#dying mind macabre | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

elryuse · 4 months ago

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can you write a story about Karina being a nerd but actually she is a yandere vampire princess..Karina X Male reader

21st Century Vampire Princess

Yandere Vampire Princess Karina X Male Reader

The flickering LED clock displayed 3:17 AM, its harsh red glow a stark contrast to the pre-dawn darkness outside Y/n's window. He stumbled out of bed, drawn by an insatiable thirst that felt alien even to him. "Ugh, did I leave a glass of water downstairs?" he mumbled, sleep clinging to his thoughts like cobwebs.

As he navigated the hallway in a daze, a sharp corner brought him face-to-face with a girl. She seemed to materialize out of nowhere, her dark eyes gleaming with an unnatural intensity in the dim light. Before he could stammer out an apology, a sharp, cruel laugh escaped her lips, chilling him to the bone. It was a sound devoid of any warmth, laced with a mockery that sent shivers down his spine.

"Thirsty?" she sneered, her voice dripping with disdain. "Maybe you should try something stronger."

Y/n's breath hitched. He fumbled for words, a strangled apology dying in his throat. But the girl vanished as abruptly as she appeared, leaving him trembling and bewildered. Back in bed, the image of her mocking grin sent shivers down his spine. Sleep evaded him, replaced by a gnawing sense of unease that festered in the pit of his stomach.

Morning offered no solace. News reports dominated the airwaves – a young woman found dead, her lifeless body drained of blood, two puncture marks visible on her neck. The image flashed on the screen – the same mocking smile, the same unsettling eyes. Y/n felt his stomach churn. Could it be the same girl?

Later that day, Y/n sought solace in Karina. Her warmth and genuine care were a balm to his rattled nerves. He recounted the encounter, his voice laced with trepidation. But Karina, his haven, turned unexpectedly cold.

A year ago, during freshman orientation, Y/n, a self-proclaimed connoisseur of all things gothic, stood awkwardly amidst a sea of unfamiliar faces. The throng of chattering students felt like a foreign language he couldn't decipher. Just then, a timid voice broke through the noise.

"Hi, I'm Karina. Do you... like Dracula?"

Y/n whipped his head around, his eyes widening in surprise. There, a girl with kind eyes and a nervous smile stood beside him, clutching a well-worn copy of Bram Stoker's classic. Relief washed over him, a lifeline thrown in a sea of indifference.

"Like Dracula? I practically live and breathe the guy!" he exclaimed, a wide grin splitting his face. Relief morphed into genuine excitement as he launched into a passionate diatribe about the misunderstood Count, his voice growing louder with each passing sentence.

Karina listened intently, her eyes sparkling with shared enthusiasm. They talked for hours that day, their shared love for the macabre forging an instant bond. In Karina, Y/n found a kindred spirit, a friend who understood his fascination with the dark and the fantastical.

"Vampires, Y/n? Really?" Karina scoffed, her usually gentle voice sharp. "Is that the best explanation you can come up with?"

His heart sank. He'd expected her understanding, her shared fascination with all things vampiric. Instead, her reaction reeked of something else – disdain, perhaps even anger.

"But Karina," he stammered, "what if...?"

"Vampires are elegant killers Y/n," she cut him off, her voice regaining its usual cadence, but a hidden edge remained. "They wouldn't just attack anyone. They have a certain... discretion."

Discretion. The word echoed in his mind. Karina's explanation resonated more than the news reports' sensationalism. Maybe vampires weren't mindless monsters after all. Maybe... "They choose their victims carefully," he added softly, his voice tinged with newfound respect.

"Exactly," Karina said, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. "And sometimes, they fall in love."

Her words sent a jolt through him. Love? Between a human and a creature of the night? It was a fantastical notion, one straight from his beloved Dracula novels. The very idea sent a thrill of forbidden excitement coursing through him.

The forbidden excitement quickly morphed into a suffocating dread as the day progressed. Their professor assigned a project on gothic literature, and Karina, ever the host, suggested they work at her place. Y/n, wary but intrigued, found himself at her opulent penthouse apartment. The stark contrast between her luxurious abode and his own modest room sent a shiver down his spine, an unsettling premonition gnawing at the edges of his excitement.

As they worked, a tense silence settled between them. Y/n, still reeling from Karina's earlier coldness, felt a growing distance creep in. He couldn't shake the memory of the girl in the hallway, their mocking laughter echoing eerily in his mind. Suddenly, Karina stood up, her eyes locked with his in a way that sent chills down his spine.

"Y/n," she whispered, her voice husky and laced with an intensity he hadn't noticed before. Before he could react, she pushed him onto the plush couch, a predatory glint flickering in her eyes. Panic surged through him as he tried to scramble away, but she was stronger than he anticipated.

Fear turned to terror as she leaned in, removing her glasses. The first thing that struck him was the cold glint in her eyes, devoid of any warmth. Then, she dabbed at her face, revealing porcelain-like skin, flawless and inhumanly pale.

"N-no!" he tried to scream, but a gloved hand clamped over his mouth. Her voice, when she spoke, was a chilling whisper.

"Don't worry, darling," she breathed, her words laced with a dark sensuality. "This is what you've dreamt of, haven't you? Vampires... eternal love..."

Before he could answer, she kissed him. It was a searing kiss, filled with an urgency that stole his breath. His frantic struggles were met with an almost predatory grace as she pinned him down.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his neck. A scream died in his throat as darkness threatened to consume him. As he drifted in and out of consciousness, he heard a chilling laugh, the echo of the girl from the hallway mixing with Karina's voice.

"Finally, you're mine," she sang, her voice dripping with possessiveness. The news report the next day declared Y/n Lee, the avid Dracula enthusiast, missing. But in a grand penthouse overlooking the city, a young man lay chained to a plush bed, his eyes fluttering open to a terrifying reality. The girl from the hallway stood beside Karina, both their faces devoid of a human smile.

"Welcome back, Y/n," Karina purred, her eyes gleaming with a twisted affection. "Your transformation begins now."

Y/n screamed, but the sound died in the opulent room, a chilling portent of the horrors that awaited him in the clutches of his vampire lover. The line between fantasy and reality had blurred, and Y/n, trapped in a gilded cage, found himself facing a future more terrifying than any gothic novel he'd ever read.

Days turned into weeks, the plush confines of the penthouse becoming his prison. Karina, the embodiment of his fascination, became his tormentor. She force-fed him her blood, the transformation agonizingly slow. His fangs grew, his skin paled, and his thirst for human blood became an insatiable craving.

One night, as Karina knelt beside him, offering him a chalice filled with crimson liquid, Y/n finally spoke. His voice, raspy and unfamiliar, echoed through the room.

"Why?" he rasped, the question laced with a despair that mirrored his situation.

Karina met his gaze, her eyes filled with a dark possessiveness. "Because you deserved this," she said, her voice strangely devoid of emotion.

"Deserved?" he echoed, confusion mingling with the gnawing hunger twisting his insides.

"You yearned for it," she continued, a cruel twist of her lips. "Didn't you dream of becoming one of them? Your beloved Count Dracula?"

Y/n's memories flooded back – the countless nights spent lost in the pages of gothic novels, the fascination with the dark and the forbidden. But his dream was now a twisted nightmare.

"But t-this..." he choked out, "T-this is nothing like the stories."

Karina leaned closer, her breath cold against his ear. "No," she whispered, a chilling smile playing on her lips. "This is the real deal, Y/n. And this is forever."

The weight of her words settled on him, a suffocating realization. He was trapped, a pawn in Karina's twisted game. The fantasy had turned into a horror, and Y/n, a prisoner of his own desires and Karina's obsessive love, was condemned to an eternity of darkness.

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leviathanleva · 6 months ago

Text

Cujo

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Supersoldier!FemReader

Description: A monster in human skin, a weapon disguised as a person, no thoughts, no emotion, as per design. He despises you and everything you stand for. He’s tried to kick you out of his squad and failed, he’s made it his mission to break you no matter the cost.

It comes as a surprise when he asks you to lie and say you love him.

[5.5k words]

[Angst, Power Play, Light Degradation, 18+]

Chapter 1 "Raspberry Tart"

Hound.

A fitting callsign for a dog that only knew how to follow orders. A mindless beast whose chain had been thrust into his hands forcibly and now he was to be your navigator, your Northern star in a sea of black. He’d have had no problem taking you under his wing, but you weren’t just some rookie in need of training. He couldn’t crack a cheesy joke and make you snicker, couldn’t relate to you in any way, couldn’t find common ground to start a conversation.

He’d tried to break you, poking at the squishy unknown beyond the stone exterior in the hopes that there was something still there. It was incomprehensible, you were a living contradiction to the natural order, an anomaly made reality by nameless, faceless, suited figures scrambling for power and drowning with money. He was a stoic man, cold-blooded, ignorant of his trauma, and suppressive of any flicker of tenderness that tried to wiggle out. He was trained in the heat of battle, under the rain of bullets and among the hills of corpses. He taught himself to withstand anything thrown his way. You, on the other hand, had nothing to withstand. You weren’t stoic or calculative or cold.

You were indifferent.

It irked him.

Late at night, when he was left to his thoughts, he wondered what they had done to you.

What chemical turned a human’s sclera black and devoid the iris of color? What concoction was fused into your blood to make your muscles grow so dense you could punch through walls, at will? How could you pick up the heartbeats of enemy forces without even entering their headquarters? How did you see in the dark without any gear save for a peculiar oxygen mask?

What sort of poison had been pumped into you? Had it hurt? Does it hurt now?

You were a macabre sigh.

You don’t look healthy; gaunt features sharp enough to cut glass and dead eyes that burrowed into his soul. There were no bags under your eyes, you slept well at least, perfect for someone whose hands reeked of blood. The fat was barely any, it was impossible to retain the supple softness of femininity with your condition, and if it wasn’t for the perky tits showing beneath your loose tee he could have easily mistaken you for a scrawny man. A paradox; porcelain skin devoid of scars blanketing over a heap of muscle that could tear limbs like they were loose threads.

You’d been a pretty thing once, before the augmentations. He could tell.

You barely reached his collarbone and yet you could take a grenade head-on and live unlike him. And you had, for him. He’d nearly lost his mind when you had, tucked you into his chest because he’d lost too many good men already and you were fresh in his squad and dying under his care. A bleak moment of weakness on his end that he’d believed you’d have no recollection of because half your fucking face was missing. But then the flesh had crept back onto your exposed cheekbone and he’d pushed you away as quickly as he’d hugged you. His mask did well to hide both horror and bewilderment. It had taken you under two minutes and you were ready to go again.

He’d thought your files were a joke, had read them absentmindedly over a glass of bourbon then tossed them aside and waited for the actual reports. They weren’t a joke at all.

You were his shield. It’s been a year since you joined Task Force 141 and you had taken so much damage in his stead it was mindboggling still. There was no fear, no hesitation, no doubt, or rebellion; you simply sprawled yourself over him like a ballistic shield, soaking in anything lethal coming his way. It was a heartwrenching scene, but how could he feel empathy when he’d seen you rip people apart.

You were his weapon, a leal monster, ready to pounce at the flick of his wrist. But your loyalties to him were temporary, shallow compared to the ones you held for your torturers, your makers. He hadn’t expected you to abandon Gaz to fend off the enemy alone when you’d heard a vocalization of the target’s whereabouts over the coms. On that deployment, Ghost had learned that you held no value for human life, you cared not for the well-being of your teammates. Mission first, success at any cost.

After that display, he’d spend hours arguing with Price while trying to find a loophole that would let him kick you out of the squad. A seemingly endless exchange of words led to nothing, the Captain had taken a few long phone calls, all fruitless aside from some measly promises to instruct you better. You’d been summoned shortly after and the phone had been passed onto you because the bastards couldn’t even be bothered to correct your ways face to face.

“Protect all your teammates at all costs, not just the Lieutenant.”

“Do not abandon a comrade.”

“Your squad comes before your target.”

Simon had nearly missed the last sentence; it had been whispered so lowly over the line.

“Unless the target is within direct line of sight.”

He was left seething. He didn’t want you here. He’d tried again, stating more facts, adding more blood and bone-chilling scenarios to the list of reasons why you needed to be transferred, to no avail. He’d been hit with a stygian truth after. Either Task Force 141 or some blokes from KorTac, there were no other organizations that would take you in without downright exploiting your capabilities.

Judging by what little he knew about you, you wouldn’t care, but he would. He’d be caught dead before letting you walk into those war criminals’ grimy paws and have them lock your attention on him as your next target. No. You were his weapon, his shield, his hound; if anyone was going to lead you into a massacre, it would be him.

His charge, his responsibility.

His pet.

He’d settled after that, begrudgingly letting you stay.

And it wasn’t all bad. Over time he grew accustomed to your presence, you’d eat together, train together, sit together in some forgotten corner of the base and enjoy a moment of silence. Ghost was an intimidating man, both rank and appearance kept most people out of his way, but with you constantly on his heel and your docile nature out of combat, he grew fond of your companionship. Some days he forgot you were even there, skulking in his shadow.

Rarely did you speak without being spoken to, never whined or complained. It was as refreshing as it was disturbing. He dealt with it for the most part, but sometimes he couldn’t. Sometimes he wanted to see you shatter, find a crack in the masquerade for the sake of his own sanity. He needed you to crumble, to find a way to break you because then he would have some sort of reason to cling to. Some vague explanation for the turmoil you caused inside him without even meaning to.

He was torn between hating you with everything he had, leaving you be and retaining the fickle peace between the two of you, and obsessively delving into your being in search of some long-forgotten spec of humanity that yet lived.

It was becoming a problem.

Finally, he snaps out of his morning sulking and remembers he has a cup of black tea secured in his hand. He bunches up the skull mask on his nose and takes a candid sip, then grimaces.

“It’s cold.”

A soft remark muffled behind a mouthful of buttered toast. His eyes trail up, tired and distant, to find yours studying him like he was an intel chart.

You spare his drink a glimpse, offering wordlessly, then lick the grease off your thumb and let your fork rest against the leftover scrambled eggs on your plate.

“Want me to reheat it, Lieutenant?”

He hadn’t even noticed when you’d gotten up for a second serving, the only indicator being the stained empty tray lying next to your current one. You ate a lot, had to in order to regain the energy you exerted during missions, at least that’s how he understood it. A part of him hoped it would stick, add some more curvature to your form, show him there was still an ounce of normalcy in your existence, at least physically, but it never did.

“You can heat shit too now?” the rasp in his voice is still heavy with sleep. He’s drained and bitter after another night of nothing but restless tossing and he’s poking fun at you as strain relief.

And as usual, it flies right over your head.

“No. I meant in the microwave.” you motion past your shoulder, pointing at the cutlery set up in the back of the mess hall. When he remains silent you extend an arm towards the mug, palm spread out and waiting. “I don’t mind.”

Of course you don’t, you’re a good mutt. The demeaning slew nearly succeeds in slipping past his lips, he snuffs it out with more stale tea.

“Nah.” he turns down your offer and tucks the mug closer to his body. “ ‘S fine.”

“Pyrokinesis is preposterous.” you say, cooly, addressing his previous snark after a beat or two.

It pinches a nerve.

It’s not meant as a jab at his intelligence, just a fact based on your experiences with human experimentation. It’s never a joke or a cocky scoff or anything that would allude to a personality.

“You’re bloody preposterous.” he barks back and his eyes crease in distaste.

The wannabe super soldier telling him what was and wasn’t possible was not on his tolerance list for the day.

There’s a pause, one which he doesn’t appreciate as you’re stripping him bare without consent or clemency. Your stare is degrading, has been since day one, and you’ve no interest in privacy or personal space. The only reason you keep everyone at arm’s length is to minimize any possibility of injuring your subordinates, as instructed by your shadowy puppeteers. Each action, word, and thought from you seems normal at surface level, human, until one understands the reasoning behind it. Everything about you is twisted, it’s creeping up on him, warping his reality.

You’re prying through a blank visage, no remorse, chipping away at his persona and feigning concern.

It’s sickening, it feels so real.

“You’re snippy again.” you note, mow down the rest of your breakfast, and push away the food tray. “You’ve not slept. Again.” it was a statement rather than a question. Your hands clasp together, fingers intertwining as you abandon your hunched-over pose and adjust to a professional stance. “Have you considered – ”

Your maternal tattle is cut short when a phone is thrust into your face. You blink a few times as the image registers:

A puppy. A Labrador puppy all fluffy and adorable stares back at you from the screen.

You look up unamused, letting Soap’s smug grin beam down on you, a ray of sunshine on such a rainy morning. He’s a chipper one, carries both your apathy and Ghost’s grimness on his shoulders like it’s nothing.

“No?” the smile dies on his face and his subtle crow’s feet disappear.

“No.” you answer with a small shake to your head and earn a scoff. “It’s just a dog.”

“Fucking hell, Hound.” he slumps on the uncomfortable metal bench next to Ghost, swiping at his phone before tucking it in his pocket. The pout lasts a few seconds as he rubs a hand over his stubble. “I’ll find yer weak spot one day. Mark my words.” then he turns to the hulking mountain of a man beside him. “Mornin’, Lt.”

John MacTavish had taken a liking to you early on, shining antipodal to the rest of Task Force 141. He’d made it his goal to work a smile out of you and it had begun with dad jokes, then evolved to funny videos, now it was cute animals.

It was a doomed cause, but also none of your business. How he spent his free time was not your concern so you went along with it as long as it didn’t involve you actively participating.

“Mornin’, Johnny.”

“You’re a dedicated man, Sergeant.” you offer simple words and snap your mouth shut before they degenerate into anything derogatory.

“Unlike yourself.”

The cafeteria was lively with soldiers seeking a strong coffee and a hearty breakfast. The cacophony of chatter kept your hearing busy, your senses were dulled, you were relaxed, but you weren’t deaf. You didn’t miss the Lieutenant’s cynical nip.

The ambiance has slowly turned hostile, he’s extra cranky. You pinpoint it to his silent dwelling earlier and leave it t your tongue to resolve the matter before it escalates.

“You’re displeased with me today.” you lean back and let your hands glide off the table, resting them in your lap and appearing smaller. A subtle change, but one you’d learned he fancied; being smaller than him gave him more authority room and indulged his masculine pride. “Have I done something wrong, Lieutenant?”

He likes to stay high on a power trip and humiliate you, keeps your leash secure and short as if governing over you is a boast.

“Don’t like you in general.” casual, passive; he’s peeking at you from beneath light brown lashes. “Think we already established that.”

It’s always a step forward and a thousand back. He’ll be approachable one day, open to discussions on many topics, which are more monologues than dialogues. Then the frail serenity will snap and he’ll want to crawl out of his skin by simply being in your presence. You knew little of his internal wars, knew better than to carve a seat to a psychological bloodbath with no predetermined outcome. But it was confusing, he bore too many burdens and he was making it your problem.

You took bullets for him, would endure anything for him, you’d walk into a minefield if he so wished. You obeyed without question, proven your loyalty yet he refused to change his outlook and continued to treat you with as little fairness as possible.

He was a reject yet he judged you for your difference to the rest of his men. A hypocrite. How unnecessarily…bothersome.

He speaks with subtle malice, yet his body plays a different tune and you run your mouth before thinking. There is no backbone to his passive aggression.

“You lie.”

Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to humble your higher-up in a public setting, especially in front of his most trusted subordinate. However, you cared little for social norms and interaction standards.

He’s mustering a counterattack, as cold and as fowl as his tea, but it never leaves the confines of his skull mask because you continue to yap.

“A truthful man does not sweat. His pupils don’t shrink.”

The stab is made worse by the lack of satisfaction in your voice. You’re indifferent that you’ve caught him in his untruthfulness and it serves to twist the knife deeper.

The least you could do is show him grace by reciprocating his hatred with your own, but you don’t.

You don’t care.

Fuck you.

Ghost rises with the intent to leave, doesn’t spare you another glance, only stares straight ahead, past the crown of your head, and towards the exit.

A year, a whole year since you were assigned to him and still you were a dense twat with not a drop of regard for anyone, not even yourself. It was infuriating how stuck in your ways you were, he’d tried to rupture a change and the results were null. He’s fed up.

You’re a lost cause and his nerves are stretched thin, he’s inclined to simply avoid you today.

“Lt, wait.”

Soap, always the buffer to your scuffle, the voice of reason, but there’s nothing to cushion this time. The cord’s been cut, Simon’s let go of you for the moment and he’s in need of some good alone time to properly simmer down.

He’s stuffed his hands in his jeans, thumbs sticking out and glossing over the stitching. He doesn’t turn back when he offers a response.

“Appetite’s gone.”

If he was any shorter, he would have disappeared in the sea of soldiers, but he’s too easily distinguishable for such mercies. His steps are thunderous, you’ve committed the beat of his stride to memory. He was your highest priority on the battlefield, everything about him has been burned into your mind and it’s left a mark in your day-to-day. He could be on the other side of the base and you’d find him with a blindfold on.

A good soldier, the best. Why couldn’t he appreciate that?

You watch him unblinking as he rounds the corner and disappears out of sight.

An exasperated grunt makes your head reel back.

“Life of the party as always, Hound.” Soap snips, disappointment dripping past his teeth. It’s a gentle scold, as a big brother would his younger sibling after they’ve misbehaved.

“He lied.” you retort and your expression hardens in self-defense. “He wouldn’t be upset if he hadn’t lied. Why did he lie?”

“Ask em yourself, you blind eejit.”

The gravity of his words doesn’t register until they slip out.

There’s no stopping you now, there’s a goal set in front of you. He’s almost stirred enough to stop you, but a meek nag in the back of his head prevents him. Maybe it’s for the best that you talk it out and snuff out the fire before it has a chance to grow. He pities Ghost in a way. Of all the people he could have…

You secure the abandoned mug of tea and are already trailing after the Lieutenant.

“Oh, here we fucking go…” John is left with his cheek resting in his hand and scouring the mess hall for a livelier company to lighten his morning break.

You follow him by scent alone – a pleasing musk that characterized him well aside from the cologne. You maneuver around the horde of military personnel, washed out in a cluster of camo and rugged limbs. The rain has only worsened, battering against the row of windows gracing the corridor, you can almost smell it through the glass. It’s a lovely aroma, but Ghost’s is favored and it guides you through the limbo of concrete, up a few flights of stairs until you understand you’re heading towards his office.

He’s a good man, the Lieutenant, a wonderful man – stern and fair, caring in his unique decrepit way. So why does he insist on treating you like a disgruntled mentor?

If he’s feeling generous, you’ll find out soon enough.

You let yourself in absentmindedly, barge in like the inelegant brute you are and if there had been a conversation bubbling beyond the door it would have rattled you back to cognitive thinking. But the silence had only welcomed you.

He’s sat behind his desk, looming over sparse documents that are of no interest to you, a cigarette languidly burning in the ashtray next to his elbow, smoke sucked out by the ajar window.

His eyes lift at your intrusion.

The fucking audac –

“Why did you lie?”

Straight to the point as usual. No wordplay, no gentle gestures to picture a power imbalance and ease him into it. He’s your superior and you’re supposed to show respect. Tough luck when you forget that little detail.

“Didn’t give you permission to enter.” he watches the sentence seep in as you set his tea at the edge of his desk, mulling.

Without a word, you walk out as whimsically as you’d entered, tiny body made gangly by the white lights illuminating the hallway. The door closes with a creamy click and despite his irritation, he snorts.

A beat of nothingness before three curt knocks sound, it’s comical. You’re a God damn clown.

“Enter.”

You walk in and clear your throat and that blank expression never falters. With legs spread wide and steady, you clasp your wrist behind your back, nose brought high to expose your neck, spine straight and stretched like a violin string.

“Permission to speak, Lieutenant.”

He has the spite to deny your request, cut your escapade short and shoo you away.

“Granted.” he says instead.

The clock above your head ticks and soothes the stale silence, that and the storm outside. The lights are off, the blinds hold back the scant sunlight overshadowed by an ocean of clouds. The only lamp alive is the one on his desk, deep yellow and warm, casting grim shadows over the skin-tight skull mask. The pen hoisted between thick, battle-worn fingers is still.

He’s waiting, watching you like a prowling predator, chin dipped low and eyes half-hidden behind the ridges of his eyebrows.

“Why did you lie?” you repeat with less zest and your shoulders slack a tad.

You’re the best person to share with openly, would take his confessions to the grave, and have no reason nor will for judgment. All he needed to do was ask for you to never mention this to anyone and you could be tortured to death and not budge. It was so simple, you were simple, ranks be damned, you were here for him.

Though Ghost was anything but one-dimensional. He was a complicated individual with a rich past, he was comfortable trusting you with his life, not his secrets.

He steers away from your question and offers a crappy tease instead.

“Fishing for a Psychology degree, Cadet?”

“That’s not a proper answer.” you’re bullet fast to voice your displeasure with his evasiveness. Your paper-white gaze holds his honeydew brown one, displaying openness and hoping for reciprocation.

“And I’ve taught you proper interrogation.” he spits back with growing mock, taut in his chair, muscles solid and ready.

He fights a war not of the physical world, a solitary brawl, in which you refuse to participate. There is no point in such self-induced struggles; the debate of the heart and mind is a phenomenon known to all and it can be a slippery slope. Hence it had been chemically removed from your system.

At least you can see it bothers him, whatever it is he’s musing over. You’d offer advice, you’d help if he let you dip your toes in the problem, but he was too stubborn.

You fail to understand that you’re the problem.

“You’re avoiding the question.” dry and bland, a boring fact both of you have come to acknowledge.

“I don’t need to answer your fucking question.” the pen and papers are pushed to the side as his attention is fully directed towards you. He readjusts and even while sitting down he seems larger than you. “Mind your bloody tone with me, Dog.”

You startle at that, tighten like a board and your expression falters for a second. It’s not his sharpness that shakes your awareness awake, it’s your behavior – obtrusive and insolent, insulting him with nonchalance unacceptable for a soldier of your rank when conversing with a superior. Your nails dig into the fluff of your palm to ground you, and your knee trembles with the barely repressed need to bend and dig into the floor.

It’s a fleeting sight, but he sees you stagger. An alien sensation coils in his stomach.

Finally.

Finally…

A glint of normalcy is peeking beneath the crooked façade. You’re brooding, maybe even experiencing something, branching out from the year-long unbreakable apathy.

“I apologize, Lieutenant.” you yield, backtracking until you settle into a less casual mindset. “I’ve no right requesting any information of you.”

“Damn straight you don’t.” he sinks his teeth in the opportunity, strangely eager to coax a more prominent reaction out of you, obsessive even. Speaks to you with a demeaning twinge, egged on by the split second in which your brows dip. “Forgot your place.”

His tone is biting, but his movements are fluent as he stands and rounds his desk to approach you. He towers over you unapologetically and you’re left staring at the center of his collarbones, avoiding his eyes as a sliver of respect.

He clips your chin between two calloused fingers, burdens you with a look of contemplation as he debates an idea.

“Open.” he commands and you oblige.

Your jaw lowers as your lips part without an ounce of hesitation. The hairs on his arms rise in anticipation, concealed beneath the course military blouse.

His thumb travels up, past the dimple of your chin, and over your plush bottom lip. His skin grazes your bottom teeth before he presses down on your tongue.

“Suck.”

Your lips curl around his salty digit, tasting the smoky cigarette he’d mouthed a few minutes prior. His concentration wanes, his pupils expand briskly before he catches himself softening. He pushes on the roof of your mouth to guide your vision to lock onto him.

Your rhythmic suckling sparks a warmth low in his abdomen. A dull aching pulse licks deliciously at his loins and he sinks his canines into the side of his cheek to snap out of it. He can’t afford this, not with you, you don’t deserve to witness tenderness when you have none to offer in return. So he remains an explorer and keeps pushing boundaries if not to see you uncomfortable, then for his own curiosity.

“You do as I say, when I say.” he rumbles a guttural reminder of your place, then slips his thumb out of your slithery hold and takes a step back. “On your knees.”

Your legs fold in an instant, knees digging into the tiled floor with a deaf thump. You’re face to face with his crotch and a sickening thought passes by him that makes his thighs clench.

Pushing boundaries, that’s all this was. Nothing more.

He rests a hand on the hem of his jeans and fiddles his zipper, alluding to actions he didn’t intend to follow through with. A somber attempt at making you react, but you don’t. There’s not even an involuntary twitch of a muscle – you’re still as a statue and just as emotionless.

He’s stuck between pondering if you’ve called his bluff or you’re simply passive to the idea. Either way, what he’s hinting at is vile and you being this pliant is unnerving.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re just gonna let me…” he trails off and swallows the bile rising in his throat.

What if you were left in the hands of a less gracious leader? What if some fucked up bastard had gotten a hold of you before him? What if he’d succeeded in kicking you out and you ended up in KorTac…?

What would they have done to you?

What if –

“ – I do as you say, when you say, Lieutenant.”

He snarls at that. Grabs a fistful of your top and boosts you to your feet. The tips of your boots are barely touching the ground and he’s lurched over you, so close that you’re overwhelmed by his breath.

Toothpaste, cigarettes, a feint hint of bourbon from the night before.

You inhale slowly, too comfortable in his grip and it makes no sense to him considering his treatment, then exhale audibly and speak again.

“Why does it bother you so much? My condition.”

“It’s not normal.” he gives you a solid jerk, emphasizing his words, spewing poison. “It’s shit. How am I supposed to trust you if you don’t give a flying fuck about me…or the team?”

“I would never let – ”

“ – Don’t gimme that crap.”

You’re an adaptive creature. You remember the intricacies of man despite no longer seeing any value in them. His frustration is evident, a spout of bio-chemicals thickens around him, from which adrenaline and oxytocin are the most prominent. He’s torn between protecting himself from you and protecting you from the rest of the world. And at the end of the day, he’s only human and has spent too much time with you, a member of the opposite sex, to be unaffected by your presence.

You do the first thing that comes to mind. A short-circuited move in the name of self-preservation while also not causing him any harm as per your orders.

You kiss him. Inch close while he’s in a haze of despicable turmoil and press your lips where his would be hidden behind the mask.

His lethal tantrum ceases.

He’s stunted, shaken to the bone as he stares right through you. His eyes are bulging, accentuated by the charcoal face paint. His whole body is pulsing, you hear his heartbeat, steady but clamorously loud in your ear, then he cocks his head to the side and you begin to question if your choice of action had only worsened his state.

“I’m sorry.” you blurt. “I misread you, I didn’t – ”

He’s clawing at his mask until it catches on his nose and graces you with a strong jaw littered with nearly blond stubble. You bite your tongue before more words spill and risk shattering the desperate trance he’s succumbed to.

He devours your mouth with a hoarse grunt, the force causing your neck to crane back. The large hand holding you in place vanishes shortly before he starts pawing at your hips, clutching at the firm flesh and then seeking refuge in the dip of your ass.

“Lieut – ” you suck in a breath when he hoists you up like you’re nothing and nudges your legs until they’re wrapped around his thick waist. Your ankles lock over the small of his back and you hold a steady grip on his collar as he shushes you with a husky “shut up”.

His stubble grazes and prickles as he reclaims your wet lips with bruising vigor.

The chain lies broken, his resolve has been torn to shreds after months of no reciprocation. He’s a starved man, too battered and scarred to seek his fix from a stranger. So he’s looked to you, an amalgamation of senseless strength and a hollow heart, an abyss devoid of feeling or emotion, the worst possible option, but in his mind – the only option.

Desperation blinds even the strongest of warriors.

With wobbly steps, he squishes you between the wall and himself, lets words flow without a single sound, and twirls his tongue around yours as you perfectly follow his shaky guidance. He sucks at whatever he can find, made mad with a craving for your essence despite never having tasted you before, slobbers you like a touch-starved dog.

Crushed into the warm safety of his body, in the darkness of his quarters, you're hidden from the world as he gingerly indulges his wants. Senses peaking from overdrive, you only hear, smell and feel him, a fleshy mountain carrying the scent of what you learn is home. What little exposed skin you find is scalding, he shudders while you unintentionally map out his shoulders in search of purchase.

He peppers heated pecks down your jaw with a resounding groan and finds the even pulse in your neck.

You jolt as his teeth encase the spot and he freezes.

“Want me to stop?”

His head is nestled in the crook of your neck, away from the possible judgment of your sight. His voice is low, a scratchy reverberation, strained with a need too great to be put out by his self-restraint alone. He’s a mess, oozing hormones, jittery and uncertain but too lost in his delight to retreat.

He’s slipped inadvertently and wound up vulnerable.

“No.”

He’s satisfied with your answer only for a moment before the nagging reality starts chewing at his gut. You aren’t normal. You’re not the typical bird he’d pick out in a bar after a particularly heavy mission and one too many glasses of scotch. You’re fucked up.

He doesn’t want to keep asking, wishes so direly to stay blind and dumb to the facts spitting acid in his face. But he’s too grounded for such fantastical blessings.

“Want me to keep going?” he looks up with a clenched jaw.

His breathing slows, preparing for a hit similar to a bullet to the chest, but there is no Kevlar to shield him from the devastation. He’s bare before you, at your mercy despite his stoic composure keeping him visibly untouchable. You should pity him, feel something because your situation hints at him being more than an ally or friend. You should muddle the truth or let him down delicately, he deserves as much.

He wanted you to want him. He didn’t want to be alone in his desires.

But you’re no liar, you’re not a gentle soul. You offer him a curt, tasteless answer.

You stare him straight in the eyes and shoot.

“No.”

It stings more than it should.

“I want for nothing.”

The fire in his belly is extinguished, it feels as if the blood is sucked out of his body. The stab leaves his pulsing cock flaccid with only a stain of precum smeared against his boxers as a reminder of the blossoming need you’d snuffed out mercilessly.

He holds your gaze as the spark in his shrunken orbs vanishes, then slowly sets you down and tears himself away with disgust; regretful and insulted.

“Get out…”

Chapter 2 >>>

Masterlist

[I'm a bit uncertain about this one. It's a niche idea, but it's been swimming in my head for some time now. Someday I'll be satisfied with my writing, but for now I'll settle for this. I'm not great at COD characters so if anyone seems OOC forgive me. I try my best, but I'm a rookie.]

#ghost fanfiction #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #mw2 fanfic #x reader #ghost x reader #ghost x you #cod fanfic #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you

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myuni-moon · 4 months ago

Note

Can i get hua cheng x fem reader fluff?

#time is but a number

scenario with hua cheng, in which he tells you he loves you in his own weird way

warnings: hua cheng has dark humor, suicide mentions, is this even fluff???

The first time he said it, you thought he was joking. Hua Cheng had always been enigmatic, stranger in ways you could never quite put your finger on. In one instance, he could be completely fine - dare you say even close to sounding human. Other times, you're reminded that he was never human to begin with despite all the times he'd felt like one. Such as finding some sort of humor in the morbid and macabre, some of it not even your stomach could handle (and you've spent time in ghost city).

You had been discussing a recent rumor floating around the mortal realm, the unfortunate death of two youths - a double suicide as you recalled. It was melancholic and quite saddening, but it proved to be quite the discussion between you two over tea.

"I suppose there is something beautiful about it," you hummed, watching your reflection in the murkiness of your drink. "Choosing to die with someone, I guess." They'd never be lonely in the afterlife, you reckon. In some way, the two would always be bound in soul.

Hua Cheng only smirked, typical of him. His face betrayed no real emotion, just the simple facade he wore on a daily. You'd know that it was simply out of habit, something he came to develop in his years as a calamity. "Could you ever imagine yourself that way? Dying with someone to stay with them forever?"

"And why would I?"

"I would," he looked at you amusingly. You raised a brow in honest suspicion. Hua Cheng chuckled, "I love you."

There was a silence, more from you than him. Your mind had blanked, only because you'd never expect him to say such a thing in the middle of one of the most disturbing conversations you've had up to date. There's a twist in your gut - whether from the confession or the awkward circumstances it was said in, you're too stunned to figure out. The short pause eventually gave way to Hua Cheng's laughter.

"No need to get so caught up in it," he waved his hand in disregard, "you don't have to think too much about it."

You glared at him as heated air puffed through your nose. Of course, only Hua Cheng could make something so serious with a joke. You lightly tapped at his nose with annoyance. A mischievous glint twinkled in his eyes at the contact of your fingers with his skin. "Don't go joking about that, A-Cheng."

As he leaned into your touch, he chuckled again; who ever said he was joking?

#myuni answers #tgcf x y/n #tgcf x you #tgcf x reader #hua cheng x y/n #hua cheng x you #hua cheng x reader #mxtx x y/n #mxtx x you #mxtx x reader

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here-but-forgotten · 7 months ago

Text

authors note: i don't fucking know man. i listened to "becoming the lastnames" and this happened.

content notes: rudy x reader. young, before he joins the military. talks of marriage. valeria and alejandro mention. mainly fluff. mentions of death.

becoming the lastnames

pre-military! rodolfo parra x reader

“Do you ever think we’ll make it?” He whispers, breaking through the shrouded dark, the cool air seeping through your skin.

“I don’t know,” You whisper.

He shifts beside you, the blanket wrinkling under his shifting weight. The night is cool; the stars are out; the city is far enough away to be forgotten but not to far away to become imaginary.

“Why do you say that?” Rodolfo asks, softly, no bite of argument on the back of his tongue.

“I mean, what if I end up just like my parents?”

“I’ll love you.”

That stupid, sweet, sticky, suffocating warmth seeps into your bones to your ribs, filling your throat with a burn.

“We could try to be like my parents,” he jokes, “we could work until we’re 40 then go insane.”

You laugh, breaking the warmth off your ribs, letting yourself melt into the blanket again. Your fingers tingle, cold.

“But what if you die?”

“Baby,” Rudy murmurs, half a scold and half a pity.

“I’m serious,” You whisper, barely making noise, the heat that chokes you catching cold air in your throat, “what then?”

“Then you can come talk to my headstone, I’ll listen.”

“Rudy.”

He laughs. You sound like his mother. His pinky wraps around yours, pulling your hand closer to him; he is warm.

“I don’t plan on dying.”

“But what if you do?”

“I just won’t.”

You sigh, defeated, that stupid boyish reasoning and manly cool. Infuriating.

“I’ll crawl back to you if anything happens.”

“If you die, I’ll kill Alej to keep you company.”

Macabre. He laughs.

“I’ll have to haunt you if you do that,” He smiles into his sigh, “If I don’t die, we’ll grow old together.”

“I’ll get all wrinkly.”

“Yeah, and so will I.”

“Marriage has always scared me,�� You admit, his pinky tightening, keeping you close, “But I want to have a last love.”

“We can be just like my parents, then.”

You tighten your grip on him, his fingering wiggling out just to grab your whole hand, paw covering your hand.

“What about forever?” You ask.

“I don’t know anything about forever, but I know I wouldn’t mind spending it with you.”

“How can you be so confident?”

“I want to push Alejandro off a bridge sometimes, but I know I want to be his best friend till I die,” he starts, his voice soft, “and I feel like that with you.”

“You want to push me off a bridge?”

“I feel like the second part of the sentence.”

“I mean, I get it if you do, I can be annoying—”

“I don’t want to push you off a bridge—”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did—”

He pushes his hand and yours against your mouth, gently, hushing you.

“I am not going to push you off a bridge.”

“That sounds like a Dateline intro,” You joke.

“I am not going to kill you.”

“Sounds like something a killer would say.”

Rodolfo dramatically sighs, pulling the hands back to him.

“I don’t think we have to wait on becoming insane like my parents, I think we’re already there.”

You chuckle, scooting closer to him, your shoulder touching his.

“Love can last a pretty good long while, you sure you want to give that to me?”

“I already did.”

You hum.

“Love doesn’t go away. It either sticks around or it was never there. It changes shape though, and it’s just about keeping shapes that go together.”

“You sure you want to go get shot, you could be a poet.”

“I don’t want to get shot, it’s just a part of the job description.”

“I don’t know, you seem to be a bit of a masochist.”

He squeezes your hand, a light little non-existent warning.

“Being a poet doesn’t pay too well, I don’t think. Unless we have World War III soon, then I can be sad and traumatized and publish 15 books.”

“If you make it.”

“I will,” Rodolfo lowers his voice, pulling you against him, head resting on his shoulder, “I will make it, and I’ll come home to you, and we can go crazy together until Alejandro tries to get us admitted.”

“If we pull him down with us, he can’t admit us.”

“That’s the plan.”

He rests his nose against the crown of your head, kissing your head softly, his arm around your shoulders warm as his fingers rub your skin, your body melting against his.

“Do you think Valeria and him will make it?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Confident.”

“They are oil and water. The flame is whatever they’re feeling. And it’s just whoever gets to the fire first and does something with it.”

“Are you comparing their relationship to a grease fire?”

“Yes.”

You pause, letting the words hang in the air for a moment.

“Have you been in a room with them for longer than 30 minutes?”

“I mean, yeah.”

His thumb rubs you.

“He just wants what he never got to have. And he doesn’t get that what he wants doesn’t have to be painful.”

“Do you think that’ll kill him?”

“It won’t kill either of them. It’ll just tattoo them.”

“Do you think they’ll kill each other?”

“They might try but that’ll just end in them being bickering skeletons.”

“Are they both that hot headed to where death won’t make them stop?”

“Probably. I don’t want to find out though.”

“I don’t either.”

There’s a bug, or something, making noise. The moon is high. The stars have shifted.

“We’ll be just like my parents, and we’ll grow old together, and when all of that is over, we’ll have forever. Does that sound alright?” Rudy asks, his warmth seeping into your skin.

“Yeah, I think that sounds alright.”

#cod #rodolfo rudy parra #call of duty #rodolfo rudy parra x reader #rudy x reader #rudy parra x reader #rodolfo parra x reader #fluff #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw2 #rudy #rudy cod #rudy parra #rodolfo #rodolfo parra #rodolfo x reader #rodolfo cod

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honeycreammilkshake · 2 months ago

Text

i'm your cannibal (i'll take forever from you)

some gross sukuita thing where sukuna confesses his love in a really disturbing way. title is taken from jungle by cruex lies, which sounds like a sukuita song to me. i wrote this instead of sleeping or studying ;-;

Standing in front of the mirror, Yuuji is struck once again by the overpowering feeling that everything about him is foreign. Even before he swallowed that cursed finger whole, there had always been something inherently different about him. Tiger-like strength, an overwhelming excess of empathy and impulsivity, a family full of secrets he might never know, and a high tolerance for the macabre and supernatural. Even his appearance is more than a little unique, a wide open and expressive face crowned in a shock of hair pink as a blush, but with a strong, powerful body made for running and punching.

And now with Sukuna, the King of Curses himself, residing like a parasite in his very skin, his body has become even stranger. Sukuna's eyes — scarlet and burning — suddenly blossom on Yuuji's palms or that sneering mouth peels open across Yuuji's cheek. Those manifestations of Sukuna on his own body are unsettling, really, but they don't hurt at all. Rather, they feel warm — too warm sometimes, like a hot hand set on his flesh, something that radiates heat and pulses with life… a whole other entity trapped inside of him, breaking to the surface.

He stares at his face in the mirror, pressing a cupped fist to the side of his reflection. He inhales deeply, lungs feeling too heavy to hold the air in, and he knows he's close to breaking. He hasn't cried in a long time, and he refuses to now, but images waver in his mind: flash-fast visions of the malformed creatures Mahito made to fight him, human once, that Yuuji killed far too easily, or the broken bodies of people he'd known — sorcerers come to fight the blood-hungry curses of the world or innocent victims caught in the cross-fire, all viciously ended like it meant nothing.

Was all of it his fault? Ever since he'd merged with Sukuna, the rate of attacks by high grade curses had increased, and he'd attracted the attention of serious threats that wouldn't hesitate to kill his friends and teachers. Everything that had happened to cause harm to others could be linked back to him. He bites his tongue at the irony. His grandfather's dying request had been for him to protect people, to put his own self at risk for the well-being of others, yet more tragedy has followed him and the people he cared about than he'd ever known possible.

Maybe he should have let Gojo's superiors kill him as soon as he'd been cursed by the heartless god inside of his body. Maybe he really is a monster now, nothing more than a killing creature with only unnatural death after unnatural death ahead of him.

He makes a choking sound, trying to hold back sobs, glaring into his own eyes. Pure hatred simmers in his throat, the burning ache of unshed tears causing him to grip the edge of the mirror even harder. His reflection cracks from the sudden pressure, a million splinters breaking apart his face, and he blinks hard. He forgets his own strength sometimes, and right now it feels horrifying.

"It's all your fault," he whispers, eyes never leaving the cracked mask of his reflection, his voice harsher and rougher than he's ever heard it been, and he finally breaks.

He barely feels it when the first tears slip down his cheeks; they're cold but so is his skin, and he only realizes he's full-on crying, close to sobbing, when something so keenly alive and physical stirs inside of him.

He watches it happen in the mirror: a vicious red mouth yawning open across his cheek, grinning carnivore teeth on full display. Yuuji grits his own teeth at the sight of it, finally managing to swallow back the rest of his tears, fully expecting Sukuna to start mocking him, to open that monstrous mouth and gut him with cold words about being overly emotional and sickeningly weak… but it doesn't happen. Instead, the tip of Sukuna's long, inhuman tongue peeks out and rasps up the tears spilling down Yuuji's cheek.

"Ehhhhhh????!!" he cries out, shocked by the wet, slurping thing, disgust curling his lips. "What the fuck???"

Sukuna laughs, a deep and rich sound that has Yuuji vibrating from the inside out. "Your suffering tastes sweet to me, brat," he all but croons. "When I have you broken and bleeding on the ground before me, I'll savor it, I'll devour it."

Yuuji tries to ignore him, but Sukuna keeps licking at the remaining tears slowly sliding down his cheeks, that serpentine tongue feeling more than a little rough and uncomfortably wet against Yuuji's skin, but it's also far too warm and almost gentle, and Yuuji is — absurdly — reminded of a cat. He cringes, slapping at the soft, spit-soaked appendage.

"You're seriously gross, you know," he mutters, uselessly rubbing at the disgusting mix of cold tears and too-hot saliva with the edge of his sleeve. His reflection in the mirror does the same, only disjointed and shattered.

"Watch your mouth, brat," Sukuna hisses, sending shivers down Yuuji's neck that he tries to ignore. "Or I'll rip the tongue out of your head and eat it."

"You would actually do that, wouldn't you?" Yuuji bites out, freezing in place for a second, feeling like he might be sick. "You're a monster."

Sukuna laughs again, but this time it's subdued. Instead of thrumming through Yuuji's whole body, it mostly just pulses along his throat, far softer and much calmer. It's almost more threatening that way.

"I wouldn't start with your tongue though," Sukuna muses aloud, the cruel lips of his disembodied mouth pulling wide in a sadistic smile. "I'd eat your eyes first."

Yuuji almost chokes, his heart pounding harder in his chest. I'm in control, he has to remind himself, forcing his fists to relax. He can't do anything to me when I'm in control. Instead of giving into the panic coursing through his veins, he plays it like he doesn't care, leaning in closer at the edge of the sink and casually running his hands through his hair, studying his reflection as he straightens the mess of his spikes like Sukuna's thinly veiled threats are less important to him than making sure his hair isn't unruly. "My eyes first, hmmm?" he wonders out loud, dismissively, and is satisfied when he senses a jolt of Sukuna's displeasure.

"Yes, brat, your eyes. I'll pluck them out of your skull and swallow them whole," the King of Curses sneers.

"Why my eyes? Think they're pretty?" Yuuji teases, lightly, like it doesn't matter if Sukuna is offended by the accusation, because it really doesn't. But instead of coming back with a harsh insult or reprimand, Sukuna remains surprisingly quiet.

Yuuji finds himself curious enough to flick his gaze lower so he can meet his own eyes in the mirror. They're light brown, darker at the center, glittering like a ring. Though he himself considers them plain, he finds he can't look away from the sight of them right now. A soft color, like sun-warmed honey, glinting like crystal in the dim light overhead, larger and rounder than Sukuna's eyes. And deep. Yuuji wasn't aware before of just how deep his gaze was, a gentle darkness he could drown in, and he can't help but think Not pretty… beautiful.

But wait, that wasn't his own thought. Yuuji almost gasps, managing to hold in his surprise at the last second. Sometimes he can sense Sukuna's thoughts or feelings like they're his own, even though the sorcerer usually keeps his intentions or emotions — if he has any besides the murderous and self-obsessed kind — hidden away from Yuuji. But occasionally they slip through, when Yuuji dreams or when Sukuna is especially distracted… like right now.

Yuuji can't believe he's willing to let this continue, but he clears his scraped-out throat and finds himself asking, "You'd really eat me?"

Sukuna grins, lazy and satisfied. He had obviously been hoping Yuuji would bite, and here Yuuji is… completely indulging him. He should feel sick at his own curiosity, he should feel disgusted at anything Sukuna says or thinks, but he can't — not when Sukuna's voice gets even lower and deeper, practically thrumming right up his spine now.

"I will rip off your lips with my teeth," Sukuna says, tongue flickering out of his mouth like a snake scenting the air. Can he sense Yuuji's increasing body heat, can he taste Yuuji's surge of excitement?

In the back of his mind, Yuuji can still hear the small snatches of the cursed king's stolen thoughts: So soft and sweet, bite down and make them bleed. A blurry image surfaces from the depths of Sukuna's consciousness into Yuuji's own, a flickering image of Yuuji's lips covered in a sheen of Sukuna's saliva, the king's teeth sunk deep in the soft flesh of Yuuji's mouth.

"I will devour your fingers, your face, your insides," Sukuna continues, and there's a pounding pulse where the knots of Sukuna's soul are tangled with Yuuji's own… he can sense them like never before, and he can't keep up with the rush of thoughts and images surging through Sukuna's mind, a fragmented stream of The brat, the brat stuck on my fingers, running down my face, his colors … melting through my veins. Dripping down my lips, glistening across my wrists, feel his soul deep in my bones.

And Yuuji exhales with a rush, because the way Sukuna is thinking of him right now… it's like a morbid love song or something — like broken pieces snapped off some grotesque poem, dark petals peeled off a black flower. It's like there's nothing else in the world he'd rather have all to himself, nothing he wouldn't want to devour better. Yuuji can sense the corrosive, overbearing feeling that eats away at Sukuna, that hunger he'd never sensed in the King of Curses before. Hunger just for Yuuji, hunger to make them one, hunger to absorb Yuuji completely into his own self so that they will never be apart. To mix their colors, to melt into each other's souls, to burst in each other's mouths.

Those thoughts are all imploding inside of Sukuna's mind and spilling directly into Yuuji's. He can barely breathe, his heart beating too hard against his ribcage, like a trapped bird throwing itself against the cage. And of course Sukuna takes notice of it … All of a sudden, a pressure encircles Yuuji's beating heart completely, crushing his chest.

"And I will gorge on your heart," Sukuna growls, and Yuuji is flooded with a sudden rush of possessiveness that is pouring directly from Sukuna. It's a dizzying jolt to his system. It's burning heat throbbing in his chest, a hand right over his heart, cupping it whole. It's overwhelming, and he almost can't take it, knees giving out so he slips down onto the floor, close to overflowing.

He lets out a gasp, filled to bursting by this strange feeling coursing through his entire body. There's something inside of him. Sukuna, inside of him. So close, so warm, burning within his skin like a fever. He's never known a closeness like this before, never. The fullness of it, the rightness of it is shocking, consuming.

A hot touch spreading across his hand barely registers in the back of his mind. He lifts it up, watching as Sukuna's eye and mouth flutter open across his palm. The eye is scarlet, deep dark red and slitted, like a demonic cat staring up at him. Their gazes lock together, and Yuuji can't pull away.

"Do you get it now, brat?" Sukuna asks, softly. Far too softly. His tongue flicks out again, dragging up Yuuji's wrist, licking up the sweat gathering there. "You are my vessel, made for me. You're mine. Everything you are belongs to me. This body, this soul, this heart is all for me."

The hand around his heart clenches deeper and Yuuji almost sobs, the warmth of it thawing whatever had kept him cold and lonely before all this. Before Sukuna ended up inside of him, before there was nothing and no one in the world that had gotten so close to Yuuji.

He stares into Sukuna's eye, feels the sorcerer's mouth with those dark lips twitching into a growing grin. "I could eat you forever," Sukuna purrs, and Yuuji can't help it.

Before he can think better of it, before he even knows what he's doing, he leans in closer and presses his mouth to Sukuna's own. It's nothing more than a quick brush of his lips against the cursed king's, but in that single moment Yuuji feels how surprisingly soft Sukuna's mouth is, how sharp his teeth are past that obscenely long tongue.

And before Sukuna can say anything in response, Yuuji smiles down at the monster manifested on his palm. "Enough of the gross cannibal talk, old man, or someone might think you're getting feelings for me. Admittedly twisted feelings, but feelings all the same."

Sukuna opens his cursed mouth to make protests, but Yuuji silences him by placing his hand right over those dark lips. Naturally, the King of Curses bites him, hard enough to draw blood even, but Yuuji doesn’t cry out or pull away. He lets Sukuna’s teeth sink deep into the flesh of his palm, a bright flash of pain for just a moment, and revels in the thoughts coursing through their shared mind, a chorus of mine mine mine that is felt by the both of them.

When Sukuna’s mouth pulls away, there’s an obvious bitemark buried deep in Yuuji’s flesh, and Sukuna grins wide to show his now bloodied teeth. “You’re mine, brat, don’t ever forget that.”

Yuuji can only nod. Maybe he’s actually mad. Maybe Sukuna did something to his brain, altered it or damaged it or something. But right in this moment, he feels too full, too warm, almost whole… It feels so good, he can’t really fight it. He leans back against the sink and closes his eyes. Breathes in and feels Sukuna’s soul shifting inside of him, breathes out and senses the slow calming of Sukuna’s thoughts.

Everything is so weird. Everything is so messed up. But when he feels the aching of his bloody palm, the sweet purring Sukuna makes whenever Yuuji accepts those feelings, he knows it’s the only fate he’s willing to face. Being marked by the King of Curses is a tragedy, really, but never before has Yuuji felt so close to something, never felt so alive and powerful, never felt so complete and defined. He feels that he belongs, that he is wanted, even if it’s in some twisted way.

And he knows that he is Sukuna’s.

And, deep down, he knows that Sukuna is his too, because both of them are complete with each other, and both of them are the two sides of the very same whole.

It’s not such a monstrous thought as it should have been, and he isn’t as scared as he’d thought he’d be when he finally — and fully — accepts it.

#this is probably really bad and feels a little ooc #and i really rushed the ending ;-; i'm always terrible with endings-#sorry if it's too gory or gross >.<#honey posts #sukuita #jujutsu kaisen #fic #tw: mentions of cannibalism #tw: body horror #kind of...

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littlefreya · 2 years ago

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Danse Macabre

Summary: She cannot tell who she is anymore, nor where she is. All that she knows is that Sherlock is not the man he pretends to be and that every night he comes to her bedroom to feast on the delights of her body...

Pairing: Vampire!Sherlock Holmes x Virgin OFC (no mentions of body type or ethnicity)

Word count: 2.2K

Warnings: 18+, Dark, horror, dubious consent, sex, supernatural themes, I guess we can say monster sex? Mentions of blood, hinted Stockholm Syndrome, loss of virginity, metaphors, obsession, hinted hypnosis, bites, vampire sex, mind manipulation.

A/N: I don't own Sherlock Holmes or Enola Holmes. Many thanks to my angels: @agniavateira for beta'ing my work and supporting me, and to @notabronte for giving me feedback and encouraging me to post. Please reblog and leave a comment if you enjoyed it. 🖤

Danse Macabre 🕯️

How long has it been; a month? A year? An eternity?

Time swayed differently in Mister Holmes’ mansion — if it moved at all.

The nights seemed endless, and the days… she couldn’t remember the last time she was awake during daytime. Perhaps this was a nightmare, or maybe it was the cold tentacles of death that pulled her into an abyss; but then, if the dead couldn’t feel pain then why did his kisses hurt?

It was in the bawls of midnight when Sherlock stalked into her bedroom— his jaw stern, cheekbones sharp and strikingly distinguished by the flame of a single candle held in his hand. Hunger filled his careless face, and his eyes flickered brightly like glowing orbs of ice.

Unable to scream or move, she watched him behind the ghostly veils of her bed. Hot wax dribbled down his fingers—little white tears of sorrow that she wished she herself could cry, but Sherlock had not only drained her of such force but by some enchantment, coaxed her to submit to his sacrilegious desire

“Undress,” he demanded from the doorway where he stood, shrouded by the crimson haze of the poorly lit corridor. Whatever was behind him, she could never see, the width of his bulky figure blocked the path like a monster from a children’s tale.

‘Monsters are real, Momma. They look like men in tailored vests and shiny leather shoes.’

Her fingers trembled, hands stiff and heavy. Yet she did what she was told without question, allowing the straps of her nightdress to fall down her shoulders the way a dying leaf falls from a branch.

Eyes a shade colder than ice, his glare fell to her breasts, and his chest puffed with a rumbling growl. Slowly he stalked forward, treading like a spider on its web. The tips of his fingers turned black as if dipped in poison whilst his nails grew long and sharp at every step.

“The duvet. Set it aside.”

His voice was the rumble of an inching thunder, an echo inside her head that made her bones rattle. Whenever he spoke, it felt as if invisible strings wrapped around her wrists and persuaded her limbs to do as he commanded. Even when her soul begged her to give a sliver of resistance, her hands still lifted to obey this dark ventriloquist and pushed the blanket away.

The stem of Sherlock’s throat clenched at the delicious splendour: bare, youthful skin, so tight and so supple. A thing that should have never been touched, should have never been spoiled and yet he yearned for nothing but to leave his marks at the depth of her soul.

The scent that emanated from the flesh between her thighs elicited a guttural groan from his chapped lips. In his throat pulled the ghastly hunger. Setting the candle on the wardrobe, he stalked toward the bed, his shadow metastasizing and devouring every shred of light that dared enter the chamber.

Both the mattress and her heart sank once he placed a knee on the bed and began to crawl between her parted legs, slowly and predatorily, dragging himself closer to her heat. Black, sharpened nails graze their way up her inner thighs, admiring the pureness of the forever-young flesh.

Encased in a glass coffin, his young ward would forever be protected from famine, disease, and time; and what was Sherlock if not a warden fulfilling his duty?

‘A monster! God, please! There is a monster in my bed!’

If only she could scream, if only God hadn’t abandoned her. Instead, all she could do was shiver, her heart giving no sound as Sherlock forced himself between her thighs. One razor-sharp fingernail traced the plumpness of her breast, tenderly circling and caressing the nipple.

“Mine,” he growled and slipped his nail down the valley of her torso, casually tugging the remains of her gown to expose her pure mound. Red glinted on those piercing shards that replaced his eyes—red like a flicker of fire from a match. “Look at me,” he demanded, though there was no need for him to ask.

That same gaze that possessed her had sliced through the tendrils of her mind.

Nodding, she lifted her gaze to meet his, her lips parting in a quiet plea as the ghastly, pointed talon made careful strokes amidst the swollen petals to collect the honeyed dew that gathered at the seams of her untouched cunt.

“My poor little dove, it’s so lonely in there…” he keened, attempting to slide his long monstrous finger inside of her. But her maidenhood, still obstinate to protect her from the vile urges of men, forbade him access.

Foolish.

What strength did her flesh have against such a sinister entity if even iron locks and carved religious figures couldn’t keep him away? Huffing with scorn, he drew an icy fingertip around the outlines of her slit, further spreading the sinful wetness across the seams of her cunt.

She mewled, despite herself, her waist moving in a smooth tidal sway.

Sherlock could never tire of this, not of the terror in her eyes whenever she saw him at her bedroom door nor the moans she emitted as he traced her engorged flesh with a finger or his tongue. But what he favoured above all was the sensation of his cock as it tore through her seal and those heavenly pained cries that eventually turned into the moans of a whore.

What a great fortune it was that they had an eternity of this dance.

Hovering above his prey, he propped his knees between her legs, the fabric of his trousers brushing against her inner thighs as he lowered his weight upon her. If there was any air in her lungs, she would have let out a shuddering breath; but what came instead was a silent gasp, and only her lips quivered as she prepared herself for the familiar twinge of his invasion.

Reaching for his groin, he freed his hardened cock and stroked a hand across its length before nudging the heart-shaped crown at the gates of her purity. Not yet pushing in, he teased himself up and down her narrow slit, treating her the way a lover treats his delicate mistress— the way a cat toys with a mouse.

Lips swollen and tingling, she whimpered, her yet-empty hole twitching as if heeding a primal call. How could she fear and need him at the same time? Did she loathe herself so much that she wanted him to defile her? Tears began to rim her eyes, and from quivering lips, she whispered, “please…”

Letting out a low rumbling chuckle, he lowered his head and pressed a kiss to her forehead before whispering in her ear, “You, my ward, are such a mystery…”

Her mouth opened to speak but a scream followed instead. One unceremonious thrust and he sunk into her lush depth, his girthy cock devouring the sweetness of virginal flesh. Indifferent to her pain, he pushed further and deeper past her folds until every inch of him was buried within.

Cries and squeals sputtered from her mouth—the monster had tore her innocence, the pain had seared, and in pathetic pleas for mercy, she slapped against his bare chest and tried to shove him away. But Sherlock knew no mercy, for truly he was a beast, not just by the breadth of his shoulders and untypically muscular figure, but by his blunt absence of elegance and heartless mien. Giving her no moment to adjust, he had already began to pump himself inside of her now-defiled cunt.

Such a mask of virtue did her warden wear; to the world, a perfect, eloquent gentleman. But behind closed doors, lurked a sick, sinister man who only wished to desecrate this tender maiden in this dark sacrament.

Over and over, he pulled away only to plunge into her again, each thrust harder than the last, each thrust ending with the slap of his sack against her cunt. And the moans that came from him - had the most debauched resonance, as if she was a long anticipated feast to a voracious man.

Unable to meet his vigour, her walls whined a protest and squeezed around him in a futile battle to drive him out; yet for Sherlock, this tightness was nothing less than an aphrodisiac. If any, her insubordination did nothing but provoke the ungodly creature within him. Reaching a clawed hand to her chin, his fingers pressed into the hollow of her cheeks, forcing her to stare directly into his bright-red eyes as he began to fuck her in a punishing pace.

“I am already inside you, little dove. There is nothing that can be done,” he rasped while his hips continuously snapped into hers, every second rut bringing her closer to surrender as friction drew that which she so religiously wanted to resist.

“Give in to me, and I will give you pleasure like no other.”

His words were but a spell. Briefly, unbidden, a spark inside her womb ignited, giving life to ecstatic flames that cascaded through her canal. While a part of her wanted to stay pure and deny this vicious man, an unbearable ache for his return struck her every time he pulled out from her slit. In mindless despair to hold him close, she had finally caved in and wrapped her legs around his waist to hold him near.

Triumphant grunts rumbled in his throat. Appeased by her surrender to his whims, he lifted his upper torso, his taut abs flexing as he rose to hover above her. With his hand still around her jaw, he pressed her deeper into the mattress while pummeling her cunt.

“Make us whole…” he begged, his voice a husky—almost pitiful—groan.

“Make us whole again.”

Depraved as an animal, he ravaged her with the selfish degenerate intent of a man yearning to impregnate his mate. Though this union could result in nothing of that sort, still she thrashed against him in an archaic frenzy, her screams unfurling into the night as her body became enslaved to the same foolish wanton. Soon her trenches began to tighten around him in demand of his seed, and the whispering embers that smouldered in her womb had suddenly imploded into a wave of molten fire that scorched through her completely.

It was in that moment when her cunt devoured him completely, when he felt her heat gush and hug around his shaft so longingly that his eyes glowed bright red, and his fangs flashed sharply before her dazed eyes. Even though she had seen this play out numerous, endless times, she couldn’t help but gasp as he lowered his mouth to her neck and drank her pleasure-tainted blood.

Eyes staring into the ceiling with shock, she trembled like a thing that was about to be shattered. The waves of her ecstasy ebbed away as Sherlock stole from whatever maw of force she had left. Black mists began to waft around her, blurring her sight and pulling her down below. And suddenly, she was limp and heavy at the same time while a cold, strange tingle jittered through her veins.

‘Death…’ she smiled with her eyes half-shut, ‘Oh, finally… Release me!’

Just then, a secondary implosion spasmed through her core and caused her entire body to jitter with delight as the sensation elicited from his bite was an unlikely aphrodisiac. Mouth agape in a silent cry, she threw her head back and stared through the open window while the monster inside her continued to feast on her throat.

The moon—it was covered in blood, painting the room in a crimson shade.

Lost in this trance, Sherlock hummed; the blood of a newly deflowered virgin was sweeter than ambrosia; after decades and aeons of searching, he could sense the wind on his skin, feel the thrum in his veins and abruptly… in a moment passing, he felt a rumble in his chest as his heart pumped once again.

‘Make us whole.’

‘Make me whole.’

‘Make me feel alive again.’

Losing his control entirely, he thrusted into her with a few last powerful strokes and then finally lifted his head with a savage-like shout while his thick elixir overflowed her womb. Cum seeped around his cock at the same manner of the blood that trickled down his square chin.

He licked the corner of his lip, eyes red and sated, peering down at his prey.

“Oh, my sweet little flower,” he murmured and carefully lowered his head to kiss her. She returned the kiss, uncertain if by choice, little did she care now. Her body still tingled and the taste of her own blood had an odd sweetness to it that had made her thirsty. Once he broke from her lips, she suckled them dry.

Like petals plucked from a rose, she laid raw beneath him. Not dead. Not yet. Not ever. She no longer remembered her life before him, no longer remembered who she was. All she knew was that when she would wake the next day, it would be night again.

And he would return to claim her, again.

His fellow companions warned him of such abomination; it was dangerous to drink from his own kind, or so they claimed. It poisoned the mind and the body according to the myths, but whether it was true or not, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to care.

No matter the fashion, he came every night, drank from her veins, deflowered her and left.

And every night, she woke up a virgin again, clueless as to who and what she was.

But Sherlock knew the one and only true answer.

She was his.

For all eternity.

#henry cavill #enola holmes #enola holmes 2 #sherlock holmes fanfiction #sherlock holmes x reader #henry cavill x reader #sherlock holmes x ofc #henry cavill fanfiction

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fr3akshowdusty · 9 months ago

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I made Felix as a wojak meme thingy.. and ngl he kinda looks like a lesbian

#dying mind macabre #dying mind comic #felix dying mind #wojak meme #omg gae

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dyingmindmacabre-chaos · 1 year ago

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Minus Misery from Dying Mind Macabre stimboard !!

☠︎︎ ♠ ☠︎︎ ♠ ☠︎︎ ♠ ☠︎︎ ♠ ☠︎︎

(btw Dying Mind Macabre belongs to @nerdywordyloser go support them :3)

#dying mind macabre fandom #dying mind macabre #stimboard #stim gifs #visual stim #stim #tw blood #tw eyes #tw weapons #skull stim #book stim #spiral stim #card stim #ink stim #black stim #white stim #black and white stim #horror stim #horror stimboard

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circe-and-the-wolf · 3 months ago

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I just can’t get you out of my head.

Kristof Lazaar.

(Boy, your lovin’ is all I think about.)

—————————————

🧛🖤🥀 Lazaar and Joey photo faffing 🥀❤️🧛‍♀️

📷 using Procreate to edit screenshots from the film Abigail for MG and photo of MB by Luis de La Luz; rose stickers from PicCollage 📷

Here is the version Joey keeps in her scrapbook (and yes of course she keeps a scrapbook):

And this one (below) ended up looking like some creepy/weird/ironic/macabre couple’s photoshoot, so I’m including it for amusement purposes 😂 Lazaar should be holding a rose or something. Maybe I’ll do that later. Maybe they’ll get it framed… in my mind 🖼️.

⬆️ and some roses, dying obligingly on my table right now 🥀😅

#abigail movie #matthew goode #matthewgoode #melissa barrera #lazarandjoey #abigailepilogueplease #vampiresonthebrain #vampire lover #vampirelove #kristof lazaar

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nalledimessi · 3 months ago

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Save me

Hello there friends, I hope everyone is doing well, I know it has been a really long time since I post, I have the terrible habit of stop writing when everything gets too much for me. This pass year my life has been like a roller coaster; I know probably all of you or the majority don't care to much about it but I have to express it somewhere and somehow, but anyway I leave you with this ending of the non-series that I made. Divider by @firefly-graphics

Broken Rule

Regrets

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Winchester sister

Warnings: Mention of killing, blood, and curses.

Words: 827

Notes: Listen Save me from BTS

Tag’s: @valsworldofcreativity @helenasingers @r13mar @elijahs-wife

You crumble next to a tree, your right-hand applying pressure on your bloody open wound. “Damned” you curse watching the blood staring to spread on your t-shirt.

Leaning your head on the tree for support, you could see the clear sky adorned by stars, what a beautiful night to end up dying, you thought, well at least the constant sadness and emptiness settle on your heart would disappear and you would finally rest, although it will be forever.

You could hear the footsteps on the dry leaves from both sides getting closer and closer “shit” you cursed, getting up, the tree as your support, taking a deep breath and trying to concentrate to find where the attack would be first “right” you mentioned, raising your gun and pointing that direction.

“It’s impressive how far you could go with that wound” the ghoul in human form announces appearing on the other side, making you turn abruptly, whining at the sudden movement, pointing the gun at him. “I'm a Winchester after all” you replied proudly trying to ignore the buzz in your ears and blurred look.

“Oh, I'm aware of it” starting to walk in your direction, a macabre smile on his lips “soon you will stop being one”

Aiming your gun at him, but failing due your blurred gaze, you knew even you end up killing him, the other ghoul, that isn't too far away would reach you and kill you, lowering your gun and glancing to the sky, forgetting the ghoul in front of you “how I like to see you just one more time”

Splashes reached your face, getting it wet, making you look in front of you, just in time to see the ghoul’s head drop along his body, reveling a human form “what the hell?” you whisper before fainting.

Stopping the engine of your car, you release a sigh resting your head on the seat. “Let’s get this over with” you voice worn out.

“Oh, you’re back” Sam exclaims, excited while watching you descend the stairs of the bunker.

“Don’t get too excited Sammy” you warm him “just staying until Bobby calls back with a new assignment” you mention once you were close by.

“Oh” he let out sad “how was your last hunting?” he inquiry, concern.

“Same as always” passing him by in direction to your room, not giving him much attention or time to chat. “Search, hunt and kill, just to do it all over again”

“Sis, I’m worry about you” he declared in a tone that make you stop suddenly.

A sigh left your mouth, turning around to see him, forcing a small smile that didn’t reach your eyes, trying to calm him, after all he was your baby brother “I’m fine Sammy, don’t worry” you state before continuing your way.

“She just needs a shower, food and a good night of sleep” Dean bring up, while patting his shoulder.

“I hope you’re right Dean” his gaze fix where you disappear “or she could end hurting herself badly”

Dropping your duffel bag at the edge of the bed, while at the same time falling face down on it “shit” cursing almost immediately once laying down.

Standing up, in direction of your bathroom, the reflection on the mirror stopped you from examining your abdomen wound, dark circles under your eyes, pale skin, cuts and bruises where your clothes allowed to see.

Lowering your head with eyes closed, good reason for Sam concerns, how could you be so reckless? Your mind drifting to New Orleans and to him.

The ring of your phone distracts you, answering as a reflect, “Hi Bobby, what do you have for me?”

Giving one last glance to your bedroom, you could notice all the difference between here and your bedroom back in New Orleans, all kind of books scattered around on both rooms, messy bed instead a neat one, closed and dusty smell instead of his, like sandalwood and rum spice. A scent you swear you could smell.

Denying with your head before passing your duffel bag over your shoulder, starting your way to the garage, trying at all cost to avoid any of your brothers.

“Y/N” Sam call your name, your hand on the garage knob.

“Almost” you whisper before turning around, forcing a smile for your own good “Bobby call, a possible Wendigo in Oklahoma” you state.

“Castiel is on his way, you could rest while he arrives to cure you” he suggests “if we explain Bobby, he will understand, he can assign another hunter” he offers coming closer to you.

“I can't Sam” making him stop confuse, looking at you waiting for an explanation. You sigh defeated “hunting it's the only thing that keeps me sane” you reveal to him.

“If this is about New Orleans, you know you can talk to me” he affirms and offer.

“Yeah” you respond in a low voice, turning around “there’s nothing to talk about” you declared before leaving.

A familiar scent reaches your nostrils, blinking several times to adjust your eyes to the bright light, some pieces of memory returning, causing you to a seated position abruptly.

“You’re finally awake” the soft but firm voice express, setting your glance on him.

“Elijah” you pronounce “what are you doing here?” question him but didn't allow him to finish “Don't get me wrong without you I would be probably dead,” you stop and start looking around “shit! I need to call my brothers; Dean will kill me” you express trying to stand up from bed.

His hand on your shoulder, stopping you from standing “Calm down” giving you a glass of water “I came for you” turning away from you “they’re here”

“Y/N!” Sam shout as soon he enters, reaching your side while Dean stand behind watching Elijah.

“I would leave you alone” he said, with his glance fix in you.

“Elijah!” you exclaim trying to stand reach him.

He was next to you in an instant, thanks to his vamp speed, his right hand on your back and his left one on yours “I won't go anywhere” he assures you “I would get another room” caressing your hand before leaving you, Dean glance follow him.

“So, that was Elijah” Sam state more than question, watching you nod.

“What the hell is he doing here? With you on a hotel room?” Dean inquired, crossing his arms over his chest waiting for you to answer.

“He’s the reason why I’m alive, Dean” taking a deep breath, remembering the events “I keep screwing up things,” Sam squeezing your hand, encourage you to continue “there where 2 ghouls instead one, I was able to kill one but I end up several injured, I was chase thought the forest, was about to kill me when Elijah appear”

“Killing the ghoul and saving you” Sam finish for you “where were you hurt?” lifting your right side of your blouse “there’s nothing here”

“How?” Dean exclaimed, inspecting where the wound used to be.

“Vampire blood” you spilled out of your mouth without thinking, to then look to their confused faces “has healing qualities” you stop, taking a sip of the water glass to then continue “but if you die with it in your system, you begin the transition to vampire”

Before Dean could start a fight, a knock on the door was listen, before Elijah enter the room “my apologies for the interruption, the vampire blood is almost out of her system and there’s nothing to worry about it” he explains approaching Sam, providing a key “you should settle down while your sister rest” he announces.

“Oh sure, thanks” Sam answer before giving you one last squeeze in your hand “try to rest” glancing at Dean.

Dean’s gaze changed between you and Elijah, a resigned sigh “Get some sleep kiddo” he orders before leaving the room.

Elijah starts to walk to the room door, “stay” you shout while his hand settles on the knob. He didn't say anything, just took off his suit jacket and vest, leaving it on a chair to then walk to your side and lay down, he passes his hand under your head, making you use it as pillow, your head set on the crook of his arm.

“How are you feeling?” he questions you, starting to caress your head.

“A little tired and sore” answering in automatic, your mind in other things.

“What is in your mind, darling?” moving to his side to see you.

You lift your head to see him, your gazes crossing “Too many questions and no answers at all”

He smiles “I would answer 3 of those questions” kissing your forehead “think wisely darling” he advice you.

You nod, thinking your questions, after a few minutes “How did you find me?” you finally question him.

“My sisters, Freya along Rebekah did a locator spell to find you” he expresses “they miss you”

You open your mouth “they miss me?” you state without thinking.

“Are you sure you want to use your question?” he questions you, looking you denied of his question and stay quiet for a few minutes.

“Why are you here?” you whisper, not sure enough to listen the answer.

“For you,” he declares “it seems you have you have caused a quit impression in all of my siblings, even Klaus express he don't have anyone to fight” he then presses his forehead in yours, a few inches away your face “to be true I’m smitten with you” he finally admits.

Placing you hand over his cheek “what this means to us?” closing your eyes, knowing the answer of this question could change everything.

He puts his hand over yours, caressing it, making you open your eyes “Darling, I love you. And I would fight for you, against anyone or anything” he announces watching you directly.” he places a kiss on your lips before standing from bed “we’ll talk about this later” he let you know before the door open reveling your brother with a tray of foods.

#elijah mikaelson #the originals #elijah mikaelson x reader #supernatural #dean winchester #sam winchester #winchester sister #winchester x mikaelson #winchester!sister

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unsoundedcomic · 2 months ago

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Maybe a bit macabre, but if post-life Duane's brain had been scooped out immediately rather than rotting, would he have skipped the crazy phase? Or would it have made a new, different crazy phase

This gets into the weeds of how the mnemonic structure and the flesh interface, but it might have helped a little. The insanity came of his trapped soul repeatedly trying to interact with his brain, which was dying and then dead. But even after the brain was stone cold, that soul was still together - alive in the way a soul is alive - and flailing for the flesh with a million violently truncated tendrils. This left Duane trapped in a shadow of the final state of his consciousness, a shadow he couldn't escape for ages; a spiral of panic, terror, anger, and confusion.

Eventually, those flailing tendrils started to grow their own new mind, like arteries growing around a blockage, replacing what was missing. It's arguable our Duane is not Duane Adelier at all, but a newly grown consciousness replicating what was lost. Bastion has no idea this is possible but boy would he like to study it. He has some ideas about what Duane is now but they are not super accurate.

None of this is really important - especially now that Duane's found some peace about his past - but it's sure fun to think about.

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sculptorofcrimson · 6 months ago

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Dance Macabre Pt 1

Traitor!Valdor AU Synopsis: The cycle begins again. And the one shard he spared. The one shard, in all his millenia, that he did not kill. Relations: You'll see ψ(｀∇´)ψ

She was the one and the only. The error in the code, the flaw in the machine, the exception to the rule. She was the shard that lived, the one and the only to be spared from the bite of his blade.

She was nothing exceptional in many instances. Slight above average psychic ability. A little above average of the Emperor's essence. Average intellect, strength, emotional response. Absolutely nothing at all. And yet she lived. She was the one, and the only, in all ten thousand years that the Traitor Captain reigned for his terrible, tyrannical rule before he was finally brought down and he ended the same way his master had ended: with golden ichor. Master and slave, Emperor and bodyguard, victim and assassin, let them be intertwined in death. Let him love Him, if only in death.

For all the years he had spent as a traitor, she was the only one who felt his wrath, and lived.

It was not love, the twisted thing they had. It was not even lust. He did not lust. He could not lust. He quite literally could not know desire. The one thing he had once cherished, worshiped, reveled in was dead, and He had torn out the machine that had been a heart when he betrayed Him. He had cast him down, through the gold and through the brume. His talons in his breastplate, His scorn upon His tongue, His hatred blazing in golden eyes as He speared Valdor through upon His claws and cast him down. That final, snipping cut, severing the bond between master and slave in a single, terrible instant upon the Vengeful Spirit.

It was no longer love. He loved Him, and He did not care.

He loved Him. He hated Him. He loved Him. He loathed Him. Around and around with the pendulum, desperate, broken, singing. The call of a mind stripped of all its gifts. Such a broken, piteous sight.

And so he hated His bones. His shards. His remnants. He did not know hate, his master had torn it out of him in so many regards, but he loathed them. He regarded them with no more kindness than if they had been Horus himself, as if they had been the ones to have poisoned him and given him the broken gift of being able to feel all he had lost. Of being just human enough to hate, to thrash and to weep against his chains, but without the true power to care, to know what he lost. Doomed to forever wander for a city he could not name and did not know, groping around blindly in the dark for something he lacked, but could not remember.

He loathed them.

He cursed their name the same way he cursed Horus. Horus, for his treachery. Horus, for his gift. Horus, for the way he had so gallantly smiled and welcomed Constantin with open arms when he had lowered the walls of the Palace, when he had broken the Siege of Terra alone and greeted Horus' hordes with gaping gates and scrambling defenses. Horus, for bringing him the truth.

Look at them. Despicable things. Wearing the face of his master as if it was a mask. He could not loathe Him directly, He had taken that away, but he could loathe them. He could loathe them for being Him but not being Him enough, he could loathe them for looking like Him, breathing like Him, living like Him once upon a time, he could hate them for carrying what should have been his. It was like looking upon the corpse of the sun, feeling its dying warmth screaming across the void but knowing it was held in the palm of a worthless mortal. A mortal. Nothing at all, when compared to him.

His master left His bones to the gentry instead of His servant. There was no greater insult than to see Him again, alive, living through their useless bodies, when He had died for their countless, dreary lives and they had lived. They lived for Him, they lived in His place, they're living and desecrating His corpse which should have so righteously remained dead. Let the galaxy burn, let it burn itself to ashes and consume itself under the weight of its voracious hatred, let the mortals stumble and fall and lead themselves to a piteous doom, he would have gladly let them all burn if only he could see Him again. If only to feel the warmth of His love, even if he had to torch Him alive to feel it.

He died ten thousand years ago. And in His place, they wear His corpse.

He sees His face imprinted upon theirs, he sees His bones, rotten and crumbling, stretched over their fragile bodies. He sees His essence, trapped inside, cradled in flesh and bone and it was his duty to tear it free. It was his duty to punish such blatant disrespect of His legacy, his righteous crusade to set Him free and return His soul where it belonged: in the palm of His favored servant. Let them all burn, he reasoned, let them all burn if only he could ignite his lord one last time.

When they fell into his claws, nothing awaited his master's bones but destruction.

It would have been impulsive for the normally heartless captain, if it had been any but his master. It would have been cruel, it would have been horrifying, it would have been treachery and blasphemy and heresy. But it was also justice. Justice, at least for him. Justice as he watches them scream, sob and wither away, as he watches their fragile bodies break down from starvation and dehydration, dying as their bodies struggle from the poisons pumping through their bloodstream, drowning in their own blood. How he replicates His wounds one by one, first the tendons, then the muscles, then the eye, and then the corpse itself. The Apollonian Spear, carefully, with infinite precision, carving tiny cuts upon them, bleeding them out drop by drop, tasting his lord's memories with each slice. Listening to Him screaming as he sets his boot down upon a fragile, mortal chest, hearing Him roar out in indignity and in betrayal as he presses down and hears the shard's ribs crack and then crumble beneath his weight, as their chest finally gives out beneath the endless pain. And feeling Him die, once more, blood dripping like ichor over the Apollonian Blade, finally preserved in the last tomb He would ever know: the very spear of his servant. Home again at last, as He deserves to be.

He will kill them all. It was spoken in his vows.

There is no respite for a shard in the Yellow King's arms. There is only oblivion. He will never spare them, never love them, never hold even a candle of adoration for his former master. To those that dare desecrate His corpse, there is only death, and a slow, horrifying drowning, lost limb by limb to uncaring treachery. He always kills them, as soon as the Aquilan Shields are scattered, their shields shattered and their spears cast aside. His brothers are nothing compared to him. They always die, in hours, or in days if the Aquilan Shields are resourceful, if they're willing to sacrifice themselves for the shard. They rarely succeed, of course. He is Constantin Valdor, and he is the Emperor's greatest assassin, and he will tear His soul shred by shred from the mortal corpses He wears.

When he has them, they always die.

She alone was the exception.

In all ten thousand years, she was the only one who has faced his wrath, lost by the Aquilans, and lived.

She was an Inquisitor of the Ordos Malleus. She had been the one hunting him, the King in Yellow, until the day he caught up to her, and tore her ship open in the middle of the Warp. The Aquilan Shields had come soon before, they had told her what she had to know, and in the Inquisitor's arrogant, off-handed way, she had dismissed them. She had dismissed the fear she saw in their eyes, dismissed it the same way she had dismissed her concerns and plunged into her hunt.

She still remembered that day, the golden devil clad in the raiments of his lost brothers, his cloak a ragged, dead thing hanging over his shoulders, glorious and golden and horrifying as he gutted the ship apart hunting for her. The fear in Ashavar's eyes, visible even through his helm. The way they danced, blade over blade, spear against spear. Valdor fought in his peerless, immaculate style, but now with vicious abandon, the mark of a soul that had nothing left to lose. They had prepared for this. They had prepared a thousand contigencies for this day, yet none of them would serve them at all. Ashavar clashed against him, forcing all his strength into a strike that made even Valdor stall. He punched him in that gap, without fitness and without grace, without any of the training Valdor had enforced upon him. He smashed one of the jewels on Valdor's armor, ducking under Valdor's riposte and dancing around the edge of the Apollonian Spearblade before Valdor stabbed him in the gut.

There was utterly no honor at all.

Valdor struck him three more times with the misericordia, Apollonian Spearblade briefly forgotten. He smashed his fist against the side of the Aquilan's helm when he had stumbled, pinning him to the bulkhead with one hand and bashing him against it for good measure. Casting him aside as if he weighed no more than a guardsman, Valdor had turned around to face her. And the Inquisitor had not fled. Gazing up into those blank eyes without even a hint of fear, she raised her own vox and spoke a single, terrible command. Her lips were trembling from nerves. But her eyes were calm, and dead, and utterly triumphant

‘Ship command. This is your Inquisitor speaking. Activate the Cyclonic Torpedoes we're carrying. Activate all of them.'

That was her secret. She had been willing to kill both herself and him even before she had set out upon this journey, before she had met the Aquilan Shields. The captain goes down with her ship.

That brief, brutal moment of deathly cunning flashing through red eyelenses. The moment of revelation, spreading like ink through water. The way she had smiled, vicious, cruel, and victorious.

The Inquisitor had smiled mildly at him, and gave a nod in the direction of the engines. His eyes had tracked that movement, just for an instant, flickering between her and her command box.

'We'll die together, Constantin.'

She was still triumphantly holding her command box when Ashavar pounced.

He crashed onto not Valdor, but onto her. He had wrapped her up beneath his bulk, covering her entirely with his body. She could smell his incense, feel the cold hum of his auramite and feel the bruises forming from where he had smashed into her. He crushes her with all his weight, covering her, wrapping around her. She couldn't breathe but still she tried to scream. If not for herself, then for him. She couldn't see, Ashavar's purple cloak had obstructed her face, but she could feel him. The first misericordia blow shattered his auramite. The second broke through his spine. She could feel him convulse, spasming at least a dozen times beneath the blows. Valdor was so fast, so unspeakably fast, and vicious in his frenzy to get to her. To claw her out and tear out the Emperor's last breaths from her broken corpse. Ashavar groaned above her, and she could hear that voice, so commonly kind, so gentle, now raised in agony. A scraping sound. Ashavar spasmed. A siren was blaring somewhere from lower down on the ship. Then nothing. Ashavar's blood was clouding her eyes. His cloak was soaked with it. His slumped form, once so gigantic, briefly dwarfed by Valdor's looming shadow, now emptying itself of life.

He had thrown himself over her, and Valdor had cut him to pieces.

'I'll see you again, my master.' It was a curse, as much as a promise.

The traitor Captain had left. Fled, like the coward he was, out of fear or rather "pragmatism", when he realized he would not have time to cut through his brother's corpse and escape the burning supernova of the ship. Fled to kill another day.

She remembers the Aquilans, their panicked voices, their spears and their axes. The way their Shield-Captain had bundled her up in his cloak and frantically tried to wipe the blood from her hair. Two Custodes carrying Ashavar through the winding corridors, ducking beneath the panicked crew. The Shield-Captain's voice, soft and mournful and still trying to be gentle, carrying her wounded form away from the fire. Away from the blood and that terrible, bloodstained cloak, whisking her away before the ship could implode beneath its own baggage of fire.

It was not the first time they would meet. And it was not the first time she would know, with cruel certainty, that he hated her. He hated her, as he hated all shards, and if he had the chance, he would have undoubtedly flayed them all alive, just for another sip of his master's love.

He loved his master. And he hated His shards.

~~~

They had scolded her after that stunt. The Aquilans had scolded her, their red eyelenses masking their fear. Fear for her, fear of him, fear of her and the lengths she was willing to go. They insisted on accompanying her on her walks, on tracking every moment of her health, and standing over her during her meals. It was infuriating. (Then again, she couldn't blame them. Her great-great-great-great ancestral grandmother had apparently been exiled after a much-similar failed coup. That stunt had garnered her much worse than just a few days of annoyance from Aquilan Shields being too overprotective of their charge).

She knew she was dead long before she had set foot upon Daedalus Lied, she had known she was a dead girl walking before she had even baptized her own ship after a long dead genius. The Inquisitor knew that she had been waiting for death since her love had last perished beneath the flames of a heretical cult she had failed to root out, she knew that not even her love of humanity(the Emperor's or hers now?) would have been enough to stop that tide of ink-laden despair that had threatened to pull her down since that terrible night. She had loved them, yes, she had loved this world, with every last of its worthless, tiny, miniscule lives, loved each of them to a vague, beautiful detail, but it was not enough, not enough to overcome her selfish wish for death. To be eternal, and endless, and be with her love in the lightlessness.

She was nothing, in the grand scheme of things. Nothing but an Inquisitor with a dead psyker-assassin as a lover, a dead love she couldn't even stop from self-destructing from the waves of the warp. Nothing but an Inquisitor with a deathwish and the dying gasps of her beloved, and the heart of the Emperor beating within her. She was alone, so utterly alone even with six Aquilans watching over her, and perhaps that was why he spared her.

All those other shards. Mortal. Joyous, mischievous, alive, young in a way she could never be young, frivolous and dainty and pretty. He had killed them all. Those who were cruel, a king clad in gold and crimson, a budding emperor with a tyrannical fist, those he would occasionally spare, just to gaze upon Him for a few moments longer. Inevitably, they would extinguish, snuffed out once more in this incarnation. They always died, she knew, she knew even as she relived the moments of the many girls he had slaughtered. Their eyes, reflected in his cold, unfeeling auramite, their screams, echoing through the corridors of the past and into eternity. So small, so fragile, and so utterly dead beneath his gaze.

He met them again, in the span of months after her recovery but before the Aquilan Shields could truly let go of their fear. They still hung about her, wandering meaninglessly, fussing over her every beck and call. Months had passed. Her investigation, slow and grueling, had led her, with stealth and trickery, to the heart of the storm. To the traitor Captain's own lair. Maulland. The dead world where a fallen prince had once lived in exile.

He met her, face to face, in the gaping emptiness between the dead earth of Maulland's primary moon, the grey and white of the snow sailing over her uniform. The moon itself had no name, although its inhabitants had taken to calling it the Priest-King, out of some last kind of spite for the exiled captain that had once lived upon the world. He had lived here, peacefully, in silence, in contemplation and in grief, until his hate brought him out to hunt. Until his loathing for his master's corpse and his master's throne drew him out, and he rampaged.

They had stood, immobile, and for a while she heard nothing but the empty howl of the storm.

'You are here to die.' Valdor said at last. There was no tone of inflection in his voice, no sign of regret. Only flat, cold victory. She had returned his words with a smile, and a nod.

'And you are here to slay me.'

The traitor captain had smiled then. It was a cold, insane smile, the smile of a large starving cat finally having a fresh meal. He will kill her and carve her apart, of that the Inquisitor had no doubt. So be it. She was, as always, ready to die.

He hated her, she knew. He hated all shards. Good. She hated him too. She expected to die.

'Of course.' he gestures in a curt bow, similar to the bows he had demonstrated countless times to his master when they were King and Servant. 'I did not think you were quite as arrogant as you may have your entourage believe. Where are your bodyguards, Inquisitor? Where are your troops? Have they abandoned you tonight?'

'They're preparing to slay you, I presume.' she chuckled darkly. She doubted if any had advanced as far as she, to the point of striking out against the very heart of his traitor kingdom. It was not his throne, but it was his heart, the King in Yellow's long years of ruminations and exile baked into the very snows of the planet. She wondered if he would suffer, maybe crack a little inside, if she declared Exterminatus upon the world and its inhabitants. She wondered if he would mourn. Certainly not mourning for the planet's residents, or even for himself, but for all the years and memories he had spent, and lost, there.

Valdor had tilted his head. 'Ah. You have questions.' So coldly monotone as ever, so pleasant, even when he lowered the blade. She wondered if he had been so kind upon Ararat.

She had advanced then, moving towards him without fear. She could sense the Aquilan Shields' anxiety through her headpiece, hearing their auramite sevros crackle, feeling them tense in anticipation. Lehievin drew in a sharp breath. The Shield-Captain was ready in position, waiting to snap the jaws of the trap closed, waiting only for her word. She did not give it.

'You know what we are here for. Your crimes. Your sins. Your treachery, captain-general.' she met his gaze, and did not let him drop it. 'The slaughter of your own brothers. High treason to the Throne. Rebellion against the Emperor. The sabotage of loyal Imperium defenders. The destruction of the Palace. Consorting with the dark gods. By the authority of my office, by the word of the Inquisition and Ordos Malleus, and by the power vested in me by His words, you are forfeit of this city. You will be taken to Holy Terra and tried in fair and open court. Your fate will be determined by your brothers, and by Lord Guiliman himself. May the Emperor have mercy on your wretched soul, captain-general."

Her words seemed to amuse him, in some broken, forgotten way. 'I see,' he said at last. 'And what makes you think I will obey your fickle office, when I have, by your own words, rebelled against the Emperor Himself?'

Her lips twisted into a thin smile. Harshly, she laughed, brutal and barking and laughing against the wind. He simply crossed his arms over the shaft of the Apollonian Spear and listened to her.

'Because you know, Constantin.' she finally growled out. 'You know you can't win, not against six Aquilan Shields with teleporter beacons and a direct line to Terra's reinforcements. That's why I'm not going to lie down and wait for you to kill me, like all those other shards you've captured, Constantin. You hate them. You see them and you kill them on sight. Sometimes, the best outcome is for them to escape your grasp, hide away, rot the rest of their lives in oblivion, and never be found again. Cause when you capture one, you torture every drop of life from them, and make sure they're just as dead as Him when you're done. How truly pathetic of you, Constantin.'

Nothing, not even a shift of his posture.

'But do you want to know why I'm here, captain-general? Do you truly want to know?'

'Yes.'

'I am your executioner, Constantin. You have simply lived too long. Your execution is tonight, even if mine is too. We'll die together, Constantin. Me, the shard you called your master the last time, and you, the servant. There will be no shards after me, and I suppose none before me either.' None that could have harmed him and unsettled him.

Thunder lashed in the distance. The storm whipped at him, driving jagged spikes of lightning over his auramte-clad features. The Apollonian Spear, always activated, grumbled in the dark. Its ornate carvings were encrusted with old blood, the blade gleaming dully in the gloom.

'You are going to watch your bodyguards die, my master. Their blood will be on your conscience.'

She snorted.

'I am not your master, Constantin. And conscience? You dare speak of conscience? Merely look at what you've become, and dare to utter the word conscience? Go on, preach to me of conscience and loyalty, traitor. It was not I who betrayed His throne.'

For a long moment, he said nothing. For a moment he seemed to nearly recoil, as if this encounter had suddenly gone too far from his plans.

'Surrender, captain-general.' she insisted. 'Kneel, and you will be dragged to Terra in golden chains. Refuse, and your corpse will be dragged to the Emperor in rags.'

'You are a fool if you think I can know fear, Inquisitor.'

'This is not about fear. This is about surrender. You cannot make a stand here.' There was not a trace of desperation in her voice now, but a trace of anger. Lehievin shifts from beneath his cloak, guardian spear in hand. Ophiel and Ashavar's names were engraved upon his breastplate. Two new names, to remember them. He no longer was thinking about the deeds that had earned them, merely the Custodes that had been sacrificed. His brothers. They were his brothers, and Valdor cut them to pieces. 'This is arrogance, captain-general. Madness. You, alone? You cannot face us. You have no armies. No weapons. No defenses. No allies. You have nothing left but yourself, standing here now.' Serenely, almost as if to comfort him, she smiled. 'And that's not enough. Surrender. Surrender, simply, and I'll treat you well. I'll be the only shard that will.'

Because, in some deeper, ancient portion, He loathed him too. He loathed him back, and His shards had always felt this hate. The sense of shattered loyalty and vengeance against the traitor captain.

For a moment, just enough for Lehievin to draw in three breaths, Valdor seemed to listen. If not precisely even think of accepting her offer, then to at least resign himself. For a moment, he looked almost like the broken thing he was, yielding to treachery because he knew no way out. The mind of someone without even a right to dream, and now having no other way but to scream soundlessly for eternity, crying its tears out for someone that did not know how to weep.

Had Valdor wept when the Emperor died? She found, with no great surprise, that she did not care.

'You will die braver than most, Inquisitor.' he finally said. The Apollonian Spear, already kindled, guttered to life. Its aura, now streaked with red instead of blue, crackled against the vengeful storm. 'You remind me of a High Lord, so long ago in the past. I suppose you do not remember. That is alright. But for life to move onwards, the secret does not lie in the future, but in the past. Humanity's future is dead, Inquisitor. It is as dead as my master, rotting upon His throne. His past, however, is alive. It is what drives your fickle race, it is what keeps them alive, sloughing along just for one more day. You are nothing but His dreams from the past, still imprinting themselves on the present. None of you shards have a future, and none of you will have a past.'

She watches the Apollonian Spear swing with some kind of daze. He moves towards her then, not aggressively, but the display of power was still blatantly naked. Something was moving in the snow and the storm, something was roaring that was not thunder. It was something dragged out of the past and torn from its grave, mangled memories tearing through a life that could not remember it. It was the growling of an ancient, dying beast roused from its slumber, uncoordinated and savage and so mindlessly hateful that they would have followed this crazed captain like a prophet.

'We have no future, you and I. Which is why I am telling you this now, so you may heed it, one last time, before your endless life extinguishes itself again, my Emperor. Rejoice, my lord.'

Lehievin could wait no longer. He gave the signal to strike, even as their charge seemed to be frozen, hypnotized before Valdor as he steadily advanced towards her. Three Aquilans closed in upon him from the side, their guardian spears gleaming as they rose like vengeful revenants from the grave and threw off the disguise fields ripping around them, teleporters furiously blazing as reinforcing Custodes descended upon the traitor captain. Lehievin pushed himself, shrugging past his lieutenant, auramite sevroes grinding as he sprinted, already-superhuman capabilities strained to the limit as he charged. He had to reach her before he did. He had to reach her before Valdor did....

The Apollonian Spear was hefted into its killing position.

In the heart of the storm and its wrath, where the rock was as black as oil and the thunder as hateful as storms, red-tinged helmets blazed from bronze armor, and began to advance.

Somewhere, in the distance, was an eerily familiar, ragged laugh.

'Rejoice, my dear Emperor, and gaze upon the corpses you've betrayed. You are present once more at their very first engagement.'

As Lehievin finally closed the distance, and his spear scraped against the spine-jarring thrust of Valdor's killing strike, the thunder descended to earth.

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