#the depravity. the horror

[until-another-one-comes]

The scene where Amstrong held up Oliver while he was wailing and looking down at Debbie with her snapped wrist and all the while screaming about how he's not the villain was single handedly one of the most chilling scenes in the show so far.

[sludgevomit]

Fucking your holes against your will. My cock constantly hitting all the spots you were most sensitive. You needed to scream. You needed to moan in unwanted pleasure. You couldn’t. Forced to hold your breath as I dunked your head into the tub. Seconds going by as I thrusted. Deep. Slow. Hard. You couldn’t hold it any longer. Your lungs aching for oxygen. Bubbles come through as you thrash. I pick your head up allowing you to take in 3 gulps of air. Shoving you underneath again. Groaning as your screams get muffled by the water.

[crowleysgirl56]

Ok, hear me out. Rocky Horror Picture Show stage revival. David Tennant as Frankenfurter.

David! *grab David by lapels and forces him to stare into my eyes* David look at me, LOOK AT ME! You have one chance, ONE CHANCE, to literally kill every single person in this fandom. Don’t waste it!

*hears Michael Sheen slipping in Rocky costume*

ALSO! Where is the Good Omens Rocky Horror crossover fanart?! If it exists, point me in that direction. Please and thank you! (God damn I wish I could draw!)

[aimasup]

throws up my hands in mock resignation but also a hint of frustration Okay Valentino is a cool villain I guess

He's like. Genuinely unsettling. Wish the show struck a better balance with his character sometimes (like sometimes when he's onscreen I have to skip over because I feel queasy and sometimes he's so unsubtle he feels more like a prop than a guy who's going to be a Huge Deal in s2)

[cheban-png]

I need him carnally. Also i commissioned and bought i body pillow i lick daily ITS MY ACCOUNT I CAN SAY WHATEVER I WANT!!!!!!!!!!! YOU WERE WARNED IN MY INTRO

[angevinyaoiz]

watched several hours of the hetero scottish isekai show for Mr. Evil Yaoi himself <3

[mad-hunts]

so uhhh... hypothetically, if i told y'all that the arm that barton stitched onto himself has fallen off before, how would your muses react to something like that happening in front of them? because i can't lie man's may be slightly SPIRALING whenever it comes to where his character is currently, and thinking about taking that whole 'frankenstein' concept i was talking about one step further to coming true

[luxvontrier]

“you tear me in half…”

[c1trvswurld]

been thinking of writing a very experimental yeehan fic where hanzo and cas are an old married couple with kids in suburbia but their love life is fucked and the only reason they stay together is for the kids until some weird horrific shit goes down in their neighborhood which brings them closer than ever

[rmorde]

Controversial opinion

Personally, I don't think it's bad writing that Gojo is being used as a tool by even his own students that it's disrespectful to his character because... I think that's the point?

This is horrific, awful, and terrible overall. It is dehumanizing. Even the characters in-universe say it so. We ARE supposed to be sickened by this. That's the whole idea!

The story is, again, telling us just how bad and shitty jujutsu society is. Yes! We should be angry and upset about this. Gojo didn't deserve to be a tool for all his life and even after death. His students didn't deserve to resort to such depraved methods just to have a hope of winning against Sukuna. Yuji didn't deserve to lose another brother. Yuta didn't deserve to be forced to use his savior's body. EVERY ONE OF THEM DESERVED BETTER.

But the world they live in is cruel. Change is happening but they still have a long way to go to a brighter future.

Omfg. This chapter is heavy in an entirely different way than 259. I'm still grieving for Choso. But, 261 made me so sick. It's just horrific and awful for everyone - especially for Yuta AND Yuji!

Holy shit. Yuji may have been kept in the dark about this plan because of his link to Sukuna! How sickening and heart wrenching must this be for him? Believing that Gojo is back - he's okay because he's the Strongest and now they'll fight together! But no... it's Yuta. Just... Yuji doesn't need anymore pain. Damn it.

On a very thin silver lining tho, Gojo showing vulnerability to his students. Wishing for them to leave him as he kills the Elders. He doesn't want to tarnish his goofy ass cringe fail cool mentor figure image to them. He doesn't want them to see him as a bloodthirsty monster.

However, they stood by him. Never leaving him alone. Not that it reached him tho because he's so deep in his depression and fucking separates himself from them like gdi Gojo you fuck!!! They're reaching out to you, you idiot! Fucking listen to them BUT NOOO IT HAS TO BE SUKUNA OR GETO THAT CAN ONLY GO THROUGH YOU HUH?!

[sludgevomit]

Bending you backwards over my table saw. Our lips and tongue in a heated clash. You squeak as my hands grope you. Finding all of the spots that made you weak. I couldn’t help myself but to rut against your front. More than eager to be deep inside you. Your scared, delicate hands undo my belt, the metal clank adding to your arousal. Letting the rough denim fall around my ankles. You hurry to get yourself bare. Knowing how fond I am of the my past actions still being reflected on your body. Within a blink of an eye, our bodies were connected. Your hips angled, my thrusts sloppy and fast. Caught within the euphoria, blind to my hands tinkering with the buttons of the table. Pressing down as my cock deliciously fills you up. The whirr of the blade opens your eyes. My hands holding you down with intent. The saw draws closer to you begging to tear into your neck.

[1moreoffkeyanthem]

I’m gonna read Behind The Wall again maybe I’ll actually write if I read

[nocentis]

Black Arum ┆ Siegrain

Content warning: main character death, cannibalism, gore, toxic/unreliable narrator, highly canon divergent character portrayal. Read at your own risk. You will probably take psychic damage from this.

╳┆A lure was stuck in the soot between his lungs. Many times he'd felt the tug — enough that the wire fray had worn a rut where his ribs met — and many times he'd found her on the other end, reeling for remnants of him that no longer existed. She would aim to break him open, sift around in the cinders for those specks of him she wanted to confiscate, keep for herself, so that she could finally be rid of him. Once those flecks were washed and panned, the remains would reek like plough mud closure. For that reason he would come to her whole, every whit of ash accounted for.

A cherry little game they'd play. Her with flint and steel, eager to reignite that paltry spark of "good" that flickered freely for a lapse before he remembered himself. Him with tinder and kindling, letting it light only to call on the rain again. Her with just enough hope. Him with just enough time.

That resolve was so very compelling. More than her beauty, her candor, and even that glow he so loved to bask in — that luster he wanted to hold between his teeth and bury under his nails — more than that, her tenacity was a toothsome temptation, and he wasn't keen to deny himself anything.

So when he felt the pull, he caved to the beck and spooled the lisle. That day, the line seemed lighter, thinner, than it ever had. It should've been strong. Tensile. Instead it felt gossamer fine and just as frail, poised to tear at an ill touch, and he wasn’t exactly renowned for his gentle hands. Still, he gathered it with both palms and wrapped it proudly around himself like a ceremonial sash, grin scrawled across his face something devilish.

╳┆He found her lying in the shade beneath a long-lived magnolia, still and silent as she never was, with the color of her namesake spread around her head in halo streaks. Battle-torn, as she so often was, and yet uncannily... passive.

Anything he'd planned to say went out the airlock. Instead, he stood there with an anchor in his stomach, reaping the benefit of doubt.

Not a frown nor a sigh when he darkened her sanctum, only heavenward eyes tearless and unblinking and a resigned breath just short of peaceful. That worn tether waned phantom thin, light as helium, and the tension in his chest went slack.

There was no definite snap. No dramatic severing or ear-popping moment of clarity. Only the vague sense of loss so fresh a wound that denial was a numbing salve.

“Get up,” his voice a command, sandgrit against whetstone, thickened by an unnamed antigen.

The silence felt like mockery. A placid scene void of chittering fauna, clouds' drum, or even the most timid breeze. It wanted him to hear the absence of her breath and the stillness of her chest. It wanted him to hear the hollow. The empty. The nothing. Wanted it to resonate; to find the furthest reaches of his mind and clean them out until all that was left was this icy, clarifying silence.

He knew the end when he saw it. This was something much worse. It was robbery.

Her life wasn’t for the world to take. It was for him to hold in his hands. 

Something wet and pathetic slicked his tongue — some whiny, pleading thing — and it was stubborn as oil. The authority slid to the back of his throat and left him choking, “You are the indomitable Titania. You’ve laced fingers with Death time and again only to rise and slay and conquer, so get up.”

Her warmth was set to a slow drip, spilling from her in tired beads and seeping soundlessly into her chosen ground. Little whispers of her lost to greedy loam, sullied, never to be returned.

A waste of precious love. The sod won’t drink of her as he will. It will take of her and give back what? New “life” so fragile and fleeting? A feeble weed will take root, bloom its days few, and curl itself inside out? Pathetic. An insult to her legacy. An insult to the diamond-split sharp of her bladesoul.

His heart boiled over — popping, sticking, simmering sicksweet saccharine. It colored him cloying, flooded his mouth, and forced him to kneel at her altar.

"Please," he keened, hollow and morose, and his own pleading sickened him, “Say something.”

The sun trickled through the leaves like ichor, lighting up her black-blown eyes and the thin ring of honey surrounding them. Dim, distant, and dead as the moon.

His hand carved a path to her face, fingers featherlight against her fading flush. He brushed her bangs from her eyes and forced an unbroken breath through his quavering mouth. He traced each scar too faint to see and the parts of her skin their star kissed. Memorized the map of her face — each curve and crease, each fine hair, and every eyelash. He would carve out a space in his mind in her shape and fill it with the thousand sweet nothings he kept in his pockets.

He gathered her hand and threaded it with his own. When he opened his mouth, a rickety twine escaped from the deepest point of his chest, so he forced his jaws shut to keep the grief corked. He uncurled her fingers and pressed his cheek into her palm, trapping her there against his own scarred skin. His eyes fell shut as he breathed in this borrowed touch — this moment fated, stolen from him by this world's insatiable avarice.

He kissed her palm directly in the center; held it against his mouth and felt his own ruined breath echo back to him from the deepest grooves of her skin. Again, he begged, “Please, Erza.”

Of the armors innumerable now haunting this hallowed ground, this one least befit her. 

He revered Death. If there was a god, surely it was Death, he thought, for Death asks for nothing but life. The dead don’t know that they’re dead. They know a split second of euphoria and then a sharp, definite end. Isn’t that the work of a gracious god? One last stroke of color whether in peace or peril, and then eternal rest. Back to the dust you sprouted from.

But now he couldn’t see any of that beauty he often waxed poetic about. All he could see was change yet to come. All he could see was her, and he wanted her back.

He wanted her back, yet he knew better than anyone that there was no such thing as resurrection. While Death might be gracious, it was not generous, and it was not to be reasoned with.

The thought of her buried deep, bathed by the dark and abandoned to rot — it washed his mouth acid sour. It ate straight through his tongue and lingered in the roots of his teeth, burning, raging redhot in his jaws’ marrow.  A grave didn't suit her anymore than a pyre.

Soon she would be cold. Stiff. A feast for flies and their insatiable young. In the days to come, she would bubble and bloat and sallow. Her skin would loosen and slough off. The sun would bleach her bones. The meat of her would melt into oil and fat and bogspit. She would mix in with the soil, the groundwater, and this thankless magnolia would thrive.

It was tall, thick, with branches spread in all directions. The lowest of its limbs showed off the varied deep greens of its large waxy leaves, their undersides a chalky brown. A few white flowers bloomed, palm-shaped petals open in praise like they'd come to witness and worship. There was no question why she'd chosen to crawl here. It must've reminded her of home.

Despite its beauty, it was hardly worthy of her. Nothing in this ravenous world was. Her grave should be carved within his chest. There, he could keep her warm. He could host her in his veins. One day, they would wade the waters of woe together. Until then she could live under his skin.

He wouldn’t allow her to spoil. Wouldn’t place her gently into time’s whittlesome hands only to lose her peel by peel by rotting peel.

This world has taken much from you. Do not allow it to take her too.

A carnal ache etched itself into bone, a depth of passion he hadn't felt since he wrought for a false Heaven.

She is a fruit, ripe as a plum and twice the taste. Peel her open. There is a seed at her core. Plant it in your soot-field chest and watch her bloom anew.

What are these hands for if not this?

Flesh like sheets of silk. Muscle like rope. Blood like honey. Bone like an ivory trove. The splitting, the squelching, the straining, ripping, snapping; it burrowed marrow-deep and lingered there. Her chest peeled apart like jagged teeth, jaws croaking their rusted tune, and inside that redslick maw was the center of the universe.

The heart upon its throne, still as she, shielded by her precious lungs. It slid into his palm like it was always meant to be there. Raw, rich, and so very scarlet. Its sinews strained against his pull — those hollow vines that fed even the furthest parts of her — so he wrenched them free and draped himself in them like matchless finery.

Eat. Eat ‘til you’re sick. There’s a hole the size of her in the pit of your stomach. Eat until you fill it. 

What are these teeth for if not this?

Tough as leather; smooth as rubber. His teeth slid right off the rind and clicked together with nothing but metallic sheen between them. He gnashed at that ink-dripping muscle until he found a spot weak enough to tear apart. It tasted of rare meat and iron; a heady gore thick enough to drown in. He swallowed, gasped, and that first new breath felt like a blade.

The child inside him saw her split-open ribs as his cradle. He wanted to crawl inside, curl up, and die. He wanted to paint himself her color.

He lost his vision to the hot, angry wash. His own sobs were a distant sound, muffled by meat and blood and his own desperate fingers. He was numb in the mouth and in the shake of his hands, but he forced himself to eat, eat despite the choking, the gagging, the wet, weeping remorse.

Don’t you dare throw her up. Be grateful. Swallow and say thank you and finish what you’ve started.

He bit into his own palm, indistinguishable from her core, and he cried out in sour relief. His hands spread raw grief over his face, through his hair, and down his neck.

You’re no better than this starving world.

He curled into himself, hands clutching his own aching chest, and despite the cloudless sky, he called upon the rain.

[elusiveclownbox]

QUESTION FOR ALL THE WEIRD FICTION LOVERS OUT THERE!!! (guess i should trigger warn with slightly nsfw, dead dove do not eat stuff)

does anyone have any fucked up, toxic, horrific, gruesome queer book reccs??

and im not talking “toxic” in a slightly dubious (by this societies standards) age gap or questionable power dynamics where one is the others boss or something NO!! i want something that leaves you reeling, something that would leave a foul taste in the mouth and a grimace on the face of the average person.

for example, just finished “exquisite corpse” by william joseph martin (formerly and more well known as poppy z. brite) and by god was it exactly what ive been craving and yearning for; an intricately written, beautifully crafted, professionally published collage of all my favorite ���dead dove, do not eat” tropes. im not sure what words could potentially get me banned on here, so if you’ve never heard of it look it up, pretty similar to some of the more depraved hannigram fics ive read

ANYWAY LONG STORY SHORT i demand your most fucked up queer books. thank you.

[morganalefae]

not only is tai going to be confronted with the horror of having done something so shameful and horrifying without even being aware of it, literally having had the choice taken away from her because of her sleepwalking, but with the guilt of being the one to suggest that they cremate jackie in the first place

[starsandpigs]

a little bit about mabel gleeful.

her parents were extremely worried from a young age that she might have some psychopathic tendencies after she was found hurting animals at the young age of four.

when she was young, she and mason ran into a book of occult in a thrift store, begging her family to buy it.

mistake. she became obsessed with it. she and mason became very interested in magic. telepathy had been the first thing mastered by each of them. this took a darker turn for mabel.

she thinks she's better than her brother and is quite proud of that fact.

she's extremely good at controlling situations the way she wants to have them controlled.

she and her brother were relocated to gravity falls after mabel severely hurt someone while protecting her brother from harm.

lives with stan and ford, who only encourage their use of dark magic.

stan for profit

ford wanting to guide the twins to utilize their power and harness it better.

mabel's specialties are telepathic knife throwing, mind reading and manipulation of reality (this is a newer power for her, but she loves creating people's dreams and things they love only to kill it in front of them).