#feral glacier

[treepsap]

Banter turns to flirtation?

[mist-fire]

"The Doctor's companion should be a history major!"

Yes. But have you also considered: ✨geologist✨

Imagine the Doctor befriends some random person, they get along pretty well, but through some events or another, they realize/get taken on a trip in the TARDIS, and they're just staring at the Doctor, eyes absolutely fucking huge. Their voice is desperate and disbelieving when they say, shaking a bit:

"You can travel in time?"

The Doctor is bemused and just goes, "yes?"

Their eyes get even wider if possible, and then they ask: "Can we go to the Permian?"

Once again, the Doctor's a bit baffled, but hey, who cares, might as well take a trip a few hundred million years into the past. The person gives them specific coordinates, which is also a bit weird, but makes it easier to navigate, so who are they to complain.

The Doctor flings open the doors, and the person just looks outside at the massive incised valley on the coastline and just starts sobbing. They're a PhD student. Their entire thesis is about the fluctuations in sea level during the Permian, and the mass extinction at the Permi-Triassic boundary.

They've just been proven right.

And hey, the Doctor likes the geologist well enough, and likes them even more after they start asking intensely theoretical questions about the deep past and future, so they take them as a companion. They visit the Grand Canyon to discover that, yes, the Western side is only 6 million years old. They jump to the future to watch plate tectonics.

When they go to other planets, the geologist is of course curious about the culture, but even more curious about the geochemistry of the planet, and how was that mountain formed over there, and do they have plate tectonics, is the geomorphology the same if the gravity differs on each planet? And the Doctor is thrilled because look, someone new to info dump on, and they seem to be understanding almost everything they're saying about the composition of the crust, and the different types of rocks on each planet.

Like, you can't tell me they each wouldn't love that. I would love that, so.

[lazlolullaby]

If we get HTTYD 1 and the "changes" that Dean is talking about work. AND. They still have the balls to go for the whole trilogy.

I want the original villain for HTTYD 2 to show up. Valka. Cate Blanchett can stay or go, IDK if she can do action, up to her. But Evil Valka was a killer conversation about Dragons VS Vikings + what Hiccup could become if he didn't have human support.

Keep Drago where he is as the 2nd antagonist. If you like Grimmel, throw him in as a companion villain for Drago, make it extra personal for Toothless and Hiccup.

Valka can be an ally for HTTYD 2. but after she's seen her estranged husband die, fought against trappers, seen her son go mad with grief and hoard dragons - she makes up her mind.

Have Valka turn away from the Vikings + try to take the Dragons from Berk to the Hidden World. Have Hiccup be absolutely torn between protecting the Dragons by being with them or letting them go.

[ronithesnail]

Guys my polyninja ass is gonna be so obsessed with oppositeshipping until part 2 comes out and they tell us where they been hiding cole and jay

[ametat-arts]

Lord of ice, a commish for fatehunter on Twitter 🧊 

[windyengel]

DCXDP Ghosts mate for life (and dead)

It is logical to think that when a ghost finds their partner, is for the afterlife.

Ghosts are basically the souls of those who died and passed to a better state of being, striping them of all the things that could restrain them from following their obsessions.

And even Neverborns, they are ideas given enough power to develop a soul.

So it is logical to think that when a ghost finds their partner, when their core identifies them as their selected partners, is for the remaining of the afterlife.

Sure, they don't have to be lovely dovey the whole time. They fight, "break up" maybe even try to kill each other.

But at the end of the day they get back together.

Danny thought he wouldn't have to worry about that until he went fully dead. He thought that even though he had a ghost core, he was human enough.

He dated Val and Sam and he didn't get ghost attached to them (aside from the protection obsession, but that's mostly because he thought of them as his people)

Then he fooled around with Tuck and even Dash and he didn't form any kind of intense, over the top attachment.

(He still will go feral if someone ever dared to even threaten them or hurt them, but when Tuck and Star started to date he was the first to celebrate for them)

So Danny thought he was save.

That is until he was in his first semester of College in Gotham U, when he was walking back to his dorms at night and someone tried to mug him.

Now, normally he would easily deck the mugger and go his merry way. But this time, before he could do anything, someone fell from the roofs directly on top of the mugger.

And as Danny sees this vigilante take down the mugger, his core does a little purr and pull towards the man, and Danny can only think oh shit and now what do I say to my possible soulmate

-------------------

Tim has never felt more embarrassed in his entire life.

He had been following this guy since he saw him walking alone through Gotham a couple of weeks ago.

At first it was because he was worried that the guy will get mugged working so close to Crime Alley.

(He did get robbed, but decked the man right across his face so hard that the mugger got knocked down)

Then because Tim was curious, full detective mode about this guy and his ability to fight.

Then just because.

He figured out his name was Daniel and he worked in a small coffee shop, and attended the Gotham U aerospace program on a Wayne scholarship.

He figured out he came from a tiny town and was Vladimir Masters legal heir

He discovered he liked to eat midnight burgers and eleven shots of espresso on a coffee cup.

And he knew, now that he was right in front of him, that he had the clearest blue eyes he has seen. It was like seeing deep into a glacier.

Damian had found him stalking following the guy to keep him safe and had pushed him off the roof. And now he was right in front of him.

And he had no clue what to say.

[aenramsden]

The following is not my idea; it was the original brainchild of a friend of mine named Omicron, with help from various others including EarthScorpion, TenfoldShields, @havocfett and ShintheNinja:

So, you know what I want to do one day? Run (or play in) a D&D campaign in which the Big Bad Super Dragon that is fuckoff ancient and unfathomably powerful and whose actions have shaped history and bent the course of nations and had repercussions on the whole culture and society in the region where it's set; the Bonus Special Boss for some endgame optional quest after you defeat the direct BBEG and win the campaign...

... is a white dragon.

To explain this for people not deep into 5e monster lore; D&D dragons are sapient beings, and known for their instincts and tendencies, and whenever you meet an big evil dragon that's really old it's usually this ancient creature of terrible intellect Smaug-ing it up all over the place.

Except white dragons are fucking stupid. Like, they're still capable of speech and thought! They're just… feral, hungry morons. And you almost never see them portrayed as ancient wyrms for that reason; they lack majesty. Critical Role did it, yes, but even then, Vorugal is explicitly the most bestial member of the Chroma Conclave, and the others are the more intelligent planners and long-term threats. An ancient white as a nation-defining endboss, though; not a thug for a smarter master but as the strongest and biggest threat around is just not the sort of thing you tend to see.

Adventurers: "Oh wise Therunax the Munificent, gold dragon of Law and Good, what can you tell us adventurers of the evil dragons which rule this land?" Therunax the Munificent, 500-year old Gold Dragon: "Good adventurers, know this: this land is torn apart by the evil of Tiamat's spawn. The eastern marches are the dwelling of Furinar the Plague-Bringer, black dragoness whose hoard is a thousand sicknesses contained in the body of her tributes. The southern volcanic mountains are the roosting of Angrar the Wrathful, the fiery red dragon, who brings magmatic fury on all who do not worship him. And the northern peaks are home to Face-Biter Mike, the oldest and most powerful of all, of whom I dread to speak." Adventurers: "F-Face-Biter Mike???" Therunax: "Oh yes, verily indeed; two thousand years has Mike lived, and his eyes have seen the rise and fall of five empires, and a hundred and score champions have sought to slay him; and each and every one he bit their fucking face off."

Like... I want to see a campaign where Face-Biter Mike is genuinely the most powerful dragon in the region, if not the entire world. Where sometimes he descends on a city to grab himself some meatsicles and causes a localised ice age by the beat of his vast wings and the frigid wastes of his mighty breath and by the chill his mere presence brings to everything for miles around him, and everyone just has to deal with that for the next decade. An entire era of civilization comes to an end, an empire falls, tens of thousands starve in the winter, all because Mike wanted a snack. Where his hoard is an unfathomably vast mass of jewels and artefacts and precious stones frozen in an unmelting glacier, except he is a nouveau riche idiot with fuckall appraising skill, so half of his hoard is coloured glass or worthless knicknacks, and he doesn't give a shit.

"Your Draconic Majesty, this crown is… It's pyrite." "Yeah, well, it's brighter than this dusty old thing made out of real gold, it's my new best treasure. Throw the other one away." "…throw the Burnished Tiara of Bahamut, forged in the First Age of Man, your majesty???" "See? I can't even remember its fucking name." "But my lord-" "DO YOU WANT TO BE A MEATSICLE" "…I will fetch a trash bag, your majesty."

But at the same time, he's not stupid, he's just simple, and in some ways that makes him more dangerous than the usual kinds of scheming Big Bad you see in these things, while simultaneously justifying why Orcus remains on his throne (because he's lazy). Face-Biter Mike doesn't make convoluted plans or run labyrinthine schemes; he just has a talent for violence and a pragmatic, straightforward approach to turning any kind of problem he struggles with into a problem that can be resolved with violence. Face-Biter Mike has one talent and it's horrifying physical power, so his approach to any complicated problem is "how do I turn this into a situation where I can fly down and bite this dude's face off?" with absolutely no regard for the collateral damage or consequences of doing so, because those are also things he can turn into face-bitable problems.

"My lord, the dread necromancer Nikodemion is using his undead dragons to attempt a conquest of the eastern kingdom; his agents are everywhere, his plans are centuries in the making, what can we do against such a mastermind?" "I'm gonna fly over the capital and eat the eastern king." "M-my lord???" "The kingdom will collapse without leadership, Nikodemion will win his war, he'll take the capital and crown himself king." "And that helps us… how?" "Once he does I'll fly over to the capital and eat him." "…" "This is why you advisors all suck. You're all about convoluted plans when the only thing I need to win is know where my enemy is so I can fly down there and eat him. Stop overthinking things."

And, like, yeah, it's a simplistic plan, but when you're several hundred tons of nigh invincible magical death, you don't need brilliant strategy; the smartest way to win a war is, in this case, the simplest. He's not even all that clever at figuring out the consequences of face-biting, he's just memorised the common consequences of doing so.

(If you want to go all in on Mike being the major mover and shaker in the region; Nikodemion only even has a pet zombie dragon because Mike killed the last dragon to show up and contest his turf but wasn't going to eat a whole dragon by himself. Nikodemion got to stick around and amass that much power because Mike ate the Hero of the Realm while he was adventuring because he figured the Hero would come and try to slay him at some point. Nikodemion got started because Mike ate half the leadership of the Academy of High Magic who typically keep evil wizards and necromancers in check. And then eventually this product of Mike's casual, careless actions becomes a big enough problem to bother Mike personally, at which point Mike eats him too.)

He doesn't even really fail upwards, either! He is regularly reduced to nothing but the glacier he stores his hoard in, but he's Face-Biter Mike so nobody wants to commit to actually ending him forever lest they get their faces bitten the fuck off. And his hoard's in a huge-ass magical glacier so nobody can get to it without running into the Invading Russia problem; it's hard to wage war when everything is frozen over and you're both starving and freezing to death. Once he's been beaten back to his central lair and has lost all his holdings… I mean, he's still a problem, but he's a far away problem. So he loses his assets and spends a decade in a cave brooding it up while no one dares risk trying to actually kill him, and then a generation or two later he flies down to a kobold colony and gets himself some minions, or a dragon-worshipping mage comes to offer his service against a pittance from his hoard, or a particularly stupid cult starts thinking they can get in good with him and leech off his power, and then he's (hah) snowballing again.

He's also got a very… well, the kind of weird Charisma that Grineer bosses do. Like Sargas Ruk, who's a malformed idiot, but oddly charismatic. As he's a dragon, that makes him a natural sorcerer and thus Charisma is all he needs. He's pretty relaxed when he isn't in a face-biting mood, and he's kind of infectiously optimistic, because his life has taught him that he will succeed as long as he perseveres. So he just believes it.

And sometimes that's really refreshing to work for, as an evil minion of darkness! It's like, you're coming to your Evil Dragon Lord with terrible news; you've worked for evil overlords before, you know how it goes. You fall to your knees weeping and tell him that you've failed to seize the incredibly powerful magical artifact, you think your life is forfeit. And he's just like "Eh, it's okay, these things are all over the place. Better luck next time. You remember the guy who took it, right?" and you go "Y-yes, oh great lord!" and he's like "Sweet tell me his name later and I'll grab it" and then eats a frozen adventurer he kept around as a snack.

His followers tend to quickly realise that if they fail him, bringing some temple's silver or a sack of brightly coloured beads or a couple of dead cows means he's super forgiving because at least he's got something out of the day. "Oh boy, cows? It's been forever since I had those, ever since the Orc Steppe Nomads took over it's all about goats and onions. Today is a good day." He's a master of delegation by dragon standards, in that he just tells you "Just go get it done, I don't care how" rather than micromanaging you and constantly appearing as an image in smoke or taking over your campfire.

The key part of Face-Biter Mike as a threat to players (because he exists in the context of a D&D campaign) works well in that you can rely on several known quantities:

He will not pull sneaky shit that you don't see coming

He will not make convoluted plans that you must work to unravel

He will consistently attempt to come down and wreck you personally if he finds the opportunity and you are a threat to him

You cannot fight him head-on (at least not until the last leg of the campaign, and ideally as an optional boss rather than mandatory)

So as long as you are good at staying under the radar, thwarting his minions (whom he gives broad orders to with almost zero oversight) and not putting yourself in face-biting range, you can deal with him. If you succeed, it won't be the first time Mike has lost his assets and had to go brood in his glacier for a decade or two before rebuilding. It happens; he can deal with it. And that's a win for you within the context of a single campaign, so take the win.

And if you're not going to use him as an enemy, he works pretty well as a quest-giver, too! The costs for failure are obvious and straightforward, and "do whatever, just get me mine" means that players have a lot of freedom in accomplishing their goals. As far as evil overlords go he is actually one of the least dangerous to work for; his pride is relatively subdued by draconic standards, his goals are simple and typically achievable, and he is easily pleased.

(There's also a good chance he is the forefather of any draconic sorcerer in your party, because Face Biter Mike is a deadbeat dad.)

[everythingseasoning]

Smut reader for my Series: Stay with me, Satoru

Virgin reader x feral Satoru

MINORS GET OUT, MDNI, 18+

Trigger Warnings: feral satoru, little bit of manhandling, satoru kinda disregards reader’s nerves (this fic is not for everyone, especially if you have certain triggers, so please read at ur own discretion 🤍)

He couldn’t help it— you were too cute. Satoru let out a low chuckle, his ocean-eyes flashing like a glacier in the moonlight. You watched him as he stared right into your own eyes; Satoru’s irises gleamed, and he smiled maniacally. He was looking into the depths of your soul without really seeing your present self— your expression shifted to one of concern, but Satoru kept staring, not moving at all—

Oh. It was happening again. There were times Satoru went a little insane, showing an unhinged side to himself. Like right now, with those shining eyes. You felt a chill run through your body. “Satoru? You’re scaring me,” you said quietly.

You saw something flicker across Satoru’s face, and your boyfriend cocked his head.

“Sorry babe,” Satoru said, voice low, sensual and rich, warbling. Suddenly you were in the air— you let out a yelp as you felt an impact, your back on the mattress, the breath knocked out from your chest. Satoru stood looming over you, his blue eyes flashing in the dark, his snow-white hair glowing like the moon.

“T–toru—” you squeaked, eyes wide as saucers as you gazed up at him.

“Now, my love, if you keep looking at me like that, I’ll have to take you this instant. And that wouldn’t be good for you, would it now?” Satoru sing-songed.

“Wait— this is— this is too much,” you gasped as Satoru took a slow, calculated step towards you. Things were going too fast. You were anxious, you’d never had sex before, and you wanted to take things slowly. But all you could see was Satoru’s tall, lean frame domineering over you, and the rainy window behind him. Brilliant lightning flashed in the purple distance.

“What’s too much, darling?” Satoru asked, taking another step closer.

“I just feel like you’re going to wreck me. I’m really nervous.”

Satoru was never one to get turned on by weakness, but for some reason, your fragility and fawn-like nature worked oh so well in the bedroom.

My my, he just had so much to show you. You wouldn’t be an inexperienced virgin by the end of the night, not with his plan. He’s a teacher, after all. He wants you to figure out the way by diving right in, and figuring out your own rhythm.

Your breath hitched as Satoru pounced on you, his knees bent on the mattress, caging you in as he straddled you from above.

“I am going to wreck you darling,” Satoru breathed, as he pressed feather light kisses to your forehead. You shivered as your boyfriend kept whispering, his voice rumbling gently in the dark. “And you’ll find out what you like, what makes you feel so good. It’s time to learn fast, baby.”

i don’t know if i should finish this— i found this draft in my Google docs for my upcoming enemies to lovers, slow burn & detailed Gojo x reader fanfiction series here, // i must’ve written this when I was feeling a little something something. ♨️♨️

Comment to be on my tag list & if you want me to finish this smut!

[theartofcollapse]

The gif that you left as a gift for us before your exams give me a really good ideia for Casey x Reader

Reader just get horny for every little thing that Casey do

did she fix her car? poonani reward

did she make dinner? poonani reward

carrying heavy boxes? poonani reward

pulling out her wallet full of ADA money to pay the bill? poonani reward

gives reader foot massage? poonani reward (if you want to add other things...)

Until she sees Casey playing and goes totally FERAL

Sweaty and panting Casey is the best Casey 🥵

a/n: thank you for requesting, love! summary: read it above pairing: Casey Novak x female reader warnings: 18+! fingering (reader receiving), scissoring, dirty talk word count: 2.4K

masterlist

Every Little Thing You Do - Casey Novak

You considered yourself a logical person. Rational, level-headed, not one to lose your composure over trivial things. But that was before Casey Novak.

Because somehow, the woman had turned you into an absolute mess of desire. Every little thing she did had your body reacting before your brain could even process what was happening. You’d tried to play it cool - tried to keep your thoughts from wandering - but you had absolutely no defenses when it came to Casey.

It started small, or at least it felt that way at the time. The first instance had been your car.

The damn thing had refused to start one morning, leaving you stranded in your apartment parking lot with no idea what to do. You’d barely had time to call Casey before she’d shown up in a pair of jeans and a leather jacket, toolbox in hand.

“You called the right person,” she said, her tone casual as she walked over to pop the hood.

Her sleeves were rolled up just enough to reveal the lean muscles of her forearms, and the focused furrow of her brow as she examined the engine nearly made your knees buckle.

“It’s just the spark plugs,” she’d explained, using some tool you didn’t know the name of to twist things into place. “Easy fix.”

She glanced back at you, a smudge of grease on her wrist and a satisfied little smirk on her lips. And that was it. You were done for.

You’d thanked her later, of course. Thoroughly.

Then there was the time she made dinner.

You’d come home after an impossibly long day at work, ready to collapse on the couch and order takeout, when you found her in your kitchen. She’d been in an apron, her hair pulled back into a messy bun, stirring something in a skillet with the confidence of a professional chef.

“You’re home just in time,” she’d said, turning to flash you a smile that could melt glaciers.

She’d plated the pasta, poured you a glass of wine, and pulled out your chair for you to sit. The domesticity of it all - the casual, effortless care she put into making sure you were fed and relaxed - made you want to crawl across the table and devour her instead of the meal.

She’d noticed, of course. Casey always noticed.

“You’ve barely touched your food,” she’d said, her voice low and teasing. “Distracted by something?”

You hadn’t even answered her. You’d just grabbed her hand and pulled her into the bedroom.

The pattern continued.

Casey could be doing the most mundane tasks - moving a heavy box, paying for dinner, massaging your feet after a long day - and you’d feel that familiar heat rise in your body.

Like the time she pulled out her wallet.

You’d gone out to dinner at a new upscale restaurant downtown, and Casey had insisted on treating you. When the check arrived, she casually reached into her clutch, pulling out her ADA-issued paycheck like it was nothing. Her movements were slow and deliberate, her posture relaxed, and her confidence so palpable it made your stomach twist in the best way possible.

“Casey…” you’d started, your voice soft and a little shaky.

She looked up from the receipt, amused. “What?”

“You’re so—” you’d trailed off, flustered, earning yourself one of her trademark smirks.

But the worst - the absolute most dangerous moment - was when you saw her play baseball.

It had been her idea to invite you to her league’s game. “It’s just for fun,” she’d said, brushing it off like it was no big deal. But when she stepped onto that field, bat in hand and her snug jersey clinging to her in all the right places, it became a very big deal.

Her hair was tied back under her baseball cap, and her sleeves were pushed up just enough to show the sinewy muscles of her arms. When she stepped up to the plate, planting her feet firmly and gripping the bat, you could feel your pulse quicken.

The first pitch came, and Casey swung with precision, sending the ball flying into the outfield. The power behind it, the way her body moved with such controlled grace, it was hypnotic.

She took off running, her legs pumping hard as she rounded the bases. The jersey clung to her back, her pants highlighting every curve, and by the time she slid into home base, her grin triumphant, you were absolutely feral.

The crowd cheered, but all you could hear was the sound of your own heartbeat.

Later, as she jogged over to you, her face flushed and damp with sweat, you barely held it together.

“You were amazing,” you said, your voice low and shaky.

Casey cocked her head, that teasing smirk playing on her lips again. “You okay? You look distracted.”

Without another word, you grabbed her wrist and dragged her toward the car, ignoring her protests and the curious looks of her teammates.

“What’s gotten into you?” she asked, laughing as you shoved her into the backseat and climbed in beside her.

“You,” you said, your voice breathless. “Every time. Every damn thing you do.”

Casey’s brows rose, her smirk turning downright sinful. “I think I’m going to need specifics.”

“Oh, you’ll get specifics. Care for a ride?"

The question hung in the air, charged with a double meaning that made Casey laugh immediately. 

"You were so intense," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Is that a good thing?" Casey asked, a hint of a challenge in her tone.

Your eyes never left her profile, watching the way her jaw tightened. "It's incredibly sexy," you replied, your voice thick with desire. "I've never seen you like this before."

Casey's eyes flicked over to you, a smoldering look that made your stomach flip. "There's a lot you haven't seen," she said, her voice low and gruff, as if she was holding back something primal. 

With a swift movement, Casey leaned over, her hand sliding up your thigh. The touch sent a jolt of electricity through your body, and you gasped, your eyes fluttering shut. Casey's fingers danced higher, reaching the apex of your thighs, and you felt a wetness already pooling there. "I can feel how much you want this," Casey whispered, her breath hot against your neck. "How much you want me."

Your hands trembled as you reached for Casey's, not to push her away, but to guide her further. "Take me," you breathed, the words barely escaping your lips. Casey's smile grew predatory.

Her fingers slipping under your skirt to find the drenched fabric of your panties. She ripped them away swiftly. You gasped, your eyes wide with a mix of surprise and pleasure. Casey's hand was unyielding, her fingers pushing into your heat without preamble. The sudden intrusion was almost too much, and your body arched off the seat, a moan escaping your throat.

"You're so wet," Casey murmured, her voice a low growl that sent a shiver down your spine. "So fucking wet for me."

You couldn't form a coherent response. All you could do was pant, your body responding to Casey's touch in a way that was both overwhelming and exhilarating. You felt Casey's thumb brush against your clit, and you bucked her hips, desperate for more. "Please," you begged, the word barely a breath.

Casey leaned in closer, her sweat-dampened hair tickling your face. "You want me to fuck you with my fingers, don't you?" she murmured, her voice a seductive whisper that sent a shiver through your core. "You want me to make you scream right here in this car."

You nodded, unable to form words as Casey's fingers began to move in a relentless rhythm, plunging in and out of you. Each stroke was punctuated by a soft gasp, the sound of skin on skin music to your ears. Casey's eyes never left yours, the intensity of her gaze as powerful as the sensations she was creating.

"Say it," Casey demanded, her voice a gruff whisper. "Tell me how much you want it."

Your eyes locked onto Casey's, your own voice thick with desire. "I want it," you moaned, your breathing becoming more erratic with each stroke. "I want you to fuck me hard."

With a smirk, Casey leaned in closer. "Is that what you want?" she whispered, her thumb circling your clit with a maddening slowness. "You want me to make you come all over my hand?"

Your hips rocked against Casey's touch, your body begging for release. "Yes," you managed to gasp out. "Please, Casey."

Casey chuckled darkly, her fingers picking up speed. "You're going to come for me," she murmured, her voice a sweet promise of the pleasure to come. "You're going to come so hard, and I'm going to watch every second of it."

Your eyes rolled back in your head as Casey's thumb applied more pressure, her other hand reaching up to unbutton your blouse. She was greeted with the sight of your pebbled nipples, and she didn't waste a moment before taking one into her mouth, sucking and biting down gently. The dual sensation was exquisite, and your cries grew louder, echoing in the enclosed space of the backseat.

Casey's fingers worked faster, curling inside you with a practiced skill that sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body. "You're so fucking tight," she groaned, the words vibrating against your sensitive skin. "I can feel you clenching around me."

Your nails dug into the leather, your eyes screwed shut as you fought the orgasm building within you. "I'm going to..." you gasped, your voice trailing off into a whine.

"Come for me," Casey urged, her voice thick with arousal. "Come all over my hand like a good girl."

Your body was a live wire, each touch from Casey's fingers sending jolts of pleasure shooting through you. Your breathing grew more ragged, your chest heaving as the tension coiled tighter and tighter. "I'm... I'm...," you panted, your words lost in the haze of desire.

"Come on," Casey encouraged. "Let go for me. I want to feel you come apart." Her thumb flicked over Y/your clit in a rapid rhythm, and your hips jerked upward, your thighs squeezing around Casey's hand. The pressure grew unbearable, and with a guttural scream, you shattered, your orgasm ripping through you like a wildfire. Your body convulsed as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you, leaving you boneless and trembling.

Casey didn't stop, her movements becoming more erratic as she watched your face contort in ecstasy. She could feel the wetness coating her hand, the proof of her power over this woman she desired so much. The sight of your breasts heaving, your skin flushed with passion, was almost too much to bear. With a final, deep thrust of her fingers, Casey sent you hurtling over the edge again, your screams of her name filling the car as you rode the crest of your climax.

Your eyes snapped open, meeting Casey's, and you could see the raw need in them. Without a moment's hesitation, you reached down and pulled Casey's sweatpants and panties down, exposing her slick, swollen sex. The sight of her made your own desire spike, and you didn't waste a moment before moving in closer, your bodies tangling together in a frenzy of passion. You settled into a scissor position, your legs intertwined as you ground your hips against each other. The friction was heavenly, sending sparks of pleasure through both of you with every movement.

Casey's eyes never left yours as you found a rhythm, your hips moving in a dance of desire. Your hands roamed Casey's body, exploring every inch of her skin. Casey's breath grew ragged as she felt herself getting closer, her hips bucking more urgently against yours. "Fuck," she growled, the word a guttural sound that resonated in your ears.

Your eyes locked again, and you could see the hunger in Casey's gaze. It was a look that spoke of a woman on the edge, a woman who was about to lose control. 

You reached between your bodies, your hand sliding over Casey's clit in time with your grinding hips. Casey's eyes rolled back in her head, and she let out a low, keening sound.

Your movements grew more frantic, the sound of your bodies slapping together filling the car. The scent of your arousal mingled with the sweat and leather. Casey's hand gripped the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and you took the hint, your tongue darting out to taste the sweetness of Casey's skin. The contact was electric, and Casey's hips bucked against you, pushing her closer to the edge.

"Fuck," Casey groaned, her eyes squeezed shut. "I'm going to come."

"Do it," you murmured, your voice low and seductive. "Come for me, Casey. Let me feel it."

Casey's eyes flew open at the words, and she stared into your eyes. With a final, desperate thrust of her hips, she let go, her body shaking with the force of her climax. "Ahh yeah," she cried out, her voice hoarse with passion. "Fuck, you feel so good."

Your own breath hitched at the sight of Casey coming undone, her body tightening around you. You watched as Casey's face contorted in ecstasy, the cords in her neck standing out as she threw her head back. "Fuck yes," Casey moaned, her voice a low growl that seemed to resonate in the very air around you.

As Casey's orgasm subsided, she slumped against the seat, panting heavily. The sweat on her skin glistened in the dim light, and you couldn't help but lean in, kissing along the line of her neck and tasting the salt of her exertion. "Fuck," Casey murmured, her voice still thick with pleasure. "That was really good."

You chuckled, your own breathing still rapid. You pulled back, taking in the sight of Casey's flushed face and the way her chest rose and fell with each heavy breath. "Looks like you're not the only intense one around here," you said, your voice teasing.

Casey's eyes opened halfway, a lazy smile spreading across her face. "Oh, I know," she murmured, her voice a little raspy. She leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both gentle and possessive. When you broke apart, she pulled you closer, your bodies still slick with sweat. She had never felt so alive, so alive and so connected to someone. And she loved every second of this feeling. 

[treepsap]

Cutesy moment between the bbgs

Translation:

*Out of Character*

Scout?…

I’m sorry, my love…

[npdzane]

I'm currently on ~300mg of caffeine and 32 minutes of sleep. Take some zane npd & bpd proof with yapping. And like..a pinch of glacier. Ty @diino8081 for posting the full comic so i can tweak out momentarily.

Do you see how absolutely insane he is going without her??? He is literally risking death for a 5% chance of seeing pixal again. FIVE. PERCENT. ZANE WOULD ACTUALLY KILL HIMSELF FOR PIXAL. ARE YOU SERIOUS?? You can read how anxious and desperate he is for her. Like i seriously think if Pixal comes back we're going to have a scene of Zane being ungodly clingy.

I actually think we're going to get another Zane fake death where he hurts himself accidentally really badly trying to find Pixal. And it WILL make me go feral. If he's willing to hurt himself for Pixal, who's to say he won't risk other people's lives for her? He already risked Kreel and Lobbos life in this god damned comic that has me in a chokehold. If DR s3 ends up being Zane focused, we're absolutely going to get scenes of Zane being completely obsessed with Pixal.

Do i really have to say they don't have a healthy relationship at ALL???? Pixal said herself she wants to be useful so Zane doesn't hate her. Zane is..fucking batshit over her. They are NOT healthy for each other.

Also, ITS NOT A HEADCANON ANYMORE!! ZANE IS CANONICALLY ATTACHED TO HER!!! IM SO FUCKING RIGHT!!!!! He doesn't care about her. He cares about the idea of Pixal. He doesn't care what happens to him or anyone else he literally only cares about her. He says it himself the only reason he lives is for her. And his judgement is clouded when he thinks of her? THATS. THATS LITERALLY. A FP. COLE I BEG YOU THROW HIM INTO THE PSYCH WARD BEFORE HE TRIES TO KILL HIMSELF AGAIN 😭😭😭😭

While Zane will always be a narcissist to me, there are also some borderline traits he has. It's possible for him to have both, yes, but I don't want my perception of him to be solely mental illnesses. Because I notice a lot of the ninjago fandom tends to see characters less of actual people and more of lists of diagnostic criteria. So I'm trying to find a balance. For now though, I definitely do see him with both. He fits traits of both (I will cover more in the future, but for now just for some examples: fear of rejection, Pixal is literally his FP, excessive need for admiration, poor self esteem). But he is his own person with more to him than just that of course. He has interests and hobbies and is more than a punching bag. Again, I'm trying to find a balance between him being a genuine actual person and him also having a lot of mental issues that do need to be considered when I talk about him. This is one of the main reasons I have yet to write anything with him, because I want to figure out how to not make it seem like i see him as nothing but his narcissism and bpd.

Anyway. Cole calling Zane dear im literally fujoshing out/j (YES I KNOW HES NOT ACTUALLY CALLING HIM DEAR AHUT UP LET ME HAVE THIS ONE THING)

[a-hundred-musings]

You know, here's a small rant from me: I hate it when Celebrimbor is shown to be a "softie-boy" or a "naïve child" or just... someone condescending and stupid. Like, yeah I'm guilty of it too (who isn't?) but it just makes me wonder why he's presented as that in fics anywhere.

I read this fic on AO3? Celebrimbor is a stupid duck. Or he's just very naïve and easy to prank. I read another fic? Celebrimbor is a whiny baby who can't stand up for himself. I read another one? He's a man-child.

Look, I get why he's presented in that way, but can we not do that? Especially considering the things this boy has gone through which really wouldn't make him a "child-like" person, but more of a mature adult who has experienced things no one should ever experience.

Before and during the First Age, he's experienced so much:

Nerdanel and Feanor falling out -- that basically messed up entire Aman back then, but mainly their kids, so imagine how Curufin would have reacted to that.

The feud between Feanor and Fingolfin and Finarfin

The time when Feanor threatened Fingolfin

The time when the Two Trees were destroyed

The time when Melkor killed his great-grandfather Finwe.

Feanor going Mad™

The uprising of the Noldor

The First Kinslaying

His grandfather going feral and his father and uncles swearing an oath on a literal suicide-mission

One of his youngest uncles getting burned and basically died (or lived, depends on which version you follow)

A time of literal darkness. Like, no light at all. It really messed up the psyche of so many people.

Feanor abandoning his brother on the shores of Valinor -- that would mess up anyone really.

A literal battle. Like, more blood is being shed -- not only of elves, but of other creatures Tyelpe has probably never seen or heard of before.

His grandfather being so consumed by his fire and spontaneously combusting. That too, he either saw or heard of Feanor literally bursting into flames -- that is pretty traumatising.

The crossing of the Helcaraxe -- no seriously, that would mess anyone up knowing that people they love are literally walking on glaciers and over deathly waters with a 50% chance of survival.

Maedhros being crowned King of the Noldor, and an unspoken fact that there is more than one king of the Noldor -- the political implications here...

The abduction of Maedhros. Need this be explained further?

His uncles and father being concerningly close to starting a whole world-war

The rising of the Sun and the moon (like, what are those big spheres in the sky? Are they something from Melkor? Are they a sign of the End™? What is it?)

The arrival of Fingolfin's group, with more dead and furious people.

The mental health of everyone deteriorating. No, I won't explain because this era was filled with bad times.

No one knowing what to do now, since Maglor was naturally crowned the Regent King of the Noldor, and he has his own problems.

After 34 years of wondering what on earth has happened to Maedhros, he returns scarred with no right hand, and presumed torture marks.

Everyone literally holding their breaths for what will happen next.

Maedhros surrendering his crown to Fingolfin. That would hurt bad like a blow.

Literally only a few years of peace filled with tension.

Fingolfin decides to kick Melkor's arse and dies.

The Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

The Second Kinslaying.

The Fall of Gondolin

Making the decision of abandoning his father and uncles, going on his own separate path.

The death of so many of his family members and father and uncles. That is messed up. The amount of psychological trauma he's already been through...

Like, imagine his guilt of not being there with his father, imagine how much he second-guessed his actions...

The Third Kinslaying. The deaths of more elves, his uncle (or uncles), and really, just more death.

The crown of the Noldor being passed on so many times until it reached Gil-Galad. Imagine the humiliation and just the shock of the realisation of the number of people who have been crowned within a span of a few centuries.

The kidnapping of Elrond and Elros. While it probably wouldn't harm Tyelpe's psychological health, it must have been pretty messed up to find out that your two remaining uncles have committed a few more war crimes.

The War of the Wrath. Now, while it was mainly against Men, there is no doubt that some elves have been killed due to the war (given Gil-Galad's camps etc), so imagine him getting into some stray fights with the orcs or those Men who follow Melkor.

The Fourth Kinslaying. No need to further elaborate.

The death of Maedhros, and Maglor becoming a cryptid. Who wouldn't that mess up?

Surviving the First Age. Like, give this Tyelpe the recognition he truly deserves. Give him a few rings and trophies for enduring so long and he still hasn't gone down to insanity. That too, all this happened within the span of like, 600 years.

The Second Age:

Beleriand is under the sea

His "cousins" (Elrond and Elros) going their separate ways

The death of Elros (I think this is pretty self-explanatory, given the numerous HCs on the twins and Celebrimbor)

No one has any idea what has happened to Maglor. Is he alive? Is he dead? Who knows.

Rumours of a sinister evil lurking in the shadows and really, some tensions are visibly arising.

He finds this very powerful and alluring stranger who knows quite a bit about the art of smithing. They collaborate despite warnings from Galadriel, Gil-Galad, Elrond and a few others.

After giving thought to make powerful rings, Annatar watches over as Celebrimbor makes the rings for Men and Dwarves.

Newsflash: Annatar wants the rings, and he tainted them.

Celebrimbor makes the 3 Elven Rings in secret so Annatar can't get to them, but he gets kidnapped and tortured.

Like, really badly tortured. Annatar wants those 3 rings.

Celebrimbor eventually is killed, and is impaled on a spear, then given to Gil-Galad's camp after years of torture.

He went straight to his family. Can't tell if this will add to his trauma, but still.

While he didn't survive the Second Age, this boy went through so much pain, and... really, I feel like he doesn't get much of the appreciation he deserves.

Thank you for coming to my little rant as to why we need more fics that paint Celebrimbor as someone who isn't a stupid and naïve child, but more of a wiser version of Feanor and Curufin. He is not a tantrummy baby, for Ilúvatar's sake!

[puppetmaster13u]

Some of my headcanons for the Phantom siblings.

Both of them have freckles, but Ellie has hers in human form and Danny has his in ghost form

Ellie went as Phantasm while she was off journeying before deciding on the first name Ellie, in which she started going by Ellie Phantasm

Dan had to do community service for the first few years he was out of the thermos, and actually helped clean up both Amity and other ghostly areas where the veil was thin

Danny takes more after his mom body-type wise as he ages, while Dan visibly took more after Vlad and Jack, and Ellie is something inbetween

Ellie discovers she can go goop at will and use it to shapeshift slightly- the moment she saw spiderman comics with venom it was all over for the other ghosts

Danny's wail is more of a scream with the underlying sound of machinery humming and crackling electricity, while Dan's is more of a roar with an underlying rumble of fire and crash of a cracking glacier

Dan's human form has surprising long hair, which Ellie (and Jazz) likes to braid- Clockwork was the one to teach him how to braid his own hair

They get matching tattoos on their forearms as adults that forms a constellation when put together (they also have small matching flower ones with Jazz)

All of their blood glows in the dark, even in human form. They use this by popping their bones and jokingly shaking each other until they glow like a glowstick.

Their eyes also reflect light, but that's more of a liminal thing shared with all amity parkers

Danny has a space core, Ellie has a moon core, and Dan has a sun core They discover they can combine the strength of their abilities while messing around one day and go feral

[glacierruler]

EXACTLY

Something went wrong somewhere! And while they might want to just pick it back off these fuckers have gone through character development without each other. (And based off the tidbits I know, they hurt each other too)

Fun fact originally Sprocket was going to have a head and torso with 360 range of motion but I scrapped that idea because it was a pain to draw and didn't really make sense with all his external wiring. On the plus side it means sometimes he needs help with maintenance now.

Taglist: @glacierruler

[amphiptere-art]

So this little guy needs a name. I've been randomly taking some for a list. So far We got Daniel, John, Aquilo, Oreo, Botvid, Glacier, Polar, Snowdust, Bylur, Skadi, Quilo, Sirius, Boreas, and Nykur. Any other options you guys would like to share?

For a little reminder on this character. He is a dreamsona I turned into a real character. So he does get drowsy a lot of the time. He basically has a feral cat personality. He so far is a scavenger. Terrified of people but tricks others for his betterment. He has the cannibal bug. But his teeth aren't sharp enough to chew anything thicker than a circuit board or wire. He is the age of a child, but acts much older due to his lonely survival skills.

His design has been basically sort of thrown together slowly. He vaguely resembles a cat. He has a lot of feral cat stuff. I want to say he's a mix between a serval and something else. His color pattern is vaguely based off of a snow leopard. Although I'm using cold silver/steal colors. His previous nicknames were Stardust, scavenger, snow, and spots.

[miss-celestia13]

An Arsonist’s Anguish

Richy’s Lament - A Duskwood One Shot

A dark, angsty exploration into Richy’s character as he sets the stage for his death. There is no happy ending. Just some hope that another soul made it out of the mine as it burns. Crossposted on Ao3.

Trigger Warnings are below the line. Please check them.

TW: Suicide, Self Hatred, Hallucinations, and thoughts/descriptions of Death. Read at your own risk. I tried not to be too graphic, but you will know what’s happening.

Richy would never see the sun rise again.

The ghosts of all the beautiful things he killed to protect his secrets haunted his dragging, stumbling steps as he traversed the mine and ignored the cameras he installed. Gasoline poured and splashed from the canister he held as he wove through tunnels and gritted his teeth against the pain in his arm.

It was nothing compared to the emotional torture he felt inside. His thoughts were a tempest raging with the violence of a cyclone. Every destructive gust ripped through the fragile edifices of his grip on reality.

Within the labyrinth of his mind, self-loathing chewed on his soul like a pack of feral beasts tearing at the tender flesh of their fallen prey. Each bite drew forth burgundy rivers of desolation, self-condemnation, and unyielding fury. Blending with the physical aches until he couldn’t tell them apart

His arm throbbed as he ignored the yelling in his mind. Fucking Dan. Dan, who gave him a gun?! Oh, what an idiot! He scuppered all Richy’s plans and left him scrambling to end it before anyone else got hurt. Ensure nothing remains but ash.

Rivers of cold sweat streamed down his grey face as he held his injured arm over his stomach so he wouldn’t bang it into the rough wall. He wanted to punch the stone to take his mind off it. The bottle of pain meds he stole from his mother rattled in his pocket, but he couldn’t risk taking them yet.

His breathing roasted his throat, but his entire body shivered as though an icy glacier engulfed him. The persistent tremble in his body intensified with every labored step.

The combined weight of his physical and emotional agony was an anchor on his back, dragging his broken spirit beneath tumultuous waves, where the agony of drowning and being hammered from all sides echoed through the depths of himself.

It didn’t feel like any of it was unfair. The thirst was the worst thing. He kept smacking his lips together, attempting to inspire some moisture, but his tongue remained bone dry and coated in the remnants of bitter blood rust.

The blood he’d lost stained his skin and the stone as it dripped through the filthy dressing he tried and failed to use as a tourniquet. Everything felt like it happened to someone else. Something otherworldly piloted his body from the inside.

Like some demon possessed him, guiding him down depraved, treacherous paths, and the priest hadn’t arrived in time to exorcise him.

And he’d done it to himself. Every choice he’d made since kidnapping Hannah, it had felt like suicide in slow motion.

He marooned himself on an island surrounded by vipers of his own creation.

Now, the only option to set himself free was fire. It would hurt, he thought, and his stomach wrenched to the side, almost splitting in two as he dreaded it so strongly.

And death. There was a liberating freedom in death. A broken sob tore through his clenched teeth as he thought of Jessy, the emotions he harbored for her, and everything he had never deserved to have with her.

She was a shot of adrenaline after years of lethargy.

So many of his favorite memories revolved around her and their silly inside jokes. He’d used his closeness to her to torment and stalk her. Terrorized her and her friends. She would never forgive him. Her smiling face, her flaming hair, and desire for a life of adventure had made his miserable existence worth living.

She would forget him one day, but never forgive him. He was a coward. An idiot. He’d let them all believe a masked myth was chasing them.

The only masked freak after them was their own friend.

His megawatt smile, stupid jokes, and constant upbeat attitude despite the shitstorm life rained on him had been the heaviest disguise of his brief life. They’d all bought it.

Hook, line, and fucking sinker. None thought to check beneath that smile. Now, it had twisted and transformed into a permanent snarl. If they paid attention, they would have found the rot and ruin underneath his cheerful demeanor. None of his friends had stopped to think about just how stressed he was. How much he had to carry for his family and Hannah—screw her. She was party to his worst decision.

She caused it.

Her wanting to sacrifice herself, him, and Amy to clear her conscience, betrayal. Betrayal was a dagger Hannah concealed in a cloak of mutual trust and unspoken promises to take their secrets to the grave. That blade had appeared suddenly and without warning, piercing the walls of his shriveled heart.

Half of him wished he’d killed her while he’d had her under his control. End the threat, leave her body to decompose in the mine.

No one came here. He’d made sure of it. Everything might—well, it was too late now. She was safe in the hands of Alan Bloomgate. Hannah, perfect, beautiful fucking Hannah.

He hated her. He blamed Hannah. But it was Amy who he blamed the most. Richy blamed everyone but himself for too long. He knew that. And now he would pay the price for it.

He’d already staged his death. Now he just had to commit.

The cloying scent of gasoline infiltrated his nose, thickening in his raw throat, and the empty metal cannister fell from his weak fingers. The thunderous clanging as it bounced and came to a stop worsened the headache he’d had for the last few weeks.

It pounded in time with his thudding heart. Each pulse pushed yet more blood out of the wound in his heavy, aching arm. It tingled and sparked with fiery pain with every paranoid twitch as he glanced behind him, sure he heard footsteps chasing him down.

He gave himself a shake when only his shadow approached. It looked much bigger to him now. Sinister and spreading to encompass the entirety of him.

It had taken him over long ago, and at last, he accepted it. It was too late to beat it back. He’d embraced it. Its hug was gelid and dragged him down, down, down. The shadow had always been in him; his choices had brought it to life, and it was time to eliminate it so it wouldn’t harm anyone else.

If his last victim was to be himself, it would end on his terms.

His last words had been a confession and an apology. To Jessy, and his friends, to the unwitting stranger he’d dragged into this mess, and to himself. His conscience was far from clear, and his reckoning awaited him amongst the flames he would soon ignite.

The cave in which he’d chosen as his tomb would remain safe from the flames, but the poison smoke would choke him. An intangible noose, as he couldn’t bring himself to tie a rope. He shuffled inside and loosed a long breath that felt more like a death rattle.

His stinging eyes couldn’t penetrate the blackness encroaching him on all sides as he reached into his jacket pocket with his good hand, and pulled out the zippo lighter he’d stuffed inside days before. He’d always suspected.

Deep inside, Richy had expected that this was how it ended. The cold silver metal warmed a little in his clammy hand as his thumb stroked over the Garage’s logo and wished he had said goodbye to his parents before he gave himself to the fire.

It was best they learned with the world. His suicide letter would speak for him and he prayed it would ensure his family didn’t suffer for his actions.

Naïveté had always been his downfall.

Before he set his ultimate act into motion, Richy took his phone out of his jean pocket and flicked the flashlight on. The bright beam of white light assaulted his eyes and created a flurry of moving shadows. The skittering of tiny claws on loose stone racing away from him painted a cruel smirk on his mouth as he cast the light around the small cavern and found what he was looking for.

A grubby black backpack sat against the grey rock wall, covered in dirt, blood, and guilt as he scuttled over to it. He unzipped it and pulled out the almost empty bottle of water he’d been rationing for days.

After fishing the bottle of medication out of his pocket, he struggled to open them both, and cried out as his jerky movements irritated his wounded arm. It took five very long minutes to get the pills out. The light from his phone shuddered as he set it down to count the pills.

He’d chosen the strongest ones his mother had. One knocked her out for half a day, and he wanted to numb himself as much as he could before the smoke smothered or flames devoured him. They were heavy on his tongue as he tossed back a fistful of the chalky tablets and chased them down with the last of his precious water.

For a moment, they got lodged in his throat, his mouth flooded with saliva and his eyes prickled with fresh tears.

He couldn’t even kill himself right. Everything he did just failed in spectacular fashion.

He was a monster of his own making, and only he could slay it. He swallowed, compulsive and dry, ignoring the hot flashes creeping up his neck as the painkillers scraped down his throat and into his hollow stomach.

Richy dropped to his knees and crawled over to the wall, and slumped back onto it. Paper crinkled in his inside coat pocket as he shifted to get comfortable. He had about an hour before the full effects of the medication set in. He would light the fire once the gnawing, eroding ache in his chest and arm dulled.

Until then, he sat with his thoughts, his splintering sanity, and cursed himself. Cursed Duskwood and the predator the town had forced him to transfigure himself into.

The weight of hopelessness hung around Richy’s neck like a noose pulled tight, squeezing the light of life from his eyes.

It was a suffocating darkness that swallowed him whole, leaving nothing but the biting tang of despair on his tongue. Each breath felt like inhaling shards of broken glass, cutting deeper with every huffing exhale.

The silence that echoed in his soul was a relentless scream, a haunting, deafening reminder of the emptiness that consumed him.

“I should’ve told someone,” Richy said in a whisper.

The words bounced softly off the rock, a harmony of regret.

He twitched as it fell silent, mouth furling and eyes glazing over as he listened to the racket in his head.

All you had to do was hand yourself in. You could have avoided all of this.

What do you think will happen to your family? They’ll live happily ever after in the town you terrorized?

Do you honestly think your pathetic letter will save them?

The slippery voice of his own darkness broke into a baleful laugh. It made the hair in his nape rise and stand stiff. He shuddered, thrashing his head and gritting his teeth until they squeaked.

“I tried. I always tried. But I’m a failure. I’ve always been a failure. I can make it right. It’s the only way.” He muttered as the disembodied voice agreed.

Make it right? Ha! You think you can wash away the stain of your idiocy?

You’re tainted.

Forever marked by your wrong choices, Richy.

Redemption? You make me laugh.

Redemption is a fairytale, a delusion you’re desperately clinging to.

It is so far beyond your reach…

Richy’s voice was a growl as he said, “No, redemption isn’t my goal. I can’t undo the damage I’ve caused, but I can end it before anyone else gets hurt. I can make sure the world knows it was me.”

The derisive laughter of his demons chafed at his skull as if their talons were scratching their unspeakable names into the bone.

You’re a lost cause. A testament to all your failures.

Each step you take is a step closer to the abyss of self condemnation.

There’s no way out.

Your sacrifice won’t save your soul.

“I accept that!” Richy roared, spittle flying from his chapped lips as he panted like a wounded beast.

“My death might be the only way to atone for all I’ve done. I don’t care what comes after that. But my family won’t suffer because of me. Not any more.”

The voice in his head made a sound of agreement before it crooned his worst fears.

Yes, your death is the ultimate penance.

Your final act of contrition for the havoc you’ve so selfishly wrought.

Then again, have you considered the aftermath?

Your family will endure your actions. Long after you’re gone. Their suffering will echo until they, too, shuffle off the mortal coil.

Searing fiery agony ripped through Richy’s heart. It felt as though someone had taken a knife, heated it up over a fire until it glowed red hot, and then plunged it into his chest. The scent of burned flesh and molten iron filled his nose. The sensation felt so real to him.

His hand clawed at his jacket over his pounding heart, as if to pull the blade free, but his fingers met only dirty fabric.

“They won’t! They won’t! They won’t! I’ve made sure of it. This isn’t their burden to bear!” He yelled, voice laced with an anguish that made his body convulse as rivulets of salt descended his bared teeth.

Helplessness stole over him as his demons taunted and chuckled in a scornful manner.

You should have thought about that before you started donning the guise of an ancient legend.

Idiot.

Weak.

Pathetic!

Your existence is a festering wound that poisons all in your vicinity.

Embrace the fire.

Let it cleanse all the filth you’ve spread.

But just know, your family will bear the scars of your choices, as they’re carved into their souls for eternity.

Richy sobbed through the agonising sensation weaving through his internal organs. He felt as though someone was weaving his internal organs together with a blunt needle, and they had deliberately coated the thread in salt to prolong his suffering. The increasing pressure in his head demanded an outlet as well.

Everything ached, it bled, and it tore him apart. He was so tired. So tired of trying.

This mine, this town, and all it had demanded of him, he was done with it all. He wanted it to burn. His desire was for them all to suffer, just as he had for a decade. He hadn’t dug just one grave that night. No, there had been one accident and four graves waiting for them. They’d just seen theirs too late.

The forest had never forgotten them, though. It had been patient.

That night with Hannah and Amy, it had never ended. It was a living nightmare he had no way out of. Their deaths had simply waited for them to catch up, and even if Hannah could find it in her to exist after all he’d done, he knew she’d died alongside Jennifer and the rest of them.

Ghosts. That’s what they were. He saw it now. There was no point in trying to hold it off anymore.

It was as if the pressure in his head imploded with that thought.

He wasn’t fully aware of his surroundings as his mind fragmented and warped, and his tenuous hold on reality slipped from his grasp.

The cave dissolved in his vision. Something at the very core of himself disintegrated with it.

He was somewhere else. Somewhere he had long tried to forget.

It was ten years ago.

Amy was there. As was Hannah.

He held a muddied shovel. The surrounding forest smelled like home, but his blood had turned cold. Jennifer’s lifeless body lay broken and bloodied, the remnants of shock still painted across her lovely features.

Her hair lay in a sanguine halo around her head as Richy set down the shovel, and silently, the trio worked to lift the woman.

Hannah’s sobs blended with his labored breathing, sweat drip, drip, dripped down his sore neck. He’d wanted to report it to the police. Tried to convince them to do so anonymously. But Hannah, in her fright, had convinced him they’d be signing their death warrants.

His family would suffer. It was he who gave her the keys to a client’s car. It was due to be scrapped, yes, but that didn’t make it better. Everyone would boycott his dad’s Garage and now that mom was growing worse, the sickness in her invading her mind, he knew they needed that income more than ever.

All they could do was hide the body, agree never to speak of this night, and give the greatest performances of their lives to ensure no one ever suspected them once word of Jennifer’s vanishing spread through Duskwood. He felt like something inside him was dying.

His throat tightened, mouth flooding with saliva as the urge to vomit overtook his senses. Heat crawled through him as he swallowed a mouthful of acidic bile and looked heavenward as they shuffled to stand at the edge of the crudely dug grave.

The stars overhead mocked them as the foliage and freshly overturned earth disguised the metallic scent of spilled blood and their sour shared guilt.

“Are you sure you can live with this?” He asked as they hesitated to drop Jennifer into the ground.

Amy chewed on her bottom lip, blood staining her teeth she’d bitten so hard, and her leaking eyes wouldn’t settle on anything as she gave a single jerky nod. Richy’s stomach sank, but he turned his gaze to Hannah.

His friend’s grief mottled face would haunt him forever as she said, “What other choice do we have?”

That answer inspired zero confidence, but Richy accepted it as an affirmation, and said, “Okay, on three—1, 2, 3!”

With a slight swing and a wobble, they released their hold on Jennifer and all three screwed their eyes shut as she hit the bottom of the hole with a sickening crunch.

Amy fell to her knees, her shaking hands gripping the loose mud ringing the unmarked grave as she sobbed uncontrollably. Richy could hardly stand to watch her, and was glad when Hannah, who was crying freely herself, hauled her away.

He nodded once as Hannah and Amy embraced, clinging to one another, wordless apologies pouring from them both as Richy retrieved his shovel.

He felt like they were being watched. Paranoia snaked through his mind like a weed he knew would grow out of control. All he could do was start refilling the grave.

The soft sound of metal scooping up damp earth seemed to ring through the forest as he internally shut down. All his emotions, he forced them aside. He locked them in a cage made of lead and lined with explosives. Life would never be the same.

Life would be a method actors dream after this. He knew this would change them at a molecular level and none of them could breathe a word of it once they left this cursed forest.

Richy took the last deep breath he’d ever experience and watched expressionlessly as the earth rained down on Jennifer. The pattering noise reminded him of rain, of tears. Amy cried harder while he diligently worked to cover up their mistakes.

Hannah watched, her mouth open in a silent scream.

Wetness trickled down his cheeks as he slowly returned to the present.

Hannah’s face floated across his vision as the scene fully dissipated, and he found himself back in the cave. Stale air replaced the aroma of the night dark forest, and a thin haze hung over his eyes as a euphoric rush raced through his bloodstream.

He felt as if he was floating and drowning in a sea of deliriousness.

The medication had kicked in. His legs were leaden as his head lolled on his neck as if on a swivel, and there was an odd sensation in his nose, like the smell of a roaring fire, but none had been lit. The bullet wound in his arm still griped. Infection had set in, he thought.

Only death would cure it. The meds would ease his passing.

A synthetic fatigue draped him like a cloak as he blinked blearily at the dancing shadows creeping nearer. His mouth turned so dry his tongue curdled in his mouth, and his breathing grew shallower as the painkillers burned through the aches in his body. Not long now, his mosaic mind kept jumping between the past and present, footsteps and disembodied voices whispered so close and real that he answered one.

“I should have turned myself in, I know.”

“At least we agree on something. ”

A female said. His suddenly too heavy head swung around to find the source, his sluggish heart raced faster and faster as the voice sounded like Jessy’s.

“Jess? Remember the fish? The names I made up? If I could—No—I’m so fucking sorry...” He said. He spoke with a voice threaded with deepest despondency.

“The fish were just another lie. All of it was. Your life ended the night Jennifer did. Was any of it real after that? Anything you said, did you mean any of it?”

His shrunken heart broke irrevocably, the agony radiated through his chest, and filled him with a coldness that would soon embrace all of him.

“I didn’t mean—please—I’m ready to pay for it. No one else will hurt because of me.” He swore vehemently.

Jessy’s spectral laugh, derisive and humorless, taunted him.

“We will hurt. It won’t go away. Your actions caused wounds that will scar us forever. Death is your relief. Living with what you did to us is our grief. Goodbye, Richy.”

Richy cried silently as her voice faded and the full effects of the painkillers turned his bones to jelly. He had to light the fire before he passed out. A coffin was his only way out of this cursed place.

Bracing a hand on the knobby wall, he gradually rose to his feet as rock crumbled under his fingers, and rained to the dusty ground, sweat on his palm mixed with the dirt as he tottered toward the entrance. He thumbed the Zippo open as he panted, jaw clenched and eyes stinging with slaking tears.

Petrol permeated the air. He breathed it in as he flicked the lighter and swayed on weak knees as the tiny flame ignited. In the dim, damp recesses of the mine, shadows waltzed like specters as Richy, face obscured by the glow of the lighter and shadow, dropped the flame with a snap of his wrist into the pool of gasoline.

Flame surged away from him, hissing along in a serpentine trail until it morphed into a living beast starved and hungry for destruction. He stumbled back. The heat was a physical blow as it sucked out the oxygen, and he trembled like a newborn fawn as he dropped to his knees and stared and stared and stared.

Amidst the cavernous depths of the mine, the candescent light of the furious fire cast a macabre ballet of shadows upon the rough-hewn walls, a surreal tableau of light and darkness. Tendrils of flame licked and lapped at the stone, awakening ember-tinged echoes that wavered and flashed like phantoms in the subterranean gloom.

Billowing smoke, an ash ridden shroud, coiled sinuously through the labyrinthine passages. The evidence he had doused in gasoline would soon catch fire. Relief glittered through him at the thought. An acrid perfume of burning wood and charred earth mingled with the metallic scent of ancient minerals, an otherworldly aroma that lingered in his lungs and clung to all his senses.

There was no going back now. Every breath was slower than the last. It felt like he was inhaling lava as the heat singed the soft tissue and hair in his nose.

His weighty eyelids sat at half mast. The tunnel walls seemed to exhale, releasing murmurs of long buried secrets, as if the very mine itself sought to voice its resignation to the all-consuming blaze. Mirroring his own easing turmoil as he shut down the instinct to flee and welcomed the darkness speckling the edges of his vision.

His lungs were burning as he struggled for air, and it felt like there was a boulder sitting on his chest, keeping them from inflating and grinding his bones down.

The feeling went out of his legs as his hands turned to claws and raked down his neck, leaving scarlet trails of pain scoring his constricting throat.

His world flipped sideways as he collapsed and his head cracked off the rubble strewn ground, but he no longer felt any pain. The roar of the fire, the slowing beat of his heart, and the stones poking into his tear-streaked face were all he knew.

As Richy’s weary eyes teetered on the edge of closure for the last time, a bizarre scene unfolded within the tumult of his fading consciousness.

The nerves in his hands spasmed and his fingers twitched, filthy nails scratching at the dirt to distract himself as he resisted the urge to fight for his life.

No, it had to end like this. If Hell was real, it was best he got used to it.

Freezing panic blasted through him like a blizzard as his blurred eyes caught sight of something that didn’t belong.

Through the shimmering haze of smoke and heat, a figure emerged from a tunnel he hadn’t thought to include in his fiery last act. His heart tried to beat faster as fear spread its icy fingers through his body. The person appeared cloaked in a shivering orange glow and erratic shadows.

Masked and foreboding, the phantom figure raced away without noticing Richy. And lost in the fractured fabric of his perception, Richy could not see who or what it was. If it was a real person, they might’ve tried to drag him out. This would all be for naught. For once, his horrendous luck benefited him.

As it was, the panicked footsteps bolted away from him, barely heard over the howling fire, and vanished into the tumult of smoke.

He hoped they made it out. It hadn’t occurred to him he might take another’s life with him. Just another mistake. Another tally on his list of sins committed. His choices lay before him like an intricately woven tapestry, each thread a testament to the wrong turns and paths he tread, yielding a disturbing, wretched pattern he wished he could unravel and weave anew.

His trembling gaze soon faltered as the slithering smoke filled his lungs, gasping for air that no longer existed as he spluttered and coughed. With every shallow inhale, the world blurred and distorted. Black spots burst like maleficent fireworks in his eyes, shutting down his fleeting thoughts of crawling to safety.

A cacophony of wheezes and whines slipping from his open mouth faded into a distant echo, as his eyelids, heavy with surrender, fluttered closed. He gave himself over to the exhaustion eating him alive from the inside.

The world outside ceased to matter as an alleviating darkness enveloped his mind. His tiny exhales were little more than puffs of air. A whispered farewell to all those he was leaving behind.

Richy had fallen quiet, but the fire raged on, growing stronger as it feasted on wood, and hastily packed boxes, and the papers inside them. His legacy of ash and blood.

In the letter he left for his parents, he had assumed all guilt and taken the lion's share of the responsibility for Jennifer’s death, and his actions after. Hannah, he thought she had suffered enough, and whatever punishment she received, he didn’t want it to ruin her more. Death was his toll to pay, his lethal reputation would exist long after him and pay for the rest of it. He only hoped his parents could move on from this.

They wouldn’t see him again, not until the funeral. It was over. The corrosive effects of his choices had eaten away at everything good in him.

There was nothing left to salvage from his wreckage.

He tried. And he failed. This time, he finally succeeded in something. The complete demolition of him. A tear slipped through his lashes, warm and soft as it fell to the mucky ground.

It was the last. No more fell.

Death came quietly for him, as silent as a falling leaf drifting into a pile of its fallen friends. His chest stuttered as tentacles of smoke wreathed around him like funeral wrappings, falling as still as the rock he lay atop.

Death finally slayed Richy Rogers’ demons, and no one heard their screams.

——————

I have never been so nervous about something I’ve written. I hope that you—I can’t say enjoyed 🙈 but I hope your time wasn’t wasted. Thank you for reading, if you made it this far.

This is in no way meant to glamorise mental illness or anything like that. That is not my intention. I have been where Richy was in this story, I didn’t kidnap or help bury anyone, but I’ve dealt with depression/anxiety all my life. I’ve dealt with suicidal thoughts. There is nothing glamorous about it. This is just a fictional character study to explore his mind and emotions at the end of the game. If you are struggling, please reach out to anyone you trust. Or a stranger, if that works better. Share the burden. You don’t have to suffer alone. It can get better. I promise. I wouldn’t be here if it didn’t ❤️🫂

Thank you ❤️

And the “masked figure,” that was Jake from this story, The Ending You Deserve. Just a little Easter egg for anyone who read that 🤭❤️