#first time drawing a carcass

[bloop-the-art-bat]

Art Journal Page 1- "The Beast Is Still Hungry"

TRIGGER WARNING ⚠️⚠️ BLO0D⚠️⚠️

First time using India ink pens. I like them A LOT.

My teacher assigned me 15-20 art journal pages over the summer. I've never journaled. No clue what I'm doing. Having fun though.

Got the prompt "the little beast looks hungry" from an art prompt generator online.

[ozzgin]

For October, may I ask for more Xenomorph content from you? I adore all of your work from your writing to your drawings, and it would make this silly little worm squiggly with joy - and maybe a bit of something else, if you catch my drift... -

Much love and smooches! 🪱

Xenomorph Queen x Reader x Xenomorph Hive

In which you're kept as a toy by the Queen and passed around by the rest of the Hive. They know you're Ripley's descendant. They'll take their time with you. content: gender neutral reader, NSFW, based on Alien: Isolation

All you wanted was closure.

That's why you hounded every lead, every hint, every possibility. That's why you ended up on Sevastopol, crawling your way through rotten remains of androids and abandoned labs. That's why you got caught.

You thought you'd end up like the others. When the Xenomorph Warrior brought you to the nest, you caught glimpses of the facehugger carcasses, and the people who served as incubators. Their chests were split open, bloated and obscene. Your lips pursed in a grimace as you awaited your fate.

Unexpectedly, you were dragged along, further into the labyrinth of slime and bone. Until, at last, you were facing the Queen herself. You could immediately tell: she was enormous compared to the other aliens. The servants scurried away, abruptly dropping you like some sort of offering for the curious Beast.

One glance, and she knew. She could see it in your defiant scowl, a certain familiarity that immediately filled her with amusement and excitement. You were related to Ripley.

At first, she just observed you as some sort of peculiarity. Truth be told, she never truly learned much about humans outside of the brief incubation period. Then it happened: it seemed that touching you in certain ways aroused you terribly. You were visibly embarrassed by your reaction, biting your lip, covering your face, or trying to look away in order to hide the deep red blush rapidly spreading across your features. The Xenomorph Queen was intrigued.

For the most part, she enjoys toying with you. You're her little plaything, and she won't stop until you're all hot and bothered. Then she'll leave you to the hive. Often, she will watch as her Warriors and Drones pass you around greedily, having their way with you before another one hisses for a turn. Rarely she'll demand her share, mildly envious of the shameless whimpers rolling out of your mouth from being ravaged by one of her underlings.

See, she doesn't mind the others fucking you. She hates it, however, when you're enjoying yourself more under their savage hands. No one does it better than the Queen.

To think she'd be this possessive towards her new human belonging.

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[symbiomancy]

be aware wolf —werewolf

—summary: you venture into the woods to hunt for werewolves | 1.5k | AO3 | monster masterlist

—warnings: monster x human, monsterfucking, p in v sex, knotting, creampie, stomach bulge, mounting, outdoor sex, implied voyeurism

It’s a simple cycle. Enter the woods. Keep the local werewolf population under control. Retrieve any animal carcasses you come across in the woods. Make pelts out of said carcasses. Keep them or sell them. Receive payment from the town for your hard work. Pack your things and find the next town with a werewolf problem.

There are quite a few steps, but it’s a simple, straightforward cycle.

You sling your shotgun onto your back and place a hand onto the handgun at your hip. Your other hand rests on the belt of silver bullets around your hips. The ground is dry and this place hasn’t seen rain in weeks. There are no tracks to go off so you settle for scouting tufts of fur.

Something catches in the corner of your eye as you step around a grand oak.

You whip your head to the side and meet the pair of yellow eyes from the distance. It’s late August, and the blessing of the summer solstice only lasts so long. The sun is long gone and the full moon has crested. Darkness creeps around you, the tall trees shielding you from the moon’s glow. A cool breeze caresses your bare arms. You can just about make out the creature’s outline in the shadows. It’s large, maybe about 6 feet tall.

Slowly, you slip the shotgun from your shoulder and raise the barrel in the wolf’s direction. You whistle.

“Here boy,” you call. The pair of eyes blink at you languidly. “C’mere. I got treats for ya.” Indeed, you do; an opened pack of beef jerky in your back pocket. “C’mon, I have a whole pack of you to hunt tonight and I like to be efficient with my time.”

The werewolf rises onto its hind legs. Oh, great, you think, there’s different species in the same genus for these fucks. Perhaps 8 feet tall is more accurate.

You adjust your hold and cock the shotgun.

The werewolf is gone in a blink.

Your pulse picks up and you whirl on your heel, shotgun still raised. These things are fast, always are but they’re also big. How hard is it to shoot one?

The sound of a branch breaking has you whirling around, finger on the trigger to take the shot —

A claw strikes out at you and catches on your belt, ripping it like it’s paper. Your belt and the bullets in their holster disappear from your waist, your pants ripped and a superficial gash in your hip. You lose your footing on a protruding root and fall onto your back, barely keeping your head from slamming against a thick root.

The werewolf drops onto all fours legs, standing over you, its front paws planted on either side of your head. Its warm breath fans against your face, your arms. Its teeth are bared. Saliva dribbles from its maw.

You spare a glance away from its face to assess your situation — maybe there’s a way to roll out from underneath it and scramble towards your shotgun, wherever it landed. Instead, you find yourself staring at its bulbous member, fully erect. It’s long and thick, precum glistening on its tip. You look away, heat flooding to your cheeks and cunt. In your defense, it looked at you first.

You slowly draw your foot back and strike out, hit the beast’s hind leg. It howls in pain and you scramble out from underneath it, roll onto your stomach and stumble upright. Your shotgun is just a few steps to the right.

A heavy weight slams into you from behind and sends you onto the ground. Your jaw collides with the ground and your teeth snap together. You groan, rest your weight on one elbow and place your free hand against your jaw, pressing against the sore muscles. Hot breath fans the back of your exposed neck and something heavy and slick presses against the flesh of your hip. U kick again and scramble forward, your gun just about in reach. Claws swipe at ur body, snag on your shirt and tatter ur barely intact pants.

The cool night air hits your throbbing cunt. You try to ignore it, want to ignore it so bad, to finish the job and go take care of yourself — the werewolf shoves its fanged snout against the back of your neck. You still, heart leaping in your chest. Its heavy member rests on the swell of your ass, hips rocking back and forth, shallow thrusts as if it’s looking for a warm hole. Your pussy clenches at the thought.

It finds that warm hole, pressing its cock against your entrance, just barely breaching it, and you groan. It’s not going to fit but damned if the beast won’t try to make it fit. Maybe it will fit. The wolf grabs your waist — fuck, it’s hand is big enough to nearly wrap around your entire torso — and jerks its hips forward. You gasp as it pushes in all at once, filling you so completely, so deliciously that you nearly see stars. It’s so big and thick, you swear you can feel every vein and ridge of it.

The wolf snarls, beads of saliva dripping onto the back of your neck and thrusts forward shallowly. You struggle onto your knees. It pulls out shallowly and thrusts back in until the bulb at the bottom of its shaft nudges against your pussy.

Heat pools in your stomach as the werewolf drags its cock in and out of your hot cunt. The ridges and veins of his cock feel like bliss, have you gasping for air. Its furry hips connect with yours, the sound of your bodies colliding muffled by his coat. But you’re so wet, every thrust into your sopping cunt is nothing but a wet squelch. It thrusts in without resistance, going in all the way and pulling out with ease. It pushes so deep into you, drags against your walls like nobody ever has. Your thighs are wet, almost shaking at the strain of holding yourself up on all fours.

Your hand slips out from underneath you and your shoulder collides with the ground. The werewolf presses forward — it mounts you, places a clawed hand next to your head for balance and drives in with newfound vigor. The tip of its cock hit so deep in you that you nearly see stars, try to blabber something, something incoherent between ‘no’ and ‘yes’ and ‘more’ and ‘please please please please’. The wolf pistons in and out of our shopping cunt. Its tongue lolls out of its mouth, slobbers onto the back of your neck. The bulb at his crotch nudges against our opening with every thrust and dives slightly in each time. It’s wide and big and you gasp a pitiful sound when it slips into you with a painful stretch. It’s too much and too little at the same time. You try to clench around it.

The werewolf pauses and you want to cry out, beg it to keep going, to bully its way into your pussy until you can take its knot. You’re so full, so full, this thing is everywhere, in your pussy, in your guts, in the back of your throat. All you can manage is a pitiful croak before the beast is back on you again, resting its weight on your back. It picks up the pace, ruthlessly pistoning into you, bullying your throbbing, leaking pussy, rutting his bulb against it, almost stuffing it inside. It places one large clawed hand onto your thigh and pulls it to the side like that will give it more room. Perhaps it does but the stretch of your cunt and your thighs is too overwhelming to not focus on.

You press back against him as much as u can from your contorted position, meet his hips with urs in a frantic attempt to get your release. Your chest heaves as you attempt to match his pace, pressure building in the pit of your stomach. You’re babbling now, you absolutely are, begging for it to push you over the edge and stuff you full. It speeds up as if it understands you, pressing its weight on top you. Your cheek scrapes against the ground and in the corner of your eye, you can make out the bulge in your stomach as the werewolf thrusts in. It’s too much, too good, too deep, rubbing against that spot, knocking the breath from your lungs with every thrust.

You come with a wail, pussy throbbing and clenching around its cock, sucking it back in to keep it there. The wolf howls, head thrown back and buries its knot inside you. Its cock spasms and spills into you. Rope after rope of hot cum coasts your insides until you’re full, and then some. You feel it slide down your thighs, dribble from your pussy. You try to adjust yourself to get a look and clench involuntarily around the beast when you spot the shape of his cock protruding from your stomach.

The cool night air feels pleasant against your heated skin.

You look away from the unholy sight buried in your guts and let your eyes unfocus to bask in your post-orgasmic bliss.

One, two, three, four —

There are at least four pairs of yellow eyes observing you from the darkness.

note: I'm open to hearing about dead batteries!! be as graphic or non-graphic as you'd like:)

banner & divider by @/cafekitsune

[arjudy224]

Death of a family

The Intern Collection:

Prequel: Death of a family

The Intern: Day one

The Intern: The Laughing Fish

The Intern: Busy Work

The Intern: Outreach Gala

The Intern: Visiting an old friend

The Intern: Chemical Valley

The Intern: Billionaire Boys Club

Once the warehouse went up in flames, the world went silent. A blinding light stuns my senses. Before I can react, Nightwing shields me from the shock wave as we both go tumbling down. For a couple seconds, the only sound I can hear is the pounding of his heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Frozen, I see my horror reflected in his pale blue eyes. We didn't make it in time.

The ash slowly descends while the two vigilantes rummage through the debris. Staying out of the way, I do my best to be productive by prepping the med pack. Prepping for the worst, but hoping for the best. A slight glimmer catches my eye from a hundred yards.

Narrowing my eyes, I stumble through the wreckage. Drawing near, I dust the fallen ash away from a metallic pendant. More specifically a metallic bird... no. oh God no. It's a Robin. Dropping the med pack in shock, I manage to choke out "Dick..."

Nightwing rushes to my side within moments.

"What is it?" He questions, "Are you hurt?"

His eyes dart across my face looking for any signs of injury. Following my gaze, he mutters.

"Oh..."

When the body is revealed, I feel nothing. I should be screaming. Crying. Cursing at a god I don't believe in... but I don't say anything. Time slows down. Once Batman takes vitals, I work on breathes while Nightwing does chest compressions. 30 compressions. 2 breathes. Every other rotation, Bruce and Dick switch out. CPR is brutal. It's hard to ignore the cracking of the sternum or the fluid spilling into the one way mask. Attaching the AED, I pray something changes. Pausing Bruce's CPR, we clear the area to deliver the first shock. Then the second. Sandwiched between rounds of CPR, the AED gives us nothing to go off of.

After a while, it becomes hopeless. Most hearts restart after the first two shocks. Bruce's determined gaze grows frantic. Using his entire body, Batman's chest compressions progressively become deeper. Too deep. I avoid looking at the face of the limp carcass. If I look at his face, then it means this entire afternoon actually happened.

"Bruce, STOP! This isn't doing anything. " Dick argues tearing the man away from his fallen son, "He's... gone."

My chest tightens at Nightwing's voice crack. This cannot be real.

Pulling himself together, the Bat's eyes meet mine. For the first time since I've met him, the calculated facade has fallen to the wayside. Pure anguish stares back at me. From the slumping of his shoulders to the tight line of his lips, it's clear as day. Straightening himself, the Bat swiftly moved the body back to the plane.

"I'll prepare Alfred for the service."

Service... Is that it? That soon?

Dick excuses himself claiming to need a bite to eat. With a lingering hug, he tells me that he'll whip me something up too. Haphazardly, I decline the offer. Dick's right of course. I haven't eaten in over a day, but... Every ounce of hunger left my body the moment, I smelled burnt flesh.

For the first time all day, I look at him.

Covered in soot, the burns are the first images that are seared in my subconscious. Black bruises lace around every external patch of skin. Underneath all the brutality, my jaw clenches. Did he always look this young? For a kid who was starting to develop a jawline, I forgot how round his cheeks were. How long ago was his birthday again? A few months? Fifteen. His thick dark lashes stay completely still while I brush the hair out of his face.

No... No.. This isn't right. This is not how our story goes... Prom. Graduation. We were supposed to be dumb kids in love. Not some high school cautionary tale.

Suddenly, it all sinks in. I can't breathe.

No more study dates at Wayne Tower.

No more reading together

No more lazy Sunday morning smiles.

No more late-night Robin visits.

Sliding down the wall, a single tear drops down my face. The pressure resting on my chest prevents any more tears. Everything in me wants to wail. Throw a fit. Kill the bastard who did this. Instead, I stare wordlessly at the smooth metallic wall furnishing.

I am too young to feel this old.

Tag list: @jjsmeowthie

[angry-geese]

The Weight - Sukuna x Reader

Warnings: smut//not osha compliant. arranged marriage au. blood/cannibalism mention. biting/size kink. unprotected sex, creampies. afab reader

synopsis: an arranged marriage au where the reader chooses sukuna instead of one of the men from her village

word count: 10.3k

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts since probably last february and I finally got around to finishing it lol

jjk masterlist

As mid-afternoon turns to dusk, you realize you have nothing to show for your hours in these woods. You know, reasonably, you should cut your losses for the day, and return home. In a little over an hour, it’ll be dark, and navigating these woods will become a challenge. But winter has come and gone with a vengeance, leaving food stores low. The thought of fresh meat is too much for you to quit now.

Fresh tracks mark the once-smooth creek bed. Deer. At least three. They’ve bedded down here, as evident by the smell, and flattened patches of grass. For several meters, the tracks nearly overlap themselves, before heading off in separate directions. It's been years since you’ve traveled this deep into the woods, and those few times were accompanied by your father, or uncle. Your solitude has you jumping at every rustle of a leaf, and snapped twig. It's when the woods fall silent that you need to worry. That means a predator is near. As long as you can hear bugs, or birds, you'll be okay.

Further ahead—maybe twenty yards—is a buck that stopped to drink from the creek. 

You knock an arrow, lining the broadhead up with your target. Something feels wrong. The string feels too taut. It slips from your fingers prematurely. The arrow hits just behind the front shoulder, and—in theory—should puncture the heart. A shot like that—in theory—should drop an animal like this where it stands. Today it doesn't. The buck takes off running.

Between the footprints, and little droplets of blood, a clear trail is left behind. When you do finally come upon your prey, the crickets have fallen silent. The buck lays on its side in the grass, chest heaving. You ready your knife to put the poor thing out of its misery when something—someone—emerges from the treeline on the opposite side of the clearing. 

Your body is moving before you can fully process the situation. You flatten yourself out on the ground, hiding under the cover of some bushes. If the man does see you, then he makes no note of it. He draws closer, stopping to kneel beside the buck. It’s too dark to make out his face. Something about him has the hair on the back of your neck on end. He hauls the carcass up onto his shoulder, turning to return in the direction in which he came. 

The absurdness of it all has you frozen. You blink several times as if to make sure this isn't your mind playing tricks on you. Once reality sets in, you’re back on your feet, chasing after him.

“That's mine!” You say, hoping the volume of your voice is enough to scare off the thief. It isn't.

What you first assume to be another trick of the lighting becomes a horrifying reality as you notice the true size of the man. The man—being, or whatever he is—towers over you, completely dwarfing you in size. Mild annoyance is all that is visible on his face as he turns to you. From the deer, he rips out your arrow, tossing it at your feet. The broadhead has snapped off, as well as the shaft is bent. If you so desire, you suppose you could repair it. Not that you have any wish to. Sometimes it is simply better to cut your losses.

But you have more pressing things to deal with right now.

“And just what do you plan to accomplish, little lamb?” He asks. “A deer like this can weigh as much as a grown man. Do you plan to carry this back all by yourself?”

It’ll be tiring, but not impossible. Gutting and dressing it here would remove a lot of unnecessary weight, but would render plenty of valuable meat and organs useless. All that extra meat and skin could be used better elsewhere…

You are overcome with the urge to run, yet his gaze has your feet firmly planted on the ground. Your eyes fall to a small red splotch on his kimono—a blood stain. It can't be from the deer, it's far too old. It’s not until your knees knock together that you realize you’re trembling.

The action of him moving closer causes a cry of panic to leave you, unintentionally calling out for your father. 

“What—who are you?!” You ask as you scramble backwards. 

“I am Ryoumen Sukuna, the King of Curses, my dear,” he says. “Now, shall we get this back to your home?”

Fear threatens to overcome you. Even if you could draw an arrow in time, you doubt it would truly hurt him. Yet, in spite of your fear, you know he has no plans to harm you. Once you’re in sight of the village, he sets the deer down, and gestures for you to take the lead.

“Why are you helping me?” You ask. You’re certain the look on your face suggests you still expect him to eat you. 

“Why do you ask?” He says. “Maybe I wanted the location of your home. It seems there are plenty of sacrifices here for me.”

“Wait a minute!” You say, eyes widening with fear. A mix of panic and guilt consumes you. “You can't-”

A look resembling amusement crosses his face. “I mean no harm to your village,” Sukuna says, “but in five years, I will return to claim what is mine.”

The strange man would vanish upon reaching the outskirts of your village, and in the nearly five years that follow, you would not once traverse so deep into the woods. On several occasions, you would try to retrace your steps, but would never once come across that clearing. When you would bring it up to your father, or any of the other village elders, your concerns would be brushed off, or outright ignored. Years would pass and slowly, achingly slowly, you would forget about the man in the woods entirely.

The coming spring brings your twenty-eighth birthday, and the looming threat of being an “older” unmarried woman.

If you had any say in the matter, you wouldn't get married at all. Plenty of older women exist, happily unmarried, yet your mother insists that you must find a husband. Any attempts to convince her that you’re fine with the way things are, fail. Once it became clear you weren't going to seek a husband on your own, your mother took upon the task of finding a suitor for you. Over the course of several months, meetings were arranged with various men, and with each rejected one, your mother grew more desperate to find the perfect match. 

Your mother insists you're cursed. Your father thinks you’re simply unlucky. When you asked how marriage was supposed to fix that curse, she had no answer for you.

In the months prior to your birthday, your mother proposed a deal to you: meet with another man—the son of a wealthy merchant. That if this meeting went well, even if you didn't marry him, she would stop pestering you about getting married. Tired of her pestering, you relented, and agreed to meet him. And as the days draw closer, you only feel dread towards him. 

The outcome of tonight has already been decided by you: failure. Whether your mother knows this or not is hard to tell. Judging her tense nature, you suspect she knows your plans.

“I was already married at your age,” she says, tightening your obi, “I used to have a dress just like this.”

“The difference is, you knew him already,” you say, “and I am meeting a stranger.”

“I am simply doing what I think is best for you,” she says. “This is your chance to get out of this village—to live a better life! Don't you want that?”

Her eyes meet yours in one last pleading glance. It makes you wonder; did she have such a conversation with her mother? Did your grandmother go through such trouble to match her to your father? Or did this come easier to her, than it did to you?

You suppose he’s handsome. The silks he wears are clearly expensive, with threads like woven gold. His features are sharp—what one could describe as noble, but you find him truly dull. But he is scrawny—squishy, with hands that show he has never worked a day in his life. The little conversation he makes is dreadfully boring. His father is an older man, with a graying beard, and sagging eyes. His mother is considerably younger, dressed in blue, with a small scar on her chin. Her silky black hair falls down her back. The little conversation you do have is short, but polite. The typical small talk you would have with a stranger.

Your mother does her best to talk you up. She’s gotten pretty good at that over the past few years. Your father interjects here and there, but it's your mother that does the majority of the talking. 

“She’s strong. A talented hunter. Good with a knife.” Your father says. This time, you’re paying attention when he speaks.

Your potential father-in-law seems unimpressed with your father’s attempts to talk you up. Perhaps if you were a son, this conversation would go differently. If you were a son, your mother wouldn't be so stressed about you being married before 30. Your growing irritation mounts when you set down your cutlery, turning to look the old man in his eyes.

“And what about him?” You ask, motioning to his son. “Look at him—how is he supposed to give me a strong child?”

The energy in the room seems to shift entirely. Your father nearly chokes on his wine, but his eyes are firmly trained on your mother. She glares daggers at you, gripping her spoon so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

“What?” You ask. “I am the one getting married. Don't I get a say in this?”

Are you trying to screw this up? Your mother’s face seems to ask.

“A good father controls his daughter,” the man says, “especially one with such a sharp tongue.”

“I can serve this village, or I can control my daughter, but I cannot do both,” your father says, “she’s not a child anymore, she can make her own choices.”

That earns a small smirk from you. Leave it to him to stand up for you.

“That is exactly why this is so grievous,” the man says, “my son will not marry an old maid with an attitude problem!”

“And I will not have in-laws as insufferable as you!” You bring your knife down on the table, narrowly missing his fingers. This little outburst of yours at dinner will certainly have consequences. Your mother’s wrath is only the beginning.

They don't leave in nearly as big of a hurry as you’d expect from a man who was just threatened with a knife, but they do hurry out, making certain not to look back.

“Maybe we should have offered to let them stay,” says your father, “it’s not safe to be out on the road after dark.”

“We’re lucky to not have them send guards after us for that,” your mother says, and for once, you agree with her. “Threatening a man like that is a new low, even for you.”

After such a disastrous dinner, you’re not particularly eager to go find your parents. You linger towards the outskirts of your village for as long as daylight allows you to. Once it grows too dark to stay out, you begin the trek back to your home, praying your parents—or at least your mother—have simply gone to bed. Maybe your father will forgive such a night, but your mother certainly won't. Over the past year you’ve done enough to earn her ire, this will not help your case.

Sitting outside is your mother, her eyes trained on a dying fire. Although she doesn't acknowledge you, you know she’s noticed you. Part of you wonders if you should speak first. Would that even improve your situation, or simply make it worse?

“You win.” She says. 

“What?” You ask.

“You win. I told you I’d stop after this, remember?” She asks. “Besides, I stopped liking him after that comment he made about your father.”

You still don't believe it's over. No tone of accusation clings to her voice, yet you can't help being suspicious.

“I don't get it.” You say.

“I just want what's best for you.” She says. “I want you to live a long and happy life. Are you really content to spend the rest of your life in this village? Stuck taking care of your brother and father?”

“That sounds like the preferable outcome,” you say, “compared to having in-laws I can't stand.”

“Where does he get off calling you an old maid anyway?” She says.

A small smile crosses your lips. This is about the best she'll get, and she knows this, a grin crossing her own face. A moment that should be one of triumph—at least for you—seems to be more sorrowful. The older you grow, the further apart you drift from her, and with that comes a strange, aching loneliness. You long for a time in your youth; the days when she would play dolls with you in-between house chores. You miss the tiny clothes she’d sew for them. The furniture made of timber scraps she’d hand paint. Oh how long has it been since she last braided your hair? Or brushed it? Or helped you wash it? 

Did she have these same feelings about her own mother? Or was it easy for her? Does she too mourn those moments you used to share?

You don't remember her always looking this old. That’s not to say she isn't beautiful still—age does not nullify beauty. But she looks tired now. The dark circles under her eyes are more prominent than ever. The skin around her eyes crinkles when she laughs, or smiles. Her hair is littered with grays—like little silver threads. She looks like you.

From within the nearly pitch-black woods comes a scream; not that of an animal, but of man. When the scream rings out again, it’s much easier to understand. It’s a cry for help.

Emerging out of the treeline, and following the main road is a man, half hunched over and clutching his stomach. He makes it several yards into the village before collapsing. Enough blood pours from the wound on his side that you can smell it. A metallic taste lingers in the air, stuck to the back of your throat. Blood. 

You’re the first to run over, followed shortly behind by your mother. The injured, shambling figure collapses upon the road. It’s only as you draw closer that you recognize him, albeit barely: the man from dinner. His clothes at one point in time were yellow in color, but are now stained a deep brown in color from a mix of dirt and blood.

“We need a doctor over here!” Mother cries out, her voice echoing against the wall of trees.

Someone must hear, because eventually a group of men burst out of a nearby house. They make quick work of rolling him onto his back, granting you a better look at his wounds. Three long slashes across his stomach. From your mother comes a gasp, followed by her clamping her hand over her mouth. The young man succumbs to his wounds before anyone is able to help him. He’s lost too much blood. People don't come back from that.

“Was he stabbed?” One man asks.

“Looks like knife marks,” comments another.

“Not a knife,” the oldest of the three says, “claws.”

“Do you think a mountain lion got to him?” You ask.

The oldest of the men shakes his head. “Cats like that don't get this close to towns. They avoid people if they can. A bear, maybe; if he got in between a mother and cub. But even that seems unlikely…”

This is why you don't go into the woods after dark. This is why you lock your doors and close your shutters tight when the sun sets. Bad things lurk out there, but they are not bears, nor are they mountain lions.

Something about the height of a person bursts from the treeline. Atop the legs of a chicken is a head only humanesque in the way corpses are. Sunken eyes sit atop a shriveled nose, and cracked lips. Its skin seems to be hanging off bone. Still, it takes you a moment to register that it’s fear you feel. Your palms prickle with sweat, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The urge to flee is nearly unbearable.

More of these creatures emerge from the direction of the nearly-set sun. They appear to come in all sorts of horrid shapes, and sizes, the smallest being no larger than a bird, and the largest about the size of a cow. Fear threatens to overcome you entirely. At least twenty of the creatures leave the treeline, although you suspect more remain hidden within it. The temperature must drop by ten degrees. It’s as if all the moisture has been sucked from the air. Those who dared leave their homes to look at the source of the commotion have now retreated, locking their doors behind them. 

The collar of your dress jerks backwards as your mother struggles to drag you back towards the house. “Get your father!” She says. “Hurry!” 

“What about you?!” You ask.

“Just get your father,” she says.

And you do so, running as fast as your feet will take you. The chilly night air renders your fingertips numb, and your face burning. He’s asleep in his chair, and wakes with a gasp as you shake him, motioning frantically to the door. The words that leave you are incoherent, but he must understand your panic. He retrieves his sword, telling you to lock the door behind him. You don't listen. You never listen, you can hear your mother say now. A sudden burst of light draws your attention—a nearby house has caught fire. Those strange, horrid creatures swarm around it like flies. Several neighbors have exited their houses, and begun throwing buckets of water upon the blaze, but the fire is too strong.

And from the treeline emerges that man from the woods all those years ago. 

In five years time, he has not aged a day. His cruelly sharp features appear the same within the flicker of the firelight. They fall before him on their hands and knees, heads bowed in fear. You only realize you’re shaking when you move closer to the window, peeking out through the crack in the shutters. 

The King of Curses, he called himself, all those years ago.

His mouth moves as if he's speaking, but you can only make out about half of what he says. The ringing in your ears is too loud to make sense of much.

“My offerings lessen, my shrine lies defiled,” he says, “and you humans sit here complacent. I gave you five years to make amends and this is what you do with it?”

You know, logically, that your father is going to die. He is no match for the creatures, let alone that strange man. You must do something. Even if it is beyond logic, or reason, you would not forgive yourself if you did not act.

“Then what is it you require of us?” Asks father, his hands trembling slightly. You can tell it’s more than just the dancing light of the fire. He is truly frightened.

“An offering,” says the King of Curses. “A sacrifice.”

“We have nothing to offer,” says father, “the river has run dry of fish—our crops have withered! We have nothing to offer, we’re starving regardless!”

The King of Curses eyes drift to your hiding place, before landing back on your father. “You said it yourself.” He says. “You’ll starve regardless. What difference does it make that you should give up one of your own? Won't there only be less mouths to feed?”

Your arrows rattle loudly as you pull one from your quiver, knocking it. From this angle, and sitting half crouched on the ground, you can't bring it to a full draw. Not only does that mess with your aim, but alter the power of the shot too. That can be accounted for. You adjust your angle to be a little higher—right above his head. When you release the string, the arrow gives way with a thunk! The shot is dead on; your arrow whistling towards the demon king’s head. He brings his spear up, knocking it aside. Several heads whip back towards you, their faces contorted in a mix of anger, and fear. 

You’re not quite sure who grabs you first—it must be more than one person. Several sets of hands are upon you, dragging you from the house. Any attempts to fight it fail on your part, there are simply too many people to kick off. They drop you in the dirt beside your father. You don't dare look at him. You know his eyes are filled with fear. 

“We’ll—we’ll put it to a vote,” says one of the elders. “All those in favor of sending this woman as an offering…”

Two other elders raise their hands. Then several of the men. Then, reluctantly, the mother of a neighboring family. Even more hands pop up after that. Although maybe a minute passes, it feels like hours. At least a dozen sets of eyes are on you.

“Out of all of you,” the demon king says, eyes following across the crowd that’s now gathered, “she was the only one of you to fight back, yet you punish such an action?”

Silence is the only response the crowd can conjure up. A groan so loud that the ground rumbles beneath it rings out as the house gives way, collapsing in on itself in a rain of ash and embers.

“Wait!” Your father cries out, “let me go in her place!”

Several more incomprehensible sentence fragments leave him. He pleads and pleads to no avail. The last view you get of your village is of the spirits retreating back into the woods.

It must be hours before your state of shock wears off. Dawn breaks bleak and gray over the horizon. The temple he brings you lies in ruin. You must be one of the first people to set foot in here in years. A cracked foundation gives way to walls overtaken by vines. Dust and ash layers the ground, and every surface imaginable.

Sukuna must not expect you to try to run. Nothing is done to prevent you from escaping. There are no doors to lock. No ropes or cages. The only real barrier of escape is the trek home through miles of woods. Should you wait until sunrise, the trip won't be impossible. It is the fear of what remains for you that prevents you from returning.

Would there even be anything to go back to? Is it even worth it after what they did? They did not hesitate as they offered you as a sacrifice. Whatever happens to them… they have it coming.

Such thoughts do little to comfort you. If anything, they make you feel worse. What little strength you have left goes into stopping the tears that threaten to spill down your cheeks. You manage. Barely.

Unable to find it within you to do anything else, you sit. Only a thin, woven mat separates you and the hard floor. Footsteps draw closer down the hall, the noise only amplified by the high ceilings of the temple.

Uraume. That’s what Sukuna called them. A strange being that looks human, but appears to be more than such. They enter the room, a shock a white hair visible before the rest of them is. They wear the kimono of an unmarried woman, in vibrant shades of orange, blues, and pinks woven in the pattern of flowers. Hooked around one arm is a pail of water. Under the other arm is a roll of cloth. Contained within the cloth is a mix of hygiene supplies; a sponge, comb, various vials of oils and creams. 

Uraume treats you like one would treat a frightened animal. They kneel on the ground before you, leaving about the distance of a foot. When you don't flinch, or shy away, they move closer.

“You’re covered in ash,” they say, “let me help.”

With the sponge, they dab away the bits of dirt and ash that have caked to your skin. Human contact like this should, in theory, be intimate, but in this situation it feels like anything but that. Uraume’s touch feels cold, and clinical. With them comes a strange, uncanny feeling, like you are not looking into the eyes of a human, but of a corpse. The reason behind their kindness is a mystery to you. It feels wrong to question them, but you can't help but think there is something sinister behind their actions. Their casualness suggests this isn't the first time they’ve done this. That thought does nothing to comfort you, so you quickly push it aside.

Next, they move on to your neck, then down to the exposed bits of your chest, and shoulders. 

“Such a beautiful dress,” they comment. You reply weakly, saying it belonged to your mother. Their response to that is little more than a hum.

They take your hands, scrubbing the dirt from under your nails with a small brush. After that, a comb is worked through your hair, taking great care to not pull on any knots that have formed. Once they can work their hands through your hair with no resistance, they stop.

Uraume leans back to examine their work, deeming you presentable. Gathering what they brought with them, they make their way towards the door, turning back once to say: “I’ll bring something to eat.”

The events of the night have left you without an appetite. You probably should eat something. It’ll be important to keep your energy up. The little adrenaline left within you has you jumping at any small noise, or shadow. Sleep feels like an impossibility right now.

About ten minutes pass before Uraume returns carrying a platter. Tea, pickled vegetables, a hunk of bread, a bowl of some kind of stew. It smells quite good, but you merely pick at it. Like your hesitation to sleep, you can hardly eat. Uraume sits with you, picking at their own food, but never finishing it. A million questions race through your mind, although you can barely bring yourself to ask them.

Would they even answer you? Or does this have a more sinister plan behind it?

Finally, you find enough of your voice to ask: “Where is…?”

“I’ve prepared a bath for master Sukuna,” they say, “he’ll be joining us shortly.”

Your attention turns back to the bowl in your hands, which soon slips through your fingers, breaking upon the floor. What little appetite you had is soured entirely. This is it. You’re nearly certain you’re going to die here.

Your attempt to clean up the mess is stopped by Uraume. They insist upon cleaning it themselves, taking great care not to cut their hands on the shards.

“Why are you helping me?” You ask, shocked at how small your voice sounds.

“Master Sukuna likes to play with his food before he eats it,” they say.

Uraume leaves shortly after, taking the leftover dishes with them. You remain seated, eyes moving between the two exits of the room. One takes you to the entrance of the temple; you’re not certain where the other leads. The first is almost guaranteed to be guarded, though. Trying to run now is a bad idea. But when will you get another chance?

You will not sit idly by as death draws closer. Like the previous night, you feel as if you must do something. It was your own foolish actions that got you into this mess, says a small voice in the back of your head.

Trapped under your heel is a small pottery shard, left over from the shattered bowl. It’s small enough to conceal in your palm. Sharp. Better for stabbing than it is slashing, but it will be good enough at either. Once Sukuna returns, you’ll get your chance.

The rush of adrenaline has started to wear off now, rendering your arms weak, and your legs shaky. If you were to sit down now, you’re certain it would be a while before you get back up. It is the body fighting itself; fight or flight mode mixing with exhaustion. If you do not stop and rest, your body will give out on you eventually.

So you stand there and pace, clutching your shard of pottery close. Maybe thirty minutes pass in the time it takes Sukuna to enter, but it feels like hours. Adrenaline turns into fatigue.

Tears burn at your eyes again, but you’re able to blink them back. A mix of shock and betrayal has left you nothing short of exhausted. Sukuna’s towering stature only helps to make you feel like a lamb about to be devoured by a wolf.

“I trust Uraume has been of assistance,” Sukuna says. 

Unsure of how to respond, you simply nod.

“What now?” You ask. “Is this the part where you’re supposed to eat me?”

That earns a laugh from him, although it’s strange sounding, as if the very action is foreign to him.

“Many decades ago, the people of your village—among others—would hold a festival during harvest season,” he says, “it was meant as a sign of peace. An offering in return to not raze their homes,

“The people of your village have grown laze, and complacent. They have forgotten their place as humans, and needed to be reminded of it. You are simply another offering. Something to tide me over.”

Sukuna draws close enough for you to feel his breath across the back of your neck. You shudder. Adrenaline courses through you once again.

This is it, you think, you are going to die. 

In one last attempt to preserve your dignity, you aim for his jugular, and swing the shard of pottery towards it. A hand wraps around your wrist before it can make contact. A second set of arms are trapping you against his body before you can even register it. His breath is warm against your cheek, teeth inhumanly sharp in the dim light.

“You are entertainment.” He says. 

That same set of sharp teeth drag up your neck. Some sick sense of pleasure runs up your spine at the feeling: being a little lamb in the jaws of a predator. It would take so little effort from him to render you lifeless that it’s almost comical. Adrenaline turns to delirium in your mind. 

What happens if he finally grows bored of you? It’s not a matter of “if” in this case, it’s a matter of “when”. You have an idea of what will happen once he does.

You don't hear him leave, so much as you notice his lack of presence.

Sukuna is gone for most of the following day. In that time, you explore much of the temple in an attempt to gain your bearings. It’s sparsely furnished, and dilapidated for the most part, but there are some signs of life. On a lower level of the temple is a bedroom, where the bed alone is as big as a room in your home. Must be Sukuna’s. Another, smaller room appears to be Uraume’s quarters. A small kitchen branches off the hallway not far from this. 

The later half of the day is spent trying to familiarize yourself with your surroundings. Thick woods surround the structure, spreading out for what must be miles. To the North is a creek. If you followed it, you might possibly meet up with the river by your village. Whether you could do so before nightfall is another question entirely. Finding yourself stuck in unfamiliar woods past dark may prove to be a death sentence.

Even if you could go back, would you want to? Their lack of hesitation towards sacrificing you still rings clear in your mind.

Sleep seems to be the best way to pass the time. There isn't much else to do around here. In the hours before dusk, you manage to drag yourself out of bed, and into the woods that surround the temple. You justify it by saying that fresh air will do you good, not that anyone asks you. The only person around to do so would be Uraume, though you don't see much of them.

Heavy fog settles upon the trees, causing the day to take on a quiet, sleepy nature. Little cream-colored mushrooms pop up through the layer of moss and dead leaves that blanket the forest floor. Carved out over years of use is a dirt path, barely wide enough for a person to walk through. Following it for about ten minutes brings you to a pond. At one end, the start of a small creek leads downhill. Little fish are visible just under the surface. Leaving your socks and shoes at the shore, you wade out into the water. It’s cool, but not chilly. The mud feels soft underneath your feet. Being outside helps settle your nerves a bit. Outright terror is replaced with uneasiness now. While not entirely better, it’s an improvement to your previous mood.

From the treeline opposite of the path you took, a figure enters the clearing. Sukuna. Adrenaline spikes through your body at the sight of him. Your pulse quickens, and fear prickles in your palms. Every cell of your being is telling you to run.

Sukuna motions with his hand for you to follow him. It is not an offer, so much as it’s a command. Following a short walk on a stoney path, you find yourself overlooking a rock cliff-face, and a small wood hut. Scattered about are several steaming pools, which bubble up from the ground, layering upon the cliff-face like stairs.

Sukuna undressed at the wood hut, leaving his clothes hanging upon the rafters. Your gaze remains firmly on the ground. You should not be seeing him like this. This feels far too intimate. You try not to let your gaze linger too long, but can't help it. The sight of his back alone is hard to tear your eyes away from; the muscles, the tattoos, the curve of his spine. There is a strange, supernatural beauty to him. You eye him with caution, yet curiosity. 

Why has he brought you here? What does he want? Is this simply a ritual before he eats you?

Certainly, if you were to scream, no one would be nearby to hear you. 

It strikes you just how easily his teeth could tear through your jugular. How his sharp nails could shred your flesh to ribbons. Sukuna is far faster and stronger than you, outrunning him is not an option.

Following his lead, you undress, and leave your clothes folded neatly upon a rock. Next comes the task of taking down your hair, and combing through it with your fingers, finding it still knot-free from the events of the previous night. Only then do you approach the largest of the three pools, and wade into it. At its deepest, it's a little above your waist. You could walk all the way across and never once have your feet leave the ground.

You settle upon a rock towards the edge, half submerged in the pool. The hot water feels nice upon your sore muscles. Your eyes trail ribbons of steam as they curl off the water. A wave of self consciousness rolls over you. You sink further into the water, crossing your arms in front of your chest. It’s up to your chin now. Sometime during this, it starts raining. The droplets leave little ripples across the surface of the water. Fall brings the smell of damp earth, and decaying leaves with it. Something that should be comforting only makes your stomach turn.

“You look frightened, little lamb,” Sukuna says.

Is it so obvious? 

“I still don't believe this isn't some attempt to eat me.” You ask, though you’re not certain you want the answer.

“Had I wanted to eat you, I would have had Uraume make preparations.” He says.

You still don't believe him. How many people met their fate at his hands before you? There is no reason why you would be lucky—why you would escape your fate.

“Then what is it you want from me?” You ask.

His expression softens, shoulders lowering with a sigh. The space between his eyebrows is not so harshly creased anymore. 

“I am not like the typical curses you have met,” Sukuna says, “I require your permission.” 

“Permission for what?” You shrink back as he draws closer, stopping mere inches from you. He’d tower over the tallest man, let alone someone like you.

A kiss. Hungry, and overbearing, but a kiss nonetheless. Sukuna has to lean down, and you have to crane your neck up to complete the action. His movements feel stiff, clinical, as if he hasn't done this many times before. The action causes warmth to bloom in your chest, and spread out to your limbs. The hands that cup your face are nearly large enough to encompass it entirely. He tastes like wine, and something vaguely metallic. The thought that it might be blood crosses your mind for only a moment. You’d much rather think about other things. 

“Will you devote yourself to me, completely and entirely?” He asks.

Funny, you think, had a human man asked you the same thing, you would have laughed in his face. Yet you find yourself bewitched by the King of Curses. Curious, and cautious all the same. This is not a feeling of love. It is something else entirely. You are a sacrifice, you remind yourself, this is the fate of a sacrifice.

“I devote myself to no man,” you say, “I don't see how you'd be any different.”

He hums in amusement, circling around you in the water. He stops behind you, slightly to your right. Sharp teeth graze across your shoulder. Large hands trace their way up your hips, then your body, coming to rest just below your breasts. You squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to relieve the strange pressure that has built up. Your heart rate picks up in pace. Sukuna must be able to sense this. A low laugh leaves him as he pulls away.

“Well then,” he says, “do I have your permission to continue?”

Continue what? You wish to ask. As if against your mind’s wishes, your head moves in a nod. “Yes,” you say.

You can only imagine the look on his face as you have your back to him. He’s close enough you can feel the warmth radiate off his body. Is he pleased? Amused? Smug that all it took was a kiss to make you let your guard down? 

Hands that should be calloused and rough are quite gentle with their touch. One comes to rest upon your hip, before trailing down to the space between your thighs. Seconds in and your knees seem to give out, your body supported only by him. One finger presses into you, then a second. You sigh at the intrusion. There’s little resistance as he presses into you. You’re too wet. Sukuna’s fingers are much larger than your own, though the stretch you feel is pleasant, not painful. Your thighs squeeze around his hand, drawing a low laugh from him. You can feel it rumble within his chest, which your back is pressed flush to.

Being so close to another being feels odd. The only intimacy you know is a platonic one. A familial one. This is different. Stronger. More intense. He finds the spot that makes you squirm and abuses it, toying with you like prey. It must be a game to him, you think, like cat and mouse. With one of your hands over your mouth, you try to muffle the lewd noises that spill from you. It’s a losing battle. All sorts of pleased sounding noises—from both you and him—echo through the clearing. Secretly, you’re glad this place is so remote. Should someone hear the lewd noises you’re making, you wouldn't recover from the embarrassment. He brings you just to the edge, but refuses to let you cross over. Frustration turns to desperation as you grind against him, chasing your own release. Sukuna doesn't appear opposed to your actions. He lets you work yourself up to—and through—your own release, the noises you make growing gradually more obscene until they come to a head in the form of an orgasm.

You remain in the water for a while afterwards. The layer of fog overhead makes the day take on a lazy, sleepy nature. His hands comb through your hair as you lay against his chest. Such a moment feels uncharacteristically tender for him. While you expect them to be sharp, his nails feel nice against your skin. The mouth on his stomach resembles a smirk, although the expression on his face is flat. Unreadable. A slight pang of disappointment shoots through you. You know it’s unreasonable of you to expect humanity from someone inherently inhuman. He does not—he can not—process things the way you do. Humans must appear so small and fragile to him.

You’re uncertain of how much time passes as you lay there, your limbs tangled with his. It doesn't feel like long enough. No time would feel long enough. You crave the touch of another being whether you want to admit that or not.

“It’s getting late,” he comments. Without another word, you watch as Sukuna dresses himself, and leaves.

You follow him as quickly as you can. You’re not quite fast enough, arriving back at the temple long after him. Dusk follows soon after. 

You find no sign of the King of Curses upon your return. Finding yourself with not much of an appetite, you head straight to bed. Uraume stops by once to offer tea, but you decline, insisting you’re tired, and just wish to sleep. Whether or not they believe you, you can't tell. That’s about the extent of every conversation you have; polite, but short.

Sukuna must not need to sleep. Not in the same way you do. You dress down into your underclothes, leaving the rest folded neatly upon a chair. They’re not dirty, just slightly wrinkled from the events of today. You crawl into the bed much larger than you, and attempt to sleep. When he crawls into the bed beside you, you do nothing to protest.

As time passes, you grow used to his presence. Falling into a routine takes mere days. In that time, you don't see much of Sukuna, or Uraume. Maybe it’s for the best. You’re not certain what you’d say to either of them. You figure it best not to question what Sukuna gets up to in his free time. If the events at your village are anything similar, you figure it best to pay them no mind.

The longer you spend here, the more curious you find yourself. At least twice you find your way back to the hot springs. Familiarizing yourself with the surrounding woods has you growing more confident when navigating it. Animal tracks and trails reveal themselves, bringing more life to the woods. 

Fall turns to winter. Rain gives way to snow, bringing in a bitter stormfront. It’s hard to tell how many days pass as the storm hits, rendering the three of you confined to the temple. Sukuna doesn't appear bothered at all by the cold, but you spend many bleak nights huddled by a fire. Sukuna approaches you on one of these nights; perhaps the bleakest and darkest one before the storm finally breaks. Your inability to leave the temple has you ready to claw out of your own skin. Never were you one to stay in one place very long. 

Days have passed and you haven't spoken much to one another. Not since the day at the hot springs. You find yourself especially longing for them on a day like this, where the cold makes your joints ache, and your lips cracked. Winter is among your least favorite of the seasons. A hot and sticky summer day was always preferred over a day like this. Sukuna must sense it. He finds you curled by the fire, wrapped in an assortment of quilts and fabrics. You can't tell if it’s morning, or evening. Snow has rendered midday as dark as dusk. 

You know you should get up, and toss more wood onto the fire. Should you let it die any further, it’s unlikely you’ll get it started again. Sukuna joins you in the room, sitting on the mat to your left. Finding yourself searching for warmth, you move closer to him. It’s an unconscious action at first. Once you recognize it, you can't find the willpower within you to stop.

You offer the edge of the blanket to him, basking in his warmth as the quilt is wrapped around both of you. One of his hands comes to rest upon your knee. Your gaze is trained on his face, while his remains on the dying fire. 

“I don't suppose you do this to every sacrifice you get,” you say, not expecting an answer.

The corners of his lips twitch into something that resembles a smile. Much life his laugh, his smile is stiff, and rather foreign feeling. Like he hasn't done such a thing in centuries.

“You are different from the sacrifices I have received in the past.” He says. 

You get the impression he is still figuring out what to do with you. Such a thought doesn't inspire confidence on your part, though you assume your situation could be worse. 

You're nearly in his lap now. The hand on your knee soon moves upwards onto your thigh. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he palms himself through his clothes. Some sick part of you wishes to taunt him. To tease him in the same way he has done to you. You part your legs just enough to encourage him. There must be something wrong with you, you think, no normal woman would enjoy the company of the King of Curses.

This is not your typical virgin sacrifice. It is little more than that. Pleasure for the sake of pleasure. To fuck without the intent to procreate.

“I always assumed you wouldn’t have these… urges.” You say.

“Many things lost their potency,” he says. “Food was never enough to satiate, drink was never enough to quench thirst. Sex has remained the same. Primal pleasure never loses its potency.”

So he was human. At least at one point in time…

“Like I said,” he hums, “I am not like the typical curses you have met. I require your permission.”

“You have it,” you say. 

Oh how dearly you wish to recreate the event at the hot springs. To feel the same build-up of emotions, and the following release. Such mindless pleasure has remained in your head, unable to be stifled by your own hands.

Off comes your kimono, guided down your shoulders by his hand. Your nipples stiffen when exposed to the open air. It is not the cold that has you shivering, but the expectation of what’s to come. His size, and calloused hands suggest his touch would be harsh, but you find to be the opposite. Sharp nails graze down your sides as he moves to kneel before you. You prop yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at him.

His own clothes are left among the growing pile on the floor. He pumps his stiffening cock in his hand, the head of which weeps across his palm. A different kind of heat blooms in your stomach.

 Sharp teeth graze across your jaw, down your neck, before eventually nipping at your shoulder. A sting both painful and pleasurable radiates from the bite. Blood beads from the two points where he managed to break the skin, quickly lapped away by him. Part of your brain is telling you to push him away. The other part is telling you to expose your neck further. You’re not certain which to listen to as you lay under him, caged within his arms. Your breaths grow ragged, turning into quiet moans as his knee nudges your legs apart. This is different from the day at the hot springs. Sukuna is seeking something more—he is seeking his own pleasure this time.

A hand finds its way into your hair, gently tugging at it. Guided by his hand, you expose your neck further to him. He laps at the droplets of blood that form, sucking dark marks into the skin of your neck. Pain and pleasure overlap in your mind. Your thighs are a mess of your own slick, and the precum that leaks from the heads of his two cocks. It’s almost comical how you work yourself up in knots at only the slightest provocation by him.

You taste yourself on him as he kisses you. The bleeding from your neck has mostly stopped now. What remains will barely leave a scar. His lips trail down your neck, through the valley between your breasts, and down your stomach, before eventually stopping just shy of your cunt. The look of him alone has you growing as wet as a virgin; his hair disheveled from your hands running through it, the muscles in his shoulders appear more prominent now. His arms hook around your thighs, although he doesn't need to bother holding your legs open. You’d do it without prompt by him. Eager for your own release, and worked up into a soaked mess, you’d do anything to please him.

You shouldn't be enjoying it as much as you are. You know you should be afraid. It would take no effort from him at all to tear through your femoral artery, and let you bleed out. You would be helpless in the matter anyway; you’re nothing more than a little lamb trapped under a big bad wolf.

The feeling of his tongue is strange. With him on his knees, bowed in what resembles worship, has your stomach in knots. The lewdness of it all has you more worked up than anything else. A strange, pleasurable tension builds within you. He is not toying with you this time, but working you over. When you do finally cum, you cum hard, riding out your high on his face. The noises he’s making suggest he’s enjoying this almost more than you do.

He must be painfully hard now. The head of his cock is an angry shade of red, and leaking precum. Using his hand to guide him, the head of his cock presses into you. You’re too wet from his previous actions to notice much of a stretch. What little pain there is crosses over with pleasure in your mind. He groans as he sheathes himself within you fully. His expression softens just enough for you to take in the features of his face. He’s quite handsome now that you’re close enough to appreciate his looks. It makes you wonder what his life as a human was like. Was he royalty, or a commoner? What was his job? Did he ever have family?

You won't get an answer out of him no matter how hard you try. This is the most human the king of curses will ever appear. 

His thrusts are slow at first. Lazy. More like grinding, not proper fucking. With as sensitive as you still are, this doesn't make much of a difference. You’re still a writhing, moaning mess beneath him. Judging by the noises he’s making, he’s not far from cumming himself. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and that seems to only encourage him. The muscles in his arms and shoulders gradually grow more tense before he shudders, then visibly relaxes. A warm sensation in your cunt follows soon after; he’s cum inside of you.

You lay like that for a while: limbs entwined, bodies curled around each other. He lets himself soften inside of you until the desire to pull out hits. You can tell your hips will be sore in the morning—whenever it decides to come. What little of his seed spills out of you is forced back in by his fingers. You assume it ties into his possessive nature. It must be a way of marking you as his. The fire has long since died out, though you find the warmth from his body adequate enough. 

“I don't think I can walk,” you lie, “carry me?”

Sukuna feigns annoyance, but relents, carrying you to the bed too large for any human. You quickly find your way under the covers. He finds himself in the space beside you. Fatigue hits you soon after, yet you find yourself unable to sleep.

“You were human once?” You ask.

The mood in the room seems to shift entirely. Sukuna is not one for conversation. You expected no different from a man like him. He looks at you with mild annoyance, as if deciding on his answer.

“I was. Once.” He says.

Your fingers trace across the tattoos on his wrist. “Do you miss it?” You ask. “Being human, I mean.”

“I am far stronger now than I was when I was a human.” He says. “I no longer need to eat, nor drink. I have the gift of eternal life so long as I am smart with my actions. I do not miss the fragility that comes with humanity.”

His words almost irritate you. So much more exists to humanity than what he says, from little things like sharing a summer even with a friend, tearing into ripe persimmons. Spending an evening hunched over a stew pot helping your mother. Kisses shared between a lover in the woods, or out in the fields. Stories exchanged by firelight. Intricately woven fabrics and paintings that might as well be indistinguishable from real life. So many beautiful things exist within humanity. Maybe he’s been away from it so long he’s forgotten the extent of it.

Would the King of Curses even admit he’s lonely? Or would he be too prideful to admit such a thing?

“You're sad. Why?” He questions.

“Was just thinking about my mother. That's all.” You say. “She wanted me to get married before I…”

You’re mad at her. More mad than you’ve been at anyone in your life. Yet you wish for nothing more than her comfort in this moment. A wound exists that time won't heal. Anger is not productive in fixing it. Anger only makes it worse.

This time, you are the one to initiate the kiss. You wish for it to distract you, but it only amplifies the ache in your chest.

“If you were to lose what little fight you had left in you, then this would no longer be fun,” he says.

You grow used to the ever-present shadow that is Sukuna, talking to the space beside you as if he is there because hell, sometimes he is. He is more than a mere man. He exists on a level different from you or anyone else. Your existence at this temple feels less like confinement and more like living. 

“Will you join me?” He asks one day by the river. 

The two of you sit upon the riverbank, watching as the water swirls below you. Spring snowmelt, combined with a recent storm, has stirred up the river bottom, turning the water murky. What was meant to be a fishing trip has proved unsuccessful.

“I would be lying if I said I haven't grown used to your presence.” He says.

“Don't be getting soft on me,” you say, half joking.

The most emotion you get out of him is an amused sounding huff. 

“I want you to join me,” he says, “not in life as human, but in eternity as a curse.”

“I will,” you say. 

No thought is needed for your answer, nor is there any hesitation on your part. Sukuna simply nods. That is what love is to him. Devotion. Worship. Throwing away your humanity means nothing if humanity is so quick to reject you. 

Gifts begin appearing around the temple after that. Priceless jewelry, and expensive dresses. Hair pins and cosmetics. Seasons pass in what feels like no time at all. Before you know it, your third fall here is quickly approaching. Winter comes and goes—uncharacteristically bitter this year. Spring brings a sense of rebirth. The ground thaws slowly, and plant life is in full bloom. Animal life returns to the surrounding woods, showing signs in every trail around the temple.

A hunting trip brings you further out into the woods than you’ve traveled before. You don't realize you’re nearing a human settlement until you’ve stumbled upon it.

The village has changed drastically in the time you were gone, so much so that you almost don't recognize it. A full blown mill has sprouted up along the river. At least twice as many houses stand now. Years ago this street was little more than a dirt path. Sometime over the years it has been paved over with river stones. Children play in the streets. Men walk home with pails of fish slung over their shoulders. These strangers notice you and pause, returning to their homes quickly. 

Your house remains mostly the same. Age has not been kind to it. One corner of the roof sags, and the wood trim has grown bleached with time. The path up to the front steps is overgrown. Sitting outside, hunched over a wash bin, is your mother.

Her hair is mostly gray now. Wrinkles mark her skin, and her joints are knobby, but you would still consider her beautiful. The face of the woman she once was is still there. The clothes she wears are of rich fabrics, suggesting your family has not hurt for money. Her sturdy figure suggests they never lacked food either.

When she sees you, her eyes grow wet with tears. And it’s as if the weight of the world has lifted off your shoulders. You want to be angry at her. You want to unload years of anger upon her. You want her to feel just a fraction of the fear you've felt. But you can't bring yourself to do it. The look in her eyes tells you she’s felt all the emotions you have.

Her movements are laced with hesitation, as if she’s deciding whether or not you're real. One of her wrinkled hands takes yours. 

“I love you,” she says, “and I am so sorry.”

“I know,” you say.

She invites you in for tea, setting the table up with the nice dishware—the kind she only uses for guests. The interior of the house hasn't changed much. Your room is eerily the same, as if it hasn't been touched since the day you left. Your father’s boots, and hunting coat remain by the door, although they look as if they haven't been moved in years. Makes sense, you think, hunting is a task that grows difficult as you get older. There comes a time in every hunter’s life where they grow old, and it becomes their turn to stay home and tend the fire.

“Where's…?” You never get the chance to finish your question, the solemn look on your mother’s face is enough of an answer.

“He passed,” she says, pausing to think, “two springs ago now? Maybe three.”

Believing you would never see them again, you grieved your parents long ago.This particular grief is like an old wound to you.

“The village looks prosperous,” you comment. A bitter tone clings to your voice.

“Yes,” she says, “the past years have been kind to us. I suppose we have you to thank for that?”

She sits across from you, her eyes still wet with tears. It feels like you are holding a conversation with a stranger. Your mother regards you with a certain weariness she only reserves for strangers. Maybe it would hurt more if you had more room within you for grief.

“He never stopped looking for you, you know,” she says, setting a cup of tea in front of you. “Even after the village held a funeral for you. He never wanted to believe it. Until the day he died, he was out in the woods thinking he could bring you home.”

“I was under the impression I wasn't wanted here.” You say.

“You know that’s not true,” she says. “What happened that night was a result of fear. The elders did what they thought would preserve the safety of everyone.”

“Except for me.” You say.

Fear. Right. To them, you were simply a sacrifice. You drain the last of your tea, standing from the table. Your mother stands as if to stop you, but freezes before she can.

“Does he treat you well?” She asks.

“Yes,” you say.

“Better than any human man?”

“Yes,” you answer, although you can tell she doesn't believe it. 

“Do you love him?” She asks. “Does he love you?”

“I suppose so.” You say. “As much as he is capable of loving something.”

“But do you love him?” She asks again.

“As much as I am capable of doing so, yes.” You answer.

It is not the answer she wants, but the one that is the truth. With her hands folded in her lap, she nods solemnly.

That following night you leave your village not as a human, but as a curse. 

Enough time would pass that the story of a young sacrifice would be forgotten by its people; what would remain, is a tale of a love so infamous that it survived centuries.

[bethanythebogwitch]

Wet Beast Wednesday: oarfish

It's the first Wet Beast Wednesday of the year. A year is a long time, and do you know what else is long? Oarfish! (A+ segue right there). Oarfish are long, skinny, and large fish of the family Regalecidae known for their odd appearances. There are three known species of oarfish in two genera: Agrostichthys parkeri, Regalecus russelii, and the most famous: Regalecus glesne.

(image id: a giant oarfish swimming. It is a long, serpentine fish with silvery skin ands multiple black patches. A short, red dorsal fin runs down its back and a crest of fin rays is on the head. end id)

All oarfish are poorly understood due to their deep-sea habitats leaving it hard to study them in the wild. As such, most information about them is known from rare wild sightings and carcasses. Adults live between 250 and 1000 meters (660 to 3300 ft) down, but larvae are occasional juveniles are found near the surface. Living oarfish that end up near the surface are likely to quickly die of depressurization. All species are long, slender, and scaleless, with elongated fin rays at the leading edge of the dorsal and pectoral fins that result in training crests. Their mouths are small and usually toothless (though some have been found with vestigial teeth) and can protrude outward. This protrusion creates suction, which the oarfish uses to draw food into its mouth. Its diet consists of zooplankton, primarily krill and shrimp, but also jellyfish, squid, small fish, and other crustaceans. They lack swim bladders and likely have to actively swim to maintain their position in the water column. Oarfish are believed to use two kinds of locomotion. They can undulate their whole body or by holding the body straight and moving only the long dorsal fin. Regardless of method, oarfish are not strong swimmers. Many of the vertebrae in the tail are hyper-ossified, meaning they have excess bone growth. This is believed to provide support for the tail as it moves and prevent fractures. It also likely helps control buoyancy. In some specimens, the tail appears to be blunted. This is speculated to be the result of self-amputation. The hypothesis is that the oarfish can drop part of its tail to escape predators. The predator would then go after the tail rather than expend more energy attacking the fleeing fish. The ability to lose a body part like this is called autotomy. While some animals who practice autotomy can regrow the lost body part, there is no evidence that oarfish can regrow their tails. Little is known about oarfish reproduction, but they are presumed to reproduce externally and provide little or no parental care. Larval oarfish float below the ocean's surface and feed on plankton. Juvenile oarfish have occasionally been found swimming at shallow depths. It is not clear how long oarfish development takes or at what point they descend into the deep sea. The lifespan is also unknown. Footage of oarfish in their natural habitat shows that they spend a lot of their time positioned vertically in the water, with their heads facing the surface. This would help them spot prey silhouetted against the sunlit surface of the water.

(image id: a closeup of the head of a giant oarfish lying on sand. The head is indistinct from the body. It has a large, silver eye with black pupil. The mouth is oriented vertically, making it look very odd compared to most fish mouths. The rest on its head and elongated pectoral fin rays are visible. End id)

(image id: four pictures of larval Regalecus russelii. It is of a similar body shape to an adult, but shorter and without pigment. The first fin rays for the head and fin crests are visible. End id. source)

The smallest of the oarfish is Agrostichthys parkeri, sometimes called the streamer fish. Small is a relative term as it can grow up to 3 meters (9.8 ft) long. Unlike the other known oarfish, it has hard nodules on its skin that may help with defense. A. parkeri is the least-well known of the oarfish. Only seven specimens have ever been examined. They have only ever been found in the southern Pacific ocean. The next largest is Regalecus russelii, Russell's oarfish. It can reach 5.4 meters (18 ft) long and is found worldwide along the equator. The largest and most famous species is Regalecus glesne, the giant oarfish. At recorded sizes up to 8 meters (26 ft) and 270 kg (600 lbs) and unconfirmed reported sizes up to 11 meters (36 ft), the giant oarfish is the longest bony fish alive today. Truley the longest of bois. They are found worldwide between the equatorial and polar regions.

(image id: the head of a deceased Agrostichthys parkeri lying on sand. Its head is longer than that of the giant oarfish and the open mouth appears as an extension of the head. end id)

(image id: a juvenile Regalecus russelii found in the great barrier reef. It looks similar to the giant oarfish, but is considerably smaller and its body is a pale blue. end id)

Due to their long, slender bodies, relative rarity, and extreme size, sightings of oarfish are speculated to have been responsible for many sightings of sea serpents. While most sea serpents were described as terrifying monsters that would attack ships, oarfish are completely harmless to humans. The reverse is not the case, as oarfish are occasionally caught as bycatch. There is no commercial fishery for oarfish as their meat is too poor quality to be used as food. One common name for oarfish is "king of herrings". This came from early reports of them apparently swimming amongst schools of herring, with sailors assuming the oarfish were leading the herring. In Japanese mythology, oarfish are known as "Ryūgū-no-tsukai" which translates to "messengers from the palace of the sea god". A bit of Japanese folklore considers oarfish to be harbingers of earthquakes. There is no scientific evidence for any relationship between oarfish and earthquakes, but the belief got boosted after mass strandings of Russel's Oarfish happened in early 2010 and a massive earthquake occurred in 2011. Little is known about the conservation needs of all species of oarfish and no species currently has legal protection.

(image id: 17 people (with more in the background) holding up a deceased giant oarfish to show its scale. end id)

[dazed-and-confused23]

Dear Hearts and Gentle People 8

Summary: Cooper and his wandering trader come across a dangerous wasteland baby, and it's a good thing they're both a little crazy or he didn't think they could pull this off.

Pairings: The Ghoul | Cooper Howard x Female Reader

Warnings. Mhm. None this time? Just a fun Lil chapter

Masterlist

It's the sound of soft chirping that grabs your attention. You've been listening to it for the past ten minutes, and it's only grown louder the further you walk east. You look over your shoulder at Cooper, who rolls his eyes and catches up to you. He thinks that you're too curious for your own good. Shit would get you killed one of the days.

"We ain't gotta check out every sound we hear, smoothskin," He grumbles, but you won't be budged. You unfortunately had a bit of a bleeding heart when it came to animals, and you wouldn't leave this one without help either.

"Just a quick look. If it's fine, then we can go," She assures her ghoulish companion, and Cooper curses the sky, but follows after his smoothskin nonetheless.

You wind around some burnt out buildings and come to a sudden halt when you spot what's been making all the noise. Fear chokes you for half a second as you take in the carcass of a massive deathclaw. It's dark horns curving back and away from its long face, and you recognize it as a female. A dead one.

Cooper grabs you by the collar when you take a step forward, his dark eyes furious as he halts you, "The hell do you think you're doin', girl?"

"It's dead, Cooper," she snapped right back and shrugged out of her jacket, leaving it dangling from the ghoul's hand. You inch forward and peak over the bead body, only to come face to face with the cuties little wasteland baby you'd ever see. Your heart melts at the sight, and you round the carcass to crouch by the baby deathclaw.

"Cooper, it's horns haven't even grown in yet," you coo and watch the sandy colored baby chirp and cry. Its stubby legs waddling closer and closer to where you're crouched. You want to scoop it up and cuddle it close, but you aren't that irresponsible.

The ghoul shuts his eyes and prays to any deity that would listen to give him strength and patience to deal with you today. He closes the distance and squats beside you, eyes narrowed in on the dumb beast that takes two steps before tripping on its tail and falling face first into the sand.

"We should kill it. It won't survive out here without its momma," Cooper says and stands up to draw his side arm, pointing the barrel at the little ones head. The deathclaw is saved by his smoothskin, placing a hand in the weapon and lowering it, and he looks over to see a calculating, shit eating grin playing across your lips.

He knows what you're thinking with just a glance, and a great sigh explodes out of his lungs, "This is a terrible idea, Sweetheart."

You scoff and dig in your backpack, retrieving some wrapped chunks of meat that you toss to the baby. The deathclaw coos and chops or up, and they get a good look at the dangerous teeth inside its tiny mouth. Still hungry, the baby chirps and toddles over to sit in front of you, its reptilian eyes begging for more.

You grin and toss it the rest of the meat, glancing back up to Cooper to see him shaking his head.

"I think it's a wonderful idea," you say and then reach out to carefully pat the baby deatbclaw on the head, "Welcome to the club, Dusty."

*notes.* this was inspired by some lovely fanart by a couple of artists here on Tumblr. I couldn't find their named but I wanted to give credit where credit is due! ❤️*

P.s. I was rereading the Dusty parts of this series and realized that I was also inspired by an old fo3 fic back on fanfic.net. I'm not sure if it's still there, but it was fantastic! Credit if the creator ever sees this!

[crevicedwelling]

I have a kind of bad quality video but don’t even know how to submit it. Do you know why a spider would be “chewing” on its legs? I don’t even know if they can chew, but it was put its legs in its mouthparts one after another, then drawing the length of the leg through while moving its mouthparts (idk if they’re called mandibles), almost EXACTLY like a human eating corn on the cob.

It also might be a zombie. It’s pale and thin like a dried carcass and it has been there for like a month or more. This is the first time I have seen any movement.

Unrelated but for some reason in my head when I read your username it is pronounced like “ceviche”

that’s how spiders clean themselves. if it’s extremely thin with a sort of rod or oval shaped body, probably a pholcid. they’re just shaped like that

[cosmerelists]

If the "Chicken Dinner" Tradition Existed in the Cosmere...

"Chicken dinner" post requested by anon. :)

If you're not familiar with it, this is the "chicken dinner post." Basically, it's a tradition that Someone on the Internet has created, where you and a friend tear apart and eat an entire rotisserie chicken with your bare hands, fighting over it the whole time. Look, the post I linked explains it better.

Anyway, let's say this tradition (and also rotisserie chickens) existed throughout the Cosmere...

1. Sadeas & Dalinar: Firsthand Observations by Jasnah

--There was but a moment of sizing each other up from the edges of the tarp before both men charged directly at the chicken

--Dalinar kept his feet but Sadeas dove and so got the chicken first. He was able to get a few bites in before Dalinar dove onto him from above.

--There is now intense wrestling over the chicken.

--I observe that while Sadeas appears focused on getting as much chicken into his mouth as possible, Dalinar appears to be more focused on pinning his opponent to the mat--I mean, the tarp

--How did both men lose their shirts?

--Dalinar does now have Sadeas pinned, but the chicken is directly in front of Sadeas' head and he is STILL biting at it. I am not convinced that Dalinar has actually consumed any chicken at all.

--Sadeas has at length grown still. Dalinar has picked up the remains of the chicken carcass and is now holding it in both hands while he consumes it over Sadeas' prone form. However, I do observe that the most choice bits of the chicken do appear to have been consumed already--by Sadeas

--If this is a game with a winner, I do not know how to declare it in this case.

2. Tress & Huck: A Post-Chicken-Dinner Conversation

Tress: A-Again, I'm REALLY sorry. Huck: You don't have anything to be sorry about! Tress: Going in, I thought: well, it's just food, and Huck and I are friends, and I don't see why we can't just share the chicken peacefully. Tress: ... Tress: I don't know WHAT came over me! I ripped that chicken apart! I think I was growling at some point! Huck: Can confirm. Tress: A-And, worst of all... Tress: ... Tress: I can't believe I HELD you in one hand and ate the chicken with my other w-while LAUGHING that you were just a tiny helpless rat! Huck: Yeah, I sure hope that didn't awaken anything in me. Tress: ...what? Huck: A-Anyway, I think it was good for you to let go! Be wild and feral! It's probably healthy! Tress: It was...oddly freeing. Huck: That's the spirit!

3. Steris Rates People's Greatest Strength in Chicken Dinner Combat

--Wax: Airtime. Is able to fling himself and the chicken into the air and eat a great deal of it before they both land again

--Wayne: Hand-to-hand technique, lack of fear. Not afraid to get in close and literally eat chicken out of his opponent's hands

--Marasi: Surprising levels of savagry

--MeLaan: Stuck the entire chicken into her body, through her ribs. May be considered cheating

--Myself: No particular strengths. Did create a Chicken Eating Suit out of the same material as a tarp, and did replace the Central Chicken with a Fake Decoy while hiding the Actual Chicken in a place only I knew, thus securing my victory

4. A Series of Drawings by Shallan, Commemorating the 4 v. 1 Chicken Duel

[Adolin running toward the central chicken, alone, while four figures in Shardplate charge in from the opposite side]

[Abrobadar eating a chicken wing in triumph in front of Renarin, who is kneeling on the tarp]

[Kaladin Stormblessed, gloryspen swirling around him, holding up an entire chicken thigh on the end of his spear]

[Adolin sitting on a shouting Jakamov while he, Kaladin, and Renarin share the last of the chicken]

5. An Apology Letter Penned by Valette, To Elend

Dear Elend,

Sazed says that an apology letter is traditional after "something like yesterday." He is helping me write this.

I am sorry that I strangled your fiancée during our chicken dinner bout yesterday. When Shan Elariel grabbed that chicken thigh, I was overcome by an uncontrollable desire to take it from her by any means possible. And though I did win, strangling her while shouting that I was the Queen of Chicken was impolite.

I am also sorry that I punched your brother so many times. Zane was not even supposed to be there, but when he showed up and tried to take a bit out of the chicken while I was holding it, well, something came over me. But when he collapsed next to your still-unconscious fiancée, I did feel a moment of guilt...but only a moment, as I was soon overcome by the delicious Victory Chicken I was enjoying.

Finally, I am sorry that I also attacked your father. He wasn't even trying to get the chicken. But he was there. And he was looking at it. And I feel like the Zane thing was his fault. But I understand that it was probably disconcerting when a small woman covered in chicken juices launched at him suddenly while screaming.

I hope we can still be friends.

Sincerely,

Valette

6. Hoid & Kelsier: A Pre-Chicken-Dinner Conversation

Kelsier: I thought you couldn't eat meat. Hoid: Not if it's from a dead animal, no. Kelsier: And you can't perform violence. Hoid: Nope. Kelsier: ... Kelsier: So what are we even doing here? Hoid: Did you know that I was once challenged to a duel? Kelsier: Why would I know that? Hoid: Do you know what I did? Kelsier: [Looks to the side where Jasnah stands, wearing a giant apron that says "It's Chicken Eatin' Time", eyes glinting] Kelsier: [grins] I do love a fight I can't win...

[nightlyrequiem]

Latrodectus

I. To Be Human

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

AO3

Latrodectus Mactans, otherwise known as the Black Widow, are known for their uncouth treatment of their partners. The 'widow' part of their name stemming from the common occurrence of the female devouring her partner after mating.

Tags/Warnings: Abduction, Violence, Emotional Manipulation, harassment, A Dabble of Psychological Torture, Drugging, Breaking And Entering, Fem!reader

================================================

There is something wrong with Valeria Garza. Something deep inside of her that went unchecked during adolescence and festered into something rotten. While the other children played manhunt in the woods behind the school, Valeria was pulling apart the carcasses of stray animals. Feeding that part of her that desired to know what went on in the inside of a body. A vulture in her own right. She was born without something her peers had, and that set up the perfect breeding ground for resentment. She didn't quite yet understand what it was that made her so different. Or why it, in the eyes of the other children, meant she was undeserving of companionship.

Rarely did Valeria crave the attention or approval of another. Even with her missing pieces Valeria knew she was simply better than the others. It aggravated her to no end that nobody else seemed to understand that. There are, however, four people that Valeria... fixated on. Marie Sanchez lived only five houses down from her. Little Valeria would follow her around the playground. Making vain attempt after vain attempt to gain her affection and friendship. That flame slowly fizzled out once they reached high school and Valeria's idolization of Marie turned into contempt.  

Her puppy love for Marie grew into a rabid, out of control dog that needed to be put down. And put it down she did. If Marie wouldn't be happy with Valeria, then she didn't deserve to be happy at all. Valeria would take any chance she could get to terrorize Marie. Cruel words and rumours whispered from pink painted lips spread around the small school. Valeria's torment didn't end with verbal abuse. She was having a particularly foul week and Marie's existence only agitated her more. Valeria dragged her into the girl's bathroom and whaled on her. Shattering her cheekbone and breaking her nose. She only spent four months in juvie before being released on good behavior.

There are no certain qualities that draw her to a person. She's not sure what it was about you that reeled her in. Perhaps it was the fact that the first time she ever saw you, you were sobbing. The sound being the most beautiful melody to have graced her ears. Her curiosity was sparked, and she kept tabs on you from then on. Checking up on you for her own entertainment. Her passive interest swiftly evolved into an obsessive need. The thought of you affected her so badly that it made her unwell. She got her hands on every bit of information that she could. Past and present social media accounts. Who your friends were, and who you dated. She saved pictures of you and took some of her own. She absorbed whatever she could into her very bloodstream to be a part of your life.

Pictures and information were never enough. She needed to cut you open and carve room for herself behind your ribs. Remove your lungs so she could take every breath for you. Valeria is a busy woman, unfortunately. Leading a drug empire takes up most of her time and as much as she'd like to, she couldn't spend every hour watching you. There are always workarounds to every problem though, and she's nothing if not a problem solver. When she wasn't able to, she'd send someone in her inner circle to tail you. Take note of everything you do. Where you shopped, where you went. What you ate. Who you spoke to.

In her clean, tidy kitchen she carefully slices through a bright red tomato. Off to the side waiting on a plastic plate is a piece of whole grain bread. Fresh lettuce and bits of turkey arranged carefully on top. She grabs the tomato slices and adds them to the mix then places another piece of bread to complete the sandwich. She cleans up. Putting away the rest of the ingredients for later, washing the cutting board, and wiping down the marble counters. She grabs the plate and makes her way through her home. The floor to ceiling windows shows off the scenic view of the mountains in the distance. The sun is setting behind them, giving the tops a halo-like glow and casting golden beams into her home.

The dark wood floors are polished and clean. Swept and vacuumed every day. She continues down the hall towards the stairs leading to the basement. Admiring the few paintings decorating the ivory coloured walls. Some portraying lush, almost fantastical fields of grass and heather and others with more religious tones. She stops at the basement door and fishes through her pocket for the new key. She had recently installed locks on the door. She unlocks it and switches on the light before descending down. She had the space renovated and took some inspiration from Diego's dwelling. Jutting stones make up the walls with sconces to provide a warm yellow glow. Open doorways branch off into other rooms not yet furnished.

She calmly walks down to the end of the hall and stops in front of a different door. She reaches up to feel along the top of the doorframe. Her fingers lightly brush against a small silver key and she grabs it, pulling it down. She unlocks the door and opens it, just barely catching sight of you crouching in the corner like a scared animal, your chain lightly rustling from the sudden movement. The room is mostly bare. A mattress and a toilet are all she has allowed. For her, and of course your safety as well. The chain connecting to a metal collar around your throat is long enough for you to be able to come close to the door and light switch but not further. She made sure the other end was securely bolted to the wall.

She steps inside and gives you a soft smile, even if your continued fearful behavior is starting to grate against her nerves. You don't return her smile, but Valeria knows you will someday. You'll understand that she's doing this because she loves you. She walks up to your bed - a thick double mattress - and sets the plate down. She turns her head to look at you once more. Just the sight of you is enough to make her feel agitated. Like she has to hurt someone to compensate for the feelings that are too big for her body. Your brows are furrowed, and your lips are downturned into a distressed little frown. Despite the fact that she's the reason for your unhappy expression she finds the sight cute.

When Valeria was thirteen, she spent some time around a man who ran an unlicensed animal shelter. He'd collect stray dogs and cats, and sometimes take pets from yards and demand a fee for their return. If their owners couldn't or wouldn't cough up the money, he'd simply... put them down. He taught her a few useful things regarding animals. They'll be scared of you at first. You just have to be patient with dealing with them. Feed them often, meet their basic needs, and they'll begin to warm up to you. Valeria believes this method can be used on people. You don't even look that different to the starving cats that used to hiss at her from the man's metal cages.

She settles down on the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. 

"Today was a long day," She begins. She feels a rush of satisfaction at being able to talk to you. "There was some trouble by the border, I won't bore you with the details, but a little gang was making itself a thorn in my side." She runs a hand through her hair. The bodies of the leader and his enforcers are lying at the bottom of a lake by now. Providing nutrients for an aquatic ecosystem. "I took care of it, of course." She says proudly. She wishes you'd share her pride. That even if you don't understand the intricacies of running a cartel, you'd sidle up to her with stars in your eyes and awe on your face. You should be telling her what a good job she's doing. Instead, you crouch there silently, uninterested and unimpressed.

She wants to stay. To talk to you more but she knows she should probably leave before she gets too overwhelmed. She just adores you so much. So much so that you have infected her. Not even in her dreams can she escape you. A part of her hates you for it. Her mood is more volatile than usual since she met you, and she loses her appetite if she thinks about you too for too long. The only solution is to obtain and keep you.

"Valeria." You say softly. Almost so softly that your voice is lost the stone walls of your enclosure. Valeria hears you though. Valeria will always hear you. Her heart leaps when you say her name.

"Mhm?" She replies. Looking at you intensely. Pupils blown wide. 

"Can... can you please take the collar off?" You ask tentatively. Your voice lowered to an unoffensive volume. Valeria narrows her eyes at you. She's obsessive and certainly 'not all there' by a doctor's standards, but she isn't stupid.

"No." She answers bluntly. You're speaking to her instead of screaming at her which is progress as far as she's concerned.

However, she knows you are nowhere near ready to be freed from the cellar, let alone your collar. Even when you are ready, she'll be sorry to see it go. She takes a perverse reassurance at the sight of you in it. It reminds her that she has you. You seem to mull over your words before speaking.

"It's just the collar... is rubbing against my skin and it's starting to chafe," You murmur. Valeria leans closer to hear you better. Her answer will remain the same, but she will let you finish speaking. "Taking it off for a little bit wouldn't be so bad." Your eyes are wide and glossy.

"I'm not taking the collar off." Valeria says firmly. You look like you're about to continue to try and convince her but something on Valeria's face must dissuade you.

Just like that, your wounded-puppy expression vanishes. Replaced with the dark, brooding look she's more familiar with. Valeria pushes up off the bed and stares down you with half-lidded eyes. She loves you so much. 

"Make sure to eat that." She tells you. Gesturing at the sandwich. "If you throw it at the wall again you won't eat for the next week." She turns and leaves the room. Locking the door behind her. You are her most valuable possession and she's keeping you safe, sound, and accessible. 

[ninxre]

Akatsuki Duos Headcanons!!

⚠️: Sorry if some words come out wrong, English is not my first language, I know quite a bit, but I prefer to use Google Translate from time to time, so sorry again. T-T

ITACHI & KISAME: I have a very strong headcanon that Itachi makes jokes about his traumas, which are surprisingly funny, so much so that Kisame feels bad for laughing at them. Still on the subject of jokes, I believe that Itachi lives with a stoic and neutral expression for most of the day, until Kisame makes the most ridiculous joke and he laughs more than he should, sometimes even Kisame looks at him thinking "Was that really that funny?"

KAKUZU & HIDAN: One headcanon I have in particular regarding Hidan is that he can't read, which is why Kakuzu always reads the maps on missions, and whenever Hidan starts to stress him out too much, he puts the poor man to read it for him, but after the mission, Kakuzu gives him some basic lessons with the greatest patience in the world, like a real sensei.

SASORI & DEIDARA: After completing their missions, Sasori and Deidara have a battle of drawings of each member of Akatsuki, but there is never a winner or loser, because the drawings are always exploded before they are show it to anyone. Another headcanon is that they are always questioning each other's anatomy, Sasori has spent hours looking at Deidara's hands wondering if he has throats instead of veins inside his arm or something like that.

TOBI & DEIDARA: Whenever Deidara has an opportunity to see Tobi's face he takes advantage of it, he has even invited him to a bathroom or tried to break his mask on purpose, but he always fails. Tobi's face will always be the biggest question in his life.

KONAN & PAIN: Even though Konan was protecting Pain, at first, she couldn't look at him properly, seeing the carcass of the boy she loved (Yahiko) being controlled by her friend who was also almost dying (Nagato) It wasn't something easy to deal with, but after a conversation between the two, they became a duo again, they discovered that it wasn't easy for either of them, not even for Konan who saw neither for Nagato who controlled the corpse, and every now and then, she still gets uncomfortable looking at Pain and hates calling her friend that.

AND NO I WILL NOT INCLUDE ZETSU!

dividers credits: @miaupii & @menschenopfer

[heartfullofleeches]

Ough i crave more slasher yan and delivery driver reader,,,,,, ,, got any headcanons about them??

Golden retriever + hell hound energy

• Slasher Yan could kidnap you at any point if they wanted. It'd be a one and done deal with you walking right into their . They enjoy the little games you play and if they take you out of the blue that carefree smile of yours might lose some of its shine.

• When they're in the mood for chatting, they'll leave victims alive just longer to get their massages out. They have them practice for hours before hand and swear if they mess up at all they won't be the only one to die, displaying every family photo they can find for. A knife in their spine usually works, but a little extra motivation never hurts.

• Adds a note for you to draw whatever you want on the box. Your little doodles are the highlight of their day. Somedays they carve them into their victim's carcasses or recreate them with their blood as paint so the whole world (or the police) can see your wonderful art. They engrave the first into the side of their mask and one night while you're waiting for someone to answer the door they scratch their initials in an inconspicuous location on your car so that you're both marked with each other's signature

• There is one house where they answer the door as themselves. Some nobody that no one would miss or bother report missing if anything happens. You're on a first name bases and you've even hugged them a few times when they've had a bad day. It would be so easy to just drag you in away from the life you thought you knew, but alas you have other orders. There's always a few more bills than needed for the food and every time you exchange the goods there's an awkward beat when they refuse to let go of your hand, closing your hand around the stack of paper and sending you off with the same warning.

"Stay safe. You never know what goes on out there. If you ever need a hand, my door's always open. "

[ozzgin]

I also had a Yandere Eyeless Jack meets Y/N as an entity/spirit is very similar to Sadako the ring girl. However, more playful and dangerous. Y/N is different from Sadako or Samara. Y/N wants to play a dreadful games with EJ.

So I did start writing this with Sadako in mind, although I ended up with a more generic kind of reader whose background isn’t very clear. I found the lack of details to be more interesting, since it’s up to you to decide what kind of devilish entity this reader is. It’s also heavily focused on their encounter rather than overall headcanons.

Yandere! Eyeless Jack x Haunting! Reader

Featuring Eyeless Jack and a ghoulish reader that just found a new favorite target. Warning: mentions of violence and death

[Horror Masterlist]

Well, this is awkward. The hooded creature stands before the bed, scalpel in hand, unsure how to proceed. After a moment of consideration he nonchalantly stuffs the blade back into his pocket, clicking his tongue in annoyance. Judging by the stagnant blood that has pooled into the lower half of the body, he’d say the man has been dead for several days. A waste of his evening. Who could’ve gotten here before him? Burglars? He quickly scans the surroundings for clues, but nothing seems amiss.

Just as he ponders on the possible scenarios, a faint knock can be heard from the window. He crawls over and abruptly pulls the curtains, hoping to surprise whoever is on the other side. Pitch black. Now that he thinks about it, isn’t this an attic bedroom? Who could even casually jump over three floors? Besides him, obviously. Jack opens the window and peeks down, but no ladder can be discerned through the murk.

“Wrong guess.” He snaps back and hovers a hand over his pocket, ready to draw his weapon. He can’t quite place the whisper he just heard. A jagged, interrupted voice, like a broken record, echoing in the distance and yet as clear as if it blew right upon his ears. He stares into the darkness before sneaking out of the room. Detective work wasn’t on his list tonight, but alas, he might as well find his new source of fresh organs. Whoever is playing these games better enjoy it while it lasts.

You can sense his frustration and smile to yourself. The previous one was so quick to go. You hoped you could drag it on for longer, but humans have frail hearts. You glance at the decaying carcass and muse over the sunken face with its features distorted in terror. Was it too much? No matter, this one is different. He seems more of a creature than a mortal. Will it make a difference? Oh, you can’t wait to test it yourself. As you stalk his figure in the hallway, you stretch out your fingers and sink your claws into the wallpaper.

Without looking back, Jack plunges his scalpel in the same spot. Your hand remains in place, merely visible fog surrounding the shining piece of metal. For the first time, the creature can see you. You gaze into his endless, cloudy sockets and nod, attempting a greeting gesture. You then switch your focus to your hand and he follows. “That’s…not very useful, is it?” You state plainly. An invisible frown darkens his expression and he pulls out the blade. Statistically speaking, encountering a ghost was the least likely situation. His reaction was by all definitions rational and he does not appreciate your mockery.

Yet tangled up in his anger lies something else. Throbbing, twisting and turning, the vague beginnings of intrigue gnaw at his chest in anticipation. He’s found a rival, or maybe a playmate. Curiosity binds him in place. If it’s amusement you want, he might just provide you with it. Although he won’t make it easy for you. And if he wins, he expects a prize in return. You’ve caught his interest and he will not be leaving empty handed. Can you tell?

A shiver runs down your spine. The smile occupying your face has now widened into a full, harrowing grin. “It’s a deal”, you murmur. The hunter and the hunted. Except no one can tell who plays the roles.

[bleakbittersoul]

Bright out of context

Most of these are sent by me in rp some are sent by some awesome people in the server, and I think only one is from the wiki? Thanks for the help from @reddiamondgamer and @jack-of-amulets for their contributions to this list!

"The fear of spiders is kinda misogynistic."

"I think you'd be much more attractive if you ever got rabies"

"Could you in theory make yourself into jam for me?"

"How is it my fault you can't read minds?"

"Great now I'm thinking about dissections and formaldehyde and now I'm hungry"

"being meguca is suffering…"

"Where is your bathroom? I think I'd like to slam my head against a wall in private"

"This water is chunky"

"I only drink diet water"

"Have you ever gotten mad so you put a fork in someone's microwave and then irish goodbyed?"

"Water on toast"

"If you don't marry me I'm going to start collecting more of your DNA to do unethical science with."

"So if I wanted an audio clip of you meowing you'd do that for me?"

"I know what you're referring to. I don't enjoy fake animal ears. Skin an animal. Wear it's ears. Stop being afraid of commitment."

"I want to lick your eyelid."

"I like your eyes. When I first saw you I wanted to ask if I could keep them when you die but that would have been inappropriate and thankfully I don't have to worry about that. But they are lovely and I do want a bigger collection."

Screaming to wake Clef up and then trying to play it off as if he had a nightmare.

"Scientists don't get bullied enough anymore " after implying some people were baby talking an anomaly.

"I want to peel your face off and eat it it's so cute."

" I once possessed this really attractive girl and then got a job at a Walmart and started relentlessly flirting with you every time you went to Walmart to see if you would cheat on me but you never did"

"I wouldn't mind sucking on your wet hair."

"What if we kissed in the 1996 Teletubbies set "

"I want to scratch your head with my teeth."

"I like waltzes. I also like music that makes me feel like poisoning myself and or others as of right now."

"IT'S NOT A THROW PILLOW UNTIL SOMEONE GETS KNOCKED THE FUCK OUT WITH IT!"

"I'm going to lick your bones."

"I want your warm skin."

"I'll remove part of your intestine and eat it while you watch."

"I WANT TO CHEW ON YOUR FACE!"

"YURRR"

"Uhhuhuhuhuhuh" (like an angry shaken pug fly thing)

"Eyes, aren't right. They need to be improved."

"I don't have the energy to cry hysterically or resurrect you if you die. I'd still do it but it would be significantly less dramatic than it should be."

Heard their partner say "My chest is open for you to lay on" but only heard "My chest is open for you" and immediately assumed he meant for dissection. And when corrected Bright said "You're drawing a line on our love?"

"I like eyes. I have some."

"I don't mean that your eyes are pretty in a collectable kind of way they look good alive and on you…"

“…Don’t you just violently HATE having body parts?”

"My life fucking sucks because they… dont let me play with grenade launcher "

"GOD, FUCKING. BITCH! BECOME A WATERMELON." pause "[INSERT SEVERAL MORE EXPLETIVES]"

"I have two of your teeth. One bloody, one…normal"

“…We should kill MORE children!”

"I WANT THE GRAVESTONE! DO YOU WANT MY TOE TAG?"

[Dr. Bright shows signs of agitation, swearing in several different languages, and throwing equipment about the room.]

"If you ever leave me I'm robbing your fucking grave. And I don't mean that in a normal way. I would be after your organs."

"Oh skin"

"Okay to be fair I've seen screaming trees"

"WHY DO YOU HATE MY HAMSTER!?? WHY DO YOU HATE IT'S EYES??? IT HAS NORMAL EYES!!!"

“Can someone get me a shovel? I just murdered the gender binary and I need it to hide the body.”

"Human life or not I'd eat it."

"You'd make a cute poison victim"

"If I made you hot chocolate, I would make it with love and I wouldn't poison it at all"

"I fucking love carcasses. That's why I love meat, it's like edible taxidermy"

"Would you still love me if whenever someone got hurt in a breach or someone got hurt or people get into a fight I would say and that's how it feels to chew five gum and then look away as if I'm looking at a Camara like a character in the office."

"One heart? ONE HEART?! WHAT AM I YOUR GRANDMOTHER? SOME EASILY APPEASED SIDE PIECE???"

"I want to touch you with my bones."

"Okay, well when you feel better I'll go lick a bathroom doorknob so you can repay the favor."

"Would you still love me if I didn't believe in toothbrushes?"

"You've never had your house set on fire before and it shows…"

"Are you often covered in blood. I've been covered in blood a few times. Interesting feeling isn't it? Almost primal."

"Cute color pattern. Was the theme bio hazard?"

"I'm being haunted by myself right now"

“sorry for going through the entire spectrum of human emotions in the past 10 minutes…. do you still like me? ”

"It's yellow and I wanted to think of something other than piss when I look at it. So egg. Piss egg for the piss baby."

in his most demonic voice "I'M FROM…. NEBRASKA…."

Bright: You know I once made a table set disappear.

Clef:… Did you steal it.

Bright through evil manic laughter: Yes

[tribbetherium]

The Early Rodentocene: 5 million years post-establishment

Hamster Hunter Rise: Squeasels of the Early Rodentocene

In the days of the Early Rodentocene, the hammibals reigned supreme as the planets' primary top predators. Conservative in form, they were anatomically simply larger hamsters, but with sharper teeth and claws, more forward-facing eyes, and an appetite for smaller hamster species--or even their own.

Yet, in the forests and grasslands of Nodera, Easaterra and Westerna, new challengers have emerged that in due time will spell an end to their monopoly of top predator niches. These bushy-tailed relatives of the arboreal peachpitters have, similarly, developed a taste for meat, and begun supplementing their diet first with scavenged carcasses and unattended pups left in nests, before slowly graduating to a more carnivorous diet, preying upon adults of other, smaller hamster species.

Known as the squeasels, these long-bodied hunters would slowly rise in prominence throughout the Early Temperocene, but not quite rivalling the hammibals just yet. However, by this point, they had begun evolving a unique trait that would ultimately give them the upper hand over the hammibals as of the Middle Rodentocene: a set of unique dentition, with sharp pointed incisors, forward-shifted first molars used for shearing off chunks of meat from carcasses, and a wider jaw gape that allowed them to deliver suffocating bites to the throats of prey. Despite their lack of canine teeth, as all rodents do, they modified their pre-existing teeth in order to perform a similar function in attacking, killing, and dismembering their quarry.

The grassland squoat (Sciurumustelamys brevipus) is a typical example of the squeasels, with short legs and a long flexible body that allow it to chase small burrowers down their tunnels and drag them back out to finish them off in the open. Fierce and tenacious hunters, they can even tackle the gouties from time to time, leaping onto the larger herbivores with the goal of inflicting a few deep wounds before retreating. Staying close by and tracking its prey, it strikes again briefly then runs off again each time its prey stops to rest and recover, playing the long game of patience until at last its victim falls from blood loss and exhaustion.

With a wide and varied diet, the squoat also sometimes takes on quarry closer on the family tree: its relatives the peachpitters. These arboreal frugivores are naive and complacent creatures, unfamiliar with predation and unchallenged in the trees, not even bothering to defend their numerous young once they have weaned. Eventually, some opportunistic squoats, seeing the abundance of peachpitters in the trees, eventually started climbing up trunks from time to time to seize an unwary youngster and haul it off to eat. Their close resemblance to the peachpitters also grant it an advantage, as it can sneak among them to hunt undeterred.

Deception as a hunting strategy would be of greater importance to another squeasel species, the long-tailed skab (Procanimus longicaudus). This species, preferring to lie in wait and allow its prey to come close to it instead, uses the twitching of the pale, conspicuous tip of its long, flexible tail as well as very convincing insect-like chirps to draw the attention of small insectivorous prey such as jermas and shrewbils. Baited into approaching within striking distance, the camouflaged skab then pounces, restrains its prey with grasping forepaws and delivers a choking bite to its prey's neck.

More efficient killers than the hammibals, which simply seized their victims and began gnawing away at the struggling and still-living prey, the squeasels would eventually gain the upper hand over their more crude and messy rivals, gradually usurping their monopoly as top predator in the grasslands. But the turning point would be the increasing size of the gouties' descendants, growing larger and larger both to better protect themselves from predators and more efficiently proccess plant matter, which eventually would give rise to the hamtelopes and the cavybaras: prey that were too large for the hammibals to tackle, but the squeasels were able to overpower, even at sizes greater than their own. In time, the squeasels too would become larger predators as well in an arms race with the gouties and its descendants, eventually diverging into multiple predator clades in the Middle Rodentocene. The hammibals would be left behind as small-scale mesopredators, but the squeasels would flourish, with the long-tailed skab giving rise to the scabbers, some of which in the Temperocene become large-scale predators convergent with the zingos, on the small island continent of Mesoterra. The squoat, on the other hand, would diverge into two lineages by the time of the Middle Rodentocene: the ground-dwelling ferrats and the arboreal bossums. From the ferrats would emerge the stocky-bodied, omnivorous badgebears, the feline-like carnohams, and the semi-aquatic searets, the latter of which would eventually become the large marine predators known as the leviahams. The bossums, meanwhile, would remain as arboreal predators, becoming the treegers, the tigerillas and, eventually, the knuckle-walking foldpaws: sworn enemy of the Temperocene's sophont species.

---------

[suryp]

Date: unknown

Year: inconsequential

Region: central Tartyryn straight

The snow crunches beneath our feet, the wind howls like the devil, and while we all show fear, I've reason to think my brothers know not that we walk over a frozen sea, more than 30 metres deep with fish heavier than our entire platoon. I doubt my commander knows, either, but that suits our real mission just fine.

The mission. Ha. Everyone knows the only safe spots for a town are off shore, we've already done the math, there's nothing out here worth finding.

Good thing Commander Reijean is such a greedy fuck, then.

"HALT!"

Thats him right there. Most would say he just wants to prove himself, but I know better. All humans hide their worst traits, tone 'em down for the public. We're all worse than we seem on the outside.

"..."

"whats out their c-"

"shut your trap private, I won't have my skill split be-"

*Crack*

"Mission complete, I suppose"

In an instant, Clark pulled out the rifle on his back. it was cheap shit, like all the gear for this trip was, but He's among the best "weapons guys" I've ever met.

Fortunately, the gun jams, and he vanishes into the blizzard.

"Clark? Buddy? Clark? Clark!"

"Circular formation, weapons up, we are-"

"...Commander?"

Just a few more to go. Our platoon used to be larger, but wandering for days on end through an empty void of ice and snow will take its toll. Just a few weeks ago, we might've won this fight.

Good thing banshees are smart, then.

"SpLit up!"

"Commander?"

"Split Up!"

"h- He's right. we're no more than a larger target like this."

"Just gotta find the right time for it."

Sabotage wasn't the plan, and it leaves a bad taste, but there's nothing for it.

"Now."

"..."

"..."

*Cr'Ack*

"..."

*Crunch*

"..."

And finally, a blood curdling scream cut short, by a few extra holes in the lungs.

I stand up, spread my arms wide, and make myself the most clear and easy target I can."

-...-

Two hours later

The blizzard dies, I see my siblings dead in the snow. Three have a mulch of bone and Metal shards, alongside frozen blood, in place of their heads. Commander has a crushed neck. Charlie's kevlar is punched through, frozen blood all along his chest.

There's a sixth carcass, some ornitherian, I think, though it's hard to tell considering how much was eaten. The ribs are gone, and only Two and a half legs remain.

I begin to walk off. A meal, even the frozen remains of a hippogriff corpse, is the last thing I d-

*crunch*

"..."

"you not fight me. why?"

"..."

"all humans try to kill us. take sea from us. take tyk'yk from us."

"...take egg from us."

"..."

"you not fight. why?"

-

alright thats a wrap! The official intro to Fisher and the Flame and the world of... well, I suppose she doesn't have a real name yet but hey, we can make this work.

for a bit of context regarding appearances, if you need that, "Ornithere" and "Hippogriff" refer to pterosaurian animals, most similar to (and heavily based on) Trollman's "Cuvier's Isle" a small spec one-shot. It does not refer to the serinean animals of the same name.

Banshee are a bit easier to describe, being a rough combination of Utahraptor osstramaysi and a Leopard Seal, very similar to @tales-of-kaimere's *Updated* xuul design, along with the Adzakoordu and the White Cockatrice, as well as the Tamakai.

The narrator, Jake Fisher, is getting a drawing, by someone who appreciates men far more than I.

now go read about kaimere on Keenan Taylors twitter, bluesky, deviantart, and youtube channel, along with trollman's various sickass works on the same websites.

-

edits: minor word changes, removal of unneeded dashes, and Commander is now cishet, because killing the first queer confirmed in story feels a bit too rude.

Reijean is still his name tho, since there has to some reason this unit was sent out.

also added a new tag. sorry y'all.

(im just gonna use the most extreme and broad tags that, since im exceedingly apathetic but do want to tag things correctly)