow would make up for it, if there was enough of it.

He'd been waiting out here a tad too long. Not even Johnny would join him before the plane got a bit closer. The anxious part of him wouldn't allow him to be late. An ideal he'd always held to, rather be too early than too late.

It keeps him within of that carefully crafted control.

A control that very quickly starts to dwindle when the doors open.

A part of him finds himself relieved when he sees Price and Garrick come out of the plane unscathed and in the same state as they went. He could try to deny it to himself all he wanted, but he had grown to care about the taskforce as a whole, not just Johnny.

That part of it all was fine, a variable he knew.

The person walking languidly behind them, is what sets him out of his carefully calculated control.

It trails down his back like claws of ice, bringing the warmth of his blood into an ever long cold. His limbs cease, his already rigid stance becomes like stone. The person that walks towards him, is not a person he knows any more, nor is it a person he ever expected to see again. Because that person is no longer the little kid, he would watch scrape their knees climbing the trees, or the little kid he would hold close when they broke under pressure.

The little kid was now a grown adult.

And in tow behind Price with a nervous look.

You look different.

He couldn't even be sure that it was truly that little kid, sure they carried your features, more mature and older, a new amount of scars and weariness you should never bear. It's been so long, he can almost convince himself that he's hallucinating. That his own sleep deprivation is finally catching up to him, and forcing him to make correlations based upon his own wishes.

"Boys, it's good to see you" Price voice thrums out. The smile playing on his lips tells Simon more things than he likes. The eye-contact they're making only makes the nausea in his stomach worse. If only throwing up would fix the problem standing in front of him, half obscured by Gaz.

"I hope we didn't keep you waiting out here too long," Price voice almost echoes, "I want to introduce you to someone."

The tense air doesn't alleviate, and when your name leaves the captains lips, Simon knows that he is completely and utterly fucked.

"Ye know them, don't ye?"

Johnny's voice startles him out of his thoughts, bringing him back up from the rabbit hole he ventured down. He's been standing here for who knows how long, staring out at the training recruits doing their drills for the evening, or at least that is his cover. Truly he doesn't see anyone of them, he looks past the moving crowd, his eyes boring into your figure on the other side.

He answers Johnny with a simple grunt. He still can't quite believe it himself, that it really is you, that you're alive and here. It makes him angry to even think about, you being here. You're not supposed to be here at all, you were supposed to be far away from the likes of the military.

You weren't supposed to look like you did, flimsy and cautious reactions to everything that moved, new scars he knew nothing about adorned your once soft skin and made it rough, your eyes were no longer sweet and innocent, they had seen things he had as well.

A future he had blissfully believed you wouldn't have to share with him.

His nausea hasn't left since you arrived hours ago.

"Not on good terms, then?" Whatever Johnny thought of you, he was having a mighty good time with this. Since you'd uttered your first words, Johnny had been smitten with you. A quality to impress that you still seemed to possess, despite your differences.

Simon had worried that Johnny would have scared you away with his overwhelming form of an introduction. His presence commanded space, something Simon counted on when he wanted to retract into the shadows of a room and go unnoticed. But on you and your tense muscles, you looked more like a frightened rabbit ready to sprint back into the plane.

You didn't.

No, you held yourself in place, did the courteous thing and introduced yourself as properly as you could.

There hadn't been a whole lot of time for reunions. Simon didn't even know whether you knew it was him under the skull mask. He hadn't greeted you, too afraid of his own reaction to you, and he had likely looked like a rude, brutish soldier that wanted nothing to do with you.

He wanted to adhere to that, keep up the act, and keep hoping you wouldn't see through him and his longing glances.

"I think they're quite charming," Johnny says with a hint of suggestion, "pretty thing."

"Keep it in your pants, MacTavish."

Across the yard, he sees you light a cigarette. You bring it to your lips and take a puff, rolling your shoulders back to release tension. It's a nasty habit, one you shouldn't indulge in. You should've stayed away from it, just like he told you all those years ago.

His hand twitches when you take another puff, and the pack of cigarettes burn against his thigh where they rest in his pocket.

"I thought ye liked to take said pants off-" he lets out a scoff when Simon moves past him, not allowing him to finish.

He crosses halfway through before the small voice in him quivers and changes his mind. He trails to the side, slowly making his way towards you by staying close to the raised wall. You don't look towards him, but with the way you had anxiously assessed every corner of every area you went, you likely knew exactly where he was and what he was doing.

Nonetheless, he found himself standing with a distance to you, using the excuse that it was a dedicated smoking area, to actually allow himself this close. It feels out of place for him to be this cautious of his own movements. Normally his moves were calculated, a bit heavy and tense, sneaky, when need be, but not the nervous caution he embodies now.

He fishes out his own pack of cigarettes, narrowing his vision on it while he lights it to make sure he doesn't let himself trail towards you. He needs to be strategic about this, he couldn't just assume you knew who he was. You might not even remember him.

"I was starting to wonder whether you were going to come say hello, or if you were going to keep hiding in the shadows, and staring like a creep."

The first drag comes into his lungs wrong. He seals his lips and lets the cough reside in his chest. A mistake to do, since you seem to notice anyway. Your voice isn't what he would think. Though, he starts to realize he doesn't actually remember what you used to sound like in his memories, but it wasn't this.

"Wasn't staring," he defends.

"Sure, and I’m royalty."

At least you hadn't lost your love for sarcasm.

He takes a better drag of his cigarette, lets the nicotine into his body like he needed it to breathe. He really should kick the habit, set an example. If not for you, then for Johnny. He didn't quite think you'd care so much for his 'example' any more.

"No reintroduction?"

"So, you know then," he turns his head to look at you. He meets your eyes, already staring at him, looking him over like he's some fascinating creature you've never seen before. Yet he feels like you're staring right through him at the same time.

There's something haunted about your appearance and stance.

"Of course I know, Simon, you really think I would've come here if I didn't get all the information."

Simon doesn't know what to think. You're not even supposed to be here in his mind. "Been a long time," he comments idly, instead of indulging your rhetorical question. How many years had it been since you parted? Since you stopped answering and turned away? He can't remember.

"It has," you bring your own cigarette to your lips to take a drag, the silence kills, "you've come far."

"I thought you were too stubborn to join up." He watches on as you look away. Is that a hint of shame he sees? He's not going to pretend to know what's going on in your head anymore.

"People change," is all the answer you seem to muster up and give him, "and I’m not currently enlisted."

His jaw twitches behind the mask, it clamps to his face uncomfortably, suddenly feeling too scratchy against his skin.

People change.

He knew that, he wasn't delusional about it. It just didn't feel right for you to change so drastically. He had always imagined that you'd be living alone by now, in a city far away from the likes of him, maybe even a different country. You'd have bought that flat or house you always fantasized about, finally making it yours. You'd have a beloved pet or two, and a husband or wife to keep your bed warm.

He lets out a grunt in response, taking another shot at filling his lungs with smoke. "Well, you're not the only thing that's changed over the years," he doesn't know what point he's trying to make, yet he tries nonetheless.

"Clearly." He no longer likes the tone of voice you've taken on.

You turn yourself to him fully this time. He has no idea what's going through your head. There's mystique in your eyes, and it takes an embarrassingly long time for him to realize you aren't staring at him, but his mask.

"Out of all the motifs, you could've chosen…" you sound almost disappointed in him. He doesn't understand why it stings. You look down at his skeletal gloves with the same expression. He's never been one to be embarrassed, or self-conscious about his persona. You've only been back in his life for a few hours, and the old standard he held for you long ago comes back like it wasn't ever gone.

He can't even remember caring that much about your opinion of him. Maybe it's because back then you adored everything about him. Now your eyes don't hold the warmth he's come to miss.

"You got a problem?" His jaw tenses behind his mask. He regrets his tone of voice the instant he sees the narrow squint of your eyes, the distaste never quite leaving your face.

"You know that I do." He does. He doesn't try to deny it. Back when you were kids, he knew you better than even your own parents did, your family or anyone else you would surround yourself with.

"If there's a conflict of interest-"

"Always so prone to the extreme," you cut him off. A callback he doesn't appreciate as much as he once would. "Good to see not everything is changed," none of your words are said with honesty nor the friendliness he could've expected from you.

There's deceit, passive aggressiveness, a hostile tone you've never bourn before. You've never had to Infront of him before. It's a foolish realization to only have now. It's the only constant he could be sure of the first time he saw you again, in all these years. You weren't going to be the same, you have changed, and so has he.

To go back to such a time isn't a possibility. It rests within either of your memories, buried beneath layers of stone and ice. The feelings you once had couldn't be expected to be upheld. It was unfair of him to think such a way.

He doesn't recognize his own voice when he softly calls your name. His3 hand moves forward about to graze at your arm, but before he can even come near, you back away. It's a rejection that cuts deep, and one he wishes he actually could blame you for. Alas he can't.

"No," you say steadfast "don't do that. It won't end well…for either of us."

He doesn't nod, doesn't shake his head. No verbal response is offered, only a mere silent movement, the retraction of his own hand to give you the space you have asked for. He doesn't like it. He doesn't like it anymore than he liked the way you became a ghost all those years ago.

You're finally within reach of his grasp, and you've never felt further away.

Likes, Reblogs and comments are always appreciated, love ya! <3

Taglist: @chickennn-soupp @unlikelyaperson @ghostlythots @lilynotdilly @islnd-vybz

[multifandomthoughts]

GN Reader

Tw: Canon typical shenanigans, grave robbing, mentions of death and corpses

“Medic, we can’t be doing this! It’s not ethical or legal!” Your voice trembles as you follow the doctor down a secluded dirt path. “And when has that ever stopped me? Those qualms aside, I am in the pursuit of scientific advancement, you know that. You can’t believe you’re actually going along with one of his schemes.

There was a tendency you had to stay up late, but you had been methodical in your efforts to stay away from medic during these periods. His mind was the most unstable, most creative. And often was in need of companionship in order to carry out whatever experiments or other activities he had going on in the dark of the night.

He had caught you red handed. Sneaking a drink out of the shared fridge, the door creaking open alerted him to your presence. “Oh, there you are…” He growls.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

You can tell by the tone of his voice that he has some sort of shit-eating grin on his face, and that only means one thing. He was going to persuade force you to help him with whatever dastardly plot he has going on.

Before you can even respond to his comment, you drop your drink and try to sprint past him. He grips your shirt and with that same devilish smile, he shakes his head. “Now now…you’re going to help me with my experiment whether you like it or not.”

An hour later, all you’d managed to do was grow increasingly hoarse as you kept futilely protesting the whole way to your dark, unknown destination. You stumble, tripping multiple times over what seem to be tree roots and rocks. But, not knowing where you are, and the fact that fog has begun to set, distorts your vision heavily.

“Yes, yes! We are almost there, Schatz.” Medic says, his grin spreading ear to ear and his voice sounding like a giddy school boy. “Medic, where exactly are we going?” You question timidly. “Why, we’re going to the cemetery of course! I needed new specimens for my studies, and Miss Pauling refused to give me the bodies of the people we killed, so I had to resort to….drastic measures.”

Your stomach is now in your throat and your skin goes pale. You knew you were doing something unethical, but you didn’t know how unethical. Your footsteps slow, but don’t stop as you have nowhere to go, Medic was the one who drove you here.

As if he had eyes on the back of his head, he mumbled: “We’re not using fresh corpses you know…” Upon hearing that you spat “How does that make it any better?” “Well, I’m trying to run some tissue decomposition analysis so I can see how long it takes, and how I can potentially speed up the process.”

The gears turn in your head as you realize what he’s getting at. Your jaw drops as you look over at him. “Medic! That makes things worse!” Looking back at you, Medic gives you a sheepish grin. Or what could be described as a sheepish grin if he wasn’t absolutely unashamed of what he’s doing.

You continue to follow him as you have no way to get out of there, he did drive you there. Sighing, you know that no matter what you do, you can’t dissuade him from what he’s doing. He practically has no morals, so any way to change this would be moot. “Ah, here we are.” He comments, arriving at a relatively old grave.

It wasn’t by much, but it made you feel a little bit better that you weren’t disturbing a freshly dug grave. You can’t help but feel a bit on edge as you begin to dig, not wanting to destroy the remains. For what seems like forever, you uncover dirt and remove it from the grave. Finally, you come upon something as the shovel makes a “thunk.” noise, causing you to jump a bit. Beginning to panic, you remove the rest of the dirt, trying to see what you hit. The noise you had caused turned out to be a coffin, which relieves you greatly.

“Oh, what do we have here, hmm?” Medic mutters as he stops his digging, wandering over to you. He eyes the coffin devilishly, eager to open it up and see what’s inside. With a subtle nod, you both kneel down and open up the body’s final resting place. To your relief, it was only bones. Even though it was a relatively old grave, you weren’t quite sure what you were going to see.

With a rather giddy sound, Medic begins to appraise the skeleton, seeing if the specimen is up to his specifications. Gleefully, he decides that he can use the bones, and begins to pocket them. Within the next few hours, the cycle rinses and repeats. Sometimes you didn’t find anything, sometimes the body wasn’t up to his standards and sometimes it was perfect.

“Now that we have all the specimens we need…” Medic states calmly “You won’t ever have to do this again. I’m quite aware that this frightens and disturbs others, but I figured that since you were around when I needed you, you would comply like a good little assistant.”

Fidgeting with your hands, you begin to speak up. “No, I.…I actually loved it. At first it terrified me, as it would anyone, but as I got into the swing of things, it felt nice to actually spend time with you, get to know you better, even crack jokes with you. But next time, I’d prefer a heads up of what you’re going to be doing instead of forcefully dragging me along.”

And in that moment, you saw something incredibly rare from Medic: a genuine heartfelt smile. “My friend, that pleases me to no end to hear you say that…some people don’t exactly enjoy my company due to the reasons you stated before…but to hear you say you enjoyed it, makes my heart soar. And I promise that next time I will ask for your consent for these little excursions, alright?” Medic states, holding out his hand for a shake.

Taking his hand, you give it a firm shake before letting it linger a little longer that normal. And with that, you follow Medic into the night, ready for the next new adventure.

[winterlynightlystories]

My nocturnal serenade

Tw; Sukuna being Sukuna I guess. Angst!

Do not copy or steal my work please

Sukuna/Sorcerer!Male!Reader

Note; I had this story in mind for a long time. Probably will make a part two! I just wanted some angst with our favourite curse.

Summary; Facing your tomb, Sukuna still remembers you a thousand years later. Yet, you still find a way to surprise him.

~~~~~~

Standing there, on the doorstep of your tomb, stuck in a kid's body, Sukuna felt strangely numb. Of course, he knew you could not still be alive after a thousand years. After all, you were nothing but a mortal.

His mortal.

His sworn enemy.

His greatest and dearest lover.

Your smell and the sound of your heartbeat haunted every second of his awakening, leaving a hole in his existence. Freedom had, somehow, lost its taste. Because what was freedom if you weren't here to fight him? To taunt him and force him to surpass his own limits?

Sukuna almost grunted, feeling Yuji poke at his cheek where his eyes normally opened. The kid was a pain in his ass. Somehow the damn kid had provoked him enough that Sukuna had, accidentally, mentioned you.

And of course, the brat had run to Gojo Satoru before Sukuna could force him to silence.

And now here they were. Forcing themselves inside your last resting place. It felt so wrong. A feeling Sukuna wasn't used to and hated.

- “My, my! Look at that door!” exclaimed Gojo, a big smile plastered on his face.

- “Senseï, what door?” asked Nobara, pointing at the rock slab against the ground. “That's just a big rock.”

Sukuna felt anger rise inside him. How dare she, a worm, judge it? He could remember you whining about your family's luxurious tomb and how you hated it. You just wanted a humble grave. Nothing fancier than a commoner would get. He didn't understand at first, because you deserved so much more than a hole in the ground.

‘At last, no one shall find and disturb me.’ you had told him.

And it was true until now. Could he really let those rats desecrate your tomb?

- “ Yeah, doesn't look like it. The guy was apparently humble enough to refuse to be buried with the rest of his family.” replied Gojo, cracking his fingers. “I call bullshit. Pretty sure by opening it, we will find one or more of Sukuna's fingers.”

- “Why?” the question came from Megumi who stared at the tomb.

- “Why? But because he was a traitor of course!” exclaimed Gojo, chuckling.

For a second, Sukuna only saw red.

The next, his fist hit Gojo Satoru right on the jaw, sending the sorcerer flying back a couple of yards. By his side, both of Yuji's friends screamed the name of their senseï. And as fast as he got it, Sukuna lost control of his vessel's body.

- “Oh my God, Senseï! I'm so sorry!” Yuji's voice was disgustingly guilty.

Again, Sukuna didn't care. He just couldn't let that piece of shit talk badly about you. Not after everything you did for those fuckers you called friends or family.

Not when he could remember your last conversation together.

Your last request.

His faces rested against your naked chest, ear pressed hard to listen to your heartbeat. He wanted, no, needed to hear it one last time and memorize it. For this was the last time you two would be together. The next time, you would fight until one died.

The silence was heavy, and Sukuna savoured the feeling of your fingers playing with his hair and the heat of your body against his. Then, you had to talk.

- “Sukuna, I want you to kill me.”

- “What?”

- “You heard me right.” you chuckled, pulling his hair playfully. “Only one of us shall stand, the next time we met. And I do not want it to be me. I made my part, now I want to rest. I'm tired of fighting.” You slapped his shoulder before adding; “Imagine how much fear they will all have? They won't call you ‘King’ anymore, but God. Wouldn't you like it? It sounds so nice.”

It did sound nice. But only on paper, because the only thought of your lifeless body laying on the cold ground made him upset. Sukuna couldn't bare the thought.

-” Oi, are you listening to me?”

-”Yes.” he replied, his arms closing tighter around you.

Your hand stopped playing with his hair and came resting against the nape of his neck. He heard you sigh.

-”You do not like my idea, do you?”

-”I would rather have you by my side forever than lose you to the cold embrace of Death.” he said, lips moving against your skin. He felt you slap his shoulder again.

-”If I was a curse, I’ll make those legs my necklace!” you said, kicking his legs.

-”And if you were a curse, I’ll let you!” he chuckled, feeling you laugh.

-”As if!”

-”Oi! Are you calling me a liar?” he asked, falsely offended.

-” Well, I’m not calling you a truth-teller.”

At that, Sukuna smiled.

-”But, I am serious. I wish to die by your hand. Life without you will be boring. You are the only good fighting partner I have.”

-”Let’s make a deal. I’ll accept at one condition; if I’m vanquished first, eat my heart so I can be by your side until your last breath.”

-”And you eat mine if I die first.” you replied and Sukuna could swore he heard your smirk in your voice.

-”You got yourself a deal.”

-”You know... The sound of your legs as a necklace sound pretty tempting.”

-”Shut up!”

And again, you laughed. At the moment, it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

Gojo walked back to the group, his blindfold gone and blood dripping from his split lips. Yuki wouldn't shut up and kept saying he was sorry and asking his teacher if he was fine. The cruel and cold smile on the sorcerer's only told Sukuna that Gojo had all anticipated.

- “Ah! Don't worry Yuji. It only proves my point.” The blue eyes stared at the one Sukuna had opened. “So he really was your whore, huh?”

- “He was less a whore than you. Own many prostitutes did you whore yourself to? I'll bet more than you have hair on your head.” Sukuna barked, voice growling. If only he was truly in control!

- “Sorry!” said Yuji, slapping the demonic mouth.

After that, the group returned to the tomb. Again, Sukuna hated it. You just wanted to rest, be left alone. Now, he had to stand there, powerless, and let them do as they pleased.

A part of him also refused to see your remains.

His last memory of you was of your bloody body. Of the plead in your eyes as your lips mouthed ‘please’ and he mouthed back ‘I can’t. He had seen the chock, then the understanding in those beautiful eyes of yours.

Powerless, Sukuna could only watch them take the rock slab away. With one look to the inside, pure joy filled him and Sukuna burst laughing.

-”Senseï, what does it mean? Where’s the body?” asked Yuji as he jumped in the hole, grabbing the only thing the tomb held. “What is that?”

The kid showed the object; one big monstrous heart carved in black stone and fused to it, another heart, but human.

- “Troubles. A lot of it.” said Gojo, grave, his eyes on Sukuna's mouth and eye.

[matchadobo]

SHANKS; bathing with the emperor on a hot summer day

summary: in the burning afternoon at the red force, name stumbles upon her captain/husband in the bath. 🔞 tw: NSFW, sm/ut, seggs is mentioned and told here read at your own discretion, p0rn w/o plot, bath seggs, unprotected seggs, no angst, little fluff?, fem reader

it was one of those god-forbid, humid days where you could feel your skin burning under the scorching ball of heat in the sky. your clothes uncomfortably sticking in your skin. even with a tank top and short shorts you felt yourself melting beneath the searing sun.

the floor under your feet was like a pan above an open stove. each crevice of your body damp with excruciating sweat. your vision wobbly from the intense heat as you felt a migraine coming in. sweat trickling down the sides of your face, down to your neck, glistening under the sun.

you panted incessantly, desperately trying to look for a hint of anything remotely cold to soothe the pain of summer. you glanced around the red force, each crew member in the same predicament as you. no one dares to step on the portion of the deck where there was no shade, one might say that it can fry you to death immediately. all men on deck had their shirts off, still in one place, fanning themselves, restlessly trying to survive the grave heat.

"hey, benn." you called to the group of men, cooped up in the bar. each have a tall glass of icy water. "where's captain?"

"haven't seen the lad. try his quarters?" he looked at you with tired eyes, feet propped up in the table, the sleeves of his shirts rolled up, his hair tied in a high bun; seemingly not handling the heat like everyone else.

"right." you smiled as you bid farewell. carrying your heavy body as you entered your captain's quarters.

met with the dark mahogany walls, fairly decorated with ornaments he has collected along his journey through his life. you don't miss the medium sized photo of him and luffy, smiling ear to ear while holding beetles. you can't help but smile as your heart twitched in endearment.

his gray-colored oak bedside tables decorated with trinkets settled beside his black pencil-postered bed accessorized with red, velvety sheets and an ample amount of raven and crimson pillows. the fluffy carpet beneath your feet welcomed your drowsiness amidst the hot weather. lateral from the bed was his three-mirrored vanity, also in gray-colored oak, where his coat was lazily hung on of the mirrors. you glanced at the door beside it and saw it ajar as the quiet sound of water splashes emanated from the small gap.

there he is.

you sauntered to where he was, slowly opening the door, careful not to disturb anything. you met with his raspberry eyes, sultrily holding your gaze as a smirk crept on his pink lips at your company. he was holding a glass of wine, hair graciously slicked back, and skin glistening from staying in the water for too long. "need something, love?"

"why didn't you say so that you've got the bath all to yourself?" you irritably gritted your teeth, blowing air in dismay, rolling your eyes, and simultaneously taking your clothes off.

"slow down, sweetheart. the weather's already hot as it is, don't go making it hotter for me, aye?" he placed the glass down, fixing up his position in order to make room for you. "don't be so angry with me now, doll. let me make it up you, come." he suavely called out, voice as smooth as the velvet sheets in his bed where you always find yourself ending up naked beside him.

"you better be." you retorted, finally taking off the last article of clothing—your panties. you saw how his eyes trailed down to your plush thighs, to your enticing bundle if nerves, to the curve of your hips and ratio of your waist, to the round mounds of flesh on your chest, up to your alluring face. you never miss how his eyes always mirrored that lustful yet genuine look he gives you whenever you stand bare before him like this. he slowly licks his lips and opens his thighs for you to sit in the space between, not breaking eye contact before your back faces him.

you finally sat down, moaning at the relief of the cold water soothing your body and his breath hot against your neck. "care for a wine, darling?"

he softly uttered beside you, his hand with a wine glass extended to you before placing subtle kisses on the smooth skin that connects your shoulders and neck. your skin tingled at the sensation of his wet lips, your thighs shivered slightly in response. "a rum'd be better but this'll do." you returned, taking the glass of wine.

he suddenly started getting suggestive, placing sloppy kisses on your neck, sucking on the sensitive flesh just at the tip of your jaw. "i thought the weather was the only thing in heat, seems you are too." you reached over the mini wooden table on the bathroom to place the glass down.

you felt him chuckle and grin on your skin, nibbling on the flesh as his stubble poked on you. you cringe at the pain but you love it, how his wet, hot lips feel against your cold skin, how his stubble graze and contrasted with the softness of your skin, how his hums and silent growls grow loud each time he elicits a moan from you. his arm snaked around your waist, feeling your chest up. you threw your head back, trying to swallow all the sounds of pleasure the redhead is evoking off of you. "holding it will only make it louder, angel." he whispered against your ear, voice gruff and heavy on lust. "i know it feels good baby, come on i wanna hear how good i make you feel." he played with your skin between his teeth, licking your ears afterwards.

"f-fucking prick," you weakly muttered, biting your lips as you refuse giving him the satisfaction. the grip on the mounds on your chest grew hungrier, kneading and playing with the sensitive bit between his thumb and index finger as his knees started maneuvering your thighs to get under your bundle of nerves.

for a disabled man like shanks, he's irritably skilled in manipulating you and your body under his spell. until your eyes mirror hearts, your mouth starts drooling, your words become mumbles and gibberish, and all you could utter and beg for is him. for the short amount of time that you two are together, he has memorized what gets you screaming, which positions and maneuvers drives you insane, which spots sends you into climax, and where you'd exactly want him to be. he knows everything about you by heart. that's why now, you're a complete mess under him.

"can you blame me, sweet stuff? i can't get enough of you." he continued, gravelly voice reaching your rabbiting chest. leaving scattered splotches of blues and purples in the span of your neck at his wake, all the while rubbing his knees on your core as he dug deeper within you. your body twisted in pleasure as you try gripping the sides of his ceramic, stygian tub to somehow get a hold of your fucking self. little whimpers escape your parted lips as your eyes rolled at the back of your head. his fiery, rose-colored eyes not missing each twinge of elation in your face—growing hard at each noise and spasm you make under his grasp.

"s-stop teasing..!" you tried to mumble out words from your cloudy head, all you could focus on was the combined pleasure if his touch in your chest and your core that sent your mind in a flurry.

"but you love it so much, don't you my angel?" his voice was soft, yet demonic. alluring you into his sins, his aura so dark yet so gentle. his movements growing rougher and faster as you neared your high. "you crave for how i drive you fucking crazy, don't you my love?" he growled through gritted teeth, voice deeply hungry for you.

"my my, look at you. doing all the work for me."he praised you, letting you rub yourself on his thighs. the sound of water splashing with each other with your lips squelching underwater sent him even harder you could feel him throbbing against your back. you could feel your stomach bubbling in pleasure as it approaches your core. you weren't even trying to be quiet anymore, you were begging for your sweet release.

"go on darling, reach your high." and with that, your first climax came. yes, first. you know full well that this is just the beginning. your captain hasn't even used his member yet and you're already a wet mess. you settled down as you tried calming yourself down, leaning back and resting your head on his shoulders. your damp locks sticking to your skin with sweat and the wet bath.

as soon as the emperor heard your pants becoming more regulated, he immediately uttered an order. "face me." you found yourself immediately spinning around and settling yourself on his lap, straddling him. he raised your chin with his index finger, trying to meet your eyes. "let me see you, sweetheart." your cheeks had that flushed tint of red from arousal and the heat of his gaze that he adored so much. you see how his face softened with one look at you as he reached over and caressed your cheek, rubbing circles on it with his thumb. "it still baffles me how someone as enchanting as you is sitting in front me."

"fuck off with the compliments, ojisan." you rolled your eyes, despite the race of heat from your neck to your cheeks. "get into it, yeah?" you smugly challenged him, putting both of your arms beside his figure while his large one was settled on your hips, keeping you in place.

his once soft smiled turned into a sharp grin as he pulled you into his lips. your arms wrapped around his neck, tilting your head to the side to kiss him deeper. he hummed through your lips, exploring every edge of your mouth to elicit another pleasurable sound from you. his hand traversed across the span of your back, taking delight in the softness of your skin in his touch as he manipulates your tongue with his. his hand roaming down your rear, kneading the voluptous flesh in his palm as he spreads you, prepping you for his entrance.

as he had successfully aroused every sexual desire within you, you started to induce friction and grind yourself back and forth. your lips spreading ever so often as his pulsating member slides within your crevice from your incessant back and forth motion. he threw his head back after gutturally moaning in your open mouth at the fervent stimulation. you reached over to plant splotches of red and purple on his neck as he bucked his hips upward. his girth throwing you off guard, making you lose your balance at his sudden movement. "i got you, love." he chuckled lightly, supporting you from the small of your back.

as the first stretch came, you two let out a big breath of ecstasy; high on each other. you tightened around him as he tried moving, for a man of two meters his size is not a joking matter. no matter how much you grow accustomed to it, it still catches you off guard. as you two went at it, you rested your head on his shoulder as the squirmy feeling started bubbling in your stomach. shanks kept whispering filthy nothings in your ear, biting it ever so often, mumbling about how good and tight you clench around him with each thrust, his hot pants and breaths echoing like a melody on your ear.

the plashing of the bathwater and the sticky slapping of skin wet with liquid unbeknowst to the both of you whether it is come, soap, or the water echoed throughout the room. the floor getting wet with the amount of water leaving the tub from your carnal movements with him. endless, hungry moans of sinful desire, each with the utter of one another's names. as your bodies get closer to each other, so was your climaxes. his hips stuttering, your thighs wobbling, your and his' minds clouded with lust and amor.

reaching your climaxes with the chorus of moans of pleasure and pants of weariness, the redhead aroused. "up for another, angel?"

FIRST TIME WRITING SMUT UM??? SORRY??? just had this idea in one sitting and wrote it immediately bcoz philippines is like a fucking oven rn, NOT EVEN JOKING MY SKIN FEELS LIKE IT'S ACTUALLY BURNING EACH TIME I GO OUT. omg cha writing for another charac other than kidd?????????? yes i find shanks hot too, what do we expect

[det-loki]

winter. poison and wine blurb

tw: religious imagery, religious trauma, death, grief.

MASTERLIST

“Father, forgive me for I have sinned. Father, forgive me for I have sinned. Father, forgive me for I have sinned. Father, forgive me for-”

The words tumbled from Loki’s lips as he hunched over himself. His car had long gone cold in the Pennsylvania winter, his breath appearing in jagged grey clouds. Tattooed fingers were clasped before him in mock prayer, the steering wheel bearing the weight. His head hung low and his chest burned, throat constricting on unshed tears. 

Rain beat down outside around him, the droplets pelting against the car drained out the hushed pleas that escaped his cracked lips. The cemetery was vacant, save for its permanent residents. Loki’s eyes flitted around him, zeroing in on the faded pink fake flowers at the tombstone nearest his car. His chest burned and his head pounded as he choked on a sob. 

Three weeks. Twenty-one days she had been gone. Each day was more agonizing than the last, bitter reality setting in that this wasn’t a nightmare. Their daughter was gone. She was never coming back. Permanently a child taken too soon, senselessly and violently. Every second was time spent longer without her. Flashes of their last morning together echo through his mind, giggling at the breakfast table; crayons, glitter, and a stuffed rabbit sprawled across the space. 

Stepping out of the car, Loki felt like his feet were bricks. He wiped his nose with the back of his, squaring his shoulders as he approached the still-disturbed earth of his daughter's grave. He didn’t know what to say or do, instead standing awkwardly before the cold marble, rain pelting his aged coat. He knelt on the ground, frozen slushed dirt digging into his knees, reminiscent of his time in the boy's home, dried rice tearing into his knees as punishment, kneeling in front of a priest with venom in their eyes and poison in their hearts. 

Rain turned into snow, starting to fall around him, blanketing the cemetery in white. Pure and clean. 

“I’m sorry,” were the only words he could muster before he lit a cigarette and cried.

[bluecatwriter]

This idea, based on the Blood of My Blood AU, got stuck in my head and I had to write it! (Sorry @animate-mush, the cylinders didn't make it into this scene because I was trying to keep it from being like 10,000 words long, alas.) Featuring Jack with his prosthetic hand and destroyed vocal cords, and Vampire Quincey Harker trying to make sense of what he is.

Big TW for suicidal ideation.

~~~

Jack was up late, as usual; he'd just heard the clock strike midnight, but he was scribbling corrections on the latest draft of his paper about therapeutic treatments for epilepsy, due the day after tomorrow to a scientific journal. He paused to push up his glasses and scrub at his eyes. Even though he'd been keeping a nocturnal existence for years, he felt exhausted.

He heard a soft knock on his door.

He looked up in surprise; Lu was usually fast asleep by now, and Arthur would not have knocked. But why would one of the servants be disturbing him at this hour? He turned his pen over and tapped it against his desk three times, which signaled to come in. However, the door didn't open, and then the knock came again. Ah. He knew exactly who it was, now.

He walked quickly to the door and opened it. Quincey Harker stood in the pitch-black hallway, his pupils contracting as light from Jack's study flooded in on him. He was even paler than usual, and trembling slightly.

It was remarkable how much he managed to look like both Jonathan and Mina: he carried himself like his father, that same grave politeness, but had the quick, clever look about him that Mina had always had. "Dr. Seward," he said, his voice sounding empty. "I need to talk to you."

Whatever he was here for, it couldn't be good. Jack nodded to him, ushering him inside, and gesturing him over to his desk. He cleared the papers and set up a one-handed typewriter (they had one in every room of the house, in case Jack needed to mention some technical language that they didn't have a sign for yet). He bade Quincey pull up a chair so they could sit next to each other, and he put in a fresh sheet of paper. He wished Quincey knew his sign language, but this would have to do for now.

Jack gestured to him, raising both eyebrows to invite him to speak. 

Quincey hesitated a long time, clenching and unclenching his hands on his knees. At last, he spoke with a dead serious voice. "Dr. Seward, I need you to kill me."

For an instant, he couldn't breathe.

He heard Mina's voice in her son's: the vow he had taken, the vow he had failed. 

But he also heard his own words, typed out on a typewriter very much like this one, letter by letter since he wasn't fluent yet, as Arthur stood there with tears in his eyes. 

>>Let me die<< Jack had typed, all those years ago. 

And Arthur had said, "No."

(That day, Jack had grabbed the typewriter with his remaining hand and hurled it through the window.)

(And then he had kept living.)

He shook his head, trying to rattle himself back into the present moment, to this child— this vampire child, this child who should not be able to exist— trembling in the chair before him. Quincey was staring at his hands now, his breath stuttering as if trying to hold back tears, and Jack had to reach over to touch his shoulder to get him to look up at him.

Quincey raised his head; his eyes were brimming with what appeared to be blood, which sent a stab of alarm through Jack before he wondered if this was how vampires cried. Focus, he told himself. He reached out to the typewriter and typed one word on the blank page:

>>Why?<<

Quincey gritted his teeth, and held his chin up almost defiantly. God, he looked just like Jonathan right then. "Because I am a monster."

Jack stared at him: the blood welling up as tears, the pallor of his skin, the fangs protruding from his mouth. All the elements that had once raised only fear and terror and disgust in himself. 

Without looking away from him, Jack placed his hand on the typewriter and typed out the words: >>Who told you that?<<

Quincey stared at him as if the answer should be obvious, and Jack raised his eyebrows again, keeping his face calm.

"I read the journals that Lord Godalming gave me," Quincey said, staring at him as if challenging him. 

Jack gave out a small, pained sound, and slumped back in his chair. Of course Arthur would do something like that. Of course Arthur would want to share the documents, to not keep secrets. And yet, Arthur had so little to lose by doing so: he had barely any words of his own in the collection of documents. But Jack's words… all those things he had said and done, the record of his wrongs and mistakes, seemed to rise from the past and choke him.

"I read Papa's words," Quincey continued, still staring him down with those crimson eyes, "the stories of the way he met Father. Everything I've known— everything I am— is horrifying to him." His gaze was steady, but his fangs bared. "And to all of you." The blood-tears slipped from one of his eyes and dripped down his face. "I need you to kill me."

Jack reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. Then he decisively shook his head, and mouthed the word, No.

"You have to!" Quincey burst out, shaking off Jack's hand and jumping to his feet. "You know what I am! I've learned what I am through your words. I thought you of all people would understand!" He whirled to face him again, and the snarl on his face sent all the hair on Jack's neck rising in instinctive fear. "What about Lu's namesake? You were disgusted by her. You loathed her. You said yourself that you would kill her with pleasure when she became like— like me!" He was shaking so hard he looked like he might fall apart.

Jack fought to keep his expression calm; every word hit him like a knife, as if Jonathan's son was slashing into his throat as surely as Jonathan had. (Any moment he would wake up drowning in his own blood…) But these were old wounds, and though they bled anew, the pain was familiar.

Once again, Quincey seemed to have forgotten that Jack could only talk when Quincey was looking at him, and he had to put a hand on his shoulder again. Quincey pulled away, but he had his attention now. Jack motioned to the chairs, and Quincey sank down, blood-tears now trickling down his face.

Jack hesitated a long moment, unsure how to sum up everything he wanted to say. No, it was impossible. So he typed three words:

>>I was wrong.<< 

Jack gulped, staring at the inadequate words he'd typed. He looked at Quincey with all the remorse he felt, wishing desperately that Quincey understood sign language. It was like being back to the beginning of his great silence, when all he could do was scrawl illegible words on paper, or pick at the typewriter to learn to type for the first time. He pointed at the words again, and with his prosthetic hand he beat his breast in a sign of penitence.

Quincey just stared at him, at a loss. Jack made a nervous hum, then started to type, trying to get his typed words to keep pace with his thoughts.

>>You don't have the whole story. When your mum began to turn, your papa loved her just as much. He never stopped loving her.<< He paused, making the only rumbling sound that his throat would make, frustrated at how hard it was to put his thoughts into words this way. >>In the end, he defended her from us. I paid the price for trying to harm her.<<

Quincey's eyes grew wide. He had stopped crying, and the blood was drying on his face now. 

Jack held up his prosthetic hand meaningfully, and touched the scar that snaked along his neck. And how could he convey the enormity of the other losses— of Quincey and Van Helsing bleeding out in the snow? He would never forgive the Harkers for that. But he did not need to. >>I did what I thought I must do. So did he.<< 

He might not have forgiven them, but he did not blame them.

Quincey slumped in his chair, his shoulders dropping. When he looked up, there was something incredibly young and vulnerable in his face. "…Doesn't that make you hate me even more?"

The old Jack would have hated him, perhaps. But he was not his old self. He was not a 29-year-old who felt invincible in his pride and intelligence. He was not a man who drew hard lines and separated everything he experienced into those two sides. He was fifty now, silent for 21 years, and had learned to live with the complexity of gray, of nuance, of the ache of not knowing. 

If Quincey could understand, he could have signed all this. But Quincey could not, so Jack just typed, >>You are proof that love can survive in all places.<< He paused, then added, >>You are a good man.<<

He didn't expect Quincey to burst into tears again, but he did, hunching over in his chair and sobbing. Once, Jack had not known what to do when someone broke down, but now he did not hesitate, leaning over and wrapping both arms around the boy. Quincey leaned into his hug, still sobbing messily. "I'm not, I'm not!" Quincey wailed. "I'm not…" 

Jack wished that he could speak the words aloud, could repeat over and over, You are a good man.

Instead he just hugged him, holding him as he rode the wave of emotions, trying to help him learn, as Jack himself had once learned, that the answer to Please let me die would always be No.

At last Quincey cried himself out, and his breaths grew longer and slower. Jack pulled away and offered him a handkerchief, trying his best not to be unnerved by the amount of blood-tears that had marked his jacket (Arthur was going to have another nervous breakdown when he saw the stains, he thought with a sigh).

When he had Quincey's attention again, he pulled out the sheet of paper, and tore off the last line, pressing it into his hand. >>You are a good man.<< Jack smiled at him as best he could, willing him to believe it.

Quincey gulped. And then slowly, he nodded, crinkling the paper in his hand. With a little sob, he slumped over again, resting his head on Jack's shoulder. Jack pulled him back into a tight embrace.

He doubted that Quincey believed him, at least not at the moment. But he didn't need to. Jack and Lu and hopefully even Arthur would believe it for him. And someday, he hoped that Quincey would believe it for himself, too.

~~~

[propertyofwhitney67]

So we have Whitney comforting reader after they have a nightmare, yeah?

Now let's have Reader comforting Whitney after he has a nightmare.

(Nightmare could be based off of your Dark Whitney series (totally not copium because I don't want this blonde man to be sad and lonely))

You're Safe...

M!Whitney x Gn!Reader

Closed Prompt Event: Nightmares & Comfort

Words: 915

Tw: Nightmare, dark content, throwing up, dead body, angst.

Note: Dark Whitney series? Say fucking less, I know just the dream for him. I'm not sure how I feel about this one...something feels weird, but I guess it's bc I did Whitney's pov.

I found myself in what looked like the moor outside of town, heavy fog surrounding me. A sense of dread consumed me as the fog parted, creating a clear tail to follow. I had a bad feeling that something was waiting for me at the end of this trail. 

Along the trail I found a shoe, your shoe. Those shitty ones you stole from the mall and always wore. I recognized the drawing I made on them, an ejaculating cock. I remember drawing it, you were pissed that I’d ruined your only shoes. I only laughed, finding your anger hilarious.

I also found torn pieces of clothing. I recognized the embroidery you always incorporated when you stitched your clothes back together. I picked up a piece, tracing the shitty embroidery I always made fun of. I pocked the torn fabric and continued along the trail with a pit in my stomach. 

The trail eventually led me to a large tree with what looked like a shallow grave beneath it. I took a step back and for the first time in a while, I was truly scared. Is this even real? It all feels so…wrong. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t place it. The fog swirled around me, threatening to close in on me. It was all so wrong.

I took a deep breath to calm myself, but only gagged at the sudden smell of a rotting corpse. I held my stomach and threw up, bile burning my throat. I wiped my mouth and stepped closer to the tree. I didn’t want to investigate, but I couldn’t stop myself. I kneeled next to the disturbed earth and began to dig. 

The feeling of dread only got worse when I found a hand wearing rings, rings that you always wore. It’s your hand, your cold dead hand. I froze, holding my breath and staring at the ring on your finger that I kept in my pocket. I was always too much of a pussy to give the ring to you. Why did you have it? How did you find it? I suddenly realized I was crying, tears dropping onto your cold hand. “Why…?” I choked out, bringing your hand to my cheek and nuzzling into it.

At night, when everything was quiet, you'd whisper your fears to me. That one day you’d die like this, that you wouldn’t be able to save yourself. I’d just say you were overthinking, and I had something to get your mind off it. Then I’d fuck you till you were dumb on my cock, no longer thinking of your fears.

Tears streamed down my face as I gently put your hand down and continued to dig, this time more frantically. I needed to see you, to hold you. I stopped digging when I found the rest of your body. I stared down at your naked body and began to sob. My hands shook as I pulled you from your shallow grave, holding you close to my chest. The fog started to surround me once again, it was so heavy I felt like I was suffocating.

I woke up in a cold sweat and gasping for air, trying to catch my breath. I reached out, frantically searching for you in the bed. I needed to make sure you were safe, that you were ok. All the movement must have woken you up, “Wha…What?” You asked groggily, propping yourself up on one arm. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and could see my face more clearly, tears streaming down my cheeks and eyes full of fear. “What’s wrong?” You asked, this time more concerned. I let out a quiet sob, “C’mere.” You held me close to your chest and rubbed my back, trying to comfort me. “What happened Whitney?”

I sniffled, feeling like such a pussy. I shouldn’t be acting like this, but that dream…It actually scared me. I was scared of losing you. “Just a nightmare...” I mumbled behind tears, trying to downplay the whole situation. “I’m ok.”

“No, you’re not.” You sighed at my stubbornness, running your fingers through my hair. “Do you want to talk about it?” You asked, wanting to help me through the fear I was feeling.

I took a few deep breaths, trying to calm myself enough to talk. “It…you…” I sighed, burying my head into your chest and wrapping my arms around your waist. “Remember your fear, the one you always tell me?” You hummed and nodded in response, “It happened…I found you.” I sniffled again, “I found you in a shallow grave under a tree…” I didn’t want to get too descriptive, not wanting to scare you and only fuel your fear. 

You kissed the top of my head and whispered, “I’m safe, Whitney.” You were trying your best to comfort me, “I’m right here with you, I’m not going anywhere.” 

I propped myself up on one arm, staring at you with glassy eyes. “We have to get out of here. I…” I closed my eyes, scared of what I wanted to say. I’m not the type to settle down with some slut. But you weren’t just some slut, you were my slut. I wanted to keep you safe, “I want…I want to leave this shitty town with you.”

“Really?” You asked, skeptical

Nodding, I laid back down on your chest, feeling exhausted. “Yeah…Now rub my back again, it felt nice.”

You rolled your eyes but obliged my request, “I’ll hold you to that.”

𝘔𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵

𝘒𝘰-𝘍𝘪

[how-very-salty]

masterpost of my jdonica fic <3

royally fucked up

J.D. gets another chance. It's Sherwood in September, and Veronica is smiling at him again. This time, he'll do anything not to fuck it up.

status: completed / translated: in progress

!!!new the forest (warnings!!! tags are reeeally spoilers, but the fic includes disturbing content)

Veronica ran down the stairs, hurried to the school bus - and suddenly woke up on the road in a completely silent forest. There doesn't seem to be a soul around... but someone's predatory gaze is fixed on her back. (references to The path)

status: in progress / translated: in progress

let's have some fun

Three years ago, J.D. went back to hell, but he comes back for the same reason: to make Veronica say his name three times. But something's changed.

status: in progress / translated: in progress

stay at the very edge and way he prays

Before she says no, Veronica sees Bud humiliate J.D. And it makes her change her mind and try one more time to change something for him. And that leads to a promise that will be broken.

(tw: bdsm)

status: completed / translated: completed

Veronica Sawyer decides to die

The bomb exploded. They both survived, but at a high price… Time has passed, and Veronica Sawyer finds comfort in imagining that she is gone. Her peace of mind is shattered by the doorbell.

status: completed / translated: completed

St. Calvin told me not to worry about you

They're broken up, but still need each other. She has the keys to his apartment, he wants her back. And there are rules between them that neither of them has ever learned to follow. (there is a new male character, but honestly, he's just one of the plot obstacles in this story).

status: in progress / translated: in progress

!!!new lavender

Just a scene from married life and problems that they have to deal with through conversation ( long-married JD and Ronnie)

SHORT STORIES (complited)

dearly beloved

jdonica one shots (If you want, you can give me prompts. i sometimes write them long, but i try to write all of them. except with agnst sometimes i skip them)

other way

Veronica Sawyer hurts herself to deal with her emotions, and a new guy notices. She's scared, but he just wants to talk to her ...and maybe help.

syndrome - the story of cotard syndrome

who is she - he meets her on a crowded subway and misses her… and meets her again

first of thousands - their paths cross because of a car accident

insomnia - he just can't sleep (partially refers to St. Calvin's au)

best gift ever - happy married life

we're locked in, right? - fate brings them together in a locked elevator

trace of a touch - J.D. is long gone from her life, but his every touch keeps to burn on her skin. No one else can, until one day…

let's get out of here - a wedding story in which J.D. steals a bride from his own wedding

turn on the radio and the braided bracelet - au!childhood friends, where J.D. is hopelessly in love with Veronica. or not so hopeless?

about a girl - Nick has been in love with Veronica since they were kids. but it seems he should have confessed earlier, because the new kid is about to steal her away from him

peek-a-boo - very hot zombie-boy and a pretty smart Ronnie? who just can't resist his charm (pure au with a twist)

white oleander - au!hanahaki where Ronnie has to choose between Chandler and J.D.

pick me up - a wasted Ronnie needs to be picked up from the bar, and even though they broke up, J.D. is the only one who can do it.

happy anniversary - nobody has visited J.D.'s grave for five years

what a night - J.D. climbed into her window that night, before the bombs and the petition.

a few more minutes and there is no cure - the bomb didn't explode, and it seems that J.D. completely failed // he returns to Veronica's life years later

an act of mercy - J.D. was dead in the explosion, but that night a familiar voice is heard on Veronica's phone

like burnt brownies and play with loaded dice - the story of Nick Sawyer and Jesse Dean

[lewis-winters]

eucharistia (this is how meat loves meat)

In Rachamps, just before Easy is sent to Haguenau, Eugene Roe brings Babe Heffron to Father John Maloney for his first confession in seven years.

Jesus said to them: "Amen, amen, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink His blood, you do not have life within you. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him on the last day. For my flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me and I in him." John 6:53-59, NABRE

read it on ao3

tw: Magical Realism, Horror, Religion as Justification for Unhinged Behavior, Catholicism, Catholic Imagery, Bastogne, Canon Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Blood & Gore, Depictions of a Corpse, Cannibalism

---

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” says the boy with hair like copper and a face white as a sheet, kneeling before me. He breathes deep, breathes slow, then looks to his companion who guards the door of this little hide-away. A boy of even paler complexion, who nods in encouragement. A small, minute movement that somehow takes from him a great toll. His dark head bows with the weight of it.

Disturbed by this image, the boy quickly continues: “I haven’t confessed since I was fifteen. I’m twenty-two now. It’s been seven years.”

“That’s alright.” Silence. Nervous, jittery silence. “Go on.”

More silence. Long and dark and cold and damp, the cavernousness of this large and leaky house of God echoing each drip and drop of water across empty space. Empty. Like nobody’s home.

“I’ve done so many things,” the boy says, tipping his face into his hands in despair. “So many, Father.”

“Don’t name them all. We’ll be here all night.” An attempt at good humor. “Just the ones that have brought you before me.”

“Oh, Father,” says the boy, in a whisper that sounds like a wail. “Father. I kept my promise.”

“That doesn’t sound like a sin.”

No, says a voice from the depths of the boy’s eyes. A wailing, lamenting voice, a darkness that threatens to crawl forth from the open wound of his face, and reach out to me with cold, blood-damp hands. No, Father, you don’t understand.

“Make me,” I say, taking his face in my hands and holding it steady. “Babe, tell me what you did.”

His watcher has closed the door on us now. All of us. He stands before it, weight against the wood, hands behind his back. His head is still bowed, upper body almost perpendicular to the stone floor, but his eyes meet mine. Deep blue so dark it’s almost black, staring out from behind a dark brow. Piercing. Waiting. “Go on, Heffron,” he says, voice a deep, unwavering thing. The voice of an Angel. “Don’t be afraid.”

“Don’t be afraid,” I echo. But not for him.

Sprawled against the walls, our shadows continue to flicker.

Babe tries again. “Forgive me, Father. For I have sinned. It’s been seven years since my last confession. My sins—”

Are many. Too many.

“But this one—”

The night he’d gone back for him was clear and bright, the clouds of Bastogne disappearing, momentarily, laying the already barren world of snow white and cold even more bare, absent of the broken shadows of looming trees and the shape of men beyond the mist. Even the looming cold that had settled into their bones seems to have alleviated, somewhat. Still there, but suspended, momentarily, as the fog lifted and Bastogne became just another forest.

But the dread remained. So deep in the marrow of them all that it pulled him out of dreamless sleep; roused suddenly in his shallow grave-bed and forced into the nightmare of this tangible unreality, an endless waking, by the familiar urge to rungotta go get him sir rundangerrun take him with us runrunrunRUN—

And a voice, beyond the light of the moon.

“I felt it, Father. Like… Like I was on one end of the rope, and he was on the other. Pulling me toward him. He showed me where to go, Father, you gotta believe me. I was being led—”

Like a lamb to the slaughter.

No.

Like a pilgrim to his god.

Through snow drifts and trees, down familiar paths made unfamiliar through the sudden clarity of pale moonlight. He found the broken body soon enough. Just where they had left it, earlier that day, but this time devoid of all material things.

The Germans had stripped him, just as he had feared. Taken with them trophies of olive-green pelt, rifle antlers, and silver dog tag bones. What lay in their wake was the naked body of a slaughtered child, lying in the snow, a crater of bone and flesh where his neck should be. Blue eyes upturned to Babe’s face.

Hand outstretched.

Beckoning.

“I touched him, Father. I touched him. And he was warm.”

Not breathing. Warm. Soft. Pliant. Despite hours laying in the snow.

He couldn’t explain it.

But then again, what pilgrim questions a miracle?

“I… I tried to pick him up. I tried.”

Yes. Yes, he had tried. I could see him try. Struggling and panting and finding himself crying, the grief and the desperation manifesting themselves in frustrated tears. They freeze on his cheeks, a record of his suffering. Julian, buddy, c’mon. I gotta get you up. Please. I can’t, I can’t—

But the god is in an immovable shrine. Trapped within and rooted into the snow on the ground.

“All I could lift was his head, Father Maloney. And I held him in my lap, like I used to back when the world made sense.”

Yes. Yes, I could see them there, too. Two boys in basic training, surrounded by pleasant summer heat. Golden light. One with his head in the lap of the other.

Dark hair against pale thighs.

Blue eyes meeting blue.

A smile meeting another smile in a thrilling brush of skin.

God was with them, then.

And it is with the turning of my stomach that I realize, God was with them, here, too.

“What… did you do, Babe?” I ask. I already know the answer. But I must ask.

And the boy looks up at me, open wound for a face, and says with two voices; “I couldn’t leave him there, Father Maloney.”

No. He couldn’t.

He’d brought those unsmiling lips to his mouth, and he’d kissed them one last time. As any pilgrim should.

And then he’d dug his fingers into bone and flesh, and freed his god from his earthly prison.

“I couldn’t—I promised. I said I would. And he told me that I should. He was so warm, Father. And it was so cold. And I was hungry, and Julian always—from the beginning he’d always—when I closed my eyes, I was back there, with him, and he was—”

“Oh, Babe,” I say, opening my arms. Allowing him to fall into them. “Oh, Babe.”

I have long ago accepted that to seek joy in the form of relief of any kind is not a sin. Or at least, should not be. Jesus Christ, Son of God and Man, who enjoyed the taste of wine and bread and the company of prostitutes and degenerates would not consider it a sin. It’s no exception here, where it is common for men to share many things in basic training and in trenches and in Foxholes. Food. Water. Coffee. Things to keep warm. Things to make you feel just a little bit more human. Things to sustain you.

And there are so few things to sustain you, in the frozen hell of Bastogne. In this stomach disguised as a dark forest, a belly to get lost in.

I look toward the door, where the guardian boy stands, still bowed forward (even more so, it seems) and bent at the knees, unable to meet my eyes. Atlas holding up the sky and full of regret. Frozen in commencement of penance, the weight of the world bearing down upon his shoulders.

“There is more to this,” I realize. He does not startle at the sound of my voice, eerily still. “What is it that you aren’t telling me, Eugene?”

In my arms, Babe is quiet. Hitching breaths quick and warm against my throat. Mouth against my rapid beating pulse. Teeth—

“I saw it, Father,” says Eugene, voice ringing clear and deep despite its whispered quality. “I saw them.”

He’d felt Babe stumble out of their foxhole—Spina fast asleep and oblivious to the sudden preternatural quiet and stillness of the world—and followed behind him at a distance, mindful of their vulnerable position but not enough to stop.

“Then there was a moment where I—I couldn’t see ‘im. It got all dark all o’ a sudden, like the moon blinked outta sight. Just for a minute. A kinda dark you can feel.”

Crawling up your skin, looming over you, making all the hairs of your body stand up in response. Like two, large and heavy hands clasping around you. Holding you caged between its palms. An unfortunate butterfly, caught unawares.

Wait, it seemed to say. This is not for you.

“When the dark left and the moon came back, I couldn’t see ‘im.”

But he could hear it.

The wet, moist sound of hands tearing into flesh.

The guttural snarls of an animal tearing into its latest meal.

The crunch of cartilage.

The weeping. The moaning in despair.

In relief.

“I followed it. And I. I saw.”

He pauses. Then looks up at me with pleading eyes, asking for words. Asking for understanding. He does not know, I realize, what to call it. What greeted him in the snow on that fateful night was not any creature he has ever seen or heard of before.

Part-human, part-animal, part-divine. A wretched, blessed chimera. On its hands and knees, hunched over its carrion and feasting, with great relish, upon its steaming insides. The rapidly cooling warmth of fresh death, curling up, up, and away into the frigid, Bastogne night.

“I saw, Father,” Eugene says again. “And I…”

He did nothing.

No, that’s not true.

“I waited. For it to be over.”

And it was soon over.

The chimera could only eat so much, and what he has come to set free has left the altar as soon as the steam had lifted, and once again, the fog had returned, between one blink to the next. A twin to the darkness felt earlier, heavy hands once again clasped about him, but this time, enveloping all of them—voyeur, scavenger, and carrion—all at once.

Eugene took a step forward, afraid to lose sight of him again, and the chimera, startled, lifted its head toward the crunch of snow.

“And that’s when you led him away?” I ask.

Eugene nods. He’d done it when they’d entered here, too. Appearing to me like a grotesque Angel of God in my doorway, two bodies pressed so close together, leaning upon each other for strength, that they became one entity with two heads and eight appendages, illuminated by a column of warm, orange light cutting into the gloom of my assigned billet.

Do not be afraid, one voice had said to its companion, achingly kind. An echo from that night, I imagine, when he’d taken Babe’s hand and brought him back from the brink. Took him away and deposited him into his empty foxhole, melting snow to wipe away the memory of what he had done from his face. Fed him more chocolate, offered him a cup of coffee, to wash the taste from his mouth. Father Maloney, Heffron is here to confess.

“You were right to come to me,” I say to them, easing Babe out of my arms to once again, sit by my feet as I reach out to Eugene, offering my hand. He takes it without much hesitance, lurching forward as if afraid I might recoil from his touch. Gently, I allow him to sink to his knees, and together, both of them look up to me as I stand and dig through my bag for the needed elements. “What a heavy burden you both have shared. What a weight—” I produce what I need, and I turn to them with a smile I hope is kind and reassuring. “It’s alright, now. You may put it down.”

“Father,” says Babe, eyeing the ciborium and chalice in my hands. “Father, what—”

“Let me give you a place to rest,” I tell him, getting on my knees with them, perching the precious relics upon my billet bed so that they may not touch the floor. Crossing myself, I open them, ignoring how both boys scuttle away from me, like rats, who have spent all their lives in the dark, upon the sudden, violent arrival of light. It breaks my heart, how fearful they look upon me, and it strengthens my resolve, once again. Carefully, as I may be during weekly service, I pray over and take into my hands the bread and wine; mere pemmican biscuits from previous rations, and wine I had been given from bombed out churches, mixed with a little water. But in their golden receptacles, they glow with an otherworldly power. True pieces of the Heavenly Host.

I take two of the Flesh into my unworthy hands.

“John Julian was a martyr,” I say, presenting the host to them both and watching as they, cautiously, move toward me, still on their knees, but with their faces tipped toward the light. “A man who had been living, but who’d given his life for the love of you, Babe. His death was swift and quick, there was little pain and little else we could do to keep him with us. It’s those he’s left behind that he ached to comfort—such pain it must have been, for him, to know that you mourned him so deeply.

“And so, he’d asked God and His Angels to hold Death’s hand for far longer, and he called out to you. He was yet Living when you came upon him—how else could he have enticed him to come? How else would he have stayed that warm, that fresh, in order for his body to provide the nourishment that you needed? Therefore, do not be ashamed, Babe. To cannibalize is to feed upon the dead. John Julian was not dead, not while his soul sang to you its precious entreaty.”

Now, he rests, cradled in the soft, warm alcove of Babe’s body.

“He gave his life to you, that you may yet live. Just like our Lord Jesus Christ gave the first Eucharist to His disciples, the night He was to be arrested and taken away from them. He fed them His Living Flesh, so that they may find strength for the coming days. Sustain themselves upon Him.”

Babe comes closer, the tip of his nose lightly brushing the Flesh held in my fingers.

“John Julian was a martyr who has found his final resting place within you,” I press the Sacrament to his mouth, watching it open in anticipation. A gaping maw not unlike a bleeding wound. “Let these Holy Flesh intermingle within you. Let John Julian meet God in your stomach. Turn him into a Saint.”

Babe closes his eyes and his lips close over the Holy communion, his tongue lapping at my fingers.

I let him eat from my unworthy hand.

I watch him swallow. “Your turn, Eugene.”

Eugene looks at me, unblinking. Unfazed. He does not eat from my hand, but instead cups his own to receive it. I place it between his palms and watch him bow his head over it and take it between his teeth. The hard bread makes a loud crunching sound as he crushes it with his molars. He closes his eyes to the symphony of it, and his shoulders fall for the first time since I’ve known him.

“What a weight you have been forced to carry,” I coo, reaching out to cup his face in one of my hands, the other doing the same to Babe. Both boys tip their heads into my hold, and I find myself weeping at how starved they seem to be, for a simple touch that is gentle. Babe, seeing my tears, starts to sniffle with some of his own. “Come, drink the Blood. Let it wash away the taste.”

I tip the wine, carefully, into their open mouths. They drink every last drop.

“There,” I say once they are finished, drawing Babe, who has begun to weep in earnest, to my breast. Against the hollow of my throat, he hiccups, the grief and the relief pouring out of him now that he knows he is allowed. “Oh, Babe.”

“I left him there, Father,” he sobs. “I left him—”

“You did not,” I soothe. “No, Babe, you did not. You came back for him, and now he rests in you—lives in you. This way, he will see home, again. You can bring him home, my boy. He is a part of you now. So long as you are alive, Julian is, also.”

It takes a while, but Babe soon quiets, and hiccupping, sobbing breaths turn even and steady, a sign that he has fallen asleep against me. Peaceful and dreamless, I hope.

Eugene helps me tuck him into my bed, moving the Holy vessels aside to make room for him.

“Thank you, Father,” he says to me, as I replace the sacred items in my pack. I smile at him and he smiles at me from his position on the floor, kneeling by Babe’s head, his hand held tight in the other boy’s grasp, even in deep sleep. “Thank you.”

“Judas ate of the Eucharist.”

This time, Eugene does blink, startled. “… Father?”

“Our Lord Jesus had Judas eat of His Flesh before He revealed him to be the traitor,” I repeat, once again sitting on the floor so that he and I can talk to each other at level. Not once does he tear his eyes away from mine. Brave boy. “He made sure Judas ate so that even when he was apart from Him, betraying Him to the Romans, orchestrating His death, He was always with Judas. Inside him. He loved him very well—perhaps too well. Enough to smother him.” I reach over to tap their clasped hands, gently, with a finger. “There is no position more intimate.”

Eugene’s ears color pink, as if still cold, and I resist the urge to cup my hands around them, so that they may be warm. They’re warm plenty already, I know, and that, at least, makes me smile.

“You are a tenacious one, Eugene Roe,” I tell him, getting up with a groan. He watches me, curious, confused, and I smile at him, amused.

Nobody leaves Bastogne unchanged—undigested, staggering out of that beast’s belly masquerading for a forest. But when one is stubborn, when he is cunning and astute, sure in his footing and determined in his mission, a body trapped could be sustained for long enough that escape is made possible.

“There are many ways a person could be sustained,” I say, running my fingers through his blue-black hair. And, like a cat, he pushes his head into the meat of my palm, affectionate. “You found him, fed him, and you watered him. You made sure to wash it all away, the taste. But shame is a powerful thing, and it almost took him. That would not do.”

Eugene stares up at me. Unflinching.

“And so, you brought him here, to me.”

Because he knew I would nourish him and he would nourish me, gorge ourselves on this story we spin together until hope and faith solidify into truth. He has bargained with Death well; has done so enough times to know how to win. John Julian may have been lost to the violence of Bastogne, but Babe Heffron remains, and Eugene Roe would rather see his own soul rot before he loses him, too.

“The Ignatian way of life dictates that we must strive to see God in all things,” I say, smiling down at him. “Today, you have shown me a Face of God I have not seen before. It brings me comfort, in this world steeped in decay. Thank you.”

Eugene smiles back, a tiny little thing that rapidly disappears when he finally takes his eyes away from me and turns them to Babe, silently contemplating his pale face, deep in sleep.

They’re good boys. I leave them both to each other as I venture back into the bowels of God’s House to search for a quiet place to pray.

---

tagging those who have either helped conceptualize this or who have expressed interest along the way: @bringmefoxgloves @hellofanidea @liebgottsjumpwings @pastexistence

This was supposed to go up on Halloween. But I was on a family trip so I fell behind on editing and putting the final touches in. It's here now, though, and I'm so so proud of it-- something which I could almost never claim about things I've written. I'm very happy it's done, and I hope people enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

Finally, I can rest.