#i am plagued by horrific visions that distress me

[maddgical-boy]

you ever daydream and it starts out totally cool and nice and then the intrusive daydreams start flocking in? it's like how did you get here i wasnt even THINKING about anything related to this AND WHAT IS GOING ON NOW

[cellophaine]

Second Chances

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader

Word Count: 2843

Warnings: Drug abuse, overdose, blood, trauma, injuries. SPOILERS for Daredevil season 3 and Daredevil comics (Chip Zdarsky's run).

Author's Note: I'm so so sorry if this feels rushed. I want to keep up with the schedule, so here it is! I hope you will somewhat enjoy this mess! I don't have an accurate knowledge about drug use and OD, so please let me know if I made a mistake.

Prompt requested by: @deviantsendbyreallife <3

------

There was so much blood, so much. Red painted your vision, your hands, the floor of your apartment. The spray was right there, but the spasm of your body only pushed it further.

That was it. This was the end.

Reality gradually slipped away from your fingers. Broken glasses. Footsteps. Shadows. Then, a man in a suit. His face faded in and out as you forced your eyes from rolling to the back of your head, taking in the sight of your intruder.

How ironic.

He was bleeding, too, just like you.

You felt a vigorous jolt from your body before your mind could even register it. Your chest felt heavy as you struggled to breathe. It hurt with every exhale; the sting shot straight for your muffled brain. You choked on the sudden rush of air in your lungs through your stuffed nose. The stale traces of vomit, blood and saliva in the room felt like a sip of water after days of depriving it. Your body curled up, your knees pressed to your chest as you coughed violently as if you were trying to get rid of your esophagus. You felt a hand holding you down, making you thrash even harder. The hands on your shoulders were gentle but firm, just like the voice somewhere far above you.

"Shh… shh… you're okay."

Your eyes shot open, and you immediately turned on your side and convulsed hard. You were still retching when a hand came down on your back, startling you once more.

Sitting beside you was an unfamiliar woman, in a nun's habit. You didn't remember calling anyone in your moment of … distress, but here this woman was.

"Who … who … are you?"

You rasped out the words with an insurmountable amount of effort. Your voice was gravelly as if you had grated it on the grimiest alleyway of this city.

"I am Sister Maggie. I'm here to make sure you're okay."

It still didn't make sense. You'd never had an ounce of religious practice in your life. You ended up having more questions.

"Who sent … you? And ... and ... what happened?"

Your mind tried to catch up as Sister Maggie went on, her voice cautious of your reaction. She told you about how the mysterious man had found you thrashing on the floor of your apartment, trying to reach for the NARCAN spray inches away from your grasp. He helped you with it, giving you mouth-to-mouth until your breathing stabilized. He then called Sister Maggie, asking her to watch over you, but not before ransacking your apartment for the drug and getting rid of them. He had tried to call 911 when you begged him not to bring you into the hospital in your delirium.

You were shaking by the time Sister Maggie was done with the horrific tale. Flashes of what happened just hours ago plagued your mind. You wrapped the blanket around your sweat-soaked skin, not to chase away the cold but the deadly chill of the fact that you almost died tonight. Death came for your life, but the Devil saved it. Why?

"Who is … he? I want … to know."

She gave you a sympathetic look, and your shoulder slumped at the weight of disappointment.

"That's not up to me, my dear."

"I… I just want … to thank him in person. For … saving my … life."

You swallowed, your throat closed up due to the immense pain. You wanted to know. You needed to know.

"Tell me, are you a person of faith?"

You shook your head stiffly; the sore in your neck made it hard to move more than a simple tilt.

"You might not be, but he is."

That was how you found yourself here, in Clinton Church, circling the area like a stray ghost, unable to move on — waiting for him. Or a sign of him at this point, since you hadn't had much luck so far. It had become a habit, one that spurred from some time after midnight to the crack of dawn. The nights were getting longer and colder. Yet, you came and stayed, every night, like clockwork.

The wind picked at your skin; the sting grew at the focus of the wind. You drew closer to yourself, feeling the too familiar urge that you couldn't ignore to have that poison in your body again; how things would be better if you could have it just one more time. You could forget about all the shitty things in life for a while, that blank moment of bliss that seemed to go on forever…

… until you crashed. There was no way other than down, other than being dropped from the sky to the ground. And then, silence. That emptiness chased you, again and again, forcing you to seek for the next release until you were nothing but broken bones and a fractured mind. Piecing yourself together afterward was always the hardest.

Shaking your head, you tried to move your train of thoughts in a different direction. Your hands dug into your side forcefully, as if the fingers tried to break the skin and sink underneath. The pain gave you something to think about other than the rough pull of drug withdrawal. You should focus on that; you should try to think about anything else, you should …

"You should stop coming here."

He walked past you, his steps light, but his gait had a hint of limping. You were startled by his presence, by the gracefulness in his body as he stepped out of the dark towards the hidden door on the side of the church. You widened your eyes, afraid that you would miss him with just a blink of an eye.

You followed his trail, like a shadow following its person. He seemed didn't mind your presence, leaving the door open behind him. Or he just didn't care.

The basement was dark, saved for a few candle lights focused mainly in the back area of the room. Your eyes traced over the hard lines of his back, the way they moved together, descended onto his slender waist. You bowed your head, forcing yourself to look away before you could see anything lower.

So you focused on what you came here for.

"I … I just want to—"

"Look, tonight's not a good night."

Your fists clenched at your sides. You wouldn't leave until he heard what you had to say.

"I want to say that I would like to offer you my help. Whatever you need. Information. I know … people."

They weren't even your friends. They were connections: some good, some bad. You had stayed high, bliss and unaware, long before the haze was gone, people that you considered friends had disappeared. Why wouldn't they? You were destructive, not only for yourself but for everyone around you. Maybe, just maybe, if you could help him in any way possible, you could do something good for once.

"Are they your ... dealers?"

Parts of his question were muffled with him tugging off the form-fitting black shirt he had on. The candlelights were weak but not enough to conceal the dark smear of blood on his skin. The red was so prominent that for a moment, you forgot that you were staring at a stranger's naked torso. An angry cut on his chest stood out, with the stitches split up in the middle. He grunted as he put a hand near it, going around the edge of the open wound with certainty, as if he knew what he was doing, even with the mask in the way.

"I can help you with that."

You were sure that you had overstayed, with him seemingly not wanting you here. But you tried anyway. With a tentative nod in your direction, he sat down on the futon with a heavy grunt.

"There's a medical kit near the sink."

You swiftly made your way to the sink, picking up the heavy box. As you pulled the broken stitches out of his skin with as much meticulousness as you could manage, you thought about the question he asked you.

"No … no. I haven't been in contact with any of my … bad connections."

You stood up, walking to sink to chase off the intrusive thoughts about the people that helped you with the drug. People who were happy when you could afford it and angry when you could not. They came and went, easy and fast, just like how those highs lasted.

With the wet gauze in your hand, you dabbled it across the red patches, clearing the blood off his exposed skin. The cloth reddened in your hand until the dry blood soaked through it. You knew what you would have to do next, but you dreaded it. The needle in your hand shook lightly, and you couldn't help but shiver. You guided the needle and thread closer to his skin, but you couldn't bring your hand to puncture the edge of the wound. You felt a deeper shiver in your body until a hand came up to your wrist, warm and oddly comforting.

"Take a deep breath."

You inhaled with the whole expanse of your chest and released it in a drawn-out sigh. Your hand trembled less, and you made the first dip into his skin. Not too deep, you told yourself. In and out, easy, just like that.

"I just want to say thank you. For saving me."

You took this quietness to slip your gratitude in.

"How about you focus on staying sober, hmm?"

His voice was level, but the tone was absent of that calmness. Instead, it simmered with anger and frustration.

"I've been staying on track. No drug use since that night."

He tilted his head.

"I can tell."

And how the fuck was he able to know?

"I owe you my life, yet, I don't even know your name."

He let out a humoured huff of air.

"Matt Murdock."

You smiled, telling him your name. He repeated it slowly; the consonants rolled off his tongue indulgently. Your face heated up, maybe for just one particular reason, as you finished up the work on his wound.

"There you go. Don't pull the stitches, alright? Now that I have acquired what I came for, I shall leave you alone."

You stood up, shrugging on your jacket, zipping it up to your chin.

"I'm hurt. I thought you were enjoying my company?"

Your lips couldn't help but curve into a small smile at his teasing tone.

"I did. I still am."

You stopped before the stairs, turning back to him. His head tilted to the side; his posture relaxed as he leaned back on the small bed.

"And your company is always welcomed. If you need me, you know where to find me."

You didn't hear anything from him for a week after that. Maybe he had forgotten about you. Perhaps he thought you were a nuisance and decided to stay away. But one night, a rap on the window changed that. At first, he stopped by so you could take care of his wounds. But then it quickly turned into a nightly ritual to keep you company. You were more than grateful to have him in your life. As you opened up, Matt did too. You offered a piece of yourself to each other, and each wound ran deeper than the last. You both lost people in your lives, lonely in this city of millions. You found each other despite the circumstances, choosing to be in each other's presence, and it was more than enough. It was, until …

"… there is no pattern that the authorities can determine. The law enforcement has been scouring Manhattan for any sign of him. We're asking people to stay indoors, curtains drawn, while the search continues. It's clear from the first killings that he can strike anywhere at any time. The city and its population are not safe …."

"… as long as this self-titled killer, Bullseye, is free."

You turned off the TV at the sound from your fire escape. Turning sharply to the source, you were relieved it was just Matt crawling through your window, alive and with no bullet hole on him. You took in his body language, the way it locked up and tensed, unlike usual.

"Are you okay?"

Your nerves started to unravel at his perpetual silence.

"I'm here … to see you. For the last time."

What you had dreaded finally came. You knew, you even expected it, yet, you hoped for a different outcome anyway.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"I'm going after him. It's best if we keep our distance, cut off our ties so you can be safe."

His voice filled with a calculated calmness. You thought you were past this point already — the point where you didn't have to hide from each other.

"No, I want to help. You can't do this alone. I can provide distractions, and you can—"

"That's the exact opposite of what I want you to do!"

Matt cut you off, his voice stern. Cold. And distant. And not what you wanted.

"He wants me. He's luring me out with all the deaths around the city. I have to stop him."

Your lips trembled, your head shook as you refused to break into tears.

"No, I won't let you do that. If you ended up dead, I'd be …."

Alone. Again.

"I would never be able to forgive myself if you got hurt because of me. Please, stay home so that you can be safe."

You stepped closer to Matt until you could hear the wild rhythm of his breathing. Then, you winded your arms around him, slowly, carefully, as if you were afraid he would run away at a sudden movement.

Raising on your tiptoes, you kissed him on the cheek tentatively, holding his face in your hand. With your lips still lingered on his cheek, you spoke softly, letting the words press onto his skin like a mark, a mark he could never forget, one that begged him to come back to you.

"This is not the end. You have to come back. You have to. I mean it."

He nodded, his arms snaked around your body, holding you closer to him. There were so many things he wanted to tell you instead of a goodbye — anything but that. So instead, Matt buried his face into the crook of your neck, taking in the scent of you, picking up on how you were feeling. Your heart was loud and wild, and there was no other reason than your proximity, as Matt firmly believed.

Tears leaked freely down your cheeks, and you couldn't bother holding them back anymore.

"I'll try."

And he was gone again, out from the window, onto the vacant streets below.

Your body sagged as his presence was gone from your apartment. You weren't sure if you could keep up the parade before Matt could pick up on it. You knew how Matt could detect lies with a heartbeat. So you used the disguise of a kiss to hide something else, something so much worse.

A lie.

Something you never wanted to do to him. But you had to.

-

He should have known. If he had known, he wouldn't be here, cradling you in his arms as his hand came up to stop the bullet wound on your shoulder.

You lured Bullseye out in the middle of Times Square and put on a light show. A blinding light show that made him disoriented, and if his loud, haunted screams weren't enough evidence of how your plan had worked, then Matt didn't know what would.

You managed to nail Bullseye in several spots, with stealth, a pair of weirdly-shaped glasses and a silencer on your gun, before his pained screams turned into outrages. And then, he started firing. Blindly.

There was only one more dangerous thing than a psychopathic killer — one with no direction and nothing to lose.

Matt was there just in time, close enough to aim his folded cane at Bullseye's hand, making him miss your vitals. But that wasn't enough as Matt heard your body hitting the ground amid the loud grunts as Matt poured his rage onto Bullseye.

That was how he got here. As the static of the lights went silent, the police closed in from seven blocks away, Bullseye still knocked out, bloody and beaten to a pulp, Matt carried you away from this chaos. He made his way back to Hell's Kitchen, hiding in the shadows of the hidden nooks and alleys of Manhattan.

Matt wanted to tell you how he had come to care about you when he thought he couldn't do that for anyone else. How he couldn't endure another loss, as he wasn't sure he was strong enough to go through it again. How you had become the air that he breathed. How much he needed you.

You had to live. You had to. And so, Matt prayed.

Please, come back to me.

[decayandfanfics]

The great book of sayings

PAIRINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x FemReader

SUMMARY: He looks at you, his scarlet eyes fixed on yours, burning a hole through your head, every bit the predator he is, but you are as tough as it gets, so, against your better judgment and any well-founded logic, you answer his silent threat, the animalistic look he gives you with nothing less than a fearless smirk, irises burrowing into his pupils.A clever girl. He thinks, finally labeling you inside his head, cursing himself in the very moment he allows his brain to think of you as more than an asset. He is sure (he knows himself enough to know) he’ll think of this moment many times from now on.A clever pretty girl.

Reader is a typical college student until she gets herself tangled with the league of villains.

WARNINGS: Unhealthy/complicated relationships, violence, Tomura being Tomura, mentions of murder, heroes’ abuse of power, smut later.

A/N: I’m trying so hard to write crusty boy here really in character. At least after AfO is taken. Any misspelled words, english is not my native language so i’m trying Helen.

___________________________________________________________

Chapter 8 / Chapter 9

You show me the man and I’ll show you the rule.

Tomura thinks he knows nothing about beauty, but then she proves him wrong.

(He thought her pretty before already, but after seen it…he concludes she’s the most beautiful, terrific thing he’s ever seen. Not that he would tell her that.)

A feral dangerous creature living inside of her with no other match.

No other but him.

Oh...you have no idea...She told him.

It happens so fast. One moment she’s there, sitting in front of her laptop, pretty and quiet and serene. All harmony and light, resting softly under the sunlight, between her dumb succulents and the spices that fill her home. Then he can hear Dabi’s caustic laugh and the wrong words. He’s disrespectful, an instigator, skilled in the art of making others lose their composure like is his favorite game.

He hears the foul words, the berating, and the mocking aimed to him, while she sits wide eyed and impossible flustered by the kitchen table.

Dabi smirks triumphant, like he always does after giving everyone a piece of his drama and Tomura watches him, wincing, reminding himself again that Dabi is supposedly oldest than him and Toga, and yet he does his best to being an annoying brat.

Tomura knows better to just let him bark, his remarks mean nothing to him, he knows what he is, and he knows what he isn’t. He’s a freak, yeah. That too, but he isn’t a child anymore, so he let it slide, keeping his eyes glued to his phone arching an inquisitive brow, ready to just let it die there.

He just forgot about the stupid little stunts of bravery she has this tendency to commit. (An annoying dangerous trait that makes him chuckle with something akin to fondness.)

She’s having none of the bullshit, Dabi’s little remarks had fed her up after a whole week of spiteful teasing, her precious patience has run thin.

“blue eyes are a mutation too, so you are no one to talk about it.”

The moment she opens her mouth, Tomura feels something warm filling the hollow place where his dead heart should go and it’s so foreign to him that for a moment he panics and thinks (very stupidly) that maybe his energy drink-based diet is finally going to kill him, and he (barely in his sweet twenty’s) is having a stupid heart attack.

But the pain never comes, it’s just her, voicing a clever answer, defending him.

“A quirkless little bitch? Seriously, Dabi? Where you raised in a fucking barn that you know nothing but fuck this and bitch that?

He wants to make her shut it, but he can’t find the words. Not when her remarks are sharp and funny to hear. (Besides, her voice sounds so sweet when she’s throwing smart ass angry comments just to back him up.)

It warms him and enrages him equally. How dare she to defend him? He can speak for himself on his own and doesn’t need her to make any back up about an insult he doesn’t care for. Stupid pretty woman. Trying to shut Dabi, putting herself in danger for the likes of him...Is she insane? (later that day, he’ll conclude that she must be pretty fucking nuts to have them all in her home after all, but somehow the thought only makes him like her more.)

“yeah. I know stupid cunt too.”

Dabi likes to cause havoc and now he’s pissed, so he throws a vulgarity aimed at her. Tomura feels the hot pang of anger at the other man, because the offense is not only an insult, but also a lie.  She’s not stupid nor a cunt. She's sharp as a knife and kind enough to share with them. 

“Dabi, cut it out.” He warns with a grimace, and now the fight has everyone tense in the room.

“I’m sure you do. Pretty useful to describe yourself I bet.” She snarls showing her teeth, an angry frown darkening her features and Tomura swears her eyes begin changing color.

“you sure like to bet, like how you are betting I don’t burn you alive for being an annoying bitch.”

This time Tomura gets fucking furious, something animal revolving inside of him at the idea of Dabi threatening her. But the fight is escalating so fast, he can’t say anything before she answers back.  

“Fuck off, Dabi. This might be shocking for you, but you don’t scare me.”

He wants to laugh at this, truly. Feisty little thing she is when angered, all her soft ways and nerd knowledge thrown out the window in a fit of cocky bickering and a part of him is living for the chaos of it.

“now, that’s pretty fucking stupid of you.”

“Dabi, shut up!” Tomura growls irked with the way her hair has begun to float over her shoulders, now completely convinced that she’s not quirkless at all.

“I’m not the one insulting everyone just because I cannot deal with some fucking daddy issues.”

God fucking dammit woman, just shut up. He thinks frustrated, giving her a look worth a stab.

“YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT” Dabi snarls before kicking the little table in the living room, breaking one of its legs with a loud crack.

“CUT IT OUT!” she screams this time, standing from her chair “I don’t have to know when it’s plainly obvious you have problems with authority.”

“you really think you are so clever, don’t you?” Dabi states, crossing the living room, aiming to her, so Tomura leaves his place in the corner to stand at her side without even thinking why.

“I know I am, asshole!”

Dabi stops his tracks, looming over her like a monster. His eyes scanning her face before looking at Tomura, who stands by her with his hands open in front of him in clear warning.

The black-haired man looks at her before moving to Tomura, his brows raised in surprise as he chuckles darkly.

Shigaraki hates the way he looks at him, like he knows his thoughts. Like he knows he’s been creeping into her room to watch her sleep and the sinister lustful visions that sometimes plague his dreams after some playful back and forth every time she defies him with some smart-ass comment.

“stupid woman. You should know better.”

And then…he just slaps the laptop out of the table; the computer smashing open against the cemented ground.

Tomura remembers this moment like one would remember the witness of a car crush or a catastrophe. A simple second enough to amaze him for a lifetime.

The way her eyes just ignite into scorching red lights shining like burning embers under her frown brow. Her hair floats free from gravity over her shoulders like a terrible chaotic crown as her mouth flash pearly teeth in a feral snarl.

He watches how she claws her right hand, fingers curling, knuckles tensing and Dabi is suddenly choking under the pressure of some raw power. His limbs twisting painfully in horrific motion and unnatural angles in complete agony.

A second later and before anyone could grasp what’s happening, her other hand pointing pinky, index and thumb to Compress, Toga and himself, keeping them frozen in their place, a strange rigid pressure making him feel like he’s full of cement and any movement will shatter his bones and snap his spine.

He can’t move, he can barely breathe. Feeling like if every fiber of his being, every muscle, every cord is solid hard under his skin, unavailing him to get away.

But he can watch, so he watches her terrified and amazed.

Her quirk is rare, and powerful and dangerous. But she keeps it locked away, sleeping soundly, safely caged inside her ribs, like the best hidden weapon, perfect for torturing bodies and bending wills. Buried deeply under her layers of kindness and humor.

One twitch of a finger, and Dabi’s neck would snap in two and they can do nothing but just watch when little blood vessels begin to burst in the white of his eyes as he pants desperate for air, his veins contorting furiously under the marred skin of his neck and the flames scatter in some random parts of his body without any control.

Tomura swears he can hear Dabi’s bones crackle under the invisible force as his spine bends backwards in a sickening angle.

And, as sudden as it begins, ends.

Her hair falls and her eyes are no longer red. Dabi breathes again falling to his knees and for a moment Tomura thinks he will cry out of pure fright.

For a moment he wonders if Toga and Compress want to cry too because that felt like certain death, but is sweet, somehow. Something within him squirms joyfully with the notion of her own violence. She is as dangerous as him, no damsel in distress, no little girl in need of care, no simple quirkless girl, but a horrifying woman. A dangerous and powerful creature with a quirk made for torment, just like-

He looks at her, just to find a sad disappointed face. A thick trail of blood began sliding silently from her nose, tainting the perfect bow of her lip. Only then he notices the bloodshot eyes and how the color has run from her face.

She stands quiet and bitter watching between her hands and Dabi trying to catch his breath. Her face giving away guilt and self-loathing (two feelings he’s very familiar with.) but unlike him, she is no tormentor, she grasps no joy in watching Dabi suffer, nor do she wish of making them quiver to the sight of her.

She is kind, and brave, and witty. Humorous girl, quick at wordplay and puns; buying vitamins and oranges for them and something about no one getting scurvy under her watch.

He wants to laugh hysterically at her sight because she is magnificent, and for a moment he thinks that the boy with the destructive touch and the girl with the tormenting gaze sounds like a hell of a name for rulers and his heart shivers in excitement, but she is crying and clutches her guilty hands against her chest and ask them to forgive her for using her quirk on them.

She didn’t mean to; she didn’t want to. She likes them all very much, so she promises she’ll never hurt them again, and somehow it reminds him of something, but he cannot place a finger on what exactly.

He feels the sorrow drowning him. A grudge so horrid it makes him want to vomit and scratch his neck raw because something in her resembles something in him, but he cannot really grasp the motive of such connection, only knowing it has something to do with the hands he carries around like a symbol of his own distress and a little black-haired boy crying in some familiar backyard.

The sound of the bathroom door startles him and she’s no longer in the living room, but he can hear the quiet sobbing coming from behind the door.

Finally, Dabi decides to just fall backwards against the cold floor, still panting, an arm over his eyes.

Only then Spinner breaks the dreadful silence and ask the question they all want to make.

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT.”

Chapter 10

[tissaias-wife]

The witch

Hello my name is Cassidy but you can call me Cass,but a bad thing happened a couple of weeks ago and...I feel super bad about it but here it is anyway.

-Blackridge woods in Salem Massachusetts-

*on a video recorder*  “Hi guys its me Sunny here with Cass and jess say hi guys” sunny put the camera in our faces and me and Jessica waved “And thats them go follow them of their socals” Sunny listed our social media tags and we went on with our hike. It had been a few hours and we had set up camp in a little clearing right where the sun hits just right and just then as I set down my stuff I feel a water drop hit my face, and another one and like two more after that It was raining “Why now!! goddamn I just put up my shit!!” yelled Jess who had a bad habit of cursing just a random we all ran under a tree and sat there a mud and water stains our clothes and shoes, “well looks like we can start a fire now unless it stops raining” I say as loud as I can to them so they can hear me over the rain, they nod and we put down our stuff, and we pull out our sleeping bags and put them down and went to sleep, but little did we know a woman that looks about 25 watches the awful things that plague her forest and she knows how to get rid of them because for her she has been alive for 300+ years and she has done this before...

-morning-

Morning sun had shine me in the face as I had woken up to Sunnys yells of distress and jess cussing her out telling her to calm the f down, as I walk over to them I hear it “Cassidy... cass come to me dear” the words are clear but as I hear the voice I get slapped in the face “What the fuck jess why would you slap me...bitch” I feel something running down my face..its blood from my nose and Jess knew she fucking knew that would piss me off  “why in the hell would you brake Sunny’s phone you know that she is attached to the piece of A.I shit!!” we all got into a screaming match until we hear it all of us a whisper and..song? it was an eerie feeling all this time I never hear such a beautiful song then a woman appears in my mind with Brown hair and white eyes she stands to 5′9 the hair going down to her thighs and she was smiling with a black raven...with pale porcelain skin and teeth with a black turtleneck on and a black and red bomber jacket on it was a weird vision but all I knew was that she had to be the one I saw...just the one I saw who told me to do this to....kill them...I shake my head and walk away from them only to come face to face with her the woman that I saw she took my hands and asked in the most horrifically beautiful voice ever that echoed in my head and sang a song of chills down my spine...but I remember what I saw on the day I killed them  “do you want to be free from the judgemental world of mortals and be a witches helper all you have to do is give me your soul” and I did when she let go of me I fainted but I could feel her cutting my head open with her nails and her whispering sweet nothings into my head and I could see my friends they were dead their spines had been removed and their bodies where being dragged into the earth never to be found again.

and as for me...you might think i’m dead well you’d be right but here with the O’hara witch I am free of judgement of people I am free to be me and I had already sold my soul to her so all I do now is sit here in utter darkness,in the quiet and it some what calming and i still see my dead dismembered friends and I did post that video to Youtube but I hope Alora is ok with being seen ripping teenage girls into bit and eating their hearts but that kinda up to her and youtube so I have a question....

will you sell your soul to Alora O’hara or known as the O’hara witch?     

[iamjjmmma]

“It Was a Matter of Security”- A Glitchtale Origins: Kanashi Fic

Note: I am very sorry if this sounds like a Shakespeare play. The Glitchtale prequels take place in the early 13th century, and the language they spoke at that time period, Middle English, is almost indistinguishable compared to contemporary English. That and I’m not fluent in Middle English, although I could probably understand it if given some text. So for the most part for this story, I had to combine some exclusively Middle English vocab with some Middle English words that carried over into Early Modern English (Shakespearean English), haha. Hope you enjoy anyway! 

Kanashi never dared to tell anyone the things he saw. The things he saw every day, from the time he woke up with the sun hung over the middle of the sky to the time he laid himself right to his quarters again, he knew they were enclosed inside of him, that they originated from inside of him, and that no one else could see them.

He saw the most peculiar things all the day long, and while some of them he could explain, such as the warping he saw whenever viewing an inscription of a plague mask, some of them he couldn’t quite articulate, such as the breath from the air that left their lungs on a long-night winter’s evening turning from white to green. He would arise and view the sky, ponder how the Creator or Creators of his world had arranged everything under the heavens in a dome. And then he saw that dome and everything underneath it turn green, see the droplets of air that left him start to burn. He would take a dance under the rain, his inhibitions failing him quite, and see it sear his skin. He would contort his face and cower like a churchmouse, and so the others would mock and deride him before he realized the rain was quite safe and the danger had fled. He would ask endlessly what ingredients comprised the food he ate, and it was only afterwards that he did so. 

But what was the one antidote to stop every peculiar vision was his favorite scarf, of a hue most crimson. He’d had it since he was a child, since those days with Amai…

He’d just obtained his seventh year a few weeks earlier, and the entire family was still up to their necks in giddiness. As his childhood was over, the rest of the neighboring peoples expected him to toil in the fields with his family, but for this day, his parents let him run amok with who they presumed was his lover-to-be.

To his parents, Amai was an angel, sent from above, sent to give them assistance on the farm-fields during harvest-time and sent to give Kanashi freedom from an idle mind. But to Kanashi, Amai was a flash of noonday sun, and while she was nothing more than that, she was nothing less than that, and with that, Kanashi snatched his scarf and set forth on the grass. 

All day long, the pair of them ran from street corner to street corner, from streetlight to streetlight. When the afternoon came, he bought some bread from a vendor or two and shared it with Amai. They then each underwent a race to buy new trinkets for each other, although none of them were quite successful, tears nearly forming in their eyes when they realized in order to obtain their new trinket, they had to relinquish the one they’d carried all their lives.

While the bread was still in their bellies, they sat atop a haystack atop an abandoned fief, and used their scarf and a bear-shaped, child’s-hand-sized trinket from Amai to tell their own stories about how the constellations were formed despite it being midday. They knew that the unabashedly wild story of them sneaking out in the amidships of the night only dwelt in their minds.

Amai tilted her head to the side. “I don’t feel much inclined to make stories about the stars.”

“And why in the world would that be?”

“My father says that the story of the stars hath already been told. They were created, and that was all.” “Well, I’ve been occupying some hours wondering of how they were formed.”

“And how?”

Kanashi tilted his head the same way until his eyes locked with hers. “Birds. The birds do form them. In the middle of the day, the birds take notice of their prey. They quite regret the fact that they’re taking a life from the world, so they drop one golden tear into the sky.”

“I like that notion. Although I know I shouldn’t believe in it, I like it all the same.”

After a few more minutes, they ran their way back to the main road, and as their pace quickened, Amai met Kanashi��s eyes again, this time with a little ember trained in the back of them. 

“I know what we shall do. We shall run as fast as our feet dare to fly, and when we reach a mile, we shall mark the winner!” 

Without any protest, Kanashi began, and the people flew by them in thilke* manner of those birds in the sky, watching them with unabetted, unrelenting eye. Through shops and next to taverns they passed, next to peeping neighbors and well-kept gardens by clerkes* they passed, through the far reaches of the village and past the patricial side, hearing the members of high degree* mutter to themselves about “security”.

“Hark, they follow us! they follow us, Amai! Why do they follow us?”

Amai hesitated for an instant. “There is a path forged by nature here!”

Kanashi banked to the left, and he didn’t see any path before him, and neither did he feel it, as every few steps led to a sort of splinter or meager wound as he attempted to avoid every branch. It was only in the third and most painful splinter that Kanashi realized Amai had snatched ahold of his scarf when they were lying on the haystack in the fief, and it was only when Kanashi ran so close as to touch Amai’s tunic when he noticed the scarf, along with Anna’s trinket, were missing.

“Where do they go? Where do they go?”

“I placed them next to the tree! They’re mile-markers! mile-markers, Kanashi!”

Kanashi was a little disappointed, but continued running nonetheless, ran until he felt a splinter that was more pernicious than the ones he’d encountered and landed on his back quite heavily. Amai very nearly forgot about him before she came back more than a few moments later.

“Kanashi? Dost thee fare well?”

“Aye, and none the worse for wear. I don’t reckon I am able to see the village from here.”

The slightest rustling of leaves as Amai sat up. “Nor I.”

Amai shifted her way to the back and took notice of the sun, watched as it dropped its way over the horizon and slowly became hidden. She wondered, for an instant, of what it was like to fly beyond Pacienco, to fly to the middle district, to watch the sun set on a mountain each night…

“Night falls, Amai,” was what Kanashi mumbled as he stumbled to his feet.

 And as night fell, the childrens’ feet fell, and their vision fell as well. All that they had to guide them were the fireflies and the occasional lightning-bolt from a storm far away. And so they ran past the deer, past the chattering birds, past the bear trinket and the red scarf, out into the village, past the villagers, past the clerkes, past shop-owner and neighbor, and finally into Kanashi’s home. 

Kanashi cocked his head towards the door. “Hast thou played all the live-long day, children?” 

“Yes, sir,” was their answer.

“Good, now we can get dinner started.”

As they dined on slightly-burnt bread, chicken, and herbs, Amai barely having eaten her first bite of chicken, Kanashi, in distress, confessed to his father that the two of them had each left their trinkets as the mile-marker. Kanshi reiterated, again and again, how the sun had already set and of the animals that were lurking in the woods now.

“As a mile-marker? How far did the two of you venture?”

Amai gave forth a little sigh before her conscience rang true. “We ventured out… into the woods, sir.”

“Into the woods? Kanashi, I shall not strike, nor shall I chide, but so moote* I thee give punishment all the same. You will receive no help from me, although you are free to go and seek your mother.”

This Kanashi did, although unbeknownst to him, she was on her way home, late from a much-preoccupied day at the market; the chicken and herbs they’d dined on was the remainder of food they’d had in the home. When he failed to find her, he made his way towards Amai’s house, where he found Amai’s father, Kennari.

“Oh, a mile-marker, eh? Well, that neck of the woods shouldn’t be cast too far off from where we are. I’ll carry you on my shoulders, and we shall be back before your mother gets home!”

They walked like that for fifteen minutes or so until they passed Kanashi’s mother, who thought at first that Kennari was her husband the way he was carrying Kanashi by his shoulders. Kanashi dared not to tell her of what he had done today and why he was with his uncle instead of his father to begin with, only hugging her once, thanking her for shopping at the market, and saying farewell.

For the rest of their walking in the woods, the night was silent save for a hooting owl, the crickets around them, and for the sounds of the village that carried over in the wind, carried from mile after mile. Kennari stooped down, and Kanashi very quickly donned himself with the scarf and held the bear trinket close to his chest.

It wasn’t until they were a mile or so cast off from the village that Kanashi noted to his uncle that there was a spot in the distance that looked nearly identical to the fireflies, except it was green. With distress, Kenashi repeated how he’d never seen that type of green before, and that he’d never seen it in the trees, in the grass, and his uncle, with the slightest of shudders, told him how it must be a conglomeration of fireflies, it must be, or else of the devil.

But as they ventured farther and farther, they started to hear screams, human screams, and they both rushed headlong towards the green. Slowly, the green revealed itself to be a dome encompassing the entire village, and the village was dying in all sorts of horrific manners that even the elders hadn’t seen even once ere now. People were gasping, clutching their throats when there were no wounds and nobody strangling them, people were twitching in all sorts of strange and peculiar ways on the ground. The people who seemed to be richer than they were, in the patricial parts of the village, had mysteriously vanished from the dome. And those who were either lucky enough to be in the outskirts of the village were crawling their way like terrified babes towards the edge of the dome. 

“Amai! Mother! Father!”

He saw one of the oldest villagers drop his basket onto the ground and unceremoniously slump to the earth to meet his basket.

“Amai! Mother! Father!”

 A villager with the palest exterior and the darkest of eyes unsheathed his hand, knocked his gangling hand on the dome once, twice, three times before collapsing to the ground. 

Kanashi realized the skeletons in his village hadn’t already been dead, like in the stories Amai and him used to tell.

“Amai! Mother! Father!”

He saw… no. Was it the ears of a fox? Was it someone else? He’d known hundreds of foxes that’d been in the village. Was this his beloved Amai? Or was it someone he’d never met, someone who he’d barely encountered once or twice on the market streets?

“Amai! Mothe-”

And then his voice stopped, and he gasped and screamed and gasped again for air, for he was being suffocated. No one was strangling him; he felt no weight on him save for someone picking him up, and he scarce had the strength to look back and realize his uncle was running from the dome before he knew no more.

The last he saw in the dome was a man with a plague mask.

A plague mask worn for security.

It had been over twenty years since the event had passed. 

His uncle and him had fled to the mountain, to the central district, and after having heard their ordeal, they agreed to take him in one of the refugee camps, joining a myriad of others with horrific stories from their own districts. As time passed and Kenashi turned nine, one of the neighboring villages with a relatively high population of fox-monsters agreed to take in Kenashi and his uncle. There he lived until, at the age of thirteen, he once showed exceptional ability during a sparring with one of the neighbors, and rather than being betrothed to the daughter of one of his neighbors, he was trained by one of the wizards’ advisors, who offered him food and lodging near the wizards’ meeting-place when Kenashi turned seventeen. Soon, he managed to become a friend to the wizards, and relocated to the headquarters itself ten years later.

 Save for the nightmares, he very nearly managed to convince himself that his mother and father never existed in the first place, that he simply had no mother or father and his mind created those images, or else the devil sent them. His uncle had died as well when his time had come, and he’d finished his thirty exceptional years when Kenashi turned seventeen. Kenashi himself was nearing the end of his life now, and so when he ventured out into the dining hall, he tried to be comforted by the clerke’s voice.

“If this vision be true and not sent from the depths, they’re all martyrs, Kanashi. All the dead are martyrs. Giving their lives for His heavenly service. They’re saints now, watching over all of us and all we do. It was a matter of eternal security, Kanashi. They are now in no danger of becoming a part of the eternal flames.”

And as the peculiar visions came once again, a beautiful heresy sprung in Kanashi’s mind.

*of high degree: upper-class

*thilke: the same

*clerkes: priests

*moote: must

Glitchtale is by @camilaart

[deifichorror-blog]

I Don’t Like This

So I decided to share my story about my psychotic break and my psychosis. I am diagnosed with Psychotic Depression, and I’ve been dealing with it for a bit. I finally decided to write about it, so uhm. Here we go. Hope it can help some people out.

I hear voices in the distance unfamiliar. Unseen. Alienated, like the faintest of wind screeching against lonesome trees and thickets amongst endless forests. I focus on the sound. Suddenly I have begun to fall victim to an event I know all too well, and yet I am unprepared for. It grew louder, and soon it was all I could hear. Screams of guided cruelty, howls of horrific words and terrible phrases all with the intent at completely destroying me. Disrupting my humanity, disrupting my soul. My logical mind had left at this point; disconnected from the consumption of the voices and the terror they brought along. My body contorted in fear, left only with the screeches of the virus that plagued his very being. There was no escape from the creatures, the demons locked in my own head. I claw at my skin, tearing away in hopes of releasing the thousands of voices that continuously torture me. They scream in all directions, continuing to fill my every sense with dread and hatred. They wished for me to do terrible things. Molded by an animosity that ran deep through my forsaken soul, the beings roared for me to harm not only myself but others. In desperation they demeaned and condescend. Degrading my every movement and action, along with the actions of others. I look around the room, my eyes searching in utter distress for someone to pull me from this misery. Yet, when I see my family before me... All I see is despair. I see visions of torture, of murder, of terrible things that one cannot describe done unto them. I cannot help them, they say. It is too late, I am worthless in this situation. It is over. I look away quickly in attempt to not see anymore. What I have seen lingers; played over and over again my the torturers within my own thoughts. I’m in pain. I want it to stop. I pull the hair from my scalp, I scream in utter torment. It’s all too much. They won’t stop yelling, they won’t stop. Until suddenly it all does. I am on the floor in my room, my family in panic around me. They seem so far away, as if their forms are plastered against the roof above, or perhaps even further to the unseen sky. They are saying something, not that I can process their words. My attention was focused elsewhere, my mind still yet disconnected. The few thoughts that ran through the remnant fragments of my slowly reconstructing mind thought deeply about the voices and their motives. As I lay on the cold floorboards I ponder, my very begin set on forgetting that which I have seen. The trauma that carved its way into my core, adding onto what was there before. In the silent prison of my own make I wonder. In deepest thought, each word the voices spoke echoing and cascading through my mind; the visions they bestowed upon me being analyzed and observed once again. I remained desperate to find the meaning behind it all. Until I simply figured, perhaps it was not me who wished for death. Perhaps it was them.