#miasmal

[miasmal-sweetness]

Bump in the Night - yandere!Cloud x reader

NSFW - MDNI - 18+ ONLY

Just a little one-shot for yandere!Cloud while I dip my toes in to posting my writing on tumblr. I fell in love with this man as a child the moment I heard he wore a dress because who the fuck doesn't love a good dress, am i right.

Summary: 2.4k. Cloud is a good neighbor, and offers to keep watch for you when you’re scared one night. He won’t let this interrupt his nightly routine, though.

Pairing: yandere!Cloud x gn!reader

Warnings: Smut, yandere behavior, somnophilia, masturbation, general creepiness, darkfic/dead dove, dubcon/noncon (reader is asleep), reader is gender neutral

Bump in the Night

You were nice. Or nice enough. Well, you were nice enough to him, specifically—Cloud couldn’t really care whether or not you were nice to others. Anyone else would probably think you were just being a good next-door neighbor, with the way you smiled and greeted him each morning when he stepped out of his apartment.

You’d be watering your little plants on the balcony that surrounded your door, your hair a mess and wearing only a robe and house slippers. It wasn’t a long robe, either. It’s a robe he thinks about often at night. It shows just the perfect amount of skin. The right balance of revealing your soft thighs while covering enough to leave him desperately wanting.

Maybe you’re wearing it now. Maybe if he looks out on to the balcony, you’ll be there in your robe, and a breeze will pass in just the right way with just the right strength to reveal more of your skin. Cloud knows there’s a fat chance of that happening, but there’s no harm in dreaming—well, other than how fucking hard he is now.

Cloud thinks of himself as a man of amazing self-control, but every man has his limits. You are his. Cloud starts his nightly routine; set his sword down, make sure the door is locked, begin to strip out of his armor, and open his closet door. The walls of Stargazer Heights are paper thin, and that means he can sometimes hear you padding around your apartment or lying down in bed. It’s a treat when he hears you speak.

Tonight, you must already be asleep. Your apartment is silent, other than a very faint sound of the fan you keep running. But he’ll still lean against the wall, just in case you make a sound, and imagine you in your bed as he strokes his cock. Maybe you’re wearing your robe. Maybe you’re not, and you just throw that on every morning because you sleep naked.

CRACK.

Cloud bristles. The wall was intact; he hadn’t somehow busted through it by jerking off. And that didn’t sound like a noise you would make… It sounded like it came from outside. Cloud tries to brush it off, gripping his dick again and returning to his thoughts of peeling back your blanket and—

CRACK. POP POP.

Did someone really have to fire their gun right now? Cloud grits his teeth and hisses, opening his eyes again. There’s another noise now, coming through the wall this time. You’re whimpering. Your bed is creaking, and you whisper harshly, like you’re scolding it for giving you away.

Cloud feels his heart flop in his chest. He didn’t know you could make those kinds of sounds. And as hot as it is, you also must be scared. What’s he supposed to do, though? Walk over there and tell you he heard you crying through the wall because he listens to you every night to get off?

Either way, his session is interrupted—by his own choice. He absolutely could keep going just to the sound of you whimpering, but his concern outweighs his arousal. He’ll just knock on your door and check on you. He’ll just say he heard gunshots outside and wanted to make sure you were doing okay. That’s a normal, neighborly thing to do. It’s less normal that he’s knocking on your door with a raging erection, but it’s dark and his pants mostly hide it.

“It’s Cloud,” he adds with his final knock. After all, it’s the middle of the night and you’re no fighter.

At this, you unlock the door and crack it open, peeking out at him with teary eyes. “H-hi,” you whisper, glancing behind him. No signs of any danger. “What’s up, Cloud?” You’re trying to even out your voice, but you’re failing. You’re too tired and too startled to put on a good act, but Cloud thinks it’s cute anyway.

“I heard gunshots,” he says, staring in to your eyes. Cloud wasn’t one for such intense eye contact most of the time, but you didn’t complain and it made you squirm and blush, so he kept doing it. “Just thought I’d see if you were doing okay.”

You press your lips together and slowly nod. You’re lying, of course. The sounds of gunfire scared the living shit out of you. You know it’s not likely to spread to the apartments, but what if it does? Your anxiety will be the death of you someday. “I’m, um, I’m okay,” you quietly, slowly say. “I’ve… been better.”

Cloud breaks his stare as you speak to glance down at your legs. You had opened the door wider, and it’s like a dream come true to him. You’re wearing the robe. Cloud coughs and looks back at your face. “I’ll hear if anyone tries to come in,” he says in an attempt to offer some sort of comfort. “So… don’t worry.”

You appreciate it, but it doesn’t feel like enough to soothe all your worries. “Um, thanks.” You drop your gaze to your feet and fidget with the hem of your robe. You have no desire to be exposed to the outside world after hearing gunshots, but you also have no desire for this conversation to end. It brings some small amount of comfort to stand in the light by your door with Cloud.

Cloud’s eyes follow your hands down to the hem of your robe. Are you doing it on purpose? Do you know? Are you teasing him? No, there’s no way. He’s seen you fidget plenty of times. Right? He feels sure of it, and then you lift your robe a little higher to run your fingertips over a loosening stitch, and he feels a lot less sure of everything other than how much he wants to fuck you in your doorway.

“I can keep watch while you sleep,” Cloud offers. He’s staring at your thighs like they have the secrets of the universe written on them, but you don’t seem to notice as you mull over the offer. “Want me to come in?”

It takes a moment, but you finally give him a meek nod and open your door for him. Cloud steps inside. It smells like you in here. It’s dark, but he can see some of your clothes lying around, and a few plushies on your desk and your bed. You’ve made an actual home out of this place—Cloud’s apartment still looks like a motel room that someone could get tetanus in.

“Thank you,” you tell him, locking your door again. “Uh… Do you want something to drink? I have coffee and tea. J-just the instant stuff, though.”

“I’m fine.” The last thing Cloud needs is to be any more wound up right now. He can’t take his eyes off your bed.

You start to fidget again. “You don’t have to stay up to keep watch. I just need someone here until I fall asleep.” That still sounds weird, doesn’t it? You’re an adult; why are you still acting like a child who needs your daddy to tuck you in? Even though you scold yourself, you’re unwilling to tell Cloud that you’ve changed your mind and he’s free to go. “Or you can stay the night here… I’ll take the floor so you have the bed.”

Nope. No way. He is not passing up this opportunity. Besides, you had crammed your queen-sized bed in to his apartment—the thing was begging to be used to its fullest potential. “We can share the bed,” he stated, folding his arms over his chest. He resists the urge to tap his foot. It would be easy to just toss you on the bed… “Neither of us are sleeping on the floor.”

He says it with such authority that you—weak-willed, push-over little you—accept it without question. Maybe that’s why he likes you. You listen to him and you don’t make him do stupid tasks, even if he’d gladly do them for you. Tifa makes him be nice to people. Aerith tries to push him to be a good person, too. And his years in Shinra were filled with constant orders and scrutiny.

But you just take him as he is and do what he says. Finally, he gets to be the one giving out orders. He once bumped in to you and pretended to spill his drink, then told you to pick it up—all so he could watch you bend over. Sure, Tifa gave him a nasty look, but he rode that power high for three days.

You pull your covers down and climb in to bed. It’s too dark to make out anything clearly, but just the fact that your underwear—if you’re even wearing any—is revealed while you crawl on the mattress is enough to make him shudder. Cloud tries to calm himself while he takes off his shoes. He’s just here to comfort you, and that’s all. Unless you want more. Do you want more? Fuck, he wishes you’d just say it.

You look up at him as he climbs in next to you. You’re trying to be polite by lying on the absolute edge of your side, but he wishes you’d be rude.

“Good night,” you say, pulling your blanket over yourself. “Wake me if you need anything.”

“Good night.”

Cloud pulls the blanket up to his chest and leans back against your pillows. Okay, it seems like you really do just want him to keep watch. And that’s fine. It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. He is a fighter. He is in control. He doesn’t go back on deals. He has amazing self-control, even though his hand in lingering over the bulge in his pants.

You’re already asleep, and Cloud decides to believe that you fell asleep so quickly simply because he’s that comforting to you. He looks at your sleeping, peaceful face. Your lips are slightly parted and a lock of hair has fallen over your face. If he waits a few more minutes, you’ll fall in to a deeper state of sleep. So he does, listening to your soft breaths as he waits.

He tests the waters by sliding the blankets down ever so slightly. If you wake up, he’ll just say he was too warm. You don’t respond, so he slides them down further. You’re sleeping on your side, and your robe has fortunately followed gravity and parted.

Cloud swallows a little too loudly, but you don’t hear it. Palming himself over his pants isn’t enough anymore; he’s pulled out his cock. There’s a little part of him telling him that this is wrong of him to do, but he’s pretty good at ignoring that voice by now. You’re sleeping, anyway. What you don’t know won’t hurt you.

He gingerly pulls your robe further open. Unfortunately, you are wearing underwear. Fortunately, they cover very little. Cloud lets his fingers ghost over the skin of your thigh; he shudders as though he was the one touched. He tries to keep as still and quiet as possible as he strokes his cock, sometimes stopping just so he can savor this for a little longer.

His fingers crawl in between your inner thighs, wedging between them. You’re warm—the thought of fucking your inner thighs nearly sends him over the edge. He tries to creep his hand further up, but you stir. He pulls his hand away just in time. You adjust yourself in your sleep and roll on to your stomach. It takes away the sight of your belly and chest, but now your thighs are parted and he can lift up your robe to reveal your ass.

Cloud lets you sink back in to a deeper state of sleep before he does this. He’s trying to be a gentleman, after all. You need your sleep. He peels your robe up and admires the sight. He gently rubs your inner thighs, your ass, touches your scanty underwear—and finally runs his fingers down the gusset of your underwear.

He thinks about the sound of your whimpers again, and imagines you making those sounds as he touches you through the fabric. He’s practically fucking his hand at this point; the bed even creaks here and there. He should be more careful. He should calm down and be quiet, or you might wake up. But the risk of that only spurs him on.

You’re good, quiet, obedient. You let him be in control. And even if you decide to go against this if you wake up, he’ll just remind you that he’s doing you a favor. He’s losing sleep for you—you don’t need to know that he’d have lost this sleep anyway jerking off two or three times to the thought of you. He’s here because you wanted him. You owe him. And you live in Stargazer Heights; you don’t have a way to pay him with money. Lucky for you, he’ll accept this instead—you should be grateful. You should be thanking him. If you don’t, he’ll leave the sector—and who will take care of its endless woes then?

All it takes is the thought of you thanking him for him to finally cum. He’s panting, looking like a wild animal as he watches his own cum spurt on to your ass. He grits his teeth as he strokes out every last drop. The damage is already done; it’s not like a little more will hurt, and it looks so good on you.

Cloud creeps off of the bed and wipes his hand off with some tissues you keep by your desk. He’s sick. He’s disgusting. His parents would be so ashamed of him. He scowls at his own thoughts—his parents are dead and it’s not like anyone saw, so it’s fine. He’ll be a bad person if it means he gets to feel your thighs again. Any shred of resistance left in him was gone the moment he touched them.

“You really are a deep sleeper, huh,” Cloud muses, grabbing another tissue. Even if he thinks you should wear his cum all the time, he can’t leave you like this and risk you finding out. Not until he’s certain you want this… or until you can’t do anything about it. He wipes away what he can; your underwear will dry by morning, he’s sure. He’s had enough wet dreams about you that he’s certain of it.

Cloud settles down at your desk. He promised he’d keep watch, keep you safe. And he will, now that he’s had his fun. But maybe he’ll take his payment again in, say, thirty minutes. Although, you just gasped in your sleep, so maybe it’ll be ten minutes.

[onlyhurtforaminute]

NIGRUM TENEBRIS-VOID CLOAKED IN SPLENDOUR

[ophierian-vp]

[geraltgwynbleidd]

In the Eternal Fire's Shadow

Reinald died not because of the Red Miasmal, but because of other monsters that wear the mask of holiness and pious people.

[sedehaven]

Final

tang of teen sweat miasmal over the scent of graphite

plastic squeak, cough, and sneaker snuffle over the

metallic click of second-hand, anxious pages shuffle

life passes green in front of bloodshot eyes, fireworks

bursting in the night, quadratic explosions ripping through the

dark as seconds click, click, click

-- S. E. De Haven

[rederiswrites]

Looked at the TV and saw my daughter reading a Witcher codex I had no memory of whatsoever and then talking to a dude I definitely didn't remember and then fighting a "Red Miasmal", which is how I learned that the next gen update, patch 4.0, added quests.

[seekingstars]

Benedicto - Edward Abbey

May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your rivers flow without end, meandering through pastoral valleys tinkling with bells, past temples and castles and poets’ towers into a dark primeval forest where tigers belch and monkeys howl, through miasmal and mysterious swamps and down into a desert of red rock, blue mesas, domes and pinnacles and grottos of endless stone, and down again into a deep vast ancient unknown chasm where bars of sunlight blaze on profiled cliffs, where deer walk across the white sand beaches, where storms come and go as lightning clangs upon the high crags, where something strange and more beautiful and more full of wonder than your deepest dreams waits for you — beyond that next turning of the canyon walls.

[clairedelune-13]

The Red Miasmal bestiary entry sounds like if Netflix was a post-conjunction creature.

In short: If you ignore Netflix’s Witcher, it’ll go away.

[beanskoala]

miasmal purrling bauble :3

[forreststories]

Benedicto: May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds. May your rivers flow without end, meandering through pastoral valleys tinkling with bells, past temples and castles and poets towers into a dark primeval forest where tigers belch and monkeys howl, through miasmal and mysterious swamps and down into a desert of red rock, blue mesas, domes and pinnacles and grottos of endless stone, and down again into a deep vast ancient unknown chasm where bars of sunlight blaze on profiled cliffs, where deer walk across the white sand beaches, where storms come and go as lightning clangs upon the high crags, where something strange and more beautiful and more full of wonder than your deepest dreams waits for you -- beyond that next turning of the canyon walls.

Edward Abbey

[evocation-of-mystical-eidolons]

I nodded and started presently a phantasmal and grotesque appendage slipped into my view...calcinated by the purification of spectral larvae I dozed and was sent whirling down nether abysses of non individuated oneness as of Neoplatonists...my eyes wrenched toward acrid gaudy lights drunk as of tenuous shadows tenebrous litten by eld mothy moon eared excrescences protruding from the luminous aether in unbounded spaces my neck snapped under pressure of pachydermatous hands of ferruginous salts of ammonia my brain was ravaged and I sunk utterly...infinite revulsion of spirit anguish clad by raiment of oleaginous and unctuous agglutinations of loathsome putrescent slime of eggs of enormous Worms and toads of fungal larvae and maggot born exhalations as of ophiolatrous worshippers beating ponderous drums to the tattoo of infernal rhythms my heart was choked and withering to hoary greybeards in the Selene clad prognathous cerements palls blackened teeming with spermatozoa and oocytes alleles as of genetic abominations delivered to my knowledge through cacophonous dins of insensate pulsating horrors acrimonious and ragged drug through miry fens and bogs of abhorrent medieval sorcerers witches clad in starry lachrymose textiles wrought from the skin of wyverns...my mental proscenium was filled with visions miasmal and horrendous celestial and glacial primal and prehistoric teeming masses of ancient organisms the entire phylogeny tree bifurcation and budding in myriad efflorescence's and umbels roseate honied speech flowed from the lips of maidens defiling from an eld cathedral clad in lace dresses as of white snow tresses as of ravens a grand processional of mystic proportions these imidrizing visions gave way to a new tide of repulsive abnormities flowed in unending tortuous cascades grim spectres of deaths heads and a tide of seething masses of horrid bat deamons culled from nether acrid caves as of trolls and moss swords and castles crypts buried rotting spectres phantoms of nitre-encrusted toads lurking in swampy fens denizens of ancient eld dominions of wizened cronies Hyperborean mages of alchemical phantasies philtres of love potions...I wavered and faltered encumbered by noisome vapors beset my nocturnal owls of sulphur and bitumen my soul froze and I wearied agonized by tumultuous vast scurrying thoughts of anguished wails of frightful ogres and ghouls, spawn of Tartarus and the eternal limitless abyss of Nyx. Beaten goaded and sickened my spirit breaks and is tattered and ravaged by innumerable orcs Elven faeries capered to and fro in front of the darksome and brooding grotto they danced a merry and gay jig the Gladsome and light airy fays or the aerial and ethereal sylph of Paracelsus I was entranced and filled with myriad tender thoughts as I gazed at the joyous dance of the eld little folk yet I was as yet still beset by ravages of the mind...ineffably weary weltschmerz unspeakable existential dread the vast and sardonic derision of the evil propagator of the universe I was tossed tempestuously and rendered derelict and abandoned my body was benumbed by an ancient and terrible icy frost of Norse hells beset beleaguered and bombarded beaten and torn ripped limb from limb utterly extirpated my soul cried out in horrendous despair why ? And the silence mocked my personal credo quia absurdums of Thomas Browne formulated and expressed at my utter limit of anguish De Profundis Domine Lord of the depths I have cried to thee blot out my iniquities , lord have mercy my anguish is yet a species of pride to be simple and humble to be meek I will do penance and mortify my concupiscent desires of the flesh self flagellate and beat my breast have pity on a lost soul wandering in the barren and desolate desert of Nubia I execrate this paltry and puerile life it is devoid of any worth it is a vanity and a lie a profound dearth worthless and ragged and torn asunder...I was slightly taken aback by this sudden torrent of pious devotion which had sprang from my lips I gazed at a crucifix hanging on the wall and thought of the Spanish black Madonna's and the byzantine Christ Panocrator...newly inspired I quickly navigated to the yt channel poesie psychotique vaguely felt affinities to my own experiences a vindication a link to an artistic vision of chaotic and beautiful nay more basically rich vibey vague and various Imagos as of moths of aether and silken dreams wrought in batik Malayan textiles...next I gingerly lifted a mug of fortifying libation of rich earth mould acidulous coffee darker than black as of anime archetypes creating effectively infinite expansive legendariums I sipped and savoured the rich flavour, the inimitable beverage quaffed by decadent dandys nay that was the green fairy Absinthe...my thoughts wandered and new images wrought of psychobabble formed novel and magnificent malformations upon my mental proscenium I plodded along the circuitous and labyrinthine passage of an eld mouldering city of vast cyclopean edifices raised by some archaic prehistoric race who worshipped ithyphallic monolithic idols of rough hewn basaltic stone and porphyry...I glimpsed terrible and arcane carvings and hieroglyphs carven into the malevolent stone which forbode of unknown and arcane rituals of sacrifice to zoomorphic and amorphous god beings extraterrestrial eldritch abominations spawned in the further reaches of Saturn at the edges of the cosmos...they were fungoid beings born from aerial sporangia which traveled galactic distances and arrived on Saturn countless aeons ago they were the Old Ones the Elder Gods identified with all the primal earthly deities of El and Astarte the horned goddess who dances a gyrating and lascivious ritual before the Tetrarch incense laden an perfumed of rich and fragrant myrrh and balsam and also darker satanic perfumes of acontium and wolfsbane they were henna painted and curved voluptuously to the tattoo of a drum beaten incessantly a decadent femme fatale an intoxicating houri of Islamic paradise an exotic oriental goddess the avatar of the destroyer Kali of brooding Kolkata which birthed deafening and thunderous war metal pummeling in its torrent of audial sonic desecrating filth.

[miasmal-sweetness]

Here, Kitty, Kitty

NSFW - MDNI - 18+ ONLY

Graduation is near and I am ignoring health issues by writing hot trash. I put on fake nails for the first time in a literal decade so I have had to relearn how to type during this and I am going to blame that for why this is honestly Not Good and pretty sloppy.

This is absolutely my attempt to reclaim the pet name “kitty” for myself after my weird abusive ex ruined it for me years ago since that’s what he called me.

Here, Kitty, Kitty

Summary: yandere!Cloud x reader. 3.1k. Cloud finally has the perfect nickname for you, but you’ve gone missing. Don’t worry; your hero will save you, just like always.

Warnings: he calls you kitty, duh; reader is gender-neutral but has a vagina; smut; Cloud 100% kidnapped reader; bondage; noncon; suffocation/drowning

“I’m home, kitty.” That’s it. Short and sweet and it rolls off the tongue. That’s what you are—short, sweet, and you also feel great on his tongue. Cloud is certain you’ll love the pet name; his heart has skipped many beats every time he’s thought about it.

Cloud sets his sword down by the door, waiting to hear the usual signs of your presence. You two have been living together for a while now, and you’ve settled into a routine. By now, dinner will be ready, and you’ll be waiting for his return in the kitchen as you flip through a cookbook for the umpteenth time. But this time, he doesn’t hear your breath, your footsteps, the soft turn of pages, or you stirring a pot. It’s silent.

Cloud steps further in to his house. Were you asleep? You had tossed and turned a lot the night before; he wouldn’t blame you for needing a nap. He peers in to the kitchen and finds no sign of you, not a single dish out of place, like you hadn’t even eaten breakfast. The living room is similarly empty, even though the couch is where you usually take your naps. Maybe the rain outside disturbed you; there was a large window that overlooked the couch, so it could be a little loud and chilly there.

You’re not in the hall. You’re not in the extra room he’s let you slowly turn into your own space. His heart is starting to pick up the pace; if you aren’t in the bedroom, then—no. He can’t think that way. Cloud cracks the door open, just in case you really are sleeping, but throws it open when he finds that the bed is empty. Cloud takes a deep breath and runs his hand through his hair. There is one other place you could be, but not only did he keep it locked, you also hated it. The basement—a place you’d only go in to if he dragged you kicking and screaming.

It was storming, though. Maybe you found a way to get in and took shelter out of fear. Cloud left the bedroom after another glance, heading straight for the basement door at the end of the hall. Sure enough, the door was unlocked. He keeps the key on him at all times; there’s no way you swiped it off of him, since it’s still in his pocket. Maybe you found a way to pick it.

Either way, Cloud pushes the door open and makes his way down the stairs. “I’m coming down, kitty,” he calls, flipping on the lights. “Don’t be scared, okay?”

He knows before he even sees the basement that you’re not there. He can feel it, but he holds on to that bit of hope anyway. Hope matters little in this world, though. You aren’t there. The basement is empty. His gaze lands on the red silk that lies by the wall. Strong, tightly-woven silk that he brought home after you kept getting horrible rope burns and bruises when he tried cuffs. You were too weak to get out of it, but it didn’t hurt you, either. He wishes he had used it that morning.

One of the windows has been broken open, and your struggle is remembered by the shards of glass covered in your blood. The bars that covered every window were damaged on only this one, pried apart with a hammer from the toolkit he forgot to take back from you. You said you needed it to work on your sewing machine; it needed maintenance, but he didn’t have the time to supervise you or do it himself. What a dumb decision. He should have just stayed an extra thirty minutes.

Now you’re gone, probably lost somewhere out in the rain and possibly trying to fend off monsters. You aren’t a fighter. You were easy for him to drag here; so easy he wouldn’t have had trouble even without years of training and mako forced in to him. You’re probably scared, cold, and lost, wondering why he hasn’t saved you yet.

Of course, deep down, he knows that’s not true. You ran away. Pried off the prison bars keeping you caged, escaped the room he kept you in for a month and a half before he thought he wore down your will—the room he still brings you down to sometimes when you misbehave or something triggers his paranoia. Cloud knows all of this, but he’s good at ignoring it. You need him, whether you like it or not.

Grabbing the silk rope from the floor, Cloud trudges back up the stairs and grabs his sword. You can’t have gotten far. The house is way out in the countryside, where paths are limited; your bare feet are not going to move quickly or easily on the rocky terrain. He follows a fading trail of blood leading away from the broken window. He’s so focused on your trail that the feeling of cold rain pouring on him is barely noticeable; he only thinks about it when he realizes that you must be freezing.

He moves a little faster.

Eventually, the trail of blood stops, either because the wound clotted or the rain has washed it away. He hopes it doesn’t hurt to badly. He does. He does believe that—he’s tries to drown out the thoughts that insist that you deserve it for being such a brat, that this will teach you a lesson, that this is nothing compared to what he’ll do when he drags you back home. The thought of making you crawl over the broken glass you left behind in the basement is interrupted when he notices footprints left behind in the mud. They’re barely visible, but they’re there.

The footprints guide him to a few shrubs. Some strands of your hair are caught in the leaves and branches; he wonders if you were trying to crawl under them for shelter from the rain. Evidently, you gave up and tried taking refuge under a tree, but that must not have been good enough. Your trail leads right to a dying tree leaning against a small, rocky hill; a small source of relief from the rain. There are no prints leading out. You’ve barricaded yourself in with branches and leaves, mostly in an effort to stay hidden. He smiles at the childish attempt—he might be pissed that you left, but it’s adorable that you think that would be good enough.

“It’s just me,” he calls. “You can come out.”

No response. He doesn’t even hear you shift.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” he teases, circling your poor attempt at a hiding spot. “Come to me, kitty.”

You want to tell him to fuck himself. You want to stick your head out just to spit at him. Even though you know it’s over, though, you refuse to reveal yourself. He’ll have to drag you out by your ankles, something that you know he has no problem doing. If you can’t escape, you can at least make this difficult for him. You sink further in to your spot, batting your lashes to blink away tears and rain drops.

You’re dirty, bloody, sweaty, and drenched in rain. You have scratches going up and down your waist, legs, and arms. The soles of your feet are red and covered in scrapes. You just want to be able to cry in peace, but you’ll hold your breath until you pass out if it means he won’t get the satisfaction of hearing you.

“Come out, kitty. It’s okay; you’re not in trouble.”

Liar. You know the second you’re back at that house, he’ll be grabbing at you and crushing you and making you say you won’t leave over and over until you lose your voice and he’s satisfied. You knew the risk of leaving, and you decided at the time that it was worth it—but that was before the storm came and slowed you down. Your lips and fingers are already blue. You couldn’t keep going. You can’t keep doing this. All you have the strength to do right now is sit in silence like a pouting preschooler who doesn’t want to leave the park yet.

Cloud crouches down by your shelter. You wiggle away from him, casting your eyes to the ground. He reaches past the thorny branches you’ve barricaded yourself with, not even acknowledging the thorns that scratch his arms and leave blood in fresh red lines.

“Come on out, kitty,” he urges, holding out his hand to you. His voice is soft now, gentle; it reminds you of when you first met Cloud. He had been rough around the edges and awkward, sure, but you thought you saw a good heart behind it all. Sometimes you still did, when you saw his eyes go soft as he stroked your hair or kissed bruises that formed when you bumped in to the counter—when he’d bring you treats from outside, reminders of the life he took from you, with a look in his eyes that implied a quiet regret that he couldn’t voice. Somewhere in him, that sweet boy with those big blue puppy dog eyes is reaching out for you, asking you to stay with him after he’s already lost so much.

You give in. You’ve never been able to resist him—not when his eyes go soft and he looks like you just broke his heart. You take his hand and crawl out from your spot, seeking new refuge in his warmth. Even in the icy rain, he still runs hot. He wraps his arms around you as you miserably shiver and sniffle. This was a terrible idea. You never should have left. It was pointless, and only ended with the both of you upset.

Cloud’s hand moves down to your waist, and you hiss when his fingers brush over your scratches. He murmurs an apology as he examines your wounds. They’re shallow, just plentiful.

“You didn’t run in to any monsters, right? No other injuries?” he asks, running his thumb over dried blood that crusted on your hip.

“No,” you mumble, staring blankly at your bruised knees.

“Good.” He continues to contemplate your scratches, rubbing small circles in to your thigh. “Why did you leave, kitty?”

The new nickname finally hits you. Even in the cold, you feel a little warmer from it. You supposed it’s fitting—back in the sector, you made nightly rounds in the neighborhood to give snacks to the strays. Your heart sinks a little, and the bitterness of your situation claws its way back up your throat. Sure, he’s being sweet now, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s keeping you captive. “I wanted to go home,” you spit, lifting your head to stare venom in to those stupid big eyes of his.

“This—”

“No!” You pound your fists against his chest, even though you know it barely does anything to him. “That is not my home! You are not my boyfriend! I want to go home to my friends, to the sector, to the cats and my neighbors!” Each cry is punctuated by another thump of your fists against his chest, and he takes it all without even a wince.

“Kitty, don’t—”

You won’t let him get a word in edgewise. “Take me home!” you demand, unleashing your fury in the form of a flurry of weak blows to his chest.

Finally, he responds to your pathetic attempt at a tantrum. He grabs your wrists and holds them together with an infuriating amount of ease. His eyes aren’t soft and sparkly anymore. He doesn’t have that pout that you fall for so easily. His gaze is hardened, sharp, and focused entirely on you as he throws you on to your back. You grunt when your back collides with mud and your hair is soaked by a puddle.

“Listen, kitty,” he snaps, giving a harsh yank to your flimsy shorts. You try to scramble away, but he pins you in place with just his weight. “This is home now. You can either make it easy on yourself and accept it or you can keep throwing your tantrums, but it won’t change a thing. There is nothing for you back there.”

Your top is ripped off, torn in two and discarded in the mud. He doesn’t seem to care one bit about the dirt and mud you’re in, nor about the puddle that you keep trying to lift your head out of. “Th-that’s not true,” you sputter, forcing your legs shut with all the strength you can muster. “My friends—our friends—”

“Do you really think anyone even noticed that you’re gone?”

You fall silent at this, mouth agape. You had considered the possibility that no one noticed or cared, or that they quickly forgot about you and brushed you off when you never came back. But you always held out hope that they remembered and looked for you.

“You were just another body to them,” Cloud mutters against your neck. He’s running his hands up and down your body, between your trembling legs, as though nothing is wrong and he isn’t saying horrible things in your ear. “I took you away from that. Give you a home and everything you need. Keep you warm and safe… and you fucking run away?”

Your legs are forced apart, and you feel like a hot poker is being shoved in to you. You weren’t prepared in the slightest, but that doesn’t stop him from pounding in to you.

“Cloud, stop!” you cry, trying to wriggle away from him as he sucks on his favorite spot on your neck.

“Quit moving around so much,” he grumbles, finally stopping the brutal pace of his hips. The relief you get is brief and nowhere near enough; Cloud stops just long enough to turn you on your stomach, before resuming the same pace. With your face now shoved in to the muddy puddle below, he can enjoy himself without you saying things like “no” and “this hurts.” You can only guess that this isn’t one of the days he enjoys it.

Even though you’re half-drowning and you can vaguely hear him hissing obscenities and complaints, he still shoves his hand between your legs and plays with your clit. And it still feels good, no matter how much pain you’re in. When this nightmare first started, Cloud had been awkward and inexperienced. With plenty of practice, however, he found each spot you enjoyed, and which way was the best to pleasure you. The kind of knowledge and familiarity you’d only expect to grant a partner. He knew every inch of your body; it was mapped out in his mind better than anywhere in Midgar.

And you hate it, even as the warmth builds up in your gut. He grabs you by your hair and lifts your head to let you take in another desperate gasp of air, before shoving your head back in to the mud. This isn’t like him. Even on the days you’ve been a brat and he’s come home angry from whatever the hell he faced out there, he’s at least been apologetic while brutalizing you. Frantically telling you “sorry, I’m sorry” as he fucks your throat without concern for your gag reflex or chokes you from behind as he tries to bury himself as deep as possible inside of you.

There are no apologies. The closest relief you have is the brief gasps he allows you to take, and it’s still nowhere near enough. Your eyes burn and are covered in a haze. You can feel the pressure inside of you building; the lack of oxygen only seems to make it more intense. He lifts your head just to hear you moan and sigh. He knows every sign of your orgasm—the shake of your leg, the way your core tightens, the feeling of you contracting around him.

“That’s it,” he breathes as you writhe in pleasurable misery. “Say my name, kitty.”

You obey without question. Whatever will get this over with—and his fingers away from your clit. “Cloud,” you whisper.

“Say ‘thank you, Cloud.’”

If it weren’t for the lack of oxygen and orgasm turning your brain to mush, you would have put up a fight. But there’s no point to it now. “Th—thank you, Cloud,” you manage to croak, struggling to speak past the hand around your throat and his increasingly frantic pace. You hear him groan against your ear.

“More,” he demands. His voice is breathy and agitated; he can’t tell you exactly what he wants to hear, but you can hazard a guess.

“Thank you for—f-for saving me,” you eke out, squeezing your eyes shut. The high of the orgasm is fading, replaced by pain from overstimulation and the tears he created inside of you. Still, you’ll savor the oxygen he’s letting you have. “Thank you for… f-finding me—I was lost and needed you.”

Of course that’s what he wants to hear. Another groan, and he rolls his hips against yours as you feel his cum spill out of you. Cloud rocks his hips against you as he rides out the last of the high; he wants to savor every last moment inside of you. You don’t dare complain. He’s letting you breathe, and the pain isn’t as bad as before, at least.

You fall back in to the mud when he releases you, your arms barely able to move in the clumsy motions you manage in a late attempt to catch yourself. You struggle to push yourself up and roll away from the puddle, panting as water drips from your face. You hurt. You want to cry. And you feel Cloud lifting you up by your arms.

“Let’s go home, kitty,” he says in that gentle, low voice. All malice is gone. The sadism that had been in his eyes just moments ago is gone, the only evidence of it being the mud on your skin and cum dripping down your thighs. “You can have a bath to warm up when we’re back. You should feel better then.”

You don’t fight when he sweeps you off your feet. You don’t fight when he rinses you off and sets you in a tub of warm water. And you just watch as he fixes the broken window, reinforces the bars, and boards them up to keep you from getting any more ideas. You’re tied up in a pile of blankets on the floor, his attempt at softening the reality of your confinement. You’ll be down in that basement for at least a week, until he decides it’s safe to let you out again. You should have known he’d keep his promise—he’d always come to your rescue.

[wanderingwolfwitcher]

❝ this ground harbors evil. ❞ from triss!

"Don't even need my medallion to tell us that. Can feel it, soaking the soil. Cursed battlefield, remnants of one of the many wars between the Kaedweni and Aedirnian armies. All that death, suffering and rage tends to leave behind an imprint. Had to lay a few battlegrounds like this to rest, in my time. Cleanse and silence them. Looks like I’ll have to do it again."

Eskel’s deep, calm voice returned to the redhead Sorceress amidst the buzzing of his medallion, viper eyes looking about the muddy, rain soaked earth and forest surrounding where they stood in the Lormark wilderness. His enhanced senses alone, along with a Cat Potion to extend them further, were plenty to be able to see in the darkness, but for the sake of her physical limitations, one of his hands held an active Igni Sign, lighting the way for her, while his other held his rune enchanted silver sword down at his side. Turning them into a beacon as well, to draw the attention of what was out there in the night, be it physical monsters or occult beings. The rain fell freely and heavily around them, pelting the trees and bushes, the growing wind lifting up his cloak about him, as his eyes searched the wilderness, listening to the natural howling of the wind... and unnatural howls carried upon it that had nothing to do with the weather. The cries of the damned and the restless, sensing two living folk standing upon their graves. The clashing of swords, shields and the screams of pain... reenacting their final moments over and over again by nightfall, perhaps not even truly realizing they were long dead. He would never wish such a fate on another, especially not on warriors... the agony of one death alone serving some indifferent monarch should have been enough suffering. Would have been enough, in a fair world.

Now and again, he saw spectral and physical shapes alike out there in the rising mist, drifting through the air and shambling respectively... the fallen of both sides, doing battle with one another, amid the trees. The Witcher had some idea of what they would have to expect... but he was ready for any surprises. This wasn’t an exact science, but Witchers had been taught to take precautions, and anticipate the worst. He aimed and concentrated on several spots of greenery around them, casting more Igni Signs, lighting them up into torches to illuminate the clearing they stood in, before rearranging his fingers, concentrating and casting the Yrden Sign several times as well around their vicinity, setting the glowing violet wards down on the earth and grass, forming a perimeter of traps. When he was done laying them, his yellow gaze returned to the freckled redhead’s emerald pair, and his hooded head nodded, mutilated features serious, speaking a warning to her as a precaution. He could certainly depend on her magical knowledge and powers, the only Sorceress he had any trust for, but all the same, this was a matter out of Triss’ usual expertise. These were Witcher matters. He would have to watch her back, as she did the same of him... silently appreciating the backup and company she provided on this particular contract for Queen Saskia. He certainly wasn’t about to turn down either, from how few and far between it was for him normally. Her portals sure didn’t hurt either, making their travels far easier, not having Geralt’s discomfort with them.

"Be on your guard, Triss. No telling what will rise here. The extent and power of the curse. Wouldn’t even count out a Red Miasmal. Your magic will come in handy, especially some fire for the reanimated corpses and Revenants. The Specters and Wraiths will be more trouble... whatever you do, don’t let them make contact with you. Last thing I need is to have to perform another exorcism. I'll make them corporeal with the Yrden Sign, we just have to lure them into these ward traps, and we can disperse them together."

@withouthonor

[brightisthedawn]

There’s also my go-to solution for problems bacterial, chemical, and miasmal: 70% concentrated ethanol. Hard to obtain, but extremely effective!

Why is salt good for exorcism and banishing and all that jazz? Well you see, way back in the day people knew jack-all about germs and microbes and for all they knew it was evil spirits that got into their food and made it go a-spoil. They Noticed and Observed that when you soaked food in a Lot of Salt, food stayed good longer. So that meant that the salt was keeping the bad spirits out. Now, tossing around salt and making salt circles makes for dramatic rituals, sure. But I think we all know that some entities are just powerful bastards and need some extra oomph to get them out of the damn house. You know what is more potent than salt at killing bacteria and germs? Bleach. You know what’s really good for just killing all kinds of stuff very dead? Medical autoclaves. Now I understand that not all of you have access to autoclaves, but I understand that a good pressure cooker can also do for sterilization. So therefore, I propose that if you have yourself a haunted doll or something that isn’t reponding to the usual methods, a wash with chlorine might be in order; and if that doesn’t to the job, a visit to the Insta-Pot might teach the bastard who’s boss around here. (Of course there might not be much of a doll left but it wasn’t like you needed to keep it around, anyway.)

[belacqui-pro-quo]

I'm thinking about Nietzche's episode with the horse. I'm thinking, it was a burnout, from hearing so much high-pitched twitterings of mean person energy, from seeing gross miasmal aura emanating from every person he sees

[sedehaven]

Intro

slip down the side of the coulee, huge white rubber boots gleaming in july

sun, sweep tea-brown water into a screw top cup, and climb slick crabgrass back to class

under light and lenses, green bubbles dance with whip-tailed paramecia, bottle blue

and clear as stained glass, gritty earth turns to amber crystal, to brown sugar, spun and twinkling

gold-green pollen swirls, miasmal, over the play of light, life, death, and rainwater