#fresh maggots

[radiophd]

fresh maggots -- rosemary hill

[mudstoneabyss]

everyone always depicts Kevin as fresh but let's be real for a moment. is he supernaturally fresh in the same way were his wounds real he wouldn't just be fine or is crawling with maggots and dripping pus along with the blood and sweat

[dilfsona]

"youre a toddler for not liking veggies" how dare i have food preferences

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

*strolls into tumblr and falls on my face pretending I haven't been missing for like a month I was out getting the milk hello maggots*

Doctor Who But I've Never Watched It 2.0

For those of you feeling deja vu YES I HAVE MADE POSTS ON DOCTOR WHO BEFORE OKAY but back then I was a young uneducated lad, just a fresh blossom unfucked by tumblr. Now I am surrounded by you lot and by god do y'all love Doctor Who. And I am Educated. My DW virginity is deflowered. All that.

SO HERE WE GO, EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS SHOW I'VE NEVER WATCHED:

The show started in 1963, and then was rebooted in 2005 and the showrunner was... Robert de Neiro? Idk all I know is he gives Pedro Pascal vibes. Like his name. His name is Robert.

There have been 15 Doctors so far. One is a lesbian and it is not Jodie Whittaker, it is actually the 12th doctor.

There's someone called the Master. I don't know what that means, or if it's some kind of BDSM thing, but he has intense sexual tension with the Doctor.

He's also emo and has bleached hair and is kinda babygirl. And is called Missy.

The Doctors all have intense trauma and the 15th Doctor kind of girlbossed it by leaving David Tennant intact when they binary-fissioned.

Donna is a person played by Catherine... Tate? Not Hepburn. And she knows less about Doctor Who than I do. And Donna is in a QPR with the David Doctors (there are two of them).

David Doctor loves Donna very much. And then he kills her. But doesn't kill her. And then they have dinner together with her husband and kid.

The original show had shitty effects. The new show does too, and everyone is happy about this.

Rose is someone the David Doctor is in love with and then she ends up with a human AU of him and he leaves and the fans are very divided and passionate about this.

The human AU is called Tentoo because y'all hate using W's. What the fuck is Tentoo. What is Nuwho. Why isn't it New and Two. Help me.

THERE IS SOMETHING CALLED THE TARDIS, IT IS BIGGER ON THE INSIDE, I HAVE HAD WEIRD DREAMS WHERE IT WAS A FUCKING AUTO-RICKSHAW WITH RIBBONS FOR SEATBELTS, AND IT IS BLUE AND NOT YELLOW BUT IT WAS YELLOW IN MY DREAM. Because of a Drarry fanfic that I misread.

The 15th doctor dances homoerotically with someone during the French Revolution.

The 9th doctor kinda vibes with like his head jiggling idk I've only seen one gif of him.

The 13th doctor keeps forgetting she's in a woman's body.

It is all very gay.

David Tennant's arms are too long.

The sexiest person is a head.

The Meep's pronouns are Meep. Meep is not friend. IF NOT FRIEND THEN WHY FRIEND SHAPED??????

A buttcheek skin talks or something yeah this is all I got.

have at it y'all @robinprinceofchaos @multidimensional-trashcan @wispedvellichor @queermarzipan thanks for the second hand brainrot

*sneaks away under the cover of night* i was never here

[rememberwren]

A Girl (Not Mine) || 1

Ghost is a little obsessed with Soap and a lot obsessed with Soap's girlfriend--you.

About this: ghoap/fem!reader, suspension of disbelief regarding anything military related is actually necessary for enjoyment, canon-typical trauma for Simon, intrusive thoughts, slut shaming, voyeurism, fingering, accidentally seeing nudes not meant for you, poor writing unless you squint, try squinting. 4k

-

“I’m so glad I got a girl to think of, 

Even though she isn’t mine.”

-

The first time Johnny mentions you, the 141 is fresh from a month-long leave.

Ghost has a love-hate relationship with time spent off duty. He’d like to enjoy it—to do fuck all, to hike through Clayton Vale twice in a day if it suits him, to drink tea for every meal. But all leave does is remind him of the glaring emptiness in his life, the one he usually fills with violence. So he spent the month climbing up the walls and crawling out of his skin, waiting to be called back like a dog brought to heel. 

Here was his comeuppance for craving something to fucking do instead of relaxing the way Price had told him to do. Now they were on their way to San Lorenzo in Ecuador dealing with Ghost’s least favorite flavor of criminal: drug cartels. 

It’s too close to Mexico. Too close to that which he would forget gladly if it didn’t come with the loss of so many valuable skill sets. He’s crawling out of his skin for a whole new reason, watching the water fly by beneath them, deep in memories. 

Ghost takes all those feelings, fears, remembrances and swallows them whole. Lets them sink to a sour, dark place in his belly. He sits tense on the helo, still except for the rise and fall of his chest, his rifle a familiar weight across his knees. Sometimes he has to shut his eyes, swallowing against the rising nausea. 

He only has half an ear on Garrick and Johnny’s conversation beside him, but it is all he needs to follow along. 

“—lass of my own now,” Johnny is saying around a laugh, his accent thick enough to chafe at Ghost’s skin in a way he doesn’t want to examine, one that leaves him feeling raw but not necessarily hurt. “So no more picking up the barflies back in Hereford.”

“She making an honest man out of you, Tav?” 

“Aye, you could say that.” Johnny sounds proud of the fact. It all is so far from anything Simon has experienced in his life that he feels no distant stirring of empathy, not even a muted sense of familiarity in the words. Honest men do not exist. 

Not to mention, Simon’s never had a woman (willingly) and he never will. 

“You love her?” Garrick asks, earnestly interested to hear the answer. Ghost couldn’t care less.

“Aye. There’s something special about her.” 

“What, she’s cool with anal?”

Johnny crows with laughter, and now Ghost does feel something: annoyance, cloying, creeping up his spine like a spider in a web headed for the wiggling maggot of his brain. 

“Will you two ever shut up?” he snaps. “Not a moment’s fucking peace since we boarded.”

“Sorry LT,” Johnny says, sounding genuinely apologetic. Ghost cuts his eyes toward the other man, assessing for honesty. Johnny’s face is too expressive: brows lifted, eyes wide and earnest, mouth tipped into a tiny grimace, like the thought of irritating Ghost gives him real pain. Between the two of them, Ghost can’t help but think that it’s Johnny who needs a mask if he wants to survive in the world. 

Ghost doesn’t have the energy for this. He goes back to watching the scenery pass by. They are over trees now: thick lush jungle, the scent of which he associates with pain—plenty of which was his own. Plenty of which he caused to others. 

“What about you, LT?” Johnny asks, calling out over the sound of the helicopter blades. “Do you have a woman back home?”

Ghost lets his head turn, slow and dangerous. Johnny’s audacity never fails to surprise him. “What do you think, Johnny?”

“Honestly?” 

“Go on, then.”

“You look like if yeh’ve got a woman, she’s probably locked in yer basement.” 

(right where she’d belong.)

Garrick slaps Johnny’s thigh, his face mottled with panic. He hisses under his breath, something like, There are faster ways to die, Tav! Less painful ways, too, Ghost thinks. He fixes Johnny with a dead stare. The silence stretches, growing long and thin and dangerous, like the blade of a knife, until Johnny looks away. 

“Think less about my private life, Sergeant,” he warns him. 

“Not often you tell me to think less, LT.” 

Ghost just grunts, finished with the conversation, returning his unseeing eyes to the trees and slipping back into his own memories. 

-

That should be—well, not the end of it. He expects Johnny to become insufferable about it; that’s just the other man’s way. Still, Ghost had never expected to see you. 

He’s doing paperwork in the rec room, too stifled by the tiny, enclosed space of his office to remain there. Paperwork and debriefing are always his least favorite parts of an op. Give him a gun with which to kill and he will gladly kill; give him a pen with which to write and he spends half the time thinking about burying it in his own eye. Garrick and Johnny are there nearby fucking around on their phones having finished with their easy portion of the work ages ago. 

A phone is what Johnny thrusts beneath Ghost’s nose. It takes all of his mental fortitude not to flinch away from the unexpected action (or, more likely, not to rip Johnny’s arm off and beat him half to death with it). His eyes flicker down to the screen on instinct and—there you are. 

You have one eye squinted shut, your hand up to create a visor against the overbearing sun. The picture shows you from the bust upwards, and Simon sees it for approximately one full second before he grips Johnny’s wrist in a brutal hold and forces the hand and the phone away. 

It’s already too late. He’s committed you to memory. The way your hair sits, its color in the blistering sun. The curve of your lips (fuckable, he thinks against his will) as you give Johnny behind the camera an exasperated smile. The arch of your nose (images now—fingers pinching noses shut, forcing mouths further down his cock just to watch them choke and struggle)—

“Get that out of my face,” he grits out through his teeth. His thoughts won’t stop, not now that the floodgates have been opened, and it makes him feel like a dog backed into a corner, frightened-violence rising up in the back of his throat like bile. 

—the smooth line of your throat (and his hands around it, choking the light from your eyes just to fuck you when you’re soft and pliable and he doesn’t have to listen to you crying and begging)—shut UP!—

“It’s just my girl, sir,” Johnny laughs, his own eyes flickering back down to your image on the phone, like they are drawn to you. Like it is hard to look away. Ghost doesn’t have that problem—he has some  discipline left. “And it’s not as if she’s naked.” 

Ghost grips the pen in his hand so tightly that the plastic shell cracks. He’s barely keeping it together, sick and afraid and horrified and angry that Johnny has done this to him—has done this to his own girl—

His voice is rough when he croaks out: “What makes you think I care to see her, Sergeant?” 

“‘S it wrong to share the most important person in my life with the other most important people in my life?” Johnny says, eyes too guileless to be taken seriously. 

“Share less,” he snaps. 

“Been saying that to me an awful lot lately, sir.” 

“A good Sergeant would take my words to heart.” 

“A good lieutenant would know a futile lesson when it’s biting him in the arse.”

Ghost’s eyes narrow. “Careful, Johnny. As much as I hate paperwork, I’d write you up—gladly.” 

Johnny gapes. “What for?”

Ghost grins without mirth, mask stretching around his features. Even grinning cruelly like this, his face feels unused to any expression that is adjacent to happiness. He swears darkly: “I’ll find a reason.”

It would send anyone else running. Even Garrick looks fearful, though fascinated: the same look a man wears when he’s watching a car crash in progress. But if sense were dynamite, Johnny wouldn’t have enough to blow his nose. Instead, he just flops down on the couch close enough to flutter the pages in Ghost’s lap. Close enough for their knees to brush. 

“Jesus, you’re a tadger today,” Johnny says quietly, boot knocking against Ghost’s, a touch he feels all the way up his leg. “Shove off some of that paperwork on us. What’s the use of being a lieutenant if you can’t lord it over your sergeants?”

“I’m sorry, us?” Garrick asks. 

“I don’t shirk my responsibilities, Johnny,” Ghost says coldly, gathering his papers. His elbow brushes against Johnny’s ribs, the firm, burning warmth of the other man’s body. He jerks away. He’ll take the stifling seclusion of his office, that makeshift coffin, before he subjects himself to any more of this. “You’d do well to follow my example.”

-

Ghost resolutely does not think of you. Not during quiet lazy moments on base, not during the frustration of training recruits, especially not during the eerie calm of missions. You do not cross his mind. 

His dreams are another thing altogether. 

There are the dreams where he hurts and the dreams where he is hurting, and he doesn’t know which are worse. He only knows that they are made worse by your strange presence: your body bent and being broken in by others; you, bent and being broken in by him. He wakes in cold sweats, jaw aching from gritting his teeth in his sleep. 

He hates himself for this last place where he cannot execute control: his subconscious. 

-

“Mail?” Johnny asks cheerfully at the sight of Garrick seated on the bench outside the DFAC, a stack of papers and letters laying on his lap. 

Johnny is sweaty, gray t-shirt clinging to his toned body as he (for once) keeps a companionable silence at Ghost’s side. They have been training recruits all day—work which Ghost considers far beneath his pay grade, but which he can’t refuse when ops are so slow to arrive and when he is so eager (desperate) to keep busy. Ghost lets himself sit heavily on the bench a safe distance away from Garrick, sweat cooling on his own body. 

He’s not ready to be alone yet. 

He’s allowed to do that. To want company. Of all the people on base, Garrick and Johnny (and Price) might be the most tolerable of the lot of them. During the rare moments when the pitiful piece of humanity left inside him craves companionship, this is the least painful method to mainline it. 

He ignores the lack of letters for him. There is no mail for Ghost—there never is. 

Garrick passes Johnny no less than four envelopes. Johnny’s soft smile as he flips through them speaks volumes. Ghost can guess who they’re from: his mother likely, who writes as often as she can. One of his various sisters, surely. Take your pick.  Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Johnny flip through the letters and settle on one in particular, thicker than the others, tearing it open and tugging the letter out. 

The pictures slip from the folded piece of paper and fall to the ground. 

Johnny dives to grab them, but all it does is bring Garrick’s attention to them more. Even Ghost’s interest is piqued, his dark eyes giving up pretending to watch the recruits limp back to their barracks to shower before dinner and following Johnny’s hasty movements instead, watching the hot flush that crawls up the back of his Sergeant’s neck. 

“What are those?” Garrick asks. 

“No’ a thing.” 

Garrick lights up. He practically tosses his letter to the side. “She sent you pictures?” 

“Possibly,” Johnny says smuggly, the images—old fashioned Polaroids, a nice touch—pressed to his chest. His eyes narrow at the expression on Garrick’s face. “Don’t even think about it, Gaz—!”

Garrick pounces. The two begin grappling, both of their faces split into wide grins. Johnny can only defend himself with one arm, his other protectively clutching the photographs to his bosom. They take each other to the ground and Ghost watches, half interested and half irritated, wondering who will win. 

The pictures go flying—and fate’s invisible bitch of a hand causes them to land at Ghost’s feet. Garrick and Johnny freeze.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t, the same way he knows that he’s going to. Ignoring their renewed struggles on the ground as they fight to untangle themselves and stand, he leans down and reaches for the photographs.

The white of the Polaroid’s edges contrast nicely with his dark gloves as he gathers the pictures together like a deck of scattered cards. 

“LT—“

They’re relatively tame. Perhaps you knew the high risk of sending them. In one you are kneeling on a bed amongst a sea of mussed, white sheets, wearing nothing but a t-shirt that you have tugged down between your parted thighs to offer yourself some modesty. It is painful to flip to the next one, but pain calls to Ghost, lures him in. In another you’re wearing some strappy lingerie but still covered artfully by the sheets, both hands covering your eyes, a grin on your face like you are mid laugh. Did Johnny take these photos of you himself? Did a stranger? A friend? Another shows your side profile, back arched, topless, every inch of you curved and poised. 

You’re (a filthy little slut) so fucking pretty. 

“Give ‘em back, LT, please,” Johnny asks gently, like he expects Ghost to tear them to shreds. Or confiscate them. 

Ghost drops the photographs to the bench, wishing he could scrub the images of you from his mind. He shouldn’t have picked them up in the first place. It’s adding fuel to the fire of his broken brain, and he knows that he will pay for it dearly. 

Johnny is talking. “—shy, she’d just die to know you saw.”

“She’ll only know if you tell her, Johnny,” Ghost reminds him. His mouth feels numb, his brain the quiet granted by white noise, a conglomerate of screams. 

Johnny frowns. “Suppose so. You alright?” 

“Since Ghost saw—“ 

“No, Gaz.” 

Ghost watches the two of them enter the building. 

His hand burns, where he has palmed the picture of you topless. He stands and slips the Polaroid into his back pocket. It’s on the tip of his tongue to call out for Johnny and give him the picture back—he could find some excuse, and Johnny would believe him, he knows it—but he doesn’t. He makes for his room, feeling sick with himself. He isn’t hungry. Not for food. 

-

Ghost is compromised. 

The thought replays in his mind over and over again as he drives to Price’s house in Solihull. You and Johnny have crawled beneath his skin and infected him, dug your way into his DNA and are affecting everything from his decision making capabilities to his dreams. He knows that going anywhere where you both will be is a mistake, but it’s one he can’t seem to help hurdling himself toward at high speed. 

Nothing will happen, he tells himself, knuckles white against the steering wheel. He only does what he allows himself to do—no more. The others will be there at least, Garrick and Price and Johnny himself. Physical barriers between him and you. Human meat shields, if necessary. Ghost wouldn’t dare to lay a finger on you. (But who would stop him if he tried? Who could?) You are safe, he tells himself. 

He is the last to arrive, dragging his feet up the concrete steps to the two story brick historical home that Price owns. He lets himself in the way that Price told him to and can tell by the eerie silence of the house that everyone is already outside enjoying the well-landscaped yard. Already he sees the evidence of you: a purse (go through it) laid neatly on the dining room table. He sets his keys beside it but does not touch it. 

Ghost doesn’t bother trying to delay the inevitable. Every part of him wants to run, but that’s all he’s ever wanted his whole life. He’s used to it by now, used to being forced to walk toward the thing which terrified him. He squares his shoulders and slides open the patio door, slipping back out into the muggy heat of the afternoon, face mask in place, hood up.  

The landscaping is one of the best features of Price’s house. The privacy fence is tall and appealing to Ghost’s seclusive nature, the lawn neatly clipped. There is a hedgerow running along the southern edge of the fence that is meticulously maintained. Flower beds lined with bricks rest along the house full of geraniums and phlox. The patio is smooth stone with an inlaid fire pit that would be crackling if the weather were any milder. An iron-wrought table sits nearby surrounded by chairs, and seated there are Garrick, Johnny, and Price. 

You are over by the flowers, kneeling in the soft grass, picking phlox just a few shades darker than the sundress you’re wearing, the one that skims your soft thighs. Ghost’s eyes roam over you and away all before your head even turns at the sound of the door opening. 

“LT,” Johnny calls, lighting up. “You made it!” 

“Didn’t think you’d show, Lieutenant,” Garrick says with a smile. 

“As if he’s got something better to be doing than spending time with us,” Johnny crows. 

“Jesus, will you two leave the man alone? Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already regretting coming,” Price says. Ghost inclines his head, grateful for the backup. 

He hears your approach, the soft sound of your flats against the patio stone. You are small (weak) compared to him, craning your head up to look in his eyes. He hates the dark part of his brain that calls you easy prey as he watches you twist the phlox stems between anxious fingers. 

“You must be Simon—” Johnny shakes his head a little, subtle, visible only out of the corner of Ghost’s eye. “—ah—Ghost? I mean—” 

“I don’t care what you call me,” he admits.

“Ghost,” you settle where it is nice and safe. “It’s nice to meet you. John talks about you all the time.”

“Likewise,” Ghost says flatly, hoping you will not mistake it for a compliment. 

Garrick snorts. “Never shuts up about you is more likely.”

There aren’t enough chairs for everyone, so you sit on Johnny’s lap, legs crossed demurely, skirt riding up around your upper thighs. He wonders about the softness of your skin, wonders if his calloused touch would hurt you or if you’re used to Johnny’s by now. He could make it hurt. The thought doesn’t come with any zing of pleasure, just the cold apathy of fact. Has Johnny ever tried that? Has he ever—

Ghost’s gloved hand clenches into a fist, curling around the iron armrest of the chair. He takes a measured breath and holds it until his lungs ache. Those thoughts aren’t his own. They come from the dark part that Roba seeded inside him, that part with creeping vines too deep to root out. That part with thorns. 

He could hurt you, the same way he could hurt anyone, he tells himself. But he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to. 

He does only what he allows himself to do. No more. No less. 

You and Johnny stand, heading into the house to retrieve a round of drinks for everyone. Ghost watches Johnny’s hand dip low on your back to the curve of your ass as he guides you through the open door, shutting it behind you. 

“Are you alright, Simon?” Price asks around a cigar. “I know meeting new people isn’t exactly in your repertoire.”

“Don’t mother me.”

“Don’t have to be your mother to care about you.”

“Garrick—get lost,” Ghost barks. 

The iron chair legs screech against the stone of the patio as Garrick stands hastily. “Had the same thought, sir. Hedges look lovely this time of year.”

When Garrick is properly out of earshot, pretending to find amusement in the neat hedgerows along the fence line, Ghost says: “I shouldn’t have come. I’m… I— can’t be left alone with her.” 

“With—? Soap’s gal?”

Ghost grits his teeth in shame and nods. 

“Do you know her?” 

Ghost shakes his head in the negative, but it’s not necessarily true. He knows a thousand women just like her, soft and unexpecting. The betrayal always cuts deeper than his cock could reach (estoy preso, somos lo mismo, por favor).

He stands, chair legs dragging against the stone. “This was a mistake. I need to leave.” 

“If you say so,” says Price, knowing better than to argue. “Go around the side. You won’t even have to see them.” 

“My keys are inside. I’ll be quick.” 

“Take care of yourself, Simon,” says Price, his eyes dark and lips downturned as he watches Ghost stalk to the patio door and slip inside. 

-

He braces himself to see you and Johnny in the kitchen, but when the door slides open near-silent, neither of you are anywhere to be seen. Like a fool, he considers himself lucky. Quiet as his namesake, Ghost goes to the table and picks up his keys, palming them. 

That’s when he hears it. The unmistakable muted slap of flesh on flesh. 

(Go look.)

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t, but that is his modus operandi these days: failing himself, doing what he isn’t meant to, seeing what is not for his eyes. His feet carry him silently to the door, which is cracked open just wide enough for him to see through into the room. It is a guest bedroom judging by the bland decor, the queen sized bed. Johnny has you sprawled on it, your sundress hitched up around your waist, his fingers buried to the final knuckle inside your cunt. Ghost can hear the way it squelches from all the way outside the door, knows that you must be dripping down Johnny’s wrist. 

“Keep quiet, love,” Johnny pants, one hand over your mouth (he’s not doing it right) to muffle the whines and groans trying to slip past your lips. “Needy little thing, aren’t yeh? Squirming in my lap, making my cock hard right there in front of my Captain, in front of my Lieutenant—“

You whine something back, but it is lost into his palm. 

“Don’t have time to get my cock in you,” Johnny sighs, twisting his fingers inside you, hooking them to press against that tender spot past your pubic bone that has your knees knocking together. He shifts his palm down to grip your neck, your panting breaths filling the room. “But you can bet this dress is coming off as soon as we’re home, do y’hear me?”

“Yessir,” you whisper, and it has Ghost’s cock throbbing. 

This is not for him. He thinks about Johnny’s words from months ago: that you are shy. There’s no chance you would ever want to be seen like this by him. Reaching out, he grips the doorknob and quietly tugs the door closed, til the sound of Johnny’s palm slapping against your clit is muffled behind the wood. 

He takes his keys and is gone before you ever know he was there. 

-

Johnny texts him later that night: 

Why’d you leave early, you numpty? We wanted more time with you. 

Ghost doesn’t respond. He’s too busy spiraling in his own flat, losing control every few minutes and slipping back into that place of pain and blood and dirt. 

An hour later, Johnny ends up adding, My girl wants me to say she was glad she got to meet you. Only Jesus knows why! Ghost definitely doesn’t respond to that. But he doesn’t delete the messages either.

[bogleech]

This is going around facebook and mostly being shared as "WHY YOU SHOULDN'T EAT MEAT" but these are fresh, brand new obviously not roasted fly eggs. A fly landed on someone's food and laid all its eggs after said food had been sitting out. That, or these photos are of meat directly out of the garbage, and it certainly looks pretty slimy. Not to mention, if you're scared of eating insect eggs (or whole insects), and especially maggots, I have bad news about almost all fruits and vegetables

[wife-of-all-dilfs]

the five stages | f. odair

masterlist

summary: a journey back to a golden period of time of polaroid pictures, white knitted sweaters, and lively sea-green eyes. why? because in the present, those same pair of eyes are ruthlessly unrelenting and you have no other chance of their escape.

pairing: finnick odair x fem!reader

warnings: heavy angst, vomiting, implied smut, depression, maggots, hallucinations, relieving fluff, mild horror. I don’t want to spoil the story too much, so I won’t be adding any more warnings, sorry y’all. this could be very triggering so please read at your own discretion. some descriptions are quite graphic!

notes: I’m super proud of this one—it’s sorta based off “little talks” by of monsters and men and “on the nature of daylight” by max richer. this fic probably won’t get many views, so I’ll be incredibly grateful for any—if any at all—type of engagement! <33

word count: 8k

The bedroom was cold; dark; empty. Empty even though I still resided in it.

My alarm had gone off two hours ago, yet I hadn’t moved an inch. When I finally turned my head to the side, I found that the space beside me was vacant. Cold; dark; empty—I reached out my hand anyway.

Thirty minutes passed before I wrestled myself out of bed and started making breakfast downstairs. The otherwise warm and flavourful plate of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast left my mouth feeling dry and my throat lodged.

It used to be one of my favourite meals. At least, when he was around.

Dishes were piled in the sink, dirty and untouched. I sat on the couch, pondering whether today was the day I would finally get to cleaning them. It wasn’t. I couldn’t. We always did that together. I wondered—if I left them in the sink long enough, would he return? Even just for five minutes to help me put them away? One month and seventeen days had passed, and yet I still entertained this thought religiously.

I wasted an hour running circles round the same contemplations before deciding fresh air, as cliché as it was, might do me some good.

Grey clouds concealed the sun’s warm golden light when I stepped outside, but that was fine—I didn’t like anything golden anymore. But he would want me to leave the house at least once a day, so that’s what I would do. I would go down to the beach beside our—my house and feel the sand collect between my toes as I walked to the water’s edge.

But wasn’t that where he was when it happened? Wasn’t he in water? Didn’t those things pile on top of him? Didn’t they sink their fangs into his neck and tear at his flesh until he was blown to…

Bits of egg, yoghurt and stomach bile sat at my feet. My legs buckled, and I collapsed to the ground in a sandy, tear-stricken heap. Since my lower body had refused to cooperate any longer, it took me until midday to crawl back up the dune and to my front doorstep.

Fuck. I needed to rest.

“I need you to rest, sweetheart.”

“I told you, I’m fine,” I whined. “I’m not sick.”

Finnick placed a bucket on the ground beside the bed. The room smelled of lemon disinfectant—a joy I often found in being sick… That is, if I were sick, which I was not. I must have drunk spoiled milk or eaten something bad during breakfast. Nevertheless, Finnick was not having it.

“You’re throwing up everything you manage to get down, and you’re shivering like it’s the middle of winter,” he said adamantly, tucking the comforter up to my chest. “It’s summer, and you’re very much not fine.”

I sat up, ready to heatedly debate the subject, but the room began swirling, and my ears were hissing like a staticky television channel without a signal. A quiet whimper buzzed in my throat as I hunched forward. Damn him, I was sick.

The mattress dipped as Finnick sat beside me. His hand was on my back, rubbing it soothingly as he used his other hand to tuck away the curtain of hair concealing my face. I huffed, half in annoyance, half in an attempt to suppress the nausea rising in my throat, and then sunk back against the pillows.

“Not sick, she says,” he jested, smiling down at me. I rolled my eyes, though unable to hide the weak, betraying smile creeping across my lips. “Close your eyes, sweetheart,” he said, a gentle command. “I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”

The wooden flooring welcomed me with hard, cold arms as I hauled my sandy body through the front door. Images of fangs, bloody flesh, and panicked sea-green eyes flooded my mind.

More breakfast, more bile. No lemon disinfectant.

My knees were folded beneath my body; my body was hunched over my knees. I was sobbing now, so hard that I threw up again (was there even anything left in my stomach at this point?), creating a thick puddle of vomit and tears beneath me. Cries and gasps for air bounced around the house. To call me a mess would be an understatement. I was a disaster. A disaster wrapped up in an unmendable tragedy with a ragged, threadbare ribbon barely holding me together.

And in case I wasn’t aware of this fact, the floorboards were so shiny that they mirrored a reflection of myself. My hair was a being of its own, all wild and unkempt, and my face was another story entirely—a red, blotchy thing I wasn’t too interested in delving into.

But the most unsettling aspect had nothing to do with me, it was that there was someone else in the reflection. Two green balls of light were glowing above my head.

Dishevelled golden hair…

Dimpled cheeks…

My forehead was pressed to the floor as I screamed.

“I don’t want to make you sick as well,” I said, contrarily enjoying the feeling of Finnick’s skin warm against mine, hot blood flowing through his veins.

A day had passed since I first became unwell, and the sickness had continued to wreak havoc inside me.

We were both under the thick covers, our limbs tangled together as he held me atop his chest. (my body didn’t register the scorching summer temperatures. I actually felt as though my core temperature was a few degrees below freezing. Meanwhile, Finnick was characteristically toasty warm. It was perfect for me, but not so much for him, evident in the beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. Nevertheless, he made no complaints).

My body rose and fell with each breath he took. I was trying to inhale whenever he exhaled in a weak attempt to prevent the festering sickness in my body from entering his, and though it was a futile gesture, I did it anyway.

“In sickness and health, remember?” he said.

I smiled. “We’re not even married.”

“Yet, you mean,” he countered. “I plan on spending the rest of my life with you, sweetheart. You know that.”

My heart fluttered at the thought of spending an entire lifetime with him—waking up in each other’s embrace each morning, the warm sunlight peeking through the blinds of our bedroom; Finnick calling me “Mrs. Odair” or “My wife” at every opportunity because doing so made us both giggle like two moronic, love-struck teenagers; and being unable to prevent the deep smile lines on both our cheeks as we age, a constant display of our perpetual happiness.

“Sixty more years of having and holding you,” he continued with a gentle musing in his tone. “For better or for worse... For richer or for poorer.” He then stroked the side of my face and brushed away the sweaty strands of hair sticking to my forehead. “In sickness and in health…”

“…Until death do us part,” I finished, my voice slow with fatigue.

Two fingers sat beneath my chin and tilted my head upward. My eyes connected with Finnick’s. They were soft. Heartfelt.

“Not even then. I’ll love you beyond the grave,” he murmured. Then his lips were slowly curving into a pensive smile. “When we’re both ghosts and haunting the next owners of this house.”

I was now smiling, too. “I’d hoped you would say something like that.”

How could he lie like that? There was no we. There were no next owners. There was only me, alive and alone in a comatose house. And mind you, I was sane enough to know that it wasn’t actually his ghost haunting me, though I wish I weren’t because having that knowledge was even worse. It meant he was truly erased from existence.

“Go away,” I whispered to the reflection on the floor.

He didn’t. His vacant green eyes kept staring down at my crumpled figure.

I shot off the floor and spun around, hot tears streaming down my face. “Go away!” His face remained expressionless. He looked like himself, only colder. “You said sixty more years! You said we’d be together!” I mindlessly picked up and flung a small picture frame at him, only for it to pass through his body and shatter on the floor behind him. “Why did you lie to me?!” My voice was frayed with fury, though underlined with grief.

He said nothing, did nothing. All he did was watch.

My legs buckled, and I was on the floor again. I was whispering, half-sobbing, the same question over and over until the words slurred together. “Why’d you lie? Why’d y’lie?” The only time I stopped was when my tongue grew too heavy to move anymore.

To my surprise, he eventually came and sat beside me, remaining cold and silent—as I too had become.

Glass fragments from the picture frame were scattered across the floorboards. The photo within had fallen out and, ironically, drifted towards me. I didn’t bother acknowledging him as I moved onto my hands and knees and began crawling forward—my palms slicing open and blood seeping out—until the photo was in my hands. My shins had granules of glass pricking into them, but I couldn’t feel the pain; all I could do was stare at the memory in my hands.

The picture had been taken in District Thirteen, a day before he signed up for… the mission.

I was drifting in and out of sleep when a sudden bright flash lit up my eyelids.

“Oops.”

Heavy eyes fluttering open, I was met with a small camera pointing down at me, which was being held up by a lengthy muscular arm, which was connected to an even more muscular and broad shoulder, which was connected to—okay, sorry, I think you get it.

“Finnick!” I shrieked, pulling the covers over my naked figure.

He laughed, the vibrations rumbling deep within his chest, beneath my ear. A soft whirring sound accompanied the polaroid sliding out of the camera, its black film hiding the doubtless embarrassing picture beneath. He placed the film on the sheets beside him, letting the photo develop in darkness.

“I was supposed to cover the flash,” he said, still chuckling.

I rubbed my eyes, which were twinkling with little sparkles of light. “I think you blinded me.”

“Lucky you,” he jested. “You’re finally free from my repulsive exterior.”

I started to reach for the picture beside him—“You’re an idiot”—but then he was rolling us over until his arms were pillared on either side of my head and he was hovering above me.

His hair was a mess, a testament to the night before (and very early hours of the morning), and he was sporting a beautiful, lazy grin. “Yeah? Well, you’re engaged to an idiot,” he said, tilting his head in an arrogant manner. “So what does that make you?”

The sea-glass ring hugging my finger gleamed in the lamp’s dull light as I reached out to touch his face, my fingertips brushing along the edges of his pronounced jawline. Tangled strands of hair and a beaming smile were reflecting back at me in his eyes. No one had ever loved anyone as much as I loved Finnick—disregarding the one exception that was staring down at me.

“Blinded by love,” I whispered.

Brief yet poignant emotion trickled through his features, his eyes. Then, like a flick of a switch, he covered it up and lowered his face into my neck, groaning the words, “So corny.”

My fingers were tangled in his hair, holding him close to me. “Liar,” I laughed. “You loved it.”

“I love you, which is why I put up with your corniness,” he murmured into my skin.

Even after all this time, my heart still leapt whenever he said those three words, even when he was being a jerk about it. I kissed the top of his head. “I love you, too.”

We laid like this for a short while longer—Finnick keeping his face buried in the warmth of my neck, his arms curled beneath my body; me playing with the golden waves of his hair that were somehow softer than my own. He was so heavy on top of me that it was starting to become difficult to breathe, but in no universe would I ever tell him to get off. It was a blissful sort of suffocation.

A sort anyone would snap a picture of just to keep as a reminder of how beautiful it feels to be smothered with love. With that being said, the picture that lay awaiting beside me was brought back to mind.

“Oh no,” I moaned, picking it up and taking a short glance at the developed photo. I covered my face with my hands, repeating the words, “Oh no.”

The photo was plucked from my fingers, and Finnick began humming contentedly to himself.

In the photo, my face had been nuzzled into his bare, muscular chest, eyes closed in sleep-drunken serenity, hair thrown over my shoulder and spilling across the pillow. My hand rested on his contoured stomach with just enough of my upper arm and low light to conceal my breasts. Finnick had a delicate hand draped over my waist. He was gazing down at me with a smile that was just… full of pure love.

I had to admit—it was a beautiful picture. Despite my initial disapproval.

“Beautiful,” I heard him echo my thoughts, his eyes still scanning the photo. Then his brows furrowed, and his head slightly inched forward as though he had just noticed something peculiar in the picture. “Oh, and you are too, I guess.”

My head tilted back against the pillow with an abrupt laugh. I shook my head, looking back at him. “I hate you.”

“Liar,” he said, leaning in closer.

His lips were on mine for what must have been the millionth time in the past few hours. The bedside clock announced that breakfast was soon approaching, though it was clear neither of us would make an appearance within the next hour (or two).

“You love me,” he whispered as he slid inside me.

And I did.

I really did.

The muscles in my cheeks were straining due to how hard I was smiling.

It wasn’t my idea to keep a picture of us half-naked in the entryway of our home. He always was a bit unusual like that. Completely unashamed of who he was and how he acted. Sometimes a little too boisterously, but that’s what I loved so much about him—how confident he was in his love for me, so much so that nothing else mattered, no one else’s opinion.

God, I love him so much.

Love…?

Wait.

That’s not right.

Shouldn’t it be “loved”?

And why was I smiling? I didn’t have anything to smile about anymore. He was gone. Our wedding never occurred. Our faces never wrinkled with smile lines. Our clasped hands never weathered with age. He was gone.

The polaroid slipped from between my fingers. My hands were covered in glass and blood, blood that had painted a dark red splotch in the middle of the shiny film. Figures.

After a short while of staring blankly at the scattered debris decorating the floor, I finally found it in myself to start climbing back onto my feet. My straightened legs wobbled and ached beneath me with the little energy I had. That’s what happens when you can barely stomach food anymore: no energy, always sleeping, always swamped by nightmares or bittersweet memories—at this point, they were one and the same.

Not a strand of gold or a fleck of green was in sight when I glanced over my shoulder. For now, at least. He liked making an appearance once or twice a day.

Pieces of glass crunched beneath my bare, stinging feet as I made for the stairwell. A mess for another day, I reasoned. Just like the dishes. Sticky red footprints stamped each wooden step I ascended, growing less prominent as I reached the second floor.

After taking a right down a short hallway, the encompassing walls littered with magnificent seashells and dried ocean flora, I turned the knob to the furthest room and entered. The floor was landscaped with mountains of clothes which drenched the room in a familiar, all-consuming smell. The scent kind of reminded me of receiving a warm hug, albeit from someone you know you should let go of in more ways than one.

His hair, golden and tousled, caught my eye as I passed the wall of string-hung polaroids in our… sorry, my bedroom. His smile was all dimpled and brilliant, and he had his tanned arms wrapped around my middle. Just moments after the picture was taken, he had tackled me into the water and rightfully earned a smack on the back of the head. In turn, he did it again.

But before that, we were both looking into the camera with the most joyful expressions—huge grins, bright eyes. Frozen in time.

I never let myself look too long at that picture anymore. And I never, ever looked into his eyes. Green used to be my favourite colour. I didn’t have a favourite colour anymore. It was safe to say I didn’t have a favourite anything anymore; everything favourable was a reminder of him.

I picked up a white knitted sweater off the ground and tugged it over my head, staining it with splotches of dark red. Knowing him, he would wear it regardless—whatever was mine, was also his, and was equally the same in reverse, even things as grotesque as blood.

Well, he would have worn it, I should have said.

The sweater had been specifically tailored for him. I remembered how the soft sleeves hugged his arms so well that every fluid curve of his biceps was visible, similar to a building wave before it crested. On me, the sleeves swallowed my arms whole, which I liked to think in their own unique way had also been unintentionally tailored for me, like someone out there knew one day I would need some way to drown in him when he was gone.

Finnick’s fingers tugged at the silk ribbons, unwrapping the opulent gift box that sat on our dining table. Capitol devotees would send extravagant parcels weekly, turning up in abundance on our doorstep. Sometimes Finnick didn’t even bother opening them; sometimes we opened them together just to get a good laugh out of whatever ridiculous item was inside.

He never, though, opened the perfume-scented letters marked with lipstick stains.

“Oh,” I said in surprise as he lifted the lid. Inside was a folded piece of fabric, knitted and cream-white and intricate, though still simple. It was soft to the touch; thick enough to retain warmth. I held it up with two hands, admiring the hand-sewed threads of cotton. Whoever’s handiwork this was, it was nothing to laugh at.

Holding it up to Finnick’s torso, I smiled and said, “Try it on.”

“What?” He shook his head and smiled quizzically. “No.”

“Yes. I think it will look good on you.” I pressed it further against him with conviction. “Try it on.”

He tilted his head and exhaled deeply through his nose, giving me a begrudging, squinty-eyed look. From that, I already knew I had won him over, and watched as he snatched the sweater from my grasp and tugged his shirt off with one hand. I averted my eyes, feeling the tips of my ears flush with heat—we’d been together for over a year now; you would think I’d have grown accustomed to seeing him shirtless.

His head slipped through the neckline and he pulled the sweater down his body. I was right. It looked really good on him. Perfect, actually. The measurements were so precise that the fabric sloped off his shoulders like a compact mountain of snow. The thick-knitted collar dipped into a deep, uneven neckline that partly revealed his chest and made his neck look like a strong, contoured pillar. He looked at me expectantly, as though to ask, “Well?”

“It makes your neck and shoulders look really nice,” I blurted out, instantly cringing inside.

His expression contorted into something of amusement and surprise as he took a slow step towards me. “My neck and shoulders, huh?” he said, grinning devilishly. Oh, now I’d done it. Leave it to me to rocket Finnick Odair’s already atmospheric ego. “Anything else?”

I began backing away, but his prowling strides were so long that the space between us only shortened. When my backside hit the edge of the dining table, I knew I was done for.

“You know,” I began, avoiding his unrelenting stare. “I think it was just a momentary lapse of judgement.” He was closing in now, placing his hands on either side of my body to trap me in place. “It—It actually looks terrible on you,” I said, feigning sincerity and adding a little nod to help further my case.

His eyelids drooped as he gazed down at me, lips curving into that seductive smirk he had mastered long ago. “No takebacks,” he purred, voice low and gravelly. Dear God, I could only pray I wasn’t going to melt into a puddle on the floor. He always did this—took every opportunity to flirt and render me a stuttering, bashful mess. It was his favourite game to play. “This is now my new favourite shirt. All thanks to you, sweetheart.”

But, given the right timing and ever-wavering amount of confidence, I liked to play too.

I inhaled deeply, hoping my voice wouldn’t betray me. “Maybe you should take it off then,” I said, cocking my head to the side. “So you don’t ruin it.”

His mischievous expression revealed his next words before he even spoke them. “Maybe I will,” he said, and then he was tugging his sweater over his head, and I was tearing off my own. As his hands slipped beneath my thighs and lifted me onto our dining table, I prayed the wooden legs wouldn’t collapse under the weight of our next actions.

My fingertips ran over the soft, rippling patterns on the knitted sleeves, my arms crossed in a self-soothing manner. After that day, the sweater had become a sort of good luck charm—or so we agreed upon as we lay panting on the tabletop. He started wearing it to a multitude of events and parties in the Capitol (basically any place in which he needed a pick-me-up, a reminder of what he had to come home to, who he had to come home to).

He even wore it the day we got engaged.

So many happy memories were associated with this one white sweater. So many times, those cloud-soft sleeves were wrapped around my body, suffocating me in the scent of him—if nothing else, at least that remained.

The last time he had worn it was the day of the Reaping for the Quarter Quell; the last time our lives were ever semi-normal. I had fought tooth and nail to reach him before he was escorted onto the train, despite being ordered, “No goodbyes,” by one of the Peacekeepers. In modest terms, I had significantly decreased his chances of reproduction.

When I reached Finnick, he had brought me into a kiss so harsh and fervent that my lips were bruised the next day. He then yanked off his sweater, leaving his upper body completely exposed to everyone around us in complete disregard for his trauma-induced fear of doing so, and shoved it into my hands.

I had just stood there frozen in bewilderment, watching as he called out, “I love you, sweetheart!” Two Peacekeepers were forcing him onto the train, but he too fought for the last word. “Don’t forget—I’m always with you!”

That statement had never been truer than it was now. For better or for worse.

My vision unblurred as I returned to reality. Dismal, grey light was peeking through the shutters that formed the balcony doors, the daylight hours seeming to tick away at a snail’s pace. I used to wish for the days to be longer, for time to move slower, so I could savour the moments I had of happiness and sunlight which used to be plentiful.

Why do wishes only come true when you grow to desire nothing but the opposite?

Slothfully, I crawled onto the unmade king-size bed, my limbs crumpling and balling to my chest as the side of my head hit the pillow. The imprint on the mattress beneath my body didn’t match my own. It was much larger and broader. How long would it take for the springs to forget his body weight and recoil back into place as though he never existed at all?

I inhaled the sweater’s scent with every breath I took (and I tried not to wonder how long it would take for his scent to disappear as well) and hugged my arms around my waist. No pain was worse than the fleeting moments I forgot the embrace was my own and not his.

Hours passed, and so did the evening. A beautiful orange sunset hadn’t slipped through the shutter’s cracks because the clouds never dissipated. Night-time brought no consolation either. Not even the stars or moon made an appearance. Everything that once gave me a shred of optimism was hidden behind a veil of gloom.

I knew tomorrow wouldn’t be any different—the weather, my mood, his absence. Because the end of autumn was closing in, and the days were becoming bleaker. Trees would start shedding their leaves; the leaves would start to die.

I hoped I would too.

I was still curled up on my side, my body aching with stiffness, when my face began scrunching into this ugly, twisted mess of despair. My tears were slow yet heavy, synonymous with the day I had incurred.

But then something strange happened.

Someone called my name.

No. That couldn’t be right. I was the only one who occupied a house in the Victor’s Village; the others had either relocated after the war or were… dead.

But there it was again—my name, distant and eerie, yet spoken with a tone people often used to beckon over and aid a frightened, injured animal. My vision blurred, both from tears and concentration on the voice.

“Hey.”

I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment my surroundings transformed into a kitchen, just that they had and that I was no longer in my bed but standing upright.

Ahead of me, in the distance, the sun was beating down on the crystalline water, and white frothy waves were cresting on the smooth, golden sand. It was a perfect day; not a cloud was in sight. The only blemish that smeared the blue sky was the reflection staring back at me from the window I gazed out of.

In my hands was a soup bowl and a damp dishrag.

“Sweetheart?” That once distant voice, concerned and beckoning, was standing right beside me.

Blinking, I snapped out of my daze and turned away from the window.

He stood tall beside me, despite being half hunched over the kitchen sink and scrubbing the last of the few dirty dishes stacked neatly on the bench top. His head was turned towards me, his enamoured sea-green eyes peering into my own as though he was searching behind them for what troubled me.

“Hey,” he spoke softly, standing up straight. His touch was warm and gentle as he reached for my hand, leaving soapy bubbles on my palm and fingers. “Where’d you go?”

Three odd things seemed to occur at once: first, I flinched away from his touch, overwhelmed by its paradoxical unfamiliar familiarity; second, I felt an inexpressible relief from seeing him standing before me, seeing his cheeks painted with a soft pink hue as though blood-red roses were hidden just beneath his skin.

The third was an onset of disorientation. I couldn’t tell you why I felt disorientated standing in my own kitchen with the love of my life, just, simply, that I did. There was an answer—it was close by, right under my nose, yet unreachable. We did this every day, didn’t we? We would eat meals together and then wash up together. So, why did I feel so unsettled?

I shook my head, dispelling the confusion that muddled my brain. “Sorry,” I whispered. “I don’t know what happened.” I laughed uneasily, without a hint of mirth.

He laughed too, not to poke fun or because he found my obvious turmoil amusing, but rather to comfort me, so I would feel less alone in my unease. “It’s alright,” he said gently.

Neither of us addressed what had happened; we simply resumed our routine of washing and drying in domestic silence. And as seconds turned to minutes, and as the sky remained sunny, I found myself smiling. All that mattered was that he was standing beside me and that the sun was beaming in the sky. So, I kept smiling.

After I finished drying the last dish, we began placing the plates, bowls, and an abundance of cutlery in their assigned drawers and cupboards, weaving past each other and giggling anytime we got in one another’s path. I was carrying a stack of white plates, eyeing the high cupboard they needed to go in, but before I could even attempt straining onto my toes, the plates were out of my hands and taken into another much larger pair.

The smell of sea salt and expensive cologne wafted from behind me as he towered over my shorter frame and placed the plates in the cupboard.

“I could have done that,” I said, smiling as I turned around to face him.

He had a playful glint in his eye. “Yeah, right. What are you, like, four feet tall?” he joked.

It was an extreme exaggeration since I was no way near that height, but I suppose everyone was miniature in comparison to him, being over six feet tall and all. I feigned open-mouthed offence, to which he gave the side of my head a quick, playful kiss of apology.

He then leaned against the counter with crossed arms. “Plus, when was the last time you actually put these dishes away? I’m surprised you even remember where they go.” He was grinning at me in a teasing manner, but every ounce of humour had drained from my body.

My eyes drifted to the floor.

Well, that was the question, wasn’t it—when was the last time I put the dishes away?

I couldn’t remember. In fact, I couldn’t remember what had happened this morning or the day before. Hell, I couldn’t even remember what we were doing before the dishes.

To be standing in a room, in a place you call home, and have a sense that nothing is in its right place, even though that is where everything has always been, is a disconcerting feeling beyond belief. To be perplexed by your own state of being—your existence—is even worse. I could almost describe it as a nauseating bout of vertigo.

My hands found the counter’s edge behind me, and I exhaled a shaky breath.

He stepped in front of me, one large and gentle hand reaching up to cup my jaw. “Are you okay?” he asked, his forehead wrinkling with shallow worry lines as he inspected my face. I hated that. I hated that I worried him so much. Sure, partners were supposed to lean on each other for support in a relationship (as he too did with me when needed), but I always felt so guilty doing so. Hadn’t he already suffered enough… pain in his lifetime? Who was I to cause him any more?

A sunbeam suffused the room, oozing across his face. The illumination lightened his eyes into a refreshing mint green, though, in contradiction, unearthed a pain that had been previously been concealed. Pain from what, I wasn’t sure. From concern regarding my unusual behaviour? Maybe a thought that was troubling him? Or perhaps he too was enduring a spell of confusion and had an inexplicable feeling that he was out of place.

Whatever his pain regarded, seeing it had rattled the deepest structures in which held my mind together.

It was then that I suddenly realised I hadn’t answered his question, so I gave him a wan “I’m-not-too-sure-myself” smile and then began slinking back to the sink window.

He followed behind me. I could feel him staring into the back of my head, could feel his brows draw together and his lips pull into a tight line, patiently waiting for a further explanation, though I wasn’t sure I could offer him one.

I hadn’t noticed before, but on the windowsill was a small picture frame containing a polaroid picture of us in bed—I was lying on his chest, half-naked and asleep, and he was looking down at me, smiling fondly yet with a sort of mischievous knowability. Running down the middle of the protective glass was a small, jagged crack.

I plucked the frame from the windowsill, inspecting the picture in my two hands. It seemed to uncover a place in my mind—once clouded by disorientation—I’d forgotten. Whether this place was real or imaginary was beyond me, but the fear I felt upon its recollection was incandescently genuine.

“Do you think,” I spoke tentatively, “people can have nightmares while they’re wide awake?” My thumb ran over the crack.

I might have heard him inhale a quiet, sharp breath, but it also could have just been the waves breaking on the distant shore. “Like a flashback?” he asked, an unidentifiable unease in his tone.

“No, not exactly.” I searched my brain for the right words, the right way to tell him how I was feeling, but it was difficult when I could only conjure vague fragments. And it was all I could do to tell it to him elliptically, as I knew saying the words in any other manner would shatter my heart.

“I had this vision,” I began, my words apprehensively staccato, “where I was somewhere else.” My eyes flickered over the picture. “Somewhere… bad. Everything was grey and heavy, and I was alone. Sometimes you were there, but you—you weren’t really you anymore.” I paused and looked up to find him staring at me in the reflection of the window. He looked pained; it was then suddenly hard to recollect a time when he didn’t. My throat started to constrict. “You were gone and…” my voice quietened to a broken wisp of wind, “you were haunting me.”

The room was silent.

He said nothing in response

The transparency of his reflection in the glass was so familiar—so haunting—and it was like another forgotten matter had been dredged from the depths of my mind. Stinging tears brimmed my waterline, and, due to my inability to bear the sight of his translucent appearance, I forced myself to turn around.

I glanced up at him, smiling weakly as I whispered, “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head as if my need to apologise was nonsensical (even I was unsure of what I was apologising for), and he then pulled me into a tight embrace. His chin rested atop my head; my face was buried in his chest, and his arms held me like I was some dilapidated structure that relied on his support to remain upright. Part of me knew this sentiment was correct.

I expected his next words to be ones of consolation or reassurance, maybe an “I’m right here, sweetheart” or an “I’ll never leave you”. Instead, I felt his head turn and heard him say, “Think it’s going to storm?”

With a sniffle, I turned my head towards the window. The arms wrapped around my body tightened as if he somehow knew I would need the extra support. Because when I saw the wall of dark, opaque clouds rolling through the sky towards us, an unshakeable dread zapped through my heart.

My hands clung to the fabric of his cream-white sweater, which then brought to my attention that an inexplicable tingling sensation was spreading down the fingers of my right hand, numbing them.

Lightning flashed on the horizon, and the once serene waves began cresting violently on the shoreline. The dread grew.

Before my attention could drift too far, my name was called again.

I looked up to find those green eyes gazing down at me, swelling with tears. He was crying. Why was he crying? And why was his hair wet? His usually golden strands had darkened to a deep brown and were drenched with cold water that dripped onto my cheeks, and his hair was swept haphazardly across his forehead, a reflection of someone who had just endured an intense storm or had just been fighting for his life against a swarm of—of—

No.

My own eyes began to burn.

“It’s killing me to see you this way,” he spoke, every second word breaking and wavering in volume.

The world seemed to tilt on an axis. Return did the disorientation, ravaging my mind more violently now. “What do you”—My chest was rising and falling with heavy breaths—“What? What do you mean?” My lower lip was quivering, and my eyebrows were scrunched together in confusion. His words replayed in my head: It’s killing me to see you this way.

It’s killing me.

His hair was dripping—no longer with water, but with a thick, red substance that both dripped down and clotted on his skin. He didn’t look pained anymore; he looked like he was in pain.

It’s killing me.

But that can’t be right, can it?

It’s killing me.

Why?

It’s killing me.

Becausemy Finnickwas already dead.

I staggered backwards and out of his, no, this imposter’s arms. He stared at me as blood streamed down his forehead, pouring over his eyelashes and down his cheeks. I was going to be sick. This had to be some sort of cruel joke, a newly invented punishment from Snow. But that wasn’t right either: Snow was dead too.

“F…Fi…” I tried saying his name, my top teeth prodding the inside of my bottom lip, but I couldn’t make a sound.

He took a step towards me, and I almost stumbled onto the floor. “Remember what I told you?” he asked, though it sounded more like an urge.

I frantically shook my head. No, I didn’t remember. I didn’t want to remember anything.

Something dark and mountainous appeared in my peripheral vision, and an odious smell singed my nostrils. My head snapped to the left. Stacks upon stacks of plates and bowls mounded the kitchen sink, each crawling with maggots that were falling to the floor in white, wriggling heaps.

Nausea boiled in my stomach; horror brimmed my eyes.

I quickly turned away, my eyes meeting green again. His face was no longer stained with blood, and his hair was dry, shiny, and golden with life. I was as speechless as my face was drained of blood.

He took one more step toward me, but this time I didn’t back away, either frozen with fear or desperation for one last experience of closeness with him. My heart thrummed as he reached out to cup my face. It isn’t him, it isn’t him, it isn’t him, I repeated madly in my head. Oh, but it felt so much like him when his warm hand met my skin.

“I told you I’m always with you, sweetheart,” he murmured. And I knew engaging with him, in whatever form he took, affirmed my mental unwellness, but I couldn’t stop from leaning into his touch anyway. “Remember that.”

My cheeks were wet with tears. “I love—”

A bolt of lightning flashed, and thunder boomed throughout the house.

I was back in my bed.

My eyelids were heavy with sleep as they fluttered open. I felt detached, destabilised, and unsure of my existence in the world for I wasn’t sure which of the twoI was currently in. Real or fake?

A few minutes went by before I managed to get a grip on reality, which, in fact, was the real one. The Somewhere Bad. I pinched the corners of my eyes, not only finding them damp with fresh tears but also realising that my right hand—previously tucked beneath my head—was numb.

None of it had been real…

The entire time, my body was trying to alert me, to save me from the inescapable heartache I would feel upon waking. He hadn’t held me in his arms. He hadn’t cupped my cheek nor helped me wash the dishes. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t anywhere (not even in his own marked grave because there was nothing left of him to be buried).

Even despite seeing the familiar tall outline standing in the doorway, his features illuminated with each flash of lightning, I knew it wasn’t really him.

Rain was pummelling the roof, almost loud enough to subdue the perpetual rumbling of thunder (apart from the one sky-splitting thunderclap that had woken me). In another time, I would’ve been scared—of the raging storm, of my phantom lover who was watching from the shadows of our bedroom. But not now.

In recent months, I had found that no emotion, not even fear, surpassed the soul-crushing realisation that you have irretrievably lost the one thing you lived for.

On a defeated whim, and for the first time since his death, I let the singular, weighted word breeze past my lips.

“Finnick.”

It was a trembling plea, a desperate beckon.

And he indulged.

His footsteps were silent as he walked towards the bed. I couldn’t see his legs from my position, prompting me to wonder if he even had legs at all. Or did he only have legs when I could see them? That would then insinuate that if I couldn’t see him at all, he didn’t exist.

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? In my case, the answer was simple: no, it didn’t.

It wasn’t really Finnick. It wasn’t even his ghost. It was my mind.

He reached the bed’s edge, and I scooted over to my side of the mattress, allowing him enough space to lie down on his. His weight neither dipped nor shook the bed as he laid down and turned on his side to face me. His eyes were sad, and I’m sure mine were too. We stared at each other for a long, long time, long enough for my fatigued body to start playing tricks on me.

If I focused hard enough, I thought I could hear the sound of his breathing (the wind was picking up outside), feel the warmth of his skin spreading onto the sheets (the remnants of my own body heat were left behind each time I moved), and smell the musky scent of cologne and sea-salted hair (the sleeves of his sweater were tucked beneath my nose).

Maybe for a moment—just one sickly, self-indulgent moment—I could pretend it was really him.

I inhaled deeply through my nose. “You really weren’t kidding when you said you would haunt the next owner of this house,” I whispered as light-heartedly as I could, my voice obscured by the heavy rain pouring onto the roof.

He smiled, and it was one of the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful things I had ever seen. I think I might have given him one in return, though I couldn’t be too sure because the concept of smiling had become so foreign. The last time I was truly happy was… the last night we spent together. In each other’s arms, safe and warm and together.

And then he was gone. Just like that.

Cressida, whom I had only spoken to once in Thirteen when the war ended, was the one to tell me how it happened. Katniss was too personal, too close to him; Peeta’s instability rendered conversation futile. So, I had asked Cressida to tell me every detail—every expression on his face, every word he screamed. I don’t know why. Maybe it was so I could cling onto those last few minutes where he was still alive and breathing, despite dying and bleeding; or so I could replay the moment over and over in my head, as if somehow, someway, I could change his fate.

“He talked about you all the time,” she had told me. “Actually, I don’t think he ever spoke of anything but you. No one minded, though. While we were out there, no one ever really smiled, but every time your name was mentioned, Finnick would get this great big grin on his face, and it was impossible not to look at him and start smiling as well.

So, we all started asking questions about you: ‘What colour is her hair? Her eyes? Where did you meet? What are her hobbies?’—just to see him smile… A week passed, and it was like we all knew you inside out. It was all we could do to hang on to some shred of happiness, even if it meant talking about a girl who, to all of us, was a stranger.”

I was inconsolable after that.

She kept talking, but my sobs had drowned out most of her words, so much that I had asked her to retell me everything later in the day, despite inducing the same outcome. So, she told it to me again, just as she did the day after that and the day after that and so on until I returned home to District Four.

“He also spoke about how you never felt comfortable living in the Victors Village. He had this idea that the two of you would move somewhere far away, outside the borders of District Four­, though he emphasised remaining by the sea was very important—something about how you looked while swimming during sunset and the water was all sparkly around you.”

At this point, she had been holding my hand, knowing full well how debilitating it was for me to hear. Then she had spoken with a quiet incredulity and a facial expression to match, as though she’d never encountered a love like ours before. “He wanted to build a house for you…”

He wanted to build a house for you.

And now he never would. Our love was too ephemeral for that to happen; destined to remain history; to be a memory.

Finnick's eyes stared into mine, the green hue now a dark grey from the overshadowing dimness of the room.

“I would’ve gone anywhere with you,” I whispered to him, placing my hand on the sheets between us. “I would’ve travelled thousands of miles away from this place. Would’ve lived in solitary, just the two of us, for the rest of our lives.” A warm tear tickled the bridge of my nose. His eyebrows scrunched together in shared anguish. “God, Finn, I miss you,” my voice broke. “I miss you so much.”

I contemplated crying, sobbing, screaming, or begging for him to come back, but I was just too tired. All my energy had been spent on grievance throughout the following day, and my eyes were growing heavier by the second as my body was sinking further into a state of relaxation.

Between slow blinks, I watched Finnick’s large hand move to rest atop my own, and at that point, I knew sleep would soon catch me because I swear I could feel his warm touch.

Images flashed through my mind—incomprehensible and melting together, yet somehow still graspable.

Sky blue water rippling with calm waves, the surface glittering in the setting sun. A white stonewall cottage fronted by soft, white sand and tall palm trees. Two plates of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast. Three pairs of footprints in the sand, one larger, one smaller, and another between them so delicately tiny I could fit them into the palm of my hand.

Sea-green eyes above me. Golden hair tangled between my fingers. Finnick standing in the wooden doorway of our white stonewall cottage wearing a cream-white sweater and rolled-up slacks. Finnick grinning deeply and then throwing his head back with laughter. Finnick standing in front of our bed, taking my hand in his and guiding me towards him. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick.

Finnick holding our child.

I was between worlds now, both indistinguishable from the other. My eyelids were drooping, and I was quickly growing insensate. Just before my eyes closed completely, I saw Finnick’s—he who wasn’t really my Finnick—lips move. It wasn’t in my bleak reality in which I heard him speak, but rather in my mind, and God, did his words offer the sweetest relief.

“I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”

[inkykeiji]

are we having fun yet?

characters: todoroki touya, todoroki enji warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pseudocest (adoptive siblings), rough sex, tw enji, fem!reader, toxic relationships (possessiveness, jealousy, touya’s just very mean) words: 1.7k

From the moment you stepped through the estate door, you’ve always been the princess of the family; babied to the point of patronization, pampered to the point of spoiled brat, rotten right to your sugary core.

The Todoroki family’s cherished little charity case, orphaned by a building Endeavor had failed to catch when you were only five years old, welcomed into his arms and his family and his big, big home. 

His.

Everyone loved you instantly, took to you like a swarm of maggots to a piece of fresh, ripe fruit—swathed you in adoration, gorged themselves on your sweet flesh, consumed your seeds and planted you in their hearts, let you take root, fester, grow.

Except for Touya, who, despite his big age at eleven years old—a whole six years older than you—developed a lifelong penchant for yanking on your pigtails or braids just to hear you yelp out that pretty Touya-nii!, filtered through a cutely scrunched pout. 

Everyone still loves you, even well into adulthood, desperate to aid you, to wait on you hand and foot, to take care of the poor little orphaned girl. 

Except for Touya.

Because Touya loves you even more than everyone else. Touya loves you the most. 

He wouldn’t be so goddamn mean if he didn’t. 

But regardless of how precious you are to all of the Todorokis, you are not perfect. 

And there is one teensy, tiny, slightly distasteful habit you just can’t seem to kick. 

It’s a habit you developed when you were just a child, only a few months into officially being a Todoroki.

It’s a habit you should’ve grown out of by now—any respectable young woman would have, at this point. 

It’s a habit you’ve been spoken to about several times—but, evidently, nothing quite seems to stick. 

It isn’t normal for a fully grown adult to jump into her father’s arms like that, Fuyumi had tried to explain gently, eyes brimming with sympathetic pity. It isn’t entirely appropriate. 

Maybe not. But you’re not entirely sure you care. 

Because you just can’t help it, legs taking off the moment you hear Daddy’s engine cut, bare feet padding down the hallway as Daddy’s boots collide with the cobblestone walkway, rounding the foyer corner just as he’s stepping through the front door, barrelling into his waiting arms with a syrupy sweet squeal of Daddy! sounding in your throat.

“Hey, princess,” he’s saying as he catches you, hoists you up by your armpits and cradles you to his body, large hands strong and secure beneath your bum. “How’s Daddy’s girl?” 

A routine procedure, question murmured out like clockwork, but you never tire of it.

“Better, now that you’re home,” you sigh into him, legs wrapped around his waist and arms twined around his neck, resting your head on his broad shoulder as you stare up at him. 

The familiar scent of sandalwood tickles your nose, infused with notes of dirt and rubble and a hint of sweat, and you breathe it in deeply, desperate to fill your lungs with it, that Dad Aftershave that never seems to fade, no matter how long or ruthless his shift was. 

Your ribs stretch, strain, press into Daddy’s strong chest, and he chuckles, the sound rumbling warmly against you. 

He knows what you’re doing. 

“Trying to inhale me?” he asks, but amusement streaks his tone, crystal eyes melty and lidded as they stare down at you, a small smile on his lips. 

With an embarrassed little squeak, you nod, burrowing your burning face into his shoulder, Enji laughing again; gentle, soft, full of love. 

“Y’jus smell really good, s’all,” you mumble into him. “You smell like home, Daddy.” 

“Even all sweaty and icky from work?”

“Even all sweaty and icky from work,” you confirm with a lethargic nod, thighs tightening around his thick waist, desperate to hug him closer. 

Droplets of exertion still adorn his neck, little beads glittering delicately in the setting sunlight spilling through the front windows in large beams of gold. With content humming in your throat, you nuzzle your cheek into his damp skin, smearing his sweat across your flesh, letting it seep into your tissues, forcefully marking yourself with his scent. 

“That’s gross, dad. I don’t know why you let her do that to you.” A smooth, dark voice sounds behind you, two pairs of eyes snapping to the source. 

Touya.

Leaning against the cased opening, he smirks—a cruel little curl up of his lips, sharp and void of mirth—his arms crossed loosely over his chest in practiced apathy.  

Sapphire eyes skim down your knotted bodies slow and languid, appraising, degrading, before climbing back up to meet your own stare, blue flames licking around his pupils.

“It’s not right,” he continues. He’s talking to Daddy, but his eyes haven’t left your own, the inferno blazing in his irises so bright you’re sure it’ll leave sunspots blooming in your vision.

It hurts, but you won’t bow, you won’t break—not here, not now, not for him. 

With decided defiance, you trail the tip of your nose along the sharp edge of your father’s jaw—slow, soft, sensual—planting a chaste kiss to the strong, defined hinge, steadily holding your eldest brother’s unblinking gaze. 

Oh, Touya knows what you’re doing. 

And, oh, Touya fucking hates it. 

Something sours his face, twists his features into a bitter wince—anger, or heartache, or both, morphing his handsomeness into something ugly, stained with envy.

“Oh, Touya,” Enji dismisses with a grumble and a roll of his eyes. “Can’t a father hug his little girl when he comes home? What’s the issue with that?” 

“Jesus Christ, you can’t be serious,” Touya snorts, and it’s caustic, gnawing through the heavy atmosphere. “Your ‘little girl’ is a grown fucking woman. It’s weird.” 

It’s wrong.  

“Touya’s got a point, Enji,” Rei says as she rounds the corner, lips pressed in a flat, thin line. “Sweetheart,” her eyes find yours, mouth stretching into a small, tight smile, straining beneath the pressure of contrived cordiality. “We talked about this.” 

Brow furrowing, your eyes swap between their faces. “But I’m—I was just—”

But it’s no use trying to explain; they’ve already made up their minds, already sentenced you to damnation, ice and slate scrutinizing, suffocating as their combined stares weigh down on you.

A garbled noise hitches in your throat, something that sounds suspiciously similar to unfair as you untangle yourself from your Daddy, Enji’s large hands aiding in the task, setting you down onto the hardwood floor gently.

A precious moment, smashed to bits by hard jealousy. 

An apologetic ruffle of your hair, his palm so massive it practically encases the entire top of your head—sorry, kiddo—and then he’s off, stalking down the hallway for a much-anticipated shower to wash the grime of the day from his skin, his wife following close to his side, hissing out reproaches, fragments of their conversation—discourage and indulge and shouldn’t—slicing your ears.

“You always ruin everything,” you spit at your brother, the moment both of your parents are out of view.  

“That so?” he gazes down at you with polished impassivity, sapphire lidded but scorching—but you know him better than that, you know him the best. 

“Yeah, that is so,” you seethe. “It’s so unfair that you get to fuck anything that moves but I’m not even allowed to give our father a simple hug.”

Disgust screws up his face, but it’s tinged with desolation, the implication sewn into your words loud and clear—if you could, if Daddy would let you, you’d fuck him, too.

Whether or not that’s true, whether or not it’s just a tactic to hurt him, doesn’t matter. The fact that you’re even making the implication itself is enough. 

And Touya knows better than most that these little quips, razored little insults spit between siblings, always have a glimmer of truth to them. 

“There’s nothing simple about that ‘hug’—if that’s what you want to call it.” The words are acrid, stinging his tongue, but his voice cracks, eroded by emotion. 

“What would you call it?” 

“You should be ashamed,” he continues, ignoring your question. 

“Why? It’s just an innocent—”

“Innocent?” he scoffs, eyebrows raising with sardonic surprise. “It’s indecent. Winding around our father like that, climbing him like he’s a fucking tree—” His face puckers, the thought venom in his mouth, head shaking in disapproval.

“Maybe you’re just jealous,” you say, lifting your nose with a haughty air of superiority, eyes gleaming with the thrill of the kill. “Huh? Jealous that I touch Daddy like that so freely, jealous that I like Daddy better than I like you.” 

Poor Daddy, used as a toy, a tool to wield against your big brother—the only foolproof weapon in your arsenal, the only surefire way to hurt Touya, to guarantee you get what you’re so desperately vying for.

Daddy’s Little Girl always gets what she wants—consciously or not, Daddy makes sure of that. 

Touya smirks in response; nothing more than a lopsided twitching of his lips, the hellfire in his eyes flaring, a spark of terror zipping through your veins. Huffing out the ghost of a laugh through his nostrils—humourless, bleak—his tongue runs along his front teeth, sucking hard, eyes narrowed.

You know what that means, too.

You’ll pay for that remark later tonight, face shoved into your eldest brother’s pillows, cotton wedged between your teeth as his hips smack your ass and his cock pounds your cervix and his fingers tighten around your wrists, yanking back with every plunging thrust forward, using them as leverage, your muscles pulled taut and aching. 

And that’ll just be the start. He won’t stop until his pillow is thoroughly soaked with you—your tears, your spit, your sweat, drying in hard crusts of salt—until you’re sobbing out his honorific, twined so beautifully with messy apologies, the only words your stupid little brain can comprehend, until your cute little cunt has been fucked raw, split open by his thick cock over and over and over again, stuffed so full of your big brother’s cum that it’s oozing past his shaft in dribbles of cream.

He won’t stop until your body is mangled and marred with him, dark splotches of broken blood vessels and scabby molds of his teeth reminding you of who you truly belong to.

And then, he’ll fuck you some more. 

Your Welcome Home ritual won’t be the only thing your big brother is ruining tonight. 

[comingdownwithme]

is... is that a kate I see..? Can.... can we get information on her? I beg

Just gonna drop both Toby and Kate here to finish off the proxies- (Didn't include Tim or Brian since apparently they're not proxies but also because I haven't watched MH yet </3)

Anyways, there will be some descriptions of body horror (for Kate specifically) but it will be warned before each paragraph!

Kate the Chaser

Kate Milens was raised by the Woods for most of her life, growing up unafraid of the wilderness that grew beyond the walls of her childhood home. After a series of unfortunate events as she grew older though, and as her baser human instincts push her to run despite the ache of her injured and weary limbs, Kate found that there really was something to fear beyond the treeline. She could hear it speak, it's voice a cacophony that echoed around her- within the base of her own skull- offering her reprieve and a greater purpose if she would just give in.

[DESCRIPTIONS OF BODY HORROR FOR THIS PARAGRAPH] Woke up unable to recall anything that had happened before she first awoke and with a dull ache akin to the sting of a healing injury over every muscle and joint of her body. Found out later on that the skin over her jaw and nose had been flayed, fresh burns mark her limbs, and maggots had once burrowed into her very flesh. They're healed now thanks to him.

Gloves and hoodie are stolen from her victims, and her shirt, boots and jeans are what she had woken up in. She washes them the best she can in nearby rivers.

Good hunter and a decent cook. Usually provides food for both herself and Toby when she can.

White eyes! And they glow! Spooky! They give her pretty good night vision, but that leads her to being sensitive to light.

Despite the both of them being close proxies, Kate is more connected to the slenderman than Toby is. Where she can hear him despite great distances, Toby needs to be at a certain, close radius to hear the slenderman, though the both of them could still recognise when he's near and if they're needed.

Faster than Toby. She's called The Chaser for a reason, and trying to outrun or outlast her is the worst mistake you could make.

Pretty quiet and doesn't talk often with her fellow proxy when he's around. She's more of a listener and listens (and or zones out) of any topic Toby is on about.

Ticci Toby

Tobias Erin Rogers was someone who's deeply familiar with the feeling of isolation. Being ostracised from a young age due to circumstances he can't control, his only reprieve was the company provided by his older sister and the sons of the family just down the street from his own home, though even that wouldn't last as Toby's only friends were torn away from him, and both his mother and sister had passed not long after they had left, leaving Toby alone with a sorry excuse of a father and an empty house.

Fortunately for him, something had noticed his suffering, and it reached an elongated, outstretched hand as it gave him the option to leave this life behind.

Whereas he was a quiet, introverted boy when he was younger, Toby currently is outgoing, excitable and manic, and is often careless during the job due to his general demeanor and the fact he can't feel pain. This also leads him to be fascinated by how his victims feel pain, and he likes to study their reactions.

He's got special eyes like Kate! They don't glow in the dark like hers does, but he does still have night vision.

Pyromaniac! If he could, he'd take the opportunity to set his victims on fire or set their shelters or belongings on fire. He's also in charge of setting controlled burns in the areas of the slenderman's territory where he needs him to.

When desperate times call for desperate measures, Toby won't hesitate to turn to cannibalistic tendencies on his victims.

Physically stronger than Kate.

Absolutely ass cook, don't let him near a stove.

The hoodie he wears under his parka and the axes he holds are some things he brought from the life he left behind, most everything else was stolen off his victims.

Nose piercing! He knows he must have had it before he became a proxy, but if he thinks about it too hard, he'd start getting a headache or start tearing up.

Visions of his past life sometimes slip through, though unlike Kate's where hers are rare and short-lived, Toby's memories slip often, especially when he's asleep where whatever past life he had left behind twists to haunt him in his nightmares. These instances piss him off, and he sees them as a moment of weakness.

[mactavishenjoyer]

Gaz:"what are you listening to?"

Ghost:"pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis by XavlegbmaofffassssitimiwoamndutroabcwapwaeiippohfffX"

Gaz:"what?"

Soap: "oh my God I love Acidic Vaginal Liquid Explosion Generated By Mass Amounts Of Filthy Fecal Fisting And Sadistic Septic Syphilic Sodomy Inside The Infected Maggot Infested Womb Of A Molested Nun Dying Under The Roof Of A Burning Church While A Priest Watches And Ejaculates In Immense Perverse Pleasure Over His First Fresh Fetus too!"

Gaz:"what????"

[after-witch]

Peaches [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Title: Peaches [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Synopsis: You smell like Peaches. Mahito thinks about it.

Word Count: 860

notes: yandere, discussions of dead bodies in a bit of detail, threats of harm, just a lil mahito something something in honor of tomorrow <3

You smell like peaches. 

He knows this now. But he didn’t always know what the scent that clung to your skin was actually called. It was knowledge duly gained by following his nose one day, having caught a scent on the wind that reminded him of you, although he knew it wasn’t actually you. 

Because the real you--the soul surrounded by flesh and blood--were currently holed up in the office building where you worked, stupid thing that you were, wasting your hours and energy on something entirely useless. 

But that windy breeze smelled like you, and that’s why he followed it on two feet, humming, until he wandered into some kind of open air market where baskets were bursting with all sorts of fruits and vegetables. He smelled them all, licking a few, taking bites when he felt like it, until he found the right one. 

It had yellowish-orange flesh, and it was soft, fuzzy. He took a bite and the juice ran down his chin, but the smell was stronger and that was particularly nice. The sign in front of the basket read: Peaches.

Ah, then.

A peach. 

That’s what you smelled like. 

Your scent was a bit different, though, if he got technical about it. You didn’t smell exactly like this real peach, all fresh fuzz and sticky bright juice. The way you smell is more… rich, low, consistent. Overripe. A peach amplified and concentrated.

Artificial.

That was how humans described such notions, wasn’t it? It must be perfume, or shampoo, or something else that humans rub on themselves to smell different. 

You, evidently, wanted to smell like peaches.

He couldn’t blame you. It was a nice smell, without considering personal taste. Pleasant and fresh. He supposed a lot of humans liked to smell that way. He didn’t mind dampness or decay, the low sweet rot of it was quite pleasant to him. Humans, on the other hand, tried to cover up any stench they could. Sprays for their bathroom, sprays for their skin, sprays for their hair, hastily emptying corpses of everything that made them bloat deliciously and spew out secretions and replacing it with sterile chemicals. 

Not that you were trying to cover up any such odor, corpse-like or not. He’s watched you in the bathroom on most mornings, scrubbing every bit of the human body that liked to produce a smell if left untouched. Your armpits, your back, that awfully special area between your legs. So that there was no trace of your natural scent about you by the time you were done, no chance that someone might walk by you and turn up their nose.

No matter what you smell like, though, your soul remains the same.

Souls have no particular smell, unless they are corrupt enough. Humans are truly pathetic for not knowing this fact. A corrupt soul is a bit like a dead body, he supposes, if he had to compare their scent to something else. Thrumming with rot, like decaying flesh moving with maggots. 

Your soul is not so corrupt. He would’ve gotten a whiff of it, if it was. Oh, but make no mistake: it’s not pure either. He’s seen the way it wavers, the darkened shimmers when you’re standing at a traffic light (sometimes he thinks about shoving someone into traffic, to see what will happen, what you’ll do) or when your boss is berating you for some nonsensical human failures (what might you do, if he snapped your boss’s neck here and now, in front of you?)--the curses that slither their way out of you are dark and low, stodgy little things borne out of feelings you try to stamp down.

That was the beautiful thing about curses. They were humanity, untethered. Just one reason why they were superior. 

That doesn’t mean he can’t want to play with humans, though. He’s never had a toy he wanted to keep around for so long, but there’s something about you. Something that keeps him just far enough away to avoid detection, on the off chance that you could see him. Sometimes he wonders, with the way your eyes dart around on the street, with the way you pause over something he’s moved in your apartment. Do you spot him in a crowd, and see that he’s different? Can you feel his presence, when he’s on the other side of the door, listening to you sing off-key while you shower?

Your soul shimmers then, too. 

He longs to touch it, to root around and see exactly what makes you angry, what makes you hate, what spots of mold might be hiding underneath that peach perfume. 

How long would you smell like peaches, if he dragged you to the damp tunnel where he lives? Would it linger on your skin like a memory? Or would it fade and fade and fade until there was nothing left but the sour, damp water of his sewer? 

Maybe he’ll talk to you tomorrow. Sprawl out on your couch when you come home, and find out if you can see him. 

After all, he can do whatever he wants. That’s what life is all about, isn’t it?

[painsandconfusion]

"I'll eat you some day. I'm not a cannibal. But one day soon, you'll rot in the ground just like everyone else, and the earth will suck the marrow from your bones, and maggots will crawl through your flesh. Plants will grow around you, ripping the life from your withering frame and pushing it out into new, fresh greens.

"And I'll go out the garden with my pretty little basket and pluck up tomatoes and lettuce and carrots and peas. Everyone will think it's so sweet. So cute that I'm out there in my little garden with the little crosses along the end of the rows. They won't know that I'm eating you.

"But I'll know. And you'll know."

[the-muppet-joker]

The heartbeats of animals keep me awake,

Pounding together, foretelling a storm;

Agonized wailing and thundering hooves,

The beasts of the earth crawling out in a swarm.

The sweat of the damned runs its hands down my back,

Its fingers leave streaks of my fate down my spine;

Eyeless ex-lovers are watching from hell,

The maggots are hungry, they call me divine.

Partake in the feast at my church of decay,

Drink of my blood and eat of my flesh;

Most would not eat of the fruit still alive,

But angels delight in a Eucharist fresh.

I offer myself to the heavens above

That they may yet return to me my Muppet Love

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

Hi maggots, it's Asmi!

It seems we have arrived at That Point again, when I need a new intro post. So here we are! The Official (kidnapped) Good Omens Mascot and uh Maggot Prince has returned with a fresh post.

First, before I talk about myself, here are some important links that people ask me for and I want to make sure they're accessible:

The Official Maggots Server of Doom on Discord: The server of kindness and chaos and brainrot where we just vibe (I promise you'll be welcome there, whoever you are, maggot, so many people who were shy are now screeching at me and I love that). Link here.

Weirdly-Specific-But-Ok The Youtube Channel: Yes, thanks to the 10khaos post, I made a Youtube channel. I intend to cause a lot of chaos on it, I have already begun. Hehe. Link here.

My Ko-fi: Ummmm this exists? Wahoo a Ko-fi. No pressure and I appreciate you all whether you're a silent lurker, causing chaos, supporting me with words or supporting me on Ko-fi. I love you. Link here.

My PO address and email: I'D LOVE TO HEAR FROM YOU, SNAIL MAIL OR MAIL OR OTHERWISE! Link here.

The Good Omens Ad: A lot of you ask me what Good Omens is about. Never fear! I wrote an advertisement for it ages ago, and @1800ineedshelp edited it fabulously. Link here.

Okay I think that's the important parts, I'll edit it later, and now... uh HELLO!

I'm Asmi, I'm 20 years old, he/him, very queer and probably napping at any given moment of the day. Because of a chaotic post, I now have a fandom. My fans, such as they are, are known as maggots. There is a lot of significance behind that (accidentally, I just picked it because it looked like mascot kind of).

I am the Official Good Omens Mascot, because I was kidnapped by the fandom in January after I made a summary post of Good Omens without watching it, just by what I saw on my tumblr dash. I have grown very fond of this title and the fandom, and have since watched the show (some episodes twice).

Also, this blog is a safe space for all queer people, and yes that includes aroace-spec people, trans people, all queer people. If you don't agree with that, there's the door *points to a pit of boiling sulphur*.

ANYWAY YES ENOUGH TALKING WELCOME TO THE CHAOS JUST BE KIND AND RESPECTFUL OF EACH OTHER, BE AS IRREVERENT TO ME AS POSSIBLE, AND WE'LL GET ALONG GREAT. YOU DON'T NEED TO INTERACT TO BE PART OF THIS FAMILY, EVERYONE IS WELCOME! WAHOO!

[if you see talk of spare organs, the Wibbles Incident, Fae kidnapping, Red Bull-induced madness, me thirsting over Crowley etc, don't worry about it, it's normal here. just be careful when gardening and/or fishing is mentioned, it's a trap.]

I LOVE YOU!

[heartfullofleeches]

Holiday period at the fast food reader's workplace. Do they have costumes for Halloween? Do anything special for thanksgiving? What about Christmas, do they do something like a secret Santa? Do they all celebrate Reader's birthday/anniversary of them being hired?

I'm fine if you focus on one or do any of them/something unrelated that I haven't thought of. I just want more fast food reader and the gang of nightmares that adore them 😭

(Going with Birthday because I thought of the funniest thing, but maybe Christmas Special in the future?)

Twenty minutes left on the clock.

You shoved your coat and bag beneath the counter before the start of your shift to make for an easy get away. You'd recently invested in a lanyard you keep hidden down your shirt to keep your keys secure and on you at all times. The line was moving quickly thanks to the new hire that had yet to witness the horrors of the establishment. You could probably even get away with leaving without clocking out if you sucked up to your boss enough tomorrow. There would still be consequences, but as long as you could make it through today everything would be fine. Just twenty more minutes...

"Hey..."

A gentle tap on your shoulder draws your ailing mind from the depths of dread this cursed day traps you in. The janitor stands behind you, hands tucked into their pockets. You eye the slight bulge of a square item in their left, but decide its none of your business as you raise a hand in greeting. "Hey. What's up?"

"Not much..." They rock on their heels, more fidgety than usual as their hands shift in their apron pockets. "Hope I'm not bothering you, but I was cleaning up the break room and noticed there was a mark on the calendar with your name on it... It's your birthday today, right?"

Oh no.

No. No. No.

You open your mouth to make up some ahitty excuse, but your tongue remains glued to the floor of your mouth. Your eyes dart towards the boarded doors of the party room as they speak.

"If I had known sooner, I would've gotten you something better, but this was all I could pick up during my break. Honestly, birthdays are a new concept to me, but a lot of things are. You've... helped me learn a lot about myself so I just wanted to say-"

The Janitor pulls their hand from their apron - presenting a yellow box with a bright red bow.

"Happy birthday."

A loud bang shakes the doors of the party room, rocking tower of unused tables and chairs used to keep them closed. You knew they wouldn't be enough to keep what's inside in - a distraction to keep it at bay hopefully giving you enough time to flee. You quickly grab your things and vault over the counter, shoving past customers still waiting patiently in line as another bang knocks down the top layer of defense. Bang. Bang. Bang. Your heart leaps in your chest with every crash of furniture hitting the ground. You force yourself to look ahead as the doors fly open - stale air raising the hairs on your skin. The squeaks of its shoes send chills down your spine - raspy voice crawls in your ears like maggots to a fresh carcass.

"Did I hear it was a certain someone's.. Birthday?..

Against the voices in your head screaming at you to do otherwise, you glance over your shoulders. There are still smudges in its makeup from your last encounter with it dating exactly one year back to this day. You shutter as its twin tongues, still tied in that braid it tried shoved your esophagus snakes over its painted lips.

"No?"

Its smile grows. "You don't have to lie... I have the date written right here... And here...."

The clown points its gangly fingers at its forehead and chest respectively.

"I think you might have my birthday confused with that guy over there."

You pick up your feet as the clown snaps its head in the direction your finger aims. Seeing a blank wall, and hearing your shoes slap against te, it gives chance - crouching on all fours and bounding after you. Its cold hands latch around your ankle, yanking you off balance and towards the party room doors. You scratching at the floor doors, clawing faster as you feel its eyes on you from over its shoulder.

"No! My birthday was last year - I swear!"

"Silly, silly. You have one every year, and it should be celebrated every. Single. Day.... I've got cake!"

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Mushrooms

The edible parts of fungi are the fruiting bodies that are produced very dramatically by huge spreading masses of mycelia, which draw their nutrients as parasites from roots and decaying vegetation.

BAY BOLETUS (Boletus badius)

Usually found in woodlands, this fungus is pale to brown in colour.

Has light yellow pores on the underside and these stain blue if damaged.

The flesh also stains a bluish colour when cut and smells very mushroomy.

The stalk has no frills but is smooth from base to cap.

Can be stored by slicing and drying or flash freezing.

They taste fine raw when sliced and make great soup.

SHAGGY INK CAP (Coprinus comatus)

Very common but distinctive mushroom.

Easy to identify with its egg-shaped shaggy cap.

Often grows on newly disturbed ground in large clusters.

The cap is covered with beautiful white scales and there is no veil on the stem when the cap opens to a bell shape with a dark black underside.

Need to be young and fresh to make good eating.

Shaggy ink caps make a wonderful mushroom soup.

These mushrooms do not store well, so they are best used fresh.

GIANT PUFFBALL (Langermannia gigantea)

Can grow to 80 cm diameter.

The huge white ball of a giant puffball is not hard to identify.

Must be used young before the spores have time to develop and the insects have time to take their share.

Slice them up like rump steak to cook them.

By themselves they have little flavour, but fried quickly with a little bacon they are delicious.

HORSE MUSHROOM (Agaricus arvensis)

Can be found on old pastures that has been grazed by horses or cattle.

Has a slight aniseed smell and does not shrivel up when cooked.

Just beware you don’t over-indulge if you are lucky enough in these times of chemical farming to find a crop of these.

The cap of the horse mushroom may be yellowy in colour, but be careful not to confuse it with the “yellow stainer” fungus, which will make you ill.

CHANTERELLE (Cantharellus cibarius)

May be found in woodland clearings.

Seasoned mushroom hunters will keep their locations a close secret as they tend to grow in the same places each year.

Are fairly small – up to 4 inches (10 cm) across but usually smaller – with a distinctive yellow colour and a slight smell of apricots.

The caps become like small, fluted trumpets as they age and the gills are heavy, irregular and run down the stems.

Best stored in good olive oil or in spiced alcohol.

PARASOL (Macrolepiota procera)

Usually found in open fields and has large brown scales in a symmetrical pattern around a pronounced central bump.

The cap can grow up to 10 inches (25 cm) across and the gills are white.

The stem is long and tough with a large ring around it.

Will dry well for storage.

Make a delicious dish by dipping pieces of the parasol in batter and deep frying.

PENNY BUN (Boletus edulis)

Also known as the “cep” mushroom and is a great prize for the mushroom hunter, as it has an unusual nutty flavour.

Found in woodland or sometimes in heather with dwarf willows, the “cep” can grow quite large – over 2 pounds (1 kg) in weight.

When picking, cut the cap in half to check for maggots. These work their way up through the stems.

Its cap looks just like freshly baked bread.

The colour darkens as the mushroom ages.

The underside will have yellow pores, not gills.

The stem is bulbous and solid white with brown stripey flecks.

Stores well if dried in thin slices.

HONEY FUNGUS (Armillaria mellea)

This yellowy-brown fungus is a tree-killer – but highly edible for humans.

The active part of the fungus is a black cord-like rhizomorph that covers huge areas under the soil and seeks out trees, which it destroys.

Normally grows straight out from trees and stumps, usually in large clumps.

The flesh is white and smells strong and sweet.

The gills vary from off-white to brown and the stalks are tough, often fused together at the base and with a white, cotton-like ring below the cap.

The caps become tough if you dry them so it’s best to freeze.

ORANGE PEEL (Aleuria aurantia)

An extraordinary, brightly coloured and very striking fungus.

Found commonly in large clumps in grassland on bare earth from autumn to early winter. The caps soon become wavy and are of fairly robust texture.

Quite small – up to 2 inches (5 cm) across – the fungus is bright orange on top and a lighter shade on the velvety underside.

These store well if dried.

WOOD MUSHROOM (Agaricus silvicola)

Only found in woodland.

A more delicate version of its close relative, the horse mushroom.

Does not grow out of a volval bag like the death cap and its gills are pink to brown in colour, not white.

The flesh does not discolour when cut and the smell is of a slight aniseed.

The cap is a creamy-yellow colour that darkens as it ages and is smaller than the horse mushroom, growing to only 4 inches (10 cm).

THE PRINCE (Agaricus augustus)

Resembles a stocky version of the parasol.

Grows up to 10 inches (25 cm) wide and is found in woodland.

The top is flecked with brownish scales.

The gills are off-white when young, turning dark brown with age.

The flesh is strong white and smells of mushroom.

The stem is very strong and often scaly with a large floppy ring under the cap – it is too tough to make good eating unless cooked in stews.

It has a strong flavour and can be frozen or dried for excellent winter meals.

FIELD MUSHROOM (Agaricus campestris)

Undoubtedly the best known of all mushrooms, before the days of chemical farming whole fields would be covered by the prolific field mushroom.

Get up early after a hot summer spell has been followed by rain to pick.

The silky white caps grow up to 4–5 inches (10–12 cm), the gills are pink, and the smell mushroomy.

The ring around the stems is very fragile and often missing.

Maggots can be a problem – check older specimens by cutting through the stems.

Can be stored by flash freezing or drying.

WHERE TO LOOK

You will always harvest your best specimens early in the morning. Fungi grow in a wide variety of places, but they will not tolerate chemical fertilizers or sprays.

They say it will take 20 years for the horse mushroom to appear in grassland after the use of chemicals has been stopped.

In fact, the majority of edible fungi grow in the proximity of woodland and many have close symbiotic relationships with particular tree roots.

But wild grassland does always produce an excellent crop of fungi every autumn and you will find each season’s crop in similar places to the previous year’s.

WHAT TO AVOID

There is probably no need to warn you of the fly agaric, as this bright red and white spotted fungus is so well known.

The most dangerous of all fungi is the death cap (Amanita phalloides).

A single death cap contains enough toxins to kill several people:

Usually it grows in woodland, particularly with oak trees. It can vary in colour, being similar in size to a field mushroom, but its characteristic features are white gills on the underside and a “volval” bag at the base. Any fungi growing from a “volval” bag are best left well alone for many are poisonous.

A death cap has white spores, not brown like most edible mushrooms.

Another mushroom to avoid is the “yellow stainer”, easily confused with field or horse mushrooms:

It has the distinctive feature of turning bright yellow when bruised or cut. It also smells rather like disinfectant.

NOTE. There is no easy way to determine whether a fungus is toxic just by looking at it. You should never ingest any unknown fungi. Fungal fruiting bodies can be picked out of the planter pot and thrown in the trash if there is a concern that pets or young children could ingest them.

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ Writing Notes & References ⚜ Food History