#foul-carcass

[mayflysdie]

No more. -Ghost FanFic

Story: Simon's wife is kidnapped and tortured, leaving him and 141 to find her. Hopefully before it's too late.

Trigger warnings: Foul language, torture, violence, body fluids, drugs, knives, choking, restraints, dark themes not suited for minors, mentions of pregnancy, bodily harm, a battle with personalities. (tell me if I messed any)

A/N: Haven't edited this yet so excuse the mistakes. I'm also not sure if I'll make a part 2.

When i entered the apartment, something immediately felt off. Like someone made the air thick, and the rooms eerily silent. 

I set my bag down softly, retrieving the combat knife that Simon had given me years ago. My eyes sweep over every shadowy nook and cranny of the apartment, searching for any signs of danger. I'm usually in the habit of leaving the kitchen light on, but it's off tonight - one of the first things I notice upon entering. My phone begins to vibrate in my hand, thankfully I must have forgotten to turn off the silent mode from my earlier meeting. Without looking at the caller ID, I answer it, bringing it up to my ear. 

" Where are you?" Simon's voice is on edge, and it sounds like he's panting. There’s other male voices in the background, it sounds like Price is yelling. 

“Home” I whisper so quietly i’m not sure he could hear me. Or maybe the heartbeat in my ears made it seem that way. 

As I close my eyes for what feels like a mere second, a sudden jolt startles me. The phone is violently knocked out of my trembling hand and a cloth is swiftly placed over my mouth, the stench of chemicals immediately assaulting my senses. My nose and eyes burn with an intensity that is almost unbearable. Fight, do something.

In a moment of panicked instinct, I swing the nearby knife towards the man who had seemingly appeared from the depths of the kitchen, barely managing to nick him in the neck before he grabs hold of my wrist with a vice-like grip. With a sickening crunch, my bones are twisted until I can no longer hold onto the weapon and drop it to the ground, letting out a muffled scream against the suffocating cloth.

Through the hazy fog clouding my mind, I hear Simon's voice growing increasingly distant as he yells through the phone, his words barely registering in my fading consciousness. As my eyes slowly drift shut on their own accord, a sense of numbness begins to envelop my limbs. Simon, Simon please.

The man roughly lifts me up, easily overpowering my weakened attempts at resistance, and I can do nothing but succumb to the darkness creeping in as my consciousness slips away.

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

As my eyes slowly creep open, I become aware of the lingering effects of the drugs coursing through my mind and body. Panic immediately sets in as I realize I am unable to move any part of my body. My heart races as I take in my surroundings - a dark metal room with a pungent odor of iron and decay, like a slaughterhouse filled with rotting carcasses.

I am lying on a cold, hard metal table, shackled down by heavy chains that dig into my skin. 

“it’s an incredible drug, isn’t it?” A deep male voice suddenly echos throughout the room. Coming from the right side of the table, where I can’t turn my head to see them. 

“You can’t move or speak, But… you can feel pain” He chuckles, sounding closer than before. 

Suddenly, something sharp stabs into my arm and I try to cry out in pain, but my body won’t respond. Simon, where are you?

“Mike, turn on the camera would you? It’s time for the show,” he instructed someone else in the room. He grabs my hair roughly and yanks my head to the side, facing him.

Then I notice a tightness around my throat, something cold and hard. is there a chain around my neck? I panic, eyes widening.

the man sees my panic and laughs, tossing his head back as if he’s seeing the best thing in the world. 

“Oh that’s good, I love that expression. I hope Ghost does too” He starts tracing my neck and collar bone with a knife. not yet slicing me, but enough pressure to leave raised, red lines. 

“It’s nothing personal, darling,” his gravelly voice whispers in my ear as he lowers himself closer to me. My body tenses and I want to desperately move away. “But, a life for a life, hm?” He chuckles darkly, his breath hot on my skin. “Unfortunately for you, I plan to make your death slow for him. His precious thing.”

My heart races as he drags the sharp blade down my collar bone, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. A searing pain shoots through my chest as he cuts a deep line between my breasts, and down to my lower abdomen. The knife seems to find its home there, digging deeper with each passing second. I want to scream, to kick and squirm away from the agony, but I am paralyzed.

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

Simon runs into the apartment, gun drawn though he already knows they left. That they got what they came for. A dark pit forms in his stomach, blind fury almost overwhelming him. 

He bends down to pick up your phone, and just stares at it. if only he could’ve called sooner, then this wouldn’t have happened. 

The vow he made when you married; to always protect you, let no harm befall you. 

it rings in his head nonstop, like a broken record. 

Soap and Price slowly walk through the entrance, Price on the phone with Laswell, who’s trying her best to locate you. 

Simon stands up when Soap places a hand on his shoulder, a grim look on his face. “We’ll find the lass”. But his words go in one ear and out the other. 

Price walks into the living room in a hurry, grabbing the tv remote and turning it on. “Simon” He says, and something in his tone makes Simon, and Soap move with haste to see what’s going on. 

Simon's trembling legs nearly give way beneath him as he stumbles towards the couch, reaching out to grab it for support when he sees your face on the television screen. His heart drops to his stomach as he takes in the sight of you, battered and bloody. The camera zooms out, revealing the full extent of your injuries, and that's when bile rises in Simon's throat, threatening to overflow.

He remembers how he used to run his hands across your perfect skin while lying in bed together, or how he would sneak a hand up your shirt while you were cooking and you would just giggle and swat him away with a spoon. He remembers staring into your eyes, like honey pools reflecting all the love in the world. But now they're red and swollen, almost unrecognizable.

Simon rushes to the nearest bathroom, tearing off the balaclava covering his face. He hunches over the toilet as his stomach lurches and empties itself, leaving him dry heaving and gasping for air.

Images from his past come rushing back at full force - bodies, blank stares, all reminders of the darkness that seems to follow him wherever he goes. But you were supposed to be the one good thing in his life. goddamnit, You were supposed to stay.

As Simon stands up and flushes the toilet, trying to steady himself, something catches his eye on the counter. Something white with a blue cap. His mind turns to static as he reaches for it and sees two very obvious red lines.

He slowly walks out of the bathroom, the pregnancy test held tightly in his hand. 

The television screen is now dark and silent, but Price and Soap still stare at it with blank expressions.

Simon closes his eyes, breathing slowly. calming his racing heart, steadying his mind. 

“Simon?” Price calls out, but he ignores him. 

Simon can’t be here.

He's too fragile for this. Too emotional and vulnerable. A man who let himself love and be loved, only to have his world torn apart.

No, what his wife needs now is a ghost. Someone strong and unfeeling, who won't hesitate to do what needs to be done. They took his beloved wife, his reason for living.

And now, he has a child on the way. She’s carrying his child and they’re harming her, hurting his wife and child. 

Not my family, not again.

No.

No.

No. 

This world will burn before something happens to them.

Finally, he opens his eyes, and Price is standing closer than before, his gaze fixed on the pregnancy test in Ghost's hand. His face has gone pale with realization.

“Simon?”

Simon isn’t fucking here. 

[heartfullofleeches]

Maniac

Yans (Nerd, Bully, Student Council) + Dismissive Creep Reader Blurb [G.N All]

Warning: Bullying, mentions of dead animals, violence, death

(An: Never been huge of the school setting but this came up while listening to a song with the same title. If you can guess it you get a cookie)

Creep Reader who's friends with the school punching bag. Saying they're acquaintanced is a bit of a stretch as nerd hangs out with them because nobody bothers them when they sit next to this freak and they dress their wounds, and Creep only tolerates them because they take pictures of every blossoming bruise and cut.

You never offer input in their one-sided conversations, scribbling away in that notebook of yours as they go insane rambling on about what their bullies did that day and how it feels everyone appears to be out to get them. All you ever do with anyone is watch, listen, and write. It's honestly like talking to a brick wall sometimes.... which is why they had no problem accepting the only good advice ever given to them.

"Y'know.... Even if I report this to the principal it wouldn't stop. They'll get suspended for a few days and when they come back - they'll probably just kill you. If you want this to stop, you need to find a new target for them."

A new target...There's only one person more of a freak than them.

"Y/n takes pictures of dead animals."

The rumor spread like wildfire. A tale spun by a sock puppet account and sprinkled throughout the halls. Really, even they weren't sure if the rumor was true or not, but with that camera and your track record it wasn't out of possibility. All eyes were immediately on you. Your phone number was leaked and the threats and queries poured in. People would point at carcasses on the road and make sure you were in earshot when they joked about hoping nobody was taking pictures. They went so far as to sneak a dead bird in your bag when you weren't looking and poured milk on your items when they couldn't find any. They stole your gym clothes, wrote foul things on your desk and locket - but none of them had ever touched you.

As expected, you had no reaction to this. That's the thing your "friend" had always been jealous of you for. So closed off from the world, from the pain it gives. With nobody slamming their head in the lockers anymore, people began to appreciate their talents and hobbies. They made friends. Real ones. They naturally started to drift away from you, but they always stopped when they saw you in the halls.

"Hey, Y/n.... How have you been?"

"Fine."

"None of this is bothering you?..."

"As long as they don't touch me - I'm fine."

All that's where you left the conversation - and your friendship. Your dismissal to it all lead many to give up after a few weeks, but one remained. The same blight on your friend's life since the start of school. Sure, your reactions were lackluster - but they knew they could break you. It was only a matter of time - and you had just given them the key.

"Hey - Freak!"

Your head bounces off the metal door as you're thrown into your locker.

"Can't touch you, huh? The fuck are you going to do about it?"

You rise to your feet, touching the wet spot at the back of your skull. "If we're going to do this, it's better we do it where nobody can see us."

"Ha? - don't want people to see you lose a few teeth? Fine, I got a big game in a few weeks and rather not get expelled before then."

"Sure."

Your former watches as you're lead behind the school. They should do something, call a teacher - but they're too afraid. The weight of the situation falls on them as you disappear from sight. You're going to get hurt and it's all their fault. Your bully cooks up all the things they plan on doing to you, cracking their knuckles and damn near salivating at the thought of seeing your stone face crumple. They're too preoccupied with their threats to notice you pulling something out of your pocket. Their foot falls off the concrete path and into the grassy terrain as they ready their fists, doubling over in pain as pain splits up their side. They vomit spittle and their own words as they look up, metal bars wrapped around your hands.

"what....the fuck."

"Get up."

Gritting their teeth, the bully drags themselves to their feet - back on their knees before they can stand as your fist barrels into their stomach. You grab both sides of their head and ram your knee into the facture scar on their nose. You're unrelenting even as they fall back on their ass, removing your metal knuckles and mounting them as you ball your fists. You weren't ready for a murder charge just let. Over and over, your balled hand cracks against their face and jaw - drawing red with each wet smack. You stop only to switch you your unbruised hand - their arms shooting up in defense.

"please...."

"..."

"stop...."

"Isn't that what people ask you?"

You climb off their battered body, lifting one leg under your arm. "I've studied people for a while. Writing scenarios where I could ruin lives is much better for all of us than actually doing it. I know things about you too... Your family paid off your younger brother's teacher so he got get into that nice college - and you have a full ride... If you can still use both legs."

Tears prick their eyes. They fight to keep them in. This was their future you were playing with. "I'm sorry! I won't hurt anyone again I promise!"

Your grip tightens "I don't care about everyone."

"I won't mess with you anymore!"

They flinch as you drop their leg. "Good." Waking over to your discarded backpack, you retrieve your med kit and camera - dropping down beside them as you remove the lense.

"Smile."

Their eyes burn as the camera flash goes off. You set the camera aside as you open the kit and pull out an alcohol swab - pinning them to the ground as you apply it to their split cheek.

"Ow! The fuck are you doing now?"

"Quiet."

"Get the fuck off me!"

"You have a game in a few weeks, don't you? I don't think I broke anything, but you probably don't want the other team to see you with bruises."

-

The following Monday, your bully greets you all smiles and pleasant as if you were the best of friends. They could do the exact same thing as you and study you like an animal in a zoo to inact their revenge. Anyone who still picked on you quickly turned on their heels when they saw you with their click. They bragged while you were away about how they planned to tear your life to shreds so hard the damage would last long after school. It was going to be the peak of their year -

"Drink this."

"An energy drink? If you wanted to posion me, you could've done it with something better."

"The seal is still intact. No amount of chapstick will fix your dry lips, because you're dehydrated. An athlete should know better than that."

Their fingers instinctly fly to their lips. How did you?.... You did say you had been watching. They didn't know nor understand the full reach of your knowledge until they got a happy birthday message from an unknown number and a speaker ended up in a pool when they were urged to jump in. They had a fear of water since adolescence after nearly drowning at a lake. You never took charge for this acts and mostly blended into the crowd when they happened. You picked up your old hobby of patching their injuries and taking photos as payment. Why were you doing so much for someone who wanted to make you suffer?

"We're friends.... aren't we?"

Huh?

"Besides, if I stick with you, I don't have to look up gore sites anymore - or take pictures of dead animals."

You're such a fucking freak. A freak - that was starting to grow on them.

You became the person they'd look for first during school - when they needed a shoulder to cry on. You rarely offered comfort, but a pat on the shoulders was good enough for them. Their hand would find your shoulder or waist so frequently that rumors began spreading that you were dating - until people found out every touch was met with a light punch to their bruised ribs. They'd just laugh it off and apologize before doing it again an hour later.

Your former friend was having the time of their life - for a while. Something felt... artificial about their new friends. They had a good time at school and when they got together on weekends, but nobody was there for them at any other time. No one to vent to or wish them happy birthday exactly when it turned midnight - like you used you. They missed you. More than anything.

"Hey - give me Y/n's number."

Been a while since they've been in this scenario. Why was your shared bully asking them for your number?

"H-huh? Why?...."

"I had to get a new phone and can't remember the last digits. Stop asking questions and give it to me."

"Okay!"

The bully snatches their phone and punches the number into theirs - eyes softening as the line connects. "Y/n..... What? Of course it's me. I got a new phone. Anyway, I got tickets to that one movie that's coming out this week - the one that got pushed back because the prop knife turned out to be real? You coming or not?... Good."

Your former friend catches their phone as it's tossed back to them - watching their bully walk away with the flush of a middle schooler confessing to their crush. They hadn't been hit at all during the altercation, but their chest hurt hearing your voice after so long away from you - even faintly.

They find you the next day at the top of the roof. It was your favorite hiding place, and the only one your bully hadn't found yet. They sit quietly beside you.

"How have you been?..."

"Fine..."

They purse their lips together. "What...did you do to make them stop?"

"Put them in their place."

"What do you mean by that?"

You point your camera at the passing crowd. "At our age, people only have as much power as you give them. If you stand your ground they'll typically back down, and if they don't - you beat the to a pulp and ruin their families lives."

Your friend can't stop the tears from flowing. You had always been the strong one, that they knew - but how could you handle things so easily? How could they betray you like that? Their only companion in this world - thrown to the wolves when you should've been their for each other.

"It was you wasn't it?"

You stand up.

"Stay away from me."

They reach out to grab you - mend the tattered strings of your friendship. "Don't leave me. I did it, okay? I did it, and I'm so so sorry. Y/n, please forgive me - I couldn't take it anymore. I'd go back to the way things were if it meant you were still with me. Please, Y/n, I'm in lo-"

Their vision blanks, speckles of blood littering the ground floor from their split lip. You lower your hand back down to your camera.

"Don't lie to me. Or yourself like that."

It hurts... Everything hurts.... Still, they smile - showing you the bloodied whites of their teeth.

""ahhh.... Y/n, I'm... I'm bleeding. Don't you want to take a picture of me? Aren't I still beautiful to you? Aren't I good enough?"

You don't grace them with a reply, walking off as they curl into themself. It hurts - their mouth is numb, but it hurts all over. Please, come back. Let them their their head on your shoulder until the pain goes away. Y/n... Please.

"I'm sorry...."

"But are you really though?"

They cover their ears with their hands. Shut up. Go away. If they'd done their job probably - none of these would've happened. The student council president. The worthless coward didn't even have the courage to come themself. Just another lackey doing their bidding.

"Leave me alone."

"Ugh, you're so whiny. This is what you wanted, isn't it?"

"I just wanted I break - I didn't mean to hurt them."

"Yea, yeah that's what your like always says. Misery sure does love company, though. I genuinely don't see what the prez likes about that fucking creep. They're wasting their time and blood for them."

Shut up. "Don't talking about Y/n like that?"

"But you had no problem with it when it was for benefit. What did you call them? A psychopath?"

"I didn't have anywhere else to go....."

"Keep telling yourself that. I can't decide who'd I'd take more - the backstabber, or the maniac."

"SHUT UP!"

-

Walking down the steps to the first floor, you crash into someone skipping their way in the same direction.

"Ah - Y/n!" The student council president grins, picking up your fallen camera. "Good morning, good morning! And how are you doing ok this lovely day?"

"Fine."

"Faaaantastic." They point at their cheek sweeping blood on the shell of your camera. "As you can see here, I had a little bitty accident in my culinary class. I'm such a clutz, aren't I? If you give me one of those cute bandages, I'll take a picture of this cut and smile real pretty for ya!"

"Whatever." The president hums as you fish around in your bag, smiling big for their future spouse - deleting as many pictures as they can of others in that short time. If only they hadn't been out sick when the rumors spread. Then maybe you wouldn't be on that awful bully's arm and in theirs instead. They refused to let this little setback running your future together. After all, they were willing to bleed for you on their own Accord unlike everyone else in your album.

Unfortunately, they were upstaged once again - but their own council member too. They frown as the screams begin. They spit on the floor as blood splatters across the windows.

Couldn't go kill yourself somewhere else?

-

At the rooftop, panic takes flight. No no no... They didn't mean to do it. Their hands flew out before their brain could tell them no. The blood pools like a broken jug. A crowd surrounds the body. Nobody can see them from their place on the roof floor, but they can see everyone. A figure wearing a jacket that was once theirs, dyed with their blood and tears. The camera that hangs around that person's neck. The shutter of the lense. They laugh - finally understanding what they had to do to get you back.

You really did like taking pictures of dead animals afterall....

[missile-silo]

Malenia is stagnation in the way that abandoned buildings are stagnant, flooded and filled with foul water and unable to fulfil the purpose they are meant to perform. She’s a carcass at the base of a spring, polluting the waters so that any who drink become sick in the same way that the carcass died. Shes the core of an apple left in a room until fruit flies spawn and feast. She’s the carrion meat that vultures eat.

Miquella is stagnation in the way that politicians are stagnant, talking the big talk until they get into power and find out that the institution they were placed in control of was diseased from the start, and that no amount of change can undo that. He’s industrial waste, any progress he makes, any good things to come from him, eventually wither and die under the polluting smog he creates. He’s a flower rotting away in a vase, still pretty and nice smelling, but the stalk is brown and the water is murky. He’s the polar bear liver, unable to be eaten by anything.

Malenia is stagnation borne of nature. Miquella is stagnation borne of progress.

[dragongirlpoet]

Dark Signs

Part II

<Read Part I here>

Alucard x female reader

Synopsis: You asked Alucard for a favour. Now you have to be careful what you wished for. (3.5k words) "To be born a dhampir is to be born a monster" - Vampire Hunter D

TW: Dark fantasy, horror & gore elements, blood, SMUT (Alucard is feral in this one) Explicit 🔞

Here's hoping you'll enjoy this too! Sorry it took longer than expected, I was unwell and didn't want to put out a story I wasn't proud of. Thank you for reading!

Also to @skychaser777 hope you can sleep after this 😉

The hollow stone walls echoed my shaky breaths, caving them in, the thumping of my heart violent in my ears. My skin was pricked with goosebumps, foreboding dire dwellings. 

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Absurd question, considering everything was inherently far from right. 

There had only been one instance where I felt unsafe with Adrian. 

Located in the underbelly of Wallachia was a forgotten catacomb, a labyrinth where the dead and undead alike convened. I had been extracting bile from slaughtered night creatures, told to render powerful salves when mixed with mint, myrrh and…other herbs. 

Body sticky with sweat and hands grimy from reaching into revolting guts, I was almost to my fifth vial when a guttural growl stopped me dead in my tracks. 

From the marrows of a tunnel, a numbing cold, laced with strangled gnawing, reverberated through the passageways.

Every fibre of my being told me to run, alas I had all but the impudence of a child. Unsheathing my iron dagger, ensorcelled to wound even the most vile, I treaded warily towards my impending doom.  

The sight that awaited me was sickening. Crouched over bodies upon bodies of night creatures was a pallid, mangled man? His face was buried in their carcasses, marring at their flesh, lapping at their blood. 

Before I could take another breath, the man turned, face smeared with ravaged viscera and foul, curdled blood. He had hair like the purest wisps of wheat and eyes like dark, desecrated graves. 

I choked back a gasp.

“You foolish, foolish girl. You are not prepared for the evil that lurks here, feeds here..” his bellow was deafening, diabolical. Blood spilled from his fangs, splaying his torso tainted with innards and rotten flesh.

“Wh..who are…you?” I paced backwards as he stalked towards me.

“You don’t know who I am? Most fascinating…” he offered a smile so sinister, as if he had stumbled upon the most naive of fools he was soon to devour.

“I am the sun…rain…the darkness. I am sin made flesh and I am whom you should most fear. I am Alucard, son of Vlad Dracula Tepes.”

A loud “smash” rattled through the room as I retreated into our wooden dresser, knocking over a prized hourglass Alucard so often used to practise his script. The pair of glowering molten eyes trailed me — never blinking, burning caverns into my soul. 

I shifted my gaze downwards to avoid stepping into glass, but that was regrettably the least of my worries. Lifting my stare, those eyes were gone — quick as spectres passing through dimensions. 

Our chamber fell into a boundless black, and my human sight could not adjust acutely enough to the darkness. I flailed my arms about willing to grasp onto anything that could give me some bearing. Anxiety crept through me like poison ivy ensnaring a forsaken home. 

“Adrian? Stop this please! This isn’t funny.” The volatile rhythm of my heart suddenly became too loud, too unbearable. 

No amount of breaths could repress my violent trembling. A faint flicker from the corner caught my eye — Alucard’s heirloom sword. If his magical estoc was there…he is still in the room with me. 

The hairs on my arms shot up, little by little.

Out of nowhere, forceful, ice cold hands prised around my throat, yanking me out of my state of terror. From behind, Alucard, voice grave like a thousand infernal souls, growled into my ear, 

“Do you understand the gravity of what you’re asking?”

Whether it was fear or the vice-like grip around my neck, I couldn’t speak.

“Answer me.” 

He clamped tighter.

”Ye…yesss,” I wasn’t telling a lie. 

“Then let’s finish what we started, shall we?”

One minute I was in Alucard’s death grip, the next I was shoved, hard, into the stone wall, my face chafing against the abrasive mortar. I winced at the pain.

“You’re hurting me, Adrian!” 

Behind, he tightened his grip on my wrists, binding them into the small of my back. 

“Am I? Ohh…but you like danger, don’t you?...His other hand reached down to unfasten his pants, his erect cock sliding out… “You are drawn to the darkness, just as I am.” 

He trailed the words up and down my neck, pausing ever so subtly to savour the scent of blood in my veins. 

A small bead of sweat started trickling down my face…no, no, it was blood — from my collision with the wall.

Alucard went eerily still again. I felt a shift in his countenance, like a malevolent cloud obliterating sunshine. 

He was hungry.

With one knee, he forced my legs apart and hauled my nightdress up, my backside fully exposed. I could feel the tip of his length against my rear — throbbing, impatient. He snaked his hands all over my naked body, grabbing at my breasts, digging into my thighs. 

The scent of my blood set his every carnal need aflame. 

Adrian had always been prudent — he would excuse himself at the slightest scent of my exposed blood, isolating himself in the castle dungeons for hours, as if he deserved it. Deserved to be punished for his beastly urges, deserved to be condemned for being born a monster. 

Every blood-month I had would send him away for days — “I don’t want to hurt you. You’ve seen what I become when I feed… I’ll just be hunting, it’d be just a few days, and your cycle would end when I’m back,” he would say with a smile. A sad smile.

And I was utterly tired and heartbroken that my Adrian, so kind and full of love, would admonish himself, rip his spirit to shreds, for a fate that had been unfairly handed to him. I was going to end this, tonight.

Alucard nuzzled his face into my hair, taking in all my smells, heaving. His body was unyielding against mine — elegant marble against bewitching velvet. I could hear his vampiric heartbeat ringing in his ears, drowning out all sense of reason. He was an animal in heat. 

“You know I cannot control myself around you. And you know what your blood does to me… Do you know how long I haven’t fed?” 

His writhing cock was brandishing my cunt, starving for my hole.

“Do you know I think about what it’s like to have your blood in my veins? How much I want it, need it, desire it. 

How much I want my blood in you. And you ask this of me, tonight, when I’m sitting at the precipice of hunger and lust…”

There was a sharp intake of breath. 

“Hmmm you don’t know what’s coming for you. Once I do this there’s no turning back. 

Do you know how long I’ve been holding out for you? To be better for you. And now you ask this of me…”

At that he yanked at my hair, forcing my head to fall back. The red trace on my cheeks bowed complete to his mercy. 

Staring defiantly into his eyes, I said, “Do it, Adrian. I want you to.” 

Danger, danger.

A devious smile tugged at his lips. Alucard skimmed my neck with his mouth, bruising it with reckless kisses and parlous nips. He moved precariously to suck at the aquamarine veins running down my breasts, licking slow circles about my nipples. He was a wolf dallying with his food. 

A true vampire, hedonistic even in the slightest of pursuits, moving inevitably to the blood trail. He had waited so long for this. 

Alucard pushed his lips delicately into my face, afraid of spilling even the smallest of drops. My blood was a sacred river, a bath of worship he would praise forever. Shaking, he ravened the scarlet off my face, sucking at the open cut, willing for more. 

He was a mixture of muffled moans and enthralled ecstacy.

It was exhaultant. I adored being able to give Adrian what he most craved. 

Drinking in more than necessary, the whites of his eyes were no longer — entire sockets now overtaken with crepuscular crypts darker than the blood moon that hung outside.

Alucard’s cock twitched beneath me, length growing harder and bigger by the second. Grunting, he pumped his sex and slid it against my pussy. I was light-headed with anticipation, but he had merely fondled my folds, prodding at my entrance, testing to see how wet I was.

Perhaps he had been right. Perhaps a dissolute part of me yearned for the darkness, but what I’d wanted most of all was to know that I had years, centuries — immortality, to be with Adrian. 

Head over my shoulder with eyes like lacquered obsidians, he interlaced his fingers with mine, bringing them down to press at my clit. Flagging off from my most sensitive spot, he traced them up my body, slowly, torturously. 

“I wonder…” fingers caressing my abdomen… “how far up…” I gasped as he adjusted them higher… “my cock will go when I’m deep inside you…” Alas settling on a spot above my navel.

A sacred river spawned between my legs. 

Incapable of restraint any longer, I reached back to stroke his shaft, thumb stimulating his tip until his pre-load creamed my fingers. I lathered his fluids, relishing in the feel of his hallowed flesh tethered to my hands. 

“Fuuuck.” Alucard bristled against my touch, face buried in my neck. Below, he was thrusting at my entrance, not yet entering, readying me for his carnal devotion. 

”Adrian please, I need you. I want you inside…”  

His last thread of resolve snapped. He rammed his boner into me from behind, stretching me, engulfing me. My tender walls were a haven to his brutal thrusts, welcoming him in. Cock barely to his hilt, he spread my bottocks apart, plunging his engorged member in. 

“Ahh…ahh…” I whimpered, hands braced on the wall. 

“How are you still so tight…” he hissed, enraged he couldn’t yet feel all of me.

My fingers weaved into his hair, tugging as I leaned further back into him. This feral urge, I craved it. It was scarce enough to satiate the searing lust in me, so I ground impiously against his length like the unholy girl he wanted me to be. 

Tonight, he was to have his way. He was the nefarious overlord and I was but a malleable zealot. My hips were firmly held down by his hands — he wanted to control my rhythm. I was, afterall, his submissive little prey. 

Alucard forced his cum-stained fingers into my mouth, swirling them about the insides of my cheeks, wresting in and out of my plush lips. I licked at them greedily, suckling on his taste. He was so deft — hands and length penetrating me in a lyrical sync, sating me above and below.

I gagged when he stuck his fingers further down, my throat wedging tight. Tears rimmed my eyes but I continued hollowing my cheeks, head bobbing. “Such a good girl…” praising as he brushed hair off my face. I was to appear immaculate while being fucked indecent.

Hypnotised by his bulge assaulting my hole, I bit sinfully on his index, tearing his skin. He pulled out from my mouth, eyes transfixed on the blot of blood. 

“You’re being a naughty little lamb tonight…” His smile was insidious, like a serpent suffocating its meal.

My vampire smothered his blood over my parted lips. My tongue grazed over it, wiping it clean like I was the one writhing in blood lust. What I did had Alucard under a powerful spell. He plummeted his smug into me, our kisses heedless, crashing into each other in depraved lust. 

We sucked and bit them swollen, both of us unrestrained and shameless of our monstrous love. Under, he continued hammering his heat into me, hand pushing my cunt back to swallow more of him.

Alucard was never one to trifle with a perfect opportunity. Hands at his favourite spot, he rubbed his digits forcefully at all the places his cock didn’t already fill. My knees buckled at once from overstimulation. 

“Stay.” He landed a firm smack onto my soaking sex… “Still.”

“Or I won’t let you cum.” An order.

He bent me over, my backside raised to allow him easy entry. I compelled my wobbly legs to stand, muscles quivering at my bones.

“Good. Hands on the wall.” 

Like his obedient little lamb, I hoisted my arms on the cold stone, squeezing taut around my feral wolf.

I was begging, moaning his name, my being in complete disarray.

Content with how tight I was clenching around his shaft, Alucard drove his erection mercilessly into me, pounding so hard I was lifted off the ground. 

I cried out in pleasure and pain. “Adrian! Adrian please…”

“You like it when I’m rough with you, baby? You want me to turn you, and fucking you senseless comes with it,” he spat in between thrusts, dragging hair away from my ears to ascertain I could hear him loud and clear. 

I was so deliciously filled my lewdness spilled out onto my legs. Paths of sweet nectar trickled down my trembling thighs, glazing his girth with my wicked desire. 

I was so close.

Smelling my arousal and imminent climax, Alucard slammed faster into me, his own pace losing cadence. 

We were so close. 

He had everything timed perfectly. Just as he had countless times before — night creatures and wild animals — all unsuspecting pawns to his blood thirst. He was adept at hiding his deplorable little secret, but I knew better. 

Fangs fully exposed, he grazed them masterfully over my neck, humming at my veins and arteries. Quite like a skilled chef discerning food, he was choosing which would taste most exquisite. My scarlet vessels were pulsing in tempo with my heartbeat — palpitating, quivering, waiting.

“Are you frightened? I can feel your terror in my bones…” villainy laced his snarl like a wolf finally rid of sheep’s clothing. 

I had to inhale gulps of air to articulate my words, “No….” But what I said or what I thought mattered no longer. Gone was Adrian — human, moral, benign. A bestial, debased monster, instead, all consumed him. 

Soulless eyes searched me once more, as if to forewarn me about my perilous decision, as if the human in him was straining to break free of his chains to stop this atrocity.

There was no turning back now.

I offered my neck to him, reckless, bloodstreams on full display. At last, with Alucard’s throbbing cock still stuffed full inside, I felt the firestorm in my core and the crushing torrent soon overcame me. 

My release tonight felt different — cathartic. I was once again the delicate driftwood being dragged underwater — careless, aimless, going where the current took me. My limbs fell limp at my sides, my spirit devoid of vigour. And I knew why. 

Alucard’s fangs were buried in my neck, drinking my blood as if a divine offering. When did he bite me? I felt no pain, only a rapture so heavenly I ached for more. 

And so drink he did. Rivers of blood coated his lips, crimson tributaries surging down his throat. He sucked and lapped at my vital spark, clawing at my body so arduously as if I was the most cherished jewel of immeasurable value. 

Like a vampire deprived of debauchery, he drank me in like sweet sin. He had no beginning and no end. And rightfully so. I was profoundly proud of my Adrian. At long last, he no longer had to be ashamed of who he was. He was liberated. He was free. 

My racing heart was now a supine hum. I lay naked — pliant and frozen in his arms. The sleepy swell of the ocean lulled me into the black nothingness. I was rising and falling, so in harmony with the current.

Above, hazy sunbeams fractioned the waves like sparkling diamond necklaces. Beneath, the sombre abyss tugged at my essence, diffusing all manner of light. The ominous depth, though a macabre embrace, was one so full of promise. It was beckoning to me, calling my name — stay, stay, stay…

—

I awoke to a pall of infinite blackness. 

I had been dreaming. There were shadows — silhouettes, of people I couldn’t quite make out. They were whispering, a sonnet of hurried voices, as if going somewhere, but nowhere at the same time. Then there was a lambent flame — the colour of pale amber, always in the distance but never near. Always tailing, always watching…

Where was I? 

I could see nothing, hear nothing. I shifted slightly, and my shoulders were met by cool textile — silk? As more of my senses reconciled, I felt the mattress below me, a satiny divan not reminiscent of my bed. Muted was the air, hollow was the roof, and

…algid was my skin. 

I was in a coffin.  

Panic coiled through the ridges of my ribs, puncturing my heart like lethal thorns. I clawed and pounded at the wood…was I buried alive?

Alas, like the caves of hell being vaquished by divine light, the casket slid open, and I clambered onto a sprawling granite floor. I was heaving, frantic to take in air, clamouring at my chest as if ghostly hands were crushing my heart, splintering my valves. 

Where was Adrian?

A succession of torches adorned the upper vaults, the mellow ebb of light suddenly becoming glaring to my eyes, as if I had been staring directly at the sun. I could make out the phosphorescent ripples and saffron hues that wreathed the flames. 

The air smelled vaguely of mildew and crumbling concrete, while the scampering of rodents in between masonry thundered in my ears. I could hear them squeaking, the sounds of their bones compressing while they squeezed through cracks and crevices. 

I could hear their heartbeats — tiny surges of blood in their capillaries. 

Such fragile little things, I wonder what they’d feel when they’re crushed by the force of my teeth. If they’d feel pain, if any at all, as I drain them dry…

I was so, so hungry. 

My awareness had heightened ten-fold, the anarchy of it all confounding whatever human that was left in me. The sensation of everything all at once was too much to bear and I covered my ears to drown out the distress. 

Futile efforts indeed. 

“Adrian? Adrian…” My voice hoarse from wheezing.

Was this what he had to endure? Being so akin with the presence of entirety, enough to render one insane. Was this why he had been so loath to turn me?

I hauled myself off the ground, bidding my legs to what looked to be a door. Scarce a blink had passed than I was face to face with a metal threshold — intricate lineations etched faintly onto the frame. 

“Willing blood of the Raven Maiden,” — Enochian, words of ancient bygone, but Adrian and I had been avid philologists.

I didn’t concern myself with whether the translation had in fact referred to my blood, but I sank my fangs — a lurid extension — into my wrist and smeared them over the threshold. 

The magicked portal transported me to a bed chamber, a former bed chamber, now resembling the crux of a dense forest.

Creepers cleaved through stone, while poison vines slivered across furniture. Rich moss clung to the bed frame, eating away at the tulle canopy, embedding itself into rotted linen.

That chaise…it was ours. 

Horror flooded my senses as I glanced furtively around. 

Our armoire, our settee, our desk. 

Strewn across the floor, some shredded by tree roots dissecting the wooden panelling, lay stacks of disintegrating parchment like remnants of forgotten lore.

Vampiric speed overtaking, my eyes scanned the moth-eaten pages over. 

“Come back to me.”

“Come back to me.”

“Come back to me.”

I choked on my tears. 

“To be born a dhampir is to be born a monster.”

They fell like glass, shattering on the ink, eroding the paper more.

How long had I been asleep for?

“No, no, no…”  I wept into the emptiness, anguish imprisoning my lungs, blocking off air. In spite of being undead, I had a heart, and it bled — it bled crimson, pain and grief. It bled with all the words I wished I could take back. 

It bled with all the ache that I might never see Adrian again. 

I scoured the castle. Every tower, every room, every dungeon, each a shell of its former mirth. The scenes ran parallel  — overgrown foliage, wrecked furnishings, pillars atrophied by decay. Our home had been eaten away by the curse of time. There was no sign of life, no essence of Adrian. 

With a threshing hole in my heart, I raced past the lattice of abandon toward the main doors. As the iron portcullis lifted, I recoiled at the hell that awaited me. 

There, in the blistering winter, impaled upon rows and rows of stakes, dangled festering corpses of night creatures…and humans. 

What have I done?

Part I

[lady06reaper]

Requests you ask for 👀.

I shall give. Viking x Reader

Where said character(s) react to their wife having to defend their children from a bear/forest creature. And easily defeating it. Going from complete deadly killer to momma bear who's hugging her sweet children close.

Love a feral momma bear. - marshmellow

So I really only see this prompt as Bjorn and Ubbe with the kid part BUT since Ivar has a special place in my heart I'll write him with kids as well

HOW THE RAGNARSONS REACT TO YOU FENDING OFF A CRITTER TO SAVE YOUR CHILDREN

THIS IS THE LOOK YOU GET YOU AND YOU CHILDREN ARE STRUGGLING TO HAUL A BEAR CARCASS TO KATTEGAT

LIKE WHAT!?

Bjorn was definitely worried, like why was his beloved and their children carrying a dead bear? Are yall alright?!

"Wife! Are you okay? What happened?" Bjorn rose from his seat on the porch and ran over to you and your kin.

You huffed and threw the bear's head and front arms down to the ground, your kids followed suit and laid down on the ground with the dead bear.

"What happened, Bjorn, is that we were hunting and this foul, loathsome, lowlife, bear thought he could harm us. Jokes on it, we're having a feast tonight!" You roared so all of Kattegat could hear you, everyone around cheered in delight.

"That is quite a feat Y/N," Bjorn looked down at the bear and got a thought. He took your hand and led you up on the porch of the great hall, your children followed their dad up there with you. "Everyone, I would like to introduce you to my wife once more as Y/N Bear-Killer!" Bjorn raised your hand up with his as everyone celebrated and congratulated you. Your kids hugged your legs as their congratulations to you, you bent down and embraced them. Everyone, including the woodland critters, knew now not to mess with you, especially your children.

Out of the corner of Ubbe's eye he saw you and your children hauling a moose in a pull wagon... or at least trying to

First of all, you didn't have the pull wagon when you left so when did you come back and grab it?

Second, WHERE THE HELL DID THE DEAD MOOSE COME FROM?!

He had to do a double take on it to make sure it wasn't an illusion by the Trickster God Loki

"Love! What happened? Are you and the children alright?" You sighed and dropped the handles to the cart, the moose slid off of it to the ground. Your children were small enough to sit in the moose's antler, so sit they did, tired from helping their momma.

"I'm fine, nothing but a long soak with herbs won't fix. But this here moose is obviously not alright for it is dead, a punishment for attempting to hurt us," You stretched out your sore and tired muscles, that soak was really starting to sound good.

"Oh my brave, yet crazy wife, I'm glad you are alright, but when did you get the pull cart?"

"Oh that? We borrowed it from a farmer nearby, by the time we would've came here and back to the carcass it would've been already claimed by the wolves," you shrugged as if it was self-explanatory. You beckoned your kids over to you by kneeling and opening your arms, they ran towards you and as soon as they reached you, you picked them up in your arms. "Now, if you'll excuse me, your very strong children and I would like a bath and a nap. Go ahead and clean the moose, we feast tonight."

You turned on your heel and walked towards the long house, leaving a shocked Ubbe staring at your back. Did all of that really just happen?

I feel like Ivar would get horny if he knew you took down a huge ass wolf (which explains the second pic)

like the first one is "Wow, my wife took down that wolf, who's almost as big as Fenrir? Damn that's hot"

The wolf slung across your shoulders was heavy, but you had no other means of carrying it, and the pelt would make a nice cloak or blanket for your kin. You walked through Kattegat with your child in tow, they were concerned for your wellbeing, but you assured them you were fine. Ivar watched as you hauled the wolf up to the long house, not bothering to get up knowing you were as strong as Freyja. You dropped the wolf at his feet and fell into his open arms and lap.

" It seems you had an eventful hunt, love," Ivar wrapped his arms around your waist, but before he could get comfortable your child crawled up into your lap, it's a good thing Ivar can't feel your combined weight, only the presence.

"Yes, indeed we did, what do you think little one? Should we use the pelt as a blanket, or turn it into a cloak?" The child pondered before saying their answer. "Blanket it is then," you kissed their forehead and let them go. "Now run along and go get Uncle Bjorn, he'll help you turn the wolf into a nice blanket." You smiled as they slid down Ivars legs and ran to get Bjorn.

"Are you alright my love?" Ivar looked over your upper body as he rubbed circles into your lower back.

"Yes, husband, nothing like a good back massage won't fix," you leaned into his touch, being comforted by Ivar was definitely something you needed right now. Ivar gave you a mischievous look through his eyelashes.

"Instead of a massage," he started. "How about I break your back?"

[evolutionsvoid]

Anything can be an ecosystem, it is just a matter of nutrients and consistency. So often we think that habitats are things that only exist outside our walls, where civilization hasn't fully taken hold. Some folk think we sapient species live completely separate from the natural world, that our lands are omitted from everything else. To them, there is a clear line between what is "nature" and what is "civilization" and once you cross those boundaries, the other ceases to be. But in truth, it is all connected, and our homes are a part of the system like everything else. A city may seem vastly different from any other habitat on the planet, but it is still an ecosystem nonetheless. We are but the fauna running about within, and one of the species that thrives in it. And to the shock of some, there are other creatures that do incredibly well in these man-made habitats, finding living within them just as comfortable as we do.

Sewers and dumps don't seem like much but areas of pure filth, but there is still nutrients to be found. Just because we don't eat the stuff doesn't mean it is useless. Look at the dung beetle, an insect that lives off of fecal matter. While a sewer would be a vile land for us, it would be a paradise to such a coprophage. Things in the wild feed off of waste, it is a natural thing. So when we make areas that are nothing but filth, then some species flock to it, seeing an endless buffet. The Otyugh is one such creature.

When one first sees an Otyugh (probably in illustration over real life), it may be hard to wrap your head around what it actually is. The anatomy seems all over, with arms, legs and heads starting to blur together. Some would claim they are a three-legged species with two tendril arms and a large eye stalk, which is an understandable mistake. The Otyugh is hard to decipher as it moves and feeds, and its anatomy changes depending on the situation. In truth, it is actually a large echinoderm, one that possesses six limbs. Two of these arms are sensory, while the other four are designed for feeding, manipulation and moving. All six have sensory organs for smelling and tasting the world around them, but only two have prominent eyes. These organs are much stronger on these limbs, versus the crude eyes on the others that can only tell between light and dark. All arms work together to help the creature move and feed, though hunting for food isn't exactly a challenge for an Otyugh.

As I made clear, this species is one that feeds entirely on waste, finding poop and filth quite delicious. It isn't just feces, it is anything rotting, foul and discarded that they eat. Their central mouth is a complex arrangement of grinding plates, shredding teeth and potent acid, all designed to consume absolutely everything that gets shoveled in. They are the cleanup crew of the world, like all scavengers, and will erase any detritus or corpse that has been left behind. They are practically immune to poison and disease, devouring plague ridden carcasses without worry. They are essential creatures to areas rife with rot, which is why they have found their way to humanity's sewers.

Otyugh are a species that originally relied on dragons and other megafauna to survive. Their vast amounts of waste gave the Otyugh sustenance, and thus they were commonly found near dragon lairs. Small creatures don't offer enough for such large beasts, but that changed when some species started stockpiling their filth. When the Otyugh caught wind of humans creating places specifically for waste and trash, they were quick to move in. Here was another consistent source of food, in a place that seemed tailor made to them. At first, people were repulsed, but then they realized if they didn't want the Otyugh there, then they would have to go down there and drive them out themselves. Suddenly, no one was complaining anymore.

While most folk don't bother with these creatures, times do come where people do confront them. I know in some big fancy cities, they don't like the image of a giant poop eating seastar dwelling below, so they got the bright idea of getting rid of them. In other cases, their population gets out of control and they start looking for extra sustenance in face of all this competition. Whichever the reason, trying to drive one out or fight it will quickly make you regret your life choices. Otyugh may be sewage suckers, but they can be extremely dangerous. Their tendrils are dexterous and thorny, capable of whipping them with deadly force. Their limbs are many, allowing them to attack from many angles and continue the battle should they lose one or two. The maw in the center of it all is an "everything-grinder," which can reduce an armored warrior to juice if they get too close. On top of all that is the fact that they are dripping with filth and vileness, which can lead to nasty infections or sickness should one be exposed. Sometimes slayers will succeed in killing an Otyugh, only to succumb to a horrible rotting disease weeks later from a mere scratch they had received. In most cases, fighting them is straight up not worth it. It should only be a last resort, for when the Otyugh start spilling out from their sewer homes and begin eating "fresher" things.

To go back to that earlier mistaken description, of a beast with "three legs, two arms and one eye stalk," there is a reason that was a common belief. When Otyugh are feeding, they are laying down in the ocean of filth, positioned like any seastar you would see on the coast. Mouth down, arms out, just enjoying life. When buried in this waste, you can't really see them. Their bodies are colored and designed to fit in with piles of manure and disgust around them (as if anything would want to eat them), and thus folk miss them most of the time. However, when threatened, the Otyugh will rear up to look much larger and expose its pulverizing maw. This is done by using three tendrils for support, like legs. Two feeding limbs are flailed about in a threatening manner, while a sensory tentacle is held high for it to see its attacker. Now that it has made itself obvious and known, people start paying attention. This is why that description became commonplace, as these postures were how folk even got to see them most of the time!

A funny thing to note is that humans are probably way more familiar with the Otyugh than dryads. Honestly, it was a while before I even got to see one myself! This is because dryads collect and compost their waste at home, making sewer systems rare in our towns and cities. Due to large efforts to recycle and reuse, we don't have large areas of the stuff for an Otyugh to settle in. This isn't meant to be a dig at humanity, more just a neat observation. I will say that some dryads made a business of utilizing an Otyugh to rapidly breakdown substances and objects a normal household couldn't properly handle. It is like a rapid transformation of waste into fertilizer, for those who don't want to wait. Bring your junk to these places, let the Otyugh eat it and get its fertile expulsions in return. An odd business, but it seems to be working pretty well! Of course, there are also rumors that some of these establishments earn the real coin from folks who want certain "somethings" to "disappear..."

Chlora Myron

Dryad Natural Historian

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

"Otyugh"

While this entry is written by Chlora, it is one that I would say is not canon. Mainly because I know the DnD company is incredibly litigious and not fans of their stuff being used anywhere else. I mainly drew this thing up because I thought it would be fun and the entry was me exploring the "what if" scenario.

But hey! An Otyugh that is an echinoderm! Hmm. Like a big ol seastar! Hmmm! Perhaps like a starfish! HMMMMMM!

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [7]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - 3.9k words

The air of your cell is thick and savoury like soup. You choke on it, every breath, drowning in it – filling your lungs with its foul warmth and barely slaking your battered body’s need for oxygen.  

The sore minutes following your husband’s execution had blurred into incomprehensible smoke. Fleeting. Suffocating. Obfuscating.  

You are lost. Uncertain whether or not you are grieving. And if you’re not, whether you should be. 

His words were each a bullet, each meticulously calculated to injure you where it would hurt you most. Almost perfectly crafted to ensure your captors lose any semblance of pity or reverence they held for you – so that they might lose whatever restraint they’ve been attempting to maintain. So that they may do to you whatever they have been itching to do. Their exploitation justified. Because you’re just a whore.  

But in your desperation to comfort your own distraught mind, you argue with yourself. Your own devil’s advocate. 

Perhaps it was a game. Could have been a bluff. 

He must have loved you, right? After years of serving him, of acting your part, of loving him the way he wanted you to.  

He had to have loved you. You had always dreamed someone would. 

No matter the case, the outcome is the same. There’s no way back. Whatever nightmare you’re stuck in will only, only, get worse. Regardless of which pack of wolves you are left to, your fate remains inescapable. You’ll be used. Consumed. Digested. Shit back out.  

The Captain had ferried you to a new cell – the one you now sat in, atop a makeshift bed with a squealing steel frame. He had carried you like a child, an arm under your knees and an arm under your neck, he let your head fall on his chest despite your fading effort to stay skittish and defensive. His charity disingenuous. White knight he is. 

But you’re weak. Exhausted. Delirious.  

You sit in dead silence, knees tucked up tightly to your chin, body only partially dry after your water torture.  

The Captain stands in front of you. Hands magisterially on his hips, he pouts under his beard. Wrestling with how best to interact with you, like you’re an animal in an exhibit. Careful not to scare you off, but frightened you’d bite if he gets too close.  

“There were no bullets in the gun, by the way,” he says gruffly, voice hoarse like he’s gargling gravel. “I wasn’t going to kill you. It was a… a bluff.”  

You say nothing. Give him nothing. You glower at him from under your brow, hoping he leaves so you can finally lie down and cry like a hurt little girl.  

“Can I get you something? Water?”  

You say nothing.  

“Look. We’re – we’re not going to hurt you. But I need you to answer some questions, alright?” He insists. “We need to know about who your husband worked with. I’m guessing he must have called them his colleagues, eh?” 

Give him nothing.  

“Do you know a Vladimir? Makarov?”  

That name, you know. You know it well. You know it like an apple knows teeth. Like a deer knows an arrow. Like a carcass knows a knife.  

Less so a colleague and more a rival. Two lions fighting for the same throne. Vladimir hated your husband so viciously it wouldn’t surprise you if he had orchestrated this entire series of events just to be rid of him.  

But the enmity between he and your husband isn’t what strikes icy shards of terror through your chest. Isn’t what churns your stomach and pushes dark bile up your throat. 

You swallow. 

“Mh. Looks like you do know him,” he grunts, crossing his arms over his broad chest, rocking on his boots. “Can you tell me about him?” 

He persists in his questioning, despite your sealed lips. You know that talking might help you. That spilling your vague knowledge like water from a faucet might ingratiate you. Might earn your freedom.  

But what freedom awaits you?  

If these soldiers cast you back to your blood-soaked estate, or your petit trianon – as a traitor of your husband, a scorned widow – you will simply be bait. Raw meat to lure bears. Honey to lure wasps. There is nowhere you could possibly hide to evade them, no scheme to outsmart them.  

You’d be better off dead.  

“When was the last time you saw him?”  

“Did he come to your estate a lot? Did he travel with your husband?”  

“Have you ever spoken to him?” 

“Does he know you?” 

“Could he help you?”  

“Where is he?”  

He leans forward, props himself up with his palms on his knees. His blue eyes are piercing, discerning. “Do you know where he is?” He insists, “Mia. I’m trying to help you.”  

You say nothing. 

He is quick to grow frustrated, grunting like a bear and standing upright, he rubs his temples in exasperation as if you’ve given him a headache.  

“You don’t want to talk to me. Okay.”  

Give him nothing.  

“Who will you talk to? Anyone?” He presses, tapping his boot in impatience. “Do you want to talk to the Lieutenant?”  

You say nothing – but some shift in your expression must have said something for you. You’re not sure if it was the widening of your eyes, the softening of your brows, the loosening of your shoulders – but he spotted it. And nodded slowly. Knowingly.  

“Alright, love. I’ll go get him. Then you’ll talk to him, eh?”  

“Simon,” came the gruff bark of Price’s familiar voice. Irate.  

Ghost sat on a bench in the empty mess hall, under a flickering fluorescent bar. Bouncing his knee, leaning his elbows on the table in front of him, he pinches a cheap Russian cigarette and holds it between his teeth.  

Tastes like shit. Does the job.  

“What,” he grunts, swivelling on the bench so that he faces out towards the approaching Captain. “Did she kick y’in the head, too?”  

Price only frowns, confused and plainly irritated, he comes to a stop before him and crosses his arms. “No,” he puzzles. “She kicked you, eh? That’ll learn you.”  

Leaning back indolently, Ghost tugs the base of his balaclava back over his mouth, tucking it under his jaw. Squishes the butt into the plastic surface of the table behind him.  “Not me.”  

“Mh,” the Captain acquiesces. “She does seem to like you.”  

Ghost only scoffs, not quite a laugh, but carries the same disbelieving amusement. “Right,” he chuffs, “for killing her husband?”  

“Possibly,” Price shrugs derisively, “beats me.”  

“Has she said anything?”  

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Like talking to a brick wall,” the Captain complains. “A pretty little brick wall.”  

Ghost rolls his eyes, turning his head to look at the open door to the hall. He rubs his brow vexedly with his thumb. And you chide me, you hypocritical prick.  

“She’ll talk to you,” Price insists.  

“Why the fuck would she talk to me?” Ghost retorts. “I waterboarded her.”  

“I asked her.” 

“What, and she requested me?”  

Price tilts his head, a lazy shrug. “Not in so many words.”  

“Right. So you’re full of shit.”  

“Jesus, Simon. Don’t make me order you,” Price sneers, “No clue why she’s interested in you, but, you never know with women like that, eh?”  

His stomach churns at Price’s insinuation. Must have taken your cunt husband’s ramblings at face value. Rookie error for a captain.   

Ghost bounces his knee in annoyance. “Just let her sleep, for fuck’s sake. She’s probably delirious.” 

“Exactly,” Price nods. “She’ll be nice and compliant, eh? Open to persuasion.” 

He's right. Ghost is playing dumb. He’s very familiar with the game, so fluent in the art of exploitation that he could do it with his eyes closed. Beaten, defeated, worn down to a quivering mess is when you’ll be most susceptible to influence. The most pliable.  

Letting you sleep, allowing you to recover your strength as you cocoon yourself in your shell is a surefire way to ensure you never utter another word. He can’t let your fear bubble into spite, into anger, into vengeance. He must kick you when you’re down.  

But – he's tired. He’s already fucking sick of it. Sick of being confused by his own repulsion. Sick of his pathetic eyes raking over your body despite his efforts to restrain it. Sick of your eyes looking through him like you know him better than himself.  

“Too delirious to give us anything useful,” Ghost clarifies, through teeth.  

“I don’t give a shit about whatever vapid rumours she has about Zakhaev. It’s pretty clear she knows nothing about his enterprise.”  

“Then why the fuck do you want me to keep interrogating her?”  

“I don’t want you to interrogate her, Simon,” Price badgers, “I want you to convince her.”  

Ghost frowns, crosses his arms testily. 

“Convince her to what?”  

~

Ghost hears the squeaking of your shoddy bed as he brutishly unlocks and opens the door to your cell. 

You had been lying on your side, curled up like a foetus on the mattress – but the second you are disturbed, you sit yourself upright. Alert. Frightened. Skittish. Stare at him like a cornered cat. 

Looks like you’ve been crying. Eyes red and swollen, cheeks glistening with the afterglow of your tears. Your lips part just slightly as your weary eyes land on him, as though a rush of air just escaped your lungs. He shuts the door behind him, stands in the middle of your small cell with crossed arms. 

He mines his thoughts for words to say. Finds them turning to ash on his tongue. 

“Sorry about your husband,” he says, eventually, tone more facetious than he had intended. 

He sees the cinder flickering in those sparkling little eyes, your chest rises as you inhale in preparation for your retort. “How can you – how can you say sorry for killing–” 

“Not for killing him,” he clarifies with a grunt. “Sorry that you married him.” 

That leaves you quiet. You look sour, because he’s right. 

“Was he always like that?” He persists, feels the snake of spite rising to his throat, needlessly adding an air of mocking derision to his words. “Did–” 

“Why are you here,” you snap to cut him off. Your cadence needle sharp, so starkly at odds to the sweetness of your earlier pleading. Nothing left to beg for, he supposes. 

Ghost draws in an impatient breath. He doesn’t want to be here either. “Boss said you’d talk to me.” 

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you grumble, voice wavering. Pouting at him. Cute. 

He sucks his teeth. “Right,” he scoffs. “Yet you’re talkin’ to me, aren’t you?” 

You fall quiet again, pulling your knees up to your chest, you clutch your bare feet with agitated fingers. “He’s nicer than you,” you mutter scornfully. 

“I bet,” he agrees dully. “But you won’t talk to him.” 

“Don’t trust him.” 

“Oh?” He queries cynically, “so you trust me?” 

You seem to think for a pointed moment before you speak. Wet stare lands on him, scans from boots to head, evaluating. 

“You do what you say you will,” you bitterly admit, and he can see it pains you to say so. 

Christ. 

You trust him? Or, rather, whatever tentative hopeful dependence that you are forced to rely on in a predicament as dire as yours. Still. He squirms at the thought that you’ve decided he’s the best you’ve got. You’ll be sorely disappointed. 

Won’t you? 

“Have you got more questions for me,” You ask flatly, breaking the off-putting silence. 

The defeat in your voice is like nails on a chalkboard. He’d rather you be hysterical, tearful and delirious, overwhelmed with grief but a still riddled with a desperation to survive. 

Instead you’re merely hushed and trembling. Perhaps you’re in shock. Perhaps you’ve got a plan. But, what he is most fearful of, is the likelihood you’ve given up. No desire to fight for whatever life might await you now that your husband is out of the picture. 

Detrimental to their entire operation, yes. They have no leverage to use against you if you have no interest in staying alive.  

More than that, though, he needs you to keep fighting him. To berate and antagonise and kick and scream. All of his adversaries would viciously resist him and that would justify Ghost’s brutality. When his blistering hatred for you was at its peak, not ten hours ago, he could justify hurting you as badly as he wanted to. 

Now what? 

How can he bring himself brutalise you when you look at him like that? Teary-eyed, shaking in either cold or panic - but giving him no resistance? No talk-back, no threats, no ploys to escape? 

How can he hurt you any further? 

He can tell you just want to sleep. Your lids are heavy and swollen despite how hard you try to keep your eyes open and vigilant. Poor thing. 

Ghost shakes his head, stepping towards a steel chair that sits propped against the wall. He lifts it with ease, twisting it in the air and putting it down in front of your bed – sits in it casually, leans back. Thighs spread and fingers interwoven in his lap, he bounces his knee as he chews on his response. 

“If you’ve got information we can use, sure.” 

You sigh deeply and slowly, picking at the cherry-red polish on your toenail with a ferocity that appears to him like self-flagellation. “I don’t know what information I have. Let alone whether it’s useful.” 

“’Alright,” he huffs, takes a minute to think of the question. “Said you’re from Nottingham, yeah? How’d you meet him?” 

A crease forms in your brow as your dubious eyes jump around his face, searching for an intention. You won’t find one. He doesn’t know what it was. 

“How is that useful information,” you seethe. 

He shrugs indifferently. “Need details.” 

You huff as though reluctant, looking at your feet. “I met him in Berlin.” 

He stays silent, and when your stare quickly jumps to him for approval, he gestures with his brutish hand to elaborate. Unsatisfactory answer. 

Your gaze returns to your toes. Focusing as you scrape the glossy red paint with your fingernails, leaving specks that look like dried blood on the dirty mattress. 

“I was a dancer. Um – he came into the club I danced in, with some other men. All in expensive suits. Rich men like that are cheap. Usually never spend a thing. Still want a piece.” 

A stripper. Not what Ghost would have guessed. But he can picture it, all the same. And he does. Pictures you spinning on a slippery pole, peeling off a lacy bra, slender little hands stroking over your buttery body as you present yourself to dogs like meat. 

He grounds himself with a clearing of his throat. “S’that right.” 

“Mhm,” you answer distastefully. “Was always the working boys that spoiled us. Wanted to spend what little money they had just to please. Just because they could. Men in suits, they want what they pay for. And they pay next to nothing because that’s what we’re worth to them.” 

“And Zakhaev…?” 

You draw in a slow breath. “Victor was different.” 

That’s it? C’mon, love. His silence an insistence to continue. And you do. 

“I dunno,” you sniff, he sees your eyes swell red. “I guess he saw something valuable in me.” 

He chastises himself for his interest. Why the fuck does he care how a whore comes across a man like Zakhaev? Billionaire wants a trophy wife, so he buys one. It should be no surprise at all. 

“So he bought you, eh?” Ghost asks harshly, and your wet and angry stare shoots daggers at him in response. 

But you relent. Maybe he’s right. Your gaze returns to your toes and wipe your nose with the back of your hand. 

“He gave me fifty-thousand euros for a private dance.” 

Fucking hell. 

Can’t even fathom spending that much money on anything. But when he looks at you… if he had that kind of money, maybe he’d do the same. 

Nearly smacks himself at the thought. 

“Generous,” he says instead, disdain on his tongue. 

“He was sweet,” you continue, voice wavering as you visibly swallow the urge to cry. “He – he said he could save me. Would take me to his nice house and protect me. Said he’d treat me like a goddess.” 

Ghost snorts spitefully. “Did he?” 

You scowl at him. “Yes, he did.” 

A knife of guilt plunges through his sternum, a truly unfamiliar sting. 

Did you love him? 

He cannot fathom that you could have. Not after that repulsive tirade, so unbearable to hear he felt compelled to execute him just to make it stop. He thought he had done you a favour. Still mostly believes he has. 

“Didn’t sound like it,” Ghost remarks derisively. 

You chew your lip. “It’s your fault he snapped,” you murmur, under breath. Doesn’t sound like you believe what you’re saying. “He was – he was good to me.” 

He sniffs, licks his teeth. “You had bruises.” 

“Fucking ‘course I have bruises, you tortured me.” You hiss. 

Shakes his head. “Before,” he ripostes. “You had bruises on your collarbone. On your thighs. From him, eh?” 

You bite down on your tongue, he sees your eyes well. Must have prodded a sore spot. 

“What is this? What do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you he beat me so you feel better about murdering him?” 

That sparks his anger. 

“You think that would make me feel better?” He barks, “I feel fucking fantastic. Shooting that cunt is the best thing I’ve done all week.” 

“You’re sick,” you breathe. 

“I’m sick? Do you know what your fuckin’ husband did? Do you know what he was?” 

“He was a businessman,” you utter, unconvincingly. 

“He was a mass-fucking-murderer. He started a war. You wanna know what the body count for that is?” 

You fall quiet. Shivering and tearful. But you listen. 

“Your husband was busy building bombs. Chemical weapons. Busy selling explosives to fucking terrorist militias in the middle east. Paid for the bombings in London last year. I’m fuckin’ proud that I shot him, whether or not he beat you.” 

You’re ghostly. Blood drained completely from your apple cheeks. Your mouth opens to sip a trembling breath, and your tears begin their cascade. 

“I didn’t know,” you whimper. 

“’Course you didn’t,” he chides doubtfully. 

You heave in a whining sob, tears dripping off your chin as you plunge your face against your knees. Was that your last straw, little thing? 

“I didn’t,” you stutter, snivelling. “I – I knew he… he was an arms dealer. Just an arms dealer.” 

He’s nauseated at the sight of you sobbing so sorely. Finds himself wondering you look like when you smile. 

“He was a warlord.” 

You sob, dropping your knees open so you sit cross-legged, Ghost’s eyes shoot between your legs. Get a fucking grip. Watching you cry and still stealing his glances? Can’t help it. You cry too pretty. 

You move the focus of your self-mutilation from your toes to your fingernails, picking off the lacquer. You sniffle quietly for a minute, and he lets you. What else can he say to you? He’s not much interested in comforting you. 

But there’s an ache, sharp and yet nebulous. The acknowledgement that you didn’t know the extent of your husband’s evil. That he likely kept it hidden from you. Or you, hidden from it. That your torture was fruitless and extraneous. Cruelty for the sake of it. 

“What happens now,” you ask, near-whisper. 

Ghost leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees, lets his hands hang nonchalantly. “Still got one use for you.” 

Your stare lands on him carefully. You breathe as though preparing yourself, a tear lands in the corner of your parted lips. You uncross your legs, hanging them slowly off the edge of the bed, hands turn to fists on your knees. 

“I thought you weren’t interested,” you squeak. 

Ghost’s jaw clenches inadvertently, biting down on nothing. Knows what you’re implying. Do you think he’s here to rape you? Here to unwrap you, to tear off that tissue that barely conceals the prize? 

His glower is probably serving as evidence. Boring into you with a hunger beyond his control. Jesus. Control yourself. 

He could do it. Fulfil your suggestion, accept your offers. Play the role of the lecherous hound you believe him to be.

You’d let him. 

You’d lie face down on that bed for him. You’d let him hitch up your hips, presenting your soft pussy for him to take. You’d let him rake down those pathetic pink knickers. You’d let him spit on his fingers and push them into you, to prepare you for the incursion of his spiteful cock. He’d curl and drive them deep, he’d make sure your pussy releases a spate of its sweet liquor just for him.   

You’d probably whine sweetly – in pain, at first, as he penetrates you, as your cunt stretches to fit him. But those muffled whimpers into the mattress would evolve into cries of shameful rapture, poignantly humiliated by how good it feels when he fucks you. He’d fuck you slowly. Deeply. He’d make sure the blunt head of his cock rams into that aching spot that makes you squeal. 

He’d coat his thumb in your syrup, he’d press the pad of it against your puckered hole. He’d listen to your cloying noises as he pushes it, popping past your tight, clenching entrance, easing it in until he’s knuckle deep. He’d feel his cock rutting in and out of you, through the thin fleshy wall between your holes. He’d feel it cinch so tightly around his thumb, pulsing in rhythm with the abashing orgasm that he fucks out of you. He’d threaten to pump you full of his come, and when you only mewl wetly in response, no dispute, fucked drunk; he’d oblige you. 

He’d let you think he’s finished. He’d give you a moment to breathe, as he pulls out of you, as his hot come drips from you, coating your thighs. Your pussy would look too pretty drenched in a concoction of your fluids and his, twitching still in the aftershock. 

So he’d flip you, hoist up your soft body by the hips as he sucks your cunt into his mouth. He’d eat another orgasm out of you, voracious and messy, he’d swallow it, and continue; just to feel you writhe in dispute of the overstimulation, just to listen to the squeals of contest that squeak from your wet throat. 

He’d leave you choking, panting for air, as he allows you to recover. He’d let you sleep, and he’d know that you’d dream of him. 

You fucking animal. 

Pulled back to reality by a shivering sigh from your chest - he’s repulsed by himself. Reels in self-loathing as his cock jolts behind his trousers, swelling in anticipation of a crime he won’t commit. 

His peers have chastised him for being a beast. An uncaring monster. The kind of animal that would fuck you while you cry, that would take pride in making it hurt.  

They’re wrong. 

You simply look at him, pupils stretched wide and dark, glassy with worry. Your cunt might be pulsing in between the thighs you hold together so tightly, readying itself for him, preparing for the worst. 

No, little rabbit, he wouldn’t do that to you. Not unless you beg him for it. 

So he leans back in his seat, feigning disinterest, hoping you don’t notice the turgid heat that radiates from him. 

“Not that, sweetheart,” he sighs hoarsely. “We’ve got a more important use for you.” 

here's your tag bestie: @rafaelacallinybbay

[weediee]

Rotten is the flesh

HUMAN!ALASTOR x READER (she/her pronouns)

E/N: She has risen everyone, I’m back again fourteen days later to announce that I’m creating a new story instead of just short ones. This will have multiple chapters - I really don’t have a schedule but they will come out in at least 1-2 weeks at a time. If you have any questions or ideas for the chapters LET ME KNOW! It’s lovely to be back

Summary: Y/N and Alastor Hartfelt - a radio host, meet in a newly opened bad, and talked before returning to Alastor’s home. The next morning Y/N find what seems to be rotten carcass in Al’s freezer.

WARNINGS:

Cannibalism, swearing, sex before marriage, hints at sex but no actual smut. smoking, human bodies, alcohol.

I wasn’t one to visit bars. Yes on occasion, if I felt like having a drink and maybe finding a man to dance with for a while, but never was it a daily or even weekly occurrence. The jazz was lovely, the atmosphere was cozy, but the amount of noise - the floods of people - and the alcoholic men and women had gathered like swarms to the dance floor and really any spot surrounding the bar where I could be found seeking refuge.

I was stood, walking outside for a moment to breathe when I saw the New Orleans Radio host, Alastor Hartfelt stood smoking a cigarette in the cold. He was always a very handsome, well read, well spoken man. Seeing him doing something like this was a culture shock none the less.

“You shouldn’t be smoking cigarettes, Mr Hartfelt. It turns your lungs to coal.” I smiled, walking over. He quickly took it out of his mouth, stomping on it before looking up at me. “I’m sorry you saw my smoking dear, it doesn’t happen often.” He smiled.

“Oh it’s really not a problem,” I laughed softly. “Nice to meet you. My name is Y/N.” I put my hand out to be shaken. “Likewise, Alastor.” A smile reflected back. “You’re a darling, aren’t you?” He laughed. To be hit on by men was one thing, but a compliment such as this from Alastor? It was almost laughable.

We both stood for a moment, hands connected in the shake before we both let go. “Well, I better be going.” I said softly, looking away at the creek.

“Before you go, my dear.” He interrupted my thought. “Would you care to meet up for dinner some time? It would be an honour to dine with a beauty like yourself.” His head cocked to the side inquisitively.

—————

And just like that, I found myself in the bed of Alastor Hartfelt. The infamous New Orleans radio host. Was I proud? No, not at all. I weren’t to be proud of sleeping with a man before marriage but an opportunity like this was irresistible. Women would pay to be with Alastor, who was I to complain for free?

It appeared to be later on in the morning. I looked over to face Alastor, his head still rested against the silky white pillows on his bed. A wonderful bedroom, house, fully decorated from top to bottom with only the finest furniture and of course it was spotless.

I sat up, trying my hardest to not disturb Alastor. What was a way I could give back to Alastor for his hospitality? And the time in bed.

Perfect thought, breakfast. A proper, large, breakfast that would be sure to satisfy him. So, I got to it. Rushing down the mahogany stairs to prepare breakfast.

—————

Breakfast was coming a long great, I had left meats for last considering they would be easiest to cook. I opened the fridge to see what Alastor had stocked, only to be met with a foul odour. It truly was what one could only describe as rank, violating even.

It wasn’t a smell like any other. None the less, I took out the container that I assumed was what contained the smells. Upon opening the lid and inspecting, inside were multiple pieces of meat wrapped in cloth. I tentatively held my night gown up to cover my nose, pinching in an attempt to assassinate the smell. In my mind, this was a rotten dear that he had perhaps forgotten to prepare since he was a hunter correct? It was the normal, thigh and breast.

But deers don’t have human hands and feet.

I stared down at the dismembered parts, standing up straight suddenly at the echo behind me.

“What are you doing?”

E/N: run girl run! I hope you enjoyed lol, let me know if you all have suggestions for the series. I would love to hear them ❤️

[reallyhatethiswebsite]

I don't know if you're still taking prompt requests at the moment? But if so I had an idea floating around in my head.

Raphael is reading to Tav in that deep, soothing voice of his while she's lying in bed with the flu or something. She thinks he's being sweet (and in some way he is) but she finds out he's aroused by the very sight of her so weak and vulnerable before him and he can't help but indulge so a little smut ensues 🤭

Keep up the amazing work, I loved the eex pollen fic! 💕👻

I merged these together, hope you don't mind. Thank you Goof and Kat for helping me make this more coherent, and Kat for finding the translation of the rancid poetry ☺️ if you're interested you can read the full poem here

Read on AO3

-

Fiends were not kind, or selfless, or sweet. Perhaps a few might dare to skirt the lines, but her fiend, her Raphael (as much as he could be hers), was not one of them. So when he perched on her bed beside her like a doting devil-spawn gargoyle, promising to read to her as she lay stricken with a common seasonal ailment (that he, of course, was in no danger of catching), Tav was more than a little suspicious.

“Poetry,” he said when she groggily asked him what, exactly, he would be reading.

If nothing else, Tav thought, he could put her to sleep with his gaudy, childish rhymes. Not that she didn’t enjoy Raphael’s deep, soothing voice, but his literary endeavours left a lot to be desired. Still, the effort was appreciated. A nice surprise, even.

It was only when Raphael began to speak, plucking words from the pages of his secretive little book like pulling wings from flies, that she began to understand why he was doing it.

“My love,” he purred with all his usual swagger and sultry bravado twisting his next morbid sentences, “do you recall the object which we saw, that fair sweet summer morn, at a turn in the path of a foul carcass on a gravel strewn bed. Its legs raised in the air, like a lustful woman. Burning and dripping with poisons, displayed in a shameless, nonchalant way. Its belly, swollen with gases.”

Tav stared at him. Struck dumb by sickness and shock. He continued, focused, grave. Only a hint of amusement turned up his thin lips.

“The sun shone down upon that putrescence as if to roast it to a turn, and to give back a hundredfold to great Nature the elements she had combined, and the sky was watching that superb cadaver blossom like a flower. So frightful was the stench that you believed you’d faint away upon the grass.”

Disgusting. Compelling. Two words that described the poetry and the devil both, because as Tav listened, as she watched him talk, she saw the signs that answered her question. His expanding pupils, the glimpses of his fangs as he frequently licked his lips, the slight shifting of his legs, the flex of his wings and hypnotising sway of his tail…these things, she’d learned, were his displays of arousal. Her weakness, her vulnerability, excited him. She should have known.

What an awful creature he was. Yet it was more than the illness boiling Tav’s blood. Wringing the air from her lungs. A shame she was too weak to do much – not that it ever really dissuaded Raphael. It certainly wouldn’t now. Something slender, ropey, warm and firm slithered up her leg, underneath her flimsy nightdress. Wormed its way between her thighs. Kissed and caressed the sticky flesh. Dipped betwixt her mons to press itself against her tender sex, to roll and rub like a bitch in heat looking for attention. Teased her winking hole, let me in…

Tav inhaled sharply, her throat tight. Tongue thick and heavy. She’d wanted him to do this, use his tail this way, for some time. Of course he would choose this moment to indulge her fantasy. He grinned wolfishly when she spread her legs for it. For him. Worked her cunt until he could smear the first fresh musky slick of her interest around. Lather her clit to call it from its hood, come and play. Entered the snug cavern of her cunt to the symphony of her warbling whimpers – because gods his tail was thicker than his cock, oh the stretch was delicious and devastating and it just kept going – and his rancid words.

“The blow-flies were buzzing around that putrid belly, from which came forth black battalions of maggots, which oozed out like a heavy liquid all along those living tatters. All this was descending and rising like a wave, or poured out with a crackling sound; one would have said the body, swollen with a vague breath, lived by multiplication.”

Perhaps it was the delirium of fever. The cloying heat beneath all the layers of her skin she couldn’t escape. The swelling of her brain as it pressed against the walls of her skull. Maybe it was none of these things. But the devil’s tail wriggling and writhing in her cunt, slender and serpentine and slippery and scalding, was the best sensation she’d ever experienced. It reached places, touched spots, nothing else – not even her own fingers – could. Its control, the nudging of its wide blunt tip probing deep into her sex, searching for the opening of her cervix, was making her gnash her teeth and buck her hips, feet flat on the bed. Her fingers like claws gripping the sheets. Nails shredding. The noises she was making were obscene but she couldn’t be quiet. Couldn’t be modest with her pleasure. It was the all-consuming kind. The kind that made people do stupid, awful, dangerous things just for a chance to feel. The kind that split nerves and yanked tendons and rattled teeth. The kind so good it hurt, so good she didn’t care about anything else except rubbing and fucking and touching and cumming.

The kind so good she could die.

She would never be the same.

Through it all, Raphael kept reading.

“And yet you will be like this corruption. Like this horrible infection. Star of my eyes, sunlight of my being. You, my angel and my passion!” He knew the text by heart. His dilated glittering yellow eyes, pupils so huge like twin eclipses, wouldn’t look away from her. Wouldn’t blink. She, sweat-slick and undulating like a mad thing. He, enraptured, his leaking cock straining against the fabric of his trousers. His voice, deep and raspy in the grip of terrible, demented lust. “Yes! Thus you will be queen of the graces. After the last sacraments, when you go beneath grass and luxuriant flowers, to molder among the bones of the dead.”

“Raphael…!” Tav slurred. It was too much. He was killing her. His tail so long and alive and thriving in the hot and soft and spongy squeeze of her cunt. She dug her heels into the mattress and arched her back; to brace herself to accept him deeper or to make a feeble attempt to pull away, regain control, she didn’t know. She didn’t know anything except the agony and ecstasy of his play. The sick and succulent purr of his disturbing words. The things he said, his poetry so vile and so sweet, like the first sloughs of rotten flesh from a bloated corpse in the sun. She should have been horrified. Repulsed. She was, and she couldn’t get enough. He thrilled her in ways she didn’t understand. Ways that frightened her.

“Then, O my beauty!” Raphael, utterly impassioned, was reaching the crescendo of his piece and she, the crescendo of her rapture. The devil palmed and petted his erection, pressed a thumb hard into its damp head. Gripped its stiff shape through his clothes. He was going to make a mess. “Say to the worms who will devour you with kisses, that I have kept the form and the divine essence of my decomposed love!”

When Tav came, when Raphael finally released her from the torment of desperate want and need and desire by nudging the tip of his tail into the cradle of her womb – it hurt so good she bit her tongue her mouth tasted like blood she hated him she loved him she wanted to pull him apart – she screamed. Her climax, violent, unforgiving, shuddering, took it all. Her body responded to him, his cruel and feckless and greedy lust, by squirting her release over his tail. Over the sheets. A first for her. Powerful orgasmic contractions milked his tail for things it couldn’t give, but what it could do was squirm, leave her breathless and sobbing as it – he – drew out every scorching second of pleasure until she was a wet, babbling wreck.

“No more,” she begged. Wept. “Please…please, Raphael. No more. I can’t take it…”

“Oh, my little mouse,” crooned the devil, feasting on her with his hungry gaze. He’d come, she knew he’d come, by the familiar inflection in his voice. The flush on his cheeks. The dark wet patch between his thighs. Still, he fisted his cock. Not yet soft. Not yet satisfied. He let his tail slip from her twitching cunt slowly. Flicked her swollen clit as he went. Curled his devilish extra limb up to leer, to admire the shining coat of cum Tav had given it. Sleep, exhaustion, was taking her. Her eyelids were heavy. Closing. “My sweet little mouse…”

[vcreatures]

The Eldritch Mimic is a medium sized cave dwelling dragon. Despite it’s thorny and menacing appearance, the Eldritch Mimic is quite non aggressive,especially in comparison to other dragon species. It’s first line of defense is to lie still and emit a foul oder, allowing its body’s appearance to give the illusion of a rotting skeletal carcass.

[yokohamapound]

BSD Characters React to Getting Shat On By A Bird 🕊️

No, I'm totally not writing these to make myself feel better after getting bird-splattered on my way home from work. T-T

Characters: Osamu Dazai, Nakahara Chuuya, Kunikida Doppo, Akutagawa Ryuunosuke, Nakajima Atsushi, Sigma

Contents: 💩

Osamu Dazai

Dazai might react in one of two ways.

If he's on his own, it's a muted, annoyed kind of disgust. He just feels the impact and sighs.

"Ugh, really?"

He might shove his head into the Yokohama river to try and wash it out. Whether or not he remembers to pull his head up again is another story.

If he's around other people, however, Dazai hams it up more than a pig in a blanket.

His whole body clenches, his shoulders hunching toward his ears and his hands hovering near his hair but not quite touching it. His face is an exaggerated rictus of disgust.

"Get it off, get it off, get it off! Eww!"

He runs at Kunikida and tries to wipe it off on him, only to get himself punted across the room. That isn't enough to stop Dazai, though. He'll theatrically pour water over himself, retching, gagging, and bemoaning his bad luck and the cruel fates for doing this to him.

Nakahara Chuuya

Thankfully, Chuuya's lovely red hair is safe from the bird shit thanks to his hat, but on the other hand, his hat. He freezes as soon as he feels the splatter against his hat. Reaching up slowly, he takes the brim of his hat between thumb and forefinger and lifts it off his head.

Chuuya's face contorts with anger and disgust. There's shit on his hat. There's shit on his hat.

He resists the urge to drop the hat in disgust, since that might damage it further. Instead his ire snaps upward toward the bird that just ass-bombed him. Little does it know that its victim is not bound by the laws of gravity. Chuuya can follow it.

And that he fucking does.

He shoots into the air, cracking the asphalt underfoot, and goes gunning after the hapless bird, which is probably terrified to find a pissed-off ginger zooming after it at mach speeds.

Later, once the bird is 'taken care of' Mafia-style, Chuuya will take his soiled hat to a specialist cleaning place. Yes, he's got a hat cleaning place—this is Chuuya we're talking about.

Kunikida Doppo

Kunikida does not have time for this. Perhaps it is a personal failing, but he didn't account for the potential of being shat on by a bird en route to the office in the morning. Now he's standing there with egg on his face and crap on his hair, regretting his life choices.

Frustration builds in him like a volcano, but he forces himself to take a deep breath. As long as he is calm and rational about this, it should not impact his precious schedule too much.

Thankfully, he does have all manner of supplies to hand. Namely a water bottle and a handkerchief to try and clean himself off as best he can in the nearest reflective surface. He uses his handy dandy notebook to conjure up a solid shampoo bar and cleans himself up.

All in all, he only ends up being three minutes, thirty-seven seconds late to the office. No one even notices, but Kunikida is left irked for the rest of the day. Also, he doesn't know how but he's sure Dazai is behind it somehow. Maybe he's been teaching the birds how to target blonde men with glasses, preparing months in advance for just this day.

Akutagawa Ryuunosuke

Akutagawa goes still, and his eyes go very, very wide, until you feel like you're staring down tunnels into the Abyss. The bird guano is stark white against his dark hair. His nostrils flare.

"RASHOUMON."

A tendril of darkness slices from the back of his coat and slashes the bird in midair, sending feathers spiralling down to dust the earth around him.

He stares down at the offending creature's carcass like an god of dark justice.

"Foul beast."

Growing up in the slums, Akutagawa was used to being dirty, covered in mud, blood, and all kinds of filth, but he will not take the disrespect of any man nor beast, least of all a pigeon.

Nakajima Atsushi

This is not the first time for poor, unfortunate Atsushi, and probably not the last. He flinches when the splatter lands on top of his head, automatically closing his eyes. He's used to being spat on or having food poured over his head.

"Ah, jeez."

At least the bird crap isn't personal.

Atsushi probably just snips off the locks of befouled hair and then scrubs his hands. His hair is already a tufty mess, and he's usually too busy running around for the Agency to run home and shower again. That is, until Kunikida hears what happens and sprays him with disinfectant.

Sigma

Poor Sigma. Doesn't he have enough on his plate without being target practice for a bird who doesn't eat enough fibre? He's under enough stress already.

The bird shit is the tipping point, and he might just cry.

His face twitches when he feels it. The cold dollop on his head, ruining his pretty hair, making his neck want to retract back into his spine. His eyes widen as he looks upward to see the feckless offender flying away, soon lost to the horizon as it flies beyond the reach of the Sky Casino.

Sigma gags, his hands fluttering a little as he doesn't know what to do. He's only three years old and this has never happened to him before.

He runs toward his private quarters, lest anyone see the General Manager looking so undignified. He flings himself into his bathroom and sticks his head directly under the shower, running the water as hot as he can stand.

He washes it twice. Thrice. Then wraps it in a hair mask and huddles in his quarters with a stiff drink and his hair in a towel. Poor thing.

[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. 

[ventique18]

- Random thought, Book 7 spoilers -

I'm sorry for this random ass morbid thought but didn't Meleanor die in dragon form? How did they bury her? Wouldn't you need hundred people to dig up a hole the entire day just to fit her before she starts decomposing? Or did the Silver Owls probably just burn her like the foul witch they said she was? If Levan really is alive, he was probably livid at the disrespect that his beautiful wife suffered in the hands of the enemy. I wouldn't be surprised if he was somehow involved in that enemy kingdom's eventual downfall.

Now I'm wondering if Briar Kingdom has a dedicated holy cemetery for their royalty and whether or not they choose to die in their original dragon form. They probably prefer to be dragons in their final moments since they're a proud bunch, but idk how much free space they have for humongous dragon carcasses? But since they live long, what if they just... Dig up the previous monarch's fossils, rearrange them somewhere compactly, then bury the next one in that dedicated spot? I feel like they would really prefer being buried rather than cremated since it's like giving back to the nature that nurtured them.

This is a topic that shouldn't even be thought of but I'm curious. 😶

[dev1lm4n]

polaroid

pairings: joel miller x f!reader

summary: joel made sure the eight shots he took from his polaroid 600 were the best.

word count: 4.4k (istg this is not as long as you'd expect)

warnings: explicit (18+), p in v, no protection, kinda manipulative, joel's old age is emphasized hehe ;)

notes: this is super foul i had to take a break writing it lol. anyways, send me a req or chat me up pls i swear i'm friendly.

10:30 PM

Every ticking noise that damned clock made managed to hammer itself into your subconscious mind. It’s taunting you endlessly, reminding you of the fact that Joel Miller once again broke his promise. You’re aware that it’s a cycle, but you couldn’t help relent the last time around. He was begging on his knees, telling you how much you meant to him, and that it was an honest mistake. He then made another promise. One that you had faith in. Turns out he’s still too mouthy for his own good.

His lies were not good for you. It was dreadful.

Every sense of yours was heightened. You felt the significant need to move without end; if your limbs were moving then perhaps you could continue to burrow that crawling sensation in your stomach, or at least you could ignore it a while. First, it was chewing on the plush skin around your finger tips. It helped satiate your crowded head for a second or two. But then the questions came around without warning.

Had he been in an accident? Was he hurt somewhere, unable to call for help? 

The thought of him lying somewhere injured and alone made you feel sick to the stomach. Pictures of terror flooded your head; all the carcasses and tangy blood. All the rot and rats. You were spiraling in a downward motion. It was only in moments like these that you knew it was still there, the fear, coursing through your veins as if it hitched a ride on your hemoglobin. You needed an immediate distraction. A way to rid yourself of the tumultuous mess in your head, which might just be the small nook of Joel’s things.

You took a leap out of bed, flinching as you’re instantly greeted by the bitterly cold floor boards. It took all of your emotional strength to reach that particular corner and all of your physical strength to pick up the one item that reminded you of Joel; his polaroid 600. The black object gave a light sheen as you cradled it between your gentle fingers.

“I’m home.”

His gruff voice put you at ease. The sigh that escaped your dry lips was slow, as if your brain needed that time to process what had happened, to recollect the marbles you’ve dropped all over the floor. You needed to reset your emotions or else it’ll come faltering down like a broken dam. It’s pathetic how you’re already on the brink of weeping; tears pricked the edge of your vision, that sweet part of your lips tucked under your blunt canines. 

You were soft when it came to him. He was your sole purpose - the only reason you’re still breathing in new air.

Joel’s footsteps sounded familiar. You remembered the rhythm and the weight to it, the click-clack against the wooden floor. But tonight it sounded a little hesitant - a slight drag to the way he moved - which was probably caused by your failure to respond. Here in Jackson people strived to return to a certain degree of normalcy, but everyone knew deep inside that the fear lingers. Neither you nor Joel could ever get rid of the constant fear of carnage, of arriving home to nothing but a corpse.

A defined thud resonated around the room. You looked over your shoulder in response, meeting Joel’s large build crowding the bedroom’s entrance. He looked just as you expected. Revolver in hand, crow’s feet emphasized in worry, tired eyes trained on you; you’d have considered the gesture a little grand if you didn’t know Joel and what he’s been through. But you knew him. Through and through. So you settled on a tight-lipped smile.

“Sweetheart.. you didn’t answer.”

Joel let out a hoarse sigh as he lowered his weapon in haste. You weren’t afraid of his little machinery, but he always hated having it in his hands when you’re around. He told you it made him remember all the blood he’s spoiled and he wouldn’t want that kind of thought being associated with his pretty angel. Joel was corny, that’s for sure.

His shoulders sagged dramatically. He muttered something to himself, perhaps thanking whatever entity out there for keeping you safe while he’s away.

“You’re late. Again.”

Joel was a liar every now and then, but he wasn’t a bastard. He wasn’t planning on making up a fucked-up rationale on why it’s permissible for him to break promises with you, nor was he planning to make you feel like you’re over-reacting and hysterical. He was wrong and that’s that. You weren’t looking his way, but he knew for a fact that you were upset. It’s almost a little too obvious from the way your shoulders heave up and down, as if trying to contain your heavy heart.

“Yeah. I shouldn’t have-”

“You’re doing this way too often, Joel. I don’t think I can-”

His boots drummed boisterously as he approached you with much caution. Your ominous tone was making him nervous.

“No.. don’t do this to me, sweetheart. Please. Just hear me out.”

He knew you’d hear him out everytime, even when half of his truths were undeniably stupid at times. 

“I brought you the films. For the polaroid. Remember?”

“You did?”

You turned on your heel at the bribe he’s thrown. Lo and behold, he’s holding what appears to be a thick case of something. You threw out any trace of manners your parents had taught you and reached instantly for the packaging, practically ripping it off his fingers. Joel didn’t complain one bit. It’s as if he’s planned this all out to happen; your anticipation and ultimately, his forgiveness.

It was the size of your palm. A faded sky blue rocked the front covers, while a streak of rainbow decorated the sides. It looked nothing like you’ve seen before and you’re simply elated to hold such a gem between your hands. You ran your fingers down the softened cardboard front, reading along what was written in thick black letters. POLAROID. A perfect match to the tool you’ve been cradling ever since Joel managed to once again miss his curfew. Your lips inevitably curved into a sweet smile. The fatty part of your cheeks lifted in excitement, causing your eyes to turn into pretty crescents Joel adored a whole lot. You’re so easily satiated - it’s embarrassing at times.

“How do you use it. Joel?”

“Oh, sweetheart, let me show you.”

He shuffled towards your left side. His expression straightened back to how it usually is - a little mean and grouchy - as he received the ancient camera back from you. It must’ve been a fresh stock from back in the day considering how untouched the plastic shell seemed to be. Joel remembered that his polaroid back in the day was anything but pretty. Scratched on all sides, a glittery rainbow sticker stuck to the very front (a little reminder of his sweet daughter Sarah), with a flash button that barely worked. He smiled faintly at the memory.

You watched with great concentration as he tore open the cardboard ruthlessly. He’s not one for patience, that’s a fact you learned just now. His thick thumb made its way past the silver packet, then a small grunt slipped past his lips as a sign of victory. Joel popped the film inside the crevice. A whizzing noise surprised you off your feet, which was rewarded by a light chuckle from your side. 

This contraption of his - the polaroid as he called it - threw up a square-shaped plastic along with its almost alien-like whirring noise.

“What’s that?”

“That’s just the protective casing, no need to worry.”

You hummed in response. Curiosity punctured your bubble of worries.

“I’ll show you how to take a picture, yeah?”

As Joel motioned for you to take a step back, he had this.. look on his face. You would’ve guessed that he was actually gazing at you lovingly if it weren’t for the tinge of fear laced across his features. It was the most obvious in his eyes. Deep inside those brown irises was the brutality he’s endured. Down there was where his black dog resided, pushed into a corner but always looming at every given moment. His eyes never sparkled. Not even with you.

You were deep in thought, perched over the edge of his bed. Joel didn’t warn you when he clicked over the shutters. Either he’s too worn out from his ventures out in the wilderness or he’s just too entranced by the sight you’ve proposed to him. It didn’t matter though. What mattered was the fact that you’ve unfortunately closed your eyes at the bright, flaming flash. What mattered was that you just wasted a very valuable film.

“Shit. I think I closed my eyes there.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“But-”

“You look pretty even with your eyes closed, girl.”

Joel picked up the picture and flicked it over to you. You caught it just in time. But you were utterly puzzled by the fact that there wasn’t anything on the square-shaped paper.

“There’s nothing there, Joel.”

Your eyebrows furrowed unsurely. A million thoughts reeling in as you took the picture between your fingers, looking over it under the moonlight filtering through.

“You need ta wait and be patient, pretty.”

You muttered out a foul word, looking all petulant and bratty at his request. Was he fooling you with all his mystical objects? You stared at the picture expectantly. Cautiously as well, as if it’d turn into something otherworldly. It was then that you saw it. How the colors and shapes slowly emerged from the white paper. And there you were, frozen in time, captured forever in that single moment.

An exaggerated gasp escaped your lips.

“See. It works.”

“Yeah, but my eyes are closed. You need to count to three, y’know. That’s the gentlemanly way.”

Joel grumbled, but agreed begrudgingly. He stretched his back like the old man that he was before he settled beside you. The bed creaked an embarrassing noise beneath his weight - you wondered how the two of you hadn’t received a single noise complaint from your neighbors. You could see him clearly now, where the moonlight shone brighter, even when a part of his face was covered by the blunt-edges of the polaroid.

“One.”

His accent was such a playful tune, as if he were the star of his own movie. You could have sat there all day just to listen.

“Two.”

The map of wrinkles on his face told of the most incredible journey. His crow’s feet told of laughter, of warm smiles and affection. His forehead told of worries past and worries present. But mostly they were so deeply ingrained they told of a man who’s been through hell and back. To reduce his glory to a sign of age and incompetence would be disrespectful.

“Three.”

A flash of white blinded you for a second, but this time you made sure to smile with such poise.

Joel flicked the picture in his hand. He looked.. star-struck. As if he’d caught a glimpse of what Aphrodite looked like herself, of what all the good in this world could manifest into, of how unworthy he was to have you sitting here in his bedroom. You were heavenly - the kind that was unheard of after shit hits the fan - and it was good to be reminded once again. He fell into silence.

“Was it not good?”

He shook his head as he placed the polaroid down by his side.

“Why are you-”

His power was overwhelming when he purposefully pushed you back onto the stiff mattress; it seemed that all his rough jobs chopping up woods and tackling infected had done him a huge favor. Even when he’s grazing the silver birthday mark, he’s still as ravenous as ever. You landed along a gentle thud, his large hand managed to cup over the back of your head to keep you safe. Joel always treats you like a frail porcelain piece, even when you’re begging for him to treat you like a rag doll.

Joel’s large arms caged you in on either side. You feel small underneath him and it felt good. It felt like you didn't have to worry about a single thing in his presence. Your nimble fingers grazed over his worn-out flannel that perfectly fits around his large fore-arms. A squeeze here and there to reassure him that you’re okay with this, with him taking charge. You knew just how defenseless he felt these days and you’d like to ease his burden just for a little.

For a moment, all you could hear was his ragged breathing and all you could see was his darkened gaze.

“You’re so perfect.”

He purred lovingly as he leaned in close. His pointed nose brushed against the lobe of your ears, while his stubble tickled that sensitive spot below your jaw. You’ve always loved the beard-burn from his scarce stubble; it always felt personal, the one thing nobody else could do except for Joel. One touch and it was over. It was always that way with you and him.

His open-mouthed kisses drew a sloppy wet trail down the left side of your neck. He took his time to worship you, granting you those claim marks you’ve always fussed about. A bloom of discoloration here and there. You’ve always told him that it was rather childish, but he didn’t care. You were his art work and this was his creativity taking reins.

There’s something about him that lit you up from the inside and there’s something about you that crushed him. Touching you was like being handed the holy grail, like committing a sacrilegious sin from how faultless you were.

“Stay still.”

He ordered you and you were to comply. 

Joel pulled away ever so slightly to reach for the polaroid that’s abandoned by your side. He gave you a cheeky smile, one that you didn’t think was possible to be sported so confidently by a fifty-something years old. He then lifted the camera to his eye and adjusted the settings, making sure that the exposure and focus were just right. He wanted this picture to be perfect, to capture the essence of those marks he’s crafted like a true artisan.

A flash disrupted your trance once more. Another one of those whirring noises occurred.

You looked at him in disbelief as he put away the polaroid and its creation, giving you his undivided attention once more. Was Joel about to document this entire night like a ballsy teenage boy? You couldn’t help but giggle at the thought. Joel always managed to make things feel juvenile every single time, as if this was your first night tangled up and not the nth time.

“Are you trying to create a sex tape or something?”

“Nah.”

He answered shortly, too busy pawing your tank top off to even give you a proper answer. Joel tugged the thin fabric upwards, giving you a slight tilt of his head to urge you to lift your head and let the tank top slide off. He’s tried the ‘ripping-off’ technique to maintain efficiency before, but he knew he’d be greeted with an earful after you’ve come down from the inebriated daze he’s initiated. Clothes were expensive, that’s what you always say.

If he were to name one part of your body he’s obsessed with, he knew exactly what to say, no matter how shallow it must’ve sounded. They’re just way too pretty. Joel leaned back down, attaching his wet lips to your plush mounds. Throughout the years he’s spent with you, he’s learned your favorites. He’s learned how you’d mewl whenever he’d run your sensitive buds under his calloused fingers. Twisting it cruelly or flicking at it teasingly, he’d marvel at its hardened form every time. Then he’d reattach his lips right on target, suckling on it while listening to your verbal cues. He’d receive a desperate ngh if he wasn’t going the way you wanted him to and a pleased moan of his name if he’s doing fantastic.

“Joel!”

Your squeaked exclamation had him working overtime. His soaked tongue doing laps around your nipples, getting each one all worked-up before he moved on to the sweeter part of this deal. He looked starved doing this and it made your hole twitch.

Once again, Joel leaned back to reach for the damn polaroid, pulling you away from your whimpering frenzy.

“Push your tits together and smile, sweetheart.”

He ordered and you did just that. This time your eyes looked hazy, like you’ve been high on something, but your breasts looked as amazing as always. Nipples perked upwards as a result of his persistent endeavors. Joel looked pleased at the developed picture, scrutinizing every detail as if he’s some acclaimed photographer. He sat back down evenly on the bed. You were left there, smiling loopily and awaiting his next order,

“You want me to take a good shot of you, hm?”

You nodded.

“Sit down, sweetheart, and take off your shorts.”

You pulled yourself up eagerly. Your movements were a little clumsy as you pulled your shorts off, kicking them off once they reached your knee.

“Show me where you need me.”

A taste of doubt pooled in your stomach. He lowered the polaroid slightly, knowing that his encouraging look would ignite back the confidence in your chest. It worked wonders on you everytime and you’re back on track again. You slowly pushed your thighs apart, one at a time to rile him up just the right amount. Your floral patterned panties were still in place as Joel hadn’t quite ordered you to remove them just yet and in this space, you work by his orders. Still, the wet patch was embarrassingly obvious, running down your slit and growing particularly wide atop of your entrance.

He cocked his head to the side. A motion you could only deduct as a heartening push for you to go a step further. You pulled the soft cotton to the side, growing breathless under his cruel stare. The cold night air grazed your clit in a manner that made you writhe; you were sensitive all over and all you wanted to do was beg for him to fill you up already. To have his large hands pin you down and strike your airway, leaving you breathless and asking for forgiveness. But that’s not what good girls do and you know that only good girls deserve to be rewarded.

Apparently exposing yourself to this extent wasn’t enough for Joel as he hasn’t snapped a picture yet. Desperate to please him, you placed your fingers on either side of your outer labia. Lips tucked deep beneath your teeth as you pulled them apart. Only to reveal your throbbing clit and your sweet cunt that’s been twitching at every look he gave you. It’s all sticky too. A webbed substance coating every part vulgarly. Joel chuckled at the sight, making fun of your submission towards him.

The whirring sound occurred again and you were relieved. 

“You want to touch yourself?”

“I want you, Joel, please.”

“That’s not in the question.”

You shivered at his authoritative tone.

“Yes, please.”

Joel nodded permissively. You nodded, doing your best to keep calm under pressure. Pretending he wasn’t there staring you down would be an awfully hard task, but you’re forced to prevail. Your little hole spasmed as you pressed your soft fingers onto your needy clit. You settled on a circular motion, bringing it around your clit then down to gather some natural lubrication from your profusely leaking hole. This motion alone had you chanting his name like a kind of magical mantra.

Your eyes scrunched close, lost in deep pleasure while drowning in embarrassment. It wasn’t enough - that’s for certain - but it was good enough to satisfy the aching pain.

“Put a finger in.”

He recommended and you abide without a saying. Your fingers felt dramatically different than his, they’re a lot stubbier so they wouldn’t be able to reach the good parts, but they’ve become your trusty friend after years of being a lady. Your left hand stayed focused on your clit, while your other hand ventured closer towards your leaking hole. A sharp inhale was what you took before you pushed one finger pass. It went in too easily and just the feeling of being halfway full made you feel euphoric, a hoard of pathetic moans teasing your tongue.

“What a good girl.”

His compliment was accompanied by the now familiar snap of the polaroid, whirring in as per usual to form an image of your vulgar body. Once again, Joel abandoned his treasured property to the side to admire you. Admire his good girl that’s gone by the rules because you know how amazing he’ll treat you when you’re being sweet. Joel was erratic as he unbuckled his belt, doing it with such haste he’s fumbling to pop the buttons open. It made him let out a frustrated grunt that’s easily met with your joyful set of laughter.

“You ain’t gonna get a good fuckin’ if you kept that on.”

His Texas twang shut you up easily. You grinned at him brattily, still stuffing your pussy nice and good as if you can’t stand another minute without something inside of you. He shook his head at the sight. Joel joined in on your playful games when he finally managed to relieve his cock of the fabric prison it’s been kept in. His cock had always been pretty - a pinkish tip with a peachy shaft, always leaking with pearly stickiness up top - yet it seems you’ve forgotten what it looked like up close. After all, it’s been awhile since he took good care of you.

Joel fisted his cock with a tempo you’ve grown familiar with. You’ve witnessed this sight multiple times, yet you’re still bewitched by it everytime. Once he’s satisfied with how sleek he’s turned out to be, he shuffled closer to you. Eyes boring deep within yours with every kind of emotion available to mankind. All mixed up and served as an intoxicating cocktail. He’s trying to tell you something, you knew that, but you’ve never actually figured out what he’s been dying to say. Those thoughts soon turned warp as he fitted himself on your entrance. He ran his shaft up and down over your slit, teasing a reaction out of you.

“Fill me. Put it in- Joel- Joel, please.”

You thrusted your hip upwards with need and that was enough to give him the reassurance he needed. He eased in carefully, knowing that fitting his fat tip was a hard task you never got used to, while his pointer finger rubbed perfect circles on your sensitive nub. A subtle burn caught your throat when he finally bottomed out entirely. He was so girthy it’s hard to situate yourself around him. It even managed to prick a tear out the corner of your eyes.

“Beggin’ me to fuck you good. Teasin’ me like a brat. You’re really somethin’, ain’t ya?”

He rasped in your ear as he inched even closer. His hips snapped just at the right moment and with the perfect altitude to get you trembling. You reached out to hold onto the collar of his flannel. It became your only lifeline as he implored even further, pulling out then immediately filling you up like you’re some sort of pastry. An avalanche tumbling down within your lower abdomen. The pleasure was from another kind of heaven. The kind that could only be brought out by a man who’s dangling in weighty sins.

“Gonna be the end of me.”

To be filled to the very brim made you lose your head. Everything was starting to melt off, your common sense and your previous anger of his audacious lies. It all disappeared at every thrust, every time his lengthy cock disappeared inside your pretty cunt, everything seemed to feel alright. Everything was bright and pristine. He was a good man and so was you. Your eyes flickered, rotating between the sheen appearing on his wrinkled forehead and where his shaft was swallowed by you.

“I’m sorry for being an asshole.”

You knew this was coming. He’s always asking for forgiveness whenever he’s seven inches buried within you. Perhaps that’s exactly what made him an asshole.

“Joel- Just-”

All the words you’ve assigned were scrambled once more when it reached the tip of your tongue.

“I’m sorry for lyin’.”

He whispered out faintly. Was that his version of ‘I love you’? Your hazed mind couldn’t know for certain, but all you knew was that it was sincere from the depth of his heart. You could always tell when he’s being vulnerable and when he’s patching up those brick walls again. He was here right now, in the moment, and entirely euphoric at the way your cunt pulsed around him.

“More, Joel. More!”

“More what?”

“More of your c- cock.”

Joel filled you up so good. It was torture the way he always kept you at bay, but right now all you could think of was how no one could fill you up this way. Even when he’s cruel and distant, even when he occasionally declines your request to remove his clothes and let you see him whole, even when he lies, you are always going to be there. No one could ever fuck you the way he would.

“Where do ya want me, darling?”

He prompted as if you still have the right mind to answer. You were pulsing without end, rocking through the orgasm that’s just edging to come by. 

“Inside. Inside, please, please, please.”

You chanted without end. All throughout your eventful high, thighs jittering and rocking into his every movement as a particularly loud moan echoed around the room. He granted your wishes kindly; injecting you with what he’s been withholding all week, white painting your insides like it was some sort of high-end abstract art. You heaved at the feeling, extremely pleased.

“Fuck, sweetheart.”

He greeted your freshly drugged out mind sweetly. It was then that you hear the last two whirring noises consecutively. One of a close-up shot of your fucked up hole oozing his own dose of cum, and another a pretty shot of your dazed expression. Joel quietly thought that it’d be the perfect accessory for his damn wallet.

[strangebiology]

Any guesses why I always find carcasses in trash piles?

In VA I found some dead dogs in an illegal dump, which was suspicious, and in CA I found a deer with its head cut clean off and none of the other meat taken, at the same Borax lake where I found a lot of trash. So in those cases I suspect foul play. But otherwise?

[grey-gazania-fic]

Fouled Water

(Caranthir, rated G)

The moment Caranthir had seen Maedhros’ map of East Beleriand, he had known why his eldest brother was sending him to Thargelion. It was a banishment of sorts; save for Ossiriand to the south, where their youngest brothers would be safer and of better use, Thargelion was the furthest from Dorthonion, and thus the furthest from Angrod and Aegnor.

Caranthir knew it was his own fault for lashing out at Angrod during that ill-fated council meeting, though he was too proud to ever admit it aloud. He’d made a mess of things, and Maedhros’ rebuke, though firm, hadn’t been enough to salvage the situation. But it was just so difficult to stay calm around Finarfin’s children -- all of them, really, but Angrod in particular. Being in a room with him was like being pummeled by something sharp and hard, like the hailstones that sometimes fell in Mithrim’s chill northern winters, and Caranthir could stand it for only so long.

You don’t understand, he wanted to say to Maedhros. I didn’t ask to be this way. I didn’t ask to feel what everyone around me feels. If I could change it, don’t you think I would? But he held his tongue. His brother had enough things to worry about, and Caranthir couldn’t help feeling guilty that he had added yet more weight to Maedhros’ burdens. So he accepted Thargelion without complaint. At least the place had a lake, which was more than could be said for any of his brothers’ lands.

Though Caranthir loved to swim, he’d never cared for the ocean. It was too salty, too gritty, too abrasive, and the violence of the sea during their voyage in the stolen swanships still haunted him. He’d been certain that he would be shipwrecked and drowned in the briny depths, as had happened to so many of his father’s followers. Even now, he half wondered if Uinen might rise against Fëanor’s sons in wrath once more if they ventured to the coast.

But Helevorn was utterly unlike the ocean. Though strong winds could raise swells on its surface, when the air was calm, the lake was as smooth and still as the glass for which it was named. And though it was dark and deep -- so deep that he’d run out of rope on his first attempt to measure it -- the water was pleasingly cool and clear. Floating on his back, hearing nothing but the peeping of the sandpipers and the plaintive call of the nearby loons, he finally felt at peace.

Now his lake is dead. Some foul concoction of Morgoth’s has turned the water murky and acidic. The weeds have withered, and putrid fish and the feathered carcasses of birds bob on the surface, floating between patches of burning oil. His fortress on Mount Rerir, too, is in flames, but his eyes sting more for the loss of Helevorn.

It’s the smoke, he tells himself, though he knows it’s a lie. It’s just the smoke irritating your eyes.

Blinking away the tears, he turns his horse to the south. There is no one left to wait for. Everyone who could escape Morgoth’s deadly host has already fled, making their way to Ossiriand with all haste. Only Caranthir and his rear guard remain.

“Move out,” he orders, his voice rough from the smoke. “There’s nothing more we can do here.”

He leads his soldiers in their retreat, and he doesn’t look back.