#sorry i did a horrors again

[frogenthusiastt]

19/sea change for prompt meme?

19. Sea change (totally read this as sea of change because i couldnt think of a single thing to match this prompt lol sorry)

The first lesson Nicholas is taught is loneliness.

At 8 years old he's long since learnt that he lacks the cherubic qualities required to be granted adoption by a rich, childless couple. He looks poor and desolate, sure, but not in the way that makes adults want to swoop him up into a blanket and coo over his poor fate. He wears the kind of thousand yard stare that makes them avert their eyes in discomfort, that reminds them of the casualties of poverty in the entirely wrong way.

Still, he has Livio trailing after his steps like a lost puppy. Together they learn how to live like weeds growing in the cracks of pavement, how to be alone together. It's a lesson to be learnt, for sure, how to keep the lights on in the dark.

The second lesson he learns is shame.

Mask clad adults, clapping and telling him welcome child, to the path of God. They pat him on his back and ruffle his hair, all gloved impersonal hands.

The Eye of Michael teach him how to chant the psalms, how to recount his sins and that salvation lies in abandonment of your body and acquiescence of pain. He's taught the vital points of the body and how to gouge knives in the hearts of men, as by one man sin entered into the world, and death by sin; and so death passed upon all men, for that all have sinned. His body grows and grows into a holy weapon, and he learns how to kill a man without flinching. This is a terrible lesson.

The third lesson is pain.

Nicholas has known pain before, like a distant uncle. Now pain is his mother and father, his creation and Eucharist. Once he'd proven his body a worthy tool before Chapel and the acolytes, they take him apart into his base components and Unmake him into something inhuman. Terrible liquids seep into his body through needles and plastic tubes, for this is the Blood of the Covenant and through it thou shalt be made Holy. His flesh is carved and replaced, for Holy is the body of Christ and through it thou shalt be made perfect and free from Sin.

When he is lucky, they sedate him and the world becomes a technicolor kaleidoscope of visions to keep his thoughts occupied. He doesn't know if it's on purpose or just an accidental side effect of whatever chemicals they put in him but he takes it gratefully, thankful for just a moment to breathe throughout the nightmare of hurt.

He never learns what exactly they did to him, but when he's finally released from that terrible white room, he looks in the mirror and finds something other staring back. It takes years for him to recognize it as his face.

The fourth lesson is in efficiency.

Whatever it was they took out of him left an empty hole in his mind. Wherever regret or empathy used to be, only survival remains. Survival means to submit to the hand that's fed him, to take whatever chances given for a paycheck and the lives of the orphanage secured. He doesn't remember the faces of the people he kills, nor their pleas for mercy. He's a cold outer shell in the shape of a man, and so he becomes the employee of the month, of the year, of the decade.

The twist of a tendon, the flick of a wrist to sever flesh from bone, even the stab of a knitting needle through the head to save him the hassle of cleanup. These are the ways he earns a living, and he's damn good at his job. He steels himself against terror and lets the fear of fire and brimstone flow around him and through him like the hull of a sandsteamer, no worse for wear after he's crossed the sands of a thousand bodies piled underneath his feet. He becomes what he's been made to be, finds meaning in his function and keeps the lights on for the children at home. He's efficient, he's good at his job and that's all that counts.

His fifth and final lesson hits him with a truck. He walks in a daze, only half put upon to garner sympathy, and when he lies there bloody and disheveled hope walks out the side door of the car.

It is the most terrible lesson of all, the way the man calls him by name and looks through him like there is any softness in his body worth that blinding smile. Hope tells him that he's something worth salvation, wearing impossible blue eyes and the face of his brother. Nothing Wolfwood has ever been taught prepares him for this unwavering belief in goodness, the warm caress of a mismatched hands against his cheeks, the way he utters his name like it's something precious.

Hope finds him late at night, in soft touches and a hushed voice. Hope foolishly makes him stay in the morning when sunlight paints the white sheets wrapped around a body incandescent and flaxen hair golden. Hope puts his lips against lips, hands against hands, in desperate prayer to keep this one soft thing safe. Hope lights a fire against his will, forces his to look at his life with kinder eyes and wish for another day to come, and Wolfwood has asked for exactly none of it.

Hope laughs at his jokes and whines at his teasing and holds him trembling at night. If he was half the weapon he was made, he would cast it off and escape into the wasteland. It turns out the hands that fed him did a piss poor job of it, because he stays and stays and stays.

It is hope that has him rage at the dying of the light, knees bent in penance against the cold stone floor of the church. Blood splatters against it in a fearful rhythm, body contorted to support himself against the heavy weight of the cross. Still he rages, still he hopes, still he curses the God that made his fate. That he would learn his final lesson, as he lay here dying, must be some terrible cosmic joke from an uncaring creator.

As Wolfwood stills, he takes hope with him. It's the cruelest lesson of all.

[chloesimaginationthings]

Horrifying being beyond my comprehension just saying “no???” Is absolutely hilarious

IM GLAD YALL FOUND IT FUNNY TOO, cause drawing this killed me 💀

[thegreatyin]

this nemesis ambition started out a little slow but I am getting closer to finding that bastard who killed my wife, and I’ll not rest a minute now that im far closer to on his trail

sorry got in character for a second

Anyways fun ambition so far very fucked up though

congratulations on joining the murder club anon!!!! depending on who you ask the name refers to either people who have murdered or people who have witnessed murder. usually both. actually extremely often both. it's a swell time you'll feel right at home (don't mind our collective skyglass knife collection in the back)

[85-rend]

Fifty-Six silly and fucked up moments. i love this freak so much guys you have no idea

[triglycercule]

horror having crazy irrational thoughts about food,,,,, like bro thinks there's poison in the cupcakes. someone snuck razor blades into the bread and once he takes a bit it'll cut him up. somehow there's mold growing inside the bananas and when he eats it the mold colony is gonna start growing on HIM and then he'll become a moldy skeleton and oh god and oh god and he is paranoid but hes so hungry.... BUT WHAY ABOUT BUGS IN THR FOOD,,,, BUT HES HUNGRY.... a struggle it truly is

probably doesnt help that dust and killer could feed into it. killer could make off hand remarks on how he snuck razor blades into the meat horror's attempting to eat (to fuck around with horror. just some eeeever so slight psychological anguish. and also because killer would just be the type of casually carry those around. what for you may ask well decide for yourself) and then immediately horror's mood drops and he storms out of the dining room. dust and horror go on a sweet little picnic in a beautiful field and its all beautiful and inconspicuous but dust made the food and horror knows that look in his eyes. horror knows dust was muttering something about chemicals a day or 2 ago. the food is poisoned isnt it??? and dust just smiles and motions for horror to eat it

[bobzora]

school is making me miserable so here's a doodle sheet of akechi truths. hope this helps

[purple-st4rz-556]

I keep forgetting to be active here whoops....anyways it's Gorillaz Phase 1 OMG!!!!

OMFG I JSUT RELIZED THAT I DREW THE THUMB FACIND THE WROGN DIRECTION 💀💀💀

[dailykugisaki]

Day 274 | id in alt

I like to think Gojo has the strongest mentality so far up his ass it pisses Kugisaki off because, DUDE. SHE FUCKING GETS IT. BE QUIET. He's emo but a different color.

[cowardlychimera]

okay posting them now because I was asked very nicely

[alonetogether]

i mean this genuinely i think experiencing tourdust/2ourdust live with you all replicates the feeling i got when i found out fob were ending their hiatus. and i get to feel that like every night. fob forever <3

[deus-ex-mona]

the references to them in mona’s photobook q&a means e v e r y t h i n g to me

[battle-subway-ghost]

Unraveling.

// Please read the tags beforehand, <3

Paris leaned against the tree trunk, making a desperate attempt at catching his breath. He had been running for- He didn't know, probably hours? He checked the time with his phone, but it still read 3:27 A.M. Same as it had been for probably hours- He didn't know. he couldn't tell… He checked the battery icon at the top- it was nearly dead. The signal may have read "SOS," but he had already tried multiple times to call for help. Nothing.

He wasn't about to try again- Something about the definition of insanity… and instead he put his phone back into his pocket, properly shutting it off to try to conserve what little battery was left. Paris had the urge to sit down for a little while; the muscles on his legs burned, and he was completely exhausted from running for so long. Stupid choice- he knew it wasn't a good idea to run around in the fog like a headless Torchic while he was already lost, but every time he considered standing still and waiting for this stupid, stupid fog to fade, he thought back to…

That. He shuddered, trying to focus on anything else besides that voice- his own voice, feeling a familiar chill crawl up his spine as he started to grow tense again. He could just imagine approaching footsteps- those hollow eyes, the-

He felt something seeping onto his hand, and cried out in surprise as he immediately moved away from the tree, trying to shake off the…

Black ink. Leaking out from the tree like sap. Paris stared at his hand, feeling his head pound at the sight of the stuff… He did his best to wipe it off of his hand, though he didn't have much besides his own clothes to do so. Still- it was better than nothing, at this point.

…He wasted no time getting on the move again, wandering further into the fog, trying to listen closely for any odd noises or disturbances. He couldn't trust his eyes anymore, as the fog had grown so thick that he could barely see past the length of his arm. Paris tread carefully, avoiding tripping on any loose roots or branches on the forest floor. How big was this forest, anyways? Surely he would've found his way out by now.

Then again, this wasn't the same place he had entered however long ago now. He wasn't sure how, but he just knew. He just had to keep walking now, he wasn't even sure if this would get him out, but he couldn't stay still. Not right now.

Paris stopped in his tracks as he heard a twig snap to his left. He turned immediately, nearly giving himself whiplash with how quickly he moved. He instinctively backed away, already tensing up to run-

And there it was.

A Thievul. the Thievul. That damned thing, staring back at him with those hollow, white eyes.

At last.

Paris charged at him, pursuing him as he turned tail and fled. The Thievul was swift, but he was determined to catch him, maybe if he did, it'd put an end to this torment. He wove through the trees with a precision Paris couldn't quite match, as he seemed to blend in with the fog at times- like he was about to fade into it. Paris pressed on, despite the burning in his lungs and the stiffness in his legs.

He finally got close enough to where he could tackle that thing, grabbing him with his hands-

Only to grasp at nothing but air.

Paris hit the ground, falling face first into the dew-covered grass. It took him a moment to recoup and process what happened, as he scrambled to get up, looking around for the Thievul. He was nowhere to be found, as if he vanished into thin air. The fog was starting to clear up a bit, and from what Paris could tell, he had been lead to a clearing in the woods.

He was fuming. He had gone here for nothing! Nothing at all! Revenge- Or even just closure, simply gone! Like that! No fanfare- no anything.

He yanked at his hair, yelling out of pure rage. Rage at the thievul, at himself for allowing it to escape, frustration over this entire stupid situation and this stupid fog and this stupid forest and EVERYTHING-

He stopped after a few moments passed, and finally opening his eyes, watery from the threat of crying. He looked up, seeing- black… patches? He blinked a few times, trying to clear up the blurriness in his eyes. Surely-

No. His eyes weren't playing tricks on him. The fog had receeded at an unnaturally fast rate, but… There was darkness. the inky-black dark of the ink, starting to spread through tears in the scenery, almost. He could feel the panic building in his chest, attempting to run the other way, only to find that the ground underneath him was starting to fade into the same black ink that was beginning to surround him. Paris screamed, trying to pull himself out, only to find that every time he put his foot down he simply got dragged deeper into the inky abyss. He could feel the substance clinging to his skin, unnaturally warm, almost pulsating… like breathing-

Something painful tugged against him, finally prompting him to glance down. his arms- the muscles were starting to twitch and twist unnaturally, his skin shifting around to compensate for the changes underneath. It was agonizing, muscles beginning to stretch and tear, before attempting to mend themselves again.

He howled in agony, nearly collapsing into the ink entirely, barely able to steady himself. it burned. His right arm in particular was getting the worst of it, the sensation similar to what he imagined it'd feel like having your arm ripped off.

…And much to his horror, it was actually hanging loose when he checked. the skin peeled away like wet cardstock paper, revealing red thread coiling around the remnants of the arm, as well torn ligaments and muscles trying to keep everything together- to no avail. It broke apart entirely, and fell into the ink below, slowly sinking down. There was no blood, instead, frayed and torn red thread hung down from what was left.

Paris collapsed- finally, into the ink. It was a miracle he had even been able to stay standing for so long, given that it seemed like he could fall apart like bad paper mache at any second now. He sputtered and coughed as he accidentally breathed in the ink, trying to pull his head back up. He couldn't breathe- it clung to him like tar, pulling him down further- further into the abyss.

Everything was falling apart. the trees falling apart like flayed seams- unraveling before his eyes, leaving nothing behind besides the pitch black abyss.

His head finally sank underneath. The last thing he saw was the bright red string- cutting through the dark abyss as it drifted upwards.

He shut his eyes, and the searing pain melted away.

Silence, at last.

[lavampira]

you know the day is going to be a doozy when you wake up with anxiety already eating you alive 🫠

[thimbell]

Oooh, can you imagine the horror of being thrown back in time? You memories in tact, but your body reverted back to its state then. The horror of it all, being in a form, place, time that is no longer your own. Those are not your loved ones, though you wish they were. This is not your home and hasn’t been for a long, long time. The body carries none of the weight nor scars that made you. You wished for change, but this is loss.

my insane rant for a messed up tragedy horror something au under cut

okay but like hear me out, because it’s dumb o’clock in the am rn where i’m at, and thus requires tragedy au thinking.

Au in which f!leo get’s thrown into the past, but like into his younger body. That’d be sooooo messed up.

Imagine the dysphoria. being put into a younger body he was supposed to have outgrown long ago. or suddenly finding his prosthetic/homage to his dead brother gone. like that’s not HIS arm.

and like, the perma loss of HIS brothers. our experiences are what make us right? these kid versions of his brothers only have the first half or so of their shared experiences and are definitely not HIS brothers. they’re missing decades of memories.

The kraang aren’t a threat here, but nothing is his: body, family, or time.

edit: SHOUTOUT TO WRAENATA WHO MADE AN EXCELLENT POINT AND REMINDED ME OF THIS DOPE FIC BY TEAINTHESNOW HERE’S A LINK TO THAT WONDERFUL FIC THAT HAS A LOT OF THE SAME PREMISE BUT IS PROBABLY NOT A TRAGEDY AU LIKE I WAS THINKING HERE

[anastacialy]

y'know, i keep making a habit of swinging my bat at hornets nests, but i have to say i'm getting so, so tired of people complaining about shows not making perfect sense when they aren't even close to done. we're four episodes into this season of doctor who. we're four episodes into this season of bridgerton. and yet in both fandoms i keep seeing people whine that such and such didn't make sense or it wasn't explained all the way and by god you guys i think maybe explanations might come later in the season. this is something most viewers will recognize as being called a 'plot.'